But such things couldn’t be done all the time. And as he sat in the courtroom, Shekhar often found his thoughts turning to Shashi. He recalled each word she had spoken to him, and it was as if the light in his mind focused on them and kept taking photographs of them; and then surprised, he would think about why this girl was becoming more important to him . . . Wasn’t she like a sister to him? Certainly, but why wasn’t she like Shekhar’s older sister, Saraswati? Saraswati, too, cared deeply for Shekhar—still did—but now that she was married, and had two or three children, she had become a distant object to him. Shekhar had also received a similar, straightforward, honest friendship from Saraswati, but . . . He didn’t know what to call the difference, and if he couldn’t say it, how could he explain it to himself . . . He couldn’t fully understand Shashi the way he could Saraswati—Saraswati simply was. Ever since he had regained his senses, he had seen her near him. But Shashi was this result of his search—he had searched for her in a teeming world of countless lives to fix in the sphere of his life. She was his sister, meaning related, but still new, a little unfamiliar, a little hard to comprehend . . . No, that wasn’t it—he couldn’t understand it at all . . .
Shashi came to see him again. This time Shekhar found the courage to converse with her, and he told her some things about his friends in jail. She listened quietly, her wide eyes fixed on Shekhar . . . After a long time he suddenly realized that even though her eyes were focused on him her mind was somewhere else, as if she were trying to say something to him while listening to his meaningless chatter.
‘What? Do you have something to say?’
Shashi wasn’t startled. She smiled.
‘Do you know the people who beat up the CID officer?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘Were they all arrested?’
‘No, most of them are still free.’
‘Really? And were the rest of them there with you?’
‘Yes, they were, although . . . let it go. Those are legal issues.’
‘So why were you arrested?’
Shekhar gave her the abridged version of how he was on duty in the place where the incident had happened, and that was how he was caught up in all of this.
‘You were on watch—why?’
Shekhar explained the circumstances.
Shashi was quiet for a while. Then she said, ‘Are you doing all right?’
Shekhar looked her in the eyes and said, ‘I’m happy. I haven’t been able to forget what you told me when I was leaving for college.’
Shashi was a little confused, ‘Me? What did I say—I don’t remember.’
‘That’s for the best. You should always forget the best gifts, Shashi—’
The question that was in Shashi’s eyes slowly vanished. Who knows what Shekhar felt when he looked at her expression—as if the blood from a single artery was coursing through the distant brother and sister, and in that perfect intimacy there was no room left for conversation . . . Was Shashi thinking the same thing? How could he know?
As she started to leave he asked, ‘But you didn’t tell me—’
‘What?’
‘You wanted to tell me something—I could tell.’
There was pain in Shashi’s smile. Haltingly she said, ‘Yes, I did want to. But I couldn’t say it—not here. And I couldn’t write it—I didn’t want to write the kind of common note that gets passed around amongst the guards.’
‘I tore one up after writing it, too. So then?’
‘We’ll see—’ she said and then left. If only she had understood what it meant to get someone in jail all worked up and then leave them unsatisfied, then . . .
That night Shekhar did what had made him grind his teeth in irritation when he had heard countless prisoners in jail do it—after he was locked in his cell, after he had been counted and the locks and chains had been checked and the cry of ‘All is we-ell’ had made a mockery of the terrible fact that ‘All is awful’ and there was a little peace and quiet, he caught hold of two bars on the door of his cell with both hands and began violently shaking the door with his whole body . . . His body began to tremble, his teeth gnashed together as if grinding sand, the lock, the bars, the frame all rattled and the solid iron door across the courtyard let out an expectant hiss in sympathy . . . And from the shaking of his taut body, his sensory perception seemed to take the form of the trembling of the earth, that unbearable, booming racket was like the sound of the dance of some destructive God . . . He couldn’t stand it—and because he couldn’t stand it he shook the door even harder . . . I want to break these chains, want to be free, because someone wants to tell me something and I need to know what it is . . . It’s more important than happiness, more important than peace, more important than life, more important than my strength and efforts . . . impotent, impotent, impotent vain anger . . . useless, useless, useless drifting arrogance.
Ultimately, it was this illusion that gave him comfort—drenched in sweat, reeling with exhaustion and drowning in shame at the contempt from the other prisoners, he threw himself down in the pit and stared at the ceiling with still, dry eyes . . .
She wants to say something—I want to know what, I want to know, I!
He turned over all of a sudden with a shudder—something like a shudder shook his body. After half an hour the smell of fresh mud from under the reed mat let him know that he had been sobbing involuntarily.
*
A stultifying fog descended over Shekhar’s brain—a curtain of numb rage. That night after crying like that, he was unable to shake off the weight that was crushing him beneath it . . .
Slowly, a fear came over him—am I losing my mind? Is life in jail breaking me? Am I a coward? . . . A doubt poked at his insides like a stone poking at an internal wound . . . Otherwise why would I cry so helplessly? The powerful, heroes—did they cry? Did they bleat like sheep locked up alone in a cell?
He had read somewhere that those who cannot cry are clearly deceiving themselves. To be able to cry is a sign of being true to yourself—to your heart . . . Perhaps that was right . . . But this—this was something else; this was sheer, completely effete helplessness . . .
But why did he feel very light, clean and, yes, strong after he had cried . . . Defeat didn’t feel this way; each time they were defeated men found themselves weaker, a little more fallen . . . Had he fallen—was he falling?
His wounded ego screamed out in protest at this question, but he kept asking questions like a relentless inquisitor—Why, if it was a lie, did it sting? Say it, tell me, are you guilty? Have you fallen?
If he had even the slightest of suspicions that the guards had given him greater liberties because they had seen him in this defeated state, he would have rejected them. No one had said anything to him about these new privileges, but the warden didn’t stop him when he walked past his row of cells during exercise time and into the other row—‘India’—and would often let him talk to the other prisoners.
It was during one of these walks when Shekhar ended up in the hall outside one cell that the warden said, ‘Sir, the inspector will kill me,’ but Shekhar could tell from the sound of his voice that the inspector didn’t really care; it was the warden himself who wanted to prevent him from going near that particular cell. That prisoner certainly had to be a special man. He ignored the warden and slipped inside.
‘You’ve probably only been here for a short while, haven’t you?’
The friendliness of the question and the natural affability of the voice made Shekhar look with a start. A wizened countenance nestled between the bars, whitened, matted locks above and a gleaming beard below hiding a pure smile which greeted him like sunlight dancing on the peaks of the Himalayas . . .
Shekhar said with wonder, ‘How did you know?’
‘It shows on your face. New faces are always full of questions. They want to understand. Old sinners are always on the lookout for someone who will listen. When one’s life is over, there is only one thing left for him—his st
ory!’
Filled with a new wonder, Shekhar asked, ‘Who are you?’ It was as if all his good manners had slipped away with this man—the question could either be asked in a direct fashion or it wouldn’t be asked at all.
‘My name is Madansingh. I was arrested in 1909. Been in jail ever since.’
How could this man laugh after being in jail for twenty-one years? Shekhar felt as if he had become a little smaller, or perhaps that the man in front of him had grown taller.
‘You’ve already figured out that I’ve only just arrived here. I used to be in college. I went from being there to being here.’
‘What class were you in?’
‘MA. I passed my BA last year.’
‘You are a fortunate man. I was completely uneducated when I came here. I learned to read and write here, and I cried and struggled to understand the big ideas they contained that one cannot live without knowing. And you—you’ve come with an education. There’s a heavy vault in front of you, but you possess the key.’
Thoughtfully, Shekhar responded, ‘I don’t know about that—I feel quite small.’
‘Man is quite small, after all! But whether you like what I say or ignore it, it’s still true. I made my own key through my own efforts. You’ve heard the saying that a poor man’s breath is like a bellows that helps melt iron? That’s what I used . . .’ Another sweet laugh rang through the cell.
Shekhar’s face clearly showed an expression of disbelief. Despite trying to, he couldn’t hide it.
‘Oh, I see—you’re thinking that this man is making up stories. But believe me, whenever my intellect failed me, I relied on the strength of my tears, yes, in the strength of my tears.’ He turned to face the inside of the cell and said, ‘Look over there, I have proof. Can you read this?’
On the facing wall where Madansingh was pointing, Shekhar could make out some words written with great pains.
What is slavery? It is not the knowledge of the unpleasant, not even faith in the false; slavery is the condition of being unable to discriminate between fact and fiction; that bondage, that prohibition, which steals away the right to know.
‘And look at this.’
Shekhar read, again, with some difficulty:
Civilization is an endless effort at prolonging infancy. It wants protection; manliness demands courage.
‘There’s more here in the darkness—if you want I can read them to you. But perhaps you plan to go now. Well, the important thing is that to come up with each aphorism I had to cry for hours. It seems to me that sitting still for hours is not penance; penance only begins when one can’t sit still.’ Suddenly his face lit up. ‘Look—I learned something without crying, just by being close to an educated man.’
Shekhar fell silent in embarrassment. Madansingh kept speaking, ‘There are a hundred similar aphorisms up here—three years’ worth of work—that’s when the walls were whitewashed. The ones from before were erased; a few are still visible—’ He ducked down in one corner, ‘Yes, look here—The truth of revolution is that tradition is indispensable for it.’
He stood up straight and looked at Shekhar; he was growing anxious to say something, ‘You’re thinking that I read all of these in books, right? You have the key to knowledge—I am still learning.’
There was not even the slightest hint of immaturity in that man—his humility seemed to burst forth from some internal spring. Feeling even more inconsequential, Shekhar asked, ‘Have you been in this cell for three years?’
‘Three? I’ve been here for nine years. But you’ve heard the story about the Pathan, haven’t you—the one who spent three years in jail and said he was twenty-eight years old?’ Seeing Shekhar shake his head, he said, ‘When he was released from jail, someone asked him, “Khan, how old are you?” He said, “Twenty-eight.” The questioner asked again, “How long were you in jail?” So he answered, “Don’t know.” “How old were you when you went to jail?” He said, “Twenty-eight.” When the questioner doubted his arithmetic, he said, “Why do you count jail? Nothing happened in all that time I was here, so how could I have aged?” That’s how I feel. Can’t stop my hair from turning white . . .’ The slightest trace of sadness passed over his eyes.
Shekhar was seized by a sharp desire to fold his hands and bow down to this grey-haired infant . . . But some false pride spoke to him, ‘No, this can’t be done.’ He thought he would say goodbye and leave.
‘You aren’t annoyed, are you? You’ll come back, won’t you? I told you, this foolish old man likes to go on talking, he just needs a real listener!’ Then Madansingh smiled.
The inner tension in Shekhar seemed to dissipate. He laughed and said, ‘And I am just such a curious one.’ And then in a suddenly serious tone, ‘I got answers to some of my questions that I didn’t have the courage to ask just from listening to you right now. It seems that arrogance is natural, humility must be learned.’
‘Have you caught the bug of speaking in aphorisms, too? In jail, all conversation becomes unnatural.’
As he reached the gate to the courtyard, he gathered up all of his courage, turned back and said, ‘Last week, I cried a lot, too . . .’ And then suddenly filled with gratitude and embarrassment he quickly set off for his own cell . . .
Then one day while walking he reached the end of the row of cells in ‘India’. The last four cells perhaps held prisoners condemned to be hanged—the solid gate to their hell was shut, and inside the sentry kept guard with a rifle. Shekhar turned back.
He was walking past a few cells and thinking that he wanted to talk to someone when someone called out, ‘Hey, Moulvi!’
Shekhar couldn’t imagine that the call was for him, but the warden with him was Sikh and the same voice called out again, ‘Hey, Moulvi, come and talk to me.’
Shekhar asked from the courtyard, ‘Were you calling me?’
‘Yes, who else? You’ve turned into a real Moulvi—you haven’t shaved for days. Don’t you have a razor?’
‘I do, but no one pays attention here, so I didn’t bother.’
‘But you’re a respectable man. Even if no one else notices, shouldn’t it bother you? You should always be ready to return to life outside—then, if they release you or not, it makes no difference!’ And he started laughing, exposing his enormous but beautiful and dazzling teeth.
Shekhar couldn’t decide how to respond to this simple familiarity. If it had come from a place of self-confidence then it deserved respect, but if it came from a place of mockery, then . . .
‘If you’re not, then can you send me a blade? I like feeling that I could leave at any time.’
Shekhar laughed, ‘All right, I will bring you one tomorrow.’
‘You’re one of those new political types who are in here for beating up that CID man, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘All right. Well, shall I keep calling you Moulvi?’
‘It’s up to you.’
‘Moulvis are all hypocrites, but if my Moulvi is a Hindu, then it will work out.’
Shekhar was quiet.
‘And listen, I get lonely here. The evenings are the worst. Which cell are you in?’
‘In the last row—the twelfth.’
‘Hey, that’s far! Well, I’ll sing for you in the evenings. You don’t dislike singing, do you?’
‘If it’s a song, I won’t dislike it.’
He chuckled. ‘You can decide if it’s a song or not. I’ll sing either way. All right, you should go now.’
Shekhar started to leave.
‘My name is Mohsin—Mohammad Mohsin. But what will you call me?’
Mischievously, Shekhar replied, ‘Pandit.’
‘Too good. That works. Then I’ll put on a tilak, too, after I shave.’
When he returned, the warden told Shekhar that the young man, Mohsin, was a strange character. He called everyone ‘Hey, you’—the subinspector and the gentlemen, too—and he was always making jokes all the time. He was an orphan, had no parents, sibling
s or relatives, which was why he had fallen apart. He had been raised and educated by a moulvi, but he was a trouble-maker later in school, and he was here on a year-long sentence for spreading treason. He had been there for five months now. He was always up to something and was always receiving extra punishments—he was going to spend tonight in handcuffs.
‘Handcuffs at night?’
The warden explained that this was a punishment meted out as per the jail’s penal code. The prisoner would be handcuffed at night after being locked in his cell, and they would be taken off in the morning for hard labour. If you were really bad, then your hands were cuffed the other way—behind your back. Then you would have to spend the entire night lying on your stomach. ‘But this young man really is a strange and shameless one in that he has been handcuffed behind his back for the last fifteen days and he still doesn’t stop misbehaving.’
‘What did he do?’
‘First of all, he wouldn’t do hard labour. He says, “I spread treason and you put me in jail. Why should I do hard labour? I’ll grind flour for the king when you grind flour for me.” Second, he throws away the work that he has been given. He was given grain to grind and he fed it all to the pigeons. When he was asked, he said, “The pigeons are my brothers—they keep me happy.” The warden put him in chains so he used the chains to dig up the grinding wheel. He made a pit with some bricks and filled it with dirt and started watering it. When he was interrogated he said, “I’m farming—I’ve planted corn there!” You know what that kid is—? Spawn of the devil!’
Shekhar’s curiosity was piqued. He decided to see Mohsin again and went to his cell.
That evening, he was sitting thinking about who knows what when he heard the sound of someone banging on the bars of a door in the distance. He suddenly stiffened—he remembered what it felt like when he had caught hold of the bars and jerked them back and forth . . . He was filled with sympathy—at that moment someone was going through what he had just been through . . . He listened more intently. All of a sudden, the commotion ended, and Shekhar heard something that sounded like someone calling.
Shekhar Page 36
