Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (16 page)

Srinivas turned and went upstairs, feeling very confused and unhappy. He felt he would never be able to finish that third scene today. His mind was in a whirl of cross-currents. ‘I don’t know how the poor fellow is going to manage things on the first of next month.’

He found Ravi dozing off in a corner, with his head resting on the arm of a chair. He was snoring loudly. Srinivas looked at him for a moment, and went to his table on tiptoe. He had left a sentence unfinished. He mechanically picked up his pen and tried to continue. But his mind wouldn’t move. He found that it was impossible to pursue the scenes of Kailas at a moment like this. ‘I had better put it away and spend my evening in some other way,’ he told himself. He lifted a fat dictionary (which served as paperweight), and laid the sheets of paper under it.

Ravi opened his eyes, sat up, and yawned. ‘Did you meet the bully?’

‘Yes,’ Srinivas said. ‘He didn’t seem to be much of one, though. He didn’t say “damn” or bang the table even once.’

‘Oh, yes, that is a privilege he has reserved for his staff, not for his visitors. He won’t take me back, I suppose?’

Srinivas shook his head. ‘Not a chance. But don’t bother; we will do something for you. It has all happened for the best,’ he said, not feeling very convinced of it. And Ravi at once added: ‘A benefit which will become known after all my people have perished and I am in the streets; the old devil will drive me out if I don’t pay the rent next month.’

‘God has gifted you with art and he will not let you starve, if you are true to yourself At the mention of art, Ravi’s eyes blazed with anger and he almost let out a hiss. ‘What is the matter with you, calling me artist and all that bunkum? Go and tell it to those who are likely to feel flattered by it.’ He subsided into a sort of unintelligible whimper. Srinivas said nothing in reply, but merely held up the old sketch. Ravi looked at it and became somewhat quietened. He gazed at it fixedly and said: ‘If you think I am an artist on the strength of that –’ He added: ‘She is the real artist and not I. A picture is produced only when she appears. A flash of her eyes can make a picture. I think she could do that even to you. If you saw her you would produce a masterpiece, I’m sure – a grand canvas. But where is she? Everybody deceives me.’ He pointed downstairs. ‘I’ve even given up asking him about it. I’ve grown tired.’

‘But have you done his son’s picture for him?’

‘Oh, that!’ He became reflective. ‘How can I? When I tell you I cannot draw?’

Presently Sampath came up and went to a chair. He looked tired. ‘I have interviewed nearly fifty persons today. Not one fit to be seen even in a crowd scene. I don’t know why they keep coming like this.’

Srinivas scribbled on a piece of paper: ‘Have you thought of anything for Ravi? If you have, don’t speak it out yet.’ He passed it unobtrusively to Sampath. Sampath looked at it, looked at Ravi, crumpled the paper and threw it away. Srinivas suddenly got up and started to go downstairs. Sampath followed him. On seeing them rise, Ravi, too, got up. ‘I will be going –’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, and moved on to the door.

Srinivas said: ‘Don’t go away yet; I will be back in a moment.’ Ravi obeyed him mutely and resumed his seat.

At the foot of the stairs Sampath told Srinivas: ‘I can speak to Somu and take him in the art department. He can become an art director in due course.’

‘Will he get enough to support him?’

‘Yes, about a hundred now –’

‘Oh, that’s ample; twenty-five rupees more than what he got in the bank –’

‘Will he accept it?’ asked Sampath. ‘He doesn’t talk to me much nowadays.’

‘I will make him accept it,’ said Srinivas. ‘But don’t tell him that it is anything connected with the arts.’

‘But he will have to take his brush and start work almost immediately, otherwise it will create difficulties for me with Somu,’ Sampath said.

‘You just take him in somewhere, and we will settle about his future later. For the present take him into your office section. Just for our sakes, please –’

Yes, I will see what I can do. But it is going to be rather difficult with Somu –’

Srinivas went upstairs and took his seat. He felt there was no use leaving the choice in any matter to Ravi. He assumed a peremptory tone and said: ‘I’ve a job at a hundred rupees for you.’

‘Where? Where?’

‘You are good at accounts, aren’t you? All you will have to do is to keep the debits and credits in good shape, and they will give you a hundred rupees –’

‘Yes, gladly, provided you don’t expect me to draw any pictures.’

‘Not at all. How can we? You have told us of your limitations.’ Ravi’s face shone with relief. He said: ‘I won’t even mind if there is a bully there who will worry me to death.’

Sampath dropped in at Srinivas’s house one morning. Srinivas cried from bed: ‘What a rare visit! So early in the day!’

‘Just left home early, and I thought I might as well drop in –’

Srinivas hurriedly rolled up his bed. He spread out a mat for Sampath and said: ‘I will be back in a minute.’ Before going he called to his son, who was still sleeping. Ramu opened his eyes and stared at Sampath, at his fur cap and the scarf. ‘Who are you?’

Sampath grinned and answered: ‘Uncle Sampath. Have you forgotten me?’

He took off his cap and scarf and lifted the little fellow out of his bed and said: ‘Now, do you see?’ The child rubbed his eyes wide and said: ‘Oh, you! Oh, you print father’s paper.’

‘Oh, that was in another age,’ Sampath said, looking wistfully at him. ‘Won’t you give me one type?’ Ramu pleaded.

‘Why one? You can have the entire lot, when I can get at them myself. Anyway, why do you want types?’

‘I want to print my name very urgently on my books.’

‘Oh! What a pity!’ Sampath burst into a laugh. ‘I am never able to face my customers with a straight reply. It’s the same story for everyone!’ He laughed heartily. Ramu was puzzled. ‘Why do you laugh?’ he asked.

Yes, you will get your name-slip from a Lino –’

‘When?’ asked the boy. Sampath scratched his chin thoughtfully, and said: ‘As soon as possible. Ask your father. It all depends upon him. As soon as we have Shiva and Kama set up before the camera.’

‘Why before a camera?’ the boy asked, rather puzzled.

‘We are making a cinema-picture, don’t you know?’ Srinivas asked.

‘Yes, will you take me there?’

‘Certainly; I will bring a car and take you there some day, provided you read your lessons well. How do you do in your class-work?’

‘There is a boy in our class called Sambu who always stands first in all subjects. He is my friend.’ He added reflectively: ‘Do you know there was a snake in our school one day, but it did not bite any of the masters?’

‘Did it bite any of the boys?’ asked Sampath.

‘Oh, no,’ he replied, shaking his head and smiling indulgently. ‘Boys are not allowed to go near it.’

‘Oh, that’s the rule in your school, is it?’ asked Sampath.

‘Yes,’ Ramu replied.

Srinivas returned, bearing a plate of tiffin and a tumbler of coffee, and set them down before Sampath.

You have put yourself to a lot of trouble,’ muttered Sampath.

‘Oh, stop all that formal courtesy,’ Srinivas said.

‘All right, sir, I’m hungry and the stuff seems to be of rare quality.’ Ramu watched him for a moment, uttered some comment, and tried to resume his sleep. His father said: ‘Now, little man, don’t try to sleep again. Get up and get ready for your school. It’s seven-thirty.’ At the mention of seven-thirty Ramu sprang up with a cry of ‘Oh! My teacher will skin me if I am late,’ and ran out.

When they were left alone Sampath said: ‘I came here in order to talk to you undisturbed.’

‘Wait a minute then,’ Srinivas said, picked up the empty tumbler and plates and carried them away, and returned, closing the middle door.

‘Oh, so much precaution is not necessary. It is only about our Somu. I wanted to say something. I don’t like to be under any obligation to him. I can’t go on at the present rate –’

‘What has happened?’

‘Nothing definitely, but the trouble is always there. He is the proprietor of the studio, and he is prepared to give us the best service the studio can give.’

‘Well, it is all right for everybody concerned, isn’t it?’

‘Please wait till I finish my sentence. Provided he is taken as a studio partner and nothing more; that is, not as the producer
and investor. He has been grumbling about it for some days now.’

‘Why, he seemed quite enthusiastic about it …’

‘That he is still, but it seems to me that he wants me also to invest. His partnership will take the form of studio service; that is all; for the rest we will have to find the money ourselves.’

‘Why is he backing out now?’

‘It is not backing out –’

‘If he is not backing out, what else is he doing, and why are you worried about it?’

Srinivas found this entire financial transaction mystifying; he was trying hard to follow the threads of the problem. Sampath talked for over an hour, and Srinivas gathered from his speech that he needed money for putting the picture into production. ‘But you must already be spending a great deal.’

‘But that’s all studio account,’ said Sampath, and once again Srinivas found his understanding floundering. It seemed to him somewhat like relativity – giving brief flashes of clarity which prove only illusory. Now he definitely gave up any attempt at understanding the problem. Srinivas asked point-blank: ‘So, what? What’s to be done now?’

‘I must find fifty thousand rupees if I have to produce the picture. This will enable me to go through the picture with a free and independent mind, and when it is done, or rather, even when we are half-way through it, we can realize the entire amount and more by selling the territorial rights for distributors.’

Srinivas was pleased to hear this note of hope. Sampath continued: ‘I’ve found one or two people who are prepared to join me. I just want another person who will give ten thousand, and that will complete the sum.’

‘Oh, you know my position,’ Srinivas said apprehensively.

‘Oh, no,’ Sampath said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of bothering you about it. I’m told that your landlord has a lot of money. Can’t you speak to him and persuade him to invest?’

‘My landlord! Oh!’ Srinivas burst out laughing. He checked himself presently, and quietly said: ‘He is a great miser. He won’t spend even ten rupees on himself

‘That’s true. But he will get about 12 1/2 per cent assured.’

‘I don’t know if anybody has succeeded in getting any money out of him. He won’t spend anything on another water-pipe for us.’

‘Can’t you try?’

‘Oh, I have never spoken to him about money. He always calls himself very poor. All the mention he has made of money with me is some five thousand which he’s reserved for his granddaughter’s marriage; and that, too, he mentioned to me, because he wanted me to recommend her to Ravi.’ He explained the old man’s persistent pursuit of Ravi.

‘You won’t mind if I meet the old man and talk to him?’ asked Sampath.

‘Not at all – why should I? But don’t say that I sent you there.’

When Srinivas passed that way Ravi’s aged father, who was blind, somehow sensed him and called to him. It was a most painful experience for Srinivas to go into their house. The single room, crowded with Ravi’s younger brothers and sisters, the smoke from the kitchen hanging over the whole place like December mist, the impossible heaping of boxes and bedding and clothes … The old man stretched out his hand to feel the hand of Srinivas, fumbled and asked almost in a cry: ‘What, what did my son do at that office?’

‘Nothing; they merely retrenched,’ replied Srinivas.

‘Are you sure? If he has done anything to merit punishment he is not my son.’ He drew himself up proudly. ‘Our family has gone on without a blemish on its members for seven generations, do you know?’ he asked. ‘Whatever happens to us we want to preserve a good name in society.’ The old man went on talking; the ragged children stood around and gaped. Ravi’s mother came in and said: ‘Can’t you do something for the boy? He goes out somewhere and returns late every day.’

‘You get in,’ thundered the old man. ‘Get in and mind your business. I don’t want you to trouble this gentleman with all your idiotic words.’

‘It is no trouble,’ said Srinivas. The lady said: ‘Oh, you are standing.’ She told one of the boys: ‘He is standing, give him a mat.’

‘I won’t bring the mat,’ said the boy suddenly, and pointed to another and said: ‘Let him do it. Why should I alone do everything?’ The other fellow pounced upon him for making this suggestion. This quarrel came to a stop when the old man thundered at his wife: ‘Why can’t you leave the children alone – always nagging and worrying them?’ The lady quietly spread out a mat on the floor and said: ‘Be seated, please.’

‘Yes, yes, pray don’t keep standing,’ added the old man. And then: ‘Yes – I was saying something, what was it?’

‘Family honour,’ Srinivas felt like saying, but suppressed the impulse and said: ‘Don’t you worry about your son. I will see him fixed up satisfactorily in a new place.’ He felt consolation was due to the old man.

‘What office?’ the old man asked.

‘Connected with film production –’

‘What film production?’

‘They have recently started a studio –’ and he went on to explain its nature and scope. The old man said emphatically: ‘That will never do. I wouldn’t like my son to work in a place like that, among play-boys and dancing girls. I won’t have him go there.’

‘He is not acting,’ said Srinivas.

‘If he is not, what business has he there?’ asked the old man. The lady fidgeted about nervously, fearing what the old man might say at any moment. Srinivas said: ‘He is not acting – he is going to do quite a respectable piece of work.’

‘What is that?’

‘He is going to be given a start of a hundred rupees, and he may rise very fast.’

‘I don’t care if he is going to earn ten thousand; it is of no consequence to me; tell me what he will have to do to earn his salary.’ And then Srinivas had to blurt out: ‘He is an artist – probably will prove to be the greatest artist of the century some day.’