‘On returning from jail, I met Nigar. She had left the hospital and had gone to Babaji’s ashram. I felt my eyes deceived me when I saw her changed complexion, her altered physical and mental state. Then, after living with her for a year, I discovered that her sorrow had been the same as mine. But neither she nor I were willing to express it. We were both enchained by our oath. Over the past year, our political passions had cooled. Khadi clothes and tricolour flags now no longer held the same appeal. If “Long Live the Revolution” was still to be heard, it no longer had the same ring to it. And in Jallianwala Bagh, not a single tent remained. The pegs of the old camps could still be seen in places, rooted in the ground. Political passion had drained out of everyone’s blood. I, myself, spent much more time at home with my wife.’ Once again, that wounded smile appeared on Ghulam Ali’s lips and mid-sentence, he fell into silence. Not wanting to break his chain of thought, I said nothing.
A moment later, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and put out his cigarette. ‘We were both in the grip of a strange curse. You know how much I love Nigar. But, I began thinking, what is the nature of this love? I can hold it and yet I won’t allow it to reach its natural climax? Why am I afraid that I might commit a crime without meaning to? You know, I love Nigar’s eyes. And so one morning when I was feeling very fine, not even fine, just normal really, as any man should be, I kissed them. I held her in my arms and a shudder went through me. It could be said that my soul broke free, spreading its wings, ready to make for the open sky, when I… when I seized it again and imprisoned it. Then for many days, I tried to convince myself that from this action of mine, from this heroic achievement, my soul knew a contentment that few others had known. But I failed to convince myself of this, and the knowledge of my failure, which I had tried to think of as a great success, made me — God is my witness — the most unhappy man in the world. But, as you know, men find their excuses. And, I, too, carved out a way.’
‘We were rotting. Inside us, a kind of crust seemed to harden over our finer sensibilities. We became strangers to one another! I thought, after many days of consideration, that even if we stayed true to our oath, I mean that Nigar remained “unwilling to mother a slave child…” ’ As he said this, for the third time, that wounded smile appeared on Ghulam Ali’s lips, but was changed instantly into an aimless cackle, in which his anguish was visible. Then, becoming serious, he said, ‘A strange period began in our married life. Like a blind man granted a single eye, I was able, suddenly, to see. But after only a short while, this vision began to grow dim. In the beginning, we just thought that…’ Ghulam Ali seemed to search for the right words. ‘In the beginning, we were satisfied. I mean, we had no idea that in a short while, we would find ourselves dissatisfied again, that one seeing eye would pressure the other to see as well. In that first stage, we felt ourselves becoming healthy. I could feel our vigour returning. Nigar’s face had a flush to it. A sparkle showed in her eyes. The tension in my body melted away. But then slowly, we became like two rubber figurines. I felt it with greater force. You won’t believe me, but I swear to God, when I’d pinch the flesh of my arms, it was exactly like rubber. It felt as though there were no veins inside. Nigar’s condition, as far as I could tell, was not the same as mine. Her perspective was different: she wanted to be a mother. Whenever a child was born on our street, she would have to silently keep the longing she felt buried in her breast. In my case, I had no thought of children. So what if we didn’t have any? There are many people in the world who are not blessed with children. Much better that I was true to my oath. This was comfort enough, but when fine strands of rubber began to spread like a web over my mind, my fears increased. I thought about it all the time and the result was that the texture of rubber was branded on my mind. I’d eat a bite of food and it would squelch below my teeth.’ He said this and shuddered. ‘It was an evil, disgusting thing. My fingers constantly felt soapy. I began to hate myself. It felt as though all the juices of my soul had been squeezed out and only the husk remained. Spent… spent.’ Ghulam began to laugh. ‘Thank God that curse has passed, but Saadat, after what anguish! Life became like a shrivelled bit of skin; all its beautiful desires had died. Only the sense of touch had become unnaturally acute, not acute really, one dimensionaclass="underline" in wood, in glass, in metal, in paper and in stone, in everything, the dead, nauseating softness of rubber!!! This affliction only became more forceful whenever I tried to think of its cause. I could have lifted this curse with two fingers and cast it aside, but I lacked the courage. I was looking for a saviour. In this sea of distress, I floundered for anything with which I might reach the shore. For a long time, I thrashed around. And then, one morning, I was reading a religious book in the sun, not really reading, glancing through, when my eyes fell on a hadis. I leapt up with happiness. My saviour was there in front of me. I read those lines again and again. My barren life was fertile once more. It was written that after marriage it is obligatory for husband and wife to produce a child. It was only lawful to prevent its birth if the mother’s life was endangered as a result. And so, with two fingers, I lifted this curse and cast it aside.’
Saying this, he smiled like a child. I also smiled because he’d lifted the cigarette butt with two fingers and flicked it to one side as if it was something vile. Then, his smile vanished and he became serious. ‘I know, Saadat,’ he said, ‘that what I’ve told you right now, you’re going to turn into a story. But listen, don’t mock me in it. I swear to you, whatever I’ve told you is exactly what I experienced. I won’t argue with you on this subject, but what I have learned is that to go against nature is in no way, under no circumstances, bravery. It’s no achievement to kill yourself through abstinence, or to endure it. To dig your grave and get in it, holding your breath for days, to sleep for months on beds of sharp nails, to keep one arm raised over your head for years so that it dries up and becomes like a piece of wood — stunts like these will bring neither God nor freedom. And from what I understand of it, the only reason India is still not free is that we’ve had too few leaders and too many stuntmen. What principles there are go against the nature of men. They’ve found a politics that stifles truth and goodness of character and it’s this same politics that has made the struggle for independence so blinkered.’
Ghulam Ali was going to say more when his servant appeared. He carried Ghulam Ali’s second child, perhaps. The boy held a bright balloon in his hand. Ghulam Ali reached adoringly for him. A noise like a firecracker going off was heard. The balloon exploded and the child was left holding a dangling string, attached to a little bit of rubber. Ghulam Ali snatched it with two fingers and threw it aside as though it was something truly repugnant.
Smell
Those same days of rain; outside the window, the peepal’s leaves were washed in the same way. On the teak spring bed, which had now been moved slightly away from the window, a Marathi girl clung to Randhir.
Outside the window, the peepal’s leaves like long earrings, clattered in the pale darkness. The Marathi girl, like a shudder herself, clung to Randhir. It had been nearly evening, when after spending the day reading the news and advertisements in an English newspaper, he had stepped onto the balcony for some air. It was there that he saw her, a worker perhaps in the nearby rope factory, taking shelter under a tamarind tree. He drew her attention by clearing his throat and gestured to her to come upstairs.