Shashi laughed, ‘Well, now that is a cause for great celebration. What kind of work is it?’
‘Three large signboards—there’s some new company opening up, it’s advertising for their oils and soaps, and one fifteen-foot board with their name on it.’
‘Well done, monsieur painter! This must be your lucky day—brilliant!’ Then Shashi’s eyes trembled and she stopped and stared at her plate.
‘Why, Shashi, what’s wrong?’
‘Aren’t you going to write any more, Shekhar?’
Shekhar stopped dead in his tracks . . . It was true, the colours of a signboard were not the colours of the revolution . . . And the calming atmosphere had given him no impetus and had put him to sleep instead—he wasn’t doing anything, had become a mere signboard painter, and an unsuccessful one at that . . .
Embarrassed, he said, ‘Why won’t I write? I haven’t forgotten, Shashi; I will write—’
‘No, Shekhar, you aren’t doing anything. You are cooking and cleaning and painting signs about oil and soap for me, how have you been able to go on like that for so long?’
Shekhar let down his guard and spoke what was on his mind, ‘Shashi, I don’t know what I should write about. It used to be that all of the pressure around me made it difficult; to write, but at least that gave me something to write about; and now everything is so peaceful around us, but—tell me, what do you think I should write? There’s nothing happening nearby—’
‘Shekhar, then why don’t you say that there’s nothing to write about? And are the events that happen around you the only important things, isn’t there anything real in your experiences?’
‘What is real about my experiences? All I’ve ever experienced has been lie after lie—and my experiences are only—’
Shashi pressed on, ‘I can’t accept that, Shekhar, that you have any shortage of material to write about. You haven’t forgotten, you’re avoiding it. Is there nothing in what Baba Madansingh said that is worth writing about? Did you learn nothing from Mohsin that you could pass on to others? Was Ramji unworthy, too? There can be bigger experiences than your own, definitely, but I think that if you write about the truths that you have seen, that you have felt in your blood, they will definitely be worth writing down. They don’t have to be important things, but the feelings behind the things have to be important, man’s ability to comprehend has to be vast—the determination and the courage to take control of the matter. The heat is not in the wood, but in the flame, and if you write about the truth inside you it will certainly have the flame in it—the kind of flame which nothing will be able to withstand and which will wash away the sin of our relationship!’
Shekhar was taken aback by her last words and wanted to object, but Shashi’s eyes lit up with a glow that silenced him.
‘I can tell that I am becoming an obstacle along your path. But I don’t think that this is unavoidable. The day that I can tell that it has become unavoidable, I will—I will—’ Suddenly stopping, ‘No, Shekhar, forget about everyone else and write about your own personal truth, whatever that is—’
He could tell from the way that Shashi was talking that the matter had gone well beyond the mere issue of his writing. Shekhar tried to laugh it off and said, ‘Then I should write your story—a personal truth—’
Shashi didn’t even smile, but rather became even more serious and said, ‘Yes, when it becomes such a truth, mere truth, which you can look upon dispassionately, then you should write my story—’ Suddenly glowing again, ‘And it won’t be as bad a story, Shekhar!’
Shekhar was dumbfounded.
Shashi got up to wash her hands. Shekhar also got up from the kitchen, crossed the room, went to the balcony facing the Yamuna River and stood and stared at the river—the river’s water was hidden under the smoke, but his eyes were fixed on the very spot that would open up in the middle of the smoke just where he should have been!
Shashi also went to the balcony and stood apart from Shekhar.
Shashi was right. When had she ever been wrong? Because everything that she said was gold forged through her own suffering—just like the things that Baba said . . . Shashi was the same age as he was, but she possessed such deep foresight, such unequalled sympathy and such clear intelligence—wisdom! Why didn’t Shashi become a leader herself, why was she settling for playing a secondary, supporting and subordinate role in Shekhar’s life, and why was she sacrificing and continually erasing herself so that he could move forward? Could he accept such an enormous self-sacrifice? What guarantee was there that whatever came from such great sacrifice would be worthy of it in return? And even if it was, how could he take such valuable things from her . . .
Shekhar turned to look at Shashi. He couldn’t make her out in the darkness, all he could see were her unblinking eyes fixed on the Yamuna. Without any explanation, he said, ‘Shashi, it won’t do to have you keep destroying yourself and for me to go on accepting it without any sense of shame. However important I am, you are fifty times greater—a hundred times greater—and I can’t take your sacrifice, I can’t, I can’t.’
Shashi stared at him in disbelief and then went to him and said, ‘Hmm, what are you saying, Shekhar?’
Shekhar took a deep breath and then said, ‘I am saying that I am extremely grateful to you, Shashi. I can’t tell you how much, and that is why I cannot insult you like this. You want to show me something, but you are wiser than I am, you are cleverer than I am, are more compassionate than I am, and you are throwing it all away—for me?’
Shashi came closer. ‘You’re asking so I will tell you. Listen. Woman has always sacrificed herself. She possesses wisdom, just as the earth possesses consciousness. But when a seed sprouts, it does so by breaking through the earth; the earth cannot be fruitful on its own. I might be mistaken, but I don’t think of it as an insult that women are the means by which the totality of men advance—we are the only means. The earth is the earth, but it is also like the creator. Is there anything wrong if that requires suffering and pain instead of a creative thrill and passion?’
Everything went silent. A silent whir rose from the fog that covered the Yamuna . . .
‘I am not wiping myself away—I will have played an equal part in creating the Shekhar that I see before me, which is why there is no question of debts and repayments; it is only your gratitude and your nervousness that are insulting.’
A thicker silence, and then an even more silent whir’s even wilder flight—and the bounded waves of sudden light in between the growing whirs and Shashi’s closeness, her deep understanding of selflessness—impulsively Shekhar moved forward and kissed Shashi’s forehead at the point where her hair met her skin, and then with a touch as delicate as breath, her lips . . .
‘No, Shekhar, no, not that—’ Her voice suddenly breaking, ‘They have already been used!’ Shashi quickly moved back as if she had been stung, and when he heard her violent sobbing, he understood what had just happened . . . And that knowledge was like being slapped and losing consciousness, and even when he saw her standing and crying he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, he just kept staring unblinkingly at Shashi’s blurred face.
‘Shekhar—’
‘. . .’
‘Shekhar, forgive me—but not that . . . You don’t realize that there is a part of my life that has already been tainted, and from the touch of a certain man—whose—shadow even I wanted—to save you from . . .’
Very softly, as if he were embarrassed by his own voice, ‘Shashi . . .’
‘I’m telling you the truth, you don’t understand . . . If I could cut it out and throw it away from my life, I would—but I can’t . . . I endured him—my marriage as both important and true . . . And I was prepared for the fact that he might erase me, destroy me; but he didn’t destroy me, he just amputated me, left me spoiled and threw me away . . . and now . . .’
Shekhar gathered his courage and put one hand on Shashi’s shoulder and then he felt her shoulder pull away, but he still managed
to say, ‘Shashi, don’t cry . . .’
Shashi kept on sobbing. Shekhar spoke again, ‘You are making yourself upset for no reason—he’s not worth it, Shashi . . . He’s out of your life—there’s no need for remorse—crying over him is—’
Suddenly crying even harder and angrier, Shashi said, ‘When did I ever cry over him—I am crying because I loved him . . .’
Night is the incarnation of compassion, the darkness is God’s quick cure, capable of dissolving the hurt of all pain . . .
Shashi and Shekhar lay quietly wrapped in the darkness and in their doubled solitude, watching each other’s tremors of anguish, not watching but still clearly knowing and therefore comforted in not having watched. Shashi gradually stopped sobbing and slowly groped her way back inside. A little later, Shekhar also went back inside and put out the candle in the kitchen and went and lay down on his blanket . . .
He couldn’t see anything in the darkness, but he could clearly see Shashi’s suffering . . . He could always see it, but in the darkness he could see more of it than he had ever seen before . . . There was the saptaparni tree, was the shadow of the Coral Jasmine11 tree, which didn’t offer mere solace, it offered energy, fragrance, pleasure, revelation, not merely the past, but the quivering present and the sleepy future, too—which is also why there was a big emptiness inside it that still hadn’t been filled . . .
Shekhar saw with unblinking eyes and unmoving gaze . . . Saw . . . Let the gods be shocked if the gods are shocked—but why did that love have to be spoken aloud?
Shekhar, why didn’t you realize your destiny right from the beginning?
*
One more thing about dawn in the winter—the same morning fog that gradually went from grey, coppery-red, red and then white, and then a sourceless brightness, and then the lazy first rays of dawn . . . But Shekhar had woken up before the first rays and gone to the window to Shashi’s room and with a finger, he cleaned off the dew that had accumulated on it and looked in.
Shashi was still sleeping—from the position she was in, you could tell that she had been up all night and had just recently gone to sleep; her body had curled up like the touch-me-not, but her face leaning on one side of the pillow seemed to be looking up, her lips were slightly opened, and the lock of hair which fell across her face gently swayed with each inhalation and exhalation . . .
Shekhar stood still for a long time and watched her face—he caressed her ever so tenderly with his gaze, just as Shashi’s breath touched the loose strands of hair . . . Shashi’s eyelids seemed to be transparent, he had realized that before, but now it seemed as if her whole face were transparent—as if quietly suffering all her torments had further cleansed her already pure skin and had given her an internal lustre . . . Shashi’s face was not the face of infirmity, and definitely not in this moment of tranquillity—but by looking at her, it was certain that the knowledge of an all-encompassing, bright pain would come quickly—a suffering that would bathe and tremble you like moonlight . . .
‘No, no, Shekhar, they have already been used—’ Was there anything out there that could use up her face let alone touch it—this glowing face, scrubbed clean by suffering, was untouchable just as no one could touch metal heated to the point of being white-hot—until something just as bright touched it—
But had Shashi’s penance really taken her so far away—so impassably, immeasurably far—had her purifying pain become a crystal barrier around her—through which everything could be seen bright and clear, but which made it impossible to touch?
The light inside the fog grew and turned into rays of sunlight; Shekhar drew in a deep breath which immediately transformed into a blessing for Shashi, then he quietly snuck out of the room and readied himself to go to work . . . It was for the best that Shashi was still sleeping and getting her rest and—because who knew, if when she woke up that same thick panic would arise again . . .
The group of painters kept busy working for the majority of the day; the boards were ready. They hadn’t even finished drying when the customers came for them that evening, two had already been picked up that day and the third was waiting to be picked up tomorrow—two had already been paid for. Shekhar divided up the money into two portions—one was his and the other was the organization’s—the organization had all kinds of expenses for which each member had to make some contribution or another . . . it was customary to give between a fifth to a half of one’s earnings . . .
Shekhar returned home with seven rupees in his pocket. This was literally the income from his sweat—it was manual labour, and he was finally able to give something back to the organization, and he was headed home—headed to Shashi—with the fruits of his labour . . . Whom he always loved, but who—but who—Shekhar couldn’t find the words, he could only imagine that Shashi had taken the shape of some godhood that contained all of the wonder of life within . . .
But for some reason, he wasn’t as excited today coming home with the fruits of his labour as he had been yesterday coming home with the mere prospect of work. And as he got closer to home, he was gripped by some unknown doubt, a vague hesitation . . . Without a doubt, Shashi would be happy, but he was afraid that her joy would depress him, and that Shashi would recognize his dejection and retreat to some impregnable distance . . . And this was the divine form of love—unflinching divinity and unflinching love . . .
He stopped for a moment outside his home and was stunned. Shashi was singing inside—a Punjabi folk song—in the melody of the mountain folk, the kind of melody that captures the desolate emptiness of the mountains, their incomprehensible heights and impassable depths, and which because of the echoing fluidity of Shashi’s voice became even more unbearable, as if it were the melody of some cruel, endless separation . . .
Two leaves of a pomegranate tree
They will understand our sorrow
Two stones on a mountainside!
My robe is tattered—
Return, just once,
And see the plight of your fakir!
Shekhar recalled a Greek verse12 in which the dripping sounds of the tears of a certain sad forest nymph turned into a waterfall whose crashing waters sounded like a pitiable shriek to each passer-by and left them feeling a twinge of her pain—then he slowly went inside . . .
Shashi stopped singing as soon as she heard footsteps; the silence seemed so heavy to Shekhar that he immediately said something to break it, ‘Look, I’ve finally earned my keep today.’
‘Really? How much—’ Shashi tries to laugh.
‘Take it, there’s a lot—I didn’t keep track. Give me your hand—’
Shekhar takes out the rupees one at a time and puts them in Shashi’s hand. When all seven rupees were handed over and he stopped, Shashi teasingly asked, ‘And?’
‘And what? It was only one day’s income.’
Laughing mischievously, ‘Is that all? Is that worth asking me to give you my hand?’
A little hurt but still laughing, Shekhar said, ‘And, what else—I handed you everything that I had—’ And then he choked on the secret meaning of what he had said and stood perfectly still and silent!
His silence betrayed his secret to Shashi. Her face became serious and the hand which she had held out fell to her side, and she slowly turned and went back inside. Shekhar heard the clinking sounds of the money being put down, and then he went to the balcony, too.
Then a desolate feeling filled his mind—his eyes went dark . . . and in that emptiness Shashi’s words began to hum slowly—
They will understand our sorrow
Two stones on a mountainside!—
Two stones on a mountainside . . .
What did stones understand of pain—perhaps what this meant was that no one understood pain . . . Two stones on a mountainside . . . But the stones are from the mountains, and they have seen the summits eroded by the unrequited love of endless ice storms, seen the outcry of the wind being frustrated in trying to touch even the smallest shoot of green life on a nake
d cliff with its blind fingers, which soars ever higher like vanity and crashes to the ground like pride—perhaps stones on a mountainside really could understand pain . . . They will understand our sorrow, two stones on a mountainside . . .
Shashi again stood next to him quietly. Shekhar remembered the evening before; and for an instant he wondered whether the events of that evening would repeat themselves day after day, year after year—inconsequential repetition . . . He still couldn’t ask for anything, because the two of them shared a single artery, whether that sharing was the result of a curse of oneness, or whether it was a gift . . .
Shekhar Page 56
