There were murmurings and much gesticulating at the mention of the sacred River Ganges. The villagers would feel they had gained merit by helping pilgrims.
‘Welcome.’ The headman’s rheumy eyes studied Nick and then turned to her as she stepped to his side, pulling the tail of her turban across her nose and mouth—she had no wish to offend.
‘This lady is under my protection. I take her to her father,’ Nick said.
They were too polite to stare or to speculate. The group parted, ushering them into the compound, and the headman called to the women, ‘Wife! Daughters! Make our guests welcome.’
Anusha expected to be hurried off out of sight, but the headman was speaking to Nick as he led him towards the largest hut.
‘You will drink opium?’ Nick turned to her.
It was a traditional welcome in the villages, she knew that, although she had never been offered it. ‘You use opium?’ she asked.
‘Smoke it, do you mean?’ He looked at her and grimaced as though at an unpleasant memory. ‘I have done. I think in my time I must have tried everything that this land offers that is supposed to lead to forgetfulness. But, no, I do not smoke it now—the dreams it gives lead nowhere. Like this it is harmless. The most it will do is ease your tiredness and your bruises a little.’
They sat down cross-legged on a straw mat opposite the headman, flanked by two men who looked enough like him to be his sons. With the studied care of a ritual he placed a dark-brown substance into a small cloth funnel on a stand, then poured in water. As it drained through into a boat-shaped wooden vessel below, one of the others poured it into the cloth funnel on the other side of the stand. It took some time, the careful pouring and collection, re-pouring... Anusha began to feel light-headed. Perhaps that was part of it, part of the process to relax the weary guest.
Finally the old man seemed satisfied. He poured a little of the liquid over the little metal Shiva lingam in the centre of the stand, then cupped his right hand, filled it and extended it to Nick. Nick bent forwards and sucked the liquid directly from the side of the wrinkled palm.
The man gestured to him and Nick held out his own right hand, cupped to receive a trickle of the liquid, then turned to her. ‘Drink.’
Anusha bent forwards as he had done and touched her mouth to the side of his palm below his little finger. Under her lips the flesh was warm, yielding; the touch seemed sensual and intimate. A gesture of trust.
‘Suck,’ he murmured, so she did, swallowing the bitter liquid, his hand tipping so that her lips moved against his palm. Her tongue came out, just the tip to catch the final drop, and she looked up and saw his eyes, dark and fixed on her face. Slowly, she leaned back, her gaze still locked with his.
The headman coughed. Nick turned, bowed his head. ‘Dhanyvad.’ Anusha bowed too, echoing the thanks. ‘Go now,’ he murmured. ‘The women are here for you.’
* * *
Anusha woke, disorientated and stiff, on a thin mattress of quilted cotton. Ropes creaked under her as she shifted and her nostrils were filled with the smells of cooking, of cattle, of dried-dung fires.
They were in a village, she recalled as she sat up and looked around her, squinting into the shadowy boundaries of the round hut.
‘You are awake?’ The soft voice behind sounded wary. Anusha twisted around and smiled at the elderly woman standing just inside the door. She must seem strange and shocking to her, a woman in youth’s clothing.
‘Yes. I slept well.’ The woman came further in and, from the quantity of bangles and the size of her nose ring, Anusha realised she must be one of the headman’s wives. ‘Thank you for your hospitality, you are very kind.’
The woman made a gesture with her hands—hospitality to travellers was expected. ‘Where are your woman’s clothes?’ she asked.
‘I have none. I had to leave them behind.’
‘This man, this angrezi who speaks like us, he is your lover?’ The woman sat down on the end of the charpoy, wariness replaced by lively curiosity.
‘No! I mean, he is my escort. My bodyguard to take me to my father. There is a man who would marry me by force and I...my father does not want him to wed me.’ It hurt her pride to use her father as an excuse, but it was an explanation that would make sense to the other woman.
‘Ah. My name is Vahini. What is yours?’
Anusha thought of lying. But what was the point? ‘Anusha. And he is Herriard sahib.’
There was whispering outside. ‘Come, then. Our visitor is awake,’ Vahini called and the hut was filled with a dozen women of all ages, all staring. ‘This is Anusha and she has no women’s clothes and she flees from a bad man to her father.’ There was much sympathetic muttering.