How convenient would things be with such a list, how much frenzy, trouble and waste could be avoided! The resolution was also put forward, and it was passed without any discussion . . . Shekhar breathed a long sigh of relief and waited for the next speaker whom Lala Amolak Roy had stepped up to introduce. He was shocked to realize that the person who was being described with such words of praise was Shekhar himself! He became even more depressed; but he somehow gathered up his courage (at that moment, gathering his courage meant dispelling the feelings that the meeting had stamped on him!) and went forward and began speaking according to his previous plan. Immediately after he started, he heard a few men whispering and then someone saying to Lala Amolak Roy, ‘The young man seems like a good catch, Lalaji. Congratulations!’ and he became confident and anxious, but like a newcomer virtuously steeling himself against all temptations, Shekhar similarly remained glued to his script . . .
But the willed blindness of ascetic meditation eventually dissipates—not from seeing the celestial nymphs Urvashi and Tilotamma sent by the gods, but by seeing the yawning, gaping mouths and the furrowing, angry brows multiplying from boredom! Eventually, Shekhar came to a point when he could no longer ignore the collective disapproval of the audience—not even by doubling the pace of his speech . . . His mind, then, began working on several fronts at the same time, and his memory, too, lost control over the order of things and he began confusing facts and events with one another . . .
After the meeting was over, Shekhar was lost, sitting in his room, unable to untangle the threads of this dilemma—he couldn’t decide what had happened first, what happened next. All at once he hears himself quoting from the Manusmriti and then someone speaks (or some people speak?), ‘If the groom agrees and the bride’s father agrees, then, man, why should we meddle? Get married or don’t get married, but why are you insulting us? Panditji, you can keep your ideas to yourself—he’s insulting the Manusmriti! The less foreign education one has the better! After all, if Christians are doing the teaching, how will anyone retain respect for Hinduism—they didn’t come to preach Hinduism, after all. This can’t be what Lalaji had in mind! A Kshatriya youth will marry a Brahmin girl, a Brahmin boy will insult the Manusmriti! It was a fine gambit, Lalaji, but Brahmin daughters still have good futures.’ Shekhar was citing examples from Malinowski but he heard Amolak Roy’s name; or was he citing examples from Amolak Roy and hearing talk of Malinowski’s daughter; or both or neither—he couldn’t make sense of any of it. He had a vague inkling that he had lost himself in that meeting, but actually he was standing on the stage and speaking, or was it that the stage was missing and he was in the audience, or were both the audience and the stage missing—and then suddenly a flaming arrow pierces the armour of his consciousness and he understands everything—Amolak Roy’s daughter was of marriageable age, and they are Kshatriyas, but they’d be all too pleased to find a Brahmin son-in-law; and what could be better than a social reformer father-in-law finding a social reformer son-in-law—the union of the like, the improvement of reform! And he’s standing in front of this audience that knows everything to announce, ‘Look, I, Shekhar, am being made a fool and the proof can be found by citing the Manusmriti, by citing Malinowski . . .’
The smoke is good, the sting of poison is good, the dead, discoloured, cold slickness of snakeskin is good, let it all into this fourth-floor grave—social reformer Shekhar!
In that devastated state, Shekhar was prepared for anything like a slave, but he wasn’t prepared for what happened next—someone knocked on the door and entered without waiting for a response—stumbling to his feet, Shekhar saw a stranger standing with someone—Lala Amolak Roy!
Natural courtesy demanded that he light a candle, but Shekhar felt that courtesy would be an injustice to himself. He said, ‘What can I do for you?’
Lala Amolak Roy was a little wounded when he responded, ‘You seem very upset.’
‘I’m not upset—’
‘You seem exhausted—give the candles to me, I’ll light them—’
Shekhar quickly lit the candle and put it to one side and said, ‘Sit.’
Lala said, ‘This is Swami Hariharanand. We have come to talk to you about the meeting—’
Shekhar saw that the newcomer was wearing saffron robes, and because his shiny head was turned, his oily hair seemed to balloon. He made an incomplete gesture of greeting and asked, ‘What is there to talk about the meeting? The meeting has happened—’
The swami said, ‘An action is never complete in itself—it has effects. The furore that the meeting has caused—’ and then he stopped as if it were necessary to chew this morsel of information.
Lala said, ‘Your speech created a commotion. I had invited you with great hopes that—’
Shekhar was steaming, ‘Hopes? You made a fine fool of me. If that’s what you had planned, then—’
‘What plan—which plan—I took you there with the best intentions. People will blather—’
The swami said, ‘Yes, son, it’s their habit. They were burning with envy.’
Drily, Shekhar said, ‘Fine, let it go. It’s all over now—’
‘Let’s talk about something other than the meeting. So now that you know who I am, we should develop this relationship—’
‘That’s up to you. I’m a savage, I’m accustomed to living alone—knowing me doesn’t help you in any way—’
‘Every individual is obligated to live in society; moreover, how can anyone survive without society?—’
‘It’s living in society that I find impossible—just as impossible as living in a vacuum-sealed tin. It’s easy to live alone—have lived and will keep on living!’
‘I knew that you were an abnormal individual. But that you were also an abnormal man—’
The swami interrupted, ‘Why abnormal? It won’t work to cry “abnormal” all the time. I tell you, all men are normal and should be normal.’
Shekhar said, ‘I never claimed to be abnormal. I am normal and want to remain normal. You are the ones heaping accusations of abnormality on me and making my life difficult—’
The swami repeated, ‘Everyone is normal. Does the fact that someone does not possess something special mean that they cannot survive? You have a long nose. Does that mean you don’t go to the bathroom? Even if a man loses his nose, he can still live; he can’t live without going to the bathroom. That’s why everyone is normal.’
Shekhar couldn’t tolerate this man, his arguments, his way of repeating things. In order to end the conversation he said, ‘What you say is right.’
‘That’s why I say society is necessary. If you enter society, your nose will still be long.’ (Shekhar wanted to tell the swami that he should revise his phrase, ‘Even if you go to the bathroom, you still won’t have a nose,’ but he kept quiet.) ‘Don’t you agree?’
Shekhar didn’t say anything. He wanted the conversation to end by any means necessary and them to go.
‘You aren’t answering my question. You are probably thinking, let him blather on. Everyone is afflicted by the same youthful pride. I had it too—and you can see the consequences—’
This time Shekhar looked with some interest at Hariharanand.
‘I’m an ascetic, wearing saffron robes. You know what it means to be an ascetic. But I’m not an ascetic because I’ve renounced everything, but because everything has been taken from me. And all because of my pride. Pride was my vow, but that was broken, too. I go around preaching, but these saffron robes are not a banner; they are a shroud. The colour of dirt—the dirt that covers everything. Everyone is normal—’
The clarity of the swami’s confession touched Shekhar. A little more gently, he said, ‘I wasn’t quiet out of pride; I was quiet because I had nothing to say. I know how poor I am. But the argument that because I am poor I should cut off my own leg doesn’t make any sense to me.’
‘Lalaji is a supporter of yours. The things he is saying are right. You shouldn’t become a fame monster. Ev
eryone is normal, which is why marriage is appropriate.’
‘When have I ever said that it wasn’t appropriate? But I don’t want to yet, and I won’t because someone tells me to. It’s not even that I don’t want to, even if I wanted to I wouldn’t be ready.’
‘Why?’ Lala asked hopefully.
‘There are fifty reasons. But never mind them—’
‘Tell us something, at least—’
‘No, leave it be. To speak of marriage now is to court disaster.’
Suddenly Hariharanand became excited and said, ‘Fine, it’s courting disaster. Do you have it in you—to step up and face disaster head-on?’
Shekhar took one careful look at Hariharanand and said, ‘Forgive me but I’m tired. This debate will never end, and I’ve already told you all I have to say.’
Shekhar saw Lalaji’s seat shift and breathed a sigh of relief . . .
*
When he saw Shashi next, he told her everything about the meeting and about the conversation with Amolak Roy and Hariharanand after the meeting. At first Shashi listened quietly, but then she burst out laughing. Then she became somewhat serious and said, ‘Were you very upset?’
Shekhar stammered out, ‘I was pretty unnerved when it happened. Now I wonder why I couldn’t laugh the way you just did—’
Shashi started laughing again.
Then she asked, ‘Are they coming back?’
‘There is a chance, but I’ve put them completely out of my mind.’
‘Completely? Well, can I ask you one thing, Shekhar? Did you find anything of use in what they said?’
‘Of use? Not one bit—in what they said—’
‘The one about “Step up and face disaster head-on”—’
Shekhar looked at Shashi stonily for a moment. Then he said, ‘Some of their arguments were well-suited for someone like me, but—’ suddenly choking a little—‘Shashi, what are you trying to say?’
Shashi remained silent. Shekhar spoke again, ‘Are you also worried about the future of this Brahmin bachelor?’
‘Yes, honestly, I am a little. Why won’t you get married—’
‘Shashi!’
There was complete silence for a while. Then Shashi started speaking, ‘Your father told me that I should convince you. Convincing you isn’t that difficult. But it doesn’t seem to me that a man can be useful very long when he has isolated himself off from the world the way that you have. You will lose your grip on reality—’
‘My grip on reality—or its grip on me?’
‘Aren’t they the same thing? Or if you prefer, the connection between you and reality will break down—’
Shekhar gathered up all of his courage to say, ‘Look, Shashi, we’ve never talked about these kinds of things before, but tell me the truth, have you got anything out of your marriage?’ Then seeing a slight trace of pain on Shashi’s face—‘I don’t want to hurt you, but—’
Drained, Shashi said, ‘No, I understand. But you can’t use me as an example—my marriage had a completely different basis. I didn’t get married; I was married off. It was never a question of my getting anything out of the marriage; getting something—’ She didn’t finish the sentence.
A little later, Shekhar said, ‘But why is my situation any different? For me, too, it’s also a—Or, if the only thing one gets is pain, then—’
‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. You need to find a companion who can walk with you as an equal; who can bear pain with you and enjoy happiness with you, too. Pain and sorrow are not the important things; the important thing is the companionship—the ability to enter into and sustain a relationship.’
‘What proof is there that all that will happen if I get married? And especially as a Brahmin bachelor—’
‘I know that there is no proof. And I’m also not saying that you should get married like that. All I am saying is that if you find a suitable companion—’
To end the discussion, Shekhar said, ‘Let’s talk about something else—if such a person is found, then we’ll see. It’s clear that searching for such a person won’t reveal him—her. If I find her along the way, then I find her; and then I’ll get down on one knee, all right?’
He suddenly realized that Shashi was not only not paying attention to what he was saying but that her wide eyes had grown even wider looking at some scene on a distant road—as if her soul had expectantly opened its door to welcome the significance of that distant scene . . . Shekhar was similarly wandering and a little curious when he said, ‘And if while walking now I come across a pearl I won’t ask any questions, won’t have any misgivings, won’t make any demands. If the gods give—’
Shashi didn’t hear a word. Shekhar was intentionally trying to shock her when he said, ‘If the gods give, then why do the sacred texts need to be asked to bear witness?’
Shashi was startled into attention, ‘What?’
Their eyes met and were glued to each other. Shekhar forced himself to wish his eyes to move, but he kept on looking at the light behind those open windows, and the pain inside that light, and the resounding echoes linked together inside that pain—‘asked to bear witness . . . asked to bear witness . . .’
*
An odd calm had descended over him, and he began reading and writing intently. The completion of the article for the Reform Society, two new essays, two stories—when he paused to take a breath after finishing all of this, two weeks had passed since the incident at the Society; and ten days since he had seen Shashi—and in those ten days, Shekhar had seen no one other than the boy from the restaurant; except for one day when the two children of the woman from the third floor came to him with some inexplicable, easy, childlike faith and asked, ‘Do you know how to make kites?’ When Shekhar said yes, they said, ‘When we get some money, we’ll go buy the paper—you’ll have to make us a kite, for sure!’ Shekhar laughed and gave his word. He also calculated how much money they would be getting, how much the string and the winder would cost and how much to glue the powdered glass to the string—in sum, if they didn’t buy the paper and make the kites themselves, they would only have enough for one kite and what good would one kite be for the kite festival (Vasant Panchami).
The kite festival . . . What if Shekhar bought all of the materials for the children himself and saved them their time and effort? The kite festival . . . But he didn’t have the money. And there was still the restaurant bill and household expenses . . .
Shekhar decided that he would send everything he had written off to magazines and ask each of them for an advance—someone would offer him something . . . But all of his pieces were returned. There were letters of recommendation along with each of them. At first, Shekhar didn’t understand this contradiction, but eventually he gleaned from a vague line in a letter from an editor that it wasn’t the case that things that were good when free were also entitled to payment . . . He decided to try again, but he didn’t have the resources to gamble on postage; once he even thought about cutting out the address on a used envelope and sending it, but it didn’t seem wise to acknowledge on the cover of the new letter that his work had already been rejected somewhere else . . . Ultimately, he decided to take his stories himself and knock on the doors of local editors.
It was a repetition of the drama that happened with ‘Our Society’, this time with other explanations, and less consequential . . . Only one editor of a weekly asked him for a story or a poem about the kite festival because a special edition of the magazine was going to be published. Shekhar recalled his previous decision never to produce commissioned literature, but then he thought that there was no obligation to call something that was commissioned ‘literature’ and that in order to keep literature out of the vulgar market it was necessary to have another means to earn a living . . . He agreed to write the story and received the following as an assurance of payment: ‘It will be settled after it has been written, and whatever is offered, a leaf, a flower—’17
But producing something under those c
onditions wasn’t easy. Even after battling himself for hours, Shekhar was unable to produce a story about the kite festival, and repeatedly, his beaten and frustrated mind returned to the children from the third floor and their demand for a kite . . . Spring festival . . . Kite festival . . . He imagines bringing home a kite, string, winder, crushed glass and glue, and the children are jumping and squealing with delight on the roof; and he is teaching them how to fly a kite—it isn’t that he knows, but with those children, he’s an ‘expert’ . . . And then the string breaks on the kite in his dream, and he spins a lonely winder back in reality and thinks, ‘Kite festival, story, and the restaurant bill’ . . . All of a sudden he realizes, ‘Why not turn that into a story?’ The idea seemed ludicrous to him, and a little bit like a betrayal of the children, but such things were daily published in Hindi and what was the harm as long as he didn’t pretend that it was literature? It was commissioned work; what was wrong with earning his bread by the sweat of his brow like a labourer, detachedly . . . This argument didn’t convince him, but he still wrote the story—he called it ‘The Kite Festival’.
The editor looked once at the title and then once at Shekhar and said, ‘You are a very enthusiastic young man.’
Nervously, Shekhar said, ‘Yes, sir.’
The editor put his work to the side, then he looked at Shekhar as if he were done using something and his sense of order couldn’t tolerate it lying around in the middle of things.
In an intentionally abrupt tone, Shekhar said, ‘And my payment?’
Shekhar Page 48
