From the top, they could see the Yamuna; lamps had been lit on the other side. Shekhar suddenly became very worried about Shashi . . . Even after they crossed the river, he still had another two miles to go . . .
Brother said, ‘Shekhar, I’m going to take a detour through somewhere and be back,’ and when he gave him permission to go straight back home, Shekhar was not only happy, he was grateful—because now he could walk faster and get home sooner, and he could ask for Shashi’s forgiveness before anyone else arrived . . .
Shekhar didn’t look up as he began walking faster—whenever he found an empty stretch of road, he would run for a little while and then walk again . . . As soon as he set foot on the threshold of his home he lifted his head because someone was standing still in the darkness—Shashi . . . She had lifted the edge of her sari to cover her mouth and nose and all one could see were her eyes . . .
Shekhar’s heart began pounding. Without saying a word, he encircled Shashi with one arm and pushed until he got her back inside—Shashi was trembling from the cold . . . Just as he was sitting her down on the bed, it seemed to him that Shashi cried two tears—there was no lamp lit inside the house—embarrassedly, worriedly and lovingly, he said, ‘Shashi—’
That was all it took. Shashi spoke, her voice breaking, ‘You’ve come back—’ and then she burst into tears . . .
Shekhar was overcome with shame. He couldn’t say a word . . . Then he quickly remembered his responsibilities, so he wrapped Shashi in the blanket and got up to light the stove. While he was blowing very hard to get the coals to light quickly, he heard the muffled sounds of Shashi’s sobbing. That sound felt like a dull knife stabbing him somewhere deep inside . . . When he got the fire going, he took the stove into Shashi’s room, set it down and gently tried to get Shashi to lie down. He said, ‘Child, why did you let yourself catch cold—why were you so worried—’
Shashi held herself up stiffly. Pushing his hand off her shoulder she said, ‘Move—’
Shekhar stood there meekly for a while. Then he repeated, ‘Shashi, child, lie down and cover yourself with the blanket—why are you punishing yourself for my mistakes—’
Shashi didn’t say anything, or move. Shekhar kept standing there desperately.
After a little while, Shashi drew a long breath and then lay down by herself—curling up her hands and feet, looking at the burning coals in the stove with unmoving eyes—
‘Shashi, I wasn’t late on purpose. We had to take the long way across the river—that’s why I’m so late—’
Those same eyes now pierced through him, ‘Why, what happened—’
‘Nothing. When we were heading back, Brother saw a truck carrying policemen and said that we couldn’t cross back over the bridge. So we walked about five or six extra miles and then crossed the river.’
‘What were you doing there?’
Shekhar was silent. After a while, Shashi said, ‘Well, at least you’re back—’
‘Why, Shashi, why were you so afraid—’
Shashi laughed a forced laugh as she kept staring at the coals. ‘Hmm—why was I afraid. What do you know about fear . . . I thought that you weren’t—you weren’t coming back—’
‘Why, Shashi? What made you think like that—’
As if looking inside herself thoughtfully, Shashi said, ‘You went to the other side of the river, that much I knew. After you left, I was standing outside when I heard sounds of gunfire from the other side of the river. I never specially worry about you—I had thought that if you were hurt I’d feel it somehow; but for some reason today I felt like I would never see you again—that you were gone now . . . And perhaps gone now because—I am leaving, too.’
‘What, Shashi—’
‘Yes, Shekhar. Fear is a terrible thing; but sometimes it gives you extraordinary insight. Watching what happened to you—not you, but rather waiting to hear any news of you—I’ve seen quite a bit in the meantime which I hadn’t seen before—or at least not as clearly.’
‘What was it, Shashi?’
‘Many things . . . I read in some foreign novel that love is an art, and that art is another name for discipline. And the intent of the novel was to say that no one should love another person so much that they have no room for any other purpose—that life is an independent unit and if it becomes completely dependent then it is no longer an art because it is beneath art’s ideals. Then, I didn’t understand what all of that meant . . .’
Shekhar also stared at the fire.
‘I still haven’t fully accepted it—but I’ve understood what it means finally . . . I—have moved beyond art . . . And—I’ve seen that this was the right thing to do—the right thing for me. I don’t need room in my life for another purpose—because—I don’t have life left to live.’
Shekhar was hurt, ‘Shashi, you’re only talking this way because you’ve been hurt badly—’
‘No, Shekhar, no. The things that I have realized about you today, I might have got completely wrong, but about this—no. I’ve done all that I had to do . . .’
Shashi’s voice was so definitive that Shekhar was unable to raise an objection. He had been standing, but now he sat down on Shashi’s cot. His dumbstruck mind was trying to understand the full import of what Shashi was saying—but he couldn’t get any further than the thought that she was saying that she wasn’t going to live much longer . . .
Shashi slowly closed her eyes. Shekhar kept his eyes glued to the fire. Much time had elapsed—there was a layer of ash on the coals . . . He was going to get up to shake the stove when he noticed that Shashi was breathing quite rapidly. He quietly called out to her, ‘Shashi—’ and then he put his hand on her forehead and immediately drew it back. Shashi had a fever . . .
Shashi said, ‘It seems as though it’s getting worse.’
Shekhar took a blanket off his bed and wrapped her in it, relit the fire in the stove, and then began pacing in the room . . .
Brother gave a single warning knock and opened the locked doors and entered. Shekhar left Shashi’s room to greet him and all at once he remembered a thousand responsibilities that he had as a host—
But Brother said, ‘Take this. It’s for both of you. I’ve just bought some dinner from the bazaar—it’s very late—’
Shekhar was silent and grateful.
‘Is Shashiji feeling all right?’
‘Umm, no, she has a fever.’
Brother went into Shekhar’s room and began putting his materials away. Shekhar stepped forward to get the plates.
*
Brother explained that he would be leaving early the next day—he would be out of Delhi before it was light out and would get on a train at some smaller station.19 Shekhar wouldn’t have to get up to see him off, he would just leave quietly, and it would be wonderful if they were to meet again, but if not—‘If not, then whatever will be!’
After he had lain down to sleep and had started breathing regularly, Shekhar quietly walked out and went to Shashi’s room. He felt Shashi’s forehead—it was still feverish. Shashi wasn’t asleep, she was lying there exhausted . . . He stroked her head for a while and then left, he put some more coals in the stove and increased the flame and put it in Shashi’s room. He put a glass of water on the table near her head; softly, he said to Shashi, ‘Shashi, call me if you need anything—don’t get up for just any reason . . .’ He stood there indecisively for a moment and then went to his room and lay down.
He didn’t think that he would be able to sleep the whole night, that he would be up thinking—but somehow, he was worn out from the day’s wandering and he fell asleep. When he woke up, he was startled and looked at the radium watch on Brother’s table, it was 4 a.m. . . . He knew that this was usually the coldest time of night so he thought that he should relight the stove and put it in Shashi’s room again, but when he got up he noticed that there was a lamp burning brightly there even though he had dimmed it earlier . . . When he hurried over he saw Shashi lying down, supporting herself on
one elbow and writing—not was, but was still writing, and now it seemed as if she was hanging her head and resting from exhaustion, the pen was still in her hand. His first instinct was to read what she had written, but he suppressed that urge and when he moved to lay Shashi down so that she could rest, she woke up. When she sat up, she straightened out her tired arms and began collecting her papers.
Shekhar’s voice scolded Shashi deeply, ‘Shashi . . .’
Shashi spoke plainly, ‘Enough. Now I’m done writing—’ But when she saw Shekhar looking so hurt she was embarrassed and said, ‘It was important for me to write all this—I won’t do any more mischief—Shekhar, I’ve become very obedient these days—’
Shekhar was disarmed. He picked up the stove and went to relight it.
The noise woke Brother. He got up, went outside, and asked, ‘I was going to leave quietly, but you’re up before me!’
Shekhar was still lighting the stove so he washed up and got ready. ‘All right, Shekhar, I’ll be leaving now. I’m sure that we will meet again—the two of us still have much to do!’ Laughing a little, ‘Give my regards to Shashiji. I am grateful to her—although all I’ve been able to give her in gratitude has been trouble and more trouble . . . All right—’
Shekhar quickly washed his blackened hands so that he could see him off at the door, but unaccustomed to goodbyes, Brother didn’t wait. He flashed him a racing smile and left.
Shekhar slowly closed the door. He went back inside, took the stove and puffed away at it as he took it to Shashi’s room.
He put the stove down and locked the door to the room, only the window was open a crack. And then he sat down as if thinking about what he would do next—
Shashi moved. She let her body go slack and stretched out as she drew a long breath. She pulled the blanket up to her chin and began looking at Shekhar. Shekhar asked, ‘Shashi, are you comfortable? It gets really cold this time of day; the stove—’ and then he stopped. Shashi wasn’t listening; her vacant expression was washed out by the thinnest of smiles and she had closed her eyes. Shekhar quietly observed her face. Suddenly Shashi opened her eyes. She fixed her gaze firmly on Shekhar and kept staring at him. Her long, piercing stare made Shekhar’s soul swoon; he saw—an ultimate truth; boundless; omnipresent . . .
‘Shekhar, come here.’
Shekhar moved towards the cot.
‘Sit next to me.’
Moved by a feeling he couldn’t name, Shekhar sat at the foot of her cot—Shashi seemed so far away, other-worldly, dreamy, disembodied, as if touching her would scatter her to the wind—
‘No’—what was the secret speaking through her voice?—‘Not there, come closer!’
Spellbound, Shekhar shifted towards her.
Then without saying another word, Shashi lifts up her chin; her eyes are half-closed and her mouth is half-opened, and that unchanging expression reveals nothing—
Shekhar doesn’t understand what is happening for a moment. Then a dam bursts inside him, and he bends down towards those half-opened lips—and as he bends down, his own flood of desire holds him back, a loving tenderness takes its place and tells him that half-opened jasmine blossoms should only be touched with the most loving of caresses, and as he gets closer and closer to her lips he bends his neck and touches Shashi’s lips with his earlobe. Her lips are tight—from the fever; that downy touch makes a shudder run through his head, and then compelled by a new wave in his consciousness he bends down again and kisses Shashi’s loving, fixed but unflinching lips . . . an unopposed, bestowed, interminable kiss . . .
Shashi drew a deep breath and closed her eyes; bewildered and unmoving, Shekhar takes a silent breath and sits down. He can hear his pulse in the silence, then he doubts that the pulse is his, but is rather Shashi’s heartbeat—and then he thinks that it is neither of theirs, but is the beat of the internal, ever-present silence of dawn . . .
The dusty blanket of night melted into the rosiness of dawn . . .
‘Shekhar?’
‘Hmm—’
‘You used to make me sing for you; if I ask you now will you do so for me—’
‘Me? . . .’
‘Yes, but you don’t have to sing, just read,’ and gesturing to the cabinet with her eyes, Shashi says, ‘There’s a black notebook in there—on the bottom shelf—’
Shekhar found the notebook.
‘Let me have it—’
Shashi opened the notebook. She flipped through the pages using one hand and her chin and then finding her place, she said, ‘Here—read from here—’
Shekhar took the notebook and was surprised—it contained poems copied in Shashi’s hand—Hindi, English, Bengali—
‘And don’t just read them to yourself—read them out—’
Shekhar was about to start, he read half of a verse and then stopped. Then he looked at Shashi’s face once and continued reading slowly.
I want to die while you love me
While yet you hold me fair,
While laughter lies upon my lips
And lights are in my hair,
I want to die while you love me.
Oh who would care to live
Till love has nothing more to ask
And nothing more to give?
I want to die—20
He stops suddenly and said, ‘No, Shashi, I won’t read this—’ And the mysterious, instructive intention of the poem and of Shashi’s making him read it just then pierced his soul. . . . I want to die while you love me21 . . . ‘No, absolutely not!’
‘Why are you scared, Shekhar? It’s an old poem—my laughter died a long time ago—No, Shekhar, I don’t want to hurt you. Don’t look at me like that—I realized things too late—just last night—yesterday in the evening, when you had gone to the other side of the Yamuna—’
Shekhar closed the notebook. He put it to one side, and he extended one hand and grabbed both of Shashi’s hands tightly . . .
After a while, Shashi said, ‘Let go. It’s not as if I am dying right now—’ And she smiled. And then changing her tone, ‘Shekhar, if you need to go to work, you should go. I am going to sleep.’
Shekhar looked up at the day. He wanted to say that he didn’t have any work any more. He thought that if she could get some rest he would be doing her a favour, and he quietly got up and walked out, although he had decided that he wouldn’t go to the workshop today . . .
After he did his daily chores, he lit the stove, heated some milk, made a porridge and juiced three oranges; then he quietly started keeping an eye on Shashi’s room. He peeped in through the window and saw that Shashi was sleeping peacefully . . .
Why had Shashi made him read that poem now? I want to die while you love me . . . Shashi never talked about mere sentimentality—so what was this—was it a message? Or was it only a possibility? . . . or a feeling—a gratitude for love . . . Or—pure—information . . .
He went to his room and wrote out a letter to his aunt that said that the two of them had been worried as they hadn’t received any news from her, that everything was going well, that Shashi was getting worse, and that if it were possible, she should send some money. At one point his hand stopped in wonder at where his former pride had gone, but he couldn’t see the reality of his pride clearly in his mind at that moment . . . He wrote the address on the envelope, took one more look at Shashi, and then went outside quietly to drop the letter into a letter box around the corner.
Shashi hadn’t got up yet. There were beads of perspiration on her forehead . . . Her fever was breaking . . . Shekhar crept into her room quietly and sat down on the ground near Shashi’s head. There were several things that he had to take care of away from the house, and there was nothing to do in the room as long as Shashi was sleeping. But Shekhar had so many things to say at that very moment to that sleeping face . . .
*
Why is it that whenever I recall these most intense days of my life I am left perplexed about what actually happened, and about what didn’t happen and
was only imagined? My external and internal worlds had become so entangled that it was impossible to separate them—perhaps the force of my internal world had become so intense that it ripped the physical boundaries of the external to shreds and burst forth—even when it didn’t exist, the intensity was the truth, was real—is real . . .
‘Listen, Shashi. There’s much I have to tell you. Don’t wake up, keep sleeping. Even while you are asleep you will hear the things that I want to say to you—because I am not speaking to your ears, I am speaking to your lips—lips that hesitated with me today, lips which I will never hesitate to speak my mind to—and especially not when they are asleep . . .
‘Shashi, you have given me love—you’ve granted me a boon . . . But before you gave me this book, why didn’t you test me? You need to test me—to see whether I am worthy or not . . .
‘Shashi, I have always had a power in me, but I never recognized it. I’ve been a rebel my entire life, but I’ve always been uselessly squandering my rebellious energies . . . That’s what your face taught me one day—it taught me that fighting is not an end of itself, to fight for the sake of fighting is inconsequential, and that a rebel has to rebel against something—God, society, illness, falsehood, mother, father, one’s self, love, it could be anything that a rebel rebels against . . . That’s when my rebellion found an edge—it became an opposition . . . I became an oppositionist . . .
‘But that was really only partially understood, and so my rebellion was also only partial . . . Then—then you taught me that it wasn’t enough just to fight against something . . . I learned that everything was polluted, was in ruins, was in decline—that it wasn’t just one society, but all life that had been corrupted from its very roots—God, man, everything . . . corrupted from the roots—was corrupted and rotten, there was nothing left to fight with! Or maybe everything could be made use of, which was saying the same thing—clay can be cut, but a marsh cannot—you can only sink deeper and deeper into it . . . It isn’t enough to fight against something; one also needed to fight for something . . .
Shekhar Page 59
