Shashi had said that he was a creation, and she was an equal partner in that creation . . . But he was a structure, a composition—an endless campaign on life’s completed path to nowhere?
‘Shekhar, should I go back?’
‘Yes—’
‘Back—to the place that I was given to—’
Shocked and hurt, Shekhar asked, ‘What are you saying, Shashi—Back there! Is that even possible now?’
‘Yes. He—had he known how to love, then perhaps it might not be possible, but still, perhaps—it’s possible. Gradually—’
‘That’s not what I asked, Shashi, I am asking you—can you do this now—do you now want to—’
‘Oh, me . . . Shekhar, I can see that I am getting in your way, dragging you down. And I won’t ever let that happen—it’s much easier for me to go back—’
‘No, you can’t talk like that, Shashi! Forget about me for now—how can you even think about going back?’
‘Why? If it helps you, makes things easier for you, then—’
‘And does your own soul mean nothing to you? I can’t let anything happen which will injure your soul—’
‘This won’t kill my soul, Shekhar. I can survive there—can live—because I will be saving you—helping you move forward. . . . I am going away from you, Shekhar, because I’ve been injured, not because I don’t know the meaning of love. No woman understands love who cannot give a sister’s, wife’s, and mother’s love at the same time—and I will be able to go on living after I go back because—I will be able to raise you like a mother—you have no idea how necessary that belief is for me—now and always! . . . I will certainly survive. It might be the life of an insect, but a woman can be a firefly, whose stomach contains an endless flame . . .’
Agitatedly, Shekhar said, ‘I won’t hear a word of this, Shashi. You’ve lost your mind—you’ve become a mental case.13 You—’ and then finding the word and filling out its absence with emotion, ‘have become a wretched Hindu—a suffering-and-calling-it-penance Hindu! But I can’t let you destroy your soul—and besides, such foolishness can be committed by two people, too.’
Shekhar noticed that Shashi was crying quietly. Becoming stern for some reason, Shekhar said, ‘Shashi, should your suffering help me become something, then I say to hell with that! Your—’
‘You don’t understand, Shekhar. You think that I am prolonging my agony. Do you think that I want to go back there? But I am not speaking of love, because—I can’t speak its name—more love than you can imagine, Shekhar!’
Shashi went back inside, leaving him there wounded and speechless, and after a little while Shekhar could hear the muffled sounds of her sobbing . . .
Was Shashi right? And if Shashi was dragging him down then what else could lift him up, that might save him from descending into the seventh circle of hell? And then the matter of being an amputee—wasn’t it the cold heartlessness inside Shashi that made her an amputee, which had tied her own life into a knot and never allowed it to be untied—was it one’s duty to quietly accept that knot, wasn’t one obligated to untie it, release the bound life within and rebel? If life was a gift—if life had any meaning, then it was one’s duty to keep it floating, to accept its drowning by virtue of a submissive fatalism was to be indifferent to life and to commit a sin . . . Defeat was a lie, the defeated were the only lies, for where is the blemish on the spirit of the undefeated? Shashi is wounded, but isn’t the depression that tells her that her life has been despoiled the same depression that is proof that her life hasn’t given up its fight yet—and therefore also hasn’t been despoiled, is unhurt and unbowed. No, Shashi’s defeat is not to be borne, it won’t do to let her waste away like that—if she won’t fight for herself, she will have to be fought for—
Shekhar went to Shashi and said, ‘Listen, I need to tell you something.’
Shashi turned her tear-stained face towards him to look at him once and said, ‘No.’
Shekhar held her head with both hands and stared directly into her eyes, and slowly emphasizing each word he said, ‘You will not go anywhere, and—you won’t be defeated, and—you won’t be afraid.’ And then without loosening his grip, he bent forward and touched Shashi’s lips with his own. Shashi’s head pulled back, her entire body was shaking, and her eyes were closed. Lifting her head, Shekhar looked at Shashi’s closed, wet, trembling eyelids and leaned in once again and kissed her on the lips. Her lips were trembling, salty from her tears . . .
Then Shekhar let go of her head and left Shashi’s room. He lit a candle, went into the kitchen, and began cleaning up the pots and pans . . . The porridge of rice and lentils was ready in a short time, the milk that had arrived earlier had been heated up, and then he went in front of the door to Shashi’s room and said, ‘Shashi, get up. Dinner’s ready. Wash up.’
A steady, controlled voice from inside said, ‘I’m coming.’
The calmness of the voice reassured Shekhar. Perhaps life hadn’t become impossible yet . . .
They say that lust is transient and that love is immortal. I can’t say whether there has been inversion of meaning between the two, but if this is what they say, then they are completely wrong! Love only lives once; it only comes once and when it dies it dies forever, it is not reborn. Lust is immortal, it can die from being frustrated, or from being sated, like the slain-but-unslain demon Raktabeej14 that finds a new life and rises again . . .
Education, civilization, tradition . . . We raise all of them above us; we remove them from the bounds of our personalities and establish them on a plane of a higher, greater existence, from the smallest plane to the plane of universal feelings.
But tradition and education are such enormous knots in human lives! Because anyone who is educated, who can detect the tiniest tremor in a life of refinement (those tremors that are deeper than those of common civility), they immediately realize in the most important moments in life—in moments of love or of great emotional upheaval—that they are incomplete, lacking an engrossing, encircling movement, that they only possess a strange, disconnected indifference—a kind of separation from their own feelings, that makes of the doer a spectator and a critic—meaning, it exiles one from one’s own personality . . . We create an image in our imaginations that there is a lover (or a beloved) whose heart beats (or can beat) with the great pulse of our very souls; who can be a companion not just for our physical and social existences, but can also share in our vulnerabilities and our extremely personal, unique feelings—share with us in art, in poetry, in song, and even in our experiences of joy and sorrow . . . But in reality, we find that love means that no matter where and no matter when, we are only unable to dissolve ourselves into one or another or any other person . . . There can be intimacy, there can be a relationship, a relationship of incredible unity, but we always discover that the relationship is a kind of subservience, a dependence on something external to our beings—to an image, to an idea, to a poem, to a song, to a sound, to a sweet dream, which despite being our own can never really belong to us because we are not alone, we are the sloughed-off skin, crowned with education, and refined and civilized, of that original and endless ‘we’ . . .
The days were peerless and the flowing fragrance of the acacia blossoms gave the wind a tenderness in which various other scents yawned and stretched their limbs . . . The violent torment that had plagued Shashi previously had quieted down; she was calm, and Shekhar felt that there was nothing else in the world except their intimacy—or rather nothing valuable, and that intimacy was both prosperity and happiness . . . But if you cut this plane of consciousness at an angle, you could see a cross section which said there is work to do, that the individual owes a debt to the collective, that there was failure and frustration and therefore rebellions, that there were entanglements and knots and ropes and chains and therefore revolutions; and there was a third cross section in which he was a miser who wanted nothing more than to hoard his wealth, which was fading away by itself, in which Shashi was cal
m but was being washed away, and one day would be completely gone . . . And the various torments of life that had been divided up between these various planes, suddenly burst within him, all the chains begin to bite into him, he wants nothing more than for all the entanglements to be sundered, even if that means cutting off a part of himself with it . . . Then he thinks, these agonies are the consequence of the dissatisfactions within him; then he prays for that rebellious spirit to be snuffed out, torn to shreds, so that he can let himself become a tamed prisoner—not just bound and obedient, but willingly and dispassionately bound—so that he could forget the incessant, fiery, stirring, impatient explosion of rebelliousness . . . It is the flame’s duty to reach higher, but that knowledge gives it no satisfaction when it can neither destroy everything nor devour everything . . .
Had he been an illiterate yokel, had he been an animal—had he been anything where he could have found completion, could have drowned, unhesitatingly, completely . . .
*
Work steadily came into the ‘painters’ workshop’, and there was some improvement in income, too. The way Shekhar was living, he could easily manage his expenses within his income—or rather with the half of the income that was his. He had decided before coming to Delhi that he would become a hermit rather than meet with people, because he didn’t want Shashi to be insulted again and have to leave town; and because of the political unrest these days, the two of them remained even more aloof socially—the members of the organization had stopped coming by to meet them as much as was possible and even then, they only met with a select few ‘sympathizers’; contact was made through them as was the passing on of a few confidential documents and donations would be sent back through these very people. That was why Shekhar never had to spend anything on ‘social expenses’. He also didn’t have any special hobbies and when it came to entertainment, he never did care much for the cinema or the theatre—neither did Shashi.
But on the other hand, Shashi’s health worsened. She didn’t say anything, but Shekhar could see it on her face that she was suffering terribly. He would try as much as possible to follow and make Shashi follow the doctor’s orders, and he didn’t have much trouble doing that, because surprisingly Shashi was becoming increasingly agreeable and obedient. But still her body was gradually getting weaker, and sometimes the pain would be so great that she would suddenly close her eyes and become so still that Shekhar wondered whether she became unconscious each time it happened. He took Shashi to see a very famous doctor. He examined her and asked her about her medical history; he repeated the previous instructions and then said that they had to be very careful because of her kidneys, and he also advised them to get an X-ray of her abdomen. He prescribed three or four medicines, too . . . They took the X-ray despite Shashi’s objections and had it sent to the doctor; when Shekhar took Shashi back to see the doctor, he stared at the plates of the X-ray for a long time and then said, gravely, ‘Hmm, I am still worried . . . but let’s see—’ and he began to explain why it was so important to keep her back from getting cold or damp, and complete rest, and psychological calm, and fruits and soft vegetables, and the avoidance of any kind of stress . . .
All of these things were expensive . . . So that Shashi wouldn’t have to worry about any of it, he would get up early every morning, make the necessary arrangements, and go for a walk to clear his mind and let go of his worries, so that when he got home his mind would be refreshed . . . He would walk up and down Bela Road near the edge of the river, and sometimes he would turn into the fields. One day while crossing through a field he picked a few tomatoes from an especially large plant and brought them home with him; the next day, without thinking of a special plan, he wrapped himself in a shawl when he set out for his walk . . . He walked along the edges of fields of vegetables, and each day he would pick something from a new spot, sometimes he’d pick tomatoes, sometimes a nice head of cabbage or dig up a few turnips and hide them under his shawl, and he’d keep on walking; then when he got home, he’d cook the vegetables for Shashi and after feeding her, he would eat and leave for work . . . He never thought about the fact that this was stealing; it was enough for him to think that Shashi got her vegetables and whatever money was saved this way could be spent on getting her medicines. Except for one day, after he had picked a head of cabbage and had hidden it in his shawl, he heard the sound of footsteps and it startled him and scared him a little; when he thought about that fear he realized that he knew he was doing something immoral; but how much damage could he possibly be doing to anyone? The birds and the wandering cattle would probably have eaten just as much—and what could the loss of a few heads of cabbage mean to such a large farm, and the tomatoes would have become bruised on the way to market anyway—he placated his conscience with such ridiculous arguments.
But there was no significant change in Shashi’s condition; the doctor advised a diet of only fruit juices, and Shashi’s translucent skin became even more clean and lustrous, and her eyes seemed bigger; each day, when Shekhar came home from work, Shashi was becoming increasingly agitated to see him . . . When he would come home, Shekhar’s heart would immediately melt from this eager expectation and such a loving welcome—Shashi’s mere presence changed the world so greatly . . . Along with the painting jobs at the workshop, Shekhar was handed even more work—his organization had decided to expand its influence during these days of political unrest, and so Shekhar was asked to write an ‘appeal’15 or a pamphlet on something or another each day. He also discovered that his colleagues were hatching a plan to free some of their more important comrades by storming the jail, and he was given a job to write as part of that plan. He was soon given a pistol, too. All of these things made him constantly nervous and his mind would race with all sorts of questions, doubts and worries; but as soon as he went home and saw Shashi’s face, these unnecessary, worthless and trivial dried-up leaves would fall from their branches and all that would remain was the cool, jasmine-scented sky—the sky of Shashi’s eyes . . .
Sometimes he couldn’t speak. He would put a sitting-up Shashi to bed and sit near the head of the cot and gently pat her forehead. He would get annoyed with the burden of having to get up to do the chores, light the fire and do the cooking; he would start to wonder whether it was necessary to eat; for Shashi, making fruit juice or warming up milk took very little time, but he would manage without or would eat leftovers—from now on, he would only cook once a day . . . Sometimes Shashi would say, ‘Shekhar, you don’t seem happy. What’s the matter?’ and then he would be secretly moved . . . As he patted Shashi’s forehead, it was as if the beat made her breath echo with the sound of some melancholy tune. Shekhar’s mind would again be full of those same entanglements and worries, and sometimes these thoughts would come to his lips, and Shekhar would softly begin to tell Shashi what was on his mind and she would quietly listen . . .
One day Shekhar suddenly received word that one of his ‘colleagues’ had run away from a town in Uttar Pradesh and was a conspirator with a reward on his head. He had been identified by the police in the city, and so it was possible that the police traced him back to the ‘workshop’ and so he had to remain extremely vigilant. That was the day when the collaboration of the three colleagues ended—two of them left for somewhere that very day—Shekhar later learned that they had gone to Kanpur—and the third, who had been recognized in the city, was going to stay with Shekhar for a few days since it was decided that it wasn’t possible or good for him to leave immediately but that he would leave town as soon as it was possible. Shekhar came home early that afternoon—he had been told that a guest would arrive sometime around 3 p.m. so that he didn’t have to cross the city with him.
Shashi would be pleased that he was coming home early—the presence of the guest for two or three days would pose a problem for their closeness. When Shekhar came home with these two opposing ideas in his head, Shashi was surprised and quickly gathered up the pages that were scattered in front of her. She asked, ‘Why so early
today—’
‘What were you writing—are you writing a book in secret? I didn’t even know—’
‘It’s nothing. I was writing a letter—’
‘Such a long letter? On whom are you showering so much affection—’
Shekhar had wanted to tease her, but when he saw the nervous expression on her face he fell silent. He also noticed that Shashi’s face was unusually sallow, and she clearly looked exhausted . . . An idea flashed across his mind like a shadow, and he thought that she might have been writing a letter to Rameshwar—because if it were a letter to her mother why would she have hidden it; but who knows, she might have been hiding it because she was writing about Shekhar—whatever it was . . . He said, ‘Things just fell into place so that I could come home earlier. We’re going to have a guest.’
‘A guest—here? Who?’
‘It’s someone. And Shashi, he’s a very nervous character—he didn’t come with me. He said that I should go and check with you first, otherwise he would be worried, and that he would be embarrassed if I introduced you to him face-to-face for the first time.’
‘Then of course not. But tell me who he is? If he’s that worried you can put him up on the ledge above the stairs—then he won’t have to see me face-to-face!’
Shekhar burst into laughter. Then he told Shashi the whole story.
Concerned, Shashi asked, ‘He’s a suspect—so the police could come here, too, couldn’t they?’
‘Yes. I don’t expect them to, but it is possible—why, are you afraid?’
Shrugging it off, Shashi said, ‘No, what’s there to be afraid of—’ But then Shekhar’s mind turned to the possibility that if the police really did come, they might arrest him along with their guest, and then Shashi would be alone . . . This concern gave the whole issue of hospitality a new twist. Shekhar fell silent. Then after a little while, he said, ‘Shashi, let’s not think about it—hurry up and let’s get things readied.’
Shekhar Page 57
