IMPORTANT WORKS:

• Ve Din (Novel)
• Lal Tin Ki Chhat (Novel)
• Ek Chithra Sukh (Novel)
• Raat Ka Reporter (Novel)
• Parinde (short stories)
• Beech Bahas Mein (Novel)
• Kala Ka Jokhim (Essays)
• Bharat Aur Europe (Essays)
• Cheeron Par Chandni (trvelogue)
• Teen Ekant (Play)

AWARDS:

• Jnanpith Award
• Sahitya Akademi Award
• Sadhana Samman
• Lohia Ati-vishisht Puraskar

Further ahead, beyond the culvert, was a large stretch of level ground. A part of it was being used as a washing place by the dhobis and the rest was clad with trees. The nullah, hidden in the town, flowed breezily out here in the open. The sun glancing off the flat - topped stones along its edges was agonisingly bright. Nihalchandra took out his sun glasses from the bag, put them on and looked across the open space. He saw a pool of soft muted light-a cool shade of darkness. He stepped into it and began to pick his way slowly among the stones.

There, right in front of him, stood the Hawa Mahal-a Moghul monument of yellow sandstone, basking in the November sun.

Sweat ran in tunnels from Nihalchandra's white hair down along his temples. He shook his head, mopped his brow with his handkerchief, and rested his walking stick and the bag against one of the steps leading to the Hawa Mahal. He panted. Fatigue oozed from his body as from the old ruins.

This was his second stop of the morning.

This Hawa Mahal must have been a halting place at one time for the Moghul army contingents from Delhi. Or, could it be that the Emperor himself would come here occasionally to picnic? Yes, this might just explain its elaborate architecture and secluded location. Nihalchandra had come upon this treasure fortuitously. He had wandered from the course of his morning walk in the forest when his eyes fell upon the building; it just seemed to materialise out of thin air.

It had white marble steps, balconies with ornamental lattice work screens, large round ventilators, and what fascinated him most-a blue dome sparkling like a cool, polished gem. This blue, set against the grey, pale tones of the forest, was peculiarly pleasing.

Nihalchandra sighed deeply, but the breath came out as a groan that trailed off somewhere between "Aah!" and "O Lord!". He took his khaki raincoat from the bag and spread it out along the bottom step. This was his favourite spot. From here he had not only a choice view of the dome looming above the balconies but also a chunk of the November sun. What more need he ask for?

Nothing.

Nothing stirred. No sounds, no movement - but for the wild screeches of a hungry bird tearing through the air above him which prodded his own hunger, and he reached into his bag for his lunch packet.

A boiled egg, tomato and cucumber sandwiches, hot coffee in a thermos-Devi Singh the housekeeper had packed his bag neatly and carefully, as if he were journeying to the other end of the world. The simple fellow had overlooked nothing; he had not even forgotten to put in packets of salt and black pepper. A transistor radio his son Mannu had brought for him from abroad to fill the void of his dull days nestled in another corner. Often he had thought of giving it to Devi Singh: poor chap, he was left alone in the house all day long; he could certainly do with a little recreation, he told himself. But somehow he couldn’t part with it. The dumb radio spoke to him in his son's voice: "You have practically nothing to do the whole day. Why don’t you listen to the radio once in a while?" At such moments, a dreary silence closed about him; he stretched out yawning and mumbled: "Ah Lord! Where’s the time for all this? I don’t have even a moment to myself?"

Who was Nihalchandra talking to? To his son, who was abroad, to his wife who was in the next world; or to his Lord, who was nowhere? Perhaps even he did not know. The wind already bore many voices, it bore away his too. Had someone asked him, since he said he had not a moment to himself, what it was that he actually did, he would have immediately retorted, "Why, don’t you see I'm eating!" or some such. And that would have been true, too, at the moment. Eating, seeing, walking, sleeping - these were among the activities consequent upon life and had to go on.. and in the meantime, he went on talking to himself and listening to his own voice.

Listening. That Nihalchandra did even while asleep. His eyes drooped with sleep as soon as he had finished eating. He gathered the bread crusts and finished eating. He gathered the bread crusts and broken egg shells on a scrap of newspaper and put it to one side. He rolled his bag into a pillow, placed it at one end of the raincoat spread on the ground, and lay down, stretching out fully, legs apart. But before he could go to sleep, birds descended on the leftovers; they pecked at the food vigorously, frequently tearing holes in the paper beneath.. and to Nihalchandra it seemed that it was his sleep rather than the paper that was being torn apart. Soon the kites swooped down, scaring away the other birds; they grabbed beakfuls of the remnants and rose on flapping wings, while others dived overhead.. dropping through layers of sleep and scattering his dreams. In the shifting shadows cast by low clouds, the blue dome seemed to tilt. Nihalchandra seemed to be looking at himself through a swaying curtain: he saw a man lying flat on his back, a rolled-up bag for a pillow, a raincoat fluttering in the wind. He waited with a pounding heart: she might be here any moment. She would come but stand a little apart, a skipping rope dangling playfully from her neck.

"Nihali! O Nihali!

Your pockets are empty.

Alas, Nihali!

Are they all empty ?"

As the voice drew steadily closer, Nihalchandra lay still, absolutely stock still, holding his breath, his throbbing heart concealed under his hands. He was afraid that if she caught even a hint of movement, she would flee at once and her voice would be lost in the chatter of trees. Basically, it was a question of faith-she had to make sure that no risk was involved, and so she advanced slowly, step by watchful step, all alert, not because she did not trust Nihalchandra, but simply because he was alive and, his apparent harmlessness notwithstanding, could be dangerous. She therefore kept an arm's length, but one of her hands reached out to his regulation overcoat to search its oversized pockets one after the other; her fingers moved gently, almost caressing their linings: "Nihali! O Nihali!"

What did she want with him? What mysterious motif were her fingers drawing in his empty pockets? Her touch set him on fire, and sent his blood pulsing like a maddened bull, out of breath, crashing through fences, dragging behind it his heart enclosed in his time-worn bones.. and Nihalchandra gave in: he let the skeletal iron - barred door of his body fly open to allow the captive to escape. Let go, a voice within him said, how long can you hold back?"

No leaf stirred. It was an hour of peace and quiet. The afternoon shadows crawled up the ruins of the Hawa Mahal. Nihalchandra lay with bated breath, stiffening at the slightest crackle of the grass. He shut his eyes tight as the sun broke into iridescent rings under his eyelids.. and soon he floated away, leaving his body behind, to proceed towards his third, and last, stop of the day.

Here at his last destination he was invisible and so no longer apprehensive or afraid of witnesses. His body lay prone in the shadows of the Moghul monument. She crept up to him, pulled her chunni low between her breasts, threw its end over her shoulders, and sat down huddled beside him–then Nihalchandra sensed that the iridescent rings behind his eyelids were in fact the glowing dots of her salwar-kameez, so near that he could have easily touched them. But he resisted the temptation, pretending that he was seeing nothing, and let her fingers play upon his body.

" O Nihali, are they really all empty?"

No, they were not all empty; today he had brought everything. Would she care to see? Com’on, let me show you. He raised his head just a little, and her dark grieving eyes, which could see through his betrayals in a moment, consumed him.

There was nothing in his pockets today that was familiar to her. There were just so many papers; a bank book, letters old and recent, a property deed and, among them, a blue booklet. She stared at this last. It was Col. Nihalchandra’s passport, which he always carried with him so that in case of emergency the police could get his address. He took care to go to the passport office every third year for its renewal; it would come in handy, he thought, if ever he decided to visit his son. You haven’t yet overcome your longing, Nihali?

Longing was a word that fluttered about him like a moth. Indeed, was there such thing as longing any more, in whose shadow he could have settled down to rest, his wings tucked under him? He peered into himself and saw a girl where the longing should have been. Who was this girl? Pale, round-faced, dusty tousled hair, a chunni about her neck, a skipping rope trailing behind her over the last fifty years.

Her head bent, she was gazing intently at a snapshot she had found in his pile of papers. Nihalchandra could not overcome his curiosity. He turned to look down at the photograph while the girl looked up.

" Who is this woman?"

He winced, taken by surprise.

"My wife", he said at last.

"Is that the truth?"

"What do you mean?" He was a little embarrassed. Something heaved inside him.

"What are these mountain ranges?"

"Mountains?" Nihalchandra’s attention had wandered. No, this was not a dream. The mountains were right there, bare and gleaming in the sun. He had been posted to Ladakh then. Two Buddhist monks were coming down a flight of stairs from a monastery in the foreground, looking sideways at his wife, but she, seemingly unaware of the camera, was looking in the direction of the shops in the street below.

The face looking out of the photograph was, of course, his wife’s. There was no hint yet on it of her terminal illness, nor of the pain that lay ahead. But was she seeing it then? No, no, Nihalchandra! It’s not she, it’s you who sees it. She looked happy, her lips slightly parted; and she was aware of his presence, the mountains behind the monastery, the Buddhist monks on the stairs, the second hand clothes on rods in front of the shops; a complete moment captured by the camera. How the wind had risen! It blew the loose end of her sari across her face again and again. But, surprisingly, everything lay still in the photograph, calm and peaceful; no trace of the wind at all.

Over there was the girl’s finger, soiled, impaling his wife on a smudged piece of paper.

"Nihali", the girl said gently, "do they ever come to see you?"

"Who are you talking about?" he asked timorously.

"Your son?"

"He is abroad."

"And this one here?" The girl looked down at the photograph.

"You are crazy! She is no more."

" And you? What about you?"

" What about me, Katto?" He spoke her name for the first time – and that was out of fear. "What about me? What do you mean?"

Nihalchandra stared at her with his lost, hungry eyes. It struck him that Katto, after all these years, had begun to look like a dwarf–so small and diminutive. Long ago when she was young, she did look taller. Did time flow backwards? No, this was an illusion. In childhood, perhaps everything looks bigger than it actually is – one’s house, trees, parents, and … Nihalchandra jumped as the girl turned round to whisper in his ears: "And love, too – isn’t it, Nihali?"

He came to with a start. Who was it? Whose voice? A clumsy cry from somewhere deep within, which rises in the wilderness of age, knocks at the doors. The doors open, but there is nothing beyond. There is nothing in sight. There is neither love nor pain of love; neither pain nor anything else; not even the wife’s face or the memory of the son. Absolutely nothing. Only he by himself, all alone. You, Nihalchandra, who are you?

Thud.. thud..thud. She was skipping rope. Up, down, up again the next moment. Her quick footfalls resounded among the ruins and against his closed eyes.

While Nihalchandra slept, kites came down to perch beside the sparrows on the balconies. They ate his leftovers before turning their avid attention on him, wondering if his body also was a part of their meal. They were disappointed when Nihalchandra opened his eyes.. He saw a blue fragment of the November sky break away from his sleep to hang above the intense blue of the dome. " Devi Singh," he called softly. But then he realised he was not at home, that he lay out here in the open. He wanted to wet his throat with a sip of coffee and reached out for the thermos but his hand fell instead on a pile of papers.

A wind riffled his papers–the pension documents, letters, passport, snapshots. Nihalchandra jerked his head in their direction. How was it that they were lying out there? he asked himself. He could not recall taking them out of his pockets. Abashed, Nihalchandra did not dare question the reality of what happened; he simply accepted it. As for his papers, he felt closer to them than to men. They were his pets which had never deceived him. Eyes closed, he had only to touch their ageing familiarity with his fingertips for instant recognition: this is Mannu’s letter, this is the bank passbook, this, the Ladhakh snapshot, and–and this? His exploring fingers stopped in their tracks. He opened his eyes and saw a postcard Devi Singh had written to him from his village.

Nihalchandra looked around. Something whirled inside him and strained upwards through his accumulated fatigue, indecision and the burden of years to fill his throat to the brim–but whatever it was remained unsaid. There was nobody there, the November sun broke on the treetops. The blue dome of the Hawa Mahal rose in the air like a huge clenched fist. Silence. No kites any more, nor sparrows. Not even the thudding sounds of anyone skipping rope. Just the wizened sun turned to stone, insensate, cold, grey.

Just ahead was a cluster of trees with a large welcome patch of shade. The leaves underfoot made the going somewhat easier, but a bush caught at his coat. He stopped to disengage himself cautiously. He thought he was being followed, that there were soft – soled feet somewhere behind him. He turned around; there was nobody in sight, just the trees, their heads held high, and the low bushes, and the quivering rings of the sun beneath. He had a strange sense of having seen it before. A long, long time ago, alone in his garden at home, a girl used to follow him about unseen. He had wanted to call to her, but a hand had always reached out to throttle him: "Don’t, a voice spoke within him. "You have your whole life ahead of you." Ahead, ahead… until he had dragged himself along to this moment.

As if in answer, there was a short rattling sound somewhere in the branches overhead. He looked up. At first he saw nothing. There were two trees leaning towards each other. The blue sky showed through their branches. He could not make out the source of the sound. He supposed it came from a bird on some upper branch, taking off or alighting, but he could see no bird either. All was quiet again.

Nihalchandra started on, but hesitated before something swaying above him. He adjusted his glasses and as he looked again, his gaze held.

He found himself under the immense spread of a giant banyan tree. One of its boughs had swung low, gnarled and coarse and bent like an elbow, from which hung a rope swaying rope. The air was still. The breathless forest seemed no larger than a human – a large, old animal stopped in its tracks at an unfamiliar sound. He was so tall that the rope was within easy reach; he could have easily pulled it down, but he made no move. " Listen, are you there?" he whispered tenderly. An animal cry gurgled from his lungs; it beat about desperately to break loose… then he heard it, the cry had finally escaped. Nothing stopped it, no unseen hand stifled it this time. It echoed among the trees and the undergrowth across the forest resounding through the stretch of years from his childhood to old age.

No one answered his cry: there was nobody there. A wind had risen, the trees were rustling, and the two ends of the rope were swinging drunkenly. He stood expecting her to emerge at any moment from behind a bush to claim her skipping- rope, but she didn’t. He waited as time ran out. He heard neither her laughter nor any crackling of branches. There was no sign to convince him or to indicate that she had visited him earlier in the afternoon, or had sat by him and searched his pockets as he slept – expect that when he woke, he had found his papers scattered on the ground.

Nihalchandra, did you really wake up?

A sleepy Devi Singh started time and again on hearing the sounds of the dark night. He had spent his childhood in the hills and was familiar with the speechless longings of the forest that were lent a voice by the soughing trees and animal cries. He pattered over to the front door ever so often to look out, but in vain.

He had dozed off in the kitchen. Already he had warmed Nihalchandra’s meal twice. Often Nihalchandra did not return home from his morning walk until after midday, but rarely did he stay out till after dark. On such days, he would slip in stealthily and go straight to bed. But the beat of his walking stick on the stairs would give him away to a miffed Devi Singh, who remained in the kitchen on purpose. Before long Devi Singh’s heart would begin to ache, and he would make tea and bring it over. But Nihalchandra, lying on his bed, eyes closed, pretended he was unaware of his presence.

Tonight the bed was empty. His slippers lay under it on the floor. A washbasin and a jug of hot water, turned quite cold by now, stood in a corner. Devi Singh built a fire to warm up the room so that Nihalchandra could go to bed without having to bother him, right after eating. Devi Singh’s eyes grew heavy with sleep. He thought he should go over to the neighbour’s to inform him that the Colonel Sahib had not yet returned, but he held back for fear of the police. It was probably better to wait quietly, he told himself. The Colonel should be home shortly: an old man, where could he go alone?

It was a comforting thought. Nihalchandra, indeed, had nowhere to go. He could only come back, every single day of the three hundred and sixty-five, without fail, until the very last day of his life.

Devi Singh sat up on hearing a rattling sound. Was there someone at the door? No, it was the wind. He sat awhile in the dark kitchen, then went into Nihalchandra’s bedroom. The fire crackled and snapped. He turned over the split logs with a poker and scraped off the ashes. When the hissing flame licked them again, he stretched out on the floor by the bed.

At last when Devi Singh could stand it no longer, he slipped out of the house and took the road along which Nihalchandra walked every morning – across the nullah, the washing ghat, and away beyond the thin stream of clear water.

The moon had climbed above the trees. The forest glowed in the bright moonshine. Then Devi Singh saw him in the distance, waving to him with both hands.

He stopped at once. He was amazed to see that the Colonel, in spite of his familiar clothes and body and face, was looking strangely like a fourteen-year-old, so fresh and virginal and eager. He heard the Colonel call out to him, beckoning to him with upraised hands. Devi Singh cast off his fear and burst into a run and pulled up quite close to him under the branch from which he was hanging.

Nihalchandra’s body was hanging from a noose at the end of a skipping rope fastened to the bough above. His belongings were scattered on the ground, his pockets turned inside out. Empty. The body swung, the branch swayed and the tiny wooden grips of the rope knocked him on the head.