Mistress Read Online Free PDF

four was complaining of the smell of coconut oil.’
    ‘What did he say?’
    ‘He said it was much too strong for his taste!’
    Pradeep is one of my best employees. Apart from being able to speak English, his loyalty to me is complete.

    I sniff the air. The smell is a little excessive. ‘Tell Baby George to use less oil next time,’ I say.
    Pradeep nods his head and pads away. The boy walks like a cat, on the balls of his feet.
    I pick up the card on the table.
     
     

    Once upon a time, a young maiden fell in love with the moon. Every night she stood under the night skies and appealed to the moon to make her his. The moon bathed her loveliness with his light but remained far away. One night he could resist her beauty no longer and kissed her on her lips. She felt herself flower and so great was her joy that she became a jasmine. A flower that blossoms at night only when the moon touches it.
     
    The Jasmine Bower is a celebration of earthly appetites. Let the Jasmine Bower rule your senses and we assure you it will be a truly memorable experience.

     
     
    I had written the text myself. Radha had giggled as she read it. She said, ‘You do this very well. I never thought you could write stories or that your imagination was so, so …’
    ‘I am a businessman, not a storyteller,’ I interrupted, though I was delighted by her praise. ‘Here is the English translation. I did it myself. Will you read it for me, please? I didn’t go to a fancy school like you did; mine is basic SSLC English! So there might be errors.’
    Uncle had put his glasses on and read the Malayalam text.
    ‘Do you think I should add something?’ I asked.
    Uncle looked up. ‘No, it’s very good. I didn’t think you had it in you …this artistic streak!’
    I said nothing. What did they know of me? I used to write poetry. Until Radha’s father found my book of poems when I was fourteen and said, ‘All this is very nice, but poetry is not going to put food in your belly. For that you need money. Put aside this nonsense and do something worthwhile, chekka.’
    Chekka. He always called me that. As though by referring to me
as boy, he could rob me of even the dignity of a name. Since he kept my family fed and clothed, I didn’t protest, though I hated the word.
    ‘I am not a boy; I’m almost a man,’ I told my mother angrily. He had referred to me as chekkan in the presence of a group of relatives. She hushed me as she always did. ‘Don’t let him hear you, or he’ll start his rant about ingrates and how it’s better to bathe a stone in milk than help relatives …do you want to hear that all over again?’
    Yet, when he needed to sort out the mess Radha had caused, he had come knocking at my mother’s door and then the word chekkan magically disappeared. For the first time, he called me Shyam. I was Shyam, the man whose eyes he couldn’t meet.
    ‘Your breakfast is getting cold,’ Pradeep says in my ear.
    ‘Why do you creep up on me?’ I snap, dragged from my thoughts.
    I see the hurt in his eyes. I pride myself on never losing my temper. To make up for the spurt of anger, I try to joke. ‘You must have been a cat in your last birth.’ I pause and peer at him. ‘Has the cat been sipping some foreign milk when no one was looking?’
    ‘Not this cat.’ His mouth wobbles with suppressed laughter. ‘This cat is afraid of hot water and AIDS.’
    Ribaldry is a great leveller.
    I tear off a small piece of appam and dip it into the egg masala. In my mouth, the soft fluffy appam melds with the spice of the gravy. It is delicious. I eat slowly, savouring each mouthful. Let them wait, I decide.

Uncle
    I do not understand this. Even in that first moment, I felt I knew him. It can’t be. How can it be? He has never been to India. ‘This is my first visit to India,’ he told me in the autorickshaw.
    Was he in the audience when I performed in Houston a couple of years ago? He did say that he has been living in America for some years