Mistress by Anita Nair Page A

tell me?
    ‘She stayed all morning. She sat around for some time and then she said she would read the newspapers aloud rather than let anyone else do it. In fact, she insisted and we had to agree. Then she had someone fetch her a meal from a restaurant nearby and ate lunch with the women. It seems she told them that the food they ate wasn’t
nutritious enough. She was very polite. Madam is never anything but polite. But some of the women were very offended. They thought it was a slur on their cooking.’
    I sigh.
    Yusuf echoes my sigh. ‘You see, don’t you? And yet, what really worries me is her wanting to read aloud to them.’
    Yusuf applies shop-floor practices from other industries, but somehow he always manages to make them work. That is how we had the system of newspapers and magazines being read aloud to the workers. Yusuf said it was done in beedi factories in Kannur and it relieved the monotony and tedium of such intensive manual work. The workers took turns to read and were paid full wages for the task. So they were all pleased with the arrangement. In the afternoon, the radio was turned on; there were enough programmes to keep them amused. The system had worked until now.
    ‘The women don’t like it. They don’t like being stripped of what they think is their right. They don’t like the way she reads, either. You see, they are used to a particular style of reading. But most of all, they don’t like literature being thrust down their ears. All along, I have got them magazines like Mangalam and Nana . Easy reading, if you know what I mean. Yesterday madam read aloud the editorial pages, ignoring all the juicy titbits they prefer. They were willing to endure it for one day. But she is here again this morning and she has brought Tolstoy’s War and Peace with her. I can see that they are very displeased. Irate workers are no good.’
    I assure him that I will ensure Radha doesn’t upset their routine again. Then I put the phone down.
    What am I going to do?
    I close my eyes and hear again the drone of the reader. The absence of all emotion in her voice allows the listeners to interpret the words their way. And here is Radha with her convent-educated Malayalam and her War and Peace and diet charts, seeking to contribute but only usurping what the workers consider their privilege. How am I to convince Radha that they don’t want her there, without offending or hurting her, or ruining our new found amicability?
    As I think about it, I begin to get angry. What a thing to do. To go to the match factory without telling me. And then to make an arbitrary decision without consulting me. It was better when she
stayed aloof from my business activities. Now I have to clean up her mess.
    Does she ever consider that such silly acts have repercussions? Besides, what will my friends and their wives say if they find out? We have a place in society. A standing that Radha has always treated rather carelessly. But this is more than I am willing to suffer.
    I call Radha on her mobile. I am coming home for lunch, I say. I know she will return home then.
    Radha is sitting on the veranda. She is waiting for me. This is a new Radha. Someone who waits for me to arrive, eager for my presence. Words spill out of her mouth in a rush, her cheeks glow, her eyes sparkle. I see the radiance of what she thinks is a day well spent. The angry words in my mouth halt. How can I take this away from her?
    After we have eaten, we move to the sitting room. It is a beautiful room. Everything here is old and stately: rosewood sofas and upright chairs, small teak tables and a tall boy. An old clock keeps time and in a curio cabinet are some beautiful pieces of glass and porcelain. Everything is as it used to be in Radha’s grandfather’s time. When I was a child, I was never allowed to step into this room. Often, I would sneak a look from the doorway. Now it is here I sit when I am at home. It is the room I love best. I glance through my post. Radha