Displaying enormous surprise, the editor said, ‘Payment? Oh—yes. But we offer payment at the end of every quarter—and we haven’t even determined how much—’
Suppressing his rage, Shekhar said, ‘So why don’t you determine now?’
Calmly and smoothly, the editor said, ‘Literature requires a great deal of devotion—’
Suddenly Shekhar felt that politeness was pointless, or rather wouldn’t bear fruit; and for a labourer, the fruits of one’s labour were all that mattered. He said, ‘If it is literature then it would require it. But even if you are going to make the mistake of thinking this to be literary, I won’t. When I write literature, I will also be patiently devoted. But now, I am selling myself. I want its worth in cash.’
The editor looked him over this time with care and a new bewilderment and said, ‘Look, I’ve explained our policies to you already. You wrote this story at my request, so it’s clear that I should pay you.’ Then turning out his pockets, ‘But you already know the state of things here . . . I can only pay you in leaves and fruits . . .’18
Dejectedly, Shekhar said, ‘Thank you!’ and went back home . . .
On his next trip, when Shekhar went back out in the direction of New Age Books, he thought he would ask about how ‘Our Society’ was doing. The managing editor was there himself. Upon seeing Shekhar, he said, ‘It’s good that you’ve come—I was thinking of sending someone to see you—’
‘Why? Was there anything important—’
‘No, just because—’ He looked long with half-closed eyes at Shekhar, and then said, ‘The thing is that—in truth—I’ve shown your book to a couple of experts and they recommend—There are some necessary revisions—’
Meekly, Shekhar said, ‘It’s possible. I am only a student, not an expert. What are the revisions that they’ve recommended?—’
‘Look, I can’t recall all of them, but basically, they didn’t like the concluding chapter, and recommended that it should be changed—’
‘But that’s a fundamental alteration. An alteration like that would mean the writer—’
‘I think that if you make all the revisions and get his permission to use his name it will be for the best. If the book is printed with his editorial signature on it, it will definitely sell, and—’
‘Who is this gentleman?’
Not answering the question, the editor started again, ‘It won’t take you long to revise the conclusion—’
‘But the conclusion grows out of the facts, and how could I change those? The conclusion—’
‘A conclusion is a matter of one’s opinions. A single fact can produce five different conclusions, it’s all a matter of perspective. And when the conclusion is revised, then the facts—’
Insistently, Shekhar said, ‘Do conclusions come from facts or do facts come from conclusions? You can’t unsee a fact once it’s been presented—’
‘But what is a fact? Everything that exists is a fact. And things that don’t exist are also facts—their non-existence is a fact. A man chooses facts according to his preferences; then he draws conclusions from those facts, ergo, conclusions are also predicated on preferences, right?’
‘Fine, let’s say that’s true. Then the book I’ve written is based on choosing facts and conclusions that are to my tastes. So why does it need revising? Still, I think that facts are facts, and the conclusion that I have drawn from them is the necessary one.’
More firmly, the editor said, ‘You are being stubborn. Everyone has their own tastes, but tastes can also be evaluated. The criticism of society is a matter of great responsibility—I always take the advice of the experts. It’s a good opportunity for you—if there is a famous editor associated with the book, then it will sell and open doors for you in the future—you should be grateful that he’s taken the pains and made these edits—’
Shekhar choked on his words, ‘Made these edits? But shouldn’t you have asked me first? At least tell me who this expert is!’
‘He’s a very experienced intellectual and he’s deeply committed to social service—’
‘At least tell me his name.’
‘Lala Amolak Roy.’
Haltingly and emphasizing each word, Shekhar said, ‘My book will be published as is—I will be responsible for my own argument and opinions.’
‘But opposing the advice of experts—You must understand that this is a matter of a publisher’s responsibility—I am working in your interests—’
Shekhar asked, ‘Do you mean to say that you won’t print the book without the revisions?’
‘Look—My hands are tied—There is no need to get overly emotional—’
‘Then please give me back my manuscript—’
‘Please think it over—’
Firmly, Shekhar said, ‘Please give me back my manuscript immediately—’
‘Why won’t you listen to reason? I am very disappointed—’
Shekhar repeated, ‘If you will please give me back my manuscript, I can leave—’
The editor called out, ‘Orderly!’ A lifeless statue came and stood before them.
‘Go to Lala Amolak Roy’s place and bring back the papers—tell him to give you the pages of “Our Society”—You’ll remember the name, right—“Our Society”?’
‘Yes, sir. “Our Society”.’
‘Yes.’
Shekhar asked, ‘How long will it take?’
‘It will be here in an hour to an hour and a half—’
Shekhar didn’t want to stay there. He said, ‘All right, I will be back in two hours.’ And he got up and left.
Shekhar didn’t want to go back home while his brain was in revolt, and he had no business out in the street, so Shekhar began aimlessly wandering through the streets and alleys. He only stopped once in front of a shop when he saw a potter’s wheel hanging out front. He stopped for a little while to study the potter’s wheel and the shapes of a few pots and a heap of kites barely visible in the darkness inside the shop, and then he walked on. When he saw a fruit stall farther along, he recalled that he had read a book about nutrition while in jail and had thought about becoming a frugivore. He walked up and asked the owner about the price of Kandahari pomegranates. The owner told him that they were a rupee and a quarter for a kilogram and a single pomegranate was roughly fourteen annas. After that he didn’t stop again. He got back to New Age Books around 4.30 p.m., took his manuscript and, without saying a word, bowed quickly to the editor and went home . . . The days had become very short, and it was also so cloudy that at 4.30 p.m. it seemed as if the day was over . . .
When he got home, Shekhar flung the manuscript on the floor and lay down on the cot. Then he got up all of a sudden, picked up the manuscript and began flipping through the pages . . . Several pages of the conclusion had been removed and replaced with new ones, written in someone else’s hand—it was clear from the handwriting that the writer was a novice and probably a girl . . . Shekhar pulled those pages out, tore them in half and threw them away. Then he noticed that sections of his prose had been crossed out on several pages and there was something new written in the margins. He tore these pages out as well—he already had the original, unedited version of the manuscript!—and tore them in half and threw them away just as before. He looked at the remaining sections backwards and forwards, and then, with a lassitudinous ‘hmm,’ he threw the manuscript on the floor and scattered the pages with his feet.
He looked all around once and then lay face down on the cot, hiding his face in his pillow.
The tickling darkness of the cotton filling of the pillow—welcome, darkness! You are not insignificant and insubstantial; you have a shape, weight and density, so welcome even more! . . . Shekhar felt that if only he could melt into the darkness—then—then . . .
He got up in a blind haze and slowly went downstairs and out on to the street. As he shivered and huddled, he was struck by the emptiness of the day, but even without that there was more than enough darkness inside Shekhar . .
. Darkness and loneliness—an unsullied nothingness—discrete, exilic darkness . . . There was no meaning in anything; everything was merely an effect whose original cause had been lost . . . Cause produces effect, but there was no plan in either cause or effect—anarchy had become the truth . . . Anarchy, confusion, nomadic . . .
What was he doing—where was he going—and what was the point even if he was going and doing? There was still some fog ahead, and if the deepening darkness stung his eyes then what was the point of trying to see . . . When people get lost in the jungle, they automatically start walking in circles, and the walking in circles gets them killed. He didn’t want to go anywhere, nor did he want to walk in circles. Like a mountain goat blinded by the ice, he staggered, head lowered, as he walked on, walked on. He began to realize that there was a plan hidden in his planlessness, that his plan was total planlessness, a desire to be snuffed out . . .
A car horn sounds behind him. He pretends not to hear, and the car barely misses him. Another horn sounds. Shekhar ignores it again and keeps on walking in the middle of the street. The horn sounds again, sounds louder, sounds bold, sounds taunting, sounds threatening—
He walks on in the middle of the street, planless, planless—
Suddenly someone grabs his arm with both hands and pulls him forcefully; a cry drowns out the screeching brakes, ‘Sir!’ Shekhar looked up—it was a woman. She wasn’t young, wasn’t beautiful. The car brushed Shekhar as it hissed on; the unsteadiness from the slamming of the brakes had dissipated and it disappeared in a flash of shimmering chrome.
Extremely annoyed, Shekhar asked, ‘What is it to you?’
What was it to anyone?—whether he lived, or died, was hit by the car, drowned in the ocean, burned in a flame, what did it matter to anyone?
With wounded surprise, the woman said, ‘Sir, I just—’ and then she was silent.
Shekhar’s eyes met hers. No, she wasn’t young. She wasn’t beautiful. But her eyes possessed a fierce will, a motherly fear . . .
Shekhar responded in an insensate voice, ‘Forgive me, sister—’ and he quickly turned around and headed back home. But his footsteps went on repeating that meaningless taunt, ‘What was it to anyone, what was it to anyone . . .’
He climbed up the steps but suddenly stopped when he got to the threshold of his room. The room was just as he had left it, but a candle was burning and Shashi, sitting on one edge of the cot, was staring directly at him.
*
No one knew how much time had passed while no one spoke, nor moved. Then Shashi said, ‘Where were you, Shekhar? I’ve been sitting here waiting for you for a long time—and what is all this?’ And then suddenly jumping up towards him, she grabbed both of his shoulders and, in a voice filled with panic, ‘Shekhar! Shekhar! What happened—’
Shekhar grabbed both of Shashi’s wrists and gently pushed her back to the cot; with the same gentle pressure, he sat her down on the cot. Slowly freeing his shoulders, he crossed the room, trampling over the scattered pages, and stood on the other side, and after a moment, he sat down on the ground in the middle of those pieces of paper.
‘Nothing, Shashi. What could have happened—’
Shashi got up again and went to Shekhar.
‘Tell me, Shekhar! What were you planning on doing? And—and what all have you done?’
He remained silent. His eyes were fixed on Shashi’s feet.
‘Speak, Shekhar! While I waited for you, you have no idea what I—’
She left the thought unfinished and was silent. No one knew how long both of them were quiet, still. Then the sound of paper crackling somewhere made Shekhar stand with a start, but Shashi’s back was to the lamp, her face in the darkness . . . Shekhar looked at her intently and wanted to grab her by the shoulders and turn her around, but when he touched her, her body went stiff and she didn’t move . . . Shekhar immediately let go of her shoulders. He went to the cot, sat down with a thud and then lay down. As his mind dimmed he realized that there was no going forward—his unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling—planlessness, planlessness, cold planlessness—
Shashi went and stood by the head of the cot. Indecisively, she said, ‘Shekhar?’ She leaned over him slightly—a drop fell on Shekhar with a plop—
Suddenly, Shekhar extended his arms and made her lean in closer. He buried his head in her chest and burst into tears . . . His body shook uncontrollably, his fists clenched atop Shashi’s shoulders. Shashi didn’t utter a single word as she remained leaning over him . . . like a shady saptaparni tree leaning over a mountain stream . . .
The trembling breeze passes through the shade of the saptaparni, a mysterious slackening overtakes its limbs, and everything gradually becomes peaceful under the diaphanous touch of its shade. A silky touch cobs through Shekhar’s hair and asks, ‘Will you tell me now?’
No, if there was no plan in life, then there was no point in remaining quiet, in hiding; if the thing couldn’t touch him, then neither could its loving reaction . . . Shekhar said, ‘I didn’t know when I left, but while I was walking I realized that I was looking for a way to commit suicide.’
A gentle shudder went through the saptaparni.
‘Why, Shekhar?’
‘Just because; I realized that it wasn’t necessary to have a reason to die. You need a reason to live. For a person without a clear plan, death is the natural conclusion.’
A voice filled with worry and objection—‘Shekhar!’
‘Don’t live to get something, live to give something. I accept that. But what do I have to give? Planless, purposeless, meaningless suffering? Why should I give that, for whom should I offer that? If accomplishment is one source of happiness for people, then giving is another form of happiness—otherwise nothing matters, everything is a lie. And I know that in eighteen or nineteen waking years I have—’ Another sobbing shudder shook his limp frame.
‘I haven’t given anyone happiness; my entire life has been based on conceit and all I’ve done is bring people pain—’
‘How do you know, Shekhar?’
‘The only thing I know is that I don’t know. I’ve brought no happiness even to the people I’ve loved. I haven’t asked them; but shouldn’t love give one enough wisdom to tell you whether a person that you have loved has also received happiness or not?’
Slowly getting up, Shashi said, ‘Perhaps it doesn’t. Otherwise you’d be able to see—’ She slowly walked over to the window, and for a while, she looked out the window, her hand resting on the windowsill—suddenly raindrops began to fall and, for a moment, they sparkled as they hit the pale light encircled by the window—dissolving from one nothingness into another . . . She turned around in the same spot and said, ‘And Shekhar, isn’t love its own gift—a gift greater than happiness?’
‘It is, it is a very great gift—but only because it is also great happiness. If love doesn’t bring happiness, if it only consumes one, then it’s better for it to burn away—’
Shashi quickly returned to her spot; she sat down at the head of Shekhar’s cot and yelled at him, ‘Be quiet, Shekhar. You have no idea what you are saying.’
Shekhar was quiet. He remained lying there, but he lifted his eyes to look up at Shashi. Shashi wasn’t looking anywhere, her gaze was fixed straight ahead, but she definitely knew that wrinkles had formed on Shekhar’s forehead from looking up, because she gently brushed them with one hand, like someone removing wrinkles from silk. When this attempt failed, she extended her fingers and forcibly closed Shekhar’s eyes—and they stayed there, didn’t move from his eyes.
In very hushed tones, Shekhar said, ‘Listen, Shashi!’
Shashi again leaned in over him.
‘Shashi, I haven’t been able to figure out what you are—’
Firmly, ‘Why, Shekhar?’
‘I’ve always called you sister, but you aren’t as close to me as sisters are, and yet you aren’t as distant from me—as much—as much as a sister would be.’ Suddenly, he forcefully pressed Shashi’s f
ingers with both of his hands on to his eyes, as if opening his eyes would mean some great calamity . . .
It was as if Shekhar could hear the incessant pounding of the rain outside in Shashi’s quivering voice, ‘What are you trying to say, Shekhar?’
Shekhar lifted both of his hands again, gently grabbed Shashi on both sides of her face, drew her towards him and said, ‘I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I only know you, and I know that all of the dreams that I have dreamt vanish into you—’
There was neither consent nor opposition in Shashi’s leaning form; she was bent over, but was still and speechless . . .
The same stillness had also filled Shekhar’s veins. It seemed to him that everything had been restored to its prior tranquillity because there was nothing else to come; everything had reached the point of unity with the absolute because it was nirvana . . . Although, somewhere in the distance, the clouds rumbled and the rain hissed, and there was a flash of lightning which revealed nothing and made the darkness that followed even darker.
Hovering over Shekhar was the shade from a young saptaparni sapling that trembled from some distant, drifting gust, a wind from the distant south, because it possessed a loving warmth and in the meantime, it had filled Shekhar’s nostrils with a fragrance—the same fragrance that comes from the first, all-consuming scent of sandalwood . . .
There is a line beyond which silence becomes is its own answer, and all questions are dissolved into it because it is the ultimate non-question . . . No one knew when the external calm around Shekhar seeped into his insides and he fell asleep. Later, he woke, startled by the sound of thunder crackling, but that wakefulness never went beyond a soporific confusion, and he became completely absorbed by the fragrant, protective cover of the saptaparni’s shade . . . Only once, as if hard facts meant to strike a blow to his liquid condition, Shekhar jumped and said, ‘Shashi, it’s very late. You have to go back—’ He tried to get up, but Shashi didn’t move. In her motionlessness, the icy rains of December answered for her, that it was already too late to go back home, and then Shekhar said, ‘You’ll exhaust yourself, Shashi,’ and he tried to get up again so that Shashi could sit properly; but she stayed his efforts with a silent hand, and he realized that the resolve in his mind and the strength of his limbs had been bound by a completely agreeable bondage; then that drowsiness completely enveloped everything, and in the shade of the saptaparni, existence slumbered . . .
Shekhar Page 49
