Baba stopped and looked at Shekhar. He seemed a little pleased and said, ‘This argument perhaps hits hard at our egos. If destruction and creation are the ebb and flow of nature, then where does that leave us? Are we merely the means by which nature fulfils its objectives and nothing more? Have our destinies been ordained? Is free will a lie? There are no answers for such questions because these questions don’t arise for everyone. And those for whom they do arise should come to their own conclusions.’
He stopped again for a while.
‘I don’t agree with the argument about lancing and treatment. I think that it’s wrong to pose the question “Is it violence or not?” The question is, what is non-violence? Because I agree with you that we have a natural distaste for violence in us and there should be a reason for that. This aphorism of yours,’ a smile spreading across his face, ‘is very meaningful. All right, so what is non-violence? It is clear that it is not passivity. Passivity and cowardice are the worst, most loathsome forms of violence. So then what is non-violence? If selflessness and self-sacrifice are non-violence, then it leads me to the conclusion that bloodshed can also be “non-violent”. So how we can accept this last point and still continue calling all bloodshed violence?’
Baba Madansingh fixed his gaze on Shekhar once again.
‘This is not a compelling argument. I’ll say it before you do. If I am proposing it, it is only so that you will consider another point—that bloodshed can become a social obligation. And if that is the case, then bloodshed is not unjustified and it can be non-violent. My meaning is that if self-destruction can be non-violent, then the test of whether or not bloodshed is violent is its—let’s say spiritual—necessity. Not whether the blood spilled is mine or someone else’s. My blood is no less red than anyone else’s.’
Shekhar’s mind was unsettled. He didn’t like Baba’s arguments, nor what they implied, but he needed time to think. He said, ‘That’s enough for today. Let me chew on this and then we’ll see about the rest. If there are any pits left after I’m doing chewing, I will bring them to you to help me crack them open.’ He laughed.
‘That’s fine. I’ll crack open your pits for myself. Today you should cut and eat your own fruit. I’m just offering a sample of my harvest.’ Baba laughed, too. Then he started again, ‘If you’re going to have me crack open the pits, then you should take some more fruit. I told you that the elderly are always looking for someone who will listen.’
‘Go on.’
‘I contend that non-violence is good but only when it is defined correctly. That’s also the only way it can succeed. It seems to me that non-violence will only be useful when it is aggressive—meaning when it is non-violent in name only. Like a boycott—a boycott is only useful when it is turned into a weapon against a particular individual or group. So even if India enacts an economic boycott against the whole world, it will be both impossible and useless, because it won’t be felt by Britain and won’t get us independence either. It will only succeed when it is focused against Britain, meaning when it becomes an instrument of aggression. It’s clear that this non-violence is only nominally so because non-violence shouldn’t contain the feeling of aggression, not even for self-defence, isn’t that so?’
In reply, Shekhar gave an indecisive, ‘Hmm,’ as if he were unable at present to give any kind of response.
‘And if you want to fight about definitions, then “true” non-violence is self-inflicted suffering which is the ultimate violence. So let’s stop these useless word games and turn to meaningful issues. I’ve already said that non-violence will only be successful when it’s “aggressive”, meaning non-violence in name only; even if there is no offensive violence from the other side, even if it is only self-defensive, it can succeed. This point should be so clear that it requires no elaboration. You know that the law makes an exception for self-defensive violence. So the conclusion is that self-defensive violence can also be successful—meaning only nominal violence, because how can it be violence if there is no aggression? Now it’s not my job to draw a distinction between the definition of non-violence and the definition of violence—that’s the job of fools.’
Baba Madansingh grew quiet. Shekhar waited for a long time hoping that he would continue, and when he didn’t speak, Shekhar thoughtfully said, ‘So what conclusion did we come to?’
‘Conclusion?’ Baba laughed loudly. ‘I said what I had to say. Now you need to turn it into an aphorism.’
Shekhar was about to say something when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching—perhaps the guard had come to fetch him. He suddenly had an idea to startle him, so he said loudly, ‘That’s too much. Then what did the sahib say?’
Baba looked at him once and then smiled to say, ‘You’ve caught on quickly—is this self-defensive violence or a lie? So yes—’ looking at the guard standing at the door, ‘—what could the sahib say! He walked off embarrassed.’
The warden said, ‘Sir, you’re here? But I was—’
Shekhar pretended not to hear him and said, ‘But we’ve ignored the other topic altogether. Well, I’ll come back to hear the rest some other day.’
The warden finished his thought, ‘I was going crazy looking all over for you. Please come now.’
Shekhar went with him.
Once outside, the warden asked him, ‘Was Baba telling you all about his fight?’
‘Why?’
‘He likes to tell everyone about it. He got into it with the previous warden. The old guy really laid into him.’
‘Hmm.’
As if recalling history, the warden said, ‘The old fellow was probably a real wildcat in his heyday. But he is a saint of a man, the poor fellow, and his health is just terrible.’
‘Hmm.’
Shekhar was locked in. Just as the warden shut his door, rattled the chains and left, Shekhar let out a quiet laugh—the sweetest chuckle.
*
A man who is used to living life will find it intolerable if he can only get the leftover scraps of life, its half-eaten morsels—but this had become the law for imprisoned Shekhar . . . The sheer thought was unbearable to him, but it reared up again and again, and each time it was as if one of the iron bars on the doors that locked him in had already sated itself on his spirit and was driving deeper into his heart . . .
He had one connection left to the outside world—to Shashi—lifeless pieces of paper and the words and letters scrawled on them by a lifeless pen . . . Language is immortal, pain is immortal, but can their life outlast the knowledge that presents itself so clearly today, that the last time it had a vital pulse was three days, or seven days, or ten days ago . . .
When Shekhar got Shashi’s letter, it didn’t occur to him when he saw the date on top that the nine days that had elapsed for the letter to reach him had swallowed up a whole section of his life in a single gulp. With growing anguish, he read the letter once, then read it again—yes, there was much anguish, but not enough to tear him apart, make him numb. That came later, when he started counting the days and realized that fourteen minus nine was five . . .
This time Shashi’s letter was brief. She agreed with Shekhar that everyone had to find their own path in life; we couldn’t show someone else the way, nor could we shine the light for them. All we can do is massage the weary feet of the traveller, tighten his armour and, if he has a lamp, we can lengthen its wick. And that was why she was doubly grateful for Shekhar because he had done all that and even more: he was filling her lamp with love . . . ‘I don’t know what the future holds; and the path that I’ve set for myself doesn’t even concern itself with whether there is a future or not. It’s so well-lit, but I say this much to you today, that I will never forget what you have given me. You wrote that the decision is mine, but that yours was to honour it; you wrote that in one choice I had your eternal blessing, love and good wishes and in the other choice I had your support and protection, and if necessary the strength of your hands and the bread earned by the sweat of your brow. Your resp
ect has already given me both, and now that I have to choose, I choose your blessings. I’ve told Mother that I have absolutely no interest in such matters and her decision would be acceptable to me.’
Hard and bitter and hidebound, just like a woman, was Shashi’s decision . . . hard, bitter and hidebound this decision of hers to sacrifice herself . . . hard, bitter and hidebound this pride of womankind that since society will not respect her, she will show her contempt for it by being destroyed at its hands, ripped to shreds, ruined . . . Blessing? What kind of a blessing was a wretch of a husband for such a woman? That you become a martyr, that your light burn bright, and fragrant, and pure! Shekhar beat his chest with his fist in shame, anger and dejection . . .
Had he not offered Shashi his support? Had he not told her that sacrificing herself on the altar of society was a cruel irony for both herself and for society? Why hadn’t he said to her that society was simply an aggregation of its isolated individuals, and that the neglect of the individual meant the neglect of society? Why hadn’t he said that suffering injustice was to take part in it? Why had he given her the freedom to make her own decision? Why had he offered to be sympathetic to both choices?
He recalled what he had written . . . That the matter was Shashi’s, and no one else’s other than Shashi’s, and none had advice that was appropriate for it, neither her mother, nor Shekhar . . . Shashi, terribly isolated Shashi, should struggle with the issue and come to some conclusion, and all that the rest could do was to look on sympathetically, to pray with their heart of hearts that she reach the right decision and offer her the assurance that whatever decision she settled on, they would be with her . . . ‘And I am with you, Shashi, if you should get married, if you should dissolve your future in someone else’s future, even then all of my strength will be with you so that you can be firm on the path that you’ve chosen; and if you don’t do that, if you chose not to erase yourself for another person and instead to take on society head-on, I will still be with you. Even if they ostracize you, if your family abandons you, you will still have my meagre resources; if I have to earn your bread from the labour of my own hands, then that will only be a source of pride for me . . . I know that I can never repay the value of what you have taught me, and that I can only do this much to show my gratitude: that I can keep following what you have taught me, or perhaps die trying to follow! I am not so bad that I cannot offer up even this much gratitude—even if I was before, now I wear the crown of your teachings and am no longer. I am with you, and no matter which direction you travel, where you go, may your inner light guide you . . .’
Shashi had picked her path. ‘Exactly two weeks after today, on this day, I—oh, Shekhar, why can’t this remain unsaid!’ And the letter was dated nine days ago—only five days left!
Why? What thing had compelled Shashi to make this decision? Was it her intellect? Her conscience? Or was it fear? Ignorance? Was it her heart? Her desire? Her spirit? Her pride?
‘I know that I am completely averse to this. But do I have the right to my aversion, to the refusal that would follow my aversion? I am a part of society, I have obligations towards it, but I can ignore that because it has no real concern for me, and then again its principles keep changing and will change. But Mother—Mother is eternal, Mother is forever, and I have obligations to her, too . . .
‘Mother is a widow and so she has her inbred principles. What effect my refusal towards society will have on her, I can’t say at the moment, but I know that it will crush her before my eyes. She won’t say anything, I’m certain; but it’s not as though I won’t be able to see. Her silence will be proof of her distress and it will kill me each moment . . . I can fight my own battles, but what right do I have to make her fight them, too? . . . And if someone has to burn in silence, why can’t that be me? I’ll be leaving home after I get married, neither Mother nor anyone else will see my sacrifice—no one other than me will see it! This is the only way that this pain can be taken beyond the reach of my relatives . . . This is what I’ve decided, Shekhar, so give me your blessings that I might follow through with pride . . .’
Was Shashi right? Was what she wrote wrong?
One thing she was definitely right about was that someone was certainly going to be hurt. The question was who would step forward to bear the burden on his shoulders; who could draw upon such a vast reserve of pride to bear it so that it could be borne easily . . .
He recalled a few lines of verse that he had composed, which had remained lifeless until now, but which had now brightened with a vital spark—
I have burned in solitude
And burning has brought its own solace
In more quenchless burning . . .8
Was this the meaning of suffering in proxy—that he had read in a book somewhere but ignored it as irrelevant—that one’s suffering could be used to redeem the sins of others? That each individual was the salvation of another, could bear someone else’s cross? Was this what suffering was, the first and last ray of light in this torment of hell . . .
A wave of anguish overcame Shekhar . . .
It didn’t take as long for the second letter to arrive—but the time that it did take was too long. Shashi had written, ‘This is the last day of my freedom in which I have any connections beyond my relatives . . . Surrounded by my sisterly affections—you! From tomorrow onwards, I will first be known as Mrs So-and-so, and all other relations will come second to that . . . I don’t know when you will get this letter, but whenever you do, bless this Shashi who was until today your sister and was nothing more to anyone else; but tomorrow that won’t be the case, and so I greet you for the last time from this role . . .’
Shashi had touched Shekhar’s gentle heart—the hurt was so great that he could not even let out a cry . . . ‘greet you for the last time’ . . . ‘surrounded by my sisterly affections’ . . . ‘nothing more to anyone else’ . . .
This was the truth—dear God, what truth!—that Shashi had raised that ‘nothing’ to the dignity of kinship, and she had done so like no one had ever done before—not even his two real sisters . . . She had given his life meaning and purpose and something so valuable that living, fighting and dying for its dignity was a purely manly honour . . . Then was it also true that today was the last day he served as guardian to that treasure? And why today, it had already been two days since Shashi had been delivered to her new protectors! Was the thing which had never even begun ending today?
Pain . . . Something inside him says, she wasn’t a relative, wasn’t your sister . . . What happened was supposed to happen . . . He had no right to this pain . . . Yes, no right, because if he had the right, why would he be in pain? Her pain is the gift of my love, just as her gift of love to me is her sisterly affection! She isn’t related to me; she is my twin; one split soul born in two different places . . . That’s why . . . That’s why . . . Shekhar considers himself and doesn’t understand where he was sliced—still a sharp ache rises suddenly and the notes of helplessness take over the rest of his body . . .
But he still had a duty that remained . . . Mechanically, Shekhar picked up his pen and paper, wrote a brief note of blessing, sealed it in an envelope, wrote the address on it, called the warden and had it sent to the office. There was no other way—and at any rate, it took a long time to send a letter.
Then Shekhar, severely wounded, empty, lifeless, braced his head against the grinding wheel and stood up. Something burst forth from his dense pain, piercing through his insides like light . . .
Burn, ever-ascending, burn, sacrificial flame, burn! Burn wildly, bright and fragrant, ashless and smokeless, burn invincibly! This is the blessing that I, a wretch, can offer you! Then the tears came, big and fast . . .
*
A fog descended over Shekhar’s life. But this time it didn’t bring up feelings of hostility. He wasn’t disturbed by his tears, nor did he have the desire to challenge the knowledge that he had been defeated. It was as if he had descended to some lower plane of existence. Life
had grown lax, and laxity seemed to be the natural order.
Shekhar asked the ‘Sir’ for permission to be moved into a cell in the first row. Surprised, ‘Sir’ asked him his reasons and when he learned that Shekhar wanted to be alone, he gave his permission with a smile. ‘It’s up to you if you want to restrict your own freedom. Over there you’ll have to follow the rules that are set up for that row—and you’ll have to remain in lock-up. Yes, and if the number of men condemned to be hanged grows, you will have to move back.’ Shekhar nodded in silent agreement.
The cells on death row were clean and well kept. The floors were made of cement, there was no grinding wheel and there was a type of toilet made in the corner next to the door where water would flow out, so there was no stench in the cell. Shekhar would remain locked up during the day, would be allowed out for a walk in the morning and the evening and, after being searched, would be locked up again. He didn’t like these rules, but it was as if he were not in his own skin, and so they didn’t put him out. He spent his days half-numbed—like an addict unable to get his hands on opium. Except in the evenings and mornings when he woke up from his sleep—then he could tell he was alive.
From dawn until the time they opened the door for exercise in the yard and after the evening walk until the end of day—who knew why these two occasions were special enough to make a life that had been wilting all day suddenly bloom—he would wake up around 4 or 4.30 a.m. when he would turn and face the door, look up at the sky and walk imaginary circles in his mind; if it rained, he would walk with the sound of raindrops providing the rhythm . . .
With the first light of dawn, and with the last ray of light before dusk, one question bore into Shekhar’s heart like a spear: ‘Is she happy now that she’s sacrificed herself?’ He hadn’t received another reply from her; and Shekhar had no means of getting any news about her save his imagination—what useless imagination!—and his compassion—what worthless compassion!
Shekhar Page 38
