by Sudha Nair
KK stirred in bed slowly, twisting on his side. His arms were stiff, his arthritic knees creaked. He reached over to the record player and switched it on. Mohanam ragam started to play. He didn’t feel like getting out of bed without music. Nothing gave him more energy than listening to Sarojini’s tapes from years ago, preserved in a carved wooden box, from the times when she performed on stage. His day began with her voice.
He had not much to do through the day, except read and write. His man Friday took care of his household chores, cleaning, washing, changing his linen. He ordered his meals from a home delivery service. No, he did not miss Sarojini for these things, but he missed her physical presence terribly, the need to hear her voice and feel her company, overpowered all other feelings. After she died a year ago, he’d found her tapes and kept himself cocooned in the world of her music, his saviour. It transformed his world, becoming the sole reason for his blissful waking hours and nights’ sleep.
Gradually evening drew closer. Today was his birthday and he missed Sarojini more than ever, missing the prasad she made after offering a prayer for him in the morning, the special dinner of koftas that she cooked for dinner. She had done that for years. He remembered it all like it was just yesterday.
He shut the book he was reading, made himself a drink, and sat on the armchair, propping his legs on his cushion. Slipping off his glasses, he let them rest on his chest. Today, he wanted to hear his favourite songs without any distractions.
He picked up his single malt, and sipped it, feeling its warmth down his throat. Laying his head back on the curved wooden arch he closed his eyes, waiting to be transported back to the first time he’d heard Sarojini’s voice, imagining her with him now.
Sarojini was an exquisite singer, mesmerising him several years ago at a classical concert. She wore a bright silk sari, a large red bindi on her forehead, and jasmine in her hair. Her voice brought upon a strange calmness in him that evening, drowning all impervious thoughts. As she sang on stage he felt as if she were singing for him alone.
After the performance, he showed up backstage asking her for an interview for his magazine. She declined but he remained persistent, showing up at every performance until she relented at last. “Once,” she said, finally, after many months of pursuit, “and then you won’t bother me again?”
By then KK wasn’t interested in her interview any more. He asked her out instead. Again, she declined. But KK was a persistent bastard, not one to be deterred in those days.
Finally they settled on a quiet rendezvous. Sarojini met KK at the Sea Princess hotel on a beautiful breezy evening. They sat on the deck, sipping coffee, watching the yachts sailing out on the sea. It was an evening that KK still remembered vividly. The slant of her arm as she placed it on the table, the jhumkas in her ears that swayed every time she spoke, her slender neck, the purple colour sari she wore. Nothing was lost on KK as he sat across her that evening. He watched the movement of her lips as she spoke, the curve of her mouth as she smiled, the crinkle around her eyes as she laughed. His heart fluttered the whole evening and words stuck to his throat.
“Sadaa Palaya…,” her voice blared as the cassette rolled on and it still gave him goose bumps. His eyes misted, he swayed his head, blissfully feeling the magic of her voice sweep through him once again.
Her voice, her tapes, were all he had now. They gave him company, kept him from crumbling. Listening to her songs formed a ritual every day, one without which he didn’t feel like getting out of bed in the mornings, or going to sleep at night. The doorbell rang, breaking his reverie. It was seven pm. How he hated interruptions at odd hours.
“Malaji?” he heard himself utter in surprise when he opened the door. Mala who ran the home food service stood at his door dressed in a glittering red sari, garish lipstick and heels. Her vulgar dress sense jarred the serene mood that he was in just moments ago. He didn’t have a good feeling about this unexpected visit.
Wasn’t it too early for dinner? “Why did you take the trouble to come, Malaji? I told your delivery boy to come at eight.”
“There’s a reason I came today, KKji,” Mala said, smiling obsequiously. “It’s your birthday today, isn’t it? Ask me how I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Your daughter called to tell me to send you a special dinner of koftas. Aha, I said, I must bring you dinner myself.”
“You shouldn’t have troubled yourself,” he said. “Besides I was busy now,” he continued. “Please send your boy at eight.”
Mala’s face fell but she recovered quickly. “KKji, busy-visy chodo. I’ve baked you a cake also.”
“Please take it back, Malaji. I shouldn’t eat cake.”
“Arre…Tussi great ho!” she said, barging in without an invitation, her hips swaying seductively. “Chaliye, KKji. Birthdays only come once a year. You cut the cake and I’ll sing the happy birthday song.”
Oh, great! KK scratched his head and stood at the door not moving. Mala pulled out a small box with a ribbon on top. “I hope you like it,” she said, smiling at him. “I made it myself.”
If only Mala would leave! He wanted to get back to Sarojini but Mala refused to leave until he cut the cake. Reluctantly, KK switched off the cassette player.
“Hope you like it,” she said, looking eager as she set the cake on the table and brandished a knife. She made a big fuss about singing the birthday song as he cut the cake. “Try it. Try it,” she said, nudging him. She served him a slice, determined to hover until he took a bite.
“It’s great,” he told her, although it was too sweet.
“I…I love you, KKji,…always—always have,” she stuttered, out of the blue, moving closer to him.
What?! KK’s hands lurched violently, the cake stuck in his throat, although he kept a straight face as if he hadn’t heard.
“I think you’re a great writer, KKji. I’ve…I’ve read your books. So deep,” she continued.
KK coughed, the cake spluttering from his mouth. He’d ordered from her home kitchen several times in the past but he didn’t know how to respond to her first amorous overture.
“I think you should leave now, Malaji. Thanks for the cake. I have to get back to my study,” he said.
“I’ve been meaning to say this for a long time. You’ve lost Sarojini. I’ve lost my husband. I cook. You write. We’re both alone. We would make a good pair, KKji,” she rambled on.
Like hell we would!
She continued, “I love your house too. I’d take care of it like my own. Times are hard, KKji. We have to look out for bad things. I could take care of you.” “Full time!” she added for effect.
KK was horrified. He had to think of something to get rid of Mala fast, he thought, or she was going to ruin the rest of his blissful evening, possibly, even the rest of his life. An idea began to take shape. He wasn’t sure if it would work but he’d just have to wing it.
“Well—I have this strange problem, Malaji?” he began.
Mala looked taken aback by his change of subject. “Problem, KKji?”
“Yes, Malaji. Ever since Sarojini died, I’ve been having such strange dreams.” Then he added with a whisper, as if it were blasphemous lest somebody else should hear, “Wet dreams, you know?”
It didn’t make any sense to Mala. “You mean you sweat in your dreams?”
“No, Malaji,” he said, in an irritated tone. Then he continued with his hissing whisper, “I make love in my dreams.”
Mala widened her eyes. At first, she looked puzzled. Then, her face changed, as understanding slowly dawned on her. She squirmed, but KK continued. “You see, Malaji, just wanted to be honest with you. I’ve been to see a doctor but he said he couldn’t do anything about a seventy-five-year-old man who has wet dreams. But I’m having a jolly good time, let me tell you.”
Mala’s discomfort increased by the minute. She struggled to keep a straight face.
It spurred him on. With an inward chortle, he continued. “Sex—arre, what am I saying, I mean, love—can help me, that’s what the doctor said. I think you might be helpful, Malaji. What did you say about love?”
Now it was Mala’s turn to look horrified. Hastening towards the door, she said, “Clients are waiting. I must go. Take care of your problem, KKji. Get better soon.” And with that she dashed out the door, ran across the corridor and down the stairs.
KK chuckled at her hasty retreating figure as he shut the door.
He switched on the tape recorder and lay the dinner of koftas that Mala had left for him at the dining table. Sarojini started singing again, a melodious Thodi. His body felt alive again as he sat down to savour his meal. He snickered as he thought of his naughty prank on Mala, feeling that it was Sarojini’s presence that egged him on, made him think on his feet. I feel alive, he mused, as he relished each bite of his meal. Alone. Just the way he liked it. With Sarojini’s voice for company.
