The whole of the next day, Shankar stays in bed, getting weaker and weaker. I know that he is under sentence of death, but I pretend he has got nothing more than a mild case of flu. It breaks my heart to see his gentle face and to imagine that I will never see it again. Even his nonsense syllables today seem like profound statements which should be memorized.
Night comes and Shankar begins having spasms in his arms. He has difficulty taking in fluid and eats just one chapatti with lentils, his favourite dish. His forehead burns. I take his temperature and find it has shot up to 105 degrees. ‘Q Akip Sxip Pk Aqe, Nxej,’ he says and begins crying. I try to comfort him as best I can, but it is difficult to give strength to another when you yourself feel completely hollow inside.
I sleep fitfully again, tormented by the demons of my past. Late that night, when it is almost two o’clock, I hear a sound coming from Shankar’s bed, like someone moaning. I get up slowly, still quite disoriented. I look at Shankar’s face. His eyes are closed, but his lips are moving. I strain to hear what he is mumbling and almost jump out of my skin. Because I swear Shankar says, ‘Please don’t beat me, Mummy.’
‘Shankar! Shankar!’ I scramble to his bed. ‘You just said something, didn’t you?’
But Shankar is completely oblivious to me, lost in his own private world. His eyes are lolling upwards and he is clearly delirious. His chest convulses as if in a spasm and phlegm drips from his mouth. ‘Why did you throw me out, Mummy?’ he mumbles. ‘I am sorry, I should have knocked. How could I know Uncle was inside with you? I love you, Mummy. I draw pictures of you. My blue diary is full of pictures. Your pictures. I love you, Mummy. I love you very much. Don’t hit me, Mummy. I promise I won’t tell anyone, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy . . .’
Shankar speaks in the voice of a six-year-old. He has regressed to a long-lost time. To a time when he had a mother. To a time when his life, and his words, had a meaning. I do not know how he can suddenly speak so sensibly and lucidly when the doctor said he would stop speaking completely. But I have no desire to find out the reason. One doesn’t question a miracle.
That is all I hear from Shankar that night, and when he wakes up the next morning, he becomes the same sixteen-year-old who speaks in nonsense syllables. But I remember his reference to a blue diary. I search his room and find it hidden underneath his bed.
It contains loose sheets of drawing paper, all with beautiful pencil drawings of a woman. The drawings are very accurate, down to the last detail. But I stand transfixed not by the excellence of the drawings, but by the identity of their subject. Because the woman in the pictures is Swapna Devi.
‘I know what you have been hiding from me all this while, Shankar. I know that Swapna Devi is your mother,’ I tell Shankar, holding aloft the blue diary.
His eyes dilate with fear and he tries to grab the diary from my hands. ‘Cqrz Hz Wxyf Hu Aqynu,’ he shrieks.
‘I know it is true, Shankar. I think you discovered her dirty secret and that is why she threw you out of the house. And that is when you lost the ability to speak like a normal boy. I think your mother has lived with this guilt all her life. Perhaps for this reason she pays your rent and gives you money. But I am going to your mummy right now, to ask her to pay for your treatment.’
‘Ik, Ik, Ik, Lgzxoz Akip Ck Pk Hu Hjhhu,’ he cries. But I have already set off for Swapna Palace for a heart-to-heart chat with Rani Sahiba.
Rani Sahiba refuses to meet me at first, claiming that she meets people only by appointment. I camp on her doorstep for two hours, until finally she relents.
‘Yes, why have you come to bother me?’ she asks insolently.
‘I know your secret, Swapna Devi,’ I tell her to her face. ‘I have discovered that Shankar is your son.’
Her regal mask slips for an instant and her face turns pale, but she regains her composure equally swiftly and her haughty manner returns to freeze me with contempt. ‘You worthless boy, how dare you make such a scurrilous allegation? I have no relationship with Shankar. Just because I showed a little bit of sympathy for that boy, you made him my son? Get out of here right now, or I will have you thrown out.’
‘I will go,’ I tell her. ‘But only after collecting four lakh rupees from you. I need the money for Shankar’s treatment. He has contracted rabies.’
‘Are you out of your mind? You think I will give you four lakhs?’ she shrills.
‘But if I don’t get the money, Shankar will die of hydrophobia within twenty-four hours.’
‘I don’t care what you do, but don’t bother me.’ And then she says the most spiteful thing I have ever heard a mother say. ‘Perhaps it is for the best that he dies. The poor boy will be put out of his misery. And don’t you dare repeat that lie to anyone about him being my son.’ She closes the door.
I stand on her doorstep with tears in my eyes. I was at least lucky enough to have been discarded by my mother at birth, but poor Shankar was cast off by his mother midway through life, and now she was refusing to lift a finger even to prevent his imminent death.
I return to Shankar’s room with a heavy heart. Swapna Devi’s words resonate in my ears with the force of a hammer blow. She wants Shankar to die like a rabid dog. At no other time has my poverty riled me as much as it does now. I wish I could explain to the dog that bit Shankar that before biting he should have checked whether the person he was attacking could afford the antidote.
The next day, I do something which I have not done for a decade. I pray. I go to the Durga temple and offer flowers for Shankar’s recovery. I go to the Church of St John and light a candle for Shankar. I go to the Kali Masjid and bow my head before Allah, asking him to have mercy upon Shankar. But even the power of prayer proves to be insufficient. All day Shankar remains in agony, with pain in virtually all parts of his body. His breathing becomes more irregular.
Night falls. It is moonless, but it does not appear so in the outhouse because of the reflected glow of the thousand lights which have lit up Swapna Palace like a giant candle. There is a party in the palace. The Police Commissioner has come, as well as the District Magistrate, and a whole host of businessmen, socialites, journalists and writers. The sound of soft music and laughter drifts down to the outhouse. We hear the clink of wine glasses, the buzz of conversation, the jingle of money. In my room there is an eerie silence, broken only by Shankar’s laboured breathing. Every half-hour or so his body is racked by convulsions. But he is most bothered by the constriction in his throat, where a viscous, stringy spittle has formed, causing him great discomfort. Now he goes into a spasm even at the sight of a glass of water. The slightest gust of air produces the same result.
Of the many ailments a person can die from, perhaps the cruellest is hydrophobia, where water, which is supposed to give life, becomes the cause of death. Even a cancer patient is able to entertain some hope, but a rabies patient has none.
Watching Shankar’s slow death, I can only imagine how utterly heartless Swapna Devi must be, to allow her son to die in this horrible fashion while she was having a party in her house. It is lucky that I threw that Colt revolver into the river, otherwise I would definitely be committing another murder tonight.
As the night progresses, Shankar’s spasms become more frequent, he shrieks in agony and begins foaming at the mouth. I know that the end is near.
Shankar finally dies at twelve forty-seven am. Just before dying, he has another lucid moment. He holds my hand and utters a single word, ‘Raju.’ Then he clutches his blue notebook and cries, ‘Mummy, Mummy,’ and then he closes his eyes for ever.
Agra has become the city of death. I have a dead body in my room and a blue notebook in my hands. I flip through the pages aimlessly, staring at pencil sketches of a woman who was a heartless mother. No, I will not call her ‘mother’, because to say that would be an insult to all mothers.
I do not know how to react to Shankar’s death. I could scream and shout like Bihari. I could abuse all the gods in heaven and all the powers on earth. I could batter dow
n a door, throw some furniture, kick a lamppost. And then I would break down and cry. But today, the tears refuse to come. A slow, molten rage builds up in my guts. I tear the pages from the notebook and shred them into tiny little pieces. Then, all of a sudden, I pick up Shankar in my arms and proceed towards the lighted palace.
The uniformed guards bar my way, but as soon as they see the dead body in my hands they hastily open the gate. I pass along the curved driveway, where the expensive imported cars of the guests are lined up one after the other. I reach the ornate entrance and find it open in welcome. I pass through the marbled foyer into the dining room, where the guests are about to be served dessert. All conversation ceases the moment they see me.
I climb on to the table, and place Shankar’s body gently in the middle, in between a creamy vanilla cake and a bowl of rasagullas. The waiters stand as still as statues. The smartly attired businessmen cough and shift uncomfortably in their seats. The ladies take hold of their necklaces. The District Magistrate and the Police Commissioner watch me with worried eyes. Swapna Devi, sitting at the head of the table, clad in a heavy silk sari and loaded with jewellery, looks as if she is going to choke. She tries to open her mouth, but finds her vocal chords paralysed. I look directly at her with as much contempt as I can muster and speak.
‘Mrs Swapna Devi, if this is your palace, and you are its queen, then acknowledge the prince. I have come to deliver the dead body of your son Kunwar Shankar Singh Gautam to you. He died half an hour ago, in the outhouse where you have kept him hidden all these years. You did not pay for his treatment. You did not fulfil the duty of a mother. Now honour your obligation as a landlady. Please pay for the funeral of your penniless tenant.’
I say my piece, nod at the guests who watch in frozen silence, and walk out of the stuffy palace into the cool night. I am told that no one had dessert.
Shankar’s death affects me deeply. I sleep, cry and sleep again. I stop going to the Taj Mahal. I stop meeting Nita. I stop seeing films. I press the ‘Pause’ button on my life. For a fortnight or so after Shankar’s death, I roam around Agra like a crazed animal. Shakil, the university student, finds me standing outside Shankar’s room one evening, staring at the lock on the door like a drunkard looks at a bottle of whisky. Bihari, the cobbler, discovers me sitting next to the municipal tap, with water dripping from my eyes instead of from the tap. Abdul, the gardener at Swapna Palace, catches me tiptoeing around the outhouse like Shankar used to. In the peak of winter, the city becomes a hot and lonely desert for me. I try to lose myself in its anarchic existence. I try to become a nonsense syllable in its ceaseless chatter, and I almost succeed in sending myself into a stupor.
By the time I wake up, it is too late. There is a phone call at the local public call office and Shakil comes running to tell me. ‘Raju, Raju, someone called Nita phoned. She wants you in the Emergency Ward of Singhania Hospital right now.’
My heart leaps to my mouth when I hear this and I run the entire three miles to Singhania Hospital. I narrowly avoid crashing into a doctor, almost overturn a trolley and charge into the Emergency Ward like an Inspector bursting in on an armed robbery.
‘Where is Nita?’ I demand of a bewildered nurse.
‘I am here, Raju.’ Nita’s voice sounds weak. She is behind a curtained partition, lying on a trolley. One look at her and I almost faint from shock. She has livid bruises all over her face and her lips are peculiarly twisted, as if her jaw has been dislocated. There is blood on two of her teeth, and her left eye is blackened.
‘Who . . . who has done this to you?’ I ask, barely recognizing my own voice.
She has difficulty speaking. ‘It was a man from Mumbai. Shyam sent me to his room at the Palace Hotel. He tied me up and did all this to me. What you see on my face is nothing. See what he did to my body.’
Nita turns on her side and I see deep red welt marks on her slim back, as if someone has used a horsewhip. Then she pushes up her blouse and I almost die. There are cigarette burn marks all over her chest, looking like ugly pockmarks on the smooth brown flesh of her breasts. I have seen this before.
My blood begins to boil. ‘I know who has done this to you. Did he say his name? I will kill him.’
‘I don’t know his name, but he was tall and—’
Shyam enters the room at this point, clutching a packet of medicine. He takes one look at me, and goes berserk. ‘You bastard,’ he yells and catches me by the collar. ‘How dare you come here? It is only because of you this has happened to Nita.’
‘Are you out of your mind, Shyam?’ I cry.
‘No, it is you who is mad. You think Nita is your personal property, and you have been telling her to quit the profession and not oblige customers any longer. Do you know how much this party from Mumbai paid for her? Five thousand rupees. But my sister believed you; she must have resisted him and look what happened. Now let me tell you something. If you want to see Nita again, then come to me with four lakh rupees. If you cannot produce this sum, then forget about Nita. If I see you even lurking about the hospital, I will have you killed, understand? Now get out.’
I could have killed Shyam that very instant, throttled him and choked the breath out of his lungs, or gouged out his eyes with my fingernails. But I remembered the promise I had made to Nita and somehow kept my simmering anger in check. I could not bear to see Nita’s face any longer, and left the Emergency Ward. I knew only one thing. Somehow I had to get hold of four lakh rupees. But from where?
I make my plans and wait for an occasion when Swapna Devi is not at home. Two nights later, I see Rani Sahiba being driven away in her Contessa car to yet another party in town, and I break into the grounds of Swapna Palace through a hole in the boundary wall. Lajwanti had explained to me the detailed topography of the house and I have no difficulty in locating the window which opens into Swapna Devi’s bedroom. I jimmy open the window and step inside her lavish bedroom. I have no time to admire her massive carved walnut bed or the teak dressing table. I look only for a large framed painting and discover it on the left wall. It is a brightly coloured picture of horses and is signed by someone called Husain. I hastily remove the painting from its hook and discover a square hole in the wall where a steel safe is embedded. I look underneath the left-hand corner of the mattress and find that there is no key there. I am momentarily put off balance, but relieved to discover the key in the right-hand corner. The key fits perfectly into the lock and the heavy door swings opens slowly. I look inside the safe and get another shock. It is practically empty. There are no emerald necklaces and gold bangles. There are just four thin stacks of currency, some legal documents and a black and white photo of a toddler. I don’t have to look very closely to know that it is Shankar’s picture. I feel no qualms about stealing from the safe. I stuff the four bundles into my pockets, close the safe, return the painting and the key to their original locations and exit the way I came.
I rush to my room in the outhouse, lock the door behind me and sit down to count the loot. The four bundles total 399,844 rupees. I rummage through all my pockets and find 156 rupees. Together they make exactly four lakh rupees. Looks like even Goddess Durga has given me her blessings.
I put the money in a brown paper bag, hold it tightly in my right hand and rush to the hospital. As I am entering the Emergency Ward, a bespectacled, middle-aged man with an unshaven face and unkempt hair barges into me. I fall down on the tiled floor and the brown packet slips from my grasp. The currency notes tumble out of the bag. The man sees the notes and a maniacal glint enters his eyes. He starts picking up the notes like an excited little child. For a second I freeze, wondering whether I am seeing a repeat of the train robbery. But after collecting all the notes, the man returns them to me and folds his hands. ‘This money is yours, but I beg you, brother, please lend it to me. Save the life of my son. He is only sixteen. I cannot bear to see him die,’ he implores like a beggar.
I hastily stuff the notes back into the brown paper bag and try to get rid of him. r />
‘What is the matter with your son?’
‘He was bitten by a mad dog. Now he has got hydrophobia. The doctor says he will die tonight unless I can buy a vaccine called RabCure which is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy. But it costs four lakh rupees and there is no way a schoolteacher like me can raise such a huge sum of money. I know you have that money, brother. I beg you, save my only son’s life and I will become your slave for life,’ he says and starts crying like a baby.
‘This money is required for the treatment of someone very dear to me. I am sorry I cannot help you,’ I say and enter through the glass door.
The man runs after me and catches hold of my feet. ‘Please wait a minute, brother. Just see this picture. This is my son. Tell me how can I live if he dies tonight?’ He holds out a colour photo of a young, good-looking boy. He has expressive black eyes and a warm smile on his lips. He reminds me of Shankar, and I hastily look away. ‘I told you, I am sorry. Please don’t trouble me,’ I say and extricate my legs from his arms.
I don’t look back to see whether he is still following me, but hurry over to Nita’s bed. Shyam and another man from the brothel are sitting on chairs like guards in front of Nita. They are eating samosas from a soggy newspaper. Nita appears to be sleeping. Her face is heavily bandaged.
‘Yes?’ says Shyam, chomping on a samosa. ‘Why have you come, bastard?’
‘I have got the money you asked for. Exactly four lakh rupees. Look.’ I show him the bundles of notes.
Shyam whistles. ‘Where did you steal all this money from?’
‘That is none of your business. I have come to take Nita away with me.’