He pours the coins into my hand. I give them to Mairead and then dart out my hand and grab his fist and untwine his fingers. Sure enough, a few rupees rest tucked between his fingers.
"Not beat poor Ravi, Memsahib, please!" he pleads, tears running out of his eyes. "Is mistake!"
He looks properly abashed, so I give his head a light rap with my knuckle and say, "Right. Just don't do it again. Do your job properly and you'll be paid."
Actually, I admire his entreprenurial spirit. When I was a street urchin, I would have tried to pull the same exact thing.
Right now, though, the lure of shopping calls, and wiping my forearm across my sweaty forehead, I say, "It's awfully hot. Let's see if we can get into something a little lighter."
"Jee hann," says Ravi, which I take to mean yes. "Right this way."
We shortly find ourselves in a very hot, close shop, with a smiling, middle-aged woman very much in attendance. She quickly shoos Ravi off to a side room and divests both Mairead and me of our outer clothing. Soon we are encased in the most wonderfully colored saris. Where do they get these beautiful dyes? I could surely sell cloth like this in Charleston, if not stuffy old Boston... Further study is required...
After my bottom is well wrapped in a light orange and white sari with little green flowers all over it and a light chemise has been put on my top, the end of the sari cloth is placed over my right shoulder for me to use as head covering or veil, whichever I choose. My midriff is bare and I long for my old emerald to stick in my belly button, but hey, maybe I'll find something later that will serve. I look in the mirror and put on what I think is a sultry look. I like it a lot, but it is not quite perfect, yet...
I gesture to the woman by running my forefinger around my eyes.
"Ah, kohl! Jee haan!" she exclaims and reaches for a brush and jar.
When I look again in the mirror, my eyes have been ringed in dark, rich brown... Now, that's more like it!
I dance around the room as Mairead is outfitted in similar fashion. When she is done and all kohled up in the eyes, I exult, "Oh, your Ian should see his little houri now!"
Her face falls a bit at that, but I will have none of it.
"You will see your Ian again, I promise it! Now come, we will have some fun! Ian would want it, I know!" And Jaimy, too, I hope...
She nods, lifts her chin, and smiles... Oh, Lord, those big green eyes ringed with darkest brown, against that red shock of hair ... How perfectly beautiful.
Back on the street again, gloriously decked out, we visit the market stalls to buy some cheap jewelry to festoon our necks and foreheads as well as our arms and ankles. Each purchase is carefully bargained for by our faithful Ravi, who carries the bundle of our former clothing and new purchases under his skinny arm. We buy ornate bottles of jasmine perfume and splash it liberally about ourselves, and for a few cents, I find a nice smoky green stone—Yes, Memsahib, is fine jade, yes finest—just the size for my belly button to complete my couture. Ah, yes, this rig is just right for sashaying about in this tropical clime, which I plan to do with g*y abandon.
After a bit of this, Ravi wearily inquires, just as any male in the world who must accompany female shoppers would ask, "What Missies want to do now? Perhaps something to eat?"
I consider for a moment and then say with firmness, "We Missies want to ride an elly-phant."
Mairead jerks her bejeweled head around and looks at me funny. "We Missies do?"
"Yes, we do, Mairead," I say. "We may never get another chance. There are only kangaroos in Australia—and wallabies and koalas and wombats and such—but no elephants. Would you not want to be able to tell your child that he or she was once rocked in the womb by the gentle sway of an Indian elephant?"
"Well, if you put it that way..."
Ravi himself is taken a little aback—but not for long. He puts chin in hand and does some quick calculations. Then he says, "There will be a great procession this afternoon. Will cost two hundred rupees for ladies to ride earthly manifestation of Ganesh. Ravi can fix. You still want?"
"Do I have that much?" I ask, thinking about the fistful of coins I got from the moneychangers.
"Yes, Missy Memsahib."
"Then, we shall do it."
"Jacky, you're spending all your money," warns Mairead.
"That's what it's for, dear Sister," I retort. "I'll dive again tomorrow and make some more. Now let's get something to eat. I smell delicious smells. Ravi?"
"Yes, Missy?"
"Find us something to eat."
"Oh, yes. What would Missies like?"
I look about and spy a large cow big as life, ambling down the street.
"There is a cow standing over there. Surely we can find a nice steak in some fine pub. I smell cooking fires," I say, lifting my nose and sniffing the air, catching a whiff of what smells like meat being roasted. The cow is white, very clean, and covered with braided tassels. There is a painted design on its forehead, and the horns are sheathed in bright embroidery. Quite handsome overall, there, bossy. Our Jersey cows should get a look at you. They would be most jealous.
"Steak?"
"Yes. Meat of that," says I, pointing at the cow.
The skin of Ravi's nut-brown face turns several shades paler.
"Oh, no, Missy Memsahib. Must not say, must not even think that horrible thing. Oh..." He shudders at my blasphemy and takes a moment to recover, his trembling hands clasped and clutched to his thin chest. "Sweet cows sacred to Brahma. She is called gau mata, Mother Cow. Never harmed. She give her milk and cheeses for us peoples to eat and her dung for fires and her urine for medicine. Much loved. She wanders where she will and people take good care of her, yes."
Hmmm ... Be that as it may, all ye holy cows, but the Faber belly is still growling.
"Well, you Indians must eat something. And my throat is dry. Where's the nearest decent tavern? I'm buying."
Again he looks blank.
"Taverns. You know, beer, ale, wine," says Mairead. She lifts her hand and makes the universal tipping-glass gesture at her lips.
Comprehension comes and he shakes his head. "Oh, no, Missies, whiskies and gins not allowed ... tsk, tsk ... bad Missy ... but come..."
Once again, he leads us on, and soon we find ourselves in a cozy little dive with people sitting cross-legged on the ground around low tables, eating out of big bowls. There is a fireplace in the corner where the food is being cooked. It all smells very good.
Ravi seats us at a vacant table and signals for the landlady. When she comes, he jabbers something at her, and she smiles at us—but not at him—and a big bowl full of food is brought and placed before us. A steaming pot of tea is also brought, with cups; it is poured and we drink. It is strong and very good, with overtones of vanilla.
"Ummm..." I say, putting down the cup. "Let's eat."
I look about for utensils, but see none.
Ravi motions that we should scoop up the contents of the bowl with our fingers. I look into it and see brown rice to one side and noodles across from that and a pile of cooked vegetables in the middle. I dig in.
Ummm...
"That is so good," I enthuse.
Mairead's fingers reach in to scoop up some for herself. She brings it to her lips and then licks off her fingers.
"Mmmmmm..." she says, and her eyes almost cross in the enjoyment of the food. "What is that strange flavor? I'm hopin' it's not something vile."
"Nay, Sister, it is but a spice called curry. I have tasted it before. Come, Ravi, have some yourself."
"Oh, no, Missies. Not allowed to touch."
I reach out and tap him lightly on the back of his head. "Eat or I shall not pay."
He surreptitiously reaches out and scoops up a handful of the food, keeping an eye on the landlady. I know that feeling, too, because when I was a penniless, dirty urchin on the streets of London, I, too, was not allowed in even the meanest of inns. Well, that doesn't go with me, now that I'm the one with the money.
I notice that we are watched closely, and that money talks, as it always does, in any language.
When we have eaten our fill, we lean back and notice that—surprise, surprise—entertainment is offered as part of the bill-of-fare. A man seated in the back begins to play a twangy kind of stringed instrument and two young girls arise and begin to dance. There is a tip bowl in front of them.
Their h*ps swing back and forth and their shoulders go up and down while their arms go out to their sides and describe sinuous arcs in the air. Their kohl-rimmed eyes look out all sensuous and inviting—inviting to what I don't know, but it sure is convincing. Glad Davy and Tink ain't here. At the tips of their fingers they have tiny cymbals that keep time with the music. I am reminded of that song those boys of the Brotherhood used to sing when they wanted to sound exotic—"There's a place in France where the women wear no pants. And the dance they do is called the hoochi-coochi-coo." All we need here is a snake charmer with his asp in a basket.
When the girls conclude and bow, I get up to place a coin in the tip jar and step between them, holding up yet another coin. A sailor and his tin is soon parted comes into my mind, but I banish the thought. I look to the player of the stringed instrument and nod, and he commences yet again.
The girls lift their arms and I do the same, and we begin. Hey, I can do this dance. Did I not do something similar on that tabletop in Marrakesh? That dive in Algiers? Yes, I did, and yes I do.
We do the moves together for a bit and then I motion for Mairead to come up to join us. She does and does a fine turn herself—no shyness in that girl, no.
The music ends, I drop the coin in the bowl, and all four of us bow. The patrons in the place nod in appreciation. I prefer outright applause, but I'll settle for that.
We pay the tab and head back out into the sun.
"Is time, Memsahibs," says Ravi. "We must go down to get in line for the procession."
"Very well," I agree. "Lead on, larka Ravi."
As we walk along, I recall again the sailors back at the Admiral Benbow in Cheapside, when I was but a street urchin, singing about Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats, and I wondered if I would ever see any of those wonders of which they sang. Not bloody likely, I had thought, but here I am in Bombay, after all.
"What is this karma stuff you talk about, Ravi?" I ask as we stroll along the bustling street. Ravi goes ahead, shooing people out of our way.
"Is way of living your life, Memsahib. You do good things, you get good karma. You do bad things, bad karma. Good karma is like Ravi helping Missies, bad karma is like Ravi trying to cheat Missy of money back at moneychangers. If Ravi get lots of good karma, he come back as something better when he die. You see?"
Hmmm ... Not a bad concept for the conduct of one's life,, I'm thinkin'—gold stars when you are good, demerits when you are bad.
"Sort of like us Catholics when we offer up some suffering here on Earth to lessen our time in Purgatory," murmurs Mairead.
"I suppose," I say, and then leave the field of religious discussion and head off into more mundane things.
"Tell me, Ravi," I ask, "have you heard of the Bombay Rat?"