Free Mistress by Anita Nair Page B

wouldn’t like it.
    Chris rose. I froze. Was he getting ready to go? Please, no, stay awhile, I pleaded in my head. I didn’t understand this fractious mood I was in. I knew I should not stay and yet I didn’t want him to be the one to want to leave.
    He looked into the distance for a while and then he moved to sit on the wall that shored the slope. I couldn’t avoid his eyes any more.
    ‘Is something bothering you?’ he asked.
    I looked at the pool of water at the bottom of the steps. You, I wanted to say. You are sneaking your way into my system. You are doing it with the casual ease of someone who knows how to. Are you a practised flirt? A seducer of women? Or is this something that neither you nor I have any control over?
    I took a deep breath. Think of Shyam, your husband. Think of Shyam, who has endured much for you. How can you do this to him, I asked myself.
    ‘No, why do you ask? I am fine,’ I said.
    ‘Then what is wrong? You have suddenly gone silent. Did I say something to offend you?’
    I turned away, groping to explain the heaviness I felt. A word, a phrase, a crutch that would deflect his attention. I could see Uncle standing on his veranda. He was looking at us.
    ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘Is there something you are not telling us? Why do you need to know all about Uncle’s life? What is the relevance?’
    ‘Radha, every writer has his own way of doing things. This is mine. I need to know everything about a person I am to profile. You
wouldn’t believe the lengths I go to when I am researching a subject; the kind of shit I am willing to endure. But that is how it is. I know most of the information I collect may be irrelevant but I need to know it all before I can decide what to keep and what to discard.’ Chris’s voice was devoid of all expression.
    I felt a distance spring up between us. I wanted to tie his hand to the pallu of my sari and bind him to me. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean it like that,’ I hastened to explain.
    ‘I have never heard Uncle talk about himself,’ I said. ‘What I know of him is what all of us know in the family. But what he told you today, I haven’t ever heard him talk about it.’
    Chris scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Are you sure it is about him? I am not so sure …I didn’t want to interrupt his flow or offend him, so I said nothing. But honestly, what is it all about? You know, at first, when I heard him say “In the beginning was an ocean”, my jaw almost dropped. What is he getting into, I thought …It’s like something out of a South American novel!’
    I leaned forward to interrupt him. ‘That is easily explained. If you read the libretto of a kathakali play, it always begins with a shloka that puts the story of the play in context. The shloka is rather literary; what it does is give the story a setting …that is all there is to it. Really! It isn’t magic realism. Just pure kathakali technique.’
    I smiled. Chris was right to be puzzled. Who wouldn’t be?
    ‘Radha.’ I shivered when Chris spoke my name. His voice was like a finger searching out secret places. ‘Radha, who is Sethu who became Seth? What is the connection?’
    Chris took the tape recorder out of his pocket and pressed the rewind button for a few seconds. Then he played the tape. Uncle’s voice emerged, a little tinny, yet true: Sethu returned to the camp thirty-six hours later. It may be too late, he thought. Or perhaps not. There were still many who lay ill in their homes. Dr Samuel looked at the stores Sethu had brought back. He wouldn’t meet Sethu’s eyes and instead set about dispensing medication as quickly as he could. Later that night, he called Sethu to bis tent. “This is the day made memorable by the Lord. What immense joy for us.”
     
    ‘Who is Seth?’ Chris asked again.
    ‘Sethu,’ I corrected, ‘is Uncle’s father. My paternal grandfather.’

    ‘Oh, I see.’ Chris looked relieved.
    ‘I don’t think you do,’ I said, leaning forward.