Painted Ghosts, page 7
‘Yes, of course, I was saying. When I’m in London and have a free moment I pop in the National just to sit in front of the painting. And one day of course while I was sitting there he came and sat next to me. I was so engrossed in it I didn’t take in who was next to me for a time, and he said nothing, until I turned and recognised him. We amazed each other and talked for over an hour. God, it must have been the early nineties. I was in my mid thirties and he was into his fifties. He looked much older — like an old man. His eyes were drawn in deep in the sockets, darkly, his forehead was furrowed and the lines around his mouth were deep and dark. He was a ghost of what he had been, and he looked beaten.’
‘What did you feel?’ Shanta said.
‘Sorrow. Pity. And I didn’t want to feel those things — I struggled against them. And there was still a small flame inside me for him, and he still had a sparkle in his eye. “He’s got it right, hasn’t he? Rembrandt?” he said and I nodded, but all I really wanted to know was whether he really did take the money and run from my mother. “Did you become an artist?” I asked him, but he replied with a question of his own: “Did you?” Then we both laughed because we knew neither of us had done it. We chatted about art, Rembrandt. I asked about his children and he told me how they had grown up and got their own lives, how he and his wife had split years ago. I persisted: “Why didn’t you become someone with a name?” But he threw it back to me. “Why didn’t you? You were always the most talented of the two of us.” He floored me with that, but I couldn’t let him get away with it. “My mum and dad forced me into the art business,” I told him, snarling a bit as I did so, no doubt. “They broke us up. They said you’d demanded money, they’d paid you off to leave me alone, but I never believed it. I knew you would never do that.”’ She paused, hating the memory.
‘Are you too hot, Daphne?’ Shanta comforted her. ‘Shall I up the air con?’
Daphne shook her head. ‘You know he looked at me and then up at Hendrickje for a time and I knew. “You took the money, didn’t you?” He stood up slowly, faced me and said. “If there’s one thing I do deeply regret —” And I didn’t let him finish and yelled at him. “You finished my art career.” He looked away, then up at Hendrickje again, and back at me and said, “And I realised later by doing it, things would never be the same again, I would never be the successful artist I aspired to. There was nothing for me after you. Nothing.” He looked down, then up at me with sorrowful eyes and I knew he still loved me. And the sorrow and pity I felt for him just grew and grew, as my respect and love for him just seemed to fall away. Then he stepped close to the Rembrandt and said, “Look at that, Daphne. Just look at the light and shade, the expression on her face.” He was excited and I could see the old Tommy there. “Did you do it, Daph, did you get to Ajanta? The princesses?” I nodded and for a brief moment all the affection I had for him came back to me in a rush and I was nearly in tears. “You should have taken me, Tommy. It should have been you, we should have run together.” I never saw him again. I heard later from an old friend who he had also taught that he had died. Hit the bottle, found himself homeless and—‘ She stopped her sniffles with a tissue.
Daphne leaned back on her pillows and Shanta reached for her hand and held on for a while.
‘I should leave you to rest,’ Shanta said but Daphne protested.
‘Not yet.’ Daphne feared if Shanta went she would end up depressed and in tears. She was quiet a moment searching Shanta’s expression and trying to look into her experience as a bereaved woman. ‘Tell me,’ she said softly. ‘Your husband — he really was your husband?’ Shanta looked away. ‘A married man, Shanta? And Raj? How can that be, in India?’
‘If a man has money,’ Shanta gave a smile of resignation, ‘many things go on behind closed doors.’
‘You must have loved him a lot.’ Daphne was relieved to get away a moment from her own troubles, but anxious now to know everything about Kali Ko-op, there was so much she had missed, so much more to know, especially now that Ben had left so much money to Shanta. ‘You could not have him all?’
Shanta drew back her hand. ‘He told me many times he would leave his wife and be with me. They were just words in the end — and words don’t lead to an inheritance.’ She looked away.
‘Inheritance?’ Daphne was curious.
‘When a married man dies, his mistress gets nothing.’
‘And all this happened to you, too? Recently? Both of us have lost our loves. It must be very hard for you, I see it all now.’ Daphne sat up and held Shanta’s hand again. ‘I’m here with you — all these things going on in your life, but now we’re closer and know each other I’m happy Ben has thought about you in his Will.’
‘You see,’ Shanta said, ‘the Yakshi brings new outlooks on life—’
‘But the look in her eye, staring out at me, and whispering: “they wait in those parts for rain, trees and people. None comes. The ground is hard. Nothing grows. Trees die—’’’
‘Come with me to Kali Ko-op,’ Shanta said. ‘In a few days when you’ve recovered and rested and I have cooked you food and brought you things and we have got to know each other more. Raj can take us in his taxi and you can stay with me for as long as you want.’
Daphne smiled. ‘That’s just what I need. To see it for myself.’
‘I must tell you though, there’s a fascinating old story about trees in a forest in Jodhpur. It’s supposed to be true.’ Daphne motioned her to carry on. ‘The ruler of Jodhpur wanted trees cut down for his palace and sent his men to a forest in Rajasthan, but a local woman heard about it. Her name was Amrita Devi — she knew the Yakshi tree spirit was inside every tree and so she clung to a tree trunk. Men took axes and cut Amrita Devi down with the tree she hung onto. But Amrita’s daughter came and clung on to another tree, but they cut her down with it as well. More and more women came, at least three hundred they say, but all were cut down trying to save the trees and their spirits. They say no grass grows there now, there was too much blood. But when the prince heard he was very ashamed and said the forest must stay forever and no one must touch it. A law was made and now the Bishnoi tribe look after the forest, and they kill nothing there. They say it’s true, all of it . . .’
7
There was little manufactured light near the small temple so the night sky shone with stars. The dark shape of trees hung around the central Gopuram, its pastel orange lost in shadows. When the moon slipped out of cloud it set a pool of luminescence around the front of the temple.
Raj had parked the old Ambassador at the end of the track that led through forest to the village.
‘God, Raj.’ Carl got out and surveyed what he could see of the building. ‘That journey down here. I didn’t think Karnataka was on the other side of the world from Ajanta. Man—’
‘The state of the roads,’ Raj laughed, getting out, passing Carl a cigarette and lighting them both, their faces flashing bright a moment.
‘And the driving — and having to put up with your mum and my mum agreeing about everything.’
‘India is known for its special highway code: horn and charge, and more horn.’
‘And this outdated taxi of yours. God, man, when the money comes get yourself something more fashionable — and without springs that poke through the seating.’
Raj drew in smoke. ‘They’re both good friends, at least.’
‘Such a relief to drop them off and have a bit of time to ourselves at last.’
‘I come here sometimes, in the night like this,’ Raj contemplated. ‘Just to chill out and think things out alone. I look up and spot shooting stars, and satellites when they catch the sun. It makes you think about how small we really are with all our troubles.’
‘Come on, show me again.’ Carl nodded in the direction of the temple. ‘Those wild carvings—’
Raj went to the car, coming back with a few candles which he lined up on the temple steps and lit one by one.
‘You’ve heard from Melody today?’ Raj said. ‘I mean, you told me to remind you to keep in contact.’
‘We were Skyping regularly in Ajanta — every other day. You’re right, I haven’t heard from her for some time. Must be busy with her party and all that. The last text was: Have a good time in Karnataka. She usually gives me more than that. I hope she’s not unhappy about something.’
‘How can a text sound sad?’ Raj laughed, adjusting the candles so the light flickered, reflecting off the silver entrance door.
Raj handed him a small torch and clicked on his own..
‘And of course I intend to have a good time here.’ Carl switched his on. ‘Show me again.’ He waved the torch at the walls. ‘I can’t see anything. Where are they?’
‘Some of Karnataka is wild, backward,’ Raj said. ‘Here’s a carving of Shiva-ji and his consort Parvati. And here he is dancing in a circle of flames, and at the Churning of the Sea of Milk, the creation story—’
Carl played frustratedly with the beam for a time, flashing it up and down the tower and over images of Shiva and Parvati. ‘Not that stuff. Where are they? You’re playing with me.’
Raj laughed, settling his torch beam on a series of carvings at head height.
‘Ah, you’ve found it,’ Carl yelled. ‘Or should I say – them.’
Several men were lying, sitting or standing in contorted positions along with numbers of females in various motions with them. In another frieze two women were helping lower a third into a position with a man lying on his back.
‘Fascinating.’ Carl explored the carvings with his hands, following shapes and bodies. ‘Three women to one man.’ Carl was quiet, fingering, Raj behind him smiling. ‘And Kali Ko-op is just down the road from here,’ Carl laughed at the irony. ‘And Devi, the new girl—’
‘We don’t want to risk things—’
‘We want this to go smoothly, don’t we, Raj?’ Carl threw the end of the cigarette away.
‘Of course. We don’t want anything to spoil it.’
‘Spoil?’ Carl ran his fingers over a group of naked women, the tips rippling on their over large breasts. ‘How can moksha spoil anything. They get money. There’s nothing like supporting the poor.’
‘Not with our mothers around—’
Carl laughed. ‘Don’t play pure and innocent with me. The girls love you when you walk in the room, I’ve seen them. You can’t tell me you haven’t had the odd bite here and there with this right on your doorstep?’
‘Let’s go back,’ Raj nodded to Carl to head back to the car. He pulled open the door and got back in.
‘You scared, or what?’
‘Come on.’
‘We had a deal, Raj. You’re not running out on me?’
‘Another time—’
‘You didn’t find her then? — or you chickened out—’
As Raj turned on the headlights, the beams lit up a young woman in gold and red sari standing under trees.
‘You did,’ Carl laughed.
Long gold coloured earrings hung from her lobes and her wrists were covered in bangles. Round her neck she wore a necklace of red and white beads that seemed to look cheap compared to the other gold plated neck gear that adorned her.
‘Like a princess. Just look at you. Come out now.’ She looked down and he went to her, took her hand and brought her out into the main beam of the headlights, but she kept her gaze from him, her stare focussed on the ground in front of him and she stood silently. ‘Twirl for me, Devi,’ he said but she would not move. Taking her hand again he gently led her into a slow spin and she went with him, the traces of a smile on her lips.
‘You’ve seen her, Carl. We should go now,’ Raj called through the driver’s window.
‘Turn for me Devi.’ She shuffled around gracefully, allowing her arms to wave as she went. ‘That’s it. Lovely. What does your name mean?’ Still she would not look up at him. ‘Devi?’
‘Goddess,’ Devi whispered.
‘This is too risky, so close to my mother’s place,’ Raj called from the car.
‘I can see that — a sparkling deity.’ Carl watched her twirl again, her hair tied up in a bun with yellow flowers, and called genially to Raj. ‘We’re not backing out now. Get that bottle from the car, Raj, let’s have a party and get to know each other.’
Raj started the car. Carl strode over, reached into the ignition and pulled the key out and stuffed it in his pocket, the headlights popping out. ‘This is all right, it’s just a little party, isn’t it, Devi? Now get the bottle, Raj.’ He turned back to Devi, took her hand and led her to the steps of the temple and they sat near the candles.
Raj was over in a moment handing him the bottle and three glasses. Carl picked up his anxiety and resentment. Devi turned aside when Carl offered her a drink. ‘You live in the village?’ She nodded. ‘Come on, tell me more.’ Carl coaxed her, but she tightened her shoulders.
‘What do you care about her?’ Raj snapped, pouring himself a generous portion of whisky and taking a gulp.
‘School was very good.’ Devi would not look at him.
‘You couldn’t carry on at school?’ Carl poured himself a glass and sipped.
‘I left when my father died. I had to help in the house.’
‘That must have been a long time ago.’ Carl watched her. ‘What did you learn there?’
‘We must learn English.’ She gave a little smile, but still would not look up at him. ‘Mathematics and history. I was always good at history. I liked stories about Gandhi and all that.’ Forgetting herself, she smiled up a moment and her eyes sparkled. ‘There’s nothing to tell about my life.’ Devi shrugged a little. ‘I grew up in a village. When my father was gone I had to help my mother.’
‘So you’ve seen her. Let’s go.’ Raj drained his glass.
‘Don’t mind my friend,’ Carl smirked at Devi, ‘he’s not always such a bore.’
‘This isn’t Bollywood,’ Raj grimaced, ‘this is life. Is this what you really came to India for?’
‘You left school, Devi.’ Carl ignored his friend. ‘And then what?’
‘She was married to the goddess Yellamma. You know all that stuff—’
‘Let her talk for herself. Be good to us now and offer her a drink again. Raj?’ Carl smiled at his new protégé. ‘You must drink with us.’ He pulled the bottle from Raj, but before he could get a glass for her she had snatched the bottle from him. Tilting it carefully to her mouth without allowing her lips to touch the rim she took a swig. Carl laughed. ‘We’ve got one here, then.’
Raj said, ‘But she belongs to my mother.’
‘Why did you become dedicated to Yellamma?’ Carl asked.
‘My mother chose me.’
‘She’ll give you a sob story.’ Raj spat in a corner. ‘About her family, about how hard it all is and all that. But you know the Devadasi tradition has gone on for thousands of years. They were courtesans in the palaces of princes and kings, singing, dancing, reciting poetry. They had wealth and power.’
‘And now?’ Carl interrupted and then offered her more whisky from his glass.
‘She is a Dalit,’ Raj said. ‘She will not drink from your glass.’
Carl took the spare empty glass and poured Devi a splash of whisky and nodded for her to drink. She took a gulp without comment and would have finished the measure if Carl had not held her wrist gently to stop her. ‘She can drink me under the table anytime,’ Carl laughed. He liked her. Bending to her he took up her glass and put it to his own lips and sipped while she stared at him. Raj sniffed and looked away. Carl gave the glass back and motioned her to finish what was left there. She looked up at him again, then took it and sipped.
‘You are mad,’ Raj said. ‘A Brahmin cannot dirty himself with the shadow of a Dalit girl in the day, but at night she can take him to moksha.’
‘Why so tense, Raj. Chill, man. Have another joint. It’s all right. Dance for me again Devi. I’m told Devadasi are trained in the arts — all of them.’
Raj was standing with arms folded. Taking her chunni scarf in hand, Devi danced several steps, twirled, motioned with her fingers as she turned and smiled at the men. Moving lightly she stepped around Raj, smiling and gesturing sensually at him. ‘I can dance for you,’ she laughed. ‘I can sing you songs of lost lovers.’ She rippled her hips in circular motions and lightly whisking her body round in skips and bounds, finished with her hands in prayer position.
‘You’ve loosened up now.’ Carl gave a short laugh. ‘A different Devi, all extravert and — I like it—‘
‘Amazing what a few drinks will do for a whore,’ Raj snapped.
‘I said, “Chill, Raj.”’ He turned to Devi again. ‘I don’t know what’s up with him.’
‘We can’t do this, Carl.’
Ignoring him, Carl said to her, ‘You said your mother chose you. Why? Do you like the life?’
‘I dance for men, I turn their heads.’ She covered her laughter with her hand.
‘Watching you dance, I know I’m in heaven,’ Carl mused. ‘So who is this goddess Yellamma?’
Devi remained with her hands in prayer position, bowed her head, then raising her face smiled towards Carl. ‘Yellamma was the wife of the god Jamadagni.’ She began to act out the story, emphasising parts with dramatic gesture. ‘And every day she fetched water in clay pots from the river.’ Devi lifted an imaginary pot, placed it on her head and pranced along, swinging her hips and laughing. ‘But one day.’ She wagged her finger at Carl and spun to Raj who was looking over his shoulder and did the same to him. ‘While she was bending to the water,’ she bent and imitated the action, ‘she saw on the other bank a god making love to a goddess.’ Devi sprang up aghast, her hand to her mouth. ‘And she had a bad thought. She wanted that love.’ Devi pretended to bite her lower lip. ‘That bad thought brought bad luck, for all her pots turned to soap and the water inside ran away.’ She threw her arms out melodramatically and gasped. ‘When she got home Jamadagni saw what had happened and in his fury he got his son to cut off her head.’ She quickly drew her fingers across her throat. ‘But,’ she paused again, pointing her finger first at Carl, then at Raj who was scowling at her, ‘Jamadagni gave his son one wish. And he wished his mother to come back. And she did. But only to take girls from their families to obey her—’
