A Life Incomplete, page 8
Saroj speaks with a passion that springs from the very depths of her heart. But Kuldeep appears unmoved, her words having virtually no impact on him.
‘Saroj ji, I truly appreciate your infinite kindness and sympathy but I have nothing to give back. I am quite empty,’ he insists.
‘I will fill the void,’ she responds unflinchingly.
‘Alas, Saroj ji, that’s a void only Satwant can fill.’ Kuldeep sighs and presses his hand against his chest. He seems to be trying his best to control the fires raging inside him, to prevent the embers from escaping into the world outside.
‘I will become Satwant for you,’ she says with such determination that Kuldeep is momentarily jolted out of his stupor.
‘But…but my wounds are still so fresh, so raw that even the touch of the softest cotton causes unbearable pain.’
‘How long will it take before it can bear the touch of this soft piece of cotton?’ she enquires. The compassion and anxiety in her voice are reflected in her eyes too.
‘It’s hard to say,’ Kuldeep looks at the love in her eyes and intones. ‘I get the feeling that this pain is going to be my sustenance for the rest of my life. I have begun to develop a sort of liking for it. I have no desire that my wounds should heal; in fact, I am happy to let them bleed…’
Observing the lines of disappointment on her face, he says, ‘I had no idea that you have so much feeling for me. You really do seem to be turning into my Satwant for me. But…but…my salvation.…?’
She brightens visibly and responds, ‘Can’t you nurture the hope that I can make your life blossom once again?’
There is a tremor in Kuldeep’s voice as he says, ‘My good Saroj! Please don’t try to extract a promise from me yet. Who knows? Your love just might succeed in pulling me out of this abyss?’
‘As you wish, then,’ she replies, dejected. ‘Just call me whenever you are ready. I will gladly dive into the abyss to pull you out.’
Kuldeep bows his head in silent gratitude. It is pitch dark as they get up from the grass and dust their clothes.
‘Let me escort you back to your place,’ he says as they start to walk towards Babu Mohalla.
12
After seeing off Saroj at her place, Kuldeep leaves Babu Mohalla and takes the road towards his house. It is a dark night. Saroj’s comely face, her evident affection and anxiety for his well-being, and her soft voice tug at some remote corner of his heart. It is as though something new was trying to sneak into his heart without his being quite aware of it. But his defences have been fortified by the sermons of his guru and whatever it is that he is feeling fails to penetrate beyond the surface.
Barely a hundred yards after Babu Mohalla, Kuldeep leaves the main street and turns towards the market. It isn’t much of a saving in terms of distance but it takes him via the Singh Sabha Gurudwara located in the market. Having made it a habit over the last few months to stop by the gurudwara whenever possible, he finds his feet subconsciously making the detour.
He has barely entered the market area when he hears the melodious notes of a hymn wafting towards him. The congregation at the gurudwara was still enjoying the evening session of devotional music, he notes. The words of the hymn start to become audible as he quickens his steps towards the gurudwara.
The fish can’t survive its separation from water…
He pauses to soak in the sweetness of the melody, the pangs of separation that it invokes, the metaphor of a fish detached from water, a devotee separated from his Lord, a lover from his beloved…
By the time he reaches the gurudwara, the refrain ‘the fish can’t survive its separation from water’, playing over and over again, is reverberating in his ears. He can hear his own beloved, trapped as she was in the jaws of Death, echoing ‘Water can live without fish but a fish cannot survive without water’.
Leaning for support against the entrance of the gurudwara, he finds himself staring at Satwant, unable to remove her skeletal frame from his mind’s eye. At the same time, Saroj’s face also appears intermittently in his consciousness. He feels like a swimmer struggling in the currents of a river with one of its banks being decorated for a wedding even as the other plays host to a funeral pyre. Powerless against the currents, he oscillates between the two banks, drifting close to one before being pulled away towards the other.
Again, he hears the verse:
Trapped in the fisherman’s net weeps
The fish, separated from its water
He sees a luminous fish trapped in the net flung carelessly on the bank by the fisherman as he leaves his boat. The fish writhes in agony but the fisherman is completely oblivious of its plight as he drags the net behind him. The fish disappears from his sight and Kuldeep is buffeted by powerful waves of anguish. Crashing against his sinking heart, they envelop him in their darkness and he finds himself struggling to stay afloat. ‘Hold my hand,’ he hears a voice plead. ‘I will lead you out of this abyss.’
The gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder shatters his reverie. ‘Why don’t you come inside? You will hear guru ji properly. It is the purest nectar.’
It is Chattar Singh, the carpenter. Like Kuldeep, he is a devotee of the saint and a regular at his congregation. Eyes closed as he plays the harmonium, the saint is singing ‘The fish can’t survive its separation…’ and explaining its meaning to a rapt audience.
The sheer beauty of the hymn, the power of the saint’s oration and the devotion that he commands from his followers create a poignant atmosphere. Kuldeep is enveloped in its aura as he immerses himself in its bliss.
13
It is about 11 in the morning. The monsoon is approaching and there has been an intermittent drizzle which has brought the temperature down a couple of notches. The scalding heat of the Indian summer appears a lot less oppressive as Babu Ganga Vishan reads a novel, reclining in the comfort of an easy chair in his room. The servant has been under the weather for a couple of days and Saroj is managing the kitchen in his absence.
Sitting on her haunches in the small kitchen, Saroj arranges a handful of slim logs so that they would light up properly in the hearth. She has a matchbox in her left hand and a matchstick poised between her thumb and index finger. Her attention, though, is riveted on an unrelated activity around the high ventilator window in the kitchen. A small wasp, of a brilliant yellow hue, is buzzing in an ever louder crescendo near the glass pane of the window. It flits from one end of the kitchen to the other, always returning to the same window to probe an opening, an outlet for an escape.
Saroj is drawn towards the plight of the wasp, as she gazes at it with little heed to the growing pile of burnt-out matches near her feet, or to the rapidly emptying matchbox in her hand. Getting up, she opens the door with the wire mesh, hoping to provide a larger exit to the trapped wasp as it continues to crash against the walls and against the glass pane of the window. But her noble intent is of no avail. The wasp continues in its aimless trajectories, ignoring the open door, and buzzes in frustration against the impenetrable walls. ‘What a foolish creature!’ Saroj wonders. ‘It can’t accept the confines of this kitchen, nor does it take the obvious way out of it. What does it really want?’
To prevent flies from entering the kitchen, she closes the door and turns her attention to the hearth. Placing a pot with some vegetables on the fire, she settles down on a low stool beside the hearth and finds herself getting swept away by the tide of her own thoughts. The logs, meanwhile, have come alive with a crackling, crimson flame and the burning smell of overcooked vegetables pull her out of her thoughts. She gets up to add some more water to the pot, grumbling about a fire that is slow to start and then picks up so quickly that the vegetables are caught unawares and end up being burnt!
The meandering flow of her musings is again interrupted. This time it is a stronger smell, not of burning vegetables but of cloth. A handful of restless embers have escaped the confines of the hearth to land on a duster that is now smouldering with an acrid smell. She brushes the ember off the cloth and reflects that it is best to keep your inner flames under check. Even the smallest spark can trigger a fire and lead to all manner of damage.
The wasp has again started to dart around the kitchen, buzzing louder with every failed attempt at freedom. Saroj goes across to open the door and this time the wasp spots the opening and makes its escape. Looking at its receding form, she wonders if the time has come for her to similarly open the portals of her own heart so that the one who has been occupying every bit of its space could also exit. But who was to assure that he would leave even if the door were left ajar. She stirs the pot with a steel ladle and, after satisfying herself that the dish was ready, removes the pot from the hearth and replaces it with the griddle to make some chapattis. While the griddle heats up, she turns her attention to preparing the dough.
A determined set of footsteps approaches the kitchen. As she glances over her shoulder to check, Bhapa Waryam Singh has materialized outside the door. He enters the kitchen with his customary informality.
‘Sat Sri Akal, Bhapa ji’ Saroj greets and moves the low stool towards him.
Waryam Singh eases himself on the stool and comes straight to the point.
‘Look here, girl. You’ve again started interacting with him? Haven’t you already suffered enough?’ he chides. ‘Listen to me, Saroj. There’s no point getting upset with what I am saying. I have known you since you were a child. You’ve grown up playing in my lap. And you have such a pure heart that anyone who points a finger at you will be accursed. But you can’t afford to be so naïve. Beware, Saroj, of the terrible time through which our society is passing. It is nothing short of Kalyug, the dark age of evil. People seem to revel in the misery of others. Someone’s house is on fire and what does the bystander do? It is the blessings of Basantar, the Fire God, he says! Not a word of sympathy for the owner, for the pain he suffers because his house is burning. That’s how we’ve become. We will spit at the moon if we can, though we know that some of the spit will probably fall back on our own face. But that’s not going to deter us, is it? Just think about it! You were with him till ten last night, alone and in a secluded place. What if someone had seen you? Can you imagine the salacious tales they would have spread about you?’
Waryam Singh doesn’t believe in beating about the bush. If he wants to convey something, he does so directly and without holding anything back. The only thing he ever tries to conceal is his own goodness.
Within a few minutes of his entry, he has spoken his mind about the issue that has been bothering him. Saroj would have been utterly mortified if anyone else had criticized her in this manner, or had dared to speak so candidly about such a delicate matter. But Waryam Singh is different. He could be a son who acted like a daughter or a brother who was like a sister. It is easy to confide in him. Besides, he has been aware of her secret for a fairly long time and Saroj has discussed it with him on several occasions in the past. But his unexpected reproach brings a touch of crimson to her face and she lowers her eyes.
‘Are you angry that I brought this up, Saroj?’ Waryam Singh lifts up her chin and asks.
‘Of course not,’ she responds. ‘How can I get angry with you, Bhapa ji? I realize that you are only concerned about my welfare, but…’
‘I know what that “but” means, Saroj. I am not a child. I believe that there is nothing that anyone can do to save Kuldeep. He is determined to become a hermit. He’s completely lost his mind, that fool. Blessed be the True Word of the Guru. These charlatan saints…they are the real problem…playing havoc with the lives of others and enjoying the sight of their homes burning. And Kuldeep appears to be completely brainwashed by this so-called saint. Goes around telling anybody who cares to listen that he plans to renounce his home and hearth to become an ascetic, that he will join some dera and spend the rest of his life in prayer and meditation. I told him that his aging parents need him, that caring for them at this stage of their lives is the highest form of worship. But who is going to change his mind? I made the mistake of raising the matter with him this morning and he really got after me. He had the nerve to accuse me of pretending to be a good Samaritan while…I thought for a while that I should challenge him, ask him what he meant by that. But I decided to let it be. As you sow, so shall you reap.’
Having made three or four chapattis, Saroj sets them in a plate, adds some vegetables from the pot and interjects, ‘Do wait for a minute, Bhapa ji. Let me take this plate across to Bau ji so that he can finish his meal. He had mentioned that he has to go somewhere.’
‘Here, give it to me,’ Waryam Singh says, taking the plate from her hand and going over to Ganga Vishan.
‘Why don’t you have some too,’ Saroj offers when he returns. ‘After that, we can relax and chat to our hearts’ content.’
‘No thanks. I don’t feel hungry right now. I’m also in a bit of a rush today. Do carry on with your work and we can keep chatting,’ he responds, picking up the threads of the conversation again. ‘Saroj, I understand the state of your mind. But you must recognize that the path that you are pursuing is utterly futile and it will be best to abandon it. I believe you and Kuldeep must have discussed this matter when you were with him last night. I happened to see you together when I passed that way.’
‘Bhapa ji, Satwant assigned an important responsibility to me,’ she murmurs, her voice trailing off.
‘I am aware of that, Saroj. Satwant also said a lot of things to me. She even asked me to prevail upon you and ensure that their home remains alive and inhabited.’ Waryam sighs. ‘But Saroj, I know Kuldeep better than you. You have only seen one aspect of his heart, while I have observed him from every different angle.’
Saroj listens silently, trying to gauge the unusually solemn look in his eyes.
‘Kuldeep has one major failing in his character that hasn’t yet come to your attention,’ he continues. ‘I have known him for many years now. There was a time when we may even have become close friends. But this flaw of his persuaded me to step back.’
‘What flaw, Bhapa ji?’ she enquires anxiously.
‘He has no control over himself. He has no clarity of purpose, no firmness of mind. When he desires something, he must have it at any cost. But it doesn’t take long for him to get bored with it and act as though he has never been interested in it. I’ve seen this trait in him since he was a child. Have you ever been to his old room on the ground floor of their house? It is nothing less than a pawnbroker’s shop. He’d buy a piece of furniture or some other item for the house, use it for a while before losing interest in it. A month later, he’d be off to the market to buy something else. Anything that catches his fancy, he has to acquire. Whether he needs it or not is secondary to him. He’s had this obsessive trait in him for many years. After buying all manner of objects, he was suddenly bitten by a new bug of simplicity and reserve. So off went all the furniture and other stuff to the auction house to be put on sale. This also applies to his dress. He caught the English fad and started to dress in fancy jackets and trousers. This lasted for a while before he announced that wearing those clothes was nothing more than aping the British. I’ve seen these fads of his so many times now!’ Waryam recalls wearily.
Saroj feels a rising sense of irritation and distaste over his description but makes no attempt to check him. He continues, ‘He’s been like this since he was a kid. It is his impetuousness that has prevented him from settling into any profession. He thought he wanted to be in the textiles business, so he started a clothing merchant’s establishment but gave it up within months. Next, he set up a general merchandise store but that too didn’t last and he moved on to open a grocery store. He’s tried so many different things but never sticks with anything long enough to make it work. This volatile and restless nature of his is also reflected in his human relationships – in friendships and even in love. You may see him today, ready to sacrifice his own life for the sake of a friend. And ten days later, he can behave as though he has never seen that very person. Over the years, he has made many friends, and lost many too. And the same applies to his behaviour towards you. After all, he was in love with you, wasn’t he? So how could he fall so easily for someone else?’
Saroj finds this unpalatable and objects, ‘But Bhapa ji, under the circumstances what else could he have done?’
‘That’s just nonsense and excuses,’ Waryam Singh replies tersely. ‘Had he been disinclined to marry Satwant, he could have objected and his father could have done precious little about it. Look at the present situation and tell me if he is paying any heed to the wishes of his parents! They’ve been trying to persuade him for months now that he ought to get married again. But what does he do? Says he wants to go off and become a hermit!’
‘But Bhapa ji…towards Satwant he was genuinely…’
‘The brilliance of the full moon lasts four days. And then…? Darkness!’ Waryam Singh retorts. ‘Wait for a while and you’ll see that Satwant doesn’t even figure in his dreams. Please don’t take me amiss, Saroj. I don’t mean to sound overly critical about him. Poor fellow can’t help it. That’s how he is!’
Saroj finds it difficult to digest such censure about Kuldeep. Such unfair criticism of one who permeates every pore of her body! She is hurt and wants Waryam Singh to stop. But unable to muster the courage, she tries to suppress her own feelings. Her mind, though, has started to wander into unknown areas, wondering if there was a trace of jealousy underlying Waryam Singh’s harshness.
Oblivious to such concerns, Waryam Singh continues, ‘You can expect a person like him to shower love and affection upon you in the short term. Just don’t expect that he will remain faithful to you for any length of time. Would he have left Saroj for another person if he possessed an iota of faithfulness in his fibre? Does he see the beauty of the mind? Or is it just the beauty of the skin that attracts him?’
