Cromartie vs. the God Shiva

by Rumer Godden

  Auntie Sanni was on her swing couch as he came up the steps to the veranda and he felt he must thank her for letting him interview the servants.

  ‘Well, did you find out anything?’

  ‘Not a thing towards a solution but I didn’t expect to.’

  Auntie Sanni laid her hand on his arm and said what Samuel had said: ‘Michael, we have all come to like you – honour you, too – but please, Michael, give this up and go back to London.’

  ‘It’s what I came for.’

  ‘Still, go back. Michael, I see nothing but pain, sorrow and hurt.’

  ‘Auntie Sanni, if justice is done someone has to be hurt.’

  ‘That will be terrible.’

  ‘Not for me. I can’t go now.’ And, with a sudden rush of the confidence that people felt with Auntie Sanni and a flood of happiness, ‘Because this work is not all. Through you and Patna Hall, I know something now that has never touched me before.’

  ‘Artemis,’ said Auntie Sanni.

  Michael got up. He still did not want to talk about it, but as he went down the veranda he thought he heard Auntie Sanni say, ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear!’

  At the end of lunch Professor Ellen stood up and waited until a hush fell on the cleared table. ‘This evening we come to what I hope you will find the highlight of our tour. Our brochure simply lists “evening visit to the old town of Konakpur and its palace, the Gul Mahal”, which gives little inkling of what that means. The old town is fascinating. It has a whole street of carved house fronts, an inland lake and overlooking it, high on a steep hill, the Maharajah’s palace, the Gul Mahal, which means Rose Palace in honour of the thousands of roses on its terraces. Of course, the Maharajah is not a Maharajah now. He lives on the French Riviera, but the Government let him keep the palace on condition that he opened it to the public. But we do not go as the public. By his special command, his steward invites us every year to a banquet. First you will see the State apartments. They include a famous room where the furniture is made of glass.’

  ‘Glass!’ Marcia interrupted.

  ‘Yes, chairs and tables, and there is jewellery. Then the banquet, and afterwards a display of dancing in the pavilion built on the roof. The way up to the palace is by three paths, the chief being the central one which has stone steps with ramps where fountains used to play. On one side is the elephant path. There is a high archway at the top to let them go in but, sadly, there is only one elephant now.’

  ‘Oh dear! I’ll never get up,’ moaned Mrs Moaner.

  ‘You will, because on the other side there is a smooth path between the ramps. It was for the court ladies’ light rickshaws, which needed two men each, one to pull, the other to push behind. The rickshaws are still there – they are inlaid with mother-of-pearl.’

  ‘I’ve never ridden in a rickshaw.’ Mrs Moaner was beginning to sound mollified.

  ‘The banquet will have Indian and European food, drinks and wine, and afterwards we go up to the pavilion for coffee. It really is an enchantment – so high it seems to be in the sky, to which it is open. Its walls are ivory, carved and latticed, its floor has marble squares with silk-covered couches along the walls for the watchers of the entertainments given there almost every night.

  ‘We shall see a display of classical Indian dancing, the famous Bharata Natyam on which the Maharajah doted. Before it begins, Artemis will explain it to you, as she does so well. I know you have had a long morning, but I hope you will all come. It really shouldn’t be missed, so please be ready at five. Thank you.’

  After lunch, when they were having coffee on the veranda, Artemis came up to Michael and, linking arms with him, drew him apart. ‘Michael, why don’t you come?’

  ‘I thought you hated me.’

  ‘That was what my mother used to call “temporary temper”. Please come.’

  ‘I shouldn’t – I’ve got work to do – but it sounds so tempting.’

  ‘Then be tempted. Auntie Sanni says Inspector Dutta is not coming back until late. I purposely asked her and there is nothing you can do until he comes. Samuel says you have been working hard all morning. Besides … Oh, Michael, I have been back and forth on the coach listening to the chatter, never getting away from the questions, and I have to give quite an important talk tonight. I really do need time to think. Wouldn’t you drive me? If you will, we needn’t go to the city. Shall we say four o’clock? And you can see the Gul Mahal before the others come. It really is magical.’

  ‘I think I’m ready for a little magic,’ said Michael.

  The way led first along the seashore then left the feathery trees and dunes for the hard sand and palms that ended in a road through the foothills, planted with what Michael thought was coffee. Soon the hills grew steep.

  ‘Have you ever been to Konakpur?’ asked Artemis.

  ‘Nowhere near this coast. We were in Peshawar at Pindi.’

  Artemis was wearing a short sleeveless dress, brilliant orange – for this occasion she was out of her uniform – but her hair was still up in a knob with a matching chiffon scarf; its ends fluttered in the breeze from the car window. Michael was in rhythm with it and he began to sing: ‘Take a pair of sparkling eyes, / hidden ever and anon, in a beautiful eclipse …’ The light rollicking tune filled the car.

  ‘Oh, Michael, I do so like being with you.’

  ‘And I love being with you.’

  He stopped the car, turned, put his arm round her and kissed her. This time she did not pull away but returned the kiss. Her lips were warm and he found her tongue between the pretty little teeth until, ‘Michael, we must get on.’

  As they drove, Artemis said, ‘To me Konakpur is the most beautiful of any Indian city I know. They call it the Rose City. You’ll see why.’

  Now they began to pass hamlets and villages where there were only a few stone houses or modern bungalows; small bazaars, almost empty now – the people were still in the fields – then, rounding a corner, looked down on the town. Set in a valley with a lake, it still had its walls, built of the pinkish local stone. ‘Seventeenth century,’ said Artemis. ‘One of the great maharajahs built it, laying it out like a map, which is why its streets and boulevards are so wide, with the narrow streets of carved house fronts between. He must have been fabulously rich, and had a great eye for beauty. At sunset I have seen the stone turn to rose, especially the Gul Mahal.’

  They stopped at a wide platform at the foot of the three steep flights of steps, built of darker, almost red, blocks of stone; the parallel elephant and rickshaw paths were smooth to the palace walls high above, crowned with what Michael guessed was the pavilion Professor Ellen had described.

  He stood gazing until Artemis said, ‘I want you to meet a friend of mine. It’s partly why I brought you.’ Turning, she made a call towards a building like a barn beside the platform, a call that sounded as if it were blown through a conch: ulla, ullalah, ullahh. There were immediate commands and the sound of a soft heavy tread, tread, tread, until an elephant appeared. Even for an elephant he was a giant, his grey wrinkled skin glinting in the late-afternoon sun, the big tusks banded with gold, the huge ears gently flapping so that the spotted undersides showed as his great feet moved steadily forward. Michael had forgotten how large an elephant’s toenails were. Don’t elephants’ eyes see multiple aspects? thought Michael. These eyes, surprisingly small, black and bright, were looking expectant.

  The elephant had a howdah on his back, with red padded seats and curtains, rather frayed, and on his neck sat a wizened little man who, as they neared Artemis, prodded the great forehead with his ankus. ‘Salaam,’ but the elephant had already salaamed, raising his trunk to his forehead three times in joy.

  ‘This is Natram, the friend I told you about. Natram means precious jewel,’ said Artemis, ‘and Mahdhoo is his mahout and servant, though Mahdhoo drives him and Natram obeys. Mahdhoo looks after him, day and night,’ and she said to the elephant, who was shifting his feet, ‘Just have patience,’ as she patted his trunk. Then
she went back to the car, opened the boot and took out a whole stem of bananas. She stood breaking them off, three at a time, peeling them, then putting them into the pink-nozzled trunk, held out before Natram stuffed them into his mouth, pink too. When the last of the bananas had disappeared, she said, ‘You see why I feel utterly safe with them when I go into the hills. I only have to send a message and Mahdhoo meets me.’

  ‘Khachitamuya,’ said Mahdhoo. ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘Will they take us up?’ asked Michael. ‘It’s years since I’ve ridden on an elephant.’

  ‘Of course. That’s why I called them. If I hadn’t, neither of them would forgive me. Come. He’ll kneel and we’ll get up on to the howdah.’ Then Artemis stopped, her hand clapped to her mouth in dismay. ‘Michael,’ she wailed, ‘I’ve forgotten my notes.’

  ‘Notes?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve got to give a talk tonight.’

  ‘Couldn’t you improvise?’

  ‘You don’t understand. It’s on Bharata Natyam, which is perhaps the highest of India’s four classical dance styles, terribly difficult to explain to an audience whose idea of Indian dancing is the nautch girl, almost akin to a belly dancer and who can usually be had for money. A Bharata Natyam dancer is the echo of the asparas, or celestial dancers of heaven, who dance for the gods. You’ll see. Before each begins she makes a deep obeisance to the god, and never turns her back on him. More than that, every least movement has a meaning – the hand movements, for instance, have names like Lotus Bud, Deer’s Head, Swan’s Neck.’

  ‘Who is to know if you make a mistake?’

  ‘The dancers would know and it would be blasphemy. They would never dance for us again. They have been through years and years of strict training and most of them speak English. I must have the notes. If you would lend me your car I’ll whiz back and fetch them and still be in plenty of time. You go up on Natram and explore. I don’t want you to miss the banquet.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ said Michael.

  As they drew up under Patna Hall’s portico, Artemis had the car door open and was out. ‘I’ll try not to be too long but I must make sure I have everything. Perhaps twenty minutes.’

  ‘I’ll wait,’ said Michael.

  It was peaceful under the portico. Patna Hall seemed silent. I expect they’re changing for dinner, he thought. The servants will be having theirs and Kanu is at the bar. The hall was empty. Thambi’s lodge was lit inside but he himself had gone with the party, chiefly to help pull the rickshaws up the hill. In the village beyond the palm trees, where points of lantern light had appeared, smoke was going up from cooking fires for the evening meal. Outside, dust was rising from the paths as the last of the cattle were driven home. ‘Cow-dust time’, he remembered from his boyhood.

  He was peaceful and filled with a happiness that no one, not Auntie Sanni, not even himself, could gainsay, and he began quietly to hum.

  ‘I know where I am going,’ but instead of ‘Dear knows who I’ll marry’, he hummed, ‘I know where I’m going and I do know who I’ll marry. I’ve found her.’ But the minutes were ticking away. Twenty? More like forty.

  When Artemis appeared she seemed out of breath. ‘I’m sorry, but there were bits I had to reread. Oh, Michael, you’re so patient – and hungry too by now, I’m sure. I hope you don’t miss the banquet.’

  ‘I’ll drive like the wind.’

  Artemis settled herself and said, ‘In Hindi, to go fast in a car is called howa khana, which means “to eat the air”. You eat the air but I think I’ll go to sleep.’

  She lay back and closed her eyes but he knew she was not asleep. Is she fending me off? he thought, in a moment’s anxiety, but as if in answer, she smiled and patted his knee.

  When he pulled up on the platform, Natram and Mahdhoo were waiting, ready to take them up.

  Although he was voraciously hungry, Michael tasted little of the banquet. Innumerable dishes were offered to him: small balls of lamb in an apricot coating, koftas, tandoori chicken, fish, every sort of rice, there was even a side of beef, all on platters that were silver, though they were more than a little stained. There were knives and forks but some of the young or more enthusiastic, like Marcia Barclay, ate with their fingers – to Eric’s disgust. After the main course, shallow silver bowls filled with rose water were passed for the guests to wash their fingers. Then came heaped stands of Indian sweets: the edible silver paper on the sandesh toffee glittered, and there were jilipis, rings of spun sugar dripping with honey, and sliced fresh fruit. Wine was served, and sherbet, orange juice, whisky, yet Mrs Moaner was heard saying loudly, ‘It’s all very well but the Indians have no standards – tarnished silver, chipped plates.’ Michael, who prided himself on assessing everything with a cool head, ate and drank as if he were in a dream.

  Afterwards when everyone had finished, they trooped up a marble staircase, led by Professor Ellen, for coffee and liqueurs in the pavilion, which was lit only by torches. A wide space was left in the centre but all round were divans and daybeds on which the guests could recline as they watched. ‘It’s not always like this,’ Professor Ellen told them. She was astute enough to make the point for her tours. ‘This is only for us. I think you must agree we are privileged.’

  There was a chorus of ‘Yes.’

  The musicians were already seated on a carpet, all dressed alike in white silk tunics and flowing dhotis: a tabla drum player with two drums, a flautist with a silver flute, two sitars and, as a concession to a Western audience, a violin.

  When everyone was seated, coffee and liqueurs over, Artemis stood up, and the excited chatter fell to a murmur as a single dancer came in, an older woman, beautiful in her brilliant gauze silks, her sari looped up into a pleated fan from her waist to her ankles on which she wore circlets of golden bells that tinkled as she moved. The short bodice was of silk showing her midriff bare. She had many necklaces, earrings and flowers bunched close in her hair, with a pendant on her forehead above her tika mark of red henna. She wore only one bangle, however, on each upper arm, because her hands had to be free; they were so supple that they seemed almost to double straight backwards and forwards as she illustrated in movement everything Artemis described, beginning with the deep obeisance to her god. She did not smile but spoke with her eyes.

  As Michael knew already, Artemis had a way of making the most technical lecture into a talk that was vividly alive but tonight she seemed incandescent, perhaps catching it from the dancers. And I have found her, Michael marvelled in his deepest heart.

  As the first dancer reached her finale the others came in, taking up their positions; the musicians went straight into the long elaborately exquisite dance. When it ended, the dancers repeating their obeisance, the applause was deafening. Everyone seemed lit with enthusiasm. This night will never die, thought Michael.

  It was not over yet. When the dancing was finished, and the applause had petered out, cold drinks were served and, for those who wanted it, whisky. The dancers had disappeared. Professor Ellen announced that the coach was ready. Several ladies took advantage of the rickshaws – ‘I wish I could,’ said Eric Barclay, as he stumbled down the steep steps. Mrs Moaner had fallen asleep, and was carried down tenderly in a rickshaw by Thambi and the palace servants. Last to go was Professor Ellen.

  ‘I’ll follow you with Michael,’ said Artemis.

  They stayed in the pavilion where the torches had been doused so that the court was lit only by starlight. Although corners were dark, the marble floor glimmered and the ivory lattices were slanted with light. ‘Why do stars seem bigger in India than at home?’ asked Artemis, and put her arms round his neck. She moved her cheek against his; it was as hot as if she had a fever. She left him, went to a corner and drew back a heavy silk curtain to show a canopied room with a wide divan, covered in brocade. ‘This is where the Maharajah used to end his entertainments, picking anyone he fancied that night. Do you fancy me, Michael?’

  For answer Michael caught and held her, and
carried her to the divan.

  ‘Come, my Maharajah.’

  It was like fire, rockets. ‘Oh, Michael. Again.’

  They were late reaching home. The watchman of the Gul Mahal, plainly accustomed to this, had left them as long as he could. Then, ‘Sahib, Memsahib’ – Artemis had been elevated to Mem – ‘we must lock up or police come. Very sorry but must.’ As he had hoped, Michael gave him a mighty tip.

  Natram and Mahdhoo had not waited but Michael and Artemis made their way down, she dancing on every ramp, Michael catching her to kiss her again. The starlight gave them just enough light to see. ‘I expect everyone else will be asleep,’ Artemis said in the car, as they came near to Patna Hall.

  ‘Well, we don’t want anyone else,’ said Michael. Then, ‘Hush! What’s this?’

  Thambi’s lodge, the hall and portico, the servants’ quarters were lit, as was the village where a crowd of people was standing. A drum was beating a long, steady sound. ‘Something’s happened.’ As Michael pulled up under the portico, opened the door and got out, Samuel, who evidently had waited up, came to meet them. His face was grave. ‘Sahib, thank God you come. Missy Sahib, be brave. Veeranna, he dead.’

  ‘Veeranna!’ Artemis’s cry rang through the hall. She had gone white.

  ‘But how?’ Michael, stunned, could hardly speak.

  ‘Evening time. A woman passing heard scream, noises, a commotion, and ran to fetch her husband. Veeranna on floor, twisting, doubling up and retch, retch, retch. Husband try to hold him but Veeranna too strong. Woman run for village barber.’

  ‘Barber?’

  ‘In villages no doctors so barbers are only medicine men. He try everything. No use. Veeranna, he die. Barber say poison.’

  ‘Poison!’ Artemis screamed. ‘Michael, hold me! Hold me tight.’ Michael was already holding her, trying to stop the shaking, stem the screams between the dry sobs, no tears, but Hannah came down the stairs.