A Life Incomplete, page 22
They are getting ready to go to bed when Ahmed Khan suggests, ‘You know, Kuldeep, I had taken three days’ leave to go to Peshawar. Now that we’ve sorted everything out, why don’t we all take a break for a couple of days?’
‘Well, I’d left Peshawar for a trip that might have lasted my lifetime but I am ready to compromise and limit it to a couple of days if that’s what suits you,’ Kuldeep jokes.
They debate for a while before deciding to go across to Amritsar. Kuldeep goes to bed with the feeling that it wasn’t late at night but the dawn of a new day in his life.
As the sun rises the next morning, its warm rays are like a balm over the bruised hearts of Kuldeep and Prakash. They have a leisurely morning and soon after lunch, the group is ready for its excursion to Amritsar.
37
Saroj feels strangely dispirited after Kuldeep’s departure. She has been trying to deny Kuldeep even the tiniest corner in her heart and yet, this incident has again ignited some dormant embers. It has created a fresh surge of affection and sympathy that is undoing her resolve. Images of his tearful face standing in her doorway refuse to leave her. She is annoyed with herself for treating him so harshly.
She feels deeply uneasy with each passing hour, unable to banish the sinking feeling that she has pushed him towards some kind of disaster.
I hope he doesn’t do anything dire, she prays. Pacing furiously up and down her room, she wants her feet to fly her towards him, to save his life, each time she remembers his parting words, ‘You may not see me again in this lifetime…’ What did he mean when he said that? Did he want to end his life or merely go off to some faraway place?
She takes out the notebook from her bookshelf, the one in which Kuldeep’s photo lay all these years, and starts to leaf through its pages. They are replete with memories old and new. Picking up her pencil, she scribbles something on the inside cover, a note perhaps that would jog her memory at some later date. She then turns her attention to a bottle of glue and starts to painstakingly assemble the pieces of the photo on a piece of paper. After an hour’s effort, the photo is largely complete but there are still a couple of missing pieces. Their absence leaves a gap in the picture.
Putting the pieces together, she wonders if she has also broken Kuldeep’s heart into small parts resembling these little bits of paper. What’s the point of trying to join these lifeless pieces of paper together if I can’t do anything to fix his broken heart? Oh God! Kuldeep!
The following day, Babu Ganga Vishan calls his lawyer so that he can prepare his will.
It is nine in the evening and images of a depressed Kuldeep heading towards his death continue their macabre dance before Saroj’s eyes. She turns around in her bed and buries her head in her pillow to shake the thoughts away. It works for a while but she can now hear her heart cursing her. What you did was nothing less than pushing a man from the top of a cliff, she accuses herself. So why should you be surprised if he ends up dead? Did he deserve to die just because he made some mistakes? Anyone can make a mistake but you don’t hang him for it. You try to reason things out, to resolve matters with love and empathy. Why didn’t you do that, Saroj?
Unable to stay still, she gets up and calls her servant. ‘I need to go out for a while, Mangtu. Come with me.’
Accompanied by the lad, she starts to walk briskly towards Kuldeep’s house. The road seems longer than usual, or maybe she senses that she is running against time. She hails a tonga. Stopping in front of his house, she asks Mangtu to knock at the door and call him. He returns within moments. ‘It’s locked,’ he reports.
‘Locked?’ she exclaims. Alighting from the tonga, she walks across to the naan bai’s shop. Kuldeep had left for the railway station a little while ago, she learns. He had a trunk and some bedding with him. Some more questions reveal that he had cleared out of the house, sold all his stuff and left the key in the naan bai’s custody. The naan bai had been asked to hand it over to the landlord the following day.
Saroj knows that the Calcutta Mail was the main train leaving Peshawar at night. There are still a few minutes left before the scheduled departure time of ten. She clambers back into the tonga. ‘Quickly! Take me to the station. I have a train to catch and there is very little time. You’ll get a bonus if I make it in time.’
Spurred by the lure of a bonus, the tongawallah makes liberal use of his whip as the tonga clatters through the empty streets. It seems ready to fly off the road but that still isn’t quick enough for Saroj. Hurry up please, she urges even as she hangs on to the sidebar for dear life.
The tonga is at the gate of the station when she hears the departure whistle of the train. ‘Wait here for me,’ she instructs Mangtu, dashing towards the platform, ignoring the gatekeeper’s queries about her ticket.
Once inside the station, she dodges past piles of baggage, crates of fruit, and people returning after seeing off their friends and relatives. Alas! As she reaches the platform, she can see the back of the last coach receding in the distance. She stands rooted to her spot near a tea stall, her eyes gazing down the railway tracks long after the train has disappeared. She feels that a piece of her had detached itself and left her forever. Her head spins as she keeps peering into the distance, trying to focus at the point where the two tracks seem to converge.
Forcing herself to return to the world around her, she notices a railway official looking closely at her as he goes past with a red lantern. Further down the platform, a couple of porters are pulling a heavy handcart, its frail wooden wheels protesting at every turn. Across the tracks, a lonely engine chugs desultorily towards the railway sheds behind the station. The platform itself has emptied out, making her feel strangely alone in a place that was packed with hordes of passengers and their friends and relatives only a few minutes back.
Her feet feel like lead as she drags herself back towards the tonga. She settles on the back seat and lets out a deep sigh of despair.
She remains forlorn and restless for a long time after returning home. The night appears endless and she pulls herself out of her bed well before the sun is ready to make its appearance on the horizon. Years of participation in religious service have taught her that when dark clouds of gloom stretch across the sky, when you see nothing but despair, an honest prayer is your only hope for solace. She knows, too, that not only is she the principal accused in the case but has also pronounced herself guilty. The only court of appeal still open is that of the Almighty.
Heading straight for the gurudwara, she stands for a long while, praying silently.
38
Waryam Singh gets off the train at Peshawar, dejected that his journey has been such a complete failure. He hasn’t been able to find a single clue that might lead him to Prakash. He had spent days on end in Lahore, visiting all the popular haunts that Prakash had spoken about, methodically combing each street, talking to hundreds of persons but without a shred of luck. He knows that she isn’t in Peshawar because he had confirmed that she had bought a ticket for Lahore and had, in fact, boarded the train. But Lahore is hardly a village or even a small town where you can enquire about the whereabouts of a missing person on the streets. Trying to look for an individual in a sprawling metropolis is no less than searching for a needle in a haystack.
Recalling that Prakash had also spent some time in Delhi where she was known as Putlibai, he decided to extend his search there. Once there, he trawled the streets and alleys of the historic city, going around the fabled mosques and forts, hurrying past bustling markets and sprawling havelis until he meandered into areas so disreputable that a visitor was surely putting his standing and honour at risk. And for someone like Waryam Singh, whose reputation had already been called into question, this was a positively hazardous undertaking no matter how noble his intent.
He knows that the only remaining hope for tracking Prakash is Kuldeep himself. The prospect of going across to meet Kuldeep on this fraught subject is not a pleasant one. The conversation is bound to be difficult and maybe unpleasant too. But this is the last resort and Waryam Singh is hardly one to be deterred by such obstacles. Leaving the station, he heads straight for Kuldeep’s house. Finding the door locked, he goes across to the neighbour’s and learns that he had vacated the place and left for the station the previous night. Further inquiries with the naan bai reveal that he was planning to visit his friend in Lahore, possibly the same Pathan couple who had come a few days back and had left with his son.
Waryam Singh’s head reels under the onslaught of bad news. At the end of his interrogation of the naan bai, he concludes that Kuldeep has left Peshawar for good. What is the boy up to now, he frets. Is he off to become a hermit or something, having left his home and given away his child? But then, why has he gone to Lahore?
He recalls a conversation that he had several months ago with Gian Kaur about a friend of Kuldeep’s who is a constable in the jail in Lahore. But where will that trail lead? Preoccupied with thoughts of both Prakash and Kuldeep, he slowly makes his way towards Babu Mohalla.
He had promised Saroj that he would come to see her as soon as he returned to Peshawar. During his depressing odyssey in Lahore and Delhi, he had often cheered himself up with thoughts of their imminent encounter, their first since that exchange of letters. And yet, now he finds his joy buried under a mountain of worry. As he approaches Saroj’s doorstep, he knows that lines of concern on his face overshadowed the excitement that he has so eagerly anticipated. He is overcome by a profound sense of fatigue as he enters the house and learns from the servant that Saroj had gone to the gurudwara. As Mangtu sets off to inform her about his arrival, Waryam Singh goes towards Babu Ganga Vishan’s room.
He is reclining in his overstuffed chair, gazing pensively at the ceiling. ‘Sat Sri Akal,’ Waryam Singh greets as he enters the room.
Ganga Vishan’s eyes light up. ‘So you are back, Waryam Singh? You are going to live a thousand years. It’s barely an hour since I asked Saroj about you. I was wondering that I haven’t seen you since ages. Are you well? Come, make yourself comfortable and tell me.’
Waryam Singh pulls up a chair close to him and replies vaguely about various preoccupations.
Looking affectionately at him, Ganga Vishan says, ‘Waryam Singh, from this day I want to call you my own son.’
‘But Babu ji, I’ve always been like your son, haven’t I?’
‘True, but today I am giving a legal shape to our relationship,’ he says, reaching towards the cabinet to pick up a rolled-up sheet of paper and pass it on to Waryam Singh.
‘What is this, Babu ji?’ Waryam Singh takes the paper and glances at it casually.
‘It’s my will.’
‘Your will?’ he asks without reading the paper.
‘Yes, my son.’ Ganga Vishan’s eyes shine with fondness. ‘Saroj has spoken at length about herself and about you. Listen to me, son! Along with this house and everything else that I own, I am also handing over to you the most precious piece of my heart. Saroj has been the anchor of my life. I’ve lasted all these years simply by looking at her and admiring her virtues. Her mother, too, was a true angel. Devastated by her untimely demise, I sought to comfort myself with the help of liquor. Poor Saroj! You might consider her the daughter of an alcoholic but she is also the offspring of a goddess.’
Pausing for a moment to wipe his eyes, he continues, ‘Waryam Singh, Saroj is truly a very precious treasure. I know that I don’t need to say this because you are one who already appreciates her qualities. As for me, all I want is that the two of you should enjoy a long and happy life together. I will be delighted if the Anand Karaj can be performed this week itself. You know, Waryam Singh, that I have always been fairly conservative and rigid in my views about issues like caste, community, status and marriage. But I’ve realized that I can’t mortgage my daughter’s future and sacrifice her happiness at the altar of my orthodoxy.’
Tears well up in his eyes again as he speaks of his daughter. ‘As per the terms of this will, you will be the rightful owner of this house and everything in it. I also have around nine thousand rupees in the bank. Together, this should amount to a sum of about twenty-five thousand rupees. I hope that it will carry you through your lifetimes. As for me, who can predict anything about this life of ours? I am pretty sure that my tenure on this planet is going to end fairly soon.’
Waryam Singh bows respectfully before Ganga Vishan to signal his consent. Before he can say anything, the old man indicates that he is tired and wants to rest. Waryam Singh helps him get up from the chair and leads him to his bed.
Stepping out, he goes into Saroj’s room. She isn’t back yet and he starts looking at the books on her bookshelf. His eyes fall on a notebook with a blue cover. As he opens it, he comes across the carefully pasted pieces of a photograph on the inside cover. Two or three empty spaces suggest that some pieces are still missing. He can make out that it is a childhood photo of Kuldeep. The pot of glue on the table and the dampness on the cover of the book are evidence that the photo has been freshly pasted on it.
Unable to resist himself, he turns the pages of the notebook. They are the pages of a personal diary, each entry clearly marked with the date on which it had been written. Long paragraphs of prose are occasionally interspersed with poems. Much of the notebook is dedicated to memories and incidents pertaining to Kuldeep, but Waryam Singh also begins to make a frequent appearance in the latter pages. Several of the recent incidents involving him and Saroj are recounted in pleasant detail. His eyes glisten as he reads one of the last entries:
… I dedicate my life, my very existence to that noble soul, that angel. The purity of his life has transformed me from mere glass into gold. I have set aside any notion of fear or hesitation and boldly discussed everything with Bauji. How wonderful, that he has overcome his orthodox views and blessed my proposed marriage. He also plans to call the lawyer soon to prepare his will so that he can bequeath all his assets to my future husband.
Waryam Singh is about to return the notebook to the bookshelf when he notices a more recent entry scribbled on the inside of the back cover. After making sure that Saroj isn’t back, he starts to read:
Kuldeep showed up so unexpectedly today, the same Kuldeep that I had banished from my thoughts. My perception that the love that I had once nurtured for him had turned into hatred also proved to be wrong. Crushed by the burden of misfortunes and the angst over his own follies, the poor fellow looked utterly miserable as he stood at my doorstep and wept. He begged forgiveness and pleaded for my love. But how could I forgive the man who had trampled all over the honour of that purest of souls? I wouldn’t forgive anyone who did that! So I turned him down. He wept some more, swallowed the humiliation I inflicted upon him and left. And as he walked away in despair, he took all my peace of mind with him. I was so sure that I had managed to expel him from my heart, not knowing that this thief had managed to hide away in some remote corner from where he appeared today and…
There isn’t an inch of space left on the cardboard cover of the notebook and as the words trail off into nothingness, it is clear that the narrative has remained incomplete.
Waryam Singh puts the notebook back and sits down to wait for Saroj.
39
Saroj is deep in meditation at the gurudwara when Mangtu taps her shoulder to inform her that Waryam Singh was waiting at home. Her mind is in turmoil, all her prayers focused on one objective. Please, my Waheguru, please save Kuldeep. Save my Kuldeep, please.
Getting up from her prayers, she walks home with Mangtu. The absence of any sleep the previous night, combined with the relentless build-up of fear and anxiety, has taken its toll. She doesn’t want Waryam Singh to see any of this. She had prepared herself to greet him with unbridled joy but worry about Kuldeep had cast a pall of gloom on her countenance.
Despite her efforts to force a cheerful smile on her face as she approaches her home, Waryam Singh greets her with the query, ‘What’s wrong, Saroj? Are you unwell? Your face looks so pale!’
‘Nothing major,’ she replies. ‘I’ve been a bit under the weather for the last couple of days.’ Pulling up a chair beside him, she asks, ‘When did you get back?’
Waryam Singh recounts the details of his trip, his futile search of countless streets, alleys and by-lanes and his misgivings about Prakash’s fate. Turning towards her, he says, ‘My apologies, Saroj, I couldn’t come to you as soon as I received your letter…’
‘No need for any apology,’ she interjects. ‘Your absence has doubled my respect for you. I understand even more clearly that you don’t live for yourself but for the well-being of others. That’s why I have surrendered my heart to you. Have you seen Bau ji yet?’
‘I did,’ Waryam Singh replies in a tone that reflects his appreciation of the older man. ‘I had assumed that Babu ji would balk upon receiving your request. I am simply bowled over by the readiness with which he agreed, and by his generosity. But Saroj, I need to sit down and have a long chat with you. I must share with you details about my life that neither you nor anyone else knows.’
‘Please tell me, Bhapa…’ Saroj checks herself from addressing him as an older brother.
‘So listen, Saroj. I come from such a lowly position that it may be unreasonable for me to aspire for a flower that is perched on a lofty branch.’
‘You? And lowly?’ Saroj flares up. ‘No matter where you come from, you will always be on a high pedestal for me. And remember that Saroj, the lotus flower, is also born in fetid waters, not on lofty branches.’
‘That is the stuff of poetry, Saroj. I am a person of extremely limited means.’
‘Enough!’ Saroj protests. ‘I don’t want to hear this. Please be candid and tell me that, like Kuldeep, you also want to reject me.’
