Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (30 page)
Suddenly he asked, ‘Is there anything you would like to know? You can ask me anything you want.’
The boy met his eyes for the first time and said, ‘Koman would like to know the name of the river.’
Sethu stared at his son. Then he said softly, ‘You must stop addressing yourself in the third person. It sounds weird. Say I. I want to know the name of the river. That’s how you ought to say it.’
The boy’s eyes fell. Then he raised them and looked again into his father’s face as if seeing him for the first time. He said, ‘I want to know the name of the river.’
W
e arrive now at the sixth emotion with which we dress our faces. Bhayaanakam. Fear. Don’t we all know fear?
e arrive now at the sixth emotion with which we dress our faces. Bhayaanakam. Fear. Don’t we all know fear?
The face of bhayaanakam requires that you remember to let fear show. Your eyes widen, your forehead wrinkles, your nostrils flare, your mouth droops, and your neck retreats into your chest, but it is the breath that you have to concentrate on. Let it emerge from either side of your eyes and you will see that the eyes move on their own, naturally travelling to the object causing fear.
The state of being frightened can stem from many things. A wild beast, an evil man, a natural calamity, a dark night. All these can fill us with fear. But there is yet another fear, which is what I would like you to reflect on here.
Let us begin with the wild pineapple. First, you need to cut it away from its nest of green sword-like leaves. You know a fear; something akin to dread coils itself around your ankles. You do not know what awaits you. Cuts and bruises, snakes that crouch hidden in the undergrowth, so many trials waiting even as your arms stretch towards the pineapple. When you have the pineapple in your hands, another kind of fear attacks you as you slice its prickly sides away to expose its flesh. The sweetness floods your mouth, but at the back of your mind, you worry: will this be the one that causes your body to swell, making your eyes recede in a welt of puffiness? Will this be the one that will drive you into a frenzy of itching, making you want to tear your clothes off and rake your skin with your fingernails and roll in the dust? You do not know, you do not know …
Like you do not know what to make of the cry at twilight. In that hour when light gives way to shadows and there lurks in every corner an imaginary ghost, a thin quivery call echoes through the shadowed skies. Poo-ah, poo-ah …the kaalan kozhi. The devil’s bird, we call it, though it is merely a mottled wood owl. When the kaalan kozhi cries, death wanders, seeking another victim, our grandmothers teach
us. They tie knots at the end of their mundu and thrust a ladle into the ashes of the wood stove, all to drive the kaalan kozhi away. Yet, the cries echo through the twilight and the heart beats faster: who is to be next?
us. They tie knots at the end of their mundu and thrust a ladle into the ashes of the wood stove, all to drive the kaalan kozhi away. Yet, the cries echo through the twilight and the heart beats faster: who is to be next?
So it is with the stillness of Meenam—the month of April. As it dawns, the heat wraps the day, stilling every moment, hindering every thought and breath. The fields lie brown and baked. Tufts of paddy splay out like brown flowers that crackle even as you look at them. Wells dry up. Sweat prickles every brow and rushes down the temple. Exhaustion lines every face and dogs every step. The nights are still. The fireflies have gone into hiding. In the morning, the heat reappears, a ghoul strangling the breath of the hour, harder and harder. In your heart you know a fear. The worst fear of all: Will this ever end? When it does, what next?
Remember, you can pretend all other emotions: courage or love, laughter or sorrow, disgust or wonder, contempt or calm, but you cannot pretend fear …you will give yourself away. Fear cannot hide itself. It emanates from you even if you try to conceal it.
There is one other aspect to fear. When you are afraid, you react in two ways—with utmost courage or cowardice. The choice is yours, but only fear can draw that decision from you.
I sit and look at her. Again and again. There is a hollowness in the pit of my stomach. I know the density of the milky fluid that replaces the ligaments in my knees. I know the taste of the liquid that fills my mouth. I know this feeling. It used to court me once. It held me in its arms and turned my intestines into nothingness. It hollowed my knees and washed my tongue with bitterness. When I was fifteen and didn’t know where to turn, I knew you then, old foe. I recognize you even though it’s been a long time since we met. I know you, fear. I know you are back in my life again.
She is sleeping on her side. Her plait snakes across the pillow. She is sleeping like a child. She has a child’s nightgown on, buttoned to her neck and pulled down demurely to cover her knees. Sprigs of pale pink flowers, scalloped edges and cap sleeves—she has clothed her womanhood and transformed herself into a child.
Her sleeping face is drawn into a smile. Once in a while she nuzzles her pillow. Who treads through her dreams and stretches her lips into a smile? Is it him she is seeking?
I sit there on my chair and look at her. Again and again.
In movies, in the final confrontation, the man tells his adulterous wife, ‘Did you think I wouldn’t ever find out? Did you think I didn’t know? I knew the day it began. Don’t you realize I know everything about you?’
I have seen this scene enacted in so many different ways by so many different actors. I have asked myself: Did he, really? Would I have known? Would I have been able to tell?
I didn’t, did I, Radha? I never knew. I never realized. I was jealous, but then, I always am. Have always been, when I think that someone or something threatens my place in your life. I am jealous of your childhood friends. Of your uncle, who seems to command your loyalty and trust while I have to wait for crumbs to come my way. Of the music you listen to, the books you read, of even your memories that exclude me. Which is why, each time you said you were planning to do something with your time, I found reasons for you to not do it. I don’t like sharing you with anyone. I don’t like anything that draws you away from me.
Tell me Radha, when did this begin? How long have you been cheating on me? Was it the day you first met him or the day I went away? Was it when the sun was shining, or was it when the rain drew a curtain around your adulterous coupling? Did you seek him out? Or did he seek you? Was it on my bed or his? Did he take you against a wall or lay you down on a patch of grass? Did you scream and rake his back with your nails? Did you nip his flesh and wrap your legs around his? Did he draw your hair over your breasts and ply his fingers through your wetness? Did you open your mouth and ask for more? Or did you close your eyes and sigh your pleasure?
I sit here, Radha. I look at you again and again. And I think of
when fear came knocking at my door …
when fear came knocking at my door …
I would never have known, would I? If I hadn’t met Jacob and, on a whim, decided to go with him to the rubber plantation he works on.
‘C’mon,’ Jacob had persuaded me. ‘Just for a day. It has been so long since we met. You can take the same train back tomorrow, from Kottayam. I promise to drive you to the station.’
Jacob and I had been room-mates in the house we rented with two others. We were room-mates till I gave up my job and started my own business. Four years ago, he had switched jobs and become the assistant manager of a plantation. ‘It’s not an easy job, but it has its advantages,’ he had said, when we spoke last.
I could see the advantages. A hundred-year-old bungalow that overlooked a green valley. Fireplaces and mullioned windows. Antique furniture and servants to keep everything clean. A lawn and ancient trees. There was a giant manjadi tree, and in the grass beneath were hundreds of manjadi seeds, glistening like ruby drops in the emerald of the grass. I picked one up and rolled its red glistening smoothness between my fingers.
I thought of the emerald earrings I had bought you. And knew that here was yet another way to please you. I found a thing to do.
I gathered the red manjadi seeds. I would hide the red velvet jewellery box in a bag of red manjadis and let your fingers chance upon it.
‘What are you doing?’ Jacob called from the veranda.
‘My wife will like these red seeds,’ I explained, holding up the bag.
‘I’ll get someone to collect them for you,’ he offered.
‘No, I have to do this myself,’ I said.
The sun was disappearing into the horizon. Fingers of darkness gathered the redness in the sky.
‘It’s going to pour tonight,’ Jacob said. He winked. ‘Shall I start pouring before that?’
There were snacks—murukku and fried chicken, peanut masala and tapioca chips. We talked. The whisky disappeared. A pile of bones grew. I leaned back in my chair and inhaled the fragrance of tobacco. I had quit smoking three years ago. I hadn’t craved for a cigarette even once. But without the slightest hesitation, I drew out a cigarette from his pack when he offered it to me, and lit one.
The rain fell in sheets. On the veranda we sat feeling the lash of its wetness. The raindrops stung my face. ‘Do you want to go in?’ Jacob asked.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Let’s just move away from the rain. It is so beautiful sitting here. God knows when I last had such a restful time. No problems to solve, no calls to take.’
It was then I realized that my mobile hadn’t rung all evening. You hadn’t called me even once. What was wrong? I pulled my mobile out. The signal tower on the left of the screen was a flat brick.
‘Is this a no-signal zone?’ I asked.
‘Yes. Didn’t you know?’
I looked at my watch. It was a quarter past twelve. It was late, but I knew I had to call you. ‘I must call Radha. She must have tried calling me all evening. She must be worried,’ I said.
I went into the house. I dialled your mobile. Why did I? Why didn’t I call home? Or Uncle? I don’t know. I was drunk. Perhaps I was scared to call home and find you gone. I just wanted to hear your voice and reassure myself.
I imagined the phone ringing and ringing. I imagined the sleep in your voice. I imagined you would be angry at being woken up. And I chuckled.
You picked up the phone at the second ring. Your voice was low, but clear. You were awake, you said. You were at Uncle’s. Where else, you asked. You didn’t want to wake him up; he had just gone to sleep, you said. No, you hadn’t called, you said. If there was anything important, I would have called, you said. I was not worried, you said. I really must go to sleep now, you said. Good night, you said, and your voice in my ear went dead.
Was it then I knew fear for the first time?
I imagined you in his arms, turning to snatch the phone and willing it to not be me. Arranging your voice so you wouldn’t give away the fact that he was with you. I imagined him licking the curve of your throat as you dribbled your lies into the phone. I remembered all the love scenes in the books I had read and the films I had seen. I imagined you and him turning them into reality.
In the morning, the sun blazed. It was one of those hot July mornings when you think the monsoon never happened. The heat dripped down my back in rivulets of sweat. The servants brought a
bowl of cubed pineapple. Sugar sparkled on the fruit. I bit into the flesh and felt the sweetness envelop me. I must stop drinking, I thought. It changes my personality. I become another man: insecure, suspicious, afraid. I begin to imagine the strangest of things, and let it shoot up my blood pressure.
bowl of cubed pineapple. Sugar sparkled on the fruit. I bit into the flesh and felt the sweetness envelop me. I must stop drinking, I thought. It changes my personality. I become another man: insecure, suspicious, afraid. I begin to imagine the strangest of things, and let it shoot up my blood pressure.
The heat and the yellow sweetness enveloped me. That July morning I thrust away fear and gathered my manjadis once again. I found a thing to do.
Yet, beneath the rows and rows of brooding rubber trees, fear lurked in the shade. From the cut in the bark, fear flowed into little black cups. And without my knowing, I carried fear with me into my home.
So, did I know fear’s presence when I walked down the railway bridge and saw the two of you drive past? Shashi was driving, and I wondered what he thought of the two of you sitting behind in the passenger seat. Did the line of your body trace his? Did your hands brush surreptitiously? Did he have his arm draped along the back seat and did it toy with the nape of your neck? Did you lean against him?
Did Shashi see and wonder? Was he asking himself, does Sir know? In his heart, is Shashi pitying me for what you are doing to me?
I knew fear for certain when I went to the resort and they, each one of my employees, took great pains to not let their outrage show when they told me that when I was gone, you were at the resort. Without actually saying so, they let me know you were here. Dining with the Sahiv. Talking. Laughing. Cavorting as if you didn’t care who would see, what they would assume. I listened with a heart fit to break.
It trailed me, this fear, when I walked into our room and saw that everything was as it was, on your bedside table. A thin film of dust spoke of your absence. You had hardly been home while I was gone. I dusted the top of the table and your various possessions. I found a thing to do while I waited for you.
The rain set in early. I stood there on the veranda, waiting for you. You came in, the rain dripping from your hair and the edge of your nose. ‘Why didn’t you take an umbrella?’ I asked.
‘Oh, a little rain isn’t going to hurt me,’ you said. ‘When did you arrive?’
‘A while ago,’ I said. I resolved that I would not ask where you had been. Anyway, I knew what your answer would be: at Uncle’s. Where else?
I watched you towel your damp hair and dry it. The hot air hummed and the perfume you wore sprang to life. I watched you as you walked between bedroom and bathroom, taking off your clothes. You were never so confident about your body before. I stood there as you draped a towel around yourself. I saw your shoulders, bare and inviting.
‘Sit down,’ I told you.
You looked at me as if I had lost my mind. ‘Can I put some clothes on?’
‘No,’ I said. Where did that hectoring tone come from? I didn’t mean to, you know. ‘Sit down. This can’t wait.’
You turned pale. You bit your lower lip. I saw fear in your eyes. ‘Shyam …’ you said in a voice that shook.
You sat down. I sat down beside you. I took my bag out and said, ‘I brought this for you …’
For a moment, only for a moment, I thought I would set the manjadis cascading down your hair and face. See them tumble over your body and into the folds of your towel. But it is not in me to make such flamboyant gestures.
‘Oh, what is this?’ you asked and held up the plastic bag. The manjadis rustled and tittered and within, the emerald earrings nestled in their red velvet box.
‘Manjadis? Is this what couldn’t wait?’
‘Look inside,’ I said.
You stuck your hand in. It might have been a sewage pit with frogspawn on top, you showed such reluctance. Your fingers settled on the velvet box. You drew it out and I watched your eyes.
They were flat and disinterested. ‘How pretty,’ you said and left them on the table. I waited for you to put them on. But you rose to go. I knew fear again. What more could I do?
All evening I waited to see them glow on your earlobes. Then I asked you, ‘Don’t you like them?’
‘What?’
‘Don’t you like the earrings?’
‘I do.’
‘Why don’t you wear them? They are so valuable and you leave them lying around …’
You frowned. Your mouth tightened. I knew I had said the wrong thing again. And you said, ‘If they are so valuable, why don’t you put them away? It isn’t as if I asked for them.’
‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ I tried to explain.
‘What else did you mean? You are barely back home and you’ve begun treating me like an errant, wayward child already. I don’t need a daddy. I had one.’
I sit here in my chair looking at you. Again and again. It isn’t only you who have read the poets. I know some poetry, too. Shall I, like Porphyria’s lover, take your braid and wrap it around your neck three times, round and round and round? I wouldn’t want to hurt you. You would feel no pain.
I would like to kill you. I hate you for what you are doing to me. But how can I? To kill you would be to lose you. That I cannot bear. I cannot let him take you away. I cannot let you go. Nor can I let you do this to me …none of this I can bear.
I think of the other Radha. The cowherd husband herded his cows while Radha sneaked off to her trysts with Krishna. He seduced her with music and charm. But do you know what happened? Krishna went away. He had so much to do, so many things to accomplish, so many demons to vanquish, and sixteen thousand and more wives to tend to; time had staked its claim on him. But the husband remained. The cowherd husband herding his cows and waiting for Radha to come to her senses, to go back to him.
Am I to be that husband? Willing to close my eyes, willing to forgive and forget?
Fear courses through me. What am I to do next?
I sit here, Radha, looking at you. Again and again. And thus we sit together, fear and I. And all night we have not stirred.
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