Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  Unni shuts the register he is writing in and says, ‘Uncle and the Sahiv have arrived. They are in the restaurant. The Sahiv said to leave his instrument in the car and that he alone would take it out and no one else should.’

  I turn around. Sebastian, to make up for the delay in opening my car door and hoping to please me, has already pulled out the instrument case from the car. Damn! ‘Put that back,’ I say quickly. ‘The Sahiv will take that out himself. You can take the luggage to Cottage No. 12. And if you see the gardener, ask him to spray some Flit around the cottage. Not inside. Only outside. The Sahiv will run a mile if he smells it!’ I smile to take the bite from my voice.

  ‘Where’s the Sahiv from?’ Sebastian asks.

  ‘America,’ I say. America will impress him more, I think.

  Sahiv and Madaama. No matter how often I teach them to refer to foreigners as tourists, they continue to call them Sahiv and Madaama. I go to the restaurant, where Radha is seated with Chris and Uncle. The steward rushes to my side when he sees me. ‘Sahiv asked for a boiled egg and toast and coffee,’ he murmurs in Malayalam.

  Chris darts me an amused look. ‘What’s a Sahiv? I heard that on the railway platform as well.’

  Radha smiles. ‘A corruption of the word Sahib, which is Hindi for master. Sahiv and Madaama, from the days the white men reigned rather than visited.’

  I listen to her. She can be charming if she wants to be. How pretty she looks today. Her waist-length hair falls straight and silky as rainwater down her back. She’s wearing a pale pink cotton sari that casts a rosy flush on her cheeks. Her eyes shine with merriment and her lips are stretched in a smile. If she was this charming more often, I could concentrate on the administrative details of running the resort.

  Chris grins and says, ‘Touché!’

  ‘We’ve left the instrument in the car,’ I say, feeling a little left out.

  ‘Don’t you trust us with it?’ Uncle teases.

  I stare at him. I have never heard Uncle speak English. I didn’t know he spoke it so well. Why then does he insist on making his students speak Malayalam and wrap their tongues around syllables that are like blocks of wood?

  ‘Zha,’ he makes them parrot. ‘Zha as in mazha, pazham, vazhi …’

  Mazha—rain; pazham—fruit; vazhi—way: he would gesture the words with his hands, with mudras they could decipher, while their tongues flipped, flopped and tried to slide through the sound of zha.

  ‘No, it isn’t that,’ Chris tries to explain. ‘It’s just that the cello is very valuable. I had always dreamt of being able to afford a cello like this one and now that I have it, I am extra cautious with my dream.’

  ‘Tread softly because you’re treading on my dreams.’ Radha’s voice is soft.

  What does she mean, I wonder. Uncle has a strange expression in his eyes. Only Chris seems amused. ‘Yeats, isn’t it?’

  I repress my sigh. One of her poets. I thought she was past all that.

  ‘Is this all you are eating?’ I ask as the steward comes in with a tray. ‘Why don’t you try some of the Kerala dishes?’

  Chris slices the top of his egg deftly and says, ‘Oh, I will. Thank you very much. I am not very hungry now.’

  The restaurant is half full. It is only eight in the morning. In a little while, most of the guests will arrive for breakfast.

  We are not full up. In fact, only six of the twelve rooms and three of the eight cottages are occupied. Later in the day, a group of Germans is expected. Tomorrow, when Christopher wakes up, the resort will bustle with life and the ja ja ja of Germans. That will show him how popular we are.

  I get up and go into the kitchen. ‘You forgot …’ I tell Baby George, the cook. He looks at me blankly.

  One evening, Varghese, who owns a machine-tools unit in the smallscale industries complex at Kolapulli, and I were coming back from Alappuzha. Varghese’s sister and her husband own a small island in the backwaters. They converted the family home into a resort and are now booked through the year. Varghese offered to take me there so I could see how everything was organized. On our second day there, he took me to a toddy shop. Unlike most toddy shops that have only a number, this one had a name: Chakkara Pandal.

  I don’t like toddy. Never have, except when it’s freshly tapped. Then it tastes like coconut water and bears little resemblance to the foul-smelling, sour toddy. But Varghese said that the food at Chakkara Pandal was worth a visit.

  ‘What kind of food is it?’ I asked, thinking that a place called Chakkara Pandal probably served only sweet things.

  ‘The usual—matthi-poola, meen pappas, erachi olarthiyathe—toddy-shop food,’ Varghese said as we rowed up the canal—or rowed down; I don’t know. All I could think of was, I hope the fish didn’t come from these filthy waters.

  ‘The owner likes old songs. He named it after one—Chakkara pandalil, then mazha pozhiyum …’ Varghese hummed the song.

  Chakkara Pandal, when we got there, was nothing like the sugar bower the name suggested. It was dark and dank, and smelt of stale sweat and fermented coconut sap. But there was Baby George, dishing up the finest food. All I needed was one mouthful of beef olarthiyathe to know that this was the man for Near-the-Nila.

  ‘You are wasting your talent here; come to my restaurant and you’ll be appreciated,’ I said, offering him three times his pay, with full benefits.

  Baby George agreed instantly. All was set, I thought. The only thing I had to watch out for was that Baby George didn’t get too friendly with Chef Mathew.

  Chef Mathew had been to catering college; he knew how to make soufflés and puddings, soups and steaks—everything a guest might want, but seldom asked for. Mostly they preferred to dine on Baby George’s creations. And yet, I paid Chef Mathew twelve times more than what I paid Baby George. If Baby George ever found out …I shudder at the thought of his leaving.

  At first, I wanted to call the restaurant Baby George’s Kitchen. Then it occurred to me that Chef Mathew might be offended. Besides, Baby George after a few days might stake a claim to the ownership of the restaurant. This is Kerala after all, where even squatters have rights. So I decided to take a cue from the toddy shop where I found Baby George and called my restaurant Mulla Pandal.

  I trained jasmine to creep along a trellis and scent the air. On every table, we placed a little card that explained the legend of the mulla pandal—the jasmine bower.

  ‘Baby George, you forgot the coconut oil,’ I say again.

  Baby George grins. ‘Sir, you scared me,’ he says and takes a special can of coconut oil reserved for this purpose. ‘I didn’t forget. I thought I’d wait for the guests to come in. No point in wasting oil.’

  He drizzles coconut oil into a saucepan. The oil heats and slowly an aroma spreads, filling the kitchen and percolating into the restaurant.

  Just a faint whiff. Too much, and it would turn their stomachs. Just a faint whiff to conjure images of wood fires and bronze cooking pots, rustic life and discovery. Usually the guests would let it trickle up their noses and instead of settling for a frugal breakfast would ask for a full Kerala spread.

  It isn’t easy managing a resort. I have to think ahead of my guests all the time.

  I let the aroma trickle up my nose. My stomach rumbles. ‘Baby George, I’ll eat here this morning,’ I tell him and am rewarded with a beam.

  Would Radha want to join me? It’s been so long since we ate a meal together at the resort.

  The table overlooking the river, my favourite table, is unoccupied. The others have gone, leaving as their signature bread crumbs, shards of eggshell and three used coffee cups. I wonder where they are: Uncle, Radha and the Sahiv.

  In my mind, I have begun to think of Christopher as the Sahiv. Where has he spirited my family to?

  The steward pads to my side. I look up. It’s Pradeep.

  I run a small, tight ship. Fifteen employees in all, and each one of them handpicked by me. Anyone who shows the slightest inclination to laziness or an unwil
lingness to do more than the scope of his job has to go. I can’t afford it otherwise.

  ‘Look at Unni,’ I tell them. ‘He is a prince, but he doesn’t mind being reception clerk, postcard vendor and travel agent. He even carries the baggage to the room or the car if the doorman is busy with another guest’s bags! I know this is not how other resorts run, but you must understand that there is nothing to this town. And the guests are not as many as we might like. I can’t hire too many people and have them sitting around twiddling their thumbs. I’d have to close this place down. This way, you can be sure of a regular salary. It’s up to you, of course.’

  Pradeep helps in the kitchen and during meal times dons a uniform and transforms into steward. ‘Sir,’ he says. ‘Madam said they’ll wait at the reception.’

  Then he looks around and says softly, ‘The Sahiv at table four was complaining of the smell of coconut oil.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said it was much too strong for his taste!’

  Pradeep is one of my best employees. Apart from being able to speak English, his loyalty to me is complete.

  I sniff the air. The smell is a little excessive. ‘Tell Baby George to use less oil next time,’ I say.

  Pradeep nods his head and pads away. The boy walks like a cat, on the balls of his feet.

  I pick up the card on the table.

  Once upon a time, a young maiden fell in love with the moon. Every night she stood under the night skies and appealed to the moon to make her his. The moon bathed her loveliness with his light but remained far away. One night he could resist her beauty no longer and kissed her on her lips. She felt herself flower and so great was her joy that she became a jasmine. A flower that blossoms at night only when the moon touches it.

  The Jasmine Bower is a celebration of earthly appetites. Let the Jasmine Bower rule your senses and we assure you it will be a truly memorable experience.

  I had written the text myself. Radha had giggled as she read it. She said, ‘You do this very well. I never thought you could write stories or that your imagination was so, so …’

  ‘I am a businessman, not a storyteller,’ I interrupted, though I was delighted by her praise. ‘Here is the English translation. I did it myself. Will you read it for me, please? I didn’t go to a fancy school like you did; mine is basic SSLC English! So there might be errors.’

  Uncle had put his glasses on and read the Malayalam text.

  ‘Do you think I should add something?’ I asked.

  Uncle looked up. ‘No, it’s very good. I didn’t think you had it in you …this artistic streak!’

  I said nothing. What did they know of me? I used to write poetry. Until Radha’s father found my book of poems when I was fourteen and said, ‘All this is very nice, but poetry is not going to put food in your belly. For that you need money. Put aside this nonsense and do something worthwhile, chekka.’

  Chekka. He always called me that. As though by referring to me as boy, he could rob me of even the dignity of a name. Since he kept my family fed and clothed, I didn’t protest, though I hated the word.

  ‘I am not a boy; I’m almost a man,’ I told my mother angrily. He had referred to me as chekkan in the presence of a group of relatives. She hushed me as she always did. ‘Don’t let him hear you, or he’ll start his rant about ingrates and how it’s better to bathe a stone in milk than help relatives …do you want to hear that all over again?’

  Yet, when he needed to sort out the mess Radha had caused, he had come knocking at my mother’s door and then the word chekkan magically disappeared. For the first time, he called me Shyam. I was Shyam, the man whose eyes he couldn’t meet.

  ‘Your breakfast is getting cold,’ Pradeep says in my ear.

  ‘Why do you creep up on me?’ I snap, dragged from my thoughts.

  I see the hurt in his eyes. I pride myself on never losing my temper. To make up for the spurt of anger, I try to joke. ‘You must have been a cat in your last birth.’ I pause and peer at him. ‘Has the cat been sipping some foreign milk when no one was looking?’

  ‘Not this cat.’ His mouth wobbles with suppressed laughter. ‘This cat is afraid of hot water and AIDS.’

  Ribaldry is a great leveller.

  I tear off a small piece of appam and dip it into the egg masala. In my mouth, the soft fluffy appam melds with the spice of the gravy. It is delicious. I eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. Let them wait, I decide.

  Uncle

  I do not understand this. Even in that first moment, I felt I knew him. It can’t be. How can it be? He has never been to India. ‘This is my first visit to India,’ he told me in the autorickshaw.

  Was he in the audience when I performed in Houston a couple of years ago? He did say that he has been living in America for some years now. But all I can remember is a line of faces uniformly Indian: the women in mundu-veshti and laden with jewellery, and men in silk jubbahs and mundu. I can’t remember a white face, no, not even in the periphery of my vision. So why do I feel as though I know him?

  When I took his hands in mine, what was it about him that tugged at me, somewhere in the pit of my stomach? A sweeping tenderness that made me want to clasp him in an embrace. In my heart syllables tripped: Ajitha Jayahare Madhava …Krishna meeting his childhood companion Sudama after many years. Krishna the king who can read the woes of Sudama the pauper. Krishna, who forgets that his life is blessed with abundance while Sudama’s is cursed with emptiness. There is sanctity in the moment. All I can think of is, he’s here. I am Krishna. Or is he? Who is the blessed one? I do not know.

  For the past two years, Philip has mentioned him in his letters. His name is as familiar to me as the names of Thomas and Linda, Philip’s children. Is it just that? A bonding born of knowledge? That Chris prefers beer to wine; that he douses his food in hot sauce; that he tore a ligament last year playing tennis; that he is working on a travel book in which I am to feature. No, it isn’t that, either. I try to put it out of my mind. In my old age, I have discovered that the imagined and the real tend to cross over.

  But now, as he gently draws his cello out from the back of the car, it seems a gesture I ought to recognize. The squaring of shoulders, the tensing of his back, the tilt of his head. I think of a scene from Kalyanasougandhikam. Is this the unease Bheema felt, I wonder, when he found an old monkey blocking his way to the garden of divine flowers? Obstructing his path wilfully, as if to thwart his beloved wife’s desire to adorn her hair with the fragrance of the divine blossoms. Is this the feeling that crept up Bheema’s spine? That this is someone I ought to recognize. That we are more than we know.

  When Christopher shuts the car door with a backward heft of his hip, I am certain: I know him.

  Radha walks down the steps to where I am. Her gait is measured and languid. My niece bears on her face marks of dissatisfaction. It makes me sad.

  Some days ago, as I sat on my veranda chatting with her, I said, ‘Radha, do you know the significance of the katthivesham in kathakali?’

  She smiled as if to suggest that my question was a silly one. ‘Of course I do,’ she tossed back at me. ‘The villains of Indian mythology; the destroyers of all things good and noble. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘Ravana, Narakasura, Hiranyakashipu …you know why these demon kings are classified as katthivesham? They are men born with noble blood in them. They could have been heroes. Instead, they let their dissatisfaction with their destinies curdle their minds, and so they turned out arrogant, evil, demonic. Like you said, destroyers of all things good and noble.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Radha asked. Her eyes blazed into mine. Her voice was quiet and low but I could read the rage in them.

  I reached forward and touched her forehead with my index finger. Then I touched the skin around her nostrils.

  ‘The lines here speak of dissatisfaction. They could just as well be the white bulbs a katthivesham wears on his forehead and the tip of his nose,’
I said, trying to smooth the lines away.

  Radha brushed my finger away and got up. ‘Sometimes, Uncle,’ she said, ‘you let your imagination see things that don’t really exist. These lines, marks of dissatisfaction as you call them, are an indication that I am growing old. I should buy an anti-ageing cream. That’s what I need. Dissatisfaction! Why on earth would I be dissatisfied?’

  I did not want us to quarrel, so I let it rest. You cannot make someone see the truth unless they want to.

  Radha, my darling niece, my surrogate child, is not afraid of the truth. She has always stared it in the eye. This time, though, she pretended it wasn’t there.

  Since then, when she’s with me, Radha tries not to let her unhappiness show. Her creams do their work; they repair and heal the skin and add lustre, as if someone has dusted her face with a handful of abharam.

  But mica dust is like fool’s gold: a false glitter that doesn’t endure. And so, when she thinks I am not watching her, the marks emerge. A clenching of muscle, a tightening of skin, a whitening of hue, a stillness in the eyes. Dissatisfaction perches on her face again.

  Now Radha’s gaze follows mine. I see that, like me, she cannot keep her eyes away from him.

  She walks forward. ‘Do you need any help?’

  There is a lilt in her voice. Where has the discontent seeped away to? There is no need for abharam. Her face is radiant. Her eyes throw him a sidelong glance.