by Bipin Aurora
Someone asked a question on the meaning of life.
The scholars spoke of “systematic reference points,” of “successive conceptual webs.”
Another person asked a question on the possibility of truth.
The scholars laughed—with irony perhaps, but not venom. They spoke of “indirections,” of “interstices.” They spoke of the “vacant spaces between things, words, ideas.”
I looked at my friend: I had never seen him so happy, so alive. People speak of the power of religion to uplift, the power of yoga to transport you to another dimension. My friend did not need religion or yoga. He was there, good man. He was already there!
That evening we met at the Howard Johnson’s. My friend spoke—how rapidly he spoke.
“I am happy,” he said.
“Happy?”
“God exists,” he said.
“He does?”
“These men are his disciples. His messengers as well!”
I was not sure that the men he referred to even believed in God. I doubted strongly that they would accept such an analysis. But my friend was happy—was that not the main thing? Happiness comes so rarely, to so few. Why quibble with it when it is there—why quibble at all?
***
The days passed. The euphoria of the last few days did not last. How could it? The conference was over and the men had come and gone. Their books remained, but was that enough? Their ideas remained, but was that enough? Could it be?
Gurmeet Singh walked the streets—he continued to walk them. He read books—he continued to read them. And did he fit into America now—did he fit in better? Did he understand America—did he understand the world?
“I am someone,” he said.
“Someone?”
“I am no one,” he said.
“No one?”
“I try,” he said. “How hard I try!”
He spoke his words seriously. But was there pity in the words, self-pity? Was there cheap sentiment there as well?
A man wants to learn—then he must really learn. A man wants to understand—then sentiment must have no place in that understanding. A man must look at the truth, face it. He must look the truth straight in the eye.
One day Gurmeet Singh went to the market. What did he see there? He went to the mall—what did he see there? He walked in his neighborhood with his hands crossed behind his back. There was an oak tree, he stood under the tree. There was an apple tree, he sat at the base of the tree. There was a squirrel in the tree that made loud and screeching noises. This was its home, perhaps it did not want any strangers—any intruders—in its world.
Gurmeet Singh was in the strange world of America. People did not want him there. But he had his own world as well. Did he want people there?
Choice, choice—the words of the jurist rang in his head. How much of the world was determined (a priori)? How much of the world did we make ourselves?
***
One day I saw Gurmeet Singh again. It was in Austin, Texas—at the Denny’s on Ben White Boulevard. It was in the early hours of the morning, there were hardly any people there.
We found a booth in a corner and we huddled with our thoughts. There was a glass salt shaker—Gurmeet Singh played with that. There was a packet of sugar—Gurmeet Singh played with that. It was raining outside, a light drizzle. My friend sat there, he shook his head.
“I am tired,” he said.
“Tired?”
“I have studied, I have studied—for what? The books have taught me—what have they taught me?”
I tried to encourage my friend. I told him that he was being too hard on himself. He was going through a temporary period of self-doubt, no more. Humans are humans—we all go through that.
But he would not be appeased.
The waitress came, asked us if we were ready to order. She was an older woman—in her late fifties, perhaps even her early sixties. She had curly white hair, a pencil tucked behind her ear. But what struck me were the nails on her fingers. For all the work, the hard work, they were delicate and long. And they were painted pink, perhaps an orange-pink.
I noticed the nails. Did my friend notice them as well?
I thought of the parking lot in Cheverly, of the girls who came there. They studied typing in school, they studied bookkeeping. Had this woman done the same? The girls grew up, married—or did they? They had children—or did they? They painted their nails in their youth; they grew up, tucked pencils behind their ears and worked at Denny’s. Was this the way?
I looked at the woman with interest. Did my friend do the same?
“What would you like?” The woman spoke at last, the small green pad in front of her—the pencil in her hand now, no longer behind her ear.
My friend pointed to the item in the menu. (Is this what he wanted to say?)
“Any coffee? Tea?”
My friend answered. (Is this what he wanted to say?)
She asked me questions as well. Food, drink; food, drink. I answered as well. Simply, directly—I answered as well.
The years pass, we grow old. The years pass, we grow tired. We paint our nails, we do not paint them. We go to Denny’s, we do not go. We find the truth, we do not find it. Does anyone remember? Does anyone care?
But people ask you questions, it is best to answer. Simply, directly. The best you can. It is the best thing to do.
The time passed. The food came, we nibbled on the food. The drinks came, we sipped on the drinks. My friend was in a bad mood—it was not easy to shake him from that mood.
The rain was falling harder now. The wind had picked up as well. We nibbled on the food—my dear friend and I—we nibbled for a long time.
“The toast,” said my friend at last.
“The toast?”
“It is nice and crisp today.”
My friend smiled. I was glad that he smiled.
“It is nice and crisp today. I like that.”
Again my friend smiled. It was a fleeting smile. It lasted a second, perhaps a fraction of a second. But a smile, any smile—for a second, even for a fraction of a second—is that so bad? Is that really so bad?
It is a big world. We are small men. Sometimes we take what we can—is that not the best way? We take what we can. Is that really so bad?
Mother of Gulu
It was 1947, Bipan, a long time ago. The Muslims came, they killed him. Seven there were: three with knives, two with sticks, and the other two (did I tell you)—they kept watch at the door. Muslims they were, yes, and they killed him—they killed my husband.
“Rapidly I blinked my eyes. But no, that was not a new habit; since I was a child, I would blink them so. And now before my eyes they were killing him. I screamed, yes, but no one came; my husband screamed as well—but no one came. Rama was not there and Krishna was not there; Lakshmi was not there and Durga was not there. For thirty-two years I had prayed to the gods. But when the Muslims came—seven there were—the gods did not show.
“It was 1947, Bipan, it was the partition. Nehru said this and Jinnah said that. Gandhi said this and Patel said that. Lahore it was and we all listened. The city was in flames and we listened. July 1947—he was there. August—he was not. The Muslims had come—seven there were—three with knives, two with sticks, and the other two (oh yes) they kept watch at the door.
“So the Muslims came, so they killed him—so they killed my husband. A sad story, Bipan, is it not? Will you listen, will you turn away?”
The mother of Gulu spoke, rapidly she blinked her eyes. Sometimes she tried to control herself but she could not: she blinked.
Many things about the story we liked, but the blinking of the eyes—that we liked the best. At times we would go around the kothi and try to copy her. But we could never be as good. A few times we would blink but, no no, it was nothing like hers.
At the copying, Kailash was maybe the best. Eighty-seven times he blinked once in a minute—but the two hundred times of the mother of Gulu, the two hundred and three,
no no, it was nothing like that.
“The Muslims came, I saw it. But Shammi, I wonder, did she see it? Gulu, I wonder, did he? Shammi was then three, she was in the other room; curious, when I went to her room, she was still asleep. The screams, they did not wake her. Gulu—a baby he was, four months and then a few days—but no, the screams did not wake him either. Often I think about that—seven Muslims in the room, three with knives, two with sticks—and the other two—and yet with all the noise, the children did not wake.
“God’s will—perhaps it was God’s will that the children be spared. Oh now they know like the rest. In July he was there, in August he was not. The Muslims had come—three with knives, two with sticks, and the other two (oh yes)—they kept watch at the door.”
The winter afternoon it was, in the back of the kothi we sat. The mother of Gulu sat on the string cot (or on the ground). She rocked back and forth. We sat on the ground (we sat at her feet). We listened: we did not turn away.
“Seven there were, yes. ‘Your son,’ they said, ‘is it Gulu?’ ‘Your husband,’ they said, ‘is it Ram Das?’ ‘We have come,’ they said, ‘with knives we have come, with sticks. Look!’
“The knives were long, they glinted in the dark. The sticks were long, they held them to my neck.
“I screamed in the night, I pulled out my hair. I clasped my palms, I fell at their feet. (Do you think it helped?)
“‘The henna,’ they said, ‘o mai, is it not a good thing?’ ‘The henna,’ they said, ‘oh look: see how it dyes the world red!’
(“The henna was there, it was all over. And yes, it did it: it dyed the world red.”)
“The neighbors came, they hid in the corner. The neighbors came, they stood at the door.
“‘But my husband,’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ they said.
“‘But my husband,’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ they said.
“The relatives came, they hurried me away.
“‘But my husband,’ I said.
“‘Yes,’ they said.
“I hit my breast, I pulled out my hair. I broke my bangles, I removed the sindoor from my forehead. (Do you think it helped?)
“‘Have some tea,’ they said. ‘Eat,’ they said. ‘You must eat,’ they said.
“A horse carriage was there, it stood outside. ‘Have some tea,’ they said. ‘Eat,’ they said. ‘You must eat,’ they said.”
Sometimes it was the winter but sometimes it was the summer as well. We sat in the veranda (we sat in the shade). The mother of Gulu sat on the string cot, she rocked back and forth. The women sat on the cots, they knitted their sweaters. Some of them ate peanuts, they threw the shells on the ground. Some of them removed the lice—they removed the lice from the children’s hair.
“From death I tried to bring him back. Do you think I was able?
“Savitri I was not, Behula I was not. I could not—I could not bring him back.
“At the funeral I cried. ‘Cry,’ they said, ‘why do you cry?’ They pointed to a ledge, on the ledge was a crow.
“But a crow was a crow, not my husband. I could not bring him back.
“I followed the body to the pyre—‘Go back,’ they said. I wept, I shrieked—‘Go back,’ they said. ‘But my husband,’ I said, ‘I weep for my husband.’
“An old man, a sadhu, was there (his hair was white, his back was bent in half). ‘Look, o mai,’ he said, ‘there is your husband.’
“I looked: and there on the ledge was the same crow.
“But a crow was a crow, not my husband. I could not bring my husband back.
“For years I worked at the funeral grounds, for years I lay my face to the wall. For years I went from kothi to kothi talking about death. But do you think it helped?
“They told me the story of Buddha. ‘Go from house to house,’ they said, ‘find lentils in a house that has not known death.’
“They were right, death was everywhere. But my husband was dead, I could not—I could not bring him back.”
(“And so it was, Bipan, so it was. Are you there, are you listening? Will you turn away?”)
“Sometimes the people tried to comfort me. ‘We will get the moon for you,’ they said, ‘we will get the sun. In a tonga we will go, we will bring it to your door.’
“‘The moon,’ I said, ‘can it take the place of my husband?’ ‘The sun,’ I said, ‘can even the sun?’
“I cried, the tears came. ‘The hair of Shiva,’ they said, ‘the hair of Shiva we need.’
“The hair of Shiva had once stopped a flood. But the flood of my tears, could it stop that?
“My husband was dead—I could not bring him back.
“My husband was dead—I could not bring him back.
“My husband was dead—Bipan, are you there (are you listening?)—I could not—I could not bring him back.”
***
The women sat in the back of the kothi. They sat on the string cots (and sometimes on the ground), they knitted their sweaters. The mother of Gulu told her story—she would begin to tell it.
“1947 it was.”
“Yes.”
“Partition it was.”
“Yes.”
“And the seven, did I tell you …”
Sometimes the women would nod. Sometimes they would purse their lips sympathetically. Sometimes, pausing an instant from their knitting, they would shake their heads.
“It happens,” they said.
“It comes to pass,” they said.
“O mother of Gulu, do not be sad—do not be sad,” they said.
But sometimes (I will say it), the women grew tired of the tale. They liked the mother of Gulu, but the story, how many times had they heard it?
They were old, they were weak. Did they not have problems of their own?
The mother of Gulu would leave the old people, she would come to us.
“The others are busy,” she would say, “they do not care. But you are children, you will listen. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” we said.
“You will listen. Is it not so?”
“Yes,” we said.
Not only did we listen, but we listened with care. And the mother of Gulu, as she spoke, her enthusiasm seemed to grow as well.
Tingoo was there and Binoo. Kailash was there and Raman. And the others—they were there as well.
The mother of Gulu—she would tell her story. We would sit at her feet (we would sit on the ground). And we would ask questions—ask questions as well.
“The three with knives,” we said, “what did they look like?”
(“Yes yes,” we said, “the three with knives.”)
“The two with sticks,” we said, “what kind of sticks were they?”
(“Yes yes,” we said, “the two with sticks.”)
“Of the neelam tree they were not made, that we know. But of what were they made, can you tell us, did you have a chance to look?”
“And the two who kept watch at the door, did they have any weapons? Knives they may not have been, sticks they may not, but was there something else perhaps—something hidden?”
At first we had feared that the mother of Gulu might be offended by the questions. But no, she did not seem upset; or if upset, she did not show it.
Politely she answered our questions: one by one she answered them.
Sometimes it was even like a game. She would laugh. And we would laugh as well.
She would wink. And we would wink as well.
“The knives,” she would say, “ha ha!” “The sticks,” she would say, “ha ha!”
Rapidly she would blink her eyes. Again she would blink them, and again!
Many things about the story we liked, but the blinking of the eyes—oh yes, that was always the best. At times we would go around the kothi and try to copy her. But we could never be as good. A few times we would blink but, no no, it was nothing like hers.
At the copying, Kailash was maybe the best. Eighty-seven times he blinked once
in a minute—but the two hundred times of the mother of Gulu, the two hundred and three—no no, it was nothing like that.
(The two hundred times—the two hundred and three—no no, it was nothing like that.)
***
The mother of Gulu was sad, she walked around the grounds of the kothi. She heard a voice: “What is that?” she said. She heard the noise of the crow: her whole body shuddered. The noise of someone hitting the clothes with the paddle: she covered her ears with her hands. “Hey Ram,” she cried, “Hey Ram—is there no peace in the kothi?”
We saw the mother of Gulu, we tried to stop her.
“O mother of Gulu,” we said, “where are you going?”
“I am going to Lahore.”
“Lahore?”
“My husband calls me. Is it not time that I went back?”
“A place there is,” she said.
“A place?”
“There is a small house. The boards of the door, they crisscross.
“The rooms of the house, oh I can still smell them. (The floors of the rooms, how cool they were.) The mai would come in the morning, she would clean them. The smell of phenol was there. In the summer afternoon, how nice it was to take a pillow, to lie on them!
“Shammi would lie on one side of me. And Gulu (did I tell you)—I put some bedding under him—he would lie on the other.”
The mother of Gulu would speak, she would rock back and forth. Like this (like this!) she would rock back and forth.
Like this (like this!) she would rock back and forth!
***
We were afraid for the mother of Gulu, we tried to comfort her.
(But do you think it helped?)
We gave her toffee, we gave her peppermints.
(But do you think it helped?)
We rubbed her legs—and then we did it again.
(But was it enough. Could it ever be?)
“My husband,” she said, “he was a nice man.”
“Yes,” we said.
“He gave me saris, he gave me gifts.”
“Yes,” we said.
“The old people in the kothi, they laugh at me, they do not care. But he loved me, he loved!”
