the blind alley

Gurmukh Singh Jeet

        Despite numerous efforts, inder could not shake off the effects of yesterday’s happenings. So far he had been spared worries in his life, but the very first impact had sent him off the rails. The more he tried to forget the unfortunate incident, the deeper grew the furrows left by it on his mind.

Although he was not fond of seeing films very often, he thought that seeing one today might divert his mind and soothe him, so after his dinner he said to his youngest daughter, ‘Nirmal, tell your mother that I shall return late in the night.’ And quietly he set out of his house. In his ears the words of the Superintendent were resounding still: ‘Inder, if you want to continue in service, you must be very careful. I don’t require good-for-nothing fellows like you, I tell you!’

‘Good-for-nothing! Good-for-nothing! Am I really so?’ he kept wondering.

Only a few days ago, after the accounts of the company were audited, his Superintendent had been all praise for his work, which was indeed flawless. And yet what did he say yesterday? Oh! How strange these people are! And fickle in their opinions! At one time they hold one opinion and at another time quite a different one. It takes them no time to change their minds, weather-cocks! Whosoever works strenuously, slaving ten hours instead of the official eight, is a Yes-man like I am, Inder thought. Such a slave takes scoldings from his boss; never asks for an increment or for an enhancement of his dearness allowance, even though his children are starving and often he himself has to attend office on an empty stomach. Yet these are the men who are regarded as worthy and patted on the back like dogs. A strange standard indeed!

Walking slowly in a gloom, Inder reached the picture house. Today neither the flying end of a gold-bordered sari nor a colourful blouse could attract his attention. He was completely lost in himself.

The house was full, packed to capacity. Although his eyes were fixed on the screen, his heart was sunk in abysmal depths. While people followed the story with rapt attention, his mind was wandering elsewhere. The colourful scenery, the popular music and the young heroine in the picture, all failed to stir his emotions. Inder sat through the picture brooding. So absorbed was he in his own thoughts that he was unaware for a few minutes that the show was over. When he came to himself, he staggered home at midnight. His heart was heavy as before.

The lamp was fluttering hazily. His wife, tired of waiting, had fallen half-asleep in a chair. Her eyelids drooped with drowsiness but her ears were alert for the opening of the door. Her dishevelled dark hair could not conceal the fine molding and delicacy of her features. He watched her for a while from the window, framed in the faint light, small, fragile, in her green poplin. Shakuntla was one of those women whose ideal is to serve their husbands at all costs and in all circumstances. Hearing his step, she rose readily to open the door. He walked in and threw himself on his bed without uttering a word. But unable to sleep, he tossed restlessly.

Time and again he relived the day and was convinced of his own innocence. The matter for which he was scolded yesterday, was not his fault, he thought. Even a healthy, well-fed man, working from 9 in the morning till 7 or 8 in the evening in the heat of summer, might get confused. How much more reason for a man like himself, who never even saw a cup of milk except on those rare occasions when it was served to his children. Butter, he could only think of as an ingredient of offerings to gods.

He always worked very hard, very conscientiously. But last evening, while totalling the account, his pencil had put the digit 7 instead of 9. It was really a slip of the pen and no blunder, yet that was precisely the reason for which he had had to swallow so much against his self-respect.

It was not a major error, either, especially when he would have corrected it the very next morning, while double-checking the accounts as usual. But misfortunes attended him. He did not get the opportunity. The Superintendent called for those very papers and his eye eventually fell on the mistake. The silly clerical slip which would not have occurred at all, had he not been in a particular hurry last evening to leave the office and take home medicine for his ailing child.

With such thoughts roving in his mind and a growing feeling of uneasiness, Inder was exhausted. Within him, a storm was raging. His breast heaved, as the earth heaves with lava before a volcano erupts. Within him clashed opposite currents of thought.

As the turmoil increased, he rose from his bed, then lay down and rose again. But feeling that many hours were left before day-break, he lay down again, his mind immersed in confusion.

He was helpless. The Superintendent’s words had left a sting, but who was there to sympathise? Continuously he thought, ‘They draw fat salaries for themselves, but for us it is always a fixed salary: Rs. 59 and As. 15. The employer is only concerned with multiplying his gross profits; little does he care for those who help him to run the business and accumulate wealth. Like the famous Shaikh Chillie, he cuts the very branch on which he is perching. Intoxicated with his wealth, the shrieks of a starving child, the groan of an ailing infant, the sight of a youth, torn with anxiety, fail to touch his heart. His riches and his houses are all built on the sweat and toil of down-trodden people like me. Cruel, stone-hearted, callous!

‘If his heart is not moved at the sight of a sick child, is he fit to be called a human being? Surely not! He is a cannibal. He is unconcerned if someone is dying with cold outside his house, as long as he himself is wrapped in warm clothes, eating and drinking of the best. These haughty men!’

With such furious thoughts creating havoc in his mind, Inder trembled with anger.

His soul was not yet so degraded, he told himself, that he would own defeat in the first encounter. His sinews had still some of the energy of youth left in them.

Thus does the wick of a dying lamp burn brighter before it finally goes out. A new confidence flickered in his otherwise feeble physical frame. He was still mentally vigorous enough to clear his conscience, he decided, and he would not put up with this mean and unjust treatment. It was intolerable. For a moment he wavered indecisively between the prospects of starvation and of continuing in service, to swallow insults and humiliation. Then he chose starvation and all the consequences. The die was cast!

Yes, he would resign his job on the morrow.

After taking this fateful decision, he could no longer lie in bed. He resolved to write his resignation letter then and there. Rising he searched for a match box in the darkness. Sincere efforts rarely go in vain. His hand touched the box and he lit the lamp. But the light flickered and went out. The oil had run out! He found himself helpless against such odds.

Exhausted, he again groped his way back to his bed, staggering a little with weakness. He heard his child coughing in the other room; and all at once his thoughts took a new turn. Inder pondered anew his decision to resign! By resigning his job, was he not throwing his son into the jaws of death? Was he not leaving his wife to confront the battle of life? Was he not a deserter? Was he not preparing for himself the slippery path for his own fall into the bottomless abyss? Was not his resignation his own death warrant? Good heavens! he thought, he had been about to take a wrong step! He owed responsibility to his family, and he had been about to neglect it. For himself he could face starvation, but what of his wife and children? A cruel, callous society was unlikely to feed them, or to treat them with care. And the result would only be frightful and ignominious death! The thoughts of tragedy again gnawed at him.

‘Daddy! Daddy! Get up! Even the sun is out. Hurry up and go to office,’ cried his daughter Nimmi. She was voicing the words of her mother and knocking at the door of her father’s bedchamber. In the morning sun he could see the tender eager face, with moist dark hair curling loosely at her temple.

Inder was startled. He was unaware that the whole night had passed. Rubbing his eyes with his palms, he climbed out of bed. On his face was only dejection and disappointment, no trace remained of his vigorous revolt. ‘You are a family man Inder,’ he said to himself, ‘you have a devoted wife and children to look after!’ From some inner reccess of his heart he heard a cry of despair, but he stifled it, stifled his self-respect, his hopes of proud action.

With a little whisper of submission, quickly he washed his face, proceeded to don his clothes and swallowed his breakfast. In a little while, taking his cycle, with a bundle of files tied on to the carrier, he was seen peddling along the road to his office. The day stretched ahead of him, lengthening, in his mind, into weeks, years, a lifetime. A long, dreary road and no way out.