To say that, in fact, writing has been no more than a way of talking about the bodyand nothing but the body'Lost to the meaning of her life, a foreign writer arrives in Delhi seeking thewordless company of strangers. Delhi is an exploded sun, bleeding everywhere itsuntrammelled chaos: the feral dampness of bus fumes; the suicidal rush of scooters;the autorickshaw seats impregnated with thousands of odours-nauseous accretionsof India's muddy human tide. The men with their stinking bidis rule as masters andthe women remain walled in by centuries of tradition. The author, infatuated bya quiet lady on the street, begins to seek the untamed and undiscovered countrythat lies below her sari, the delicate throbbing hidden beneath her silence. As sherediscovers her voice and the ability to write a story, and as monsoon arrives, low andheavy-bellied, washing away the concrete barricades of custom, a secret encounterin a music store opens up an ancient darwaza of forbidden pleasures.Bursting with sharp irreverence, Indian Tango is a story of fleshly transgression andunlikely liberation in the patriachopolis of New Delhi.