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#SampleSunday: The Rule of Love, Chap. 5

Chapter Five: At the Courtesan’s Pleasure

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

The strains of a flute followed Chandi, as she led Nandika toward her chamber. Her fingers interlaced with his, they strolled and shared a silent smile. Anticipation shone in his gleaming eyes, yet his countenance wavered as they approached the door.

She paused just outside the curtain and cupped his cheek. The prickly hairs in his beard tickled her palm.

“You are pensive now. Share your thoughts with me.”

He leaned into her hand and kissed the skin. Her stomach clenched in response.

“My jewel, my thoughts are only of you, and the delights to come.”

Suppressing her shudder, she laughed instead. “You forget that I know you as my own heart. We’ve known each other since we were children.”

He reached for her cheek. His finger caressed her flesh, his thumb sweeping across the curve of her lower lip. A ragged breath escaped her when their gazes met and held.

“Goddess, you’ve always known my thoughts without asking. I have never had to say the words. You know what I want, now.”

She looked away, but he framed her face in both his hands. Passionate warmth radiated from his touch. She trembled under the intense scrutiny of his darkened gaze, where passion and yearning swirled. Until now, his desires had never frightened her. She swayed against him. 

“I pray, Nandika, do not speak its name.”

His grip tightened. “Why? When it is what we both want?”

Lightheaded, she willed strength into her quaking limbs. Her lips clamped together, she fought against the urge coiling through her belly, demanding her surrender. She would never allow another man such control. Not again.  

She pushed her shoulders back, tossed her hair and returned his probing gaze. “And your wives? Would they look upon our arrangement with satisfaction? You have never been a selfish man. Will you begin now?”

A heavy sigh whistled through his lips. His hands dropped at his side and his gaze fell away.

Her heart damned for her a fool, pounded a tattoo of bitter resentment and regret. His obvious hurt pained her, but she could not risk the mistakes of the past. A painful lesson left its mark, cutting so deep that not even the balm of his love could soothe the old wound. 

Still, she wound her arms around his neck, soothed his slumped shoulders and cradled his neck. For a moment, he froze. Then his hands grasped her about the waist, though he kept his eyes averted. On tiptoe, she kissed his cheeks and forehead, her body pressed against his. She nuzzled his beard, inhaling the scent of sesame oil coating the dark hairs. The sounds of the musicians on the veranda faded. Muscles tensed beneath the caress of his hands. She explored the contours of his nut-brown skin, nails raking down his arms. With a ragged groan, he pulled her tighter. He met her stare.

“A fool can hope. If that is all I have, then it must be enough.”

She hushed him. “Tonight, you have me. I am yours.”

Smooth and supple, his lips parted. She pressed her mouth against his, their breaths commingled. The taste of mango and cinnamon on his tongue, he pressed her against him. The power of his ardor made desire leap in her belly. She clung to him, as though this embrace might be their last. Soon, it would be. Then she pulled away. He leaned into her again, but she laid a firm hand over his throbbing heart.

“Come with me.”

She led him into her chamber, crushing patchouli beneath her feet. They entered the bedroom, where the lone lamp on a small table by the bed banished the rest of the room into shadows. She glanced at the lacquered screen directly across from her bed, and then settled herself on the pillows arranged on the floor, Nandika reclining at her side. Offering him a smile, she clapped her hands twice.

At the sound of a drum echoing from the veranda next door, Samavati appeared, framed in the doorway leading to Chandi’s balcony. She bent at the waist, a fringe of black hair falling over her eyes. Chandi smiled at Nandika, who returned the gesture before he leaned forward, his gaze intent on the younger courtesan.

Samavati raised her hands in the invocation to the gods that begun the kathak dance. The drums continued in a slow rhythm, mimicked by her movements. As she moved, Chandi often turned her attention from Samavati toward Nandika. At times, he caught her gaze and flushed, as though embarrassed. Still, he could not keep his eyes from the entertainment for long.

When the tempo of the drums increased, Samavati twirled on her heel in a spin, winding faster and faster. The long braid spun in an arc. Flushed, her golden skin a glimmer of perfection in the lamplight, ragged breaths tore from her lungs. When she finished, Nandika roared his approval.

Samavati bowed. “Thank you, Master.”

“You have a rare talent, one hardly seen in one so young,” he replied.

She glanced at Chandi. “I’m not so young, but thank you for the compliment, Master.”

“You deserve better tokens of my praise.”

Nandika removed one of the bracelets on his wrist, gold inlaid with lapis lazuli. He held out his hand. Chandi recognized his approval, curiosity, and desire. For a brief moment, she pursed her lips and tossed her hair, but when Nandika looked at her, she pushed aside the flare of jealousy.

“Would you like Samavati to remain with us, my lord?”

He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck, before turning away. She leaned toward him, took his hand in hers. She waited in silence until his sheepish expression returned to hers.

“I would like that. Would you allow it?”

“Do you need my permission?” She smiled, intent on reassuring him, although her heart thrummed inside her chest.

He shook his head and gestured for Samavati. 

The courtesan’s eyes widened. She drew a deep breath and licked her lips. The lamplight revealed her watering eyes and pinched lips. Her pain-filled expression found Chandi, who patted Nandika’s arm. He turned toward her again, a question in his gaze.

“Forgive us, the offense is mine. I should have explained. Samavati would prefer another’s touch, a woman’s own to be precise.”

His eyebrows flared for a moment. Then he settled back against the pillows. A lazy smile curved the corners of his lips.

“I can deny you nothing.” He paused and turned the pleasant expression of his face on Samavati, “not even her. If it is your pleasure, it shall be mine.”

#SampleSunday: Rule of Love, Chap

Chapter Three – The Lesson of Kama in the Aims of Life

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5^th century CE)

 
Sarama followed her mistress along the perimeter of the easterly open-air courtyard, bounded by wooden pillars that supported the roof. The aromatic scent of tulsi filled her nostrils, as a few slave women tended the clustered purple flowers and watered the plants’ roots.

In the eastern quadrant, Mistress Chandi stopped and offered her devotion, whispered in fervent prayers. Sarama held the tray at waist level, while Mistress selected a cup of plant extract mixed with honey and laid it before the four-armed god Indra, among the pots of fragrance and flower petals already scattered at his shrine.

Vatsyayana’s sharp intake of breath rippled through the air. He hovered at her shoulder. Sarama rolled her eyes heavenward before she acknowledged him with a deferential nod. When their gazes met, his narrowed with contempt.   

“An offering of soma juice should be made at the temple, if she intends to ask Indra for rain.” His withering stare swept through the courtyard. “A brothel is hardly a sacred place.”

Her hand itched for the dagger, bloodless in its leather sheath. Mistress would never forgive her if she drew it against the boy. His superior tone vexed her more than anyone else ever had. What difference did it make where her mistress worshipped, at a shrine or in the great temples of Kausambi? Who was he to decide?

She returned her attention to her mistress but directed a response at him. “Here, we are guided by our beliefs alone, not what other people say is right or wrong.”

At his harsh intake of breath, she whirled and faced him. “And who are you to judge? You’ve studied at the great monastery of Nalanda, but all you’ve shown us is arrogance. Did the monks teach you to ridicule others at the Mahavihara?”

His fists jerked at his side before he lowered them, concealing the long, folded fingers behind his back. She met his baleful stare without flinching, though her heart hammered inside her chest. The dark mask of anger on his face warned her she had gone too far, stirring something inside her, buried deep in her memories. The scar on her hip twitched reflexively. She waited, lips trembling, for the blow that would strike her down. It never came.

For the first time, she recognized this man was different from any other she had ever known. Tremors coursed the length of him, visible beneath the angular contours of copper brown skin. His shudders betrayed the tenuous control he struggled for, as he kept his rage at bay. So many tangible emotions inside him, she could scarce comprehend how he controlled it. But she sympathized, for she understood blind fury too well. She had experienced its brutal power countless times.

Mistress touched her arm and she jerked, caught unawares. She glanced at her and found the usual sympathy in those dark, sparkling eyes. “Don’t provoke him, Sarama. The passing of his father has changed Vatsyayana’s life forever. It influences all our lives.”

She expelled a ragged breath she did not know she had been holding, and nodded curtly. Only a fool tangled with a tiger.

Mistress bowed before Vatsyayana. “Though you will despise me for it, I wish to make offerings of panda at the temple in your father’s memory.”

Sarama recalled the little rice balls prepared and set aside for the remembrance of her deceased mother. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. 

“Do as you please. I cannot stop you,” Vatsyayana muttered. “But one day soon, you will explain these devotions to my father. I shall not be satisfied until I have your answer.”

Mistress nodded. “One day, I will explain all.”

Sarama’s heart fluttered anew. She almost dropped the tray in her hand. Mistress Chandi’s gaze flew to her face and flashed a warning. She bowed her head and murmured an apology.

Vatsyayana edged closer, scrutinizing both their faces. By the powerful mercy of the gods, he withheld the inquiry shining in his eyes. She could have sighed with relief, but kept her face impassive. His attention lingered on her longer than necessary. Still, when she glanced at him again, he sneered and avoided her stare.

Mistress broke the tension-filled mood with a laugh. “This is a poor way to begin your lessons in pleasure, Vatsyayana. Let us walk to the Yumana River.”

“But, surely, you have already had your bath? How else could you perform ritual worship at the shrine?” He gazed down his long nose at her.

Sarama’s hand itched for the dagger again. She could not help it. This pompous, arrogant fool spoke as if her mistress tempted the wrath of the gods.

“In truth, I washed in waters drawn from the Yumana at dawn,” Mistress quickly corrected his foolish assumption, “but bathing is more than just a rite of purification. It is also a sensuous delight.”

When Mistress’ sandals slapped against the stone floor, he fell into step behind her. They bypassed slave girls who traced designs in rice flour at the entrance. They emerged outside the walls of the brothel. Sarama trailed them, admiring the glint of the midmorning sun on Vatsyayana’s narrow shoulders

Abruptly, he cast a glare over his shoulder, and caught her look. “What can be so amusing, woman?”

“It would not please you if I told you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because nothing I would say could ever please you. Isn’t that right?”

“Sarama, stop your teasing.” Mistress Chandi’s voice on the morning breeze echoed another warning for her. 

Sarama nodded to him. “I humbly ask forgiveness.”

“I doubt you know how to be humble.” He continued after her mistress, but not before another darting glance over his shoulder.

Dust billowed along the avenue of margosa trees. Sarama and her mistress draped their hair with white shawls, while Vatsyayana walked bareheaded. Sarama coughed, tugging her shawl over her face with one hand, while balancing the tray in the other.

Mistress led the way across a well-worn track, which they took every week toward the river, shielding her eyes against the harsh sunlight. Birds soared overhead, screeching. Dry haze hugged the sandstone cliffs in the north and obscured the near barren landscape below in waves of shimmering heat. In the west, the village bustled with noisy activity.

Their route took them on its outskirts, though a narrow and winding road connecting the village course with the brothel. Arid wind whistled through the remnants of desiccated trees and stunted brush, blowing clouds of dust toward the bamboo huts of the villagers. Behind her thin shawl, Sarama tasted the grit carried on currents of air.

She wished the two summer months would linger, despite the torrid heat and the dried, cracked earth cutting the soles of her bare feet. In the summer, she would not be stuck indoors, unlike later during the monsoon season, which would bar her from pursuing her own lovers while her mistress entertained in the evenings.

She chided herself, having already forgotten her vow of circumspection. Hard to deny oneself the pleasures of a man, but if the rains ever came and kept her at the brothel, the only available man would be Vatsyayana.

Once the idea entered her thoughts, the image of the petulant Brahmin student remained. His lean body was certainly more appealing than that of the pot-bellied cowherd who had crushed her beneath his ponderous weight on the previous night. Her mistress had rightly advised against seeing him again, for he tired too quickly. Her own hands gave her the pleasure the cowherd had not.

Now, she wondered how it might feel if Vatsyayana’s copper-colored fingers stroked her head to toe. He had spoken little more than arrogant words since his arrival, but she could imagine other infinitely pleasurable uses for his lips. None of them required one word. Her mind conjured his dark head of curls between her thighs. Her belly knotted and she sighed as if in the throes of a delightful dream. He looked over his shoulder at the sound. His dark glare hastened the warmth coursing through her belly. If she had seduced him earlier, would passion have furrowed his brow, lust firing his eyes? She mused on such delights during the course of the morning walk, pleasurable thoughts sustaining her against the heat and wind. 

They reached the left bank of the Yumana after midday, through a clearing of shisham trees at the edge of the rich alluvium. Sarama paused bedside her mistress, grateful for the shelter a crown of leaves offered.

A sheen of sunlight glimmered on the water. The river bustled with activity and noise. Boatmen called or cursed each other. A ferryman transported two Brahmin priests across a narrow place in the river, a long pole sliding between his nimble fingers. Gulls and cormorants skimmed the surface of the water, ever on the lookout for the golden mahseer swimming upriver. The land sloped unobstructed toward the water’s edge, but on the opposite bank, a continuous line of ghats swarmed with people.

Mistress sighed. “We’ll wait for a ferryman.”

When the boatman arrived, they clambered into his craft and crossed the river in silence. Nearing the right bank, Sarama spotted a merchant plying brassware. If any of it seemed of good quality, she might make a purchase. Others sold ritual offerings for the temples. Servants shaded the silk-clad nobles and rich guild merchants under bound palm leaves.

Some of the men waved to Mistress. She acknowledged their greetings with more than a little smile or nod. They strolled between elevated funeral pyres billowing white smoke, which made Sarama rub her eyes. Those who cremated their dead gave alms and food to the beggars lining the stairs of each ghat. With little show of reverence, three girls splashed each other in the water until a stern matron ordered them away.

When Sarama set the tray on the third step from the edge, Mistress removed her shawl and fingered her black curls. Vatsyayana stood apart from them, looking out on the embankment, his arms folded across his bronzed chest.

Sarama shook her head at him, while she opened a small pot of camphor, saffron, and musk mixed together. “Young master, don’t you think it’s as beautiful here as Varanasi?”

“It is possible every city has its charms.”

She rolled her eyes. Why had she expected anything less than his disdain?

Mistress sat down on the second step from the water. Sarama smeared the camphor, saffron, and musk down the length her hair, massaging the scalp. Mistress breathed a languid sigh and surrendered to her touch.

Then they rose together and descended into the water. Mistress disappeared beneath the swirling river, before she emerged with a radiant beam on her sweet lips. She shook beads of water from her wet hair. The folds of her dhoti clung to her thighs, outlining the plump yoni between them. Sarama joined her and plunged up to her waist.

She turned, smiled and held her hand out for Vatsyayana. “Come into the water with us, young master.”

He drew back, sneering. “I think not.”

She shrugged. “On such a hot day, only a fool might deny himself.”

“Sarama, I won’t warn you again today,” Mistress said at her shoulder.

She withdrew as Mistress approached him instead. “Bathing is a daily requirement, Vatsyayana, but there’s no reason you can’t enjoy it. All life is pleasurable, even a simple act of cleanliness.”

Since he only continued glaring at them, Sarama dismissed his disdainful looks and attended her duties. She cupped water in her hands and cleaned her mistress’ hair until it was soft and glistened. She washed the pale, glowing skin with a paste of soap nuts, avocado, and ghee. After a quick rinse, she followed her out of the water.

Mistress sank down next to Vatsyayana, who recoiled once more, as Sarama expected. Sighing with disgust, Sarama wound a long cotton strip around her mistress’ tresses. She kneaded her shoulders with sandalwood and aloes. The woman relaxed like a pampered cat under her ministrations and leaned back with her eyes closed. Full, firm breasts tipped with buds like betel nuts saluted the sun.  

Lustful, curious stares from the men assembled on the ghats followed Sarama’s every gesture. A bronze-skinned youth, perfumed and oiled, approached them. A garland of yellow amaranth flowers encircled his neck.

Vatsyayana cleared his throat and stood, blocking Mistress from easy view. The stranger strolled on, but his eyes blazed with fury in a bold stare. Sarama giggled at his disappointment.

“You interfere with my livelihood, Vatsyayana.” Chandi spoke without opening her eyes. “Pleasure is a courtesan’s means of support. If she doesn’t attract new lovers, her old lovers will soon be unable to provide for her.”

He sputtered, “Because you will have drained them dry!”

Sarama laughed at the unintended pun. “Indeed, in many ways!”

He frowned at her. “Keep your ill-mannered tongue behind your teeth.”

Her snicker made him red in the face.

“The pleasure is just a fantasy, a trap baited with voluptuousness and desire!” he said, returning his attentions to her mistress. “You have a duty to earn well, for otherwise you cannot enjoy a comfortable lifestyle. Yet, you must feign enjoyment in its achievement. You pretend at happiness. By your own admittance, you take joy only in what a lover has to offer, not in your time spent with him.”

Mistress stared him down. “A true courtesan takes pleasure in both her lover’s gifts and the reward of his companionship. There is joy in the sexual union, but equal delight comes in earning wealth. It is the second aim of life. I pursue it with no more apologies than my pursuit of the first aim.”

“You take from your lovers until they can give no more,” Vatsyayana persisted. “Tell me, have you ever lain with someone who could not meet your price?”

Sarama stopped oiling Mistress’ skin. What foolery was this?

Chandi said, “I would be a poor courtesan if I did.”

Her gaze sparkled with mischievous delight. Sarama chuckled at her pun.

Her mistress continued, “A poor man can do nothing for me. He cannot be generous. My lovers are men of high position and power who can afford to spend freely.”

“They are preening peacocks who succumb to the illusion of your favor, when you hold no man in higher regard than any other, except the one who can pay you the most money. You have promised I would learn of the rule of love. Have you ever loved any of the men you take into your chamber?”

Sarama’s hands fell away and her mistress stood, her countenance stern. “I am a woman and have a tender heart that can love. But I’ve been trained in the art of pleasure and I live by my trade. What I provide is pure artifice, the illusion of love, the most dangerous fantasy of all.”

#SampleSunday: The Rule of Love, Chapter 2

Chapter Two
The Aims of Life

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kamaragupta I (5th century CE)

His breath freshened with betel and his body cleansed, Vatsyayana followed the slave boy, Bana.

An image of the yellow flowers around his neck being suddenly scattered on the floor taunted him. His hands itched for the petals, but he closed his fingers into fists, resisting the intense urge.  He had better control of his emotions than that.

The boy who walked ahead of him could not be more than half his age, yet Bana held himself with a quiet reserve Vatsyayana envied even now, much less when he was the same age.

They mounted the wooden stairs to the second storey. Down a long corridor open to the garden courtyard below, they walked in silence. Sunlight glinted off the roof and shimmered in the pond at the center of the court.

A few prostitutes idled on the walkway, yawning behind their hands or showing off the jewels in their hair, or on their limbs. All eyed him as he passed. One reached out and caressed the small boy’s shoulders with her hennaed nails. When she grinned at him, Vatsyayana groaned in disgust. Did these women think nothing of including children in their pleasure games, too?

“You’re being a good boy today, my son?” the prostitute asked.

“I am, Mother.” Bana bowed before he continued walking.

Vatsyayana stared at his back and then looked at his mother, horrified.

She laughed and threw her head back, exposing her graceful neck. “Did you believe he was my lover?”

Her companions laughed at him. His face hot, he rushed past them. He followed the boy until they reached the end of the hall.

A turquoise door hanging edged with gold filigree rustled, before the servant Sarama stepped out. She patted the boy’s head. “Thank you, Bana.”

She looked to Vatsyayana. “Mistress will see you now.”

She drew back and allowed him entry beyond the curtain, her hand resting lightly on the handle of the dagger at her waist.

He stepped into the small antechamber. A multicolored round carpet with geometric designs was at its center, encircled among purple and red pillows edged with tassels. The shelves on the left hung with red ashoka and yellow champa flowers and rows of jasmine, durva herbs, incense sticks, scented pots, and bowls of cardamom and citron peel.

Chandi entered the room, sheathed in a plain, white dhoti with a jeweled kamarband belting the garment and a necklace of jasmine adorning her. Her eyes sparkled, as she greeted him with her warmest smile and most reverent bow. A fringe of her dark hair fell over her eyes when she did so. Her vibrant appearance startled him. He had heard her distinct, tinkling laughter echo from the inner courtyard most of the previous night.

“There are dark circles under your eyes, Vatsyayana. Was your evening unpleasant?” She looked at Sarama after she said this. He frowned, wondering why she would think the woman affected his mood in any way.

“I am unaccustomed to the revelries I heard last night.”

Chandi nodded. “Well, yes, you’ve spent several years of your life at Nalanda. But, surely as a child, you must have seen prostitutes bless marriages at Varanasi?”

When he shook his head, she added, “I assure you, your father enjoyed the company of the women here on many occasions. It was our pleasure to entertain him.”

His nostrils flared. “My father did not consort with prostitutes!”

Chandi raised her black eyebrows. “Gatherings in this dwelling extend to more than just courtesans and their lovers. Our guests were storytellers, who recited the legendary epics and ancient history, singers, poets and a variety of scholars, including Brahmins. Kausambi is a gilded city, bedecked as a bride upon her wedding day, and the courtesans of Kausambi are its jewels. Your father never disdained the pleasures of music and dance, or the companionship of beautiful women. He understood the true nature of such refinements.”

Before he could argue further, she gestured to a pillow on the floor before settling herself on another beside it.

He gritted his teeth and joined her. Her servant knelt at her side and stared at him impertinently.

Chandi said, “I delighted in receiving your father’s message. It had been too long since I heard from him, when the court was last at Ujjain before the monsoon rains. But, now I expect his master the Maharaja has returned to Pataliputra and your father with him. Tell me, how does your learned father fare?”

He looked away, but her gaze followed his. “What is wrong?”

His eyes watered. He clenched his fists at his side. He could not show weakness before such people.

Fighting past the lump tightening in his throat, nearly choking him, he whispered, “My father is dead.”

She reached blindly for the jasmine garland around her neck. The knot of flowers ripped in her hand and fell to her lap.

Her servant grasped and kissed her hand. “I grieve with you, Mistress.”

She patted the slave’s head. “Tell me, please, Vatsyayana, how did he die?”

“He had been ill for some time. He chose not to speak of the sickness to anyone, not even me.” Resentment crept into his tone. He rushed on. “My father suffered daily bouts of fever. The Maharaja’s chief physician advised him to bathe in the waters of the Shipra River. It did not help. He lost his appetite for all his favorite meals. He took only lentil broth in the afternoon for a month. My younger sisters summoned me from Nalanda. I arrived in the morning. He died the following night.”

He clasped his hands, his eyes averted.

Chandi nodded. “Then, I cannot mourn, for he is at peace.”

He glared at her. “At peace, you say?”

“Death is inevitable for us all. But, it is not an occasion for sadness. In truth, I will miss your father. His is a great loss for me, for the world. Yet, I rejoice in his passing, for it is but a casting off of the physical body. As the ancient gurus teach us, ‘the soul of man is indestructible, it cannot be pierced by sword, fire cannot burn it, air cannot dry it, water cannot moisten it.’ We must rely on such truths and never mourn your father.”

Breathing harshly, he shouted and tabbed a finger at her. “How dare you? How dare you quote the Bhagavad-Gita to me, one who has studied its meaning all my life? Don’t you know who I am, who my father was? You’re nothing compared to us.”

She rose with her servant’s aid. “Yet, your father admired and respected me and I loved him for it.”

“You’re no more than a well-practiced whore. A whore cannot love anyone or anything, except money.”

The slave beside her gasped, but Chandi smiled. “I did love him, Vatsyayana. Believe what you must of me, but believe also in my love for him. When I visit the temple today, I will honor him.”

“With the trinkets you’ve earned from last night’s debauchery? Such gifts would profane my father’s good name. I cannot allow that.”

“Yet, you cannot prevent me from honoring him as I please.”

“Why do you care if he is dead? You cannot expect me to believe you enjoyed any…relationship with my father. He could not have been your patron. My father kept strict accounts. I oversaw everything his steward did, whenever I returned to Varanasi. He did not add to your coffers, woman. I refuse to believe it.”

When she said nothing, his hearth thrummed and readied to explode from his chest. “Were you and my father lovers? Were you? Tell me the truth.”

She shook her head, a glimmer of sadness sparkling at the corners of her eyes. “You would not understand the truth. You are not ready to hear it.”

When she turned away, he grabbed for her wrist and held her firm. She cried out and shrank away from him.

The slave jerked the dagger from its sheath. “No one touches Mistress without her permission!”

Chandi raised a hand, halting her. “Sarama, Vatsyayana is our guest. You must not harm him.”

He sneered, though his hand fell away from her. “As if she could hurt me.”

Chandi rubbed her wrist. Her servant kissed the reddened area he’d released. “I could hurt you, young master, for her.”

Chandi shook her head. “That is not necessary, Sarama. Please, don’t upset him further. He is in pain. He is right to seek answers at such a time.”

He shook with setting rage. “Then, answer my question. Were you and my father ever lovers?”

Yet, fear soured his belly as he awaited her answer. Could his father have done it, taken this preening peacock of a woman to her chambers, and worshipped at the temple of her flawless body? It occurred to him that he hadn’t truly known his father after all, for how could the old man have kept his liaison with this whore secret from everyone? He shuddered. Did his mother know? Could he wound her so deliberately by betraying such a possibility?

Chandi whispered, “We were never lovers.”

He sagged as relief overwhelmed him. “Then, how did you come to know him?”

She withdrew her fingers from her slave’s hold. “You must not ask me. You are not prepared to learn such things. Not yet.”

She clasped her hands together. “Your father commanded me to teach you the rule of love. For the love I still bear him, I will fulfill his last wish. We will begin our exploration with the three aims of life. It is time for your first lesson.”

He glared at her. “What lesson might that be?”

“Kama,” she answered over her shoulder, before heading toward the door.

He called out after her, “And, what must I learn of desire and voluptuousness?”

“You said earlier you were seeking knowledge,” the servant interrupted, as she gathered a tray of ointments and perfumes. “My mistress will show the way.”

If you liked this chapter but missed the previous one, catch up on Chapter 1.
 
There are some great writing samples circulating the blogosphere every #SampleSunday that you can check out. If you're not already doing so, be a part of it now. Thanks for stopping by for another installment of Rule of Love.

#SampleSunday: The Rule of Love, Chap1 - Historical Fiction

In northern India at the height of the Gupta Empire, the noble student Vatsyayana travels to the sacred city of Kausambi, in fulfillment of his dying father’s final wish. The courtesan Chandi awaits him, as do his lessons in the rules of love. A favorite of wealthy clientele, Chandi is devoted to the arts of pleasure, governed by one rule. The dangerous passion of a former lover threatens to destroy her clever control and expose secrets hidden deep in her past. Chandi’s faithful servant, Sarama, relies on acerbic wit and an innate sensuality to have her way, but Vatsyayana’s perceptions challenge her.  In the midst of sensuous pleasures, where every desire is attainable, Vatsyayana, Chandi, and Sarama must learn harsh and cruel lessons about life and love, in The Rule of Love.     

Chapter One – The Garden Courtyard

Kausambi, India – Late Summer

In the Reign of Kumara Gupta I (5th century CE)

Under the myriad colors of early evening, Chandi looked up to the heavens where the first stars glittered and wondered if the god Indra had forgotten the city of Kausambi. Despite the lack of rain since the previous monsoon season, the evergreen towering above her proved resilient against the drought. She doubted the people of Kausambi were as strong as this ancient tree, standing stalwart in seasons of drought and monsoons.

She lingered beneath the shady leaves of the margosa tree at her doorway. The sultry heat of day ended under the influence of a cooling, easterly wind. Lush orchids, musk rose, and balsam scented the air, but no hint of precipitation misted the horizon.

Behind her, at the entrance to the two-storey, wooden residence, the servant Sarama cleared her throat for the third time. “Perhaps he isn’t coming, mistress.”

Chandi ignored Sarama, her attention shifting to the elaborate mehndi designs painted on her palm. She flexed her long fingers, which glittered with gold rings, and admired the reddish-brown paste in the sparkle of sunset. Whenever she moved, gold bangles clinked at her wrists. The wind stirred the pleats of her yellow dhoti, held in place by a waistband of gold incised with agate. She adjusted the folds of cotton draped around her legs and displayed the maroon and green borders edged with gold thread. Beneath a diaphanous, white shawl covering the black ringlets that fell to her rounded shoulders, her firm breasts remained bare. The cool, evening air kissed the mehndi paste coloring the tips of her blush-colored nipples. The auburn paste ran a rippling line between her breasts, down her bare midriff until it disappeared beneath the dhoti.

“Mistress …”

“Sarama, please be silent.” Chandi gripped the hard whitish-grey bark of the margosa though her nails protested. “Have you ever known a Brahmin scholar to speak anything, but the truth? The messenger arrived some time ago, but the Brahmin promised his son would come. And he will.”

“We have awaited him for three days now.”

Chandi swung round. Sarama showed not a hint of fear. With her stick-thin arms folded across her bosom and her bare feet set apart in a defiant stance, she met her mistress’ stare.

Chandi advanced a few steps with her fists closed tight and the nails digging into her palms. “Do you have something else to occupy your time, girl? Perhaps that cowherd whom you think remains a secret. Do you think I know nothing of your rendezvous with him, while I entertained last evening?”

Sarama raised her chin a notch. “I did not think mistress begrudged poor me a little portion of happiness in the world. I am loyal and give devoted service. Mistress has never had to ask me to do anything more than once.”

When Chandi gasped, Sarama continued in a rush. “Except when mistress orders me to be silent when she thinks I give my opinion too freely. But mistress also asked me to always speak the truth to her …”

“And, there is not a day your mistress does not regret that request!”

Sarama clasped her slim hands together and averted her gaze. Silken black curls framed her angular face, nut-brown almond eyes set in a sandalwood complexion.

Chandi sighed and shook her head, before she returned her attention to her fingers. To her dismay, she had chipped a nail against the bark.

Sarama muttered, “If mistress wishes, I will not lie with the cowherd after tonight.”

Chandi raised a dark eyebrow. “Why tonight?”

“Tonight is already promised to him. Mistress has always admonished me to keep my promises.”

Chandi chuckled and turned away. “Be sure you do not find yourself with child. Amravati would not hesitate to turn you and the baby out. I would not stop her, do you hear me?”

Behind her, Sarama’s deceptively soft voice sounded. “I hear you, mistress.”

Chandi looked down the avenue of iron statues, which indicated the entrance to her life-long home. Shady margosa trees overshadowed the towering figures of Kama, the god of love and Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity. She closed her eyes and recalled how her mother let her play in the shadows of the statues, as a child. When she opened them again, a small entourage approached.

Six men pounded the dry earth beneath their soles. Shuddering with effort, they supported a bamboo litter between quaking limbs. Chandi looked over her shoulder and smiled with a knowing nod at Sarama, who stared wide-eyed before she descended the sandstone steps.

The women waited in silence until the litter bearers halted an arms length away. Coated with grime and sweat, the men’s harsh breaths expelled from their lungs as they set their burden down with a heavy thud.

The figure behind the light cotton curtain coughed and muttered under his breath. Chandi drew closer, curiosity compelling her.

A willowy young man with copper-brown skin emerged from behind the cotton folds. He stumbled on a rock in his path. A giggle escaped Sarama, but Chandi scowled at her, even though she fought against her own bubbling laughter. The stranger raised his dark eyes to hers with a scowl that matched Chandi’s own. When he rose to his full height, he towered over both women. With his aristocratic features marred by a furrowed brow, a leathery complexion, hollow cheeks and gnarled hands, he seemed much older than the sixteen years Chandi knew him to be.

“So, this is the son of the Brahmin sent to us for the completion of his education.” Chandi clasped her hands before her. “It is a wonder your father should imagine I have time to teach you. You are in a brothel, Vatsyayana. All the women here, including myself, work for our living. We do not have time for the whims and fancies of young men. Unless the young man in questions possesses great wealth.”

“My father ordered this. I did not choose to come here.”

Sarama laughed. “This one is too arrogant to be taught.”

Chandi eyed her servant under a withering glance. “Anyone can learn. Even you. One day, I will demonstrate the value of keeping some thoughts in your head.”

Sarama threw back her head, cackling. “If mistress believes I’m worthy of the lesson, I will undertake it just to please her. But not tonight.”

“For tonight is promised to the cowherd,” Chandi whispered between gritted teeth, shaking her head.

“Perhaps not. In truth, he is unremarkable.” Sarama paused and looked past Vatsyayana’s shoulder, toward the lead bearer, who brushed dust from his limbs. When he raised his head and noticed her, she parted her nut-brown lips, and then slowly licked them. His eyes widened, but then he smiled at her, as did the rest of his companions.

Sarama flicked a dark lock of her hair over one shoulder. “Perhaps, he’s not worth my attention after all. He is not a man of strength and vigor. Not like these men.”

Vatsyayana gave a start of surprise, his mouth gaping in stunned silence. His black eyes darted between Chandi, Sarama, and his litter bearers, who lowered their eyes under his scrutiny.

“Vatsyayana,” Chandi said, “my servant can offer your bearers food and drink, and a place to stay for the night.”

“It seems she would offer more than that.”

Chandi laughed. “Come, Vatsyayana.”

With a last look of admonition for his litter bearers, he fell into step beside her.

“Sarama, you too,” she called over her shoulder.

“But, mistress….”

“Your promise, Sarama. Remember your promise.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Chandi preceded them into the wide entryway, supported by red sandstone pillars. Her golden anklets jingled as she sauntered across the cool black tiles of kadapah stone. The parrots in gilded cages set between the pillars made their usual ruckus at her approach.

Beyond the archway, a garden courtyard beckoned, its walls comprised of red sandstone. The scent of flowers in the center greeted them, as did the glow of sun-kissed bodies. Within the courtyard, lit by torchlight, a sensuous tableau unfolded.

A short distance away, a courtesan pressed her lover forcibly against a pillar. She remained clothed but he had disrobed entirely. She framed his chiseled face between her hands and gently suckled at his lower lip, her tongue flicking the corner of his mouth. Each time the man reached for her, she drew away until he stilled. Raspy breaths warned of his desire. Her nail pressed against a corner of his mouth. He nipped at her finger but she pulled away, her eyes locked with his. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, the tips grazing the black hair coating his chest.

The woman continued gazing at him, while she slid to her knees. Her nails raked a slow trail along his body from his torso, to his hips and down, along the inside of his thigh. Whenever the women pressed her talon-like fingers into his flesh, he moaned and shudders rippled the length of his bronzed body. Her gaze unwavering from his, her nimble fingers now caressed his back and down his waist. Her hands slid slowly over his hips and pressed him closer to her body.

With her teeth, she nibbled at his flesh along the hip. A sigh of pleasure escaped him. She repeated the motion, more forcibly this time, for the skin reddened. When he gasped, a smooth flick of her tongue soothed him.

Chandi gestured Vatsyayana and Sarama closer, as the man groaned. His lingam rose and he rolled his hips toward his lover. She opened her mouth and bestowed a suckling kiss just above it, one that caused his legs to quiver. When the exquisite torture of her tongue and teeth maddened him, the courtesan lapped at the head of his lingam once, then faster. Her lover squirmed and closed his eyes with a sigh of delight, his muscled legs flexed deep beneath the skin. She drew back and pressed her nails into his hip until his feverish gaze met hers.

Then she closed her reddened lips and devoured him, plunging to the nest of dark hair. She drew his lingam deeper and deeper into her mouth. Her lover’s face contorted with pleasure and he pumped his hips shamelessly against her.

Around them, other couples enjoyed similar pleasures, including two courtesans with one man between them. The fairest of the pair, dark brown hair trailing down her arched back, aided her olive skinned counterpart to wrap her legs around the man’s waist. His dark eyes quivered and closed for an instant as the lithe body embraced him. His lover’s hips thudded against the wall behind her as he grasped her waist with both hands. When her arms tightened about him, he forced them back. His greedy mouth on her breasts suckled her, the tongue stabbed at her nipple. She clung to him, her throat straining with pleasure. At his side, the other courtesan rained kisses from his shoulders down to his back, her teeth, and nails marking him. Cries of pleasure-pain spiced the air.

“To what place has my learned father sent me?”

Chandi whirled toward Vatsyayana. He jerked his reddened face away from the erotic scene, trembling hands closed into tight fists.

She shook her head in pity. “Here, you will learn the rule of love. Come, the hour grows late and I cannot keep my guests waiting. Sarama shall show you to the room where you will sleep. Your lessons begin tomorrow.”

Thanks for visiting the blog for another writing sample on #SampleSunday. The Rule of Love is one of my future publication projects.

The Rule of Love

One of two writing projects that I'm hard at work on is The Rule of Love, a fictional account of the origins of the Kama Sutra. My protagonist, Vātsyāyana, learns lessons of love and life in a brothel run by his aunt Chandi and spars with Chandi's servant, the outspoken Sarama about the meaning of those lessons. The women play central roles in the story and in teaching Vātsyāyana, they also learn about the human heart and condition. Each day of writing, I enjoy this story more and more. But I've got to say, it's a pain in the @$$ to research!

If there's one thing I do enjoy as much as writing a historical, it's researching it. That enjoyment is amplified when the research materials are easily accessible. But when your setting is fifth century India and very little is known about your protagonist's life, and you don't live in India with access to materials or the sites featured in your work, especially an India now heavily influenced by the colonials' puritanical beliefs, then research can be a real !@#$%^&*.

What is known about the Kama Sutra's author is that Vātsyāyana lived during the period of the Gupta Empire, a Golden Age of Indian culture from the fourth to sixth centuries AD. It's believed he came from the Brahmin or highest caste in India, the scholarly and priestly caste. And that's about as far as the history goes. There's some speculation about his time in brothels among prostitutes, as per Alain Danielou's commentary on the Kama Sutra, where Vātsyāyana supposedly experienced or practiced some of what's detailed in the section on courtesans. So what am I expected to do in fleshing out the history of a man for whom history has so few details? A lot of extrapolation from other sources and a helluva lot of chasing after every detail I found, that's what.

I spent several weeks last year getting my hands on every book ever published on the Gupta Empire and still remaining in print. That's less than ten. But each offered wonderful kernels of information. While there are few details about my protagonist, there's much more about the time he lived. The Gupta Empire spanned the north of India (close the modern border with Pakistan) for at least two centuries. The court moved between two principal cities, Ujjain, and Pataliputra on the Ganges River, one of India's seven sacred rivers. Very little of Gupta society survives, as they built mainly with wood, except for their art, especially metalwork. A lot of that art is erotic, many involving the depiction of scenes similar to the sexual positions of the Kama Sutra. One of the finest examples of Indian erotic art remains at the Khajuraho Temple, and scenes cover the walls of the temple similar to the one above. Trust me, that sculpture is pretty mild compared to the others showing humans, gods and animals having sex. But neither Khajuraho Temple or the Kama Sutra are about titillation; before the colonial period and influence of the West, there were less hangups about sex and representations of beautiful, naked bodies enjoying it.

I'm currently submitting the first draft of Rule of Love to one of two critique groups. At first, I was very nervous, as I assumed I'd be labeled a pervert. There have been strong reactions from my fellow writers, some negative, some in support. But I couldn't expect to write about the origins of what most people think is only a sex manual, and get mild reactions. The project is also daunting for me as I'm not the first to write a fictional account of Vātsyāyana. I deliberately did not read the Ascetic of Desire, by Sudhir Kakar which appeared in 2000, because I didn't want to be influenced in any way by a critically acclaimed work. That's called plagiarism, boys and girls, and it can sneak in when you're consulting a variety of sources, if you aren't careful to note where you got the information. I did, however read a review and it's interesting that Kakar and I both set our stories in brothels, and the aunt of our mutual protagonist, is named Chandrika in his story but Chandi in mine.

As this is a first draft, I don't know exactly where my writing of Rule of Love will take me, but I hope to convey an accurate sense of the life and times of a man whose work has endured the ages. Wish me luck.

"You're Reading What?"

Commuting to my job each day is usually a three-hours-in-total nightmare. So I like it when I get to spice things up a little.

Like the morning, when I'm minding my own business, eyes glued to my copy of the Kama Sutra. The what?! Well, if you're going to write about the author of the Kama Sutra, as I am in writing Rule of Love, you may as well know what he was talking about in full detail. So I purchased a TEXT-ONLY copy of the Kama Sutra and have delved into it. This particular copy, compiled by Alain Danielou, is wonderful for being a detailed translation and providing information about the life and times of the Kama Sutra's elusive author. While graphic in detail, the Kama Sutra is more than a manual of sexual positions. No, I'm not making that up - all those modern Kama Sutras in the bookstores have very little in common with the goal of the traditional Indian text (though that is a little titillating too). The Kama Sutra contains rules to regulate behavior and morality and teaches about the path to spiritual enlightenment. The theory goes that unless your basic wants are fulfilled -food, money and of course, sex - you can't concentrate on seeking a spiritual path. Makes perfect sense to me.

But of course, to the easily frazzled lady and her teenage daughter sitting next to me, the Kama Sutra is just a dirty book. So when the daughter is trying to peer over my shoulder as discreetly as she can (and failing miserably), I do my best to ignore her (and fail miserably) and read my TEXT. The mother catches her and sharply barks, "That's rude, don't read over other people." This is until she catches a glimpse of the book's title.

The look of horror that overcame this woman was beyond priceless. My response upon catching the look and the hurried gesture she made for her daughter to move closer to her? "Don't worry ma'am; there aren't any pictures."