A Cut-Like Wound Read online

  Anita Nair is the bestselling author of the novels The Better Man, Ladies Coupé, Mistress and Lessons in Forgetting. Her books have been translated into over thirty languages around the world. She is also the founder and editor of the online literary journal The Heavenly Bliss Salon for Men.

  Anita lives in Bangalore with her husband and son. Visit her at www.anitanair.net.

  BITTER LEMON PRESS

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2014 by

  Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens,

  London W11 2LW

  www.bitterlemonpress.com

  First published in India by HarperCollins Publishers India a joint venture with The India Today Group, 2012

  ©Anita Nair, 2012

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written permission of the publisher

  The moral right of Anita Nair has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-908524-37-9

  Offset by Tetragon, London

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  For Sunil

  big brother, best friend and partner in crime from Day 1

  ‘Flora, what makes up a man? That’s the question to ask. Well, apparently something within me had asked and I wonder, how sane am I? Yes, yes, I talk sane at times, but without warning, something else emerges like the shadow but more concealed and deadly. What is the trigger? Yes, that’s the question…’

  —The Shoemaker, Flora Rheta Schreiber

  Contents

  Monday, 1 August

  Wednesday, 3 August

  Thursday, 4 August

  Friday, 5 August

  Saturday, 6 August

  Sunday, 7 August

  Monday, 8 August

  Tuesday, 9 August

  Wednesday, 10 August

  Thursday, 11 August

  Friday, 12 August

  Saturday, 13 August

  Sunday, 14 August

  Tuesday, 16 August

  Wednesday, 17 August

  Thursday, 18 August

  Friday, 19 August

  Saturday, 20 August

  Sunday, 21 August

  Monday, 22 August

  Tuesday, 23 August

  Wednesday, 24 August

  Thursday, 25 August

  Friday, 26 August

  Saturday, 27 August

  Sunday, 28 August

  Monday, 29 August

  Tuesday, 30 August

  Thursday, 1 September

  Tuesday, 6 September

  Thursday, 8 September

  Bibliography and Reference Material

  Acknowledgements

  MONDAY, 1 AUGUST

  9.14 p.m.

  It wasn’t the first time. But it always felt like the first time as he stood in front of the mirror, uncertain, undecided, on the brink of something monumental. On the bare marble counter was a make-up kit. He ran his finger along the marble to check for dust. Only when he was satisfied that it was clean did he touch the quilted cover of the lid. The satin shirred under his fingers. Something leapt in him, a wave of pure delight that was enough to set him off.

  A giggle emerged. A snickering sound of pure joy, girlish glee and unfettered excitement.

  He switched on the series of light bulbs that circled the mirror. The electrician had stared when he had asked for the light bulbs to be placed so. The electrician’s assistant had sniggered and asked his boss, ‘Why does he want so many lights? Who does he think he is? Rajinikant? Is he going to put make-up on?’

  But he had set his heart on it after seeing it in a film. And so he had frowned and said in his coldest voice, ‘If you don’t know how to, I can always find someone else.’

  That had settled it.

  In the mirror, he gazed at himself just once. Fleetingly. Then it was time. He opened the kit and started working quickly with a practised hand. The concealer to cover the shadows on his chin and around his mouth. The foundation, the fine creamy talc to smoothen the complexion, eyes enhanced with the kohl pencil, and a twirl of the mascara brush on the eyelashes for the wide-eyed look. He wet the tip of his finger with Vaseline and traced his eyebrows. A pat of blush and then carefully he outlined his lips with a lip pencil and filled it with a deep pink lipstick. He pressed his lips together and applied a coat of gloss. Glistening lips smiled shyly at the reflection in the mirror.

  He took a tissue from a box and carefully wiped the counter. Marble was like skin, it showed up how it was used. He crumpled the tissue into a ball and flicked it into the bin. Then he stepped out of the track pants he was wearing and hung it from a hook behind the door. He averted his eyes as he slid off his briefs and, making a moue of his lips, tossed it into the basket that held the T-shirt he had been wearing.

  Naked and wearing just his painted face, he walked out of the bathroom. Then he paused and went back again to the dressing table. He opened a drawer in which were six vials of the finest attar.

  He opened the stoppers one by one and sniffed at the mouth of the perfume vial. Nag Champa. Raat Shanthi. Roah al Oudh. Shamama. Moulshree. And his favourite, Jannat ul firdous.

  He chose Shamama. Tonight he would be a garden of flowers. A complex scent would herald his arrival and trail his footsteps.

  The last door of the walk-in wardrobe was locked. Only he had access to it. He hummed under his breath as he opened the door. Green, green, tonight he felt like wearing green, he told himself as he pulled out a shimmery green chiffon sari.

  From one of the drawers, he pulled out a pale-green petticoat and blouse. Then, with a smile, a padded bra and the matching panty. He was still humming as he adjusted the blouse and pinned the sari so it hung low, showing off his waist and his navel piercing. He touched the topaz in his navel. A frisson of excitement unfurled in him.

  From the shelf on top, he chose a wig of waist-length hair. He placed it on his head and, as he looked into the mirror, something about the way his eyelids drooped told him who he wanted to be tonight.

  With elaborate care he arranged himself so he was the woman from a Ravi Varma painting, fresh from a bath. He brought his hands to his chin and laced his fingers so the tip of the forefinger of the right hand touched the edge of his lower lip.

  Hair to her knees, loose and flowing. The sari clasped between fingers, an attempt to cover herself but hinting at the nakedness of her breasts. The fullness of flesh. Shy, yet seeking more. All woman.

  He laid out the earrings. He always wore the same pair. Old-fashioned pearl earrings with hooks so he didn’t have to fumble with screws. He clipped a necklace around his neck and slid glass bangles on both wrists. The tinkle of green glass as he lifted the hem of the sari and stepped into two-inch-high green-and-beige sandals made him smile again.

  No matter how busy he was, he always found the time to go shopping for clothes, accessories, cosmetics and perfumes. The sales assistants presumed it was for the woman in his life and they would exchange glances as he took forever to decide. Once, one of them had said, almost enviously, ‘She must be very special, this woman you are shopping for … most men who come here just pick the first thing they see and leave … but you…’

  He had nodded. ‘She is the most important person in my life!’

  In the mirror, he saw himself as the woman the goddess wished him to be.

  The goddess spoke every Friday. The goddess whispered in his ear what he should do. Ten days ago, the goddess had said it was all very well that he liked to dress up as a woman in the privacy of his home, but it was time for him to step out into the world as Bhuvana. It was time to
take control. He had obeyed.

  For the first time, though, the goddess had appeared on her own this afternoon. He had dozed off after lunch. He woke up to her whispering his name. She was sitting at the foot of his bed. For a moment, he saw her and then she disappeared. All that was left was a smell of camphor in the room and her incessant whisper in his ear: Tonight you must be Bhuvana. Tonight you will be Bhuvana. As Bhuvana, you will walk the streets. Will you or won’t you?

  ‘I will, I will, Amma,’ he had whispered, overwhelmed at the vision.

  She had left him then, but the fragrance of camphor still hung over the room. A reminder that she was there and was keeping tabs on him.

  Now he was the woman he wished to be and he knew again that wave of pure delight. I am she! I am her! I am the most beautiful woman I know.

  It was Bhuvana who stuck a hand on her hip and pouted her lips at him.

  It was Bhuvana who placed the tip of her finger against her glossy lip and murmured, Tonight, tonight…

  And it was Bhuvana who took his hand and led him into that secret place in his head where he was queen of the night, draped in sheer chiffon, with the lustre of those exquisite pearls tantalizing everyone.

  Bhuvana, who knew how to make it all possible.

  A gentle knock on the door brought him out of his reverie. A voice murmured, ‘Are you ready? We have to go now.’

  He smiled at the woman in the mirror. Bhuvana smiled back and blew him a kiss. Tonight, all would be well. Tonight, she would have her fill.

  ‘Yes,’ he called out. ‘I am done.’

  Then, turning to the woman in the mirror, he said almost coyly, ‘Let’s go, Bhuvana!’

  Bhuvana giggled.

  9.51 p.m.

  ‘Go home, Liaquat,’ one of the vendors said quietly. ‘Go home, son.’

  Liaquat shook his head. ‘No, I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to go home alone,’ he hissed. ‘Leave me, bhai jaan. You don’t know how I feel … All day I stayed in the house by myself. I fasted too, bhai jaan … Allah knows how I did it … I summoned every ounce of willpower and didn’t touch even a drop of water. But who am I doing it for? What’s the point?’

  The vendor exhaled loudly. It was the first day of Ramzan and Mohammed and his wife too had kept the fast. Only the little ones had been fed. ‘Why do you do it, Abba?’ Tasneem, his girl, had asked him.

  ‘Because Allah wants us to,’ he had said. The truth was they did it for their children. So Allah’s dua would shower down on the little ones.

  Soon everyone would come out of their homes after the Iftar meal. Through the night they would wander the streets, picking up a treat here, a bargain there … Many things were bought for the year ahead. Saeed’s daughter was buying her wedding clothes and accessories though the nikah was four months away. He had heard that the rent for a pushcart this year during the Ramzan month had gone up to Rs 15,000. But it would be worth it, Yusuf, one of the men, had told him. They would make a clear profit!

  Mohammed had his spot and stand all year round in the same place. And the Ramzan business would spill over to where he was. He smiled. Everyone profited during this month. So would he.

  It was late in the night but the Shivaji Nagar bus stand area was simmering with activity. On Saturday nights the streets were more alive than they were during the weekdays. And this was the first night of Ramzan. A certain excitement resonated through the alleys and lanes.

  The vendors had their carts edged along the roads, which buzzed with life. The smell of meat cooking on charcoal mingled with the aroma of samosas being fried in giant vats of hissing oil. Chopped onions and coriander leaves, pakodas and jalebis, strings of marigold and jasmine buds, rotting garbage and cow dung. The high notes of attar. The animal scent of sweat and unwashed bodies.

  Men of all sizes and shapes trawled the alleys. Some seeking a hot kebab to sink their teeth into; some seeking a laugh, a suleimani in a glass and a smoke. Men returning home from work. Policemen on the beat. Autorickshaw drivers and labourers. Whores. Eunuchs. Urchins. Beggars. Tourists. Regulars.

  A composite cloud of a thousand fragrances and desires in that shadowed underbelly of the city.

  Mohammed pummelled the dough for the roomali roti. ‘Stay by my side and help me with these. We’ll go home when I am done. You can stay with us tonight. Shama will be pleased to see you. She’s cooked some haleem. You like that, don’t you?’

  Liaquat swallowed. He hated being alone. He was tempted by the thought of spending the night in Mohammed Bhai’s house. Shama-bi would serve him food that tasted of his mother’s cooking. Not the rubbish Mohammed and the other vendors dished up to feed these fools who came to Shivaji Nagar looking for what they thought was Muslim cuisine.

  He would sleep in the hall with the children. He would sing songs and tell jokes and make them laugh. Everyone thought he was a scream. Most of all, his big-bearded Razak.

  He thought of how those fierce eyes softened when they fell upon him. Of how gentle his caresses were as he turned him over and murmured into his ear, ‘My Leila. The sweetness of my Leila … you make me forget it all.’

  A deep pang of longing seared through him.

  ‘No one calls me Leila any more,’ he said. ‘Ever since my Razak mia…’

  ‘He’ll be back soon,’ Mohammed said quietly. ‘Go home,’ he urged again, seeing Liaquat’s dilated pupils. The boy had been shooting up again. Allah knew what he would get up to in a little while.

  ‘See that…’ he said, his eyes following the two police constables ambling lazily down the road, ‘the thollas are out in full force tonight. If they catch you…’ Then unable to help himself, he demanded, ‘Why do you get into this state? Why do you do it, Liaquat? It’s not good for you…’

  ‘What state?’ Liaquat shrieked. ‘Don’t lecture me. I am fine. Do you hear me? I am fine. I am horny. I want to get fucked. That’s what I want. That’s the state I am in,’ he said, rising and weaving his way through the stalls.

  ‘I want to fuck … I want to fuck all night…’ He laughed as he slid into the shadows. His white kurta pajama cut a swath through the darkness.

  Mohammed turned back to his skewers of chicken cubes. In the distance he could hear Liaquat’s falsetto shrill, ‘Tonight … Leila will fuck all night tonight!’

  10.04 p.m.

  They had set out together and she had to wait for almost half an hour for a moment to escape her companions’ gaze, which dogged her every gesture and step. She didn’t particularly want to be with them but the one she called Akka wouldn’t allow it any other way. ‘You have to be careful. We have to be careful. If someone saw you…’ Akka said.

  She hadn’t responded to Akka’s words of caution. But resentment simmered within her. It was like being four all over again. When her mother would take her to see the sights at the trade fair but she wasn’t allowed to touch a thing. ‘It has a price attached to it,’ her mother would say. ‘If it breaks, how do we pay for it?’

  Everything has a price attached to it, she knew. But now she could afford it. It was hers if she wanted it. Anything and everything she wanted.

  Akka touched her elbow. ‘I am not so sure you should take such risks!’

  She tossed her head with the hauteur only beautiful women can affect and get away with. The pearl in her earring swung against her cheek. ‘Don’t I need some fun too?’

  Her mouth curled in an almost wolfish way as she turned away. Akka thought she knew all her secrets. But the best secret of all, she kept close to her heart. No one knew. No one knew how powerful it made her feel. She giggled. Akka shot her a look, but said nothing.

  The market that had sprung up for Ramzan was on the other side. Akka wouldn’t let them go that way. ‘They won’t like it,’ she said. ‘Why invite trouble to sit in our laps?’ she told one of the others who claimed the bargains were better there.

  ‘Besides, even our best customers will pretend they don’t know us. It’s their holy month. And they bring their f
amilies with them to see the shops … We’ll stay here near the bus stand and go towards Cubbon Road. The others will be there as well,’ Akka said, leading them in that direction.

  The crowds pressed against her as she and her companions wove their way through. She felt a hand caress her waist and cup her arse. She leaned into the caress but it was over even before it had begun. Leaving her feel used. Dirty. Dirty. Dirty.

  A nerve snapped. A pulse throbbed. She saw Akka sneak a look at her. But she didn’t let any of what she felt show on her face. And when the moment arrived, as they all stood near a bangle vendor, flirting with him, trying on bangles, scouting for prospects, she slipped away.

  She felt him follow her down the dark alleyway. She swung her hips, leading him on. He knew. He knew what she could offer him. She smiled and suddenly paused. She turned her head to smile at him. Her smile froze. There was another man following him. A man who laughed when he caught her eye.

  ‘Go away,’ she snarled.

  The interloper laughed. A high, shrill laugh. ‘He thinks you are a woman.’

  Tears welled up in her eyes. Then she pulled herself together and said through clenched teeth, ‘Why do you say that? I am a woman, can’t you see?’

  The interloper giggled. ‘In which case, I am the prime minister of India.’

  He tapped the puzzled man on his shoulder. ‘She’s not a woman. She’s a chhakka … Didn’t you see a group of them near the bus stand?’

  The man’s face fell. Disgust replaced lust. He walked towards her and scrutinized her carefully. ‘He’s right. You are a fucking eunuch.’

  The interloped smirked. ‘But if that’s what you like … Mia, come to me, I can do better…’

  The man hawked and spat on the street. ‘Fuck off. I don’t want you sucking my cock either. As for you,’ he turned to her, ‘I am not desperate enough to fuck a man in woman’s clothes. Go find some fool who’ll be taken in by this…’ He gestured at the fullness of her bosom and the curve of her hip. He flicked a pearl drop with a forefinger, watching it swing like a pendulum. ‘Nice earrings, but you know something, they don’t suit you. You are not pretty enough … or woman enough to wear them.’