Shekhar took a piece of paper and a pencil out from his pocket and began writing a vow.
I won’t do anything that Mother needs doing; never do anything for which she might have to have even the slightest bit of trust in me; I’ll stop speaking to her altogether; and if anyone ever asks, I’ll tell them that she isn’t even my mother.
A voice from out of a novel cries out and repeats, ‘She’s a stepmother! A stepmother! A stepmother!’
Suddenly, without realizing it, a change overtakes him. Something casts a shadow over him like a colour, like the colour red, like rays of sunlight refracted through glass . . .
He tears up his vow and throws the pieces on the soft, wet earth and grinds them with his big boots, pulverizing them until those pieces of paper are buried under the dirt, until they’re invisible . . .
Why should I accept defeat? If someone doesn’t trust me, let them not. I am worthy. I’ll become worthy and remain worthy. I’ll bear this wound in silence, swallow the insult. And I won’t let it show. And when I’ve won the respect and trust of the entire world I’ll throw it in her face and say, ‘Look! I spit at these things!’
Hiding yet another fire in his evolving soul that transformed him into a quiet revolutionary, he returned home.
*
If Shekhar hadn’t sought death it was because his life was in a state worse than death—he didn’t live a life worth seeking extinction.
Many have sung paeans to love and loss, but no one has ever praised hatred and lust. But Shekhar’s life was possible now only because of those two forces—hatred was the only thing that had given him enough strength to challenge the world despite having lost everything, and lust had goaded him to confront the wound which had afflicted his heart.
Shekhar had lost Father, Mother, Saraswati, Sharda and ultimately even himself. And maimed from all of that as he was, he was unable to think about anything. The energy of these two poisons, though, was slowly reviving him . . . Liquor can make a healthy man crazy, but it is necessary if you want to wake an unconscious man . . .
Poetry and song have become meaningless for Shekhar. Listening to his most cherished records didn’t bring him an iota of happiness—but he did find a little bit of peace when he dashed them on the ground and shattered them in a fit of rage . . . He would sit lifelessly in his room, or outdoors, or anywhere really, as every place had become the same for him—and just stay there sitting . . .
If someone said something to him, he never heard it. But if people were having a conversation nearby, he would listen to what they said.
Mother and Father were sitting and talking to each other; Shekhar was sitting apart from them. Suddenly he realized that he had heard what they said and taken in the meaning.
Shekhar’s father had just returned from one of his tours. Mother was inspecting the things that he had purchased. While talking about a fine sari from Madura22 Father said, ‘I got it for Saraswati. Didn’t you say that we needed to send her one?’
Mother said, ‘This? Why should we send this to her? It’s so beautiful. We needed to send her a sari out of custom—an ordinary sari will do just as well. Why don’t I keep this one for myself?’
Shekhar spent the next several days determined to get hold of that sari somehow so that he could set it on fire, or rip it to shreds, so that Mother couldn’t wear it . . . But who knows which trunk she put it in, because it was never taken out again, nor did Mother ever wear it. Shekhar was left holding only his determination.
Shekhar was sitting there aimlessly and softly humming two verses from the Gita Govinda—so absent-mindedly that he didn’t even realize it:
Lalita-lavang-lata-parisheelan-komal-malaya-sameere
Madhukar-nikar-karambit-kokil-koojit-kunj-kuteere23
He had heard his father singing this verse many times. He didn’t know what the lines meant, but there was a certain charm in them and he had memorized them the first time he had heard them, and he often used to repeat them.
That’s when Father arrived and heard him singing and asked, ‘Where did you learn that?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Do you remember any more of it?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
Dheer-sameere-yamuna-teere-vasit-vane-vanamalee,
Gopi—24
Father objected angrily, ‘You’ve read the Gita Govinda?’
‘No.’
‘Then where did you learn this?’
‘You were singing it—I heard you singing it and memorized it.’
Father hadn’t beaten Shekhar for days. Perhaps he had begun to think of him as an adult.
But at this moment, he was so angry that he slapped him hard three or four times.
‘I don’t know what’s happened to these boys. All they learn are obscene things.’
Shekhar decided quietly that one way or another, he was definitely going to read the Gita Govinda.
He sifted through Father’s Sanskrit books and found the Gita Govinda—with the commentary. First, he read the entire book, and it was so charming that he had already memorized most of it. Then he wanted to know why Father had become so angry, so he read the commentary to try and understand the meaning of the work. The commentary was in Sanskrit, but understanding some of the original text using some of the commentary and sometimes just guessing, he slowly translated his way through the book . . .
He understood and didn’t understand. He was agitated, filled with aversion, and he didn’t know why. He would read it and feel disgusted, and the disgust made him read more. He felt hatred for Krishna, and in his hatred he’d put himself in Krishna’s place; and his soul continuously asked itself, ‘Why? Why? Why?’ . . .
Countless images began dancing before his eyes—tiny groupings of countless forgotten things, symbols, light and darkness . . .
Father . . .
Mother . . .
The cook . . .
Atti, the maid . . .
The Kashmiri ayah, Jinniya . . .
Then a scene in Kanhaiya Market in Amritsar . . .
He was going back home after taking his exams. He stopped to see Amritsar on the way—a man from Lahore had been sent with him to show him around Amritsar. After they had seen the Golden Temple, Jallianwala Bagh and other sights, his companion said, ‘Now let’s see something new,’ and he took Shekhar with him to that market.
It was evening. On the ground level of the market were several shops still open—haberdashers, sweet-makers and savoury food stalls—and here and there men selling garlands were sitting and calling out, advertising their wares. But people were attracted to the market for the second storey—lights glowed from up there, and in every window or balcony sat a beauty . . . Shekhar’s unaccustomed and naive eyes felt as though he had never seen such vast beauty. He suddenly stopped. A big, smiling face looked down at him. Shekhar was transfixed—he stared back, fixed, unblinking, stunned and drowning in wonder. Such beauty! His innocent eyes nevertheless noticed that there was blue eyeshadow around the eyes, but his mind told him that it was probably from too much mascara, and besides, when had it ever been possible for him to get in his critical comments? That pure, joyful wonder—such beauty! His companion looked at him, laughed a harsh, vulgar laugh, pulled him away and said, ‘These damned women even go after the young and the elderly.’ And now Shekhar is walking and thinking about what those words mean when the companion starts again, ‘I’m responsible for you, otherwise—’ And then he’s silent.
And then sneaking into Father’s collection and finding an image of Chinnamasta25 whose nether parts were obscured by a strip of paper that Father had placed there, Shekhar removed it and looked . . .
Shekhar trembled. He felt nauseated to the core as if he were being bitten by countless scorpions, though their sting didn’t contain poison but honey—it was such a sweet sting . . .
*
Atti was around twenty years old. Like the women of her country and caste she dressed in a single bolt of c
loth. She covered her entire body in a multicoloured, chequered sari, but her head was uncovered, and often times, a shoulder was exposed.
She had an ordinary body, wasn’t tall or short, wasn’t thin or overly fleshy. She was, nevertheless, very healthy. Her vitality shone through her skin. She had thick hair, deep black in colour, a very small head, short arms, too, but black, a small nose somewhat turned up and a chin that was a little recessed. You could say that the only things that were large on her face were her eyes; everything else was small. You wouldn’t call her beautiful, but there was a vivacious charm that would appear so that no one would be tempted to go closer and determine whether it was beauty or ugliness.
She was always laughing—about everything, with everyone. Laughing was her work and her rule.
Even when she talked to Shekhar (or when she didn’t talk to him, but just looked at him) she would laugh. Sometimes Shekhar felt as if there were something serious in that laugh, some meaning. He couldn’t make out what, but whenever he thought about it he felt uneasy and agitated . . .
Sometimes, when he was near Atti, she would be so preoccupied with her chores that she didn’t seem to notice that he was there. Then he would watch her and say something to startle her. But Atti was never startled; whenever she heard his exclamation, she would straighten her sari, compose herself, smile at him and keep on working . . .
One day she was sweeping in Shekhar’s room when he walked in. Atti’s back was towards the wall and she was bent over while sweeping, so the end of her sari had slipped off her back and had stopped at her neck and her back was exposed. Shekhar stood there and stared, and realizing that Atti didn’t know that he had entered, he slowly crept up to her.
As he got closer he thought about how he would try to startle her, by the sound he might make or by tickling her back.
Having settled on tickling her, he bent forward only to realize that Atti was holding back a smile—she knew that Shekhar was there . . . He was hurt; he stopped his outstretched hand. Atti quickly stood upright and completely covered her back and her shoulder, and turning her covered shoulder towards Shekhar, she rested her chin upon it and began laughing.
‘She knew I was here’—the thought hurt Shekhar but it also gave him a sharp thrill; she knew and that was the reason she had stayed bent over like that. Shekhar stepped forward and caught the end of her sari so that he could pull it and expose her as before. Atti, as if trying to save herself, bent forward in his direction. Her face came very close to Shekhar’s mouth . . .
Shekhar immediately released the end of her sari and stumbled back.
Memories of a small head being held by both hands and of the fragrance of the neem blossoms danced in front of him . . .
Shekhar quickly left the room and slammed the door behind him . . .
*
There was another house at a little distance from Shekhar’s house, where a girl, probably eighteen or nineteen years old, was usually lying on a lounging chair in front in the sun.
Her name was Shanti. Shekhar had heard that she suffered from tuberculosis and that was why she was always lying there. He had also heard that she wouldn’t survive much longer and ever since he heard that he would sneak away and stand on one side of his house and watch Shanti. Sometimes he would feel compassion, sometimes sympathy and sometimes when he was really depressed he envied Shanti as she was going to be free of this existence soon . . .
Sometimes Shanti would look up in his direction, but he would always move out of sight. He was afraid that if she saw him watching her she wouldn’t sit there any more . . .
One day Shanti looked over at him and smiled. Shekhar was trying to decide if he should hide or stay there when she beckoned him over with a gesture from her hand, and she may have even called out to him.
Shekhar looked back nervously once towards his home and then went over.
Shanti gestured to the grass spread out next to her chair and said, ‘Sit.’
Shekhar sat. When he sat down he realized that he couldn’t be seen from his house, that he was being screened by an oleander shrub, and he was able to sit more at ease.
Shanti said, ‘Your name is Shekhar, right?’
Shekhar was surprised, ‘Yes.’
‘I can hear the things going on at your house all the way here—your mother talks quite loudly.’
Shekhar was silent.
After a little while, Shanti spoke again, ‘What are you always looking at?’
Shekhar was caught off guard, so he hung his head and started counting the nails on his toes.
Shanti said gently, ‘Tell me, what are you always looking at?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What do you mean, nothing? Then why are you always running away when I look over at you? That’s why I don’t look over there so often.’
Shekhar was silent.
‘Tell me, why are you being so shy?’
‘I have a picture—you look just like it,’ Shekhar said and then stopped.
‘Which picture?’
‘I’ll get it.’ Shekhar said and got up and brought the picture from his house.
‘Here, look.’
Shanti took the picture, looked at it and said, ‘Arré! I have this one, too.’
‘Really?’ Shekhar asked as he sat back down in his spot.
The picture was Rossetti’s Beata Beatrix, which was also known as The Glory of Death.26
Shanti said, ‘Some day this glory27 will also be mine.’ She laughed a melancholic laugh.
Shekhar’s heart fell. He said, ‘They call it The Glory of Death but that’s the wrong title! Its real name is Beata Beatrix, which means Beatrix in a trance. Rossetti’s wife had fallen unconscious once, and Rossetti painted this picture of her.’
Shanti said, ‘Really?’ as if she were really saying, ‘You really know a lot.’
After a little while, Shanti said, ‘Tell me something. I lie here alone all the time, so it would be nice if you came over. You can tell me things and I’ll listen. I have a lot of patience28 for listening.’
‘I’ll come over but I don’t know what to talk about.’
‘Whatever you want—things that happened to you, or else stories, or some poetry.’
Shekhar thought to himself quietly. She watched him for a while and then said, ‘If you can’t come up with anything then you can just sit here quietly—I only have a few days left.’
Shocked, ‘Why?’
‘Yes, it’s true! Then I’ll be completely alone!’
This saddened Shekhar so much that he just sat there, saying nothing, and went home half an hour later.
Shekhar started going over to see Shanti often. Sometimes he would take a book of short stories or poetry with him and read it to her, sometimes he would take a picture book and sometimes he would just sit there quietly . . . He felt as if he were Shanti’s protector, as if she had no body and was merely an infant soul and he was her guardian angel . . . Sometimes when Shanti would close her eyes and rest her head against the back of her chair while listening to him talk, he would stop and look at her pale face, and then start reading again in an anxious voice, as if his reading would keep Shanti’s life force fixed in place in order to hear him—as if she would fly away if he stopped reading . . .
One day Shanti said, ‘Give it to me! Let me read something today. You can listen.’
Shekhar had brought over a collection of English poems today and he handed them over to Shanti. She flipped through the pages for a while—then she said, ‘Yes, I’ll read you this one—I have it memorized.’ She closed the book and put it on her lap. Then she lay back down and rested her head, closed her eyes and slowly began reciting:
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts for his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!29
She stopped for a second and then continued:
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill . . .
And she stopped again. Shekhar waited for a while expecting her to continue (Shekhar knew the following lines) but she stayed silent, and he couldn’t say anything either . . .
Shekhar began to notice Shanti’s neck. It was glorious like gleaming white moonlight! And her skin was translucent—Shekhar could clearly see the pulsating blue lines of her veins underneath . . .
There was such indifference to the world in that pulsation—how carefree, so contained within herself!
At that moment, she looked exactly like that picture . . .
Every pulse took her closer to unconsciousness—closer to a trance . . .
Or to the glory of death—mrityu ka gaurav . . .
Shanti opened her eyes all of a sudden—Shekhar felt as if the opening of her eyes was so lacking in will as to be involuntary—and a feeble, soft voice said, ‘What are you looking at?’
It was unexpected, but it was so soft that Shekhar wasn’t surprised. Haltingly, he said, ‘Shanti, can I touch you?’
Shanti assented with her eyes and said, ‘Come.’
Shekhar went to her respectfully, fearfully putting one hand beneath Shanti’s chin, on her neck; he didn’t really put but rather grazed it with his fingers.
Shanti moved her head forward and pressed down on his fingers with her chin—with a soft, gentle, grateful pressure . . .
Shekhar stood still.
All of a sudden, a large tear fell on Shekhar’s hand, and the hand under the chin shuddered once.
There was no pressure on Shekhar’s hand, but he could not free it.
A little while later, Shanti lifted her head and rested it against the chair once again! Shekhar lifted his hand and slowly walked back home—he felt as if nothing else could happen after that.
At night, in his dream, Shekhar saw Sharda stricken with tuberculosis and dying. He goes to her and Sharda says to him, ‘You’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you? Otherwise, would I be dying?’ And her large, hot tears are streaming down on Shekhar’s hand . . .
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