The Ivory Swing (20 page)

33

Matthew Thomas's son, Devadasan Thomas, watched his father wandering between the coconut palms on his estate like a madman. The older man was without an umbrella and his aging body was buffeted by the rains as a straw basket is tossed about by flood waters. Devadasan Thomas was afraid that his father would be hit by a falling branch.

“It must be the letters from my sister,” he said to his wife. “He has not told us everything. He has a sickness of the mind.”

“If your sister has caused some scandal, it is well to leave him alone with his thoughts. The rains will cleanse him.”

Weaving between his trees, Matthew Thomas felt something akin to seasickness. His sodden clothing was not as heavy as the weight in his chest. He could feel some tangible knot in there, jagged-edged and constricting, upsetting his balance, causing him to flounder and stumble in the sticky red clay. The rain battering his head and shoulders was soothing to him, so much less turbulent than the swirl of his emotions, that churning surf of excitement with its dizzying undertow of guilt.

What shall I do? What shall I do? he asked himself. An old Kerala proverb came to him. Yes, he thought, I am like a man with his feet in two boats. I will surely drown.

A branch fell not far behind him and he felt its jarring impact along the fault lines of his body. Just ahead of him another branch, disturbed by the vibrations, descended before his eyes like the
lathi
of an outraged god. The boom of its landing was not as loud as the thudding movement of his blood.

I am trapped, he said aloud. Caught between two torments, between destruction and damnation.

When he thought of Kumari, of his other children, of his grandchildren, he knew that the family was inviolable. He could never cause scandal or disgrace to come upon it. When he thought of Yashoda he knew he was already lost, the die was already cast, there was no decision to be made — and his wretchedness would recede momentarily. A sensation of ineffable peace and gentleness, unearthly, divine, surely divine, would wash over him. And then he would see the shocked eyes of his son, Devadasan, the dismay of his daughter, Kumari, and the pain would swamp him again.

He tried to pray, but he had little confidence that God would fully appreciate the complexity of the situation. God was, after all, a Westerner. His missionaries had never managed to unravel the intricacies of caste. Mrs Juliet seemed unable to comprehend either its convolutions or its importance. Of what sins must he be guilty, that his passions should shame him in this way, wandering like errant children across forbidden boundaries? Why had he not protected himself from so many years of deprivation by marrying one of the widows in the church, good Christian women of his own caste?

I kept myself free for my children, he remembered. For Kumari. So that there would not be the children of a second wife to claim my attention, to divide my inheritance.

But Kumari herself was distant and changed, wearing strange clothes, following other rules.

I am glad I am old, he thought, shading his eyes to deflect the blinding waterfall of monsoon. There is too much change in the world. It cannot be understood. I have lost my way. I am glad that I will die soon.

Yashoda sat on the wooden porch of her house threading ropes of jasmine with restive fingers. She could see, beyond the curtain of water that unfurled itself from the thatched eaves, the pond lilies flattening themselves before the passion of the monsoon, soft and receptive as a woman ready for her lover.

The astrologer had promised this — the coming of a great love. A smile played about her lips, the chain of flowers fell from her hands, and she drew her legs up against her body, hugging them with her arms, leaning her forehead on her knees. She laughed softly with pleasure, remembering again the strong cradle of his arms, the dazed wonder in his eyes.

The gods smile on me, she thought. Especially Lord Krishna. When he sees me he remembers his passion for Radha.

The old rules did not apply to her, as they had not applied to Radha and Krishna. The old rules had never contained her. She had always been different. Had not her father loved her even above his son? It was not only my brother's
wife
who drove me out of my father's house, she thought.

Since childhood other worlds had been laid at her feet — foreign tutors and visitors, travel to distant lands, banquets where she served fine western wines. She had never belonged only to the Nair world. She could not be contained in the ways of the Palghat uncles. The area of darkness spoken of by the astrologer, that dead dark space of isolation, was over. She was warmed by a new sunrise, full of light.

She trembled, feeling again the gentle stroking of his fingers over her breasts, feeling herself fluid and throbbing as the weather, her thigh muscles tensing rhythmically to the wild tempo of the rain on the roof. Ah, she sighed, ah, my love my love my love, ahh! She gave a sharp laughing cry, remembering his huge ragged thrust, sobbing for her hollowness, her emptiness, sucking him back to herself. She touched the small mark his teeth had left on her breast, craving for him.

She began to sing softly to herself the ancient and haunting melodies, the love songs of Radha calling Krishna to her bower.

And he was coming to her. Through the prisms of rain she saw the blurred shape emerge from the forest and held her breath, waiting.

But it was only Annie. And Prem.

She greeted them dreamily, reluctant to leave her private world, but translucent and generous in its afterglow

“Come in, come in. You are so wet. You must have some tea .”

“No, no. This isn't a social call, Yashoda. This is urgent. There may be trouble from Shivaraman Nair. Prem overheard some labourers talking.”

“How can that concern me?” Yashoda asked from within the magic circle of her secret.

“Someone has been seen bathing … at night,” Prem said, embarrassed and awkward. “In the pond. You were … it is said a woman was … It is being told to Shivaraman Nair.”

Yashoda had a sensation of being hit violently and suddenly. Of being winded. Of shattering. It vanished into thin air, that beautiful fragile bubble of love in whose permanence she had so ludicrously, so wantonly, allowed herself to believe. Abruptly the golden light within her was extinguished. She felt safety and happiness leave her like an ebbing tide.

Lord Krishna had turned away his face and she felt the chill of his frown. She was not as his beloved Radha, but as the evil Kaliya whom the Lord trampled beneath his feet. Kaliya, that serpent of overweening pride and rebellious arrogance. Yashoda writhed, snake-like, in shame and fear.

“Come back to the house with us,” Annie said gently, conscious of Yashoda's anguish. “We re not leaving you here alone. David will speak to Shivaraman Nair, You and I could leave for Madras immediately, if we need to. We can stay there as long as it's necessary.”

Yashoda felt exhausted, as though she had arrived at the end of a long and dizzying downward slide from a mountain peak that had been exhilarating, Himalayan, but fraught always with the terrors of falling. It seemed to her that it required immense energy to shake her head, to tell Annie no, it was too late. She had fallen back into the world of stern uncles. There was no escaping. She had always been part of that world too, and she had violated its terms. For great sins there were great penalties. Only by submitting to the will of her relatives, to the ancient expiatory laws of Manu, could she hope to erase her wrongdoing, to preserve herself from sliding back still further into some lesser and unhappier life in her next birth.

Annie pleaded, scolded, became exasperated.

Prem reasoned. “Shivaraman Nair cares only about his wealth and reputation. He will punish you for no other reason than offended pride. You do not owe him obedience. Even my professor, and he is a Brahmin, a
Brahmin
, even he says that justice is greater than the laws of caste and family.”

But Yashoda was unreachable, locked inside her shame and fear and loss, the ravaging underside of her euphoria.

“Go away, go away, go away,” she murmured, sitting on the wooden floor and rocking herself like a mother by her son's funeral pyre, like a pond lily battered and torn by the rains.

They will come and take me away to Palghat, she thought, sitting waiting on her porch, passive, her legs folded in the lotus position. I will work as a drudge in the house of my mother-in-law. They will take my jewellery and I will wear drab cotton. I have been as vain and as foolish as the peacock and now I will become my own shadow, brown and unnoticeable as the peahen. No one will speak to me. In a mountain village in the Ghats I will live and die in silent disgrace, the subject of warning tales to children.

None of this mattered. It fell from her as easily as rainwater slid from thatch, irrelevant beside the awesome impossibility of love.

And yet, she thought, I have known it. This once I have felt the great passion that all the poets sing of. It is something. It can never be taken from me. It is worth everything.

The rain slackened like a weary
peon
who has run many miles on his master's business, faltered, paused for a brief respite. In the stillness Yashoda waited, rocking herself slowly, looking towards the forest which sighed and dripped and gurgled.

When it happened it was quiet and orderly. A small group of women, Jati and Mrs Shivaraman Nair and several older relatives, emerged from the trees with slow dignity, imposing in their moral authority.

They surrounded Yashoda who sat motionless as a
sunyasin
in meditation. They sent away her servant, who was old and frightened, who whimpered as she limped away through the forest.

They removed all her jewellery. She watched, impassive, as the bangles and rings were smashed with rocks.

Then the oldest of the women withdrew from the folds of her sari a long-handled razor. Yashoda gave an involuntary cry of dismay. “Oh please!” she begged. “Oh please! Not that! Jati, Jati, my cousin ….”

But Jati joined the other women in pinioning her arms, holding her down.

Yashoda felt the insolent scrape of the razor on her scalp. She sat perfectly still, her eyes dilated and dry, as her lustrous black hair fell from her like a dark rain.

34

A foolish hope, Juliet knew, as she spread the sodden sheets over the coir rope between the bamboo poles. Foolish to think they would dry in the hour or so before the rain began again. Better really to leave them spread over the chairs and wait for the fans to come on, but at least this way they would get a little sun, smell a little better. She could have done with an airing herself.

She grimaced as she wrestled with the heavy sheets. From the roof she could see along the irrigation ditches to the rice paddy. She could see Prabhakaran running along the levees, flapping his arms oddly like the irritable crows she kept scaring off with the flick of a wet towel. Shivaraman Nair has sent him to get more grass for the cows, she thought. And he is stealing a moment to play some private game.

They saw so little of him now. He was always away on his courier business. She hurried down from the roof, calling to the children, and they walked out through the grove to meet him.

When they reached the edge of the paddy they could see him more clearly, skipping his way between the terraces.

Something was wrong. Juliet could see now that the odd and erratic movements were not those of play. He appeared to be injured. They began to run as his weird cries reached them.

Precariously balancing on the narrow levee, Juliet folded him in her arms, terrified. He was sobbing and twitching convulsively, hysterically shrieking incoherently

“Hush, hush, hush!” Juliet begged. “What is it?.”

The storm of his weeping increased.

“Come!” he sobbed. “Come and see!”

And they followed him across the paddy and through the forest.

“Oh my god!” Juliet moaned, stricken, when she saw Yashoda sitting still and trance-like on her porch. “How
could
they, how
could
they?”

In a state of deep but controlled and deadly calm anger, David walked up through the grove to the Nair house.

Anand, agitated and despairing, came to meet him.

“I know, I know, Professor David. I also am most upset and angry. I was not informed. It was kept from me. I thought only that she would be sent to Palghat. My father and I … we have quarrelled … he is in a rage because I have argued with him and accused him. He has ordered me from the house.”

David nodded curtly and brushed past him.

The meeting with Shivaraman Nair was one of mutual hostility, formality and chilly politeness.

“I know you are a man of religious and moral insight,” David began. “In the temple, I saw that your spirit was large and generous. This action was not worthy of you. It violates your own principles of justice.”

“You are a scholar, Professor David. You know that for us wrong actions must be expiated according to the laws of Manu. The penalty for fornication is severe.”

“Fornication?”

“It has been proven. My daughter Jati has seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“She has seen the man who brought you here after the bus accident. He has arrived in his car at night. Though you and your family were not at home, he has not left again for two hours.”

It was as though a blow had been struck, and David reeled with disbelief.

But it could not possibly be true.

“You consider that proof? That is hearsay, mere speculation.”

“It is sufficient. A woman's duty is to keep herself free of public speculation. Gandhi himself, Professor David, on his own
ashram
, commanded the head of a young woman to be shaven. Though she herself had done no wrong, she had by her carnal beauty caused lust and impurity to enter the thoughts of the young male disciples. Gandhi himself has seen the need to curb the carnal power of woman.”

David stared at him, stunned. He is angry at his own sexual disturbance, he thought. He is shamed by his own bondage to the power of her beauty.

Oh! he realized. As I am! As I am! He felt the kindred hidden spring in the intensity of his own anger. There had been a gross violation of his private aesthetic pleasure. Of a remembered moment in time when he had been held bewitched in the aura of her presence, when he had combed her hair.

He felt disoriented, implicated.

Oh god, he thought wretchedly. She gave herself into my protection and I have failed her. I should have handled it differently. Yet what should I, could I, have done?

An age ago he had sent a letter to her father. There had never been a reply. Had her father frowned on foreign interference? Or had the letter never reached him?

He said coldly: “I am sending a cable to her father in Cochin. If any further harm should come to her …” It infuriated him that he was not in any position to formulate an effective threat.

“There will be nothing further,” Shivaraman Nair said. “Expiation has been made.”

They made
namaskaram
with frigid formality.