Why hadn’t she written? Was it because she was suffering? Or was it because she was happy?
Sometimes he’d work himself into such a frenzy that he would grind his teeth, clench his fists and strike the floor or the iron bars on the door, once, twice, three times . . . until his knuckles were bloodied—then he’d wipe the blood across his forehead, and the red trace it left would offer him some peace! Sometimes he’d scare himself with what he had done and ask himself, ‘Have I lost my mind?’ But the next day, the primary question would displace this secondary question, and it was as if the kind of punishment that emerged from this temporary amnesia was even greater . . .
But during the day he never had that much strength; he was caught up in a low-grade worry all day: ‘Was that self-sacrifice the right thing to do?’ . . . Who could say? No one knew—the only one who could know, who could say, who could decide was Shashi! This question was her question . . . Baba Madansingh had also said that everyone had to find their own path . . .
Sometimes he even doubted that. Was this really a personal question? Is there no social responsibility in any of this? Whether a person saved himself or sacrificed himself, whether it was for a good cause or a bad one, was the individual the only decision maker about these questions, and did society have no right to speak on these matters? His mind began to wander . . . This was the previous question about violence and non-violence . . .
Either because he had an overwhelming desire to get an answer to his question, or only because he wanted to go for a walk, Shekhar went to see Baba Madansingh. And no one could say why, but his old curiosities began to bubble forth; the question about Shashi got tangled up in this, and Shekhar sat down again to discuss violence and non-violence and social responsibility.
Baba spoke. ‘Look, I don’t know why I’m so distressed these days. Perhaps I’m on the verge of a new aphorism, or maybe it’s just old age. That’s why I’ll answer you in aphorisms—in old aphorisms. The question is definitely also a social question. It seems to me that Indian life and thought is introverted and individualistic—for instance, we believe that the path to salvation requires us to separate ourselves from society as much as possible and know thy self.9 The consequence of this individualism is that we also believe that sin and merit are also individual things. That’s why our holy men also consider it a good deed to offer milk to snakes. From a social perspective, this should be a sin. The life and thought of the West is the complete opposite of ours. They are extroverted and socialist. Their norms are different, and they believe that spiritual contortionism and cowardice define us. We can call them uninhibited materialists and they can call us empty spiritualists. But even this exchange of insults can’t hide the fact that neither of us can forget the other’s ideals. But more importantly, our ideals are in need of reform because we are behind them.’ He was quiet for a while. Then he smiled and said, ‘If we live like a herd of sheep, then we have to walk the way that sheep walk. The civilized name for the way sheep walk is culture.’
Shekhar was quiet for a while. When two drops fell on his face at the same time, he was jolted out of his thoughts. He looked up. The thick clouds of the monsoon had covered the sky, and on the northern horizon, a dusty patch was swirling quickly as it advanced—and from its inside, it was as if a light were bursting forth somehow.
‘A dust storm is coming.’
‘It’s for the best. I’ve been needing one these days.’ A cloud spread over Baba’s eyes. ‘In the story, when the Pathan is released from jail, he didn’t count the days of his sentence, but for me “nothing happening” has become a permanent condition. These twenty-one years weigh heavily on me. So, dust storms and thunderstorms give me a little release.’
Shekhar looked at him quizzically, and it was the first time that Baba had seemed old to him—his eyes had grown old, so much older than his white hair and his white beard! As if the curse of the cursed first man shone through him—‘You will live only on your own pain.’
Frightened, he slowly went back.
On his way back to his cell, Shekhar was suddenly overcome with a feeling of disgust. It was utterly shameful that he was mired in irrelevant intellectual puzzles when who knew what Shashi was facing at that very moment . . . Psychological torment, perhaps physical suffering—he stopped while walking—who knew what condition Shashi was in at that very moment!
What was her condition? What was he afraid of? What was that nameless fear inside him?
It was as if the wind, in answering his question, blew a gust through countless bars, iron doors and windows and groaned as it left—that groan got louder and then quiet, and grew louder again, turning into the scream of a wounded, unearthly life form, and its agonized breath pushed Shekhar backwards—the first whirlwind of the dust storm had also swept him up . . .
He started walking again . . . But how could it be stopped by thinking—not by thinking—how could it be stopped by asking the right question? And where did the questions end? One doesn’t take sips of curiosity; it is a wildly flowing, unstoppable river, irrepressible like life itself . . .
Madansingh had said that pain was penance, but real penance was curiosity—since it was the worst kind of pain . . .
He arrived at his cell. The sentry was already there, and as soon as Shekhar went inside, he locked the door and went out past the courtyard and stood in the docks that had been constructed at some distance outside. Large raindrops began falling in the middle of the dust storm . . .
Curiosity . . . curiosity . . . this unnameable affliction . . .
But I want to know . . . I want to know how Shashi is . . . Is she happy?
. . . ‘It is the definition of delusion to suffer pain over things we cannot control.’ Where had he landed? This? Or was this one of Madansingh’s aphorisms, arrived at in the throes of pain? There was no knowledge without suffering, which is why knowledge was divine—it couldn’t be achieved by human growth; it could only be glimpsed through pain, through penance. It wasn’t nectar that could be made from churning the ocean of life; it was some limitless idea that descended . . . That must have been the way the ancient sages received their wisdom in the form of verses that we now call the Vedas—they were ‘revealed’, emerging suddenly from some internal light—and they, too, must have awakened suddenly from their penance of pain, bristled with the burden of the people and said, ‘Divine!’ . . .
A dazzling light ripped the gathering darkness of the night apart, a terrible rumble shook the iron and the stones in the jail, as if the heavy curtain of the sky tore under its own weight, and it began to rain torrentially; something brushed against Shekhar’s feet and when he looked down he saw that it was a large hailstone. He went and stood next to the iron bars. Trembling from the cold, he stood, scared out of his wits by the deep roar of the clouds and the crackling lightning, bearing the cruel punishment of the dust storm and the rain . . . How pleasant it was to bear these blows head-on, how pleasant it was to remain standing while being beaten, as opposed to helplessly swallowing the blows from that nameless, formless enemy . . .
But it didn’t provide salvation, did it? It wasn’t as though his spirit had calmed in this tumult of the natural elements . . . There were others in jail, too. What were they doing right now? . . . He remembered, one day on a June afternoon, he had seen a prisoner drenched in the rain and shivering, hunched, squatting like a monkey, under the iron grate in his cell; and his eyes, like crystal beads, were fixed on the white sky expectantly . . . Was that life! It was as if his life had been delayed, his existence, too, had been suspended; at that moment he was considering the eons-old inert substance inside him which, according to evolution, had perhaps been dust before the first forms of life . . . Baba Madansingh’s story about the Pathan had been right—man did not live in jail, didn’t develop . . . But he certainly grows old—the body dries up, the hair thins . . .
And in the desolate interior of a suspended life, the only support one had was this wretched intellect. Curiosity was one
’s only means of support . . . That was life’s surrogate . . .
Shekhar trembled once, and then he sat down to write. ‘Yes, . . .’
*
God set about creation.
There was only a formless emptiness in all directions and a dark pallor spread across the endless sky. God said, ‘Let there be light.’ And there was light. God broke up its radiance into countless pieces and attached a star to each of them. Then he created the solar system, made the earth. And he was pleased with his creation.
Then he made the plants, trees, bushes and shrubs, fruits and flowers; planted vines; created bumblebees and butterflies to flutter over them; and crickets to sing, too.
Then he made the animals. And he was pleased with his creation.
But it didn’t bring him peace. And then to provide some variety in life, he made day and night, storm and rain, clouds, heat and shade, and the like; and then insects, spiders, mosquitoes, scorpions and, in the end, even snakes!
But that didn’t bring him satisfaction either. Then he opened his (third) eye of knowledge and looked into the distant future.10 In the darkness, there is a disturbance in the lifeless mist that has descended over the earth and the solar system, and slowly a shape forms in the disturbance, a body that possesses nothing extraordinary but still has potential; a soul which despite being formed is not bound by its body, keeps growing; a life that each time it touches anything becomes anew, becomes even more vital and grows . . .
God understood that this future organism was human. Then he sliced through the mist that covered the earth and picked up a fistful of dust and bringing it up to his heart, blew a breath of his glorious spirit on it—and humanity was created.
God said, ‘Go, the greatest of my creations, the jewel of my creations.’
But God still received no pleasure from his creation; the artist within still remained unsatisfied.
Because the earth was standing still, as were the stars. The sun didn’t blaze because its rays were stopped from radiating outwards. There was no motion in this wide, beautiful world.
Lying at a distance, the primordial snake laughed. He knew why Creation wasn’t moving. And he kept this knowledge to himself, hidden in his coils.
Once more, God opened his (third) eye of knowledge and then took two teardrops from man and created woman.
Man quietly accepted this gift. He was content before, and now he was doubly content. In that placid life, God still found no satisfaction and Creation still didn’t move.
And that primordial snake kept his secret hidden in his coils and kept laughing.
*
The snake said, ‘Fool, don’t be satisfied with your life. There’s still so much that you haven’t achieved, haven’t seen, haven’t known. Look at this. I hold knowledge. That’s why I’m equal to God, and ancient.’
But man looked at him once absent-mindedly, and then hid his face in the woman’s tresses. He had no curiosity—he was at peace.
It went on like that for a long time. It becomes bright and then fades, man and woman look at each other amorously, and they sleep, embraced by the darkness.
And God remained invisible and the snake kept laughing.
Then one day, when dawn broke, the woman lowered her eyes; she didn’t look at the man. The man tried to look her in the eyes, when he realized that not only was she not looking at him, she wasn’t looking at anything else either; it was as if her gaze had turned inwards, looking at something inside herself, and that gaze contained an ineffable concentration . . . And then it grew dark, and she lay down with him in that same connected feeling, but without looking at him, with her face turned away from him, keeping him at a distance . . .
The man got up. He closed his eyes and prayed to God. He didn’t have the words, didn’t have the feelings, didn’t know the rituals. But the prayers that are beyond words, feelings and customs, the prayers that depend on relevant verses, those prayers began to burst forth from his lips . . .
But the world remained unchanged; it didn’t move . . .
The woman began to cry. A twinge of pain sliced through her somewhere inside. She began to scream, ‘What is happening to me? I am being undone! I will be ground into dirt . . .’
The man could do nothing in his powerlessness; his prayers became increasingly desperate, frenzied, agitated, and when he could no longer bear the sight of the woman’s pain, he closed his eyes tightly . . .
In the pitch-black darkness of night, the woman screamed, ‘Dear God—my husband—look at this!’
The man went to look, groped around and then was quiet for a moment. Inside his soul, he was shaken by a tremor of shock and fear. He gently lifted her head and placed it on his lap . . .
In the gentle light of dawn he saw that the woman was hugging his chest, very lovingly, affectionately, and sleeping. His heart welled up with enormous surprise, unbearable joy, and a question erupted from within him, ‘God, what is this creation that is not yours?’
God didn’t respond. Then man asked the snake, ‘Serpent, you guardian of knowledge, tell me what is it? Who is it that has made you and God into equals—one creator? Tell me, I want to know.’
As soon as he asked the question, the impossible happened. The earth began to rotate, the stars began to shine, the sun rose and shone, the clouds thundered, lightning struck . . . the world moved!
The snake said, ‘I have lost. God has stolen knowledge from me.’ And his coils slowly uncoiled.
God said, ‘My creation has succeeded, but the success belongs to man. I am all-knowing, infinite. I want for nothing. Man possesses curiosity and therefore he makes the world run, makes it move . . .’
But man was still unsettled; there was still the matter of existence. He screamed and screamed, ‘I want to know!’
And the more he repeated the question the brighter the sun shone, the quicker the earth spun, the faster the world moved. And man’s heart began to race.
Even today, when man asks questions, impossible things begin to happen.
*
Another letter from Shashi—she writes that perhaps her life will work out. There may not be any happiness in it, but there was also no sorrow; there was absolutely nothing noteworthy happening, only a slight nuisance, like a headache from being tired, that followed her around all the time . . . ‘Sometimes I wonder if this is how my life will be spent? Only to grow like carrots or turnips and then plucked? But then I remember that many live like this for dozens of years . . . And everyone seems acclimated to a mechanical life . . . No one is even interested enough in me to insult me . . . This isn’t the life that I had imagined, but perhaps I can learn from everyone else’s example and become like them and not hate my lot in life, and live my life in peace, contentment, dispassionately. I have no sorrows at all now . . .’ And then suddenly changing directions, ‘When are you coming?’
When would he come? The court case seemed like it would never end! The witnesses had been exhausted and the lawyer had said that there was no evidence against Shekhar, and they had asked for permission to call new witnesses and the court had even called them in . . .
But now it didn’t make a difference whether he went or not. Shashi was now married and he was no longer in her thoughts, just as he was no longer at home. And now she was living contentedly, asking nothing from life nor receiving any pain. He was resigned, too; was nothing; the inside and the outside of jail were the same.
September . . . October . . . November . . . It becomes bright and then fades. The 1400 men in the jail all count the passing of one more day; people think that their train of life has moved on to the next station; everyone thinks that they are alive . . . Three months pass in this way—Shekhar listens and watches, but his life, too, is suspended . . .
The warden is consistently angry with Mohsin. He gets punished for the crime of shaving, he’s put in chains and no one knows how, but every Monday at drill time he is clean-shaven and smooth again, and he pulls out an old razor blade from somewhere and pr
esents it to the warden. Such blatant insubordination is not tolerated—the warden keeps increasing the punishments—chains, then a rod and chains, then standing in handcuffs, then handcuffs at night, then two or three punishments at the same time—hands cuffed behind at night and then rods and chains all day and night, then ‘punishment rations’ which meant instead of food he gets flour mixed with water . . . Then one day he was sentenced to lashes. The warden caught him and led him out before Shekhar’s cell. Mohsin looked at him, laughed and said, ‘Look, Moulvi, I’m going on Haj!’ Fifteen minutes later he came back the other way, wincing—but this time completely naked and bloodied to his waist. He saw Shekhar and said, ‘Moulvi, they’re moving me next to you. Now you’ll be able to hear me sing!’ And he walked on—or rather was dragged on . . . The warden explained to a stunned Shekhar that the lashes were his punishment, not one from the courts—meaning because the crime was committed in jail the punishment would be delivered by the guards, and so the lash was soaked in oil and used with an executioner’s force . . . After Mohsin had suffered thirty lashes and was taken down from the stockade, he looked at the warden and said, ‘Is that all? Now I’ve become a caliph. Nothing else matters!’ And when he saw the junior officers in jail smiling, the warden was beside himself; Mohsin received a new punishment—a uniform of jute! He had already been asked to strip for the lashes, and afterwards he was given a pair of shorts made of jute to wear which he refused to put on and so he was sent back to his cell naked—and his cell had been moved so that he could be watched more closely. He was moved to the eastern wing, the one for the condemned men . . .
But inexplicably, Mohsin could not be broken. At the next drill, his chin was again clean-shaven, and he stood unabashedly naked before the warden . . .
After that, the warden found it impossible to bear this daily effrontery and so he stopped bringing Mohsin out for drills, and he was moved from the condemned cells to another cell which was known throughout the jail as ‘the cemetery’—it was usually reserved for prisoners with terrible, infectious diseases or for recidivists. And when there were no such people, it was left empty. Mohsin didn’t stop shaving nor did he put on the jute uniform. The warden had hoped that the onset of winter would make him admit defeat—if he would put on the uniform, that would be a defeat. But November had come and Mohsin still hadn’t changed except for the fact that the bones in his emaciated body protruded more; his dried-out skin became more sallow . . . Then one day Shekhar heard that a few boils had erupted on his body and that the doctor had said he had consumption . . .
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