Shekhar

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Shekhar Page 37

by S H Vatsyayan


  Had he heard correctly? The call came again—yes, Mohsin was calling. He filled his lungs with air, raised his chin, cupped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice, imitating the farmers he had heard in his childhood, and cried out, ‘Pandit, Ho-o!’

  That time Mohsin heard him. ‘Shall I sing?’

  ‘Yes, sing.’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘I was just sitting here.’

  ‘All right, listen.’

  Shekhar crossed the distance of eighteen cells in his imagination and focused his attention there. They say that all the senses work independently; Shekhar used the perceptive powers of all five or six senses collectively to listen to Mohsin’s song:

  ‘. . . so what if he comes . . .’

  Mohsin had a good voice. His voice had intensity and depth. But singing so loudly also made it occasionally harsh—and it cracked sometimes, too—but still the natural vibrato in his melody sent shivers through his listeners—as if the ‘da-dum’ beating of the silently endured suffering within it found an echo . . .

  When all hopes have vanished, all thoughts vanished, too

  What difference does it make if the postman brings a message then.

  The song stopped. Shekhar’s tension dissipated somewhat.

  ‘Is it a song?’

  ‘Yes. Quite good, too.’

  ‘Shall I sing some more?’

  ‘Aren’t you tired?’

  ‘I don’t get tired from singing!’

  ‘All right, sing.’

  Mohsin began singing again. But after singing two or three more verses, his voice grew faint and soon it was impossible to hear it. Shekhar didn’t want to point this out—he was full of irritation, praise and compassion for that crazy, courageous man . . .

  A few minutes later, another cry, ‘Moulvi, O-ay!’

  ‘Pandit, Ho!’

  ‘Now go to sleep. I’ll sing more tomorrow.’

  ‘All right.’

  Silence. Shekhar remembered that since he was still only an accused he was allowed a lantern—he could read and then go to sleep. But Mohsin was a convict—he had no light, just the pitch-black night. Shekhar turned down the light, got up, went to the door of the cell, caught hold of the bars and stood staring at the dark sky.

  The clouds had gathered above—untimely clouds—meaningless and random . . .

  There were around 1400 prisoners in the jail at present and at least 700 didn’t have any light, nor did they have the oblivion-generating darkness of sleep . . .

  Silence—the sentries’ footsteps, the watchman’s ‘All is well!’ and the hooting and moaning of some owls in the distance all pierced it. Shekhar’s unblinking eyes looked out on the invisible, dark sky . . .

  Drip-drip—the first raindrops of April . . . Suddenly tired, Shekhar lay down and watched the small, half-blue flame of the lantern and the dark shadows it cast on the ceiling.

  Bondage . . .

  *

  Shekhar received a letter.

  He couldn’t stand the thought of his own letters being read and censored before being sent out so he had stopped writing them altogether. And he had received very few letters from others, and when they did come they were ones that didn’t need responses. But one day the lawyer gave him some papers and said, ‘Be careful with these, they are important documents for your court case. When you go home—forgive me, back to jail—read them carefully.’ Shekhar took them. When he was locked up in his cell back in the jail and the night had become darker, he took them out and started to read. The papers were merely transcripts of the court proceedings that had notes scribbled in pencil in a few places, but in the middle were a few pages stitched together, pages that had caused Shekhar some surprise when he first saw them—it was a letter from Shashi written in pencil in tiny characters . . .

  For a moment, Shekhar forgot everything and stood there impotently—his heart was beating so fast that he felt like he was drowning. Then he began devouring the letter with starving eyes . . .

  Shashi was getting married. The groom had been chosen, a date had been set in June, too, and Shashi didn’t want to get married—she didn’t even want to consider it for a few years.

  Had Shekhar been out of jail, she would have asked for his help to delay the discussion, but he was in jail, and . . . and there was no one in the whole wide world who was on her side. There was her mother but she was alone, and how could she stand up against society? At the most she could push things from June until November, but what would that accomplish? She would still have made commitments, so she couldn’t do anything else . . .

  In a daze it occurred to Shekhar that the letter shouldn’t be saved, so he mechanically reread it as if committing it to memory, diligently tore it up into tiny pieces, added water to the plate that normally held the wheat next to the grinding wheel, rubbed the pieces in the water until the writing disappeared, and then wadded up the pieces into a ball and threw it out the window. Then he stamped his feet as he stood up and began pacing in his cell and thinking . . .

  What would he do? How would he help Shashi? She really didn’t want to get married. She had written in the letter that her unwillingness was not like the fear and the lack of interest of ordinary girls; she was unwilling and unready and also felt like the victim of an injustice . . .

  Had I been on the outside, I would definitely have done something. I would have argued and fought, debated. The groom was probably no good, too. He recalled the boys he knew in college who would become civil servants in the future—successful and famous and deemed ‘worthy’ in the special lexicon of the fathers of unwed girls—could he see his own sister as the wife of one of these men?

  If she didn’t want to get married, what was making her get married? Who was society to force her? Who were her relatives? Who was I? Who was anyone in the space of that sacred fire in which she offers up her soul as a promise? ‘This is offered to Krishna; this is not mine—’ No, it was, ‘This is offered to the God of Fire; this is not mine . . . Fire . . .’6 Fire . . . That was the real truth—the soul of a wife was always sacrificed like a martyr’s . . .

  Could I write to Aunt? But Shashi has already made her unwillingness clear. Could Aunt ignore her feelings? Still, she was pursuing the discussions about the wedding. Had Shashi not pressed her point hard enough?

  What would happen if Aunt accepted Shashi’s objections and stopped the wedding? First of all, the people who were running around looking for a groom—uncles, cousins, these, those—they’ll all say that she had cried when one couldn’t be found and now that they’ve found one she’s acting all high and mighty, and if that was the case, then she could take care of her own arrangements; it’s of no concern to us. Let them talk, to hell with them. At least Aunt will be free . . . Second, the people on the groom’s side will be angry—yes. Third—third—what was third? There would be problems in the future—another husband would be impossible to find. If the race of man found no value in a woman like Shashi, they could go to hell. Shashi wouldn’t die if she didn’t get married.

  Why doesn’t Aunt put a stop to this? Doesn’t she have any obligations regarding Shashi? Doesn’t she feel them? And if she doesn’t feel anything, who else will? She must feel something. But she also has an obligation to marry off her daughter. Parents have to do that, too. Whether or not the obligation actually exists, she certainly acknowledges it as does the whole society. That’s how culture works—tradition is the same . . . If arranging marriages is a duty, then is it also a duty to arrange marriages well? Was this an example of arranging a marriage ‘well’? . . . What does ‘well’ mean here? He should be educated, wealthy, from a good family, virtuous, upstanding, handsome, well-reputed . . . And what proof is there for all of these? He has a degree, he has a steady job or owns property, he has a relative who is a judge, he speaks with refinement, there is no gossip about him, he is fair-skinned and has nice features, he is praised by his friends and perhaps he has even been mentioned in the newspaper! Did t
hese things make a man? Did these and only these things endow a man with that godlike quality entitling him to put the gains of someone else’s lifelong sacrifices in his ledger? . . . Shekhar’s mind turned again to several of his college friends—ugh! All of these things didn’t guarantee7 that the man-God of one’s dreams wasn’t actually a prayer-destroying demon . . .

  The real question came down to this: whose obligation was marriage? The parents’ or the bride’s and groom’s? And which obligation was paramount—that a person become a householder or that parents become in-laws? The parents’ job was to assist, not to legislate . . . Should Shashi have been the one to put a stop to all this?

  And what would have been the consequence? The relatives would certainly be angry. Her mother, too, perhaps. There would be gossip—‘That girl has a bad character’ . . . ‘Her mother has spoiled her’ . . . And the girls who had been deemed characterless, how long did it take to find proof of their characterlessness? And then? The ones that were called ‘dangerous for society’, society would become immediately dangerous for them . . . ‘The girl hasn’t been married. Why hasn’t she? She must be too independent-minded’ . . . ‘Can such a girl keep on ignoring men now that she is twenty years old? Impossible!’ And a slandering society will come together to enjoy the spectacle of the slandered—cruel demons!

  Shekhar’s brain was in knots and he couldn’t think any further . . . He began pacing in rapid circles, and at each step he clenched his fists and asked, ‘What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? . . .’ His pace quickened and it only took him three steps instead of five until he had to turn around, and he had to turn around so often that it made him dizzy—he rubbed his forehead with both hands, then filled both of his fists with clumps of hair and clenched them . . . He was pulling his hair out as the ache descended over his head, but the question . . . What do I do? . . . What do I do? . . .

  ‘Hey, Moulvi—O, hey!’

  Mohsin was calling. Shekhar had no desire to respond to him. At that moment, he didn’t want to think about anything other than Shashi’s situation and his plans—he didn’t want to know that anything else existed! Just his situation and Shashi’s . . .

  ‘Moulvi—O, hey! Hey, Moulvi!’

  Who knows why, but Mohsin hadn’t called him earlier that evening. Now he just kept on yelling, and his voice was getting louder and louder . . .

  ‘Moulvi—O, hey! Are you dead? Hey, Moulvi!’

  No, he wasn’t going to leave him alone. Shekhar yelled, ‘Pandit—hey!’

  ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

  ‘Wasn’t paying attention.’

  ‘Are you crying?’

  ‘No—’

  ‘All right, go to sleep. I’ll stop calling you.’

  Could he feel his pain from that far away? And could he tell from Shekhar’s voice that he was upset? He felt guilty. He gathered himself up and yelled back, ‘Pandit! Ho!’

  ‘Yes, hey!’

  ‘Will you sing for me?’

  ‘Really? You’re not up for it.’

  ‘No, sing!’

  ‘All right.’

  Mohsin sang . . .

  Shekhar only paid attention to a few verses before he started thinking, ‘Why did Mohsin think of that song just then? Was he singing it for me?’ But soon his mind wandered and he forgot to listen to the song.

  He had asked, ‘Are you crying?’ How did he know? He had cried before probably—but Mohsin? Impossible. Had he felt like crying, he would have just fought with someone, that’s all! Baba Madansingh had said that crying was a good thing—that crying brought clarity. A hundred times in three years—thirty-three times a year—about three times a month . . . Had Baba cried that much? How pure his laugh was! Could anyone imagine that that man had cried? And me—

  In one quick motion Shekhar wiped the large tears that had formed in his eyes. Then he sat down.

  I won’t cry—fool! Who cares about clarity? I don’t want clarity if it means crying. I’ll burn my own blood to find clarity . . . Tears of blood—tears of blood—what does that mean? Is crying the same as burning one’s blood? Nonsense. It’s an excuse born out of weakness.

  And me—I’m the kind of person whom Mohsin could tell had been crying even from afar . . . It would be better if I could just cry it all out—

  No, I have to find answers. I have to find a way out for Shashi.

  He got up and caught hold of the grates on the ceiling and looked up at the sky. There were a few stars scattered here and there. Unconsciously his body stiffened. His hands had become raw from gripping the bars—he let go in surprise.

  No, I won’t let the ferment in my soul dissipate; I won’t ask anyone for help; I will find a way myself, for me and for Shashi, for Shashi and for me . . .

  He began pacing again—one, two, three, four, five—one, two, three, four, five . . .

  And the night rolled on—11 p.m. and all is well! 12 a.m. and all is well! 1 a.m. and all is well! 2 a.m. and all is well! . . . Nothing, fog, nothing . . . Afterwards, Shekhar regained consciousness when he realized the sunlight was on his face, it was 8 a.m., and he was exhausted and lying in the pit.

  What had happened? A wave of memory crashed—Shashi.

  He knew what he would write to her.

  *

  Shekhar felt as if he had awakened from a long sleep after he had written the letter; suddenly the world around him came into focus and all of his curiosities came alive; occasionally his thoughts even turned to the trial. Who knew why but the court dates kept being pushed further and further back. Perhaps the evidence was acknowledged to be weak and the government was coming up with a new strategy. Sometimes while listening to the testimony in court, Shekhar would think about which side was benefiting from its effects. But more often his attention would be on matters of principle and behaviour that had no bearing on daily life—the kind of questions that rose up repeatedly after butting heads with Vidyabhushan . . .

  It had been a few days since he had been to see Baba Madansingh. One day, Shekhar suddenly got it into his head that he would ask Baba the questions that he normally asked Vidyabhushan—Baba’s words left him with the feeling that even though the answers that he provided may or may not have been studied, they would definitely have the force of serious thought behind them . . .

  The second time he met Baba Madansingh, he was as pleasantly surprised and welcoming as before; but he almost immediately became serious and asked, ‘You look worried—what’s the matter?’

  It wasn’t hard to talk to Baba, to ask him questions! Shekhar gave him a summary of the debate between himself and Vidyabhushan and then asked, ‘I want to know what you think. Take the question of violence first. Is violence justified? Can it be beneficial?’

  Baba Madansingh looked over at the gate in the courtyard and asked, ‘Are you alone?’

  For a few days now, the guard had become more lax in his duties—the only thing he never forgot was lock-up time. The rest of the time he left Shekhar alone. ‘Sir, you are an intelligent man, don’t get a poor man like me into trouble.’

  Baba Madansingh said, ‘Look, I’ve told you already that I am not an educated man. If there is any substance in the things I say, it’s because I’ve tried to understand things that I didn’t understand by reading, by suffering through them. I’ve also told you that men don’t live or think naturally in jail; it has a strange logic. So what do my words matter? I have a few aphorisms that I’ve created to comfort myself. One of these sayings is that each person should make his own path for himself. You probably have that aphorism in your books, no?’

  Shekhar said, ‘I’m in jail, too—in unnatural conditions. That’s why these questions have become so important for me—do such matters come up in ordinary life? Out there you have to survive using your five senses, but here the sixth won’t leave me alone. So what’s wrong if the solution is also unnatural? I feel that your ideas will be more valid because you
will also explain their shortcomings.’

  ‘I’ll tell you since you’re asking. But after I tell you, forget what I have said, don’t take it to heart. But if you ever find yourself in here, you’ll work it all out yourself—and you are an educated man, too—and then you can recall the things that I said and determine if there are differences.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘These aphorisms won’t make you feel better—let’s start with you. I consider nature to be of paramount importance. I also believe that its rules have been built on a very great wisdom, a great intelligence, and I have great faith in the future of humanity. I say these things intentionally—you will find them irrelevant right now.’ He stopped momentarily and continued, ‘You believe that violence is nihilistic, it causes total havoc and it cannot be creative. Completely fine. But how have you come to the conclusion that a thing that is not generative must also be wrong? And how did you come to believe that you alone are capable of acts of creation?’

  Shekhar didn’t say anything. His expressions revealed that he hadn’t understood what Baba was driving at.

  ‘You’ve probably read in books that when you want fresh air to flow through a house, you only need to make way for the air to exit. It enters on its own. When you breathe, you concentrate on breathing out; the lungs fill up by themselves. The scientists have turned it into an aphorism: nature abhors a vacuum. Good, it appears that you remember this aphorism. I have an aphorism, too, and it’s that the most important God is the God of destruction—there is no question about the necessity or the lack of necessity when it comes to the God of creation. We will have to compose new terms of destruction; the things that are creative in your words—creation, birth—are assumed to be given. Compensations for imbalances are cyclical processes. That is why even in this age of devastation I have faith in the future of humanity—the future is the compensation for the present, which is why it is cyclical, and there is no escape from it.’

 

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