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Krishnaswamy saw no point in sharing all this with Somanath. Not that he would have been able to; by then they got into the jeep and reached Somanath’s ancestral house. He kept touching the bangle piece in his pocket, as if it were an addiction, and as he set out for his bath, he remembered the moment that he had felt the thrill.
Somanath and Krishnaswamy settled into the cane chairs in the backyard under the jackfruit tree. The water had been pleasantly warm and Krishnaswamy had enjoyed his bath. Traditional rangoli patterns adorned the huge pillars of the house. The ancient dwelling with its hidden secrets was cool with soft muted light. It put the mind into a soothing calm. Somanath brought out a bottle of rum wrapped in a newspaper and said, ‘Hey, Mr. Know-it-all, can you tell me why I have wrapped it?’ as he poured out two glasses. He added water and generously squeezed in lime and dropped in chopped chillies. ‘Shiva!’ he exclaimed, as they struck the two glasses together, said cheers and answered his own question. ’I’m being sly. I don’t want my stupid wife to know how much I drink. She can be unnecessarily annoying.’
As the two sipped their drinks, they heard someone calling out from the door. Somanath’s wife came to the backyard, and in her gentle, graceful voice said, ’Sebastian is here’. ’Send him here,’ said Somanath carelessly. Narmada hesitated for a moment, but she went outside and said, ’Please come in,’ in English.
Sebastian, in white shirt, black trousers and a tie took off his shoes and came to the backyard. He greeted them respectfully. Somanath moved to the huge root of the jackfruit tree and offered the chair to Sebastian. ’Will you have some rum?’ he asked.
’No thanks,’ Sebastian replied and waited for Somanath to introduce him to Krishnaswamy. Somanath realised this and quickly said, ‘This is Dr Sebastian. He is a PRO with the Banawasi multinational company. He is the one responsible for organising our programmes – he’s known Jyoti from the time she was in Paris. Sebastian, this is my friend, the famous writer, Krishnaswamy. He has got your company’s fellowship grant to write about me.’
Sebastian shook hands and said in English, his words running into each other, ‘I am so glad to have met you. Our M.D. was sorry not to meet you; he had to leave for Bangalore. He has asked me to wish you on his behalf and has asked me to put you up in our guest house. The guest house is on the banks of the river, it may be the best place to write. Jyoti has told me a lot about you. I wanted to make a request. On Friday, our company is opening an Areca Research Station and a laboratory for research on Monkey Fever. This area needs it very urgently. Our M.D. asks if you would be so kind as to inaugurate both. I’ll leave now and won’t trouble you any further.’
Krishnaswamy said ‘okay’ and shook hands. Somanath winked mischievously at him like in the old days. Then, he said, ’All this has been fixed by Jyoti. Her stepfather is one of the main shareholders of the company. Well, there’s another story. Jyoti’s mother, I mean your unrequited love, took her useless husband and her little daughter, only six, to Bombay. She changed her name from Haseena to Nargis Vinda. Somehow she got into the role of motivating people in the city. She was in the forefront of the Sanjay Brigade and the charged speeches she made began to appear in every newspaper. She became a famous fixer. She opened schools for children in slums, she took young doctors there and organised medical camps. Her transactions were in lakhs. Jyoti has a photo album in which she has pictures of her mother with the likes of Indira Gandhi and Rajiv Gandhi. Jyoti’s father would spend the day gambling, while her mother became the smuggler queen. Officers in high places were her friends. But all the scandals didn’t detract from her charisma which only grew.
Her lies, her corrupt, devious ways, her politicking, her aggressive feminist battles, her tree planting campaign … according to Jyoti, she donned all these cloaks out of love for her daughter and sympathy for her husband.
At some point Nargis Vinda became a Frenchman’s assistant. From assistant she eventually graduated to sweetheart. She got the man to send Jyoti to Paris to study. I have forgotten his name, a fifty-five year rich, old, hedonistic fool. Nargis Vinda was about thirty-five then, oozing sensuousness.
Her shrivelled up husband didn’t object, in fact, he became her pimp. Eventually she separated from him and married the Frenchman. Yes … now I remember his name, Andre Michel. And she became Nargis Michel. Travelling between Paris and Bombay, Madame Michel looked after her husband and took care of her daughter. She used to have so much money on her that she had no need to steal. Nevertheless, Nargis did pinch money from her French husband to give it to Govind Rao whom she continued to meet secretly.
Somanath had no idea of the effect his story was having on Krishnaswamy. As he listened to the story, Krishnaswamy kept recollecting the glass bangle piece that had shone under the rock, the still chameleon, the vibrant life force bursting out of the hunting picture, and Somanath who’d stood there, sage-like.
Swayed by emotions he said to himself: This is how I am, and this is how they are. It was a feeling that neither soothed him nor troubled him. The shining bangle piece may have gestured to me and made me feel a secret latch had been unlocked. But then, gestures materialise, disappear and elapse. Like the signals I received from Haseena. That night she had tried to provoke me. She had stolen money. Had left without telling me. But I lived on as if I had forgotten. She too lived on: for her daughter, for her useless husband and probably for her own personal avarice, she became a thief, working the international arena. The epitome of sensuousness, she grew more beautiful till she vanished. And I remained the gentleman, dry distant, an observer.
’What are you thinking off dullard? You should always be prepared like the hunter. And like the deer, you should be alert to danger. When you see the deer, it feels like the hunter’s spear will not touch it. But the picture was drawn by an artist with a hunter’s instinct. It’s a masterly game played by life force itself.’
’Ok sage Soma,’ said Krishnaswamy in reply to Somanath’s remark, as he looked into the mirror and combed his hair.
’Go, your girlfriend’s daughter is waiting for you. She lives at the guest house. But first have your breakfast, Narmada is waiting.’
Adorned with turmeric and kumkum, Narmada looked like goddess Gowri. She had spread out plantain leaves and was waiting with a serving spoon in hand. She had placed a polished rosewood plank for him to sit on. She served him upma. ‘Will you have some chutney pudi? Is it too hot? Do you want some curd?’
Krishnaswamy was embarrassed by the shower of hospitality. Narmada started speaking about Jyoti. Oh, she looks exactly like goddess Durga. Every month I ask the bangle seller to come home and buy glass bangles for her. You know, I’m a strict observer of the everyday purity rites. I don’t even allow my husband to come into the kitchen. But if I had a grown up son, I wouldn’t have stopped him from marrying Jyoti. It’s up to you whether you want to believe me or not.’
Somanath winked mischievously and said, ‘Yes, she’s a very beautiful girl. If something prevents her from evolving into a good artist it could be the radiance of her own body. If you tell Jyoti how beautiful she is, she’ll say you should have seen my mother. And then she’ll add how all the good-looking young men are stupid bores and the ones that she likes are old men like me.’
Narmada laughed. Krishnaswamy felt jealous of his anarchist friend’s peaceful, family life. This divine thief is not just a mesmeriser, he’s a womaniser too. And me, even if I encounter a sage from the Vedic times, a strain of suspicion will colour my wonder.
’I forgot to ask how many children you have. How many boys and how many girls?’ Narmada asked.
’I have one son. He lives in America. My wife lives with him. He married my wife’s close relative last year.’
’Oh, good! That’s when family life works you see…’
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