Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (35 page)

‘Working of course,’ the other said.

‘Single-handed?’

‘Yes, it has to be a single-handed job.’ Margayya looked at the wilderness round them and said: ‘No wonder the place is as it is – too much for one man.’ The other laughed and said: ‘I have nothing to do with the garden. I’m here because I find it a very quiet place, and there seems to be no one to ask me to get out. Sit down; you will find it a really nice place – though it looks such a forest.’

Margayya feebly protested: ‘I’ve got to go before it gets dark.’

‘Why?’

‘I have a long way to go … there may be cobras –’

‘Not one here. Sit down, sit down –’ Margayya sat down on the steps. The other sat beside him. A breeze stirred the leaves and sent a few ripplets rolling and striking against the stone steps. Casuarina trees which loomed over the little
mantap
murmured. Brilliant sun from the west made the entire garden glitter.

Margayya held the lotus delicately by the stalk and looked at it. ‘Now and then people come here for lotus,’ said the other. Margayya wondered if he was going to ask him to pay for it. He didn’t like the idea. Before he should entertain any such notion, just to divert his mind, Margayya asked: ‘What is your connection with this place?’

‘The same as yours,’ he replied promptly. ‘As I said, I am here because it doesn’t seem to bother anyone. I discovered this by a pure fluke. I’m given to cross-country hikes … I have to in my profession –’

‘What is your profession?’

‘I’m a journalist. I’m a correspondent for all these districts of a paper called
Silver Way
published in Madras.’

‘Tamil paper?’

‘Yes, of course. It is the most widely circulated paper in Tamil, with an enormous circulation in F.M.S., Ceylon, and South Africa. I cover these districts for them, and in my spare time write my own books.’

‘Oh, you write books?’ Margayya asked, full of wonder.

‘Yes, yes, during my spare time – so difficult to find the leisure for it as a correspondent. All day I must knock about courts and offices and meetings on my cycle in search of news. I don’t get much time. That’s why I stay here, where I can work without
disturbance.’ Margayya was greatly impressed. He had always thought very highly of newspaper people. ‘How many books have you written?’

‘Four,’ came the reply; and he added: ‘Three are here,’ tapping his forehead. ‘Only one has been got down on paper –’

‘What is it? A story?’

‘A story! Oh, no, something more serious than that.’

‘Oh!’ said Margayya, feeling that he had better not make inquiries in a region where he was a stranger. Books and writing were not for him: he was only a business man. Margayya rose to go.

‘It’s getting late,’ he murmured.

‘I will go with you up to the road,’ said the other and followed him down to the edge of the pond. Margayya was fascinated by the sight of some more red lotus floating on water, with their petals already closing. He reflected: ‘Even if there is a pound of paste to be made, we have enough lotus here – provided I can find the grey cow.’ His mind started worrying about the next stage of the search. ‘Where are grey cows to be seen?’ Perhaps this author and journalist by his side might be able to help. They walked down the grassy path in silence for a while. Margayya surprised the other with the sudden inquiry: ‘Have you seen a smoke-coloured cow?’

‘Where?’ the other asked, stopping suddenly.

‘Anywhere … I mean … do you know where a smoke-coloured cow can be seen?’

‘Why?’

Margayya felt embarrassed. He blinked again. ‘I want its milk – for some special, medicinal purpose.’

‘Are you an
Ayurvedic
doctor or an aphrodisiac-maker?’ the other asked, looking at him. ‘Trying to make some potent drugs with red lotus and so on. I have seen only
Ayurvedic
doctors coming here in a search of some herb or leaf or lotus and things like that.’ Margayya felt that because he had no ready answer, and no name to give for his avocation in life, the other would give him no useful tip. He covered the entire topic with a loud, prolonged laugh, at the end of which he found the other completing his remark: ‘I suppose the milk must always be white, whatever the colour of the cow.’

Margayya agreed with this remark, laughed afresh, and changed the subject immediately. ‘What did you say your books were about?’

‘Sociology,’ said the other.

‘Oh! I see,’ said Margayya, trying to look clever, though completely bewildered by the term. He felt like asking: ‘What is it?’ but felt it might be an undignified inquiry. He just nodded his head and remained silent. The other asked: ‘You know what sociology is, I suppose?’ He was trapping him unnecessarily.

‘Of course, in a manner, but you know I’m a business man; we business men have not much time for scholarly activities.’

Dr Pal understood the position and said: ‘It’s a subject that has been much neglected in our country – particularly in our own vernaculars, in our mother-tongue. They’ve everything in English, but in our mother-tongue – no. What should the thousands of persons who know only our language do to learn the subject?’

‘Yes, yes, it is very difficult,’ Margayya agreed. They had now reached a thatched hut. ‘Come in for a moment and see my home and study,’ said Dr Pal.

Margayya protested and said something about its being dark.

‘I will escort you back safely,’ said the other. ‘Don’t worry … there are no cobras here.’ He pushed the door open. A mat was spread on the ground with a greasy pillow on it, and away from it stood a small tin trunk with a bottle of ink and a stack of paper on it. A very small bedroom lamp was kept on the trunk. Dr Pal pushed away the pillow and said: ‘Pray sit down, I have not much furniture to offer – this is all. But this is a nice place.’

Margayya sat down carefully holding the lotus so as to protect it from being crushed. The place smelt of straw, which was spread on the floor.

‘I do all my writing here. I return here at the end of my day’s roving in the town. I sit on this mat all night and write; at dusk I go out to that pond and sit contemplating in the
mantap
– it’s a very inspiring place.’ Margayya felt impressed and overawed, so he asked, as a piece of courtesy, ‘I suppose that is your book. You send it afterwards for printing?’

‘Yes, I hope to,’ said the other. He picked up the manuscript and handed it to Margayya. Margayya received it with the utmost
courtesy. The cover was of brown paper. He turned the last page and saw the number: ‘Oh, a hundred and fifty pages?’ he asked admiringly.

‘Yes, I want it to be a short book, so that any person may buy and read it.’ Margayya turned the pages and a chapter-heading caught his eye: ‘Philosophy and the Practice of Kissing’.

‘Oh! Kissing! You have written about kissing too!’

‘Yes, of course, it is an important subject.’

‘Who kisses? – children or –’

‘Oh! Children’s kisses are of no account here –’ Margayya felt interested, and turned to the title of another chapter: ‘Basic Principles of Embracing’. He turned over the pages and started reading the first sentence of the opening chapter: ‘Man embraces woman, and woman embraces man –’ He felt interested. Briskly turning over the leaves, he came upon the title sheet and read out aloud: ‘Bed-Life or the Science of Marital Happiness’.

‘What is this?’ Margayya exclaimed. ‘You said it was –’

‘Sociology. Yes, this is a branch of sociology. I have spent many years studying this subject. A thousand years ago Vatsyayana wrote his Kama-Sutra or “Science of Love.” I have based this whole work on it, plus research done by modern scientists like Havelock Ellis and so on. This subject must be understood by every man and woman. If people understood and practised this science there would be more happiness in the world.’

‘But it seems to be all about … about –’ Margayya could not find the right word. He felt too shy. He felt eager to read on, but put it away feeling that further inspection would seem indecorous.

‘You can read it if you like,’ said the other.

Margayya put it away as if avoiding a temptation.

‘You will have everything you want in a nutshell there.’ It seemed as if the other would not let him go. The author added: ‘I want to have a few illustrations if I can find an artist.’

‘What those … illustrating those?’ gasped Margayya.

‘Yes, why not? I want to illustrate some of the parts. I want it to be of practical benefit … I want it to serve as a guide book to married couples. My aim is to create happiness in the world.’

‘Are you married?’ Margayya asked, coming to the point.

‘Yes … otherwise how could I write all that?’

‘But … but … you are alone –’ Margayya said, looking round.

‘Yes … I have to be –’ He seemed saddened by some domestic memory. Margayya’s curiosity could no longer be kept in check: ‘Where is she?’ he asked bluntly.

‘God knows,’ said the other. ‘I have had to leave her –’

‘Why? Why?’ Margayya said. ‘How sad!’ He sat brooding.

The other said: ‘She was an impossible woman … a terrible woman who was unfaithful, and tried to ogle every man who appeared before her. A woman with a polyandrous tendency.’ Margayya was somewhat shocked at the free manner in which he spoke. The other laughed and said: ‘How scared you look at my talk! Don’t fear; I am not yet married. Probably you are already thinking how can this fellow write about the happiness of married life when he himself has been such a failure! Was it not the line of your thought?’

‘How did you guess?’ Margayya asked. Everyone seemed to guess correctly what went on in his mind – a most dangerous state of affairs it seemed to him. ‘I never married,’ the other assured him again. ‘But I only gave you a sample of what is likely to happen when people are ill-matched.’

‘True, true,’ said Margayya.

‘Reading this book will be a way of preventing such tragedies,’ said Dr Pal.

The next few days Margayya was lost to the outside world. He sat in the small room repeating:

Oh Goddess, who affordest shelter to all the fugitive worlds! … Thy feet, by themselves, are proficient in affording immunity from fear and bestowing boons.

He had to repeat it a thousand times each day, sitting before the image of the Goddess. He wore a red-silk
dhoti
and smeared his forehead and body with sacred ash. The cries of the pedlars in the street were submerged in the continuous hum that proceeded from his own throat: his son’s continued shout of
‘Appa! Appa!
was heard by him as a distant muffled sound. A little light came
through the small opening of the shutter. The room was filled with the scent of incense, camphor, sandal dust, and jasmine. All this mingled perfume uplifted the heart and thoughts of Margayya. He was filled with a feeling of holiness – engendered by the feel of the red silk at his waist. He was gratified at the thought of his wife’s obedience. ‘She is quite accommodating,’ he reflected. She got up at five and prepared the jaggery-sweetened rice which had to be offered to the Goddess. As he sat down with his eyes shut, he said to himself: ‘I have achieved difficult things, grey cow’s milk butter, red lotus made into black paste … This time last week I could not believe that I should be able to get together grey milk and red lotus. When the Goddess wants to help a man she sends him where all things are available; and who would have thought that there was a deserted garden –’

This brought to his mind Dr Pal and his works … He felt an unholy thrill at the memory of Pal’s book. It seemed as though his mind would not move from the subject. This man wanted to put in pictures – what a wicked fellow. It’d be most awkward … Why was Dr Pal interested in the subject? Must be an awful rake … if he could write all that and was unmarried…. Some of the chapter-headings came to his mind. He realized with a shock what line his thoughts were pursuing, and he pulled them back to the
verse;
the priest had told him to let his mind rest fully on its meaning while repeating it. He kept saying: ‘Oh Goddess, who affordest…’ etc., and unknown to him his thoughts slipped out and romped about – chiefly about the fruits of the penance he was undertaking: forty days of this – afterwards? He visualized his future. How was wealth going to flow in? When he became rich, suppose he bought from his brother the next house too, tempting him with a handsome cash offer…. He realized that this was his major concern in life. He would be a victorious man if he could bring his brother to his knees and make him part with his portion of the house; and then he would knock down the partition wall…. Each day it took him eight hours of repetition to complete the thousand, and then he reverently put the black paste on his forehead, lit the camphor, called in his wife and child and sprinkled the holy water on them. His jaws ached, his tongue had become dry … he felt faint with hunger, since he had to fast completely while praying.

He followed this course for forty days. When he emerged from the little room, he had a beard and moustache and hair on his nape. He had been told not to shave in the course of this penance. He looked venerable. His voice became weak; he could not utter any speech without automatically mixing it up with ‘Oh, Goddess, who affordest shelter …’ He looked like an examination student who has emerged from the ordeal, sapped in every way but with his face glowing with triumph. Margayya had lost ten pounds in weight: much of the padding on his waist and jowl had gone.

When he was again seen in the streets, shaven and clean, he looked like a young man. His chin sparkled with the long-delayed shave, and his moustache was trimmed to perfection. He looked so tidy when he went along the street again with his shirt and upper-cloth that people stopped and asked: ‘Where have you been all this time, Margayya?’ He had no answer. So he said: ‘Here. All along. Where should I go?’

‘I haven’t seen you in your usual place or anywhere.’

‘Usual place! Oh, there, you mean! That was only a side business for me, more for my own diversion. I’m busy with other plans,’ he said grandly.

About the time he closed his business he had two hundred rupees in hand, out of which the previous month’s household expenses took sixty rupees; the forty-day ritual cost him at least two rupees a day for fruit and flowers and special offerings; then he had to have a feast on the last day and feed four brahmins, and give them each a silver rupee on betel leaves after the meal. About a hundred rupees in all were gone. He found himself grudging this expense and explained to himself: ‘How can I grudge it! Can’t a man spend at least so much for earning the benevolence of a Goddess?’ He had a magic syllable carved on leather and tied to his sacred thread. He wished he could know when the beneficial effect would start, when the skies would open and start raining down wealth. He wished he could get an answer to his question.

In his despair he tried to meet the priest. But somehow the priest had not encouraged him to call again. For a day Margayya was seized with the horrible thought that the man had played a practical joke on him. What if he had merely fooled him! Priests were capable of anything. Every word that the priest had uttered seemed to lend support to this suspicion. He had even taken the trouble to avoid him.

Days passed, and his misgivings increased. He seemed to have suddenly lost all plans in life. His purse was getting lighter each day. It was difficult to while away the time. From morning to night he had to think what he should do next. If he stayed at home, it invariably resulted in some clash with his wife, for his son misbehaved so much in his presence that either he or his wife felt impelled to chastize him, and each vehemently protested when the other did it. And then all kinds of controversies started between him and his wife. It was such a strain having always to talk in whispers – lest the people next door should overhear. He sat dejectedly facing Goddess Lakshmi and mentally saying to her: ‘You have taken my last coin. What have you given me in return? Has the priest been fooling me?’ He felt indignant at this thought. ‘If he has fooled me! God help him, I’ll have my fingers round his throat!’

As he lay across the hall on a towel spread on the floor, his mind was busy with these thoughts. In that small house, it was a bother to have the head of the house all the time lying across the floor. Margayya’s wife had quite a number of visitors coming in each day. A brinjal-seller, who brought in her basket, walked across the hall and sat in the backyard veranda to transact her business; the servant-woman who came in to wash the vessels and scrub the backyard an hour a day; a fat lady, wife of a lawyer, who dropped in for a chat in the afternoons; and some school children who came running in during the afternoon recess for a drink of water. When Margayya lay across the hall of his house he obstructed their passage to the rear veranda and kitchen where the lady of the house received them. Every time a visitor arrived Margayya had to scramble to his feet and stand aside to let the visitor pass. They went on and asked Margayya’s wife privately: ‘Why is your husband not going out?’ The lady felt confused and awkward and gave out some reply, but later questioned him: ‘What has come over you that you don’t go out at all – ?’

‘Where should I go?’

‘Like all the other men, why don’t you try to do some work and earn some money?’

‘Money is not a pebble in the street to be picked up by just going out.’

‘Oh, is that so? I didn’t know. I thought it was something to be had in the street.’

Thus their talk went on, entirely lacking in point. She had no clear idea of what she expected him to do and he had no clear idea of what he should do outside the house. He tried it for a few days. His steps naturally led him to the Co-operative Bank. But it was clear that he had lost his place. His previous clients only tried to avoid him, fearing that he might accost them for their old dues. He had no one to talk to. He went through the town like a lost soul, but although to begin with some people spoke to him, now nobody took any notice of him. He could not go down the Market Road for fear of being stopped by the optician … So after a few days of aimless wandering, he took to staying at home. It delighted only his little son and no one else. Next door they remarked: ‘What has come over that man? He is hardly to be seen outside. Is he hiding from creditors?’ They had also wondered previously why so much scent of incense emanated from the next house. ‘They must be up to some mischief; perhaps trying black magic on someone they don’t like. We must be careful with such people.’

As the month came to an end and Margayya had to buy rice and salt for the pantry, he found himself short by ten rupees, and they had to manage without ghee. His wife declared: ‘I have never been in this plight before.’ Balu made matters worse by asking: ‘Mother, I want ghee.’

‘There is no ghee, my boy. You must eat your food as it is,’ Margayya replied.

‘I won’t,’ said Balu, throwing away the rice and getting up.

‘You’ll learn to be contented with what you get,’ Margayya moralized foolishly.

‘No. I won’t. I want ghee,’ said the boy rebelliously, kicking away his rice plate.

‘If you kick away your rice, I will kick you,’ Margayya said; at which the boy burst into tears and appealed to his mother. She burst into tears too because it reminded her of the story of Gora Kumbar, a potter, who was devoted to the God Vishnu and took no care of his family. At meal times his little son demanded ghee,
without which, just like Balu, he would not eat. The lady went out to borrow ghee from the next house, leaving the child in the care of the father, who was stamping on wet clay all the time. When she was gone, he got into a mystic ecstasy and started dancing, and did not notice the child crawling under his feet … and when the mother returned with ghee the child had been stamped into the wet mud. Margayya’s wife burst into tears, remembering this story, which she had seen as a drama in her young days. Margayya, bewildered and pained by all the scene, ate his food in silence, but, without ghee and with all this misery, it tasted bitter.

He decided to search out the priest. ‘I can’t keep quiet any more. He will have to tell me what is what – otherwise, I will not let him off lightly.’

Margayya sought him out late that night. He pretended to go to the temple very late in the evening for worship, and hung about till the crowd cleared. He heard the priest’s voice inside the sanctum. When the crowd dispersed he moved up to the threshold of the sanctum and peered in. There was a new man there.

Margayya asked: ‘Where is he?’

‘Who?’

‘The other priest –’

‘Why?’

Margayya felt annoyed. Why were these priests assuming such impudent and presumptuous manners? But the priest was in the proximity of God, and Margayya was afraid to speak sharply. He controlled his voice and temper and answered: ‘I have some business with him.’

‘What business?’ asked the priest, tossing flowers on the image without turning in his direction. ‘Does this man think he is God?’ wondered Margayya. ‘He is so indifferent!’

Probably, he thought, the other priest had told him: ‘Margayya may be dropping in often, asking for me. If he comes, show him the utmost rudeness and keep him out.’ It seemed quite possible to his sickly imagination. Margayya opened his lips to say something, but in came some devotees with coconut and camphor, and the priest became busy attending to them. Margayya noted
with pain the differential treatment that was being meted out. ‘It’s quite clear that he has been told to snub me … see how warm and effusive he is to those people! It is because he hopes to get money out of them. Money is everything, dignity, self-respect…. This fellow is behaving towards me like the Cooperative Bank Secretary.’ In his mind he saw arrayed against him the Secretary, Arul Doss, this man, and the washer-woman who abused him on the day his son destroyed the account-book. It seemed such a formidable and horrible world that he wondered how he had managed to exist at all.

The priest now came out bearing a plate with a camphor flame on it, which lit up his face. Margayya noted that he was a very young man. The others put money into the plate after touching the flame. The priest paused near Margayya, who just looked away. ‘I have paid enough for these godly affairs,’ thought Margayya. The priest threw a sour look at him and went in. The devotees left. The priest sat down before the image and started reciting some holy verse. Margayya stood on the threshold. The other paused during his recitation and asked: ‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I’m only waiting for your honour to come out and answer my question.’

‘Am I an astrologer? What’s your question?’

‘This man is practising studied rudeness on me. He has been taught to … this young fellow!’ thought Margayya. His anger rose. He became reckless. ‘Hey, young man, who taught you to speak so rudely?’

The young man looked surprised for a moment, and then raised his voice and resumed his recitation.

Margayya cried: ‘Stop it and answer me! A very devout man, indeed!’

‘You want to stop God’s work. Who are you?’

‘A youngster like you need not ask unnecessary questions. Learn to give correct answers before you think of putting questions … At your age!’

The youth asked: ‘What do you want?’

‘What I want to know is, where is the old priest? And, if you can, answer without asking why.’

‘He has gone on a pilgrimage.’

‘When did he go?’

‘About a month ago.’

‘When will he come back?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where has he gone?’

‘To Benares – from there he is going on foot all along the course of the Ganges, to its very source in the Himalayas.’

‘Why is he doing all this?’

‘I don’t know. How can I say?’

Margayya felt indignant. He walked out of the temple without another word. He felt he had been cheated. That old priest had played a trick on him, making him waste all his money in performing fantastic things. ‘Benares, Ganges! Himalayas! How am I to get at him!’ He wished he could go to the Himalayas and search him out. For a moment he speculated pleasantly on what might happen to the old man there. He might get drowned in the Ganges, or die of sunstroke on the way, or get frozen in the ice of the Himalayas.

Next day he wandered up and down, through the east and the west districts of the town, in search of an idea. He got up in the morning, hoping that some miracle would happen, some chance or fortune be picked up on the doorstep. He got up early and opened the door. There were the usual goings on of Vinayak Mudali Street, and nothing more – a curd-seller passing with the pot on her head, a couple of cyclists going to a mill, some children running out to play an early game, and so on. But he saw nothing that was likely to bring him the fruits of his penance. He felt acutely unhappy.

He wandered all over the town in search of an idea. He went up to the northern section and sat on the hot sands of the Sarayu thinking. He sat in the shade of a tree and watched the sky and river. His mind had become blank. He went down the Market Road, looking at every shop. He was searching for an idea. He watched every trade critically. Tailoring? Hair-cutting saloon? Why not? Any labour had dignity … But all of them would be more troublesome than anything he had known. ‘Nobody will
give me money for nothing. I must give them something in exchange –’ He sat on the parapet of the Market Fountain and thought. What was it that people most needed? It must be something that every person could afford. The best business under the sun was either snuff or tooth powder or both. It had to be something for which every citizen would be compelled to pay a certain small sum each day. He was engrossed in profound economic theories. Snuff… his mind gloated over the visions of snuff… The initial outlay would be small, just enough to buy a bundle of tobacco…. He knew all about it, for there used to be a snuff-maker in front of his house. All his equipment was a few cinders of charcoal, a small iron grate, and a mud pot for frying the tobacco in. Fry and pound the tobacco, and a little lime, and leave the rest to the snuffers themselves. ‘Margayya’s snuff for flavour’, this was worth trying. It was an investment often rupees. He must fry the leaves in a place far away from human habitation. Tobacco, while being fried, sent up a choking smoke which kept the neighbourhood coughing and complaining. He wondered how long it would take to realize the profits. A year or less or not at all. Suppose people never touched his snuff and it accumulated in tins up to the ceiling? What could he do with them? He might probably use the stock himself. But he himself had been addicted to the Golden Monkey Brand for years, and he dared not try any other. Or he might manufacture tooth powder. His mother used to make a sort of tooth powder with burnt almond shell and cinnamon bark and alum, and it was said to convert teeth into granite.

Margayya now thought of his mother with gratitude. There was always a big crowd of sufferers waiting for her at the hall of their old house. She was of a charitable disposition. She took the stock out of a large earthen jar, and distributed it liberally. His father used to declare: ‘You will be reborn in a Heaven of Golden Teeth for this.’ She did it as a form of charity, and their house was known as the Tooth Powder House. It seemed an ideal business to start now. The world was going to be transformed into one of shining teeth … But a misgiving assailed him. How could he make people buy it rather than the dozen other tooth powders? He didn’t know the art of selling tooth powder. He couldn’t go about hawking it in the streets … It would be a fine look out if the
Secretary of the Co-operative Society caught him at it. Ami Doss would call out ‘Hey, tooth powder, come here, give me a packet. Here are three pies.’ And he would have to gather the coppers like a beggar, with peals of laughter ringing out from the whole world. And the old priest might chuckle from the Himalayas for having reduced him to a picker of copper coins! ‘No,’ he told himself, ‘I’m a business man. I can only do something on the lines of banking. It’s no good thinking of all this.’ He watched the fountain hissing and squirting, while the traffic flowed past, and sighed, as he had sighed so often before, at the thought of his banyan tree business. He sighed, reflecting: ‘Here is an adult, sitting on the fountain like a vagrant when he ought to be earning.’ He feared that if this state of affairs continued he might find himself looking for an orphan’s corpse and dashing about with a mud tray in his hand.