Moths in Porbandar
by
Gregory Norris

‘You British are always most surprised to see the cross,’ said the guide.  ‘You think it is a symbol of Germany.  You think it is a symbol of great evil.  But for Hindus it is a lucky sign to draw upon the floor.  It is the symbol of Kali, the goddess who will begin a new age.’

Sean and Rachael had travelled to Porbandar because it was Gandhi’s birthplace.  Their guidebook said there was a museum.  From the outside it was impressive: perfect white walls and a gleaming marble courtyard.  Sean liked the way you removed your shoes and were greeted by bowing guides.  Large yellow flowers, a kind he didn’t recognise, were laid around the edges of each room and incense burners choked the air with fumes.  But there wasn’t much to see: some photos of Gandhi’s life without English captions, a few personal items such as his letters, spinning wheels for visitors to try.  Sean hoped Rachael wasn’t disappointed. 

She had researched Hindu mythology before the holiday.  ‘The swastika is the symbol of Kali,’ she said.  ‘But why would Gandhi want her to mark his birthplace?’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s the goddess of destruction.  She has four arms, hence the four-armed swastika, and is usually depicted with one hand brandishing a sword and the other a decapitated human head.’

‘Not exactly Gandhi’s scene.’

‘Then again, Kali’s third hand sweeps aside fear while the fourth grants eternal bliss.’

‘A swastika.  A bit incomprehensible.’

‘Kali worshippers used to appease her with human sacrifice.’

‘Like that Indiana Jones movie?’

She laughed.  ‘Not tuned into Indian culture yet, are you?’

Before they left Rachael bought a copy of Gandhi’s autobiography.  Their guide took a photo of them by the swastika and Rachael gave him a generous tip.

They went for a walk along the seafront.  Sean thought Porbandar must be the only grey place in India; the buildings were modern concrete and breezeblock, a cement factory lay abandoned.  Few people were about and there were no saris or bustling rickshaws or shouting street traders.  He read aloud the guidebook’s description of Porbandar.  ‘This once powerful city state dominated trade to the Persian Gulf.  For five hundred years it was a hub of learning and culture.’

‘Well, it’s changed a bit,’ said Rachael.

That evening Sean lay on the bed and watched Rachael read Gandhi’s autobiography.  She sat cross-legged on the doorstep of their hotel room.  The hotel was like an American motel, a single storey with the rooms opening onto the road; it cost two dollars a night.  Moths flew in the open door and fluttered along the fluorescent tube.  Sean thought about German swastikas and Catholic incense burners and yellow Hindu flowers.

‘Did you know Gandhi raped his wife?’ Rachael said.

‘Come off it.’

‘It’s true.’

‘Who says?’

‘He does.  It’s an autobiography, remember?’

‘But he was celibate.’

Rachael twisted her hair through her fingers while describing Gandhi and his wife.  Gandhi married when he was fourteen, his wife was twelve.  Neither of them had been given the slightest education about sex.

‘He’s very forthright.  For two years he didn’t realise what sex was.  Then he used force because she resisted.’

‘Just imagine being married that young.  Unpleasant.’

‘His sense of guilt fills the pages,’ said Rachael.  ‘Presumably it explains his later sexual dysfunction.’

‘I don’t know he was sexually dysfunctional.  He chose to be celibate for spiritual reasons.’

Rachael twisted round to look at him.  ‘The man tested himself by sleeping naked with his women associates, to prove to the world he had attained absolute mastery over his desires.  You’re saying that’s healthy behaviour?’

‘Well, it’s not what I’d call dysfunctional, in a medical sense.’

‘Surely celibacy is the ultimate sexual dysfunction?’

‘Is there any argument you don’t win?’

He watched her.  She read fast, turning pages at a steady rate.  She pulled her hair forward and he could see her neck was dirty where sunscreen had mixed with the dust of travelling.  Her T-shirt was stained by sweat and stuck to her skin; it was getting cooler so he tossed her a sweater and she wrapped it round her shoulders.  She didn’t seem to mind when moths settled on her bare arms; she let them rest and they soon fluttered off.

Rachael said, ‘Back then, they admired celibacy.  Polite society would assume his wife was delighted to be spared the bother.  In our world it would be considered offensive, a husband imposing his own views on his partner.  Sexist domineering.’

‘You wouldn’t have let him, if you were the wife?’

‘With me, he’d have done as he was told.’

‘I could be celibate if I wanted,’ Sean said.  They both laughed. 

Rachael stood up and closed the door to the room, sliding the bolt across.  She placed a leather bookmark between the pages of her book.

‘How’s that for inappropriate?’ she said.  ‘Using cow leather in Gandhi’s autobiography?’

‘Don’t start on sacred cows.  I’m still puzzling over swastikas.’

She went into the bathroom and he listened to her brush her teeth.  The bed was wider than it was long, his feet dangled over the end.  The sheet was clean and white but worn into bare threads.  There were no pillows.

Rachael came back.  She’d changed into a satin camisole with nothing underneath.  She’d brushed her hair.

‘So,’ she said.  ‘Do you want to get married when we get home, or what?’

Sean knew he would say yes because of the way a camisole strap drifted down her arm, leaving her shoulder bare and rounded, and because a smudge of dirt still lingered on her neck, and because she cuddled in close and smiled without him needing to answer.