Page 136 - DENG201_ENGLISH_II

English - II

Notes “You would like my address?”
“So we can send you copies,” she said. “Of the pictures.” She handed him a scrap of paper which she
had hastily ripped from a page of her film magazine. The blank portion was limited, for the narrow
strip was crowded by lines of text and a tiny picture of a hero and heroine embracing under a eucalyptus
tree. The paper curled as Mr. Kapasi wrote his address in clear, careful letters. She would write to
him, asking about his days interpreting at the doctor’s office, and he would respond eloquently,
choosing only the most entertaining anecdotes, ones that would make her laugh out loud as she read
them in her house in New Jersey. In time she would reveal the disappointment of her marriage, and
he his. In this way their friendship would grow, and flourish. He would possess a picture of the two
of them, eating lined onions under a magenta umbrella, which he would keep, he decided, safely
tucked between the pages of his Russian grammar. As his mind raced, Mr. Kapasi experienced a mild
and pleasant shock. It was similar to a feeling he used to experience long ago when, after months of
translating with the aid of a dictionary, he would finally read a passage from a French novel, or an
Italian sonnet, and understand the words, one after another, unencumbered by his own efforts. In
those moments Mr. Kapasi used to think that all was right with the world, that all struggles were
rewarded, that all of life’s mistakes made sense in the end. The promise that he would hear from
Mrs. Das now filled him with the same belief.
When he finished writing his address Mr. Kapasi handed her the paper, but as soon as he did so he
worried that he had either misspelled his name, or accidentally reversed the numbers of his postal
code. He dreaded the possibility of a lost letter, the photograph never reaching him, hovering
somewhere in Orissa, close but ultimately unattainable. He thought of asking for the slip of paper
again, just to make sure he had written his address accurately, but Mrs. Das had already dropped it
into the jumble of her bag. They reached Konarak at two-thirty. The temple, made of sandstone, was
a massive pyramid-like structure in the shape of a chariot. It was dedicated to the great master of life,
the sun, which struck three sides of the edifice as it made its journey each day across the sky.
Twenty-four giant wheels were carved on the north and south sides of the plinth. The whole thing
was drawn by a team of seven horses, speeding as if through the heavens. As they approached, Mr.
Kapasi explained that the temple had been built between A.D. 1243 and 1255, with the efforts of
twelve hundred artisans, by the great ruler of the Ganga dynasty, king Narasimhadeva the First to
commemorate his victory against the Muslim army.
“It says the temple occupies about a hundred and seventy acres of land,” Mr. Das said reading from
his book. “It’s like a dessert,” Ronnie said, his eyes wandering across the sand that stretched on all
sides beyond the temple.
“The Candrabhaga river once flowed one mile north of here. It is dry now,” Mr. Kapasi said, turning
off the engine. They got out and walked toward the temple, posing first for pictures by the pair of
lions that flanked the steps. Mr. Kapasi led them next to one of the wheels of the chariot, higher than
any human being, nine feet in diameter.
“‘The wheels are supposed to symbolize the wheel of life,’” Mr. Das read. “‘They depict the cycle of
creation, preservation, and achievement of realization.’ Cool.” He turned the page of his book. ‘“Each
wheel is divided into eight thick and thin spokes, dividing the day into eight equal pans. The rims
are carved with designs of birds and animals, whereas the medallions in the spokes are carved with
women in luxurious poses, largely erotic in nature.”
What he referred to were the countless friezes of entwined naked bodies, making love in various
positions, women dinging to the necks of men, their knees wrapped eternally around their lovers’
thighs. In addition to these were assorted scenes from daily life, of hunting and trading, of deer being
killed with bows and arrows and marching warriors holding swards in their hands. It was no longer
possible to enter the temple, for it had filled with rubble years ago, but they admired the exterior, as
did all the tourists Mr. Kapasi brought there, slowly strolling along each of its sides. Mr. Das trailed

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