Perhaps he realized that I was hoping to hear something more appropriate. So he commenced on the topic of Rangarao. 'Rangarao was a very nice man. Used to send fifty dollars every month to his old parents. His wife is equally nice...' He did not have a chance to elaborate as we had by then reached our destination. Shahni pointed at a non-descript flat-roofed structure and said, 'That is the building. Lees' Funeral Home.'
On second thoughts, I approved of the Funeral Home. This is how these homes should be—slight and simple, in deference to the majesty of death.
There were a number of cars parked in front of the building. 'They all belong to Indians,' Shahni told me with conviction. I was overwhelmed by the massive response of my people and exclaimed, 'So many Indians, so many cars!' Shahni assured me, 'Yes sir, almost all the Indians in Washington possess cars.'
He guided me to a room where I put away my hat and overcoat. On my way to the inner hall I met Mr Saxena of the Supply Mission. I smiled and said 'Hello.' But I was surprised that he neither smiled nor spoke.
The inner hall was almost filled to capacity by ladies and gentlemen dressed in dark clothes and seated in straight-backed chairs. There was a hush of expectancy in the air.
I saw a covered object stretched out on a raised platform ahead of us. This must be the body, I thought.
The body of Rangarao. The awareness evoked a sigh. Why did he come to America, this young man? To die on foreign soil? To leave a young woman disconsolate? A child bewildered? I felt several such sighs being merged into each other in a mighty effort to commune and condole. I felt the dark cold night closing in around us, the Indians in Washington, D. C., so that we may be pinpointed to our tragedy. I had the sensation, akin to ecstasy, of being engulfed.
I envied Rangarao. What more could he expect?
Presently there was a rustling of dresses and shuffling of feet. The gentleman to my left spoke in an undertone, 'The Ambassador, himself.'
Yes, the Ambassador was coming forward in slow steps, followed by a couple of senior officials. I spotted Mr Shah, the Second Secretary whom I knew well and I smiled at him. But there was no responsive smile or nod.
I now got the general idea. The Shahs and Saxenas have a better sense of decorum. They do not encourage smiles or any such levity in the Hall of Death.
I was ashamed and fervently hoped that I would not commit such indiscretions again. I sat straight and looked ahead, the same as others, including the Ambassador.
We waited. Suddenly, in the interminable silence, it occurred to me - but where is she? I was not looking for her mere presence in the assembly, but the loud presence of a widow... the streaming tears, the soiled sari, the smeared kajal, the anguished cries and the incoherent indictment of gods.
It did not take me long to banish the thought. Mrs Rangarao is undoubtedly here, possibly in the front row. But she is a civilised person and the Lees' Funeral Home is a far cry from the cremation ghats of the Ganges. She is not one, no sir, to mar the collective image of our sorrow by her snivellings. I admired the restraint of the young woman and made a note of it to tell Latika.
The minutes went passing by. I looked at my watch; it was past midnight. What are we waiting for? When are the proceedings going to begin? I found that some others also were fidgeting in their seats. The good lady by my side seemed to have gone to sleep. A gentleman nearby was refusing to acknowledge the superiority of Morpheus. He was shaking himself off from his fitful slumber and was looking at me with challenging eyes. One in the front row - perhaps Mr Kulkarni, the First Secretary, would every now and then, with a pained look, travel all the way to the entrance and return. I was convinced that something was going to happen and we had to remain patient.
Then I saw a tall well-built gentleman striding past the entrance. I recognised him; he could be no other than Mr Raghunandan Misra, the repository of Indian culture in Washington, D. C. Maybe he had an official designation of some sort but that was incidental. I had met him casually at a cocktail party and had heard him comment disdainfully on officialdom. I was told that at one time he had been a professor in an Indian University, and it was by sheer mischance that he had strayed into the fold of bureaucrats. Legend went that his father was a famous scholar of Varanasi and Mr Misra was soaked in Sanskrit texts, thanks to his early education. It was even rumoured that he was authorised to perform priestly functions in Hindu marriages abroad. I could not dismiss his reputation as being unfounded. For, I had personally seen him recite, that evening, half-a-dozen Sanskrit shlokas from Kalidasa's Abhigyana-Shakuntalam, over the course of three cocktails.
With no previous warning Mr Mishra stood by the side of the body and proffered a slight bow. We all stood up, including the Ambassador. Then he began in a sonorous tone, to recite a shloka - it was, I believe from the Bhagavad Gita - the meaning of which was:
For whenever Right declines and Wrong prevails
Then O Bharata, I come to birth.
Another:
One looks upon This as a marvel;
another speaks of This as such;
another hears thereof as a marvel;
Yet having heard of This none truly
knows This.
Thus it went on for about ten minutes. The relation between one and the other, and their relevance to the funeral ceremony was not quite clear to me. But after all, I thought Mr Mishra was an expert in the field. He knew what was best. Without him the soul of Rangarao would have been cheated of the last rites. The undertaker of Lees' Funeral Home would have had the impression that we do not have any funeral service or that we do not know how to honour the dead.
After the recital, Mr Mishra made another bow and retired. We resumed our seats. Then followed a gentle murmur of release, as that of receding waves. I imagined that there would now be a quick change of scenes and the conclusion was not far off.
Two members of the undertaker's establishment carried the body of Rangarao away from the hall.
The crowd became diffused after the exit of the body. There was a free flow of conversation - you know, the crematorium here is the latest of its kind. The body is burnt, bones and all, in two minutes flat ... Mr Mishra was engaged in a dinner party, that is why... the blasted snow has started again. I wish there were no office tomorrow... Is the Ambassador going to stay till the end? etc. I was following a stream moving towards the crematorium when I found a few people, mostly ladies, huddled in a corner and leaning over someone. I stopped for a while, to see what it was all about.
I heard a brief moan. Brief but substantial. It was like a streak of lightning that barely writes on the sky but writes well. An articulation full of promise, yet destined to die. Yes, it was the voice of the widow. The voice of Mrs Rangarao, who had broken down and betrayed her human weakness at the last moment, in an unforgettable half note of pathos. I started towards her in a mounting surge of sympathy. I watched her nestling against the bosom of the elder sisters, begging forgiveness, as it were, for her bad manners. For once I felt that I was going to cry.
I composed myself and mused on the nature of sympathy. There are moments when the sorrow of a fellow human being creates discomfort but one is tempted to deny it, claiming to some superior wisdom. There are also occasions on which one suffers helplessness in not being able to relieve the distress of the unfortunate fellow. But in this instance my response, despite the unshed tears, was not entirely negative. It appeared to me that Mrs Rangarao had been able to provide the missing piece in a portrait of infinite beauty. She had expressed herself at the right moment and in the right proportion. I wished I could go near her and stroke her tresses gently, the same as that elderly lady was doing. The experience was strangely satisfying.
Mrs Rangarao released herself from her sympathisers and exposed a tear-washed face. The elderly lady stood up and surveyed the scene. She had an aristocratic bearing, rendered more attractive in sadness. It was a familiar presence, seen somewhere in print or in person. While I was trying to recall her identity I saw a group of pe
rsons led by the Ambassador entering the hall. The Ambassador approached the lady and they both walked back to the entrance at a measured pace. Then I realised — I should have known earlier that it was the Ambassador's wife.
Shahni was back by my side and announced that the funeral was over. He also invited me to leave immediately in order to avoid the rush.
The snow was dropping listlessly on my way home. But the houses, streets and trees were all covered with snow. Many tall trees, denuded of leaves looked like silvery pillars, whereas the leaves in the small ones had gathered the snow unto themselves in balls of cotton wool. The earth seemed overladen with bounty. After a long spell of silence, I spoke to Shahni, still on the subject of Rangarao, 'When is she leaving for India? She must leave within six months, you know, or else Government will not pay for the passage.'
'Mrs Rangarao will not return to India.'
'What do you mean?'
Shahni did not seem to appreciate the surprise or sharpness in my tone. He took some time to answer. 'She is not going back. We met her downtown recently. She told my wife in quite so many words that if anything happened to her husband, she would adopt this country as her home.'
'But why? Doesn't she have any close relatives in India? For how long can she manage in a foreign country as a typist?'
Shahni could scarcely conceal his exasperation when he said, 'Of course she has her relatives— her parents, in-laws, brothers and sisters. But don't you see, why should she go back? To languish in want and misery in some remote corner in the South? Can they assure her a decent life, a proper education for her child, the minimum modern facilities?'
I did not pursue my enquiry. Mrs Rangarao could surely look after herself. But I lapsed into a deeper silence till Shahni bade me goodnight.
In the early hours of the morning I had a frightful dream. I dreamt that I was being laid on the snow with due ceremony, but I was crying out.... 'NO! NO!! Please let me have the funeral pyre, the fire, the flame...' The Ambassador's wife was, however, passing her hands ever so gently over my brow and pinning me down to the cold surface. Mrs Rangarao and Latika were standing on both sides of her and smiling at each other in complete accord and understanding.
On waking up I found Latika with the morning newspaper. She gave me the good news... 'Have you seen this? Kanns are offering silver-plated cutlery for only fifty dollars at the Washington Birthday Sale ....'
Translated by the Author
GUJARATI
Wings of a Silent Wish
Dinkar Joshi
Ketan looked into the mirror. His hair had greyed. Instantly it brought to his mind the story of King Dasharath of Ayodhya who, having noticed his first grey hair had taken the decision of handing over the reins of his kingdom to Prince Rama and retiring into the woods. It's time for me to renounce certain things too, thought Ketan.
Once again he looked into the mirror, and then at his photograph on the wall. The picture had been clicked when he had just turned twenty. It showed him wearing the black gown of graduation, holding the rolled sheet of his Certificate.
His gaze turned towards the bunch of letters in his hands. Wrapped in a pink handkerchief it represented an unnamed joy. Instantly he stopped himself. The decision had to be taken.
He would destroy the letters for good. It made no sense to preserve them anymore. All they could cause were problems and complications. His eldest daughter had been married off two years back and was living happily with her husband and in-laws. His son would also be getting married in about a year's time. And then, some day, Ketan would suddenly die.
His heart would quietly switch off. This is how it had been in his family. His father had died without warning at the age of 57—his elder brother, at 56. And his uncle had barely got into his 52nd year!. With a start, Ketan reminded himself that he had already turned 50. Soon he would be starting the sixth decade of his life. All the males in his family had left for their heavenly abode when they had been in their fifties. Going by family history, he would soon be gone too... and then.
Then, this bunch of letters would fall into the hands of one of his relatives! The image of Ketan as a good husband, a good father, a good and responsible family member would come shattering down. The thought worried him.
But how could he ever forget Seema who had written all these letters to him? In the beginning of their relationship she had addressed him as Dear Ketanbliai... then progressed into My dear Ketanbhai.... and had finally settled into My dear only.
They had met each other late in life. Ketan had been married for almost fifteen years. Seema too had completed ten years of married life. But God knows... how? All of a sudden things had burst into the open. It would have been better had it been left unexpressed. But now, such thoughts had no meaning. Everything had been expressed very clearly. It was Ketan who had taken the initiative one evening. He had told her... or rather something within him had forced him to speak out — 'Seema! from the day we met, I have liked you and wanted you. Why is it so? I really do not know, but....'
Seema had put her finger on Ketan's lips and had stopped him from finishing his sentence.
'I have never ever felt that you are away from me Ketan! All these years I have always felt your presence within me...' she had whispered softly.
That was all! Only so much had been expressed. But, within a miniscule span of time, they had come close as never before. For a minute, Ketan thought, what was wrong if his relatives came to know about it after his death? He had not been disloyal to anyone. He had merely given voice to his tender feelings and had accepted hers. It had not progressed into anything more serious.
But the exchange of letters had continued.
Seema had been the first to regain her composure. Perhaps the momentous acceptance must have threatened her sense of security. After all she was a married women, a respectable housewife, the mother of three children, above all, the wife of a husband who held an important position in society. It was true that her heart had merely given vent to feelings - emotions that had remained unsaid for so many years. It was also true that she had expressed those feelings in so many words - but so what? What about her family life? What about the future of her children? What if her husband came to know?
The journey that had begun with Dear Ketanbhai had returned to Dear Ketanbhai... after having digressed for a while.
Seema had written, 'Dear Ketanbhai. That was one of our moments of weakness. I cannot bear the burden of having expressed my feelings to you. Please do not write to me any more....'
Ketan laughed to himself. He opened the 'kerchief and arranged the letters date-wise. The letters written before the Acceptance had no indications of these feelings. And yet, he had preserved all of them. But then Seema too had preserved Ketan's letters addressed to her.
She herself had confessed 'I have with me even the first letter that you wrote... that very first one...and all subsequent ones also. All of them.'
'Seema, why have you preserved them for so long?' Ketan had asked her on the Day of Acceptance.
'The reason I don't know' Seema had replied. 'If I ask you the same question, what would be your reply?'
Ketan had no answer to that. He knew she didn't either. And yet, both understood.
Many years had passed since that chance confession. Both of them had gone back to living their lives as before, as if nothing had happened. But occasionally they did experience a mysterious restlessness. The bunch of letters would draw their attention to it and hold it there for a while. Ketan would inevitably feel the need to destroy the letters. But on the wings of this thought, another would follow. Had he also not poured out his heart in the letters he had written to Seema? He should get them from her and give hers back. If he destroyed Seema's letters without her knowledge, she would never trust him in future. If she ever asked for those letters any time in future, his reply would not sound truthful to her. The image of an emotional Seema, full of tender feelings for him was just that. An unreal image. The other one of S
eema talking about that moment as one of weakness was real. An undeniable reality. The pink 'kerchief preserved both these images of Seema.
But now Ketan had taken the decision. He should once again, possibly for the last time, contact Seema. He should tell her, 'Seema! Come, let us destroy these letters together. The past should be permanently destroyed so that the moment you consider to be your moment of weakness may also be destroyed forever. May it never cast its shadow on our children!'
He had not spoken to Seema over the phone for all these years. Yet he had noted down her number in all the telephone diaries which he changed regularly every two years. He had carefully noted all the changes in her number that had taken place over the years. Her latest number was also there in his diary. With trembling fingers he dialled it. The sweet sound of Seema's voice stroked his ears. It had changed over the years. It was slightly heavier than before, but it was Seema for sure. Hesitating for a moment, he felt like putting down the receiver. He had muttered 'Hello' and had then paused.
'Yes! Go on, Ketanbhai! Why did you pause?' laughed Seema softly.
'You ... you... you recognized my voice?' Ketan stuttered.
'Why not? Pausing thus after saying hello and sounding confused is not new to you. It's an old habit of yours' she teased.
For a moment, Ketan felt ten years younger. But immediately he came back to the present. In a dry tone he explained to her his idea — 'Seema! Let us meet once again for the last time. Let us both destroy those letters.'
Seema remained silent for awhile. Then she agreed. Once this agreement was reached, the decision to meet the following Saturday evening to destroy the letters was made swiftly enough.
It had been a Saturday when he had first met Seema, Ketan remembered with a start. The day when both had expressed their feelings to each other had also been a Saturday. And now, the day of burying their past would also be on a Saturday. Why, why should all this have happened on Saturday evenings only? Ketan decided that it must be the workings of a Power greater than them.
Our Favourite Indian Stories Page 17
