But that happened later. It’ll be discussed at the appropriate time . . .
That’s how his mind used to work. He had no shortage of natural intellect. But there was no force in the world capable of directing the course of that intellect. His intellect was his, for him to use, and he could exercise it at will. He knew that whenever he accepted the orders of his natural intellect, he did well, and when his intellect was under the command of others, he tripped and faltered . . .
If this mind could be tamed, everything was possible! But could his mind be tamed?
*
Such was his education, and he learned—what? Contempt for education, disgust . . . !
But even in those days he learned quite a lot, and he learned it with such serious mental discipline that the education left its mark on every fibre of his mental screen, and it can’t be erased. The threads of his education have become woven into the warp and weft of his life, and they shine just like a line of some precious mineral in a slab of rock.
What was the secret of his autodidacticism?
Shekhar was standing on the balcony of his house. Everyone was busy with their own work. His brothers were absorbed in their own studies, his father was taking care of work at the office and Mother was making rotis while his younger brother slept in her lap.
He was alone. He felt that he was alone. And he was also feeling that he was alone because he thought, ‘I am not the kind whom people called “good”. I don’t study, I don’t do what is asked of me, I’m impudent, argumentative, devilish. Otherwise I would be enjoying myself with Father right now, or I would be eating sweets with Mother, or reading a good picture book with my brothers. Instead, I stand here alone, forgotten by everyone . . .’
While he was standing up there one of his father’s friends came for a visit and he asked him, ‘Is your father home?’ When he didn’t get a response and was unable to attract his attention, he went inside musing over the possibility that there were children who were not in the least bit curious about strangers. More than an hour later, the child was standing there in the exact same manner, deliberating on a tiny idea seriously . . .
That was when Father’s friend emerged, and when he saw him standing there just as he was, he went back in and came back out with his father. He had no idea that they had been watching him for a few minutes. How was it possible that a body filled with wonder and designed to be full of playful activity could stand so still, and how could this boy who was more difficult to restrain than other boys his age be so perfectly calm?
Suddenly, he jumped when he heard his father’s question, ‘Shekhar, what are you thinking about?’ Flabbergasted, he responded, ‘Nothing.’
But perhaps because his father felt worried about seeing him stand so still or perhaps because he felt sorry for him, his father didn’t get angry; he proceeded to ask with concern.
And he couldn’t suppress it—it was such a new thing. He said, ‘I was thinking that without evil, it’s impossible for good to exist.’
His father didn’t catch his meaning right away. He said, ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s only when people see evil that they understand what good is! If we didn’t have evil, how would we know what good is!’
The two of them were stupefied for a minute, staring at each other. And then Father, perhaps because he thought that it wasn’t a good idea for small heads to be preoccupied with big matters, said to him, ‘Go, go inside and play. There will be plenty of time to think about these things when you’re older.’ Not as a reprimand, but rather with a touch of admiration.
But the child began to think, ‘But if I have to think about these things when I get older, then why not think about these things now and grow up sooner?’
Afterwards, his father became increasingly watchful with him. Whenever he found him alone or preoccupied, he would get him to play something or distract him with something else. He now found that he was by himself less often, but he also knew that he was still alone since all of this unaccustomed attention made his isolation even more palpable . . .
Four or five days later the same kind of thing happened. He was standing in the same place, in the same manner. He was staring at the arches in front and thinking about a new topic that had come to him that morning while he was being taught his prayers. He was looking at the houses and thinking, ‘Why did God make all of these? How did he make them all?’
That’s when his father came again and asked, ‘What are you thinking about now?’ His mother was behind him, she was waiting for his answer, too.
Seriously, he said, ‘Who made all these houses?’
His mother laughed. She said, ‘People, who else?’ She probably thought that he was eccentric, but thought it best to humour him.
‘Then, God couldn’t have made them, right?’ The child asked it like a question, but there was a doubt in it, as if it were the answer to some question already asked . . .
Mother and Father looked at each other anxiously—the child also saw their expressions. Then Father said, ‘Come down here, I’ll explain it to you. God himself made them.’
The child followed him but at the same time he was thinking about the fact that if the answer to the question was so clear and easy, then what was the reason for the anxious expressions? Why . . .
Birds were purchased to entertain him, to keep him busy. A pair of geese, a pair of partridges and a parrot. The care of these birds was divided amongst the boys—his older brother got the geese, his second brother got the partridges and, in his share, he got the parrot.
He began teaching the parrot with great earnestness. He was told that he should teach the parrot to say ‘Sita-Ram’. And whenever his mother and father were near the parrot they would say, ‘Say it: Sita-Ram.’ And he said the same thing in front of them. But whenever he was by himself, he would stand in front of the parrot and laugh, over and over, stopping in between—a forced laugh in the hope that he could teach the parrot to laugh . . .
But the parrot learned neither to say ‘Sita-Ram’ nor to laugh. One day his father took the parrot from its cage and took it in his hand and started feeding it chillies. The child asked, ‘Why?’ He explained that when the parrot tastes something spicy, it speaks.
The child said, ‘Give it to me. I’ll feed it.’ Father gave him the parrot.
The parrot didn’t eat the chilli from his hand; it was squirming, trying to get its wings free of his grip.
The child was losing patience and was trying to force the chilli into his beak.
The parrot bit his finger and wouldn’t let go.
The child let go of the parrot and violently shook his hand until the parrot released him.
The boy kept worrying his hurt finger, while the bird flew out of the house and perched on the peepul tree out front.
When the boy remembered the bird, he began looking for it. He found it after a few minutes, and stared at it in wonder.
The boy was no longer angry with the parrot. He extended his arm and started calling to it, ‘Miya Mitthu!’6 The parrot ignored him.
The boy watched as the parrot, slowly and nervously, flew from one branch of the peepul tree to another, and then another. It seemed as though its wings were fluttering in fear of hitting the bars of his cage and getting hurt. And when it realized that it didn’t hit the cage even when it moved around, it flew off the tree and landed on an electric pole that was a little farther away from the house, and from there to another pole. The boy understood that the bird was trying to convince itself that it wasn’t trapped by the bars of the cage, that it was outside, free. And then suddenly, filled with exultation and pride, it flew and flew beyond the boundaries of sight.
The child sighed deeply and in a serious tone said to his father, ‘The parrot flew away.’
His father appreciated the sound of seriousness in his voice and said, ‘No matter, we’ll get another for you.’
But he said, ‘No, I don’t want another parrot.’
Father laughed
and said, ‘Because your finger got bitten, eh? There are all kinds of birds, pick any of them. Come with me and pick one out. We’ll buy . . .’
‘No, I don’t want another bird.’
Sometimes he would think that he should try to free the geese and the partridges. But he’d stop himself, perhaps because he thought that since they didn’t live in cages and could fly away they wanted to stay.
Once, his middle brother fell ill, and then became very seriously ill. Often, during the day, he’d begin ranting because of the fever and then call out, ‘My partridges! Bring me my partridges! Where are my partridges?’ The partridges would then be brought and placed near him, and he’d stroke them and calm down, even fall asleep.
He’d lost quite a bit of weight. One day his fever got so bad that he even stopped ranting and vacantly, in half-consciousness, just lay there and stared at the ceiling and didn’t ask for his partridges.
But they came by themselves. His mother and father were next to him keeping watch, worried, and they saw one of the partridges get up and sit at the head of the bed, and the other began pacing at the foot of the bed. They felt as if the partridges were also feeling the strange tension in the room’s atmosphere and were sad because their needs were unmet . . .
The partridge that was pacing at the foot of the invalid’s bed, his path was getting increasingly confused and his legs were wobbling under him. And his mate, the female partridge, watched him with concern, but didn’t move from her place at the head of the bed.
The partridge sat down at the foot of the invalid’s bed, exhausted. His neck bent as if he were drowsy, and his body went limp.
After a little while, everyone saw that his body had collapsed to one side and gone stiff.
After a little longer, the invalid emerged from unconsciousness into a state of delirium and said, ‘My partridge?’
After a few days, the invalid recovered. Who knows why, but until then he had been content with one partridge, hadn’t even thought about the other one. But as soon as he got up from the cot he asked, ‘Where’s the other partridge?’
No one had the courage to tell him. A few days later, the female partridge was removed, given away to someone.
Sometimes he’d remember and ask, ‘My partridges?’ He’d even get depressed. But slowly he forgot about them, and eventually realized what had really happened to them . . .
Shekhar had no consoling answers. Nor could he come up with any explanations. He only knew that he had learned something and learned it deeply. He couldn’t tell you what he learned. Maybe it was faith, maybe belief, maybe . . . who knows . . .
He doesn’t remember what happened to the geese. Perhaps they were given away because they were reminders of the partridges . . .
The birds had all left Shekhar’s life. Birds were no longer brought home. But had they also left Shekhar’s mind?
Shekhar recognized that there was another world outside of his world in which there were birds, in which there was freedom, in which there was faith, in which there was love, in which there was unparalleled independence to play and think, whose solitary principle was, ‘Only be what you are’ . . . and that world was like heaven to him, a much-sought-after dream, the door to freedom from his familial shackles, a comfort in his isolation.
So what if all of his beliefs were false? So what if this other world also possessed all of those cruelties, all of those torments, all of those falsehoods which were the reasons that he flew from the first world? So what if those things that were barely dreams in his world did not even exist as dreams in the other world, did not exist at all? He needed solace, and he found it in this imaginary world, and that’s why his dream was real, true, that’s why that world exists and will remain . . .
One evening, he went to a park. At the time, it seemed as if it were filling up with birds, and they were all delighting in their lives unrestrainedly—such melodious joy! The child asked, ‘Is this a jungle?’ Because he had heard that birds lived in the jungle. He got an answer, ‘No, this is a park.’
‘What is a jungle?’
‘They are similar, like very big parks. But see how the trees and flowers here are all planted with a plan? It’s not like that in a jungle—they grow wherever they want, in any which way.’ The child thought, how free a place like that must be where everything is independent, where these saplings could grow-flower-fruit as they desired . . . and then the heaven of his dreams took on a solid form and got a name, too—jungle . . .
To this day, the forests are to him things that the city never could be, never will be . . . Today that early dream has come down a notch from its exalted status, jungles are no longer heavens, but still many things had happened to make his love for forests grow stronger. And today, too, bound in this cage he thinks of forests, where . . .
Like that parrot, he doesn’t flap his wings for fear that they will get hurt from hitting the cage. Because he’s also learned from experience that it hurts. But is his soul also imprisoned, can it also be wounded, is it also unable to flap its wings?
*
That soul wanders about in those forests, where its heaven lies, free . . .
But of all of his lessons—self-taught lessons—this was just one aspect. His education was happening in another, much vaster region. You could say that this first aspect was the root of his education; it was the part that lay underground, invisible. It gave his character a foundation, but the education which formed his character, the part of his education which was above the ground and visible and worked its influence, that was something else . . . If his early education gave him stability, then this education gave him movement. The first gave him gravity and the second established the direction of motion . . .
There was also a girl among his playmates whose name no one knew. Everyone called her ‘Phula’ when they talked to her. She was the daughter of a widow who lived next door. Phula took part in all of his games, and sometimes while playing the two of them would also enter each other’s homes. There was a complete childlike freedom there . . . But one day, he was warned by the people at home that if he were to go over to the neighbour’s house, he shouldn’t eat or drink anything there, he shouldn’t touch anything, because they were of a low caste. He asked, not with impudence, but with curiosity, ‘Are there other people who don’t eat with them, too?’ And he got an answer, ‘No, no one from a decent caste eats with them.’ ‘Then why do we play with them or talk to them?’ This time he didn’t get an answer. He asked again and got an answer, ‘Don’t bother me. Just accept the things you are told. Don’t make everything into an issue.’
The child left. From that day on he mostly stayed away from the games, especially when Phula was around. It wasn’t because he had become obedient, but because he wanted to come up with a solution first, a decision. As a result he kept thinking even when he did play, and especially when he played because the issue would take shape right in front of his eyes.
The solution to the issue hasn’t been found in more than 4000 or 5000 years, but what are 4000 or 5000 years to a child’s confident soul? He had no conception of the flow of time. All he had were two states, light and dark, consciousness and sleep. So for him the flow of time had no meaning; all he had was the struggle between light and dark . . .
He used to sleep indoors. But ever since the summer began he had started sleeping out on the roof. Their roof was connected to the roof of the widow’s home, and the wall that separated the two wasn’t very tall, so things spoken on one side could be heard on the other. When the child would go to sleep, he would occasionally hear the sounds of Phula’s playful laughter, and the issue would be raised for him again . . . Sometimes when he heard her mother call out, ‘Phula, time to eat,’ he would think to himself, ‘They must be very hurt when they sit down to eat because no one is ready to eat with them.’ He felt, ‘They must be sneaking around, eating in secret, because they don’t have the right to eat in front of anyone else.’ He thought, ‘How could she bring herself to eat?’
Often he heard the mother and daughter laughing and playing after they were done eating. And one of their games included a part where the mother would ask the daughter, ‘Phula, what caste are we?’ And when she laughed or when she said, ‘I don’t know,’ her mother would explain, ‘You should say, we are_____.’
One day the child asked his mother, ‘What are _____?’ Mother explained that it was the name of a lower caste, and with her thumb she pointed at the house next door. ‘Those people, you know.’ After that day, the child thought, ‘If they are of a lower caste, why don’t they try to hide it? Why does the mother try to make her daughter remember this fact over and over? And there is even pride in her mother’s voice.’
The question remained unanswered in the boy’s mind. From afar, he began worshipping this woman who could take pride in this fact, and Phula, too, became like a downtrodden goddess. But he never went over to their place. Every night he would hear them laugh and think to himself, ‘I could play with them, too.’ But during the day he would stop outside their house and turn back, who knows why!
Today he’s come to terms with that feeling, today he can almost feel something of that terrible torture, which after having suffered, that widow-mother filled their lives with that pride, like a defensive armour for the soul. He also understands the feeling of contempt for insult which drives Phula’s mother to teach her this pride. And today he knows that this won’t solve the issue, that pride is inadequate, but despite knowing this he feels sympathy and compassion for her helplessness! Today he understands how the Jews are the most insulted and oppressed race in the world, and how they derive their life force from those insults and oppressions. They bend defiantly and are never vanquished . . . But the fruit that he is plucking from the tree of knowledge today planted its poisonous seed, on that very day . . .
*
I remember something from long after that—from twenty years ago. From back when I used to run around in self-protection. One day, in the intense heat of June, I had walked twenty miles with another person. We were very thirsty; we couldn’t find water anywhere. We were silently walking along the road.
Shekhar Page 7
