The Book

This was the fourteenth night she had not slept. She had showered and her hair hung wet behind her back. She had drunk a sweet warm glass of milk and slipped into her softest nightie. Light hurt her eyes and thankfully the room was plunged in darkness. She was trembling a little and her mouth was dry. Everyone was most understanding, of course. Nikhil, her husband, let her move to the guest room. Naina and Navin walked about on tip-toe after dinner, brushed their teeth without fuss and kissed her dutifully.

She slipped between the sheets and drew a deep breath. Far away there was the mournful whistle of a train. Pakeezah, she thought and Meena Kumari pausing in her dance ... no, she had to let go, surrender all thoughts, memories, associations, be like a canoe lowered into a swift, flowing stream (or was it a kayak) floating away without the least resistance--a wispy thing, weightless, docile ...

She closed her eyes. The muted sound of the house reached her ears-a tap dripping, the tinkle of cutlery, the maid's low murmers in the kitchen. Her head ached, her nerves felt taut, attuned to the highest frequency, like the strings of a violin. Manju, her colleague's oily pock-marked face hovered into view. "Sheela didi, I read in Science Today that people die sooner due to lack of sleep, than due to lack of food. You better do something, Yaar."Then Kanta's brisk, no nonsense tone. "Nonsense. This Jain Muni in Matunga has been awake for 15 years and nothing has happened to him."

She had read everything about sleep-about rapid eye movement, non rapid eye movement, normal circadian rhythm, electrophysiologic apparatus used to modifY sleep. She had learnt the difference between sleep onset disorder, sleep maintenance disorder, premature awakening disorder. She had read widely about psycho-physiologic causes of sleep disorder. Sleep became an enemy that had to be subdued, a quarry that had to be hunted down. It was a cunning adversary. She had to have her wits about her. She probed her mind for ploys and stratagems. Then it came to her, a few terse words in an article she had

read years ago. A group of insomniacs had been made to rest under bright lights and ninety percent of them had fallen asleep. She reached out and flicked on the switch. Light flooded the room, bright, reassuring. There was the Titanic poster tacked up by Naina on the wall. There was the dresser. She had moved in her things last week, the cleansers, toners; astringents, foundation, rouge, compact, her silver backed brushes and stoppered bottles of perfume. God, what a lot of beauty aids she needed to make herself presentable. She cast aside the depressing thought. Her gaze fell on the Dresden shepherdess on the top shelf of the dresser. Blonde coiffed hair, a fair bosom, delicate hands clasped on her lap, a ruffled dress with a tight. bodice, she looked so self-contained, so complete in herself. The doll was like a rebuff to her restlessness, her groping for blessed certainty and repose. She switched off the light and pressed her palms over her eyes. Would she never sleep? She drew a deep breath. She had got it all wrong. It was futile to force the pace. She had to be still. It was not an exercise of the will but a gentle emptying of thoughts. Sleep would not come with flattery and bold advances. He was a whimsical. capricious lover, coming when least expected, and sometimes departing without taking his fIll. She smiled. Here she was, personiflying sleep.

What would Nikhil say when she told him this? He was a practical man. A degree in management. Now he was comfortably entrenched in the corporate ladder. Every problem had a solution. Or it was not a problem at all. That's what he always said. When it began he took her to meet a friend. She did'nt know until later that the friend was a psychiatrist. He was a bearded man with protruding eyes and a thick guttural voice that framed awkward questions. Did she have her periods regularly? How many times did they have sex? Was she happy at her job? Did she have alternate high and low mood swings? Her replies had been curt, evasive. She had felt violated, intruded upon. On the way back she had crumpled and thrown the prescription out of the car window. She was not going to turn into a unfocussed zombie. The answer lay in herself and she had to find it.

Now, lying in her bed in the guest room, she was not so sure. Norman Vincent Peale. A name dredged up from the pool of memory. Think positive, he had exhorted in some self-help book. Think of all the good things that had happened to you. Hot mouthfuls of rice and curry cooked by Ma. White drill shoes on school sports meet. A good cry over Rebecca one rainy day. The first glimpse of the sea at Apollo Pier. An exam. well done. A train not missed at the last moment. Luggage not lost, Nikhil and she holding hands at La! Tibba in Mussoorie, watching the fog roll in and a little old man roasting groundnuts on a brazier by the twisting, cobbled road. The slow journey into each other's bodies in the darkened hotel room, the intimacy of their clothes heaped together. The setting up of home. the laughter over wrong curtain measurements and the divan that wouldn't move through the door, the wounderful word 'positive' underlined in her gravindex test report. The greedy little mouth that first sucked at her nipples. The first smile, the first crawl, the first tooth, the first step. Then at office, her work as features editor, the words coming alive, smart, witty. elegant, week after week, deadlines to meet, press conferences, fIlm shows. book release parties. Then somewhere along the way the stardust vanished. the magic waned. She had forgotten to wonder, she had learnt to analyse. She had forgotten to whisper, she had learnt to argue, she had forgotten the pulsebeat and remembered the logic. Mraid of loose ends, she had tied everything in knots.

She raised herself on one elbow and reached for the glass of water by the bedside. It was just as she liked, ice cold with a dash of lime. She had trained the maid well. The house ran like clockwork. If anything happened to her, there would be no drastic changes. Nikhil, bless him, was a practical man. He would'nt brood or drink himself to death. Being a stickler for decorum, he'd wait a year or two and bring home a wife, a widow, a divorcee perhaps with children of her own. Naina and Navin would have great fun with their stepbrothers and' sisters. At the office there would be a half holiday and a meeting to condole her demise. Mehra was terribly good at chairing

condolence meetings. She could imagine him clearing his oat, composing his features into the right degree of sobriety, and launch into a glowing eulogy of her many ualities. There would be a one minute silence. Someone, would sneeze. Someone always did. They would clear out her desk, her pens, memo pads, GloriaSteinem's Fear oj Flying, desk calendar, inkpot, back issues of Reader Digest, ee dirty handkerchiefs, a pair of earrings, an empty bottle of perfume, invitations to various functions, photographs. Some weeks later a bright young thing would take her place and write clever reviews.

Life was a joke played by a cosmic stand-up comic. y was she born, why was she living, why would she die? A small, infmitesimal thing called chromosome took care of her gender. She tried to imagine herself, a tiny

etermined egg travelling into her mother's womb. She had no control over that. She remembered her marriage . . iikhil and her horoscopes, tinged with turmeric, smelling of sandalwood. The astrologer decided it all. One inauspicious sign and she would never have known the mole between Nikhil's shoulder blades, his terror of spiders, his calm deep breathing after love-making, his habit of wearing his vests inside out, his childish enthusiasm and sullen withdrawals. And how would she go-a withered quavering crone unable to control her bodily functions, unable to recognise her loved ones, yet clinging onto life ... she clenched her fists. No-she would not drag it to the last bitter end. She had no control over her birth, her marriage. But her life was her own, her very own. She threw back the coverlet and slipped out of bed. Had'nt Shelley called sleep the brother of death. Sleep had eluded her, deserted her callously. Death was waiting for her, promising fidelity forever. She felt a tingle of excitement coursing up her spine. What irony, that at the end of life, she should be so full of life. She clasped her hands and stood in the centre of the room. What was it to be, the instruments to bring her end? She pushed open her door and stepped into the kitchen. The gas plate gleamed in a sinister way. It was Robert Frost wasn't it-"Some say the world will end in fire,

some say it will end in ice." She switched on the gas and stared at the twin blue circular flames. How many days she had slaved in this kitchen, her back aching, stirring up the perfect Shrimp Royal. the detectable Butterscotch pudding, the irresistible. Murg-e-Dilkhush. Wo~ld Nikhil remember all that after she was gone? She felt a rush of anger against herself. She was being insufferingly sentimental. The blue flame glowed bright, incandescent. She raised the long sleeve of her nylon nighty, closer, closer ...

"Didi'. The maid stood on the door way, her eyes rivetted on Sheela, her mouth open in a soundless scream.

Sheela put down her arm and in one swift moment, she switched off the gas.

"I was just going to make myself a cup of tea", she lied shakily, her face averted. "Go to bed."

May be she would postpone death for a while. Mter the rr1aid had gone she went to the fridge. May be she would fall asleep after a full stomach. She was eating lke a bird these days. She finished off a bowl of Kheer, six slices of bread smeared with jam, macaroni with cheese, potato fries left over from dinner and a carton of Real applejuice. She patted her stomach and burped. This was close to contentment. Not bothering to clean up, she went back to her room.

Her thoughts turned to love. Love with its two phases of painful separation and joyous union, was the persistent theme in Indian classical music and dance. Perhaps that was what she was missing. She did not love Nikhil, she was only growing accustomed to him. And where was the time for discovery, for exploration, for love? She was the wife of a practical man. She too had a solution to that problem. It was so simple. She would give up her job. Good bye to the nine 0' clock rush, telephone calls, layout, deadlines, catchy captions, over sweet tea and stale samosas. She would stay at home, douse herself with musk and sandalwood, read treatises on love, prepare potent potions, maybe practice on the veena again after all these years .... be as accomplished as a courtesan, as desirable

as a yakshi. She sat at hen Writing table and pulled out a sheet of paper. She framed her resignation letter carefully. It had the right mixture of regret, firmness and finality. She read it twice.· folded it, slipped it into an envelope and address it to the Managing Director. She left it on the desk, switched off the light and slipped back into bed.

It's going to be all-right. She whispered to herself.

When you stop going to office you will sleep in the afternoons. Life was as simple or as complicated as you made it. Her glance fell on the luminous face of the clock. It was four o' clock already. It would soon be dawn and people would stir. Nikhil would hawk and spit in the bathroom. She would have to dress the kids for school, there would be the smell of coffee and omlettes, the whistle of the pressure cooker. the hum of the washing machine, the drone of the vacuum cleaner. the vegetable vendor's nasal cry. Oh lord! She would have to pretend everything was all-right and inside her it was terribly wrong. Tears spilled out of her eyes and she curled herself into a ball and bit her lips till she bled.

Then faintly. like the notes of a flute carried across a vast stretch of water. a dim memory came to life. of a long childhood journey to Birpur by train. bus and bullock cart to meet a great grand uncle, a mud hut beside a gnarled tree on the banks of a shallow stream full of smooth round pebbles. An old man with a long white beard and piercing eyes. She thought he was God. And she had followed him to the banks of the stream one dawn. And what was it he had intoned. his face turned towards the sun? Asato Ma Sad Gamaya. Tamaso Ma Jyotirgamaya. Mrityorma Amritam Gamaya. Lead me from the unreal to the real. Lead me from darkness to light. Lead me from death to immortality.

She whispered the words again and again to herself and a great burden rolled off her chest, Peace came dropping slow. She felt like a canoe lowered. into a swift flowing stream. Weightless. a light wispy thing.

There hours later. she woke up. refreshed. at peace.

She had exorcised her demons and hunted down the

quarry. For too long she had ignored the spiritual facet of her life. She was going to be a complete woman. She loved her job. she loved her family. And she had three hours of blessed sleep. After fourteen tortuous nights.

She pushed at her door. It did not give way. May be someone had bolted it from outside by mistake. "Naina! She called out." "Open the door, open the door, sweetheart."

She knocked louder. Nikhil's disembodied voice came

from the other side.

"Stay where you Sheela. I'm calling the doctor." "Nothing's wrong with me!" ~he said, "open the door." "Me en a told me what you trie,p. to do in the kitchen."

Nikhil sounded weary, nervous. "A few days at the clinic and you'll feel better."

"I've got to go to office!" She cried out. 'Tve got an interview."

"I read your resignation letter, 1 sent it through my peon. You're in no condition to do anything Sheela."

She began to cry, to plead and rant. She hammered at the door, she began to throw things about. She screamed. Then she sat on her bed and she vomitted. Then she began to chant.

Asato ma sad gamaya. ..

She was still chanting when the men in white came for her .. She did not know it yet but she was going on a long journey, beyond love, beyond hope, from the real to the unreal ....