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.