He stands at the Basti tonga stop with his friend Mulkraj. He’s come to secretly take a peek at his future wife as she walks home from school. Just then, school lets out and groups of girls begin to emerge...A girl of about twelve or thirteen, surrounded by friends, her books in her hands, walks by slowly and deliberately, as though unaware of her own beauty. As she passes by she glances flirtatiously at Chetan.
Chetan’s heart pounds. He glances hopefully at his friend Mulkraj. Mulkraj shakes his head. That’s not the one...and Chetan wishes he could go home without seeing his future wife after all.
~~~
After seeing his plump, dowdy future wife and not caring for her, he returns, on his father’s orders, to see her formally – at the home of the social reformer Master Nandalal.
His eyes are downcast with embarrassment, but when he looks up, his heart starts pounding again – that same girl is sitting near his bride-to-be...that same flirtatious, lively girl with the deliberate gait...and for that one instant, Chetan sees only a part of her face: that row of pearly teeth that makes her playful eyes sparkle.
~~~
He is sitting at his wedding feast, but he’s paying no attention to the food (the reformer Master Nandalal has forbidden the singing of obscene wedding songs by the women) as his eyes search the deserted ramparts of the house for those playful eyes, delightful as streams of cool water.
Most of the groom’s party has finished eating and stood up. None of the boys teases Chetan; no girl stitches his coat to the dhurrie; no one hides his new shoes. Listless, he stands up as well. He starts to put on his first ever pair of patent leather pump shoes but then he stops.
That same girl has lifted the chick blinds on the veranda and emerged, scattering her smiles about her like so many blossoms, a thicket of girlfriends close behind her. “Jija ji, tell us a chhand!”...”Jija ji, tell us a chhand!” And he learns that this girl demanding a nonsense wedding couplet is his sister-in-law – the daughter of his wife Chanda’s paternal uncle – Neela.
And gazing into Neela’s eyes, he recites a chhand:
Chhands come, chhands go badum-bum-bum-a-teela
I forgot all of the chhands when I first saw Neela.
And he recollects the poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox:
You are the moon, dear love, and I the sea:
The tide of hope swells high within my breast,
And hides the rough dark rocks of life’s unrest
When your fond eyes smile near in perigee.
But when that loving face is turned from me,
Low falls the tide, and the grim rocks appear,
And earth’s dim coast-line seems a thing to fear.
You are the moon, dear one, and I the sea.
~~~
After his wedding, he is lying in the rooftop porch at the home of his in-laws. Neela comes and places a magazine in his lap.
“Read this, right here!”
She puts her finger on one line on the page. Chetan reads it – it’s a sentence from a dialogue in a story:
“How can I say I don’t love you?”
He reads the sentence to himself. Neela gazes at him with a strange look that plumbs the depths of his heart, and before Chetan can respond she rushes off, hugging the magazine to her bosom, turning once to look back at him.
~~~
A moonlit night after a full day of rain, and a small cloud like the wing of a partridge. A cool breeze blows. He lies on the roof at his in-laws’. Neela sits next to him and he watches her, entranced. She begins to stroke his hair slowly and lovingly with her fine fingers, and suddenly, without thinking, she cries, “Jija ji, your hair is so soft – it’s so long and curly!”
Chetan doesn’t respond. He takes Neela’s hand in his and, closing his eyes for a few moments, he lies there silently. Then he says, “I was thinking, Neela, about how I came to see Chanda twice, and both times I saw you.”
“I saw you both times as well, and I can also tell you what suit you were wearing the first day when you stood at Basti Adda.”
~~~
And those letters he had written ostensibly to his wife from Lahore, but were secretly meant for Neela:
...before, my heart was sad and barren, like a centuries-dried-up sea that no longer knows the sensation of waves and the rippling of water. Destroyed by its emptiness, it stared fixedly at the sky. Then you smiled from some corner of that sky, a tiny new cloud throbbing with life, and the sea overflowed its banks.
And:
I’ve broken my silence and burst into song. I feel such joy suffuse my being, as when a beggar suddenly discovers some hidden treasure. And haven’t I discovered a treasure – the priceless treasure of beauty and love? But I tremble with fear – what if this treasure is somehow snatched from me!
~~~
Chetan suddenly propped himself up on his elbows. “You idiot,” he cried out to himself. “That treasure was snatched from you, you idiot! Because you were worthless, you were a coward, you were mean-spirited. It was your own stupidity that got her snatched from you and handed over to someone else.”
He wished he could beat his head against the bench. But instead he lay there for a few minutes, staring into the void. Then he took a deep breath and relaxed again...He thought about the wedding of his distantly related sister-in-law in Alawalpur and an incident that had occurred there became magnified manyfold before his eyes in its minutest detail.
~~~
Chetan lies ill in a rooftop room. He has a high fever. His throat is swollen.
His wife can’t come to him. She sends Neela instead. The children are kicking up a racket in the room. Chetan has a terrible headache. “For God’s sake, get them out of here!” he cries out feebly.
Neela scolds the children and chases them away. She shuts the door and pulls the chain across, and comes to sit at the head of his bed. He moans with pain. She slowly starts to massage his head. Chetan is half asleep. Neela’s enchanting voice pours into his ears like a peaceful tune – sweet music coming from somewhere very far away.
She runs her fine fingers through his long curly hair and says, “Jija ji, your hair is so beautiful, long, black and curly!” And she asks, ‘Tell me, Jija ji, how did you get these curls? Did you curl your hair yourself or did it happen naturally? My hair can’t do that. My hair is long, but it’s not curly.” And she takes her braid and shows it to him so he can see how soft her hair is, how long, but not curly.
Chetan takes the soft cool braid in his hands, burning with fever, and slowly unplaits it, and the long, black, soft, fragrant tresses fall across his face. And Neela cries out, “Jija ji, you’ve undone my braid!”
She pulls her hair back but Chetan won’t let go. And Neela doesn’t really try to free her hair. Chetan takes those soft, dense tresses in both his hands and spreads them over his face – Neela leans over him...so close...so close . . . that suddenly he has a powerful urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.
But he just kisses her hair. And that too in such a way that Neela doesn’t notice and she continues to speak, talking about how she won’t get married, and why do people get married at all if they regret it so much later? And she tells him of the tragedy of her elder sister Meela’s marriage.
And suddenly she caresses his face and says, “Jija ji, you’re growing a beard, why don’t you shave?” And she laughs, “Shall I get a razor and do it myself?’”
And she caresses his lips with her hand and says, “Jija ji, your lips are chapped, shall I put a bit of butter on them?”
Chetan places his hand on hers and presses it lightly to his lips.
~~~
When he’s feeling a bit healthier and is better able to think properly, he calls for Chanda.
“I’ve been sick for four or five days now. I’ve had such a fever – did you even ask about me?” he asks. “Why do you ask? I’m always keeping track of you. What are you having problems with? Neela’s here...”
“Neela...Neela...Neela...” he explodes and adds, almost yelling, “You should be sitting by me!”
“You don’t know,” says Chanda in a meek and emotional voice. “If I sat next to you, people would talk. The women in this family will say anything. Neela...”
“What I’m saying, Chanda, is that you’re crazy,” he retorts with annoyance. “Neela’s not a child any more. She’s fourteen or fifteen and I...Don’t you see I’m a man! A weak man!”
Chanda bursts out laughing. “You were scaring me. But I’m not scared of that. She’s my little sister. So what if she’s my uncle’s daughter? I’ve always considered her a sister. Her honour is in your hands. She’s playful, she can make little mistakes, but you can’t.”
And she gazes at her husband with boundless, generous faith as she strokes his brow.
~~~
And the result of this faith is that when Neela comes to him again with milk and then chases away the boys and sits at the head of his bed to serve him, she leans him against her and props him up with her arm, and he suddenly takes her in his arms and kisses her, and he is not able to forgive himself. In the evening when Neela’s father comes to see him, he hints at everything that has occurred.
And quickly, Neela’s marriage to a middle-aged military accountant is arranged and Chetan watches as his beloved treasure, which had come to him unbidden, is transferred to another.
Excerpted with permission from In the City a Mirror Wandering, Upendranath Ashk, translated from the Hindi by Daisy Rockwell, Penguin Books.
