And he set off, carefree, grinning from ear to ear.
*
After Dal Chand left, Dina Nath opened his book and said, ‘I’ve called it Marriage: Home-Making or Home-Wrecking?’
But Chetan stood up. He wasn’t interested in hearing anything at all about the problem of marriage. ‘Look Dina Nath, I’ll come by tomorrow and listen carefully. Right now I have to go and see a couple of friends.’
And he held out his hand.
Hakim Dina Nath stood up as well.
He took Chetan’s hand in both of his and, pressing it warmly, he smiled and said, ‘Definitely come by tomorrow, don’t forget.’
For just a second, Chetan’s eyes were fixed on the two wrinkles that started on each side of his nose and stretched to his chin, and then he said, ‘No, no, I’ll definitely come.’
And he stepped down from the shop and even tossed a greeting Desraj’s way as he continued on his way.
8
A bit ahead, before Tunka the dhobi’s shop, were the lock-and-key smiths. They poured molten iron into moulds to make locks and keys. The boy who worked with the blacksmith would pump air with the bellows from the side into the pine coals beneath the crucible in which the metal melted, while the blacksmith prepared the mould. When the mould was ready, he’d remove the upper portion and shake the dirt mixed with sand from the mouth of the lower portion. The shape of the key would be dug from the middle of the mould. He’d draw a line from the mouth of the mould to the key with an iron awl. After fixing the upper portion in this same manner, he’d use a cotton swab to take some of the sand mixture from a clay pot and sprinkle it over the mould, then bind it tightly and prop up the anvil with his foot, lift the crucible with tongs, and pour the melted metal into it. Smoke would begin to rise from the mould and the smell of burned spice and sand filled the air. Then he’d place the crucible back on the stove, put more pieces of metal in it, place the mould on the wooden platform, pound it a couple of times with his fist, open it and lift out the upper portion with a practised hand. The cast key in the lower portion would sparkle, and a line running from its top to the mouth of the mould formed a sort of metal mound. Then, having lightly knocked both sides of the mould a bit, he’d take them in his hands and flip them over so that the key would fall out, but the sand in the mould would not move at all. After this, he’d lift the key with the tongs, and dunk it into a small clay jug filled with water. There’d be a hissing sound. The smell of smoke and metal would rise and fill the nostrils. Then he’d separate the metal ridge with one blow of the chisel and hammer, toss the new key to the right on to the pile of new keys and, separating out the burnt sand mixture, he’d knead it again and pour it into the mould.
He didn’t know why he was so attracted to this process, but whenever Chetan was on his way home from school or college alone, he’d stop there for a long time, watching the locks and keys being made. Sometimes the keys were already finished and the blacksmith would be picking them up from the pile one at a time and cleaning them off with a file. His hands moved at the pace of a machine and Chetan would watch transfixed. Sometimes he’d be binding together the top and bottom portions of the locks. The process that he’d watched again and again always seemed new to him. The freshly minted shining keys lying in their moulds always looked like newborn babies and when the blacksmith cut the thin plate between the lump on the mouth of the mould and the key, it was like snipping the umbilical cord.
When Chetan left Hakim Dina Nath’s shop, he thought the blacksmith would probably be making locks at that hour. He’d stand for a few moments and watch, and that odd smell of burnt sand and burning iron and water all mixed together would fill his nostrils.
And indeed, the blacksmith was preparing the mould and the molten metal was turning red in the crucible on the stove. Chetan had just stopped there when Anant slapped him hard on the shoulder.
‘Hello there, all done with your Uncle Medicine?’
‘But you were going towards Lal Bazaar.’
‘I’d meant to see Tirth in Chowk Sudan, but he wasn’t there, so I thought I’d go and see Billa—he’s living in a room in Bohar Wala Bazaar these days. I didn’t find him either, so then I came this way. Did you see Dina Nath?’
‘Yes.’
‘How’s he doing? Has he shaved off his moustaches or not?’
‘He hasn’t, but if things keep up like this he’ll soon do it.’
Anant laughed. ‘Why?’
‘The state of Hakim Hazik Hakim Dina Nath, Gold Medallist, seems a bit dire.’
‘Now he wants to earn money by fraud,’ said Anant. ‘How’s a practice going to run on fraud? I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up in jail one day.’
‘Why?’
‘Because ever since the dispensary in Bajiyanwala Bazaar failed, he’s been putting out ads under the names of several fake companies and selling fake goods in the style of Shera and Company. Planchettes, fake cameras, watches and who knows what else . . . he thinks no one knows. One of these days, he’ll get caught, and then all his tricks will be revealed . . . We don’t speak any more, otherwise I’d tell him, you jerk, you got your medical degree so fast; practise for nine or ten years and you’ll become famous on your own. You’re not the kind of genius that can become Thakur Dutt Multani in just two days. If you were going to be such a fraudster, what was the point of studying medicine!’
And Anant laughed.
‘I advised him to go to Lahore and open a dispensary. He knows so many recipes. He should just advertise that medical knowledge of his, then he’ll become famous like Kaviraj Ramdas. Kaviraj came to Lahore and started a practice in just the same way.’
‘How many children does Kaviraj have?’ asked Anant suddenly.
Chetan fell silent for a moment; the question was so rude. Then he replied, ‘He had only one son at the time. Now, after fourteen years, he’s had another.’
‘The guy who can wait fourteen years to have a second child is the guy who can become Kaviraj Ramdas. Dina Nath’s had five kids in eight years. If he goes to Lahore, whose daddy will he cry to? Thallu spends whatever he earns on liquor. Who would raise Dina Nath’s kids here? Who told that son of a bitch to quit jewellery-making and become a doctor? If he wanted to cheat people, why didn’t he stick with his original profession?’
And Anant guffawed loudly. He slapped Chetan on the shoulder and asked, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘I was thinking of going to see Nishtar.’
‘What are you going to do at that squint-eye’s place? Come on, let’s bring Debu Kana and Badda along. Debu is more of a squint-eye than Nishtar. Let’s play a few rounds of chaupar. We’ll get the two of them to fight and then watch the fun.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’
‘Being in a bad mood isn’t going to bring your sister-in-law back.’
‘Shut up.’
Anant chuckled. ‘It’s time to move on to greener pastures. Out of sight, out of mind, that’s my motto.’
‘You’ve always been a womanizer.’
‘And you’ve always been a fool.’
Anant went on his way, guffawing loudly. Chetan stood there for a moment, feeling defeated. He saw that the blacksmith had pounded the mould a couple of times with his fist and lifted out the upper portion. In the lower portion sparkled the new key, fresh as a baby.
The key . . .
Chetan watched for a few moments, unblinkingly. But though he stared, he didn’t see a thing. He sighed deeply and went on his way.
9
‘Anant was right though,’ thought Chetan as he walked along. ‘No matter how rudely he speaks, there’s some truth to what he says.’ What was the reason for his uprootedness, after all? Wasn’t it Neela’s wedding? And what if she hadn’t married? What if she’d continued to adore him? He didn’t have the courage to leave Chanda—to make Neela his own. He didn’t want to betray Chanda either, but he still wanted Neela’s love. On the one hand there was Anant—completely unconflicted! He felt
no sort of dilemma whatsoever. He was uninhibited in love; Chetan recollected a few of Anant’s romances. Two servant women had worked in the mohalla, Jwali and Mirchan. They both had young daughters, Akki and Ambo. Both liked Chetan. Akki was very beautiful. Ambo wasn’t beautiful, but she was young and attractive. Whenever Chetan went to fill water at the well or bathe, and one of them was fetching water, they would always beg to have their pots snatched, and they’d speak flirtatiously to him while he held on to their pots. But Chetan never went beyond that. When he told Anant about them, Anant cooked up many schemes for him. And when Chetan wasn’t able to put any of these into play, Anant pressured his mother to hire a servant to fetch water for them. When he no longer wanted the first one, they hired the second one and he told Chetan at length how he’d snared the girls one by one. Anant believed women were good for one thing only, and a man who doesn’t make proper use of them doesn’t deserve to be called a man. Forget all this lovey-dovey nonsense!
And then there was Chetan’s father. His beliefs were no different from Anant’s. Chetan had heard him discussing this topic with his friends many times in his childhood. When necessary, he even used religion to bolster his case. What sort of man shrinks from women when they come to him for protection? Krishna cavorted with the milkmaids in Braj. He loved Radha, who was the wife of another. When Rukmini summoned him, he carried her off, and when, after defeating Jarasandha, he had to marry sixteen thousand princesses, he did so without hesitation.
Far from marrying her, Chetan hadn’t even been able to requite Neela’s love; even when he desired her with every particle of his being, he’d kept his body under control. How he had punished her with his innate clumsiness. He was timid . . . a coward and a fool!
But then he thought of his mother. How his poor mother had suffered because of his father’s prowess! He thought of Lacchma—skinny Lacchma, with her complexion the colour of wheat, her bold eyes, her sharp features—the wife of his father’s sergeant friend Mangal Sen and his father’s mistress.
Ma had once told him the story of Lacchma with great sadness. She had been the child widow of a Kalal family—toddy collectors—from Urmar Tanda. When Mangal Sen had been head constable there, he’d gone to her home on a search for some case; their eyes had met and that was it. In the middle of the night, she removed her sari, tied it to the window and climbed out naked. She ran off with Mangal Sen and moved in with him. Chetan’s father had been the assistant station master of Urmar Tanda at the time. She had hidden in their house for many days. Then Mangal Sen got a transfer and took her with him.
But she never left Chetan’s father. On many occasions, he had given her his entire salary. Chetan remembered the First World War, when his father was station master at Koyta. Sacks of wheat were going for twenty-one rupees then. They could only afford to make one vegetable dish at home, and often they had to eat just onions with their chapatis. They were also in quite a bit of debt. Whenever his father sent his salary home, he’d tell them to send a sack of wheat to Lacchma’s house as well.
Ma didn’t rate her any higher than a prostitute. How could a girl from a Brahmin Mishra home accept food from the hand of a low-caste Kalal? When his father brought Lacchma to their home, and she ate right there inside the house, Ma would prepare the food, but fast herself. She’d do her utmost to avoid touching Lacchma. If she did touch her, she’d bathe afterwards and wash her clothes.
One time—their house had not yet been rebuilt—his father came from somewhere bringing Lacchma with him. He also brought a bottle of liquor. Lacchma poured it out for him with her own hands. Ma served them dinner. Then Chetan’s father, extremely drunk, ordered that the new sari that had come to Ma as a gift from her father’s home (Chetan’s maternal grandfather had sent a sari and sweets for the festival of Teej) be given to Lacchma. As if Chetan’s father ever bought anything for Ma. Chetan had hardly ever seen Ma wear a nice silk sari. This one was from Benares. Although Ma was indifferent to silk clothing and usually didn’t wear it, every six months or so she’d open the trunk just to gaze at her silk saris and imagine the day when her sons were grown and getting married, and her heart would be gladdened at seeing them adorn her daughters-in-law. She’d carefully stored this sari in the trunk as soon as it came to save it for Bhai Sahib’s wedding. She harboured no hope that her husband would spend even one paisa on the bridal gift.
But she had never refused a command from her husband. With pangs in her heart, her eyes brimming with tears, she brought out the sari. Lest that Kalal woman touch the clothing she was wearing, she wrapped her own sari tighter and tossed the new one into Lacchma’s lap. Chetan’s father had beaten her severely just for that. He grabbed her by the neck and made her bow down before Lacchma again and again; her forehead burst open from hitting the ground and gushed with blood, and she fell unconscious.
Chetan laughed bitterly. Was that how little the god Krishna valued women? And he thought of Ram’s character . . . whenever Chetan’s father invoked Krishna to cover up bad conduct, Ma told him the story of Ram. Ravana had abducted Sita, but Ram continued to think only of her. There is no mention of any other romance anywhere in his long forest exile. Surpanakha had approached him, attracted by his beauty, and was shunned (if Anant, or his father, had been in Ram’s place would they have ignored her? Perhaps not). Then when Ram himself exiled Sita to the forest after the victory in Lanka, he continued to remain alone. He subsumed his loneliness in his kingship.
Did Ram love Sita?
Did Ram love himself?
These two questions came suddenly to Chetan’s mind. But he wasn’t sure of the answer. Hadn’t the ancient storytellers conceived of the two ideal temperaments in the form of these two ideal men? This is what made them complete. It seemed to Chetan that the middle-class people around him were bound to these two extremes; this is what motivated them. None among them could become Ram or Krishna completely. As far as others were concerned, he couldn’t be that certain, but he himself wavered between these two poles like a rose in the eye of a storm. His father’s hot blood flowed in his veins, as did his inconstancy, but so too did the coolness of his mother’s blood and her restraint. Whenever he thought about Neela, he saw Chanda in his mind’s eye, and then Ma’s silhouette would rise up before his image of Chanda and his heart would fill with boundless pathos and he’d shudder at the mere thought of causing Chanda trouble.
*
Daal4—Do not rise so high, oh heart
Those who raise their heads get killed
Chetan stopped. To the left, at the shop of Tunka the dhobi, a baitbaaz—a singer of Punjabi couplets—hand to his ear, was singing a couplet in a highly melodic, passionate voice that echoed far off. After singing two lines in a softer tone, he raised his voice again for the next couplet:
Daal—Do not rise so high, oh heart
Those who raise their heads get killed
Those who grow vain
Never attain their heart’s desires
The ditches can engulf the skies of toil
The hillocks stand high and dry, wailing
The flowers blossom but briefly, T.C.5
Once thrown in the pot, their essence is extracted
Chetan’s attention turned away again. Wasn’t Neela’s situation like that of a flower that is punished for two hours of blooming by being plucked and thrown into a boiling cook pot!
Darkness shadowed his eyes. Anguish stirred within him.
The singer’s voice was filled with such pain . . . and Chetan was thinking: Here, flowers are plucked before they even get the chance to bloom. The gardener who plants them plucks them too, then hands them over to some worthless character. No matter how much Pandit Deen Dayal loved his daughter, Neela, no matter how much he adored her, he was still the one responsible for strangling her . . . Neela . . . Neela . . .
Was her vanity for her own beauty really so great that fate deemed it proper to pluck her up and toss her away? She probably hadn’t even been conscious of it!
&n
bsp; And he found that he wasn’t actually sad that Neela had got married at thirteen or fourteen; that the bloom had not even had a chance to blossom before it was plucked. What made him sad was that she’d married a middle-aged man and that the reason for this marriage was actually Chetan’s own idiocy, cowardliness, childishness and insecurity. He could not get that incident in the room atop the house in Alawalpur out of his head, for which Neela now suffered the punishment. He didn’t know how to atone for his sin and he could focus on nothing. If Neela had married Trilok, or some other young man, perhaps he wouldn’t feel as troubled as he did now. He’d be happy, despite his distress. But now . . . now . . .
Daal—Why such sorrow, oh heart?
Is there anyone who does not suffer in this world?
The world is like a wayside inn
Every guest that arrives is suffering
The singer had thrown down another couplet . . .
And so people are satisfied by their sorrow. Knowing that sorrow is irresistible, they surrender their weapons before it and consider it best to accept their fate as unchangeable . . . And he set out . . . a sort of ball of rebellion rose inside him and stuck in his throat. Was it necessary for the world to remain simply a temporary resting place? For there to be nothing but sorrow? For man never to change the circumstances that bring him sorrow, never to break with the traditions that he himself created; never to create joy? The world is a halting place, sorrow is necessary, and so people will patiently drink it down and live with it? They will simply soldier on. Neela will endure sorrow patiently, her father will endure, he himself would endure, Chanda would endure, and who knows where this cycle would come to an end, or perhaps it never would. His head spun with a rush of anger, he walked straight through the bazaar, head down, like a dust storm that emerges from the galis and bazaars and churns along but does not flip off roofs, or knock down houses, or cause the clouds to rain. When he lifted his head he found he was passing below Nishtar’s house. He stopped, looked up and called out.
In the City a Mirror Wandering Page 10