Is this Baba Madansingh’s voice that is ringing in my ears? Did this deep, booming voice belong to the same man whose own voice transformed his weakness into dignity?
Don’t let your thoughts wander to things beyond these walls. Thinking about your relatives will neither help in lessening their sorrows, nor in bringing them any happiness. Instead, by dwelling on their pain you are only digging up the foundation of your determination.
Was this right? No, this couldn’t be Baba’s voice—his wisdom was greater than this! Then what was this? Was it my arrogance?
The past didn’t diminish my determination, it improved it, since the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized the essence it contained—I know the reason that this ‘ghost’ remains is because it was once the future—certain destiny . . . I realize that I will have to fight, we’ll have to go on fighting, because giving up on account of the pain that comes with fighting means making that pain and injustice and tragedy, which were present before, permanent . . .
I wager the deep voice also agrees with me—it booms in a frenzy, ‘Prisoner, a day will come when you will be willing to give your right arm for the honour of this suffering—that’s how great this honour is—’
Why? Am I not ready even now? Am I still unprepared to sacrifice an arm or even my own head?
The voice laughs. ‘Head? Your head’s already been sacrificed!’
But was this voice right? Wasn’t this just a trick of an instinctive self-preservation? Was suffering really an honour? Wasn’t the real honour the memory of a certain someone, the mere thought of whom frightens me into making excuses? If I had been an ‘ordinary’ man, I wouldn’t have been the plaything of newspapers and bureaucrats and soldiers and imperial power. Would it really diminish my honour much if I found ‘someone’ to love and be loved by in the plain, poor traditions of living, surviving and dying?
Shashi, I don’t know whether your leaving was also destined, but you did indeed leave; and I am not embarrassed to admit that if you hadn’t gone, then—then—
But no, how could there be sorrow? Had you been here, why would there be any need to be sad about anything!
*
Standing outside the gate, Shekhar was stupefied for a few moments. For a moment he felt like he wanted to go back to jail, that he didn’t want to be on the outside. Then he ordered his feet to move forward. As he passed each building, he reminded himself to keep moving, ‘You’ve passed the cells’, ‘That’s the mortuary you just passed’, ‘That was the blacksmith’s workshop’, ‘These are the bars on the exterior and the gate, and now you’re on the street’ and ‘That’s the bend in the street.’
He stopped once more at the bend; then a scrape of doubt, of aversion, sliced his heart. At the same time, he realized that his aversion was not a desire to return; it was a fear of advancing to the place where he was headed.
Where should he go? College? A dreamy scene appeared before him—a crowd of students surrounds Shekhar, and a few want to hoist him on to their shoulders and there’s a big commotion—‘Long live Shekhar! Revolution!’ And immediately after that another scene—a naked Mohsin tied to the docks, his backside sliced and dripping with blood. No, there was no place for him in college—and after ten months it was unlikely that his name was still in the registry.
Fearfully, his mind turned towards the source of his aversion—Shashi’s home? ‘Bless this Shashi who was your sister until today . . . I greet you for the last time from this role . . .’ Wouldn’t she have changed, wouldn’t she have moved? Hadn’t the same situation as ‘after the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband’ become as irrepressibly true as it had once before in Shekhar’s life?
No, no, no! I am being despicable!
To reassure himself, Shekhar forced himself to recite one of Baba’s sayings—‘Faith is greater than pain.’—Do I lack faith?
He moved forward. But the effort it took to raise his feet also brought him the knowledge that he wasn’t going towards Shashi’s house.
He didn’t understand why his feet had brought him to his professor’s house. He never had a special relationship with Professor Heath, and there was no reason that he should now be drawn there. Professor Heath was English and fitted the sketch that Shekhar had drawn of the English middle class from reading novels. Hiding beneath his social aloofness, conservative beliefs and customs and etiquette was an embarrassed emotionality—Shekhar held that Professor Heath possessed all of these traits in sufficient quantity.
It would take him substantial effort to gather his scattered thoughts to meet with him at this moment—perhaps he would be unable to and be a fool . . . But wasn’t he going there to be compelled into decisiveness? To be compelled into decisiveness meant being compelled into a social struggle, and his scared soul wanted to run from that fight . . .
He ran into the professor as he was coming down the stairs. Professor Heath’s first expression of surprise quickly turned into happiness, ‘Hello, Shekhar! What are you doing here?’ And before he could say anything, ‘You’re totally free, right—there’s no trouble left, right?’
Shekhar withdrew his hand from his grasp, but he kept smiling.
‘Yes, sir, there is no trouble left. Everything—has been taken care of.’ A shadow fell across the screen of his mind—really? And Shashi . . .
‘Good! So you’ll come inside and visit, right? I have to give a lecture—it’s another headache I’ve got to deal with—You’ll have tea here, won’t you?—You’ll have to drink some with me.—There are plenty of books inside—and pictures—’
‘Thank you, but I only came to visit. We’ll meet again—’
‘No, you’ll have to have some tea’—and then noticing the fidgety expression on Shekhar’s face—‘Do you have other obligations? Then come back at teatime—Oh, and when were you released?’
Slowly, Shekhar said, ‘I came straight here after being released.’
‘Oh—really? Then you still have your friends to meet. I’m being unfair. Go and meet them. Make sure to come back for tea—’
He came down the steps with the professor and stayed behind with a fake smile on his face. When the professor repeated the invitation and left after coming downstairs, Shekhar’s smile burst into a cackle—‘friends to meet!’ Shekhar made a face as though he had just eaten something very bitter.
Shekhar’s uncle lived on the third floor. He had no shortage of weariness at the thought of climbing those steps, but it took so long to climb those narrow steps that he reached the uppermost limits of his weariness . . . Shekhar’s resolve—no, the compulsion that comes from a lack of resolve—wilted as he got to the top. He stopped for a moment, his hand on the lock of the closed door.
What is the connection, the similarity, between this post-office inspector uncle and me? Shekhar remembered that one day in the summer when his aunt had heard from his uncle that he was sick, she sent over some tamarind so that he could drink a sherbet made of it . . . Had Shekhar been a letter instead of a man, perhaps his uncle might have taken a special interest in him—as it was, Shekhar was like a foreign object in his life . . . His hand lifted from the lock and he quietly went down the stairs.
Shashi’s house shouldn’t be that far from here—Shekhar estimated as he recalled her address, but there was no going there—and—
Why had Shekhar torn up all of Shashi’s letters? He desperately needed them now—their intimacy, their love, their closeness which sent a ‘final greeting’! Oh, if he still had those letters, Shekhar could reproduce that lost feeling—
As if letters could ever take the place of love!
Idiot!
*
Shekhar hadn’t arrived too early. The door opened as he knocked on it and Professor Heath placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Shekhar, I have a surprise1 for you.’
Shekhar looked up. There was no need for introductions: seated in front of him was the magistrate who presided over Shekhar’s case.
Mister Barnes said, ‘Congratulations on your release!’
Shekhar responded immediately, ‘Congratulations on your verdict—at least on this part of your verdict!’ The atmosphere became a little tense. Shekhar sat down and they made small talk. Professor Heath explained that he had invited Barnes for tea so that the conversation would be more interesting, and he could voice his real opinions face-to-face.
Tea was served. In the course of the conversation, the professor told Barnes that Shekhar was a writer. ‘What do you write—’ Barnes had merely started the question when the professor interjected, ‘Shekhar generally writes fiction, sometimes a few—’
‘That’s what I had guessed earlier.’ . . .
Shekhar asked eagerly, ‘Why?’
‘Because your testimony during the trial was an excellent example of fiction!’ Barnes laughed mirthfully at his own joke.
The images of Mohsin’s naked backside and Baba’s last days danced before his eyes. The insult stung him twice as hard, but he became rebellious and laughed and said, ‘Too bad I can’t agree with your literary assessments.’ He told himself that he would get even.
Perhaps trying to defuse the conversation, Professor Heath said, ‘Shekhar, I thought that if the two of you came here, you would have an excellent opportunity to get to know each other better. Generally, in India, relations between Indians and the English remain limited to formalities. Mister Barnes has excellent taste in literature. He is a chess player, too. Barnes, you’ll have to invite Shekhar to your place sometime—’ He looked at Barnes; he said, ‘Certainly—’ The professor continued, ‘And Shekhar, you definitely have to go to his place. Mrs Barnes is a very gentle lady and an exceptional woman by some standards.’
Shekhar found his angle. His face lit up a little and he said, ‘That’s what I had guessed earlier.’
Barnes was taken aback, but the question on his mind appeared on the professor’s lips—‘Why?’
‘Because in court, whenever I saw Mister Barnes, I used to think to myself that this man was probably the husband of an exceptional woman.’ Satisfied, Shekhar leaned back and relaxed. In order to release some of the tension in the air, the professor bobbed and weaved, ‘Shekhar, why don’t you write in English?’
Thoughtfully, Shekhar said, ‘In English . . . ?’
‘Yes, people from abroad who have been here for some time are starting to become very interested in India. If a picture of Indian life told in the form of stories could be presented to British tourists, they would certainly be well liked.’ As he spoke, the professor looked at Barnes for support.
‘Hmm—There’s a great demand for such things in America, but I don’t think that we as a people are terribly drawn to them. Personally, I like them quite a bit, but we British don’t particularly care for them.’
Professor Heath tried to demonstrate his agreement, ‘Yes, they don’t have any meaning for us—’
Shekhar turned to the Professor and asked, ‘What is your opinion—I mean, personally, what do you think? Do you enjoy them?’
‘Yes, certainly. I like them quite a bit—’
Shekhar stood up. So wasn’t that something! Both of these men enjoy something, but they still claim that as a people we don’t find it interesting, we don’t find them meaningful, we don’t really care for them—we are one country, one nation, one unit, we who are us, we were, we will be . . .
He felt as if someone had slapped him. His teeth clenched tightly, two half-formed tears burned in his eyes. He forced himself to drink a few more sips and took his leave. He went out quickly and went down the stairs.
Did our countrymen say similar things—could they? Alas, India! Alas, us! Alas, us!
*
In the hazy, slick, pale-blue light on the street, just before the lamps were lit, he felt as if he had become worked up over nothing; the energy of the first day out of jail was erupting in mysterious ways . . . Did we not possess a single culture, wasn’t this country—fifty times as diverse and ten times as populous—more firmly culturally unified than Britain? And here too there were disagreements between the tastes of a lone individual and the preferences of the whole—‘I’ like Eliot and Ezra Pound while ‘we’ prefer Shadowist (Chayyavad) poetry . . . I’m becoming hysterical2 for no reason . . .
But he wasn’t convinced. He felt like he was contorting himself into that conclusion. Even if that were the case, we didn’t possess that feeling—forget the pride of unity, we didn’t even possess a living, breathing knowledge of it. It was a truth that had died, and so was a lie . . .
The anguish settled over his brain. Whenever a monkey sitting in the rain, drenched, becomes resigned to his fate, that’s when hailstones begin to fall, and Shekhar felt as insignificant as that monkey must feel, and he was being kicked onwards, being pulled by the collar of his dejection . . .
Suddenly the lamps were lit. He paused. There was an aluminium sign in the spot he was looking at.
Shashi’s house was in front of Shekhar.
*
‘There is a permanent divide between the suffering individual and the creative artist. The deeper that division, the greater the artist!’
But am I an artist? Do I really want to be an artist when I can live a life that exists because you are connected to it? Why be infatuated with isolation, why love neutrality, when I don’t want to be separated from a single atom; when each atom gets its life from you! Artists are greater than me, will always be; I am penitent, still, waiting, and I know that your hand is raised in blessing above me . . .
*
Shekhar trembled slightly, but no doubt was big enough to turn him away now that he had arrived at her door. He drew two long breaths as someone would take before jumping into a lake. Along with those breaths, Shekhar drank in several emotions—among them was the feeling that Shashi was a stranger—not just a stranger, but one who had become unfamiliar forever, because she had left the grasp of familiarity.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, but he immediately felt that it was an excuse to stay down here a little longer, so he drew his hand back and went up the stairs to the second floor.
There were three or four chairs in the sitting room. A man dressed in a suit was sitting on one, eating some fruit; on the small table in front of him was a used saucer and cup. Hearing the sound of Shekhar’s arrival, the man turned to look, and his eyes suddenly clouded with unfamiliarity. In that instant, Shekhar noticed two things—that the suit fit him well and that his eyebrows were thick and met in the middle. Then he said, ‘My name is Chandrashekhar—’
‘Come in, come in—when did you arrive? This is a very good day . . .’ The man quickly got up and moved forward but then stopped and said, ‘Come in, come in, please sit down—’ Shekhar could tell that the natural feeling in the first words gradually became hidden behind a screen of politeness, as if that man wanted to assess something before he said what he wanted to say . . .
‘You are all Shashi ever talks about. We were thinking about coming there to visit you, but . . . the work has piled up—’ and then suddenly shouting, ‘Shashi, look who it is—your brother!’
So this was Shashi’s husband, Rameshwar. After a few moments of anticipation, Shashi entered through a curtained door in the back room. As soon as she set foot on the threshold she asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ And then she stopped.
Not even a smile—there was no glimmer of any feeling on her face. But was the affectionate surprise in her eyes and the natural familiarity of the question a lie? But Shekhar got no chance to be disappointed.
Rameshwar said, ‘I told Shashi that we should have at least gone to see you on the day of the verdict, but she didn’t show any particular interest—’ Shekhar looked over at Shashi for confirmation, but her blank expression gave him no answers ‘—so I stayed here, too. I always say that only the very fortunate get to see such heroic men. You are a renunciate, a mahatma.’
No, that couldn’t be true. Whom was this false flattery for, for him or for Shashi? He secretly but piercingly looked over at Rameshwar who was staring fixedly at Shashi. Shashi was silent and was still standing with one foot on the threshold.
‘And you’re a fine sister—no greetings, no words, nor have you asked him to sit! Please go and bring some tea for him—and please, have some fruit until then—’
Before Shekhar could make his apologies, Shashi turned and went inside, and a minute later, she emerged with a cup of tea.
‘Oh, not like—’ Rameshwar hesitatingly glanced in the direction of the kettle, the milk and the other items on the table.
Quickly Shekhar said, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine. Truth be told, I don’t even drink tea—’ And to put an end to the matter, he picked up the cup. Shashi sat on the reed mat on the floor and put some fruits on a plate.
Rameshwar laughed, ‘Your sister has a curious disposition.’ There was no power in that laugh; its only intention was to make his remarks not seem like criticism, but merely an observation.
Shekhar laughed a little, too, and said, ‘In fact our entire family is curious—’
Shashi gave Shekhar a quick, angry glance and then went back to her work. Rameshwar faked surprise, ‘Really?’ Shekhar could tell that there was a note of sarcasm in his smile. But why, he couldn’t tell.
Shekhar wanted to change topics immediately, but he couldn’t figure out how. In the meantime, Shashi took the plate of fruit and put it in front of him. He wanted to ask, ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ but then he thought that every family has different ways of doing things and perhaps she didn’t eat in front of her husband, so he picked up the plate and asked Rameshwar, ‘Won’t you have some, too?’
‘Please have some—’ he said as picked up a slice of orange. ‘We aren’t even doing anything for you. Didn’t you just get released recently? Oh, I didn’t even ask you about the verdict!’
Shekhar narrated the details of all the places he had been to since he was released.
‘And where are you staying?’
Shekhar laughed a little, ‘I’m not staying anywhere yet—I’m still travelling!’
‘Oh, then you should stay here! A sister’s home is one’s own home, after all. You must stay here; it would make me very happy, and of course, Shashi, too. She talks about you all the time—’
Shekhar recalled faintly that this fact was being repeated. He looked over at Shashi, but it was as if she were indifferent to his invitation. Rameshwar followed Shekhar’s gaze and said, ‘You should tell him to stay, too. He’s probably being shy with me—’
Shashi lowered her eyes, ‘I’m the younger one.’
This answer seemed enigmatic, not only to Rameshwar, but also to Shekhar.
‘So what?’ He stopped a little, and then as if a new stratagem occurred to him, ‘I hope you’re not thinking that you can’t stay at your little sister’s house. Come on—’ and he laughed loudly. ‘You can consider this a hotel and pay a fee! But these days—’
Rameshwar laughed deeply.
But after the laugh died down there was an emptiness—the feeling of intimacy or at least familiarity between two people that should accompany laughter didn’t develop. The dance of politeness began again. Rameshwar asked, ‘You’ll have dinner, won’t you? Shashi, how long until dinner?’
‘It’s ready now—’
‘No, dinner will—’
‘Whoa, how can we let that happen? I take my tea late, which is why I asked you to have tea. But it is dinner time. Come, we can go for a walk and eat when we come back.’
‘No, I’m not hungry at all, and I’ve already eaten as it is. This fruit. And—’
‘Come, let’s walk around a little, you’ll be hungry by the time you get back—’
Shekhar said, ‘I’m tired from all the walking I’ve done. I should go—I should go to the college and find out what happens now.’
‘You can do all of that tomorrow. But if you’re tired, then you should sit. I am going to the club for a bit. I have something to take care of. I’ll be back soon.’ And then turning towards Shashi, ‘He’s going to stay here. Don’t let him leave—do whatever it takes to keep him here.’
Without giving Shekhar a chance to say anything, Rameshwar went downstairs.
No one said anything for five or six very long seconds. Then Shashi asked, ‘Where will you stay?’
Shekhar knew that he wouldn’t stay at Shashi’s. But he found it odd that she didn’t ask him to either, not even in adherence to what her husband had said. But in order to hide his disappointment, he quickly came up with a lie, ‘I think I’ll stay in the hostel. I’ll find out at the college whether I’ll be able to finish my studies or not. Otherwise, I’ll have to come up with something else.’
‘Aren’t you going home? Your mother is sick.’
‘Really? But I won’t go now—’
‘Will you have dinner?’
‘No, it wouldn’t be right.’
There was silence for a while. Then Shashi asked, ‘How did you find jail?’
Shekhar couldn’t wrap his head around that sudden question. He asked, ‘Why?’
‘Many people sour after their time in jail—they find that they can’t trust anyone. That hasn’t happened to you, has it?’
In his mind’s eye, he could see Madansingh’s image.
‘Umm—no. I learned quite a bit in jail—much of it was bitter, but I don’t think that I’ve become bitter—’
Shashi took a long look into Shekhar’s eyes. He liked the feeling of encouragement and contentment that he saw in her eyes. Her curious behaviour transformed the feeling of toughness that was growing within him into tenderness.
‘You need to decide what you are going to do very quickly. Wandering around aimlessly like this isn’t right. The next time you come here, I will ask you about what you’ve decided to do—not next time, you’ll be here tomorrow. You’ll come, won’t you? He’s already said you should.’
Shekhar looked at Shashi, a little taken aback. What was that mysterious note in what she was saying? He suddenly realized that everything she had said from the beginning, beneath every distinct word was profound and deep meaning—but what? He thought about what Rameshwar had said—there was also something in his words that—
There was something mysterious here—which Rameshwar and Shashi shared—and I am not a part of it. What is it? Is it that there is a deep intimacy that comes from the relationship between a husband and wife that needs to remain deep, because it is intimacy, and which it is sinful to want to see ruined? But that intimacy is related to love, and love produces joy—was Shashi happy? No, I don’t think that the immovable curtain that stands between Shashi and me—Shashi and Rameshwar and me—is a curtain that happy people hide behind. Happiness is a thin film that encases an individual and separates him from everyone else, and having given his life for others, he does not meet with others, lives separately from them . . . Was that the distance that Shashi had found?
No. Shashi has left my world. Not because of happiness, just because. We’ve become strangers. The new relationship that would develop would have to go through Rameshwar, and what was the similarity between him and Rameshwar? My vices are different and my virtues—I have no virtues . . . Shashi isn’t happy, but I am not anyone to know what her pain is, now that I am a stranger—
‘What were you thinking?’
Shekhar was surprised. ‘Nothing, really. I’m going to go now.’ He got up. A powerful restlessness surged within him, and it was the reason he didn’t want to stay.
Shashi said, ‘Sit for now—’ But then she looked at his face and quietly stood up. She went with him to the door at the top of the stairs. When he got there, he stopped and turned to face her, ‘All right, so I’ll be going now—’
Quickly, Shashi asked, ‘So now you’ve seen my house, haven’t you?’
As if in a wave, Shekhar realized that if there was something being concealed it wasn’t of Shashi’s making, and feeling the absolute pettiness of his previous suspicions, he said with an honest, loving, natural affection, ‘I’ve seen it, Shashi, I’ve seen everything—’ He went downstairs.
A question came from behind him, ‘When will you come again?’ Shekhar knew the questioner and because of this familiarity he knew that the question didn’t come from curiosity, rather it was an announcement that she would be expecting him.
*
Where will I go with all of this unallocated energy, what will I do?
‘You need to decide what you are going to do very quickly . . .’
What should I decide? What decisions have I ever made? Or if I have, what decision can I say that I have taken . . . Has the unobstructed flow of life not tossed me hither and thither like an empty tin floating on the water—and if I hit a rock somewhere, I echoed with a ‘clang’, an echo that was not the cry of life’s revolt, just of an internal emptiness, of the air that filled the hollow—sometimes rising and sometimes submerged under, and even that was not the result of an internal power, but of the streams of influence of the passing waves . . . What do I have that can be called strength? An internal hollowness that has kept me afloat, prevented me from drowning! Can I fight life’s battle with this mere luggage, these meagre provisions, on life’s thorny road—
Poetry-wallower; bombast!
But in this state of mind, thinking didn’t settle anything. It’s possible that the greatest thing one can do is to submit to this wave of life—but that doesn’t sit well with my disposition . . . Or perhaps it’s also the case that I have not been worn down enough to be able to find that conclusion agreeable—there’s still some struggle that I think is urging me on—even if it’s a mistake . . . The ego is prideful, it’s true, but until that ego is sated how will one ever achieve disinterestedness, or how will it seem to be true?
‘The next time you come here, I will ask you about what you’ve decided to do—’
As he wandered on the streets, Shekhar looked up at the sky. The dust from the streets that had flown up and dimmed the light from the lamps had also turned the sky grey. Shekhar thought that the stars in the water were brighter than those in the city—and he smiled to himself. Then he was struck by a memory of Baba Madansingh and the question about plans was in front of him again . . .
What should I do?
‘Can you give the truth that you have discovered within yourself to another?’
Shekhar knew that the words were Baba’s. It didn’t surprise him because he knew that Baba had left a heavy footprint on his thoughts. It was as if he were talking to Baba’s imaginary voice.
‘Can that be a life’s purpose? But when did I discover truth?—All I have ever discovered is doubt and more doubt.’
‘That’s true, too. Some former truths are no longer clear today, that’s also a truth in the negative.’
‘Can you use a truth in the negative to—’
‘Shekhar, take a look deep inside yourself. Are there no positive reserves, no faith in there, merely debts and more debts?’
‘Faith . . . “Faith is greater than pain” . . . might be. Faith in one’s self—that means pride. Can that be life’s purpose?’
‘Can you see nothing that you might be able to do—not for yourself, but for something greater than your self—meaning some work that will connect you to something greater?’
‘If I am proud, then what can be greater than me! That something greater is me, right?—’
‘Don’t dodge—you know that you are avoiding the question, you know that you have glimpsed something greater than you—everyone does—’
Shekhar looked up at the sky again. The atmosphere was just as dusty as it was before, but the colour of the sky had deepened and so the stars seemed a little less dim. He thought that he could see a few colours sparkle in the twinkling of one of the stars and the colours were distinguishable—blue, red, white . . .
He recalled that if he was going to spend the night at someone’s place, he had to let that person know that he was coming. He set out for the hostel where he could find at least one boy with whom he could stay . . .
*
Rameshwar wasn’t home when Shekhar visited Shashi next. Partly for this reason, and partly because Shekhar had sketched an outline of his future plans, he could present himself to her in a more contented demeanour and chat with her. All the incidents that could be narrated were abridged: his feelings about Congress and jail, his memories of Baba Madansingh, some of his aphorisms, his magnificent death, Ramji and Mohsin. Shashi listened rapturously. But once Shekhar had told her everything and when it seemed as though he had been speaking continuously for a long time, she suddenly asked the question that she had been wanting to ask for a long time, ‘What about you?’
Shekhar was taken aback, ‘What?’
‘You’ve only told me about other people. You haven’t told me anything about you. I want to hear about that, too.’
‘Oh, me . . .’ Shekhar blushed. How could he tell Shashi about that private life which depended so much on the gifts that she had given him?
‘No, I will definitely make you tell me. It’s fine if it’s not today, but I’m not going to let this go. You can be a stranger if you want, but I won’t be one, and I’m not afraid of you.’
Shekhar was shocked; he kept hanging his head in embarrassment.
‘All right, so have you decided what you are going to do?’
‘Yes.’
Shashi was silent in anticipation; but when she saw Shekhar was not volunteering an answer, she asked, ‘What?’
Shekhar felt that he wanted to say that he could only tell her if he could make fun of it at the same time, otherwise the plan would sound conceited . . . He laughed as he said, ‘I am going to do something that we call revolution. I will turn everything upside down, and if some things get broken I will say that they were old and rotten.’
Shashi intentionally and seriously said, ‘Hmm. And?’
‘What else? Baba used to say, destruction is the only religious obligation; creation happens by itself. So if my tooth falls out—why should it fall out, you should pull it out—a dentist appears by himself. This is the law of science—nature abhors a vacuum.’
With that same unchanged seriousness, Shashi asked, ‘This is your plan? What are you going to do to achieve this?’
‘What will I do? I won’t have a hammer, and teeth don’t fall out from being hit by pebbles, so I’ll hang a stone from a rope tied to a tooth of every person—so that the tooth will pull itself out. I saw an old woman in Kashmir with a stone hanging from her tooth—she had a toothache.’
Seeing Shashi getting more annoyed, Shekhar laughed a little and said, ‘Which is to say, I am going to write. I won’t tie stones but rather stacks of my books to people’s teeth. After all, they will be heavy enough at some point to—’
This time Shashi smiled a little. She said, ‘So you want to be a writer? Good.’ Suddenly her eyes lit up. ‘And your writing will have one purpose—to destroy so that you can completely rebuild.’ Then she calmed down and said, ‘But, Shekhar, not everything that’s written like that is good, not everything becomes literature. Will you betray literature or your purpose?’
Shekhar knew that he didn’t have the ability to say what he meant under the cover of sarcasm. He suddenly turned serious and said, ‘I won’t betray either. Betrayal is the tooth that must be extracted. But to do that requires a strategy—everything I write is written when I am worked into a frenzy; afterwards I think that it isn’t so good. Moreover, sometimes I feel that there is no purpose in what I’ve written, because it is only frenzy and more frenzy, and a purpose requires a map and self-control.’
Both fell silent. All of a sudden, Shashi stood up and said, ‘I have to make tea—’
Shekhar said goodbye and left.
*
Shekhar rented a room and a half on the top floor of a four-storeyed building near Gawalmandi for twelve rupees a month. The larger room was in one corner of the building. Because of the enclosure constructed for the stairs, the half-room wasn’t regularly shaped; it was in the shape of the letter L. The larger part of the L faced east–west, and that’s where Shekhar set up a sitting room. The other part faced north–south and he furnished it with a cot. There was also a small closet, and beyond the closet was a courtyard connected to the stairs. There was a faucet for water on one side of the courtyard and the remnants of the whitewash for a makeshift kitchen left by a previous tenant. On the first day, it made Shekhar happy to think that he could make one room do the work of two; on the second day he was amazed that people with wives and children could make do in such a small space; and after three days he decided that it wasn’t the job of respectable people to think too much about their homes. And then, that the size of his ‘home’ was at least twice the size of the cell that Baba Madansingh had spent eighteen years of his life in . . . And one didn’t have to have a bathroom in one’s room; there was one downstairs . . .
No servants; meals would be ordered from the restaurant (there would be the matter of the bill, but that would be settled later). So there was little work to do and plenty of free time.
Shekhar was pacing in his bigger—meaning only—room. He was thinking about how, in this room, he would write the literature that would catalyse the revolution . . . It suddenly dawned on him that this was the first time where he had his own place and was standing on his own two feet—since he was not a small part of a family or a clan, he could be the head of his own family—and why just the head, he could be the whole family, because there was no one before or after him! He was an independent unit of the very society he wanted to transform . . . This wasn’t an extraordinary idea, but as Shekhar’s entire focus was on the individual unit and not on society, it seemed new to him. To be independent, to be whole, to no longer see oneself as a fragment, a sliver, an insignificant part of existence but as a whole—perhaps an isolated part, but complete, whose actual, visual form was a separate Big Band of a tiny existence . . . He hadn’t done anything yet, but this thought gave him confidence, comfort and a little bit of pleasure which helped him to see the illuminated path his life would take . . .
He remembered that he had read something which detailed the benefits of living on the top floor of a building. He had forgotten what the various benefits that had been enumerated were, but he could come up with his own list. Fresh air, privacy, distance from the commotion of the street, a stance of neutrality towards the people . . . In his childhood, he used to believe that people who lived on mountains were closer to God . . . Shekhar laughed to himself. Then he started to think, now that he had this elevated position in life what would he write which could be his donation . . .
Literature—the kind of literature which would catalyse the revolution . . . And revolution? Not a one-dimensional but a multifaceted revolution! A revolution that only moves in a singular direction after closing all other roads is no revolution. The only reason we cannot move forward after such upheaval is because we are trying to wash progress down artificial gutters. Restraint is necessary, but this is not restraint. It made Shekhar think of a slimy insect similar to an earthworm that had to go in another direction in order to move forward; when it goes as far as it can in one direction, only then can it move in the right direction. Several of our leaders are like this, too. Some have chosen the field of economics, others social reform, some have chosen politics and others religion, but in each instance every one of them has limited themselves in another field of their own existence at some level substantially lower than the heights of their own upheaval . . .
Is this evil perhaps an unavoidable part of organization? Every organization has a mission, and then it has an established programme, which means that in order to advance it they withdraw from other activities . . .
But can anything be accomplished without an organization?
Yes. Revolutions have an organized aspect but they also have an important individualistic aspect. Even without organization—especially without organization—an individual can sow the seeds of a multidirectional transformation . . . And perhaps this is the only thing an individual who chooses literature as his vocation can do, since he is first an individual and only second a member of an organization! It’s his special calling to plough and seed the ground for a multifaceted revolution, to water and nourish the seed of revolution . . .
The third time Shekhar went to see Shashi, there was such a glow of happiness on his face that she asked, ‘Have you written something?’
‘I haven’t written anything, but things have started to become clear after a lot of contemplation. There isn’t a lot of housework, so I spent most of the time thinking and sketching; now I’ll write.’
Rameshwar was there, too. He said, ‘So you want to be a writer? You’ve decided to quit college?’
‘That happened by itself. I can’t sit for the exams after being absent for ten months, and I don’t have the patience to start all over and take another two years. And then, it’s not like I am looking for a job that requires an MA!’
‘Getting a job isn’t a bad thing. You don’t have to be a civil servant like me but becoming a professor is a good idea. You’d be respected, the work isn’t too taxing and there are long vacations. And then you get to be around knowledge all the time—a man can spend his time reading and writing and can disseminate good ideas. It would be the best profession for you.’
Shekhar said, ‘That’s true. But I’ve developed some bad habits, and I don’t think I could ever work as someone’s subordinate.’
‘Oh, so that’s the issue. You’re an idealist.’ Shekhar couldn’t tell how much of this was sarcastic. ‘So what are you up to these days? You must be reading a lot? I—well, Shashi reads. She is constantly reading. She doesn’t care for fun and games. I am always tired from all of the work that I do, so entertainment is very necessary’ . . .
*
All of Shekhar’s attempts to write came to naught. He didn’t know why, but whenever he sat down to write, all of his ideas would disappear; sometimes it seemed to him that he was turning writing into a profession, which was draining the quality from it. But he still hadn’t written anything. It was still a ways off until his writing earned him any money, so how was it a profession? But professionalization was a matter of perspective, when literature is not an aspiration, but an accomplishment . . .
Yes, there would be an accomplishment, but what was it that was accomplished? Was his mission inadequate? Literature was for the sake of literature, it was self-satisfying, but wasn’t the accomplishment of a mission self-satisfying? A mission shouldn’t be a special influence; the only mission should be beauty, because beauty disappears in the pursuit of an influence. But why? Was it only by finding beauty in them that other objects could find the means to be composed into a mission? Could beauty even exist without the feeling of social welfare? All of a sudden, he remembered Shashi’s question, ‘Will you betray literature or your purpose?’ He wouldn’t betray either, because as long as he examined his purpose with a clear and dispassionate single-mindedness, then all he would see would be an unsullied beauty; if one didn’t have convictions, how could one’s plan be clear?
But this couldn’t be accomplished by thoughts alone. It required action. Whether he was right or wrong would only be determined by what he wrote. But he couldn’t write a thing . . . Why couldn’t he just write down his thoughts?
His room was filled with light from the afternoon sun, save for a corner of the room next to the closet that it did not reach. That’s where he sat, with his legs extended into the sun, thinking about what he would write.
The sun hadn’t moved off his feet when a boy ran up from downstairs and asked, ‘Look, is this letter for you?’ And he gave him an envelope.
Shekhar said, ‘Yes,’ and took the envelope. He examined the handwritten address with some surprise . . . It was a letter from Aunt Vidyavati. She had written that Shashi had written that he had rented a room to stay in and that he wanted to do something for the world of literature, and that she should pick out the best books from Shashi’s collection and send them to him. She had sent the books in a trunk, whose receipt was enclosed in the letter. She had also sent her best wishes now that he was out of jail. Also included was ten rupees for good luck and some sweets packed in the trunk—she hoped that he wouldn’t be upset that she had sent him the money. Many blessings, too, and if he ever got a vacation that he should come see her . . . Aunt Vidyavati.
When Shekhar finally got up a long time later, the sun had vanished. In the multicoloured light of the evening, the room felt bigger. But a spectacular glow of an affectionate joy encircled him—because he had finished writing a long poem and a short story . . .
He wanted to run to Shashi at that very instant and tell her, ‘Look, I’ve written something . . .’ But then he quickly thought, ‘If she could write to Aunt without telling me, then I can send her my poem and story in the mail without telling her.’ He made up his mind and put the handwritten pages into the empty cabinet in the room. That’s when he remembered that his own books had been left behind in the hostel. He decided that he would go to his previous roommate, collect his books and bring them here, too, and keep on studying . . .
*
After he searched and found his roommate’s new room and learned from him that his books had been taken by ‘people’ and that his collection of pictures had been stolen, Shekhar returned with the remaining stack of books—even though more than half had been lost, the ones left were more than enough. There were fewer textbooks amongst those, and all of them were books that Shekhar especially liked. It was night by that time. He just left them as they were in the room. In the morning, he cleaned out his cabinet and put some paper down on the shelves and organized the books carefully. Then he went and got the package of Shashi’s books and spent a little time arranging them, too. There were five shelves in the cabinet—the top four, which had glass cabinet doors, were now full of books; on the bottom shelf, Shekhar placed his stack of notebooks on one side and the sweets that his aunt had sent on the other side. And then he closed the cabinet doors and admired the fruits of his labour from a distance for a while.
The sight of a cabinet full of books thrilled him. How beautiful his room had become with these books in it—half of which had been collected by him one by one and the rest by Shashi! Shekhar knew that Shashi had bought the majority of these books over many years with the pocket change that she received as a monthly allowance; just as he had by setting aside some money saved (or which was saved by itself) from his monthly expenses. It seemed to him that she was looking at his room with her kind, bright and tender eyes from two of the shelves of that cabinet, and that her gaze had warmed the atmosphere of the room. Suddenly he was filled with gratitude, and a desire overcame his heart: to show his gratitude to Shashi . . . But he stopped himself from going there at this time. He decided to go in the evening when she would be done with her housework and Rameshwar would also be free (he had half the day off that day). And there was something else that was important—by that time Shashi would have received the letter that he had put in the mail last night—she would have read his story and the poem . . .
Rameshwar was sitting on a chair with his legs extended on another, smoking a cigarette. Shashi was sitting on a reed mat on the floor doing some sewing. When Shekhar arrived, she put her sewing down on her lap and looked up at him calmly and gently. Then she straightened her neck slightly and returned to her sewing. Rameshwar said loudly, ‘Come in, come in. It’s good you’ve come!’ He smiled through a cloud of smoke. ‘Tell me, what are you writing these days?’
‘Nothing. These days I can’t seem to make myself write.’ Shekhar looked over at Shashi as he said this to see if she would say something or laugh, because she would have received his poem and story earlier that day. But she continued to work on her sewing.
‘That is the best part of being a writer. Writing, writing, then not writing, months without writing. And when you don’t have to earn a living by writing, then there’s no telling. Whereas I don’t get to eat until I finish all of my wretched files. If you slack off a little, you have to take the remaining files home with you—all of my work has to be completed the same day.’
This time there was no room for doubt—the sarcasm in Rameshwar’s words was clear: that being a writer was an excellent excuse to be a loafer! Shekhar didn’t respond. He turned to Shashi and said, ‘Aunt sent me a trunk full of books.’
‘Hmm.’
‘She sent a letter, too. She sent her best wishes on getting out of jail and some things for luck.’
Shashi smiled a little. It was clear from her face that she liked what her mother had done.
Rameshwar asked, ‘What books?’
‘Shashi’s books were just sitting there. She sent those.’
Rameshwar held back his curiosity and asked, ‘Did you tell her to send them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh—All right.’ Then to Shekhar, ‘Do you read much? Of course, how else would you pass the time? They must be fine books—your sister has a very refined taste.’3
And then a glimpse of the same unclear thing—was something hiding under that claim? But the words were spoken in a straightforward way.
Shekhar said, ‘I had left many of my books behind, too. I went and got those as well. I think that I am going to study regularly again.’
‘Definitely, definitely.’
Someone knocked on the door downstairs. A voice called at the same time, ‘It’s the postman, sir!’
Shekhar was the closest to the stairs. Before Rameshwar could get up, Shekhar went and grabbed the mail from the postman. Shekhar was suddenly stunned. There were two letters—one was the one he had sent!
Shekhar was temporarily thrown into a dilemma. He gave both letters to Rameshwar and quickly said, ‘All right, I must take your leave. I have some things to take care of—’
Rameshwar was about to look at the letters, but he stopped and said, ‘So soon? Please sit, you can go after you have had some tea—’
‘No, thank you. I’ll come some other time—’ Shekhar said and left. He could hear behind him, ‘Here, this letter is for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes, who is it from?’ It was said in that same tone of repressed accusation, as if wanting to appear as if it wasn’t expression of authority but mere curiosity.
‘The handwriting seems to be Shekhar’s—’
Shashi’s gentle surprise—
Shekhar laughed to himself as he descended the stairs. When Shashi sees what’s in the letter, she’ll be astounded . . .
*
When he got back home, Shekhar started going through his old notebooks. He began to open the bundle of papers from the days when he used to visit Manika’s place and started to read. Today, he was pleased, as if the disorganized thoughts that had once occupied his mind were being strung together in a chain . . . It was unclear, but he could see, in a form that was gradually gathering clarity, that all the things that he had seen and thought in the last two or two and a half years contained in essence the developed conclusions that would be the foundation of his ideas about his society; and on the basis of these conclusions, he could raise an accusation against the current condition of society and could demand that society be transformed . . . He could see the scattered argument in that bundle of papers which could be organized into a book, the ‘grammar’ of the reconstruction that Shekhar had imagined . . . He had also decided on a name for the book—‘Our Society’ . . . Because only by calling it ‘society’ could the theoretical ideas of society be brought out; if one used ‘traditional’ or other such adjectives, then it wouldn’t be clear that the subject of the book was contemporary society . . .
No, writing wasn’t his profession; it was his accomplishment, because he had something to say and because he had a burning desire—a desire, and an ability, too . . .
After five or six days of writing, when the shape of the book had become clearer and the first few parts were in their final form, Shekhar realized suddenly that he had gone that day to show Shashi his gratitude! He hadn’t done that, nor had he learned what she thought of his poem and story! And the real issue was that he wanted to bring her here to show her his crooked room and how beautiful and overflowing his cabinet full of books (and full of notebooks!) looked—because that would be the best way he could display his gratitude. Otherwise, he would have to open his mouth wide to say, ‘Shashi, I am grateful for the books that you’ve sent,’ and she would half-close her eyes and raise her eyebrows to respond, ‘Is this even something worth mentioning?’ No, he couldn’t stand formality.
He took the outlined pages of his incomplete novel and went to Shashi’s in order to invite Shashi and Rameshwar over. After he had come to this decision, he hesitated for a moment about what he would be able to offer Rameshwar when he came, and then he remembered that the money his aunt had sent was still in the cabinet. It didn’t matter that he had already finished the sweets; he would get a tea set, a stove, some coal and the like, which could be of use to him afterwards, too—because the cold weather had already begun as well . . .
Rameshwar wasn’t at home. Seeing the bundle of papers in Shekhar’s arms, Shashi asked, ‘What have you brought?’
Excited, Shekhar said, ‘It’s the outline of my book. Do you want to see?’
‘Yes, give it to me . . .’
Shashi didn’t mention the poem or the story. Did she not like them? Then she should have said so. Why should she keep quiet? Proudly he said, ‘Why should I show you? Are you even interested?’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t read my story or my poem—’
Shashi’s face suddenly went serious. She calmly asked, ‘Why did you send them by mail?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you had written to my aunt? I thought it would be a surprise—’ Suddenly Shekhar realized that Shashi’s face wasn’t serious, it was grave; her voice wasn’t calm, it was lifeless. He asked nervously, ‘Why Shashi? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Why surprise me—you could have showed me yourself—’
‘No, Shashi, there is something—tell me now!’ Shekhar said with a terrified urgency.
‘Nothing. After you left, he asked, “Who’s it from?” I told him. He was taken aback and said, “He was just here, why a letter?” I told him that it was a story and a poem. He said, “Good, then let me read it, too.” I gave them both to him, but I could tell by the way he was flipping the pages that he had no real interest in poetry or fiction. Then he said, “Well, I don’t know anything about poetry-shmoetry; only artists understand such things” and then returned the pages. After a long time he said, “So why did he have to run away so quickly?” At first, I didn’t understand what he was talking about, then I remembered. I didn’t feel like saying anything to him about it.’
Shekhar sat down in silence. After a very long time he said, ‘Should I explain it to him?’
‘No, that will make things worse. Let it go, it’s done. What are you writing now?’
Shekhar quietly accepted this obvious attempt at changing topics. He said, ‘I am taking things that I had written earlier and reorganizing them into an essay—a critique of our society.’ But his voice no longer possessed its previous excitement.
‘Our society! How much have you written? And what have you titled it?’
‘Exactly that—“Our Society!” I will finish it very soon.’ Just then, Rameshwar arrived.
‘It’s been several days since your last visit.’
‘Yes, I’ve been working on something.’
‘What have you brought with you? Have you written something else? Your poem and story were beautiful. I read them on Shashi’s insistence. But this time I won’t need a recommendation before I read it—you are a beautiful writer.’
Internally, Shekhar praised this man whose lips could produce words perfectly by themselves, whether he believed in them or not. He was the one who couldn’t say anything.
‘Come, let me have a look—’
Shekhar wanted to say it now. This unfinished manuscript felt like such a part of his own personality that he didn’t want to show it to Rameshwar . . . But he stopped himself from saying so. If he had, Rameshwar would have thought it meant something else entirely. Forcefully repressing his antipathy he handed the notebook over to Rameshwar.
When Rameshwar began absent-mindedly fingering its pages, and when Shekhar began to think that the fingers were not merely moving absent-mindedly but also critically, he felt humiliated. He stood up to leave. When Rameshwar asked him to sit, he said, ‘Truth is, I hate sitting while watching someone read my work’—and to himself he thought that this would serve as the absent explanation for the other day, too.
Rameshwar looked at Shashi and said, ‘Well, how can you hate it? It’s going to be printed, right?’ And then suddenly, ‘Or if you want, you could send this by mail, too—’ He guffawed loudly. ‘But it would be expensive to send such a thick notebook by mail—’
How could one deliver an invitation in this situation? Somehow, he got up and left.
*
Shekhar didn’t leave his house for the next four or five days. He also had no desire to write anything; he would blankly sit in front of the window and sometimes, if it was too cold, close it and pace in his room. A few times, he tried to read, but his distracted eyes would sometimes register nothing, and then he would shake himself and think, ‘If you wanted to waste time, then why the self-deception?’ Sometimes in the mornings he would lie in bed and read a few verses of poetry and hope that they would colour the rest of his day with their influence.
About a week later, one evening, Shashi showed up. At first, she knocked on the door nervously, but when she saw it was Shekhar and was reassured that she hadn’t made a mistake, her face lit up. ‘I finally found your place! None of the people downstairs even know your name!’
Delighted, Shekhar said, ‘Why didn’t you ask them where the hermit lives? All of them are very curious about what I do in my room all day.’
‘So why don’t you go outside?’
Shekhar gave her a long look.
Shashi lifted the corner of his bedding and sat down on the cot and said, ‘I’ve brought your book. I read all of it—as much as you gave me—and I’ve come to tell you that you have to finish it quickly.’
‘I haven’t been able to write anything else.’
‘Why? What did you do all this time?’
‘Nothing. My heart wasn’t in it. I’ve been wondering whether my writing will make any difference!’
With a concerned intensity, she said, ‘Hmm.’
‘Yes, of course. If I finish writing it, it won’t get printed. If it gets printed, people will make fun of me. I could even be content with being made a fool—but for what?’
‘Shekhar, isn’t there any satisfaction in bearing a little strife for one’s ideals? I consider it to be a great consolation. Otherwise I wouldn’t have—’
‘There is. But—I don’t know what. Sometimes I think that an ideal that takes the form of a revolution in name only isn’t enough. It has ideals, but perhaps ideals aren’t enough for satisfaction; perhaps one needs the exemplar of the ideal.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, that’s what I think.’
‘So you want to find an exemplar of your ideals so that your efforts towards it will bring you satisfaction?’
Shekhar thought about it and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ Shashi mocked him and said, ‘You say it like a child—“Yes.”’ And then she paused. ‘What kind of exemplar, a certain object or a certain—person?’
Shekhar did not seem to be paying attention. Till then, he had been leaning on the windowsill; now he started looking outside.
Shashi stood up. She faced the opposite direction from Shekhar and said, ‘Shekhar, can you write something for me?’
With a start, Shekhar said, ‘What?’
‘I asked, can you write something for me? I didn’t think that I would have to say it myself, but there’s no harm in saying it.’
Shekhar went and stood next to Shashi. After a moment of indecision, he grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around. Shashi’s eyes were on his chin. She didn’t look up. He removed his hands from her shoulders and then returned to his spot and said, ‘No, Shashi, I am unlucky. Everything I touch turns to rubbish. Nothing I write will be worthy enough to—’
Shashi spoke again, ‘I asked you, can you write for me? And listen, the better you write, the greater will be the rejection from everyone else. But you will find peace inside yourself. It will sound terrible if I say it, but your exemplar could be composed of not just that peace but also that rejection.’
‘Shashi!’
Shashi looked up and took in her fill of him. This time Shekhar lowered his eyes—he could not hold the gaze of that proud anguish.
Shashi said, ‘Well, show me what you’ve written beyond this.’
Shashi’s words changed the mood. Shekhar said, ‘What did I write? I have some notes that you can see if you like.’ He took some papers out of the cabinet and gave them to her.
‘And what are all those bundles?’
‘Random things, things I wrote while I was in college—’
‘I want to read those, too. From now on, you will have to give me every little piece of writing, understand?’
Shashi began to read the pages that Shekhar gave her. He asked, ‘Doesn’t the room look better with these books in it?’
Shashi smiled as she read.
‘Have you read all these books?’
Without lifting her head, Shashi said, ‘Hmm—wait. Let me finish reading these.’
Shekhar went back to stand next to the window. As he looked outside, he began to feel grateful for Shashi in his heart—she who came here without being asked and fulfilled his unspoken desire . . .
‘Yes, so when are you going to finish this?’ Shashi had finished reading all the pages.
‘We’ll see.’
‘No seeing, you have to finish!’ Shashi laughed. Then turning serious, she said, ‘You haven’t invited him here yet.’
Guiltily, Shekhar said, ‘I had come to invite him last time.’
Shashi put the pages in the cabinet and said, ‘All right, I’m going now. When you come next time, be sure to invite him.’ And then spying the ten rupees in the cabinet, ‘Where did these come from?’
‘A gift for luck.’
‘They’re still here? Couldn’t you use them?’
‘They are most useful when they are lying right there.’ Shekhar started laughing.
‘What do you eat?’
‘Why? I order food from the restaurant. Is that funny?’
‘Food from the restaurant!’ Shashi said in disbelief. Then composing herself, she asked, ‘Can I hear the name of the restaurant?’
Shekhar bristled, rolled his eyes and, deliberately pronouncing every letter, said, ‘Chintpurni Devi Consecrated and Pure Restaurant—the name is enough to fill your belly.’ And he started laughing.
Shashi furrowed her brows in fake anger, ‘Don’t laugh like that with me! All right, I’m going.’
She began to descend the stairs. ‘Wait, I’ll see you off,’ he said and ran downstairs after her.
*
Shashi and Rameshwar had been to Shekhar’s a few times already. The cabinet placed in the closet next to the sitting room now contained a tea set, some pots, utensils, a few tins, a bottle of honey, a packet of biscuits and another of matches—all of these things had been purchased. In exchange, the gifted ten rupees in the other cabinet had disappeared. Shekhar hadn’t written anything special; if the papers in his cabinet had grown, it was because of a few letters—a couple from his aunt, one from Gaura and one from his father. Shekhar’s father was partly angry at his son’s idleness and partly secretly proud of his having been to jail; and along with that, was the news that his mother was very sick and he should come immediately to see her; that his younger brother Ravidutt was going to be taking his BA exams this year; and that Sadashiv had written from Madras that he would be a doctor next year and that he had asked where Shekhar was and what he was doing. He had heard the news that Shekhar had been to jail.
It had been a month since Shekhar had moved into his home. It suddenly occurred to him that he would have to pay rent next month and also pay the restaurant bill—and he didn’t have anything! The rent could be paid late because it was hardly necessary to pay it on time every month, but it had been a month since he had received the restaurant bill, and being late with that bill meant not getting anything to eat . . .
He was a little worried. Then he thought, ‘The book is almost ready. I can get a little something for it from some publisher.’ It was fine if it wasn’t a lot, a little would work for now, but altogether his monthly expenses were twenty-five rupees, so the book would be able to earn him enough for a year . . . He didn’t know how much publishers offered for a book . . . But he didn’t think that 300 rupees was excessive for one book.
‘Our Society’ . . . Is for sale—our society is for sale for 300 rupees—any takers? Shekhar laughed to himself—our society doesn’t sell for cheap; it goes for 300 rupees!
Shekhar decided to inquire with a few of the best publishers in the city. He worked continuously for four days and finished his manuscript and then wrapped it in a large handkerchief and went to see the managing editor of Vani Niketan Publishers. When he finished explaining his project to the manager after placing the manuscript in front of him, the manager looked carefully at Shekhar from head to toe instead of at the manuscript. After a little while he said, ‘Sir, we only publish things from established writers here. As you know, we are the best publishers in town, and we would like to keep our reputation. How can we take responsibility for publishing an entirely new and unknown writer?’
Shekhar insisted, ‘But you should evaluate the thing, too. Is fame the only criteria you use? Even the most famous writers were unknowns at some point.’
‘Of course. But at that point, their books weren’t being published with us. We only took them once the importance of their work had been established. That’s when we offered them much better terms compared to other publishers. The ones whose books didn’t sell, we don’t take.’
‘But that’s like stealing food from someone else’s mouth—’
‘You can think that way if you like. But it’s the mark of intelligence to learn from the mistakes of others. We don’t print things by people who are or could be unsuccessful.’
The managing editor of Saraswati Kunj Publishers sent Shekhar to his literary editor. After Shekhar found his address in a lane in the city and arrived there, the editor looked at the title and said, ‘Is it a novel?’
‘No. It’s a collection of critical essays. I created a picture of contemporary society and tried to demonstrate that—’
‘Oh, so you tried to demonstrate something? But, Sir, first of all, no one reads essays. Moreover, definitely not essays that are just critique and more critique. Why don’t you write literary essays?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are hundreds of topics—like . . . like . . . “the images of women in Chayyavad [Shadowist] poetry”, “the depiction of women by female poets” or “sexism amongst Sanskrit and Hindi poets”. These are also modern topics—it’s the age of comparative studies these days.’
Shekhar asked, ‘Does anyone read such essays?’
‘Well, not by themselves, but they can be published in literature textbooks. So it’s publishable.’
Shekhar was quiet for a while. Then the editor said, ‘You probably didn’t like my advice much; I only said it for your benefit—’
Dejectedly, Shekhar replied, ‘No, I’m grateful for your recommendations. But I’m only interested in society and social issues—’
‘All right, then pick a topic that fits that—“is the beloved of the mystical poet masculine or feminine?” There is a popular opinion these days that the mystical poets displayed their love only for embodied beings—It’s already accepted about Farsi poetry that the wine-bearer or the beloved is not imaginary, but the new opinion is that the wine-bearer and the beloved are neither masculine nor feminine, but neuter. This study will also give you a good opportunity to investigate medieval society. I really believe that it is the prime moment for this topic.’
Shekhar was silenced. After a little while, he said, ‘So you don’t think this book is publishable?’
‘No, no, I didn’t say that. Everything is publishable. But only the things that will sell get published; otherwise who will take on the risk? But I’ve always advised the people at Saraswati Kunj to promote innovative new writers—even if that is a little risky. Otherwise how can there be a new literature? And they even listen to me.’
Shekhar felt a flutter of hope. He said, ‘So will you read this and tell me? I am hoping that quickly—’
‘You should talk to the managing editor. I will advise him to publish your book at your expense, and as quickly as possible. New writers should get opportunities—it’s a publisher’s duty.’
Shekhar was disappointed again. He slowly wrapped his bundle, said goodbye and left.
Shekhar made the rounds of second-tiered publishers, too, and then went to a bookseller and got a complete directory of publishers and began to look at the remaining ones from top to bottom.
Another week passed. Ultimately, the managing editor of New Age Books decided to publish his book on the condition that Shekhar would bear the costs of the printing and the paper. He would not have to pay anything up front, rather the publisher would print and sell the books and use the proceeds to cover their investment first, and then he would get a fourth of the profits from the books sold after that. After ten days of frustrated wandering, Shekhar didn’t have the patience to sit and do the accounting of what he would get and when; he thought that the manager was doing him a great favour by not asking for payment . . . He had also forgotten that he had set out to sell the book so that he could pay his bill—and the demand for immediate payment had already arrived.
That day Shekhar didn’t leave with his bundle. He didn’t believe that he would need it! He promised the managing editor that he would be back in three days—he left a delay of two days so that the publisher wouldn’t think that he was overeager!—and went back home.
When he got home, he lay down on the bed, exhausted and sad. He had a fleeting notion that he would go and tell Shashi about all this, but he couldn’t make himself do it. And what was there to tell? He stared unblinkingly at the ceiling; he suddenly felt that it was exactly the same for all these days and the realization depressed him. He turned to face the window.
Who knew when the book would be printed, or how it would be reviewed? . . . Would anything come of it? When? How much would it cost? The paper probably cost 200 rupees. Another 100 or 150 on top. And if the book sold for one rupee, then . . . Shekhar gave up doing the math. ‘Our Society’—cost: one rupee. And I get a fourth of the profits after covering the costs! . . . A cold, dry line of a smile spread across Shekhar’s face—who knows when he fell asleep.
It was pitch-black when he woke up. It was past midnight, and the square in Gawalmandi was perfectly quiet. Shekhar was shivering from the December cold . . . He was also hungry. Since the start of the month, he had resolved to eat only one meal a day from the restaurant. He had told the restaurant staff that he would make his own dinner from now on . . . One day he purchased rice, lentils and flour and made a rice and lentil porridge and ate it.
Should he make dinner now? He wasn’t that hungry. No, he was hungry, but it wasn’t right to let hunger have so much control over him. He straightened his bed and wrapped himself in his blanket and tried to sleep. He was shivering so hard that he couldn’t get warm. So he got up and began quickly pacing in his room to warm himself up.
Suddenly, his feelings of total failure in all of his efforts, which he had repressed after last talking with Shashi, welled up inside him. The failure not only of his efforts but also of all efforts . . . What was to be gained by setting foot in the bubbling swamp of life after all—? No matter how you entered, you would sink into it . . . I will write a book—a book, ha! As if no one had written a book until now. As if no one had tried to reform society until now. As if—
Shekhar began walking even faster. Was there no release from this deadly circle of cause and effect? Couldn’t one escape it?
A thought rose like a bubble from the chasm of his emotional torment—he hadn’t ever believed in something so deeply that he was willing to sacrifice himself completely for it—not even for a moment had Shekhar been able to erase from his mind the idea that he was Shekhar. Was it only a matter of time? Was it really not his fault? Hadn’t he been hoarding himself like a miser, even though he dreamed of turning the world upside down so that he could converse with it! Forget about everyone else, but so many women had come into his life, and he had been unable to get very close to any of them. He had kept himself from living! Manika’s way of life was much better than his—she had the audacity to throw life around like dust! ‘My life’s candle burns at both ends! It won’t burn all night long, but my friends and my enemies, how beautiful is its light!’ Did he have the ability to illuminate the heavens with that kind of light? Manika hadn’t chosen the right path, but she had the real substance in her that the gods hide away from humans . . .
He remembered a saying he had read in a book that Manika had given him—‘What is abstinence? It is the miscarriage of the strongest lust!’ Then he remembered a story about a Pathan—he couldn’t remember where he had heard it, perhaps it was in jail—a moulvi was explaining to a Pathan why he should be celibate (abstinent),4 but the Pathan didn’t understand that word. The moulvi began to explain that a celibate man kept his eyes down, didn’t chase after women or go with women. Suddenly the Pathan interrupted to say, ‘Oh, now I understand—in our language we call him a eunuch.’
Shekhar stopped. He felt that there was certainly something wrong with the direction that his thoughts were streaming. As with all thoughts, this one had some partial truth in it, but it wasn’t the whole truth. Absolutely not. Because when had his circumstances ever handed him any advantages, what big opportunity had he ever let slip through his fingers? Even if no extraordinary obstacle had ever fallen in his path, still some . . . The life of others, too, was a mixture of advantages and obstacles . . .
Was it only that he was hungry right now? Were all rebellions here clouds of unsatisfied desires? Would these desires keep building until there was an explosion and then nothing?
Then all of this—is hysteria!5
He could tell that his energies were being directed internally and would gradually destroy him unless there was a radical revolution which turned them outwards, externally . . . And it needed to happen, because only an extroverted force could produce a revolution, not an introverted one. Even if his introversion made him into a special kind of poet, it would completely obliterate everything that he wanted to accomplish . . .
Shekhar sat down on his bed and wrapped himself in his blanket. In a vague way, he wanted not merely to write but to do some other work that might bring him into contact with other people, but what kind and how, he couldn’t figure out. He lay down after having resolved to ask Shashi for her advice.
With the first light of day Shekhar got a telegram stating that his mother had passed away.
Shekhar had got up with a strange feeling of exhaustion. Even after he read the telegram, the feeling didn’t dissipate; he couldn’t make sense of what he had just read. He put the telegram down and picked up his toothbrush and towel and went to the faucet to clean himself up. Then he came back inside and went and took some papers from the cabinet. Suddenly the four words of the telegram flashed in his brain like lightning—Mother has passed away!
A strange feeling of anguish came over him, which was different from sorrow. He didn’t feel sorrow, and he felt a little ashamed at himself because of that . . . But he wanted to cry just once—to cry simply like an ordinary man who had lost his mother! But his eyes were drying out, with a burning sensation.
Shekhar stared blankly at the papers and sat there for a long time. Slowly, many memories of his childhood passed before him—but there was not a single element of emotion in those memories, as if his emotional capacity had degenerated and only his vision was working. After a while he realized that these images had finished spinning around and were finally focusing on a single point—Shekhar was eating dinner, and from the adjoining room Mother’s voice says, ‘I don’t have any faith in this one.’ But there was no residue of that terrible anger which had been previously tied to that image . . . Why? Had he forgiven his mother? He didn’t recall ever having come to that decision deliberately. Perhaps he had unconsciously realized that it was stupid to hoard his anger, or perhaps he had just now decided that it was a sin to think ill of the dead. He had tried to imagine a picture of his mother’s face before, but he was usually unsuccessful. But today he could see it clearly—it wasn’t a beautiful face, but there weren’t those lines across her face that he usually saw, even though he knew that they weren’t always there—the face was peaceful, and there was nothing in it that would contradict its relationship to motherhood . . . All mothers have their own faces, but motherhood has its own special countenance—or rather, it should have . . .
But why couldn’t Shekhar cry?
His mind went completely blank asking himself this question. After a while, he got up all of a sudden so that if nothing else he would at least do his daily chores. He cleaned his room, washed and put away his dishes, fixed his bed. And then he took one look at the bare walls of his room. Had there been a picture on any of his walls—he hated hanging photographs—but at that moment if he had a photograph of his mother, he might have hung it on the wall and tried to know that face anew, that face which had become so unfamiliar . . .
For no reason, he thought of Shanti—wearing that expression of hers and looking like a picture by Rossetti—‘The Glory of Death’6 . . . Was death always glorious . . . ? Now Mother is no more—
He remembered, too, the poem that Shanti had recited to him, but it didn’t hold any meaning for him right now, and so his mind went to a different poem by Tennyson:
The sounds of the twilight and evening bells
And a clear call to me;
Let there be no sadness of farewell then,
When I lift my anchor and set out for the open sea7
. . . They say that this was Tennyson’s last poem, written when he was eighty-two . . .
For no apparent reason, Shekhar went out to the bank of the Ravi River that afternoon. He had never seen a crematorium, and he knew that if he didn’t see the final rites of a body he would never understand the reality of death.
A few bodies were burning in the cremation grounds. They had been burning for a while. The bodies inside the pyres were unrecognizable and no one else was there. Shekhar was alone if one didn’t count a few dogs . . .
But glorious? Shekhar thought the scene was closer to ridiculous—what a vulgar end! He believed that fire could give anything a nobility and a majesty, but there was none of that here. Rather, from the surroundings here, fire itself had become cheapened. Bitterly, Shekhar wondered if perhaps people alleviated their grief by joining the fate of their ancestors to this cheap place . . .
It was evening by the time he got back. Inside, he realized the oil had run out in his lamp. It was for just such an event that he had purchased a few candles; he lit two of them at the same time, placed them on the shelf and sat on his cot.
All of a sudden, the light from the candles flickered, and then after a teer-teer-teer sound they came back to light. Shekhar saw the moth, bigger than a butterfly, which had often circled the lamp, now burned after having clashed with the flame of the candle.
Suddenly, an image of life as mere existence flashed before him; existence, which is a mere event . . . Had the lamp been lit today, the moth would have still been circling it—but because of an event, of the lack of oil—‘teer-teer-teer’—and—nirvana!
The news from that morning’s telegram flashed before his eyes. Mother is no more!
Shekhar got up and kneeled in front of the shelf as if in a pose of prayer and, placing his forehead against the shelf, began to cry, first dry-eyed, and then with a sobbing that shook his entire frame and then slowly with tears . . .
He still hadn’t stopped crying when suddenly from behind him, Shashi’s pain-filled voice said, ‘Shekhar?’ He lifted his head with a start. Shashi said, softly, ‘So you’ve heard the news.’ He nodded. Then he wiped his eyes with his fingers and stood up. Shashi went over and placed her hands on his shoulders and gently manoeuvred him to his cot. She still didn’t move; she gently caressed his shoulders with one hand, in a soft, comforting touch.
Shekhar thought that if she kept on, his embarrassment from crying would dissipate and he would burst into tears again. He said, ‘I want to be alone for a while—’
‘Then I’ll leave you alone—’
‘No, you should sit. I’ll be back.’ And without giving Shashi a chance to say anything, he went out.
Shekhar came back after about an hour. Shashi was sitting worried on the edge of his cot. When he arrived, she said, ‘Now I should go—it’s late. I just got word this evening, so I came right over to see you. Take care, my brother! I’ll come back tomorrow.’
Shashi left but Shekhar kept looking at the stairs for a while . . . Then he noticed that there was a light coming from the smaller closet. He took a candle from the room and went over to look. He was surprised to see a covered plate had been left there.
In Shekhar’s absence, Shashi had made some gram flour cakes and put out some pickle and honey next to it—what else was there in his house!
Shekhar didn’t want to eat. But when he looked at the plate, he felt he wasn’t free to make up his own mind in the matter.
*
Shashi came back once more, and two days later, she came again with Rameshwar. Christmas vacation was starting that day, and Shashi and Rameshwar were leaving town. Without prodding, Rameshwar offered, ‘I keep saying to her that she should stay here, but she won’t hear of it. I thought that if she stayed here, it might help you feel better—being alone in a time of sadness makes it worse.’
Shekhar said, ‘No, it’s not a problem. I’m only used to living alone.’
As they were leaving, Shashi said, ‘If you had gone home once it would have been good. You should go and see your father.’
Ambivalently, Shekhar remained quiet.
A week later, he received word from his father that he was coming. His father planned to go to Haridwar, and pass through Lahore on his way back home. He was there four days later. Shekhar went to get him at the train station. Seeing the deep lines of exhaustion, sadness and hurt on his father’s face, Shekhar was stunned. He had never before imagined that that mature, unselfconscious face could ever look aged, but now his face and eyes were clearly afflicted with the kind of fatigue that gradually manifests after passing several milestones on the difficult road of life.
Before he had followed him up to his room, his father asked once at the stairs, ‘What kind of neighbourhood have you chosen to live in?’ He had the luggage on one side and then saw the tonga-wallah off. Then his father asked him, ‘Is this where you live?’
The question was unnecessary, but it was said to make clear the note of disbelief it contained. Shekhar said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are there any servants?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What do you do for food?’
‘Once a day I get a meal from the restaurant.’
‘And the other times?’
Shekhar was silent.
His father said while thinking it over, ‘You probably make something tip-top8 yourself.’
The question made room for the possibility that there need not be an answer. Shekhar didn’t want to lie, but he also didn’t want to tell the truth.
‘And the cleaning—the dishes?’
‘It’s a small room. It doesn’t take long to clean up.’
After a period of silence, his father spoke again, ‘Aren’t you embarrassed living like this?’ His voice wasn’t full of anger as much as wounded pride.
Shekhar kept his mouth shut.
His father began pacing in the room. Shekhar began running around to make the necessary arrangements—he took things out from the closet, borrowed a bucket from a neighbour and placed it in the room after filling it with water, placed his father’s attaché case on the shelf and hung his dhoti and towel from the window. His father hectored only once, ‘Leave it be. I’ll do it myself.’ But when Shekhar kept doing what he was doing, his father watched silently.
When his father was leaving to take a bath, Shekhar said, ‘I’ll go to the restaurant and be back—’
‘All right. And get my medicine from the store, too.’
His father told him the name of the store and gave him two ten-rupee notes. Shekhar asked him, ‘How much does it cost?’
‘That should cover it. And buy a box of biscuits, too—to have with evening tea—I don’t like plain tea very much.’
When Shekhar purchased the medicine and the bill was one rupee and some change, he suspected that there was another reason that his father had given him twenty rupees. When he went back, his father had finished bathing and was writing something in his notebook. Shekhar put the medicine down in front of him and began counting out the remaining rupees.
His father said, ‘Keep it for now—I will need more things—’ Shekhar’s suspicions were confirmed.
Dinner arrived a little bit later. Every other day, the boy would drop the food off and leave and come back later to get the dishes. But today, Shekhar stopped him to ask him to do something.
His father looked at each item on the plate carefully, ate five or six bites and then pushed the plate away.
Shekhar had never spoken of such things with his father before, and moreover he always felt it strange to hear other people talk of such things, but today partly because he felt somehow responsible and partly because he could tell that his father couldn’t terrorize him as he had before, Shekhar steeled himself and said, ‘But you didn’t eat anything—’
His father answered in an uncharacteristic fashion, ‘What’s the point of eating now?—My interest in food went with her—’ and he immediately got up. Shekhar was silent. He also pushed his plate away and gestured to the boy to bring some water so that they could wash up . . .
Nothing much happened in the next few days; occasionally something would happen to remind his father of Shekhar’s mother and the atmosphere would become heavy with sadness and dejection, but then a little while later things would go on as before. At first, Shekhar and his father didn’t chit-chat much, and when it did happen it would be one-sided; but now Shekhar was noticing a change in his father and began to feel a little more like his equal, and because of that the ratio of chit to chat in their chit-chats became more even, although it still wasn’t entirely equal; the conversations would start abruptly and suddenly break off in the middle . . .
‘How long will you live like this?’
‘. . .’
‘Aren’t you going to do anything? What will come of eating restaurant food all day? Is this any way to live?’
‘I am doing something. Actually, I’ve never worked as hard as I am—’
Full of disbelief—‘Maybe you are, but what good is hard work without a purpose? Do you think anything comes of sheer effort? Life needs a plan to make effort meaningful. The first thing that you need is to live properly—all you’ve done is spread out your wares like a gypsy!’
‘I have my plan right in front of me. It’s fine if you don’t approve of it, but all of my hard work has a purpose.’
‘What plan? You’ve given up your education. Why don’t you keep studying? At least get your MA. If you work hard, you’ll even pass with high marks—you’ll even get a scholarship.9 Or if you don’t want to study here, you can go to England.’
‘I don’t have any interest in studying. What will an MA accomplish—everyone has an MA these days, and not all of them are undeserving. I’m not anything special.’
‘Don’t get an MA if you don’t want to; pick something else to pursue. Didn’t you once talk about becoming a lawyer or an engineer? These professions can be of use in social reform work—Or if you are really bent on doing social service, you can try education. Service is not a bad thing—’
‘I have come to think that those sorts of things speak to the ideals of other people, not my own. And if your heart isn’t in something, all of your hard work goes to waste.’
‘So you must have some ideas—’
‘I’ve picked literature.’
‘Picked! What will literature accomplish? Life doesn’t run on literature! And you can do literature at the same time as other things; can’t doctors or lawyers or engineers be writers? Every writer I read in Hindi has a “Professor” in front of his name. These people must all be teachers somewhere. It’s good work, it’s also service, and there’s some stability in life, and there’s literature, too. That’s the best of everything. And—’
‘But that’s not true of all writers. The best writers have—’
‘Leave them out of it. Not everyone can be a Shelley or a Keats. And didn’t Kalidasa serve his time in court? Or are you talking about ascetics like Surdas or Tulsidas—those were special men. Not everyone can follow their example.’
‘Look, either I possess genius or I don’t. If I don’t possess it, then what makes you think that I will be any better after I pass my MA than all the other fools who have their MAs? And if I do possess it, then who knows, I could do something important in literature—’
‘Hmm, that’s spurious logic!’
The matter was closed.
A long time after that, suddenly, ‘What will you write in, Hindi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Hmm. What’s so special about Hindi? If you write in English, it may even make you famous. Even if you don’t earn a lot, a man can at least get some satisfaction from his fame. What will Hindi get you?’
‘But there should be a purpose to the writing. One doesn’t write for mere fame, does one? Only a few people will be able to read books in English—Hindi will reach millions—’ (and then suddenly remembering that even if there were millions of Hindi speakers, there were substantially fewer readers!)—‘or at a minimum thousands will be able to read it.’
‘But what class of readers? Who values Hindi in this day and age?’
With a note of pride, Shekhar said, ‘Hindi is the language of the people. The spirits of millions of people speak it.’ And then, thinking that this line of argument would please his father, he said with deliberate mischief (although it was not as though he didn’t believe in this argument at all), ‘And our caste traditions are all in Hindi—our entire past is bound to this language.’
‘It may be. But when something isn’t useful for a man’s future, what good is there in holding on to it as a symbol of his past?’
‘I can only see the future in Hindi—if we lose Hindi, then it makes no difference whether there is a future or not.’
‘Of course you can see it—you have to contradict everything I say, after all. Your mother thought about you a lot. But you turned out to be so useless that you didn’t even come to see her. Even if the parents are rotten, no one acts like that.’
Shekhar was silent.
‘She thought about you until the very end. She had decided that when you were released from jail, she would get you married. She was even looking for brides for you.’
A memory struck Shekhar like an arrow, ‘Next time, when he comes back, marry him off!’ When his older brother Ishwardutt had run off, that’s what his mother had decided to do . . . Suddenly he felt as though all of his efforts—mental and physical—had been reduced to one spot in a respectable fantasy of life which had been set from time immemorial as a solution for all such efforts—when he gets back, marry him off! As if all of his thoughts were a familiar disease—with a clear remedy—formula number such-and-such! Shekhar wanted to reply, ‘Will each brother get the same medicine?’ But instead restrainedly, he said, ‘Why me? I don’t want to get married. And besides, I have older brothers.’
‘This has nothing to do with what you want. Marriages don’t happen because the children want them to. It’s a social obligation. A boy, a girl, the parents, the caste, everyone is involved. Yes, you’re right that your older brothers should be married first. But Ishwar is already engaged, and Prabhu’s will happen soon enough. Nothing happens anyway until there is an engagement; the engagement will happen when a suitable girl is found. And—’
Shekhar could tell that this issue was coming to a close too easily. He was emphatic, ‘I don’t want to get married now, so—’
‘Why? Prabhu is still studying; it will take him two years to become an engineer. You’ve abandoned your studies. You need to live properly. You need to think about the future. Make a home, earn a living, live a stable, separate life. If you can find a wife from a respectable home, she can make do with a meagre income. After all, half of what you need for running the home will come in the dowry. And I haven’t remarried, so whatever I’ve earned, I’ve spent on you all; and then whatever else there is left, I’ll leave to you as inheritance. I don’t need any of it after I’m gone—I will give to you as my father gave to me. If I can get you married, I’ll know that I’ve fulfilled one of your mother’s unfulfilled desires. The poor woman had no happiness in her life. We’re not talking about how wives used to be in the past—wives used to do so much back then—’ His father became distracted.
Shekhar said, ‘Look, I don’t have the slightest desire to get married. And I’m not ready to—I don’t earn anything, and I don’t have a degree with any promise of earning more in the future. I could get thirty or forty from being a clerk, but I would never do that. It would be wrong to pursue a relationship in such circumstances, and foolish. And then—’ He stopped for a moment and then pleadingly said, ‘And I’ve chosen a mission10 for myself, so why would I intentionally put up roadblocks?’
‘What mission? What kind of mission?’
‘I don’t want to earn a lot of money. I want to write, but not for money. It will be only to achieve an ideal—I am vowing to change the condition of my society, of the lives of the people around me—you have to agree that a major transformation is necessary. And if you don’t, then at least you agree that the country has to be free, no?’
Partly from irritation and partly from a paternal pride, his father said, ‘Look at how much you’ve learned!’ He laughed a little. ‘Let me tell you about my life—I’ve never told you these things, but there’s no point in hiding them now. You’re all grown up now.’ His eyes seemed very distant now and he started talking in a deeper voice, ‘When I finished my studies, a few of us took similar vows. We had studied in a traditional Hindu school, so when we left we all promised each other that we would spend all of the years between then until we turned twenty-five—I was eighteen at the time—in accordance with our vow, because one was supposed to be a brahmacharya [celibate] only until twenty-five. Our only possessions would be the clothes on our backs, a pitcher and a bag with a few books in it. You’re talking about changing conditions; our plan was very straightforward. To kick the British out and to organize a Hindu nation and finally establish a pure Aryan tradition . . . For four years, we wandered around, propagandizing and begging for food. We went to such wild regions that you can’t even dream of, let alone ever go to. And’—hesitating and laughing in embarrassment—‘the poisonous things that we did against the British would make today’s terrorists squirm! But in the end’—his eyebrows and shoulders gave away the end of the sentence—‘everything was in vain.’
His father looked at Shekhar. Seeing the clear look of curiosity on his face, he started, ‘We stayed together for a year. Then we went our separate ways. Our duty was so clear before us that if we ever saw a random Englishman along the way, we would beat them up. I—’ his nostrils flared from pride—‘was pretty well built—and my face would get so red! It’s not like now. I wasn’t a gentleman.’
For a little while, his gaze turned inwards, as if he were digging up a repressed memory and bringing it back up . . . ‘But it didn’t end well. Two of my friends were picked up along with a terrorist cell and were hanged. We never learned how the third one died—we only learned later that some missionaries had become angry with him and slipped him poison. The fourth—I was the fourth. After four years of this work, I began to feel that I was doing useless work—not only because the work was exceptionally slow, but primarily because propagandizing hate can never have a good result . . . Then one day something happened which completely opened my eyes and’—and then suddenly changing the topic—‘and this was the preaching of hate. What will you do? You will also propagandize about the destruction of things that are wrong, won’t you?’
‘Not only that, but also about what we want—’
‘Yes, yes. But the nature of the resentment will compel you to focus on destruction. I’ve seen that all propaganda is the propaganda of hate; because there is power in hate, there is none in love. Just like there is in poison. When wars are fought, when jihad is conducted, it is all on a foundation of hate . . . And hate really is a poison. It kills others, and it doesn’t spare us, either. And if it is unable to kill others, it attacks us so fast that . . .’
He suddenly became quiet. Shekhar wanted to argue with him, and he even wanted to ask him about what had happened, but he was scared that if he asked him it might alter his father’s mood. Because he had never talked about his past before. In all honesty, Shekhar had never dared to imagine that his father had been such a youth. So he stood quietly. After a while, his father spoke again, ‘It will make you go mad, too.’ And then he seemed lost. And then, as if to wake himself up, ‘In three or four years, I lost all faith in my work. Then it seemed absolutely necessary for me to seek someone else’s advice. But who was there to ask! Then someone told me that there was a holy man who lived in a cave near Tehri in the Himalayas and that I could get excellent counsel from him. We had grown up with the idea that truly holy and wise men lived in the caves of the Himalayas, so I set out for there. After wandering for several months, one day, after passing through the forests, I decided to rest on a clear hill. At the foot of the hill flowed a mountain stream; its topmost part played recklessly with the stony ground as it flowed on, but the bottom part seemed to get trapped in a grassy pit where it was turning into a mire.’
His father drew a long breath and said, ‘A while later, I saw a terrible figure approach. A tall, glistening, black form, with matted locks, a lion’s mane, wearing a loincloth. He would sit down wherever the ground bubbled and dig up large clumps of mud with his hands and shape them into a mound. After he had gathered up a large amount of mud, he would pat it down for some unknown reason. I was quite a way away, and in order not to startle him, I went around the other side of the mound so that I could get closer, and I stood under the cover of a tree a little below the spot where he was sitting and watched him. What I saw left me stunned.
‘He had made a cannon out of mud. He would bend down to take aim and then light the cannon with a stick in his hand and then scream a word—“Bang!” Then the jungle echoed back a peal of laughter and echoed him . . .’
His father stopped to see what effect this was having on Shekhar. Then he said, ‘I watched, infatuated, for a long time. Then I noticed that all around that spot were several more mud cannons whose mud had dried and broken off . . . Two hours later, I got up and left.’
Now Shekhar couldn’t keep himself from asking, ‘Then?’
‘I asked around and found out that he was one of the rebel soldiers of 1857, who had run here to hide after the British began taking revenge barbarically. Ever since, this was his daily routine—he had been firing mud cannons for forty years!’
Shekhar remained quiet for a long time.
‘That event exposed the uselessness of my endeavours to me clearly. I abandoned the search for holy men and came back and registered at another ashram. This happened thirty-five years ago. I don’t think that I made a mistake.’ He stopped for a minute to think. ‘Hatred always ends the same way. It’s the only possible end it can have. Madness.’ And feeling that no objection could possibly be raised to this, he looked at Shekhar knowingly.
Dozens of objections immediately came to Shekhar’s lips. He said, ‘How can you say that? First of all, you don’t know that he went mad from hate—or that hate was the reason for his failures. The real reason that he was in the jungle firing mud cannons was that he was afraid—he was hiding and firing cannons, which is why they were made of mud. The rebellion was powerless—and powerlessness is self-reproducing—so the rebellion was a failure. If he hadn’t hidden, if he had fought and died, then would hatred still be seen as failure? Let’s say that the reason he went crazy was because of the rebellion. But how can you say that his life was less meaningful? Everyone is crazy. But his madness had an extraordinary intensity—isn’t that really all that we’ve established?’
His father was annoyed, ‘Forget about going mad, you are already crazy.’
His father said, ‘Security is very important.’
Shekhar couldn’t think of what to say in response.
‘You won’t understand its significance now. Security11 is very important in life. Even if you get a little money from writing, you won’t be able to depend on it. Income turns into wealth when it comes regularly and altogether, even if it’s not substantial. That’s why I’m telling you, set up a home, earn a living, live comfortably. A man only knows where he is standing when his life has some solidity.’
Again, Shekhar was quiet. His father said, ‘Why aren’t you saying anything?’
‘I don’t understand what I should say.’
‘What is there to understand? Is there anyone who doesn’t want to be secure in life? Why else would we have established institutions like insurance, provident funds and pensions?12 These days, people ask about whether there is a provident fund or a pension before taking a job. What do you think? Am I right or not?’
‘It’s right. But I don’t want to be secure. You’re talking about starting a home, earning an income and being secure. To me, these things sound like life’s illnesses—I’m trying to avoid these things. A comfortable life, a feeling of safety, the absence of day-to-day challenges—these are all termites that devour a life’s force. I want the opposite of these things. I want a world of endless instability and challenges so that I am always compelled to fight—to be able to tear it down with my own hands and destroy it and build it anew with my own hands.’
‘You will keep arguing for the sake of pointless argument. If you truly live like this for two days, you’ll have a nervous breakdown!13 One walks a challenging road when it comes along, but who asks for one? You like to make a show of your learning—isn’t it the course of the development of civilization that man ceaselessly advances towards a state of increasing prosperity?’
‘Civilization! This civilization is a fraud. What security, safety and prosperity all really amount to is the prolongation of man’s childhood. The more civilized someone is, the longer is his childhood. Civilization is another word for dependency. An animal’s childhood lasts a year, two years at the most. It probably lasts ten or twelve years with savages in the jungles. We’ve become so civilized that children remain children for thirty years or so, and they don’t stand on their own feet. Some people die before they escape childhood.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m twenty-one years old now. And today, you don’t think that I am ready to get my own place and live in a safe city like Lahore. It seems to me that you are saying that everything that you have taught me for the last twenty years or so is rubbish because it hasn’t prepared me for this. I think that we have become more civilized than necessary. And who knows what goes on in our joint families! Isn’t this the way that people are forced into dependency, their true personalities and internal strength laid to rest? Is the meaning of civilization supposed to be turning a deaf ear to the provocation of life, to grind out the strength to stand up and take it on? Tell me this, if the first Aryans were simply seeking comfort, would their culture have spread as far as Java, Cambay and China? Would they even be Aryans—they were only called Aryans when they went to new countries and settled there.’
Irritatedly but in admiration, his father looked at Shekhar, ‘Are these things you’ve read somewhere or are they your own ideas?’
Shekhar suddenly thought of Baba Madansingh. ‘You have to search your pain for your own aphorisms’ . . . His thoughts perhaps bore the imprint of Baba Madansingh’s ideas, but was it so deep that Shekhar was merely repeating these things like a parrot? Did the corresponding feelings to everything that he had said not course through his veins?
He became dejected and fell silent . . .
His father butted heads with Shekhar for a few more days. In between, he walked through town and met his friends a few times, and a few of them even came there to visit. Three days later, Rameshwar came with Shashi for a visit—they had just come back to Lahore that day. When his father’s heart melted from all of the words of sympathy and he began to think about Shekhar’s mother, Shekhar quietly got up and left the room. He knew that in his absence Shashi would be able to offer him comforting words more naturally, something that he was completely incapable of doing—he didn’t know if he could console anyone else or not, but he got tongue-tied when he tried to do it with his father.
That night, Shekhar woke suddenly with a start. He hadn’t been dreaming. He didn’t understand why he had woken up so fearfully. His fear and unbearable restlessness were extremely discernible. He turned to look at his father and was startled again—he was awake, too, and sitting up. Suddenly a strange sound emerged from his father’s constricted throat which was neither a moan nor a shriek—and Shekhar realized that it was this sound which had woken him up in confusion . . . He trembled slightly. Perhaps his father had figured out that he was awake, so he got up quickly, put on his shoes and went outside into the courtyard.
Shekhar had never seen his father cry—and crying so desperately . . . He felt a deep pain somewhere inside, and a wordless sympathy overtook him. He didn’t know that his father could feel so much pain; nor had he imagined that no matter who, when or where, everyone pays the price for the daily toughness and meanness in private—that a father who was a tough disciplinarian with his children could also display a natural, human tenderness sometimes . . .
Outside in the courtyard he heard the hesitating sounds of someone sobbing and then the sound of someone clearing his nose . . . Then the sound of slippers told him that his father had come back inside; he quickly covered his face and lay down. He tried to breathe more regularly to hide the rapidity of his heartbeat . . .
A little while later, his father came and sat on the cot, drew a long but broken sigh and gently lay down.
Shekhar stayed up for a long time wondering if his father had gone to sleep or not. Eventually he fell asleep himself.
The next day, his father had to head back. After washing up in the morning and getting his things together, at teatime, he drily asked, ‘So what have you decided to do?’
Because the memory of last night was still fresh in his mind, Shekhar didn’t want to let anything slip that might upset his father. He made his voice appropriately submissive, ‘Just what I’ve already told you. I’ve already sent a book off to be printed.’ This entire time, Shekhar still hadn’t gone to deliver his manuscript.
‘Really? What is the book about?’
‘It’s titled “Our Society”. In it—’
‘So you’re bent on raising cudgels against society. Do whatever you want, son. It’s not as though you are going to listen to reason.’ And then he relaxed a little, ‘I didn’t listen either. There’s something about the blood of youth. No one listens until they’ve actually been pushed around.’
Shekhar thought to himself—‘That’s how it should be.’ But he didn’t say anything out loud.
Just then, Shashi showed up. His father looked at her and said—‘Why don’t you make him understand? I’ve heard that he really listens to you.’
Shekhar asked, ‘Who told you that?’
‘Someone or another. Why? Did I get it wrong?’
Shashi said—‘He’s never listened to me—he just scolds me all the time.’
‘Who is he to be scolding you? Why do you pay that any attention?’
Shekhar was close to laughing at Shashi’s false accusation. He got up and went to the closet on the pretence of getting something and went past it and into the courtyard; he paced back and forth there for a long time. He was a little dismayed that no one had come looking for him. It was a mystery how Shashi talked to his father without any hesitation—and he, too, spoke to her adoringly without any trace of authority. The two of them could have an uninterrupted, natural conversation, but Shekhar and his father would start arguing in the middle, or there would be long, tense silences.
Suddenly Shekhar remembered that he still had his father’s money and hadn’t returned the change. He went back inside just as his father was calling him, ‘Shekhar!’
Shekhar took the notes and coins from his pocket, held them out for his father and said, ‘This is the rest of it; I’ve written down the expenses on a piece of paper.’
In a mild reproach, his father said, ‘All right, all right, just keep it. Big shot here trying to settle accounts with me!’
Shekhar was in a momentary dilemma. Then noticing that Shashi was giving him a sign to drop the subject immediately, he put the money back in his pocket.
The tonga arrived later. Shashi bowed respectfully and said goodbye. Shekhar went with his father to the railway station.
*