Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (19 page)
A vendor pauses beside my seat. ‘Pazham pori,’ he cries in a strangled voice.
I snap out of the golden brown casing of memories and eye the banana fritters. They look very tempting. Plump, with knobbly bits of batter fried golden crisp.
I see the man across the aisle look at them, too. I know I should recognize him.
Another vendor arrives. ‘Bread omelette,’ he cries, in yet another version of that strangled call all railway vendors seem to fashion their voices into.
I look at my watch. It is a lower end Rolex, but it is a Rolex. Another hour to Kochi. Lunch was a long time ago. My stomach rumbles. I point to a fritter and then ask the other vendor for a bread omelette. ‘Ask one of the tea boys to come here,’ I say.
The vendors rush off to do my bidding. I feel the man’s eyes on me, and on the plates and paper napkins laid out on the tray. Then I realize who he is.
How could I have not recognized him? He is a finely built man with a face like the moon’s surface. On the movie screen, you see each one of these indentations magnified. A crater for every contact his foot has made with the ball, I think.
I.M. Vijayan. The football hero turned movie star. I have seen him play and I have seen him act. He is brilliant on the field and competent on the screen, but what I admire most about him is his tenacity. He is a survivor.
I was there in the stadium that hot day in Coimbatore when he was playing against Kerala in the Santosh Trophy. I was with a group of salesmen, all baying for his blood. Those days I covered the Tamil Nadu region.
‘He is a traitor,’ one of them growled.
‘How can he play against Kerala?’ another snarled.
‘Give the man a chance,’ I said. ‘He must have left the Kerala team for a reason.’
‘What reason could he have? Greed, that’s what it is,’ someone else said.
‘Do you call a man wanting to better his prospects greedy?’ I asked, incredulous. How could they be so judgemental?
When he failed to shoot a penalty against Kerala, my companions rose in excitement. Vijayan had failed. The traitor was punished. They booed and jeered and thumped each other’s backs. I joined them. To not do so would have been to incur the crowd’s wrath. But I felt pity for the man. I watched him stand there, his eyes downcast. Just for a moment he looked up, unable to comprehend this mass hatred. What did I do wrong, his eyes seemed to ask the crowd. This is a game, not war. I am a football player, not the enemy.
I look at his profile. Should I introduce myself to him?
Perhaps I could invite him to the resort. I wonder how I should address him. Vijayan would be too presumptuous. Sir would be too servile. I glance at him. His eyes are closed. I decide not to bother him. There is time enough.
My phone beeps. A business call. I settle it with a bark. ‘We’ll talk when your quote is more realistic.’
I eat my snack slowly. My mind churns. Is this making of plans what Radha calls ambition? Is this looking ahead what my business partners term acumen? If I didn’t have either, the resort would have had to close down, like so many enterprises in the region. I will never let that happen. My resort is my kingdom.
Four years ago, when I heard the summer palace by the Nila was up for sale, I rustled up the money to buy it. I put in all my savings and borrowed as much as I could. I have a loan liability that would cripple ordinary men for the rest of their lives. But I manage. I always will. I am a survivor. From an old issue of
Reader’s Digest
, I forged a mantra that I start my day with. I stand in front of the mirror every morning and as I peer into the eyes of my image, I mouth, ‘Every day and in every way, I am getting better and better.’ I believe it. I have to, or I will go under.
Reader’s Digest
, I forged a mantra that I start my day with. I stand in front of the mirror every morning and as I peer into the eyes of my image, I mouth, ‘Every day and in every way, I am getting better and better.’ I believe it. I have to, or I will go under.
I wonder what the next couple of days will be like. I have several things to attend to. A meeting with a tour operator. A discussion with a website designer. A preliminary discussion about advertising on-site at the Nehru Boat Race. A meeting with Sankars, the book people. They used to have a bookshop in a hotel in Palakkad and there is a new one now, on MG Road in Ernakulam. We don’t have the room or the custom for a full-fledged book shop, but a kiosk would work very well. And then I have to attend an introductory lecture on the Art of Living.
I have no intention of attending the full workshop. I am content with my life, but it would, if the facilitators agree, be a great draw at the resort. I could work it into the package. I can see how much it would appeal to my foreign guests. I have to offer them something in this godforsaken place. God’s own country, they call it, but even God wouldn’t come to my part of the state on vacation. The resorts in southern Kerala have so much. Backwaters. Karimeen. Chinese fishing
nets. Beaches. Plantations. Wildlife sanctuaries. What do we have here?
nets. Beaches. Plantations. Wildlife sanctuaries. What do we have here?
A river that’s mostly dry, and a little railway town. On the Net, I once encountered a phrase when I was researching tourism in Italy. Agroturismo. For a moment I wondered if I had stumbled on a gold mine. Then I let go of the thought. Agricultural tourism might work in Italy. Picking grapes or harvesting fruits under a blue temperate sky was vacation work. One could play at being farmer. How could I ask my guests to stand ankle deep in slush under a blazing sun, transplanting paddy seedlings into a neat row? It wouldn’t work.
The temple circuit would have been an ideal take-off point for the tourists. I even had a line for it: God’s own Capital. Guruvayur, Kadampuzha, Vadakkanathan, Thiruviluamala, Molayan Kavu, Padirikunnathu Mana—so many temples that could be done as a day trip, but they are so cussed about not letting non-Hindus in that it has to be the Art of Living or some such thing.
The SP’s brother-in-law who lives in Bangalore couldn’t stop talking about it. ‘In these times, we need something to help us keep our sanity. The Guruji inspires such faith,’ he said.
I thought of the white-robed, hirsute man with his soft voice and outstretched arms. His reach was unimaginable. Even corporate heads and business tycoons seemed to surrender themselves to him. He has kind eyes, I can see. But what did they see in him or his teachings?
‘But what is it?’ I asked, suddenly struck by the business opportunity it presented. Spirituality is still a great lure. In fact, it would be a terrific slogan for the resort. Near-the-Nila. The Art of Living.
The man’s face curled into a beatific smile. ‘Let me put it very simply. It helps you block out all the unpleasantness and think only of the pleasant and the positive.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘Why don’t you attend one of the workshops and find out for yourself?’ he said.
I grunted. I didn’t buy it, but I knew my guests would. So I decided to attend the introductory lecture and take it from there.
I know that if I didn’t have the unpleasantness of my past to push me, I would have remained where I was. Selling milk or working as a sales boy even when I was fifty years old, in some little store somewhere.
I think of what the man said: block out the past and think only of
the present. When an unpleasant thought crosses my mind, I shut my eyes and will it to leave. It usually works.
the present. When an unpleasant thought crosses my mind, I shut my eyes and will it to leave. It usually works.
But two nights ago, I couldn’t stop thinking of how the Sahiv let his eyes caress Radha. I did not like it. The man’s a lecherous beast, anyone can see it. Why did she have to welcome his glances with her smiles and coy fleeting looks? Each time I sat with them, I felt excluded. I wanted to tap her on her shoulder and say, hello, I am your husband and those glances from the corner of your eye and the pouting of your lips all rightfully belong to me.
But I held my tongue, knowing that if I were to rebuke her, she would continue to do exactly the same, just to spite me.
I wondered if I could talk to Uncle. The old man was strange. But he listened to anything you had to say without offering an opinion, and that was rare in most listeners. But what could I tell him? That I didn’t like Chris? That I didn’t like the way he looked at my wife? Or that I didn’t like Radha seeing so much of him? It sounded pathetic even to my ears.
When Radha came home from the kathakali performance, it was close to midnight, and something in me snapped.
One of the servants opened the door for her. I heard our bedroom door open. She padded in quietly. The lamp on her side of the bed was on. She took her sari off and draped it on the back of a chair. Then she began to take her jewellery off. ‘Don’t,’ I said.
She turned with a jerk. There was surprise in her voice. ‘I thought you were asleep.’
‘I am not.’
She raised her hands to her ears.
‘Don’t,’ I said. ‘Come here.’
She sat on the bed. I touched her shoulder. The blouse she wore had a deep neckline. I ran a finger down her back. She shrugged me off. ‘No, Shyam, I am not in the mood,’ she said.
‘I’ll get you into the mood,’ I said and brushed my palms against her breasts. I nuzzled her earlobe. Her earring jostled with my tongue.
She pushed me away. ‘I told you I don’t want to.’
‘You are mine,’ I said.
‘You are drunk,’ she said. ‘And I am not a bloody object.’
I felt a dark rage gather in me. ‘You are my wife.’ My voice rose.
‘Do you have to shout? The servants will hear us.’ Her voice was low.
‘You are my wife. I want you to show me some respect.’
‘What do you want me to do? Lick your feet?’
‘Just show me some respect. You strut about the place with strange men, you come home at midnight and expect me to say nothing. No husband would tolerate this. What do you think I am? A fucking eunuch?’
‘Shyam.’ She stood up. ‘I will not listen to this.’
‘You fucking will,’ I said. I stood up and pushed her down. ‘I have my rights,’ I said.
‘Don’t I have a right to say no?’ she demanded furiously, trying to get up.
‘Not tonight,’ I said and shoved her back on the pillows.
I felt her go rigid. She lay there like a wooden block, immune to all my caresses. But I was past caring. I kneed her legs apart and tore her panties away. She was dry and arid. I felt anger cloud my mind again. I spat into my hand and smeared her with my spit. ‘You are mine, do you hear me?’ I muttered.
Then I fucked her. The resentment I felt for being tolerated rather than loved, the yearning I had suffered, the loneliness of these eight years, all fused to become a consuming desire to possess her. To make her mine. To reach within and tear down that film of indifference that coated her eyes each time I took her in my arms.
‘You are my wife, you are mine,’ I said, and searched her eyes to see if I had finally managed to break through.
In the early hours I found her asleep in the swing seat. She had never liked the swing seat. When it was delivered to our home, she had laughed at its red-and-white candy-striped cushions and awning. ‘It looks like something out of an old Tamil movie,’ she had sneered.
I had wanted it placed in the front veranda.
‘You must be out of your mind,’ she said.
‘Why, what’s wrong with it? I think it looks grand,’ I said, touching the frame painted a brilliant white.
‘It looks like a prop in a stage set. It is embarrassing.’ And so it was relegated to the eastern side of the house and tucked away in a corner.
I thought of waking her up and taking her into our bed, but I was
scared it would provoke a scene. So I left her there.
scared it would provoke a scene. So I left her there.
When I woke up, she was at my side, all bright and chirpy. And suddenly it occured to me that that was what she had really wanted: a good fuck. It shames me to think it, but I realize it is the truth. Women like to be made to feel like women, dominated and put in their place. Even my Radha. So I wasn’t wrong, after all.
Instinctively, I had known what to do. Now I know what else I will do. I will buy her a pair of emerald earrings. The flash of the green stones will please her.
What woman can resist the sparkle of jewellery?
The footballer’s eyes are open. I lean forward and say, ‘Excuse me …’ He turns. He looks pleased. He is a man who likes to be recognized. No pretence of false modesty. I think I like him even more.
It is only half past three in the afternoon, but already this corner of the house is bathed in shadows. The rains have begun again. Shyam left a little while ago. For the first time in two days, I feel safe.
The swing seat creaks. I put my hand on the frame to steady it. I have never liked it or the corner it sits in. Now it is the only part of the house that I can bear to be in. Two nights have passed since Shyam plundered my body, seized and took away my right to say no. Time hasn’t made it better, only worse.
Rape. The word grows fur and fangs, claws and talons. Its eyes are cold and its tongue is forked. Its touch is clammy and its smell the putrid stench of sweat, offal, force and brutality. I feel bile rush into my mouth.
Rape. I look in the dictionary again. Rape: a noun. A sexual act committed by force, especially on a woman.
There are no categories of rape. Rape is rape, even when sanctified
by marriage. And the rapist doesn’t have to be a stranger emerging from the shadows. He could be your husband. What Shyam did was to rape me.
by marriage. And the rapist doesn’t have to be a stranger emerging from the shadows. He could be your husband. What Shyam did was to rape me.
I close my eyes, willing myself to forget. But I cannot shut my mind to the expression in his eyes as his body bucked and heaved over mine. His eyes seared and burnt. They said: you are mine, you are mine. Shyam’s eyes branded me more than his body did.
Later, he drew me into his arms as if nothing had happened. His lips brushed my forehead. I flinched. I waited for his breathing to settle, then I turned on my side and curled into a ball. I tucked my knees into my chest and shoved my fingers into my mouth so I made no noise as I wept.
I felt sore and bruised, invaded and robbed. Is this rape, I asked myself again and again.
Then I knew I couldn’t lie there any more. So I rose and went seeking a quiet corner where I could wrap my arms around myself and cry loudly. I went from room to room. I paused in the office room to find the dictionary. If I know what it is, I thought, I will feel better. If I can give this attack a name, I will know how to deal with it.
I woke at dawn and crept back into bed. My mind was made up. I would pretend that nothing had happened. I would cheat him of the pleasure of having imposed his will.
We went to the SP’s daughter’s wedding. I wore a silk sari and jewellery and flowers in my hair. I let my bangles sing my gestures. The bells on my anklets punctuated my steps with their chorus. I felt Shyam’s eyes on me, watching. If he thought that he had forced me into submission, he was wrong. I pretended gaiety and life and somewhere within me the core of pain grew.
That evening I saw Chris and I felt a ray of calm suffuse me. Shyam might think he owned me, but he didn’t. I was never his. And I never will be.
My eyes spoke to Chris: I remember. Do you?
His eyes glanced their reply: I do.
Tomorrow, my eyes said, tomorrow there will be more. That is all we can hope for. That is my prayer.
I know, his eyes confirmed.
I went home that night feeling strangely tranquil. Shyam looked
at my face and began to say something. Then he paused.
at my face and began to say something. Then he paused.
‘What were you about to say?’ I asked in an even voice.
He stared. All day long he had expected anger, but I felt no anger. Revulsion, yes, and disgust. But not anger.
I saw his face clear. When he left home, Shyam thought all was well. I let him believe it. For there was Chris now.
I let the swing seat cradle me. I think about Chris. When I think about him, I do not have to think about Shyam. Everything ceases to be, except that long-drawn moment when Chris held me in his arms as if I were his precious instrument.
The phone rings. It is Chris.
I don’t know what to say to him on the phone. We haven’t been alone since that night.
‘Will you be coming to the resort this evening?’ he asks.
I hesitate only for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I say.
‘In that case, will you have dinner with me? I would really like that.’
I wonder what I will say to him when I see him. Then I think, it doesn’t matter. I will know what to do when the time comes.
Shashi twists his body around so he can see my face. ‘Would you like me to stay?’ he asks. ‘It is no trouble, really. With Sir away, I don’t feel right about leaving you here.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘I will come back only tomorrow morning. Uncle isn’t feeling well. I need to be here.’
Shashi frowns. ‘Isn’t it better that you take him home?’
‘He refuses to move from where he is,’ I say. The lies trip from my mouth. I add one more. ‘His roof leaks and he is scared the house will be flooded by the rains if he stays away.’ And then one more. ‘Besides, there is his parrot.’
Shashi doesn’t say anything. But I can see he isn’t pleased. I swallow the lies that flood my mouth. I don’t need to convince him. He is the driver, not my husband.
‘I’ll bring the bag,’ he says.
‘No need for that. I can take it myself,’ I say and step out of the car. ‘Be here by nine in the morning.’
As I walk into Uncle’s house, I hear the car drive away.
Uncle joins me on the veranda. Malini hops on one leg inside her cage. ‘Why haven’t you taken her in yet?’ I ask.
She screeches a welcome. I tap the bars of her cage. ‘Bad girl,’ I say.
Uncle looks at me. His eyes question what I am doing here. I drop into a chair. I let my head fall back and then I muster an airy voice. ‘I thought I’d spend the night here. Shyam is away.’
He leans against a pillar. I stand up.
‘You are very restless. What’s on your mind?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ I smile. ‘Nothing at all.’
Then I take a deep breath and say, ‘I am going to the resort. I thought I’d have dinner with Chris. I’ll be back a little late. Is that all right with you?’
His face is expressionless. ‘I’ll leave the door unlatched. I’ll make a bed for you in the front room,’ he says.
I nod and go inside to put away my overnight bag.
When I come back to the veranda, I see that he is still standing there with his back to the pillar. His eyes seek mine. Be careful, they say.
At the top of the steps, I turn. ‘Who is Saadiya?’ I ask.
‘My mother,’ he says.
I feel my eyes widen, my jaws slacken. Uncle is my father’s half-brother. I had always assumed that he was a child from my grandfather’s first marriage.
‘I didn’t know …’ I say.
‘No one did, except my father, my brothers and your grandmother. And the doctor. My father preferred to bury his past.’ His face twists into a grimace. ‘And mine.’
I see him pull himself together. I see the tension leave his face. ‘My father, your grandfather’—his hands seek mine. He seems to need to hold something warm and alive to reassure himself that he does exist despite a buried past—‘often said it is wise to bury the past. It was his way of coming to terms with life. To suppress remorse and regret. There are times when I think my father was a very wise man. Forget, forget …we must do that if we want to cling to our dreams and hopes. But you see, there is also who I am. A veshakaaran. An actor. Every character I am is influenced by what I know of life, so how can I forget or bury my past? That is my conundrum. But you, you ought not to let what has been rule you.’
He lets my hands go. Then he moves his right hand in an elaborate
gesture. ‘See this,’ he says, letting his middle finger and thumb meet in a resounding click. ‘Tell me, what is now? The thought that ran as an impulse to the brain, or the movement of the fingers, or the contact of skin against skin, or the trapped air escaping, or the echo of that escape …What is now? All of it, or merely the click?’
gesture. ‘See this,’ he says, letting his middle finger and thumb meet in a resounding click. ‘Tell me, what is now? The thought that ran as an impulse to the brain, or the movement of the fingers, or the contact of skin against skin, or the trapped air escaping, or the echo of that escape …What is now? All of it, or merely the click?’
I repeat his gesture. ‘I am not sure …’
‘The click is now. That’s what you need to accept. The before and after is of no consequence.’ He takes my hands in his again. I realize there is a coded message in this, somewhere. An intimation I ought to be able to read.
Is he telling me to seek out Chris, or is he asking me to be content with Shyam? I do not understand.
‘I must be going,’ I say and slowly withdraw my hands from the warmth of his clasp. I step out into the night, away from the length of light cast by the bulb in the veranda.
I walk to the reception area.
On a wall painted a deep mustard yellow, more gold than yellow in the evening, is a cluster of photographs. Against the wall are potted palms in brass planters and a huge verdigris-muted bronze uruli in which water lilies float. A Lakshmi lamp with single wick lights a corner. Classic Kerala resort decor. Shyam has turned this decrepit old palace into a showpiece. Even buildings have to submit to his will, I think bitterly.
Chris is sitting on a cane sofa, glancing idly through a magazine. I stand in the doorway looking at him. He is the gold of the walls. His hair, a deeper gold in the muted light, is slicked back. He is wearing clothes that are unusual for him: a cream-coloured halfsleeved shirt and beige trousers. He is glowing as if the days in the sun have suffused his body with a light that blazes from within. I stand there drinking in everything about him.
The intensity of my longing must have touched him because he looks up suddenly, as if a finger had tapped him. ‘Hey, Radha.’ He smiles.
I sit on the sofa opposite him. ‘Have you been waiting long?’ I ask, trying to wave away the awkwardness that has suddenly crept into my voice.
‘A few minutes.’ He shrugs.
‘Are you hungry?’ Everything I had planned on telling him dries
in my throat. Only banalities fill my mouth.
in my throat. Only banalities fill my mouth.
‘You look beautiful,’ he says.
‘This is an old sari.’
‘I wasn’t talking about the sari. I said you look beautiful. You, Radha, you …’ His eyes crinkle.
I feel heat gather in my cheeks. I look away. I can smell his fragrance. Crushed marigolds. Turmeric roots. A golden yellow fragrance. My fingers ache to touch that golden magnificence.
I see Unni looking at us. Behind that blank expression, I know Unni must be straining his ears to hear very word, making a note of every gesture, every smile, every detail, from the cut of my blouse to Chris’s footwear. Suddenly I feel overwhelmed by Shyam’s presence. His walls, his people, his ambitions, his ruthlessness, they press in on me.
‘Let’s go to the restaurant,’ I say. I want to be some place where we are not the focus of attention.
‘Who are these people?’ Chris asks, rising from the sofa. He points to the cluster of photographs. ‘Your family? Sham’s?’
I try not to smile. Despite our best efforts, Chris still can’t say Shyam.
‘This,’ I say, pointing to a studio portrait of a couple, ‘is one set of my grandparents. The man, by the way, is Sethu. Sethu from Uncle’s story. These,’ I say, pointing to another one of a boyish young man and a girl with her hair in a little bun and a great deal of jewellery, ‘are my parents. This is their wedding photograph.’
I move my finger to the left and point to the photograph of a man in uniform. ‘This is Shyam’s father. He was in the army.’
‘And the others? Are they your extended family?’
‘I really don’t know who they are. Some minor royalty, I guess.’ There are photographs of men in turbans and women with stone-studded brooches pinned to their saris. In the centre is a largish photograph of an imperious man seated on a straight-backed chair. He is holding a walking stick and the fingers of the hand holding the stick are studded with rings. A dog is sitting by the chair; both man and beast stare into the camera’s eye. ‘Shyam bought them from an old photo studio and had them framed and mounted.’ I try to hide my embarrassment.
Chris is quiet. I can almost hear what he is thinking. I am thinking
it too: He really is a sham. Old photographs are one thing. But what kind of man puts up strangers’ pictures on his wall and pretends they are family?
it too: He really is a sham. Old photographs are one thing. But what kind of man puts up strangers’ pictures on his wall and pretends they are family?
We walk into the restaurant and sit at a table in the corner. The river is visible from here. We make desultory conversation. Chris drums his fingers on the table. ‘I have never seen rain like this. Not even in Indonesia, which is very much like Kerala.’
‘You should see the October storms. They are frightening. Thunder comes rolling in, and lightning tears the skies.’
It occurs to me then, that he may not be here to see the October storms.
I see that he is thinking the same.
His fingers brush mine. ‘No,’ I say, moving my hand away. ‘Someone will see us.’
‘Later,’ I add, afraid that I have upset him.
He crinkles his eyes again and asks, ‘Will there be a later?’
I drop my eyes.
I toy with the food on my plate. He eats with the absorption he seems to imbue his life with.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’ he asks, forking a piece of chicken from my plate.
I see Pradeep staring at us from across the room. More notes to take to the master, I think. I decide to brazen it out. I catch Pradeep’s eye. He rushes forward. ‘Anything else, madam?’
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