Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  ‘Just an hour ago. He will be back at four, he said.’

  ‘Who? The elephant? Does he talk?’ I teased.

  Sebastian grinned. ‘No, no …the mahout, I mean.’

  Unni, my princely reception clerk, told me that the German group had arrived and that we had had to turn away a few guests. We were fully booked. I felt my smile grow. I peeped into the restaurant. The tables were all occupied. It was off-season, but you wouldn’t know from the look of it, I thought with relief. The last few days had been quiet and I had begun to worry.

  When I was finally seated in my office, Unni came in to find out if I wanted lunch. I frowned, unsure. Then I decided to eat lunch at the resort and for once not worry about my unhealthy choice of food and whether it was going to give me a heart attack before I turned forty.

  I leaned back in my chair. My morning had been busy and exacting, yet all along I had felt tranquil. Radha seemed to have found herself.

  Last night I had come back home to find her in a strange mood. Something was troubling her. I knew that she had spent the evening with Uncle and Chris. I had tried to cancel my evening meeting, but I couldn’t. I wondered what had happened between them. I knew that Uncle had begun telling his life story. But would that affect her so?

  Or had the Sahiv said something? I was not certain I liked the way Chris looked at my Radha. Or the manner in which she seemed to flower in his presence. Women are such suckers for flattery. Even a woman as self-contained as my Radha.

  I poured myself a drink and sat down with a file I needed to check for the morning’s meeting. She was watching TV—or that was what I thought. Then I noticed that all she was doing was flipping channels. She picked up a magazine, read a page and slapped it down; she picked up another magazine and dropped it back; she walked to the veranda as if she was going somewhere, came back and curled up in a chair; she toyed with her food and left it uneaten; and in bed she lay awake for god knows how long.

  This morning, however, she was a different woman. It was as if she had exorcised whatever demons had run amok within her. She was at peace. She also showed no inclination to go to the resort, and that was when I allowed myself to breathe.

  I knew I was being silly, but I worried. I saw a threat everywhere. I worried that Radha would leave me some day. That a sweet-talking, pretty boy would turn her head and she would go, lured by his flattery and charm. Then I pulled myself up. I was not bad-looking and, when I wanted to, I could sweet-talk better than anyone else.

  I would have gone home for lunch, but Radha was still not home. I looked at the picture I had of her on my table. Her eyebrows, all the stray hair between them removed, arched above her large brown eyes. Her hair, the hair that I loved, framed her face. She wore it down even on the warmest of days, but in bed she wore it plaited. ‘Won’t you leave your hair down? It’s so beautiful,’ I said when I saw her plaiting it one night. I had visions of her hair snaking over me, of burying my face in that fragrant skein. But she finished plaiting her hair, threw it over her shoulder and said, ‘Oh no, it will get tangled and the ends will split.’

  I know I should get up and wash my hands. But I am feeling replete. Baby George doesn’t skimp on oil or coconut, spice or quantities. At home, Radha insists that we eat a low-fat, low-cholesterol, high-fibre meal. Which means lots of vegetables. Meat is allowed on the table only twice a week. And the fish is always swimming in a curry. When I protest, she says, ‘You are almost forty. You need to be careful about what you eat.’

  I love good food and find this regime torturous. But I am delighted by her concern. So I eat my vegetable upperis, restrict myself to one egg a week and my drinking to one peg a night.

  For my Radha, I am quite willing to starve myself of life’s joys.

  When I reach home, it is almost dusk. The thookuvilakku hanging from a wooden beam in the veranda is being lit. I stare at the lamp, surprised. I feel a warm glow within me.

  The thookuvilakku was the only heirloom, apart from a bronze cauldron, that my mother had managed to hold on to. When she died, Rani Oppol took the cauldron and I brought this to the house—Radha’s house and now ours. She had taken it from me and examined it. ‘It’s very beautiful. Such exquisite workmanship,’ she said.

  I caressed its bronze sides and said, ‘Precious, too.’

  ‘Does everything have to be about money?’ she snapped.

  Just then the phone rang and I hastened to pick it up. I meant to explain to her that I hadn’t meant its value in rupees. But by the time I finished my call, the moment was lost.

  At first Radha lit the lamp every evening. Then she stopped. When I asked her, a couple of days later, she said, ‘I thought the lamp was an accessory to the house. I didn’t realize you attached so much religious significance to it.’

  ‘There is nothing religious about lighting a lamp,’ I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. ‘It looks nice. Adds grace to a home.’

  She smiled. ‘I am sorry. I won’t forget. I’ll instruct one of the maids to light it faithfully every evening. Happy?’

  I shook my head. I didn’t say anything. What was the point? She was the woman of the house. She should be the one to light the lamp and not a maid. But I didn’t want to start a quarrel.

  Tonight, it is Radha who is lighting the lamp.

  I am a blessed man, I think. I have a beautiful home and a prosperous business. And I have Radha. My Radha.

  The lamp lights up her eyes. Her hair flows down her back. She smiles at me.

  In the night, when I make love to her, she responds with a passion that surprises me. Her hair is spread over the pillow; an aura of her pleasure, I think, when I look down into her eyes.

  I settle her head into the crook of my arm and as I fall asleep, I think again: I am blessed.

  In the morning, Radha shows no interest in accompanying me to the resort. ‘I must check if the Sahiv is all right,’ I toss at her.

  She continues to eat. I expect her to say she will go with me. But she seems more interested in her dosa. I know relief again.

  Whatever fascination Chris held for her seems to have been shortlived.

  ‘I wonder how he is getting along with Uncle,’ I pursue. ‘I will ask him. Shall I bring him over for lunch?’

  ‘Who?’ Her voice is a yelp. She must have choked, for she started coughing.

  ‘Uncle.’

  ‘That will be nice,’ she says, sipping water to clear her throat. ‘But not for lunch. Dinner will be better. I have things to do this morning.’

  I smile. ‘What now? A visit to the tailor, is it?’

  She smiles back. ‘Mmmm …this and that!’

  ‘I’ll leave the car for you,’ I say on my way out.

  After all this time, we seem to be finally getting it right.

  Chris is sitting on the veranda when I get there. His hair is wet and gleaming, as if he has just showered. His chin is smooth. Thank god, he had shaved. But the absence of stubble draws attention to the cleft in his chin. He is a pretty bugger, I think. Not masculine handsome, but boyish pretty. A fair enough Lolan.

  ‘All well?’ I ask and walk towards him. He smiles and rises. I stand on the veranda for a moment and then walk past him into the cottage. The door is open, after all. He seems to have made himself at home. The instrument is sitting in a dark corner. His laptop is on the table and there are a few books lying on a window ledge. I arrange the books neatly. Chris follows me. He doesn’t seem very pleased that I have walked into the cottage or that I am handling his things, but he needs to know that I own the place and while he might stay here, I have my privileges.

  Chris says, ‘Thank you. All is well. Is Radha here?’

  I feel my eyes narrow. ‘She is at home. She is busy,’ I say. Then, hoping to steer him away from any more talk of Radha, I ask, ‘So, you’ve been spending time with Uncle. What has he been telling you? How far has he got? Do tell me.’

  Chris smiles. A wry smile. ‘I went there yesterday. But he wasn’t in t
he mood, he said. Instead, he told me the story of how he acquired his parrot. A very interesting story, of course, but not what I wanted to know. I intend going back this evening. I hope he will be more forthcoming then.’

  I feel a smile coming to my face. I am delighted. I had thought he and Uncle were going to be inseparable. Like jaggery and a fly. Destined to be stuck together. But it obviously isn’t so. I mask my glee and switch on my but-this-is-terrible expression.

  ‘There is no telling with these artistic types,’ I say. ‘We have to be patient. But it is best to be prepared. I just hope your time here won’t be wasted.’

  I hope Uncle will clam up. I hope you will be so frustrated by his reluctance to talk that you will give up and go back, I think. The sooner you leave, the better for all of us. I must have had an evil star eclipsing my good sense when I agreed to rent you the cottage for next to nothing. But I say, ‘I hope he will be more helpful.’

  ‘Do you think Radha will come by later this evening?’ he asks.

  Not if I can help it, I think. What is with this man? Doesn’t he realize that Radha is a married woman? My wife has other things to do, Mister, I want to tell him. ‘No, I don’t think so. In fact, it may be several days before she comes here again,’ I say, trying to hide how rattled I am by his need to see Radha.

  ‘Oh,’ he says.

  I put out my hand to shake his. ‘I will take your leave then,’ I say, giving his palm a good hard squeeze. I don’t go to the gym any more, but my hands haven’t lost their strength.

  It is a quarter past twelve when I reach my office.

  Unni walks in. ‘Yusuf called,’ he says.

  I frown. What can Yusuf want?

  Yusuf runs the match factory. He used to be the supervisor of a small unit that made agricultural implements at the Small Scale Industrial Estate at Kolapulli. When the unit closed down, Yusuf found himself out of a job. It was then he came to me with the suggestion that I open a match factory.

  I had stared at the tall man with the strong face who seemed to have worked it all out. He looked like an aristocrat, his bearing was so noble. As for his voice, it was a rumble when a whisper, and thunderous when he conversed. ‘Why do you think I need a match factory?’ I asked.

  ‘I heard that you asked the local match factory if they could make you some special matches and that you are still negotiating a price.’

  ‘That is true, but no one buys an orchard merely to eat a dozen mangoes, do they?’

  ‘That may be right, but I assure you that you won’t lose any money.’

  ‘What do you know about matches?’

  ‘Very little. But my niece works in the match factory. She has been there for several years and she will bring all the other experienced workers with her. I can assure you of that. You will not lose any money and the investment isn’t all that much. You have that piece of land near Kolapulli. The old tyre retreading place. So even the shed is ready.’

  He seemed to know what he was talking about and that was how I set up the match factory. Yusuf kept his word. I didn’t lose any money and made only profits and well-wishers. The women who worked there sent me their brothers and sons and sometimes even their husbands to work in my other businesses.

  My friends who have labour trouble all the time ask me, ‘Shyam, how is it you always find good, hard-working people?’

  And I tell them, ‘Get the woman of the family to support you and she will ensure that her menfolk do.’

  Then I would feel a wrench within, for I hadn’t been able to get the woman in my house to support me in anything I did.

  But all that is different now, I think with a start of happiness.

  I hold the phone away from my ear to prevent Yusuf’s boom from bursting my eardrum. ‘Yes, Yusuf, tell me.’

  ‘You mustn’t misunderstand what I am about to tell you. I don’t mean any offence, but it is imperative that I speak to you about this,’ Yusuf says.

  ‘Go on, tell me, what is on your mind?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, it’s about madam.’

  ‘Yes?’ I feel my abdomen go hollow. What has she done now? When I started the resort, Radha took it upon herself to tell my staff that she and I were to be called by our names: ‘none of this sir and madam business’. It took me a long time to make her understand that they would never do it. While she may not respect such divisions, they were not foolish enough to transgress them.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, shaking myself out of my reverie.

  ‘Madam was here yesterday.’

  ‘Oh.’ Why didn’t she tell me?

  ‘She stayed all morning. She sat around for some time and then she said she would read the newspapers aloud rather than let anyone else do it. In fact, she insisted and we had to agree. Then she had someone fetch her a meal from a restaurant nearby and ate lunch with the women. It seems she told them that the food they ate wasn’t nutritious enough. She was very polite. Madam is never anything but polite. But some of the women were very offended. They thought it was a slur on their cooking.’

  I sigh.

  Yusuf echoes my sigh. ‘You see, don’t you? And yet, what really worries me is her wanting to read aloud to them.’

  Yusuf applies shop-floor practices from other industries, but somehow he always manages to make them work. That is how we had the system of newspapers and magazines being read aloud to the workers. Yusuf said it was done in beedi factories in Kannur and it relieved the monotony and tedium of such intensive manual work. The workers took turns to read and were paid full wages for the task. So they were all pleased with the arrangement. In the afternoon, the radio was turned on; there were enough programmes to keep them amused. The system had worked until now.

  ‘The women don’t like it. They don’t like being stripped of what they think is their right. They don’t like the way she reads, either. You see, they are used to a particular style of reading. But most of all, they don’t like literature being thrust down their ears. All along, I have got them magazines like Mangalam and Nana. Easy reading, if you know what I mean. Yesterday madam read aloud the editorial pages, ignoring all the juicy titbits they prefer. They were willing to endure it for one day. But she is here again this morning and she has brought Tolstoy’s War and Peace with her. I can see that they are very displeased. Irate workers are no good.’

  I assure him that I will ensure Radha doesn’t upset their routine again. Then I put the phone down.

  What am I going to do?

  I close my eyes and hear again the drone of the reader. The absence of all emotion in her voice allows the listeners to interpret the words their way. And here is Radha with her convent-educated Malayalam and her War and Peace and diet charts, seeking to contribute but only usurping what the workers consider their privilege. How am I to convince Radha that they don’t want her there, without offending or hurting her, or ruining our new found amicability?

  As I think about it, I begin to get angry. What a thing to do. To go to the match factory without telling me. And then to make an arbitrary decision without consulting me. It was better when she stayed aloof from my business activities. Now I have to clean up her mess.

  Does she ever consider that such silly acts have repercussions? Besides, what will my friends and their wives say if they find out? We have a place in society. A standing that Radha has always treated rather carelessly. But this is more than I am willing to suffer.

  I call Radha on her mobile. I am coming home for lunch, I say. I know she will return home then.

  Radha is sitting on the veranda. She is waiting for me. This is a new Radha. Someone who waits for me to arrive, eager for my presence. Words spill out of her mouth in a rush, her cheeks glow, her eyes sparkle. I see the radiance of what she thinks is a day well spent. The angry words in my mouth halt. How can I take this away from her?

  After we have eaten, we move to the sitting room. It is a beautiful room. Everything here is old and stately: rosewood sofas and upright chairs, small teak tables and a tall boy. An old cloc
k keeps time and in a curio cabinet are some beautiful pieces of glass and porcelain. Everything is as it used to be in Radha’s grandfather’s time. When I was a child, I was never allowed to step into this room. Often, I would sneak a look from the doorway. Now it is here I sit when I am at home. It is the room I love best. I glance through my post. Radha has the TV on. I can see she is eager to talk. I pile the letters into a heap.

  ‘You won’t believe where I was this morning and yesterday,’ she begins.

  I pretend surprise. ‘Weren’t you at the beauty parlour and the tailor’s?’

  ‘That’s what you think. I was at the match factory.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I feel that I have finally found something to do. Do you know they have a nice little arrangement there? One of them reads aloud while the others work. I have said that from now on I will do it. I plan to go there everyday and introduce them to literature. Right now they listen to serialized romances and gossip about film stars. In fact, this morning I took War and Peace. What do you think I should start after that? Kafka would be too morbid. Márquez would be nice. Yes, he would be perfect …’

  I groan. Which world does she live in?

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ I say.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong?’ She stares at me.

  ‘Everything. Don’t you realize that these women don’t want to hear Tolstoy or Márquez or any of your intellectual writers? They want their romantic fiction and cinema gossip.’ I pause and then decide to say what is really troubling me. ’‘There is something else. I don’t like it. You are my wife and you have a place in society. When I ask you to show some interest in what I do, I mean just that. Display interest and not hobnob with my employees or share meals with them.’