Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (31 page)
I wake up with a start. I do not know what woke me. A light left burning. A gust of wind. An absence …sit up.
There is a light in the room. Shyam’s bedside lamp. His side of the bed hasn’t been slept on. I turn my head. Where is he?
Then I see him, sitting in an armchair. He is sitting facing me. What is he doing watching me sleep?
I wish he would turn the light off and return to bed. ‘Shyam,’ I begin to call him. Then I pause. Something about him scares me. This is not the Shyam I know. The Shyam who squares his shoulders, sucks in his abdomen, holds his head up pert and straight, and would never be caught like this.
The man in the chair lies back with his feet splayed out and his abdomen slack and protruding. His hands lie curled in his lap and his head lolls to a side. There is a wet patch on his t-shirt. Saliva had dribbled out of his mouth. He looks like a man whose breath has gone out of him.
I feel a hand clutch at my heart. Is he all right?
Then I see his chest rise and fall; a little snore escapes his mouth. And I feel that familiar ire rise. Now what?
He shifts in the chair. I see the red velvet box in his loosened clasp. I shudder. Those ghastly earrings. They must have cost a great deal. I wish he wouldn’t buy me jewellery. His taste runs to the ornate and florid.
Rani Oppol would love them. ‘Look at them,’ she would say, holding them up to the light. ‘Such magnificent earrings. You are so lucky to have a husband like Shyam, who thinks of you all the time. In fact, if you ask me, he spoils you. I think mine would remember me only if his food didn’t appear on the table. That’s what I am, his cook and washerwoman.’
Shyam would be upset if I gave them to her. Or would he? She is his sister after all.
I touch my ear lobes. My pearl earrings crouch there, almost invisible. I suppose Shyam is trying to make amends for mauling me
the night before he left. But it isn’t just that. There is something else. All evening he has watched me. His eyes follow my every gesture, his ears weigh every word.
the night before he left. But it isn’t just that. There is something else. All evening he has watched me. His eyes follow my every gesture, his ears weigh every word.
Then I know. It hits me in the pit of my stomach. Uncle had been right to warn me. Someone has said something to Shyam. He has heard of Chris and me. A wave of panic engulfs me. What am I going to do?
Uncle and Maya are away. They have gone on a little jaunt on their own. Uncle wouldn’t tell me where. I wanted to ask him about Maya, but his eyes warned me off: later, later.
The night they left, Chris came over. ‘Will he mind?’ Chris asked. There was apprehension on his face.
‘He knows, Chris. He knows about us,’ I said softly. ‘Uncle never judges anybody. He never does that.’
‘That’s because he is scared that his life will be held up for scrutiny if he were to pronounce judgement on others,’ Chris said, examining the interiors of the house.
I looked up, surprised. ‘Why, you sound like you don’t like him very much.’
‘No, I didn’t say that,’ Chris said. ‘How can I dislike him?’ There was a strange expression on his face.
I didn’t probe. I began making the bed with fresh sheets. ‘He is her lover,’ Chris said.
‘Do you think so?’ I paused, stuffing a pillow into its case.
‘You can see it. There is a familiarity they share that only lovers have.’
‘Do we have it, Chris?’ I asked.
‘You should ask your uncle,’ he said. I swallowed my retort. What was wrong with him, I wondered.
I sat on the bed. He lay beside me. For a moment there was silence. We were a man and wife going to bed. It ought to have made me feel content. Instead, all I felt was awkwardness. Had our passion, our all-consuming passion, dwindled to this? Perhaps Chris thought the same.
He leapt up from the bed. ‘Let’s sit on the veranda,’ he said. ‘It’s too early to go to bed.’
We sat there holding hands. He told me of some of his travels. I
listened. I told him family stories. He listened. The night lay around us, lovely and dark, shutting out everyone else and gathering us together, closer …
listened. I told him family stories. He listened. The night lay around us, lovely and dark, shutting out everyone else and gathering us together, closer …
‘I think I am beginning to fall in love with you,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘You do?’
I waited for him to respond. To tell me what he thought of me. He didn’t. I knew an inkling of disquiet then. But I suppressed my fear. Don’t hurry him, I told myself. He has been single for so long. He is scared of commitment. He feels the way you do. He just won’t say it. Give him time.
‘Come,’ he said, and led me into the rain. We walked to the edge of the steps. The drizzle was gentle but steady. He walked into the water and I followed him.
We were the only two people in the world. Only the rain and the river saw us as we made love and pledged our troth to each other.
Later, he towelled me dry, and I him. When we went to sleep, we lay in each other’s arms. Lovers, or man and wife. What did it matter? We could be one or the other.
In the morning, I woke to find him gone. There was a note: I woke at first light and decided to go back to the cottage. I didn’t want anyone to suspect anything. xxx Chris.
He wouldn’t even write the word love to sign off. I folded the note carefully and thrust it into my purse. It was the first letter he had ever written me.
I wrapped my arms around my legs and huddled in the bed. Were we to be lovers and no more?
In the evening, I did not let any of my insecurities reveal themselves. I was beginning to know Chris. I worried that to tell him about this kernel of fear in me would be to put pressure on him.
Instead, we sat on the steps of the river. I told him what I had planned for the evening. I was going to cook dinner for him. I thrilled at the thought of playing house with him.
‘Uncle and Maya will be back tomorrow,’ I said. Let us savour each moment of this precious time together, I meant.
Chris did his best to imbue our time with pleasure. And love, even if he wouldn’t speak the word.
When, a little after midnight, the phone rang, I knew it could only be Shyam. It was. I felt uncomfortable, guilty, as I spoke to
him, lying there with Chris.
him, lying there with Chris.
When I had put the phone down, Chris spoke. ‘Was it him?’
‘Yes,’ I said. For some time now, Chris had stopped mentioning Shyam by name. I turned to look at him. His eyes glittered in the dark.
‘This doesn’t feel right, Min-min.’
‘What?’ I asked. I was being deliberately obtuse.
‘This …’
I chose to misinterpret him. ‘In the circumstances, this is the only way. I know Uncle’s house is rather primitive, but I can’t spend the night at your cottage and I so wanted this. To sleep in your arms, to wake up to you. Two nights. That’s all we have for now.’
‘I know, Min-min,’ he sighed.
I snuggled up to him.
Chris said again, ‘I don’t know how to say it, but this doesn’t feel right.’
I said, ‘I know.’
‘I mean, I, in some way, am indebted to him. He’s let me have this cottage for almost nothing. I see that now. I wish I never had accepted his offer. I wish I had found somewhere else to stay. I don’t like feeling beholden and to add to it, I seem to have wrecked your marriage. I feel like I got you into this situation. This horrible messy situation.’
‘It has nothing to do with you. My marriage was fractured even before I met you,’ I tried to explain, to drive his discomfiture away.
‘How can you say it has nothing to do with me? It has everything to do with my being here …God, what have I done?’
‘Please, please,’ I pleaded. ‘Let us not spoil this night. This is all we have.’
‘Sometimes I wonder if you really know what we have done.‘His voice was flat. He turned to me and his face was grim. ‘Is this a game, perhaps? Something you need to do to prove a point? To yourself. To your husband.’
I felt anguish cover me where his body had. How could he even think that?
‘Chris, please.’ I felt tears rise. ‘Why are you angry with me? What did I do?’
‘How do you think I feel when you speak to your husband while
I lie here beside you? I don’t want to be involved in this deception. It makes me feel sordid and responsible.’
I lie here beside you? I don’t want to be involved in this deception. It makes me feel sordid and responsible.’
‘What can I do? You knew I was married. I didn’t spring it on you, all of a sudden. Do you think I like lying, or that I enjoy this deception? It makes me feel sordid, too. It kills me, this guilt over what I am doing to Shyam. He has a very frail sense of dignity and if someone found out about us, he wouldn’t be able to handle it. But …’
‘What a bloody mess!’
I felt my body repel him; all that had been beloved to me until then filled me with dread. I had expected him to hold me and reassure me that while what we were doing was wrong, it was right for us. I had wanted him to say that despite everything, it meant the world to him.
I felt myself curl into a ball. I realized he was asking me to choose. But it would have to be a choice of my volition, for he would offer me nothing to help me make the choice.
For so long now, my days have had a sameness. They have stretched vapid and dull, predictable and monotonous. Nothing would ever change, I thought.
One evening, a girl I knew at college and who now lived in Coimbatore, came visiting unannounced with her husband. They were driving to Wayanad, she said. A kind of second honeymoon, she implied. On a whim, they decided to call on me and see how I was. ‘You look the same,’ she said. ‘Where is your husband?’
Shyam was out. He should be back any time, I said, and I prayed he wouldn’t return till they had left. I worried what they would make of him.
I saw the ease that flowed between her and her husband. The casual intimacies of a marriage. He took her hand in his when he talked. She touched his cheek in a casual caress …I looked away. I was glad to see them leave. Any reminders of my past made me realize how drab and barren my life was.
Then Chris arrived. He took my days and turned them into something else. He gifted me a prism that caught light and threw a spectrum of colours. I saw that even grey could be refracted. Violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow, orange, red—Chris led me through the hallways of the prism. I followed, uncertain but happy. There was nothing predictable about my life any more. My nerves sang and an
iridescence filled me. How could I go back to my grey world after this?
iridescence filled me. How could I go back to my grey world after this?
And yet, as I sit here wondering if I dare to wake Shyam, if I can harden myself to withstand the accusation in his eyes, shrug off my guilt and his anger, I feel a sudden longing for that time when I feared nothing and no one. My grey world was a shroud that kept fear away. I have colour and light now, but at a price.
There is only one thing to do: brazen it out. If I can persuade Shyam that nothing has changed, I can buy time.
I need time. I need it more than anything else now. I need time to make Chris understand how much I mean to him. I need time to let Shyam know that I can no longer live with him. That Chris’s arrival has only precipitated my going; I would have gone anyway. When I smash this little world that Shyam and I live in, I will need time to clear the debris.
I need time. And I fear that I am not going to have enough. Someone will be hurt. Shyam or Chris. How do I choose? What am I going to do?
I tiptoe into the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I unbraid my hair and put on the emerald earrings. Fear clasps itself around my ear lobes.
Fear makes one do things one would never do otherwise. Fear lets you compromise. Fear will even let you seduce your husband so that he thinks he imagined your transgressions, your betrayal, and that you still are his.
I walk to where Shyam sits. I trail my fingers through his hair and whisper, ‘Shyam, Shyam …’
In the car, I take Maya’s hand in mine. ‘So, did you have a good time?’ I rub her hand between mine.
She smiles. ‘The best!’
I think of what Radha would say if she knew where we had been. ‘But Uncle, Guruvayur! What were you doing at the temple? I didn’t think either of you was religious. You must be getting old.’
I chuckle.
‘What is so amusing?’ Maya raises her eyebrows.
‘I was thinking of Radha’s reaction when I tell her where we have been. She assumes that you and I sneaked off to some romantic place for a passionate reunion.’
‘Why would we need to go anywhere else? Your house is in the most romantic spot I have ever seen,’ Maya says, rolling down the car window.
‘For you; not for her. She has seen it all her life. But tell me, would you have preferred to go somewhere else?’
‘Of course not.’ Maya shakes her head. Then she smiles at me shyly. ‘If we had, would we be man and wife now?’
I had decided on a whim that we would go to Guruvayur. A friend called to invite me to see the swayamvara sequence from the life of Lord Krishna. ‘My brother is rather concerned that no suitable alliance has come for his daughter and someone told him that organizing a performance of the swayamvaram sequence as an offering at Guruvayur might help. I don’t know if it will, but he has money to spend, and it will be interesting to watch. Why don’t you come if you are free tonight?’
‘Would you like to go?’ I asked Maya.
‘Will it be good?’
‘Krishnattam is supposed to be kathakali’s mother. It will be interesting …’
Maya likes dance. She will never be able to discuss the finer points of a performance. That needs many years of orientation, but she is a true rasika, a worthy audience who would inspire any artist to greater heights. She is interested, she is involved, and she respects it enough to switch her mobile off, unlike many others I know. As I sat next to her, I saw pleasure animate her face. And I was glad that we had chosen to come.
When we went back to our hotel, Maya seemed bathed in elation. She couldn’t stop talking about the performance. ‘I never expected it to be so awe-inspiring,’ she said, as we prepared to go to bed.
I lay in bed, hands crossed beneath my head. Maya combed her hair as she talked.
‘The devotees believe that by watching a sequence of krishnattam you are blessed. It is an act of prayer,’ I said, enjoying the sight of her combing her hair, rubbing cream into her skin.
Maya paused. Dots of cream studded her cheeks. She smiled and said, ‘In which case, I am truly blessed. To see it, and with you by my side.’
I felt something in me turn. Her smile was suffused with such sweetness.
‘We have to wake up early if you want to see the puja at dawn. I prefer to go then, rather than later in the day. The crowds aren’t so dense and it’s peaceful. It makes me feel as though I am truly in God’s home and not in a commercial complex where God is sold,’ I said.
‘Do you have a whetting stone to sharpen your tongue every day?’ Maya shook her head.
The temple corridors were dark. The crowds melted into the shadows and I knew again that sense of serenity, as though I was alone. There was only Krishna, and I. Then I felt Maya touch my elbow. It seemed appropriate that she was here. She, too, belonged.
We could hear chants of Narayana, Narayana, the devotees’ fervour rising as the doors of the sanctum sanctorum opened and the priests raised the lamp. A fleeting glimpse of the idol’s face and Narayana, Narayana, the God’s name drummed into our ears …
Amidst such devotion, I felt humbled. Why was it I could never lay my troubles at God’s door? It occurred to me then that arrogance too is a manifestation of fear. To ask God to intervene was to accept that I was incapable of resolving my life …to accept that I was weak. Would I ever learn humility? I didn’t know.
I turned to look at Maya. Her hands were folded and her eyes were closed. What was she praying for?
Later, when we had worshipped and breakfasted and time hung on our hands, plentiful and easy, we walked back to the temple. ‘Do you want to buy some knick-knacks?’ I asked her. ‘You can buy Guruvayur pappadum, copper and bronze kitsch, pictures of various gods, devotional music, banana chips, just about anything you fancy … in addition to Guruvayurappan’s blessings.’
Maya giggled. ‘You really are wicked.’
‘No, it’s the truth,’ I said, pointing to the shops that clung to the side of the temple like burrs to a dog’s fur.
‘What are these?’ Maya asked, pointing to the raised platforms in the long corridor.
‘Marriage pandals. If we wait around here, we can see a few marriages. Would you like to?’
So we found a place to sit and waited. A procession of people arrived and another and yet another. Couples climbed on to the dais to exchange garlands. The music of the drums and the nadaswaram flowed, packing itself into the meagre spaces between people.
‘What a crowd,’ Maya marvelled. ‘How do they know who is marrying whom?’
‘I have heard of instances where the bride has garlanded the wrong groom,’ I said.
‘And?’ Maya was incredulous. ‘What do they do then?’
‘Nothing. It is accepted as divine ordination. Krishna has decided, and who are we mere mortals to question his decision, etc.’
‘Interesting!’
I looked at her face then. There was such contentment there that I wanted to grab it and make it mine. ‘Maya, do you want to get married?’ I asked.
I watched her head turn. A slow swivelling, as though she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Koman, what did you say?’
I clenched my features to not show any emotion. ‘I asked if you wanted to get married.’
She started laughing. ‘I would be committing bigamy. Remember, I am already married. So, sorry, no. I can’t marry you. Thank you for asking.’
‘This is not a joke. I am serious. Will you marry me? Who is to know that you already are?’
The more I thought about it, the better I liked the idea. To exchange garlands and be wed. No pomp, no ceremony, just the two of us and a god to witness our marriage.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I am. I really am.’
‘But why, Koman? Why now? Why do we need to be married?’ Maya placed her hand on my elbow.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I am feeling my age. I long to belong to someone. I want to know that someone else has a stake in my life and well-being.’ For the first time, I was beginning to feel lonely. I thought of how all my energies were now concentrated on Radha. That seemed to be the role in my life. Uncle. Much as I loved her, I wanted more.
‘Oh, Koman.’ Maya’s voice was soft with sympathy. She paused and said, ‘Do you think it will cause any legal problem?’
I shook my head. I wasn’t sure, but as long as we didn’t register the wedding, what legal value did it have? I prayed that we wouldn’t meet a roving reporter from a Malayalam daily, gleaning titbits to fill column space. I remembered a news item from a couple of years ago, when an eccentric had done a thulabharam with pencils. He sat on one side of the huge iron weighing balance and the other side was heaped with boxes of pencils till both pans dangled at the same height. Anything is news these days. So why not an elderly couple marrying?
I wasn’t a celebrity, but a reporter might recognize me. Last year I had received another national award. It had meant nothing to me. The time when I needed the assurance of awards and recognition was long past, but the newspapers had made much of the occasion. For a while you couldn’t open a newspaper or a magazine without staring at my face, or reading what I preferred for breakfast, or a listing of my achievements, as they termed it.
So Maya and I married. The crowds stared. An elderly couple getting married was an anomaly.
‘Must be sweethearts who were not allowed to marry when they were young,’ I heard a voice say.
‘Poor things, at least now they’ve been able to get married.’
‘Maybe she is a widow.’
‘Their children probably don’t like the idea.’
I thought of the countless stories our marriage would spawn. The countless interpretations as to why two elderly people were exchanging garlands. Only the truth would remain unmentioned. That Maya was already married.
All they saw was a woman in a cream and gold sari and a man in a mundu with a narrow zari border and another mundu draped around like a shawl. They saw the laxity of our skin and the grey in
our hair. They saw the smoothening of vicissitudes and the played out emotions.
our hair. They saw the smoothening of vicissitudes and the played out emotions.
We became man and wife in the eyes of God and a few strangers. ‘Wife, are you happy?’ I asked her.
‘I am, husband. What about you?’ she retorted.
We smiled at each other. A conspiratorial smile. One more secret added to the secret life we began to lead ten years ago.
Malini greets us with raucous shrieks. She glares at Maya and hops towards me. ‘Any one would think I was the mistress and she the wife.’ Maya laughs.
‘She hates having to share me.’ I scratch her head. ‘What about you?’ I drop my voice.
‘You belong to me,’ she says. ‘Malini, he is mine. Do you hear me?’
We smile again at each other.
‘Do you realize they’ve been here?’ Maya asks. I nod. I saw it as soon as I walked in. How can Radha be so nonchalant about the risks she is taking?
‘I get this feeling that she is trying to put herself into a corner so she is forced to make a decision,’ Maya says, unpacking our bag. I agree, but I don’t say anything.
Chris walks in then. He leans back in his chair and yawns. ‘I wasn’t sure if you would be back. I thought I would take a chance.’
‘Do you know if Radha is coming?’ he asks.
Weren’t you together a little while ago, I want to ask. Instead, I say, ‘So how have you been? Busy?’
I reach out to switch on the fan, but there is no power.
‘Not too bad. A little bored. I keep thinking I should get out and do more touristy things.’
‘Perhaps you should,’ I say. I wish he would leave. I would like to be alone with Maya.
‘I went to Shoranur to check my mail. The Internet connection is so damn slow. I wonder if they have even heard of broadband. And then the taxi driver wanted a hundred bucks to drop me back here. I would have walked, but it is so hot.’
Chris yawns again. The fan begins turning. ‘Is the power situation always so bad here?’ he asks. ‘It keeps going off. I can’t even do any writing. How do they imagine they can turn this into a real tourist
destination if nothing works?’
destination if nothing works?’
‘Do you want to play a game of chess?’ I ask.
‘Do you play?’ His eyes are eager.
‘I do,’ I say. ‘Besides, it will give you something to do.’
‘I’ll come by for a game tomorrow morning,’ he says. ‘Do you think Radha will be here then?’
I feel sorry for him. He is lonely, I think.
‘I’ll call and ask her to come,’ I say. I pat his arm.
His smile is tinged with relief. And gratitude, too.
What is Radha thinking of, I wonder again. She has the boy all twisted up in knots.
‘He is beginning to feel disenchanted with his Indian experience,’ Maya says, when Chris has left.
‘I thought so, too,’ I say. ‘Well, at least his reasons so far seem genuine, but I have seen this happen again and again. So many of my students come here with such great expectations. They imagine this to be a tropical paradise where they are going to have their life-changing experience. Then familiarity sets in and what was exotic becomes lurid; what was old-fashioned is dismissed as inefficient; and what is spiritual is termed bloody laziness. I have also seen how, when they go back to the comfort of their homes and lives, these negative images lose their edge and soon they can talk about their stay in India with such enthusiasm that they inspire a fresh lot to come, seeking the meaning of life here.’
‘That is very bitter.’ Maya’s surprise at my vehemence halts me. ‘You know enough people, foreigners, to know that it isn’t true. And that you are generalizing. What about Philip? What about Anna? What about Susan? You can’t say they are like that.’
‘I know, Maya. I know it’s an injustice to generalize. I know that there are people like Philip, Anna and Susan, but there are also the others, who do exactly as I am doing now—generalize. They make sweeping judgements about us and our country and anything that counters their views is not acceptable to them. Visitors from other countries come here, look around, see the lack of amenities, and are pleased. This is the India they were expecting. Cochin is too commercial, they tell me. Why do people in Madras and Bangalore ape the west so much, they ask me. What would they like us to do?
Spin thread with charkhas, read by lantern light and drink buttermilk instead of Coke? We can’t remain in the dark ages merely because it adds to the atmosphere.
Spin thread with charkhas, read by lantern light and drink buttermilk instead of Coke? We can’t remain in the dark ages merely because it adds to the atmosphere.
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