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Authors: Anita Nair

Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories

Mistress (7 page)

BOOK: Mistress
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In public, though, Shyam prefers it to be known that he reads the
Hindu
, and on Sundays the
New Indian Express
as well.
He folds the newspaper and places it neatly by his plate. Then he takes the newspaper I am reading and folds that as well. He reaches for a banana, peels and eats it slowly. He leaves the skin on his plate. It looks as if the plantain slunk out when no one was looking, the skin is so perfectly arranged. Shyam is fastidious. Newspapers have to be folded and stacked; clothes ironed and put away on their shelves; all surfaces wiped clean of dust; and glasses placed on coasters so they don’t leave water marks. Candles are not allowed to drip nor are dead leaves allowed to remain on a plant. His music collection is arranged in alphabetical order and his office table looks as if he does no work on it, ever. Everything is in its place and in order.
I thrive on chaos and it vexes Shyam to see my closet and bedside table. ‘How do you know what is where? How can you be so disorderly?’
It irritates me to see Shyam as he goes about regulating his universe and mine. But this morning, his need for symmetry and love of order
comfort me. They contain my thoughts and pace the unruly meanderings of my mind.
‘Oppol will be here this weekend,’ he says.
I look down at my plate and try to hide my grimace. Rani Oppol. Shyam’s sister. She is a good woman, but her insensitivity would make even a buffalo blanch. Her visits usually leave me infuriated and feeling totally worthless. But she is Shyam’s sister and I know there is nothing I can say to prevent her from visiting us.
‘They are on their way to Vishakapatnam, where Manoj is, and she wanted to stop over and spend some time with us,’ Shyam says.
My heart sinks.
‘How long will Rani stay?’ I ask.
‘Just a couple of days. Radha, you really mustn’t call her by her name. It is so disrespectful, and you know she doesn’t like it at all.’
I agree, I want to tell him. She shouldn’t be called Rani. She ought to be called harpy, vixen, whinger, nag, bitch …
I can hear her voice in my head. That affected, little-girl voice that grates on my nerves. How is it, I wonder, that she knows the exact thing to say, to rob me of all self-esteem? For years now, I have been enduring it.
‘But Radha, why don’t you drive? All girls of your generation do.’
‘I do. I used to in Bangalore,’ I would protest. ‘But Shyam won’t let me. He says …’
‘Ah, Shyam probably has a reason.’
Another time, she told me, ‘The other day I met Susie, that girl who was in college with you. She is working for a multinational company. That’s how girls ought to be. Smart and independent. If you sit at home, all you do is sleep in the afternoon, watch TV and get fat. It is such a pity that you are wasting your time doing nothing.’
I sucked my belly in and resolved not to nap in the afternoon.
Later, it was to Uncle that I voiced my irritation. ‘She is obnoxious, she truly is. I made this chicken dish especially for her, the way she likes it. At dinner time, when we were seated at the table, my long-suffering brother-in-law said, “Rani, try some of the chicken, it’s cooked the way you like it. Marinated and deep fried over a wood fire.” And do you know what she did? She crinkled her nose as if I had offered her a dead rat and said, “Should I? It’s only chicken, after all.”
‘What was I expected to provide? An elephant’s egg, hardboiled?’
Uncle laughed and laughed.
I said, ‘You think it’s funny, do you? But I was hurt. If someone were to criticize her cooking, she would probably have a fit. All of us have to be careful what we say to her. My sister is so sensitive, Shyam says. Doesn’t he realize what a beastly woman she is?’
I think now, I will have to prepare myself for her arrival. I will not let her wound me again.
‘Are you coming?’ Shyam asks, watching me toy with my breakfast.
‘No,’ I say.
‘Good. No need for you to be there every day,’ he says. ‘I intend going for just an hour. I’ll leave the car and driver here for you, and take the jeep. I suppose you are going to spend the whole morning at the beauty parlour.’
I smile. Shyam likes to think of me prettying myself for him. He prefers a glossy, silly wife to a homely, practical one. Glossy, silly wives are malleable.
He pauses on his way out and fondles my cheek. ‘Though I really don’t know why you need to go to the beauty parlour. You are ravishing the way you are.’
Poor Shyam. He thinks exaggerated compliments will make me happy and ensure marital bliss. He tries so hard that at times it tires me. This morning, though, I feel sad. For him. For us. For our marriage. He deserves better.
Shyam complains that I don’t show any real interest in his pursuits. That I don’t care enough. He speaks the truth.
Shyam is ambitious, and I find his unwillingness to hide his ambition repulsive. Once, early in our marriage, I told him as much.
‘What’s wrong with wanting to make money? You don’t know what it is like to be poor. How would you anyway? You’ve always had money. Your family brought you up as a princess. Everything you wanted was made available. Not so for me. I know what it is to want something and not be able to have it because it is “beyond us”. My mother had a whole stock of sayings to explain this “beyond us” business. No point in crying for the moon! What is the point in a rabbit trying to shit as much as an elephant would, etc., etc. And all because I asked for a toy or a pen or some such trivial thing that had
caught my eye.’ Shyam’s face was contorted in a grimace. Then, as if he had wiped a hand over his features, it smoothened and he said in a cold but even voice, ‘I am yet to understand the meaning of the word “enough”. When I do, I promise I’ll stop this “frantic chasing to amass wealth” as you call it.’
I didn’t ever bring it up again. As the years passed, one by one, we shunted away all the topics we could converse about. We couldn’t agree on anything, whether it was music or films, political parties or even the choice of plants in our garden. Now we have no conversation.
 
This morning, I feel the need to make an effort, to redeem myself in Shyam’s eyes. Do penance for allowing this strange attraction I feel for Chris to root within me. I shall avoid the resort, I think. For there wait Chris and temptation.
Shyam owns several businesses. But none of them need me for anything. They run on their own and don’t need me, the owner’s wife, hovering around. When I do go, occasionally, one of the employees offers me a chair and a soft drink in a bottle with a straw and stays there while I gulp it down, so that he can see me to the car. He opens the door for me, waits for me to seat myself, slams the door shut and tells Shashi, ‘Drive carefully.’
There is relief on his face; a relief that stretches his face into a smile even before the car has pulled away. I know. I have seen it.
I think of where I could go. Then I think of the match factory.
Perhaps factory is a euphemism for a shed and a batch of workers with a supervisor. But even this little place brings Shyam profits. He has a knack for making money. My grandfather would have approved of him and his methods.
Shyam manufactures four brands of matches. Two of these, Jasmine and Near-the-Nila, are made exclusively for the resort. He had picked up the idea of customized matches while on a trip abroad. The third brand changed every few months, for it relied on the flavour of the season, be it politics or films. This season we have a matchbox called Lajjavati, after a popular song. Lajjavati, the shy one, is a big hit. Then there is the ‘umbrella brand’, as Shyam refers to it. Shyam often uses marketing terms learnt during his days as a marketing executive with Hindustan Lever. The umbrella brand is called Foreign. ‘People like going to shops and asking for Foreign matches and
shopkeepers like being able to sell Foreign matches. Both parties are happy. Do you understand?’ Shyam explained to me.
I had smiled then. I smile now, thinking of it. Again that sadness. Shyam, who is so sensitive to people’s attitudes when it comes to buying and selling, doesn’t have the faintest notion of how my mind works.
I thrust the thought away and ask Shashi to take me to the match factory.
I do not know what I will do there. But there must be something I can do beyond sitting on the proffered chair and sipping the mandatory soft drink.
There must be a way by which even if I can’t exorcize the thought of Chris, I can run a stake through the heart of that thought and rein it to the ground.
I shove the plate aside, lick my fingers one by one, pick up the glass with my soiled hand and drink the water in one gulp, then belch loudly.
The licking and belching are a rare treat, but I am alone and can indulge in it without worrying about Radha’s censorious gaze. Her disapproval of such natural pleasures inhibits me and usually, even after a splendid meal, I feel incomplete. But for now I am sated.
It was almost lunchtime when I turned in at the gate. My twin lions gleamed gold-like in the midday sun. I felt a swelling of my heart. I don’t think I will ever tire of gazing at them. For that matter, I don’t think this sense of achievement I feel each time I drive through the gates of Near-the-Nila will ever dim.
The doorman was at the car door even as I stopped. He was keeping good time. I smiled at him. I looked to where Padmanabhan had been tethered in the morning. ‘Have someone clean up that mess,’
I said. There were heaps of dung lying on the ground. ‘What time did he go?’ I asked.
‘Just an hour ago. He will be back at four, he said.’
‘Who? The elephant? Does he talk?’ I teased.
Sebastian grinned. ‘No, no …the mahout, I mean.’
Unni, my princely reception clerk, told me that the German group had arrived and that we had had to turn away a few guests. We were fully booked. I felt my smile grow. I peeped into the restaurant. The tables were all occupied. It was off-season, but you wouldn’t know from the look of it, I thought with relief. The last few days had been quiet and I had begun to worry.
When I was finally seated in my office, Unni came in to find out if I wanted lunch. I frowned, unsure. Then I decided to eat lunch at the resort and for once not worry about my unhealthy choice of food and whether it was going to give me a heart attack before I turned forty.
I leaned back in my chair. My morning had been busy and exacting, yet all along I had felt tranquil. Radha seemed to have found herself.
 
Last night I had come back home to find her in a strange mood. Something was troubling her. I knew that she had spent the evening with Uncle and Chris. I had tried to cancel my evening meeting, but I couldn’t. I wondered what had happened between them. I knew that Uncle had begun telling his life story. But would that affect her so?
Or had the Sahiv said something? I was not certain I liked the way Chris looked at my Radha. Or the manner in which she seemed to flower in his presence. Women are such suckers for flattery. Even a woman as self-contained as my Radha.
I poured myself a drink and sat down with a file I needed to check for the morning’s meeting. She was watching TV—or that was what I thought. Then I noticed that all she was doing was flipping channels. She picked up a magazine, read a page and slapped it down; she picked up another magazine and dropped it back; she walked to the veranda as if she was going somewhere, came back and curled up in a chair; she toyed with her food and left it uneaten; and in bed she lay awake for god knows how long.
This morning, however, she was a different woman. It was as if she had exorcised whatever demons had run amok within her. She was at peace. She also showed no inclination to go to the resort, and that was when I allowed myself to breathe.
I knew I was being silly, but I worried. I saw a threat everywhere. I worried that Radha would leave me some day. That a sweet-talking, pretty boy would turn her head and she would go, lured by his flattery and charm. Then I pulled myself up. I was not bad-looking and, when I wanted to, I could sweet-talk better than anyone else.
I would have gone home for lunch, but Radha was still not home. I looked at the picture I had of her on my table. Her eyebrows, all the stray hair between them removed, arched above her large brown eyes. Her hair, the hair that I loved, framed her face. She wore it down even on the warmest of days, but in bed she wore it plaited. ‘Won’t you leave your hair down? It’s so beautiful,’ I said when I saw her plaiting it one night. I had visions of her hair snaking over me, of burying my face in that fragrant skein. But she finished plaiting her hair, threw it over her shoulder and said, ‘Oh no, it will get tangled and the ends will split.’
I know I should get up and wash my hands. But I am feeling replete. Baby George doesn’t skimp on oil or coconut, spice or quantities. At home, Radha insists that we eat a low-fat, low-cholesterol, high-fibre meal. Which means lots of vegetables. Meat is allowed on the table only twice a week. And the fish is always swimming in a curry. When I protest, she says, ‘You are almost forty. You need to be careful about what you eat.’
I love good food and find this regime torturous. But I am delighted by her concern. So I eat my vegetable upperis, restrict myself to one egg a week and my drinking to one peg a night.
For my Radha, I am quite willing to starve myself of life’s joys.
 
When I reach home, it is almost dusk. The thookuvilakku hanging from a wooden beam in the veranda is being lit. I stare at the lamp, surprised. I feel a warm glow within me.
The thookuvilakku was the only heirloom, apart from a bronze cauldron, that my mother had managed to hold on to. When she died, Rani Oppol took the cauldron and I brought this to the house—Radha’s house and now ours. She had taken it from me and examined
it. ‘It’s very beautiful. Such exquisite workmanship,’ she said.
I caressed its bronze sides and said, ‘Precious, too.’
‘Does everything have to be about money?’ she snapped.
Just then the phone rang and I hastened to pick it up. I meant to explain to her that I hadn’t meant its value in rupees. But by the time I finished my call, the moment was lost.
At first Radha lit the lamp every evening. Then she stopped. When I asked her, a couple of days later, she said, ‘I thought the lamp was an accessory to the house. I didn’t realize you attached so much religious significance to it.’
‘There is nothing religious about lighting a lamp,’ I said, trying to keep the anger out of my voice. ‘It looks nice. Adds grace to a home.’
She smiled. ‘I am sorry. I won’t forget. I’ll instruct one of the maids to light it faithfully every evening. Happy?’
I shook my head. I didn’t say anything. What was the point? She was the woman of the house. She should be the one to light the lamp and not a maid. But I didn’t want to start a quarrel.
Tonight, it is Radha who is lighting the lamp.
I am a blessed man, I think. I have a beautiful home and a prosperous business. And I have Radha. My Radha.
The lamp lights up her eyes. Her hair flows down her back. She smiles at me.
In the night, when I make love to her, she responds with a passion that surprises me. Her hair is spread over the pillow; an aura of her pleasure, I think, when I look down into her eyes.
I settle her head into the crook of my arm and as I fall asleep, I think again: I am blessed.
In the morning, Radha shows no interest in accompanying me to the resort. ‘I must check if the Sahiv is all right,’ I toss at her.
She continues to eat. I expect her to say she will go with me. But she seems more interested in her dosa. I know relief again.
Whatever fascination Chris held for her seems to have been shortlived.
‘I wonder how he is getting along with Uncle,’ I pursue. ‘I will ask him. Shall I bring him over for lunch?’
‘Who?’ Her voice is a yelp. She must have choked, for she started coughing.
‘Uncle.’
‘That will be nice,’ she says, sipping water to clear her throat. ‘But not for lunch. Dinner will be better. I have things to do this morning.’
I smile. ‘What now? A visit to the tailor, is it?’
She smiles back. ‘Mmmm …this and that!’
‘I’ll leave the car for you,’ I say on my way out.
After all this time, we seem to be finally getting it right.
 
Chris is sitting on the veranda when I get there. His hair is wet and gleaming, as if he has just showered. His chin is smooth. Thank god, he had shaved. But the absence of stubble draws attention to the cleft in his chin. He is a pretty bugger, I think. Not masculine handsome, but boyish pretty. A fair enough Lolan.
‘All well?’ I ask and walk towards him. He smiles and rises. I stand on the veranda for a moment and then walk past him into the cottage. The door is open, after all. He seems to have made himself at home. The instrument is sitting in a dark corner. His laptop is on the table and there are a few books lying on a window ledge. I arrange the books neatly. Chris follows me. He doesn’t seem very pleased that I have walked into the cottage or that I am handling his things, but he needs to know that I own the place and while he might stay here, I have my privileges.
Chris says, ‘Thank you. All is well. Is Radha here?’
I feel my eyes narrow. ‘She is at home. She is busy,’ I say. Then, hoping to steer him away from any more talk of Radha, I ask, ‘So, you’ve been spending time with Uncle. What has he been telling you? How far has he got? Do tell me.’
Chris smiles. A wry smile. ‘I went there yesterday. But he wasn’t in the mood, he said. Instead, he told me the story of how he acquired his parrot. A very interesting story, of course, but not what I wanted to know. I intend going back this evening. I hope he will be more forthcoming then.’
I feel a smile coming to my face. I am delighted. I had thought he and Uncle were going to be inseparable. Like jaggery and a fly. Destined to be stuck together. But it obviously isn’t so. I mask my glee and switch on my but-this-is-terrible expression.
‘There is no telling with these artistic types,’ I say. ‘We have to be patient. But it is best to be prepared. I just hope your time here won’t be wasted.’
I hope Uncle will clam up. I hope you will be so frustrated by his reluctance to talk that you will give up and go back, I think. The sooner you leave, the better for all of us. I must have had an evil star eclipsing my good sense when I agreed to rent you the cottage for next to nothing. But I say, ‘I hope he will be more helpful.’
‘Do you think Radha will come by later this evening?’ he asks.
Not if I can help it, I think. What is with this man? Doesn’t he realize that Radha is a married woman? My wife has other things to do, Mister, I want to tell him. ‘No, I don’t think so. In fact, it may be several days before she comes here again,’ I say, trying to hide how rattled I am by his need to see Radha.
‘Oh,’ he says.
I put out my hand to shake his. ‘I will take your leave then,’ I say, giving his palm a good hard squeeze. I don’t go to the gym any more, but my hands haven’t lost their strength.
 
It is a quarter past twelve when I reach my office.
Unni walks in. ‘Yusuf called,’ he says.
I frown. What can Yusuf want?
Yusuf runs the match factory. He used to be the supervisor of a small unit that made agricultural implements at the Small Scale Industrial Estate at Kolapulli. When the unit closed down, Yusuf found himself out of a job. It was then he came to me with the suggestion that I open a match factory.
I had stared at the tall man with the strong face who seemed to have worked it all out. He looked like an aristocrat, his bearing was so noble. As for his voice, it was a rumble when a whisper, and thunderous when he conversed. ‘Why do you think I need a match factory?’ I asked.
‘I heard that you asked the local match factory if they could make you some special matches and that you are still negotiating a price.’
‘That is true, but no one buys an orchard merely to eat a dozen mangoes, do they?’
‘That may be right, but I assure you that you won’t lose any money.’
‘What do you know about matches?’
‘Very little. But my niece works in the match factory. She has been there for several years and she will bring all the other experienced
workers with her. I can assure you of that. You will not lose any money and the investment isn’t all that much. You have that piece of land near Kolapulli. The old tyre retreading place. So even the shed is ready.’
He seemed to know what he was talking about and that was how I set up the match factory. Yusuf kept his word. I didn’t lose any money and made only profits and well-wishers. The women who worked there sent me their brothers and sons and sometimes even their husbands to work in my other businesses.
My friends who have labour trouble all the time ask me, ‘Shyam, how is it you always find good, hard-working people?’
And I tell them, ‘Get the woman of the family to support you and she will ensure that her menfolk do.’
Then I would feel a wrench within, for I hadn’t been able to get the woman in my house to support me in anything I did.
But all that is different now, I think with a start of happiness.
 
I hold the phone away from my ear to prevent Yusuf’s boom from bursting my eardrum. ‘Yes, Yusuf, tell me.’
‘You mustn’t misunderstand what I am about to tell you. I don’t mean any offence, but it is imperative that I speak to you about this,’ Yusuf says.
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