In the City a Mirror Wandering

by Upendranath Ashk

  And now he felt all his suffocation disappear and his spirits lighten. He went and lay down on the bed. The wick had burned down again, so he raised it. He stared at it for a moment. He thought about how countless scientists had laid down their lives for just this light. If mankind were to be freed from this world, if men kept the attainment of release as their goal, considering the world to be an illusion, then perhaps they would still be living in jungles, wandering about naked! But those attempting to improve life, those desiring to attain victory over death in this short life had discovered enormous power in hate; they’d invented countless things: trains, running water, electricity, radio—so many things. Generations of scientists laboured over conveniences man doesn’t even have to think about nowadays, things he easily consumed . . . those scientists had thought not of death but of life . . . and he too would think about life.

  Chetan turned over. He should go to sleep . . . he hadn’t slept well for several nights. He hadn’t slept for three nights during Neela’s wedding, and he’d been up all the night before, and he’d been walking around all day. He would get sick . . . he tried to concentrate again, he thought he’d made a very important decision. He should fall asleep now.

  But sleep was miles away. His eyes had stopped aching long ago. He opened them . . . he felt as though he’d just woken from a deep sleep. His eyes weren’t tired and his mind didn’t feel heavy . . . there had been no point in coming to Jalandhar. Wouldn’t it have been better if he hadn’t come for Neela’s wedding? He had been in Shimla, and Shimla is quite far from Jalandhar, and he had been there for work; Neela was not his wife’s actual sister, just her cousin. And his wife was there anyway; there was no need for him to have come. If he hadn’t come, Neela would have gone to Rangoon and the distance in time and space would have kept his sorrow suppressed deep inside him. It wouldn’t have come bubbling up again like this. Chanda had started to study. He was content. What had he got out of coming here? Sorrow, pain, frustration—with himself and with his environment as well! He wouldn’t think about Neela any more. She was married now. What could he do now? He recalled his final meeting with Neela and felt as though a sharp spear had pierced his chest—how could Neela end up with a middle-aged man? What had he done? Why had he told her father to get her married? How sad would she be? He couldn’t do anything at all to alleviate her sadness. Chetan turned over. Suddenly Kunti’s smiling face after marriage appeared before him . . . Would Neela never be able to laugh like her? But Kunti could laugh even as a widow . . . the gentle laughter he’d heard twice just that evening in Kot Kishanchand echoed in his ears . . . and he had believed that Kunti would still be mournful . . . What a fool he was . . . And then he felt he was learning some great truth, even greater than what he’d learned from Amarnath. Life doesn’t stop, it struggles on through immense sorrow . . . and he was left with his failure in his love for Neela. One forgets what is near at hand but trembles with sorrow in separation from what one cannot have. He hadn’t married Neela. He couldn’t marry Neela. This was inevitable. There was no going back. So why couldn’t he accept this and go about improving his own life? Kunti must have learned to laugh by centring her life on her child. Why couldn’t he centre his attention on his art; why couldn’t he pour all his sadness into his art? . . . He was suddenly filled with an odd sensation of lightness. He sat up. He felt like going outside . . . but outside, the sheets of tin covering the steel network over the courtyard clattered—at some point drops of rain had begun to fall. The strange thing was that he hadn’t even heard the rain before now . . . He lay down again. The sound of rain falling on the tin had put him to sleep before, so he would fall asleep again today . . . He felt a cool puff of a breeze. He let his body go limp and began to listen to the harmonic vibrations of the drops hitting the tin above the courtyard.

  42

  It had been the same month—a different, enchanting rainy night—puffs of breeze blew then too, just as cool and sweet, and the rain fell in tiny drops. He had brought Chanda from Basti Guzan to his home for the first time after their marriage. Ma had made the bed downstairs in the small corner room. The large Muradabadi water pot, the glass of almonds and milk with dried, sweet dates, and the lantern in the window . . . Chetan’s memories of that lovely night had chased away his sleep again. At some point the murmuring of the rain had ceased and his mind had been captivated by those tender memories.

  Chetan had been twenty-one years old then, but still a child. Nowadays, young girls and boys learn quite a bit—even if it’s all wrong—by reading cheap books about sex, but Chetan didn’t know anything at all. Thoughts of what had happened with Kesar kept entering his mind and filling his heart with fear. He had ended up leaving Chanda at home and going over to Anant’s. Anant had taken him to the station restaurant where he had ordered chicken musallam for Chetan, which, he told him, was highly invigorating. After this he had told him everything he needed to know about the wedding night—how a man should show his virility—and he gave the example of Pyaru, who had given his wife evidence of his manliness eight times on the first night, and when Chetan had admitted that perhaps he didn’t even know anything about a woman’s body parts, Anant had gently cursed his stupidity and told him to keep a flashlight handy . . . But Chetan felt revolted by the whole business . . . ‘Is it necessary for all this to be accomplished on the very first night?’ he had asked. ‘Can’t this happen in two or three nights, after a husband and wife have opened up to one another?’ Anant explained to him that he should absolutely never do anything so foolish. He noted the misfortune that Hunar Sahib’s brother had brought upon himself with just such behaviour; he explained to Chetan that the wedding night was organized for this very purpose and fleeing from it was cowardice. And, after encouraging him in every way he could, he patted him on the back, laughed, told him there was no need to fear and, urging him not to tarnish the reputation of his fellow men, he left him at his door.

  *

  Chetan went into the room and closed the door, and when he turned, he saw that Chanda was not sitting on the bed but on the low seat near the wall. She wore a pink Banarsi suit with gold stars and a red dupatta over her head, with a twinkling border of golden stars.

  ‘Why are you sitting over there?’ asked Chetan carelessly as he held out a finger to lift her up.

  Chanda did not pull her hand back, nor did she shrink away or act flirtatious. She simply stood up quietly and came to sit on the bed. Chetan slid her veil back slightly. ‘Let this moon shine fully, my beloved!’ he said laughing.

  But as soon as he said this, he was taken aback by the strange sound of his own voice. It seemed to him that what he said sounded artificial and there was a want of the usual feeling in his tone. But when Chanda laughed gently at his words instead of becoming bashful and pulling her veil back down, the small dimly lit room was suffused with the pearls of her mirth.

  Chetan was wearing Peshawari sandals. When he sat down on the wooden bed rail to remove them, he saw that his feet were caked in mud. As he washed off the mud and started cleaning his toes, Chanda suddenly asked sweetly, ‘Do your feet hurt?’

  ‘I wander about all day with bare feet or wearing sandals,’ Chetan had answered carelessly. ‘In the rainy season, I get chilblains on my toes.’

  Chanda got up. She kneeled on the floor and softly cleaned between the toes of both his feet with her silk dupatta and then rubbed them with Vaseline. Chetan liked all this very much. He kissed her hands and pulled her to his chest.

  Outside, a light rain fell and the monsoon breeze blew in through both windows. Chanda lay next to him. Chetan couldn’t think of anything to say. Suddenly, he asked, ‘Chanda, do you know how to sing?’

  ‘I’ve never been taught,’ she replied softly.

  ‘Do you know how? It’s fine if you haven’t been taught.’

  ‘I just hum ordinary songs.’

  ‘Hum some!’

  ‘But Ma will hear . . .’

  ‘Sing me something quietly,’ Chetan
insisted gently as he kissed her forehead.

  Chanda began to sing:

  Yellow-green my bangles are

  Yellow-green they are, they are

  Slipped them on me my mum-in-law did

  Slipped them on she did, she did

  At the door I break those bangles

  Yellow-green they are, they are

  Break them, yes I do

  ‘Why would you break bangles your mother-in-law had given you at the door?’ asked Chetan, and he laughed loudly. Then he became serious, ‘Look, don’t you go breaking the bangles my mother gave you.’

  Chanda giggled. Then she began to hum the next verse and her entrancing voice was oddly melodic and sweet, despite her lack of training. Chetan listened mesmerized:

  These are the bangles my mother did give

  My mother did give indeed-oh

  I roam about and show them off

  Yellow-green they are, they are

  These are the bangles my husband did give

  My husband did give indeed-oh

  I roam about, no shame at all

  Yellow-green they are, they are

  ‘Wow, my darling!’ He took his wife’s face in both his hands and kissed her. Chanda beamed in response. All of Chetan’s shyness disappeared. Chanda seemed so innocent to him—boundless as the green fields and entrancing as a monsoon breeze. He didn’t even remember Anant’s instructions. Chanda was neither proud nor flirtatious. She wasn’t crafty or clever; she wasn’t obstinate or wilful. She was as still as a vast lake at whose shores you could lie down, drink the water, or take a plunge. The lake would not rise up and crash into you like a swift river, it would react to everything calmly . . . and Chetan felt blissfully happy.

  A little while later, Chanda sang another song on Chetan’s insistence. The wife is sulking. The husband pleads with her, saying, ‘Darling, I will bring you earrings, don’t be so proud. I’ll put them in your ears myself.’ But the flirtatious, coquettish wife shakes her head and says, ‘I don’t need any earrings, don’t you be proud either, I won’t accept any earrings.’ The husband says, ‘I’ll bring home a second wife, and I’ll put earrings in her ears.’ The wife curses him and says she won’t stay, then. The husband says, ‘I’ll keep a prostitute and I’ll put earrings in her ears.’ The wife snaps that ‘The prostitute is the king’s mistress too, he’ll have you locked up!’ Defeated, the husband says ‘I’ll put earrings in your ears only’:

  Bring you earrings I will, I will

  Bring you earrings I will

  Just don’t be proud, my darling

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  I’ll put them in myself, myself

  I’ll put them in myself

  Oh, I won’t take them, no I won’t

  I won’t take them ever

  It’s you who mustn’t be proud, my man

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  I’ll take another wife, I will, I will

  I’ll take another wife-oh

  Just don’t be proud, my darling-oh

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  I’ll give the earrings to her instead

  Put them in, I will-oh

  Then I’ll not live here no more, no

  I’ll live here no more

  It’s you who mustn’t be proud, my man

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  I’ll find a whore and keep her here

  Oh, find a whore, I will-oh

  Just don’t be proud, my darling

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  I’ll give the earrings to her instead

  Give them, oh, I will-oh

  Belongs to the king, that whore, that whore

  Belongs to the king, she does-oh

  It’s you who mustn’t be proud, my man

  Don’t be oh-so-proud-oh

  The king will lock you up, he will,

  Lock you up he will-oh

  The song was straightforward, as were the emotions it expressed. But Chanda sang the refrain so sweetly, drawing out the syllables, that Chetan was entranced and felt giddy . . . and that very first night he decided that he would scrimp and save to buy a harmonium and make his wife a ‘musical master’ . . .

  *

  Chetan turned on his side. Chanda continued to lie motionless. She hadn’t shifted even once. She wasn’t moving at all. Suddenly he felt like taking a peek at her. He propped himself up on his elbow and raised the wick a little more, then picked up the lantern. He rested there and gazed at his sleeping wife’s face in the light of the upheld lamp. He was startled to see that Chanda wore light make-up—her wheatish complexion was lightly powdered to make her look fairer. She wore a large bindi on her wide forehead. Her hair was done up over the ears just the way Chetan liked it. (Chetan thought it coarse and unsophisticated when she did her hair up in a topknot and he always told her she should part it straight and tie back her medium-length, dense hair so it covered her ears.) Her large eyelids were closed and her lips were coloured with dandaasa powder. Chetan thought her round face looked beautiful and innocent. He felt a sharp pang of compassion in his heart—perhaps she’d fallen asleep as she waited for him. She didn’t speak much, didn’t quarrel, didn’t taunt; she was artless and loving—did this make her a mere lump of clay? Did she have no feelings of her own? He thought only of his own feelings, his own self-interest, his own side of everything. He kicked away whatever he had—what he longed for was what he couldn’t get. His heart filled with remorse. He wanted to kiss those large eyelids. He leaned over. Just then Chanda opened her eyes.

  ‘Go to sleep. It’s past two,’ she said.

  ‘You weren’t sleeping?’

  Chetan put the lantern back.

  ‘I was asleep before.’

  ‘Liar!’

  Chanda wrapped her arm around his neck and rested her head on his chest.

  ‘Why, aren’t you feeling sleepy?’

  And she began to smooth his hair gently.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m going to quit my newspaper job. Bhai Sahib’s practice has just started. This working night and day gives me no time to read and write.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Chanda softly, patting his temples. ‘I was going to tell you that myself.’

  A huge weight lifted from Chetan’s heart. He had thought Chanda might object to his leaving the job, but she paused for a moment, then said, ‘It’s that job that ruined your health. That’s why you can’t get any sleep.’

  ‘I’ve wandered about like a vagabond all day. I’m so tired, but I can’t stop thinking.’

  ‘That’s because it’s too late. Stop thinking and go to sleep.’ She pressed his head to her chest and lightly brushed his closed eyelids with her lips.

  Chetan felt a lump form in his throat. As he lay against her bosom, he placed before her all his agony regarding Neela, and didn’t even hide from her his final gift to her cousin.

  Chanda said nothing sarcastic; she didn’t get annoyed or angry. She just kept patting his temples affectionately. ‘You’re worrying for no reason; it wasn’t just because of you that Neela got married to him. Even if you hadn’t spoken to my uncle, Neela might still have married him. After all, her sister Meela wanted her to. And then, you don’t know Neela. She’s not one to stay depressed. She’ll get on fine with Jija ji.’

  ‘Neela would definitely get on fine,’ Chetan thought . . . If Kunti could come to terms with her widowhood and laugh, why wouldn’t Neela laugh again? He was worrying for no reason . . . he’d go to Lahore tomorrow and immerse himself in that life. He’d try to improve what he already had, and he wouldn’t worry about what he lacked . . .

  ‘Chanda, you’re much smarter than me,’ he said, still resting against her bosom.

  Chanda didn’t reply. She pressed her husband to her breast like a child. Chetan felt burned and parched by the heat, exhausted and defeated, and he’d arrived at the shores of that boundless lake—his fate rested at the shores of those deep, luminous, clear waters. If he fled, he’d find no salva
tion, no peace.

  Acknowledgements and Dedication

  Translating a novel set in 1930s’ Jalandhar involves quite a bit of historical excavation and linguistic research. As a non-native speaker of Hindi living in a rural part of the United States, I would have had no chance of completing this work without the internet and the many kind people therein who have offered me their wisdom and insights. My debts of gratitude extend all around the world to many people and organizations. First and foremost, many thanks go to the members of the Ashk family who have supported this work and granted me permission to translate: Adamya, Sukant, Shwetabh and Anurag Ashk, thank you all for granting me the honour of bringing your grandfather’s work into the English language. I am also greatly indebted to the United States National Endowment for the Humanities for a generous grant in support of this translation. I would like to thank my wonderful editor at Penguin Random House India, Ambar Sahil Chatterjee, and my meticulous copy-editor, Arpita Basu, for all their help and support.