Hundreds of tiny lights advanced in the dark, floating on the river’s surface like a mirrored reflection of the starry sky. They had appeared all at once, past the river bend, dotting the Narmada like sequins on black velvet while they were having drinks on the top terrace. Everyone stopped talking and just looked in amazement at the clusters of lights flowing downstream. They were told by a waiter that the shikara was ready to take them, so the group descended the steps to the ghats, their spirits lifted by more cucumber martinis and the knowledge that they were under the flawless stage directions of the prince who left no detail unattended. The boat slid silently on the smooth river surface (no engines were allowed on that stretch of the sacred river), parting the clusters of lights that were coming toward them. Now they could see there were lotus flowers and coconuts floating alongside with the oil lamps—were these offerings to deities?—that someone upriver must have been instructed to release at the appointed hour, in order to make their short trip unforgettable. The tiny island glowed in the distance. There were torches burning and more lanterns that lent the scene a warming glow. As they approached he saw, waiting for them on the bank, a few attendants dressed in white, who helped them descend. A white padded carpet as wide as a room had been spread on the ground. They sat barefoot among the soft cushions and more scattered rose petals. In the darkness that surrounded the small circle of light he could make out the silhouettes of the musicians, who’d begun to tune their instruments, cross-legged on a wooden platform, right across from where they were sitting. For the first time since he had been in India, he wished he were wearing the same comfortable shirts and soft shawls as the other men in his company, which blended so well with the surroundings. Even the young translator had abandoned his jeans and T-shirt in favor of traditional clothes perfectly starched and ironed; now he too looked noble and sculpted. A light drumming started, accompanied by the violin and then the flute. The prince walked over to the stage and introduced with a few words the piece they were going to see, then he ceremoniously lit the oil lamps under a small bronze sculpture of Shiva and his wheel. The glimmering flames lit and revealed the depth of the stage and the shapes of the musicians.
He felt inebriated by the smells, the sounds of crickets in the trees, the quiet waves lapping in the distance. As the music began, a soft, beguiling tune, the dancers entered the stage in their elaborate silk costumes. Ushma was in the center, in a flaming orange sari, covered in rich golden jewelry. She moved across the stage in a slightly tilted stance, where head, bust and torso formed a curvaceous line in an S shape that made the temple sculptures come alive. She wore a sphinxlike smile, while her enormous black irises moved right and left in the blinding whites of her eyes, adding expression and movement to the dance; her fingers opened and closed, like petals of a lotus flower. Every part of her body flexed, creating opposing angles as she kept shifting her weight from right to left, in a geometric design that seemed impossible to accomplish other than in a drawing. It was a timeless image, as powerful and dense as only dreams can be. Ushma wasn’t looking at him. Her face, her smile and her glances were set in the carefully constructed mask the dance required. But underneath the composure of her face she was, he knew, dancing for him.
Something softened inside and he realized he had tears in his eyes. What a relief and what a revelation, to be feeling something so deeply that it should bring tears. So there was something left in him that had been frozen and now was thawing. Might this be a case of Stendhal syndrome? he wondered as he dabbed away at his tears. It must be either that or the feeling of oneness with the universe that Ushma had described. Where else would this spellbinding emotion come from? This was exactly what he needed to reconnect with: the simple truth contained within a perfect act. If only he could tap into that source again, then he would be safe, as an artist and as a man.
When the performance ended Ushma came forward, followed by the three younger dancers. With their long hennaed fingers they touched first their heads, then their eyes, then their hearts, and bowed. Not to the audience, he realized—they didn’t engage with them, or smile or come out of their composure—they were bowing to Shiva and to his cosmic dance. Then the three slender younger dancers, in one swift, deft move, knelt down in front of Ushma, placed their hands around her ankles and kissed her feet, touching their foreheads lightly to the floor. To each one Ushma gave a blessing, by touching their heads with her open palms. This exchange, performed with such delicacy, a daily ritual that didn’t seem to surprise his Indian companions, astounded him. To kiss your teacher’s feet. To be blessed by your guru. For a fleeting moment he thought that if he could only penetrate more deeply into this magnificent tradition and be part of it—no longer as a visitor or as part of an audience, but physically delve into it—then he might have hope to find a way back into his work. There was no longer any respect for serious writers in the West, only marketing. Appearances. Money. It was no wonder he was so disillusioned, no wonder his inspiration had waned. Now Ushma smiled, as the small audience kept clapping, and he was sure that she was looking directly at him. Yes, she had danced for him, and for him only. That he knew. How could he let go of such a miracle?
It took a surprisingly short time for sixteen years of marriage to come undone. Later, neither one of them was able to recollect how the sequence had unfolded—which phrase had prompted the next, nor how it had been possible that a mild irritation, an unpleasant remark, had unveiled truths that had seemed impossible to reveal until that moment.
The feeling they both had was of a tidal wave that kept gaining speed and had crashed upon them before they could take shelter. Just like any natural calamity, it happened without foresight, while they were having tea on the small terrace of their room, looking at the peaceful river bathed in the morning light. It is possible that during the night they both had been prey to the kinds of dreams they’d had since coming to India—dreams of unusual intensity—and were still under their spell. In any case, seconds before it started, neither of them had the perception that they were about to hack to death their marriage, nor could they foresee how quick and (apparently) painless this hacking would turn out to be. Everything had seemed possible, in that moment. Possible that they could put an end to their marriage, that they could go different ways (he would stay on, she would go back). The decision had sounded final and conclusive, as though both of them had been toying secretly with it until it had become so familiar that it no longer frightened them. Oh no, now they were both looking forward to what would happen next, when they would be without the other. It didn’t deter them to think they would have to move out of their comfortable apartment, close their joint bank account, file for divorce, find a new place to live, maybe even move to a different country. Suddenly they were ready for change. In fact they’d never felt more euphoric.
They had to say things to each other that would make turning back impossible, and they obliged. I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t been in love with you for years. I am still young, I want passion. I need to feel inspired again. I want my life back, I have lived only in your shadow. How odiously clichéd it all sounded, and yet—at that very moment—so utterly real, so satisfying. It was as though with each phrase they were shedding years of dissimulation. They grew lighter, younger, more desirable, now that they thought they were about to take their lives back.
Before leaving the Fort, Ushma had given him her number and the name of a simple hotel he could stay in outside Bubaneshwar, not far from where she lived. He told the prince he would stay a couple of more days at the Fort, then he might go back to Orissa to look at the temples again. Plans were still uncertain, but he didn’t mind, he said.
She booked her flight online and in two hours was packed.
He didn’t bother to ask his wife why she was flying to Paris instead of Rome.
When, a few weeks later, they met again to discuss the details of their separation, their enthusiasm had already subsided (both their romantic fantasies had turned out to be unrealistic or disappointing) and they were faced only with the practicalities of dismantling what was left of their life as a couple. They were disoriented and afraid but also unable to repair the damage done.
Later, when they tried to explain to their friends why their marriage had fallen apart, within “l’espace d’un matin,” she’d said, they admitted they weren’t quite sure how it happened.
They both, separately, used the same expression.
It was like being in a dream, they said. A strange dream, which seemed so vivid until it lasted.