the rain ,darkness and..

The Rain, Darkness and….
(This story is absolutely imaginary. It bears no relationship with any writer, publisher or dispute.)

It is not proper to link the whole sequence of happenings—that you will try to know, hereafter, through this story—with any unbelievable or dramatic occurrence, though there are, perhaps, some truths that are strange and alarming. It is difficult to imagine whether you have come across any such situations in your life when oral communication is lost and, instead of that. Extreme silence or cognizance of some presence remains that touches you, 9in the deep of silence, and says. ‘There is some one….’ This story was, all of a sudden, born of such an extra-ordinary moment.

1

The atmosphere was calm and lifeless. It can be said with confidence that you can’t hope of raising any sounds or movements in such a calm and lifeless atmosphere. At this moment everything was in accordance with expectations, that is, such as Shantanu had thought of. A day with bright but indifferent sun. a heavy autumnal morning and, in my garden, the rows of odorless flower plants—Sune, Gilbahri, and Tili—that I had brought from my Alsatian free publisher a few days ago. Your sense of self esteem about the great achievement of having been born a Homosapien may suffer a rude shock if you have been, like Bernard Shaw. Fondly upholding the conviction that a man may be transformed into a superman, when you read the epithet ‘Alsatian free’ for the English publisher I must apologize for that yet assert that he deserved no better compliment per Shantanu’s reckoning. After unexpected and exceptional success of ‘Vaasanaa Hai Do Raste’ this English publisher, having come to Shantanu are passing through some sadness—some deep agony said,
‘Excuse me. For some astrological considerate I had to choose an ill-omened day to visit you.’
‘An ill-omened day?’
‘I sold off my old and faithful Alsatian on this day. But I did not suffer any loss Shasnanu.’
He had all the particulars of expenditure, with regard to the Alsatian, on his busy finger tips. A separate room for him. So much on his diet. There was no mention of his faithfulness and love among the accounts. So, if observed minutely, this English publisher (who was an Indian but, since he published English books and with the impression formed by the way of his way of living, to Shantanu’s mind this very name for him seemed to be quite appropriate), the sale of Alsatians was in no way a deal incurring a loss in any way. And accordingly, to the mind of Marget Alior, of all the books he had published, this ‘dog’ pleased so well that she made up her mind to buy him at any cost. In this way, with one percent emotion and ninety-nine percent of economic considerations the bargain was settled and Miss Marget with the dog pressed to he fleshy bosom, felt emotional relations with the dog for a while. Then accompanied by the dog, she took her flight to the land of Mahashweta or the village of Nazarul,
So, to be short, ‘Seine’,’Gilbahri’ and ‘Tili’ flowers were under our consideration. It was this very ‘Alsatian Free’ who had brought them for him. And in response to this act of his Shantanu asked him some questions that were, more or less, of the following character,
‘where do these flowers grow?’
‘In Italy.’
‘Do Italian ladies also like these flowers?’
The candid answer should have been a ‘No’; for they were beautiful sans sweetness of smell could it mean that beautiful ladies also lack brilliance and fragrance? In the publisher’s opinion the answer was a definite ‘No’, but so far as literary environment is concerned, there are chances that it will cast its effect in the future. And that too, when a man quite familiar with these flowers is a publisher also, who should come to your door and take greater interest in these flowers than in your literary creations.
There were many more other questions. For example, ‘Will the climate here suit them?-or, are these flowers used in medicines giving you energy and strength just Viagra etc. do? (Obviously, the publisher had no answer to many of these questions).
Much the same had happened on that heavy autumnal morning, the happening that had imparted their imprint on the mind of Shantanu that stayed on there.
Every time he adds his books, he was sure poetry is a false vision, literature is not a touch. To spend the whole of one’s life in the hope of a reward worth Rs one lakh is not a disciplinary action against ones life. This petty amount, Rs one lakh, he gets transferred to his A.I.O. account as soon as his second or third edition is published.
“The whole of one’s life only for a prize rewarding one’s achievements?...My foot….”
Shantanu used to laugh out. He remembered a number of his friends. One of them was Sadhan chakraborty, chewed betel leaves, took tobacco snuff, didn’t mind even to see where his nose would ease itself. He didn’t care even to see that it caused cough to others. He took his snuff box, applied the powdered tobacco into his nostrils and sat down to thinks. After a little while freed himself from his trans, caught an end of his lion cloth and cleaned his nose. Now Shantanu is in discord with such for good-for-nothing persons. He has had grave quarrels with a number of them on their trying to pose themselves as ‘literary primes’. For an example take that very Saghan Chakroborty, and just listen to the conversation that occurred the previous November.
‘Your literary creations have disproportionately keener stink of your tobacco snuff…’
‘Oh! So you have begun to understand literature too.’ This was counter attack by Saghana Chakraborty.
‘Literature is in your snuff. If you’re thinking during the interval between inhaling the snuff and wiping it off your nose is literature, please excuse me.’
‘What…?’ there were wrinkles on the brows of Saghan.
‘was such a day ever to come when I should have to listen to your discourses on literature! Brother, if you are a creative genius, let me remain a mangy dog, and that too sans hair straying from lane to lane.
‘Anyway, what’s it that you want to say?’ Saghan glared. The thin bones of the body twitched.
Bursting out in a peal of laughter Shantanu said,
‘Listen to me Saghan Chakraborty. One of the two quarrelling persons told the other that he had taken him to be a gentleman. The other one replied that he had also taken him to be a gentleman. Now, the first one said, “O.K...I take my words back.” Ha…ha…ha...
In lieu of a sentence that might have been the closing one, Saghan Chakraborty remained silent and I can recall the expression of defeat on his countenance, even today.
‘Have come to you with a purpose.’
‘What?’
‘Wanted some money.’
‘Why don’t you ask your publisher for it?’
‘I do ask him. But, again and again….’ Saghan was applying snuff to his nostrils.
‘Really. We are mangy dogs of the street. Shy dogs whom every good for nothing publisher kicks off. They all want to publish books, but when they have to pay for it …A shy dog…shy even when he is creating literature. Perhaps for this reason the whole system has remained unaltered through centuries.
The atmosphere was calm and lifeless, but someone like Dushyanta tried to toss up a stone. An explosion was heard where there was no movement felt earlier. Though it created no crash, created no stir, but it did raise a commotion within the atmosphere. Intensely deep silence was broken up with the blast caused by some weary some conversation. In the spacious cabin of the English publisher, he was looking at the cover-flap of his newly released book, with the eyes expressing the feeling of a bit of restlessness and a sense of deep disappointment. No. the colour is not suitable. The selection of colors is wrong. And why this abstract art? Why should a girl be felt to be a well or a snake? In its place, why couldn’t there be a very time when two young writers, there be a living, beautiful girl?’
And this was the very time when two young writers, sitting on the sofa in the cabin, were discussing the poems by Josef brad ski.
‘people… are dying….’
‘when we are pouring. Scotch in glasses or killing cockroaches, people are dying.’ Yarning up, Shantanu saw. For a moment the whole of the building was transformed into a helpless youth, where only the stump of a bold and withered had remained. Political analyses began. The second world war, alliances, stories of clashes, Vietnam war, to Grenada, Afghanistan to Iraq…chile to panama and Nicaragua. The stayed innocent children of Philistine ….and….
People are dying while we are transacting our nameless desires….. Make pleasure houses…lose or gain confidence…buy mutton or chicken….people are dying…..
Turning to Shantanu, cast a look…an impulse to become apart of this horrible discussion arose within him…people are making love too…while we are tying a knot or pouring Scotch…in parks…at houses..On roads…islands…deserts and heaths…people are embracing…making love…despite battles and wars…. Kissing each other… clasping each other in their arms. And the point to remember is-it is not only they who are young; it is they also who are much more advanced in their age having left their youthful days for behind…
This was the appropriate time. To tie the moment, or to take the moment in one’s confidence, that secretly told Shantanu that the world is still suspended at the cross-roads…and who have suspended them? It is they….people whose talks are more dangerous than any lethal weapon….
The sound of something shattering was heard… it was a glass fallen down into the floor.. From the receptionist girl to the two young philosophers counting the deaths on political global scale, mustered up their courage to look into that direction…she was a girl. No. a lady, bob. Hair, fair complexion, the intoxicating body…as the flames of a red hot hissing stove. The age seemed, somehow, to have freezed the rising tempests of the ocean for eternity…the resentment on the face of the lady was explicitly visible…Desai, that is, the English publisher, in his Endeavour to say something, looked either. Like an innocent lamb, or cunning like a tiger. The woman held a paper in her hand and was saying something in a loud voice, flashing up the paper. Shantanu got out of the glass cabin on the pretext of picking up his old book. The lady was beautiful. The tree of her being was bearing so many roses that sent up their exquisite fragrance from her beautiful face—the rubier now because of her growing anger. Perhaps, innocent of the fragrance she was busy in clarifying her points of argument. Her sentences were explosive….
‘No, you shouldn’t have done that, not in the least to the man on his death bed….’
‘See…I…nothing like that…you…easily….can talk sitting in the chair.’ To escape from her assaults, Deasi was seeking the help of words.
‘No, never. And you, talking so restfully, asking me to sit down, do you the meaning of rest? A common man may become Sharma only after having sacrificed his rest for the life, with an unsparing dedication. Do you know what it means? Transformation into a Shimal Sharma?
‘For us he is a symbol of honor and greatness…’
‘Oh! Not that je is, he was. You have made him a mere puny piece of history. He was on his bed in hospital. He was ill. And what were you doing for Shimal? You were filling up your pockets, erecting your buildings, enlarging your bank accounts. But on whose earnings? Whose money? Shimal’s. You are the exploiters of gentle people like Shimal. In your baseness you have been violating his gentility…’the face of the woman was now red. I used to tell Shimal, change your publisher. But he was occupied with his criterion of greatness in his creation only. Or, he was nourishing within himself the childish desire of seeing great memories turning into history. But is that a solution to all the problems? The values born of cultural inheritance, a tussle of moral imprints, and the writing of protestations about things….were not these the epithets attached to his life. Long writing, in the name of understanding his creations, or reactions? All a fuss. Had Shimal written literature of protestation, he would have protested against the fiscal evaluation of his words, would have asked for proper evaluations? But take heed. It is not Shimal now. It is I, and I will not spare you.’
For a second, looking at the English publisher, she saw the eyes of a goat that had been slaughtered and whom the butcher was going to flay. Poor Deasai..Shantanu had already made his preparations for his exit. He did not know why it was so, or what right he had to do so, or in the words of Shananu Chakraborty. Why do you care for society or the things concerning society? Keep selling what you are selling. There are so many to buy it. For the rest? You need not investigate after the values or search for the new values….
But the attraction of the beauty of speech of the woman was so great that he came out and after a few minutes only the woman was seen coming out too in the full blaze of her rage advancing towards her little Zen…she was in her stylish jeans and a red t-shirt. Moving towards her car she cast a glance towards Shanftanu, and this was the very moment when Shantanu, and this was the very moment when Shantanu found himself ready for a direct address to her.
‘Please, could you spare a minute for me?’
‘Why? Standing at the reception you had been listing to us.’ She bore an angry look. Her eye-brows had an angry curve.
‘Yes.’
‘That matters little to me. I don’t have any interest in you.’
Even after the Zen had sped away like a blast of wind, the words of the lady kept ringing in my ears—‘that matters little to me. I don’t have any interest in you.’ Shantanu smiled serenely. He did not imagine that there could be any talk more free than this one in his first meeting with her. But his heart said, a second meeting was due to occur. Quite soon.

2

And it was not just a chance happing, nor was the environment calm and dead. The magic sheet of the night was spread as far as the eye could see. And innumerable stars twinkling on this sheet were trying to establish the belief that there was no need to produce a commotion by tossing up a piece of stone. To Shantanu, living lonely had become a part of his beautiful life. To him girls were more a symbol of romance. And sex than a source of inspiration, the would tempt him in so very beautiful nights, or play Menaka Roopsi and Gandhari in his bed, but Mandira?
The twinkling stars would at a time form the shape of a snake, at another a well, and at still another fish—the symbols of sex. And in every symbol he heard the music of the flowing stream that Mandira’s body was….in the presence of the stars, just in a moment Mandira’s body got transformed into an exquisitely beautiful piece of art. And, it may be said, at the moment Shantanu was firm on his notion about art. Is art only a concept, only to be kept in or to occupy a place in a gallery? Is Mandira also a concept only?—devoted to an aged, now expired, man?
The caravan of twinkling stars was creeping on the blue sheet of the sky…and now these stars were transformed into a great piece of art by some great artist. And Mandira was there in it, ‘I am not a well, nor a snake, nor a fish even…I am a poem…just a piece of poetic composition…why don’t you read?’
Shantanu recollected. On that day when the Zen had disappeared speeding away, he returned to the glass cabin. Desai was awaiting him.
‘Where had you gone to?’
‘Out, for a smoke.’
‘Anyway, that was good of you. With his down cast eyes and a cheque book in his hand, Desai was lost in some thought. The spring-bow of his glasses near his eyes slipped again and again.
‘You did not do well to sell away your Alsatian.’ He stopped in the middle of his narration.
‘Ha….ha….’ Desai laughed… ‘So, you remember. You do remember that Alsatian, or you don’t?’
‘Why not? We have been together for such a long time…you remember the Alsatian, but a sick writer, who was lying on a bed in a hospital, you forgot?
Desai gave a start, but instantly broke into a loud laughter,
‘So you heard us?’
‘Had to, who was that girl?’
‘Not a girl. Call her a woman. She is Mandira, Composes poems, paints. God off her feet swayed by the compositions of Shimal and…’
‘they got married.’
‘yes. Did not consider over his age the difference between her age and Shimals was vast, over two times.’
Shantanu was just going to say ‘love is never mindful of age differences.’ But checked himself. The English publisher was not in a mood of talking about the matters concerning love. He did not know much of love. But Shanuanu was against keeping love within confines. Love is a swift flowing river, and this river can neither be retained within confines nor can a bridge be constructed over it as it continues to flow with all its violence. He had kept love apart from literature. To him love was the beauty of the body than of the soul. And he could freely stand against those who opposed this beauty…immaterial, if this person be his English publisher even…
Desai was laughing boisterously.
‘This maze of royalty…everybody is not a Shantanu…’
Shantanu felt, the body of laughing Desai was transformed into a dog’s tail, wagging vigourously.
‘Why?’
‘Because you know letter than I do.’ Desai was becoming serious now. He was fair complexioned. Dark glasses over his eyes. When he tried to think his face would get transformed into that of an otter….he was laughing.
‘Oh Shantanu, just see you…tell me, what need was there for me to nurse within me this disease called literature? All the dunce…,’ he paused for a moment, ‘take themselves to be Shakespeare, Arundhati or Kiran Desai. Do they do so or not?’ he was laughing in all his vulgarity. ‘They think they can make a hole in the sky. They think every passer by on the road knows them as he knows Shahrukh khan or Amitabh bachchan. Should he come out masses would encircle him.’ Desai was laughing… ‘Autograph, autograph…sons of a bitch. In same composers even they won’t read them for whom they write. And they think there are persons who read them in every house. Even the dogs in the streets are licking up his literature. How do they sell? Who buys them?’
He pulled out a book of Shimal who had an enormous nose.
‘See the first edition. It is five hundred only. Isn’t it? Now think of the expenses one incurs in printing out 500 copies. Who knows it better than you do? Even these would be difficult to sell out were there no support from the government godowns. And Mandira thinks we are making crores by selling out Shimal. We are erecting palaces, making mansons…in fact….’
Desai was whispering now. ‘ A frustrated lady… there comes a time when such women having chewed for long the stone of a mango eject it out and then want to count the tree….the trees that bear money. But the trees yielding what an amount of money. Brother…Don’t you follow me Shanranu?’
And this was the point where Desai blundered. Under such circumstances Shantanu might have for given him and forgotten all his anger, but the rude way of referring to Mandira was unbearable to him. Likings and disliking have their own psychological bases…Shantanu’s face were expressive of his annoyance. He gently interfered.
‘Have you got your blood pressure checked?’
‘Why?’
‘Get it checked Desai Shantanu words was icy cold. ‘Don’t you remember Desai…my first book…?’
‘Oh, that one… ‘Sex and life…’
‘Yes, I am asking you about that very book. How many volumes of it were published in the first edition? In lakhs, despite that you had to publish new editions every year.
‘Oh, no! Desai put in front of him the cheque-book that he had held for a long time. ‘This is the amount of royalty this year. You can scan all the vouchers if you like to. You sell, and so it is a joy to offer heavy amounts of royalty to you. But that writer…’ the frown was there on Desai’s brows. ‘May curse fall upon Nimisha Deshpande who handed over this publishing house of hers to me. We fared well publishing English, children’s books on sex paid heed to the advice of friends and well wishers. ‘Do publish literature too. Of course, money is there, but there is fame too. Great people will visit you.’ But those great ones did not prove to be really great.’ Once again there were wrinkles seen round his month expressing his disgust. ‘They all take themselves to be vikram seth and Arundhati Roy. I say, show your worth by your sale.’
Mandira’s phone number shone out on the diary folio lying open in front of him. At this juncture Shantanu stopped the savorless discussion. Picked the diary up, memorized the number for a moment, took out his mobile and got the number saved. For what purpose? Perhaps he himself had no idea. Took his cheque and left for home
Shantanu felt that the wind was on the rise. A caravan of clouds drifted across the sky. The shine of the stars was out. Reaching home he brought indira’s number on his cell phone screen a number of times but did not send out a call. Every time he was lost in deep thinking. ‘what should I do? What is there for me to tell her? Why do I desire to see her? And that too when she is the widow of a celebrated author, Shimal. The lady who herself is an artist, writes poem. Once again he brought the cherished number on to the mobile screen. The momentary consideration of propriety got veiled by the layers of fragrance, for the present. He was feeling a strange stir is his body.
The question was asked in English, in a voice bearing a tings of anger. ‘who are you.’
‘it is I. Shantanu. On the outside of the office of Royal King Publisher….’
‘Oh the outside?’ she seemed to be thinking. ‘I can’t recall anything.
‘On the matter of royalty on books by Shimal….’
‘Oh. Did I not tell you I have?’
‘no interest in you? But the other person may take interest in you, isn’t it? I mean, in the literature. In Shamal’s and your literature.’ Shantanu added in a little lower tone, ‘wanted to see you. Don’t deny me please.’
The phone was switched off.
To be short, Shantanu had no differently in finding the address of Shimal’s house. He did not ask Desai her address. The avoidance of Desai was deliberate.
What followed was something like passing through a dense and deep fog, and that too for a person like Shantanu who was born in a family of businessmen in which there was neither any struggle for existence nor any window for the artistic tastes to let in. money was everything. The family, that counted money from morning till night. He couldn’t be definite about the time since when he had acquired the habit of reading pocket books or romantic novels. For Shantanu they exposed other romantic worlds, the worlds where the doors opened stealthily for Shantanu as the night deepened. By the time he attained manhood he had travelled from the world of money to the world of romanticism. During this period, sparing some vacant time for himself, he wrote two novels. Usually the heroines of the novels were the ones who actually figured in his life, or those who accompanied him in his loneliness of abstraction. Initially the members of his family opposed this writing business, but the businessman father set an idea in his mind firmly that if penmanship brings you remunerations as any other prospering business will do, do write, otherwise take up the business. His novels like ‘the king is sellable’ made him the emperor of the world pocket books within no time. Soon after, the process of its adoption for the film began and this literary journey of Shantanu led him to greater monetary success than his father’s business did for him. After that Shantanu had never to turn back in his march to successes. He changed his publishers many a time. He had other offers, too, apart from the world of pocket books. This was the time when he came closer to his English publisher who praised his Alsatian much more highly than he did any piece of literature, though Shantanu could never discern in his personality the swiftness of an Alsatian. Every time when he talked of a cheque or an advance royalty he looked like a stray dog and that too mangy one. Nevertheless, for Shantanu Desai was a big party. He did not want to leave him whatever it might cost him.
Shantanu did not marry. He always liked the pomp and show of a single life, and also the delusion of considering himself an author and being called so by others. He was, however, out of this fog at times when his status as an author was put to question. The truth of his own world was more acceptable to him than the truths of the blank world of other authors. After all he was also fighting against what was undesirable in the society-against blind faiths. Love was also an ingredient of the social structure and for that reason his heroes and heroines love passionately. Shantanu had read Premchand. He had also read Sharatchand. In the beginning he had tried to read a book by Shimal too, but Shimal could not be read by him. Or, better to say, he could not read so very dry literary a book. At times he found himself unable to understand why such books are written and, after all, who reads them.
On the next day, exactly at 11 o’clock, he was at the gate of Mandira’s flat. One thing that caused him some embarrassment was the awareness that there was a time when Shimal lived there.
The sun was pleasantly bright. The vegetation looked serene. Shantanu felt that at time Shimal too used to sit there bringing out his chair from the study. From the time he entered the house to the time he sank in the sofa of the drawing room, he was constantly occupied with the thought of shimal. There was a large portrait of Shimal in front of him.
The maid servant brought in a glass of water and moment’s later Mandira was there with a tea-tray in her hands. She was in her smartly fitting jeans and a red T-shirt. She put the tea tray on the table. No sooner had we begun her formal talks than she began her assaults with dry question.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a writer.’
‘Writer?’ Mandira took a start. ‘Writer, Nothing in you shows you to be a writer. A writer is distinct even by his behave. Have tea please.’ Passing on the her assault continued.
‘Do you know what literature is?’
‘Well…’
‘Anyhow, what is your name?’
Shantanu told her his name. there was a flutter in the two twinkling eyes. They closed and then opened up….’Shantanu? that pocket-book author?’ Mandira was laughing. ‘The king is Sellabli….’ There was a film also. A c-grade film on a c-grade novel…So that is you. Desai, the publisher, and you too. You sell like not-cake. And there is a category of readers that reads you.’ There was anger in her laughter. ‘People who eat groundnut and puffed rice while on their travel, sitting in the railway compartments.’ Her eye-lids were tense. Thinking of himself Shantanu was wonder struck. Such patience in him even after so many explosive expressions. Of hers! Perhaps he had fore thought of it. This fire was a part of Mandira’s youth. When she was angry, the whole of her body would turn into a beautiful little rose bush…all the symbols. The well, the snake, would come together in her buxom body and raise a storm in his muscles.
‘So, you are a creative writer, a man of letters….!’ Mandira was laughing. ‘Do you know what is a creative expression? What does it take to become a Shimal? In my very tender age I thought one day I would take a leap into the swimming pool—that was his body—and forget everything else. You don’t even know what the truth to the height of perfection in art through his compositions…Do you know, I would wake up at nights and see him writing. While he, lika a master composer, proceeded in his writhing, the whole of his body seemed to produced an enchanting melody. I heard the melody. I still her him. While writing the whole of his body was a fine musical instrument, and he himself was the player of it. In his room the angels that bore grace and light would gather round him. Do you know what ‘words’ are? How they are used? Words are not petty things that one could waste away for nothing. As you do. They are to be treasured, to be used sparingly and judiciously. In the way as Shimal did. There…that was his table…he is still writing…’
There were tears in Mandira’s eyes. For a moment a shine came in them. She got up trembling. Moved ahead ….kissed the chair…restored to her seat.
‘Were you an author, I wouldn’t have called for you. Shimal was the only artist, all the rest are rest are artisans.’
Tea cups were empty. Mandira’s eyes still looked strained… ‘but why did you come to see me?’ she laughed, ‘will you fight for me? Against Desai? Will you console me? Will you remember Shimal? I should presume, you haven’t read even a single book by him. Is it not?’
‘You are right, tried to read one. Couldn’t go through the whole of it.’
Mandira laughed out aloud. ‘That is Shimal’s victory Shimal wouldn’t be Shimal if the likes of you could comprehend him. He would be a Shantanu. No?’
She was laughing. For a moment there happened to be an explosion in this stance of laughing of hers. The lily white hand, while passing across the table touched Shantanu’s. the little touch had all the power of the tsunami waves exercised on Shananu’s being. The expression on Mandira’s face altered too. The experience of the hot, steaming touch was more thrilling that the preceding multitude of his experiences with human bodies.
Mandira drew in a cold breath. ‘In fact in the present global system we have forgotten our mother tongue, that is the tragedy of it. Our slavery to the British gave us this curse, I. e. English. Our reading, living and assimilating even what is there in our native culture our habits and ideals-has got colored with English, through and through. We have adopted their tongue. In fact the subjection of the native languages of many a country is the out come of their weak economy. Had Shimal written in English only, he would have attained a different standing. He could write if he wanted to, but his own experiences, his ideals and impressions had so very deep impress on him that he could not think of writing in any other tongue. And for that reason people like Desai…’
Something happened suddenly. Mandira stopped for a moment. She was looking towards the chair at the front. A sense of awe seemed to fill her eyes.
The books in the almirah arranged in rows, Shimal’s table, old fashioned chair, colour falling off the wall in flacks, but rows and rows of flower pots—long lines of them. By the time Shantanu reached this colony. He had visualized this ‘literary solitude’ and the philosophical beams of sun light filtering through the boughs. But the uproariousness of the silence that he had witnessed in the whole of the colony, and in Mandira’s flat in particular, was discernible in the awe-struck eyes of Mandira, now. The philosophie4s ceased to stir. her pupils were dilated with awe and her ears cautions as if they heard some steps. She was looking towards Shimal’s room with her constant gaze…
‘There is some one…no. since morning today I have had a feeling that there is some one …did you…’
Mandira turned to Shatanu…and what followed was unbelievable…all of a sudden she held Shantanu’s hand.
Mandira turned to Shantanu…and what followed was unbelievable….all of a sudden she held Shantanu’s hand.
‘in the morning when I came here, he was standing here….did you hear the steps…and then…..there in the room.she almost shrieked, ‘I am asking you. Did you see him or you didn’t.
Then she cried out aloud, ‘Sumitra!’
The maid working in the house came in rushing, alarmed. ‘What’s the matter, Madam?’ Mandira’s eyes were red with anger. ‘You closed the rear window, or you didn’t?’ I had asked you to do that in the morning itself. Always keep that window shut. This happening has been continuing for the last two months. There is…there is someone…someone who having come here…didn’t you hear sumita? She roared, ‘get lost. Go and close the window.’
‘Madam, it is scarcely 12.’
‘Scarcely twelve,’ she mimicked. The fear was quite obvious on her face. ‘Twelve o’clock…can a thief not come at 12 o’clock? Go. First close the window. You…here?’
She held Shantanu firmly by the hand unmindful of his acquiescence or otherwise. She moved towards Shimal’s room.
‘He was there. Did you see him or didn’t? No please, speak out. Do tell me the truth. Didn’t you also see him there? Near this very chair was he. It wasn’t a shadow…he was looking at us. But….’
Mandira released the hand. ‘Who could he be? And the windows have wire nettings. Where can he have escaped to? May be, while talking we just got a momentary wink, and he took advantage of that. But, after all, why does he come?-and where does he go to?
Suddenly her body trembled. Her eyes dilated. Because of her astonishment. It seemed as if she tried to listen to some sound very attentively. In a flash she turned and took Shantanu’s hand. ‘He is in the house still.’ She was pointing in her child-like simplicity. ‘he is present…listen..His foot steps…he is going upstairs now,…on the stairs..Some with me.’ Mandira turned swiftly.
Stairs began in the corridor. Narrow stairs. There light was dim. She halted moment arily, cast a glance at him. And then making a motion to him swiftly ascended the stairs. There was an open room at the upper end of the stairs. Ventilators were shut. There was a curtain on the window, a heavy one. Besides books in bundles. And a broaden sofa set. Other useless things also were there. A clean bed was laid there. ‘He came here. These are Shimal’s books. The publisher sent them a few days ago. See. Gaven’t been unwrapped yet…’ all of a sudden she cried, ‘see, he is there. He is still there…’ see cried out in a trembling voice, ‘who is there…’ a shadow caused by a beam of light behind the curtain fell on the floor. ‘Have you still any doubts?’ she said. She was looking at him with her wild eyes. ‘Who is there? She cried. And suddenly she caught a glance of a spider’s web. Over the window. Just close to it was a lizard on the wall. She shrieked. Suddenly at that very moment Shantanu felt as if he was covered up with volcanic eruptions. Forgetting everything else she had turned and submerged herself in his body. He felt a great shudder. And then he felt, the most beautiful music ever created in the world was being played inaudibly within himhslf. Her hips were firm. They were, perhaps, the most beautiful hips in the world. The feet were all a shiver. Thousands of fireworks were being let off within himself, he felt. The very next moment a change took place nothing loss than an explosion to him. In a flash she stood apart from his body, looked at him with anger and shouted, ‘haven’t you departed yet? Drank water, sipped your tea, what are you doing here now? See, what time by the watch is. I can’t bear the presence of a person like you for such a length of time.’ Looking at hem Mandira shouted, ‘don’t look at me. Be gone…’ before departing Shantanu turned to have look of hers. Her eyes were still dilated with fear. She was mumbling, ‘there is someone.’
Shantanu passed out through the open gate. The bushes outside the flat were motion less, a swing for children was still oscillating. Perhaps some child had just left it. The outside lawn felt soft. The leaves fallen off the trees lay on the grass. The strange silence in the atmosphere was the transformation of the voice of frightened Mandira. ‘There is someone.’ But, perhaps, there was one. Having come out he started his car. He did not have any sense of guilt or guilt or remorse on his part. In the words of Mandira, ‘he was not hurt, not even one percent.’
By the time he came out and got into his car, the warmth of Mandira’s burning hand and the feel of her touch had permeated his whole body. He smiled as he put his hands on the stearing. By the time the car caught speed he had reviewed the whole of the wondrous happenings of the morning.
But the question was why did the happenings take this shape.’ Was it just Mandira’s confusion? Why did Mandira get confused when he uttered the name, Desai? Has this hallucination been going on since long? Or, was it the presence of a man, other than her husband, in her room that had stirred her up that much? Suddenly in his vision she was transformed from Mandira to the snake, the fish, or the cover page about which he had developed a non-appreceative view at the first sight. The whole of Mandira was before him, speaking pointedly to Desai of the Royal publishing house in his cabin two days ago. And then here…at Shimal’s residence…a most childish fear taking her in its possession. Was it a chance happening? Or was it a compulsion for Mandira to give it a dramatic turn? Could a woman find any attraction in a male body, aged and full of wrinkles? And that too having the support of literary creations only! For how long? For how many days? A dream hero, perplexed by the moments of shock and sorrow, can get transformed into a villain too. How many times he must have turned into a villain? When ever everyday little necessities couldn’t be met with squarely how could a lady at Mandira’s tender age sail on merrily and contentedly with a hero on her dream voyage? Was it any unquenched longing in her that had soon mall figure in the form of himself? Words were lost, only tactile relations remained—a living touch, expressing itself.
The unbelievable and dramatic situation had made it clear to Shantanu that he would find Mandira no more. But, had he got at the truth?- that after Shimals death Mandira was actually caught by some unknown fear and turned into a psychotic case?
A month passed like a swift blowing wind. He couldn’t come in contact with Mandira—neither had he phoned her nor did she. The controversy with the Royal Publishing House, of course, was there on the head lines.


3

The truth is it is not proper to consider the whole the reference or happening by linking it to any definite date. The world is changing fast—and Shantanu had an awareness of it. Society, the ways of living, Clothing’s, ways of entertainment, preferences in food and eating, films, heroes and heroines…they all are under the process of change. From miracles to science and psychology, from other girls come in contact to Mandira…the touch, the feel of it, seemed to have stayed in his senses and body. Oral communication was lost. The touch remained the shricking touch as the hissing flames of a stove, burning hot, making a sound. If the whole of it is visualized, there remains the close reaction of Mandira only---the frightened Mandira who is clasping to her chest and whose hips, pressed closely to him seem to beat like the pulse Shantanu has fresh in his memory, that mysterious night, when he was standing on the balcony of his house and innumerable stars were flowing away in the sky. He had seen something more too. No. it was mot a delusion, nor a story or fiction. The scene had enlivened the dense that we are not the only being in the universe. Shantanu had suddenly witnessed an ET in the blue carpet of the sky that was spread far and wide-extra terrestrial or aliens—a life, an intelligence from for beyond the earth, a new being. Not a flying saucer, rather so many stars together had formed an alien body. And suddenly mandira’s face replaced the ET. And if, that seemingly impossible happening when Mandira, possessed by fear and dismay, had taken him into her embrace, be necessary to be connected with any definite date, it was that very night when he had seen that alien body in the galaxy…and as he gazed on, it changed into Mandira. How and why about it can’t be dressed with an answer—from science to psychology. But why had that happened? And after that, for a month, there was nothing but rumours.
The angry letters of Mandira against the Royal Publishing House and Desai also found wide circulation. Mandira said all the accounts of royalty given to Shimal Sharma by Mr. Desai, the proprietor of the Royal Publishing House were fictitious. During the lat few months of his life Shimal had asked Desai repeatedly to give him the account of his books but Desai had no intentions to give him any. And seen it, he would have detached himself from the Royal Publishing House, that very moment.
Papers and magazines were fulkl of the matter of dispute between Mandira and Desai. Mandira had leveled against him some still graver accusations too. Some of them were hard and sharp. What were the sources of income of the Royal? What is the secret of the manson worth crores in junagarh? Mandira wanted to know, in straight forward words—what type of business it was in which the writer ix the loser—and on some day begs for his own money and dies—and the publisher went no founding mansons worth crores of rupees?
In her letter Mandira registered her anger and resentment in a piercing language with the implication that if there was still operative such establishments as the department of income tax and CBI, why they did not come forward to expose the scandal low activities of publishers. Giving a record of Shimali’s books she asked if the royalty of Shimal books amount to one lakh till 1995 how it came down to zero today. If the readers had disappeared. But the publisher was creating property in this business of his.
The dispute had begun, assertions and claims of writers had begun to pour in on such a day Saghun Chakraborty arrived sniffing his tobacco snuff and wiping his nose with his lion cloth.
‘now publishers don’t rely on the sale of books…’ he was in a serious mood. ‘Publishers rely on government purchases. How a purchase is settled is not known to the authors even. And that is the reason publishers do not care for writers. The problem will continue to exist till the purchase of books is not made public.’
Shantanu looked up.
Safghan was turning the pages of the book lying in front of him, but he was mumbling too. ‘what to say of us! Wrote a book and the whole of the books is there contained in a floppy. How much this little floppy earns for the publisher in the market you can’t even imagine. The truth is, Shantanu, no publisher maintains transparency in the matter of books. There are some writers who don’t want the royalty. Sitting in high chairs they help publishers sell their books. You will see how long Mandira’s controversy continues.’
BUT Mandira’s struggle continued. Such was the time when another letter of Mandira got published in papers.
‘it is regretfully declared that the Royal publishing House, hereby remain no more the authorized publishers of my husband, late Shimal Sharma. The account they sent us about the sale of books has been found to be dubious.’
Shantanu felt that the dispute is not to come to an end in near future. it must get aggravated. The trumpet was to be blown by this person or that, today or on another day. This war is begun by Mandira and, perhaps, she will emerge victorious….
But, perhaps, it is an ever recurring thing. We live in a disconcerting world of ET or the dreams of aliens even today. Even today, at some tender moment in the night a innumerable stars shine only to transform themselves into a flying saucer or an ET. Some Mandira, bating in the condescending rays of the seen cries out, ‘there is some one.’


4

Once again he was in all the likeness of his own father that night. On the outside the night was flowing freely. Moon-light was bleaching the objects…he had kept. The window opens conscientiously. The Scotch bottle was emptied.
Perhaps an intoxicated person thinks more deeply than he otherwise would. The details of his previous royalties were there in front of him. He went through them again and again. He was becoming more and angrier on Desai and say to him. ‘ssaaley, for this very reason I thought, time and again, that it was better for me to start my own publication than to suffer the fraud by the likes of you…should publish my own books.’
The previous accounts of the vouchers of his two books were missing. The account of the last five years also looked doubtful. Casting off the dead scales of a writer from his body he was in the shoes of his father, an unadulterated businessman, only.
Shantnua put the vouchers aside. He came to the terrace, walking. For a little while he kept looking at the constellations in the sky. Next, he pulled out his mobile and began to dial Desai’s number. Desai was there at the other end.
Shantanu roared. ‘it is twelve at night saaley. My fun of Scotch got grated because of you Saaley,’ Shantanu was speaking abusively. ‘I’ll come to your house to thrash you.’
‘ha….ha…,’ Desai was trying to laugh. ‘Do come. You do. Why are you getting cross? If there is any mistake in the vouchers we shall see to it. Take from me ten Scotch bottles for one my dear….’
Hearing him laugh Shatanu also laughed, ‘My fraternity is a different one, firangee. I belong to your Alsatian breed. I would bite rather than barks.’
By the time he restored himself to his room in the quiet of the brightly moon-light , some very dark comments that had been made during his conversation at Mandira’s came to his memory. Shantanu had deliberately kept preserved the memory of them.
‘Have you ever considered why the books by a writer like Shimal are printed in so very small a number?’
‘every one cannot digest them, is it?’
‘but he fights for all.’
Yes…’
‘Then, why did he not fight his own battle?...i mean against his own publisher?’
It seemed as if some one like Dushyanta had tossed a piece of rock in the dead quietness. For a moment Mandira’s whole body trembled.
‘I am not an author but I can analyses the whole matter,’ Shananu shot an unerring arrow. ‘Being given to the business of writing your author becomes a sky creative. In fact he becomes unable to fight any war, not even his own.’
Just on the next day, as I opened the main gate of desai’s bungalow, I once again heard the barking of an Alsatian.
‘so Mallika Bengal has returned you your Alsatain.’
‘no Shantanu….’ Desai laughed. ‘one Alsatian is out, another is in. one has only to be a lover of a good breed dog.’
Sipping his tea he asked in a murmur, ‘and what about the matter concerning Mandira?’ Dasai was laughing. ‘don’t you know? There has been a compromise. Such matters begin and got closed too….’
He tossed a big piece of bread towards the Alsatain which was caught by the Alasatian in the mid air.
In front of him the sun made two shadows of them on the lawn. Suddenly there came to his vision the face of Mandira, ‘there is some one….’
The Asatian barked for the second time and in response to it another piece of fresh bread was tossed to him.
Shanftanu felt very sad. By the time he returned home a strange quiet or a load over burdened his whole being. The atmosphere was once again very quiet and lifeless. As he returned to his room seeing the flowers of ‘Scine’, Gilbehri’ and ‘Tili. He was started. Though he was in the habit of living alone, an explosion had gone off somewhere. He switched on the lights. The window was closed, but the curtain fluttered. He retured to look at the bed. Innumerable furrows were there visible on the bed sheet. While departing he had forgotten to extinguish the piece of cigarette in the ash tray. Smoke was still rising there. The rows of paintings on the wall seemed to have become alive and moving even. Suddenly he felt a shiver. His frightened eyes once again turned to look at the window. He saw the curtain waving and a low shriek escaped from him. ‘There is some one, there is.’ But there was none. It was just a delusion on his part. And, this was the time when he made up his mind that he would try to visit mandira once again, breaking all the limits of decency.
And this was just a chance occurrence, or what, that the answer from the other end, without any observance of formality or extending any questions, was, ‘please come, better in the evening.’
When Shantanu reached the beautiful colony of late Shimal, all of a sudden the music of falling rain drops heralded some new mischance…..
She was alone in the house, in a sky-blue night-wear. When he got in, she was sitting on a chair, extending out her hand to fill up her palm with the falling rain drops. She looked up, then said in a murmur, ‘come in. I am collecting diamonds on my palm.’
It was difficult to say whether the tender fair palm had really turned themselves into diamonds or into fire. It was a rare sight. Rarer than the sight of a rainbow in the rainy season sky. But Shantanu had not come to watch the rarity of such a sight at this time. On the level of thoughts that he composed to picturize himself, he seemed to have turned into a dog at one time, and a toad at another. This was the first time that he was bitten by the fangs of words that made him think if he had made a mistake in closing pen-man-ship as his main occupation. I couldn’t restrain myself.
‘Why did you do this?’
Mandira stood there partially soaked. The rain drops on her face partly expressed the heat and partly her perplexity. She turned. There was an expression of wonder on her face.
‘What did I do?’
‘Why did you compromise?’ Shantanu was looking fixedly into her eyes.
There was a sharp clap of thunder.
‘Come in. had I an apprehension of the rain, I wouldn’t have asked you to come this evening.’ Her voice was heavy.
Having come in, suddenly he was perplexed. Shimal’s photograph was missing from the table. The room it self had an air of change. The sofa-set also was rearranged. She sat down on a chair, as if they intended to shut and then to open alternately. And then her lips moved.
‘Some times a struggle is that of a person faced by him all alone. Sometimes we are defeated by ourselves. Sometimes we lose words that should define ourselves—quite apart from our being authors or painters. The canvas stands blank, the brush sans colors, pen silent and the words making literature unconvincing…’
Turning, she cast a look, got up from the sofa and then came to me.
‘Listen to me Shantanu…every person wants another one, a little smaller than himself. Every important person in the market wants a less important person. Big words sometimes seek the li9ghter and smaller words. My flight was high but there was some other one with a higher flight. I felt, compromise was a part of business that one had to make regardless of any feelings of victory or defeat….’
There was thunder-clap.
She mumbled, ‘I had nothing to lose, and nothing to gain even. Entertaining the feeling of ourselves being great we lose everything, perhaps,…so many inborn desires too…’
She moved ahead. Rain drops came in through the window. Closing the window she said in a whisper.
‘The maid servant has gone home. Her child is sick. Will you stay here tonight...For me…?’
She was looking across the window…despite the flashes and the thunder, Shantanu was still lost in the current of her works spoken awhile ago. ‘Every person wants a smaller one.’
There was a fresh flash. Having closed the window, Mandira came in and stood in front of frog cane to his mind, the one he had seen near the rows of odorless Tile and Gilbari plants.
He felt Mandira’s palms move close to his eyes. Perhaps the blinding flash of the lightning had settled itself in his eyes. Despite the heavy rain, flashes of lightning and thunder of the cloud, Shantanu had scanned what explosive results the situation might bring in.
‘Won’t you stay?...please speak.’ At the moment Mandira’s eyes seemed to converse with the vapour laden clouds, on equal terms.
Shantanu said something very quietly—or tried to say something. But, at that very moment a forceful gust of wind spend the shut panels of the window and Shantanu’s answer was lost in the thunder of the cloud.