The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  Then there is the shortage of space. The children aren’t entirely in the wrong. In flats with just two or three bedrooms, two generations have to somehow make do with each other.

  There are discussions about sons and daughters. About those who live in America, England, Australia, Dubai, about how they need the maternal and paternal grandmothers to take care of their small children, about how they send air-tickets from abroad, and about the meeting of the young and old in unusual locations. They also talk about the senior citizens who have no family at all in the vicinity. They are few in number, they have fewer responsibilities.

  There is a clear awareness of caste and class in this assemblage of disparate origins. Within a particular class, there are some people who follow and some who lead. Those who fall in between have their own preoccupations and daily routines. There’s no one to oppose them in any way. They can live as they please, as long as they are alive.

  This cluster of senior citizens keeps a silent watch on each other.

  Who’s skipping the daily walk.

  Who’s being seen ever so often at the doctor’s.

  Who is in deep thought at sunset.

  Who’s making mental changes in his last will.

  Who is turning over the flat to the daughter.

  Who is depriving another of it.

  Who is ignoring intimate relationships for fear of embarrassing the family.

  Who is sealing the claims of the family as his last obligation.

  Who is donating how much to which charities.

  There is a much larger number of solitaries than before. They have their own difficulties and privileges. Separated from families, they lead a disciplined life, in accordance to their financial constraints. Protecting themselves from the myriad family anxieties, saving the strength collected, drop by drop, for eventual illness, unexpected trouble, they remain engrossed in their own world, doing some good work for the very young and the very old from time to time.

  The solitaries have their own lifestyle. They engage in self-construction and preservation.

  Not for them, the noise and tumult, the highs and lows, the tensions of the family. Still, when from the shadows of the past, a memory is savoured of the father’s feet, the mother’s hands, brotherly or sisterly affection, there wells up a longing for the warmth of the mother, the love ripened in the discipline of the father.

  twelve

  In a flat nearby, in the last few days, the indecorous became decorous.

  Prabhu Dayal, a widower, was alienated in his own house by his three sons. His miserly, secretive persona began to irk his sons. They began to track his routine. At all times, there was a key dangling from a thread round his neck, and a lock on his room whenever he left it. The sons and daughters-in-law were upset. Who knows what all dear father is hiding from us. Rumours were doing the rounds that he was involved in a big project and had been often seen in Meerut.

  Prabhu Dayal was stunned one morning to see his sons waiting for him when he entered his room after his bath and recitation of Hanuman Chalisa.

  He cast a silent glance at them, and taking the clothes from his bed, dressed himself. Maintaining his fatherly demeanour, he asked: How come so early this morning?

  The eldest son stared into his father’s old eyes with his new business-minded ones and said smoothly: Babuji, you’ll need to withdraw money from your account. If we don’t pay up today, we’ll be locked out of both the factory and the shop.

  Why did you let it come to this? Why didn’t you tell me earlier?

  All this later, Babuji. We tried till late last night, but we couldn’t raise funds.

  The fury on Prabhu Dayal’s brow pierced right through his sons.

  The youngest, his favourite, avoided meeting his father’s gaze, which looked to him for assistance.

  The second son spoke: There is no time to dilly-dally. You’ll have to do the needful …

  Me, what do I need to do? The work is yours, so you’ll have to take care of this.

  The eldest barked at the second one: Take hold of his key.

  Before Prabhu Dayal could touch it, the second son had snapped the key dangling from the thread around his neck. What greater contempt could they have shown their father?

  Open!

  To save his dignity, Prabhu Dayal said: Here, give it to me. Why don’t you ask Raghuvar, your father-in-law?

  He’s also your in-law, Babuji. He’s the one who’s told us what you’re up to.

  How dare you talk like this?

  It’s the truth, Babuji. You’re tied to a house in Meerut. Who is that woman?

  Shut your mouth!

  That won’t work, Babuji. We’ll need to find marriage alliances for our own children soon.

  Prabhu Dayal screamed: Enough of this jabber now!

  The sons clambered down, having done with Babuji.

  Prabhu Dayal shut the safe. He slid the key underneath his pillow and was about to lie down when the youngest son entered the room again and said: I forgot my watch here … I’ve taken this out from Barey Bhaiya’s file. Just read it. I’ll put it back on his table afterwards. I’ll have it coming, otherwise.

  Prabhu Dayal lifted the bottle of Califos from his bedside, took a dose and began to read the document. He kept turning it around and looking at it. On the letterhead was the address of a detective agency.

  He caught his head in his hands. This ruse is Raghuvar Dayal’s. Prabhu Dayal began to feel weak. It felt as if they had sucked all the blood out of him. His daughter-in-law peeped in a couple of times. There was contempt in her eyes, as if she were saying: A home outside the home. At this age? Another woman!

  When Prabhu Dayal got up to go to the bathroom, he gazed at himself in the mirror. Do I look as old as the boys consider me to be? Good-for-nothing ungrateful wretches, engrossed in their own families and weekends. Don’t I know them? I’m their father, after all.

  A week later, Prabhu Dayal was sighted once more in Meerut. On high alert now, he looked around to see if he was being followed. He sauntered, as if out on some errand. He bought a sari and a box of sweets from Begum Bridge.

  When he ate the light phulkis Kalavati had made for him that evening, he felt happiness wash over him. Not for a moment did he feel that she was another woman. How jealous the boys feel that she is there for me. What could the boys have done if I had married her.

  He informed Lalaji that he would be leaving this rented house soon and get his own house by next month.

  A thunderbolt has struck this business family.

  Funerary white sheets have spread on red and black-bordered durries. Friends, relatives, acquaintances are all participating. Whispers rise from the white sheets. The world is full of enticements, and Lala Prabhu Dayal was ensnared in them.

  After the death of his wife, Kalavati, the daughter of his maternal uncle, enlivened his life like a flowering vine. Attached to her were her brothers and nephews. Gossipmongers said that the factory in Meerut was destined for them. Many secrets will come to light when the police unravel this conspiracy.

  Prabhu Dayal’s car was halted on his way back from Dehradun, Saharanpur and Meerut. Forty-eight hours later, a report was registered with the police. Prabhu Dayal’s car was found parked in the garage and the driver was on truck duty for the factory. In the last few months, Prabhu Dayal had become suspicious of his driver. He had begun to come and go by train or taxi.

  The postmortem disclosed that he had been strangled to death. His corpse was found beneath a tamarind tree, a few kilometres from Hindon. The family plunged into mourning when they got the news. What had to be came to be. Golden biscuits and another woman!

  With grief-stricken faces, the sons listened to Pandit-ji’s discourse: Lalaji was so enterprising. Active to his last day. He fulfilled all his family obligations like a good householder. For his three sons, he set up three factories, then became engrossed in his grandchildren after the passing of his wife. But who can erase what fate has destined for one?
r />   The family is making undisclosed donations in his hallowed memory.

  Pandit-ji’s discourse is on.

  Release by death is also a re-release.

  After all, it’s also important to sift and trim the vast universe the Supreme Being keeps in rotation.

  As a good karma yogi, Lalaji left for his heavenly abode only after he had brought his estate in order and seen to his family’s comfort and prosperity. It is with peaceful hearts that we offer him tribute, vowing to keep his good deeds alive in this world by continuing to uphold the dharma of mankind.

  As per the instructions from his family, Pandit-ji is winding up his discourse, avoiding all topics which can cast suspicion on anyone:

  Ladies and gentlemen, please to remember that every now and then, even the gods are filled with desire and hope as they pray—O Lord, in your supreme grace, make it possible for us, on whatever occasion you find appropriate, to be born in the world of mortals. The gods in their heavenly abode have become rather tedious for us now. You have caused all treasure to flow to the mortal world. Are you now relegating us to the category of the scheduled caste? Spare us that fate, Lord. Will we have to fast outside your parliament? Lord, you may well be trying to keep these truths and facts well hidden, but meanwhile, please send us instantly into the world of mortals.

  In this hour of need, we may well be able to contribute our bit to the welfare of mankind.

  thirteen

  Hello, Aranya!

  Hello, Ishan!

  How was your trip?

  I had a comfortable journey. The train was a bit late, but I reached all right.

  How was it there?

  Good. People were pleased.

  Could you find some time tomorrow? Around four?

  Why not?

  I am going to surprise you.

  Aranya laughed.

  How am I supposed to wait till tomorrow?

  I’ll come by this evening for a bit, if it’s fine by you.

  Ishan looked happy when he came over.

  I want to show you something.

  Ishan took two photos out of an envelope.

  These are my daughters. This is Aparajita. This one is Shrishta.

  Wow!

  Aren’t you surprised ?

  No, Ishan.

  Won’t you ask where these daughters were until today? I know it’s easy to come by daughters, if they have not been destroyed in the womb. Look at the letter they have sent me.

  Dear and respected Pita-ji,

  Greetings from both of us. Children from our school are coming to Delhi for Republic Day. Didi has said that we’ll be able to meet you. We received the photo you sent. We were very happy to get it. We look at it every day when we’re done with our homework. My sister and I want to buy shoes in Delhi. Didi says you’ll help us buy shoes we like, and a chocolate each.

  With love,

  Aparajita and Shrista

  It feels good to think that these girls are mine. These projects that integrate children into families work very well. You can contribute a bit to the education of these children.

  Ishan, I had also wanted to be part of some such project, but gave up the idea when I thought of the headache involved in bringing up children. There is a programme where you can call the children over to your house for their vacations. It’s enough if they can stay at your place just for the summer break.

  Can you suggest things I could get for the children? I have to meet them tomorrow.

  I am to be their father for the next two years. You may want to take this as a suggestion, Aranya. You could also become the guardian of daughters from the orphanage for the next three to five years. All you have to do is send a cheque to the

  institution.

  Do you expect to see any change in me if I do that?

  Ishan grinned. Not one bit. That’s not what I expect. It’s just one’s social duty.

  I’ll think about it tonight and let you know.

  Aranya felt that Ishan had left the children there, in her house, when he took his leave of her.

  She phoned him. We’ll have to give the girls something to eat.

  How about making semolina laddus for them?

  Could you make them?

  Why not?

  Aranya laid out semolina, ghee, sugar, almonds, raisins, browned them on low heat and made laddus.

  Aparajita was eight years old and Shrista six.

  Frocks, socks and shoes. Ribbons. Things were being readied for the children.

  She cut out pictures from calendars, magazines and pasted them on old invitation cards. Then she took out a ream of coloured paper and put them in two envelopes.

  Instantly, the house assumed a different feeling.

  She searched out old stamps and coins from many countries, and put them in two little boxes.

  Charming amusements, these. Where on earth did these two girls come from? They had only just set foot in Delhi and already filled up the house. As if childhood was keeping the house astir.

  Ribbons of varied hues, shoes, socks, books, pencils, erasers—their arrival kept not only two houses abuzz but also two hearts.

  Let’s see how we, and the two daughters, welcome the morrow. Ishan had left behind some books and some papers

  for Aranya.

  She took them off the table to store somewhere.

  There was a time when one found interesting papers in books. Romantic, intoxicating days … Where did they go?

  She laughed. They must be crouching in some nook.

  I am getting excited. Youthful days. Fresh seasons. Where had they flown?

  Should I go and look at myself in that mirror? No, no …

  That’s enough for today.

  She unfolded a sheet of paper.

  Shunyata’s letter unfolded in her hands.

  She was on alert instantly.

  fourteen

  One way or the other, we recognize the signs of our times.

  ‘Can you hear the clamour of the seas? The deep bellowing of the wind? The roaring silence of Shunya, emptiness, that is what they are. The seas and the firmament are the two vistas of life. Life and light. The life-force of the firmament and the radiance of light. The limitless reach of water, wave for wave, playing on Earth. And yet, go closer to it and the innermost reach fills up with emptiness.

  Is disappearing into the limitless, into Shunyata, the destiny of mankind? ‘Just as the river becomes still and pure when it reaches the sea, so the water becomes celestial in the arc of clouds.

  ‘The golden dawn of the Himalayas, when will I be able to see it? Walking along the shore of the sea, when will I near the peaks of the Himalayas?’

  Shunyata’s lines were pulling Aranya to those icy peaks where the boundless treasures of the Himalayas lie. As if a soft breeze were blowing through her mind and body. As if her eyes could see the dazzling white peaks.

  Aranya had just come back from shopping when the washerman brought back the laundry. Seeing the heavy curtains washed clean made her feel that some burden had been lightened. The curtains’ cotton lining saved them from dust and grime, but made them so heavy that it was difficult to hang them up on one’s own. Made of small brainwaves and failures, this, our middle-class. The curtains have changed over the last twenty years courtesy of careful washing or dry cleaning. The weave that has frayed in places has been darned; it will hide in the folds of the curtains.

  She asked Ramkhelavan Dhobi: Bhaiyya-ji, I won’t be able to hang up the curtains myself. It’ll take you some time to hang them, but I’ll take care of that.

  Ramkhelavan was reassured.

  Ramkhelavan fetched a ladder from the balcony and began attaching the hooks to the curtains.

  The kids are going to school, aren’t they?

  Yes, Sahib, I have a B.Sc. myself. How could I let the children go without education? We are Kabirpanthis, Sahib. We understand the importance of education. Though I still follow my ancestral profession, my children won’t be doing this.

/>   How is the little daughter doing?

  She is very quick, Sahib. She sits with her brothers and says: I also want to read this.

  That’s a good thing.

  The eldest son is in class ten, Sahib. Goodness, what kind of boys he hangs out with nowadays; he says the strangest things. He’s good at his studies. He says he wants to be an engineer.

  In that case, you should have no complaints.

  He was asking me the other day: Papa, why did Dashrath Maharaj banish Ram to the forests?

  I explained to him: Maharaj Dashrath had given his word to Rani Kaikeyi, son. When Rani Kaikeyi asked him to fulfill his promise, Maharaj Dashrath could not refuse. He was a Kshatriya after all. It was in this context that Tulsidas-ji wrote the lines—This has always been the way of the Raghu clan; keeping your word even if it costs your life.

  To which my son said: What are you saying, Papa. Did Ram-ji get no education?

  He got it straight from a guru.

  Why couldn’t he tell Kaikeyi and Dashrath that what they were doing was not right?

  I didn’t like my son saying this, Sahib. So I scolded him: What nonsense are you talking.

  What I’m saying is right, Papa. Ramchandra-ji was the eldest prince of Ayodhya. He had already married Sita maiyya. His father banished him to the forest. If Mummy were to ask you to do something so lame, would you agree to do it? Were there no ministers in Maharaj Dashrath’s court to advise him against this? Should you banish someone destined to accede to the throne to the forest, just because of something a stepmother said?

  Look here, Munna, focus your attention on your studies. I don’t like the way you argue.

  Ramchandra-ji was older than his brothers, Papa. Why didn’t Maharaj keep him back? He could have explained things to Rani Kaikeyi. Did they have no people and panchayat in those days? They must have had some laws and customs in the royal family, Papa … ?

  Keep your mouth shut, Munna. You’re finding fault with someone who is known as Purushottam Ram, the most superior of all men.

  I’m speaking of Dashrath Maharaj, Papa.

  Sahib, at that I lost my temper. I shouted at him. Shut your mouth. I won’t hear another word.