The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  In his long steps, a glimpse of the miles he must have traversed in his long life. He takes a bite every two or three hours and then wanders up and down to digest it. He says: The only secret to my digestive power—I eat a radish-paratha every day.

  Sardar Sahib spends the second part of the week with his elder son and the first part with his younger son. He has educated his family, seen to their successful careers, and devoted himself now to getting his own world straightened out. To give shape to the experience gathered, he now counsels schools and other societies, writes articles on the health of senior citizens, and is getting ready to launch a journal for them.

  Mr and Mrs Sundaram. A couple made for each other. The wife is an expert in classical music. Thrice a week, she gives lessons to children.

  Did you call Mrs Vikramraj? She must feel lonely after her son and daughter-in-law set up their own home. She’ll find that it is not so bad after all, this living alone. You don’t lose touch with yourself if you’re alone. You come nearer yourself.

  Mrs Bhattacharya said: It’s clear that the world of children is different from ours now. It’s important to come to terms with the fact. Though it’s true that the house loses all sparkle with the grandchildren gone.

  Prasad said: Times change. With that, parents and grandparents have to change, too. It’s a question of before and after, what used to be and what is.

  Enter Rangachari with spouse. Supporting each other with each other’s help. Close to each other.

  Aranya watched them with curiosity. These people don’t look like objects of pity.

  They began to talk about books. About newspaper editors. About procuring new titles for the library.

  A good part of the apartment complex rings with the sounds of assorted regions. A pleasurable mix of Gujarati and Bengali.

  Ila and Alok Desai. Deeply absorbed in and occupied with their own routines. The pressures of the day eases with walks and yoga in the morning.

  Dwivedi-ji, who studied in Benares, arrived.

  He is blessed with worldly comfort by the grace of his Bengali guru, and endowed with all the facilities, which any householder would wish for in life. Few people are destined to receive as much as he. Medical expenses are the responsibility of his sons. Like the other affluent few, the services of an expensive nursing home are available for all his minor and major ailments. Large and small body parts can be freed of ailments. The unlit corners of the day can be illuminated. Dwivedi-ji’s discernment helps keep afloat spiritual and philosophical contemplation. His guru attained immortality, but he still hovers protectively over his student.

  The door opened again and in came Mrs and Mr Ray. All their friends and neighbours wait for their Christmas and New Year parties. Brandy and nut-filled cake.

  Enter Mrs and Mr Rajendra Prasad.

  Bhagat Singh was saying: It’s important for us to get to know the nature of our bodies, to recognize big and small ailments and to keep our blood circulation in order.

  Sardar Sahib put forward his plan requesting support for his journal. The journal is ready for publication. As soon as we have a registration number, a title and a publisher, we would like to profit from your experience.

  Bahadur set out the tea. Pieces of cake, savouries and sandesh. Why such a spread?

  Aranya was shocked to see the cake. Bahadur had already cut it.

  Ishan announced to everyone: It’s Aranya’s birthday today.

  Aranya laughed and said: It’s yours too, Ishan.

  Congratulations to both of you.

  Thanks.

  Desai said: Interesting. Two neighbours with the same birthday.

  Does the birth year also match?

  Ishan and Aranya continued to laugh.

  We’re going to keep that a secret.

  But why?

  Bahadur was standing at the kitchen door, looking attentively. A devious smile reached the corner of his eyes.

  Who knows why he was looking so strange.

  Just then Sahni arrived.

  Please excuse me. It took me longer than I thought to return from the slums on the Yamuna. We had to distribute slates and pencils to children there. They were so happy; you should have seen their faces. If all of you help, we could buy discounted blankets for them. If each of you donates one, then …

  Buy them from Khadi Bhandar; they’ll be warm.

  Ishan went inside.

  He gave Sahni an envelope when he returned.

  Your contribution is also there, Aranya. You can give it to me later.

  Thanks.

  Bahadur looked alert. Something like a shadow crossed his eyes and then disappeared.

  Sahni looked at the list in his hands and said: And if we could get magazines from every house, we could have them picked up on Sunday.

  How would it be if we dropped them off at our library?

  The conversation continued over a second round of tea.

  Aranya stayed on after the meeting, and asked for a another cup of tea.

  Bahadur cleared the table quickly. A tray of tea arrived.

  Aranya said: Please bring the cake tray as well.

  No answer. The tap kept running and Bahadur remained silent.

  Aranya looked at the table.

  Still no cake.

  She got up and went to the kitchen. The tray had been washed and the rest of the dishes were being rinsed in the basin.

  She asked slowly: Where have you put the cake?

  Oh that, I’ve thrown it away.

  Bahadur pointed to the garbage can.

  Why?

  It’s no good. Don’t give it to Sahib to eat. Bahadur began to mumble: A demon sits in that corner. Demon. It’s night. The sun will destroy it. I’ll make an offering of rancid butter, tikki, bottle, meat and sweet bread to it on new moon night. Yes, my Narsingh devta won’t let it be eaten.

  Bahadur’s eyes turned a fierce, murky red. A clamour of unknown voices emitting the sound of clashing sickles spread through the room.

  Enough! Ishan handed his empty glass to Bahadur and said in a strict voice: Bahadur, get back into the kitchen.

  Aranya watched the two of them. Then, as if cutting her words with a dagger, she said: A whole cake and the remainder of the cut cake were dumped into the trashcan.

  Ishan hesitated for a bit, as if lost for words. Then he said softly: I am sorry, Aranya. This should not have happened.

  He’s possessed by a devata sometimes—an ailment hill-folks have. You must know about shamans. That’s what it is.

  I know nothing. All I know is that he’s thrown my birthday cake in the garbage bin.

  Aranya, try and understand what I’m saying. He doesn’t know what he’s doing when Narsingh devata descends on him.

  You may believe in such things. Narsingh and Neech Singh—it’s your problem, not mine.

  Bahadur is not in his senses. Call it mental illness if you like.

  Illness or artifice, I really don’t want to know. But this I can tell you, I think it’s wrong to believe and support such darkness and superstition.

  I am leaving. Aranya went out of the door.

  Birthday!

  Cake!

  More!

  Hill shamans.

  What a song! She opened the door to her flat and went into the kitchen. Switching the kettle on, she peeped into the garbage bin. She found her birthday lying there. What a wasted evening! A crazed Bahadur with rolling eyes, looking beyond Aranya’s birthday—that blood-thirsty posture.

  Aranya.

  It was Ishan on the phone.

  I want to come over for a while. May I?

  No, Ishan, I’m feeling upset. I won’t be able to talk to you. We’ll meet some other time.

  I’m coming.

  The bell rang.

  Aranya opened the door. She motioned to him to sit down.

  I’m sorry, Aranya. This shouldn’t have happened.

  I have come to ask your forgiveness.

  There’s no need. Why should you ask fo
r forgiveness? The one who should be asking for it is the one who was crazy enough to do this.

  He’s besides himself, Aranya, when the devata takes possession of him.

  I know it now that I’ve seen it. His hand wanders involuntarily to the garbage bin.

  Ishan spoke courteously: He’s been with me since childhood. He has a weak brain.

  The last time he was ill, he had to have a brain-surgery. When he could move about again, he said: Narsingh is my devata. I can see him. He has saved me.

  Aranya flew into a rage.

  Please don’t tell me all this. I don’t see sparks of light in superstitions, nor the seven primordial flames, which light up in the name of the gods of darkness.

  Listen to what I’m saying, Aranya.

  No, Ishan, did they insert a disc about devatas in his brain when they operated on him? It must have been the work of the surgeon, no?

  What’s happened has happened, Aranya. We can’t reverse the situation. Ghosts and spirits, magic and spells, strike the uneducated, terrorize them.

  Please leave me alone, Ishan. You won’t understand why I am feeling agitated.

  Ishan touched her hand: I know, Aranya. Why can’t we forget the whole affair?

  You’re turning this into something trivial.

  No, Aranya. Bahadur is almost illiterate.

  Maybe. You’re dumping the politics of having to discriminate between right or wrong on me. What makes you do that?

  I beg to be excused. Let’s go over to my place. Dinner’s ready there.

  No, Ishan. I’m not going to your place. I’ll drink some milk before going to bed.

  Silence reigned for a while.

  Aranya asked: Is this the first time this has happened?

  No, it happened last winter too. The neighbours across from me had gone to pay obeisance to the goddess. They sent prasad over when they got back. The bowl was lying on the dining table. When Bahadur came to put the fruit back after dinner, his eyes fell on the bowl. He kept looking at it and then his eyes turned red.

  When I asked him to leave, the strange sound of a sickle came from his throat. Like a clatter. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. His gaze was fixed on the bowl. Suddenly he began to tremble and screamed: Narsingh devata says this is polluted. Don’t touch it! A gurgling sound came his throat, like sound caught in a cave. He looked fearsome.

  I said firmly: Go inside!

  The tap is still running. Go turn it off.

  For a long time, I heard him grumbling in the kitchen. Gradually, he calmed down.

  Ever since his operation, he says that Narsingh has saved him. His family thinks Narsingh takes possession of him.

  You believe that?

  I can’t really say, Aranya. He came to me as a child. Now he has children of his own. People from the hills talk of shamans. I don’t know whether it’s superstition or a sign of fear, linked to some primordial instinct.

  Ishan continued to muse for a while with his gaze resting on Aranya. Then he entreated her: We could go out somewhere and eat if you’d like that.

  Aranya collected her thoughts, and then, as if some easy, spontaneous moment leapt into focus, she said enthusiastically: Let’s go. I’ll get my coat.

  eight

  Every evening a flock of the elderly comes to this small garden, first to walk and then to chat. Thanks to the Delhi Development Authority. People are grateful for the carpet of green grass in this tiny garden, for the beds of flowers, and the creepers. But for this pleasant little patch, they would find themselves gazing at a concrete jungle. Here, at least, a fresh wind blows. Tiny flowers adorn the garden like embroidery. Their presence is delightful. There is pleasure because there is air, there’s sunshine, there’s water. There’s green on the earth and breath throbbing in this body.

  We’re old, no doubt, but we’re not devoid of zest. We step out of the house, we buy all kinds of vegetables and fruit and return to the lap of our families, which we reared with our toil.

  To have been relieved of work and toil and to enjoy domesticity … This is the pleasure of being alive. The pleasure of being with the family is great, in spite of occasional rudeness, disobedience and indifference glimpsed in the eyes of sons and daughters-in-law. There is peace in the heart because everyone is together. Whether the shares go up or fall. That worry has its own upside and downside.

  How refreshing, how valuable this span of time. Sitting on a bench and chatting, it doesn’t feel like the sum total of one’s labour and one’s earnings has slipped out of one’s grasp. That bundle is still attached to one’s person. Quite another matter, that within the family, our rights have shrunk, and ‘yes’ and ‘no’ are now used with caution. In old age, freedom of choice becomes half or even a quarter of what it once was. One has to respect the wishes of sons and daughters-in-law. They should live the way they want to. Why should we go on issuing edicts?

  Ignoring what we’ve said, not meeting our eyes, reminding us of our faults and errors— all this is part of family life … But in our last years, how good it is to hear our grandchildren say Dadu, Dadda, Dadaji.

  nine

  Finished with health, medicine, doctors, diets, yoga, the assembly of senior citizens turns to other topics. Pension, provident funds, price-rise … Aranya rises from the bench nearby and begins to pace up and down another corner of the garden. A gentleman—only his back can be seen—is saying loudly: Times have changed. Living has become so costly that we can only wait for things to take another turn so that we can also live like those who call themselves ours.

  Between her and the gentleman, there is a crowd of solitaries and twosomes, intent on their own needs and self-absorbed but also endowed with the ability to allow the needy to come by some things. Sometimes they cast a look that says, ‘You’ve lived long enough. Vacate this seat now, make place for new people.’

  The senior citizens keep an eye on each other. Who is waiting to go, who sees the signs in his chart and is upset and put out. And who is thinking about changing his will.

  Someone gives the bungalow to one and the flat to the other. Someone takes away rights from the daughter and fills the fist of the son. Someone decides to ditch his love interest and take a new vow to remain faithful to his wife, thus sealing a deal in favour of his family before he’s gone.

  The old order still prevails under the guise of the new. Discriminating between son and daughter; killing the girl child in its womb and looking for ways to preserve the son. The unspoken conflict between son and daughter still rules the roost. The altercations between brothers and sisters still go on. There are new laws, but who puts them into practice? Only the parents can do so.

  And those who opt out of the system apply these rules neither to themselves nor to the others.

  We’ll live as long as we live.

  The narrative and logic of those who break away from the family is quite another matter. If you stand at a distance from the family, the myths of it glare at you from the other side of the fence. The family still is an institution of interrelationships; it thrives on new and old histories.

  How can the individual be absorbed into that? The individual will ripen in a laboratory outside the family, which he’ll have to configure with his own strength.

  Is that an illusion or a belief?

  Gradually, the changes of yesteryear will merge with the new, and the new will also begin to age. The truths of consumerism will increase, and belief in relationships shall decrease.

  ten

  The gate was shut.

  The windows were shut.

  The garage was shut.

  They opened the gate. That made a noise which triggered a harsh, apprehensive, frightened call from somewhere.

  Who’s that?

  Who are you?

  Khuku, look outside!

  Ishan and Aranya walked to the porch.

  The curtain in the bedroom window stirred, and through the grill peeped an old, pale face. Kamini.

  Ishan went and
stood at the window.

  How are you, Kamini? It’s been ages since we met.

  The haggard woman behind the grill continued to stare.

  She called out to Khuku when she recognized Ishan.

  When no reply came, she said to Ishan, Go behind the garage and call Khuku. She has the key. She’ll come and open the door from outside. It’s locked.

  Khuku. Open Memsahib’s door.

  Khuku opened the door with the key dangling from the end of her sari. She asked them to be seated in the drawing room.

  She stopped Kamini, who was coming to join them, at the door: Wait, Memsahib, change your sari first. I’ll take one out.

  No, I haven’t bathed yet. I’ll change later.

  This one is so crumpled, Memsahib.

  Aranya and Ishan sat in the drawing room. Paintings hung from the walls. Memories from home and abroad.

  Kamini who had studied in Benares and Allahabad had been posted in London once. She had been known for her beauty and quick wit.

  She entered the room looking old and bereft. Khuku dusted the armchair. Kamini’s taste from many years ago shimmered through the thin layer of dust that rose from it.

  Khuku, don’t you dust this room everyday?

  Khuku’s smile was covered by her silence.

  Do sit down, Memsahib, everything is all right now.

  Kamini sat down and continued to look around, as if she was in a neighbour’s house, not her own.

  Ishan asked: You’re much better now, aren’t you?

  Kamini looked at Khuku standing next to her, as if waiting for a sign from her.

  Khuku said: Things are much better now, aren’t they, Memsahib?

  Kamini nodded her head: Yes.

  Then as if suddenly irritated, she said: You forgot to give me my medicine this morning.

  No, Memsahib, you have forgotten. I gave it to you.

  If I am saying I haven’t taken it, who could you have given it to? Go get it now.

  At that, Khuku cast a glance at Ishan and Aranya, and left the room with a smirk on her lips.

  Kamini said: Ishan, listen to me. What happens if my signature isn’t the same as the one at the bank?

  Ishan looked this. Where was the alert, vigilant Kamini of old?