Rao Raja - The Cat and Shakespeare

‘What do eyes see?’ I asked, as if in fun.

‘Light,’ he said, tears trickling from his dark eyes.

You only see what you want to see. But you must see what you see. Freedom is only that you see what you see.

Normally the story should have stopped there. But is life normal? Is the cat in the court normal? Are big breasts and a necklace rising and falling at the feet of a ration clerk normal? Is death normal? Is Shantha’s life with me normal (she not married to me and such a wife)? And Saroja such a married spouse (and living far away where the Dutch once landed, those able-bodied men), and she keeping Vithal and telling him: ‘Your father is no father. Your real father is the sun. Worship him.’ And when he falls and rises in prostration every morning, Vithal finds a box of peppermints, round as the sun. This is to prove his paternity. Are the wars normal? Hitler smashing the British in Libya? Are the Japanese normal, those semi-divine, semi-human beings who, never seeing their Emperor, die for him, crash airplanes against British warships, walk through Burmese jungles on famine rations and defeat the bulldog British? And the one plus one that makes two — is that normal, tell me? What then is normal? My new baby is normal. He feeds on his mother’s breasts and for the rest he sleeps or cries. Usha looks after him as if it were her own child.

A child for a woman is always her own child. All children belong to her by right. Who made the world thus? I say you made it. Whoever said it was made, made it. Otherwise how can you say it was made? Making itself is an idea born of the world. When making seeks making in making, pray, who sees a world? You say World, and so making comes into existence. Is one the proof of the other? Are you my proof, I ask of you, whoever you may be? Suppose I were to take you to a lonely island and say, coo. The whole island will say coo. Then you say the whole island says coo, forgetting that you said coo. And when you said who said coo, you seek your breath and you know breath said coo. Did you see the origin of your breath? And did you see the origin of your breath? And did you see him who knows you breathe, etc., etc.? It is not so simple as all that. No question is simple. So no answer is normal. Yet must I have stopped where I left off? But I must give you other news. I must prove the world is. For Love is where happening happens as non-happening. What can happen where everything is, etc., etc.?

To prove the world is, I build a house two storeys high. To speak the truth, Shantha’s land was sold for eighteen thousand rupees. (The Revenue Board at last gave its decision soon after our child was born.) She paid some of her mother’s debts and she and her mother moved to my house completely. We paid the Mudali (who comes every Friday to see Usha and takes her to his wife, from where the child returns rich in gifts of sweets and dolls and many choli-pieces) the second instalment. In regard to the third, we waited for Govindan Nair to come out of jail. He sent word privately that we should not worry. Anyway, the Mudali was so kind to us, a month or two would make no difference to him. Thus with the little money Shantha still had — we started the second storey. Were it only one room and large veranda, it would still do. We just wanted a little more sea air. From the upper terrace we look over the coconut trees (and actually see some eagles’ nests), and far away we see the white of the sea. When the Maharaja goes on his Arath procession in the full October evening we will be able to see the elephants and the horses though we could never guess where the sword will be dipped in the sea and the Brahmins will bathe. But when night falls and the procession returns, how beautiful it will look, the clusters of linked lights moving back to the temple, and then all the million million temple lights will be aglow. That is why I said to Usha: ‘How can we leave Shantha and the child? We shall see the Arath from here.’ Usha said, ‘Of course, and Tangamma will come and stand on our terrace.’ Modhu, her eldest born, and Govindan Nair will go to the procession. The cat will sit on the edge of the new terrace and see the procession go to the sea.

The cat has become something of a problem to us. It feeds only on white-cows’ milk, not even cows’ milk will do. Govindan Nair says there are some chemical processes in white cows which are not to be found in black cows, that is why Narayan Pandita Vaidyan always says: ‘Take this trituration, sister, and after that you must drink white-cows’ milk.’ Strange, these limitations man seems to put on himself. However, there it is, the cat appears to understand it better. If Shantha is in her ‘three days’, and she should by chance touch the white saucer of milk, the cat will not come anywhere near it. If I ever get angry with the cat, it does not get angry with me, but will beg me for milk. Thus it shows what a fool I am. How can you get angry with such a silent thing? Have you ever seen it bite or tear? No, never. Usha can lie by the cat as the baby lies by her, and nothing ever happens, not even a scratch on the nose. Sometimes the cat disappears and one does not see it for a long time. The Mudali, who loves the cat, says it goes on its swayamavara 14rounds. It must seek its mate. But nobody has ever seen our cat meow on our terrace and call for a mate. Then one day it appears on the wall. We never ask it where it has been, it goes back to its white-cows’ milk (and the saucer) as if it had never been anywhere. Mysterious are feline ways.

Mysterious, you could say, are man’s ways too. He goes shopping or barking as he likes. I say barking because Govindan Nair’s shout is so much like a bark sometimes. He must speak to tree and mongoose as if they were under his authority. Everything in the world seems to obey — or must obey — Govindan Nair. I sometimes wonder what would, say, the river Parrar do, if he said: ‘Turn this way and go to the Coromandel Sea.’ It might become a Coromandel river. He still comes and says many things I just begin to understand. Shantha says in the evening: ‘What a strange man. He seems wanting to devour the whole world with fire. Then he sits down and talks to you as if he were sending a child to sleep. Who is he?’ Who, indeed, is Govindan Nair? He says he is a Nair and all Nair land has floated down to Antarctica. Perhaps they keep a record there? But here, what do we know? He has bought himself a bicycle, too. He gave us the next seven thousand rupees a few months after he came out of jail. We gave it to the Mudali. He took the whole sum but kept only four thousand. With the other three thousand, he had a gold belt and two diamond earring made for Usha, and a nose ring for Shantha. (Rather, his wife came home with betel leaf and nut, and this was offered with ceremony.) Shantha looks so lovely with her straight nose, her rich black hair and her diamond nose ring.

A third storey was what I wanted to build, so that I could see up to the end of the sea. Govindan Nair laughed and said, ‘Mister, can you see the back of your head?’ I said no. ‘To see the end of the sea is just like saying: I see the end of your nose. Can you see the end of my nose? Have a good look at it. Can you see it there? Just there. Yes, just here. Can you see it?’ he asked. I said, ‘No, how can I see a point?’ ‘Then how can you see the sea?’ he asked. ‘The drop makes the ocean, is an ancient saying.’ ‘So what shall I see when I build a house three storeys high?’ I said. He said: ‘The day that it is finished you will die. I have your horoscope. It is all drawn up. Jupiter enters the seventh house, and with moon in the fifth, death is certain.’ The cat jumped on to my lap and sat in comfort, her head held high.

The fact was I dreamed of a house three storeys high. Shantha said: ‘Why be so ambitious? Why not be satisfied seeing the Arath from our roof, and vaguely perceive the Maharaja dipping the sword into the sea? You can count the tiers of the temple spire, too.’