Our Favourite Indian Stories (10 page)

He looked out through the window. The train's motion had slowed down further. Outside, in the dried up fields stood the stalks of harvested crops. The earth had cracks here and there, and resembled the face of a very aged man. Bunches of red flowers hung from the
palaash
trees growing close to the railway line. He had loved these flowers right from his childhood. They burnt like phosphorous and emitted a freshness to the dry, bare jungle. As a child he would pluck those flowers and bring them home to play
Holi
with the colour extracted from them. Subsequently, these flowers changed to look like flattened petals in the shape of a rupee coin. In those days the flowers served as money in their make-believe world. And it was then that he had come to recognize the value of money. As he looked in front him, he suddenly went back several years in the Past. He was not destined to remain there, however. The third passenger asked conversationally, as he wiped his face with a towel, 'Are we nearing a station, Sir?'

He felt the question was addressed only to him. He sat up erect and said, 'Yes, Sir, it's Narsinghpur.'

'How long does the train stop here?'

'Isn't there a big station a little further?'

'Another hour or so, and we shall reach Jabalpur,' another passenger interrupted.

'The train stops there for a long time. What do you want to do?'

Nothing. I'll just get down and walk a bit. I'll have some tea and...'

He continued in an utterly carefree manner like one on a holiday.

He paced up and down the compartment. 'I'm a military man. If I sit long in the same place, my body becomes stiff and numb.'

The man, who had been reading the newspaper a little while ago remarked as though throwing a challenge, 'I'm getting down at Jabalpur.'

He suddenly felt disturbed on hearing the reply. At the mention of the city, he began to stare down at the floor of the compartment with blank eyes.

'I've heard about the marble-rocks there. Is it a lovely place?'

The army man seemed to be a very jolly fellow. But he did not consider it proper to join in the discussion. He continued to stare at the dirty floor of the compartment. A man becomes alert at the mention of the city of his birth. He feels as though somebody has called him by his first name amidst a jungle full of people. Now that name was like a dream. Everyone had started referring to him as
Tiwari Saheb
, and his first name Sharad seemed to have got lost somewhere in the years. How much time had he spent in those very marble-rocks at Bheda Ghat. And what satisfaction he used to feel whenever he looked at the Mithuna images in the temple of
Chaunsath Jogini!
And how often he had enjoyed eating
daal-baati
outside that temple! He had spent several nights there with a campfire and, in his idle moments, memories of those days would start floating around him. That was because a man who is used to living in the Past is never able to live in the Present.

He heaved a sigh. What a great mockery that rather than living in the Present, man removes himself from the moment of the Present! But how could one live in the Present? Suddenly he felt that all the passengers getting off at Jabalpur knew him well. They would surely announce it to everyone that Sharad
Saheb
had proceeded straight to Allahabad without getting off at Jabalpur. What would happen then?

How that Champu would curse him! Champu, that is, Seth Ratan Lai Jain, who now owned a bookshop. He had once written to him, 'You are in the capital of the country and are a big officer. Get a licence for me so that I can set up some factory.' He had not bothered to even reply to the letter because he had no such inclination. When he had been studying for his M. A., he had gone to take some books on credit from Champu's shop. Champu had given him the books but with an indirect hint that his business was selling books, not running a library. He knew that Champu was not wrong. But at the time, he had been in no position to buy any books either.

He could see Champu's face clearly before him — cheerful and glowing with the faint radiance of the warmth of money. When he had been performing his father's funeral rites under a
peepel
tree, Champu had said, 'Sharad
Bhai,
what your father did not do for you sake! You must definitely give a gold ring to the priest!'

He was furious. In truth, Father had left him only fit to be a mere ordinary clerk. Soon after passing the matriculation examination he had had to take tuitions here and there so that he would not have to ask Father for money to finance his studies. But he had merely stared at Champu, given away the gold ring to the priest and clenched his teeth. After that he had fed three hundred persons all day, from morning till evening, and in the whole process, had got a stiff waist. He was made to do everything he had never wanted to.

Suddenly, he felt darkness spreading before him. When he closed his eyes, he was surrounded by voices. They were not clear, but they were definitely the voices of his relatives. His uncle had a habit of reproaching him. And his aunt always took away money from his pocket. His maternal aunt invariably rifled through everything he had and took away by force any clothes she thought would be useful to her husband. And then the biggest question of them all, 'They say, you earn a lot under the table over there?'

'Is it something one asks?' his uncle would add promptly. '
Arre,
our nephew is a big officer, yes, an officer! All the wealthy businessmen hover around him like moths round a flame and give bundles of notes concealed in baskets of fruit. When they come with those baskets in their cars, our nephew treats them with contempt and asks them to leave the baskets behind. They quietly fold their hands and go away.'

His uncle said it as though he himself had been receiving that extra income. That is what made him so furious when he heard those words. The truth was he had never accepted a bribe nor made any underhand deal. That's exactly why he was held in respect. He felt like an innocent person being teased and branded a thief per force. He knew his uncle's words only had one meaning, and it all centred around money.

He felt as though he had been caught like Abhimanyu in an entangled maze of questions. He did not even remember that he was travelling by train; nor did not hear the voices at the stations that were being left behind; nor the sound of the iron striking like a hammer. Everything moved before him in layers. From licence, to clothes, to money — let those who wanted them, deprive him of them. By hinting that everything had come to him easily, it had become their legitimate right to have them. What a crime it is to turn something precious and hard-earned into something useless and meaningless! He felt all those deals for which he had fought since his childhood, mocking him.

He felt a jolt. The train had come to a sudden halt, breaking his stupor. There was some commotion in the compartment. Had there been an accident? Had someone pulled the chain?

'What's happened
Bhai?'

'Don't know!'

'We seem to be nearing some big city.'

Then he looked out. The train had come to a halt near the signal. He knew that signal very well. Even the lifeless railway bogies to its right and left were not unfamiliar to him. But the open blue sky above them seemed to pass unwelcome comments as it were. Under the sky, the sprawling city on both sides of the railway lines began forcibly drawing him out. How could he go beyond that city? His mind was in a turmoil. He felt a hollow wind swirling inside his whole body. He looked at the passengers in front of him.

Then he closed his eyes like a pigeon closes its eyes on seeing a cat. For sometime, he remained in the same position. With his eyes closed, he stretched himself straight on the berth and covered himself with a sheet, cutting himself off from his fellow passengers. Then he turned on his side, showing them his back and covered his face with his hands. He was like an ostrich hiding its neck at the first indication of a storm in a desert.

Usha Mahajan

In the afternoons this corner of the restaurant was usually empty. By the evening the place filled up and it was futile coming there without a prior reservation in the hope of finding a place. That evening it appeared as if the whole of Calcutta had turned up for tea. Right from the elevators upto the entrance there was a queue waiting for tables and greedily eyeing those inside.

'I hope you haven't been waiting for too long!' he said as he sat down on the sofa and stretched his left leg to get his handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. 'There was heavy traffic all along the route. See, how I am sweating! And its winter time.'

Madhukar wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead. She fixed her gaze on him. He did not sound as if he was lying; he had a childlike innocence about him. She wanted to take the end of her
sari
and mop the pearls of sweat from his body.

'Why are you looking at me in this way?' he asked tenderly. He noticed her twisting the ends of her sari between her fingers. Gently he took her hand. The storm of emotions gathering within her found an outlet. Before she could check herself, the words burst out of her mouth, 'Madhukar, do you love me?'

He was taken aback almost as if his hand had touched a live wire or an icy blast of wind had blown into the easy corner of the restaurant and chilled the atmosphere. He suddenly let go her hand and sank back into his seat. 'The waiter is coming to take our order,' he replied and tried to look very business-like.

Madhukar's reluctance to answer a direct question made her very unsure of herself. How could she have been so brash as to expose herself so shamelessly before him. She felt as if a tidal wave of disillusionment had suddenly swept her off her feet and cast her on the hard rocks of reality. She realised she had blundered and felt sorry for herself. Married couples who have lived together for many years do not ever dare to ask each other such questions. What right had she to do so on the strength of just a few meetings?

What did she have to bring up the question of love in their relationship? He was doing everything he could for her. He took her out for lunches and dinners to the most expensive joints in the city. And the countless little things he was always doing for her! Despite all that every time they met she looked into his eyes to find an answer to just one question.

Madhukar glanced at his wristwatch and said, 'Neera, I forgot about an appointment I made for four o'clock to see a patient in Ballygunge. It slipped out of my mind. Let's go; we'll come here another evening.' And without waiting for an answer, he got up and announced, 'I will drop you on the way.'

She followed him out of the restaurant feeling smaller and smaller till she felt being reduced to a midget.

'Don't worry about me. It will make you go out of your way. I'll get home on my own,' she said trying hard to smile.

She spent the night thinking about him. She knew she should not see any more of Madhukar; but she also knew she would not be able to keep up her resolve. The more she tried to put him out of her mind, the stronger became her desire to win over Madhukar's heart. The next evening when Madhukar dropped in on the excuse of seeing her sick husband, she felt she had got a second lease of life. He brought him a bouquet of flowers; she knew that it was really meant for her because they were her favourite gladioli. He knew she kept them in her vase till the last blossom had withered away.

As she was leaving, he touched her lightly on her shoulders and murmured, 'Sorry about last evening.'

Neera could not make out what he was apologising about. For not having replied to her question or not having given her tea? However, she felt there must be something abiding in their relationship to make him come to see her.

Maybe soon the time would come when she could put him the same question and he would answer 'Yes.'

All said and done, what else is it that keeps humans alive except hope! It was the same with her husband. He had been badly injured in a traffic accident but had hung on to life in the hope that he would be his old self again.

She remembered how lying in bed in the hospital, he had said, 'Neera, I don't think I will be of any use to you any longer. Would you like to be freed of me?'

She had broken down. She had run her trembling fingers across the face of the man who had been her life's support but was now lying disabled and helpless. She reassured him, 'Don't ever say such things again. I'll never leave you. I wish God had inflicted this injury on me rather than on you.'

Time takes its toll of everything. It not only ages the face and the body but the head and the heart as well. Time makes people forget their own words, forget the solemnity of vows made. When rains fall, withered trees begin to sprout fresh leaves. The scorching sun of mid summer turns the same green woodland into a barren desert. There was time when she had waited anxiously all day for the evening when her husband would be back home. And now that he was home all day long, she felt that there was nothing left in the world for her to look forward to.

How could she ever forget what Madhukar had done for her! When her world had become pitch-dark without a glimmer of hope anywhere, he had taken her out into the light. He had assuaged the pain that she had inflicted upon herself through self-torture. She had become a living corpse; he had breathed life back into her.