Wages Of Love

By Suresh Kohli

This is an anthology of short poems, fiction and nonfiction pieces by Kamala Das To the Indian reader of fiction and poetry, Kamala Das (1934-2009) needs no introduction. Her novels, collections of poetry and short stories in English and Malayalam - and  indeed her life itself - have both challenged and redefined the boundaries of middle-class morality. Her sensational autobiography, published in English as My Story, created a storm in literary circles and established her as the iconoclast of her generation. Her conversion to Islam in 1999 at the age of sixty-five sent social and literary circles into another tizzy. Wages of Love: Uncollected Writings of Kamala Das brings together stories, plays, poems and non-fiction writing that have previously not been anthologized. While 'The Fair-Skinned Babu' is the sardonic tale of an author who has become a Muslim searching for a contract killer to commission her own killing, 'Neipayasam' is the poignant story of a father feeding his children the delicious dessert prepared by their mother whose death that morning the children are too young to comprehend. In one of her essays, she writes about contesting the parliamentary election in 1984 and, in another, about Khushwant Singh's allegation that she had manipulated her nomination for the Nobel. Expertly compiled by Suresh Kohli, and including a heartfelt introduction by him, Wages of Love revives the free soul and literary genius that was Kamala Das.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: May 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9789350297247

Suresh Kohli

Suresh Kohli is a poet, writer, translator, editor, literary critic and film historian He is also a short and documentary filmmaker.

Book preview

FICTION

The Fair-skinned Babu

SHE HAD HEARD OF THE killer Babu from her own security guard. Babu was fair-skinned and bow-legged. He had a pockmarked face. He charged thirty thousand rupees for each killing. Finally, after much debating within, she decided to engage him for getting her work done.

It was indeed difficult for her to escape from her house unnoticed. But avoiding her servants and her chauffeur she left by a by-lane catching an autorickshaw.

She was panting and out of breath, but she kept her face hidden, the purdah pulled over it revealing only her mouth.

Through the narrow lanes past the Jewish synagogue and on the cobbled, meandering roads, the rickshaw sped on and stopped at the bookshop that displayed her own books of poetry.

The glare of the midday sun hurt her eyes. She was not recognized in her newly acquired Muslim attire.

She looked around. There were the usual shabby antiques garnered from the impoverished families of Malabar—the pewter jugs, the yellow-faced clocks, the gramophones and the rosewood dolls. The junk that outlived its owner, more hardy than skeletons . . . she recollected the dim light of the lamp in the hall of her ancestral house. She remembered the village that denied her access due to her conversion to Islam. No, it is of no use remembering those years. She has been reincarnated. The past possibly cannot welcome her.

When she clambered up the steps to enter the bookshop, a pale shadow separated itself from the shadowy interior and walked towards her. She was perspiring heavily.

‘New books have arrived. Latin American authors’, he said.

‘I did not come here to buy books. I was looking for a man named Babu, a young man with a pockmarked face.’

The shop owner pushed a chair towards her. ‘There are at least a dozen Babus in this locality. There is the Babu who sells antiques. His shop is a few yards away—you can see bell metal lamps hanging outside. Another Babu sells large bronze utensils.’

‘Oh no, I was not looking for lamps or utensils’, she cried. ‘The Babu I am looking for is a hired killer.’

For a few moments the man maintained silence. Then he whispered, ‘I cannot believe that you would seek the services of a killer.’

She nodded her head. Her eyes filled with tears, ‘Yes I need a killer’, she said weakly.

‘Madam, you seem to be very decent, very kind . . . who told you of this Babu?’

‘My security guard—a police constable appointed by the government to protect my life. Babu is a fair-skinned young man. He kills for thirty thousand rupees. Goes to jail but is bailed out by powerful politicians. When he is outside the jail he kills again. That is the only trade he has learnt.’

‘Madam, only this minute I have recognized you. I was telling myself, I have surely heard this voice many times. I have not seen you after your conversion to Islam. Please sit down. I shall go and get some coffee for you.’

‘No, I do not need any coffee. Thank you all the same’, she said.

‘What about a Coca-Cola?’

‘No, nothing. I really must be going back. All of them must be searching for me. Can you call an autorickshaw for me?’

Later as he helped her into the auto he asked gently, ‘Who is the enemy you need to kill?’

‘I am the one who is to be killed’, she said as the auto turned and sped along the cobbled road . . .

Neipayasam

A MAN RETURNING HOME AT night from a simple cremation, having thanked everyone: we could simply call him Achhan. Because, only three children in the city know his value. They call him Achha.

Sitting in the bus among strangers, he went over every second of that day.

Woke up in the morning to her voice. ‘Unniye, don’t go on sleeping covered up like that. It’s Monday.’ She was calling the eldest son. She then moved to the kitchen, her white sari crumpled. Brought me a big glass of coffee. Then? What happened then? Did she say anything that should not be forgotten? However much he tried, he could not remember. ‘Don’t go on sleeping covered up like that. It’s Monday.’ Only that line lingered. He chanted it to himself, as if it was a prayer. If he forgot it, the loss would be unbearable.

The children had been with him when he left for work in the morning. She brought them their tiffin in small aluminium boxes. A smear of turmeric on her right hand.

At work, he did not think of her at all. They had married, against the wishes of their parents, after a courtship of a year or two. But they never did regret it. Lack of money, the children’s spells of illness—they were often dejected. She became careless of her appearance. To an extent, he lost the ability to laugh.

Still, they loved each other. Their three children also loved them. They were boys. Unni, ten, Balan, seven, and Rajan, five. Three boys whose faces were always smeared with dirt, who had neither outstanding beauty nor brilliance. But the mother and the father said to each other—

‘Unni is always making things. He has a taste for engineering.’

‘We should make Balan a doctor. See his forehead: such a wide forehead denotes intelligence.’

‘Rajan is not afraid of the dark. He is smart. He should join the army.’

They lived in a narrow street in the city, in a middle-class neighbourhood. A three-room flat on the first floor, with a veranda just wide enough for two people to stand in. Mother grows a ‘panineer’ plant in a pot. It has not flowered yet.

In the kitchen, brass spatulas and ladles hang from the hooks on the wall. A wooden plank lies near the stove. Mother usually sits there, making chapattis when Father returns from work. He got off when the bus stopped. He felt a twinge of pain in the knee. The beginning of arthritis? Who will look after the children if I am bedridden? Suddenly, his tears welled up. He rubbed his face with a dirty kerchief and quickened his step.

Have the children gone to sleep? Had they eaten anything, or had they just cried themselves to sleep? But they are too young to understand. Unni just stood there watching me when I put her in the taxi. Only the youngest one cried. But that was because he wanted to get into the taxi too. Certainly, they did not know the meaning of death.

Did I know? No. Did I ever imagine that she would suddenly fall down one evening and die, without saying farewell to anyone?

He had looked in through the kitchen window when he came back from work. She was not there. He could hear the sound of children playing in the front yard. ‘First-class shot.’ It was Unni calling out.

He opened the front door with his key. It was then that he saw her. She was lying on the floor. Her lips were parted. She must have slipped, he thought. But at the hospital the doctor told him: ‘She died an hour and a half ago. It was heart failure.’

He was swept by a welter of emotions. He was angry with her for no reason. How could she go, without any warning, burdening me with all the responsibilities!

Now who would bathe the children? Who would cook for them? Who would look after them when they fell ill?

‘My wife died,’ he whispered to himself, ‘my wife died suddenly today of a heart attack. I need two days’ leave.’

A great leave application. Leave, not because the wife is ill. Leave, because the wife is dead. The boss might call him to his room. He might express his sorrow. His sorrow! Who wants it? He didn’t know her. He didn’t know her hair that curled at the ends, her tired smile, her slow step. All these are his losses.

When he opened the door his youngest son came running up. ‘Mother isn’t back yet,’ he said. How quickly he has forgotten! Did he really think that the body that was taken away in the taxi would come back alone?

He took him to the kitchen.

‘Unni,’ he called.

‘What is it, Achha?’

Unni came into the kitchen.

‘Balan is sleeping.’

‘All right. Have you all eaten anything?’

‘No.’

He removed the plates covering the vessels kept on the sill. Chapattis, rice, potato curry, chips, curd—the food she had made. In a glass bowl, the neipayasam that she sometimes made for the children.

No, they should not eat this food. It is touched by death.

‘These have gone cold. I’ll make some uppumavu,’ he said.

‘Achha . . .’ it was Unni.

‘Um?’

‘When will Mother come back? Isn’t she better?’

Let the truth wait for another day, he thought. There was no point in giving grief to the child tonight.

‘Mother will come,’ he said.

He placed the washed bowls on the floor. Two bowls.

‘Let Balan sleep,’ he said.

‘Achha, neipayasam,’ Rajan exclaimed happily. He dipped a finger in it.

He sat down on the wooden plank where his wife usually sat.

‘Unni, will you serve? Achhan does not feel too good. Headache.’

Let them eat. They would never again be able to eat their mother’s cooking.

They started eating the payasam. He sat motionless, watching them.

‘Don’t you want rice, Unni?’

‘No, we want only payasam. It’s very tasty.’

‘Yes, Mother has made splendid neipayasam,’ Rajan said happily.

He got up and walked quickly towards the bathroom.

The Fourteen Days’ War

¹

THE WAITING ROOM OF RAILWAY junction. Old-fashioned furniture, hat stand, dressing table with oval mirror, armchairs and luggage racks. A middle-aged couple and their seven-year-old daughter are seated around a circular table in the corner, eating out of a tiffin carrier. The mother is handing out puris and bits of vegetables to the father who is listlessly staring at a solitary woman seated at the far end of the room reading a thriller. She is middle-aged, fair-complexioned and thin. Her teeth, protruding slightly, only accentuate the fragility of her appearance. She is looking out occasionally as though expecting someone. The wife of the man notices his glances and frowns.

WIFE: Don’t you want one more?

HUSBAND: No. I’ve had enough.

WIFE: (turning to the child) What about you?

CHILD: No mummy, I am not hungry.

WIFE: In about half an hour the connecting train will be here. We will get only ten minutes to board it. Before its arrival I must clean up the vessels and pack up our things. Finish your eating quickly, both of you.

(The child is restless. She stares at the lady who is reading the book. The lady, now conscious of the child’s interest, smiles at her and beckons her with the slow movement of her head. The child runs to her, rubbing her hands together and wiping them with a towel. The wife of the man looks angry.)

WIFE: Call her back immediately.

HUSBAND: Why?

WIFE: We don’t know the woman, do we? Why does she smile at the child like this?

HUSBAND: Some people smile out of sheer friendliness.

WIFE: So you would like to smile back in sheer friendliness! She is not our type. She must be at least forty-five. And she wears no mangalsutra. Yet she is no widow either. Look at the expensive sari she has worn: Venkatgiri. It may look simple, but I bet it cost at least a hundred. (Sound of laughter from the other end of the room. The child is seated on the lady’s lap and talking