by Anita Nair
When the performance was over, Stefan wanted us to go backstage and meet Sundaran.
‘I have nothing to say to him,’ I said.
‘You don’t approve of him,’ Stefan said.
‘No, I don’t,’ I admitted.
Later, Stefan and I went to a café. While we waited for the drinks to arrive, Stefan asked, ‘Why? You don’t like what he is doing?’
I took a deep breath. Perhaps Stefan thought I was envious of what Sundaran had. That it was resentment that made me reluctant to see him. ‘I do not like what Sundaran has turned kathakali into,’ I said.
‘But it is simpler now. You think that is wrong?’
‘Let me tell you something. In India, the most popular form of dance these days is something called cinematic dance. It is a combination of folk and classical, salsa and the twist, aerobics and jive …of perhaps every imaginable dance form, but the boys and girls who dance it don’t make it out to be anything but cinematic dance. It is wonderful in its own way, but best of all, it doesn’t pretend to be anything but a light form of entertainment.’
I saw the disbelief on Stefan’s face. I smiled. ‘I know you are surprised. I don’t think there is anything wrong with popular art. It demands very little of an audience. Anyone can enjoy it.
‘Classical art requires an effort from the audience. You don’t become a connoisseur overnight. You need to imbibe it. You need to educate yourself, and it takes time to reach a level where you can understand the artist’s interpretation. Naturally, this means the audience is limited and the rewards even more so. So, when I see someone like Sundaran butchering kathakali to ensure greater popularity, to the extent that all that is noble and brilliant and complex about it is removed, I find it repugnant. He is playing to the gallery, providing light entertainment disguised as classical art. It is devious and deceitful, to say the least.’
Stefan sipped his drink slowly. ‘You are very hard to please,’ he said. ’It is only art after all. Not a matter of life and death. There are no ethics involved. It isn’t like cloning or the manufacturing of chemical weapons or even vivisection.’
I smiled. ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be so hard on him. It is art after all, as you say.’
He peered at me carefully to see if I was being sarcastic.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t mocking you. I agree. If he can live with himself, who am I to condemn what he is doing?’
Artistic success is a strange thing. In the end, who is the judge? A handful of critics? Since the episode with Nanu Menon, I have moved on and indictments, precise or otherwise, seldom affect me. I see critics as a group of deluded beings who live within a tiny galaxy; anything that doesn’t fit within its boundaries and the limits of their knowledge puzzles them. What they do not understand, they either intellectualize or dismiss. Are they the ones I ought to hitch my artistic destiny to?
Then there are the art lovers, capricious people who will go with you if a review does, and cast you aside if a reviewer rejects you. Lovers who make no promises to love or honour you forever. It is a world that chooses to recognize your talent by the trappings of success—fame, money, awards.
Finally, there is the artist, who has to contend with his own standards again and again, despite all that the critics or the world might tell him. Have I been able to rise above all that I have done so far, or have I been merely mediocre?
In the years thereafter, I was to pose this question to myself again and again. How successful was I as a veshakaaran?
Art doesn’t make anything happen except for the artist. In fact, art is useless. It has no bearing on real life. I know that as well as all other practising artists do. Art occupies a bare fraction of time in most people’s lives. It is a piece of music you listen to as you drive or a book read at the airport, a painting on a wall in a hotel lobby or a flower arrangement at the dentist’s clinic. A filler of time and space, a point of diversion and no more. If it is to satiate this meagre need that we slave and reach into ourselves, what chance is there of ever knowing fulfilment? We seek strange pleasures and subversive modes, we thrust away what is there before us and look beyond and there is no knowing whether this quest will mean anything to anyone but us. So, when at times, the ghoul that rides on every artist’s shoulder comes to perch on mine and whispers in my ear, ‘But no one understands what you are doing’, I pat its head and tell it, ‘Does it matter? I do.’
After many years of being ignored, I was given my first national award. For years, I was overlooked in favour of lesser, but decidedly more visble and flamboyant artists. It hurt me. I wouldn’t be human otherwise. I was still a young man then. An award at that point in my life would have meant a validation of what I had set out to do. But that was not to be.
In my fifty-third year, when I no longer sought or even wanted these tokens of recognition, someone decided that I was to be given a Padma Shri. Suddenly my art, no, I must correct myself, I as an artist, had an audience. An eager and demanding audience. The world seemed to assume that they owned me. More awards followed. I realized with amusement that awards, like invitations to international dance festivals, have a snowball effect. All you need is one to start the ball rolling. I thought of Sundaran. He was right, after all. It was all about being part of a circuit.
All my life was held up for scrutiny. My student years, my relationships, even the memory of my dog and later Malini were dwelled upon. Thankfully, Lalitha was dead by then. Or she would have occupied column space as the harlot muse. All that was good and kind about her, all her nobility and understanding would have been ignored and instead, she would have been given an insidious place in the rooms of my life. She had died of cancer, however, and all they could write was: ‘His long-time companion succumbed to cancer even as his star ascended.’ I was cast as the solitary and exceptional being whose lover, wife and mistress was dance.
I hugged to myself my secret. For I had Maya. Twelve years ago I stopped at Delhi on my way back from Europe. I had been invited to France for a lecture-dance tour. It had been a hectic three weeks and on my way home I paused for breath. I had a few things to attend to, a few friends to meet. At an art show opening I was taken to, I was introduced to Maya.
I stood there holding a glass in my hand, watching. What am I doing here, I wondered. My friend introduced me to many people, but I barely registered names or faces. I let the alcohol wrap me in a little haze that cut out this world I really had no connection with.
Who are these people, I asked myself.
Everyone there had something to do with the artistic world. Their eyes darted furiously as they looked around to see who was worth cultivating. Smiles came on as if a switch had been pressed, and didn’t even reach the eye. Everyone seemed to know everyone else and all of them were either writing a book, or making a short film on peace or terrorism, putting together a one-man show or researching cave paintings, or championing a cause, or just about to leave for some foreign destination as part of a cultural contingent.
I felt a wave of panic. Had I become one of them? Had I become more of a performing animal than an artist, and turned my art into a circus?
I felt disgust and revulsion. All I wanted to do was escape to my little house by the river. So, in the first few minutes of meeting Maya, I dismissed her as yet another of the performing seals and was rude to her. ‘So what is it you do? Write? Paint? Dance? Sing? Make films? Save the whales?’
She smiled. ‘I wish I did one or all of those. I feel as if I am here on false pretences. Nandini,’ she said, pointing to a woman who could only be a dancer, with her jewellery and eye make-up, ‘insisted I come with her. I don’t live in Delhi. I am just visiting. I am an accountant.’
She had never known a male dancer before. What was it like, she wanted to know.
‘I have never known a female accountant before,’ I retorted. ‘What is it like?’
We laughed. Her laugh made me look at her again. It was a low throaty laugh, suggestive of overcast skies
and wet earth. I looked at her carefully. Maya was a voluptuous woman then. Her mind, I discovered, was just as fecund as her body. She was also lonely. Her husband and her family kept her busy, but despite them she was starved for companionship.
We met once more before I left Delhi and talked into the wee hours of the night. ‘Will I see you again?’ I asked.
‘I hope you will. I don’t know when I last felt so comfortable with another person.’
I frowned. I did not like the allusion to comfort. Was I an old, familiar pillow?
‘Comfortable?’
‘That is a compliment, by the way. It means I can tell you what I am thinking. That I don’t have to be guarded,’ she said.
‘I thought compliments ran on the lines of handsome, charming, etc.,’ I teased.
‘Too many women have been telling you that. I wanted to be different.’
‘You are different,’ I said, and took her hand in mine. She let it stay there. And I was smitten.
A month later I went to Madras, where she lived. I called her; we met. Inevitably, we became lovers. There was a certain complicity that drew us to each other. In the curves of her body, in the undulations of her mind, I sought a partner who was my equal and she revelled in the love affair. That was all she would allow it to be. An affair of the heart and the body and no more.
Now when I am with her, I understand what she meant so many years ago. I am comfortable with Maya and she with me. I know Shaantam when I am with Maya.
In these last few years, each time I’ve performed, the auditorium has been packed. And I’ve asked myself: Have they come here to see my vesham? Or have they come to watch Koman, winner of a national award, perform? Do they wish to see the artist or the celebrity?
Worse, there are those who want me to repeat myself. There is always someone who says, ‘Koman Aashaan, I cannot forget the vesham you played at Tripunithara in 1995. Dharamaputran in Kirmira Vadham. I hope we will see you do the same tonight.’
I smile and don’t say anything. What does it matter, I tell myself. I will be the character I want to be. I am not going to succumb to pressure of any sort, no matter how flattering. Nothing will change that.
A well-known film-maker has made a short film about me. A journalist attempted what he called a fly-on-the-wall biography. I am invited to perform at every prestigious venue and participate in workshops and seminars. My opinion is solicited and my presence required. There have been many interpretations of my technique and style.
I feel removed from it all. It is of no consequence to me how I am perceived or what the world thinks of me, as a man or a dancer.
What more do I say, except that it is enough that I don my colours. It is enough that I am allowed to slip into the skin of a character.
When I dance, I know who I am.
Epilogue
IT IS HIS LAST EVENING at Near-the-Nila. Chris looks around him to see if he has forgotten anything. His bags are all packed. He hears a knock at his door. For a moment he imagines that it is Radha. His Min-min who has come to say goodbye. His Min-min is here, his heart leaps.
He had called her that morning. Radha came on the line. A Radha he did not recognize. Her voice was measured, her words careful. What went wrong, he asked himself when he put the phone down.
He went to see Uncle then. They had already said their farewells the night before, but Chris thought he had to see the old man again.
‘I didn’t expect to see you,’ Uncle said.
‘I had some time to spare,’ Chris began. Then unable to pretend any more, he cried, ‘Radha. You know about Radha and me, don’t you? I don’t understand what went wrong. I really don’t. I can’t accept that she walked out on me because I didn’t tell her that my mother and you …’
Chris felt his face crumple. He covered his face with his hands.
He felt the old man’s palm caress his hair. ‘You must think your family and mine were enemies in our past birth. First I hurt your mother. Now my niece breaks your heart. What can I say, Chris? What can I say to make you feel better? Perhaps it is best that I don’t make you feel better. If you are angry, you will hurt less.’
Chris looked up in surprise.
Uncle stood up and went to stand by Malini’s cage. ‘Philosophers say that love is not to be owned, that you can’t possess it, that the moment you try to do that, love will forsake you. For a long time I believed that. Then I met Maya. One part of me said that what we had was sufficient. The other part of me began to feel dissatified with the situation. As I grew older, it was this part of me that began to dominate. I wanted Maya to give up her marriage and make her life with me. But the silly part of me which believes that love can’t be owned, stilled my tongue. I never asked her to. I expected her to do it on her own. I wanted her to make that decision without my prompting her. When she didn’t, I was hurt and even angry with her. It is only now that I realize how foolish I was. How arrogant and cowardly. I wanted to be absolved of all blame.
‘When Maya was here, at some point she talked about a life with me. I told her she could live with me. That she was always welcome. But I never told her how much I needed her. It seemed like admitting to a weakness that I might need another person in my life to make it complete. So I hid behind my face. This face that can wear so many emotions except that of a needy man.
‘Do you know what I did last night? I called Maya and asked her to come to me. I said—I need you. I want you here with me. I let Maya know how much I need her.
‘I don’t know what Radha wanted from you. Did you ever ask her? For that matter, did you know yourself what you wanted from the relationship?’
Perhaps it was for the best, Chris thought when he was back in his cottage. In the beginning, he hadn’t meant to get so involved. But their relationship had galloped into something he had no control over. Her intensity had been flattering to start with, but it was tiring to have to match it constantly. Their relationship wouldn’t have lasted anyway.
Do you really believe that, Chris, a voice in his head asked. A voice that bore the timbre of Uncle’s voice. Aren’t you running away because she expected more from you than you were prepared to offer?
The muted knock on the door again. It is Shyam.
Chris opens the door.
‘There are no taxis available. I will drop you at the railway station,’ Shyam says.
Chris cannot meet Shyam’s eyes. I haven’t done right by you, he wants to tell Shyam. I didn’t seduce Radha. I didn’t mean any of this to happen. All I came here for was to find the truth, to know if Koman Aashaan is my father. I didn’t want to break up your marriage or cause you any harm. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t attracted to her. I was. But she could have thrust me away. Instead, she said that your marriage was dead. And sometimes there is little one can do to stop oneself when a woman shows you she is willing. Radha was lonely. Anybody could see that. And Radha was willing. I am only human, Shyam.
He presses down his impulse to confess and seek redemption. Shyam probably doesn’t suspect a thing. Would he be here otherwise?
‘That’s it,’ he says, slinging his cello case on his back and picking his bag up.
Shyam watches. ‘I never heard you play it,’ he says.
Chris looks up, suspecting sarcasm. But Shyam’s face is bland.
Shyam waits for the train to arrive. When it does, he waits until Chris has arranged his bags and instrument on the lower berth.
Chris goes to the door. He doesn’t know whether he ought to apologize or thank Shyam. In the end, he does neither.
‘Goodbye,’ Shyam says.
‘Goodbye,’ Chris replies.
As the train moves, his eyes search the crowd. It feels wrong to go away like this. He thinks of his arrival. The grace of the moment. He feels a wrench. Radha. If he could, he would do it differently. Start all over again so they might have a better chance of keeping their love alive.
But does he really want that chance? The truth is, he doesn’t know wh
at he wants.
Chris looks at the landscape for a while. Through the tinted glass, everything is a muddy brown. He can’t concentrate on the book he is reading. In the end he takes out the tape and plugs his earphones on.
For now, there is this to look forward to. The story of being Koman.
Shyam climbs up the stairs and pauses at the railway bridge. He stands there gazing at the river.
A thought hurls itself. Shyam feels his feet grow wings as he races down the stairs. Radha, I will say to her, he thinks, this child, your child, will be mine.
Perhaps then she will learn to love him.
Radha sits on her rocking chair, staring at a row of anthuriums. I sent him away, she tells herself again and again. I sent him away. I sent him away. What else could I have done?
She knows a great pang of hunger. She thinks of Chris’s unshaven chin nuzzling the line of her throat. She thinks of his smile. How the curve of his lips tugged at her. She thinks of his slow, lazy voice and the inflection he chose to bequeath her name with. And she thinks of how she has already cast him as a memory. Something to look back upon with a curious bitter-sweet sense of loss. This happened to me, once …
A bar of sunlight falls across her lap. In the July noon, the rains pause and the sun sucks in all the mustiness. Tranquillity surrounds her.
She feels a great yearning to lean back against a shoulder and feel comforted. It is Shyam she thinks of now. She closes her eyes and smells the freshly showered, squeaky clean Pears fragrance that Shyam emanates.
It is fear that makes me seek him, not regard for him. What am I going to do? I have forgotten what it is to step out and fight the world. I have forgotten all the skills needed for survival. How do I cope?
I cannot continue to play wife merely because it frees me of worries. I have not done right by Shyam. I have played wife all this while, despising him. For this I know remorse. I went to him broken, and expected him to heal me. When he couldn’t, I began to despise him and I knew sorrow.