But am I an artist? Do I really want to be an artist when I can live a life that exists because you are connected to it? Why be infatuated with isolation, why love neutrality, when I don’t want to be separated from a single atom; when each atom gets its life from you! Artists are greater than me, will always be; I am penitent, still, waiting, and I know that your hand is raised in blessing above me . . .
*
Shekhar trembled slightly, but no doubt was big enough to turn him away now that he had arrived at her door. He drew two long breaths as someone would take before jumping into a lake. Along with those breaths, Shekhar drank in several emotions—among them was the feeling that Shashi was a stranger—not just a stranger, but one who had become unfamiliar forever, because she had left the grasp of familiarity.
He raised his hand to knock on the door, but he immediately felt that it was an excuse to stay down here a little longer, so he drew his hand back and went up the stairs to the second floor.
There were three or four chairs in the sitting room. A man dressed in a suit was sitting on one, eating some fruit; on the small table in front of him was a used saucer and cup. Hearing the sound of Shekhar’s arrival, the man turned to look, and his eyes suddenly clouded with unfamiliarity. In that instant, Shekhar noticed two things—that the suit fit him well and that his eyebrows were thick and met in the middle. Then he said, ‘My name is Chandrashekhar—’
‘Come in, come in—when did you arrive? This is a very good day . . .’ The man quickly got up and moved forward but then stopped and said, ‘Come in, come in, please sit down—’ Shekhar could tell that the natural feeling in the first words gradually became hidden behind a screen of politeness, as if that man wanted to assess something before he said what he wanted to say . . .
‘You are all Shashi ever talks about. We were thinking about coming there to visit you, but . . . the work has piled up—’ and then suddenly shouting, ‘Shashi, look who it is—your brother!’
So this was Shashi’s husband, Rameshwar. After a few moments of anticipation, Shashi entered through a curtained door in the back room. As soon as she set foot on the threshold she asked, ‘What are you doing here?’ And then she stopped.
Not even a smile—there was no glimmer of any feeling on her face. But was the affectionate surprise in her eyes and the natural familiarity of the question a lie? But Shekhar got no chance to be disappointed.
Rameshwar said, ‘I told Shashi that we should have at least gone to see you on the day of the verdict, but she didn’t show any particular interest—’ Shekhar looked over at Shashi for confirmation, but her blank expression gave him no answers ‘—so I stayed here, too. I always say that only the very fortunate get to see such heroic men. You are a renunciate, a mahatma.’
No, that couldn’t be true. Whom was this false flattery for, for him or for Shashi? He secretly but piercingly looked over at Rameshwar who was staring fixedly at Shashi. Shashi was silent and was still standing with one foot on the threshold.
‘And you’re a fine sister—no greetings, no words, nor have you asked him to sit! Please go and bring some tea for him—and please, have some fruit until then—’
Before Shekhar could make his apologies, Shashi turned and went inside, and a minute later, she emerged with a cup of tea.
‘Oh, not like—’ Rameshwar hesitatingly glanced in the direction of the kettle, the milk and the other items on the table.
Quickly Shekhar said, ‘It’s fine, it’s fine. Truth be told, I don’t even drink tea—’ And to put an end to the matter, he picked up the cup. Shashi sat on the reed mat on the floor and put some fruits on a plate.
Rameshwar laughed, ‘Your sister has a curious disposition.’ There was no power in that laugh; its only intention was to make his remarks not seem like criticism, but merely an observation.
Shekhar laughed a little, too, and said, ‘In fact our entire family is curious—’
Shashi gave Shekhar a quick, angry glance and then went back to her work. Rameshwar faked surprise, ‘Really?’ Shekhar could tell that there was a note of sarcasm in his smile. But why, he couldn’t tell.
Shekhar wanted to change topics immediately, but he couldn’t figure out how. In the meantime, Shashi took the plate of fruit and put it in front of him. He wanted to ask, ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ but then he thought that every family has different ways of doing things and perhaps she didn’t eat in front of her husband, so he picked up the plate and asked Rameshwar, ‘Won’t you have some, too?’
‘Please have some—’ he said as picked up a slice of orange. ‘We aren’t even doing anything for you. Didn’t you just get released recently? Oh, I didn’t even ask you about the verdict!’
Shekhar narrated the details of all the places he had been to since he was released.
‘And where are you staying?’
Shekhar laughed a little, ‘I’m not staying anywhere yet—I’m still travelling!’
‘Oh, then you should stay here! A sister’s home is one’s own home, after all. You must stay here; it would make me very happy, and of course, Shashi, too. She talks about you all the time—’
Shekhar recalled faintly that this fact was being repeated. He looked over at Shashi, but it was as if she were indifferent to his invitation. Rameshwar followed Shekhar’s gaze and said, ‘You should tell him to stay, too. He’s probably being shy with me—’
Shashi lowered her eyes, ‘I’m the younger one.’
This answer seemed enigmatic, not only to Rameshwar, but also to Shekhar.
‘So what?’ He stopped a little, and then as if a new stratagem occurred to him, ‘I hope you’re not thinking that you can’t stay at your little sister’s house. Come on—’ and he laughed loudly. ‘You can consider this a hotel and pay a fee! But these days—’
Rameshwar laughed deeply.
But after the laugh died down there was an emptiness—the feeling of intimacy or at least familiarity between two people that should accompany laughter didn’t develop. The dance of politeness began again. Rameshwar asked, ‘You’ll have dinner, won’t you? Shashi, how long until dinner?’
‘It’s ready now—’
‘No, dinner will—’
‘Whoa, how can we let that happen? I take my tea late, which is why I asked you to have tea. But it is dinner time. Come, we can go for a walk and eat when we come back.’
‘No, I’m not hungry at all, and I’ve already eaten as it is. This fruit. And—’
‘Come, let’s walk around a little, you’ll be hungry by the time you get back—’
Shekhar said, ‘I’m tired from all the walking I’ve done. I should go—I should go to the college and find out what happens now.’
‘You can do all of that tomorrow. But if you’re tired, then you should sit. I am going to the club for a bit. I have something to take care of. I’ll be back soon.’ And then turning towards Shashi, ‘He’s going to stay here. Don’t let him leave—do whatever it takes to keep him here.’
Without giving Shekhar a chance to say anything, Rameshwar went downstairs.
No one said anything for five or six very long seconds. Then Shashi asked, ‘Where will you stay?’
Shekhar knew that he wouldn’t stay at Shashi’s. But he found it odd that she didn’t ask him to either, not even in adherence to what her husband had said. But in order to hide his disappointment, he quickly came up with a lie, ‘I think I’ll stay in the hostel. I’ll find out at the college whether I’ll be able to finish my studies or not. Otherwise, I’ll have to come up with something else.’
‘Aren’t you going home? Your mother is sick.’
‘Really? But I won’t go now—’
‘Will you have dinner?’
‘No, it wouldn’t be right.’
There was silence for a while. Then Shashi asked, ‘How did you find jail?’
Shekhar couldn’t wrap his head around that sudden question. He asked, ‘Why?’
‘Many people sour after their time in jail�
�they find that they can’t trust anyone. That hasn’t happened to you, has it?’
In his mind’s eye, he could see Madansingh’s image.
‘Umm—no. I learned quite a bit in jail—much of it was bitter, but I don’t think that I’ve become bitter—’
Shashi took a long look into Shekhar’s eyes. He liked the feeling of encouragement and contentment that he saw in her eyes. Her curious behaviour transformed the feeling of toughness that was growing within him into tenderness.
‘You need to decide what you are going to do very quickly. Wandering around aimlessly like this isn’t right. The next time you come here, I will ask you about what you’ve decided to do—not next time, you’ll be here tomorrow. You’ll come, won’t you? He’s already said you should.’
Shekhar looked at Shashi, a little taken aback. What was that mysterious note in what she was saying? He suddenly realized that everything she had said from the beginning, beneath every distinct word was profound and deep meaning—but what? He thought about what Rameshwar had said—there was also something in his words that—
There was something mysterious here—which Rameshwar and Shashi shared—and I am not a part of it. What is it? Is it that there is a deep intimacy that comes from the relationship between a husband and wife that needs to remain deep, because it is intimacy, and which it is sinful to want to see ruined? But that intimacy is related to love, and love produces joy—was Shashi happy? No, I don’t think that the immovable curtain that stands between Shashi and me—Shashi and Rameshwar and me—is a curtain that happy people hide behind. Happiness is a thin film that encases an individual and separates him from everyone else, and having given his life for others, he does not meet with others, lives separately from them . . . Was that the distance that Shashi had found?
No. Shashi has left my world. Not because of happiness, just because. We’ve become strangers. The new relationship that would develop would have to go through Rameshwar, and what was the similarity between him and Rameshwar? My vices are different and my virtues—I have no virtues . . . Shashi isn’t happy, but I am not anyone to know what her pain is, now that I am a stranger—
‘What were you thinking?’
Shekhar was surprised. ‘Nothing, really. I’m going to go now.’ He got up. A powerful restlessness surged within him, and it was the reason he didn’t want to stay.
Shashi said, ‘Sit for now—’ But then she looked at his face and quietly stood up. She went with him to the door at the top of the stairs. When he got there, he stopped and turned to face her, ‘All right, so I’ll be going now—’
Quickly, Shashi asked, ‘So now you’ve seen my house, haven’t you?’
As if in a wave, Shekhar realized that if there was something being concealed it wasn’t of Shashi’s making, and feeling the absolute pettiness of his previous suspicions, he said with an honest, loving, natural affection, ‘I’ve seen it, Shashi, I’ve seen everything—’ He went downstairs.
A question came from behind him, ‘When will you come again?’ Shekhar knew the questioner and because of this familiarity he knew that the question didn’t come from curiosity, rather it was an announcement that she would be expecting him.
*
Where will I go with all of this unallocated energy, what will I do?
‘You need to decide what you are going to do very quickly . . .’
What should I decide? What decisions have I ever made? Or if I have, what decision can I say that I have taken . . . Has the unobstructed flow of life not tossed me hither and thither like an empty tin floating on the water—and if I hit a rock somewhere, I echoed with a ‘clang’, an echo that was not the cry of life’s revolt, just of an internal emptiness, of the air that filled the hollow—sometimes rising and sometimes submerged under, and even that was not the result of an internal power, but of the streams of influence of the passing waves . . . What do I have that can be called strength? An internal hollowness that has kept me afloat, prevented me from drowning! Can I fight life’s battle with this mere luggage, these meagre provisions, on life’s thorny road—
Poetry-wallower; bombast!
But in this state of mind, thinking didn’t settle anything. It’s possible that the greatest thing one can do is to submit to this wave of life—but that doesn’t sit well with my disposition . . . Or perhaps it’s also the case that I have not been worn down enough to be able to find that conclusion agreeable—there’s still some struggle that I think is urging me on—even if it’s a mistake . . . The ego is prideful, it’s true, but until that ego is sated how will one ever achieve disinterestedness, or how will it seem to be true?
‘The next time you come here, I will ask you about what you’ve decided to do—’
As he wandered on the streets, Shekhar looked up at the sky. The dust from the streets that had flown up and dimmed the light from the lamps had also turned the sky grey. Shekhar thought that the stars in the water were brighter than those in the city—and he smiled to himself. Then he was struck by a memory of Baba Madansingh and the question about plans was in front of him again . . .
What should I do?
‘Can you give the truth that you have discovered within yourself to another?’
Shekhar knew that the words were Baba’s. It didn’t surprise him because he knew that Baba had left a heavy footprint on his thoughts. It was as if he were talking to Baba’s imaginary voice.
‘Can that be a life’s purpose? But when did I discover truth?—All I have ever discovered is doubt and more doubt.’
‘That’s true, too. Some former truths are no longer clear today, that’s also a truth in the negative.’
‘Can you use a truth in the negative to—’
‘Shekhar, take a look deep inside yourself. Are there no positive reserves, no faith in there, merely debts and more debts?’
‘Faith . . . “Faith is greater than pain” . . . might be. Faith in one’s self—that means pride. Can that be life’s purpose?’
‘Can you see nothing that you might be able to do—not for yourself, but for something greater than your self—meaning some work that will connect you to something greater?’
‘If I am proud, then what can be greater than me! That something greater is me, right?—’
‘Don’t dodge—you know that you are avoiding the question, you know that you have glimpsed something greater than you—everyone does—’
Shekhar looked up at the sky again. The atmosphere was just as dusty as it was before, but the colour of the sky had deepened and so the stars seemed a little less dim. He thought that he could see a few colours sparkle in the twinkling of one of the stars and the colours were distinguishable—blue, red, white . . .
He recalled that if he was going to spend the night at someone’s place, he had to let that person know that he was coming. He set out for the hostel where he could find at least one boy with whom he could stay . . .
*
Rameshwar wasn’t home when Shekhar visited Shashi next. Partly for this reason, and partly because Shekhar had sketched an outline of his future plans, he could present himself to her in a more contented demeanour and chat with her. All the incidents that could be narrated were abridged: his feelings about Congress and jail, his memories of Baba Madansingh, some of his aphorisms, his magnificent death, Ramji and Mohsin. Shashi listened rapturously. But once Shekhar had told her everything and when it seemed as though he had been speaking continuously for a long time, she suddenly asked the question that she had been wanting to ask for a long time, ‘What about you?’
Shekhar was taken aback, ‘What?’
‘You’ve only told me about other people. You haven’t told me anything about you. I want to hear about that, too.’
‘Oh, me . . .’ Shekhar blushed. How could he tell Shashi about that private life which depended so much on the gifts that she had given him?
‘No, I will definitely make you tell me. It’s fine if it’s not today, but I’m not going to let this go. You can
be a stranger if you want, but I won’t be one, and I’m not afraid of you.’
Shekhar was shocked; he kept hanging his head in embarrassment.
‘All right, so have you decided what you are going to do?’
‘Yes.’
Shashi was silent in anticipation; but when she saw Shekhar was not volunteering an answer, she asked, ‘What?’
Shekhar felt that he wanted to say that he could only tell her if he could make fun of it at the same time, otherwise the plan would sound conceited . . . He laughed as he said, ‘I am going to do something that we call revolution. I will turn everything upside down, and if some things get broken I will say that they were old and rotten.’
Shashi intentionally and seriously said, ‘Hmm. And?’
‘What else? Baba used to say, destruction is the only religious obligation; creation happens by itself. So if my tooth falls out—why should it fall out, you should pull it out—a dentist appears by himself. This is the law of science—nature abhors a vacuum.’
With that same unchanged seriousness, Shashi asked, ‘This is your plan? What are you going to do to achieve this?’
‘What will I do? I won’t have a hammer, and teeth don’t fall out from being hit by pebbles, so I’ll hang a stone from a rope tied to a tooth of every person—so that the tooth will pull itself out. I saw an old woman in Kashmir with a stone hanging from her tooth—she had a toothache.’
Seeing Shashi getting more annoyed, Shekhar laughed a little and said, ‘Which is to say, I am going to write. I won’t tie stones but rather stacks of my books to people’s teeth. After all, they will be heavy enough at some point to—’
This time Shashi smiled a little. She said, ‘So you want to be a writer? Good.’ Suddenly her eyes lit up. ‘And your writing will have one purpose—to destroy so that you can completely rebuild.’ Then she calmed down and said, ‘But, Shekhar, not everything that’s written like that is good, not everything becomes literature. Will you betray literature or your purpose?’
Shekhar knew that he didn’t have the ability to say what he meant under the cover of sarcasm. He suddenly turned serious and said, ‘I won’t betray either. Betrayal is the tooth that must be extracted. But to do that requires a strategy—everything I write is written when I am worked into a frenzy; afterwards I think that it isn’t so good. Moreover, sometimes I feel that there is no purpose in what I’ve written, because it is only frenzy and more frenzy, and a purpose requires a map and self-control.’
Shekhar Page 42
