Deva Dasi
Ataullah Mardaan


Part One. The Way of the Dasi

Chapter 1. Birth of a Dasi

The little bird hopped onto the colored cards spelling out adventure, a 
voyage and a dark man. Manorama drew her threadbare shawl away from her 
face and peeped questioningly at the fortune-teller. The red-bearded sadhu 
(an Hindu holy man) smiled at her enigmatically, collected his birds with a
wild sweep of his hand and dropped them, fluttering, back into the cage. 
Then he methodically straightened his colored cards, blew the birdseed off 
the necromantic signs on the straw mat, and busily began counting the dull 
copper coins that lay in a pile beside him.

The woman sighed with impatience and shifted her weight from one foot to 
the other. The sadhu looked up as if he suddenly saw her for the first time
and frowned.

“You cannot hasten Destiny, my daughter.”

“I know, Sadhu-ji, but I must be home before sundown. Is there really 
nothing more?”

“I cannot tell you more than my birds. They have the gift of divination, 
not I. I am merely their keeper. The Lord Shiva bestowed them on me as a 
reward for my prayers and penitence. I cannot alter what they say nor 
hasten what they foretell.”

The woman got up slowly. She was of middle height, slender, dark, and 
dirty. She dug into the tight waistband of her loose pajamas and pulled out
a small knotted handkerchief. She carefully undid the complicated double 
knot and dropped two copper coins onto the mat.

“The Lord Shiva bless you. Thank you for your kindness, daughter.”

Manorama joined her hands together, bowed her head in greeting, then, 
pulling her thin shawl over her head, turned and walked down the dusty 
street.

The heat rose in shimmering waves off the dusty streets, while a burning 
sea breeze carried the putrid and decaying odors of the beach to mingle 
with the smell of frying spices, rotten vegetables, and the small 
fly-covered dung heaps that lay scattered across the surface of the road 
like some strange tropical disease. It was past midday and yet people were 
everywhere. They lay on the streets—thin skeletons offering themselves as 
passive victims to the all-devouring sun. They walked like strange ghosts 
only to be jostled once again by long sleek cars painstakingly trying to 
weave their way through the shifting wall of humanity. They spilled into 
narrow alleys, until it seemed that the walls of the narrow houses would 
burst in an effort to accommodate the flood. They moved—each one 
alone—unconscious of their great number, unconscious of the hundred million
lives that throbbed and sweated around them—unconscious that in them lay 
the true wealth of India.

Manorama walked, shielding her face from the crushing weight of the sun. 
She turned down a maze of narrow winding streets until she came to a 
crumbling one-story building. The facade had once been pink, but had long 
ago been bleached and macabre remains of an old mural still clung to the 
wall, giving the house an air of decrepit festivity. She lifted a bamboo 
blind that served as a door and, stooping low, entered the tiny room. For a
moment she stood still—peering blindly into the darkness. Then, slowly, as 
her sun-dazzled eyes became accustomed to the darkness, the familiar 
objects in the room took on a misty shape. The three string cots, the 
little table, the kerosene lamp, the day stove, the little oil lamp burning
under the silver gilt picture of Krishna.

“Hari, are you there?”

A bundle stirred on the little cot, and a sleepy voice answered.

“Where have you been? The girl has been complaining all afternoon. Maa 
took her to the sweet shop to keep her quiet.”

“I went to the ghats to bathe.”

She came into the dark room, carefully picking her way past the crowded 
objects, and collapsed with a sigh onto one of the string beds.

“Hai Ram! I am so tired—it is so hot. Nobody asked for me?”

“Yes, a man came from the Bania. But I said you had gone to the pooja and
that you would be back about five o'clock. You had better go—we still owe 
him money for those lamps, and you have had the whole afternoon off. God 
knows if I were a strong man, I wouldn't have to depend on you—lying here 
helpless until the Begum sahib decides to go and make some money! Hai Ram! 
What did I do to deserve such a fate in this life?”

His voice had risen to a high-pitched whine and Manorama knew that in a 
few seconds he would start to sob, and then he would feel so bad that he 
would be forced to go down to Chand Babu's for a drink of toddy and the 
warm sympathy that the Babu lavished on all his steady customers.

Manorama rose with a sigh. She sullenly got up and walked to the far end 
of the room where a little barred window, high in the wall, allowed a 
strong ray of sunlight to penetrate one corner to the dark godown. She 
pulled a small box from under the bed and took out several old jars and a 
broken mirror. Holding the mirror up to the light, she carefully underlined
her dark eyes with black kajal, put a little bright rouge on her cheeks and
lips, oiled her hair, and walked toward the door.

“Change your sari at least, you dirty slut! Then perhaps you could charge
a few annas more for being clean! Oh, Ganesha! This woman is completely 
without sense. Why did you curse me so?”

Manorama stopped in the doorway, blinking like a sleepy owl in the sun.

“It's not worth it—for something the Bania finds.”

Slowly she covered her head with the end of her sari, and once again 
walked down the crowded street.

The Bania sat cross-legged in his little shop. His huge stomach lay 
passively on his knees, like some huge jellyfish thrown onto a warm beach. 
His thin shirt and dhoti were of fine white muslin, now stained and soiled 
by a hundred yellow grease spots—the unspoken evidence of many meals of 
rich saffron curry and fried chicken pilau. Few people had ever seen the 
Bania move. He sat like a fat, untidy, mustachioed Bodhu, shouting 
constantly for service—but never moving from his cross-legged, squatting 
position. Sometimes people wondered whether the Bania sat, cross-legged, 
immobile, behind the iron shutters, all through the long and lonely hours 
of the night; or whether, when everyone was asleep, he quietly rose and 
hung another picture on the wall. His pictures were the Bania's pride. They
covered his walls from floor to ceiling. They were all extravagantly framed
and were hung with abandon all over the room. A stern-faced Queen Victoria 
glared with regal disapproval at a purple representation of the elephant 
god Ganesh, while Edward VII (with real sequins for medals) stared benignly
at a brick-red portrait of Rama Rao Chungtu—an illustrious ancestor of the 
Bania. Goddesses, monarchs, legendary heroes, actresses, singers, great 
aunts and uncles, hung higgledy-piggledy all over the shop, provided a 
startling frame for the immobile but living statue that was the Bania.

Manorama stood shyly, intimidated by the accusing glare of a hundred 
painted eyes. She slipped the sari off her head and looked kindly at the 
Bania.

The merchant opened his eyes a fraction of an inch and without stirring 
shouted, “Budhu! Budhu! Is that Muslim still there?”

A thin figure came scurrying out from the back of the shop, bowed briefly
to Manorama and squatted before the Bania.

“Yes, sethji, he is still here.”

“Well, tell him the woman is here now—but first he must pay his twelve 
annas!”

He turned to Manorama. “Go now, and when you have finished come and see 
me, as we have some matters to discuss.”

Manorama nodded her head in assent and followed the servant out of the 
room. He led her into a tiny, cubicle-like room, bare as a prison cell, 
except for the traditional string bed.

“Wait here and do not take too long...” With a knowing smile, he closed 
the door and went away.

Manorama sat in the dark and absently counted Budhu's retreating steps: 
5, 6, 7, 8... Then he was going toward the kitchen. She wondered who would 
presently come in. She had waited in so many similar rooms so often since 
she had come from her southern village as a tender bride of twelve, that 
she could not even remember how many men had possessed her. Was it hundreds
or thousands—and yet every time she waited alone for the next anonymous 
male to crush her, she felt once again the familiar surge of excitement, of
wonder... Perhaps, it was indeed true that women were made for love. She 
sighed, lay back on the bed and waited. The silence was heavy and solid. 
Only her heart beat like a clock in the darkness—and then she heard them 
... voices ... steps ... a laugh... Her stomach contracted with excitement.
The door opened and shut. She did not look up. She felt the man walk slowly
around the bed and sit on the edge.

“You are but half prepared. Or do you expect me to take you with your 
clothes on?”

She sat up and looked at him. In the dim light, she could see that he was
short and stocky. He was smoking a strong-smelling biri and one hand was 
hidden in his huge pajamas. Manorama guessed that he was stroking his 
organ. Feeling her eyes upon him, he made a brusque, embarrassed gesture. 
Manorama quickly rose, wound off her sari, and slipped off her short 
blouse. She stood quietly, waiting, her dark, thin body, smooth and 
hairless, with its long, soft breasts scarcely discernible in the dim 
light. The man got up, carefully stubbed out his biri, and came toward her.
He touched her tentatively, slowly, like a blind man trying to see her with
his hands. He molded her body with his palms—following the curve of her 
thin neck and shoulders, over the protruding collarbone and over the long, 
soft breasts with their big, swollen nipples. He gently pinched one of the 
darkened points and laughed softly.

“Now I understand why the Bania is so cheap!”

Manorama drew back slightly—but years of submission had trained her to 
accept insults along with praise, and brutality along with tenderness. She 
did not reply. She stood dumbly offering her too-passive body to his 
reluctant taking. The man continued his soft exploration, slipping his hand
down her loins, across the small sharp buttocks and up her thin back. 
Suddenly, he twisted his hand in her thick black hair and pulled her down 
on the bed. She fell back with a shock, her buttocks hitting the wooden 
edge of the cot, her legs dangling helplessly over the side. The man 
inserted his body between her legs and in one swift motion untied the cord 
of his pajamas, letting them slide to his feet. He took his small, thick 
organ in his hand and pushed Manorama's head toward it. Mechanically she 
gathered the soft rod in her mouth and started to bite and twist the organ.
She felt the rod stiffen and swell within the soft chamber of her mouth. 
The man stood above her—his lips twitching as he felt the delicious 
contraction within him. He swore softly under his breath, calling her 
tenderly all the obscene names he could think of. His hands gathered her 
long, sad breasts and kneaded them in mounting anguish as his need started 
to burn within him. Suddenly he pushed the woman flat on the bed and raised
her legs with each hand. Once again, he explored the strange mountains of 
her thighs until his finger found the hidden valley of her womanhood. He 
stroked the moist lips absently for a moment and then fiercely inserted his
finger as if to explore the cavernous comfort of her body. But now he was 
all fire. Swiftly, he pulled the woman toward him and, mounting her, he 
rushed his throbbing center into the pulsating mouth of her desire. He rode
her fiercely, his hands grasping the long breasts like reins, and his loins
working ... working ... forcing the responsive juices out of her body until
her own loins joined his in the most primitive of all dances. Her body 
caught his fire and she struggled to throw off her assailant, whose fierce 
battering drove deeper and deeper into the center of her body. Yet every 
desperate spasm of her loins only allowed him to penetrate even more deeply
into the center of her struggle. Manorama cried out as she felt the 
quickening rhythm of his attack and she knew he was soon to culminate his 
pleasure. Her own hips twitched to match his swift ascent. Together they 
rose toward the flooding climax. Then, in that infinitesimal second before 
his body poured out his liquid satisfaction, he swiftly withdrew, fiercely 
pressed her mouth open, and spilled the golden contents of his pleasure 
down her helpless throat.

Manorama lay still on the bed, tasting the bitter fruit of his desire. It
was usual, in such cases, to go unrequited. The men very seldom waited for 
the women they bought to fulfill themselves. Fear of the consequences 
caused them to withdraw, leaving their partners with a forlorn feeling of 
emptiness. The man had already left, silently, without a word. It made it 
easier, strangely enough, this anonymity. Slowly she got up and dressed. 
She felt tired and depressed. She put on her sandals and left the room. The
servant was waiting for her outside. Without a word, he led her back to the
Bania. Manorama came to the Bania's house at least ten times a week—yet the
cautious merchant never allowed her to wander around the house alone. She 
was always met by the faithful Budhu who accompanied her from room to room.

“Temptation is too hard to resist,” the Bania used to say with a fat 
laugh that invariably turned into a burp as his digestive system once again
asserted its domination over him.

The shutters were already closed. This meant that the Bania's legal trade
was over. But his real commerce only now began—for it was after the iron 
shutters closed over the open shop, like a protective lid over an eye, that
furtive men with strange gems and pleasure-giving drugs stole quietly 
through the side door.

Manorama walked into the front room and stood before the Bania. He raised
his eyes and called to the servant.

“Budhu, bring a chair and put it opposite me—Shabash! Now get out!”

The servant quickly withdrew, leaving the Bania and Manorama alone. The 
Bania made an imperceptible movement with his eyebrows. Manorama understood
immediately, and she quickly undressed once more and sat naked on the chair
facing the Bania. She parted her legs wide, and slid down onto the seat, 
thus exposing her soft pink sex with its round thick mouth to his view. She
held this position for several minutes. Then, rising, she pushed the chair 
away and knelt on the ground before the merchant. She turned her buttocks 
toward him, raised them high in the air, and with her hands, she parted the
thin cheeks to expose her small dark, furry anus. She slipped her two 
forefingers into the little opening and stretched it as wide as she could. 
She stayed, thus exposed, until she heard him gasp—then getting up, she put
on her clothes.

The Bania had not moved. Only the unnatural flush on his face betrayed 
his emotion. He waited until the woman was dressed and then called for the 
servant. The servant appeared, and with that second sight that is the 
hallmark of a good domestic, he carried a cloth. He hastily sped to his 
master and wiped him off beneath his dhoti (a white cloth wrapped around 
the waist and drawn between the legs), then without comment, he withdrew 
from the room.

The Bania looked at the now fully dressed Manorama and said, “Twelve 
annas from the Muslim. That is seven for you and five for me. Eight annas 
from me—that is fifteen annas in all, but you still owe me four rupees—so I
will keep eight annas. Budhu! Budhu! Give the woman seven annas!”

The servant came hustling back with a little black box; he scrambled 
under the master's knee and pulled out a key. With the merchant's weary 
gaze fixed upon him, he opened the box, counted out the money, closed the 
lid, and put the key back under the Bania's knee.

“Please sethji, can I not keep ten annas? Hari has promised me some money
soon.”

“I know your husband, Manorama. He is so busy lifting the toddy-mug all 
day that he has no time for anything else. I cannot give you credit 
continually—I am a poor man myself. What about that daughter of yours—she 
is old enough to work now. Send her to me. The first time she'll get as 
much as fifteen rupees—virgins fetch that much these days.”

“No, Laxshmi is not to do this work here. I am going to send her back to 
the village this year.”

“You are not only getting old, Manorama, you are getting sentimental. If 
you wish to persist in this stupidity, that is your affair, but I strongly 
advise you to think about the future. You are getting no younger and that 
daughter of yours is already making herself known. So be sensible, think 
this over carefully.”

Then he burped loudly in dismissal. Manorama thanked him and quickly 
withdrew, accompanied by the silent Budhu who let her out of the house and 
prudently locked the door behind her.

When Manorama got home, the old woman and the girl were back. Laxshmi ran
out to greet her mother and Manorama noticed with pride that men already 
turned to look at her daughter. Laxshmi was one of those rare flowers that 
sometimes bloom in the most dismal streets. She was a slender girl with a 
golden skin and fine bones. She walked with the grace of the born dancer 
and was disturbingly conscious of her beauty. Manorama had once caught her 
proudly surveying herself in the tiny broken mirror. She watched quietly, 
not making her presence known, taking an equal pleasure in her daughter's 
oval face with the bold arched brows, the long black eyes, small nose, and 
disproportionately large, full mouth. A mouth that seemed to have been 
expressly designed to trap men, as the translucent colors of a spider's web
attract the dazzled flies. Her slight, untouched body showed promise. Her 
breasts rose like sharp pointed thorns against the slender stem of her body
and her tiny waist bloomed into vaselike billowing hips. Most enchanting of
all, her smooth round buttocks were blessed with twin dimples—Shiva's 
handmark, an old Brahmin had said one day—and perhaps that was true! She 
had often talked with Hari of the possibility of dedicating Laxshmi to a 
temple—her daughter was too lovely to be spoiled by the common commerce of 
human flesh. She was indeed a feast for the gods. Manorama tried hard to 
protect her, but life on the Napier Road was hard, and the children that 
grew up in the shacks followed their mothers into the cages, prisoners to 
the lust of men, until one day, when the cage finally opened to release 
them—they were too old to fly.

“Why did you cry, Beti?”

“I was alone. Bapu would not play with me, and you promised to take me 
with you but you forgot.”

“So, Nani took you to the sweet shop?”

“Yes, and I ate two big geelabees!”

“Now you will not eat your food this evening and Motilal gave me some 
fish especially for you today!”

“Oh, yes I will! I can eat and eat and eat and eat...” And the young 
woman skipped away into the house.

Hari was not, of course, at home, but the old woman had already started 
the evening meal. Manorama gave the seven annas into her safekeeping and 
started to help her with the meal.

“Is this all you got?”

“Yes, we still owe the Bania four rupees.”

“Let us hope you have a good evening.”

“Maybe an Englishman!”

“Oh, such things rarely happen.”

“You never know, they often come.”

“Yes, but they all go to Ghoongroo Rani's, because she has the virgins. 
Now, if only you would send Laxshmi out.”

“Nehi, Nani! I do not want you to talk like this in front of the girl.”

“Girl, this is no girl! She should be helping her sick father instead of 
behaving like a queen.”

“If your son worked—and didn't live off his wife, and didn't drink up all
the money I bring in—we would be better off.”

“That's right, blame my poor son. Aré! Aré! What is in my karma to 
deserve this! Insulted in my son's house by my own daughter-in-law!”

And the woman burst into tears. Manorama went on preparing the meal. She 
was used to these fights and, after all, the old woman helped her a lot 
with the girl. Also, both she and her son realized that Manorama was too 
valuable, and so the quarrels never went much further. Nani would never 
risk being solely dependent on Hari—she knew her son too well for that.

Manorama called the girl and the old woman, and the two of them sat on 
the floor while Manorama served the fluffy white rice onto their plates and
then poured the curried gravy on top. The fish she divided into small 
pieces, giving the largest portion to the girl, some to the grandmother, 
and almost nothing to herself. She ignored her absent husband. She saw the 
old woman look up, a question on her lips, but she suddenly decided against
it and went on chewing her food between her toothless gums.

As the huge orange sun dips over the horizon, the dirty city of Bombay 
becomes a fairy tale. Lights flicker on one after the other until the night
is pierced with a thousand pinpoints of golden light; lights go on in 
restaurants as people get ready to dine; lights go on in cinemas as people 
gather for the nightly dose of anodyne; lights go on in homes, and the 
little red lanterns wink brightly as the women enter the cages. The cages 
are attached to the various houses on Napier Street and the women sit in 
them like gilded birds, calling softly to the passers-by. Their voices 
float softly out into the night. “Nice girl, sahib!”

“Kya tamasha! Ayé! Ayé!”

They turn provocatively in the lurid glare of the red lanterns and the 
cages shake as the women turn round to display their charms. Many people 
walk under the cages and they look up at the women, impersonally, as if 
they were looking at birds in some nocturnal aviary. Others, less 
impersonal, stop and feel the warmth of the night enter their loins as the 
women slowly turn in the red light. They go up to the man underneath and 
ask. Then, sometimes, they enter and for a while, the cage is empty; or 
another walks into the crimson spotlight only to sing the same song as 
before.

Manorama rose from the cage and withdrew. A car had driven up below and 
Hari had asked for seven rupees and the man had agreed. She went into the 
little room lit only by a small oil lamp and took off her blouse. She put 
on a fine gold gauze skirt over her naked limbs, left her breasts bare, and
her dark hair tumbled over her shoulders and arms. In the dim light she 
looked tempting—a strange, wild creature from an old legend. A dark Circe 
spelling danger. Kali before her dance of death. The man came up the 
stairs; he was well-dressed, obviously quite rich, and very drunk. For a 
moment, he stood in the doorway swaying slightly, then he advanced toward 
her.

“Are you clever? Eh? Eh? Are you clever?” He had a high-pitched 
breathless laugh. “I don't want to sleep with you; I can do that any night 
with my wife. I want some fun!” Again he laughed. “Come, for seven rupees 
you must know some tricks.”

Manorama rose and started to detach her gauze skirt.

“No! No! Don't take that off!” he protested. “Come, come, I shall teach 
you something, you stupid bitch.”

He pushed Manorama back on the bed, and without further ceremony, he 
undid his fly buttons and pushed his soft sex into her mouth, then, bending
over, he pulled her buttocks forward, parted her legs and pushed his tongue
into her sex. Manorama had never known anything quite like this. The man's 
tongue worked strongly within her with the strength and force of a male 
organ. She felt her loins contract in response and her legs began to 
tremble. She bit and chewed on the sex lying soft as butter in her mouth, 
but it remained soft and limp—only the active tongue continued to seduce 
her until she felt the familiar tenseness and the spasm that culminated her
pleasure shake her body, and her joy spilled over his face. The man laughed
delightedly.

“Shabash! Shabash! Now I must have my turn...” Then with a coy smile, he 
sat on a chair facing the bed.

“I want to see you enjoy yourself.”

Manorama sat up on the bed. She parted her legs and started gently to 
stroke the purple lips of her sex. With her other hand she softly brushed 
her breasts, rhythmically turning the nipples until they stood out like 
hard black berries. She looked and smiled at the man, pushing her tongue 
between her teeth, and she saw to her surprise that the man had pulled out 
a black silk brassiere and that he was fondling and rubbing it against him.
She worked her hand faster, stroking her breasts and rubbing the sensitive 
inner lips until she saw his gestures grow more desperate. Then—and only 
then—she touched the little ovula, the most sensitive part of a woman's 
body, and once again she seemed to dissolve into that strangely painful 
joy; her limbs trembled and spasm after spasm shook her body. She lay there
exhausted and trembling, and when she looked up again, she saw the man had 
exploded all over his trousers. His head sagged in exhaustion and, as he 
panted his satisfaction, his breath stirred the black brassiere that he 
still clutched between his teeth.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when Manorama showed her client 
out. She crept wearily back to the little room and started to make the bed 
and sweep the floor. Normally one of the younger girls took care of this, 
but tonight there seemed to be no one about. She heard the distant tower 
clock strike the quarter hour, and she wondered briefly if there would be 
any more visitors this night. There were usually a few drunken stragglers 
who came at this hour—young boys who came to climax a drunken spree, or a 
lonely husband after a night out with his companions. But these men came, 
demanded little, and were usually more interested in the bed than the woman
who lay beside them. Manorama took off the ganze skirt and was just about 
to put on her sari when she heard someone call her name. She opened the 
door and called down the stairs. “What is it?”

“Manu. Are you free?”

“Yes, but who is it?”

“It's a small party of Parsee boys.”

“How much?”

“Twenty rupees...”

“All right, let them in.”

She wearily picked up the skirt and called to two of the younger girls in
the house. Together they pushed the beds against the wall, and cleared a 
small space in the middle of the floor. Manorama knew that these boys would
be timid, embarrassed, and shy, so she always planned a little dance to put
them at ease. She hustled the girls out of the room as soon as she heard 
them coming up the stairs drunk, hesitant, and giggling.

“Go, quickly, and put on your pajamas.”

She opened the door, admitted the boys, and disappeared. The six young 
men stood awkwardly around the room. They were all slight, thin young men 
with large brown eyes and the prominent nose of the Parsee. They laughed 
and joked in Gujerati to try to conceal their nervousness. However, they 
did not have to wait long. Very soon, a scratchy record started to wail a 
popular song from a recent film.

“Hai! Hai! I have no future

“My love has taken all with her...”

The door opened and the three women emerged stamping their bell-encircled
feet in rhythm with the song. Manorama came in first. She wore a tight pair
of green satin leggings that reached just below her navel. Her upper body 
was bare, and she had painted her nipples a bright purple. Her long dark 
hair flowed down her naked back and a heavy necklace added a bizarre touch 
to the strange costume. The other two girls—sisters—were smaller and 
rounder. The rounded breasts were painted, and a small jewel hung from each
nipple. They advanced slowly into the room, their ankle bells jingling, 
shaking their shoulders so that their breasts quivered enticingly. They 
danced in a circle, rolling their hips and shaking their breasts, smiling 
and murmuring an obscene commentary to the sentimental song. The boys 
slowly started to react to the performance. They had greeted the appearance
of the three women with a certain amount of embarrassment and awkwardness, 
but now the rhythmic beat, the quivering nipples, the smiles, and the song 
started to arouse them. Slowly they began to call encouragement to the 
dancers, and then put out a timid hand to touch one. Manorama continued the
dance for a while, and then, when she saw that the boys were really 
beginning to get excited, she discreetly signaled to the girls. The 
youngest one started to whirl round and round in a circle and abruptly fell
back into the arms of Manorama and her sister. She leaned backward over 
their clasped arms, her breasts proudly thrown out, the little silver 
jewels quivering on their crimson points. She parted her legs and as the 
other women lifted her up, she exposed a long slit in her blue satin 
pajamas through which the moist rose lips of her sex gleamed provocatively.
The men gasped. Manorama quickly released the girl and the two sisters 
disappeared, taking four boys with them. Three of the Parsees stayed with 
Manorama. She quickly undressed and lay on the bed, her breasts in her 
hands and her legs parted wide. The boys all took off their trousers, but 
as if by mutual agreement, they kept on their shirts and ties. Once again 
they seemed hesitant, awed by the unashamed offer of the woman. Manorama 
pulled one of the youngsters to her and started to stroke his loins gently.
The boy groaned softly and almost blindly reached for her heavy breasts 
with their painted nipples. He buried his face in the soft flesh, and 
allowed the woman to caress him. The other two now softly approached the 
bed. One timidly began to stroke Manorama's belly, and when she showed 
pleasure, he boldly let his hand stray over her thighs, and timidly and 
briefly touched her open sex. Suddenly, she sat up and pulled the boy onto 
the bed. Taking his long, thin penis in her mouth, she slowly sucked the 
courage into his organ while she caressed the other two youngsters. When 
she felt the boy's loins swell to their fullest, she rose and sat astride 
him, allowing him to penetrate to the depths of her womb. The young man 
cried out in his pleasure and bewilderment. She bent forward to offer him 
her breasts, and she started to ride him. Up and down, forward and 
backward, she pivoted the rod within her. She beckoned to the other two 
and, making one stand next to her, she took his organ into her mouth. Then 
bringing forward her knees, and lying on the boy beneath her, she offered 
her swelling buttocks to the third youngster. For a moment, he seemed 
afraid. Then, gingerly, he parted her firm orbs and saw that she had 
already greased the little furrowed cave. He inserted a finger 
experimentally and found that the muscles opened easily and invitingly. 
Holding her nether cheeks apart, he thrust in and seemed surprised when his
stout rod penetrated with ease. The woman now yielded herself completely: 
every orifice of her body was filled. Once they had penetrated, a madness, 
almost a delirium, seemed to overcome the boys. They attacked the woman 
savagely, grinding and thrusting, tearing her, each one absorbed in his own
private universe of ecstasy. She was no longer a person to them. She was a 
source of pleasure that had to be drained to the last drop. Gasping, they 
drove at her until first the boy beneath her shuddered and delivered his 
pleasure and lay still. Soon, the second came like a fountain in her mouth,
while the last delivered his load deep within her not long after. For a 
while they stood still, like statues, concerned only in their bodies' need 
to recover. They detached themselves from the woman and rested deeply. 
Manorama also rested, savoring the deep physical peace of the moment. Then 
after a while, she rose and walked toward the door. She had hardly reached 
the little curtain that hung in front of the door before one of the boys 
dragged her sharply back, pushed her down on the dusty floor and took her 
again.

It was six o'clock when Manorama walked across the little street to her 
own house, and already the day was rushing in. The air was warm and bright,
and streets shone from the early morning passage of the water carts. People
already trickled out into the world in a steady stream. The thousands who 
have no other home but the asphalt road started to gather up the torn 
shreds that were their bedding—literally trampled into consciousness by the
waking world.

It was dark inside the little hut—Nani and Laxshmi were asleep—and, as 
usual, Hari had not returned. Manorama did not worry. Hari seldom came home
before midday and then he went straight to bed to get over his last night's
hangover. She went instinctively to Laxshmi's bed to see if her daughter 
was well. Then, without bothering to undress, she collapsed onto the string
bed she shared with her husband, and slept.

Laxshmi often accompanied her grandmother to the ghats to wash clothes. 
The old woman would make a bundle of the washing and take it down to the 
steep cliffs by the river. There they would carefully walk and slide down 
the dark cliffs until they came to the edge of the river. Nani would squat 
on a stone and immerse the clothes in the river; then she would rub a 
little soap on each article and savagely beat it clean against the stones 
of the cliffs. Laxshmi loved these outings. She loved to watch the rhythmic
movements of the washerwomen as they raised the cloth and then beat it down
again, chanting all together, “Hai! Ho! Hai! Huh! Hai!” as the sun glinted 
on the water, and the colored bundles of washing rustling like exotic 
mushrooms against the drab cliffs. Sometimes they would see a funeral 
winding its way to one of the cremation sites. Then, Laxshmi would quietly 
slip away from Nani, and run to watch. It was a thrilling sight. The stone 
tank would be filled with wood, and then the bier placed on it, with the 
dead person looking unreal and like a doll. Soon the Brahmin priests—bald 
except for the knotted tuft of hair—would start to chant, and one of the 
close male relatives would light the pyre—and whoosh! The tank was soon one
mass of flame. Laxshmi would sometimes sit for hours watching the pyre 
slowly burn. It was a strange sight and sometimes the body would turn over 
as if the man was alive, and she would be suddenly afraid that he might cry
out and say, “Laxshmi, help me out of here!”

In fact, Barkkat, who lived behind them, once told her that he had seen 
one of the corpses jump off the pyre and dive into the river. She did not 
quite believe him, but so many things were possible. She had been with Nani
once, when they had burned a woman who had died in childbirth and the 
Brahmin priests had taken some hair and nails of the dead woman and burned 
them apart in order to prevent her from becoming a chureil—half woman, half
bird with its feet turned back to front. Laxshmi had been very afraid, 
especially when Nani told her that Manoo mama (uncle) had been killed by a 
chureil. After that, she hated to stand under a tree at night in case she 
saw the awful chureil. But then, she was safe, because the chureil only 
killed men and never harmed women.

Then there were days when Nani would take her to the temple to do pooja. 
She would dress in her best clothes and would accompany Nani, who, as a 
widow, kept her head shaved and wore only white, to the little temple not 
far from where they lived. Here Nani would go through the involved ritual 
of the pooja, presenting flowers to the statue of the God Shiva and pouring
milk and nuts. She would also bring sandalwood as an offering for the fire 
that burned before God. Laxshmi used to run about in the courtyard outside 
and stroke the silky white cows that sat lazily in the temple yard. She 
also liked to stare at the sadhus who sat motionless, their legs crossed, 
feet resting on their thighs, staring into the infinite. There used to be 
one, two years ago, who had stood on one leg for four years to fulfill a 
vow, and it was funny to see him hop around the temple like a lame cow. Of 
late, however, Laxshmi had begun to sense that there was some purpose to 
these frequent visits. Nani was often in conversation with one of the old 
Brahmins and she was always very critical to see that Laxshmi looked her 
best when she went with her. Also, Nani had started to talk about returning
to the country, and Laxshmi knew that when Nani started to harp on a 
subject, it was usually to some effect. She became sure that something was 
in Nani's mind when one day she heard Nani fight with her beloved son. They
had been resting in the afternoon when she heard Nani reproach him bitterly
for his drinking—a thing she seldom did. Her son started to shout as usual,
and then to whine. “I don't want to go to that accursed village. What do 
you think I came to Bombay for? Laxshmi can do exactly what her mother 
does. A Dasi? You really exaggerate sometimes, Mother. We have neither the 
money nor the influence. Yes, yes, it is all very well Khingra saying he 
can present her to his sister who is one of the chief Dasis. But we still 
have to have the money to give to the Brahmins and you know what greedy 
vultures they are—and the marriage ceremony and all that. No! No! No! No!”

There was a lot more argument and then Hari stalked out of the house to 
the comforting atmosphere of Chand Babu's.

Most of the time, however, Laxshmi played with the other neighbors in the
street. At first, she was quite unaware of her beauty, and none of the 
other neighbors seemed to notice it either. The first time Laxshmi became 
consciously aware of herself physically was one hot summer afternoon when 
she was sitting in the shade playing bones and ball. Her stepfather 
staggered home in a pleasantly euphoric state and crumpled onto one of the 
beds. Laxshmi ignored him until he suddenly started to cry out for some 
cool water. She got up and hurried to the earthen pitcher that served as a 
water cooler and brought him a metal lota full of water. Hari was sitting 
up in bed, his hair rumpled, blinking like a sick owl. As Laxshmi handed 
him the water, he took it unsteadily and the lota tipped dangerously over 
the bed. She rushed to steady it, and the brusque movement was too much for
her old worn-out blouse, which split exposing her two soft, budding 
breasts. Hari threw back his head and laughed.

“So my little chick is growing—she is so eager, her clothes won't stay on
her!” He continued to titter to himself. Laxshmi carefully replaced the 
lota, and when she turned around, her stepfather was sitting up in bed 
looking at her in a strange way.

“Come here,” he said.

Laxshmi had never heard him speak to her in that tone. She timidly went 
toward him.

“Where is your mother and Nani?”

“They have gone to visit Durga Gai. They said they would be back late.”

Suddenly he smiled at her and in his whining voice said, “Let me see, my 
young chick. Come, show your mother's husband, my beauty.”

Puzzled, Laxshmi took off her torn bodice and untied her skirt and 
stepped out naked in front of her stepfather. The man pulled her closer to 
the cot and looked at her greedily.

“Beautiful, so beautiful. The best thing I have seen...” Once again he 
started to laugh. His hand wandered all over her body and stroked her 
silken skin, gently talking to her all the while. Laxshmi was puzzled and 
yet flattered by his attentions, and she enjoyed the rhythmic teasing of 
his hand. Gradually, his stroking began to get more urgent. He cupped her 
small breasts in his hand and tickled her small soft pink points with his 
thumb. One hand he strongly inserted between her slim thighs and his 
fingers groped in her hairless mound. Suddenly, he pulled her into bed and 
pulled the cover over. He quickly lifted his shirt, slipped off his pajamas
and with a shock, Laxshmi felt his naked body against hers. He held her 
closely to him, rubbing himself against her soft skin. Then slowly he 
started to lick her all over like a cat licking its young. He licked her 
peach-soft bosom, her downy belly, and parting her legs, he started to lick
the tender adolescent slit. Laxshmi lay paralyzed with fear. Something told
her that this was not right. She felt an unreasoning fear, and at the same 
time, a new tumult rose within, causing her an exquisite pain and making 
her limbs tremble with shock. Her stepfather suddenly took her hand and 
thrust a fleshy rod between her fingers. She cried out in fear; this she 
knew she was not to touch—nor to see. She tried to let go, but now her 
stepfather was on top of her, prying her legs apart with his knees. She 
screamed with all her might and tried to stop him. She felt the rod pushing
at her thighs and screamed again. And then suddenly, the weight was off her
and all was confusion. She saw her mother standing over the bed, beating 
her husband and screaming as if she were being killed. People rushed in to 
take her away, or she would surely have killed Hari. Nani covered Laxshmi 
up and carried her away to a neighbor's house where she stayed for two 
days. After that, she was never left alone in the house, and her stepfather
never spoke to her nor looked at her again. But it did not matter much as 
he went even more frequently to Chand Babu's than ever before.

Laxshmi never quite understood what the fuss was all about, and she soon 
forgot the incident. Her life, bound by the little adventures of girlhood, 
went smoothly on, ignoring circumstances she did not understand, and 
seeking out the meaning of the hundred new worlds that opened before her. 
Her mother's work she half understood, and in a strange way, she was not 
curious. She was a contented young woman, secure in the knowledge that she 
had something many other women didn't, and proud of the fact that people 
stopped to look at her in the streets or to give her sweets. Her companions
acknowledged her advantage without jealousy, and very often when they went 
to beg for spice in the shopping districts, they would insist on her going 
along because few people refused her anything.

One day they were playing near a block of office buildings when Lalu—a 
tough young boy—peeped into one of the rooms and found it empty. He turned 
excitedly to the others. “There are at least twenty pencils on the desk. If
we climb in and get some, we can sell them for a pice each in the bazaar!”

The other kids—girls and boys—were at once greatly excited by the plan. 
They clamored around Lalu asking if they could help. Lalu accepted complete
command of the situation and looking imperiously around he announced, “I 
shall go and I will take Madhu and Laxshmi with me. Madhu to keep watch and
Laxshmi to charm our way out in case we get caught!”

The girls and boys laughed and after taking a careful look around, they 
hoisted the three adventurers through the window. Once inside, Lalu 
signaled to Madhu to watch the door and Laxshmi hovered nervously near the 
window. Lalu quickly picked up the pencils, and then the temptation of easy
spoils went to his head and he started to open the drawers and take out 
rulers, an inkpot, and a packet of pins. No one heard the door open, and no
one saw the Englishman enter except Madhu who was knocked flat on his face 
by the door he was supposed to be guarding.

“Hey! Choor!” the man shouted. Lalu, with instinctive finesse, jumped at 
the window, knocking down Laxshmi. Madhu bolted through the door and 
Laxshmi was left alone to face the angry Englishman. She cowered in a 
corner, wondering if he would kill her or send her to prison. But the man 
stood looking at her for a long moment and then said, “So they left you 
alone, your chivalrous companions. I suppose they thought a pretty girl 
like you could come to no harm. I agree a pretty girl can go far—but not 
too far—and I intend to teach you a lesson, miss.”

He closed the office door and pulled the girl out of the corner. He sat 
down in his chair and told her to slip off her skirt. Laxshmi obeyed. The 
Englishman gasped as the cotton skirt slipped off revealing the slim, 
perfectly shaped legs and the soft, hairless, cleft mound. Then savagely he
pulled the girl toward him and bent her over his knees. He picked a 
ruler—one that Lalu had dropped in his hurry—and brought it down across her
smooth round buttocks. Laxshmi screamed, and the man stuffed a handkerchief
into her mouth and hit her once more across the buttocks. He continued to 
beat her until she ceased to struggle and lay in an inert mass across his 
knees. Then he lifted her up, bathed her tender flesh, and waited until she
could stand up.

“Can you walk?”

She nodded, afraid to speak because of the sobs that she was trying hard 
to repress.

“All right. Go home. But I am keeping your skirt—and let this be a lesson
to you.”

Without a word, he dropped her out of the window, and Laxshmi, howling 
with shame, ran home, exposing her welted buttocks to the laughing world.

Strangely enough, it was not because of Laxshmi that Manorama decided to 
leave Bombay. A prostitute must be prepared to satisfy all the sexual 
vagaries that man in his quest for pleasure can invent, and in most, there 
is little risk involved. So, when one day the Bania sent a message to 
Manorama asking her to go to the house of a client who was willing to pay 
her forty rupees for the night, Manorama guessed that she would have to 
perform something rather special. She went punctually to the house at nine 
o'clock and was admitted by a turbaned bearer, who without question, led 
her through an immense house, and out into a back yard where there stood a 
big barn-like structure. He took her roughly by the arm, thrust her in and 
locked and bolted the door behind her. Manorama gasped in indignation. The 
barn smelled and she found herself squeezed in between sheep, two cows, and
a horse. She stood furiously, cursing, reluctant to sit down on the 
dung-covered straw for fear of ruining her sari. How long she remained 
there, she did not know. After what seemed like hours, the door opened and 
the servant came back. Manorama flew at him, but he struck her on the mouth
and motioned to her to keep quiet. He pulled her clothes off her and placed
a halter, such as one uses for horses, around her neck and led her out. 
Outside, he tied her to a post and emptied a bucket of filthy slops over 
her. Then, paying no attention to her curses and screams, he led her to the
far end of the garden and pushed her into a pit. Manorama howled as she 
sank neck-deep into the refuse, and every time she tried to scramble out, 
she slipped in again. She begged the servant to pull her out, but he stood 
by—impassive—watching her struggles. Finally, he dragged her out and, 
pulling her by the halter, led her to another part of the garden, tied her 
to a tree, and left her. Manorama leaned against the tree and vomited. She 
smelled of rotten vegetables and refuse and her body was covered in filth. 
She knew there was no escape and she prayed that her ordeal might soon be 
over. She waited shivering by the tree until she saw a man approach her. He
was tall and powerful, but she could not see his face in the dark. He 
pulled her roughly by the halter and threw her into a fresh dung pit. He 
threw himself on top of her and together they rolled over and over again in
the dung. The man got up and tied her to a low bush so that she was unable 
to stand up and could only crouch on all fours. He bound her hands together
and coated her back, breasts, and buttocks with the fresh, slimy dung. Then
he stood and coated his powerful organ with the excreta and, lying beneath 
the trussed woman, he sucked avidly at her filthy nipples with the 
contentment of a hungry calf. Manorama was beside herself. She cursed the 
man, but the more violent she became, the more excited he got. He began to 
murmur obscene words in a caressing tone until his desire mounted into 
frenzy and he bit her breasts. Then, dragging himself from beneath her, he 
pushed her face into the dung and mounted her from behind. He roughly 
parted her slimy buttocks and thrust his thick organ into her anus. 
Manorama wanted to die. Her eyes and mouth were full of dung, and the 
relentless figure drove deeper and deeper into her until she felt her 
buttocks rocked by the repeated spasms of the copulating man. For a long 
while he remained motionless on top of her; then he withdrew and walked 
away. Manorama lay there helpless until the servant came to release her. He
led her to an outdoor bathhouse and left her to bathe.

She collected her money the next day, but refused to speak about her 
evening. For two days, she did not leave the house but sat on her bed, 
saying she was sick. She felt a terrible doom would befall her. Three days 
later, she received a letter informing her that her sister and her nephew 
had both died of cholera and Laxshmi came down with a fever. Manorama rose 
haggard-eyed and announced that she was returning to her native village to 
atone for her impure state.

During the next few weeks, the family packed their belongings and started
on the long journey back to the South. Manorama refused to accompany Nani 
and Hari to the temple, but a week before they left, she went on a 
pilgrimage to a well-known sadhu's tomb. It was there that she finally 
decided to dedicate Laxshmi to the service of Shiva, for only such a 
gesture, she felt, could cleanse the impurity that she had brought on her 
family.

Chapter 2. The Bride

The sun had not quite set, but the moon was already a thin silver horn in
the sky. The evening was still, broken only by the shrill cries of 
homebound birds. The day was over, and as the silver death of night crept 
over the land, the mournful conch shell wailed its requiem for the sinking 
sun.

Manorama bustled around the little hut preparing the evening meal. She 
placed the pot of rice on the mud stove and squatted before it, fanning the
flames. The water rose in a seething foam and spilled over, causing the 
bright flames to sputter. She quickly pulled the pot off the fire and 
started to clean the stove.

“May I enter?”

She turned around, startled. It was the messenger from the temple. She 
hastily rose to her feet, pulling the sari over her face as she did so.

“Your husband is not at home?”

The man continued to stand on the threshold. Manorama did not invite him 
in—though he was of much the same caste as herself—for her life had changed
so much since she left Bombay and at last she had found the peace that she 
had been seeking all her life. Manorama was a cold woman at heart and the 
years of enforced submission to any man's lust had made her frigid. She 
reveled in her new role of a respectable matron and refused even to sleep 
with her husband, a fact that she boasted about to the community and which 
had gained her a reputation as a woman of outstanding spiritual merit. But 
the seed that falls from the tree grows to resemble the tree, and Laxshmi 
had picked up her stepfather's intemperate nature, a fact that gave 
Manorama much cause for anxiety.

“My husband has gone to buy offerings for the temple so that we may give 
them to Padmabai when she comes.”

“That is precisely what I came to see you about. Padmabai has asked the 
Brahmins if Laxshmi may be admitted to the temple, and today the Valangai 
Dasi Rukmini is coming to see you, to decide whether Laxshmi has the 
required qualities. You realize, my sister, that not every girl is chosen 
as the bride of the Lord Shiva.”

Manorama joined her hands together and bowed her head when she heard the 
name of the deity.

“Bahisahib, we have saved up all our lives so that our only child may be 
dedicated to God. Before we left Bombay, my husband brought a necklace of 
black pearls to offer my Lord Shiva if he deigns to accept our daughter. I 
beseech you, use what influence you may have with the pious Brahmins that 
they may admit my daughter. I have already given three gold embroidered 
saris to the Dasis at the temple. More than that, I cannot do.”

Without waiting for his reply, she ran into the house, opened a black box
and took out two old, torn rupee notes. She dipped her fingers in the 
sacred red tilak paste, anointed the notes, and offered them to the 
messenger.

“May the Lord bless you, my sister, and may he admit you to Kailasa his 
paradise.”

As soon as the man left, Manorama stood nervously, not knowing where to 
begin. She rushed to the door and called Laxshmi. The girl, who was playing
outside with the others, came in sullenly.

“What is it, Mother?”

“You must get dressed right away. Come take this lota of water and go 
wash yourself, while I boil this rice and milk. Here, wear your purple and 
silver ghagra, the silver blouse, and the muslin ourdhi.” The little girl 
took the small urn and went out behind the hut. She slipped off her skirt 
and tiny blouse and started to pour the water over her thin golden body. 
Her dark hair tumbled down her curved back, lightly touching her small 
tight buttocks. She raised one arm and started to pour the water over her 
head.

Her breasts stood out like two tiny thorns against the golden stem of her
body. She was completely absorbed in her task when, suddenly, she was 
startled by a high-pitched little giggle. Turning round, she found herself 
face to face with Ramchand, a gangling young boy about her age.

“Shihn! Don't scream or your mother will come and I shall be severely 
punished. I saw you bathe and I could not help looking.”

Laxshmi shrugged. She had observed the warm smile and the admiration in 
his dark eyes. “You can look. I have nothing to hide.” She deliberately 
rubbed her body, taking care to let her hand stray frequently over her 
small breasts with their dark nipples. The boy was trembling.

“Laxshmi,” the voice, hesitant, broke a little, “Laxshmi, may I ... can I
touch you?”

“What do you want to touch me for?”

“I'll show you something nice. Something you will like. I've seen my 
brother do it to his wife, and she always cries with joy.”

Laxshmi hesitated and looked toward the little hut. Not a soul was in 
sight.

“All right, but be quick or my mother will come and she will be very 
angry—because I am to be the bride of the Lord Shiva one day and so must 
not talk with ordinary boys like you,” she finished proudly.

The boy approached her cautiously. “Sit down—you must sit down.”

Without a word, Laxshmi sat down. The boy looked quickly around and then 
knelt before her. Gently he parted her legs. The dark lips of her tender 
sex opened, offering the unprotected moist mouth to his gaze. Timidly, he 
caressed the soft pink skin. A shiver ran through the girl as his finger 
slid teasingly, stroking the pink flower of her virginity. She felt a 
strange tightening in her belly—and then she could stand it no more. She 
closed her legs sharply, imprisoning the boy's hand between her thighs. He 
looked up, startled.

“Get off. That's enough. I don't like your silly game.”

The boy looked at her a moment. Then, suddenly he threw himself on top of
her and she lay squirming on the wet grass.

“Ram, Ram, are you mad?”

The boy did not answer. Furiously he rubbed himself against her smooth 
wet body, his hand desperately prying her thighs apart and his mouth 
traveling, traveling all over the soft wet body, trying to collect all of 
the soft, slippery bud into his mouth. His teeth bruised the nipple that 
tempted him like a hard black berry, ripe to be plucked.

“Laxshmi!”

He froze. For a moment he lay like a stone on her frail body, terrified, 
yet unable to leave the soft cushion of her body.

“Laxshmi!”

Then suddenly he stood and ran away without a word. The little girl rose 
up stunned. For a moment she sat still, her back covered with wisps of 
grass and straw. She was panting, her breath came in little gasps, but she 
was unafraid and strangely excited.

“Laxshmi, will you come in!”

The girl stood slowly, ran her hands over her body as if to make sure 
that it was still intact, smiled, and skipped back into the hut.

The woman was smoking a long cheroot. Her eyes stared into the smoke and 
beyond as if she were gazing across the room into eternity. Her face had 
once been very beautiful, but now it was consumed by the canker of age, and
the years had traced their geography on the pure oval. But her hair was 
still glossy and luxuriant and lay coiled on her neck in a gigantic knot. 
Her heavily embroidered sari seemed to be pinned to her body by sparkling 
jewels. A heavy collar of silver was twisted around her neck and sparkling 
bangles covered her arms, but her ears, strangely enough, were devoid of 
earrings. She screwed up her painted mouth and spat into the copper 
spittoon sitting beside her.

“Your child is a little old to enter our sect. However, as she is so 
beautiful, we can still admit her.”

The two Dasis from the temple sat on the wooden bed, while Manorama and 
her daughter squatted on the floor.

“Let us examine the girl.”

Manorama pulled her daughter to her feet, and deftly untied the silver 
gauze skirt and pulled off the small brocade blouse. Laxshmi stood still, 
her reed-like body gleaming like bronze in the flickering light of the 
kerosene lamp.

The older woman reached out and pulled the girl forward. She studied the 
slender form with her unseeing eyes, turned her round and felt her legs, 
shoulders, and arms.

“She has great suppleness—she will make a good dancer if she is obedient 
and works hard. But she is a little old, so we must delay no longer. We 
shall fix the marriage for next month. I shall consult the astrologer for 
an auspicious day. Now Padmabai, if you will call the Brahmin in, we will 
purify this girl.”

The second Dasi rose with a clink of her bangles and swept outside. She 
returned with a thin priest dressed only in a thin white dhoti wrapped 
tightly around his waist and pulled between his legs. A sacred thread 
crossed his chest, and his bald head, shaved except for a little tuft of 
hair on the crown, was decorated with red and yellow religious symbols.

Manorama at once brought out a little oil lamp and two coconuts, which 
she placed before the priest. The Brahmin took the lamp and started to 
chant in a singsong voice. He circled the still figure of the girl three 
times, lifting the lamp. Then, standing in front of her, he dipped his 
fingers in the sacred tilak paste and delicately anointed her forehead, 
hair, breasts, stomach, and buttocks. Then, he joined her hands together 
and prayed. “May the awakening of Kama within you lead you to the knowledge
of the Dance Divine and may his five arrows pierce your five senses. For 
Kama is all-powerful. He is Desire.”

Clapping their hands together, the women started to sing a slow, 
high-pitched song. One of them rose and offered Manorama a new sari. 
Manorama placed the finely embroidered cloth on the little altar in front 
of the garlanded photo of Shiva, bowed low, and thanked the deity for 
accepting her daughter.

The song drew to a wailing end. The ceremony was over. Manorama quickly 
offered 'pan' (leaves with betel nut and lime in the center) and little 
yellow balls of halva to the guests. The Brahmin accepted the sweetmeats 
but did not eat them. Laxshmi, clad in her new sari, sat on the bed next to
the elder Dasi, swinging her legs and wondering when she would be allowed 
to go out and join her friends.

“Manorama, Manorama, the new moon has appeared!”

Manorama came running out of the little hut.

“Where? Did you see it?”

“No, but Madhura saw it.”

But she had no further need for collaboration, for soon the welcome chant
rose from the temple, and the cymbals clashed as the priests celebrated 
rebirth of Chandra, the moon.

Manorama's heart beat faster. The astrologer had said that Laxshmi must 
marry two days after the appearance of the new moon. In two days, her 
daughter would leave her home life forever and enter her new life. She felt
a stab of regret at the thought of losing her daughter, but she soon 
consoled herself at the thought that Laxshmi would have a better life than 
her mother.

The preparations had begun. The very next day, the two Dasis came to the 
little hut. Laxshmi was led in and made to stand before the sacred fire. 
The women were dressed in colored saris and the palms of their hands and 
the soles of their feet were dyed yellow. They chanted the ancient wedding 
songs, songs that descended from the days when the gods taught the art of 
love to mortals, songs that told of the ecstasy of the Dance Divine, the 
Dance that was Creation.

I see you radiant and full of desire.

You call to me

To enter and take possession

Oh, Sarvati, show me how to woo her with words.

Oh, Parvati, give me the force

To burst a thousand suns

Into her belly.

They sang and beat small cymbals. The elder Dasi undressed the girl; 
then, dipping her hands in clarified butter, she rubbed the thin brown body
until it shone like polished bronze. The other women painted her hands and 
feet. Laxshmi stood delighted with the attention they paid her. The Dasis' 
greased hands on her body gave her a warm sensation. She stood quietly, her
lids drooping drowsily while the women chanted and rubbed her thin limbs.

“Do you run about a lot, girl?” The elder Dasi was speaking to her.

“Yes, I like to run around all day.”

The woman hesitated, looked questioningly at Manorama, then, suddenly 
resolute, said, “I had better see, all the same. After all she is only a 
simple girl.”

She carried the girl to a wooden stool and sat her upon it.

“Now, Laxshmi do not be afraid—this may hurt you a little, but it is for 
your own good.”

She looked meaningfully at the other women. Manorama came forward and 
pinned the girl's hands behind her back, while two other women gripped her 
legs and pulled them wide apart. The elder Dasi knelt down and deftly 
inserted her finger into the small virginal opening.

Laxshmi twisted and screamed, “Ma... Ma...”

But her own mother was holding her hands fast behind her back, allowing 
her to twist in pain.

“Now Laxshmi, do not be naughty; there is nothing to scream about. If you
behave badly now, it will be worse for you later on.”

The elder Dasi soothingly caressed the girl's knee with one hand, while 
with probing fingers she estimated the girl's youth.

“She will have trouble, I am afraid—I shall try to help her a little.”

She rose and bade one of the women bring the stick. A smooth rounded 
truncheon of bamboo was handed to her.

“Now Laxshmi, this will hurt. But you will soon learn that pleasure is 
always connected with pain—so be patient. If you struggle, it will hurt 
more.”

Gently, she pushed the girl back against her mother. Manorama imprisoned 
the slight body of the girl tightly in her arms while the Dasi carefully 
inserted the smooth bamboo into her sobbing mouth. Laxshmi screamed. Her 
thin thighs trembled and she strove with all her might to pull her knees 
together to protect the defenseless center of her youth. But her limbs were
firmly held and the elder woman began to thrum lightly with the rod.

“Ma, Ma, please, please tell her to stop...”

But the woman continued her task, inserting the bamboo a little harder 
each time. It seemed to Laxshmi that every other part of her body was 
obliterated by the pain and only her loins existed. The pain in her womb 
seemed to pervade her whole being until she felt as if she were being 
rocked from head to foot in rhythm with the pounding bamboo. A woman's 
high-pitched laugh shocked her back to reality.

“Why, the little one learns fast, she is already responding to this 
bamboo lover. Watch how her hips are starting to answer the call. Well 
done, little one!”

The elder Dasi laughed and slowly withdrew the stick. Laxshmi stopped 
crying and looked in bewilderment at the woman. Her belly still ached but 
the furious rocking had stopped.

“What, are you starting to miss it already? You want some more? Well, 
don't worry, you will have enough, before you are much older, to last you a
lifetime. Come, little bride, enough of this or there will be nothing left 
for your Divine Husband!”

The women all laughed together. Laxshmi thought that they sounded like 
the hens in the little yard when her stepfather was chasing one to kill it 
for dinner. She wondered how she would feel as Lord Shiva's bride. Would 
she, too, have so many arms? Perhaps she would go straight to heaven and 
live there in a big white house like the District Commissioner-sahib's; or 
maybe things would not be so pleasant and the goddess Durga, his first 
wife, would be jealous of her. She had seen Durga at the Dessara 
Festival—dreadful Durga with her eight arms and two heads, who stood 
fearlessly on a lion's back—but then perhaps she would be a goddess, too. 
Then there would be two Laxshmis in heaven, the goddess of wealth and 
she—perhaps they would call her Little Laxshmi—and she would look after all
the village girls and boys, give them goat's milk and yogurt.

“Manorama, your daughter is falling asleep. You had better put her to bed
right away, for tomorrow she will hardly get any rest.”

For the last time, Manorama picked up her daughter and, carrying her 
gently, put her on her little cot at the back of the hut.

The smoke rose sinuously toward the sky. Laxshmi sat before the altar. 
She was dressed in the traditional bridal red sari, and her thin shoulders 
sagged under the weight of dozens of heavy garlands of golden marigolds. 
She wore a crown of silver paper on her head, and silver tassels hung down 
on either side of her face. Her hair was drawn back into a single braid, 
her forehead streaked with red and yellow. Her eyelids were heavily 
underlined with kajal, and her mouth was painted a succulent red. It was 
the face of a sensuous young bride. But under the heavy embroidered 
garments quivered the frail and undeveloped body of a girl not yet a full 
woman. The smoke from the incense burner was so thick, and the crown 
pressed so tightly on her forehead, she did not dare look up.

But as the chanting grew louder, she raised her eyes slightly. The smoke 
had cleared, and between the curling tendrils of incense, she suddenly saw 
Him.

He was gold. One foot was raised high across His body. Six slender arms 
of gold sprang out from the graceful curve of His trunk, each hand and arm 
a sculptured ecstasy of movement. A framework of golden fire encircled Him,
and beneath the heavy crown, the closed lids and curving smile symbolized 
the Supreme Rapture. Laxshmi gasped. This, then, was her husband, the 
Dancing Shiva, the Creator, the Supreme Desire. She longed to be taken up 
the movement of his smile, to dance with him forever.

The Brahmin priest was speaking to her. “Without thee I am naught. Thou 
shalt be my Shakti, my force, my instrument. I have given my lingam to men 
that they may strive toward me, driven by unquenching Desire. Worship and 
adore it. For it is the source of all life. It will protect you from the 
dark and from Yama of the Dead World. For I am Shiva, and my lingam is my 
essence. Embrace it and serve it, that you may dance eternally with me in 
Kailasa!”

Slowly they raised her and led her toward the altar. The chief priest 
brought the sacred lingam toward her. It was painted brown. The priest made
her clasp it in her hand. The clay organ was warm from the heat of the 
incense burners and seemed to live in her hand. She embraced the smooth 
clay form timidly. The Brahmin took her hand and forced the clay symbol 
into her mouth.

“Enter and purify, for I am empty without thee. Thou art my life. My time
on Earth shall be spent in thy service, that I may enter Kailasa and 
increase thy delight.”

The Brahmin now handed her a garland and Laxshmi timidly climbed the 
three steps toward the idol and placed the garland around his neck. Almost 
simultaneously the priest took up a little locket that was attached to the 
idol's hand and hung it round her neck. A wild chanting broke out. The 
conch shells wailed their message and the cymbals clashed as if to announce
to all the world that the Lord Shiva had taken unto himself a new bride.

Laxshmi was led away from the main room to a little antechamber. There 
she saw her mother, her stepfather, and many of the temple Dasis collected 
together. They seated her on a low stool and told her to spread her knees. 
Suddenly a figure broke through the crowd and a man came toward her. She 
looked up at the gorgeously dressed newcomer and realized with a shock that
the man was the elder Dasi in disguise! She wanted to burst out laughing 
but an unusual solemnity in the woman's expression chilled her. The Dasi 
sat opposite her, in the same attitude, and waited. Soon the Brahmin 
appeared carrying a coconut marked with Shiva's symbol—the trident. The 
Dasi took the coconut and slowly rolled it toward the girl. At this 
gesture, the women broke into a loud wail. Once again the conch blew and 
the cymbals clashed. Shiva had symbolically taken His new bride. A virgin 
was lost to the world; the marriage was consummated. The Dasi kept rolling 
the coconut back and forth for about half an hour to demonstrate Shiva's 
prowess. Laxshmi sat watching the rolling coconut. All around her people 
had started to relax. Her stepfather was offering betel nut and sweetmeats 
to the guests, the Dasis, and the priests; already her mother had left to 
offer the same to every family in the little village. She heard the 
laughter outside and suddenly she wanted to join them. She began to be 
afraid and felt a little lonely. She realized with a sharp pang that she 
would never be allowed to be with her Ram among the palm trees and, despite
all her efforts to be brave, she started to cry. The Dasi looked up, 
stopped rolling the coconut, and without a word pulled the little girl to 
her feet and led her back into the sanctuary of the temple. She made her 
sit before the idol once again and turned to leave her.

“You are to spend the night with your husband. Do not move from here—and 
may your consummation be fruitful.”

So saying, she left the girl alone. Laxshmi sat immobile. Outside, the 
sun had already set and the room was invaded by creeping shadows. The smoke
curled thinly on the altar, twisting across the idol's face, and it seemed 
to her as if the god smiled. She shivered. She wanted to run, to cry out, 
but she did not dare; she knew it would cause a scandal and that she would 
be beaten. Soon the oncoming night would plunge the hall into darkness and 
only the idol would gleam faintly in the blackness. Would he come down from
his pedestal and take her, wrapping his six arms around her, looking at her
out of his closed eyes, smiling, ever smiling? She began to tremble. Fear 
paralyzed her. She felt the cold sweat stick to the tight sleeves of her 
little bodice, leaving her damp and uncomfortable. She did not know how 
long she sat there. Shapes seemed to come and dissolve before her eyes. 
Sometimes she thought she slept, and then the darkness would suddenly 
explode, and everything became terrifyingly clear—the heap of flowers in 
the corner, the incense smoke and the eternal golden smile. Once she 
thought that she had died—and she was glad—only to be startled and plunged 
once again into a newer and sharper realization of where she was. It seemed
to her that years flowed by. She remembered nothing. She floated dimly, 
awakening suddenly and sharply with every new wave of terror. A hand was on
her mouth. She wanted to scream, forgetting all caution, but it drew her 
back down into the darkness. She felt someone force a cup between her 
clenched teeth and in her fear and bewilderment, she drank the liquid in 
one gulp. A burning warmth hit her belly and slowly the numbing comfort 
swept through all her body, until her limbs felt heavy. She seemed to be 
dismembered, each arm a mile away from the center of her being. Yet it was 
a wonderful relief after shivering in the pinpoint consciousness of terror.
Somebody was unwinding the sari. Somebody had pulled the garlands off her 
head. She felt a movement in her blouse and then—oh, magic—a warm stroking 
around her breasts. Unknowingly, she arched her body back, pushing the 
sturdy nipples upwards toward the warm caress. She lay on the ground; a 
hand parted her thighs. She felt the small mouth of her sex open wide, 
throbbing, waiting to devour. The disembodied hand was gently stroking the 
moist opening as if to make sure of its welcome. Then she felt a new and 
sudden weight on her and something strong yet soft was pushing at her. She 
felt herself lifted and carried, and she knew she was being placed on the 
altar, only her limbs hung down heavy and lifeless. Now someone was pulling
her forward. She thought that she would float in space. Then she felt the 
hard edge of the altar cut midway into her buttocks. Again the nameless 
pressure between her legs, the gentle yet strong probing. She felt someone 
open the lips of her sex and the strong, firm rod of flesh rested quietly 
at the entrance to her being. It lay quiet, unmoving. Then suddenly it tore
through the wall of her youth: once, twice, thrice, she felt the savage 
thrust. Even in her present torpor, she was aware of pain—and something 
warm and sticky seeping down her thighs. But now, suddenly through the 
pain, through the protesting, protecting body, the heavy instrument plunged
over and over again until it reached the center of her being and awakened a
new life there. It touched a new sense, and a strange excitement surged 
through her body. With a shock, she recognized the strange rhythmic 
pounding. Each new thrust touched a new source of painful pleasure and her 
belly contracted in response. She felt her hips move—to try and force the 
source of her pleasure deeper into her. Hands were now slowly rubbing her 
breasts and she felt as if every fiber in her body was rushing along on a 
strange, new tide.

On ... on ... on... This then was the Dance Divine, this force in the 
dark rocking her being, playing on her being, playing on her body like an 
instrument until every nerve responded. She was alive ... all alive...

What was the prayer? Before all I existed ... I am Kama, and Desire is 
the beginning of all things...

“Oh! God, God,” she prayed, “never let this cease. Rock me forever like 
this. You are my mother and I am being rocked in the innermost part of me. 
I am dancing; my legs are moving and my hips are pushing—but you are 
beating the rhythm within me.”

On ... on ... on... She rushed trying to recapture the wand of pleasure 
every time it withdrew, not daring to wait for it to penetrate her anew. 
Time had no meaning—only the thunderous rushing rhythm within her, driving 
her on and on until she could stand no more. She had reached the apex of 
her joy. She heard a far cry and something seemed to dissolve, break, and 
rush out of her body. She was convulsed. Time and time again, her body 
contracted only to burst once more. Each burst brought on a new relief, 
sharpened only by the mounting pleasure of a new contraction, until one 
greater than all the rest rocked her body and seemed to tear it asunder. In
the middle of her ecstasy, she looked up in the darkness unconsciously, 
gratefully searching for the source of her pleasure. Her body heaved in one
final convulsion. She felt a warm liquid trickle down her limbs, and a 
great peace settled on her. She breathed deeply, like a newborn child, and 
opening her eyes, she saw above her in the darkness the golden smile of the
Dancing God!

Chapter 3. Apprenticeship

Tai ... tai ... tai ... tai... Tai. Ardha chandra!” Like flowers, eight 
pairs of hands slowly opened to form a half moon. Round they twirled again,
their heavy braids flying, while the nattuvan counted the beat.

“Tai ... tai ... hadhi ... tai, tai.”

The eight little girls straightened out into a line, their feet tapping 
an intricate rhythm, fists closed and thumbs raised. This was the 
sikhara—the gesture of invitation, the gesture of appeal to the beloved. 
Bells jingling, they danced, their heads moving from side to side. Then, as
if invisibly commanded, they suddenly stopped, turned around twice and 
knelt, heads bowed, arms raised in a gesture of offering.

The nattuvan rose and slowly walked toward the little group.

“You may stand up now. Madhura, watch your hands, they are clumsy as 
crows' feet. And you, Seeta, never forget that a dancer dances with her 
whole body. I could see your mind was not attentive. It is no use dancing 
to perfection if your soul does not dance too. Your eyes were a blank, a 
dark wall that gave no message! Primla, you are always a little off beat; 
you had better have another hour of music a day. Laxshmi, you are doing 
well—only try and flow more smoothly to the music. You show too much 
independence of spirit. Submit to the mood of the music. And now it is time
for some more music. Go.”

The little girls joined their hands and bowed low.

“God be with you, Nattuvan.”

They darted out of the room and ran outside, shielding their faces from 
the bright sun, into the temple garden. There, under a huge, shady peepul 
tree, a woman sat waiting. She was old, toothless, and gray; before her 
stood a small portable harmonium. As the girls approached, a young boy 
joined her. He was dressed in white and carried two small hand drums. The 
little girls sat in a circle around the two. The old woman started to run 
her hand tightly over the harmonium, and the boy picked out the beat on his
drums. The little girls clapped their hands and started to sing in flat 
high voices.

Life is a garden,

Love is the little lamp in the garden,

I shall burn the lamp

As long as I can...

They sang the songs over and over again, the old woman stopping them 
every few bars to complain. “Come now, believe in what you sing, you 
discordant young chickens! Do you expect to serve the Lord Shiva with 
voices like that? Your parents must have donated a fortune to the temple, 
otherwise I cannot understand how the Dasis accepted graceless young 
creatures like you!”

And so it went every day. Laxshmi learned to dance, sing, and play many 
instruments. The months went by, each day following the other in a pattern 
of dance, song, and music. The styles of dance were so varied, and the 
moods of the strange scaleless music seemed infinite. There seemed no end 
to the repertoire of songs and legends a Dasi was supposed to know. 
Padmabai would ask, “How did Shiva give the lingam as a symbol to men?” In 
chorus, the little girls would recite the ancient legend from the 
lingapurana: “Brahma, Vishnu, and Vasishta went to Kailasa to visit Shiva 
one day. They arrived unannounced and surprised Shiva in the act of love. 
Shiva was not at all embarrassed and continued to satisfy His carnal lust 
in front of the other gods. In truth, Shiva was drunk with both ambrosia 
and desire and did not realize the indecency of His conduct.

“Vishnu laughed, but the other gods were very angry and abused and cursed
the sensual god:

“'May you be cursed, shameless one, and may all your followers be men of 
evil ways!' So saying they departed.

“When Shiva had recovered from the effects of ambrosia, He closely 
questioned his servants, who told Him what had happened. He was so 
horrified to hear the truth that He and His wife died of sorrow! But before
he died Shiva said, 'My shame has killed me, but my death has given me a 
new life and new form. From this day on, I shall be present in the form of 
the lingam—the male organ. And this act that has brought about my 
destruction, shall forever be venerated among men!”'

Then they would pray together to Shiva—the Healer, the Husband, the Lord 
of Kailasa, the Dancer of Creation—and Padmabai would say, “Remember, you 
are dedicated to the service of this temple—The Lord Shiva possesses your 
body and soul. You will have to dance in His honor, tend the sacred fire, 
sing songs for Him, and in the night, your bodies will offer their 
pleasures for Him. But remember, though you shall be taught all the arts of
love, you may never have intercourse with other than Brahmins. For you are 
in a sort saved—and so must remain pure. She whose lust drives her to give 
herself to the lower castes shall become impure, and evil will surely 
befall her!”

And the little girls would tremble at this warning and sware mentally 
that such horror would never befall them.

And so a year passed. Laxshmi grew taller and rounder every day. It was 
not enough to dance well, sing beautifully, and to recite the legends; a 
Dasi had also to be beautiful. The elder Dasis took great pains with the 
young novices. Dancing kept them supple, but it also kept them thin. So 
they rubbed their bodies with melted butter and fed them on honey and 
almonds until their hips began to swell and breasts to strain under the 
tight little bodices. Each girl was watched with care. Every day the chief 
Dasi would call the little girls together and discuss their progress.

“Padma,” she would say, “your skin is like black satin but your hair is 
dark-brown. You must oil it four times a day with coconut oil to make it 
black. And you, Laxshmi, you have nipples like berries, you must mix a 
little wax in with the ghee and shape them until they stand like sentinels 
on your proud little breasts. Chee! Madhu! You are getting so hairy. Do you
not rub saffron and dry flour over your body as I told you to?”

But the women were patient with the girls and good to them. Each one 
officially “adopted” one of the little girls and was responsible for her 
progress. But they were not content to let natural beauty take its course; 
they also taught the girls the art of makeup. They showed them how to make 
a naturally lustrous almond eye more enticing by subtly underlining it with
kajal. They taught them to distill heavy perfumes, which when mixed with 
the natural odors of the body were guaranteed to make a man swoon with 
desire: the orange “mehendi” for palms and feet and deep pink rouge for the
mouth, nipples—and for those secret inner lips of love. Some of the Dasis 
felt that jewels embedded in these hidden regions heightened the pleasures 
of love, and the other little children used to hide in terror when the 
Brahmins' barber came to perform the operation. Most of the girls wore 
little diamonds in their right nostril, but the hole had been pierced when 
they were infants and none remembered it. Laxshmi had long been afraid that
Padmaji would ask her to undergo this ceremony, and the day a Brahmin lover
presented Padma with a small ruby, she knew her worst fears were realized. 
She sobbed and screamed but Padmaji was inflexible. They led her out into 
the garden and spread a mat under the big peepul tree. Padma gave her 
something to drink, telling her that she would feel no pain. The barber 
held her on her back, bent her knees against her body and laid her in that 
position. Wide-eyed with terror, Laxshmi watched him draw out a small sharp
lance. He passed its narrow point through a flame, and putting his hand in 
her defenseless sex, he stretched one of the pink lips. He glanced at the 
child and then swiftly drove his lance through the tender skin. Laxshmi 
screamed. She felt the blood run down her buttocks, and the sharp pain was 
almost unbearable. The throbbing of the small wound was so intense that she
barely noticed the barber insert the ruby and screw it firmly in place. 
Then it was all over. Padmaji was kissing her and telling her to be quiet. 
One of her companions brought her a glass of hot goat's milk and toddy, and
as she gradually got used to the throbbing, she felt an overpowering desire
to sleep. Padma carried her to bed and she slept the whole day through and 
half of the next, and when she woke up, she felt nothing but a slight 
soreness. The next day she was dancing.

At the end of the first year, all the new Dasis were inspected by the 
Brahmin priests in charge of the temple. The day before was nervously spent
in final groomings—correction of dance steps and last minute memorizing of 
ritual. The girls lay down earlier than usual on their straw pallets and 
few slept peacefully that night.

The next day they were awakened at six and filed into the sanctuary to 
light the ritual fire. Then they hurried back and dressed themselves in 
their best dancing clothes: huge wide skirts of brocade, little bodices and
veils of fine muslin. Soon the eldest Dasi came to call them, and trembling
with excitement, they filed into the main hall of the temple. At the end of
the room, on a raised dais, sat four temple priests. They were all dressed 
alike in white dhotis. Their upper bodies were bare, except for the sacred 
thread, which was wound diagonally across the chest and knotted at the 
waist. Their foreheads were marked with the three-pronged trident of Shiva,
and their heads were tonsured except for a little knot of hair at the 
crown.

The little girls bowed before them, making sure to bend as gracefully as 
possible. Then they stood waiting until they heard the harmonium strike up 
and the tables take up the complex beat. Clapping their hands together, 
they sang of the beautiful dancer's love for Vishnu and of how she tempted 
the god, until he changed her into a pebble and he himself became the river
that caressed the pebble as it flowed to join the sea. They mimed the 
legend as they sang, their flower-like hands telling a complete story with 
each gesture, and their feet moving swiftly, abruptly changing rhythm to 
vary with the mood of the song. They danced: eyes, eyebrows, lips, fingers,
every muscle of their supple bodies gave meaning to their song. They danced
in perfect unison like colored flowers twirling in a monsoon breeze until 
at last the notes of the harmonium died away and the girls stood immobile 
in a final namaskaar (greeting). The priests nodded their satisfaction. The
chief priest murmured a gentle criticism to the natturan and then asked 
each girl to sing one verse from the Kama Sutra—the poems of desire. A 
small portable harmonium was brought in and each girl recited a legend from
one of the ancient paranas, taking care to pronounce the long Sanskrit 
words clearly and well. Then the eldest Dasi asked to rise. She signaled to
the natturan to leave the room. Then she commanded the girls to undress. 
Each girl undid her skirt and blouse. They stood naked, heads bowed, before
the priests. One by one, they stepped forward and walked toward the dais. 
The High Priest inspected them carefully, running his hand gently over the 
smooth skin of the lithe brown bodies. The little girls shivered under his 
swift deft caress, and before she turned to go, the High Priest shook a 
fold of his dhoti and exposed his organ, swollen tight and hard, and each 
girl knelt and kissed it saying, “May I be penetrated often, and may every 
orifice of my body be filled with content in Thy Name...”

Laxshmi was asked to show her jewel, so she awkwardly opened her legs and
showed the little ruby. The High Priest was delighted, and spoke to her 
gently and stroked her breasts. Then she went back into the circle. As soon
as the last girl had returned to her place, the tablas started to beat and 
the girls slowly began to dance—the sacred coition ritual. They moved 
diagonally across the room, thumbs raised, eyes rolling to denote ecstasy, 
their hips contracting in the primitive rhythm of coitus. Then, one among 
them turned furiously and fell on her knees, her back arched, her head 
touching the ground. The other girls clapped their hands and sang one of 
the old songs of love. Then, one by one, they danced to the still girl, 
knelt before her parted legs and mimed the masculine movements of 
intercourse. There was something strangely pure about this erotic dance. 
The little girls performed it with precision and spirit, but still the 
performance lacked the quality of true eroticism. The High Priest laughed 
at the end, and speaking to the group said, “I should like to see you dance
this lasya in a year's time, my daughters. For now you are still children 
and then you will, with His blessing, be artists in such practices.”

Then he rose and went away followed by the other priests. The rest of the
day the girls spent playing and singing, and sweetmeats were distributed to
all.

The Valangai Dasi Rukmini looked down at the eager young faces. She was 
dressed as extravagantly as usual in a scarlet and gold sari. Jewels lay 
like a yoke around her thin neck and nestled in the intricate coils of her 
oiled black hair. But her ears, with their large lobes, were devoid of any 
ornament, for Rukmini was past the age of love, and when an old Dasi leaves
the temple, she takes off her earrings as a sign of resignation to the 
austerities of age.

The Valangai Dasi puffed meditatively on her cheroot.

“A Dasi is not only a dancer and singer. She is much, much more than 
that—she is the custodian of tradition. She keeps alive the ancient chants 
and legends. She observes the rites of Shiva and the traditions of his 
cult. But above all, she is the guardian of the ancient knowledge of love. 
It is not enough to submit to the desires of a man—that is the lot of most 
women—but we have a more specific function. We are the living symbols of 
pleasure. We must know how to reply to every invitation, to arouse desire 
in a thousand different ways, and, most important, once the desire is 
aroused, we must learn to satisfy it in a hundred ingenious ways.

“We shall start by dividing you into three groups. For each one must fit 
her knowledge to her physical aptitudes. And from now on, you will study 
apart, each one learning what is essential for her well-being.”

At a sign from the Valangai Dasi, the girls ranged themselves into a row 
and slipped off their skirts. Then each one walked to a little couch and 
raised her legs. The Valengai Dasi examined each girl carefully and called 
out her physical classification, which was noted down by another Dasi.

Women, it is written in the ancient Hindu works, are divided in three 
groups, according to the size of their yoni. Those who have a naturally 
small sex are called “gazelles.” Those who are more generously endowed, and
those whose proportions are overgenerous, are ungraciously qualified as 
“elephants.” Naturally, there were no “elephants” among the Dasis, as each 
girl had been selected for her physical perfection.

After the girls had all been classified, the Valengai Dasi explained the 
importance of the system.

“Unfortunately, despite the highly complex techniques of our fathers, our
amorous contacts are partial, conditioned by our bodies. Therefore, our 
ancestors classified men and women into different categories in order that 
the perfect union may be possible.

“First, men and women are divided according to the size of their organs. 
Women are:

1) gazelles

2) mares

3) elephants

and men are:

1) hares

2) bulls

3) stallions

“Of necessity some unions are better than others. The union of a stallion
with a gazelle is the most desired; and the mating of a stallion with a 
mare also yields a great deal satisfaction, while the coupling of a hare 
with an elephant is very unsatisfactory. Then, once again, another division
is made on the basis of temperament, and again another based on the speed 
with which they are satisfied. However, though the ideal is to find a man 
who is your match physically, spiritually, and temperamentally, such 
perfection can only be reached in Kailasa. On earth we must have recourse 
to a thousand secrets to extract the maximum pleasure and overcome such 
natural defects as might exist—and that, my children, is the art of love.”

Gradually, the young girls were initiated into the secrets of their 
craft. In the evening, they would go into the Valangai Dasi's chamber. The 
room was large, luxurious, and softly lit by small oil lamps. Perfumed 
incense sticks burned in the corners. The Valangai Dasi sat on a low divan 
puffing at her cheroot. She rang a little cowbell and two women entered. 
One was dressed as a man. The little girls laughed when they recognized the
woman as Padmabai! The Valangai Dasi waited for the laughter to stop and 
then she began her lesson.

“An ancient poet once said that it was extremely important to discuss the
embrace, because the bodily embrace was one of the means to awaken desire. 
One must sometimes even have recourse to techniques not mentioned in the 
Kama Shastra, if these techniques succeed in arousing the love and exciting
passion.”

Then the Valangai Dasi listed the complicated rules—the embraces 
permitted when alone, when walking together, when in company, when in bed. 
For instance, if lovers met in a private rendezvous, they were allowed to 
press their bodies closely against each other, to caress each other, and 
the woman was allowed to unpin her hair. After she finished speaking, the 
girls repeated the involved rules from memory.

Abruptly, the Valangai Dasi signaled to Padmabai and her partner to 
demonstrate the four chief embraces.

Padma walked into the center of the room. She was dressed in tight 
jodhpurs and a loose shirt, and a cloth pugree encircled her head and hid 
her long, dark hair. She stood stiffly upright, in mock virility. Her 
partner slowly approached her, wrapped herself around Padmabai, lifted her 
head to be kissed and gave little shrill cries of joy as Padmabai returned 
her embrace. This first method is called the “clinging vine” in the Kama 
Shastra.

The woman then broke away. Then once again she ran toward Padmabai, 
placed one foot on her foot and raised her left leg to encircle the other 
Dasi's body. This position is called “tree climber.”

The two women then walked over to the divan and lay on it so closely 
together that their arms and thighs were tightly entwined. This was the 
“mixture of sesame and rice.”

In the last embrace, that of “milk and water,” Padmabai took her partner 
on her knees and pressed her closely, so that the woman's breasts seemed to
melt into her flesh and both bodies seemed to dissolve into each other and 
become one.

But this was not all. The girls had to learn a variety of kisses, 
caresses, bites and other forms of love-play. The whole technique of 
love-making was so thoroughly and piously regulated that even the long, 
jagged scratches inflicted in the heat of passion were categorized as the 
half-moon, the circle, the tiger's claw, the lotus leaf, the leap of the 
hare and the peacock's foot. Each caress was carefully chosen. Some 
caresses could only be used at certain specific times. A love-scar on a 
woman's breast had more erotic value than a scar on her arm. But a man is 
not allowed to mark the body of his wife except in a very secret area. The 
passionate bites of an excited lover are reserved for his mistress. 
Therefore, it was very important that the Dasis understood the nature of 
such things.

They were shown the secret apadravyas: strange instruments of gold and 
bronze that the ancients attached to their organs to offer a more profound 
pleasure to their women. They learned to modify their defects. A balm made 
of asthracanla longiflora would shrink the passage of an “elephant” woman, 
while another ointment composed from strange herbs was applied to the yoni 
of a “gazelle.”

They were taught all the ancient rules laid down for a courtesan: how to 
accept lovers, how to bargain for money and how to get rid of unwanted men.
They learned to analyze the true nature (or rather, what men think is the 
true nature) of women and act according to the ancient principles of 
conduct, to massage a man's feet when he is tired and gently rub his 
shoulders and his legs. They were taught all the subtle techniques of 
deception, for a good Dasi must make a man believe she is deeply attracted 
to him even when she is only thinking of his purse. Then they were also 
initiated into the secret concoction of aphrodisiacs. They learned to 
recognize the potent herbs culled in the cold Himalayan foothills by 
austere sadhus. Herbs that could weaken the resistance of the most chaste 
maiden or the most faithful wife.

All this they learned and yet the girls remained pure. Except for their 
marriage day, few had ever had the occasion to repeat the experience. It 
was Madhura, a soft, plump girl, who was the first young Dasi to really 
taste the pleasures of love. She came swaying suggestively into the little 
garden where the other Dasis were weaving flower garlands and preparing the
orange mehendi to dye their feet and hands. At once, the curious girls 
realized that Madhura had something to tell them.

“Madhu! Madhu! You have a secret. What is it?”

Madhu smiled suggestively and did not reply.

“Oh, please, Madhu, tell us!”

Madhura pursed her lips primly and said, “I am not sure if it is not 
against the laws set down for courtesans to tell you!”

The little girls gasped. “Ahe ... oo ... oo! Madhu, did you have a love 
affair?”

Madhura shrugged mysteriously. The little Dasis abandoned their garlands 
and surrounded her, begging her to tell them and tempting the plump girl 
with lavish promises of sweetmeats.

“Well,” hesitated Madhura, judging that she had made the girls ask her 
often enough, “I'll tell you ... but be still, and don't interrupt until I 
have finished. Laxshmi, keep watch and see that none of the elder Dasis 
come. Also you must promise not to repeat a word of what I say. I was 
lighting the fire the other day—it was my turn, you remember—when someone 
came up from behind and embraced me, placing his hands on my breasts and 
rubbing his jadgana against my buttocks. I was very startled and turned 
angrily around ... and guess who it was—Govindnanda, the priest from 
Madras! When he saw how annoyed I was, he gently stroked my breasts and 
said, 'Do not be afraid, little handmaid of Shiva. You have surely been 
taught that love is one of the most sacred delights.'

“Then he led me to a little chamber in the temple. It was very small, and
the floor was covered with a carpet, and thick, soft cushions were spread 
everywhere. He pushed me down and lay next to me, his legs entwined with 
mine. Then he kissed me. It was so strange. You know, Govindnanda is about 
fifty years old and has a nose like a hawk and a thin body. But when I felt
his cool tongue in my mouth and his teeth gently biting my lower lip, I 
...I ... forgot how he looked. It was so strange. My body started to act as
if it were a person apart. I felt my back arch and I was offering my 
breasts to him. He quickly undid my blouse but did not even bother to take 
it off. Then gently—oh, so gently—he caressed my breasts, stroking them and
gently moving the little black circles with his fingers. You should have 
seen the nipples rise and stiffen—just like soldiers coming to attention! 
It felt as if a hundred hands were on my body instead of just two, hands 
that pressed my belly, breasts, and throat. To my shame, I felt my legs 
start to tremble. Govindnanda laughed and untied my skirt. I was surprised 
how easily it came off, as if it wanted to leave my body of its own accord!
One of his thin hands ran down my body and gently separated my thighs. I 
obeyed his soft command and parted my legs, offering the center of my body 
to his power. He slowly stroked me, there in the soft valley between my 
legs, and I tell you, I could have died from ecstasy. Then suddenly, he 
turned and lay beside me, his head near my thighs, and his legs around my 
head. He parted my legs even farther, and buried his face in my mound. I 
felt his tongue slip into my sex, just like the quicksilver summer lizard 
darts into a flower. He teased the juices of my body until I felt them 
gently seep toward his insistent tongue. Then, trembling, I took his firm 
instrument, which had been nudging me as if asking to be let in.”

“Was he a stallion?” one of the girls laughingly asked.

Madhura blushed. “No, a bull—and I won't continue if you make fun of me.”

“Oh, please, Madhu! We won't say another word!”

“All right. Now where was I? Oh! yes! Auf! Now I am embarrassed. Well ...
I took his power into my mouth and caressed it with my tongue. Oh, divine 
Auparishtaka! How could the ancient kings have this rite performed by 
eunuchs! We lay there and I made my lover enjoy the subtle delights of all 
the eight stages of the Auparishtaka. You will not believe me, but at the 
end of a half of love, I already felt that I was an accomplished mistress! 
We lay in mutual delight, and time flowed by slowly and with such 
intensity. Then I felt his tongue get more demanding as it ventured into 
the dark passage of my body. My own pulse began to hammer in my throat, and
when he raised his head, the expression in his eyes caused me almost to 
tear his organ from his body of love. Deftly he came beside me, raised my 
legs and crossed them. Then, holding my thighs like two marble pillars, he 
entered the palpitating mouth of my womb! Oh! Sisters, I cannot describe to
you the strange pain of his entry. I cried out with pleasure at this 
bittersweet enjoyment. Then he attacked! With all his force he rammed 
against my open thighs, until we were both tossed in some sacred sea of 
rhythm. He repeated over and over again, 'I take you like a lotus, as the 
Goddess Indra offered herself to Shiva!'

“Never have I felt closer to the Divine. Then I understood what we had 
been learning and I understood at last the sacred shastras of Vatsyayana, 
and I understood above all that one obeys the sacred shastra when one's 
passion is moderate, but once the wheel of love starts to turn, then, my 
sisters, neither the Shastra, nor the Sacred Order matter. Only the 
twisting of one's limbs, and the beating of the heart!”

Madhura was suddenly silent. The girls waited for her to continue, and 
then, seeing she was lost in reverie, they discreetly and quietly went back
to weaving their garlands.

The setting sun bathed the gold leaves of the pagoda in a red bronze 
light and dyed the garden blood red. The birds flew home with raucous cries
of love, and in the eyes of the little maidens, weaving their garlands, 
there shone a strange reflection of their companion's passion.

Chapter 4. The Service

It was morning. A moment earlier, the sky had been gray with the strange 
dawn-dusk and now suddenly, as if some invisible hand had turned on a 
switch, the whole world was bathed in light. The morning sun shone 
brightly, making the dew-wet rhododendrons twinkle like emeralds. The 
motionless palm trees were etched against the cloudless sky. Parrots 
twittered in the fruit trees and flew chattering to the tops of the date 
palms to eat the half-ripe nuts.

Laxshmi quickly jumped out of bed and started to dress. She wound a sari 
around her, knotted her long dark hair into a bun and painted her forehead 
with the trident sign of Shiva. Pulling her sari over her head, she 
hastened to the temple. There, offering was already prepared. She lifted 
the silver tray, and, balancing it on her right hand, entered the temple. 
The sanctuary was still dark. Only two small oil lamps burned in front of 
the golden idol. Laxshmi crouched before the god and passed the silver tray
three times round her head. Then she placed it before the deity and lit the
huge brazier filled with sweet-smelling sandalwood. As the gray smoke 
curled toward the ceiling, she lifted the conch shell and blew a long call.
Then she waited, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Soon the temple came 
alive. The Brahmin priests clad in their thin dhotis padded in to celebrate
the morning pooja. Faithful worshippers followed them and a gay jingle of 
anklets announced the entrance of the other Dasis. The sudden burst of song
frightened the nesting pigeons from the leaves as the little congregation 
sang one of the light, intricate, early morning ragas. The harmonium 
accompanied the voices, embellishing the song with strange dissonant 
variations.

In the dawn of creation

There was only the Beginning.

After the songs came the chanted prayers and the readings from the 
Puranas and the Vedas. Then the Brahmins rose and left. Soon the whole 
congregation walked out into the brilliant sun, leaving the dimly lit 
sanctuary quiet and deserted.

After the morning ceremony, Laxshmi and the other Dasis went back to 
their rooms to attend to their toilette. They were supposed to spend the 
morning hours studying and meditating. But most of them quietly locked 
their doors and went back to sleep. Some of them, however, had to be more 
conscientious, since it was their turn to perform the duties incumbent on 
the Dasis. They had to light the sacred fire, attend to all the rituals 
demanded by the cult, and be ready to dance and sing whenever called upon.

Summer is the time for weddings, and in May and June most of the 
astrologers encourage unions. During these months, the Dasis were 
constantly busy, dancing at the huge feasts given by rich families, and 
singing the old erotic songs in honor of some uncomprehending girl bride. 
They gave everything they earned to the temple, and in turn, they were fed,
housed, and clothed by the priests. Sometimes, however, they were allowed 
to keep a little money, and the Brahmins rarely objected to their accepting
gifts. When a Dasi became pregnant, the Brahmins performed all the 
necessary ceremonies. If the child was a girl, there was great rejoicing in
the temple and the Brahmins gave a feast. If, however, a son was born, no 
one spoke much of the event and the worried mother went immediately to the 
priests to try and discover why she had been the victim of such misfortune.
The women lived well together, as women can if they are not deprived of the
constant attentions of men, and the normal rivalries and jealousies were 
held well in control, as the Brahmins discouraged any emotional situations 
or entanglements.

Laxshmi was very happy in her new life. She was cared for, and if she 
missed the devoted attentions of her mother, this was more than compensated
for by the constant admiration she received. By now, her ripe beauty had 
earned her a certain notoriety. Yet Padmabai had carefully guarded her 
against any new experience, allowing her to be constantly aware of her own 
demanding body and yet allowing her to pass her years of tutelage unclaimed
by any man. Often she would call the girl in when she was entertaining one 
of the priests. Laxshmi longed for these visits, for she loved to see 
Padmabai sitting up in the bed, her dark skin gleaming, and her full heavy 
breasts peeping through her mantle of coarse black hair. She would shyly 
enter and recite an amorous poem, or sing one of the love songs of Dowiga. 
Once, one of Padmabai's lovers had become so excited by her soft 
insinuating voice, that he had grabbed her arm and pulled her onto the bed.
Padmabai had laughed, and allowed him to tease the girl. But Laxshmi felt 
her whole body tense when the Brahmin playfully slipped his hand into her 
blouse and gently stroked her flowerlike breasts, and when he forced open 
her bodice and tenderly gathered the little protruding nipples into his 
mouth, she felt herself driven by some powerful urge to press herself 
against the man and clasp her legs tightly around him. Padmabai, however, 
hastily intervened and drew the girl away, saying, “There will be plenty of
time for that when you have learned your lessons.”

It was not Padmabai's right to protect her protégé, but she had known of 
so many Dasis who, badly frightened by their pre-public initiation, had 
never regained confidence. She felt that it was better to keep her ward 
untouched through the years of study until her own natural instincts would 
cry out for communion. Then and only then, pushed by her own desires and 
equipped with all the amorous knowledge of their cult, would she learn to 
love and enjoy her work. It had been very difficult to protect the rich 
beauty of her adopted daughter, but with infinite tact, she had steered the
priests away from her. And yet, the past spring, when she had unexpectedly 
come across Laxshmi lying naked in the soft grass, stroking herself gently 
with the tips of her fingers, she realized that her daughter would soon 
become her rival.

It was holi, the spring festival of colors. Laxshmi ran laughingly out of
the temple, hoping to get to her room before the other Dasis had time to 
splash her with the colored dyes. But she had hardly reached the door when 
three of them jumped out and splashed her orange, green, and yellow. 
Quickly she ran to her room and filled her hands with colored powder, which
she threw indiscriminately on passers-by. People ran past, screaming and 
laughing, like strange grotesque Pierrots or oriental harlequins. Everybody
was dyed from head to foot in brilliant colors. The streets, too, were 
sprayed with the vivid hues. Thrifty housewives groaned as the walls of the
little whitewashed huts were colored purple, red, and orange. Children ran 
about like mad elves from some fairyland, while roses dyed a strange blue 
nodded wearily at orange-speckled palm trees.

Laxshmi ran screaming and laughing into the village with the others. They
were met by a crowd of children and villagers, and a war of colors was 
immediately declared. Clouds of red powder floated above the struggling 
crowd, while jets of purple dyes splashed over the festive saris and clean 
white dhotis. Someone started to beat a drum. One of the Dasis started to 
dance, and the battle turned into a festival once again. Laxshmi stood 
laughing helplessly, rubbing the colored powder out of her hair, when she 
suddenly saw him. He was of middle height, slim, yet powerfully muscular. 
His head was shaved and his level brows met across his high-bridged nose in
a frown of disgust.

But if his thin, fine nose belied the ascetic, his mouth threw the whole 
face into contradiction, for it was large and full and extravagantly 
curved. He commanded attention, not only because of his unusual appearance,
but by the fact that he was the only one in the tumultuous crowd who was 
not smiling.

Laxshmi at once broke through the throng toward him, and dashing up to 
him, she sprayed him directly in the face with a jet of green dye. She 
turned to him, laughing, but to her surprise he only turned away, not even 
bothering to wipe the water from his eyes and walked slowly toward the 
temple. Laxshmi was tempted to follow him, but suddenly grew afraid. Her 
beauty had always won her a warm response, and the newcomer's absolute 
indifference chilled her. She tried to forget him and once more threw 
herself into the joyous battle, but after a while, she discovered that she 
was not enjoying herself and went home, angry that this strange man's 
disgust should have spoiled her day.

She did not have to wait long. She saw him again the very same evening at
the pooja. He stood withdrawn at the back of the sanctuary and looked 
neither to the right nor left. He waited at the end of the service until 
the head priest joined him and they left together.

That evening, before she joined the other Dasis for their traditional 
performance in the village, she passed by Padmabai's hut. Without any 
further digression she burst out, “Padmabai, who is he?”

“Who?”

“The new man—the Brahmin who left with the Pandit.”

“Ah! So-o-o, the little monkey is interested?”

“Tell me, who is he?”

“He is not for you, little one.”

“I did not mean that!”

“Yes, you did. Forget him, my child; he would only bring you sorrow. He 
is the son of a very rich family of Rajput. He was married and had a son, 
but one day an accident occurred and he lost his wife and child. Since then
he has given up everything and has dedicated his life to self-improvement.”

“Is he to stay here?”

“For a few days. He has just returned from a long pilgrimage and is soon 
to go north again to start another period of retreat. This one will 
probably last ten years.”

“Padmabai, will you present him to me?”

“I cannot my child, and if I could I would not. Now go or you shall be 
late.”

Laxshmi turned and ran out. The gaiety of the village jarred her 
sorrowful mood, and she performed the gay dances and songs mechanically. 
Through the laughter and music, she saw the hate-filled eyes of the 
Brahmin, and when she came home, she lay on her bed and wept as she had not
done since the night she left her real mother.

Laxshmi was still young, and for the young, the world stops at a command.
Her sleepless night had convinced her that she had only to speak to him and
he would immediately change his life. She saw herself vested with all the 
beauty of Parvati and with the intelligence and eloquence of Sarasvati. She
boldly invented a carefully worded pretext, and went into the temple in 
search of the High Priest.

She found him in the garden deep in conversation with the newcomer. She 
approached him and then stopped as if she did not know what to do. The old 
man noticed her, and smiled.

“Bahadur Rao, this is the pearl of our Dasis. What do you want, 
daughter?”

Laxshmi pulled the sari closer over her face and joining her hands 
together, she said, “If you please, Panditji, I desire permission to visit 
my mother who is not well.”

“Of course, but Padmabai must accompany you to the village.”

Laxshmi thanked him, and just before she left, she looked up at the 
stranger. He was indeed looking at her, but his eyes were devoid of any 
interest or expression. She smiled a greeting at both and ran back to her 
house.

The next few days, Laxshmi did everything she could to attract his 
attention. She caused an unnecessary rustle and stir at worship, yet though
almost every head turned in perplexity, he never moved. She tried to meet 
him in the garden, but he was never there, and every time she chanced to 
see him, he was always accompanied by the Pandit.

She grew distracted and unhappy, for Laxshmi was in love. Her nights were
spent inventing fantastic waking dreams—dreams in which he demanded her 
affection and claimed he would die without her love. But then, she would be
startled into a realization that none of this was true, and she would turn 
over and start to weep.

One evening at twilight, when the air was still heavy with the heat of 
the sun, Laxshmi wandered alone into the strange temple grove. Trees grew 
luxuriantly and the tiny arbors of champelli blossoms spread a heavy 
perfume. She sat on a little wooden bench and the heavy sweet odor seemed 
to bring some measure of comfort to her soul. She sat with her eyes closed,
dreaming once again of the stern stranger. She was so absorbed in her own 
reality that when she felt the hands opening her blouse, she stayed quite 
still until the clumsy tearing of cloth startled her and she stared 
straight into the hard, dark eyes of the stranger. Laxshmi wanted to shout 
her joy, but she had not time. The Brahmin had pulled off her sari and 
underskirt, and, without further ceremony, he pushed the girl down on the 
grass. She threw her arms around him and felt his body stiffen at her 
touch. Desperately, she sought to caress him, but he pushed her hands away.
He turned her on her side, so that she could not look at him, and, brutally
pushing one of her legs forward, he entered her from behind. She cried out 
at his brutal thrust and then her whole body was shaken by his passion. 
There was no tenderness in his touch, only desire and disgust. He took her 
strongly, his loins hitting her soft buttocks, his arms imprisoning her.

Laxshmi yearned to turn toward him to tell him of her love. She felt 
alone and afraid, for she did not even seem to be involved in his passion; 
his thrusting loins would grant her no identity. He quickly accomplished 
his purpose and withdrew, leaving Laxshmi alone, sobbing in the grass.

It was the hour before dusk. The young Dasis were gathering flowers for 
the temple. They worked quickly, silently trying to fill their baskets full
of roses, jasmine, marguerites, and phlox, before the sun set, for it was 
strictly forbidden to pluck flowers after sundown. When they had filled 
their baskets, they sat in a circle under one of the huge banyan trees and 
started to thread the garlands, carefully selecting a long, strong blade of
grass and threading it through the flowers. The crushing heat and a warm 
breeze blew in from the sea, lifting the bright garlands and scattering the
soft flowers.

When Laxshmi saw the young priest, she knew that he had sent him. And she
jumped up and ran to meet him. The boy laughed.

“How did you know I came for you?”

“I know these things,” she replied breathlessly. “Who sends for me?”

“The Brahmin visitor. Patience! Girl, wait for me. You do not even know 
where he is.”

“Then lead me to him—quick!”

The young priest laughed and led her away to the men's quarters.

He led her to a small clean bamboo house and, pushing open the door, he 
signaled to her to enter. Laxshmi entered timidly. She looked around the 
little hut. All was quiet and still. Then, suddenly, she saw him. He lay on
the bare wooden bed, his back to the door, his face turned to the wall. He 
did not seem to be aware of her presence. Laxshmi crouched timidly by the 
door and waited. She was afraid to disturb him. Her presence seemed like an
intrusion in the peaceful tidy hut. She quietly crouched in the dark, 
until, after what seemed to her like hours, he stirred restlessly and 
muttered, “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“Come toward me.”

Quickly she rose and ran to him. But he turned and put his arm to stop 
her. One hand covered his face. Slowly he slid off the bed and fell on the 
floor. He crawled toward Laxshmi, and, gently taking her feet in his hands,
he started to tremble.

“I must ask your forgiveness for my brutality. I wish to see Her ... as I
made you suffer ... please do not deny me this ... please ... please.”

Laxshmi looked in horror at the trembling creature at her feet. She was 
filled with terror. In her terror, she started to kick him.

“Get up ... please rise up ... this is not fitting. I beg of you, stand 
up!”

But the Brahmin lay passively under her blows. Laxshmi ran to the door, 
but it was locked. The man still lay on the floor, sobbing. Slowly he rose,
tore the sackcloth pilgrim's robe from his body and, lifting a heavy iron 
bar, walked toward the girl. She came swiftly to him, hoping to find once 
again the austere face of the monk, but when she saw his red-rimmed eyes, 
she recoiled in disgust. He forced the iron bar into her hands, and 
crouching before her, he urged her to beat him. Laxshmi could barely raise 
the bar. She stood helplessly watching the trembling man. The tension 
proved too much for the Brahmin and he started to scream. “Beat me! 
Slaughter me! I have sinned! Oh, God, beat me!”

Mechanically Laxshmi raised the bar and brought it down across the hard 
brown buttocks. The man flinched, moaned, balanced himself more firmly on 
his elbows and waited for the next blow. Once again, Laxshmi hit him with 
all her strength and the man shouted in exaltation. His body rose 
expectantly to receive the heavy rod that brutally forced the breath from 
his body and caused every nerve to tingle in anticipation of greater pain. 
Hypnotized by his fortitude, Laxshmi began to beat him harder, suddenly 
determined to break this man's stoic martyrdom. She beat him savagely, 
though her body ached with the weight of the iron bar, until the man 
collapsed and lay still on the ground. Laxshmi continued to beat him, as if
she did not realize her own triumph. The man was insensible, though his 
body shuddered at each blow. His head turned to one side, his mouth opened 
as his lungs struggled for breath.

Laxshmi stopped and looked at the Brahmin. It was strange, how the 
unconscious seemed so far removed from men. The Brahmin looked like some 
grotesque doll, limp and discarded. She could not think of him as the 
austere ascetic whose drawn face had caused her to spend sleepless nights 
in her first agony of love. Slowly she dropped the bar. The rod fell with a
dull thud on the forearm of the Brahmin, causing the hand to twitch in a 
strange frenzy of movement. She looked dully at the crumpled figure, 
turned, and slowly walked out of the room.

“Then Krishna dived into the river and saw that the terrible serpent had 
his silver ball between its poison-fanged jaws. The little boy attacked the
serpent, and after a ferocious battle that rocked the seas in terrible 
storms, the god emerged victorious. But the venom of the terrible serpent 
had dyed the seas blue and Krishna, when He rose to the earth, was 
surprised to see the Gopis run from Him in terror, for He was blue from 
head to foot...”

The nattuvan chanted the old, old story, while the Dasis mimed the 
surprise of the Gopis.

“Oh, where is Krishna, the Beloved, the Beautiful?”

They turned in unison, stamping their bell-encircled feet, their hands 
raised in terror and bewilderment.

“It is I, your lover, oh, unfaithful one! Have you already forgotten? Do 
you not recognize the lineaments of my body?”

Once again the Dasis retreated in fear. Then, as the nattman started to 
change the rhythm of his drum that throbbed like an anxious heart for a 
more subtle, fluid rhythm, the Dasis' movements became softer, more 
sensuous. Gently rolling their heads from side to side, they sang:

“Forgive us, my Lord! For well we remember in the darkness in the pasture
we danced together the Dance Divine, but one more than us, Radha, felt your
terrible power.”

Slowly Laxshmi came forward and started to mime the motions of love. One 
leg raised high, she danced the rapture of the milkmaid Radha, pierced by 
the sacred shaft of Krishna.

Children of love we live by Love,

We are nourished by Love

In a thousand guises,

Each guise being but an aspect of Thee,

Oh! Divine Passion.

Softly, the Dasis sank to the ground in symbolic subjection to the 
terrible ideal of Love.

“Shabash! Shabash! Wah! Wah!”

Applause broke out among the audience collected to see the Dasis. Two of 
the girls quickly rose and went among the spectators, with their aprons 
raised in expectation. They did not have to wait long: coins, flowers, 
letters, sweetmeats and jewels were tossed into the outspread aprons.

Laxshmi undressed slowly. She had no desire to return to the temple. Last
night's strange incident lay like a pall over her spirit. She was afraid 
that she would once again be forced into his presence. For the first time 
since she joined the temple, she regretted the strict discipline imposed on
the Dasi. She would have liked to stay in the village, to walk by the 
seashore and to talk to her mother. She would have liked for one night to 
be an ordinary woman instead of a sacred temple Dasi. However, she joined 
the other women as they went back to the temple, and bidding them 
goodnight, she retired immediately to her quarters.

The Pandit was waiting for her. Startled, Laxshmi drew back into the 
shadows. “Is anything wrong?”

“Do not be afraid, my daughter. Why this terror?”

Laxshmi hung her head. She could not speak. The Pandit had never visited 
her before. She felt that his presence was ominous.

“Come with me. I know that you are tired, but we have need of you.”

He took her gently by the arm and led her away. They walked silently to 
the temple and passed through the shadowed, deserted hall into the 
sanctuary. The Pandit told her to undress and prepare her body. Then he 
left her alone. Trembling, Laxshmi undressed. She neatly folded her clothes
and timidly stole across to the big sandalwood chest in the corner. Lifting
the carved lid, she searched the dim interior and pulled out a smaller box 
of sandalwood. She took out a jar of sweet-smelling ointment and rubbed her
body until her skin took on the sheen of brass. She dipped a feather in 
gold gilt paint and brushed her nipples and her hairless mound. She put on 
the long, gold, claw-like fingernails of the classical dancer, coiled her 
hair into a huge knot and decorated it with gold ornaments. She clasped 
gold bracelets on her arms and bangles on her wrists.

Then she slowly walked toward the altar and sat cross-legged beneath the 
idol. In the flickering light of the oil lamps she looked like Parvati 
herself sitting beneath the shadow of the god, her slim body erect. The 
gold nipples shone like helmets on the small, sharp breasts. The parted 
lips of her sex glittered invitingly. Immobile, cold, she sat in sensuous 
dignity beneath the dancing shadow of her husband.

Suddenly the door opened and four men came in. They were naked except for
small loincloths and their thin breasts were crossed by the sacred thread. 
They came and stood before the altar. They were followed by the Pandit and 
Natharam holding a man between them—a man covered in ashes, whose body was 
hidden by a rough cloak of sackcloth. Last of all, the Brahmins' barber 
entered. The Pandit sat before the altar and signaled to the penitent to 
appear before him. He raised his hand and gently asked him, “What is your 
trouble, my son?”

“I am covered in impurity, my Teacher. I have sinned, been imperfect in 
my vows, and what merit seven years of sacrifice had built up, I have 
destroyed in a few hours. I shall soon return to my old life, but before, I
beg you, cut away this canker from my spirit and offer it as a gift to the 
Divine Lingam!”

“You are sure of this? For the Divine Dancer has given us this power for 
our sublimation.”

“But Pandit-ji,” the man broke in, “I am damned by this. I beg of you, 
accept this sacrifice in the spirit it is given.”

His voice was shrill with terror of denial, refusal. The Pandit moved 
slowly toward the altar, lit three sticks of incense, and prayed in a low 
voice.

The four men stripped the penitent naked and laid him on a sort of stone 
table before the altar; then they bent over and caught his hands and feet. 
The Pandit commanded the girl to dance. Slowly, Laxshmi came down the steps
of the altar and stood over the man. She opened her gold-lidded eyes and 
stood paralyzed with shock. The man who lay trussed like a victim on the 
altar was her solemn-eyed Brahmin lover. Her breath came sharply and the 
little gold-cupped nipples quivered like tiny temple bells. Then, 
mechanically, with the iron discipline of the trained Dasi, she began to 
dance. Her thumbs raised in the air to represent the lingam. She slowly 
raised her leg and contorted her body in the many traditional postures of 
love. Her leg raised at right angles and her head thrown back, she was the 
mountain nymph adoring her battling demon. Her body arched in a 
semi-circle, the breasts like sunset mountains, she was a living rack of 
delicious torture; squatting, one leg across the knee of the other, she was
an ecstatic Durga sitting on the Divine Lingam. Slowly, deliberately, she 
went through the dance motions of love. The man on the altar was sweating. 
He tried to close his mind, to dismiss the sight of the trembling gold 
breasts and the glittering mound that opened and closed its purple mouth 
like some exotic carnivorous flower. He tried desperately to escape from 
the warm, caressing cotton fingers of sensuality that dulled his mind until
all he could feel was the pounding of the blood in his loins and the hammer
beat of his heart. He closed his eyes, but the image still gyrated before 
him. He felt the symbol of his manhood grow taut, swell, and rise to beckon
the slim, twisting figure down upon it. He turned to the Pandit in mute 
appeal, longing to enter once again the empty coolness of peaceful 
meditation. The Pandit raised his arm and the girl sank to her knees and 
took the swollen member gently in her mouth. He felt her wet lizard tongue 
run softly over the sensitive lid of his organ. Then a red, wrenching pain 
exploded. It tore through him, tearing and searing. He heard a voice, 
high-pitched, screaming, and a mask of flesh covered his mouth. He tried to
think, but once again, the hot flint of pain tore through his body. This 
time it pierced his brain, and he felt a red velvet cover his senses, 
turning into a soft black numbness, and just before it closed completely, 
drowning his universe in its dark waves, he thought he would never again be
betrayed by the human weakness of his body.

A month later, Laxshmi saw him leave—early one morning, when the breeze 
they called the “Himalayan” blew across the garden. He walked, head bowed, 
with a small group of pilgrims, into the breeze and on toward the eternal 
snows.

It had been a quiet month. After the Brahmin left, Laxshmi had returned 
willingly to her tasks and in a few days the incident had been enclosed in 
one of the dim chambers of memory. But her life had greatly changed, and 
now she was regarded as an adult Dasi and she started to visit the grove.

Any good, orthodox Brahmin of the Shivite cult was allowed to visit the 
grove. After he had worshipped in the sanctuary, he could pay or contribute
a gift and then he was allowed to wander into the grove. Often he would ask
for a Dasi of his choice and then he would offer a gift according to his 
means to the temple, the intermediary, and the Dasi. The Dasis were 
strictly forbidden to have any contact outside of the temple, but the 
Brahmins were sometimes very poor and limited their gifts to a blessing, so
that the Dasis were not as rich as the Nautch girls—their lay 
counterparts—who were often protected by the rich Banias and who sometimes 
became the official concubine of a rich Maharajah.

The first time Laxshmi went into the grove, she sat quietly on a grassy 
bank and waited. She waited a long time, until, excited by the whispers 
around her, and curious to learn how the other women fared, she rose and 
walked cautiously through the shadowy bowers. No one was in sight. 
Disappointed, she started on her way back to her quarters when she heard a 
voice softly call her. Turning, she saw her foster-mother, Padmabai—a 
strangely exalted Padmabai. The elder woman was sitting in a dark bower. 
Her full figure was naked except for a little bodice that was half done up,
and through which the full breasts bulged like ripe papayas. Her dark hair 
lay in a disordered mass over her shoulders, and her mouth and navel were 
painted vermilion. Her sari lay in a heap across her naked thighs. Laxshmi 
exclaimed in surprise and wanted to withdraw modestly, but Padmabai 
beckoned to her.

“What, no man? My poor child. Never mind. I will show you how to catch 
them, little bird. Come here to your mother now.”

Padmabai was speaking in a strangely coy manner, and Laxshmi hesitated 
before she did as her mother bid. Padmabai reached out and pulled her down 
and, taking her face in both her hands, she kissed her full on the mouth. 
Laxshmi shivered as the woman's tongue darted like a startled sparrow into 
the secret recesses of her mouth. Without a word, the woman forced her leg 
between Laxshmi's thighs and pressed her knee hard against the soft mouth 
of her sex, accentuating the intensity of her embrace by the rhythmic 
pressure of her thigh. Her hands like clever spiders opened the girl's 
blouse and lifted her skirt to her waist, thus exposing her little legs and
tiny buttocks. Suddenly, she released her. Before Laxshmi could regain her 
breath, Padmabai snatched one of her full breasts from the restraining 
blouse and forced the nipple into Laxshmi's mouth. Then, pressing the girl 
against her, she raised her little buttocks and inserted a long 
silver-tipped finger into her anus. Laxshmi shuddered, and in her pain, she
bit hard on her mother's breast. The elder woman moaned in delight and 
continued to thrust up the little dark anus. Laxshmi felt her nature well 
up within her, and she slowly started to reach within the blouse for the 
still-imprisoned breast. Her mother lay back on the grass, and Laxshmi 
gently stroked her full breasts, teasing the nipples with her tongue and 
the inner coolness of her lips. Sometimes she rubbed her own hard-tipped 
breasts against her foster-mother's, and sometimes Padmabai collected the 
tiny, hard muscular mound into her own mouth. They lay, slowly allowing 
their bodies to open and bloom with desire. Padmabai opened her daughter's 
legs and slowly stroked the pink bud of her sex with her long strands of 
dark hair, allowing the oiled locks to curl like snakes over the rounded 
thighs and peach buttocks of the young girl. Together, they mounted 
breathlessly toward their climax. Then Padmabai suddenly rose. Kneeling, 
her breasts thrust proudly forward, her thighs wide apart, her mouth round 
like an infant's expressing its need to love, she pulled the girl beneath 
her, and Laxshmi gladly sank her long pink tongue into the throbbing cavern
of the elder woman's body. Padmabai bent over and, firmly putting her hands
on the girl's buttocks, she pulled her naked mound toward her. Then, lying 
across the soft brown body, she tasted the acrid pink flower of love. 
Gently rubbing their soft padded bodies together, they sucked all the 
desire and tension from each other, until their bodies announced their 
mutual submission. The elder woman came first, suddenly and nervously; the 
younger more gently, until, cooled by the sudden lapsing of their bodies' 
heat, they lay motionless in the timeless moment of after-love. Then, 
rising quietly, Padmabai smiled and parted without a word.

The next day, Laxshmi stood with the others near the temple, and a few 
moments later, she departed for one of the bowers with her first official 
lover. The Brahmin took her quickly and silently and then washed his hands 
and his loins. He wetted his lids, ears, breasts and feet, and gargled. 
Physically and spiritually cleansed, he departed without a backward glance 
at his young lover, lying slim and naked in the soft, wet grass.

Part Two. The Way to Kailasa

Chapter 1. Laxshmi's Story

Praise be to the Lord Shiva that I may tell my story, for you, Manekrama,
are as gentle and merciful as the Lord Krishna, and will understand.

I had been called by the Raj Pratap of Mulkand to dance for him one night
during the Festival of Dassara. He had seen me dance once before, and had 
especially requested that I dance alone a lasya.

I went to his house about midnight and was greeted by his diwan, who led 
me to a little room. I was accompanied by one of the young priests, who 
helped me carry my costumes from the temple. I quickly changed into my 
costume. I had decided to perform the “Courtship of Radha”—a dance that 
accorded perfectly with the spirit of Dassara. I had carefully chosen my 
costume and make up. First, I oiled and greased my body so it shone like 
bronze. Then I put on a tiny satin slip that just concealed my high-boned, 
naked mound. While I draped the transparent gold trousers around my legs 
and waist, the young Brahmin gently caressed my breasts, molding my nipples
with his fingers, so they stood out like two sharp black thorns. Then he 
painted them gold, and the gilt sculptured the sharp points into a position
of permanent desire. I painted my navel rose and outlined the shape of my 
buttocks with a paintbrush. On top of the gold trousers, I put on a little 
gold bolero that barely covered my breasts. On my face, I painted in the 
classic traits of desire—the eyes gold-lidded and elongated, the mouth red,
the tongue carmine; my heavy hair was swung to one side and looped in a 
huge knot. I surrounded the knot with a gold necklace and attached a small 
gold veil that covered my face. I picked up the little pitcher, and stood 
ready to enter.

A few seconds later, I heard the harmonium and tabla start the sensual 
rhythms of the lasya. My young attendant opened the door, and as I swung 
into the center of the room, I was too absorbed in the dance to notice much
about the room. I briefly noticed a crowd of smiling male faces, and I saw 
a huge chandelier swinging slowly above my head. Then everything was lost 
in the fury of the dance. You know, Manekrama, how much I love the 
“Courtship of Radha.” It is a pure, female dance, a dance where a woman 
burning with desire tempts her sacred lover with every weapon in her 
possession to take her. I forgot I was in a modern room. I heard the sweet 
flutes of Krishna and the primitive love-beat of the tablas. Furiously I 
raised my arms, and my gold-tipped breasts sprang proudly out of the 
concealing bolero. Then, kneeling before the public, I bent backward, my 
body a slim arc and my thighs wide apart in supreme submission.

A hoarse cry rose up, and I felt the cold sting of coins upon my body. I 
rose and bowed, but the men continued to throw jewels, flowers, and coins 
at my feet. I bowed and left, knowing that my companion would gather the 
riches and present me with an honest account. I hurried back to the little 
room to change back into my sari, but when I opened the door, the Diwan was
sitting in the room. He congratulated me on my performance, and told me 
that the Raj had been delighted by my performance—so delighted that he 
begged me stay with him. The Diwan named a price that pleased me very much,
and when he added that the Mahraj would also send an important gift to the 
temple, I knew that I could not refuse. The Diwan then called my young 
companion and charged him to tell the priests that I would stay 
indefinitely with the Mahraj, and would not neglect my religious functions.
I must admit that I felt a little afraid. Despite the numerous chance 
encounters I had had in the temple grove, there had always been the 
security of the priests and the temple. Now, for the first time in many 
years, I was out in the world—and alone.

The Diwan asked me not to change my clothes, as the Mahraj wanted to meet
me dressed as the divine milkmaid Radha. Then, perhaps sensing my 
nervousness and reluctance, he took my hand, and pressed a hard object into
it. I opened my hand, and nestling in the palm of my hand—twinkling evilly 
like an eye—was a large, clear emerald. I felt even more ill at ease after 
this unexpected gift, but I was now curious to meet the Mahraj. I nodded my
final assent to the Diwan. He smiled as he led me out into the garden.

We walked past rose gardens, which announced their presence by the sweet 
overpowering odor of these flowers of love. Then, walking past bowers of 
white champelli flowers, we came to a small pavilion. The Diwan opened the 
iron gate with a special key and led me up the pure white marble steps. The
little pavilion was strangely constructed. In reality, it contained but one
central room. In the middle of this room was a sunken lotus pool, and all 
around this pool were low divans piled high with satin cushions. I could 
see that several little rooms bordered this central room, but they were so 
cunningly made that they seemed to have no depth. The Diwan told me to 
await His Majesty here and left.

I did not have to wait long. I heard the iron gates open. I did not dare 
look up, but gazed steadfastly into the pool until I saw a tall reflection 
darken the water and felt a hand on my shoulder. Turning round, I saw a 
tall, big man, who gave a terrifying impression of power. His face was 
large and well formed, and a short round beard covered his heavy mouth and 
threw into relief his strange light brown eyes. Crouching at his feet, 
staring at me with the same orange eyes, was a lean, elegant, slave girl.

The Raja took my hand and led me to one of the divans. I sat down 
obediently, but he did not join me. He stood and looked at me for a long 
time, walking slowly around the divan as if he wished to see me from all 
sides. Then, as if delighted by his purchase, he sat down beside me and 
gently kissed my belly, running his tongue around my crimson navel. He 
smiled at me, unclasped the gold belt that fastened my pajamas, and slid 
his hand caressingly down my smooth limbs. I lay back, pleased at the 
subtle pressure of his touch and glad that my royal suitor was so polished 
a lover. Gently I leaned forward and unbuttoned his coat. With a laugh, he 
rose, quickly took off his clothes and threw them on the ground. The slave 
girl, Sari by name, rose at once and carefully carried the garments to one 
of the mysterious little rooms. I was delighted by this mute girl's 
gentleness and intelligence, and I complimented the Mahraj on his tutelage.

The Mahraj came back to the divan and knelt beside me. He placed his 
mouth on mine, and gently caressed my lips, biting my underlip and sucking 
my tongue into his mouth. I replied by trying to catch his lips first, but 
his hand was urgently molding the contour of my painted breasts. I was so 
absorbed in his multiple caresses that I did not notice the girl approach 
us. But I suddenly felt my lover's body shake and, looking up, I saw that 
the girl was atop the naked man and was sensuously massaging his back. I 
sprang up in indignation, but was halted by the expression on the king's 
face. He lay, his head cushioned on my soft breasts, and moaned. The girl 
continued to rub his back and the Mahraj, encouraged by this soft friction,
caressed my body in a frenzy of tactile enjoyment. Then suddenly he turned,
and pulling my upper body down, he started to suck my hanging breasts. The 
girl was not in the least upset by this brusque movement and slowly crept 
toward her master until she lay between his legs. Then gently, like a cat 
cleaning its young, she started to lick her master's sturdy rod. I trembled
in fear, but the Mahraj did not seem in the least anxious and willingly 
surrendered this delicate portion of his body to the girl's caress. To be 
truthful, the sight of the dark, voluptuous girl had begun to strangely 
excite me when suddenly the Raja rose, dragged me to the lotus pool and 
threw me in. I sank to the green bottom, rose again, and found that the 
water reached as high as my nipples. The Mahraj then tied me with a golden 
chain to the edge of the pool, so that I could scramble out, and laughing, 
he called his slave to him. The girl approached, purring like a cat, 
creeping toward her master, cringing and trembling. The Raja pulled the 
lithe girl toward him and gently stroked her between the legs until she 
moaned with delight. Then he rolled the dark girl over on her back and 
stroked her stomach. He continued to caress her gently between the legs, 
slowly working first one, then two fingers in and out of her. Her body 
contracted with joy, and the more she demonstrated her ecstasy, the more 
she excited His Majesty, until to my surprise, I saw him pull the girl to 
her hands and knees and mount her, pushing his palpitating organ firmly 
into the little pink slit hidden between her thin, dark thighs. Sari gave a
strange cry as she sank willingly under the weight of the man's loins. The 
Mahraj attacked the girl as if in a frenzy, his organ plunging into her to 
the balls with each thrust until at last, with a shudder that seemed to 
tear his body asunder, he relieved the pressure within him.

I had been driven almost mad by the scene. My desire burned within me, 
and I cried in frustration as I saw the Mahraj vent his power on the slave 
girl instead of me. For a moment, the king lay panting by the side of the 
pool, and then, to my surprise, I saw that his organ, instead of being limp
and inert by the force of his actions, stood as strong and upright as ever.
I gave a cry of joy at the sight, and the Mahraj, catching fire from my 
gaze, slipped into the pool. He lifted me bodily and easily and gently 
pinioned me on his sturdy manhood. I rose up in the sweet pain as the rod 
penetrated swiftly and fiercely. The action was made slower and sweeter by 
the water, and lotus flowers touched our bodies, giving an added pleasure 
to our love. I clasped my lover's body and twisted like a dying butterfly 
impaled by a long cruel pin. The water softly brushed against us and flowed
gently between our clasped bodies and between the damp cheeks of my 
buttocks. Even his teeth on my nipples were powerless to harm me, and when 
I felt his power welling within him to conquer me, I submitted with all the
force of my own and rushed to meet him as he trembled, convulsed in the 
final pleasure.

For a long time we lay on the edge of the pool. My body felt cool, and 
the cold caress of the marble on my damp buttocks filled my body with a 
strange sense of well-being. I lay, exhausted, floating in the cool, dark 
ether of after-love, when I was shocked into awareness. My lover was gently
titillating the pale flower of my clitoris until my whole body shook with 
the heavy burden of desire. Then, lifting my buttocks, he rolled me over on
my stomach, and entered my anus with a blinding force. I cried out in 
anguish, but with every thrust of his loins, my damp body slithered against
the cold marble floor until the rare pain was lost in a strange labyrinth 
of sensuality as I felt his warm body above, and the cold smooth marble 
below. I do not know how long he used me. I only know that my senses 
underwent so many convulsions of delight that I was no longer fully 
conscious. And yet, unless I am mistaken, he used me once again, this time 
driving his inextinguishable power down my throat until I was wholly his, 
pierced and penetrated, and all my five senses reacted to his subtle touch 
and to the powerful stab of his manhood.

The Mahraj Pratap was indeed a strange man. If ever a man lived to serve 
his senses, the Mahraj was that man. He told me once that his inexhaustible
energy derived from his constant devotion to Shiva, who had blessed him 
with unusual appetite and power. The Mahraj had forty wives, and served 
them all well, and nightly. I often joined in these sessions of connubial 
duty.

One day he called me to him. I went into the harem and saw the Mahraj 
naked, his organ proud and upright as an unsheathed sword, sitting on a 
canopied bed. On either side of him sat two trembling women. One was in her
forties, and the Mahraj laughed as I approached him. “Come, Laxshmi, my 
goddess of love, show these women how to please their husband!”

I did not have to undress, since I always wandered naked around the 
palace, except for a loose cloak—for the king wished to have me near him at
all times. Sometimes in the middle of a meal, he would call for me. I would
come lie at his feet and lift my cloak, allowing his feet to caress my body
while his hands were occupied with food. I was allowed no other thoughts 
but those of love. Throughout the day, when my royal lover would not attend
me, eunuchs rubbed my body, or Sari licked my breasts. Thus I was kept in a
constant state of desire. I slipped off my cloak and advanced naked to the 
bed. I seized one of the women, and despite her cries and protests, I 
parted her legs and, opening her little love mouth, titillated her 
sensitive organ with my tongue. She cried out, at first in shame, and then 
slowly her protests changed to entreaties. The other woman was now visibly 
excited. So I placed them both on the bed face to face like lovers, their 
hips and legs hanging down. Their husband charged them like a bull, and 
served them well, filling one from behind and the other normally. He would 
suddenly withdraw from one and plunge into the other. The women shivered 
with delight and suspense, and I heightened their pleasures by gently 
caressing their breasts with my fingers and mouth until, at last, they 
rendered rightful homage to their master.

The Mahraj's desire knew no bounds and he considered that anything that 
was pleasurable was legitimate to use. I once warned him that many of his 
pleasures—he used to love to take his wives, sometimes twenty at a time, in
water—were against the writing of the sacred Shastra. Then he would laugh, 
call me a puritan, and point out that while Vaksyayana condemned all union 
in water, Sourarnanabha encouraged all forms of lovemaking in water. For 
the Mahraj was as cultured as he was sensuous and, to defend his own love 
of pleasure, he would constantly read to his wives the amorous adventures 
of the King Agrivana, immortalized in the beautiful poetry of Kalidesa.

Though the Mahraj was good to his wives and respected them, they were 
never allowed to meet his friends. I, on the other hand, was always called 
upon to either be present or to dance for their entertainment. The Mahraj 
gave many large celebrations, and I was always treated with honor at all of
them. It was one of these celebrations, oh, Manekrama, that was my 
downfall.

It was the Mahraj's birthday, and festivities had already lasted a week—a
week of processions, parades, hunting parties, drinking, dancing, and 
nights of lovemaking. For the slow advance of one year seemed to make the 
Mahraj even more determined to defeat the oncoming threat of age, and he 
plunged himself into new and even more sensual pleasures. However, on this 
last evening, there was to be a great feast.

I, myself, had too fully participated in the revelry, and on this last 
day, I felt tired. Not all the subtle sensations practiced on me by the 
eunuchs were able to rouse my body from its torpor, and when the Mahraj 
called for me to bathe him, he immediately missed my usual vitality. He 
enquired if I were ill, and I was forced to confess that I was extremely 
tired. To my surprise, he was very understanding and told me to retire to 
my chamber. I was only too content to return to my bed, and I lay 
gratefully down. I had not been long asleep, when I heard the door open. 
Drowsily, I rose, lifted my cloak, thinking that it was the Mahraj, but I 
was shocked into consciousness by the embarrassed voice of a servant.

“His highness sends you this potion with his greeting, and bids you drink
it, for it is excellent for fatigue.”

Without a second thought, I took the cup and drank deeply. The strange 
mixture tasted of honey, milk, and toddy, and I lay back once more. Sleep 
came like a force out of the night and covered me with its pall. I do not 
know how long I slept. I only remember that someone came to wake me. I 
rose, put on my cloak, and followed my guide to another room. Here I found 
a soft divan and settled upon it. I suppose the room was lighted, but I 
could neither hear nor see distinctly. I felt a sudden and terrible burning
in my loins, and called to the king to assuage my pain, but I was alone. In
my desperation, I rolled among the cushions and wrapped my legs around one 
of the marble pillars in the center of the room in an effort to still the 
terrible aching agony in my loins. I writhed on the floor in pain, when 
suddenly I heard the door open. I did not see who entered. I thrust myself 
upon the intruder, and dragged him to the ground. I rubbed my body against 
him and I heard my voice—very far away—implore him to take me. The man 
quickly bared his instrument and without further ceremony dug it into me. 
Oh! I have never felt anything like it. It was sweeter than balm on a bee 
sting or cool tea on a burn. The dreadful pain stopped, and when the waters
of my body flowed to meet his, a cool calm stillness overcame me. Alas! 
This was only temporary. The whole night I was twisted in intermittent 
spasms of pain, and always the man beside took his fill of me in a hundred 
different ways. I tried to see him, but my eyes could not discern more than
his shape, and even that was a gray shadow. All night long, my limbs 
thrashed around him, and I do not know after how many hours he left me. 
When I awoke, I found that the afternoon sun was already riding high, and I
was back in my own room.

My health had begun to suffer as a result of my life in the palace and I 
requested the Mahraj's permission to return to the temple. He was reluctant
to let me go, but finally agreed to allow me to return for a few months. I 
promised that if all were well, I should return.

The day before my departure, the Mahraj would not leave me for an 
instant. He kept me naked the whole day and placed a golden chain round my 
loins. He dragged me on the end of his chain from room to room after him. 
He refused to eat, unless his meals were served on my naked body, and he 
had a long financial discussion with the Diwan while I lay at his feet and 
offered my sex to his caresses. He took me over and over again throughout 
the day, until every orifice of my body was filled with him. He did not 
allow me to sleep that night, but woke me every few minutes with subtle 
caresses that set my body afire. It was the first time in all these months 
that I enjoyed him alone.

As the dawn came slowly over the hills, he rose and left the room. Soon 
he returned, leading a small, beautifully formed young girl by the hand.

“Laxshmi,” he said, “this is my gift. Kaprula here is an artist in the 
subtle language of caresses, and she will keep alive your spirit and remind
you of me. Take her, my child, and keep her well, so that whenever you have
need, she will be there to serve you.”

I thanked the Mahraj and rising, I dressed myself. The carriage was 
already waiting, and so, even before the sun rose, I left the beautiful 
palace where I had spent so many interesting months.

I was overjoyed to see my companions once again, and the first day of my 
return to the temple was spent in merry chatter.

Do you remember, Manehran, that I came to see you and we sat together and
laughed and talked until the sun came out, and I said, “Another night 
without sleep...” and you replied, “But Laxshmi, I only caressed your 
heart,” and we both laughed.

I was glad to be back. I soon resumed my religious duties, and every 
morning I rose to light the sacred fire. I never went to the grove, but 
when I felt my limbs stir with desire, I would call Kaprula and she would 
relieve me with her subtle fingers.

Everything was quiet and peaceful, and slowly I recovered my energy and 
started, once again, to long for the pleasures, and then it started.

It was the eighth day of the month and I remember Madhura came running in
to tell me, “Laxshmi, Laxshmi, something terrible has happened. The 
six-year-old daughter of Premala, that lovely child—was ... was attacked 
last night and killed.”

I was stunned to hear the news, but such tragedies happen in life, and I 
did not pay much attention to it. Even when Premala, in despair, took her 
own life, I thought that it was just the conclusion to a sad, sad, tale.

Then Prithvi, the eunuch, the dancer whose grace and strength were so 
remarkable that we used to call him the reincarnation of Shiva, fell and 
broke his leg, and was never able to dance again.

It was then that we began to feel uneasy. I saw the fear in the eyes of 
the Brahmins and the Dasis. No one spoke, but we all feared.

Then, oh, Menakram! I still weep when I think of it. Padmabai, my beloved
foster mother was bitten by an asp and died before she was found or anyone 
could help her.

After that, the fear was upon us all. The Brahmins trembled in fear and 
we, the Dasis, did not dare stir out of our houses. A curse was on the 
temple. The augurers were called in, and we all burned special offerings. 
For three days, the priests and soothsayers worked to discover the cause of
disaster. Then, on the third day, the statue of Shiva fell and broke an arm
and the cause was discovered. Someone amongst us was impure. One of us had 
broken the most sacred laws of the god, and had brought about the 
misfortune. Desperately, we searched our conscience, but no one admitted to
any impurity. Then came the fateful decision: only one art could purify our
temple, and restore the love of Shiva—the terrible rite of Meriah.

We all knew the risks involved. The police these days do not permit human
sacrifices, but these godless men do not realize that sometimes nothing 
else will appease the terrible wrath of a god.

It was decided that we would perform the Meriah, and two of the Brahmins 
went secretly away to buy a victim. A victim for Meriah can only be a 
person of a certain sect, and it was with great difficulty that they 
succeeded in buying a young woman of twenty who, though beautiful, was 
still a virgin.

The day she arrived, she sat in the sanctuary and we all brought gifts 
and touched her feet, for she was sacred. Until the place was decided, she 
was treated like a queen, and we all served her well, knowing that these 
deeds would bring us much grace in the eyes of our Lord Shiva.

It was difficult to decide on a place, as Meriah has to be very secretly 
performed, or one is liable to be hanged by the authorities. The chief 
Brahmin decided that the safest place would be in the heart of the jungle, 
a few miles from our village. However, we could not all leave, so five of 
the priests and four Dasis (Madhura, Shanti, Mara, and I) were appointed to
perform the ceremony. Word was secretly sent to those of the faithful who 
wished to attend, and people whispered secretly, “The fifth day of the moon
by the old caves in the jungle.”

During these days, I spent a lot of time with the chosen victim. She was 
a strange girl, quiet and unafraid, and she did not seem to be deeply 
interested in her death. She spent her day making herself beautiful, and 
talking to the Dasis. She was very pure, and when she did pooja with us in 
the evening, we felt she must have seen visions that were hidden to our 
impure eyes.

The night before we left for the ceremony, I was so affected by her 
presence that I suddenly realized that I had not called Kaprula, who came 
running to my side. I did not have to speak, for she understood at once and
began to work her intricate finger magic on my body. She first caressed my 
nipples without removing my blouse, so that the little points protruded 
against the soft silk. Then she slid up the silk shaft of my sari and her 
tongue spoke its eloquent language to my senses. I lay twisting under her 
touch, savoring the response of my body to her subtle invitations, when 
Madhura entered. For a moment, she stood still, embarrassed, then Kaprula 
and I sprang on her and dragged her onto the bed. For a long time we lay 
there, struggling among the sheets, our hands filled with the soft 
rotundities of women and our mouths full of the bittersweet taste of 
desire. We lay in a circle, drank the sweetness from our hot bodies until 
first one and then the other reached the final abyss of desire and 
discharged her gratitude into the soft mouth that waited to receive it.

The next day, early in the morning, I set out with my two companions. We 
wrapped our ceremonial clothes in little bundles and left, very simply 
dressed, like the village women. We walked to the little village square, 
and there a bullock cart awaited us. So we sat on it holding our bundles. 
The priests loaded cages full of chickens onto the cart as well, so that we
looked just like three women coming back from market.

The journey was terrible. All day we jolted along in the little cart. We 
took turns telling stories to relieve the tedium, and once Shanti broke 
into song, but the driver immediately reproved her. He was right. Village 
women do not have our trained voices, and someone would have immediately 
suspected that the three occupants of the simple cart were not ordinary 
peasants. It was hot and dusty, but there were pleasant moments. At one 
little village, we stopped and bought fresh green coconuts, and after 
slicing off the top, we drank their cool, pale milk. But despite the 
discomfort, we were all very excited by the idea of the ceremony. None of 
us had ever seen the Meriah and the knowledge that this rite was very 
illegal added to the thrill.

We were all to meet at a little village called V, a few miles away from 
the actual location chosen for the sacrifice, and the preliminary rites 
were to be celebrated there. The village of fifty inhabitants was entirely 
dedicated to the worship of Shiva, and the secret of our rites would be 
safe with them. The victim had been smuggled away a few days earlier and 
she awaited our arrival.

It was already evening when we arrived at V. The sun was sinking—a huge 
red-gold ball—and its streaked colors looked like Benares silk. Brightly 
colored parakeets hastened from tree to tree to accomplish their errands 
before darkness came. Monkeys chattered curiously among the leaves, and the
usual hum of jungle insects added a sinister note to this forest orchestra.
We were warmly greeted by the headman of the village and were shown the 
little palm hut that was to be our home for a few days. We did not have 
much time to look around the village, as the first ceremonies were soon to 
begin.

As the sun dipped over the horizon, the conch sounded its lonely call and
we all hastened to the headman's hut. The entire village was gathered 
outside his hut and they respectfully made way for us to pass.

Inside the hut, the lamps had been lit. I could see three of the Brahmin 
priests from the temple, and Shankarnarum, who was the officiating priest 
of poojari. In a little corner of the room, a sort of wooden table had been
set up, and strange jars and bottles lay under it. I joined my hands and 
greeted the three priests. They returned the greeting. One of them struck a
small gong. At once a cry arose from the crowd outside; a moment later the 
door opened and the victim was led in. She was completely veiled and was 
supported by the headman and a local Brahmin. They led her to the table and
laid her on it. Then, Shanti, Madhura, and I undressed her and bathed her. 
We greased our hands with clarified butter and rubbed her body until it 
shone. Then we held her arms and legs and the poojari approached her 
carrying a small sandalwood box. He opened the delicately carved container 
and anointed the girl with the sweet-smelling balm.

When we had purified her body, we brushed her long hair until it shone. 
Putting a shawl across her shoulders, we led her out to face the crowd.

A hoarse cry went up at the sight of the chosen victim. She was a lovely 
girl, and standing in the doorway, young and virginal in her white shawl, 
she looked indeed like a morsel for the gods. The Brahmin poojari came out 
now, armed with a razor. He showed the razor to the crowd, anointed it with
red tilak powder and, chanting loudly, he took a strand of the girl's 
lovely long hair, and cut it off close to the head. Each lock was divided 
up and a strand of hair was distributed to everyone. The girl, who had 
stood all the preceding ceremonies with complete passivity, now burst into 
tears. She was strongly chided by the priests, who reminded her of the 
honor she was about to receive. Yet, the sight of her long, dark tresses 
lying on the floor proved too much for her and she cried without shame, her
little body shaking with sobs under the priest's relentless razor. When her
hair was all cut off, she was led back into the hut and placed on the 
table. One by one, the villagers were admitted into the hut. They came in, 
head bowed, left an offering before the victim, touched her naked body, now
consecrated, sacred because of her impending death, and walked out again. 
When the last person had touched the sacred body, we dressed the girl once 
more and led her back to her own hut.

We returned to our little dwelling and at once put on our best robes. I 
wore a scarlet and yellow brocade sari, completely embroidered in gold, and
I wore gold jewels in my hair and the Mahraj's emerald ring on my right 
hand. Madhura and Shanti were also gorgeously dressed, the one in orange 
and the other in green.

The first part of the Meriah centers around a feast, and, oh, Menakram, 
what a feast it was! We Dasis were privileged and were allowed to sit with 
the men. It was wonderful—we glittered like three bright jewels against the
somber colors of the men's clothes. We were flattered, feasted, and 
importuned on every side until our heads reeled with the golden words. 
Then, when the feasting was over, the poojari brought out the sacred 
liquor. I had never drunk herria, and its strong odor almost cured my 
curiosity. But what liquid it is! There can be no doubt that mortals 
received this mixture from the gods. I took one sip. Oh, Menakram! What 
subtlety ... what strange warmth! One moment it burns like liquid fire; the
next it caresses the brain like a lover's tenderness. I felt my body grow 
light and cool. My skin became as conscious as my mind. Every blade of 
grass that brushed my arm was savored. They brought the victim out soon 
afterwards and tied her naked to a tree. Then the poojari blew the conch 
and the musicians started to play. A space was cleared and, as the clear 
notes of the lasya were played, I disrobed and danced.

I have never danced like that, Manekrani! Completely naked, without any 
artifice of costume or makeup, I danced the sacred love dance of Parvati, 
and I knew that every time I raised my leg, the secret lips of love called 
temptingly to the spectators. I danced, and the circle around me was soon 
absorbed by the rhythm and movement of the music. It became enchanted. It 
swayed with me. I felt their hands on me, brushing against my buttocks and 
my legs and sometimes their burning lips pressed against my feet. I 
stretched my body until every muscle and fiber danced along with me under 
the night sky. I wonder if the beasts of the forest came to watch that 
night, for there was a wonder among us and a wildness that came from some 
strange, undefined source. And suddenly, dancing there in space, I raised 
my voice and sang to my husband:

Oh! my lord, my master,

Pierce my five senses

With your arrows.

Make me drunk with love

Then rend me asunder

With your trident.

Oh, Divine Lingam,

Ignite your Shakti

With liquid fire...

The men gathered around me and, joined in among the low chanting voices, 
I heard the shrill, clear tones of the other Dasis. Suddenly, Madhura rose,
stripped off her orange sari, and sprang to join me. Shanti followed, and 
together we danced the story of the Gopi's love for Krishna, our anklets 
stamping to the ever-increasing volume of love, our arms held out in 
prayer, our breasts quivering temptingly, as if already shuddering under 
the burning touch of love. Surely, if Krishna had been there, He would have
taken all three of us. I do not know, perhaps He was there, for suddenly I 
felt my senses reel. I fell and felt hands receive my body. Then I drifted 
in a strange world of sensation. Feelings coursed through my brain... I 
felt as if a burning sword ran through me, causing my breasts to tremble 
and my loins to burn... Then again I felt as if a thousand moist tongues 
were on my body, quenching the fire, igniting a new and more terrible 
sensation. I seemed to float on strange, rocking waves that alternately 
tossed and drowned me. Once I thought I came back to this world and, 
looking about me, saw a mouth fixed like a child at my breast. But the body
was that of an old man. Again I left this earth and floated in my own 
universe. This time I seemed to spin around and around with the planets 
until my body, like theirs, was consumed by the eternal motion and exploded
in a shower of stars.

When I awoke, I was alone. Slowly I lifted my head. Dawn was about to 
break and the jungle was still. All around me lay the sordid evidence of 
the feast, but no living soul was there. My body felt damp. Looking down at
the grass, I saw that it was covered with dew. I sank back, glad once again
to feel the freshness and the moisture of the earth. I lay cool and 
reposed, delighting in the soft touch of the morning breeze on my naked 
body, when something cold touched me. I sprang up and saw the iron trident!
In fear, I crouched against the tree and looked up into the burning eyes of
an anghorapathi. I had always been afraid of these disciples of Shiva, with
their filth-covered bodies, their matted hair and long-nailed hands. I 
stared terrified at the tall, thin, gray body of this hermit of the jungle.
My pulse was pounding in my temples. The hermit stared at me, and then 
slowly sat beside me. I was incapable of movement. I could only stare at 
his long-nailed hands curled like gray claws around his trident. Then, 
suddenly, the claws were on my body. I felt a thin tracery of nails across 
my breast. He leaned toward me, and I was overwhelmed by the stench of his 
long hair. With a quick movement, he undid his loincloth, and exposed his 
organ to my view. It was long, thin, and covered with strange wounds. I 
gasped as his arms dragged me toward him and I felt his hot mouth and hard 
beard on my neck. I struggled to escape, but suddenly I realized that I was
bound to submit. This hermit had more right to my body than any of my 
previous lovers. Despite the horror I felt, I pressed my cool, soft body 
against his. His hair was so matted that it felt like wood. He caressed my 
tender breasts and ran his hands all over my body, as if he were testing an
instrument before he played it. Then, suddenly, his soft gestures tensed. 
The long nails dug like claws into my breasts and his mouth ripped my body 
like an animal in rut. We struggled furiously on the forest bed, our legs 
entwined. Abruptly, he rose and pulled me to my knees. He pushed me against
the tree and took me like an animal in the forest. We stayed there in the 
morning and coupled like beasts until he reached his satiety. Hurt and 
tired, I tried to crawl away, but the hermit sensed my reluctance and 
barred my path. He threw me roughly to the ground and bound my hands behind
my back. Then he bent my legs against my stomach and bound them to my body.
Thus prepared, he had me when he desired. Sometimes he would turn me over 
and penetrate me from behind. Even when he was resting, his long-nailed 
fingers stirred my desire until he was ready to take me. I saw the sun rise
and slowly mount in the heavens. It had almost reached its zenith in the 
skies when I gave myself to him for the last time. Kneeling against my 
trussed body, he took me once again, then suddenly untied me and 
disappeared into the forest. I rose up once again; my body was covered with
scratches. I looked around me but I was still alone, so perhaps, after all,
it was all a dream, for I never saw him again and he was not known in the 
region. For three days, we feasted and drank. I do not quite remember what 
passed during those days. My exaltation was so great that I am persuaded 
that I was often in Kailasa. You think me presumptuous, Menakrama? How 
right you are! But I did not doubt anything then.

On the fourth day at sunset, we set out for the heart of the forest. We 
went cautiously, separately. Two Brahmins departed first, carrying the 
victim concealed in a basket. Then the rest of us set out in twos and 
threes.

The place selected for the sacrifice was known to the Brahmins, as it had
often been used for this purpose before. It was a sacred spot, hallowed by 
a huge peepul tree, and the forest closed round it like an impenetrable 
wall.

We gathered at sunset, and the victim was led in. Once again, we rubbed 
her body with clarified butter, but this time every member of the community
greased his hand and rubbed her body. Then the poojari tied her to the 
peepul tree. We gathered round and placed flowers at her feet. Everyone 
tried to touch her body, because there is great merit in a sacred victim's 
body just before it dies. Then the poojari prayed and explained to the 
victim that life was Yajna—sacrifice—and that in willingly accepting her 
destiny, she would gain much merit. Her life would save the lives of 
others, since it would assuage the wrath of Shiva against the temple.

The musicians started to play and the whole community began a long, slow 
dance around the bound girl. Madhura and I led the villagers in the 
strange, weaving sacrificial procession around the peepul tree. The girl, 
who until this moment had shown no emotion—except when her head was 
shaved—now began to be distinctly nervous. She kept looking at the sky, for
she knew that when the thin sliver of the new moon appeared in the sky, she
would be killed. The drums beat more loudly and we sang the monotonous song
asking Shiva to accept our sacrifice. Slowly we wove in a shuffling dance 
around the tree, coming closer and closer to the victim as the light waned.
We danced and chanted, coming imperceptibly closer, until the sun set and 
the silver twilight set in. The victim was now tense. She watched the 
dancers nervously and looked at the blue patch of sky, waiting for the moon
to rise. The poojari now detached himself from the dancers and placed 
himself opposite the girl. Raising his voice, he implored Shiva's mercy on 
the temple. We danced around, waiting for the moon to come, and then we all
saw it. No one spoke. Suddenly we stopped dancing and stood still. The 
victim started violently and looked around, desperately trying see her 
executioner. She did not see him. He darted out from behind and placed his 
hands on her throat. I saw her eyes widen in surprise and her face turned 
red as she struggled to breathe. Then suddenly we heard a small click and 
her small shorn head hung like a broken flower against her body.

I think she was dead—I hope she was dead—for at once we sprang upon her, 
and started to dismember her small frame. It is important to keep some part
of a sacrifice because it is a protection and also a blessing. I cut off a 
small portion of her breast. It was soft and warm to the touch—and look at 
it now, Menakrama, how withered and unreal it looks... It is hard to 
believe that it ever belonged to something living. But life is maya—all 
illusion, and we are only shadows of reality.

We hastily buried the head and intestines (for these must be left intact)
and left the little grove. Once again we cautiously made our way back to 
the village. Some of us left the very same night, but Madhura, Shanti, and 
I left the next morning, again disguised as village women, and made our way
back home.

I had not been back very long when a messenger from the Mahraj arrived, 
asking me to come and see him. I can only say I was overjoyed, as I was in 
need of money, and the Mahraj's knowledge of strange pleasures always 
delighted me.

I prepared myself with great care, rubbing my body with saffron and 
massaging my breasts with resin so that they would be firm and resilient. 
Then I draped a transparent sari around me, and chose not to wear a blouse.
Finally, I threw on a concealing shawl and followed the messenger.

I was led to the pavilion, as I was the first time I came to the Mahraj. 
I shed my shawl in joyous anticipation and waited upon one of the divans. I
lay in a manner that showed all my curves to advantage, bared one breast, 
and, carelessly parting my legs, I placed a rose in the dark lips of love. 
I did not have to wait long. The Mahraj came running up the steps and 
stopped in admiration at the sensuous scene. Then he came to my side, 
dropped to his knees and deftly removed the rose with his lips. He spoke of
his pleasure at seeing me again and inquired after my health. He enchanted 
me with his words, but I sensed some new awkwardness. I waited for him to 
reveal what troubled him and soon he told me. He had spoken about me so 
often that one of his friends was sick of love for me. This friend was 
almost like a brother to him and the Mahraj had promised him that, with my 
consent, he could spend one night with me. His Highness had been worried 
that I might be offended by his summary promise. I laughed and kissed the 
sovereign and replied that since all women were faithless by nature, I 
should be delighted to oblige. The Mahraj, much relieved, withdrew, 
promising to come and visit me in the morning.

Left to myself, I prepared for the stranger. I took off my sari and lay 
naked on the soft cushions, waiting for the unknown visitor. I heard him 
open the gates and climb the steps leading to the pavilion. He approached 
me from behind and I did not turn my head to look at him. I felt him 
hesitate, and then his hands crept down my shoulders and covered my 
breasts. I looked down and saw the hands were white! With a scream, I rose 
and dragged my sari around me. I do not know what I said, but I heard my 
voice shrill and scolding. I ran down the steps, but the gate of the 
pavilion was locked. Furious, I ran back and commanded him to open the 
gates. The man was very angry. He lunged toward me, but I dodged and ran. 
He was cursing me, but I did not understand what he said. I was only aware 
of one thing—that I did not want his hands on my body. I screamed and 
screamed and my screams finally aroused the Mahraj who, accompanied by the 
Diwan, came to see what was wrong. I threw myself at his feet and sobbed. I
asked him if he were mad. How could I, a Dasi, sleep with a foreigner—an 
outcast—and remain clean?

To my surprise, the Mahraj laughed. He turned toward me and said, “You 
are a silly girl to believe in these tales of witchcraft. Shall I tell you 
something? You have already slept with this foreigner one night, do you 
remember? No, you were too drunk on the mead I gave you! So don't be 
foolish and...”

The Mahraj never finished his sentence. With a cry, I sprang up and ran 
out of the palace. Naked, I ran down the lonely night. Oh, Menakrama! Can 
you imagine it was I who was responsible for the death of Padmabai! It was 
I who caused the others. Oh, Menakrama, it was I who was impure. May the 
Lord forgive me; I never knew. But ignorance does not absolve me of my sin 
and I am sick at heart.

Chapter 2. Menakram's Story

I still do not understand how it all came out. We had been so careful, so
careful to cover every trace. I can only suppose that they are getting 
stricter, sharper. But why, why, why, out of so many incidents like this 
were we the ones to suffer?

I had gone down to the village one day. A woman who had two daughters had
asked me come and advise her on auspicious marriage dates for the girls. As
I sat in her hut, Bhalu, the local policeman, entered. We were all 
surprised to see him, but Bhalu was very cordial and gave no hint of what 
business brought him here. After I had calculated the dates, I rose to 
leave. Bhalu rose, too, and casually said that he would walk me down to the
temple. It was then I definitely knew something was wrong.

Bhalu is our friend. We can always count on him. As soon as he led me 
outside, he pulled me close to him and whispered, “It is discovered.”

“What?” I felt my heart jump.

“The body—the body in the jungle.”

I hung my head. I felt ill. The authorities are very severe about such 
cases and all of us faced possible death. I am not afraid of death, but it 
is the impersonal sadism of the policy, the public trial, the suspense that
I dread. I turned to Bhalu and my voice was barely a whisper. “Do they 
know?”

“No—they do not know, but the Inspector is furious. It is his duty to see
that such things do not occur. He called us all in and shouted at us. He 
asked if we slept, how we could have not noticed.”

“You denied, of course, that this village...”

“Naturally, we all said that our precinct was innocent. But, you know, 
the inspector does not have much confidence in us. He knows we protect our 
people.”

I thanked Bhalu and returned to the temple cold with fear. I kept trying 
to discover what we had done wrong. I decided not to tell anyone about 
Bhalu's warning, because people panic easily, and some careless Dasi might 
be terrified by uncertainty into a revelation.

I tried to forget and pretended to convince myself that there was no 
reason to fear discovery, that no one could find out. That evening I went 
to find Laxshmi, to console myself in the feathered comfort of her thighs, 
to drown myself and my overcharged mind in the sleep-soft mountains of her 
breasts. I found her sitting in her little room naked, her body a warm 
orange-brown in the firelight, and her dark hair thrown proudly down her 
back.

She looked up when I entered and smiled, but I knew that Laxshmi's heart 
was full, as full as mine, with the weight of her guilt.

I kissed her tenderly on her full breasts and, gently pushing her back, I
entwined myself around her in a close embrace. Already the warmth of her 
body and the smooth kiss of her skin had sent the blood coursing through my
body. I crushed my mouth against hers and drove my tongue far down her 
throat. I pressed brutally against her. I wanted to smash into a thousand 
pieces against her soft skin. I wanted to drown in her. I felt her thighs 
brush against my sides as she lifted her legs high to permit me to enter 
the dark portal of her body. I felt the heat in my loins and I raised my 
hips to penetrate and then, Oh, Shiva! I have never known such a thing. My 
powerful organ refused its function. It lay soft and impotent against me, 
unmoved by Laxshmi's charm. For a moment I stared in complete disbelief, 
then, turning on my side, I collapsed and cried like a child.

The next day, we were awakened at dawn. Inspector Masters walked into the
temple yard and Bhalu awakened everyone. We stood, blinking like stupid 
owls, heavy with sleep. Masters addressed himself to the High Priest and he
asked if we had had any bad luck recently. The old Brahmin carefully 
replied that the Lord Shiva's grace continued to bless the temple. I saw 
the panic in the eyes of the others and I am sure Masters saw it too.

He turned abruptly to one of the Dasis and snarled, “Do you know the V 
village?”

The girl hesitated, then whispered, “No!”

“You! What is the best way to remove a curse?” The Dasi trembled but I 
smoothly intervened.

“Surely, Masters sahib, you have not come to give us an examination in 
theology.” I knew that the inspector would not force a confession out of 
anyone, as he valued his good relations with the community and, if he 
harmed the temple folk in any way, the whole community would rise against 
him and cause endless trouble in a hundred annoying little ways. But the 
problem was to discover whether the inspector was systematically asking 
questions in all the temples, or whether he had some definite information.

Soon afterwards, the inspector left the village. Without being asked, I 
immediately went to the sanctuary where I found the other priests gathered.
We discussed the situation and decided that there was no reason to panic 
because unless someone signed a written confession, charges would be very 
hard to prove. So we decided that no Dasis would be allowed to leave the 
temple grounds, as women are unreliable. Also, in times of crisis, it is 
good to give them a sense of protection. I, myself, undertook to try and 
keep informed as to how the investigation was proceeding.

The next few days passed in a kind of uncomfortable daze. A strange 
atmosphere of suspicion and mistrust grew up among us. It seemed as if 
one's neighbor was constantly watching for signs of weakening. Even the 
High Priest himself was nervous and uneasy. I went to the village every day
and Bhalu kept me informed as to what was happening. It seemed that the 
inspector had reached a wall of resistance that he could not break down. 
After a few weeks, the tension died down. Slowly things returned to normal.
It was obvious that the inspector had not been able to discover any facts 
and he was forced to suspend his investigation.

It was a peaceful summer day, a day we call Durga's day because the sky 
was a deep, calm blue and there seemed to be a great contentment in the 
air. Why is it always on a day like this that the calamity falls? We were 
sitting after our midday meal, when the chankidar came and announced that 
someone was at the door and wished to speak to the Dasi Laxshmi. There was 
something strange in his manner of speaking. At once, we all looked up and 
asked who it was. The chankidar answered, “An Englishman.”

For a moment we digested this information in stunned silence. The cold, 
gray fear of the past weeks descended once again, and we trembled within 
ourselves. Finally, the chief Brahmin signaled to me to speak with the 
foreigner, as I knew a little English. I followed the chankidar to the gate
of the temple where the Englishman was impatiently walking up and down. I 
saluted him and asked what he wanted. He replied irritably in fair 
Malayalam, “What is the matter with you people? Are you all born idiots? I 
asked to speak with the Dasi Laxshmi. That's simple enough to understand, 
isn't it?”

“Yes,” I replied in my faltering English. “I understand, but sir, it is 
not so simple. One cannot see a Dasi without the permission of the priests,
so I must know what is your business.”

“Good Heavens! One would think these girls were heaven-protected virgins,
the way you talk. What I have to say to Laxshmi, I have to say to her 
alone, and to no one else.”

I shook my head and assured him that unless I knew a little more about 
his business I could not let him talk to Laxshmi.

The Englishman's face became red, and raising his voice, he shouted, “It 
will be much better for you all if I am allowed to talk to her. Or do you 
prefer to hang?”

His allusion did not escape me and I felt a cold, clammy sweat break out 
all over my body. For a moment, I hesitated. But there was something in the
man's manner that convinced me that his were not merely idle threats. There
was nothing I could do, so I bowed and led him to the Dasis' quarters. I 
knocked on the door of Laxshmi's hut and called out that a visitor wished 
to speak with her. She opened the door and saw us there. Her smile froze on
her face. She looked beseechingly at me, as if she were asking me to take 
this man away. Then, sighing, she opened the door and let him in. As the 
door closed in front of me, I suddenly understood. This was the Englishman 
who had defiled the body of Laxshmi. It was he who had caused the wrath of 
Shiva to rain down on our temple. I had a sudden impulse to kill him, but I
knew that he was an important figure in the district and that he had 
probably told someone that he was going to the temple. I do not know how 
long I stood staring stupidly at the closed door when suddenly the door 
opened and the Englishman came out. He courteously bade me, “Good day,” and
walked out of the compound.

The next evening, Laxshmi disappeared. We searched all over for her, but 
we could not find her. No one had seen her leave and she spoke to no one. 
She disappeared like a cloud across the moon and somehow the temple was a 
little darker since her absence. Only years later, a wandering sanyasi told
us what happened. I only know that she will never come back. I hope she has
found the peace she was seeking and the Lord grant that we meet in Kailasa.

Chapter 3. The Senysai's Story

I saw the woman, Laxshmi, for the first time when I went to seek alms in 
the English sahib's house. As I approached the servant's quarters, striking
my trident staff, a beautiful woman came running out and poured rice and 
meat into my bowl and said, “May the Lord be with you, Sadhu Oaba. From 
where do you come?”

I replied that I came from Madras and that I was slowly making my way 
toward the eternal snows for my final rest. She asked me if I were in a 
hurry and bade me come in and sit down beside her. I had taken a vow of 
chastity, and for a moment, I was disturbed, but she begged me so piteously
that I accepted and then she told me her story in great detail.

She said that last May an English sahib had come to visit her. He entered
her small room and without any preliminaries said, “I know that you were 
involved in a ritual murder, Laxshmi. I have positive proof that could 
condemn you and your friends here to death.”

Laxshmi sat down on the bed, terrified. For a moment, she thought of 
killing the man. Then, very weakly she asked, “How do you know? And what 
can you prove?”

The Englishman pulled out a little piece of paper from his pocket and 
showed it to her. The paper was a statement, signed by the mother of the 
victim, which stated that she had sold her daughter to a priest of the 
temple a few months ago. Laxshmi nearly fainted when she read this. The 
Englishman at once pressed his advantage and showed her a piece of paper 
signed by the Mahraj Pratap admitting that he had been informed that a 
ritual murder had taken place by his dancing girl, a temple Dasi named 
Laxshmi. The woman waited, head bowed, for the man to bind her and take her
away.

But to her surprise, the Englishman lowered his voice and said, “I am not
an unkind man, Laxshmi. But you have treated me very badly. I find you very
beautiful and the one night we shared together proved to me that you are an
invaluable woman. I am going to propose a bargain to you. If you will 
become my servant, body and soul, I shall tear up this evidence, and no one
will be harmed. However, if you refuse, not only you, but your friends, 
risk being killed and your temple will be destroyed. So, the choice is 
yours to make.”

Of course, there was no choice. The woman acquiesced immediately and 
without further comment, the Englishman told her to meet him the next night
in the temple grove, and not speak of this to anyone. Then he left.

Poor Laxshmi. She knew this was the last time she would enjoy her life 
behind the protecting gates of the temple. She did not even dare take leave
of her friends. She cursed the day that she had met the Mahraj and begged 
the Lord Shiva to make the Englishman impotent. She passed the whole day in
private leave-taking with herself.

She talked to her companions casually, but to herself she said, “Goodbye,
Madhura. I shall never see you again. Goodbye, little peepul tree. l shall 
never see you again. I shall never touch this shiny oil lamp again.”

She did not sleep the whole night, but cried quietly to herself and when 
the next day dawned bright and cheerful, she knew that no miracle could 
save her.

She went to the grove at about nine o'clock at night. She walked slowly 
to her favorite spot and sat down. Soon she heard footsteps approaching. A 
sadhu came toward her. Without a word, he sprang on her, gagged and bound 
her and placed her in a sack. Then he scurried away and passed the sack 
over the wall of the temple, where willing hands caught it and carried it 
away.

When they released her, she found herself in a small, dingy room. A 
manservant untied her hands and told her that the Sahib would visit her 
here, and that this was to be her room. He also warned her never to go near
the big house. Then he locked the door from the outside and removed the 
key. Laxshmi sat down on the crude string bed and looked around her new 
home. It was a bare cell with badly whitewashed walls. It contained a bed 
and an old packing crate for furniture. She had no clothes, except the sari
she wore, and she wondered what was to become of her. Her reflections were 
cut short by the sound of the key being turned in the lock. The door opened
and the Englishman entered. He bowed sardonically at Laxshmi and asked her 
if she'd had a nice trip. The woman did not reply. The man walked toward 
her and pushed her back on the bed. Instinctively, she raised her hands to 
protect her body from his touch. The gesture so enraged him that he tore 
her sari from her body. At once, she curled up trying to hide herself from 
his gaze. Laxshmi knew she was acting foolishly, but she could not make a 
willing gift of herself to a man of no caste.

The Englishman stood absolutely still. Then, running to the door, he 
shouted, “Harihal! Mirkham! Come here.”

Laxshmi shivered as she heard the running patter of feet approaching the 
small room. One of the men was surely a Muslim; she would be damned 
forever. As a Dasi, she had taken vows never to give herself to any men but
Brahmins and warriors. Now she was about to be defiled by men of no caste. 
She cringed, trying to sink deeper into the bed.

The two men entered the room. One was a tall, strong Muslim from the 
Punjab. He wore the loose shirt and pajamas of a Muslim, and a large turban
was wound round his head. The other man was small, thin, and shrunken, and 
was obviously a lower-caste “untouchable.”

They both stood slightly embarrassed by the door. The Englishman turned 
toward them.

“This trembling creature you see is one of the purest women on earth—a 
Deva-Dasi. She only consents to sell her body to the Brahmins and she does 
not seem to believe that other men can also make love. So, why do we not 
prove it to her. Let us fill her with our untouchable bodies. Let us each 
enter an orifice...”

The two servants looked strangely at their master. The Englishman pulled 
the woman's hands away from her face, twisted her arms behind her back. 
Then he ordered the “sweeper” to caress her. The untouchable hesitated 
between the anger of his employer and his superstitious awe of the Dasi. 
How could he dare to touch a bride of Shiva? He stood, locked in his 
personal dilemma, when the impatient Muslim brushed by him and 
tantalizingly started to tease the woman's nipples with his tongue. The 
little dark buds stood up in response. The Englishman pushed the woman back
on the bed and covered her sensuous mouth with his, forcing his tongue 
between the gates of her teeth and into the sensitive cave of her mouth. 
The Muslim undid his pajamas and rubbed his powerful member against the 
belly of the imprisoned girl. Laxshmi shuddered. And now the third man, 
excited by the other two, began to place nervous, bird-like kisses between 
her thighs. She tried to close her legs to protect at least the most 
vulnerable part of her body, but the Muslim forced her legs apart with his 
powerful hands. Suddenly the Englishman turned to his companions. “I shall 
claim my right first and in the proper way.”

At once, the Muslim jumped off the string bed and stood waiting 
patiently. He was breathing heavily, and it was obvious that it was only 
fear of his master that held him back. The untouchable had retreated to the
door and sat crouching on the floor. The dazed woman struggled up and tried
to get off the bed, but the Englishman caught her, and pushed her back on 
the cot. Then he mounted her and, pushing her legs against her chest, he 
took her. Laxshmi screamed. She struggled blindly, trying to disengage 
herself from the punishing organ. But the man attacked her with unconcealed
hatred, twisting her legs and laughing in delight at her horror. He fought 
her furiously until at last he came and momentarily collapsed against her 
knees.

Immediately he rose, and turning to his servants, he told the Muslim to 
satisfy himself. The man instantly climbed on the bed and threw himself on 
the woman. Trembling, he violently rubbed himself against her, greedily 
pushing her soft breasts into his mouth as if he wished to swallow them 
whole. Then he slid slowly up on her body and leaned astride her. Pushing 
her head against the bed, he forced her mouth open and inserted his long, 
thin organ into her mouth. The woman choked and tried to bite his precious 
member. But the Englishman, guessing her intention, savagely struck her 
across the buttocks. Now the Muslim was really angry. He placed his hands 
on the woman's throat and slowly choked her. The woman lay passive, her 
mouth open, her eyes staring in fixed surprise at her opponent. The Muslim 
laughed and slowly took his pleasure, inserting his thin member deep into 
the soft, pink comfort of her mouth and rubbing the sensitive tip against 
the woman's muscular tongue. He gently brushed her breasts with his 
buttocks, moving rhythmically up and down until his loins contracted in 
sudden joy and exploded deep in the Dasi's mouth.

Immediately, the Englishman dragged him off and pushed the nervous 
untouchable toward the half-dazed woman. The Hindu approached the inert 
body hesitantly. Torn between his superstition and his need, he climbed 
onto the bed and gently and timidly stroked the girl's body, continuously 
looking at his master for approval. The Englishman, irritated by his 
attitude, kicked the man viciously and urged him to take the woman. The 
untouchable whimpered and clumsily turned the woman over onto her stomach. 
Then he hastily parted her small, firm buttocks and drove his small rod 
into her body. Once in possession of the woman, he lost all control. The 
traditional fears of his people took control of him. Clutching the Dasi 
desperately, he started to scream, “Oh! Please forgive me! Forgive me! I 
have defiled a sacred being! What horror will befall me! Oh, forgive me! 
Aie! Aie! I shall be destroyed!”

The Englishman, exasperated by the man's cries, began to beat him. This 
only paralyzed the untouchable even more and, clutching the woman 
desperately, he collapsed on her back and sobbed helplessly.

The next evening, the Muslim bearer came to fetch her and, tying a rope 
around her waist, he dragged her across the courtyard to a waiting car. He 
pushed the woman into the car and drew the curtains across the window. 
During the long journey, Laxshmi crouched in a corner, but the Muslim's 
hands were all over her body. He stroked her back, forced his hand past her
protecting hand, and squeezed her breast. Then he forced her knees apart 
and inserted his fingers in the soft mouth of her sex. He quietly stirred 
the reluctant juices of her desire, until—to his amusement—her body 
betrayed and expressed its joy at his touch. The Muslim then withdrew his 
fingers. Placing his firm flesh in her hand, he completed the rest of the 
journey.

When the car stopped, the servant led her out and up the stairs of a 
large house. He led her through corridors until they came to a large door. 
He knocked and then pushed the woman in.

The Englishman was seated in the room with another friend, a tall cavalry
officer. They motioned to the Dasi to enter, and the Englishman ordered her
to go into the next room and serve dinner.

Laxshmi had never waited at table, and the men took advantage of her 
inexperience. They touched her playfully, inserting a finger into her soft 
anus as she bent over to serve them or striking her sharply across the 
breasts. Laxshmi suffered all these humiliations without complaint, as she 
felt that these scourges were sent by her god to punish her for her 
terrible crime. After the meal, she served coffee to the two officers and 
filled their goblets full of strong alcohol. The men drank and conversed 
together, completely ignoring the Dasi, who sat quietly in a corner. 
Suddenly, the cavalry officer leaned forward and whispered to his 
companion. The other rose and dragged the Dasi to the center of the room 
and, pulling out a piece of rope, he tied her hands to a pillar in the 
room. He picked up a light, thick shaft of bamboo, and viciously hit the 
Dasi across the breast. Laxshmi cried out, but the officer removed his 
leather belt and struck her across the buttocks with it. The two men 
savagely beat the woman. But, when one would strike her, the other would 
caress her as she writhed in pain, kissing and licking the welts across her
breasts and back. They beat her all over her body. The officer even parted 
her legs so that his companion could strike her on the soft skin between 
her thighs with his stinging bamboo stick. Then they poured alcohol all 
over her body so that her wounds burned with a bitter agony. Laxshmi was 
now beside herself with pain, but the two men were relentless in their 
strange pursuit of pleasure. They untied the woman and carried her to the 
couch. One of them pulled her legs back over her shoulders, while the other
made subtle love to her with the bamboo stick, inserting it deep within her
and twisting it around. The sharp edges of the stick cut the sensitive skin
of the gentle mouth of her femininity, which opened in foolish welcome at 
the touch of his strong male hands, and which finally proclaimed its 
gratitude at their crude joke. Then they dressed her in their trousers 
(leaving the opening unbuttoned, so that her soft, dark mound was exposed 
with every step), and shirt. The shirt was also unbuttoned so that her 
lovely breasts peeped insolently back at her tormentors. All night they 
played with her like two children with a new toy. Then, as dawn broke, the 
officer took her, savagely venting his nightlong desire on her. Then her 
master had her. By this time, Laxshmi was exhausted. She was carried back 
to her little cell, partly insensible, and no one came to bathe the long 
red weals or to heal her wounded heart.

For a month, she served her savage master. Her bondage would have 
continued indefinitely had she not been driven to the edge of madness by 
the Englishman's repeated humiliations.

She was never allowed to be clothed, and if she did not answer to his 
strange whims, she was cruelly punished.

Her plight softened the heart of the servants, and they tried to help her
in many little ways. They brought her humble gifts of food, and when they 
knew that the master was away, they covered her trembling body with 
clothes.

Just when she ran away—and how—has always been a mystery. I doubt if even
Laxshmi could tell the story, because in her half-crazed desperation many 
facts must have taken on the unreal quality of a nightmare.

She claims that one day, when she was being led across the courtyard, she
hit her companion, ran blindly toward the high wall surrounding the garden 
and scaled it. She says she was seen by many of the servants, but none of 
them made a move to stop her. She had the presence of mind not to run far, 
but to stop two houses down and ask for shelter. She was taken in by a 
Hindu family, who filed away her chains and gave her some clothes to wear. 
A few days later, she accompanied one of them to the market and remained 
there. She used to dance on market days, but it was extremely difficult for
her. A Dasi is trained to please the Brahmins and her dances and songs are 
entirely unsuited to the marketplace. However, she managed to earn a meager
living until one day, she saw one of the servants from her master's house 
among the crowd. Terrified, she did not even stop to collect her money, but
ran madly into the crowd. She fought her way past bicycles, yelling 
shopkeepers and the slow-moving crowd until in utter desperation, she 
collapsed in a little alleyway and wept.

Poor girl! She did not know where to turn. She was afraid to continue 
dancing and she did not dare ask shelter from the local temple in her 
impure state. Alone and neglected, she wept on the same hard streets she 
had known as a child. But Shiva does not desert his followers, and the 
Divine Master surely helped her out of her misery.

A man walked up to her and asked if he could help. She looked up and saw 
before her a strange creature—tall and thin, dressed in an absurd and 
colorful costume. She told him that she was destitute and the man laughed 
gaily and told her that her troubles were over. He offered her work in a 
local mela (fair) and asked her if she could dance. Laxshmi hesitated, then
nodded assent. She followed the strange man to a bullock cart and climbed 
in beside him. They drove to the outskirts of the city. Even before they 
climbed the small hillock that hid the mela, Laxshmi could hear the music 
of the mela.

It brought back so many memories of her childhood. The mela with its 
brightly lit stalls, laden with sweetmeats arranged in geometric pyramids. 
The merry-rounds and the side stalls, the serpent boy, the headless woman, 
and then the barkers shouting their wares. The stalls bright with brass 
work from Benares, saris from Dacca and Madras, and the brightly colored 
wooden toys from Bengal. The crowds were carefree, gay, jostling, shouting.
People who ate a fistful of rice a day, carelessly spending their 
hard-earned pice on silver-colored halva or on clinking glass bangles. 
Mothers carefully kept their daughters close beside them lest they stray 
too far, excited by the strange spirit of abandon. Farmers and shopkeepers 
met in little groups to exchange gossip and news. Strange men wandered into
the crowds, shaking little drums to attract a crowd, and then the sad 
Himalayan bear, with a white horseshoe mark, would stand on its hind legs 
and dance. Clever monkeys from Simla and sleepy cobras vied for the 
attention of the crowds. Beggars paraded their deformities before the happy
multitudes in hope that their tragic appearance might shock a few pice out 
of the merrymakers. It was into this mela, loud, screaming, horrifying, and
joyous, that Laxshmi came.

She was led to a tent that had a small stage erected at one end. Her 
companion explained that he organized a little show here every evening, and
that only last night their dancer had run away with a bear-trainer. Laxshmi
had to represent a “Peri.” This particular fairy is reputed for her beauty,
and Laxshmi had to dance in a diaphanous gown, her face veiled, and at the 
last moment throw off all her clothes and take a pose. The other 
attractions consisted of trained dogs, a singer, a child dancer, a juggler,
and a fire-eater.

That night, Laxshmi had great success. The audience, squatting on the 
ground, acclaimed her from the first moment, and wildly applauded her 
dance. She was dressed in a tawdry tinsel costume—a wide skirt and a little
blouse. She danced a simple, sinuous dance. Then, at a signal from the 
barker, she retired behind a cardboard tree and quickly unfastened her 
dress. A crude red light bathed the stage and she walked on completely 
naked, except for her face, and took a strange pose in front of the 
cardboard tree. Her entrance was greeted by admiring “aahs” and “oohs” and 
mothers hastily led out young sons, muttering angrily at the indecency of 
the performance. This performance assured Laxshmi of a place to sleep and 
some food. But, for the rest, she soon learned. After the show, she would 
wrap a sari around her and stand in the shadow of the tent whispering her 
desire. A man would turn and Laxshmi would immediately name her price—four 
annas. The man would acquiesce, and they would go away from the crowds 
behind the tents. There in a little dry gutter, Laxshmi would throw down a 
piece of sackcloth and pull her lover down to her. They would not undress. 
The man would simply pull her sari away from her naked breasts and then, 
pushing his hand up her legs, he would raise her sari away from the slim 
buttocks. Then, pulling her legs apart he would mount her and take her. It 
was a very simple operation, and Laxshmi sometimes had as many as six or 
ten lovers in a night.

Sometimes, her employer would organize a special show, and for this she 
was paid two rupees. They would allow a certain number of men into the tent
and then close it tightly. The men sat in a circle. Then Laxshmi would be 
carried in on a cot, completely covered by a sheet and as if asleep. She 
lay quietly, until her employer stole through the crowd and, miming 
surprise and admiration, he would gently remove the sheet, exposing the 
charming naked form of the woman to her admiring public.

Smiling with delight, he would bend down and caress a nipple with his 
tongue. At this Laxshmi would pretend to awaken, and she would scream with 
fright, whereupon her employer would soothe her fears with a hundred little
caresses on her breasts, back, and thighs. Finally, he would climb on the 
bed with her. Naked, he would lie caressing her until his distended organ 
entered the deep cave of her body and they began to move together in mutual
enjoyment. After the employer had his satisfaction, Laxshmi walked amongst 
the crowd, and if anyone gave her money, he was permitted to touch her. 
Then a few would pay more, and she would leave the tent and satisfy them. 
Often she would allow them to take her leaning against the tent wall. Then 
she would wait for the next one until her day's work was done, and she 
would steal back into her tent only to find her employer's brother waiting 
for her.

It was here that I met her. I was going on a pilgrimage to Sikkim and we 
passed through the mela grounds late one evening. I was walking alone when 
I heard a voice call from behind a hedge, “Do not think of God, sadhuji, 
think of his creation.”

Intrigued, I stopped and looked behind the hedge. To my surprise, a 
beautiful woman lay there. She was naked and sat leaning on one elbow. Her 
legs were slightly parted and offered a teasing glimpse of the delights 
between them. But it was the woman's beauty that arrested me. She was slim 
and elegant, with hard, firm breasts like some exotic fruit. I laid down my
staff, removed my loincloth and went to her. I knelt before her and paid 
homage. I gently kissed her on the brow, breasts, and in that tender spot 
between her legs. At once, she lay alongside of me and caressed my whole 
body with her tongue. I felt my loins contract as her soft, moist mouth 
nibbled gently at my body. She even parted my buttocks and slipped her 
snake-tongue into the cleft and around the puckered anus. Then she slid two
long fingers past the resisting muscles and titillated my senses until I 
felt my whole body respond to the secret invitation. Her tongue was now 
speaking eloquently to my organ. I was a toy in her hands, a mechanical 
toy, slowly being wound up by an enchanter. Then the mechanism sprang. I 
turned on her, and she at once delicately raised her legs and placed one on
my shoulder and one on my head. I drove in with all my force, upright on my
knees. And with every stroke of my loins, she moved her legs, putting first
one, and then the other on my head until I felt my organ caressed 
internally by her body. Together we sped like eager children toward the 
climax of our pleasure until finally, clutching her two stem-like legs 
against me, I went through the ecstatic convulsions of joy. Then she came 
with a force that shook her frail body, and caused her lovely face to 
grimace in contentment. I turned to her in immediate amazement.

“Where do you come from? You are no ordinary woman in the streets.”

Suddenly she burst into tears, and prostrating herself before me, she 
told me her story. I cannot describe how I felt. I never met a lovelier or 
a more sensual woman, but I knew that I could never touch her again. I told
her that she could join our pilgrimage. She trembled with joy at my answer,
and when I saw her again a few hours later, she had shaved her head. Her 
face was covered with ashes and she wore a loose cloak of sackcloth.

We had a difficult journey to Sikkim, but that woman was the bravest and 
the most devout. She quickly lost all interest in her body when we came to 
the monastery. I knew she had found the peace she was seeking and would 
never leave.

Guilt is a terrible thing, my brothers. It is the hand of fear that 
strangles our lives. It is hard to say why something is wrong, but a person
who lives continually with the thorny body of guilt can no longer survive. 
They are already dead, and the rest of their natural lives is spent in 
trying to buy back innocence.

Guilt is a hungry god, and once it calls for sacrifice, only your life 
can pay.


Finis
