Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  I think it is she who is living in an unreal world with her F.R.I.E.N.D.S and Whose Line Is It Anyway? What is it that the host, the fat man Drew Carey, says about the show … Where the points don’t matter! That’s what all her preferences are about. Things that don’t matter.

  But she couldn’t fault Rehman, I had thought.

  ‘He’s got all the best names roped in, listen to this,’ I had said, playing the song for her.

  She listened for a few minutes and then rose to go.

  ‘Why? Don’t you like it?’

  ‘It’s too clever by half. How can you stand him?’ She wrinkled her nose.

  ‘He is brilliant. He scored the music for a London musical. Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Bombay Dreams.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The whole world thinks he is terrific.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything to me.’

  So now I listen to the music I like either in the car, or when I am alone at home.

  The clock strikes. It is half past eleven. I wonder if I should talk to the SP about Chris. Some years ago, a young Polish woman came to study with Uncle. She was his private student and he seemed to be getting rather too fond of her. I don’t think the old man felt any passion, but he seemed to have a great deal of affection for her. I wouldn’t have intervened but for the fact that the piece of land he lives on is worth a goldmine. When he dies, it will be Radha’s. I don’t want anything jeopardizing her inheritance. So I dropped into the SP’s office and had a word with him and he saw to it that the woman’s visa was not renewed.

  I hear a car. She is back. I sit up. Then I lie down again, turn the light off and pretend to be asleep.

  Uncle

  The night scents fill the air. I walk slowly, humming Sukhamo nee devi …Are you well, my mistress? Hanuman’s address to Sita when he meets her by accident many years after she has been banished from the kingdom. The words of that padam have always brought tears to my eyes, but tonight I hear the words in my head and I know they are for Maya.

  For the past ten years, Maya has telephoned me every second and fourth Tuesday of the month at a quarter to eight. Her husband has a bridge game then and she has the house to herself. We speak to each other as if we are together in the same room. In the last ten years we have arrived at an ease of conversation that I have never known with anyone else. She tells me it is the same for her.

  When Maya called earlier today, I decided that I would tell her about Radha and Chris and what was brewing between them. ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know, Koman. Who is to tell? They are both old enough to know what they are doing, and its consequences. Like us, Koman. We knew, didn’t we?’

  ‘I worry that Radha will let it languish in her thoughts and not do anything about it.’

  ‘Koman, you sound as if you want her to commit adultery. It is not an easy situation to be in.’

  ‘Maya, you have to see Radha. I cannot believe the change in her. For the first time in many years she looks like she has found a reason to go on.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she divorce him then? It isn’t as though they have children.’

  ‘Shyam isn’t a bad man. He can’t be faulted as a husband. But I can see that Radha isn’t happy with him. To divorce him because he bores her—what court of law would hear of it?’

  ‘They have a phrase for boredom. Irreconcilable differences.’

  ‘I don’t know, Maya, I don’t know where the three of them are heading.’

  ‘Koman, I know you love her very much. But it is her life. You cannot live her life,’ Maya said, and I knew she was right.

  Then Maya said what I had hoped to hear her say seven years ago. ‘Koman, I would like to see you,’ she said.

  I could hear the need in her voice. I would have liked to see her, too.

  But I knew a stab of fear as well. To start everything all over again: did I have the courage? Did I have the stamina?

  I tried to bridle her yearning. ‘Maya,’ I said. ‘I know it’s been very long since we met. But I seldom travel these days.’

  ‘I will come to you. I just need to be with you,’ she said and her voice broke. ‘Just for a few days.’ I heard the plea in her voice. ‘Don’t make me beg, Koman. Allow me that much dignity.’

  I was silent. What was I doing to her, I asked myself. This was Maya. This was the woman I had loved for the last ten years. I smiled into the phone. ‘Then come. You know that I would like you always by my side.’

  What have I done? I wonder.

  I think of what Shyam said to me a few months after he and Radha were married. ‘I have always believed that if you want something badly enough and you wait long enough, it will come to you. I always knew that Radha would be my wife. I was prepared to wait and so it happened.’

  Is he a wise man or an incredible fool, I had wondered. Then curious, I asked, ‘But does it feel the same? Don’t you think the waiting ruins the dream?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He shot me an aggrieved look. ‘I feel the same way about Radha as I did nine years ago.’

  ‘You are fortunate,’ I said, ‘to be able to preserve your dream as you dreamt it, to want it despite all the years of waiting.’

  I know that my dreams have acquired a blurred edge with all the ands and buts I have been forced to make place for.

  I had expected to find Radha and Chris in the lobby. But it was empty, so I decided to walk to Chris’s cottage.

  Radha looked beautiful when she walked in earlier this evening. I had looked at the vision she made and said, ‘You should dress like this more often.’

  Radha made a face. ‘Not you too, Uncle. What is wrong with men? Why do they so enjoy seeing a woman in silk? I really don’t understand.’

  I propelled her towards a mirror that hung in my bedroom. ‘Look at yourself,’ I said. She smoothened the pleats of her sari.

  I smiled. ‘I think it is because men like to think that women have made an effort to please them. It shows, when you wear silk and jewellery and flowers in your hair. I love flowers in a woman’s hair.’

  ‘For an old man you are very romantic,’ Radha teased.

  ‘I am not old,’ I said. ‘I am only sixty-four. That’s not old.’ I looked at myself in the mirror. I still had all my hair and most of my teeth. My face wasn’t lined, except for a few lines near my eyes and mouth. My flesh hadn’t sagged, nor were my muscles loose. ‘Do I look old, Radha?’ I asked.

  ‘There, I knew it. You are vain.’

  I pinched her cheek. ‘You are very happy tonight.’

  ‘I am happy,’ she said, as though it had just occurred to her.

  ‘Good.’ I walked back to the veranda. ‘It pleases me. Now listen, I am expecting a call. So why don’t you go ahead and wait for me with Chris? Remind him to bring his video camera. And do me a favour. Tell him a little about Kalamandalam Gopalakrishnan, who he is and why it will be a treat to watch his vesham.’

  The moon has gone behind a cloud. I look at the sky. Will it rain? Where are these two? Then I see them. Radha and Chris. Wrapped in each other in a tableau of intimacy.

  He is sitting on a chair and she stands between his legs, facing him. The pallu of her sari lies over his knees and trails on the floor and over his instrument. He buries his face in her midriff, and his hands splay over her buttocks, gathering her closer to him. She throws her head back and I see her parted lips and the shuddering of her body. I see her hands plough his hair …

  My breath catches in my throat. I stand there, unable to move away or even shut my eyes. I know I should, but I can’t. My feet are like stone. I have never seen a man and a woman so completely drawn into each other’s need.

  Then I know I have.

  In Uttara Swayamvaram, there is a scene that nobody attaches much importance to. It is a love scene like many others that speckle kathakali librettos. But tonight I understand what the scene is truly about.

  Duryodhana, the cruel Kaurava prince, and his wife Bhanumati are in
a beautiful garden. It is night. The combination of the beauty of the moment and the loveliness of his wife arouses in Duryodhana a great desire to make love to her. He turns to her with the nakedness of his desire showing. Kalyani, he tells her, gazing at the fullness and perfection of her breasts and letting his eyes rake the curves of her body, I can’t think of a more perfect place or time to make love to you.

  Bhanumati doesn’t act coy or hide the intensity of her longing, either. I feel the arrows of desire, she tells him. We are all alone here. And I am yours. Can’t you see how much I long for you? Bees, they say, will suck nectar from even half-open buds; why are you waiting, my beloved? Don’t you see how much I thirst to drink deep of your lips, to feel you against me? Hold me …make love to me.

  The completeness of desire. Chris and Radha. I feel humbled by the intensity of their intimacy.

  I walk away to a little bench under a tree. I sit there and try to collect my thoughts. What are you doing, Radha? I am worried. Do you realize what you are starting here?

  I walk back to the cottage. I cough and shuffle my feet to announce my arrival. They fall apart, hurled separate by my presence.

  I do not step in. ‘We should be going.’

  They look at each other. Did he see us, their eyes ask.

  I get into the front of the car so they can sit together at the back. There is enough electricity between them to light up the entire town.

  I do not know what they will take in of the performance. My mind, too, is full of Maya.

  I do not like open endings. There is nothing clear-cut about their relationship. It occurs to me that there is nothing definite about Maya’s and mine, either.

  I feel a great fear grow in me. What will happen to this love?

  Then I think, I will tell them of another time and another love. I will tell them about Seth and Saadiya, and about love’s consequences.

  1938–1940 The Weight of a Glance

  I, Saadiya, good girl, descendant of the Sahabbakal, descendant of the incomparable Malik, descendant of the leader of Kahirs, with the purest of Arab blood in my veins, lie here felled by the weight of a glance.

  Where does it come from? This pain, this torment. I feel it now as it rises again to clutch me. Twin metal claws that extend from behind my spine and embrace my innards, smashing my resolve not to scream, ripping my flesh, pulling my hip bones apart. I bite my lips as the pain poles into me.

  I am all alone in this room that is heavy with the reek of disinfectant and the darkness of blood effused and screams spilled. All of it has seeped into these walls, I know. I can smell it like I can smell my fear. I wish they were at my side—my sisters, Ummama and Zuleika. They would have stroked my brow, wiped the sweat off my face, given me a hand to cling to and smothered my pain with their caring. I have never felt as lonely as I do now.

  I am paying my dues as I have in the past two years. I am paying my dues for letting the weight of a glance negate the weight of my ancestry.

  Zuleika did what was expected of her. She told Ummama that she found me in the common alley coming in from the road. Ummama did what was expected of her. She threw up her hands and beat her heaving bosom. ‘What have you done, Saadiya? When I tell your father, he will be furious.’ She turned to Zuleika and pinched her forearm. ‘And you? Who else saw her there? Tell me the truth, you lazy cow. Where were you when she decided to put the honour of the family in jeopardy?’

  Zuleika rubbed her forearm where Ummama had pinched her and wept, ‘No one, no one was there. I swear by all that I hold precious. No one saw her. No one knew it was her but me.’

  Then my venerable Vaapa Najib Masood Ahmed did what was expected of him. He had Zuleika heat an iron rod till it blazed a fiery orange and, with tears in his eyes, he laid it on my calf. ‘This hurts me more than it will hurt you,’ he said. ‘But I can’t let you go unpunished for risking the honour of my family.’

  Through my pain, I saw him raise the rod and place it a second time by the line of burnt flesh. I screamed. He looked away and said, ‘It is your age, I know. You feel the need to break rules. This, my Saadiya, good girl, is to still the restlessness in you. The next time you feel the need to break your reins, remember how your flesh melted and how my heart broke.’

  Then for the final time, my venerable Vaapa pressed the now not so hot rod alongside the two bars of burnt flesh and uttered in his coldest voice, ‘This is a lesson for you as much as it is for me, that it is unwise to give girls even a little rope. That it isn’t in women to understand the nuances of freedom. Henceforth, these welts on your calf will help you remember your place.’

  I did what was expected of me. I fainted with the pain. When I regained consciousness, I wept. I wept for the anguish in Vaapa’s eyes and for causing him hurt. I wept for my flesh that was marked by his anger. I wept, for I knew that even though Vaapa had done all he could, I couldn’t stop thinking of those heady moments of freedom. Of a sky that was not bound by grey walls. And of him, Malik, for that was the name I gave him, and of how he had caressed me with his eyes.

  That night as I slept, Vaapa climbed the stairs and came to my room. He carried in his arms his precious Bulbul-tara.

  He flung the door and windows open. Vaapa couldn’t stand to be in a closed room. Then he sat down at the foot of my bed and began to pluck the strings of the musical instrument. The soft notes of the Bulbul-tara echoed a lullaby and Vaapa sang in muted tones the words of the song. I did not know the meaning of the words, nor did Vaapa. Perhaps in the many years of it being passed from father to son, the words had been corrupted. But the melody was that of a lullaby and when I was a little child and ill, Vaapa would sing it to help me sleep. As the words and music swirled around me, I felt a rush of tears in my eyes.

  Vaapa set so much store by this lineage of ours. He sang only the songs his ancestors had bequeathed him. Vaapa loved me more than all his other children, but he loved his ancestry more.

  The music was his way of asking forgiveness. But Vaapa, I wanted to cry, it is I who must ask your forgiveness.

  For I am not sorry for what I did.

  Vaapa, stop the music. Vaapa, go away. Your music makes me think of all that you want me to forget.

  As much as you love your ancestry, so do I. When I close my eyes, I see the stories of my ancestors taking shape.

  I see the ship with the billowing sails. I see the horse. The white steed galloping down the gangplank and racing against the wind. I see the rider …and there I pause. For it is him I see. But I let the story go on and he plucks me from the roof of my prison and takes me into a world where the sky has no end.

  My bodice feels tight. My insides quiver with a queer churning. My breath quickens. I do not understand any of this. Vaapa, you ought to have branded me so that I could never dream again.

  Vaapa, go away and take your music with you.

  They spent the night in a room attached to the dargah. Dr Samuel watched Sethu unfold the bedding that had been provided.

  ‘You probably think this is very ill-mannered of them,’ he said, trying to fathom the set cast of Sethu’s features. ‘But let me tell you, it is an honour. They seldom let strange men in, yet the two of us who are not of their faith are spending the night within the gates.’

  Sethu looked up.

  ‘Yes, in fact, they were very reluctant to let you stay at first. But once I explained that you were my assistant, they agreed. You see, they need me and my medical prowess. They know that, and they also know that if they upset me, I might not make my periodic visits here.’

  Sethu lay in bed unable to sleep. He lay with his eyes closed, feigning sleep, because otherwise the doctor wouldn’t shut up. And all Sethu wanted to do was explore the wondrous sensation the girl had evoked in him.

  It came to him again and again, the beauty of that face. He had never seen a face so untouched by life. The naked hope in her eyes. The slender lines of her throat as she raised her face to the breeze. The slight parting of her lips as if to draw in
the wonder of the moment. And when her tongue had appeared and licked at the curve of her lips, he had felt a desire to be that lip, to draw that pristine being towards him and make her his for life.

  ‘One of the major health hazards in this little settlement is polio,’ the doctor said as he checked the contents of his bag.

  Sethu watched the doctor as he counted the vials of medicine. Sethu had packed the bag as Hope had taught him to. But the doctor was never satisfied till he had personally checked that everything was as it ought to be. Sethu tried to stem his irritation. There was no point in saying it was all there. More and more, it seemed that the doctor and he were having little skirmishes. The doctor’s will prevailed because Sethu knew he needed the doctor more than the doctor needed him. That, Sethu reflected bitterly, was the measure of the doctor’s strength.

  ‘All of them are in-bred a thousand times over. Not to mention the damp—you can see it for yourself. The absence of fresh air in their houses makes them a breeding ground for the disease. And to think the beach is just outside their thresholds. I have been trying to persuade them to let the women go for a stroll everyday, and they say yes to please me but I know that it won’t be allowed,’ the doctor muttered as they walked.

  He turned to Sethu and said, ‘Please remember that you will have to wait in the outer room. And that at no point must you make eye contact with any woman, even if she is old enough to be your great-grandmother. ’

  Sethu nodded. All he could think of was, would he see her again?

  In the first house they went to, Sethu sat in the outer room, silenced by the oppressiveness of its insides, the wooden ceilings and the narrow windows. The weight of the confined space pressed down upon him. The doctor emerged a few minutes later. ‘Nothing complicated here. I have an elderly patient with sciatica. But we must go now to Pasha’s. His son has a fever, they tell me. I hope it is not a resurgence of polio. If it is, heaven help us. And He will. That I am sure of. “It is God that girdeth me with strength, and maketh my way perfect. He maketh my feet like hinds’ feet, and setteth me upon my high places. He teacheth my hands to war, so that a bow of steel is broken by mine arms.”’