Shekhar sat up. He realized that his whole body was trembling. The darkness felt as if it were slicing through him. He quickly lit the lamp and put it on the table; he sat there staring at it, wide-eyed . . .
He didn’t go to see Shanti for a week. He stayed locked up in his room all day. He had heard that Shanti’s fever had worsened. His mother had even been to see her and offer her sympathies, but he didn’t leave his room.
Atti no longer came near him. Nor did he ever come face-to-face with her or try to talk to her. Recently, Shekhar had come to see that even when he did run into Atti she laughed a disrespectful and derisive laugh. To her he was contemptible, a joke.
Which is why, as he sat in his room with the door closed, he wasn’t prepared for Atti to enter that day. Atti opened the door and came in loudly and unsympathetically, and mockingly said, ‘That Shanti of yours, she’s dead.’
At the same time, sounds of wailing could be heard in the distance . . .
Atti turned her nose up at him and walked out.
Three or four months later Shekhar would learn that Atti has returned to her home to get married—that she had been thrown out of this job in disgrace.
*
To Shekhar it seemed clear that if he loved Sharda he shouldn’t be thinking about any woman other than Sharda. And it was also clear to him that he was always thinking about them.
Did that mean he didn’t love Sharda?
The mere thought of this made his heart rebel—he wanted all the fire of his personality to believe that he loved Sharda and only Sharda . . .
Or perhaps letting yourself think about other people wasn’t a sin.
Then why did he feel excited and dejected? What about those fuzzy desires and the disgust they produced in him? Why did he always feel as though he was committing a sin?
But was Shanti’s attractiveness a sin? Wasn’t it a sin not to go to her in her final hours? He had touched Shanti—had made clear his desire to touch her. Was that betraying Sharda? Or was using Sharda as a pretext not to go to Shanti also unfair to Sharda? What about that dream . . .
Shekhar’s mind went blank—he didn’t ask any more questions after that. But Shekhar clearly knew that the chain of questions hadn’t stopped in his mind, that he was at the edge of a big, important question and he was trying to grab hold of it—he wanted to take a huge step away from the personal and into the universal . . .
But what is chastity—satitva?30
Shekhar, like always, sought solace in books. He had seen a book, What All Married People Should Know,31 and that was the book that he took down and went out of the house to a secluded spot and read. He knew that the book was not for him, but experience had taught him that the things he wanted to learn were always in the books that were ‘not for him’.
Knowledge offers neither satisfaction nor produces disgust, but as he was reading Shekhar felt a disgusting satisfaction and a satisfying disgust. He didn’t know the reason for either, but this strange throbbing, this wave of electricity, spread from his shoulders through his arms, from his back to his quivering feet, and an involuntary, uncontrollable pulsation or shudder coursed through his organs . . .
He didn’t completely understand all the things that he was reading, but he did understand a lot of it, and he slowly picked up speed as he went on reading . . .
One chapter after another—selection; what to look for in a groom; what to look for in a bride; what shortcomings to avoid; choice in marriage—courtship; wedding; abstinence; and then pregnancy . . .
Then, like a bolt of lightning, in one second the book slipped from Shekhar’s hand and the ground slipped from under his feet, and it grew dark before his eyes . . .
The whole world now stood exposed to Shekhar. He understood it all now—all of those vague symbols that he had seen, those strange cries that he had heard, the thrills that he had felt, the stings he had endured—all of them came undone. Mother beating her chest, Father’s anger; Jinniya’s bare legs as she danced; the prostitutes in Amritsar; the cook’s sarcasm; Atti’s bare back; the verses from the Gita Govinda; the eight-month-old newborn; the image of man and nature beneath Chinnamasta; the pleasures of poetry . . . and yes, Saraswati’s embarrassment; Shanti’s tears; Savitri’s silence; Shashi’s insistence; Sharda’s trembling—all strung together on a single thread, all became clear, all were understood . . . All of them ran the same course towards that despicable act of sin that his mother and father had committed, that Sharda’s mother and father had committed, that every mother and father had committed since the beginning of creation. This is what love was, this is why he longed for Sharda—this unmentionable, despicable, unimaginable depravity . . . It was better to die, Shekhar, better for Sharda to die, better if the whole world dies—if this is what happens, then . . .
This was knowledge; this was truth, fact; this was reality; this was knowledge . . .
*
And beyond this was a screen of darkness. Behind that screen there was movement, commotion, struggle, but that was all such an integral part of the individual that speaking of it, thinking about it was the worst kind of indecency . . .
The tide has ebbed underneath the screen. The day that Shekhar was making his preparations to leave for college, he saw a book with this line from Romain Rolland, ‘Truth is for those who have the strength to bear it.’ On that day he lifted his head and realized that he had crossed an ocean, that he was complete, was free, and was a man.
Part 4
Man and Circumstance
Loneliness was not a new thing for Shekhar. Ever since he could remember he had become accustomed to being lonely all the time, and one could even say that ever since he had come to depend only on himself. But when he got to a big city like Madras, he suddenly felt that he was extremely lonely.
He was fifteen years old. And in those fifteen years he had never really crossed beyond the shadow that his house cast.1 The core of an individual, the domain of the soul—there Shekhar had always been alone, had never let anyone in, or at a minimum, no one had ever entered it. So his soul had never felt the need to depend on anyone else. But on the other hand, he had never had to worry about what he would eat, what he would wear, how much to spend and how much to save. He had never had to worry about such ‘small’ details, he had never had to fend for himself and he had never had even a little bit of money in his life to have ever had to exercise any control over it. He had money only twice in his life—once when he had an eight-anna piece which he happily spent on a ten-paisa whistle and once more when his older brother Ishwar had stolen money to buy cigars and he had been asked to hold on to the money for a little while after his brother had been caught stealing . . .
He had, it’s true, gone to Lahore for his exams, but he had his tutor there with him and then also because his aunt, Vidyavati, was there, he never really felt as though he was away from home. Vidyavati wasn’t a blood relative, but no one had ever felt the difference. She had this ability to make everyone feel like a relation; and still, more than her mother, Shashi’s presence made staying there a pleasurable experience for Shekhar—Shashi who was younger than him and not; who never played with him, but who was slowly becoming his playmate . . .
As he sat in the rickshaw nearing his college, this was what Shekhar was thinking about, and in his heart of hearts he was filled with terror. What would college be like? What about the dormitories? What kinds of boys? And the servants and the cook? How would they eat? What about his room? That day the weather was of no help, either—it was depressing, too. It was June and the sky was littered with clouds. There was neither rain nor wind and the heat was oppressive, and . . . and then, Shekhar was coming from mountainous climes . . .
After he enrolled in college, paid his fees, put his things away in his room and, without even making his bed, Shekhar collapsed on to his cot, let out a long sigh of relief and said, ‘Uh-oh.’
From another direction came a voice, ‘Rama, looks like we’ve got another new animal.’
<
br /> Shekhar didn’t realize that they were pointing at him, but he heard the footsteps of two or three people coming towards his room and he waited expectantly.
Three boys entered his room. Shekhar was about to give them an annoyed look when he was hit with a flood of questions:
‘Where are you from?’
‘Where did you finish your schooling?’
‘What class are you in?’
‘What’s your name?’
Had these questions been asked one at a time, Shekhar still wouldn’t have responded to them because first of all he didn’t like their tone of voice and second, those kinds of questions carried an air of humiliation about them. He didn’t say anything, just kept staring at them.
‘Don’t know how to speak?’
‘He’s probably a first year, that’s why.’
‘It’s not as though he’s royalty; he’s just a man, after all.’
‘Well, you hit the nail on the head. Man? Then we’ll all have to start calling you a “man”, too, won’t we?’
Shekhar said, ‘I’m tired. Please let me rest. You’ll get the answers to all of your questions tomorrow.’
‘Oh, so that’s it.’
‘Let’s go, boys. Let’s let him rest, he’s tired. We’ll get the answers to all of our questions tomorrow.’
‘It’s not as though we were twisting your arms. Go ahead and rest.’
‘Some manners. Hey, all we did was ask your name—no one’s going to eat you alive.’
Angrily, Shekhar said, ‘Get out of my room, all of you!’
One of them said, ‘Well!’ But when they saw the expression on his face they all left. The criticisms that were on the tip of their tongues were only uttered after they left the room. Shekhar tried not to listen to what they were saying and turned his face towards the wall. But he wasn’t able to block their voices . . .
Shekhar became quite depressed. He unconsciously began comparing this welcome to the one that he had received in Lahore. Shashi with her big, innocent eyes, that candle held in one hand, those two hands joined together in greeting, her insistent disobedience and many other things . . .
He started feeling as if his parents had banished him from the house because he was a criminal in their eyes . . . because he had been contemptible since the beginning, because he hated his mother because she didn’t trust him, because he had stopped loving his father, because . . . don’t know . . . what . . .
Whom did he believe in—no one! Those whom he could find worthy of respect, whom he could admire, they had all become vile criminals for him now, ever since he had read in that book how children are made—through such wile, sinful acts . . . His mother and father, brothers and sister . . . he, himself . . . Shashi . . . and yes, Sharda, too—all of them were products of sinful actions . . .
It was wrong, despicable, loathsome, but . . . Then God made women for—then why were women made? Why?
Shekhar thought that since there were already women in the world, one had to accept them. But why were they?
But . . . Then he remembers, although he has faced many hardships because of the existence of women, still had there not been women, then perhaps he would not be alive . . .
But was it necessary that one only look at women with a singular intention, was there only one question to ask them? He had read somewhere that when a robber meets someone new the first thing he thinks about is whether that new person is a friend or a foe. Will he participate in his crime or will he be an obstacle? Was it necessary that women had to be regarded from a robber’s point of view—thinking that either she will be a companion in man’s specific sinful act or that she will be an enemy, a terror?
Could man not live without women in a world with women . . .
He was so lonely. In a big city like Madras, in the midst of throngs, he found himself alone for the first time, worn down; there was only opposition and enmity in all directions here; all of the men here were his adversaries, and he wanted—he did not know what he wanted, but he didn’t want any women present there, but he wanted . . . wanted . . . don’t know what . . .
He began to fall into an anxious sleep . . .
He woke with a start at the sound of a knock.
There was a young man at the door, waiting for permission to enter. He had a courteous smile on his face.
Shekhar said, ‘Come in.’ He began looking around for a place for him to sit.
The young man went and sat on the trunk next to Shekhar and said, ‘Don’t worry—I’ll be fine here. Your name is Ch. Pandit?’
Shekhar, a little surprised, said, ‘Yes.’ He scrutinized the young man with curiosity.
The young man had a beautiful face, his eyes were big and bright, blue, constantly laughing, his nose was straight and small, lips that were thin, long and playful. He had long curls on his head, which he had styled well.
He had no hair on his face—it didn’t seem as if they had even come in yet. From his height and his build he didn’t seem to be older than fifteen or sixteen.
Shekhar was about to ask something when the young man said, ‘My name is Kumar. What does Ch. stand for in your name?’
‘Chandrashekhar.’
‘I see! That’s my older brother’s name, too. What class are you in?’
‘I just enrolled as a first-year student.’
‘Oh—well then we’ll be in the same class. I’m a first-year, too.’
Shekhar was surprised again—because this boy didn’t seem to be the least bit anxious or scared, even though he was just starting college as well. He said, ‘That’s good.’
The boy asked, ‘Have you seen the whole dormitory—introduced yourself to people here?’
‘No, I haven’t done any of it. Plus, I’m exhausted.’
‘All right, we’ll leave it for now. If you want I can introduce you. I already know everyone.’
Shekhar wanted to ask, ‘How?’ but he kept his mouth shut. He thought, ‘I’d be facing serious problems if it weren’t for his help,’ and then this, ‘I should show him how grateful I am.’ He said, ‘If you can wait a little bit, I’ll go with you. I know it’s an inconvenience for you. I would rather talk to you, and that’s why I think that I’ll wait until later to meet the others. I’m grateful for your kindness, Mr Kumar.’
‘It’s no big thing. But why are you calling me “Mr Kumar”? If classmates start calling each other “Mister” we’re all in trouble. Just call me “Kumar”. That’s what everyone calls me.’
Shekhar said, ‘All right, Kumar.’ He paused for a bit and then said, ‘You’re the first person here who has been courteous to me . . .’
Kumar laughed.
Shekhar’s mind filled with gratitude for this young man. All of a sudden he felt that if Kumar hadn’t been in Madras, he might have had to drop out of college and run away . . . Kumar hadn’t done anything other than speak to him, but still, in the condition that Shekhar was in, he felt as though his happiness and his life depended on that conversation, and that was what Kumar had given him. Before long, he discovered that he was telling Kumar about his home, his homeschooling, his loneliness, his frustrations, everything. His trusting heart had accepted Kumar as though he were a brother—that inconceivable brother whom he didn’t have at home, and whose position couldn’t be filled in any way by sisters . . .
Kumar introduced Shekhar to everyone. He went with him and made sure he had dinner and then took him back to his room and made Shekhar promise that whenever he needed anything he would call on Kumar. As he promised, Shekhar asked, ‘It seems as though you’ve lived here a while, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, I have been here since last year.’ Embarrassed, he continued, ‘This is my second year being a first-year.’
‘Really? You seem quite young.’
‘I’m sixteen. What about you?’
‘I’m fifteen. But I look older than you,’ and then he laughed. ‘And I can’t believe that I’m younger.’
‘That’s fine—from now
on you can be my older brother—what do you say?’
Shekhar was too grateful to say anything. He took Kumar’s hand and gently pressed it.
Kumar left. Shekhar closed the door and sat down on his cot and began to think whom should he thank for this random gift, that in a city as big as Madras, on the first day, without searching, he had found a friend—to which mysterious force . . .
‘Shekhar, do you want to go see a film?’
Shekhar responded with a note of indifference, ‘Who can watch films every single day? We just went the day before yesterday.’
Kumar said, ‘You’re right. And it’s not as though I can afford to go all the time. But the film today was quite good, and so I thought, I should take Shekhar with me—’ He let out a long sigh.
There was a feeling of disappointment in that sigh, and it stung Shekhar’s heart. He recalled that one day Kumar had told him that his parents were poor and that it was a real struggle for them to cover the cost of his education. Last year, he didn’t have the slightest bit of fun—and it was so bad that he wasn’t even able to study properly because he was always worried and, as a result, he failed. Ever since that day, Shekhar had resolved that whenever he could, he’d try to keep Kumar happy, and that at a minimum he wouldn’t let him feel any financial hardship. His heart melted today when he remembered that and he felt that it was such a wretched existence to have to depend on someone else for your happiness, and to have reminded Kumar of that fact was worse than a wound on the flesh—it was an unpardonable offence. He quickly said, ‘Then let’s definitely go, Kumar. But don’t ever tell me that you—’ he stopped and then spoke again, ‘It hurts me deeply.’
Kumar said, ‘What’s wrong in saying something if it’s true? But if you don’t want me to, I won’t.’
Both of them went out.
A month passed.
One day, Shekhar went to Kumar’s room and said, ‘Kumar, let’s go to the ocean today. I’m sick of going to the movies every day.’
Shekhar Page 23
