by Rumer Godden
‘Ugh!’ said Mrs Schlumberger and, peering, ‘What is it?’
‘Delectable!’ said Dr Lovat.
‘But I like to know what I am eating. It smells.’
‘Of course. It’s spicy.’
‘Memsahib rather have western? Hamburger? French fries?’ Anil was anxious to please but when he brought them, ‘Not on a leaf, boy. I’m not a barbarian.’
‘I am, I’ll eat them,’ Mary offered. ‘I’m ravenous,’ but Anil had spirited up plate, knife, fork, napkin, while Ravi emptied a pyramid of saffron rice on a fresh banana leaf for Mary. Then Samuel was at her elbow.
‘Missy. Miss Baba.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Like Krishnan, Mary licked her fingers, one by one, laughing. She stood up, shook out her skirt – she had changed into a dress for the dhashan – and went downstairs.
‘A pretty poor show,’ said Blaise, ‘a hotel not serving dinner.’
‘Blaise, don’t you see, it’s an exceptional night? Everyone has election fever and there’s such good food. I’ve never tasted real Indian food before. Bumble, do come. Everyone’s up there, Sir John, Lady Fisher, Professor Aaron and all the ladies. Auntie Sanni— ’
‘She’s not your aunt.’
Mary was too happy to quarrel. ‘It won’t be long. We will all be going on to the dhashan. Bumble, why won’t you join in?’
‘I did try to join in there, down on the beach and a bloody fool you made me look.’
‘I’m sorry. I suppose I was excited.’
‘If anyone knows how a game should be played,’ the whisky was beginning to work on Blaise’s resentment, ‘how it ought to be played . . .’
‘It wasn’t an ought sort of game.’
‘Then it ought to be.’
‘Ought! Ought!’ Mary was near to losing her temper. ‘Ought is a bully word. Blaise, why? Why do you have to spoil everything?’
‘I spoil?’
‘Yes,’ but Mary felt an odd pang of pity. ‘Bumble, please. This is an . . . an enchanted night. Look at the fireflies, the stars. Everyone’s so happy, so affectionate. Krishnan— ’
‘Don’t talk to me about that black cheat. Don’t dare to say his name. Go on,’ shouted Blaise, ‘go upstairs to him and his like,’ and he slapped Mary hard across her face. ‘And you can take that with you.’
The sound of the slap seemed to reverberate through Patna Hall. In the pantry Samuel dropped a dish.
For a moment Mary stood still with shock, the red mark spreading on her cheek. Her hand came up to feel it as if she could not believe it. Then she said, in a whisper, ‘You won’t do that again. I’m going.’
It was late when Sir John went down to the bungalow. He had left Lady Fisher and Auntie Sanni on the verandah. Kuku had gone to bed. Paradise was dark now, its bonfires sunk to embers; along the beach, the noise of the surf was broken by drums beating from the grove where Sir John could see lights, flares, behind the lights of the shrines as he came down the path. The drums quickened; he could hear the high notes of a flute, then chanting, a slow rhythmic chant. Slippers, driven away by the crowd, was standing looking wistfully at the bungalow. He turned to follow Sir John. ‘Better not, old fellow,’ Sir John told him and with a pat turned him round.
Blaise, it seemed, had had more whisky – the room’s own small bar stood open, its whisky bottle three-quarters empty. Samuel, though his legs were tired, his feet sore from climbing up the steep stairs to Paradise, had come bringing a plate of sandwiches and a basket of fruit; they were on the table untouched while Blaise sat staring out to sea, his head on his hands. When Sir John came in he looked up, glowering, ‘I wanted to be left alone.’
‘So I gathered but I have come’, said Sir John, ‘to take you to the dhashan.’
‘The bloody dhashan? That’s the last thing . . .’ The words were slurred.
‘I think you should come, for your own sake,’ said Sir John and, peremptorily, ‘Stand up, boy.’
At first Blaise could not walk beside Sir John but wove an unsteady way, veering down almost to the waves, back up the sand; then slowly the cooler air and the breeze revived him. Soon, too, the size of the gathering began to dawn on him; it reached far wider than the grove, overflowing through the dunes and the fluffy casuarina trees and along the beach. Blaise had seen the crowds that afternoon but here were, ‘A thousand? Two thousand?’ he murmured, dazed.
‘More,’ said Sir John. ‘Far more.’
The music and chanting had stopped for a breathing space and they heard the stirrings, the undertone murmuring of a reverent multitude, men and women packed close sitting on the sand, the women with flowers in the coils of their hair; some men were bareheaded, most had small turbans – the pale cloth shone in the glow of lanterns hung in the trees and on poles, stretching away as far as they could see. Boys were everywhere, some up the trees; girls, small and older, sat with their mothers.
Among them, like vigilantes in white – again Sir John was reminded of angels – the disciples stood sentinel or moved silently offering chattis of hot coffee or pepper water, biris, fruit or pān – betel nut. Though the people took them, their heads never moved, their gaze was too fixed on where, in a clear space, a fire burned sending up sparks, while behind it, on a high throne heaped with flowers, sat Krishnan, blue-black as usual, his skin shining with oil, his eyes outlined with kohl, his lips vermilion, the white U mark of Vishnu on his forehead. He looked outsize as he smiled gently, tenderly, on his people. Behind was an elephant Sir John had often seen in the village; now it was unattended, content. On Krishnan’s knee sat a squirrel, its grey fur ruddy in the firelight, its tail plumed up. As they watched, Krishnan absently gave it a nut; it nibbled, holding the nut in its paws, its beady eyes giving a quick look at the crowds, then trustingly up at Krishnan. ‘I must say he is magnificent,’ said Sir John.
Blaise stood staring, a little of the implications reaching him at last – until he saw Mary.
The cultural ladies were here and there among the people; most of them had brought camp stools but Mary sat on a deerskin almost at Krishnan’s feet. She was stringing a garland as were the boys squatting round her; as she looked down to pick up a flower her hair swung its bell round her face and fell back as she looked up again to thread the flower; her white dress seemed, like the squirrel, to be stained with red light from the fire. As Blaise looked, she held up the garland towards Krishnan.
‘Lady Fisher said she was bewitched.’ Blaise’s voice was far too loud.
‘Hush!’
‘She’s not bewitched. She’s besotted. Sotted.’
‘That’s an ugly word.’ Sir John spoke quietly, firmly, hoping to calm him.
‘Ugly! Look at that!’ Blaise shouted the words out. Krishnan had smiled on the flowers. ‘It’s bloody ugly.’
‘Chūp!’ Sir John used the Hindi word and, at the same time, slapped his hand over Blaise’s mouth. ‘How dare you disturb everyone? What is ugly in this? The fire, flowers, animals – even the monkeys behave – these children and humble people?’ Then, by luck, Sir John saw Thambi standing with Moses and beckoned them with a quick jerk of his head. ‘Take Browne Sahib back to the bungalow. Take him,’ ordered Sir John.
‘Jai Krishnan. Jai Krishnan,’ and as even greater reverence broke through, ‘Jai Shri Krishnan,’ then, ‘Jai Shri Krishnan Hari.’
Chanting. Music. Silence. Silence, chanting, music; even in the silence the piercing yet sweet call of the flute seemed to go on as Krishnan now and again put it to his lips to play. ‘I didn’t know how well Krishnan played the flute,’ Mary murmured to Ravi when he paused beside her.
‘He has to play but, then, Krishnan can do anything,’ whispered ecstatic Ravi.
Can Sharma? wondered Mary.
The moon rose higher, began to go down so that it hung lower over the sea. In twos and threes, the cultural ladies began unostentatiously to leave; Professor Aaron followed them. Sir John made his way to Mary. ‘That’s enough, young Mary. This will go on all night.’<
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‘I should have liked to go to the other dhashan to see Sharma Krishnan,’ said Professor Webster who had lingered.
‘That will go on all night too.’
‘Yes.’ Dr Coomaraswamy had joined them. ‘Also, I myself have been back and forth every hour. That dhashan is at Mudalier, not far from Ghandara on the inland side, exactly the replica of this. The effect is ex-tra-or-din-ary!’ His eyes shone. ‘Believe me, some of these people will walk the twelve miles to see the duplication.’
‘They believe im-pli-cit-ly.’ Mr Srinivasan, too, was in euphoria.
‘An extremely successful political trick.’ Mr Menzies, in his now almost familiar way, had appeared from nowhere.
‘Trick!’ Mr Srinivasan’s voice was shrill from the affront. ‘It is to save the people. They must be saved,’ the little man said earnestly. ‘Krishnan has made no false promises – unlike other candidates – only the truth, simple truth of what he can do with this holy help, what, we pray, he will do.’
‘Well! Well! Well!’ said Mr Menzies. ‘Be as it may, I am going to look at Number Two. Mrs Browne, can I take you?’
Mr Menzies did not ask Professor Webster and Sir John moved closer to Mary but she had instinctively drawn back. In any case, Sharma after Krishnan, no, she thought, and aloud, ‘I think I’d rather not.’
‘Good girl,’ said Sir John. ‘I will take you back.’
‘Back?’ Startled out of her happiness, panic set in. The slap Mary had forgotten seemed to tingle on her cheek. ‘I can’t go back. I don’t know where to go but I can’t sleep in the bungalow with Blaise. I can’t.’
‘Of course you can’t.’ Sir John put his arm round her. ‘Blaise has had enough, too, for tonight. You are to sleep in our dressing room. Auntie Sanni has arranged it. Come.’
Thursday
When the first beginnings of daylight filtered through the dressing room curtains, Mary still had not slept. Too tired? Too excited? Too dismayed? But she did not feel dismayed, even though she knew the dismay was serious, nor was she tired or excited, only awake and waiting. Waiting for what?
Then it came; the sound of a flute played softly. She flung off the sheet, went to the window and looked behind the curtains. Yes, it was Krishnan standing under the window and with him, in the dim light, she saw the big shape of Birdie.
Krishnan wore no make-up, no garlands, only a clean white tunic and loose trousers, his hair brushed back. As he saw her, he put a finger to his lips, hushing her, then beckoned.
Mary had gone to bed in her slip; now she pulled last night’s dress on, brushed her hair with one of Sir John’s hairbrushes and, taking her sandals, stole out in her bare feet and ran downstairs.
‘Krishnan.’
‘Ssh! Mary, would you, will you, come with me?’
Krishnan seemed suddenly young and – not unhappy – troubled.
‘Come where?’
‘To the temple.’
‘The Dawn Temple?’
‘No, no. There’s a little temple. It’s so hidden in the hills hardly anyone knows it. I call it mine. I’m going there to make my puja.’
‘Puja?’
‘Prayer. Before the voting. I promised my mother.’ He took Mary’s hand, twining his fingers in hers. ‘Perhaps, Mary, thinking of her, I find myself very lonely. Well . . .’ For a moment he was proud again, ‘I have to be lonely but sometimes everyone needs . . .’ It seemed to be difficult for eloquent Krishnan to find words. Then, ‘Mary, will you come with me?’ and, rapidly, ‘Birdie will take us, it’s not far into the hills, as she’s always coming and going no one will notice us. I won’t be long. You’ll be back in bed before anyone is up to see you gone. You— ’
‘Ssh!’ said Mary in her turn. ‘Of course I’ll come.’
Birdie knelt down to let them climb on to the pad Krishnan had fastened on her back; he swung up and reached down a hand to help Mary. ‘Lie down behind me,’ he whispered as he settled himself on the elephant’s neck.
‘I thought no one could drive an elephant except its mahout,’ said Mary as they went along.
‘Perhaps in another time I was a mahout.’
Mary had ridden elephants before, short rides in a howdah but not in this free, ordinary way; she could feel Birdie’s great body through the pad, her shoulders moving, her powerful, comfortable, half-rolling half-swaying gait. Birdie had been well trained: if a branch overhung – this roundabout way to the hills led through patches of jungle – to a command from Krishnan, her trunk came up to break it off in case it hit her passengers. When they came to a swamp she tested the ground with a cautious forefoot before she would venture on it. Presently they began to climb; Mary felt a cooler air and, as she lay, lulled by the rhythmical swaying, she went, at last, to sleep.
The temple was inset into the hills, higher hills fold on fold around it so that it looked out across vistas to the sea; it was walled with small bricks made of native earth turned by centuries of sun to dark gold, as was its courtyard floor of smooth, old stone. There was a stoop for water in one wall and a small pillared pavilion in which hung a bell. ‘What a funny smell,’ whispered Mary. ‘What is it?’
‘Bats,’ said Krishnan, wrinkling his nose. ‘Ghee gone rancid and, I should guess, crushed marigolds.’ She could smell their pungency.
Krishnan set the bell lightly ringing; the sound carried over the gulf all around. Behind the pavilion Mary could see an inner temple, empty under its dome though in the centre of the floor, on a low plinth, burnt a fire with a steady flame. ‘It never goes out,’ Krishnan told her.
She had woken when Birdie stopped and knelt. Krishnan had lifted her down and she had stood, rubbing her eyes awake, blinking at the sunlight while he brought down from Birdie’s back the bundle of sugar cane he had brought as feed, untied it and scattered the canes. ‘Kachiyundu,’ he told her in Telegu, as she got to her feet. The little eyes blinked as Mary’s had, the mottled ears flapped and Birdie did as she was told.
‘Come.’
‘Why the fire?’ asked Mary.
‘This temple belongs to another of the old, old elemental gods like Surya, the Sun God, Indra, God of Storm, Thunder and Rain. This is for Agni, God of Fire. We all love Agni because though he is the son of heaven he lives on earth and in all our homes because he warms them and cooks our food. Perhaps that is why I love to come here when I miss home. Agni can never die because he is born each time we make a marriage by rubbing two pieces of dry wood together or strike a flint or match and he, like us, has to be fed.’ Krishnan laughed. ‘See, I have brought him an offering of ghee.’
As Krishnan poured the butter on the fire and the flame shot up, the priest appeared: not old, a young man wearing only a lunghi, his hair oiled back and the Brahmin sacred thread, three-stranded across his chest from his shoulder to his waist.
‘Krishna-ji,’ he greeted Krishnan as an old and revered friend, making namaskar. ‘Anandum. Peace.’ He gave a deep salaam to Mary, then silently opened a slit of a door behind the fire, motioning them to go in.
Mary had taken off her shoes but still she hesitated, looking up at Krishnan. ‘You can go in,’ he said, ‘but, Mary, it is the innermost sanctuary, infinitely holy. It is in all our temples but you have to find it. You will only find it if you come there to take darshan which is simply to be with, behold, God, not kneel or pray, only look . . . look . . . and not with cameras and notebooks . . . People who bring those, cut themselves off, they cannot come in. We call it the womb-house because, as only God is there, in it you can, as it were, be born again.’
‘Even I, an outsider?’ she whispered.
‘There are no outsiders here. Go in.’
Mary went in: the little room, windowless, smelled of incense, the oldest symbol of prayer. It was lit by the flickering of the butter-fed fire and on the wall was a painting, very old, thought Mary, painted directly on to the stone, not of a god or goddess but of a sun rising, its rays still showing traces of pigment, red and yellow; below it, storm clouds
were dark and swollen with rain falling. At the base, rising to meet them, as if challenging the storm, rose Agni’s flames, coloured red with deep yellow. ‘Sun – Storm – Fire – Surya – Indra – Agni,’ whispered Mary and, as if he would say that too, Krishnan took her hand again. They stood together, looking as he had said she should look, only looking while, behind them, the young priest took a shallow brass bowl with, in it, five dipas burning in oil and, quietly chanting his mantra, waved it before the fire, walking round it.
As they came out, he handed the bowl to Krishnan who waved it too, his lips moving, as the light of the small flames shot high up into the dome. Krishnan handed the bowl to Mary and, as she waved the flames, ‘O God, Gods, please, for Krishnan,’ she urged in a mantra of her own. ‘For Krishnan, please.’
It was late when she woke in the dressing room. ‘I shan’t go to sleep,’ she had told Krishnan. ‘I can’t after this,’
‘At least lie down,’ he had said and yawned himself. ‘I shall sleep now. I haven’t for two nights, it hasn’t been possible but, you see, for twenty-four hours before voting all parties have to stop campaigning, not a move, not a step, not a speech. Of course, we are all busy behind the scenes getting ready for tomorrow but dear Coomaraswamy will do that. I shall sleep, sleep, sleep and I am not homesick any more. Thank you, Mary.’
Though Patna Hall had been stirring, no one had seen her go and come; undisturbed she had slipped into bed and, before she could tell it all over again in her mind as she had meant to, she was asleep.
Now as she lay in bright sunlight, for a moment she wondered where she was until she saw Sir John’s hairbrushes, ivory-backed and crested on the dressing table, his ties hanging over the looking glass. Someone had hung her dress over a chair, put the shoes she had cast off neatly together; they were a reminder that, ‘People expect me to do everyday things . . . I shall have to do them,’ she told herself. ‘To begin with, go down to the bungalow, wash and get into clean clothes.’ She could have asked Hannah to bring her things but, ‘You’ll have to go sometime,’ she told herself. ‘With luck, Blaise will be asleep.’