Our Favourite Indian Stories (20 page)

You bloody Sikh! If God grants me life I will settle my score with you. At this moment I cannot even protest. The rioters are armed and only a few yards away from me. If they get to know of my presence....

'Please come in.'

My eyes fell on the unsheathed
kirpan
in the hands of the Sikh. He was inviting me to come in. The bearded monster looked more frightful after he had soiled his hands with my property. There was the glittering blade of his
kirpan
inviting me to my doom. There was no time to argue. The only choice was between the guns of the rioters and the sabre of the Sikh. I decided, rather the
kirpan
of the old man than ten armed gangsters. I went into the room hesitantly, silently.

'Not here, come in further,' I went into the inner room like a goat following a butcher. The glint of the blade of the
kirpan
was almost blinding.

'Here you are, take your things.' said the Sikh.

He and his children put all the stuff they had pretended to loot, in front of me. His old woman said 'Son, I am sorry we were not able to save more.'

I was dumb-founded.

The gangsters had dragged out my steel almirah and were trying to smash it open. 'It would be simpler if we could find the keys,' said someone.

'The keys can only be found in Pakistan. That cowardly son of a filthy Muslim has decamped,' replied another.

Little Mohini answered back:
'Sheikhji
is not a coward. He has not run off to Pakistan.'

'Where is he blackening his face? He is in...' Mohini realised her mistake and stopped in her sentence. Blood mounted in her father's face. He locked me in the inside room, gave his
kirpan
to his son and went out to face the mob.

I do not know what exactly took place outside. I heard the sound of blows; then Mohini crying; then the Sikh yelling full-blooded abuse in Punjabi. And then a shot and the Sikh's cry of pain
hai
.

I heard a truck engine starting up; and then there was a petrified silence.

When I was taken out of my prison my Sikh neighbour was lying on a
charpoy
. Beside him lay a torn and blood stained shirt. His new shirt also was oozing with blood. His son had gone to telephone for the doctor.

'Sardarji
, what have you done?' I do not know how these words came out of my lips. The world of hate in which I had lived all these years, lay in ruins about me.

'Sardarji
, why did you do this?' I asked him again.

'Son, I had a debt to pay.'

'What kind of a debt?'

'In Rawalpindi there was a Muslim like you who sacrificed his life to save mine and the honour of my family.'

'What was his name,
Sardarji?'

'Ghulam Rasul.'

Fate had played a cruel trick on me. The clock on the wall started to strike... 1...2...3...4...5...The Sikh turned towards the clock and smiled. He reminded me of my grandfather with his twelve-inch beard. How closely the two resembled each other!

He smiled again. His white beard and long white hair were like a halo, effulgent with a divine light...10...11...12...The clock stopped striking.

I could almost hear him say: 'For us Sikhs, it is always 12 o'clock!'

But the bearded lips, still smiling, were silent. And I knew he was already in some distant world, where the striking of clocks counted for nothing, where violence and mockery were powerless to hurt him.

Translated by
Khushwant Singh

Gopinath Mohanty

Back home from work, he emitted a sweet fragrance. Kamala could feel its presence clearly. Turning on her side, she crumpled up in pain. She looked up at his face from the tired bed.

She remembered her decision of not letting him know of her pain or revealing the pallor on her face. Instead, she would smile. Or at least try hard to smile. And yet, why did she hear this weeping inside? It was a happy thought that her days were numbered. It was useless to continue being a burden on him.

Before she could put on a smile, Surababu came near her with a sad face. Pressing her head with his left hand and playing with her dishevelled hair he asked, 'Has the pain increased today? Oh God, what should we do? How long will you carry on in this way?'

Kamala smiled as she said, 'It is the same old pain, what is new about it?'

His face seemed to dry up further before her sharp gaze as he said, 'Yes, why won't you say that? That is your habit, the habit of all women. Never admitting even to yourself what you are going through. You people feel that if you burn yourself out in serving others you will be the first to reach heaven. Isn't that so, Kama?'

Surababu extended his hand to caress her cheeks. But as if in a desperate bid to escape his touch, she withdrew her face, writhing in pain. She felt a stab of pain in the chest and a sudden dizziness as she closed her eyes and floated into emptiness. Half a minute later, she was herself again.

Biting her lower lip she said, 'You have not even changed your clothes. You must be feeling wretched. Do please go and eat something.' She then called out to the servant Indra in a broken voice.

Surababu said, 'I shall go but don't speak so loudly; it will only aggravate your weakness and pain.'

She sighed and closed her eyes. A minute later, as she opened her eyes Surababu was still standing there.

Those few words echoed in her ears, 'What is left of this body?'

The familiar fragrance came back to her. She could see things dissolving—now clear, now hazy before her steady gaze. And now she could see, in the pale wintry light after the rains, the sparkle of the human body — her husband's. His forty-sixth birthday was near at hand and yet he displayed the same inflexibility of body — the wide forehead, the glow of knowledge in the face, the careless tilt of the chin as if to fight and overcome misfortune. And this was her body, only hers. Kamala got goose-flesh.

Her face felt hot; the space around the eyes seemed to burn and, hungrily, she stared at Surababu. She remembered his words of sympathy. But what had she been reduced to! The tiny cloud of suspicion that floated in her consciousness suddenly became a huge screen and there seemed to be an intimation of rain.

She clenched her teeth hard as she spoke, 'What use is an empty wine-cup?'

Surababu was startled and asked, 'Oh, what did you say?'

Kamala smiled in envy and said, 'Nothing. But it is now ages since I have been telling you that I am bedridden. I can do precious little for you and you need care. For God's sake, you...'

To her surprise, she noticed that Surababu did not turn his face away. His eyes did not look misty and there was no anguish at such a proposal. Instead, there was anger in his voice, as he said, 'What is this you are talking about?'

Kamala felt as if she was sinking. Not because of any anger but out of an unknown fear.

She said, 'Are you angry with me? You have just returned after a hard day's work. Why don't you go, change, have a wash and eat something? Why, instead, are you standing here?'

And once again she squeaked, 'Indra, can't you hear me? Babu is standing here.'

Surababu walked away. The breeze retained his fragrance only for a while. Kamala kept thinking, vacantly looking up from her bed. Outside, the shadows lengthened. From her bed, the drumstick plant could be seen clearly. Its leaves had flashed a smile in the sun a little while ago, and now it was slowly becoming a column of darkness. She went back twenty-two long years in memory. Ghana was yet to be born. Manika and Suna had not even been thought of. It was the first year after their marriage.

'You are so fragrant, Kama!'

'Hush... Please go away, mother is in that room and look, someone — may be one of your students, is knocking at the door. You have come back after a hard day's teaching. Are you not hungry?'

All around there was fragrance. Covering her dishevelled hair in the spreading net of his face, she blushed. He remained there, unmoving.

'Would you please go away?'

'Do be quiet. I am listening to the song.'

'What song are you talking about?'

'There is music in the human breast, fragrance in the body; and do you know what there is in the touch?'

'Fire!'

'No you are wrong. The touch has the caress of lotus and sleep.'

'Yes, everything is in your language. You are, after all, a professor of literature!'

'Let us not talk of literature. Literature is not greater than life. It is no substitute for life. I lean on life, I drink life.'

'Are you not ashamed?'

'Shame is only a superficial mask. Why have something you don't believe in?'

Startled, Kamala tried to get up, but in a burst of fire all the nagging pain and the sickness of her body came back. She continued lying down, sulked and could recognise that the fragrance was of an
attar
which was sold in the bazaar. It had been a long time ago. She had forgotten all about toiletry. Forgetting all personal pleasures, all pleasurable habits, she had turned herself into a tough housewife intent on rearing up children. Now they had gone out into the wide world. Manika and Suna had set up their own homes. Ghana was studying forestry at Coimbatore. Once he took up a job, Ghana too would get married even though he was still a child. Then there would be a daughter-in-law in the house. She had sacrificed all her desires and pleasures, deriving pleasure only in giving. Sacrificing and bringing up children.

The softness of her palms had been sacrificed on the altar of domestic chores. Her delicate colouring had faded and there was an increasing loss of hair. Eating had become only a ritual after feeding the family. She would just wear anything and apply just a little bit of coconut oil on her hair. Now, for a year and half, she had lost even that capacity to work and remained immobilised in bed. Many doctors had examined her. She had swallowed too many medicines but no good had come out of them. The same soreness remained in the waist and the feet; the weakness increased and she knew that her body was slowly wasting away. She and
attar
! The fragrance had returned through his body, perhaps only to ease her. He was unusual that way. He never used perfume and often forgot to shave his face, comb his hair or put on appropriate clothes. He was a renowned professor, great in knowledge. Everything appeared nice on him, but surely not
attar
. Then where was that smell from?

How good her husband was, she thought! God had gifted much to her.

Darkness was deepening. Kamala wept—just a few wet drops of tears from hot eyes. Indra brought in the lamp. Kamala asked where he was and was told that Surababu had gone out for a stroll.

'Where to?' she asked.

'He did not tell me.'

'Alright,' she said and kept quiet.
Attar
was available in the market and it was no one's monopoly. The world was full of human beings and if you sought out, you could get someone. No one waited for anyone else. And all the concerns, all the affections - they were there only for a while, something of a lie, really.

Turning over in bed, Kamala lay quietly. More tears welled up. Indra stood by silently. He was used to her tears and now only tried to fathom the nature of her sorrow or pain as he asked, 'What should be the curry for the night?'

'How long do you think I am here that you should keep on asking me this?' Her voice was slurred.

Chewing the tip of his
dhoti
, Indra asked, 'You are crying, sister? Why, won't you get well soon?'

'Let this body go into the hearth-fire. What use is this living except to bear more suffering? And in any case who belongs to whom?' she demanded.

Indra was gone. Kamala felt that at least she had spoken out before someone. She wiped her face. She had declared her wish to die and felt somewhat light now. She kept lying in bed, thinking of death, which would be better than this kind of living. But when would it come? She could not recollect any forgiveness but only a mounting sense of being left out.

Ghana was deeply attached to her but he had his studies, his future. Four months back when she had been very ill, he had not managed to stay for more than four days. His father also insisted that he should not spoil his studies. In fact that was everybody's chorus. And Manika and Suna - belonging to another household, how often could they come? No one should come in fact. Each one, after all, had a world to look after.

The only one who she could call her own had returned from college and had gone out, without even a word to her.

The lights were on. Kamala looked outside as she lay quietly, her mouth half-open as if she had stopped in the midst of saying something and her mind had flown away elsewhere.

She thought she was at the age when the body's desires should end. She had borne him one son and two daughters. Entering her in-laws' house at the age of fifteen, she had put in twenty years of house-management. It had been one long stretch of time in which some had got broken homes, while others had left for the other world. She thought of those days of twenty-one years ago after the birth of Ghana. The hospital, the pain, the operation, the dressing, the unseasonal rain and the bitter cold wind that had made her shiver. The peace-loving professor would be startled at her cry and ask, 'Can't you sleep quietly? You have woken up the baby!' Sometimes, the baby also cried loudly.

Life leans on happiness. It cannot continue with a sense of fear submerging it, she reflected. So sometimes, she had let herself go and in sheer self-defense had ignored the precepts of the
shastras
. The body remained a body, suffered injuries, recovered and only awaited other injuries.

Manika came after Ghana and then came Suna. They were the fruits of happiness, if not of mere sensation.

Even then, she had persuaded herself that the body's desires must end.

So often she would tell her weakling friend Sovana, 'Dear friend, this is only a form of suffering and not happiness. It used to be so wonderful back in our father's home. All that swimming, plucking of flowers, climbing trees, racing to nowhere. Can one ever get back to those carefree days?'