The Lilac House: A Novel

by Anita Nair

  ‘So how is he to work with?’ Vinnie parks the car expertly in a slot she finds on Commercial Street.

  ‘It’s still too early to tell,’ Meera murmurs. ‘So far so good.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so bloody cautious for once. Tell me what you really think!’ Vinnie slams her door shut.

  Meera stops in her tracks. Giri had accused her of being narrow minded, Nayantara said she was stiff. Now here is Vinnie saying it too. Bloody cautious. Why is prudence always seen as wimpishness?

  What shall I tell her? Meera gnaws at her lip. That the cyclone expert has had nothing for me on cyclones but instead had me open three files: Shivu, Mathew, Rishi. Titbits of information about two nineteen-year-old boys and only a blank file on Rishi. That he has me look at railway timetables and tides. That he had me google the net for freak accidents and a women’s group called Stree Shakti. That he seems to have a strange purpose in his head. None of it makes sense to me.

  ‘JAK?’ Vinnie’s eyebrows reach her hairline when Meera says his name. ‘One of those! What’s his real name? Let me guess. Jagannath? Jagdish? Jagdeep? Jagjivan?’

  Meera smiles. ‘Hold your breath. Jayamkondan Anantharaman Krishnamurthy reduced to J.A.K. Hence Professor Jak!’

  ‘So what do you call him?’ Vinnie laughs. ‘I rather like Jayamkondan. You can call him Jay!’

  ‘His aunt calls him Kitcha; his colleagues seem to refer to him as Professor Jak. I began with Professor Krishnamurthy but he asked me to drop the Professor. So I too call him Jak now!’ Meera tells her carefully, trying to establish that the casual use of his first name is just that.

  ‘Hmm,’ Vinnie says in a quiet contemplative voice that suggests she doesn’t believe it is as casual as Meera makes it out to be.

  ‘He is a very laidback sort of a person. You’d like him, Vinnie. No airs, nothing. And he doesn’t get stressed out if things don’t work. The power cuts, the UPS burning out… he’s easy to be around.’ Meera stops abruptly. Unlike Giri. Unlike my husband, is what Vinnie must think I am implying, she thinks.

  She doesn’t talk about Giri any more. But she thinks of him often and though it is with a rancour that stings, she misses him a thousand times a day. It creeps up on her rather abruptly, that moment of irretrievable loss, the emptiness, a cruel hand squeezing her heart with a cold clutch and causing a whimper in her: Oh Giri.

  There it is, first thing in the morning, when she feels sleep crawl out of her eyes and she snuggles deeper under the quilt, pushing herself ever so little into what used to be the receptacle of his curved hip. Feeling him nudge but lie quietly against the nest between her thighs. The warmth. The presence. The quiet content. And then the whimper: Oh Giri.

  At the extra place she sets by mistake. The bottle of fish pickle only he liked. The shirt that came back from the dry-cleaners. A discarded pair of sandals. The music CDs that remain mute. His folders on the desktop. A whiff of aftershave on another man. A particular shade of blue. The hot spicy fragrance of orange peel. The curve of an emptied peanut shell. In how many ways, Oh Giri.

  And then at night when she creams her face and braids her hair and slips into bed with a book, the pool of darkness on his side of the bed. The knowledge that unless she chooses to do so, the table lamp on the other side will stay forever unlit, the bulb gathering dust and time. Miss Havisham in a wedding dress never worn. Oh Giri, oh Giri, oh Giri.

  Across the table, Vinnie looks at her carefully. Meera feels the import of the look. It unsettles her. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Vinnie says and begins studying the menu. Suddenly, she looks up and asks, ‘How’s he with you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You see it, don’t you? He’s a divorced man; you are separated. Does he come on strong?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Meera smiles. ‘He is very respectful. Almost avuncular. Sometimes I wish he wouldn’t be so…’ she adds as an afterthought.

  ‘Are you saying you want him to hit on you?’ Vinnie’s eyebrows are sky high again.

  Ever since that first time, Vinnie and Meera have met at least once a month. It is a friendship neither seeks to explain. If they had met elsewhere, neither would have warmed to the other. Meera would have dismissed Vinnie as predatory and cold. Vinnie would have shaken her head in incredulity at Meera: could there really be women like her, stuck in a time warp and content to be an appendage to husband and home?

  Now they look at each other and gleam: it’s good to be here with you.

  Why is it that we veer away from men as we grow older, Meera wonders. Is it that our animal sap ceases to rise and what we seek isn’t a mate but a companion? Do we find comfort in other women – their fortitude, their strength, their calm competence, their unsullied fun? Maybe that’s why I need my Vinnie. This friend who picked me off the floor that first time.

  Meera looks at Vinnie now. What are we doing here, she wonders. Two middle-aged women marooned in a sea of shoppers. Meera sucks on an ice cube from her drink, a tall cold coffee with chocolate topping and a swirl of cream.

  ‘I know I shouldn’t. But all day I have thought of nothing but this.’ Meera smiles. Vinnie feels a tug at her heart at such an admission of want, of vulnerability. ‘Have another,’ she says. ‘Would you like a bhatura or paav bhaaji to eat?’

  Meera shakes her head. ‘No, no, this is fine. One can’t glut on heaven! Not good for the soul!’

  Vinnie pats her hand. ‘It’s all right, you know. You have your needs too. We all do. Whether it is for chocolate or men. If it is Jak who makes you feel like a woman, let it be Jak.’

  ‘You are getting this all wrong. I am talking about male attention.’

  ‘Any male attention? You would welcome any male attention so you feel more like a woman and less like a eunuch, is that it?’

  Why can’t Vinnie drop the subject? She is like a dog worrying a rag. Meera doesn’t want another man in her life now. Not for a long time. She doesn’t even want a flirtation or an affair.

  Meera shakes her head. ‘No, no, you don’t understand. All I am saying is, I feel hollowed out. Jak is irrelevant. He really is, Vinnie!

  ‘But it would be nice to be seen as a woman. I get lonely too, Vinnie. But no one would like me to admit it. Neither my children, nor my mother or grandmother. It is as if the woman in me had to die when Giri left.’

  Meera sips her drink, stemming her words. What is wrong with her? All these thoughts, these words, where do they come from? She counts the dates in her head. Is her period due?

  Meera toys with the cutlery on the table. She makes a V with the knife and fork. Then an N. An A and an L. With the help of the salt cellar she manages a J. But G stayes resolutely curled away. As does S. One who chose to go away. Another who was trying to sneak into her world.

  ‘What are you keeping from me, Meera?’ Vinnie demands. ‘You have a secret. I can see it in your smile.’

  When the phone rang a few nights ago, Meera had picked it up with a shaking hand. What new crisis lurked at the other end? Yet, somewhere in her, that glimmer of hope: Was it Giri? If so, what would he say to her?

  ‘Hey Meera,’ said the voice at the other end.

  Meera paused. It wasn’t Giri, but it wasn’t a strange voice either.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  ‘Remember me?’

  That strange familiarity. A feeling that she knew the voice from somewhere.

  ‘I know you don’t!’ A chuckle. A low chuckle guaranteed to send little thrills down the listening woman’s spine.

  It fell into place then. The actor. The Adonis of the poolside. Why was he calling her?

  Meera laughed into the phone. ‘Hello, Soman. Where have you surfaced from?’

  ‘The poolside you abandoned me by.’ That low chuckle again. ‘But I am amazed you remember me. It has been a while. I meant to call but just couldn’t summon the courage to.’

  Meera held her breath

  ‘And then I had to go away to Mumbai, Meera. I was in a TV series. I go
t back only a couple of days ago, and I thought I would give you a call and say hello.’

  Meera exhaled. He didn’t know anything about her.

  ‘I so enjoyed our chat that day, Meera. Do you think we could meet for a coffee one of these days?’

  Meera looked at her nails. ‘Sure,’ she said.

  ‘Tomorrow?’ he asked.

  Meera knows that Vinnie is waiting for her to speak. In the end Meera does what she always does when Lily or the children ask awkward questions: How much does Giri give you as child support?

  Do you think Daddy has a girlfriend?

  Is Lily a drunk? Mummy, is Lily an alcoholic? Have you seen how much she drinks?

  She changes the subject with an airy flourish of nonchalance.

  A shrug and a leap into a completely irrelevant query: Has your consignment of stoles from Bhagalpur arrived? Jak wanted me to pick a couple to send to someone. A woman called Lisa. What do you think would suit a Lisa? Honey gold or moss green?

  Is this really me, Meera asks herself. Did I just say that – ‘What do you think would suit a Lisa?’

  Half an hour later, Meera cannot hug her secret any more. She needs to confer with Vinnie. What is she to do with Soman? It niggles at her constantly, the fear that she is encouraging him.

  ‘He must have heard that Giri and I are no longer together. That it must be a good time to call me: the woman alone who could do with some cock in her life.’ Meera’s hand goes to her mouth. Who is this woman who uses words like cock and fuck and not just in her head?

  ‘Vinnie, I have to make sure that he understands I am not that sort of a woman.’

  ‘Who is that sort of a woman?’ Vinnie snaps when Meera tries to explain the confusion that rages in her. ‘What woman, unless she is a nymphomaniac, or a whore, sets herself up as an available woman? We don’t, Meera. Not even I. I know you think I switch lovers like I change the chopsticks in my topknot. But I am not available. You know what we are? Vulnerable!

  ‘That’s what we are. Vulnerable fools who believe that this time, no matter how often we have been proved wrong, we’ve found the right man. The one man who is going to enchant our lives into an extended fairy tale. The man you think you can lean into, and he’ll be there for you.’

  Meera shudders at the phrase ‘lean into’. Nothing could explain it better. That letting down of defences. A sigh of relief. Soft, soft, softness and knowing that holding it all was a bedrock of strength. She missed that so much. To let go and know there was someone to lean into.

  She thinks of the evening before. Soman had asked her to go with him to an art show.

  It had involved sitting in a darkened room watching a video that was part of an installation piece. What did Meera remember of the flickering images on the screen? Not much, she thinks. All she had been conscious of was the pressure of his arm on hers. The brushing of skin; the osmosis of attraction and the constancy of that moment. Meera glanced around her. Was everyone else sitting as they were? Meera felt a flood of warmth when she saw the tiny oasis each chair was. They, only they, seemed to be leaning into each other.

  ‘But Vinnie, won’t he think I was encouraging him? I should have moved away!’ Meera interrupts her.

  ‘Listen to yourself. You are so naïve, Meera. You sat next to each other and you get so het up about that. This is a fourteen-year-old child talking, not a woman in her forties. A sexually aware woman… Meera, your daughter must know more about men than you do!’

  Meera smiles then. A rueful smile of embarrassment. How could she read so much into so little? She will grow up. Become the woman that Soman thinks she is, the woman Vinnie wants her to be.

  I

  Who is this woman? Meera asks herself, catching sight of her reflection in the hallway mirror. Tall and straight, her face not betraying even a flicker of the sickening dread she feels. The moment she feared is finally upon her.

  Nayantara just arrived from Chennai by plane. Giri paid for the flight, she says. Lily and Saro look at each other and then at Meera. But Meera nods as if it is customary for Giri to pay for an air ticket. Giri, skinflint Giri, whose cheques are accompanied with complaints of how hard it is to not ask ‘why’.

  She stands there rearranging the ginger lilies in a tall vase. ‘How nice for you,’ she says, sniping a yellowing leaf off and squashing a curious ant between her thumb and forefinger.

  Nayantara has come bearing a letter from Giri. She lurks now as Meera opens the envelope, willing her fingers to not tremble and expose her.

  Giri has written saying that it is almost three months since they effected their trial separation. And in that time, since they have realized that their lives aren’t as enmeshed as they imagined it to be, and as they have proved that they are capable of leading happy and gratifying lives well apart, perhaps it is time to legalize the separation. So they are free to make choices and move on.

  Meera feels her lips narrow into a line as she folds the paper and slides it back into its envelope. She catches the curious gleam in her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘Do you know what is in this?’ Meera demands, flinging the letter down.

  Nayantara stands, hesitant, unsure if she should speak the truth or feign ignorance. It is daddy’s girl who shrugs.

  Meera stares, appalled. ‘How could you? Do you realize that your father is asking me for a divorce? Did you know that was what you were bringing to me?’

  Nayantara looks away. ‘Would you have preferred to receive a divorce notice by registered post? Isn’t that how it is done? He was thinking of you, trying to soften the blow. Mummy, don’t blame me. I am just the messenger.

  ‘You knew this was going happen; you knew it. Don’t fool yourself. You knew Daddy wasn’t going to come back. It was inevitable, your divorce!’

  Meera is speechless.

  ‘I told Daddy this. I said you would hold me responsible. That you would be angry with me. But he said that you knew, as he did, that you couldn’t live together any more and be happy. He said if I brought the letter to you, it would be less upsetting. That’s all I did, Mummy. Don’t look at me like that.’ Nayantara’s eyes well up.

  Meera takes her distraught daughter in her arms. ‘No, I am not blaming you. How could I? Your father and I…’

  ‘Mummy, why don’t you give him what he wants? Maybe he’ll come back then.’ Nayantara clings to her mother, an adult child who so wants her home back with mummy and daddy together under one roof and happily ever after in a painted rainbow that rises from the house into the horizon.

  Why am I so angry? For that matter, why am I so surprised? Meera asks herself as she dresses. As Nayantara said, this was inevitable. She has heard from Nayantara enough to know that Giri has begun fashioning a new life. His second life for real.

  In an apartment high up in the air with a view overlooking the sea on one side and the city lights on the other. There are heart shaped silk cushions and tall candles. Vases with flowers and glass beads clinking among the stems. Neither children nor old women would ever shabby its stark chic. No one to leave rings on the table or potato wafer crumbs on the sofa. No damp stains on the wall, nor the smell of mould that is hard to banish from a bathroom with ancient plumbing. To this home Giri would bring his new trophy wife and in their newly found muscle-toned nirvana, he would start afresh.

  What can I offer him, Nayantara? The only thing that may have brought him back isn’t mine to give.

  Meera thinks of the night some weeks before Giri went. He had watched her as she creamed her face.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘Those veins on your thighs…’ he said suddenly. ‘You should get them looked at.’

  ‘I am forty-four years old. I am not young any more, Giri. I will have veins,’ she snapped back.

  He shrugged then and flicked the TV remote on. ‘They look terrible,’ he said.

  In the days after he left, Meera relived that episode again and again. Was that why? Because she was beginning to age. Those little creeping
lines on the top of her thighs and the flare of grey at her temples – could they have repelled him? Or, was it something else?

  At the beauty salon, Maria drapes the plastic wrap around her shoulders. ‘The usual trim?’ she asks Meera in the mirror.

  Meera holds her gaze for a moment. ‘No. Give me a new hairstyle. Short. I leave it to you.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Maria’s eyes widen.

  ‘I am. I’ve had this same hairstyle for the last twenty-two years.’ Ever since Giri came into my life. And I didn’t want to change a thing. My hair, my home, my dreams, myself. I so wanted it to be what he wanted.

  ‘In that case, you certainly need a new look,’ Maria says, taking a swath of hair and clipping it on top of Meera’s head with a yellow butterfly clip. ‘It’ll make you feel like a new woman.’

  Out of the mouth of a salon girl, Meera thinks. It’s time I became a new woman. Someone I would like to be.

  As Meera walks to Jak’s house, she feels the breeze at the nape of her neck. It is strange to have her neck exposed and vulnerable.

  Meera sees herself in a shop window and halts in surprise. She doesn’t recognize herself.

  Maria had angled the mirror in different directions so she could admire herself. ‘What do you think?’ she asked. That she was pleased with her handwork was obvious.

  ‘It is good,’ Meera said, even though she felt a great wave of uncertainty rise. What had she done? What would the children say? What would Saro and Lily say?

  Meera wanders into Smriti’s room to ask about Jak. She thinks of the expression on his face when he saw her a few nights ago at the art gallery. She couldn’t fathom it. Was he displeased? Should she have mentioned to him that she was going?