Helium by Jaspreet Singh Page A

Scottish baronial castle into a castle of higher learning. This was architecture of a grand crime, and the philosopher-president had come up with a grand scheme to civilise the architecture. I moved between two front shelves; now the eyes on the wall acquired a face, and I pulled out a book and turned and there she was, Nelly, by an unusually tall window in the reading room, far from me, the faded maple-orange curtain as high as the window. The corridor of the Empire had become a reading room; stacks filled with magazines and journals, current issues on display. From where I was I saw Nelly bent over a book, taking notes, it was a corner table, a half table, on her left a pile of books, on her right a pile of papers. I felt like slowly walking up to her, but decided not to disturb.
     

     
    I fluttered about the aisles, overwhelmed by dusty tomes. Some of them with damaged bandaged spines, others never touched before. Randomly I exhumed a disintegrating bone of a volume and browsed. A veil of dust particles spread around me. I didn’t see Nelly leave the reading room. The creaking corner table where she was working only a while ago was empty now. Slowly I walked to her space and sat in the chair. A strong rectangular light poured in through the tall window, and I don’t remember when exactly I turned to observe the spot by the shelves from where I had observed her earlier. The glare almost ruined my eyes. The face of Mrs Gandhi was visible as half a face now. I flipped open the book ( Anthropology of Violence ) Nelly was perusing moments ago, but found it difficult to concentrate. Even the doorknob looked ghostly.
    ‘Sa’ab, if during your consultations you find a dusty shelf let me know. I will clean it. I will wipe dust that has gathered on the books.’ He came to me, the man in khaki, with a strange request, which in hindsight was not so strange. ‘This is a huge library,’ he smiled and nodded, ‘and no matter how hard I try there is always a slim layer that settles down.’ I asked him Nelly’s coordinates, the best way to locate her. The man walked me down the stairs to the basement where very few rays of natural light penetrated. We went through a gargantuan double door, beyond which stretched a narrow corridor lit by dim translucent globes all the way to her office. She was not in. But khaki cardboard boxes were there, bulging files and other orderly chaos. Her Burmese desk, a desktop, a swivel chair, a handcart, a jug of water (half full), a tiny white towel, and the hum of fluorescent lights. Feeling disappointed, my guide designed a little tour of the basement for my benefit, which included what used to be the wine cellar, the dumb waiter and the boiler room. The room was now a storehouse for rats, fungus and wrinkled old Victorian furniture thrown together in haphazard piles, rusted metal frames and two disintegrating cribs. White paint peeling off fragile wood. Viceroy’s children? The cribs made no sense at all, and my guide had no idea. ‘Let me now show you the fire-extinguishing system, it is old but smart and relies on the melting of wax.’ The man whisked me round the corner. But I lost all curiosity and ran up the stairs, away from the dark, dripping foundations of the Empire, and spent another hour in the reading room browsing through current periodicals.
    Later I had coffee at Barista. In the local paper (in Hindi) there was a brief article on Nelly Kaur’s retirement. What struck me the most was that no mention was made of what her life was before she moved to Shimla. How she survived Delhi. What happened to her children. Especially the children. No details of her ‘monumental project’.
    The article ended abruptly. Whosoever replaces N. Kaur?
    Other papers carried nothing on Nelly. The Hindu Party convention received front-page attention. Shameless dishonesty and filthy power struggles within the party. Photos of men in khaki shorts giving the fascist salute. The Express or the Tribune