Both fell silent. All of a sudden, Shashi stood up and said, ‘I have to make tea—’
Shekhar said goodbye and left.
*
Shekhar rented a room and a half on the top floor of a four-storeyed building near Gawalmandi for twelve rupees a month. The larger room was in one corner of the building. Because of the enclosure constructed for the stairs, the half-room wasn’t regularly shaped; it was in the shape of the letter L. The larger part of the L faced east–west, and that’s where Shekhar set up a sitting room. The other part faced north–south and he furnished it with a cot. There was also a small closet, and beyond the closet was a courtyard connected to the stairs. There was a faucet for water on one side of the courtyard and the remnants of the whitewash for a makeshift kitchen left by a previous tenant. On the first day, it made Shekhar happy to think that he could make one room do the work of two; on the second day he was amazed that people with wives and children could make do in such a small space; and after three days he decided that it wasn’t the job of respectable people to think too much about their homes. And then, that the size of his ‘home’ was at least twice the size of the cell that Baba Madansingh had spent eighteen years of his life in . . . And one didn’t have to have a bathroom in one’s room; there was one downstairs . . .
No servants; meals would be ordered from the restaurant (there would be the matter of the bill, but that would be settled later). So there was little work to do and plenty of free time.
Shekhar was pacing in his bigger—meaning only—room. He was thinking about how, in this room, he would write the literature that would catalyse the revolution . . . It suddenly dawned on him that this was the first time where he had his own place and was standing on his own two feet—since he was not a small part of a family or a clan, he could be the head of his own family—and why just the head, he could be the whole family, because there was no one before or after him! He was an independent unit of the very society he wanted to transform . . . This wasn’t an extraordinary idea, but as Shekhar’s entire focus was on the individual unit and not on society, it seemed new to him. To be independent, to be whole, to no longer see oneself as a fragment, a sliver, an insignificant part of existence but as a whole—perhaps an isolated part, but complete, whose actual, visual form was a separate Big Band of a tiny existence . . . He hadn’t done anything yet, but this thought gave him confidence, comfort and a little bit of pleasure which helped him to see the illuminated path his life would take . . .
He remembered that he had read something which detailed the benefits of living on the top floor of a building. He had forgotten what the various benefits that had been enumerated were, but he could come up with his own list. Fresh air, privacy, distance from the commotion of the street, a stance of neutrality towards the people . . . In his childhood, he used to believe that people who lived on mountains were closer to God . . . Shekhar laughed to himself. Then he started to think, now that he had this elevated position in life what would he write which could be his donation . . .
Literature—the kind of literature which would catalyse the revolution . . . And revolution? Not a one-dimensional but a multifaceted revolution! A revolution that only moves in a singular direction after closing all other roads is no revolution. The only reason we cannot move forward after such upheaval is because we are trying to wash progress down artificial gutters. Restraint is necessary, but this is not restraint. It made Shekhar think of a slimy insect similar to an earthworm that had to go in another direction in order to move forward; when it goes as far as it can in one direction, only then can it move in the right direction. Several of our leaders are like this, too. Some have chosen the field of economics, others social reform, some have chosen politics and others religion, but in each instance every one of them has limited themselves in another field of their own existence at some level substantially lower than the heights of their own upheaval . . .
Is this evil perhaps an unavoidable part of organization? Every organization has a mission, and then it has an established programme, which means that in order to advance it they withdraw from other activities . . .
But can anything be accomplished without an organization?
Yes. Revolutions have an organized aspect but they also have an important individualistic aspect. Even without organization—especially without organization—an individual can sow the seeds of a multidirectional transformation . . . And perhaps this is the only thing an individual who chooses literature as his vocation can do, since he is first an individual and only second a member of an organization! It’s his special calling to plough and seed the ground for a multifaceted revolution, to water and nourish the seed of revolution . . .
The third time Shekhar went to see Shashi, there was such a glow of happiness on his face that she asked, ‘Have you written something?’
‘I haven’t written anything, but things have started to become clear after a lot of contemplation. There isn’t a lot of housework, so I spent most of the time thinking and sketching; now I’ll write.’
Rameshwar was there, too. He said, ‘So you want to be a writer? You’ve decided to quit college?’
‘That happened by itself. I can’t sit for the exams after being absent for ten months, and I don’t have the patience to start all over and take another two years. And then, it’s not like I am looking for a job that requires an MA!’
‘Getting a job isn’t a bad thing. You don’t have to be a civil servant like me but becoming a professor is a good idea. You’d be respected, the work isn’t too taxing and there are long vacations. And then you get to be around knowledge all the time—a man can spend his time reading and writing and can disseminate good ideas. It would be the best profession for you.’
Shekhar said, ‘That’s true. But I’ve developed some bad habits, and I don’t think I could ever work as someone’s subordinate.’
‘Oh, so that’s the issue. You’re an idealist.’ Shekhar couldn’t tell how much of this was sarcastic. ‘So what are you up to these days? You must be reading a lot? I—well, Shashi reads. She is constantly reading. She doesn’t care for fun and games. I am always tired from all of the work that I do, so entertainment is very necessary’ . . .
*
All of Shekhar’s attempts to write came to naught. He didn’t know why, but whenever he sat down to write, all of his ideas would disappear; sometimes it seemed to him that he was turning writing into a profession, which was draining the quality from it. But he still hadn’t written anything. It was still a ways off until his writing earned him any money, so how was it a profession? But professionalization was a matter of perspective, when literature is not an aspiration, but an accomplishment . . .
Yes, there would be an accomplishment, but what was it that was accomplished? Was his mission inadequate? Literature was for the sake of literature, it was self-satisfying, but wasn’t the accomplishment of a mission self-satisfying? A mission shouldn’t be a special influence; the only mission should be beauty, because beauty disappears in the pursuit of an influence. But why? Was it only by finding beauty in them that other objects could find the means to be composed into a mission? Could beauty even exist without the feeling of social welfare? All of a sudden, he remembered Shashi’s question, ‘Will you betray literature or your purpose?’ He wouldn’t betray either, because as long as he examined his purpose with a clear and dispassionate single-mindedness, then all he would see would be an unsullied beauty; if one didn’t have convictions, how could one’s plan be clear?
But this couldn’t be accomplished by thoughts alone. It required action. Whether he was right or wrong would only be determined by what he wrote. But he couldn’t write a thing . . . Why couldn’t he just write down his thoughts?
His room was filled with light from the afternoon sun, save for a corner of the room next to the closet that it did not reach. That’s where he sat, with his legs extended into the sun, thinking about what he would write.
The sun hadn’t moved off h
is feet when a boy ran up from downstairs and asked, ‘Look, is this letter for you?’ And he gave him an envelope.
Shekhar said, ‘Yes,’ and took the envelope. He examined the handwritten address with some surprise . . . It was a letter from Aunt Vidyavati. She had written that Shashi had written that he had rented a room to stay in and that he wanted to do something for the world of literature, and that she should pick out the best books from Shashi’s collection and send them to him. She had sent the books in a trunk, whose receipt was enclosed in the letter. She had also sent her best wishes now that he was out of jail. Also included was ten rupees for good luck and some sweets packed in the trunk—she hoped that he wouldn’t be upset that she had sent him the money. Many blessings, too, and if he ever got a vacation that he should come see her . . . Aunt Vidyavati.
When Shekhar finally got up a long time later, the sun had vanished. In the multicoloured light of the evening, the room felt bigger. But a spectacular glow of an affectionate joy encircled him—because he had finished writing a long poem and a short story . . .
He wanted to run to Shashi at that very instant and tell her, ‘Look, I’ve written something . . .’ But then he quickly thought, ‘If she could write to Aunt without telling me, then I can send her my poem and story in the mail without telling her.’ He made up his mind and put the handwritten pages into the empty cabinet in the room. That’s when he remembered that his own books had been left behind in the hostel. He decided that he would go to his previous roommate, collect his books and bring them here, too, and keep on studying . . .
*
After he searched and found his roommate’s new room and learned from him that his books had been taken by ‘people’ and that his collection of pictures had been stolen, Shekhar returned with the remaining stack of books—even though more than half had been lost, the ones left were more than enough. There were fewer textbooks amongst those, and all of them were books that Shekhar especially liked. It was night by that time. He just left them as they were in the room. In the morning, he cleaned out his cabinet and put some paper down on the shelves and organized the books carefully. Then he went and got the package of Shashi’s books and spent a little time arranging them, too. There were five shelves in the cabinet—the top four, which had glass cabinet doors, were now full of books; on the bottom shelf, Shekhar placed his stack of notebooks on one side and the sweets that his aunt had sent on the other side. And then he closed the cabinet doors and admired the fruits of his labour from a distance for a while.
The sight of a cabinet full of books thrilled him. How beautiful his room had become with these books in it—half of which had been collected by him one by one and the rest by Shashi! Shekhar knew that Shashi had bought the majority of these books over many years with the pocket change that she received as a monthly allowance; just as he had by setting aside some money saved (or which was saved by itself) from his monthly expenses. It seemed to him that she was looking at his room with her kind, bright and tender eyes from two of the shelves of that cabinet, and that her gaze had warmed the atmosphere of the room. Suddenly he was filled with gratitude, and a desire overcame his heart: to show his gratitude to Shashi . . . But he stopped himself from going there at this time. He decided to go in the evening when she would be done with her housework and Rameshwar would also be free (he had half the day off that day). And there was something else that was important—by that time Shashi would have received the letter that he had put in the mail last night—she would have read his story and the poem . . .
Rameshwar was sitting on a chair with his legs extended on another, smoking a cigarette. Shashi was sitting on a reed mat on the floor doing some sewing. When Shekhar arrived, she put her sewing down on her lap and looked up at him calmly and gently. Then she straightened her neck slightly and returned to her sewing. Rameshwar said loudly, ‘Come in, come in. It’s good you’ve come!’ He smiled through a cloud of smoke. ‘Tell me, what are you writing these days?’
‘Nothing. These days I can’t seem to make myself write.’ Shekhar looked over at Shashi as he said this to see if she would say something or laugh, because she would have received his poem and story earlier that day. But she continued to work on her sewing.
‘That is the best part of being a writer. Writing, writing, then not writing, months without writing. And when you don’t have to earn a living by writing, then there’s no telling. Whereas I don’t get to eat until I finish all of my wretched files. If you slack off a little, you have to take the remaining files home with you—all of my work has to be completed the same day.’
This time there was no room for doubt—the sarcasm in Rameshwar’s words was clear: that being a writer was an excellent excuse to be a loafer! Shekhar didn’t respond. He turned to Shashi and said, ‘Aunt sent me a trunk full of books.’
‘Hmm.’
‘She sent a letter, too. She sent her best wishes on getting out of jail and some things for luck.’
Shashi smiled a little. It was clear from her face that she liked what her mother had done.
Rameshwar asked, ‘What books?’
‘Shashi’s books were just sitting there. She sent those.’
Rameshwar held back his curiosity and asked, ‘Did you tell her to send them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh—All right.’ Then to Shekhar, ‘Do you read much? Of course, how else would you pass the time? They must be fine books—your sister has a very refined taste.’3
And then a glimpse of the same unclear thing—was something hiding under that claim? But the words were spoken in a straightforward way.
Shekhar said, ‘I had left many of my books behind, too. I went and got those as well. I think that I am going to study regularly again.’
‘Definitely, definitely.’
Someone knocked on the door downstairs. A voice called at the same time, ‘It’s the postman, sir!’
Shekhar was the closest to the stairs. Before Rameshwar could get up, Shekhar went and grabbed the mail from the postman. Shekhar was suddenly stunned. There were two letters—one was the one he had sent!
Shekhar was temporarily thrown into a dilemma. He gave both letters to Rameshwar and quickly said, ‘All right, I must take your leave. I have some things to take care of—’
Rameshwar was about to look at the letters, but he stopped and said, ‘So soon? Please sit, you can go after you have had some tea—’
‘No, thank you. I’ll come some other time—’ Shekhar said and left. He could hear behind him, ‘Here, this letter is for you.’
‘For me?’
‘Yes, who is it from?’ It was said in that same tone of repressed accusation, as if wanting to appear as if it wasn’t expression of authority but mere curiosity.
‘The handwriting seems to be Shekhar’s—’
Shashi’s gentle surprise—
Shekhar laughed to himself as he descended the stairs. When Shashi sees what’s in the letter, she’ll be astounded . . .
*
When he got back home, Shekhar started going through his old notebooks. He began to open the bundle of papers from the days when he used to visit Manika’s place and started to read. Today, he was pleased, as if the disorganized thoughts that had once occupied his mind were being strung together in a chain . . . It was unclear, but he could see, in a form that was gradually gathering clarity, that all the things that he had seen and thought in the last two or two and a half years contained in essence the developed conclusions that would be the foundation of his ideas about his society; and on the basis of these conclusions, he could raise an accusation against the current condition of society and could demand that society be transformed . . . He could see the scattered argument in that bundle of papers which could be organized into a book, the ‘grammar’ of the reconstruction that Shekhar had imagined . . . He had also decided on a name for the book—‘Our Society’ . . . Because only by calling it ‘society’ could the theoretical ideas of society be brought out; if one used ‘tr
aditional’ or other such adjectives, then it wouldn’t be clear that the subject of the book was contemporary society . . .
No, writing wasn’t his profession; it was his accomplishment, because he had something to say and because he had a burning desire—a desire, and an ability, too . . .
After five or six days of writing, when the shape of the book had become clearer and the first few parts were in their final form, Shekhar realized suddenly that he had gone that day to show Shashi his gratitude! He hadn’t done that, nor had he learned what she thought of his poem and story! And the real issue was that he wanted to bring her here to show her his crooked room and how beautiful and overflowing his cabinet full of books (and full of notebooks!) looked—because that would be the best way he could display his gratitude. Otherwise, he would have to open his mouth wide to say, ‘Shashi, I am grateful for the books that you’ve sent,’ and she would half-close her eyes and raise her eyebrows to respond, ‘Is this even something worth mentioning?’ No, he couldn’t stand formality.
He took the outlined pages of his incomplete novel and went to Shashi’s in order to invite Shashi and Rameshwar over. After he had come to this decision, he hesitated for a moment about what he would be able to offer Rameshwar when he came, and then he remembered that the money his aunt had sent was still in the cabinet. It didn’t matter that he had already finished the sweets; he would get a tea set, a stove, some coal and the like, which could be of use to him afterwards, too—because the cold weather had already begun as well . . .
Rameshwar wasn’t at home. Seeing the bundle of papers in Shekhar’s arms, Shashi asked, ‘What have you brought?’
Shekhar Page 43
