Sunita Muses

Sunita sits in the depths of a forest in Kerala - on smooth rocks beneath a waterfall. Its roar is deafening; its spray on her face - rainbows of light refracting from its mist. At the rim of her consciousness, she senses her arms being repositioned and pillows stuffed beneath her. But she is a courtesan floating on a princely barge in the arms of her sleeping paramour. The heat of midday hangs heavily anticipating the monsoon. Only the lapping of water and stillness. Her attention is on the boatman - who stands at the helm driving the barge pole into the silt at the bottom of the river - arching his back then contacting his body in sinuous supplication. Should she feel guilty eyeing an untouchable?

Her world tilts and she is aware again of Epstein's studio in Bloomsbury. The artist's hands like parchment stroke her breasts, her legs - between them. He smells of cognac and his breathing is constricted but her eyes remain closed. He groans heaving his ungainly form upon her. Instead Sunita follows the boatman through the tall feathery reeds that grow beside the river. Its twilight and the forest teams with life but there is no-one to judge them. On the mossy bank they intertwine as the water murmurs and fireflies hover and settle like the embers of fireworks at the close of Diwali celebrations. She is aware of her pounding heart and is pleasured by his entry. The boatman's skin is indigo beneath the moon. Her body is a lotus.

She is awoken by a steady pressure of her shoulder. Margaret Epstein has had the maid bring tea and a robe so she does not catch a chill. The fire in the hearth has long since died. Epstein has left the studio but his passion for Sunita cascades across the parchment. In the vestibule Magraret pays her 5 shillings for the sittings as if she were paying the baker in the village. Sunita steps lightly, her petticoats brushing against a portmanteau is one hand and her child's sleepy hand in the other as she leads him to the station. They will go to London - to Yash-Uncle's house for Diwali. With a butterfly of a smile alighting on her lips, she recalls Epstein's water-colour and how he had intuited the river of her dreams - its soft caress but had not imagined a rival. Somewhere in the forests of Kerala The boatman drifts; his handsome profile shaded from the sun, ready to come to Sunita when she calls. entry writing here...

Bollywood