Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  Offerings were laid at her feet as well as his, flowers thrown in her lap: marigolds, flaunting scarlet cotton-tree flowers, white mogra buds. Coins were thrown too – they hurt like little flints: annas, pice, even cowries – those little shells, used as the smallest possible coins; sometimes whole rupees were recklessly thrown from hard-earned savings. Kuku grew angry. ‘Ari! They hurt!’ But Mary was touched almost to tears. ‘Scoop them up and give them back,’ she wanted to say but knew she must only smile and accept.

  ‘How was it?’ Sir John asked when at last the lorry drove into Patna Hall to drop off Mary, Kuku and the disciples before taking Krishnan, Dr Coomaraswamy, Mr Srinivasan and the young women back to Ghandara for Krishnan to rest before the evening dhashan he would hold that night. Sir John came to meet them, jumping Mary down among the admiring disciples.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Exaltation!’ said Mary.

  ‘Mary,’ Sir John was grave, ‘I want to speak to you and so does Alicia.’

  ‘You’re angry! You mustn’t be. Oh, Sir John, not tonight. Don’t be angry tonight when everything’s so wonderful.’

  ‘What could I do?’ he asked Lady Fisher.

  ‘You must be tired.’ Lady Fisher had come into the hall.

  ‘I’m not in the least bit tired,’ and suddenly Mary clasped her in a tight hug, gave her a resounding kiss, kissed Sir John then whirled through the hall on to the verandah where she hugged Auntie Sanni, dared to kiss Colonel McIndoe and a few of Professor Aaron’s ladies, Mrs van den Mar, Professor Webster, Miss Pritt and Dr Lovat who had come back from a second expedition to the Dawn Temple. She left them slightly startled, met Hannah and threw her arms round her, darted into the dining room to shake Samuel’s hands and the waiters’, even the stately Ganga’s. ‘Where’s Bumble?’ she called. ‘Oh, I expect down at the bungalow. I’ll call him. It would be nice to play a silly game. Come on,’ she called to the disciples. ‘Come down to the beach. Give me ten minutes to get out of these beautiful clothes in the gatehouse and we’ll show you how to play rounders. Come!’

  Released, too, for the moment, the disciples came with whoops of joy. Soon the beach was full of running white figures with Mary’s blue shorts and shirt flashing among them.

  ‘She’s over-excited,’ said Auntie Sanni, watching from the verandah, where Lady Fisher had come out to join her.

  ‘Violently over-excited,’ said Lady Fisher. ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘It looks rather fun,’ said Dr Lovat. ‘Let’s go down and join in.’

  ‘I’m not talking to you,’ Blaise had said.

  ‘I don’t want you to talk. We want you to play.’ Changed back into her morning clothes, her face and arms clean where Shyama had reluctantly washed off the kohl, henna and colours – ‘She say you much more pretty with,’ Thambi had told Mary – she had run into the bungalow bedroom to fetch Blaise.

  ‘Play?’

  ‘Yes, with me and the young men, Dr Coomaraswamy’s young men, and I guess some of the ladies.’

  ‘And, I suppose, Krishnan Bhanj.’ It was meant to be withering – Mr Menzies’ insinuations had rankled – but Mary’s, ‘Oh, Krishnan has gone back to Ghandara,’ was so careless that Blaise felt slightly reassured.

  ‘Play what?’

  ‘Rounders.’ Mary had cast off her shoes.

  ‘That’s a kid’s game.’

  ‘All the better.’ Already she was outside and showing the disciples how to mark out the round – ‘With my golf clubs!’ Blaise, who had followed her, was outraged.

  ‘It won’t hurt them. They make good posts.’

  ‘You haven’t a bat.’

  ‘This’ll do.’ She had picked up a flat-faced piece of driftwood. ‘Anil. Ravi,’ she called to two of the disciples whose names she knew, ‘Blaise and I will go first to show you.’

  Blaise came portentously forward. ‘I’ll tell you the rules— ’

  ‘We don’t need rules,’ Mary interrupted. ‘We’ve chosen our sides. They’ll pick it up as we go. You’ll see. Come on. You bowl, I’ll bat. See,’ she called to the young men and ladies – five of the cultural ladies had come – ‘you have to catch the ball to get me out or catch it and throw it to hit me when I’m between posts and I’ll be out. Are you ready? Blaise, throw!’

  ‘You’re not playing properly.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pomp. Throw!’

  They were, Blaise had to admit, quick – he had not yet met India’s barefoot quicksilver hockey players – and now two more ladies came. ‘Can we join, Mr Browne?’

  Mollified by their presence, ‘Of course,’ said Blaise. ‘Join the team. I’ll be umpire,’ and he threw the ball to Anil.

  ‘We don’t need an umpire,’ called Mary.

  Nor did they. ‘Out!’ shouted Blaise when Ravi fell headlong by a golf club post a moment before he was caught.

  ‘I’m not out, my head is in,’ cried Ravi.

  ‘Out.’

  ‘In,’ they chorused, laughing.

  ‘Of course, if you’re going to cheat . . .’

  You do not, Mary sensed, even in her daredevil mood, accuse Indians of cheating: it is like holding explosives to flame and hastily she intervened. ‘Of course we’re going to cheat. All of us will cheat. It’s part of the fun. I’ll cheat. You’ll cheat.’

  ‘I don’t call that fun and I don’t cheat.’ Blaise stalked off into the bungalow.

  Mrs Glover went after him. ‘Mr Browne, do play. You make us feel badly.’

  ‘In England we play games properly. We keep the rules.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about properly and rules but this is real fun and what we needed. We’ve all been at a high pitch of emotion all day.’ Reluctantly Blaise came out but only stood watching.

  ‘Letters for you, Doctor.’

  ‘Not now. Not now.’ Dr Coomaraswamy said it irritably. ‘Not when I have a thousand, thousand worries.’ Then he saw that it was Kuku.

  There was no one else on the verandah; except for Auntie Sanni and Colonel McIndoe who had gone to the knoll, everyone else was in their room or on the beach. ‘It looks a nice romp,’ said Dr Coomaraswamy.

  ‘I do not romp,’ said Kuku. ‘Besides I have work to do.’

  ‘Unfortunately I, too . . .’ Dr Coomaraswamy passed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out doings with which he could no longer cope. Then, ‘Kuku, where are you going?’

  ‘To bath and change.’

  ‘I myself must bath and change.’

  ‘But first,’ said Kuku, ‘I should like my five hundred rupees,’ and seeing his face grow immediately stern, came closer with what she knew was a winning smile – the smile he had asked for all day – as she murmured, ‘You are not going to fine me, are you?’

  She had never been as close; he could smell, not her scent, that had faded in the sun, but, far more tantalising again, her warmth, her girl sweat. Her hair dishevelled, almost brushed his temples – she was taller than he. All thought of Uma faded from Dr Coomaraswamy’s mind. ‘Kuku, first come to my room.’

  ‘Your room?’ Kuku laughed. ‘Don’t be a silly old man.’

  ‘You are so beautiful. I’ll give— ’ he swallowed, ‘I’ll give you another five hundred rupees.’

  For a moment a glint came into Kuku’s eyes; he thought it a promising glint that made him quiver but she looked down to the beach where, among the dark figures, a blond head stood out as the last rays of the sun going down over the sea, touched the blond to gold.

  ‘Not for ten thousand rupees,’ said Kuku, her whole face softened, illumined and, when she spoke next, her voice was soft. ‘You see, Dr Coomaraswamy, I too am in love.’

  It was beginning to be dusk on the beach; they could no longer see the ball; the play, the running ebbed. At the same time the flames of braziers showed on the roof of Patna Hall while lanterns shone along the parapet. Some time before Anil and Ravi had slipped away; now they came back washed and changed. They stood together and Ravi cried, ‘You are invited to Paradise.
Auntie Sanni has agreed. Tonight is the end of our campaign so the Root and Flower Party invite you to a barbecue, Indian fashion – on the roof. Please, everyone, yes everyone, come. Sir John. Lady Fisher. Professor Aaron. Mrs van den Mar. Professor Webster. Ladies. Mr and Mrs Browne – par-tic-u-lar-ly Mrs Browne – please to accept.’

  ‘What could be better?’ It was Mrs van den Mar’s voice.

  ‘Well, I must say,’ said Mrs Glover, ‘that was the best time I’ve had in months. Who would have thought my old legs could run as fast!’

  ‘Who would have thought’, Miss Pritt was aglow, ‘that an archaeological tour could have ended in a children’s ball game then being invited to a party by those delightful young men?’

  ‘Charmers all of them,’ said Dr Lovat.

  ‘Julia! Beware.’

  ‘They’re far too busy,’ Dr Lovat said calmly, ‘and too committed. Later tonight we, too, shall be truly serious.’

  ‘Yes.’ Professor Webster spoke to Mrs van den Mar as they walked up to Patna Hall. ‘We mustn’t be late for the dhashan.’

  ‘We shan’t. They’ll all be needed for it, the young men,’ said Mrs van den Mar.

  ‘But which dhashan?’ Professor Aaron had come to meet them. ‘I’ve just been listening to the radio news and it seems there will be two, so where do we go?’

  ‘To Krishnan Bhanj’s dhashan.’

  ‘Both are Krishnan’s.’

  ‘That can’t be. He can’t be in two places at once,’ Dr Lovat objected.

  ‘It appears he can.’

  It had been in that noon break in the oasis that the news had come to Dr Coomaraswamy. One of the disciples had taken the opportunity of listening to the mid-day radio and had run to get the Doctor to come to his jeep in time for the repeat of the news in English. First the headlines, ‘Padmina Retty outwits – and out-distances – Krishnan Bhanj . . .’ Then, ‘On this, the final day of the campaign, dismayed perhaps by Krishnan Bhanj’s, shall we say, “divine progress” through Konak’s towns and villages, Mrs Retty has gone into space. She has hired an aeroplane and so today, this final day, she has covered far more of Konak than he. “His poor little lorry is slow,” says Padmina. “Ignorant puppy, the very crowds impede it! I shall be swift, able to appear in outlying places he cannot hope to reach . . .” ’

  ‘Damn Padmina Retty to hell!’ swore Dr Coomaraswamy. He rushed to alert Krishnan who was peacefully eating. ‘She will go by air. Do we now have to hire a plane?’

  ‘Copycat,’ wrote Krishnan again. ‘Aeroplane will utterly destroy image so carefully built up,’ he wrote and continued eating, crunching the still crisp dosas between his white teeth.

  ‘Then what to do?’

  Krishnan licked his fingers and wrote, ‘Duplicate.’

  ‘Duplicate?’

  ‘Yes, immediately.’

  As one who was now part of the campaign, though only like Vishnu’s squirrel helping to build the great bridge by bringing pebbles, Dr Coomaraswamy told Mary about this latest move. ‘Fort-un-ate-ly, our benefactor Mr Surijlal Chand has an identical lorry, same make, same colour. It is to be decorated i-den-tic-ally – I have detached some of our young men to see to this – same pandal, same garlands, colours and posters and Sharma is so like Krishnan that, i-den-tic-al in dress and make-up, few will tell the difference.’

  ‘He’s not nearly as dark,’ objected Mary.

  ‘All the better. Krishnan should be fair.’

  ‘Nor as big.’

  ‘We shall seat him higher. We shall be touring until the early hours.’

  ‘What happens’, asked Mary, ‘if they meet or the people see them both?’

  ‘No matter.’ Dr Coomaraswamy spoke almost cheerfully as he echoed what Krishnan had written, ‘Hindu gods can duplicate themselves, indeed multiply themselves. Did not Krishna become twenty-four Krishnas to please the gopis, the milkmaids?’

  ‘My goodness,’ said Professor Webster on the path up from the beach. ‘How I’d like to go to both dhashans.’

  I only want to go to one, thought Mary.

  On the knoll, looking down on the empty beach, the blaze of light on the roof, ‘I feel there is a tide,’ Auntie Sanni said to Colonel McIndoe. ‘Listen to the drums.’

  When Blaise came up from the bungalow, Patna Hall’s big verandah was deserted.

  He had avoided Mary, going into the bathroom as she came out of it, staying there until she had gone, coming out changed into slacks, a thin jersey, then strolling along the beach until he was sure she was at the roof barbecue. He had heard the invitation; at the bar there was no one, he poured himself a drink, then another. He could hear sounds of people going up and down the outside stairs, of American voices, Indian voices, laughter; they came down too from the roof. He turned his back.

  Fireflies flickered in the garden and down the path. A garden boy came out to switch on the lanterns down the path sending the bats away where before they had flown and swooped almost brushing Blaise’s hair. ‘Yuk!’ he had cried out in horror; they seemed part, to him, of this horrible night. He had another whisky. ‘That girl should have been at the bar,’ he muttered but Kuku, too, was up on the roof – though treating the barbecue with disdain, making a point of talking to Professor Aaron and the ladies, not to the disciples, except in their role as waiters.

  ‘Why is the dining room closed?’ Blaise had finally come in from the bar to find the dining room empty, the tables bare. Only the youngest waiter, Ahmed, was there fetching glasses from a cupboard. ‘Why is the dining room closed?’

  ‘No dinner in dining room tonight.’ The boy picked up his tray obviously wanting to get away from this inexplicably angry sahib.

  ‘No dinner! In Christ’s name, why not? This is supposed to be an hotel.’

  ‘Plenty of dinner.’

  To Ahmed’s relief, Samuel appeared. ‘Plenty but tonight served up on the roof. Miss Sanni’s orders. Come, Sahib, I show you the way.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘Excellent dinner,’ crooned Samuel. ‘It is our Root and Flower Party’s invitation. Miss Sanni say we all accept.’

  ‘Does she?’ Blaise sounded dangerous.

  ‘Indian fashion barbecue. Western as well. I and Ahmed cook that. Sahib enjoy it very much.’

  A voice interrupted; in the pantry Ahmed had turned on the radio and the voice of the reader in English came through: ‘This is All India Radio. Here is the news. The trial of Colin Armstrong closed today. Mr Justice Rajan . . .’ A clatter of plates drowned the rest. Then, ‘In the state of Konak, the election has entered an impressive stage . . .’

  ‘Turn that damn thing off!’ Blaise almost screamed. Samuel was more than perturbed. That a sahib, one of Auntie Sanni’s sahibs, should misbehave – Samuel could not bring himself to say ‘offend’ – seemed unbelievable. Yet not half an hour ago he had had another such encounter, worse, a confrontation he had to admit. He had caught Mr Menzies in the hall as he went out. Mr Menzies had not been invited to the barbecue but did not seem to mind.

  ‘Menzies, Sahib.’

  ‘What is it? I’m in a hurry.’ He had been in a hurry all day, the red car whizzing in and out. ‘Well?’

  ‘Sahib, that boy Kanu, he may not come into Patna Hall,’ and before Mr Menzies could object, ‘If Sahib is needing a body servant— ’

  ‘Body servant! That’s rich.’ Mr Menzies was laughing – it sounded to Samuel like demon laughter. ‘Ho! Ho!’ He clapped Samuel on the shoulder. ‘You say more than you know, old man,’ but Samuel shook off the hand as if it had been a snake and drew himself up to look Mr Menzies in the face.

  ‘I am knowing’ – Samuel deliberately left out the ‘sahib’ – ‘I know very well, which is why I have to speak.’

  The laughter ceased. ‘And I suppose you will tell your Auntie Sanni?’

  ‘Miss Sanni,’ Samuel corrected him. ‘I do not tell such to a lady. I am telling my Sahib, Colonel McIndoe.’

  For a moment Samuel had thought he had disconcerted Mr Me
nzies. Then Mr Menzies shrugged and went off whistling to his car. Now Samuel’s grave eyes took in Blaise’s flushed face, over-bright eyes, the smell of whisky and, ‘Sahib must eat,’ said Samuel. ‘If Sahib too tired to come upstairs, I bring some good things down.’ He spoke a few quick words to Ahmed. ‘Ahmed is laying you a table.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Sahib must eat.’

  ‘Shut up, you,’ shouted Blaise and went back to the bar.

  ‘Miss Baba, come down,’ Samuel whispered to Mary up on the roof. ‘Ask Sahib to come to the barbecue. Missy, come down, please.’

  No, thought Mary, please no.

  She had been utterly content, sitting in the firelight on a durrie by Auntie Sanni. The disciples had provided stools and benches for their older guests; the rest sat on mats or durries while a few of the young men, more adventurous, dared to sit on the parapet, their backs to the sixty-foot drop below, while they ate and dangled their legs. Samuel and his staff had carried up china, glasses and cutlery but Mary had been delighted to see there were also banana leaves and the small metal tumblers used for drinking. The disciples, sniffing success, were overflowing with hospitality and affectionate happiness.

  ‘Eat, please eat.’

  ‘Here is drink.’

  ‘Please, Auntie Sanni.’

  ‘Professor.’

  ‘Lady.’

  ‘Lady.’

  ‘Mrs Browne.’

  ‘Call me Mary.’

  ‘Not Mary, Radha. We think you are true goddess, Radha.’

  Up on the roof is nearer to the stars, Mary had been thinking. The sky seemed like a spangled bowl meeting the horizon far out to sea and, as she had seen when she had looked over the back parapet, was met by the tall palms and cotton trees of the village with, behind them, the hills, holders of the cave paintings that had so thrilled the ladies. To the east was Auntie Sanni’s knoll, to the west, the sand-dunes lit tonight by a chain of shrine lights, though the grove itself was, at the moment, dark and still. On the lit roof, plied by the disciples, she was contentedly eating the delicious food with her fingers.