“Will you read it to me?” he asked the boy. The child seemed confused, but then his face cleared and he wagged his head. They walked to the steps of a nearby temple where it was less crowded and sat down, Pramesh one step lower than the boy. Arun smoothed the mangled paper, fitting the halves together, and began to read.
“The man with the split eyebrow waited on the corner as we’d agreed upon earlier. He looks frail and thin, like a bird plucked of its feathers. His eyes are bright like a baby’s and when he smiles I can see it go up and reflect in his eyes. This is how I know he is an honest man.” He looked up to determine Pramesh’s expression. The boy reminded the manager of Rani, who often looked to him when she had done something either funny or praiseworthy, gauging his reaction, seeing if he approved. He mustered a smile and nodded at Arun to continue. “He was a stranger to the city. Bhai brought him here to the hostel, but he left very soon after. He waited around the corner until Bhai again left for the train station, and then he came back and asked me if there was another Shankarbhavan around. A death hostel, he said. I had heard of the place, but I thought it was strange that he would want to go there. He asked me to be his guide, but I could not leave the desk just then, so he said he would return.”
“How long was he gone?” Pramesh asked. He regretted his question immediately; the look on Arun’s face made clear his displeasure.
“I am telling you the story, Sahib. A moment, just a moment.” He set the pile of read pages in a careful stack beside him on the steps, a round stone serving as a paperweight, and resumed reading: “A half hour later he was back, now with an empty bottle in his hands. I was afraid because Bhai has always told me to stay clear of the drunks we see in our lane. But his eyes were honest, and different, and he told me he wanted to go to a temple first. And he’d brought me money—a real guide’s fee! I had never had so much at one time. He was quick at the temple, and then we went to the death hostel.”
Pramesh frowned. Where had he been on that day? What had he been doing? It would have been the day before Bhut had visited him, the day before the story of Sagar’s body being found in the boat whirled through the city. “You never brought him there.” He did not mean to sound accusing, but the disappointment was heavy in his voice.
Arun looked up and held the pages out. “I did. And you would hear it yourself, if only you would let me read it. Or would you like to see?”
Folk hurried in and out of the temple; a flower seller sat on the topmost steps, an old half-clothed man dozing against the stone. When could Sagar possibly have come to the bhavan? Then he recalled a headache. His head bursting, shutting his eyes, sleeping away the pain. Mohan acting in his stead.
“Shall I keep reading?” Arun’s voice was small. Pramesh rocked his head. “I thought I would be too slow for him—he was tall, with long legs. But he seemed unable to keep up even with me. He must have been tired from the journey. Whenever I looked back to make sure he was following, he lagged, but he always kept me in sight. I took him to the place I knew about, and he asked me to wait outside. There was a dog sitting nearby, a white one with a brown spot on its side. Bhai doesn’t like dogs around the place; he always makes me chase them away. So it was nice to just sit with this one, and I was even able to scratch its ears.
“The man was not gone long. He walked now as if his feet had weights on them. He said he’d come at a bad time, that the person he’d asked for was not there. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I will need to return tomorrow.’
Arun paused and looked up. “You see?”
A knot formed in Pramesh’s stomach. “When you were at the bhavan—was there anything else you remember? Did you go to the gate?”
“I didn’t see—he told me to wait, remember?”
“Yes. So you did.” He could not concentrate. On the temple steps, all Pramesh could think of was another set of steps: the ones in the bhavan, the single floor that had separated him from Sagar on that day. And Mohan, where had Mohan been? Could he have turned Sagar away? A feeling of being trapped in a confined space, so like that terrible night when the earth had shaken with the ghost’s rage at the bhavan, his limbs frozen, crept upon him. He felt the child waiting. “Please, continue.”
“He told me my duty was done. He said I could go back home. But the sun was about to go down, and I asked him where he planned on sleeping that night. And he said something strange. He said he wasn’t planning on sleeping that night. He wanted to keep moving, that he might as well see the city while he was here. I told him it was dangerous at night; he couldn’t wander where he wanted to. He wouldn’t listen; just kept walking. So I followed him.”
“Why?” Pramesh asked. Any child would be quick to run, to spend the coins as quickly as they’d come.
“A moment, Sahib; you’ll see,” Arun said. “Anyway—I couldn’t leave him. He was so good to me. He tried to go faster than me, at first. But he was so tired, and I would not leave him alone. A few times, I asked him where he wanted to go. He ignored me at first, but I noticed he would look at me from the side, watching where I would turn. At last he said he wanted to see the river. So I led him, and slowly, he started to talk to me.
“This time, as we walked, he talked the whole way of this other man, this twin of his. He said this twin had lived here many years, and that he’d sent letters a very long time ago of how life in this city was, how things looked. He said that he’d neglected his twin for a very long time, but that everything was about to change. He said that people make mistakes, but that there is always time to fix things, if we truly desire it. I asked him what he was fixing. He stared at me and did not give me an answer. Instead, he began to ask about me—how old I was, how long Bhai and I had been alone, what I liked doing best.”
The knot in Pramesh’s stomach pulled tighter. Sagar, admitting to the mistake he’d made, traveling all the way to Kashi just to tell Pramesh as much. His head began to ache.
“I don’t know why I did it, but I told him I wanted to be a writer. I have never told anyone this. Bhai knows, but only because he sees me doing it every day, and he laughs at me, most of the time. But this man didn’t laugh. He listened to me. And because he listened to me, I decided to tell him something. I’d figured his secret out, by then. I knew why he was here.”
The temple bells rang out, drowning out Arun’s voice, signaling the last call before the doors closed for the afternoon. He paused as folk streamed down the stairs, dusty sandals passing on either side of them. Others pushed upward through the crowd, struggling to get through for one final prayer, one final blessing. Even when the bells ceased, the boy sat there, smoothing the pages over and over. He no longer seemed as eager to read aloud as when he’d started. “I’m sorry, Sahib. I only meant to help him.”
“What is it?” The child shook his head, unable to speak. His hands shook as he struggled to keep the crinkling pages from curling upward. He was frightened, Pramesh realized. “Whatever you tell me…. The man I am looking for is already dead. Nothing you say will change that.”
Arun struggled with the words. His voice broke. “I only meant to help him. I told him what I knew out of kindness. It was meant to help—nothing more.”
A chill washed over Pramesh’s heart. “Tell me.”
“He was ill. The river, the death hostel. Why would someone travel all that way and only go to those two places? Before, he at least kept up as best he could. Now, he didn’t try to hide his weakness. He stopped to rest often. And his eyes were bright not so much with happiness, but with fever. It was a hot day, but he looked chilled in his shirt. And when he talked, he no longer seemed as calm as he had been earlier. He talked quickly, with no logic, and his sentences had no end and no beginning. He had kept up the play of a normal, healthy man, but I saw what he was hiding. He was doing what all the pilgrims did—he wanted to visit the holy river, and then he wanted to gain admittance to the death bhavan so he could die.
“
But I had my own secret, one that not even Bhai knew. And I had never told it to anyone, because the man who told me made me promise to keep the knowledge close. Here was a good man. I felt sorry for him. I wanted him to have this chance, while he was in Kashi.”
“Magadha,” Pramesh said aloud. He felt the finality alight upon his chest like a fifty-kilo weight. The boy had told Sagar to go to that cursed land, to plead with the Bearer of Death.
“What?”
“You told him to go to Magadha. To ask Yamraj for a reprieve … didn’t you?” The boy shook his head, eyes bright, and resumed reading. Gone was his confidence from before. Now he assumed a monotone, his voice at times so faint that Pramesh had to strain to hear.
“A year ago, a holy man came to our hostel. He was not a fake, like the others. I was ill the year he came—a strange illness that made me fall asleep whenever I was sitting. I could not keep my eyes open; none of the doctors understood what was wrong. Even Bhai was worried, and he asked this holy man to do something. The man did a small puja for me, and the next day I was completely better. When I was bending to touch his feet and thank him, he grabbed me by the ear and pulled me up. And then he whispered the secret so that only I could hear. He said to save it for a moment when I would truly need it.
“The middle of the river was the answer. Any sick person could make himself well again if he drank from the river at the exact point the waters of Kashi met the waters of Magadha. He only had to guide the boat and fetch the water himself. I repeated this to the man. I was excited to tell him. But he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t ask me questions like he had before. So I didn’t speak of it again.
“When we reached the ghat, he sat down on an open space of stone. He was very tired; I could see his eyes closing more and more. I told him to lie down and I would watch over him while he rested. So he did.
Arun paused, as if knowing Pramesh doubted him. “I didn’t leave him, Sahib. I got up to get a snack, but I could see him the entire time, and I came right back. I sat next to him and worked in my book, but I never left him.”
Pramesh could only look at the boy, the knot in his stomach pulling tighter.
“When he woke, it was dark. He was very worried when he saw I was there. He said I needed to go home. But Bhai wasn’t going to be home that night—he wouldn’t know if I returned or not. I said I would rather sit with him.
“He seemed a bit better, after he woke. I shared my chaat with him, and he went down to the last step and scooped the river into his mouth. I asked him what he planned to do then, but he just sat there, on the last step. We watched the last boats come in. We must have been there a long time because then the ghats were clear. We were the only ones left. Bhai had always told me I was never to walk the city at night by myself, but I wasn’t alone. I liked sitting there with him, no one else, at night.
“I thought he’d forgotten all about the story, but then he asked me to repeat it. Even then I thought he listened with half an ear. But when I finished, he stood up. He walked down to the boats tied at the bottom. He touched the ropes. Then he sat back down again.”
Dread enclosed Pramesh’s heart. He knew how the story ended. Yet he listened for the words, hungered for the details even as they caused him pain. The boy gave him a worried glance and continued.
“He did that maybe twice more. ‘How far to the other side?’ he asked me, and I said it wasn’t far; perhaps twenty, twenty-five strokes to go halfway. He kept looking at the boats, then up again at the darkness, then back at the boats. And then I told him I thought he could do it. Because I could see he could not decide.
“He still did not move. And then he took out the glass bottle he’d been carrying and he put it in the end of the boat. He didn’t say anything, but I understood what he was trying to do. I asked him if he was sure, but he was already turning to get into the boat. I helped him get his footing, and I pushed him off. He wobbled a bit, at first, but then he seemed to get used to the oars. The path was not straight, but that didn’t matter. His strokes were strong. It was as if the river was already working its magic on him, giving him life. I knew it would work; I knew he would live. He only needed to go halfway; then the river would give him strength and the return would be easy. He waved to me just before I lost sight of him in the dark.”
Arun stopped here, a sob nestled in the bottom of his throat. “I waited for him. By the Mother, I swear to you that I waited as long as I could. I even ran to the ghats downstream to see if he had come totally off-course on the return journey.” The pages fluttered at Arun’s side, and Pramesh marveled that such cheap material, thin as onion skin, could hold so much pain.
“Go on,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Tell me what happened next.”
Whether the rest of the tale lived in those pages or not, the boy refused to read them. He stared straight ahead and tried to control his voice as he finished the story. “I stayed awake that entire night, my eyes never closed. At dawn, I thought perhaps I might see something, but the fog was too thick. I heard some boatmen coming down and pushing off. I did not know what to do. The sun rose higher and people began to come to bathe and pray. No one noticed me. And then I saw two boatmen from earlier come back, but this time they dragged another boat behind them.” Arun turned to Pramesh, his eyes bright with anguish. “How was I to know, Sahib? How was I to know that your brother would not come back?”
Pramesh was frozen. He marveled at his cousin’s foolishness even as a wave of despair descended upon him. He must have been more than ill to believe the child who had guided him. He must have been certain that death was near. He must have been desperate for life.
“Sahib?”
“Go home,” Pramesh said, his voice faint. He felt as if he were speaking from the bottom of a deep hole. He pushed some coins into the child’s hands. “Go home to your brother. He will be worried for you.” He stayed on the steps as people streamed around him. When he looked up, the child was gone, but the money and the pages remained, fluttering in the light breeze.
He didn’t see the street before him as he walked home, didn’t notice if any faces recognized him and called out hello, didn’t register how low the sun was in the sky. But coming upon the bhavan, he saw Mohan waiting outside the open gate. The assistant’s face flooded with relief, and he yelled something into the bhavan, then walked with swift steps to meet Pramesh. A sudden engulfing anger burned through him, followed by a wave of despair at the chance he’d so narrowly missed at seeing Sagar.
“Pramesh-ji! You had everyone so worried—it’s late; didn’t you notice the time?”
“Is it true?” Pramesh spoke calmly, but his jaw trembled.
“Ji?”
“He was here? And you never told me?”
The color drained from Mohan’s face. Pramesh could feel Mrs. Chalwah looking at the pair of them from above. He didn’t bother to modulate his voice. He picked out each of his words carefully. “So it is true. You cannot even tell a dead man from a live one, can you?”
“Pramesh-ji, it isn’t—”
But the manager brushed past his assistant and went through the gate, leaving Mohan in the empty lane.
That night, when the ghost in the washroom began to clatter and wail two hours after midnight as always, Pramesh went downstairs and, as he had never done before, he entered the washroom and pulled the door closed, shutting himself in with the ghost. The sound was excruciating to hear from the outside, but with the door closed, the pots suddenly ceased. The ghost was still there—the vessels quivered on the stone floor—but the shrieks wore down to a metallic murmur. His presence calmed the ghost. Was that what it wanted? For Pramesh always to hover around the washroom?
The manager leaned his head back against the door. His mind was screaming with questions. Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? Why didn’t you insist on waiting here instead of turning away? Why did you believe a child—a fairy tale? The words
remained dead on his tongue. The past was past. He had to move on. “Bhaiya,” he whispered. “Enough. There is nothing more I can do for you.”
In answer, the pots resumed, calling out with desperate urgency into the night, speaking in a language that Pramesh could not recognize.
27
Shobha was worried. Since yesterday, her husband seemed even further lost within himself. He did not answer when she asked him a question. He paid no mind to Mohan, who lingered outside the office or in the courtyard, his face twisted in concern. He did not even notice Rani pulling at his fingers, her playful face becoming frustrated when her father ignored her, as he’d never done before. In the middle of the night she’d woken to find his eyes still open, his face toward the ceiling. When the pots wailed, he was gone for much longer than usual. Now he stayed in his office with the door shut. But a look from Narinder told her to be patient.
With the housework done and her husband isolating himself, Shobha took Rani’s hand and set off for the market and the post office. She checked almost every day, but still she hadn’t received a reply from Kamna. Shobha was prepared to be patient. Kamna probably knew as little about the bhavan mistress as Shobha knew about her, perhaps even less. So that morning she’d written one more letter, one that sought to tell Kamna more about herself, and perhaps open that woman up to her. She was careful in what she said, and she wrote several versions before she was happy with it. She wrote about herself—Kashi is my home; I have lived here all my life—and included just one line about Rani—She grows bigger every day, and her smile by far grows the biggest.
Still, she hesitated outside the post office. Rani pulled on her sari, and she placed one palm on the child’s head, looking at the letter, then looking up, thinking. She spotted a familiar form coming toward her, and her heart sank; it was Mrs. Gupta. She quickly walked the letter over to the postman waiting behind the metal grate. Then Shobha picked up Rani and turned to the woman. “How is your health?” Shobha asked. She could think of nothing else to say.
The City of Good Death Page 25