by Rumer Godden
‘What they think in Konak.’ Krishnan was steady. ‘My father is there.’
‘And London? I think I can say I am certain of London. They will be extremely interested in . . . shall we call it the personal side?’
‘London is very far away,’ quavered Mr Srinivasan.
‘Not for the Brownes,’ said Lady Fisher.
‘Not for Blaise.’ Mary, who had sat proudly up after Krishnan’s words, hid her face in her hands.
There was a movement. Auntie Sanni, majestically massive among them, held up her hand, then said what they had all heard her say many times, ‘That is enough.’
‘You must all have wondered’, said Auntie Sanni, ‘what Mr Menzies was doing here at Patna Hall. Now we know – almost in full. As Ajax, a clever journalist, it seemed he was attracted to Konak by the scent of an unusual story, Krishnan’s vow of silence, but he found more. In elections there is usually something more, which can be very rewarding in a different way. That is perhaps why Mr Menzies is so assiduous in attending them.
‘I am not concerned with politics,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘They pass but some things do not pass. Though I wish Krishnan Bhanj’s Party well, this attempted blackmail is not so important.’ Dr Coomaraswamy gave an indignant gasp. ‘What is of utmost concern is the damage you, Mr Menzies, have done or are trying to do to other people’s lives: to a rising politician who has dedicated his life to his cause; to a young woman who, no matter how you make it seem, is innocent. Worse, a young man on whom your insinuations worked to such a pitch that it ended in his death.’
‘You can’t accuse me of that.’
‘In part.’ Auntie Sanni did not falter. ‘And, perhaps worst of all, a child. Kanu may not seem of much importance to any of you as Dr Coomaraswamy has said, but he is significant, very significant.
‘I must remind you, Mr Menzies, that under Indian law, homosexuality, even with consenting adults, is a criminal offence. Seduction of a child is an even worse offence and Kanu is only ten.’
‘What has he been telling you?’ Mr Menzies’ tongue came out to moisten his lips which seemed to have gone dry; his pink was now a curious grey. ‘What?’
‘Nothing as yet but he will. As you heard, Samuel has sent for his father and mother. Also we can call Chief Inspector Anand.’
‘The police!’
‘Yes.’ Colonel McIndoe got up and stood by Auntie Sanni’s chair. ‘We shall give you one chance, Menzies. You will not only leave this hotel, you will leave the state of Konak today. I and two of Dr Coomaraswamy’s aides – if you will allow them, Doctor – will have much pleasure in escorting you to Madras, Delhi, Calcutta, wherever you prefer to go, but the moment you publish one word of your allegations we shall inform the police – as you said of London, they will be much interested in the personal side.’
Mr Menzies looked at him with hate.
‘Well?’ said Colonel McIndoe. ‘Yes or no?’
‘Why do you ask me? You know I have to say yes.’
‘Very well, we’ll go now. We’ll arrange about your car. My wife will take care of Kanu. Doctor, please call your young men.’
‘Not yet.’ Krishnan, too, was up. ‘I have a few things to settle with Mr Menzies.’ He took Mr Menzies by the coat collar almost lifting him off his feet and, as Mr Menzies cried out, ‘I’m not going to hit you,’ said Krishnan. ‘Unfortunately, you are as much protected by the law as we innocents are. I shall not leave a mark on you, I promise. It will be a little wrestling match, except that I do not think you are a match for me.’
‘No. No.’ Mr Menzies’ cry was almost a shriek but Krishnan only said, ‘Come outside.’
‘Congratulations on your victory, Doctor, and to you, Mr Srinivasan,’ Auntie Sanni was saying as she stood making farewells. ‘I don’t suppose we shall see you again for a time. Let us hope Konak will not need another election for some years.’
‘Miss Sanni, madam, Colonel McIndoe,’ Dr Coomaraswamy cleared his throat, ‘we can never express our gratitude. This momentous victory . . .’
‘Most momentous,’ said Mr Srinivasan.
‘is entirely owing . . .’
‘Don’t let him make a speech,’ Sir John whispered in her ear. ‘We shall miss our train,’ and, ‘Goodbye, dear Doctor,’ Auntie Sanni said firmly, ‘Goodbye, Mr Srinivasan. You must leave, I know, for Ghandara. Your victory parade,’ and she went on to the Fishers. ‘John. Alicia. Next year and I hope more peacefully.’
Kuku had drawn Mary aside. ‘Will you tell Miss Sanni you have given me the ring? They will think I stole it else.’
‘Kuku, they would never— ’
‘Hannah and Samuel would,’ and Mary had to admit she could hear their voices, ‘Give poor young master’s ring to that good-for-nothing girl.’
‘I’ll tell her.’
Kuku gave Mary a kiss.
‘Mary, come to us and Patna Hall whenever you can and bring Olga.’
‘I shall. I . . . can’t begin to say thank you.’
Then don’t. You will be my girl always.’
‘Always.’
Mary had been down to the beach to say goodbye to Thambi, Moses and especially Somu. They were gathering up the helmets to clean them, shaking out the umbrellas, raking over the sand, getting ready for the incoming guests. The umbrellas, like the sand, were wet from the rain.
They came to greet her. Mary had brought Blaise’s splendid pair of binoculars to give to Thambi who took them with deep respect. ‘Memsahib come back soon,’ said Thambi. ‘Memsahib not be afraid. Sahib, he rest now.’
‘They are taking him to England,’ Thambi inclined his dignified head – the ways of Westerners were unfathomable to him – ‘but Memsahib stay India.’
‘I hope so.’ Yet Mary could not help a sense of a knell sounding in her: The scarlet cotton flowers are dropping. Well, all flowers lose their petals, the brilliance fades. Slippers has gone. Udata and Birdie will come looking for Krishnan. It is over, thought Mary, then stopped. Hadn’t Krishnan said, ‘When something is over, something else begins’?
At the same moment, ‘Look,’ said Thambi.
Over the sea, still dark from the storm, far out away from waves made angry by wind and rain, their crests a strange grey as they crashed on the shore, was a rainbow, a perfect rainbow, its arc in all its colours, meeting the sea on either side. ‘Indradhanassu.’ Thambi gave its Telegu name. ‘Is bow of Indra.’ Indra, God of Storm and Mary remembered the painting in the hill temple: he sets his bow to show that every storm has an end.
‘Mr and Mrs Prendergast,’ Kuku read from the register.
‘Number one,’ said Hannah.
‘They are old friends,’ explained Auntie Sanni.
‘The Right Honourable Viscount Normington and Viscountess Normington,’ Kuku read with relish.
‘They have booked the bridal suite. Their servant can go in Paradise.’
‘Mr and Mrs Arjit Roy and three children.’
‘They will have the whole bungalow.’ Kuku gave a little gasp; if Auntie Sanni and Hannah heard they made no sign.
‘Mr and Mrs Banerjee . . .’
‘Two hundred and fifty sheets this week. Five hundred pillowcases,’ shouted the vanna in the linen room. ‘Worse than last week. It is too much.’
‘It was because of the election.’ Hannah tried to soothe him. ‘The election is over. This week will be more peaceful. There will not be so many. Come, brother,’ she crooned. ‘Take them and wash them.’
‘Wash them yourself.’ The vanna left them on the floor.
All the clamour had died away. Everything was . . . ‘normal,’ said Auntie Sanni. The fishing boats had gone out, come back; the catch was on the shore. The grove was silent, the village went about its daily chores. The mahout had taken Birdie back to the palace. A small grey squirrel, plump now and agile, played in the trees. ‘I wish you could have had a more peaceful time,’ she had told the Fishers as they said goodbye.
‘Oddly enough, no matter what happens
, here there is peace,’ said Lady Fisher.
‘Yes,’ said Auntie Sanni. ‘Sometimes there is upset, this week a deep upset, but slowly . . .’ she dropped into her singsong voice, ‘it is like the sea, the waves – they beat in such thunder, the wash surges up the beach but cannot help spreading into ripples. Then they ebb. Everything goes with them, in a short while there is not even a mark left on the sand. No. There may be a little mark,’ conceded Auntie Sanni.
Epilogue
January
Dear Mr and Mrs Browne,
[wrote Auntie Sanni who still kept her careful school-girl script – she remembered the ‘e’.]
I am writing to you at the request of Miss Kuku Vikram recently in my employ. She has gone now to better herself at an hotel in Bombay. She wishes me to tell you that a little boy was born to her here at Patna Hall on Christmas Eve, the son of your late son, Mr Blaise Browne. There is no mistaking; the resemblance is extraordinary. The child is fair, with his father’s blue eyes and shows promise of the same . . .[Auntie Sanni was not sure how to spell physique so wrote] physic. A lovely healthy child. He has been baptised as Blaise.
Kuku, who is now only twenty-one, is unable to support him, she is an orphan and has to make her way. She will make no claim on him if you will take him as your own. He is presently at Patna Hall with me.
I await your instructions.
Yours truly,
Sanita McIndoe
Proprietress
Underneath she wrote ‘Auntie Sanni’.
Glossary
NB Telegin words are spelt phonetically.
achkan
tunic coat, high-collared and buttoned as worn by Nehru
almirah
wardrobe
anna
small coinage equivalent to a penny but sixteen to the rupee
apsara
celestial dancing girls dedicated to the gods
Ari!
‘Oh!’ but stronger. Frequently a remonstrance
Atcha
agreed, good
ayah
children’s nurse or female servant in the service of women
Ayyo!
as for Ari (Telegu)
bania
merchant, money-lender, shopkeeper
biri
type of cigarette made from raw dried leaves
brinjals
egg plant/aubergine
charpoy
simple Indian bed with wooden frame and legs laced across with string, usually coconut string
chatti
earthenware bowl; for a tea chatti, small – and smashed when it has been drunk from
Chelo
Get going. Go!
choli
tight-fitting bodice
Chūp
Hush. Shut up
crore
100,000,000 rupees. Ten million. Ten lakhs
darshan
an audience, as for a king or holyman, but also, for the person attending, gaining grace by the simple act of ‘beholding’, looking without speaking or trying to make any sort of contact – certainly not taking photographs
dipa
small earthenware lamp, heart-shaped with a little wick floating in oil
dosa
pancake, sometimes stuffed, made from slightly fermented gram flour
dubar
state or court formal reception
durrie
cotton, woven, striped rug or carpet
gharra
large earthenware vessel
ghee
clarified butter
gopi
milkmaid
gram
grain
Hut jao
Go at once. Swiftly [but stronger]
jaggery
a kind of molasses but thicker, almost like fudge
Jai!
(pronounced Jy) Hail!
Jao!
Go!
Kachiyundu
Wait (Telegu)
kofta
ball of minced fish or meat
lakh
100,000 rupees
lota
small pot, usually of brass
lunghi
sarong
mali
gardener
namaskar
a greeting made with the hands held together as in prayer
pandal
a form of awning, usually connected with a religious feast day or a wedding. Can be made of silk or cotton, brightly coloured, or leaves such as banana leaves on their stems
panga
a long blunt-ended blade with one sharp side
pice
a quarter of an anna
punkah
overhead fan, now usually electric-bladed
puri
deep-fried small round of puffy flat bread, sometimes stuffed
Shabash
Fine. Good. Well done
shaitan
devil
simile
cotton trees
tamasha
a great show; something done lavishly
vanna
washerman (Telegu)
SUMMER DIARY
The Herbogowan
‘When the lotus comes it is time to go.’ That is what we say in Kashmir. June, July and August are high summer and the famous vale grows intolerably sultry. Though the Pir Panjals that ring it still bear, on some mornings, streaks of fresh snow, a heat haze hangs over the lakes and even the swift Jhelum seems to run sluggishly. The earth is dry, the green dusty; the last of the nomad clans, the bakriwars or goat people, have passed through with their flocks and herds of buffalo on their way to summer in the mountain valleys; we too begin to think of tantalizing coolness and green; of the smell of firs in the sun and tumbling streams of icy water; of sheets of clover and alpine flowers, while here in Srinagar on the Dal Lake the great pink lotus beds open, each with an extraordinary suddenness in the heat, to float and rock among leaves so flat and thick that a baby could lie on them. The lotus are in flower. It is time to go.
Go where? Each year it is the same question. Never for us to the accepted hill stations of Pahalgham or fashionable Gulmarg with its houses – of logs and shingles, it is true, but houses all the same – houses and hotels, shops and clubs, golf, polo and tennis. Always for us it is to camp in one of the high valleys. Sonamarg, perhaps, or Nil Nag, the Blue Lake; or in the Liddar; camping where there is only a village of a few huts, a serai for caravans, possibly a post depot, but for the rest an empty valley, forests, peaks and, every year, a trek. This year we decided to drive, by way of the Manasbal lake to Baltal, now head of the motor road, and trek over the Herbogowan, a pass of 1,400 feet, to the valley of the Liddar. This is one of the most ordinary treks in Kashmir and renowned for its beauty, but being high it is one of the more lonely ones and in the five days we took to do it, until we came down into the comparative civilization of Aru, we saw no one but the bakriwars, the nomad goat people, a few villagers and, once, a caravan. The tents and furnishings for our permanent summer camp were to meet us in the Liddar valley at the end of the trek.
‘We’ were myself, my daughter Paula, who had broken off her pony-stud training to come out to India for a few months, and her cousin Simon, a Cambridge undergraduate who was here for the long vacation. There was also Sol, the most experienced and intrepid of my Pekingese; he was also the ugliest; in fact the ugliest Pekingese I have ever met, being liver-coloured – a colour not recognized by the Kennel Club – with a ruff that was cream-coloured and stuck straight up, oddly stiff where it should have fallen in soft, rich feathering; his final disgrace was that his nose was brown; but Sol was cheerfully unaware of his hideousness, he was sure he was everyone’s friend and certainly no Pekingese, in our family’s long line of Pekingese, had ever been more beloved. His only luggage was a walnut that he had treasured for a year and would play with for hours, particularly if he could get a human to do a little teamwork with him.
As we meant to travel lightly and quickly, we decided to take only one servant, Subhan, the owner of our houseboat, who was also a cook-guide. Most visitors to Kashmir take a houseboat for their stay in Srinagar – for it is a water city – and this year, though I was long familiar with houseboat owners and their ways, we had rented Subhan’s Hoopoe for the season.
Subhan had disliked me on sight; I sympathized. Coming to Kashmir, says the proverb, is like putting one’s head into an exquisitely beautiful hornets’ nest and what houseboat owner would want to have as his tenant someone who had been quite often stung before? But we had taken the Hoopoe and we had to make the best of one another. Subhan’s best could be very good indeed; he was a wily old Kashmiri and he looked a patriarch, indeed he had a big and needy family in the cooking boat behind the Hoopoe; his beard was dyed with henna, though I am sure he had never been to Mecca, and he was plausible with forty or fifty seasons of letting houseboats behind him. When he was outraged, for instance when I told him mildly and firmly that eggs could not cost fifty annas a dozen, or that I should like an account for the fifteen rupees I had given him yesterday, he would take off his turban – it came off in one piece like an intricately folded meringue – and cast it on the floor at my feet. Allah would be his witness, he would cry, if any memsahib had ever insulted him like this. The first time I was impressed; for a Mahommedan to take off his head-covering is momentous, but soon I knew that in the end he would always pick it up and put it on again, while we would settle amicably for a total somewhere between his figure and mine.