Our Favourite Indian Stories (24 page)

But now Ketan had taken the decision. He should once again, possibly for the last time, contact Seema. He should tell her, 'Seema! Come, let us destroy these letters together. The past should be permanently destroyed so that the moment you consider to be your moment of weakness may also be destroyed forever. May it never cast its shadow on our children!'

He had not spoken to Seema over the phone for all these years. Yet he had noted down her number in all the telephone diaries which he changed regularly every two years. He had carefully noted all the changes in her number that had taken place over the years. Her latest number was also there in his diary. With trembling fingers he dialled it. The sweet sound of Seema's voice stroked his ears. It had changed over the years. It was slightly heavier than before, but it was Seema for sure. Hesitating for a moment, he felt like putting down the receiver. He had muttered 'Hello' and had then paused.

'Yes! Go on, Ketanbhai! Why did you pause?' laughed Seema softly.

'You ... you... you recognized my voice?' Ketan stuttered.

'Why not? Pausing thus after saying hello and sounding confused is not new to you. It's an old habit of yours' she teased.

For a moment, Ketan felt ten years younger. But immediately he came back to the present. In a dry tone he explained to her his idea — 'Seema! Let us meet once again for the last time. Let us both destroy those letters.'

Seema remained silent for awhile. Then she agreed. Once this agreement was reached, the decision to meet the following Saturday evening to destroy the letters was made swiftly enough.

It had been a Saturday when he had first met Seema, Ketan remembered with a start. The day when both had expressed their feelings to each other had also been a Saturday. And now, the day of burying their past would also be on a Saturday. Why, why should all this have happened on Saturday evenings only? Ketan decided that it must be the workings of a Power greater than them.

The clock on the wall was ticking as usual. Its rhythmic tick-tock continued as usual. The cyclical journey of the sun, the moon and even the earth continued as before. The date of the calendar changed as usual. Ketan thought... I wish all this would stop so that the coming of Saturday could be delayed. But almost the next instant he thought - how nice it would be if Saturday evening came and passed off quickly. It would be better to get it over with.

Saturday came. His eyes fell on Seema. Even after so many years, she had not changed much. But the imprint of passing years was quite visible on her face. Seema too looked at him intently. Ketan smiled hesitantly. Seema too smiled. But their smiles did not appear natural. Both were aware of this. Each hoped the other would start the conversation.

'You ... you have lost weight!' Finally it was Seema who managed to break the daunting silence.

'Really?' Ketan replied.

'We are meeting today for a specific reason' added Ketan.

'Yes, I know!' Seema sounded nonchalant.

'You have...?'

'What?'

'I mean, the letters that can prove embarrassing to our children?'

'I have brought them.'

'I too have brought them' said Ketan.

The road ahead of them stared blankly at them. Where should they go? Neither of them could decide. Many years back—it seemed ages back now, they had walked aimlessly together... without deciding the direction ahead, until one day, a silent wish had started fluttering its wings in their hearts.

Years later, when they were walking together again, it felt that their magical bird was hopping without legs. Why, even their time together seemed to be hopping forward, as if experiencing strange obstructions in its natural flow.

'These... letters....' Ketan repeated.

'Hmm' Seema nodded.

It was Ketan who finally took the decision. He hailed a taxi. Seema got in quietly.

'Take us to the beach,' Ketan instructed the taxi driver.

As the taxi began to move ahead, Seema looked out of the window.

There was a certain stillness on the beach. A few rocks on the shore separated it from the onslaught of the waves. The place was practically deserted. Ketan began walking towards a rock closest to the waves. Seema quietly followed him. The
pallu
of her saree was fluttering in the sea breeze. Occasionally, it touched Ketan and he would move away, self-consciouly. Seema would gather her
pallu
by her side. But after a while it would start fluttering again. They sat down on a rock. Silence enveloped them.

'So many years have passed, isn't it?' muttered Seema.

'Humm!' Ketan whispered softly, touching the bunch of letters in the pink kerchief. Then he held it forward towards Seema. 'Those years are preserved on these letters. They should be...'

'Why did you stop?' asked Seema looking at him. She opened her purse, took out a bunch of letters and said softly, 'The past is also alive in these letters.'

Gently, Ketan touched Seema's letters. He noticed that Seema also was stroking the letters with the
pallu
of her
sari
.

'Enough! Now it should not live any more' said Ketan decisively. 'Those letters...'

'What?' asked Seema, sitting up.

'Throw away these letters... my past... into the sea.'

'And what about my past that is with you?'

'I will throw that too.'

Seema stared quietly at the bunch.

'Okay, I think that's the right thing to do!' She paused for a while and said, 'I have a request. Let us both close our eyes and throw these letters into the sea together.'

Ketan did not say anything. He closed his eyes and held out the letter in his hands, towards the sea. Seema too had closed her eyes. A moment passed. Ketan opened his eyes. Seema too opened her eyes. Both had the letters in their hands.

'Seema!' said Ketan with a sigh, 'Please return my letters to me and take back yours.'

'What's on your mind?'

'That you immerse your feelings into the sea yourself. I won't be able to do so.'

Seema looked at him.....A wave of deep sadness swam in her eyes.

'Perhaps I won't be able to either. Take back your letters and throw them into the sea yourself.'

They exchanged their letters. In the process of doing so, their hands touched lightly, awakening old feelings.

Ketan again closed his eyes. When he opened them, Seema was still sitting with her eyes closed. The bunch of letters was still in her hand.

'Seema!'

'Humm'

'We have met here today to bury our past. This is our last meeting. It is getting late now.'

'I know. It was you who called me for this purpose. So why are you delaying?'

'I want to make a request.'

'What?'

'You...'

'You what?'

Ketan remained quiet.

'You were saying something' said Seema, in a bewildered tone, 'Why don't you ever finish what you begin?' She appeared to be unable to face him.

'Very soon we shall be completing 50 years, Seema.'

'We know each other's birth dates very well, Ketan' replied Seema.

Everything around them was quiet except for the sound of the waves lashing futilely at the rocks.

'Take these. Please immerse both bunches into the sea.' Seema held out her bunch towards Ketan.

'I too want to make a request'. Ketan looked deeply at Seema's face and extended his letters towards her.

Seema's lips quivered. Her eyes became moist. Ketan was shaken. He extended his hand towards Seema to take back her letters and closed his eyes. He had taken back the letters that Seema had written to him. But...

How had his letters gone back into Seema's hand? How had the letters got exchanged?

Ketan opened his eyes. Seema was crying silently with her eyes closed.

'Seema,' Ketan whispered, his lips quivering.

Slowly, Seema rested her head on his shoulder. Sighing audibly she said, 'I won't be able to do it.'

Who had said it? Seema or Ketan?

Gently, he put his hand on Seema's shoulder. Seema accepted the support of his hands as if it were the most natural thing on earth.

The silent wish had spread its wings again.

Translated by
Ms. Neelam Kumar

and
Taral Prakash

Kundanika Kapadia

She glanced at the sky from the window. She had so arranged her bed that through the window she could have a good view of the
neem
tree in the courtyard. Very often, the boughs of the
neem
tree swung violently in the wind and seemed to be trying to touch the window. Through the gaps between the boughs she could get a glimpse of the blue sky and bits of clouds occasionally floating across the sky. At times a noisy bird would come and perch on the boughs. The bird with a long tail, may be
doodhraj
. Normally that bird lives amidst dense foliage of trees and is not easily seen. But the bird came and sat in such a way as though it had come to visit her.

There was much excitement in the house. Deepankar and Maria were to arrive by the afternoon flight. Deepankar was her youngest son. He had gone to the States seven years ago. He had married an American girl. He had often written to say that he wanted to come home, but had not. But now that the mother was on her deathbed, he was coming with his wife. An American girl. She wondered what she would be like.

She smiled faintly to herself. It was a song by Tagore, rendered into Gujarati by the poet Meghani —
'I wonder what she would have been, my mother. I don't remember in the least.'
In her own time she had pored over Tagore's writing. Tagore and Yeats and Ibsen. On Sundays, she would go with friends to the riverbank or to the forest. They would eat and drink, rest under the trees, sing songs and then they would recite some poems aloud... Tagore's
'I shall not let you go
...' and William Blake's
'To see the world in a grain of sand...
' And
'I will arise and go now.... to see where night and day the waters of the lake pat the bank
— that poem of Yeats they had almost learnt by heart. And the poems of Masefield —
'Give me a pathway and sky overhead... a bonfire
by the roadside when it's cold... again the dawn and travel once more....'

She had lived in the midst of beauty in myriad forms. She had found life always worth living. And now the present generation... her elder son and his wife Maya, her middle son and his wife Chhaya... she wondered if they ever read Tagore, Kalidas, Shakespeare? As for Nietzsche and Bergson, they had probably not even heard their names! She had kept her favourite books in the bookcase in her room. Right from
Creative Evolution to Fourth Way, Ekottoarashari and Rabindra Veena
..... and the combined anthology of John Donne and Blake... there were many books. But her daughter-in-law had never touched her bookcase. They had shown no curiosity about those books. They read books by Alistair Maclean, James Hadley Chase, Ian Fleming, Gulshan Nanda. 'We are feeling bored" — that was their constant refrain. The word
boredom
constantly figured in their talks. She had not particularly experienced boredom in her life. She and her husband very often would go to Lonavala on a full moon night. There was a guesthouse called "The Dream" situated in a quiet spot for tourists who loved beauty. It was a small, single -storeyed house. It had a small room at the top with glass windows from ceiling to the floor. They went there especially to see the full moon rising. On the eastern side was a whole range of hills and the moon rose above them a little late. They would catch the faintest vibration and wait for that vision of light which was so familiar to them and yet always so delightful. Gradually, a reddish glow would be seen behind the hills and then a shining white edge. Automatically, their hands would be linked together in the conviction of being partners in the same experience of joy. Then the moon would come up fast, very fast. It was at that moment that they became somewhat aware of the motion of the earth. If it were convenient, they would stay on for two or three days more. It was much more thrilling to see the moon rising on the first or the second day after the full moon. Everything lay still in the lap of quietness. The sky would look on, holding its breath. There would be no smoke in the air, no sharp rays of lamps in the houses, no vibrations of sound. There would be only a tender, soft stillness full of darkness. Then the moon would rise a little late, watching the hills with a ruddy wonder and gaze at the sleeping earth. And then there would be a shower of brightness. She could feel its physical touch. She would feel drenched in every limb.

Her life had acquired splendour due to hundreds of such experiences of beauty. Sometimes she would sit under the neem tree and recall Rilke's poem.
'We, the wasters of sorrows.. We waste all our sorrows, waiting to be free from pain,...'
Her husband would listen to her in silence. She had a flickering glimpse of the secret of coming and going in life. It was possible to accept pain with a serious understanding. It was possible to grasp somewhat, the meaning underlying anguish.

How did these people look at life, she often wondered? But Maya and Chhaya were never free to have any leisurely chat with her. They attended cooking classes and learnt how to make French pudding and Italian pizza. They learnt interior decoration and indulged in Ikebana. They arranged candlelight dinners and learnt hairstyles, and tried different types of coiffures.

But every time they came back home after an outing they would say— 'So bored! We are fagged out. That Prem Nath was utterly boring!'

Their day would start and pass into evening in the bed of an ever-growing boredom. They did talk about revolting against establishment and traditional values. Occasionally some hippies also came as their guests. Still, there was a great void in their lives. The element of joy of slipped through their hands. They lived, but always wondered about the meaning of it all.

And now a new woman was coming to the house. She must be hardly twenty-three or twenty-four. Deepankar had sent the wedding photographs. She was curious. What would the girl Deepankar had chosen be like?