When the curtain rises on the third scene, we see a very tall building. It has no eaves, no place where the birds can sit. Children and birds are not to be seen anywhere. Thud, thud, one monotonous sound is heard.
Very soon the king, his ministers and a few children— now grown up—enter. Of his ministers one is a salesman, another a hotel owner, the third a lawyer, and the fourth a government official.
Everyone is in high spirits. They dance. The dance is quite mechanical and automatic. The older children have by now forgotten how to play.
After a little while, there is a loud sound of circling planes. Gradually the sound grows louder. Everyone is frightened. The building begins to shake. They seek to steady it.
Birds enter, wearing the masks of aeroplanes. They carry out air exercises. All around there is panic. The building tumbles down.
The old man in the first scene and the elderly woman of the second scene emerge from the building with little children and birds. Some of them have branches in their hands. Others hold all kinds of peculiar musical instruments made of wood. They dance and gambol as they did before. They sing and play their music.
Slowly the building that has tumbled down disappears from view. In its place there are innumerable other tiny houses and tree. The curtain comes down.
The play is named The Singing Tree.
XVIII
Appa’s lecture series is over. Before the lectures were delivered they were translated into Japanese by Imoto and the translation was sent out to the invitees. The lectures themselves were of course in English. They will be published sometime in November in book form.
One result of these lectures is that our stay here is going to be prolonged. Appa has an offer from the Kyoto University to stay here for a year and lecture on Comparative Philosophy. Appa has agreed to stay on. We might leave this place and live in Kyoto or alternatively live nearby if we can find another house.
Edgeworth has written to me this time. The letter is quite different from his previous one. There is no mention in it at all of the war or of the present situation. I have specially copied out an important part of the letter for you.
The trouble with us is that our minds don’t work quick enough. They are not trained to consider every situation as unique. This is the real tragedy of the world. We can only hope to overcome it by developing a sense of immediacy. And I have begun to feel that this is possible only if we give up the categories we have built into our mind and its ways of thinking—categories of time, of space and all manner of social and personal habits which we call values.
How can I comment on this? I know only one thing, which can perhaps contain all these: to forget oneself. When this is achieved, the limitations of time and of space do not exist. In the old days they called it ‘dedication’. Edgeworth is saying the same thing in different words. When do we really go wrong? When we merely cling to these ideas. We are not possessed through and through by the urge of immediacy that Edgeworth speaks of—the urge that encompassed Radha, the urge that was Urvashi’s in the Rig-Veda. As a result, the questions that lie ahead assume a greater importance; nor does one escape the vigilant eye of the past.
I must congratulate you on your being able to recognize Lore. She sends you her regards. After reading your thesis, she gets me to read (and interpret) your letters, line by line. You won’t raise problems of copyright, will you?
Professor Joshi has just got married. His bride is a well- known tennis star from Poona. She used to be his pupil. But he says there was no love or anything of the sort before. From this one might safely conclude that their life will be happy. Going by the photograph, she appears very smart and practical.
After your letter, I am now even more anxious to know about Professor Gurupadaswaami.
Next week I am going to stay at Lore’s. Her stay here has also been prolonged. The whole family might probably go to Sweden from here.
At the moment, there is no more news about me. The Singing Tree was liked by many people. The play was very well produced. Some people saw a different meaning in it. I had tried to set forth a simple story. There was nothing else whatsoever in my mind.
XXIX
You have asked me how it was that I always met ‘the good’ and whether I had, in this world, never had occasion to deal with the wicked. In fact, when you asked me the question I became aware of this for the first time. I had thought that everyone was like oneself. (Don’t we consider ourselves ‘good’?) Perhaps the circumstances in which I was brought up, the people with whom I came into contact must have been on the whole just like me. Envious, quarrelsome people have never been my portion. There were no brothers or sisters in the house. I grew up happily alone. Those around me gave me their affection; I received it. All this just came about. But I still believe that I am what I am—thus, not because of this. What we term happiness in the usual sense does not always make men happy. (You might say: What’s new in this? Haven’t the saints been saying the same thing all along?) But as there is a joy beyond suffering, so too there is a joy beyond joy itself. The joy that lies beyond joy holds within itself both joy and suffering. Kunti asked of Krishna: Let adversity be with us always. For in adverse times Krishna was bound to be remembered. But I would say that this is not true. If Krishna is to be remembered, then he must be remembered naturally and intensely even in the most ecstatic moment of joy. Anyone can turn to him in adversity. That I am able to find the company of the good is partly through my good fortune, and partly through the makeup of my mind. I never reject anything and what I finally accept, I make my own. Good, wicked: we are so ourselves.
As a child, on one particular day I was terribly obstinate. Now I can’t even recollect what it was all about. Even Appa, who never loses his temper, was extremely angry. Rajamma, Venkappa were all frightened. And all of a sudden it struck me this was all on account of me. I calmed down immediately—not because Appa would have hit me; had he hit me, I might have flared up even more. Since that day I have never been angry, never been obstinate. This could perhaps tell you something.
Of course I have not yet met a scoundrel, a thug, or an inherently wicked person. I am as eager as you are to see what happens when I do meet one. But does this mean my life has been meaningless? All our efforts are designed to make the world a place of the good. Isn’t that what we believe in? It’s like calling a play or a novel worthless because there is no villain in it. If conflicts rise only out of the struggle between good and evil and if this is to continue forever, then history will have nothing more to do than changing names. Novels and plays will have a still easier task. It should be enough just to make black and white puppets dance. Really one ought to try and see if a novel or a play can be written without a single of the villains you seem to have in mind.
Query: Was the king in The Singing Tree a wicked man?
Answer: I think even the birds were a little wicked. They too should have thought of the needs of the king. What harm was there in asking a pact with the king: We shall chirp only at fixed time; we will not come in the way of the hunt? Didn’t the birds get more and more wicked and violent through every scene? Who destroyed whom in the end? Will the problem be solved if we say that the king learnt a good lesson?
Having written this, I have become quite ‘wicked’.
Next month Lore and her father will leave here in a Swedish boat for America. Many of the Europeans here are leaving for America by this boat. At times I think: I too should go; if possible go to England and meet you. But how is that possible in all this commotion? Appa will say: Don’t go deliberately into the war zone. But if war were to break out here tomorrow? Let me not think far ahead. For the time being, Lore will be my messenger. If it’s possible, she will meet you at Oxford.
XXX
Lore left yesterday. I don’t feel like staying on any longer either.
We had to give up our plans of living in Kyoto, Namura wouldn’t agree. He was literally on the verge of tears. Of late he always looks sad. When you look at hi
m you feel something is amiss and is going to be somehow more amiss.
It seems you didn’t get three or four of my letters sent some time ago. For I saw no reference to them anywhere in your letters. Of late your letters too have been arriving here at longer intervals. To whom and in what manner should one complain when the world itself has come to us with one big complaint? Even so for the sake of convenience, from now on let’s number our letters—one, two, three. . . I have put the number ‘one’ on this letter. Henceforth I will number them consecutively two, three, etc. It will be easy for you to know whether a letter is missing. You could do this as well.
One feels better when one hears that you are well. Leaving Oxford and working in India House in London entails more risk. The problem of getting a decent meal will also become more acute. I feel sad that nothing has turned out as you wished. In an equal measure there is a feeling of admiration and surprise that you yourself should not feel this.
Write again immediately.
XXXI
It’s almost a month since Lore left. During the time she was here, the two of us got on famously. I learnt a lot from her. Being with her I experienced truly what forgetting oneself means. As a child there were moments when I wanted very much to be like someone else. Then a thought struck me: How do we know that the other person is another, and not oneself? Then I started enjoying this game very much. I used to assume various forms. I began to look at myself through the eyes of another. This childhood experience had long since faded out. It was Lore who brought it back after childhood had come to an end. I used to have an old painting of the Mewar School. In it Radha became Krishna, and Krishna, Radha. This was the artless way in which she behaved. When I told her this, she felt she must have this painting. To get it out here from India was a difficult proposition. We went out and looked for it in the university library here. We searched for it in Tokyo too. But it wasn’t to be found. And then quite unexpectedly, while I was arranging Appa’s notes, I found it in one of my notebooks. It had appeared in the Studio and I had cut it out. Mrs Imoto made a lovely frame for it and we gave it to Lore. Tell me what place you reserve for pictures like this when you assess the inspiration behind art. Don’t use mere adjectives like religious, spiritual, erotic, etc.
I want to tell you a lot about Lore, but later, some other time. Without reading your letter, or even before it arrived, she used to tell me what it was likely to contain. Sometimes she had a hand in the letters that went out to you. The questions and answers on The Singing Tree were hers. There were other things as well. She used to change a word or a sentence and make it more meaningful. If you meant to, you can detect these places.
A new item of news: I have begun a ballet on the theme of Chaurapanchashika. This story itself is familiar in Japanese folk—literature in a slightly altered form. That’s why I chose it. In the Panchashika, a prisoner, who is led to the gallows for daring to love the king’s daughter, starts describing his moments of intense love, re-lives the love again, and secures a reprieve. Such is the story, in brief. It is as though his life-force saved him. I am going to present it in a slightly different way. As the prisoner relates each experience and moves ahead, his beloved, who is following him, asks each one a question. No one is able to answer her. The king follows, looking for her. In the end she asks even the king a question. But he too cannot find an answer. Now only one answer remains and that is to free the lover before he climbs the gallows. The king issues the command, the messengers speed away—but by then he has already been hanged.
XXXII
Appa has not been keeping well of late. Every evening he runs a temperature. We have tried out every medical remedy. It looks as though he is now feeling the strain of the work he put in these last two years. As a result, Namura looks even more sorrowful. For no reason at all, he has a feeling of personal responsibility about Appa. It is not possible now to go back to India from here. There is no news from there. It’s now eight months since Joshi wrote. I have no news from home either. I don’t know whether the letters I wrote have reached them.
I didn’t receive two of your recent letters—numbers four and five.
Lore’s letter has just arrived—from San Francisco. They may have to spend some days in America. The letter covers everything: the flurry in the boat, the frightful atmosphere, the children’s pranks. They even spotted a submarine once. But Lore’s handwriting cannot be deciphered clearly at times and her manner of writing too is often quite cryptic.
She hasn’t given up the idea of going to India. She has enquired after you.
There are times when I think we won’t meet at all . . . If that happens, think of Lore as me.
At the moment, my ballet is still an idea. After reading Lore’s commentary on it, my enthusiasm has cooled down considerably. She feels its basis is unduly logical. Nothing is ever decided by questions and answers. The original poem sets forth just one situation. There is nothing before it and nothing after. She has suggested another story to me: that of Narcissus and Echo.
XXXIII
Tirupet: Coorg
March 1946-June 1947
After the war ended and before returning home from Japan I had sent you two letters—one to the London address and one to your home. It seems you received neither of these. There was a six-month-old letter waiting here. I am writing now to the address given in it, trying to see if it can reach you.
At the start, I must give you an account of all that has happened, because a good deal has happened in the last four years.
I had of course written to you about Appa. He didn’t live much longer after that. His name is now forever linked with the Anand Mission. Those last days every single person tried to give me strength and comfort. Even the government did not treat us as aliens.
Then a few days later a new wave swept across all the countries of the far east occupied by Japan. Netaji’s INA (Indian National Army) came into being as a result of this.
In the beginning I used to live at the Anand Mission, but soon I began working as a nurse in the Osaka Military Hospital. Close to the hospital were my living quarters. All this experience was, in a sense, quite new to me. But Coorg is a land of martial people, and I am a daughter of Coorg. So very soon I was one with the work. I had in particular to look after the needs of Indian soldiers and officers.
Major Agnimitra Sen, the medical officer attached to one of the INA units, was now with this military hospital at Osaka. In the course of our work I often came in contact with him. He was a man of few words. Occasionally he would ask a question or two. Otherwise he was engrossed in his work. Later when he knew my whole background and history, he began to take more interest in me. But he never quite gave up his former distant attitude. I used to be curious about him. But those were days when one couldn’t get too close to others.
After a few days, I learnt that he was married to one of the Japanese nurses in our hospital. Once when I had gone to see him in his room he himself introduced me to her. When she left he told me: You will have to take more care of her now. I knew why. She was going to be a mother soon.
After this Major Sen seemed less reserved while talking to me. I too began to call on Mrs Sen when I had some free time. She had become extremely weak. There was still a month-and-a-half to go for her delivery. I, and even Mrs Sen, could understand why he was anxious.
And one day all of a sudden during the bombing of the docks Major Sen was reported missing.
This shock caused Mrs Sen to deliver prematurely and she died in childbirth. Her daughter survived—she is Bina, now two-and-a-half years old. She has been brought up by me and is here with me as my daughter.
You came into my life and I had to go and lose my cherished self; I met Lore and found a dedicated and live companion—one who asked for nothing, offered nothing. Bina brought me unawares a sense of fulfilled motherhood. The joy about which I had written to you a long time ago thus came flying towards me through all the intense joy and suffering of the last six years.
I found yet another mystery in this. Edgeworth died here in 1943 on the 3rd of January. Exactly eight months later, on 3 September 1943, Bina was born. It is as though it was for him I went to Japan and brought back here a Coorgi girl, born of a Bengali father and a Japanese mother.
I pray that you might at least get this letter.
XXXIV
I got your letter. I am terribly, terribly happy. I am more in raptures now than I was when I got your first letter.
I knew you were somewhere, safe. But sometimes my strength would leave me and all manner of thoughts would trouble me. Today I made much of myself with your dear familiar handwriting.
Must you still stay there, now that the war is over? You say you need to spend a year and a quarter there to complete your interrupted studies. There is some point in this. But then what must others do?
Professor Joshi came here with Malan and Subhash as soon as he got my letter. Bina and I spend the time happily in their company.
My main activity at the moment is putting together Appa’s papers and arranging for the publication of his manuscripts and drafts. The publication of Experience and Growth was delayed at that time because of the war. Now Wilson and Todd of London are publishing it. Joshi has promised to come in the next vacation and help me a little.
Edgeworth’s solicitors in London have written to me. In his will he has left me his entire estate here . . . Such love, so much trust!
So Lore did meet you! What did she say? How long did she stay? Write and tell me all in detail.
When I am a little free, I shall go to Simhachalam and meet Professor Gurupadaswaami. We will all go.
The Penguin Book of Modern Indian Short Stories Page 16
