The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories

by Stephen Alter

  If you get to understand the mould of my mind, you should not find it difficult to construe me wholly. Your simplicity, your slightly diffident nature, your conspicuous sense of justice in dealing with others—even talking about them, your gift for welding smoothly together what’s happened and what’s to come and leaving on it a stamp of your own—all this has now become mine. Is there nothing at all that I have given you?

  College will soon reopen now, but I am not sure that I shall come to Bangalore and join. Appa has an invitation from Japan. If he goes, I shall have to go with him. Of course nothing is certain yet.

  I shall soon answer one by one the queries you raised in your second letter.

  XIX

  This letter has been delayed a little. I hope you won’t mind.

  In English universities the session begins in October. Do you have to go there right now in the middle of July? There shouldn’t be any difficulty getting admission to Oxford. Besides Edgeworth has already written to a tutor he knows. We shall know the position in about two weeks. I grant that going earlier in person might speed up your work. And yet you will certainly be rushed by your present plan of starting so early.

  Do you still want that answer to all your queries?

  XX

  So we are going after all. Appa has finally decided to accept the invitation to Japan. At Kyoto there is an old religious institution called the Anand Mission. Actually it wouldn’t be quite right to describe it as a religious institution. It is a centre for seekers. People come there from all over the world to study and exchange ideas. It was founded by a Ceylonese monk some fifty years ago. Appa and the Mission’s present head, Professor Namura, have been corresponding from time to time. Recently Appa had sent him some parts of his new book for his comments. Professor Namura felt that before publishing the book Appa ought to deliver the annual lectures organized by his Mission and speak on its main topic. These last twenty years Appa hasn’t travelled much. So he wasn’t too keen to embark on this new venture. But Edgeworth took the initiative and got him to agree.

  Professor Joshi is here. He came down specially when he learnt about this. He says he will take leave from work and come with us for some days at least. He has made some study of the Chinese and Japanese languages. So the first few days he will be a great help. I would have asked you to come too? Will you? At times there is also some fun in not doing certain things at the appointed time.

  I have not forgotten to answer your queries. I am waiting to see if in the meanwhile you yourself find the answers.

  XXI

  She is full of just two words in a letter. Very often she is quite lost. Where and how did the strands get woven? Who were the birds that strung the notes together?

  The day is a marvel to her, the night a tracery of flowers. But her mind is such as will not bear the strict pattern of words.

  She had said: I will come some time—just like that. And the days passed and she did not come.

  Then who was it he met in the park on the way? Who had started out for whom?

  As they walked together, the steps did not falter. The eyes never lingered anywhere. The path became familiar and the trees around built arches of shadows. The dry leaves underneath had not even a trace of early memories left.

  When she sat by the bank of the river, she did not startle anyone by casually tossing a stone into the water. A crane lighted smoothly on the grass along the bank; his reflection in the water hardly stirred.

  When the first shower came down unexpectedly, she just stood there, drenched, dripping.

  While walking with him in the precincts of the temple, she simply did a turn of the festival dance and, for a moment, musical instruments that weren’t there resounded in rhythm.

  While she sat at the raised entrance of the house, stringing flowers, she found a place in the garland for even those that were a little withered.

  Where did all this happen?

  These are five consistent answers to someone’s sixty cherished questions.

  XXII

  Sayama Maru

  22 July 1939

  This is just a line of greeting from the boat. The weather is terribly monsoonish. Professor Joshi who affirmed that he has never felt seasick hasn’t left his cabin these last four days. Appa is in very good spirits. He wants to try and see if he can still enjoy a game of bridge. I like the food here very much. I am going to write to Edgeworth: I have started feeling that I was really a Japanese in my previous life.

  Where will this card reach you? At Bangalore, or at Simhachalam, or in London?

  Travel . . . and more travel: From where and to where! I am terribly happy.

  XXIII

  Kyoto: Japan

  August 1939-October 1941

  On my arrival here I found your three letters awaiting me. You are admitted to Oxford—so it means you have got what you wanted. I am glad you visited Edgeworth once again. His exterior is a bit rough, but he does care for everyone. He gave you his overcoat—that bodes well. He has a magic touch and his speech augurs blessing. He believes that one’s affection for another is not quite perfect unless one gives the other something one has used oneself. He has given me the most ancient of his walking-sticks. I still use it when I go out for walks with Appa.

  The Anand Mission is in fact an old Samurai palace. It’s been fitted up for the purpose. There is a spacious lecture hall. Adjoining the hall are a library and study rooms. Namura and two of his colleagues live here in the palaces. They have arranged for us to live in a small house in the palace compound itself. The palace, with its surroundings, is extremely beautiful. It’s outside the town. So one gets a feeling of space.

  I was worried whether the climate would agree with Appa. But fortunately it looks as though it is going to do him a lot of good.

  Joshi is quite at home here. He knows the language— that’s an additional advantage. He lives in the university hostel because that’s more convenient for study. He spends his Sundays with us or when we all go out on a trip he joins us.

  In her capacity as the Mission’s house-keeper, Mrs Namura is in charge of all the arrangements. It looks as though one of her husband’s colleagues, Mrs Imoto, will soon find a helpmate for her. Another of his colleagues is a Tibetan Lama. We call him ‘Sudhamma’.

  At present there are eight students studying here at the Mission—five Japanese, one Norwegian, one Englishman, and one Ceylonese. As yet I haven’t been able to get to know them well. A lot of outsiders also come and attend the public functions and lectures.

  Namura is a fine person. His eyes are clear like a child’s. The slightest nuance of his mind finds itself reflected immediately in them. With his brown and grey beard and his perfect Japanese attire, he looks very impressive. His English is excellent. But when he speaks Japanese, he sounds more effective. It could perhaps be that when one is listening to an unfamiliar language, one is very sharply aware of its sound effects. He liked my name very much. But he pronounces it Sha-u. Appa has christened him Sandipani (he who kindles). When one sees how good he is at kindling with ease the light of knowledge, the name seems just right for him.

  You will say I have written nothing about myself. But I am still looking at things around.

  The papers tell us that the drums of war have begun to beat in Europe. One feels anxious on your account—and then one thinks that all of us need to be anxious about all the others.

  I received a copy of your thesis. Wherefore the debt of gratitude to me in your preface?

  XXIV

  For a long time there was no letter from you; and the one that came today was all too brief. You must now be right in the middle of the din and smoke of war. Of course I am anxious, but less so after your letter. It is only right that you should have decided even in these circumstances not to return but to stay on there and complete your work. What is going to happen could happen anywhere.

  Here too the atmosphere doesn’t give one cause for much optimism. One never knows what might happen and when. But
Appa seems to be happy here. His health too has improved a lot.

  Professor Joshi says he is going back to India at the end of December. During his stay here he concentrated mainly on studying the Japanese language. At the moment he is busy visiting the important sites here. I like this characteristic of his very much. He does even the smallest of things with a lot of enthusiasm—conferring on it the same amount of care he might bestow on his study or meditation—or even a shade more. He never lets go a single opportunity. You are now already acquainted. With his study and interests, he could be of great help to you.

  Appa has received a very pathetic letter from Edgeworth. Edgeworth fears that the war will last long, that there will be large-scale destruction. He fought in the last war and even won a DSO. Today there is nothing he can do himself. He can no longer grasp why the people of the world, instead of coming together as a result of material progress, should be increasingly pulled apart from one another. In India itself the situation today is explosive. The viceroy and the governors have everywhere taken over all the administrative powers into their own hands. The country’s entire economy and its machinery will now be exploited for Britain’s war effort. Edgeworth has, from the very start, never approved of the governmental policies and the social code of his compatriots. He came to India and became rooted in one corner of Coorg. Our people have never thought of him as an outsider. But now there is an upsurge of national feeling everywhere. What guarantee can one give that everyone will behave with understanding? Edgeworth is not anxious for himself. He wants to preserve the countless links that have been forged, the close ties that have grown out of them. Friendship is what he cherishes most. So it’s not surprising in the circumstances that he should miss Appa all the more—only he hasn’t written this in so many words. He has merely hinted to Appa that it would be a good thing if he were to come back soon. There are two months more to go before Appa’s lectures commence. He too finds himself in something of a dilemma. But his nature is a little stubborn in matters like this. He does not undertake anything lightly, but having undertaken a thing he does not give it up either.

  I have begun to feel that there is no point in being scared of all these sudden happenings that have come about. Big problems don’t get solved by our applying to them the measuring rod of profit and loss. And besides I tend to be a little fatalistic. (This might have come down through tradition or it could also be the influence of what Edgeworth has been saying through the years.) It’s not as though there is going to be some revolution in Japan as a result of our coming here. But what has taken place will mean that my identity will be lost all the more.

  I am bringing to a close this more than usually prolonged letter. Day by day getting letters and receiving them intact is going to be more and more difficult. If one kept to one note: I want you; I am yours; it might work. But if in place of Sau’s story, one were to interpose the story of Kau (the crow) and Chiu (the sparrow) our bright officials might draw the most impossible inferences. So, for the present, only this much.

  It’s the truth, I haven’t forgotten you.

  XXV

  These last seven days I have been ill. The fever hasn’t come down yet. The doctor says there is no cause for worry. I myself am in good spirits. Mrs Imoto, who has newly arrived here, does all the nursing. So Appa is not anxious either.

  Normally I never fall ill. And if I ever do, I can’t bear to watch other people do every small thing for me. When the fever rises, one almost vanishes . . . one feels one is a point or grain somewhere, that grows gradually, expands and envelops everything. This amuses me no end. There is a lot of commotion going on inside the body. There is almost a class war between the white and red blood corpuscles. The blood deliberately raises its temperature, assumes a dire aspect to kill off the disease germs. The various glands are at their strategic points—doing God knows what! But I have read this some time or the other and explained it to my examiners. After an illness the head and the body become lighter. I like that very much . . . Even while writing this, I have started feeling much better.

  You say there is a double advantage in having found work in the Bodleian. But really can a librarian ever find the time to read? In fact I even think that since he is always in contact with so many books he must feel that he doesn’t want to read at all.

  The date of Appa’s lectures is now approaching. I have taken it on myself to produce a small play for the Mission’s annual function which is held about the same time. I have written the play myself—but that is a secret. I have based it on one of Rajamma’s stories (not the one about Lachhi’s peacock) and made a few changes. Namura liked the story very much. I shall first write in English—in my English—and then he will translate it into Japanese. A rather roundabout business! Fortunately the play will be short, the words few. The rest I shall fill up with action, sound effects, all kinds of cries and suspense. The Noh drama here and our Yakshagana will have reason to fear this new creation.

  Joshi ought to have reached India by now. There is no news from him yet.

  Why did Professor Gurupadaswaami leave the college so suddenly? You have merely written about him in a general sort of way. It’s not very enlightening.

  After writing all this, I really feel much better. The fever has come down, so Mrs Imoto says.

  XXVI

  Lore, a Swedish girl, has recently come here. She diverted me greatly when I was ill. Her father is the Osaka representative of their shipping company. She wants to stay in Japan for some time and then go to India. She is my age, but awfully sweet, with the tiniest of lips and the most enormous of eyes. I have asked her to return with us. She is passionately keen on Indian art. To scare her a little in the initial stages, I have given her your thesis to read. I am sure you will like Lore.

  I have just heard that Joshi reached home safely.

  Find out in the enclosed picture which is Lore. Second on the right is Imoto. The one sitting on the floor, with his finger on his chin, is Olaf. If you haven’t been able to recognize Lore, turn what’s written below upside down and read:

  Rehearsals for my play have now begun. Olaf will play the King. His beard is a BIG qualification. I have managed to get a few children of the neighbourhood to play the birds. There is a part for a tree in the play. Namura himself will do this role.

  I learn that Professor Gurupadaswaami has gone to live in Simhachalam for good. Is this true?

  I really feel well now. Sometimes I think: What am I doing here? But then again I feel that all this wouldn’t otherwise have taken place . . . I wouldn’t have met Lore.

  Write in detail about yourself. You could leave out trifles.

  XXVII

  As I told you before, the story of the play is not very long. The play is in just three scenes.

  The birds begin their chirping even before the curtain rises. When it goes up, we see before us a huge, ancient tree. Children wearing masks of different birds enter from all sides frolicking. They dance for a while and leave. The chirping continues.

  All of a sudden, there is a loud noise—like that of an earthquake. For a minute it appears as though the tree is also shaken. Enter the king, cheated of his quarry, indignant, surrounded by his ministers. Because of the chirping of the birds his quarry has slipped away. He orders the ministers to kill off the birds. The four ministers put forward four different suggestions. One says, light a big fire. Another says, put poisonous manure at the root of the tree. A third says, climb the tree and destroy all the eggs and the young ones first. The fourth one says, axe the tree itself. Each one dances and expresses his intentions. The king’s decision is not yet made. While all this is going on, the birds too enter occasionally. They dance and make their entreaties. The king and his ministers threaten them, each with his own plan of action.

  Finally they decide to cut down the tree and even decide to build a house out of it. The ministers and the king begin to sharpen their axes; they swing them aloft like clubs, balance them on their shoulders and dance.

/>   Suddenly the sounds from the birds cease. Where the tree stood there now stands an old man holding up his hands and entreating them: Don’t kill me, don’t pull me down. Some of the frightened birds come to him. He takes them to himself. But the birds are torn away from him. The blows of the axe begin to fall. The tree is felled.

  Here the first scene ends.

  Scene Two: Where the tree stood there now stands a wooden house. Some of the birds are now children. Some are birds still. All of them play and run about. The house has four doors and they run in and out of it, singing and dancing together.

  Very soon there is another loud noise exactly like the previous one. The house shakes and the king enters with his ministers. The king’s attire is medieval. The ministers are now different. There is a steward, a craftsman, a judge and a soldier. The children and the birds continue to play as before.

  The king sees the birds; he is furious. He seeks to separate the children from them, but the children will not listen to him. The soldier utters threats. The steward makes his requests. The craftsman tries to board the doors with planks. The judge tries to weigh a bird and a child on the scales of a huge balance.

  The craftsman cannot board the openings of the house. The king cannot decide one way or the other. No one can hold back the birds and the children. The craftsman says: We don’t need the wood. The house is old. It must be pulled down. A new, tall one can be built—where there will be no birds, where the children will not be able to play.

  All of them fetch hoes and spades and begin their dance. Just then an elderly woman emerges from the house. The children and the birds snuggle up close to her. (Lore will do this role.) She says: I must have this very house. Children live in it. Birds too live in it. But her plea goes unheard. Everyone is dragged away and driven off. And while the house is being pulled down, blows rain on the elderly woman too.