‘All right, as you like.’ Felder shrugged his shoulders ruefully. ‘I suppose it is my responsibility.’ The envelope disappeared into the chrome leather case, swallowed from sight with a magnificent casualness. Briefcases of that quality went in and out of here by the score, black plastic scholastic ones were much rarer in this temple of commerce. Dominic felt grateful that he had bought Everyman copies of the Hindu scriptures and the Ramayana and Mahabharata, to give a semblance of gravity to his own flimsy burden. They could easily have been mistaken for money, viewed from the outside.
‘In the morning, then, about ten, I’ll bring it to the desk. Better be somewhere close, in case. And when you leave the temple in the afternoon, come in to Nirula’s for tea. I’ll be there.’
‘We will,’ said Dominic.
‘Go ahead first, then, I’ll give you ten minutes or so.’
Dominic walked briskly out of the imposing doors of the State Bank of India, and away down Parliament Street, with his tawdry briefcase filled and fulfilled with the wisdom of thirty centuries of Indian thought and feeling. Worth a good deal more, in the final issue, than two hundred thousand rupees, even taking into consideration the relative impossibility of adequate translation.
It was the longest Saturday they ever remembered, and the only good things left about it were that they had at least a hope of recovering Anjli, and that they were spending the agonising time of waiting together. Felder kept away from them, and that was surely the right thing to do. And they made contact with no one, so that if they were watched the watchers might be quite certain that they had not infringed their orders. They went no farther from their hotel than the Lodi park, where they sat in the sunshine among the fawn-coloured grass and the flowers, the amazing, exuberant, proliferating flowers of the season, and looked at the towering rose-coloured tombs with which the Lodi dynasty had burdened the Delhi earth, and thought about Purnima’s modest pyre by the Yamuna, and her little heap of ashes going back to the elements, and nothing left of weight or self-importance or regret. And it seemed to them the most modest of all ways of leaving this world, and the most in keeping with the spirit’s certainty of return; until, of course, the cycles close in the last perfect circle, and you are free from any more rebirths.
But they did not stay away long, because they were afraid of being out of reach, even by ten minutes’ walk, in case there was some new message. They had very little sleep that night. Felder, in the smaller villa at Hauz Khas, fared no better. All of them were up with the first light, and aching for the afternoon to come.
To reach the Shri Lakshminarayan temple, if you happen to be in the shopping centre of Delhi, Connaught Place, you strike out due west along Lady Hardinge Road, and it will bring you, after a walk of about a mile, straight to that amazing frontage. Don’t expect anything historic; the temple was built towards the end of British rule, as a gesture towards the wholeness of all the Indian religions, which are still one religion, so that it belongs to orthodox Brahmans, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists, and anyone else, in fact, who comes with sympathy and an open mind. It is dedicated to Narayan and Lakshmi, his spouse, but it also houses images of others of the Hindu pantheon. Which pantheon is itself an illusion, a convenient veil drawn over the face of the single and universal unity; convenient, because its multifarious aspects provide an approachable deity for everyone who comes, from the simplest to the most subtle, and from the most extrovert to the most introvert, and all routes that lead to the universal essence are right routes.
What Dominic and Tossa saw, as they turned into the final straight stretch of the road and emerged into the broad open space of Mandir Marg, facing the forecourt of the temple, was a huge, gay, sparkling construction in several horizontal terraces, above a sweeping flight of steps, and crowned above by a triple shikhara, three tall, fluted, tapering towers, shirred in a pattern imitative of reed thatching, each capped at its sealed crest by a yellow cupola and a tiny gilded spire. The towers were mainly white, picked out with yellow, the levels below them were white and russet red and yellow, lined out here and there with green, arcades of mannered arches and perforated balustrades. All the textures, all the colours, were matt and gauche and new; and with their usual assured recognition of realities, the modern inhabitants of Delhi had taken the place for their own. Felder had not exaggered. It was a fairground; a happy, holiday, Sunday-afternoon crowd possessed it inside and out.
Mandir Marg was teeming with people and traffic. They crossed it warily, Dominic hugging the cheap little briefcase that contained the bank’s envelope full of money, which Felder had left at the desk at Keen’s that morning.
There was plenty of space for all who came, about the front of the temple. But approximately half of that space was cordoned off behind frayed white ropes, sealing off the actual front of the temple wall beside the staircase. Within this enclosure stood and sat half a dozen or more vociferous Hindus, jealously guarding serried rows of footgear discarded here by the faithful, and waiting patiently for their return. Just to the right of the steps sat a diminutive brown boy, slender and large-eyed, one thin leg tucked under him, one, clearly helpless and distorted at the ankle, stretched out like a purposeless encumbrance at an improbable angle. A home-carved crutch lay beside him. He had more than his fair share of sandals and shoes to mind.
Tossa and Dominic shook off their sensible slip-ons, and proffered them tentatively across the cords. There is always the problem of tipping now or when you recover your property. The uninitiated prefer to play safe by doing both, even if this involves over-paying. Dominic gave the boy a quarter-rupee, reserving the other quarter for when they emerged, and held out the briefcase to be placed with their shoes. The child – how old could he possibly be? Thirteen? – seemed to be content. Even conscientious, for he lined up the two pairs of shoes with careful accuracy, and stood the briefcase upright between them. And yet he must be in on this thing… Or was that necessarily so? There could be somebody he knew and trusted, a credible story, a planned diversion… No, better withhold judgement.
They climbed the steps. Delhi receded and declined behind them. Through the arcaded doorways sweet, heady scents wafted over them, sandalwood, incense and flowers, an overwhelming, dewy splendour of flowers. This is the season of flowers in Delhi; the marvellous shrubs and trees blossom a little later. But the sense of approaching a fairground remained. Why not? Fairs are essentially religious in origin, and if they are joyful occasions, so should religion be.
They stepped into spacious halls faced everywhere in parti-coloured stone and polished marbles, brightly lighted, swarming with curious, reverent, talkative people, notably hordes of alert, lively, fascinated children. Formalised gods sat brooding immovably under mini-mountains of flowers, little bells chimed ingratiatingly, reminding the remote dreamers that small, insistent worshippers were here requesting attention. Everything was fresh, naive, festive and confident; religion and everyday life knew of no possible barrier or even distinction between them. The fragrance was hypnotic; there was a kind of radiant dew upon the air. And yet if you cared to be hypercritical you could fault everything in sight as garish, crude and phoney; you would be mistaken, but in that mood you would never recognise the fact.
The pale, sharp sunshine fell away behind them, and the delicate blue fingers of perfumed smoke brushed their faces. They had been told not to watch their shoes, and not to emerge again for half an hour exactly. They obeyed instructions to the letter.