She extricates her hand. The gold coins on her bracelet jingle. She throws away the stub of her cigarette and digs out a packet of Caporals from her hip-pocket. She hands me the lighter and puts a cigarette in her lips.

I cup my palms to shelter the flame and take the lighter to her lips. I look up. She looks up. Our eyes meet. Hers are as blue as the Bay of Bengal under an aquamarine sky. She knows how to use them. I feel their rapier-like stab through my eyes down to my gullet. I lower my gaze. She blows a mouthful of roasted tobacco smoke into my face. ‘Thanks,’ she says taking back her lighter. Her hand again comes to rest on my knee.

I play with the coins on her bracelet. They bear masculine names: Jim, Freddy, Dennis, Jacques. ‘Boy-friends,’ she explains. She bares her yellowing teeth, cough-laughs and spits phlegm on the other side.

‘Rich and of all nationalities,’ I remark, holding the gold coin inscribed ‘Ali’. She laughs again. ‘Not all rich; I had some made at my own expense. And not of all nations. India is missing. Perhaps I’ll add an Indian this time,’ she says, giving me a meaningful leer. She buries her half-smoked Caporal in the sand. ‘I really must have a quick dekho at the Tilpat excavations and then this other place Suraj . . . Suraj . . . and some four letter obscenity.’

‘Kund.’

The obscenity dawns on me. I blush.

‘I am an awful tease!’ she says patting me on my beard. She stands up and brushes the sand off her little bottom. ‘Come along,’ she commands, hauling me up by the shoulder.

She is rejuvenated. She strides on ahead. I trudge behind her. I can’t make anything of her. I cannot affix any labels to this diminutive yet strong, sexless yet bawdy woman.

We see a small cloud of mobile dust over the bushes. It is the jeep with the shikaris. No black buck in the jeep. They see us. Lady Hoity-Toity bares her teeth and turns a victorious smile on me. They understand. One fellow clenches his fist, shakes his right arm from its elbow and yells abuse.

‘What’s he saying?’ asks Hoity-Toity.

‘He’s telling me to go and bugger myself.’

‘An Oriental accomplishment, no doubt! One of the yogic postures designed to make the ends meet,’ she says.

The masterful female leads the way through the palm grove back to the Rolls-Royce beside the temple. A crowd of inquisitive rustics has again collected round the car. They disperse as soon as we arrive. We have coffee. And drive into Tilpat.