The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  THE MUSIC OF

  SOLITUDE

  KRISHNA SOBTI

  Translated from the Hindi by

  Vasudha Dalmia

  CONTENTS

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  P.S.: Insights Interviews & More...

  Krishna Sobti’s Oeuvre: A Palimpsest of Time

  The Sweep of Krishna Sobti’s work

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  one

  The window curtain flapped wildly in the wind.

  Was a dust storm on the way?

  A dust storm in winter?

  No.

  She tucked the curtain into the window grill and looked out. The wan afternoon light flickered in the strong wind. In the distance, the dome of Humayun’s tomb basked in its arc of sunlight. The warmth of the winter sun lightly brushed her clothes. The endless drama of existence, and on such a vast stage.

  This earth, the sky, the sun, the winds, and us.

  What remained to be enacted on this stage?

  Aranya’s breathing quickened. The dream she had last night replayed itself in her mind. What a scene!

  Somewhere in the sky a large door had become visible. A massive door set in a wooden frame, with Aranya’s nameplate fixed on it.

  A small door within the door opened, and a familiar face peeped out.

  Who?

  Why, it’s me! It’s me peeping out from behind that small door.

  No, no, that can’t be. I’m standing outside!

  Look carefully, Aranya. Isn’t that wrinkled face yours?

  It is indeed. So what? We grow older by the moment, don’t we?

  Yes. But you must know that these are not lines of torment. They’ve grown and ripened with time. The time we ourselves lived through.

  Such smugness. Then why this q and a! Are you examining the door? You created it, by the sheer act of living.

  Aranya locked her hands together.

  She unlocked them after a while and touched her hair, to connect with herself again.

  Are you anxious about something?

  No, I’m taking the air in. Pulling in the oxygen, all the way to my soul, glad that I’m alive; my companions, they all left, a long time ago.

  Those faces … No, forget them. Say goodbye to them and to the memories of those who are living but are no longer what they once were, those who died and were reborn—I’m content to be alive.

  Aranya looked around the room. The fruits lying on the table tugged at her with their colours and fragrance; she was mesmerized by them. She picked up a knife and a plate, and began to peel them in a leisurely manner.

  The bowl began to fill with sliced fruit. She squeezed some lemon and sprinkled salt and a little black pepper. Then she tasted a slice and added a spoonful of sugar.

  Forget the dream. Take joy in the freshness of these fruits. Everything is the same as yesterday. Resting on its axis. What if it moves? But there’s time … The last halt—that business can overtake one anytime. It will. It has to happen. It happens to everyone.

  Are you brooding over that? The string you’re looking for is wound around a pulley fixed to that door high above; why look for it here? Are you frightened?

  Yes and no, both.

  Try and relax as long as you can. Take pleasure in the seasons. This breeze doesn’t exist elsewhere. Not even on the moon.

  With a light heart, she picked up the receiver and called Ishan. The phone rang for a long time. She dialled the number again after an hour. It rang and was picked up.

  Hello!

  Hello, I was about to hang up. I thought you were resting.

  It was clean-the-toilet day today. Just finished. Would you like to go for a walk to the park this evening?

  Yes, I’d like to come. What time?

  Four-thirty sharp. We’ll meet at the gate.

  Aranya felt flustered. She must rest before going for the walk. I’m feeling quite tired. Forgot to take my vitamins this morning.

  She thought as she rested: who knows how we interpret the movement of the hands of a clock.

  Ishan lives in terror of the clock, his gaze always fixed on it, while I steal my eyes away from it.

  But why compare; each gait has its own pace.

  Aranya went downstairs at precisely twenty-five past four.

  She looked at her wrist. Dot on time! It’s not so easy to escape its claws. Particularly for this senior person whose keys go missing sometimes, or her purse, or her cardigan. Or she’s caught in the quandary of whether to wear light clothes or heavy; heavy will make walking more difficult, light may mean feeling cold. Ancient body!

  Walking on the street, she looked at herself again. Quick and alert. Clothes neither too warm nor too cool. It’s a pleasure to carry one’s own weight this way.

  The long row of keekar trees lining the street sway in the shimmering sunlight. Fields of ripening mustard below the concrete embankment. Small and middling plants engrossed in the business of drawing in sunlight and air. The traffic on the street whizzing past, oblivious of all this.

  Ishan parked the car. They walked to the park gate. The tall eucalyptus trees looked dejected, even at that lofty altitude. Perhaps because they were outside the park. On the pavement to their right were mounds of gravel and rubble. There was barbed wire along the hedge surrounding the park. Through this, a narrow lane entered the park.

  There’s a slope here, be careful. Will you be able to leap over it?

  Oh yes.

  Two pairs of shoes, put on the alert, entered the park cautiously. A long row of red sandstone, surrounded by the green of ashoka trees. Flowerbeds accompanying them, like string instruments. Tiny phlox, red, pink, purple, white. Ahead of them, a cluster of vines. Of bougainvillea, bright red and pink, and noble Brazilian palms. The ones behind, a lesser breed, stand apart. There are differences even in a park. Mandal’s caste politics is in play here as well!

  The grass is like a green spread; its dharma, the protection of its greenness. But it’s not averse to a sprinkling of colours. The circular flowerbeds are a riot of colours; without a trace of fragrance, but swaggering nonetheless. Dwarf morpankhi shrubs, interlinked and attached to their own species, and woven together with vivacious leaves. There should have been a marble platform in front of them—they would aquire a different charm and glory then.

  Senior citizens sit and chat in a grove on elevated ground. Their public debates take place outside the bounds of their homes and families. The cumulative solitude of years gone by.

  Ishan and Aranya pause at the bend in the path. From this point on, they’ll go different ways.

  We’ll come back and meet here exactly at six.

  Aranya strode off to the left. The branches of the weeping willow droop. Glistening amongst them is the red bottlebrush, and beyond, long rows of teak trees.

  The park looks like a series of paintings in the evening light. The breeze revolves slowly like a windmill. The yellow crowns of trees glitter on the waves of the wind.

  The trees beyond the mosque stay calm, laden with their own capricious branches. Who knows what the flocks of birds are saying to each other? No one needs to pay a price for this din. Can it compete with the
blare of cars whose wheels move only if petrol is used and paid for? These channels vibrate without taxes.

  Could this be the way in which the mute trees express their resistance?

  Against whom would that be? Against the creepers that cling to them?

  No, these trees oppose us two-legged ones. Perhaps they are fed up with our whimsies.

  And what about the birds? There’s no one to curb the flock of feathered ones. They chirp and twitter endlessly, tormenting the wise old trees. Producing a mighty din, they sing whole arias, flaunting taans. The aging trees remain silent; they say nothing. Entirely spiritual, that’s what they are. No, no, they are secretive—always spying on the sly.

  Suddently, a neelkanth took flight.

  Waah, what wings, what a flight!

  Tiny blades of grass began to sway in the wind.

  Aranya broke into a hasty trot, almost running, and hit her foot against an upturned stone; a tile had broken loose.

  Take care! You’ll fall. You’re not all that young. There can be an accident, any time.

  She suddenly remembered the insurance papers.

  You have kept them carefully, no?

  She’ll have to look for them the moment she gets back.

  Some of the walkers looked at her with surprise as she broke into a trot. Such pace at this age! Involuntarily, she slowed down.

  She looked at her watch and spotting an empty bench in the distance, she reserved it with her eyes. She would rest when she got there. The lawn was being watered. She took off her shoes and socks and, cutting sideways across the lawn, reached her destination.

  The creepers, branches and twigs began to darken. What had looked like watercolours in the thin sunlight a while ago now looked like dark oil paint. The Almighty has boundless freedom. He has done countless experiments with his universe. Each thing has its own nature, quality and form.

  A tree is different from a creeper, flower from leaf, deer from cheetah, cheetah from rabbit, butterfly from peacock, peacock from crow, crow from sparrow, man from lion, lion from child, child from mother, mother from father.

  Strange and wonderful, this world of the Almighty—his and ours.

  Ishan is coming towards her.

  Aranya began to pull on her socks.

  Have your shoes been hurting you?

  No. The grass was wet and I needed to protect my shoes. So I carried them in my hands.

  Ishan laughed.

  Is there any sense in protecting your shoes and catching a cold? You may end up having to take antibiotics.

  Aranya laughed.

  Before that, I’ll have drunk a kaadha of black pepper, tulsi and liquorice.

  That’s a good habit. It’s not good to pop too much medication.

  The moral of the story is that it’s not good for a senior citizen like me to walk on wet grass.

  Yes, Aranya, senior citizens can end up paying a heavy price for such carelessness.

  You’re right. In the future then, only Action shoes for me.

  Add another phrase to that, otherwise you’ll end up sounding like a shoe brand commercial.

  No, an evening like this can’t end with a commercial.

  Let’s have a conversation about spirituality then.

  Aranya, does this word exist in your dictionary?

  Don’t think so. My lot is known for fighting for its rights, and yours for trying to achieve peace and clarity for all living beings by means of knowledge and wisdom.

  Yes, but you seem all set to engage in a verbal duel. Are you getting ready for a battle?

  Do I look very aggressive? Ah, yes, the activity of the subconscious mind shows in the tapping of feet.

  Discipline—

  Yes, I too have that. You own the arsenal of science and I, weapons.

  You’re the one who is making the distinction.

  The whole country is caught up in the commotion of caste history. I’m a Brahman, I’m non-Brahman. I’m Kshatriya, I’m a Rajput, I’m Jat-Gujar, I’m from a backward caste, I’m Dalit, I’m Scheduled Caste.

  Hang on, wherever did Indianness go?

  It went to the scales of the judiciary.

  Why don’t we change the subject?

  Let’s talk about happiness-beyond-belief.

  You go first.

  The list of what makes me happy is very short. In one line: a cluster of words and the expression of meaning. Nothing more. Now, your turn.

  The pleasure of reading a good book.

  Let’s hear a bit more about that.

  The pleasure of sighting the consciousness glistening behind words—crystalline consciousness, whose transparent gleam never fades.

  Are you saying this in your individual context?

  Yes, that is the most irreplaceable dimension of human life. A complete creation. To be conscious of oneself is re-creation. Am I right?

  Yes, I know what you mean.

  We are reborn each time we refashion ourselves, renew ourselves.

  Aranya silently asked herself: How many times might you have been born? Many times! Truly, this one life had in itself many launch pads for many births.

  To rescue them from the long silence that followed, Ishan said,You say something. It’s your turn now.

  A rebirth is underway these days as well. In the act of shredding paper. It foretells age. Have you been through this experience too?

  Yes. Sometimes old letters, sometimes old accounts, calendars, diaries. And if I’m to speak of myself, along with papers, memories as well. Perhaps that’s what people call nirvana.

  Why insist on so much plain speaking?

  Because I live in colloquial prose.

  They strolled in the rose garden.

  The language of poetry seems to grow in this little garden.

  I have come here before.

  Did you see the dusky rose-daughter in the red-orange flower patch?

  That’s a beautiful name, rose-daughter. There isn’t any feminist influence working on this identification, is there?

  That may well be. Sons form the majority in this park. We worry about the minorities. That’s why it’s so important to note the existence of daughters.

  Ishan laughed.

  This shouldn’t get us tangled in an argument.

  No, that won’t happen. Why would we trade our expansive vision for insularity? Regardless of quarrels, we seniors will ultimately attain peace.

  They laughed.

  But even there, the goddess of desires will block the passage of rights.

  I see what you’re getting at. We will all face her infinite power.

  Ishan laughed again. You could need a lawyer even there.

  There must be some arrangement. The prosecution will work, if we pay the fees. But the verdict may take time.

  It could take eons.

  Several centuries may go by while you wait.

  Aranya broke into a peal of laughter.

  It feels good to hear we’ll live that long. Let me tell you, I’m ready to wait patiently; I’m not willing to let go of my rights.

  Their voices began to fade as the sounds of the evening took over.

  The greenish light in the park turned blue. The last evening light just before it gets dark.

  What’s your favourite colour?

  Black.

  No, no, that’s not the colour of joy.

  Why not? That’s the colour I liked in the pink of my youth. Now I wear grey and white. These two colour my interior.

  They walked in silence. Suddenly Aranya laughed.

  Please don’t think I’ve reached my grey years. Although, human beings harbour many desires even beyond the grey.

  A flower patch snaked its way right up to the gate. Together they leapt over it.

  Time is wordless, but much throbs within. And age? It’s like a goat, grazing, slowly, slowly. Let it graze. Don’t look in its direction.

  Aranya asked herself softly: You haven’t become more shortsighted, have you? You must get eye-drops from t
he chemist. When is your next appointment with the eye-doctor?

  She heard Ishan say: Seems like I’ll need to change my distance-glasses.

  The golden face of the sun shines in the deep blue of the sky. The east end of the park departs to meet the sky as the face of the west lights the eyes. As if east and west are saying to one another: Today will surely resemble yesterday. But tomorrow won’t be like today.

  In the west, the sun, a red ball of fire, slides towards the Earth that is like a stage.

  Behind it, there is a vast curtain of darkness. A redness flickers for a split-second in our lashes and disappears into the Earth.

  The trees are quieter than before, dumbfounded by their own immeasurable height. Entranced by their own imperishability perhaps. And the two of us, aging perishables.

  The cobbled footpath has begun to look new. No old memories, no reproaches, no rivalry, no aggression, no civilities. Just walking together, the two of us. It’s good to walk. That’s what the doctor says as well.

  Aranya spoke sternly to herself. You keep coming back to that. Doctor.

  Look at the tree trunks, firmly anchored in their roots.

  Watch where you are going. Take firmer steps. This is a journey towards unexpected connections. Its pace is determined by one’s own being and living. By the sound of one’s own footsteps, not the shifting of the planets.

  The cool breeze blows only as long as we live. No enmeshment. No east wind, north wind, or south. Who knows when the winds flew off in their own directions? What remains will also fly off. Whatever is right for the season; there is a meaning to everything. The right thing has to be understood in the right way at the right time. Look ahead of yourself. The sun has sunk and amidst the trees, there’s the moon, hanging in its cage of desire. Being able to see that is an event, isn’t it.

  Aranya reached her floor. She opened the door to her flat, switched on the light and stood in the balcony. The wide banks of the Yamuna fringed with lights. The windows of flats near and far. Windows, it’s not windows that change. It’s the curtains, faces, and dates that change. She went inside and took off her shoes. She washed her feet, and as she wiped them with a towel, she saw a few blades of grass sticking to her soles.

  She gazed at them for a while. How tiny. She plucked them off carefully. How slender to touch. That sprint on the wet grass was wonderful. The accomplishment for the evening.