After delivering the handwritten manuscript of ‘Our Society’, Shekhar felt as if he had climbed one rung higher on the ladder to the goal he had set for himself. It gave him great satisfaction and he began trying to work more religiously. This time, he had decided to conduct a comparative study of the rights of men and women from various communities throughout the world. The thesis that he was developing was that very few of the beams which governed the relationships between men and women and the powers that they exercised over each other were built on foundations of logic, or rather, that the traditions which lay behind them were basically economic arrangements, economic arrangements that lacked notes of currency and so traded in lives instead. Moreover, he also wanted to establish that the prevailing argument amongst reformers—that the traditions of some past society were right because they were appropriate for the conditions of that time, but are no longer appropriate for today’s conditions—was fallacious, because many of the aspects of those beliefs were hardly necessary in any condition of the past or present—or more precisely, the logical consequences of those conventions bore no relation to the conditions of the past. Their real source was a complete blind faith or the irrational practices of magic and superstition. Many of these outmoded superstitious practices continue today, and we constantly try to create logical justifications for them. These attempts are like trying to fix new brass bottoms on to newly discovered ancient clay pots—and we perform such ridiculous endeavours daily.

Shekhar wanted to say that this was also the reason that the reformers were unsuccessful. They affirmed human arrogance by trying to justify these traditions of past societies—and they say with even more enthusiasm, ‘Dear Sir, all of these old customs were established by the sages—and you know that they were all historically specific!’ And from there, they easily move one step higher when they realize that many of our contemporary practices are not logical. Then they say, ‘Sir, they were sages. The things that they established were not only specific to the past, but are right for all time, because they were omniscient—if they could prescribe logical rules for their own time, couldn’t they also make rules for the future?’ And then that was that, no reformist argument stood a chance against that line of thought—it was the impenetrable armour of tradition.

Shekhar wanted his book to be proof of clear principles, and the arguments that he would develop would be based on a mountain of evidence from history, psychology, biology and especially anthropology as that would make each argument unassailable. He knew that his previous studies were not sufficient for this. He had been majoring in science in college. Even then he had read several books on various subjects, and the ten months in jail had allowed him to read much which had piqued his interest in sociology and anthropology; but he knew well that human knowledge was advancing at an incredibly rapid pace and it was difficult to keep up with it, especially for a man who had no guidance from an expert in the field. He wanted to become a member of the best public library in the city so that he could get hold of the necessary reading materials. After he had used the money his father had given him to pay off the restaurant bill, he still had twelve rupees or so left, but the annual subscription to the library cost eight rupees, and the books on the subjects that he wanted required an additional deposit of twenty rupees . . .

One day while he was sitting, he realized that while he had definitely lost many of his books he still had many of them. What was the point in displaying the books he had already read like some millionaire? They were very important to him, he even considered them to be a greater part of himself or more precisely his social persona, but why should knowledge be any less important? And how could knowledge be acquired without effort?—Knowledge was not an after-dinner mint that one could eat for free!

Shekhar went to his cabinet and began perusing his books. After he had looked at them all once or twice, he took out two or three of the most expensive ones; then he scanned his books again and put two back and took another one out; then he put them all back and started pacing . . . Then he removed one large book of a two-volume set—Wells’s A Short History of the World.¹⁴ He quickly flipped through its pages and thought to himself, ‘This is a reference book and I rarely need to make use of it—I’ve read it twice, too.’ He put it to the side. He walked back and forth twice and then took out an even bigger book—The Collected Paintings of Chughtai . . . He looked at a few of the images and, as if speaking aloud to the book, thought to himself, ‘When I don’t have the other volumes, what good will a single one do? And it’s not as though Chughtai is the world’s greatest painter—and then, a man should only have paintings when he has a proper place to put them. There could be moths here at any time.’ And he reminded himself that bugs had devoured his first creation and that a cow had eaten his second . . . But his mind was racing like a thief; he was completely indecisive . . .

Shekhar opened all three volumes once more. He had won these books as prizes in college, and the associated certificates had been affixed inside the covers. He looked at the certificates for a moment, then all of a sudden, with a steady hand, grabbed them at their corners and ripped them out. He wrapped the books in old newspapers and set out.

The books were worth approximately forty-eight rupees, but he couldn’t get anyone to offer more than eighteen in the bazaar. He asked around and then sold Wells’s history at a second-hand bookseller’s for fifteen and a half—this was a fair price for it. No one was willing to give more than four rupees for the second book, because, as Shekhar learned, despite being worth seventeen rupees, new copies of the book were being sold at a 50 per cent discount in the market for eight and a half. So Shekhar took it to a college student whom he knew who was also interested in painting. Somehow, Shekhar stuck him with the book and got eight rupees for it—although he could clearly tell that the buyer was putting as much pressure on him as he was . . .

After he joined the library, on his first trip he checked out Frazer’s The Golden Bough, Crawley’s The Mystic Rose . . . and got a commentary on the Manusmriti and a clear, critical edition. The feeling of depression lifted from his brain, and he became completely absorbed in reading these books whose pages he read over and over as his enthusiasm grew. He set aside his reading and put his books in the cabinet and felt as if they were not strangers to him; they had become encircled by his soul . . .

One day while Shekhar was writing, he was shocked to discover that someone was standing at his door waiting for him to lift his head and give him permission to enter. Shekhar stammered, ‘Come in—come in—’ and gathered up the pieces of paper that were scattered everywhere and cleared a place on the cot.

The newcomer forced a smile. ‘My name is Amolak Roy and I am the president of the local Hindu Reform Society.’

Shekhar said, ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I’ve heard that you want to make social reform work your life’s mission. You are also very educated—I can see that clearly for myself. Truth be told, the first demand of social reform is devotion. I—’

Shekhar was a little taken aback, ‘Where did you hear all this?’

‘You can’t hide brilliance . . . No matter how modest you are—’

This couldn’t be—there had to be something amiss. Drily, Shekhar said, ‘To what do I owe this visit?’

‘I came just to admire you. Very few people take a real interest in social service work—and you know how young people are these days—they aren’t interested in anything—they are allergic to the word “service”.—I have great hopes for you—’

‘Tell me, what can I do?—’

‘There is much that you can do. You have drive, dedication and the strength of the young. You should come to one of our meetings and see for yourself. Once you see our projects you will see for yourself how helpful you can be.’

Shekhar’s interest was piqued, ‘I will definitely come. But could you give me a general idea?—’

‘Yes, yes. There are many things that we want to reform, but we have decided to focus on the family as we feel that the family is the foundation of society, and society can be reformed only when family life is reformed.’

‘Very good—’

‘And the foundation of the family is marriage, so we want to reform marriage practices first.’

‘This is very important work. What is your programme?’

‘If it was just one thing, I would have told you, right? But such matters require a multifaceted approach. We require the cooperation of young men and young women and their parents; journalism is also important; then there is keeping political and religious leaders happy—’

‘Why?’

‘Because what’s the point of creating unnecessary antagonism? It’s best to get your job done with as little opposition as possible, don’t you think?’ Lala Amolak Roy laughed a little.

‘I suppose. All right, I will definitely come to your meeting. When is it?’

‘Don’t just come, you will also have to speak—’

Squeamishly, Shekhar said, ‘But I’m not good at public speaking at all. I can be more useful in conversation—’

‘Well, how about that? How can you run away from society and still hope to do social reform work? It’s not going to be a very large meeting—there will only be a few men who are interested in the work. You could say that it will be a meeting of our core members—all of our real work happens outside the meetings; the meetings are for an exchange of ideas—’

Ultimately, they agreed that Shekhar would come to the meeting and would say something and take part in the intellectual exchange. Lala Amolak Roy left.

Even though Shekhar had been very calm when he told Shashi about the invitation, and had very calmly also accepted her approval, on the inside his disquiet grew rapidly—on the one hand he had the excited feeling of new responsibility and finding a direction for his efforts, and on the other hand there was the fear and anxiety of participating in his first ideological debate—In college and particularly in the ‘Antigonon Club’, he would defend his positions with substantial flair, but that was completely different—there, he knew everyone or they were friends, and he was just one of the many leaders of the club; here he would be an outsider and bound by the formalities of being invited, and amongst the experienced social reformers he would be a neophyte ‘amateur’¹⁵ . . .

He immediately began preparing very diligently—and in the process of writing ‘points’ for his speech he managed to finish an entire article . . . He made full use of the things that he was currently reading and the examples they used—while discussing the reform of familial tradition, he examined the origins of the family and its development—He determined that there was no connection between that development and economics and that it was foolish to search for the economic bases of ancient familial structures. But gradually these traditions escaped the realm of magic and superstition and began to be influenced by economic conditions, and now they underwent substantial changes side by side with economic development. By quoting from the Manusmriti he proved that at the time of the composition of the smritis,¹⁶ ideas about the family were connected to contemporary economic theories—so not only the traditional logic of the Manusmriti, but also its style and its examples were dependent on the particular conditions of an agrarian civilization. That was why whenever the rights of woman were laid out they were established by making use of examples comparing her to cows, horses, camels, slaves and buffaloes—man was considered the ‘breadwinner’, and all of these and women were considered commodities to be bought and sold—and in the manner of agriculturists, all of their offspring were considered the property of the ‘breadwinner’, and all of their wealth, the wealth of the master. And even to determine paternity, the allegory of master, land and produce became customary practice. But saying all of this wasn’t meant to show contempt for the smritis—as long as the rules of society developed alongside the current form of civilization, society was fine; the rot inside it did not grow.

But (as Shekhar was arguing) in more recent ages this correlation was destroyed—the condition of our lives began to change with great speed but society stopped developing. Undeniably, one of the reasons for this was that foreign rule had established new and harsh laws—to maintain order in society, they collected together social customs from different places, created an aggregate from them, and made everyone bow down to it as law—all the while forgetting that customs have always undergone change and continue to change. The conditions in which those customs were accumulated became even more impermanent, indeterminate and fluid! When ice suddenly forms on a flowing stream—how would a new seed sprout and grow under that icy sheet? But this external cause was only one of the causes—the other cause that was incredibly important for our purposes was the weakness and paralysis in our society—that dynamism which is life’s crucial religion . . . After these ordinary ideological arguments, he evaluated the main parts of family life and offered necessary reforms so that equality could be established to the condition of life in other civilizations.

With each day the meeting drew closer, Shekhar grew more excited—he wasn’t as anxious after finishing ‘Our Society’ as he was for this meeting . . .

A smoky, slate-blue evening—the smoke from a city’s December crept in through an open window of a lonely corner room of a four-storeyed building, cold, heavy, with a sting like poison, slick like dead and discoloured snakeskin. Piercing through the shroud of smoke, an unwelcome commotion rose like a ghost from the invisible city that spread out below and around, but its silent heaviness seemed to magnify the room’s stony silence. Shekhar is huddled in the corner of his bed and forcing his eyes open, blind from the smoke and even drier from the burning, he hazily feels that the picture outside is an excellent imitation of his internal state of being . . .

Shekhar has been back from that meeting for an hour already. He wants to convince himself that he has forgotten all about that meeting, but in the same way that the paralysis induced by the poisons unleashed by a stroke is the first indication that they have spread, Shekhar’s numbness repeated the sensations from that meeting . . .

When he saw that there were more than a hundred people at the meeting, Shekhar was shocked and thought, ‘Were there really this many social reform activists in the city?’ A new-found hope coursed through him, and his growing curiosity about organizational matters made him forget his anxiety about his speech. The meeting started haphazardly—Shekhar listened attentively, but gradually his attention drifted and after a little while he was completely turned off. He completely ignored the speaker and began studying the expressions of each individual member of the audience. Several were listening attentively—or rather they were so entranced that they moved their hands and nodded, changed the shape of their lips and brows not only as proof of their agreement but also as if they were translating the speaker’s incorporeal thoughts into physical actions. Shekhar suddenly couldn’t believe his eyes—because he was completely incapable of focusing on anything and was getting irritated with the speaker. He had a hazy sense that the speech had taken the form of a resolution—the sense of the resolution was that the increasing lack of Brahmin grooms was creating a grave crisis for unmarried daughters, so to help them and to relieve their parents the reform society would create a committee called Committee for the Arrangement of Marriages of Brahmin Bachelors, whose most important task would be to create and publish a complete registry of all eligible Brahmin bachelors, which would enable any father in need to locate a suitable husband for his daughter. It would have all the relevant information—age, income, lineage, character, father’s income, rank, height, physical attributes, hobbies, what kind of wife he’s looking for, future plans, et cetera . . .

How convenient would things be with such a list, how much frenzy, trouble and waste could be avoided! The resolution was also put forward, and it was passed without any discussion . . . Shekhar breathed a long sigh of relief and waited for the next speaker whom Lala Amolak Roy had stepped up to introduce. He was shocked to realize that the person who was being described with such words of praise was Shekhar himself! He became even more depressed; but he somehow gathered up his courage (at that moment, gathering his courage meant dispelling the feelings that the meeting had stamped on him!) and went forward and began speaking according to his previous plan. Immediately after he started, he heard a few men whispering and then someone saying to Lala Amolak Roy, ‘The young man seems like a good catch, Lalaji. Congratulations!’ and he became confident and anxious, but like a newcomer virtuously steeling himself against all temptations, Shekhar similarly remained glued to his script . . .

But the willed blindness of ascetic meditation eventually dissipates—not from seeing the celestial nymphs Urvashi and Tilotamma sent by the gods, but by seeing the yawning, gaping mouths and the furrowing, angry brows multiplying from boredom! Eventually, Shekhar came to a point when he could no longer ignore the collective disapproval of the audience—not even by doubling the pace of his speech . . . His mind, then, began working on several fronts at the same time, and his memory, too, lost control over the order of things and he began confusing facts and events with one another . . .

After the meeting was over, Shekhar was lost, sitting in his room, unable to untangle the threads of this dilemma—he couldn’t decide what had happened first, what happened next. All at once he hears himself quoting from the Manusmriti and then someone speaks (or some people speak?), ‘If the groom agrees and the bride’s father agrees, then, man, why should we meddle? Get married or don’t get married, but why are you insulting us? Panditji, you can keep your ideas to yourself—he’s insulting the Manusmriti! The less foreign education one has the better! After all, if Christians are doing the teaching, how will anyone retain respect for Hinduism—they didn’t come to preach Hinduism, after all. This can’t be what Lalaji had in mind! A Kshatriya youth will marry a Brahmin girl, a Brahmin boy will insult the Manusmriti! It was a fine gambit, Lalaji, but Brahmin daughters still have good futures.’ Shekhar was citing examples from Malinowski but he heard Amolak Roy’s name; or was he citing examples from Amolak Roy and hearing talk of Malinowski’s daughter; or both or neither—he couldn’t make sense of any of it. He had a vague inkling that he had lost himself in that meeting, but actually he was standing on the stage and speaking, or was it that the stage was missing and he was in the audience, or were both the audience and the stage missing—and then suddenly a flaming arrow pierces the armour of his consciousness and he understands everything—Amolak Roy’s daughter was of marriageable age, and they are Kshatriyas, but they’d be all too pleased to find a Brahmin son-in-law; and what could be better than a social reformer father-in-law finding a social reformer son-in-law—the union of the like, the improvement of reform! And he’s standing in front of this audience that knows everything to announce, ‘Look, I, Shekhar, am being made a fool and the proof can be found by citing the Manusmriti, by citing Malinowski . . .’

The smoke is good, the sting of poison is good, the dead, discoloured, cold slickness of snakeskin is good, let it all into this fourth-floor grave—social reformer Shekhar!

In that devastated state, Shekhar was prepared for anything like a slave, but he wasn’t prepared for what happened next—someone knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response—stumbling to his feet, Shekhar saw a stranger standing with someone—Lala Amolak Roy!

Natural courtesy demanded that he light a candle, but Shekhar felt that courtesy would be an injustice to himself. He said, ‘What can I do for you?’

Lala Amolak Roy was a little wounded when he responded, ‘You seem very upset.’

‘I’m not upset—’

‘You seem exhausted—give the candles to me, I’ll light them—’

Shekhar quickly lit the candle and put it to one side and said, ‘Sit.’

Lala said, ‘This is Swami Hariharanand. We have come to talk to you about the meeting—’

Shekhar saw that the newcomer was wearing saffron robes, and because his shiny head was turned, his oily hair seemed to balloon. He made an incomplete gesture of greeting and asked, ‘What is there to talk about the meeting? The meeting has happened—’

The swami said, ‘An action is never complete in itself—it has effects. The furore that the meeting has caused—’ and then he stopped as if it were necessary to chew this morsel of information.

Lala said, ‘Your speech created a commotion. I had invited you with great hopes that—’

Shekhar was steaming, ‘Hopes? You made a fine fool of me. If that’s what you had planned, then—’

‘What plan—which plan—I took you there with the best intentions. People will blather—’

The swami said, ‘Yes, son, it’s their habit. They were burning with envy.’

Drily, Shekhar said, ‘Fine, let it go. It’s all over now—’

‘Let’s talk about something other than the meeting. So now that you know who I am, we should develop this relationship—’

‘That’s up to you. I’m a savage, I’m accustomed to living alone—knowing me doesn’t help you in any way—’

‘Every individual is obligated to live in society; moreover, how can anyone survive without society?—’

‘It’s living in society that I find impossible—just as impossible as living in a vacuum-sealed tin. It’s easy to live alone—have lived and will keep on living!’

‘I knew that you were an abnormal individual. But that you were also an abnormal man—’

The swami interrupted, ‘Why abnormal? It won’t work to cry “abnormal” all the time. I tell you, all men are normal and should be normal.’

Shekhar said, ‘I never claimed to be abnormal. I am normal and want to remain normal. You are the ones heaping accusations of abnormality on me and making my life difficult—’

The swami repeated, ‘Everyone is normal. Does the fact that someone does not possess something special mean that they cannot survive? You have a long nose. Does that mean you don’t go to the bathroom? Even if a man loses his nose, he can still live; he can’t live without going to the bathroom. That’s why everyone is normal.’

Shekhar couldn’t tolerate this man, his arguments, his way of repeating things. In order to end the conversation he said, ‘What you say is right.’

‘That’s why I say society is necessary. If you enter society, your nose will still be long.’ (Shekhar wanted to tell the swami that he should revise his phrase, ‘Even if you go to the bathroom, you still won’t have a nose,’ but he kept quiet.) ‘Don’t you agree?’

Shekhar didn’t say anything. He wanted the conversation to end by any means necessary and them to go.

‘You aren’t answering my question. You are probably thinking, let him blather on. Everyone is afflicted by the same youthful pride. I had it too—and you can see the consequences—’

This time Shekhar looked with some interest at Hariharanand.

‘I’m an ascetic, wearing saffron robes. You know what it means to be an ascetic. But I’m not an ascetic because I’ve renounced everything, but because everything has been taken from me. And all because of my pride. Pride was my vow, but that was broken, too. I go around preaching, but these saffron robes are not a banner; they are a shroud. The colour of dirt—the dirt that covers everything. Everyone is normal—’

The clarity of the swami’s confession touched Shekhar. A little more gently, he said, ‘I wasn’t quiet out of pride; I was quiet because I had nothing to say. I know how poor I am. But the argument that because I am poor I should cut off my own leg doesn’t make any sense to me.’

‘Lalaji is a supporter of yours. The things he is saying are right. You shouldn’t become a fame monster. Everyone is normal, which is why marriage is appropriate.’

‘When have I ever said that it wasn’t appropriate? But I don’t want to yet, and I won’t because someone tells me to. It’s not even that I don’t want to, even if I wanted to I wouldn’t be ready.’

‘Why?’ Lala asked hopefully.

‘There are fifty reasons. But never mind them—’

‘Tell us something, at least—’

‘No, leave it be. To speak of marriage now is to court disaster.’

Suddenly Hariharanand became excited and said, ‘Fine, it’s courting disaster. Do you have it in you—to step up and face disaster head-on?’

Shekhar took one careful look at Hariharanand and said, ‘Forgive me but I’m tired. This debate will never end, and I’ve already told you all I have to say.’

Shekhar saw Lalaji’s seat shift and breathed a sigh of relief . . .

*

When he saw Shashi next, he told her everything about the meeting and about the conversation with Amolak Roy and Hariharanand after the meeting. At first Shashi listened quietly, but then she burst out laughing. Then she became somewhat serious and said, ‘Were you very upset?’

Shekhar stammered out, ‘I was pretty unnerved when it happened. Now I wonder why I couldn’t laugh the way you just did—’

Shashi started laughing again.

Then she asked, ‘Are they coming back?’

‘There is a chance, but I’ve put them completely out of my mind.’

‘Completely? Well, can I ask you one thing, Shekhar? Did you find anything of use in what they said?’

‘Of use? Not one bit—in what they said—’

‘The one about “Step up and face disaster head-on”—’

Shekhar looked at Shashi stonily for a moment. Then he said, ‘Some of their arguments were well-suited for someone like me, but—’ suddenly choking a little—‘Shashi, what are you trying to say?’

Shashi remained silent. Shekhar spoke again, ‘Are you also worried about the future of this Brahmin bachelor?’

‘Yes, honestly, I am a little. Why won’t you get married—’

‘Shashi!’

There was complete silence for a while. Then Shashi started speaking, ‘Your father told me that I should convince you. Convincing you isn’t that difficult. But it doesn’t seem to me that a man can be useful very long when he has isolated himself off from the world the way that you have. You will lose your grip on reality—’

‘My grip on reality—or its grip on me?’

‘Aren’t they the same thing? Or if you prefer, the connection between you and reality will break down—’

Shekhar gathered up all of his courage to say, ‘Look, Shashi, we’ve never talked about these kinds of things before, but tell me the truth, have you got anything out of your marriage?’ Then seeing a slight trace of pain on Shashi’s face—‘I don’t want to hurt you, but—’

Drained, Shashi said, ‘No, I understand. But you can’t use me as an example—my marriage had a completely different basis. I didn’t get married; I was married off. It was never a question of my getting anything out of the marriage; getting something—’ She didn’t finish the sentence.

A little later, Shekhar said, ‘But why is my situation any different? For me, too, it’s also a—Or, if the only thing one gets is pain, then—’

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. You need to find a companion who can walk with you as an equal; who can bear pain with you and enjoy happiness with you, too. Pain and sorrow are not the important things; the important thing is the companionship—the ability to enter into and sustain a relationship.’

‘What proof is there that all that will happen if I get married? And especially as a Brahmin bachelor—’

‘I know that there is no proof. And I’m also not saying that you should get married like that. All I am saying is that if you find a suitable companion—’

To end the discussion, Shekhar said, ‘Let’s talk about something else—if such a person is found, then we’ll see. It’s clear that searching for such a person won’t reveal him—her. If I find her along the way, then I find her; and then I’ll get down on one knee, all right?’

He suddenly realized that Shashi was not only not paying attention to what he was saying but that her wide eyes had grown even wider looking at some scene on a distant road—as if her soul had expectantly opened its door to welcome the significance of that distant scene . . . Shekhar was similarly wandering and a little curious when he said, ‘And if while walking now I come across a pearl I won’t ask any questions, won’t have any misgivings, won’t make any demands. If the gods give—’

Shashi didn’t hear a word. Shekhar was intentionally trying to shock her when he said, ‘If the gods give, then why do the sacred texts need to be asked to bear witness?’

Shashi was startled into attention, ‘What?’

Their eyes met and were glued to each other. Shekhar forced himself to wish his eyes to move, but he kept on looking at the light behind those open windows, and the pain inside that light, and the resounding echoes linked together inside that pain—‘asked to bear witness . . . asked to bear witness . . .’

*

An odd calm had descended over him, and he began reading and writing intently. The completion of the article for the Reform Society, two new essays, two stories—when he paused to take a breath after finishing all of this, two weeks had passed since the incident at the Society; and ten days since he had seen Shashi—and in those ten days, Shekhar had seen no one other than the boy from the restaurant; except for one day when the two children of the woman from the third floor came to him with some inexplicable, easy, childlike faith and asked, ‘Do you know how to make kites?’ When Shekhar said yes, they said, ‘When we get some money, we’ll go buy the paper—you’ll have to make us a kite, for sure!’ Shekhar laughed and gave his word. He also calculated how much money they would be getting, how much the string and the winder would cost and how much to glue the powdered glass to the string—in sum, if they didn’t buy the paper and make the kites themselves, they would only have enough for one kite and what good would one kite be for the kite festival (Vasant Panchami).

The kite festival . . . What if Shekhar bought all of the materials for the children himself and saved them their time and effort? The kite festival . . . But he didn’t have the money. And there was still the restaurant bill and household expenses . . .

Shekhar decided that he would send everything he had written off to magazines and ask each of them for an advance—someone would offer him something . . . But all of his pieces were returned. There were letters of recommendation along with each of them. At first, Shekhar didn’t understand this contradiction, but eventually he gleaned from a vague line in a letter from an editor that it wasn’t the case that things that were good when free were also entitled to payment . . . He decided to try again, but he didn’t have the resources to gamble on postage; once he even thought about cutting out the address on a used envelope and sending it, but it didn’t seem wise to acknowledge on the cover of the new letter that his work had already been rejected somewhere else . . . Ultimately, he decided to take his stories himself and knock on the doors of local editors.

It was a repetition of the drama that happened with ‘Our Society’, this time with other explanations, and less consequential . . . Only one editor of a weekly asked him for a story or a poem about the kite festival because a special edition of the magazine was going to be published. Shekhar recalled his previous decision never to produce commissioned literature, but then he thought that there was no obligation to call something that was commissioned ‘literature’ and that in order to keep literature out of the vulgar market it was necessary to have another means to earn a living . . . He agreed to write the story and received the following as an assurance of payment: ‘It will be settled after it has been written, and whatever is offered, a leaf, a flower—’¹⁷

But producing something under those conditions wasn’t easy. Even after battling himself for hours, Shekhar was unable to produce a story about the kite festival, and repeatedly, his beaten and frustrated mind returned to the children from the third floor and their demand for a kite . . . Spring festival . . . Kite festival . . . He imagines bringing home a kite, string, winder, crushed glass and glue, and the children are jumping and squealing with delight on the roof; and he is teaching them how to fly a kite—it isn’t that he knows, but with those children, he’s an ‘expert’ . . . And then the string breaks on the kite in his dream, and he spins a lonely winder back in reality and thinks, ‘Kite festival, story, and the restaurant bill’ . . . All of a sudden he realizes, ‘Why not turn that into a story?’ The idea seemed ludicrous to him, and a little bit like a betrayal of the children, but such things were daily published in Hindi and what was the harm as long as he didn’t pretend that it was literature? It was commissioned work; what was wrong with earning his bread by the sweat of his brow like a labourer, detachedly . . . This argument didn’t convince him, but he still wrote the story—he called it ‘The Kite Festival’.

The editor looked once at the title and then once at Shekhar and said, ‘You are a very enthusiastic young man.’

Nervously, Shekhar said, ‘Yes, sir.’

The editor put his work to the side, then he looked at Shekhar as if he were done using something and his sense of order couldn’t tolerate it lying around in the middle of things.

In an intentionally abrupt tone, Shekhar said, ‘And my payment?’

Displaying enormous surprise, the editor said, ‘Payment? Oh—yes. But we offer payment at the end of every quarter—and we haven’t even determined how much—’

Suppressing his rage, Shekhar said, ‘So why don’t you determine now?’

Calmly and smoothly, the editor said, ‘Literature requires a great deal of devotion—’

Suddenly Shekhar felt that politeness was pointless, or rather wouldn’t bear fruit; and for a labourer, the fruits of one’s labour were all that mattered. He said, ‘If it is literature then it would require it. But even if you are going to make the mistake of thinking this to be literary, I won’t. When I write literature, I will also be patiently devoted. But now, I am selling myself. I want its worth in cash.’

The editor looked him over this time with care and a new bewilderment and said, ‘Look, I’ve explained our policies to you already. You wrote this story at my request, so it’s clear that I should pay you.’ Then turning out his pockets, ‘But you already know the state of things here . . . I can only pay you in leaves and fruits . . .’¹⁸

Dejectedly, Shekhar said, ‘Thank you!’ and went back home . . .

On his next trip, when Shekhar went back out in the direction of New Age Books, he thought he would ask about how ‘Our Society’ was doing. The managing editor was there himself. Upon seeing Shekhar, he said, ‘It’s good that you’ve come—I was thinking of sending someone to see you—’

‘Why? Was there anything important—’

‘No, just because—’ He looked long with half-closed eyes at Shekhar, and then said, ‘The thing is that—in truth—I’ve shown your book to a couple of experts and they recommend—There are some necessary revisions—’

Meekly, Shekhar said, ‘It’s possible. I am only a student, not an expert. What are the revisions that they’ve recommended?—’

‘Look, I can’t recall all of them, but basically, they didn’t like the concluding chapter, and recommended that it should be changed—’

‘But that’s a fundamental alteration. An alteration like that would mean the writer—’

‘I think that if you make all the revisions and get his permission to use his name it will be for the best. If the book is printed with his editorial signature on it, it will definitely sell, and—’

‘Who is this gentleman?’

Not answering the question, the editor started again, ‘It won’t take you long to revise the conclusion—’

‘But the conclusion grows out of the facts, and how could I change those? The conclusion—’

‘A conclusion is a matter of one’s opinions. A single fact can produce five different conclusions, it’s all a matter of perspective. And when the conclusion is revised, then the facts—’

Insistently, Shekhar said, ‘Do conclusions come from facts or do facts come from conclusions? You can’t unsee a fact once it’s been presented—’

‘But what is a fact? Everything that exists is a fact. And things that don’t exist are also facts—their non-existence is a fact. A man chooses facts according to his preferences; then he draws conclusions from those facts, ergo, conclusions are also predicated on preferences, right?’

‘Fine, let’s say that’s true. Then the book I’ve written is based on choosing facts and conclusions that are to my tastes. So why does it need revising? Still, I think that facts are facts, and the conclusion that I have drawn from them is the necessary one.’

More firmly, the editor said, ‘You are being stubborn. Everyone has their own tastes, but tastes can also be evaluated. The criticism of society is a matter of great responsibility—I always take the advice of the experts. It’s a good opportunity for you—if there is a famous editor associated with the book, then it will sell and open doors for you in the future—you should be grateful that he’s taken the pains and made these edits—’

Shekhar choked on his words, ‘Made these edits? But shouldn’t you have asked me first? At least tell me who this expert is!’

‘He’s a very experienced intellectual and he’s deeply committed to social service—’

‘At least tell me his name.’

‘Lala Amolak Roy.’

Haltingly and emphasizing each word, Shekhar said, ‘My book will be published as is—I will be responsible for my own argument and opinions.’

‘But opposing the advice of experts—You must understand that this is a matter of a publisher’s responsibility—I am working in your interests—’

Shekhar asked, ‘Do you mean to say that you won’t print the book without the revisions?’

‘Look—My hands are tied—There is no need to get overly emotional—’

‘Then please give me back my manuscript—’

‘Please think it over—’

Firmly, Shekhar said, ‘Please give me back my manuscript immediately—’

‘Why won’t you listen to reason? I am very disappointed—’

Shekhar repeated, ‘If you will please give me back my manuscript, I can leave—’

The editor called out, ‘Orderly!’ A lifeless statue came and stood before them.

‘Go to Lala Amolak Roy’s place and bring back the papers—tell him to give you the pages of “Our Society”—You’ll remember the name, right—“Our Society”?’

‘Yes, sir. “Our Society”.’

‘Yes.’

Shekhar asked, ‘How long will it take?’

‘It will be here in an hour to an hour and a half—’

Shekhar didn’t want to stay there. He said, ‘All right, I will be back in two hours.’ And he got up and left.

Shekhar didn’t want to go back home while his brain was in revolt, and he had no business out in the street, so Shekhar began aimlessly wandering through the streets and alleys. He only stopped once in front of a shop when he saw a potter’s wheel hanging out front. He stopped for a little while to study the potter’s wheel and the shapes of a few pots and a heap of kites barely visible in the darkness inside the shop, and then he walked on. When he saw a fruit stall farther along, he recalled that he had read a book about nutrition while in jail and had thought about becoming a frugivore. He walked up and asked the owner about the price of Kandahari pomegranates. The owner told him that they were a rupee and a quarter for a kilogram and a single pomegranate was roughly fourteen annas. After that he didn’t stop again. He got back to New Age Books around 4.30 p.m., took his manuscript and, without saying a word, bowed quickly to the editor and went home . . . The days had become very short, and it was also so cloudy that at 4.30 p.m. it seemed as if the day was over . . .

When he got home, Shekhar flung the manuscript on the floor and lay down on the cot. Then he got up all of a sudden, picked up the manuscript and began flipping through the pages . . . Several pages of the conclusion had been removed and replaced with new ones, written in someone else’s hand—it was clear from the handwriting that the writer was a novice and probably a girl . . . Shekhar pulled those pages out, tore them in half and threw them away. Then he noticed that sections of his prose had been crossed out on several pages and there was something new written in the margins. He tore these pages out as well—he already had the original, unedited version of the manuscript!—and tore them in half and threw them away just as before. He looked at the remaining sections backwards and forwards, and then, with a lassitudinous ‘hmm,’ he threw the manuscript on the floor and scattered the pages with his feet.

He looked all around once and then lay face down on the cot, hiding his face in his pillow.

The tickling darkness of the cotton filling of the pillow—welcome, darkness! You are not insignificant and insubstantial; you have a shape, weight and density, so welcome even more! . . . Shekhar felt that if only he could melt into the darkness—then—then . . .

He got up in a blind haze and slowly went downstairs and out on to the street. As he shivered and huddled, he was struck by the emptiness of the day, but even without that there was more than enough darkness inside Shekhar . . . Darkness and loneliness—an unsullied nothingness—discrete, exilic darkness . . . There was no meaning in anything; everything was merely an effect whose original cause had been lost . . . Cause produces effect, but there was no plan in either cause or effect—anarchy had become the truth . . . Anarchy, confusion, nomadic . . .

What was he doing—where was he going—and what was the point even if he was going and doing? There was still some fog ahead, and if the deepening darkness stung his eyes then what was the point of trying to see . . . When people get lost in the jungle, they automatically start walking in circles, and the walking in circles gets them killed. He didn’t want to go anywhere, nor did he want to walk in circles. Like a mountain goat blinded by the ice, he staggered, head lowered, as he walked on, walked on. He began to realize that there was a plan hidden in his planlessness, that his plan was total planlessness, a desire to be snuffed out . . .

A car horn sounds behind him. He pretends not to hear, and the car barely misses him. Another horn sounds. Shekhar ignores it again and keeps on walking in the middle of the street. The horn sounds again, sounds louder, sounds bold, sounds taunting, sounds threatening—

He walks on in the middle of the street, planless, planless—

Suddenly someone grabs his arm with both hands and pulls him forcefully; a cry drowns out the screeching brakes, ‘Sir!’ Shekhar looked up—it was a woman. She wasn’t young, wasn’t beautiful. The car brushed Shekhar as it hissed on; the unsteadiness from the slamming of the brakes had dissipated and it disappeared in a flash of shimmering chrome.

Extremely annoyed, Shekhar asked, ‘What is it to you?’

What was it to anyone?—whether he lived, or died, was hit by the car, drowned in the ocean, burned in a flame, what did it matter to anyone?

With wounded surprise, the woman said, ‘Sir, I just—’ and then she was silent.

Shekhar’s eyes met hers. No, she wasn’t young. She wasn’t beautiful. But her eyes possessed a fierce will, a motherly fear . . .

Shekhar responded in an insensate voice, ‘Forgive me, sister—’ and he quickly turned around and headed back home. But his footsteps went on repeating that meaningless taunt, ‘What was it to anyone, what was it to anyone . . .’

He climbed up the steps but suddenly stopped when he got to the threshold of his room. The room was just as he had left it, but a candle was burning and Shashi, sitting on one edge of the cot, was staring directly at him.

*

No one knew how much time had passed while no one spoke, nor moved. Then Shashi said, ‘Where were you, Shekhar? I’ve been sitting here waiting for you for a long time—and what is all this?’ And then suddenly jumping up towards him, she grabbed both of his shoulders and, in a voice filled with panic, ‘Shekhar! Shekhar! What happened—’

Shekhar grabbed both of Shashi’s wrists and gently pushed her back to the cot; with the same gentle pressure, he sat her down on the cot. Slowly freeing his shoulders, he crossed the room, trampling over the scattered pages, and stood on the other side, and after a moment, he sat down on the ground in the middle of those pieces of paper.

‘Nothing, Shashi. What could have happened—’

Shashi got up again and went to Shekhar.

‘Tell me, Shekhar! What were you planning on doing? And—and what all have you done?’

He remained silent. His eyes were fixed on Shashi’s feet.

‘Speak, Shekhar! While I waited for you, you have no idea what I—’

She left the thought unfinished and was silent. No one knew how long both of them were quiet, still. Then the sound of paper crackling somewhere made Shekhar stand with a start, but Shashi’s back was to the lamp, her face in the darkness . . . Shekhar looked at her intently and wanted to grab her by the shoulders and turn her around, but when he touched her, her body went stiff and she didn’t move . . . Shekhar immediately let go of her shoulders. He went to the cot, sat down with a thud and then lay down. As his mind dimmed he realized that there was no going forward—his unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling—planlessness, planlessness, cold planlessness—

Shashi went and stood by the head of the cot. Indecisively, she said, ‘Shekhar?’ She leaned over him slightly—a drop fell on Shekhar with a plop—

Suddenly, Shekhar extended his arms and made her lean in closer. He buried his head in her chest and burst into tears . . . His body shook uncontrollably, his fists clenched atop Shashi’s shoulders. Shashi didn’t utter a single word as she remained leaning over him . . . like a shady saptaparni tree leaning over a mountain stream . . .

The trembling breeze passes through the shade of the saptaparni, a mysterious slackening overtakes its limbs, and everything gradually becomes peaceful under the diaphanous touch of its shade. A silky touch cobs through Shekhar’s hair and asks, ‘Will you tell me now?’

No, if there was no plan in life, then there was no point in remaining quiet, in hiding; if the thing couldn’t touch him, then neither could its loving reaction . . . Shekhar said, ‘I didn’t know when I left, but while I was walking I realized that I was looking for a way to commit suicide.’

A gentle shudder went through the saptaparni.

‘Why, Shekhar?’

‘Just because; I realized that it wasn’t necessary to have a reason to die. You need a reason to live. For a person without a clear plan, death is the natural conclusion.’

A voice filled with worry and objection—‘Shekhar!’

‘Don’t live to get something, live to give something. I accept that. But what do I have to give? Planless, purposeless, meaningless suffering? Why should I give that, for whom should I offer that? If accomplishment is one source of happiness for people, then giving is another form of happiness—otherwise nothing matters, everything is a lie. And I know that in eighteen or nineteen waking years I have—’ Another sobbing shudder shook his limp frame.

‘I haven’t given anyone happiness; my entire life has been based on conceit and all I’ve done is bring people pain—’

‘How do you know, Shekhar?’

‘The only thing I know is that I don’t know. I’ve brought no happiness even to the people I’ve loved. I haven’t asked them; but shouldn’t love give one enough wisdom to tell you whether a person that you have loved has also received happiness or not?’

Slowly getting up, Shashi said, ‘Perhaps it doesn’t. Otherwise you’d be able to see—’ She slowly walked over to the window, and for a while, she looked out the window, her hand resting on the windowsill—suddenly raindrops began to fall and, for a moment, they sparkled as they hit the pale light encircled by the window—dissolving from one nothingness into another . . . She turned around in the same spot and said, ‘And Shekhar, isn’t love its own gift—a gift greater than happiness?’

‘It is, it is a very great gift—but only because it is also great happiness. If love doesn’t bring happiness, if it only consumes one, then it’s better for it to burn away—’

Shashi quickly returned to her spot; she sat down at the head of Shekhar’s cot and yelled at him, ‘Be quiet, Shekhar. You have no idea what you are saying.’

Shekhar was quiet. He remained lying there, but he lifted his eyes to look up at Shashi. Shashi wasn’t looking anywhere, her gaze was fixed straight ahead, but she definitely knew that wrinkles had formed on Shekhar’s forehead from looking up, because she gently brushed them with one hand, like someone removing wrinkles from silk. When this attempt failed, she extended her fingers and forcibly closed Shekhar’s eyes—and they stayed there, didn’t move from his eyes.

In very hushed tones, Shekhar said, ‘Listen, Shashi!’

Shashi again leaned in over him.

‘Shashi, I haven’t been able to figure out what you are—’

Firmly, ‘Why, Shekhar?’

‘I’ve always called you sister, but you aren’t as close to me as sisters are, and yet you aren’t as distant from me—as much—as much as a sister would be.’ Suddenly, he forcefully pressed Shashi’s fingers with both of his hands on to his eyes, as if opening his eyes would mean some great calamity . . .

It was as if Shekhar could hear the incessant pounding of the rain outside in Shashi’s quivering voice, ‘What are you trying to say, Shekhar?’

Shekhar lifted both of his hands again, gently grabbed Shashi on both sides of her face, drew her towards him and said, ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I only know you, and I know that all of the dreams that I have dreamt vanish into you—’

There was neither consent nor opposition in Shashi’s leaning form; she was bent over, but was still and speechless . . .

The same stillness had also filled Shekhar’s veins. It seemed to him that everything had been restored to its prior tranquillity because there was nothing else to come; everything had reached the point of unity with the absolute because it was nirvana . . . Although, somewhere in the distance, the clouds rumbled and the rain hissed, and there was a flash of lightning which revealed nothing and made the darkness that followed even darker.

Hovering over Shekhar was the shade from a young saptaparni sapling that trembled from some distant, drifting gust, a wind from the distant south, because it possessed a loving warmth and in the meantime, it had filled Shekhar’s nostrils with a fragrance—the same fragrance that comes from the first, all-consuming scent of sandalwood . . .

There is a line beyond which silence becomes is its own answer, and all questions are dissolved into it because it is the ultimate non-question . . . No one knew when the external calm around Shekhar seeped into his insides and he fell asleep. Later, he woke, startled by the sound of thunder crackling, but that wakefulness never went beyond a soporific confusion, and he became completely absorbed by the fragrant, protective cover of the saptaparni’s shade . . . Only once, as if hard facts meant to strike a blow to his liquid condition, Shekhar jumped and said, ‘Shashi, it’s very late. You have to go back—’ He tried to get up, but Shashi didn’t move. In her motionlessness, the icy rains of December answered for her, that it was already too late to go back home, and then Shekhar said, ‘You’ll exhaust yourself, Shashi,’ and he tried to get up again so that Shashi could sit properly; but she stayed his efforts with a silent hand, and he realized that the resolve in his mind and the strength of his limbs had been bound by a completely agreeable bondage; then that drowsiness completely enveloped everything, and in the shade of the saptaparni, existence slumbered . . .

This is definitely from a rose-tinted dream—the atmosphere has a crystalline cold clarity, but with an affectionate colour. Shekhar lifts his head slightly to touch the shady saptaparni sapling above him—would his head be able to see the vessels that coursed life inside of the saptaparni tree—could it feel the pulsing of its heart?

The soul of the saptaparni tree speaks—how gentle is the voice of the soul!—‘Are you awake, Shekhar?’

‘Hmm—’

‘Do you remember everything that you said?’

‘Yes—’

‘Do you know what it all means?’

The silence said, ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘There’s no shame in what you have given me. I can say without any embarrassment that it is a boon. And one does not have the option of declining a boon.’

‘ . . .’

‘I am a married woman. I have given myself voluntarily; I have made a vow of myself, of my world—turned them into sacrifices. And what I have given is not mine any longer, so I cannot speak for it; I cannot accept anything nor oppose anything, and—I can’t give anything.’ She fell silent; for a long time no one spoke, only the crystalline atmosphere began to feel a little colder—

‘I haven’t been miserly in giving up my selfhood—I gave it openly—I made a sacrifice of it and watched it all burn—turned to ash. I never thought that I was tricked, I knew that this was going to happen.’

There can be so much anguish in peace, and such cold-studded defeat in the crystalline redness of dreams . . . This was the end of everything, the end of dreams, too—

The soul of the saptaparni regained its strength once again—like a sacrificial fire rising up after a new offering!—and said, ‘But that part of my life, which is me, which is my “I”, is inside of you.’

Then a respite . . .

‘And it’s no less true, no less alive, just because it is intangible. Shekhar, don’t think of me as your sister, mother, brother, son or anything else because I—now—am nothing. I am a shadow.’ Then filled with an internal brilliance, ‘And despite being intangible, I—I am a part of you that you will not name.’

Again, silence—the red crystal trembles within it—

‘Shashi, is this—for you—an achievement—a sense of fulfilment?’

‘Achievement? Hardly! My life was neither that much soil nor that much—air. There is no achievement or fulfilment; but I am content, Shekhar, and the happiness of this contentment is your boon to me.’

The crystal fades into redness. The cold did not belong to the dream, but to the break of a rain-washed December dawn . . . Shekhar withdrew from under the shade of the saptaparni tree suddenly and sat up, a flickering light in his consciousness suddenly gave him a fleeting glimpse of the events of the last ten hours; and then quickly filled with the feeling that today he would look at Shashi in a different form with the light from the first rays of dawn and then, enveloped by the feeling of faith from the Vedic songs—some of which he had recited as a child and now read from a new reprint—he looked straight at Shashi and said, ‘Let my eyes be pure—’

Shashi’s distant voice fully embraced his mood, ‘And my vigil—’

Shashi got up. With one hand, she straightened out the wrinkles in the bedding on the cot from where she had sat all night, and then she went and stood by the window. Leaning against the sill, she spread both arms outside.

The sight of this slender, flexible but upturned sapling unexpectedly filled Shekhar’s heart with a grateful feeling of benediction. His gaze touched the averted form attached to the windowsill from head to toe, and he made a silent prayer to himself and waited expectantly for the first rays of light to illuminate Shashi’s outline in gold . . .

The reality of the reassuring rays of dawn never happened, merely a dull glow formed—as the day broke, the clouds thickened overhead. Who knows what mirthful desire prompted Shekhar to sit on the majority of the pages of ‘Our Society’ that had been scattered below; Shashi was still standing at the window, but now she faced him.

‘Shashi, do you still sing?’

An inward-looking, sad Shashi said, ‘Humph!’ which seemed to say, ‘Singing? Now?’ Then she said out loud, ‘I’m going back now.’

Shekhar made a gesture of tying up the pages of the scattered manuscript into a bundle and said, ‘Our entire society is waiting—’ (Torn, scattered scraps of a society—and Lala Amolak Roy’s edited-by-reform society . . . )

Shashi said, ‘It’s been a year since I last sang—’ There wasn’t an objection in it, just an acknowledgment of insistence, ‘I won’t sing now. I can only recite—’

Gradually the room began to reverberate with the waves of her voice becoming more distinct:

May air’s mid-region give us peace and safety, safety may both these, Heaven and Earth, afford us.

Security be ours from west, from eastward, from north and south may we be free from danger.

Safety be ours from friend and from the unfriendly, safety from what we know and what we know not.

Safety be ours by night and in the day-time! Friendly to me be all my hopes and wishes!¹⁹

But then Shashi turned herself around and stood facing the window and, after humming for a moment, began to sing in an unwavering but echoing voice—with a powerful and steady rhythm, like blood in a healthy vein . . .

Why has the sound of murmuring leaves arisen today.

From bloom to bloom

Waves of air quiver.

Who is the beggar knocking at my door

Needing my heart and my possessions.

My heart knows him,

Knows the flowers blossoming in his song.

The stranger’s footsteps echo in my heart today.

Waking me, suddenly.²⁰

Shekhar’s mind wandered far away, listening to that voice and watching that composed back produce a rising and falling vibrato. That moment seemed so remote when he used to hide to try and listen to the waves of Shashi’s radiant songs, when he would stand perfectly still to listen to her singing—remote not only from himself, but also from Shashi . . . She was happy then—happy in her flawless happiness, she who didn’t understand her own condition; and today—today she knows that she isn’t even happy in her happiness, only content—content meaning patient—she believes this destruction of her personality, this decimation, to be a kind of dignity and owns it . . .

But if this is the case, even if Shashi is content in this moment, then isn’t this the most important moment in Shekhar’s life since he cannot give Shashi any greater joy than this? And—and since this moment between yesterday and today has completely changed his life—

He recalled that when he was saved last night by an unknown woman he had been furious with her and had come home thinking what was it to anyone—what was it to anyone . . . Today—today he was something to someone—and he knew that he was something to someone . . .

Wasn’t this the right moment—this very second—to do what he had set out to do yesterday? To be snuffed out by the happiness of an accomplishment and a satisfaction, given and received—and what an accomplishment! . . . If he were to slip away quietly now, disappear with Shashi’s song ringing permanently in his ears—

He slinked his way over to the door slowly, and stood up straight when he got to the threshold—

She suddenly stopped singing and said, ‘Shekhar, where are you?’

He stood still. Shashi turned around and asked, ‘Where were you going?’

Shekhar didn’t say anything.

‘Are you still feeling guilty? Shekhar, I’m telling you, you won’t go anywhere.’ And then with the same resolute but completely altered voice, ‘Look at me, Shekhar—look into my eyes. Can you be that wilful—are you absolutely alone?’

Shekhar lowered his eyes. Defeated, he returned to the room.

‘Tell me what I should do, what do you think—’

Shashi gestured a sweet slap with her hand and said, ‘There’s so much time for telling and listening. I’m going now—it’s morning already. But if you do anything crazy this time, then—’ She raised one finger and left the sentence unfinished.

Shekhar said, ‘Something is wrong with my brain—I’m completely crazy.’ There was a note of weariness and shame in his voice.

With the serious voice of an intellectual, but full of laughter, Shashi said, ‘Crazy—not crazy. But a very big kid!’ And she went down the stairs. Shekhar began gathering the scattered pages of ‘Our Society’.

Suddenly the morning’s feelings rose within him again, and he was surprised and asked himself how quickly Shashi’s mind reflected his own emotion. This curiosity made him even stronger. Gratefully he said again, ‘Let my eyes be pure . . .’

And Shashi joined in, ‘And my vigil—’ But the vigil was mine, Shashi, the vigil was mine—I remain in vigil for the consequences of your good deeds . . .