Selvi — A Story by RKN
A beautiful story by R.K. Narayan — an alternate ending to a celebrated life in Carnatic music.
At the end of every concert, she was mobbed by autograph hunters. They would hem her in
and not allow her to leave the dais. At that moment Mohan, slowly progressing towards the
exit, would turn round and call across the hall, ‘Selvi, hurry up. You want to miss the train?’
‘Still a lot of time,’ she could have said, but she was not in the habit of ever contradicting him; for
Mohan this was a golden chance not to be missed, to order her in public and demonstrate his
authority. He would then turn to a group of admirers waiting to escort him and Selvi,
particularly Selvi, to the car, and remark in apparent jest, ‘Left to herself, she’ll sit there and
fill all the autograph books in the world till doomsday, she has no sense of time.’
The public viewed her as a rare, ethereal entity; but he alone knew her private face. ‘Not bad
looking,’ he commented within himself when he first saw her, ‘but needs touching up.’ Her
eyebrows, which flourished wildly, were trimmed and arched. For her complexion, by no means
fair, but just on the borderline, he discovered the correct skin cream and talcum which
imparted to her brow and cheeks a shade confounding classification. Mohan did not want
anyone to suspect that he encouraged the use of cosmetics. He had been a follower of
Mahatma Gandhi and spent several years in prison, wore only cloth spun by hand and shunned
all luxury; there could be no question of his seeking modern, artificial aids to enhance the
personality of his wife. But he had discovered at some stage certain subtle cosmetics through a
contact in Singapore, an adoring fan of Selvi’s, who felt only too honoured to be asked to supply
them regularly, and to keep it a secret.
When Selvi came on the stage, she looked radiant, rather than dark, brown or fair, and it left
the public guessing and debating, whenever the question came up, as to what colour her skin
was. There was a tremendous amount of speculation on all aspects of her life and person
wherever her admirers gathered, especially at a place like the Boardless where much town-talk
was exchanged over coffee at the tables reserved for the habitués. Varma, the proprietor, loved
to overhear such conversation from his pedestal at the cash counter, especially when the
subject was Selvi. He was one of her worshippers, but from a distance, often feeling, ‘Goddess
Lakshmi has favoured me; I have nothing more to pray for in the line of wealth or prosperity,
but I crave for the favour of the other goddess, that is Saraswathi, who is in our midst today as
Selvi the divine singer; if only she will condescend to accept a cup of coffee or sweets from my
hand, how grand it would be! But alas, whenever I bring a gift for her, he takes it and turns me
back from the porch with a formal word of thanks.’ Varma was only one among the thousands
who had alonging to meet Selvi. But she was kept in a fortress of invisible walls. It was as if she
was fated to spend her life either in solitary confinement or fettered to her jailer in company.
She was never left alone, even for a moment, with anyone. She had been wedded to Mohan for
over two decades and had never spoken to anyone except in his presence.
Visitors kept coming all day long for a darshan from Selvi, but few ever reached her presence.
Some were received on the ground floor, some were received on the lawns, some were
encouraged to go up the staircase—but none could get a glimpse of her, only of Mohan’s
secretary or of the secretary’s secretary. Select personalities, however, were received
ceremoniously in the main hall upstairs and seated on sofas. Ordinary visitors would not be
offered seats, but they could occupy any bench or chair found scattered here and there and
wait as long as they pleased—and go back wherever they came from.
Their home was a huge building of East India Company days, displaying arches, columns and
gables, once the residence of Sir Frederick Lawley (whose statue stood in the town-square),
who had kept a retinue of forty servants to sweep and dust the six oversized halls built on two
floors, with tall doors and gothic windows and Venetian shutters, set on several acres of ground
five miles away from the city on the road to Mempi Hills. The place was wooded with enormous
trees; particularly important was an elm (or oak or beech, no one could say) at the gate,
planted by Sir Frederick, who had brought the seedling from England, said to be the only one of
its kind in India.
No one would tenant the house, since Sir Frederick’s spirit was said to hover
about the place, and many weird tales were current in Malgudi at that time. The building had
been abandoned since 1947, when Britain quit India. Mohan, who at some point made a bid for
it, said, ‘Let me try. Gandhiji’s non-violence rid the country of the British rule. I was a humble
disciple of Mahatmaji and I should be able to rid the place of a British ghost by the same
technique!’ He found money to buy the house when Selvi received a fee for lending her voice to
a film-star, who just moved her lips, synchronizing with Selvi’s singing, and attained much glory
for her performance in a film. But thereafter Mohan definitely shut out all film offers. ‘I’ll
establish Selvi as a unique phenomenon on her own, not as a voice for some fat cosmetic
dummy.’
Bit by bit, by assiduous publicity and word-of-mouth recommendation, winning the favour of
every journalist and music critic available, he had built up her image to its present stature. Hard
work it was over the years. At the end, when it bore fruit, her name acquired a unique charm,
her photograph began to appear in one publication or another every week. She was in demand
everywhere. Mohan’s office was besieged by the organizers of musical events from all over the
country. ‘Leave your proposal with my secretary, and we will inform you after finalizing our
calendar for the quarter,’ he would tell one. To another, he would say, ‘My schedule is tight till
1982—if there is any cancellation we’ll see what can be done. Remind me in October of 1981,
I’ll give you a final answer.’
He rejected several offers for no other reason than to preserve a rarity value for Selvi.
When Mohan accepted an engagement, the applicant (more a supplicant) felt grateful,
notwithstanding the exorbitant fee, of which half was to be paid immediately in
cash without a receipt. He varied his tactics occasionally. He would specify that all the earnings
of a certain concert should go to some fashionable social-service organization carrying well
known names on its list of patrons. He would accept no remuneration for the performance
itself, but ask for expenses in cash, which would approximate his normal fee. He was a financial
expert who knew how to conjure up money and at the same time keep Income Tax at arm’s
length. Pacing his lawns and corridors restlessly, his mind was always busy, planning how to
organize and manoeuvre men and money. Suddenly he would pause, summon his stenographer
and dictate, or pick up the phone and talk at length into it.
In addition to the actual professional matters, he kept an eye on public relations, too; he
attended select, exclusive parties, invited eminent men and women to dinner at Lawley
Terrace; among the guests would often be found a sprinkling of international figures, too; on
his walls hung group photographs of himself and Selvi in the company of the strangest
assortment of personalities — Tito, Bulganin, Yehudi Menuhin, John Kennedy, the Nehru family,
the Pope, Charlie Chaplin, yogis and sportsmen and political figures, taken under various
circumstances and settings.
At the Boardless there was constant speculation about Selvi’s early life. Varma heard at the
gossip table that Selvi had been brought up by her mother in a back row of Vinayak Mudali
Street, in a small house with tiles falling off, with not enough cash at home to put the tiles back
on the roof, and had learnt music from her, practising with her brother and sister
accompanying her on their instruments.
At this time Mohan had a photo studio on Market Road. Once Selvi’s mother brought the girl to
be photographed for a school magazine after she had won the first prize in a music
competition. Thereafter Mohan visited them casually now and then, as a sort of well-wisher of
the family, sat in the single chair their home provided, drank coffee and generally behaved as a
benign god to that family by his advice and guidance. Sometimes he would request Selvi to sing,
and then dramatically leave the chair and sit down on the floor crosslegged with his eyes shut,
in an attitude of total absorption in her melody, to indicate that in the presence of such an
inspired artist it would be blasphemous to sit high in a chair.
Day after day, he performed little services for the family, and then gradually took over the
management of their affairs. At the Boardless, no one could relate with certainty at what point
exactly he began to refer to Selvi as his wife or where, when or how they were married. No one
would dare investigate it too closely now. Mohan had lost no time in investing the money
earned from the film in buying Lawley Terrace. After freshening up its walls with lime wash and
paints, on an auspicious day he engaged Gaffur’s taxi, and took Selvi and the family to the
Terrace.
While her mother, brother and sister grew excited at the dimension of the house as they
passed through the six halls, looked up at the high ceilings and clicked their tongues, Selvi
herself showed no reaction; she went through the house as if through the corridors of a
museum. Mohan was a little disappointed and asked, ‘How do you like this place?’ At that all
she could say in answer was, ‘It looks big.’ At the end of the guided tour, he launched on a
description and history (avoiding the hauntings) of the house. She listened, without any show
of interest. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere. They were all seated on the gigantic settees of
the Company days, which had come with the property, left behind because they could not be
moved. She didn’t seem to notice even the immensity of the furniture on which she was
seated.
As a matter of fact, as he came to realize later, in the course of their hundreds of
concert tours she was habitually oblivious of her surroundings. In any setting—mansion or Five
Star Hotel with luxurious guest rooms and attendants, or a small-town or village home with no
special facilities or privacy—she looked equally indifferent or contented; washed, dressed and
was ready for the concert at the appointed time in the evening. Most days she never knew or
questioned where she was to sing or what fee they were getting. Whenever he said, ‘Pack and
get ready,’ she filled a trunk with her clothes, toiletry and tonic pills, and was ready, not even
questioning where they were going. She sat in a reserved seat in the train when she was asked
to do so, and was ready to leave when Mohan warned her they would have to get off at the
next stop. She was undemanding, uninquiring, uncomplaining. She seemed to exist without
noticing anything or anyone, rapt in some secret melody or thought of her own.
In the course of a quarter-century, she had become a national figure; travelled widely in and
out of the country. They named her the Goddess of Melody. When her name was announced,
the hall, any hall, filled up to capacity and people fought for seats. When she appeared on the
dais, the audience was thrilled as if vouchsafed a vision, and she was accorded a thundering
ovation. When she settled down, gently cleared her throat and hummed softly to help the
accompanists tune their instruments, a silence fell among the audience. Her voice possessed a
versatility and reach which never failed to transport her audience. Her appeal was alike to the
common, unsophisticated listener as to pandits, theorists and musicologists, and even those
who didn’t care for any sort of music liked to be seen at her concerts for prestige’s sake.
During a concert, wherever it might be—Madras, Delhi, London, New York or
Singapore—Mohan occupied as a rule the centre seat in the first row of the auditorium and
riveted his gaze on the singer, leaving people to wonder whether he was lost in her spell or
whether he was inspiring her by thought-transference. Though his eyes were on her, his mind
would be busy doing complicated arithmetic with reference to monetary problems, and he
would also watch unobtrusively for any tape-recorder that might be smuggled into the hall (he
never permitted recording), and note slyly the reactions of the V.I.P.s flanking him.
He planned every concert in detail.
He would sit up in the afternoon with Selvi and suggest gently but firmly, ‘Wouldn’t you like to
start with the “Kalyani Varnam”—the minor one?’
And she would say, ‘Yes,’ never having been able to utter any other word in her life.
He would continue, ‘The second item had better be Thiagaraja’s composition in Begada, it’ll be good to
have a contrasting raga,’ and then his list would go on to fill up about four hours. ‘Don’t bother
to elaborate any Pallavi for this audience, but work out briefly a little detail in the Thodi
composition. Afterwards you may add any item you like, light Bhajans, Javalis or folksongs,’
offering her a freedom which was worthless since the programme as devised would be tight
fitting for the duration of the concert, which, according to his rule, should never exceed four
hours. ‘But for my planning and guidance, she’d make a mess, which none realizes,’ he often
reflected.
Everyone curried Mohan’s favour and goodwill in the hope that it would lead him to the
proximity of the star. Mohan did encourage a particular class to call on him and received them
in the Central Hall of Lawley Terrace; he would call aloud to Selvi when such a person arrived,
‘Here is So-and-so come.’ It would be no ordinary name—only a minister or an inspector
general of police or the managing director of a textile mill, or a newspaper editor, who in his
turn would always be eager to do some favour for Mohan, hoping thereby to be recognized
eventually by Selvi as a special friend of the family. Selvi would come out of her chamber ten
minutes after being summoned and act her part with precision: a wonderful smile, and
namaste, with her palms gently pressed together, which would send a thrill down the spine of
the distinguished visitor, who would generally refer to her last concert and confess how deeply
moving it had been, and how a particular raga kept ringing in his ears all that evening, long after
the performance.
Selvi had appropriate lines in reply to such praise: ‘Of course, I feel honoured
that my little effort has pleased a person of your calibre,’ while Mohan would interpose with a
joke or a personal remark. He didn’t want any visitor, however important, to hold her attention,
but would draw it to himself at the right moment. At the end Mohan would feel gratified that
his tutored lines, gestures and expressions were perfectly delivered by Selvi. He would
congratulate himself on shaping her so successfully into a celebrity. ‘But for my effort, she’d
still be another version of her mother and brother, typical Vinayak Mudali Street products, and
nothing beyond that. I am glad I’ve been able to train her so well.’
In order that she might quickly get out of the contamination of Vinayak Mudali Street, he
gently, unobtrusively, began to isolate her from her mother, brother and sister. As time went
on, she saw less and less of them. At the beginning a car would be sent to fetch them, once a
week; but as Selvi’s public engagements increased, her mother and others were gradually
allowed to fade out of her life. Selvi tried once or twice to speak to Mohan about her mother,
but he looked annoyed and said, ‘They must be all right. I’ll arrange to get them—but where is
the time for it? When we are able to spend at least three days at home, we will get them here.’
Such a break was rare—generally they came home by train or car and left again within twenty
four hours.
On occasions when they did have the time, and if she timidly mentioned her
mother, he would almost snap, ‘I know, I know, I’ll send Mani to Vinayak Street—but some
other time. We have asked the Governor to lunch tomorrow and they will expect you to sing,
informally of course, for just thirty minutes. ’ ‘The day after that?’ Selvi would put in hesitantly,
and he would ignore her and move off to make a telephone call. Selvi understood, and resigned
herself to it, and never again mentioned her mother.
‘If my own mother can’t see me!’ she thought again and again, in secret anguish, having none to
whom she could speak her feelings.
Mohan, noticing that she didn’t bother him about her mother any more, felt happy that she
had got over the obsession. ‘That’s the right way. Only a baby would bother about its mother.’
He congratulated himself again on the way he was handling her.
Months and years passed thus. Selvi did not keep any reckoning of it, but went through her
career like an automaton, switching on and off her music as ordered. They were in Calcutta for
a series of concerts when news of her mother’s death reached her.
When she heard it, she refused to come out of her room in the hotel, and wanted all her
engagements cancelled. Mohan, who went into her room to coax her, swiftly withdrew when
he noticed her tear-drenched face and dishevelled hair. All through the train journey back, she
kept looking out of the window and never spoke a word, although Mohan did his best to
engage her in talk. He was puzzled by her mood. Although she was generally not talkative, she
would at least listen to whatever was said to her and intersperse an occasional monosyllabic
comment. Now for a stretch of a thirty-six-hour journey she never spoke a word or looked in his
direction. When they reached home, he immediately arranged to take her down to Vinayak
Mudali Street, and accompanied her himself to honour the dead officially, feeling certain that
his gesture would be appreciated by Selvi.
Both the big car and Mohan in his whitest handspun clothes seemed ill-fitting in those surroundings.
His car blocked half the street in which Selvi’s mother had lived. Selvi’s sister, who had married and had
children in Singapore, could not come, and her brother’s whereabouts were unknown . . .
A neighbour dropped in to explain the circumstances of the old lady’s death and how they had to take
charge of the
body and so
forth. Mohan tried to cut short his narration and send him away, since it was unusual to let a
nondescript talk to Selvi directly. But she said to Mohan, ‘You may go back to the Terrace if you
like. I’m staying here.’ Mohan had not expected her to talk to him in that manner. He felt
confused and muttered, ‘By all means . . . I’ll send back the car . . . When do you want it?’
‘Never. I’m staying here as I did before . . .’
‘How can you? In this street!’ She ignored his objection and said, ‘My mother was my guru;
here she taught me music, lived and died . . . I’ll also live and die here; what was good for her is
good for me too . . .’
He had never known her to be so truculent or voluble. She had been for years so mild and
complaisant that he never thought she could act or speak beyond what she was taught. He
lingered, waited for a while hoping for a change of mood.
Meanwhile, the neighbour was going on with his narration, omitting no detail of the old lady’s last
moments and the problems that arose in connection with the performance of the final obsequies.
‘I did not know where to reach you, but finally we carried her across the river and I lit the pyre with my
own hands and dissolved the ashes in the Sarayu. After all, I’d known her as a boy, and you remember how I
used to call her Auntie and sit up and listen when you were practising . . . Oh! not these days of
course, I can’t afford to buy a ticket, or get anywhere near the hall where you sing.’
Mohan watched in consternation. He had never known her to go beyond the script written by
him. She had never spoken to anyone or stayed in a company after receiving his signal to
terminate the interview and withdraw. Today it didn’t work. She ignored his signal, and the
man from Vinayak neighbourhood went on in a frenzy of reliving the funeral; he felt triumphant
to have been of help on a unique occasion.
After waiting impatiently, Mohan rose to go. ‘Anything you want to be sent down?’ ‘Nothing,’
she replied. He saw that she had worn an old sari, and had no makeup or jewellery, having left
it all behind at the Terrace.
‘You mean to say, you’ll need nothing?’
‘I need nothing . . .’
‘How will you manage?’ She didn’t answer. He asked weakly, ‘You have the series at Bhopal,
shall I tell them to change the dates?’ For the first time he was consulting her on such
problems.
She simply said, ‘Do what you like.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ No answer.
He stepped out and drove away; the car had attracted a crowd, which now turned its attention
to Selvi. They came forward to stare at her—a rare luxury for most, the citadel having been
impregnable all these years; she had been only a hearsay and a myth to most people. Someone
said, ‘Why did you not come to your mother’s help? She was asking for you!’ Selvi broke down
and was convulsed with sobs.
Three days later Mohan came again to announce, ‘On the thirtieth you have to receive an
honorary degree at the Delhi University . . .’ She just shook her head negatively. ‘The Prime
Minister will be presiding over the function.’
When pressed, she just said, ‘Please leave me out of all this, leave me alone, I want to be alone
hereafter. I can’t bear the sight of anyone . . .’
‘Just this one engagement. Do what you like after that. Otherwise it will be most compromising.
Only one day at Delhi, we will get back immediately—also you signed the gramophone contract
for recording next month . . .’ She didn’t reply. Her look suggested that it was not her concern.
‘You’ll be landing me in trouble; at least, the present commitments . . .’
It was difficult to carry on negotiations with a crowd watching and following every word of their talk.
He wished he could have some privacy with her, but this was a one-room house, where everybody came and
stood about or sat down anywhere. If he could get her alone, he would either coax her or wring
her neck. He felt helpless and desperate, and suddenly turned round and left.
He came again a week later. But it proved no better. She neither welcomed him nor asked him
to leave. He suggested to her to come to the car; this time he had brought his small car. She
declined his invitation. ‘After all, that woman was old enough to die,’ he reflected. ‘This fool is
ruining her life . . .’
He allowed four more weeks for the mourning period and visited her again, but found a big
gathering in her house, overflowing into the street. She sat at the back of the little hall, holding
up her thambura, and was singing to the audience as if it were an auditorium. A violinist and a
drummer had volunteered to play the accompaniments. ‘She is frittering away her art,’ he
thought. She said, ‘Come, sit down.’ He sat in a corner, listened for a while and slipped away
unobtrusively . . .
Again and again, he visited her and found, at all hours of the day, people around her,
waiting for her music. News about her free music sessions spread, people thronged
there in cars, bicycles and on foot. Varma of the Boardless brought a box of sweets wrapped in
gilt paper, and handed it to Selvi silently and went away, having realized his ambition to
approach his goddess with an offering. Selvi never spoke unnecessarily. She remained brooding
and withdrawn all day, not noticing or minding anyone coming in or going out.
Mohan thought he might be able to find her alone at least at night. At eleven o’clock one night
he left his car in Market Road and walked to Vinayak Mudali Street. He called in softly through
the door of Selvi’s house, ‘My dear, it’s me, I have to talk to you urgently. Please open the door,
please,’ appealing desperately through the darkened house. Selvi opened a window shutter just
a crack and said firmly, ‘Go away, it’s not proper to come here at this hour . . .’
Mohan turned back with a lump in his throat, swearing half-aloud, ‘Ungrateful wretch . . .’