Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (43 page)
I have always chosen the memories I want to dwell upon. When the ones that I do not want to think about rise to the surface, I thrust them away. But tonight I am being forced to remember. It is their fault. Radha’s and Shyam’s. I believe that they have been raising the dead.
I think of when Mani returned. The brother who had no place in our lives any more was a presence no one could dislodge. I tried to persuade him to stay with me. ‘Why should they feel awkward about my arrival?’ Mani asked.
‘You know that your presence worries Babu. So why do you do it?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘Babu doesn’t mind. All that was in the past. Besides,
there is the little girl. Isn’t she adorable? And to think she could have been mine.’
there is the little girl. Isn’t she adorable? And to think she could have been mine.’
‘She isn’t yours,’ I said quietly.
‘Don’t lie, Etta,’ he said. ‘I can see she is mine. She looks nothing like him or her.’
Mani wouldn’t listen. He saw Babu as the usurper. He saw that he had no place in the family any more and didn’t like it. Mani wouldn’t have done any real harm. He wasn’t an evil man. He was merely a child in a man’s body. Everything was a game. If Gowri had agreed to go away with him, Mani would have fled again. But Babu couldn’t take any chances.
The images refused to dislodge themselves from my mind. Mani in the car. Mani trapped within. Mani, his skin rolling off him, his flesh melting. Mani screaming and screaming, and trying to escape. Mani exploding. A fraction of a second—that was all he would have had to know that there was no escaping now. It was almost instantaneous, we were told, when they brought his remains home. Some shards of bone and teeth were all that was left of him. Master of the disappearing act, Mani.
With my father’s death, Mani ceased to exist forever. There was no one now to keep his memory alive.
Yet, tonight I heard him knock at a door within. Open your memory vault, Etta, and let me out. All that is left of me are your memories. You must let me live through those at least.
I hear the gates open. It is raining. Who can it be at this hour? Then I see it is Chris.
‘I am sorry to walk in like this,’ he says. ‘But I couldn’t sit in there any more. I felt so cooped up. What do you do when it rains all day?’
‘The monsoon has that effect,’ I say. ‘This year the monsoon has stretched longer than it ought to. Some months ago we were all talking about rain-water harvesting. Now everyone is talking about soil erosion and the devastation caused by the rain. Your trip must have been awful. Did you get to see and do all that you wanted to?’
‘No, not really.’ He runs his fingers through his hair and leans forward in his chair. The tips of his fingers meet in a tower on which he rests his chin. I know that gesture, I realize.
‘How is the writing coming along?’ I ask.
‘I haven’t written a word since I arrived. I thought I would get so much work done while I was here, but I only seem to have procrastinated.’ His face wears a wry expression.
‘You will write when you are ready,’ I say. On an impulse, I ask, ‘What will you do when you go back?’
‘I have to write this book. And take on some journalistic work, which means travel a bit. I may go to Africa.’ His expression is contemplative. ‘I have to ask Unni to speak to the travel agent and re-schedule my flight. I may have to go back earlier than I planned to.’
What about Radha, I want to ask. Do any of your plans include her? What will she do when you go away?
‘Does Radha …’ I begin.
He yawns and stands up. The light is behind him. I see him in silhouette and I know a sense of wonder.
Of the nine bhavas, it is only adbhutam or astonishment that is sudden. All the others have a process, a certain time that stretches from experience to reaction. Love or anger, fear or disgust … we experience, we realize, and then we move into that state of being. But wonder can only be experienced. Adbhutam raises a question in your heart even as it fills you: ‘Can it be possible?’
Why didn’t I see it, I think. I know him. I know who he is. I feel my heart beat faster. But how can I ask him? What words do I use?
I feel weary. ‘Chris, you must go now,’ I say. ‘I am tired. I need to rest.’
His eyes narrow in speculation. ‘There is something else. I meant to ask you this days ago. Did you know an Englishwoman called Helen Pullman?’
I feel my eyes widen. Adbhutam again. ‘Helen Pullman? She is a painter, isn’t she?’
‘She is my godmother,’ he says. ‘My mother’s name is Angela,’ he says, searching my face.
The wonder turns into certainty now. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ I ask him.
‘I thought you would be reluctant to talk about yourself.’
‘Why did you think that?’ I ask. What does he know about me? ‘Did Angela say anything?’
He searches my face again. ‘You didn’t exactly part as friends,
did you? I tried asking my mother about you, but she was evasive. She left too many blanks in her story.’
did you? I tried asking my mother about you, but she was evasive. She left too many blanks in her story.’
I rub the bridge of my nose. I feel a pounding in my head again. ‘Come back tomorrow. We’ll talk then,’ I say. ‘I really must rest now.’
The rain is pelting down. The sound of it fills my house and head. I realize then that he is here to do more than just write about me. In fact, I wonder if the book exists at all or if it is a mere pretext. He is here to seek the missing skeins. What has Angela told him? Or what hasn’t she told him?
I make a quick calculation. Suddenly all of it falls into place. He thinks I am his father. For a moment, I know a deep sense of regret. I would like to have had a son like Chris. But Chris isn’t my son. I do not know his father. I do know, however, that there is nothing of me in him.
He will not believe me if I deny it. So I decide I will tell him all about his mother. And this time I will not choose my memories. I will tell him what happened the way it did.
Koman
Within a few days of my return from Madras, my life acquired a pattern. Three months later, it felt as if I had never been away. The newly-weds lived with my parents. I lived in my little house by the river. An occasional airmail arrived from some distant land, testifying to Mani’s well-being, at which time I would go home to see my family. I would choose a moment to call my father aside and give him the letter. He would read it quietly, weep mutely, and dry his eyes before joining the rest of the family. I would leave a little later. I couldn’t bear to be in that house where Mani was never mentioned.
Aashaan was drinking less. The bond between us seemed stronger than ever. Then one day Aashaan looked up from a letter he was reading and said, ‘She is coming back.’
I looked up from my book, at the airmail form in his hand. ‘Who is coming back?’ I asked.
‘Angela. She was my student for two years.’ Aashaan’s eyes were thoughtful.
‘Your student?’ My eyes widened. ‘When did the institute start letting women study kathakali?’
‘She is the first. I suppose they think there is no harm done if the woman is a foreigner. Also, she is admitted as a short-term student, not for a full course. I don’t understand it all, but she’s doing some research as part of her dissertation. She’s been here twice already.’
‘What is she like?’ I was curious. What did a Madaama make of kathakali?
‘Not bad at all.’ Aashaan smiled. ‘Her sense of rhythm is exquisite. She works very hard and her Malayalam is adequate. But she tires me with her questions. She is hard work.’
I smiled. Aashaan’s tone was wry with amusement.
The old man folded the letter carefully. ‘She is going to be disappointed when she knows I am up for retirement.’
‘What will she do then?’ I stood up. In a little while, the afternoon classes would begin.
‘I am going to suggest that you teach her. She is ready for the third-year class.’
‘Me!’ I was horrified. ‘I can’t teach a woman kathakali.’
Aashaan frowned. ‘Don’t say that! She is good, and very dedicated. That’s all you need to consider. Besides, you speak some English, don’t you? So she can tire you with her queries.’
‘Sundaran does, too,’ I said.
‘Ah, Sundaran.’ Aashaan’s smile carried a hint of irony. ‘Sundaran. Our Mr Handsome. To send her to him would be like leading a lamb to the slaughter. He won’t see her as a student but as an opportunity. That I can’t allow.’
I looked away. I had two male foreign students in Madras. They had been interesting to teach. This woman would be the same. I just had to remember to see her as a genderless being.
She arrived the day the rains did. The day before, all morning the
cuckoo’s song had filled the air, piercing the stillness. Sweat ran down my body in rivulets and I thought that if the weather didn’t break, I would suffocate from the stillness. Even the deep pond by the house was a sheet of green glass. I drank water and fanned myself. I took countless baths and at night I slept with a wet towel draped on my chest. The heat was relentless and both day and night were stricken with torpidity.
cuckoo’s song had filled the air, piercing the stillness. Sweat ran down my body in rivulets and I thought that if the weather didn’t break, I would suffocate from the stillness. Even the deep pond by the house was a sheet of green glass. I drank water and fanned myself. I took countless baths and at night I slept with a wet towel draped on my chest. The heat was relentless and both day and night were stricken with torpidity.
Dear departed wind, please come home, all is forgiven, I whispered, standing on the riverbank. Please come back and I will never ever complain about how you make the tiles on the roof rattle or the coconut palms writhe in a manic dance. Release me from this rigor mortis of thought and limb. I can’t think. I can’t breathe. What use am I as a wearer of guises if my mind can’t infuse my movements?
Then it began.
The listless air moved. Clouds gathered and moved up the coast. Hope scuttled out of the river bed. Leaves rustled and the skies darkened. Lightning and thunder. The bars of heat loosened and with its first drops the rain snapped apart the inert month.
The earth fed on the rain like a greedy baby devouring the colostrum of fecundity. More, more, more, the earth craved for the thin, watery rain. Then, sated for the moment, it belched. A deep, dank fragrance. Moist earth laden with the memories of sun-baked days and crumbling surfaces. The wetness of rain. The wetness of release.
On my skin it felt like a thousand arrows shot by a god. A tingling, ringing, singing that punctured my pores and jingling my senses. Or perhaps it wasn’t the rain at all. It was that first glimpse of her.
She was for me the beginning of the monsoon. Her fragrance was the fragrance of the dark, wet earth.
‘Have you seen her?’ Sundaran asked.
‘Who?’ I pretended not to understand.
A student crouched at his feet. A frog. So was I at one time, I thought. With the advent of monsoon and the month of karkitakam, the official massage sessions, the uzhichil, had begun. Ninety days of massage to prepare the body for the rigours of dance.
I remembered how feet had trampled and squashed my breath and hurt my body despite the film of oil that coated it. It was only
with Aashaan I discovered that pressure needn’t always be brutal.
with Aashaan I discovered that pressure needn’t always be brutal.
‘Who?’ Sundaran echoed mockingly. ‘The Madaama. Aashaan’s new student. Have you seen her?’
I let my foot move across the back of the student. Up and down, then on the small of the back. ‘If you mean see, I did see her. She was waiting for Aashaan outside the office room. If you mean meet, no, I haven’t. Why would I anyway?’ I said, not raising my eyes from the boy’s back. ‘I don’t know all of Aashaan’s students.’
Sundaran snorted. He was disinclined to believe me. He knew that one of these days Aashaan would have to ask either of us to take her on. He darted a venomous look at me. I saw a vein throb at his temple. I saw him look at the student lying at his foot.
The boy lay on his back. Sundaran prised his legs apart brutally. He pressed his foot down on the boy’s thigh. The boy yelped in pain.
I looked up. ‘Careful,’ I murmured. ‘You’ll maim him.’
Sundaran snorted again. ‘You and I had to endure worse and neither of us is maimed. Anyway, he’s my student and I’ll give him the massage as I see fit.’
As if to emphasize his lordship over the boy and his muscles, Sundaran’s feet trampled on him viciously. I turned my eyes away. To intervene would be to make the child suffer even more.
Later in the day I went to the tea shop outside the institute. I saw Sundaran there. I went to sit beside him. ‘What is wrong?’ I asked. ‘Why are you angry? Have you noticed that the boy is limping?’
‘Perhaps I was too harsh this morning. But I had to vent my anger. I couldn’t keep it bottled inside me. I had a letter from home demanding money. No matter how much I send, it’s never enough. And as long as I am stuck here, nothing will change. If only I could find a way of getting out!’ Sundaran twisted a piece of paper as he spoke. Suddenly he raised his eyes and said, ‘Not all of us are fortunate to have rich fathers like you or a godfather like Aashaan. But let’s not talk about it. I am to be Damayanti, the first day of Nalacharitam, two weeks from now.’ He began talking about a vesham.
I didn’t pursue the conversation; I could see that Sundaran was making an attempt to camouflage his bitterness. I nodded and listened. I would talk to Aashaan about Sundaran. Perhaps it would be best for the Madaama to study with Sundaran. And yet, I felt again the piercing rain, the fragrance of the wet earth, the cool breeze, and
knew a strange reluctance to thwart Aashaan’s plans.
knew a strange reluctance to thwart Aashaan’s plans.
The invitation came the same evening. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you for the past few days,’ the organizers said. Would I play Nala?
I agreed. Sundaran and I paired each other well. Sundaran’s finely chiselled features and large eyes had steered him towards female roles and in our student days we had always been cast as lovers. There was a chemistry between us which enhanced the storyline. Besides, it would please Sundaran. The first day of the play was well balanced between Damayanti and Nala.
Nala. Monarch of Nishada who fell in love with Princess Damayanti on mere hearsay of her beauty. In her kingdom, Damayanti too pined for Nala; neither had even seen each other, but their souls had already communed. Then Nala sent an emissary—a handsome golden swan—to Damayanti. All I need to know is if I dare hope, he beseeched the swan to find out. The swan carried a message of love and yearning to Damayanti.
She blushed and admitted her feelings. How can I say more? It doesn’t befit a woman of good breeding to flaunt her feelings, she said. And yet, my dear brother swan, I declare my love for Nala without shame or fear.
She had the swan paint her a picture of Nala and this she pressed to her bosom, imprinting his face forever on her heart.
Then Damayanti’s father announced her swayamvara. The gods Indra, Agni, Yama and Varuna, too, decided to attend, along with other royal invitees. Kings, emperors, princes: Damayanti would choose her husband from amongst them. Nala also set forth, confident of Damayanti’s love for him.
On the way, Nala was delighted to meet the four gods and as a mark of homage, he bowed before them and said, ‘Your wish is my command.’
The gods smiled at each other and said, ‘In that case, we would like you to go to Damayanti and ask her to choose from amongst us.’
Nala, having given his word, had no way of extricating himself from this mess. He pleaded, ‘How can I see her? She will be in her chambers.’
The gods smiled. ‘That doesn’t matter. We will teach you to be
invisible and you can then enter her chambers and tell her our heart’s desire. But remember, the mantra will work just once.’
invisible and you can then enter her chambers and tell her our heart’s desire. But remember, the mantra will work just once.’
Nala did as they asked him to. However, Damayanti, who didn’t know it was Nala who had come as the gods’ messenger, sent him away saying her mind was made up. So he came back saying she was in love with someone else. ‘Perhaps you should send another messenger whose persuasion skills are better,’ he advised.
The gods smiled, having understood with their divine powers that it was Nala whom Damayanti loved. ‘Is that so?’ they asked.
Nala nodded.
‘We’ll find a way,’ they said. Then they added, ‘Tomorrow we will go to the great hall and each one of us will look just like you. But you are not to let her know by word or gesture which of us is really you.’
So the four gods and Nala entered the great hall where the swayamvara was being held and they were announced as Nala, the king of Nishadha. Everyone looked up in surprise when they saw five men, exact replicas of each other. Damayanti’s eyes widened, too. She smiled without saying anything.
Soon Damayanti walked into the hall carrying a garland. She walked past all the kings and headed straight towards the five Nalas. Everyone held their breath. Who was the real Nala? And would Damayanti recognize him?
Damayanti looked at the five men and without any hesitation she garlanded the real Nala. The gods assumed their real forms and Yama asked, ‘How did you know the real Nala?’
Damayanti smiled and said, ‘My love for Nala is strong and true and I would know him even if there were a hundred lookalikes in the room. Besides, Nala is a man and I knew that the other four were gods. I saw how Nala’s feet touched the ground and that his body threw a shadow and that his eyes blinked. And I knew for sure that my heart had guided me to the man of my dreams.’
The four gods smiled and blessed the couple and left. And so Nala and Damayanti were united.
This then is the first day of Nalacharitam and that was the Nala I was to be.
I smiled again at the thought.
Later, Aashaan said he would be there and he would bring Angela
with him. ‘Let her watch both you and Sundaran perform and she can choose who she wants to study with.’
with him. ‘Let her watch both you and Sundaran perform and she can choose who she wants to study with.’
I felt my mouth go dry. She would see me in a vesham, as the romantic Nala. As Nala who was honour bound to not speak, even though it was his love at stake. As Nala who had to leave everything to chance. What would she think of me? ‘Does she know the story?’ I asked.
Aashaan smiled. ‘She knows it very well indeed!’
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