He had another reason for passing through this part of Delhi, one that had troubled him since his arrival three days ago; he could postpone his visit no longer. With a sigh and a half-muttered prayer, he took the side-street he had once known so well and went along to the house he remembered. Reluctantly he sounded the clapper that brought a household slave running to admit him, bowing in startled recognition.
"You do not have to do that," the mendicant complained, chagrined at this reception. "I am not deserving of it."
"But you are most welcome, Lord," said the slave, continuing to bow as he ushered the mendicant into the garden around which the building rose.
"Will you tell Avasa Dani that I am here?" the mendicant asked.
"At once, Lord," said the slave, and hurried away, leaving the mendicant alone in the shadowed garden. The mendicant stood for some time, taking in the beauty of the fast-approaching night; he heard the
Muslim call to evening prayers, and bent his head in respect.
Light from an oil-lamp glistened as someone came into the garden. "Nararavi?" said the familiar voice. "Is it you?"
"It is a mendicant," he answered.
She came nearer, holding the lamp raised so she could see his face. "It
is
you," she said. She stood very still. "Have you come home?" She was past her first youth, but handsome and dignified of manner, of moderate height and carrying herself with elegance; her face was well-proportioned, with large eyes, a straight nose, and a generous mouth that just now curved in a tenuous smile. She was dressed in the modified sari that women of Hindu lineage wore; its color was hard to distinguish, being a soft blue-grey that blended with the dusk. Her glossy black hair was combed back from her face and secured in a bun; she wore very little jewelry and did not paint her face except for the caste-mark on her forehead.
"No," he told her. "I have only come to do as I agreed I would do— to inform you that I still live and therefore you are still in the guardianship of the foreigner appointed to that post. Are you in the care of Sanat Ji Mani, if he yet resides in Delhi?"
"He does, and I am," said Avasa Dani. "And will remain so for several years more, or so Sanat Ji Mani has told the Sultan's aides, and paid the taxes they have levied for the privilege." She studied his face. "You look tired."
"I have traveled far and still have far to go," he said, unwilling to discuss himself with her.
She nodded. "Will you sign the register, to show you have been here?"
"Of course," he said.
A silence fell between them, one that was at once awkward and resigned. Both knew they were being watched, that every word they spoke was overheard and would be reported, but even without that, they would have had little to say.
"Nothing has changed," Avasa Dani remarked a short while later.
"No," said the mendicant.
Avasa Dani did not sigh, but some of the animation went out of her. "Do you know when you will return?"
"As to that, who can say? The Wheel turns and we are bound to it," he answered. "I am leaving for the mountains and east, to the shrines to the Buddha, where I will learn from the monks and worship at their temples, and then, if I live, I will go as far as Kamaru, and from there come along all the coast of the land— east coast, south tip, and west coast— until I reach the Indus River, and I will follow it inland, then cross the plateau to Delhi. I will pray every step of the way, and I will depend on the alms of those who follow the way of the Buddha." He spoke as if this were a minor undertaking instead of a harrowing journey.
Avasa Dani listened, appalled. "But that will take
years."
"It may," said the mendicant. "You will be provided for in any case, until ten years have passed and I have not signed the register."
"Certainly," said Avasa Dani, who, unlike many women, had been party to drafting the terms. "I know what is contained in the register."
"You do not wish to have another husband, do you?" the mendicant asked. "Shall I release you? The Sultan would not forbid it."
"No, I do not want another husband," said Avasa Dani, sounding very tired. "I am content to remain as I am."
"That is virtuous of you," said the mendicant.
Avasa Dani could think of nothing more to say to this man who had been her husband until he renounced the world four years ago; she lowered the lamp. The study seemed to close in around them, as if the shadows were palpable. "Are you keeping well?" It was an automatic inquiry, made almost without thought.
"I have alms and my wants are simple," said the mendicant. "When even those wants are gone, I will be worthy to serve the Buddha."
She held up her hand. "No. Do not tell me more. It will only distress me."
"Because you have not yet understood the way of the Buddha, nor why I follow Him," said the mendicant gently.
"You were once Nararavi, and you were dear to me. I do not know you now." She kept any trace of blame out of her voice, but she could not shut it out of her heart. "Perhaps if we had children, I would feel otherwise."
"That is what I have tried to tell you; the world is no longer holding me. I am grateful that we are childless, for children would bind me
to the world as nothing else could," he said, making his words simple. "In time you may understand."
"Your god is not my gods," she said, recalling their occasional arguments about which gods were true gods and which were not.
"No. You do not comprehend religion— as what woman can?— and thus you fail to understand what I have done." His face was sad.
"You may believe that," said Avasa Dani with deep weariness.
"You are clever for one of your sex," the mendicant allowed. "Few women have your skills with numbers."
"Few women have my education," Avasa Dani reminded him.
"Because they have no gift for it," said the mendicant, ending the matter.
After another silence, Avasa Dani said, "Will you stay here tonight? This is still your house and you have a place here. I will order the servants to prepare a bed for you, and a suitable welcome for your return. You would have a good meal and a bath, and leave in the morning with coins and bread in your bowl."
The mendicant shook his head. "You see how easily the world tempts us? You do not think that you are bringing my faith into danger, for you suppose you must receive me if not as your husband as your guest. It is your lack of understanding that makes you do this, for I comprehend you mean well. Yet you do not know what peril you bring me. I will take alms if you will give them, and bread. I will sign the register and I will leave. This place is a snare, and I am in danger for every heartbeat I remain here."
Avasa Dani bit back the retort she longed to make. "You must do as you think wisest," she said, trying not to feel hurt by his condemnation.
"That is the beginning of wisdom in you, Avasa Dani, to know that you are not able to bend me to your will," said the mendicant. "You may yet gain understanding, as far as you may understand." In response to this she nodded, not trusting herself to speak. "The register is where I put it?"
"Yes. In your chest. It is still in your study." She heard the flatness in her voice and sighed a little.
"Then I will attend to that duty. When I am next at Delhi, I will sign again, and continue your life as you wish it. Be sure you show
this to the Deputy to the Sultan for Marriage and Inheritance," he told her as he went into the house, making his way toward his study as if it had been only a day since he had been there and not three years. "I signed when I left, and when I returned the first time. I will sign now, and it will be ten years before your situation will change— should I fail to return in that time."
"Yes. I understand," she said.
"It is as well that you do," he pointed out as he stepped into the study; it was dark, for no lamps had been lit in the chamber for many months. "I will need light."
Avasa Dani clapped her hands, and very quickly— too quickly: he had been listening— a slave answered the summons, a lamp in hand, and a bowl of water for making ink. "Put them down next to the chest," she said, and waited until the slave withdrew to speak again. "Shall I remain?"
"Yes," said the mendicant as he opened the chest and took out his writing-box with its ink-cake and brushes. "You should see me do this."
"Adri, the steward, can witness your signing; he's not a slave and he is almost a Muslim." She was not entirely pleased with his calm assumption that she was unmoved by his return, or the implications of his signing the register, indicating his imminent departure. The sound of the grinding-stone on the ink-cake irritated her as much as a drone of insects might.
"You are a prudent woman," said the mendicant as he continued to grind the ink. "I am grateful for that."
"Then what can I be but proud?" she asked, hoping the sarcasm she felt was not in her voice.
"Pride is a blindness in the soul. Rid yourself of it, if you wish to achieve the Buddha's promise." The mendicant was satisfied with the ink. He unrolled the register and put a small brass figurine on it to hold it open. Then he dipped his brush into the ink and wrote his name and title, standing back so Avasa Dani could read it. "There. It is done. The Sultan's officials will accept this, and you will be able to continue as you are for another ten years." He blew on the ink gently to hurry its drying.
"Then you will go tonight," said Avasa Dani, wanting to learn all she could before he left.
"Yes. It is fitting." He swung around and looked at her. "You have no reason to want me to linger, Avasa Dani."
"I have concern for anyone embarking on such travels as you are doing," she countered, letting her annoyance show a little.
Her barb struck wide of the mark. "Then think of Sanat Ji Mani. He has come from much farther away than any destination of mine. When he returns to his homeland, he will go a far greater distance than I will." He turned back to the register, tested his signature with his thumb, and, satisfied it was dry, he rolled it up again. "I will not put it into the chest. You may do that after you have shown this to the Sultan's Deputy."
"Of course," she said. "Since you will not remain to do it yourself."
"No; I will not," he said, adding, "The register is sufficient."
"Yes." Avasa Dani waited for him to speak; when he did not, she said, "I have four brass coins and two silver ones."
"Give me no more than half," said the mendicant.
She reached down for the small purse of embroidered leather that hung from her low-slung belt. The coins clinked in her hand as she counted out three of them and held them out to the mendicant. "Here. Take them. I will order the cook to—"
He interrupted her. "Let me have the old bread when I go. Do not give me better; it would shame me to take new bread when there is old to be had."
"If that is what you want," she told him without inflection of any kind.
He did not face her as he went on, "You may not comprehend what I am doing, or why I have done it, but you have respected it, Avasa Dani, and that is a worthy thing. Not many men have wives who would be content to remain as you are. I will think of you when I pray." It was as generous an offer as he dared to make.
"If that is what you want," she repeated.
"I want to want nothing," he reminded her.
"Yes," she said. "Of course."
"I will go get bread from the kitchen, and water from the fountain." He still did not look directly at her. "I have found my true way, Avasa Dani; if only you could believe it."
"I do believe it, Nararavi," she told him with hushed intensity. "If I did not, I would oppose what you have done."
He gave a single chuckle. "A wife oppose a husband?"
"There are ways," she said.
"Then it is as well I left," he said. "And it is as well that I go now." He looked up at the sky. "I will sleep beyond the shrine to Lord Buddha tonight, and tomorrow, at first light, I will begin my journey."
Avasa Dani held herself in check, for as much as she wanted to challenge him, to convince him that his enterprise was reckless and dangerous, she was certain he would not listen to her, and they would part on harsh words. "If you are satisfied that you will find what you seek in this way, then may your path be easy and your steps protected."
"I do not ask for an easy path," he said. "But I thank you for your kind wish." He put his hands together in front of his face and bowed slightly. "Until I see you again, Avasa Dani."
She did not bother to plead with him. "Until I see you again, Nararavi."
He turned away and left her alone in the study, her oil-lamp providing only a very little, flickering illumination of the space around her, so that the shadows seemed vast and alive. She touched the register, thinking of what she would have to do in the morning, and realizing how little she wanted to do it. There was such finality in presenting the register, and all that it entailed. The deputies of the Sultan would insist on a formal review, and an assessment of her household. She did not mind having so many duties to perform, but she dreaded the questions she would have to answer, and the way she would feel when it was done. At least, she thought, Sanat Ji Mani would be with her— that was some consolation.
