Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  ‘Uncle.’ Radha’s face is a study in disgust. ‘You are not going to agree to this, are you? Shyam doesn’t even understand that he is trivializing what is sacred to you.’

  ‘It is a desecration. How can you even consider it?’ Chris demands.

  The old man looks at them. He shakes his head. His tone is mild, but his eyes are tinged with anger. ‘I have a student who is a fulltime employee in a film studio. After eight years of intense training, do you know what he is reduced to doing? Every morning he dons a full costume, including the crown, and waits. He waits, hoping that one of the sets in the film city will require his presence. On a good day he will be asked to show a few mudras, perhaps even do a kalasham. Some days he is merely a prop. Some days he just waits. That is desecration. I am not blaming my student. My heart goes out to him. I can imagine what he must endure, the revulsion he perhaps feels for himself. But he has to eat, he has to live, and kathakali equips him to do nothing except perform. I blame the society that makes a mockery of this art. Haven’t you seen that commercial for liquid blue that uses a kathakali dancer in full costume? What does a veshakaaran have to do with the whitening of clothes? Haven’t you seen film sequences where the hero and heroine hold hands with a line of kathakali dancers and all of them perform high kicks like they are chorus girls in a Broadway show? That is desecration. I would never blame the dancers. A scene like that would keep the kitchen fires burning for a week in a veshakaaran’s home and when you are hungry, you can’t cling to your principles. We are an anachronism in today’s world. Our art demands effort from us and the audience. But who has the time for all that? A kathakali dancer has no place in the modern world. He is an endangered species.

  ‘So here are Shyam and his foreign guests, eager for a glimpse of a Kerala art form. At least once a week, a veshakaaran can be a character he has trained to be. So what if it is abridged, so what if he is asked to play only the spectacular scenes, so what if his scope to interpret is limited? Amidst all the selling of his soul he has to do, he is allowed respite. He is given his dignity back.

  ‘Why, Shyam is a patron. In his own way, he is keeping kathakali alive. You need to appreciate that and not condemn him and his proposal.’

  I flush. I look away. In matters of revenge, I think, it is best to be savage rather than subtle.

  Loathing surfaces again. This time, though, it is for myself. For the malice I had intended. For wanting to hurt the old man. I realize that no matter what, I can’t really hate him. Just as I can’t hate Radha.

  Uncle

  Radha is furious. Her eyes blaze. She turns to me. ‘Uncle, I don’t understand you at all. On the one hand, you dismiss this award as of no consequence, and on the other, you think what Shyam is proposing is almost laudable.’

  For the first time, I am beginning to see what Shyam is up against in his marriage. Perhaps the bravado he shows, the Mr Fix-it exuberance, the know-all air he wears, is merely to hide this constant corrosion of self-esteem he must have to endure. And yet, I cannot help being touched by Radha’s concern. For some time now she has appointed herself my keeper and like a mother hen she will rush to defend me at the slightest hint of danger. In many ways our roles have reversed. She looks out for me like I used to for her. I pat her head soothingly.

  ‘You must try and understand that Shyam’s idea has a lot of merit attached to it. I do see in it a ray of hope for the art itself. The award, now, is personal. I don’t need any awards to tell me the calibre of my artistry. In fact, the only award that means anything to me is this,’ I say, touching my button.

  ‘The gold button?’ I hear the amazement in Chris’s inflection.

  ‘I always thought the gold button must be a memento. I didn’t realize you got it as an award,’ Radha says.

  And Shyam—only Shyam would ask, ‘Is it 18 or 22 karat gold?’

  I touch the gold button. ‘Does it matter? It is the most precious thing I have ever been given in my life.’

  My performance at the little Shiva temple, I had thought, would elicit some comment from the world. As time went by, it occurred to me that my Dharmaputran had gone unnoticed. Every day I got angrier and angrier. I shouldn’t have let Aashaan talk me into it, I thought. I should have waited for a more prestigious occasion, a more important venue. Who had even heard of this Shiva temple? If I hadn’t gone there myself, I wouldn’t have known it existed.

  The resentment that consumed me began as a sense of doubt. Had I made a mistake by accepting the invitation to be the lesser version of Dharmaputran? At that time, it was enough that I had been asked. The doubt transformed into displeasure and when it became bitterness, I felt as if my whole being was changed. I couldn’t meet Aashaan’s eyes. I felt my gestures become clumsy and my expression harden into wood. It was only when he asked me to be a villainous creature that my feelings surfaced.

  And so it was that one morning, while Aashaan was watching me, he said, ‘Good! I think your resentment is ready to be made use of now.’

  I stopped. It was unheard of for anyone to pause in the middle of a class unless Aashaan asked them to. But I couldn’t help it.

  Aashaan drew his chellapetti closer. He waved his hand to dismiss the class. Then he opened the chellapetti and drew out two betel leaves. Slowly he prepared them. I felt anger uncoil within me. I knew he was doing it deliberately. Once the betel leaves were in his mouth, it would be a full five minutes before he spat out the juice, rinsed his mouth, drank water and was ready to talk.

  ‘Aashaan,’ I said, not bothering to hide my impatience.

  He raised his eyebrows: wait.

  I stared at my fingernails. I swallowed. Words. Anger. Bile. Two can play at this game, I decided.

  Then Aashaan cleared his throat. ‘Here, look at yourself.’

  I raised my eyes. Aashaan held a small mirror in his hands. ‘Look at your face. Do you see the righteous indignation? This is the Balabhadran I wish to see.’

  I turned towards the older man. I felt my heart do a kalasham.

  Tai nta. Ti. Nta. Ta. Ti. Ti. Tai. A series of steps in the ten beats of the champa tala to match the rhythm of my unruly emotions. Is he—angry with me—or does he mean something else—could it be?

  ‘What do you mean?’ The words merged with the tempo of my thoughts.

  Aashaan looked at me. There was indulgence in his eyes, and a trace of sorrow. ‘After your Dharamaputran at the Shiva temple, I received many invitations on your behalf. They chose to write to me instead of you, perhaps because I was and …’ he paused, ‘am your guru. They asked you to be this and that. All second-grade characters. I decided to not even let you know, because I was waiting for something like this.’

  ‘Waiting for what, Aashaan?’ I knew joy then. My Dharmaputran had made an impact. I was an artist, an artist of calibre. Unable to hide my excitement, I drew closer to him. ‘Who do they want me to be?’

  ‘Patience, patience.’ Aashaan moved a step back. Then he said, ‘Balabhadran in Subhadraharanam.’

  I closed my eyes. Balabhadran. Balarama. Brother of the more famous Krishna. Hero. Noble being with the mustard yellow colouring of the pazhuppu character.

  ‘Do you realize now why I had to let you stew? Dharmaputran was perfect for a debut. But to make an impact, for your artistry to be recognized, you need a vesham that is full of energy. Where your abhinaya and natya capabilities receive equal attention. Your interpretation of the character and your dexterity with your hands and feet need to be demonstrated. And Balabhadran is that platform.’

  I felt shame creep over me. I had thought that Aashaan’s silence had been prompted by a sense of insecurity. I had told myself that my vesham had made Aashaan feel inadequate and so he was trying to put me down.

  ‘Aashaan,’ I began, wondering how to phrase my apology.

  He raised his hand to stall the words. ‘I know you wanted praise. I know you craved for words of appreciation. I know that you wished me to say I was happy with your Dharmaputran.

&nbs
p; ‘I was happy. I was happy that the boy who stood before me eight years ago and said, I know that when I am a veshakaaran, I will know who I am, had lived up to the promise of his words.

  ‘Here, this is all I have to offer you.’

  Aashaan undid the gold button from his shirt. Then he opened my palm and pressed it into it. I felt the pressure of the button. An indelible print of recognition.

  ‘Koman, you must understand this. I knew if I were to tell you what I thought of your vesham, you would think that there was no need for improvement. You, like the other men of your age, are arrogant. That arrogance is what I wished to tame. Then the offers began to come and I thought you would, in your eagerness to perform, accept them. And those roles, Koman, would have ruined you. When I heard that they wanted you for Balabhadran, I was happy. My Koman would be Balabhadran.

  ‘But first you had to be prepared. So I decided to keep quiet for some more time. I did want to talk to you about your vesham that night. Of how you stepped into my place and were Dharmaputran like no other, perhaps.’

  I flushed. My palm tightened around the gold button.

  ‘But how could you be Balabhadran till you knew a fury such as this? Have you ever known righteous indignation? That is Balabhadran’s presiding emotion.

  ‘Imagine this: you have chosen a groom for your sister Subhadra. He is none other than Duryodhana, your favourite student. That he is a vile man, you choose to ignore. You only know him as an exemplary student and a good person in your interactions with him. Then your brother Krishna invites an ascetic to the palace. He insists that your sister be his handmaiden. The ascetic is Arjuna in disguise. The handsome, valiant Arjuna. Your sister and he fall in love and, when you are away, they elope with Krishna’s blessing.

  ‘You hear of the elopement on your way home. You hear of it as gossip. And you realize that your brother and Arjuna have betrayed you. And it is not just anger you feel, it is righteous anger.

  ‘When the padam begins with kutravada kutravada, vrithariputrane …, you need to be almost shivering with rage. For you are asking: where is he, where is he, that Indra’s son Arjuna and my enemy, whom I shall destroy the moment I see …

  ‘What do you know of such righteous anger, Koman?

  ‘Manam-anghum mizhiyi-inghum,’ Aashaan hummed the padam from Nalacharitam.

  I stared at my feet. I knew what he was implying. The words of the padam said it plainly enough: What good is it if your eyes are here and your mind elsewhere? Aashaan was right. What did I know of righteous anger?

  Aashaan took a deep breath. ‘I knew that with every day I kept mute, your anger would grow. I saw displeasure. I saw resentment. I saw doubt. I saw hate. I saw these grow in you, one by one: the components of what makes a man feel betrayed. When your sense of betrayal was complete, I knew that you would be Balabhadran incarnate.’

  The kalari was silent. I felt tears in my eyes. I stepped towards Aashaan and touched his feet. ‘Samastha paapam porukkanam; forgive my trespasses.’

  ‘There is no need for you to use such words as forgiveness,’ Aashaan said. Then, as if he couldn’t help himself, he said, ‘Eight years ago, I thought you were too young to mean what you said. How could a child speak with such conviction?

  ‘I thought, does he know what he is saying? Does he know what it is to be the mistress of kala? We are kept men, Koman, you and I. Ruled and presided over by our art’s whims and desires and in return kathakali alone makes us feel as if we are exalted beings.

  ‘But a true artist is also someone who is able to sustain his belief in his art, and knows that what the world thinks of his art is irrelevant. Why did my words of praise or lack of them make such a difference to you? Didn’t you know for yourself? Can’t you be objective and know when you’ve done your best and when you were merely mediocre? Wasn’t that good enough for you?’

  I watched Aashaan leave. I sat on the steps of the kalari, looking at the gold button in my palm. Was it enough for me to know, I wondered. Was I even old enough to know? A few years from now, perhaps, I would be content with my own objective analysis of my artistry. I would feel a sense of accomplishment. But for now, I needed gold buttons and words of praise. I wanted adulation and applause. I wanted the world to pause at my feet.

  ‘You must be satisfied that your dream came true; your talent was recognized and is still being celebrated …’ It is Shyam who breaks the silence that follows my reminiscence.

  Malini cackles. I smile. The bird has an uncanny ability to interject the right emotion at times when I am hesitant to say what I really think.

  ‘Am I satisfied, Shyam? I don’t know. You see, there was a time when everything in me ached for recognition. Perhaps recognition is the wrong word. For the truth is, all I sought was a true evaluation of my talent, except I didn’t know the difference then. Do you know there is a game to be played in this whole business of being an artist? Contacts to cultivate, people to flatter, the need to be seen in the right circles, to attach oneself to a clique, whoring your integrity, these are all pre-requisites for an artist’s career graph to shoot upwards.’

  ‘So, did you play the game?’ Chris asks.

  ‘No, I didn’t. Perhaps only because I didn’t know there was a game to be played. What scares me is the thought that I might have played the game if I knew how to.’

  ‘Uncle, you are too hard on yourself.’ It is Radha who again seeks to soften the edge of my memories.

  ‘No, my dear. I wasn’t always so sure about my artistry. There was a time when I let someone else’s opinion affect me. For a while, it made me hate my art. It wasn’t even a true or formed opinion. A few ugly words, and I was ready to give it all up. Which meant that all my training, my dedication, my artistic soul as I called it then, was a surface act. I wasn’t an artist who knew a oneness with the universe when I was at my best. How shall I describe it? On a day when I have caught the essence of the role, I know a serenity, a sense of completion that is like no other. In those days, however, I was a performer hungry for applause.

  ‘I should have known, shouldn’t I, if I was true to my abilities or not? Perhaps that is why Aashaan gave me this gold button. To remind me of what I was capable of. But I allowed myself to be distracted and clamoured for something else. Even after all these years, when I think about that episode, I feel my insides shrivel in self-loathing.’

  I decide to tell them about it. ‘Do you have the tape recorder?’ I ask.

  1961–1970 The Altar of Burnt Offering

  It seemed in those first few years he was destined to cast a shadow longer than any of his peers. The invitations came from small temples and prestigious sabhas. Everyone wanted him. Koman was Balabhadran. Koman was Bheema. Koman was Dharmaputran. Koman was Krishna. Koman was a hero many times over. Koman was a veshakaaran like no other.

  In the nights, when Koman didn’t have a stage to set himself upon, or an audience to capture, he lay in bed hugging a thought: I did it. I did it. I am making a name for myself.

  Some days, it would come to him that despite all the offers, he was yet to receive public acknowledgement of his artistry. ‘Aashaan, I wish a critic would come to one of my performances.’

  They were sitting in his room. Aashaan poured himself more toddy. Koman by now was used to the reek of alcohol and, as long as Aashaan wasn’t performing, he seldom objected.

  Aashaan put his glass down. ‘I hope you don’t mean that,’ he said quietly.

  Koman’s eyes widened. ‘I do. I would like an evaluation of myself.’

  Aashaan shook his head, bemused. ‘Don’t you know how good you are?’

  Koman laced his fingers and looked down at his clasped hands. I know you think that I ought to. But you don’t understand that I am not you. I need to know. But Koman didn’t voice his thoughts. Instead he said, ‘A critic would point out the good and bad …’

  ‘Don’t I do that? Or don’t you trust my judgement any more?’ Aashaan’s voice was soft but dripping with acid.

&n
bsp; He started to explain, to apologize. ‘No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘One of these days your wish will be granted and you might not be so pleased. I always think you must be careful what you wish for.’

  The trees shivered.

  It was a month later that Koman received the invitation to play Keechakan in Keechaka Vadham. He read the letter a few times. The organizers were the Fine Arts Club at Thrissur. They would be visiting him soon to discuss the performance and terms.

  Koman walked to his room. His hands shook with excitement as much as nervousness.

  For the first time he would play a katthi vesham. He would be an arrogant and evil man redeemed only by the noble blood in his veins. With red and white markings on his face, he would represent all those who disdained refinement and heroism. He would bear as the emblem of evil two white bulbs, one on his nose and the other on his forehead. Koman touched the tip of his nose. Suddenly he wasn’t sure. He stared at himself in the mirror. How could he be Keechakan?

  Keechakan was arrogant. Keechakan burnt with lust. Keechakan desired to make love to a married woman. Keechakan thought it was his right to do so. Keechakan was vile and base. When he didn’t have his way, he threatened and became violent. Keechakan was unlike all the heroes Koman had been. How could he be a convincing Keechakan then?

  In the mirror, a face stared back at him. A broad-browed, brown-eyed face with high cheekbones, shaggy eyebrows and a straight nose that curved into a slight hook, bearing testimony to his Arab lineage. As if to offset the brutal strength of the upper half of his face were his lips, fleshy and pink, finely defined, the curve deep and inviting. His mouth suggested softness. It was a mouth that would only know how to kiss and perhaps nibble. The chin was studded with a dimple. I can be either, the face suggested. Don’t you see that? The heroic pachcha, or the brutal katthi.

  His body was a mirror. He was a reflection, not an imprint, Koman heard Aashaan’s voice whisper in his ear.