So while it was somewhat uncommon to see a single tourist perambulating by herself, it was hardly unprecedented. Fifty years or so earlier, she would have been an easy target for pickpockets or muggers. But like every other tourist site in Sagramanda, the dense accumulation of shops and stores around the old temple was peppered with concealed monitors and camouflaged sensors. Perpetrators might success fully commit a crime in its vicinity, but they were unlikely to get away with it.
Those denizens of the immediate, overcrowded neighborhood who did happen to glance into the face of the long-legged visitor might have had second thoughts about her origin. Though her features were European, her skin was darker than that of many locals. Furthermore, she made her way with complete confidence, expressing no disgust or outrage at the lingering puddles of urine or accumulated piles of rubbish she effortlessly avoided. In the midst of filth, she showed no emotion whatsoever. That was unlike the typical tourist.
The small open area that fronted the temple, a miniature plaza nearly roofed over by the porches and overhangs of the buildings that surrounded it, was much cleaner. The priests kept it so, picking up any intruding trash and regularly sweeping the large squares of stained white paving stones. It was a tiny place, almost claustrophobic. Even though this was the principal temple to the goddess Kali in all of India, one could miss it by a single street without knowing it was there.
Neither was the building itself imposing. Wide white stone stairs led up to a single wraparound deck that in turn surrounded the inner temple. Clad in simple green and white tiles, the old dome overhead was no bigger than that of a country church in the south of France. Perhaps only the bright, bloodred paint that covered the external pillars hinted at the presence inside of the unusual.
From some locations on the diminutive square it was almost impossible to see the temple through the maze of fiber optic cables, power lines, illegal boxline taps, and other wires that crisscrossed the restricted open space. It was as if the temple had been encased in a gigantic web of brown and silver silk spun by unseen spiders. Vendors of fruit and flowers, incense, and small souvenirs for the faithful occupied every crack of an alcove, every semisheltered niche. Especially flowers, as these were bought to be cast to the image of the goddess during prayer. Red flowers were especially popular; natural color if possible, dyed if one could not afford the real thing. Even more than the constant babble in multiple languages, the clash of odors was stunning to the senses: stale urine and powerful disinfectant, fresh roses and decomposing offal.
None of it appeared to affect, much less faze, the woman dressed in the half sari and loose cotton pants. Approaching the temple, she touched a button on the haft of the umbrella that had been shielding her from both sun and rain, collapsing and automatically furling the portable protective canopy. The two short, dark men who had had their eyes on her ever since she had entered the temple square exchanged a few mumbled words and moved on. What had at first glance seemed a possible easy target was on reflection entirely too familiar with her surroundings. They decided to look elsewhere for a victim.
They never knew that was the best decision they were to make all day.
Ignoring the imploring, singsong din of the many vendors packed tighter than sardines along the alleyway, Jena climbed the temple steps as deliberately as she had many times before. At the top, she found her self confronted by a priest. A new man, one who did not know her. His smile was wide, inviting, and phony.
'Memsahib has come to see the temple of Kali?' Without waiting for a reply, he continued, 'I am Nusad, and I would be happy to be your guide.'
She started to brush him off, then had a wicked thought. She was in no hurry, and could use a little entertainment. Looking around, she saw no one she recognized, either in the temple or on the small square it fronted. That was not surprising. Like many temples, this one rotated priests and acolytes frequently. That suited her fine. She did not want anyone to recognize her, either.
So she said, in English, 'Very nice to meet you, Nusad. Yes, you may show me the temple.'
She took the standard tour. It was interesting to see what was shown to and what was kept hidden from the tourists these days. She overpaid for the devotional flowers at the shop the priest led her to, wondering what percentage comprised his personal kickback. She listened to his rehearsed history of Hindu mythology. The greatly condensed version, suitable for ignorant foreigners. Only when he led her inside to the flower-draped, incense- surrounded statue of Mother Kali did her attitude change.
The self-assured young priest did not notice the subtle shift. He was too engrossed in his spiel. 'This is how you pray,' he was telling her. 'First you throw the flowers you are carrying to-'
She turned on him so sharply it broke his train of thought. 'I know how to pray,' she informed him tautly. Turning away from him, she approached the statue and reached toward it. No other priests or visitors were around.
'Here, memsahib, you can't do-'
She snapped at him. In Hindi. And again, for good measure, in Bengali. The look on his face was priceless, worth having to endure the preceding ten minutes of touristy babble. Turning back to the statue, she did not throw but placed her offering at the goddess's feet. Straightening, she steepled her hands together before her face, palms together, fingers pointing upward, lowered her head, and began to whisper in Hindi.
The stunned priest could only stand by, open-mouthed, listening. This was something he had never seen before. A white person who knew the proper words. And there was more, much more, embedded in the prayer. Indisputably, improbably, the foreign woman was praying in earnest and not for show. Some of what she was saying would have made the hair stand up on his head, were it not cleanshaven.
The words that he managed to catch had something to do with a late-night commuter train. A businessman, traveling home. Him get ting off at a commuter nexus in a well-off suburb. Being followed. Somewhere between train and house being stabbed in the back, several times, blood pouring out to darken his high-collared white coat.
Fantasy, of course. Homicidal make-believe. The shaken priest had heard of such things but had never encountered it before in person.
Wish-fulfillment. The foreign woman had a fertile, if horrific, imagination. She had everything, in fact, to complete the illusion she was trying so hard to craft except the requisite severed head of a demon clutched in her right hand. He almost expected her to break into the appropriate dance-and was half afraid that she might. If it was a certain, specific kind of dance, it might drop him to his knees. Thank fully, she did not commence anything so disconcerting.
Concluding her prayers, she turned to leave. Her eyes were shining; some of it was due to devotion, some to the lingering effects of a hefty morning dose of rapture-4. Taken together, it was enough to cause the now thoroughly unsettled priest to step quickly out of her way. He retreated until he was backed up against the temple wall. The colors of her half-Western, half-Indian raiment had not registered on him until now: black and red.
She turned to him in passing, her face alight, her eyes burning. The two of them were alone on the isolated segment of wraparound porch. 'Thank you for the tour, priest. Aren't you going to harangue me until, out of guilt or fear, I consent to contribute an excessive dona tion to 'the upkeep of the temple'?'
He shook his head slowly, unable to tear his eyes away from that mesmerizing gaze.
She smiled. 'Well, don't worry. I always make one.' Reaching into her shoulder bag and using her right hand, she removed not money, but a small knife. It looked like a miniature Tibetan phurpa, but he couldn't be sure. Still smiling at him, she extended the tiny but ultra-sharp blade and drew the cutting edge across the back of her right hand, deftly avoiding the tendons. Droplets of bright red blood began to drip onto the temple floor. Reaching out, never taking her eyes from his, she fingered up a fold of his robe and used it to wipe the blade clean. Pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, she sucked at the self-inflicted wound. It was then that the priest noticed the framing network of scars. They covered the back of her hand and extended, like the ghosts of worms, all the way up her forearm until they disappeared beneath the sleeve of her sari top.
'My donation,' she whispered. Moving closer, she added, 'Don't call me 'memsahib.' I am Devi Jena. And this is your Shakti for the day. May it inspire you in the faith.' Then, before he could escape to either side, she kissed him, full on the mouth. Amid the hot pressure he tasted salt and blood.
Then she was gone, around the corner of the temple and down the stairs, a swirl of hair and silk that was swallowed up by the milling, noisy crowd.
He didn't tell anyone about the encounter. How could he? No one would believe him. To the end of his days, he never forgot it.
It would have been better for some still alive if he had been both more worldly and more secular, and had gone to the police.
