by Anita Nair
I wondered if I should tell him about all the abortive attempts I had made. I wondered if I should tell him how I had staked all I had on a slender chance. How I had sold my soul to appease my ego. But none of that mattered now. For the first time, I knew the ordeal was over. I would never again expect my art to propitiate my ego. It was enough that I be allowed to give expression to what I understood of a vesham. All else was immaterial.
When I was a student, there was a story that made the rounds about a kathakali dancer. A famous veshakaaran who turned into a lunatic. Madness ran in his family and his illness was his destiny, his relatives and neighbours said. He was so violent that he had to be chained all day. The physician advocated that they pour a thousand pots of water on his head to cool him down and reduce the intensity of his insanity.
One evening, there was a performance at a temple nearby. All evening the man heard the drumbeats announcing the performance at the temple. He broke his chains and fled to the temple. Behind the temple, in a little makeshift shed, the dancers were getting ready. When he appeared, they didn’t know what to do or say.
‘What is the katha?’ he asked.
‘Duryodhana Vadham,’ someone said.
‘I will be Duryodhana,’ he said.
The men looked at each other. What were they to do? The actor who was to have been Duryodhana murmured, ‘Humour him and dress him up.’
The pettikaaran said, ‘Send for his family to take him home.’
When the time came, the lunatic veshakaaran wrenched apart the hands that held him back, went on to the stage and was Duryodhana. No one knew that this was a lunatic dancing. No one knew that this was a man who was chained all day and who grunted and growled and rolled in his own filth when his madness was at its worst. When the performance was over, he went to sit in a corner. Someone helped him undress. Someone else took him home. But those who saw him that night would never forget his Duryodhana. It was the performance of a man in total control.
It wasn’t easy for me to go back to being who I was. I was still shadowed by the memory of what it was like to be Bahukan.
At the institute, the students accepted me back. They were more curious about my life in England than why I had come back. The other instructors, including Sundaran, and my family pretended that I had gone away on a holiday.
I retreated into a place in my head and hid there. All I wanted to do was dance. It was enough. I had no desire to participate in reality. I would think of the story of the lunatic. If within insanity, art could be his sole means of sanity, so it would be for me. Henceforth, my life would be led through my art. It was the only way I would be able to retrieve some of my self-worth.
Most days, in the evening, I sat on the topmost step of the veranda. The dog would lie on the ground, its eyes fixed on my face to catch even a flicker of emotion, its snout edging my foot, content to nuzzle and merely be there.
One evening a breeze rose from the dry river bed, turning sand, raising dust and leaves in its path. Over the deep pool the breeze acquired a beading of dampness so that when it blew into my face, I felt a pleasing coolness. It eroded the density of my thoughts and prodded me to move. I sat up straight and yawned, my body stretching and flexing, the yawn emerging from the concave of my belly and expanding to form a whole set of syllables: aa-ooo-uu. The dog raised its head and watched intently this unfolding of movement, of life. It stood up, tail wagging in salutation and joy.
I saw the dog’s tail wag. I patted its head. ‘Lie down,’ I said. ‘I am not going anywhere.’
The dog put its head on its forepaws. Drawing courage from the rare caress, it rose and settled once again on the ground, but with its snout now resting on my foot. I looked at the dog. My eyes met its imploring gaze. Don’t push me away, it begged.
For so long now I had felt drained of all emotion. The weight of the dog’s snout on my foot, its eyes, stirred in me a tiny squiggle of …what could it be? I dared not ask myself.
I bent and stroked the dog’s head. The softness of its fur and the slow mechanical movement of my fingertips caused a trickle of images to wander into my mind. Time spelt in a series of vignettes. Life held within the palm of the hand. Chances that trickled between the gaps of my fingers because I willed it so. Memories and now life experiences. The dog closed its eyes in pleasure. I felt the weight within me rise and slowly dissipate.
The dog raised its head, ears cocked, eyes searching. Someone was coming up the alley. I straightened. Who could it be? I was not inclined to make conversation. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts.
The dog, as if pursuing my line of thought, rose and raced to the gate. It stood there, its feet firmly planted, its hackles raised, barking. A series of powerful barks that rumbled and filled the air with threat: go away, we don’t want you, go away, leave us alone.
I stood up. I would go into the house and wait there. Whoever it was would leave after a while. Then I saw her. Lalitha. What did she want?
She stood on the other side of the gate, her hands clasping the latch. ‘Call the dog away,’ she said.
I whistled. ‘Come here; it’s all right,’ I said softly.
The dog’s hackles went down; its tail began wagging. She looked at it with a smile. ‘You have trained him well.’
I went to sit on a chair on the veranda. She stood on the bottom step, waiting for me to invite her in. When I didn’t, she said, ‘I heard you were back. I thought I would see for myself.’
I drew my chellapetti closer. She climbed the three steps and sat on the low wall near me. ‘How have you been? When did you get back?’
‘Some months ago,’ I said. ‘Do you want this?’ I pushed the betel-nut box towards her. She looked at it for a moment. ‘This is a new habit. When did you start?’ she asked.
I shrugged.
She opened the chellapetti and took out a few betel leaves.
For a while we both sat there, our mouths full, our minds wandering, chewing on betel leaves and slivers of areca nut, letting common memories stream down our throats.
Then she cleared her throat and stood up.
‘Are you leaving?’ I asked, suddenly stricken by the thought of being left alone.
‘Do you want me to stay?’
I looked at her as if I was seeing her for the first time. Lalitha. That was my name for her. I had forgotten what her real name was.
Lalitha, who in reality could be Nakrathundi, the demoness who fed on lust. No, that was unfair of me. I was no Jayanthan, the guiless youth deceived by her. I had known all along who she was. Which was why I had chosen to call her Lalitha.
‘Will you?’ I asked, unable to meet her eyes.
She laid her hand on my arm. Conflicting images tussled before me. I tried not to flinch. Nakrathundi or Lalitha: who was she?
And then I thought, does it matter? She was there for me, once. Isn’t that enough?
‘I am here. All you have to do is ask. You have to ask me to stay,’ she said. I could hear the measure of power in her voice.
I had hurt her and she was exacting revenge. Is this what living is all about? This perennial scoring off each other; this seeking of retribution. I sighed. I would have liked to lie in bed and feel her cool, adept fingers slide over my skin, her body pressed against mine. Someone to make slow and practised love to me, so all I had to do was surrender myself.
She would do that. She would hold me against her and let me feed off her. She would do all that and more because that was her trade. To fulfil needs of iniquity. But she had also saved me a place in her being, ever since that first time. That had been my measure of power. No matter how I treated her, she always forgave me.
When I had cast her away and said she shouldn’t ever come to my house again because Angela would be horrified if she knew, I had hurt her and now she wanted me to know how precarious my perch was within her.
I would allow her that. I was weary of everything. All I wanted for now was someone to hold me and heal me. ‘Stay, please stay,’
I said.
I lay on my stomach, my head cradled in my arms. She sat by my side, trailing a finger down my spine. Up and down. Up and down. Again and again. ‘It happens,’ she said softly.
Outside I could hear the dog snuffling. I heard it sniff around the doorstep, then the soft plop of its body as it collapsed into a heap on the coir mat.
I felt my body sink. It had never happened before. There had been times when I couldn’t have an erection but once I did, I always ejaculated. This evening though, I heaved and panted and laboured over my need to find release. It felt as though I was running down a road, a long, endless road, without hope of getting to the end. In disgust, I drew myself out and turned on my side.
I heard her rearrange her limbs. The bed creaked. I turned over and lay on my stomach. Misery. A twisted gut. A muscle pulled. Wanting to feel that blessed release and not being able to. Misery wrapped me in her arms.
I felt her press her fingertips into the dip above my buttocks. ‘I love this curve. Only kathakali dancers have it …I love the way the buttocks rise high and taut. Must be all the exercise you people do.’ Her fingers slid over the curve and crested the cheek of the left buttock.
I felt a frisson. Angela had said the same thing. I spoke from the corner of my mouth, ‘In all these years, you never said that.’
Her fingers paused. ‘I haven’t said much, have I? Like the fact that …’
‘What?’ I was curious enough to raise my head.
‘Like the fact that you can’t fuck with your mind. It is the body’s function and you have to let your body fuck. I don’t know what’s on your mind but you have to let it be.’
I groaned. I didn’t want to listen to a lecture on the kinetics of lust.
‘You don’t agree with what I am saying?’
‘Never mind. Go on,’ I said.
She bent and kissed the nape of my neck. I felt the beginning of desire again. I slowly turned and lay on my back. Her eyes met mine. She knew what I expected of her. Our bodies had known each other a long time.
She held my gaze and allowed herself the trace of a smile. I read triumph in the gentle elongation of her lips. I was the fly, she the lizard. The thought rolled off my mind. I watched her, curious, detached at first as her tongue darted and snapped, slithered and bounced, cupped and fondled. Then I felt her mouth gather me, drawing away scar tissue I had retreated behind, breaking down my resistance. How simple it is when we know what we want of each other, I thought as she lit the first trails of pleasure.
Lalitha rose to go. Dawn smeared the skies. She opened the door. The dog stood outside, wagging its tail. She patted it on its head.
She looked at me. I was lying on my side, pretending to be asleep. I felt untroubled and serene in my pretence.
‘He is lonely,’ she told the dog. ‘He has no one but you and me. We must look after him, make him whole again, you and I. Will you, dog?’
The dog wagged its tail and moved closer to her. She bent down and scratched its nape. ‘Do you have a name at all? Or is that what he calls you? Dog? Like I am Lalitha. Whores and dogs don’t need names, I suppose. Our names don’t matter. But we do. Dog, do you see that?’
‘Lalitha,’ I called. ‘Who are you talking to?’
‘The dog. Don’t you have a name for him?’ She smiled.
‘The dog. That is adequate enough. Dogs don’t need names. They will respond to anything you call them.’
‘But I can’t call him dog. In my neighbourhood there are Kaisers and Jimmies, Brunos and even a few Paandans. I like Kaiser. Why don’t you call him that?’
‘My students call him Ekalavyan. You can call him that if you insist on a name.’ I yawned.
‘Is there anything in your life besides kathakali?’ Lalitha laughed.
‘No,’ I said abruptly. ‘Once I thought there was. Without kathakali, I am nothing.’
‘What about me?’ Her eyes were serious.
‘You and the dog are the only two living creatures who I can relate to these days,’ I said. ‘You will have to be content with that.’
She smiled. ‘I am.’
There is nothing that time cannot heal. I learnt that as the days passed. I learnt that from my house by the river. And from Ekalavyan and Lalitha. A dog and a whore. Together they broke down the walls I had surrounded myself with. I stopped being a catatonic being who sprang to life only when I wore my colours. I learnt to laugh and suffer; I learnt to delight and complain. I learnt to accept love when I found it. I learnt to be human again.
Two years later, the institute troupe was invited to Europe and we travelled from country to country, dancing our stories of gods and demons. It was ironic that all I had once sought came to me now that I had stopped seeking it.
I was offered a teaching fellowship by a university in Germany. I declined.
‘How come you don’t want it?’ Sundaran asked.
‘It won’t work,’ I said, deciding to be honest.
‘How can you throw away chances? How can you be so disdainful of the opportunity you have been given?’ he demanded. ‘If it had been me …’
‘Sundaran, for three months there I will do nothing. Do you call that a great opportunity?’
‘But think of after that. You will have become part of the circuit.’
I thought for a moment about ‘after that’ and shuddered.
‘Sundaran,’ I tried to explain. ‘London was nothing. It came to nothing. I tossed away my life here, thinking I would find a place there, and nothing came of it. Kathakali has no place there. Do you know how long it took me to recoup my losses? Do you know how beaten I was when I returned? Aashaan was right. We need to feel right, here,’ I said, touching my chest. ‘Only then will we know what it is to be fulfilled. Everything else is just an illusion.’
‘You talk such utter nonsense only because you have had everything offered to you on a platter. That is why you have such disregard for it,’ Sundaran said. ‘I have to make my own destiny, and what can I do or be when I am trapped here in this life? Where is my escape route? You tell me. Now, if I had been the one to go to London, I would have made my way.’ Sundaran’s bitterness shocked and saddened me.
He was all twisted and tangled inside. I turned my face away. I felt as if I had intruded into a very private and intimate moment. It embarrassed and confused me.
A few minutes later, I knew remorse. Sundaran had once been my friend. ‘Aren’t you happy that you are dancing so well?’
‘What is the point?’ Sundaran snapped. He stared at the plate of food before him. ‘I am sick and tired of this. I want more. I want fine food and clothes, money in my purse and people to recognize me on the streets. I want all this and more.’
‘But kathakali?’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody naive. Kathakali is a means to an end. You don’t get it, do you? Aashaan was the same. Which is why there was never any use talking to him. If only I could spend some time here in Europe.’ He stopped abruptly.
I saw how much he longed for it and recommended they offer the scholarship to Sundaran. They did, and Sundaran finally had his chance.
He never returned.
I was happy. I was dancing. And I was dancing better than I had ever done. For the rest, I had my little house by the river. I had Lalitha and I had the dog. My little world was complete.
I proposed marriage to Lalitha. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I thought you might want to,’ I said.
‘Do you think I sleep with other men?’ she asked.
I didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t. I haven’t in a long time. I work in a tailoring shop. I make enough to look after myself. It is best we remain this way,’ she said. ‘You in your house and I in mine. Besides, this way there is no room for gossip. Can you imagine what would happen if you married me? The scandal! Your family would sever all ties with you.’
I nodded. Babu would never accept Lalitha. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said.
‘No, Koman. I
prefer it this way. I also know that this way you will never tire of me,’ she said.
I smiled.
Over the years I went on several trips with the institute troupe. We even acquired a following of sorts.
Some years ago I was in Paris and, on a whim, I took the Metro. As I went down the steps into the station, I saw posters on the wall. I paused and looked at the face. It was Sundaran. He was performing that week in Paris. I asked my host in Paris to go with me for the performance. ‘We were together as students and he taught at the institute for several years,’ I told Stefan.
I saw Sundaran dance again. He was still handsome, still the elegant dancer. His gestures were graceful, his presence complete. But it wasn’t kathakali. It wasn’t dance at all. I looked at the programme. It was in French. Stefan translated it for me. ‘Dancer Extraordinary. Pundit Sundar Varma. Hailing from a royal family in Kerala, Sundar ran away from his noble ancestry and palatial life when he was twelve, seeking to express himself in a language of gestures and expressions.’
I smiled. Sundaran had reinvented himself. The Sundaran I knew came from a poor Warrier family who thought that by having him enrol at the institute they wouldn’t have to worry about feeding him three meals a day. The institute took care of all that. I supposed that when he was giving himself a whole new history, he had thought royal ancestry would lend greater charisma to his reputation. It needed some skill to carry it off. I could see that Sundaran had it. He was a performer extraordinaire.
Stefan read on: Soul of Fear—an exploration of all that is dark and distorted, narrow and incongruous in man …using traditional kathakali techniques …I stopped listening.
I couldn’t comprehend the performance. It was pretentious and false. It made a mockery of what we had given most of our lives to. It trivialized it and I felt shame and anger, then relief. If I had stayed on in London, would this have happened to me as well? Would I have compromised in order to survive? Would I have changed the tenor of all that I respected and loved, to make it accessible and popular?