Chapter 5: The Grove and the Foot

After two hours the carriage halted in a secluded clearing. Ancient stone ruins, choked with pink creepers and wild orchids. The ground was soft — fallen leaves, scattered pink petals.

Yogini stepped down first. Tiju followed.

She turned to Ramesh, the chauffeur. "Drive the carriage back to the highway junction and wait for us at the traveler's rest. We will send word tomorrow morning. Do not enter these grounds again."

Ramesh hesitated. Tiju turned to the man. "Do as the Madam says, Ramesh."

Ramesh bowed, pale. The carriage rumbled away. The silence was absolute.

Yogini walked to the center of the clearing, where a low carved stone bench sat before an old stone shrine. She sat. She placed the brass bowl on a stone platform beside her.

She looked at Tiju.

"Remove your clothes. All of them. Fold them and place them on the stone beside the bench. You will not wear them again."

He did not hesitate. He unbuttoned the coat. The silk cravat. The vest. The shirt. The boots. The trousers. He folded each piece with precision. He stood before her in nothing but his skin.

She looked at his body. He was an ordinary man — neither tall nor short, neither lean nor heavy. The body of a merchant softened by brandy and neglect. There was nothing commanding about it. Nothing that explained the tyranny of the man who had worn it.

"Kneel."

He knelt. The cool earth pressed against his bare shins. He lowered his head.

Yogini unwrapped the silk from the brass bowl. The golden-red paste glowed. She lifted her left foot. She dipped her big toe into the paste, coating the underside slowly, deliberately.

She extended her foot. She placed the toe against his forehead. Between the eyebrows. The third eye.

She pressed.

The first thing was the heat.

The paste sank through the skin, through the bone, through the membrane that separates the skull from the brain. The heat went to the centre of him. The heat found the place where the pride lived and burned it. The pride burned. The brandy-thirst burned. The rage burned. The cruelty burned. The sneer burned. Everything that had been Tiju Chauhan — the merchant, the monster, the man who had won a wager and a bride and had failed them both — everything burned.

And the man inside watched it burn.

The man inside was not burned. The man inside felt the heat. The man inside felt the pride burn and the thirst burn and the rage burn. And the man inside screamed.

*No. No. NO. The pride is MINE. The rage is — the plan. The plan. I need the plan. Cure. Endure. Escape. Conquer. The plan — *

The burning stopped. The tilak ignited. A golden-red mark, the exact shape of the pad of her toe, burned itself into the flesh between his eyebrows. It pulsed once, twice, then settled into a steady glow.

The second thing was the body.

The body went rigid. A sound escaped his throat — a low, deep vibration, the sound of a door opening onto a room that had been sealed for a lifetime. The man inside felt the sound. The man inside thought: *the cure. The cure is beginning. The body is — the body is — *

And the body answered.

It had been dead for ten months. Dead since the bridal chamber. Dead since the petals and the brandy and the shove and the nothing. The body had not risen. The body had been a stone, a weight, a constant daily reminder of insufficiency.

Now the body rose.

Not a tentative stirring. Not a partial response. A full, emphatic erection — sudden and rigid. The blood that had not flowed for ten months flooded in. The organ that had not risen stood. The cure had worked.

And then the body grew.

The man inside felt it. The man inside felt the blood flood in. The man inside felt the organ — the three inches, the small, insufficient, inadequate three inches — and the organ was growing. The organ was stretching. The organ was — the man inside looked down, through the body's eyes, and saw.

Four inches.

The man inside gasped. The gasp was silent. The body's face was still, the eyes empty, the mouth closed. But the man inside gasped.

*Four. Four inches. It is — it is growing. The cure. The cure is — the body is — *

Five inches.

The organ stretched. The skin pulled taut. The flesh darkened, flushed, the blood filling it, the veins rising. Five inches. The man inside had never been five inches. The man inside had been three inches his entire life. Five inches was — five inches was a different man. Five inches was a man who could —

Six inches.

*Six. SIX. The cure is — the body is — it is working. It is — the fantasy. Eight inches. The cure is going to give me eight inches. It is — I can feel it. I can feel it growing. The body is — the body is becoming what it should have been. The body is — *

Seven inches.

The man inside was weeping. The weeping was silent. The weeping was behind the eyes. The weeping was the weeping of a man who has been starving for eight years and has finally been given food. Seven inches. The body was seven inches long and still growing. The organ was rigid, flushed, straining upward with a force that made the man's hips tilt. The organ was the hardest it had ever been. The organ was the biggest it had ever been. The organ was —

Eight inches.

The man inside saw it. Eight inches. The full eight. The fantasy. The dream. The thing he had measured in his mind a thousand times, a thousand drunk nights, a thousand sober mornings. Eight inches. The body had grown to eight inches. The cure was total. The cure was complete. The body that was incomplete had been made complete.

The man inside wept. The man inside cheered. The man inside screamed with joy. The screaming was silent. The screaming was behind the eyes. But the screaming was the loudest the man inside had ever screamed, and the screaming was not rage, was not terror — the screaming was triumph. The screaming was: *YES. YES. THE CURE. I AM WHOLE. I AM EIGHT INCHES. I AM THE MAN I SHOULD HAVE BEEN. I WILL TAKE HER. I WILL TAKE THEM ALL. THE CURE IS MINE. THE BODY IS MINE. I AM — *

And then the fine print kicked in.

It happened slowly. Then all at once.

The man inside felt it before he saw it. A tightening. A pulling. A sensation like air leaving a balloon — not a deflation, not a softening, but a shrinking. The organ that had been eight inches — eight magnificent, triumphant, fantasy-fulfilled inches — the organ was pulling back. The organ was retreating. The organ was —

The man inside looked down. Through the body's eyes.

Seven inches.

*No. No. What — what is — no. The body is — the organ is — it is shrinking. It is — NO. The cure. The cure gave me eight. The cure — *

Six inches.

*NO. No. What is happening. The — the body is — the organ is going back. It is — this is not — the cure was — the cure was supposed to be permanent. The cure was total. The cure — *

Five inches.

The man inside was screaming. Not with triumph. With horror. The organ was retreating. The eight inches were going. The fantasy was deflating. The man inside reached for the organ — reached with the will, reached with the mind, reached with everything he had — and the organ did not stop. The organ continued to shrink. Five inches. Four.

*NO. NO. NO. STOP. STOP. THE CURE. THE EIGHT INCHES. STOP. I HAD — I HAD EIGHT. I HAD — *

Four inches.

The man inside felt the four inches and wept. The four inches was still more than three. The four inches was still — but the organ was still shrinking. The organ was still retreating. The fine print was still working.

Three and a half.

*No. Please. Please. Not three. Not — I was eight. I was EIGHT. I was — *

Three inches.

The organ stopped.

Three inches. The same three inches. The same small, rigid, straining, insufficient three inches the man inside had measured drunk and sober his entire life. The cure had given him eight. The fine print had taken five. The organ was three inches long, hard as iron, rigid as a bolt, straining with a ferocity that belied its size — and small. So small that the irony deepened: not only could he not rise as a husband, but even when the cure made him rise, even when the cure gave him eight full inches of conquest, the fine print took the conquest away and left him with the smallness. The smallness that was supposed to be cured. The smallness that was the original shame. The smallness that had driven him to the brandy and the brandy to the rage and the rage to her face.

The cure was a lie. Not the cure itself — the cure had worked. The body had risen. The body had grown. The lie was in the fine print. The fine print that said the slave shall be endowed befitting his station. The fine print that meant: you can have the cure, but you cannot keep the size. The size is for men. You are not a man. You are a slave. And a slave does not need eight inches. A slave needs three. Three inches of rigid, straining, useless devotion. Three inches that will not soften. Three inches that will not satisfy. Three inches that will remind the slave, every hour of every day, that the body is not his. The body is hers. And the body has been sized accordingly.

The man inside stared at the three inches. The man inside was silent. The man inside had nothing to say. The triumph was ash. The eight inches were ash. The fantasy was ash. The man inside had been given the one thing he wanted more than anything — the cure, the growth, the eight inches — and the fine print had taken it away in the space of thirty seconds. The universe had shown him the prize and then snatched it back. The universe had let him taste the triumph and then washed the taste out of his mouth and replaced it with the smallness. The smallness that was his. The smallness that would always be his. The smallness that was the slave's station.

The body's erection — the three inches of cured, rigid, straining flesh — surged. The body that could not rise as a husband had risen as a slave — and even at its most insistent, even at its hardest, even after the cure had given him eight and taken five back — the body was still too small to serve her.

The man inside did not scream. The man inside was past screaming. The man inside was in a place beyond rage, beyond horror, beyond despair. The man inside was in the place where a man goes when the universe has played the cruelest joke possible and the joke is on him and the joke is permanent and the joke is three inches long.

And then the foot.

Yogini withdrew her toe. She watched. The dissolution was quiet. His eyes closed. His breathing slowed. His shoulders released. The tension left his jaw. His hands opened.

He opened his eyes. They were different. The sharp, calculating gaze of the merchant was gone. In its place was something vast and still and empty — the gaze of a man who has been hollowed out and found, in the emptiness, a kind of peace.

But the man inside was still there. The man inside looked out through the eyes that were no longer his. The man inside saw the grove, the bench, the woman, the feet. And the man inside saw the three inches — the three inches that had been eight, the three inches that were the fine print's punchline — and the man inside was silent. Not the silence of peace. The silence of a man who has been hit by a joke so large he cannot yet understand it.

"Madam," the body whispered.

It was the first time the body had ever called her that. The man inside heard the word. The man inside felt the mouth form it. The man inside had not told the mouth to form it. The mouth was hers now.

Yogini reached into the silk wrapping and drew out the second item: a band of polished steel. योगिनीचा दास. Yogini's slave. She placed it around his throat. She closed the clasp. It locked with a small, decisive click.

The man inside felt the click. The click was the sound of a lock. The click was the sound of a cage. The click was the sound of the thing he had begged for and the thing he had planned to escape. And the man inside — still silent, still in the place beyond rage — the man inside thought: *the eight inches. I had eight inches. For thirty seconds I was the man I was supposed to be. And the fine print — the fine print I skimmed — the fine print no one reads — the fine print took it back. And now I am three inches in a collar. And the three inches are permanent. And the collar is permanent. And I am — *

The body did not flinch. The body lowered its head. The body was at peace with the collar. The body was at peace with the three inches. The body did not know about the eight. The body had never known about the eight. The body had risen and grown and shrunk and the body had not noticed — the body's peace was so total that even the loss of five inches did not disturb it. The body was hers. The body's size was hers. The body did not care.

The man inside cared. The man inside cared with a ferocity that was, itself, a kind of madness. But the caring had nowhere to go. The body was at peace. The man inside was in hell.

Then the body reached for her foot.

The body reached on its own. Both hands, gentle and reverent, cradled her ankle. The body lifted her leg. The body pressed its mouth to the sole.

The body licked. A long, slow, dragging stroke of its tongue from the heel to the ball of her foot. The body licked again — the arch, the tender hollow beneath her instep. The body traced the ridge of each toe. The body took her big toe into its mouth and held it there.

And the man inside felt all of it. The man inside felt the tongue on the sole. The man inside felt the toe in the mouth. The man inside felt the taste — the salt, the dust, the paste, the alta, the jasmine. The man inside felt every stroke. And the man inside — who had planned to take her with eight inches, to conquer her, to throw her on the bed and shove the eight inches into her and show her what the cured body could do — the man inside felt the body do something else entirely. The body worshipped. The body did not take. The body did not conquer. The body knelt and licked and held and worshipped with three inches. Three inches that would not soften. Three inches that would not satisfy. Three inches that were the fine print's promise kept.

And the body's three inches surged. The body that could not rise as a husband rose as a slave. The body that could not take her took her foot instead. The body that could not conquer conquered nothing. The body knelt and was hard and was small and was at peace, and the man inside knelt and was hard and was small and was in hell.

The grove held its breath.

When at last the body lifted its face from her sole, the body's eyes were wet.

"Thank you, Madam Yogini," the body whispered. "I am home."

*I am not home. I am in a cage. I am in a cage with three inches. I had eight. I had EIGHT. And the fine print — *

The thought died. The body's peace was too loud. The man inside could not hold the thought against the peace. The peace was a wall. The man inside was behind the wall. And the wall was three inches thick and made of iron and there was no way through it and no way around it and no way over it and the eight inches were on the other side of the wall and the man inside would never get them back.

The body laid itself down. Full prostration — stomach to the earth, arms stretched forward, the face turned to press against her other foot. The body kissed her toes. The body pressed its cheek to her instep and lay there, breathing slowly.

The body's hips pressed into the soft soil. The three inches — rigid, unrelenting — drove itself into the earth. The damp soil gave way under the force of it — a small depression forming where his manhood pressed into the ground. It was only three inches. But those three inches were iron. The body did not move. The body lay there, pinned to the ground by its own hardness, its face against her foot, and the body was at peace.

Yogini looked down at the body. The creature stretched out at her feet was not the man who had struck her. That man was gone. She did not know — would never know — that the creature had, for thirty shining seconds, possessed eight inches. She saw only the three. She saw the three and thought: this is what made him cruel. This is what I must contain. She was half right. The three was what made him cruel. But the three was also the punchline. And the punchline was on him.

She withdrew her foot. She tapped his shoulder once with her toe.

"Enough."

The body settled back onto its shins. The body was at peace.

She rose. She walked to the shrine. She placed the brass bowl on the altar. The grove was dimming.

"Come," she said.

The body rose and followed her, three paces back, its bare feet silent on the moss. She lay down upon the stone bench. The body knelt on the earth at her feet, its head resting against the cool stone, and it slept.

The man inside did not sleep. The man inside lay in the body that knelt and watched the stars and thought about the eight inches. The eight inches that had been his for thirty seconds. The eight inches that had been taken by the fine print. The eight inches that were the universe's joke. The eight inches that were ash.

Cure. Endure. Escape. Conquer.

The words were a chain. The words were the only thing the man inside had. But the words were thinner now. The words had been thinned by the five inches he had lost. The man inside held the chain and repeated the words and felt the three inches — still hard, still rigid, still straining against the earth — and the man inside knew, in the part of himself that was still honest, that the plan was no longer about conquest. The plan was about getting the eight inches back. The plan was about finding the fine print and tearing it up. The plan was about being the man he had been for thirty seconds — the eight-inch man, the whole man, the man who could take her — and the man inside would find a way. The man inside would break the cage. The man inside would get the eight inches back.

The man inside held the plan. The man inside held the chain. The man inside did not sleep.

The grove held them through the night. The wind did not blow. The rain did not fall. The tilak glowed in the dark like a small, steady flame. And the body's three inches, even in sleep, did not subside.

The man inside, in the body, in the dark, in the cage, screamed without sound until dawn. The scream was not about the cage. The scream was not about the foot. The scream was about the eight inches. The eight inches that had been his. The eight inches that were gone. The eight inches that were the joke.

The joke was on him. The joke would be on him for forty-seven years.