*
Evening and morning, morning and evening—if there is any constant truth in this passing of time it is that Shashi and Shekhar are together, strung together on the same chain, with the same plan, the same goal in life, in their work, where encouragement is the only spring that bursts out into the open—there is definitely something that has to be done—many things—for Shashi and for his goals.
‘Reformer, you are paying too little attention to society and too much attention to cooking—decide for yourself, are you a reformer first or a chef?’
‘Why? Like everything else, our culinary arts are also in need of reform—that is also a tradition—’
‘And it is also an opportunity for creative expression—why not? But the question is which medium you are better suited for—paper-and-pen or flour-and-rolling pin?’
‘When you put it that way, it seems to me that they are exactly the same. The cook makes the bread, the guest eats it and the head of the house gets all the praise. The writer writes the book, the public enjoys it and the publisher gets the profit!’
‘I can tell that a little physical discomfort has made your wit sharper. So are you going to get to work on something or not? I am not going to let you do any of my chores—’
‘I’m going to write. I mean, I have a lot that I have already written.’ Shekhar says this quickly, because although Shashi appears to be better, she is still not well enough that she could swear to it! ‘But it’s not an issue to write about; you know this, the issue is whether anything comes from writing! It’s easy enough to make bread, but what happens when no guests come to the untouchable’s home?’
‘I keep on telling you that religion’s power only extends as far as it is still meaningful—otherwise whatever is meaningful wins! If only Brahmins are able to cook good food, that’s one thing, but since that’s not the case—’
‘But there is a conflict between what’s tasty and what’s healthy, and if—’
‘You can’t keep thinking such backward things—what is healthy can also be tasty, we will have to strive for that—’
‘Shashi, do you think it’s worth it if I finish up that article that I wrote for the Reform Society?’
‘Definitely, you should finish it. As long as you have the means to, you should write as much as you can—because as long as you are worried about finishing it, it will be a barrier to the rest of your writing—’
‘But I will still be worried! Since—’
‘Since what? You have three months to write without any worry—you’ll be able to finish a book at least—’
‘Three months? And what will we eat—rejection slips?’3 And then, when he suddenly realized Shashi’s implication, ‘Look, Shashi, I don’t want to talk about this. The money that Aunt gave you for your treatment will only be spent on your treatment, not on food for me, and—not for your food either, understand? Work of this sort has a crumbling foundation.’
Tenderly Shashi looks at Shekhar. ‘Fine, don’t take Aunt’s money. Will you take mine?’
Sharply, ‘What?’
Shashi gingerly caressed the gold chain around her neck.
‘That’s all there is—I’ve left the rest back there. And this is the only piece, so you won’t have to say “no” again.’
Shekhar tried to deflect the discussion, ‘Fine, if there’s nothing left to eat, I’ll take it—you can hold on to it as our savings. I’ll try and earn something from the things that I’ve already written.’
But the thought kept nagging at him that it wouldn’t be enough, that he would have to write much more if that necklace was to remain where it was, and the necklace was, after all, a gift to Shashi from her mother . . .
He sits next to Shashi on the ground, using the frame of the cot to support his back, and puts the paper on his raised knees in readiness to write . . . Not even worry produced that sense of intensity whose acrid taste makes one dip one’s pen and start critiquing; his mind is a shadow screen of experiences, experiences which despite being sweet have become separated from their emotional elements, because Shekhar has become indifferent to himself . . . He sits down to write . . . He wants to write something more creative than criticism; and underneath his incomplete satisfaction are enough remnants of bitter experiences that his creation will come to life, be powerful . . .
And the knowledge: that although Shashi would be completely unsuccessful in offering him any assistance in his concentration, still there would be two eyes staring from above his shoulders on to a blank piece of paper on to which Shekhar would spread his most intimate details . . . Did he have any right to complain about a writer’s bitter future when he had already obtained a writer’s greatest reward—a discriminating reader who was reading even before anything had been written—and was sending him the strength from her confidence.
But this knowledge was a hindrance—how could he write like that?
Gradually that happiness will also break away, Shekhar; then it will only give you strength if you write . . .
Slowly the isolation came—tenderly but completely . . .
The light became faint; Shekhar began leaning farther down, but when the light grew so dim that it became impossible to see even when he was leaning over, he relaxed his knees and sat up straight by pushing his shoulders and his head back—
He could hear Shashi’s breathing clearly, and he became aware that he could feel her warm breath on his shoulders . . . His isolation was swept away in the darkness. Shekhar was overwhelmed by Shashi’s proximity and a little embarrassed, ‘Have you been reading everything?’
‘Shekhar, I won’t be around one day, and by then you’ll be a famous man and typesetters will stand by your table so that they can snatch your finished pages and take them away. And then I will still be standing behind you and reading—and you won’t know it. But if you don’t write well I will scream in your ears—’
Shekhar got up to light a candle.
‘Shashi, will you sing a song in the darkness, then I will write a little more later, and in the meantime, dinner will be here.’ Shashi still isn’t eating anything. She drinks a little cold milk and some chemical solution which the doctor prescribed—
He cleaned out the glass case for the candle when the flickering mood in the room became garrulous—
Glow candlelight!
Amble near the mysterious life of the night!
Then abruptly stopping, Shashi said, ‘Not today, Shekhar. I will sing tomorrow—’
Shekhar understood, but he didn’t want to mention pain then, and he began softly humming the words to Shashi’s song. Then he said, ‘This isn’t a song—’
‘Then what is it?’
‘It’s poetry—Shashi, are these your words?’
‘Me—a poet?’
Shekhar lifted the lamp as if he were searching for a place to put it; and he looked at Shashi’s face in the fullest brightness that it offered.
That was when the children from the third floor came in and said, ‘We got some money today—we’ll get paper tomorrow—you will make us kites for sure, won’t you?’ The boy began looking at Shekhar’s face with deep concern.
Shekhar was silent for a moment—it seemed like such a long time ago that he made that promise . . . Then he asked, ‘How much money have you got?’
‘Four annas—’
‘And I have two annas—Father says that girls don’t fly kites—so I got a colourful scarf.’
‘Don’t fly kites?’ Then demonstrating that he remembered why, ‘Yes, it’s true, girls have balloons.’
‘Do you know how to make balloons float?’ the girl asks in despair.
‘Yes, I do—’
In disbelief, the boy says, ‘Hmm—don’t boys also play with balloons?’
Shekhar laughs. ‘If they wear brightly coloured scarves they can.’
Shashi calls the girl over and asks her, ‘What is your name?’
‘Kusum. And my brother’s name is Ved.’
‘Vedkum
ar Nanda—’ he says as if he is defending his honour.
‘Good, so come and see me before you go out to get your paper tomorrow—’
Shekhar sees the children off to the stairs and then begins pacing around. The kite festival was the day after tomorrow—morning—morning—morning . . .
The special issue on the kite festival had been published, but the editor was not in the office; Shekhar somehow found out where he was and got a hold of him. At first, he didn’t recognize him, but after he was reminded he said, ‘Were you ever in the military—’
‘No—’
‘You’re very punctual4—’
Shekhar swallowed that.
‘Whatever leaves-and-flowers we can offer, we always offer promptly—you know, of course, that immediate rewards are extremely miraculous—’
Stiffly, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘But we’ll have to go to the office to settle everything—’
‘So I will come with you—’
The editor shrugged his shoulders, ‘Let’s go then. No time like the present.’
He vacantly flipped through the pages of a notebook and read aloud, ‘Sri Chandrashekhar, leaves-and-flowers . . . here you go.’ He slowly opened his drawer and extended his hand to show Shekhar—two rupees. And then turning out his pockets, ‘At your service—’
For a moment, Shekhar looked at him in disbelief, then he grabbed the money from the editor’s hand, and brashly said, ‘Thank you.’
When he got to the door he turned around and said, ‘Do you write leaves-and-flowers in your ledger?’
‘Yes. Why?’
But it wasn’t right to insult the editor, so he would need to think calmly . . . With a great deal of restraint, Shekhar said, ‘Just because,’ and to himself, he repeated the reply that he had wanted to give, ‘If you had just put “water” instead, you would have saved a few letters.’
A vessel of water.5
When she saw the kites and balloons, Shashi asked, ‘Are these for the children?’
‘Yes.’
‘And did you get anything for yourself?’
‘For me? I’m not a child—’
‘Go and buy some dye; I will dye a handkerchief for you—you refuse to wear a turban.’
‘And what about you?’ Shekhar asked this irrepressible question and then shut up. He thought that he would go out in the morning and get some lotus flowers as a gift for Shashi.
‘Do you need to bring me up each time?’
‘All right. I will get some in the afternoon. No need to get your hands wet in this cold.’
When it was afternoon and the children still hadn’t come, Shekhar called out to them, ‘Ved! Vedkumar! Kusum!’
A while later, Ved came up wearing a serious expression and stopped at the door to the room.
Shekhar asked, ‘Why won’t you come inside—don’t you want me to make your kites?’
In a pathetic voice, Ved said, ‘Mother says I can’t.’
‘Why—what did she say you couldn’t do—’
‘She said, “Don’t go over there.”’ Then he looked over at Shashi and said, ‘She said boys from respectable homes don’t go to such places.’
Shekhar remained speechless. He looked at Shashi from the corner of his eyes and then looked straight ahead.
Ved turned and left slowly.
‘Wait, Ved—take this with you.’ Shekhar gave him all six kites, the string, the crushed glass and the balloons and said, ‘You should give these to Kusum—they will float if you light a candle under them.’
Ved’s face lit up for a moment and then deflated. ‘Mother won’t let me—’
‘No. Take them and put them on the roof; buy a few more with your own money and fly them all. Your mother won’t say anything if you don’t come up here, right?’
Ved left.
Shekhar kept moving around, back and forth, in the room, as if he had something to do.
Shashi said, ‘Shekhar, forget about the dye; it would be a waste of time. Sit and write—or come, dictate to me; you can dictate and I will write.’
Shekhar quietly sat down behind her, even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to write then; all he could think about was that bouquet of lotus blossoms that he wouldn’t buy tomorrow morning . . .
Were Shashi’s eyes still over my shoulder at my paper today—even now—as I am filling it with ink and reading just how well I’m doing by the dim light of this lantern in my jail cell? . . . I, who didn’t become a famous man, am now standing at the edge of possibility staring into the chasm of non-existence . . . Shashi, I’ve never heard the sound of your screams in my ears—and I have never been tricked into thinking I heard your voice, not even by a whisper . . . Coming from above my shoulders, I continue to hear the sound of your steady breathing escaping from its source with a delicate, thrilling touch; and I have never written a lie . . .
*
The people whom children from respectable homes are forbidden to visit, those same children carefully watch each step those people take . . . When the sun had fully risen and the sunlight had reached the inner courtyard, Shashi sat at the threshold so that she could look up at the sky and listen to the peals of laughter from the children on the roof, and Shekhar stood leaning against the wall near her. But it suddenly occurred to him that a pair of eyes were watching them from above, and those eyes had the same cold, unblinking, scrutinizing quality that stones or cold-blooded animals had . . . When he stared hard up above, a few hands went up and drew back the hem of a sari or the edge of a scarf; the stony eyes moved away from him and fixed themselves on Shashi. Just once, Ved looked down into the courtyard and then gave a confused look straight ahead and moved away. Shekhar went back into his room and began pacing slowly; a little later, Shashi went inside, too, and lay down.
Much later—well into the afternoon—Shekhar heard Kusum wailing and he went into the courtyard to see. Later a threat quieted the wails, and then Kusum’s face appeared above the wall of the balcony and her lips were still trembling from her sobbing, but her unblinking eyes stared down below.
The balloons had been torn up . . .
There were several benefits to living on the fourth floor. The fourth floor could keep the world at bay, but the fourth floor also had a ceiling, and in the winter’s sun the ripples from the world down below rose higher and higher . . . Shekhar began to feel that the room which had once been a refuge had now become a prison, and they couldn’t stay there any longer. He knew that Shashi felt the same way, but they both acted as if they didn’t see it . . .
They couldn’t stay there any longer, but could they find any place to live in Lahore—Wouldn’t each place be the same—already was the same? But where else—and how?
In his list of potentials, Shekhar had a completely finished manuscript of ‘Our Society’, ‘The History of the Family’, ‘Society and Politics’, a few more essays, three or four stories, his two hands, his determination and—Shashi’s loving blessing—the shade of the saptaparni tree.
Again, the same circuit, of publisher after publisher . . . And this time with the mandatory celerity and without the crutch of his principles! That somehow, on whatever conditions, ‘Our Society’ and ‘The History of the Family’ bear fruit—not because he wanted the fruit, but because this was the means that he had chosen for that end . . .
But there were far more connective ties in society than he had imagined—wherever he went, he found publishers who were not only familiar with him but also with the history of both books and their faces had a thin, deformed smile which said they knew not only the creation but also their creator . . .
With the last bit of hope in his despair, he went back to the same editor who had given him ‘water’ and called it ‘leaves-and-flowers’—he had decided that getting ‘water’ was still a big thing!
The editor looked him over from head to toe as if he were assessing an impending disaster and readying himself for it.
‘I’ve brought a few things for you to
consider—’
‘Well, you’ve done me a great favour—you can leave them here, and I—’
‘Look, it’s best to speak plainly. Do you want publishable things or not? I need something in return. And—’
With a suppressed disagreement, ‘You must be aware, our newsletter is a newsletter for families—it goes to their homes—’
‘So?’
‘Our subscribers are middle class.’
‘I understand, but—’
‘Which is why we also have to pay attention to which writers’ names are printed in our newsletter.’
It was no longer possible for Shekhar to take this as merely another indication that he was exposed! He said, ‘I understand. You spoke plainly, so thank you. But I am not insisting that you use my name. You can leave it unsigned, use another name, whatever you like.’
A little relieved and a little surprised, ‘Oh—good.’
‘And if it makes things easier, don’t take the stories and poems, just take the articles—these days articles are signed with pseudonyms or are printed anonymously because they are written by the editor himself—’
‘Oh—so you want me to take a beating—’
Laughing a little, Shekhar said, ‘If something I wrote gets attributed to you, then there is definitely a chance that you might take a beating—’
‘Nor does it help me if it gets out that you were the author—’
‘Right. But I am giving you complete authority. You can do whatever you want to the manuscript—’
Ultimately, it was decided that the manuscript of ‘Our Society’ would be turned over to the editor; after revising it, it would be published in parts, and if it appeared that the audience approved, it would be printed as a book—the book would carry the editor’s name, not the writer’s. The editor had complete freedom to add or subtract, change, publish or not publish. And in exchange for relinquishing all authority, Shekhar would either get 100 rupees two months after the book was printed or sixty rupees immediately; but if he wanted the money immediately, he would have to sign a contract in which all of this would be spelled out.
Shekhar Page 53
