The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

No problem.

  The tiny, multi-coloured bulbs swinging on two pillars began

  to gleam. Off and on they went. Red, blue, yellow lights.

  Victory to Sadanand Maharaj!

  Along with the slogans, a new frenzy caught on in the streets.

  On the next turn in the road, Sadanand-ji’s procession collided with another election group.

  A leader from that side shrieked: Think, o virtuous ones. Think with open minds.

  Electricity board, Water board, Housing board, Health board—they’ll all become idle without work, if you entrust everything to the Almighty. You see this dirty canal. This is our national river, Yamuna-ji. The noble Mother Ganga, who brings peace to others, is herself bubbling over with dirt. Sadanand Maharaj, we’ll need to do something. Will the divine powers soak up this pollution? Keep in mind that these citizens have rights.

  Someone shrieked: Really!

  The lungs of the citizenry are constricted with pollution. Throat infections plague our children. People’s eyes are filled with smoke. There is lack of good water.

  Listen, o listen …

  Sadanand Maharaj screamed: The Upanishads say that the soul is free; it is constant, eternal and primordial.

  Allow the state and its forces to do their work.

  Stop this philosophizing. If we want mind, reason and attitude to raise Indian life force to the highest possible level, they’ll need to understand the principles of justice, courage and compassion.

  Your slogans reflect ways of thinking which are almost dead.

  How can they intimidate you?

  Pay close attention to this. The world is not illusory for us. It is constant. It is neither born nor does it ever die. It is always present, in gross or fine form. So why delude us about staying away from a better life? We have a Constitution to protect our rights. It speaks of the participation of people in democracy.

  Parliament is the protector of our democratic values. We may well be backward, weak, of schedule caste, but the Parliament is ours too. We’re also the inhabitants of this country.

  The election season is over. Leaves fall soundlessly. Outside, the wind blows ever so softly. There is no electricity, only dense darkness, and the dusky glow of this body. Then it seems like the dawn is breaking. That we live to see a such a dawn … Isn’t that reason enough to rise and stand?

  nineteen

  The truck that would carry her baggage was coming late. The entry to Khelgaon had been shut since the afternoon.

  Ishan cast a glance at the baggage when he came in. There are too many pieces.

  I’ve taken out a lot, but it’s still too much for a single person.

  They stay in sight, like old conventions. They’re thrown out when our tales come to an end.

  Ishan was quiet for a while, then he said: The knots and bundles of silent pain trail behind us. I have also been thinking of lightening my baggage.

  Talking about the passage of time, one can say that rebirth happens more than once.

  We enter a new body each time we move house, Aranya said irritably

  They looked at each other with suspicion and fell silent.

  I came to ask you out to lunch, Aranya.

  Aranya responded enthusiastically: Always ready for such an invitation!

  She grabbed her purse and they took the lift down.

  Aranya went inside the restaurant while Ishan parked the car. She found the corner table that she liked free, and breathed a sigh of relief.

  I’ve been thinking since this morning that I’d like to lunch here and at this table.

  Two can seem like a crowd if they are not used to each other.

  Ishan looked at the menu: Cold beer?

  Will you have one?

  No, I’ll go for fresh fruit juice.

  Me, too. I’ve worked so hard what with all that packing. In grave need of vitamins.

  There was a time when four days a week were spent in restaurants. I’m talking about the sixties and seventies. They’re no longer around, but I’m happy that I’m still here and sitting with you.

  Me, too, Aranya.

  Let’s order lunch.

  Steamed fish. But you’re vegetarian.

  No, fish is regarded as a vegetable. I lived on it when I was abroad.

  It was as if Aranya chose her words with care: This last lunch will remain memorable.

  We’re moving in opposite directions. Khelgaon is far from here; it may be difficult for me to find the energy to drive there.

  Aranya laughed mockingly: It’s easier for me because I don’t have a car. Moreover, it’s not so important for seniors to meet.

  They laughed.

  Tea or coffee?

  I can have tea. But how about an ice-cream before that?

  Aranya, won’t it be inconvenient for you at Vinita’s?

  It shouldn’t be. I will have a room with attached bath, and the rest of my stuff in the basement.

  Ishan thought for a while. After a three bedroom flat, will just a room be enough for you?

  I’m middle-class through and through, Ishan, and I take pride in that. I’ve been taught to move with the times.

  Ishan was weighing each word: Don’t laugh off what I’m going to say now, Aranya. If I say that a room with an attached bath and a balcony is also available for you in my flat...

  Ishan, I need a day to think this over.

  So many years have gone by. Where had we started and where have we reached. Who would have thought that in the autumn of our lives, we would meet, not like old acquaintances, but like new friends. We’ve lived in this city for so long. If we balance our accounts, will we know what we’ve lost and what we’ve gained?

  Yes, Aranya, after getting to know you, it does seem that life is not a number on a bank account, which can be tallied simply by adding up digits. I am sure about this. Why not make our departure easy and natural? Neither of us will be inconvenienced in any way.

  twenty

  I assure you that not everything has been used up yet. The amount of water left in our pitchers is enough for the evening of our lives. Why shouldn’t we stay by each other— with each other? The time, when we didn’t know each other, is lost in the leaves of old calendars; that can’t be brought back. But the few days that we have now can be made ours. You know Aranya, sometimes when in my mind’s eye, I see myself walking down the college corridors, I feel I’ve become someone else. It feels more like remembering some old friend, someone closest to me. Now that I know you, I feel I’ve become someone else, Aranya. What would one call that? There must be a word for it.

  As I dropped off to sleep, Aranya, you were probably awake. Now that you’re sleeping, I’m awake. How different our daily routines, habits, ways of life.

  You don’t wallow in grievances and I stopped fighting fate a long time ago. I accept whatever fate decrees. Strange, the things that happen unexpectedly. The twist of fate that brought us together at this turn in our lives fills me with gratitude.

  We’ve lived our times, spent them. Why not live the bit that remains wholeheartedly? I won’t be able to say much about what I feel at this moment. I know you’ll understand. You’ll understand it the day you make up your mind to do so.

  The experience that overcame me like a cloud heavy with water, I want to have it reach you without words. I’ve dug up this letter from an old file. When I found it, it felt as if even fate can make an ardent effort to reach out to you sometimes.

  This letter written by a Yugoslav soldier from his deathbed says something that evokes respect. We may be able to derive some solace from the intensity of these lines.

  My child,

  As you gather strength to take birth, in darkness before it becomes light, I wish for your well-being. You have no form at this stage, no breath, no light in your eyes, but I’m filled with a deep certitude that when you and your mother come together in an unbreakable bond, you’ll gather in yourself the strength to come into existence and draw breath. And once you emerge from your
mother’s womb, the special happiness and fulfillment of seeing and observing the radiant light of this earth.

  It is the right of every human child to receive life. That is its goal. To receive body and soul from the mother’s pure womb, appear in this world, and to keep struggling and moving towards immortality.

  My child, may you be born through the grace of the maker of this cosmos. And may the light of your life remain aglow for a long time. May it benefit you, your childhood and youth. My blessings to you.

  This is the period granted to all transitory beings from the one who is constant, to live here, to halt here.

  It may be possible, once this tumultuous journey is over, to see the turns on that lonely road with the alert eyes of the watchman. So that you are able to give love and warmth to those who need them, to those who need sympathy and light.

  My child, I wish that you have a childhood in which you may play to your heart’s content, and move forward to take on a world that is not just filled with passion and attachment to the ‘self’, but one in which there is a search and struggle for those values, which mankind has striven to protect.

  Along with trees and leaves, fields and granaries, rivers and streams, waterfalls, oceans, mountain peaks, keep alive the respect for heroes and great men. And along with these, keep protected the ability to confront any insult, the courage to fight and struggle against any injustice.

  I know I have to collapse in a heap without ever seeing you, and that being born in my absence, you have to stand on the heap made of my omissions and sins. My son, forgive me. I know I’m leaving behind an untidy and tangled world. I take my leave of you. In my thoughts, my child, I kiss your forehead.

  Good night!

  Good morning!

  A sparkling, radiant morning, gleaming in the crimson of the sun.

  May it remain propitious for you throughout your life!

  Your father, my son, whom you will never see.

  twenty-one

  Aranya woke up.

  A tea tray lay on the bedside table. As she pulled it near her, a piece of folded paper flapped in the air.

  She read it through. Then, read it a second time. Then, a third time.

  She turned it around and saw a little line in a corner at the bottom.

  Aranya, I’m going for a walk. There’s lemonade. Tea as well. Breakfast will be ready by nine. There’s no need to hurry to get dressed.

  She looked at her watch. It was time for the arrival of the new owner of the flat.

  Back in her flat, she looked into all the rooms. Everything had been cleared, but for a pair of shoes. My favourite pair of shoes, how could I forget you? No, I know why I forgot you. I have no need of you to get to the place I’ll be going to next.

  Will you give us away to the scrap dealer then?

  No, memory will take care of you now.

  And who will take care of you?

  Aranya looked way from the shoes.

  Then slipping them under the cupboard, she said: Perhaps memory …

  twenty-two

  The melody of time.

  Time is a raga.

  No, in time is bound up a medley of ragas.

  Many songs.

  In every song, its unique flow of notes. Resounding in the body. Soaking in and settling in the soul. Dissolved and absorbed into it, the intimacy and remoteness of each. A cumulus of light dawns within. The notes adorning rhythm and beat.

  A raga is at once attachment and detachment. Warmth, love, and affection. Time finds ruses to entice, and leave you sad. The bird trapped inside flutters to be set free.

  But not only sadness, tied with it, is a deep regard for all living beings.

  True we were born and we have lived. Listening with rapt attention to the prelude of the raga, without being able to tell apart the subtle notes of a tanpura. In the same way, even if unable to understand the music of the other, we look for its resonance within ourselves. We can’t tell whom we’ve listened to and whom we’ve pushed away, shoving them into anonymity, despite the deep and shallow experiences which enrapture the mind and body and make one sad or happy.

  A deep attachment binds all seven notes into the scale of the raga and its sthayi-antara.

  Udatta, anudatta, tvarit. High, deep and rapid. The many, many tone perceptions, note scales, and tonalities. And with each aalap, the flow of devotion and emotion, attachment-detachment, love-passion, hurt-pain, memory-erasure, gratification-immersion, pain-pleasure, sorrow-grief, joy-delight.

  The raga of a life cumulated.

  Aadim, shadaj and nishad.

  The first note, aadim—the note of birth.

  Shadaj—the note of youth.

  Nishad—the last note of the human tale.

  Childhood, youth, and the last note from the autumn of life—nishad.

  Let them remain strung together as long as possible.

  Only then do you get to the entire octave.

  The melody of time.

  This Earth

  Angelika, a German married to Ishan’s relative, worked with the Southeastern desk of Amnesty International. She stopped in Delhi on her way back from Kashmir to meet Ishan. Aranya also joined the dinner. Many inner voices echoed in the room.

  Angelika’s children, Vivek and Malavika, grew up in an Indian family. Ishan and Angelika, wife of his brother-in-law Suren Pathak, had a lot to say to each other. Sharing common family memories, they exchanged notes on the insights gained from them.

  Angelika watched Aranya attentively. Raising her eyebrows, she asked Ishan: You still haven’t been able to free yourself from destiny, have you?

  Can anyone really be free of that, Angelika?

  Aranya laughed: Perhaps I should leave. It’ll be difficult to salvage the evening if we start debating about destiny.

  Ishan said gravely: We can surely view life already spent like a story now.

  Angelika teased: Ishan has to pay the price of having been born in Jammu-Kashmir. My husband’s brother-in-law retired from the Postal Service. If his Maha-pandit, his Paramatma, had lent him support, he could have retired from the Indian Administrative Service.

  Aranya turned to Angelika: Please go on, Angelika. That’s news to me. Ishan never told me about this.

  There’s nothing much to it, Aranya. You get worked up so easily.

  You’re from Jammu-Kashmir, I’m from bordering Gujarat-Pakistan. Why wouldn’t I start at the prospect of those dizzying heights? But do elaborate on what Angelika was saying.

  Nothing in particular. When I sat for the Administrative Service exams, I was ranked eighteen in the IAS and highest in the IPS, at number one. The Home Ministry checked with Jammu-Kashmir about this. Sheikh Abdullah was the Chief Minister then. He informed the Indian Government that Jammu-Kashmir was not part of the Indian Services. So I was offered the Postal Service and I accepted it.

  That too with detachment. Ishan, you disappoint me. Did you do no running around?

  No. But when Bakshi Ghulam Muhammad became the Chief Minister, an IAS cadre for Jammu-Kashmir was formed. The Home Ministry made provision for me in that cadre and sent my papers to the Government of Jammu-Kashmir for approval. Once again, what was not to happen did not happen. We won’t go into the reasons.

  The discussion turned to the issues of terrorism and human rights in Jammu-Kashmir, and the brutal narrative of the violence pervading the region. Amnesty International kept a watch on the violation of human rights across the world.

  Is it truly so difficult to resolve the Kashmir problem?

  Wherever it may be, in whichever country or region, military presence is bound to make the citizenry fight and rebel.

  Drinking glasses were brought out.

  I’d like to eat something before I drink anything, Aranya. I’ve not had lunch today.

  Aranya took out brown bread and cheese.

  Does this make the difference between native and foreign seem less?

  Angelika’s family has lived in India, she is used to Indian foo
d. There is no difference between her home and ours.

  No, no, how can you measure the difference between races by comparing food habits alone? Similarities and differences will continue to co-exist. And native and foreign responses specific to their locales, too, regardless of dissimilarities.

  Angelika was alert.

  The conversation turned to the United Nations Secretariat.

  Aranya offered everyone a second drink, and made herself one.

  It’s being said that the Great World Powers are going to set up habitation in outer space. If only our nation were also in the queue.

  Ishan turned to Angelika: Is this really going to happen?

  Much will change in the next century. The technologically advanced generations of wealthy nations will go settle there. And poor, backward nations will remain behind on Earth. Aranya said impulsively: This means that the developed peoples, all white, will live above, and here on this Earth—the black, flat ones. According to reports, the brotherhood of developed nations will achieve two things there. The construction of a building for the United Nations Organization and the residential quarters of God. Whenever the UNO will feel the need, it will consult Him. The poorer races will have to look after this Earth, its earthquakes and tremors, Tsunamis and storms, and relentless terrorism. In short, all these problems will become the headache of the poor alone.

  The diminishing population of this world will gradually lighten the load that oppresses the Earth.

  Our population.

  Our Earth.

  Who will watch over its vegetation and greenery?

  Who will protect it?

  Mankind.

  Mankind alone.

  Nuclear weapons, never.

  Never.

  P.S.

  Insights, Interviews & More …

  Krishna Sobti’s Oeuvre: A Palimpsest of Time

  The Sweep of Krishna Sobti’s work

  Krishna Sobti’s Oeuvre: A Palimpsest of Time

  Samay Sargam is a love story, an autumnal romance between impulsive, anarchic, fiercely feminist Aranya, and gentle, sensitive, orderly Ishan. Poetic and prosaic, melancholy and sprightly, it is also a reflection on the passing of time, on the process of ageing and on mortality.