Mistress: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  Koman ran a finger over his face. I am both pachcha and katthi. Man and beast. Why then do I doubt myself? I can be anybody I choose to be.

  At the performance venue, the pettikaaran sidled up to him with mounting animation. ‘You won’t believe who I spotted in the audience.’

  Koman was seated on a stool in full costume, his eyeballs acquiring a patina of red. With every passing moment, Koman was transforming into Keechakan—vile, arrogant, lustful. When the crown was placed on his head, the metamorphosis would be complete.

  The pettikaaran was whispering in his ear, but the voice emerged as if from a great distance.

  He felt a crack splinter the process of his transformation. He turned with a barely reined-in impatience.

  ‘What is it?’ It was Keechakan who snapped—or was it Koman?

  The pettikaaran’s eyes gleamed. He didn’t even register Koman’s rudeness in his excitement.

  ‘He is here. Nanu Menon, the art critic, is here. You are blessed, truly blessed. Now everyone will read about this performance. Your Keechakan will be world famous.’

  Koman felt air rise from his toes to his chest. He knew his breath as a thread connecting his heart to his head. His eyes widened. The wonder of the moment. It was Koman who spoke now. ‘Where? Which one is he?’

  ‘You can’t miss him. He is a thin man with a beaked nose like a parrot’s, sunken cheeks and a receding hairline. He is sitting in the third row, in the middle.’

  Koman felt a curious trembling. It was his favourite place, as well. Being too close to the stage foreshortened the dancers and robbed the gestures of their ability to stoke the imagination. Too much distance from the stage distanced the magnificence. Nanu Menon choosing that particular place was an omen, he thought. A good omen.

  Nanu Menon. They said one word of praise from him could change a veshakaaran’s destiny. He seldom went to see young dancers perform. Tonight he was here.

  The pounding began in his temples. He could hear the rhythm of the wrestling scene: Mallan matching his prowess against Vallan. It was a tremendous scene to open with. For the first time, Koman wondered if he should have demanded to be Vallan. For Vallan was, after all, a synonym for Bheema, the hero of the story. In the wrestling scene, he could have displayed his sense of rhythm by dancing the sequence where he had to move seamlessly from one timing to another, without missing a step. Later in the evening, as Bheema, he would have emerged as Raudrabheeman, the epitome of fury.

  No, no, he shook his head to dispel the thought. ‘A veshakaaran should never let doubt cloud his mind. There are no heroes or villains, only characters. It is not who you are, but how you are that makes a veshakaaran,’ Koman thought he heard Aashaan say.

  ‘You are Keechakan. You have to be him. You have to forget Vallan, or that Nanu Menon is here,’ Aashaan’s voice continued to murmur. ‘All you must think of is Keechakan and how you are to be him.’

  Koman felt his disquiet settle. He touched the white balls at the tip of his nose and the centre of his forehead. With their presence, they told him he was Keechakan.

  It was Keechakan who looked at the pettikaaran and said, ‘Bring me my crown.’

  Keechakan. The noble being who stood holding the middle of the tirasheela that separated him from the world. Above it, his face alone emerged. Here is Keechakan, it said. Bearing the mark of the knife. By itself the knife is not evil. But as a blade, it draws blood, causes pain and instigates terror. It is this irony that Keechakan is cursed with.

  Keechakan went to sit on a stool placed for him in the centre of the stage. The lamp lit his face. Beware, the markings on his face said. This is no ordinary being to be toyed with.

  The two men holding up the curtain moved away and so Keechakan was revealed to the world. Sitting, holding the end of the two red sashes slung around his neck, his face grave. As the rhythm changed, his eyes suddenly spotted Malini. His gaze fixed on her; his eyebrows rose. Beautiful, he said, with a movement of his neck. His eyes widened with interest. Who was this woman? This beautiful woman?

  For a moment Keechakan’s eyes glazed. It was Koman who searched the third row of the audience seated before him. Are you there, Nanu Menon? Is that you I see sitting there craning your neck? Are you looking at me? Do you see how well I can be Keechakan?

  Then Keechakan thrust aside Koman and took over.

  So who are you, pretty woman, Malini? Where are you from? I don’t know how it happened, but just looking at you makes me want to touch you, caress you, romp through the valleys and shadows of your curves. Are you Lakshmi whom Vishnu cradles to his chest? Or are you Parvati whom Shiva cuddles on his lap? Or perhaps you are Saraswati whom Brahma with his four faces and four sets of lips kissed again and again? Who are you, pretty woman? Earthly creature, or heavenly nymph? You heat my blood, you fill my senses, you, you, you …

  What use is it being a man, and a man as valorous as I, if I can’t fulfil my desire to feel your body against mine? To make love to you. To have you pleasure me. If I can’t have you, I might as well be dead.

  Why do I get the feeling that I have seen you before?

  Yes, of course. I know now. This is the woman Sairandhari, my sister Queen Sudeshna’s handmaiden.

  You, my lovely, I shall call Malini.

  Malini, you who seem to be blessed with beauty, listen to me. You will never know what it is to want again, you will know no sorrow. Your hair, dark and dense as thunderclouds, has turned me into a dithering fool. Lust makes me tremble. Just looking at your curved eyebrows, Kama’s jasmine bow, makes me weak with desire.

  You have to let me love you.

  Malini-ruchira-gunashalini. Keechakan began his first amorous move. The night deepened. The story began.

  When the Pandavas were exiled for the second time, one of the conditions laid down by the Kauravas was that they should pass the thirteenth and final year incognito. If they were discovered before the year came to an end, they would be exiled again.

  In the thirteenth year of their exile, the Pandavas disguised themselves and entered the service of the king of Virata. Yudhishtira, as a brahmin, became a gamester in the court; Bheema became a cook; Arjuna as a eunuch taught singing and dancing; Nakula became a horse trainer; and Sahadeva a herdsman.

  Draupadi, who pretended that she was in no way related to the five new servants, became an attendant and needlewoman in the service of Queen Sudeshna. She took on the name of Sairandhari and told the queen, ‘Did I ever tell you about my husbands? They are Gandharvas and, even though I live here under your protection, they guard me all the time. They are so possessive that they are jealous of any man who dares to look at me even twice.’

  The queen smiled, content with this new maid of hers. For a while Draupadi and the Pandavas led a quiet life, immersed in their new roles. Then Queen Sudeshna’s brother, Keechakan, a wicked and powerful man who was the chief commander of the army, saw Draupadi and was bewitched by her beauty. He began to waylay her at every opportunity and make improper advances. Draupadi complained to the queen, but the queen ignored her. So Draupadi appealed to Yudhishtira. Instead of reassuring her, Yudhishtira scolded her for behaving like a child. ‘You shouldn’t take offence so easily. Besides, you can’t keep running to us every time he mocks or insults you. Don’t you realize that if we interfere, our true identities will be revealed?’

  Draupadi went away quietly, but she decided to appeal to Bheema who she knew would listen to her demand and fulfil it as well. So later that night, she went into the royal kitchens where Bheema resided. Bheema looked at her tear-stained face and asked, ‘What is it, Draupadi? Why are you crying, darling?’

  Draupadi wiped her face and said, ‘It is the queen’s brother, Keechakan.’

  She told Bheema about how troublesome Keechakan was.

  Bheema bristled with anger. ‘How dare he? Don’t you worry. I’ll get rid of him.’

  Draupadi smiled, relieved. But she remembered Yudhishtira’s words of caution and said, ‘You have to be ca
reful. We don’t want anyone discovering who we really are.’

  Bheema nodded. He scratched his chin and said, ‘This will have to be done secretly. Tomorrow you must set up a meeting with Keechakan in a quiet place. Ask him to come to the dance hall after midnight and I will take it from there.’

  The next day, Draupadi as Sairandhari did not move away when she saw Keechakan. Instead, she smiled coyly and whispered, ‘Come to the dance hall after midnight. I will be there waiting for you. Come alone or my Gandharva husbands will know.’

  Keechakan was so besotted by her that he didn’t suspect a thing. That night, he went to the dance hall. He saw a veiled woman seated at the far end of the room and his heart beat faster. ‘My lovely woman, why are you hiding from me?’ he whispered. ‘Come here, let me show you how I feel about you.’

  The woman didn’t budge. So Keechakan shut the door and went towards her. Could it be a ruse? But no, Malini wouldn’t cheat him. I will lie down beside her and then I will know what it means to be truly alive, he thought.

  When the final scene began, the curtain was held up by the two men again. They moved it ever so slightly, allowing only a fleeting glimpse of Keechakan as he lay suddenly paralysed, the object of his desire beside him. All he had to do was turn and take her in his arms.

  But what was this? A muscular arm had reached over and grabbed him. The vice-like grip dragged a howl of pain out of him.

  The curtain was drawn away. Vallan, now bearing the countenance of the almost demonic Raudrabheeman, had forced Keechakan to the ground.

  Keechakan tried to shake the furious Bheema off. This couldn’t be happening to him. How could Malini have tricked him?

  But the blows fell, each like a sledgehammer. Keechakan’s face seemed to descend into his body. His voice, his breath, began to lose life, his eyes popped as the weight of the blows smashed and mutilated his flesh, yet his eyes were fixed on a point above, even as he gasped for air. He could not die.

  He sought Malini, she who still reined his life to his body, Malini, his precious Malini. One final gasp and Keechakan lay, a mangled ball of flesh, pulverized beyond all recognition.

  It took some time for Koman to realize that the performance was over. The music had paused. The tirasheela once again shielded him from the audience. The flame of the lamp flickered. All was quiet except for the hammering of his heart.

  He rose and went backstage. As if in a daze, he went to the pettikaaran. He took the crown off and sat by himself. I have to be me. I have to be the man Koman, he repeated to himself. I was Keechakan. Now I am me.

  Then they began to arrive. Members of the audience and the committee members, each one bearing praise as if on a platter. Koman searched their faces. Would Nanu Menon come?

  When they had left, he wiped his make-up off quietly. There was no need to be perturbed. Nanu Menon may not have come backstage, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore him in print. Koman knew that. His Keechakan warranted it.

  The following Sunday, Koman glanced through the newspaper eagerly. Would there be anything about him and his vesham? Koman stared at the newsprint. The words swam in front of his eyes. It couldn’t be …that was the thought that ran through his brain, again and again. A furtive rat seeking an escape from the sewer pipe it had been thrust into. Eyes beady, moustache twitching, it ran. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be.

  ‘Contrived’: the word spat at him. The letters blurred. ‘ …predictable performance. Swamped in technique veering towards the theatrical …’

  Koman felt the air in his tracheae leave in a rush. A fist slammed his throat. He gasped. Trying to suck in air, reprieve, his eyes scanned the print. ‘Still we sit watching Keechakan as he first woos and then abuses his Malini …yet, even that is not the tragedy of this veshakaaran. It is his wanting to be more than who Keechakan the mythical character is. Interpretation is fundamental to kathakali, but an interpretation that has been perfected over the years by the masters. This veshakaaran seems to imagine that there is a Keechakan beyond the poet’s characterization. With that he does his obvious talent an injustice. As for that final moment of Keechakan’s death, what was it, kathakali or drama?’

  Koman sat huddled on a chair. He felt his body tremble, suddenly cold. He wrapped his arms around his legs and wedged his face between his knees. He would have to seek a place within himself to shake off the repugnance of Nanu Menon’s words and gather courage. What was worse? Total decimation, or the devastating faint words of praise? What hurt more?

  When the day spent itself out, Koman went out. Shadows hung in street corners and stillness wrapped the hour. Koman heard the crunch of gravel beneath his feet and tried not to weigh down his steps with the heaviness of his grief. He didn’t want to be seen or heard. He didn’t want any attention. He wanted to be alone, to lick his wounds and summon back some vestige of self-worth. Enough to let him meet the eyes of all those who had read the review, with nonchalance if not a wry smile. But above all, he needed to forget.

  The man wrapped the bottle in a sheet of newsprint. Koman searched the sheet to see if by some strange and macabre coincidence it was the one with his review. No one had seen him walk to the toddy shop. He searched the man’s face. Had he read what Nanu Menon had written about him? He dismissed the thought. The man was not interested in kathakali. But was it pity he saw in his eyes?

  The man counted out change. ‘Will this be enough?’ he asked with half a laugh.

  Koman felt his lips twist into a smile. The man thought he was buying the toddy for Aashaan. For a moment, he considered saying, no, no, it is for me.

  Then he let it be. Aashaan didn’t care that the world thought he was a drunk.

  In his room Koman took the bottle out of the fold in his mundu. Then he took a glass and poured a measure of toddy. He gulped it down. Sour, rancid and vile, the stench of its fermentation rode his nostrils. His stomach heaved. But for the first time that day Koman felt his nerve ends settle. The second drink wrapped him in a layer of cotton wool. The third sent the annoying gnat-like fears out of his mind. Now there was only one thought: the next drink. The next drink. The next drink …

  When the vomit came up his throat, Koman just leaned forward and let it spew. It felt as if every ugly thought he carried within was finding its way out. When there was nothing left to vomit, he retched. Great, loud sounds that seemed to drag themselves from the bottom of his soul. His throat hurt. His tongue felt like wood. Words slurred out of him: a line from a kathakali padam. Even as he drifted into a senseless state, he knew this physical degradation was nothing compared to the humiliation he had felt.

  In the morning, the light penetrated his brain with the edge of a blade. He sat up, dragging his limbs and senses from the ground. Around him were remnants of his dissipation. A bottle lay on its side. The glass stood on its head. Pools of dried vomit patterned the floor. His clothes were strewn about on the floor and the stench of vomit and festered pain swamped the air.

  He held his head. It felt heavier than the crown he was used to wearing. And just as weighed down.

  His mouth tasted foul. Even the back of his eyes hurt when he peered cautiously at the morning light. Koman wanted to lie down and die. To drift away to some place from where he would never have to return.

  But Aashaan would be back this morning and it wouldn’t do to let him see him thus.

  They came, each one of them, bearing solace as they knew how to shape it.

  Mani hammered the door, his rage tempering every word and gesture. ‘Open the door, Etta,’ he thundered. ‘I know you are in there.’

  Koman flinched. The sound made his head hurt. He looked around him. The room was clean enough. He touched his cheeks. They were smooth. He had carefully shaved his stubble away. No one must know that last night I was an animal, wallowing in my own pain and vomit. No one must know that I wept all day. No one must know how much I grieved, he had told himself sternly. So he forced a smile and opened the door. ‘What is the matter?’

  Mani
stared at him. He pushed a lock of hair from his hot forehead. ‘You ask me what is the matter? Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you read yesterday’s paper? That nasty little man. I’ll tell you what. When Babu is back this evening, he and I are going to round up a few friends and we’ll pay him a visit. I’ll personally break every bone in his right hand.’

  ‘Ssshhhh …’ Koman laid his hand on Mani’s mouth. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What do you mean it doesn’t matter? This morning, when one of the men at the gymnasium pointed it out to me, I bloodied his nose. You know what upsets me? When someone writes nice things about you, not one bastard says a word. But just one bad notice and they take pleasure in pointing it out. Do you know what that son of a cunt said? “I thought you said your brother is a top-class performer. Did you see this?” I gathered his collar, shook him and then sunk my fist in his nose and came here straight.’

  Koman gazed at his brother. He felt a great cloud of love for this ungainly, loutish brother of his. ‘These things happen,’ he said. He tried not to let the doubt show on his face.

  ‘All that is very well. But Nanu Menon needs to be taught a lesson …’

  ‘Let it be, Mani,’ Koman said. ‘Go home now. I’ll come by later. We will talk then. I have a class now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Mani asked, pushing his fists into his pockets. ‘Do you want something? A bottle?’

  Koman shivered. ‘Go home, Mani,’ he said, giving him an affectionate push.

  Koman sat on the bed. His legs didn’t have the strength to hold him. Within him the trembling began again. He had to go to the institute. He’d had a day’s reprieve yesterday, but there was no escaping today. He had a class and he would have to see his students and colleagues. What would their response be?

  Anger on his behalf. Indignation, too. Or would it be smirks and mockery? Or perhaps it would be embarrassment? He swallowed.