Yar, how strange it is that the same town becomes for one of its inhabitants, who has left the country, more meaningful than before, so that he dreams about it; while for another inhabitant all its meaning disappears, so that even though he’s in the same country, he never feels any desire to see the town again. How meaningful the journey to Pakistan made Rupnagar! And how severely Sabirah was punished for staying in India, that for her Rupnagar became meaningless. I think my fate is the same as Sabirah’s. And sometimes I feel that in my childhood I must have offended some holy man, and he cursed me: “Son, your native land will no longer let you see her.” So the town of Vyaspur doesn’t let me see her. When I go there, the town seems to ask, “Where is the other?” And when I can’t find an answer, she closes her door against me. That constant eagerness I used to have for the vacation to come, so I could run to Vyaspur — that eagerness is now utterly gone. Last June I went there, after a long time. It was late in the month. The rains hadn’t started yet, and the afternoons were at their height. In the middle of the afternoon I began to feel once again my old itch to wander, and I set out. From one lane to another, from the second lane to a third. Yar, every lane asked me, “Where is the other?” I felt that I no longer had any kinship with these lanes, as though all the lanes were angry with me. I passed through Rimjhim’s lane too. The doorway looked absolutely desolate. Rimjhim’s mother sat alone in the doorway, with her half-naked body and withered youth, spinning. I left those lanes, and set out toward our school. It was the vacation, the school was closed. I passed through the empty verandahs and went toward the field. Suddenly my eye fell on the mango tree by the chapel. I went and sat in its shade. Yar, how much time we used to spend sitting in its shade, throwing bricks at the green mangoes to make them fall! This time too the branches were full of green mangoes. I had an overpowering desire to throw bricks at them and make them fall. But yar, my hands were somehow paralyzed. They didn’t move to throw a brick. I sat in silence, watching the green leafy branches laden with green mangoes. Then a green mango fell in front of me with a little thump. What was this? At the time there was no wind blowing, and no flock of parrots perched in the tree. Had our mango tree recognized me? I felt melancholy, and stood up. If the lanes, birds, and trees don’t recognize you, you’re sad, and if they do recognize you, you feel melancholy. You go around looking for a neem tree (did you ever find one?) and here the neem, tamarind, mango, pipal trees are all present in their places. But when they see me, they turn into strangers. When one tree recognized me, I felt melancholy.
My dear friend, for me there’s now nothing but melancholy. You must have earned something since you’ve gone there. Staying here I haven’t earned anything, I’ve only wasted my life. Yar, the hair at my temples is absolutely white. How is the hair at your temples? I’ll tell you one thing more — and this is the saddest thing of all. Yesterday when I was drinking tea with Sabirah, my eyes fell on the part in her hair. How elegantly straight a part she had made. I saw that among the black hairs one hair was shining like silver. So, my friend, time is passing. We’re all in the power of time. So hurry and come here. Come and see the city of Delhi, and the realm of beauty, for both are waiting for you. Come and join them, before silver fills the part in her hair, and your head becomes a drift of snow, and our lives are merely a story. That’s all,
Surendar
•
“And before—” he murmured, then read parts of the letter again and was plunged into thought.
I ought to write a letter, he murmured, after a long time deep in thought. A letter — now, after so much time — now, after so much time, it seemed improper to write her a letter. It’s astonishing — since coming here I haven’t even written her a letter. Then she gradually slipped out of my mind altogether. And look at her, she didn’t lift a finger either. She kept silent, as though she didn’t exist, or as though I didn’t exist. And now it’s suddenly revealed that she exists, and I do too. First she came to life in my memory. And now a lost friend appears, and announces that she exists in her own right, apart from my memory, with her own memories, in which I still live. He paused. Do I live in her memory? — really—? If not, then why is she melancholy and why does she suffer? I live in her melancholy and suffering. He thought all this as though it were some amazing occurrence. And suddenly a wave rose inside him: I ought to go and see her; and from some deep layer of his memory an image welled up. Lying in the middle of the road, a motionless man with chains on his feet and his forehead covered with blood where it had been struck by a brick. “Zakir! Is Majnun dead?”—“No, he’s alive.”—“No, Majnun is dead.” And she began to cry—“Sabbo, he’s just pretending.”—“No, Majnun is dead.” She went on crying. — Yes! I ought to go, and announce that I—
“Son, who is the letter from?” Ammi asked, coming into the room.
“From India.”
“Letters are coming even from India. It’s only Dhaka where something’s happened so that no letters come,” Ammi said sadly, and fell silent. Then, after thinking a bit, she said, “Who’s the letter from?”
“From Surendar.”
“Surendar.” Ammi was confused.
“Ammi, don’t you remember Surendar, who was my friend?”
“Oh, Surendar. Ai, what a time the poor man chose for writing.”
“Ammi,” he asked, thinking about something, “Do we no longer have any relatives in Rupnagar?”
She stared at him. “Son, after a quarter of a century it’s occurred to you to ask? Who would still be there? We had already come away. Batul was left there, then she too went off to Dhaka with her daughter.”
“But Sabirah—?”
“Don’t mention Sabirah’s name in my presence!” Ammi said angrily.
“Why?” He watched Ammi’s face.
“She turned out to be an extremely self-willed girl.” Ammi elaborated: “First of all, I want to know why, when the whole family came away from there, she stayed behind. Why, if she had come here, some arrangement or other would have been made for her! Her marriage would have been arranged somehow within the family. There, she’s unmarried and lives a lousy life. And since she did stay there — well, she could at least have paid a bit of attention to the old mansion! Batul urged her so many times, and I wrote her too, ‘Daughter, take ten days’ leave for Muharram and have a look around: light the lamp in the Imambara, and raise the standards,’ but that wretched girl didn’t go at all, she didn’t look in even once! Finally refugees came and took over the place. Now she can whistle for it; but otherwise, she would have been the sole owner of the house — who would have gone from here to claim a share?”
“Ammi, if we were to go there, where would we stay?”
“Child, you’ve lost your senses, why would we go there now? Who of our family is still there?”
“There’s Rupnagar itself,” he said slowly and thoughtfully. Ammi, as though at a loss for an answer, said not a word.
Ammi was completely silent, but then she thought of something. She said, “Ai, last night I had a strange dream! It was as if we had gone there. Everyone was there, I was saying to Batul, ‘Sister, you went away leaving the house absolutely open. Just imagine — a whole house full of furniture, and not a single room locked up.’” Ammi was silent, then muttered, “I don’t know what it means. I’ll ask your father what kind of dream it was.”
Ammi fell silent, deep in thought. He too, along with her, was lost in distant reflections. After such a long time, mother and son sat together, floating in the same wave of memory. Where did the wave carry them? Where were they at that moment? They were wandering in their mansion in Rupnagar.