Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Another of those mysterious trips,’ Kuku told Mary, who had come with Blaise to wait for dinner.

  ‘Why mysterious?’

  ‘She keeps on going, coming back. Why so often? She tells no one.’

  ‘Why should she?’

  That to Mary was one of the best things at Patna Hall. Except for Kuku, no one asked that perpetual why? why? why? No one asked you why you wanted to lie alone in the sun, only brought you a beach umbrella and a drink of lemon but Kuku’s eyes were bright as a little snake’s. ‘She travels second class,’ said Kuku.

  Kuku’s spite was partly born of a sense of hopelessness; Blaise was wearing white linen trousers, a primrose-coloured silk shirt, a deeper yellow and grey striped tie. They set off his hair, his fresh tanned skin and his height. ‘Not Apollo, Adonis,’ murmured Kuku. She could have scratched Mary’s eyes out, especially when, as if purposely, Mary stopped at Mrs Manning’s table in the dining room and asked her to have coffee with them after dinner.

  ‘Mary, you’ve forgotten,’ came the inevitable from Blaise. ‘The Fishers have already asked us. I’m sorry, Mrs Manning,’ and after he had steered Mary away, ‘I told you to stay clear of her. She’s a leech.’

  On any other night, when after dinner they came back to the verandah, Mary would have gone defiantly and sat down by Olga but, I must keep Blaise in a good mood tonight, she thought. Then he’ll sleep – she had not known she could be so guileful. He must sleep because I’m going to see Krishnan.

  Krishnan. Krishnan. All day the thought of him had come back to her. Krishnan – happiness. There was a poem she had learnt at one of those schools, a poem she loved:

  ‘My heart is like a singing bird

  whose nest is in a watered shoot’ . . .

  It had sung in her mind all day. Am I in love? wondered Mary. No, I’ve been in love. I don’t want that again, thank you. This is different, unimaginable, like the waves here that are quite different from anywhere else on earth. Outwardly, on Patna Hall’s verandah, the young wife of this eminently suitable young man appeared to be listening to the talk that was going on around her while all the time she only heard ‘My heart is like a singing bird . . .’ and, ‘Soon it will be time,’ she told herself. ‘Soon.’

  It was Sir John who broke up the talk early. Mary had already seen him go quietly down the verandah to Olga Manning – To ask her to join us. Mary was grateful but Olga, though she smiled, shook her head. Soon after she had left and now, ‘I must drop in on this lecture,’ said Sir John.

  ‘The culture lecture?’ Blaise was surprised. ‘I thought the group . . .’

  ‘Were a bit comical?’ asked Sir John. ‘What those who knew no better used to call culture vultures?’ Blaise blushed. ‘In actuality, they are giving India the compliment of trying to understand her art and civilisation.’ Oh, I like Sir John, I like him, thought Mary. ‘I think we should honour that and I suggest, Coomaraswamy, you come with me and’, said Sir John, ‘you might invite Professor Aaron’s ladies to come to one of your rallies and see how you run your election. Take them round with you.’

  ‘With things as they are?’ cried Dr Coomaraswamy in acute pain. ‘Also you have forgotten, Sir John, tonight Padmina Retty’s inaugural rally is going on with great display. She knows how it should be done. I should have been there already to watch, God help me. So – no lecture for me.’

  As he and Mr Srinivasan went, Lady Fisher left her embroidery. ‘I’ll come, John,’ but, ‘Miss Sanni, Colonel Sahib, Lady Sahib,’ Samuel burst out of the dining room in excitement. ‘It is the radio. I have been listening to the radio. Come. Come quickly. They say Padmina Retty’s rally in utter discredit.’

  The voice was going on. ‘Poor Mrs Retty. A huge audience was sitting, many on the grass – the rally is being held in Ghandara’s botanical park. Bands had been playing as the decorated platform was filled with dignitaries while, over it, was suspended Padmina Retty’s symbol, a giant open umbrella which slowly turned showing the party’s name, the People’s Shelter Party and the slogan promise: “I will shelter you.” Mrs Retty, a commanding figure in a billowing blue and silver sari – blue for promise – standing at the microphone was in full eloquence. Certainly she can hold her audience. “I, Padmina Retty . . .” when suddenly, among the audience one figure after the other stood up, men, women, many women and, yes, children, each holding an umbrella which they opened and held up, ancient umbrellas, stained, tattered, torn, some showing only ribs, some with ribs broken, all palpably useless. As their bearers stood steadily it was more eloquent than words!

  ‘Mrs Retty’s own words faltered, in any case they would not have been heard because a ripple of laughter began which spread to a gale, the whole audience laughing in complete glee . . . but under the glee old resentments flared. There were catcalls, shouts – something Mrs Retty had not encountered before. I must add that, prominent among the umbrella holders were young women dressed in green, yellow and white, colours, as we know, of another party. It was fortunate that they were protected by their fellow males because, as could have been predicted, fighting broke out. It could have become a riot but the police were prepared and quelled it swiftly . . .

  ‘Mrs Retty had left the platform. There was, of course, no sign of Krishnan Bhanj.’

  Samuel so far forgot himself that he clapped. Hannah clapped too, Lady Fisher clapped with her as did Mary, and even Colonel McIndoe. Mary was laughing with delight until Blaise spoke. ‘Wasn’t that rather an antic in a serious election?’ asked Blaise.

  ‘Yes, you see, our young women had been all over,’ Dr Coomaraswamy told later when he and his supporters came back. He was still shaking with laughter. His young men, some of them with black eyes, bruises and cuts, were being tended in Paradise by Mr Srinivasan, Samuel and Hannah. ‘Krishnan planned it so well,’ the Doctor went on. ‘A month ago to Bihar he had sent them. By jeep, car, motorcycle, bullock cart they had travelled among the villages to carry out this trading, new umbrellas for old – what you used to call, I think, in England gamps. It took time to persuade the people – they could not believe a new umbrella for old. It also took time to persuade our Konak people tonight. Did I not tell you, just to stand up and open their old umbrellas, five rupees for each we had to give,’ but Dr Coomaraswamy said it happily. ‘Once they understood how they enjoyed! Our young men and women started the laughter but almost immediately everyone was laughing of themselves.’ Dr Coomaraswamy laughed too.

  ‘Just because I hit the donkey.’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with the donkey.’

  The sound of the hard young voices came through the partition to Olga Manning.

  ‘You might at least try.’ That was Blaise. Then Mary, ‘It’s no use if you have to try.’ The voices rose as, ‘No!’ shrieked Mary. ‘No!’ and, ‘God,’ shouted Blaise, ‘anyone would think I was trying to rape you. You are my wife.’

  ‘Do you think you could desist’, Olga Manning’s voice came from her side of the bungalow, ‘and let me get some sleep?’

  A guilty silence. Then, ‘I apologise’, called Blaise, ‘for my wife.’

  ‘Apologise for yourself!’ shouted Mary.

  ‘Very well. Goodnight.’ Blaise flung himself on the bed. Then, seeing Mary dressing, ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Go where you like. I don’t care a damn,’ said Blaise.

  Auntie Sanni, as if her thumbs had pricked her, had come out on the top verandah, looked down across the garden to the beach and saw Mary fling out of the bungalow and down the steps to the shore.

  ‘Ayyo!’ said Auntie Sanni.

  ‘Well, Doctor. What will you do tomorrow?’ Sir John, Dr Coomaraswamy with Professor Aaron were having a nightcap on the deserted verandah.

  ‘You should not say, “What will you do?” What can I do? God knows! God knows. Tomorrow Padmina Retty is holding a second rally. There will be thousands— ’

  ‘This Krishnan Bhanj,’ Professor Aaron
ventured to say. ‘Have you, forgive me, but have you, shall we say, been mistaken, taken in by his charm – I hear he is charming – and perhaps his position? Vijay Bhanj’s son?’ and the Doctor seemed to hear Uma’s voice, ‘You see, Hari’ – Uma was emancipated enough to call her husband firmly by his given name – ‘you see how you have been carried away by this Krishnan. It is always the same: if they are beautiful, sweet-mannered, you are over the moon. Isn’t it the old call of the flesh?’ Uma had said ‘flesh’ with distaste.

  ‘Krishnan Bhanj is a most gifted politician,’ Dr Coomaraswamy said aloud, adding silently to Uma, ‘Flesh has nothing to do with it,’ and at once had a vision of Kuku. ‘Please, please,’ he cried silently. ‘Please, Kuku, get out of my mind.’

  She had glided between the tables at dinner, bending to set glasses down on his.

  ‘We have a wine waiter,’ Samuel had growled.

  ‘The Doctor asked me to bring.’

  That was true. ‘What is that perfume you put on your hair?’ It had almost touched him.

  ‘Jasmine.’

  ‘I will send you a bottle.’

  ‘Do. It will be costly.’ Was there a touch of malice in that?

  He had watched her as she went back to the bar, his fork half-way to his lips. ‘A great booby you must have looked,’ Uma would have told him but the walk was so smooth, sinuous, the hips undulating. ‘Is it my fault our candidate has good looks?’ he cried now to invisible Uma, yet he could not rebut Professor Aaron and said bitterly to Sir John, ‘The campaign is dead loss. Dead loss.’

  A car drew up. Then Mr Menzies came along the verandah.

  ‘Where have you sprung from?’

  ‘Madras.’

  ‘That’s a long drive.’

  ‘Yes.’ He looked tired but his eyes were alert. ‘You’ve had a bad day,’ he said to the Doctor as he poured himself a whisky.

  ‘Desperate. Dead loss!’ moaned Dr Coomaraswamy.

  ‘I should cheer up, if I were you,’ said Mr Menzies.

  Mary had to wait on the beach to let her anger die down – instinctively, I can’t bring anger into the grove, she thought – waited, too, in case Blaise had, after all, followed her. There was a sound but it was only Slippers. After his tidbit, he had waited hopefully outside the bungalow; now he had plodded after her until he came close enough for her to pat him and pull his ears.

  Suddenly he lifted his nose and brayed. At the same time, Mary heard an excited chattering and laughing. A group of boys was standing round one boy who was holding something; their dark skins, black heads, tattered clothes told Mary they were fisherboys. More excited laughter broke out; above it she heard a piercing shriek, than another, a small animal’s shriek, and she started to run, Slippers lumbering after her. ‘What have you got there? What are you doing?’ She cried it in English, scattering the boys. ‘Devils! Shaitan!’ she screamed, because the boy in the middle held a small grey squirrel, one of the squirrels that abound in India.

  They had tied a rag over its head to prevent it biting; it cried and squirmed as they poked it with slivers of pointed bamboo, fine and sharp as skewers. Blood was over the boy’s hands. ‘Give it to me,’ stormed Mary. She snatched the squirrel, rag and all, as, with the flat of her other hand, she hit the boy hard across the face, then slapped the other boys. ‘Jao! Go! Chelo – ’ the first words she had learnt of Hindustani. ‘Chelo . . . Hut jao! Shaitan!’

  But these were fisherboys, not town boys easily quelled. She was one among seven or eight of them, not little boys but ten-, eleven-year-olds. Caught by surprise, at first they had stood dumb; the slaps roused them. With an outbreak of furious voices they closed in round her. Holding the squirrel close, Mary stood as hands and fists came out to hit, scratch, pinch, claw. Then Krishnan was beside her. He did not speak but took the squirrel from her. The frantic squirming stopped instantly and it was still as he raised his hand over the boys, only raised it; as one, they bent, scooped up sand and poured it over his feet, touching them with their heads. ‘Kanu,’ he said to the ringleader boy. ‘Lady,’ and unwillingly Kanu did the same to Mary who, as he lifted his head, gently laid her hand on it. He shook it off at once and with the others ran away through the trees.

  ‘Is it badly hurt?’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  He led the way to the fire. Mary’s knees seemed to give way and she sank down on the sand. ‘How could they? How could anyone be so cruel?’ She hid her face so long that Slippers poked her with his nose.

  ‘Look,’ said Krishnan. He was sitting cross-legged on his goatskin throne and on one folded knee was the squirrel, sitting upright. Its wounds showed red in the firelight but it was nibbling a nut held in its small claws, its head cocked on one side, its black eyes brilliant. ‘We call squirrels udata in Telegu,’ he said. ‘She has had some milk. Now this little udata will get well, thanks to you.’

  ‘Not me. Thanks to you. They would have taken her back. Oh, why must people be so cruel? Even children!’

  ‘Particularly children.’ He spoke gently. ‘They don’t know any better,’ and now Mary did not see the evil, pointed sticks but the small heads bent to touch Krishnan’s feet.

  Her angry trembling ceased. ‘What are those marks on her back?’ she asked.

  ‘Long long ago,’ said Krishnan, ‘the young god, Prince Rama – another incarnation of Vishnu – had a beautiful wife, Sita. Indian girls, when they are married, are told to be a “little Sita”, she was so perfect. But Sita was stolen by a powerful demon – he had ten heads – who carried her off in his terrible claws to Sri Lanka.

  ‘Rama was in despair as to how he could get her back. How could he take his army across that wide sea? But Hanuman, who is the Monkey God, called all the monkeys of India to build Rama a bridge. Thousands of great powerful apes and strong quick monkeys carried stones, rocks, boulders from the mountains to the shore. Quarries were dug, mighty rocks brought down to the sea, great boulders hewn into blocks. It was such a gigantic task that the very gods of heaven marvelled while Rama himself watched amazed.

  ‘As he watched he saw a great monkey almost trip over a squirrel who was on the beach too. From his height, the monkey looked down a long, long way at the tiny squirrel and saw she had a pebble in her mouth.

  ‘ “What are you doing?”

  ‘The little squirrel looked up. “I am helping to build the bridge to Lanka so that Rama may bring back his beloved wife, Sita.”

  ‘ “Helping to build the bridge!” The monkey burst into a roar of laughter and called all the other monkeys. “Did you hear that? The squirrel says she is helping to build our bridge. Did you ever hear anything so funny in your life?” The others laughed too, then all of them said, “Shoo. We’ve no time for play and the likes of you.”

  ‘But the squirrel would not shoo. Again and again the monkeys picked her up and put her out of the way; she always came back with the pebbles until one of the monkeys grew angry and not only picked her up but flung her hard across the beach. She fell into Rama’s hands where he stood.

  ‘Rama held the squirrel close – just as you did – and said to the monkeys, “How dare you despise her? This little squirrel with her pebbles has love in her heart that would move heaven and earth with its power.” And, lo!’ said Krishnan dramatically, ‘Rama was transformed back into his origin, the great god Vishnu, the Preserver. Vishnu stroked the squirrel’s back and as he put her down the monkeys saw, on her grey fur, these white lines that were the marks of the great God’s fingers. Since when, Udata, you have those marks on your back, haven’t you?’

  Mary put out a hand and touched the stripes; the squirrel allowed her. ‘It’s the same as Christ riding on the donkey,’ she said. ‘All donkeys have the mark of the cross, even Slippers far away in India. It’s the same.’

  ‘All the same.’

  ‘Will she come to me?’

  ‘I’ll ask her.’

  He talks to her as if he were a squirrel, thought Mary.

  ‘How do you
know I wasn’t?’ Krishnan said with his strange power of following her thoughts. ‘I could have been a squirrel, couldn’t I?’ he asked the squirrel. ‘But’, he said to Slippers, ‘I do not seriously think I could have been a donkey.’

  ‘You’re conceited,’ said Mary.

  ‘If I am, why not? A peacock struts and spreads his tail because he is a peacock. That would have suited me. Peacocks are sacred in India and I am about to become sacred. I could have been a peacock. That is what we Hindus believe,’ and he mocked, ‘Don’t tread on that cockroach, it might have been your grandfather. Don’t tread on a cockroach but let children starve because you have put chalk in flour, given short weight, foreclosed on a peasant’s one little field before he has time to pay off the debt.’ His eyes blazed with indignation.

  ‘Is that what your Party is about?’

  ‘Of course. Why do you think I’m doing this?’

  ‘I don’t know. I only know I like what you are doing.’

  ‘Not always. You couldn’t. Remember all is fair in love and war. Politics now are a war, a bitter, greedy war and I have to fight Padmina Retty in every way I can. You don’t know, Mary, thank God you have had no need to know, but Indian politics are corrupt, venal as never before. If Padmina Retty’s manifesto had been truthful, it would have said: (a) The People’s Shelter Party totally believes that, in the state of Konak, one family, the Rettys, should have total rule and that in perpetuity; (b) every member of the People’s Shelter Party will give full material and emotional help to its leader in misappropriating funds; (c) the People’s Shelter Party will support only those people who believe in hooliganism and slander.’

  ‘That’s terribly damning.’

  ‘Not damning enough. The same goes for Gopal Rau, though he has not a chance. I tell you,’ said Krishnan, ‘no one from a family of integrity would dream of going into politics except a mopus like me. Even a mope, though, knows that no one can get into Parliament without so much wheeling and dealing that it disgusts. Not to mention spending money, floods of money, which is where our Dr Coomaraswamy comes in.’