A Life Incomplete, page 18
He climbs on to the back seat of the tonga, his mind still preoccupied with his thoughts.
The journey to Baba Sahib Chowk takes about half an hour. Dismounting from the tonga, his attention is drawn towards the Golden Temple, its dome glistening in an ethereal glow as it captures the crimson rays of the setting sun. Tearing his eyes away, he finds a porter to carry his holdall and starts towards Shaheed Bunga lane. It is getting dark and he has to ask a couple of people for directions. Followed by the porter deftly balancing his holdall on his head, Kuldeep walks for about a hundred yards in the narrow, unlit lane before coming to a halt. With his guru’s dera nowhere in sight, he asks the porter to set the baggage on a ledge outside a small house and wait. Alone, he goes past a few more houses before stopping outside one that has a strong light shining in its first floor. Standing in the lane below, he hears the muffled sounds of an argument taking place in the upper floor. One of the voices has a familiar ring to it but he isn’t sure.
Undecided, he pauses. He sees an approaching figure in the shadows some distance down the lane. The man is carrying a small steel bucket and sports the small turban, flowing beard, long tunic and shorts typical of staff working at the various deras and other religious establishments in the neighbourhood of the Golden Temple.
‘Sat Sri Akal, Sardarji,’ Kuldeep steps up to greet the stranger. ‘Could you guide me towards the Dera of Sant Prem Singh?’
‘You are standing at his doorstep,’ the man replies gruffly, looking at Kuldeep from head to toe. ‘Where are you from?’
‘From Peshawar.’
‘And what business do you have with Sant Prem Singh?’
‘He is my guru.’
‘Really?’ the man says with barely concealed sarcasm. ‘How did a fellow like you get caught in the web of a charlatan like him?’
Before Kuldeep can recover from this unexpected attack, the man adds, ‘Why don’t you go up and see the man’s misdeeds for yourself. I am sure you can hear it already. Like the Mahabharata, this battle has been raging for days now.’ Muttering curses under his breath, the stranger walks off.
Nonplussed, Kuldeep gingerly makes his way up the stairs leading to the apartment on the first floor. The sounds of the argument are clearly audible as he approaches the door bolted from inside. He stands outside for a while, eavesdropping in stunned disbelief. There is no doubt now that the male voice is his guru’s. But a tone so harsh, and words so abusive…it is the language of the gutter, not the dulcet tones he was accustomed to listening with such rapt attention in the gurudwara. There is also a female voice saying something in protest.
‘You low-caste bitch!’ the guru thunders. ‘You were starving when I met you. I was the one who fed you and placed you in this luxurious comfort.’
‘Let the comfort and luxury burn in hell!’ the female responds. ‘Had I known of your evil ways, I would have stayed miles away…’
Kuldeep hears the echo of a crisp slap, followed by a shriek and more curses by the woman. From the sounds of the ensuing scuffle, he can make out that the woman is trying to extricate herself from the man’s grasp, hurling abuse at him even as she tries to fight off his advances.
Unable to take it any more, Kuldeep hurries down the steps. ‘Pick up the baggage and take me to some hotel,’ he tells the porter. The porter hoists the holdall on to his head and starts walking. Kuldeep follows, his mind swirling in a flurry of thoughts.
Suppress your passion. Control your desires. This was the relentless message of the guru. But those who chant this mantra to leave their families must be fools or charlatans. If the artificial suppression of hunger, thirst or sleep is unnatural, the same logic must apply to the suppression of passion. To leave your home, your family in the name of curbing your desires is surely unnatural. And if this is the message being delivered by organizations in the name of social reform, we must question their motives.
Spouting high philosophy and delivering moral sermons is one thing, and living a normal life is another. Let’s set aside the theoretical precepts taught in the books for a while and undertake a critical examination of our own personal lives. And then place your hand on your heart and ask yourself if you have succeeded in curbing your own desires. You can build a citadel of morality around yourself but you must ask if it has withstood the test. How often does it crack and how many holes have you tried to plug with the clay of suppression? Pose these questions in your own mind and reflect on the answers that you get. You may be surprised to learn that moral standards in your society aren’t as low as they are made out to be. Most families lead normal lives and aren’t particularly agitated by this issue. The ones most worried about growing immorality, curiously, are the ones who make a career out of advocating this ‘suppression of passion’.
Our society tends to apply fairly tough standards on you if you want to detach yourself from the material world and live the life of a hermit. You are expected to abstain from good food and from the company of women. Marriage, of course, becomes a very distant prospect. Yet, the one who accepts such abstinence is always surrounded by attractive women…women who will serve him the finest foods, who are ready to submit to every commandment. And he is expected to be immune to such pleasures? Our epics tell us that passion didn’t spare even the legendary sages who performed hard penance, who suspended themselves upside down from a tree for twelve years. Yet, we expect an ordinary mortal to resist the charms of women who have employed each of the sixteen classical modes to adorn themselves before coming to him? They sit at his feet, fawn over him, feed him rare delicacies and massage him with their delicate hands. And nothing should happen to him?
Of course it does! Sooner or later, the dormant spirits of passion awaken and take control of the hermit. Unable to resist, he violates the honour of some innocent woman and flees from the scene. Our society is outraged by his act and soon a posse of sturdy young men grabs their swords and sticks and goes after him. Strange, isn’t it? First you tell the hawk that it should desist from eating flesh and that it should get used to a diet of grass and weeds. Poor hawk…just as he is getting used to the new state, you tempt him with some juicy morsels of meat. The famished hawk swoops on it and the bystanders, offended by his action, pounce upon him with sticks and stones. What an extraordinary notion of justice!
Kuldeep’s mind is in turmoil. How would he have reacted in a similar situation? He, too, could have been reciting his guru’s message about the ‘suppression of passion’ and convinced himself about its righteousness. But would he have passed the test if he had been surrounded by a bevy of beautiful women? It is easy to prescribe a test but much harder to take it yourself. Who is innocent and who is guilty? Can you really pronounce on this if you haven’t experienced the dangers of an arduous trek?
All things considered, Kuldeep decides that he is done with Sant Prem Singh and his dera. The guru’s uncouth behaviour is, quite simply, unworthy of a holy man, and Kuldeep has lost all respect for him. His mind dwells over the events of the last few months and the influence that the guru’s sermons had on his own actions. Hadn’t he vowed to renounce everything and walk away from his home, from his parents? He had turned a deaf ear to the pleadings of his mother. He had even turned down the last wishes of his dying father. And how long did those vows last?
Kuldeep had left Peshawar with the idea of spending a week or two away from home. He had thought that after finishing his work in Amritsar, he would visit Delhi and a couple of other places. But the incident at the guru’s dera has shaken him. He spends two days in Amritsar’s famous textiles bazaar, completes his purchases and returns to Peshawar.
30
Prakash had no clue that her husband would return so quickly from his trip. He had left for Amritsar on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning, she goes with the servant to Joga Singh gurudwara, leaving the child with his grandmother.
They return well after lunch time but a worried Gian Kaur doesn’t have the courage to ask why it took her so long. She waits until Prakash has gone to her room before posing the question to the servant. But the young fellow is beholden only to the mistress. Instead of replying to Gian Kaur’s queries, he goes upstairs and informs Prakash that the old woman was trying to probe into her whereabouts.
This triggers the mother of all tantrums and without waiting to come down from her room, Prakash starts to hurl the choicest of abuses at her mother-in-law. The latter, too, has reached the end of her tether and there is no holding back. Insult is matched with insult, abuse with abuse. The battle rages into the night, making it difficult for neighbours to sleep. They are accustomed to Gian Kaur’s temper and her frequent slanging matches with Radhia but the venom with which Prakash abuses her is hard for anyone to stomach. So foul is her language that some women have to cover the ears of their young children.
A tense truce prevails when Kuldeep reaches home around ten the following night. Keeping his baggage in the kitchen, he goes up the stairs. The servant is asleep in the kitchen but hearing the door open he wakes up to attend to the bags. Gian Kaur is awake in her room and waits for her son to come to her, touch her feet and take her blessings before proceeding upstairs. The wait is in vain. She is tempted to get up to remonstrate but decides otherwise. She hears Kuldeep’s footsteps ascend the stairs, his knock on the door and the harsh tone inquiring, ‘Who is it?’
‘It’s me,’ Kuldeep replies impatiently. He can barely wait for the door to open, expecting to be greeted with open arms and taken into a passionate embrace. She opens the door, smiles and retreats to the far corner of the room.
Kuldeep enters the room and pauses in shock. There is a strange kind of smell in the room. ‘Where is this smell of cigarettes coming from?’ he asks, wrinkling his nose.
Picking up his jacket to hang it properly, she replies, ‘I think it is smoke from the naan bai’s tandoor in the street. You often get this smell in the room. It’s quite unpleasant.’
Kuldeep’s eyes sweep over the room. The window facing the street is firmly closed, as indeed it would be in the midst of winter. Besides, he has spent many years in this room without being bothered by smoke from the tandoor. A doubt surfaces in his mind.
Prakash is still standing in the corner, asking him about his visit to Amritsar, his journey, his purchases and so on. Kuldeep offers some vague replies, his mind still distracted by the offensive smell. He sits on the bed and beckons to Prakash to do the same. She does so, but sits on the edge farthest from him. He moves closer to her. Putting his arm around her, he pulls her towards him. His face moves towards her, as if to kiss. She responds, her lips a mere inch away from his. Stunned, he recoils and stands up. The smell of liquor on her breath is too strong to be dismissed.
‘Oh my god!’ he thinks. ‘Not merely one vice but two!’
He reaches out for her hand and holds it to his nose. There is no doubt. Her fingers reek of tobacco.
Prakash has turned pale. Kuldeep glowers at her, his eyes looking straight into hers. She lowers her eyes.
Kuldeep’s legs shake with rage. He hears someone from deep inside him shout, ‘So Waryam Singh was right about you, wasn’t he? Whatever he told Bey ji about you was true!’
She sits still as a statue.
‘Prakash!’ he thunders. ‘Look at me, Prakash!’
One can almost hear Prakash’s heartbeat. Her eyes are dug firmly into a spot near her feet.
‘What kind of a family are you from, Prakash? Tell me right now!’
Still not getting a word out of her, he places his hand on her shoulder and tugs at her. ‘So it’s true, isn’t it? Everything that Waryam Singh said about you?’
‘Please forgive me,’ she whispers, falling at his feet.
‘Forgive you?’ He jerks his feet away in disgust. ‘Actually, I am the one who should seek your forgiveness, Prakash. Such unkindness! You could have done what you wanted to me and I would have taken it in my stride. But how could you.…how could you defile a Sikh home with something that is taboo in our faith? How could you bring tobacco into this home?’
‘I will never do such a thing again. Forgive me this one time,’ she whimpers.
‘There is absolutely no need to ask for forgiveness,’ Kuldeep says, his arms crossed across his chest, trying perhaps to restrain his heart from leaping out. ‘I am grateful to the Lord that your true colours have been exposed so soon. Who knows what else might have happened. At least there’s no harm done yet. It is by the grace of the Waheguru that I’ve been saved.’
He continues to pepper her with questions but her lips are sealed and he can neither cajole nor threaten her into breaking that seal. In the midst of his umpteenth effort to prise the truth out of her, he realizes that she must have had an accomplice. He steps out of the door and calls for the servant.
The lad comes upstairs and stands at the edge of the steps, refusing to look up at Kuldeep. Several questions are posed, and each encounters an evasive response. Without warning, Kuldeep steps out of the door and delivers a stinging slap on the fellow’s left cheek, followed by another back-handed one on his right. Shaken out of his wits, the boy starts, ‘Bibi ji asked me to fetch her two packets of cigarettes. I got her a pack today and another the day before yesterday…I also got her a bottle of liquor…she told me where to go to buy these things…She gave me one rupee as reward…Some of the stuff is inside that small trunk…’
The picture is crystal clear. No further explanations are needed.
Kuldeep opens the smaller of the two trunks and stares at a half-empty bottle of liquor and an open pack of cigarettes. He asks the servant to help him carry the two trunks into his mother’s room. Briefly pausing to touch her feet, he quickly returns to his room.
Prakash is lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. Standing a short distance away, Kuldeep asks, ‘So where would you like to go, Prakash? I will make the arrangements accordingly. I don’t blame you for anything. What happened is entirely my fault. I am the one who defied the advice of my elders and now have to pay the price for my actions. But you do realize that it is now impossible for you to stay on in this house.’
She cries, pleads and makes fervent promises of turning a new leaf. What happened was an aberration and will never be repeated, she assures. Kuldeep is unmoved.
‘Listen to me, Prakash. I don’t seek any revenge, nor do I have the slightest desire to punish you. You are free to stay in this town if you like. Or you can go somewhere else. Until you find another place for yourself, I am willing to provide you some financial support.’
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out some money and places it on her bed. He goes down to his mother’s room and sleeps on the bed next to her.
Gian Kaur sits up when she hears him come in. She realizes that he is tense and tries to probe him. He parries all her questions with the same response: ‘I am really sleepy now. I’ll tell you everything in the morning.’
He gets up early the following morning and quietly goes upstairs. There is no one. Prakash has left the place in the dark of the night.
31
Saroj is a transformed person. The Saroj of yore would have found it impossible to cope with Kuldeep’s unwarranted allegations. The gravity of his charges would have been unbearable and might even have crushed her fragile spirit. But this does not happen. Waryam Singh’s nobility is like a shining beacon that shows her the path around each blind turn and in every dark alley. The person who just a few weeks back felt so unloved and unwanted that she was losing her will to live now has a strong sense of purpose. She has a renewed sense of self-esteem, a confidence that she is second to none in her will to serve her community.
No doubt, she has gone through a tough time. The slander spread by Kuldeep and the barbed comments of people in the neighbourhood were bad enough. Her grief was compounded by having to witness Kuldeep’s second marriage, and she had wept for days on end. But she has since delved deep within her soul and rediscovered the steel in it. She has also found a support that provides her with stability. A new voice echoes in her heart, asking, ‘Are you pure of spirit? Of course! I dare anyone to challenge that. And if the spirit is pure, why worry about what people will say? If I believe in myself, I’ll do what I think is right!’
She has nothing to fear. Her spirit is pure and her mind is at peace. Yes, there are dogs barking in the street. Some are even snapping at her heels. But she is not afraid. The strength of her spirit is like a baton that she wields to keep them at bay. She has decided to stick by Waryam Singh even if the dogs accuse her of being his mistress. She will work with him as he goes about his noble purpose.
Thoughts like these have frequently crossed her mind as Waryam has stopped dropping in at her house. She can, of course, fathom the reason. He is more concerned about her honour than his own and he has no intention of adding to her travails.
Tempered in the furnace of logic, her mind acquires the strength of steel. Having considered the matter from every perspective, she takes the firm and unalterable decision to marry Waryam Singh, no matter how steep the hurdles. She will resist all opposition and will not be dissuaded. Her resolve will make her union with Waryam so sacred that it would be the envy of the world. She will combine her own interest in literature with Waryam Singh’s passion for service to bring about a social revolution. Waryam Singh will continue to help the most wretched members of their society and provide them whatever solace he can, while she will write about their plight and awaken the somnolent conscience of the public. Together, they will help the cause of the poorest and change the world.
She spends the entire day in these thoughts, her determination increasing by the hour.
Ganga Vishan’s condition is deteriorating by the day. Years of alcoholism have taken their toll. His enlarged spleen has played havoc with his appetite and disrupted his digestive system. He has a persistent ache in his chest and stomach; his tongue is frequently dry and his arthritis has aggravated. Obesity and arthritis can be a lethal combination and he finds it hard to move around, spending most of his days in bed, lethargic and listless until he gets a fresh shot of alcoholfuelled energy. And when he can’t get it, his throat goes dry and his tongue becomes hard as a piece of wood. ‘Oh god! I am dying. I am dying,’ he whines.
