This is definitely from a rose-tinted dream—the atmosphere has a crystalline cold clarity, but with an affectionate colour. Shekhar lifts his head slightly to touch the shady saptaparni sapling above him—would his head be able to see the vessels that coursed life inside of the saptaparni tree—could it feel the pulsing of its heart?
The soul of the saptaparni tree speaks—how gentle is the voice of the soul!—‘Are you awake, Shekhar?’
‘Hmm—’
‘Do you remember everything that you said?’
‘Yes—’
‘Do you know what it all means?’
The silence said, ‘Yes, I understand.’
‘There’s no shame in what you have given me. I can say without any embarrassment that it is a boon. And one does not have the option of declining a boon.’
‘ . . .’
‘I am a married woman. I have given myself voluntarily; I have made a vow of myself, of my world—turned them into sacrifices. And what I have given is not mine any longer, so I cannot speak for it; I cannot accept anything nor oppose anything, and—I can’t give anything.’ She fell silent; for a long time no one spoke, only the crystalline atmosphere began to feel a little colder—
‘I haven’t been miserly in giving up my selfhood—I gave it openly—I made a sacrifice of it and watched it all burn—turned to ash. I never thought that I was tricked, I knew that this was going to happen.’
There can be so much anguish in peace, and such cold-studded defeat in the crystalline redness of dreams . . . This was the end of everything, the end of dreams, too—
The soul of the saptaparni regained its strength once again—like a sacrificial fire rising up after a new offering!—and said, ‘But that part of my life, which is me, which is my “I”, is inside of you.’
Then a respite . . .
‘And it’s no less true, no less alive, just because it is intangible. Shekhar, don’t think of me as your sister, mother, brother, son or anything else because I—now—am nothing. I am a shadow.’ Then filled with an internal brilliance, ‘And despite being intangible, I—I am a part of you that you will not name.’
Again, silence—the red crystal trembles within it—
‘Shashi, is this—for you—an achievement—a sense of fulfilment?’
‘Achievement? Hardly! My life was neither that much soil nor that much—air. There is no achievement or fulfilment; but I am content, Shekhar, and the happiness of this contentment is your boon to me.’
The crystal fades into redness. The cold did not belong to the dream, but to the break of a rain-washed December dawn . . . Shekhar withdrew from under the shade of the saptaparni tree suddenly and sat up, a flickering light in his consciousness suddenly gave him a fleeting glimpse of the events of the last ten hours; and then quickly filled with the feeling that today he would look at Shashi in a different form with the light from the first rays of dawn and then, enveloped by the feeling of faith from the Vedic songs—some of which he had recited as a child and now read from a new reprint—he looked straight at Shashi and said, ‘Let my eyes be pure—’
Shashi’s distant voice fully embraced his mood, ‘And my vigil—’
Shashi got up. With one hand, she straightened out the wrinkles in the bedding on the cot from where she had sat all night, and then she went and stood by the window. Leaning against the sill, she spread both arms outside.
The sight of this slender, flexible but upturned sapling unexpectedly filled Shekhar’s heart with a grateful feeling of benediction. His gaze touched the averted form attached to the windowsill from head to toe, and he made a silent prayer to himself and waited expectantly for the first rays of light to illuminate Shashi’s outline in gold . . .
The reality of the reassuring rays of dawn never happened, merely a dull glow formed—as the day broke, the clouds thickened overhead. Who knows what mirthful desire prompted Shekhar to sit on the majority of the pages of ‘Our Society’ that had been scattered below; Shashi was still standing at the window, but now she faced him.
‘Shashi, do you still sing?’
An inward-looking, sad Shashi said, ‘Humph!’ which seemed to say, ‘Singing? Now?’ Then she said out loud, ‘I’m going back now.’
Shekhar made a gesture of tying up the pages of the scattered manuscript into a bundle and said, ‘Our entire society is waiting—’ (Torn, scattered scraps of a society—and Lala Amolak Roy’s edited-by-reform society . . . )
Shashi said, ‘It’s been a year since I last sang—’ There wasn’t an objection in it, just an acknowledgment of insistence, ‘I won’t sing now. I can only recite—’
Gradually the room began to reverberate with the waves of her voice becoming more distinct:
May air’s mid-region give us peace and safety, safety may both these, Heaven and Earth, afford us.
Security be ours from west, from eastward, from north and south may we be free from danger.
Safety be ours from friend and from the unfriendly, safety from what we know and what we know not.
Safety be ours by night and in the day-time! Friendly to me be all my hopes and wishes!19
But then Shashi turned herself around and stood facing the window and, after humming for a moment, began to sing in an unwavering but echoing voice—with a powerful and steady rhythm, like blood in a healthy vein . . .
Why has the sound of murmuring leaves arisen today.
From bloom to bloom
Waves of air quiver.
Who is the beggar knocking at my door
Needing my heart and my possessions.
My heart knows him,
Knows the flowers blossoming in his song.
The stranger’s footsteps echo in my heart today.
Waking me, suddenly.20
Shekhar’s mind wandered far away, listening to that voice and watching that composed back produce a rising and falling vibrato. That moment seemed so remote when he used to hide to try and listen to the waves of Shashi’s radiant songs, when he would stand perfectly still to listen to her singing—remote not only from himself, but also from Shashi . . . She was happy then—happy in her flawless happiness, she who didn’t understand her own condition; and today—today she knows that she isn’t even happy in her happiness, only content—content meaning patient—she believes this destruction of her personality, this decimation, to be a kind of dignity and owns it . . .
But if this is the case, even if Shashi is content in this moment, then isn’t this the most important moment in Shekhar’s life since he cannot give Shashi any greater joy than this? And—and since this moment between yesterday and today has completely changed his life—
He recalled that when he was saved last night by an unknown woman he had been furious with her and had come home thinking what was it to anyone—what was it to anyone . . . Today—today he was something to someone—and he knew that he was something to someone . . .
Wasn’t this the right moment—this very second—to do what he had set out to do yesterday? To be snuffed out by the happiness of an accomplishment and a satisfaction, given and received—and what an accomplishment! . . . If he were to slip away quietly now, disappear with Shashi’s song ringing permanently in his ears—
He slinked his way over to the door slowly, and stood up straight when he got to the threshold—
She suddenly stopped singing and said, ‘Shekhar, where are you?’
He stood still. Shashi turned around and asked, ‘Where were you going?’
Shekhar didn’t say anything.
‘Are you still feeling guilty? Shekhar, I’m telling you, you won’t go anywhere.’ And then with the same resolute but completely altered voice, ‘Look at me, Shekhar—look into my eyes. Can you be that wilful—are you absolutely alone?’
Shekhar lowered his eyes. Defeated, he returned to the room.
‘Tell me what I should do, what do you think—’
Shashi gestured a sweet slap with her hand and said, ‘There’s so much time for t
elling and listening. I’m going now—it’s morning already. But if you do anything crazy this time, then—’ She raised one finger and left the sentence unfinished.
Shekhar said, ‘Something is wrong with my brain—I’m completely crazy.’ There was a note of weariness and shame in his voice.
With the serious voice of an intellectual, but full of laughter, Shashi said, ‘Crazy—not crazy. But a very big kid!’ And she went down the stairs. Shekhar began gathering the scattered pages of ‘Our Society’.
Suddenly the morning’s feelings rose within him again, and he was surprised and asked himself how quickly Shashi’s mind reflected his own emotion. This curiosity made him even stronger. Gratefully he said again, ‘Let my eyes be pure . . .’
And Shashi joined in, ‘And my vigil—’ But the vigil was mine, Shashi, the vigil was mine—I remain in vigil for the consequences of your good deeds . . .
Part 4
Threads, Ropes and Nets
Cloudy and cold, but the day’s breath is beautiful—beautiful and tender, freshly bathed . . . Had he been a singer, he would have drawn the soul of the day with the paintbrush of his voice—had he been a painter, he would have painted it; had he been a sculptor, he would have caught its breath in crystalline shape and chiselled it—not immortal, it was already immortal, but he would have drawn its form into a physical halo . . . Because joy has a definite shape that can be felt by the intellect’s fingers—and since there isn’t a given, physical form, the artist gains an interpretive freedom—imagery and desire become handmaidens to that form—
Shekhar would write. If it was possible, he would write poetry, but he would definitely write something, because he could never remember his mind being as clear as it was today, and who knew if this wave of life, which he had found after waiting for ages, would ever crest again . . .
Was there nothing that was beyond writing, that was so vast, so deep, that could not be contained because it was itself the container?
There was. But no one dared to try and capture it. The shade of the saptaparni covers me, everything else is gone, but I can take in the rustling in her breath and melt into it. I can even hum the melody . . .
Creation is first and foremost an act of appreciation . . .
Shekhar began to write.
*
Nine, ten, eleven, eleven-thirty—
In jail, Shekhar learned to tell a person’s mood from the sound of their footsteps, which is why he was startled by the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs. Such aversion, such weariness in dragging one’s self through the snares of the muck and weeds of life! Who was this poor soul on this unsullied day, who—
But the weak feet stopped at the threshold, and there, with one arm and one elbow leaning on the door frame and the shoulder leaning on the hand, with a pallid complexion and cloudy, glassy eyes that stared out into nothing, was Shashi.
He stumbled to his feet and said, ‘Hey, what are you doing here—’ and then when he saw Shashi’s face he rushed to help her.
‘I’m here, that’s all—I won’t be going back there—no, don’t touch me, I’ll be gone soon enough—’
‘Hey, what are you saying, Shashi—’
‘He’s kicked me out of the house.’
‘What—why?’ He was stunned, ‘Come inside, Shashi. Let’s sit and talk—’
‘No, Shekhar; I’ve been abandoned by my husband, I’m a fallen woman, I’m not fit to be anywhere. Don’t ask me to come inside—’
When he saw Shashi bending down to sit by the threshold, Shekhar, wounded, started to say, ‘Shashi—’ but then he suddenly realized that she wasn’t sitting down intentionally, but that Shashi was sitting down because she couldn’t stand any longer. He rushed to grab her by the arm to support her and then led her inside.
‘Yes, I was saying. Think it over, Shekhar. There’s still time. There is no reason for you to invite me or let me come inside. I haven’t come to stay for long—I can’t bear the thought of causing someone else trouble—and you—definitely—never . . .’ Her voice broke, and in a voice full of strain, ‘And what you have given me—’
Shekhar closed her mouth with his other hand and led her to the cot; he made her sit and then gently tried to get her to lie down—
Suppressing a groan, Shashi said, ‘No, let me sit—’
Shekhar moved aside slightly and said, ‘Why did he kick you out, Shashi?’ And then immediately, ‘If it’s too hard to say, then don’t worry—’
‘I will tell you. I have to be going soon, after all. He said that I am a harlot, a sinner.’
And after a moment’s silence, ‘Why?’
‘I was out all night—’
‘What? Didn’t you tell him that you were here—with me?’
Shashi didn’t seem to be saying anything, but she still turned her face away. She didn’t speak.
‘Why didn’t you tell him? I will go right now—’
Flaring up, ‘No, no! Don’t go there—’
‘Why—’
‘No, Shekhar, no! I—’
‘You didn’t tell him?’
Somehow Shashi managed to say, ‘He—he knew.’
‘So?’
Just as the banks of a river slowly collapse in a flood, Shashi’s patience was breaking down. Gradually becoming more agitated, she said, ‘Don’t ask me to tell you, Shekhar; I can’t repeat those words to you—’
‘Do we keep secrets from each other, Shashi?’
‘Oh, you don’t understand, you don’t understand at all! He thinks—you have no idea what he thinks—he thinks—that I spent the night here—that I am fallen—oh, no, no, Shekhar!’
As her voice became even more upset, it began to sound like a hiccup; and then silence descended and it swished as it flowed on . . .
A little later, Shekhar said, ‘I understand, Shashi! Enough’—then stopping and repeating—‘I understand everything . . .’
His voice became so calm and steady that Shashi’s unsettled gaze focused on him, and nervously she asked, ‘What will you do, Shekhar?’
Thoughtfully, ‘No, I won’t do that again, Shashi. I won’t do anything.’ Then, ‘And you, Shashi?’
‘What about me?’
‘What will you do?’
Shashi laughed a weak, hollow laugh—‘Me!’ And then seriously, ‘Shekhar, if you just say the word, I’ll leave. I will really go away. I will really go away. Just say it!’
Wounded, Shekhar threatened, ‘What should I say? What do you—’
‘It’s not because it would make things simpler for you; it would also help me, Shekhar—’
Shekhar went to the window. He said, ‘They say there is something attractive about heights—a terrible attraction.’ And then to make his meaning clear, ‘One person could jump from a four-storeyed window, two people could jump. That’s one way.’
A trembling admonition, ‘Shekhar!’
‘No, I can’t say that that way should be taken. There must be—another way.’
‘Another way! What?’
Shekhar spun around and said, ‘Shashi, promise me that you won’t do anything, won’t go anywhere—’
‘I—where would I go—not go anywhere?’
‘Don’t stall, Shashi; say it: you won’t go anywhere—’
‘. . .’
‘Say it, Shashi, promise me—’
‘Is that what you want, Shekhar? Is that what you wholeheartedly want—’
‘Shashi, will you trust me this much—’
Slowly, and curiously, as if testing to see how these words sounded, Shashi said, ‘I won’t go. Perhaps not going—is giving—is paying debts—’ Then coolly, as if neither side had anything left to say or hear in the conversation, she closed her eyes . . .
Shekhar began pacing back and forth in his room, trying to understand and accept all that was said completely . . . The promise of intimacy that was established last night—had been made, there was no doubt in his mind about that—Shashi was unquestionably and i
nescapably a part of his world; and the ethics of the duty he had sworn to stand by Shashi—a deeply held, and considered his privilege, ethics—were just as unquestionable. But wasn’t acknowledging this certainty merely seeing the certainty of the situation; wasn’t avoiding the situation just as likely a certainty? . . . He realized that the insistence that ‘there has to be another way’ was not the reassurance of ‘there is another way’. That reassurance—
Shashi got up and staggered towards the door—
Shekhar moved towards her to help her, ‘Yes, Shashi—’
‘No, stay here. I am going out for a bit—’
Worried, Shekhar said, ‘Shashi, you promised—’
‘Shekhar, I will be right back; stay here in the room—’ Then with a thin smile that disappeared with the emotion, she said, ‘Don’t worry.’
Shekhar stood lifeless in the middle of the room, but there was a vigilance in that lifelessness—from just outside, he heard the noise of water being sprinkled and then a breathy moan; then the sound of a faucet running . . .
‘Shekhar—’
He raced outside. Shashi was bent over, using the faucet for support, reaching out towards him. Shekhar helped her back inside and asked, ‘What’s wrong, Shashi? What happened—’
‘Nothing, nothing—’
Why the unnecessary insistence? Concerned, Shekhar asked, ‘Should I call the doctor?’
‘No, it’s nothing, Shekhar—’ But as soon as she lay down on the cot, Shashi immediately curled up and half-sat up; and then painfully changing positions, she became still, one arm slowly rising and then resting on her forehead, her fingers moving towards her hair, three nails disappearing in her tresses—suddenly Shekhar can see that although Shashi’s eyes are open, she neither sees or understands anything, not even that Shekhar is there—or that he even is . . .
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