Small Remedies , livre ebook

Shashi Deshpande

SMALL REMEDIES
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Prologue
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part Two
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
SMALL REMEDIES
Shashi Deshpande is the author of five novels besides Small Remedies, including That Long Silence which won the Sahitya Akademi Award. Her publications include five collections of short stories, four books for children and two short crime novels. Her works have been translated into various European and Indian languages.
Shashi Deshpande is married and has two sons. She lives in Bangalore with her husand Dr D. H. Deshpande.
By the Same Author
Also in Penguin by Shashi Deshpande
The Binding Vine
The Dark Holds No Terrors
The Intrusion and Other Stories
A Matter of Time
That Long Silence
The Narayanpur Incident (Puffin)
Father of the earth, protect us; Father of the sky, protect us; Father of the great and shining waters, protect us, - To which God shall we offer our worship?
Rig Veda, Mandala X, Song 121
Prologue
T his is Som s story. Or rather, Joe s story as related to us by Som. To me, the two men, narrator and object, are equally part of the story; to remember it is to think of both of them. Looking back now, from this point of time, it is clear to me that the story was not so much told to us, as offered to us by Som. It was his tribute to Joe.
At that time, only a few months after Joe s death, we needed to bring him back amongst us, to fill the empty space of his absence with memories, to conjure up the man, recreate him through words. Already by then, the fog of bereavement had lifted a little, our wounds were gradually healing. It was possible to think of Joe, to speak of him, without pain or melancholy, with laughter and amusement even. And yet, we were close enough to the time of his living for our memories to be fresh and fluid, not set as yet into a rigid shape. So that the story we heard came out alive, with the stamp of truth on it.
It was to be Joe s farewell party. After thirty years of association with the hospital and college, after having been a teacher to generations of students, Joe was clearly to have not just one farewell party, but many. This one, however, was to be the most special one, hosted by his own unit of students and assistants, a party to end all parties , the mother and father of all farewell parties -these, obviously, not Som s own words, but hyperboles used by the students themselves as they made their plans. Plans, which indeed culminated in the longest party on record, beginning in the early afternoon with a movie and ending late night after dinner, with drinks-cocktails, Som said, once again, we could see, quoting-squeezed in between. It was, in effect, a two-session binge, so that those on duty in the afternoon could join it in the evening and, of course, the other way round as well. While a few lucky ones, like Som, whose off day it was, were part of the whole celebration.
They had arranged for a Western movie, for Joe s special benefit. He loved the genre, or so it was rumoured. A rumour that was, however, given the lie by his innocent remark: Why didn t anyone tell me about these things earlier, eh?
What movie was it? Tony s question, Tony s curiosity surfacing, as it always did. Som, a lover of Hindi movies, fumbled for the title of the movie, gave up and went on to talk of Joe s treat to the students during the interval: ice-cream cones, which were rare and an unusual luxury then. Joe personally carried the cones around to each one of them, so inspired by the movie that he pointed the cones at them before handing them over, saying Bang bang with a big grin. Som imitated Joe s gesture as he spoke these words himself, and we could see Joe s high spirits resurrected in him.
Finally, there was dinner at the Savoy. For many of them, it was their first time in such a place.
Don t ask how much that cost, either. Between the drinks and the dinner, I was broke for the next two months. But it was worth it. Course after course after course. Som would have gone on, trying to remember the dishes, reciting the list, if we hadn t stopped him.
And then it was over.
We came out of the restaurant, Som said and paused. On the brink, we guessed, of the punch line of his story. In the silence of that pause, I could see them standing on the pavement outside the restaurant, the sea breeze blowing on their hot, flushed faces, the excitement slowly fading, the racing pulses reluctantly slowing down to a normal regular throb. All of them still united by the companionship of the last few hours, unwilling to move, to part, to end the evening, the celebration.
And then Joe said...
Som got up at this point, hiking up his trousers, leaning forward from the waist, looking from face to face, rubbing his hands together-he s a good actor, Som, he always was, and at that moment he was not just a man imitating Joe, but Joe himself.
And then Joe said- that was wonderful, absolutely wonderful. Shall we do this again tomorrow?
There must have been shouts of laughter from the students when Joe said this. Som waited for us to do the same, he seemed puzzled that the expected response was not coming, the beginnings of irritation showed on his face. But we were silent. Until then, it had come to us as a happy story, a story of people enjoying things together, enjoying being together, Joe at the centre of it, his lovableness radiating outwards, touching everyone, as it always did, even though we were listening to something that had happened long back. But suddenly, at that moment, we felt his presence among us. The silence was our tribute to him, it came out of the reminder of our loss.
In a moment, however, we began to laugh. Som relaxed, sat down and said, That s better, that s more like it. I was wondering what s wrong with you people.
And then I spoke.
In the life of one man, never the same time returns.
I said this in my natural voice, not the declaiming one that puts quote marks round the words. So that, for a moment, they did not realize the words were not my own. Except Tony, of course. But in an instant the laughter ceased and amusement vanished from the room. My words were like a drop of black ink in a glass of clear water, staining it, darkening it. Suddenly the mood changed.
We were friends, the four of us there, Chandru, Som, Tony-no, we were five of us, for Rekha was there too, already by then a part of Tony s life; I can see her looking anxiously at Tony, watching his reaction to the mention of a not-so-long dead father. Yes, we were friends, but it was not friendship that united us at that moment, it was something else. We were like strangers who come together in the face of a common disaster, the hijacked passengers of a plane, the group in a bus which has broken down in the middle of nowhere. Strangers coming together to confront a common enemy. It was my never that took us to the edge of an abyss, a dark endless hole we found ourselves looking into fearfully. Yes, it was fear that invaded us then, consternation that replaced mirth. And it was I who had brought these things among us.
Tony took over then, completing the quote, racing through the words, joining them in one garbled tangle.
Only the fool fixed in his folly thinks he can turn the wheel which turns him.
T. S. Eliot, he said. Murder in the Cathedral. His tone brisk, matter-of-fact, like a man dusting his hands. Then speaking to me, in a chiding tone, Show off!
At which the hole disappeared and we moved back from the precipice, disaster staved off. Tony s rejoinder seemed such a natural response then, meaning no more than what we saw-Tony putting me in my place, Tony making sure he wasn t left behind in the game of quotes he and I often played. But now, looking back, I think: Tony knew what he was doing. He spoke at that moment, he said what he did, on purpose. He saw the abyss, he wanted to get away from it, he wanted to draw us back from that fearful emptiness.
When I think of this story-and I do so often-I remember not only Joe, but Som too, and his pleasure in reviving those moments of happiness. Now, for the first time, my own words come back to me, the line I quoted haunts me and I wonder: why did I say that line? What brought it into my mind then? A stray impulse? Some thought that connected to it, a thought I ve now forgotten? A desire, like Tony said, to show off? Or was it none of these things, but something outside me, instead, that propelled me into saying that line, a force, a factor over which I had no control? A kind of nudge, a warning of the shadow waiting for us in the future?
The moment of knowledge. And I, the Eve, offering it to the three males there. Adam must have looked at Eve the way the three males looked at me at that moment. The apple of knowledge set against the illusion of Paradise. Who needs it? And why do you bring it to us?
I still have my copy of Murder in the Cathedral with me. My text in my final year of B. A. Heavily marked from the time I studied it. These lines too have been underlined, v. imp. scribbled beside them in the margin. I am sure I have written the meaning of the line, the implication of the words, their significance in the text, somewhere. But it s only now that I know what they mean, what the words really say. They say that each experience is single and unique. That it can never be repeated or replicated. It means that you can never get the same joy ever again, what s gone is lost forever. That Time moves on relentlessly and you have to go along with it.
The line tells me of the totality of loss, the irrevocability of it.
PART ONE
1
I wake up to the sound of voices. Emerging from the drifting mists of early morning sleep, I slowly become aware that these are children s voices. Singing. Young voices meeting in a slightly disharmonious whole. I can t make o