Hey! Guy, You’re Telling Me a Lie*
[*A Short story in Tamil by Thamira published in Ananda Vikadan, February 25, 2009. Translation by R.Paul Mohan Roy]
It’s almost midnight, the hour of confidence, loneliness, and intimacy. Save the two of us and one last bartender, the place is empty. There are few drops rolling at the bottom of the wine glasses we are holding. They can’t be licked out unless we add more to gulp them neat.
I look at the friend appealingly. It means I’m not sufficiently drunk to turn into a creator. The friend understands my need. People in a pub strike a quick friendship the moment you stand for a second drink.
“Am going to create a god”, I repeat my refrain. The friend doesn’t laugh. He takes it as if I’ve said I’m going to draw a boat.
“You’re not kidding, I know. You look serious.
Are you a sculptor? What experience you have? How many gods you have produced?” the friend asks.
“Yesterday I produced a sea, complete with clouds, white and dark, sailing on a blue sky”, I reply in right earnest.
“Ok friend. Go ahead and create a god of your taste”, the friend encourages me, raising his hand towards the waiter. His thumb points to the two empty glasses on the table. A new bottle is brought and opened. Our glasses are filled to the brim. There is a rhythm in the sound of wine being poured. I like the poise and the sense of sanctity shown by the waiter when he puts ice cubes. An artist perhaps!
“So you’re going to create a god in the corner of a wine shop”, the friend continues. “Don’t we have enough gods to take care of us? The gods have their own disputes. I’m told they are busy fighting for their ranks. And you say you’re going to add a new designer god to the pantheon”.
“I don’t believe in the common gods whom everyone worships. I’m an agnostic. All that I need is a personal god—an exclusive one for myself. At my god’s feet I should be the only devotee”. I take the last sip and push the glass to my right.
“Nice tipsy talk. You know how many gods we have. Add them to the Roman and the Greek ones. Thousands there are—-male, female, half human and half animal. We have one for each village, and one for each profession”.
“I don’t like any one of them. I want a special god exclusively for me—a god or goddess in my wave length”. I’m firm in my desire.
“I don’t get it. What type of personal god you’d create”? The friend insists to know my preferences.
“I want to customize a god who would remain friendly—friendly to me alone. Finally my god or goddess should have no other devotees”.
The friend offers to play god and says,”take me your god. An offertory of two bottles of wine a week is enough. I’d bless you seven long days”.
If I stay another hour, the friend will abort my very idea of having a personal god.
”Well, you’re a creative genius; your eyes tell me so. Go ahead. I wish you succeed”.
“Let me know what type of god you are going to create, male or female, young or old?” are the last words the friend flings at me.
We part at this design stage, but the friend’s parting words ring in my ears. I take the cue and start giving a shape and form to the god I’ve conceived in mind. I’ve the cast ready. In the comfort of the soon-to-be-born god of my choice I sleep.
*** **** *****
Next morning fragrance of fresh jasmine wakes me up. I see her sitting on the edge of my table. She wears the girl-next-door look, a picture-perfect pretty woman, young, youthful and strangely charming. Her face reflects innocence, pure and unalloyed, of the pre-fallen Eve. Is she not the god of my own creation, complete in ways I’ve wished my god to be, I ask myself. I sense she is reading my thoughts.
“You’ve summoned me and I’m here before you”, my god speaks to me for the first time.
I’m amazed to have a woman—a young woman at that—as my god. What’s your name, I do not venture to ask. I’m lost, totally lost in this artistic creation I’ve materialized. I start admiring the woman in her. I like the way she looks at me. Again she reads my thoughts and desires, even those ones which I try to keep hidden, unsuccessfully, in the inner recesses of my heart. Does she look divine? No, she is divine, I tell myself. But why she looks this much beautiful like a mortal, I question. I find no answer. I’ve no words to communicate with my goddess.
I sit lost in wonderment, eying her curiously. Her eyes are focused on mine, first questioning and then doubting my curiosity. Have I ever wished my god to be a woman, I begin to doubt.
The god I’m longing for is no more distant or remote. Here she is, sitting in my room, sitting on the edge of my table, dangling her ivory legs in the air, and leaning against my book case. She walks towards me. There is fragrance in the air, of a woman emerging from her bath, with drops of water still dripping from her dark hair.
“Come on. Get up. Wash your face”, this is the first command my goddess gives me. “I’ll go with you to your tea shop. Let me join your morning tea”, she throws her first invitation. I obey implicitly, and I’m waiting for more commands. I watch her through the corner of my eyes.
We begin to walk, side by side, to my tea joint. The road is narrow and slippery due to the previous day’s rain. She walks like a little deer sauntering in measured steps. Her arm brushes against mine. She takes no notice of her being touched, done more intentionally by me. My hand begins to grab her palm, and our fingers knit. I’m unusually happy as I’m walking along with a woman. I’m beginning to forget she is my goddess.
Does the tea man watch our coming towards him? I wonder why he fails to notice my new companion, a woman holding my hand and beaming with a smile. How will he ever know his customer is taking a goddess to his lowly place?
My goddess looks at my face and smiles. Closing her eyes for a second she keeps her index finger across her mouth. It’s another command to keep the tea man away from our company.She makes a sign to turn back to the room. We walk silently, though I hold her hand and feel the warmth and softness of her body. Now I have nothing to talk. But I have plenty to watch and enjoy seeing her walk with me. I lit a cigarette.
“What’s that? Give me one”, she says.“It’s a cigarett
e. A goddess should not smoke”, I tell her the mortal’s privilege. I convey this with my newly assumed authority over her.“O! Then you don’t do that”, she hissed softly into my ears. I feel a peculiar sense of bondage in being commanded by the woman walking by my side. Giving her third command, she pulls the cigarette off my lips, gently, and tosses it with a twist. The cigarette flies with sparks and she watches it with a curiosity of a little girl in play. I feel happy to come under a complete spell of my little goddess. As we walk back our shoulders brush, now and then, but mildly enough to be felt by her. My fingers search for hers, clinch them and count one by one. She does not mind or respond to the warmth of my nibbling.
“I remember I’ve seen you”, I tell her a lie.“When did you see me?” is her reply.
“Was it yester day or day before yesterday, may be a thousand years ago”, I add new dimensions to my lie. “I remember I’ve seen you when I was young; you do not age; you look the same”, I complete the imagined meeting.
My mind is busy composing poetry.
Goddess of my own making
No altar or sanctum she has.
She smiles and speaks in songs
But recite no Vedic verse.
Though a holy blend of all elements she is
No God like hers I see on earth.
“What is this”, she asks me, laughing loudly.
It’s an ode in celebration of our meeting, I do not say.
“It’s a hymn in praise of my goddess. A devotee should have a special one to sing”, another lie from the poet in me.
“I don’t like this”, she says, suddenly increasing the phase of her walk and freeing her hands from my grip. A first disagreement has sparked.
“Why you don’t like this”, I question her.
“I don’t like your ode. Should I explain why?” she retorts and walks fast a few steps ahead of me. Back to the room we walk, now silence being my second company.
On reaching the room she looks at my table, pulls out a book and starts reading. A hand on her chin she looks more of an angel posing for a master painter.
“You’re an angel right from the heaven” I tell her. You are a woman, my heart says.
“Tell me, am I an angel or a goddess”, there is a note of mild anger in her question. Again my heart says she is a woman, though I don’t dare to utter. I haven’t expected this sharp retort from my goddess.
“Why blink? Tell me, guy, whether I’m your god or angel”.
I think for a minute to fish out a compromising answer.
“An angelic goddess”, is my timely reply in a belief that she’d like the new status I’ve conferred on her.
“Hey! Guy you’re telling me lie”, pouting her lips, she winks at me. She has come nearer to truth, my heart confirms.
I don’t want to lose my goddess so easily. A kind of new love and affection blossoms in me, with added courage. I feel I’m a male Andal pinning for his lady love, the goddess.
I fall prostrate and touch her feet singing a new hymn. She steps back and avoids my hands touching her.
“I don’t like your falling at my feet”, says she. I infer a change in her tone.
‘You’re my god and I, as a devotee, have the right to touch your feet. It’s the beginning of my worship. Aren’t you my god”?
“Repeat your ode and let me hear it again”, she wants to test me perhaps. I do repeat, this time with a voice and cadence of a singer she may like. Almost like a pious and genuine devotee I recite my ode appealing to her feminine godhood. She closes her eyes and listens. I see a smile spreading her face. Before I recant the ode for a third time as a refrain, she jumps, rushes closer and hugs me tight with a kiss on my cheek. I win back my goddess, I tell myself.
*** *** ***
It begins to rain outside. We come out and watch drops of water bulleting down. The breeze carries the smell of rain and earth right into our hearts. All strange desires it kindles in me. She stretches her hands as if to caress the rain, her face beaming with childish happiness.
“Sing me a song about rain. I want to dance and get drenched. She cups her hands, catches rain drops and splashes them on her face. I’m lost in watching the simple pleasures of my goddess.
“Do you hear me? Just sing a song. Compose one if you don’t have it ready. I’d love to hear you sing a song on rain”, she insists.
Our hushed-up kisses
Remembrances of our late night duels
Little unarmed fights
Made wet by the rain
Now melt before my eyes
She jumps up, and her arms embrace me tight, showering kisses on my cheeks. I’m shell-shocked and remain frozen for one long second. My arms respond with a reflex, two bodies trying to merge into each other.
“Watch this”, she points to her cheeks studded with glossy drops of rain. “They won’t dry. The rain can’t steal them away”.
Yes the rain continues. It’s a special rain summoned by my goddess to keep her spirit and body wet.
Evening comes. My friend steps in to take me to the temple, an evening ritual I share with him every day. I tell him I live with my god. My goddess bursts into laughter. “Why you laughed”, I ask when my friend left.
“Is it a secret that you live with your god? If you tell him I’m here by your side, won’t he think you’re mad? Won’t he laugh?”
“How would you call me, give me a name”, she turns to a new subject.
“Yes. A goddess must have a name—Kaali, Marri—something like this”.
Before I finish she interrupts. “Give me a name, a good name for your goddess”.
A hide-and-seek game starts. I have to search and choose a name for a woman god. I start recollecting names of women I remember. Names have peculiar association with the exterior. We love or ignore a name; it’s the degree of intimacy that decides our choice.
“Brida Coelho”, is my first choice.
“Who is this”, she asks.
“It’s an immortal character in a novel. She is a beautiful young girl on a long journey in search of knowledge. I like her”.
My goddess is not happy about the name. With a swish of her hand cutting the air, she rejects. I search for another name more attractive than an imaginary character. My name dictionary gets exhausted. I make a rapid scrutiny of names of woman against the features of the one standing before me.
“Madonna”, I jumped with a tone of finality.
“Who is this? An artist or an actress?” she asks.
“Neither. She is a singer; a beautiful woman”.
“How would you call me”, she questions.
“I won’t dare to call my goddess by name”, I feigned to steal a place in her heart.
The meanings and undertones I’ve packed into the name, I only know. Here is a devotee suggesting a formal name to his god. I wish the conversation to prolong. But I give her time to read my mind, scale its depth and find out my affection for her. She is silently watching me. I have nothing more to convey except that famous name I mentioned. I look at her patiently. It’s the look of a beggar with outstretched hands.
“So you want me play a singer”, she laughs when she utters this casually. I’m stunned. I feel I’m slipping into a world of rejection—back to my old world of loneliness. Her looks are piercing.
“I’m in need of a god, a friendly personal god. I never meant a goddess”, I’m about to tell her the truth.
“Hey! Guy you’re telling me a lie”. She says. “All that you need is not a god. You need a woman and you want her to shower you with love. Go. Search for your Madonna and marry her”.
She does not wait for my reply. She treads soft, leaves through the window and merges with the air. Her footprints, I’m left to bear on my heart.
*** *** ***
Midnight rendezvous in the bar is the last item in my day’s schedule. I meet the friend to whom I confessed my plans to materialize a god. I stand for the first round of drinks, followed by old stories often talked about in bars. He has conveniently forgotten our meeting previous night. I tell him about my god’s visitation in the form of a young woman, her earthly beauty and the poetry I’ve recited. As a gentle man and a responsible drinker he listens to the description of my goddess.
Placing the glass with a mild thud on the table, he says, “Hey! Guy, you’re telling me a lie”.
