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In the maze of the official
circles of Aarif, Ayesha’s expectations are belied. Almost
every cordial relation turns out to be a sham at the moment of
crisis, too ready to display with a leer the other side of its
Janus-face, taking recourse to existential human compulsions.
Ayesha’s Mamoo says: "Your husband has always been a
little unrealistic. After all, there are certain realities in
our society." Navinbhai the turn-coat minister would not
hesitate in making "an example of one Aarif Jamal, entirely
in the course of duty." Prakash Taneja, the journalist, who
once "whooped with warmth" at the sight of Aarif —
his schoolmate — would turn alien, refusing to answer his call
promptly. Mr Rastogi, the Additional Secretary, who "could
battle excitedly on behalf of juniors" would himself
conduct the dreaded inquiry. Jarnail Singh’s "Sat Sri
Akal Saab" with "a thundering slap between the
shoulder blades" would suddenly become a forgotten
salutation. Only Sudarshan, the ever-fumbling typist, remains
loyal, concerned, and innocently deferential to Aarif:
"Thank you sir, I have taken my coffee." In contrast
to this generally harsh external world the domestic circle of
children, husband and even the housemaid, is a world wherein
Ayesha can breathe more comfortably, at least without any dread
of falling a victim to self-delusions.
More or less these
characters get reflected in the co-travellers of Ayesha. There
is Chhatrasingh Yadav, an ex-M.P., clad in a white kurta-pajama
with an "easy elephantine gait," persistently
hankering after an AC berth, and a retired High Court judge
always keen to have benefits like an extension. Besides these
double-dealing experienced imposters there are youthful figures
of Ranjit and Jayashree. Ranjit though apparently brash
"arrogantly free of coolies" — is ever helpful and
in Jayashree who is prone to giving "a cheery hoot of
laughter from under her sheet" at the slightest
instigation, Ayesha discovers something of her daughter:
"Oof! Again worry!"
Besides this close
parallel in the characters, the two worlds are thematically
connected. At every opportunity the theme of suspension and
inquiry is picked up.
Achieved thus, the
unity of purpose is a sure invitation to the doom of the art in
repetitive smudge unless the art lies in a dexterous hand. And
though one has to admit here that the philosophic and the
artistic canvas is limited in its scope, art manages to save
itself in different ways.
The dilemma of the
epistemological quest, the differentiation between the surface
value and the essence is presented through a different mode of
imagery Ayesha encounters in the fleeting window glimpses. Thus
the world of the compartment is not a mere replica of the
outside world. it is different, totally different, in some ways
and thereby adds its own flavour to the probings in the mind.
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AYESHA’S
bureaucrat husband — Aarif Jamal — is suspended for doing
"an almost flawless favour, one urged by an impeccable human
being" — the treacherous Shiv Prasad Nath and she undertakes
a train journey from Delhi to Bombay to seek the help of her Zahid
Mamoo, an influential police commissioner, in the matter. However,
before the train pulls into its destined station the futility of the
mission is laid bare as a fellow traveller — journalist Ranjit
Dikshit — breaks the news to Ayesha that her Mamoo has just
retired and hence ceased to be of any consequence: "Only thing
is, now... who will listen to him?" But this is not exactly the
breaking of a news. It could well have been the final dramatic irony
of the novelette, a spent force after having become exposed, but no,
instead of expiring, it generates another irony from within itself
thus making the defeating revelation a source of uncertain relief
for the travelling lady.
