Breathlessly Sharda collapsed on the grass. Shekhar stood next to her; but even that amount of exertion hadn’t overheated his body. The thrill coursing through him hadn’t dissipated. Shekhar threw the book into the grass and quickly began plucking the flowers and gathering them up. As soon as his arms were full he would take them and drop them in front of Sharda and then go back to gather more.
Shekhar gathered up all the flowers that could be seen from where Sharda was lying and dropped them all around her and on top of her. She laughed and sat up, and supporting herself with one hand she submerged the other into the flowers and smiled as she thought to herself.
Shekhar was sitting at some distance from her and then lay down in the grass. In that silence, the two of them began repeating their own secrets . . .
A wave of intoxication came over Shekhar, filling his body. He began breathing hard and fast; his entire body was on fire, as if there were molten lead inside his chest. He turned over on to his chest and began pressing his body into the earth with all his strength, gradually pressing both cheeks and his forehead into the cold, wet grass to cool himself . . .
It isn’t enough, it isn’t, not at all . . . His blood cries out for an even greater feeling.
He thinks about using the entire force of his will to embrace the earth even more tightly, but he gets up, goes up behind Sharda and springs and covers both of her eyes with his hands. She’s surprised into silence and Shekhar presses down even harder over her eyes . . .
Why is Sharda’s body on fire? Why is she trembling?
An irrepressible desire makes Shekhar bend down, placing his chin on her forehead. He takes in the scent of her dried hair. Then he buries his nose in her hair and draws three, four, five long breaths . . .
The fragrance of neem berries in a new spring month . . . so sweet . . . like the foam on an aged wine, it enters his nostrils and goes straight to his head, and Shekhar becomes exactly like a crazed man who has been given too much to drink—mad from two different madnesses . . .
She is shaking excessively—and the more she trembles the harder Shekhar presses down on her eyes . . . It’s as if he thinks that the pressure from his two hands and his chin will calm her tremors, will crush that small, beautiful head of hers . . .
She tries to use one hand to move Shekhar’s hands—but where?
What is this—trembling or sobbing? Her breath is being drawn in long, broken gusts and what is this hiccup-like ‘Hic! Hic!’ sound that she makes?
Shekhar lets her go immediately and sits down on the pile of flowers that is next to her and locks his gaze on her face . . .
An age passes; she stops sobbing-hiccupping. Sharda turns to look at him with big tearful eyes and smiles at him with a grave sadness and in a gentle voice filled with complaint she says, ‘You’ve crushed all the flowers!’
For a long while their eyes are locked on each other and in that moment Sharda stands up. Shekhar can’t respond to her charges, nor is he able to get up off the flowers. She slowly turns away and begins walking off, and Shekhar cannot even lift a finger to call her back. She doesn’t even leave, but it wouldn’t have mattered—Shekhar’s tongue lacks even the strength to ask, ‘Where are you going?’
The next day, word arrived that the date of the examination had been changed, and Shekhar would have to leave immediately. On the one hand he was eager to get away from the suffocating atmosphere in his home and on the other hand he was dejected by his thoughts of Sharda; Shekhar kept both of those to himself and set out for Lahore the day after next.
*
Shekhar knocked on the door and then waited in the darkness for someone to open the door. After a little while, he could see a light inside, coming towards the door. The door creaked and the chain banged against the door. The door opened. A girl was standing to one side with a light in her hand. Shekhar took a good look at her and walked inside.
But just a little farther inside, he realized that he knew the girl. He stopped and without turning back he said, embarrassed, ‘Shashi!’
Shashi joined the hand holding the light with her other hand and said, ‘Pranam.’17 Shekhar immediately remembered the scene with the fight over the mug which was their only thing in common.
He quickly passed her and went upstairs. Shashi stayed by the door.
Shekhar greeted his aunt, Vidyavati, and her husband, Devnath. He inspected his room and immediately began unpacking. He arranged his books on the table and began reading.
His aunt came and said, ‘You should rest a little—there’s plenty of time to study.’
A little embarrassed, Shekhar said, ‘There are only a few days left—I haven’t studied much.’
Aunt left. Shekhar opened his book and thought, ‘What happened to Sharda that day? Why was she crying?’
Downstairs, there was a peal of laughter. It startled Shekhar, and he picked up his book and began reading aloud.
Shashi laughs a lot . . .
Sharda’s laugh was different. That day, when they were talking about the exams . . .
Exams. Studies. The Geometry textbook.
Shashi wasn’t that much younger than he was, so why did she greet him formally?
There had to be a scar on her forehead from where the mug hit her.
What was Sharda doing right now? Probably studying . . .
Studies. The Geometry textbook. Exams.
Shashi came upstairs to tell him, ‘Brother, Mother is calling you for dinner.’
Shekhar wonders whether it would have been a big thing if Shashi hadn’t called him ‘brother’. He wasn’t that much older than she was. He spoke out loud, ‘Let’s go, Sisterji. I’ll be right there.’
He didn’t understand what had led Shashi to say, ‘It’s not as though I’m older than you.’
Shashi left. Shekhar looked at his Geometry textbook again.
Shekhar generally studied for sixteen hours a day and would only get up when his brain was exhausted and refused to work any more. But even when he lay down on the cot, his mind would fill with so many thoughts, so many images, so many curiosities . . .
There was a girl who lived nearby in his neighbourhood. She was a little crazy, and she was a little squint-eyed, and when the boys from the neighbourhood would pass by her house, they would yell in unison, ‘Sumitri, Sumitri—cross-eyed bumblebee.’18
Whenever Shekhar heard them or saw her, it would make him laugh. But for some reason, the taunts from the others didn’t bother her, but when she saw Shekhar laughing her eyes filled with tears of pain. Having taken note of this a few times, Shekhar stopped laughing.
Whenever Savitri saw him sitting somewhere or reading, she would come up to him and stand there silently. If anyone else came up to them, she would run away, otherwise she would stand there for a full hour. Shekhar never called her over, and she never said anything either; she just watched Shekhar read.
Gradually, Shekhar got used to having her around. Actually, he even began to expect it. If she wasn’t there while he was studying, he couldn’t concentrate. He would wait for her expectantly and think, ‘Why isn’t she here yet?’
And then he would remember Sharda—and he’d curse himself. Why am I thinking about anyone else? I love Sharda—and there should be no one else in the world, there is no one else . . . He would grind his teeth and force himself to concentrate on studying—to study and forget about everyone else, so that no one other than Sharda could find a way into his heart . . .
Shashi brought him his meals both times every day. Everyone else ate in the kitchen, but he ate in his room. Shashi had been given the task of making sure that he ate. Shashi never asked him if he wanted her to bring him his meals. Whenever it was time or whenever she thought it best, she’d put his meal on the table and push his books to one side and stand back. Shekhar tried to ignore her presence, kept reading, but after a while, he’d close his book and eat quietly. Whatever he needed, Shashi would bring it up for him, he never had to ask, and moreover his objections went c
ompletely unheeded. Shashi would serve him however much she wanted even if he objected a thousand times. But she never spoke. Sometimes to start a conversation, Shekhar would say, ‘Sister, can you bring me some of that?’ and she would silently do as she had been asked, with not even so much as a yes or a no.
This, too, began disturbing Shekhar’s studies. He kept thinking: why, when, how, what; and he would forget that he had to study . . . Irritated, he went to complain to his aunt one day, ‘Aunt, Sisterji won’t speak to me. Tell her that she should talk to me.’
Aunt laughed. But that evening when Shekhar was eating, Shashi said, ‘I’ve complained about you to Mother,’ and then she left the room. After that, Shekhar had to ask for dal, roti and the rest himself. The next day he said, ‘Aunt, I’ll eat in the kitchen.’
He went to the kitchen and his aunt said to him, ‘Shekhar, Shashi asks that you not call her “Sisterji” any more. She’s younger than you.’
‘But she doesn’t even speak to me.’
‘That’s why she doesn’t talk to you.’ Aunt started to laugh.
Shekhar said, ‘She could have told me sooner.’ After that, whenever he got the chance, he would go right up to Shashi and pointlessly say, ‘Sisterji!’ And she too refused to speak . . .
And so, when Shekhar wasn’t waiting for Savitri, he would be on the lookout for Shashi so that he could tease her. He never knew how much of his study time was spent in studying and how much in waiting for these two . . .
When his thoughts would return to Sharda, he would burn with guilt and anger that he had spent even a moment of his time on anyone other than Sharda . . .
His studies continued in this pattern, and the exams were also over . . .
When it was time for Shekhar to go back, he said goodbye to everyone, except Shashi. He couldn’t say it because when he started with ‘Sisterji—’ Shashi turned around and left.
But she did come to the station to see him off. Once he had found his seat on the train and said his goodbyes to everyone, Shashi came up to his window and just barely touching the tips of her fingers together gave him a half-formed pranam and said, ‘You’re going to call me Sisterji now, too.’
Shekhar was moved. He blurted out, ‘Shashi!’
The train started to move.
Shekhar saw that she had a soft smile on her face. He immediately called out to her, ‘Sisterji!’
He couldn’t see Shashi in the distance, although Shashi certainly heard his voice.
But once the train left the station, Shekhar forgets all about Savitri, Shashi, his aunt, studies, the results of his exams. There was only one thing on his mind—that he was heading south, and the south was where Sharda was.
This thought so completely overtook his body, head, mind and soul that the material world faded away.
Even when he got back home and learned that there had been a telegram to the effect that his older brother Ishwar was missing from college, the news had no particular effect on him; he didn’t understand why his parents were so upset or why his younger brothers were so scared and quiet . . .
It was as if his feet didn’t touch the ground, like he was walking at some distinct height from the earth, from which all the power in the world could not pull him down . . . It was as if his body still felt that trembling under the pressure of his hands, as if he could still smell the scent of young berries on a neem tree and it was about to make him faint . . .
Somehow, he went through his first day back at home. As soon as he got up the next morning, he went out to walk. He went to the tree. She wasn’t there. Nor was there a reason that she should be. Next he went to the top of his mountain, and from that vantage point he could see the grove of eucalyptus trees in front of him, but he couldn’t see the pillar of smoke rising from the chimney of ‘Eagle’s Nest’ over them.
Shekhar raced down the mountain to the eucalyptus grove. When he got to ‘Eagle’s Nest’ he saw that everything was still. There was no one anywhere. The front door had been locked from the outside. He looked in through the windows and saw that everything was gone, the house was completely empty.
She wasn’t there either. Shekhar sat down on the steps.
When he got up, the fever of adolescence had broken.
*
Shekhar was sitting in the room next to the kitchen and eating his dinner. Mother was sitting in the kitchen making rotis.
Shekhar’s hands and mouth were cooperating to finish the work of eating, but his mind was somewhere else. Wherever it is, it’s not clear. He’s finished his roti but Shekhar doesn’t seem to realize it. Mother calls to him from the kitchen, ‘Take the rotis out to everyone,’ so he goes to get them.
With two or three pieces of pink paper in his hand, Shekhar’s father passes him and goes into the kitchen. The fact that he’s there tells Shekhar that something strange has happened, and he forgets about eating his roti and sits there dejectedly trying to listen to what is being said.
They’ve learned where Ishwardutt is. He’s in Bombay and he’s trying to join the police force there. When signing up he listed the name of his college correctly, but lied about the name of his father. The college made a few inquiries and then sent the telegram.
There’s silence for a while. Shekhar thinks that the matter is settled, but then Mother says—‘When he comes back here, get him married.’
Father says, ‘Unh, what will a marriage accomplish?’
Then a short silence. Then she says, as if she’s talking about someone else entirely, ‘He’s a strange boy. How could anyone trust someone like him?’
Father makes a soft, partly unconvinced, partly thoughtful sound, ‘Hmm.’
Then a silence—pregnant with meaning. Mother says, ‘And if you ask me in all honesty’—and then her voice suddenly got soft, but not so soft that Shekhar couldn’t hear—‘ask me in all honesty, I’ll say that I don’t trust this one either.’
This one!
Shekhar’s jaw drops, his eyes widen, he forgets the world—he falls from somewhere high above. With a fiery, blind instinct, he hugs the wall and looks at his mother’s facial expression, the suddenly frozen expression in her eyes and the thumb pointing at Shekhar.
This one!
Shekhar doesn’t see anything; he drinks it all in with a blind, deaf and precognitive instinct—like poison!
This one!
He stumbles to his feet and walks out of the room. He doesn’t go to the kitchen to wash his hands. Behind him, his mother asks, ‘Do you want more roti?’ And when she doesn’t get a response, she gets irritated and says, ‘This devil torments me—I can’t understand his ways.’ Father was waging a mini-campaign against using the word ‘devil’ . . .
It was as though he heard all of this with an altered consciousness. Afterwards, a darkness descended inside, outside and all around him . . .
This one!
This one phrase had shaken him from his apathy, which had conquered and ruled over him after Sharda’s departure, but where had it thrown him? Where had he fallen—something had broken inside him! Whenever he looked at someone, some ‘thing’ pointed its thumb at him and said, ‘This one!’
‘This one! This one! This one!’
It was night. Shekhar had been sitting in his room since the incident, like a statue. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything for which he received insults, but it didn’t faze him, even though they were delivered with acrimony and tears. Father shouted at him and left; Mother said her fill, cried-beat-wailed and then fell silent and left.
Everyone was asleep. Shekhar locked the door to his room, turned off the light, sat down on his bed and began to smoulder. There was an inexhaustible feeling inside him. Who knows whether it was anger or dejection or hatred or something else entirely, but it was so intense that he couldn’t turn it into a thought; not just his mind but his entire body was being pulled along with it and being trampled upon; the impact of that feeling was so pervasive and numbing that it left no room for any wilful activity (conation);
19 his entire being became a bubble of depression . . . which burst. Shekhar got up in the darkness and unlocked the drawer under the table and removed a notebook and began writing in it in the darkness . . .
Who knows how long! Who knows what he wrote!
The notebook served as Shekhar’s diary—a record of all the wrongs and injustices that he had suffered that year (and despite keeping it as secure as he did, he didn’t have the courage to write about Sharda in it). There could be so many injustices in just a few months!
When night was over, Shekhar had already stopped writing for a long time, and he stayed there staring out into the darkness, not going to sleep. Of the lines he had written, one of them circled his mind, blowing fiercely like a hot desert wind, ringing in his head:
Better to be a dog, a pig, a rat, a stinking worm than to be a man whom no one trusts . . .20
Suddenly Shekhar got up and said to the wall in English (who knows why he couldn’t express feelings of hatred in any other language):
‘I hate her. I hate her.’21
Then, before anyone else was awake, he got dressed and jumped out of the window of his room on to the path outside and went off in some direction.
By the time the sun rose, Shekhar had already walked eight or nine miles. He sat down next to a muddy pond in a large grove. He had thought about many things—from murdering women all the way to suicide, he considered a great many options.
He was never able to determine whether it was the strength of his mental make-up or the principles that he had been taught or the influence of some internal force that saved him from himself that day. Nor could he fathom what end, what tragedy he had barely avoided. But he did know this much, that nothing was impossible for the vengeful demon that awoke inside him, nothing was beneath it; nothing was immoral for it; because that demon was more ancient than good and evil, morality and immorality, than reason . . .
Shekhar Page 21
