The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  My mother’s name was Durga. And yours?

  Durga. But our fathers’ names have to be different, otherwise our identities could get mixed up. Not here, up there.

  Both laughed heartily.

  I’ll leave early in the morning, at four-thirty. Bahadur is on leave, so I am thinking if I should leave the key with you. Will it be a bother for you to wake up so early?

  No, I don’t go to sleep until then. I usually drink tea at that time.

  Ishan said, gravely: It’s important to do things in the normal way. A night’s sleep is most important for the human body. The digestive system doesn’t function well without it.

  The better part of life is over now. We’ll think about it if we are born again. How good it would have been to be born a couple of years later. We could have enjoyed the next century as well.

  They looked at each other as if they were back to being young again. As if they were saying to themselves: Yes, yes, it could well happen.

  three

  After a week, she received a letter.

  Dear Aranya,

  The pigeon feed must be over by now. You have the house keys, so I’ll have to bother you with this again. There are some clay bowls in the balcony. Could you fill them with millet grains and water? Also, there is a hose near the kitchen window. I would be so grateful if you watered the plants.

  Ishan

  After ten days, another letter.

  Dear Aranya,

  I had a mind to come back earlier, but for some reason I stayed on. I request you once more to take care of the pigeons. I am sending you a card made by my friend. I hope you like it. He is over eighty, and keeps himself busy with something or the other. When I went to meet him, he was sitting on a divan, pasting leaves on cards with such care that it seemed as if it was solitude that made for such completeness. You must also know this sense of fulfillment. He offered the card to me when he was done; the serrated leaves of the Morpankhi nearly smiled at me.

  He gave me with two cards—one is for you.

  I hope you are well and in good spirits.

  Ishan

  Aranya bought millet from the bazaar in the evening, opened Ishan’s flat and put it in the bowls. She attached the hose to the tap and watered the plants. The rubber plant was green, as were the long green leaves of the Vidya.

  She cooked here and there. There was no clutter in the house, just sparseness. As if it was life that was being lived, not its comforts. She glanced at the shelf. Krishnamurti was there. No, no shadow of grief anywhere. Birds were chirping. The solitude of lone houses, how different it was from the fully occupied. Spare, but elegant, and ticking with the clock.

  And alone.

  Entirely alone.

  I’m familiar with this, aren’t I? That’s why I can see it.

  Aranya took the boarding pass in her hand and stood up from her chair. With the announcement, countless units, stationary till now, became mobile. Brisk steps forward, bags swinging from shoulders, boarding pass in hand. Passengers travelling by flight number IC 434 from Bhubaneshwar via Bhopal to Delhi are requested to proceed to gate number two.

  The ceaselessness of airports. The magic of arrivals and departures. They come, they go—check-in, security, lounge-wait, and then board. Travellers … travel … each day, each morning, each night. No time is odd here. Whether the sun rises or sets, whether it is the bright half of the moon or the dark, flights continue to scale the skies, they continue to land. The airports of the world are abuzz night and day. A big comfort, that these flight concessions are also available to us seniors. And we obtain these in just two days! Isn’t that astonishing.

  The unfamiliar face at the Connaught Place airlines office came back to her. He had wished her well as he handed over the card to her. Given her date of birth, he must have surely conjectured how much longer the concession card would be used. This is a category of traveller whose rebated flights depend on luck alone.

  The flight was three hours late. It would land in Palam Airport at midnight. From there, it would take her another hour to get home.

  She had been away for fifteen days, and she hadn’t left the keys with anyone to get the place cleaned. She had wanted to leave them with Ishan, but when she went to meet him she had found only Bahadur at home.

  Is Sahib there?

  No. He’s coming back by tomorrow’s flight. Can I help with anything?

  Oh no, thanks.

  Aranya allowed the keys to remain in her purse. One can sleep on the sofa even if the house hasn’t been cleaned. A little carelessness and everything can be cleaned out, including the owner. Trying to get rid of Delhi’s dust can turn out to be very costly. Looking out of the window, she saw an endless expanse of darkness. A wing of the airplane could be seen, gathering up the distances, sprinting across the skys at an uncanny pace and with poise. Stars sparkled in the spaces in between; there were so many of them that each person on Earth could claim one as theirs.

  The Almighty is the bookkeeper of this world. He is in charge of arrivals and departures.

  Aranya leafed through magazines for a while and then closed her eyes. Would there be anything at home after this two-week long absence? Yes, a cup of tea. Tea, powdered milk, biscuits.

  The magnificent temple at Konark rose before her eyes. The satisfaction and pleasure of having seen it returned. She recalled the interesting syntax used by the old guide—Look, while the wife is inside, another woman waits outside for him. Even as the husband makes a sign to her, the wife chants a hymn of disaffection, her litany of hate.

  Aranya laughed to herself. After the temple, the guide had shown her the little garden where people could rest or relax.

  The scene before her closed eyes changed. Ocean, waves, and the shore held in place by wet sand!

  A wave came, collected her shoe and departed.

  She had stood there for a long time, waiting for it to come back.

  What’s this!

  She saw a strong, powerful hand being laid on her purse. Just the hand! Where was the face? She screamed: who are you?!

  She woke up with a start and found her own hand tightly clutching the handle of her bag.

  Wandering around the whole day and waiting for the evening flight had exhausted her. Maybe that’s what was making her weary and tense.

  Aranya opened her purse and checked everything. She rearranged everything—transferred the envelope with the cash from the large to the smaller, inner compartment; opened the big zipper inside and kept some change there; kept the bigger notes, held in reserve, in the secret inner pocket. Then to reassure herself, she examined her face in the compact mirror and arranged her hair, looking for the reason for her restlessness. Everything had gone well. People were pleased— Somya, his wife, the community of progressive thinkers in Bhubaneshwar. A soft breeze had enveloped her after the ceremony. The occasion had gone the way she had wanted it to. But now, long forgotten old memories had surfaced and begun to hurt.

  A faceless silhouette began to slink around inside her. She fixed her eyes on something outside the window.

  The sky, spread who knows how wide, expresses itself in sunshine during the day, and then stealing into the night, deepens the mystery of solitude.

  Our concessional flight heads towards its rebated target. The air-hostess’s voice fills the aircraft. In a short while, we shall be descending on Palam Airport. Please fasten your seat belts. Passengers are requested not to open the overhead compartments. We hope you had a pleasant flight. The temperature outside is eight degrees Celsius.

  The plane came to an unhurried halt on the runway. The queue of passengers in the aisle descended slowly.

  An attractive and enthusiastic air-hostess folded her hands, smiled, and said ‘namaskar’. Good night.

  Once on the ground, Aranya crossed the passageway quickly and pulled a trolley. With her hand resting on it, she waited for the baggage to arrive. She piled her suitcase and bag on it, got the coupon for a prepaid taxi, and pushed the trolley
outside.

  There was an extra attentiveness in her movements and alertness in her eyes. She had the suitcase and bag deposited in the dickey and sat in the car, the purse hanging from her shoulder.

  The street seemed long, at once familiar and unfamiliar. Such was the excitement of coming back home each time she returned from a journey.

  It used to be such a pleasure drinking tea at Safdarjung Airport. Cup in hand, planes taking off just ahead of us, showing prospective flyers how to fly. How long ago it seems now. Those days, those seasons, where did they disappear? And the fresh decades of youth? Aranya scolded herself. Do you really not know that those days got lost somewhere in the geography of this city?

  For so many years, she’s been returning home from the station or the airport and moulding herself and the house in the mode suited for travel.

  Days of struggle, big and small, taking shape. Days of living through desires and their limits. Days of youth and excitement, and bearing up to the rough and tangle of days. Of expanding financial responsibilities and capabilities. Sometimes, the one tipped higher and sometimes, the other.

  The clock would strike five and the headaches of office would be shut away in the drawer for the next day.

  Friendships would measure the roads; the destination was Connaught Place. Those bubbly, beautiful days, of picking restaurants. Standard, Gaylord, Volga, Embassy, La Bohéme, Nirula’s, York, Ginza, Alps, Maidens. Towards the end of the month, the Coffee House or the Tea House. A cycle of spending and cutting back. Where is the better band, where do pineapple and Jungle Delight pastries taste better, and where the cheese balls and paneer pakoras? Where do we get the better sandwiches and fried fish? Wengers’ cold drink Midnight Beauty and Dusty Road ice cream of Milk Bar at Scindia House. Heady days of youth …

  The Sunday meeting would convene at eleven for coffee and stretch upto lunch, evening show cinema tickets tucked in pockets. Plans would be made with taste, depending on the salary at disposal. Neither a whit less nor a whit more. New Delhi’s salaried class and its mores, caught in a tussle with each other. A glance always fixed on the metre of expenses and small and big wishes respected accordingly.

  For years, Delhi, new and old, kept up its grandeur at all costs. With Independence, the capital began to overflow with community after aggressive community of the displaced. Here, there, everywhere. In every district of the city. The inhabitants of Delhi were plagued by belligerent refugees uprooted from villages, qasbas and towns. Duststorms swept over Delhi’s culture and tastes.

  And in the twinkling of an eye, pavement stalls invaded and conquered the inside of shops. As a result, the older proprietors of the shops advanced towards New Delhi.

  The trams and their tracks vanished from the streets in a wink. The row of trees lining Chandni Chowk were chopped. Stoves were lit on the pavements and dal and rotis began to be made there. The Lahore Gate of the Red Fort looked on in silence. As did the residents of Delhi. Parts of the wall encircling the city were swept away. The gardens on the outskirts of Old Delhi were rapidly sold off and, in no time, disappeared into the master plan. Villages underwent a complete metamorphosis. Three hundred and four villages of Delhi district were transformed into bigger settlements. Their identities were preserved in the names of streets and small shops. And like them, we, young citizens of yesteryears, were transformed into the senior citizens of today.

  That’s the odd thing about the pace of time. We were insiders till the time we were in the running, and we stand outside now that we have slowed down. Entirely outside. As if travelling in a hired cab, we course through the streets of new time and yet we don’t belong to it.

  Ancient us in new times.

  Quiet! Why think of old times and feel dejected. Keep away from that.

  She glanced outside. The streets glistened with rows of light. At one time, this Kitchener Hostel area used to be deserted. Now it wallows in quiet luxury and in the subdued hum of embassies. She looked at the driver and cleaner in the front seats of her taxi. After ten in the night, the driver needs the cleaner. He may feel threatened by the passengers seated behind him. There is no danger to the lone passenger, though; the taxi is pre-paid. She looked at her watch. Twelve-twenty. At least another twenty minutes to get home. The car was descending rapidly from the incline of an over-bridge in the fascinating but strangely frightening stillness of the winter night.

  Suddenly the driver braked. As if he had stopped at someone’s command.

  Aranya asked: What happened, Driver Sahib?

  Someone was knocking on the back window.

  Before Aranya could think further, the driver stretched his arm back and lowered the pane.

  Show your baggage. Hand over your purse.

  Who are you?

  Police.

  Please show your identity card.

  You want to know my identity, madam? Shall I snap it open and show it to you?

  The knife glistened in his hand. You know what this is, don’t you?

  Yes, but I’ve nothing worth searching.

  Stop arguing.

  The tightly clutched purse was snatched away by a tight fist.

  Open the dickey! The voice cracked like a whip.

  The cleaner scrambled out quickly and opened the dickey.

  The baggage was lifted out and the door slammed.

  Go drop this old hen home! She won’t get there if she stops by the police station on the way.

  The car started.

  The sentry’s shadow still loomed large.

  The driver turned his head and said: They were in uniform, but they weren’t real policemen.

  When they turned the next bend, Aranya said: Driver Sahib, this is a pre-paid taxi, isn’t it?

  Madam, what could we have done? What can we do if looters in police uniform stop us? You saw the knife, didn’t you? What if we lost our lives?

  Hand-in-glove.

  You stopped the car when they gave a signal, didn’t you?

  What else could we do in a situation like that, madam?

  If you hadn’t stopped, how could they have followed us? They were on foot.

  Not at all, a car was parked a few steps away.

  Madam, it’s true you’ve lost your luggage, but nothing really bad happened to you. The mischief they can get up to. Was there a lot of expensive stuff in your baggage? Camera, jewellery?

  Stop this nonsense and take the car to the police station.

  We’ll drop you near the police station. We’re not getting involved in this. This is our work time.

  You’ll have to go.

  Then the driver spoke with some empathy: Madam, you’ll freeze at the police station. If you try to get someone on the phone, you’ll find the line isn’t working. You’ll get nothing from the police station. In a situation like this, it’s best for a passenger like you to get home safely.

  The sound of a bullet pierced Aranya’s ears, as if shot off from her own chest. If only I had a gun... But I don’t.

  He changed lanes.

  She looked outside.

  The car was moving in the direction of her house.

  If only a Flying Squad would come by at this moment.

  The guard at the gate signalled them to stop. He lifted the

  register.

  Aranya told the driver: Stop the car here.

  Sahib, you’ll have trouble carrying the baggage to the lift.

  There is no baggage.

  Reaching inside, she drew a long breath.

  The house keys were in her purse.

  Perplexed, she stood there for a while, then moved towards the lift in the next block.

  There was no option but to ring Ishan’s bell.

  It’s past one now.

  Somewhere else?

  No, this is not the time to go anywhere else either.

  She rang the doorbell.

  It rang for a long time.

  The door opened.

  At this hour!

  Perplexity and coldness in Ishan
’s voice. In his eyes, a kind of drowsy awkwardness.

  It’s past one. Was your flight late?

  Yes.

  Where’s your baggage?

  Something happened. We’ll talk tomorrow. But I’ll have to stay here. I don’t have my house keys. That’s why I’m here …

  Ishan looked alarmed, but he remained silent.

  After a moment, he said: There’s fresh linen in the guestroom. It was the washerman’s day today. The duvet is thin; you’ll need another blanket.

  Ishan went to his room. She heard the sound of a cupboard opening. A blanket was placed on the sofa.

  Good, I heard the bell. There’s some fruit in the fridge. You can make tea if you like. You’ll find milk, sugar, everything you need, on the shelf.

  Thanks. Good night.

  Good night.

  A tray on the dining table. Two glasses. Lemons. Honey. A

  flask, a knife, a spoon.

  The start of a new day.

  Aranya stood for a while in the dining room.

  No purse. No keys. If she had given the keys to Bahadur, she could have slept the night in her own flat. She had doubted Bahadur’s reliability. That’s what comes of being unnecessarily suspicious. Did you think that someone like Bahadur would spirit away your flat? No. It was just looking out for your safety. Who knows, perhaps when they have rifled through my luggage, some of it will turn up again. At one time, there used to be a box at the General Post Office where pickpockets would drop off the empty shells of stolen purses, passports, keys. Beyond pens, watches or cash, they weren’t really interested in troubling people by keeping their stuff. Would this courteous gesture have survived the ravages of time?

  Are you still lost and wandering? These were not pickpockets; they were robbers. She could have phoned Kaul Sahib. At that time!

  No, it’s one-thirty now.

  She opened her eyes after a light morning nap.

  She switched on the lamp.

  Four-thirty.

  Go to sleep.

  She turned on the other side and plunged into a deep slumber again. It was the exhaustion of losing her baggage.

  She stretched her hands, as if to collect something and returned empty-handed again. Where will my clothes be? Perhaps in the second-hand bazaar. No, not this week, not so soon. Not necessarily in this city. It’ll take time. Who’ll wear them?