Cloudy and cold, but the day’s breath is beautiful—beautiful and tender, freshly bathed . . . Had he been a singer, he would have drawn the soul of the day with the paintbrush of his voice—had he been a painter, he would have painted it; had he been a sculptor, he would have caught its breath in crystalline shape and chiselled it—not immortal, it was already immortal, but he would have drawn its form into a physical halo . . . Because joy has a definite shape that can be felt by the intellect’s fingers—and since there isn’t a given, physical form, the artist gains an interpretive freedom—imagery and desire become handmaidens to that form—
Shekhar would write. If it was possible, he would write poetry, but he would definitely write something, because he could never remember his mind being as clear as it was today, and who knew if this wave of life, which he had found after waiting for ages, would ever crest again . . .
Was there nothing that was beyond writing, that was so vast, so deep, that could not be contained because it was itself the container?
There was. But no one dared to try and capture it. The shade of the saptaparni covers me, everything else is gone, but I can take in the rustling in her breath and melt into it. I can even hum the melody . . .
Creation is first and foremost an act of appreciation . . .
Shekhar began to write.
*
Nine, ten, eleven, eleven-thirty—
In jail, Shekhar learned to tell a person’s mood from the sound of their footsteps, which is why he was startled by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Such aversion, such weariness in dragging one’s self through the snares of the muck and weeds of life! Who was this poor soul on this unsullied day, who—
But the weak feet stopped at the threshold, and there, with one arm and one elbow leaning on the door frame and the shoulder leaning on the hand, with a pallid complexion and cloudy, glassy eyes that stared out into nothing, was Shashi.
He stumbled to his feet and said, ‘Hey, what are you doing here—’ and then when he saw Shashi’s face he rushed to help her.
‘I’m here, that’s all—I won’t be going back there—no, don’t touch me, I’ll be gone soon enough—’
‘Hey, what are you saying, Shashi—’
‘He’s kicked me out of the house.’
‘What—why?’ He was stunned, ‘Come inside, Shashi. Let’s sit and talk—’
‘No, Shekhar; I’ve been abandoned by my husband, I’m a fallen woman, I’m not fit to be anywhere. Don’t ask me to come inside—’
When he saw Shashi bending down to sit by the threshold, Shekhar, wounded, started to say, ‘Shashi—’ but then he suddenly realized that she wasn’t sitting down intentionally, but that Shashi was sitting down because she couldn’t stand any longer. He rushed to grab her by the arm to support her and then led her inside.
‘Yes, I was saying. Think it over, Shekhar. There’s still time. There is no reason for you to invite me or let me come inside. I haven’t come to stay for long—I can’t bear the thought of causing someone else trouble—and you—definitely—never . . .’ Her voice broke, and in a voice full of strain, ‘And what you have given me—’
Shekhar closed her mouth with his other hand and led her to the cot; he made her sit and then gently tried to get her to lie down—
Suppressing a groan, Shashi said, ‘No, let me sit—’
Shekhar moved aside slightly and said, ‘Why did he kick you out, Shashi?’ And then immediately, ‘If it’s too hard to say, then don’t worry—’
‘I will tell you. I have to be going soon, after all. He said that I am a harlot, a sinner.’
And after a moment’s silence, ‘Why?’
‘I was out all night—’
‘What? Didn’t you tell him that you were here—with me?’
Shashi didn’t seem to be saying anything, but she still turned her face away. She didn’t speak.
‘Why didn’t you tell him? I will go right now—’
Flaring up, ‘No, no! Don’t go there—’
‘Why—’
‘No, Shekhar, no! I—’
‘You didn’t tell him?’
Somehow Shashi managed to say, ‘He—he knew.’
‘So?’
Just as the banks of a river slowly collapse in a flood, Shashi’s patience was breaking down. Gradually becoming more agitated, she said, ‘Don’t ask me to tell you, Shekhar; I can’t repeat those words to you—’
‘Do we keep secrets from each other, Shashi?’
‘Oh, you don’t understand, you don’t understand at all! He thinks—you have no idea what he thinks—he thinks—that I spent the night here—that I am fallen—oh, no, no, Shekhar!’
As her voice became even more upset, it began to sound like a hiccup; and then silence descended and it swished as it flowed on . . .
A little later, Shekhar said, ‘I understand, Shashi! Enough’—then stopping and repeating—‘I understand everything . . .’
His voice became so calm and steady that Shashi’s unsettled gaze focused on him, and nervously she asked, ‘What will you do, Shekhar?’
Thoughtfully, ‘No, I won’t do that again, Shashi. I won’t do anything.’ Then, ‘And you, Shashi?’
‘What about me?’
‘What will you do?’
Shashi laughed a weak, hollow laugh—‘Me!’ And then seriously, ‘Shekhar, if you just say the word, I’ll leave. I will really go away. I will really go away. Just say it!’
Wounded, Shekhar threatened, ‘What should I say? What do you—’
‘It’s not because it would make things simpler for you; it would also help me, Shekhar—’
Shekhar went to the window. He said, ‘They say there is something attractive about heights—a terrible attraction.’ And then to make his meaning clear, ‘One person could jump from a four-storeyed window, two people could jump. That’s one way.’
A trembling admonition, ‘Shekhar!’
‘No, I can’t say that that way should be taken. There must be—another way.’
‘Another way! What?’
Shekhar spun around and said, ‘Shashi, promise me that you won’t do anything, won’t go anywhere—’
‘I—where would I go—not go anywhere?’
‘Don’t stall, Shashi; say it: you won’t go anywhere—’
‘. . .’
‘Say it, Shashi, promise me—’
‘Is that what you want, Shekhar? Is that what you wholeheartedly want—’
‘Shashi, will you trust me this much—’
Slowly, and curiously, as if testing to see how these words sounded, Shashi said, ‘I won’t go. Perhaps not going—is giving—is paying debts—’ Then coolly, as if neither side had anything left to say or hear in the conversation, she closed her eyes . . .
Shekhar began pacing back and forth in his room, trying to understand and accept all that was said completely . . . The promise of intimacy that was established last night—had been made, there was no doubt in his mind about that—Shashi was unquestionably and inescapably a part of his world; and the ethics of the duty he had sworn to stand by Shashi—a deeply held, and considered his privilege, ethics—were just as unquestionable. But wasn’t acknowledging this certainty merely seeing the certainty of the situation; wasn’t avoiding the situation just as likely a certainty? . . . He realized that the insistence that ‘there has to be another way’ was not the reassurance of ‘there is another way’. That reassurance—
Shashi got up and staggered towards the door—
Shekhar moved towards her to help her, ‘Yes, Shashi—’
‘No, stay here. I am going out for a bit—’
Worried, Shekhar said, ‘Shashi, you promised—’
‘Shekhar, I will be right back; stay here in the room—’ Then with a thin smile that disappeared with the emotion, she said, ‘Don’t worry.’
Shekhar stood lifeless in the middle of the room, but there was a vigilance in that lifelessness—from just outside, he heard the noise of water being sprinkled and then a breathy moan; then the sound of a faucet running . . .
‘Shekhar—’
He raced outside. Shashi was bent over, using the faucet for support, reaching out towards him. Shekhar helped her back inside and asked, ‘What’s wrong, Shashi? What happened—’
‘Nothing, nothing—’
Why the unnecessary insistence? Concerned, Shekhar asked, ‘Should I call the doctor?’
‘No, it’s nothing, Shekhar—’ But as soon as she lay down on the cot, Shashi immediately curled up and half-sat up; and then painfully changing positions, she became still, one arm slowly rising and then resting on her forehead, her fingers moving towards her hair, three nails disappearing in her tresses—suddenly Shekhar can see that although Shashi’s eyes are open, she neither sees or understands anything, not even that Shekhar is there—or that he even is . . .
Was the power of unity the power of death?—Was the only reward for understanding one another not having anything to say to the other, nothing to exchange between vacant, unblinking eyes on one side and on the other, a confused, dumb stone? And then the implication of the whole affair—Rameshwar’s attack, Shashi’s injury, cruelty—fell like a hammer blow on the mirror of Shekhar’s consciousness; he was outraged. A tension overtook his entire body and welled up in his soul, and for a moment, he made an offering with his gaze fixed on Shashi; then he slowly freed the blanket from under Shashi’s feet and covered her with it. He wrapped an old shawl around his shoulders and headed outside.
‘Where are you going?’
Shekhar was caught off guard, but without stopping, he said, ‘I—I’ll be back, Shashi. You should stay here—’ and he quickly went downstairs. He didn’t have a clear plan in his mind, except that he knew that he was going to see Rameshwar face-to-face.
Rameshwar was sitting in front of the doorway; Shekhar saw him a second before he did; but in that second, Rameshwar’s composed, sparkling face contorted and bristled; two brows, dense and already connected, became entangled like a milk hedge—
‘How dare you—what are you doing here—’
Ignoring Rameshwar’s bark and pushing him to one side, Shekhar said, ‘What I am doing—that will be settled here. But what have you done—are you out of your mind?’
‘Shameless! You’ve come to prosecute me—she went to you with her charges, didn’t she—get out of my house—what was she to you anyway—’ Rameshwar’s face was extremely contorted with rage and revenge. His nostrils and lips were flared; Shekhar realized his rancour had gone so far past the point of logic that if he didn’t speak slowly, he would start stammering like a child! But what entitled him to such anger—had he been grievously wronged? That cruel, blind, murderousness! Sternly, Shekhar said, ‘I didn’t come here to give you answers, I came to demand them—’
For a few moments Rameshwar kept spitting out ‘you-you-you’, as if Shekhar’s challenge had rendered the astonishment that had flashed across his face incoherent and speechless. Shekhar took advantage of the opportunity to speak directly and quickly, ‘Shashi was at my place. I came home late. I was suicidal—’ and then stopping for a second, ‘She stopped to comfort me, and then the rain—’ and then realizing that he was giving answers, and even then incoherently, he bit his lip and left the sentence unfinished. ‘You are making such a big mistake, you don’t even realize it. Shashi—you aren’t even fit to touch her feet, and you, sir—’ He was surprised that some lingering sense of responsibility to Shashi compelled him to address this man as ‘sir’.
There is a sound that a scythe makes when sawing through broken bamboo, and a sound just like that was being made by someone speaking from the door to the room behind Rameshwar, ‘So go and kiss her feet, you—maybe having you lick them will cool her down—’
Shekhar was startled to see that behind Rameshwar was a woman’s face, from whose countless, dark wrinkles emerged a rotting reflection of Rameshwar; there were the same dense brows, but in the sockets below them were two, thick clumps of mould where the eyes should have been . . . Was this Rameshwar’s mother? Shekhar hadn’t seen her before and didn’t know when or why she had come.
‘She stayed to comfort him. Did you get so much comfort last night that you became this audacious—you villainous scoundrel!’ He spit at Shekhar like a cobra with its hood flared, as if he discovered a new reserve of anger, and Shekhar saw an old face with quivering, mottled whiskers had appeared next to him.
‘He’s shown his true colours now—goes around town calling himself a communist. He’s just got out after a year in jail—no respectable home should let him enter. Communists consider women to be common property—atheists! It’s their job to mislead young women and turn them into whores. They’re all worthless, they have no money, so this is their cheap trick. First “sister”, then “comrade”, then “whore”. What’s it to them if someone’s family is destroyed—they get a new whore—a girl from a respectable home, and for free!’ Filled with the feeling that the crimes of this class of people were indescribable, he poured all of the venom inside of him into a single word which those mottled whiskers paused over for a second and then released, ‘Communist!’
Shekhar felt as though he were on another planet; some planet of slimy white ooze and black pits filled with poisonous vapour—shocked and stunned, he couldn’t even be angry at this vulgar assault, merely speechless. But the stallion of Rameshwar’s anger broke through its bit after being whipped a second time and raced on—Rameshwar suddenly stepped up to Shekhar and slapped him across the face.
This was definitely another planet, where nothing happened with thought or deliberation—or even intention—everything happened automatically, willed into existence by some damned, demonic power inside the event itself—the flash of the event decides for itself . . . The faint outline of a slap is on Shekhar’s face; with an automatic reflex, Shekhar’s hand went up and grabbed the assailant’s wrist, and the grip gradually tightens and the wrist is bent backwards—the violent impulse has gone dead in the wrist which begins to shake under the pressure of that grip. A fuzzy thought, that the grip might become so tight that Rameshwar’s bones might begin to crack—that the wrist was Rameshwar’s, that if it hadn’t been Rameshwar’s wrist, but his throat, then—if it had been . . .
But why was it a wrist, and why wasn’t it a throat? It definitely was a throat; but a throat could be crushed the same way that a wrist could be, because the grip has no intention, no desire, it is only a grip, a demonic force that runs on its own, even though it is blind—
A touch on Shekhar’s shoulder tore through the veil of that other planet, and Shashi said, ‘Shekhar!’
The grip slackened, but the hand remained in the exact same spot. Then Shekhar suddenly felt as if his hand had been gripping some gelatinous piece of filth, he spread out his fingers and then his hand swung down immediately.
In the silence, the course of that demonic force continued unabated for a long while . . .
Then Shashi said, ‘I was afraid that you would do exactly this. Why did you come here?’
Shekhar’s complete rebellion peeked out from his silence.
‘You should leave—’
Shekhar’s stare bored straight into Shashi’s. After a few moments, he said, ‘And you? You should leave, too—’
‘Go away. Go away because I’m telling you to.’ Her voice had the pride of command that knew that it had authority not just over the people nearby, because it also directed the ground on which she stood, because that, too, was her subject.
Shekhar silently began descending the stairs; his entire being cried out in protest at his expulsion, but not a single word escaped his lips, and if there was one thought that was clear in his mind it was that all the devotion, the faith, the love that not one but fifty Shekhars could give to that queen had all in the manner of an instant been shamed and stripped naked.
He didn’t turn around to look, but he understood what was happening behind him by means of a sixth sense . . . For stunned figures, Shashi’s eyes made a circle from the first to the second, from the second to the third, where they stopped and remained fixed. No one had the ability to read that gaze, not even the one on whom it was now fixed and would not leave, who would quickly turn inwards in shame!
Suddenly the door slammed shut and then came the clicking noises of the lock being locked. It was only then that Shekhar turned around to look; six or seven steps above him, Shashi stood like a stone column outside that closed door. He didn’t say anything. He just stayed there and then slowly began descending the stairs. That’s when he noticed that there were sounds of someone else’s slow and hushed footsteps following him.
When Shashi had followed him down to the street below, from the window above, a moustache-strained voice spoke, ‘She’s gone—’
Then the grating voice of a scythe sawing through broken bamboo raised a taunt.
‘Take him into your lap, shamefaced whore—bitch!’
Shekhar figured out that the lack of any mention of him in these cries was the result of his responsibility. He didn’t turn around, but he did pause so that Shashi could walk next to him . . .
*
In the double isolation of the room, there was so much to learn, so much to ask, which Shekhar still hadn’t understood and hadn’t asked; he had never asked, and who knows when he understood, there had been no opportunity to ask in between the momentary flashes of the tiniest, disconnected, wilful waves of anger, Shekhar had gathered that something more important was happening behind and inside of everything that he had seen, had kept happening, but where was the time to gather and disentangle the meaning of those feelings when there were so many immediate matters that had to be considered and demanded resolution . . .
Shashi wasn’t lying on the cot, she had collapsed into it, her body gathered into a question mark, her eyes involuntarily closed and opened a little late. Shekhar knew those eyelids were hiding a hurt . . .
It was important to settle some questions immediately before it became dark. The evening meal came from the restaurant, but the restaurant had to be informed—this time, he would cook something himself—when he got back; first of all, bedclothes and another blanket for cover . . .
Shekhar took out a new change of clothes and started to go outside to change. Lifelessly, Shashi asked, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I’m going to the college for a bit. I will be back in an hour.’ And then taking one step backwards, ‘Shashi, don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything. And you—you should stay here. Don’t go out.’
After he had changed his clothes, he went to Shashi and stood watching her for a while. Then he said, ‘You should go to sleep now, you’re very tired. You were up all night, and this morning—’
In agreement, Shashi said, ‘All right, I will go to sleep.’
*
Half an hour later, when he returned from the hostel with three blankets, a thin mattress and a rug under his arm and ten rupees he had borrowed in his pocket and the expression of recent success on his face, Shashi was sitting perfectly still next to the tap, and the water was running . . .
Shekhar gathered up his bedclothes and took out a new bed sheet and spread it over the cot for Shashi, and having decided to make his bed in the other part of the L-shaped room, he took his bundle of remaining bedclothes and put them there. Then he brought Shashi back to the cot; a crust of ice had formed on the surface of his mind and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her anything; he put her to bed and when he went to the cupboard to get things for dinner, he saw that the stove had been lit, pots and pans had been scattered about, dishes of lentils and boiled potatoes had been set aside, and a few rotis had also been prepared, but it was as if the work had been abandoned in the middle, the flour hadn’t even been put away, and there were two sparrows sitting in the window to the closet waiting to fill their beaks—there were a few signs that the birds had already been in the flour . . . He went back to the room and loudly said, ‘Shashi, you—you are just terrible.’
Shashi smiled like the accused and said, ‘What could I do? I didn’t get a chance to clean up the pots and pans. I can clean it all up now—’
In fake irritation, Shekhar said, ‘Is that what I was saying? Why did you all of this work—all right, now you have to enjoy the fruits of your mischief. You should sit up. I’ll make a plate for you.’
‘I didn’t make it for me. You should eat—’
‘It’s your punishment. You eat first. I will wash the dishes and then I will eat.’
‘No, that’s not right—you have to eat.’ Then—unwillingly, ‘Even if you won’t let me do the dishes—’
‘All right, all is forgiven. I will fix a plate for me, too.’
Drained, Shashi said, ‘No Shekhar, I won’t eat.’
‘What? On your first day here, you are going to cook and feed me but go hungry yourself? What must you think of me? I—absolutely won’t eat.’ And then to lighten the mood, he made sure that Shashi could tell he was playing when he jauntily used the expression ‘Sisterji,’ and he imitated his father, ‘I am the offspring of the ever-hospitable Aryans—’
Shashi smiled a little to acknowledge his efforts, ‘I came this morning as a guest—but you didn’t let me remain a guest. And now I—’ and then suddenly changing her tone, ‘yes, and now even if I want to be a guest, I—’ Shashi stopped again when she saw Shekhar’s face. She said, ‘I won’t say it, there! I don’t want to hurt you, Shekhar, I would certainly eat, but I—can’t eat.’
Shekhar was struck with worry, ‘Why Shashi? What’s the matter—are you—hurt somewhere?’
‘Me—my—I’m not feeling well.’
Shekhar could tell that this was not an admission, but a deflection; but he knew Shashi; if she didn’t want to reveal something, she wouldn’t. Insistence was futile.
‘So you won’t eat at all—not even a little bit?’
‘No, Shekhar. Bring your plate here. If you eat in front of me, it will be like I’ve eaten, too—’
‘. . .’
‘I won’t take no for an answer—otherwise I will take it to mean that you find the food that I’ve cooked unworthy—’
Shekhar quietly went to the cupboard.
Who knew if it took more self-will or not to swallow down balls of mud even when one wasn’t hungry. But Shekhar had a vague sense that a flooding stream of love was flowing towards him from Shashi, and the love inside him was growing only for her, like a waterfall that gushes forth to admire the eager, foamy splash at the bottom of the cliff . . . And the seed of affection that sprouted in this manure of pain and stigma was a manifestation of mankind’s biggest, visible miracle . . .
*
There really were many things that I didn’t understand at the time, and before, I didn’t even have the ability to imagine I could understand. But I gradually learned. But I couldn’t draw a clear line between not knowing and knowing; I can’t clearly recall when I was told the full history behind these events. I definitely was told, because it was like a separate account in the treasury of my consciousness, which was never separated from that treasury, had always been a part of it—a part of my being. And it was such an inseparable part of me that when I recall it, it feels like they were all my feelings; not the imaginary associated images I created upon hearing Shashi’s feelings. In my memory, I become Shashi, I remember her memories, I suffer her traumas, her silences, her matchless, unbroken pride fills me . . . Shashi is no longer, but I am Shashi; so I am no longer, as well—just was. But right now I am more hurt by her pain than by my own, taller from her pride, and therefore she lives . . .
They say that those events that are experienced with very intense emotions are like indelible lines drawn in stone on the slab of consciousness, and recalling them is like recalling an entire picture, not the mere memory of this or that line or shape. Which is to say that when these events are recalled, they are done in a necessary, unchanging sequence, in which the pen of the one recollecting has no independence, it is bound to follow the sequence of events . . . There is another line of thought that says that the consciousness tries to erase experiences born out of trauma, and it gradually wraps them in so many veils of repression that its outline becomes completely concealed; it becomes completely erased from a person’s memory. But in my experience, these intensely experienced events are neither erased from the slab of memory nor are they permanent and unchanging like histories written in stone. I have seen that some scenes are brilliant like flashes of lightning, and there are others which have been snuffed out and the connective thread between events has been broken; not just broken, but tangled up; which means that I can’t even see those bright events in the proper temporal sequence—they come lit up in a wilful order and then leave, and I can’t say with any confidence which was first, which was second, all I can say is that they all happened; which is not to say that this is all that happened or that it happened in this way . . .
Or is it that in waiting for the final verdict, the accused suppresses his resignation and places the judgemental wisdom of the creator upon the stallion of his memory? Have I, in my last days, fallen under the deluded notion that I have actually succeeded in my plan to search for the meaning, for the purpose of my life, searching for accomplishment and success—that I have merely flinched from the cruelty of real evaluation and settled for the laziness of fabrication?
But isn’t fabrication the greatest cruelty, the greatest activity, since it makes a gift of its life to its creation?
And is the truth of an event the greatest truth, and is its sequential order the necessary sequence of life? Isn’t the sequence imposed by life more important for one who has resigned himself? Isn’t it an even greater resignation to negate the opposition between both internal and external time?
When he comes back inside, Shekhar sees his aunt, Vidyavati, sitting on the rug next to Shashi’s cot. His hearts skips a beat; it was as if he had ignored the fact that there were others in the world beyond the triangle of Shashi, Shekhar and Rameshwar. He didn’t doubt that there was a society outside this small circle; but he was also certain that his aunt was in no way outside the circle, either; and in the middle of this embarrassing dilemma was Aunt—
Shekhar made a formal greeting and said, ‘Aunt, why are you sitting on the floor—’
His aunt made a gesture of blessing with her hand, but didn’t say anything. Shekhar saw that her complexion was completely sallow and that there were lines beneath the two dark half-moons under her eyes which touched the corners of her mouth and were stretching down to reach her chin; and that Shashi’s face was turned towards hers but her eyes were fixed on the frame of the cot—
Shashi said, ‘Shekhar, you should go out for a while.’ He paused and then left. His trust in Shashi was now greater than his trust in himself. When he went into the courtyard, he even closed the door behind him, and he began pacing in the courtyard. Then he suddenly went to the cupboard and began turning everything over and completely cleaned out the shelves and then began replacing everything properly . . .
Shekhar and the doctor are talking. To the right, behind the cover of a screen, lies Shashi; and between the doctor and the screen stands his aunt, with one hand left holding on to the screen, as if stuck in a dilemma about whether she should have been behind the screen or on the outside.
‘There are definitely several injuries to her abdomen. We will have to be very careful. It isn’t very serious, but you know that there is a risk that internal injuries can become septic.1 I am prescribing some medicines, and complete bed rest is absolutely necessary, and she shouldn’t eat any solid food.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The doctor bends down to write the prescription; from behind the screen come the sounds of the rustling of the bed as Shashi gets up—
His aunt asks, ‘And her back pain—’
‘That will get better on its own—the fall has caused spasms—’ Then after a little thought, ‘Where does it hurt?’ and he stands up straight; Shekhar is the only one left looking at the screen.
‘Here? Here? And if you can bend over a little—’ And then in a different tone, ‘Oh . . .’
The scene returns to its prior arrangement, his aunt’s hand is on the screen like before, the doctor is standing in front of Shekhar, but there is a different face.
‘Well, doctor—’
The doctor looks at Shekhar gravely and says, ‘Are you the husband?’
‘No, she’s my sister.’
‘Oh, please forgive me. And is this the mother?’
Turning to face his aunt, ‘Madam, does she live with you?’
Shekhar answers, ‘No, she lives with her in-laws. We just brought her to you for an examination—why, what’s the matter?’
The doctor goes quiet. After a while, as if he’s thinking something, deciding something, he says, ‘Madam, the injury to her back is not an injury from falling.’
‘And?’
The doctor’s silence seems to say, ‘I have many children of my own. I know what you must be going through—’
His aunt turns around to ask, ‘Shashi, don’t you remember how you got this injury?’
Shashi doesn’t speak; as if deciphering her silence, the doctor says, ‘I’ll give you an ointment for this injury; apply it gently with a warm compress.’ Then after a moment of hesitation, to Shekhar in English, ‘It’s not accidental; it’s a deliberate blow. The kidney is fractured.’2
Shekhar also asks in English, ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘No, but irreparable.’
‘What treatment would you advise?’
‘Rest and endurance—and courage. Chiefly courage.’
The doctor realizes that continuous conversation in English isn’t reassuring, so he turns to Aunt Vidyavati and says, ‘Complete rest is absolutely necessary—get this prescription filled at the dispensary—it will be necessary to see her again in two or three days—’ as if he were advising that instead of bringing the patient in that he could be called out—
Rameshwar’s flat was on the second floor, Shashi’s body was taut like a bowstring from the reverberating insult, readied like a bow; Rameshwar’s face in front, an inanimate wall about to break and fall after its foundation has been shaken, and two more walls behind it that won’t fall because they are already ruined and have become heaps of rubble from years of mould . . .
Wiping the ashes that her mother-in-law has thrown into her eyes, Shashi says, ‘If this is the final decision that you all have come to, then—’
She folds her hands and bows her head slightly, a few particles of ash cascade down from her head, brush her hands, and fall to the floor, she turns around, one step ahead of her are the stairs, she takes one step down—
The scythe shrieks, ‘Look at this shamelessness—’
The wall falls to pieces from the grating of the scythe. Rameshwar leaps forward and a sandal-clad kick lands on Shashi’s back, ‘Whore!’
The bow is stretched again and in reaction, the echo of warning grows louder, ‘I won’t accept my last gift from you with my back turned, you can give it to me now—’ and another wall rises in front of the crumbling wall, a wall which is supple like the bow and will therefore never crumble—
The scythe grinds its teeth frenetically, ‘Hit her, hit her one more time—’
When the kick strikes her in the stomach, Shashi lets out a ‘Unh!’ but stays there. The scene goes dark in front of her eyes. Bracing herself against the wall, she turns around to leave now that she has had her initial meeting—
Aunt’s voice comes from the back of the buggy, ‘What was the doctor saying in English—’
Turning, ‘Nothing much. He said that she really needs her rest. She needs to lie there quietly, otherwise things will get worse—’
Aunt asks Shashi, ‘How did you get hurt? Really, from falling—’
Shekhar turns farther around, ‘Aunt, does anyone ever injure their abdomen when they fall forward? And there’s nothing on her hands or face—’
Quietly, Shashi, ‘Let’s get home first—’
In the silence, only the driver’s clucking noises with his tongue or the occasional, ‘Coooo-ming through!’
Everything in the cupboard has been straightened up, actually everything has been reorganized twice already. Will Shashi and Aunt never finish their conversation, and would he have to stay outside forever?
And Shashi, who has penetrated his life like a truth—and he who has roared into Shashi’s life like a comet, would his aunt tolerate all of this—would she be able to tolerate it? The thing that Shashi was trying to save Aunt from by sacrificing herself, that thing was still near his aunt—
Shekhar turns the faucet on and takes the pots and pans and puts them under it. The splashes of cold water are a sort of comfort—
Eventually, his aunt calls to him from inside, ‘Shekhar!’ Shekhar wants to be able to decipher whether he has been found guilty, or was being called to give testimony or was acquitted altogether—and he now stands next to his aunt. His aunt looks up towards him, her expression is of a confused pain, and nothing else—‘Sit down.’
Shekhar sits down on the floor next to her.
‘What do you say about all of this?’
Unaware of what the issue is, Shekhar doesn’t speak.
‘I have been raised to believe that a woman’s husband is everything to her. A wife is also something to her husband, I know that, but I never learned to demand my rights the same way I learned to give them over, and now I’m old and can’t learn new things.’ There is no objection, accusation or command in her voice, merely a feeling of explanation—
‘Shashi says that there is no going back now. It’s not a question of wanting to or not, it’s a question of can or cannot. I went to see them before I came here.’
Shekhar was surprised, ‘How?’
‘They had sent a telegram and told me to come, which is why I’m here. They said that Shashi is dead to them, and that we were never a part of their lives. Her mother-in-law said that if she were to—forget it, what’s the use in repeating it—’
Shashi says, ‘Mother, they didn’t insult you, did they—what did they say—’
‘Why would people who kicked you out of the house leave any stone unturned in insulting me? They said they would rather eat cow’s flesh than let you into their home, home-wrecker, sigh—’
‘And then—’
‘And then what! There’s no going back there. But I don’t think it’s true that one has to go back to one’s in-laws to accept that your husband is still supreme. You can still honour your obligations without travelling on the path that your husband has closed for you.’ She was quiet for a while, then, ‘Shashi says that she won’t go back with me, and if she wants to go somewhere—’
Shekhar looks at Shashi without saying a word.
‘Mother, please don’t take it badly. I’m doing the right thing—’
‘Shashi says I should go back, and that I should do what her in-laws do and consider her dead—if not in my mind, then at least in my actions.’
‘Why?’
Shashi gives the response. ‘Because why should Mother have to suffer for what I do? She’s already suffered greatly. Now she needs to live separately, she’s given me up after she’s married me off, so why should she be responsible for what happens now? And why should I let her—’
‘Aunt, I’m the worst one at fault here, I crashed into everything like a meteor and hurt everyone deeply—I—’
‘No, Shekhar, don’t try to be responsible for everything that was going to happen anyway—’ Then as if returning to the main issue, ‘Shashi thinks that I should stay out of it, and that she should suffer the punishment that she received at the hands of society by herself.’ She looks at Shekhar and doesn’t get a response, so she starts speaking again, ‘But how can I stay out of it? Wouldn’t it kill me, too, to cut off and throw away with my own hands that which I have created in my own body, which I have fed with my own blood? How can I ignore that—’
‘Mother, it won’t work to think like that. You’ve already agreed that I can’t go back—’ It’s the first time in the conversation that Shashi has got worked up. She says, ‘And to go back home with you and let you bear the hardships to come would not only be unbearable for me, but it makes everything I have done by getting beaten up so completely pointless that—’ And then composing herself, ‘And it’s not as if you will escape any problems that way.’ Then pausing for a while, ‘Yes, if you say that I shouldn’t live here, then—’
Shekhar speaks, ‘I should also have to pay for my mistakes. Whatever Shashi has to endure from society—’
‘I am not stopping her from staying here. If she’s not coming back with me, then this is the only other place she has. People used to say things to me, but I told them that the two of you were connected by a single vein—I’ve never thought of you as separate, Shekhar, even if according to society our relationship is next to nothing. If she stays here, it is just as good as if she stays with me—except for the fact that I am abandoning my child—not just Shashi, but both of you—’
Shekhar’s eyes begin to water. He wants to burst into tears, ‘Aunt, Aunt—Mother—’
‘Mother, if love comes from the heart, then abandonment comes from the heart, too. If you don’t abandon me—us—in your heart, then why should this cause you any pain? And—we, too—will never forget that—’
His aunt faces and looks at Shekhar and says, ‘And your father—what will I say to him—’ Her voice suddenly breaks. She puts her head down on the frame of the cot right in front of Shashi. Shashi hugs her shoulder with one arm and half hides herself in the extra length of her sari. Seeing his aunt’s thin frame shaking from some invisible dust storm, Shekhar starts crying without moving, too—then a new wisdom, rising from the ashes of memory and freshly bathed in the waters of the Ganges, announces that Shashi has not been defeated—
‘Take this, Shekhar—’
His aunt extends a single 100-rupee note. ‘I will send more later—’
‘Aunt, I—’
‘It’s not for you. It’s for Shashi—she’s still not well and—’
Embarrassed, ‘Aunt, this isn’t right—I will figure something out and then—’
Wounded, his aunt says, ‘Shekhar, I have been defeated by those who were to defeat me; I have been broken by those who were to break me—let me have something—’
‘Don’t be proud, Shekhar. Listen to me and take it—’
Shekhar slowly extends his hand, as if straightening up, and says, ‘When Shashi gets better, then no more—’ and to himself he thinks no more in any case—
‘God willing, that will happen very soon. There is no great joy ahead in the future, but her body needs the strength to endure sorrows—’
‘Mother, I’m doing well—’
Shekhar wants to say, ‘I will be with her—’
The sound of Aunt descending the stairwell interrupts this conversation. She is following Shekhar down the steps on her way to the train station.
‘Aunt, don’t worry—’
‘All right, Shekhar. Let’s see what God does.’ Turning towards Shashi, ‘Shashi, did I give birth to you so that this would happen?’ her voice trembles again . . . Suddenly, ‘Shekhar, did you really try and commit suicide?’
An embarrassed silence . . .
‘She was just a little girl when you smashed her forehead with a jug while you were both taking a bath. She lied then, too, to save you and said that she hurt herself—the naughty little imp has been taking your side since the beginning—’ There was such pride, such sweetness, in the pain-filled strain in her voice—but he hadn’t heard about this before, so he asks, ‘When, Aunt?’ And he thinks that he’s avoided the matter of his suicide—
Aunt begins to narrate, ‘When you were very young, the first time—’
The calm of evening, when the cold, accumulating smoke seeps into the soul by way of the eyes; in the room, the light of the lamp glows from where the lantern usually is, and Shekhar is quickly closing all the windows so that the cloudy, moist mass doesn’t settle in the room—Shashi is lying there quietly, her eyes are calm; she goes along with Shekhar effortlessly, and he knows—
‘Shashi, you are an awful liar.’
‘Why?’
‘Such a big lie? You didn’t tell me a single thing, but you told Aunt that you fell—such a lie! And what was the need—’
Confidently, Shashi says, ‘I don’t lie.’
‘But that wasn’t the truth, either—you kept your mouth shut with me, but—’
‘Shekhar, I believe that an unnecessary hurt is the greatest lie—what was the point in hurting your aunt even more? And when it comes to them—I don’t hold anything against them any more; they don’t even matter—’
‘And me—’
‘You! What do you—you slowly figure things out so why should I have to tell you?’
‘You still haven’t told me. Tell me honestly, how did you get hurt? Did someone hurt you?’
‘I wouldn’t have told your aunt either, but when she saw that I couldn’t sit up straight and that there was blood in my mouth, I had to tell her—’
‘Blood?’
Shashi’s tiny laugh was an admission of guilt, ‘Getting up and moving around made me vomit and there was blood—’
He suddenly unravels the mystery behind her sitting by the faucet. Completely stupefied, he says, ‘And you still stubbornly kept on working’—and then deeply offended—‘And you made me eat. Would I have died if I hadn’t eaten then—’
Shashi speaks in a voice to calm not only herself but others, too, ‘You told me that Baba said that there is a faith that is greater than pain—’
‘Yes, why?’
‘There is a helplessness that is greater than pain—as big as pain—otherwise life would always lose out in the face of pain.’
The truth of this claim slowly dawns on Shekhar. Thinking it over, he says, ‘Yes, I know—’ And then insistently and with a little disbelief, ‘You are such a liar—a master liar!’
‘Are you any less of a liar?’
‘Why, what did I do—’
‘I understand English, too, Shekhar. I don’t know much, but I what I do know, I know well. ‘Not dangerous, but irreparable!’ She smiles.
Shekhar is stunned into silence . . .
‘But Shekhar, I’m not scared. I have the medicines that the doctor prescribed—I have plenty of them—’
‘What—’
‘Endurance—and courage. Chiefly courage. Shekhar, I will get better and I’ll prove it when I can walk outside with you.’
The carriage is racing on. His aunt is headed to the station; Shekhar is going to see her off and is sitting beside her. He doesn’t understand it, but his heart overflows with affection for his aunt and he doesn’t know how to express it; he wants to hold his aunt’s hand until they reach the station—
‘Shekhar, will Shashi get better now?’
‘Why, Aunt? Why are you afraid—’
‘I’m not afraid, Shekhar, I’m asking because you know her mind better than I do. And this is a question of her will—if she has the determination in her mind to get better, she will, and if not, then never. I know her—Shekhar, I have no problem in losing at the hands of my daughter!’
‘I have faith that she will get better soon—’
‘God willing—Shekhar, you won’t do anything stupid again, will you—’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ve accepted a very important responsibility. You no longer have the right to consider suicide. You never did—life is always given to one as a promise and throwing it away is a betrayal—’
‘Aunt, I now have something that I have to do—’
‘You always did, Shekhar! You just didn’t see it—’
Shekhar becomes depressed all of a sudden and says, ‘If I really hadn’t come back home that day, then—none of this would have happened!’
‘You can’t blame yourself like that, Shekhar! And who knows if something even worse might have happened? Shashi might have still waited all night for you—and what happened the next morning would have still happened—because that was going to happen anyway, there was no way to avoid that; Rameshwar told me that—’ and suddenly she stopped!
‘What did he say, tell me—’
‘He said that—it’s nothing new, it was just news to have it confirmed, and the marriage was just an excuse to—Shekhar, I’ve heard and seen so much in these last three days!’
At the station, his aunt says, ‘You should go now, Shekhar. You don’t have to stay until the train leaves. I’ve found my seat. I will get back fine—’
‘No, Aunt, tell me what happened—’
‘You have to get back before it gets dark, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. Don’t leave Shashi alone in the dark of evening—it’s a very sad time of day, especially in winter—’ Her hand starts patting Shekhar on the shoulder. Shekhar obeys and bows down in farewell, and his aunt brushes his hair with her fingers—‘Go, son—’ She chokes on her words and Shekhar knows that her compassionate blessings are not only for him, but for Shashi as well . . .
*
Evening and morning, morning and evening—if there is any constant truth in this passing of time it is that Shashi and Shekhar are together, strung together on the same chain, with the same plan, the same goal in life, in their work, where encouragement is the only spring that bursts out into the open—there is definitely something that has to be done—many things—for Shashi and for his goals.
‘Reformer, you are paying too little attention to society and too much attention to cooking—decide for yourself, are you a reformer first or a chef?’
‘Why? Like everything else, our culinary arts are also in need of reform—that is also a tradition—’
‘And it is also an opportunity for creative expression—why not? But the question is which medium you are better suited for—paper-and-pen or flour-and-rolling pin?’
‘When you put it that way, it seems to me that they are exactly the same. The cook makes the bread, the guest eats it and the head of the house gets all the praise. The writer writes the book, the public enjoys it and the publisher gets the profit!’
‘I can tell that a little physical discomfort has made your wit sharper. So are you going to get to work on something or not? I am not going to let you do any of my chores—’
‘I’m going to write. I mean, I have a lot that I have already written.’ Shekhar says this quickly, because although Shashi appears to be better, she is still not well enough that she could swear to it! ‘But it’s not an issue to write about; you know this, the issue is whether anything comes from writing! It’s easy enough to make bread, but what happens when no guests come to the untouchable’s home?’
‘I keep on telling you that religion’s power only extends as far as it is still meaningful—otherwise whatever is meaningful wins! If only Brahmins are able to cook good food, that’s one thing, but since that’s not the case—’
‘But there is a conflict between what’s tasty and what’s healthy, and if—’
‘You can’t keep thinking such backward things—what is healthy can also be tasty, we will have to strive for that—’
‘Shashi, do you think it’s worth it if I finish up that article that I wrote for the Reform Society?’
‘Definitely, you should finish it. As long as you have the means to, you should write as much as you can—because as long as you are worried about finishing it, it will be a barrier to the rest of your writing—’
‘But I will still be worried! Since—’
‘Since what? You have three months to write without any worry—you’ll be able to finish a book at least—’
‘Three months? And what will we eat—rejection slips?’3 And then, when he suddenly realized Shashi’s implication, ‘Look, Shashi, I don’t want to talk about this. The money that Aunt gave you for your treatment will only be spent on your treatment, not on food for me, and—not for your food either, understand? Work of this sort has a crumbling foundation.’
Tenderly Shashi looks at Shekhar. ‘Fine, don’t take Aunt’s money. Will you take mine?’
Sharply, ‘What?’
Shashi gingerly caressed the gold chain around her neck.
‘That’s all there is—I’ve left the rest back there. And this is the only piece, so you won’t have to say “no” again.’
Shekhar tried to deflect the discussion, ‘Fine, if there’s nothing left to eat, I’ll take it—you can hold on to it as our savings. I’ll try and earn something from the things that I’ve already written.’
But the thought kept nagging at him that it wouldn’t be enough, that he would have to write much more if that necklace was to remain where it was, and the necklace was, after all, a gift to Shashi from her mother . . .
He sits next to Shashi on the ground, using the frame of the cot to support his back, and puts the paper on his raised knees in readiness to write . . . Not even worry produced that sense of intensity whose acrid taste makes one dip one’s pen and start critiquing; his mind is a shadow screen of experiences, experiences which despite being sweet have become separated from their emotional elements, because Shekhar has become indifferent to himself . . . He sits down to write . . . He wants to write something more creative than criticism; and underneath his incomplete satisfaction are enough remnants of bitter experiences that his creation will come to life, be powerful . . .
And the knowledge: that although Shashi would be completely unsuccessful in offering him any assistance in his concentration, still there would be two eyes staring from above his shoulders on to a blank piece of paper on to which Shekhar would spread his most intimate details . . . Did he have any right to complain about a writer’s bitter future when he had already obtained a writer’s greatest reward—a discriminating reader who was reading even before anything had been written—and was sending him the strength from her confidence.
But this knowledge was a hindrance—how could he write like that?
Gradually that happiness will also break away, Shekhar; then it will only give you strength if you write . . .
Slowly the isolation came—tenderly but completely . . .
The light became faint; Shekhar began leaning farther down, but when the light grew so dim that it became impossible to see even when he was leaning over, he relaxed his knees and sat up straight by pushing his shoulders and his head back—
He could hear Shashi’s breathing clearly, and he became aware that he could feel her warm breath on his shoulders . . . His isolation was swept away in the darkness. Shekhar was overwhelmed by Shashi’s proximity and a little embarrassed, ‘Have you been reading everything?’
‘Shekhar, I won’t be around one day, and by then you’ll be a famous man and typesetters will stand by your table so that they can snatch your finished pages and take them away. And then I will still be standing behind you and reading—and you won’t know it. But if you don’t write well I will scream in your ears—’
Shekhar got up to light a candle.
‘Shashi, will you sing a song in the darkness, then I will write a little more later, and in the meantime, dinner will be here.’ Shashi still isn’t eating anything. She drinks a little cold milk and some chemical solution which the doctor prescribed—
He cleaned out the glass case for the candle when the flickering mood in the room became garrulous—
Glow candlelight!
Amble near the mysterious life of the night!
Then abruptly stopping, Shashi said, ‘Not today, Shekhar. I will sing tomorrow—’
Shekhar understood, but he didn’t want to mention pain then, and he began softly humming the words to Shashi’s song. Then he said, ‘This isn’t a song—’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s poetry—Shashi, are these your words?’
‘Me—a poet?’
Shekhar lifted the lamp as if he were searching for a place to put it; and he looked at Shashi’s face in the fullest brightness that it offered.
That was when the children from the third floor came in and said, ‘We got some money today—we’ll get paper tomorrow—you will make us kites for sure, won’t you?’ The boy began looking at Shekhar’s face with deep concern.
Shekhar was silent for a moment—it seemed like such a long time ago that he made that promise . . . Then he asked, ‘How much money have you got?’
‘Four annas—’
‘And I have two annas—Father says that girls don’t fly kites—so I got a colourful scarf.’
‘Don’t fly kites?’ Then demonstrating that he remembered why, ‘Yes, it’s true, girls have balloons.’
‘Do you know how to make balloons float?’ the girl asks in despair.
‘Yes, I do—’
In disbelief, the boy says, ‘Hmm—don’t boys also play with balloons?’
Shekhar laughs. ‘If they wear brightly coloured scarves they can.’
Shashi calls the girl over and asks her, ‘What is your name?’
‘Kusum. And my brother’s name is Ved.’
‘Vedkumar Nanda—’ he says as if he is defending his honour.
‘Good, so come and see me before you go out to get your paper tomorrow—’
Shekhar sees the children off to the stairs and then begins pacing around. The kite festival was the day after tomorrow—morning—morning—morning . . .
The special issue on the kite festival had been published, but the editor was not in the office; Shekhar somehow found out where he was and got a hold of him. At first, he didn’t recognize him, but after he was reminded he said, ‘Were you ever in the military—’
‘No—’
‘You’re very punctual4—’
Shekhar swallowed that.
‘Whatever leaves-and-flowers we can offer, we always offer promptly—you know, of course, that immediate rewards are extremely miraculous—’
Stiffly, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But we’ll have to go to the office to settle everything—’
‘So I will come with you—’
The editor shrugged his shoulders, ‘Let’s go then. No time like the present.’
He vacantly flipped through the pages of a notebook and read aloud, ‘Sri Chandrashekhar, leaves-and-flowers . . . here you go.’ He slowly opened his drawer and extended his hand to show Shekhar—two rupees. And then turning out his pockets, ‘At your service—’
For a moment, Shekhar looked at him in disbelief, then he grabbed the money from the editor’s hand, and brashly said, ‘Thank you.’
When he got to the door he turned around and said, ‘Do you write leaves-and-flowers in your ledger?’
‘Yes. Why?’
But it wasn’t right to insult the editor, so he would need to think calmly . . . With a great deal of restraint, Shekhar said, ‘Just because,’ and to himself, he repeated the reply that he had wanted to give, ‘If you had just put “water” instead, you would have saved a few letters.’
A vessel of water.5
When she saw the kites and balloons, Shashi asked, ‘Are these for the children?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you get anything for yourself?’
‘For me? I’m not a child—’
‘Go and buy some dye; I will dye a handkerchief for you—you refuse to wear a turban.’
‘And what about you?’ Shekhar asked this irrepressible question and then shut up. He thought that he would go out in the morning and get some lotus flowers as a gift for Shashi.
‘Do you need to bring me up each time?’
‘All right. I will get some in the afternoon. No need to get your hands wet in this cold.’
When it was afternoon and the children still hadn’t come, Shekhar called out to them, ‘Ved! Vedkumar! Kusum!’
A while later, Ved came up wearing a serious expression and stopped at the door to the room.
Shekhar asked, ‘Why won’t you come inside—don’t you want me to make your kites?’
In a pathetic voice, Ved said, ‘Mother says I can’t.’
‘Why—what did she say you couldn’t do—’
‘She said, “Don’t go over there.”’ Then he looked over at Shashi and said, ‘She said boys from respectable homes don’t go to such places.’
Shekhar remained speechless. He looked at Shashi from the corner of his eyes and then looked straight ahead.
Ved turned and left slowly.
‘Wait, Ved—take this with you.’ Shekhar gave him all six kites, the string, the crushed glass and the balloons and said, ‘You should give these to Kusum—they will float if you light a candle under them.’
Ved’s face lit up for a moment and then deflated. ‘Mother won’t let me—’
‘No. Take them and put them on the roof; buy a few more with your own money and fly them all. Your mother won’t say anything if you don’t come up here, right?’
Ved left.
Shekhar kept moving around, back and forth, in the room, as if he had something to do.
Shashi said, ‘Shekhar, forget about the dye; it would be a waste of time. Sit and write—or come, dictate to me; you can dictate and I will write.’
Shekhar quietly sat down behind her, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to write then; all he could think about was that bouquet of lotus blossoms that he wouldn’t buy tomorrow morning . . .
Were Shashi’s eyes still over my shoulder at my paper today—even now—as I am filling it with ink and reading just how well I’m doing by the dim light of this lantern in my jail cell? . . . I, who didn’t become a famous man, am now standing at the edge of possibility staring into the chasm of non-existence . . . Shashi, I’ve never heard the sound of your screams in my ears—and I have never been tricked into thinking I heard your voice, not even by a whisper . . . Coming from above my shoulders, I continue to hear the sound of your steady breathing escaping from its source with a delicate, thrilling touch; and I have never written a lie . . .
*
The people whom children from respectable homes are forbidden to visit, those same children carefully watch each step those people take . . . When the sun had fully risen and the sunlight had reached the inner courtyard, Shashi sat at the threshold so that she could look up at the sky and listen to the peals of laughter from the children on the roof, and Shekhar stood leaning against the wall near her. But it suddenly occurred to him that a pair of eyes were watching them from above, and those eyes had the same cold, unblinking, scrutinizing quality that stones or cold-blooded animals had . . . When he stared hard up above, a few hands went up and drew back the hem of a sari or the edge of a scarf; the stony eyes moved away from him and fixed themselves on Shashi. Just once, Ved looked down into the courtyard and then gave a confused look straight ahead and moved away. Shekhar went back into his room and began pacing slowly; a little later, Shashi went inside, too, and lay down.
Much later—well into the afternoon—Shekhar heard Kusum wailing and he went into the courtyard to see. Later a threat quieted the wails, and then Kusum’s face appeared above the wall of the balcony and her lips were still trembling from her sobbing, but her unblinking eyes stared down below.
The balloons had been torn up . . .
There were several benefits to living on the fourth floor. The fourth floor could keep the world at bay, but the fourth floor also had a ceiling, and in the winter’s sun the ripples from the world down below rose higher and higher . . . Shekhar began to feel that the room which had once been a refuge had now become a prison, and they couldn’t stay there any longer. He knew that Shashi felt the same way, but they both acted as if they didn’t see it . . .
They couldn’t stay there any longer, but could they find any place to live in Lahore—Wouldn’t each place be the same—already was the same? But where else—and how?
In his list of potentials, Shekhar had a completely finished manuscript of ‘Our Society’, ‘The History of the Family’, ‘Society and Politics’, a few more essays, three or four stories, his two hands, his determination and—Shashi’s loving blessing—the shade of the saptaparni tree.
Again, the same circuit, of publisher after publisher . . . And this time with the mandatory celerity and without the crutch of his principles! That somehow, on whatever conditions, ‘Our Society’ and ‘The History of the Family’ bear fruit—not because he wanted the fruit, but because this was the means that he had chosen for that end . . .
But there were far more connective ties in society than he had imagined—wherever he went, he found publishers who were not only familiar with him but also with the history of both books and their faces had a thin, deformed smile which said they knew not only the creation but also their creator . . .
With the last bit of hope in his despair, he went back to the same editor who had given him ‘water’ and called it ‘leaves-and-flowers’—he had decided that getting ‘water’ was still a big thing!
The editor looked him over from head to toe as if he were assessing an impending disaster and readying himself for it.
‘I’ve brought a few things for you to consider—’
‘Well, you’ve done me a great favour—you can leave them here, and I—’
‘Look, it’s best to speak plainly. Do you want publishable things or not? I need something in return. And—’
With a suppressed disagreement, ‘You must be aware, our newsletter is a newsletter for families—it goes to their homes—’
‘So?’
‘Our subscribers are middle class.’
‘I understand, but—’
‘Which is why we also have to pay attention to which writers’ names are printed in our newsletter.’
It was no longer possible for Shekhar to take this as merely another indication that he was exposed! He said, ‘I understand. You spoke plainly, so thank you. But I am not insisting that you use my name. You can leave it unsigned, use another name, whatever you like.’
A little relieved and a little surprised, ‘Oh—good.’
‘And if it makes things easier, don’t take the stories and poems, just take the articles—these days articles are signed with pseudonyms or are printed anonymously because they are written by the editor himself—’
‘Oh—so you want me to take a beating—’
Laughing a little, Shekhar said, ‘If something I wrote gets attributed to you, then there is definitely a chance that you might take a beating—’
‘Nor does it help me if it gets out that you were the author—’
‘Right. But I am giving you complete authority. You can do whatever you want to the manuscript—’
Ultimately, it was decided that the manuscript of ‘Our Society’ would be turned over to the editor; after revising it, it would be published in parts, and if it appeared that the audience approved, it would be printed as a book—the book would carry the editor’s name, not the writer’s. The editor had complete freedom to add or subtract, change, publish or not publish. And in exchange for relinquishing all authority, Shekhar would either get 100 rupees two months after the book was printed or sixty rupees immediately; but if he wanted the money immediately, he would have to sign a contract in which all of this would be spelled out.
Witnesses were also deemed necessary for that; finally, the contract was prepared at the place where Shekhar first met the editor, and Shekhar placed his signature on it. When the editor took out the money and began to pay Shekhar, he said, ‘You fully understand the implication of the conditions that you have just agreed to, right? You cannot complain later if you disagree with the editorial decisions. I am doing all of this in good faith; you should take some satisfaction from the fact that at least your ideas will be partially published if not in full.’
Shekhar swallowed this bitter pill. The editor continued, ‘These days no one works on good faith any more. If tomorrow you begin to wonder why you handed your book over—’
Shekhar couldn’t take any more. He said, ‘If you’re worried that I will want to claim my authorship of the book later, then let me tell you that this is a baseless fear. I don’t believe that there will be anything left in the book after it is published that I will want to claim or for which I will be responsible. I’ve basically thrown the book down a well—and picked up the sixty rupees which were left there.’
The editor kept looking silently at Shekhar’s face. One of the two witnesses was a young man, and Shekhar thought that he could see anxiety mixed with sympathy in his face . . . Shekhar folded his hands in farewell and left.
Suddenly a voice called out to him from behind, ‘Excuse me—’
Shekhar turned around to look and saw the young man stumbling over himself to talk to him.
The young man looked all around and said, ‘My name is Ramakrishna. You remember Vidyabhushan—’
‘Which Vidyabhushan? The one who was in jail? He—’
‘Yes, that’s the one. We went to school together. He wrote to me about you, but why did you sell your manuscript?’
Succinctly, Shekhar said, ‘Because it was necessary. But what did Vidyabhushan write to you?’
‘You did the right thing. Your words have strength. Vidyabhushan wrote to me that you were very high-minded and that you had talent and determination. The nation has need of genius like yours.’
Shekhar laughed drily and said, ‘A very desperate need! And I, of money—’
Ramakrishna said, ‘If you were able to help us—’
‘In doing what?’
‘There are dozens of things. That’s why Vidyabhushan wrote about you. He said that because you have an interest in literature, you would be able to assist us in writing and publishing; so I found out where you live because I have connections to people in publishing. But if I have your permission, perhaps I could come to your place to talk—’
‘My place is in Gawalmandi on the fourth floor. Please come any time—’
Shekhar gave him his address and explained how to get there.
Ramakrishna spoke again, ‘You made a mistake giving up your book. If it was only a question of getting sixty rupees, then perhaps I—we—’
A little curious and a little hesitatingly, Shekhar said, ‘Who are “we”? Who are these benefactors who—’
‘We have an organization—we help all of our members as much as we are capable of—’
Seeing the light suddenly, Shekhar asked, ‘Are you a member of some revolutionary group?’
‘You could say that. We are social activists and among ourselves we consider it our duty to help each other—’
‘I have never known social activists to be providers of assistance. Where do you find the resources?’
‘From somewhere or another—but let’s talk more freely at your place—I can come, can’t I?’
‘Yes, whenever you like.’
‘Good. I will come by in a few days—’
Shekhar said goodbye.
Sixty rupees . . . was a significant thing because it could become the means to freedom . . . A means to freedom from the curse of imprisonment in a house where from all four sides—or rather, from every direction—came the coolness of the neighbours and even worse, the bitter cold!—because how could there be freedom without repaying debts or making arrangements for moving on! That tiny corner apartment which easily became a home when it found the shade of the saptaparni tree, shrank just as easily, because it had only known shade and more shade so far, and not suffocation of roots. The books were moved into a chest; the clothes, into a trunk—Shashi didn’t have very much yet!—and after he had returned the borrowed bedclothes, he brought back two thick, coarse blankets which could work as a bedroll . . . He had made all the other arrangements; the only thing that remained were the two mattresses because no decision had been reached about where they would go . . . The thought kept nagging at Shekhar that if they were going to move anyway, why not move so far away that the strings of the web all around them here couldn’t reach them; where things could be done peacefully, where Shashi could get some rest and get better, and where they could find some meaning to their lives . . . They didn’t have any wealth. They were prepared to start over from nothing. Why start over under the burden of debt? But he was also afraid at the same time that going too far might be dangerous for Shashi. A gentle feeling reminded him that a tree couldn’t flourish for long away from its natural habitat . . . Shashi was determined and she had forbearance, certainly, but . . . Sometimes he would think that when his nature and Shashi’s circumstances had thrown them into this cyclone where there was nothing other than spinning around and around, wandering, and struggle, then why not forget everything and the two of them could jump head first into this crazy, daring world; but then his worry about Shashi’s health made him reconsider. And so, withdrawing completely from the outside world, the friendliness between two lives continued to flourish in the two parts of the corner room.
Ramakrishna came two days later; he brought someone else with him. Shekhar took them to the sitting room part of his room and Shashi hid behind the corner.
Ramakrishna said, ‘We wanted to talk to you alone—’
Catching his drift, Shekhar said, ‘My sister is more trustworthy than I am—and she will help me as much as she can—’
‘Oh—then we will have to recruit her—we have a shortage of female volunteers—’
They started talking about work. Shekhar wanted to know so much about the organization, but at the time the demand to do something was substantially greater than the need for answers to his questions in his emotional condition, and when Ramakrishna said that they wanted to spread disaffection towards the British within the soldiers of the army so that the soldiers would mutiny and attempt to liberate India, he immediately agreed to write a forceful article that would help do that—and he was so excited that the words were already echoing in his mind’s ear . . .
Shashi gave her assent; the appeal was written in a day, and Ramakrishna came the following day and took it. At the same time, he gave Shekhar a few old leaflets and the party’s programme to read and said, ‘Please keep these in a safe place—’ meaning, these were proscribed materials.
And so Shekhar stayed on for two more days, and then two more, and then two more—and on the seventh day he went with Ramakrishna for four or five hours to use the duplicator in a house in a narrow alley in the city to get three or four thousand copies of the leaflet he had written.
Afterwards, they decided that Shekhar should stay for a few more days, and if it was impossible for them to live where they were, then Ramakrishna would make other arrangements somewhere in the city. Shekhar thought to himself, ‘This is all well and good, but how will we move after the money runs out?’ But he couldn’t say anything out loud . . .
*
Writing an autobiography is a kind of—it is full of arrogance: that there is something worth narrating, something giftable, worth preserving, memorable . . . It’s possible that that’s true, but who is an individual to claim this about himself? The mound of straw does not say about itself that there is life-giving grain in its womb—the grain says it when it gives strength to another body . . .
But am I simply writing an autobiography? Is this self-promotion? Doesn’t my heart still say, ‘You should hide that which is yours, which is essential, which nourished and anointed you!’ Don’t I still want the things which have given my life importance, because—perhaps—they could be gifts or need protection, to remain my own and take them with me, keep them secret; because publishing means distributing, which can be a share in prosperity, but how can I make shares of myself . . . And still I bare myself enthusiastically, because this is not an autobiography, it is merely an acceptance, a witness, a witness to my soul. ‘I belong to myself, but only as much as it means or shares the same grammar of I belong to so-and-so, and so-and-so, and so-and-so’—My worth is in acknowledging this debt, otherwise I am nothing, an accidental aggregate of atoms without reason or consequence!
Shekhar was not a renter in his new ‘home’, just a guest. Ramakrishna had explained that he couldn’t find separate accommodations despite much searching, and moreover it wasn’t appropriate to live in places where they might ask too many questions, because that was the most worrying part of their work, so their organization had decided that Shekhar would be given accommodations with a supporter, Shashi and he would both live there, and the food would be prepared at home, and if they wanted, they could eat in their rooms, otherwise they could eat their meals with the family. And they wouldn’t have to pay rent for the room; the supporters had given it as their donation to the organization. All Shekhar would have to do was come up with thirty rupees a month for their food . . .
Shekhar gradually realized that he was beginning a new life. His rebellious attitude towards society was just as radical, but because he had been so separate from society it was taking on a new form—a shapeless feeling was transforming into a rebellion—a feeling which he had vaguely felt before, but had become clearer over the ten months spent in jail and had now suddenly become solid having found a relationship with these new comrades—so solid and clear as if it were taking shape . . . Sometimes a terrifying doubt would well up within him that he was becoming a fool again because unconsciously his intellectual hatred was taking on a completely anti-intellectual and crude character which would crush his spirit and reduce it to a substance that would only produce poison, not fire . . . And then sometimes he would think that his completely passionate life had been unfolding on an airy background and would now become solid on a new, firm foundation and would find with truth a greater peace . . .
And so the days passed, and he grew increasingly entangled in the net cast by the underground movement. That entanglement brought satisfaction, contentment and also a secret pride that it was voluntarily careening into the abyss. There was a hope that taking on a danger like that also erased mistakes and so gave life significance. It was wrong to gamble, but when one knew that the dice were made of fire and that touching them would burn one’s hands and one still played, then didn’t that give some evidence in support of a person? Shekhar knew that a zealous revolutionary outlook could be very dangerous because it had the same foundation supporting it as a sky vine, whose roots were nowhere to be found and so it has to cannibalize itself—but he also held on to the hope that because he realized this basic weakness, he wouldn’t fall victim to it, and that his intellect would help him as much as possible and would fix itself to an empty rampart and fortify it . . .
There was one reality inside this illusory enclave of unreality that he held on to with unwavering hands—Shashi’s love. Beneath whose suppressed expression was Shekhar’s undeterred faith that her love was unknowable, greater than experience . . . This faith and this knowledge became such powerful realities that they were ungraspable—if Shekhar ever started thinking about them, he would immediately realize that it was the biggest unreality that was making even the earthly extraterrestrial . . .
Love is like a flowing river—it lacks the quality of constancy. Just as a river either breaks through any barriers with its internal force and picks up speed as it flows or creates a new course from the sediment it is carrying and goes around the barrier, so too does love either grind down or move forward—or begins to change—like the flow of a river . . .
And while floating in this profound unreality, Shekhar gradually understood that there were either barriers or fetters there, there was something lacking in that unfathomable infinity . . . He had immersed himself in new work; and he could see that Shashi was assisting him, that she was continually reading and compiling the sociological materials that he had abandoned midway through his studies and advancing them; he took that to mean that both of them were completely absorbed by what they were doing and were finding a significance to their lives, and the cement that would strengthen their significance was their propinquity, their cooperation and intimacy, their enormous love—this was the biggest truth in Shekhar’s life . . . But sometimes when their eyes suddenly met, Shekhar felt a vague discontent and irritation and would look away and the mental picture he had created would evaporate, and then suddenly he would get exasperated with himself because he was creating a breach and a doubt in their perfect existence . . . In order to wash his doubt away, he would try to get closer to Shashi, and in a few moments of extraordinary intimacy he would be overtaken by a concern for Shashi’s health and realize that she was still in pain on the inside and that she was ignoring her injuries because she didn’t want to see anything other than Shekhar, because there was an ever-present danger in her concentration that if she looked at anything else, everything would be scattered to the wind—like that cursed female prisoner of the tower who had to continuously weave (and unweave and reweave!) to stay alive, and if she ever looked at the reflection of the outside world in her mirror everything would go dark, dense and black and be destroyed6 . . . And as soon as he realized it, a fiery doubt awoke inside him; and its whiplike sting made his already confused love even more agitated. He felt as though he wanted to get even closer to Shashi than would have been possible, couldn’t have been possible, was unthinkable, because it was even closer than a nerve is to pain . . . the pain of love, or the love of pain—‘Beloved, I cannot bear the pain of your love . . .’
There wasn’t too much work involved in writing leaflets and pamphlets; Shekhar had more than enough time. Gradually he began to understand that the organization’s work didn’t stop at propaganda. Their various activities included weapon gathering, preparing bombs and all sorts of chemical research, the organization of secret societies and many more activities . . . The breadth of his knowledge of the organization’s activities was gradually growing, or was allowed to grow; he went from being a volunteer in the publishing operation to being something of a co-director, and as a consequence his knowledge about various areas of work, was seen as natural for that work . . . And for the work at the heart of the propaganda, which was the spreading of consciousness and political discontent among women and students, it was seen as so natural to ask Shashi to help him, that he never even thought about it needing a decision; he just did it . . . She began writing a little, too, and helped with the typesetting. A few times she even secretly distributed the leaflets . . . But then (and who knows whose opinion it was) it was decided that such games of hide-and-seek could be played by others, and therefore, as much as possible, Shashi should continue to do only legal work and enter the societies of male and female students to do so . . .
That’s exactly what started happening. Shekhar would sometimes go to the societies of male students, because in order to produce effective propaganda, it was important to know something about the intellectual make-up of the people the propaganda was designed to reach, although he wouldn’t take part in any of the business. He would do something else. Shashi would go to the meetings of the female students or the women, and upon returning she would tell Shekhar everything that happened, who said what and who gave what response . . . Sometimes her eyes would suddenly glow with enthusiasm, and she would begin to elaborate on the speeches that were made during the meeting; she would be so fully engaged in it that Shekhar was overjoyed and thought that Shashi was happy and content, that she felt no shortage of significance in her life . . . Sometimes he was surprised to learn that Shashi had gone further with her natural, refined intellect than he had gone with his reading, logic and deliberation. And then he would stop and stare at her in bewilderment, and Shashi’s ideas and words would echo in the illuminated cavern of his mind . . .
‘Our morality is a territorial morality—north India is on this side of the Vindhyas, and on the other side is the southern peninsula—our moral lines are the same. One side is the truth, and on the other side is the wrong . . . And that’s why our morals are lifeless; their ultimate standard is not some living truth, but a mere line, a dead and beaten custom . . .
‘At the root of these morals is a prohibition, and so they are only negative morals. Let us conduct a review of all of the sacred smritis in the world; let us set aside those parts that are idiosyncratic or different as secondary, and then we will be left with three common aphorisms as our universal ethics—that we be content, speak the truth and avoid incest. If we go deeper, what do these tell us? They are three great prohibitions—the first is a prohibition on man’s natural avarice, the second is a prohibition against his natural fear, and the third is a prohibition against his natural sexual desires! Why is prohibition the root of all ethics—why can’t our morals be greater, why not instead of repressing our natural tendencies, make use of them—drink them in, devour them?’
The echo gradually dissipates, and in the stillness after the echo a hollow sound emerges, and suddenly a tight knot chokes Shekhar’s heart and tells him that all of his moral conclusions have been based on ignoring a fundamental truth and are therefore pointless—pointless and inconsequential is the intellect which leaves no room for the love of pleasure!
Receiving encouragement from Shekhar, Shashi gradually began attending ever-larger assemblies, in place of the meetings of the female students, Shashi went to the assemblies of both male and female students in the college, and then in addition to the students, the assemblies of the larger public, too. Shekhar wouldn’t go himself; he would wait for the return of an excited Shashi, and when she did return, the sight of her glowing face would make him so happy that it was as if he had returned with the spoils of victory himself . . . In her excitement he found no indication that would have let him know whether the red, warm glow on her face was glowing as a result of victory and joy or whether it was the result of some hidden turmoil; and in his excitement he didn’t take care to notice that the tension in Shashi’s voice was not directly related to the meeting or the significance of the issue discussed . . . Evening fell and the darkness grew thick. The isolating feeling of the two rooms was like the suffocating clutches of gnarled roots, and because of the unusual quiet from Shashi’s room, Shekhar got up and peeped inside and saw Shashi lying and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling . . . Sometimes he still did not understand what was happening; and other times he would be filled with the dread that Shashi was still unwell and that she might suddenly leave his side and go away—but he could never think past this point—the hypnotic charms of his work and also of his love dimmed his ability to see beyond the limits of a particular boundary . . .
In this spellbound foolishness, Shekhar prepared Shashi for a public rally in which there would be several speakers. The current wave of the Non-Cooperation Movement was at its height, and no matter where or what kind of assembly it was, political issues were certain to come up; that was why members of underground organizations began taking part in these assemblies and were able through them to enlarge their circle of influence and increase their membership. Shekhar prepared Shashi to speak about the primary topic of this particular assembly, ‘Equal Rights for Women’, and decided to go with her, too, because new, related issues could be addressed through the assembly and relationships could be established with like-minded fellow travellers . . .
Shekhar was sitting in one of the back rows on one side of the stage in the assembly, and his mind seemed to be separated into two different planes of existence—one was listening to the speakers and the other was gauging the pulse of the collective audience—the pulse of its collective form as well as the differentiated individuals within it, measuring the extent of its agreement and disagreement . . .
Shashi rose to speak—she slowly moved forward, standing up with a gentle push of the fingers of one hand on the table, and took in the gathered crowd with a quick scan, and then Shashi began speaking.
Shekhar observed everything with a redoubled vigilance and he could tell that as soon as Shashi stepped forward a current of interest and excitement went through the crowd, as if its collective consciousness leaned forward, and at the same time, Shashi shrank in direct proportion and took a few steps back, and her helplessness at having to say something necessary produced a look of dread on her face . . . A slight feeling of pride welled up within him; Shashi was so far above them all despite being surrounded by them, so unattainable! Those whose inner lives are fulfilling, and expansive, can remain detached and aloof from external concerns . . . And wasn’t it this expectation of external fulfilment that was taunting the audience, wasn’t that the attractive force that was drawing them closer, wasn’t it . . .
Shekhar was so absorbed by reading each individual face in the assembly that he forgot to listen; the waves of Shashi’s voice—strong, calm, but affected by some internal vibration—lapped at his insides even though he wasn’t paying attention, and as long as the voice continued in that way, Shekhar was reassured and didn’t feel the need to understand the content—
But what was this slightest of tremors in her voice, its heaviness begins to dissipate, and where had this sharp rebellion come from to undermine her calm—
‘It’s easy to take pride in exemplars, the Hindu ideal of marriage, the obligations of householders, the Hindu ideal of the faithful wife—but is the water beneath our mossy pride still vital or has it turned fetid? There are two sides to domestic duties; but in today’s world the man gives nothing, forget companionship, not even compassion, and woman has become a mere instrument of man’s pleasure; woman is a thing, which can be destroyed in the fire of his lust whenever he wants, however he wants, wherever he wants! And there is no appeal7 for this situation, because if the woman ever makes a complaint, she gets a firm answer, “Why do you think people get married?” This is not an ideal, it is the death of an ideal, a heap of lifeless bones in skin that has been dead for ages—’
Shekhar thinks Shashi is distant from this assembly but she is absolutely not distant from her own words—other people speak from outside the topic or from above it, but it was like a fire burning inside her—should she have been speaking with such intensity? But if not, then what was the value of speaking about it—if you didn’t have light to offer, the rest was darkness—
He is startled back into noticing the crowd—the people weren’t listening, they were smirking—and the determination in Shashi’s eyes was scanning the fickle audience—to find somewhere, something on which it could settle—suddenly, a cackle breaks out in the audience somewhere and then the whole crowd erupts in laughter, and the roar is provoked by either a few whistles or Shashi’s screaming voice, ‘It’s fine. This is all that you have to offer. Your ideals, this heartless, stupid insult—’
What had happened to the assembly? And was that really Shashi? No, Shashi, no, there was no point to fighting with the audience, confronting the audience’s stupidity was totally stupid, it would only—
When Shekhar saw Shashi’s fully flushed face, he jumped on to the stage and began pulling her to get her away from the middle of the uproarious disorder in all directions, but it was as if Shashi didn’t recognize him at all and only recognized the audience and her wounded, embarrassed womanhood . . . Somehow, Shekhar pulled her backwards, off the stage, and took her to a room in the back, where he forced her to sit on a chair while he slammed the door facing the stage shut, and when the cacophonous din died down Shashi stood back up, but Shekhar took her outside; he caught a passing tonga and seated Shashi in it and then got in himself. ‘Let’s go—’ he said and answered the ‘Where to, mister?’ he heard and noticed that Shashi’s body was still trembling, just like a bowstring after releasing an arrow . . . he sat perfectly still, and only after they got to their destination and he had paid the tonga-wallah and he had given Shashi his arm for support did he say with gentle concern, ‘Shashi—’
It was as if something had broken inside Shashi, she stumbled and Shekhar’s supporting arm realized that she had fallen unconscious . . .
As he laid her down in the room, Shekhar could not have imagined that unconsciousness might be a gift from the gods, that they shower down flowers of forgetfulness as their gift of relief from unbearable tension, that the enfeebled body of an individual gets rest in that magic-drenched sleep and on waking, is renewed; as he sprinkled drops of water on Shashi and fanned her face with a notebook, Shekhar couldn’t think at all, the external wave of fear suddenly grew into a total panic . . . The empty grip of his fingers seemed to be massaging the bones of nothingness . . .
Shashi suddenly opened her lost eyes; she recognized him and stiffened and said, ‘Do you know why they were laughing, Shekhar?’ And she lost consciousness again.
That external wave grew until it devoured him. His arms began to flail about in a vain, destructive flurry, the empty grip of his fingers seemed to be grinding the bones of nothingness . . . Shekhar left a glass of water next to Shashi, loosened the clothes that she was wearing, and placed a sheet over her; then he took one look around and went outside—back towards the meeting . . . The audacity of those barbaric animals—they dare to laugh at Shashi, at Shashi, at Shashi’s life and all of her efforts . . . How dare they laugh at her right in front of my face—
But when he got back to the meeting place it was already empty. The assembly had dispersed . . . He stood there for a while before he went back; when he got to the street outside, he suddenly heard the sound of someone laughing. When he turned around to look, he saw two suited young gentlemen walking and laughing. He didn’t know why or what about, but their laughter stung him; he walked towards them and intentionally shoved them as he walked between them.
‘Hey—what do you think you’re doing—’
That’s all that Shekhar needed! He snapped back a response, ‘What about it?’ and punched one of the gentlemen. In an instant the two of them were locked in a fight; the gentleman’s friend looked on in shock. But when he realized that his friend wouldn’t win on his own, he got ready to get involved, but by then a crowd had gathered; the fight didn’t continue. People pulled the two apart, and while the two gentlemen started explaining all that had happened, Shekhar stepped back and stared everyone down before he walked away . . . Gradually it dawned on him that he had just done something foolish, but at the same time he felt relaxed, the tension had dissolved . . . He quickened his pace back home, because as the stress of the tension lifted it was replaced by a concern for Shashi.
Shashi had regained consciousness, but when Shekhar touched her he felt her burning up with fever. He placed one hand on Shashi’s forehead and sat down by the head of the cot.
‘Forgive me, Shekhar—’
‘. . .’
‘I don’t know what happened to me—this must be what they call hysteria.’8
‘No, hysteria is what I had.’ Shekhar laughs a weak laugh. ‘I just fought with two gentlemen.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. While you were—sleeping.’
‘Why?’
‘If I knew why, it wouldn’t be hysteria, right? It’s called hysteria because you don’t know why. But Shashi, Shashi, Shashi—’ Shekhar was at a loss for words. He began caressing Shashi’s hair, and when Shashi placed her hand on his he became perfectly still . . .
‘I won’t make this mistake again, Shashi; it was a false pride that made me want to show off my fortune to other people; without realizing that it’s only fortune when a person is complete despite not having anything to show off . . . May your days be pure, Shashi, each moment be pure; Shashi . . .’
*