The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  She filled water in the kettle and switched it on.

  Looked into the tea-tin and found it empty.

  There would be teabags. There were some. That’s how organized we loners are. If there’s tea, there’s no sugar; if there’s sugar, there’s no milk. Lack of structure and order.

  No, let’s not complain today. Teabags have appeared, and so have milk and sugar.

  She placed the tea tray in front of herself, and then drank the tea, regarding herself as a guest. An actor, onlooker, audience, guest, host, all rolled into one.

  The phone rang.

  Hello.

  This is Ishan.

  Tell me.

  Just look outside your door.

  Aranya rose swiftly. Had a guest arrived? She turned the key and peeped outside. A paper bag was hanging from the doorknob. She took it down and shut the door. There were flowers in the bag, and tucked into them was a slip of paper: ‘For not getting your shoes wet in the park.’

  Aranya was happy. These lovely little pieces of happiness … The new shoes were saved from getting wet. At the same time, she managed to impress someone and received a bunch of narcissus.

  She filled water in the vase, arranged the flowers, and played music. She sat there, listening for a while, and then danced to the tune, as if old times began tapping in her feet.

  Nothing is forgotten. Practise remembering.

  Will you be able to add another line to the script, at this juncture in your life?

  Yes, of course—just this much that I am my own script.

  Much later, she thought, I could have phoned and thanked him. No. Let this remain unsaid. I’m feeling special. I’ve just received the flowers of narcissus for a gift. These bloom on the mountains where silence swims in the air.

  The sky was overcast since morning. It began to rain by the time the afternoon was over. Perhaps it had snowed in the mountains. Aranya kept admiring the duet of shower and wind from her balcony. The tar on the street down below looked dark and smooth from this height. The canopy of leaves on the trees below appeared like green pavilions, bowing towards the earth and opening towards the sky.

  How ancient the sight and sound of the shower and how eternally new. Time is concealed in its melody. Time is, because we are. Time is outside but also ahead of us. That is what intimidates us. But why dither on this rainy day?

  Grasp this moment; it is yours. The evening, this moment, this rain—jump up and gather them in your hands. If you slip now, they may slip away forever.

  Aranya picked up her umbrella and raincoat and set out in the rain. New roads had been laid out in front of the flats. One can’t look for the past on them. Who knows how many have been left behind? A big pool of water splashed under her feet. Watch out! Your shoes will get dirty. She sprang to the side.

  New plants had been planted along the pavement on the right. Propped up with bricks, fresh saplings from the nursery.

  Ahead, there was a tangled cluster of jhuggis, huddled under slanted roofs made of sacking and blue and yellow plastic, just wide enough to hide your heads, and held to the ground by ends tucked into stones. From the ones made by shutting off the openings of barrels, emerges, along with the wet smoke from a coal sigri, the sound of a child crying. The dry sobbing of a child rolling on a half wet mud floor. The rain must be dripping in. The mother must be looking for a way to stop the leaking.

  Where will the child go after it grows out of the jhuggi? Will this Abhimanyu be able to escape his chakravyuha? Will he be able to emancipate himself from hustling narcotics or will he be crushed by the weight of generations? Will he be able to enter a clean brick house? Will he partake in the comforts of life? Will the imperial gaze of history manage to take note of him while there is still time? Will buying things at the Sunday flea market rescue him? Will he be able to fulfill his desire to buy new old-looking denims? Will the favours meted out by social welfare reach this puny citizen? Will the strength to sustain himself survive that long? He has sixteen to eighteen years to reach adulthood. It may be possible to become a politician in the next century. Who knows whether he’ll behave like a hero or a villain?

  It had begun to rain harder. The umbrella in Aranya’s hands was beginning to fly off. She crossed the street to walk on the pavement on the opposite side. A heap of garbage suddenly appeared from nowhere. She shrank away but its stench smeared this part of the street. Strange is our relationship to garbage and clutter, and the indifference to its relentless aggression.

  Aranya reprimanded herself: Don’t look at the filthy mound of trash. Watch the water flow, see the lightening flash. Then she cautioned herself: Better go back.

  As she entered the gate, she changed her mind about going back to her own flat. She could have a cup of tea with her friend and neighbour Ishan.

  There was a spring in her steps. She shook the water off her umbrella, and crossing the passageway, pressed the lift button. It would have been better to phone him first, but that could be forgiven in this weather.

  She placed her finger on the doorbell.

  The door opened, but there was neither surprise nor joy on his face, only acceptance.

  Perhaps it wasn’t right to come, she thought to herself.

  Ishan took the umbrella from her, put it in the balcony, and hung the raincoat in the bathroom.

  Sorry, I think I’ve come at the wrong time. I thought of having tea with you as I was returning from my walk.

  Why not! Come in.

  I’ll make the tea if you like.

  No, no, you’ll get the kind of tea you like. You’ve no restrictions regarding cinnamon and cardamom, have you?

  No, none.

  The sound of a kettle and spoons in the kitchen.

  How much sugar?

  Half-a-spoon.

  Two mugs of tea were set down on the table. Biscuits and savouries on a plate.

  Please help yourself.

  Aranya lifted the mug. She took a sip and cast a glance around the room. A bit bare. Even though there are things here, it seems as if there aren’t any. The face opposite hers is contained in itself and joined to itself.

  You went for a walk in the rain? That was daring. It was a heavy shower.

  A second later, he said: I wonder why I never thought of it. One could have gone for a walk.

  He sat silently for a while, as if regretting his mistake. The empty cups brought him back to the present.

  Would you like more tea?

  Thanks, no.

  Ishan rose and fetched a bundle of old exercise books and books from the next room.

  I don’t know why I thought of opening old boxes today. My son’s things have been locked away for who knows how long. As I woke up this morning I felt an urge to open them today. See, these cuttings from magazines, stamp album, diary—

  Death that defeats human beings, what colour must it be? That which smothers flying birds so that they disappear forever, forever out of our sight.

  See here, a list of books. Which book read in which week, how many books in a month, and how many in a year. It’s all been registered. The sayings he liked, the aphorisms, where he’d read them and from where he got them—all in great detail, in the style of a report. When the three of us set out to travel for the last time in the South, the moment we left Delhi, he started writing about it in this thick register.

  Ishan was looking at his son, as if oblivious to Aranya’s presence.

  He had unusual eyes, large ears, and a fantastic memory.

  Aranya picked up the green register and began to turn its pages, as if she couldn’t hear what was being said nor read what she saw on the pages.

  Had the guest’s indifference been taken note of?

  The empty mugs were removed from the table. Ishan went out into the balcony and peeped outside. Looks like it has stopped raining.

  Aranya stood up to leave: I’m off.

  Bahadur is not coming today. I am making a light dinner. Let’s eat here. Everything’s ready. I just need to pu
t the pressure cooker on the gas stove.

  Not today, another time, Ishan.

  Why not today? Chance has brought us together today. I need just half an hour to walk. You can browse through a book or listen to music in the meanwhile. You’ll find one or the other cassette that you like.

  After Ishan left, Aranya sat there dejectedly for a while. The room felt deserted first, and then, as if it was suddenly stuffed full with a heap of things which had lain concealed before.

  The decision to come here began to seem strange. She played the cassette lying on top of the pile and then switched it off in some confusion. She went and stood near the open boxes. In one of them were a colouring set, a pastel album, a geometry box, a camera … of some unknown child who had ceased to be.

  He, who is no more, peeps out of old things … What relationship could he have with the stranger now looking at him? Chessmen, ludo, scout uniform, cap, whistle hanging out of a shirt pocket. Can it still blow? No, it’s struck dumb. Only if there is breath within can the lips move.

  Misfortune feels no pity. Not even in the face of love. And even though these memories have been preserved, they are dead. After the body is gone, if at all anything remains, it’s memory. Nothing else. Step outside the dexterity of life and you’re gone.

  Another box— a jersey, a muffler, and a small button sewed on to the muffler. A school bag, high boots, a writing pad. As Aranya lifted the pad, a page fluttered out of it. A letter.

  St Columba’s School

  Lunchtime

  Hello Chote Mama,

  I’ve been thinking of writing to you for some days. You know my friend Pradip, don’t you? I’ve told you about him. He’s very clever and he’s good at studies. I’m about to write about his sacred thread ceremony. Mamma, Papa and I were invited to it. The family members and guests were sitting in a big room. The basin with the havan flames was in the middle. Pradip was dressed like a sadhu. His uncle, who was officiating as the pandit, was reading the mantras at a speed which would have put Kennedy to shame. His enunciation was truly impressive, the kind only pandits can bring forth. But yes, the smoke from the fire was a torture to our eyes. I rummaged in my pocket for the handkerchief I had forgotten at home. The ghee that Pandit-ji was putting into the fire was meagre. Perhaps the ghee was real, asli ghee, and Pandit-ji was being stingy. By then, instead of flames, clouds of smoke collected and enveloped the room. I was watching silently. Every now and then, Papa would wipe his eyes with a handkerchief. Mamma was sitting in the verandah outside, so she was all right. Lunch was served afterwards. As I was eating, I thought I would never have the yajnopavit ceremony. I will not do this or allow Mamma’s family to do this to me. And if Dadaji says something, I’ll have an answer ready for him—if Papa didn’t have his done, why do I have to? So, Chote Mama, you’ll be saved from the smoke of my yajnopavit. You must write to me and let me know what you think of my decision. I’ll close this letter now. I’m going off to play. Please answer my letter, Chote Mama.

  With love,

  Yours,

  Lavi.

  The paper was beginning to crumble. The handwriting was neat, the mark of a good school. The letter must have been written on the school lawn during the lunch break.

  Sliding the album of photos back into the suitcase, Aranya went to the bookshelf. She pulled out a book with a colorful cover. She heard a sound as she began to turn its pages, as if someone were murmuring into her ear.

  Who?

  It’s me.

  Who are you?

  A friend of your Papa’s. I live nearby. I had gone for a walk in the rain. I stopped on the way back.

  And Papa?

  He’s gone for a walk.

  Ha-ha-ha …

  Did Aranya hear a child laugh?

  I know it so well. Papa never misses a walk. I’ve walked with him. From Curzon Road Hostel to India Gate. I used to go with him every Sunday. One day, just as we were reaching the Boat Club, it started to rain in torrents. Ma was also with us. A big hailstone fell on us, and fat raindrops too. We stood under a tree, getting wet. We had gone under it for shelter, but its big leafy branches were beginning to break in the storm, and Ma and Papa were trying to protect their heads while I hid between them.

  When the storm abated a bit, I began to tease Ma: Look Ma, a flying saucer is on its way here from over the stadium.

  Ma and Papa looked in that direction as if a flying saucer could really be seen there.

  You can see aliens sitting in them, can’t you?

  Ma said: God is ever active. He manifests himself in various forms.

  Ma, we’re talking about science.

  Yes, yes, science and knowledge are controlled by God.

  I looked at Papa and smiled. Sky, earth, nether worlds, they are all God’s laboratories. Scientists have found a way to reach them. Papa, I’ll set up my little laboratory in the skies. I’ll interview the folks who come into outer space and send news of them to the papers here.

  I am not sure why Ma and Papa became silent. I continued to talk, but they remained silent.

  At dinner Ma asked: Son, whom do you feel closest to?

  Myself.

  What?

  Yes, Ma, there is me, right? With me, with my name. With you, Papa, Dada, Dadi.

  Why not your Nana?

  He has his own grandsons.

  Papa smiled but Ma got angry. Who are your friends ? Whom do you talk to?

  Ma, can’t I know things myself?

  Yes, you know a lot of things, also things your Papa and I don’t know.

  I guessed what my mother was getting at.

  I’m not competing with you. I’m your son after all. Don’t you recognize me? This boy who goes to school and who comes home in the evenings, gets good marks in school and is sitting right here, in front of you? No, Papa?

  Mama broke into a smile. Papa looked at me, unblinkingly. I saw that he wasn’t angry with me. No praise when he was happy with me, no rebuke when he was annoyed. That’s my Papa.

  Before I went to sleep, Papa was more affectionate than on most days. He spoke to my mother when he thought I’d fallen asleep: Did you hear what your son was saying?

  Whatever he was saying made me anxious. These are not the thoughts of a child. We should talk to Lavi’s class teacher.

  Ma gave me a closed envelope for Father Joseph next morning.

  Son, don’t forget to give this to Father Joseph. I’ve asked for an appointment with him.

  Have I done something wrong, Ma?

  No, you don’t have to comment on everything grown-ups do.

  Papa dropped me off to school. As he was leaving, I said: Ma is upset about nothing. What if I left this envelope with you?

  Papa looked at me, mischievously. Your mother has just asked to see your class teacher, son. How can you object to that?

  I understood. Papa was also party to this; it wasn’t Ma alone. Let them both do what they want.

  Bye-bye, Papa.

  Aranya sat back in her chair, as if exhausted.

  Bye, little one. You and I hadn’t met before today. You must have been good at studies, your exercise books show that. And what you were just talking about—

  What makes you say that? It was you talking. I was just listening.

  Dinner was laid on the table. Soup, steamed vegetables, yoghurt, fruits, a jar each of honey and lemon juice.

  Aranya began to read the jar with her eyes. Honey-lemon, lemon-honey. In this weather, on this wet evening.

  I can add brandy to it, if you like.

  Thanks, I’d like that.

  Did anyone knock while I was away? Srinivas was supposed to come.

  No.

  Aranya was thinking. Do people have to physically come to a place? Sometimes one comes to one’s old home in thoughts, in spirit.

  For a moment, she wanted to tell the father in Ishan that his lost child had come this evening, but she remained silent.

  Ishan said: I don’t know what I was thinking, why I o
pened up Lavi’s things today. I will put them back tomorrow.

  Aranya said cautiously: I’ve put everything back in the boxes.

  Ah!

  Whenever I open up his things, I always think whether there is any point in keeping them. But then, I gather them up again and put them safely back. Each time I touch his school uniform, it feels like he’s still there in it. I know for certain that he is somewhere, even if he’s not here. He was thirteen when he left, he would have become someone’s father by now.

  They laughed a strange laugh together, as if feeling lighter.

  Ishan said: One day, just as we were leaving for a Krishnamurti talk, Lavi started insisting, ‘I want to come with you’.

  We tried to make him understand: ‘What’ll you do there. You’ll just get bored sitting there.’

  ‘I want to listen to him.’

  ‘No, you’re still too young. You won’t understand him.’

  ‘What are you saying, Ma-Papa. If I can read Einstein, I can also understand Krishnamurti’s talk. A bit at least, even if not all that he says.’

  ‘Son, you won’t be able to grasp the meaning of Krishnamurti’s words. There’s no point in insisting.’

  ‘Papa, let me come, just so that I can see him. I like his face a lot in the photos. Such an Indian face.’

  Aranya listened to this episode, as if she already knew the child.

  The mist of the past lifted and dispersed.

  It felt good that you came in this weather. It was a bit awkward at first. Lavi’s things were lying around, and I was feeling old and spent, as if the bundle of past had burst open and spilt over.

  Aranya’s face hardened. Then she spoke warmly: Everything’s become so old. The paper is parched and cracking. What’s the use of going through such old stuff anew?

  Yes, you’re right.

  It had begun to rain again. They talked. It felt like they were in the mountains.

  When the rain patters so incessantly on tin roofs, I feel quite enchanted by the Almighty.

  Ishan laughed.

  I find it fascinating, the way clouds thunder and lightening flashes. But I begin to regard the Almighty with doubt and dismay when rivers break their banks and sweep away villages, towns, houses, farms and cattle; like other ordinances, the Lord of the Universe also resorts to acts of terror. He motions his divine managerial team to cause destruction. Intimidate them, strike fear in them. Only then will they learn to improve— fold their hands and bow in devotion. This is the policy the self-appointed Almighty follows.