Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (25 page)

The inspector said: ‘What has happened to the press you were doing it in?’ Once again he felt it impossible to speak; he struggled for expression. He overcame the struggle with a deliberate effort and said: ‘Sampath, Sampath – you know he is no longer a printer.’

‘No, he is no longer a printer; I know.’

‘I can’t get anyone else to print my work,’ said Srinivas, and felt like a baby talking complainingly. It sounded to him silly and childish to be talking thus at the police-station gate.

‘If you will come here any time tomorrow evening I will take you to the Empire Press, who will print for you. He is a good printer and will oblige me. We must revive your weekly. It used to be interesting,’ said the inspector.

Srinivas gripped his hand in an access of inexpressible gratitude. ‘Please…’ he implored. ‘I’ll be here tomorrow at eleven positively.’

He drew his arm through Ravi’s and led him along through the crowded Market Road; a bus hooted, country carts tumbled by, villagers passed along with loads on their heads. But Srinivas felt that he had got back his enchantment in life. He chattered happily as he walked along: ‘Ravi, something to keep me sane – absolutely – without
The Banner
… Well, you will be well enough again, and then you can draw dozens of pictures for our paper. It will be your own paper,’ he said and looked at the dull, uncomprehending eyes of Ravi, who walked beside him like a lamb, his lips muttering some unknown chant under his breath. They walked on a few paces thus, silently, on the edge of the road, avoiding and pushing their way through the groups of people going in the opposite direction. Srinivas slackened his pace and whispered: ‘Don’t you worry any more about Sampath or anyone else … They all belong to a previous life.’ He looked up at the other as he said it. A feeble ray of understanding seemed to glow in Ravi’s eyes: that was enough for Srinivas. His heart was filled with joy and he forgot all else in the relish of this moment.

Srinivas had nowadays little time to bother about the outside world, being fully engaged on the revived
Banner
. It now emerged from an office in Market Road itself – coming off the Empire Press, which, though small in itself, seemed to Srinivas a vast organization; it had at least half a dozen type-boards, a twin cylinder machine turned off the formes, and one did not have to wait for four pages to be printed to get the types ready for the next four. In contrast with the Truth Printing Works, this appeared to be a revolutionary step forward. A small room was partitioned off with a red movable screen, and that separated the printer from the editor. The printer was a taciturn, dull man, who took no interest in the matter he printed, who would show no accommodation in financial matters, but who was thoroughly punctual and precise in doing his work.

Srinivas found himself facing, for the first time, financial problems as a reality. He couldn’t restart
The Banner
without paying an advance and buying the paper for it. There was no longer Sampath between him and financial shocks. He spent long worrying hours speculating how he should manage it. He solved the problem by writing a letter to his brother, asking for the amount out of his share in the ancestral property. He hated himself for writing thus, but it was the only way out. He avoided deliberately any highfalutin references to his work, any abstract principles involved in it, but tried to appear sordid. He wrote: ‘You know the old fable of a man who mounted a tiger – I’m in the same position.
The Banner
has to be kept fluttering in the air if I’m to survive. I may tell you that it has built itself up nicely, and there is not much groundwork to be done for it now. I’ve still all the old subscribers’ rolls, and I’m also taking in a few pages of advertisements; and so don’t you worry at all about its finances. But I require some temporary accommodation. If you
can lend me a couple of thousands or, if it is impossible, give me two thousand out of my share in our property, I shall be grateful for the timely help.’ His brother accepted it as a legitimate demand and sent him the amount with only the admonition: ‘Please be a little more practical-minded in the management of your affairs. I would strongly advise you to have an accountant to look after your accounts and tell you from time to time how you stand. Don’t grudge this expense.’ He added a note of warning: ‘You will understand that ancestral property is after all a sacred trust, and not loose money meant for the fanciful expenditure of the individual; it really belongs to our children and their children.’ ‘Children and their children’; it produced a lovely picture on the mind like the vista of an endless colonnade. But the first part of the sentence made him indignant. ‘He blesses with his hand, and kicks with his feet,’ he moaned. ‘Shall I send back this amount?’

His wife advised him: ‘He has merely said that you must be careful with the money. Why should that make you angry?’

Srinivas cooled down and said: ‘All right then, I will take it now, but return it at the earliest possible moment.’ He wrote to his brother to this effect, while acknowledging the amount, and it had the unexpected result of bringing from him a warm letter appreciating the resolution and repeating the advice to provide himself with an accountant. He accepted the reasonableness of this suggestion and acted upon it immediately. The Empire Press man lent him his own accountant for a couple of hours each day, for a small consideration.

Srinivas turned his back on Kabir Lane without a sigh. He rummaged his garret, filled a couple of baskets with all the papers there, and descended the steps for the last time. The building was now held on lease by Sunrise Pictures, and no life stirred there. The door of the registered offices and of the director of productions remained locked up. He felt he could no longer stand a meeting with Somu, Sohan Lal or De Mello. They seemed to him figures out of a nightmare. He merely sent the key to the studio with a messenger. Out of all the welter of paper he was carrying away he took care not to miss the little sketch of Ravi’s in the cardboard file.

* * *

‘Nonsense – an adult occupation’ was one of the outstanding editorials he wrote after
The Banner’s
rebirth. He analysed and wrote down much of his studio experience in it. Adulthood was just a mask that people wore, the mask made up of a thick jowl and double chin and diamond earrings, or a green sporting shirt, but within it a man kept up the nonsense of his infancy, worse now for being without the innocence and the pure joy. Only the values of commerce gave this state a gloss of importance and urgency.

This brought Somu into his office one day. His fingers sparkled with diamonds as he clutched his cane. Srinivas sent up a silent prayer at the sight of him. ‘Oh, God, save me from these people and give me the strength to face them now.’ Somu’s incapacity to speak out was once again evident. He sat clearing his throat and trying to smile. Srinivas forbore to ask him about the studio or their picture. ‘Oh, God, don’t involve me again with these people,’ he prayed. Somu asked: ‘How is it, you don’t come near the studio?’

Srinivas felt it was unnecessary to give any answer. Somu persisted, and Srinivas merely said: ‘I have no business there.’

‘Ah! Ah! How can you say so? How can we run a studio without the help of story-writers like you, sir?’

Srinivas had no answer to give. He felt a deep hurt within him; seeing those fat cheeks and diamonds and the memory of Ravi in the cell, mumbling incoherently, he felt like crying out: ‘You are all people who try to murder souls.’

Somu said: ‘Your journal, your journal. We see you have said something about us.’ This seemed to be interesting. Srinivas asked: ‘What exactly have I said?’

Somu tapped the table nervously and said: ‘I didn’t read it fully.’

‘How much of it really did you read then?’

‘H’m … In fact, I meant to read it later, but De Mello took it away and told me about it. He said that there was something about the studio,’ said Somu.

‘In that case you may read it now,’ said Srinivas, taking out a copy of the issue and handing it to him. Somu looked at it for a few moments, turned its pages curiously, and rolled it up. ‘Why are you folding it up?’ asked Srinivas.

‘I will read it at home,’ replied Somu apologetically.

‘No. I want you to read it at once,’ said Srinivas. A look of panic came into Somu’s eyes. ‘All of it?’ he asked, looking at the rolled-up copy in his hand.

‘Yes, it is only twelve pages.’

‘Oh, sir, please excuse me,’ begged Somu. Srinivas became adamant. He enjoyed very much bullying Somu. It seemed to him that he was getting a bit of his own back after all. He wanted to cry Ah, how should I have felt when you fellows worried me to death and had everything your own way?’ He enjoyed Somu’s discomfiture, and again and again insisted upon his going through the journal on the spot. He wondered why Somu did not brush him aside and ask him to mind his business. But he didn’t. He meekly said: ‘I came only to spend a few minutes with you and find out about the article.’

‘Yes, but how can you talk about it unless you read it? Go on, at least read the article you wish to discuss.’ Somu looked at him appealingly for a moment, took out his glasses and poised them over his nose, spread out the issue and tilted it towards the window light. Looking at him thus, Srinivas felt that this must be counted as a major conquest in his career. He attended to the papers on his table, and a clearing of the throat from the other drew his attention: he looked up and saw Somu anxiously looking at him, wondering if he would be permitted to put down the paper now. He started taking off his glasses when Srinivas looked at him fixedly and said: Yes?’

‘I’ve finished reading it.’

Srinivas wondered for a moment whether he could command him to go through the next article, but he refrained: it might prove to be the last straw: Somu might, after all, assert his independence and refuse. Srinivas felt, seeing the agonized face of the other as he was put through this trial, that all his wrongs of recent months were sufficiently avenged, and he felt his humanity returning. He became almost tender as he asked: ‘Well, sir, what about it now?’

‘De Mello said there was something about our production in it,’ said Somu. ‘That’s why I came here.’

‘Now you find nothing in it?’ asked Srinivas.

‘Nothing about our production. I don’t know what made De Mello say so.’ He appeared indignant at the trick played upon him.

Srinivas said quietly: ‘De Mello is right. If you take the copy home and read it carefully, you will understand, and then you can come and talk it over with me.’

He looked puzzled. ‘Why should you attack our film, sir?’ he asked angrily. ‘After all, you wrote the story. It is not right, sir, that you should be unkind to us.’ He clutched his walking-stick and got up to go.

Srinivas said: ‘You must read the paper regularly if you are to understand my point of view. It is not unkindness. Why don’t you take out a subscription for a year? It is only ten rupees.’

‘I have no time to read, sir, that is the trouble.’

‘Just as you find the time to eat and sleep you must find the time to read a paper like
The Banner
. It’s meant for people like you.’ Somu took out ten rupees and placed it on the table. Srinivas wrote out a receipt and gave it him. Somu folded it and put it in his purse and started to go, but said, stopping half-way: ‘After all, we spend lakhs of rupees on our pictures, and you must be careful not to prejudice the public against us and damage us.’

Srinivas kept Ravi in his own home. He had more or less the task of running both the households on his own means. Ravi’s little sister came in several times a day with a petition for a rupee or two, and Srinivas ungrudgingly parted with them and advised his wife to do so in his absence. Ravi’s father had given up talking not only to Ravi but also to Srinivas. He let out a sort of growl whenever he sensed Srinivas passing in front of his house. He was reported (by Srinivas’s wife) to be continually saying: ‘He ruined my son by putting notions into his head. Now he wants to ruin the rest of the family.’ This naturally roused her indignation, and she asked: ‘Why should we ever bother about these people when they are so ungrateful!’ Srinivas merely told her: ‘Don’t waste your energy listening to what he or anybody says. Just give them any help you can.’

‘For how long?’ she asked.

Srinivas scratched his head. There seemed to be really no means of saying how long.

‘And what are you going to do about him?’ she asked, indicating the corner of the hall where Ravi sat mumbling his chant. Srinivas kept him with him because he had a feeling that Ravi’s own home might hinder rather than help a possible recovery. He fed him, looked after his personal needs and kept him there. ‘He must be protected from his family,’ he explained. All this discussion had to be carried on in subdued voices in the kitchen while dining, since the front half of their house was occupied by one or the other of Ravi’s relations. His little brothers and sisters came round and sat there in front of him. Sometimes they laughed at him and sometimes they ran away in fear. Unremittingly he kept repeating his sentences, though no one could follow anything that he was saying. Often his mother came up and sat in front of him, coaxed him to eat this or that, some special preparation that she made at home with her meagre resources. Srinivas’s wife, after her initial protests, was often moved by this spectacle and sat down with her and tried to comfort her.

The old lady was beginning to think that the matter with Ravi was that he was possessed. She recounted a dozen instances similar to his, where exorcizing restored a man to his normal state.

So one evening, returning home from his office, Srinivas found strange activities going on. Ravi had become the centre of the picture. In front of him were set out trays of saffron and flowers, huge twigs of margosa leaves, and a camphor flare. A wild-looking man with huge beads around his neck, clad in red silk, his forehead dabbed with vermilion, officiated at the ceremony. He looked very much like Shiva in makeup. The air choked with incense burning in a holder. He had a couple of assistants sitting behind him, one bearing a cymbal and the other a little rattling drum which produced a peculiarly shrill noise. The chief man had a thin cane of a whip-like thinness at his feet, and he had smeared it with saffron and vermilion. Ravi’s mother sat near this group with a reverent look in her eyes, and Srinivas saw his own wife running about, ministering to their wants ungrudgingly. Little Ramu and the other youngsters of the
neighbouring house stood peeping in at the doorway. They looked slightly scared and thought it safer to keep their distance so. Srinivas stood at the threshold, arrested by this scene. Ramu had wanted to bound towards him and tell him in advance, but he was unwilling to forfeit his place in the doorway, and so kept calling in a suppressed voice: ‘Father, Father.’ But before he could say anything more Srinivas had come upon the scene. An exclamation of surprise escaped his lips. His wife came to him in great haste and drew him away into the kitchen. She closed the middle door and cautioned him: ‘Don’t say any inauspicious word now.’

‘Whose idea is this?’ he asked sourly.

‘That lady has been wanting to do it. You must not say anything against it. Where can she go, poor lady? Her husband might not allow it or he might swear at them all the time.’

‘Ah! You know now why I wanted Ravi to be kept here, do you understand?’ he said with mild glee. She accepted his triumph without a protest. Yes, yes, with that old man there, how can they?’ And this pacified Srinivas. He realized at once that he had become mildly vengeful: the other day it was Somu on whom he had tried to take it out, and today his wife. ‘At this rate I fear I may do a lot of people to death in due course,’ he told himself. He looked at his wife. He found her eyes dancing with interest. She was fully part of the affair and seemed to feel specially gratified at being the hostess of this exotic function. He muttered under his breath: ‘The whole thing is too silly for words.’ He recollected the tribal worship done before the camera at the studio on the inauguration day. ‘This is no worse. At least this is more innocent and uncommercial,’ he reflected. His wife said: ‘It is also a good thing, you know. He knows all about the ghost that haunts this house that people talk about. He says it has got into Ravi. He will drive it out, and we can live here with a free mind afterwards.’ Seeing that she had not made much of an impression, she asked: ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ He replied: ‘He probably got the story out of some gossip-monger.’