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aaaaIt
was a song of praise, a prayer-song. Sandeep did not
understand a single word of it, but he thought that
the tune and especially the sound of the difficult
words communicated with him in an obscure way, and
he was aware that the repetitive sound of the language
had mingled with the sound of the water falling in
the bath, till they became one glimmering sound without
meaning. Whether the bath ended first, or the song,
Sandeep could not tell. A cool spell of remote, waterfall-like
music was woven and broken at the same time, as if
the words of the song could not endure existing a
hundredth of a second after they had been uttered.
Chhotomama unlocked the door noisily and came out,
smiling, a towel wrapped around his loins and thighs.
Pottering about for his new pyjamas and vest, he looked
like the chieftain of some undiscovered, happy African
tribe. His wet hair stuck out in all directions from
his head, like a black, untidy porcupine. The bath,
the inner temple where he had performed his last sacrosanct
ritual and offered his songs for the day, was now
empty and without music, except the sound of a single
drop of water falling on the floor with a tone and
perfect pitch of its own. Every few seconds, it seemed
to repeat that exact pitch without alteration or variation.
aaaaAt
about six o'clock in the evening, the lights went
out. The power-cuts had got more frequent with the
heat, and the two servant girls and their little brother
who had come downstairs and plopped shyly on the floor
to watch the Sunday film on television had to be disappointed
and sent home.
aaaa"I'm
sure they'll show us a better film next Sunday,"
assured Sandeep's mother.
"It's not me," said the girl with the unwashed
hair and incredibly clean hands. "It's Syed,"
nodding at the boy, who had worn an imbecilic, puzzled
expression ever since the lights had gone off. "He's
never seen a film." The girl's name was Runa.
She was a Muslim janitor's daughter. Sandeep was sorry
to see her leave: he had often fantasised about marrying
her one day. He noticed, from the corner of his eye,
how her bright and ragged body ran impulsively down
the stairs, and listened to her slightly hoarse, illiterate
voice calling to her brother and sister to follow.
The stairs were dark, and a gulf seemed to separate
her from him. Then, two minutes later, he forgot she
ever existed.
aaaaSaraswati
brought lanterns into the room, each with a strong,
yellow yolk of flame. Then she bent to light the candles,
and used the dripping wax to stick them onto chipped
tea saucers.
aaaa"Doesn't
Saraswati look like a witch?" whispered Sandeep
to Abhi. Indeed, wavering shadows from the candle
flame falling and shifting on her face gave her ordinary
features a preternatural fluidity. Her cheekbones
and jaw seemed to flow and change with the changing
light, as if she were shedding her old face for a
new one.
aaaa"Saraswati,
you look like a witch," said Abhi.
aaaa"Be
quiet, you little monsters," she replied.
aaaaShe
had set down the candles in their saucers at intervals
on the floor: one in the room, one in the corridor,
one near the staircase. It looked like there was a
festival being celebrated, some esoteric myth in the
process of being retold by symbols. As Abhi leaned
forward perfunctorily to blow a candle out, and Saraswati
rushed towards him—her intention, she said,
was to drag him out of the room by his hair—Chhotomama
called from the corridor: "Enough mischief, boys.
Come on, let's go out for a walk."
aaaaSo
they went out for a walk. They went through narrow,
lightless lanes, where houses that were silent but
gave out smells of fish and boiled rice stood on either
side of the road. There was not a single tree in sight;
no breeze and no sound but the vaguely musical humming
of mosquitoes. Once, an ancient taxi wheezed past,
taking a shortcut through the lane into the main road,
like a comic vintage car passing through a film set
showing the twenties into the film set of the present,
passing from black-and-white into colour. But why
did these houses— for instance, that one with
the tall, ornate iron gates and a watchman dozing
on a stool, which gave the impression that the family
had valuables locked away inside, or that other one
with the small porch and the painted door, which gave
the impression that whenever there was a feast or
a wedding all the relatives would be invited, and
there would be so many relatives that some of them,
probably the young men and women, would be sitting
bunched together on the cramped porch because there
would be no more space inside, talking eloquently
about something that didn't really require eloquence,
laughing uproariously at a joke that wasn't really
very funny, or this next house with an old man relaxing
in his easy-chair on the verandah, fanning himself
with a local Sunday newspaper, or this small, shabby
house with the girl Sandeep glimpsed through a window,
sitting in a bare, ill-furnished room, memorising
a text by candlelight, repeating suffixes and prefixes
from a Bengali grammar over and over to herself—why
did these houses seem to suggest that an infinitely
interesting story might be woven around them? And
yet the story would never be a satisfying one, because
the writer, like Sandeep, would be too caught up in
jotting down the irrelevances and digressions that
make up lives, and the life of a city, rather than
a good story— till the reader would shout "Come
to the point!"—and there would be no point,
except the girl memorising the rules of grammar, the
old man in the easy-chair fanning himself, and the
house with the small, empty porch that was crowded,
paradoxically, with many memories and possibilities.
The "real" story, with its beginning, middle,
and conclusion, would never be told, because it did
not exist.
aaaaThe
road ended, and it branched off, on one side, to a
larger road, and on the other side to two narrower
ones that led to a great field, a maidan, with a pair
of poles at either end which were supposed to be goalposts.
As they came closer, they noticed that the field was
full of people whom they had not been able to discern
at first in the darkness: now they came slowly into
focus in the moonlight, like a negative becoming clearer
and clearer as it was developed in a darkroom. There
were all kinds and classes of people—college
boys, schoolboys, couples, unemployed men, families,
hawkers, groups of girls. The clammy heat had made
them leave their houses or hovels in search of a breeze.
It was a strange scene because, in spite of the number
of people who had congregated together, there was
scarcely any noise. The shadowiness of the place made
them speak in low voices, as if they were in a theatre
or an auditorium where the lights had been dimmed
meaningfully, and a film or a play was just about
to begin. If there had been no power-cut, or if it
had still been light, the maidan, needless to say,
would have throbbed with its own din and activity.
But the darkness had brought a strange lethargy and
even peace to these otherwise highly strung men and
women, and there was a perceptible sense of release,
as if time was oozing by, and the world happening
elsewhere.
aaaaJust
as Chhotomama and the boys were preparing to join
the others in the maidan, to settle on the cool grass
and pull the grass out luxuriously with their fingers,
the lights came back. It was a dramatic instant, like
a photographer's flash going off, which recorded the
people sprawled in various postures and attitudes,
smiles of relief and wonder on their faces. Each day
there would be a power-cut, and each day there would
be the unexpected, irrational thrill when the lights
returned; it was as if people would never get used
to it; day after day, at that precise, privileged
moment when the power-cut ended without warning as
it had begun, giving off a radiance that was confusing
and breathtaking, there was an uncontrollable sensation
of delight, as if it were happening for the first
time. With what appeared to be an instinct for timing,
the rows of fluorescent lamps glittered to life simultaneously.
The effect was the opposite of blowing out candles
on a birthday cake: it was as if someone had blown
on a set of unlit candles, and the magic exhalation
had brought a flame to every wick at once.
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