Blue Eclipse and Other Stories

  CONTENTS

  Harkishanlal Sood

  Time-worn

  The Rogue

  House of Glass

  Seventeen

  The Coming of the Saviour

  Blue Eclipse

  Death of Mascarenhas

  Hashish Peddler of Yusuf Sarai

  Siddhartha’s Axe

  Sri Chakram

  Sunshine

  Madness

  Babel

  Notes

  P.S. Section

  Kakanadan: Life and Writings

  Interview with Kakanadan

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  HARKISHANLAL SOOD

  Harkishanlal Sood (1964)

  THE MOMENT I GOT fifteen rupees in my hand, I walked out of the room without thinking twice about it. There was nothing to think about. I didn’t even say thanks. Stepped out, shut the door, kept the money safely in my hip pocket, thrust my hands into the woollen coat pockets, and walked down the stairs – five floors. I didn’t talk to anybody; didn’t smile at anyone either. Why take a risk? All are colleagues, and I owe five or ten bucks to most of them.

  It’s already dark at 5.30 in the evening. Winters are like that. The day starts late and night sets in early. There is heavy fog. Everything is hazy. People, buses, buildings and trees are all shadows in a white blur.

  It’s a pain to wait for a bus. And stupid to get into a phat-phat in this weather – my face will go numb and dry in the chilly wind. Better walk. I’ll reach Connaught Place in twenty minutes.

  I wrapped the muffler around my neck and started walking, hands in coat pockets and head down. I saw the light from street lamps freeze in the fog.

  A quarter bottle will cost six-and-a-half bucks. I must buy two cigars. I am starving; let’s eat a tikki or two for four annas for temporary relief. All that will add up to, let’s say, seven-and-a-half rupees. That will leave me with another seven-and-a-half bucks in my pocket – good enough for a couple of hands of rummy.

  The others must have gathered in Gurbachan Singh’s room already. Would they have increased the rate? It’s been a while since I went there. If the stake is two paise per point, then I may have to pack up after two or four hands. That will be a tragedy. It’s no fun if you don’t get to play for at least an hour and a half.

  What if I make some profit today? I’ve lost money every time I went last month. Maybe better luck today. That’s the thing about gambling. Chawla is my sponsor today; he lent me the fifteen bucks. What if he proves to be my lucky charm? If that’s the case, I’ll treat him to gulab jamun and paneer pakora at the office canteen tomorrow. If I lose? Then let Chawla go to hell, I won’t return his fifteen bucks to him either.

  In any case, how will I return the money? If I were to clear my debts, who all will I pay back to? I’ve borrowed seventy-five rupees from Khullar alone. Then I owe fifteen bucks to Majumdar, twenty to Rawat, twelve to Tilak, ten to Venkatnarayan … the list goes on.

  Perhaps I could borrow a big amount from the cooperative society and pay everyone back. It’s not that easy. I can take a fresh loan only once after I repay the existing one. They cut ninety rupees from my salary every month on that account, and there are eighteen instalments left. Then there is the provident fund advance I took. There again, eight more instalments are left. I have to pay the court fees of the case against the seth at the vegetable market too. That’s a big amount. I haven’t yet come to the house rent, the electricity bill…

  It’s better not to think. No matter how much I think or worry, my take-home will remain nine rupees and forty-five paise for many months to come. That’s for sure. That Madrasi bill clerk is a devil. Shark! Doesn’t miss a single paisa that needs to be cut. Somebody should grab him by his choti1 and throw him out the window. He’ll fall on the bus stop. That will be a sight. What was his stupid name? Srinivasa Ayyangar. Yes, Ayyangar.

  Whatever gar; to hell with him.

  I reached Connaught Place and it made me happy. After so many days! There’s no point coming here without money. The neon tubes adorning the front of restaurants are inviting me to come inside, quietly, like the call girls on GB Road. No, thanks! These things you notice only when there’s money in your pocket. What about Hotel Mikado’s shrimp dinner? Not tonight.

  I went straight to the wine shop. How beautiful it looks!

  ‘Yes, sir,’ a smart young man in a terry-wool suit said.

  ‘A quarter bottle of dry gin.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’

  I gave a tenner and got back three one-rupee notes and some change. Didn’t count it. Deposited the bottle safely in the left coat pocket, and began walking. I didn’t look at the passers-by. What if a familiar face props up? All I have is a quarter bottle; I don’t want to share it with anyone.

  Dry gin is a miraculous thing, no doubt. Whoever invented it deserves praise. It doesn’t require soda, water or even ice; just squeeze some lemon into it and gulp it down. You’ll forget everything. You’ll feel light in the head and in the heart, and you’ll walk as if you’re flowing. If you talk, you speak without a break; if you cry, your tears would refuse to dry. Things will happen fast, without any delay. It’s a magical state where you don’t feel the need for any strength. No strength, no weakness.

  I bought a lemon and two cigars, then ate a couple of potato tikkis from a roadside vendor. As I was eating the tikki with a blackened aluminium spoon, someone called.

  ‘Hello, Mr Sood.’

  I turned around. It was Pillai. ‘Hello.’

  Pillai nodded and walked away. He’s a good man. There are some good people among Madrasis too. Pillai says he is not a Madrasi, but a Malayali. Whatever be the case, he is a gentleman. He is dark and heavy, but has several good qualities. He doesn’t bore people, and doesn’t stick around where he is not needed. Best thing? He doesn’t preach like that stupid Srinivasa Ayyangar. Pillai loves fun. Once he took me to his room and offered me dry gin. He’s the one who said, ‘This is a wonder beverage. If somebody wants to commit suicide, he just needs two ounces of this, and he can take his life without any worries. Not just suicide, dry gin can make you do anything you want.’

  That’s when I really admired Pillai. I could have offered him a sip today. But it’s okay, he wouldn’t mind. In fact, he might have got upset if I’d called him with just a quarter bottle in hand.

  I threw away the leaf on which the tikki was served, and returned the spoon and paid four annas to the vendor.

  I ran my eyes blankly over the costly products in the showrooms as I walked along the long corridors. I must find a place to gulp the stuff in my pocket.

  Gurbachan Singh’s room is in the next block. I need to pass through some dark corridors and narrow stairs to reach his room. I can drink there.

  I reached the block that housed Gurbachan Singh’s room. The corridor was dark. I took the bottle out of my pocket and bit off the cap. Then I bit into the lemon to make a hole and squeezed it into the bottle, tossed the rind away and drank a mouthful. Nice! I walked up the dark, narrow stairs. The next corridor was even narrower, with barely enough room for two people to pass each other. I took another swig at the bottle. It was empty by the time I reached the terrace. I hurled the bottle away. It must have fallen right in the middle of the road, shattered and scared the shit out of somebody. I lit a cigar, went straight to Gurbachan Singh’s room and kicked open the door.

  ‘Good evening, gentlemen.’

  Is there fog inside the room too? They all look like shadowy figures. Gurbachan Singh has taken off his turban. With his beard and long hair, he looks like a hermit. What about the others? Chakravarty, Gajwani, Soni, Menon … the whole gang is there.


  ‘Hello, Sood,’ they all said in unison.

  Soni got up, came over and hugged me. He kissed me on my cheeks and said, ‘Come, come, join this hand.’

  Once we took the seat, Soni pulled a whisky bottle out of his pocket and gave it to me. ‘Take it. There should be two ounces. It’s your share.’

  Gurbachan Singh objected, ‘Soni, you didn’t tell us about this.’

  ‘This is his share. I had treated all of you last week.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gajwani, ‘let’s not waste time. Whose shuffle is it?’

  Chakravarty took the cards and said, ‘Sood, are you in?’

  I nodded while gulping the whisky. Menon drew the joker. I put the bottle down and took the hand.

  I can’t believe it. It is a terrific hand. I just need one card to declare. It’s my turn first. Ace is the joker. God!

  My fingers were trembling as I picked up a card from the draw pile.

  Another joker!

  I showed my cards. Notes flew in.

  Chawla’s money has brought good luck.

  ‘Oh, so you’ve come to empty our pockets, huh?’ Gurbachan Singh quipped.

  I didn’t respond. Picked up all the notes and put them in my pocket. Long live Chawla!

  But the luck didn’t last. I started losing hand after hand. I scooted many hands. When I played, I lost the full hand. But I played for a long time, without giving up hope. I was completely empty by nine in the night.

  ‘Keep me out of this round,’ I said.

  It’s a shame to play on credit.

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘It’s getting late. My wife is not well.’

  ‘Oh, she hasn’t recovered yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sad.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight,’ chorused the others.

  After I stepped out and shut the door, I heard Gajwani mutter, ‘Poor guy! He lost seven to eight rupees.’

  I felt like going right back in and asking him if it was his old man’s money. He is that Ayyangar’s type: gives sympathy and advice when nobody needs it. And do they help anybody? Never! Anyway, who needs help from these corpses?

  I came down the narrow stairs to reach the road and walked down the corridor towards the bus stop. Do I have enough change for the bus fare? Who knows?

  The problems start now. It’s irritating to think about home. Sulochana might have died, for all you know. To be fair, it’s better than lying there, gasping for breath all the time. And somebody else can use that bed. But her death will only increase my problems. The help coming from her home might stop. That will be damning. The children will go hungry. Their cries will become unbearable. Right now, every expense at home is being met by Sulochana’s brothers. They are rich merchants in Ludhiana. Whenever there is a crisis, they are the ones who help.

  If that link breaks, survival might be compromised. If Sulochana is not around, how will I ask them for help? They won’t love their brother-in-law as they loved their sister. In fact, they despise me. I know what they think of me: useless ass, goes around boozing and wasting money, and so on. To hell with them and their views!

  And the children? Who knows? No point tearing one’s hair over such things. There is no magic bullet. Let them go where life takes them. What can I do?

  Everybody will ask, wasn’t it you who brought all these liabilities and problems upon yourself? It makes me laugh. Of course, one falls into debt on his own, not in a group! Fools.

  The chilly wind made me tremble. I’ve become weak, like an old man. Sick wife, four-five children, empty pocket – these things can make any young man old.

  I loosened the muffler from around my neck, and covered my ears and head.

  I am glad for one thing. I may have become old too early and I’m neck-deep in debt, but I’ve lived my life. My colleagues who draw as much salary as I do may not have debt, they may not have so much to worry about, they may be healthier, but have they lived?

  People will say, ‘Look at Chawla. He has a beautiful wife, two kids; happy life.’

  True. But what is happiness for these guys? They go to work in the morning with two buttered rotis in their lunchbox. Work like an ox. During lunch, they buy a potato curry for two annas from the vendor sitting under a tree across the road and eat their rotis with it. Go back to work and labour for another two-three hours. In the evening, they stand in a queue at the bus stop with tired faces and weary limbs. When they reach home, they collapse somewhere, some after taking a bath, others without taking one. Then, at night, when the children go to sleep, they roll up to their wives – who smell of vegetables, sweat and dough – and get into the act of reproduction right next to the sleeping children, their eyes closed, as mechanically as they work in office.

  And they call it life!

  You can’t get Harkishanlal Sood to do that. Sorry. So what if I have a lot of liabilities? I have lived. If I were to die now, it’d be okay. I don’t regret anything. I made only one mistake. Marriage. That too had some positives, I can’t deny it. But mostly, it has been a source of trouble.

  I checked the change in my pocket. Thirty naya paise.

  The bus fare itself is twenty-seven paise. I can’t even think of walking the four to five miles back home in this cold. That leaves me with just three paise. I can buy a Charminar cigarette. I shouldn’t have finished both the cigars.

  I bought a Charminar from a cigarette wallah on the roadside for two paise and lit it. The warm smoke erased all the troubling thoughts clogging my brain. I felt good.

  If it were summer I could have slept on a park bench somewhere. But in this weather, I’ll die if I spend the night in the open without a razai. I’ll be frozen into a snowman by the morning. So, basically I have no choice but to go home.

  I reached the bus stop. There were only a couple of people there. 9.30 p.m. and the streets were already empty.

  There is hardly any movement. Dark figures swaddled in blankets lurk here and there. Every face is looking down. Every hand is in the pocket. The city sleeps very early in winter.

  At home too, the children must have gone to sleep. That will be good. I can just change into a pyjama and slip under the razai. I don’t even feel like eating. Just show me a bed and I’ll sleep. It’s easy to sleep once you’re out of money.

  ‘That’s not a good habit, Mr Sood,’ Ayyangar had chided me once. ‘Some people are like that. They sleep only after finishing every penny in their pockets. That’s why you have to borrow every day. Look at your condition now. Your effective salary is nine rupees and forty-five paise. What can you do with that? You’re forced to borrow again.’

  He gave a lot of advice that day. There was no escape. I had to get a supplementary bill prepared by him; so I just couldn’t get away. That was a mistake. When I gave him an ear, what he said sounded right. Not only did I have to listen to all his crap, but I also had to buy him a coffee before the penny-pincher forwarded that bill.

  If only he had come to this bus stop now … I swear I would have given him one tight slap. Madrasi corpse! Giving lectures to others! What does he know about life? Bugger! He wouldn’t have had one full meal in his entire life, wouldn’t have sat peacefully for one hour, wouldn’t have slept properly a single night. Yet, he goes around with that choti on the back of his head and the thick line of ash on his forehead, advising people how to live. Corpse.

  A ‘Royal Tiger’ bus with a triangle painted in white in front pulled up. There was no rush. I got in and occupied an empty seat. The bus sped past Parliament House, Rashtrapati Bhavan, Prime Minister’s House and the American Embassy to reach my stop within twenty minutes.

  There was one naya paisa left in my pocket. I bought a beedi from a cigarette wallah, lit it and walked homewards.

  The two elder sons haven’t slept yet. They are sitting on the porch, crying.

  ‘Why are you out in the cold?’

  ‘Mom is not well,’ the eldest one said.

  ‘I’m hun
gry,’ the second one said.

  I went in without a word. It looked as if there were a dead body on the bed. She was as lifeless. I gazed at her for a while, then called gently, ‘Sulochana.’

  God! She’s dying. All the strength the dry gin and whisky provided has left me. A heavy burden is falling on my shoulders. My shoulders are giving in. I can’t bear it. So far, she was there. She carried the burden, with the help of her brothers. Now, that support will not be there.

  Even in office, how will I borrow money from anybody now? They all lend me money only because my wife is not well. Why, today I spent half an hour convincing Chawla that I had to take her to the hospital or she would die, before he gave me the fifteen rupees. If she dies, what will I tell people when I want to borrow money? That’s the biggest problem.

  Oh god! Damn!

  I called again: ‘Sulochana?’

  The lips of the figure on the bed moved slightly. ‘Water.’

  I rushed to the kitchen. Water was boiling in a pot. I poured some into a glass, cooled it and rushed back. Sulochana’s lips opened a bit. A few drops of water went in. Her larynx moved, then stopped.

  Over. Everything’s over.

  Harkishanlal Sood fell on his knees, next to his wife’s bed. He placed both his hands on the bed, rested his head on them, and wept.

  TIME-WORN

  Kalappazhakkam (1959)

  SAT UP USING MY elbows and arms. Slid backwards. Picked up the pillow and placed it against the wall behind me with my left hand, and leaned on it. Phew, well done!

  Ammini says I should not sit up. She can say that. At her age, I too didn’t know how unbearable it is to lie down all day long. Those days, I never had to be confined to the bed like this. I was thin and frail, and maybe people suspected I’d be blown away by the wind. But I was always fit and agile.

  Hmm, time runs out on everybody.

  My days are almost over.

  The window is open – it can only be open. The day before, Ammini’s eldest son Krishnankutty hung on one of the panels, and down came everything. The boy was lucky to escape unscathed.

  I was lying right here, watching it, unable to do a thing to help him.