Sometimes she felt like blurting out, 'Sure enough your Chandra Midha has globetrotted, known many people and her mind is not narrow. But she has no husband, no son. She does not depend on anyone for a living. Is she like us that she should be afraid of anyone?'
But she always held back these words. She had never been able to say them. She recalled his anxiety-ridden face, his sleepless nights. Was it not after all only for her? The memory of the spring of yesteryears always put her with her husband on a swing where there was no envy, no meanness, no selfishness, only the scattering of flowers of happiness. Let him be happy, let everyone be happy, let my life's lamp burn out before him.
It was as if her body was dying away slowly from the feet upward. Like an empty vessel the mind resonated even with a slight hurt. She always felt that now the body and the mind had become mutually dependent and both were surrounded and pressed down by time. She had danced uncontrollably, but not the dance of youth, but that of a half-dead leaf trembling precariously on a branch in the cold northern wind. It was a dance bereft of hope and forgiveness. How could she forgive another when she wanted to die, not forgiving even herself? How healthy he was even now! Like a stone with rain lashing on it, he had overcome all life's experiences.
Years had rolled by. Age had increased along with poverty. But he too had gone ahead and enviably, had kept his head high. Even now he would get up in the morning, do his exercises and go a mile for his walk. In the morning the earth and the sky would be open before him to seek out poetry. He also read a lot and even played the sitar late into the night. And her own world? It was one of physical suffering and pain, a burnt-out mind, the routine of somehow crawling to the toilet and back. When she looked out of the window, she saw a hedge of small and big trees, and in the distance, the back of a house. Leaning on them was the curve of the sky, the water towers, the chimney of a sugar mill, the tall trees and the heads of tall buildings. And enclosing them all, the sky. The lonely, empty sky. Would she go there? When? But inside the body the last drop of life force still cried out to live, to see the changing seasons, the familiar crows, house sparrows, the kites, their movements and changing winds. But when the sky looked deep blue and the drumstick tree bent down with flowers, she tended to forget her disease.
She would call out to Indra, 'What beautiful drumstick flowers! Why don't you cook them for Babu? He is so fond of them.' The sound of human voices outside, brought happiness. When it was quiet all around she felt the dewfall on her chest and tears trickled down her eyes. Like a lunatic or a weakling discovering strength in anger or envy, she gathered strength from a hidden sense of being lost or ignored. With an effort, she brought her endless coughing to a stop. It was foolishness to think that the healthy could go on looking after the sick endlessly. That was a deception, a delusion.
So she would tell him now and then, 'I have troubled you a lot. Please get married again.'
And the reply would inevitably be, 'Do keep quiet. Are you crazy? People will only laugh at this.'
It was true that she had lost her head since the coming of this Usharani. He insisted on calling her by that name rather than her original name. Her name came up everyday. He sang her praise in various ways. And lying in her bed Kamala realised that a healthy man looks only at the rising sun. She often repeated to herself that the desires of the flesh were a mistake.
Only the servant and cook Indra anxiously listened to her.
'This is the way of the world, Indra, never trust a man.'
Indra hardly saw the meaning of the statement. He too had a permanent anger against menfolk. He wanted to be born a woman. Sulking, he said, 'You will become alright, sister.'
The two decrepit boats touched each other through inadequate words and then floated along. Kamala derived some peace from her loneliness. But she could not help noticing the changing mood of her husband and realised how he looked brighter everyday. In his face, in his eyes there was the sparkle of new youth, sometimes in charmed silence, sometimes in sudden startles. There was a new symphony in his sitar. Sometimes he returned late from college and then went out again for a walk after dark.
In the beginning once or twice he had said, 'I have to go to Chandra Midha to discuss a paper in Comparative Linguistics which I have written.'
Gradually he forgot to even mention her name. He only kept getting delayed "somewhere outside."
Kamala understood that life would always win over death. That day, once again, she noticed that fragrance on him. Once again he was out late in the evening. What was that streak of fire in the sky? She looked up. The round, large moon came up smiling and even the drumstick tree looked like a beauty in its glow. That was her hope, her pitiable desire. Suddenly, on her consciousness she felt huge waves of a tide encircling the horizon. She felt that she had found something. She had now something to say—hut the words were leaving her. In any case, of what use were they now? And yet her mouth remained half-open. Surababu returned at half past nine. He too was thinking of life all the way. He felt certain that life and happiness were inseparable. So too were death, misery and narrowness.
Kamala lay face upward, bent towards the moon. The mouth was slightly open in a gesture of not having completed what she had wanted to say.
Translated by Sitakant Mahapatra
Death of An Indian
Kishori Charan Das
The weatherman had announced that we were likely to have snowfall towards evening. It was the midday news: one John Douglas had conveyed the news to us along with a recipe for New Frontier nail polish. It was his usual hour that runs as follows: a lady's tender and long fingers unfold on the television screen and accept a liquid poured from above. The nails begin to shine, the owner of the hands stretches them languidly towards a packet of cigarettes and smokes away the exquisite moments of leisure. An appropriate music score provides the background to a caress and its culmination. Then enters John Douglas to tell you smilingly that you too can buy these delights if you use such-and-such product of so and so. The story is over, he introduces himself—my name is John Douglas, your weatherman. Today's weather has taken an interesting turn... etc. Similarly we got our evening news, courtesy of a firm devoted to the extermination of white ants, and the late news from a firm dedicated to the care of kitchen sinks.
My children danced with joy when they heard the news. Several questions and comments were flung at me, all at once - How is it going to fall? Like sand or pebbles? How can the people walk in the streets? We have to clear the sidewalk in front of our house or else we will be fined hundred dollars, I am telling you ...
There was a spark of eagerness in Latika's eyes too. But she did not confess to it. The spark smothered; she looked upset. She could not stand this foreign cold. There were other reasons too, I guessed. 'It was announced in the papers today that a sale is on at Lansburghs downtown - Ladies' coats going cheap for thirty dollars, and girls' dresses for as little as three dollars. But how do we go out if it snows?'
I wanted to comfort her, and said, 'Well dear, you are thinking of the sale, aren't you? Do not lose heart. There will always be a sale in this country, today, tomorrow and ever after. Today it is Lansburghs, tomorrow it is Sears... surely you can't miss them all.'
She was not satisfied. And she started all over again, 'Look, it is you who made me leave all my things in India. So when all your Indian ladies have a matching coat for each sari, your wife has a miserable one-and-a-half! You can pooh-pooh these sales now, but I know you will have to buy the same stuff at the regular rate of sixty... Go ahead, by all means!'
My first-born joined her mother. She said that her classmate had definite information about the sale of ballpoint pens at thirty cents each at the nearest drug store.
The middle one remembered that her socks were just no good for the American winter. Then of course that she needed gloves for her hands and earmuffs for the ears. How else could she manage the cold blasts on her way to school? Auntie Ray, she said, had assured her that all these things ar
e being offered at cut-rates at a corner store on Fourteenth Street.
Lastly, my little son chimed in, 'Get me a sale daddy! Get me one p-l-e-a-s-e?'
I did succeed, in due course, in bringing them back to the theme of snowfall. Truly, sales are wonderful. But a snowfall is even bigger, more wonderful. A sight not to be seen in the plains of India, to which we belong. Contemplate the scene, if you please. The pure white little darlings coming to us from the high heavens, free of the smog of civilisation. Free of sound and smell, of colour and conflict. They come to us, for a while, to remind us of the eternal values.
It was thus that I held forth on the subject of snowfall. Latika listened to me for sometime and then interrupted, 'But you forget, there is another aspect to it. The body alive is warm, the body dead is cold. So if you ask me ...'
I knew the rest. Snow is the symbol of death and all that perverse prattle. But I did not let her prolong the conversation knowing that she wanted only to tease me.
We waited for the first snowfall of the season in Washington, D. C. We had arrived in the city about two months back to stay for three years as desired by the Government of India. We had till then made no friends among the foreigners. We knew some fellow-Indians in the Embassy, but not too well. Once in a while we came across sari-clad women in supermarkets and on sidewalks. At once, our eyes gleamed with recognition - there goes an Indian. But the recognised party never seemed to have any irrepressible urge to communicate. Sometimes the painted lips would part a little—but no further.
I had to explain to a despairing Latika, 'Don't you understand? We belong to the same family. Need we say hellos and how-do-you-dos in our own family all the time? It feels good just to see them, to have been made aware of the trials and tribulations that bind us together in this foreign city. For all you know, this lady is also, like us, looking for the rare Mexican chick-peas to have her Alu chhole, trying to figure out the English name for suji, and is looking for sales that can give her the maximum benefit on her foreign allowance, so she can carry a few things home. Don't you see? She is an Indian. One of us.'
Thus we had no fear of intrusion from any friend or neighbour, as one would have back home on a holiday afternoon. We were left to ourselves, cosy in the warmth of the family, to welcome the advent of snow.
But I had reckoned without the telephone. There was a persistent ring, and a woman's voice asked, 'Will you kindly call Mrs Das?'
It must be one of them, I thought, Mrs Ray or Mrs Kapur—the only two wives who along with their husbands had evinced great interest in our rehabilitation. I could well imagine the course of their conversation. 'When are you buying a car? My husband was telling me that the new Ford Galaxie is a shade better than Impala .. Have you tried the new blender? ... Started giving trouble? I thought so. Didn't I tell you that you should buy the Osterizer... So on and so forth. I was not very far wrong. After a ten-minute session on the telephone, Latika summarized to me, 'It was Mrs Kapur. A nice lady. Was enquiring about the welfare of our children, and whether we have decided on the car. Yes, she told me that vacuum cleaners are on sale at Lerners. Quite cheap.'
After a moment's pause she said, 'It seems we are going to have a heavy snowfall this evening, within an hour or so. Mrs Kapur got the news on telephone.'
'Oh yes Daddy, here they tell you about the weather on the telephone. You just have to lift the receiver and it goes on and on. You know the number, don't you?'
'No, and I don't want to'. I snapped. Is there no end to this process of scientific education?
And so the snow came. Within an hour there was a flush of crimson on the grey-white sky. Then I saw grains of silver floating in the air. Could this be the snow? Or is it that the grains of dust have taken the shine off a pale evening? A few were moving towards me. I tried to hold them but could only get the inadequate feeling of dewdrops in my hands. Ah, the sky is bursting with grains and globules! Each one of them is growing bigger and bigger and is showing off like an adolescent. They are playing, running, chasing and falling over each other, weightless with sheer inconsequence. No, I refuse to take you as the real ones!
The real ones came in full regalia, not a moment too soon. By then the snowflakes had left their imprint on the grass and the foliage. They were twinkling, revelling as it were in the fun of evanescence, while the white strands, the white bunches, the white messes were descending on the earth. This is the snowfall indeed! The pervasive passion of the fall took my breath away. Even the feel of Latika crouching over me to have a better view of the snow failed to revive me. I wished I could be there in the centre. I wished I could take my fill of the bounty, cleansing myself of all the pitiful pigmentations of life. I wished, but I wished in vain. The telephone rang.
'Yes?' I asked severely into the mouthpiece.
'Shahni speaking. Sir, I am sorry to disturb you. Rangarao died this evening in Georgetown hospital.'
'Died? Rangarao... who is Rangarao?'
'Rangarao was an assistant in the Embassy. He was suffering for a long time from some kidney trouble. A young widow and a daughter are the survivors.'
Now I remembered. On an afternoon, a few days back, we had been to a big Departmental Store called Bargain City. There we were treated to a thrilling display of kisses by a doll named Kissy. You just had to press her hands and she would start throwing kisses at you. I was discussing the worth of this contraption at a forfeit of ten dollars when our escort, an Indian gentleman, whispered in my ears, 'Do you see her, that girl in the white sari? A sad case. The husband has been very sick for the last three months. His days are numbered. She is managing somehow, poor girl, on a typing job ...'
I had a momentary glimpse of the young woman. She had an angular face with an intense pair of eyes, and was walking fast notwithstanding the giant shopping bag flapping on her sides. She looked like one who was not in the habit of answering casual questions.
Shahni went on to say, 'The funeral takes place tonight at eleven. Quite a number of Indians are expected to attend.'
Shahni was my personal assistant. Well, what did he mean to suggest? That I should attend the funeral at that unearthly hour in a roaring snowfall? But before I could repeat the question to myself, the answer came with a thud... He was one among us. It would indeed be a shame, a thousand times... I did not allow the self-reproach to proceed further, and told Shahni, 'Yes, I would like to go. Will you take me along?' Shahni obliged me by saying that he would bring round his car at about half-past ten to my place.
I told Latika. She agreed that I should go and added, 'How unfortunate! I do hope the Government will pay for her passage home ... please do not forget your topcoat and hat ... Are ladies supposed to attend funerals over here? I wish I knew ...'
The eldest could not contain herself any longer and asked, 'Who died, Daddy?"
'An Indian.'
They exchanged glances and assumed a solemn air. That did not surprise me. But the solemnity of the four-year-old, the manner of his pressed lips and fluttering eyelids was rather ominous. He had a penchant for awkward questions and I feared that he may come out now with the all-important question ... But what is an Indian?
I had judged him wrong. I was comforted by his continued silence. In fact, the entire family seemed to appreciate the compulsion of silence on an occasion, which was vaguely national and out of their depth.
I went near the window and surveyed the passing scene. I wanted to absorb the snowfall, the best I could, in spite of the odd relevance of the death of an Indian. I saw the cars shrouded in white, moving slowly, bravely. I saw the neon lights brushing off the nagging snow and blinking roguishly at the courageous traveller. I could imagine an exciting evening in the warm haven of cabarets and night clubs. I could imagine the friendly ones asking for another tall glass, another joke, another ... still another ... in an unerring response to the gift of the heavens.
I could imagine the intimate ones ask for each other with a rare urgency. And then it came to me that the snowfall invites
the living world to quicken the pace of life— while the company lasts. But here I am, an outsider, a snow-struck fool of an Indian, watching the falling objects with primeval wonder!
I cursed myself, and in the process I had an unholy urge to curse Rangarao. He seemed to have committed the death-act on this particular day, in order to spite me. To underscore my sense of deprivation in the new land which I was only beginning to know.
Shahni came after I had had my dinner and smoked three cigarettes in a row. I looked at my watch; it was barely five minutes past the appointed hour. Even so, I mumbled something about his being late and was quick to lead him to his Volkswagon. The children had gone to bed. But Latika was wide-eyed and followed me to the car. She repeated her wish to join me. If only she knew ladies were not out of place at a funeral. I dismissed her with a perfunctory smile.
Shahni was driving slowly. Shahni loves to tune the car radio on to a high pitch. But now I found the radio in merciful repose. It was a deliberate concession, I thought, to the purpose of the journey. He had no qualms, however, about filling the vacuum with an unending commentary on the affairs of the world—such as, 'It seems the snow is not going to be too severe this year. The first snowfall last year was seven inches thick... Mrs Das wanted to have some good nylon. I think it will be better to import it directly from Hongkong rather than buy it in New York. Houses are going cheap in this area. But .. but ... it is a Negro neighbourhood... This road to the right goes past Banerji's house. A clever fellow - has managed to extend his stay here for another term...'
Our Favourite Indian Stories Page 16
