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Authors: Khushwant Singh
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something, and had then abruptly checked herself.
I kept looking at the photograph for a time.
Then I was reminded of the train journey which I had to make. I climbed off the bed.
'Well, uncle...' I was too overwhelmed to unburden my thoughts.
Uncle Biren came close to me. He touched my hair and gently kissed me on the forehead â the same way Mother had kissed me that night.
We came out.
'May I see you home?' he asked me.
I shook my head. I knew the way. For a while we stood silent in the verandah.
'Son... !' Startled, I looked at him.
'Your mother once wanted a book. I forgot about it...' He hesitated.
'Please give it to me. I'll take it with me.'
Handing me the book I thought he wanted to say something, but could not.
The cottage was left behind. I made my way back along the deserted road. When I neared home, I stopped under a lamp post and examined the book.
The envelope containing the photograph was lying within its pages.
The book was very old. Even today I can vividly recall its yellow and brittle pagesâ
'Flauberts' Letters to George Sand.'
Those days I was not familiar with the names of Flaubert or George Sand. Years after when I read the book, Mother was no more and uncle Biren had long since left the country and settled in Italy.
But that day the book had no significance for me. For a long time I stood under the lamp post, holding the book and looking at the room upstairs.
The window of Mother's room was closed, but a sepulchral light shone through.
That was our last evening in Simla.
Â
Translated by Jai Ratan
Like A Pigeon
Rajendra Awasthi
He could not sleep the whole night. He wondered why he kept on turning on his sides. Other passengers in that small railway compartment were fast asleep, almost unconscious. After all there was none among them for whom he should have to keep his eyes open. Entering the compartment, he had casually glanced at his fellow-passengers, and then had turned to read the newspaper of the day. But he knew very well that his attempt at reading was just a way to pass time.
Outside the window, the forest looked as though it had come to a standstill. At first it seemed that there was nothing at all in the darkness. Only the train whistling in the stillness and chaotic sounds like vessels clanging. If one sees friction produced on the surface of the iron rail one can see sparks, and the sound seems to signify blows rattling the Past. All night the compartment swayed like a windmill. He remembered every sound... the sound of the speeding train as well as the static stations.
The route was not new to him, or the train, or the accompanying sounds and the floods stretching outside. But when the Past suddenly starts knocking at the door of the Present, the person experiencing those moments suddenly trembles with unlooked-for possibilities. As he read the names of the stations in the faint light of the dusk, he felt a strong jolt. It was as though someone had suddenly called out to him,
'Arre,
do you recognise her?'
'No, mother, who is she?'
'Look closely. Of all the persons, you can't recognise her?'
He had then looked carefully at the bashful cheeks, the downcast eyes, the imitation pearls on the nose, the lips parted slightly and a marigold flower fixed in the well-oiled hair. He saw earrings in the shape of half moons and a straight central parting, tinted vermillion. From somewhere, he heard the sound of a child crying and her heavy, deep breathing telling so many untold stories.
He felt as though hot steam had jolted him from behind and was running down his neck
'Ma, you're talking in riddles.'
Mother became angry: 'What! You've forgotten everyone after going to Delhi? She's Ramrati, yes, Ramrati!'
It seemed as if a voice from the Past had wafted in and called out â 'Ramrati!'
The voice whirled round the Fort of Madan Mahal and struck its walls. The echo created a disturbance in every corner of his heart: 'Now, you shouldn't hold me by my plait
I kept looking at the photograph for a time.
Then I was reminded of the train journey which I had to make. I climbed off the bed.
'Well, uncle...' I was too overwhelmed to unburden my thoughts.
Uncle Biren came close to me. He touched my hair and gently kissed me on the forehead â the same way Mother had kissed me that night.
We came out.
'May I see you home?' he asked me.
I shook my head. I knew the way. For a while we stood silent in the verandah.
'Son... !' Startled, I looked at him.
'Your mother once wanted a book. I forgot about it...' He hesitated.
'Please give it to me. I'll take it with me.'
Handing me the book I thought he wanted to say something, but could not.
The cottage was left behind. I made my way back along the deserted road. When I neared home, I stopped under a lamp post and examined the book.
The envelope containing the photograph was lying within its pages.
The book was very old. Even today I can vividly recall its yellow and brittle pagesâ
'Flauberts' Letters to George Sand.'
Those days I was not familiar with the names of Flaubert or George Sand. Years after when I read the book, Mother was no more and uncle Biren had long since left the country and settled in Italy.
But that day the book had no significance for me. For a long time I stood under the lamp post, holding the book and looking at the room upstairs.
The window of Mother's room was closed, but a sepulchral light shone through.
That was our last evening in Simla.
Â
Translated by Jai Ratan
Like A Pigeon
Rajendra Awasthi
He could not sleep the whole night. He wondered why he kept on turning on his sides. Other passengers in that small railway compartment were fast asleep, almost unconscious. After all there was none among them for whom he should have to keep his eyes open. Entering the compartment, he had casually glanced at his fellow-passengers, and then had turned to read the newspaper of the day. But he knew very well that his attempt at reading was just a way to pass time.
Outside the window, the forest looked as though it had come to a standstill. At first it seemed that there was nothing at all in the darkness. Only the train whistling in the stillness and chaotic sounds like vessels clanging. If one sees friction produced on the surface of the iron rail one can see sparks, and the sound seems to signify blows rattling the Past. All night the compartment swayed like a windmill. He remembered every sound... the sound of the speeding train as well as the static stations.
The route was not new to him, or the train, or the accompanying sounds and the floods stretching outside. But when the Past suddenly starts knocking at the door of the Present, the person experiencing those moments suddenly trembles with unlooked-for possibilities. As he read the names of the stations in the faint light of the dusk, he felt a strong jolt. It was as though someone had suddenly called out to him,
'Arre,
do you recognise her?'
'No, mother, who is she?'
'Look closely. Of all the persons, you can't recognise her?'
He had then looked carefully at the bashful cheeks, the downcast eyes, the imitation pearls on the nose, the lips parted slightly and a marigold flower fixed in the well-oiled hair. He saw earrings in the shape of half moons and a straight central parting, tinted vermillion. From somewhere, he heard the sound of a child crying and her heavy, deep breathing telling so many untold stories.
He felt as though hot steam had jolted him from behind and was running down his neck
'Ma, you're talking in riddles.'
Mother became angry: 'What! You've forgotten everyone after going to Delhi? She's Ramrati, yes, Ramrati!'
It seemed as if a voice from the Past had wafted in and called out â 'Ramrati!'
The voice whirled round the Fort of Madan Mahal and struck its walls. The echo created a disturbance in every corner of his heart: 'Now, you shouldn't hold me by my plait
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