Ishan looked on, saying nothing.
Aranya smiled, but Ishan looked grave. He looked at her for a while, then asked: Are you not a believer?
Who can say, I am not one. How can I compare my belief to anyone else’s? There must be some part of Him in me.
Ishan got up and switched on the radio. If you want to hear the commotion on TV …
No. Radio is fine …
After they heard the news, they talked for a long time.
Ishan was talking about Almora. Almora, Kalimath, Mirtola, Himavati Cottage. Earl Brewster and his wife Elisabeth. Earl and Elisabeth were both painters. Earl used to paint mountain peaks. Snow held a strange fascination for him. Shunyata had presented me with a painting.
Brewster and Elisabeth were friends of D.H. Lawrence and Frieda. They had met them in Capri. They had been on board the same ship from Capri to Colombo.
There was another impressive American there, the Christian missionary Steiner, who was working with the Bhotias in Dharachul.
Earl Brewster used to say that Lawrence was interested in Shiva’s anthropomorphic form. In those days, Earl was deeply influenced by Aurobindo’s The Life Divine.
I had also met another extraordinary woman there—Lizzy Raymond. Her husband worked for UNESCO. Liz was writing a book on Sharada Ma.
Aranya said: My father wanted me to translate Sharada Ma’s writings into Hindi. It was Swami Ranganathan who had suggested it.
Did you do it?
No, I had no talent for translation.
I recall an unforgettable evening. We had reached Mirtola on foot, along with Shunyata. We met Krishna Prem there. Krishna Prem used to be known as Professor Nixon. He was the youngest professor of English at Lucknow University. Yashoda, the wife of another Lucknow professor, Chakravarti, was a Krishna devotee. Nixon was so impressed with her that he abandoned everything and moved with her to Mirtola.
I remember, there was a Bengali scholar, Anirban, who lived in Almora’s Himavati Cottage. He was translating the Vedas into Bengali. There was also another gentleman, Boshi Sen. He was a pupil of Jagdishchandra Bose.
You could only call it a strange coincidence—for there to be, at one time, in one place, so much brilliance of so many kinds from so many places. It was an extraordinary experience.
It must have been.
Aranya began to reflect on her own experiences.
I have trekked from Kathgodam to Kausani. I’ll never forget the trek from Ramgarh to Mukteshwar, especially the steep climb from Nathuakhan to Mukteshwar. There were two coolies with us, towing our baggage. As we climbed higher from Sitala Estate, sweat dripped in beads from head to foot. Climbing was no problem for me in those days, but coming down steep slopes was difficult. You’d think if you ran down at great speed, you didn’t feel tired. But as our feet grow older, they shrink from running.
It was as if Aranya was gazing at Mukteshwar.
Ishan searched Aranya’s face, then briefly closed his eyes and said: I have more to say. Do you feel like listening?
Aranya nodded.
I was on probation then and posted in Almora. One day I went to Shunyata’s house to give him his mail and some stamps.He was a Danish citizen. Ramana Maharishi had given him that name when he saw the silence of his gaze. I could see that he was happy I had come. He gave me tea. He was saying so much to me with his silence. Whatever he said reached me, wordlessly, knocking on the door of my inner self. His cottage seemed like a dream, painted against a vast landscape. As we sat outside, evening fell upon us. I made to get up, but Shunyata motioned to me to sit down. And then, looking at the mountain peaks, he said:
How the snow changes colour.
Slowly, the evening darkened. The pure blue of the sky was adorned by the moon. The world appeared to be extraordinary, rare, and being born a human in this world more so.
It’s impossible to say how long we kept sitting there. The long evening felt like an aeon. A completeness that cannot be repeated. I can see it even today. The canopy of the pure blue sky, stars, mountains, their faraway peaks deepening, darkening. Everything so translucent, as if the self could see the self. Shunyata looked magnificent as he came out holding two cups. Still as the mountain peaks, swift as the winds.
I couldn’t fathom then what was happening to me. I knew just enough to sense that it was special. I still feel that specialness. Whatever is mine today is the gift of that evening.
We were startled into awareness at the same time. We stood stock still at the cottage gate. It was a moment of self-churning.
Shunyata’s eyes seemed to be reading my mind.
Softly but distinctly, he had said: All of us have to reach the source of our own being. We’ll reach it. I won’t keep you any longer. Go now. Shunyata smiled, as if giving leave to a child.
Ishan sat silently for a long time, as if still connected to that moment.
Shunyata’s laughter, in the stillness of the mountains, seemed like the pure, undeterred flow of a waterfall. Somewhat like the crazy boy you met on that road in Darjeeling.
Aranya, that laughter was like a kernel of procreative power coming to life in that moment.
It was deeply personal, pure, and hidden, and after all these years, as subtle as it was then. It makes me happy that I lived that extraordinary moment. Something unfurled in that moment, something that was concealed in it.
After I was transferred from Almora, I continued to write to Shunyata. He would respond with long letters. I used to send him stamps of upto five rupees; we had decided that limit together, and I didn’t have the right to cross that line.
He once wrote to me: ‘Ishan, you exist not only in yourself, but also in me. I am your permanent address, am I not? I feel your presence in my being. Do you know why? It’s the purity of your being. Remember then, that you are truly Ishan, not only in name, but also for Shunyata. The purity of this relationship, this existence, will need to be protected.’
Aranya was startled. Ancient Hindu thought!
Ishan, how old are you?
Oh, twenty-five, twenty-six.
Aranya smiled mischievously.
He said: There’ll come a time when you’ll understand the meaning of Shunyata’s words. He said, ever so often, you can’t become a complete man without having learnt to love
like a woman.
Ishan watched for a reaction on Aranya’s face.
Waah! Women would like to learn to love like men. As much as is absolutely necessary. Not so that they dissolve into their attachment.
They looked at each other for a long time. Then suddenly, Aranya laughed. Two minds in the Universe, a woman’s and a man’s, looking at one point but from different directions. Looking to see that, as human beings, they attain similar rights—looking so that they may be able to live and experience them.
two
I want the shades of red and yellow to colour my sorrow.
Who was it, who said that memory fades in its own time, even if you can retrace your feet back in age. The only way out is to slip out of the grip of numbers. And yes, the red and yellow words don’t come from the mouths of saints and mahatmas. They come from the one who painted his inadequacies in living colours as he left. Who painted the warmth of the afternoon with his brush before his departure. So that he could rise again each time he was defeated. Why does time knock him out so often? Perhaps so that he can spring to his feet again? A deprivation, bad stars, and a desert reaching out into the distance. Van Gogh! A vivid warmth flowing out from the colours soaking the brush. Sunflowers!
Whatever you lost and found, Aranya, was not so filled with despair, after all. Something continued to sparkle, even if erratically. Something continued to light up the darkness around you.
Dusk declines and becomes night by the force of its own being. Night becomes old and renews itself as morning. Each moment is on the wings of change. At times the sharp edges of your inside cut into something, at other times they leave behind scars, and sometimes there come tears, filt
ered through drops of blood. We are always being transformed, chance and coincidence fastened to memory, season after season. The mind doesn’t let go of what ceases to be; it fastens itself to old links in the chain. Then it returns, reviews them, and then, turns them around again.
That evening at Ishan’s was like the crackle of a page when you go through an old novel, parched so yellow with age that it wouldn’t really matter if you deciphered the year of its publication.
Almost a week later, Aranya invited Ishan over for tea. So easily, that there was no question of formality.
She asked over the phone: Have you had tea?
No, just about to put the water to boil.
How about my place today? I’m about to make tea too.
You won’t need lemons?
No, I have some in the fridge.
Aranya put the tea tray on the table, and with it; nuts and low-sugar biscuits.
Ishan arrived with a tin of honey and neem leaves: I plucked them on my morning walk today. They’re washed and dried. You can keep them in the fridge if you like.
Thanks, Ishan. I like chewing them.
I am surprised that you don’t mind the taste of neem.
I eat both things, sweet and bitter, with equal relish. You can guess that from my speech. It’s not just sweet.
She laughed.
To truly get the taste of sweets, you need to keep eating neem and bitter gourd.
Surely not because of diabetes?
No, that hasn’t shown up in any check-up yet. But there’s no way of knowing what’ll happen next. Any kind of mischief is possible in ancient bodies.
Ishan picked up the biscuits, pushing aside the cashew nuts.
It’s good to beware of cashew. It has high cholesterol content. I heard an interesting story the other day. If the boss is getting in the way of your promotion, get him to eat cashew nuts to his heart’s content. He’ll take leave of you forever and you’ll get the hike you want.
They laughed for a long time.
Aranya lifted the tea-cosy off the tea-pot.
No, let the tea steep longer. In the meantime, I’ll read out some lines to you. I came across them in a file, so I brought them over. I thought you’d like them. We were talking about Shunyata that evening, weren’t we? This is an excerpt from a letter of his:
‘I am blessed that I stand on the brilliant white of the Himalayas. It’s like a dream. This moment is dedicated to all that exists. This moment, this day, this afternoon. A helicopter flies above, the banners of its sound-waves flutter in the air. Drops of water snap off icy mountains and turn into rivers. The sun blazes in the blue sky above. I stand below on my two feet, speechless and full of gratitude.
‘Oh, beloved God of sunshine, keep showering mankind with your wealth.’
The moist loftiness of the words lingered in the room. They pleased Aranya and touched her heart.
For a moment I felt as if I was standing high up on Khardung La Pass and saying these lines. Someday, I’ll read out what I’ve
written to you. Was this piece written originally in English?
Yes, Aranya. I translated it into Hindi.
The Himalayas are eternal for us Indians. Their story is the story of our nation. They overwhelm rather than terrify us. Even though he is Danish, Shunyata has painted the scene with our sensibility. The Himalayas are a sanskara, deeply ingrained in us.
Aranya spoke: By the way, I plan to send a notice to the Municipality right away, asking them to pay some attention to our ancient lungs. The city’s smog is blackening our souls.
How is your work going?
Sometimes I work so fast that I feel I’m far ahead of everyone else. At other times, I am so slow that I feel I lag far behind. I specialize in eccentricity.
At this turn in our age, one should expect to discipline oneself.
You’re right. But no such trait binds me to my nature. When afternoon wears off...
You give the impression of being in top form still. You seem to have tons of energy.
The essence of my existence is contained in me. That’s why I seem so, perhaps.
No, we ignore our history so that our virtues and vices can repeat themselves. Careless about the past at times and anxious for the future.
And sometimes we forget all this and drop into an oblivious slumber. Speaking for myself, my sleep in the mornings is so deep, it’s as if I cease to exist.
It’s not good to sleep so late into the morning.
I know that, but it’s not easy to change habits that are decades-old.
Ishan said: Asanas and exercise keep the body alert. The arteries begin to narrow when one reaches this shore of life. They slacken, so some kind of movement becomes essential. And more than anything, the daily walk.
I know the difference between dawn and dusk. Time is part old, part new. Old shapes seem new and new ones seem old, as if I’ve known them forever.
They appear in dreams, unfamiliar shapes. They disappear when I try to tell them apart. Yes, sometimes I see blue water flowing through rocks.
Sometimes, in my sleep I see it’s a dream, and also that it’s not a dream, and that I stand there looking at someone as if I were that person. There’s a person out there who is me.
Interesting!
Aranya looked at Ishan. Who is it who looks and who is it who is looked at?
It’s not quite what you mean, but when I sleep, I see long rows of laburnum, yellow blossoms and green fruit dangling from their boughs. I feel like a tree myself, covered in yellow and green. I used to walk on the blazing, beautiful Hailey Road in the mornings and evenings. Perhaps that’s lurking somewhere in my mind.
Ishan looked at Aranya’s ageing face.
It may be past now, but just see where we land if we try replicating it.
When you absorb the core of someone else’s gaze, your own eyes get alienated from you. The meaning of my being lies for me within myself. That’s what limits it, perhaps. My being is a necessity for myself, because I am alone.
Ishan was silent, trying to gauge the significance of her words.
Aranya was searching for Ishan’s reaction to the words she had spoken.
Fresh tea was brewed and had.
You aren’t going out of Delhi in the next few days, are you?
I have no plans at the moment.
I am going away for a whole month.
Aranya urged him on:That’s good. Going away every now and then cures the boredom born of the monotony of a city. I have travelled a lot in the past, but it’s a bother now.
Because of having to make all those preparations?
It upsets my routine.
It’s the other way round for me. I feel a new thrill each time I think of going away. My suitcase is always ready for travel.
I know. Not one, but three.
How come you know that?
I’ve seen you a couple of times, carrying them from the taxi to the lift. I’ve wanted to help, but I have strict instructions from my doctor about lifting weight, on account of my eyes.
I am an old-fashioned railway traveller. My whole household moves with me.
Ishan became serious. It’s time to lighten the baggage now.
Aranya said mischievously. Shifting house twice or thrice has halved my baggage.
Ishan looked at her in response, as if to say, ‘I was saying something else’.
I’m going to put you to some trouble. I have a friend whom I entrust with such work but he’s away on a tour, so I am leaving this envelope with you.
Are they telephone, electricity bills?
No, I’ve had those paid. But anything can happen anywhere, and quite suddenly. It could also be on a holiday. I don’t want people to have to upset their arrangements because of me. That wouldn’t be right.
What makes you think like that, Ishan? You can leave without getting anxious. Nothing’s going to happen.
It’s not to be taken lightly, Aranya. My friend Malware found eternal rest at London air
port on his way back from America. Mrs Malware was with him. She did all the running around and informed the children. Kaushik and Alka could also get to London. You’ve met them, haven’t you?
I have. But why can’t we regard this episode as an exception?
Ishan replied calmly. Because we’re standing in the queue of those who could be called up any time. Leaving is also a process.
Even if you weren’t to add that last bit, all of us are destined to go one day. It doesn’t help to worry about it before that.
I understand that. But don’t forget, I’m alone. There’s no one before or after me. That’s why I’ve come to hand this to you.
Forgive me, I said this because you look like an older youth to me.
The same as you. We were born on the same day.
That’s surprising. How did you find out?
Some people can find out things from anywhere at all.
But I have some objection to that, my friend. In the years ahead, I plan to reduce my age. And please remember, I’m not your age, I’m younger. It’s likely there’s a mix-up with the dates of birth.
They laughed.
I’m leaving by the morning flight. We’ll argue about this when I get back. I’ve left both cheques and cash in the envelope, and a copy of my will.
Aranya chose her words carefully. It’s safe with me. Let me know when you’re coming back so that I can wait for you. And in return for this, treat me to tea in a restaurant.
Then hesitatingly, she said: This is something you need to hand over to a lawyer when you come back.
You’re right. But he’s away at the moment. And since there’s no one in my family, I felt compelled to ask you.
Ishan’s words reined in Aranya’s lightness. She said anxiously. I also have to do something. Then, as if some decisive moment descended upon her, she said: Perhaps the date of our departure will also be the same.
Suggest something else which could also be the same.
The Music of Solitude Page 3