by Rumer Godden
‘That man, the Sunnyasi or Holy Man,’ she asked him one afternoon, ‘surely he’s living on our ground.’
‘He was here first,’ said Mr Dean.
‘Yes, but I don’t think the General should allow him to live on the land that he’s given to us.’
‘We are the people selected by God,’ he began under his breath. ‘Having from the beginning, distinctions and rules –’
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I should like you to ask the General to turn him off.’
‘He couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be polite.’
‘That’s ridiculous. A dirty, ragged old man like that. I don’t suppose the General knows he’s there.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Mr Dean with a gleam in his eye, ‘he knows only too well. That old man worries him quite a lot.’
‘Then he should turn him out.’
‘In these parts we’re rather proud of our Holy Man,’ he said. ‘Besides it would be a little difficult for the General to turn out his own uncle, wouldn’t it?’
‘His uncle?’ said Sister Clodagh.
‘Yes, he was General Ranajit’s elder brother.’
‘I can’t believe it!’
‘He was the Grand General Kundra Rai with all sorts of titles and orders. He lent General Ranajit the actual money to lease Mopu. He’d been decorated by four foreign governments and he was asked to London for the Jubilee; Queen Victoria’s I mean, not King George’s. I’ve never heard him speak but they say he talked several European languages.’
Sister Clodagh was speechless. After a while she said: ‘Does he never speak at all?’
‘I’ve never heard him. The people take him his food but they say they don’t know when he eats or sleeps, he’s always in his place under the tree, facing the Himalayas. The people come for miles to see him.’
‘I wanted to ask you about that too,’ she said. ‘Is there a right of way through our grounds?’
‘Not that I know of, but it would be difficult to stop them using it.’
‘But if they have no legal right?’
‘It’s become a custom. What harm do they do you? If you’re afraid they’ll trespass, you needn’t be. They won’t come one step nearer unless you ask them in.’
‘They sit and stare,’ she said.
‘Only because they think they’re on their own ground. You’ll make them feel very foolish if you suddenly tell them it’s yours.’
‘But it is ours,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to hurt their feelings, and of course I can’t offend the General about the Holy Man, but at the same time – I don’t know quite what to do.’
‘What would Christ have done?’ he asked softly, tipping his hat over his eyes, and went to the window, where he stood whistling.
He knew she was angry. Without looking round he could feel that, but he did not know that she was considerably dismayed.
Who had taught him to speak like that? To catch her out with her own arguments, to speak with an authenticity that she recognized at once, that was unanswerable?
Without another word she let the people go and come; but every time she saw the line of figures against the sky her own words seemed to come back to her and the more she thought of them, the less she liked them.
9
One day, at the end of the afternoon, Sister Clodagh came out to sit on the terrace; she had been hard at work since it was light; even harder than usual, as Sister Ruth was in the infirmary and she had most of her work to do.
Already the Goontu bells were ringing, but there was still an hour before she need ring for the Angelus and Vespers, and she sat down on the horse-block to rest her mind and legs.
The wind blew the clouds quickly and lightly across the sky and filled her sleeves and veil. Sister Philippa and her coolies were working on the high terrace; she could see them talking, but the wind took the sound of their words. The birds flew from the orchard and landed on the railing before they launched themselves into the gulf; there was no one else in sight. The emptiness on the path was unusual; where had all the people gone to, she wondered, why was there this stillness and waiting?
Then she heard a throbbing that came from the hill, from the forest. At first it was only a throbbing, then it came nearer, separating into drum beats, a tom-tomming that was low and exciting. It came nearer and louder and above it she heard a flute.
A procession of men came from the opening in the forest, walking between the sapling firs to the steps, moving along the sky-line. One carried the drum and the flute player was beside him, she could distinguish him with his hands to his mouth; a boy danced in front, waving a muffler that he used as a scarf, and after them came the men in twos and threes. There were a great many of them and some of them carried the poles nailed with strips of cloth that she knew were prayer flags.
They turned left to the long road to the River, passing below Sister Clodagh at the foot of the terrace; at each buttress the procession curved out and in again like a looped snake. She looked down on the heads passing below her and the flags stiffening in the wind and the feet moving with the drum. Those were the only sounds, the drum and the feet and the wind in the prayer flags.
She saw that the men were all young, in their teens or twenties. Some of them had their heads uncovered or wore round black hats, and these wore long coats and pantaloons like jodhpurs. Others were quite small and squat, they had Tibetan robes and their hair was cropped or plaited down their backs. ‘That’s odd,’ thought Sister Clodagh, ‘that Hindus and Buddhists should be walking together,’ for this seemed some sort of religious procession; with its flags and the drums and the silence; none of them were speaking a word.
She thought they were beautiful, walking between the tea on the narrow grass path; their cheeks were olive and ochre brown, their eyes brilliant. They made her think of the groom in the forest with the leaves behind his ear, and then she noticed the young man walking alone behind the others. As he walked he kicked the stones away from him and slashed at the bushes; he looked as pretty and naughty as a child, though he was nearly a full man; tall and beautifully built, not like a hill man but like a young Rajput.
He slashed with his cane at the bushes, and she was suddenly back, walking down the Wishing Lane at home with Con; the green damp lane that led from the House gates past Skinners Farm to the lake, and Con was slashing at the hedge to show his temper.
‘What’s wrong, Con?’
‘Oh, everything.’
‘What specially?’
‘Oh, nothing. You wouldn’t understand.’
The shadow of the hill fell on the lane and the ferns trembled under his stick.
‘Is it – is it money, Con?’
‘What else ever is it?’ and he burst out: ‘Desmond’s well out of it, I must say. He’s doing wonders with Uncle Nat; he’s in Michigan now opening a new branch. And because I’m the eldest son, I can’t go. I’m a hundred times quicker than Des and I’ve got to hang round waiting for this.’
She saw the Kelly lake and the village at its northern end where the houses were reflected in the water, in their odd patched colours and sunk roofs; the land was marsh that ended in the reeds of the foreshore or hill with heather and gorse and rock. The few fields were going to waste because Con’s father could not afford the men to work them; the stables were three-quarters empty and the House itself not much better, with the rooms shut up and only the two rough girls and Pat, who was butler and groom and handyman as well.
‘I’ll have a little money, Con, when – when I marry.’
She could hardly say it, the red crept up her neck and her footsteps seemed to be hammering in her ears as she walked with him down the lane, but he only answered gloomily: ‘’Tisn’t a little money it wants, it’s a fortune and then it would be a waste.’ She dug her nails into her hands.
She must have done that again, because she gave a little cry of pain. She was sitting on the horse-block, and now the head of the pr
ocession had reached the corner and turned and wound back on the lower plane of the path that went backwards and forwards across the hill, going down until it reached the River.
She heard beads clicking and turned, her eyes still dazed, to see Ayah standing beside her. She smelt garlic and an underlying tang of wine.
‘Ayah! You’ve been drinking again.’
‘Of course I have,’ said Ayah. ‘I thought perhaps with the garlic you wouldn’t notice it. We’ve all been drinking, we’ve had a lovely funeral feast. It’s very sad, but nobody could call it unexpected and crying won’t bring him back. It’s much better to decide who shall have his things and how to divide the tips.’
‘Is someone dead?’ asked Sister Clodagh startled.
‘It’s the General’s elder nephew. His heir, the young General Kundra Rai.’
‘Oh, Ayah! Yes, of course, the drums were quiet last night.’
‘And two nights before that. You don’t notice much, do you? He’s been dead three days.’
‘But the General sent us fruit and vegetables this morning and said nothing.’
‘Why should he? It’s nothing to do with you,’ said Ayah kindly. ‘Why should you bother yourselves with a thing like that?’
‘But his heir?’
‘That’s why they’re making all this to-do. They took the body down to the River before it was light. They’ll burn him there on the further side. That’s the new heir, walking behind.’
‘The young man alone at the back?’ asked Sister Clodagh stupidly.
‘That is Dilip Rai, he is now the little General. He was nothing until this morning,’ said Ayah, ‘he wasn’t even legitimate, not to be certain, that is. This morning they decided that he was legitimate and he is now the heir. I know what I know all the same,’ said Ayah darkly.
‘No one has ever bothered with him,’ she went on. ‘He lived in the General Bahadur’s house, but I don’t think he likes the boy at all. He gave him a Bengali tutor to teach him English reading and writing. I think it was a pity to give him a Bengali tutor, their ways are not our ways, poor things. The little General doesn’t look like his uncle, does he? He’s as pretty as my Srimati Devi. Of course I shan’t tell who his father was,’ said Ayah with a hopeful look at Sister Clodagh, ‘not if you were to ask me all day and all night.’
‘What did you say is the young General’s name?’ was all that Sister Clodagh asked.
‘Dilip. Dilip Rai. He’s clever as well as pretty. He was going to school in England.’
‘To school? But he’s quite grown up.’
‘He was going to school,’ said Ayah firmly. ‘He was going to a school called Cambridge, but now he won’t do anything of the kind. He’ll be put into the army and married.’
Sister Clodagh watched the procession going down through the tea, the men becoming smaller and smaller until they were no bigger than ants; she was not sure if she could hear the drums or not, whether it was her own pulse throbbing in her ears.
She thought of them fording the River; perhaps the body was already on the further bank and they were waiting for the young heir to arrive before they lit the pyre. They would stand by the forest, under the gloom of the trees, by the cold pebbles of the River. He would stand there too, moody and sulking.
Con used to play ducks and drakes across the lake, scaring the geese and making them draw up their necks and hiss. Perhaps the young General would play ducks and drakes across the water with the little stones.
Sister Philippa touched her gently on the shoulder. Ayah had gone. ‘Shall I ring?’ asked Sister Philippa. ‘It’s after six.’
That night Sister Clodagh could not sleep. She could not help thinking of the funeral on the River bank, of the boy Kundra’s body and the men busy round the pyre and their torches under the gloomy trees. She had seen many people die, but until now she had never known a young foreign death, foreign in colour and in creed. It seemed very terrible to her in the night; she lay awake, wondering and sorrowing. Her thoughts grew confused; sometimes it was the young General who stood on the bank where the torches shone into the water; sometimes it was Con, standing in their porch at home outside the white door with the light on his face. The trees gleamed where the wind tossed the flames, the laurel bushes moved and rustled beside the step.
It was morning when she slept and then she dreamed; she was not rid of them then; they were in her dreams and in an odd way they were one; they were beside her, but they kept their backs to her. They had mirrors in the palms of their hands and they were talking to themselves, and she was trying to attract their attention over their shoulders. She could not make them listen because she could only echo what they said. She woke with such a feeling of distress, that she got up and dressed and went into the chapel.
10
Mr Dean came up to the Convent in the rain, wanting to see Sister Clodagh. Sister Ruth answered the bell and asked him to wait in the reception room, looking half away from him as she always did.
‘I’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ve something with me for Sister Clodagh.’
With a startled glance she saw, beyond him, a young hill-girl standing in the porch, her hands on the handle of her umbrella, a tin trunk beside her on the ground.
‘I’ll tell her. Is that –’ said Sister Ruth and went away to find Sister Clodagh.
She was in the school-room with Sister Honey who had run in to take charge while Sister Ruth answered the bell.
‘Don’t you think Om’s mother should sew his trousers up?’ asked Sister Honey, looking at him tenderly. ‘Do you think it’s quite nice?’
A month ago Sister Clodagh would have agreed with energy and precision that Om’s trousers should certainly be sewn up, but now she murmured vaguely: ‘He’s only a baby,’ and fixed her eyes on the enticing shape in the split of his seat. ‘It’s a good idea really,’ she said, ‘and very clean.’
With difficulty she detached her gaze and went to Mr Dean.
‘I’ve brought you this girl,’ he explained. ‘Her name is Hasanphul, but we call her Kanchi. She’s seventeen and it’s time she was married, but she’s an orphan and as you see she’s too pretty. Say Salaam to the Lemini, Kanchi.’
The girl salaamed. She was like a basket of fruit, thought Sister Clodagh, piled high and luscious and ready to eat. Though she looked shyly down, there was something steady and unabashed about her; the fruit was there to be eaten, she did not mean to let it rot.
‘Why did you bring her to us?’ Sister Clodagh asked and her eyes took in the pointed little pears of the girl’s breasts under her thin jacket and the flaunting banana yellow of that jacket.
At her tone his eyes lit up. ‘It’s a common species,’ he bantered her. ‘Besides, isn’t it your business to save souls? I thought you might like to try your hand on this one.’
She said sharply: ‘You are not to speak to me like that, Mr Dean.’ It was too sharp for an order, it was almost a plea, and he said at once and sensibly: ‘I’m sorry. Every evening when I come home I find her sitting on my verandah. She dresses herself up and puts flowers in her hair and is becoming an absolute nuisance. If you could keep her here and teach her a little sense, I’ll try and make her uncle arrange her marriage. She has just this one uncle who’ll be more than glad to get her off his hands; he has daughters of his own, and if she’s cloistered for a few months she’ll be more desirable. She’s been behaving so badly that no one wants her.’
‘That’s all very well,’ said Sister Clodagh, ‘but I don’t think we want her either.’ She looked at Kanchi very doubtfully. The ring in the small nose moved quickly up and down, catching the eye as the girl stood there. How could she take this unwilling, ripe, breathing thing into her house? ‘Couldn’t she go into some sort of service?’ she asked.
‘She’s a little trouble-the-house,’ said Mr Dean softly. ‘I thought no one would have patience with her – excepting you.’
Sister Clodagh did not answer. ‘I never knew that natives could be lovely until n
ow,’ she thought. ‘There’s this Kanchi, and little Om with his white-heart bottom, and the young General Dilip Rai,’ and she thought that this girl was fit to stand beside him in her colours and softness and youth. In these days Sister Clodagh was young and soft herself and she stretched out to Kanchi and took her hand. It was warm and reluctant and unexpectedly hard.
‘Very well, we’ll try,’ said Sister Clodagh. ‘I’ll take her to Sister Briony who will find her somewhere to sleep.’
He watched them go. Kanchi was carrying her umbrella and trunk and at her dutiful back he smiled; then he looked up and saw that Sister Ruth was watching him through the glass. He went to the edge of the porch and stood there, looking at the dripping gutters and feeling in his pocket for matches. Behind his back she came up step by step along the corridor and flattened herself against the glass, looking down on him. Now he could not see her, but he was aware of her out of the corner of his eyes, and he had an almost irresistible instinct to whip round on her. Instead he lit his pipe, and under cover of his hands, he stole a glance at her; he saw her face pressed against the glass, curiously elongated and flattened, her eyes shining. Then at the frip of Sister Clodagh’s skirt she vanished.
‘I’ve left her with Sister Briony,’ said Sister Clodagh. ‘I think for the present she’d better go into the Lace School with the other girls. I hope she’ll settle down.’
‘I hope so.’ He beckoned to Phuba to bring the pony. ‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, and I have to go up to the Villa and see the General.’
She hesitated. ‘He was very devoted to the boy who died, wasn’t he? Is he grieving?’
‘Yes.’ He took the pony’s reins. ‘It’s hard to tell with these people, they keep face so well, but he’s grieving. Kundra was a fine lad.’
‘But the other boy –’ she said almost timidly. ‘He looks as if he could be fine too.’
‘Oh, you’ve seen him, have you?’ He did not ask where or how. ‘He’s been badly brought up and spoilt; the General doesn’t know how to make the best of him. I don’t know who would,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘He was here with the Brothers; though it was for such a short while, they managed to make him very enthusiastic. I’m sorry for the boy, he’s naïve and very disarming. They don’t know how to deal with him and the General won’t listen to advice.’
