The Music of Solitude

by Krishna Sobti

  Do you know what he said to that?

  He said: It’s likely that Dashrath Maharaj did not want to hear anyone out, just like you. He must have colluded with Rani Kaikeyi. That’s why he fell so sick.

  I tell you, Sahib, I was ready to beat that boy. It was difficult to hold myself back. I thought to myself, he must be repeating what he hears bhangi-chamars say. All of this is the roguery of the low-castes, Sahib.

  I tried to explain to him: Son, why would you want to be called a born and bred dhobi by talking like this? It isn’t as if our people haven’t already caused pain to Sita Maiyya before this. It was we washermen who slandered her and had her sent through the ordeal of agnipariksha. Aranya was perplexed.

  Ramkhelaven said: It isn’t as if the upper castes haven’t spread their share of hate. They call themselves cultured and Dalits and the Scheduled Castes uncouth, uncultivated and inferior. As for reservations, sometimes it’s the Manuvadis who get upset and sometimes the Dalits and poorer classes. It’s the profession of politicians. Who knows how long they’ll go on playing their politics just so that it goes on? Brahmin with Brahmin, Baniya with Baniya, Thakur with Thakur, Yadav with Yadav—how many communities are you going to set up under one Constitution, Sahib? Why doesn’t Parliament enforce the Constitution strictly? The high castes abuse girls of the lower and backward castes and stroll around freely, stroking their mustaches. This is absolute injustice, Sahib. It’s a crime. No act becomes good just because it gives pleasure to you and me. It’s desirable only if it gives pleasure to many. Doesn’t democracy mean participation of the majority? And the police? If they are high-born, they’ll just stand and watch. They’ll use the law to bury all evidence of crime. The daughters of the weak will continue to weep and beat their breasts.

  The curtains had been hung up. If the light and wind coming in through the doors and windows are obstructed, let it be so; curtains protect us from dust and pollution.

  The nation is our home.

  May curtains continue to flutter in the wind.

  May the poor and unlettered castes continue to be oppressed.

  May daughters and daughters-in-law continue to be raped.

  Nations are meant for classes, pure and virtuous.

  That’s what Ramkhelavan had been trying to say.

  Aranya touched the cloth bag of lentils, turned it around, felt it with her hand and hung it above the sink again. It’ll take a couple more days to sprout.

  Grains and seeds can sprout, and continue to sprout, but not we ancients. The old and the ancient dry out slowly. Like us. We leap over decade after decade, wanting more and more from life. The greening seasons make fresh blood flow, even in old shells. They are absorbed into the body.

  Astonishing all the same, the fragrance of fresh earth on the shutters of the mind.

  Ignore it all, Aranya, forget it. Don’t remember dates. Just go on living.

  And why is that bad? Isn’t there still that responsiveness which flutters into being when clothes brush against your body? It sparkles every now and then, and when it does so, dark valleys bask in the sun. The winds swing in its primeval song. And the body fills with unspoken, incomprehensible words. Is all of this an illusion? If that were so, why would the procedures of life and death, efforts to relieve oneself of illness, life insurance, be contrived?

  Age doesn’t allow itself to be deceived. It contains the essence of all that has been lived.

  The municipal birth certificate has to be invalidated, the certificate of departure issued. But it is the others, not we, who have to be prepared to carry out these tasks.

  The journey between these certificates slides on with help from memory and desire. Why be unresponsive if we encounter someone on the way?

  She peered out from behind the glass on the balcony. The grey of concrete, and above it, the blue sky. The sky does not seem as distant as a while ago. Astonishing and marvellous, nonetheless. Each day is deep and pleasurable, just as each decade. Only that which is close to life and living is good.

  How comfortable this house has been. But all that lies ahead is uncertain. I’ve been looking at barsatis, houses, rooms at the back, and airy flats without lifts. Two large rooms but a useless bath and toilet. If the house is all right, the stairs are dangerous. Open, airy house, but the neighbourhood unknown. A heroic saga, this search for a house.

  The morning had been full of promises, but it faded and sank into evening.

  Back after a long afternoon away from home, Aranya found that the next move was absolutely unclear. She had no clue where to set up a home after uprooting herself from here.

  Just as she was about to finalize a deal after having seen a flat, the elderly man standing next to the agent had asked: Who’ll be taking responsibility for you?

  Responsibility for me? What do you mean?

  Will you be living here alone or will someone else live with you?

  I’ll be staying alone, and I am in charge of myself.

  What is the year of your birth?

  Why do you ask?

  Because we need to ask.

  Why would we want to be involved in any trouble after your passing?

  Aranya glared at him. Then she said, coldly: I don’t want this flat. Give it to a tenant who doesn’t plan to die.

  The flat she had seen the other day was not bad. Only the woodwork awaited completion.

  The agent asked for lease by the firm.

  She agreed. Yes, I’ll be able to give the lease.

  Please let us know the name of your firm.

  My publisher.

  Are you a writer? Do you write books? If that’s the case, how will you be able to pay your rent?

  Aranya climbed down the steps without giving any answer.

  The agent followed her: I’ll persuade the owner of the flat. It’s his daughter’s flat. She lives in Canada. You’ll need to give an advance of three months’ rent, three months’ security and three months’ advance for water and electricity. Any changes in the house will be at your expense, but that will be deducted from your rent over time.

  Thank you so much, Dalal Sahib, please look for another tenant. I don’t want your flat.

  She called Vinita when she came back home. Vini, your transfer isn’t about to happen, is it?

  At least not for another year. Why, what’s up?

  May I keep my stuff at your place and stay in the basement?

  Come any time. There’s a room with an attached bath upstairs that I can give you. There’s no need to think further.

  How can I thank you, Vinita. You’ve saved me from a lot of anxiety.

  Just let me know in advance when you’d like to come over. Get the truck to transport your things late in the evening. Entry in this area is allowed only after six.

  It’s not possible to re-enter the institution of family once you’ve crossed its threshold. And why should you do it? If you allow no one else to interfere in your routine and comfort, why should you impose yourself on anyone? Why should you interfere in someone else’s life? Why intrude?

  Once again, loosen the soil of the same field, weed it, and sow it. What’s wrong with that? Live by the strength of your own sweat.

  The flat’s gone, now that it’s gone. Sold, just as it had been bought. The face of the old Wing Commander, the previous owner, peeped in through the balcony window and disappeared. He had his own reason for selling it, after his son turned up. His arrival may have been sudden, but the Wing Commander couldn’t ignore it.

  She looked uneasily at her bedroom. She had done nothing to make it more comfortable all the while it had been hers. The same old divan, table, cupboard with shoes peeping out from under it. It’s time to collect them all. For how many years have you walked in them? Some were comfortable, others hurt the feet. Some were loose, the soles of others were worn. Some lacked polish. No, Aranya, this is not true. You must have one pair at least that is neither tight, nor loose—that allows you to walk with your head held high.

  Kn
eeling on the floor, she collected her shoes and put them in a carton. As she took the box with the shoe polish and brush, old days swam before her eyes. Summer vacations. We siblings used to polish and shine our shoes every Sunday.

  Such a long passage of time. Where did it go? It went in the buying of shoes.

  She stroked her shoes, turned them around and asked: What direction will we take, you and I? Do you see an end to this journey?

  Yes, where we all need to go one day.

  There.

  fifteen

  Aranya took off her spectacles and covered her eyes with her palms. She craved for tea as the day’s exhaustion spread to her hands and feet.

  Get up, do something. You’ll feel better if you do something. These are normal, everyday headaches. Don’t let them get to you, keep them at bay. These are just ways to keep yourself alive, not the sorrows of romance.

  How come you feel stuck in this, Aranya? It’s asking to be ordered, not analyzed.

  As she stirred the sugar in her tea, Aranya laughed to herself. These wrangles and entanglements are a thing apart from self-knowledge and epistemology.

  What are they, then?

  In truth, having a home provides the base for mental development and civic metaphysics. Living on the pavement or in night shelters, you can do nothing but carry baskets and pick pockets. The comfort of home is the basis of civic life.

  The morning after an exhausting day of running around. Outside, the sun is shining. The curtains have been taken down from doors and windows. The bedding looks like it belongs to an inn. The agent mowed down her lush flower bed.

  The place seems alien. The carpets have been rolled and propped up against the wall. There is a row of suitcases standing along the almirah. Cartons and wooden crates peep out of the study. On the wall opposite, hangs this year’s calendar. When the next occupants have the place cleaned, it’ll become part of a heap of rubbish.

  How mysterious the patch of sunlight coming in through the window has always seemed. It couldn’t be touched, but it had touched her body and warmed it over the years. It will fade forever for me, once I leave this house.

  There’s no dearth of warm patches of sunlight, Aranya. They’ll come and say hello to you from some other window or door of some other house.

  But when and where will that next house be found?

  She went to the bathroom and filled a basin with warm water, placed it in the patch of sunlight filtering through the glass and dipped her feet in it. The faces of real estate agents who had been showing her around floated before her eyes. May be I can get into this profession, too? I’ll need a hungry-eyed office, a telephone number, an astrologer, a pandittantric, a wrestler …

  Aranya wiped her feet, and lifted the diary lying near her bed. There’s still an un-ticked house and agent on her list. If for some reason she can’t get Vinita’s room, she’ll need to look for a paying guest accomodation.

  The telephone rang. It kept ringing, then fell silent.

  It must be the agent, eager to heap on her the dues of the buyer.

  The phone rang again.

  Aranya continued to sip her tea comfortably.

  I haven’t come back yet; let it ring.

  In the silence that followed, it suddenly struck her that it could be Ishan.

  No, it could also be someone calling a wrong number.

  If I always dial Ishan’s number correctly, why should he have not called the right number?

  This is not just a matter between you and Ishan. These are the subtleties of electronic exchange.

  Aranya actually saw Ishan leaning over to phone.

  She stood up. Quickly changed her clothes. Put on a pullover. Draped a shawl around her shoulders. Shut the doors and windows. Switched off everything in the room and stood waiting for the lift. She went down, crossed the block, and stood waiting for the next lift.

  The comfort of living so close to one another. Freedom from taxis, autorickshaws, buses and the push and pull of things. Two blocks and the same kind of flat. Necessary for the story of any friendship, the ease of this geographical proximity. Or else there’ll be the ticking of a taxi metre to quicken the heart beat. Why not take the stairs up?

  I’ll get out of breath. Don’t forget, you’ve slowed down. You could get through this century; you could even get through the next, but you’ll have slowed down. No matter. We’ll be born again, there’s no dearth of births. The likes of us are not likely to be freed from the cycle of rebirths. We’ll have to come back in order to improve our chances the next time around. The door of the lift opened and there stood Ishan.

  Are you going somewhere?

  No. I knew that you were coming, so I came to fetch you.

  Aranya was surprised.

  Perhaps this is a sign of something.

  Ishan opened the door.

  Aranya watched a shadow flit in the silence inside her.

  She asked herself quietly: Someone perching on your bough?

  Ishan stood, as if looking beyond the layers of her interior.

  And even there, is there anything beyond the self?

  Aranya understood some things, other things not.

  The reality of someone, can we really comprehend it? How and what we focus on through the aperture of a camera must mean something.

  Come, Aranya. Ishan moved towards the dining table.

  I steamed vegetables with some cereal this afternoon, with a tiny teaspoonful of ghee. It turned out so well that I saved some for you.

  If you feel like eating, I can bring it out.

  I’ll eat it with pleasure. How did you guess that I didn’t have the energy to cook today?

  Did you eat when you came back?

  An omlette with tea.

  It’s not good to take such shortcuts, Aranya. And it’s not good to eat too many eggs.

  I don’t eat them more than a couple of times a week. I do observe a reasonable number of dietary rules prescribed by the doctor.

  More important than all else is eating on time. What did you do today; you weren’t at home?

  There were anxiety, doubt, concern on Ishan’s face.

  She said naughtily: I wanted to trouble you a bit. But my plans dissolved when I saw you standing outside the lift. Just imagine, how you would feel if you were to find me opening

  your door without ringing the bell?

  How would that happen?

  Well, figure it out! There’s no way to come inside. And the

  windows are such that you can’t but commit suicide if you step out of them. There are some people, Aranaya, who kill themselves in bits and pieces. Aranya got ready to shoot back a reply, but changed her mind. There hasn’t been enough time to get ready for battle. What he is saying is neither true nor untrue. Isn’t that true? Isn’t it time to come back to the issue at hand?

  Are true and untrue so far apart, Ishan? Why not borrow something from the values of our times? So that what is true no longer appears true, and what is untrue no longer untrue?

  I’m asking about something else, Aranya.

  She laughed.

  Why so earnest, Ishan? Can’t we imagine something romantic, thrilling? Particularly when the key to your guestroom is lying with a neighbour like me?

  Could you be doing something just for the thrill of it, something you shouldn’t be doing?

  I may have been a dimwit years ago. But now there are pressures to take decisions which override everything.

  Is it necessary to sell your flat?

  Not ‘is’, ‘was’. It’s already been sold.

  You didn’t consider discussing it with me. As a friend, I had at least the right to know about it.

  I had a lot on my mind.

  I’ve heard about all that in the housing society meetings. We could have found a solution all the same. You were set on having your way. Your virtues and temperament are your weapons, Aranya. But it’s always wrong to rush into action without wise forethought.

  There was no rushing, Ishan.
Nothing unexpected happened. All that happened was that the flat was sold and I didn’t get very much for it. The agent kept manipulating the negotiations for one reason or another.

  The vanity of knowing better.

  There’s no need to quarrel about this, Ishan.

  Silence reigned for a while.

  The truth is that you’re feeling scrutinized, thought Aranya. As if a familiar truth is being translated again. Sometimes the translation is so on the mark, it seems to be expressing your own thoughts, not someone else’s. And sometimes, it seems so far away from your inner being, it makes your blood boil just to listen to it. There was intimacy and alienation at once in the words spoken. You’ve barely overcome your hurt before you’ve wounded someone else.

  When I look around me, I feel it was right to have sold the flat. The papers were not in order; maintenance costs had become rather steep. And then there was its loan.

  But there could still have been some discussion, consultation.

  I felt that it was my headache alone. Perhaps I couldn’t talk about it for that reason.

  Ishan kept looking at the wall.

  Aranya jumped up to leave: I’m off. I had come to get my mind off this for a while, but there seems to be no end to interrogation even here. Forgive me, Ishan, I feel besieged by housing agents.

  Ishan leaned over and pressed her shoulders so she could sit down again.

  Rest here today, Aranya. If you don’t stay, I’ll have to go with you.

  And why, pray? It’s not such a tragedy to have sold the house that I need someone at my side for sympathy and reassurance. Do I look so consumed by self-pity, Ishan?

  No, Aranya. I am not being able to take this as lightly as you. I heard all that the agent did. I don’t want you to be worrying about it all the time. Not tonight, at least.

  Let’s forget about the flat and talk about something else.

  I am thinking of a parakeet from my childhood, Aranya. My mother had a pet parakeet. She had taught him to say: Rise and study, kid.

  The moment the parakeet saw me in the courtyard, it would repeat: Rise and study, kid. I would give up playing and open my school bag. Mother would be so pleased. She would glance at me every now and then, and place a bowl of raisins, crackers, walnuts near me. I think of her whenever I see walnuts and raisins. She would be very happy when I did well in exams. She would make kheer full of nuts for me.