Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (3 page)
Radha smiles. ‘A corruption of the word Sahib, which is Hindi for master. Sahiv and Madaama, from the days the white men reigned rather than visited.’
I listen to her. She can be charming if she wants to be. How pretty she looks today. Her waist-length hair falls straight and silky as rainwater down her back. She’s wearing a pale pink cotton sari that casts a rosy flush on her cheeks. Her eyes shine with merriment and her lips are stretched in a smile. If she was this charming more often, I could concentrate on the administrative details of running the resort.
Chris grins and says, ‘Touché!’
‘We’ve left the instrument in the car,’ I say, feeling a little left out.
‘Don’t you trust us with it?’ Uncle teases.
I stare at him. I have never heard Uncle speak English. I didn’t know he spoke it so well. Why then does he insist on making his students speak Malayalam and wrap their tongues around syllables that are like blocks of wood?
‘Zha,’ he makes them parrot. ‘Zha as in mazha, pazham, vazhi …’
Mazha—rain; pazham—fruit; vazhi—way: he would gesture the words with his hands, with mudras they could decipher, while their tongues flipped, flopped and tried to slide through the sound of zha.
‘No, it isn’t that,’ Chris tries to explain. ‘It’s just that the cello is very valuable. I had always dreamt of being able to afford a cello like this one and now that I have it, I am extra cautious with my dream.’
‘Tread softly because you’re treading on my dreams.’ Radha’s
voice is soft.
voice is soft.
What does she mean, I wonder. Uncle has a strange expression in his eyes. Only Chris seems amused. ‘Yeats, isn’t it?’
I repress my sigh. One of her poets. I thought she was past all that.
‘Is this all you are eating?’ I ask as the steward comes in with a tray. ‘Why don’t you try some of the Kerala dishes?’
Chris slices the top of his egg deftly and says, ‘Oh, I will. Thank you very much. I am not very hungry now.’
The restaurant is half full. It is only eight in the morning. In a little while, most of the guests will arrive for breakfast.
We are not full up. In fact, only six of the twelve rooms and three of the eight cottages are occupied. Later in the day, a group of Germans is expected. Tomorrow, when Christopher wakes up, the resort will bustle with life and the ja ja ja of Germans. That will show him how popular we are.
I get up and go into the kitchen. ‘You forgot …’ I tell Baby George, the cook. He looks at me blankly.
One evening, Varghese, who owns a machine-tools unit in the smallscale industries complex at Kolapulli, and I were coming back from Alappuzha. Varghese’s sister and her husband own a small island in the backwaters. They converted the family home into a resort and are now booked through the year. Varghese offered to take me there so I could see how everything was organized. On our second day there, he took me to a toddy shop. Unlike most toddy shops that have only a number, this one had a name: Chakkara Pandal.
I don’t like toddy. Never have, except when it’s freshly tapped. Then it tastes like coconut water and bears little resemblance to the foul-smelling, sour toddy. But Varghese said that the food at Chakkara Pandal was worth a visit.
‘What kind of food is it?’ I asked, thinking that a place called Chakkara Pandal probably served only sweet things.
‘The usual—matthi-poola, meen pappas, erachi olarthiyathe—toddy-shop food,’ Varghese said as we rowed up the canal—or rowed down; I don’t know. All I could think of was, I hope the fish didn’t come from these filthy waters.
‘The owner likes old songs. He named it after one—
Chakkara
pandalil, then mazha
pozhiyum …
’ Varghese hummed the song.
Chakkara
pandalil, then mazha
pozhiyum …
’ Varghese hummed the song.
Chakkara Pandal, when we got there, was nothing like the sugar bower the name suggested. It was dark and dank, and smelt of stale sweat and fermented coconut sap. But there was Baby George, dishing up the finest food. All I needed was one mouthful of beef olarthiyathe to know that this was the man for Near-the-Nila.
‘You are wasting your talent here; come to my restaurant and you’ll be appreciated,’ I said, offering him three times his pay, with full benefits.
Baby George agreed instantly. All was set, I thought. The only thing I had to watch out for was that Baby George didn’t get too friendly with Chef Mathew.
Chef Mathew had been to catering college; he knew how to make soufflés and puddings, soups and steaks—everything a guest might want, but seldom asked for. Mostly they preferred to dine on Baby George’s creations. And yet, I paid Chef Mathew twelve times more than what I paid Baby George. If Baby George ever found out …I shudder at the thought of his leaving.
At first, I wanted to call the restaurant Baby George’s Kitchen. Then it occurred to me that Chef Mathew might be offended. Besides, Baby George after a few days might stake a claim to the ownership of the restaurant. This is Kerala after all, where even squatters have rights. So I decided to take a cue from the toddy shop where I found Baby George and called my restaurant Mulla Pandal.
I trained jasmine to creep along a trellis and scent the air. On every table, we placed a little card that explained the legend of the mulla pandal—the jasmine bower.
‘Baby George, you forgot the coconut oil,’ I say again.
Baby George grins. ‘Sir, you scared me,’ he says and takes a special can of coconut oil reserved for this purpose. ‘I didn’t forget. I thought I’d wait for the guests to come in. No point in wasting oil.’
He drizzles coconut oil into a saucepan. The oil heats and slowly an aroma spreads, filling the kitchen and percolating into the restaurant.
Just a faint whiff. Too much, and it would turn their stomachs. Just a faint whiff to conjure images of wood fires and bronze cooking pots, rustic life and discovery. Usually the guests would let it trickle up their noses and instead of settling for a frugal breakfast would
ask for a full Kerala spread.
ask for a full Kerala spread.
It isn’t easy managing a resort. I have to think ahead of my guests all the time.
I let the aroma trickle up my nose. My stomach rumbles. ‘Baby George, I’ll eat here this morning,’ I tell him and am rewarded with a beam.
Would Radha want to join me? It’s been so long since we ate a meal together at the resort.
The table overlooking the river, my favourite table, is unoccupied. The others have gone, leaving as their signature bread crumbs, shards of eggshell and three used coffee cups. I wonder where they are: Uncle, Radha and the Sahiv.
In my mind, I have begun to think of Christopher as the Sahiv. Where has he spirited my family to?
The steward pads to my side. I look up. It’s Pradeep.
I run a small, tight ship. Fifteen employees in all, and each one of them handpicked by me. Anyone who shows the slightest inclination to laziness or an unwillingness to do more than the scope of his job has to go. I can’t afford it otherwise.
‘Look at Unni,’ I tell them. ‘He is a prince, but he doesn’t mind being reception clerk, postcard vendor and travel agent. He even carries the baggage to the room or the car if the doorman is busy with another guest’s bags! I know this is not how other resorts run, but you must understand that there is nothing to this town. And the guests are not as many as we might like. I can’t hire too many people and have them sitting around twiddling their thumbs. I’d have to close this place down. This way, you can be sure of a regular salary. It’s up to you, of course.’
Pradeep helps in the kitchen and during meal times dons a uniform and transforms into steward. ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘Madam said they’ll wait at the reception.’
Then he looks around and says softly, ‘The Sahiv at table four was complaining of the smell of coconut oil.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He said it was much too strong for his taste!’
Pradeep is one of my best employees. Apart from being able to speak English, his loyalty to me is complete.
I sniff the air. The smell is a little excessive. ‘Tell Baby George to use less oil next time,’ I say.
Pradeep nods his head and pads away. The boy walks like a cat, on the balls of his feet.
I pick up the card on the table.
Once upon a time, a young maiden fell in love with the moon. Every night she stood under the night skies and appealed to the moon to make her his. The moon bathed her loveliness with his light but remained far away. One night he could resist her beauty no longer and kissed her on her lips. She felt herself flower and so great was her joy that she became a jasmine. A flower that blossoms at night only when the moon touches it.
The Jasmine Bower is a celebration of earthly appetites. Let the Jasmine Bower rule your senses and we assure you it will be a truly memorable experience.
I had written the text myself. Radha had giggled as she read it. She said, ‘You do this very well. I never thought you could write stories or that your imagination was so, so …’
‘I am a businessman, not a storyteller,’ I interrupted, though I was delighted by her praise. ‘Here is the English translation. I did it myself. Will you read it for me, please? I didn’t go to a fancy school like you did; mine is basic SSLC English! So there might be errors.’
Uncle had put his glasses on and read the Malayalam text.
‘Do you think I should add something?’ I asked.
Uncle looked up. ‘No, it’s very good. I didn’t think you had it in you …this artistic streak!’
I said nothing. What did they know of me? I used to write poetry. Until Radha’s father found my book of poems when I was fourteen and said, ‘All this is very nice, but poetry is not going to put food in your belly. For that you need money. Put aside this nonsense and do something worthwhile, chekka.’
Chekka. He always called me that. As though by referring to me
as boy, he could rob me of even the dignity of a name. Since he kept my family fed and clothed, I didn’t protest, though I hated the word.
as boy, he could rob me of even the dignity of a name. Since he kept my family fed and clothed, I didn’t protest, though I hated the word.
‘I am not a boy; I’m almost a man,’ I told my mother angrily. He had referred to me as chekkan in the presence of a group of relatives. She hushed me as she always did. ‘Don’t let him hear you, or he’ll start his rant about ingrates and how it’s better to bathe a stone in milk than help relatives …do you want to hear that all over again?’
Yet, when he needed to sort out the mess Radha had caused, he had come knocking at my mother’s door and then the word chekkan magically disappeared. For the first time, he called me Shyam. I was Shyam, the man whose eyes he couldn’t meet.
‘Your breakfast is getting cold,’ Pradeep says in my ear.
‘Why do you creep up on me?’ I snap, dragged from my thoughts.
I see the hurt in his eyes. I pride myself on never losing my temper. To make up for the spurt of anger, I try to joke. ‘You must have been a cat in your last birth.’ I pause and peer at him. ‘Has the cat been sipping some foreign milk when no one was looking?’
‘Not this cat.’ His mouth wobbles with suppressed laughter. ‘This cat is afraid of hot water and AIDS.’
Ribaldry is a great leveller.
I tear off a small piece of appam and dip it into the egg masala. In my mouth, the soft fluffy appam melds with the spice of the gravy. It is delicious. I eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. Let them wait, I decide.
I do not understand this. Even in that first moment, I felt I knew him. It can’t be. How can it be? He has never been to India. ‘This is my first visit to India,’ he told me in the autorickshaw.
Was he in the audience when I performed in Houston a couple of years ago? He did say that he has been living in America for some years now. But all I can remember is a line of faces uniformly Indian:
the women in mundu-veshti and laden with jewellery, and men in silk jubbahs and mundu. I can’t remember a white face, no, not even in the periphery of my vision. So why do I feel as though I know him?
the women in mundu-veshti and laden with jewellery, and men in silk jubbahs and mundu. I can’t remember a white face, no, not even in the periphery of my vision. So why do I feel as though I know him?
When I took his hands in mine, what was it about him that tugged at me, somewhere in the pit of my stomach? A sweeping tenderness that made me want to clasp him in an embrace. In my heart syllables tripped:
Ajitha Jayahare Madhava
…Krishna meeting his childhood companion Sudama after many years. Krishna the king who can read the woes of Sudama the pauper. Krishna, who forgets that his life is blessed with abundance while Sudama’s is cursed with emptiness. There is sanctity in the moment. All I can think of is, he’s here. I am Krishna. Or is he? Who is the blessed one? I do not know.
Ajitha Jayahare Madhava
…Krishna meeting his childhood companion Sudama after many years. Krishna the king who can read the woes of Sudama the pauper. Krishna, who forgets that his life is blessed with abundance while Sudama’s is cursed with emptiness. There is sanctity in the moment. All I can think of is, he’s here. I am Krishna. Or is he? Who is the blessed one? I do not know.
For the past two years, Philip has mentioned him in his letters. His name is as familiar to me as the names of Thomas and Linda, Philip’s children. Is it just that? A bonding born of knowledge? That Chris prefers beer to wine; that he douses his food in hot sauce; that he tore a ligament last year playing tennis; that he is working on a travel book in which I am to feature. No, it isn’t that, either. I try to put it out of my mind. In my old age, I have discovered that the imagined and the real tend to cross over.
But now, as he gently draws his cello out from the back of the car, it seems a gesture I ought to recognize. The squaring of shoulders, the tensing of his back, the tilt of his head. I think of a scene from Kalyanasougandhikam. Is this the unease Bheema felt, I wonder, when he found an old monkey blocking his way to the garden of divine flowers? Obstructing his path wilfully, as if to thwart his beloved wife’s desire to adorn her hair with the fragrance of the divine blossoms. Is this the feeling that crept up Bheema’s spine? That this is someone I ought to recognize. That we are more than we know.
When Christopher shuts the car door with a backward heft of his hip, I am certain: I know him.
Radha walks down the steps to where I am. Her gait is measured and languid. My niece bears on her face marks of dissatisfaction. It makes me sad.
Some days ago, as I sat on my veranda chatting with her, I said, ‘Radha, do you know the significance of the katthivesham in kathakali?’
She smiled as if to suggest that my question was a silly one. ‘Of course I do,’ she tossed back at me. ‘The villains of Indian mythology; the destroyers of all things good and noble. Isn’t that it?’
‘I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘Ravana, Narakasura, Hiranyakashipu …you know why these demon kings are classified as katthivesham? They are men born with noble blood in them. They could have been heroes. Instead, they let their dissatisfaction with their destinies curdle their minds, and so they turned out arrogant, evil, demonic. Like you said, destroyers of all things good and noble.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Radha asked. Her eyes blazed into mine. Her voice was quiet and low but I could read the rage in them.
I reached forward and touched her forehead with my index finger. Then I touched the skin around her nostrils.
‘The lines here speak of dissatisfaction. They could just as well be the white bulbs a katthivesham wears on his forehead and the tip of his nose,’ I said, trying to smooth the lines away.
Radha brushed my finger away and got up. ‘Sometimes, Uncle,’ she said, ‘you let your imagination see things that don’t really exist. These lines, marks of dissatisfaction as you call them, are an indication that I am growing old. I should buy an anti-ageing cream. That’s what I need. Dissatisfaction! Why on earth would I be dissatisfied?’
I did not want us to quarrel, so I let it rest. You cannot make someone see the truth unless they want to.
Radha, my darling niece, my surrogate child, is not afraid of the truth. She has always stared it in the eye. This time, though, she pretended it wasn’t there.
Since then, when she’s with me, Radha tries not to let her unhappiness show. Her creams do their work; they repair and heal the skin and add lustre, as if someone has dusted her face with a handful of abharam.
But mica dust is like fool’s gold: a false glitter that doesn’t endure. And so, when she thinks I am not watching her, the marks emerge. A clenching of muscle, a tightening of skin, a whitening of hue, a stillness in the eyes. Dissatisfaction perches on her face again.
Now Radha’s gaze follows mine. I see that, like me, she cannot keep her eyes away from him.
She walks forward. ‘Do you need any help?’
There is a lilt in her voice. Where has the discontent seeped away to? There is no need for abharam. Her face is radiant. Her eyes throw him a sidelong glance.
Chris turns to her. His smile gathers her in his arms.
I think of Nala and Damayanti. Of lovers in kathakali who embrace without actually doing so. Only an experienced veshakaaran, an actor with more than mere technique, can perform that embrace. With arms that do not touch the woman, and with only his eyes, he lets her know that he desires her.
Chris, I see, desires Radha. And she, him.
Who is he, I wonder again. This young man from across the seas, with a cello and a smile on display. And knowledge he hides in his heart.
I have no time to think any more. For Shyam is here. Striding down the stairs two at a time, swaying on the balls of his feet, a sheaf of papers tucked under his armpit, making a thwack as he slams a fist into an open palm, an approximation of energy and entrepreneurial spirit. ‘So, shall we get going?’
Radha cringes. Chris drops his eyes and breaks their embrace. And I look away. After all these years, I still do not know how I feel about Shyam.
How shall I describe him?
I have played him. I have been Keechakan, the able commander-in-chief of the kingdom of Vidarbha. Keechakan, who with his might and battle strategies kept the kingdom inviolable. But his longing for Sairandhari, his sister’s handmaiden, blinded him. He couldn’t see that she detested him. He thought it was pride. He thought he could break that pride.
Or is he Bheema, I wonder. Bheema, the hasty one. Bheema, who jumps into battles and life without any introspection. Bheema, who doesn’t realize that when his wife sent him away on a quest to find the divine flowers, all she was doing was buying time away from his bumbling, his uncouthness, his lack of finesse. She did that by appealing to his strength, his ego. She sent him away and he thought it was love.
Sometimes I think Shyam is Bheema. A great, big, good-hearted creature whose goodness Radha makes use of. Whose gaucherie she
flees from. And sometimes I think that perhaps he is Keechakan. All he wants to do is possess her. He hides his conniving behind a mask of besotted love, and when he has her on her knees, he’ll kick her. Then I think Radha is wise to keep him on a leash of unreciprocated longing.
flees from. And sometimes I think that perhaps he is Keechakan. All he wants to do is possess her. He hides his conniving behind a mask of besotted love, and when he has her on her knees, he’ll kick her. Then I think Radha is wise to keep him on a leash of unreciprocated longing.
‘What are you thinking about, Uncle?’ Shyam’s voice creeps on to the stage where I am trying to place him.
‘You,’ I say absently. ‘You,’ I repeat, unable to relinquish the soul and skin of the characters my mind has sought.
‘Me?’ The syllable jerks with fear that he modulates into surprise. ‘What is there to think about me?’
I hear the tremor in his voice. What does he think I know?
Suddenly I know who he is. Like everybody else seeking parallels, I sought him among heroes and villains. I should have looked, instead, into the shadowed zones of the stage, at the minor characters whose doings let men live or die. Shyam is the aashaari.
The carpenter with his betel-nut, leaf and tobacco pouch, his chisel, hammer and yardstick. The comic who makes people laugh. And yet, there is underlying his buffoonery a knowledge that is both sound and crafty.
Not everybody can play the aashaari. I know; I have played him. It requires an understanding that is beyond the comprehension of a novice. The carpenter is both fool and master craftsman. It is he who brings warning of impending death, whispering in the ears of the Pandavas that the wax palace will turn into a funeral pyre that night. It is he who digs their escape route and camouflages it. He devises their escape with a flourish of gestures and exaggerated movements. He makes a mess of the steps, skids, falls, rolls his eyes, looks this way and that, and does it all with perfect timing. Only an actor with an impeccable sense of rhythm and versatility of expression can handle the aashaari. And Shyam is that aashaari, wearing the guise of a fool and never missing a step.
‘Uncle?’ Radha is concerned.
‘Is he all right?’ Chris asks.
‘He hasn’t been feeling very well,’ Radha tries to explain this habit of mine of slipping away; she calls it my trance.
Shyam snaps a finger. ‘Bring a chair’
I sink into the chair. Shyam fans me with the sheaf of papers in his
hand. The breeze cools my brow. I feel the tension in my muscles loosen. Just like a child’s, Shyam’s features are taut with the effort he’s putting into the fanning. I like him for now. I close my eyes. ‘Water …’
hand. The breeze cools my brow. I feel the tension in my muscles loosen. Just like a child’s, Shyam’s features are taut with the effort he’s putting into the fanning. I like him for now. I close my eyes. ‘Water …’
Someone brings me a glass of water. Radha holds it to my lips. I sip slowly.
Radha murmurs, ‘We should let him rest.’
Shyam looks down at me and says, ‘I think he’s done too much this morning. I told you we shouldn’t have brought him with us.’
I feel my liking turn inside out. I dislike this way he has of talking about me as if I am not there. I stand up. Blackness threatens to swamp, then settles.
‘Don’t talk about me as if I am not present,’ I say. ‘I forgot to take my betel-nut box. If I have a chew, I will be all right.’
‘It’s just the heat that is making me ill,’ I try and explain to Chris, who looks concerned.
I wish they would stop fussing. I am not a doddering old fool. Strangely enough, it is Shyam who bails me out.
‘Have you seen my elephant?’ Shyam asks. I look to where he is pointing. An elephant is parked there.
‘Whose …’ I begin, but Shyam cuts me off.
‘Would you like to go closer and see him?’ he asks Chris.
Chris smiles. ‘He is enormous,’ he says and there is something akin to wonder in his voice.
I see Shyam glance at Radha. There is triumph in his eyes.
‘He is enormous all right. An enormous baby,’ Shyam says. ‘A very nice elephant to know, in fact!’
I shake my head. What new scheme is this? Only Shyam would think of something like this.
‘Shall we go to your cottage?’ I say to Chris, getting up from the chair.
Radha and Chris look at each other. Then they move to either side of me. Chris turns to Shyam. ‘Would you ask someone to carry my cello? Carefully, please.’
So we walk, Radha and Chris flanking me on either side. Shyam follows with the cello and its bearer.
I tell myself that I did not see the vile look Shyam threw Chris. It is the heat, I think. Or perhaps my imagination.
When we reach the cottage, Shyam flings open the doors with a flourish. ‘Your home away from home,’ he says.
Inside, the cottage smells faintly of many things: furniture polish, room freshener, mosquito coil and Flit. The smells tussle with each other for supremacy, but the breeze from the river enters and subdues everything. The curtains at the windows billow as Shyam opens them one by one. ‘The cottage has an air conditioner but I suggest that you don’t bother with it.’
I catch Radha’s eye. She is embarrassed. I know what she’s thinking. That having offered the cottage for so little, Shyam is trying to economize. Then Shyam says, ‘If you are worried about mosquitoes, I could have a mosquito net pegged around your bed. But you should leave the windows open. The night breeze is cool and brings with it the fragrance of all the flowers in the garden and the neighbourhood. You can hear the night birds. And on a moonlit night, if you lie in bed, here,’ he pats the head of the bed, ‘and look out of the window, you can see the moon and then if you sit up, you can see the river shimmering in its light. It’s very beautiful.’
I feel the breath catch in my throat. Who would have thought the boorish Shyam capable of such sensitivity? I try to catch Radha’s eye, but she is looking elsewhere.
Chris smiles and says, ‘But this is wonderful, Sham!’
Shyam stares back at him unsmilingly. ‘S-h-y-a-m. It’s Shyam.’
He appeals to Radha, ‘Isn’t there a name in English that is like Shyam?’
Radha shrugs. Shyam deflects the slight with an animated wave of his arms. ‘So, do you think you will be happy here?’ he asks Chris.
Chris shrugs. A long-drawn, yes shrug. His eyes are shining when he says, ‘Great! I love this place. Oh yes, I’ll settle for the mosquito net, and if it gets very hot, I’ll consider the air conditioning.’
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