Shankar speaks in the voice of a six-year-old. He has regressed to a long-lost time. To a time when he had a mother. To a time when his life, and his words, had a meaning. I do not know how he can suddenly speak so sensibly and lucidly when the doctor said he would stop speaking completely. But I have no desire to find out the reason. One doesn't question a miracle.
That is all I hear from Shankar that night, and when he wakes up the next morning, he becomes the same sixteen-year-old who speaks in nonsense syllables. But I remember his reference to a blue diary. I search his room and find it hidden underneath his bed.
It contains loose sheets of drawing paper, all with beautiful pencil drawings of a woman. The drawings are very accurate, down to the last detail. But I stand transfixed not by the excellence of the drawings, but by the identity of their subject. Because the woman in the pictures is Swapna Devi.
* * *
'I know what you have been hiding from me all this while, Shankar. I know that Swapna Devi is your mother,' I tell Shankar, holding aloft the blue diary.
His eyes dilate with fear and he tries to grab the diary from my hands. 'Cqrz Hz Wxyf Hu
Aqynu,' he shrieks.
'I know it is true, Shankar. I think you discovered her dirty secret and that is why she threw you out of the house. And that is when you lost the ability to speak like a normal boy. I think your mother has lived with this guilt all her life. Perhaps for this reason she pays your rent and gives you money. But I am going to your mummy right now, to ask her to pay for your treatment.'
'Ik, Ik, Ik, Lgzxoz Akip Ck Pk Hu Hjhhu,' he cries. But I have already set off for Swapna Palace for a heart-to-heart chat with Rani Sahiba.
Rani Sahiba refuses to meet me at first, claiming that she meets people only by appointment. I camp on her doorstep for two hours, until finally she relents.
'Yes, why have you come to bother me?' she asks insolently.
'I know your secret, Swapna Devi,' I tell her to her face. 'I have discovered that Shankar is your son.'
Her regal mask slips for an instant and her face turns pale, but she regains her composure equally swiftly and her haughty manner returns to freeze me with contempt. 'You worthless boy, how dare you make such a scurrilous allegation? I have no relationship with Shankar. Just because I showed a little bit of sympathy for that boy, you made him my son? Get out of here right now, or I will have you thrown out.'
'I will go,' I tell her. 'But only after collecting four lakh rupees from you. I need the money for Shankar's treatment. He has contracted rabies.'
'Are you out of your mind? You think I will give you four lakhs?' she shrills.
'But if I don't get the money, Shankar will die of hydrophobia within twenty-four hours.'
'I don't care what you do, but don't bother me.' And then she says the most spiteful thing I have ever heard a mother say. 'Perhaps it is for the best that he dies. The poor boy will be put out of his misery. And don't you dare repeat that lie to anyone about him being my son.' She closes the door.
I stand on her doorstep with tears in my eyes. I was at least lucky enough to have been discarded by my mother at birth, but poor Shankar was cast off by his mother midway through life, and now she was refusing to lift a finger even to prevent his imminent death.
I return to Shankar's room with a heavy heart. Swapna Devi's words resonate in my ears with the force of a hammer blow. She wants Shankar to die like a rabid dog. At no other time has my poverty riled me as much as it does now. I wish I could explain to the dog that bit Shankar that before biting he should have checked whether the person he was attacking could afford the antidote.
The next day, I do something which I have not done for a decade. I pray. I go to the Durga temple and offer flowers for Shankar's recovery. I go to the Church of St John and light a candle for Shankar. I go to the Kali Masjid and bow my head before Allah, asking him to have mercy upon Shankar. But even the power of prayer proves to be insufficient. All day Shankar remains in agony, with pain in virtually all parts of his body. His breathing becomes more irregular.
Night falls. It is moonless, but it does not appear so in the outhouse because of the reflected glow of the thousand lights which have lit up Swapna Palace like a giant candle. There is a party in the palace. The Police Commissioner has come, as well as the District Magistrate, and a whole host of businessmen, socialites, journalists and writers. The sound of soft music and laughter drifts down to the outhouse. We hear the clink of wine glasses, the buzz of conversation, the jingle of money. In my room there is an eerie silence, broken only by Shankar's laboured breathing. Every half-hour or so his body is racked by convulsions. But he is most bothered by the constriction in his throat, where a viscous, stringy spittle has formed, causing him great discomfort. Now he goes into a spasm even at the sight of a glass of water. The slightest gust of air produces the same result.
Of the many ailments a person can die from, perhaps the cruellest is hydrophobia, where water, which is supposed to give life, becomes the cause of death. Even a cancer patient is able to entertain some hope, but a rabies patient has none.
Watching Shankar's slow death, I can only imagine how utterly heartless Swapna Devi must be, to allow her son to die in this horrible fashion while she was having a party in her house. It is lucky that I threw that Colt revolver into the river, otherwise I would definitely be committing another murder tonight.
As the night progresses, Shankar's spasms become more frequent, he shrieks in agony and begins foaming at the mouth. I know that the end is near.
Shankar finally dies at twelve forty-seven am. Just before dying, he has another lucid moment.
He holds my hand and utters a single word, 'Raju.' Then he clutches his blue notebook and cries, 'Mummy, Mummy,' and then he closes his eyes for ever.
* * *
Agra has become the city of death. I have a dead body in my room and a blue notebook in my hands. I flip through the pages aimlessly, staring at pencil sketches of a woman who was a heartless mother. No, I will not call her 'mother', because to say that would be an insult to all mothers.
I do not know how to react to Shankar's death. I could scream and shout like Bihari. I could abuse all the gods in heaven and all the powers on earth. I could batter down a door, throw some furniture, kick a lamppost. And then I would break down and cry. But today, the tears refuse to come. A slow, molten rage builds up in my guts. I tear the pages from the notebook and shred them into tiny little pieces. Then, all of a sudden, I pick up Shankar in my arms and proceed towards the lighted palace.
The uniformed guards bar my way, but as soon as they see the dead body in my hands they hastily open the gate. I pass along the curved driveway, where the expensive imported cars of the guests are lined up one after the other. I reach the ornate entrance and find it open in welcome. I pass through the marbled foyer into the dining room, where the guests are about to be served dessert. All conversation ceases the moment they see me.
I climb on to the table, and place Shankar's body gently in the middle, in between a creamy vanilla cake and a bowl of rasagullas. The waiters stand as still as statues. The smartly attired businessmen cough and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The ladies take hold of their necklaces. The District Magistrate and the Police Commissioner watch me with worried eyes.
Swapna Devi, sitting at the head of the table, clad in a heavy silk sari and loaded with jewellery, looks as if she is going to choke. She tries to open her mouth, but finds her vocal chords paralysed. I look directly at her with as much contempt as I can muster and speak.
'Mrs Swapna Devi, if this is your palace, and you are its queen, then acknowledge the prince. I have come to deliver the dead body of your son Kunwar Shankar Singh Gautam to you. He died half an hour ago, in the outhouse where you have kept him hidden all these years. You did not pay for his treatment. You did not fulfil the duty of a mother. Now honour your obligation as a landlady. Please pay for the funeral of your penniless tenant.'