Authors: Anita Nair
Tags: #Kerala (India), #Dancers, #India, #General, #Literary, #Triangles (Interpersonal Relations), #Travel Writers, #Fiction, #Love Stories
Mistress (51 page)
‘But I can’t call him dog. In my neighbourhood there are Kaisers and Jimmies, Brunos and even a few Paandans. I like Kaiser. Why don’t you call him that?’
‘My students call him Ekalavyan. You can call him that if you insist on a name.’ I yawned.
‘Is there anything in your life besides kathakali?’ Lalitha laughed.
‘No,’ I said abruptly. ‘Once I thought there was. Without kathakali, I am nothing.’
‘What about me?’ Her eyes were serious.
‘You and the dog are the only two living creatures who I can relate to these days,’ I said. ‘You will have to be content with that.’
She smiled. ‘I am.’
There is nothing that time cannot heal. I learnt that as the days passed. I learnt that from my house by the river. And from Ekalavyan and Lalitha. A dog and a whore. Together they broke down the walls I had surrounded myself with. I stopped being a catatonic being who sprang to life only when I wore my colours. I learnt to laugh and suffer; I learnt to delight and complain. I learnt to accept love when I found it. I learnt to be human again.
Two years later, the institute troupe was invited to Europe and we travelled from country to country, dancing our stories of gods and demons. It was ironic that all I had once sought came to me now that I had stopped seeking it.
I was offered a teaching fellowship by a university in Germany. I declined.
‘How come you don’t want it?’ Sundaran asked.
‘It won’t work,’ I said, deciding to be honest.
‘How can you throw away chances? How can you be so disdainful of the opportunity you have been given?’ he demanded. ‘If it had been me …’
‘Sundaran, for three months there I will do nothing. Do you call that a great opportunity?’
‘But think of after that. You will have become part of the circuit.’
I thought for a moment about ‘after that’ and shuddered.
‘Sundaran,’ I tried to explain. ‘London was nothing. It came to nothing. I tossed away my life here, thinking I would find a place there, and nothing came of it. Kathakali has no place there. Do you know how long it took me to recoup my losses? Do you know how beaten I was when I returned? Aashaan was right. We need to feel
right, here,’ I said, touching my chest. ‘Only then will we know what it is to be fulfilled. Everything else is just an illusion.’
right, here,’ I said, touching my chest. ‘Only then will we know what it is to be fulfilled. Everything else is just an illusion.’
‘You talk such utter nonsense only because you have had everything offered to you on a platter. That is why you have such disregard for it,’ Sundaran said. ‘I have to make my own destiny, and what can I do or be when I am trapped here in this life? Where is my escape route? You tell me. Now, if I had been the one to go to London, I would have made my way.’ Sundaran’s bitterness shocked and saddened me.
He was all twisted and tangled inside. I turned my face away. I felt as if I had intruded into a very private and intimate moment. It embarrassed and confused me.
A few minutes later, I knew remorse. Sundaran had once been my friend. ‘Aren’t you happy that you are dancing so well?’
‘What is the point?’ Sundaran snapped. He stared at the plate of food before him. ‘I am sick and tired of this. I want more. I want fine food and clothes, money in my purse and people to recognize me on the streets. I want all this and more.’
‘But kathakali?’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody naive. Kathakali is a means to an end. You don’t get it, do you? Aashaan was the same. Which is why there was never any use talking to him. If only I could spend some time here in Europe.’ He stopped abruptly.
I saw how much he longed for it and recommended they offer the scholarship to Sundaran. They did, and Sundaran finally had his chance.
He never returned.
I was happy. I was dancing. And I was dancing better than I had ever done. For the rest, I had my little house by the river. I had Lalitha and I had the dog. My little world was complete.
I proposed marriage to Lalitha. ‘Why?’ she asked.
‘I thought you might want to,’ I said.
‘Do you think I sleep with other men?’ she asked.
I didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t. I haven’t in a long time. I work in a tailoring shop. I make enough to look after myself. It is best we remain this way,’ she said. ‘You in your house and I in mine. Besides, this way there is no room for gossip. Can you imagine what would happen if you married
me? The scandal! Your family would sever all ties with you.’
me? The scandal! Your family would sever all ties with you.’
I nodded. Babu would never accept Lalitha. ‘That doesn’t matter,’ I said.
‘No, Koman. I prefer it this way. I also know that this way you will never tire of me,’ she said.
I smiled.
Over the years I went on several trips with the institute troupe. We even acquired a following of sorts.
Some years ago I was in Paris and, on a whim, I took the Metro. As I went down the steps into the station, I saw posters on the wall. I paused and looked at the face. It was Sundaran. He was performing that week in Paris. I asked my host in Paris to go with me for the performance. ‘We were together as students and he taught at the institute for several years,’ I told Stefan.
I saw Sundaran dance again. He was still handsome, still the elegant dancer. His gestures were graceful, his presence complete. But it wasn’t kathakali. It wasn’t dance at all. I looked at the programme. It was in French. Stefan translated it for me. ‘Dancer Extraordinary. Pundit Sundar Varma. Hailing from a royal family in Kerala, Sundar ran away from his noble ancestry and palatial life when he was twelve, seeking to express himself in a language of gestures and expressions.’
I smiled. Sundaran had reinvented himself. The Sundaran I knew came from a poor Warrier family who thought that by having him enrol at the institute they wouldn’t have to worry about feeding him three meals a day. The institute took care of all that. I supposed that when he was giving himself a whole new history, he had thought royal ancestry would lend greater charisma to his reputation. It needed some skill to carry it off. I could see that Sundaran had it. He was a performer extraordinaire.
Stefan read on: Soul of Fear—an exploration of all that is dark and distorted, narrow and incongruous in man …using traditional kathakali techniques …I stopped listening.
I couldn’t comprehend the performance. It was pretentious and false. It made a mockery of what we had given most of our lives to. It trivialized it and I felt shame and anger, then relief. If I had stayed on in London, would this have happened to me as well? Would I
have compromised in order to survive? Would I have changed the tenor of all that I respected and loved, to make it accessible and popular?
have compromised in order to survive? Would I have changed the tenor of all that I respected and loved, to make it accessible and popular?
When the performance was over, Stefan wanted us to go backstage and meet Sundaran.
‘I have nothing to say to him,’ I said.
‘You don’t approve of him,’ Stefan said.
‘No, I don’t,’ I admitted.
Later, Stefan and I went to a café. While we waited for the drinks to arrive, Stefan asked, ‘Why? You don’t like what he is doing?’
I took a deep breath. Perhaps Stefan thought I was envious of what Sundaran had. That it was resentment that made me reluctant to see him. ‘I do not like what Sundaran has turned kathakali into,’ I said.
‘But it is simpler now. You think that is wrong?’
‘Let me tell you something. In India, the most popular form of dance these days is something called cinematic dance. It is a combination of folk and classical, salsa and the twist, aerobics and jive …of perhaps every imaginable dance form, but the boys and girls who dance it don’t make it out to be anything but cinematic dance. It is wonderful in its own way, but best of all, it doesn’t pretend to be anything but a light form of entertainment.’
I saw the disbelief on Stefan’s face. I smiled. ‘I know you are surprised. I don’t think there is anything wrong with popular art. It demands very little of an audience. Anyone can enjoy it.
‘Classical art requires an effort from the audience. You don’t become a connoisseur overnight. You need to imbibe it. You need to educate yourself, and it takes time to reach a level where you can understand the artist’s interpretation. Naturally, this means the audience is limited and the rewards even more so. So, when I see someone like Sundaran butchering kathakali to ensure greater popularity, to the extent that all that is noble and brilliant and complex about it is removed, I find it repugnant. He is playing to the gallery, providing light entertainment disguised as classical art. It is devious and deceitful, to say the least.’
Stefan sipped his drink slowly. ‘You are very hard to please,’ he said. ’It is only art after all. Not a matter of life and death. There are no ethics involved. It isn’t like cloning or the manufacturing of
chemical weapons or even vivisection.’
chemical weapons or even vivisection.’
I smiled. ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t be so hard on him. It is art after all, as you say.’
He peered at me carefully to see if I was being sarcastic.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t mocking you. I agree. If he can live with himself, who am I to condemn what he is doing?’
Artistic success is a strange thing. In the end, who is the judge? A handful of critics? Since the episode with Nanu Menon, I have moved on and indictments, precise or otherwise, seldom affect me. I see critics as a group of deluded beings who live within a tiny galaxy; anything that doesn’t fit within its boundaries and the limits of their knowledge puzzles them. What they do not understand, they either intellectualize or dismiss. Are they the ones I ought to hitch my artistic destiny to?
Then there are the art lovers, capricious people who will go with you if a review does, and cast you aside if a reviewer rejects you. Lovers who make no promises to love or honour you forever. It is a world that chooses to recognize your talent by the trappings of success—fame, money, awards.
Finally, there is the artist, who has to contend with his own standards again and again, despite all that the critics or the world might tell him. Have I been able to rise above all that I have done so far, or have I been merely mediocre?
In the years thereafter, I was to pose this question to myself again and again. How successful was I as a veshakaaran?
Art doesn’t make anything happen except for the artist. In fact, art is useless. It has no bearing on real life. I know that as well as all other practising artists do. Art occupies a bare fraction of time in most people’s lives. It is a piece of music you listen to as you drive or a book read at the airport, a painting on a wall in a hotel lobby or a flower arrangement at the dentist’s clinic. A filler of time and space, a point of diversion and no more. If it is to satiate this meagre need that we slave and reach into ourselves, what chance is there of ever knowing fulfilment? We seek strange pleasures and subversive modes, we thrust away what is there before us and look beyond and there is
no knowing whether this quest will mean anything to anyone but us. So, when at times, the ghoul that rides on every artist’s shoulder comes to perch on mine and whispers in my ear, ‘But no one understands what you are doing’, I pat its head and tell it, ‘Does it matter? I do.’
no knowing whether this quest will mean anything to anyone but us. So, when at times, the ghoul that rides on every artist’s shoulder comes to perch on mine and whispers in my ear, ‘But no one understands what you are doing’, I pat its head and tell it, ‘Does it matter? I do.’
After many years of being ignored, I was given my first national award. For years, I was overlooked in favour of lesser, but decidedly more visble and flamboyant artists. It hurt me. I wouldn’t be human otherwise. I was still a young man then. An award at that point in my life would have meant a validation of what I had set out to do. But that was not to be.
In my fifty-third year, when I no longer sought or even wanted these tokens of recognition, someone decided that I was to be given a Padma Shri. Suddenly my art, no, I must correct myself, I as an artist, had an audience. An eager and demanding audience. The world seemed to assume that they owned me. More awards followed. I realized with amusement that awards, like invitations to international dance festivals, have a snowball effect. All you need is one to start the ball rolling. I thought of Sundaran. He was right, after all. It was all about being part of a circuit.
All my life was held up for scrutiny. My student years, my relationships, even the memory of my dog and later Malini were dwelled upon. Thankfully, Lalitha was dead by then. Or she would have occupied column space as the harlot muse. All that was good and kind about her, all her nobility and understanding would have been ignored and instead, she would have been given an insidious place in the rooms of my life. She had died of cancer, however, and all they could write was: ‘His long-time companion succumbed to cancer even as his star ascended.’ I was cast as the solitary and exceptional being whose lover, wife and mistress was dance.
I hugged to myself my secret. For I had Maya. Twelve years ago I stopped at Delhi on my way back from Europe. I had been invited to France for a lecture-dance tour. It had been a hectic three weeks and on my way home I paused for breath. I had a few things to attend to, a few friends to meet. At an art show opening I was taken to, I was introduced to Maya.
I stood there holding a glass in my hand, watching. What am I doing here, I wondered. My friend introduced me to many people, but I barely registered names or faces. I let the alcohol wrap me in a little haze that cut out this world I really had no connection with.
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