Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (4 page)
‘Thanks.’
‘Mr Koman.’ He turns to me.
‘Call me Aashaan,’ I say. ‘Everyone here calls me Aashaan.’
‘Aashaan is teacher, master,’ Shyam explains. ‘In fact, once you learn to say Aashaan, you’ll be able to say Shyam properly.’ There is a teasing note in his voice.
I smile. There is a side to Shyam, I am discovering, that both Radha and I choose not to see. Learning to like Shyam requires an
effort that neither she nor I seem to want to make. Perhaps it’s his own fault. He makes it so much easier for us to dislike him. Though, there are others who think differently. His employees love him and he is much admired in town, I hear. What do they see in him that we don’t?
effort that neither she nor I seem to want to make. Perhaps it’s his own fault. He makes it so much easier for us to dislike him. Though, there are others who think differently. His employees love him and he is much admired in town, I hear. What do they see in him that we don’t?
Shyam looks at his watch. ‘I have a meeting with the municipal chairman at a quarter to twelve. I should be leaving soon. I suggest you shower and rest. Uncle needs to rest, too. You can call for room service, or lunch at the restaurant. It’s up to you. And do feel free to call me any time.’
Shyam draws out a card from his wallet. ‘This has my mobile number. By the way, would you like a mobile connection while you are here?’
Chris stretches and yawns lazily. ‘No, I don’t think so. But thank you for asking.’
Radha takes the card from Shyam and writes her mobile number on it. ‘And this is mine,’ she says. ‘Just in case you get lost or want any help or anything, you can reach me on this.’
‘I live in a tiny house nearby,’ I tell Chris. ‘It is alongside the resort. Come by later, in the afternoon.’
‘I’ll bring him over,’ Radha offers.
Shyam frowns but doesn’t say anything.
I stand up. Shyam rushes to my side. I take his arm.
‘I am tired,’ I tell him. ‘Could you ask the driver to drop me at my house?’
‘Yes, of course,’ Shyam says. ‘You mustn’t exert yourself like you’ve done this morning.’
‘I know,’ I concede. ‘Sometimes I forget I am not young any more.’
Again we walk the path. Shyam and Radha flank me on either side. I feel Chris’s eyes on us. Who is he looking at? Radha? Or me? Or the picture the three of us make?
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. My window overlooks a low wall beyond which are steps leading to the river. When the Nila is full, the water rises to the top step and licks at the low wall. But now it is almost dry and there is just a green pool that ribbons into a brown stream further down.
There are a few water birds in the deep-green pool. Paddling, bathing, fishing …making do with what they have. I can hear the bird noises.
The room is dark and spare. I like it this way. Too many things in a room make me feel as if I am in a crowded market. I raise my hand and feel the wooden bars of the window, worn with age. Like the wooden ceiling and the bed I lie on. And Malini, my parakeet. She is asleep with her head tucked under her wing. A feather flies. A pale-green feather. She is moulting with age, just as I am.
I drift in and out of sleep. I am unable to still my mind.
I think of the morning. Of the young man. Of Radha and Shyam. Of all three of us and Chris.
I am too tired to think. I close my eyes and let the bird sounds lull me into calm.
I wait for them. The evening is warm and still. Then I see them. How perfectly they complement each other, I think. I feel a great sadness. There is grief in this, I can already see it happen.
The two of them, Chris and Radha, oblivious to the mischief destiny can wreak, smile happily at each other, at the evening, at me.
‘You are looking refreshed.’ Radha’s voice swells to include me in her circle of joy.
Her face wears the radiance of a minukkuvesham: the lovely damsels of kathakali who have chanced upon an inner grace. As for Chris, he is the hero. Nala to her Damayanti. Arjuna to her Subhadra. Krishna to her Radha.
‘Chris has so much to ask you,’ she says.
He smiles almost shyly. ‘I really don’t want to tire you, but I do have a few, actually several, questions.’
I nod. This is what he is here for. ‘What would you like to know?’
Chris draws out a file. ‘Philip helped me put this together.’ He turns the plastic sheets. ‘It has a bio with dates of performances, facts and details that are very impressive, but I do need to know more.’
Radha comes out of the kitchen with three glasses of tea. ‘You’ll have to drink from a glass. Uncle doesn’t have any cups in his kitchen.’
Chris holds the glass carefully. It is hot and the tea will scald his mouth. I can taste tea only if it burns my tongue. Tobacco has numbed
my taste buds and now only the heat can make them bloom.
my taste buds and now only the heat can make them bloom.
‘Would you like me to cool the tea for you?’ Radha asks.
Chris puts his glass down. ‘Oh, I’ll wait for it to cool,’ he says. I realize then that he doesn’t like the intrusion.
Chris touches the file to take up the thread of our conversation.
‘I’d like to know everything about you,’ he says.
I hold up my hand. I am not ready for this. ‘You are not writing my biography. Or is this for a novel, maybe?’
His eyes drop and then rise to meet mine. ‘I don’t know what I intend to use this material for, or how. All I know is that to understand you as an artist I need to know the man. I know so many artists—writers, painters, musicians, dancers—and they all talk about their art as if it’s a living creature. Something that possesses them to the exclusion of everything else.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Art can be a very demanding mistress …’
Chris taps his pencil against the table impatiently. ‘I think I will understand what art means to you only when I know how much you have let your art rule you. Your dreams, your hopes, your compromises, your sacrifices—everything that your art has demanded of you.’
Radha sucks in her breath. She knows how reticent I am and how much I hate to talk about myself. ‘I don’t know if Uncle will …’ she says, rushing in to protect me as she always does.
I throw her a smile. It’s all right, I tell her with that smile. The honesty of his reply draws me. The man and the artist. I have never thought of myself as split into dual parts. Is it possible?
‘Before I begin, I must tell you something that is intrinsic to kathakali. This dance form requires the performer to interpret. It demands that the veshakaaran imagine beyond the poet’s—what is that word you use, libretto …In my story, what I think is real could perhaps be the imagined, and vice versa. Do you understand?
‘I have to imagine and interpret not just my own life, but the lives of all the others who have been part of my life. My facts could be wrong, the details could be missing, but I shall hide nothing. That much I can assure you. When you’ve heard it all, you can tell me if the man and the artist are one or dual creatures. You can tell me who rules, the man or the mistress.’
Chris peels the flap of a pocket on his trousers. He brings out a small tape recorder. ‘May I?’ he asks.
I nod. It is better this way. For me to imagine my life, and for the words to capture the flow as I speak.
I open my betel-nut box. I have had this box for god knows how long. I choose two tender, green betel leaves, smear a little paste of lime and wedge the whole into my mouth. Then I pare a few shavings of areca nut with a pocket knife. The fresh areca nut floods my mouth with a juice that settles the sting of the betel leaves. I add a small piece of tobacco.
I push the betel-nut box towards Chris and gesture for him to help himself. He doesn’t.
The betel leaves and areca nut wrap me in a fug of comfort.
I am ready to talk now, I think. I rinse my mouth and drink some water.
Chris presses a button on the tape recorder. Radha leans back in her chair. Somewhere the flapping wings of a pond heron slash the air.
‘In the beginning was an ocean,’ I say.
Chris raises his eyebrows. ‘An ocean?’
I smile. I know what he is thinking. That perhaps I am referring to Noah’s Ark, or maybe Vasco da Gama. But he is too polite to say more, or maybe he is scared that if he offends me I’ll clam up. So he swallows his trepidation.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘An ocean.’
This wasn’t how he was meant to die: the water swirling above his head, cascading into his ears and nose, filling his mouth and rushing to his lungs, stilling forever his flailing arms and legs. Salt in his eyes,
salt lining the back of his throat, salt poisoning his blood. He rose to the surface one more time and knew that if he were to allow it, he would be pickled in brine.
salt lining the back of his throat, salt poisoning his blood. He rose to the surface one more time and knew that if he were to allow it, he would be pickled in brine.
Then, from the recesses of his childhood years, from those countless hours spent thrashing his arms and legs in the river, from the humiliation of knowing that he alone hadn’t learnt to master the water while everyone else had, he sought one memory that would allow him to live, to escape the sea and its salt.
It came then, swimming into his being with the frantic swish of a tadpole’s tail. That one lesson that was to be his mantra for life: Don’t fight it. Close your mouth. Hold your breath. Let your body be.
Slowly he felt his body lighten. The waters loosened their hold and he knew as his hands tightened on a piece of wood that floated into his grasp that it wasn’t his time yet.
When he opened his eyes, the face that hovered above his head beamed. ‘Praise be the lord!’
Sethu wondered where he was, but his tongue wouldn’t form the words to ask. The nurse, a kindly creature with scraped back hair, glasses and a complexion that resembled the bottom of his mother’s cooking pots held his wrist, noting his pulse. Providing that first human contact that rushed tears to his eyes.
‘I’m Sister Hope. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up. The fishermen thought you were dead when they saw the gash on your head. Then one of them wasn’t so sure. So they thought of Doctor.’
He heard the note of awe in her voice for the doctor. But mostly it was her accent that made him want to hug her. What was this place where Tamil had the ring of Malayalam? The roundness, the gathering and pouting of vowels, the heaping of consonants as if they were dried teak leaves …He couldn’t be too far from home.
The nurse tucked the sheet around him. ‘The fishermen told Doctor that if anyone could help, it was him …and they were right. Now you lie here quietly and I’ll fetch Him.’
Him. Doctor Aiyah. God incarnate to the villagers. Miracle worker of Nazareth. Father figure. Sethu was to discover that Dr Samuel Sagayaraj would be all this for him as well. But first, Dr Samuel was to play priest at his christening.
‘How are you?’ the doctor asked.
Sethu looked at the man by his bedside. So this was his saviour. This man with a square head and even features. His skin was smooth and moustache trimmed. His eyebrows were the only unruly vagrants in the otherwise well-groomed face—furry, thick caterpillars locking horns at the bridge of his nose. The hands that held Sethu’s wrist were strong and capable. The doctor wore horn-rimmed glasses. He radiated a presence that made Sethu want to turn himself over to him and say: Look after me. I need your protection.
‘Can you tell me which year we are in?’ the doctor asked in Tamil, his accent more neutral than the woman’s.
‘1937. It is 1937, isn’t it?’
The doctor nodded. He allowed his mouth to soften into a smile and asked, ‘Do you remember what happened?’
Sethu licked his lips. They felt dry and crusty; salty, too.
‘No,’ Sethu said. ‘No, I don’t remember.’
Sethu wasn’t lying. He didn’t want to remember.
‘And what is your name?’
‘My name,’ Sethu hesitated, groping for a name that was familiar and yet wouldn’t give him away, and he thought of what the American missionary in Colombo had called him, ‘is Seth.’
‘Yes,’ Sethu said in English. This would tell the doctor that he was an educated man. A man of means. ‘My name is Seth. I used to work with the health department in Ceylon.’
Seth. It was an unusual name for an Indian. But it was a common Christian name and one that Dr Samuel recognized. And so Dr Samuel’s eyes widened. Was this the miracle he had been waiting for? A Christian health worker!
‘Pleased to meet you, Seth. Is there an address you’d like to give me? Your family must be worried. We must inform them about your whereabouts. What about your employers?’
Seth closed his eyes. Home? ‘No,’ he said. ‘I am an orphan. And I quit my job some months ago. There is no one waiting for me …’
‘Don’t say that, Seth,’ Dr Samuel said quietly, patting Sethu’s arm. ‘For those who have none, there is God. Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Ruth 1.16.’
Nurse Hope nodded approvingly.
‘Give him the Bible, Sister. Let God be with you as you recover,
Seth. Don’t forsake the good book and it won’t forsake you. God’s word will guide you where your heart doesn’t. It will be as is said in 1 Kings 9.7: A proverb and a byword.’
Seth. Don’t forsake the good book and it won’t forsake you. God’s word will guide you where your heart doesn’t. It will be as is said in 1 Kings 9.7: A proverb and a byword.’
Sethu swallowed. How long could he keep up this pretence?
As he lay there, he wondered what it was about him that drew these types. These men who wished to take him by the hand and lead him down what they considered the chosen path. First Maash, then Balu, and now Dr Samuel. Why did he allow it to happen? He felt a great weariness settle over him and it seemed so much easier to sleep rather than think.
When Sethu woke, the Bible was at his bedside and two beaming Nurses Hope. Sethu blinked.
‘This is my sister, Charity,’ Nurse Hope said. ‘She is training to be a nurse. I have one more sister. Faith. She’s a nurse, too.’
She straightened Sethu’s bedclothes, rearranged the medicines and then stuck a thermometer into the mouth of a man in the next bed.
‘Two days and you’ll be out of here,’ Nurse Hope said suddenly.
‘I’ve brought you the Bible,’ Nurse Charity said shyly. He shifted and turned his head away. Her gaze unnerved him. Why does she look at me like she’s never seen a man before, Sethu thought, feeling the weight of the Bible in his hands. On the flyleaf, printed in copperplate, was her name: Charity Vimala Jeyaraj. ‘You shouldn’t have,’ Sethu said.
‘Oh, I can share Akka’s Bible. Anyway, this is the only English Bible apart from Dr Samuel’s.’
Sethu thought of what the man in the next bed had said earlier. ‘I wish the kondai sisters would pay me some attention. All three of them were here while you were asleep, hovering around you all the time, while I lay wide awake groaning for a bedpan.’
‘Who?’ Sethu had asked.
‘The kondai sisters …who else?’
Sethu smiled. The ‘bun sisters’. ‘Is that what they are called?’
‘The whole town refers to them as the kondai sisters. Periya kondai, chinna kondai and jadai kondai. Their hair buns are the only way to tell them apart.’
Sethu felt a chuckle gather within him. It was true. Big bun, little bun and plaited bun …but where was the plaited bun?
Sethu felt his chuckle grow into a fit of giggles and so hastily, he
began reading the Bible even as they stood there. Perhaps they would leave him alone then.
began reading the Bible even as they stood there. Perhaps they would leave him alone then.
Why had he chosen to give himself a new name? It wasn’t as if he was a Known Defaulter. Or was he one now? KD. Synonym for rowdy, hooligan, criminal, anti-social element. How could you, Sethu, Uncle would ask. How could a member of my family become a KD?
Sethu was fourteen years and three days old when he ran away from home. He didn’t know what else to do.
He stood staring at the school noticeboard. He had failed in his exams again, for the third year in succession, and now he would be expelled. The headmaster had said as much to his uncle the previous year. ‘We don’t keep a student if he fails for two years in the same class. In Sethu’s case, I’m willing to make an exception. You see, his marks are good enough in all the other subjects, but how can I promote him to the next form if he doesn’t even scrape through in mathematics? I don’t understand it. He has an amazing memory. All he has to do is look at a page just once and he can tell you everything there is on it. Yet, in mathematics, he is worse than the worst dunce in his class. I don’t think he is applying himself. What else can it be?’ He turned to Sethu and said in a voice that was meant to scare him, ‘This is your last chance. If you don’t work hard enough, I’ll have no option but to expel you. Do you understand?’
Sethu nodded. He always did when he had nothing to offer by way of explanation or comment. Even then he knew that mathematics would crush him.
On their way home, his uncle didn’t speak a word. Later, when they sat down to lunch, he said, ‘You heard what the headmaster said, didn’t you? If you want to make something of yourself in life, you need an education. Or, if you’d rather be a farmer like me, you can quit school tomorrow. It is your decision.’
This was his uncle’s way. Other men would have torn a young branch off a tamarind tree, stripped it of leaves and then stripped the skin off their wards’ back. Not Sethu’s uncle. He stripped the skin off Sethu’s soul with his quiet reproach. Sethu said nothing, feeling the heaviness within rise to his eyes and clamp his throat.
Sethu didn’t understand what it was about numbers or water that defeated him so. It wasn’t as if he didn’t try hard enough. He
did. He worked, he wheedled, he did everything he could to make them heed his bidding. But neither the numbers nor the waters of the river succumbed to his advances. They mostly ignored him, or merely let him down. Like now. Sethu knew he must flee his uncle’s reproachful eyes and the waters of the river that questioned his adequacy day after day.
did. He worked, he wheedled, he did everything he could to make them heed his bidding. But neither the numbers nor the waters of the river succumbed to his advances. They mostly ignored him, or merely let him down. Like now. Sethu knew he must flee his uncle’s reproachful eyes and the waters of the river that questioned his adequacy day after day.
He walked along the riverbank. Sometimes, he felt a great surge of restlessness and he would walk along the river not knowing where he was going or what he would do if he got there. It was just enough that he was walking. Then his legs would tire and he would turn back, glad to go home.
Now he walked towards the railway station. He would take the train to Madras. That’s where everyone ran away to. In Madras, he would make a life that didn’t require him to master numbers or water. Or ever encounter the disappointment in his uncle’s eyes. Perhaps he might even meet his father, who had gone away to Madras five years ago and never returned. His mother had a new husband now, and Sethu hoped his father would take him in.
He patted the pocket of his shorts. He had some money. His fees and book money for the next year, and some money his mother had given him to buy a pair of sandals and a few groceries in town. It wasn’t much, but there was enough to buy a train ticket to Madras and a meal or two till he found a job.
He didn’t have to wait long for the train to arrive. He got into a carriage and found a seat. Opposite him sat a man and a woman. The woman smiled at him. He smiled back and let his eyes drop. The train began to move and Sethu turned to look out of the window. ‘Where are you going?’ the woman asked.
Sethu dragged his eyes away from the window, where the landscape seemed to have acquired a certain beauty he hadn’t noticed when he lived there. ‘Madras,’ he said absently.
The woman looked at the man. He leaned forward and said, ‘But this train doesn’t go to Madras.’
Sethu felt as if someone had kicked him in his gut. ‘But this is the train to Madras,’ he said, willing it to be so. ‘I checked the timetable.’
‘No, this isn’t the train to Madras,’ the man repeated in a gentle voice. His eyes were sympathetic. ‘The train to Madras is an hour
late. All trains on this line are. Didn’t you hear the announcement? This train goes elsewhere and the compartment we are in will be attached to another train in Coimbatore. This is the Rameswaram compartment.’
late. All trains on this line are. Didn’t you hear the announcement? This train goes elsewhere and the compartment we are in will be attached to another train in Coimbatore. This is the Rameswaram compartment.’
‘What do I do now? I have very little money left.’ Sethu’s voice crumpled.
How could you, Sethu, a voice muttered. His uncle’s voice, full of reproof and sorrow. How could you? How could you be so silly as to not read the train’s name? Or ask where it was going? Speaking of which, how could you run away and abandon your mother, your family and me? How could you?
It was the thought of encountering the voice and those eyes that caused tears to emerge in the eyes of fourteen-years-and-three-days-old Sethu.
‘Don’t cry,’ the man said, rising from his seat. He patted Sethu’s shoulder and sat by him. ‘What is the need to cry? Will crying help? Tell me, is anyone expecting you in Madras? An uncle, an older brother, someone?’
Sethu shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Do you want to go back home?’
Sethu shook his head again. ‘No, no.’
‘In which case, come with us to Rameswaram.’
‘But what will I do there?’
‘Do you have a job waiting for you in Madras?’
Sethu shook his head again.
‘We are going to Ceylon. To Colomb,’ the woman said. ‘Come with us.’
Sethu stared at them. All his life, he had shuddered every time someone mentioned Colombo. It was as if the very word resonated with the boom of the ocean. Wave upon wave piling on to the shores of a tiny island. Wave after wave conspiring to suck in boats and lives that rode on it. Colombo. But how easily she said it. Colomb. As if, by swallowing the ‘o’ at the end of the word, the waters that surrounded the island disappeared down her throat. Freeing the journey of his worst fear. Water.
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