Ocean of Love
(Prem-Amrit-Sagar)
by
Martin Frank
Writers' Workshop
Calcutta
Copyright
© 2001 Martin Frank.
Notice
All persons and circumstances are purely fictional. Any similarity with real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended.
Author
Martin Frank
Dahliastrasse 4
CH-8034 Zurich
Switzerland
Phone +41 1 383 77 49
Fax +41 1 383 23 48
Payam Yen?
Naan Irukku! [1]
Dedicated to
My father Dr. iur. Heinrich Frank and my mother Hedwig Frank-Peter; my teacher Ven. Amaro Thera; my friends Christoph Schweinfurth and Prince Gottfried Richrath; my younger brothers Pulavar Vijaya Baskaran (M.A., M.O.L.) and A. John Britto, M.A.; my sons Rizvi and John-William.
Thanks to
Prof. Dr. Agesthialingom; the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the staff of Annamalai University; the Ashoka Hotel management and staff, Madras; the Banana lady; Balasubramaniam; the Basle Mission High School, Palghat, Kerala; the Lord Abbot and the Venerable Monks of the Thai temple and monastery, Bodh Gaya, Bihar; David Brown and his friends from the Carlton compound; the Raja of Collengode; V.S. Dilipkumar; my elder brother Prof. Dr. André Frank; my friend Prof. Dr. Reinhold Hohl; Dr. Thomas Malten; Dr. Natarajan; the Navabs of Oudh; Peter and the Nepali staff of the Carlton Hotel, Lucknow; the Maharaja of Puri; the Railway Hotel management and staff, Puri; Dr. K Ramasamy; the Navab of Rampur; Prof. Dr. Roland Ris; Syed Haider 'Ali and his family; Khanzadah Syed Masoodul Islam; the Royal Café management and staff, Lucknow; the Maharaja of Sabarimalai; Martin Schellenberg; Shanti Pillai; Mr. Solomon from Swissair's Calcutta office; H.M. the King of Thailand and H.E. the Prime Minister of Thailand for their generous hospitality; Indian Railways, Indian Airlines, Air India, American Express Bombay, and too many Indian bus transportation companies and their staff to mention them singularly.
OM NAMAH SHIVAYAH!
The Lord's bride am I
My lips are always on my Lord's feet.
At the Temple Tank
Madhu sings and his song is full of the sweetness of being Tamil, the beauty of Lord Murugan. Madhu is marvellously gifted and, like a tall and brawny wrestler, not afraid to display his strength. We are friends since we were running around naked in the village street but now his voice brings tears to my eyes. When he talks about the music he hears in his dreams, his eyes seem to look to a far off place, beyond my or anybody's understanding, Shri Shri Sarasvati's[2] realm.
I just want to be a musician, gifted or not. I don't dream music; all I dream of is going abroad, of becoming a musician, and at night if I'm lucky, of a certain girl's body, which it is shameful to talk about.
We're sitting on the steps of the temple tank; I'm rubbing a few drops of perfumed hair oil I got from Radhu into my hair. Radhu, a slightly effeminate Nayar[3] youth, is gently massaging Madhu's neck.
Next to Madhu squats Vishnu, the village priest's son. He has the bodily perfection of a religious print, regular features, big eyes, slender, muscular body; he should act in films. The elders despise and the youngsters admire Vishnu because everybody suspects him of having secret affairs, suspects? I know as fact that he got invited to spend the night in a lodge in Ooty with an industrialist's son and two women. He is eighteen years old and proud of his adventures. Nobody censures him; his character is so flawed by sensuality that nobody expects anything else from him.
Hari, my younger brother, gets out of the water, with some boys who don't belong here, Nayars and less, half his cricket team. They're all in wet underwear, joking immodestly about Hari, who has too much to hide. He swings into the water from the low roof, which is not allowed. The old men sitting in the shadow of the bathhouse scold him, adding, "We used to jump from the roof until it nearly caved in."
The old fellows too know no better than to make fun that his biggest gift is not between his ears. Hari pretends not to mind the teasing, "It is a sign that I'll have a thousand sons!"
To hear the same joke day after day annoys me. Already the village girls are blushing when they see Hari playing hockey in half pants. He is the number one heartbreaker, a sports hero, cricket captain, member of every school sports team; he wants to become a physical education teacher.
Whenever Hari enters a house in the village, it is 'Hari son,' 'Hari grandson,' 'Hari brother,' 'Hari cousin,' 'Hari nephew,' 'Hari darling'. Even old women are fond of him, what to say about the girls, who hang around in the kitchen of our house to catch a glance of Hari, and small boys too; our courtyard is their cinema. Hari is acting, dancing, imitating actors, telling jokes, singing film songs for them.
Even when he is sad, he has to go on joking, forcing himself to be merry. I can't walk home with him from the cinema without that some guys stop him and then they must talk and joke for hours. In the middle of the night, going out to piss, he meets Vishnu or another of our village rascals and doesn't come back for an hour. "I met Vishnu and we talked", "We had a swim in the tank, Subbu, Vishnu, and I."
I don't feel at ease with the Nayar no-good-boys who hang around in the village at night[4], who sit on the little bridge smoking hashish, telling lewd jokes, eve teasing[5]. I'd prefer if Hari could keep away from them. Hari is their hero, their guru; they adore him, riksha drivers, washermen, tea-stall boys. Great good their friendship will do him at the SSLC exams!
Getting up I look across the water and in the dark spaces between the palm trees, in the fleeting shadows of the bats hovering over the tank, in the obscurity of the communal bathhouse, I sense the fear, the questions. I wrap my bath towel more decently around my hips and pull Madhu up to come with me.
Purayur Village[6]
Together we walk back past the white, clean, communal village temple, a remnant of our backward caste system. Madhu is singing again, and through his song, the temple and the brass temple standard reflecting the last rays of the sun become again, what they always were, the heart of my village, a part of myself.
We pass the threshing space and then enter the village proper. To the left are our Iyer[7] houses: White, old, with low porches, Basle Mission tiles. To the right are Madhu's clan's Iyengar[8] houses: White, old, with low porches, Basle Mission tiles. In between lies the strip of green where we played naked first, then in half pants and barefoot, later in our school uniforms, proudly batting, dreaming of captainship, of winning the Purayur vs. abroad test match. Now the green has become the stage where we hope one day after our studies to arrive in a taxi, the square awaiting our future triumph.
Madhu's father sits in an old easy chair on their front porch, reading a newspaper; he is an accountant in the Palghat branch of the Indian Overseas Bank. Madhu's mother and his sisters are sitting on the floor, talking women talk in low voices, preparing vegetables. A servant appears bringing tea, their farm foreman comes to report and take instructions, how different their household is from ours! We depend on our fields.
In Our House
Father is reading a small magazine[9]. He went to a court hearing today, a case dragging on for many years, concerning lands he inherited together with distant cousins. He prefers to spend his days in Palghat rather than out in the fields watching the workers. Father is still more of a landlord than a farmer.
In Our Kitchen
Mother has tiffin ready; she prepared a special rice vermicelli dish because it is my last day in the village. Mother is the best cook in the world.
In the Butcher's House
After the meal, I sneak away to attend a meeting of the local Naxalite[10] cell in the house of Ayyappasamy, a butcher.
Up to the door of the house, I feel like a revolutionary, braving arrest, torture and death to fight Indian capitalism. Inside I have to sit down on a red terrazzo floor, which looks like rubbed with fresh blood. A rusty old table fan is too weak to move the hot stale air, a swarm of flies, who probably have been sitting on a blood-dripping carcass just seconds before, are greeting me. There is a lingering stench of military food; I'm about to vomit.
It's the first time I have come here. Just the thought of it will make Mother sick. Ayyappasamy, the cell leader, is a short, stout man ridiculously proud of the number of his children, the products of his loins.
I expected them to discuss issues like the bonded labour campaign started by late Varghese Perumal[11], but instead Ayyappasamy demonstrates yoga asanas for me; saying, and repeating it in front of his daughters, 'yoga increases sexual potency.' I want him to shut up. He calls me 'Milord'[12] like our workers and tries his best to get on my nerves talking about Brahmins, saying as if it would be news 'opium for the people', denouncing the Communist Party of Kerala leaders for having become fat and lazy, using the word 'action' as if it would be a magic spell to change the world.
Ayyappasamy offers me coffee, which I don't dare refuse. One of his myriad daughters, who after their father's obscene dissertations stare at me with the clear knowledge of what my forefathers used to do with their foremothers, hands me a tumbler. Whatever it is smells of bad coffee and tastes like bad tea. I take a few sips to show that I'm not prejudiced.
Several disgruntled farm and rice mill workers sit around arguing for a farm workers' strike, but when I ask, "How will the workers survive during the strike? What will become of the harvest?" nobody answers. The fellow from the Palghat telephone exchange, who invited me, is sitting next to me silent. Is he ashamed of their stupidity or of mine?
They ask me about our fields, how much land we own, how we managed to keep so much in spite of the Land Ceiling Act, whether Father works himself in the fields. Are they going to denounce us?[13]
On a shelf, there are a few political books. The walls are decorated with framed prints of Communist leaders. Above the door, a dollop of cow dung with a few stalks of paddy straw show the limits of Ayyappasamy's atheism. I am sitting opposite an old wardrobe with a large mirror. Instead of listening to their pointless discussion, I study my reflection in the mirror, trying to decide whether it is true that I look like Sanjay Gandhi, whether my skin is fair enough to please a girl. Compared to the faces next to me, my face seems fair; they look like adivasis[14].
Purayur
Walking home at night I begin to suspect that the meeting has been faked because they don't trust me, or set up by the CRPF[15] and I will get arrested, tortured and killed 'trying to evade arrest'[16].
I'm practically decided not to return to the university, how can I study without money? I have a scholarship and don't have to pay for the courses, but board and lodging, 'tuition' and TSU[17] contributions must be paid. I don't even have enough money for the train ticket! I think, 'I'm not going,' but I know that I'll go. I don't dare mention my problem to Father or Mother; they can't help me. Instead of facing the facts, I pretend to hope that the millionaire philanthropist Dr. Raja Krishna Menon, the Raja of Collengode, or the District Magistrate will come to my aid, that my Teacher[18] will ask Palghat Mani Iyer to intervene in my favour. No such miracle is going to happen; it's just one more instance of my perennial stupidity.
In the Upper Room
At night lying near him in the upper room, I ask Hari, "What are you thinking?"
"Nothing, Anna[19], I mustn't think!"
"Why? What's wrong?"
"Thinking doesn't change things, impossible to think things away."
The heat is unbearable. Hari gets up saying, "Impossible to sleep", and leaves the house to jump into the tank to cool himself. I can't sleep and not to worry I begin to think about a certain party. My official plan is to marry rich and later vindicate myself by becoming a famous musician. I'm more than ready to live in A/C hell to achieve it. Only that my chances of marrying a rich girl even swarthy like a water buffalo are nil. My secret plan is simpler: To slip my hands under a girl's bodice, to let my lips feel her skin.
The thought of the smell of a girl's body drives me insane. I bought Windsor talcum powder 'for Mother' to intoxicate myself with its maddening smell.
When Hari comes back, exhausted and wet from the tank we talk again, and then promise each other that we'll always take care of each other and help each other to take care of Father and Mother, that big and small should never come between us. Hari respects me more than I deserve. He falls asleep close to me; as if he would still believe that I can protect him. I'm putting my arm around him; it is my duty to look after him. What am I doing?
With thoughts like this and worse, I fall asleep but I don't get the dreams I wish. When I hear the women beginning their work, I wish it were yesterday again and today were tomorrow, what can I do? If I open my mouth, disaster will strike immediately. I should at least try my luck.
In the Bath House
Closing and locking the heavy wooden doors feels like locking out the problems too. After the sticky, dirty heat of the night, the hours of half-sleep, of dreams and half-dreams, of obscene thoughts that didn't succeed to cancel out the fear, the dark of our bathhouse comforts me. Warm and smelling of burnt palm leaves, it offers me its privacy. I become again the small boy allowed first time to take bath by himself, to enjoy the allowed forbidden, to be naked alone in this dark and warm room. Through the roof and the partly open shutters of the window to the walled in well enter the heavy breathing of our animals and the chirping of the birds, to be naked in this world of sound makes me feel my body, my desire. I want to love and be loved; I can't wait.
I check that the door, which leads to the neighbour house, is closed. Our house shares a well with the next house, where Granduncle lived before he moved to Palghat and sold the house to Madhu's uncle. The door is always closed, except when Kumari draws water for our present neighbour, Sushila, Madhu's cousin, who has no well of her own.
Washing myself my thoughts become a miserable dialogue with myself where I accuse and excuse myself at the same time, justifying my dream with my dream, I'm stupid but my stupidity seems to be necessary for my future success. To say, 'I'll do a B.Com. and try to get a job in a bank' would be worst.
Taking the water off my body, I'm already afraid to leave the bathhouse. Outside its gentle dusk grim truth is laying in wait, however fast I run I'll get hit and killed.
Unlocking and pushing open the door, I decide to sacrifice everything to my dream. I'm not afraid. There is like a certitude that the dream will reward me for my loyalty, that my sufferings will end with a sweet death, a romantic sadness, warm blood gushing out of my veins.
In the Kitchen
Eating breakfast, I still hope that somebody will butt into the house with good news, that a letter or a telegram will arrive, but nothing happens.
Mother talks about what is on her mind, marriage, "No need to worry, son! For sure, you'll be surprised. With the astrologer's help a compatible girl will be found, times have changed, you'll be allowed to meet her before you decide… you'll fall in love with her at first sight…"
"Alright, Mother!"
In the Upper Room
Waiting for Madhu to get ready, I open a dusty storybook entitled Tears of Shame about a young Indian woman seduced by a NRI[20] married abroad. The heat makes my hands sweat so much that I must wipe them before I can turn the pages.
What if I don't like the woman Father will select for me? What if she doesn't love me? If she just suffers to be my wife as a punishment for her immorality in former lives, disliking me but hoping that I will not die and make her a young widow?
I close my eyes and try to imagine what I like most to imagine. That Mary, the certain party, will fall in love with me, that she would want me to touch and kiss her. Mary is different, she's a Catholic; they must be half-Anglo-Indians, who knows whether they don't speak English at home? A lot more, I suspect but I don't want to mar the picture thinking about their disgusting dietary habits.
Before boys used to marry at thirteen or fourteen. How wonderful to enjoy when the desire is there instead of the lonely hot nights, the mutual shame with a friend, or secret affairs offending one's Father and Mother.
In Our House
Around eleven o'clock with tears in my eyes, I take leave from Father and Mother, prostrating myself and touching their feet in our small house temple.
At the Bus Stand
When Madhu and I board the rotten old Tata bus to Olavakot, Hari calls out aloud in his best imitation American film accent, "All passengers travelling on Air India flight four-o-five to abroad are kindly requested to board the bus now!" Everybody is roaring with laughter while the bus jerks away. Hari is running a few steps with the bus then holds up his hands in pranam[21] in front of his face.
In the Bus to Olavakot
Madhu pays my ticket asking me, "Do you think we will ever go abroad?"
I check whether the violin is all right. To go abroad in a plane! I am thinking about it since High School. I went to a Catholic mass once because a Christian student told me if you become a priest, they send you abroad, at least for your studies. Just now, I can't buy new chappals[22]; "No doubt you'll go one day."
I put my hand through the open grill of the window to feel the flow of the hot air. We are travelling. The movement of the bus tricks me into believing that I have left my worries behind, until the pity in Madhu's eyes reminds me that we are not driving away from my problem but towards it.
We have done the long journey from our village near Palghat to the university several times, only that this time I have no money. Madhu knows and pays for me like a brother. He too is worried how I will manage to begin the first year in Music College without money. With Madhu's help, I can earn a few rupees playing in the temple at Chidambaram[23]. I survived Pre-University College because the teachers were sympathetic. In the Music College, most of the teachers are Pillais[24], who resent our Brahmin birthrights.
Madhu looks at me; "No need to worry brother, maybe a small job in the university will be found."
We have been talking about this, students serving in the mess, or performing menial tasks for professors.
In the Bus
I turn to Madhu, "You know last night?"
"How was the film?"
"Nothing special, but when we came outside, we met Annadurai…"
"Annadurai[25] is dead."
"No, not him; the washerman, he was wearing my shirt…"
"What a rascal!"
"He said 'I thought you wouldn't go out tonight, Milord.'"
"And what did you say?"
"Hari honoured him with a garland of sweet words."
Madhu is laughing; I can see that he is glad that I seem not to worry. Shouldn't I jump off the bus and walk home? What do I want in the university without money? Father had to mortgage our lands to get me through PUC, what will become of us? I don't want to think about the interest payment coming up soon. It was my idea to get a loan; if the harvest fails, money will be in short supply.
Outside the bus' windows, there are paddy fields, lush green. People are boarding and leaving the bus, students and farmers. The mountains vanish; the bus is shaking me around on my seat, dragging me to the execution grounds. What can be achieved in the university without money? In the end, it will be necessary to sell the violin just to return home.
In the Train from Olavakot to Erode
The train to Erode is waiting. Huge dark red empty broad gauge[26] bogies[27] smelling of hot dust, piss and oil. We get in and settle down on the wooden berths, glad to have enough space. I stare at the locked doors of the godowns[28] next to the station building. The noon sun seems to give them secret meaning, but then a goods train passes and its clattering iron song drowns all. Do I hear in it, what otherwise I can't, the sound of the universe?
To discern the homes of the seven notes in the midst of the chaotic uproar is
liberation.[29]
When the noise has gone, I try to fix in my memory what I heard, but though I thought I knew what I heard, I remember only what I don't want, that hateful melody which haunts me since I'm a child. I'm glad when finally the train begins to move.
We pass through a shadowless green paddy plain. The ventilator above the window is swaying left and right. Until tomorrow morning nothing can happen, nothing can be done. Madhu has closed his eyes, without him I would not be sitting in this train; he encouraged me to join PUC. His heavy body, dark face, thick unruly hair don't look good, but he is a first-rate friend.
In the Train
At least as long as Madhu is with me, I'm not going to die of hunger, but if Madhu would know my mind, he would probably not want to be my friend any longer. Maybe I can get us more music jobs in the temple. I am good at getting jobs for him.
We are passing a small station, then cross a village street. Schoolboys are waiting on cycles, waving us; they must be thinking we are lucky to travel. How beautiful would be the world, how happy could we be if money wouldn't matter!
Madhu begins his song again. I join in, hitting the bench to produce the sound of the mridangam[30]. His voice comforts me as if its sweetness could protect me against the world. Is this not the essence of the world, devotion? Being a bhakta[31] like Lord Hanuman? Adoring the Lord's feet day and night? Madhu laughs and says 'Raga Train' and improvises a new scale, which reflects the paddy[32] plain with the train rattling through it. He trusts only me to hear his inventions; I'd like to take out my violin, but I don't want to spoil his mood with my clumsiness, so I continue playing the mridangam on the bench. I hum with him what I would play on the violin, the rows of workers in the paddy fields, the slow heavily loaded bullock carts, the fast racing ox carts with proud fellows on them, the black water buffaloes soaking in the mud, and then again it's pure music, our pride to be Tamil.
In Erode Train Station
Madhu buys hot vadais[33] and tea. Eating I watch clever crows break the plastic covers of big curd jars with their steely beaks to get at the curd. I am glad at their success — to survive you must adapt to circumstances. We carry our luggage up and down the enormous iron stairs and I wonder at my stupidity or my courage, which is probably the same, where am I going? The train station is huge with many platforms. Why don't I board another train instead of the fatal one to Chidambaram? If Madhu were not with me, I would try to get to Bombay. I'll do anything to go abroad, even sell the violin. As it is, Father, Mother, Hari are there, I can't go anywhere, I must provide for them. To go abroad would be wonderful. Life here, in this poverty, is like not living. abroad people are free to do what you like; here there are so many obligations that one dies before you've satisfied everyone.
I nearly hurt myself running against a co-op bookstall on the platform. Some of the books look like one shouldn't read them, Rape, Deadly Lust, Man or Woman? I have no money and I can't ask Madhu to waste his money on smut. I have read such books before; they're more than graphical.
High School girls in beautiful half-saris, with jasmine in their black tresses are waiting for the train. They are too busy joking among themselves to notice that I stare at them. First, I must get Hari through university!
The train to Tiruchirapally pulls in and we're lucky to find two empty benches. When it gets dark, we change into lungis[34] and lie down. I look at Madhu; the heat must be bothering him too. I'd like to lie near him.
Will I ever earn money? The fear is strangling me. I can eat with Madhu, share a bed with him, we are friends, it is not shameful to depend on him, but how am I going to pay the fees? How am I going to pass examinations without 'tuition'? It is hopeless. I have two shirts and one pant, two dhotis[35] and a lungi. I can wash them myself, but my chappals are broken and mended and broken again and mended again, new ones cost at least twenty-five rupees, and books, how am I going to pay for books, paper and pencils, new strings for the violin?
What will the Master[36] say? So far, his assistant, Shivasamy, who is kind and patient, has been tutoring me, but now the Master himself will guide me. He is a disciple of Malaikottai Govindaswami Pillai, the legendary violinist, who used to sing to the tune of his violin. The senior students say, "Impossible to please him!"
When I applied for the Music College, the Master treated me friendly, saying, "Shivasamy has told the truth, few young violinists look so promising!"
Shivasamy has taught me well, his instruction was clear, precise, prepared. He was helpful; in PUC, everybody respected him. With him, I felt at ease. Will I be able to please the Master? Shivasamy said, "No need to worry, the Master is generous!"
If ever I manage to get a job as a teacher, I will strive to teach like Shivasamy. His General Music Knowledge class was perfect; we learnt without knowing how much we learnt. He treated me more like a younger brother than a student; I didn't honour him enough.
Karur Train Station
In the middle of the night the train stops, a bidi-hoarse TT[37] shouts, "Karur!"[38]
I look out, soldiers in heavy khaki coats huddle around fires. In the sudden silence I hear the clanging of sadhus’[39] irons and their chanting voices, "Ram Ram dayana, Ram Ram dayana, Ram Ram dayana…"[40] they must be going to Rameshwaram. To calm my heart I begin to sing, and Madhu joins in,
How can I tell the beauty of my Lord without losing myself?
What is the drop of my existence in the ocean of the Lord?
We can't talk about it. Madhu must be hoping that I understand without his telling me. They must have been talking about me in his house, "Let him try, if he succeeds, well and good, if not, look that he gets home safely…" I read about a boy from a good family who ran away to Bombay because he hadn't done his homework and didn't dare face the teacher. Am I such a coward? Nothing else I want to do in this life, or yes, one thing comes to my mind. If I should fail in the University, I'll have to throw myself upon the mercy of one or another master, but it is a waste of time; all I'll learn is preparing pan and to sing the master's praise.
Rain begins to fall and blows in through the open grills. Madhu sings the children's song,
The rainy season starts;
The rivers begin to flow.
We sing ourselves into sleep. Waking up at night, I think about girls whom I heard are available, who on the way back from the cinema 'by chance' meet a boy then let him lead her on a shortcut through the fields to be alone with her in the dark, kissing, touching. If only Mary would let me kiss her!
Rich boys go to hill stations for the weekends, to have fun with low-caste girls or women, and drinks. Without money nothing is possible, or nearly nothing. I fall asleep and dream of dancing with Mary through flowerbeds, along mountain springs. When I wake up, I am still full of the beauty of the dream; it is like a promise that everything will be all right.
Chidambaram[41] Train Station
After a long wait in Tiruchirapally, we arrive at Chidambaram train station during a terrible downpour. The monsoon must have started early this year; outside the station, the street is flooded. Before we get out, we protect our things best possible against the rain. I'm only worried about the violin. Everybody is wading through the water laughing, professors and students, men and women all are bound to get their feet and calves wet.
Annamalai University[42]
Things turn out to be worse than imagined: Though I have a scholarship, they demand more than 100 rupees registration fees plus advances on the hostel and mess charges.
In the Music College
Shivasamy tells me to present myself next morning to the Master with the usual gift of fruits, flowers, money. I have 2 rupees[43] 65 paise[44] left in my purse, less than I paid for the purse. It is Madhu's first year too, all the money he got from his father for the first month is spent on Madhu's own fees and advances, he can't help me more. Already Madhu had to borrow money to pay for our food.
The voice of Miss Ojha, the lady vocal professor, is drifting over from the left wing of the Music College; she's singing a difficult Dikshitar[45] song. I try to stop my thoughts and listen. Miss Ojha is a good singer and a formidable teacher, but there is tiredness in her voice, a complaint that again again new new students are arriving with whom she has to start at the beginning, but also a motherly wish that her girl students should find their voice and step out into the world of sound.
Behind the Music College
I leave the building. Why not walk past the Music Hostel into the fields until it gets dark, then lie down, and sleep? Maybe I'll meet a sadhu who takes care of me or I'll find a math[46], I know what type they are, it is preferable to get bitten by a cobra.
Thinking of the cobra improves my mood, at least this would be free, but where to find a cobra nowadays? I turn round the back corner of the Music College; Miss Ojha stops and then Mary's voice takes over clear like a lotus flower appearing from the muddy water of a tank. I'd like to accompany her on the violin, to give it more profile. I approach the back windows to glance inside; there is a cloth purdah[47] on the window to keep out fellows like me. I imagine that I can smell jasmine, or rose oil, or both, but when I try to get closer to the window, all I smell is the stink of a broken drain just below it.
Mary's voice embodies her beauty: Slightly too relaxed, and scurrying over the ornaments as if too shy or too lazy to bother with every single gamaka[48]. She isn't singing with Madhu's precision, but with a style of her own. There is a charming female weakness in her voice; a girlish self-consciousness and slight negligence seem to betray that she is at the same time virtuous and sensuous. If only she would strain a bit more!
I sit down on a stack of bricks and pretend to read my notebook. I want to listen but Mary's slack voice irritates me and brings back all my problems. Am I playing like this? I don't want to remain dreaming of the ocean at the shore. I want to improve until I'll know what I'm doing. Let them kick me out three times! I will not leave before all avenues are exhausted. Worst case I'll have to throw myself upon the Master's mercy. I take my pen, which first refuses, as always, to write. After scribbling circles on the back cover until the ink begins to flow, I write in big smeary capitals on the flyleaf of my notebook
MUSIC OR DEATH!
I get up full of energy, ready to fight until the end, but already the knower who must mock me at all times, is proposing more interesting and more probable resolutions, to enjoy with Mary, or marry rich, or go abroad, or kill myself.
I enter the Music College hoping to meet Mary, should I say 'hello!' or rather 'hi', am I properly combed? I check the fall of my dhoti, 'you were singing nicely, can I borrow your pen?' That tomorrow or the day after tomorrow I'll have to return home, or run away to Bombay, or kill myself, gives me the courage to wait in the hall until the end of the lesson. When the door opens and the girl vocalists leave their room, I manage to say 'hi' in English to Mary, and then out of sheer clumsiness I drop notebook, pen, handkerchief and comb, making a perfect fool of myself. I pick up the things intentionally slowly to hide my shame, but when I look up, Mary is smiling, asking, "Can I help you, Brother?"
"To drop my things?" and I drop them once more, feeling smarter than Amitabh Bacchan. She laughs the most wonderful lady laugh.
"You have a good voice, sister!"
"Thank-you! In fact, today I've such a cold; I've practically no voice at all!"
I hear just a slight scratch. "What song did you sing?"
She mumbles a name, which sounds like badly pronounced Telugu, I'm too nervous to care, "Your rendition did it justice!"
"Thank-you! Let's make a move, shall we, Brother?"
Outside the building, Mary bids me bye-bye as if we were friends. I stumble to the Music Hostel in utter confusion, repeating her words in my mind, finding new answers to them, talking to her, and giving myself her answers too. I look for Madhu, to ask him what to tell him what to tell Shanti to tell Mary. Or rather to ask Madhu to ask Shanti what to tell him to tell Shanti to tell Mary. How to tell her that I love her and want us to become friends?
In the Music Hostel
Our PUC classmates Shankar and Murali have brought gifts from their home for Madhu and me; but in their eyes I see the question, 'what are you going to do?'
At night, I share Madhu's cot in the students' hostel. The warden complains that this is an infraction. A Chettiar classmate from the PUC shuts his mouth. The worry about how I am going to present myself to the Master keeps me awake. On the first day, you must present yourself, name your teacher, offer a gift. Only by stunning my mind with coarse fantasies of enjoying with Mary am I finally able to fall asleep. I dream of fields with army camp barbed wire fences, not knowing what it is I want to attain, I suffer terribly being excluded from it. I wake up, confused, glad to escape the nightmare of my dreams, only to find that reality is worse. I put my arms around Madhu's shoulders and clinging to his strong body sleep a bit more.
In the Music College
We get up early. Madhu, Shankar and Murali lend me money to buy at least a semblance of a gift for the Master. They say, "There is no shame in being poor", as if you could tell a priest, "I am poor, Milord!" How will the Master receive me!
My gift looks miserable, fifteen rupees, three bananas and a small package of incense sticks. I don't want anybody to see me with my shabby borrowed plate, but it is the first morning; boy and girl students are greeting me, looking at my gift, trying to understand what's wrong with me. What a shame if Mary should see me! Shivasamy, who in PUC was always kind to me, laughs at me, and when I kneel in front of the Master, the Master tells Shivasamy, "Look, now we get farm boys too," and to me he says, "This is not the agriculture department, little father! What need to trouble me?"
"Arun… Arumugan Subramaniam Iyer", I name our village and Father's name, "Attapadi Vadivelu Iyer Sir's student, Sir. Shivasamy Sir told me… Sir…"
"Do you know where the agriculture department is, little father?"
"Yes, Sir! I mustn't study agriculture; I must become a violinist, Sir!"
"Why, little father?"
What can I answer? I feel like I'm going to cry, utterly stupid I bring forward my violin box.
The Master looks at it as if he has never seen such a thing before, "Little father, kindly let's hear a tiny tune!"
I begin Shri Gana Nada[49]; I hope my choice will please him. To honour the presiding deity seems appropriate for this auspicious moment.
"Where did you learn to play like this, little father?"
The Master must know that Shivasamy was teaching me in PUC. I repeat the name of my teacher in Palghat; "he sends you greetings, Sir."
"Vadivelu has become old. Little father, you look hungry. Did you eat? Here take a banana. Eat, little father!"
The Master tells me to eat the fruit I brought as a gift for him like it is prasadam! Stupidly I say, "My violin hasn't a good sound, Sir."
He hands me a banana and while I peel it he takes my violin, "Didn't you learn to tune properly? Listen, little father!"
I nod; I can't see him anymore because of the tears.
He tunes it and I can hear the difference. I say, "Sorry, Sir, there was a mistake, it will not happen again, Sir!"
"While I was guarding my father's paddy fields against the crows I used to play like this too", and he imitates how I played, painfully wrong, "It didn't please the crows, little father! Advisable to play like this", he begins the exposition. I hear the scale the first time, so pure, I'm grinning through my tears. The clarity of his intervals sends hot and cold shivers down my spine. He should be on AIR every day! He breaks off, and tells me smiling, "Little father, is it necessary to tell Shivasamy to show you the way to the agriculture department?"
The Master's voice sounds kind; he is making fun of me! I expected that today he would just scold me for the gift, which is too little; instead, he is teaching me. Whatever he will do, I mustn't budge; I must become his disciple.
He hands me back the violin, but my fingers are shaking, impossible to play properly. I wipe my tears with my shirt from the body of the violin, but while I wipe here, they are falling there, I can hardly see what I'm doing.
He says, "My father was a farmer too", but I don't believe him. He then orders, "Listen, little father!" and plays purvi kalyani for me to repeat and learn.
When I take leave, I am so intent not to forget the scale before I have a chance to sit down and repeat it exactly as he played it, that I run into the doorjamb. When I bow once more to excuse myself, Shivasamy tells me, "Friday morning there is a clinic for violin students, necessary to attend!"
What is a clinic? I'm not sick. It is an order, I must go, it must be part of being a full-time music student. I should have brought a gift for Shivasamy too.
In the PUC English Department
I meet Narayan Sir, our PUC English teacher who is a Keralaite and in the past treated Madhu and myself like younger brothers, not students. Narayan Sir advises me to see the Registrar, maybe he could appeal to Raja Mutthiar Chettiar of Chettinad, the owner of the university, to waiver the registration charges; it has happened before, though probably not with the likes of me.
At the Registrar's Office
I wait the whole afternoon outside the Registrar's office. It is raining; girls are running through the water protecting their hair with their books or their books with the upper part of their half-saris, laughing. Even the goats, dogs and crows seem to be in a different mood because of the rain. People are going in and coming out of the Registrar's office, at least he has not yet said No. I have never spoken to the Registrar before. He is an old man, famous for his learning and his bad mood. In the eyes of the chaparasi[50] who calls me in, I read 'what have you done?' The Registrar glances angrily at me while I try to tell my problem, "Don't waste my time! Why did you accept a scholarship if you don't have the money to study? Who do you think you are?" but then he says "Sit down!" and dictates me a petition to the Vice-Chancellor to let me register now and pay the fees later, "Get it signed by the Head of the Music College!"
In the Music College
The Master has heard that I'm staying in the hostel without paying, and signing the petition says, "You should have told me first!"
At the Vice Chancellor's Office
I go to see the VC. Like the Registrar, he is a Brahmin too but everybody knows how ruthless he is. He takes the letter without looking up and says "next".
The VC is a former Union minister, who do I think I am to bother him? I am stupid. If I survive the registration then what?
In the Vegetarian Students Mess
I ask for a job. The students who work there earn 65 rupees per month and there is a waiting list.
In the Natarajan Temple
I go to the temple, to pray and to see the pujari in charge of music. He at least treats me as a brother Brahmin. He gives me a prasadam parcel and a promise of work 'sometime'. If Madhu joins in, we'll earn 25-35 rupees only, when and if.
In Chidambaram
On the way back, I meet our washerman from the PUC. He greets me happily, he is better off than myself; earning money every day, going to the cinema every night. What do I want to study for? There are crores of young men like me, all looking for a job, all in need of money, all dreaming of going abroad. Don't I know how difficult it is to get a job with an M.A.?
Walking back across the bridge and the railway tracks I decide to give up. I'm not gifted, what do I want? I'll never be like Dr. Semmangudi Srinivasa Iyer[51]! Why suffer to become a second-rate musician? Nobody is going to pity me for my own foolishness. How can I show my face in the village?
Outside the Music College
I sit down on the front steps of the Music College with the vague hope to hear Mary's voice a last time. In my mind, I'm talking to her, about her voice, how to tighten it, and teaching her to sing every single note with full intent, not letting ornaments become mere ornaments. The building is empty. A lonely old chaparasi is dusting with a dirty rag the battered green steel chairs of the ground floor lecture room. There is no voice, no trace of Mary. In my mind, I instruct her and she becomes famous, we marry. Her clear and tight voice contrasts the melancholy sighs of my violin following her. If only I could learn how to talk to girls! I imagine Mary to be aloof and sensuous. What do I want to tell her? Kissing me will improve your voice? Give it more body? I'm a fool!
In the Music Hostel
Madhu, Murali and Shankar are cooking in the room, which is strictly forbidden. They have a small electric stove. Like a beggar, I eat what they offer me. They try to cheer me up, but from their faces I can see that they have no hope for me.
After the meal, Murali asks me to play together with them. I can't refuse though I'm not in the mood. Madhu and Murali begin a devotional song. Shankar's mridangam brings life back to me. He is from a South Indian Nambudiri[52] family. He looks like he's been bathed in milk every day of his life. Sweat is streaming down his strong and heavy body, but otherwise no exertion shows. He is naturally gifted like Madhu; I must respect him.
I take the violin and join them; it is my prayer for help to Shri Shri Subramaniam. I believe and am safe. We should play like this at the temple in Palani; people would shower us with money. The hostel warden comes into the door, probably to throw me out, but hearing the song he leaves without troubling me, he must be a devotee too.
Annamalai University
To calm down after playing, we go for a walk. My friends blow up my success with Mary, that she talked to me, as if it would mean love. Mary vs. Arun, money vs. music; is there a hidden meaning? Tomorrow or day after tomorrow I will have to beg for money to go home, but walking with my friends, my arm around Madhu's shoulders, I laugh with them, as if the sudden impact of an engine could be right too. Maybe that Mary doesn't love me, and that there isn't the money to study, fits death better than life.
Music Hostel
At night, I share Madhu's cot. I love Madhu, but every time he turns, I have to turn too. The old and shaky charpoy[53] is creaking and cracking. Madhu holds me tight. He knows I’m worried. Is this friendship: That you can accept help without shame?
To forget I think what I always think: How good or bad am I? What will be written in the newspapers, if ever, about Arun S. Iyer, Carnatic violinist par excellence, the young maestro who single-handed recreated Carnatic music for the 20th century, the musical seer?
A/C cars, studios, hotel suites with drinks and women, will I ever attain them? My friends tell me, 'you're a good player' but if Madhu would get up and walk away from me singing, nobody would stay to listen to me. Even the violin string seller would follow Madhu! I'd like to study Western music, to learn how to write music for orchestra, film music. I think, 'worst case I'll become a teacher' though I know, that time is carrying me towards a worse worst case: If destiny puts me into a train to Bombay, I will sit in it; if not, I will drop in front of an engine.
That Madhu will succeed, go abroad, be famous, is enough. He's destined to become like the old-style music masters you see in films who spend their days in a single dhoti tied like a lungi, chewing pan[54], eating five times a day, joking with their students. People will respect Madhu's art, however he looks. Madhu complains about his ugliness to tease me, but jealousy and competition will never poison his heart. The beauty of his voice is enough for him
If only I could become like Madhu! To be a singer is much better than to be a violinist: The violin's sound may soar, but the limits of the wooden thing sitting in my lap are my limits. Madhu lets flow out what is in his heart through the wide-open gateway of his throat, but singing I feel naked: People can hear what is on your mind, the stains of my soul.
Music College
Next day I survive the same way. In the Music College the Master treats me like a beggar, "If you are hungry come to my house, son! There is always food for you."
When the Master admonishes me once more to tune properly, I'm so bewildered that I break the top string. Shivasamy gives me a new string. He has no reason to be kind to me; his goodness makes me cry against my will. I try to get the string into the peg, but I'm nervous and the tears are blinding me. What if I break this string too? Shivasamy is not going to give me another. In the end, Shivasamy takes my violin, strings, and tunes it properly, making me look like an idiot beginner.
The Master orders me to play the scale[55] and then gives me a copy of The Treatise on Music[56], "Learn it by heart, son!"
What's the use of learning it by heart? It sounds like another trick to make me give up because he doesn't want to teach me.
I ask him, "Necessary to come tomorrow, Sir?"
"If you intend to become a violinist, I'll probably have to put up with you, just drop in for a few minutes early morning at my house, son!"
After the lesson, in the entrance, I run into Mary and nearly hurt her. Her half-sari touches my shoulder, she has to hold my arm or I would have fallen, "Ayo! Take care, Brother!" down the steps. No other girl has the same spark in her eyes! If only I could become friends with her! The jasmine in her tress enslaves my nose. I must not lose a fraction of a second of my good luck; I want to keep her image in my mind forever.
In the Music Hostel
Without looking at anything or anybody, without daring to think one thought, I hurry to our cot and lie down. I close my eyes, trying to focus on Mary's image in my mind. She is so beautiful, if only I could make her love me!
All I know about Mary is what I know from Shanti. That Mary is staying with her late mother's brother, a doctor who is a stern disciplinarian.
Madhu comes and sits down on the cot, nudging me, "How are you, Brother?"
"I have seen Mary!"
"Where, Brother?"
I tell him, he says, "She has a good voice."
"Can you introduce me to her?"
He says in foolish Basle Mission English, "Miss Mary Thomas, may I introduce Master Arumugan S. Iyer to you."
"Exactly, can you do it, Brother?"
It is useless, she will be afraid that I will spoil her name. If only this room would become our house, and at this hour myself and she would sit to be united in marriage, hearing the nagaswaram[57]. I've never seen a more beautiful girl. But she's a Christian; Mother wouldn't allow her into our house.
Shankar comes in with the Indian Express; he shows us the news because we are from Kerala. A bomb exploded at Malampuzha power station doing more than one lakh rupees damage. The Naxalites took me for a ride; it offends me though I understand that they must be careful. Why did they invite me if they didn't trust me?
In Shanti's House
In the evening Madhu takes me to Shanti's house. Madhu says, "Necessary to talk to Shanti's mother. She may have some advice for you." On the way, I sell my PUC maths book, which I wanted to keep for Hari. Everything is turning; I don't know where I am going or what I am doing.
Does Madhu know where Mary is staying? Would he make fun of me if I asked him? 'Do you want to sit and fast on her door step until they let you marry her?' Madhu is dragging me to Shanti's house to keep me from worrying. If only he would let me go and have a look at Mary's house. I must stop thinking about her; all I can achieve is to disgrace myself.
Shanti's mother lets us sit down in the cool former wood shop area of the house; there is an old swing bed on chains. Shanti offers us tea and snacks. We are talking about my problems, then a washerwoman brings their ironed clothes and hands back a storybook Shanti's mother lent her. In our house, nobody would allow a dhobi[58] to touch a book.
Shanti's mother talks about her late husband, explains me how much income they have from their tenants, as if to say, 'this is what we have to share,' which is barely enough for them.
Shanti studies in the teachers' college, to earn as soon as possible, and her younger brother Vijay is studying to become a Pulavar[59] for the same reason. I say, "Vijay ought to have joined the Music College; he is more gifted than most of the students who joined the music college. In our PUC performances, he was splendid: Singing, acting, dancing like a professional actor. The PUC music teachers respected him.
Vijay knows that his mother cannot afford him to study music. He talks as if Madhu and myself would have made the right, the courageous decision. If only I would have been as sensible as Vijay!
Madhu jokes about Vijay's good looks. Vijay is the number one beauty in the university. Other sweet looking fellows get bothered by Reddy and similar landowner-class rascal students, but Vijay is different: Science students are fighting to be his friends. Wherever he goes, a flock of effeminates follows him waiting on him hand and foot, plus all kinds of rich idlers who are fatally and ridiculously in love with him, or simply enjoy the excitement of Vijay's durbar[60]. In PUC, he was the PUC student representative and now he is TSU Vice President and Young Congress[61] Delegate.
Shanti's mother advises me to look for work in the temple; she cannot understand that we are Brahmins but not Pujaris. We hail from landlords; hustling for coins and coconuts isn't our business. Anyway, the local Pujaris are not going to employ out-of-town Brahmins.
Shanti's mother shocks me by mentioning a notorious current campus love affair and not condemning it, as she should, as Mother would. Shanti's mother talks as if it would be a film story, as if the crazy elopers deserved to be happy. The Pillais are different from us, even the Iyengars are different, I could never talk with Mary like Madhu talks with Shanti. They act like brother and sister. Shanti's mother seems to tolerate their relationship.
I couldn't have such a friendship with Mary. I could only pretend to talk while I am sniffing her hair, trying to touch her sari. I want to kiss, to embrace, to find a secluded place and to be alone with her. What's the use of talking when you burn inside? Our girl classmates are right, I'm 'vicious,' 'disgusting,' 'dirty minded.'
In South Market Road
When we leave, I entreat Madhu, "Necessary to show me Mary's house!"
He laughs at me but humours me and though it is a detour, we walk through South Market Street. He shows me one of the private clinics; it's not a new building but newly painted in a clean blue hue. There is a huge board advertising Doctor (three initials) Thomas, (a string of capitals and dots), three lines of what he is good for. He must be earning a fortune with this clinic. How does Madhu know that Mary is living here? I look at the house; there is a big A/C fan box outside a slated window, could somebody living in there like me? I imagine her aunt or whoever she is, looking at me, asking me questions, and I'll have to answer, 'music', 'Purayur', 'farmer'. She'll stare at me like I'm a lunatic, how can I think of her niece, don't I know that I'm poor?
Madhu asks me, "Are you in love with her?"
"Yes, more than in love…" and it comes to my mind what Hari would say, rhyming 'Mary' and 'marry' but it would be more merry in case Harry marry Mary. She is a Christian; I must forget her.
In the Music Hostel
At night, with my arms around Madhu's strong body, I think about whether I'm ready to marry whatever girl Father selects for me. Shanti's mother is like Kannaki[62]. While I'm stupidly studying music, Vijay and Shanti were sensible in their choice of studies. Father and Mother would not appreciate their 'free' views. In our village, the rules are tighter, you can try to do and get what you want, but only on the sly.
In the Master's House
Next morning when I come to the Master's house, he tells me to water the plants. I obey but I'm furious, I'm not a gardener. Half an hour later, he steps out to compliment me on my skilful watering. When he has spoilt my mood thoroughly, he begins asking about ras[63]. I recite what I learnt; he calls another student to continue watering and takes me inside. He makes me sit down and orders his cook, "This is Arun son, necessary to prepare special chai[64] for him; he is an excellent gardener!"
He asks me whether I learnt the chapter about ras in The Treatise of Music, but before I can answer he begins to look at a paper another student is proffering him. Then he turns to me again, "Have a look at his essay, son! There is a meeting to attend."
The essay is about ras! I read it and censor it according to what I learnt from Shivasamy. The student honours me as if I would be a senior.
In the Music College
Shivasamy offers me tiffin. He asks me the details of my predicament. Shivasamy makes me eat, saying, "The Master will mind if you look hungry, little father!"
In class, the Master like a real Pillai makes fun of my being a Brahmin in front of everybody. "I thought you have returned to you ancestral home, young milord, tending the fire, adoring the fire," and he begins to sing a Vedic hymn suddenly going from comic imitation into sublime music, saying afterwards, "This is one of the roots of Carnatic music!"
In the Music College
The Master asks me, "Are you a friend of Madhava the vocalist? Are you from the same village? He has a beautiful voice. Tell him to come and see me as often as possible, son!"
When Madhu goes to see him, the Master tells him, "Greetings to your friend, the farm boy," adding in Sanskrit, "The destroyer of the enemies of the art of music". Or did he mean, 'the destroyer and enemy of the art of music'? His expression is ambiguous.
At Narayan Sir's House
Narayan Sir invites Madhu and myself for dinner at his home. He has a young wife, two small girls, and no money. The food is nice but poverty shines through like the bottom of the plate once the food is finished. He still says,
Quitters never win,
Winners never quit!
but the energy and optimism he had while we were in PUC has drained from his voice. He had bigger plans than teaching English in PUC. Without conviction he advises me to see the Registrar again, "He is a Brahmin, he must help you."
On the way home Madhu talks about girls, what do girls mean to me anymore? I must be as rich and famous as Ravi Shankar before Mary will look at me. Why am I going on living, what am I hoping for? I'm stupid, thoroughly stupid, I should be at home helping father with the farm, maybe organise a Young Farmers Union and get an interest-free non-repayable loan at election time.
Madhu asks me, "What are you thinking?"
"I must go home; I have no chance without money."
"Narayan Sir said…"
"Sad, Narayan Sir said…"
Madhu begins a stanza from a Thyagaraja[65] song[66], in Telugu[67]. Putting my arm around his shoulders, I feel the vibrations of his voice in his body. I would like to open my mouth and sing Madhu a new song, but what song is there in my heart? I'm barely able to hum along with him. His song seems to mean…
Those who worship you, Purushottama[68], achieve their
desires here and in the other world.
…but what devotion do I have? All I want is fame, money, women, sit in a plane going abroad. If I'm lucky one day, I'll earn enough money to become a drunkard. No wonder, Shri Shri Sarasvati doesn't want me to defile her realm!
In the Music Hostel
I allow myself whatever my body desires. I can't stop it anymore. I enjoy Madhu satisfying me, it is not he, it is just a feeling. And satisfying him, I enjoy the feelings I imagine that I procure him, still the imagination is nothing compared with the passive enjoyment of my own pain called pleasure. Will it be worse for Father and Mother if I run away to Bombay or if I return to the village with borrowed money, covering them with shame? What will Hari do? I should join the CPI-M[69], to help Father, Mother and Hari. I feel I could be useful for political work, but I foresee that after a few days my mind will become clouded with dreams of music, fame and enjoying, of songs I want to write.
At the Master's House
The Master questions me about my former teacher's health, like he wants to say, 'is he still clear in his mind? How can he send me students like you?'
He hints at that I would be better off staying with an old style teacher, the gurukulavasam system, living like a slave in your teacher's house in the hope that every week or so he'll spend half an hour teaching you. Happily, it is a thing of the past. Today the best musicians come from the Music Colleges.
In the Music College
Pretending to read, I hang around in the entrance trying to hear Mary's voice, but among the many voices, hers is not. Listening to their mistakes, I decide to improve; it is shameful to play as I do.
At the Registrar's Office
Next morning I visit the Registrar again, who asks me, "what do you want?"
He is a Brahmin too so what? Money[70] is the only pure caste today. He asks me Father's and Grandfather's name then says in English, "come here Monday morning 8 o'clock, wait outside my office."
He signals me with his hand to vanish. Will he help me? I am ready to do anything.
In the Music Hostel
I say "I'm not feeling well", pretending to sleep, covering my head with Madhu's blanket, trying to think of Mary to forget my problems, but my friends don't let me, I must eat with them, and then join them for a walk to the station and back. We see girls but not the one I long for.
In the Music College
Friday morning I attend the clinic. Several students with violins are sitting on the floor and the Master is abusing them smilingly. Some of them are smiling too; some are confused like me. The Master tells one student to play a scale, then berates him thoroughly, then tells the next one to play, then scolds that one, until it is my turn. I want to please him by all means. I'm so scared and in awe of him that I say, "Sorry to waste your time, Sir!"
"If you know that you're wasting my time, then why are you doing it, son? Don't you have any shame?"
"Please, Sir, it is necessary to beat me!"
"However much you hit a brass vessel it will not turn into gold! Shivasamy should have beaten you, but lately he has become lazy."
It is getting worse and worse, he continues to instruct me, abusing me all the while, "if you don't learn to tune I will for sure…" describing graphically how he will cut open my stomach and garland me with my entrails, "but I fear I would miss you, son! It's the worst students whom I like best."
The Master invites us to partake of the fruits the students brought. When we leave, he tells me once more to visit him every day, which means I'm good. When I pay him my respects, he says, "Your farm boy sounds reminds me of my childhood village, the tribal cowherds playing reed flutes also had no idea of scale or rhythm."
Behind the Music College
I want to go back to the hostel but my feet are dragging me around the corner to the back of the Music College, to the ladies' side, to hear them singing, but the voice I need to hear is not there. A stupid mridangam is going on, I know the fellow, the harder you hit the better you sound, he would be perfect for a temple or a marriage procession, but here he is just spoiling everybody's sense of time. I want to leave but the hope that suddenly that voice will be there keeps me back. I find a shady spot below a tree and sit down. I'm sleepy and thirsty. Some students are playing cricket. A goat is bleating after having eaten a clear circle around the short stick it is fixed to. I nearly fall asleep.
The sounds of the various teachers and students, the untiring mridangam, the cricket batting, the bleating goat come together and in my half-sleep seem the new music I've been thinking of, voices and instruments criss-crossing, scales and rhythms fighting and befriending, songs answering each other, in my dreamy state it sounds like a wonderful composition. In reality if we tried to do it, it would probably turn out a senseless medley.
At the Music Hostel
Madhu and our roommates share their food with me, talking as if the Registrar's 'Monday morning 8 o'clock' would solve my problem. With their help, I survive until Monday; attending the lectures and instruction, though the Warden of the Music Hostel continues to glare at me angrily.
There is no hope, I know these are my last days as a student, next week I'll have to borrow money on Madhu's word and return home. In my mind, there is the picture of Erode train station with its many platforms and its iron stairs, its giant trains. The bus will be cheaper. How can I arrive in the village with my violin? How will I look? What will I do?
To think of Mary is the best I can do to keep myself from crying. If only Father would find a girl like her for me! But at best Father can trick a half-wit into believing that we have particularly pure Brahmin blood, that we're a truly religious household, and my bride is so relieved to find that I'm not like her Father promised, that she'll love me. But what are we going to live off? I'm not even qualified to teach music in Lower K.G. [71]
At the Master's House
Sunday morning I go to the Master's House. I sit down outside, maybe he will advise me. He emerges in lungi and banyan[72] and asks me, "what do you want, son?"
I begin to cry.
"Sit down, son! Did you eat your breakfast?"
I shake my head.
"How can you dream of success if you don't eat breakfast? A sound breakfast is of the greatest importance for an aspiring young accountant, son."
Doesn't he know that I have no money?
He shares his breakfast with me, telling me that the lady who is cooking for him is a Brahmin widow. She talks and cooks like Mother and prompts me to eat more.
After breakfast I ask, "What do you advise, Sir?"
"What is your idea, son?"
"No idea, Sir!"
"Then accountancy must be right for you, son!"
"Sir, you said I should study agriculture!"
"Accountants earn steady money, son."
"I mustn't become an accountant, Sir!"
"Why not, son? Artists are unhappy fellows, look at me", he is smiling happily.
"Do you advise to give up, Sir?"
"And become an accountant? Are you changing your mind, son? The professor of accountancy is a fine fellow. I know him well, I will recommend you, son! Accountancy is very rewarding."
Shivasamy is joining us, the Master tells him, "I love Arun son. It would be a pity if he would become a farmer; he's too good-looking. Now he has made up his mind to become an accountant. I'm glad, accountants have nice families, live happy lives. Artists are sad creatures, looking for beauty where there is only pain, sickness and death."
He looks at me smiling, drinking his tea, satisfied.
I ask him once more, "Please, Sir, should I give up?"
Getting up he tells Shivasamy, "If he wants to become an accountant don't stop him". He goes inside.
Shivasamy tells me, "Tambi[73], don't give up!"
When I leave the Brahmin cook tells me, "eat more, little father, come again, there is always food left!"
Annamalai University
I take a walk to clear my mind. What does the Master mean? Will he help me? Shivasamy and the cook seem to take an interest in me, but nobody is going to give me money. The Master talks about my so-called beauty. Is this what he means with guru-shishyata?[74]
Chidambaram Station
At the station, there is the usual crowd of useless students hanging around looking for girls, eating peanuts, sharing a bottle of Campa-Cola. I'm not in the mood and walk on. Suddenly I'm in South Market Street.
South Market Street
There are several Dr. Thomas' and Dr. Josephs, I don't dare tarry in front of Mary's house. All chances to talk to her would be spoilt if a relative finds me staring at her house without sound reason. I walk past and then at the corner to West Market Street turn back, keeping to the opposite side of the street, trying to stare without looking like staring. What would I do if I would meet her? Say, 'hello!'?
When I pass the house, again I hear Mary's voice, finally. I know immediately that it is her voice; the slackness is there, as if she would be too lazy to draw back if I tried to kiss her. She is singing the Mirabai song Miss Ojha is teaching them; she seems half to enjoy the sensuous beauty of the song, half to feel true devotion, as if she is addressing it to her Christian God, she must be playing the harmonium herself, pumping it when she is taking breath. If only Miss Ojha would be stricter with her!
I want to listen until she finishes but it will look awful if somebody should remark me standing there like a dog sniffing after a bitch.
Shri Shri Natarajan Temple
I enter the temple but the hustle and bustle is unbearable. I find a quiet corner in the outer courtyard and sit down, trying to remember the song. Mary is not a good singer, or maybe yes. Her voice is so much a woman's voice, it has a smooth, silky, powdery quality, I know exactly like what feeling. How wonderfully stupid I am is my only consolation, like a good friend my stupidity is not leaving me whatever trouble I'm in, probably it will be there to kiss me good-bye when I die, grinning, 'see you later!'
Chidambaram
To make amends on the way back I jump up and down holding my earlobes crosswise in front of Shri Shri Ganeshan's small temple in the side street. There is a God for everyone, including fools like me.
At the Registrar's Office
Early Monday morning I am outside the Registrar's office in pants and shirt. Nobody is there. The bench in front of his office is wet from the rain; I can't sit down. I don't have a handkerchief and I don't dare tell a servant to wipe the bench. I keep standing pretending to look at the buildings I know so well, the enormous columns, the rotten drains, the forgotten open excavations in the back of the hostel buildings, the kites, vultures, crows, goats and cows. It is the most impressive and beautiful place I have ever been, but what have I seen? Tippu Sultan's fort, the Golden Rock Temple, Palani Temple, that's about all, and once, the ocean. I'm proud to move around in these beautiful old buildings, one of the reasons I so foolishly and stubbornly continue to study though it is the ruin of my family and myself.
Outside the campus is slowly getting busy. First come the night watchmen all wrapped up in their blankets walking sleepily home, then boys trot through carrying professors' breakfasts in tiffin carriers, then clerks and students arrive. Lecturers pass on shiny cycles and groups of girl students in saris and half saris, flowers in the hair, talking and laughing away their shyness. The Registrar comes at nine and says, "Wait".
As long as there are girls to look at, I don't mind waiting. I stand at the balustrade as if I've some business, once the Registrar calls me in I'll just have to try to please him with my best manners, saying 'Sir' and 'thank-you!' as often as possible. The Registrar is the number one string-puller in the university, if I'm lucky he'll give me some semblance of a job, who knows?
At the Registrar's Office
Around eleven when it is getting hot a Vellakaran[75] with a stylish jacket and shiny black shoes arrives in a cycle riksha and goes in to see the Registrar. One chaparasi brings tea for them, another calls me in. The Registrar says, "The Sir has come from abroad to join the Music College; he is in need of a translator, can you do that, boy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"He will pay you", then he turns again to the Vellakaran, I don't know what to do, I stand and wait there until the Registrar tells me "wait outside, boy!"
"Thank-you, Sir", I bow to hide my confusion.
I sit down on the bench outside his office. My English is no good; I've never spoken to a Vellakaran. Once in the Palghat bus stand an Anglo-Indian wearing a gown lady asked me for the bus to Coimbatore. I was so bewildered I probably put her on the wrong bus. That is all. How can I translate? I know nothing!
The Vellakaran comes out, together with one of the Registrar's chaparasis, "what is your name?"
His voice is rough but pleasant and I can understand his English. "Arun, Sir."
"I'm Ernest."
At least so far, I have survived. Maybe he is the friendly type.
"Can you tell them to take my luggage to the New Guest House? Do you know the way? Is it far?"
I barely manage to answer; the chaparasi tells the riksha driver where to go. I take the Vellakaran's smooth white hand, and I lead him to the New Guest House, which is behind the Music College.
Near the corner of the Music College, we cross a group of lady students; they stare at the Vellakaran and me, if only Mary were among them! They must tell her!
At the New Guest House, we catch up with the riksha. The Vellakaran lifts a black violin case from the riksha and hands it to me, "can you hold this, please?" He overpays the riksha driver and we go upstairs, ordering the chaparasi and the riksha driver to bring his luggage, two important looking aluminium trunks and a big green oilcloth bag.
In the New Guest House
The room is much nicer than our room in the Music Hostel, the building itself is newer, cleaner, no laundry is hanging from the bars of the windows, every room has its own bathroom. Inside the room, the Vellakaran asks me for something to drink, I ask the chaparasi to get tea, "make them hurry, it is for the white man!"
The Vellakaran seems only few years older than I, maybe twenty-five. He is strong and tall, but ugly with whitish blotched skin, a bony body, yellow hair, bland grey eyes, moving and talking in the funny jagged Vellakaran style, like a white character in a film.
He is wearing a waterproof foreign watch. I'd like to look at it; he must be rich. Why has he come here alone? Isn't he suffering to be so far away from home? Does he really know to play the violin? I ask him, "May I see the violin, Sir?"
"Go ahead!"
I've never seen a case like his before, it's made from strong black plastic and looks expensive. He opens the cipher locks for me but I don't dare touch the instrument.
"Do you know how to play? Do you want to try it?"
"Yes, please, Sir!"
I take the violin, tune it, sit down to play our way. The violin is better than my old teacher's, which is the best I ever was allowed to play. The Vellakaran asks me, "Do you always hold it like that?[76]"
"Yes, Sir!" I begin to play my showpiece[77], I am not good, I do my best. Encouraged by the thought that probably he has no idea of Carnatic music, I play daring ornaments and flourishes teachers would censure. I can see that he likes how I play, and get more forward, closing with a loud, nearly Hindustani dissolution, then stopping ashamed of my display, but proud too: It wasn't bad.
"You're playing well."
Tea comes, I pour it for him, there is only one cup. He gives me money to pay for the tea, too much.
"Not necessary to pay now, just a tip for the bearer, Sir", which I give, 50 paise, too generous.
The Vellakaran questions me; soon he knows my predicament.
"The Registrar told me I need somebody to translate. But really I'd rather have a friend…"
"What do I have to do, Sir?"
"Don't people use bed sheets here?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Where do I get them?"
"Students bring them with them; you can buy them in the market. They are costly, Sir!"
"How much?"
"Nearly thirty rupees per piece. It would be cheaper to purchase them from the weavers, Sir!"
"Thirty rupees?"
"At the co-op store the price will be less, Sir."
"Can you get them today? And don't Sir me; I'm just a student like you." He takes an expensive pen and a small hide-bound pad from his jacket and writes:
Bed sheets
Pillow
Pillowcases
"Can we get a clean mattress too, how much would that cost?"
"Maybe seventy-five rupees?"
Mattress
Towels
Cleaning powder
Cleaning brushes
"Do they sell mosquito nets here? Or what do you do?"
"Some people have mosquito nets, there are also mosquito coils."
Mosquito net and coils
He hands me the paper, "how much money do you need?"
"Sir, please, you must come with me, I don't know what pleases you."
In Chidambaram Bazaar
I show the Vellakaran the paper shop, the hardware store, the canned goods store, explain him what money lenders are, the cycle lenders, the frame and picture store. He says, "We get all we need in one supermarket, we don't have to run from one small store to the other".
I have seen pictures of shops abroad, "but how do you know whether the price is right?"
At the Tamil Weavers Co-op Store, I buy a clean mattress and bed sheets for him and towels. He only cares about how things look, not how much they cost. He has a white cloth belt inside his trousers where he keeps his money, hundreds of rupees. Maybe where he lives, abroad, there are thieves too.
I say, "If we buy a little stove and a tea set I can prepare tea for you, it needs only tea powder and milk."
"Is it expensive?"
I show him the stove in the hardware store; it is Rs. 42/50/- only, "is that too much? We'll save the expense of paying the caretaker and I can prepare better tea for you, Lipton Red Label, which is best."
He agrees to buy the stove, a tea set, tea and milk powder.
Nearly every item I propose him, he buys. Mysore agarbatti[78], Radha soap, Tata hair oil and shampoo, Ashoka shaving blades, Eversilver[79] tumblers and a jug to drink water in the room, a tea pot and cups and saucers, a big, shiny Eveready torch[80] and a nice Deer Brand umbrella to protect him against sun and rain. I make him buy an orange Orlastic nylon comb for me.
Before we return, I show him the private clinics in South Market Street. He is not impressed.
In the Palace Lodge
When the sun goes down, I ask him, "Are you hungry?"
"Where can we eat?"
"There is a hotel but you'll have to walk one furlong."
I don't dare ask him whether he is a vegetarian for fear that he wants me to take him to a military restaurant. I take his hand and we walk to the Palace Lodge.
We sit down at one of the tables made from artificial granite. A boy comes and pours water on it, and sweeps it with the spine of a banana leaf. Next, he brings two glasses, a finger in each and a jug of water. When the boy pours the water, Ernest says to me, "Please order mineral water for me!"
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't they sell water in bottles?"
"We can buy a bottle in the market and fill it, what do you want it for?"
"To drink, or do they have boiled water?"
I understand that he is worried about his health, I ask the boy.
"It is filtered which is better."
In the end, I have to order a sweet drink for him, Campa Cola.
He understands not one word of Tamil; he has no idea what to order. He says, "I'm a vegetarian", probably he has read in a book that all Indians are vegetarians. I'm glad he pretends to be a vegetarian, I wouldn't have liked to go with him to a military hotel, thinking about it makes me vomit.
On the wall, there is a list of the food they sell, idli, dosai, paper dosai, qorma, rassam, pilau rice, tea, special tea, coffee; I read it for him because the only words written in English are
For Credit Come Tomorrow!
When the paper dosais and qorma arrive, he asks, "don’t you use knives and forks and plates?" A battered aluminium spoon is all I can get for him.
It seems he has never before eaten from a palm leave; rassam is dripping on his trousers. I have to tell him not to use his left hand!
He gives me a bundle of money to pay the meal; does he think the lodge is too expensive? Should I have taken him to a hotel? But he didn't object when we entered, and the food is best.
Walking back after the meal, holding his hand, I imagine what the students whom we meet must be thinking, there is only one Vellakaran in Annamalai University and he is with me! If only Mary could see me!
In the Music Hostel
In the Music Hostel I tell my friends more about him than I know, repeating in his words and strange accent what he said, until ten students are crowding around me, looking at me jealously, as if indeed tomorrow I would go abroad.
The whole night my brain, waking and dreaming, is talking English with Ernest, explaining myself to him, I'm dreaming of sitting in a plane going abroad! Half a day with a Vellakaran and already I've lost my mind.
Though my arms are around Madhu, my mind is in the New Guest House with the Vellakaran. What does he expect? What is my job? Can I satisfy him? It can't last, somebody will find out I'm an impostor, my English is not good enough, at least I've been in a Mission School, the teachers were serious about proper English.
His violin must have cost one lakh rupees or more, I hope he will let me play it again, in my imagination its pure sound has replaced the hoarse sound of my own.
I get up early and take bath, talking in my mind with Ernest in English while I shampoo my body with Madhu's soap. Combing I nearly despair; my hair doesn't fall as it should. I look foolish. This always happens to me on important days, in the end I have to borrow Madhu’s scissors to snip some off. I put on my pants, they're getting tight, to look more like a Vellakaran. Madhu makes fun of me, singing a children's song,
My love has been betrothed to a king;
Oh! If only I were a king to marry my beloved myself!
My love has been betrothed to a prince;
Oh! If only I were a prince to marry my beloved myself!
I think of Mary, but I know Madhu means myself, my foolish enthusiasm for the Vellakaran offends Madhu, I'm not going to wait until, after minister, general, soldier, priest, trader, craftsman, farmer, servant, slave, Madhu will arrive at the obvious Vellakaran. I have no time. If only my clothes were ironed! It shows that I've washed them myself. I must go and see the Master first, to ask his advice.
At the Master's House
The Master is sitting in a rusty modern wire chair in front of his porch enjoying the warming sun, drinking tea, reading the Hindu. After greeting and inquiring about his health, I sit down on the still cold steps. Staring at my pants he says, "This shame I have so far been spared, to be forced to wear English clothes."
How nice to have to say, "I must stay with a Vellakaran today, Sir!" I tell the Master about the Vellakaran, "Will you recommend me, Sir?"
"What for?"
"For the job."
"I'll tell the Vellakaran that I never heard a farm boy play the violin like you. It's a miracle! I'm proud to be your teacher, son!"
"Am I so bad, Sir?"
"Maybe one day a Japanese man will invent a machine which plays the violin, but until that day you'll be the worst I've heard, except my students and other assorted idiots, who think they should make a scratching noise instead of hunting bats."
"Please Sir; I'm in urgent need of money..."
New Guest House
Walking back to the New Guest House, suddenly I fear grips me. What if the Vellakaran has left, or is leaving? Maybe I just dreamt he is there, or in the meantime the VC has given the job to a senior student, a politician's or a professor's son. I'm so afraid, that when once inside the room the Vellakaran asks me, "how much do I have to pay you per month?" I answer, "Money is not necessary, you are my friend".
I get his breakfast for him; he forces me to eat too. I'd like Mary to see me with the Vellakaran; he must be a Christian too. While we eat, I ask him, "Are you a Christian?"
"No, I'm a Buddhist because…" and he begins to talk about how the world is non-ego, impermanent and painful, he must like the sound of his own voice. Does he too have these moments when I think I understand and next moment you are as stupid as before? I'm not going to get influenced by his Buddhist wisdom. Why does he study? How much is he going to pay me? What is he looking for in India? Abroad, does he have a girl friend?
I'd like him to stop talking in order that I may play his violin; I'm thoroughly disgusted with the cheap sound of my own violin. It would be easy to rob him, take him to a lonely place at night and shoot him with Grandfather's old gun, throw his body into a river. Tell the police, 'he left for abroad and gave it to me as a gift,' but they would torture me until I confess. I must stay with him! When he has to go to the bathroom, I want to ask him to let me try the violin once more but I don't dare.
In the Music College
I buy the necessary gifts and then take the Vellakaran by the hand to visit the Master's home, who tells him in Tamil, for me to translate, "you are lucky, my son is a most beautiful student, he is an excellent gardener and prepares best tea. I will not accept another translator. He is exceptionally well informed about the latest films and songs, and the front rows of the buses[81]. If you have any problems with him, just come here and I will censor him strictly."
When I translate, "He prepares best tea", the Vellakaran begins to laugh. It is a good sign. The Master advises me to buy the best tea and milk powder, "I recommend Red Label brand, it is my personal favourite, "as if my real job, my important job, were to prepare tea, he is making fun of me.
The Master asks me, "farm boys, Vellakarans, whom do I have to teach next? Temple elephants?"
I think of Madhu and laugh. The Vellakaran asks me, "What did he say?"
"I can't translate it, it's like good wishes."
The Master says, "try to learn how to teach the Vellakarans, afterwards you teach me, it will come handy with those of my students who are so Westernised that they are like brown Vellakarans."
The Master says 'burovun', the English word; there is no 'brown' in Tamil. I guess that he means me.
The Master orders me to teach the Vellakaran the first scale[82], as if I were a senior student, tears come into my eyes, I can't see the violin anymore, everything blurs. The Master is honouring me! I play the raga and then the Master repeats it, imitating my wrong intonation, glancing at me furiously, shaming me. But instead of putting me down in front of the Vellakaran, the Master says in Tamil, "any farm boy would have made the same mistake, no need to worry!"
In the Vellakaran's Room
The Vellakaran asks me once more, "How much do I have to pay you?"
I say, "120 rupees", because this is what I need for the registration.
He asks to see my violin and then says, "You can play mine whenever you like."
I try to play Mary's song by memory but I don't succeed. I'd like him to meet Mary. His violin has an excellent sound, he brought a stock of spare strings, I'd like to look at them.
Annamalai University
We have to go round for his registration; the Vellakaran advances me the money for mine. When I thank him, he says, "but now you'll have no pocket money!"
Pocket money? I don't even have pockets! Pocket money is a High-School storybook word like 'snow'. I know what it means, but will I ever see it?
I enrol the Vellakaran in the Vegetarian Lecturers Mess. To get the necessary signatures and the receipt for the deposit keeps me busy all morning. Then we go shopping, he lets me hold his hand, it makes me feel important. Everybody must stare at him and then ask me, "is he from abroad?"
In Chidambaram Bazaar
The Vellakaran says, "Where can I get a decent haircut?"
Udipi Hairdressers is most expensive. In the saloon, I have to translate what the Vellakaran wants. The barber cuts the Vellakaran's hair in a more stylish fashion and suggests that he lets his moustache grow ¾ I also believe it will improve his looks but didn't dare speak up. When the barber is finished with the Vellakaran, he beats the chair with a rag to clean it and then asks me, "you too?"
I look at the Vellakaran who says, "Yes, you need a haircut too."
While the hairdresser cuts my hair he questions me about the Vellakaran, but what can I say? I know nothing. Why did he come here? Why does he want to study Carnatic music? All the rich people I ever met only talked about abroad. abroad life must be best.
The Vellakaran tells me that my haircut looks nice; he must like it because he paid for it. Our village barber is as good and charges less.
When we pass the hardware store the Vellakaran says, "We need a new lock for the room."
I pick the best Godrej lock. Outside the store, the Vellakaran hands me one key, "one for you!"
I didn't expect him to trust me. I'm as proud as if he has made me manager of a bank and given me the keys of the safe. Does he want me to be his friend for good? I should have said 'thank-you!'
If I would have my own room, I wouldn't give anybody a key, except perhaps Madhu. All the keys I've had in my life were bicycle keys. At home, Mother was always in the house. Only if Father and Mother left together they would lock the house, once a year, or less. To lock up takes half an hour: From the house-temple, the storerooms, the upstairs room, the kitchen, the back storeroom, to the gate leading into the backyard. The front door gets barred from inside while Mother puts a lock on the door which leads from the house into the garden; finally a servant puts a chain around the front gate with another padlock.
I shouldn't have accepted the key. If anything gets lost or stolen, the Vellakaran hold me responsible.
In the New Guest House
Back in the room, while I unpack the things we bought, the Vellakaran tells me, "don't smoke and don't drink alcohol, I don't like it!"
Why does he have to tell me? Do I smell of smoke and drink? Do I look like a gambler? Does he think I have spare money?
He orders me to cut my fingernails shorter. He lets me handle the money, but I've to write down every four annas[83] I spend. I'm allowed to use his things, if necessary, but he doesn't like it, and tells me to buy from his money what I lack. He rather spends money than share his nail-clipper or his scissors with me. He uses only the best, his pens, his diary, his shaving blades; everything he owns is better than what is available here.
In the Music Hostel
In the evening my friends ask me more questions about the Vellakaran than I could ever think up myself, I talk as if I would know everything about him while really I know nothing about his life abroad.
I want Madhu to sit down with me and help me with the Mirabai song, which I can't forget and can't remember properly, but there is such a hullabaloo going on, it's impossible. Tomorrow night I must ask Madhu to come with me to the track and field and sit down with me.
That the Vellakaran seems to make no difference between himself and me, as if I wouldn't be his servant, as if we would be friends, doesn't let me sleep at night. Madhu's hot body is pressing against mine, does the Vellakaran like me because of my fair complexion? I would like to get up and look at myself in a mirror, trying to see myself with his eyes, finding out whether it is possible that he likes me.
In His Room
After breakfast, in the university paper store, he buys me the best fountain pen they offer, and a bottle of Super Swan Ink, the most costly ink available, nothing is too expensive for him. I buy cashew nuts for him, they are expensive, he must like them. Back in the room while he chews the cashews I note how much I spent in an accounting book he made me buy. When I try to make a little profit, he says angrily, "who said you're not allowed to spend money for small things you want? You don't need to cheat me, just buy it and write it down, if it is something expensive simply ask!"
Yes, my Lord.
I try out the new pen he bought me; it writes nicely, I try it on a sheet from his pad, how much better his paper is, made abroad! abroad everything must be like his paper, smooth, cool, square. India is like my own rotten notebooks, the paper is so bad that I must clean the tip of the pen all the time. Why is everything better abroad?
"Why is everything better abroad?"
"What is better abroad?"
"The paper, clothes, shoes, cars, planes, everything!"
"How do you know? Some things are better here."
"What?"
"Friends are allowed to hold hands."
He's making fun of me because I'm poor. Nothing is better here. Talking about me with a professor, I have heard him say 'servant', abroad he will call me his 'boy'. I'm not his friend, for him I'm like a dog he bought, his pet for the time being. I'll never touch his hand again, that way my long fingernails will not scratch his tender white skin. He's an ugly Vellakaran nothing more nothing less.
When I prepare tea for him, he says, "pour the milk first!" to see how much milk I waste. Or does he think I diluted the milk with water?
I play the scale for him. He has to sing it first and then play it on the violin. A trick of the Master to help me keep this job. As a rule, a senior student would tutor him, e.g. Shivasamy who taught us in PUC, letting me do it makes me look better, as if I would be good enough for the Vellakaran. You need to know nothing to teach him, I learnt this scale ten years ago.
Teaching Ernest I feel like I'm a master myself. I have him repeat the scale again and again, patiently like my old teacher. I let Ernest sing the scale with me, why is the Master so generous with me?
Ernest brought beautiful clothes, shoes, and socks, but he says, "I'm used to wear jeans in winter and short trousers in summer, I don't feel comfortable in this heat, can't I wear a dhoti like you?"
First, I think he must be joking, but why not? "Try!"
According to him, there they don't take their shoes off when they enter a room, his laced shoes are too complicated to take off and put on, he says, "I'll wear what everybody else is wearing!"
A Vellakaran in dhoti and chappals! People will be shocked. I hope he'll not make a fool of himself.
Chidambaram Bazaar
I take him to the Bata shop. He selects the most beautiful chappals and then asks me, "What is your size?"
He makes me try them. I like them so much that he begins to laugh. They are the best in the whole store, the most expensive too, what if he asks me to pay them from what I will earn? I say, "They are too expensive."
"They are perfect, take them!"
"The money is not there!"
"I have money", for himself Ernest buys a similar, less expensive, less showy pair. I try to thank him like they taught us in High School, the Basle Mission way, but until I have put together the proper English words we are near the cloth store and when I thank him with a nice sentence, he asks, "what are you talking about?"
I repeat, "Let me express my heartfelt thanks for your magnanimous present!"
"What present?"
Maybe I misunderstood and the chappals are not for me. I get confused, signing him to take off his shoes before he gets into the cloth store. While he opens the laces of his shoes, he says, "You mean the sandals?" he has to hold my shoulders in order not to fall.
I nod, still worried whether I rejoiced in vain.
"Do you want to be my friend? Then stop bothering me with such nonsense. You need new sandals, that's why we bought them. Full stop. Now what do you get in this shop?"
I explain him who wears stitched and not stitched lungis, he asks about the black Sabarimalai dhotis riksha drivers wear to announce that they had the piety and money to do the pilgrimage[84]; does he want to look like them? I show him the single and double dhotis, hoping that in the end he will buy me one of those fine double dhotis with a narrow green or blue or red border, which Vijay is wearing, which look so cute.
For Ernest I select three expensive double dhotis, superior quality, what the pujaris expect to be presented with at marriages and funerals, with wide gold borders, to make Ernest look as important and rich as he is. Finally, he says, "Which one do you like?"
He buys exactly the one I wanted most. I hope it is for me; I don't understand him well enough to know whether he wants to give it to me or not. When we leave, the shop owner insists to shake Ernest's hand and gives us a free cloth bag, a large solid bag, which will come handy for shopping.
We have our evening meal at the Palace Lodge; Ernest likes the food there. Later walking back in a slight drizzle I put his hand around my shoulders. I'm carrying the bag and hold the umbrella above his head to protect him against the rain. It is difficult to hold the umbrella high enough not to hit his head all the time.
He pulls me closer and says, "I like you, I'd like you to be my friend".
In Ernest's Room
In his room, I show him how to tie the dhoti properly, letting it just graze the ground without any folds or wrinkles, and how to tuck it up. I must take off my shirt and my old dhoti and then unwrap and wrap the dhoti several times. Then, standing in my underwear, I hand him the dhoti I selected to put it on and he says, "No, this is yours."
"Thank-you!"
I take one of his gold-border dhotis and wrap it around him the proper way, I have to stand close to him and I can feel that he likes me to touch him. His foreign talcum powder smells nicely.
I leave the new things in his room, it is too much, it would be difficult to explain in the Music Hostel. He must be rich, I'm lucky.
In the Music Hostel
I'm so confused that I can't concentrate when Madhu wants to help me with the song. I've to ask him once more tomorrow. I spend the night talking in my mind with Ernest. It is wonderful to have a Vellakaran friend, a rich Vellakaran.
In the morning, Madhu tells me, "You were talking English in your sleep".
Madhu, Shankar and Murali all make fun of me, "he is dreaming of his Vellakaran! What a beautiful friendship!" Murali begins a song from the Hindi film Heartburn,
Grant me to be
Close to you
In your dreams!
I don't believe them, but it is possible, all I can think of is Ernest. Is he really rich? Is he my friend? Will he suddenly leave? Will he look for another friend to help him? If only I knew, what Ernest thinks about me!
In Ernest's Room
When I arrive at Ernest's room, he is complaining that there is no water in the shower. I show him how to bathe with the help of the water vat in the shower, because most of the time there is not enough or no water coming from the shower head ¾ what does he expect? Why turn a tap, which is not dripping?
Ernest is like a small child, he doesn't know how to use the toilet, defiling paper[85] and walking around like a madman!
While he is bathing, I prepare tea, talking to him in my mind. When he comes out I ask him, "abroad, are there students like me too?"
"What do you mean? Can I wear a dhoti today?"
I hand him the second gold border dhoti we bought, tie it for him, and show him once more how to tuck it up when we must cross the flooded campus and remind him to let it down when we meet a person we must honour ¾ I manage to make him look decent. His height and massive body give him respectability but he is no comparison to some of the elegants here, the stars like Vijay, who are so slim and graceful. Palghat style would not do for them. In PUC, the art of wearing a dhoti was the main subject, and combing. Otherwise, we repeated what we learnt about girls in High School.
When Ernest is dressed, I pour milk and tea for him and ask once more, "abroad, are all students like you?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean are there students too like me? Poor and stupid, without general knowledge?"
"Thousands, but you're intelligent, you play well, you're gifted."
"It is necessary to tell the truth!"
"You're good-looking, intelligent, gifted, well behaved."
Ernest wants to make me forget that I'm his poor servant. He'll never tell me the truth; it's useless. As soon as people know that I'm dreaming of becoming a musician, they feel obliged to tell me that I'm gifted. Only the Master speaks the truth. They're all making fun of my vanity, that I think I'm beautiful. What does it matter? Beauty is for the poor. If you're poor and beautiful, Reddy students will offer you a roll of BBC[86] biscuits in return for enjoying with you. What a wonderful thing beauty is! I'll have to marry whom Father selects. Will he get one-lakh rupees extra in dowry because I'm looking like an actor? A beautiful groom is a doctor with a Green card. A British passport will make a water buffalo look fairer than Kashmir snow. What is more beautiful than money?
Ernest says, "Don’t worry, you're okay", he treats me like a friend until I say, "35 rupees are necessary for the students' mess deposit!"
He hands me the money, but his mood is spoilt.
In the Music College
The professors appreciate that Ernest tries to wear our native costume. Some students feel the urge to make fun of him. I oblige them with a bouquet of choice sweet words. I'm strong enough to admonish them gently if necessary. Ernest doesn't mind, he thinks to wear a dhoti is funny. He has a lot of problems to climb stairs with a dhoti, or to get into a cycle riksha, but he doesn't give up, "if you can do it, I can learn it too."
"There are strong belts with pockets. Maybe it is necessary to buy a belt for you."
"I don't like it, it has no style."
In the entrance we run into Mary and her friends, they are all asking me questions about Ernest, confusing me, I try to talk to Mary like Madhu talks with Shanti, like we are brother and sister, but how can you do it while her sweet flower scent is worrying my nose, it is impossible! I feel terribly important translating forward and back their questions and Ernest's answers until Mary shames me by complimenting Ernest nicely in perfect English for his incomparably well-wrapped dhoti, causing the girls to disperse to hide their giggling because though I did my best, his ankles are showing making him look more boorish than necessary.
Chidambaram Bazaar
I suggest to Ernest to let me buy a moneybox with a big lock to keep his money safely. If something gets stolen that would be my end. I show him a strong box in the bazaar. He likes it and I have it put it into a cycle riksha, telling the driver to follow us.
Ernest buys fancy underwear for me, saying, "The package is nice", there is a drawing of a weight lifter on it. He must have seen my rotten briefs when I showed him how to wrap the dhoti.
What if suddenly his money is finished? I hope he is rich, I tell him, "you mustn't waste money!"
"Don't worry, you think too much about money."
On the way back, just to try whether I remember it now, I sing him the Mirabai song but I haven't got it right yet.
In Ernest's Room
Ernest wants me to try on the new underwear immediately. I'm eager to take bath and say, "let me have a shower first, then!"
He is spending too much money for me, does he like me? Will he give me the money to pay back what I borrowed from Madhu? I take the water off my body and then put on the new underwear… I'd like to tarry and think about Mary… it is better than any I had before. Does he expect me to show him how it fits?
In the room, I stretch out next to him on the bed, pretending to be sleepy. He begins to comb my hair with his fingers and says, "I want you to be my friend!"
I close my eyes and when his hands begin to wander, I sink into bottomless darkest sleep. My body becomes a piece of wood. The Vellakarans are worst, he can't understand that I'm human too, I'd prefer that either he wouldn't start or wouldn't stop.
After resting near him for the better part of an hour, I ask him for Madhu's money. He talks about how much he likes me, that he wants me to be his friend, about other boys, what a chance it is for both of us that we met… he talks too much.
Will he give me the money? I like him and I'd like him to stop talking. I don't understand him, what does he want? Can't he see that I must be his friend? Does he want me to say, 'I'm you're friend'? I say, "I must be your friend!"
It is getting late. Why doesn't he switch off the light?
In Front of the Library
Instead of going back to the hostel and sleep, I sit down on the stairs of the library building, what does Ernest want? What is he talking about? Does he like me? Do I like him? Will he take me abroad? Are all Vellakarans like him?
I try to think what I should be thinking, avoid the shameful, return home, help Father, 'study hard, forget Mary!' I tried it before, but the only way I manage not to think of Mary is by thinking of worst women instead!
I hear the voices of students going to sleep; they study with money their families send them. Who is going to send me money? I want to believe Ernest is going to help me. I want to believe Mary likes to talk with me. I want to believe that I'm gifted enough to earn money as a violinist. I don't want to wake up! What would I think of a guy like myself!
In the Music College
The Master tells me in front of Ernest but in Tamil, which Ernest doesn't understand, "son, now studying makes no sense anymore, you're going abroad anyway. It is necessary to learn to dress like a master, I recommend wearing a silk towel with a broad, broad gold border, this is the mark of a true master."
Since the Master doesn't speak English,[87] I must sit with them during Ernest's lessons.
The Master says in Tamil for me to translate into English, "it gladdens my heart that the young master sahib has come to grace our poor music college with his presence. It has always been my humble dream to learn to play the violin like a Western virtuoso." and then begins to play God Saves the Queen in the manner of a sepoy[88] band, changing without interruption into a Carnatic dissolution of the theme, which leaves me breathless. Ernest is impressed too.
The Master likes to use sweet words and to poke fun. I can't translate all; Ernest would take offence. He is serious about his studies. Ernest wants to know all about Carnatic music and how to play the Violin in the Carnatic style. The Master lends him English books to read, real scientific books, printed abroad, not the old Tamil translation of the Treatise on Music the Master makes me learn by heart.
In Ernest's Room
Ernest lets me use his violin. The only thing I want to play is Mary's Mirabai song, and Madhu doesn't know it either. I'll have to ask Miss Ojha.
Ernest plays Western music for me, it sounds like he's walking in hard shoes, like a goods trains running on steel rails and heavy teak sleepers.[89] It all sounds like it has to be performed inside some horribly muggy mission church. What do they know of melodies soaring at night from the terrace of a palace? The smell of recent rain, the call of the koil[90] are not to be found in it.
To flatter me Ernest tells me, that the Master likes me, according to Ernest the Master told the Registrar, "Arun is my best student".
Either the Master tries to help me, or the Master is making fun of me. I can't tell Ernest the truth, because if he knew that I'm not gifted he would probably throw me out. He's wasting his money. I tell him to play more Western music, that I like it. I don't like its pitiful, sad, serious, boring sounds like an awful country, cold, full of old trees, old roads, old houses, like the illustrations in our ABC primers, full of serious moral advice to help, to work, to pray, to sing hymns, to say 'thank-you, Sir!' Is that how he lives? Is that why he never remembers his father and mother?
Ernest talks about his parents like about distant relatives, as if his parents would live on another planet. Doesn't he love them? Probably his father is so rich they never meet like the Raja of Collengode who lives in a vast palace and sees only his servants. Their life abroad must be a horror.
Ernest says, "We’re well-off, not rich."
How can you not be rich when you get a paper bag full of money every week to spend for whatever comes to your mind. I imagine how people would treat me if I were a Vellakaran; if suddenly would be revealed that in reality I am the son of a white man. Ernest says, "I'm an only child. I always had my own room; I always was alone."
It must have made him how he is. Ernest asks me, "Do you really want to be my friend? Or are you just interested in my money? Would you be ready to sleep in the same bed with me?"
How can I say No? "You're my elder brother."
The only thing I'd like to do is to study his skin at leisure, it looks so ugly from close up, different from my skin or Madhu's, it seems to break easier, he is constantly taking medicine, he has all kind of pills and ointments with him in case he gets sick.
The postman comes with money orders for Ernest; five separate money orders, more than five thousand rupees. The postman hands Ernest the receipts to sign like a state document, "signature put it!"
It's too much money to keep in the room, even in the moneybox.
At the Indian Bank
I take Ernest to the Indian Bank branch in the university to open a savings account. The bank manager treats him like a VIP, asking what brands Ernest's watch and pen are, and begging foreign stamps, he behaves like the servants in the jingo stories we had to read in High School: Stupid, greedy natives speaking the vernacular. I am ashamed to be an Indian.
In Ernest's Room
Ernest has paid my registration but there is still the question of the advance for the hostel. When I ask him to lend me money for it, he says, "why don't you sleep in my room?"
Life in the hostel is fun. I like to sleep with Madhu, though it is against the regulations. Not knowing what to say, I begin to talk about what is on my mind, I tell him a confused story about the Mirabai song I'd like to learn without mentioning Mary. Ernest immediately looks up Mirabai in one of his books, Indian Music ¾ An Introduction, and decides to ask Miss Ojha to teach me the song.
In the Music College
Miss Ojha is terribly pleased to have Ernest visit her and after recess gives us a perfect rendition of the song. She promises to teach it to me, the Master's permitting. Ernest behaves as if I've done him a favour to introduce him to Miss Ojha. Couldn't he ask her that a certain girl vocalist teach me the song? To spare Miss Ojha the trouble?
In the Music Students Hostel
I sleep in the student's hostel with Madhu, hoping to get the money for the hostel from Ernest, but the warden threatens me in no uncertain terms to inform the Registrar. I promise to pay.
In Ernest's Room
When I hint again at that I need money for the hostel, Ernest says, "You can sleep here!"
"It wouldn't be comfortable for you!"
"I'm not going to pay for your hostel!"
In Ernest's Room
I'm sitting at the table trying to write down how much money I spent for what, I can't concentrate, I'm looking at his costly waterproof foreign watch, I'd like to try it on. I take the watch from his wrist, gently, and put it on my own left wrist. He doesn't seem to mind, I think he likes if I touch him. The watch looks good, "how much did you pay for it?"
"It is a gift from a friend."
The watch must have cost a fortune, it is a Rolex, I have heard about them, "how much is its price, in rupees?"
"20'000, maybe a little bit more, they're getting more expensive every year."
"Why did he give it to you?"
"He is my friend."
"I'm also your friend; you must buy me a Rolex too! ¾ No, just joking, I don't need a watch."
I don't want him to think I'm begging. I don't want to hear a sermon about giving and taking.
How would I look wearing a watch? I put the watch back on his wrist. He asks, "Do they make any good watches in India?"
"HMT watches are best."
"You need a watch."
"They are too expensive."
"How much?"
"More than 150 rupees."
"Let's see!"
Behind the Music College
I get my mat from the hostel, my bag and the cardboard box with my schoolbooks and papers. I'm taking the short cut behind the Music College. I'm loaded like a washerman's donkey, but I don't want to walk twice and don't want to ask somebody for help. I hope Mary won't see me, it is the time of the short recess and the girls' voices are like birds fluttering in a tree.
Putting down my things next to Ernest's aluminium boxes I say, "I must sleep on the floor!"
"No, the bed is wide enough for both of us; sleep here!" He hits the mattress next to where he is sitting. He gets up and sits down, saying "I like boys", as if I would be too dumb to notice, and "I'm gay in case you haven't noticed," I guess what it means. Every word he says makes it worse. I'm glad that the windows of his room go to the veranda, what he does will be seen. His interest makes me dizzy; does he want to do it immediately?
I don't budge, "I must sleep on the floor".
I'm not afraid of Ernest. I must sleep on the floor; but he should not get angry. Other boys may need the money more than I. I repeat, "I must sleep on the floor!"
"Arun, please!"
Is Ernest like the effeminate students hanging around in the communal showers, talking about who among the PUC students is available? He doesn't look like them, he is tall and strong, and he doesn't talk like them.
I must sleep on the floor.
In the Music College
The Master begins Ernest's lesson by making fun of my beauty, saying about me, "He offends the ears but pleases the eyes".
To flatter me Ernest tells me to tell the Master in Tamil, "the Registrar told me he is the best violinist in the Music College"
"What does the Registrar know about music? Arun is the most beautiful violinist in the Music College!"
How can I translate and keep my calm? Suddenly my face feels hot and the Master says, "Now you are going to beat your old Master, to reward him for wasting his time teaching farm boys and Vellakarans!"
I don't want to beat him, he is making fun of me because I'm a farmer's son, I'm watching myself, its only words.
When Ernest can't hear the secondary notes the Master gets annoyed and interrupts him saying, "it's not like a stair," with me he wouldn't be so patient. The master tells me, "it is necessary to practice this scale", and what he thinks of Vellakarans' ears, the urgent need to get Indian ear transplants. His every sentence is a bad joke. I translate it into a few neutral sentences, which don't hurt Ernest's pride. Ernest doesn't like to have to sing so much; he thinks he came to play the violin, Carnatic style. If Ernest would be an Indian, the Master wouldn't waste his time with him.
In Ernest's Room
In our room, I repeat the scale scores of times for Ernest, step by step, building up from the base note. Slowly he begins to hear the intervals. He doesn't like to sing aloud but I must pester him because tomorrow the Master will scold me if this scale is not correct. I must insist that Ernest sing loud and clear but then students pass outside the windows of our room and this spoils his mood. He vents his anger on me who again is using his pen. This is one of his rules,
Thou Shalt Not Use My Pen!
In fact, he doesn't want me to use his anything!
To annoy me Ernest says, "We’ve to clean the room."
"The sweeper must do it."
"I don't want a sweeper to do it for us", he doesn't like the sweeper to enter the room. He tells me a story, his philosophy, what we learnt in school about Gandhiji. I think Ernest is afraid the sweeper would touch his things; Ernest doesn't understand that sweepers wouldn’t live long if they touched people's things.
"Get cleaning powder from the bazaar, and a toilet brush!"
In Chidambaram Bazaar
To spite him I buy Vajradanti toothpaste, which is too expensive but tastes wonderful. I also buy cleaning powder and all a sweeper needs. Gandhi's ideas about girls are more to my taste than this foolish exercise. What can I do? I owe Ernest so much money I'm practically his bonded labourer now.
In Ernest's Room
Ernest likes the toothpaste. We clean together looking stupid. Our next-door neighbour, a tall, slim professor of co-operative economy, called C.K. Iyer, an old Gandhian, watches our efforts and compliments Ernest warmly, though the professor leaves his own cleaning to the sweeper. We must pay the sweeper nevertheless but Ernest doesn't care.
I hate cleaning. Ernest cleans the bathroom; I clean the room. It is like his pretending to be a vegetarian; he believes all Indians admire Gandhiji. Why doesn't he spin his own thread? Why doesn't he dry his own salt? Why doesn't he sleep with young girls? Ernest is too rotten to believe in God, whom does he want to impress with this cheap Gandhi act? Or his Buddhist talking? Everything is impermanent! What a surprise!
After the cleaning, I take a shower. Through the window of the shower, I overhear Ernest talking to a student, the usual questions, whether Ernest likes India, Carnatic music, the food, the climate, but the sound of their voices tells me that they feel attracted to each other. Like in a film, I can see that if I wouldn't be here, Ernest would invite the student to the cinema. At night on the way back to the university, their hands would meet, and then they would walk home the longer way, talking, laughing, Ernest's arm around the boy's shoulders, their bodies getting closer to each other in the dark, touching from thigh to shoulder, and Ernest's hand would pull the boy towards him without betraying undue desire, saying, "I like the smell of your hair oil," what he told me. They would happen to arrive at Ernest's room. He unlocks the door; they enter; and while the student drinks water in the bathroom, Ernest lays down. Then the student sits next to Ernest, their hands meet, and the tiredness of the cinema, the long walk excuse that the boy says "let me rest a few minutes before I go home!" abandoning himself to Ernest's desire. I'm sure this is what he wants. I must be careful.
In the Music Hostel
Ernest meets my friends, who know no better than to joke about how much Madhu loves me, how much I love Madhu. They tell Ernest that Madhu and I have been sleeping in the same bed all through PUC and now spend the night sleepless, like separated lovers, longing for each other. They think it is funny. This is exactly what I didn't want Ernest to know. I shouldn't have brought him over.
They mean no harm. Madhu is my friend; we don't have secrets. Madhu's body is my body, but from Ernest mien, I understand that my time is up.
In Ernest's Room
Back in the room Ernest says, "I try to treat you as a friend, we eat the same food, wear the same clothes, now please don’t treat me like a stranger!"
He says 'please' but he is angry. If I don't do it, he'll throw me out. The room becomes like a prison, I look at the closed door and the three barred windows, I don't know whether I fear more that he throws me out or that I can't get out in case he wants to rape me. If I shout my friends will rush to my help, but that would expose me to endless shame and ridicule worse than anything Ernest could do.
"I am sorry!"
Ernest is right; I'm cheating him. I don't want to be difficult but he spoilt it by talking. If he wouldn't have advertised his tastes, with a mixture of stealth and force he could get from most other students and me what he wants, but now it is impossible.
Why can't he just beat me up and rape me, I don' care! If only I would be less stupid! Ernest is my only chance.
At night, he orders me to sleep in his bed, "I hate to sleep alone, I can get a boy who does whatever I want for 50 rupees…"
"…much less…" the moment the words are coming out of my mouth, I am sorry to have said them.
"…now shut up and come here!"
I think of the money I owe him, I must do it! But he confuses me; I'm blushing like a girl. People are doing it all the time, he doesn't disgust me, he paid for my registration, he bought me new clothes, I'm indebted to him.
But while I tell myself 'I must do it', my hands are spreading the mat on the floor, provoking Ernest. He rips the mat out of my hands and wrestles me down on the bed, knocking my head against the headboard. He's much stronger than I thought. The pain and the shame make me cry, he says, "sorry!" but doesn't let me go, "I want you to sleep here on the bed with me!"
"I'm your friend; I'm not your wife."
I sleep on the bed with him. Ernest's bed is far more comfortable than Madhu's charpoy. Ernest has a mattress, mosquito netting. I'd like him to do what Madhu does for me but I'm afraid this will lead to what I don't want. I don't know what I want. His desire disgusts me. Maybe five years ago I would have done it; now it seems more abnormal, more shameful. His body doesn't disgust me; it's nice to feel him against me at night. Just the idea of getting treated like a girl disgusts me. I can't afford to make him angry though, worst case I'm going to let him do what he wants, who cares?
Ernest kisses my neck, I don't mind as long as he doesn't expect submission. I try to resist when his tongue touches my lips but my body disavows my reluctance. Finally I give myself up to his desire, wasn't I sharing Madhu's bed since Pre-University College? Doesn't it just mean to have a body in my arms while I dream of Mary?
I kiss him too. Still it is not enough for him. In the dark, his hands explore my body confident of their possession; Ernest knows that I am his for good.
In Our Room
Now that I sleep in Ernest's bed nothing remains for him except full enjoyment, sooner or later he'll force me. He tells me to use the scented coconut oil on my whole body. I smell as if I've stuffed my crotch with jasmine, what can I do? Ernest makes a row about me using his face cream, which he calls 'sun lotion', that he'll get burned by the sun without it. What is he is talking about? He's just angry that he hasn't got yet what he wants. I say 'sorry' but he goes on whining while drinking best tea with condensed milk and eating the better part of a roll of Britannia cream biscuits, until an emaciated caretaker in a dirty single dhoti and a khaki shirt shows up, demanding in not too polite terms that we return one chair, which gives Ernest the chance to vent his anger on a stupid native. I doubt the poor old man will ever again try to wrestle a chair from a Vellakaran.
In Our Room
Around one o'clock when we are taking a nap, a senior student of ill repute, Dikshit by name, a consummate rake, comes to our room talking like a madman, and while drinking the tea I prepared, tells Ernest "I'm a homosexual" describing in graphic detail how late at night he is stalking boys in Chidambaram back-streets.
His father is a circuit judge. Dikshit must be insane. In the end, Ernest tells him, "I'm not interested in the topic; please I've got things to do."
When Dikshit doesn't budge immediately, Ernest gets angry and sounding like he's going to beat him, tells the honoured guest, "Now fuck off!"
I get Dikshit out quickly, regaling him with additional appropriate choice compliments.[91]
In the Music College
I ask the Master, "Sir, would you kindly allow me to learn a song from Miss Ojha Ernest is interested in?"
"What song?"
"Mirabai's song
The Face of the Beloved Unveiled Itself Tonight
He begins to sing the song; his crackly voice gives it a completely different charm, and then says, "Go ahead!"
When I enter Miss Ojha's room, the girls stare at me as if I would have by mistake run into the ladies'. Miss Ojha agrees to teach me. The girls are giggling politely, I don't care whether they make fun of me, I'd like to become a lecturer in a girls' college. It must be wonderful to smell them the whole day.
I'll ask Ernest to see a film tonight, Navrang, the music is said to be first class.
Chidambaram
On the way to the cinema, Ernest notices an HMT dealership, and urges me to have a look at the watches. There is one, which looks stylish, like a pilot's watch. He asks to see it and then tells me to put it on, to check whether it would fit me. "Is it alright? Do you like it?"
He buys it; I keep it on my wrist. To have a watch makes me stupidly proud. I try once more to thank him as I have been taught in school. He says, "You need a watch", as if this would make sense.
The watch is my new number plate, for all to see whom I belong to, more a handcuff than an ornament, announcing Ernest's ownership and my shame to all and sundry, and yet I want everybody to see it. My only worry is that there are not enough mirrors around for me to admire myself in, to check how good I look with a watch. Like a rich man. If this is prostitution, then I want to be one. I want Ernest to buy me and carry me away. I'm wearing a short-sleeve shirt; the watch is on display. I feel light and beautiful, like an article bought and sold.
In the Cinema
Ernest is holding my hand, the film is nice, in the interlude, eating peanuts, he asks me about Dikshit, "What did he want?"
"He is insane!"
"What did he want?"
"It was nice when you told him…" Dikshit too must be thinking 'white men are always hot'.
"Fuck off?"
"He was shocked!" Hari would have liked to hear it. Until the film goes on, I flatter Ernest how nicely he got rid of Dikshit. I like when he shows his true colours ¾ to others. I must proceed cautiously; I don't want to hear him saying it to me.
By now, Dikshit will be joking about me with friends of his ilk in his father's government bungalow. If his father doesn't censure him then who can? Dikshit should refrain from talking about it, who cares how many boys he sodomises?
That they must be talking, laughing about me upsets me. The film is full of women, singing, dancing, and in the cinema too, there are women, I know that I like women, there is nothing wrong with me. Ernest has his arm around my shoulders, holding my hand. In the dark, I put my head on his shoulder. He will protect me. I must be his friend, but his interest makes my mind spin, I'd like to walk to South Market Street just to see Mary's house again, to hear her voice.
Annamalai University
I hoped Ernest would forget my saying, 'much less', but he is not stupid and on the way home he questions me about boys available for money, how much they expect, where to find them. I tell him a confused and, I hope, confusing story about Gypsy boys, which I think is true. Though you can't touch them, some worst Chettiar youngsters make a sport of hunting, raping and killing them, and what I've heard about some students' tastes, "I don't know, it doesn't interest me, no need to talk about it," which is a lie, because it is exactly what we were talking about at night in the PUC dormitory.
In Our Room
What they must be talking about right now, pretending to be astonished that I have become available, receptive, nobody will believe me, not even Madhu, they know that I need Ernest's money.
I prepare special tea for Ernest. Again and again, I must look at my wrist; the watch makes me idiotically happy. The watch is a big chunk of curd in my beak. He must be in love with me. Nobody ever gave me a gift like this. I must love him,
I feel like I'm dreaming a beautiful film. First time in my life that I don't need to worry about money, it's like a wonderful dream, if only it would never end!
In bed at night, I offer myself to him like a woman. He takes my hands in his, and weaving his fingers into mine, kisses me. Ernest's hands go further than they should, but less far than they could. The face of the watch is glowing in the dark. I fall asleep with my head on his arm, remembering a song from the film Destiny,
Morning, don't wake me up!
No day can outdo this night!
In the morning, Ernest is in a good mood.
Annamalai University
It is raining and I'm glad, I enjoy holding up Ernest's umbrella with my left hand, I hope they all see my watch. In my mind I tell them, what Ernest told Dikshit, "Fuck off!"
The idli have a fresh taste, the qorma is perfect, the curry doesn't smell of vomit though there is too much turmeric, and outside, when we walk back, the rainy air, the sound of the birds, the white of the buildings against the green of the grass, the world is beautiful. I feel like I've eaten what Hari's number one rascal friends call power samosas. Ernest loves me and I love him.
Music College
Miss Ojha teaches by saying, "listen!" and then sings the exposition; before, beginning again, she lets me follow her on the violin. It is not difficult, but she stops me countless times to correct the Hindustani gamakas, which are new to me. I must get it perfectly right because it is for the Vellakaran.
She hands me a sheet of paper where she has written the song in Hindi but in neat Tamil characters, in order that I can teach Ernest the words too. I don't mention that he can't read Tamil nor understands Hindi.
Tomorrow I must ask her about Mary's voice.
Annamalai University
The whole university seems full of guys, who have to ask me about Ernest, "is he your friend?"
"Mind your own business!"
It's as if the watch has suddenly given them a liking for his taste. If only they would leave me in peace. But they don't. The lesser elements among the students catcall me 'darling' and 'baby'. They are Reddy landowners' sons; I must bear it. I have blackened my face without satisfying Ernest who tells me how nice the watch looks, how much he likes it. Does he want to remind me of his generous gift? Thank-you! If you like my watch so much, why don't you swap it against your precious Rolex?
Being a Vellakaran's whatever the professors suddenly treat me with consideration in view of future money for 'tuition', everybody expects something from the Vellakaran, even the Registrar asks for foreign stamps. Is he too dreaming of escaping Bharat ki Jail?
The Music College girls who told me before "go away, you're vicious", are now calling me "Arun brother!" And Mary is inquiring the correct time from me, adding, "You’re lucky to have made a friend from abroad!" Smiling with such sweet understanding as if staying with wealthier relatives would have given her a taste of the same curd. If only there was the chance to talk!
In Our Room
In the late afternoon, a noisy swarm of sweet boys arrive and hang around in our room and outside of it, talking, joking, asking Ernest, "is he your friend?"
Pointing with his chin at the best looking of them, a dark, slim, quick-eyed boy with a temple flower behind his left ear, Ernest asks me, "is he gay?"
Does he want me to procure for him? They are all more than gay enough. I'm not going to dig my own grave.
They are B. Com. students whom I know from PUC, where they passed greasing palms. They say, "It is necessary to go abroad, you must give us his address abroad!"
They ask me, "Is he married? Does he have a girl friend? Are you his friend?"
They too must be thinking, 'white men are always hot.'
Although they say, "Necessary to practice English", they don't know enough English to broach the subject with him. They talk among themselves about Ernest, speculating, laughing. They like his type; I must get rid of them.
From the back window, I call Madhu to Ernest's room, he commands more respect. I explain him my predicament in Talayam. Madhu tells them they are disturbing Ernest, to leave him alone, while I tell Ernest, "They are talking about you, giving you bad names, misbehaving".
Ernest says, "I like Madhu's voice" and I believe that's all he likes of Madhu. Madhu makes fun of me, "your only problem is your beauty", but it is not true, Vijay looks good, I am just average. My only problem is that I'm poor.
At night in the dark when Ernest kisses me and says, "Good Night!" I tell him, "I must be your friend!" I kiss him too; the face of the watch is glowing in the dark. Mary looked impressed. If only I could have read her thoughts![92]
In the Music College
Waiting for Miss Ojha, Ernest talks about the sweet boys. After much what he thinks about them, he says, "you look much better than all of them."
"I'm different!"
"Why?"
How can I mention it without offending him? I change the subject and explain him that the Registrar wants more foreigners to study in the University; they pay more than the Indian students do.
Madhu joins us and then Miss Ojha arrives with her plastic shopping basket full of fruits, flowers, coconuts and agarbatti for the Sarasvati puja. She greets Madhu as if he would be her own son; we sit down; she tells me, "listen, little father!" and begins with the song. Her voice is perfect and in the fastest passages, she produces every single note precisely, I'm glad to study with her.
When we leave Miss Ojha's room, a Music College professor approaches Ernest with an offer to sell an electronic tampura[93], the price is too much, but I cannot advise against a professor. Ernest talks with him as if they would be equals, asking questions, doubting the professor's answers, opposing arguments, declining the offer.
Outside I tell Madhu in Tamil, "if an Indian student would behave like Ernest they would throw him out of the university but because Ernest is white the teachers accept it".
"What are you complaining about, he's a foreigner. Where would you be without Ernest?"
In Our Room
Ernest tells me regarding my studies, "You’re not doing enough".
It is true: Ernest is studying much more, reading more, writing more, his engine seems to run faster than mine. I waste too much time thinking about Mary.
Ernest questions me about Carnatic music until I must admit that I know nothing. He knows everything. Even when he is wrong, he can prove his point with facts and logic, while I have nothing to show but the memory of my own early morning voice in the upper room, learning High School stuff by heart, years ago, what does it prove to him that I learnt it by heart? When I have a book, like A Glimpse of Western Music to back up what I'm saying, he doesn't relent; if it's not in his Daniélou book or in his Webster's Dictionary, it doesn't exist. He believes that his books contain absolute truth, not our Indian 'whose stick, his ox' truth[94]. If you don't write the appropriate truth, somebody else will write the lies in your stead. Having read Naxalite pamphlets I know what Ernest means with truth, a scientific correspondence of facts and statements. But material interests colour perception, e.g. money makes your skin look fair.
Ernest wants me to read Daniélou's book about Indian music. To me the book explains nothing. For Ernest the world is plain like a railroad timetable, all you have to do is look at it, while my life is worse than a mess.
I sit holding Ernest's book; the words are getting blurred… How Mary carries her books pressed against her breasts… I'd like to get up and try to carry some books the way she does, to feel what she must be feeling. If only I knew how to talk to her!
I catch him staring at me as if he could read my thoughts, as if he knew that all I care about is Mary. I say, "It is necessary to do it!"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't want to talk about it."
He doesn't understand. Why does he have to talk about being gay? Why can't he simply shut up and do what he likes? He's rich, why does he beg for it?
I try to explain it to him, but instead of understanding, he gets so annoyed that in the end I say, "The courage to do the necessary is absent, you're a coward!"
He grabs me and hits me hard. I seek refuge in the shower, squatting in the corner. When he bangs on the door, I open it. He comes in angry and kicks me several times with his feet, "get up and learn at least to say 'thank-you!' when somebody tries to help you!"
"Thank-you! Beat me! Thank-you!"
Does he expect me to say 'thank-you!' after every sentence as they taught us in the Palghat Basle Mission High School?
Teacher: Sit down!
Pupil: Thank-you, Sir! How are you, Sir?
and when you left, you had to say,
Teacher: Good-bye!
Pupil: Good-bye, Sir! Thank-you, Sir!
It is silly but I can do it.
He kicks me, "get up!"
I sob, "Thank-you!" but it makes him only angrier. I tried to be his friend and now he kicks me like a dog or worse. I drop to the floor, crying. I close my eyes and hit the cold terrazzo with my front; I don't want to live anymore, "you must beat me, thank-you!"
He kneels next to me and says, "I'm sorry."
"Thank-you! You must hit me but don't kick me, thank-you, it is an insult. Thank-you!"
I get up. He follows me into the room and pushes me down onto the bed saying, "don't call me a coward again. My father taught me always to do what I want and always to get what I want. I'm not afraid of you!"
The more he holds back, the more I want to provoke him, "thank-you!"
When he leaves me alone, I take off my sweaty banyan, lie down and close my eyes. I don't care what he says or does.
He goes on studying and I fall asleep. When I wake up, he is reading the newspaper, he tells me a story about some sepoys who killed a journalist because a politician ordered them to teach the journalist a lesson and they thought that meant they should dispatch him.[95]
I try to explain him that it was a misunderstanding but he thinks policemen shouldn't kill anybody. Maybe abroad the police are different. Ernest doesn't want to understand that it was a misunderstanding. Again, he gets angry. To placate him I say, "India is worst!"
"India is the best country in the world."
It is true. Tamilnad is best. Kerala is nice, and Kashmir must be beautiful, Delhi, Agra with the Taj Mahal and Bombay's Gateway of India, Calcutta and Madras. The best of India is South India and the best of South India is Tamilnad, though educational standards are higher in Kerala. Scientists have discovered that Tamil is the oldest language in the world and that the Tamil temples are the oldest temples. Our music, our food, our girls in their half-saris, our women with jasmine in their tresses. Nothing can compare with the sweetness of Tamilnad. Most Gods must be speaking Sanskrit but Lord Murugan, the most beautiful of all Gods, says in Tamil, "Payam Yen, Nan Irukku!"
I go on about the greatness of India, until Ernest, who is still in a bad mood, tells me that India began the Indo-Chinese war of '61, that our Pradhan Mantri Shri Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru[96] sent a pitiful telegram to President Kennedy begging for help, that India lost that war, that our present PM is an ordinary dictator; things only Naxalites dare talk about, Kashmir, NEFA. I believe him because I have never read these things in print, which proves they must be true.
At night when we go to sleep, he tells me, "Can we now do it, yes or no?"
"Thank-you!"
"Have a shower first!"
"Thank-you!"
When I get out of the shower, he is fast asleep. What a cheat! Thank-you! Good Night! Thank-you! Sleep well! Thank-you!
I lie close to him listening to the voices in the next room. The co-op economy professor has a senior student visiting him, a research fellow or reader in something. My arm is around Ernest's shoulders. I'm listening to their talking and false laughing, they're interspersing their high-falutin English economy expressions with occasional Tamil words. The junior tries to please the old man, feeling his way, so to say, to what the master wants to hear. Saying something and then, if CKI disagrees, clarifying that what he meant was exactly what the venerable professor expressed so much more concisely. Excusing himself, pouring tea, offering to peel oranges, chatting about superiors, other professors, senate members; denigrating them precisely in tune with CKI's likes and dislikes. Hinting at something until he knows the learned professor's view and then pretending that he held the same opinion before he entered the room. CKI in turn is hinting too, and the later it gets the more his hinting becomes shameless bragging, about his influence in the senate here and in Madras University, in state and Union politics. He advises to tell this and that man to refer to him, that one word from him would be enough to get a certain position. The young man has only one opinion, CKI's.
Early in the morning, the research fellow or whoever he is, leaves with CKI's most affectionate promises to use his influence for him. They both sound terribly insincere, particularly the young man, when he says, "it is necessary to meet again soon!"
To recover from the unexpected expenses CKI later comes to our room and borrows twenty rupees from Ernest to get photostats of a paper he is preparing for the Senate. At least he believes his own lies while he tells them.
In the Music College
Ernest sends me to the Master to get a signature on his visa prolongation form. The Master is also Head of the Music College but he spends only about fifteen minutes per week in his office issuing orders as Head to himself, about which he then complains as a professor. In his empty office right next to his full ashtray, there is a sign
Smoking Strictly Prohibited!
By Order.
I must walk to the Master's house to get the signature. Shivasamy is there and shows me in. The Master is taking rest in the hall. I need the signature; Ernest is waiting.
The Master tells Shivasamy to bring tea, "for my preferred student, doesn't he look sweet? Even Vellakarans love him."
I must sit and drink tea. What can I say? It is true. I don't know what has become of me.
The Master tells Shivasamy, "You should have brought him here immediately. Look how sad he looks,
Dewdrop tears are enhancing the dark beauty of his fish shaped eyes.
While the Master gets up to sign Ernest's paper, I finally become aware of the full extent of my shame. I thought nobody would know, but the whole University knows how I survive. It doesn't matter what Ernest does or doesn't do with me. Everybody knows!
Cuddalore
We take the bus to Cuddalore, to see the Special Branch Officer about Ernest's visa extension. There are a lot of foreigners outside and inside the Special Branch office, but Ernest is by far the most decent. The other Vellakarans look like they have been sleeping for months in railway stations, I'm glad Ernest isn't like them. They must be from Pondicherry, who knows what they have come to India for. None of them seems to be able to afford having his clothes washed and ironed by a dhobi, or a proper haircut. But though they are not Ernest's kind, Ernest greets them like old friends, as if they are his caste-brothers. Staring at me impolitely, one of them asks him, "Who is he?"
"A friend."
Before they shake my hand, they quickly look me over, they know it all, who paid the watch and the nice clothes, and why, like I'm Ernest's dog.
The Special Officer, a huge Sikh, treats Ernest nicely, politely, he asks me in English, "who are you?"
I say, "A friend, Sir".
In his eyes, I see the question, 'what kind of friend?' and I add quickly, "the Registrar ordered me to accompany him."
He questions me about Ernest. I sing Ernest's praise until Ernest gets his stamp. Ernest doesn't ask whether a gift is expected of him. I don't dare ask either; the Sikh looks like a thoroughbred Emergency man. Corruption is finished, bribing prohibited, let the chapati-wallah enjoy with his meagre salary!
In the Bus to Pondicherry
Instead of travelling straightaway back to Chidambaram, I convince Ernest to visit Pondicherry where I've never been. I want to see the white women, to see whether it is true what I have heard, that in Pondicherry they are selling themselves on the street.
On the road towards it, we see white girls riding bicycles in short skirts, the most shameless kind. Looking at them I want to stop the bus and jump out, run after them, they are like an invitation to give chase. Ernest says, "They are from Auroville."
It is a famous place nearby; it must be thoroughly indecent. I'd like to go there without him. If Ernest would be a white woman… I close my eyes to savour fully the idea of a white girl. Living with Ernest has soiled my mind. If the people in the bus would know what goes on inside my brain, they would burn me. I wouldn't defend myself because they would be right. I lean towards Ernest, let him take control.
In Pondicherry, the bus stand is full of Vellakarans.
In the Café de Paris in Pondicherry
We have our meal in a non-veg hotel for foreigners. Ernest talks with two white boys who are drinking beer and smoking at a table next to us, the worst kind of Vellakarans, long unkempt hair like Gypsies, dirty, too tight, too short half-pants, one in a soiled under-shirt, the other with a T-shirt on which below an old man's fat face is written
DON'T WORRY ¾ BE HAPPY!
They are wearing identical silly leather hats, copper bangles on the wrists and leather strings with cowry shells around their necks. It's noon, and they haven't bathed yet; their bodies are smelling. While they talk with Ernest, they stare at me. I can see what they are thinking, their eyes are betraying them, 'Do you let him do it with you?'
Ernest gets absorbed into their conversation, he has become a white among whites, he wouldn't remark if I would leave but I can't leave, the money in my shirt pocket is his money.
There are girls too in the hotel, behaving exactly like these boys, and as dirty, some sitting together with boys at a table, some at least sitting at a table of their own. They look disgusting, like bleached Gypsies, not to wear ironed clothes must be an article of faith among them, why are they eating in this expensive hotel if they don't have enough money to pay the dhobi? Are they sleeping on the beach like the naked foreigners in Goa? One of them, and rather the best of them, smiles and I smile too. Immediately Ernest asks me, "Do you know somebody?"
Ernest's new friends eat and talk at the same time using all kinds of swear words, tearing their dosais into pieces with both hands, they're worse than any imitation of Vellakarans in a funny film, they're eating like monkeys. They talk about (swear word) India, the (swear word) Indians. How (swear word) dirty it is, we are. How (swear word) stupid. I feel disgusted and lost and watch them trying not to hear what they are saying. It is all offending. From time to time Ernest tells me, "please order more rice", or more water, more chutney, for him and for them, who have now moved to our table to be closer to his money.
I look at the girl who stares at me as if she would know me well, once Ernest has left I must come back to this place, I imagine that she is like Ernest. I want you to be my friend; I want you to sleep in my bed. Do you want to do it yes or no? Don't waste my time! Fuck off!
Ernest talks with them about things happening abroad, music, films. Why did they come here if they don't like India?
With me, he never talks like this. I sleep in his (swear word) bed but these (swear word) dirty longhaired foreigners are dearer to his (swear word) heart than (swear word) Arun who has blackened his (swear word) face crores of times for him.
Pondicherry Bus Stand
I help him to put the (swear word) foreigners on the A/C coach to Madras. They are carrying (swear word) huge packs like Nepali pilgrims going to Rameshwaram. I don't offer to help them, if they don't have enough (swear word) money for (swear word) porters then why did they drink (swear word) beer? At least Ernest doesn't rent a (swear word) room at the (swear word) bus stand to (swear word) know them more (swear word) intimately.
They ask me to purchase the (swear word) tickets for them, their (swear word) purses are full of (swear word) money! When I hand them their (swear word) tickets and the (swear word) change, they insist on shaking my (swear word) hand, saying 'thank-you!' and 'good-bye!' Their (swear word) hands are cold and sweaty; I'll have to wash my (swear word) hand. They're every (swear word) inch as (swear word) dirty as the (swear word) Gypsies!
Once we have boarded our bus to Chidambaram Ernest doesn't say a single good word about them, he pretends to be disgusted with their dirtiness, their foolish prattle, but while he was with them he treated them better than close friends and me like his (swear word) bearer. Ernest prefers the most stupid (swear word) White guy to me. Probably the sour stink of their (swear word) bodies, their vomit beer and smoke breath make him (swear word) hot. For the Whites the dirtiest white man is better than any educated Indian is.
I must come back without Ernest and try to meet a white girl. I don't care what she'll think of me, no need to look at her face!
In the Bus to Chidambaram
While the bus speeds along, sounding its horn, avoiding cows, oxcarts and paddy put on the street to dry, I say unhappily, "you'd rather have one of them as your friend."
He puts his arm around me, "I like you much better, I enjoy talking with people from my country, imagine if you met somebody from your village, wouldn't you like to talk with them?"
I try to imagine, I would ask them about the girls in the village, talking too much, and then Ernest would be angry again, like what happened when we went to the cinema first time. He gets angry too quickly, it makes him lose face. A great man shouldn't get angry.
He is staring at an outcaste boy who is loading oily bags with what looks like parts of an engine into the bus. The boy is so black you can hardly see his features. He wears no shirt and a strong body like our Raju. Is this what Ernest likes? When the sun shines on the boy's face I can see that he has enormous lips, white teeth and a stupid smile, like a human horse, he is smoking a bidi and smells of petrol. I'd like to ask Ernest whether I'm not dark enough for him.
While we wait in front of a level crossing, I ask him, "am I a Negro for you?"
"You're my sweet little nigger boy, that's why I love you!"
Is my skin so dark? I thought Madhu was swarthy but I considered myself rather fair. I say, "I'm coloured not black!"
"No, your black, look here!" he holds his hand next to mine, the difference is like cocoa and milk, probably for a Vellakaran we're all black, he likes me like he likes Harijans, for the same reason.
Outside there are firewood tree forests, sad thin trees waiting to be cut down, I don't want to look at them, they're no real forests, no real trees, they have no future either. I begin to think about what can't be thought, the time that should never come, when he has to leave. I put his arm around my shoulders. Why can't the bus drive on forever, travelling until the end of time, with Ernest's arm around me, protecting me? I remember a song we learned in school,
The bus is speeding towards the village;
Mother must be cooking now;
Little brother is singing in the street:
Big brother is coming today!
An elderly man, looking like a teacher, glasses, pens and a yellowed wristwatch with a tired metal spring bracelet, asks me politely, "where does the Sir come from?"
He asks first to have a look at Ernest's watch, and then, "is he married?"
In Our Room
Afraid that one day Ernest will tell somebody, 'I'm gay!', I explain him, "you mustn't say it in India, it will shock people, you'll embarrass everybody," most of all me. "Here, if you say 'no need to marry', people understand that you prefer the company of boys, but if you say, 'I'm gay' they will think you are insane, like Dikshit."
Slowly Ernest is getting used to my stupidity, I've had to adapt to his moods quickly. I ask him, "May I just for once try your clothes and your shoes? Just to see how I look."
I try his clothes. He has a nice jacket, which he doesn't want to give me, not even for a day. Nice shoes, too big for me; he lets me try them but if I would spoil anything he would get angry. With his clothes and his cooling glasses I look like a real Foreigner, I'd like to go out and run around in Chidambaram, trying to get mistaken for a Vellakaran, but crossing the University the students would make fun of me, they know that these are not my clothes. I'd like to be a Vellakaran, if only for an hour. Ernest makes fun of me and of how Indians walk when for once they wear shoes. He proves a fairly good actor; I didn't expect him to have a sense of fun. He imitates a poor chaparasi shuffling about in his too big cardboard shoes he's only wearing because some fool decided 'this is a university, shoes are compulsory!' For certain functions, the students are required to wear shoes, jackets, ties ¾ the tailors make a fortune renting them out. Ernest doesn't understand. For him dress is a matter of taste, not of money, he has never been poor. He has a notebook on which is printed,
I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty
For Ernest poverty is a joke. When I ask him to buy me shoes, he says, "What do you need shoes for?"
Niggers don't need shoes. I'll buy shoes first thing after he has left. And cooling glasses too if he doesn't buy me before. With cooling glasses I'll look like Mystery Man, like an actor, it will be easier to talk with girls if my eyes don't betray my desire.
Annamalainagar
When he gets bored imitating a miserable chaparasi we drive beyond Annamalainagar village on rented cycles. He is interested in the big horses in front of the Mariammai temple, the Harijan and Gypsy boys taking bath in the river. I don't want to think about what the boys mean to him. Probably he is still thinking about 'much less', I'm so stupid!
After rows of Congress sponsored small houses for Harijans, come the huts of the potters and the blacksmiths. Walking through their village, which is like a tribal settlement, he asks me about the burnished pots with white dots in front of nearly every house. I say, "They keep off the bad eye; people's jealousy makes their wares break".
I should have such a pot too, in front of our door, to keep envy at bay, but it wouldn't have style, it's an outcaste thing.
Back in our room, while he sips his tea, Ernest lectures me about the caste problem, faulting a government of Brahmin politicians ruling over crores of outcastes. He talks about Harijans like Vijay.
I say, "If they would improve they would get reborn in a better state…"
"…and until then your taking advantage of them…"
What did he do to be born gay? Who wants to enjoy with Harijans? He is looking for a boy as clean as a Brahmin and as rotten as a chandala.
I cut a small piece of cardboard, write Ernest's name on it, with all his letters after the name, draw a magical square below it, and fix it outside the door, to protect us. Ernest says, "Your living here too, why don't you write your name too?"
"I thought I'm your servant, abroad, do people write their servants' names at the door?"
Anyway, I'm not happy with my name. I'd like to be called simply 'Arun' instead of Arumugan S. Iyer. It would look great in a film,
Music by A.S. Arun
but since nobody knows me, I must write my old name in brackets behind it, as I started to do in PUC, as a proof that I only pretend to be an artist. Anyway, I'm not living here; I'm only his friend. Should I write 'and friend' for people to know what to expect?
C.K. Iyer comes over to borrow teabags, which Ernest tells me to give him, and then to pay for them and to hide his shameless parasitism, CKI begins with an endless recital of his musical knowledge and his acquaintance with great passed away musicians. I'm at loss how to get rid of him. From musicians he proceeds to religious teachers until he arrives at his own turf, sevagram, khadigram, the co-operative movement. Ernest listens with apparent interest, which prompts the professor to write down for Ernest names of great persons to meet in Bombay: Old Gandhians whom to visit is a privilege enjoyed by few, select persons like their washerman, the milk boy, the sweeper, and a young fellow from a neighbourhood tea stall who brings them their food in a battered aluminium tiffin carrier.
Ernest rejoices when CKI's fountain pen soils his fingers with ink, wiped with a torn handkerchief. Ernest's grin is terribly impolite and I understand that Ernest is waiting for The Question for which all this talk is preparing. It comes, and Ernest says No.[97]
I must ask him for money too.
He asks me, "What do I get in return?"
"What is necessary?"
"Come here!"
Ernest makes me lie down and then kisses me lasciviously in broad daylight but he promises me the money I need. When we get up he says, "That you are so poor and stupid is really sexy."
I should get him a street boy, with ringworm and scabies, the kind who is proud to be shameless. But what if he falls in love with the rogue? It's too risky.
Balu Brothers Photo Studio
I manage to drag him into a studio for a portrait. I'll need it later to prove myself that there has been a time when I was happy. In the studio, I annoy him because I want to wear his glasses for the shot.
I tell the photographer, "I mustn't look like a Negro!"
Ernest says, "You shouldn't say 'Negro'!"
"Why? I hate Negroes, Chinese and Muslims[98]!"
"Don't be stupid and racist. You also don't want to hear…" he says something too offensive for writing about the kinship of Negroes, monkeys and Indians, "…how can you dislike somebody just because he is black or yellow or Muslim?"
Finally, he tells his mind, the photographer looks at Ernest angrily, ready to shoot him.
I say, "All Muslims are traitors, why don't they go to Pakistan?"
The photographer nods in agreement. Ernest likes them all, Muslims, Negroes, if only they let him do what he wants. Why did he come to India? He should have gone to Pakistan, to Africa! His kind must be welcome there!
When the photographer leaves with the exposed glass plate, Ernest says, "If the Hindus would have given the Muslims the necessary constitutional guarantees, Partition would not have happened. Gandhi's Bharat Mata rhetoric destroyed Hindustan and killed two million people."
"Don't say this to anybody in India, people will kill you!"
What would he say if I would talk like this about his country? I'm so upset that I don't care anymore about the photo, which I wanted to remember our friendship. What friendship?
In Ernest's Room
The ugly sentence Ernest said doesn't leave my mind. Is this what he thinks about me? Why does he tell me first he likes me and then that I'm worse than a Negro?
Are all white people the same? Would that white girl who smiled at me in Pondicherry also consider me a Negro? Are white women as shameless as white men? I should have talked to her! I should marry a white girl and go abroad! I'd like to meet her again, be her friend and more, to walk on the beach at night, then… but then Mary takes her place, whom am I kissing? The wet sand below my knees, the feeling of her salty skin is real, her lips are cool, she's kissing me as Ernest is kissing… who is kissing me because I seem to be in the mood for love. I must meet Mary!
In the morning before we get up, I ask him, "am I really worst like a Negro?"
"What's wrong with black people?"
"They're dirty!"
"How many do you know?"
I can't answer because I know none.
"Then how do you know they're dirty?"
"Why do you want me to be your friend, if you think I'm like a Negro?"
Madhu said it thousand times as a joke, but now Ernest says it as if it would be the truth, "because you're beautiful!"
Does Ernest think I like to hear this? He caresses my body, as if it would be special and precious. Take it! If only I could talk like these Pondicherry boys, to tell you what to do! We should have met when I was in the age for it, I would have liked it.
"I love you!" He enumerates what he likes about me. It seems he is in love with every single hair on my head. You can humiliate me as much as you like because I depend on you. I'm glad that you prefer boys; it saved my life. I must do what you want, why talk about it?
Ernest talks and his hands are talking too. I close my eyes. If only he would shut up! Who cares what we do at night? But he has to talk about slim hips, wide chest, sweet face. You have the money and bought it, what need is there to talk about it? I put my face on my arms and try to switch my brain off, feelings are electrical currents running from the nerves in the skin to the brain, why don't you drag me into the shower and order me to do what you want? But again, we end in half-satisfied half-sleep, becoming so close that I don't know anymore what I'm feeling about him, I'm half of us.
In Annamalai University
Whenever we meet a good-looking youngster Ernest has to stare at him like one looks at girls, it irritates me, I must look at the fellows too, because Ernest looks at them, what does he see in them?
When some student says Hello and asks him whether he is American, I get ridiculously jealous and impatient. Is all this talk about my so-called beauty turning me into his he-wife? The mirror is not showing me what he is seeing, but I can hear that my playing is changing because of Ernest; to be appreciated is wonderful. Madhu never said more than "you're alright, Arun" everybody else just makes fun of me, but who knows in the end, once I begin to believe that I look good, that I'm a great player, he'll leave me and I'll find out the truth, 'no need to look at his face'.
In the Music College
Miss Ojha encourages me, she's old but she has a good voice and perfect pitch and timing. Finally, I ask her about Mary's voice, "isn't it necessary to strain a bit more?"
"Not all voices are the same, not all are like your friend Madhu's!"
She sings the song developing it patiently while I follow her on the violin and then she lets me play it on my own, including an exposition, correcting only few mistakes, it's the first time I study a Hindustani song. I can't tell her that playing the song and comparing it to my memory of Mary's rendition gives me a perfect idea of how Mary feels inside herself.
Lakshmi Cinema
Mary is on the balcony two rows in front of us with a fat younger cousin brother wearing a fancy safari suit, and her same age cousin sister. I observe her: She takes good care of her brother but talks too loud, for us, I believe, or for Ernest, asking her small brother in English, "do you remember who gave you your good watch?" as if she wouldn't know, for us to hear his answering, "my uncle in America". First, I'm disgusted, but then I understand, she is stupid too! We're a perfect match!
I want to tell Ernest this but it wouldn't be wise to show too much interest in Mary. I want to keep silent but my mouth opens by itself, "what do you think about that girl? She's from the Music College, she has a good voice."
"Her brother is too fat. Do you like her?"
"She has a good voice."
"Why don't you invite her to have dinner with us, or for a tour to somewhere? Maybe with her girl friend, if she is too shy? Or her fat brother, what are you waiting for? Go ahead, I don't mind!"
He has no idea!
When we leave the Cinema Ernest accosts her, saying, "Arun told me that you are a gifted singer", and then tries to invite her for dinner in the ITDC bungalow but she pretends not to understand.
Ernest's Room
At night lying near Ernest, listening to his breath all of a sudden I become afraid that he could leave me. I put my arm around him, to make sure he can't leave unnoticed. It was kind of him to try to talk to Mary.
In the morning, he kisses me and says again, "you're beautiful!"
I should be glad but instead I panic and get up and prepare tea for him and then hide in the shower, afraid that I have done something wrong. Maybe really I am no man; maybe Ernest is right to treat me like a sweet boy.
In the shower, alone, I imagine myself getting raped by him, but it lasts only a moment, and before I have finished soaping my body, I am leaning against the wall thinking of Mary, and more than thinking. Why does Ernest like me? Am I sweet? Am I like a woman? I don't dream of men, maybe I am like a girl who loves women. I get so confused that I begin to grin. What does it matter? It's just a feeling. I dry myself, enter the room and sit down next to Ernest who is still lying on the bed. He looks at me and says, "What are you laughing about? I thought you were angry."
"I mustn't be angry with you!"
"You don't like when I touch you?"
"What does it matter whether it pleases me? I must be your friend, I'm just stupid, that's all."
I want to tell Ernest how nothing matters but in the end I only succeed to say, "If something angers you, you must beat me by all means!" but I sound like a bride and am ashamed again, I'm making it sound like a love affair.
Ernest says, "I have never lived with a friend before, never slept with a boy night after night, never felt so much in love!"
When Ernest touches me his power and his wealth, his being white and a foreigner overwhelm me. While his hands pull me towards him, he says, "I feel closer to you than to any of my Western gay friends."
Ernest likes that I'm too poor to run away. I try in vain to imagine what he is thinking, and ask him, "what is your thought about me?"
"I like you much more than I ever expected I could like a straight guy. I'm learning a lot from you."
I don't understand what he means, maybe it is just a way of talking, then he asks me what I'm thinking, I must say, "what do you want me to think?"
How can I tell him what I'm thinking, it's always either miserable dreams of future fame, of enjoying with Mary, or the fear that he could tire of me. I say, "I don't understand, I'm sorry, that I'm not…" I want to say 'like you' but maybe he would get angry, and say instead, "tell me what you want me to do!"
"Don't worry, I'm happy. I always get what I want. If I don't get it it's because I don't want it enough."
Ernest could buy crores of guys like me. He would be right to rape me; he deserves to do it with me. Where is the guy who dares open his mouth if he gets raped by a rich man? Who would be on my side if I complain about him after all he has done for me?
Ernest, gripping it indecently, makes fun of me saying, "The owner of the stick is the owner of the ox", and then, between kisses, "might is right."
This is how I like Ernest best, when he forgets his silly ideas of being friends, and simply takes what he pays for. He is too rich to worry about my feelings.
Balu Brothers Photo Studio
Finally, I have the framed picture in my hands. I can't stop looking at it. Am I really happy or do I just look happy? Can you look happy without being happy? I ask Ernest, "How do I look?"
"You mean how did they make you look?"
He's right; they made my face look nearly as fair as his. Still I want to know, "how do I look?"
"Like a beautiful white Negro!"
Why does he have to say it again? He may like Negroes but I'm not a Negro. There, abroad, would they consider me a Negro? What is a white Negro? Isn't it like, and I want to say it, 'you look like a black Vellakaran!' but what if he takes offence? They made him look like a film star, like Sanjay Gandhi. They painted his hair and brows darker, denser, made his lips thicker. I'd like him to look like he looks on the picture; next to him, I look like a black Negro.
Ernest says, "You look great", but I'm not satisfied, I want the picture to tell me my destiny, to be my blueprint for the future.
In Ernest's Room
While Ernest is in the shower, I go on studying the picture. Ernest looks important, rich; you can see that he knows what he is going to do next, who paid for the picture. I can guess why he and Madhu say I look good, the new dhoti and the starched khadi shirt are okay. I stand next to Ernest as if I'm his Indian bivi, or a hunting trophy, Ernest is Carpet Sahib[99], I'm the dumb dead tiger. The picture was my idea; it will always remember me that there was a time in my life when I should have been happy.
I'd like Mary to see the picture, I'd like to have spare copies of it, and give her one, get her picture, I must ask him to order copies of it.
Chidambaram Bazaar
Buying more shirts for me, Ernest tells me, as if I would like to look sloppy, "I like you to dress well."
Thank-you! Why don't you tell your (swear word) Vellakaran friend to get their rags washed and ironed? Laundry is most expensive. Didn't I rather go hungry than walk around in a thick and stupid looking single dhoti, which I could have washed myself? [100]
Every time Ernest takes bath, he changes into clean clothes; we are the washerman's best customers. And if like today the washerman doesn't show up because of the rain, Ernest simply says, "we must buy some clothes."
Chidambaram Bazaar
Ernest likes to shop. Whatever he thinks fits me, he buys. From a pole in front of the Mudaliar textile shop a chequered Conch brand lungi is hanging, which, though it is only a lungi, is so nice, I beg him, "can we buy this?" I wanted one like this for a long time but cheaper ones are half the price.
Ernest doesn't ask the price. The lungi makes me so happy; I'd like to change into it right in the street.
Chidambaram Train Station
Near the station, I ask Ernest, "abroad, do parents ask you before the marriage? Will they ask you?"
"They will not ask me!"
"I thought there young people are allowed to marry who pleases them?"
"Arumugan Subramaniam Iyer, a.k.a. Arun, will you marry me?"
He is making fun of me but the new lungi is worth it.
In Ernest's Room
As soon as we are in our room, I put the lungi on. Ernest says, "you look good, don't wear underwear below it, at least not at night, it's not sexy."
He wants to embrace, touch, and kiss me, if only I would like it. The feeling is okay as long as I don't think. Like when you play or hear music, thinking spoils it.
I close my eyes and let Ernest's hands take possession of my body. He tells me, "I like your skin, I like your hair, open your eyes, please, you have beautiful eyes," as if it would make a difference! There are lakhs of students who are looking as good as I am, slim, strong, with black hair and big cow-eyes, or fish-eyes, or parrot-eyes. I am nobody, I don't exist, I'm the first guy he met after arriving here. If I would run away, another one would take my place within two hours, and Ernest wouldn't remark the difference until afterwards, at teatime, because Ernest likes the milk to be poured before the tea.
Is there something special in me? At night, I get up and spend an hour looking at myself in the mirror. There is nothing, I'm like everybody else. Crores of students my age must be staring at the same moment with the same stupid eyes into similar stained mirrors trying to decipher their destinies, hoping for something they like before something they fear.
Sitting down on the bed again, Mirabai's song awakes in my heart,
The Face of the Beloved Unveiled Itself Tonight
It is a women's song, I shouldn't sing it, I don't want to become like a women, but isn't true devotion like being the Lord's bride? Does Mary feel the same? I'd like to talk with her about how she feels inside her, about herself, her secret thoughts, whether she feels the same desire and shame. She is too good a singer to have no ambition; I must talk with her. Desperate I begin the second line,
Why didn't you leave the impression of your features on my soul? My Lord!
What is a woman? Is she sleeping now? It would make a beautiful song,
Is she sleeping now?
Are her lips ready for a kiss?
Is her body embracing an absent lover?
Is she sleeping now?
Is her black tress worrying the moon's light falling through the bars of the window? I lie down carefully trying to preserve the picture of her sleeping in her upstairs room, as I imagine her, with barred windows, in South Market Street, if I'm careful I'll succeed to imagine that Ernest's body is hers and I'll fall asleep with the tenderness of her sleeping body.
In the morning, Ernst urges me to give the new lungi to the washerman to wash. Like Mother, he insists that everything worn once should be washed, but the new lungi smells so nicely of new cotton that I don't want to take it off. I begin to cry, not because he forces me to give it to wash, that is meaningless. I cry because I feel so beautiful in this new lungi and I want this moment to last. I want the washerman to go away, and Ernest to lie down once more and tell me how beautiful I am. I say, "I mustn't take it off, it is so nice, I'll wear it forever!"
I make it sound like a joke, the washerman is laughing, but it is no joke, I want time to stop while I'm wearing this wonderful lungi, while the lungi is new and still smelling factory fresh. Ernest chases me into the bathroom and rips the lungi off my hips. I cry while I take bath and then remember that there is a new dhoti waiting which I haven't worn before, it gives me the courage to face life again.
The postman brings an air letter for Ernest and more money. He must be truly rich. While he reads the letter I prepare tea for him, he says, "greetings from a friend!"
"From whom?"
"Lee, a friend, he sends you greetings."
"How does he know about me? Did you write…" and I try to imagine what he wrote about me, how foolish I am, and, probably, that I… I say angrily, "why did you have to write about me, no need to know about me!"
They will make fun of me, 'your Indian boy', don't I do everything he asks me to do, ashamed I ask him, "Please don't write about me anymore".
"Why? What's wrong?"
"They'll make fun of me."
"Not at all, Lee is a nice guy, he's black, not much darker than you are, he writes he would like to meet you."
I understand what kind of nice Negro Lee is, why he wants to meet me. I say "I'm not like that," I want to run out of the room but I must pour him his tea, then he gives me the money to count, to make sure that I know how rich he is. While I try to put the dirty rubber bands back around the damp bills, my eyes are fixed on the big coconut knife. My hands feel the cool grip, the weight; I could easily chop off his head. He wouldn't have time to scream. But most of his money is in the bank; I can't run away to Bombay. How far would I get with the thousand two hundred rupees I have in bricks in front of me? Why not ask him straightaway for money in return for doing all he wants?
He sips his tea. He must know that nobody in his good mind would spend the money he does for me, that if asked to choose between this money and me, beyond Father, Mother, Hari, Madhu perhaps, nobody would choose me, because with thousand two hundred rupees they can buy me twenty times or fifty times, who knows how hungry I'll get.
In the Music College
From the moment I enter his room, the Master abuses me continuously until I leave in tears, regretting that the lesson is over.
In the entrance, I meet Mary, but I'm so confused I stare at her as if I wouldn't know her. Outside of the building I come to my senses and understand that she was saying, "How Do You Do?" to me. She was greeting me! Did I say, "Hello Mary"? She was greeting me!
She was greeting me!
Are her lips longing to be kissed?
Is she yearning to be loved?
She was greeting me!
Is her black tress worrying the sun's rays? Isn't Day sad to leave her to Night so soon?
In Ernest's Room
I lie down near Ernest to relax and immediately fall asleep. A faceless, formless, genderless entity involves me in abstract copulation, like a chemical reaction. I awake astonished that my body took part in what felt like sexual algebra. There was no lust in it. Why can't I dream of Mary?
Music Hostel
The better the clothes are I wear, the less Madhu believes what I'm telling him. When he notices my watch, he says bitterly, "now all your problems are solved!" He knows that I must do it and doesn't believe Ernest is my elder brother. Madhu knows what Ernest wants. "What’s there to be ashamed of between friends? I would do it too! But I am too ugly."
Which is true. Madhu pretends to believe me, pretends not to pretend to believe me. To change the subject, I talk about the Mirabai song, the difference between Hindustani and Carnatic music, Madhu asks me, "are you in love with Mary?"
I shake my head and say, "no!"
He says, "She is a good singer, why do you bother her?"
I'd like to ask him about her, but he doesn't approve my interest, he knows that I can't control myself.
In the Music College
The Master tells me, "Again you have come to make my poor old ears sick, do you still plan to become a musician, son?"
Every sound I play is wrong. The Master tells me, "Don’t worry, son! You can still become a good accountant, now play it once more!"
Why let myself get humiliated in front of others? I tell myself to stop attending the lessons, to give up. When I try again, the Master interrupts me and asks a senior student to play the scale as it should be played, and then cuts him off too, "you are worse, little father!"
I'm about to cry, but then the Master plays it himself and I can hear what he means, his intonation is perfect, sublime, ravishing, unbearably beautiful. In tears I begin to smile and, out of nervousness, I am so stupid to try to comb my hair in his presence, which is an offence, and he says, "What are you doing, little father? This is not a beauty saloon!"
I begin to cry and want to get up. The Master says, "don't leave, why are you crying, son! You're my worst student; sit down! I'm not yet finished with you, son! Play the scale again!"
Once I've managed to play the easy scale without mistake, he says, "you're so bad, all India must hear you, son! I will recommend you to AIR."
It's a cruel joke; can't he guess there is nothing I want more?
In Ernest's Room
To please him, I tell Ernest, "The Master gave me a good scolding today!"
"You deserve it!"
"I combed myself during the lesson!"
"Mairu!"[101]
"Chi!"[102]
"The curse of the hair artist!"
Ernest is right to make fun of me. He knows that 'hair artist', 'hair saloon' for the Tamil native sound like the worst abominations. Nobody would dare call me a 'hair artist' but Madhu too has called me a comb artist, dhoti artist, and many other artists before, because it is true: I'm a walking and standing artist, an eating and drinking artist, a talking, singing, writing, drawing artist, and less reputable artists too. Whatever I do, right down to and beyond pissing, I must improve it, find perfection in it. That's what art is about, perfection.
Perfection, to play like the Master, seems to be only one step away, but when I try, I'm a hopeless idiot. Immediately I fall into the trap of mechanical repetition, the prison of copying. Instead of coolly remaining aloof, I'm strumming along like a street musician in a marriage procession.
Madhu appears at the door and Ernest invites him to have tea and biscuits with us. Ernest questions Madhu about notation and improvisation, and Madhu is answering to Ernest's satisfaction. I never can guess what Ernest wants to hear; I'm too stupid to talk with — no need to look at my face!
When Madhu notices that I'm not able to take part in the conversation, he begins to defer to me, adding "Arun explained me" or "Madhu could clarify this" to each sentence, but my mood is spoilt.
Annamalai University
Ernest impresses both Madhu and me, when prompted by Vijay, Ernest takes part in TSU agitation in favour of a Harijan first year student who nearly got killed by a doctor who hit him with his Bajaj scooter and didn't stop to help him, a lecturer from Medical College, a Nambudiri Brahmin.
I don't want to advertise my Naxalite leanings, especially since I heard that some fellows from Palghat were arrested, but Vijay, Ernest and Madhu are all for it. Happily the boy didn't die.
I must accompany Vijay and Ernest when they go to see the doctor. The presence of the foreigner lends weight to the good cause. Ernest talks to the doctor himself, but neither can the doctor understand why Ernest is angry, nor can Ernest understand why the doctor couldn't be bothered to stop after hitting a Harijan. How can I explain to Ernest that no Brahmin wants to touch a bleeding Harijan, that blood defiles you like spit? I don't talk about it with Ernest, he likes Muslims and outcastes and Gypsies and Negroes, the dirtier the better, it's obvious why.
In the Music College
I ask the Master bluntly, "Sir, do you advise that I should give up?"
"To become an accountant would be wiser but then maybe you wouldn't be happy as an accountant, while on the other hand, most artists are unhappy too, look at me, son (smiling his happiest smile)! No money, no success, no fame, the family is angry with them, the wife is beating them, but art lets them forget it all and sporadically they experience a few minutes of happiness which, to them, seems better than all so-called happiness. One should never advise anybody to become an artist, son! Art is like a disease, a madness, it's like becoming a sadhu, in some people it can't be helped and they become artists though their teacher may have told them many times to become accountants instead."
Maybe he means I should persevere. Before I leave he asks me about Ernest, what everybody is asking me, from the sweeper to the Registrar, "is he married, is he engaged to marry, does he have a girl friend?"
In Ernest's Room
Ernest writes a petition to the VC regarding the injured Harijan student, and in return gets invited for lunch by the VC, like a VIP.
While he is away, I have a wonderful time, lying on the bed, dreaming of Mary, inviting her to Ooty[103], seducing, flirting, enjoying, consummating our love. We are dancing to a wonderful song.
Am I dreaming this?
Is she saying 'my love' to me?
Are her eyes to shy to look at mine?
Am I dreaming this?
Miraculously her black tress floats ahead of us in slow motion, until we fall onto a soft bed in an A/C room tastefully decorated with scantily clad devadasi dancers and musicians,
Is this love or what?
Are we two or one or none?
Have space and time come to their end?
Is this love or what?
I'm plaiting her black tress when Ernest comes back and tells me that the VC, Dr. Chandrasekhar, a hero of the Naxalites because he asked the PM to resign after the Allahabad court ruling, could not hear him when he tried to talk about the Harijan. The VC's American wife, Ernest said, sympathised with the hurt guy but she too wasn't able to get the VC's attention for the case. It must have been a funny meal; the two foreigners canvassing for a run-over Harijan while a crew of Brahmin servants were scurrying to and fro with choice dishes prepared by Brahmin cooks, and the VC probably meditated how to stay out of prison and run for PM himself.[104]
Ernest believes he got invited for his virtue. I can't explain him that he got invited for the colour of his skin; the VC likes to talk to Westerners.
In Ernest's Room
Saturday morning Ernest tells me, "pack the swimming things, we'll go to a beach", handing me his swimming trunks.
I've been at a beach twice before with Madhu and friends from the PUC, nobody had special swimwear; some were using a bathing towel, others, including me, jumped into the water in their underwear.
Ernest's swimming trunks look expensive, important; he must be an experienced swimmer. I know swimwear only from pictures in the Illustrated Weekly's sport section, in the village we swam in our underwear in the temple tank. As long as you wear your black cord,[105] you're not naked.
Porto Novo
We take the bus to Porto Novo, a forlorn place. The bus stand is a dirt square big enough for the bus to stop and turn. There are one or two miserable shops selling washing soap and the few things fishermen need. Several people show signs of Elephantiasis, this together with smell of rotting fishes, the heat and the silence make me think we've lost our way. I ask at a tea stall how to get to the beach. Instead of telling me the way the tea stall man says, "Is the sir a Vellakaran?"
We have to walk a long distance, past the little port and the Oceanographic Institute and then through the fishers' villages to the lagoon. I hold the umbrella above Ernest's head to protect him against the sun. He thinks he knows where we are going; he checked it on his map and in a travel book.
In the Skiff
To cross the lagoon there is a skiff, which is just four long balsa pieces tied together with coco fibre strings. It's difficult to sit down on it without getting wet.
The skiff boy squats opposite us, wearing only a bathing towel, moving the skiff with a pole. Ernest stares at him; I can see the desire in Ernest's eyes, but what is there to desire in a boy like this, does he want to do it with him? Does Ernest want me to go for a walk once we arrive on the shore?
At the Beach
From the lagoon, the skiff boy leads us to the beach, which is beautiful and clean. We're the only people, far away towards Porto Novo I can see fishers' boats pulled upon the beach, in the other direction the empty beach continues until the horizon. The sand is white and in front of us, the ocean is immense. I would prefer to sit down and just look at the waves. The sea is the mirror of the soul, but Ernest wants to swim.
I change modestly, how one should, while Ernest undresses completely, and then pulls his swimming trunks onto his naked body. The skiff boy doesn't pretend not to watch but he's only a small fellow. I tell him to weigh down our clothes with a heavy piece of dry wood, to protect them against the wind.
When Ernest pulls me into the water, the boy follows us, staring at Ernest. We're jumping into the waves; I get thrown over. Ernest helps me and uses every occasion to hold me, to wrestle with me, to be on top of me in the low surf. I enjoy his strength. He kisses me, I don't want him to kiss me in front of the boy who watches us grinning knowingly, taking off his lungi once he is in the water up to the hips, washing his lungi and himself nicely and shamelessly, then spreads his wet lungi on the sand. When the boy joins us again in the waves naked, Ernest smiles at him, and the boy asks, "Merican?"
Ernest says, "Why don't we swim naked too?"
Is he going to take off his swimming trunks and expect me to do the same? In the Illustrated Weekly, I've seen naked white people playing with plastic dishes on the beach in Goa. Suddenly I am afraid but then I think what does it matter? It could be fun! Ernest plays with me and the boy in the waves and then he says, "I'm cold, let's run a bit!"
I tell the boy, "necessary to look after our clothes, little father, forbidden to move!"
We run along the beach and when we are quite distant from the skiff boy Ernest catches me and throws me onto the sand, wrestling with me, laughing, he is strong and today first time I see a certain style and beauty in his white body. Moving and wet, in the sun, he looks good, or at least important, strong, male, full of light.
He kisses my nose, my front, then my lips. I try to free myself from his hold, but he is too strong. He confuses me; it is as if he would rape me. He does what I don't want; his tongue is touching my lips. For a second it is like love, like when Vijay and I kissed[106], my strength leaves me, we shouldn't do it, not here, not in broad daylight on an open beach, the skiff boy must be watching us. Ernest's lips are wet and salty from the sea, his cool, clean, strong body is on top of me, I close my eyes, he slides down trying to kiss my body, which gives me the chance to fight him. A wave froths over us, then runs away sucking the sand from below my body, pulling me sidewise. If only I could stop thinking, stop being, my life seems an endless plain stretching to a distant horizon, empty, without a point to fix my eyes on.
To protect my honour I should get up and run away, leaving him for good, but instead I pull him towards me, to keep him from kissing my body, which without the protection of the dark of the night is too shameful. Otherwise, I don't care what he does. I hope Ernest will take my life and give meaning to it, I'm fed up with being Arun, the brown Indian idiot, let him turn me into a Vellakaran, I want to live his white life full of beautiful expensive things, in an A/C house surrounded by a lush green lawn and beautiful flowers.
A wave rolls over me; I close my eyes. Let the water wash my dirty brownness, my hideous Indianness away! I pretend to be drowning and Ernest has to save me, he picks me up and carries me further ashore, then resuscitates me kneeling over me and blowing air into my nose, which feels exceedingly funny. I try hard not to laugh but it tickles too much. He closes my nose with his fingers and when I open my mouth to breathe, he kisses me violently. Shocked, I get up and begin to run again.
Ernest is a fast runner and overtakes me easily. I fall behind because I want to look at him, he isn't beautiful but I'd like to be like him, white, a white foreigner, a real Vellakaran. I'm disgusted with myself, my name, my coming from a village where time stands still if it doesn't move backward or in a circle, spiralling from worse to worst. I run faster and catch up with him, "is it possible to take me with you, abroad?"
He grabs my arm and throws me onto the sand, once more covering me with his body and nearly choking me with his kisses. Is he really in love with me?
The skiff boy is far away and the beach is empty. I thought I knew how to use a boy but he drives me insane without so much as pulling down my wet underwear, "please, you mustn't, please!" do it, take me with you, abroad, I don't care what you do as long as nobody knows. I close my eyes, there is something I want him to do, too shameful to say, the desire darkens my mind, paralysing my resistance, I want him so badly to do what I can't say that I don't mind his tongue in my mouth anymore, in fact I don't mind anything anymore.
His kisses and his body on top of me mix with the dream of living abroad, well dressed, with a good haircut and dark cooling glasses, like a film star, his friend with nothing to care about. While his tongue slides around my eyes and my ears, while he is kissing and biting my neck, I'm on his bed in his apartment, which looks like in a film. I'm beautiful; he loves me. What a rare chance I have that a rich man should fall in love with me! If only he would do what I want!
Walking back, I put my arm around his shoulders. Whatever he wants I must let him do it; I'm lucky to have met him. I ask him, "am I your friend?"
"Do you want to be my friend?"
"I must be your friend but you don't love me."
"Do you love me?"
We walk back and then we sit on the beach and watch the waves. The skiff boy squats next to me talking about sharks, tortoises and snakes he has seen, he wants me to translate it for Ernest. The boy asks, "Are you his he-wife?"
"No, shut up!"
"It is necessary to ask the Vellakaran 'is something necessary?'!"
"What?"
"Ask the Vellakaran!"
But I don't ask and when we get back onto the skiff, the boy looks at me with obvious disappointment, anger, as if I ruined his game. He doesn't smile when we part, and though I give him a small tip, I read in his eyes 'you want to keep him for you alone, don't you?'
In the Fishers' Village
I find a thatched hotel, looking so much like a tribal hut that Ernest is afraid to enter and to touch the food they serve, which is delicious lemon rice. ¾ In the end, after explaining me all I didn't want to know about the Elephantiasis of the hotel owner, Ernest sits down on the narrow axe hewn wooden bench and tries the food. He likes it too, and we begin to eat.
I want to ask him once more, how Christians marry, but before I can open my mouth he asks me, "What did the skiff boy tell you?"
"Snakes he has seen, sharks, and whether I'm your 'he-wife'?"
"What did you say?"
"Shut up."
In the Bus to Chidambaram
When we come back to the bus stand the caller is hitting the body of the bus with the flat of his hand, shouting "Chidambaram, departing!"
In the bus Ernest begins again to talk about being 'gay'; I die of shame. If somebody should understand, what he is talking about! Talking is worse than doing it, isn't it? Doesn't he have any shame at all? Luckily, the farmers sitting next to us don't know English. The Vellakarans are much worse than what people say.
The bus is getting full and to change the train of his thoughts I teach him to apologise to people if he touches them with his feet. He finds it funny, "how can you apologise by touching somebody three times?"
Wouldn't he feel insulted if somebody touched him with their feet? He is saying 'sorry' all the time without ever meaning it.
The bus is racing towards Chidambaram. One moment I understand Ernest and we are friends, next moment he is a complete stranger, talking about Indian politics, our government, as if India and we Indians would be worst. 'India' or 'Indians' means me. He wants me to become like him. He has paid enough to expect me to pretend.
In Ernest's Room
While Ernest is showering, I look up 'love-marriage' in his dictionary but there is no entry. When he comes out, I ask him, "What is your opinion of love-marriages?"
"Whom do you want to marry?"
"Nobody, I must know whether you think this should be allowed?"
"In my country there are no arranged marriages."
"But if you are a Buddhist can you marry a Christian?"
"Mary is a Christian, isn't she? Do you want to marry her? Are you in love with her?"
"I mustn't love anybody except you. Everybody is making fun of me."
"I think she's afraid of what people say."
If only I could love Ernest as much as I should. At night in the dark, I want him to finish what he started on the beach, but we sleep like the nights before. He shouldn't respect me. He sleeps peacefully while the heat keeps me awake. I laugh at myself; desire has replaced fear and disgust, if only it were true that the Vellakarans are always hot!
Early in the morning while he is still asleep, I imagine that I would become a Christian and marry Mary in a church with hideous Christian music, everybody in suits and gowns. Suddenly I understand that she must be eating meat. How can I think of touching her? They're baptised toddy-tappers, what's wrong with me? Ernest at least doesn't touch meat or beer.
In the Music College
The Master asks me, "are you in love, son?" as if he could see into my heart.
"No, Sir!" I will not think of Mary again. Whenever the thought wants to present itself to my mind I will think of how they are chewing pieces of animal carcasses like dogs, how her lips are smeared with cow blood, she is worse than a rakshasi[107].
In the lesson with Ernest, the Master becomes aware that I am not translating verbally what he is saying, and asks me, as if he would explain me something, "is he sleeping naked? I've heard Westerners are sleeping in the nude." When I don't answer, the Master says, "you must be tired, son…
Oh! The wonderful nights of young lovers!
…but now kindly concentrate on…"
The Master is making fun of my being Ernest's kept lover.
In Lord Nataraja's Temple
Together with Madhu we visit the temple, I get a plate with a coconut, some flowers, camphor to burn, and buy archana and prasadam tickets, introduce Ernest to the head pujari, who, after I have given him five rupees for the hundi[108] in Ernest's name, tells him what a great artist Madhu is.
In front of the sanctum sanctorum, Ernest seems to pray too, but how can he pray? Whatever he says, he must be something like a Christian, he is a Vellakaran, they have no heart.
Having circumambulated the inner and the outer courts, we take rest near the temple tank. Ernest asks me, "When was this temple built?"
Who knows how old the temple is? It must exist since the beginning of the world; it is Shri Shri Natarajan's earthly abode. Ernest wouldn't understand. He talks about Swamis called this-ananda and that-ananda, about 'God' as if he means Basle Mission's Christian 'God' who is no God at all but at best a harmless heavenly principal. How can I explain to Ernest that Shri Shri Natarajan's dancing feet are making the earth tremble, that the Lord of the Universe's is present in this temple? That I'm ready to throw myself below the giant temple chariots wheel, to be crushed by the Lord[109].
I ask and Ernest explains me all about the Christian sects, their foolish tenets, what they taught us in High School, "You simply have to join a church and presto! once you die up you fly to Heaven!"
And presto! you're a toddy-tapper, a fisherman, a pariah no more. They're worse than Muslims. Forget her!
Chidambaram
On the way back from the temple, I show Ernest a place where swamis live and tell him about the murder case in Vellurmath. We visit the house of Narayan sir, who is not there. I want to please Ernest but I don't understand what he is interested in. I buy oranges for him, the sweetest kind.
In Ernest's Room
I peel the oranges for him, feeding him slice by slice, touching his lips, letting him lick my fingers, this at least he likes.
At night, Mary visits me in my dreams and I enjoy with her.
In the morning when the thought of her wants to enter my mind again, I tell her, "Fuck off!"
I must to forget her; I need only Ernest, nobody else, until he leaves.
Thanjavur
On Saturday, Ernest invites Madhu to travel with us to Thanjavur to see the famous temple. Unhappily, Ernest is not allowed into the temple because he is white. Without Ernest, the temple means nothing to me, like a dark, noisy, smelly hell, which Madhu and I must enter to get vibhuti[110] and prasadam for Ernest. I suspect that Ernest enjoys more the touch of my fingers when I bestow the blessing of the archana on his brow than the blessing itself. I smear his brow with vermilion and sandal ashes, whoever meets us must respect Ernest's piety.
On the way back to the bus stand, we pass a Christian church and Ernest and Madhu drag me inside to see it. Mass is going on; it's like our High School chapel just bigger. There is a beautiful stained-glass window in the apse. The priest and his congregation are so dark-skinned that one can't distinguish their features. I don't touch anything; there must be cow blood on everything.
In the bus stand we see a stall with second hand English books and instead of the worst books, which I crave, Ernest buys me a boring American storybook. He doesn't like me anymore.
In the Bus
Ernest and Madhu are talking about Western music. From Ernest's voice, I can hear that he respects Madhu. I try to repeat some clever things I read in my A Glimpse of Western Music but Ernest is not impressed. He puts his arm around my neck as if to say 'don't bother!'
I look at the passing trees and fields, at the paddy spread out to dry on the road, the dogs and cows; the reality of life is choking me. Will I ever earn enough to survive? I close my eyes to keep the tears back and lean against Ernest as if I would be sleepy. If only I could stop my mind, and let Ernest take charge of my existence. I'm far too stupid to survive on my own.
At the Cinema
Back in Chidambaram, we go straight to a cinema to see a new exceedingly foolish film Roja Raja.[111] The music is nice. I behave like we've gone to the Cinema because we know no other place. During the intermission, Ernest is in a good mood, ordering tea and peanuts.
At Shanti's House
After the cinema, we visit Shanti. If only I could talk with Mary like Madhu talks with Shanti! That Mary must guess what I want, makes me shy. We drink tea with Shanti's mother, Vijay, and Shanti, who is serving. Relaxing at home Vijay looks even more beautiful than usual. He is beyond reasonable doubt the most beautiful student of the whole university. Everybody wants to be his friend, he is a TSU and Young Congress big shot, and unlike me, Vijay is utterly sensible, studying Tamil to become a teacher and earn money for his family.
The whole evening Ernest stares at Vijay. Vijay is like a film star, with languid eyes, bored expression, big eyes and long eyelashes, people adore him, children follow him in the street, he knows that he is a marvel. But a Vellakaran is different. Ernest's attention flatters him. Four eyes are becoming two, Ernest wants Vijay, Vijay enjoys Ernest's infatuation. That Ernest is so interested in Vijay rekindles my own interest in Vijay. When Shanti's mother invites us for next Saturday's lunch, I begin to worry. I hope that to eat in their house will be too uncomfortable for Ernest, but he gladly accepts, because of Vijay I suppose. I can't talk against Vijay; he always treated me as if we were friends. I should try to make him my real friend, but I know that my stupidity will bore him soon.
Annamalai University
It is nice to walk home with Ernest at night; his arm around my shoulders is protecting me. I don't mind that he talks with Madhu. I don't feel jealous of Madhu because in the dark Ernest's hand on my shoulder tells me that I'm his friend. We walk past late Raja Sir Annamalai Chettiar of Chettinad's statue[112], over the speed brakes, students are coming our way or going the same direction, walking or cycling. Madhu and Ernest are talking while I look out for the young women working on the various construction sites, they earn only twelve rupees a day, they are in my reach now, then we pass the great hall, which Ernest doesn't dare enter because he forgot to bring a black jacket from ABROAD. Where is my black jacket? I will have to borrow one from a tailor like everybody else.
If only Ernest would never have to leave! If only I could become part of his life abroad! If only the dream would never end!
New Guest House
Back in our room, Ernest asks me about Vijay, "is he gay?"
I'm not surprised but don't know what to say. Vijay is so beautiful that everybody is bound to fall in love with him; he looks like Lord Krishna with his strong slim body, long hair and a face sweeter than any girl's. I say, "It doesn't seem."
"Does he have a girl friend?"
"No idea!"
While I prepare tea for Ernest, I tell him about Sitaram[113], leaving out the interesting part, promising myself to think of Sita later, at night, in bed.
Behind the Rowing Channel
But later in bed, trying to remember Vijay's body, instead an evening comes to my mind when Vijay, Madhu, myself and Shanti were walking near the rowing channel. Coming to the large trees Vijay saw a swarm of crows attacking parrots that were hiding in a flower tree. Before I understood what was going on, Vijay was throwing stones at the crows, and with good aim, chasing them away. I tried to help him and had to admit that he didn't do it to show off. It was his gentle nature, which made him defend the parrots. In this moment, I saw his true character, which is as beautiful as his graceful countenance. My stone throwing at least wasn't so bad either, he acknowledged this ¾ the worst rascals have the best aim.
Thinking of Vijay and the parrots makes me feel too mean to sleep. I get up and in the bathroom study my face in the mirror, trying to see why Ernest doesn't like me. I have a shower. In the room, I wrap a new lungi around my hips and then drop the towel to the floor. My nakedness and the thought of Sita intoxicate me. I lie down close to Ernest; his wealth and my poverty make us like man and wife. I let him touch me without resisting when my lungi begins to slip. We are friends, no need to hide. I pretend to be sleepy, but Ernest doesn't take advantage of me and I don't dare be more forward until I fall asleep in his embrace.
In the morning, I help him first time to feed the cats and dogs he patronises. I do it for Vijay.
Shanti's House
Saturday at noon Ernest, Madhu, Vijay and myself eat our lunch together in Shanti's house. Ernest insisted that we buy a jasmine malai[114] for Shanti's mother, who is tremendously pleased. Ernest asks me, "Does she like the flowers?"
Ernest means, 'why doesn't she say "thank-you"?' Shanti's mother, Vijay and Shanti, all speak English. How can I explain him in front of them that only Mission schooled people like me know that white people need to be thanked twenty-four hours a day? The food is okay but the room is too hot. Madhu has problems eating in the heat, but Ernest seems not to mind, he has only eyes for Vijay.
Vijay wants the TSU to help the Harijan students of Annamalainagar who at night study below the one streetlight of the village because there is no electricity in their thatched school. Vijay is a Gandhian; he wants to do good by all means.
Ernest asks, "How much will it cost? It can't be expensive to put electricity into the school."
Vijay is going to organise the electrification[115]. I offer to collect subscriptions in the university. I'll do whatever Ernest wants me to do. I don't ask, 'if the Harijans want to study why didn't they behave better in their last life in order to be born as Brahmins?' It doesn't make sense to be a Harijan and want to study; our cows are cleverer, serving us faithfully now in order to improve their lot later. I don't say anything because Ernest doesn't approve my Brahmin ideas Whatever Vijay does is Congress politics, he knows what he is doing. I'd like to ask him 'what of all the outcastes worse than Harijans? Shouldn't they study too?' But that would be talking like a Naxalite; Harijans vote for Congress, who cares whether they despise the DMK potters and blacksmiths?
Ernest's attention for Vijay and Vijay's being pleased by it spoils my mood. They want to enjoy without me. We drink tea in the entrance downstairs. I sit with Shanti and Madhu, trying not to listen to what Ernest is talking with Vijay. Ernest invites Vijay to a matinee show and dinner in the ITDC Lodge, which is the most expensive hotel in Chidambaram.
Chidambaram Bazaar
After the worst heat has subsided, Madhu goes to see his Master and we go shopping. Ernest buys the fine double dhotis with narrow diamond pattern borders for himself, Vijay and me. Ernest is really interested in Vijay, more than in any other boy before. What if Ernest leaves me? He must be tired of me. People say Vijay has accepted invitations from rich fellows.
Lakshmi Cinema
Ernest sits between me and Vijay. In the interlude, Ernest buys tea and cashew nuts for all of us. Ernest pretends he likes Tamil films because of the songs. From Vijay's sideways glances I guess that Vijay is afraid that I am getting jealous, he talks to me respectfully, acknowledging my position as Ernest's friend.
I can't see what is in front of my eyes. I look straight ahead at the screen while I try to hear what Ernest and Vijay are talking, I would like to turn my head and check what their hands are doing but I don't dare, it's none of my business. I need to buy bidis but I don't dare, Ernest told me not to smoke, I don't want to give him a reason to throw me out. I must become a number one rascal, he is a Vellakaran, they're always hot. Didn't' you learn in High School,
In Rome do as the Romans?
With a Vellakaran, behave like a Vellakaran! While on screen, a strong lady is beating up her weak Brahmin husband; in my mind I become Ernest who is raping me, enjoying with me, forgetting myself completely. When the nagaswaram and pakhavaj announcing the end of the last roll wake me up, I feel feverish, I'd like to sleep, Ernest asks me, "how did you like it?"
"It was nice, thank-you!"
He doesn't listen; Vijay is close to him, touching Ernest's shoulder. Then Vijay straightens his dhoti, combs his hair, Vijay looks better than the actors in the film, I'm finished. All due to my infatuation with Dr. Toddy-Tapper's daughter. I should never have talked about her.
ITDC[116] Lodge
On the way from the cinema to the lodge, Vijay tries to find out from me whether I would mind if he became friendly with Ernest. I ask him bluntly whether he is interested in Ernest, whether he is that type. He cannot say Yes.
In the lodge Ernest says, "Let me talk a moment with Vijay".
I sit in the lobby watching Ernest and Vijay sit down in the garden. I know what Ernest is asking, and Vijay knows that I know; which I hope will make it impossible for him to say Yes. I can see the desire in Ernest's face. Vijay is blushing, smiling gently, he must be feeling like a girl; and from the distance, it looks like he is truly turning into a girl. I remember his lips on mine, his body in my arms, his skin below my fingers. A wave of desire rushes through my body, like I never felt for a boy before. Like what I feel when on a hot afternoon lying down the thought of Mary presents itself while I fall asleep and later I wake up with the touch of her lips on my lips; her skin, her smell so real, that, though I tell myself that it was a dream, it seems she must be waiting for me to return.
I observe Vijay and understand that he wants to say Yes. He is shaking his head at Ernest's words with the charming sideways gesture of a dancer, ready to let Ernest love him, slightly curled in the white rattan chair like a cat, open for Ernest to touch him, but Ernest is talking seriously and cannot see Vijay's readiness. Ernest is pressing him to say something, and slowly disappointment and sadness is spreading over Vijay's face, and then they come back both unhappy.
I like Ernest and want him to be happy but I am jealous and afraid that he will leave me for Vijay who looks much better, is more sensible, more ready. During the meal, I try to talk about the film we saw but Ernest and Vijay are not in the mood.
Chidambaram
Ernest and I accompany Vijay home and then walk home the long way, round the rowing channel. Ernest says, "I thought he was interested but when I asked him directly he could not commit himself."
"He is a nice boy, maybe there is shyness."
"Do you think I should not have asked him?"
"What?"
"Whether he is gay."
I am shocked. How could Ernest say such a thing? Now Vijay will tell the whole university. For a moment I get angry, but then, the truth is, even the small fellows who eat what is left over from our meals seem to know. And nobody minds, only Reddy students are annoying me, but they did it already when I was in PUC, they bother every student they suspect of being available.
"What did he say?"
"I think he is only interested in money."
Suddenly I am panicking. What if Ernest tires of me? I decide to become utterly shameless, my body is nothing precious, let him have it!
In Ernest's Room
At night, Ernest still looks hurt but it is better for me if he believes Vijay is not interested. Instead of asking vile questions, Ernest should have invited him. For the moment, I'm safe. In bed, later, when his hands happen to touch, I don't move away. I must replace Vijay for Ernest, expecting him to go ahead but he doesn't.
Trying to soothe Ernest, I say something about being his younger brother and he answers me angrily, "you're saying you're my younger brother, but you're only my little brother for the money! If you would have enough money, you wouldn't like me at all."
What can I answer? I kiss him and let him kiss me. Yes, it is true: If I had money, his manners would disgust me; I wouldn't be as friendly with him as Madhu is, who knows only music. No, it isn't true: Another boy perhaps would better accommodate his tastes but try to get as much money out of him as possible, while I save Ernest a lot of money, help him and protect him. If he doesn't take more advantage of me, it is his fault, not mine. I'm ready.
If only I could become like Vijay! I want to satisfy Ernest fully, but whatever I decide doesn't change my stupid stubbornness.
I try to think of Mary. I imagine that Ernest's hands are her hands, that her fingers are undoing my dhoti, freeing me of my clothes; present dream, past and future trance are mixing with Ernest's embrace. Mary and Ernest are melting into each other, my body becomes a gopuram of crores of couples making love, thousand kinds of love, the whole gamut of the Kamasutram; crores of love-making ant couples are crawling over my body, covering it with their passion, all revolving around and reflecting the essence of lust, Shri Shri Shakti, Supreme Joy.
I don't know anymore whether I pretend to be in love or I am in love with him, it is like a love night without full consummation. In the morning, I kiss his shoulder, put my arm around him and dreaming of Mary, let him feel my heat. When he doesn't respond I get afraid and begin a story, then sing him Annakili[117] while my fingers trace his strong arms and wide chest, I don't want him ever to leave me, I'd rather change into whatever he wants me to be. I close my eyes and put my head on his shoulder, feeling like a young woman who loves an old man, loving him for his wealth, his power, but also because her own people have abandoned her, while he at least is treating her gently, with love.
Kissing my neck, he compliments me for my voice, he knows to sing too but you can hear that he doesn't feel at ease singing. He prefers to hide behind his violin. I sing but my mind is full of thoughts and beyond these thoughts again, like a second mind, I am watching myself in his arms, watching me worry like a girl in love, and this second mind makes fun of me. Good Morning little bride!
Only Ernest matters, and beyond him, Mary. I try to talk to him how he talks, overcoming my shame, if not doing at least talking with him the way he likes. I let him caress me to the border of what he thinks are my limits, dropping all resistance. He respects me out of habit, as if it were enough for him, he seems not unhappy. I have become several persons mocking each other, the prostitute mocking the musician's pretension, the girl in love cringing at the Naxalite's anger, all talking with each other in my mind, while in my heart I'm begging Ernest to absorb myself into his existence.
The truth is, I love him because of his money; but prostituting myself, I began to love him because he was so generous not to insist to get what he paid for. In my mind I tell him thousand times to do as he pleases, can't he see that I am at his mercy? I tell him, aloud, "No need to waste your money for a parasite".
It annoys me that he doesn't treat me as he should.
Chidambaram Bazaar
He buys me what I desire, a fancy travel bag I've seen in a shop, Ernest tells me it is too expensive, but I want it, there is a name tag on it, and printed-on stickers, it looks like one has been abroad. The price is foolish. I haggle with the shopkeeper, but he has seen the Vellakaran and asks too much. I really need this bag but the moment I have it in my hand the plastic loses its shine. I hold an ordinary dusty sea-blue bag like I have seen scores before; I can't remember anymore what pleased me so much. I walk next to Ernest, carrying the pretentious bag, looking at it without making myself conspicuous, and the glossy plastic becomes an image of my mad greed and the price I am paying for it. Am I paying too much?
Ernest asks me to buy him chikagai powder and Monkey brand black tooth powder, Kashmir Snow face cream. For him shopping is a pastime. That he fancies the picture on a box is reason enough to spend money. I buy some more Mysore sandal agarbatti because he insists on burning incense nearly continually in the room. He has no idea how much money we spend.
On the way back, we meet Mary and her friends and I manage to look at her as if she would be any girl from my village. I say Hello and she says Hello.
After we have passed them I say, "Her complexion is too dark!"
"She's nearly as dark as you!"
What would Father and Mother say if I would mention her?
In Ernest's Room
In the bathroom, I look at my face; how dark am I? From tomorrow onwards, I will not let one sunray touch my face. I try to see whether there is a difference between my hips and my face, but my whole body is the same disgusting brown.
Back in the room, I ask him, "abroad do they sell a cream which makes the skin fair?"
"What's wrong with your skin?"
"It is too dark!"
"No, you're beautiful!"
"Then why must you not love me?" I know that he likes me but it is nice to hear it again.
"I love you, do you love me?"
"I must love you!"
Chidambaram Central Bus Stand
To put the new bag to use, on Saturday morning we travel to Poompohar. Ernest wants to spend the night in a hotel there, probably assuming that there will be more privacy than in the New Guest House. While I stare towards South Market Road, Ernest tells me how nice the bag looks. I know that we paid too much for it; it was stupid to buy it, why does he have to rub it in? I'll pay for it tonight.
Today he looks less like a foreigner, more like a film star or an Anglo-Indian from Madras. He has learnt to move less jerkily, to speak more softly. In his new double dhoti and khadi shirt, one could mistake him for a native. You don’t expect a foreigner to wear native dress, only his waterproof watch gives him away. Meanwhile I have learnt to be a rich man's friend, there is no right or wrong anymore, Ernest's pleasure is the only standard.
From the bus, I show him a transvestite in the market crowd. We talk about what he likes: Vijay, Dikshit, sweet boys, Gypsies. I say, "They are shy, except Dikshit, who is mad."
I don't mention the flat, square cure for this shyness. I don't explain him that the not thought, not said, not seen didn't happen.
Instead, I tell him about the unhappy fellow[118] who got thrown out of Palghat Mission High after getting caught in the loo unable to extricate himself from a tight spot with a junior. The only funny thing ever happened in our school. They should have shot a picture of the fellows, to hang them in the principal's room.
Poompohar Beach
There are many school classes and families with children playing in the low water, and more interesting for me, a group of girls with flowers in their hair, looking heartrendingly beautiful when their saris get wet. I must sit down and watch, unable to pull my eyes away. Ernest understands and says, "Let’s go and talk with them!" and he takes my hand. When we approach, they all want to meet the Vellakaran, giggling shyly and eager to talk at the same time. I don't know which girl I should look at most, they seem to consider me half-a-Vellakaran. Ernest buys them drinks from a beach vendor, we get quite forward, talking broken English liberates us, they are from Mayuram Training[119] College, Ernest flatters me endlessly by telling them that I am the number one young violinist in Annamalai university. His generosity makes me want to reward him on the spot with pleasures not fit to mention in the presence of young ladies. When the girls leave, their addresses are in my shirt pocket with promises of postcards and meeting again perhaps.
After the girls, I need to cool myself in the Ocean. Ernest is changing as he should ¾ what is the use of wearing swimwear in the water where nobody can see you if you bare yourself on the beach where everybody is watching you?
We leave our clothes with a banana vendor who looks reliable. I take Ernest's hand and we jump into the water, I am no more afraid of him, we are friends, we are we and the others are the crowd. The surf is nice; I pretend that I can't swim. He enjoys playing lifeguard. In the water it is a game, onshore, beyond the beach it is a fact.
Poompohar TNTDC[120] Hotel
In the hotel room I look at the addresses of the girls, thanking Ernest once more for his generosity, the chances that I will meet them again are slim, but now I have names to dream about, maybe one of the girls will remember me, talk about me, it's wonderful. That Ernest told them that I am the number one violinist makes me so proud as if it would be true. I should have told them that no other Vellakaran in Annamalai University speaks better Tamil than he speaks. I tell it to him, and then, because he is the only Vellakaran, we invent similar compliments, until we arrive at that no Vellakaran has a more beautiful friend and that he is the most beautiful Vellakaran in South Arcot District. We joke and then begin to tease and chase each other, trying to undo our lungis, if you laugh hard enough all barriers brake down. We end on the bed in our underwear, still laughing, exhausted, happy, just friends. He didn't blacken my face in front of the girls. He is my friend.
At the Beach
After dinner we go for a walk along the sea, and in the dark I feel free to talk like him, he can't see my face, nobody can hear what we talk, "you must do what you want with me!"
I 'm desperate to please him. I begin to cry and sit down. He embraces me and pushing me down in the sand kisses me on the lips which he mustn't but I don't want him to feel that I don't like it. Should I ask him for money? One thousand rupees? He has already spent too much for me; I don't want him to waste more money. While he is kissing me it becomes clear to me like a mathematical formula that I want to be shameless, brake all rules, and that at the same time I fear that he could really do what I am continually encouraging him to do. His tongue is probing my lips but I am drifting far away thinking about how I ape the Master while I'm professing the not composed, the not construed sound of each moment of time, each place in space, each mood, each feeling of my life, i.e. a comprehensive musical projection of my stupidity.
Would Mary let me kiss her like this?
In the Hotel Room
After taking bath, I wrap my new gold-bordered silk towel[121] around my hips and lie down expecting him to please himself with me. When he bought me the tuntu,[122] I only thought that it would make me look like a Tamil music master. It lends extreme respectability. To use it now, to please him, instead of a lungi, because it is shorter, thinner, more revealing, feels like sullying the artist in me. I must stop being the picture of an artist. I hope Ernest will finally rape me and at the same time, I want to run away but haven't I invited him myself? Lying down next to me he says, "You look beautiful, I'm lucky to have met you."
Ernest is kissing me, and I think 'now he is going to do it', bracing me against it. I worry whether the door is locked although I locked it myself. Ernest plays with my hair, saying, "You’re afraid, aren't you. I'm not going to rape you", and when I turn to face him, he continues smiling, "immediately".
"You must do it, it doesn't matter", I burrow my face again in the pillow.
"It would destroy our beautiful friendship without making us happy."
I'm disappointed and cannot get rid of the thought that maybe he would buy me a violin like his own if I would do it. I pull him down and embrace him and kiss him as if he would be a girl, trying to learn how to kiss, to kiss him as he kisses me. I let him please himself until I fall asleep. I dream of Mary, but she doesn't let me see her face, continually escaping from my arms, only the image of her slim figure and the touch of her gracious fingers remain.
In the middle of the night I wake up, my towel is open, I'm naked but I don't care anymore. Actually, I would prefer Ernest to doing it myself. I don't even care enough to pull my towel from below his body and cover myself.
Repeating endlessly in my mind 'I don't care' I fall asleep, hoping that Ernest will muster the courage to do what he wants, then suddenly find myself in the most beautiful dream I ever dreamt.
The Dream
I am walking down a vast mountainside, various musical instruments are scattered on the meadow. I see groups of masters and students teaching and learning, until I arrive at a monastery where in the open courtyard there are students seated in rows waiting for me. I seem to be in Bhutan, in the Himalayas in any case, and I feel the urge to teach them the truth, I say in English, "everything changes, nothing changes, I will explain", and then look at the mountain range and fly upwards. First I am a bit anxious that I might fall but then I focus on the enormous light in front of me and tumble upwards, head over heel, high over the mountain ranges, which look like in a Chinese painting, cream and rose and yellow blending into pink in the morning light.
[123]Mother, oh, mother!
I made a falcon my lover.
He has a crest on his head,
And anklets on his feet,
And pecking for food he came.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
For one, the
radiance of his beauty,
Was as the sun at noon.
Second, he exuded perfumes.
Third, he had a rosy bloom,
Born to a fair mother.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
His eyes,
Were as the spring.
His hair as the monsoon is spread,
And on his lips for a long time,
A new day about to be born.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
In his breath,
The flowers of jasmine,
As laid out in a garden of sandalwood,
In his body played spring,
Bathed in perfumes.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
In his speech,
Falls the easterly wind,
Oh, he was just as a cuckoo bird,
His teeth white as a crane in a paddy field,
That flies off startled by clapping.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
Of love,
One canvas bed,
We spread under the moonlight.
The sheet of my body was soiled,
When he set his feet on the bed.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
My eyelids hurt,
And a flood of tears,
Came between.
All night I lost spent in thought.
Oh, what is this
punishment I have earned!
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
Early morning,
I knead and wash clay.
I scrubbed and bathed its body.
From within my body flew sparks,
And my hands became weak.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
Bread crumbs I
crushed,
But he wouldn't eat them.
I fed him the flesh of my heart.
He took off for such a flight,
That he has never returned.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
Mother, oh, mother!
I made a falcon my lover.
He has a crest on his head,
And anklets on his feet,
And pecking for food he came.
Oh, I devote
myself to thee!
I awake elated asking myself who is the falcon? Is Ernest going to leave me?
Poompohar Hotel
In the morning I pretend to be surprised to find myself naked against his body, Ernest doesn't listen and says, "I love you."
I hold him tight, thinking of nothing, forgetting what should be considered, while in my heart there is a melody, cool and beautiful like an opening lotus bud.
The waiter who brings our breakfast to the room is stupid enough to mistake me for a Vellakaran, trying to talk English with me; at least one idiot is respecting me. Why would we all prefer to be dirty ugly Vellakarans? How can we be so proud of our country, our culture, and so ready to board a plane to leave it behind? I ask Ernest, "What is wrong with India?"
"India is not gay enough, look at this room!"
I look around, for a moment I can see the room with Ernest's eyes: The ridiculous rotten pretension, the modern shabbiness, the miserable A/C comfort, which has replaced our palaces with their beautiful terraces where kings like Ernest enjoyed with dancing boys[124] while musicians like me provided invisible music.
When we go out, I ask him, "You must put on your cooling glasses! They make you look good."
His eyes are giving him away. Through his glasses, the boys can't see that he is looking at them. I don't want them to notice.
Poompohar Show Village
There is a goldsmith's shop and Ernest buys a small golden chain for me, as a surprise present. I didn't beg for it. While the goldsmith is weighing it to calculate the price, Ernest looks at the talis[125], fingering them as if he means to buy one. I explain him their meaning, that the woman is becoming her husbands slave and property, that it is Lord Murugan's footprint, for the woman to adore her husband as an image of Lord Murugan.
"Don't you want to be my wife?"
"You mustn't buy it!"
I'm afraid he'll buy a tali. He will never understand that nothing he does in private hurts so much as a hint in public.
Poompohar Bus Stand
Instead, Ernest buys me a sweet-smelling temple flower and puts it into my hair, which makes me look like a washerman in love.
In the Bus
I sing him the film songs I know by heart, to keep him from talking about what's wrong with India. My voice seems to please him, when we arrive in Chidambaram he takes me straight to the general store and buys me the little radio I have been begging for a long time. Giving it to me he says, "Please don't use it while I'm around, I don't like radios!"
In Our Room
Ernest seems satisfied at last, sitting on the bed, the table pulled up to it, writing. I sit near him on the bed, trying to read in English a book of his called Basic Acoustics of the Violin asking him the difficult words, understanding nothing. We're both waiting for the night. He to get what he wants, I to please him with what he wants.
In Our Room
Next day I sit on the mat on the floor, playing, hoping Ernest to hear, and maybe he is hearing, but only when I ask him bluntly, he says, "great!" as if this were all there is to say.
To please Ernest I pretend to read the storybook he bought me, a confusing long letter by a student who goes mad when he gets thrown out of High School. It's difficult reading and I don't understand why Ernest wants me to read it.
I miss Madhu, Murali and Shankar, my friends from the Music Hostel, sitting on the floor alone with Ernest who says nothing, is boring. I hope Madhu will visit, and when finally he appears, we raise hell with snippets of song and violin, the table becomes a mridangam, the boundaries between film and classical music blur, the noise attracts other students, suddenly we're singing M. S. Subbulakshmi songs, forgetting Ernest, he'll never understand the beauty of it. We begin to drink green coconuts, making a big mess, eating the flesh, in the end Ernest gets crossed, and Madhu and I must chase everybody out.
When Madhu finally has left too, Ernest begins another sermon about East and West, which like all his sermons starts with the flaws of the East, meaning mine, and then after denigrating India until nothing remains of it than one of these disgusting backfields which by communal agreements have become a public latrine, Ernest turns, so to speak, squatting on his heels, and pronounces India to be the apex of culture, accusing me of not respecting our wonderful heritage.
Just as he is ecstatically praising The Wonder That Was India, the electricity stops, and with the fan. The heat becomes unbearable. He lies down, I offer him a coconut to drink, what does he say now? Is it my fault? His mood is spoilt because it is too hot to do anything, and too early to go to an A/C cinema. I massage his legs, sweat is dripping from my front, I ask him, "abroad does the electricity stop too?"
"Once a year or less, only when lighting hits high voltage lines."
Here it happens every day, or more. The university has its own generator, and the VC's residence has its own generator in case the university generator fails — electricity isn't in the Vedas.[126]
In the Cinema
At four, we go out and watch another Manorama film. Ernest is holding me in the dark, we are laughing together. Manorama is married to the guy Hari prefers to imitate: The stupid Brahmin office servant with the ponytail. Maybe I should become like him, consider life a joke. Maybe the world is a practical joke played by the Gods on us. Maybe our sufferings make them laugh. In the end, all get burned on the funeral pyre. What are we fretting about?
After the film we walk home in a light rain, close together under the umbrella, I am tired and look forward to sleep near him, a perfumed, wet and cooling breeze promises private pleasures in the mood of The Meeting of the Lovers[127].
In Our Room
In bed at night, Ernest begins to fondle my lower back, I don't care that he touches me, but this makes me feel like a catamite. I want to get up and leave the room, go and sleep in the Music Hostel with Madhu. Nobody has ever done this to me; it is disgusting but there is lust in it too, in the feeling itself and in the passivity, suddenly I understand why perverts like it. Nobody can see what he does. Drifting along with the sensations, I become two persons, a body to please him, and a mind going to sleep forever. I forget about myself, sinking into oblivion. While his hands free me from my lungi, I am far away pondering how difficult it is to be a mere thing though looked at squarely I am a thing, a thinking, feeling thing called Arun. There are billions things like me, getting born, pretending to be, dying. It has no importance. We hope and suffer or suffer and hope until death ends it all.
I'm stunned and happy, observing with a grin how if I stop thinking, there is no judgement, and without judgement no shame. It is true,
DON'T WORRY ¾ BE HAPPY!
Chidambaram Station
Friday evening we pick up a friend of Ernest's at the station. Balu is a short, slim boy with regular features, good-looking, intelligent and from a proper Shaiva Brahmin family in Salem. His father has a textile business.
On the way from the station Balu asks me, "who are you?"
"His friend", I make it sound like, 'touch him and I'll disembowel you!'
Balu doesn't hide his disappointment; I understand what he came for. Happily, he doesn't know that a month earlier Ernest probably would have sent me to the Music Hostel right away and spent the night with smooth-skinned Balu who is not so stupid and difficult as I am.
In Our Room
Pretending not to be jealous, I offer Ernest to spend the night in the Music Hostel, "if you two want to be alone." Ernest pretends he is not interested; he doesn't want me to sleep on the floor either. Balu sleeps on the mat on the floor, pretending that he came to meet his penpal.
Fearing that Ernest will change his mind, or the heat will change his mind, I show Ernest how much I love him. That Balu is not asleep, that if I would not be here, he would let Ernest possess him, that if Ernest would not be here, he would maybe let me possess him, that Balu can hear what we are doing, and the fear that Ernest will leave me, make me dizzy. I want Balu to know that Ernest is my lover; the noisier we are the more Balu has to pretend that he is asleep. I manage to make Ernest forget himself, kissing him shamelessly and sleeping in his arms.
In the morning, Balu's mood is spoilt. I treat him like a friend; he is Ernest's penpal, isn't he?
At Porto Novo Beach
Ernest invites us to go to Porto Novo, Balu is so jealous of me that at the beach he doesn't want to undress and get into the water, like he doesn't want to show his body. Stupid! He is short and slim and fair-skinned, if he would undress now and fall around Ernest's neck in the water, Ernest would want that I get lost for an hour. But Balu is jealous and while Ernest plays with me in the surf, holding me, pushing me under, saving my life, touching me all the time, Balu is sitting on the beach, watching us, in a bad mood.
Running along the beach to get warm again, we come upon a long sea snake stranded on the beach. I throw sand at it to get it moving, but Ernest stops me angrily, I don't understand him, I don't want to harm it, but it's a snake not a cow. Even Mother who is a fervent vegetarian doesn't object if I kill a snake. Ernest explains me that he doesn't want to hurt any animal, for him a snake is like a cat or a dog; he loves all kind of dirty beasts.
Vriddhachalam
Instead of returning to Chidambaram from Porto Novo, we take a bus to Vriddhachalam because there is a temple festival and people say you can see the Divine Light. In the bus I sit between Ernest and Balu, leaning on Balu; that he is available makes me hot. If he would stay, I would try to make out with him, but he has announced that he has to leave tomorrow morning. His skin is as soft as a girl's.
We arrive in the evening in Vriddhachalam. It is a regular fair with jugglers and beggars and a dusty modern concrete temple at one end of it. After a long wait in the queue, we get inside the temple and there is a light but to me it looks like there is a cloth in front of it. If the light is real then why do they have to cover it with a cloth? In the pressing crowd, I hear that the temple belongs to the owners of the Vriddhachalam Cement Factory. It doesn't look impressive, a shabby grey building, like an ugly Christian church. We take a bus back soon and arrive in Chidambaram in the morning. In the bus, I am sleeping leaning on Ernest, Balu is leaning on me, I am dreaming a film where a small boy sneaks behind the cloth and finds out it is a hoax but gets surprised by the owners of the temple and then they chase him through the whole fair to kill him.
In the evening we bring Balu to the bus stand for his bus to Coimbatore and then walk home the long way, it is a pleasant full moon night. I'm singing Ernest the song I invented for Mary.
Is she sleeping now?
Are her lips ready for a kiss?
Is her body embracing an absent lover?
Is she sleeping now?
She was greeting me!
Are her lips longing to be kissed?
Is she yearning to be loved?
She was greeting me!
Am I dreaming this?
Is she saying 'my love' to me?
Are her eyes to shy to look into mine?
Am I dreaming this?
Is this love or what?
Are we two or one or none?
Have space and time come to their end?
Is this love or what?
I sing it in Tamil like it is any Tamil film song. I don't tell him that it is my song and singing the song to him feels like enjoying with Mary right under his nose. He doesn't understand a word of the song but says, "You have a good voice!"
In Our Room
It gets quite late until we're back in the room. He stays on the veranda to talk with our importunate neighbour, the professor of co-operative economy. I'm elated from the victory over Balu, and sit down to play a few notes in the mood of The Longing of the Young Prince for His Far-Away Beloved. The music soothes me, the desire flows from my heart into the violin, becoming an abstraction, refreshing me.
When I look up, Ernest is standing in the doorframe, listening, "I didn't know you are playing so well, how do you call this scale?"
"Tanha ¾ desire!"
But for him Tanha is not what it means to me, he has a cool, watery disposition. What does he know of the burning desire licking my body with flaming tongues, paining me without killing me like the fires of hell? If he were Mary, could I endure to sleep next to her without satisfying my desire? If he were my minor, I wouldn't need Mary, to think of Mary would be enough, but he is tall, strong and hairy, it is difficult to imagine him to be Mary.
At night, I ask Ernest, "Balu wanted to do it with you, didn't he?"
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You can invite him once more if he pleases you."
"For you? I don't need him!"
I'd like to invite him; I'd like to do whatever. I remember the sixth grade boy cousin Mother put to sleep in my bed; without intention in my dreams he became a girl. I felt ashamed but he wasn't astonished, it must have happened to him before.
I fall asleep in carnal confusion, Ernest becoming Balu, Balu Vijay, Vijay Sita, Sita Mary, Mary Ernest, until I remember the words on a dirty T-shirt
DON'T WORRY ¾ BE HAPPY!
and sleep in perfect bliss with my head on his arm.
A Village in South Arcot
A week later, we go and visit a teacher's village in South Arcot. A journey to the end of the world: We must change buses several times, until we are in a small town or large village where the metalled road ends and the bus turns, as in Porto Novo. But this is in the interior; we must rent cycles and proceed for another hour on rough country roads to a small village, just a few houses made from mud bricks. Beyond the village, there are dry fields, and then nothing, a desert. We must stay for the night because we are too far gone, but I can see that Ernest is feeling uncomfortable. The teacher's parents are not used to have visitors. They are not vegetarians; I can't eat the food. There is no mosquito net, no shower, no toilet. Ernest suffers. When we arrive back in Chidambaram bus stand, he is sick and angry. He says the teacher should have considered how uncomfortable it would be for him. What would he think about my village? But these people live like tribals. We take a cycle riksha to the hostel; he can't walk.
In Our Room
In the hostel, he spends an hour in the bathroom vomiting and more. His number two is worse than number one. He is so tired and exhausted that he has to lie down. I prepare tea for him, then take bath. After I've showered, he says, "Don’t worry, just come here!"
I lie down next to him, his body is hot with fever. I say, "You must take some medicine!"
He orders me to give him pills called Imodium and Motilium from one of his aluminium trunks. He is too weak to move. I'm afraid that if he'll get worse, I'll have to take him to a clinic. Will a doctor here know how to treat a Vellakaran? Should I suggest calling on Dr. Thomas?
The medicines make him tired, he sleeps in my arms, I enjoy holding him, protecting him; his weakness makes him mine. He is too sick to attend classes. C.K. Iyer suggests an ayurvedic tonic, which restores the vital heat. Madhu fetches biscuits and fruits from the market. Ernest keeps us busy; the fever makes him quarrelsome. Again, I tell him, "You must beat me if you're not satisfied, you mustn't spoil your health with anger!"
I sit down near him, massaging his legs to make him feel easier, looking at his white skin, his disgusting body hair. How is it possible that he is so different? Why are there different races? What if I were him? If suddenly, I became him? I imagine how I would look at my own hands, suddenly white, my body… How would it feel to be a white man? Without his money I'll be like an Anglo-Indian, to be poor and white is worse. With his money, I wouldn't be shy to get what I want. I wouldn't waste my money for parasites. I begin to think of Mary and lie down next to him, dreaming to enjoy with her, my hands are touching Ernest but I imagine the maddening softness of Mary's breasts, her ravishingly smooth skin, her shapely hips… I press my body against him with closed eyes; let him think whatever he likes!
Ernest knew right from the beginning that I'm poor and in trouble, and still he was helping me. Maybe he is in love with me. How stupid can you be? With the money he spends for me he could buy himself the whole cadet corps, ten-score hand-picked, well-trained boys in half-pants, all used to monkey around in tents.
In the morning, Ernest dictates me a list of things he wants me to buy in Chidambaram, small sweat bananas, the one variety of oranges he likes, a lesser kind will not do, not when he is sick.
Madhu is the only friend whom I can trust to help me while Ernest is sick. Madhu looks after him while I'm away. To get everything Ernest wants is difficult, I must go round with a cycle riksha, it takes forever. I hope he is sleeping.
When I return Ernest scolds me because I stayed away too long, Madhu had to leave for his lessons. I peel and feed him the oranges I bought, he says, "abroad my friends told me how easy it is to get a nice friend in Madras, that for little money you can find a boy who loves you, and now look at me: What have I got? I spent too much for too little; you're only after my money. My friends will make fun of me."
"I love you!"
"-r money!"
Ernest is right. No, he's not, "What do you want?"
Ernest says something I don't understand immediately, then I feel like vomiting, I can't do it. I begin to cry, "You’re right, you mustn't spend so much money for me", my poverty has made me cheat him. He should hold a gun to my head to force me, "I'll do it tonight".
"It was only a joke, to shock you."
"You must give me a sound beating; I'm not afraid of death."
"Don't be childish! You're as much afraid of death as everybody else."
"Take that knife (pointing to the heavy and sharp coconut cutting knife) and try!"
I get up and put the knife in his hands, and then kneel in front of the bed, "What are you waiting for?"
What a mess it would make! He could simply throw me out, for me it would be worse than death.
"Stop the comedy; you know very well that I'm not going to kill you. I'm just fed up that's all."
When finally I get up and dry my tears, he says, "Come back, I changed my mind, give me the knife once more!"
I'm afraid but I hand him the knife. He says, "Come here, kneel down!"
I kneel down, and he puts the knife to my neck, slightly scratching the skin with the sharp edge of the machete. I'm afraid. He says, "Now, just imagine that I have killed you, consider yourself dead! Lie down here next to me!"
I lie down and he holds me in his arms, his hand is inside my shirt his fingers are playing with my nipples, making me hot.
"Please!" this teasing is worse than the worst he could do.
He says in a low, pained voice, "Please, I want to make love with you!"
I turn towards him; he kisses me, and he begins to push my shirt and banyan up. It's the middle of the afternoon; I'm afraid somebody will pass outside the window and see us, "Please, somebody could see us!"
He stops and we just lie near each other as if we were sleeping. After some time he gets up and takes a shower.
Chidambaram
Next day when I go to the bakery to get bread for Ernest, I buy an officer's baton for him, to beat me, to prove him, that I mean it, "Whenever you're angry you must beat me."
"Thank-you, it looks nice, but I never hit people."
Before I go to the Music Hostel to see my friends, I tell him, "Call me, if you need me!"
In the Music Hostel
My friends are joking and laughing, a letter arrived with a picture of a girl for Shankar, we must make fun of him, then somebody brings sweets, we drink tea, there is a new song to listen to, time passes quickly.
In Ernest's Room
Ernest should have called me but he doesn't like to shout out of the window, he is angry again. He hits me with the baton, I tell him to hit harder, "You must learn how to treat servants!"
"You're not a servant!"
"Of course I'm your servant!" I give a good rendition of a stupid servant boy trying to please his master by licking his face like a dog. Then I lie down next to him acting the sweet boy, "do you have a small gift for your friend?"
"What do you want?"
"A 'poto' of my master," I say 'poto' like our washerman, to make him laugh, but the joke isn't good enough. Ernest says, "Go clean your teeth; I want to sleep".
I obey, worried what he will do, if only I wouldn't be so stupid, but then a song comes to my mind we learnt in High School, and I have to sing it for him, maybe it will improve his mood.
My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,
So it stood ninety years on the floor.
It was taller by half than the old man himself,
Though it weighed not a pennyweight more.
It was bought on the morn of the day he was born,
And was always his treasure and pride.
But it stopped, shut, never to go again when
the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick-a-tock-tick-a-tock.
His life's seconds numbering,
Tick-a-tock-tick-a-tock.
It stopped, shut, never to go again when the old man died.
Thinking of how stupidly proud and English we felt, singing it in the bus home, improves my mood a lot.
But it stopped, shut, never to go again when the old man died.
Ninety years without slumbering,
Tick-a-tock-tick-a-tock.
His life's seconds numbering,
Tick-a-tock-tick-a-tock.
It stopped, shut, never to go again when the old man died.
The song brings half a smile to Ernest's lips. He falls asleep, while I think about Mary, trying to bring back her voice and features. She is a rotten singer and a Christian, and ugly, I shouldn't think of her. No, she is the best female vocalist we have, and the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. That she is a Christian seems to give her face a difference, an openness, I have seen on no other girl. I'd like to look at her for hours, listen to her all day; her mistakes seem only to increase her charm. Maybe that she is a Christian and out of place in Carnatic music gives her voice that magic fleetingness, as if she is only trying what would happen if she would sing. She talks as if she were only rehearsing the words, to see what would happen if she said them.
I'd like to wake up Ernest and ask him all about Christian's, particularly whether they're allowed to marry Hindus.
In Our Room
Ernest is feeling better. Stupidly I have mentioned in a letter home my having landed a job with a Vellakaran. In return arrives a letter from Father that he needs money to pay the interest on the loan I made him take out to pay for PUC. If Father can't pay at least the overdue amount, our field will get seized. I'm lost. How to get the money? Not knowing what to do I stage a comedy of sad face, sadder glances, saddest silences, together with most moving proofs of affection, until Ernest asks, "What’s wrong with you?"
"Nothing, no need to talk about it."
Only after much entreating I tell him the shameful secret of the loan I made Father take out, I say, crying, "don't worry, I'll find a way," he doesn't look eager to help me with such a large amount. After one or two more acts of The Sad Plight of a Virgin he says, "I don't believe a word you say, I'll give you the money because I like you ¾ provided…"
I sniff, "I'll do whatever you want!" Anyway, I must do what he wants. I don't believe I'll manage to get the money from him, but there is nothing wrong in trying, isn't it? If he gives me the money, I'll be his for good. I look forward to it, it will be the end of all anguish and ambiguity, nothing worse is possible. The loan was my idea, now I must deal with it myself. Nobody will know.
"Are you my friend or a hustler?"
"What is a hustler?"
"A male prostitute."
"Your friend", what does it matter, Father will respect me if I manage to get the money. What I must do and why, is clear but I don't want to look like I want it.
"I'll give you the money because I like you ¾ provided you'll be my friend during the day and my little hustler at night. Being my friend should not be an excuse not to deliver."
"I'll do whatever you want!" I can't become a great violin player, maybe film music, or composing, or teaching, writing pamphlets about Carnatic music. I'll never be able to do anything. If he likes me, all I want is to pay back the mortgage and take care of Hari. I'll do what he wants as long as he likes me. What does it matter?
"I'll give you the money but don't bother me again with such stuff!"
In the evening, like a real rascal, I leave the door open while I piss, talking with Ernest. Later when I take bath, I don't lock the door. Let him see me, let him come and shower with me, I'm his little hustler, in front of me I see the road leading to total depravity and the supreme purification of the funeral pyre.
I'd like to enter the room naked, but what if somebody passes outside our window? I wrap the lungi loosely around my hips and sit down next to him, "okay?"
"Okay, tell me exactly what you did with Madhu?"
"With Madhu?" how can I tell him? "Nothing!"
"Tell me!" he is getting angry.
"You want me to do it for you?" suddenly I understand what it means to be a hustler; it's a disgusting job.
"No", he pulls me down, "you're my slave now, aren't you?"
I can't talk because he is kissing me on the mouth, biting my lips. Like Shri Shri Mahakali, he seems to want more my blood than my meat, submission rather than satisfaction.
Like a ghost, I'm watching what Ernest does with my former body. Am I awake or dreaming? Crores of servant boys get abused by their masters, not to speak of maids, I'm so bitter I'm glad Ernest cannot see my tears in the dark. He tells me sweet words worse than worst abuse, I deserve no better, the truth is so simple, I'm a servant-cum-prostitute. If only he would tell me what he wants me to do, whatever it is! At least it wouldn't look as if I like it. It would be less shameful. I say, "Tell me what I must do!"
"I love you."
"Then tonight for sure you must tie me and take your pleasure with me!"
"Madhu didn't have to tie you to the bed, didn't he?"
"He never did this to me, never, I never let anybody… because…"
"Because of what?"
"I must be your friend but I'm not like you."
"You mean you're not gay? But with Madhu you were pretty gay, weren't you?"
"No, yes, it wasn't the same, you'll never understand, I must be your friend!"
Whatever is necessary to say or do, father needs the money.
At night, I force him to tie me face down to the bedposts with dhotis, I must do most of it myself, he has no idea how to go about it. Once I'm tied securely he pulls off my towel, I prompt him in the crudest terms to please himself.
"Put a towel into my mouth, people mustn't hear me cry!"
He puts the towel into my mouth, saying, "I'll have a shower too."
He leaves me naked and tied. I'm not afraid; I am already dead. If somebody should see me like this! I try to spit the towel out, to call him, to abuse him, but I can't get it out of my mouth, I'm nearly choking. It would be far better to be dead. He is right to do whatever he wants, to play with me, to tease me, whatever he likes. I must suffer it; he paid for it. I'm a prostitute, nothing more nothing less. In the future, I'll have to do this every day. I'll get used to it as sweepers get used to cleaning toilets. How long is he going to stay in India? He is not going to kill me, he is in love and will only be satisfied when I have become like him. What if the door is not locked! I try to rip myself free, but the knots are well tied.
He comes out of the shower, gets up on the bed, and still wet begins to kiss my neck while his hands run amuck on my back. I want him to finish quickly but when he touches my buttocks, I buck and immediately he knocks me hard with his fist "stop it!"
I fight with all my strength, but I'm tied and can't do more than sliver around while he beats and abuses me.
After minutes of fighting he pulls the towel out of my mouth, I say "do it, what are you waiting for?"
"Then why are you struggling?"
"Do whatever pleases you!"
"Can I propose you something?"
"Just do it!"
"Why aren't we simply friends instead of this stupid comedy with borrowing money and interest and stuff?"
He doesn't know what he is talking about. He has hardly touched me, I can feel that he wants it but he repeats, "I don't want to destroy our beautiful friendship!"
"What friendship? You paid for it, now do it, I'm your slave!" His cowardice disappoints me, he said, 'I always get what I want', but now when he should slaughter me like a sacrificial goat, he lacks the courage to wield the knife. He is a failure too, that's why he sticks to me. At least when Vijay tried to resist me, I put him into place. How can Ernest accuse me of not satisfying him and then shrink back when I offer myself to him. I'll never understand him, a Vellakaran ought to rape and plunder the natives, not blabber 'I don't want to destroy our beautiful friendship.' Does he expect me to take the lead? How much more forward can I be? My head begins to spin, if I were not bound hands and feet I would do something desperate, kill him or kill myself. I'm not made for such games. I'll have to teach him to get what he pays for.
"You're my slave, but I'm free to treat you as a friend."
I answer him with a swear word, what his sweet-smelling friends in Pondicherry decorated their ornate speech with.
I close my eyes and forget him, if he is happy to caress and kiss, let him, I think about Vijay, as if I were Vijay, who became a woman, enjoyed as a woman.
Ernest should rape me but he wants me to become like him, gay, to despise women and desire men, in the end it will happen, I'll be so disgusted with myself that I can only enjoy when I get raped and humiliated. We should enjoy together without talking about it. Why doesn't he understand that I must do what he wants? Why does he want me to want it myself?
He lies on top of me, kissing my neck and shoulders. Instead of treating me like the worst slave, as he should; he insists that I am his friend, treating me like his wife, which is worse. Because of the mortgage, I must swallow it. I don't believe that Ernest will give me so much money. Why should he? I brought all this down on me through my own stupidity; now I must eat my punishment with a smiling face. As long as no other student can see us, I don't care. I wanted to become a Naxalite, ready to be tortured and killed by the police[128], now I can show whether I am ready to sacrifice myself for Father.
"I love you!"
"Nonsense!"
"I love you!"
I feel like I'm really going to die and having to leave Hari and Madhu and Mary makes me sad, tears begin to flow, but then I'm drifting off. I feel confident that I am thoroughly debauched enough to suffer the necessary. What did I do with Vijay-as-Sita? I'm a consummate rake; there is nothing too base or vile for me.
The night has nearly passed,
The candle is burning down,
Lets finish what is left.
I've learnt to perfume my body with jasmine oil, I'm sleeping without underwear, maybe I should put temple flowers into my hair, glass bangles on my wrists, smear kajal[129] into my eyes, whatever he likes. Who am I to worry? Who cares about me? If Father and Mother don't hear about it, nothing matters. When Ernest opens the knots of the dhotis with which he fixed me to the bed, I behave as forward as is humanly possible but he stops me, "don't do what you don't want to do! I don't want it."
"I want it."
"Leave it, it's okay."
I sleep naked in his arms; he is naked too, like lovers, exhausted. In the middle of the night when I wake up again, my shamelessness feels like liberation, mukti, my own freedom at midnight. I have come to the point where thinking will not change anything anymore; I don't know what has become of me. I am so disgusted that I simply forget about it. He loves me. What does love mean? Maybe I told the truth and I love him too? I fall asleep with my arms around him. I will not try to understand. I will not think. I glide through time until I dissolve into sleep, dream, or death, or nothing, or bliss.
Sleepily I feel that he is still kissing and caressing me, and hear him saying, "Just be my friend!"
Whatever pleases you, my Lord!
In the morning, I wake up happy, as if I've done it. Instead of a musician, I've become a prostitute. Now there is nothing left but to die. Life is simple, don't think, just do what he wants. Let this vile body be his dirty slave! I don't care anymore, just nobody should know but probably everybody guesses what is going on.
When he wakes up he asks, "Are you still my slave?"
"Do whatever is necessary, don't talk about it!"
"Just be my friend!"
He plays with my nose and my ears. I am his; I close my eyes. Crores of boys get sold, stripped, raped; it means nothing; it is part of being poor.
In the shower, I understand that he doesn't need to tie me with dhotis to the bedposts, he needs no chains and locks to keep me a prisoner. Whatever I am, whether his slave or his friend, he owns my every thought, word and action. I think I'm washing my body, but I am washing his body, for him, to please him, with the soap he likes, then oil it to be smooth for his hands, to smell well for his nose. I belong to him, and I want him to possess me, he deserves it, he paid for it, it is right. Suddenly I have a vision of complete submission: As if Ernest were Lord Murugan; giving myself up without holding back anything. Like it solves all problems just to give until nothing is left to give, giving to please Lord Murugan. Like a wife gives herself to her husband in lieu of Lord Murugan. I begin to sing Madhu's song,
The Lord's bride am I
My lips are always on my Lord's feet.
What can I tell about the sweetness
Of kissing my Lord's feet day and night!
I can't remember what worried me. I'm beautiful, clean and free. I love Ernest, he loves me, it is like a dance.
He insists on kissing me while I dress. I embrace him and kiss him too, without thinking. It is right to love, the union of his lips and mine, his body and mine. All becomes clear and beautiful: There is only love, which is Divine, is Eternal, is Nothing.
Palace Lodge
Eating idli as if he would never have known other food, he asks me, "are you my friend now?"
"No!"
"Why?"
"I can't."
"Why?"
"Because this body is your body, there is nothing left to be your friend, it all belongs to you!"
"That's nice, I'll give you my body instead."[130]
He takes me shopping, to reward me. In the bazaar I say, "I need nothing."
"Now I don't need to ask you anymore."
He wants to buy shirts for me and I tell him, "Let's just buy the cloth and then get it stitched".
Record Tailors
I order exactly what I want, Ernest doesn't understand what I say in Tamil. I want the shirt to be like what famous musicians wear, Mughal style. Now that I've become a prostitute, at least my shirts should proclaim that I'm a musician. Without asking him, I order tight pyjamas to go with the shirt. He'll like them. It's a crazy fashion among music students to look like the masters of yore, like Tansen or Amir Khusrau.
Back on the street the family planning slogans
A Small Family Is A Happy Family!
on the buses and the symbols make me think about how buying things is like producing offspring. Ernest likes to visit shops, look at things and buy them. People still go on making love once they have enough children, because of the feeling. Maybe for him shopping is like this, he enjoys it. I translate the slogans for him, he says, "There is a better way!" I look at him and understand, to be like him, it would solve all problems but who is going to light his pyre?
I am afraid of spending money because I don't have any; and at the same time, my greed wants to empty the shops. The idea to make him buy me a gold ring enters my mind and then overpowers me. I tell myself that I don't need it, that there is no necessity to enslave myself more but in vain. Greed poisons my whole being like an opaque cloud, which can only be dispelled by satisfying the idiotic desire.
I drag him into a jewellery shop and ask him to let us look at rings, I'm his little hustler, I'm going to prove it to myself. The rings are expensive, we must get money from the bank, but I want one. I want to know whether I'm worth the money.
While he pays, I scan once more over the jewellery displayed inside a glass case. There are what looks like the same ear-ornaments Mary is wearing, a tiny ruby with small pearl leaves around it. I want them much more than the foolish ring, but how can I say it? What would I do with them? I can't wear them. I ask to look at them, I'd like to have them because they are part of her, to keep them in my hand, and look at them at all times, to remember her. The shopkeeper asks me whether I want it for a sister; and Ernest is looking at me with a trace of hope that maybe finally I'll avow being an effeminate, that I'll put them on and become his wife. I say, "It was necessary to see them!"
In Our Room
Ernest puts the ring on my finger, not too happy, because I'm too greedy. I don't thank him. Instead, I say, "Do I look like a hustler now?"
"More than a hustler!"
"Why did you buy it? It is too expensive."
"I thought you like it."
"It is nice", and I kiss him as he wants to be kissed and as long as he wants. Behind his head, I see my hand on his neck in the mirror of the bathroom, the ring looks perfect, informing whoever hasn't yet found out, that I'm the white man's boy-whore. If ever I need money the ring will fetch a good price, it is pure gold.
In Annamalai University
Walking past the statue of Sir Raja Annamalai Chettiar of Chettinad and the huge gateways the administration has put up for a visit of the Union transport minister, I feel like imitating Hari. Don't think! Thinking doesn't change things. I half expect that suddenly the shame will hit me like the pain hits you after an accident, when the shock has worn off. I can't face Father and Mother anymore; if they would know, I would have to run away to Bombay. If only Ernest or the Naxalites or whoever would take charge of my life. I'm ready to join the RSS[131] once they learn Tamil!
In the New Guest House
Later in the bathroom, I pour water over my body, his body to speak the truth, then I oil it for him with the scented oil he wants me to use. My poverty and his wealth, his power over me make me feel like a woman.
Back in the room, I tell Ernest, "please don't talk, I don't want to talk anymore", he kisses me and we nearly make love. I try to imagine that he is Mary but he is strong and tall, I am the woman, his wife and he is my lord husband. His refusal highlights his threatening power, whenever I offer myself to him, he lets me feel that my sacrifice is like chicken slaughtered to please Shri Shri Mahakali, a bloody mess instead of a feast.
In the Music College
I'm more confused than usually and when the Master asks me, "Are you in love?"
I answer,
If you love, nobody is in love!
This is from a song I learnt; it is beautiful. The Master says,
Love is like no love,
Art is like no art!
He moves his hand in a graceful gesture, which makes me understand. We start with Vatapi Ganapatim. The excellent beauty of his rendition makes me forget the world around me.
The Master orders me to repeat some easy scales[132]; today I have no reservations anymore. He is my Master; I'm his student. I will sing saregama until Shri Shri Sarasvati takes my seat.
I leave his room dazed like I've eaten loaded samosas, I'm walking but it feels like dancing.
In Our Room
Back in our room, I lie down, waiting for Ernest. When he comes, I ask him to lie down too. I want to be in his arms, to be us, to forget myself and us and all through love.
Ernest promises to send an airmail letter abroad to get the money. I'll do everything he wants; he's doing everything I want. He promises that he'll send me enough money to continue my studies. I want to believe him; he is my only hope.
Annamalai University
When the money finally arrives Ernest's time in Annamalai University is nearly up. We decide to take the money to Father ourselves. I want Ernest to see the village, I want Hari to meet him.
Chidambaram Bazaar
Ernest allows me to buy a beautiful basket for Mother, made of single plastic pearls stuck together, it looks stylish, Mother will like it.
In the Train to Palghat
While Madhu is taking a leak, I tell Ernest, "please don't tell anybody in the village or in my house that you are gay! They won't understand, they'll think I'm gay too and it will make Father and Mother unhappy".
Purayur
The first person we meet, getting out of the taxi, is Vishnu. I introduce him to Ernest, glad our village is not without its attractions. They shake hands. Ernest asks and Vishnu tells that he is studying accountancy and by coincidence, in complete innocence, Vishnu keeps and Ernest lets him keep, Ernest's hand in his. Soon Ernest tells Vishnu, "You look good!"
I must drag Ernest away. I don't want the village to know that Ernest is gay. I don't want Vishnu to talk about Ernest, and about me.
In Our House
Father and Mother are awed to have a Vellakaran in their house for the night. They treat him like a living God: The first white man to enter our house. They can't believe that a white man is treating their son like a friend, wasting money on me. I don't tell that Ernest likes boys, they are suspicious enough, asking me, "When is he going to get married?"
"He's still a student!"
Father tells Ernest that he is like one more son for him, but Mother is worried that the village will disapprove, that the pujari will denounce us. Hari says, "I'll beat him up!" Hari looks like he could do it; he has become a tough young man wearing his hair long, tucking it up like an actor.
In the Village
Hari rushes around showing Ernest our animals, the village, the temple. Ernest says, "I enjoy being in a real Indian village."
Hari doesn't know that Ernest likes boys, and I hope Hari will not find out.
In Our House
Father presents Ernest to the village headman and the village priest, Vishnu's father, telling them that Ernest is a vegetarian. After breaking coconuts and eating sweets, they declare Ernest clean. We are saved! As long as you wash and eat the prescribed way, you are a Hindu. It would have been costly to have the house purified after Ernest's departure.
After the village elders have left Vishnu remains sitting with us but in the presence of Father he cannot do any harm and when the meal is ready he has to leave, he is no relative.
In the Kitchen
Mother likes the basket I brought her, but only when Ernest asks me, "Does she like it?" do I understand that he expects her to thank him.
Mother isn't used to Western manners. How can I explain her that for Ernest it isn't enough that I have become his boy-whore, that we must say 'thank-you' too?
In the Upper Room
At night, while Hari is cleaning his teeth I beg Ernest not to let Vishnu guess that he is gay, promising him a full refund in kind.
In the Bathhouse
In the morning, under the pretension that I must explain him how to take bath without a shower, I let Ernest misbehave with me in the bathhouse.
At Our Tank
Together with Madhu and Hari I take Ernest to see our irrigation tank, walking on the anicut[133], Madhu begins to sing his song. Ernest is talking with Hari. Maybe Madhu is right, devotion is the answer. We are as ignorant as dogs, donkeys, monkeys, elephants. If we are too stupid to understand, then why try? Why live in gloom when you can share the boundless joy of Lord Murugan?
The Lord's bride am I
My lips are always on my Lord's feet!
What can I tell about the sweetness
Of kissing my Lord's feet day and night!
While I am singing together with Madhu my heart rejoices but when I'm alone the joy becomes pretence. What does it mean? Is Madhu not going to die?
At the tank, we meet Raju our young farm boy, who is taking bath there, washing himself and his lungi. Ernest looks at him, and I become aware that Raju could be considered good-looking, if you like boys. I explain to Ernest that Raju is a pulayar[134], but it means nothing to Ernest, he would touch the untouchable.
In the Indian Overseas Bank
Ernest and I accompany Father to the bank. I'm jubilant; I've accomplished the impossible. The bank manager looks at me questioning. I can read 'parasite' in his eyes. I think of the crows and try to forget it. Father is impressed that my friend gives me so much money but it is as if he would guess what only Ernest and I know. I thank Ernest holding his hand, trying to show thankfulness commensurate with the sum; but in my heart, I fear what will be. How will I survive without Ernest? Stumbling down the stairs, I become aware that I have sold myself to Ernest lock stock and barrel. In the village we must be discreet but in Bombay my hour will come, I will have to, in Ernest's select parlance, 'deliver the goods.' I'm not afraid, I'm ready to sign a paper making me his slave, to kneel down and die for him, I'd prefer to stop being before he leaves. Let him take his body to do with it what he pleases, and myself fade away.
Outside the bank, the noise of the motor-rikshas[135] and lorries make it impossible to talk. I hold Ernest's hand and let my fingers talk trying to make my fear look like desire. I feel the energy of Ernest's body flowing away from me, back towards abroad. Ernest may be sad to leave me because we have become friends, but he looks forward to meet his friends there, while for me it is the end. How can I face the world after he has left? The shame of what people think without the prestige of Ernest's presence will be worse than death. I hold his hand but what I want is stop this bodily existence right now and becoming a spirit enter Ernest's body, melting into him until no conjurer, until death itself cannot separate us anymore. I feel myself flowing through his hand into him, but it is only a second, a dream. Life is worse than death. I begin to cry and profit from my tears to say once more, "thank-you!"
In Our House
Father tells me that Hari has been helping him, I don't believe it, Father just wants to show me what a good boy Hari is while I never helped him enough. I don't listen, Hari is the sweetest boy in the world, but the only helping he does, is helping himself in the kitchen, sitting on the floor, shovelling rice into his mouth, licking the buttermilk dripping from his elbow.
At the Holy Ganga Well
Hari suggests that we go and swim in the cool Holy Ganga artesian well. Ernest, Madhu, Vishnu, myself, Hari, ride old rented bicycles to the well, which is about a mile away, a small fellow is sitting sideways on the bar of Hari's bicycle, holding Hari's bath towel and soap, questioning Hari in badly pronounced Tamil about 'erunesutu averkul'[136]. From Hari's answers, I understand that Hari believes Ernest to be the noblest creature ever graced with white skin.
I enjoy driving through the fields; people still respect me. Ernest jokes with Vishnu like they are old friends but without hinting at a personal interest.
At the pool, Ernest and Hari get encircled by boys who want to meet the Vellakaran. One boy says, "he looks like Sanjay Gandhi", another says "where is Sanjay Gandhi?", suddenly forty boys are yelling at each other who is going to tell whom and who is stupid.
Madhu says, "Look at Hari, he has become a body builder, he looks like Tarjan!"
I'm glad that Hari has brought a bath towel to swim because Ernest can't take his eyes of him while Hari and the village boys can't take their eyes of Ernest; none of them has ever seen a Vellakaran in swimming trunks. Jumping from the steps of the small temple into the dark water, Ernest nearly looses his trunks. To see a Vellakaran without his swimming trunks shocks the village boys whose own rotten underwear are held up by tightly knotted strings. They all dive away and look at each other, what will happen now? When they see that Ernest laughs, and Hari too, they begin to giggle uneasily.
Madhu and I swim in the cool water watching the fun. Hari's popularity surprises me anew, in the village I'm no more Arun but Hari's elder brother. I'm jealous not of Hari, just of all the popular people in the world, who know what to say, how to behave, the people whom people like. Hari behaves as if I would have instructed him, trying to please Ernest, keeping the admirers in check. Hari is the best younger brother possible, I'm not jealous; I just would like to be more like him.
In Our House
We have hardly entered the house and already old fellows who never travelled beyond Shoranur are bothering Ernest, who feels tired, with their precise knowledge of things abroad, and me with their expertise in Carnatic music, the less they know the more they are convinced that they are enlightening us. When they begin to hold forth about their sons being as fair as Ernest, I tell Hari that Ernest must take complete rest. Hari gets them out right away and then explains to Ernest that their sons are as fair as a water buffaloes. Hari says, "Look how fair I am!" powdering his face liberally with talcum until he looks exactly as fair and foolish as these fellows. I laugh and then my eyes happen to see my High School graduation photo, where the photographer succeeded to make me look fairer than Ernest. Is this the picture Father is giving to prospective fathers-in-law? What will a girl think when she sees me first time? Probably that her picture was embellished too.
The village and the house is nice, and mother's banana curry is still the best, but their ridiculous Pardeshi Brahmin Tamil gets on my nerves, the sloppy grammar, as if several centuries wouldn't have been enough to learn proper Tamil, as if they couldn't hear every day on the radio how to speak. After hearing Vijay talk pure Tamil, I don't share any more the foolish notion that we're speaking best Tamil.[137]
Father asks Ernest, "How do you like India?"
"I like your house, the old furniture, the village, the people are very nice."
Ernest talks as if our poverty had a value of its own, as if finally I would have shown him Real India.
In the Iyengar Temple
After dinner, Madhu invites Ernest to go and see a dance in the Iyengar temple. Hari leads Ernest holding his hand. Hari is joking, clowning, and, what I didn't expect from Hari, thanking Ernest for taking care of me. I'm glad that Hari helps to keep Ernest happy. Ernest can't be comfortable in our house. I don't want Ernest to get upset by Father's questioning or the villagers' stupidity.
Ernest is fascinated by the boy dancers who act the gopis[138] in love with Lord Krishna, who is played by a fine dancer with a soft, sensuous, slightly plump body. The music is quite acceptable too.
On the way back, Hari is singing the songs, dancing the dances, stopping us every four steps to show what a brilliant actor he is. Until we're back in our house, a crowd of strays and waifs is trailing us, dancing behind Hari who is entrancing them with a perfect Harikatha. Madhu and I do our best to imitate nagaswaram and pakhavaj. Let Ernest think this is India, let him take this picture with him. What else is India but Krishnalila[139]?
In Our House
Ernest is becoming a different person, more relaxed, less in charge, I should have brought him home a long time ago. After our late dinner, Ernest, myself and Hari talk a long time. Hari is completely out of his mind to have a Vellakaran in our house. He asks Ernest all the questions I should have asked and was too proud to ask. When I fall asleep, they are still talking about abroad, about 'aerobics', 'fitness centers', 'personal trainers'… Ernest knows everything Hari wants to know. I'm glad that Ernest likes Hari but Ernest shouldn't behave as if he has bought Hari too.
In the morning, Hari tells me, "Anna, Ernest says I could get a job abroad!"
Whatever Hari wants to do is fine with me, he deserves to be happy, I want him to be happy. I hope Ernest will not disappoint him, Hari is not like me, I'm used to all kind of setbacks, I don't expect my dreams to become true.
Showing Ernest our bathhouse, I find Raju waiting in the courtyard with Ernest's clothes, which Raju washed, not too well. If Mother would have told me that Kumari didn't want to touch them I've sent for a real dhobi. Mother is too much afraid of Kumari's mouth. Happily, Ernest likes Raju and instead of complaining hands him five rupees. Raju takes the money with a sly grin, which at the same time says, 'the Vellakaran is not a stingy miser like you!' and 'I know his kind!'.
Once Raju and his knowing smile have left I tell Ernest the one thing he must know about Raju: that Raju is already married and has one boy and a wife pregnant with his second child. I don't tell Ernest that all this merely means that Raju is dumber and luckier than I.
Olavakot
In Olavakot, we board the train to Bombay, Hari is crying, asking Ernest to send him a postcard from abroad.
In the Train to Bombay
We talk about what worries me, Hari. Ernest asks me, "Is he interested in girls?"
"He is like a film star, girls come to our kitchen to get a look at him, Mother has to chase them away."
Ernest is reading a book and I pretend to read too, I haven't yet finished the book he bought me in Thanjavur. In the story the boy, a rich guy, is rushing around, drinking alcohol, wasting money with women, almost getting his younger sister into trouble too, why does Ernest want me to read about a fool? One sound thrashing would have cured all the spoilt brat's problems! Probably Ernest wants me to know how he grew up, to understand him better. abroad rich kids must be so bored that they imagine all kind of stuff to keep themselves from killing themselves. What would Ernest do if I would be rich and he without one paisa? Without his money, he wouldn't have come to India, and if suddenly I would become rich and he poor he would probably spend my money as he is spending his own now, he knows what he wants while I don't.
I try to read; but after one hour, I'm still on the same page. I hope Ernest means what he says, that he will send me enough money to enrol Hari in PUC. I can see that the long train journey tires Ernest. I close the book and change into a lungi for the night.
I climb up and sit on the edge of his upper berth, intentionally touching Ernest's body with my back, holding his hand, crying because I'll lose him soon, glad that the tears are flowing naturally now that I need them, I wish him Good Night, adding, "Without my body sleep will not come!"
On my berth, I give myself up to the train's movements, looking forward to what in Bombay is bound to happen. The train is shaking me and the presence of so many people, the weak light and the dirty ventilator, the knowledge that Ernest desires me, don't let me sleep. The heat of his body and the Andhra heat outside, the dust and my thirst add up to the nightmare of this dirty, sweaty body rushing towards mortal humiliation and fatal loss.
In Bombay
From the moment, the train stops Ernest turns into a full-fledged white man. We are in a city; this is his turf.
In the Centaur Hotel
The hotel is built like a vast fortress. Our A/C room gives one the feeling to be on stage: The furniture, the curtains, the carpets, everything looks important, heavy, dark. The glass of the windows is coloured. After the noise and the dust outside, we're in another world with a swimming pool, palm trees. Only the planes above our heads remind us that we are in Bombay.
The hotel is new and in the bathroom, there is a built in bath tub, not a rusty dirty tub from the time of the British. Ernest asks me to fill the tub for him, which I have never done before, then gets in naked, leaving the door open. Does he expect me to go in there and look at him? What for?
I switch on the radio and listen to the music. After some time he comes out with a towel wrapped around his hips and lays down on the other bed. Did I make a mistake? Time is running out, I say, "I'll have a shower too", and quickly take bath then wrap myself in a towel like he did and sit down on his bed next to him, "let me massage you, please!"
I begin to massage his shoulders and his neck, tears are dropping from my eyes but he can't see them, his skin is sticky, "let me get the coconut oil," I slowly massage his back, arms, then his legs, pushing the towel up, "turn around, close your eyes!"
I need him, if only he would stay but now it is too late[140]. I massage his chest and his face, to look at it a last time, how much I'm going to miss him! I lie down next to him and put his hand where it is not supposed to be, to tell him that I belong to him but he doesn't go forward, as if he wouldn't be interested, though I can feel that he is. I pretend to sleep. What more can he expect? I should never have said "I'm your friend not your wife!"
I should have got us curtains for the windows in the hostel and then behaved as if I shared his taste.
In the Bombay Coffee
In the evening we eat in a restaurant which is so cold that in between I must go outside to warm myself up. The food though, is nice. Ernest pays with a credit card; I haven't seen this before. I say, "You must come back as soon as possible, if only you wouldn't have to leave!"
"Once you have finished your studies we'll see, probably I'll come back before that."
"I can't live without you! Can't you take me with you?" but it is not possible. I think of the small monkeys I've seen in the street begging for beggars, and beg, "Please, turn me into a small monkey and carry me with you! How can I live without you?"
"-r money?"
In Our Hotel Room
After dinner when we prepare ourselves to sleep, I ask him, "is it true that white people sleep naked?"
"Yes, many do."
"Can we try it?"
He undresses completely and lies down naked on the bed. I'm shocked. I thought he would undress beneath the bed sheet. I'm glad when he switches off the main light. I drop my clothes and let him pull me down next to him. He begins to kiss me, while he is playing with my hair and my earlobes I ask him, "abroad, do women do…" what boys talked about in the village.
"Men do it too, if you love somebody."
Would he do it for me? How does it feel? How can anybody confess that he would like it? Wouldn't I have to do it to him too?
"You want to do it?"
"Thank-you!"
It is the first time I sleep naked without a blanket covering us. In this dark A/C room, it feels like I'm in a dragon's cave waiting for the monster to come and devour me. He sleeps nicely next to me with his arms around me. My nakedness, that he is leaving, that I ruined my chance, keep me awake. I try to imagine what a clever prostitute boy would do, what I should do. I can't do it. I'm ready to suffer whatever is necessary, but all the desire I can muster is to be satisfied while I close my eyes and think of Mary, which is not enough for him.
In the morning, I try once more to kiss him like I would want to kiss Mary, if Mary would let me kiss her, and he tells me how beautiful I am, how much he loves me. Abroad by now, his friend must be preparing his room for him. Tomorrow he'll welcome him at the airport, his genuine friend not a parasite like me, a friend who loves him how Ernest wants to be loved, who understands him, a beautiful white boy.
His hands caress his body. A white boy, fair skin, blond hair, blue eyes, tall, athletic, with expensive clothes, the friend who gave him the Rolex will pick him up in an open sports car like you never see here. Ernest's fingers trace the contours of my stomach muscles, tickling and teasing me. Is he thinking of his friend, looking forward to meet him, to touch him, to do with him what I was too stupid to do?
In my mind, I see like in a film Ernest's plane climbing up into the sky. He throws a last glance out of the small round window at Juhu beach, at me who is down there waving, and then he makes himself comfortable in his seat. The waitress brings him a drink and a magazine to read. While the plane is picking up height and speed his thoughts wander ahead to his friend, to his real life abroad, forgetting me completely until next day his friend asks him, "Did you meet great guys?"
"Some of the students were quite nice, I got invited to visit a village. It was interesting to see their living conditions, it's all quite primitive."
We get up in a depressed mood, Ernest takes another bath and invites me to join him, I have become a one hundred percent Vellakaran, nothing shocking is left. I get into the hot water with him, and wash him like a Chandala is washing a dead body. If he would know how much he is humiliating me, it would mean something to him, but he doesn't and I'm humiliating myself in vain, providing him a slight enjoyment while for me after this nothing remains. I've become a sadhu. Instead of Tata Perfumed Coconut Oil, I should smear this his body with ashes. If people would know or guess what I've done, even the beggars roaming from village to village wouldn't accept me anymore among them. I kneel naked in front of him, avoiding looking at his nudity, soaping his limbs, crying, repeating like a mantra, "I'll do whatever pleases you", There is nothing left.
At the American Express Office
I can't help him, we rush from office to office to get his papers to leave. He gets his ticket from an American travel bureau, which looks like a hotel lounge, with comfortable wide upholstered chairs and settees, there are no barred windows or queues, they ask us to sit down and then write his ticket and reserve his seat. He doesn't have to pay, all they ask for is that he signs a receipt. He must be terribly rich. Because I see no Indian customers I ask him, "could an Indian come here too?"
"Yes, provided he can pay in dollars."
Wouldn't it be more honest to put up the old placard,
No Dogs and Indians Allowed On The Premises!
Bombay Airport
At midnight, he has to board his plane. We are both crying. Before he has to pass through customs he gives me what is left of the rupees he changed, more than 2000 rupees, I stutter, "I don't know how I'll be ever able to thank you," and touch his feet. I'm not allowed to see him boarding his plane. I would like to stay at least until his plane has left but he tells me not to wait, it makes no sense, the plane will take off more than an hour later. I wave him until I can't see him anymore, he has left, I'm alone.
Bombay Airport
Outside the airport I take a taxi to V.T. station, it's my last waste of money. There is nothing to do for me in Bombay. I don't miss Ernest, I miss myself whom he has taken with him. Tomorrow he will talk about me with his friends, he will show my picture to Lee, the Negro, "isn't he sweet?"
"No wonder you had no time to write postcards!"
Ernest won't miss me while without him I'm nothing, I shouldn't have let him go.
Bombay V.T.
Waiting for the train my head is full of what Ernest did and said, what I did and said, what I should have done and said, whether he will send money or not, what I will tell Hari, Madhu, and beyond that whether I will ever be good enough as a musician to redeem my name. I pretend to be a stupid Brahmin student but I'm the ghost of one of the dead young rebels I've seen in the Illustrated Weekly. I'm dying a death more painful than getting shot, only pretending to be dead can I go on living. Everything is fine and more because how shameful the shame may be it is mixed like water and milk with the lust of debasing myself further, where is the swan separating shame and lust? If Ernest does send money I will finish my studies, help Father, Mother and Hari and then continue to live until I find a chance to slip out of existence inconspicuously. If Ernest doesn't send money… that would be the end. Whether I help Father or just walk away and become a sadhu or become a Naxalite or worse a RSS pracharak[141]. Regarding my future, the worst is most probable. I should have become a regular prostitute, Ernest's little hustler, I'll never get another chance like this. Now Ernest will meet Western students and forget me, I didn't deliver, now I get the chop (as Ernest would express it).
My body becomes heavy, I feel like stretching out, sleepy, giving up, let them steal my bag, money and papers, I will become a beggar without any decision on my part, why bother? I look at the people milling around in the station, what do they hope for? After a century, all will be dead. What stupid hope is keeping them alive?
Fat conceited couples with fat conceited children, served by bloated eunuch servants, and bony men with bony unhappy wives and unhappy sickly children carried by thin, hungry child servants. Oldish young men who look like too tired children, confused and depressed, or dumb and intoxicated, all without a clue. Lower, Upper Kindergarten, Primary, Secondary School, High School, University, teachers, tutors, readers, lecturers, professors, registrars, and vice-chancellors: It's all a sham. Everybody is brainwashing everybody else that not to have a clue is normal, that making others believe you know is as good as knowing, that as long as you are able to build up Himalayan range behind Himalayan range of bigger and bigger words you are alright, that a sham is only a sham if somebody can expose it.
There are a few Westerners in the station, none of them is like Ernest, ready to make me his friend, they are travellers, I pretend to be travelling too. Do they know where they are going? Does anybody know where he is going? Does Ernest know? If only he wouldn't have left!
Sitting on a dirty terrazzo bench, I tell myself that Ernest liked me only because he is a homosexual, but my heart wants to hear his voice saying sweet words, and my eyes want to see the comfort of his hotel room instead of the dirt around me, not to speak of the utter desperation of my nose.
I close my eyes to feel once more my skin tingle with Ernest's hands, his fingers telling every inch of my body 'you're beautiful'. Two more hours before the train will pull into the station. I cover my face with the shawl to hide my tears, all I wanted to be he has taken with him, if only I wouldn't have been so stupid! Now I get punished for the evil I didn't do. I should have done it! Thoughts are worse than words, words worse than actions; the mind is the root of all evil. To get punished for evil one was too stupid to commit is the most stupid stupidity. If only the words 'I'm your friend not your wife' would never have slipped out of my mouth! I should have told him, 'I prefer the company of men' and that first night walking home from the Palace Lodge holding hands, I should have let my fingers confess that bodies have desires of their own, not to be spoken of, which like the invisible source at the bottom of our Holy Ganga artesian well, exist in darkest depth, beyond thoughts and words in a world of feeling only, which like acts done in dreams, escape judgement because there is no volition.
I dream of Ernest while my body keeps in touch with my luggage to protect it against pickpockets. Now that he has left, I can't remember anymore what I was afraid of. I open my eyes: I am in Bombay V.T. station. My name is Arun. I have a ticket, which connects me to a bleak future; luggage, which explains why I'm here. When the train arrives, I will board it and then lie down on my second-class upper berth, to be carried towards another place, and then another. Do I really believe that somewhere, somewhen something is waiting for me, which is worth suffering for?
Finally, the train arrives. I feel an urge to get up and throw myself in front of the giant Diesel engine, to finish my life while Ernest's love still gives me the courage to act, but already moral rot is setting in. Instead of killing myself, I'm the first to get into the bogie, fighting like a Naxalite for my reserved upper berth. The TT reproves me but I don't care, to have is better than to want.
In the Train from Bombay to Palghat
I'm glad to be in the train, that the train moves, the places going through me confuse the spectre of my grief, I get transported, I'll arrive, I don't dare think of what will happen.
It is my fault if Ernest will not send money. He loved and desired me and instead of doing my best, I acted difficult. How am I going to earn enough money to get myself and Hari through the university? I should have done it for Hari, at least I could have done with Ernest what I did with Madhu, I'm the worst hypocrite and the most stupid! Maybe Ernest would have taken me with him, abroad. What does it matter whether he likes boys? What does it matter whether it is shameful? Now he will meet students who are more forthcoming. But I can't do it; it wouldn't have worked. The thought of him entering me…
…not even by becoming a thief will I be able to survive. What a world is this! The chance to prostitute oneself is a rare treat!
I read on in the book Ernest gave me, many words I don't know. The guy in the book is not like Ernest but at least he is a foreigner, at least it is a book Ernest bought me. Does Ernest think I'm as stupid as this Holden Caulfield? Ernest could have told me right away instead of making me read a whole book.
Without Ernest, my old dreams are failing me, my old fantasies of composing film music. I search within and without my person but can't find on what to base such hopes, how can I compare myself to Madhu, Murali, Shankar, not to speak of the Master? I am not gifted enough to compete with them, and compared to Ernest I know nothing. My stubbornness, Mary who must despise me and the kindness of the Master are pulling me towards Chidambaram. I'll continue my studies until circumstances will force me to give up and then instead of accepting defeat, I'll kill myself. It is a stupid plan, but to give up would be more painful than death.
I listen to the train's adi talam[142]. Inside the noise, I hear a hint of music, which inspires a vain hope like with these completely inept painters, who get prized, exhibited and employed by the idle rich, abroad, that art itself will come to my rescue. That I will invent a different, new music, closer to nature, made from the sounds and noises I heard lying on my bedding in the upper room of our house. And because the time when I will have to prove myself has been pushed away by Ernest's promise to pay for my studies, the absurdity of my notions doesn't worry me. The only problem is to keep Ernest sending enough money for me and Hari to study. With a M.A. I'm bound to get some miserable job.
I try to read and understand but I don't understand. While I fix my eyes on the page, my thoughts are abroad with Ernest. What is he doing now? Is he with his Negro friend? Why did he buy a book about a rich boy who doesn't respect his teacher for me who am poor and respect my Master? Don't I do what the Master says? Beyond the abuse he showers me with, all the Master ever tells me is 'Listen, son!'
Isn't it my duty to do anything the Master asks me to do? Ernest should have given me a book about a white homosexual, from which I can learn what he wants me to do for him. I must look for such a book and then when he comes back I'll say, 'I'm not the marrying type'! If he comes back!
As long as the train is moving, I pretend to myself that the other passengers believe that I am going somewhere. Thirty-six hours later the train arrives in Olavakot station.
Olavakot Train Station
Those getting out here and those staying in the train know that this is nowhere land. Even Collengode palace is depressing, whoever has to get down here is returning to an ancestral home where nothing ever changes, where life is a succession of religious rites, of marriage nagaswarams and sizzling funeral pyres. Here it doesn't matter whether you have an important job abroad, an hour later you'll be sitting in a faded lungi on an old jackwood bed eating the same plantain curry your forefathers have been eating since the time they came from the five-stream-land[143] centuries ago. And then you'll clean the bat droppings from the saddle of an old Eagle brand bicycle, and drive through the fields given to your ancestors by kings whose names have been forgotten, overtaking bullock carts with wooden wheels looking and creaking like the bullock carts your ancestors came in.
Mounting the bus to Purayur I hope that there is nobody in the bus who knows me but everybody knows me, I must joke and brag about my studies. I force myself to smile, while I think of the cool weight of Grandfather's pistol in my hand, to finish the nightmare. How wonderful was the time with Ernest! Now there is nothing left but to pretend to believe he will send money. While I listen with a false polite smile to an old Nayar colonel from our village enumerating his scions' successes abroad, I decide that I will write to Ernest the truth, that I like it.
In the Village
At home next morning after bath and breakfast I astonish Father by volunteering to go and look after the pump he has rented to irrigate our dry fields.
It is a tiresome drudgery to open and close the narrow dirt channels leading to the paddy fields but the solitary work takes my mind off the despair and there are girls going to or coming from work, outcaste or tribal girls, and they say, "How are you, Milord?"
I try to catch them and they run away, teasing me, if I would try hard I could catch one. If you talk nicely, and offer a little gift, it might be possible to meet them after the late show. But then when they conceive they come to your house, "I'm pregnant, Milord, give me some money," and if you can't, they will spoil your name, ruin your chances to marry rich which in my case are slim enough. Only if no other guy's horoscope matches up; but wouldn't sensible parents rather look for another astrologer than let their eye-apple daughter marry a poor music student?
I return around two o'clock tired and sunburnt.
In the Bath House
Warm water for my bath is ready. Kumari[144] brings coconut oil and a bathing towel and pulls up a bucket of cool water from the fountain. After she has left I lock the door of the bathhouse and undress, the smell of burnt wood and Radha[145] soap and my nakedness remind me of the solitary pleasure to which the privacy of this room invites. Intending to think of Mary, I squat down to shave near the window, which opens to the walled-in well. I could have lived a film life with Ernest. Naked and alone, I cannot understand myself anymore, what difference does anything make, am I not just bones and skin and muscles and disgusting internal organs? In the end all will get burnt, where is my problem?
I shave the face I see in the small mirror, who do I think I am? I wash the body I didn't let Ernest enjoy with, why did I keep something for myself, which has no value for me? I mix the chikagai[146] powder with water and shampoo my hair slowly as if I would care. I should have let Ernest go ahead with whatever he desired. Maybe I would have enjoyed it. I pour warm water from the bucket over my head, with closed eyes, to be here in this dark and warm room, under the curtain of warm water flowing over my head, is like dreaming.
While I take the water off my body with the bath towel, once more I decide to think of Mary, but my thoughts are travelling to Ernest's house, desperately knocking at his door, "what do you want?"
"Whatever pleases you!"
A rasping at the door to the other house wakes me up, "Yes?"
"Brother, please?" It is Sushila's voice.
I wind the bathing towel around my hips and open the door. Sushila has a bucket in her hand, I let her in, to draw water. She looks at me then says with a painful voice, "brother" and touches my shoulder. I smell the jasmine in her hair. She pulls me against her. I panic but at the same time hope that it will lead to full enjoyment for the first time. I don't move, dazed that such a thing should happen to me, that another person in this world should be as mad as myself. Instead of satisfying my eyes with her forms, my hands with her breasts I stand there and the smoke of her water warming fire, the smell of burnt palm stems fills my nostrils mingling with the jasmine of her hair. I want to feel her body but the voices of the birds and the rustling of the palm leaves above the roof of the bathhouse grow louder in my ears until it seems that we are outside for all to see.
The shame of being nineteen and not yet having had intercourse with a woman overwhelms me, but while she unties my bathing towel, instead of a man, I become her boy doll. She caresses me and gently pulls me down to lie with her on a mat spread on the floor of her bath house, towards a pleasure I dreamed of for a long time but which I don't know.
In Our Kitchen
I sit down to the ready meal, Mother's love for me, but all I want is to return to Sushila's house, disgracing our family. Mother knows from Kumari.
Eating my tears, I listen impatiently to Mother's reproaches. How can I deceive and disappoint my parents? If only I could earn enough money to provide for them!
In Sushila's House
During the noon heat, I am back in Sushila's house.
Sushila is not beautiful; her complexion is too dark. She is tall and strong, with a regular face, but instead of the plumpness and sweetness which makes women desirable she has a manly roughness and boldness. People suppose that's the reason her husband is not living with her, they say she is not interested in love. I never thought of her when I tried to imagine a woman to enjoy with. I know her well because she is a neighbour, an elder sister I was afraid of as a boy, a good student, and married to a man from Orissa, a brilliant young engineer, who impregnated her twice but never took her to his house for more than a few weeks. He didn't complain to her parents, and she didn't either, she is bringing up his children in the village, where she owns fields and cattle, talking little, keeping to herself, helpful when help is needed, but rarely to be seen in the kitchen of another house.
The moment she touches me I become a paralysed idiot unable to move or speak, I just want her to end my desire. I stand there while she opens the buttons of my shirt, unties my dhoti, takes possession of my body. I'm learning what there is to learn, feeling what there is to feel, replacing my dream of love by a mechanical act.
Afterwards I am lying on the floor like a log to be showered with cool water, to be given coconut juice to drink, sweets to eat. She is playing with my naked body while I feel the dreaded desire reawakening. For a moment, I felt good and beautiful and happy and believed that she loves me; but now the truth of what I want and how much I want it destroys all joy.
Before my body is ready, my mind seems to need it again. I don't care that Sushila doesn't love me, I just want her to make me stop thinking.
At the Village Tank
Madhu must guess what is going on between me and Sushila; I'm ashamed and proud. I want to talk about Sushila but I don't dare, she is his cousin, my fault is too big. Instead, I talk about Ernest.
I feel ashamed of the purity of Madhu's heart, because regarding the body Madhu says, "What’s wrong with that he loves you? He is your friend!"
In Our House
I avoid looking at Father and Mother. Father is talking about marriage, I say, "Let me finish my studies first!"
"That's what I told my father too."
It's a plan to get me away from Sushila, I say, "it makes no sense to marry before I have secured an income."
In the Upper Room
At night, I'm lying awake, waiting for Hari to come back from a late show. Why not ask Father for a very young bride, like a High School girl? Father will do whatever I want. But it's a merely a dream dreamt in a hot upper room, because whom I don't want to think about is Mary, whom I'm thinking about. If only Sushila were Mary!
A wife and small children would be one more problem, two more problems, three more problems. I must wait until I have ground below my feet.
When finally after midnight, Hari returns, I have married Mary and travelled abroad and enjoyed with white women. At least one thing in my future to look forward to! Tired but not sleepy, we talk. I try to convince him of the value of arranged marriages, but he is not interested, "I must go abroad, Anna. If you write ask Ernest what I should study, what he suggests."
"I thought, Physical Education attracts you?"
"Maybe he wants me to do a B.Com., for me it's all the same. I'm too stupid for Science."
"You don't have to decide now."
"I don't care, I'll do what he advises."
Like Father, like Mother, Hari asks me, "Anna, doesn't Ernest have to marry?"
"I don't know, abroad things may be different."
Did Ernest tell Hari that he is gay? Does Hari suspect me to be gay too? It is difficult to answer his questions truthfully; even to lie well is difficult. I must write to Ernest to send me money to let Hari join the PUC after the summer recess, asking what studies he recommends for Hari.
Purayur
The heat is unbearable. I lie on a mat in the upper room, the table fan is whirling next to me on the floor. To keep me from thinking of Sushila, I finish the book Ernest bought for me. The rascal hero runs away from the good teacher and ends in a lunatics' asylum. Does Ernest think I'm too crazy to accept help? Does he want to warn me, what happens if I don't let him have his way? Is it my fault if Ernest lacked the courage to force me? Did I run away when he touched me? I'm not his clumsy 'Catcher in the Rice'!
In Sushila's House
Feeding me pomegranates Sushila's mentions that Vishnu helps her to manage her fields; spoiling my mood.
Purayur
Ernest's answer to my letter arrives faster than expected, "greetings to Hari, Physical Education is ok."
To inform Narayan Sir by missive to enrol Hari in PUC is the most important thing to do, but the one word Sushila said, has destroyed my life, I barely manage to smear the necessary phrases on the paper.
The time arrives to organise our journey, I let it happen, I can't leave and can't stay, Hari packs my clothes. He insists that we stop in Palani to visit the temple, saying, "Because it is Lord Murugan's earthly abode."
It's Lord Murugan's most holy sanctuary, I'd like to die there, maybe there I will be safe.
When I take leave, Sushila hands me twenty rupees. I accept it like it is my pay, like I earned it satisfying her. Kissing her, I become aware how much my body desires her, I'd like to live in an endless dark night, just our two entwined bodies, without thought, without light, never to separate again.
Now for sure Vishnu will enjoy with her.
In the Train to Palani
I look at Madhu and Hari who are joking boy jokes; my body is still alive with the ecstasy of Sushila's love. Maybe it is not true that she has an affair with Vishnu. I must forget Sushila.
I must concentrate fully on becoming Mary's friend; this is the main thing, to enjoy with Mary! I'd like to lie down on an empty bench and dream of her. I want to close my eyes but outside the train in the small stations and in the fields along the track there are girls too which my eyes don't want to miss.
In Palani
We climb the rock stairs past the beggars and circumambulate the temple. Madhu and Hari are praying, I can't pray, Lord Murugan's presence wipes all thoughts from my mind. I'm crying without knowing why.
Inside the temple the presence of the Lord overwhelms me,
What can I tell about the sweetness
Of kissing my Lord's feet day and night!
Stumbling down the endless stairs, I see that Madhu's and Hari's eyes are wet too.
In the Train to Dindigul
We sing bhakti songs, a rich farmer compliments us for our singing and offers us tea from an ambulant vendor in the train.
In the Broad Gauge Train
Hari's mood changes. He imitates funny station master's announcements, the comical Tamil of DMK[147] big-shot averkuls[148] and the more ridiculous Hindi of Congress politicians, he sings political propaganda songs with other words substituted, "twenty joints program, loo paint for no future," we nearly die of laughing. It's a miracle that we don't get arrested.
Annamalai University
First thing after our arrival, the postman brings me a parcel from Ernest with a metronome and a card, "Love, Ernest".
Without Ernest, I am just another poor Indian student trudging around in the mud of the campus. Cows and goats and dogs are staring at me; crows and parrots are commenting on my stupidity. Who do I think I am? What do I hope to achieve studying music? Lecturers and professors are barely able to survive. What does it help if I earn twenty or twenty-five rupees playing in the temple? Stupidly and stubbornly, I continue on a road that leads nowhere. Am I so much in love with the violin? I am like Father, who year after year pays to have his fields ploughed, and year after year the rain is failing him and still he goes on hoping.
In the New Guest House
The warden throws me out of Ernest's room, because I'm no lecturer. Whom did Ernest lecture but me? The warden treats me like I should know why he treats me like that. Ernest prepaid for the semester, I'm only worried about the refund. Madhu, Shankar and Murali help me to move my boxes into their big room in the Music Hostel. They are my friends. The senior student who is in charge of the Music Hostel though, tells me "we're fully booked". He enjoys annoying me, referring repeatedly to "your foreign friend" and inviting me generously to share his muggy room full of dog-eared textbooks, and all the accoutrements and the rich ghee[149] smell of a Brahmin hotel's kitchen.
In the Music Hostel
When I complain, Madhu jokes about my good looks, "I don't have your problem — nobody ever proposes me, except years ago an old fellow in the bath house — girls only like me because they think nobody will steal me away from them."
Madhu is a success with girls, they call him 'Madhu brother'; they trust him, not me. I am 'disgusting' 'vile' 'vicious', as if they would know.
Madhu says, "Our fathers are serious about finding suitable brides for us."
"I'm not interested, not now."
I confess my affair with Sushila and he says laughing, "Everybody knows!" Madhu is not considering that she is his cousin. He is first and foremost my friend. His only worry is, "what, if Sushila's husband should get wind of it?"
"That would be the end of us!"
"She's unhappy, alone in that house with two children. Her husband doesn't love her and, I think, she doesn't love him either."
I listen to Madhu but I'm thinking about Mary.
"What answer did you give your father?"
Madhu says, "I told him that I don't know whether I want this kind of marriage."
"What can you do? Your beautiful friendship with Shanti will have to end."
"We are friends, nothing more, nothing less."
They are friends since PUC and still have not tainted their names.
"How can you love her without that the desire is killing you?" or is he lying? Maybe I am sick. "I can hardly look at a girl without the urge, not to speak of talking about spicy subjects like you and Shanti." I'm glad that she's not beautiful, "It would drive me mad."
"Your sexual prowess is well known!"
"What are you talking about with Shanti when you are alone?"
"We're never alone."
It doesn't make sense to me, it is like his song, I understand but I don't understand. "Maybe because you have sisters you know how to talk with girls. I never know what to say." What is there to talk about? We shouldn't, and still we want to do it. I despise Sushila for her immorality and am proud that a woman desired me. The size of her breasts and her hips shocked me, the intimate smell of it, she's neither ugly nor beautiful. Her face means nothing to me.
Madhu jokes, "people say Sushila is reading books, why didn't you talk about books!"
Madhu lets me share again his cot; our hands find a way to satisfaction. Mere heat means nothing. While I am enjoying with him I think of Mary, if only I knew how to talk with her, desire is killing me day and night.
In the Music College
Just when I have to enter the Master's room, a small fellow darts in and hands me a paper. There is only one sentence on it
No other student interests me!
Will you respect me?
God bless you!
Your Friend
There is no signature on it, but it must be from Mary. I'm playing like a beginner, the Master asks me, "is something wrong with you, beautiful boy? Are you missing your friend?"
"My violin isn't good."
"Try this one, beautiful boy!"
He hands me his violin, which nobody is allowed to touch. I don't do much better on it and understand once more that it is my heart not the instrument which is out of tune.
Instead of abusing me as usual, the Master calls me "beautiful boy". Is he secretly in love with me? If only he would say, what he told Ernest, 'Arun is my best student!' But it is not true; he said it to secure the job for me. When I leave I say, in English, "I'm sorry, Sir!"
Later, while I'm handing in my papers Shivasamy asks me, "can you manage now that Ernest is no more here? Please come to the Masters house tonight. The master wants to talk to you!"
When I tell Madhu about the Master's violin he says, "It is a great honour!"
"My violin is rotten."
"Do you think you're the only student who has an Indian made violin?"
In Shanti's House
Madhu, Vijay, myself and Shanti go to the cinema together. After the cinema, we sit in the entrance hall of Vijay's house. Vijay stretches himself out on a mat on the floor, Madhu sits on an old bed, I on an old easy chair. Vijay's mother and Shanti on the swing, Vijay's maternal grandmother sits on a mat with her pan box next to her. We talk about the story-books Shanti's mother is reading, strange inter-caste love affairs of bored, rich students in Bombay or Calcutta or Kashmir, I don't dare to open my mouth, whatever I say, they'll guess immediately what is on my mind. They talk as if films and novels would prove that society and religion are wrong, as if love marriages were standard practice now, as if South India were Bombay.
Madhu seems not to listen, he's helping Shanti to draw an elaborate embroidery pattern, it is strange to see them together, the Brahmin boy with the Pillai girl, like an affair. If only Mary and myself could be like Madhu and Shanti!
Shanti's mother questions me regarding the subject. How can I have an opinion? I am a student.
In the Master's House
When I pay my respects to the Master, he says, "I don't want to trouble you, son, but the matter is, I'm in urgent need of help. Shivasamy is busy, Lakshmi is old, I would be glad if you could help me, son. I can't pay much but I can provide free room and board."
Is the Master worried how I will pay for hostel and mess? To stay in the Master's house is an honour and a chance to save money, especially in case Ernest's money should stop arriving. When I seem to accept, the Master says, "son, I need somebody to help me harvest the mangoes from my trees, so I thought of you, because you are a farmer's son."
Does he simply need another stupid servant? He is not married, is my ill repute attracting him? I say, "I must stay with Madhu, Sir!"
"Ask him too, son! I would be happy to have him in my house. I will not bother him with hard work like picking mangoes. He is a fat boy; it would be a strain for him. You can do it easily, son! Shivasamy will show you the room."
Shivasamy takes me upstairs. The room makes my heart jump with joy. It is larger than Ernest's room in the New Guest House, and cleaner. There is a small bathroom and a balcony looking out over moonlit dry fields. I can't wait to tell Madhu.
Next to it is Shivasamy's room, which looks more like a store-room with a small window, a shelf full of books and a table on which there are still more books and notebooks, even the bed is covered with books and papers, is he sleeping on the floor? Shivasamy worries a lot about the Master's wishes and health, his every sentence begins with 'it pleases the Master' or 'it doesn't please the Master'.
Back downstairs I try to express my gratitude to the Master, but he doesn't listen, instructing Shivasamy instead to buy a lota[150] for me, "explain him how to use the bathroom", to get a cot upstairs in order that I can sleep on the balcony, because "farm boys are not used to sleep inside during the hot season."
The Master treats me as if I've grown up in a hut, I can't accept it. I don't need his help. I repeat, "I must stay with Madhu, Sir!"
The Master tells Shivasamy in an angry voice, "Didn’t you teach him the duties of guru-shishyata?"
I bow and accept. He is my Master; I must obey.
How can I move into his house after offending him?
I take my leave, confused, the Master doesn't look at me, telling Shivasamy, "what's the use of his beauty if he has no manners, it is necessary to be strict with him!"
Annamalai University
On the way back to the Music Hostel a boy from the Master's house calls me back, saying, "Shivasamy says, 'tell Arun, 'I want to talk to you''". I return and find Shivasamy sitting in the dark on the steps of the porch. He nods that I should sit down too.
"Yes, Sir?"
"The Master loves you, little father!"
"What, Sir?"
"The Master told me, 'tell Arun, 'I love you, son!'' Now go and come, little father!"
How can I walk? The tears don't want to stop flowing. What is wrong with me, the worse I become the more people seem to like me. I will have to improve in order not to dishonour the Master. What will people say if a student who stays in the Master's house doesn't do well?
In the Music Hostel
I'm sure Madhu will like it. To offer him something in return for his friendship makes me happy. Only after having seen his joy can I be happy too. What a chance we have to get this room! Nobody in the whole university has such a beautiful room. A rich student would pay double or triple the usual price to get such a room.
Shankar tells me that Madhu has gone out, I can't wait until I can announce him our good luck. Finally, I manage to get hold of him. I can't explain how nice the room is and though it is night drag him back to the Masters house, where I bother Shivasamy to show Madhu the room.
In Our Room
Once Madhu is inside, I can see in his eyes the look he had when he saw my watch, 'what did you do in return for this?' He looks at Shivasamy, at me, at the room, I say, "please, isn't it wonderful?" But there is only a tight, bitter smile on his lips, "Yes, it is nice."
Because of Ernest, our friendship has lost its naturalness. Ernest and money have come between us. While I wasted my time as a parasite, Madhu has intensified his practice. He has become a star, at least in the music college. He is expected to become famous, a great singer, people are cultivating his friendship, the teachers are treating him with special consideration. Now he doesn't want to be my friend anymore. The shame nearly kills me.
Shivasamy explains that in the Master's house the students put their money together for Lakshmi to cook for all of them. It sounds like paradise: No more canteen and mess food. Madhu will be able to eat as much as he likes, which is a lot. When he hears this bit of good news, at last his smile broadens.
In the Master's House
Downstairs the Master invites us to drink tea, telling Madhu the story about picking mangoes, telling it like it is a story to be told in such cases, not at all trying to convince him. Madhu says, "I'm not in need of another room, Sir!"
The Master says, "I would be proud to have you stay in my house", and then turning to Lakshmi who is bringing a plate of sweets, "can you feed this boy?"
"I used to cook for temple elephants!"
The Master compliments Madhu for his heart-stealing voice and me for my beauty, making it worse.
Annamalai University
Walking back to the Music Hostel he says, "if only I wouldn't love you so much!" and he begins to cry. I put my arm around his shoulders, it is a good thing the street is dark, how can I explain him that myself too I am surprised and disappointed that instead of a proper artist I have become a kanjuka![151] My own tears and my sincerely acted love finally move him to promise that he'll ask his master to allow him to accept the Master's offer. I don't want to stay without Madhu in the Master's house. Whatever stupidities I make, Madhu goes on loving me, he may be as angry as he likes, he will always do what I want.
To improve his mood, I tell him about Mary's letter, but instead of joking about my good luck, he tells me disapprovingly, "she's a good singer!"
In the Music Hostel
At night lying near Madhu, I think about Mary. Why did she write the letter? How do I know it was from her? A research fellow whom I don't want to think about, Ramnath, is said to have an affair with her. What if she is in love with him? He is a tall good-looking fellow, and worst off all, rich. Do I respect her?
Madhu is like a living God, his breath resounds with the music filling his dreams, from his body Divine energy is flowing into my body. He loves me blindly, unthinkingly, wonderfully though I don't deserve his love. His love is perfect like his art while I must love him because I don't deserve his love. My art is but advanced failure. I have studied long enough to play tolerably well. Average ears may not detect immediately that it is all practice and pretence. I'm stubborn enough to go on whatever people say, but how can I ever expect Shri Shri Sarasvati to take my place? I wasn't able to give myself fully up to Ernest and I am not able to lose myself fully in prayer, the knower always watches what I do, commenting, cheering, ridiculing, abusing myself for dreaming that through hard work, sycophancy and imitation I could become equal to those who by good works have earned that the Gods filled their heart with music, formed their bodies from scales and rhythms.
I fall asleep confused, one arm around Madhu, am I dreaming of Mary?
In Our Room
We're fortunate in that Madhu's master is a friend of the Master, therefore Madhu gets permission to stay with me. Carrying his things into the room, Madhu says, "Where are you going to sleep?"
There is only one bed. I don't understand him and say, "Here!" sitting down on the bed, "you must sleep with me!"
"I thought you would sleep with somebody else!"
"With whom?"
"Who knows! I'm sorry!" He steps outside on the balcony.
I sit on the bed, slowly I understand that Ernest has left but my face will remain blackened forever. Never again will I be able to face people squarely. My only hope is to excel on the violin, to make up by virtuosity what I'm lacking in virtuousness.
Joining Madhu on the balcony I ask him, "Do you think the Master is like Ernest?"
"What's wrong with Ernest? Where would you be without Ernest?"
In the Master's House
In the evening we have our first meal in the Master's house. Rajiv, the fellow who called me back for Shivasamy, is also staying in the house. He behaves like a servant boy though Shivasamy says, he is a student too. He has beautiful eyes, and a charming shy smile. With all these people in the house it's difficult to see what help the master could possibly be in need of.
Shivasamy looks after the Master as if the Master would be his own father, remembering the medicine the Master has to take, serving him his food, anticipating his wishes. In turn the Master treats Shivasamy like an eldest son. But nothing illicit shows in their behaviour, Shivasamy acts as respectfully as we do or more. The Master is more strict with Shivasamy than with Madhu or me, mostly scolding him, while to me the Master says, "I like you because you're a farmer's son like myself," which I don't believe, it isn't possible, he is a musical genius. Many records attest to his fame.
The only person at ease with the Master is Madhu; they're cut from the same cloth and have a lot of fun talking about my beauty, Madhu’s appetite, Shivasamy's seriousness, Rajiv's slenderness and Lakshmi's opulence, quoting songs, scanning rhythms, the Master gives examples of his teachers' phrasings and Madhu picks them up, improving on them, pleasing the Master, while Shivasamy, myself and Rajiv watch them, it is difficult not to be jealous.
After the Master has retired to his room, Shivasamy exhorts us, "don't shame the Master, you must be best ¾ don't let people say, 'he lived three years in the master's house and all he got is fat!'"
In the University
Near the TSU office Dikshit, the number one rascal, approaches me; a subject I don't want to speak to, the fellow Ernest threw out of his room. Dikshit too calls me, "beautiful boy", adding "if you need help", his father is a circuit judge, and while I try to get rid of him before other students see us together, I'm trying to guess whether he would invite me to a mountain resort and there, whether he would… my face is getting red, showing him that I know full well what he is talking about. I long so much to hear sweet words, that only when his sticky fingers touch my neck, am I able to say, "It is necessary to leave me in peace!"
Dikshit walks away grinning, looking forward to chat about me with his peers. What I should have said to him is, "fuck off!"
In the Music College
Trying to be alone, I sit down in an empty room pretending to study a dusty book nobody cared to steal from the Music College Library, which comprises just a few shelves in the Master's office. I don't even read the title, I'd like to kill Dikshit.
In Ramasamy's Room
Ramasamy, Ernest's former tutor, gives me the key to his room in the Research Fellows Hostel, to look after his room while he is in Delhi, to check that Ramasamy's things don't get stolen. I invite Vijay to meet me there, 'to talk'.
Once we're both inside, I lock the door, what an important thing a small aluminium bar can become!
I waste no time; turn to Vijay and embrace him, kiss him, push him down onto the bed. We are not ourselves but a film couple, man and wife. His banyan is like a bodice, his dhoti like a widow's white sari across his slim waist. I enjoy with closed eyes, immersed in the smell of his lavender talcum powder, dreaming him to be a woman, until my urge is spent. After sleeping half an hour holding him in my arms, naked, we talk about things not talked about usually, when I mention Ernest's name a shadow flies over Vijay's face, "let's not talk about Ernest."
He doesn't suspect my duplicity, that I couldn't afford to lose Ernest. I ruined their friendship. In return I will become a hermaphrodite in my next life, I deserve it or a bat or another lonely, unhappy animal. How easy it is to do wrong, mortally wrong. I'm a much worse person than I suspected. What does the flattery of the stupid mean if you deceive and betray those who trust you? I am sorry but I can't tell Vijay.
I kiss him, not him, the woman I see in him. His lips are wonderful. That he isn't built like a woman doesn't matter, I like his voice, his face, his body. He is a beautiful young man. Girls adore him. If I meet him in the street or in his house there is just a vague desire that he should turn into a woman and let me love him. He is not effeminate, but when he impersonates a woman he is far more a woman than real women.
Near Ramasamy's Room
Leaving the room, we run into Mary and her friends, who are having a chat in the shade of the abandoned second cycle rental stall. They all smile at Vijay, except Mary, who stares at me without saying so much as 'hello'. Fortuitously two TSU delegates separate Vijay and the other girls from Mary and me, giving me the chance to spurt out what is on my mind, "I'm thinking of you day and night!"
Mary repeats with a cold, pained voice what she wrote in her letter, "No other student interests me!"
"And what about Ramnath?"
"Forget Ramnath, he's just a friend."
"And me?"
She says, "Yes, Brother!" I want to kiss her. Would she let me kiss her? Did she let Ramnath kiss her? But already the lucky moment is over. The TSU heavy-weights invite Vijay and me for tiffin in order to bask in the sun of Vijay's presence.
In the TSU Office
While I'm munching vermicelli and drinking tea, my thoughts are far away from 'off-the-record' and 'on-record' malapropisms.
How could she say Yes? What if somebody heard her?
In Our Room
At night I talk to her in my mind; if only I could read her thoughts! What does she like about me? That I'm a Brahmin cannot account for much with a Christian. I learnt they demand to be treated as equals. Regarding looks compared to the average music student I think I'm favoured by nature, at least Ernest told me, Madhu, the Master, Dikshit, am I what the Master called me, 'a beautiful boy?
At the Rowing Channel
In the evening Vijay, myself, Madhu and Shanti go for a walk along the rowing channel talking about music, politics and the cruelty of our life.
Vijay tells that three years ago he saw the decapitated body of a Gypsy boy in the channel. He believes that the horse-riding sons of a certain Chettiar smuggler baron, at present in prison under MISA[152], raped and killed the boy.
It's like what the Naxalites preach: Big landlords are abusing their power, I blame our worst politicians and our archaic social system, talking like a true Naxalite, but in my heart I don't care anymore about bonded labour and the Adivasi struggle against exploitation by the landlords. All I can think of is that one day Ernest will stop sending money and then I'll have to survive off Madhu or another real artist like him, a master, eating when he lets me eat, chewing betel when he offers me, slowly starving like a toothless old dog. I try to convince myself that I should kill myself regardless of Hari once Ernest stops sending money, but I know that instead I will debase myself step by step, stubbornly, stupidly, foolishly, until in the end, having lost my violin and the ability to play it, I will die as a beggar, every mouthful of food prolonging my agony.
Madhu has a clear notion of what he is going to do, in India or abroad, as a singer. Vijay and Shanti want to teach.
I manage to separate Shanti from Madhu, to talk with her about Mary. Shanti says, "She loves you no doubt, but are you serious?"
"No other girl interests me."
"That's not the problem, Brother!"
I understand.
In Our Room
At night, I ask Madhu about Shivasamy.
"He helped us in PUC!"
"Where does he sleep?"
"It is none of our business. "
"Rajiv is a sweet boy too."
"So you like him?"
"I wouldn't mind!"
"He is a Harijan!"
I'm shocked, I'm lucky that I didn't touch him. If Mother would know! The Master is a Pillai, they are careless. Rajiv looks clean like a Mudaliar. It is too late, we're the Masters guests now. I think 'I'll keep a distance' but here are the words in my mind and there are Rajiv's eyes, his smile, I'd like to enjoy with him. I ask Madhu, "Why did the Master take him into the house?"
"What does it matter to you? He is the master, we must defend his name! We must honour the Master's trust through hard work! What a shame if others would excel while we lag behind!"
"Rajiv mustn't touch me."
"He plays well! Didn't you want to hit his dirty side, my Naxalite Lord? "
Madhu moves his loins against my lower back in a lascivious manner poking fun. For Madhu only music matters, that Rajiv is gifted is enough to make him clean. Madhu like a true Naxalite couldn't care less about caste, while I, the would-be Naxalite, feel defiled if a Harijan's dhoti so much as brushes my toes.
How easy it is for Madhu, how difficult for me! Even if I were gifted there remains the fact of my stupidity, whatever I decide means nothing. My life is like a small boat on a big river. I try to row into the right direction but the stream of my desires pulls me elsewhere. If ever I succeed to play reasonably well, it is that for a few moments my desires become sound and carry me with them.
I turn around and grapple with him. What would become of me without Madhu?
In the Master's House
The Master makes me run errands for him, as if to prove that he needs my help, disproving himself by saying, "if you have no time tell Rajiv to go, son!" Everybody seems to be paying 'tuition' but the Master never asks us for it though he tells me, "Now you have become my beautiful shishya!"
Does the Master too believe that I let Ernest do everything with me? Is this why he invited us to stay in his house? Is the Master interested in me? Then why does he hold me on the brink of despair? I want him to love me, to joke with me. But he prefers to talk to Madhu, I can only listen.
At tiffin, when the Master prompts Rajiv to offer me the fruits. I hesitate; in the end I don't touch them, looking foolish. Rajiv's dark glances are confusing me. Young, strong, slim, like Vijay he is boyish and girlish at the same time, without being effeminate. His voice still has a trace of breaking in it and his 'yes, Milord' sounds like the answer to a question which need not be asked. Harijans must be used to it. I can't tell Mother that I'm staying under the same roof with an outcaste.
Near the PUC
Narayan Sir tells me, "Hari is not the most brilliant but one of the most hard-working students in PUC!"
Hari is a master of getting done and pretending to have done. His main scholastic achievement is to have learnt by himself, from the radio, to talk with an American accent, exasperating his High School teachers and earning him the unlimited adoration of his age-mates, who like him believe chewing gum and an American accent are the first and foremost prerequisites to go abroad.
How he gets his good marks is beyond my understanding. He must have a secret charm which lets him pass examinations without paying 'tuition' or working hard.
Narayan Sir feels obliged to add, as if I couldn't have guessed it, "all the girls are in love with Hari!"
In the Master's House
The Master insists that we get up early, before dawn, to teach us at daybreak. The Master's sings or plays the scales for us, the rhythms. Among all of us the Master addresses mainly Madhu, who is best, while I'm a mere farm boy who dreams of becoming an artist. The Master scolds me, "what do you call what you are playing, son? You should study the bansuri![153]"
The master produces on his violin the sound of a flute and plays the most classical Krishnalila theme, the farm boy becoming Shri Shri Murali and the joke becomes art. He urges Madhu to sing, I don't know who, where I am, what I'm doing; beauty and art overwhelm me. I scratch my violin slightly, the Master nods approvingly. I'm the cowherd with the reed-pipe, the Blue One takes my place, sound is produced, it is alright, there are cows and gopis, hearing and playing. We sit on the entrance porch, I'm barely aware of the people passing in the street outside, who stop and pranam as if the Master's house were a temple.
We're supposed to study Carnatic music not Bengali bhajans but the Master doesn't care, he doesn't have to prove that he is a master. The universe echoes what he plays. Out of sound this world came into existence.
In the Music College
The Master looks at my notebook and says, "I look at the beauty of your homework, little father, and see nothing!"
Everybody laughs, while I'm ashamed, I should have done it in time. His mordant comments are interspersed with 'beautiful boy' and 'heart-stealing glances' but I don't care how much he makes fun of me.
The Master is the most wonderful person I ever met, I'm lucky to be his student. I love him and want to honour him in everything.
Annamalai University
There are more than thousand rupees in the bank, from the money Ernest gave me plus what he sent me since, it's his money. If he pays for it, I'll get a master degree and a doctorate. He is right, it is best for me to become a scholar, maybe this way I can get a job after all and justify my studies.
And still I worry, I tell myself, "you have enough," but it is not enough, I want Ernest to come back, to take charge of me once more, only near him can I stop worrying, only when I hold his hand do I know that he will pay whatever needs to be paid.
In PUC Hostel
On the way to the station I enter the PUC Hostel without real hope to meet Hari who must be out training with the Cricket or the Athletic or the Rowing team.
Looking for a fellow to leave a message with for Hari, I see Hari at the far end of the dormitory alone at a table, sitting and writing. I begin to believe Narayan Sir. Maybe Hari is changing. I should be pleased but I'm afraid it is all because he has lost faith in me and now feels obliged to provide himself for Father and Mother. I want to leave without talking to him but he has heard my steps and calls me, his voice still works its miraculous charm. How will I ever be able to live without the ambrosia of Hari's voice!
I sit down on a cot near his table and ask him, "Tambi, are you not training today?"
"I must study, Anna!"
In his eyes I read, 'I'm not going to be like you, I'm not going to waste my life, I'm not going to make a fool of myself!'
Behind my back everybody must be calling me a fool. Suddenly I feel tired. I got up too early to study with the Master.
I leave with a vague intention of mending my ways, but experience proves that if I change it always is for the worse. The only hope is not a hope, that having lost all respect for myself I will free myself of myself and become a mere instrument transforming the eternal sound of the universe into Carnatic music.
Annamalai University
I should pick up what I missed in studies and practice while Ernest was here, but instead I spend my time worrying about Mary. Did Ramnath enjoy with her? I see Mary and Ramnath in the one hundred and eight positions of Today's Kamasutram; it drives me insane. I should have asked Hari what he knows about Mary and Ramnath, but how can I ask him? If it is true he will have to lie, and if he says, it is not true, I will not believe him.
In Our Room
Instead of studying I listen to Western music on the little radio Ernest bought me. I should have let him teach me but I pretended to know all about Western music. I missed my chance to learn from Ernest who has studied Western music. How was he able to live with an idiot like me? I know wh