9 Sympathy, 10 Disappearance, 11 Reaction
Chapter 9 - Sympathy
Kamala woke up in her bed back at the flat. She lay there for a few moments trying to remember who she was. She even had a flicker of a moment of not knowing quite what she was... male/female/ animal/vegetable/mineral? She blinked uncomprehendingly at the green Chinese parasol hanging above her head. Things started swinging into place again. She was herself again, back in the world, back in her bed. She felt suddenly very small and lonely. Her inner clock sensed that any second now... yes there it was...
"You're listening to BBC Radio 4. It's seven fifteen..."
She never really listened to the programmes, but she liked the measured, confident tones of the Radio 4 presenters, they were soothing - like having nice aunties and uncles talking in the next room, keeping you company, keeping you safe.
"...question of the arms embargo breach in Central Africa... there are claims that some of your subsidiaries... "
"Yes, I'm glad you asked me that, John, because... Hello? Hello? John? I'm sorry, I don't seem to be able to hear you. Can you hear me?"
This one wasn't a soothing uncle's voice - this was an unctuous voice, rich as treacle - unhurried, unflustered, even in the face of this apparent live-on-air technical glitch.
"Ah, sorry about this, Mr White, there seems to be some kind of problem with the connection, can you hear me now?"
"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me, John?
"Yes, we're getting you loud and clear now, Mr White, please, go on."
"Oh, good. The wonders of modern technology, eh? We can send a man to Mars but we still can't have a decent conversation across Central London! Did you know that my grandfather invented the video-phone long before anyone else had even dreamt such a thing was possible? What he did was, he wired up a primitive television-type gadget and connected that to a..."
"Yes, but with respect Mr White, about these arms sales, do you...er, what's that? Ah, right. I'm afraid that's all we have time for now, before we go over to Malcolm Green for Sports News. Thank you Mr White."
"No, thank you, John".
The Voice hummed through Kamala's dozing body. She stretched it slowly and pulled the pillow towards her, squeezing it with arms and knees. Now that she was awake, she wouldn't be able to sleep again. She got up quickly and went downstairs.
She peered at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, there were crinkle imprints on one side of her face, her snake pendant was twisted under her left ear. As she straightened it, she suddenly remembered what had happened the night before. What the fuck was that about? She'd been so frightened… by what? Nothing really had happened, at least nothing compared to what was really going on in the world around them. Jerome had been ready to deck Gervaise. "What did he do to you? The filthy old perv – tell me Kam, just say the word and I'll kill the bastard! He should be sacked, and then castrated and then killed." But Kamala had told him to calm down, said (and she was almost sure) it was nothing to do with Gervaise - she just wasn't feeling very well.
Amelia was soothing and motherly and came up with the most probable explanation – must have been the drugs. Kamala wasn't used to them, she must have had a bad trip or something. Best spend the day in bed and drink lots of orange juice and you'll be fine, darling. She stroked Kamala’s damp hair soothingly with her soft, plump hand. Kamala felt nostalgic.
Having splashed some cold water on her face, she descended into the kitchen, switched on the battered old radio and poured herself a bowl of cornflakes. "Whiter than white, lighter than light, White's washing powder gives you the might... to Clean. It. RIGHT! Always remember White is right!" It was a catchy tune, Kamala found herself humming it as she carried her cornflakes and a coffee mug of orange juice up to the smelly-telly room. There was something comforting about watching daytime telly – it reminded her of days when she was off school sick with the terrible period pains she used to get. Mother would settle her in front of the telly with drinks and snacks all efficiently within reach, a duvet tucked neatly around her. Then she'd go off to her study and, drifting in and out of sleep, Kamala would listen to the muted tap tap tap of her writing at the computer.
A nature programme was on. "Deep in the undergrowth" breathed the wide eyed presenter, elbows resting on his hairy pink knees "The true king of the jungle rests in the shade. His camouflage is perfect, I nearly stepped on him a few minutes ago... if I had, it would have been curtains for me! This is one monarch you gotta treat with absolute respect... Right, now I'm going to try and wake him... but I'm going to do it with this long stick, don't want to take any chances! Can you see him there? He's a beaut! Come on, mate, let's be having you. Give us a little twirl and then we'll let you get back to your beauty sleep. There you go – wow, look at that! What a beaut! What a bea... WATCH OUT! Aaagh! Ha ha ha ha! He nearly had me there – no it's alright, I'm fine. I'm just going to keep very, very still now – no sudden movements. Thaaaaaat's it – now we're in for a real treat – see how he's starting to spread that hood of his? And look at those big, staring eyes! Actually, they're not his eyes at all – they're just markings on the back of his head made to look like eyes. This fella can hardly see at all. It's that tongue he's using to "see" with... He knows I'm here, but he's sleepy. See that big lump half way down him? Just there, if I can point with my stick... eeeeasy, fella, eeeeeasy. There, see it? That was his dinner – probably a big rat or a rabbit or something. Now that he's digesting it, he's too lazy to attack me. Still, I'm not taking any chances...."
The camera zoomed in on the cobra's hood. It seemed to be looking straight at Kamala (but those aren't really eyes, she thought). The cobra smiled, knowingly. His hiss filled the room, filled her head - a continuous, mesmerising white-noise. It made it hard to think clearly.
Who am I? What am I? What am I supposed to do? The hiss is light as well as sound, a bright mist, a diamond spray of dancing electrons pouring out towards her through her, lifting her hair, streaming it out behind her as though she's flying. The cobra's hiss drowns out all other sounds. She puts her arms around him and slowly puts her lips to his. White sparks fly where their lips touch. Her eyes close in bliss.
Kamala opened her eyes. She was kneeling in front of the telly, with her arms around it. One of her knees was resting in a pool of milk and soggy cornflakes and her face was pressed uncomfortably against the cold, glass image of the recently crowned King Charles purring nasally that if people would only remind themselves of the important things in life... go back to gardening and meditation and eating organic vegetables, there wouldn't be so much fear and aggression in the world.
Kamala leapt back, stumbling over the cornflakes bowl. Can't believe I just did that! Thank god no-one saw... Though somehow it was slightly more embarrassing without witnesses. If someone else'd been there they would have been able to slap her on the back, laugh, joke about it – you're going potty, Kam!, give some kind of explanation. But what was the explanation? Was she really going mad? First last night, and now this... somewhere in the back of her mind something whispered, what about all the other times, before? The floating, the flying, the whispered voices, the swelling light...? But no – that was just silly childhood stuff. Hysteria, like her mother used to say. Everyone has weird dreams sometimes – probably something to do with hormones... she did have that problem with her reproductive bits after all... and last night was the drugs and all the weird chanting and getting over excited about Gervaise and his bloody shed, and this morning was... well, maybe the drugs still hadn't worn off. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm a scientist. It's fine.
Suddenly she was desperate for her mum. She wanted to be looked after by a grown-up, by someone who knew what was what, someone who could cope.
"Hi Mum!"
"Oh hello, Kamala, dear. I'm in the middle of a rather important article. Why are you calling me 'mum'? Isn't that rather common?"
"Sorry, Mother – I just think it sounds...cosier, more loving..."
"How are your studies going dear? Are you alright for money?"
"Yes, fine... it's just that..."
"'Fine'? Sweetheart, haven't they taught you any new vocabulary in that red-brick institution? What do you mean 'fine'? What are you learning? What books are you reading? Exactly how much do you have left in your bank account? Be precise, darling. Haven't I always taught you that?"
"Yes, Mother, you have, but.... mum," her voice started trembling slightly, and swung up a few octaves into a little girl tremor. "I'm not feeling very well..."
"What are your symptoms?"
"I... I don't know...I feel a bit, a bit weird, it's just...."
"'Weird'? Oh, so they have taught you some new words then? Can you define 'weird' for me, dear? It's not a very familiar part of my lexicon."
"Mum, please... I'm ill, I need you..."
"And I am asking you what your symptoms are, so that I can help. Have you been to see the student doctor?"
"No, I..."
"Well there you are then. Why don't you do that? There's not a lot I can do from here, is there? You need to get the doctor to give you a thorough check-up and prescribe whatever you need to sort it out."
"But it's not exactly that kind of illness?"
"No? What kind is it then?"
"I don't knooooow!" She was wailing by this time...
"Kamala, I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, dear, but there really isn't much point in phoning me up from the other end of the country and expecting me to be able to help you cure an illness whose only symptoms are feeling 'weird'. If you're not feeling well, just go to the doctor. OK? You haven't been taking drugs, have you?"
Pause.
"Why would you think I've been taking drugs?"
"Well, it happens in these sort of places, doesn't it? But no, I'm sorry darling. You've been far too sensibly brought up to subject yourself to dangerous and impure chemicals. Now. Pull yourself together, blow your nose and give the doctor a tinkle. You're not a little girl any more and I've got an article to finish. Bye bye, darling."
"'Bye Mu... Mother"
I don't know what else I was expecting, Kamala thought. Mother had never been one for sympathy and cuddles. Illness was somehow shameful, a sign of weakness. Even when Kamala had had to go to the gynaecologist when the pains had got really bad and the periods had disappeared and they'd had to go from one specialist to another, even then, Kamala had always had a tiny feeling that Mother thought she should "Pull Yourself Together". As it turned out, her condition was a pretty serious one.
There was some kind of problem with the way that her tubes were plumbed in and although they did an operation which had helped to stop the pains, they'd said she would never have children. Which didn't bother her much, she was only fifteen after all... but you had to admit, it did sound dramatic, didn't it? Her school friends all thought so, when she told them and they responded in quavering tones... "Have you heard? Kammy can Never Have Children!" "Oh that's sooooo sad!" But then... "Yeah, but I guess she won't have to worry about yukky nappies and all that stuff, and she won't have to keep getting baby sitters whenever she wants to go out dancing or shopping." "True. She's quite lucky actually, she won't have to bother with those silly rubber things, or all those chemicals." "Yeah, she's lucky..."
Kamala never gave it a lot of thought. She was never particularly interested in babies or in boys and as her school friends matured into young women with periods and boyfriends, she felt them drifting away from her on a sea of bodily fluids and incomprehensible emotions. She learned to rein in her own feelings just like Mother taught her. Despite a flair for music, art and English, she opted for science A levels and developed a fascination for plant life. Plants seemed to contain mystery which appealed to something deep inside her, but by studying them scientifically, she could keep the mystery contained, Under Control. She could Be Precise, just like Mother wanted her to be.
She became engrossed in photosynthesis and soil structures and micro-climate systems. She particularly liked trees. She liked their massiveness, their ancientness, their infinite variety, their lovely, fluted rootedness. If she ever caught herself thinking, in the autumn, that they looked like an armful of gold coins flung skywards, she quickly checked herself and reminded herself of the scientific rationale for the browning and the bronzing and the gilding.
But she couldn't stop her eyes blazing with excitement when describing to her slightly bemused friends something like the amazing life of the sequoia tree - most massive, ancient living thing, centuries old hulk of a trunk, blood red with insect-proofing tannin, scorched, but not destroyed by the fires it needs to gouge light shafts out of the forest undergrowth, to bake and crack open its iron-hard fir cones... and best of all its ability to fling out a branch and balance itself, in arboreal slow motion if the ground at its giant, troll-hoofed base is eroded by a wayward forest stream... but long before she gets to this point, her friends have lost interest and gone on to discussing the horrors of student debts, the injustices of the government that makes them pay, the damaclesian sword of military service that now hangs over them all...
There were no other students in the Student Doctor's waiting room. The heavy, middle-aged woman behind the receptionist's counter surveyed her with the expression of someone with a lemon in her mouth.
"Name?" she snapped.
"Kamala Steele"
"'Camel-er Steele'... let me see."
"Come-á-la..."
"That's what I said, 'Camel-er'. Now what do you want to see the doctor about?"
Kamala explained.
"I don't know, you students!" the receptionist laughed, starting to rifle through a wad of manila envelopes stuffed with pink papers , "Sleeping all day and partying all night, Complaining about having to pay your debts, complain about having to fight for your country, but quite happy to come and take up the doctor's time when the slightest thing goes wrong, aren't you?"
Kamala stared back at her, vindictively wishing that she'd develop the same really nasty, embarrassing rash she clearly suspected Kamala of having... The older woman's smile faded. Kamala saw the blood rise in her face like a speeded up sunrise. A pained, bewildered look came into her eyes. She dropped the manilla envelopes and rushed into the back of the surgery with a kind of cross-legged waddle, her hands clawing at her crotch.
"Sit there until the doctor calls you!" she called in a strangled voice as she disappeared.
Kamala did as instructed and picked up the magazine beside her. She didn't normally read women's magazines – she found them appallingly mundane and uninformative. They seemed to concern themselves with matters of minimal importance in the scheme of things and be designed for people without an ounce of initiative, or imagination - who needed to be told what to wear, what to cook, how to lay their tables, how to decorate their homes, how to give their men orgasms and how to create a fragrant garden for all-year-round colour.
But she did enjoy casting an eye over the glossies occasionally, with the same detached scientific eye with which she surveyed Amelia flailing through some apparently simple practical task like opening the front door, or observing lads getting drunker and drunker in the pub, or old married couples communicating telepathically in department store cafeterias. She skimmed through the contents: 'Could your holiday romance be a rapist?', 'Nine to Five Flirty – Make your work wardrobe work for summer', 'Sun, Sea and Melanomas - A reader shares her skin cancer ordeal‘. Sex and Death, Death and Sex, Kamala sighed. Perhaps that is all that matters, when it comes down to it. We really haven't evolved much further than grubs that hatch, eat, turn into beautiful, flimsy butterflies, have sex and die. Then another article caught her eye... "Endless Love – The Second Coming of Tantric Sex". Kamala was intrigued at first:
"The theory is that the universe was once blissfully united – whole. Then it split in two: male and female; positive and negative; force and form; Yin and Yang or, as the Tantrics prefer, the divinities Shiva and Shakti. Only when these two polar opposites are united in endless intercourse can Nirvana be obtained. So the Tantric couple aims for no less than cosmic copulation, allowing the female Shakti – or Kundalini – energy to rise from its home at the base of the spine up through the energy centres (or chakras) to the top of the head where it unites with Shiva, the male principle. Instant bliss – just like that."
Kamala's eyes widened. Her spine tingled again with the memory ... hungrily, she read on, hoping for some more explanation, some reassurance that it was all going to be OK. But the rest of the article rattled smoothly on about experts who could maintain 32-minute erections, drink glasses of water through their penises or swing three pound weights from their vaginas (the spiritual – or indeed sensual - benefits of these achievements were not made evident). It described 'modern Tantrics' - city lawyers, yoga teachers and computer programmers – living in ‘Tantric Houses’ swapping partners every few months. It sensibly advised readers who were considering entering such a house to have a thorough health check including an AIDS test before hand, and offered some contact numbers and addresses for anyone who wanted to know more. Next month there would be a similar article on another suburban English pastime - organic gardening, perhaps, or Pilates, with equally sensible advice and contact numbers.
Only one other line seemed to have any relevance to Kamala's situation... and it sent a tremor of worry through her... "It can be pretty hairy if you don't know what you're doing - the Shakti energy is exceedingly powerful and there are people wandering around who have gone stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready."
"C-Camel-er Steel?" the receptionist stammered, still somewhat flushed.
"Come-á-la..." Kamala murmured.
"Er, yes, Car-mella, The doctor will see you now..."
Sitting opposite the doctor – a pleasant, youngish woman with a shiny brown bob and a kind, efficient manner – Kamala suddenly felt very silly having even considered all that Tantric nonsense. She told the doctor she hadn't been sleeping well and was getting occasional dizzy spells – and said she thought she might even have fainted on a couple of occasions. Put in those comfortable phrases things didn't feel so alarming. She didn't mention the weird feelings, the... hallucinations – if that's what they were. It just sounded too melodramatic... perhaps she'd just imagined them anyway. A tiny voice in the back of her mind worried that imagining hallucinations was possibly a contradiction in terms, but she was concentrating on the doctor telling her to make sure she had regular sleeping and eating patterns, to stay away from drink, tobacco and anything stronger she may be offered and to take two of these mild sedatives twice a day at least 15 minutes before eating. The little yellow pills looked reassuringly normal in the palm of her hand.
'...stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready...' What nonsense! She threw two nice, comprehensible, scientific yellow pills into the back of her throat, washed down with a glug of sterile bottled water.
Chapter 10 - Disappearance
The little girl scampered down the marble steps and into the garden, shrieking with excitement – after her came the maid with her shawl over her head and her arms waving madly...
"Whooooooo, whooooo here comes the ghost! The ghost is coming to catch baby and take her away to his house in the jungle!"
Within seconds the child had disappeared into the long grass. Since I had gone away the place had become neglected. I had left Bimla in charge and had given her a chest full of my jewellery (including the precious serpent pendant which I had never taken off before... it had its own journey to make) for the all the household expenses, but Bimla had no way of knowing when I was coming back... or if I was ever coming back. So she kept the House going, and she looked after Chitra like she was her own. Every day a tutor came from the town to teach the little girl to form her letters, to sing and play the harmonium, a little astrology and a lot about the plants and wildlife of the region – which was a passion of his. That's why he agreed to take on the job in this rather peculiar house – because he'd heard of all the amazing trees and the birds and the snakes... He'd been disappointed when he discovered that since I had left, the birds had gone and now only the ubiquitous little brown sparrows and other common birds remained.
The girl was nowhere to be seen. Bimla stopped on the top step, panting and mopping her brow with the shawl. She was too old for this kind of thing. What on earth was she going to do about the child? In a few more years she would be too old to look after her at all and then what? Poor Bimla. I wished I could have explained, but my hands were tied. Bimla could not have begun to understand the reasons for my leaving. All I could say was "Look after the child – I'm sorry – I have to go." And out I had walked - wearing only a thin, white wrap, begging bowl in one hand and staff in the other.
Even though I had left before dawn when everyone but the milkmaid should have been asleep, the road from my house to the main road was lined with silent people. How did they know this was the day, the time? How did they know that this was not one of my regular trips up to the hills, where they presumed I danced with demons in the dark of the forest and then came home again, replenished? I had not announced my departure beyond my household. They were sad but excited. They loved... the idea of me, beautiful, dignified, sexy, magical... it gave the town a certain cachet to possess me.
And now they were losing me. But then again, it was good when a citizen of the town went away on what they chose to think of as a pilgrimage. It brought blessings to the whole town – touched them with its holiness. The silent well-wishers namastéd as I passed and scattered flowers on the path in front of me so that all the way to the road I walked on a soft, squishy carpet, petals catching between my toes, dew wetting the hem of my sari. Some generous, but thoughtless souls had scattered roses, but I glided over them – thorns and all – as smoothly as over the lotus petals and the lilies... in fact it seemed to some that my feet weren't quite touching the ground – though it could have been a trick of the early morning light...
Most of my servants were weeping, but Bimla's face, as she stood beneath the arched white serpents watching her mistress' figure receding, was expressionless. I felt her sorrow like a stone pressing against my back. She had never had any reason to doubt my piety, my dedication to my art. She had never questioned any of my decisions. But this time, she was uneasy. Ever since the night the sadhu had arrived, she’d felt that things were out of kilter. So it is for those who see a little more than others, but not quite enough. The weeks we had stayed shuttered in my bedroom didn't seem right to Bimla. All my loyal customers – even the maharajah – turned away. This sadhu was certainly not paying for the hospitality he was receiving – and he had (so they whispered) the appetite of Bhima, the giant strong man of Hindu legend.
The servants had murmured fearfully amongst themselves... one young boy - the gardener's helper - finally voiced what they'd all been trying not to think; "He looks like Lord Shiva!"
They boxed his ears for being so blasphemous and demanded to know how he would know what a god looked like, and snorted when he said he knew exactly what they looked like from his Amar Chitra Kahar mythological comic-books. But then, one of them said...
"Bimla-ji, didn't you say that when he first went in, he called the mistress 'Shakti?'"
"Did I?" said Bimla "I don't know, I must have mis-heard, he must have just been greeting her by saying 'shanti' peace..." But knowing looks were passed between people.
And then the sadhu had gone. As suddenly as he had appeared and with as little warning or explanation. I had pined for months. At least she'll be able to get back to work, now, thought Bimla, that will not only bring in some money again, but it will cheer her up too, she is a true artist and loves her art. But the customers were still turned away. The servants were getting desperate – they were running out of excuses. Part of me - the real me - was quite cool and saw the inexorable logic of what was about to happen unfolding, but my human heart ached. I wept when I thought no-one could hear me... but the maids knew.
Later, they also knew I was carrying his child - a miracle in itself, it seemed to them. In all the long years I had conducted my professional duties I had never conceived. No one – not even my maids - knew how I avoided it. I never took any herbal draughts or used any unguents or implements... but I never got pregnant. It was as if (they said) I could control my body's ability to conceive through the power of my will alone. So why this time? Wondered Bimla. Why with this wild pauper? Why now, when I was the age that most women were grandmothers many times over? And why was I now leaving my new-born child and setting off on a "pilgrimage" – that was something you did after your worldly responsibilities were over, not when they were just beginning. Bimla had wept and pressed her forehead to my feet the night before, begging me not to go... she even accused me of being bewitched. Poor Bimla, I wish I could have put your mind at rest, could have told you a little more. But it would have been no use. So I had just smiled and gazed out of the window towards the road to the hills framed by the moonlit double helix of the serpent gate-posts.
Little Chitra sat motionless in her special hiding place. It was a hollow in the long grass, the boundary wall at her back and one of the overgrown fruit trees on her left. She knew that from here she was completely invisible to anyone in the house or garden. It made her smile. She could hide for hours, keeping completely still, driving Bimla and the others to distraction calling out for her "Baby! Baby! Come out now, we are frightened. Have you fallen in the river? Where are you? Come on, don't be a naughty baby now!" Eventually she would come out – penitent that she had upset them. Now she felt the grass flowers tickling her cheek. The warmth of the old, sun-heated wall at her back. She half closed her eyes and the click and rustle of cicadas and grass stalks simmered in her brain like an extension of the blood simmering in her body. She gazed at her little, silver ringed toes, painted pink the night before by the watchman's wife, and imagined that they were little people. She wiggled them and they danced and bowed to her.
A new rustling joined the grass stalks and cicadas. Slowly, through the long grass a long, green snake slid towards her. Its black tongue flicked outwards, savouring the scent of her, leading it towards her. As it reached the edge of the hollow, another snake, a small speckled yellow one, squirmed out of the grass opposite, a third one dropped from the branches of the fruit tree and landed in her lap. She didn't move a muscle. The green snake surged gently forwards again, over her ankle... she stopped wiggling her toes.
Snakes were winding themselves around her arms like bracelets, creeping through the hollow between the underneath of her knees and the dusty ground, curling into her lap, snaking up her body and tickling her neck with their tongues. Girl and snakes froze – in the sweltering heat of the morning. They sat in a motionless heap, a marble tableau, Chitra's head slightly cocked to one side as though she was listening... slowly she reached out a finger and ran it along the smooth, dry space between the green snake's eyes. It rose until its head was level with her eyes and they stayed like that for a measureless space of time...
Much later, the watchman found her curled up asleep in the hollow after they had all shouted themselves hoarse calling her and were nearly mad with worry about her. He carried her to the house and handed her to Bimla. Their eyes met. What will become of this little one? Was the question that hung, unvoiced, between them. Bimla, gaunt with relief, carried the limp little figure up the marble staircase and laid her on the bed they had shared since Chitra was four days old. She inspected the child's body all over, checking for scratches or bites, every inch of the peach-soft shins was covered in scratches and scabs from earlier scrapes, but there were no snake bites. Bimla pulled her shawl over her own shoulders and head and then over the child and closed her eyes. Tears seeped through the lids and dampened Chitra's hair.
Chapter 11 - Reaction
There were two notes in Kamala's pigeon-hole in the Student Common Room. Her heart lurched. One was from Gervaise. How could she possibly face him after what had happened? How could they face each other? She felt such a fool. Firstly for having harboured a silly school-girl crush on him in the first place, then having let herself... naked! In a garden shed!! She groaned aloud and banged her head against the pigeon-holes, the note clutched in her hand. Unbidden – and unwelcome – the image of his pale sex dangling in the dust of the shed floor came back to her and she groaned louder and banged harder... and then the memory of the warmth, the tingling, the explosion of light...what was all that about?! At least she had walked away before things had gone any further, leaving her some shred of self-respect to cling on to. But how was Gervaise going to react to seeing her again? Would he be angry? Would he laugh at her? Would he – oh god! - treat her like a lover and try to woo her back into bed (or was that shed?).
"Kammy? What's up?"
It was Janey.
"Nothing. I've just got a... bit of a head-ache, that's all."
"Now, I'm no medical expert, Kam, but I think that may just have something to do with the way you were bashing it against the wall just now! Do you want to tell me what's really up? I'm guessing it's something to do with Gervaise. I heard about the other night."
"What did you hear?"
"Just that you two were seen smooching on the balcony and then disappeared for a while. And that you were in a bit of a state when you reappeared." Her voice dropped. "Are you alright, babe? Did anything happen?"
Kamala shook her head. "Not really, but, we almost... Oh, Janey! I'm so embarrassed! How am I going to face him? I can't sit there in tutorials with him after this... I think I'm just going to have to drop out! But oh god, I don't want to lose my chance of getting this degree... I don't want to be a drop out. What will I do? Where will I go? What will Mother say?"
"Ok, Ok. Let's calm down a bit here. There is no way you're dropping out, my girl. If anyone should leave, it should be him. He's in a position of trust and he's abused it..."
"No, no, it was just as much me. I wanted to at first. I..I kissed him!"
"So what? He had no business encouraging you or taking advantage. Teachers, doctors, men in position of power often have the women they care for getting crushes on them – that makes them more responsible for not letting things get out of hand, not less."
"But, Janey, it's so embarrassing!"
"I know, sweetheart. But you've just got to put it down to experience and get on with your life with your head held high."
"I suppose so. This is a note from him... you read it for me, Janey - I can‘t bear it…"
Janey extracted the note from Kamala's icy grip and smoothed it out. She read silently for a minute and then barked a bitter little laugh.
"Ah, men. Doncha just love 'em? Looks like you're not the only one who wants to pretend it never happened. All so neat and tidy. And there's more good news... have a look at your other note first."
Kamala took the note from her pigeon-hole, read, and then sat down heavily. Janey was laughing and congratulating her, and soon Kamala was laughing too.
Dear Ms Steel,
I am delighted to inform you that your application for an internship with Greenfield Technology Ltd, as part of your degree course in Tropical Agriculture, has been successful. You will assist in a research project to explore potential industrial applications of plant-based energy sources. The internship begins on completion of your course work here in the University, and will involve field work and a certain amount of travel. As such travel would come under the heading of essential scientific endeavour, it would be exempt from the new international restrictions. Greenfields will deal with all necessary formalities with the appropriate authorities.
Should you wish to accept this offer, please let me know and then contact Serena DeClerk at Greenfield Technology to complete the arrangements.
Best Regards
Janet Cryer
Senior Administrator, Department of Tropical Studies
Kamala felt like leaping up and down, dancing with joy - but she fought down the temptation and sat tight gripping the edge of the foam rubber upholstery of the armless common-room easy chair. (Mother's voice from so many Christmases and Birthdays past echoed in her sub-conscious..."Now calm down, dear. No need to behave like a savage. A smile and a thank you will suffice." Mother's voice, Mother’s rules - the safe, stony bed through which her subconscious streamed, holding it in, directing its course.)
"I don't believe it! Greenfield Technology! Internships with them are like gold-dust!! And field work! I would have considered myself lucky to get a few months slogging away in some lab or plant-nursery in Slough or somewhere! Where do you think it will be?"
Janey laughed again... "How should I know, silly! Where do you want it to be?"
Before she could block it, though she tried to think about South America, Africa, Papua New Guinea, her head was already filled with flashes of gold bangles, sweet laddoos, cinnamon…
"I don't mind where, as long as I'm doing actual real field work for an actual real company. So what does lover-boy have to say for himself then?" It didn’t seem so important or terrible now.
She took back the crumpled note and read...
Dear Kamala,
I was delighted, on your behalf, to learn that you have been offered the coveted Greenfield Technology internship, which I expect you will have heard about by now. I'm sure you will do very well.
I have decided to take the opportunity of going on sabbatical to the Philippines for the remainder of the term to finish my research paper, "Tantric City - The Search for Urban Enlightenment through Esoteric Eroticism". I was finding it hard to pursue both my research and the agricultural lectureship. The Dean has very generously agreed to let me go.
So I'm afraid our tutorials for the rest of the term will not be taking place. However I have every confidence in your ability to complete your thesis independently. If you do have any questions you may take them up with Dr Rosen, Head of the Department of Tropical Studies.
Best of luck for the future.
Yours
Gervaise
No mention of what had happened between them, no query about how she was feeling physically, mentally or emotionally, no echo of the endearments on the balcony... but what a relief!
It was India, of course. Kamala decided to tell Mother in person. This was Kamala's chance in a lifetime, her big break, this could be the making of her career, Mother would be so pleased for her...
But Kamala felt unease prickling at the back of her neck all the way home. When she dozed during the train's interminable stop at the time warp that was Birmingham New Street station, she dreamed that she and Aunty Seema were eating ladoos together in the kitchen at home and laughing hysterically, sticky goo and golden ladoo crumbs all over their cheeks and fingers and chests... then mother came in and saw them. She was dressed in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit, her hair was immaculate and her lips were pinched together with disapproval. Aunty Seema started to speak, but mother's eyes flashed – literally – a cold blue-steel flash of the type used by Hollywood as a shorthand to indicate anything supernatural – and Aunty Seema started to bubble and boil and melted on the spot, like the Wicked Witch in the Yellow Brick Road, leaving nothing but a pile of gaudy silk clothes scattered with gold bangles.
The dream-Mother sat down opposite the blubbering dream-Kamala. She opened her brief-case and took out a small brass dust-pan and brush with which she brushed up all the ladoo crumbs, and then poured them into her brief case and snapped it shut. Kamala ran round the table desperate to find the real Mother (not this cold, robotic parody of her), she flung her arms round her neck and tried to bury her face in her Mother's shoulder... and then noticed that Mother was wearing a hard, stiff mask of her own face. Kamala seized it with both hands, her fingers hooked under the fake jaw-bones and with all her strength tore it off. But underneath was not the composed but soft face of her real mother. Underneath was raw flesh and blood and bits of vein left dangling and eyeballs and grinning teeth. Mother's scream of fury and Kamala's scream of terror twined around each other and shattered the windows...
Kamala began to shake, she shook so much that she woke up, and found that she was being shaken by a middle aged gentleman in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit. His eyes were kind and twinkling. "I think you've been having a nightmare, dear" he said, gently. Kamala mumbled her thanks, desperately embarrassed to think that she might actually have been screaming. The words of the magazine in the doctor’s waiting room came back to her; “…there are people wandering around who have gone stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready” The man brought her a paper cup of water from the buffet car and then said no more, his newspaper shielding them from each other until he got off at the next stop, for which Kamala was eternally grateful.
Kamala had hoped Mother would meet her at the station, but Mother said she was busy trying to finish an article and that Kamala should get a taxi. Kamala hated taxis. She hated being in such intimate proximity to a stranger. Should she make conversation? Should she be silent? Should she tip? How much? And if she did start a conversation, it usually bored her silly or infuriated her. Once a taxi driver told her in complete seriousness that the hole in the ozone layer was caused by there not being enough carbon monoxide and that he and his fellow drivers were doing their bit to close the gap. But today's taxi driver was a sad looking Eastern European man in his late forties, who obviously had as little wish as Kamala to converse, and they completed the 40 minute journey in two hermetically sealed silences with the local radio station burbling inanely in the background.
Mother was in the study when she arrived and Kamala felt rather sulky to think that she couldn't even be bothered to get up from her desk to greet her daughter back from university. But just as she was thinking it, Mother heard her footstep behind her and leapt up to greet her. She was wearing a thin grey cotton dress covered with a print of lilac flowers which clung to her slim body. Kamala noticed that wisps of grey had appeared in her black hair, and that her fine-boned face was feathered with soft lines. Kamala felt a melting sensation in her chest. The look of love and joy on Mother's face was so genuine that Kamala felt ashamed of herself. She gave her mother a huge, Amelia-style hug. And though she felt Mother's body stiffen slightly and heard her give a short, embarrassed laugh of surprise, she didn't care; she had learned that you could like being hugged without having to actually respond.
"Come and sit down and have a glass of wine, darling."
"So they delivered it at last, then?" Kamala asked, following Mother to the kitchen, breathing in the lovely smell of home – a potpourri of lavender, freshly brewed coffee, furniture polish (the absence of damp!) and other unidentifiable things which things that smelt of safety, of comfort.
"Yes," Mother laughed "How on earth did you know about them messing up the delivery?"
"Um, I don't know... didn't you mention it?" Kamala said, at the same time as she realised with certainty that her Mother had never spoken the words out loud. A prickling sensation went up her spine.
But when they went out onto the patio, Kamala was overwhelmed by the peace and beauty – the familiarity - of it all, the white roses climbing over the trellised archway, the rooks cawing in the giant oak trees at the end of the lawn, the soft, evening sunlight filtering down on them – Mother and daughter, talking and laughing softly together. This is so perfect, thought Kamala. How could I ever have though Mother would be cross about me going to India? But then, she realised, she hadn't actually told Mother yet.
"Oh, Mum, I forgot! The very thing I came home to tell you – I got the Greenfields internship!"
"Oh darling! That's marvellous...!" Mother leaned over and squeezed her arm. "They've got a laboratory just a few miles up the road, wouldn't it be lovely if you were posted there? You could move back in to your room and it would be just like old times except with you going off to the lab instead of school."
She beamed with pride and excitement. And Kamala's heart was full of nothing but happiness...
"No, Mum!" she laughed "I'm going to be posted in India! I'll be doing field work... I'm going to be researching into.... Mother? Mother, what is it? Oh god, Mummy, are you ill?"
All Mother's sunshine was quite suddenly blotted out and she looked grey and cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, and the cawing of the rooks, which had seemed so comforting just now, sounded like fingernails scraping on a window-pane. Mother stared straight ahead of her as though she couldn't bear to look at Kamala. Kamala clutched the golden snakes at her throat.
"You promised, Kamala" Mother whispered, hoarsely, through clenched teeth. "You promised."
"Mother, I was nine years old... I don't understand. What is it about India? Why shouldn't I go there? This is about my work, my career, it's a chance in a lifetime, I..."
But Mother was somewhere else, staring, wide-eyed, as though watching a hologram of a newsreel - flickering, cold blacks, greys and whites - on the lawn in front of her. She was in a place where the waning, honeyed sun couldn't reach, where reason had no influence. Kamala’s words were crashing around the stone tower her mother had retreated into, pouring off its sides and sweeping uselessly back into oblivion. So she went and knelt at Mother's feet and put her head in her lap and her arms round her waist.
"I'm sorry Mummy, I'm so sorry..." she murmured again and again, just as she had all those years ago. But this time - after a little while - Kamala felt Mother’s hand on her head, stroking her hair very gently and hesitantly.
"No, I'm sorry, darling. You're right, I have no right to stop you. You go. Do your work, have your big break - you deserve it. You go and see for yourself..."
Later, Kamala wondered about that phrase... wondered if it hadn't been some kind of warning
Kamala woke up in her bed back at the flat. She lay there for a few moments trying to remember who she was. She even had a flicker of a moment of not knowing quite what she was... male/female/ animal/vegetable/mineral? She blinked uncomprehendingly at the green Chinese parasol hanging above her head. Things started swinging into place again. She was herself again, back in the world, back in her bed. She felt suddenly very small and lonely. Her inner clock sensed that any second now... yes there it was...
"You're listening to BBC Radio 4. It's seven fifteen..."
She never really listened to the programmes, but she liked the measured, confident tones of the Radio 4 presenters, they were soothing - like having nice aunties and uncles talking in the next room, keeping you company, keeping you safe.
"...question of the arms embargo breach in Central Africa... there are claims that some of your subsidiaries... "
"Yes, I'm glad you asked me that, John, because... Hello? Hello? John? I'm sorry, I don't seem to be able to hear you. Can you hear me?"
This one wasn't a soothing uncle's voice - this was an unctuous voice, rich as treacle - unhurried, unflustered, even in the face of this apparent live-on-air technical glitch.
"Ah, sorry about this, Mr White, there seems to be some kind of problem with the connection, can you hear me now?"
"Hello? Hello? Can you hear me, John?
"Yes, we're getting you loud and clear now, Mr White, please, go on."
"Oh, good. The wonders of modern technology, eh? We can send a man to Mars but we still can't have a decent conversation across Central London! Did you know that my grandfather invented the video-phone long before anyone else had even dreamt such a thing was possible? What he did was, he wired up a primitive television-type gadget and connected that to a..."
"Yes, but with respect Mr White, about these arms sales, do you...er, what's that? Ah, right. I'm afraid that's all we have time for now, before we go over to Malcolm Green for Sports News. Thank you Mr White."
"No, thank you, John".
The Voice hummed through Kamala's dozing body. She stretched it slowly and pulled the pillow towards her, squeezing it with arms and knees. Now that she was awake, she wouldn't be able to sleep again. She got up quickly and went downstairs.
She peered at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a mess, there were crinkle imprints on one side of her face, her snake pendant was twisted under her left ear. As she straightened it, she suddenly remembered what had happened the night before. What the fuck was that about? She'd been so frightened… by what? Nothing really had happened, at least nothing compared to what was really going on in the world around them. Jerome had been ready to deck Gervaise. "What did he do to you? The filthy old perv – tell me Kam, just say the word and I'll kill the bastard! He should be sacked, and then castrated and then killed." But Kamala had told him to calm down, said (and she was almost sure) it was nothing to do with Gervaise - she just wasn't feeling very well.
Amelia was soothing and motherly and came up with the most probable explanation – must have been the drugs. Kamala wasn't used to them, she must have had a bad trip or something. Best spend the day in bed and drink lots of orange juice and you'll be fine, darling. She stroked Kamala’s damp hair soothingly with her soft, plump hand. Kamala felt nostalgic.
Having splashed some cold water on her face, she descended into the kitchen, switched on the battered old radio and poured herself a bowl of cornflakes. "Whiter than white, lighter than light, White's washing powder gives you the might... to Clean. It. RIGHT! Always remember White is right!" It was a catchy tune, Kamala found herself humming it as she carried her cornflakes and a coffee mug of orange juice up to the smelly-telly room. There was something comforting about watching daytime telly – it reminded her of days when she was off school sick with the terrible period pains she used to get. Mother would settle her in front of the telly with drinks and snacks all efficiently within reach, a duvet tucked neatly around her. Then she'd go off to her study and, drifting in and out of sleep, Kamala would listen to the muted tap tap tap of her writing at the computer.
A nature programme was on. "Deep in the undergrowth" breathed the wide eyed presenter, elbows resting on his hairy pink knees "The true king of the jungle rests in the shade. His camouflage is perfect, I nearly stepped on him a few minutes ago... if I had, it would have been curtains for me! This is one monarch you gotta treat with absolute respect... Right, now I'm going to try and wake him... but I'm going to do it with this long stick, don't want to take any chances! Can you see him there? He's a beaut! Come on, mate, let's be having you. Give us a little twirl and then we'll let you get back to your beauty sleep. There you go – wow, look at that! What a beaut! What a bea... WATCH OUT! Aaagh! Ha ha ha ha! He nearly had me there – no it's alright, I'm fine. I'm just going to keep very, very still now – no sudden movements. Thaaaaaat's it – now we're in for a real treat – see how he's starting to spread that hood of his? And look at those big, staring eyes! Actually, they're not his eyes at all – they're just markings on the back of his head made to look like eyes. This fella can hardly see at all. It's that tongue he's using to "see" with... He knows I'm here, but he's sleepy. See that big lump half way down him? Just there, if I can point with my stick... eeeeasy, fella, eeeeeasy. There, see it? That was his dinner – probably a big rat or a rabbit or something. Now that he's digesting it, he's too lazy to attack me. Still, I'm not taking any chances...."
The camera zoomed in on the cobra's hood. It seemed to be looking straight at Kamala (but those aren't really eyes, she thought). The cobra smiled, knowingly. His hiss filled the room, filled her head - a continuous, mesmerising white-noise. It made it hard to think clearly.
Who am I? What am I? What am I supposed to do? The hiss is light as well as sound, a bright mist, a diamond spray of dancing electrons pouring out towards her through her, lifting her hair, streaming it out behind her as though she's flying. The cobra's hiss drowns out all other sounds. She puts her arms around him and slowly puts her lips to his. White sparks fly where their lips touch. Her eyes close in bliss.
Kamala opened her eyes. She was kneeling in front of the telly, with her arms around it. One of her knees was resting in a pool of milk and soggy cornflakes and her face was pressed uncomfortably against the cold, glass image of the recently crowned King Charles purring nasally that if people would only remind themselves of the important things in life... go back to gardening and meditation and eating organic vegetables, there wouldn't be so much fear and aggression in the world.
Kamala leapt back, stumbling over the cornflakes bowl. Can't believe I just did that! Thank god no-one saw... Though somehow it was slightly more embarrassing without witnesses. If someone else'd been there they would have been able to slap her on the back, laugh, joke about it – you're going potty, Kam!, give some kind of explanation. But what was the explanation? Was she really going mad? First last night, and now this... somewhere in the back of her mind something whispered, what about all the other times, before? The floating, the flying, the whispered voices, the swelling light...? But no – that was just silly childhood stuff. Hysteria, like her mother used to say. Everyone has weird dreams sometimes – probably something to do with hormones... she did have that problem with her reproductive bits after all... and last night was the drugs and all the weird chanting and getting over excited about Gervaise and his bloody shed, and this morning was... well, maybe the drugs still hadn't worn off. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm a scientist. It's fine.
Suddenly she was desperate for her mum. She wanted to be looked after by a grown-up, by someone who knew what was what, someone who could cope.
"Hi Mum!"
"Oh hello, Kamala, dear. I'm in the middle of a rather important article. Why are you calling me 'mum'? Isn't that rather common?"
"Sorry, Mother – I just think it sounds...cosier, more loving..."
"How are your studies going dear? Are you alright for money?"
"Yes, fine... it's just that..."
"'Fine'? Sweetheart, haven't they taught you any new vocabulary in that red-brick institution? What do you mean 'fine'? What are you learning? What books are you reading? Exactly how much do you have left in your bank account? Be precise, darling. Haven't I always taught you that?"
"Yes, Mother, you have, but.... mum," her voice started trembling slightly, and swung up a few octaves into a little girl tremor. "I'm not feeling very well..."
"What are your symptoms?"
"I... I don't know...I feel a bit, a bit weird, it's just...."
"'Weird'? Oh, so they have taught you some new words then? Can you define 'weird' for me, dear? It's not a very familiar part of my lexicon."
"Mum, please... I'm ill, I need you..."
"And I am asking you what your symptoms are, so that I can help. Have you been to see the student doctor?"
"No, I..."
"Well there you are then. Why don't you do that? There's not a lot I can do from here, is there? You need to get the doctor to give you a thorough check-up and prescribe whatever you need to sort it out."
"But it's not exactly that kind of illness?"
"No? What kind is it then?"
"I don't knooooow!" She was wailing by this time...
"Kamala, I don't mean to sound unsympathetic, dear, but there really isn't much point in phoning me up from the other end of the country and expecting me to be able to help you cure an illness whose only symptoms are feeling 'weird'. If you're not feeling well, just go to the doctor. OK? You haven't been taking drugs, have you?"
Pause.
"Why would you think I've been taking drugs?"
"Well, it happens in these sort of places, doesn't it? But no, I'm sorry darling. You've been far too sensibly brought up to subject yourself to dangerous and impure chemicals. Now. Pull yourself together, blow your nose and give the doctor a tinkle. You're not a little girl any more and I've got an article to finish. Bye bye, darling."
"'Bye Mu... Mother"
I don't know what else I was expecting, Kamala thought. Mother had never been one for sympathy and cuddles. Illness was somehow shameful, a sign of weakness. Even when Kamala had had to go to the gynaecologist when the pains had got really bad and the periods had disappeared and they'd had to go from one specialist to another, even then, Kamala had always had a tiny feeling that Mother thought she should "Pull Yourself Together". As it turned out, her condition was a pretty serious one.
There was some kind of problem with the way that her tubes were plumbed in and although they did an operation which had helped to stop the pains, they'd said she would never have children. Which didn't bother her much, she was only fifteen after all... but you had to admit, it did sound dramatic, didn't it? Her school friends all thought so, when she told them and they responded in quavering tones... "Have you heard? Kammy can Never Have Children!" "Oh that's sooooo sad!" But then... "Yeah, but I guess she won't have to worry about yukky nappies and all that stuff, and she won't have to keep getting baby sitters whenever she wants to go out dancing or shopping." "True. She's quite lucky actually, she won't have to bother with those silly rubber things, or all those chemicals." "Yeah, she's lucky..."
Kamala never gave it a lot of thought. She was never particularly interested in babies or in boys and as her school friends matured into young women with periods and boyfriends, she felt them drifting away from her on a sea of bodily fluids and incomprehensible emotions. She learned to rein in her own feelings just like Mother taught her. Despite a flair for music, art and English, she opted for science A levels and developed a fascination for plant life. Plants seemed to contain mystery which appealed to something deep inside her, but by studying them scientifically, she could keep the mystery contained, Under Control. She could Be Precise, just like Mother wanted her to be.
She became engrossed in photosynthesis and soil structures and micro-climate systems. She particularly liked trees. She liked their massiveness, their ancientness, their infinite variety, their lovely, fluted rootedness. If she ever caught herself thinking, in the autumn, that they looked like an armful of gold coins flung skywards, she quickly checked herself and reminded herself of the scientific rationale for the browning and the bronzing and the gilding.
But she couldn't stop her eyes blazing with excitement when describing to her slightly bemused friends something like the amazing life of the sequoia tree - most massive, ancient living thing, centuries old hulk of a trunk, blood red with insect-proofing tannin, scorched, but not destroyed by the fires it needs to gouge light shafts out of the forest undergrowth, to bake and crack open its iron-hard fir cones... and best of all its ability to fling out a branch and balance itself, in arboreal slow motion if the ground at its giant, troll-hoofed base is eroded by a wayward forest stream... but long before she gets to this point, her friends have lost interest and gone on to discussing the horrors of student debts, the injustices of the government that makes them pay, the damaclesian sword of military service that now hangs over them all...
There were no other students in the Student Doctor's waiting room. The heavy, middle-aged woman behind the receptionist's counter surveyed her with the expression of someone with a lemon in her mouth.
"Name?" she snapped.
"Kamala Steele"
"'Camel-er Steele'... let me see."
"Come-á-la..."
"That's what I said, 'Camel-er'. Now what do you want to see the doctor about?"
Kamala explained.
"I don't know, you students!" the receptionist laughed, starting to rifle through a wad of manila envelopes stuffed with pink papers , "Sleeping all day and partying all night, Complaining about having to pay your debts, complain about having to fight for your country, but quite happy to come and take up the doctor's time when the slightest thing goes wrong, aren't you?"
Kamala stared back at her, vindictively wishing that she'd develop the same really nasty, embarrassing rash she clearly suspected Kamala of having... The older woman's smile faded. Kamala saw the blood rise in her face like a speeded up sunrise. A pained, bewildered look came into her eyes. She dropped the manilla envelopes and rushed into the back of the surgery with a kind of cross-legged waddle, her hands clawing at her crotch.
"Sit there until the doctor calls you!" she called in a strangled voice as she disappeared.
Kamala did as instructed and picked up the magazine beside her. She didn't normally read women's magazines – she found them appallingly mundane and uninformative. They seemed to concern themselves with matters of minimal importance in the scheme of things and be designed for people without an ounce of initiative, or imagination - who needed to be told what to wear, what to cook, how to lay their tables, how to decorate their homes, how to give their men orgasms and how to create a fragrant garden for all-year-round colour.
But she did enjoy casting an eye over the glossies occasionally, with the same detached scientific eye with which she surveyed Amelia flailing through some apparently simple practical task like opening the front door, or observing lads getting drunker and drunker in the pub, or old married couples communicating telepathically in department store cafeterias. She skimmed through the contents: 'Could your holiday romance be a rapist?', 'Nine to Five Flirty – Make your work wardrobe work for summer', 'Sun, Sea and Melanomas - A reader shares her skin cancer ordeal‘. Sex and Death, Death and Sex, Kamala sighed. Perhaps that is all that matters, when it comes down to it. We really haven't evolved much further than grubs that hatch, eat, turn into beautiful, flimsy butterflies, have sex and die. Then another article caught her eye... "Endless Love – The Second Coming of Tantric Sex". Kamala was intrigued at first:
"The theory is that the universe was once blissfully united – whole. Then it split in two: male and female; positive and negative; force and form; Yin and Yang or, as the Tantrics prefer, the divinities Shiva and Shakti. Only when these two polar opposites are united in endless intercourse can Nirvana be obtained. So the Tantric couple aims for no less than cosmic copulation, allowing the female Shakti – or Kundalini – energy to rise from its home at the base of the spine up through the energy centres (or chakras) to the top of the head where it unites with Shiva, the male principle. Instant bliss – just like that."
Kamala's eyes widened. Her spine tingled again with the memory ... hungrily, she read on, hoping for some more explanation, some reassurance that it was all going to be OK. But the rest of the article rattled smoothly on about experts who could maintain 32-minute erections, drink glasses of water through their penises or swing three pound weights from their vaginas (the spiritual – or indeed sensual - benefits of these achievements were not made evident). It described 'modern Tantrics' - city lawyers, yoga teachers and computer programmers – living in ‘Tantric Houses’ swapping partners every few months. It sensibly advised readers who were considering entering such a house to have a thorough health check including an AIDS test before hand, and offered some contact numbers and addresses for anyone who wanted to know more. Next month there would be a similar article on another suburban English pastime - organic gardening, perhaps, or Pilates, with equally sensible advice and contact numbers.
Only one other line seemed to have any relevance to Kamala's situation... and it sent a tremor of worry through her... "It can be pretty hairy if you don't know what you're doing - the Shakti energy is exceedingly powerful and there are people wandering around who have gone stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready."
"C-Camel-er Steel?" the receptionist stammered, still somewhat flushed.
"Come-á-la..." Kamala murmured.
"Er, yes, Car-mella, The doctor will see you now..."
Sitting opposite the doctor – a pleasant, youngish woman with a shiny brown bob and a kind, efficient manner – Kamala suddenly felt very silly having even considered all that Tantric nonsense. She told the doctor she hadn't been sleeping well and was getting occasional dizzy spells – and said she thought she might even have fainted on a couple of occasions. Put in those comfortable phrases things didn't feel so alarming. She didn't mention the weird feelings, the... hallucinations – if that's what they were. It just sounded too melodramatic... perhaps she'd just imagined them anyway. A tiny voice in the back of her mind worried that imagining hallucinations was possibly a contradiction in terms, but she was concentrating on the doctor telling her to make sure she had regular sleeping and eating patterns, to stay away from drink, tobacco and anything stronger she may be offered and to take two of these mild sedatives twice a day at least 15 minutes before eating. The little yellow pills looked reassuringly normal in the palm of her hand.
'...stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready...' What nonsense! She threw two nice, comprehensible, scientific yellow pills into the back of her throat, washed down with a glug of sterile bottled water.
Chapter 10 - Disappearance
The little girl scampered down the marble steps and into the garden, shrieking with excitement – after her came the maid with her shawl over her head and her arms waving madly...
"Whooooooo, whooooo here comes the ghost! The ghost is coming to catch baby and take her away to his house in the jungle!"
Within seconds the child had disappeared into the long grass. Since I had gone away the place had become neglected. I had left Bimla in charge and had given her a chest full of my jewellery (including the precious serpent pendant which I had never taken off before... it had its own journey to make) for the all the household expenses, but Bimla had no way of knowing when I was coming back... or if I was ever coming back. So she kept the House going, and she looked after Chitra like she was her own. Every day a tutor came from the town to teach the little girl to form her letters, to sing and play the harmonium, a little astrology and a lot about the plants and wildlife of the region – which was a passion of his. That's why he agreed to take on the job in this rather peculiar house – because he'd heard of all the amazing trees and the birds and the snakes... He'd been disappointed when he discovered that since I had left, the birds had gone and now only the ubiquitous little brown sparrows and other common birds remained.
The girl was nowhere to be seen. Bimla stopped on the top step, panting and mopping her brow with the shawl. She was too old for this kind of thing. What on earth was she going to do about the child? In a few more years she would be too old to look after her at all and then what? Poor Bimla. I wished I could have explained, but my hands were tied. Bimla could not have begun to understand the reasons for my leaving. All I could say was "Look after the child – I'm sorry – I have to go." And out I had walked - wearing only a thin, white wrap, begging bowl in one hand and staff in the other.
Even though I had left before dawn when everyone but the milkmaid should have been asleep, the road from my house to the main road was lined with silent people. How did they know this was the day, the time? How did they know that this was not one of my regular trips up to the hills, where they presumed I danced with demons in the dark of the forest and then came home again, replenished? I had not announced my departure beyond my household. They were sad but excited. They loved... the idea of me, beautiful, dignified, sexy, magical... it gave the town a certain cachet to possess me.
And now they were losing me. But then again, it was good when a citizen of the town went away on what they chose to think of as a pilgrimage. It brought blessings to the whole town – touched them with its holiness. The silent well-wishers namastéd as I passed and scattered flowers on the path in front of me so that all the way to the road I walked on a soft, squishy carpet, petals catching between my toes, dew wetting the hem of my sari. Some generous, but thoughtless souls had scattered roses, but I glided over them – thorns and all – as smoothly as over the lotus petals and the lilies... in fact it seemed to some that my feet weren't quite touching the ground – though it could have been a trick of the early morning light...
Most of my servants were weeping, but Bimla's face, as she stood beneath the arched white serpents watching her mistress' figure receding, was expressionless. I felt her sorrow like a stone pressing against my back. She had never had any reason to doubt my piety, my dedication to my art. She had never questioned any of my decisions. But this time, she was uneasy. Ever since the night the sadhu had arrived, she’d felt that things were out of kilter. So it is for those who see a little more than others, but not quite enough. The weeks we had stayed shuttered in my bedroom didn't seem right to Bimla. All my loyal customers – even the maharajah – turned away. This sadhu was certainly not paying for the hospitality he was receiving – and he had (so they whispered) the appetite of Bhima, the giant strong man of Hindu legend.
The servants had murmured fearfully amongst themselves... one young boy - the gardener's helper - finally voiced what they'd all been trying not to think; "He looks like Lord Shiva!"
They boxed his ears for being so blasphemous and demanded to know how he would know what a god looked like, and snorted when he said he knew exactly what they looked like from his Amar Chitra Kahar mythological comic-books. But then, one of them said...
"Bimla-ji, didn't you say that when he first went in, he called the mistress 'Shakti?'"
"Did I?" said Bimla "I don't know, I must have mis-heard, he must have just been greeting her by saying 'shanti' peace..." But knowing looks were passed between people.
And then the sadhu had gone. As suddenly as he had appeared and with as little warning or explanation. I had pined for months. At least she'll be able to get back to work, now, thought Bimla, that will not only bring in some money again, but it will cheer her up too, she is a true artist and loves her art. But the customers were still turned away. The servants were getting desperate – they were running out of excuses. Part of me - the real me - was quite cool and saw the inexorable logic of what was about to happen unfolding, but my human heart ached. I wept when I thought no-one could hear me... but the maids knew.
Later, they also knew I was carrying his child - a miracle in itself, it seemed to them. In all the long years I had conducted my professional duties I had never conceived. No one – not even my maids - knew how I avoided it. I never took any herbal draughts or used any unguents or implements... but I never got pregnant. It was as if (they said) I could control my body's ability to conceive through the power of my will alone. So why this time? Wondered Bimla. Why with this wild pauper? Why now, when I was the age that most women were grandmothers many times over? And why was I now leaving my new-born child and setting off on a "pilgrimage" – that was something you did after your worldly responsibilities were over, not when they were just beginning. Bimla had wept and pressed her forehead to my feet the night before, begging me not to go... she even accused me of being bewitched. Poor Bimla, I wish I could have put your mind at rest, could have told you a little more. But it would have been no use. So I had just smiled and gazed out of the window towards the road to the hills framed by the moonlit double helix of the serpent gate-posts.
Little Chitra sat motionless in her special hiding place. It was a hollow in the long grass, the boundary wall at her back and one of the overgrown fruit trees on her left. She knew that from here she was completely invisible to anyone in the house or garden. It made her smile. She could hide for hours, keeping completely still, driving Bimla and the others to distraction calling out for her "Baby! Baby! Come out now, we are frightened. Have you fallen in the river? Where are you? Come on, don't be a naughty baby now!" Eventually she would come out – penitent that she had upset them. Now she felt the grass flowers tickling her cheek. The warmth of the old, sun-heated wall at her back. She half closed her eyes and the click and rustle of cicadas and grass stalks simmered in her brain like an extension of the blood simmering in her body. She gazed at her little, silver ringed toes, painted pink the night before by the watchman's wife, and imagined that they were little people. She wiggled them and they danced and bowed to her.
A new rustling joined the grass stalks and cicadas. Slowly, through the long grass a long, green snake slid towards her. Its black tongue flicked outwards, savouring the scent of her, leading it towards her. As it reached the edge of the hollow, another snake, a small speckled yellow one, squirmed out of the grass opposite, a third one dropped from the branches of the fruit tree and landed in her lap. She didn't move a muscle. The green snake surged gently forwards again, over her ankle... she stopped wiggling her toes.
Snakes were winding themselves around her arms like bracelets, creeping through the hollow between the underneath of her knees and the dusty ground, curling into her lap, snaking up her body and tickling her neck with their tongues. Girl and snakes froze – in the sweltering heat of the morning. They sat in a motionless heap, a marble tableau, Chitra's head slightly cocked to one side as though she was listening... slowly she reached out a finger and ran it along the smooth, dry space between the green snake's eyes. It rose until its head was level with her eyes and they stayed like that for a measureless space of time...
Much later, the watchman found her curled up asleep in the hollow after they had all shouted themselves hoarse calling her and were nearly mad with worry about her. He carried her to the house and handed her to Bimla. Their eyes met. What will become of this little one? Was the question that hung, unvoiced, between them. Bimla, gaunt with relief, carried the limp little figure up the marble staircase and laid her on the bed they had shared since Chitra was four days old. She inspected the child's body all over, checking for scratches or bites, every inch of the peach-soft shins was covered in scratches and scabs from earlier scrapes, but there were no snake bites. Bimla pulled her shawl over her own shoulders and head and then over the child and closed her eyes. Tears seeped through the lids and dampened Chitra's hair.
Chapter 11 - Reaction
There were two notes in Kamala's pigeon-hole in the Student Common Room. Her heart lurched. One was from Gervaise. How could she possibly face him after what had happened? How could they face each other? She felt such a fool. Firstly for having harboured a silly school-girl crush on him in the first place, then having let herself... naked! In a garden shed!! She groaned aloud and banged her head against the pigeon-holes, the note clutched in her hand. Unbidden – and unwelcome – the image of his pale sex dangling in the dust of the shed floor came back to her and she groaned louder and banged harder... and then the memory of the warmth, the tingling, the explosion of light...what was all that about?! At least she had walked away before things had gone any further, leaving her some shred of self-respect to cling on to. But how was Gervaise going to react to seeing her again? Would he be angry? Would he laugh at her? Would he – oh god! - treat her like a lover and try to woo her back into bed (or was that shed?).
"Kammy? What's up?"
It was Janey.
"Nothing. I've just got a... bit of a head-ache, that's all."
"Now, I'm no medical expert, Kam, but I think that may just have something to do with the way you were bashing it against the wall just now! Do you want to tell me what's really up? I'm guessing it's something to do with Gervaise. I heard about the other night."
"What did you hear?"
"Just that you two were seen smooching on the balcony and then disappeared for a while. And that you were in a bit of a state when you reappeared." Her voice dropped. "Are you alright, babe? Did anything happen?"
Kamala shook her head. "Not really, but, we almost... Oh, Janey! I'm so embarrassed! How am I going to face him? I can't sit there in tutorials with him after this... I think I'm just going to have to drop out! But oh god, I don't want to lose my chance of getting this degree... I don't want to be a drop out. What will I do? Where will I go? What will Mother say?"
"Ok, Ok. Let's calm down a bit here. There is no way you're dropping out, my girl. If anyone should leave, it should be him. He's in a position of trust and he's abused it..."
"No, no, it was just as much me. I wanted to at first. I..I kissed him!"
"So what? He had no business encouraging you or taking advantage. Teachers, doctors, men in position of power often have the women they care for getting crushes on them – that makes them more responsible for not letting things get out of hand, not less."
"But, Janey, it's so embarrassing!"
"I know, sweetheart. But you've just got to put it down to experience and get on with your life with your head held high."
"I suppose so. This is a note from him... you read it for me, Janey - I can‘t bear it…"
Janey extracted the note from Kamala's icy grip and smoothed it out. She read silently for a minute and then barked a bitter little laugh.
"Ah, men. Doncha just love 'em? Looks like you're not the only one who wants to pretend it never happened. All so neat and tidy. And there's more good news... have a look at your other note first."
Kamala took the note from her pigeon-hole, read, and then sat down heavily. Janey was laughing and congratulating her, and soon Kamala was laughing too.
Dear Ms Steel,
I am delighted to inform you that your application for an internship with Greenfield Technology Ltd, as part of your degree course in Tropical Agriculture, has been successful. You will assist in a research project to explore potential industrial applications of plant-based energy sources. The internship begins on completion of your course work here in the University, and will involve field work and a certain amount of travel. As such travel would come under the heading of essential scientific endeavour, it would be exempt from the new international restrictions. Greenfields will deal with all necessary formalities with the appropriate authorities.
Should you wish to accept this offer, please let me know and then contact Serena DeClerk at Greenfield Technology to complete the arrangements.
Best Regards
Janet Cryer
Senior Administrator, Department of Tropical Studies
Kamala felt like leaping up and down, dancing with joy - but she fought down the temptation and sat tight gripping the edge of the foam rubber upholstery of the armless common-room easy chair. (Mother's voice from so many Christmases and Birthdays past echoed in her sub-conscious..."Now calm down, dear. No need to behave like a savage. A smile and a thank you will suffice." Mother's voice, Mother’s rules - the safe, stony bed through which her subconscious streamed, holding it in, directing its course.)
"I don't believe it! Greenfield Technology! Internships with them are like gold-dust!! And field work! I would have considered myself lucky to get a few months slogging away in some lab or plant-nursery in Slough or somewhere! Where do you think it will be?"
Janey laughed again... "How should I know, silly! Where do you want it to be?"
Before she could block it, though she tried to think about South America, Africa, Papua New Guinea, her head was already filled with flashes of gold bangles, sweet laddoos, cinnamon…
"I don't mind where, as long as I'm doing actual real field work for an actual real company. So what does lover-boy have to say for himself then?" It didn’t seem so important or terrible now.
She took back the crumpled note and read...
Dear Kamala,
I was delighted, on your behalf, to learn that you have been offered the coveted Greenfield Technology internship, which I expect you will have heard about by now. I'm sure you will do very well.
I have decided to take the opportunity of going on sabbatical to the Philippines for the remainder of the term to finish my research paper, "Tantric City - The Search for Urban Enlightenment through Esoteric Eroticism". I was finding it hard to pursue both my research and the agricultural lectureship. The Dean has very generously agreed to let me go.
So I'm afraid our tutorials for the rest of the term will not be taking place. However I have every confidence in your ability to complete your thesis independently. If you do have any questions you may take them up with Dr Rosen, Head of the Department of Tropical Studies.
Best of luck for the future.
Yours
Gervaise
No mention of what had happened between them, no query about how she was feeling physically, mentally or emotionally, no echo of the endearments on the balcony... but what a relief!
It was India, of course. Kamala decided to tell Mother in person. This was Kamala's chance in a lifetime, her big break, this could be the making of her career, Mother would be so pleased for her...
But Kamala felt unease prickling at the back of her neck all the way home. When she dozed during the train's interminable stop at the time warp that was Birmingham New Street station, she dreamed that she and Aunty Seema were eating ladoos together in the kitchen at home and laughing hysterically, sticky goo and golden ladoo crumbs all over their cheeks and fingers and chests... then mother came in and saw them. She was dressed in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit, her hair was immaculate and her lips were pinched together with disapproval. Aunty Seema started to speak, but mother's eyes flashed – literally – a cold blue-steel flash of the type used by Hollywood as a shorthand to indicate anything supernatural – and Aunty Seema started to bubble and boil and melted on the spot, like the Wicked Witch in the Yellow Brick Road, leaving nothing but a pile of gaudy silk clothes scattered with gold bangles.
The dream-Mother sat down opposite the blubbering dream-Kamala. She opened her brief-case and took out a small brass dust-pan and brush with which she brushed up all the ladoo crumbs, and then poured them into her brief case and snapped it shut. Kamala ran round the table desperate to find the real Mother (not this cold, robotic parody of her), she flung her arms round her neck and tried to bury her face in her Mother's shoulder... and then noticed that Mother was wearing a hard, stiff mask of her own face. Kamala seized it with both hands, her fingers hooked under the fake jaw-bones and with all her strength tore it off. But underneath was not the composed but soft face of her real mother. Underneath was raw flesh and blood and bits of vein left dangling and eyeballs and grinning teeth. Mother's scream of fury and Kamala's scream of terror twined around each other and shattered the windows...
Kamala began to shake, she shook so much that she woke up, and found that she was being shaken by a middle aged gentleman in a charcoal grey pinstripe suit. His eyes were kind and twinkling. "I think you've been having a nightmare, dear" he said, gently. Kamala mumbled her thanks, desperately embarrassed to think that she might actually have been screaming. The words of the magazine in the doctor’s waiting room came back to her; “…there are people wandering around who have gone stark raving mad because they raised Kundalini before they were ready” The man brought her a paper cup of water from the buffet car and then said no more, his newspaper shielding them from each other until he got off at the next stop, for which Kamala was eternally grateful.
Kamala had hoped Mother would meet her at the station, but Mother said she was busy trying to finish an article and that Kamala should get a taxi. Kamala hated taxis. She hated being in such intimate proximity to a stranger. Should she make conversation? Should she be silent? Should she tip? How much? And if she did start a conversation, it usually bored her silly or infuriated her. Once a taxi driver told her in complete seriousness that the hole in the ozone layer was caused by there not being enough carbon monoxide and that he and his fellow drivers were doing their bit to close the gap. But today's taxi driver was a sad looking Eastern European man in his late forties, who obviously had as little wish as Kamala to converse, and they completed the 40 minute journey in two hermetically sealed silences with the local radio station burbling inanely in the background.
Mother was in the study when she arrived and Kamala felt rather sulky to think that she couldn't even be bothered to get up from her desk to greet her daughter back from university. But just as she was thinking it, Mother heard her footstep behind her and leapt up to greet her. She was wearing a thin grey cotton dress covered with a print of lilac flowers which clung to her slim body. Kamala noticed that wisps of grey had appeared in her black hair, and that her fine-boned face was feathered with soft lines. Kamala felt a melting sensation in her chest. The look of love and joy on Mother's face was so genuine that Kamala felt ashamed of herself. She gave her mother a huge, Amelia-style hug. And though she felt Mother's body stiffen slightly and heard her give a short, embarrassed laugh of surprise, she didn't care; she had learned that you could like being hugged without having to actually respond.
"Come and sit down and have a glass of wine, darling."
"So they delivered it at last, then?" Kamala asked, following Mother to the kitchen, breathing in the lovely smell of home – a potpourri of lavender, freshly brewed coffee, furniture polish (the absence of damp!) and other unidentifiable things which things that smelt of safety, of comfort.
"Yes," Mother laughed "How on earth did you know about them messing up the delivery?"
"Um, I don't know... didn't you mention it?" Kamala said, at the same time as she realised with certainty that her Mother had never spoken the words out loud. A prickling sensation went up her spine.
But when they went out onto the patio, Kamala was overwhelmed by the peace and beauty – the familiarity - of it all, the white roses climbing over the trellised archway, the rooks cawing in the giant oak trees at the end of the lawn, the soft, evening sunlight filtering down on them – Mother and daughter, talking and laughing softly together. This is so perfect, thought Kamala. How could I ever have though Mother would be cross about me going to India? But then, she realised, she hadn't actually told Mother yet.
"Oh, Mum, I forgot! The very thing I came home to tell you – I got the Greenfields internship!"
"Oh darling! That's marvellous...!" Mother leaned over and squeezed her arm. "They've got a laboratory just a few miles up the road, wouldn't it be lovely if you were posted there? You could move back in to your room and it would be just like old times except with you going off to the lab instead of school."
She beamed with pride and excitement. And Kamala's heart was full of nothing but happiness...
"No, Mum!" she laughed "I'm going to be posted in India! I'll be doing field work... I'm going to be researching into.... Mother? Mother, what is it? Oh god, Mummy, are you ill?"
All Mother's sunshine was quite suddenly blotted out and she looked grey and cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, and the cawing of the rooks, which had seemed so comforting just now, sounded like fingernails scraping on a window-pane. Mother stared straight ahead of her as though she couldn't bear to look at Kamala. Kamala clutched the golden snakes at her throat.
"You promised, Kamala" Mother whispered, hoarsely, through clenched teeth. "You promised."
"Mother, I was nine years old... I don't understand. What is it about India? Why shouldn't I go there? This is about my work, my career, it's a chance in a lifetime, I..."
But Mother was somewhere else, staring, wide-eyed, as though watching a hologram of a newsreel - flickering, cold blacks, greys and whites - on the lawn in front of her. She was in a place where the waning, honeyed sun couldn't reach, where reason had no influence. Kamala’s words were crashing around the stone tower her mother had retreated into, pouring off its sides and sweeping uselessly back into oblivion. So she went and knelt at Mother's feet and put her head in her lap and her arms round her waist.
"I'm sorry Mummy, I'm so sorry..." she murmured again and again, just as she had all those years ago. But this time - after a little while - Kamala felt Mother’s hand on her head, stroking her hair very gently and hesitantly.
"No, I'm sorry, darling. You're right, I have no right to stop you. You go. Do your work, have your big break - you deserve it. You go and see for yourself..."
Later, Kamala wondered about that phrase... wondered if it hadn't been some kind of warning
posted by Sabita Banerji at 12:37 pm
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