There was clarity in the voice.
Ishan was telling me, you won’t be so busy the day after. I truly want to meet you.
Thanks. I’ll come. At four-thirty, no?
Yes, I’ll remind you at four-fifteen. Ishan will come with you.
Two days later, Ishan and Aranya set out for Damyanti’s.
She used to be my neighbour. A happy-go-lucky creature. She was once very attractive, bubbly and energetic.
Ishan laughed, as if he saw her before him. Going up or coming down the stairs, if there was a whiff of perfume in the lift, we knew that Damyanti had either just left or just come back. Expensive perfume was her hallmark. Her husband was a decent soul. Lively, respectable and crazy about his wife. The children were left to the ayah to bring up. She turned to sadhumahatmas after his passing. A woman ascetic in Rishikesh is now her guru. She spends most of her time there.
Aranya was slightly put off. What will I do in that company, she thought. I’ll get bored.
Ishan guessed what she was thinking.
You’ll find her interesting. She’s very modern. The way she dresses, talks and lives. Women are usually jealous of her. Though she’s changed now. We change one way or another as we age.
Do you find yourself to have changed much?
No.
And you, Aranya?
Me neither.
They seemed to be reassuring each other.
Damyanti welcomed them in a pearl grey suit. Ishan introduced the two women to each other.With her confident bearing, delicately applied make-up and her curly hair, she was the perfect image of a mature, well-to-do woman.
She circled Aranya with her arms and said: Come. She took them past the drawing room into her own room—Take a seat.
There was a sofa in one corner, a long table, a fridge and on the other side, a bed. Books and journals were arranged on a shelf. A glimpse of the past, of Delhi and Lahore, of the elegant decor of Curzon Road Hostel.
With a tray of water glasses in hand, Madho greeted Ishan.
Madho, you’re well, aren’t you? All well at home?
Yes, Sahib. You’ve come after a long time. Bahadur is still working for you, isn’t he?
Yes, Madho. He takes care of dinner. He goes out to work in the morning.
There was honey and lemon in expensive glasses, ready for tea to be poured into them.
Ishan laughed.
You haven’t forgotten.
How could I forget? I was thinking of you just yesterday. Vaidya-ji says: Ginger juice, lemon and rock salt, the mixture is a universal remedy for all stomach problems. Tulsi and bel leaves as well. I don’t eat meat and eggs any more, Ishan. I’ve become a vegetarian.
Amazing!
My very being has changed since I started living in the ashram. I have no desire to eat chicken, meat, fish. I couldn’t have a meal without them before. There’s been a great change in me. In the old days, I wouldn’t let cotton clothes touch my body, Aranya. One day, just after the satsang, my guruji upbraided me. Now I’ve had sufiyana cotton suits made. Just listen to what my sons and daughters-in-law say. If I wear silk clothes, they say, this glitter and glamour no longer suits you at this age. But if I wear cotton, they don’t like that either. You don’t look like our mother any more. Now you tell me, what I should do?
Aranya flung her head back in distress: Wear whatever you like.
Damyanti laughed charmingly: You look like you rule over your heart and mind. Don’t you feel depressed living alone?
No.
Sometimes at least …
No, never.
That can’t be true. Come with me to my ashram. You’ll experience deep peace. Do you have any interest in religion and spirituality?
No, I won’t get much out of that. I keep busy otherwise.
No children, no family—what unfinished business do you have to take care of that you have no time?
Damyanti glanced at Ishan and laughed in a knowing way. Some work will always remain undone. We need to think what lies beyond.
Aranya’s face altered in a way that Ishan thought it better to change the topic.
Is your younger son all right now, Damyanti?
Yes, much better than before. He can walk with help. His fiancée is with him these days. She helped my son a lot. She stayed on after the accident.
Tea was set on the table. Cake, biscuits and sprouts came with it. Damyanti poured the tea.
She said: Unit Trust has declared good dividends this time around. You must have also invested in them, Ishan?
Yes.
And you?
Aranya nodded vacantly. Such questions at the first meeting.
He took care of all my needs before he departed. In his last days, he would keep saying: I’ll go first. What’ll you do if you’re left behind?
I used to laugh it off. Who has any control over life and death? If I go first, you’ll marry some hussy.
He laughed at first; later, his eyes would fill with tears.
God knows how he had guessed he would go first.
We live the time allotted to us. We have no choice but to live through it. When it’s time to go, we are alone. That is the law of creation.
Damyanti offered the plate: Please do try the papaya—it’s sweet. Sometimes I add cream to it. It’s wholesome. My guru takes a lot of interest in the food that is served at the ashram. I can’t tell you how clean the kitchen is. The devotees make the pots shine.
Pure food makes for a pure existence.
Do come with me to the ashram. Why don’t we go on some Saturday? We can come back by Monday or Tuesday.
I don’t drive such long distances.
That’s just an excuse. I have a driver, you know.
Aranya, you’ll come, won’t you?
No, no, that doesn’t fit with my kind of schedule.
Damyanti watched her for a while with a faraway look in her eyes before she said slowly: This body with its eleven sensory doors, how will it get there. I’ve begun to worry about that now.
Aranya kept quiet, as if waiting for more entreaties.
When Ishan left them to go out to the balcony, Damyanti moved to sit next to her.
I’ve begun to feel afraid, Aranya. The fear of death, perhaps.
Put that fear outside you. Why should you be afraid of something that each of us is destined to go through?
It was as if Damyanti had her guru before her eyes.
My guru says, we are free in the performance of our karma but tied in experiencing its fruit.
Aranya cast a sharp look at her, then said softly: There’s an ashram for the elderly nearby. Give some time to them.
What could I do there?
You could take part in their daily life. You could read out books and newspapers to them. You could write letters for them.
Damyanti’s face lit up suddenly. Many thanks for that; I’ll do that. I get so bored at home.
Why? You’re not alone; your children live with you.
I would be less anxious if I lived alone, like you. My children stay with me. I run the kitchen in my house. I pay all the expenses. But I’m left alone in my room. They move my things about without my permission. I’m very upset, Aranya. When I went to the ashram some days ago, they threatened Madho: Tell us where Mamma keeps the key to the locker.
Why would I oppose them for anything? But they should also have some sense of duty. They don’t bother whether I’ve eaten anything, whether I’m ill, whether I need medicine, tests, or a visit to the doctor—I do everything myself.
Bless Madho; I live on the strength I draw from him.
Aranya said nothing.
Say something, Aranya! My children’s ways are testing my endurance. My son is asking for the papers of this flat. When I went to the doctor’s the other day, my daughter-in-law had my divan moved to her room. She said, she liked it. And just listen to this, I don’t have permission to leave this room. I can’t have my guests sit in the drawing room.
That
’s wrong. Let’s go sit there.
Damyanti’s face became knotted with emotion. She whispered: I can’t sit there, my guests can’t sit there, even though I have bought the furniture and decorated the place. And I watch all this mutely, lifelessly.
Then she piped up when Ishan came back: We’re getting more tea, let’s go and sit there.
A well-appointed sitting room was lit up. Expensive furniture, heavy curtains, artwork from many regions, a Ganesha on a wooden pedestal, and spread beneath it all, a stunning Kashmiri carpet.
As mistress of the room, Damyanti began to chirp happily.
She rang for Madho.
Yes, Sahib.
Another round of hot tea. Masala tea.
Yes, Sahib, I’ll get it right away.
It was as if Damyanti had come home.
It’s going well with Bahadur, no Ishan?
Yes, it’s all right, I suppose. He makes dinner and keeps the house in order. I make lunch myself one way or another.
Sometimes, Aranya and I eat together. Our flats are not so far apart.
That’s so good, Ishan. If only I lived there … Why don’t we go on a picnic together sometime? Eat our lunch out under the sun?
I remember your picnic basket. Do you still have it?
It’s still there. All my old things are. Only I am not in my old place. His departure has changed everything.
I’ll make paneer for the picnic.
Damyanti laughed. Sindhi parathas with paneer. Madho is an expert at making them. There’ll be just a touch of ghee. Aranya, will you fry the paneer?
Paneer can’t be fried in water, but trust me, there’ll be very little ghee.
The room echoed with their laughter. This burst of zest seemed to fill Damyanti with a new life. What will we have for dessert?
Nothing heavy. Plenty of fruit.
No, Ishan. I’ll send for sandesh.
That will be perfect. Your old favourite.
The bell rang suddenly.
Madho opened the door. The second of the three sons entered with two guests.
He masked his anger as well as he could, seeing his mother in the drawing room with Ishan and Aranya.
Mamma, please take them to your room. We have something important to discuss.
We’re drinking tea. As you can see, son …
How much more time will you take?
I’ve had to persuade them to stay on. They’ll be here for a while.
Ishan and Aranya began talking to each other, as if they couldn’t hear the dialogue.
Damayanti rang the bell for Madho with her son still standing in the doorway. Can you quickly fry some spinach pakoras? And don’t forget to sprinkle clove and black pepper on them. There’s some mint chutney in the fridge. Bring that too.
Yes, Sahib.
The son paced up and down the corridor even as the smell of ghee pervaded the air. There was anger in his footsteps. His seething hands hit out at the plate that Madho was carrying to the drawing room.
Damyanti rose from her seat when she heard the sound and moved towards the kitchen. What happened, Madho?
Nothing, Sahib. The plate slipped from my hands.
Damyanti ordered him in a calm voice: Pick this up afterwards. Fry some more quickly.
She looked at her son, then, and said sharply: Don’t just stand there. Leave. I warn you. Don’t you enter this house again. And understand this—I own this house, not you.
Aranya poured the tea into three cups and reached for the sugar and milk.
There was violence in the son’s eyes.
Can’t you hear me? Don’t ever enter this house again.
From inside came the sound of the daughter-in-law crying.
Aranya and Ishan stood up to leave.
We’re off, Damyanti. We’ll fix a date for the picnic on the phone.
Aranya shook her hands, conveying silently to Damyanti: You have the right to do what you just did.
Damyanti’s ageing face betrayed alarm. She pressed Aranya’s hand and said: Stay with me tonight. My son is ruthless. He’ll keep at it all night.
Calm down. You are responsible for yourself now that the children’s father is no more. You also have the right to object. Believe me, he’ll have to ask for your forgiveness.
Damyanti held on to Aranya’s hand for a long time.
You have my phone number, don’t you?
Damyanti nodded and gave Ishan a cold, limp hand, as if to ask for help of some kind.
Can anyone really help anyone else?
Three pairs of clammy hands. Is there any warmth left in them? Do they have the courage to confront today’s children?
Love. Is that the only thing mothers have?
Do fathers, husbands, sons, still hold the strings of her person and her existence?
A month later, Madho called Ishan: Sahib, Memsahib has
passed away. Her chautha will be held tomorrow.
What?
What happened, Madho?
What can I say on the phone, Sahib? You’ll see when you come here.
seven
Aranya took out last year’s clothes. The bright colours disturbed her. One should wear whites and creams. Is it accidental, the choice of this particular salwar suit?
No, she’s taking it out because she wore it last year.
Why get tangled up with the past again?
You remember your date of birth, don’t you?
Yes, how can one forget that?
And the significance of life?
Only a maze.
What is your primary accomplishment?
The evolution of mental and physical power.
And ambitions? Accomplishments?
It’s not so easy to answer that.
Forget those now. Just recall the radiant days of childhood.
Aranya laughed. I am not a philosopher who can remain detached from good and evil.
Last year on this day, I lay stretched out in comfort. Rajen Kaul and Indu came by in the evening. They had brought a huge pineapple cake with them. They were both happy. Their happiness pervaded the evening.
She got ready, then looked at her face in the mirror. She laughed to herself. It still looks like my face.
What are you, Aranya? So self-absorbed.
Think about someone else for a change.
What is there to think?
These are all moot issues.
All this feeling and reflection must mean something.
Mere churning of reason and of imagination bubbling to the surface.
Why not look at the splendid diversity of the universe?
She looked at her reflection in the mirror again. There is no dust on the mirror, but that doesn’t mean that you are as bright as you were once.
What do you call this season?
Vanprastha, old age.
Hail the advent of this precious season with another name.
It’s a witness to time and experience.
You do know, don’t you, that decades ago, two children playing on the lawn were separated forever. Shantanu, covered with blood in a road accident. His father left him at the place from which no one returns. Everyone has to reach there.
Aranya rebuked herself.
Forget the episode at Damyanti’s today.
Those who’ll have to bear the burden of our passing will take care of it.
There’s a meeting at Ishan’s place today.
She picked up the phone.
Wouldn’t around five have been better, Ishan?
People like to go for a walk around that time, so I kept the meeting half an hour earlier.
I’d like to come ten minutes earlier, will that inconvenience you?
Not at all.
She put the container on Ishan’s dining table.
Such a large cake. Why this, Aranya?
Today’s a special day. Your birthday. Many happy returns.
And my good wishes on your birthday too, Aranya.
They shook hands
.
We’ve crossed over to the other shore now, Aranya. Doesn’t this seem childish to you?
Don’t be upset, Ishan. I am only being myself.
Ishan couldn’t help laughing.
Headstrong and persuasive.
Aranya said mischievously: There are two cakes, two containers. One for you and the other for me.
Why?
We were born on the same day, but we are two people. That’s why.
That’s not money well spent.
Aranya began to laugh.
It comes once a year, this day, and that too, only as long as we remain alive.
Ishan became serious.
I just have one suggestion to make, Aranya: Let’s treat all days equally in this chapter of our lives.
Aranya spoke in the spirit of friendship: Unlike you, I don’t regard myself as old. I am not embedded in a family where I see myself as an ageing mother or grandmother. The intimacy with myself gives me a sense of constancy, Ishan.
Ishan remained silent, as if finding her words excessive.
Aranya began to tease him.
It’s not just the winds of the Pir Panjal mountain range that make you youthful. You have no second generation here to thrust you aside as ‘old’. Those who are parents tolerate every situation and continue to live silently; they don’t feel free to say anything.
You’re negating so many things. A family is a deeply woven unit. The perimeters of its warmth, affection and love are regulated. It’s a discipline.
Aranya laughed.
We need reservations and protective measures, rather than talk of the power of virtuous families to bind people together.
Ishan spoke with cold earnestness: There’s a lot of difference between the way you and I think about this.
Oh yes. The difference between waking and sleeping. Between your self-knowledge and my rest and relaxation. Perhaps that’s the reason why I don’t read your Krishnamurti.
Ishan put his arms around her and touched her head.
Rest as much as you want and work as hard as you do. We’re not likely to get much out of this conversation.
Two ageing figures broke into laughter.
The doorbell rings.
Namaskar!
Namaskar! Do come in.
Sardar Bhagat Singh.
Neither trim and slim, nor fat. High. Tall.
An unusual person, judging by his body and frame.
The Music of Solitude Page 7