THE SMALL HOUSE

When Roopmati Malhotra discovers that her husband keeps a mistress in a small house she decides she would like to swap places with that woman. The Small House is a many-layered exploration of the fragility of modern-day relationships, of desire, passion and ambition, and of memories that lie in wait to threaten the present. (Read the Excerpt)

Accomplished historian and sole-surviving heir of the once renowned Krishnarangam royal family, Roopmati Malhotra is obsessed with the past. For years she has immersed herself in the study of ancient kingdoms and in childhood memories of a brother she worshipped but lost to the sea, and steered clear of forming deep emotional bonds .

When Roopmati and her friend Tazneem discover that their respective spouses, Khris and Hari, have been cheating on them, both know exactly what to do. The emotional and distraught Taz is ready to fight tooth and nail to save her marriage, even though she suspects Hari to be a closet gay. But Roopmati is merely curious about Khris’s new fancy and, taken with the idea of experiencing the other life, she decides to seek out the chinnawheedu, the ‘small house’ where Khris keeps his mistress.

Meanwhile, a mysterious message from her ancestral home leads Roopmati to a startling revelation, and she suddenly realizes that her past, which she has always looked to for solace and escape, may not have been quite what she believed it to be…

The Small House is a many-layered exploration of the fragility of modern-day relationships, of desire, passion and ambition, and of memories that lie in wait to threaten the present.

‘[Timeri Murari] is a word painter who creates the atmosphere vividly, with minimum strokes of his pen. Style and content fuse smoothly’—The Hindu

An Excerpt

THE FIRST REVELATION…

Roopmati Malhotra loved her sleep as nightly, in search of her lover, she escaped back centuries to the ancient citadel to stroll through the marble halls of the magnificent palace. She brushed shoulders with silken courtiers who felt her pass and whirled around but saw no one. She inhaled longingly the sweet perfumes of the women, some of whom she knew by name but when she called out they didn’t hear her, as they bathed in the scented waters. Roopmati listened to their melancholy love songs, and, in the gardens, as she skirted the still waters of the lake, saw her own reflection alongside the moon’s.  She would sit on the bank and trail her fingers through the cool water, sending ripples to waken the moon from its slumber and dance to her bidding, and always wait for the lover to appear through the rising mist to claim her.   She did not know who it would be, a prince or a peasant, and did not care which. But he would love her and, in that instant of seeing him, she would fall in love with this stranger and remain forever in her dream world. Each night she waited and waited, with only the moon as her companion, but the moon too lost patience, though she never did, and gently withdrew into the morning light. 

      On this night, as she made her way south to the small pavilion at the edge of the high cliff where death waited without impatience, she heard the approaching clamor and woke in her bed, leaving death to continue its watch, and reached out to still the noise on her bedside table. The room remained dark; it was too early for her return from such a pleasurable journey.

      ‘It’s me,’ Tazneem’s voice rushed over the phone, without an apology, but with a tone of panic, even fear. ‘I have to see you…have to see you. Meet me at Sofia’s at nine-thirty.’ Her voice broke, quavered like an old woman’s.  ‘Please, please you must, I have to talk to someone. Please don’t say no, don’t let me down.’

      She disconnected before Roopmati could agree or not to meet her. It was the command from a friend in need.  She believed Taz and her were good friends, not best friends.  Best friends were from childhood days, school days, college days who knew all the indiscretions, dreams and longings that had been confessed to them over the years. They had met later in life in a foreign city, drawn together by a common passion. Taz desperately needed someone to talk to, and she knew that Roopmati was the graveyard of secrets. However, she would have preferred meeting in her home or Tazneem’s. Even in a restaurant or the beach; certainly not Sofia’s. 

      Roopmati considered returning to sleep and knew the dreams that appeared now would be jumbled and frightening, arising out of her present life, which she could deal with when awake but, in her dreams, where she was a helpless victim in such a kaleidoscope world, the melancholy overwhelmed her and made her weep. She rose, crossed to the window, opened it to let out the chilly air of the air-conditioned room, then drew back the curtains, waiting for the silhouette of trees to emerge out of the darkness.  She didn’t worry about waking her husband, a man of panther’s grace, who slept in a separate room, an arrangement she had accepted, and didn’t miss his presence in her bed.  It had rained overnight, and the strong smell of warm earth and water settling the restless dust, replenished her confidence in life.  No where else did such an intoxicating perfume exist and she breathed it in deeply, holding it at as long as possible, thinking of other times, before releasing that memory.  Even the birds had not yet woken, and she waited too for their morning calls, and the scold of the squirrels. Often they sounded querulous, as if remembering yesterday’s troubles, resenting the sun’s rise waking them from secure dreams. Thinking about her recuring dreams she wished she never returned to the present as the longing strained her heart, believing one day she would remain forever in that small pavilion, and greet the death that waited. The fragile grey light gently seeped into her room, and, when the koels, parrots and crows began their morning litany, she left the window to go downstairs.   

Publisher: PENGUIN BOOKS NOVEMBER 2007.

For sale in the Indian Subcontinent and Singapore only