Once she said, ‘Please hold on, I think he is here.’ A few minutes later, she came back on the line saying, ‘He is in a practice session and can’t be disturbed. Would you please call back later?’
When I did try again, I got the stock answer. ‘He is unavailable.’
I was undeterred. He was a famous man and it was natural for him to be busy. I would reach him one of these days. That weekend, we were going to James’s house in the country. James was Angela’s godfather. He was a stockbroker who had retired to the country.
‘You will see the real English countryside,’ Angela said happily. ‘You will love it, Koman.’
In the train, I saw the landscape change and felt a swelling of joy. The bleakness that was settling on my soul seemed to lift.
James and his wife Anne were kind. They asked me countless questions. They had both been to India. But never to the south, they said. ‘We went to Rajasthan and Delhi. Then we drove to Agra to see the Taj Mahal and we went up to Kashmir, too. It was very beautiful; we have such fond memories of India.’
Later that evening, Angela and I strolled through their rather extensive garden. In the distance I could hear a sound. A hollow, cupping sound. ‘What is it?’ I asked Angela.
‘Someone is playing tennis,’ she said.
She went back inside and I walked around, looking at the trees. It was getting cold but I was reluctant to go back in. I felt as if I was back in a world I could understand. I examined the trees and plants; felt the leaves between my fingers and dug my fingers in the soil. Eventually the chilly night sent me in and I walked in to hear James on the phone. ‘Oh no, he is a friend. A friend of my god-daughter’s. They are visiting. They are here for the weekend. Thank you for calling. Thank you very much indeed. Of course, I do understand.
One must look out for one’s neighbours. No, no, not at all. Thank you. Good night.’
‘What is wrong?’ I asked.
‘Nothing at all.’ James wouldn’t meet my gaze. He was embarrassed. ‘A neighbour called. They were a little concerned. They said there was a stranger in the garden. That is all.’
That night I asked Angela, ‘Do neighbours here do that sort of thing all the time?’
She flushed. ‘Well, this isn’t London and they are not used to Indians, so they tend to be suspicious.’
‘So it is because I am not white …’ Perhaps it was then that I felt Bahukan’s hues settle on me. I held her hand alongside mine. Hers was creamy. Mine, in contrast, was muddy. Coffee with a cloud of milk. ‘Angela, tell me, does it make a difference to you? My colour?’
It became colder and colder and I knew a reluctance to step outside. I would rather stay indoors huddled under the blankets, living off tea and toast, than go out. What was there to see anyway, or do, I thought. Like a refrain, a voice in my mind asked: What are you doing here?
Without Angela I felt naked and unprotected. I was prepared to do whatever she wanted, as long as she went with me. It made her furious. ‘I am not your mother, Koman,’ she said. ‘You can’t cling to me. You were never like this. I thought you were the most selfsufficient person I knew. What has happened to you?’
I would look at her and say, ‘I hate it here. What am I doing here? I am just living off you.’
‘Oh, don’t say that. Something will work out soon, you will see. I am trying to arrange an appointment with an agent. Though, with kathakali, I can’t decide if I should speak to an agent who works with dancers or actors. If an agent would take you on, you would at least have your foot in the door. You can’t give up in just a few weeks’ time,’ Angela would say and that evening we would go out together ‘to take you out of this gloom you have sunk into’ as she put it.
Now I looked at Angela and the concern in her eyes. ‘I will leave in a little while,’ I told her. ‘I will go out. I promise.’
I went to Trafalgar Square. The pigeons descended. I saw their redrimmed
eyes and felt enraged at their ability to swoop and fly and do as they pleased. I looked around. There wasn’t anyone on the side where I was. I raised my leg and kicked at a pigeon. My shoe made fleeting contact but it was enough. I felt alive. Around me the pigeons rose, flailing their wings.
I felt my desperation lessen. Slowly I felt a new sense of purpose gather in me.
I went back to the bed-sit and searched for the address my father had given me. ‘He is not a dancer or even remotely connected with the arts. But his father tells me that he has a good job there. He works in a hotel and if you ever need anything, he will help. His father has already written to him about you.’
I called the number. ‘Damu, this is Koman,’ I began. The next day I went to see him. Damu worked at Kandaswamy’s, the most famous Indian restaurant in London. ‘I can find you a job in the kitchen. It will be temporary, but maybe later we can see what can be done. Will you want to do something like that? It is a menial job …not what you are used to …’
I smiled. How appropriate, I thought. Bahukan, after he left the forest, became a menial in King Rituparna’s service. He was his cook and charioteer. It was befitting that I become a menial.
‘Right now, I will take anything. All I ask is that you don’t tell your father. It would break my father’s heart to know I am working as a porter in a restaurant,’ I said quietly.
Damu sighed. ‘You don’t have to tell me. I understand. This is the conspiracy that we have to keep alive so that in our homes back in India, they don’t bemoan what we have been reduced to doing. You don’t have to work as a menial washing dirty dishes and sweeping the floor, my father and yours would say. Come back home and I’ll ensure that your belly is full three times a day. It is hard to explain to our families. There is no dignity of labour there, that is the truth.’
I worried what Angela would say. But she didn’t seem to mind. ‘It is not for long anyway,’ she said, closing the wardrobe door with a movement of her hip. It won’t be for long was a myth that Angela liked to perpetuate.
Our lives began to unravel. My hours were different from hers and we seldom saw each other. I left money on the table, now that I
had some, for her to pay some of the bills with and she left me notes to find. We were merely room-mates sharing a bed. Strangely enough, I found fulfilment at Kandaswamy’s. I was busy all day and had very little time to spare, but I knew the satisfaction of being seriously occupied.
One evening, the chef joined me for a smoke in the backyard. We talked about food and dishes from Tamil Nadu. He was from Madurai. I told him about growing up in Nazareth. His eyes mellowed with nostalgia. ‘I need an assistant. Do you want to work for me?’ he asked.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘You know nothing of me. Not even if I can cook.’
‘It is enough for me to know how a man views food. You see it as I do. The rest you will learn as you go along.’
Bahukan wrought miracles in the kitchen. There was none to match his culinary skills. I learnt to cook and in time I was even able to contribute three new dishes to the Kandaswamy menu. They were called K’s Enna Kathrikai, K’s Ulli Theeyal and K’s Fish in Buttermilk Stew. The K stood for Koman but it was usually interpreted as Kandaswamy’s. I didn’t mind. I was happy enough to be doing something even if it wasn’t kathakali.
It was almost three months since I had arrived in London. I was yet to make any contact with the world of dance or performing arts. Angela still continued to cling to the hope that I would resume dancing some day. I didn’t. I had stopped thinking about it. I thought about going back, but the humiliation of admitting that I hadn’t been able to achieve what I had set out to do stopped me. More than ever I feared the mockery waiting for me at the institute.
It was the first week of December and my day off. Angela arrived early saying, ‘We are going to a party tonight. Helen is back in town and someone she and I know is having a little party for her. And guess what, Helen knows someone who knows Ram Gopal. So maybe now you will finally get to meet him.’
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have much hope left. But it would be nice to go out with Angela.
It was the first house I was going to, in London. An old red-brick
house with a little walled garden. Angela’s friend, a writer, picked us up in his car. Angela sat in the front passenger seat and talked to him. I sat at the back, trying to keep track of where we were going. Her voice was the kind she used when talking to people like her. The regime of the garbled sounds, I thought.
‘He is a dancer,’ she told everyone.
I whispered in her ear, ‘I haven’t danced in the last three months.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she snapped.
‘Why don’t you say I work in a restaurant? Are you ashamed of what I do?’
She glared at me and switched on a smile for someone she recognized.
I turned away, with the beginnings of a headache. The room was warm and filled with too many people and scents. There was incense burning and Ravi Shankar’s sitar in the background.
I walked away and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. There was a woman sitting at a table. ‘Hello,’ she murmured.
I poured myself a glass of water. ‘Don’t you want to join the party?’ I asked. Then I realized that she was the hostess. ‘You have a nice house,’ I said, trying to dispel the awkwardness. ‘Nice party, too.’
She smiled. ‘You don’t have to be polite. My husband is the artist. They are all his friends. I really don’t know any of them. I am a nurse, you see. And my feet are killing me; I stand all day at work and I didn’t want to stand again all evening. I am giving my feet some rest. The party will go on without me.’
I took a sip of the water and sat opposite her. ‘I work in a restaurant and stand all day, too. I think I will give my feet some rest as well.’
‘I heard someone say that you are a dancer. Do you have ballet in your country?’ she said.
I ran my fingers through my hair. It felt coarse and dry. A few days after I arrived, Angela had asked that I stop using hair oil. ‘The smell is rather strong and you know it puts people off,’ she had said.
‘But you didn’t mind it there?’ I said. What else didn’t she like about me, I thought and threw my hair oil away. All I wanted to do was please her.
‘No, I don’t dance the ballet,’ I said. ‘It is something else. It is
called kathakali.’ I looked away and said, ‘I used to be a dancer. I haven’t danced in three months.’ Her eyes were sympathetic and I found myself telling her everything.
‘It is a pity that you are wasting your talent,’ she said. ‘It is rather sad, too. You should go back. People make mistakes. There is nothing wrong in admitting you made one. But to continue making a mistake when you know it is one, now that is wrong.’
I saw Angela through the doorway. She was laughing with her head thrown back. I couldn’t remember when I had last seen her laugh. And I realized that our life as a couple had destroyed all that had once drawn us together.
She was looking into the man’s eyes. It was the writer who had brought us here. Her face was rosy and flushed. He touched her cheek with the tip of his finger. Her eyes gathered his gaze. I thought, if they aren’t lovers yet, they will be soon. I went back into the room and walked towards Angela. Helen stopped me and pushed a glass into my hand. ‘Hang in there, everything will be all right,’ she said. She was already drunk. ‘Didn’t Angela tell you? My friend is going to speak to Ram Gopal.’
I glared at her. I realized I was tired of all the pretence. Angela pretending that I would dance. I pretending that all was well between us.
‘Helen, don’t bother,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I will ever dance here in London. All we are doing is play-acting that nothing is wrong. Angela knows it and so do I. Do you know that I work in a restaurant these days? I don’t mind. I even enjoy it. But I am a dancer and there is no place in this life I lead here for dance. My kind of dance,’ I snarled. ‘No matter how hard Angela and I may pretend to each other, I made a mistake coming here and I just wish she would accept that.’
I heard the silence in the room. Helen tried to fill it up with a laugh and banalities. ‘Don’t we all make mistakes? Life is a mistake.’
I put down my glass in disgust and touched Angela’s elbow. ‘I am leaving. Do you want to go with me?’