Excited, Shekhar said, ‘It’s the outline of my book. Do you want to see?’
‘Yes, give it to me . . .’
Shashi didn’t mention the poem or the story. Did she not like them? Then she should have said so. Why should she keep quiet? Proudly he said, ‘Why should I show you? Are you even interested?’
‘Why? What do you mean?’
‘You haven’t read my story or my poem—’
Shashi’s face suddenly went serious. She calmly asked, ‘Why did you send them by mail?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me that you had written to my aunt? I thought it would be a surprise—’ Suddenly Shekhar realized that Shashi’s face wasn’t serious, it was grave; her voice wasn’t calm, it was lifeless. He asked nervously, ‘Why Shashi? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Why surprise me—you could have showed me yourself—’
‘No, Shashi, there is something—tell me now!’ Shekhar said with a terrified urgency.
‘Nothing. After you left, he asked, “Who’s it from?” I told him. He was taken aback and said, “He was just here, why a letter?” I told him that it was a story and a poem. He said, “Good, then let me read it, too.” I gave them both to him, but I could tell by the way he was flipping the pages that he had no real interest in poetry or fiction. Then he said, “Well, I don’t know anything about poetry-shmoetry; only artists understand such things” and then returned the pages. After a long time he said, “So why did he have to run away so quickly?” At first, I didn’t understand what he was talking about, then I remembered. I didn’t feel like saying anything to him about it.’
Shekhar sat down in silence. After a very long time he said, ‘Should I explain it to him?’
‘No, that will make things worse. Let it go, it’s done. What are you writing now?’
Shekhar quietly accepted this obvious attempt at changing topics. He said, ‘I am taking things that I had written earlier and reorganizing them into an essay—a critique of our society.’ But his voice no longer possessed its previous excitement.
‘Our society! How much have you written? And what have you titled it?’
‘Exactly that—“Our Society!” I will finish it very soon.’ Just then, Rameshwar arrived.
‘It’s been several days since your last visit.’
‘Yes, I’ve been working on something.’
‘What have you brought with you? Have you written something else? Your poem and story were beautiful. I read them on Shashi’s insistence. But this time I won’t need a recommendation before I read it—you are a beautiful writer.’
Internally, Shekhar praised this man whose lips could produce words perfectly by themselves, whether he believed in them or not. He was the one who couldn’t say anything.
‘Come, let me have a look—’
Shekhar wanted to say it now. This unfinished manuscript felt like such a part of his own personality that he didn’t want to show it to Rameshwar . . . But he stopped himself from saying so. If he had, Rameshwar would have thought it meant something else entirely. Forcefully repressing his antipathy he handed the notebook over to Rameshwar.
When Rameshwar began absent-mindedly fingering its pages, and when Shekhar began to think that the fingers were not merely moving absent-mindedly but also critically, he felt humiliated. He stood up to leave. When Rameshwar asked him to sit, he said, ‘Truth is, I hate sitting while watching someone read my work’—and to himself he thought that this would serve as the absent explanation for the other day, too.
Rameshwar looked at Shashi and said, ‘Well, how can you hate it? It’s going to be printed, right?’ And then suddenly, ‘Or if you want, you could send this by mail, too—’ He guffawed loudly. ‘But it would be expensive to send such a thick notebook by mail—’
How could one deliver an invitation in this situation? Somehow, he got up and left.
*
Shekhar didn’t leave his house for the next four or five days. He also had no desire to write anything; he would blankly sit in front of the window and sometimes, if it was too cold, close it and pace in his room. A few times, he tried to read, but his distracted eyes would sometimes register nothing, and then he would shake himself and think, ‘If you wanted to waste time, then why the self-deception?’ Sometimes in the mornings he would lie in bed and read a few verses of poetry and hope that they would colour the rest of his day with their influence.
About a week later, one evening, Shashi showed up. At first, she knocked on the door nervously, but when she saw it was Shekhar and was reassured that she hadn’t made a mistake, her face lit up. ‘I finally found your place! None of the people downstairs even know your name!’
Delighted, Shekhar said, ‘Why didn’t you ask them where the hermit lives? All of them are very curious about what I do in my room all day.’
‘So why don’t you go outside?’
Shekhar gave her a long look.
Shashi lifted the corner of his bedding and sat down on the cot and said, ‘I’ve brought your book. I read all of it—as much as you gave me—and I’ve come to tell you that you have to finish it quickly.’
‘I haven’t been able to write anything else.’
‘Why? What did you do all this time?’
‘Nothing. My heart wasn’t in it. I’ve been wondering whether my writing will make any difference!’
With a concerned intensity, she said, ‘Hmm.’
‘Yes, of course. If I finish writing it, it won’t get printed. If it gets printed, people will make fun of me. I could even be content with being made a fool—but for what?’
‘Shekhar, isn’t there any satisfaction in bearing a little strife for one’s ideals? I consider it to be a great consolation. Otherwise I wouldn’t have—’
‘There is. But—I don’t know what. Sometimes I think that an ideal that takes the form of a revolution in name only isn’t enough. It has ideals, but perhaps ideals aren’t enough for satisfaction; perhaps one needs the exemplar of the ideal.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, that’s what I think.’
‘So you want to find an exemplar of your ideals so that your efforts towards it will bring you satisfaction?’
Shekhar thought about it and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Yes,’ Shashi mocked him and said, ‘You say it like a child—“Yes.”’ And then she paused. ‘What kind of exemplar, a certain object or a certain—person?’
Shekhar did not seem to be paying attention. Till then, he had been leaning on the windowsill; now he started looking outside.
Shashi stood up. She faced the opposite direction from Shekhar and said, ‘Shekhar, can you write something for me?’
With a start, Shekhar said, ‘What?’
‘I asked, can you write something for me? I didn’t think that I would have to say it myself, but there’s no harm in saying it.’
Shekhar went and stood next to Shashi. After a moment of indecision, he grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her around. Shashi’s eyes were on his chin. She didn’t look up. He removed his hands from her shoulders and then returned to his spot and said, ‘No, Shashi, I am unlucky. Everything I touch turns to rubbish. Nothing I write will be worthy enough to—’
Shashi spoke again, ‘I asked you, can you write for me? And listen, the better you write, the greater will be the rejection from everyone else. But you will find peace inside yourself. It will sound terrible if I say it, but your exemplar could be composed of not just that peace but also that rejection.’
‘Shashi!’
Shashi looked up and took in her fill of him. This time Shekhar lowered his eyes—he could not hold the gaze of that proud anguish.
Shashi said, ‘Well, show me what you’ve written beyond this.’
Shashi’s words changed the mood. Shekhar said, ‘What did I write? I have some notes that you can see if you like.’ He took some papers out of the cabinet and gave them to her.
‘And what are all those bundles?’
‘Random t
hings, things I wrote while I was in college—’
‘I want to read those, too. From now on, you will have to give me every little piece of writing, understand?’
Shashi began to read the pages that Shekhar gave her. He asked, ‘Doesn’t the room look better with these books in it?’
Shashi smiled as she read.
‘Have you read all these books?’
Without lifting her head, Shashi said, ‘Hmm—wait. Let me finish reading these.’
Shekhar went back to stand next to the window. As he looked outside, he began to feel grateful for Shashi in his heart—she who came here without being asked and fulfilled his unspoken desire . . .
‘Yes, so when are you going to finish this?’ Shashi had finished reading all the pages.
‘We’ll see.’
‘No seeing, you have to finish!’ Shashi laughed. Then turning serious, she said, ‘You haven’t invited him here yet.’
Guiltily, Shekhar said, ‘I had come to invite him last time.’
Shashi put the pages in the cabinet and said, ‘All right, I’m going now. When you come next time, be sure to invite him.’ And then spying the ten rupees in the cabinet, ‘Where did these come from?’
‘A gift for luck.’
‘They’re still here? Couldn’t you use them?’
‘They are most useful when they are lying right there.’ Shekhar started laughing.
‘What do you eat?’
‘Why? I order food from the restaurant. Is that funny?’
‘Food from the restaurant!’ Shashi said in disbelief. Then composing herself, she asked, ‘Can I hear the name of the restaurant?’
Shekhar bristled, rolled his eyes and, deliberately pronouncing every letter, said, ‘Chintpurni Devi Consecrated and Pure Restaurant—the name is enough to fill your belly.’ And he started laughing.
Shashi furrowed her brows in fake anger, ‘Don’t laugh like that with me! All right, I’m going.’
She began to descend the stairs. ‘Wait, I’ll see you off,’ he said and ran downstairs after her.
*
Shashi and Rameshwar had been to Shekhar’s a few times already. The cabinet placed in the closet next to the sitting room now contained a tea set, some pots, utensils, a few tins, a bottle of honey, a packet of biscuits and another of matches—all of these things had been purchased. In exchange, the gifted ten rupees in the other cabinet had disappeared. Shekhar hadn’t written anything special; if the papers in his cabinet had grown, it was because of a few letters—a couple from his aunt, one from Gaura and one from his father. Shekhar’s father was partly angry at his son’s idleness and partly secretly proud of his having been to jail; and along with that, was the news that his mother was very sick and he should come immediately to see her; that his younger brother Ravidutt was going to be taking his BA exams this year; and that Sadashiv had written from Madras that he would be a doctor next year and that he had asked where Shekhar was and what he was doing. He had heard the news that Shekhar had been to jail.
It had been a month since Shekhar had moved into his home. It suddenly occurred to him that he would have to pay rent next month and also pay the restaurant bill—and he didn’t have anything! The rent could be paid late because it was hardly necessary to pay it on time every month, but it had been a month since he had received the restaurant bill, and being late with that bill meant not getting anything to eat . . .
He was a little worried. Then he thought, ‘The book is almost ready. I can get a little something for it from some publisher.’ It was fine if it wasn’t a lot, a little would work for now, but altogether his monthly expenses were twenty-five rupees, so the book would be able to earn him enough for a year . . . He didn’t know how much publishers offered for a book . . . But he didn’t think that 300 rupees was excessive for one book.
‘Our Society’ . . . Is for sale—our society is for sale for 300 rupees—any takers? Shekhar laughed to himself—our society doesn’t sell for cheap; it goes for 300 rupees!
Shekhar decided to inquire with a few of the best publishers in the city. He worked continuously for four days and finished his manuscript and then wrapped it in a large handkerchief and went to see the managing editor of Vani Niketan Publishers. When he finished explaining his project to the manager after placing the manuscript in front of him, the manager looked carefully at Shekhar from head to toe instead of at the manuscript. After a little while he said, ‘Sir, we only publish things from established writers here. As you know, we are the best publishers in town, and we would like to keep our reputation. How can we take responsibility for publishing an entirely new and unknown writer?’
Shekhar insisted, ‘But you should evaluate the thing, too. Is fame the only criteria you use? Even the most famous writers were unknowns at some point.’
‘Of course. But at that point, their books weren’t being published with us. We only took them once the importance of their work had been established. That’s when we offered them much better terms compared to other publishers. The ones whose books didn’t sell, we don’t take.’
‘But that’s like stealing food from someone else’s mouth—’
‘You can think that way if you like. But it’s the mark of intelligence to learn from the mistakes of others. We don’t print things by people who are or could be unsuccessful.’
The managing editor of Saraswati Kunj Publishers sent Shekhar to his literary editor. After Shekhar found his address in a lane in the city and arrived there, the editor looked at the title and said, ‘Is it a novel?’
‘No. It’s a collection of critical essays. I created a picture of contemporary society and tried to demonstrate that—’
‘Oh, so you tried to demonstrate something? But, Sir, first of all, no one reads essays. Moreover, definitely not essays that are just critique and more critique. Why don’t you write literary essays?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘There are hundreds of topics—like . . . like . . . “the images of women in Chayyavad [Shadowist] poetry”, “the depiction of women by female poets” or “sexism amongst Sanskrit and Hindi poets”. These are also modern topics—it’s the age of comparative studies these days.’
Shekhar asked, ‘Does anyone read such essays?’
‘Well, not by themselves, but they can be published in literature textbooks. So it’s publishable.’
Shekhar was quiet for a while. Then the editor said, ‘You probably didn’t like my advice much; I only said it for your benefit—’
Dejectedly, Shekhar replied, ‘No, I’m grateful for your recommendations. But I’m only interested in society and social issues—’
‘All right, then pick a topic that fits that—“is the beloved of the mystical poet masculine or feminine?” There is a popular opinion these days that the mystical poets displayed their love only for embodied beings—It’s already accepted about Farsi poetry that the wine-bearer or the beloved is not imaginary, but the new opinion is that the wine-bearer and the beloved are neither masculine nor feminine, but neuter. This study will also give you a good opportunity to investigate medieval society. I really believe that it is the prime moment for this topic.’
Shekhar was silenced. After a little while, he said, ‘So you don’t think this book is publishable?’
‘No, no, I didn’t say that. Everything is publishable. But only the things that will sell get published; otherwise who will take on the risk? But I’ve always advised the people at Saraswati Kunj to promote innovative new writers—even if that is a little risky. Otherwise how can there be a new literature? And they even listen to me.’
Shekhar felt a flutter of hope. He said, ‘So will you read this and tell me? I am hoping that quickly—’
‘You should talk to the managing editor. I will advise him to publish your book at your expense, and as quickly as possible. New writers should get opportunities—it’s a publisher’s duty.’
Shekhar was disappointed again. He slowly wrapped his bundle, said goodb
ye and left.
Shekhar made the rounds of second-tiered publishers, too, and then went to a bookseller and got a complete directory of publishers and began to look at the remaining ones from top to bottom.
Another week passed. Ultimately, the managing editor of New Age Books decided to publish his book on the condition that Shekhar would bear the costs of the printing and the paper. He would not have to pay anything up front, rather the publisher would print and sell the books and use the proceeds to cover their investment first, and then he would get a fourth of the profits from the books sold after that. After ten days of frustrated wandering, Shekhar didn’t have the patience to sit and do the accounting of what he would get and when; he thought that the manager was doing him a great favour by not asking for payment . . . He had also forgotten that he had set out to sell the book so that he could pay his bill—and the demand for immediate payment had already arrived.
That day Shekhar didn’t leave with his bundle. He didn’t believe that he would need it! He promised the managing editor that he would be back in three days—he left a delay of two days so that the publisher wouldn’t think that he was overeager!—and went back home.
When he got home, he lay down on the bed, exhausted and sad. He had a fleeting notion that he would go and tell Shashi about all this, but he couldn’t make himself do it. And what was there to tell? He stared unblinkingly at the ceiling; he suddenly felt that it was exactly the same for all these days and the realization depressed him. He turned to face the window.
Who knew when the book would be printed, or how it would be reviewed? . . . Would anything come of it? When? How much would it cost? The paper probably cost 200 rupees. Another 100 or 150 on top. And if the book sold for one rupee, then . . . Shekhar gave up doing the math. ‘Our Society’—cost: one rupee. And I get a fourth of the profits after covering the costs! . . . A cold, dry line of a smile spread across Shekhar’s face—who knows when he fell asleep.
It was pitch-black when he woke up. It was past midnight, and the square in Gawalmandi was perfectly quiet. Shekhar was shivering from the December cold . . . He was also hungry. Since the start of the month, he had resolved to eat only one meal a day from the restaurant. He had told the restaurant staff that he would make his own dinner from now on . . . One day he purchased rice, lentils and flour and made a rice and lentil porridge and ate it.
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