THE COURTESAN OF JAIGARH (Complete)

Part 34-The Kiss

 Hassan found himself accompanying the intriguing woman beside him. He was amazed at the workings of Fate that had brought him face to face with her so soon when he had doubted that they would ever meet again. It was a stroke of luck that had drawn him to this particular goldsmith's shop. He cast a covert glance at her. She was, as usual, dressed impeccably in fancy attire, embroidered with silken threads and studded with beads. Her veil was of the sheerest material, interwoven with gold and silver, shimmering brilliantly, as she moved. Walking alongside her, he could smell the intoxicating scent of fresh flowers that she had used, most probably, in her bathing water.

Hassan took a deep breath, inhaling the pleasant perfume, a tingling sensation rising within his belly, compounded by her nearness. They walked in silence, each occupied with their thoughts. Soon, the mansion was in sight.

Once inside, they reclined on the cushions in the carpeted hall, while the servant brought glasses of milk, delicately flavored with cardamom and saffron and sprinkled with rose petals. The cool milk soothed his insides, leaving a delicious flavor on his tongue.

When the silence stretched between them for some time, he spoke up, bursting into laughter as they both spoke out together, she about his lapis lazuli and he about her beauty.

Her face assumed a wistful expression as he mentioned her exceptional looks. Hassan could glimpse a fine sheen of moisture in her eyes, as she replied to his comment.

"Being beautiful is not always a blessing, Hassan. Sometimes, it is akin to a curse," she said, a faint self-deprecating smile on her lips.

Hassan found her words astounding. He would have thought that a woman, as renowned for her beauty as she was, would have no reason to complain about her fortune. She lacked nothing by way of riches or royal patronage, and he said so, curious for her answer.

"Do you not love the Prince of Jaigarh?" he asked, his heart pounding in anticipation of her reply.

Laughter ensued from her lips, laughter underlined by a deep hint of melancholy. It made his heart ache for this woman.

"Do you think I do this for love?" she counter-questioned, and when he just stared at her, she continued. "This...." she waved a hand around her, "....is why I do it. I know what it means to live on the streets, live in slavery, even. I have been to hell and back, Hassan."

She paused to take a deep breath, leaving him shaken to his very core.

"No, I most certainly do not love Prince Harshvardhan. He is just a means for me to live with some sort of dignity. Of course, I'm indebted to him for rescuing me from a life of shame and humiliation, hence, it is my duty to serve him in bed. It's nothing more and nothing less," she concluded, staring at him with a look, that entreated him to believe her words.

"Maybe, he loves you?" Hassan found himself asking, speaking what was in his heart. He might never get another chance to find out. They might never meet again, who knew what fate had chosen for them?

She gave another wan smile.

"Why do you think so? He's like all the other men I have encountered, interested only in this body, uncaring of the fact that even I have a heart beating in my chest. The only difference is that he is generous and considerate of my needs, and not a wild beast pawing hungrily at me every night."

Hassan digested these words in silence, not understanding what to say, or how to console her, then exclaimed in dismay as a tear dropped from her eye, followed by another, leading to a dam breaking out, with years of pent-up pain and anguish rising to the fore.

Hassan drew her near, his arms moving around her out of their own volition. Instead of shrugging him away, as he expected, she nestled into his embrace, as her face raised to his in invitation. Without further thought, he lowered his lips to hers, finding that first contact like a bolt of lightning.

With a groan, he pulled her nearer, his lips seeking her sweetness like a thirsty traveler in the desert drinking at an oasis. Without a shadow of resistance, she opened up to him, kissing him back with a fervor she found amazing. Never had a kiss been so magical, drawing out all the hurt from her and filling her with a beauty that touched her wounded soul with soothing fingers.

Her fingers sank into his thick, dark hair, feeling the silky strands, playing with them, while he explored every hill and valley of her body, rejoicing in the responses that he drew forth from her lips. Where would this lead, he wondered, as his body burned with a conflagration alien to him.

Would this fire burn him out? Would he be reduced to one of the large number of men who had shared her bed? Strangely, he did not want that. To be one of a crowd, was demeaning. He wished to be the only one for her. The one to whom she would turn in need and desire, as well as in pain and anguish. His should be the only arms to provide her comfort, to bring her solace. Also, the ones she would seek to satisfy her burning desire and hunger. In short, he realized, he wished to be the only man in her life.

The thought frightened him. Was this the beginning of love, he mused, his heart pounding with an unknown fear. He was unlucky in love. The past was proof of that. He could not risk falling in love again. What if she did not return his feelings? After all, what did he really have to offer her, as compared to her royal lover?

That was enough to dampen his ardor. He pushed her away gently, turning his face, trying not to look at the hurt query in her eyes.

"I have to go, my lady. The night is about to fall," he made up the excuse, while his body cried for the release it had been denied.

Neelanjana nodded mutely, unable to understand why he changed his mind. They were about to make love, for god's sake, and for the first time she had felt that she was on the brink of discovering something more than lust and physical need. In fact, she knew that their union would have been earth-shaking. All her experiences with other men would have paled in its light. He had held her as if she was precious, fragile, easily broken. She had never felt so safe and cherished in a man's arms. Why did he stop, then?

He got up and left her without a backward glance. Neelanjana stared at his departing back, her heart sinking as despair hit her. Was he repulsed by the thought of making love to her? She knew that she wasn't an innocent maiden, shying away from the touch of a man, but a woman of the world, who had sought his arms with shameless eagerness.

She could not help being what she was. It wasn't in her power to change the past, to regain her lost innocence. Love wasn't for the likes of her, she decided. Gods had been unusually cruel to her, to show her a glimpse of heaven and then to snatch it from her.

As a feeling of misfortune assailed her, Neelanjana dissolved into a pool of tears, sinking to the floor. She was uncaring of the time, as evening gave way to nightfall. The servant came to light the lamps and found her lying in a heap, her hair askew, and her exquisitely made-up face streaked by the marks of her recent outburst. Hassan's leaving had broken her into thousands of tiny pieces. Would she be able to pull herself together? She did not think so.