‘Do.’
‘That day, I’d stopped writing and was sitting on the veranda. You were there, so was Sukumar. Darkness fell, the lamps on the streets were lit, and I sat there making up stories of the Age of Truth for you.’
‘Making up stories! That means you were turning it into the Age of Falsehood!’
‘Don’t call them false. A ray of light that has crossed the limits of violet can’t be seen; but you can’t say it doesn’t exist— it’s just as much light. It’s in that ultraviolet glow of history that man has created his Age of Truth. I wouldn’t call it prehistoric— rather, it is ultra-historic.’
‘You needn’t explain any more. Go on with what you were saying.’
‘I was telling you that in the Age of Truth people didn’t learn things out of books, or from reports. Their knowledge just grew of itself, out of being.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Listen to this carefully. You probably believe that you know me?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘You do know me, but that knowing lacks ninety-nine and a half per cent of real knowing. But if you could, within yourself, become me whenever you wished, your knowing would be complete and true.’
‘In that case, you’d like to say that we don’t know anything at all?’
‘We certainly don’t. We’ve all assumed that we know things, and all our work is founded upon this collective assumption.’
‘Well, the work seems to be going pretty well.’
‘It’s going along, but this going-along doesn’t belong to the Age of Truth. That’s what I was telling you: in the Age of Truth, people didn’t know by seeing or touching, but by absolutely being.’
The feminine mind always clings to solid proof; I’d thought my idea would strike Pupu as utterly fantastic and that she wouldn’t like it, but it appeared to rouse her curiosity. She said, ‘That’s rather fun.’
Then she got quite excited, and asked, ‘Dadamashai, nowadays science claims to do a lot of things. We listen to the songs of dead people, see the faces of people far away—I even hear of lead being turned into gold. Perhaps one day it’ll work such a trick with electricity that one person will be able to mingle with another.’
‘It’s not impossible. But what will you do then? You won’t be able to hide anything from me!’
‘Good heavens! Everyone’s got lots to hide.’
‘It’s because we hide them that there are things to hide. If no one had anything hidden away, everyone would carry on knowing everything about everyone else, like a card game where you can see everyone’s hands.’
‘But there are lots of things to be ashamed of.’
‘If all shameful things were revealed, the sense of shame would lose its edge.’
‘All right, but what were you going to say about me?’
‘The other day, I asked you what you’d have liked to see yourself as, if you’d been born in the Age of Truth. You blurted out—“An Afghan cat!” ’
Pupu grew very cross and declared, ‘Never! You’re making it up!’
‘My Age of Truth may be my creation, but your words are yours alone. Not even a talkative old fellow like me could make them up all of a sudden.’
‘I take it you thought me very stupid because of my wish.’
‘I only thought you very much wanted an Afghan cat but had no chance of acquiring one, as your father can’t stand cats. In my view, in the Age of Truth, you wouldn’t have to buy a cat, or possess one; you could just turn yourself into a cat at will.’
‘First a human, then a cat—what good would that do? Even buying a cat would be better than that, or doing without one if you couldn’t buy it.’
‘There, you see, your mind can’t quite grasp the wonder of the Age of Truth. The Pupe of the Age of Truth would extend the limits of her being to include those of a cat. You wouldn’t be robbed of your limits. You’d be yourself—and the cat as well.’
‘There’s no meaning to these speeches of yours.’
‘In the language of the Age of Truth, they have plenty of meaning. The other day, your teacher Pramatha-babu told you that the molecules that make up light are a shower of tiny particles, like rain; and at the same time, a current of flowing waves, like a river. Our ordinary intelligence tells us, “either this, or that”, but the scientific mind accepts both at the same time. In the same way, at the same time, you’re both Pupu and the cat—so says the Age of Truth.’
‘Dadamashai, the older you grow, the more incomprehensible your words become—just like your poems.’
‘A pointer to the time when I’ll become completely silent.’
‘Didn’t our conversation that day go any further than the Afghan cat?’
‘It did. Sukumar was sitting in the corner. He said dreamily, “I’d like to try being a sal tree.”
‘You were always happy to have a chance to laugh at Sukumar. Hearing he wanted to be a sal tree, you laughed yourself sick. He started in shame. So I took the poor chap’s side, and said, “Imagine—the southerly wind begins to blow—the branches of the tree are covered with flowers, an invisible charm flows through its veins, with a constant play of beauty and sweet scent. How dearly we wish to feel this passion from within! If you can’t be a tree, how can you feel the boundless thrill of a tree in springtime?”
‘Hearing my words, Sukumar grew excited. He declared, “You can see a sal tree from my bedroom window. When I lie in bed, I see its crown, and it seems as if it’s dreaming.”
'On being told that a sal tree was dreaming, you were probably about to exclaim, "What a silly thing to say!" To stop you, I went on, "A sal tree's whole life is a dream. It passes in a dream from seed to seedling, from seedling to tree. Even its leaves are the words it has spoken in its dream."
‘I said to Sukumar, “The other day, on that cloudy, rainy morning, I saw you standing on the northern veranda, clutching the railing. What were you thinking of?”
‘Sukumar answered, “Why, I don’t know what I was thinking of.”
‘I said, “Those unknown thoughts had filled your mind, just as the clouds filled the sky. The trees stand still in just the same way, as if lost in some unknown thought or emotion. Those thoughts darken among the monsoon clouds and gleam in the sunshine of a winter morning. The new leaves start to babble in the language of those thoughts; the flower buds and blossoms begin to sing.”
‘I still remember how Sukumar’s eyes grew wide with pleasure. “If I could be a tree,” he said, “the murmur of the leaves would quiver through my body and drift up into the clouds.”
‘You noticed that Sukumar had taken centre stage. Pushing him into the wings, you stepped into the limelight, and asked, “Dadamashai, if the Age of Truth arrives, what would you like to be?”
‘You thought I’d want to be a mastodon or a megatherium, since I had discussed the early history of the animal kingdom with you only the other day. The earth was very young and tender then, and the continents hadn’t hardened into solid masses. The plants and creepers had been painted with only the first strokes of the Creator’s brush. You had heard me say that in those ancient forests, ruled over by uncertain, ever-changing seasons, creatures evolved in a manner hard for us to imagine today. You had realized from my words how desperately man longs to know more of that epic age when life made its first foray into the world. So if I had suddenly yelled, “I’d like to be one of those prehistoric hairy four-tusked elephants,” you’d have been happy. It would have been like your wish to be an Afghan cat—I’d have belonged to your group. In the normal way, I might not have disappointed you. But Sukumar’s words had drawn my mind in another direction.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Pupe. ‘Sukumar-da’s thoughts were always much closer to yours than mine.’
‘The only reason for that,’ I said, ‘is that he was a boy, just as I had been. His imagination had been shaped in the same mould as my own childish fancy. When you sat down with your toy pots and pans to build the happy h
ousehold of your dreams, you were well content. But I could only observe your dream from a distance. When you danced your play-child on your knee, it was beyond me to grasp the immensity of your love.’
‘Never mind all that now,’ said Pupu. ‘Tell me what you wanted to be that day.’
‘I had wanted to be a bit of the landscape, stretched over a wide expanse. It’s the hour of dawn, and now that the month of Magh is drawing to a close the wind is restless. In the tossing wind, the old ashvatthva tree seems as lively as a child; the waters of the stream have broken into a soft babble and the trees stand in shadowy groups on its rolling banks. Behind all this stretches the open sky, and it has a faraway look—as if a bell is ringing on the far bank of that empty distance, the notes half-blown away by the wind, its message mingling with the sunshine: the hour passes.
‘The look on your face showed clearly that you thought wanting to be a complete landscape—stream, woods and sky— a great deal more outlandish than wanting to be a single tree.
‘Sukumar spoke. “It’s fun to think of you spreading over trees and streams and becoming part of them. Do you think there ever will be an Age of Truth?”
‘“Till it arrives, we have paintings and poems. They are wonderful paths down which you can forget yourself and become other things.”
‘“Did you ever draw a picture of what you’ve just told us about?” asked Sukumar.
‘“I did.”
‘“I’m going to draw one too.”
‘His audacity made you angry. “I doubt if you’ll ever be able to draw anything!”
‘“Of course he will,” said I. “When you’ve finished the painting, old chap, I’ll take yours and you shall have mine.”
‘That’s as far as our conversation went that day.
‘Let me tell you the last thing we discussed that day. You had gone off to feed your pigeons. Sukumar was still sitting there, thinking deeply. I said to him, “Shall I tell you what you’re thinking of?”
‘“Let’s see you do it,” said he.
‘“You’re trying to think of all the other things it might be fun to become—perhaps the rain-soaked monsoon sky, darkening as the first clouds gather, or maybe the little sailing boat racing homeward as the Pujas approach. While we’re on the subject, let me tell you of a story from my own life. You know how I used to love Dhiru. One day, like a bolt from the blue, I received a telegram saying he was very ill with typhoid. I rushed to his house in Munshigunj that very evening. A week went by. The day was oppressively hot, with the sun blazing overhead. A dog howled mournfully in the distance, making me feel melancholy. Evening fell, and the sun sank slowly. The fig tree in the west cast its shadow on the veranda. The neighbourhood milk-woman came and asked, ‘How is Khoka-babu today?’ I answered, ‘His headache is better, and so is the pain in his limbs.’ Some of the people taking care of him got a chance to rest. Two doctors came and examined him, then stood outside the room talking in whispers; I realized there was no hope for him. I sat there quietly, feeling it useless to listen. The evening shadows darkened. The evening star shone above the immense neem tree before me. I could no longer hear the rumble of the jute-laden bullock carts on the distant road. There seemed to be a droning in the sky. I don’t quite know why I kept saying to myself, ‘From the western sky comes peace, made manifest in night—cool, dark, still. Darkness comes at the end of each day, but today it seems to have a special form and touch.’ I closed my eyes, and let the slowly approaching darkness wash over my mind and body, saying inside me, ‘O peace, O night, you are my Didi, my sister of ages without end. As you stand waiting at sunset’s door, draw my little brother Dhiru to your breast; relieve him of his suffering.’ A wail rose from the attendants standing beside the sickbed; the doctor’s carriage wound its way home down the silent street. That day, I felt night spread across my mind—I let it envelop me, just as the world submits to the reign of its all-veiling, meditative calm.”
‘I don’t know what Sukumar thought of all this. He declared eagerly, “But your Didi will never steal me away in the darkness. When the Puja holidays come, and no one has to go to school even at ten in the morning—when the boys play cricket in the chariot square—on one of those days, I’ll just melt away into the sunshine of a holiday morning, almost as if in play.”
‘I listened in silence. I didn’t utter a word.’
Pupe-didi said, ‘Ever since yesterday, you’ve been talking of no one but Sukumar-da—usually poking a little fun at me in the process. Do you think he and I are still rivals for your affection, as we were when we were children?’
‘Perhaps you are, a little bit. That’s why I keep speaking of him—to wipe away the last traces of your jealousy. There’s also another reason.’
‘Well, why don’t you tell me what it is?’
‘A few days ago, Sukumar’s father Doctor Nitai came to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye? Why goodbye?’
‘I had thought of telling you, but never got around to it. I will today. Nitai wanted Sukumar to read law, but Sukumar wanted to learn painting under Nandalal-babu.115 Nitai said, “Painting might keep your fingers busy, but it won’t feed your stomach.”
‘“My hunger for painting is far greater than the hunger of my stomach,” said Sukumar.
‘Nitai said with some sternness, “You’ve never had to prove that yet—you’ve never had to earn your bread.”
‘His father’s words fell harshly on his ears, but all the same, Sukumar smiled and said, “You’re right—I should prove my words.”
‘The father thought his son would now settle down to the law at last. Sukumar’s maternal grandfather at Barishal116 is a rather eccentric old man, and Sukumar resembles him in both looks and character. The two were the best of friends. They discussed the matter between them. Sukumar received some money, and slipped away abroad before anyone knew it. He left a letter for his father: “You don’t want me to study painting. Very well, I shan’t. You want me to learn a trade, and that’s what I’ve set out to do. When my training is complete, I’ll come to you for your blessings. I hope to receive them.”
‘But he had told no one what trade he intended to learn. A diary was found in his desk. From its contents, his family realized that he’d gone to train as a pilot. I brought away a copy of the last pages of his diary. He had written:
‘“I remember embarking upon a journey from one end of our terrace to another, on my faithful winged horse Chhatrapati, to rescue Pupu-didi from the land of the moon. Now I’m setting off to tame a mechanical winged horse. In Europe, they’re preparing to send an expedition to the moon. If I get a chance, I’ll put my name down for it. For the moment, I’m content to hone my skills by flying round the earth. One day, Pupu-didi laughed at the picture I’d painted in imitation of her grandfather’s. From that day on, for ten whole years, I’ve practised painting. I’ve never shown anyone my pictures. I’m now leaving behind two I drew recently for her grandfather. One is about the unity of earth, water and sky; the other a portrait of my grandfather at Barishal. If Pupe’s Dadamashai can make her take back that day’s laugh by showing her the two pictures, well and good. If not, he should tear them up and throw them away. This time, it’s not impossible that my horse’s wings should break halfway on the road to the moon. If they do, I’ll reach the Land of Truth in the blink of an eyelid—my journey round the sun will end in my melting into the earth. If I survive and become adept at paddling my boat across the sky, I hope one day to take Pupu-didi with me on a journey into space. I seem to remember that in the Age of Truth, what you wanted was exactly what happened. I’ll try to train my mind to see desire as result. Since childhood, I’ve had the habit of gazing idly at the sky, filled as it is with the million wishes of the earth-bound. I wonder what use these fleeting wishes are in creating new worlds. Let the unspoken wishes that float upon my sighs drift in that sky, the sky I am myself about to fly in today.”’
Pupu-didi asked in distress, ‘What news of Sukumar-da now?’
I answered, ‘It’s because there isn’t any that his father’s going to England to look for him.’
Pupu-didi’s face fell. Quietly, she went to her room and closed the door.
I know Pupu-didi has hidden away those childish drawings of Sukumar’s in her desk.
I wiped my spectacles and went off to Sukumar’s house. The broken umbrella was no longer on the terrace, neither was the half-burnt stick.
* * *
115Nandalal-babu: Nandalal Bose, a famous artist, who at this time was the head of Kala Bhavan, the art department of Tagore’s university, Visva-Bharati.
116Barishal: a district of Bengal now in Bangladesh.
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