Abandon Read online

  The old man knows who we are, which is why he does not ask questions like ‘Who are you?’ or ‘What do you want?’

  I don’t have to say anything, someone behind me speaks. ‘Please make some arrangements,’ he says. ‘How do you expect her to go looking for a room with a child at this hour? Let her stay the night, she’ll go to some other hotel tomorrow.’

  It’s hard to say what would have happened had I been forced to start this conversation. I would not have been able to beg and plead. Ishwari cannot control herself, her nerves are about to collapse under the pressure. On the verge of being defeated by an overwhelming loneliness, she cannot imagine a complete stranger speaking up uninhibitedly on her behalf. At these moments the body becomes numb, I feel an urge to surrender this fleeting life in his hands and go to sleep. Ishwari, however, feels the desire to taste this release.

  Ishwari looked at the young man carefully for a moment. He had a longish, dry face, small eyes and acne scars on his cheeks. There was a strange play of light and shade on those uneven cheeks, as though the pits on the skin hosted experiences that Ishwari’s imagination could never reach. Ishwari shivered. It was the effect of the night. Darkness casts a supernatural shadow on the mind, although the relationship between this shadow and human society is a seductive one.

  ‘The manager of this guest house has gone home on holiday,’ says the old man helplessly. ‘Had he been here, he could have taken a decision. I cannot do it. Please try to understand, you can see I’m a crippled old man. I’ve been rejected from employment a long time ago. Besides, we don’t have any empty rooms.’ It is indeed difficult for the old man to keep standing. ‘I can barely stand, but I had to come when I heard a young woman’s voice.’

  He is about to go back when I speak up, ‘Let me sit here in this passage tonight, I’ll pay for a room—’

  Before I can finish, Roo astonishes us by taking a couple of steps forward and grasping the iron gate. Looking up at the old man and nodding his head, he says, ‘We’ll sit and we’ll eat something too. We’re very hungry.’ He continues to nod with studied assurance, and Ishwari presses Roo’s head to her thigh to make him stop.

  The old man leans towards Roo. ‘Hasn’t the child eaten anything?’ he asks.

  ‘The train was late, you see,’ I respond quickly, ‘and before anything else I wanted to find a place for the night.’

  ‘There’s no arrangement for meals. You have to eat at a restaurant or order in. You don’t get anything except tea and coffee here. Don’t you have anything to eat?’

  The question flew at her from the back like a gust of hot wind cutting through the cold. Ishwari shook her head without a backward glance. Roo has become impatient now, rubbing his eyes as he tugs at my hand. ‘Come along, Ma,’ he says. I am certain Roo means we should go to Howrah Station. He has noticed that you get food there, and a place to sit. Even with his limited intelligence he has realised that Ishwari will not be able to offer better arrangements than the one at Howrah Station.

  Ishwari was at her wits’ end. Roo. She had no one but Roo. Countless days and nights without Roo in them haunted her like an unforgiving famine. Ishwari had spent a long time without seeing Roo, without feeling his touch. She was turning into a sprawling banyan tree with each passing day – accursed down to the roots along with the trunk and vines and leaves and boughs. She could see herself in the mirror, her eyes round like saucers, her hair red, standing on end. Ishwari had become insane with need for her son. She would nurture an emptiness as heavy as a rock, as thorny as cactus, in her arms. Sometimes she would fling her food, her crockery and her bedclothes to the ground and beat her breast in a tearless lament. And she would sing.

  Patthar ka palna, kaanto ki dori

  Kaise toh toru, nindia ko tori?

  Your cradle is of rock, it swings on a crown of thorns

  How, then, can I disturb your sleep?

  I have seen all this. I know Ishwari would rather wander through the streets holding Roo by the hand than endure this agony – starving for two successive nights is nothing compared to this. Even though Ishwari now stands in the middle of the pavement, troubled and confused, looking around helplessly, happiness continues to blossom in her heart. Even though one day this novel will stop this joy in its tracks, and throttle it.

  One last time Ishwari asked the old man, ‘Is there really nothing you can do?’

  ‘No, there really is no room available.’ The old man shook his head again. ‘A guest cannot be made to spend the night in the passage. I am helpless.’

  I see the young taxi driver turn around without protest and walk back to the taxi. I am forced to return to the taxi too, holding Roo’s hand. This taxi is now my real refuge. Roo is walking with his eyes shut. I say to the young man, ‘I know of a hotel near Hazra Road, please take me there.’ Without answering, he looks over his shoulder at me before opening the door to climb into his seat. Putting the suitcase and bag into the taxi, I get in and sit down with Roo in my lap.

  At this moment I feel an urge to look out at the sky. I have never desired dawn before. I am a lover of the night, a woman who roves in the dark. My mind expands each time I put the night like a pillow over my head. I have no such expectations of dawn. Dawn signifies transparency, trustworthiness – dawn means the end of all mystery, or all romance. But tonight my inclinations have changed. Mine, or Ishwari’s? At the break of dawn Ishwari will be able to roam the city freely with Roo holding her hand, she will be able to look for a room, gather some of the things she needs to survive.

  The young man switched off the taxi engine after switching it on. ‘There’s a boarding house of sorts in my neighbourhood,’ he said, ‘they might be able to put you up for a few hours.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Ishwari exclaimed. ‘Please take me to the hotel I told you about! If they don’t have a room please take me to Howrah Station. I know I’m bothering you endlessly, but who else can I turn to at this moment? I have to save this child at any cost, and I have to save myself to save him, I cannot take too many risks. If something were to happen to me, I cannot even begin to imagine what he’ll do or where he’ll end up. If you’re ready to take me where I want to go, I’ll come with you – if not, I’m prepared to stay here on this pavement,’ she declared, using the sleeve of her kurta to wipe the tears flowing down her face. I observe the old man hobbling back.

  ‘You can trust me,’ said the young man, starting his engine.

  Ishwari’s head was about to drop in embarrassment, but such is the nature of this novel – it is sceptical and trusting at the same time, it tells the truth and also lies. It must be our nature too – when we leave our house keys with a stranger, we ask ourselves: what can he steal anyway?

  ‘Then let’s go to Howrah Station,’ said Ishwari, smiling faintly at this person whom she had no choice but to trust. That’s when I see the old man pause and turn. He raises his arm. First one, then both together. ‘Just a minute,’ he shouts.

  Ishwari practically leapt in the air. ‘He’s calling us, he’s calling us…’ she jumped out of the taxi.

  —

  Ishwari hadn’t requested him to do it, but the young man carried their bag and suitcase upstairs. When they climbed up the spiral staircase, he asked to take the sleeping Roo from Ishwari’s arms. He took a broom from the old man and swept the room. Then, without a word to her, without even taking the fare for the taxi, he slipped away unnoticed, probably while she was busy talking to the old man. Ishwari had even forgotten to ask him his name. She felt guilty about not saying goodbye.

  The old man was Gourohori Basak. He used to be the manager of the guest house, but owing to his age he didn’t – or couldn’t – look after the place any more. He spent all his time alone in his room. He had no roots anywhere and the owners of the guest house had not yet asked him to go back to his village. He would probably leave as soon as he was told to. The twenty-something Nikhil Biswas, who w
as now the manager, was a distant relative of the owner’s wife’s. Based on the strength of this connection he made the venerable Gourohori Basak quake in his shoes. He had displayed great strength of character in allowing Ishwari to stay on such a makeshift arrangement in Nikhil Biswas’s absence. His resolve had strengthened simply out of consideration for Roo.

  After tucking Roo into bed, I go downstairs with Gourohori Babu to get a packet of biscuits. He has a very hard time climbing up and down the stairs. He usually cooks himself a simple meal in a corner of his room. Since he slipped and injured his foot the day before yesterday, he has had virtually nothing to eat. The maid, who goes by the name Nepal’er Ma, and whose job it is to sweep and swab the guest house, brought him some snacks in the afternoon, which is all he has had to eat. The two boys, Prabir and Montu, who run errands in this guest house, know that Gourohori has been rejected and that Nikhil Biswas is the master of their fate. As a result, Gourohori never gets any help from them, no matter how desperate his need.

  In his room, Gourohori Babu lifts the lid of an ancient aluminium trunk and brings out a packet of biscuits. ‘Eat a couple yourself,’ he says, using the formal aapni instead of the familiar tumi, ‘and put the rest by your son’s pillow. If he wakes up and asks for food, soak them in water and give them to him. It will be morning soon, I’ll take an extra packet of milk and heat it up for you. You can give it to him when he wakes up. Milk is good for strength. Let’s see what we can do after that.’

  ‘Please don’t address me formally,’ Ishwari told Gourohori, ‘you’re so much older than I am.’ This was the Ishwari within me, the one who was comfortable with social etiquette. My attitude is a lot like an air-hostess’s; I have grasped the importance of floating high above ground level. I am organised, Ishwari is harum-scarum; I am sincere, Ishwari draws on her inner resources. I don’t think there’s any particular purpose to my existence, but for the last two days life has not seemed quite as meaningless to Ishwari. She has got her son back, but my misgivings about Roo have not yet been dispelled.

  Gourohori refused to address Ishwari any other way. Taking off his woollen cap, he said, ‘A single night’s predicament does not degrade a human being. If even a single room had been available, I would have had to serve you with the same trepidation with which I serve other guests. Even at this moment, you are a guest at this guest house, while I am nothing but an employee allowed to occupy a small corner by the generosity of the owner. It does not befit me to address you in any manner other than formally.’

  There was a water-filter installed in the terrace next to the passage – after filling two bottles of water, I go upstairs. The room that shelters us from the cold on this winter’s night is situated above another on the top floor, with a spiral staircase leading up to it. The stairs end in a narrow corridor with a wooden railing, leading into the room whose roof is tiled. The building itself is well-maintained. The exteriors have been painted white recently, with bottle-green borders; the tiles are painted the same shade of green, the wooden railing too.

  It is actually a store-room of sorts for torn mattresses and pillows. The garbage inside is nothing but tattered and shredded, rotting lumps of cotton wool. The cot has found place here only because one of its legs is broken. Somehow Gourohori has managed to push it against the wall, place a dilapidated mattress on it, and cover it with a milk-white sheet for us to spend the night on.

  As a baby, whenever Roo slept this way on his back, he would twitch repeatedly in his sleep, and Ishwari would place something heavy on her son’s chest or adjust his position so he slept on his side. She was watching her son sleep after a long time.

  Does motherhood find its greatest satisfaction in seeing one’s child sleep peacefully? Ishwari had waited forever for such a sight. She would draw the sleeping Roo to her breast, causing him to curl into a ball, rub her cheek against his, and draw ships and ferris wheels on his eyelids…

  Longing, longing, leaf by leaf

  I tear my grief… When will you

  Come home and play?

  And her mutilated penance was just for this.

  Roo looked exhausted. His mouth was slightly open. There was a touch of resentment about his lips and chin. Somewhere within him a process of hurt was under way, throbbing with unhappiness. One day Ishwari will wipe off this pain, this resentment from her son’s heart, with an effort beyond her means. My abandoning him, the growing distance month by month, my hesitation at accepting him afresh, two days of homelessness, the grief of wandering through the city, the sense of insecurity – Ishwari will absorb all these. I don’t know if she will succeed; I don’t know if she will survive.

  How will she survive?

  Her fingers are stolen, shoulders don’t swim,

  Another bad moon is yet to dive –

  How, how will she survive?

  The world is heartless. Ishwari is weak, bankrupt – unfit for battle.

  I abandoned domestic life, left my child to arrive at a distant land to write a novel; toiling by day and night, I completed it. One day, as I was reading my own manuscript, there was a power-cut. I lit a candle. My eyes grew heavy as I read by candlelight. I decided to close my eyes for a minute before resuming. But as soon as I did I sank into slumber. Body and mind shutting down, I went to sleep. I didn’t open my eyes till I was scalded by the impossible heat of fire.

  I found my novel in flames. The fire had eaten up half the manuscript already. The rest burned to ashes with my imagination as its witness – it was burnt completely and I did nothing but watch.

  I did nothing because I was in the grips of the strongest rage. I had written the novel – surely Ishwari could have battled with the flames to save it. But Ishwari does not know how to fight; Ishwari surrenders in advance.

  Still, this woman has taken Roo away in her arms. It is a very big risk. And I don’t know what Ishwari will do with him now.

  I need to sleep too. No one knows whether tomorrow will prove to be an even more difficult day. Tearing the packet of biscuits open, I eat two. A dim light glows in the room. What next, I wonder, hunger gnawing at my insides. I stare at the light for a clue but my mind refuses to function. Turning over on my side, I find Roo moving his jaws in his sleep. Is he eating in his dreams? Negating my indifference, Ishwari crawled up to her son, hugging him to her and squeezing him. Then, drawing him to her exhausted body, she fell asleep.

  —

  It was quite late when Ishwari awoke. The sunlight hadn’t filtered in, however, since all five windows on the three walls were shut tight. Ishwari scolded herself. She had intended to wake Roo early and give him something to eat. This was her principal task. Gourohori Babu had promised to arrange for some milk too.

  Springing out of bed, Ishwari saw the empty packet on the floor, crinkled and shredded. She was surprised – she had eaten only two. She concluded that it must be the handiwork of a giant rat, trembling at the thought. Ishwari turned agitated and fearful eyes towards Roo’s tender fingers and saw at once the profusion of brown biscuit crumbs around her son’s gloomy lips.

  Her heart was torn asunder. She smothered Roo in kisses. Holding him, she tried to cross the endless desert in her soul, babbling, ‘It’ll never happen again, Roo, I’ll never leave you and go off – we won’t be separated any more. You’ll forget, you’ll forget those days. You’ll forget how children turn homeless without their mothers, how they wander from one room to another with ashen eyes, sobbing like cats, how they glue their noses to every window and their eyes to the road, how they cannot ask for food when they’re hungry, how they grope in their sleep for a body packed with compassion, the body within whose sac of cool water they had wanted to stay forever.’

  ‘I shall wash away your hurt, your emptiness, I will strangle the betrayal you faced. You shall live, you shall live with me. We will make our union successful in every sense of the word, Roo – my Mahiruho!’

  As she said this, a pa
ir of eyes rose before her eyes. Roo rose before Roo, memories of Roo – or was it imagination or Roolessness – like a dream. In the dream, the eyes changed to grief and repentance which mingled into fat teardrops that trickled down from her eyes. Witnessing Ishwari’s tears of fatigue, I realise I have always considered motherhood simply a matter of regular practice – how wrong I have been.

  The moment a woman gives birth and turns into a mother, her sense of motherhood becomes infinite. Even in the case of mothers whose arms are emptied soon after delivery, their absent children continue to hover like ghosts all their lives. That is why, despite all my efforts, Ishwari’s love and desire has not diminished. Roo’s love has preserved the natural abundance of tears within Ishwari like a well-protected mound of grain.

  Roo is sleeping – let him sleep a little longer. The room fills with sunlight when I open the windows. Glittering sunbeams hurl themselves on the dusty floor. Two sparrows chirp at one of the windows, against the steady hum of a car bustling down Lansdowne Road. I am surrounded by buildings, as though a thousand chemical solutions of life are waiting in beakers, ready to be experimented with. Each has a distinct taste, texture and smell. I begin to feel restless at the sight of these closely packed buildings – I wrote a novel of truths and lies. It was burnt to ashes, and yet another novel of truths and lies is being woven around my life. Will this one burn down too? It’s bound to – for Roo is now flashing like lightning between Ishwari and me.

  The truth is: I did not want to give birth to Roo. Roo’s arrival was unintended. I dislike children. You could say I cannot stand them. I made any number of secret attempts to ensure that the embryo lodged in my womb was not born. The doctor said my uterus was slack, that the embryo could be shaken loose quite easily, so I should take complete rest during my pregnancy. The people I was bearing the child for, like a faithful woman of the family, decreed that I should stay in bed round the clock. They put me under strict surveillance. And without getting out of bed, I plotted ways for my undesired embryo to escape from my slack uterus. I inserted my hair into my nostrils to induce violent sneezing so that my stomach muscles could put terrible pressure on my uterus and force the foetus out. Locking myself in the bathroom, I poked a knitting needle into my vagina so that the life within could be destroyed. I collapsed immobile in bed after a hundred sit-ups, sobbed in the empty room, shaking my head violently – ‘I don’t want this child – I don’t want it!’ But I simply could not free myself of the foetus. Thwarting all my efforts, it was born a complete human being. And emerging from within me, Ishwari took him in her loving arms.