Koman stared. ‘But they probably meant you.’
‘They did, but I am too old to uproot myself. They will be happy with you. And more importantly, you with them.’
Koman allowed himself to breathe again. In Madras he would find his courage. It would take him a while to venture on stage again, but he would one day.
‘There is one more thing,’ Aashaan said. ‘For the past twelve years you have led an insular life. Your world has been this institute and little else. I want you to start reading. Read not just kathakali texts, but anything you can lay your hands on; reading will broaden your horizon. Observe, for that too is important. See, hear, taste, feel and absorb everything around you. Art cannot feed off itself. It needs life to sustain it. So go and live life.’
Sethu was unhappy about his going away. So were Mani and Babu. But Koman wouldn’t let it hold him back.
As for Lalitha, she stood with her back to him, the buttons of her back-open blouse undone, stilled by grief.
He kissed her between the shoulder blades, dropping a kiss for every button he pressed into place. ‘I am not going away forever. I will be back every now and then,’ he said, repeating what he had told his family.
Six years later, Koman opened the latched gate and walked towards the house. He had been annoyed by his father’s decision to buy him a house. Letters had flown between them. I don’t want to put down roots. How can a tree fly, Koman had written.
I am not young any more. I have to do things at the right time. You are my son. You have to inherit at least some of my wealth.
That apart, you will love this little house by the river, Sethu had written.
The house stood right at the edge of the Nila. Countless floods had eaten away the land around it, so it perched, a grain of rice on a tongue of earth stretching into the river. On one side were steps that descended into the river and here the stones had stilled the erosion. On the other side, the dip was sudden and abrupt. I will have to shore this side, Koman thought. Build a wall so that the river won’t encroach any further and take away what’s mine. That last notion took him by surprise: he had a house of his own.
Koman walked around the house. It wasn’t very big and the land around was studded with old trees and dense bushes. It was once the palace administrator’s cottage. The local raja had had a summer palace built on the edge of the river. Palace was too grandiose a word for the building, but the people around called it kottaaram. Alongside was the cottage for the administrator.
Koman climbed the steps to the veranda. A waist-high wall crested with a wooden plank ran its length. He sat on it and leaned against the wooden railing.
What are we to do, Sethu had written. Mani is only twenty-seven, but I have had to arrange this marriage in a hurry. Circumstances demand it be so. But it is improper that he should consider marriage while you are unmarried. It is time you thought about a family. Shall I start looking for a bride?
Koman had read the letter with a smile. Mani had got a girl pregnant after all. Koman’s tenure at the dance school was drawing to an end. He was ready to return home, but not willing to be married.
Marriage was not for him. In fact, he often wondered if marriage was for anybody. When Amma had asked him if he knew of anyone suitable for Meenakshi, a girl in her family, he had introduced Balan to them. Balan was his batch-mate and an accomplished dancer. The horoscopes matched and the families liked each other. But Balan the veshakaaran had overwhelmed Balan the husband. Meenakshi, Amma had told him, was an abandoned wife and mother of a child. ‘He doesn’t even send her money for the child. What kind of a man is he?’ Koman heard Amma complain. He had felt guilty and written to Balan, but there was no response.
I am not ready for marriage, Koman wrote back. But perhaps
you could help me locate a little house to rent near the institute. I would prefer it to be by the river. I will have to return soon and Aashaan has already fixed for me to start teaching from the next academic year. Besides, now that Mani is to be married, it would be best for me to move out.
Sethu had read the letter with a mounting sense of desperation. All along, he had hoped that one day Koman would find his way back home. That he would have cause to rejoice. These days, more and more he knew a flaring of the past. As if his mind needed to remember to find solace.
It had been a long time, but his memory threw up a line from the Bible. ‘For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found.’ Where was it from? Yes, Luke 15.11-32.
But it was not to be. Sethu looked at himself. My time will come soon, he told himself. And I still wouldn’t have done right by my firstborn.
One day it occurred to him that there was a way to keep his son by his side. He would buy him a house. A house by the river. When he has a house, he will want a companion. And they will fill the house with their hopes and children, he told himself. Sethu had a vision: a little house in which children came and went. Why, he thought, this could be Jacob’s ladder, and he smiled again. If only the good doctor knew how the good book rules me.
Koman walked to the side of the house. The river was almost dry; the steps ended in a deep, still pool. The water was cold. A breeze lifted off it and blew into his face. He had walked from the station to his house instead of going home. There would be time for that later. First, he would sit here and gaze at what he had fled from.
How could he have been such a coward? In retrospect, everything seemed so simple. At the time, he had thought it was the end.
Tomorrow he would have to go to the institute and resume his life. But for this day he would be his father’s son and a brother to his brothers. He would eat, drink, make jokes, tell stories and, when night fell, he would send for Lalitha. Once again he would mount her as if she were a stage and on her body perform. Slow and gentle, furious and vigorous, erotic and grotesque …He would be himself again.
The institute seemed the same, Koman thought when he walked through the gates. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever will, he
thought, with trepidation. This couldn’t be real. Everything everywhere—people, weather, plants, animals, fashions—change. There is disease and despair, hope and happiness, that is the nature of life; it demands that nothing be constant.
But here time was held captive in the beating of rhythm, stilled in the colours painted on faces. Change was nullified by the souls of the characters they wrapped themselves in. How could he move on in life if the life he had chosen did not recognize the passage of time?
Koman heard a voice hail him. It was Sundaran, batch-mate, once friend and now an instructor at the institute.
‘What are you standing and gaping for?’ Sundaran demanded. ‘You probably think this is a hole in the ground after where you were. Why did you come back? I can’t understand that. I wouldn’t have.’
Koman thought he heard a flicker of envy in Sundaran’s voice. Why would anyone envy him? He shrugged. ‘This is my home,’ he said. He saw the disbelief in Sundaran’s eyes and felt compelled to explain, ‘You see, in Madras, they focussed on bharatanatyam. Kathakali was an oddity in some ways. How could I stay in a place where kathakali isn’t supreme? Here there is no such confusion.’
Sundaran’s smile grew into a smirk. ‘Still the same, aren’t you? Earnest. Earnest Koman. Have you seen Aashaan yet?’
Koman stared at Sundaran in surprise. Why, he doesn’t like me, he thought. Then reining in that thought, he said, ‘No, I just walked in. Is he here already? Isn’t it too early for him?’
‘He’s here. He is here all day, drinking. He seldom goes home. If you stand one mile away, you can smell the stench of toddy. It is in his breath, his sweat, why, I think he pees the stuff. The man is an embarrassment and a nuisance, if you ask me. The students bring back stories of all the places they have found him lying in a drunken stupor. By the side of the road. On the railway platform. Outside a shop. The other day he fell into a field and had to be pulled out before he drowned in six inches of water. I don’t know why they keep him around. And he hardly has any performances. No one seems to want to take the risk of having him.
‘But why am I telling you this?’ Sundaran said, turning to go. ‘You probably know it already. You were like this, weren’t you?’ he said, portraying companion or was it mentor or was it kinsman, with his hands.
Koman stood there for a while. There was no word to describe his relationship with Aashaan. Even Sundaran could see that. And yet, he hadn’t known. Why was Aashaan doing this?
Aashaan sat in his room, reading. Koman glanced at the title. Bhaagavatam. Koman knew disquiet then. Why was Aashaan reading the Bhagavad Gita?
Aashaan raised his eyes from the page. ‘Listen to this,’ he said in greeting. ‘There is no work that affects me, nor do I aspire for the fruits of action. One who understands this truth about me does not become entangled in the fruits of the work.’
Koman chewed on his lip. ‘Aashaan,’ he said, ‘how are you?’
Aashaan has aged, he thought. When I saw him nine months ago, he was an elderly but able-bodied man. Now he looks decrepit and old. He has given up. But why?
‘Aashaan, how are you?’ Koman insisted. Then he couldn’t bear it any longer and demanded, ‘What is wrong?’
Aashaan removed his glasses and put the book down. ‘What could be wrong? Don’t you see I am reading the Bhaagavatam? What could be better than that?’
Koman walked towards Aashaan. A long time ago, Aashaan had said, when I am ready to die I shall read the Bhaagavatam. That is the last thing I will do in life. Not before. If I still the demons in me, I might as well be dead. How can I be a veshakaaran unless I have demons jostling within me?
‘You don’t look very well,’ Koman said. Without mincing words, he added, ‘I hear you drink all day now.’
‘Do I look or behave like a drunk?’ Aashaan’s voice bore a petulance that made Koman want to lay his head in his arms and weep. What are you doing to yourself, he wanted to shout.
‘Who’s been feeding you stories about me?’ Aashaan demanded.
Koman began stacking the books on the table. ‘Does it matter? You look terrible. You look what you are—an old drunk,’ he said, hoping the brutality of his words would injure Aashaan’s pride, prompt him into action.
‘It won’t work.’ Aashaan’s voice was low but sure. ‘I am an old drunk, I know that. If you think you can make me angry by pointing that out to me, you are mistaken. I really don’t care. There is a line
in the Bhaagavatam that says, “The humble sage sees with equal vision a learned and gentle brahmana, a cow, an elephant, a dog and a dog-eater.” I draw strength from that. I know who I am and what I am. I place the burden on you, on how you wish to see me. I don’t care how you see me: as a cow or a dog, a dancer or a drunk. What is that Greek’s name? Epicurus. Do you know what he said? The wise man lives hidden and only deals with his similars. All the others are merely acquaintances. So you see, anyone who knows me, really understands me, will not care that I was found lying drunk by the side of the road. As for the others, they are only acquaintances. What does it matter what they say or think?’
Aashaan rubbed the stubble on his chin and murmured, ‘If you really want to help me, you can give me a shave. My hand shakes and I cut myself in too many places.’
Koman looked at his teacher for a long moment. The Bhagavad Gita owed its existence to a man who put down his weapons in the middle of a battlefield and said: Now I have lost all my composure and am confused. How do I go on? Actually, I would rather not go on. What is the point?
Was this how Aashaan felt? Was this why he sought refuge in drink and the Bhaagavatam?
Koman let his breath dribble out slowly. He had come to Aashaan expecting to resume his stewardship as student. But Aashaan wanted more of him. Or was it less?
‘Aashaan,’ Koman said. ‘I’ll fetch some hot water from the boys’ hostel. Would you like me to bring you a cup of tea?’
Aashaan blinked. ‘Tea?’ He considered for a moment. ‘Tea would be good.’
Koman slid the razor from ear to chin. Gently, every stroke deliberate and careful, he shaved away soap, stubble and what he thought was Aashaan’s disdain towards life. He dipped the razor in a mug of cold water and put it down.
‘Aashaan,’ he asked suddenly. ‘Why?’
The old man peered at the shaving mirror. He puffed out his cheeks. Lather padded under his chin. The curve of his jaw was a neat brown line defining his face. For a moment, the lather made Koman think of the chutti and its white curve defining the painted face of a veshakaaran.
‘I seem to have left bits of stubble here and there. You must excuse me for not doing it properly the first time,’ Koman said as he daubed the brush on the shaving soap, trying to make it lather. He painted soap again on Aashaan’s cheeks. ‘Is this a vesham? Are you playing somebody?’
Aashaan puffed his left cheek out for Koman.
Koman raised the razor again. Aashaan was pretending he hadn’t heard him. But he would persist till Aashaan told him the reason for his dissipation.
The door opened suddenly and Sundaran stood framed by the doorway. The razor slipped and a drop of red broke through the foam on Aashaan’s cheek. Koman blanched. Aashaan hissed. Sundaran broke into a guffaw. ‘What is this? Are you a barber or a dancer? I thought you were teaching kathakali in Madras, not training as a barber’s apprentice.’