"First, he has long hair, which represents the hair of the yogi, the contemplative one, and this long hair streams out from his head, to the very ends of the universe, since he has all knowledge. And each of his four arms has a different meaning. In this one, the upper right arm, he holds a small drum, signifying sound, music and words, the first thing that appeared in the universe. And in his left hand he holds a burning fire, his symbol of destruction. He creates and he also destroys. His lower right hand is held up in a sign." She held up her hand, palm out as though in a blessing. "This is a _mudra_, part of the hand language we use in the dance, and it means 'fear not'; it is his benediction of peace. The fourth hand points down toward his feet. One foot is crushing a repugnant, powerful dwarf, who represents man's willfulness, and the other is held up against the forces of the earth, signifying man's spiritual freedom." Kamala paused and looked at Hawksworth hopefully. "Do you understand? Do you see how the Dancing Shiva symbolizes everything--space, time, creation, destruction? And also hope." Hawksworth scratched his head in silent confoundment. Kamala watched him, then sighed and resumed her seat on the floor. "Then just try to feel what I am saying. Words really cannot express these ideas as well as dance. When we dance we invoke the energy, and the life force, that moves through the world, outside its great cycles of time." Hawksworth picked up his wineglass and drew on it. "To tell the truth, I find your Hindu symbols a trifle abstract." "But they're not, really. They merely embody truths already within us. Like the life force. We do not have to think about it. It's simply there. And we can reach out and experience this force when woman and man join together in union. That is our _lila_, our play. That's why we worship Lord Shiva with dance, and with _kama_." As Hawksworth watched, sipping his wine and scarcely understanding her words, he realized he had begun to desire this bizarre woman intensely. "You haven't told me what _kama _is." "That's because I'm not sure you can understand." She scrutinized him professionally. "How old are you?" "I'm closer to forty than thirty." "Time, I think, has treated you harshly. Or is it the spirits you drink?" "What's wrong with a bit of grog now and then?" "I think you should not drink so much. I drink nothing. Look at me." She pushed back the hair from both sides of her forehead. Her face was flawless. "You know most Muslims despise their women after thirty, usually before, but many young officers still ask to visit me. Can you guess how old I am?" "A woman only asks that if she thinks she looks younger than she is." "I'm over fifty." She examined him directly, invitingly. "How much over you must only speculate." "I don't want to. I'm still trying to figure out what exactly happened tonight." He studied her. "But whatever it was, I'm not sure I care anymore."