32
PARTISAN REVIEW
I should ever in the past have had command of it. This, this stone world
is now real, the chamber pot, the five minute walk in the yard in the
morning. The dish of food shoved in through the door and removed
half an hour later.
"Jail at A-, jail at
B-,
jail at C-, jail at D-. I have lost count.
I have been through an entire alphabet of jails. One third of life is
normally lost in sleep. And one half of the remainder in jail. Leaving
one-third of life free, which I persist in regarding as the real life. But
on that count I have lived only about 18 years.
"But I must be forgetting my true history, which is that of im–
prisonment. For with two-thirds of life wasted, I should never have
been able to become the Satya, who lives on out there. This prison,
although the same in all other respects, differs from its predecessors in
that I really am cut off; is this the element of experimentation? At other
jails I kept in touch with the movement, issued directives, wrote long
letters on policy, received visitors, did some of my best work. There is
now at least one consolation: that I cannot look out. How many nights
have I spent in jail looking out at the moon and the stars! I know what
terrible things the stars are.
If
I had a window to sit at, and spent my
nights looking at the liberty of the sky, I am sure I would go mad."
"At last, evidence of experiment. This morning, stubbed my toe
on one of the paving blocks in the courtyard, and was surprised to see
that I had knocked it out of place. I bent down to replace the block and
discovered that a number of them were loose. The hole opened into a
tunnel, large enough for a man to pass through. Was enough a fool to
grow excited and imagine I had found a means of escape. I dropped into
the tunnel and crept along underground until I came to a wider open–
ing. It was pitch black (I had holed myself in, like a fool) but I knew
where I was-smack in the prison's sewage system. The stench was
unbearable, and I had wet my feet and my trousers. I groped my way
back, having a terror of a time finding the loose stones. I'm sure that
every cell has access to the sewers-to let the prisoners think they have
found a way of "escaping." I'm sure there is a maze of tunnels running
underground, built only with the intention of luring us into the filth
and getting us smeared up well. Filth, filth, filth-it is all they can think
of. For all their primness, their white and tidy formalities, their minds
are obsessed with it!"
"Further evidence. A few nights ago there was howling of wolves.
It woke me in the middle of the night. Have heard wolves many times
before, but was unnerved by it. The howling persisted for, I should judge,
at least two hours, receded and came closer, and at times one would
think the wolves were right outside his door. When the howling stopped,
the silence was oppressive. I became aware of how deathly still it is here.
There is never a sound of life. Were it not for Afghan, I should think
myself the only prisoner. I lay awake waiting for the howling to resume
and finally, hoping it would. By that time I had roused myself and was
unable to return to sleep."
