Witnesses were also deemed necessary for that; finally, the contract was prepared at the place where Shekhar first met the editor, and Shekhar placed his signature on it. When the editor took out the money and began to pay Shekhar, he said, ‘You fully understand the implication of the conditions that you have just agreed to, right? You cannot complain later if you disagree with the editorial decisions. I am doing all of this in good faith; you should take some satisfaction from the fact that at least your ideas will be partially published if not in full.’
Shekhar swallowed this bitter pill. The editor continued, ‘These days no one works on good faith any more. If tomorrow you begin to wonder why you handed your book over—’
Shekhar couldn’t take any more. He said, ‘If you’re worried that I will want to claim my authorship of the book later, then let me tell you that this is a baseless fear. I don’t believe that there will be anything left in the book after it is published that I will want to claim or for which I will be responsible. I’ve basically thrown the book down a well—and picked up the sixty rupees which were left there.’
The editor kept looking silently at Shekhar’s face. One of the two witnesses was a young man, and Shekhar thought that he could see anxiety mixed with sympathy in his face . . . Shekhar folded his hands in farewell and left.
Suddenly a voice called out to him from behind, ‘Excuse me—’
Shekhar turned around to look and saw the young man stumbling over himself to talk to him.
The young man looked all around and said, ‘My name is Ramakrishna. You remember Vidyabhushan—’
‘Which Vidyabhushan? The one who was in jail? He—’
‘Yes, that’s the one. We went to school together. He wrote to me about you, but why did you sell your manuscript?’
Succinctly, Shekhar said, ‘Because it was necessary. But what did Vidyabhushan write to you?’
‘You did the right thing. Your words have strength. Vidyabhushan wrote to me that you were very high-minded and that you had talent and determination. The nation has need of genius like yours.’
Shekhar laughed drily and said, ‘A very desperate need! And I, of money—’
Ramakrishna said, ‘If you were able to help us—’
‘In doing what?’
‘There are dozens of things. That’s why Vidyabhushan wrote about you. He said that because you have an interest in literature, you would be able to assist us in writing and publishing; so I found out where you live because I have connections to people in publishing. But if I have your permission, perhaps I could come to your place to talk—’
‘My place is in Gawalmandi on the fourth floor. Please come any time—’
Shekhar gave him his address and explained how to get there.
Ramakrishna spoke again, ‘You made a mistake giving up your book. If it was only a question of getting sixty rupees, then perhaps I—we—’
A little curious and a little hesitatingly, Shekhar said, ‘Who are “we”? Who are these benefactors who—’
‘We have an organization—we help all of our members as much as we are capable of—’
Seeing the light suddenly, Shekhar asked, ‘Are you a member of some revolutionary group?’
‘You could say that. We are social activists and among ourselves we consider it our duty to help each other—’
‘I have never known social activists to be providers of assistance. Where do you find the resources?’
‘From somewhere or another—but let’s talk more freely at your place—I can come, can’t I?’
‘Yes, whenever you like.’
‘Good. I will come by in a few days—’
Shekhar said goodbye.
Sixty rupees . . . was a significant thing because it could become the means to freedom . . . A means to freedom from the curse of imprisonment in a house where from all four sides—or rather, from every direction—came the coolness of the neighbours and even worse, the bitter cold!—because how could there be freedom without repaying debts or making arrangements for moving on! That tiny corner apartment which easily became a home when it found the shade of the saptaparni tree, shrank just as easily, because it had only known shade and more shade so far, and not suffocation of roots. The books were moved into a chest; the clothes, into a trunk—Shashi didn’t have very much yet!—and after he had returned the borrowed bedclothes, he brought back two thick, coarse blankets which could work as a bedroll . . . He had made all the other arrangements; the only thing that remained were the two mattresses because no decision had been reached about where they would go . . . The thought kept nagging at Shekhar that if they were going to move anyway, why not move so far away that the strings of the web all around them here couldn’t reach them; where things could be done peacefully, where Shashi could get some rest and get better, and where they could find some meaning to their lives . . . They didn’t have any wealth. They were prepared to start over from nothing. Why start over under the burden of debt? But he was also afraid at the same time that going too far might be dangerous for Shashi. A gentle feeling reminded him that a tree couldn’t flourish for long away from its natural habitat . . . Shashi was determined and she had forbearance, certainly, but . . . Sometimes he would think that when his nature and Shashi’s circumstances had thrown them into this cyclone where there was nothing other than spinning around and around, wandering, and struggle, then why not forget everything and the two of them could jump head first into this crazy, daring world; but then his worry about Shashi’s health made him reconsider. And so, withdrawing completely from the outside world, the friendliness between two lives continued to flourish in the two parts of the corner room.
Ramakrishna came two days later; he brought someone else with him. Shekhar took them to the sitting room part of his room and Shashi hid behind the corner.
Ramakrishna said, ‘We wanted to talk to you alone—’
Catching his drift, Shekhar said, ‘My sister is more trustworthy than I am—and she will help me as much as she can—’
‘Oh—then we will have to recruit her—we have a shortage of female volunteers—’
They started talking about work. Shekhar wanted to know so much about the organization, but at the time the demand to do something was substantially greater than the need for answers to his questions in his emotional condition, and when Ramakrishna said that they wanted to spread disaffection towards the British within the soldiers of the army so that the soldiers would mutiny and attempt to liberate India, he immediately agreed to write a forceful article that would help do that—and he was so excited that the words were already echoing in his mind’s ear . . .
Shashi gave her assent; the appeal was written in a day, and Ramakrishna came the following day and took it. At the same time, he gave Shekhar a few old leaflets and the party’s programme to read and said, ‘Please keep these in a safe place—’ meaning, these were proscribed materials.
And so Shekhar stayed on for two more days, and then two more, and then two more—and on the seventh day he went with Ramakrishna for four or five hours to use the duplicator in a house in a narrow alley in the city to get three or four thousand copies of the leaflet he had written.
Afterwards, they decided that Shekhar should stay for a few more days, and if it was impossible for them to live where they were, then Ramakrishna would make other arrangements somewhere in the city. Shekhar thought to himself, ‘This is all well and good, but how will we move after the money runs out?’ But he couldn’t say anything out loud . . .
*
Writing an autobiography is a kind of—it is full of arrogance: that there is something worth narrating, something giftable, worth preserving, memorable . . . It’s possible that that’s true, but who is an individual to claim this about himself? The mound of straw does not say about itself that there is life-giving grain in its womb—the grain says it when it gives strength to another body . . .
But am I simply writing an autobiography? Is this self-promotion? Doesn’t
my heart still say, ‘You should hide that which is yours, which is essential, which nourished and anointed you!’ Don’t I still want the things which have given my life importance, because—perhaps—they could be gifts or need protection, to remain my own and take them with me, keep them secret; because publishing means distributing, which can be a share in prosperity, but how can I make shares of myself . . . And still I bare myself enthusiastically, because this is not an autobiography, it is merely an acceptance, a witness, a witness to my soul. ‘I belong to myself, but only as much as it means or shares the same grammar of I belong to so-and-so, and so-and-so, and so-and-so’—My worth is in acknowledging this debt, otherwise I am nothing, an accidental aggregate of atoms without reason or consequence!
Shekhar was not a renter in his new ‘home’, just a guest. Ramakrishna had explained that he couldn’t find separate accommodations despite much searching, and moreover it wasn’t appropriate to live in places where they might ask too many questions, because that was the most worrying part of their work, so their organization had decided that Shekhar would be given accommodations with a supporter, Shashi and he would both live there, and the food would be prepared at home, and if they wanted, they could eat in their rooms, otherwise they could eat their meals with the family. And they wouldn’t have to pay rent for the room; the supporters had given it as their donation to the organization. All Shekhar would have to do was come up with thirty rupees a month for their food . . .
Shekhar gradually realized that he was beginning a new life. His rebellious attitude towards society was just as radical, but because he had been so separate from society it was taking on a new form—a shapeless feeling was transforming into a rebellion—a feeling which he had vaguely felt before, but had become clearer over the ten months spent in jail and had now suddenly become solid having found a relationship with these new comrades—so solid and clear as if it were taking shape . . . Sometimes a terrifying doubt would well up within him that he was becoming a fool again because unconsciously his intellectual hatred was taking on a completely anti-intellectual and crude character which would crush his spirit and reduce it to a substance that would only produce poison, not fire . . . And then sometimes he would think that his completely passionate life had been unfolding on an airy background and would now become solid on a new, firm foundation and would find with truth a greater peace . . .
And so the days passed, and he grew increasingly entangled in the net cast by the underground movement. That entanglement brought satisfaction, contentment and also a secret pride that it was voluntarily careening into the abyss. There was a hope that taking on a danger like that also erased mistakes and so gave life significance. It was wrong to gamble, but when one knew that the dice were made of fire and that touching them would burn one’s hands and one still played, then didn’t that give some evidence in support of a person? Shekhar knew that a zealous revolutionary outlook could be very dangerous because it had the same foundation supporting it as a sky vine, whose roots were nowhere to be found and so it has to cannibalize itself—but he also held on to the hope that because he realized this basic weakness, he wouldn’t fall victim to it, and that his intellect would help him as much as possible and would fix itself to an empty rampart and fortify it . . .
There was one reality inside this illusory enclave of unreality that he held on to with unwavering hands—Shashi’s love. Beneath whose suppressed expression was Shekhar’s undeterred faith that her love was unknowable, greater than experience . . . This faith and this knowledge became such powerful realities that they were ungraspable—if Shekhar ever started thinking about them, he would immediately realize that it was the biggest unreality that was making even the earthly extraterrestrial . . .
Love is like a flowing river—it lacks the quality of constancy. Just as a river either breaks through any barriers with its internal force and picks up speed as it flows or creates a new course from the sediment it is carrying and goes around the barrier, so too does love either grind down or move forward—or begins to change—like the flow of a river . . .
And while floating in this profound unreality, Shekhar gradually understood that there were either barriers or fetters there, there was something lacking in that unfathomable infinity . . . He had immersed himself in new work; and he could see that Shashi was assisting him, that she was continually reading and compiling the sociological materials that he had abandoned midway through his studies and advancing them; he took that to mean that both of them were completely absorbed by what they were doing and were finding a significance to their lives, and the cement that would strengthen their significance was their propinquity, their cooperation and intimacy, their enormous love—this was the biggest truth in Shekhar’s life . . . But sometimes when their eyes suddenly met, Shekhar felt a vague discontent and irritation and would look away and the mental picture he had created would evaporate, and then suddenly he would get exasperated with himself because he was creating a breach and a doubt in their perfect existence . . . In order to wash his doubt away, he would try to get closer to Shashi, and in a few moments of extraordinary intimacy he would be overtaken by a concern for Shashi’s health and realize that she was still in pain on the inside and that she was ignoring her injuries because she didn’t want to see anything other than Shekhar, because there was an ever-present danger in her concentration that if she looked at anything else, everything would be scattered to the wind—like that cursed female prisoner of the tower who had to continuously weave (and unweave and reweave!) to stay alive, and if she ever looked at the reflection of the outside world in her mirror everything would go dark, dense and black and be destroyed6 . . . And as soon as he realized it, a fiery doubt awoke inside him; and its whiplike sting made his already confused love even more agitated. He felt as though he wanted to get even closer to Shashi than would have been possible, couldn’t have been possible, was unthinkable, because it was even closer than a nerve is to pain . . . the pain of love, or the love of pain—‘Beloved, I cannot bear the pain of your love . . .’
There wasn’t too much work involved in writing leaflets and pamphlets; Shekhar had more than enough time. Gradually he began to understand that the organization’s work didn’t stop at propaganda. Their various activities included weapon gathering, preparing bombs and all sorts of chemical research, the organization of secret societies and many more activities . . . The breadth of his knowledge of the organization’s activities was gradually growing, or was allowed to grow; he went from being a volunteer in the publishing operation to being something of a co-director, and as a consequence his knowledge about various areas of work, was seen as natural for that work . . . And for the work at the heart of the propaganda, which was the spreading of consciousness and political discontent among women and students, it was seen as so natural to ask Shashi to help him, that he never even thought about it needing a decision; he just did it . . . She began writing a little, too, and helped with the typesetting. A few times she even secretly distributed the leaflets . . . But then (and who knows whose opinion it was) it was decided that such games of hide-and-seek could be played by others, and therefore, as much as possible, Shashi should continue to do only legal work and enter the societies of male and female students to do so . . .
That’s exactly what started happening. Shekhar would sometimes go to the societies of male students, because in order to produce effective propaganda, it was important to know something about the intellectual make-up of the people the propaganda was designed to reach, although he wouldn’t take part in any of the business. He would do something else. Shashi would go to the meetings of the female students or the women, and upon returning she would tell Shekhar everything that happened, who said what and who gave what response . . . Sometimes her eyes would suddenly glow with enthusiasm, and she would begin to elaborate on the speeches that were made during the meeting; she would be so fully engaged in it that Shekhar was overjoyed and thought that Shashi was happy and content, that she felt n
o shortage of significance in her life . . . Sometimes he was surprised to learn that Shashi had gone further with her natural, refined intellect than he had gone with his reading, logic and deliberation. And then he would stop and stare at her in bewilderment, and Shashi’s ideas and words would echo in the illuminated cavern of his mind . . .
‘Our morality is a territorial morality—north India is on this side of the Vindhyas, and on the other side is the southern peninsula—our moral lines are the same. One side is the truth, and on the other side is the wrong . . . And that’s why our morals are lifeless; their ultimate standard is not some living truth, but a mere line, a dead and beaten custom . . .
‘At the root of these morals is a prohibition, and so they are only negative morals. Let us conduct a review of all of the sacred smritis in the world; let us set aside those parts that are idiosyncratic or different as secondary, and then we will be left with three common aphorisms as our universal ethics—that we be content, speak the truth and avoid incest. If we go deeper, what do these tell us? They are three great prohibitions—the first is a prohibition on man’s natural avarice, the second is a prohibition against his natural fear, and the third is a prohibition against his natural sexual desires! Why is prohibition the root of all ethics—why can’t our morals be greater, why not instead of repressing our natural tendencies, make use of them—drink them in, devour them?’
The echo gradually dissipates, and in the stillness after the echo a hollow sound emerges, and suddenly a tight knot chokes Shekhar’s heart and tells him that all of his moral conclusions have been based on ignoring a fundamental truth and are therefore pointless—pointless and inconsequential is the intellect which leaves no room for the love of pleasure!
Receiving encouragement from Shekhar, Shashi gradually began attending ever-larger assemblies, in place of the meetings of the female students, Shashi went to the assemblies of both male and female students in the college, and then in addition to the students, the assemblies of the larger public, too. Shekhar wouldn’t go himself; he would wait for the return of an excited Shashi, and when she did return, the sight of her glowing face would make him so happy that it was as if he had returned with the spoils of victory himself . . . In her excitement he found no indication that would have let him know whether the red, warm glow on her face was glowing as a result of victory and joy or whether it was the result of some hidden turmoil; and in his excitement he didn’t take care to notice that the tension in Shashi’s voice was not directly related to the meeting or the significance of the issue discussed . . . Evening fell and the darkness grew thick. The isolating feeling of the two rooms was like the suffocating clutches of gnarled roots, and because of the unusual quiet from Shashi’s room, Shekhar got up and peeped inside and saw Shashi lying and staring unblinkingly at the ceiling . . . Sometimes he still did not understand what was happening; and other times he would be filled with the dread that Shashi was still unwell and that she might suddenly leave his side and go away—but he could never think past this point—the hypnotic charms of his work and also of his love dimmed his ability to see beyond the limits of a particular boundary . . .
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