by Anita Nair
Yes, I want to tell him. Our opinions, even when they are about a world that has no direct bearing on our lives, are us. And yes, I do think that you have taken away something that is mine. You invaded my mind, my body, and while I had to suppress my desires and dreams and even forfeit my freedom to live the way I wanted to, under the previous regime, at least that existence had a pattern, a method. What do I have now? How am I to function without your support? I am a country that has to rebuild itself from nothing. I am a country that has to face recriminations and challenges and I don’t know where to begin. Worst of all, I don’t even know if you will be there to hold my hand through the rebuilding process. So wouldn’t it have been best to leave me alone?
We are outside Uncle’s house and Uncle is frowning. ‘What is wrong? Have you two been quarrelling?’
Chris runs a hand through his hair. ‘We were arguing about politics and war, except that Radha seems to have gone off in a direction that I can’t follow …’ His eyebrows rise.
I smile. I try to erase the belligerence from my face and the thought that our worlds can never be the same.
‘How is Maya?’ Chris asks.
I try to catch his eye. He looks away. He is still furious, I can see.
‘She is fine,’ Uncle says. ‘We spoke last evening and she said she wished she could come back here right away.’
‘So what’s stopping her?’ Chris asks.
‘Well, there is her husband for one,’ Uncle says, and turns to Malini’s cage. The parakeet is nipping at a piece of jackfruit. When he faces us again, I see him trying to erase the sorrow in his eyes. What is the nature of his relationship with Maya, I wonder.
‘Would you like some jackfruit?’ Uncle asks. ‘It’s come rather late this year, and some of what I have eaten so far has tasted watered down because of the rains, but one of my old students brought me one this morning. It’s delicious. He had his wife prepare them, so I didn’t even have to get my hands messy.’
‘How messy can a fruit get?’ Chris asks.
Uncle and I look at each other and laugh. ‘You should try cutting one open and prising the pods out,’ Uncle says.
‘It’s like sticking your hand into a huge gob of much-chewed chewing gum,’ I giggle.
Chris grimaces.
‘It’s quite disgusting and the process is very tedious, but the fruit …’ I say.
Chris looks at the delight on my face. ‘Do you think I could try one? Eating one, I mean …’ he adds hastily.
Uncle brings out a platter of jackfruit. Picked and cleaned, the pods lie on their side, plump and inviting. Sweetness that glistens.
Chris surveys the plate, unable to decide. He picks one gingerly. ‘Its smell is rather strong, like the durian,’ he says, looking at it suspiciously.
‘Never mind the smell, bite into it,’ Uncle urges. ‘And take care, there is a huge seed inside. You don’t eat that. Not raw, at least. One of these days Radha will make you a curry with it.’
We watch his face as he nibbles at a golden yellow pod.
‘It’s nectar …It’s sweet, smooth, with a little bite. It glides down your throat.’ He spits the seed out into his hand and when he looks up, he is rapturous. ‘It is quite unlike anything I have ever eaten before; it is incredible.’
I am pleased. It gratifies me to know that he finds the jackfruit, fruit of my country, delicious. Nevertheless, I cannot resist the temptation to say, ‘Thank God, there is something about this country that you like.’
Chris eyes narrow speculatively. ‘Oh, I like everything about your country, even …’ He stops abruptly.
‘Even what?’ I ask.
‘I’ll tell you if you promise not to be furious.’
‘I promise.’
“Even its cussedness,’ he says, proffering a jackfruit pod.
Buying my silence with a sop and sweet nothings, I think rather wryly.
Uncle tears a pod into long strips and chews one. ‘What was your quarrel about?’ His eyes are speculative.
We don’t speak.
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, now that you seem to have resolved it,’ he says and pulls out an envelope from a stack of letters. ‘Here, I wanted to show you this.’
He draws out a sheet of important looking stationery from the envelope. ‘This letter says that I have been given yet another award by the government, this time by the state government.’
‘Congratulations. But you don’t seem pleased at all.’ Chris and I speak simultaneously.
‘Well, if I had got the award twenty or thirty years ago, it would have pleased me, but now …’ He makes a face.
It is a grotesque face. One I recognize from the navarasas. Beebhlasam. Disgust. Disdain. Repugnance.
‘I find it utterly pointless. There was a time when an award, or even a felicitation, would have helped prop my self-esteem. Those days I was working relentlessly at my art, giving it all I had. During the nights, when I was on stage, I was a stranger to self-doubt. But every kathakali artist has to face life during the day, when there isn’t a character to submerge himself in, and then a question pops into his head: Why am I doing this? At those times, appreciation for what I was doing, for the homage I paid to my art, would have lifted me out of the intense bouts of melancholy I fell into. Now, when I seldom perform, when age and time have made me more secure as an artist, I don’t need public recognition or these stupid expressions of appreciation. In fact, I see it like a sarcophagus closing in on me. In the hallways of the state assembly, or wherever they decide these awards, they are probably saying: Oh, let’s give that old man an award. What if he pops off one of these days? The whole world will start talking about how wonderful he was. We’ll look like boors who didn’t recognize his worth while he was still breathing.’
‘Don’t say that.’ I take his hand in mine. I am unable to understand the expression in his eyes, but it distresses me. ‘Uncle, the award is not about now. It is to felicitate you for the artist you were and are, and is a tribute to your talent.’ I use words that I hope will please him.
He shakes his head. ‘Such big, hollow words. Don’t you dare talk to me using such words, Radha. You sound like one of those reporters who is sure to hound me when the award is announced. ‘Sir, when did you first know you wanted to be a dancer? Sir, what was your inspiration? Sir, do you think art can change society?’ He mimics a shrill voice.
‘No, Aashaan,’ Chris joins in. ‘She is right.’
I look at him. Chris has learnt to enunciate ‘aashaan’ almost perfectly. My heart leaps at how effortlessly the word comes to him.
‘This award will inspire so many others. Think of it as a recognition of who you are. Both dancer and man.’ He wraps his hands around ours.
Uncle smiles. It is a watery smile.
Chris and I look at each other. I see relief in his eyes and he in mine. For now, we have a commonality of purpose.
And so we stay there, our hands clasped in a temple tower of affirmation, of the hope we have in each other. I raise my eyes and see Shyam standing at the gate. I think of the picture we must make. I see on his face another version of beebhalsam. Hatred. Pure hatred.
Then he sees me and the look disappears. I wonder if I imagined it. I hear him say, ‘Hello, what is going on here? An oath of allegiance …’
Shyam
They fall apart. A house of straw that trembles when the shadow of the big, bad wolf falls upon it. I didn’t even have to huff and puff to blow their tower of hands down. Just the sight of me was enough.
I wipe the anguish from my eyes and put on my most hearty voice. ‘Hello, what is going on here? An oath of allegiance …’
Uncle is the first to speak. ‘They are trying to comfort me.’
Chris looks up and says, ‘Hello, Sham. How are you?’
Not Sham, you bastard. Can’t you get it right? It is S-H-Y-A-M. More and more, when I think of him, I have a recurrent image in my head: Of Chris huddled in a corner while I kick him with booted feet. I
can see the boots in my mind’s eye, the leather gleaming and the undersoles studded with vicious spikes. I would kick him again and again till there was nothing left of him but ribbons and the echo of his torment.
Radha touches my elbow. ‘Shyam, are you listening? I asked, how did you get here so early?’
I shrug. ‘I finished work quickly.’ I had, of course, planned to arrive early, to see if she was with Uncle or if the two of them were ensconced in some cosy corner.
She is not happy I am here, I know. But I pretend that I don’t. I am getting good at this: pretending to not know what is going on, pretending that I don’t see through Radha’s caring wife act of the last few days, pretending that I don’t know that Uncle is their ally, aiding and abetting their intimacy.
All this while, I had thought that Uncle had some measure of love for me. Esteem, too. Now I see there is nothing. He doesn’t care what any of this will do to me as long as it pleases his precious Radha. I think I would like to kick him as well, draw blood from that smug face. I suppose all of them think they have managed to fool me completely. Perhaps they even laugh together about it.
I draw a veil over my thoughts and smile. I don’t want any of them to realize that I am aware of what is going on.
I have thought hard about what I can do to resolve the situation. The simplest thing to do would be to get rid of Chris. The situation would then cease to be a situation. I have contacts who would do the needful. There would be a bloated corpse in the river one morning and no fuss thereafter. But if I do that, I will lose Radha forever. She will enshrine their lust and turn it into a temple. She will appoint herself its high priestess, shave her head, wear white, and sever our ties and my life with it.
I thought half-heartedly of stashing some drugs in his cottage. My friend the SP would do the rest. There would be no harm done to Chris, but he would have to leave. Except that I fear Radha would suspect me of having set him up and she would never forgive me. There is also the worry that the name of the resort would be dragged through mud. I cannot let that happen.
Radha is mine and I will not let Chris take her away. I will have to think of something else. Meanwhile, I will continue to pretend and plot my revenge.
‘Shyam, Uncle’s been given a state award and he’s treating it like it’s a burden,’ Radha says.
I offer my hand to Uncle. ‘Congratulations! But why don’t you like it?’
‘These things don’t matter,’ the old man says.
No wonder you have nothing to show for all the years you have spent capering on the stage, I think. It is not enough being good, you need what my mother considered an essential virtue: saamarthyam. Efficiency of thought. Skill in spotting an opportunity and capitalizing on it. Dexterity in managing your affairs.
I switch on my widest smile and say, ‘But this is such good news. I am delighted. Can I see the letter?’
Uncle gives it to me. I can see from his face that he is unable to decide if he should be pleased by my reaction or vexed. ‘This is fabulous,’ I say, holding up the letter. ‘Radha, did you read this? It’s is so exciting. I tell you, the press is going to camp here once they know about it.’
‘That’s exactly what I fear,’ the old man says.
‘We must celebrate; make a song and dance about the award. I think we should host a reception at the resort,’ I say, folding the letter. Then I look at it and say, ‘May I photocopy this and give it back to you? I could use something from it for a press release.’
‘Shyam, Shyam.’ Uncle holds up his hand. ‘I don’t want any fuss.’
‘It’s a celebration. Not fussing.’
‘Thank you. I am really touched by your wanting to do all this, but no. Do you hear me? No.’
I give him back the letter. I pretend a reluctance I don’t feel. I pretend to be aggrieved. But within, I laugh. Listen, you old man, you don’t think I mean it, do you? I have absolutely no intention of wasting my time or money on something I will not profit from. Especially not for you, who have been an accomplice in this crime that the two of them, your niece and her lover, have committed against me.
‘Radha, tell him,’ I insist.
Radha sighs. ‘If he is not willing, how can we force him?’
I raise my hands in an expansive demonstration of helplessness. Then I see the smudge on her shoulder. It’s a love bite, one my mouth did not cause.
I reach over and touch the spot. ‘What is this?’ I ask.
She starts. She turns pale. She touches it. Unknowingly, her eyes dart to Chris. Then she pulls together the collar of her shirt to hide the bruise and gropes for an explanation. ‘I think I must have hit the door jamb. The one in the dining room that sticks out. You know how clumsy I am.’
She seeks Chris’s eyes to check if the explanation is satisfactory, but he, practised seducer that he is, looks elsewhere. I know then that they fucked this morning.
I feel it again, that gathering of loathing from the ends of my limbs, the pit of my stomach, the base of my spine, through my veins and nerves. I know that if I contain it within me, I will explode, or strangle the two of them. I exhale my hatred.
I look at Uncle. He looks embarrassed.
He shifts in his chair and taps the birdcage. A shaft of light falls on him. It catches the gold of his button. Is it real gold after all, I wonder.
Uncle wears a blouse-like shirt. It is the kind you pull over your head, its collarless ends held together by a gold stud. Hardly anyone wears such old-fashioned clothes any more. Even old men have switched to bush shirts. But Uncle, of course, has to be different. So the particular cotton material has to be procured and the tailor has to stitch it according to the pattern he provides. Radha does all this willingly. But when I ask her to go with me to choose a shirt, a note of weariness enters her voice: ‘Do you really want me to? I am not good at selecting shirts. You should do it yourself. You are the one wearing it. What does it matter whether I like it or not? It’s enough if you do.’
I wonder if it is on the old man’s bed that they fuck. Does he stand outside, here on this veranda, keeping watch, ready to warn them, while within they squeal and grunt?
I mop my face. I am sweating and I do not like to be seen as a man who has lost control. My methods and means are subtle.
For now I think I will content myself with a petty act of revenge.
‘Uncle,’ I say. ‘I have been meaning to ask you a favour.’ I look around, gathering all of them into the discussion. The old man pauses in the process of folding a betel leaf. ‘What is it?’ he asks.
‘When I was in Kochi, a tour operator took me to a few resorts. You know that, unlike them, we have very little to offer by way of landscape—apart from the river, that is. What we do have here is kathakali. At a few of those resorts, they take the tourists for a performance and they tell me that the tourists love it. I was thinking, why don’t we do the same? Except that we host the performance at the resort during the season.’
‘Shyam!’ I hear the horror in Radha’s voice.
I hold up my hand to silence her. ‘Please, let me finish. Not a full performance, mind you. My guests would fall asleep. Just enough to interest a western audience. We could choose something from Duryodhana Vadham or Prahaladacharitam or one of the battle scenes. Something vigorous and colourful …and gory.’
‘Shyam,’ Radha says in the voice she puts on when she is trying to convince me to change my mind. It is a voice that suggests ‘I-know-you-are-stupid-but-I-will-still-try-and-make-you-see-some-sense’.
‘This isn’t like tethering an elephant to a tree in the resort.’
‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Padmanabhan is a great success. My guests love him. All of them tip the mahout and actually give him an extra fifty-rupee note to buy Padmanabhan bananas. I tell you, kathakali will be a great draw!’
‘Just because kathakali is colourful and …and …energetic, you can’t turn it into a before-dinner act to amuse your guests.’ Radha doesn’t even bother to hide her annoyance
any more.
‘But Sham, this is preposterous,’ Chris says. ‘Surely you can’t ask that of Uncle …’
‘Did I mention Uncle’s name?’ I ask the two of them. ‘You jumped to that conclusion. I didn’t. Uncle is too old. I am sure he doesn’t have the strength to perform such energetic scenes. Besides, no one wants to see an elderly Krishna or Bheema.’
I see Uncle wince. Somewhere within me, the injury he has done me begins to hurt less.
‘Shyam, how dare you?’ Radha is furious, as I knew she would be.
‘Why? What have I done? I was only asking Uncle if he knew someone who could come here once a week. One or two dancers …young performers. We won’t have to pay them as much.’ My tone is querulous, veering towards injured. I am beginning to enjoy the discomfort I am causing.
‘I think it is ridiculous. Other resorts might do it, but you can’t turn an art form into a circus act.’ Chris is just as furious as Radha.
Uncle stands up. ‘May I interrupt?’
There is silence.
‘You will need more than a veshakaaran or two,’ he says.
I nod. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘You will need two singers. You will need the percussionists—the chenda, maddhalam and idekka.’
‘Can’t we use a recording?’
‘It won’t be the same. Live music adds to the atmosphere.’
I agree, but don’t say anything. Uncle waits for me to speak. When I don’t, he continues, ‘You will need a pettikaaran and you will have to either rent the costumes and the crown, or invest in a set. In the long run, it might be cheaper to invest. Also, you might not be able to rent a crown when you need one. Kathakali may have turned into a commercial business, but the crown is still considered sacred. So the first preference would be a temple performance rather than one at a resort.’
‘How expensive would it be?’ I ask.
Uncle frowns. ‘I don’t know for certain. About sixteen thousand rupees maybe, for just the crown. Give me a day or two and I will let you know.’