Our Favourite Indian Stories

by Khushwant Singh

  The clock on the wall was ticking as usual. Its rhythmic tick-tock continued as usual. The cyclical journey of the sun, the moon and even the earth continued as before. The date of the calendar changed as usual. Ketan thought... I wish all this would stop so that the coming of Saturday could be delayed. But almost the next instant he thought - how nice it would be if Saturday evening came and passed off quickly. It would be better to get it over with.

  Saturday came. His eyes fell on Seema. Even after so many years, she had not changed much. But the imprint of passing years was quite visible on her face. Seema too looked at him intently. Ketan smiled hesitantly. Seema too smiled. But their smiles did not appear natural. Both were aware of this. Each hoped the other would start the conversation.

  'You ... you have lost weight!' Finally it was Seema who managed to break the daunting silence.

  'Really?' Ketan replied.

  'We are meeting today for a specific reason' added Ketan.

  'Yes, I know!' Seema sounded nonchalant.

  'You have...?'

  'What?'

  'I mean, the letters that can prove embarrassing to our children?'

  'I have brought them.'

  'I too have brought them' said Ketan.

  The road ahead of them stared blankly at them. Where should they go? Neither of them could decide. Many years back—it seemed ages back now, they had walked aimlessly together... without deciding the direction ahead, until one day, a silent wish had started fluttering its wings in their hearts.

  Years later, when they were walking together again, it felt that their magical bird was hopping without legs. Why, even their time together seemed to be hopping forward, as if experiencing strange obstructions in its natural flow.

  'These... letters....' Ketan repeated.

  'Hmm' Seema nodded.

  It was Ketan who finally took the decision. He hailed a taxi. Seema got in quietly.

  'Take us to the beach,' Ketan instructed the taxi driver.

  As the taxi began to move ahead, Seema looked out of the window.

  There was a certain stillness on the beach. A few rocks on the shore separated it from the onslaught of the waves. The place was practically deserted. Ketan began walking towards a rock closest to the waves. Seema quietly followed him. The pallu of her saree was fluttering in the sea breeze. Occasionally, it touched Ketan and he would move away, self-consciouly. Seema would gather her pallu by her side. But after a while it would start fluttering again. They sat down on a rock. Silence enveloped them.

  'So many years have passed, isn't it?' muttered Seema.

  'Humm!' Ketan whispered softly, touching the bunch of letters in the pink kerchief. Then he held it forward towards Seema. 'Those years are preserved on these letters. They should be...'

  'Why did you stop?' asked Seema looking at him. She opened her purse, took out a bunch of letters and said softly, 'The past is also alive in these letters.'

  Gently, Ketan touched Seema's letters. He noticed that Seema also was stroking the letters with the pallu of her sari.

  'Enough! Now it should not live any more' said Ketan decisively. 'Those letters...'

  'What?' asked Seema, sitting up.

  'Throw away these letters... my past... into the sea.'

  'And what about my past that is with you?'

  'I will throw that too.'

  Seema stared quietly at the bunch.

  'Okay, I think that's the right thing to do!' She paused for a while and said, 'I have a request. Let us both close our eyes and throw these letters into the sea together.'

  Ketan did not say anything. He closed his eyes and held out the letter in his hands, towards the sea. Seema too had closed her eyes. A moment passed. Ketan opened his eyes. Seema too opened her eyes. Both had the letters in their hands.

  'Seema!' said Ketan with a sigh, 'Please return my letters to me and take back yours.'

  'What's on your mind?'

  'That you immerse your feelings into the sea yourself. I won't be able to do so.'

  Seema looked at him.....A wave of deep sadness swam in her eyes.

  'Perhaps I won't be able to either. Take back your letters and throw them into the sea yourself.'

  They exchanged their letters. In the process of doing so, their hands touched lightly, awakening old feelings.

  Ketan again closed his eyes. When he opened them, Seema was still sitting with her eyes closed. The bunch of letters was still in her hand.

  'Seema!'

  'Humm'

  'We have met here today to bury our past. This is our last meeting. It is getting late now.'

  'I know. It was you who called me for this purpose. So why are you delaying?'

  'I want to make a request.'

  'What?'

  'You...'

  'You what?'

  Ketan remained quiet.

  'You were saying something' said Seema, in a bewildered tone, 'Why don't you ever finish what you begin?' She appeared to be unable to face him.

  'Very soon we shall be completing 50 years, Seema.'

  'We know each other's birth dates very well, Ketan' replied Seema.

  Everything around them was quiet except for the sound of the waves lashing futilely at the rocks.

  'Take these. Please immerse both bunches into the sea.' Seema held out her bunch towards Ketan.

  'I too want to make a request'. Ketan looked deeply at Seema's face and extended his letters towards her.

  Seema's lips quivered. Her eyes became moist. Ketan was shaken. He extended his hand towards Seema to take back her letters and closed his eyes. He had taken back the letters that Seema had written to him. But...

  How had his letters gone back into Seema's hand? How had the letters got exchanged?

  Ketan opened his eyes. Seema was crying silently with her eyes closed.

  'Seema,' Ketan whispered, his lips quivering.

  Slowly, Seema rested her head on his shoulder. Sighing audibly she said, 'I won't be able to do it.'

  Who had said it? Seema or Ketan?

  Gently, he put his hand on Seema's shoulder. Seema accepted the support of his hands as if it were the most natural thing on earth.

  The silent wish had spread its wings again.

  Translated by Ms. Neelam Kumar

  and Taral Prakash

  Red Glow of the New Moon

  Kundanika Kapadia

  She glanced at the sky from the window. She had so arranged her bed that through the window she could have a good view of the neem tree in the courtyard. Very often, the boughs of the neem tree swung violently in the wind and seemed to be trying to touch the window. Through the gaps between the boughs she could get a glimpse of the blue sky and bits of clouds occasionally floating across the sky. At times a noisy bird would come and perch on the boughs. The bird with a long tail, may be doodhraj. Normally that bird lives amidst dense foliage of trees and is not easily seen. But the bird came and sat in such a way as though it had come to visit her.

  There was much excitement in the house. Deepankar and Maria were to arrive by the afternoon flight. Deepankar was her youngest son. He had gone to the States seven years ago. He had married an American girl. He had often written to say that he wanted to come home, but had not. But now that the mother was on her deathbed, he was coming with his wife. An American girl. She wondered what she would be like.

  She smiled faintly to herself. It was a song by Tagore, rendered into Gujarati by the poet Meghani — 'I wonder what she would have been, my mother. I don't remember in the least.' In her own time she had pored over Tagore's writing. Tagore and Yeats and Ibsen. On Sundays, she would go with friends to the riverbank or to the forest. They would eat and drink, rest under the trees, sing songs and then they would recite some poems aloud... Tagore's 'I shall not let you go...' and William Blake's 'To see the world in a grain of sand...' And 'I will arise and go now.... to see where night and day the waters of the lake pat the bank — that poem of Yeats they had almost learnt by heart. And the poems of M
asefield — 'Give me a pathway and sky overhead... a bonfire by the roadside when it's cold... again the dawn and travel once more....'

  She had lived in the midst of beauty in myriad forms. She had found life always worth living. And now the present generation... her elder son and his wife Maya, her middle son and his wife Chhaya... she wondered if they ever read Tagore, Kalidas, Shakespeare? As for Nietzsche and Bergson, they had probably not even heard their names! She had kept her favourite books in the bookcase in her room. Right from Creative Evolution to Fourth Way, Ekottoarashari and Rabindra Veena..... and the combined anthology of John Donne and Blake... there were many books. But her daughter-in-law had never touched her bookcase. They had shown no curiosity about those books. They read books by Alistair Maclean, James Hadley Chase, Ian Fleming, Gulshan Nanda. 'We are feeling bored" — that was their constant refrain. The word boredom constantly figured in their talks. She had not particularly experienced boredom in her life. She and her husband very often would go to Lonavala on a full moon night. There was a guesthouse called "The Dream" situated in a quiet spot for tourists who loved beauty. It was a small, single -storeyed house. It had a small room at the top with glass windows from ceiling to the floor. They went there especially to see the full moon rising. On the eastern side was a whole range of hills and the moon rose above them a little late. They would catch the faintest vibration and wait for that vision of light which was so familiar to them and yet always so delightful. Gradually, a reddish glow would be seen behind the hills and then a shining white edge. Automatically, their hands would be linked together in the conviction of being partners in the same experience of joy. Then the moon would come up fast, very fast. It was at that moment that they became somewhat aware of the motion of the earth. If it were convenient, they would stay on for two or three days more. It was much more thrilling to see the moon rising on the first or the second day after the full moon. Everything lay still in the lap of quietness. The sky would look on, holding its breath. There would be no smoke in the air, no sharp rays of lamps in the houses, no vibrations of sound. There would be only a tender, soft stillness full of darkness. Then the moon would rise a little late, watching the hills with a ruddy wonder and gaze at the sleeping earth. And then there would be a shower of brightness. She could feel its physical touch. She would feel drenched in every limb.

  Her life had acquired splendour due to hundreds of such experiences of beauty. Sometimes she would sit under the neem tree and recall Rilke's poem. 'We, the wasters of sorrows.. We waste all our sorrows, waiting to be free from pain,...' Her husband would listen to her in silence. She had a flickering glimpse of the secret of coming and going in life. It was possible to accept pain with a serious understanding. It was possible to grasp somewhat, the meaning underlying anguish.

  How did these people look at life, she often wondered? But Maya and Chhaya were never free to have any leisurely chat with her. They attended cooking classes and learnt how to make French pudding and Italian pizza. They learnt interior decoration and indulged in Ikebana. They arranged candlelight dinners and learnt hairstyles, and tried different types of coiffures.

  But every time they came back home after an outing they would say— 'So bored! We are fagged out. That Prem Nath was utterly boring!'

  Their day would start and pass into evening in the bed of an ever-growing boredom. They did talk about revolting against establishment and traditional values. Occasionally some hippies also came as their guests. Still, there was a great void in their lives. The element of joy of slipped through their hands. They lived, but always wondered about the meaning of it all.

  And now a new woman was coming to the house. She must be hardly twenty-three or twenty-four. Deepankar had sent the wedding photographs. She was curious. What would the girl Deepankar had chosen be like?

  It was of no importance whether or not she respected and loved her. How long was she going to live anyway? Nevertheless, she did have a desire to know that unknown girl from a far off country who was coming as a daughter-in-law of the house. Maya and Chhaya too must be quite curious about her. They must be having some fears, some misgivings. She had overheard them one day as they whispered to each other, 'We will have to make some adjustments.' Fortunately the house was very big and everybody could be accommodated. Even the daughters had come with their children and husbands. They had come to be with their mother in her last moments. But even they had no time. 'Bhabhi, is Tinu's milk warm? Ask the cook to take out some dal and vegetables before adding chillies. Avinash has an ulcer in his stomach.' Their behaviour betrayed a kind of impatience. They must be calculating how much leave was still left, wondering if the leave would have to be extended. They must have left their homes in a mess.

  Everyone came in to see the mother, one by one. Have you taken your medicine, Ma? Did you sleep well? How did you pass the night? They would adjust the corners of the mosquito net, pull the bedsheet, put fresh flowers by the side of her bed and drive away the children if they came in shouting. They took all possible care of their mother. They prepared a variety of light dishes for her. And they felt satisfied that their nursing was perfect. Only the mother knew where the void existed. But being close to death, she had withdrawn herself from all expectations. All her life she had loved beauty. She had loved life. Now, in the face of death, she would not let it be fragmented. Her favourite author was Henry Fredrick Amiel. Born in Switzerland, he lived in France, and was a professor of aesthetics. He had spent thirty years in solitude and had written journals filling 16, 900 pages. Amiel. Bergson, Tagore... she and her husband talked about them as if they were their friends. They had drunk deep from their writings, their lives and their philosophy. And now the moment of death was not far away. The greatest, most delightful moment—the highest experience of life. She wanted to retain the glow of that moment like the full moon or the new moon, with its reddish light so that it would drench her limbs.

  A sound made her look at the door. It was Maya, 'Do you want anything. Ma?' She shook her head and smiled. But Maya did not respond with a smile. She had not even noticed her smile. She was absorbed in her own thoughts. She was clever, efficient, smart and selfish. She managed, somehow, to get everything she wanted without bothering about what happened to others. Her husband and her children — these were the limits of her world. Friends, parties, cinema — everything was there. But one did not remember her cherishing deep feelings for anyone or exerting herself for someone.

  The middle daughter-in-law Chhaya, was somewhat different. She was cheerful, generous, full of a rugged sense of humour. She was of heavy build, an extrovert and quite insensitive. In the same big house, Maya and Chhaya maintained separate kitchens. There was enough money to go round, and hence there were no particular occasions of conflict. The mother had her own room upstairs. She got her food from both the kitchens by turn. Rarely, very rarely, she too would go down to have her meal with the family. But only when no visitor was present. Quite often they played music downstairs. They also danced to the music of the guitar and organs were played. Maya sang well. Her own daughter Uma also sang beautifully. Their voices, as they sang, reached her room upstairs. Sometimes she enjoyed their singing.

  But not once had Uma or Maya come to her and asked, 'Shall I sing a song or a bhajan for you, Ba?' It would be nice even if one could recite a poem. 'I won't let you go' — those words full of pride of love in the mouth of a four-year-old girl — she had read that poem to let one go. One goes away, everything goes away with a hooting sound in the deluge of the sea.

  Now it was time for her to go. No one had said, 'I won't let you go.' Maybe they were waiting for her departure. May it be so. There was no craving at heart, no fear.

  Or, was it still there?

  The boughs of the neem tree swinging near the window would be full of white blossoms in the summer months. Like beautiful white almond blossoms mentioned by Albert Camus in his dairy. Perhaps even more beautiful, giving out fragrance all through the night. There was a generation gap,
yet God had allowed her last nights to be fragrant somehow.

  Suddenly she thought about Maria. Would she like being here? The summer of this place, the heat, the squalor, and people's habits — how would she be able to put up with all that? Would she be aware of the real conditions of this country or would she be lost in an infatuation of love and get disillusioned after her arrival?

  Whatever it would be — the curiosity would end in a few hours.

  She felt a faint note of music rising in her heart. She hoped the splendour of her last moments would not be shadowed by the conflicts among her sons and daughters and daughter-in-law. Her strength was now almost gone. She could not move her hands and feet. Her voice had become feeble. Only her eyes were sharp. And sharp were her memories.

  The flight was a little delayed. Instead of the afternoon, the plane landed at six in the evening. It was seven-thirty by the time they reached home after the Customs formalities were gone through. When Deepankar and Maria entered her room, it was the moment of transition from light to darkness. Deepankar rushed in, his affection surging.

  'How are you, Ba?' It was sheer love that dripped from his voice.

  She was overwhelmed. For a while he sat, almost embracing his mother.

  Then he got up as if he had remembered something. 'Maria, this is my mother,' he said. Was there a touch of pride in those words? Or mere illusion? Maria advanced and extended her hand. She held her hand and shook it. She did not say anything, only smiled. Both of them sat by her side. Deepankar quickly told her about many things. He talked about his stay there, his anxiety on receiving the letter about her illness, her present condition. He assured her that she would be better with his arrival. For some time they continued talking of love and anxiety and childhood memories.

  'Do you remember, Ba? One day when Bapu scolded me for coming home in torn clothes? Later, you had given me sheera to eat?'

  She listened as she lay there. She felt nice.

  Then both of them got up to go downstairs. 'Sleep well, Ma! We shall meet in the morning. We shall have tea together,' said Deepankar. Maria also nodded her head. She felt that Maria's eyes were beautiful—full of depth and sensitivity, as if telling her, 'I know what's on your mind.'