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stared it in the eye. This time, though, she pretended it wasn’t there.
    Since then, when she’s with me, Radha tries not to let her unhappiness show. Her creams do their work; they repair and heal the skin and add lustre, as if someone has dusted her face with a handful of abharam.
    But mica dust is like fool’s gold: a false glitter that doesn’t endure. And so, when she thinks I am not watching her, the marks emerge. A clenching of muscle, a tightening of skin, a whitening of hue, a stillness in the eyes. Dissatisfaction perches on her face again.
    Now Radha’s gaze follows mine. I see that, like me, she cannot keep her eyes away from him.
    She walks forward. ‘Do you need any help?’

    There is a lilt in her voice. Where has the discontent seeped away to? There is no need for abharam. Her face is radiant. Her eyes throw him a sidelong glance.
    Chris turns to her. His smile gathers her in his arms.
    I think of Nala and Damayanti. Of lovers in kathakali who embrace without actually doing so. Only an experienced veshakaaran, an actor with more than mere technique, can perform that embrace. With arms that do not touch the woman, and with only his eyes, he lets her know that he desires her.
    Chris, I see, desires Radha. And she, him.
    Who is he, I wonder again. This young man from across the seas, with a cello and a smile on display. And knowledge he hides in his heart.
     
    I have no time to think any more. For Shyam is here. Striding down the stairs two at a time, swaying on the balls of his feet, a sheaf of papers tucked under his armpit, making a thwack as he slams a fist into an open palm, an approximation of energy and entrepreneurial spirit. ‘So, shall we get going?’
    Radha cringes. Chris drops his eyes and breaks their embrace. And I look away. After all these years, I still do not know how I feel about Shyam.
    How shall I describe him?
    I have played him. I have been Keechakan, the able commander-in-chief of the kingdom of Vidarbha. Keechakan, who with his might and battle strategies kept the kingdom inviolable. But his longing for Sairandhari, his sister’s handmaiden, blinded him. He couldn’t see that she detested him. He thought it was pride. He thought he could break that pride.
    Or is he Bheema, I wonder. Bheema, the hasty one. Bheema, who jumps into battles and life without any introspection. Bheema, who doesn’t realize that when his wife sent him away on a quest to find the divine flowers, all she was doing was buying time away from his bumbling, his uncouthness, his lack of finesse. She did that by appealing to his strength, his ego. She sent him away and he thought it was love.
    Sometimes I think Shyam is Bheema. A great, big, good-hearted creature whose goodness Radha makes use of. Whose gaucherie she
flees from. And sometimes I think that perhaps he is Keechakan. All he wants to do is possess her. He hides his conniving behind a mask of besotted love, and when he has her on her knees, he’ll kick her. Then I think Radha is wise to keep him on a leash of unreciprocated longing.
    ‘What are you thinking about, Uncle?’ Shyam’s voice creeps on to the stage where I am trying to place him.
    ‘You,’ I say absently. ‘You,’ I repeat, unable to relinquish the soul and skin of the characters my mind has sought.
    ‘Me?’ The syllable jerks with fear that he modulates into surprise. ‘What is there to think about me?’
    I hear the tremor in his voice. What does he think I know?
    Suddenly I know who he is. Like everybody else seeking parallels, I sought him among heroes and villains. I should have looked, instead, into the shadowed zones of the stage, at the minor characters whose doings let men live or die. Shyam is the aashaari.
    The carpenter with his betel-nut, leaf and tobacco pouch, his chisel, hammer and yardstick. The comic who makes people laugh. And yet, there is underlying his buffoonery a knowledge that is both sound and crafty.
    Not everybody can play the aashaari. I know; I