Coromandel Sea Change

by Rumer Godden

  Mary stared. ‘What has happened to her?’

  ‘You may well ask. Idiots! Idiots!’ It was the first time Mary had seen Krishnan angry.

  Birdie had been painted – Decorated? thought Mary – her forehead and trunk, her sides and legs bedizened with patterns in yellow, vermilion, indigo, black and white; her ears were patterned as was the length of her trunk. ‘Idiots!’ cried Krishnan again. ‘They have spoiled everything.’

  ‘Spoiled what?’ Mary had to ask.

  ‘Tomorrow, election day is crucial – you know that.’ She nodded. ‘All parties will go each in their procession through Ghandara ending at the town hall; the candidate from Madras, Gopal Rau, of whom no one seems to have heard, Mrs Retty and us. Gopal Rau will not have much, Padmina will have everything, a great tamasha – razzmatazz, bands, military, maybe even a tank, loudspeakers. She has a white jeep but probably she’ll arrive in her aeroplane.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘We shall have nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Let Padmina have the blare, we shall be dulcet.’ Krishnan lingered on the word; he had recovered himself. ‘Fortunately, she has chosen to go first, then poor Rau, so we shall be last which is propitious. The last will be first.’ He laughed. ‘In front will walk our young men and women, the men all in white, feet bare – they will be making namaskar – the girls in our colours, muslin saris, simple, hair coiled with flowers, they will be leading garlanded cows— ’

  ‘The gopis,’ said Mary.

  ‘Exactly. For weeks we have been fattening them and grooming them – the cows not the girls. Then will come children; we have chosen the healthiest, again a little plump. The boys will have garlands and carry paper kites, again in our colours; the little girls will have baskets of flowers to scatter, constantly replenished,’ he sounded as if he were Dr Coomaraswamy. ‘They will sing. For other music there will be only the conch, drums, a single flute. I think there will be silence to hear it. We must leave room for reverence.

  ‘Then will come my friend the priest from Agni’s temple, wearing a saffron robe with his beads, his staff – he is of height but not the height of me. He will lead a sacred bull. Then I shall come, not in regalia or paint as the god Krishna but as I, myself – and he said, ‘I sound like Coomaraswamy – not wearing a best English suit but, like my people, a loincloth, walking in the dust . . . little Udata on my shoulder.’

  ‘If she’ll stay.’

  ‘She’ll stay. I, not riding on an elephant but humbly leading her, she to be carrying her fodder on her own back.’ The fury returned. ‘To decorate an elephant takes two, three days and we must wash it off tonight – the mahout is too drunk to help. To call the village or fishermen would be publicity, take away surprise. Look, I am scrubbing Birdie’s sides, legs and feet with sand and a brick. That is too heavy work for you but could you do her face and ears? I went to the Hall and borrowed scrubbing brushes – but be careful, her ears may flap you.’

  ‘Won’t Birdie mind?’

  ‘She adores it, all elephants love their bath and she is accustomed. She does, though, get playful – watch her trunk. When you come to do her trunk stand astride it so that if she lifts it you will only tumble into the wash of the sea, but you will be soaked as I am. Better take off your dress,’ and, suddenly formal, he said, ‘Mrs Browne, it is most good of you to come.’

  ‘Browne with an e.’ Mary felt suddenly impish.

  ‘Browne with an e,’ said Krishnan and laughed again. ‘Oh, how I like you, Mary. I like you very much. See, my temper has gone.’ Suddenly, too, he leapt and danced across the beach, did handstands, then, ‘That’s enough. Come to work.’

  ‘Is Mary with you?’ Blaise was standing at Olga Manning’s door.

  The game of bridge had petered out as soon as Auntie Sanni came out alone on the verandah. Colonel McIndoe immediately laid down his cards with an apology, got up, went with her to the swing couch and sat down beside her. Sir John and Lady Fisher followed them, leaving Blaise at the table; he shuffled the cards, put them into neat packs, stood a moment looking over to the now moonlit beach. Then, ‘I had better go down to Mary,’ he said, and to Auntie Sanni, he began, ‘I know I booked for a week but . . .’

  ‘You will not be charged for the extra day.’ Auntie Sanni cut him short.

  ‘Well, goodnight.’

  Talking in low tones, their faces grave, they hardly noticed him go.

  At the bungalow steps Slippers was patiently waiting, he was missing Mary and, ‘Where is my ritual of carrots and sugar?’ he was patently saying. He whickered at Blaise who only said, ‘Shoo,’ then waved his arms, advancing so threateningly that the little donkey shied away.

  ‘Merry, where are you?’

  No answer.

  ‘Mary.’

  The room was empty, the shutters wide open, the bathroom empty too; the bedsheets were folded back, his lunghi and Mary’s short nightdress laid out in Hannah’s way.

  ‘Is Mary with you?’

  Olga Manning came to her door. She was wearing a faded kimono, her hair hanging down her back; even Blaise noticed the tiredness of her face and was moved to say, ‘Rotten about your husband.’

  She flared. ‘It isn’t rotten. It never was. Colin did not do that. He was framed.’ She put her hand to her throat as if it choked her to speak. ‘Better not talk about it. No, I haven’t seen Mary.’

  ‘Didn’t she come to the bungalow?’

  ‘Not that I know of,’ and Olga offered, ‘She goes to the grove.’

  ‘I know but they’re all at Ghandara.’

  ‘Krishnan Bhanj isn’t. I met him in the hotel garden as I came down.’

  ‘Krishnan Bhanj?’

  ‘Yes,’ and innocently Olga said, ‘Perhaps she has gone to see him.’

  It was Blaise’s turn to flare. ‘Then she has broken her promise.’ He stopped and his own innate honesty made him say, ‘Yet I’m sure Mary wouldn’t do that.’ Then the seeds Mr Menzies had sown began to grow. ‘Or would she? It seems she will do anything,’ and bitterness burst out. ‘We haven’t been married a month. You’d think she could be faithful for just a month, and with an Indian. All right,’ he shouted. ‘All right!’

  He strode across the verandah on to the beach.

  ‘Phew!’ Krishnan stood up, wiping the sweat and salt water off his face with his hand. ‘There seems to be a mighty lot of elephant.’

  The paint had lodged in the cracks of the coarse grained scaly skin. ‘They must have put oil in the tempera,’ said Krishnan. Both he and Mary were stained with the yellow, vermilion and blue; the black had got under Mary’s nails; only the white came off in flakes.

  ‘I should have thought the fisherboys would have loved to help.’ She rested: after a fierce bout of scrubbing her arms ached.

  ‘They would but they would have talked.’

  ‘How did you get rid of them?’

  ‘Told them to go.’ His look seemed to say, ‘How else?’

  ‘It’s odd,’ Mary put back a wet strand of her hair, staining it red, ‘when you tell someone to do something, they obey and want to do it.’ She was thinking aloud. ‘When Blaise tells them, they don’t – and won’t. Why?’

  ‘Because Blaise Sahib is Blaise Sahib and Krishnan is Krishnan. There is no other explanation. There never is,’ said Krishnan.

  A voice came from the beach. ‘Mary. Mary. Where are you? Come back at once.’

  Blaise!

  He came bearing down on them, with a splat of wood – the piece of flotsam they had used in rounders last night – in his hand. ‘Mary!’ The shout was so loud that Birdie surged to her feet. Blaise stopped and gaped. ‘What in hell are you doing?’

  ‘As you see, giving an elephant a bath,’ Krishnan said equably.

  ‘Giving an elephant a bath? What tomfoolery is this?’

  ‘It is anything but tomfoolery. For reasons I have no time to explain, it is imperative she is bathed,’ and, ‘Ūrakundu,’ Krishnan ordered Birdie, ‘�
�rakundu – Lie down.’

  ‘In any case I was not speaking to you,’ said angry Blaise. ‘I have come to fetch my wife. Do you hear?’

  ‘Then you are speaking to me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ask her if she wants to go,’ Krishnan said between scouring – Birdie was recumbent again. ‘Better stand back if you, too, don’t want to be soaked.’

  ‘Mary, will you come?’

  ‘I can’t. An elephant has two ears, and I have only finished one.’

  Blaise turned on Krishnan. ‘I also came to have this out with you. Come on.’ He brandished the splat of wood.

  ‘My dear man, I’m far too busy to fight with you just now,’ said Krishnan. ‘Why not forget it, get a brick – there’s a pile over there – and help us?’

  The hand holding the wood dropped as if Blaise were bemused. Mary again felt that pang of pity. ‘Yes, Bumble, be a sport’ – she knew that word would appeal to him. ‘Join in. There’s nothing to be cross about.’

  ‘Nothing to be cross about! I’m not a fool. Do you think I don’t know what’s been going on?’ Astonished they stood up though Krishnan kept a quiescent hand on Birdie. ‘Look at you,’ screamed Blaise, ‘both half naked and soon you’ll be more naked from what I hear. I’m not going to have it,’ and he advanced on Mary with his splat.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Krishnan warned him. ‘You won’t want to have done that.’

  ‘Out of my way,’ and Blaise came on.

  With one leap Krishnan was off Birdie, caught Blaise and, with a twist, sent him spinning down on to his back on the sand; next moment Krishnan had lifted him and set him on his feet. ‘Go back to the Hall,’ Krishnan said sternly. ‘Mary will doubtless come when we are finished.’

  ‘We! You impertinent bastard.’

  ‘I am not impertinent and I am not a bastard and I don’t want to have to knock you down again,’ said Krishnan. ‘Please go so that we can get on with the work – the little elephant is getting tired and hungry.’

  ‘I’m not one of your sycophants’, ranted Blaise, ‘to do what I’m told. Do you think I don’t know all about you pseudo Krishnas? We have them in England too. You with your young girls and boys, your slaves.’

  Krishnan took no notice but worked on with his brick.

  ‘Mary!’ It was a bellow now. ‘I’ll give you one more chance. Come now or don’t come at all. Which? Which?’ Mary did not answer; she, too, went on scrubbing, this time on Birdie’s second ear.

  For a moment Blaise stood irresolute in his anger, then before turning, he spat.

  ‘Blaise spat!’ Mary sat back on her heels amazed.

  ‘Being an Indian I can spit further than you,’ Krishnan called after him. ‘Naturally. We have had centuries of practice.’

  Even Krishnan did not see a small yellow-clad figure come out from behind the nearest casuarina tree and take itself quickly to the road where a red car was waiting.

  Blaise heard the noise before he came into the bedroom, heavy hoofs clopping about on stone. Seeing him gone, Slippers had dared to come into the bedroom, seeking the sugar he thought was his due. He had knocked over the photograph of Blaise’s mother that stood on the dressing table, breaking the glass; nuzzled brushes, combs, creams and lotions off on to the floor and now, having found on the chest of drawers the sugar Mary had left, was munching contentedly when Blaise switched on the light. At the sight of him, Slippers gave the equivalent of a donkey scream, a bray.

  ‘What are you doing here, you little brute?’ and, seeing the devastation, all Blaise’s thwarted anger broke. ‘Take that and that,’ the splat of wood came down again and again. ‘Chelo. Jao. Go. Go. Hut jao. Go at once. Chelo. Chelo. Hurry up.’ But Slippers could not go. In panic, slithering on the floor, trying to get away, he had penned himself behind the bed. The little donkey’s ears were laid back, his eyes rolled but he could not move. ‘Hut jao!’ There was a sudden stench: a flux of liquid dung spattered on to the floor. ‘Christ! Phewgh!’ screamed Blaise.

  ‘He couldn’t help it.’ Olga Manning had come in. ‘You drove him behind the bed. Here, help me push it and let him out,’ and, to the miserable donkey, ‘Here, boy, gently, boy. Come. Come.’ Trembling, guided by her hand, Slippers back-clopped out and fled. They heard him slipping on the verandah then crash down the steps.

  ‘You deserved that,’ Olga said to Blaise. ‘I’m glad he did it. Just because you can’t juggernaut over your very nice wife, you take it out on an animal. You big bully.’

  ‘Go away and mind your own business!’ Blaise exploded. ‘A dirty business it is from what I hear, dirty, no matter what you say. Go!’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Olga. ‘You can clear up the mess.’

  Kuku answered the house telephone – she had an extension in her room. ‘What? What? My God, how disgusting! I am coming down. Go on to the verandah and we shall come. I am bringing the sweeper women, hot water, disinfectants.’

  The explosions had done good and Blaise was calmer now. ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘You didn’t disturb me in the least,’ but Kuku was in a thin wrapper dressing gown; the two sweepers, roused from sleep for the second time that day, were grumbling under their breaths.

  ‘I’m afraid I did disturb you but donkey shit is no joke.’

  ‘Certainly it is not. I shall speak firmly to Miss Sanni in the morning. As for disturbing, that is what I am here for. Now, while the women are finishing, let me straighten the bed.’

  As she bent forward, the dark hair brushed the side of the bed where Blaise’s lunghi was laid; as she carefully smoothed it, her wrapper swung open showing the rounded brown body, the perfect small breasts, rose-tipped nipples. Modestly Kuku caught the wrapper together, glanced up at Blaise and laughed.

  Blaise had not looked, really looked, at Kuku before, taking her almost as part of the hotel furniture and not far removed from Samuel and Hannah though he had thought her saris a little flaunting. ‘Showing off,’ he would have said.

  Now he was struck with her beauty, provocative beauty: the small roguish face set in the mane of black hair, eyes brilliant – and knowing – below expressive eyebrows and, when she looked down, as she met his gaze, he saw the long lashes that had so entranced Dr Coomaraswamy. Kuku’s mouth was slightly pouted, she had a small tip-tilted nose, small pretty teeth. When she stood up, supple in every movement, and tightened the wrapper round her, Blaise could see through it even to the fuzz of hair between her thighs; it was dark brown not black; at once he felt an answering movement in himself. ‘I suppose I’ve been starved,’ he almost said aloud, pitying himself.

  ‘Now that the sweepers have gone, let me get you a drink.’ With her gliding undulating walk, Kuku went to the small bar. ‘You were so-o distressed,’ she crooned.

  ‘Well, donkey shit on your bedroom floor.’ Blaise tried to be normal.

  ‘Disgusting!’ She brought him the glass. ‘I have put ice in it.’

  ‘You deserve one.’

  Kuku’s eyes shone but, ‘Auntie Sanni doesn’t let me drink.’

  ‘Just for me,’ said Blaise and she poured a small one.

  ‘And give me another,’ he said.

  She brought it. Now she was so close he could smell her scent and sweat, as the Doctor had done; as he took the glass her fingers touched his; he let them tighten.

  ‘Kuku is a beautiful name.’

  She shrugged. ‘One gets tired of it. “Kuku do this. Kuku do that.” Day in, day out. I am an orphan, you know. I cannot do what I want.’

  ‘What do you want, Kuku?’

  She looked up at him. ‘You,’ breathed Kuku. The worship in her eyes was balm to his soreness. ‘I have loved you from the first moment I saw you,’ she whispered. ‘These people are all blind. They do not know what you are.’ This was balm too. ‘Your little silly Mary thinks she has found a god in that Krishnan. I know when I have found mine.’

  The two heads, black and gold were together on one pillow; the she
et, thrown back, showed brown and pale legs closely entwined. Kuku’s hand again and again caressed while his played with a strand of her hair. ‘Kiss me, a long, long kiss,’ and, ‘Love me again,’ pleaded Kuku.

  ‘No more.’ Blaise was sleepy.

  ‘One more.’ She bit him on the ear, raising a spot of blood. ‘I’m a tiger.’ A shrill squeal of laughter.

  ‘You’re a mosquito.’ Another shriek as he rolled over on her again.

  ‘No! No!’ squealed Kuku.

  ‘You asked for it . . .’

  ‘Well. Well. Well.’ Once again it was Olga Manning. ‘You’d think’, she mocked, ‘he could be faithful for one month – and with an Indian.’

  An outraged shriek came from Kuku as, startled, she snatched her wrapper and ran to the bathroom. Blaise, caught mid-way in the act, looked up as dampness spread round him.

  ‘I’m sorry I interrupted you’, Olga was contemptuous, ‘but I couldn’t think what the noise was. Well,’ she said again, ‘you’ve done it now.’

  ‘Have I? Did I?’ He sounded dazed. Then, as he looked round the room, the floor still wet where the sweepers had washed it, his clothes flung down on it, and smelled disinfectant mingled with the jasmine scent on his pillow, realisation came back, realisation and disgust. ‘To hell with all women,’ shouted Blaise. He caught up a towel, pushed past Olga in the doorway and out on to the beach.

  ‘That was the last I saw of him,’ Olga Armstrong was to say.

  It was beginning to be dawn, the sky paling over the sea as Krishnan at last led a clean and shining Birdie out of the waves; not a speck of paint was left on her as she stood, flapping her ears to dry them, lifting her trunk in happiness to spray herself again. ‘She did not like the paint either,’ said Krishnan as he took her up the beach. ‘Now she must have a good feed. I have sugar cane, gram and jaggery balls which she loves.’ Mary followed them wringing the water out of her slip. She was so tired she staggered.

  ‘For us I will make some tea. You must take off your wet things. Here, dry yourself with this.’ He threw her a towel.

  As Birdie contentedly ate, breaking up the cane with her foot and trunk, picking up the balls and stuffing them into her mouth, Krishnan put the remains of the fire together, poking it with a stick, throwing on pieces of wood. He had lit a small methylated stove, incongruous in that setting, but soon a pan of water was boiling and he threw in tea leaves. Mary, unaccountably shivering, was glad of the fire, even more glad when Krishnan handed her a bowl of strong sweet tea. She had pulled on her dress, hung her slip and briefs on a bush to dry.