*
As they walked towards Khingra Gate, Chetan told Lala Govindaram again that he would try to come that evening, but he didn’t promise. If he hadn’t seen Lala Govindaram he would definitely have dropped by to see him, but now, by good fortune, he’d set eyes on him, so it was possible he wouldn’t go, because his father was coming that day. If his father had come, he might have to go out somewhere . . . and he asked him about the political goings-on in Jalandhar.
Lala Govindaram told him that there might be an agreement between Mahatma Gandhi and the government, and then the Congress would run for Assemblies and Parliament. If the Congress were to decide to run for Parliament, then his friends said he should stand for Parliament from Jalandhar . . . ‘Hunar Sahib is insisting,’ he said, ‘that since I’ve spent the better part of my life in jails, I should also stand for election. He says this is also a type of struggle. As long as the nation doesn’t become fully independent, the struggle will go on, whether it’s in jails or Assemblies.’
‘But what would you speak about in the Assembly meetings?’ Chetan asked suddenly.
‘Right now, there’s really no need to speak,’ said Lala Govindaram ji. ‘Right now it’s only necessary to raise your hand for “yes” or “no” votes when the leader calls out. Tomorrow, if Mahatma Gandhi tells us to empty the Assemblies and fill the jails, we need such men who will abandon their Assembly seats without hesitation and go and settle in at the jails. After thinking about all this, I’ve decided to stand for Assembly. No other man from Jalandhar could beat me,’ he said and laughed slightly. ‘Hunar Sahib assured me that he’d come from his village during the election days and stay in Jalandhar, and he’d recite a brand new poem about the election at every meeting.’
*
They’d reached Khingra Gate and although Lala Govindaram insisted that Chetan go with him as far as Sain Das High School’s primary branch, and head over to Kot Kishanchand via Qila Mohalla and Puriyan Mohalla, Chetan didn’t want to take such a roundabout route coming back from Kot Kishanchand; he’d just go through Puriyan Mohalla, walk through Bohar Wala Bazaar and return home. He promised that if it didn’t get too late, he’d come by his room, even if it was just for a few minutes. And he held out his hand.
Lala Govindaram shook his hand fondly, tapped him on the back, and then went by Khingra Gate, as Chetan set out straight for Adda Hoshiarpur.
34
Adda Hoshiarpur was not far from Khingra Gate, and the sloping road from Puriyan Mohalla came out a little ahead of it. As Chetan set out after shaking hands with Lala Govindaram, he thought of that sloping road—it brought back so many bittersweet memories. He’d walked up and down it so many times—he would walk all around for miles just to pass below Kunti’s window, just to catch a glimpse of her . . . and the strange thing was that after so many years, the powerful desire of his college days which had brought him running from miles away was still just as real, and he loved passing beneath her window just as much today.
But Kunti was a widow now. Why did Chetan want to see her again? Perhaps he didn’t want to see her so much as to gain contact with those joyful days that had passed by as if in a dream—yet, just as in a dream, his sweet memories had evaporated as well . . . Kunti . . . the immutable symbol of his bashful love, even after becoming a widow, she was engraved on his mental canvas with her innocent charm . . . Maybe his love had not matured, but Kunti’s married life would continue—Chetan had thought—her life would be successful—he’d feel happy to see her happy. Then he recalled how, after Kunti’s wedding, he’d gone with Anant to Puriyan Mohalla, and Kunti, laden with her jingling jewellery and newly-wed’s attire, was filling water at the well with a friend. Chetan had chased after Anant, calling out loudly, with Kunti in earshot, ‘You’ve got the energy of a newly-wed, bhai, how can I catch you now?’ And as soon as she’d seen him, she’d started; the well wheel fell from her hand and the bucket dropped smack in the water with a whirr . . .
The strange thing was that the moment he thought of Kunti, Chetan felt alone in the middle of the crowded bazaar. Suddenly he didn’t notice any of the diverting sights and sounds. Every memory of those days spent on the wings of his first love floated before his eyes. He was walking along the side of the street just so he could spend time alone re-living those happy memories. Perhaps it had rained more on the Company Bagh and Mandi side of town, because over by Khingra Gate there wasn’t any mud and the street was clean.
. . . The full bucket of water had fallen into the water so hard that the rope snapped, and when the bucket broke away, the empty rope snapped back and wrapped itself backwards on the wheel. As Kunti jumped down from the plinth to avoid getting hit by the broken end of the rope, she laughed hysterically. When her friend leapt down after her and tried to catch her and smack her for her mischief, Kunti gazed into Chetan’s eyes. She laughed, sprang ahead of her friend like a doe, and ran off glancing backwards . . .
‘What difference would it have made to the Creator if he’d let those buds blossom a few more days,’ thought Chetan. ‘No matter how much greenery there is in the garden, if there are no buds peeking between leaves, laughing cheekily, there is nothing . . .’ But the Creator had completely dried up the stream of her laughter . . . and he let out a deep sigh as he recalled that scorching summer afternoon when the sindoor was wiped from the parting in Kunti’s hair, when her bangles were smashed, and when her laughter and smiles were forever locked away . . . when she had walked out barefoot in the scorching heat, wearing a white sari, for her last glimpse of the body at the cremation ground (that had been, until the day before, her husband, the father of her tiny child), she was silent, wounded to the quick . . . How thin she’d grown. Her face was pale as snow; all one noticed was her long nose and her eyes wandering in the boundless void . . . He could remember how she’d looked then as though he’d just seen her—her empty eyes, her long, thin nose, her colourless face, the set of her narrow hips, and the shocked desolation of her gaze—all of it came back to him in the tiniest details, not one gesture was out of place. Having taken her final glimpse of the body, she moved back a few steps, bowed over her husband’s feet, and then walked back, just as she’d come, still and lifeless . . . and Chetan wished he could lie down on the burning earth beneath those soft, flower-like feet and not allow even the smallest bit of heat to touch them . . . ‘Can those feet still leap from the plinth of the well the way they used to?’ wondered Chetan. ‘Can those lips giggle in that same way and can that waist double over with laughter? Perhaps never again’ . . . and he sighed deeply again . . . and just then the sound of soft laughter came to his ears; he started and lifted his head—his heart pounded—it was Kunti . . .
*
Lost in his bittersweet memories, Chetan had arrived at that same slope near the road from Puriyan Mohalla which passed by Kunti’s husband’s press, and where he and his friend Guccho had sat waiting for the funeral bier on the front steps. Kunti was standing outside, about to walk down the steps of the house across from the slope. She was talking and laughing with a woman . . . She was not looking in Chetan’s direction, but he would recognize that voice and that laugh anywhere.
Before Chetan could reach her, Kunti had said goodbye to the woman and departed. Chetan had thought she’d cross the street and come back towards her house. After her husband’s death she’d gone back to live with her parents. But she didn’t turn; she stayed on the same side of the street and set out towards Adda Hoshiarpur.
Chetan walked on with a pounding heart. He hadn’t seen her face. She wore a simple white sari. She’d grown a bit plumper than before. But she was definitely Kunti, Chetan was sure of that. He thought of walking ahead and then turning and looking back at her. In the old days, he would have done just that. But Kunti was a widow now. He didn’t have the courage. He continued along his side of the street, following her at some distance. She walked across the crossroads at Adda Hoshiarpur and continued straight. They reached the Gurukul at the Arya Samaj Tem
ple. Chetan felt like going inside and sitting in the library for a bit. How many times had he heard Swami Satyadev’s stories in that yard, how many evenings had he spent sitting and reading newspapers in that library? But Kunti continued ahead. Chetan had thought perhaps she’d turn left and go towards Devi Talab on the other side of the gate. But she continued straight towards Kot Kishanchand. Chetan kept wanting to hurry up and get ahead so he could get a sidelong glance of her; it also occurred to him that he should walk on the other side of the street . . . but for some reason his legs felt locked in place; neither could he walk ahead a few steps, nor could he get ahead of her, nor could he cross over to her side of the street. He continued at the same distance behind her, and at the same pace. His brain had completely shut down. His gaze remained fixed upon her ordinary white sari, and his entire body felt taut with excitement at the thought that perhaps by accident she’d turn and catch a glimpse of him. But there was no crowd, the street was empty, and Kunti walked along wrapped up in her own thoughts.
In the chowk outside Kot Kishanchand, she suddenly stopped to greet a woman coming from the other direction, and again Chetan heard her laughing.
The two of them were chatting and joking when Chetan passed them and walked on ahead at the same pace. But how could he turn to look? He simply didn’t have the nerve. He looped around and turned towards the yard of Kot Kishanchand, and then he looked up briefly. It was Kunti . . . her face had filled out a little, but she still had that same scar shaped like the new moon on her forehead, those same large, round eyes, and that same pointed chin—just like Sulochna’s. She wore neither powder nor rouge on her face, but she was radiant with laughter. It was a simple straightforward laughter, completely spontaneous. Just then Kunti lifted her eyes and glanced towards him. But Chetan looked away quickly. He turned. He wanted to walk up the steps of Rajat’s home but his door was locked, so he went on towards Seth Hardarshan’s mansion.
35
Chetan looked back once more before entering Seth Hardarshan’s bungalow—Kunti was gone. Perhaps she had come to Kot Kishanchand to visit a relative or a friend . . . ‘She was happy, she was laughing . . . perhaps looking after her son has helped her forget her sorrows,’ thought Chetan. That one image of Kunti was forever engraved in his mind, when he had seen her at the cremation ground . . . and because of his great sentimentalism and foolishness, he had thought that she’d remain sad and depressed forever after . . . but time heals all wounds. It can help man forget immense sorrow . . . so why wasn’t Chetan able to forget his own? Why had his wounds not healed? Why did they reopen at the slightest provocation? Chetan had no answer to his questions.
Vir Sen was wandering in the yard of the bungalow; now he walked abruptly up to Chetan and stood silently. Chetan turned and greeted him, then began to stroll about the yard with him.
Vir Sen was Seth Hardarshan’s younger brother. He was tall and skinny; God knows what his father must have been thinking when he gave him the name Vir Sen—‘brave warrior’—when he was born. He looked as though a strong puff of wind would blow him away. He’d returned from abroad just a few years before, but he didn’t work at all. Whenever Chetan was in Jalandhar and walked in the direction of Kot Kishanchand, he sometimes visited Seth Hardarshan’s bungalow as well. Vir Sen would be quietly strolling by the bungalow or seated on a round cane chair staring at the ceiling. Sometimes he’d also find him out in the street—walking along one side or the other—lost in deep thought. He always wore fine clothing—a shirt and trousers—but his shirt had no collar, and from a distance he looked like a Christian priest. His complexion was not dark like that of South Indians, but it was a shade darker than the usual Punjabi colouring. His features were sharp and he had thin lips. If his body were to fill out a bit, he’d be handsome, like Seth Hardarshan. Chetan used to think he must have spent less time studying in England, than he did enjoying himself, and that’s why his health was so poor. One day, he’d asked him in conversation if, while in England he’d only studied or had seen other sides of life as well? He’d answered him with just one sentence in English: ‘If you throw me in the ocean, how can I not grab a board?’
The people of Kot Kishanchand considered him crazy, and Chetan had never seen him talking to anyone in the Rajat family or the Sondhi family across the way. But when his middle brother Shashi or his elder brother Hardarshan were not at home, Chetan would come and sit by him. He didn’t talk quickly, but when he did begin to speak, he did so with great enthusiasm. Chetan had once asked the middle brother why Vir Sen didn’t do any work, and he’d responded that his health had always been poor. In England he’d always had a fever. The doctors worried about his weak lungs, so they’d brought him back home. He wasn’t interested in business and he wasn’t able to complete any degree. Seth Hardarshan’s business was flourishing, so he’d told Vir Sen that he should just eat, drink, enjoy himself and get healthy. Vir Sen was married and even had a child. But from the looks of him you wouldn’t think he was a man who could keep a wife or father a child.
Vir Sen was at that moment in a great temper—as soon as he saw Chetan, he started to speak in English—‘Revolution . . . revolution . . . revolution, it’s the only answer to all of India’s ills. The Congress screams, “Long live the revolution!” But those people don’t want a revolution. What revolution means is that “down” goes “up”. May the power go to those who have been ground down by poverty, starvation, unemployment and illiteracy for centuries. Revolution is what happened in Russia, when the power truly came into the hands of the poor and the labourers. This won’t be a revolution; it will be a compromise. Their people are forging a compromise with the government. They’re thinking of running for Assemblies. Will this bring about revolution? Never! It will be a compromise between the businessmen of two different nations. Even if, for appearance’s sake, the leaders of the people go into the Assemblies, the true power will remain in the hands of the capitalists. Just you watch . . .’
Vir Sen walked excitedly around the yard a few times, then began to speak again, ‘People think I’m crazy; they’ve kept me ill, they don’t let me do any work. In reality, they are frightened of me, they’re afraid of my ideas. They think I didn’t spend time with the right sort of people in England, that I hung around with communists, that I became a Russian agent; they fear that if I become independent, I’ll start a revolution in India . . .’
Chetan stood off to one side, looked this ‘revolutionary’ over from head to toe and laughed to himself. But Vir Sen did not notice Chetan’s critical gaze. He kept pacing excitedly. After another round of the yard, he continued, ‘But I’m not a communist, are there even any communists here? What I’m saying is what any person with eyes can see . . . the Congress will go into the Assemblies, and they’ll fight after they go there. Then they’ll develop a taste for power! How will they bring revolution after that? Why would the English leave behind such a large empire of their own volition? Only violent revolution can rip them out and cast them into the sea. They’ll only leave of their own accord if they see something in it for themselves. The Englishman is a businessman, he’ll only leave after striking up a compromise with the businessmen of this nation . . . and do you think the Congress is an organization of the people? The people are a façade! At its core are businessmen. Where do those lakhs of rupees for the Congress come from? The businessmen of this country donate them—this struggle for independence is a fight between this country’s business interests and that country’s . . . these businessmen will start a revolution . . . long live the revolution . . .’ He shook his head with displeasure and laughed.
‘But you are also a Baniya, a businessman . . .’ Chetan began.
‘The Baniyas are seated inside!’ he said, turning suddenly and pointing towards the drawing room. ‘I am an independent thinker!’
And without looking at Chetan, Vir Sen began to walk in circles again. Chetan stayed there for a few moments, then smiled and walked into the drawing room. Shashi was sitting on the
mat in front. A fan spun above, and to the left, next to the door, some people were seated on couches with teapoys placed before them, writing out lists of some kind.
Shashi was the second of the three brothers; he was a bit shorter than his elder and younger brothers, his lips were plump, and he was much fairer than the other two. He had a round chubby face. As a child, he must have genuinely looked like the moon, which was why his parents had called him Shashi. He was a businessman with a cheerful nature. He had no especial interest in social activities and had left independent thinking to his younger brother while he himself looked after all the business.
‘When did you come from Lahore?’ asked Shashi.
‘Not from Lahore. I’ve just returned from Shimla.’
‘From Shimla?’
And Chetan told him with embarrassment of his stay in Shimla, and added, ‘I’ve come here after a long time and I’m leaving again soon. I thought I’d come by to see you.’
‘You did a very good thing. My brother has mentioned you many times. He’s a great fan of yours,’ Shashi laughed.
‘Is he at home, or has he gone out somewhere?’ asked Chetan.
‘He’s at home; he’s resting. He’ll come down shortly.’
In the midst of this, Chetan kept staring at the lists that were being prepared by the three or four deeply engrossed men seated in the room, who kept interrupting Shashi with questions. After a little while, Chetan asked, ‘Are you preparing for the municipal election?’
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 31
