by Akhilesh
‘How does that concern me?’
‘The concern is that if there is opposition to the project, if the government and the tourism department are put in the dock, if the director and the chairman are implicated, a sacrifice will have to be made. You will be the sacrificial lamb. You will be blamed for everything. What is more …’ He paused to think. ‘I find it weird … what with your illness … they might be expecting that when the loot is shared, they won’t have to give you a cut …’
‘You know very will that I never do such things. They don’t need me to die to get their loot.’
‘I didn’t mean that. I want you to get well and live long years.’ Bahuguna looked sorry.
‘Bahuguna …’ A river of love gushed through Suryakant’s heart and he grew emotional. ‘I lied to you, well, not a lie actually, it was a kind of joke. It was most likely the prayers of my friends like you and my own luck that I have turned into a sort of joke. Yes, my friend, the cancer report was wrong. Not actually wrong – it was a real threat at first, but it turned out to be misdiagnosed.’
Bahuguna fell silent, stared at Suryakant and got up. ‘Is this any way to hoodwink your friend?’ He pulled Suryakant to him and said, ‘Anyway, I’m really happy you’re not going to die.’
‘If you’re happy, find me a job.’
3
THE FEAR MONSTER SHOOK ITS MANE
That evening, Suryakant turned his car towards his house. The roads that were on the left in the morning changed sides in the evening. The right became the left, and the shops and the houses that would be on one side of the road would shift to the other. The park, the pillars, the mausoleum of Varis Miyan that had been on the other side was now on this.
He felt better when the car crossed the banyan tree turning. His house was three kilometres from here and the traffic was thinner. Not exactly thinner, but every time he turned on to this road, he felt a sense of being saved, in the same way that the fear monster inside him shook its mane in the morning as he turned off this road towards the office. He was a bit relieved now, slightly cheerful even.
His house was close by, but not close enough to be visible. It was still three kilometres away and there were a number of turns along the way. In the early days, he used to think that if these had not been here, he could have caught a glimpse of his house.
When he first came here to hunt for a house with Gauri, the locality was almost barren and desolate. Now, there were a zillion skyscrapers, numerous vehicles and a swarming population. He used to commute on his scooter in the early days. Quite young, more romantic. But even then there were many buildings that hid his house from view. He would pass the banyan tree turn and think fondly, had these buildings not hidden my house, I could have spotted it. Perhaps the house would not be visible in the darkness of the night, but at least I may have caught sight of its lights. And if there was a power cut, Gauri may have heard the sound of my scooter and would have called out loudly from the rooftop, and I would have heard her. She could shout, ‘The potatoes are over,’ and I would buy potatoes on my way. She could cry, ‘Buy a pencil for Gaurav,’ and I would have bought a pencil. She could call out and say, ‘There is no salt at home,’ and I would have picked up a packet of salt.
A few years ago, he had told Gauri about these thoughts and sighed, ‘I wish it could really happen!’
Gauri laughed, ‘No one calls out like that, not even in the villages. They too are crammed with houses. In the villages too you can’t identify your house from its light because several of the houses have lights on and several don’t. And had I called out from the roof of our house, my voice would have been lost in the other sounds. I would have shouted for you to bring a pill and you would have arrived with a windmill. Also, the TV is omnipresent even in the villages. A relative told me that once the TVs in many houses in the village rang with screams of “Dacoit! Dacoit! Catch him, catch him!” Those who were not watching TV ran out to catch the dacoits to no avail. And one day when the dacoits really barged in, they thought it was the TV making a racket and stayed inside.
‘So, when you say, “Alas, only if it had happened!”’ she tittered on, ‘It’s likely that I would have called you from our house and you would have thought it was some woman on the TV. It would be better if we construct a house close to your office – so close that the office and the house are clearly visible from each location.’
‘Houses are quite expensive in that locality.’
‘Yes, how can we afford to purchase one there?’
Gauri started talking about financial affairs, and Suryakant grew morose and unhappy. Like most men, whenever he grew sad, he fell silent.
Gauri asked, ‘Are you angry?’
He kept mum.
Gauri said, ‘If I were not thirty but merely twenty-eight, I would have taken you into my arms, rubbed my nose against yours and given you a way out of this crisis. Go on, ask me what the solution is.’
Suryakant stayed silent and she began without prompting, ‘My idea is that we fix a very tall bamboo pole on the roof. At its highest point, we fix a bulb. In the evening, when you return tired from the office, you can see it while turning from the banyan tree. You won’t see the bamboo pole in the evening or in the night but you can see the bulb. That will be the signal that all is well here.’
Suryakant gazed at her, ‘Your idea is not tenable. First of all, there are so many power cuts in the city that there is no guarantee that the bulb will be on.’
‘We will connect it to an inverter – the bulb will glow even if there is no electricity.’
‘Fine, but there are so many tall houses and buildings under construction that one day even the bamboo pole on our roof will not be seen. What shall we do then?’
‘In that case, had I been hardly twenty-six or twenty-seven, I would have taken your palms into mine,’ she said, taking Suryakant’s palms. ‘And I would have said,’ she murmured, ‘if you are anxious, simply imagine that Gaurav is standing in front of you and I am sitting like this behind you.’ She seized Suryakant by the waist.
Suryakant smiled. ‘And had you been twenty-three or twenty-four?’
‘Won’t you do something, lazybones?’
‘What should I?’
‘If I were twenty-three or twenty-four, you would have kissed my forehead first.’ She kissed Suryakant’s forehead. ‘Then you would have kissed my lips. Like this.’ She put her lips on Suryakant’s and then withdrew languidly, ‘What after that?’ She left the sentence unfinished and put her face gently against his chest. Suryakant felt as if another bosom was blossoming softly within his own. And Gauri had reclined her face on this dewy bosom.
Suryakant had just passed the turning at the banyan tree and was reassured: he was in the vicinity of his home. Like every other day, he felt safe again. The banyan tree turning was a steadfast witness to his imagination. At this point on his daily commute, he always broke out of the fear that he was not driving into the maws of death. But it was also when he began worrying about Gaurav and Gauri. He never imagined anything less than their meeting a fatal accident.
After their wedding, as soon as he’d reached the office and swallowed a glass of water, a dread about Gauri would begin to cloud his mind. I hope she has not been electrocuted while ironing clothes. She must have turned blue and the blood has been sucked from her body. He would be terrified at the thought of the gas cylinder in the kitchen leaking and then exploding, and would picture her dead body. When these imagined accidents lost their hold on him because of endless repetition, he invented new dangers.
Gaurav too was included within the turbid turmoil of his imagination after his birth. If his son had a common bellyache or a fever, Suryakant felt he was surely going to die. Whether it was Gauri or Gaurav being ill, he got up in the night and switched the light on to check whether they were still breathing or not. Was the chest falling and rising? Was the stomach moving? Was the neck or the hand limp?
But things seemed to have improved over the last fe
w years. Now, when he breathed a sigh of relief at the banyan tree turning, the scenes flashing within his mind would not be so sinister and morbid. They now contained a little glow and some happiness. He would visualize a happy Gauri and a playful Gaurav at home. He would hear Gauri’s favourite song or else the images of Gauri’s favourite film or Gaurav’s cartoon show would run through his mind. A sparkling, cheerful house and its two inhabitants, one grown up and the other, a child, seemed to beckon him home.
But this evening, the wheel had spun back once again. Suryakant reached the banyan tree turning early today. The glow of the setting sun was still in the sky. The traffic was on his right. There was a long traffic jam on the road. Vehicles were stranded and creeping like ants. Sometimes they moved, sometimes they stopped. The banyan tree was on the left. Suryakant looked at it intently. He had been travelling this route for years, but he had never paid much attention to the tree. Our pace of life snatches away the experience of our immediate surroundings, he thought.
It was an ancient banyan with roots hanging almost to the ground. Hundreds of colourful cloths were tied to the branches by people who believed this would fulfil their wishes. Small earthen pots hung from some of the branches to bring peace to departed souls. They were many pots that day. It seems as though many deaths had taken place during the last two or three days. Suryakant thought, wishes and deaths. Perhaps the pavilion of the world is stretched between these two extremes. Wishes are endless like the Raktabeej demon. As soon as one is fulfilled, numerous others mushroom; only death can vanquish their fecundity.
Suddenly, the cars around him picked up speed. Suryakant glanced at the earthen pots on the banyan tree once more as he put the car into gear. Suddenly, the fear that had disappeared years ago returned in a rush and gripped him. The banyan tree had been left behind but it was also sprinting along his car. Suryakant brooded and thought that after a day, or maybe ten days, or a month or perhaps even later, an earthen pot could be tied on the banyan tree for him. Perhaps he would have to bring the pot for Gauri. His blood circulation dimmed. He felt as if he and the world were shrinking. As if he would reduce into nothingness or a speck or a thin, non-existent line. An ominous thought flickered in his mind – something terrible has taken place at home. Either Gauri or Gaurav or maybe both … He trembled – anything could happen in the blink of eye. Good or bad. Had Gaurav gone to school and come back safely? Suryakant assumed the worst and shuddered. He had forgotten to call Gauri amidst the pandemonium in the morning. His hand moved towards his mobile phone, but he snatched it back. He didn’t want to make the call, as if not calling would change the awful into the joyful. The image of misery and mourning would transform into happiness and delight.
He was approaching the straight road to his house. This was where his anxiety used to climax, although for the last few years it was also the point where his cheerful expectation of a reunion got bigger.
In a few minutes, he was home. He was relieved to see that there was no crowd milling around his house. The taut veins on his face relaxed and the pressure on the accelerator eased.
It was eleven at night. Gaurav was asleep. Gauri finished her chores and walked into the bedroom. She saw that Suryakant was seated in a chair and was gazing silently at the sleeping Gaurav. She sat on the edge of the bed and said, ‘Must be very tired.’
He kept quiet. He had nothing to say.
‘Come to bed.’
But he did not stir. ‘What’s the hurry? I don’t even have to go to office tomorrow morning.’
Gauri did not respond. They remained still. Only their silence spoke. Suryakant switched off the lights. The silence was sheathed in the darkness of the room.
‘Have you heard anything positive?’ Gauri asked.
‘No,’ Suryakant replied.
‘Did you see Bahuguna bhaisahib?’
‘Yes, I went to see him. I had decided I would recite my mouth blister poem to him and then inquire about a job.’
‘What did he say?’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘Why?’
‘What does “Why?” mean?’ He was irritable perhaps because he had no good answer. He did not want to give Gauri the only answer he had and make her anxious. He got up and sat at the computer table. He realized that his behaviour had hurt Gauri.
He switched on the computer and said, ‘I had never imagined such times would come to pass. How things have changed!’ He then connected the system to the internet, ‘Why should anyone employ me? I’m a risk because I am a cancer patient. If I remain alive, my treatment would inconvenience the employer and after my death, he would have to help my family.’
‘But you don’t have cancer! You are a perfectly healthy person!’ Gauri was agitated.
‘At one place, I didn’t get the job because I am not a cancer patient.’ He checked his email and said, ‘Bahuguna told me that he had spoken to someone at a TV channel. But someone else told my cancer story to the state chief of the channel. The channel head eagerly cooked up a strategy to put me on TV. He decided that for ten days before my first appearance, an ad would be aired: “Reporter on Deathbed to Present News of Life!” But now that I am not on my deathbed, how can I broadcast the news of life? He says my biggest asset was the cancer. Now that it does not exist, that chapter is closed.’ He fell silent and tried to concentrate on checking and replying to emails.
‘I believe the title of the new chapter of your life should be “Conquering Death to be Triumphant in Life”.’
Suryakant laughed lightly. ‘If only titles could write the fate of their stories!’
‘At least they can provide a better opening,’ Gauri said. But before the repartee could proceed, she rose and went into Gaurav’s room. She wanted neither to hurt Suryakant nor worsen her own anguish.
When Gauri left, Suryakant began to type, ‘Conquering Death to be Triumphant in Life.’ He typed the title in bold letters and wrote under it:
‘I agree that the title is incorrect because I have not defeated death. The reality is that death has never molested me. At most, it has simply played a practical joke on me. Like the times I held my breath to frighten Gauri. If death has not attacked me, how can I speak of defeating it? The fact is that life has ambushed me. Sampoornanand Brihaspati and this entire system – they are omnipresent in our lives, and they that have assaulted me. But maybe this too is a half-truth. Had I any inkling of this failure, I would not have chucked off my permanent job. I would have tried to convince the chairman. I would have used the people close to him and managed things through them. But I did not do it because I was confident that I would land another job. I have such powerful friends in good positions, and it was a strong possibility. But I had no idea how radically the world has changed and how difficult life has become. Anyway, the totality of it is that it was I who assaulted my own self. My revolt, the ethical courage behind seeking leave, and my rage, was not the call of my soul but a false opinion of my power, the mistaken notion of getting a new job. Today, I am unsuccessful and hopeless. Obviously, such a man must receive punishment – a person who wanted to relish the delight of appearing a rebel but without losing anything in exchange.’
He stayed up through the night, typing. In the morning, when Gauri came in with the newspaper, he was still awake. A tussle between him, his computer and the night had gone on in the past hours. All three were the authors of the struggle as well as its witnesses. Gauri and Gaurav had been asleep but they remained conscious inside Suryakant. The night was awake but the day, the sun and wakefulness, all were numb within it. Along with Suryakant, the computer too stayed awake, and on its festooned online screen, the world was chic, well turned-out and eminently present!
4
A TIME BYGONE AND THE LOTTERY
Bahuguna called Suryakant. ‘Your fate may shine tonight. If fortune really favours you, you can have a ball worth millions and billions. Even if the outcome is not quite favourable, you are sure to get something substantial. And in the worst ca
se scenario, you can at least enjoy fine wine and dinner at a five-star hotel.’
‘Are you taking me to a reality show?’ Suryakant asked sarcastically.
‘You never will win a reality show, so why should I take you to one?’
‘How do you plan to revive the fortunes of a jobless person like me then?’
‘Don’t be so inquisitive. I’ll pick you up from your house at 7 p.m.’
‘Why don’t you drop me a hint?’
‘Just assume that you are going to hit the jackpot,’ said Bahuguna and disconnected.
‘What sort of jackpot?’ Suryakant wondered aloud.
The shining luck one needs to win a lottery had never been his. When he was a child, an old woman used to sell churan by his school. There were prizes inside the churan packets. She would glue all sorts of small packets on a large, newspaper size coloured sheet. The old woman sat with her wares throughout the day regardless of season. He would often purchase the five-paisa packets of churan from the old woman and would tear them open in the hope of coming across a rupee, two-rupee, five-rupee or a ten-rupee reward. He was disappointed every time. At most, he would get a small plastic ring, or a boat, or a scorpion or a sword which made him all the more miserable. At the same time, he had found a chavanni and an athanni on the street, but unluckily they were fakes and the shopkeepers refused to accept the coins. Although he found these coins even when he grew up, nobody bothered to check fake coins in the market but accepted them without fuss because they were of little value now. The chavanni and the athanni were orphans. Even beggars were not happy to get them.
