Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  ‘We have finished.’

  ‘And I’m sure successfully.’

  ‘Yes, I’m glad to say.’ Professor Webster’s cheeks were flushed from her efforts; her eyes shone.

  ‘And what was your subject?’

  ‘After today, at Gorāghat and the Temple, it was about Usas, goddess of the Dawn, one of the Shining Ones, the old nature gods.’ Mary was listening: It’s these old gods, true gods, I believe in, she thought. ‘Usas is the daughter of the sky,’ Professor Webster went on, ‘sister of night and married to Surya, the sun god. She travels in a chariot drawn by seven cows; its huge wheels are carved in stone, the cows are there too. The temple faces the east so that when the sun rises its first rays touch the cows and they turn rose red. I have slides to show this and there is a path of gold to the sea.’

  ‘Oh!’ breathed Mary. ‘Oh!’

  But Lady Fisher broke the enchantment. ‘Dear,’ she called to Mary, ‘I feel a little chilly. Would you run upstairs and fetch me my wrap? It’s on a chair, just a light shawl. Thank you, dear child.’

  As, noiselessly, Mary came up the stairs, she saw a small black figure sidling along the corridor towards one of the rooms. It was the boy on the beach, the squirrel boy. What is he doing here? wondered Mary. Next moment the same question came ringing down the corridor. ‘Kanu! Why you here?’ and a stream of scolding Telegu. It was Hannah, come from turning down the guests’ beds for the night. She strode down the corridor, her jewellery clinking, one hand uplifted ready to slap but the boy ducked and escaped down the stairs.

  ‘That boy very bad, little devil. Evil!’ and, ‘How dared he?’ cried Hannah, her nostrils snorting. ‘Dare come into Patna Hall at all, then come upstairs. Upstairs!’

  It was past midnight when Mary got to the grove.

  ‘God, I’m tired,’ Blaise had said in the bungalow bedroom.

  ‘I’m not,’ said Mary, ‘but then I didn’t go all that way to the temple. I think, for a little while, I’ll go along the beach.’ Perhaps she had sounded breathless because Blaise was suddenly alert. ‘Out? At this time?’

  ‘Just to stretch my legs.’

  He accepted that, perhaps too tired to bother. ‘Don’t be long,’ was all he said.

  Slippers came as he always came but as Mary turned from the beach towards the grove, where the fire should have been leaping there was only a dull red glow.

  She stepped nearer. The grove was as she had always seen it: the fire, the roof of matting between the trees, the seat with its goatskins, the brass lota and pans shining as if someone had cleaned them, the pitcher of water, the line of white washing, the cut sugar cane, all there the same but the grove was empty.

  She stood, sick with disappointment, balked. Then there was a sound, light as the wind, and a young man appeared . . . The same young man who came with a message into the dining room our first night, thought Mary. Swiftly he began to mend the fire, kicking the wood together with his bare feet until the branches flamed. He jumped when Mary came into the firelight, then stood holding a branch as if he were brandishing it.

  ‘I think you are . . .?’

  ‘Sharma,’ he said, still on guard.

  ‘I am Mary Browne, staying at Patna Hall. Do you speak English?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Where is . . . Mr Krishnan?’

  ‘Krishnan Bhanj is holding dhashan at Ghandara.’

  ‘Dhashan?’

  ‘Many peoples coming to see him. He will be there all night.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Yes. I must hurry,’ said Sharma. ‘We get ready for tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘I think I see you in the bazaar?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘Yes.’

  He was gone. Mary waited but it did not seem as if even Birdie would come; there was no sign of Udata. Perhaps Krishnan had taken the squirrel to Ghandara and Mary had turned to go when she heard voices, light young voices. Another fire was burning beyond the trees, the voices were singing in a gentle contented chant. Followed by Slippers, Mary went to see.

  It was the boys, the same boys who had tormented Udata but now were squatting on their heels in a circle, faces illumined by the firelight, black polls bent, their hands busy making garlands, and, at once, Of course, thought Mary, garlands for the lorry. They are helping Krishnan. As she stepped nearer they looked up but without animosity; their eyes, bright in their dark faces, were merry, their hands did not stop and, ‘Show me,’ said Mary. As if they understood, the smallest handed up a garland. It was made of mango leaves, fresh, pungent and surprisingly heavy.

  ‘Shabash!’ said Mary, another word she had learned. ‘I’ll help you,’ and she knelt to sit down as they made room for her. She looked round the circle. ‘Where’s the big boy? Where’s Shaitan, Kanu?’

  ‘Kanu?’ For a moment they stared at her, then they collapsed into laughter as if she had made a good joke. ‘Kanu!’ The name went from lip to lip. ‘Kanu! Kanu!’ they cried. ‘Kanu! Ayyo! Ayyo! Ayyo-yo.’

  Mystified, Mary picked up a garland to see how it was knotted.

  ‘Mary,’ came a voice. ‘Mary.’

  Quickly, still holding the garland, Mary stood up, like a nymph surprised.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked Blaise.

  ‘Why did you come after me?’ In the bungalow bedroom Mary turned on Blaise.

  ‘Isn’t it reasonable,’ asked Blaise who was being extraordinarily patient, ‘reasonable for a husband, if his wife goes wandering night after night— ’

  ‘Only two nights,’ Mary interrupted.

  ‘Three,’ said Blaise. ‘Tonight’s the third.’

  ‘Why? Can’t I do what I like?’

  ‘Making garlands with fisherboys as if you were one of them seems a strange thing to like.’

  ‘I happen to be interested in the Root and Flower Party.’

  ‘How can you be?’ Blaise asked. ‘You haven’t been here long enough. Nor do you know anything about India.’

  ‘I knew more about India in five minutes than you would if you stayed five years,’ Mary wanted to fling at him. Yet, of course, what he said was true and, What do I know? she thought hopelessly.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t want you to be involved with any of this damned masquerade.’

  ‘If it’s a masquerade I’m sure it’s for a good cause.’

  ‘I doubt it and I don’t want you to be involved.’

  ‘I would give anything to be involved,’ she told him flatly, but had to add, ‘I don’t see how I can be.’ Had Krishnan not said, ‘This is the last time I can speak with you.’

  In Ghandara after the dhashan, ‘We must find ourselves a mother figure,’ Dr Coomaraswamy told Krishnan.

  ‘Copycat’ wrote Krishnan on his pad. For a moment he sat, wrapped in thought, then wrote, ‘Not a mother. Allure.’

  ‘Allure?’

  ‘Yes. Goddesses. Two goddesses, Lakshmi for good fortune, Radha for love; both young, beautiful.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kuku,’ wrote Krishnan. ‘Kuku in the most brilliant most vulgar of her saris so that she looks like the bania’s glossy catalogue pictures of Lakshmi. Lots of jewellery, you’ll have to hire. Auntie Sanni will give her leave, I’m sure. Yes, Kuku for Lakshmi.’

  ‘And Radha?’

  Krishnan smiled. ‘Little Radha?’ and he wrote, ‘Mrs Blaise Browne.’

  ‘But she is English! It would not be popular at all if Radha was a Western goddess.’

  ‘Dress her up,’ wrote Krishnan.

  ‘We could, and hide her hair. She is sunburned.’ Mr Srinivasan liked the idea. ‘She could pass for fair wheaten complexion which a goddess should have.’

  ‘But it’s impossible,’ Dr Coomaraswamy almost spluttered. ‘Can’t you imagine? Sir John and Lady Fisher, they would never approve. Sir Professor Aaron, the ladies, Hannah, Samuel, and that young man, Mr Blaise!’ Dr Coomaraswamy did not like Blaise. ‘He’s her husband. He would never consent.’

  But Krishnan wrote, ‘Don’t ask him.
Ask her.’

  Wednesday

  ‘Dr Coomaraswamy Sahib coming,’ said Thambi.

  Thambi, who was alert to everything that happened in Konak to its very borders, was Krishnan’s loyal supporter and knew exactly why Dr Coomaraswamy was coming. Blaise and Mary had come out early for a morning swim; Blaise had already gone in, Moses after him. ‘Can’t I once, even once, swim without these water rats?’ Blaise had exploded.

  ‘Sea can change any minute,’ Thambi had answered as always, ‘Moses knows this sea,’ and, ‘Wait, Miss Baba,’ he said as Dr Coomaraswamy came puffing down the sandy path – Even walking downhill, he gets out of breath, thought Mary. It was not that; Dr Coomaraswamy was agitated.

  ‘Mrs Browne, forgive me for intruding at this early hour. I hope I have not disturbed you.’

  ‘Of course not. I was just going to swim.’

  ‘No. No. Not now. Please not now, Mrs Browne. I have an ex-tra-or-din-ary favour to ask you. Please do not take offence.’

  He mopped his forehead. Does he always have to mop? thought Mary as, ‘What favour?’ she asked.

  ‘One that I myself would never have asked, but Krishnan— ’

  ‘Krishnan?’ Now Mary was surprised.

  ‘As, at present, Krishnan Bhanj himself will not go into society, you do not know him . . .’ Mary did not contradict the Doctor, ‘but in India’s mysterious way he knows of you . . .’

  ‘The ways of India are even more mysterious than you think,’ Mary would have told him, but again did not say it. Instead, ‘What does Mr Bhanj want?’

  Dr Coomaraswamy cleared his throat – if Mary had not been there he would have spat the phlegm out on the sand. ‘It has happened that Mrs Padmina Retty, candidate for the People’s Shelter Party, Krishnan’s opponent, has come out as the Mother Figure for the state, that is the Mother Goddess. Padmina is a very clever woman, Mrs Browne. Also, in all religions, the “mother” is, I think, potent but in India you do not know how potent.’

  ‘You mean, like the Virgin Mary?’

  ‘Indian goddesses are not virgin, Mrs Browne, not at all and, so, more potent. We shall have to combat. We, the Root and Flower Party, need for Krishnan a feminine counterpart. Not a mother, that would be copycat.’ Dr Coomaraswamy quoted Krishnan with as much satisfaction as if he had thought of this himself. ‘We must be different, also challenging. So we shall import goddesses. Mrs Browne, will you come with us on our lorry to be the goddess Radha? Please. We so need this allure.’

  ‘I’m not alluring.’

  ‘Indeed you are, but it is the female element that is more important, gentle, supportive, as are the Hindu goddesses.’

  ‘I thought they were fierce.’

  ‘Some, not others. Supportive, also beautiful.’

  ‘I am not beautiful, Dr Coomaraswamy.’

  He did not think so either but, ‘As Radha you will be. We shall dress you. All the clothes I have ready.’

  ‘What would I have to do?’

  ‘Nothing but sit and smile most graciously. Hold your hand so, Krishnan will show you. You will have a small throne on the lorry. With bamboo and leaves we shall shade you. Please.’

  Mary did not waver any more. Go with Krishnan, she thought. Be near him all day. See the villages and little towns and, ‘What can I say but “Yes”.’ She smiled happily on Dr Coomaraswamy. ‘Goddesses don’t wear spectacles though. Give me a minute to put in my contact lenses and I’ll come.’

  When she came back Blaise was far out to sea and, ‘Tell Sahib I have gone out for the day. I’ll see him this evening,’ Mary told Thambi.

  ‘Not for all the tea in China,’ said Kuku.

  ‘I am not talking about tea, I am talking about cash.’

  ‘How much?’ asked Kuku.

  ‘She’ll not consent,’ Dr Coomaraswamy had told Krishnan.

  ‘She will if you offer enough. Try three hundred rupees.’

  ‘Three hundred?’

  ‘Kukus are expensive and we don’t want to fail.’

  ‘We shall give you a hundred rupees. One hundred,’ the Doctor told her now.

  Kuku gave a snort. ‘How much do Krishnan’s girls at Ghandara get?’

  ‘Our young women do it for love.’

  ‘I’m sure they do. Krishnan’s gopis!’

  ‘Miss Kuku, you may not sneer at our candidate. Three hundred.’

  Kuku settled for five – And I, myself, shall extort every anna of that, Dr Coomaraswamy had peculiar pleasure in promising himself this. Yet, ‘If you had known,’ he told Kuku silently, ‘I would have given you a thousand rupees, two thousand. For you, I am weakness itself.’ Instead, he was able to say, ‘You will stand throughout.’

  ‘I shall faint.’

  ‘That will be ten rupees off. You will wear green with yellow and white or yellow with green and white – Party colours.’

  ‘I will wear yellow and green, India’s colours.’

  ‘You will wear what I say,’ said Dr Coomaraswamy, ‘and you will not ogle Krishnan Bhanj.’

  ‘Ogle? What is ogle?’

  ‘You know very well,’ and Kuku laughed.

  She did not laugh when the lorry came and she saw Radha.

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Dr Coomaraswamy was delighted but Kuku had seen the grey eyes.

  ‘Mrs Browne!’ she cried.

  ‘Kindly, Mrs Browne has consented to be the Radha goddess, your companion,’ said Dr Coomaraswamy.

  ‘For kindness, not for cash,’ Mr Srinivasan put in.

  Kuku said at once, ‘She is far better dressed than I am.’ It was Shyama who had dressed Mary in the gatehouse. The sari was green gauze patterned with gold thread stars, the choli gold tissue – Mary was titillated to feel her midriff bare; fortunately, from wearing her bikini, it was sunburnt too. Her hair was hidden by a black silk cap gathered at the back into flowers, a pigtail hanging ended by one of the little velvet and gold thread balls she had seen in the bazaar. Below the cap her forehead had been painted white which made her skin look darker, the white edged with red dots; her arms were painted with patterns too, the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands red. There were strings of white flowers, a gold necklace and bangles. Shyama had outlined Mary’s eyes with kohl, painted the lids blue and reddened her lips vividly red. ‘She says you must take this make-up with you, to freshen in the heat,’ Dr Coomaraswamy had said, and, ‘She says to tell you now you are most beautiful.’

  Then, by the lorry, ‘Far better dressed than I am. I’m not coming,’ cried Kuku.

  Sharma picked her up and put her in the lorry. ‘You have come,’ he said.

  ‘Thambi, that was a bad thing to do.’ Auntie Sanni had sent for Thambi immediately when, as was inevitable, she heard about the dressing up in the gatehouse. She spoke in English to be more severe. ‘Very bad.’

  ‘Bad?’ Thambi was astonished. ‘It was for the Party.’

  ‘I suppose that was what Krishnan felt,’ Auntie Sanni said when she told the Fishers. ‘Better you hear this from me than from Samuel or Hannah.’

  ‘All the same, I am surprised at Krishnan,’ said Sir John.

  ‘I think Krishnan’, said Lady Fisher, ‘is not averse to a little play. Think how mischievous the god Krishna was.’

  ‘But Mary must have known this was not right,’ Sir John was fulminating. ‘All those years with Rory . . .’

  ‘She did not know,’ said Auntie Sanni, ‘because she did not give herself time to think. Nor would I – or you – have done at eighteen.’

  The decorated lorry made its way from small town to small town, village to village, a slow way because it was stopped again and again by the crowds. Soon each stop seemed joined to the other by the people along the roads as Sharma blew his conch, drums beat from the jeeps and cars behind with the shrill whine of Indian music and Dr Coomaraswamy bellowing from the microphone. Every time they stopped, a throng pressed forward.

  ‘Where do they all come from?’ asked Dr Coomarasw
amy.

  ‘I think from everywhere.’ Mr Srinivasan was almost cheerful.

  It was a reverent crowd. Again men shut the umbrellas that had shielded them from the sun and made namaskar; women, usually shy, hiding themselves behind their sari ends, now threw flowers, garlands, jostled forward to touch. ‘You must not shrink,’ Dr Coomaraswamy said angrily to Kuku. ‘Stand up or else . . .’

  He glanced at Mary who sat so still he thought she was asleep – but no; she bent a little to the crowd, let the women touch her, received the homage, dutifully kept the other hand in blessing. He saw her, now and again, look at Krishnan and Krishnan looked back with that irradiating smile but once Dr Coomaraswamy saw what he could hardly believe: Krishnan gave young Mrs Browne a . . . wink? wondered Dr Coomaraswamy. Could it have been a wink? There was no time to think further. He had to go back to his microphone. ‘People of the State of Konak, men and women, friends . . .’

  ‘Jai – Krishnan. Jai – Krishnan,’ and as the crowd swelled the cry grew into a roar.

  ‘Stand up,’ he commanded Kuku.

  ‘I want to blow my nose.’

  ‘That will be five rupees off.’

  ‘Out for the day!’ On the beach Blaise had been incredulous.

  ‘She say,’ Thambi could not help enjoying this – he had heard ‘water rats’ – ‘she say she see you this evening,’ and he volunteered, ‘She quite safe. Sahib.’

  ‘But where has she gone?’

  And Thambi had pleasure in saying, ‘On Krishnan Bhanj’s lorry.’

  ‘That young Blaise!’ Sir John had said in wrath. ‘Not a word or, I can guess, a thought as to what is going on between him and Mary, only what people might think.’

  Blaise had come up to breakfast but had contained himself until the Fishers had finished. He followed them on to the verandah. ‘Gone on this fool lorry. Not a word to me only a message from that far too cocky fellow Thambi,’ and, ‘Suppose it gets into the papers?’ Blaise said in agony.

  ‘Well, it’s bound to be on the news. They seem to be following this election step by step. The papers will, of course, copy.’