In this spellbound foolishness, Shekhar prepared Shashi for a public rally in which there would be several speakers. The current wave of the Non-Cooperation Movement was at its height, and no matter where or what kind of assembly it was, political issues were certain to come up; that was why members of underground organizations began taking part in these assemblies and were able through them to enlarge their circle of influence and increase their membership. Shekhar prepared Shashi to speak about the primary topic of this particular assembly, ‘Equal Rights for Women’, and decided to go with her, too, because new, related issues could be addressed through the assembly and relationships could be established with like-minded fellow travellers . . .
Shekhar was sitting in one of the back rows on one side of the stage in the assembly, and his mind seemed to be separated into two different planes of existence—one was listening to the speakers and the other was gauging the pulse of the collective audience—the pulse of its collective form as well as the differentiated individuals within it, measuring the extent of its agreement and disagreement . . .
Shashi rose to speak—she slowly moved forward, standing up with a gentle push of the fingers of one hand on the table, and took in the gathered crowd with a quick scan, and then Shashi began speaking.
Shekhar observed everything with a redoubled vigilance and he could tell that as soon as Shashi stepped forward a current of interest and excitement went through the crowd, as if its collective consciousness leaned forward, and at the same time, Shashi shrank in direct proportion and took a few steps back, and her helplessness at having to say something necessary produced a look of dread on her face . . . A slight feeling of pride welled up within him; Shashi was so far above them all despite being surrounded by them, so unattainable! Those whose inner lives are fulfilling, and expansive, can remain detached and aloof from external concerns . . . And wasn’t it this expectation of external fulfilment that was taunting the audience, wasn’t that the attractive force that was drawing them closer, wasn’t it . . .
Shekhar was so absorbed by reading each individual face in the assembly that he forgot to listen; the waves of Shashi’s voice—strong, calm, but affected by some internal vibration—lapped at his insides even though he wasn’t paying attention, and as long as the voice continued in that way, Shekhar was reassured and didn’t feel the need to understand the content—
But what was this slightest of tremors in her voice, its heaviness begins to dissipate, and where had this sharp rebellion come from to undermine her calm—
‘It’s easy to take pride in exemplars, the Hindu ideal of marriage, the obligations of householders, the Hindu ideal of the faithful wife—but is the water beneath our mossy pride still vital or has it turned fetid? There are two sides to domestic duties; but in today’s world the man gives nothing, forget companionship, not even compassion, and woman has become a mere instrument of man’s pleasure; woman is a thing, which can be destroyed in the fire of his lust whenever he wants, however he wants, wherever he wants! And there is no appeal7 for this situation, because if the woman ever makes a complaint, she gets a firm answer, “Why do you think people get married?” This is not an ideal, it is the death of an ideal, a heap of lifeless bones in skin that has been dead for ages—’
Shekhar thinks Shashi is distant from this assembly but she is absolutely not distant from her own words—other people speak from outside the topic or from above it, but it was like a fire burning inside her—should she have been speaking with such intensity? But if not, then what was the value of speaking about it—if you didn’t have light to offer, the rest was darkness—
He is startled back into noticing the crowd—the people weren’t listening, they were smirking—and the determination in Shashi’s eyes was scanning the fickle audience—to find somewhere, something on which it could settle—suddenly, a cackle breaks out in the audience somewhere and then the whole crowd erupts in laughter, and the roar is provoked by either a few whistles or Shashi’s screaming voice, ‘It’s fine. This is all that you have to offer. Your ideals, this heartless, stupid insult—’
What had happened to the assembly? And was that really Shashi? No, Shashi, no, there was no point to fighting with the audience, confronting the audience’s stupidity was totally stupid, it would only—
When Shekhar saw Shashi’s fully flushed face, he jumped on to the stage and began pulling her to get her away from the middle of the uproarious disorder in all directions, but it was as if Shashi didn’t recognize him at all and only recognized the audience and her wounded, embarrassed womanhood . . . Somehow, Shekhar pulled her backwards, off the stage, and took her to a room in the back, where he forced her to sit on a chair while he slammed the door facing the stage shut, and when the cacophonous din died down Shashi stood back up, but Shekhar took her outside; he caught a passing tonga and seated Shashi in it and then got in himself. ‘Let’s go—’ he said and answered the ‘Where to, mister?’ he heard and noticed that Shashi’s body was still trembling, just like a bowstring after releasing an arrow . . . he sat perfectly still, and only after they got to their destination and he had paid the tonga-wallah and he had given Shashi his arm for support did he say with gentle concern, ‘Shashi—’
It was as if something had broken inside Shashi, she stumbled and Shekhar’s supporting arm realized that she had fallen unconscious . . .
As he laid her down in the room, Shekhar could not have imagined that unconsciousness might be a gift from the gods, that they shower down flowers of forgetfulness as their gift of relief from unbearable tension, that the enfeebled body of an individual gets rest in that magic-drenched sleep and on waking, is renewed; as he sprinkled drops of water on Shashi and fanned her face with a notebook, Shekhar couldn’t think at all, the external wave of fear suddenly grew into a total panic . . . The empty grip of his fingers seemed to be massaging the bones of nothingness . . .
Shashi suddenly opened her lost eyes; she recognized him and stiffened and said, ‘Do you know why they were laughing, Shekhar?’ And she lost consciousness again.
That external wave grew until it devoured him. His arms began to flail about in a vain, destructive flurry, the empty grip of his fingers seemed to be grinding the bones of nothingness . . . Shekhar left a glass of water next to Shashi, loosened the clothes that she was wearing, and placed a sheet over her; then he took one look around and went outside—back towards the meeting . . . The audacity of those barbaric animals—they dare to laugh at Shashi, at Shashi, at Shashi’s life and all of her efforts . . . How dare they laugh at her right in front of my face—
But when he got back to the meeting place it was already empty. The assembly had dispersed . . . He stood there for a while before he went back; when he got to the street outside, he suddenly heard the sound of someone laughing. When he turned around to look, he saw two suited young gentlemen walking and laughing. He didn’t know why or what about, but their laughter stung him; he walked towards them and intentionally shoved them as he walked between them.
‘Hey—what do you think you’re doing—’
That’s all that Shekhar needed! He snapped back a response, ‘What about it?’ and punched one of the gentlemen. In an instant the two of them were locked in a fight; the gentleman’s friend looked on in shock. But when he realized that his friend wouldn’t win on his own, he got ready to get involved, but by then a crowd had gathered; the fight didn’t continue. People pulled the two apart, and while the two gentlemen started explaining all that had happened, Shekhar stepped back and stared everyone down before he walked away . . . Gradually it dawned on him that he had just done something foolish, but at the same time he felt relaxed, the tension had dissolved . . . He quickened his pace back home, because as the stress of the tension lifted it was replaced by a concern for Shashi.
Shashi had regained consciousness, but when Shekhar touched her he felt her burning up with fever. He placed one hand on Shashi’s forehead and sat down by the head of the cot.
�
�Forgive me, Shekhar—’
‘. . .’
‘I don’t know what happened to me—this must be what they call hysteria.’8
‘No, hysteria is what I had.’ Shekhar laughs a weak laugh. ‘I just fought with two gentlemen.’
‘When?’
‘Just now. While you were—sleeping.’
‘Why?’
‘If I knew why, it wouldn’t be hysteria, right? It’s called hysteria because you don’t know why. But Shashi, Shashi, Shashi—’ Shekhar was at a loss for words. He began caressing Shashi’s hair, and when Shashi placed her hand on his he became perfectly still . . .
‘I won’t make this mistake again, Shashi; it was a false pride that made me want to show off my fortune to other people; without realizing that it’s only fortune when a person is complete despite not having anything to show off . . . May your days be pure, Shashi, each moment be pure; Shashi . . .’
*
Delhi . . .
Sometimes on the right, through the curtain of smoke, the bridge across the Yamuna River shimmers, and other times even farther on the right, a tower and the walls of the fort; and sometimes when the fog is thinner, one can see the thin, dark body of the Yamuna wrapped in long robes of sand, and as soon as you cross over, the trees, and an unfinished dome covering a well . . . Shekhar places a pillow under Shashi to lift her up so that she can see the scene outside the window and then stands behind her, waiting for the first break of dawn. Everything that could be seen between the smoke and the fog was new and unfamiliar, but a feeling of amiability arose within him towards that newness, because none of this was Lahore, they had escaped a poisonous circle, and behind the fog there was certainly a new personality that was a friend, a comrade—even if it took a few days to recognize him . . .
There was a history behind their arrival here. What Shekhar had learned about the lives of conspiratorial agents became the basis for a novella that he had just completed that was short on art; its primary purpose was to present that life in a glowing light for society and use that as the foundation to spread critical, revolutionary ideas. The novella was so ‘hot’ that it couldn’t be set to type openly, so it did not even get as far as finding a publisher; but Ramakrishna took the manuscript from him and showed it to a few people and then told Shekhar that they were going to find a way to print and sell it illegally, and a ‘sympathizer’9 had given a substantial sum of money for this very purpose; and also that the book would have to be printed in Lahore so it was best if Shekhar left town just as he wanted to do; and in order to facilitate this, the organization decided that Shekhar should be given 250 rupees from the sum that the sympathizer had given so that he could go elsewhere and find appropriate accommodations. Shekhar decided to go to Delhi because there was a greater possibility that they could live peacefully in a big city, and it would be possible to find a way to earn a living without drawing too much attention to oneself, and on top of that, there was much that he could continue to do for the organization . . . So that Shashi wouldn’t have to endure travelling at night, they set out in the morning and reached Delhi by evening; one of the members of the organization had found a house with two and a half rooms at a cheap rent near the Yamuna, and they moved in that night. And the rays of the breaking dawn awakened two visitors and showed them a foggy scene of Delhi and tried to make them intimates . . .
The bank of the Yamuna in Delhi, a fully furnished house with two and a half rooms, 250 rupees in their pockets, an unfamiliar and, therefore, liberal atmosphere, and—the shade of the saptaparni tree . . . If there were gods, then they deserved to be thanked for making this possible, that he could stand in Shashi’s loving shade and that he could lose himself in its love . . . and that the growing stain which threatened to wipe out that love had been left behind, and that there was a new atmosphere around them which was sympathetic because it wasn’t familiar, and that Shekhar now had an unobstructed chance to resurrect, or at least make her forget the pain of, that part of her life that Shashi had amputated in sacrificing herself . . . He didn’t think he could ever be free of his debt to Shashi, but he still didn’t have the freedom to accept humbly whatever was left to be had, and now he would be with Shashi and he would care for her . . .
Shekhar hadn’t come to Delhi with any definite plans. There was no worry about finding employment immediately. Although he had made a vague promise that he would definitely maintain some means of steady income, and that as much as possible this work should not bring him into contact (meaning struggle!) with members of his own class, let intellectuals be the kind of people who earn their living by virtue of their intellects and nothing else! He would only make do with the labour his body could perform so that he wouldn’t have to bridle the horse of his intellect to the carriage of another’s purpose—wouldn’t have to kill it.
But what work could he do? Studying in college hadn’t prepared him for any manual labour! If he had any skills, then it wasn’t because of college, but because he never could completely be collegiate! After much thought and meeting with a few people from the organization, he decided that he would work as a signboard painter10—this would allow him to maintain his independence, and it wouldn’t take too much upfront capital, and it would allow him to display a little artistic talent, and—if the work got under way, then an income could be made somehow. It was the organization’s intention that two or three other individuals could make use of the place, too—they would stay somewhere else at night, and would while away the days at Shekhar’s ‘workshop’ so that no one where they were staying would be suspicious, since they would believe that they went to the workshop during the day and that’s how they spent their entire days. If there was no work, they could work on something for the organization; the property for the workshop would be bought at the organization’s expense, but Shekhar would have to make arrangements for all the other materials.
Ultimately, they found a room on the top floor of a building on New Street for eighteen rupees a month. Shekhar made a large, colourful sign for the eaves in front of the building and hung it up; and with three more employees, the workshop started working. There wasn’t any work, but to keep up the pretence of work, three or four half-painted signboards were scattered throughout the room, a canvas made of thin sacking material was dyed and put up, and canisters and tins of various sizes were strewn about the room. It was winter so it wasn’t necessary to get there early in the morning; Shekhar would get there around 11 a.m. and with all of the mannerisms of one who was very busy he would set himself up to paint and make something; his ‘employees’ would get there a little earlier and would busy themselves with some reading or writing, but then whenever they would hear footsteps, they would abandon their books and notebooks and busy themselves with some ‘work’ or start smoking a cigarette—but when the footsteps were finally attributed to a sweeper or a wandering ascetic or the man with the tape, then all of them would look at each other from the corner of their eyes and smile, since they had been such fools!
Shekhar would head back home excitedly at 4 or 5 p.m., and would find Shashi, despite having been warned, up and busy doing some chore, and he would stick his nose into anything she was doing and make it impossible for her to get anything done so that she would give up. They had come to an agreement, that each day Shashi would cook a vegetable dish and some bread, and Shekhar would take care of the cleaning and the dishes, but they had an argument about it each day, because Shashi would argue that cooking and cleaning were her jobs, and Shekhar knew that she was a better cook. And then the thick fog rolled in, and then their entire house became separated from the rest of the world, separated by a great distance, still, calm and loving . . . But one could sense a deep sadness in that love, and an insufficient love in that sadness, because of which the two of them felt very close to one another but some unknown hesitation kept pulling them back . . . Shekhar thinks that the cool shade of the saptaparni tree is the answer to that insufficiency, and he doesn’t want anything beyond that; but a
s he thinks this the same insufficiency pricks from the inside and he knows that he wants something which he cannot name, cannot put into words . . . Sometimes Shashi interjects, ‘Shekhar, you can’t just sit around all day—why don’t you start writing again?’ And instead of answering her, he would think that was this what Shashi really wanted or did she want to save him from the emptiness she saw in his idleness? He was empty, so although he couldn’t see it, couldn’t recognize it, couldn’t measure it—he couldn’t fill himself up . . .
As the day broke, the wilting leaves realized that they had grown too yellow, and a heavy push made them wobble and fall to the earth . . . An absent-minded gust of wind shook the branches and set about shaking the remaining leaves off. The wind wasn’t any less cold, but it left one with the mistaken impression that one felt in its fleecy touch the false promise of springtime; the fog lifted, the demon of darkness daily grew slack when it locked claws with the day’s energy . . . And customers began appearing at Shekhar’s workshop! One day, when they got three orders at the same time, Shekhar set out to work with his three colleagues. On his way home that evening, he bought a piece of cheese and a few tomatoes with his dwindling savings, and as soon as he got home he excitedly went to work cooking—the doctor had said that Shashi should eat tomatoes, fruit and green, leafy vegetables, and that she should avoid getting cold and being damp . . . The next day he would come home with six or seven rupees that he had earned, and that hope had given him the strength to give Shashi the good news today—Shashi was gradually becoming more pliable, and she began accepting everything that he said without any argument, so much so that he would become shocked by her displays of total obedience!—So who knows why he felt that Shashi was sad . . . It wasn’t anything new. The tender sadness on Shashi’s face was just as peaceful as it was before. Perhaps it was the effect of the mottled colours of the evening in the northern months of January and February . . . But Shekhar quickly learned that Shashi was sad, and she was sad because she kept thinking about him . . . Which is why he suddenly said, ‘Shashi, congratulate me! There’s finally work in the workshop today.’
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