Shivshankar stepped out and stared at the track for a long time. His son, Akhilesh, got out too. ‘What are you looking at, Papa? Hurry up.’ As soon as Akhilesh reached him Shivshankar said, ‘Akhilesh, do you see that dirt track? It goes to Aldausi. We used this track to go to school.’ Annoyed, Akhilesh replied, ‘Arre, Papa! You got down just for this? Come quickly now. I don’t want to stay for more than one day. If we get late, we won’t reach before nightfall.’
Shivshankar felt heavy-hearted as he climbed back into the car. He stared at the track until it disappeared from view. A few unfinished pages of his past were scattered there. He was surprised that Akhilesh couldn’t see anything there. Children who grow up in the noise of the city don’t know how to read the silence of villages and towns. He used to come to Alipur every year, but this time everything was reminding him of something.
He remembered when Amma had come to the city for the first time. As soon as she put her first step in the one-bedroom flat she had said, ‘You left that huge house for this hovel?’ How could he have explained to her that it wasn’t the house that he had left but the environment that had stifled him from his childhood till his youth? As he grew older it had all started feeling like undeclared fetters to him. After finishing college in Delhi, he had never considered returning to Alipur to settle there. Amma had felt really bad that her son had preferred to spend his life alone in the city instead of with his bustling family at home. Now when his own son didn’t want to visit Alipur, he understood his mother’s pain.
The sky now wore a mantle of vermilion. The sun was hiding in a mango orchard towards the west. Those mango orchards held some years of his; he wanted to investigate those too before he left. Throwing up mud along the narrow lanes of the town, the long car finally stopped outside Sahay Villa. Getting out of the car Akhilesh said, ‘Ram Dayal, please take the car to the hotel. Papa, come, I’ve given the keys to the guard. He’ll get it cleaned up in the morning.’ As Shivshankar looked at his house with brimming eyes, a few memories slipped from them and rolled down his cheek. He steeled himself and bid his house goodbye. Tomorrow his house would become someone else’s forever.
Shivshankar’s ancestral home was to be sold on the eighth of August. It needed to be sold because there was no one left to look after it. He had been putting it off for some years now. He came every year, got it cleaned up, plucked guavas, which were now a challenge for his teeth, from the tree in the courtyard. While his mother had been alive she had come to see them in the city. As she sat there cutting guavas she would say, ‘Your children will never understand the taste of guavas grown in your own courtyard. They never get holidays in the guava season.’
Shivshankar always felt that his mother was very unhappy with his having moved to the city which she expressed through metaphors of guavas and mangoes. Shivshankar’s children had never understood the taste of rice grown in their own fields, or how to make a slingshot to break raw mangoes from the trees, or how to catch the fish that came into the fields with the monsoon.
There was a well near his home in the village. His grandmother would build a wood fire near it. Even after all these years he could savour the taste of the litti-chokha in his mouth. When he had left his house his father had said, ‘Son, remember that to fly high in the sky you have to uproot yourself.’ He felt that his father had foreseen this day all those years ago. On the eighth of August the uprooting of Shivshankar would be complete. The only person who felt pain because of that was Shivshankar.
Akhilesh’s voice pulled him back into the present. ‘Papa, get up. We have to deal with the stuff inside the house.’ The new owner wanted the house empty. In fact, he didn’t want the house at all. He planned to tear it down and build a new one. They had organized a sale to get rid of the old shisham furniture. Shivshankar couldn’t sleep. He hated staying in a hotel in his own Alipur. The soft mattress poked. Shivshankar’s pain reached his voice; pleadingly he asked, ‘Son, won’t you think about it just once more?’
Akhilesh’s heart melted when he saw the tears in his father’s eyes. He explained gently, ‘Papa, we have been putting it off for so many years because of you. Now we are spending more in the house’s upkeep than its worth. It’s for the best that we sell it.’ He was explaining things to Shivshankar the same way that Shivshankar had explained why he couldn’t have an ice cream when Akhilesh had been small. Akhilesh’s childhood had been left behind, and Shivshankar’s was returning.
They left in a while and soon, after a short drive down bumpy village roads, the car drew up near Sahay Villa. All the furniture had been placed outside. The old shisham dining table was there and on it served for Shivshankar was his whole life. This was where he had eaten his first morsel of food. This was where his mother would coax him to eat his food. It was at this table that he had announced his decision to move to the city and where he had fought with his father. He put on his glasses to read the price put for it: fifteen thousand rupees. Shivshankar thought the price was low for a lifetime of memories. He moved ahead sadly.
Just inside the doorway was large hall. At the far end of it, his father’s portrait still hung on the wall. His father looked angry, as if he were saying, ‘See, Shivshankar, I told you, didn’t I, that if you run from your home, you’ll never belong anywhere?’ He heard a voice calling from the kitchen, ‘Leave him alone now, let him go. He has his own dreams too. Even if he stays his heart won’t be here.’ It was as if his memories were coming alive and he could watch them like a play. Akhilesh called from outside, ‘Papa, come out, there is a lot of dust there. You’ll fall sick.’ Shivshankar called out hurriedly, ‘I’m coming, just give me a little time.’ He was wondering if the house would remember him once it was sold to someone else. Would all traces of his life be forgotten? He picked up a small book stand from the pile of furniture. His father used it to read the Ramcharitmanas.
Suddenly the room echoed with his father’s voice: Everything must end and dissolve into the five elements. He tried to convince himself, but his heart wouldn’t listen. He held the book stand to his heart.
Carrying the book stand, Shivshankar went outside again. He was reciting verses from the Ramcharitmanas and the Gita softly. The furniture was all being bought. He went up to Akhilesh and said, ‘Do you know? Your Dadaji used to read the Ramcharitmanas and the Gita from this book stand.’ Akhilesh had his mind on other things. Distractedly he said, ‘That’s all okay, Papa, but now the wood is all rotting. What will you do with it? Leave it there, please.’ Shivshankar held it even closer to his chest like a stubborn child in the shops insisting on an expensive toy.
As he stepped out, four men went into the hall and, using a step ladder, started taking down the large chandelier. Shivshankar smiled as he watched them take it down. That chandelier was just ten years younger than him. It had come all the way from Hyderabad just to light up the occasion of his tenth birthday. Now after years of service it was being retired. In a sense it was just some wood and iron that was being sold but that wood and iron were witnesses to Shivshankar’s whole life. Amma and Pitaji’s hands had often touched those things. Their touch was still present in these objects. It’s only the body that grows old, not feelings. Shivshankar felt as if the light of Amma’s love and the glow of his father’s face still shone in those things. His eyes were filled with memories of days past and tears of pain. He couldn’t stop the tears. He wept and smiled; sun and rain played together on his face.
Just then he heard loud voices from behind him. A handkerchief covering his face, Akhilesh was on the phone, ‘I said give the phone to Kapoor Sahab. Hello! Yes, Kapoor Sahab. How are you feeling now? The thing is we have done all the paperwork here. I wanted to get it registered today itself. I’ve fixed everything in the tehsil office as well. Now I’m going to have to wait till tomorrow. If you weren’t able to come you could have at least informed me.’ Shivshankar understood that the buyer, some Avinash Kapoor, was unable to come that day. He was immediately refreshed by a feeling of contentmen
t. He had just received an extra day to gather his memories.
Akhilesh had returned to the hotel. Shivshankar had insisted on staying behind and now he stood gazing out at the temple near the fields with a feeling of emptiness. Surdas’ verses were being played on the loudspeaker. The sound of a car stopping broke his reverie. Ram Dayal had returned after dropping Akhilesh. He came and stood next to Shivshankar. Shivshankar gestured towards a tree at the back of the house. ‘Do you see that tree, Ram Dayal? It’s a Mirzapuri guava. My Dada Sahab had planted it and guess who he gave the watering duty to? Me! And when I refused you know what he said?’ Ram Dayal watched an emotional old man get even more emotional. Shivshankar looked at him and said, ‘He said, if you water it yourself the fruit will be sweeter. It was not something I understood in my childhood. I raised that tree like a child. Now you tell me, won’t I love it? How I can leave it forever?’
Ram Dayal had no answers for the old man. Instead of comforting him he asked him a question, ‘Sahab, I am a poor man. I went to the city to earn money. But why did you leave?’ Shivshankar smiled, ‘In youth a man runs, Ram Dayal, and in his old age he returns.’ Ram Dayal didn’t understand. He was in his running days. Home . . . The place the word conjures up is the place you will always call home, the place where you left behind some important part of yourself. The rest are all stops and resting places. Shivshankar’s self was in this old house in Alipur, where his childhood swung from an old guava tree.
As they watched, the mango orchard swallowed up the sun again. As the night deepened so did his bleakness. Some stuff still lay about the hall. Before he could go into his room to inspect his youth, his phone rang. It was Akhilesh. ‘Papa, it’s late. You haven’t left yet?’
The thought of leaving his house sent a shiver of pain through Shivshankar’s body. Appealingly he said, ‘It’s the last night, son, let me stay at here, at home, tonight.’
A lot had changed in Alipur, but the nights were still as dark as they had been all those years ago. Shivshankar was asleep in his room that adjoined the living room of Sahay Villa. He was awake. He had come every year but had never slept in his own room. There were twelve hours left for the house to go so he had asked for his bed to be made in his own room. He didn’t want to sleep. He wanted to live the twenty years he had spent in this house again in those twelve hours.
His tired body fought his tired mind for a long time, but in the end the tired body won and he fell asleep. In his dream he saw his father, and that lake in which once he had almost drowned as he played. He saw his father watching him from the other end of the lake. His mother was working but never took her eyes off him. As he swam he reached the middle of the lake. Suddenly he began to drown. His father watched him but didn’t come to save him. He was alone. His eyes jerked open. But his body lay asleep.
He saw his whole life around him. He saw himself fall off his bicycle while learning how to ride and the whole family administering to the tiny scratch. He saw the preparations for a party when he came first in the ninth grade. He saw his father angry and himself with a suitcase in hand leaving for the city. His mother was trying to blink away her tears. The last thing he saw was the slight smile that lit his father’s face when Akhilesh was born. He had spent his whole life desperate for that smile. Shivshankar felt his hold on time loosening. He didn’t feel the loneliness any more that he felt sitting by the window in his apartment.
Everyone stood on the other edge of the lake: his father, his mother, his wife. They were calling him to them. He only had to cross that lake. But he wasn’t able to swim. He was drowning. There were a few hours left till daybreak. Shivshankar was exhausted. Slowly he sank below the surface. He felt himself close to his parents. His breath slowed.
It is dawn. Shivshankar is in a deep sleep. The temple bells are ringing and, over the loudspeaker, Surdas’ verse can be heard.
My mind, limitless, knows no joy
A bird in flight, it returns
To the mother ship, ahoy!
A Note on the Contributors
Ankita Chauhan is from Sawai Madhopur in Rajasthan. She has written over twenty stories for radio. She blogs about books at soundingwords.blogspot.in and tweets @_ankitachauhan.
Shabnam Gupta went on to do an MBA after graduating from Sophia College, Ajmer, with a BA in English. But she continued to write poems and stories in Hindi and published them on her blog. In 2014 she joined Neelesh Misra’s Mandali. Her stories have appeared on Big FM’s Yaadon ka Idiot Box, Red FM’s The Neelesh Misra Show and Saavan’s Kisson ka Kona and Time Machine. She is a senior writer with Content Project Private Limited and blogs at sophiashab.blogspot.in.
Snehvir Gusain is a teacher who enjoys writing stories. His characters are a means to understand himself. After studying mass communication he took to writing to express his creative impulse. He has written over sixty stories for Neelesh Misra. ‘Jahaaz ka Panchi’ is one of his best-loved stories.
Anulata Raj Nair has an MSc in chemistry. She lives in Bhopal and is an active blogger. In 2014 she joined Neelesh Misra’s Mandali and has written over 150 stories for various shows including Yaadon ka Idiot Box, The Neelesh Misra Show, Kahani Express and Time Machine. Her poetry appears in the acclaimed collection Ishq Tumhein Ho Jaega. Her stories, cover stories and nazm are carried regularly by various publications. She is the associate creative head at Content Project Private Limited and blogs at allexpression.blogspot.com.
Chhavi Nigam has a PhD in political science. She teaches at a university in Lucknow. Her stories, poems and other writings are featured regularly in various newspapers, magazines, websites and blogs. She has published two collections of stories and received the Pride of Women award for literature. She has written sixty-five stories for Kisson ka Kona, The Neelsesh Misra Show, UP ki Kahaniyan and Time Machine. She is a senior writer with Content Project Private Limited. She has also worked as a translator for the Lucknow-based rural newspaper Gaon Connection.
Kanchan Pant is a writer and journalist. After seven years as a TV journalist she began to write stories for radio. She has written over 200 stories for The Neelesh Misra Show, Yaadon ka Idiot Box, Kisson ka Kona, Kahani Express and other shows. In 2014 she published the story ‘Bus Itni Si Thi Ye Kahani’, authored her first book of short stories, Bebak. She has been awarded the Hindi Yuva Pratibha Sammaan, and the Golden Paper Award by the Indian Literary Society, Singapore. In 2016 she was named one of the fifty leading writers of Uttarakhand. She is the creative head at Content Project Private Limited.
Umesh Pant is from Gangolihaat in Uttarakhand. He has a Master’s degree in mass communication from Jamia Millia Islamia. He is the author of the popular travelogue Innerline Pass. He began his career as an associate writer with Balaji Telefilms, Mumbai. Soon after, he started writing stories with Neelesh Misra. He is a roving writer with Gaon Connection and writes for several Hindi newspapers. He also works as an onsite Hindi linguist with Google for Magnon eg+. He has written several films and songs for radio. He has two websites, www.umeshpant.com and www.yatrakaar.com, and tweets @umeshpanthy.
Jamshed Qamar Siddiqui is a writer and journalist. After many years as a TV journalist he began to write stories for radio. His romantic and humorous stories for The Neelesh Misra Show have won great appreciation. Jamshed has also written scripts and dialogues for TV serials. He writes for Gaon Connection and is associate creative head with Content Project Private Limited. He tweets @jamshedhumd.
Manjit Thakur is a journalist. After receiving a diploma in journalism from the Indian Institute of Mass Communication, he studied at the Film and Television Institute of India. He has worked with Navbharat Times and DD News. He is the author of Panch Vanchit Ilakon ki Reportage and Ye Jo Desh Hai Mera. He has also translated books by V.S. Naipaul and A.P.J. Abdul Kalam into Hindi. He has written thirty-five stories for The Neelesh Misra Show. He works with India Today.
THE BEGINNING
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PENGUIN BOOKS
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Penguin Books is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
This collection published 2018
Copyright © Content Project Pvt. Ltd. for Neelesh Misra 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket images © Parag Chitale
ISBN: 978-0-143-44577-7
This digital edition published in 2018.
e-ISBN: 978-9-353-05109-9
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Storywallah Page 15
