Shekhar got up and went out of the house. He wandered around all day like a stray dog. He came home in the evening, exhausted, and Father said to him, ‘So keen on giving up this life, are you?’
Shekhar responded lifelessly, ‘Yes, I am.’ And he kept walking. Father stared at him bewildered.
Shekhar didn’t eat dinner. Nor did anyone worry about him. It was night, everyone was asleep, and he, too, lay down on the cot in exhaustion and then tried to burst the darkness . . .
An uncertain voice spoke to him from the head of his cot, ‘Shekhar?’ Saraswati came and sat down at the head of the cot.
Shekhar put his head in her lap.
That’s when the tears began . . .
Saraswati lifted his head and gently placed it on the pillow. He fell asleep.
*
That night, Shekhar had a dream.
A vast desert. The scorching heat of midday.
Shekhar was racing on the back of a camel, slicing through the desert, racing . . . He had been racing since morning, or was it last night? He was still racing at the same pace.
Someone is chasing him. Shekhar doesn’t know who, but he knows that someone is behind him, and each time he looks back, he sees dust being kicked up by the feet of many camels chasing him . . .
Afternoon. It isn’t any less hot; it feels worse, in fact. Shekhar is still racing and that ‘something’ behind him is getting closer.
Suddenly, an orchard of apple trees ahead of him. It’s enclosed by a tall mud wall on all four sides. In several places, there are holes in the wall, and also several plants that look like irises. Shekhar gets down from the camel, climbs over the wall and goes into the orchard.
The trees in the orchard are heavy with flowers. So heavy, in fact, that the entire ground is covered with flowers, and it is absolutely gleaming white . . .
Shekhar breathes a tired sigh and lies down on a bed of flowers and goes to sleep . . .
Evening. The entire sky has turned a deep red. The reflection from the scarlet-hued sky makes the whole earth look red, and the apple trees now look like they are wild rose bushes—each flower has taken on a beautiful blush . . .
Shekhar sat up. The terror of danger came over him again. He knows that ‘something’ has surrounded the orchard and is attempting to enter it. And the dust from its camel’s feet is being thrown up in all directions, filling the skies . . .
Shekhar gets up and runs in one direction and leaves the orchard.
A gravelly road, steep. Shekhar keeps on climbing. That ‘something’ has been left behind, but he still has a long way to go . . . a long way . . . in search of something, although he doesn’t know what he’s looking for . . .
The evening grows dense. Shekhar is still going. He’s thirsty, but there’s not a drop of water anywhere. Although there is something in the distance, like the din of a waterfall . . .
He climbs on top of a boulder and looks out ahead of him, and comes to a complete stop.
Thundering below is a mountainous waterfall, brilliant, pure, clear . . .
Shekhar sits on his haunches, rests his arms on the ground in front of him and bends his head forward like a woodland creature about to take a sip of water. But the water is too far down and he can’t reach it . . .
Saraswati’s hand is on his. She’s sitting next to him, in the same way, on her haunches, although she wasn’t there a second ago. And the two pairs of thirsty eyes are looking longingly at the water below . . .
Shekhar observes a flower standing up on a thin stalk, somehow completely unaffected by the rapids in the middle of the water. Very big—a single white petal wrapped all around, and a pistil, the colour of hot gold, extending out from the middle.
And as he watches, a mystical peace descends over him and he realizes that this is what he has been looking for, the thing that he was racing towards . . . The peace is so gentle that it makes his hairs stand on end. He squeezes Saraswati’s hand tightly . . .
He wakes up. The dream was so vivid, so real, that Shekhar extended his hand to take Saraswati’s. He didn’t find it.
He got up from his cot. Looked around. Got up and went to Saraswati’s cot. She was sleeping. Shekhar tried to look at her face but couldn’t. He went back, drew a long, contented sigh and lay down, and became lost in a dreamless sleep.
Part 3
Nature and Man
Shekhar was, and Saraswati was, and no one else was. That which we call the world had ceased to exist.
There was still much to happen. There was that ineffable mood created when Shekhar found Saraswati alone and could talk to her freely. It made him happy to know that even when she didn’t respond she at least listened to him. Shekhar was always surprised that though she had much to think about she couldn’t tell him though she could tell him so many things that she wouldn’t tell other people. And it bothered him to no end when something welled up inside him, when he wanted to tell her something, and he would find her busy with some work in the kitchen, or washing their little sister’s—who had been named Kamala—diapers, or sitting by their mother learning how to sew and embroider . . .
And there was Mother . . .
Shekhar felt that the way Saraswati was the embodiment of all that was desirable, that was generally compassionate and sympathetic, his mother was the incarnation of all the concentrated problems he faced, all that was undesirable, generally unsympathetic and cruel. Whenever something did not work out Shekhar discovered after some searching that his mother was the source of the problem . . . She was the one who kept Saraswati working in the kitchen, she was the one who asked her to wash the diapers, she was the one who put her to embroidery. Shekhar didn’t understand why ‘girls had to learn how to do these things or they were not respected . . .’ Whenever Saraswati was with Shekhar, his mother was the one who always called her away—just to harass Shekhar, because a number of times she had mockingly said to him, ‘Why are you always hiding behind Saraswati? Why don’t you go to your brothers?’
Father also scolded him. ‘Is this a man? He wants to be a girl. He should just dress up in girls’ clothes.’
His brothers teased him, too, ‘Sister’s tail! Sister’s tail!’
But Saraswati never said anything to him. When his brothers teased him, she would suppress a smile. Sometimes she’d even say to Shekhar, ‘Look how much everyone teases you.’ And in those moments, his heart would stop in fear that she too might laugh at his expense, make some joke about him, because that would mean . . .
And don’t forget, Shekhar was immensely grateful for Saraswati.
Shekhar was an atheist and an idol-worshipper. And Saraswati was his revered idol.
When devotion reaches its limits, the object of devotion is just as human as the devotee—or rather, for the devotee, the object of devotion no longer remains a mere projection of what’s inside the devotee, but somehow appears before him and on account of being before him has for some unknown reason become unattainable, like one’s own reflection in a mirror, though more diffuse and unbounded . . .
So, too, was Saraswati. Shekhar never felt as if she were separate from him or that her feelings were separate. When he was hungry he’d say, ‘Sister, will you have some bread?’ And when he was about to go to sleep he’d say, ‘Sister, you’re tired . . .’
But for Saraswati, this unity, this commingling, was not as excessive. Of late, she had been worried for some reason—who knows what was turning around in her head? Shekhar would ask, and ask, and get irritated, but how long could one remain irritated with a God . . . He’d think, ‘If only my sister weren’t older but a year and a half younger than me. Or let’s just say if I’d been older, and we were the same age, it would have been so much better . . .’ Because he was gravely, but still secretly and unconsciously, standing at the threshold of a very important truth! That when men are made, they are made for someone to love them, some woman younger than they are who believes in them and to earn whose trust they are willing to risk their lives . . .
There are mothers, always, and they have an important place, but they are made by their sisters or other girls like their sisters who on account of being like their sisters are more than sisters . . . Mothers give life, nurturance, fathers offer wisdom, but the strength to tolerate our own personalities—that doesn’t come from those sources . . .
Sometimes Shekhar wanted to tell his sister, ‘Sister, I don’t want so much an idol as an idol-worshipper. There’s no one that I want, no one to look at, as much as someone who wants to look at me. It’s not that I don’t want a perfect person; I want to be the only one capable of making them so. I want someone who worships perfection because that’s something I cannot make. I don’t have the power to create a God for myself, but someone to worship the divinity in me—but no . . .’ These thoughts weren’t clear in his mind, he didn’t understand them himself, and life kept moving on . . .
For the believer, God is everywhere. And it would be impossible for him to imagine life without God. But God dwells in the sky and even clouds wander in front of it . . .
*
Shekhar’s father is on tour. One day, while straightening the letters on his desk, Shekhar read one of the cards, and it left him speechless.
It was about Saraswati’s wedding.
‘After the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband.’ This sentence from some unknown, read long-ago story danced before Shekhar. He felt as if it were a cruel ending—after the wedding, she went to live with her husband. She just went. Her life was over. Everyone had to go in the same way. And in the story, it was written as if it were some ordinary matter—she just left, and then what?
Shekhar threw the card down and ran from the house. At the time, Shekhar’s father had been transferred to the south—he was staying in the mountains of the Western Ghats. Shekhar used to wander in the foothills there.
‘After the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband.’ Shekhar began repeating the sentence over and over in his mind and thought, ‘Why am I stuck on this sentence?’
He looked at a tree. It was as if the tree said, ‘Rama went to live with her husband.’
Shekhar looked at another tree, and it seemed to smile at him and repeat the same sentence.
And the same thing happened with the third tree, and the fourth tree, with increasing assertiveness . . .
Then one of them said softly, hesitatingly, ‘Rama? Are you sure you aren’t mistaken?’
And then all of them said in unison, ‘Saraswati went to live with her husband.’
Saraswati! Saraswati!
Like a hunted deer, Shekhar began running around wildly in search of refuge. It was evening, but the hunter that was after him hadn’t given up the chase, hadn’t given up.
It was getting dark, and the prey thought that it had spied a place in the distance where it might be able to hide. It wasn’t certain, possibly . . . He ran back home.
When he got home, Shekhar was unable to ask the question. He didn’t have to ask anyone else; he only had to ask Saraswati, but he couldn’t muster up the courage. He was overcome and couldn’t speak. His daily ritual was to report all the things that he had done that day, but still he was silent. Saraswati, too, let the matter rest.
A little before bedtime, Saraswati asked eagerly, ‘What’s the matter, Shekhar?’
‘. . .’
‘I know that something is bothering you. Tell me.’
Like jumping quickly into wintry waters, Shekhar blurted out, ‘Why don’t you marry someone from around here?’
First Saraswati’s face turned red and then she became serious. She gave his cheek a light slap and burst out laughing.
And the prey couldn’t tell whether it had found refuge or been denied it . . .
*
Two thousand miles to find a husband . . .
Everyone arrived at Lahore. In the hustle and bustle of the preparations, Shekhar fell ill. While he was confined to his cot, he caught wind of what kinds of sweets were being made, what the wedding procession looked like, what the groom looked like (Rama went to live with her husband—no, not Rama, Saraswati!), how the groom’s party was made to look stupid, how there weren’t enough pakoras and how they had to use their ingenuity to solve that problem, how the groom arrived in a fancy fringed sarong (the name was strange, like ‘the camel’s horn’) and . . . The only thing he didn’t hear was where Saraswati was, how she was and what she was doing, feeling . . .
On the day the bride and groom were supposed to circumambulate the fire, Shekhar said, ‘I want to go, too.’
He had a fever of 103 degrees Fahrenheit. Everyone told him not to, but he wouldn’t listen. ‘How could I not go? It’s my sister’s wedding,’ he said. No one understood the seriousness behind his statement, but they had to concede. He was seated in one corner of the wedding pavilion, on a chair, wrapped in a blanket. It was as if he were watching a meaningless circus with eyes that had been clouded over by cataracts.
Shekhar’s uncle brought a bundle wrapped in a red embroidered cloth and left it on a spot near the pundit and moved away! It was placed there, joined to the groom (after the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband—not Rama, Saraswati!), and that’s how Shekhar surmised that Saraswati was inside the bundle. In a little while, that bundle, without letting its bundle-ness diminish in any way, followed the groom and circled the fire . . .
From somewhere behind Shekhar, a voice called out with impenetrable certainty, ‘It’s done . . .’
Shekhar turned around to look—it was as if the veil was even more puffed out with delight . . .
And from inside Shekhar, a voice called out with an unflappable certainty, ‘After the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband—not Rama, Saraswati! Get it, Saraswati . . .’
He said, ‘I’ve seen it all—now I’m going.’
He was taken from the pavilion.
Saraswati came to see him for a while—at the time, no one else was around. Shekhar wanted to sulk so badly, not to say a word, but how could he sulk at Saraswati who at that very moment looked wan even without the turmeric paste?
Shekhar didn’t know what to say. As if he were challenging her to a duel, he said, ‘Sister, so you’re married now?’
Saraswati looked at him, crushed. Then she said, ‘How are you feeling?’
Shekhar turned away and then choked out, ‘Saras—’
Saraswati put her hand on his forehead, and as she gently moved it down his face, she closed his eyes, although his face was still turned away. And as she closed his eyes she felt his tears.
It was as if Shekhar were trying to take hold of her hand with his eyelashes. He said, ‘I’m fine.’ And after a little while, ‘You’re . . . going away . . . and even then nothing will happen.’
Saraswati said, ‘Where is your hand?’
Shekhar clasped her hand with both of his and pressed it down hard over his eyes.
She slowly freed her hand and left.
That night, Shekhar came down with pneumonia.
In Hindi, a wedding is called a ‘shaadi’. The word ‘shaad’ means joyful.
*
A month later, on the day that Shekhar was fit to get out of bed was the day that everyone returned south.
Everyone, and after the wedding Rama went to live with her husband—not Rama, Saraswati . . . And everyone came back . . .
After another month, both of Shekhar’s brothers left for college. Left behind were Mother, Father, Shekhar, Ravi, Chandra and Kamala; and the memory of the one who after the wedding went to live with her husband.
While Shekhar’s brothers were at home, they wrote Saraswati a letter every third day. They got letters from her. Shekhar would listen in on them reading out the letters, or he’d steal them and read them, but she never wrote him a letter nor had he been able to write her one.
But once they had left for college, Shekhar had no way to get news of his sister. He kept hoping that she would write to him herself, but somewhere deep inside he knew that she wasn’t going to
just as he wasn’t writing to her; she’d only be able to respond after he’d written to her.
So one day he sat down to write a letter.
After taking much trouble to pick out the appropriate kind of paper, he started, ‘Revered Sister . . .’
He had been trained always to begin letters this way every time. But on seeing those two words on the paper he began questioning himself, ‘What are you doing? Who are you writing to? Who is “Revered Sister”?’
He tore the paper to shreds. Got another. He filled the pen with ink and started to think. Nothing came to him. He began dragging the pen across the paper absent-mindedly. He noticed that it had dried out. He filled it again; it dried out again.
He filled it again and all of a sudden began writing, ‘Saras . . .’
‘But . . . but . . . I don’t even say this to myself without trembling. How can I write in this obscene way on this paper and send it to her husband’s house, where she lives now?’
Shekhar tore up that piece of paper as well. And that’s when he realized what ‘after the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband’ really meant . . .
He went and told his mother, ‘I don’t want to send a letter; you should just send yours.’
Mother responded, ‘Why, is it too much trouble to write to your sister?’
Shekhar sat in a corner of his room and cried.
Who knows what’s happened to Shekhar! He never used to cry and now he cries for no reason at all—sometimes he gets up in the middle of a meal and goes to his room and cries; sometimes he eats his meals and wipes away his tears at the same time; sometimes when his mother asked him, ‘Shekhar, have you eaten anything at all today?’ he’d burst into tears; sometimes when his father said, ‘Go and bring the post from the letter box,’ he’d open his window and hang out and cry. He didn’t understand why he was crying. Sometimes his father would ask him, ‘What is it, Shekhar? Missing your brothers?’ he’d think this is the reason why I’m crying—I miss my brothers. When his mother asked, ‘Do you want to visit Saraswati?’ he’d feel that the only reason that I’m crying is because I want to see Saraswati. And sometimes when Ravidutt would say, ‘Everyone beats me for no reason,’ he’d think that the reason he was crying was because of all the unfairness . . . One day he read a translation of Rabindranath Tagore’s ‘Vacation’ in which he’d written:
Shekhar Page 17
