‘I’d better not go. The stuffy atmosphere of the cinema will make me sick and your brother will get cross with me. You two go with him.’
Beena had a twinge of conscience. Studies were considered sacred enough to excuse going to the temple. But in her home the cinema was still associated vaguely with sin. The only time the family went to the pictures was to see the life of some saint or other or some story with a religious theme. Regular cinema goers were contemptuously described as tamasha-lovers. If her mother learnt that she had spent the afternoon at a cinema instead of the temple, she would use it as an excuse to stop her coming to Sita’s house. ‘No, I really could not. I haven’t asked my mother,’ said Beena quickly.
‘She would not object if you came with us. I am sure she would not,’ assured Sita.
‘And yours sincerely is not going to invite you every day,’ added Madan in his half-baked stage manner as he came in. ‘Besides we won’t tell anyone. We will go in when the show has started and you can cover your face during the intermission.’ He drew his hand across his face to imitate a woman drawing her veil.
‘It’s not as bad as that,’ answered Beena laughing. ‘If I had asked first, it would have been better.’ Before she could check herself in her imaginary flight to freedom she heard herself say: ‘Of course I’ll go with you but we must work first.’
During the time that Beena went over her notes and textbooks in Sita’s room she was bothered by what she would say when she got back. If she said nothing and her parents found out it would take many months to re-establish her credit. Perhaps she could mention it casually as something she had been compelled to do. She was seventeen and wasn’t going to be bullied by her illiterate mother any more. Pictures could be instructive; maybe this one would have a religious theme and she could persuade her mother to see it too. By the time they left the house, her mind was a muddle of fear and rebellion.
A tonga was sent for the two girls. They took their seats in the rear while Madan rode on his bicycle behind them. He wore a new silk shirt with short sleeves and carried his white flannel blazer on his shoulder; the gold crest and rows of initials glittered in the sun. He kept up a loud conversation with the girls, in between nodding and waving to the many acquaintances he met on the road.
The cinema was crowded. Peasants who had turned up for the Baisakhi festival from neighbouring villages were milling round the cheaper ticket-booths and around the stalls selling soft drinks. The tonga made its way through the crowd and drove up to the porch. Two cinema assistants rushed to take Madan’s bicycle. He was a regular visitor and had admirers all over the city. Besides, he was the son of a magistrate; and magistrates, policemen, their friends and families, had privileges which go with power.
The manager of the cinema came out to welcome them and show them to their seats. Madan took out his wallet and pulled out a ten-rupee note. The manager caught his hand and pressed the note and wallet back into Madan’s pocket. ‘No question of money,’ he protested. ‘It’s on the house.’ Madan whispered in his ear that the other girl was Buta Singh’s daughter. The manager turned to Beena with an obsequious smile. ‘How is your revered father?’ he asked, rubbing his hands. Beena replied politely that he was well. ‘So glad to hear it. We pray to God he should always remain well. Do convey my respects to him. And any time any of your family want to come to the cinema, please ring me up. It will be an honour for us — a great honour.’ Beena promised to convey the information to her father.
The party was conducted to a box reserved for VIPs and pressed to take something to eat or drink. The manager withdrew after extracting a promise that his hospitality would be accepted during the intermission.
Madan took his seat between the two girls. He lit a cigarette and the box was soon full of cigarette smoke and the smell of eau de cologne with which he had daubed himself.
The lights were switched off and the cries of hawkers of betel leaves, sweetmeats, and sherbets, and the roar of hundreds of voices died down. First came a series of coloured slides advertising soaps, hair oils, and films that were to follow. The literate members of the audience read their names loudly in chorus. Then the picture started and the few recalcitrant talkers were silenced by abuses loudly hurled across the hall.
Madan stubbed his cigarette on the floor and lit another one. In the light of the flame he saw his sister completely absorbed in the film. He held his cigarette in his left hand and put his right lightly on the arm of Beena’s chair.
Beena’s mind was still uneasy about the consequences of the escapade. She tried to drive away unpleasant thoughts by concentrating on the film and enjoying the feeling of being with Sita and her brother. He looked so dashingly handsome in his silk shirt, flannels, and sports blazer; he smoked with such compelling non-chalance and exuded that heavenly, cool, and clean fragrance of good eau de cologne.
Madan’s hand slipped down the arm of the chair and came into contact with Beena’s elbow. For a moment she held her breath. He seemed to be engrossed in the film and could not have realized how far his hand had travelled. She did not remove her elbow lest the gesture offend him. It was pleasant to have him so close. His hand stayed where it was till the lights came on for the intermission. He casually smoothed his hair and began discussing the film with his sister.
The manager reappeared followed by a relay of bearers carrying trays of soda pop, ice-cream, and fried potatoes. He started talking to Sita. Madan turned to Beena. ‘You know, your brother and I have become great friends. For so many years we have been in the same University and it is only now we have got to know each other. He is the most popular man in the students’ circles.’
‘More popular than you, Bhraji? I don’t believe it. We have all seen you play cricket; so has everyone in the world, my God!’
‘Cricket is nothing,’ said Madan with disdain. ‘Our brother, Sher, will go far. He is almost certain to be elected President of the Students’ Union. He is the best candidate and I am getting all my friends to vote for him.’
‘Your name alone should win him the election. Everyone in the city knows you. We were at the match when you scored your century against the English eleven. I . . . everyone . . . was so proud of you. Sixer after sixer. Oh, it was wonderful!’
‘It is nothing. You could be a good cricketer if you tried. You have an athletic figure.’
Beena blushed. That was the first time anyone had paid her a compliment, and it was Madan, the Madan. ‘Oh Bhraji, I am no good. I couldn’t see the cricket ball coming towards me at that speed.’
‘Yes you could. With those eyes of yours you could hit anything for six,’ said Madan, bending close to her to avoid the manager or his sister overhearing.
‘Hai Bhraji, you are really terrible. Making fun of a girl like me!’
The conversation was interrupted by the bearers coming to collect empty glasses and plates. The manager was still rinsing his hands with invisible soap. He took his leave promising to appear again at the end of the show.
As soon as the lights went out, Madan put his hand on the arm of Beena’s chair. This time she knew it was not an accident. She could hardly believe that anyone, let alone Madan, would want to make a pass at a plain and simple girl like her. It was unbelievably flattering. But he was married and it was obviously wrong. Beena had no doubt about Madan’s intentions as his fingers closed round her elbow. Would he get angry if she withdrew? What would Sita say if she saw? Madan began to caress her arm. Beena did not move. Then his hand brushed against her breast. She shrank away into the farther corner of her chair. Madan calmly lit another cigarette and took no further notice of her.
When they came out of the cinema, the road as far as one could see was a jostling mass of peasants, tongas, bicycles, and hawkers. Around the ticket-booths men were clustered like bees on a hive. Streams of weary, blinking people came out from the many exits; new-comers stood around impatiently for their turn to go in.
A tonga was waiting for them in the porch and a cinema attendan
t had Madan’s bicycle ready. The manager was there bowing, smiling, and still rubbing his hands. He bade them farewell after many reminders that they were to consider the cinema as their own. They went through the crowd with the tonga-driver shouting at the pedestrians loitering on the road. Madan cycled slowly behind. Whenever the tonga stopped, he put his foot on the ground and then cycled on with a slight push. Throughout the journey he did not talk to nor even look up at Beena.
Beena was dropped home first. She said a hurried ‘Namaste’ and disappeared inside the house. Fortunately for her only Champak was in and she seemed too taken up with the radio programme to bother. Beena went to her room and bolted it from the inside. She flung herself on her bed and lay there in the heat. When it got dark she switched on her table lamp and continued lying on her bed staring blankly at the ceiling.
There is no wine in the world as heady as applause; and it has the same effect. It temporarily subdues anxiety and restores confidence.
Even before Sher Singh arrived on the scene, there was a large crowd to receive him. The uniforms and smartness of the Students’ Corps impressed the peasants more than volunteers of the Nationalist and Communist Parties in their slovenly shirts and loose pyjamas. The S.V.C. also used modern techniques to draw the masses. Although they were largely Sikhs (hence Madan and the Hindu boys of the terrorist gang were not present), it was not Sikh religious songs they played over their microphone. They started off with the most popular songs from the films and large numbers of peasants came over from other meetings which had nothing better to offer than political tirades or religious sermons. Thereafter they switched on to martial music. The Volunteers paraded up and down the fair grounds keeping step with the military march which blared from the microphone. Then Sher Singh arrived, like a field marshal coming to inspect his troops. There was much shouting of commands and saluting. He unfurled the S.V.C.’s black flag with silver sabers crossing on it. He took the salute at the march-post and went up to the rostrum to address the throng.
The fear of discovery of the activities of the day before, the sinister figure of the village headman, and the wrath of his father, receded into the dim background.
Sher Singh knew that there were police reporters in the audience and whatever he said would be reported to Mr Taylor by the evening. A war was on and the police were armed with powers to arrest and detain at will. He had to be cautious with his words. There was a limited range of subjects to choose from, but an infinite variety of forms of expression. He started in a tone of humility. He paid homage to the Gurus, repeated the well-known facts of the day they were commemorating, and then switched on to political problems. ‘Comrades, we meet at a critical time. The enemy is at our gates.’ He paused to let his words seep in; then he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. ‘Comrades, we not only have the enemy at our doorstep, we have enemies within our own house.’ He raised his voice: ‘Those who sacrifice the interests of the motherland for foreign countries are our enemy No. 1. They have been rightly named as the Kaum nashts — destroyers of the race.’ He paused for applause. The audience had heard the pun on the word ‘Communist’ before so there was no response. Sher Singh went on: ‘There are also people who want to cut off the limbs of Mother India and make another state of Pakistan. They too are our enemies.’ Even this did not arouse any applause. His Volunteers were not doing their duty. Sher Singh worked himself into a fury and let his voice rise to a crescendo. ‘But we are Sikhs who do not fear any enemies. We shall destroy all those who stand in our way.’ A roar of applause went up. One of the Volunteers ran up to the mike and shouted ‘Sher Singh;’ the Volunteers in the crowd answered ‘Long live.’ The crowd joined in. Sher Singh allowed the applause thirty seconds and then raised his hands demanding silence. He started again. ‘Comrades . . . ’ He could not proceed further because of a clamour from the farther end of the marquee. People shouted to say that they could not hear. The mike was dead. Volunteers rushed up to test it. They tapped it, yelled, ‘Hullo, Hullo. One, two, three four. Hullo, hullo, hullo.’ But the mike refused to respond. The mechanic fumbled with the battery and it suddenly came to life with a piercing boom. Sher Singh tried again. .‘Can you hear me now?’ The heads at the far end nodded. ‘Comrades,’ he started. Once more they waved their hands to say ‘No.’ The mike was dead again. This time even the mechanic’s fumbling with the wires did not bring it back to life. The meeting dispersed.
Sher Singh knew it was no use losing his temper; in nine cases out of ten, meetings ended because of mechanical breakdowns. In any case he had said the two important things he wanted to say and the crowds had seen him and his S.V.C.
Sher Singh spent the morning with his Volunteer friends going round the stalls at the fair and standing them soda pop. In the afternoon he watched the procession pass by. It was over a mile long with brass bands, parties of singers, men demonstrating sword and stick play, more parties of singers on top of motor lorries, in trucks and bullock carts — ending with the flower-bedecked van which carried the Holy Granth guarded by five Sikhs with drawn swords. By then it was late and he was too tired to go to the temple. He decided to look up Madan and tell him about the big turnout at his meeting. He might also get to know Madan’s pretty sister whom he had seen but never met.
Sher Singh collected his bicycle from the stand at the fair ground and cycled down to Wazir Chand’s house. He put the cycle against the pillar of the porch and went into the verandah. The wire-gauze door leading into the courtyard was bolted from the inside and the house seemed empty. Sher Singh rattled the door and shouted ‘Koi Hai.’ He heard Madan’s mother shout to the servant to see who was at the door. The servant came up and without opening the door informed Sher Singh that no one was at home.
‘I have come for Beena. She came over to study with Sita Bibi.’
‘The Bibijis have gone to the cinema,’ answered the boy. They went with our Babu. Will you come in and wait for them?’
‘I will come again.’
‘What is your name?’
Sher Singh did not answer. He picked up his bicycle and rode home.
Absence of privacy is a phenomenon that pervades all life in India, urban and rural, of the rich and the poor. It has been so for many centuries and the weight of tradition is heavy against those who live in society and still wish to be alone. Rooms of Indian palaces seldom had any doors and those that did could rarely be bolted from the inside. There was never any need for doors because the most intimate of relationships could apparently be consummated and enjoyed under public gaze. Examine any old painting depicting a love scene. There will be the prince and his paramour in different stages of disarray — one of his hands on her bosom, the other holding the pipe of his hookah. Standing by will be female servants fanning away flies, sprinkling scented water, or serving wine. In the background there will be a party of musicians and singers.
Amongst the poor, shortage of living space has always made privacy an expensive luxury.
Things have not changed very much over the centuries. Amongst the Westernized well-to-do class, although separate bedrooms and bathrooms are provided for members of a family, the spirit remains the same: to want to be alone is to be queer. Amongst the middle, lower middle, and the working classes, the joint family system requires large numbers of kinsfolk to live under the same roof. They eat together, sleep together — men in one row, women, in a different part of the house, in another — go and relieve themselves in groups, bathe in rivers or by wells in company and accept the possibility of relations watching sexual intimacies through keyholes.
The cheek by jowl existence in an Indian joint family has many consequences. In the first place, an Indian whose soul yearns to know itself has no option but to take the extreme step of renouncing life and seeking solitude as a hermit. It combines an inner craving with outward respectability. This certainly is one, if not the most important, reason why so many in the country take to the ascetic life of the yogi.
Another consequence of th
e absence of privacy is that the art of making love, which demands the strictest privacy as well as leisure, is practically unknown. In the land of the Kama Sutra and phallus worship, sex is practiced in conditions which provide neither the time nor the opportunity for a man to rouse the passions of his woman to that fever heat which makes her yearn for lusty fulfilment. The institution of the honeymoon where a young married couple can make each other’s physical acquaintance is unknown except amongst the anglicized upper middle class. For the rest, a newly married girl’s first few experiences follow a soulless pattern. After some days her mother-in-law will persuade her to take a tumbler of milk to her husband before he goes to sleep (other members of the household having been told to be away for the time). More likely, the girl will go to a tryst in the fields after dark on the pretext of answering the call of nature. She will be brutally ravished by her impatient husband equally anxious to hurry back home to keep up the appearance of having gone out to ease himself. That is all most Indian women know of sex — an unpleasant subjection to men’s desires — necessary in order to have sons, bearable because of its brevity. To the mass of Indian womanhood, the sixty-five ways of kissing and petting, the thirty-seven postures of the sex act so beautifully portrayed in stone on temple walls make as much sense as a Greek translation of the treatise Kama Sutra itself. Unfulfilled sexual impulses result in an obsession with sex and in many perversions which result from frustration: sadism, masochism, and, most common of all, exhibitionism.
People, when they are left alone, find that they cannot help behaving in an odd way. This is strange because one would expect those who do everything under public gaze to be less inhibited, and therefore have less to get out of their systems than those who enjoy privacy. However, the one desire which those who live in crowds have to suppress is that of self-discovery. This is suddenly aroused in momentary solitude and is expressed in acts which appear quite mad. Thus a man, normally sober and steady, who finds himself alone in a railway compartment, may get the urge to sing loudly, expose himself, or even indulge in adolescent pastimes. He will continue to behave oddly till he gets used to the idea of being alone.
I Shall Not Hear The Nightingale Page 4