Tea and Spices (An Erotic Novel of Colonial India) (20 page)

 
“Why not?”

 
“The taste is rather bitter and you must put in into your mouth all at once, or else the red juice stains your hands and clothes.”

 
“I’d still like to try it,” Devora said. She reached into her pocketbook and handed him a couple of rupees. “Get one for yourself as well, if you’d like.”

 
Rohan shrugged and spoke in Hindi to the man, who gave Devora an odd look. He wrapped up two
paans
and handed them to Rohan in exchange for the rupees.

 
“Now, place it all at once in your mouth and bite down,” Rohan said, handing Devora one of the wrapped leaves.

 
Devora did, her teeth crunching through the betel nut and filling her mouth with a tangy, bitter taste. She was startled by the flood of acridity, as well as the fact that it seemed to make her entire mouth go numb. She gave Rohan a surprised look as a trickle of liquid escaped her mouth.

 
He grinned and handed her a handkerchief. “Too bitter for you, I think.”

 
Devora wiped her mouth, but gamely chewed down the rest of the
paan
and swallowed. “Yes, but certainly interesting. This is a common food among Indians?”

 
“Oh, yes. It is very popular.” Rohan ate his paan with practiced ease. “The British have not yet acquired a taste for it.”

 
“I can see why.” Strong bitterness lingered in Devora’s mouth. She patted her lips again and tried to swallow the taste.

 
“Wait, I will get you something to drink.” Rohan approached a stall and purchased a glass of mango juice, which he brought to Devora.

 
Gratefully, she drank the entire glass to wash away the taste and the numbness. “Thank you.”

 
“Not many
memsahibs
would be willing to try a traditional Indian food such as
paan
,” Rohan said.

 
“Well, I’m not ‘many
memsahibs
.’“

 
He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her words. “I dare say you are not.”

 
Pleased with his words, Devora continued walking alongside him as they made their way through the spice market.

 
“Do you come here often when you’re not shopping?” Devora asked, glancing at Rohan as they walked through the bustling streets. Shouts and voices emerged from every direction. A cow plodded past them, followed by three women with bundles balanced on their heads.

 
“
Memsahib
, do be careful.” Rohan touched Devora’s elbow to steer her around a steaming pile of cow dung. “Yes, I come to a pub here in the evenings.”

 
“Really?” Devora thought briefly about asking him about his alleged fiancee, but decided such a question would surely break the tenuous camaraderie that had developed between them. “You mean you have a social life?”

 
Rohan tossed her a wry look. “Don’t you?”

 
Devora chuckled. “If you can call going to the club and cricket games a social life.”

 
“That isn’t all you do, though, is it?”

 
Devora looked at him, wondering if he was fishing for information about her and the maharaja. The maharaja whom she had no intention of ever seeing again unless it was at one of his crowded dinner parties. “You mean my lunches with the maharaja? I assure you they were entirely uninteresting.”

 
“I believe he took you to the Khajuraho temples, didn’t he?” Rohan asked. “At least, that is what his driver told me.”

 
Devora arched an eyebrow. “Then why ask me? And here I thought you didn’t gossip.”

 
“As I told you, I am required to make certain of your safety. The master told me as much.”

 
“Well, I will assure the
master
that you’ve done your duty,” Devora said. She climbed into the
tonga
ahead of him and settled into her seat. “Why don’t we go to the club?”

 
“Yes,
memsahib
.” Rohan rapped out a few words of Hindi to the
tonga wallah
, who began peddling in the direction of the British club. He drove past the Indian guards stationed at the gate entrance and stopped at the foot of the steps.

 
Devora climbed down and glanced back at Rohan, who remained seated in the
tonga
. “Well,” she said. “What are you waiting for?”

“You know that Indians are not allowed into the club,
memsahib
. I will wait outside the gates for you.”

 
Horror filled Devora as his words struck her. “Oh, Rohan. I’m so sorry. I completely forgot. Do forgive me.”

 
“As I said, I will wait outside the gates. When you are ready to return home, I will call for another
tonga
.”

 
“No, don’t be silly, I don’t have to—”

 
“Devora, is that you?”

 
Groaning inwardly, Devora turned to find Adele standing at the top of the steps, peering down at her and Rohan. She was dressed in a silk evening gown with her hair arranged in the latest fashion and a glass of sherry in her hand.

 
“Devora, come inside!” Adele said. “They’re starting a performance of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
in less than five minutes.”

“No, I’m afraid I need to return home,” Devora called. “I’m not feeling well.”

“Oh. Didn’t you just get here?”

 
“Yes, I felt ill rather suddenly. I’ll call on you tomorrow if you’ll be home.”

 
“Yes, of course.” Her expression darkening slightly, Adele watched Devora climb back into the
tonga
next to Rohan. “Have a good evening.”

 
“Oak Street,
tonga wallah
,” Devora said.

 
The
tonga
jerked and moved back to the street. Devora crossed her arms and sat silently, aware of Rohan’s stiff figure beside her.

 
“
Memsahib
, it is ridiculous for you to return home,” he finally said.

 
“It’s even more ridiculous that the club doesn’t allow Indians.”

 
“That is the way things work.” Anger edged Rohan’s voice.

 
“Yes, I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

 
They were silent for the remainder of the trip home. Devora took her packages from Rohan as they walked back into the bungalow. She shot him a sideways glance.

 
“You seem angry,” she said. When he didn’t reply, she pressed the issue. “Why? Because the club doesn’t allow Indians?”

 
Rohan glared at her. “No. Because you seem to think that somehow you are a martyr for the Indian cause.”

 
“What on earth are you talking about?”

 
“Not even refusing to enter the British club tonight will prevent you from being British,” Rohan said. “Making such a sacrifice is noble, I’m sure, but not one that Indians need.”

 
Devora couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

 
“You think I made some sort of sacrifice by not going into the club?” she snapped. “Believe me, Rohan, it’s no sacrifice to avoid watching those people mutilate Shakespeare.”

 
“All I am saying to you,” Rohan said, “is that you needn’t sacrifice yourself on my behalf.”

 
With that, he turned and went towards the back door of the house. The door banged shut as he left to go to the servants’ quarters. Devora stood in the middle of the room for a long minute after he had gone. She should have known that she would hurt his pride by not allowing him to simply do his duty. Rohan had a prideful streak as wide and deep as the Ganges River. He would take any concession on her part as an insult if it interfered with his role as the servant.

 
Devora almost went after him to try and explain, but decided that it was better not to. She felt as if she had already become more involved with him than was wise. Perhaps it would be better simply to let their relationship return to its normal state. Not that Devora had any idea what that was.

***

CHAPTER TEN

 
Rain spilled incessantly from the sky, pattering on the bungalow roof and windows like a million, tiny pebbles. Awash in heat and humidity, Devora gazed up at the gossamer mosquito net.

Everything looked foggy and mysterious through the thin netting. Devora rolled onto her side and hugged a pillow to her chest, thinking that all English storms were so cold and frozen in comparison to this Indian torridity. She wished Gerald was home. She usually enjoyed rain, but this was the first real storm since she’d arrived in India and it made her somewhat edgy.

 
Devora pushed back the mosquito net and swung her legs to the floor. Moisture dampened her skin, causing her to feel both hot and sticky. She pinned her hair into a knot to cool the back of her neck and padded out to the sitting room. The bungalow was eerie in its silent movement, with shadows cast from wind-blown trees sliding about the room like lost souls.

With a shiver, Devora got a glass of water from the icebox and went to stand by the veranda door to gaze out at the black, wet night. She drank thirstily, feeling the water spill down her throat in an icy stream. The rain didn’t appear to have cooled the air off at all. If anything, the moisture intensified the heat.

 
Devora looked at the dark outlines of the juniper bushes and geranium plants that lined the veranda. Rohan wouldn’t have to worry about watering those for at least a week. She started to turn and go back to her bedroom, but then she caught sight of a shadowed figure seated on the veranda. Her heart leapt with fear for a moment before she recognized the man’s figure.

 
Frowning, Devora turned on a light in the sitting room and pushed open the door. As she stepped onto the covered veranda, the sound of rain and a rush of cool air greeted her like an old friend.

 
“Rohan?” Devora let the door close behind her as she approached him. “What are you doing out here?”

 
His eyes opened with a start and focused on her. “
Memsahib
.”

 
“I came out to get a drink of water and saw you sitting here,” Devora explained. “What on earth are you doing here?”

 
“It is cooler out here.” Rohan dragged a hand through his hair and sat up. “My room gets very hot.”

 
Devora glanced down at his attire, realizing that this was the first time she had seen him in anything other than his very proper white jacket and trousers. The light from the sitting room spilled onto the veranda, illuminating Rohan’s loose, cotton trousers and shirt. His feet were bare. For some odd reason, Devora found him to be very approachable.

 
“You sleep out here?” she asked.

 
“Sometimes.”

 
Devora rubbed her arms and glanced out at the inky hole of the garden. “How can you? It’s a bit eerie, isn’t it?”

 
Rohan shrugged. “Just rain. There is nothing to be frightened of.”

 
Devora gave him a disdainful look. “Well, of course there isn’t. I never said I was frightened of rain.”

 
A smile quirked his mouth. “Of course not,
memsahib
. My apologies. Might I ask what you are doing out here?”

 
“I saw you and thought I’d come out,” Devora said. She sat in one of the wicker chairs, painfully aware that she was clad only in a thin, cotton nightshift. She crossed her arms over her breasts in the hopes of concealing the fact that the cooler air had hardened her nipples.

 
“You could not sleep?” Rohan asked.

 
Devora shook her head. “You’re right, it does get hot inside. Sometimes the fans barely seem to work. I never knew that rain could be so hot.”

 
“It is Indra at work.”

 
“Indra?”

 
“The ancient Vedic god of rain. He is like the Zeus of Greek mythology. He splits clouds with a thunderbolt and causes them to open. He is said to be the leader of the waters.”

 
“Well, he certainly is doing his job,” Devora said, gazing out at the sheets of shimmering water. “I don’t understand how you Indians can remember the names of the Indian gods, let alone what they do. It’s all very confusing.”

 
Rohan shrugged. “You have multiple saints, disciples, and historical figures in Christianity, I believe.”