The Venus of Konpara Read online

  ‘But...’ Mohan began unhappily, ‘we are Hindus. Caste is part of our religion. If we try to do away with it...’

  He could not finish the sentence. Caste could not be justified or explained. It was.

  ‘There would still be the continuing soul,’ Rukmini said quietly. ‘The belief that successive lives on earth are given to us to purify our souls until finally they can join with the Infinite. Have you ever been given memory of a past life?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I can’t say I have, really.’ The memory of Cheltenham embarrassed him. There, one did not ask such questions.

  ‘Few are,’ she said. ‘I have. I think I was a fish once. Water feels strange on me sometimes, as though it were my element. When I was six I was nearly drowned that way. There was no pain, though. And I know I have danced, naked, holding a cobra. In more lives than one.’

  Mohan sat, his hands clasped round his knees, staring out across the pit It was only a week since he had felt that he had nothing to do, no responsibility, no place; only a week since he had sat in his room looking at a future of cricket matches, as a figurehead nodding assent to the decisions of Mr Kendrick, who would rule his people for their own good. Now Rukmini had thrown a powerful and unsettling light on to his position, even as her body had carried him into strange territories of the senses. All that had happened before this week had lost substance and meaning.

  He said, ‘Rukmini, stay with me.’

  ‘For how long?’ she said.

  ‘For ever.’

  ‘As what?’

  He Hesitated. ‘As ... I love you, Rukmini.’ He mumbled the words in despair.

  She said gently, ‘I know. I love you. But between thee and me there is only one relation which can last through this life and beyond.’

  He cried, ‘I can’t marry you, Rukmini! I am a Kshatriya. You...’

  ‘My mother was a Tamil, a low-caste Sudra Tamil from the south,’ she said. ‘My father - my mother would not tell me.’

  He looked at her. Her father might have been a Northern Brahmin. Or an Englishman. Certainly someone paler skinned than a black Tamil. But it was the female line, the Dravidian, of which she counted herself.

  He said, ‘What you have been telling me about the past... I’m sure it’s all true, Rukmini; but it’s not the rule now. If I married you, I’d never become the Suvala. You don’t understand how orthodox the people are here. And the British more so. If they don’t go out of their way to uphold caste, everyone will say they’re planning to destroy Hinduism. Mr Kendrick has often explained it to me.’

  She stood and he followed her example. She was looking up at him, her dark eyes wet ‘You are saying that with me you will never become the Suvala. I am saying that without me you will never be the Suvala. I will stay with you, Mohan, as your concubine and lover. But remember what I said - as between thee and me, there is no true relation, except marriage. Remember, when thou art angry.’

  ‘But what can I do?’ he cried. ‘You’ve just said it’s impossible.’

  ‘I did not say that,’ she said; and then, with sudden passion, ‘Why do you think I am here unless I believe the gods can unite us?’

  She turned and walked down the slope of the rock, on the east side. Mohan followed ten feet behind her, so uneasy and unhappy that it did not strike him as out of place that he should be walking behind her instead of the other way round, the universal rule in India.

  ‘Someone is coming across the valley,’ she said in a conversational voice. ‘Two Englishmen. One of them is Mr Kendrick.’

  Mohan looked to his left. With a shock he saw the two men striding across the intermediate valley, on a path that would in a few moments join this one. Then the trees hid them.

  The situation which he had known must come, but had refused to allow to the surface of his thoughts or even his dreams, was now upon him. He had not seen the Resident, or spoken to him, or sent word to him, for seven days. He had not gone to Southdown for his portrait sitting. Mr Kendrick must have heard about Rukmini. Soon he’d be sent for. There’d be an interview. He felt as he had before his first prefects’ beating at Cheltenham.

  He must hide, with Rukmini, and pray they would not turn back this way along the Dobehari Ridge when they reached the crest. He might leave her here and go on alone...

  Rukmini glided on ahead of him. He gritted his teeth and hurried up level with her. She looked into his eyes, a long, warm, approving look. He said, ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Why should I be afraid?’ she said, laughing. ‘I have seen him many times, riding through Deori. From the way he looks at women, I think it is he who will be afraid. Who is the other man?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mohan muttered. Then they came to the place where the tracks met, and the two Englishmen were walking up fast among the trees on the left, no more than ten paces away. Mohan stopped.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he said, and tried to find a smile. Rukmini should be turning away, the end of her sari drawn across that side of her face presented to the strangers. Then they would pretend she did not exist. That was the custom.

  The sari end hung over her smooth head in a graceful curve, but she had not turned away. She was looking full at the second Englishman.

  Mr Kendrick took off his sola topi in a brief gesture, and replaced it He was tall, his thick hair almost white, his grey eyes deep set and always restlessly moving. He was wearing light tan trousers, strong walking shoes, a white shirt and black tie, a thin cotton jacket, and the white topi. He said, ‘Ah, Mohan ..’. Allow me to introduce Mr Smith. Mr Smith - Mohan Singh Suvala, the only son of the late Rajah of Deori’

  Mr Smith had not removed his topi, because he was not wearing one. His level brown eyes, flecked with green, held Mohan’s steadily as he extended his hand. He was shorter man Mr Kendrick, and slightly built, with a thin high-bridged nose and thick brown hair going a little grey at the temples. He wore a khaki shirt, khaki trousers, and sandals. His face and arms were burned almost black but the skin was extraordinarily smooth except for scores of fine wrinkles round his eyes. His voice, as he said, ‘It’s a privilege to meet you, Suvala-ji,’ was high, clear, and soft.

  Mohan glanced involuntarily at Mr Kendrick. Mr Kendrick frowned slightly. It was a strict rule that Mohan should not be addressed in that style until he had been formally chosen to ascend the gaddi. They stood a moment, while an awkward silence developed. Mr Kendrick ignored Rukmini, Mr Smith stared at her with his unwinking, level gaze, and she returned it.

  Mr Kendrick said, ‘Mr Smith is an archaeologist He has been excavating the ruined stupa at Elephant Hill. Mohan nodded. Elephant Hill was the other side of the state. He hadn’t known this chap was over there. Mr Kendrick might have told him.

  Mr Smith said, ‘I just came over to thank Mr Kendrick for giving me permission to dig there, and to tell him that I did not find what I was looking for, nor anything else of value, and that now I must be off.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  Mohan started. It was Rukmini who had spoken. Mr Kendrick, too, stared at her with unconcealed astonishment There was not one Indian woman in Deori who spoke English.

  Mr Smith did not show surprise. He said, ‘Only one question has interested me for a great many years now. That is - why, when, and how did God give man an awareness of Him. Some time ago I came to the conclusion that Brahminism might have the answer.’

  ‘An answer,’ Rukmini said. ‘I do not think it is the right one, Mr Smith. Did you hear, somewhere, of the Deori mystery?’

  Mr Kendrick said, ‘What is the Deori mystery? I have been here some eight years now, and I never have.’

  Mr Smith said, ‘There are rumours in many parts of India, both north and south, particularly among religious men and historians, that a very ancient mystery, connecting art and religion, exists in Deori. The connection is important, because in the beginning art and religion are the same thing.... You have heard of the Cave of Ahamira, in Spain? It is full of paintings made by cavemen
, perhaps thirty thousand years ago. Those paintings were made in the dark - not in a cave where men lived, but in a special one set aside for the purpose. What was that purpose?’

  Rukmini answered quickly, ‘To speak to God.’

  Mr Smith said, ‘I think so, madam... So, thirty thousand years ago man is already aware of God. But he does not know why he has been given this awareness. The cave paintings do not answer the question, they only ask it... Somewhere, surely someone received the answer. Christians believe that they did, on the hill of Calvary. I believe the Brahmins may have, much earlier. The legend of the Deori mystery brought me here, looking for a man-made recording of that revelation.’

  ‘I thought you were an archaeologist,’ Mr Kendrick said. His voice was under control, but only just, Mohan knew.

  Mr Smith said, ‘In a way, yes. I have studied the subject It is a useful technique - not an end in itself.’

  ‘Oh, you are right!’ Rukmini said. ‘I wish we could talk more about it’ She spoke English clearly, with a lilting rhythm and a slight misplacing of accent - but very well.

  Mr Smith said, as seriously, ‘So do I, madam. But tomorrow -I am spending the night at the Rest House with Mr Foster -I must be on my way.’

  ‘Where to?’ Rukmini asked.

  Mohan stirred, embarrassed, and Mr Kendrick said, ‘I fear we must go down to the dam now, Smith, if you are to see anything before work ends for the day. Good day, Mohan.’ Mr Smith smiled, but said nothing, and followed the Resident down the ridge path. Mohan and Rukmini walked on, very slowly, and in a moment the two Englishmen were out of sight ahead. That is an unusual man,’ she said.

  ‘Mr Kendrick?’

  ‘Mr Smith. But his name is not Smith, What it is I do not think anyone will learn.’

  ‘You seemed to be making eyes at him all the time, I must say.’

  ‘He is very handsome. He has seen many visions, and you, too, can see them, in his eyes, if you look. He is strong, but gentle. He is brave, but tender. Any woman’s flesh would melt if he looked at her, to need her.’

  They were near the bungalow now; now crossing the lawn; now climbing the steps. ‘I don’t like the way you looked at him,’ Mohan said angrily. ‘It was an open invitation... the same you gave me.’ His anger, working upon itself, mounted rapidly. ‘Do you do that to every man you meet?’ Of course, she was a prostitute, a dancing whore, nothing else. ‘How. many men have you had?’ he said. ‘A hundred, a thousand?’

  She looked at his hand, gripping her bare arm above the elbow. Slowly Mohan released his grip. She said sadly, ‘You see, what I said? That there will be unhappiness for both of us.’

  ‘How can I marry you if you’re going to make love to every Tom, Dick, and Harry who comes within a mile of you?’

  She said, ‘Do not feel weak, or insufficient, Suvala, or you will go the way of your ancestors, full of jealousy and hatred.’

  She spoke so sadly that he forgot his jealous anger, and took her hand. ‘Forgive me... I love you, I love you.’

  She lifted his hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘I know, my lord.’

  There was a knock on the door. Mohan called impatiently, ‘What is it?’

  The major-domo’s voice answered, Foster Sahib is here, with his foreman, the Pathan. The sahib says he has something to show you.’

  Mohan muttered to Rukmini, ‘Foster’s the contractor in charge of building the dam and the conduit and all the other irrigation works. I suppose we’ll have to see him ... Very well,’ he called through the door. ‘Ask him in.’

  Chapter 4

  The man who entered was of medium height, thickly built, about thirty-five years of age. His freckled face, pigmented with the distinctive tone of the red-headed, would never tan properly, though he spent all his days in the sun. Sweat darkened his shirt, and gleamed on the red hairs of his bare forearms. He was followed by his foreman, a tall, thin Lucknow Pathan in his fifties, who wore a rakish turban and a beard dyed much the same colour as Foster’s hair, and carried a big sack. Foster was taking a good look at Rukmini.

  Mohan said, ‘This is - ah - Rukmini’ Mr Foster.’

  Rukmini joined her palms. Foster mumbled, ‘Pleased-to-meetcha, miss... ma’am.’ He turned quickly back to Mohan, while the foreman lowered the sack carefully against the wall.’ Foster said, ‘I shouted out to you as you passed the pitch just now...’

  ‘I didn’t hear,’ Mohan said. ‘I’m sorry.’ He had seen nothing for a week. He’d better wake up. ‘

  Foster said, ‘We found something interesting. Pull it out, Shahbaz.’ The foreman reached into the sack with both hands, lifted out a leg and held it upright on the wooden floor.

  Mohan started. ‘What on earth...?’

  He sat down. For a moment the sheen on the leg had made it real and alive. Then he saw the areas of encrusted dirt and the uneven break at the top and recognised that it was made of a dark red stone. It was almost a whole leg, the left, broken high on the thigh. The firm muscles inside the thigh showed clear and the smooth round calf was tensed, the knee bent, and the foot pointed.

  Foster said. ‘Part of a statue, see.’

  Obviously, Mohan thought. Foster was keeping his voice neutral to bide his excitement, but he wasn’t a good actor.

  Rukmini went slowly forward, the sari swirling between her thighs. ‘How beautiful’ she whispered. ‘It is a woman’s leg. A woman dancing, in the pose Nritya Tandava. It is the pose Siva Nataraja is always shown in. Look.’

  She stooped, one bare arm sweeping down to the hem of her sari. The movement was long and slow, like the bending of a swan’s neck. The hem of the sari rose. The Pathan foreman looked out of the window. Foster’s blue eyes bulged in his red face. Mohan did not know whether to laugh or blush. She was impossible. Impossibly natural.

  Her voice was low and musical. ‘See, Mr Foster.’

  Another half inch, Mohan thought, and Foster would go out of his mind. Rukmini stood on her right leg, the left raised and bent forward and across, as was the statue’s, like this,’ she said. ‘Look at this muscle here. And see, a woman’s knee is quite different from a man’s...’

  The sunset light swept low and flat through the windows, tingeing her skin a glowing red-bronze. Her hand swept down with the same slow grace, and again the sari hung evenly to her ankles. She faced Mohan. ‘I feel as if it were my leg... We must find the rest of her - of me.’ She did not laugh.

  Foster said heartily, ‘That was what I was going to ask about! Statues aren’t much in my line, but this one seemed -well, as though it might be old, and important.’

  Mohan said, ‘What will happen to the cricket pitch?’

  Foster said, That depends. It’ll be delayed, anyway.’

  Rukmini said, ‘Cricket!... How deep under the surface was it, Mr Foster?’

  ‘About eight feet I thought you’d want to look for the rest of it. Put some extra men on, if you like. There shouldn’t he much delay with the pitch.’

  Rukmini said slowly, ‘We must be careful. If we dig without knowing what we are doing we might do more harm than good. Also, we might waste time. We need an expert... We need Mr Smith. He’s staying the night at the Rest House, isn’t he?’

  A silence fell Mohan, glancing at Foster, caught a sense of chagrin on the other’s face. Foster liked the idea as little as he did.

  Foster spoke. ‘Well, I don’t know anything about Smith. I’ve just said hello to him. My men will be careful I can promise you that. If you want us to go ahead.’

  ‘Please, Mohan,’ Rukmini said.

  Mohan moved restlessly, and got up, and walked across the room. Rukmini was very eager. So was Foster. If he let them dig, Mr Kendrick would tell him that it was a waste of money, which must come eventually from the state’s funds, to allow such a diversion of the contractor’s effort He said, ‘Mr Kendrick will have to decide.’

  Rukmini stood with pursed lips, staring at him. He could not tell whether she was angry or preoccupied. She said at last, ‘We
must have a case to present We must take the leg over to Mr Smith. He will be able to say that it is very old, and very valuable.’

  ‘I can do that,’ Foster said quickly, before Mohan had time to open his mouth. ‘He’s there in the Rest House with me. Let me talk to him tonight, and we’ll both come over here first in the morning, eh?’

  ‘Very well,’ Rukmini said at once, again before Mohan had time to think.

  Foster picked up the leg, returned it to the sack, and went out in a hurry. Mohan sat down, a little dazed. Rukmini stared at the spot where the leg had been, as though it were still there.

  Mohan tried to speak lightly. ‘It’s beautiful, I know, but why are you so determined to dig up the rest of it? There are hundreds like it in temples and caves all over India.’

  She shook her head, without turning. ‘They’re nearly all bas-reliefs,’ she said. This was free-standing. It is part of the statue of a queen - of my race, not yours. Do you remember the shape of the leg, the way the bones lay under the skin. Like mine!’

  ‘You have queens on the brain,’ Mohan said. This woman was naked. And dancing. It’s more likely she was a low-caste dancing girl’

  Rukmini said, ‘I think, when we find her, you will learn that a woman can be both.’

  Chapter 5

  The small fire cast a flickering light on the rock. Five men and three women sat round it, all squatting on their haunches. All were old or middle-aged. Three of the men wore bulky white loin-cloths tucked round their waists, and heavy untidy turbans. The other two, smaller and blacker, wore single cords round their waists and small bags for their sexual parts, and wore no turbans. The women sat, wrapped in white cloth, among the men.

  A man spoke. ‘She has returned... A part of one leg was found before dusk today.’