Aavarana- The Veil by S L Bhyrappa

Author:S L Bhyrappa [Bhyrappa, S L]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9788129131966
Published: 2015-11-14T18:30:00+00:00

9

Kenchappa was out in the fields that afternoon and the house was quiet as Lakshmi reread what she had written so far. Giriyanna, the new servant, was cleaning the cowshed. Too much of history. The narration needs to be more artistic but that would mean diluting the historical reality of the time. However, if I add more and more historical reality, I must abandon artistry. Where is the balance I’m looking for? Pointless. She put down the notebook and set out for the farm. Her routine was set. A quick survey of the farm first thing in the morning, followed by another survey of the fields. En route, she would look up at the coconut trees, verify the count of the coconuts and track their ripeness though this exercise wasn’t really needed. Kenchappa was trustworthy and he knew what to do but she was becoming like her father, supervising and giving directions. After a bath and breakfast, she would enter the study.

One morning while she was walking in the garden, she heard Giriyanna calling out her name. ‘Madam, your son has come! He is sitting on the portico. Lakshmamma told me to hurry up and fetch you.’

Her face showed the joy she felt upon hearing this. She had last seen Nazir two years ago. The last time he came here…oh well…the tensions between Amir and me were already high. Although we weren’t together, we weren’t separated when Nazir was around and Amir spoke to me only when it was absolutely necessary… I’d been to Bangalore when Nazir was here on his previous vacation and I’d taken care of his comfort. Amir and I hadn’t quarrelled, but he was displeased because I used to go to Narasapura and stayed there for days on end, immersed in my study of history.

She began to wonder what—and how much—Nazir knew. Did he come here directly from the Bangalore airport or did he go to the flat in Malleswaram before coming here? Or did he go to Shivajinagar? Had he informed his father about when he was arriving in Bangalore? Did he know that his father now had a second wife? He didn’t tell me—not even a phone call or a letter.

When she reached the house, the long green Toyota car greeted her eye immediately. Some seconds later, a well-built man sporting a long black beard like an Arab emerged, wiping the car with a wet cloth. She crossed the threshold and entered the house. Nazir was deeply engrossed in offering namaz, facing Qibla, in which direction lay the most holy city of Mecca. He saw her with half-open eyes and, preferring not to let himself be distracted by anything, turned and refocused them towards Qibla. She looked at him. Pyjamas, the kind Arabs wore. A long, loose, flowing shirt that ended around the knee. A beard about one and half inches neatly trimmed. Pencil-thin moustache. Neatly-cropped hair pushed back and covered with the white skull cap worn while offering namaz. A personal mat—his own janamaaz—that every Muslim carried when he was travelling.

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