Virtual Realities

by Neelum Saran Gour

  Farooqui’s sallow face had shrunk with the years, but nothing could change that downturned mouth, those lips purpled with nicotine or that enquiring grimace. His smiles, his salutations were all dour self-deprecations, and when he spoke—in careful, mincing Urdu—he swirled the words artfully round his mouth in a slow, vindictive chomp. Avasthi was large and as diffuse as his bluster, a man tipsy on his own wit. When he uttered a sentence he usually found himself so surprised and delighted that he repeated it half a dozen times, swaying and staggering like a drunk.

  Sravan’s musings were interrupted by Malini’s hushed voice close beside him. ‘How lovely! It’s just too much, isn’t it?’

  He turned to stare at her. She had a curious shine in her eyes, as though she were on the verge of tears. He realized she was talking of Ranjana Devi’s poem, and nodded agreement with exaggerated respectfulness.

  ‘I’d love to have a copy of that,’ whispered Malini. ‘I just can’t get over some of the lines.’

  ‘I’m sure she’d be delighted,’ he said drily. ‘I’ll ask her.’ He regarded Malini’s subdued ecstasy with contempt.

  ‘Please do,’ she begged. ‘And who is that lady there?’

  He followed her gaze. ‘That’s Asha Neogy,’ he told her. ‘Another veteran poet. I’ve known her for years.’

  ‘And those two very old men?’

  ‘They’re a couple of vintage novelists. Srinivas Avasthi and Javed Farooqui. One wrote in Hindi, the other in Urdu. Great friends and terrible enemies for a large chunk of their lives. But friends again apparently—for the present.’

  She studied them with keen interest. ‘D’you think if I invited them to read at one of my lunches, they’d come?’

  He almost shouted with laughter. ‘Would they?’ he snorted. ‘Just give them a chance. And send the car round or pay them a handsome TA.’ Malini seemed nonplussed by his scorn. ‘They’d like to dictate the menu, though. And see your wine list first. They’ll probably send your driver down to the hooch bar. Maybe they’ll approach your husband to help them get their hovels allotted in their names.’

  Malini’s perplexity deepened. Sravan, she noticed, had a look of dark venom on his face. Such savagery. She’d never seen that expression before. He seemed to hate this crowd. She didn’t ask any further questions. Tedious encomiums about Maheshwar Dayal Saxena’s genius, his generosity, his breadth of vision, his depth of inspiration, and little vignettes of his life that the guests had shared— Sravan had beard it all before and longed to make a nice, perverse, hard-hitting speech of his own. Ranjana Devi had never asked him to speak, so it came as a surprise when today she did. And Sravan, enjoying himself enormously, warmed to his role as iconoclast. His parting para was good and stinging.

  ‘For a decade and a half we’ve spoken of Maheshwar Dayalji as the provider of our ideas, an institution unto himself, an ineradicable legend, never mind his verse, about which opinion shall always be divided. I’m what I am today considerably due to Maheshwar Dayalji’s literary example. Personally, I learnt from him inversely, which, too, is a valuable form of tutelage. I made up my mind what poetry should never be. Yes, I began persistently pursuing an antithetical ideal. I learnt to recognize words that had been chewed tasteless until only their husks remained.’

  A disturbed silence had fallen. No one dared to applaud. Sravan came down from the podium, congratulating himself for having at last given voice to what a great many writers felt about Maheshwar Dayal’s work. He looked around for signs of approval, but no one met his eye. Only Malini looked straight at him with a stricken face, and then she looked away.

  It was with unnatural haste that Vinod Rastogi began his rendition of ghazals written by Maheshwar Dayalji in the late fifties. A smug, dishonest voice, thought Sravan. A voice greased with sickly-lavish unguents of drama. Then it was Pandit Sheel Kumar Thakur singing Maheshwar Dayalji’s devotional verse, followed by a sentimental reading of those miserable Saraswati poems that had won Maheshwar Dayal that wretched award. He’s growing old, jeered Sravan, he’s acquired a nasty, wheezy rasp, and there’s an ugly flutter of phlegm in his throat that he can’t quite overcome. And then, oh hell, it was Maheshwar Dayal’s blank verse recited by Asha Neogy. The same speculations about Maheshwar Dayal’s unfinished magnum opus, Antim Aadesh. The same pieces as last year and the year before. This was the problem with a writer long dead. Everything could only be rehashed! The same old tired stuff, recycled. No oxygen left. And the dreariest part of the evening was still to come: having run through the entire scale of Maheshwar Dayal’s work, the guests were now invited to give select readings of their own work. Two women poets cried out for the blood of man in embittered quatrains. Like a pair of vampires, Sravan thought.

  As the next reader climbed to the podium, Sravan caught his breath—there was something familiar about that spare figure, the way the fingers of his left hand dithered about the collar. Sravan found himself staring at Veerendra Vyas. He wore his hair long, and his pale face looked unclothed in any practised expression. As he read the opening lines of an extract from an old novel, his squeamish tongue tested each syllable cautiously, resulting in a peculiar halting manner that was both submissive and somewhat affected.

  The passage he read unnerved Sravan, as he recognized each stilted phrase of it. He could still, after all these years, anticipate the next line. An unbearable oppression weighed down upon him.

  ‘Enough,’ he whispered to Malini. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  She looked at him, wondering.

  ‘They’re going to drag on for hours, these interminable readings by little pen-pushers. Let’s go have dinner somewhere before we …’

  She accepted without protest and followed him out.

  ‘At least one can have a decent meal in this restaurant,’ Sravan sighed, unfolding his napkin.

  Malini stirred her soup. She was silent.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What did you make of this evening?’

  ‘I enjoyed it very much, thank you,’ she answered in a formal voice.

  ‘They’re a pretty exclusive lot,’ he said. ‘The best in the arts in every field.’

  She looked at him with a strange smile in her eyes. ‘Which explains your own presence there, I suppose.’

  He looked at her, surprised.

  ‘Tell me about that lady—the one who read that poem about Assam—Asha Neogy, I think you said.’

  ‘She’s been on the lit. scene for almost thirty years now. Lost her husband in a plane crash years ago. Built a beautiful house— I’ll take you to see it someday—I mean, it’s really unusual—got real character. She keeps dogs and writes middling verse, mostly yearning trash about her past. Oh, yes, she spent some time in a mental home after the death of her husband. Now she’s rebuilt a life of convincing sanity for herself.’

  ‘Interesting,’ murmured Malini, sipping her soup. Then she added slowly, staring meditatively into her bowl. ‘I find it rather grand. I mean, her verse may be middling to you but her survival’s grand to me. Isn’t it wonderful to think that maybe that middling verse has helped her pull through—that human beings do manage to survive on the strength of those so-called middling writings?’ She looked up suddenly with piercing intensity. ‘So what if her poetry isn’t up to your standard? It’s pulled her out of her particular crisis—which even the world’s best poetry may not have done for others … And anyway, I thought she had lovely hair. I kept wondering how to describe it to myself. Kind of metallic ash. Or silver flax.’

  There was a peculiar note in her voice.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose,’ he said guardedly.

  ‘I liked the look of her,’ Malini went on. ‘She was so free from this … this poet thing. The way she took her knitting out of her frumpy bead bag and then fished out a diary of poems. You wouldn’t think of a poet knitting at a reading, would you? It’s contrary to the current literary stereotype—seems kind of funny … but so human.’

  ‘What d’y
ou imagine? That writers aren’t human?’

  ‘Are you?’ she threw him a piercing look. ‘I liked the way she opened the diary and some torn pages fell out—and she rifled through them real fast—like a cashier rifles through a wad of banknotes. Maybe they’re her only wealth, who knows?’

  Sravan laughed outright. ‘She’s filthy rich.’ He guffawed. ‘What an old romantic you’re getting to be. Who’d have believed it of you! One evening in that dump and you’re hooked. I must say that atmosphere’s catching.’

  ‘Don’t be nasty,’ she said. There was an uncomfortable pause. The waiter brought a second course.

  ‘So what about those two old men, the vintage writers?’

  ‘Ah, those two.’ He grinned. ‘Interesting pair. Old Srinivas Avasthi used to write novels in Hindi in the late fifties and sixties, and Javed Farooqui wrote novels in Urdu around the same time.’

  ‘Which ones?’ Malini wanted to know.

  ‘Unfortunately, they’re the only ones who remember the names of their books—their own and the other’s. A minor splash, a small coterie of fans, a few good reviews and then—phut! That’s what happens to most small-town writers.’

  ‘To which category you obviously don’t belong,’ was her flat remark. Sravan marvelled at the undercurrent of animosity in her voice. What had got into her? he wondered vaguely, then chose to ignore it.

  ‘Well, those two were great enemies, horribly jealous of one another. Always bickering—it was fun watching them at it. Then, sometime in the late sixties, they came to an agreement. Mind you, in spite of their constant wrangling they had a curious respect for one another—anyone could see that. One day at a boozing binge Farooqui swore that a writer must know when to lay down his pen, but few writers ever know when the time has come. So Avasthi sprang to his feet and declared with a flourish that he, Avasthi, would undertake to inform Farooqui when his writing days were over. And Farooqui, no doubt made emotional by booze and verse, rose to the occasion and thumped Avasthi on his back, shouting, “Done! As you to me, so I to you!” ’

  ‘Quite a story.’

  ‘Oh, a great one. One of the most interesting literary feuds I’ve known. Of course, I wasn’t around then, but the story’s been handed down by word of mouth. Well, soon afterwards Farooqui’s magnum opus was released and it made quite a splash. Farooqui was cock-a-hoop over it. Then, one day, at the height of his success, Avasthi appeared, congratulated his rival and complimented him on having produced a masterpiece. He also announced that he had come to fulfil his promise—to caution Farooqui that his writing days were over. “This is when you must stop, bhai-jaan,” he said. “You’ll never write anything better than this. Lay down your pen before you start producing trash.” Farooqui was furious. “Nonsense!” he scoffed. “You’re resenting my success, that’s all. You wish you’d written it yourself, don’t you? You’re afraid I’ll write better and better, so you come here with your petty advice, hah!” That was the most violent quarrel they had. Avasthi left in a froth and they did not see one another for some years.’

  ‘But how did they come to be friends again?’

  ‘Well, slowly they began to understand that no one remembered them any more. They were both outdated. They hadn’t been all that important as writers go, and now times and tastes had changed. There were fresh faces and names. I suppose there came a time when they realized that the only person who knew their work intimately was the other one. They’d disliked one another so bitterly that they’d read all the other’s work to poke holes in it and could practically recite it from memory. Quite gratifying to the other at this point. That’s when they began appearing together. Sometimes they’d get drunk and sit in their corner, reciting passages from one another’s work and applauding one another hysterically, lost to the rest of the world. Sometimes I actually envy them. I wish I had at least a single reader who knew every sentence I’ve ever written.’

  ‘For that you’d need a serious enemy first,’ Malini said, smiling.

  ‘Oh, I have plenty of those,’ he replied. ‘I’d feel neglected by my friends if I didn’t have a handful of people actively hating me.’

  ‘D’you think you’ll know when to stop?’ she asked unexpectedly. ‘I mean, d’you think you’ve done your best work yet?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he answered gravely. ‘I do think at times that the book I’m currently on may be substantial. It’s hard to know. I rather dread reaching that peak of performance, though, I don’t mind telling you. You know that story about Rodin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When friends complimented Rodin on a particularly splendid piece of sculpture and told him it was the best thing he’d ever done, Rodin began to weep. He said he knew it well, that he’d never be able to repeat that excellence and that this was the biggest tragedy that could befall an artist.’

  He could see that Malini was moved. She looked away pondering the matter. Then she remembered something.

  ‘Who was that person, that crushed-looking man who read that piece right at the end?’

  The one question Sravan didn’t want to be asked. He cursed her sharpness.

  ‘You didn’t seem to want to stay after he came on. He put you off, no?’

  ‘That guy? He’s a tiresome fellow I knew once. We run into each other at readings and writers’ meets.’

  ‘What is he? A novelist?’

  ‘Sort of. A poor one. He did a novel called Maut ka Muhurat. The critics tore it to shreds, and he’s never recovered from the blow.’

  Malini concentrated on her bowl of ice cream, then reiterated her admiration for Ranjana Devi’s poem. ‘You really liked it? That third-rate poem?’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘Third-rate?’ Her eyes were icy.

  ‘Absolutely. That’s not poetry, yaar. That trumpet blast of tragedy. A dripping, syrupy spongeful of sentimentality. Couldn’t you see the funny side of it?’

  ‘No,’ she retorted, anger quickening in her voice. ‘Unlike you, who can only see the funny side of everything.’

  ‘What’s this now?’

  ‘She probably loved her husband the one-in-a-thousand-marriages way and she declares it without embarrassment, that’s all.’

  ‘Not a savvy thing to do at all,’ he rejoined suavely.

  ‘No. You’re too savvy for simple things. They’ve been—how did it go?—“chewed tasteless until only their husks remain”, right?’

  He was irritated. ‘What are we talking about exactly?’

  ‘We’re talking about love, exactly,’ she mimicked him.

  ‘That’s something I like making, not discussing.’ He made a thin attempt at flippancy.

  ‘Naturally.’

  He stared at her. This was a tone of voice he’d never heard before.

  ‘Coming to this one-in-a-thousand-marriages thing, you seem to know what that is.’

  ‘No. And I’m sorry I don’t. If I did, I wouldn’t be here with you.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he questioned, with solemn and injured dignity.

  She scrutinized him uncertainly for a long moment. Then she put down her spoon and, placing her elbows on the table, clasped her knuckles in a tight clench.

  ‘Okay, I’ll tell you. I thought you were rotten this evening.’

  Surprised, he could only frown at her in stressed silence, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘You were very unkind,’ she went on, speaking with deliberate precision. ‘I wish you hadn’t said all those things.’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’ He felt obliged to put on a token act of confusion. Buy time to collect his wits before he squashed her audacity with a suitably withering snub.

  ‘All those cutting things about a dead man.’

  He guffawed, a harsh stage laugh. ‘You’re beginning to sound as pious as Pragya,’ he jeered.

  Her eyes engaged his in a swift interlock. ‘I wonder if you’re aware that the tone you use with Pragya is far, far worse than Mridul’s worst
voice?’

  He looked at her, incensed. ‘What’s this? A women’s issue?’

  She sat in hostile silence. She was going fast, he realized abruptly. Passing rapidly out of his spell and there was nothing he could do. He had only his unpleasantness to armour him, give a counterfeit power against her.

  ‘I have yet to see a feminist who deliberately and willingly makes herself unattractive to spare a fellow feminist the pain of losing her husband to her. No,’ he sneered. ‘Feminine vanity is seldom sacrificed at the altar of feminist solidarity. But then, I’m a poisonous old cynic.’ Suddenly he recalled what they were wrangling over. ‘And Maheshwar Dayal! All this tamasha over him! If he was alive and fucking I’d be suspicious, my dear girl.’

  ‘Witty,’ she muttered. ‘And in such wonderful taste.’

  That was the last straw. A tart like her preaching taste! He controlled himself, with effort.

  ‘More and more like Pragya,’ he said again. ‘The problem,’ he reflected, ‘is that a girlfriend of long standing starts acting more and more like a nagging wife. I’m flattered that you should feel such personal responsibility for my misconduct.’

  She ignored the jibe. ‘Did you have to spoil it for everyone? I mean, look here, the evening meant a lot to that old lady. Everyone knew it—or did you actually think they were out for art’s sake, poor Sravan? Nobody cared two hoots for the old man—he’s dead and gone, but everyone was there to humour the old lady. It stuck out a mile.’

  ‘You’re very perceptive,’ he snarled.

  ‘Pity you aren’t,’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, I was very touched. It isn’t often you see love on that scale.’

  ‘The love beyond the grave, eh? Author, please rephrase.’

  She flushed, ready to scream. ‘Let it go,’ she said. ‘Forget it.’