Was the power of unity the power of death?—Was the only reward for understanding one another not having anything to say to the other, nothing to exchange between vacant, unblinking eyes on one side and on the other, a confused, dumb stone? And then the implication of the whole affair—Rameshwar’s attack, Shashi’s injury, cruelty—fell like a hammer blow on the mirror of Shekhar’s consciousness; he was outraged. A tension overtook his entire body and welled up in his soul, and for a moment, he made an offering with his gaze fixed on Shashi; then he slowly freed the blanket from under Shashi’s feet and covered her with it. He wrapped an old shawl around his shoulders and headed outside.
‘Where are you going?’
Shekhar was caught off guard, but without stopping, he said, ‘I—I’ll be back, Shashi. You should stay here—’ and he quickly went downstairs. He didn’t have a clear plan in his mind, except that he knew that he was going to see Rameshwar face-to-face.
Rameshwar was sitting in front of the doorway; Shekhar saw him a second before he did; but in that second, Rameshwar’s composed, sparkling face contorted and bristled; two brows, dense and already connected, became entangled like a milk hedge—
‘How dare you—what are you doing here—’
Ignoring Rameshwar’s bark and pushing him to one side, Shekhar said, ‘What I am doing—that will be settled here. But what have you done—are you out of your mind?’
‘Shameless! You’ve come to prosecute me—she went to you with her charges, didn’t she—get out of my house—what was she to you anyway—’ Rameshwar’s face was extremely contorted with rage and revenge. His nostrils and lips were flared; Shekhar realized his rancour had gone so far past the point of logic that if he didn’t speak slowly, he would start stammering like a child! But what entitled him to such anger—had he been grievously wronged? That cruel, blind, murderousness! Sternly, Shekhar said, ‘I didn’t come here to give you answers, I came to demand them—’
For a few moments Rameshwar kept spitting out ‘you-you-you’, as if Shekhar’s challenge had rendered the astonishment that had flashed across his face incoherent and speechless. Shekhar took advantage of the opportunity to speak directly and quickly, ‘Shashi was at my place. I came home late. I was suicidal—’ and then stopping for a second, ‘She stopped to comfort me, and then the rain—’ and then realizing that he was giving answers, and even then incoherently, he bit his lip and left the sentence unfinished. ‘You are making such a big mistake, you don’t even realize it. Shashi—you aren’t even fit to touch her feet, and you, sir—’ He was surprised that some lingering sense of responsibility to Shashi compelled him to address this man as ‘sir’.
There is a sound that a scythe makes when sawing through broken bamboo, and a sound just like that was being made by someone speaking from the door to the room behind Rameshwar, ‘So go and kiss her feet, you—maybe having you lick them will cool her down—’
Shekhar was startled to see that behind Rameshwar was a woman’s face, from whose countless, dark wrinkles emerged a rotting reflection of Rameshwar; there were the same dense brows, but in the sockets below them were two, thick clumps of mould where the eyes should have been . . . Was this Rameshwar’s mother? Shekhar hadn’t seen her before and didn’t know when or why she had come.
‘She stayed to comfort him. Did you get so much comfort last night that you became this audacious—you villainous scoundrel!’ He spit at Shekhar like a cobra with its hood flared, as if he discovered a new reserve of anger, and Shekhar saw an old face with quivering, mottled whiskers had appeared next to him.
‘He’s shown his true colours now—goes around town calling himself a communist. He’s just got out after a year in jail—no respectable home should let him enter. Communists consider women to be common property—atheists! It’s their job to mislead young women and turn them into whores. They’re all worthless, they have no money, so this is their cheap trick. First “sister”, then “comrade”, then “whore”. What’s it to them if someone’s family is destroyed—they get a new whore—a girl from a respectable home, and for free!’ Filled with the feeling that the crimes of this class of people were indescribable, he poured all of the venom inside of him into a single word which those mottled whiskers paused over for a second and then released, ‘Communist!’
Shekhar felt as though he were on another planet; some planet of slimy white ooze and black pits filled with poisonous vapour—shocked and stunned, he couldn’t even be angry at this vulgar assault, merely speechless. But the stallion of Rameshwar’s anger broke through its bit after being whipped a second time and raced on—Rameshwar suddenly stepped up to Shekhar and slapped him across the face.
This was definitely another planet, where nothing happened with thought or deliberation—or even intention—everything happened automatically, willed into existence by some damned, demonic power inside the event itself—the flash of the event decides for itself . . . The faint outline of a slap is on Shekhar’s face; with an automatic reflex, Shekhar’s hand went up and grabbed the assailant’s wrist, and the grip gradually tightens and the wrist is bent backwards—the violent impulse has gone dead in the wrist which begins to shake under the pressure of that grip. A fuzzy thought, that the grip might become so tight that Rameshwar’s bones might begin to crack—that the wrist was Rameshwar’s, that if it hadn’t been Rameshwar’s wrist, but his throat, then—if it had been . . .
But why was it a wrist, and why wasn’t it a throat? It definitely was a throat; but a throat could be crushed the same way that a wrist could be, because the grip has no intention, no desire, it is only a grip, a demonic force that runs on its own, even though it is blind—
A touch on Shekhar’s shoulder tore through the veil of that other planet, and Shashi said, ‘Shekhar!’
The grip slackened, but the hand remained in the exact same spot. Then Shekhar suddenly felt as if his hand had been gripping some gelatinous piece of filth, he spread out his fingers and then his hand swung down immediately.
In the silence, the course of that demonic force continued unabated for a long while . . .
Then Shashi said, ‘I was afraid that you would do exactly this. Why did you come here?’
Shekhar’s complete rebellion peeked out from his silence.
‘You should leave—’
Shekhar’s stare bored straight into Shashi’s. After a few moments, he said, ‘And you? You should leave, too—’
‘Go away. Go away because I’m telling you to.’ Her voice had the pride of command that knew that it had authority not just over the people nearby, because it also directed the ground on which she stood, because that, too, was her subject.
Shekhar silently began descending the stairs; his entire being cried out in protest at his expulsion, but not a single word escaped his lips, and if there was one thought that was clear in his mind it was that all the devotion, the faith, the love that not one but fifty Shekhars could give to that queen had all in the manner of an instant been shamed and stripped naked.
He didn’t turn around to look, but he understood what was happening behind him by means of a sixth sense . . . For stunned figures, Shashi’s eyes made a circle from the first to the second, from the second to the third, where they stopped and remained fixed. No one had the ability to read that gaze, not even the one on whom it was now fixed and would not leave, who would quickly turn inwards in shame!
Suddenly the door slammed shut and then came the clicking noises of the lock being locked. It was only then that Shekhar turned around to look; six or seven steps above him, Shashi stood like a stone column outside that closed door. He didn’t say anything. He just stayed there and then slowly began descending the stairs. That’s when he noticed that there were sounds of someone else’s slow and hushed footsteps following him.
When Shashi had followed him down to the street below, from the window above, a moustache-strained voice spoke, ‘She’s gone—’
Then the grating voice of a scythe sawing through b
roken bamboo raised a taunt.
‘Take him into your lap, shamefaced whore—bitch!’
Shekhar figured out that the lack of any mention of him in these cries was the result of his responsibility. He didn’t turn around, but he did pause so that Shashi could walk next to him . . .
*
In the double isolation of the room, there was so much to learn, so much to ask, which Shekhar still hadn’t understood and hadn’t asked; he had never asked, and who knows when he understood, there had been no opportunity to ask in between the momentary flashes of the tiniest, disconnected, wilful waves of anger, Shekhar had gathered that something more important was happening behind and inside of everything that he had seen, had kept happening, but where was the time to gather and disentangle the meaning of those feelings when there were so many immediate matters that had to be considered and demanded resolution . . .
Shashi wasn’t lying on the cot, she had collapsed into it, her body gathered into a question mark, her eyes involuntarily closed and opened a little late. Shekhar knew those eyelids were hiding a hurt . . .
It was important to settle some questions immediately before it became dark. The evening meal came from the restaurant, but the restaurant had to be informed—this time, he would cook something himself—when he got back; first of all, bedclothes and another blanket for cover . . .
Shekhar took out a new change of clothes and started to go outside to change. Lifelessly, Shashi asked, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I’m going to the college for a bit. I will be back in an hour.’ And then taking one step backwards, ‘Shashi, don’t be afraid. I won’t do anything. And you—you should stay here. Don’t go out.’
After he had changed his clothes, he went to Shashi and stood watching her for a while. Then he said, ‘You should go to sleep now, you’re very tired. You were up all night, and this morning—’
In agreement, Shashi said, ‘All right, I will go to sleep.’
*
Half an hour later, when he returned from the hostel with three blankets, a thin mattress and a rug under his arm and ten rupees he had borrowed in his pocket and the expression of recent success on his face, Shashi was sitting perfectly still next to the tap, and the water was running . . .
Shekhar gathered up his bedclothes and took out a new bed sheet and spread it over the cot for Shashi, and having decided to make his bed in the other part of the L-shaped room, he took his bundle of remaining bedclothes and put them there. Then he brought Shashi back to the cot; a crust of ice had formed on the surface of his mind and he couldn’t bring himself to ask her anything; he put her to bed and when he went to the cupboard to get things for dinner, he saw that the stove had been lit, pots and pans had been scattered about, dishes of lentils and boiled potatoes had been set aside, and a few rotis had also been prepared, but it was as if the work had been abandoned in the middle, the flour hadn’t even been put away, and there were two sparrows sitting in the window to the closet waiting to fill their beaks—there were a few signs that the birds had already been in the flour . . . He went back to the room and loudly said, ‘Shashi, you—you are just terrible.’
Shashi smiled like the accused and said, ‘What could I do? I didn’t get a chance to clean up the pots and pans. I can clean it all up now—’
In fake irritation, Shekhar said, ‘Is that what I was saying? Why did you all of this work—all right, now you have to enjoy the fruits of your mischief. You should sit up. I’ll make a plate for you.’
‘I didn’t make it for me. You should eat—’
‘It’s your punishment. You eat first. I will wash the dishes and then I will eat.’
‘No, that’s not right—you have to eat.’ Then—unwillingly, ‘Even if you won’t let me do the dishes—’
‘All right, all is forgiven. I will fix a plate for me, too.’
Drained, Shashi said, ‘No Shekhar, I won’t eat.’
‘What? On your first day here, you are going to cook and feed me but go hungry yourself? What must you think of me? I—absolutely won’t eat.’ And then to lighten the mood, he made sure that Shashi could tell he was playing when he jauntily used the expression ‘Sisterji,’ and he imitated his father, ‘I am the offspring of the ever-hospitable Aryans—’
Shashi smiled a little to acknowledge his efforts, ‘I came this morning as a guest—but you didn’t let me remain a guest. And now I—’ and then suddenly changing her tone, ‘yes, and now even if I want to be a guest, I—’ Shashi stopped again when she saw Shekhar’s face. She said, ‘I won’t say it, there! I don’t want to hurt you, Shekhar, I would certainly eat, but I—can’t eat.’
Shekhar was struck with worry, ‘Why Shashi? What’s the matter—are you—hurt somewhere?’
‘Me—my—I’m not feeling well.’
Shekhar could tell that this was not an admission, but a deflection; but he knew Shashi; if she didn’t want to reveal something, she wouldn’t. Insistence was futile.
‘So you won’t eat at all—not even a little bit?’
‘No, Shekhar. Bring your plate here. If you eat in front of me, it will be like I’ve eaten, too—’
‘. . .’
‘I won’t take no for an answer—otherwise I will take it to mean that you find the food that I’ve cooked unworthy—’
Shekhar quietly went to the cupboard.
Who knew if it took more self-will or not to swallow down balls of mud even when one wasn’t hungry. But Shekhar had a vague sense that a flooding stream of love was flowing towards him from Shashi, and the love inside him was growing only for her, like a waterfall that gushes forth to admire the eager, foamy splash at the bottom of the cliff . . . And the seed of affection that sprouted in this manure of pain and stigma was a manifestation of mankind’s biggest, visible miracle . . .
*
There really were many things that I didn’t understand at the time, and before, I didn’t even have the ability to imagine I could understand. But I gradually learned. But I couldn’t draw a clear line between not knowing and knowing; I can’t clearly recall when I was told the full history behind these events. I definitely was told, because it was like a separate account in the treasury of my consciousness, which was never separated from that treasury, had always been a part of it—a part of my being. And it was such an inseparable part of me that when I recall it, it feels like they were all my feelings; not the imaginary associated images I created upon hearing Shashi’s feelings. In my memory, I become Shashi, I remember her memories, I suffer her traumas, her silences, her matchless, unbroken pride fills me . . . Shashi is no longer, but I am Shashi; so I am no longer, as well—just was. But right now I am more hurt by her pain than by my own, taller from her pride, and therefore she lives . . .
They say that those events that are experienced with very intense emotions are like indelible lines drawn in stone on the slab of consciousness, and recalling them is like recalling an entire picture, not the mere memory of this or that line or shape. Which is to say that when these events are recalled, they are done in a necessary, unchanging sequence, in which the pen of the one recollecting has no independence, it is bound to follow the sequence of events . . . There is another line of thought that says that the consciousness tries to erase experiences born out of trauma, and it gradually wraps them in so many veils of repression that its outline becomes completely concealed; it becomes completely erased from a person’s memory. But in my experience, these intensely experienced events are neither erased from the slab of memory nor are they permanent and unchanging like histories written in stone. I have seen that some scenes are brilliant like flashes of lightning, and there are others which have been snuffed out and the connective thread between events has been broken; not just broken, but tangled up; which means that I can’t even see those bright events in the proper temporal sequence—they come lit up in a wilful order and then leave, and I can’t say with any confidence which was first, which was second, all I can say is that they all happened
; which is not to say that this is all that happened or that it happened in this way . . .
Or is it that in waiting for the final verdict, the accused suppresses his resignation and places the judgemental wisdom of the creator upon the stallion of his memory? Have I, in my last days, fallen under the deluded notion that I have actually succeeded in my plan to search for the meaning, for the purpose of my life, searching for accomplishment and success—that I have merely flinched from the cruelty of real evaluation and settled for the laziness of fabrication?
But isn’t fabrication the greatest cruelty, the greatest activity, since it makes a gift of its life to its creation?
And is the truth of an event the greatest truth, and is its sequential order the necessary sequence of life? Isn’t the sequence imposed by life more important for one who has resigned himself? Isn’t it an even greater resignation to negate the opposition between both internal and external time?
When he comes back inside, Shekhar sees his aunt, Vidyavati, sitting on the rug next to Shashi’s cot. His hearts skips a beat; it was as if he had ignored the fact that there were others in the world beyond the triangle of Shashi, Shekhar and Rameshwar. He didn’t doubt that there was a society outside this small circle; but he was also certain that his aunt was in no way outside the circle, either; and in the middle of this embarrassing dilemma was Aunt—
Shekhar made a formal greeting and said, ‘Aunt, why are you sitting on the floor—’
His aunt made a gesture of blessing with her hand, but didn’t say anything. Shekhar saw that her complexion was completely sallow and that there were lines beneath the two dark half-moons under her eyes which touched the corners of her mouth and were stretching down to reach her chin; and that Shashi’s face was turned towards hers but her eyes were fixed on the frame of the cot—
Shashi said, ‘Shekhar, you should go out for a while.’ He paused and then left. His trust in Shashi was now greater than his trust in himself. When he went into the courtyard, he even closed the door behind him, and he began pacing in the courtyard. Then he suddenly went to the cupboard and began turning everything over and completely cleaned out the shelves and then began replacing everything properly . . .
Shekhar Page 51
