A Life Incomplete, page 19
Saroj finds his condition unbearable. Having spent much of her life trying to dissuade him from drinking, she now sends Mangtu to fetch some liquor that would keep him going. She knows it is a matter of time now.
Having completed her daily chores, she goes to her bed. She has taken a big decision but how should she convey it to Waryam Singh? Reflecting for a few minutes, she gets up to pick up a pad and starts to write.
It is late at night and the moon is spreading its glow all around her. As she watches from her doorstep, Mangtu makes his way down the street. Envelope in hand, he is headed for the house near Maakhnia’s Centre.
32
You see fire in a neighbour’s house and rush to get buckets of water to douse it. But the water turns into oil, adding fuel to the fire. Soon, the flames, leaping before you, are destroying the very house that you tried to save and are on the verge of consuming you as well. Is there anything more unfortunate than this?
It has been a bit like this with Waryam Singh. His noble deeds threaten to become the cause of his downfall. Tortured by his own dilemmas, he tosses and turns in his bed. It is unusual for him to be at home and in bed at mid-day.
A dog, they say, is a dog’s worst enemy. You may be seeing a normal, good-natured dog but place some food before another canine and see how this one turns into a monster. But the dog is still an animal. Think of human beings, the joy they derive from the suffering of others. You could narrate a story, enact a play or even produce a novel. It will remain of limited interest unless you can inject an element of tragedy…the groaning of an unhappy soul, tears streaming down the eyes, blood flowing from assorted cuts…that’s what makes it a success. The audience sees the rape of a helpless woman or the hanging of an innocent man in a play and applauds. Now, that’s a tragedy, they say.
Waryam Singh finds himself an actor in a similar sort of tragedy, one that involves an innocent and helpless damsel. The scales of justice are in balance. One side has the substantial weight of all his good deeds, the other has the weight of all the allegations that Kuldeep has made against him. This side, too, is growing in substance and even seems to be tilting the scales in its favour. Evil appears to be ready to triumph over virtue.
The streets are agog with stories about Waryam Singh and Saroj. They are described as lovers and comparisons are often made with the classical tales of the undying romance of Heer and Ranjha, of Sassi and Punnu.
The afternoon gives way to evening and the evening to night. Waryam Singh, though, is trapped in an unending cycle of thoughts. His uncomplicated life has entered a complex maze. Each time he looks for a way out, he finds himself staring at a dead end. He has to turn back and start the journey afresh.
His room is dark but a sliver of moonlight enters through cracks in the door to light up his open cupboard. Lying in his bed, he can see the array of medicines, bandages and syrups that comprise the sum total of his fortune. While his eyes are fixed on the cupboard, his train of thought chugs along its own track, stopping at some stations and steaming past others. The halts were at stations like…that old man suffering from gout and crying for medicine; Attiya, whom he hasn’t visited since her husband’s demise; Jassi’s child, who has developed some mysterious ailment; Karam Illahi’s mother, whose eyesight is deteriorating by the day; Ghulam, the waterman; Chandu, the washerman; Shahbaaz; Deena…
There comes a time when you are forced to introspect, to delve into those nooks and crannies of your being that you have never felt the need to visit. Waryam Singh is in that kind of state. His eyes are still focused on the same shelf in the cupboard but the train of his thoughts has switched tracks and is moving within him. Am I shameless, do I have no sense of dignity or is it that I simply don’t care? Why is it that I continue on my path without being affected by the slander? When did I discover this reservoir of forbearance that has become my strength? How is it that individuals like Kuldeep can attack me time and again and I remain unperturbed? Where did I find such fortitude that I make no distinction between the one who sprinkles salt on my wounds and the one who applies balm on them? Friend or foe, my arms yearn to embrace them. How did this come about?
As he explores unknown recesses within himself, his eyes stray briefly from their vigil on the cupboard and come to rest on a white object lying carelessly on a shelf. It was a kerchief, the one that Saroj had pulled out to wipe her face when she had come in from the rain that evening. The soaked kerchief had been left on the cupboard.
Gazing at it, Waryam Singh blinks his eyes. Why am I concentrating on it? It is nothing but a small piece of cloth. Nothing! But he cannot tear his eyes away from it. And before his eyes, it starts to turn into an apparition, one that bears an eerie resemblance to a young woman at the doorway, shivering and drenched by the downpour. The sliver of moonshine coming through the doorway takes the form of a pair of shining eyes, and the kerchief gradually starts to bear a distinct likeness to Saroj. Reaching out for it, he feels the kerchief nestling in his own hands, radiating warmth into his palms.
Waryam Singh has been alone for as long as he can remember. Lending a helping hand to scores of people, performing the role of a messiah to countless others, he has never been bothered by his own loneliness. It is only during the last few weeks that this has begun to irk him. Unknown to him, his heart has started to yearn for some company, long for the warmth of a feminine touch. New emotions surge through his consciousness.
But the journey on the new track is short-lived and it soon links up with the earlier track… the old man with the gout… Jassi’s son… Karam Illahi’s mother… Ghulam… Chandu… Shahbaaz…
He places the kerchief back on the shelf and turns his eyes away from the cupboard. They are now focused on the door, soaking in the rays of moonshine as though they are drops of nectar pouring straight into his soul. Could it really be her eyes emitting these beams? he wonders. Engrossed in his reverie, he gets up from the bed and walks up to the door. He opens it to look up and down the street but there is not a soul in sight. The moon is shining bright, casting faint shadows in the street.
He stands at his doorstep for a long while, his eyes transfixed on the lunar splendour. Is it always so gorgeous or is there something special about it tonight, he wonders. He revels in its beauty, admiring every shade on its surface. A cloud wafts across the sky, drifting towards the object of his attention. Waryam Singh frets as it approaches the moon, fearing that it might obliterate it. He watches with disappointment as the cloud gradually covers the moon, leaving the street in darkness.
Bringing his eyes back to earth, he sees a young fellow standing a few feet away. His heart starts to pound as he realizes that it is Saroj’s servant. Mangtu hands an envelope to him and leaves without saying a word. Waryam Singh goes inside, sits on the bed and starts to read the letter.
You may be surprised to read this, for it is the first time I am not addressing you as Bhapa ji. Why, you may like to know. It is because I have suddenly developed a desire to live my life. I have never felt this way before. But having seen you in action twice, observing the way you tend to sick patients has made me want to live. I should clarify that I have no worldly ambitions, no material goals. Like you, I only want to spend my life serving the poorest, the most wretched. And so, I have gathered all of myself and wrapped it up in this letter. Like this letter, I entrust myself to you.
Seeing you at work has kindled a new desire in me which I must satisfy. Instead of a fine silk sari, I seek the coarse bandage soaked in blood as it tries to relieve the pain of an unfortunate soul. I would rather be a medicine than a mere perfume – that’s the philosophy I have learnt from you. A perfume will only give a pleasant fragrance, while a medicine can give the gift of life. You told me that ‘to live your life within the realm of a vow is a lot harder than merely taking a vow’. I am now ready to enter that realm, to not just live the life of my vow but to cherish it. Will you take me with you into that realm?
I know that the nests of birds are made of nothing more than straws and I want to be the branch on which you build your nest. When you return to your nest after a long and arduous day, I want to sway gently, sing you a lullaby and help you sleep with the sweetest of dreams.
Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t want to be your life partner just because I find it hard to carry the burden of my life and want to transfer the load on to you. Instead, I want to be the inn where you can rest each time you stop en route to your destination. I want to be the bridge when you have to cross a ravine. I want to be the balm when you get injured. Remember, I am Saroj, the lotus. I may have taken birth in the mud but I need calm and clear waters to bloom.
Will you drop in soon to give me your reply in person?
Saroj
Waryam Singh has heard of miracles where dreams and wishes can turn into reality but he has never thought that it could also happen to him. Like the lantern in front of him, he feels a new light illuminate his heart as he reads and rereads the letter. His mind starts to create a wonderful new world where this angel would walk by his side, healing countless patients by the mere reflection of her blessed shadow. Her loving glance would light thousands of dejected eyes, her tender touch would enable scores of hunchbacks to stand erect, her gentle words would turn the wailing of the miserable into lilting melodies. Would she really walk by my side? he wonders.
He spends the night immersed in these thoughts, getting up at the crack of dawn to get ready. For a change, he decides to look into the mirror as he ties his turban, making sure that every roll is properly in place. He brushes his jacket to tidy it up and steps out. Barely ten yards down the street, he is accosted by his old friend Munshi Ram hurrying towards him with a strangely excited expression on his face.
‘Where are you off to so early in the morning, Bhapa ji?’ Munshi Ram asks affectionately. ‘I was coming to your place with some good news.’
‘What is it?’ he asks impatiently.
‘But we must sit down and talk about it. This is no small matter. You are going to be delighted when you hear the whole story.’
Waryam Singh turns back towards the house and opens the door so that they can sit on the bed. Munshi Ram is a reservations clerk at the railway station. He is around thirty years of age, has a wiry built and a face that readily breaks into a smile. Over the years, he has become genuinely fond of Waryam Singh.
‘How true is it, Bhapa ji, that if you sin against the pure, the good Lord will not let you go unpunished.’
‘Fine! But do come to the point. What is the good news that you want to tell me?’
‘What can be better than the fact that god has punished your sworn enemy?’
‘My enemy? But there is none that I consider my enemy.’
‘Wrong! There is one, at least.’
‘And who would that be?’
‘Kuldeep.’
‘You are wrong, Munshi Ram. I don’t even consider him an enemy. Anyway, what’s happened to him?’
‘Well, you may not consider him an enemy but I certainly do. How can I forgive the one who has cast aspersions on my brother’s character? I shall light lamps of ghee to celebrate today.’
‘But what has happened to him?’
‘The one whom he considered the angel, the goddess, the epitome of all virtue has fled.’
‘Who? Prakash?’
‘Who else? I heard that there was a major altercation last night. And after that, she disappeared.’
Lines of worry crease Waryam Singh’s face. ‘Did she go away on her own or was she thrown out by Kuldeep?’
‘I have no idea. All I heard was that she had bought a train ticket for Lahore.’
Waryam Singh sits on his bed and ponders for a long while after Munshi Ram has left. After an hour or so, he takes out some papers and writes two letters. One is an application for a week’s leave. The other is addressed to Saroj.
Dear Saroj
I received your letter. I had no idea that emotions of love can be transmitted so quickly. It must be telepathy. Your words expressed feelings that I have been trying to hide for so long. It is like a dream come true. I still can’t believe it fully.
I left my place this morning to come to you and to place my heart at the feet of my angel. But something entirely unexpected has cropped up, forcing me to leave immediately for Lahore. You will surely wonder why I have to leave in such a rush. I’ll explain everything when I get back. You will also be able to read the reply to your letter in the yearning in my eyes.
Yours
Waryam Singh
He rolls up a light bedding and hurries towards the station, hoping that he will be in time to catch the train. As he reaches the station, he explores his pockets to ensure that he has enough money for a return fare to Lahore. He does. Having bought the ticket, his mind moves towards Prakash. I hope I can find her in time, he prays. I just hope that she doesn’t fall into the den of prostitution again. All my efforts will have gone in vain if that were to happen.
33
Poor Gian Kaur is unable to bear the cascading effect of setbacks. First, it was the demise of her husband that had reduced her to a shadow of her former self. Then, it was the thoughtlessness of Kuldeep’s actions that pushed her to the edge of the abyss. And to top it all, the neighbourhood in which she had spent much of her life is extremely conservative in its outlook. Their constant chatter about Prakash and the contempt with which they speak of Gian Kaur’s household are simply intolerable. It erodes her selfesteem, and once that is gone, Gian Kaur’s days are numbered. The raging battle with Prakash during Kuldeep’s absence, and the knowledge that their private matters are now a public spectacle, is the last straw. A few days after Prakash’s unceremonious departure, Gian Kaur suffers from heart failure and passes away in her sleep.
Within a matter of weeks, Kuldeep’s life has been turned upside down. A pervasive emptiness envelops his heart, his home and indeed his entire universe. There is no one that he can turn to for support, for himself or even for his child who is barely eight months old. Who will tend to the child now? he frets. The house itself is as barren as the desert, bereft of the succour that the shade of even a single mature tree might have provided.
There is, in the distance, one sliver of hope – a tiny oasis in the midst of a vast desert. Or is it only a mirage? He aspires for it but will he actually get there? How can he face Saroj after all that has transpired? How can he seek the shade of the very tree that he had tried to uproot?
Oh what a sorry pass I have come to, he bemoans. Look at where I was headed and where I’ve actually landed up! What have I done to myself? Thoughts like these overwhelm him. They occupy his mind night and day, not allowing him a moment’s peace. He feels himself sinking under swift currents of recrimination and hopelessness. It won’t be long before I go completely mad, he thinks.
Apart from a sister of his mother’s, he has no close relatives anywhere in the vicinity of Peshawar. She comes for a few days and takes charge of the child but he realizes that she has a large family of her own. He thinks of Satwant’s parents but there is nobody there either. Her mother had died some time back and her father had gone to some foreign land. No one seems particularly sure about his whereabouts.
What’s the point of living a life like this? Kuldeep reasons. He wants to die but that, too, is easier said than done. Maybe he can hand the child over to an orphanage and return to his earlier path! Forsake the material world and become a hermit. This seems like a serious possibility and he mulls over the practicalities as he lies in his bed. Which orphanage would be the most convenient, and what train would he take to arrive at some faraway destination?
His reverie is interrupted by a somewhat familiar voice that wafts up the stairs from the kitchen. A few moments later, the boy comes up to inform him that a Muslim fellow accompanied by a veiled woman wants to see him. It must be Ahmed Khan, he thinks, rushing down the steps.
So much has happened. There is so much to talk, so much to share. Within a few minutes of their arrival, Kuldeep has his head on his friend’s shoulder and is pouring his heart out. Husband and wife have tears in their eyes as they try to comfort him. The air around them is heavy with a blend of pain and affection.
Ahmed Khan and Zubeida are moved by their friend’s plight, by the multiple tragedies that have befallen upon him in quick succession. They had planned their visit to Peshawar to catch up with him. It was almost a year since their tearful parting in Lahore and they were keen to meet Satwant and spend some time with his family. Zubeida had even bought an attractive salwar-kameez for Satwant along with a fancylooking ‘English’ soap and some other gifts for the family. She is devastated to learn that Satwant had passed away even before Kuldeep had set foot in his house. How clearly did she recall his emotions, his dreams on the eve of his departure from Lahore!
Zubeida picks up the child and holds him tightly against her bosom. What a beautiful baby, she sighs. Looking at him, you can imagine how beautiful the mother must have been.
To Kuldeep, the arrival of Ahmed Khan and Zubeida is like a boat that had appeared from nowhere to rescue him just as he was on the verge of drowning in the middle of a raging river. He tells them how Satwant had pined for him right until her last breath, waiting for him to return home from jail. He speaks of his own grief after her demise, his decision to renounce his home and family and everything else that has happened. They spend the night talking about the curious twists and turns that life had taken, expressing their horror and sympathy and agonizing over what they can do to pull Kuldeep out of the quicksand that threatens to swallow him.
