Shekhar became quiet. Sadashiv stepped forward and began translating his speech. The boys started to listen; the older ones stared at Shekhar with compassion and love. Behind them, Shekhar spotted a boy with two garlands in his hands and all of a sudden, he was overwhelmed. He felt broken and exposed like earth that has been upturned by a plough . . . Before Sadashiv was finished he got up and walked out very quickly. He could tell that there was a commotion behind him and some people had come after him to stop him. He ran . . .
It was wrong to forget; it was impossible to forget; he was encumbered, exhausted, and a fool, and he was surrounded on all four sides . . .
*
Again at the ocean, only today it doesn’t look like an ocean to him. Today the gathering clouds inside him have filled up its horizon, advancing to devour him . . . He returns to the hostel, ties up a few clothes, some books and a towel into a bundle and goes to the Adyar River and gets on the night boat headed for Mahabalipuram. The beach in Mahabalipuram is deserted. There are several temples at the edge of the water, and there are tanks behind them, probably covered with lotus petals—perhaps he would find some peace there, be able to study a bit, could prepare for his exams . . .
It’s summer. It was impossible to sit inside the boat. There is no room to sit on the roof; the roof is slanted on both sides. The boatsmen lie somehow on the slanted roof, sleeping, too, and Shekhar tries the same after seeing them do it. He links his arms to the highest part of the roof, in the centre, and lies down. He is fine as long as his arms stayed in place. But when he loosens his grip he feels as if he will slip and fall into the river. The danger of falling somehow makes his spot seem more agreeable. Holding on to the roof with one hand, Shekhar moves to the edge and looks out over the river out towards the horizon.
The moon is rising. Small fish rise to the surface of the water by the course of the boat, sparkle in the moonlight and then move aside, as if they are calling. Tiny fish flashing like lightning below the surface dart hither and thither as if they are writing something in green flames. And because of their commotion, the churning waters also sparkle with an unknown light, as if those green flames have caught it as well . . . The boat, too, is washed in moonlight, and this makes its progress seem even more silent. The boatman is quiet, too, because of the heat . . . Mystery, mystery, mystery . . . It was as if Shekhar was slowly leaving his body, opening out, joining up with that vast, mysterious silence and settling into it . . . The boys from the hostel, the girls from college, the people in the city, all began to disappear from his consciousness, and the blows and wounds he had received from them began to wash away like dirt in that pure moonlight . . . His arm is getting tired, so he puts his neck where his hand used to be, and hooking his feet into a knot of the rope attached to the top of the roof he lies flat and realizes he won’t slip off, that he can lie down . . . Fatigue overtakes him, a very pleasant fatigue, but his head is filled with those schoolchildren, their captivating eyes, this captivating moonlight, and who knows why today but thoughts of Sharda, too . . . It had been two years since he had last seen Sharda—who knows where she was. Shekhar hadn’t kept in touch, but today after all this time, after all this turmoil and bitterness, in this one clean, tranquil, love-filled moment she revealed herself a part of this vast mystery . . .
Sharda . . . Fatigue . . . Moonlight . . . Sharda . . .
If he could only sleep—he could see Sharda in his dreams—sleep . . .
Mahabalipuram is called the land of a thousand temples, and not inaccurately. But the crown jewel of those countless temples is that Shiva temple built on the bank of the ocean, whose door faces the ocean, from whose crude, stone doorway the vastness of the ocean can be seen as well as the dawn of the sun and the moon beyond that . . .
Shekhar saw both of them on the first day. All night long, he lay down on the threshold of that temple and watched the gradual rise of the moon and its concurrent shrinking, as if it were getting farther and farther away. And as he watched it, Sharda’s memory drenched him with sweet caresses like dew . . .
On the second day in Mahabalipuram, Shekhar left the temple only after he had watched the sunrise and then went to sleep. He got up at 10 a.m. or 11 a.m., cleaned up and ate breakfast, and then he strolled back to the beach again. He had taken a book with him, even though he knew he wasn’t going to read it.
He sat in the shadow of a temple on the beach and looked at a stone column standing in the ocean. That column would have been a part of the tower of a temple, but as the ocean advanced it swallowed the temple and its tower and came up to the Shiva temple. That pillar stood as a memorial, unvanquished like the Shiva temple, unflinchingly suffering the ceaseless attack of the ocean for 200 years . . .
Shekhar felt an overwhelming urge to swim out to that column. The view of the temple from that spot would be so beautiful, and when the sun would set behind the temple, how enchanting would be the play of the golden-crested waves on the temple steps . . . It was 3 p.m. He stayed there for an hour convincing himself he was staying so that he could study, then he took off his clothes, tied them into a bundle and went into the water.
He still hadn’t learned how to swim properly. He somehow managed to get out only a short distance. He was panting by the time he had covered half the distance, but the thought that he had just as far to go forward as he did backward kept him moving forward. Finally, when he was completely spent, when it became a challenge to raise even one arm, he somehow found himself next to the column, and with his remaining strength he gripped the flat part of the column and pulled himself up until he was sitting atop it.
But even after sitting there, he couldn’t recover his strength. The tide was rising, the waves were coming in faster and the flat part of the column was sinking into the water. In order to maintain his position Shekhar clutched the column while he sat but it was as if every wave lapped at him more angrily in order to shake him loose. It didn’t take long before Shekhar realized that the energy it would take for him to stay there would quickly wear him out, and then he would certainly drown.
It dawned on him with a certain detachment that he didn’t want to die there, that he was supposed to die in some other way, and that he still had things left to do.
Shekhar let go of the column and began swimming back to shore. There was still time before the sun would set, but the light from the sun was turning reddish and on the shore, the naked children of the fisherfolk had got together and were dancing. Shekhar could hear their voices, but he felt as if they had seen him standing by the column and were calling out to him. And as he swam he began to feel as if he was one of those children . . .
He was exhausted. His hands refused to move and he began to sink under the water. He remembered that one wasn’t supposed to panic in situations like this, that one should sink under the surface and then come up for breath. He sank under a wave, came up after a little bit, when the lack of oxygen made his entire body feel like it was being stabbed by needles. He opened his mouth for a huge breath of air . . .
When a wave crashed over him and he couldn’t get to the surface, he took in water with the air and then sank again . . .
He came back above the surface, opened his mouth and took a deep breath . . .
And immediately was lost in a wave, stunned, drowning.
Then suddenly he let go of himself. There was no point in holding on. Death stood before him. I’ll come up for air again, my lungs will fill with water, I’ll become unconscious and then I’ll die without knowing it. Senseless. Why should I breathe? Death is certain—death. I’ll finally understand what death is, I will experience it. I shouldn’t be afraid now. Someone had probably said that—don’t be afraid . . .
He opened his eyes. The brackish water stung them. A vast, bitter blue. I’ll see death. I shouldn’t be afraid—death . . .
The commotion of children. Are these angels?
Shekhar tried to get up, but he was only able to panic and force the briny water out from his mouth and nos
e. His back was killing him, it felt as if there were boulders crushing his chest and his entire body was rattling.
He was dying for sure. But why hadn’t he died yet?
He tried to get up again. Opened his eyes.
The children of the fisherfolk had gathered around his flayed body and a man was pressing down on his chest.
The ocean didn’t need him. The waves had picked him up and thrown him out.
He got up with a painful effort that burned deep inside.
He wanted to go back to Madras that night. But it was impossible for him even to stand up. The fishermen had taken him back to the rest house; that’s where he was lying. His entire body hurt terribly, but he felt as if whatever had happened had happened for the best. Now he could live, could go forward. It was as if he were reborn, and now he was ready to face life again. It had been senseless, had been wrong to try and drown his sorrows in beauty, to save himself from struggle. Beauty was nothing if it wasn’t a force, a stimulant. This is what the ocean, that original teacher, that original truth, that original divinity, that original beauty the ocean had taught him! Beauty exists where there is conflict, and only he could see it who had power within him. And he who had seen that primal power even once, had made himself ever capable, he would never stray off course; he could die but would not bow; he could be destroyed but would never crawl through the slush . . .
*
But for some unknown reason, life became a wasteland. Shekhar pulled himself away from any interaction with the people in the hostel and gave up on the Antigonon Club. He shut down the newsletter and dispassionately began poring over his textbooks. He had been over that nothingness again and again until it started to say, you can hide from people, but how will you hide from me? By studying all day or by subjecting yourself to the hard and nearly pointless penance of studying? In the evenings, he would go and sit sad-facedly at the edge of the ocean, sometimes behind a temple built in the middle of a lake some distance from the hostel, where one could hear the sound of the temple bells and the evening prayers, and where one could see the reflection of the oil lamps in the lake, but one would not see the people coming and going. He had been stamped with pain, even though he didn’t know what hurt him, couldn’t comprehend it. Sometimes he feels as if he desires beauty. Beauty is power but he doesn’t want power, he wants beauty. Sometimes he feels that he wants a companion, but that companion isn’t Devadas, nor is it Sadashiv, and Sharda—it isn’t Sharda either, although . . . He wants something more, something different from these, something greater than these—but what is there that is like that? Frustrated with himself, he asks, ‘Do I want a God when gods don’t exist, cannot exist?’
One day, Sadashiv said, ‘Look, Shekhar, we still have three weeks until the exams, right? We can get a lot of studying done. Why don’t you come back home with me? We can study properly in the peace and quiet of Travancore.’
For no rhyme or reason, Shekhar responded unhappily, ‘Do you think that I don’t study?’
‘You do read. But you don’t get any studying done. You’ve always done well in class. But now it seems . . .’
In a sad voice without any sense of confrontation, Shekhar asked, ‘I’ll pass, won’t I?’
Sadashiv didn’t respond to that question. He said, ‘I was thinking about leaving tomorrow or the day after. It would be good if you came with me. And if we’re together, we’ll be able to encourage each other. You really should be able to pass with high marks, right Shekhar?’
Shekhar was quiet for a long time. He could tell that Sadashiv’s invitation was genuine and that his faith was genuine as well. And Travancore—it was Sharda’s birthplace, her childhood playground and perhaps her current residence, too . . . He was suddenly embarrassed at being so abrupt with Sadashiv. But he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘yes’, not even for Sharda. And especially not because of that temptation. The ocean had tossed him back here and this is where he would stay, in this half-dead condition, alone . . .
‘No, Sadashiv, I won’t go.’
‘Why won’t you go?’
‘No. I’m an ill-tempered man—I’ll fight with you and won’t let you study. Also I don’t even want to pass. I’m finished, and I’ll end up taking my anger about that out on you.’ Shekhar turned around and started walking.
Sadashiv put his hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Shekhar, tell me, what’s bothering you?’
Shekhar melted. He wanted to slap that hand off his shoulder, that hand that Sadashiv had used to get so close to him, but he wasn’t able to do that. The touch of the hand changed his mind and the coldness of rejection turned into agreement. Limply, Shekhar said, ‘All right, I’ll come. But I have one condition.’
‘What?’
‘That we leave today—on the evening train.’
Sadashiv smiled tenderly and said, ‘Let’s go. Pack your things.’
When they got to Trivandrum Sadashiv set Shekhar up in a separate room in the house and told him that he could have as much privacy as he wanted, and that Sadashiv would only come when called. The servants would come, though, to do their work. Shekhar turned and looked around the room. He gazed out of the big glass window and looked out at the eucalyptus tree and the canvas lounge chair standing underneath it, and satisfied, he asked, ‘Whose room is this?’
‘It used to be mine, but now it’s yours. It will be good for getting some studying done.’
As if just waking up, Shekhar said, ‘Sadashiv, you are a real friend!’ He felt embarrassed at the excitement in his voice. Sadashiv left.
The studying was going better. He felt that in addition to Sadashiv, the other people in the house also cared for him. He had decided that he would start joining them for dinner, and for a little while after that he would spend some time in conversation with them—with Sadashiv’s elderly and a little crazy but loving mother and with his younger brother. (Sadashiv also had a sister whom his mother loved very much. The painful memory of her death had driven her a little crazy and ever since her mental health hadn’t completely improved.) It was only when he went for his evening walks that he couldn’t bear anyone’s company—he would go alone, wandering who knows where and come back by night, and if ever anyone asked where he had gone, he would say, ‘Around, towards the city’ or ‘Just out, don’t know where, all I saw were shops and more shops.’
After six days of studying, he received another shock.
As he walked around, he would generally read the boards on the shops so that he could remember his way, but not very carefully; and generally he would forget them right after he read them. That day, too, he was absent-mindedly looking at the signboards when his heart missed a beat, and reeling from that jolt he read the signboard again—Sharda’s father!
He was stunned. He went up close to the board and read the name again. Then he just stood there. He started to go inside but he was so agitated that he couldn’t do it. Then slowly, he made his way back.
That evening and the next day he didn’t talk to anyone. He went out for a walk in the evening again and went straight there.
He opened the gate and went inside and saw that there was no one there. He went to the porch of the building and knocked on the door.
A servant opened the door and asked for his name. Shekhar told him. After a little while he realized that he was standing in front of Sharda’s mother.
Her mother made all manner of small talk. She asked how he was, how he had done in his exams, how his studies were going, whether his parents were well, why had he come and where was he staying, and did he want any tea; Shekhar had only wanted to ask one thing, but he couldn’t muster the courage, all he could do was answer question upon question . . . After half an hour, he went back.
When he hadn’t been able to get any studying done on the eighth or ninth day, he remembered that Sadashiv had said that they would only be here for ten days. Would they have to return tomorrow?
He quickly put on his clothes and went over there again. As soon as he e
ntered the gate, he saw that Sharda was standing on one side of the balcony. He also noticed that Sharda had seen him as well, recognized him, and without waiting for even an instant, she quickly went back inside . . .
He went inside and sat down. Her mother was there and he began talking with her. He didn’t turn down the offer for tea today—that would require a little time after all!
Sharda entered the room, and now it was as if she had seen Shekhar for the first time, and in a surprised voice she said, ‘What are you doing here? When did you arrive?’
Before Shekhar had a chance to respond, her mother sweetly asked, ‘Daughter, go and have some tea made and sent for him!’ Shekhar could tell that the sweetness in her mother’s voice was the result of the experiences of decades of civility . . .
He drank the tea and left. He didn’t see Sharda again.
When he got home, he asked Sadashiv, ‘Do we have to leave tomorrow? Couldn’t we stay for two more days?’
‘Forget two, we’ll stay for three! I take it that your studies are going well?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many hours are you spending reading? I haven’t seen you the whole week. Leave some of it for when we go back to Madras!’
‘Hmm,’ said Shekhar and he retreated into his solitude.
Shekhar went back there every day, but he didn’t go inside the house. He had gathered that there was a polite, sweet, but firm opposition being raised to Sharda meeting him. He stood at some distance from the gate and waited for her . . .
On the third day, Sharda emerged by herself. She held a satin purse in her hand; perhaps she was headed to the market.
Shekhar was standing in the shade of a tree. When Sharda approached close by he emerged and shouted, ‘Sharda!’
Shekhar Page 28
