The Moghul

decides to select Sangeeta to dance at the wedding, his fortune will be made. Frankly I thought she was good, though there is still a trifle too much flair in her style, too many tricks. But then she's young, and perhaps it's too soon to expect genuine maturity. Still, I noticed His Majesty was taken with her. She could well find herself in the zenana soon."
    Arangbar flipped another purse of coins to the man, and then spoke to him curtly in Persian.
    "His Majesty has expressed his admiration, and says he may call him again after he has seen the other dancers." Nadir Sharif winked. "Choosing the dancers is a weighty responsibility. Naturally His Majesty will want to carefully review all the women."
    The lamps brightened again and servants bustled about the carpet filling glasses and exchanging the burned-out tobacco chillum, clay bowls at the top of each hookah. When they had finished, Arangbar took another glass of wine and signaled for the lamps to be lowered once more. A new group of musicians began filing into the room, carrying instruments Hawksworth had never before seen. First came the drummer, who carried not the two short tabla drums but rather a single long instrument, designed to be played at both ends simultaneously. A singer entered next, already wearing small gold cymbals on each hand. Finally a third man entered, carrying nothing but a piece of inch-thick bamboo, less than two feet in length and perforated with a line of holes.
    Arangbar looked quizzically at Nadir Sharif.
    As though reading the question, the prime minister rose and spoke in Turki. "This one's name is Kamala, Your Majesty. She is originally from the south, but now she is famous among the Hindus in Agra. Although I have never seen her dance, I assumed Your Majesty would want to humor the Hindus by auditioning her."
    "We are a sovereign of all our subjects. I have never seen this Hindu dance. Nor these instruments of the south. What are they called?"
    "The drum is called a mirdanga, Majesty. They use it in the south with a type of sitar they call the veena. The other instrument is a bamboo flute."
    Arangbar shifted impatiently. "Tell them this should be brief."
    Nadir Sharif spoke quickly to the musicians in a language few in the room seemed to understand. They nodded and immediately the flautist began a haunting lyric line that bathed the room in a soft, echoing melody. Hawksworth was startled that so simple an instrument could produce such rich, warm tones.
    The curtains parted and a tall, elaborately jeweled woman swept across the carpet. She took command of the space around her, possessed it, almost as though it were part of her being. Her long silk sari had been gathered about each leg so that it seemed like trousers, and her every step was announced by dense bracelets of bells at her ankles. Most striking, however, was her carriage. Hawksworth had never before seen such dignity of motion.
    As he stared at her, he realized she was wearing an immense, diamond-encrusted nose ring and long pendant earrings, also of diamonds. Not even the Moghul wore stones to equal hers. Her face was heavily painted, but still he suspected she might no longer be in the first bloom of youth. Her self-assurance was too secure. She knew exactly who she was.
    She turned her back to Arangbar as she reverently gave an invocation, both hands together and raised above her head, to some absent god. The only sound was the slow, measured cadence of the drum. Suddenly it seemed as though her body had captured some perfect moment of balance, a feeling of timelessness within time.
    Hawksworth glanced toward Arangbar, whose irritation was obvious.
    How can she be so imprudent as to ignore him? Aren't Hindus afraid of him? What was her name? Kamala?
    His eyes shot back to the woman.
    Kamala.
    Can she be the woman Kali spoke of that last night in Surat? The Lotus Woman? Nadir Sharif said she was famous.
    "Just who are you?" Arangbar's voice cut through the carpeted room, toward the woman's back. He was speaking Turki, and he was outraged.
    Kamala whirled on him. "One who dances for Shiva, in his aspect as Nataraj, the god of the dance. For him and for him alone."
    "What do you call this dance for your infidel god?"
    "Bharata Natyam. The dance of the temple. The sacred tradition as old as India itself. The god Shiva set the world in motion by the rhythms of his dance. My dance is a prayer to Shiva." Kamala's eyes snapped with hatred. "I dance for no one else."
    "You