Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (47 page)
Koman
For twelve years, Nala and Damayanti lived in perfect happiness. Their love knew no impediments. Meanwhile, for twelve years the spirit of Kali, the evil one, waited in a tree, looking for a chance to wreak havoc in Nala’s life. Finally Kali found his moment. He instigated Nala’s brother to invite Nala to a game of dice. The wager was the kingdom.
That day Nala forgot to wash the heel of his feet as he performed his evening ablutions and Kali found an entry into Nala’s system. There Kali crouched and waited.
Nala played and lost his kingdom. It was Kali who controlled the fall of the dice. So Nala was exiled and the people of the kingdom were forbidden to help him. ‘Go home to your parents,’ Nala pleaded with Damayanti.
She refused. ‘My place is with you. Where you go, I will.’
So Nala and Damayanti went to the forest. They had nowhere else to go. In the forest, when hunger dragged their feet, Nala decided to try and snare a few birds using his clothes as a net. But the birds flew away with his clothes. Damayanti had to tear off a piece of her sari to help him hide his nakedness. Nala insisted again that Damayanti return to her father’s kingdom. But she refused. So, in the middle of the night, Nala stole away. He hoped that Damayanti would have no recourse but to go to her father’s kingdom. Nala settled into a life of wandering.
One day he saw a forest fire sweep through the trees. He saw clouds of black smoke and the carcasses of birds and animals burnt in the fire. He saw trees singed and ash flying in the air. He saw a serpent, trapped in a ring of fire, screaming for help in a human voice.
Nala rushed to rescue the serpent and the serpent sank its fangs into his heel. ‘You have behaved true to your type, haven’t you?’ Nala hollered. ‘Is this how you repay me for rescuing you? By biting me?’
The serpent said, ‘I did you a favour. You might not think so now, but trust me, you will see for yourself soon.’
And Nala saw that instead of dying of the snake’s venom, he had
turned into an ugly dwarf with a muddy complexion and a limp. ‘Look at me. Do you call this a favour?’
turned into an ugly dwarf with a muddy complexion and a limp. ‘Look at me. Do you call this a favour?’
The serpent replied, ‘First of all, the evil Kali who lived within you is writhing and dying of the venom. He will not be able to addle your brains any more. The way you are, no one will recognize you. Retrieve all that you lost. Start all over again. From now on, you will be the architect of your own fate.’
In my little house by the river, I was content. I did not desire anything from life, or art. So who planted the thought in my mind that I wanted more? When did Kali creep into me?
It had to be Kali, or would I have gambled the way I did? I had hoped that I would emerge from this snarl. The gods would help me. My destiny wouldn’t fail me. Our love, like Nala and Damayanti’s, would sustain us.
But I forgot that Nala was transformed into Bahukan. He had to lose all he had and be diminished. Nala as Bahukan would never know a night’s sleep. What he would know was humiliation and heartbreak, countless recriminations and a complete corrosion of self-worth. All along, there hovered in the air the serpent’s rider: you are the architect of your own fate.
I looked at the clock. Ten minutes to go. Outside, the light had almost faded. It was twilight and I had to clean up before Angela returned. I took my shirt off and went to the kitchen sink. I splashed water on my face and underarms. I sat on the counter and washed my feet at the kitchen sink. The first time Angela saw me do this, she was horrified. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘My evening ablutions,’ I said, washing the heel of my foot carefully.
‘You can’t do it in the kitchen sink. It isn’t hygienic …This isn’t Shoranur, Koman. This is London. You can’t do such things here.’
I stared at her. How dare she use that tone of voice, I thought. ‘I can’t not do my ablutions,’ I said.
‘Then go to the bathroom.’
She knew as well as I did that there was no telling if the bathroom would be free when I wanted it. But I didn’t want to start another argument, so I simply did what I had to before she reached home.
What she didn’t know wouldn’t bother her, I told myself.
I heard Angela’s step on the stairs. I switched on a smile and waited for the key to turn. She came in, taking her outdoor things off even as she stepped in. ‘Hello, darling,’ she said. ‘It’s foul outside. It’s so snug and warm in here. Mmm, I smell toast.’
I mouthed the words as she spoke them. I had heard them repeated so often. I kissed her as she had taught me to. Then I let the familiarity of the routine lead us along.
‘Did you go out?’ she asked me a little later.
I nodded.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ She frowned.
I looked at her. Once she comprehended every move of my body. Now she couldn’t read a nod from a shake. How could I blame her? I didn’t understand all that she said, either. The words sounded different, the sibilants seemed to hiss all the time. I thought of my students who tried to imitate her speech, making garbled noises; sometimes these days, I felt that way. All I heard were garbled sounds.
‘Koman, you are drifting off. I asked, where did you go?’
‘I went out to fetch some bread and milk,’ I said. I knew she would be upset.
‘That’s it! You only went as far as the Patels’ shop near the tube station? What’s wrong, Koman? Why don’t you walk around, explore the neighbourhood? You have the A to Z and I showed you how to use it. You can’t stay in here all day. What do you do all day?’ Angela’s voice was shrill with exasperation.
I didn’t say anything. What could I tell her? That I went to the Patels’ shop for the occasional whiff of familiar smells from the kitchen? Because their faces looked like the faces I knew? That I understood what they said and they understood when I spoke? As I hovered around there, watching Mr Patel count on his fingers and his wife in a sari, with a cardigan over it, murmur to her husband, I felt more in touch with reality than I did anywhere else.
‘Did you manage to get through to Ram Gopal?’ I asked.
‘I left a message on the answering machine. He is out of the country and should be back soon,’ she said. Her eyes didn’t meet mine. For the past five weeks, Angela had offered me the same lie in various forms. I knew her well enough to know she was lying.
‘How long can we go on like this?’ I asked her. ‘I feel so bloody useless. It is not right that you work and I sit at home doing nothing.’
‘It isn’t for long. He will be back one of these days. Do you need any money?’ she asked.
I shook my head. Then, afraid that she would read it as yes, I said, ‘No.’
‘Is there anything good on TV?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Don’t you even watch TV while I am gone?’
I was silent. In those first few days, I watched TV all day. I didn’t have to understand what I was watching; it was enough to see life unfolding before me. One evening, she came back vexed. I didn’t know what the reason was: crowds in the tube, a shoe heel that had snapped, or perhaps a frustrating day at work. She said, ‘Aren’t you lucky to stay at home and watch TV all day while I …?’ And then, realizing the import of what she had said, she tried to brush it off with a laugh. ‘Don’t you tire of watching that thing?’
I didn’t blame Angela for how she felt or what she said. I could see that she was trying very hard to make things work. She had every right to feel imposed upon. I felt like a parasite more than ever. I stopped watching TV.
There was a long silence that stretched between the time she got home and bedtime. She lit her incense sticks and put her LP of Ravi Shankar on. I knew every scratch and hiss on the record by now. From some recess of memory, I heard Aashaan say: ‘Every morning, look into the mirror and say—I won’t be supercilious. Kathakali is my life, but others have a right to live their lives as they see fit. You can’t be immune to ordinary feelings. Do you hear me? Koman, there is life beyond kathakali. The sooner you accept that, the better it will be for you.’
I would have liked for us to talk. For her to tell me about her day. But all she wanted to do was close her eyes and sway to the music. It occurred to me that we hardly conversed any more. We had nothing left to say to each other.
I wanted to talk to her about the dance performance we had been to at the Queen Elizabeth Hall last week with a group of her friends. I had never seen a performance by this particular Indian dancer, and
was eager to. Perhaps after the performance, I could go backstage and chat with her, I thought. It would be nice to make a contact in the dancing world here.
was eager to. Perhaps after the performance, I could go backstage and chat with her, I thought. It would be nice to make a contact in the dancing world here.
I sat there appalled. I had never seen anything as bad as this. My first-year students had a better sense of rhythm and more dexterity in fashioning their mudras. I watched her make a mess of all the rules of natya shastra. And I wondered what it was about this mediocre performer that made it possible for her to get so far, while I still hadn’t been able to find a way to resume dancing again.
For the first time in many years, I knew self-doubt. Was it that I had no talent? Was it that my artistry didn’t rise above the ordinary? Or, was there something that I lacked? In this great big city, wasn’t there one person who would understand my work and invest their faith in it?
I’d like to have told Angela all this.
We went to bed. She was tired and fell asleep quickly. I waited for her breathing to settle. Then I rose and went to sit on the armchair. The room was warm, but I couldn’t sleep. What am I doing, I asked myself over and over again. There was a time when I knew who I was. Everyone in the world of kathakali knew of me and my artistry. And now what did I have? In this place where I knew no one and had nothing to do, I waited all day and night for something to happen. All those years of studying and practising, all those years of honing my art, none of it had any meaning now. Moved by an impulse, spurred by greed, I had chosen to give up all I had, to chase a shadow. What had I done?
Angela was asleep. I looked at her. The love I had for her was tinged with resentment and something else. She had brought me to this; she had isolated me from all that I was familiar with. My family, my home, my art. It occurred to me that this was perhaps how she had felt in my little house by the river. But there was more to it. I felt beholden to her. I depended on her for everything and I did not like to feel beholden. I was a kept man who had been robbed of everything, including my dignity.
I wished she would be angry. I wished she would say something. Instead, she chose to be kind. She settled all the bills without my
even seeing one. She left money around so I could buy cigarettes without asking her for a handout. She brought airmail forms and put them on the table so I could write home to my family. She bought Bolts curry paste and condiments so I could cook food that was familiar to my palate. She bought books and magazines so I had something to read. She took our clothes to the laundromat and folded them in neat piles. She took good care of me, as if I were an invalid. As if I were an old and incapacitated man. I felt stripped of everything, my pride, my maleness and virility. I was Bahukan now. Shrunken, useless and impotent.
even seeing one. She left money around so I could buy cigarettes without asking her for a handout. She brought airmail forms and put them on the table so I could write home to my family. She bought Bolts curry paste and condiments so I could cook food that was familiar to my palate. She bought books and magazines so I had something to read. She took our clothes to the laundromat and folded them in neat piles. She took good care of me, as if I were an invalid. As if I were an old and incapacitated man. I felt stripped of everything, my pride, my maleness and virility. I was Bahukan now. Shrunken, useless and impotent.
I went back to bed. She nestled into me. She wanted to make love. I felt removed from all such feelings. Love. Lust. Passion. All I could feel was a sense of loss. But I had to husband her in bed if not in life. That was the least I could do for her.
I remembered how, in the little house by the river, she once said to me, ‘Koman, what is the rush? Haven’t you heard of foreplay?’
‘Foreplay?’ I had teased her then. ‘We’ll save it for the time when I can’t get it up.’
For a moment, I wondered if I would ever have an erection again. I pleasured her as perhaps a eunuch might—with fingers and tongue. Later, when she lay curled on her side and I felt more ineffectual than ever, I asked the night: How long can this go on?
In the morning Angela said, ‘Darling, you must get out. You can’t stay cooped in here all day. Why don’t you go to Leicester Square? Or the National Gallery? It’s free.’
I didn’t say anything. She laid her hand on my shoulder. ‘Surely you are not still upset by what happened at James’s house? That was horrible and completely unusual. Things like that don’t happen here. This isn’t the American south.’
I tried to smile and reassure her that I had put it out of my mind, but my lips refused to stretch. All I could come up with was a grim parody of a smile.
Ten days after my arrival, Angela went back to work. I went out during the day; I wandered through the streets, sitting on a bench when my legs ached, pausing to stare at buildings. When it rained, if a department store was nearby, I would walk through countless aisles,
marvelling at the merchandise. I didn’t feel the need to buy any. Just looking glutted me. And punctuating my day was the call I made to Ram Gopal. I still hadn’t given up hope.
marvelling at the merchandise. I didn’t feel the need to buy any. Just looking glutted me. And punctuating my day was the call I made to Ram Gopal. I still hadn’t given up hope.
Every day I heard a woman’s voice say, ‘He is unavailable. Can I take a message?’
The first few days I left a message. ‘Would you tell him that Koman called? I am a kathakali dancer from Shoranur. I would very much like to meet him. I can be reached at …’ And I would give Angela’s telephone number and her name.
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