At that moment the last lamp was extinguished. Along with the other guests they groped their way out of the Diwan-i-Khas in total darkness.
[CHAPTER EIGHTEEN]
"Many years ago I was a devadasi." Kamala sat, pillowless, on the carpet, watching as Hawksworth ate. Her musicians, the flautist and the drummer, knelt silently behind her. Nadir Sharif’s servants stood by, nervously attentive, pretending to ignore everyone but Hawksworth. The white plaster walls of the lamp-lit room fairly flashed with Kamala's diamonds. "Do you know what that is?"
Hawksworth shook his head, his mouth gorged with roast lamb. The room was filled with its aroma. It was his first lamb since Burhanpur, and he was ravenous.
"Does that mean yes?" Kamala's Turki was surprisingly good.
Hawksworth suddenly remembered the curious Indian
convention of swinging the head from side to side to signify concurrence. He had meant to say no, which in Indian body language was an almost un-reproducible twist of the neck. He swallowed the lamb and reached for another shank.
"No. I meant no. Is that a kind of dancer?"
"It means 'a servant of the gods.' In South India there's a special caste of women who serve in the great stone temples, who are married to the god of the temple. When we are very young we have a marriage ceremony, like any wedding. Except we are a bride of the temple. And then we serve its god with music and with our dance."
Hawksworth examined her quizzically. "You mean you were like a nun?"