Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (6 page)
God willed it, and for three days Sethu trailed Dr Samuel through huts and tenements in the village. He swallowed the bile in his mouth, scrupulously washed his hands with disinfectant each time and bustled around providing Dr Samuel with hope, faith and charity. ‘When I can, I’ll escape,’ Sethu told himself as he cleaned up a patient. ‘I’d rather be a bonded labourer in my uncle’s fields than clean shit and mop up vomit.’
Revulsion is elastic. It stretches, seeping into every thought, corroding the mind and splattering every waking moment with its peculiar stench and taste. Revulsion taints your mouth, fills your nose and clogs your nostrils and then one day it ceases to be. And so Sethu, too, discovered compassion where revulsion had been. Disgust was replaced by concern, and fear with the anxiety that he would be unable to do enough.
The medication was nearly finished and the IV bottles were down to a dozen. ‘This isn’t enough,’ he told Dr Samuel, showing him their meagre stores.
Dr Samuel nodded and wouldn’t say anything beyond ‘If this is what God wants …’
That night Sethu couldn’t sleep. How could he? In the past few days death had revealed itself to him. A new face of death that could be vanquished by fluids.
Next morning Dr Samuel took him back to the first tenement. ‘Look at him,’ he said, pointing to the first patient Sethu had tended to. Arasu. King. Sethu thought of him as Rice-water-stool Arasu.
The man was sitting up. In a few days he would be back at work. ‘You are God in disguise,’ Arasu wept, clutching the doctor’s feet.
‘Hush,’ the doctor protested. ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. 21 Psalm 46.1. I am just an instrument of God.’
Sethu looked at the floor and thought that the instrument of God wouldn’t accomplish much if he didn’t have IV bottles. So Sethu set about doing what he knew he must. More than anyone else there, Sethu understood how precious life was. Before the disease wrapped its coils around him, he had to find a way to manage the looming crisis so they could all escape. And so Sethu added yet another part to his born-again identity.
He drove the ambulance into the horizon. He didn’t have a plan, but by the time he got there he would have one, he told himself.
At the Pamban quarantine camp there were enough stores. He even knew where the storekeeper’s keys were. After all, that had been his job. He knew every nook and cranny of the place, and though he had told himself that he would never go back, he had to make this one last visit.
Sethu returned to the camp thirty-six hours later. It may be too late, he thought. Or perhaps not. There were still many who lay ill in their homes. Dr Samuel looked at the stores Sethu had brought back. He wouldn’t meet Sethu’s eyes and instead set about dispensing medication as quickly as he could.
Later that night, he called Sethu to his tent. ‘This is the day made memorable by the Lord. What immense joy for us. Psalm 118.24 Jerusalem Bible,’ he began. ‘When God chose to send you to me, I had my doubts. Yours was a reluctant soul, even though your flesh worked willingly enough. But now I am satisfied. God knew, even if I didn’t, that you are a true Christian. I will not ask how or where you came by the stores. I will not question God’s largesse. You know best. It is your secret, but if there is a sin involved, I want you to know that I will bear the burden as much as you. Shall we pray?’
Obediently, Sethu went down on his knees. He was glad that the doctor wasn’t too angry with him. And hadn’t sent back what he had risked his life for.
Next day, the doctor had news for him. ‘The Franciscan Sisters will be here tomorrow. They will bring a team of doctors and supplies. We can go back. Once things have settled down, we need to make another visit. This time to Arabipatnam. That will be quite an
experience for you. The first time I went there, I thought I had entered another land. The people, the houses, the alleys, everything is straight out of the pages of the
Arabian Nights
. Very strange! It is like a little kingdom with its own rules. For instance, all strange men are expected to leave the town by sunset. But they trust me completely and so I am allowed to spend the night there.’
experience for you. The first time I went there, I thought I had entered another land. The people, the houses, the alleys, everything is straight out of the pages of the
Arabian Nights
. Very strange! It is like a little kingdom with its own rules. For instance, all strange men are expected to leave the town by sunset. But they trust me completely and so I am allowed to spend the night there.’
Sethu smiled. It pleased him that they had moved onto another plane in their relationship. The doctor trusted him enough to take him to Arabipatnam. Sethu had heard a great deal about Arabipatnam from the kondai sisters. It was a place where no stranger was welcomed. Where the alleyways were shrouded in mystery and peopled by descendants of men who rode both horses and the seas.
W
atch carefully. This isn’t what you think it is. This is glee—what is there to it, you think? Laughter is laughter. Convulsive movements of the facial muscles, a crinkling of the eyes, mouth splaying open like a whore’s thighs …Stop there.
atch carefully. This isn’t what you think it is. This is glee—what is there to it, you think? Laughter is laughter. Convulsive movements of the facial muscles, a crinkling of the eyes, mouth splaying open like a whore’s thighs …Stop there.
Watch me. This is what you do. Raise your eyebrows slightly, high at the bridge of your nose and low at the farther corners. Keep the eyelids slightly closed and the lips drawn down on each side. Indent the upper lip muscles. This is haasyam.
Pay attention to the mouth. It isn’t merely an orifice to devour and spit and make sounds. It is the mouth that sets the seal on the intensity of the haasyam. Let your breath move from your throat to your nose. The pressure is the degree of haasyam.
Now look at this. This is mirth. You see it in the mischief that rides in with the December winds. From the plains of Tamil Nadu, they creep in through the pass at Palakkad, only to emerge on this side with a new name: thiruvadhira kaatu. Winds that come in readiness for the festival of thiruvadhira, when gigantic swings adorn the trees. Winds that come prepared to swing maidens and their dreams.
But first the wind crackles through the trees; the leaves have to them a certain brittleness, foretelling the intensity of the summer months. It strips branches, nudges the undergrowth, turns dried leaves, raises tiny puffs of dust from the front yard that is yet to be swept. Palm and coconut fronds snap; cabbage butterflies hover at knee level as though they know that if caught in the cross winds, the wind will toss them this way and that. All this is mirth, too.
Unlike the rattle of mirth is the quiet smile. Think of the peppercorns drying in the sun and tamarind pods ripening on trees, the mango blossoms that speckle the branches, the cashew blossoms weighing down the trees and the jack fruits growing quietly large.
Then there is derision. You will see this when, later in the day,
the wind lifts from the hillside with renewed vigour and moves the heat. Dispersing it with a sure hand, showing a plain disregard for all and everything.
the wind lifts from the hillside with renewed vigour and moves the heat. Dispersing it with a sure hand, showing a plain disregard for all and everything.
Which brings us to contempt—to look down upon. To condemn. And there is one other form of contempt. For that I suggest you seek the coconut palm fronds. Look, there it is, the olanjali. The Indian tree pie. Do you see its tail feathers? Now listen to the whickering sound it makes. Ki-ki-ki …Isn’t that the sound of contempt?
It is the custom of birds to perch. Not this one. It has scant regard for custom. Instead, look at the bird’s nonchalance as it skates and slides to the tip of the palm frond and dangles from it.
So you see, haasyam can be that as well. Contempt for convention.
I lie next to Shyam, unable to sleep. We have our bedtime rituals, Shyam and I. We have been married for eight years, after all, and there is no escaping the ritual of routine.
I lie on the left side of the bed and he on the right. I read in bed till my eyes begin to droop and then I turn the bedside lamp off and go to sleep. Shyam is usually asleep by then. He sleeps on his side with his arm around my middle, his chin nestling my ear. On nights that he feels amorous, he strokes my upper arm till I can no longer pretend that I do not know what he expects of me. Then I put the book down and turn to him. It is all part of this ritual and routine called marriage. Everything has its place and moment.
I can’t say that I am unhappy with Shyam. If there are no highs, there are no lows, either. Some would call this content, even.
Shyam is asleep. His arm pins me to the bed. His bed. I think that for Shyam, I am a possession. A much cherished possession. That is my role in his life. He doesn’t want an equal; what he wants is a mistress. Someone to indulge and someone to indulge him with feminine wiles. I think of some of the cruel acts I committed as part
of biology projects in school. I think of the butterfly I caught and pinned to a board when it was still alive, its wings spread so as to display the markings, oblivious that somewhere within, a little heart beat, yearning to fly. I am that butterfly now.
of biology projects in school. I think of the butterfly I caught and pinned to a board when it was still alive, its wings spread so as to display the markings, oblivious that somewhere within, a little heart beat, yearning to fly. I am that butterfly now.
One day.
It’s only been one day since Chris arrived. I close my eyes and see again that image of him in the station, light trapped in his hair, a shadow of a smile on his face. I see that lopsided smile and the loose-limbed gait.
Twenty-four hours since he moved into Cottage No. 12 and into my soul.
Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds since I realized that my life would never be the same again.
I do not understand what is happening to me, a married woman, a wife. When I married Shyam, I swore never to flout the rules of custom again. How have I become so disdainful of honour, so contemptuous of convention?
Early this evening we went to sit on the steps that lead down into the river from Uncle’s house. Dusk was falling. The silhouette of a flock of birds as they flew home stood out, clear and dark, against the quiet twilight sky. From the resort grounds, the breeze drew the scent of jasmine and spread it in its wake. The silence pressed down upon us, stilling all that was merely comradely.
I stared at the sky, seeking a word, a phrase, to shatter the mute tension that was undulating between us. The western horizon was streaked a rosy red and splotched against it were masses of pewter-coloured clouds. My mother had a sari that was patterned with the same colours. I wondered if I could mention that. Something trite like, how nature inspires even sari designs. Then I saw that the colour had bled to render the rest of the sky a rosy hue.
‘There will be a good catch of mackerel later tonight,’ I said.
‘This is called a mackerel sky,’ I added, trying to fill the quiet. I sounded foolish to my own ears.
But the silence scared me. If silences were meant to create distance between two people, this one seemed to wedge it, and bridge the gap that rightfully ought to exist.
Chris turned to look at me. I couldn’t see his face clearly in the
dark. But I could hear the laugh in his voice when he asked, ‘Do you fish?’
dark. But I could hear the laugh in his voice when he asked, ‘Do you fish?’
I pretended not to hear the teasing note.
‘I am just repeating hearsay,’ I said. My fingers were shredding a teak leaf to bits. ‘My grandfather used to say that every time the sky turned this colour.’ And then, cocking my head because try as I might it wasn’t easy to resist indulging in playful banter with this man who was doing strange things to my insides, I said, ‘And no, I don’t think he fished.’
I bit my lip. I hadn’t meant to say that. Anyway, what was I doing, sitting here in the dusk with him? What if someone saw us? Shyam wouldn’t like it.
Chris rose. I froze. Was he getting ready to go? Please, no, stay awhile, I pleaded in my head. I didn’t understand this fractious mood I was in. I knew I should not stay and yet I didn’t want him to be the one to want to leave.
He looked into the distance for a while and then he moved to sit on the wall that shored the slope. I couldn’t avoid his eyes any more.
‘Is something bothering you?’ he asked.
I looked at the pool of water at the bottom of the steps. You, I wanted to say. You are sneaking your way into my system. You are doing it with the casual ease of someone who knows how to. Are you a practised flirt? A seducer of women? Or is this something that neither you nor I have any control over?
I took a deep breath. Think of Shyam, your husband. Think of Shyam, who has endured much for you. How can you do this to him, I asked myself.
‘No, why do you ask? I am fine,’ I said.
‘Then what is wrong? You have suddenly gone silent. Did I say something to offend you?’
I turned away, groping to explain the heaviness I felt. A word, a phrase, a crutch that would deflect his attention. I could see Uncle standing on his veranda. He was looking at us.
‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Is there something you are not telling us? Why do you need to know all about Uncle’s life? What is the relevance?’
‘Radha, every writer has his own way of doing things. This is mine. I need to know everything about a person I am to profile. You
wouldn’t believe the lengths I go to when I am researching a subject; the kind of shit I am willing to endure. But that is how it is. I know most of the information I collect may be irrelevant but I need to know it all before I can decide what to keep and what to discard.’ Chris’s voice was devoid of all expression.
wouldn’t believe the lengths I go to when I am researching a subject; the kind of shit I am willing to endure. But that is how it is. I know most of the information I collect may be irrelevant but I need to know it all before I can decide what to keep and what to discard.’ Chris’s voice was devoid of all expression.
I felt a distance spring up between us. I wanted to tie his hand to the pallu of my sari and bind him to me. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I hastened to explain.
‘I have never heard Uncle talk about himself,’ I said. ‘What I know of him is what all of us know in the family. But what he told you today, I haven’t ever heard him talk about it.’
Chris scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure it is about him? I am not so sure …I didn’t want to interrupt his flow or offend him, so I said nothing. But honestly, what is it all about? You know, at first, when I heard him say “In the beginning was an ocean”, my jaw almost dropped. What is he getting into, I thought …It’s like something out of a South American novel!’
I leaned forward to interrupt him. ‘That is easily explained. If you read the libretto of a kathakali play, it always begins with a shloka that puts the story of the play in context. The shloka is rather literary; what it does is give the story a setting …that is all there is to it. Really! It isn’t magic realism. Just pure kathakali technique.’
I smiled. Chris was right to be puzzled. Who wouldn’t be?
‘Radha.’ I shivered when Chris spoke my name. His voice was like a finger searching out secret places. ‘Radha, who is Sethu who became Seth? What is the connection?’
Chris took the tape recorder out of his pocket and pressed the rewind button for a few seconds. Then he played the tape. Uncle’s voice emerged, a little tinny, yet true:
Sethu returned to the camp thirty-six hours later. It may be too late, he thought. Or perhaps not. There were still many who lay ill in their homes. Dr Samuel looked at the stores Sethu had brought back. He wouldn’t meet
Sethu’s
eyes and instead set about dispensing medication as quickly as he could. Later that night, he called Sethu to bis tent. “This is the day made memorable by the Lord. What immense joy for us.”
Sethu returned to the camp thirty-six hours later. It may be too late, he thought. Or perhaps not. There were still many who lay ill in their homes. Dr Samuel looked at the stores Sethu had brought back. He wouldn’t meet
Sethu’s
eyes and instead set about dispensing medication as quickly as he could. Later that night, he called Sethu to bis tent. “This is the day made memorable by the Lord. What immense joy for us.”
‘Who is Seth?’ Chris asked again.
‘Sethu,’ I corrected, ‘is Uncle’s father. My paternal grandfather.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Chris looked relieved.
‘I don’t think you do,’ I said, leaning forward. ‘Chris, do you remember what Uncle said when he agreed to tell you his story? That he would interpret not just his life, but the lives of all the others involved. It’s part of the kathakali technique. The scene has to be set and explained before the character makes his appearance and the actual story unfolds. Only then will the audience understand why a character behaves in a particular way.’
I stopped and searched his face. Was he bored?
‘No, no,’ Chris said, pulling a notepad out of yet another pocket. There was a little stub of a pencil in his hand. ‘Go on, it’s fascinating.’
I leaned back against the stone steps. ‘I would suggest that you take a crash course in Indian mythology, or you won’t understand much of what I am saying now or what Uncle will tell you in the next few days.’
He smiled. ‘My knowledge of Indian mythology is adequate. You were saying …’
‘I was saying, for instance in the Ramayana—you know the Ramayana, don’t you? Or, at least, about it? Well, anyway, there is this episode of Rama stepping on a stone and the stone coming to life and becoming Ahalya. The story is that Ahalya, the wife of Sage Gautama, was discovered by her husband in bed with Indra, the king of the gods, and so he cursed her to become a stone. Only when Rama stepped on her unknowingly—and Rama would come many epochs later—would she be freed of the curse. That’s what the libretto of the kathakali play says. But what a good kathakali dancer will do is interpret how this episode came to be. He will show how one day, while Ahalya was plucking flowers, Lord Indra, who was cruising the skies on his white elephant, looked down and saw this woman beckoning him. The gesture that you make to pluck a flower that is overhead could very well seem like the gesture you use to call someone down from a height. Indra is attracted to the woman. Still, he asks, pointing to himself—Me? Are you talking to me?
‘And Ahalya repeats what he thinks is an invitation. So he takes the form of her husband and slips into her bed when her husband is away. Perhaps he thought the disguise would dispell any doubts she might have.’
I stopped, aghast. Why had I chosen this anecdote to explain my
point? Would Chris interpret it as an invitation?
point? Would Chris interpret it as an invitation?
I pursed my lips and finished, ‘To understand my uncle as a dancer and a man, you need to know about his parents.’
Chris put the tape recorder and notebook away. ‘Baggage, I suppose,’ he said softly. ‘None of us is free of it and yet, if we were, we wouldn’t be who we are.’
I laughed. ‘Considering you travelled across many continents with a cello, how can you even talk about baggage or being free of it?’
Chris reached across and tugged at a lock of my hair. I laughed again. I felt like a child who had spotted a rainbow. Then I stopped abruptly. ‘I must go,’ I said.
‘Before you go, tell me what happened to this guy Indra. Did he get away because he was a god? Or was he cursed to become a stone?’
‘Indra was cursed, too,’ I said. ‘In Hindu mythology no one is spared. Hinduism teaches that we cannot escape our actions. The curse of the sage is said to have caused a thousand marks on him.’
‘What kind of marks?’
I flushed. ‘The vagina. He had a thousand vaginas imprinted on him so that everyone who saw him knew he had been philandering.’
‘The poor guy! And then?’
‘And then, he was forgiven because that is the other aspect of Hinduism: redemption. So the vaginas became a thousand eyes which allowed him to see better, I guess,’ I added.
Chris grinned. ‘So he did get away?’ He leapt off the wall and ran up the steps. I rose quietly. What could I say? He was right. Thinking about it, Indra managed to get away with little more than embarrassment. It was poor Ahalya who bore the brunt of the curse. Let that be a reminder to you, I told myself.
Chris held his hand out to help me up.
I hesitated. In his country, this was merely a polite gesture a man made to a woman, like opening a door for her. I shouldn’t be reading subtexts into it, I told myself. So I laid my hand in his.
His grip tightened. I knew then that he knew what I was feeling. And that there was no escape.
I am here. But I am also elsewhere. I wonder what Chris is doing. Has he unpacked his bags? Is he playing his cello? Maybe he is writing
an email to the woman he loves. Is there a woman in his life? A girlfriend? A live-in partner? A wife?
an email to the woman he loves. Is there a woman in his life? A girlfriend? A live-in partner? A wife?
I feel jealousy corrode me. Who is she?
Then I feel Shyam’s breath ruffling my hair. What am I doing, I ask myself. I lie here in my bed in my husband’s arms and think of another man. What kind of woman am I? I feel contempt for myself.
I stroke Shyam’s hair. Shyam, I whisper. Shyam, wake up. Shyam, wake up and love me. Shyam, you must.
Shyam opens his eyes. His pupils are sleep washed.
‘Aren’t you asleep yet?’ he murmurs and snuggles deeper into my side.
In the morning, I wake up thinking that I will stay away from the resort.
Shyam peers at me from above his newspaper. He reads the Malayalam paper over breakfast. It feeds his lust for the bizarre and trivia. Dog bit baby—baby’s mother bit dog back and its ilk. ‘If you live in Kerala, you need a Malayalam newspaper to give you all the local news,’ Shyam defended his choice, when I asked how he could read such nonsense.
Other books
Geek Chic by Lesli Richardson
India Black and the Rajah's Ruby by Carol K. Carr
Forgotten Mage by D.W. Jackson
Task Force by Brian Falkner
The Lion Seeker by Kenneth Bonert
Paradisal Tragedy by Ada Marie
Bride Games: (Alien's Bride) by Yamila Abraham
InSpire by April Wood
0764214101 by Tracie Peterson