Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (46 page)
Angela
I listened to Koman vent his fury on small towns and people with even smaller minds.
‘Let us go away,’ I said. ‘You can’t let them dictate to you how you should live. You are an artist, not a bank clerk. Artists have to be left alone. But people in small towns don’t understand this. They lead such rigid lives and are so worried about what their neighbours will think. If you live here, your art will die, I can tell you that. They will turn you into a respectable man and a boring artist.’
I felt guilt sting me. I knew I was saying this only because I was unhappy with the town and my life here. If only I could persuade Koman to leave.
‘But where? Where can we go?’ he asked.
‘We will go to London first and then move on to the rest of Europe. We will make a life there,’ I said. I felt my face lighting up at the prospect of escaping this world, and introducing him to mine.
‘What will I do there? I am a kathakali dancer and I know nothing else.’
‘You will dance, Koman. What else? You are a dancer and I would think it sacrilege for you to do anything else. You will be feted and applauded. Everyone there will love you. Look at Ravi Shankar, the sitar player.’
Koman shook his head. ‘He is a musician. And music isn’t bound by cultural boundaries. Kathakali isn’t like that. Even people here are unable to comprehend it. How will anyone there understand it? It won’t work.’
‘No, listen to me. Haven’t you heard of Ram Gopal? He is a kathakali dancer who trained here, under Kunju Kurup. He is much admired and respected. Even Njinsky went to see him dance.’
Koman frowned. ‘But he doesn’t perform kathakali any more. Are you asking me to forsake kathakali? I can’t do that, Angela!’
I took his hand in mine. ‘Koman, how could I ask you to give up kathakali? I am not. All I am saying is, you will find your place there. Some years ago Ram Gopal and Alicia Markova, the prima ballerina, performed together their Radha Krishna duet at Prince’s Theatre in London. He choreographed the duet and taught her the steps and to see them together you would think they had danced together all their lives. That was when I fell in love with Indian dance and, more specifically, kathakali. I was only a teenager then, but I knew. Like I know that there is so much you can do. Think about it. To start with, we must try and meet Ram Gopal. He lives in London. When he knows you are from here, and sees you perform, he will want you to be part of his company. He can spot talent, and nurture it.
‘Think of it, Koman. You will be famous all over the world. Your talent deserves a worldwide audience. You do realize, don’t you, that you are being wasted here.’
Koman
The rapture in her voice excited me. Her eyes sparkled and there was a lightness to her movements that I hadn’t seen in a long time.
I thought of the fear that had haunted me for some time now. I saw her withdrawing into her shell. I saw her brittleness. I saw the demons that dragged her thoughts this way and that and I worried
that she would do something drastic.
that she would do something drastic.
I knew I was being silly, but when I went to the institute, it was with fear pawing my throat. I would rush home in the break to check on her. Was she all right? When I went away for a performance, I came back the moment it was over. There was no more lingering, no discussing or analysing the evening. The truth was, I was afraid to leave her alone. I didn’t think she was suicidal, but I feared the fragility of her mind. I thought of my mother and what she had done. I knew an even greater fear then.
As she planned our life ahead, Angela was almost her old self. The woman I had fallen in love with. It was as if she was gathering the unravelling threads of her mind and braiding them all together again. It was as if she was regaining control over herself. Would our going away really make her happy?
And yet, how could I take such a chance?
Angela
I saw that he was still unsure, so I said slowly, ‘I know Aashaan always said that you only need to satisfy your own standards and everything else is extraneous. I always thought that was a form of denial. Denying reality to make yourself feel better. But surely you are not in denial, Koman?’
Koman
I listened. I could see what she was saying. I had once dreamt of it. Then I had learnt to repress my ambitions and sought solace in Aashaan’s dictum that it was enough to know that I was true to my art and could meet my own exacting standards. Angela was right. I was burying my head in sand and pretending that none of the trappings of success—fame, money, acceptance, recognition—mattered. They did matter. So much so that to think of it caused me pain. I was an ostrich that called cowardice courage.
I felt the stirrings of ambition. I would find new worlds to conquer.
New stages to set myself upon and display my artistry. All that I had once hoped for would be mine.
New stages to set myself upon and display my artistry. All that I had once hoped for would be mine.
I would dare to ask the world again what it thought of my art.
And so I became Bahukan. An ugly dwarf of a man, uncouth and lubberly, with a thousand uncertainties.
I, Bahukan, Black Nala, shorn of all that I was and all I had, crouched under a mound of blankets.
I stared at the floor, the red and yellow lino with triangles and squares. When I was tired of looking at the geometric patterns, I stared at the electric fire. It waited, like I did, for Angela.
The electric fire was a hungry god, Agni of the seven tongues, demanding and devouring shillings as obeisance before it would condescend to bless us with heat. Angela was the high priestess, the only one who could satiate its hunger. So I waited. I looked at the clock. Another half hour to go before Angela returned.
In twenty-five minutes, I would switch on the electric fire. I would go into the kitchenette and fill the kettle with water and slice the bread for toast. I would make the bed and stack the cushions the way Angela liked them to be. I would lay out a stack of records and switch on the radio. When all was neat and tidy and there were no signs of my lonely and cold vigil, I would put the kettle on and the toast. When Angela got back, toast and tea would be ready and waiting in a room that would finally be warm and crackling with sound from the radio.
But I still had another twenty-five minutes to go. Where am I, I asked myself again.
I am in London, I told myself. I am living on a street that I can’t even remember the name of. All I know is that the Earl’s Court tube station is around the corner. The bed-sit faced the street on one side and a wall to the right. There was a sash window which, even in milder weather, I wouldn’t open. It looked on to a brick wall. More than anything, I hungered for a glimpse of green.
I pulled the blankets closer around me and huddled in the armchair. At home, I would have gone to the kitchen, gathered a handful of dried coconut fronds, lit a fire and warmed a huge cauldron of water. While the water heated, I would rub oil into my skin and then bathe in that water scented with smoke and wood fire. After
that, I would serve myself a plate of rice. Not these bleached white grains, but reddish-brown rice still tasting of the earth and sunshine. There would be a curry of green papaya cooked in buttermilk and a piece of fried fish. Dried sole, or chunks of dried shark. Pappadum on the side and mango pickle. My mouth watered. Where in this city could I find what I hungered for?
that, I would serve myself a plate of rice. Not these bleached white grains, but reddish-brown rice still tasting of the earth and sunshine. There would be a curry of green papaya cooked in buttermilk and a piece of fried fish. Dried sole, or chunks of dried shark. Pappadum on the side and mango pickle. My mouth watered. Where in this city could I find what I hungered for?
It began to rain. I saw the drops of water splash against the window. In my home even the sound of the rain was different. Here, the rain was feeble and the smell of it was a musty, dank odour of unwashed bodies and rationed heat. Grey skies, the stale, sour smell of damp, and a perpetual hunger. What had I exiled myself to?
Nineteen minutes to go. It was Bahukan’s lot to wait, all the time asking, why?
Angela left some weeks before I did. ‘I would so love for us to travel together, but I can organize things better if I go first.’
That was when the implications of the move occurred to me. A house to live in. A job to find. How would we manage? Where would we find the money? ‘Are you sure, Angela?’ I asked again. ‘We could perhaps go to Madras or New Delhi. There are dance schools there. I don’t have much money; won’t London be expensive?’
‘There you go again, shying away from life. You need to be where the world will see you and not tucked away in a little dance school. Don’t worry, we will manage. I will have everything ready by the time you get there,’ she said. I saw the resolution in her eyes and felt less troubled.
Achan and Babu were not pleased at the thought of my going away. ‘Isn’t this rather drastic?’ Babu asked.
‘Are you sure?’ my father asked.
‘It is time I thought about my career. Angela says I am wasted here.’
‘But do you have to go that far?’ my father asked.
‘Angela says that once I am accepted in London, the whole world will want to see me dance.’
Achan frowned. Babu smirked. He said, ‘It is strange to hear you say Angela this, Angela that. I wonder what magic potion she has fed you to enchant you so completely.’
I glared at him. Babu looked away and said with a sweep of his
hands, ‘Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back. You have a house here.’
hands, ‘Well, if it doesn’t work out, you can always come back. You have a house here.’
‘In fact, Angela was saying that we should perhaps sell the house. The money will come in useful. London is expensive.’
My father’s face turned grim. ‘I don’t care what your Angela says, but I will not let you sell the house. If in a year’s time, you find that all is well there, you can rent it out. But there is to be no talk of selling it till I am dead. You can tell your Angela that.’
‘Achan is right,’ Babu said. ‘Real estate prices are very low and this is a bad time to sell.’
I let it be. Deep inside, I hadn’t wanted to part with the house, either. But Angela had been so persuasive. It was good to have the right to decide taken away from me.
I felt something within me wrench as I pulled the door shut. I went to take a last look at the river. During the monsoon, it had turned into a raging beast, sweeping all that came its way into its waters, flooding the banks and knocking down trees and homes. But now the Nila was a timid river flowing quietly. A cloud of dragonflies floated by. The breeze bore the scent of flowers. For a moment, I knew anguish. In the new land I had chosen to live in, what would the flowers be like? Would the stars look the same? Would the earth beneath my feet hold me up as it did now?
I heard the car horn and knew it was time to leave. I locked the house and left the key with Babu. ‘I’ll have it cleaned regularly,’ he said. And again, ‘Your house will always be here.’
In the plane, I had an aisle seat. Angela had said—ask for an aisle seat. You won’t have to leap over people’s knees when you need to go to the bathroom. It is a long flight.
I sat in my seat, numb with excitement and anxiety. To my left was a couple. Foreigners. They held hands. I wished Angela was with me.
The plane soared into the skies, wading through oceans of clouds. Would some wandering god pass my way, I wondered.
The hours passed. I arrived in Heathrow. Where was Angela?
An hour passed. I announced my presence over the paging system. I was frightened now. I heard my father’s voice: ‘Are you sure?’
Then I spotted a familiar face. ‘Angela.’
Angela
‘It is not much, but it’s all I could find,’ I said, opening the door of the bed-sit.
I saw Koman’s face pale. He didn’t look pleased and, though I hadn’t meant to, I found myself blurting, ‘And this is all we can afford.’
I saw Koman look around him. I hoped the familiar things would make him feel at home. My mirror-work cushions and a cotton rug I had bought in India were thrown on the floor. There was his little bronze Nataraja figurine and my incense-stick holder in the shape of a frog. There were spider plants on the window ledge and a brass dish I had brought from his house. It held the pebbles we had picked from the riverbank. Shawls draped the back of the two armchairs.
‘It is strange to see these things here,’ he said.
I touched the Nataraja. Shiva frozen in the cosmic dance. All dancers worshipped him. The god had lived on a ledge in his house while I was there and suddenly, I felt a pang of uncertainty shoot through me. What had I done?
‘Strange nice or strange bad?’ I asked. I felt my mouth droop.
‘Just strange. I have to constantly remind myself that I am in London and then, when I see these things that were in my house just a few days ago, I wonder if I have travelled at all. Give me time. I’ll get used to it,’ he said quietly.
I saw him look at the stack of LPs. He flipped through them and held up a record sleeve. Ravi Shankar. ‘I see you have your favourite here,’ he said.
‘I don’t know why you dislike him. He is so good. I listen to him almost every day,’ I said.
I saw him try to hide his grimace. I don’t know why, but it bothered me. He made me feel as if my preferences were suspect.
Then he spotted the TV. ‘How does this work?’ he asked.
I hadn’t known that he hadn’t seen one before. There was so much I didn’t know about him.
I saw his face clear as I leaned forward to turn it on and showed him how to work it.
In those first few days, everything was edged with the wonder of newness. The black-and-white TV and the shiny linoleum; the Baby
Belling electric oven and the two-bar electric fire; the bri-nylon sheets and the sash window; the tube station and the escalators. The sun shone, the leaves rustled and the air was cool enough for Koman to feel that he was in a faraway country. It wasn’t cold or damp enough for him to miss the sun. In those first few days, he and I walked a great deal and I saw London through his eyes.
Belling electric oven and the two-bar electric fire; the bri-nylon sheets and the sash window; the tube station and the escalators. The sun shone, the leaves rustled and the air was cool enough for Koman to feel that he was in a faraway country. It wasn’t cold or damp enough for him to miss the sun. In those first few days, he and I walked a great deal and I saw London through his eyes.
St James Park and Westminster Abbey. Hampstead Heath and Camden town. Streets and places. Lights and sounds. There were people the like of whom he had never seen before. Tall black men and women with frizzy hair and a swing to their hips; dainty yellowskinned men and women with narrow eyes and jet black hair; men and women with bleached hair and eyes. Hair colours he had never seen: russet and gold, grey and yellow, red and silvery white; eyes that were green and brown, grey and black, shades of blue.
The flavours of this new life, this new world, filled his senses. I took him to meet my friends. I took him to my favourite restaurants. We ate Chinese food in a little restaurant hung with red paper lanterns, and fish and chips wrapped in a newspaper. We went to pubs where a head of foam parted to an amber fluid. Bitter, lager, ale, stout, the words rolled off his tongue with the ease of the beer flowing from the tap. Again and again, I would whisper: Don’t stare. But how could he not? He had never seen anything like this before. Pubs you sat in and drank, men and women together …
Even the downs were ups. We timed our baths so we could stretch the hot water. We kept a log so we knew when the occupants of the two other bed-sits used the bathroom and we could race in before they did. We took turns to be electrocuted, our word for the moment when we slipped into bed and the sheets came alive with static and caught our skin with a little hiss. The toast burnt on one side. The sash window jammed. But we laughed it all off and sought each other again and again.
We were still Damayanti and Nala, trying to make a new life. Our future was uncertain but our love was insatiable. Our life was the first scene of the second day’s play.
Then I went to work and the serpent sank its fangs into him.
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