Marginal Man

by Charu Nivedita

  Prakash opined that there was no better place than a salsa club to observe people and recommended a wonderful Cuban film on this theme – Hasta Certo Punto (Upto a Certain Point.) A writer doing research on Havana’s patriarchal society falls in love with a Cuban woman and gets married to her. But he is not able to lead a happy life with her as he finds it difficult to free himself from the patriarchal attitudes and mindset that he had inherited. Finally, they separate.

  When a male salsa dancer foregrounds himself he is, in effect, asking his female partner to follow him and the woman also submits to it- this is the tradition of salsa.

  In the tango, unlike in salsa, the woman can take the lead. A tidbit of Argentinean history is necessary to understand how this came to be so.

  Argentinean tango originated in the port city of Buenos Aires with the port workers and whores who danced to the music of the bandoneon. The music that emerges from bandoneon is very electric and punchy.The port workers who slogged all day found themselves lonely in the evenings after work, so they sought the company of whores. The whores came to the port for want and need of money, but they had the freedom to choose their clients and were under no compulsion to accept the offer of a man to dance.

  After that meeting, I lost touch with Prakash. I e-mailed him, but my communications went unanswered. Now when I think back on our meeting, it seems like a dream to me.

  I’ve had several discussions with Anjali about all that Prakash told me. Both of us spoke of and argued over the salsa and tango artistes he’d spoken about. Ten years ago, I took down all these notes about salsa and tango music and artistes in a drunken stupor. Never did I think that I’d be able to enjoy discussing all of it with the woman I loved.

  Our first conversation on the subject was something like this:

  “Do you know about the salsa dog and tango cat, Anjali?”

  “Huh?”

  “If you feed a dog, it will treat you like a master, but if you feed a cat, it will treat you like a slave. In salsa, the woman is the slave; in tango, she is the master. By the way, you like Salsa or Tango?”

  “If I learn dance, surely my choice would be salsa. You can dance the salsa with any man, but the tango is more intimate.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?”

  She raised an enquiring eyebrow. Kissing it, I said, “I think salsa is the dance that’s more in tune with your nature.”

  “You rascal! I am not a dog, I am a cat!” she said. After a moment of silence, she added, I love the melancholy of the tango.”

  She put on the records of Ástor Piazzolla. Anjali turned the man’s music into an experience for me. She told me this when we were talking over the phone one day: “If I hadn’t listened to his bandoneon, I’d have gone mad. Maybe I’d have jumped off a cliff and we’d never have met.” I was stunned. I knew that she was a slave to Piazzolla’s music, but I never knew that it had such an important place in her life. Our relationship was three years old then.

  “I’ve been wanting to tell you this for a long time. I finally got around to it today. Do you know I have a recurring deadly nightmare? In it, I’m caught in a whirlpool, unable to breathe. I’m stuck in a torrent. It almost feels like I’m being tossed and thrown about in a sea or an ocean and my breath is becoming water, and then I hear it – Ástor Piazzolla’s bandoneon. On one occasion, it was Adiós Nonino; on another, it was Libertango; then, it was Milonga del angel. The song was different every time. Just when I think I’m going to suffocate and die, I hear the music of his bandoneon and at that exact moment, someone yanks me up by my hair. My mind is trembling as I’m saying this. I’m getting goosebumps. When I’m awake, I lie on the ground and listen to his music, the delicate notes growing intense and swelling to a crescendo. Anguish assaults my nerves like bolts of lightning and my mind spins like a hurricane. I drown in Piazzolla’s music, like a little boat in a huge tempest. Somewhere, a thought germinates: Death would be such a mercy. How beautiful it would be to die like this. Even if I want to scream aloud, I can’t, because my voice is stolen. I feel like screaming for someone to please stop the bandoneon.”

  “Do you still have these nightmares?” I asked her.

  “Yes, Udhaya. I still have them. It’s not just the dream. When I’m alone, peace seems to elude me. I feel a great turmoil seething within. Though I appear calm on the outside, I feel like a bubbling volcano on the verge of erupting on the inside. It’s something like that French proverb: Soyez comme les canards – en surface, ayez l’air calme et pose; sous la surface, pédalez comme un fou. I can keep my demons at bay as long as I’m engrossed in some physical labor or out and about. If I’m alone at home, or engaged in mental work, anxiety overwhelms me.

  “There is only one way to solve your problem.”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Sex therapy!”

  “Oh, I’m waiting!”

  Over and over, Anjali and I listened to not just Piazzolla, but also all the other artistes Prakash had spoken about, until their music became part of the blood that flowed in our veins and mingled with our breath. Pierre Dulaine was another artiste who had affected her tremendously. I read up on Dulaine and his life. I learned about his partner, Yvonne Morceau, and the valuable contribution their partnership had made to the world of dance for the past thirty years. When Pierre lifted Yvonne, it was with the grace of the wind lifting a peacock feather. When he dances, even gravity yields to him. He turns into the wind and turns everything he touches into wind itself.

  “Since you are waxing eloquent about dance, can I join salsa classes?” she asked.

  “No, you can join bharatnatayam. I have no problems with that,” I offered. But in truth, I was not too keen on that either.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I remember what you told me about bharatnatayam once.”

  I’d told her that I rarely went to watch bharatnatayam performances as I tended to visualize the dancers naked.

  “If I tell you what goes through my mind when the female dancer lifts one leg up to her hips, you’d thrash me.”

  “You devil, I’ve never met anyone like you.”

  “Why don’t you try swimming?”

  “There might be male coaches. Is that okay with you?”

  “I will kill you. Go someplace where they have female coaches.”

  “What will happen if you become a swimming coach for women, Udhaya?”

  “What do you think? I’ll make them float face down in the water and grab their pussies.”

  “Ugh! Fuck off! Dirty sod!”

  “But women like you love dirty sods like me, don’t you? Come here and show me your pussy, you whore!”

  And that was how we started our day.

  But I must say that the woman didn’t seem to have a problem with my possessiveness; on the contrary, I daresay she reveled in it. She too was possessive about me and this helped because I could ensure that she remained mine and mine alone. Her orders: I was not to look at any woman, and if we went to a restaurant, I had to sit facing a pillar. I was not to give my phone number to any woman either. (Before I met Anjali, I used to give my phone number to women who approached me for autographs. Only to women, not to men.) She also took over my e-mail and my Facebook account. All the love letters that I received were deleted immediately. I was forbidden from using the word “dear” to address a woman – I was supposed to say “hello” instead.

  As she had subjected me to a number of rules, I made one more for her.

  “From now on, no man is to ride pillion on your bike.”

  “Not even Suresh?”

  “He is the exception.”

  “You bloody devil!”

  And thus, our world grew smaller and smaller until it held only the two of us.

  * * *

  I did not allow Anjali to add me as her friend on Facebook because her habit of frequently uploading
pictures there annoyed me.

  “What’s wrong with that, Udhaya?” she’d ask me.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you see how many men like your pictures? All of them will think of you when they masturbate at night.”

  “Ugh, you bad, bad boy!”

  Nevertheless, I kept her away from my circle as I didn’t like the idea of other men praising her beauty.

  “If a woman tells you that you look handsome, you feel happy, don’t you? In the same way, if someone tells me I look beautiful, I feel happy. Why do you have a problem with that, Udhaya?”

  “Woman, I have no problem if a woman praises your beauty. I have a problem with men admiring you because all men are scoundrels. There is a difference between a woman’s appreciation of a man’s beauty and a man’s appreciation of a woman’s beauty. Brothels all over the world employ women, don’t they? I have never seen a brothel where men entertain women. The body of the woman is the capital for running a brothel. Why are women’s bodies displayed in car advertisements? Isn’t it because a woman’s body offers voyeuristic pleasure? Even at weddings, only beautiful girls give out bouquets and welcome the attendees. When a man looks at a woman, he visually rapes her, and in a nation like India where there is no sex-ed class, if a woman smiles at a man he immediately assumes that she loves him.”

  “Were you a scoundrel too?”

  “Before I met you.”

  I didn’t say this to make her happy. It was true. When Anjali had everything I needed in a woman, why would I need to pursue other women? Besides, I was very possessive about her and expected her to be faithful to me, so wasn’t I obliged to be faithful to her as well? My heart melted every time I thought of the sacrifice she’d made for me. Which woman would do something like that? She’d sacrificed so much for my happiness, so I resolved to never cause her even the slightest pain, to never be the reason behind a single tear.

  Leaving such sentimental matters aside, the truth was that I never tired of having sex with Anjali. Sex was the most important aspect of our relationship. I did mention that we used to have sex even when she was menstruating, didn’t I? On such days, her private parts would hurt terribly, but she never minded the pain.

  The first time I tried to have sex with her during her period, I noticed a string of sorts hanging from her vagina. Later, she informed me that it was a tampon. I’d never heard of a tampon before. She told me it was very convenient. Science has revolutionized everything, I mused. Now that there was a vaginal plug to absorb menstrual blood, a woman was spared the hassle of disposing of sanitary pads. After a couple of months, however, the tampons had started to disagree with her. We realized that when, after her periods, the sex felt unnatural. Normally, having sex with her was like ploughing marshy land, but that day, it felt like I was grinding my penis against sandpaper. Even castor oil didn’t help. It hurt both of us, but despite the pain, my desire was uncontrollable and I savaged her.

  The pain worsened that night and she was unable to sleep. The next day, she rushed to the gynecologist who examined her and exclaimed in shock, “Oh my goodness! What have you done to your vagina?” Anjali mumbled something in response. (What did you say, Anjali dearest?)

  Once, I’d gone to Coimbatore, and as my friends were with me, I didn’t crave sex. After my friends had left, I was hungry for it. I wasn’t even able to masturbate. All I wanted was to fuck Anjali. I woke up the next day feeling like my body was on fire.

  I tried a trick I’d used many years ago. I placed three pillows on the bed, one on top of the other. Clutching the pillow on top with both hands, I stood naked, facing the mirror, and tried to masturbate. But pillows couldn’t provide the warmth of Anjali’s body. I tried for a long time, but when nothing happened, I left for the airport, consoling myself with thoughts of Paris. I sent Anjali steamy messages from the airport. As she had also been dying to have sex, her messages were just as horny as mine were. I found myself on the verge of climaxing when the police called the passengers for screening. I got up and stood in the queue, thinking that by the time my turn came, things would “settle down.” I was wearing linen pants and my shirt was untucked to hide my boner. A policeman approached me and told me to shift to the adjacent queue as there were fewer people in it. To my shock, I saw a female police officer waiting for me.

  Not even in my wildest dreams did I see something like this happening. The policewoman’s rod hit my dick and the flustered North Indian woman exclaimed, “Arrey, baapre!”

  Too ashamed to look her in the eye, I mumbled an apology shamefacedly.

  Once the screening was over, I messaged Anjali and told her what had happened.

  Anjali! The policewoman’s rod knocked my rod! What the fuck is that rod even called? <-

  -> I laughed so much I nearly cried! You dirty man! The rod that knocked yours is called a metal detector!

  * * *

  The ocean in this part of the country seems to reflect the aggressiveness of its people, with waves that rise to the half-length of a coconut tree, roaring like angry demons. On full moon and new moon nights, they rise even higher. On such days, one will see numerous warning signs posted in and around the Marina-Besant Nagar beach saying: No bathing here. Death is certain! But still, men and women brave the waves and venture far into the treacherous waters. Every week, we would learn that the ocean had swallowed a man, a woman, a group of teenagers, a child, but the people consider their right to bathe in the ocean more important than their own lives.

  It was when I visited the Thai island of Yao Nai with Kokkarakko and Kumar that I realized how even the continuous mass of the ocean varied in hue and tranquility. The Andaman Sea lay before our eyes, its water like clear green crystal and its surface was so placid that I could look into the water and see the ocean bed. Fish in all shapes, sized and colors flitted to and fro. The play of color and light created magic in the green waters, magic so marvelous that words would be insufficient to capture it. In that moment, I could not help but reflect on the wonders of creation and the existence of God.

  As the water was saline, we could float on its surface like corks. This phenomenon astounded me. I was queasy at first, but when I saw Kokkarakko and Kumar snorkeling like professionals, I gathered some courage and put on my mask to explore the ocean. I caught sight of a young couple who, after fooling around in the water, had sex.

  “Must we watch the fish or the lovers’ live show?” Kokkarakko asked.

  “The fish,” I said uninterestedly. “We already saw enough of the latter in Bangkok and Pattaya.”

  And the live show we saw in Pattaya was something I’d had to suffer through. An old woman and a middle-aged man with a ruler-straight penis stood stark naked at the center of the stage. They assumed different poses like poorly trained gymnasts, fucked, and wrapped up the show by faking a climax. It was pathetic, but the tasteless audience – mostly comprised of couples – seemed to enjoy it. (The whole spectacle reminded me of Hassan whom I had met in Barcelona.) The event organizer gave me a balloon and asked me to release it. I knew they’d demand money for such pointlessness afterward, so I refused. Kokkarakko took it, but when he was asked for fifty baht, he handed it back.

  There was a petite island next to Yao Noi, a sandy little space nuzzled between a pair of hills. Our boatwoman had given us half the day to spend there. It was the sand on this island that captivated me just like the green water around Yao Noi did. It was of a milky white color and felt like talcum under my feet. The sand of the Marina is beige and large-grained. One could circumnavigate this island in under thirty minutes. It was also teeming with visitors – you could see bobbing heads, boobs and butt-cheeks wherever you looked. After one long sitting in the boat, I felt the urge to pee, but the place seemed to have no convenience. I did not know where to go. Kokkarakko told me that I could have finished my job in the boat itself, but I hadn’t known that the boat came with a toilet. Peeing into the sea would be a lit
tle too obvious and embarrassing and cruel with the crystal-clear water and the fish and all. The island afforded no privacy as it was packed with folks who were sunning themselves. Traveling abroad has caused me to look upon Indians who urinate in public places with new eyes. In this vein, I must narrate a couple of incidents as they were told to me by my friend Bala when I was visiting Malaysia. Bala’s father was taken to Malaysia from Tamil Nadu as an indentured laborer in the tea plantations. Bala was born and bred there. One night, at ten, he was having drinks in his garden with a European friend who was visiting. The friend suddenly rose, unzipped his pants and peed. Taken aback, Bala asked him, “You urinate in public despite being a European?”

  The European, tucking his property back in and zipping up, casually replied, “Whenever I chanced to visit India, I saw people relieving themselves in public places. India is like an open toilet. And you’re an Indian, so you shouldn’t mind me pissing in your esteemed presence.”

  Bala went on to inform him that urinating in public places was a punishable offense in Malaysia.

  In Thailand, Kokkarakko, Kumar and I visited a number of places, commuting in buses and vans that stopped only in specific spots with sign and shelter, not at some painted tree as in India. I am someone who has to pee a great deal during the night. So, to prevent my bladder from bursting and leaking through my pants on the journey from Keddah to Kuala Lumpur I abstained from liquids after dusk. Despite my precautions, I was overcome by the uncontrollable urge to pee at midnight. There seemed to be no stops ahead which made matters even worse. Finally, at three a.m., the bus halted. If only I’d had a Ziploc, or even a plastic bag or bottle with me, I would have peed into it. What do you want me to do? The Indian bladder is used to relieving itself wherever it pleases.