Chapter 7: The Somatic Seal

The transfer of assets had been the body's idea. The man inside had not planned it. The man inside had wanted the body to sign nothing, to keep the money in his name, so that when the cage broke the man inside would walk out and the mansion would be his. But the body had sent for the attorney. The body had said: "I want to transfer everything."

The man inside could not remember whether he had planned the transfer or whether the body had planned it. The line had blurred. The line was blurring more every day.

The morning after the household sealing, a dense grey fog swallowed Rajkot. Inside the magistrate's court, Kulkarni sat at the mahogany table. The senior magistrate sat at the other end. Yogini sat at the center. Beside her chair, on his knees, was the body.

The man inside looked out through the body's eyes and saw the courtroom. He had signed contracts in this courtroom. He had sued men in this courtroom. And now the body was on its knees beside her chair.

Kulkarni began. He read the four instruments. The asset transfer. The power of attorney. The identity extinction. The indenture contract. yoginiSlave.

The man inside heard the words. The man inside felt the body kneel. The man inside — the merchant, the man who had signed every contract — the man inside was watching his signature being given away.

*My name. My money. My — I had eight inches. For thirty seconds. And the fine print took five. And now they are taking my name. They are taking my money. They are taking everything. And the three inches — the three inches are all I have left. The three inches and the plan. And the plan — *

The magistrate asked: "Do you wish to proceed?"

Yogini: "I wish to proceed."

She turned to the body. "Sign."

The body rose to its knees. It took the pen. On the line marked Transferring Party, it wrote: Tiju Anant Chauhan.

The man inside felt the hand write the name. The man inside — who was Tiju Anant Chauhan — watched his own hand write his own name for the last time.

The body signed everything. The indenture contract. The body wrote: yoginiSlave.

The man inside felt the hand write the word. The word was not a name. The word was a designation. The man inside was nameless now. The man inside had nothing — no name, no money, no signature, no eight inches. Only the three inches and the plan.

Then the body spoke. "Madam. Schedule A, the shipping shares. Clause fourteen references the 1841 manifest valuation. The corrected valuation was filed under the 1842 manifest. If the deed references 1841, Malhar will contest the transfer."

Kulkarni looked up. The body, kneeling on the floor in its collar, had just offered commercial intelligence that would save her thousands.

*My knowledge. My shipping shares. My — the body is giving her my knowledge. I built that. I built the shares. I — the body is giving it away. And I cannot stop it. I cannot — the eight inches. I had eight inches and I could not even enjoy them for thirty seconds before the fine print — and now the knowledge is going too. Everything is going. Everything — *

"Well noted, slave," Yogini said. "Mr. Kulkarni, amend clause fourteen."

The magistrate heated the sealing wax. Four signatures. Four seals. The transfer was complete.

"The estate of Tiju Anant Chauhan is hereby transferred in its entirety to Madam Yogini Deshmukh. The individual formerly known as Tiju Anant Chauhan is deleted from the civil registry. The entity designated yoginiSlave is registered as private domestic property."

Yogini stood. Behind her, three paces back, crawled the body.

They returned to the estate. Yogini stopped beneath the crystal chandelier.

"Vasu. The court filing is complete. The entity formerly known as your employer is now the registered domestic property of this household."

She turned to the body. "Remain here. On your knees. Do not move."

She returned with a small wooden box. Inside: a steel chastity device. On the inside of the base ring, etched so small it could only be read by lamplight: तव — yours.

She rang the silver bell. Only the women. Mrs. Desai. Radha. The laundress. The dairy maid.

She opened the box. "This is a cage. It will be locked permanently upon the slave. There is no key. As a husband, this man could not rise. As a slave, he cannot stop rising — but even when he rises, it is useless. Too small to serve. Too persistent to ignore."

*Too small. She is saying it. In front of the women. She is saying — the three inches. She is — if she knew about the eight. If she knew I had eight inches for thirty seconds. If she knew the fine print — she would not be saying "too small." She would be saying — but she does not know. No one knows. The eight inches were mine and the fine print took them and no one will ever know and I — *

"Slave. Rise to your knees. Remove the cloth."

The body rose. It unwrapped the cloth. Its penis hung soft — for the moment. Small, even soft.

The man inside felt the exposure. The man inside felt the women look. The man inside felt the smallness — the soft, small, inadequate thing between the body's legs — and the man inside wanted to scream: *IT WAS EIGHT INCHES. FOR THIRTY SECONDS. IT WAS EIGHT. THE FINE PRINT — * But the man inside could not scream. The man inside was behind the glass.

"Radha. Fit the device."

Radha stepped forward. She knelt before the body. She guided the soft flesh into the narrow steel tube. The metal was cold. The flesh compressed. The steel held.

*The steel. The steel is going on the three inches. The three inches that were eight. The three inches that are all the fine print left me. And now the three inches are going in steel. The eight inches never got to be free. The eight inches never got to be used. The eight inches were in the open for thirty seconds and then the fine print shrank them and now the three inches are going in a cage and I — I never got to — *

"Close it," Yogini said.

Radha pressed the locking mechanism shut. The steel ring seated itself with a small, decisive click. There was no keyhole. Permanent.

The click echoed in the silent foyer. The man inside heard the click. The click was the sound of the second cage — the cage within the cage. The first cage was the body. The second cage was the steel. And inside both cages, the three inches — the fine print's three inches, the slave's endowment, the joke — the three inches were sealed. The eight inches were ash. The three inches were steel. The man inside was in both cages, and both cages were forever.

"Demonstrate," Yogini said.

The body bent forward and pressed its lips to the bridge of her left foot. The body tried. The flesh stirred, pressed, strained upward against the steel. Small as it was, the force was startling — three inches of rigid flesh pushing against the cage. The cage held. The women could see the straining beneath the metal — the small, hard flesh trying to rise, the steel refusing.

*The three inches are straining. The three inches want to rise. The three inches are trying to be eight. The three inches will never be eight. The fine print — the steel — the cage — I — *

She withdrew her foot. "Enough."

Radha looked at the body — the steel, the collar, the tilak. "The steel looks — fitting. On him. It is not ugly. It is actually quite handsome. The way it shines there."

The laundress: "It looks like it belongs. Like it was always meant to be there."

Mrs. Desai: "It is better than the alternative. The thing it contains was never going to satisfy anyone. Now at least it is contained beautifully."

*Contained beautifully. She said — the thing it contains was never going to — she does not know. She does not know it was eight inches. She does not know the fine print. She thinks three is all there is. She thinks three is all there ever was. She — *

A ripple of relieved laughter passed through the women.

"You are dismissed to your duties."

She looked down at the body. The cage sat cold and gleaming. Permanent. Irreversible.

"You are dismissed to your quarters. The small bare cell adjacent to the stables."

The body dropped its head. "Go," she said.

The body went. The man inside went with it. The man inside lay on the thin cotton cloth on the bare stone and felt the steel between the body's legs — cold, permanent, keyless — and the man inside held the plan.

Cure. Endure. Escape. Conquer. Get the eight inches back.

The thread held. For now.