Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  Chris turns to her. His smile gathers her in his arms.

  I think of Nala and Damayanti. Of lovers in kathakali who embrace without actually doing so. Only an experienced veshakaaran, an actor with more than mere technique, can perform that embrace. With arms that do not touch the woman, and with only his eyes, he lets her know that he desires her.

  Chris, I see, desires Radha. And she, him.

  Who is he, I wonder again. This young man from across the seas, with a cello and a smile on display. And knowledge he hides in his heart.

  I have no time to think any more. For Shyam is here. Striding down the stairs two at a time, swaying on the balls of his feet, a sheaf of papers tucked under his armpit, making a thwack as he slams a fist into an open palm, an approximation of energy and entrepreneurial spirit. ‘So, shall we get going?’

  Radha cringes. Chris drops his eyes and breaks their embrace. And I look away. After all these years, I still do not know how I feel about Shyam.

  How shall I describe him?

  I have played him. I have been Keechakan, the able commander-in-chief of the kingdom of Vidarbha. Keechakan, who with his might and battle strategies kept the kingdom inviolable. But his longing for Sairandhari, his sister’s handmaiden, blinded him. He couldn’t see that she detested him. He thought it was pride. He thought he could break that pride.

  Or is he Bheema, I wonder. Bheema, the hasty one. Bheema, who jumps into battles and life without any introspection. Bheema, who doesn’t realize that when his wife sent him away on a quest to find the divine flowers, all she was doing was buying time away from his bumbling, his uncouthness, his lack of finesse. She did that by appealing to his strength, his ego. She sent him away and he thought it was love.

  Sometimes I think Shyam is Bheema. A great, big, good-hearted creature whose goodness Radha makes use of. Whose gaucherie she flees from. And sometimes I think that perhaps he is Keechakan. All he wants to do is possess her. He hides his conniving behind a mask of besotted love, and when he has her on her knees, he’ll kick her. Then I think Radha is wise to keep him on a leash of unreciprocated longing.

  ‘What are you thinking about, Uncle?’ Shyam’s voice creeps on to the stage where I am trying to place him.

  ‘You,’ I say absently. ‘You,’ I repeat, unable to relinquish the soul and skin of the characters my mind has sought.

  ‘Me?’ The syllable jerks with fear that he modulates into surprise. ‘What is there to think about me?’

  I hear the tremor in his voice. What does he think I know?

  Suddenly I know who he is. Like everybody else seeking parallels, I sought him among heroes and villains. I should have looked, instead, into the shadowed zones of the stage, at the minor characters whose doings let men live or die. Shyam is the aashaari.

  The carpenter with his betel-nut, leaf and tobacco pouch, his chisel, hammer and yardstick. The comic who makes people laugh. And yet, there is underlying his buffoonery a knowledge that is both sound and crafty.

  Not everybody can play the aashaari. I know; I have played him. It requires an understanding that is beyond the comprehension of a novice. The carpenter is both fool and master craftsman. It is he who brings warning of impending death, whispering in the ears of the Pandavas that the wax palace will turn into a funeral pyre that night. It is he who digs their escape route and camouflages it. He devises their escape with a flourish of gestures and exaggerated movements. He makes a mess of the steps, skids, falls, rolls his eyes, looks this way and that, and does it all with perfect timing. Only an actor with an impeccable sense of rhythm and versatility of expression can handle the aashaari. And Shyam is that aashaari, wearing the guise of a fool and never missing a step.

  ‘Uncle?’ Radha is concerned.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Chris asks.

  ‘He hasn’t been feeling very well,’ Radha tries to explain this habit of mine of slipping away; she calls it my trance.

  Shyam snaps a finger. ‘Bring a chair’

  I sink into the chair. Shyam fans me with the sheaf of papers in his hand. The breeze cools my brow. I feel the tension in my muscles loosen. Just like a child’s, Shyam’s features are taut with the effort he’s putting into the fanning. I like him for now. I close my eyes. ‘Water …’

  Someone brings me a glass of water. Radha holds it to my lips. I sip slowly.

  Radha murmurs, ‘We should let him rest.’

  Shyam looks down at me and says, ‘I think he’s done too much this morning. I told you we shouldn’t have brought him with us.’

  I feel my liking turn inside out. I dislike this way he has of talking about me as if I am not there. I stand up. Blackness threatens to swamp, then settles.

  ‘Don’t talk about me as if I am not present,’ I say. ‘I forgot to take my betel-nut box. If I have a chew, I will be all right.’

  ‘It’s just the heat that is making me ill,’ I try and explain to Chris, who looks concerned.

  I wish they would stop fussing. I am not a doddering old fool. Strangely enough, it is Shyam who bails me out.

  ‘Have you seen my elephant?’ Shyam asks. I look to where he is pointing. An elephant is parked there.

  ‘Whose …’ I begin, but Shyam cuts me off.

  ‘Would you like to go closer and see him?’ he asks Chris.

  Chris smiles. ‘He is enormous,’ he says and there is something akin to wonder in his voice.

  I see Shyam glance at Radha. There is triumph in his eyes.

  ‘He is enormous all right. An enormous baby,’ Shyam says. ‘A very nice elephant to know, in fact!’

  I shake my head. What new scheme is this? Only Shyam would think of something like this.

  ‘Shall we go to your cottage?’ I say to Chris, getting up from the chair.

  Radha and Chris look at each other. Then they move to either side of me. Chris turns to Shyam. ‘Would you ask someone to carry my cello? Carefully, please.’

  So we walk, Radha and Chris flanking me on either side. Shyam follows with the cello and its bearer.

  I tell myself that I did not see the vile look Shyam threw Chris. It is the heat, I think. Or perhaps my imagination.

  When we reach the cottage, Shyam flings open the doors with a flourish. ‘Your home away from home,’ he says.

  Inside, the cottage smells faintly of many things: furniture polish, room freshener, mosquito coil and Flit. The smells tussle with each other for supremacy, but the breeze from the river enters and subdues everything. The curtains at the windows billow as Shyam opens them one by one. ‘The cottage has an air conditioner but I suggest that you don’t bother with it.’

  I catch Radha’s eye. She is embarrassed. I know what she’s thinking. That having offered the cottage for so little, Shyam is trying to economize. Then Shyam says, ‘If you are worried about mosquitoes, I could have a mosquito net pegged around your bed. But you should leave the windows open. The night breeze is cool and brings with it the fragrance of all the flowers in the garden and the neighbourhood. You can hear the night birds. And on a moonlit night, if you lie in bed, here,’ he pats the head of the bed, ‘and look out of the window, you can see the moon and then if you sit up, you can see the river shimmering in its light. It’s very beautiful.’

  I feel the breath catch in my throat. Who would have thought the boorish Shyam capable of such sensitivity? I try to catch Radha’s eye, but she is looking elsewhere.

  Chris smiles and says, ‘But this is wonderful, Sham!’

  Shyam stares back at him unsmilingly. ‘S-h-y-a-m. It’s Shyam.’

  He appeals to Radha, ‘Isn’t there a name in English that is like Shyam?’

  Radha shrugs. Shyam deflects the slight with an animated wave of his arms. ‘So, do you think you will be happy here?’ he asks Chris.

  Chris shrugs. A long-drawn, yes shrug. His eyes are shining when he says, ‘Great! I love this place. Oh yes, I’ll settle for the mosquito net, and if it gets very hot, I’ll consider the air conditioning.’

  �
��Thanks.’

  ‘Mr Koman.’ He turns to me.

  ‘Call me Aashaan,’ I say. ‘Everyone here calls me Aashaan.’

  ‘Aashaan is teacher, master,’ Shyam explains. ‘In fact, once you learn to say Aashaan, you’ll be able to say Shyam properly.’ There is a teasing note in his voice.

  I smile. There is a side to Shyam, I am discovering, that both Radha and I choose not to see. Learning to like Shyam requires an effort that neither she nor I seem to want to make. Perhaps it’s his own fault. He makes it so much easier for us to dislike him. Though, there are others who think differently. His employees love him and he is much admired in town, I hear. What do they see in him that we don’t?

  Shyam looks at his watch. ‘I have a meeting with the municipal chairman at a quarter to twelve. I should be leaving soon. I suggest you shower and rest. Uncle needs to rest, too. You can call for room service, or lunch at the restaurant. It’s up to you. And do feel free to call me any time.’

  Shyam draws out a card from his wallet. ‘This has my mobile number. By the way, would you like a mobile connection while you are here?’

  Chris stretches and yawns lazily. ‘No, I don’t think so. But thank you for asking.’

  Radha takes the card from Shyam and writes her mobile number on it. ‘And this is mine,’ she says. ‘Just in case you get lost or want any help or anything, you can reach me on this.’

  ‘I live in a tiny house nearby,’ I tell Chris. ‘It is alongside the resort. Come by later, in the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll bring him over,’ Radha offers.

  Shyam frowns but doesn’t say anything.

  I stand up. Shyam rushes to my side. I take his arm.

  ‘I am tired,’ I tell him. ‘Could you ask the driver to drop me at my house?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Shyam says. ‘You mustn’t exert yourself like you’ve done this morning.’

  ‘I know,’ I concede. ‘Sometimes I forget I am not young any more.’

  Again we walk the path. Shyam and Radha flank me on either side. I feel Chris’s eyes on us. Who is he looking at? Radha? Or me? Or the picture the three of us make?

  I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. My window overlooks a low wall beyond which are steps leading to the river. When the Nila is full, the water rises to the top step and licks at the low wall. But now it is almost dry and there is just a green pool that ribbons into a brown stream further down.

  There are a few water birds in the deep-green pool. Paddling, bathing, fishing …making do with what they have. I can hear the bird noises.

  The room is dark and spare. I like it this way. Too many things in a room make me feel as if I am in a crowded market. I raise my hand and feel the wooden bars of the window, worn with age. Like the wooden ceiling and the bed I lie on. And Malini, my parakeet. She is asleep with her head tucked under her wing. A feather flies. A pale-green feather. She is moulting with age, just as I am.

  I drift in and out of sleep. I am unable to still my mind.

  I think of the morning. Of the young man. Of Radha and Shyam. Of all three of us and Chris.

  I am too tired to think. I close my eyes and let the bird sounds lull me into calm.

  I wait for them. The evening is warm and still. Then I see them. How perfectly they complement each other, I think. I feel a great sadness. There is grief in this, I can already see it happen.

  The two of them, Chris and Radha, oblivious to the mischief destiny can wreak, smile happily at each other, at the evening, at me.

  ‘You are looking refreshed.’ Radha’s voice swells to include me in her circle of joy.

  Her face wears the radiance of a minukkuvesham: the lovely damsels of kathakali who have chanced upon an inner grace. As for Chris, he is the hero. Nala to her Damayanti. Arjuna to her Subhadra. Krishna to her Radha.

  ‘Chris has so much to ask you,’ she says.

  He smiles almost shyly. ‘I really don’t want to tire you, but I do have a few, actually several, questions.’

  I nod. This is what he is here for. ‘What would you like to know?’

  Chris draws out a file. ‘Philip helped me put this together.’ He turns the plastic sheets. ‘It has a bio with dates of performances, facts and details that are very impressive, but I do need to know more.’

  Radha comes out of the kitchen with three glasses of tea. ‘You’ll have to drink from a glass. Uncle doesn’t have any cups in his kitchen.’

  Chris holds the glass carefully. It is hot and the tea will scald his mouth. I can taste tea only if it burns my tongue. Tobacco has numbed my taste buds and now only the heat can make them bloom.

  ‘Would you like me to cool the tea for you?’ Radha asks.

  Chris puts his glass down. ‘Oh, I’ll wait for it to cool,’ he says. I realize then that he doesn’t like the intrusion.

  Chris touches the file to take up the thread of our conversation.

  ‘I’d like to know everything about you,’ he says.

  I hold up my hand. I am not ready for this. ‘You are not writing my biography. Or is this for a novel, maybe?’

  His eyes drop and then rise to meet mine. ‘I don’t know what I intend to use this material for, or how. All I know is that to understand you as an artist I need to know the man. I know so many artists—writers, painters, musicians, dancers—and they all talk about their art as if it’s a living creature. Something that possesses them to the exclusion of everything else.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Art can be a very demanding mistress …’

  Chris taps his pencil against the table impatiently. ‘I think I will understand what art means to you only when I know how much you have let your art rule you. Your dreams, your hopes, your compromises, your sacrifices—everything that your art has demanded of you.’

  Radha sucks in her breath. She knows how reticent I am and how much I hate to talk about myself. ‘I don’t know if Uncle will …’ she says, rushing in to protect me as she always does.

  I throw her a smile. It’s all right, I tell her with that smile. The honesty of his reply draws me. The man and the artist. I have never thought of myself as split into dual parts. Is it possible?

  ‘Before I begin, I must tell you something that is intrinsic to kathakali. This dance form requires the performer to interpret. It demands that the veshakaaran imagine beyond the poet’s—what is that word you use, libretto …In my story, what I think is real could perhaps be the imagined, and vice versa. Do you understand?

  ‘I have to imagine and interpret not just my own life, but the lives of all the others who have been part of my life. My facts could be wrong, the details could be missing, but I shall hide nothing. That much I can assure you. When you’ve heard it all, you can tell me if the man and the artist are one or dual creatures. You can tell me who rules, the man or the mistress.’

  Chris peels the flap of a pocket on his trousers. He brings out a small tape recorder. ‘May I?’ he asks.

  I nod. It is better this way. For me to imagine my life, and for the words to capture the flow as I speak.

  I open my betel-nut box. I have had this box for god knows how long. I choose two tender, green betel leaves, smear a little paste of lime and wedge the whole into my mouth. Then I pare a few shavings of areca nut with a pocket knife. The fresh areca nut floods my mouth with a juice that settles the sting of the betel leaves. I add a small piece of tobacco.

  I push the betel-nut box towards Chris and gesture for him to help himself. He doesn’t.

  The betel leaves and areca nut wrap me in a fug of comfort.

  I am ready to talk now, I think. I rinse my mouth and drink some water.

  Chris presses a button on the tape recorder. Radha leans back in her chair. Somewhere the flapping wings of a pond heron slash the air.

  ‘In the beginning was an ocean,’ I say.

  Chris raises his eyebrows. ‘An ocean?’

  I smile. I know what he is thinking. That perhaps I am referring to Noah’s Ark, or maybe Vasco da Gama. But he
is too polite to say more, or maybe he is scared that if he offends me I’ll clam up. So he swallows his trepidation.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘An ocean.’

  1937 The Prayer of Humble Access

  This wasn’t how he was meant to die: the water swirling above his head, cascading into his ears and nose, filling his mouth and rushing to his lungs, stilling forever his flailing arms and legs. Salt in his eyes, salt lining the back of his throat, salt poisoning his blood. He rose to the surface one more time and knew that if he were to allow it, he would be pickled in brine.

  Then, from the recesses of his childhood years, from those countless hours spent thrashing his arms and legs in the river, from the humiliation of knowing that he alone hadn’t learnt to master the water while everyone else had, he sought one memory that would allow him to live, to escape the sea and its salt.

  It came then, swimming into his being with the frantic swish of a tadpole’s tail. That one lesson that was to be his mantra for life: Don’t fight it. Close your mouth. Hold your breath. Let your body be.

  Slowly he felt his body lighten. The waters loosened their hold and he knew as his hands tightened on a piece of wood that floated into his grasp that it wasn’t his time yet.

  When he opened his eyes, the face that hovered above his head beamed. ‘Praise be the lord!’

  Sethu wondered where he was, but his tongue wouldn’t form the words to ask. The nurse, a kindly creature with scraped back hair, glasses and a complexion that resembled the bottom of his mother’s cooking pots held his wrist, noting his pulse. Providing that first human contact that rushed tears to his eyes.

  ‘I’m Sister Hope. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up. The fishermen thought you were dead when they saw the gash on your head. Then one of them wasn’t so sure. So they thought of Doctor.’

  He heard the note of awe in her voice for the doctor. But mostly it was her accent that made him want to hug her. What was this place where Tamil had the ring of Malayalam? The roundness, the gathering and pouting of vowels, the heaping of consonants as if they were dried teak leaves …He couldn’t be too far from home.