‘Final verse—pain is greater than pride, but faith is greater than pain . . .’
Shekhar believed that it was beneath him to touch Baba’s feet. He cursed himself now for feeling such things and bowed his forehead to that final verse. Then he unashamedly displayed the two large tears that had formed in his eyes to the guards and went to his cell.
Faith is greater than pain . . .
*
Mean days . . .
The court case was over. The effect of so much preparation of evidence was that suddenly it became pointless to present it. When the prosecution’s case is weak, it doesn’t benefit the defence to argue. It can actually make things worse. Witnesses were only produced for Vidyabhushan, and they all finished testifying in one day since there was no cross-examination . . . And the lawyers finished pointing fingers at each other which, it seems, passed for argument.
‘Now, all that remains is my decision—we’ll fix a date for delivering it, but for now I will put something down as a placeholder.’ And the judge extended the case for thirteen more days . . .
Those days wouldn’t pass. It wasn’t that there was any major worry or anxiety about the outcome, but to be suspended in mid-air like that . . . The proceedings had been completed. The things that were necessary for the verdict had all been presented, and it was likely that the judge already knew what his decision would be. And now all they were waiting for was news, and they had to wait thirteen days for that! No, in thirteen days they would learn when the verdict would be read . . .
Finally, the thirteenth day came . . . But it was already afternoon and he still hadn’t been called to court. Shekhar guessed that the judge had set a date without calling them to court and that they would learn it in time. He lay down to think and fell asleep while thinking . . .
‘Babuji! Babuji! You’ve been called to the office.’
Shekhar got up confused. ‘Who is calling me?’
‘The inspector.’
‘For questioning?’
‘No, he’s called you to the office. The verdict is out.’
When he got to the office he learned that the verdict had been given. The magistrate ruled that the testimony against Shekhar wasn’t strong enough that he be sentenced, but there was still substantial doubt. Even if the evidence had been stronger, the time that he had already served in jail would be sufficient to cover it, so he was being released.
Lifelessly, the inspector said, ‘Congratulations! You are now free. You can get your things from the office.’
‘And the others? Can you tell me the entire verdict?’
‘Vidyabhushan got one year; Santaram and Kevalram got six months each; Hansraj has been released.’
‘Can I speak to them?’
The inspector laughed out loud. ‘Haven’t you heard what they say about friends in jail? Who meets with convicts?’
‘So you won’t let me see them?’
‘They are convicts now. They get one visit every three months. You can make a request, but if you meet with them they won’t be able to meet anyone else for the next three months. They might not appreciate you for that.’
‘And Hansraj?’
‘He was released an hour ago.’
Shekhar went to the office quietly.
Ten months wasted . . .
After he dejectedly finished up in the office, Shekhar stood waiting for the doors of the front gate to open. No one had come to get him—no one had received the news. The lawyer had probably heard, but he was probably busy with other work. He would leave this place, alone, alone and dejected—having wasted ten important months of his life . . .
Wasted? Baba Madansingh had spent twenty-one years there, and even after that he had written that faith was greater than pain . . . It redeemed the ten months spent to have learned that—and he had known Baba Madansingh, known Mohsin, known Ramji, and even learned about himself . . . Wasted? Thankless Shekhar . . .
Ten long, life-consuming months . . . An end to this bondage—an end to curiosity—life, only life, wide and unobstructed life . . .
But when the gate creaked open, and he saw the view of the outside world right in front of him, without bars in the way, he suddenly doubted his own ideas. An end to bondage? An end to curiosity? Shekhar recalled two lines of a poem he had read a long time ago:
Peace, peace, such a small lamp
Illumines, on this highway,
So dimly, so few steps in front of my feet . . .12
There was still everything to learn about, everything to cut down and fell . . .
And Shashi?
He had only one small thing to lean on—but Baba had written his final verse . . . Was it his last or mankind’s last? . . .
The gate closed behind him. He was free.
‘Pain is greater than pride, but faith is greater than pain . . .’
Part 3
Shashi and Shekhar
Is this Baba Madansingh’s voice that is ringing in my ears? Did this deep, booming voice belong to the same man whose own voice transformed his weakness into dignity?
Don’t let your thoughts wander to things beyond these walls. Thinking about your relatives will neither help in lessening their sorrows, nor in bringing them any happiness. Instead, by dwelling on their pain you are only digging up the foundation of your determination.
Was this right? No, this couldn’t be Baba’s voice—his wisdom was greater than this! Then what was this? Was it my arrogance?
The past didn’t diminish my determination, it improved it, since the more I’ve thought about it, the more I’ve realized the essence it contained—I know the reason that this ‘ghost’ remains is because it was once the future—certain destiny . . . I realize that I will have to fight, we’ll have to go on fighting, because giving up on account of the pain that comes with fighting means making that pain and injustice and tragedy, which were present before, permanent . . .
I wager the deep voice also agrees with me—it booms in a frenzy, ‘Prisoner, a day will come when you will be willing to give your right arm for the honour of this suffering—that’s how great this honour is—’
Why? Am I not ready even now? Am I still unprepared to sacrifice an arm or even my own head?
The voice laughs. ‘Head? Your head’s already been sacrificed!’
But was this voice right? Wasn’t this just a trick of an instinctive self-preservation? Was suffering really an honour? Wasn’t the real honour the memory of a certain someone, the mere thought of whom frightens me into making excuses? If I had been an ‘ordinary’ man, I wouldn’t have been the plaything of newspapers and bureaucrats and soldiers and imperial power. Would it really diminish my honour much if I found ‘someone’ to love and be loved by in the plain, poor traditions of living, surviving and dying?
Shashi, I don’t know whether your leaving was also destined, but you did indeed leave; and I am not embarrassed to admit that if you hadn’t gone, then—then—
But no, how could there be sorrow? Had you been here, why would there be any need to be sad about anything!
*
Standing outside the gate, Shekhar was stupefied for a few moments. For a moment he felt like he wanted to go back to jail, that he didn’t want to be on the outside. Then he ordered his feet to move forward. As he passed each building, he reminded himself to keep moving, ‘You’ve passed the cells’, ‘That’s the mortuary you just passed’, ‘That was the blacksmith’s workshop’, ‘These are the bars on the exterior and the gate, and now you’re on the street’ and ‘That’s the bend in the street.’
He stopped once more at the bend; then a scrape of doubt, of aversion, sliced his heart. At the same time, he realized that his aversion was not a desire to return; it was a fear of advancing to the place where he was headed.
Where should he go? College? A dreamy scene appeared before him—a crowd of students surrounds Shekhar, and a few want to hoist him on to their shoulders and there’s a big commotion—‘Long live Shekhar! Revolution!’ And
immediately after that another scene—a naked Mohsin tied to the docks, his backside sliced and dripping with blood. No, there was no place for him in college—and after ten months it was unlikely that his name was still in the registry.
Fearfully, his mind turned towards the source of his aversion—Shashi’s home? ‘Bless this Shashi who was your sister until today . . . I greet you for the last time from this role . . .’ Wouldn’t she have changed, wouldn’t she have moved? Hadn’t the same situation as ‘after the wedding, Rama went to live with her husband’ become as irrepressibly true as it had once before in Shekhar’s life?
No, no, no! I am being despicable!
To reassure himself, Shekhar forced himself to recite one of Baba’s sayings—‘Faith is greater than pain.’—Do I lack faith?
He moved forward. But the effort it took to raise his feet also brought him the knowledge that he wasn’t going towards Shashi’s house.
He didn’t understand why his feet had brought him to his professor’s house. He never had a special relationship with Professor Heath, and there was no reason that he should now be drawn there. Professor Heath was English and fitted the sketch that Shekhar had drawn of the English middle class from reading novels. Hiding beneath his social aloofness, conservative beliefs and customs and etiquette was an embarrassed emotionality—Shekhar held that Professor Heath possessed all of these traits in sufficient quantity.
It would take him substantial effort to gather his scattered thoughts to meet with him at this moment—perhaps he would be unable to and be a fool . . . But wasn’t he going there to be compelled into decisiveness? To be compelled into decisiveness meant being compelled into a social struggle, and his scared soul wanted to run from that fight . . .
He ran into the professor as he was coming down the stairs. Professor Heath’s first expression of surprise quickly turned into happiness, ‘Hello, Shekhar! What are you doing here?’ And before he could say anything, ‘You’re totally free, right—there’s no trouble left, right?’
Shekhar withdrew his hand from his grasp, but he kept smiling.
‘Yes, sir, there is no trouble left. Everything—has been taken care of.’ A shadow fell across the screen of his mind—really? And Shashi . . .
‘Good! So you’ll come inside and visit, right? I have to give a lecture—it’s another headache I’ve got to deal with—You’ll have tea here, won’t you?—You’ll have to drink some with me.—There are plenty of books inside—and pictures—’
‘Thank you, but I only came to visit. We’ll meet again—’
‘No, you’ll have to have some tea’—and then noticing the fidgety expression on Shekhar’s face—‘Do you have other obligations? Then come back at teatime—Oh, and when were you released?’
Slowly, Shekhar said, ‘I came straight here after being released.’
‘Oh—really? Then you still have your friends to meet. I’m being unfair. Go and meet them. Make sure to come back for tea—’
He came down the steps with the professor and stayed behind with a fake smile on his face. When the professor repeated the invitation and left after coming downstairs, Shekhar’s smile burst into a cackle—‘friends to meet!’ Shekhar made a face as though he had just eaten something very bitter.
Shekhar’s uncle lived on the third floor. He had no shortage of weariness at the thought of climbing those steps, but it took so long to climb those narrow steps that he reached the uppermost limits of his weariness . . . Shekhar’s resolve—no, the compulsion that comes from a lack of resolve—wilted as he got to the top. He stopped for a moment, his hand on the lock of the closed door.
What is the connection, the similarity, between this post-office inspector uncle and me? Shekhar remembered that one day in the summer when his aunt had heard from his uncle that he was sick, she sent over some tamarind so that he could drink a sherbet made of it . . . Had Shekhar been a letter instead of a man, perhaps his uncle might have taken a special interest in him—as it was, Shekhar was like a foreign object in his life . . . His hand lifted from the lock and he quietly went down the stairs.
Shashi’s house shouldn’t be that far from here—Shekhar estimated as he recalled her address, but there was no going there—and—
Why had Shekhar torn up all of Shashi’s letters? He desperately needed them now—their intimacy, their love, their closeness which sent a ‘final greeting’! Oh, if he still had those letters, Shekhar could reproduce that lost feeling—
As if letters could ever take the place of love!
Idiot!
*
Shekhar hadn’t arrived too early. The door opened as he knocked on it and Professor Heath placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Shekhar, I have a surprise1 for you.’
Shekhar looked up. There was no need for introductions: seated in front of him was the magistrate who presided over Shekhar’s case.
Mister Barnes said, ‘Congratulations on your release!’
Shekhar responded immediately, ‘Congratulations on your verdict—at least on this part of your verdict!’ The atmosphere became a little tense. Shekhar sat down and they made small talk. Professor Heath explained that he had invited Barnes for tea so that the conversation would be more interesting, and he could voice his real opinions face-to-face.
Tea was served. In the course of the conversation, the professor told Barnes that Shekhar was a writer. ‘What do you write—’ Barnes had merely started the question when the professor interjected, ‘Shekhar generally writes fiction, sometimes a few—’
‘That’s what I had guessed earlier.’ . . .
Shekhar asked eagerly, ‘Why?’
‘Because your testimony during the trial was an excellent example of fiction!’ Barnes laughed mirthfully at his own joke.
The images of Mohsin’s naked backside and Baba’s last days danced before his eyes. The insult stung him twice as hard, but he became rebellious and laughed and said, ‘Too bad I can’t agree with your literary assessments.’ He told himself that he would get even.
Perhaps trying to defuse the conversation, Professor Heath said, ‘Shekhar, I thought that if the two of you came here, you would have an excellent opportunity to get to know each other better. Generally, in India, relations between Indians and the English remain limited to formalities. Mister Barnes has excellent taste in literature. He is a chess player, too. Barnes, you’ll have to invite Shekhar to your place sometime—’ He looked at Barnes; he said, ‘Certainly—’ The professor continued, ‘And Shekhar, you definitely have to go to his place. Mrs Barnes is a very gentle lady and an exceptional woman by some standards.’
Shekhar found his angle. His face lit up a little and he said, ‘That’s what I had guessed earlier.’
Barnes was taken aback, but the question on his mind appeared on the professor’s lips—‘Why?’
‘Because in court, whenever I saw Mister Barnes, I used to think to myself that this man was probably the husband of an exceptional woman.’ Satisfied, Shekhar leaned back and relaxed. In order to release some of the tension in the air, the professor bobbed and weaved, ‘Shekhar, why don’t you write in English?’
Thoughtfully, Shekhar said, ‘In English . . . ?’
‘Yes, people from abroad who have been here for some time are starting to become very interested in India. If a picture of Indian life told in the form of stories could be presented to British tourists, they would certainly be well liked.’ As he spoke, the professor looked at Barnes for support.
‘Hmm—There’s a great demand for such things in America, but I don’t think that we as a people are terribly drawn to them. Personally, I like them quite a bit, but we British don’t particularly care for them.’
Professor Heath tried to demonstrate his agreement, ‘Yes, they don’t have any meaning for us—’
Shekhar turned to the Professor and asked, ‘What is your opinion—I mean, personally, what do you think? Do you enjoy them?’
‘Yes, certainly. I like them quite a bit—’
He felt as if someone had slapped him. His teeth clenched tightly, two half-formed tears burned in his eyes. He forced himself to drink a few more sips and took his leave. He went out quickly and went down the stairs.
Did our countrymen say similar things—could they? Alas, India! Alas, us! Alas, us!
*
In the hazy, slick, pale-blue light on the street, just before the lamps were lit, he felt as if he had become worked up over nothing; the energy of the first day out of jail was erupting in mysterious ways . . . Did we not possess a single culture, wasn’t this country—fifty times as diverse and ten times as populous—more firmly culturally unified than Britain? And here too there were disagreements between the tastes of a lone individual and the preferences of the whole—‘I’ like Eliot and Ezra Pound while ‘we’ prefer Shadowist (Chayyavad) poetry . . . I’m becoming hysterical2 for no reason . . .
But he wasn’t convinced. He felt like he was contorting himself into that conclusion. Even if that were the case, we didn’t possess that feeling—forget the pride of unity, we didn’t even possess a living, breathing knowledge of it. It was a truth that had died, and so was a lie . . .
The anguish settled over his brain. Whenever a monkey sitting in the rain, drenched, becomes resigned to his fate, that’s when hailstones begin to fall, and Shekhar felt as insignificant as that monkey must feel, and he was being kicked onwards, being pulled by the collar of his dejection . . .
Suddenly the lamps were lit. He paused. There was an aluminium sign in the spot he was looking at.
Shashi’s house was in front of Shekhar.
*
‘There is a permanent divide between the suffering individual and the creative artist. The deeper that division, the greater the artist!’
Shekhar Page 41
