"You do not seem yourself, my feringhi Sahib." She studied him for a moment. "Did you hear sad news of your Persian woman?"
"Nothing. But I'm afraid I've just lost my best chance to save her."
"I don't understand."
"It's not your trouble." He examined her wistfully. "It seems I'll be leaving Agra sooner than I thought. So dance if you want, and then I'll wish you well."
"Your trouble is always my trouble." She frowned as she studied him. "But you are leaving? So soon?" She seemed not to wait for an answer as she went on. "Never mind, I've never understood the affairs of ambassadors and kings. But our parting must not be sad. Let my dance to Shiva be my farewell to you."
She turned and signaled to the flautist, who began a low- pitched, poignant melody. "Have you ever seen the Bharata Natyam?"
"Never." Hawksworth sipped more brandy from the bottle and found himself wishing he could send them all away and play a suite on his lute, the one he had played for Shirin that day at the observatory.
"Then it may be difficult for you to comprehend at first. With my body and my song I will tell Lord Shiva of my longing for him. Do you think you can understand it?"
"I'll try." Hawksworth looked up at her and again sensed some great sadness in her eyes.
She examined him silently for a moment. "But I want you to understand. Not the words I sing, they're in ancient Sanskrit, but if you watch my hands, they will also speak. I will sing to Lord Shiva, but I give life to his song with my eyes, my hands, my body. I will re-create the poem with my dance. My eyes will speak the desire of my heart. The language of my hands will tell my longing for Lord Shiva. My feet will show the rhythms by which he brings order to the world. If you will try to feel what I feel, perhaps Lord Shiva will touch you and lighten your burden."