Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (43 page)

Now she watched the trouble brewing between the two as if it all happened behind a glass screen. The father asked in a tone full of wrath: ‘How am I to hold up my head in public?’ The boy looked up detached, as if it were a problem to be personally solved by the father, in which he was not involved. Margayya shouted again: ‘How am I to hold up my head in public? What will they think of me? What will they say of my son?’

The boy spoke with a quiet firmness, as if expressing what immediately occurred to the mother herself. She felt at once a great admiration for him. He said in a gruff tone: ‘How is it their concern?’

Margayya wrung his hands in despair and clenched his teeth. What the boy said seemed to be absolutely correct. ‘You are no son of mine. I cannot tolerate a son who brings such disgrace on the family.’

The boy was pained beyond words. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, father,’ he said.

Margayya was stupefied. He had no idea that the boy could speak so much. Talking till now was only a one-way business, and he had taken it for granted that the boy could say nothing for himself. He raved: ‘You are talking back to me, are you mad?’

The boy burst into tears and wailed: ‘If you don’t like me send me out of the house.’

Margayya studied him with surprise. He had always thought of Balu as someone who was spoken to and never one who could
speak with the same emphasis as himself. He was offended by the boy’s aggressive manner. He was moved by the sight of the tears on his face. He was seized with a confusion of feelings. He found his eyes smarting with tears and felt ashamed of it before his son and before that stony-faced woman who stood at the doorway of the kitchen and relentlessly watched. Her eyes seemed to watch unwaveringly, with a fixed stare. So still was she that Margayya feared lest she should be in a cataleptic state. He now turned his wrath on her. ‘It’s all your doing. You have been too lenient. You have spoilt him beyond redemption. You with your –’

The boy checked his tears and interrupted him. ‘Mother has not spoilt me, nor anyone else. Why should anyone spoil me?’

‘There is too much talk in this house. That’s what’s wrong here,’ Margayya declared, and closed the incident by going in to change and attend to his other activities. The boy slunk away, out of sight. In that small house it was impossible to escape from one another, and the boy slipped out of the front door. The mother knew he would return, after his father had slept, bringing into the home the smell of cigarette smoke.

Margayya stayed awake almost all night. When the boy sneaked back after his rounds and pushed the door open, it creaked slightly on its hinges and he at once demanded: ‘Who is there? Who is there?’

Balu answered mildly: ‘It’s myself, father.’

Margayya was pleased with the softening that now seemed to be evident in his tone, but he wished at the same time that the boy had not disgraced him by failing. He said: ‘You have been out so long?’

‘Yes,’ came the reply.

‘Where?’ he asked.

There was no further reply. Margayya felt that failing the Matric seemed to have conferred a new status on his son, and unloosened his tongue. He felt in all this medley a little pride at the fact that his son had acquired so much independence of thought and assertiveness. He somehow felt like keeping him in conversation and asked, with a slight trace of cajolery in his voice: ‘Was the door left open without the bolt being drawn?’

‘Yes,’ replied the boy from somewhere in the darkness.

‘That’s very careless of your mother. Does she do it every day?’

There was once again a pause and silence. His wife seemed to have fallen asleep too, for there was no response from her. He somehow did not wish the conversation to lapse. He said as a stop-gap: ‘What’ll happen if a thief gets in?’ There was no response from the son. After blinking in the dark for a few minutes, Margayya asked: ‘Boy, are you asleep?’ And the boy answered: ‘Yes, I am.’ And Margayya, feeling much more at peace with himself at heart for having spoken to him, fell asleep at once, forgetting for a few hours the Matriculation examination and his other worries.

They got into a sort of live and let live philosophy. He hoped that when the schools reopened he could put the boy back at school, prepare him intensively for his examination, and if necessary see some of the examiners and so on. Margayya had a feeling that he had of late neglected his duties in this direction. He had unqualified faith in contacting people and getting things done that way. He could get at anybody through Dr Pal. That man had brought into his business a lot of people known to him. Margayya’s contacts were now improving socially. People were indebted to him nowadays, and would do anything to retain his favour. Margayya hoped that if he exerted himself even slightly in the coming year he would see his son pull through Matriculation without much difficulty. Of course the boy would have to keep up a show of at least studying the books and would have to write down his number correctly in the answer book and not merely scribble and look out of the door. It was extremely necessary that he should at least write one page of his answer and know what were the subjects he ought to study.

Margayya felt that if he could persuade Balu to make at least a minimum of effort for his own sake, his mind would be easier. He proposed it very gently to him about a fortnight later as they sat down to their dinner together. Margayya showed him extreme consideration nowadays; it was born out of fear and some amount of respect. The boy was always taciturn and grim. He recollected that it seemed ages since he had seen any relaxation in his face. He had a gravity beyond his years. That frightened Margayya. Except the one instance when he saw tears in his
eyes on the day of the results, he had always found him sullen. He hoped to soften him by kindness, or, at least, outward kindness, for he still smarted inside at the results of the examination. He looked for a moment at the face of his son and said: ‘Balu, you must make another attempt. I’ll see that you get through the examination without the least difficulty.’

Balu stopped eating and asked: ‘What do you mean, father?’

Margayya sensed danger, but he had started the subject. He could not stop it now under any circumstances. So he said: ‘I mean about the Matriculation examination.’

‘I will not read again,’ said the boy definitely, defiantly. ‘I have already spoken to mother about it.’

‘H’m.’ Margayya turned to his wife who was serving him and said: ‘He has spoken to you, has he? What has he said?’

‘Just what he has told you,’ she answered promptly, and went back to the fireplace to fetch something.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’ Margayya asked, eagerly looking for some lapse on her part to justify him in letting off steam.

She merely replied: ‘Because I knew he was going to tell you about it himself

Margayya burst out at her. ‘What do you mean by discussing all sorts of things with the boy and not telling me anything? These are matters –’

His son interrupted him: ‘Father, if you hate me and want to make me miserable, you will bother me with examinations and studies. I hate them.’

Margayya went on arguing with him all through the meal till the boy threatened to abandon his dinner and walk out of the dining-room. Margayya assumed a sullen silence, but the atmosphere ached with tension. Everyone was aware that the silence was going to be broken in a violent manner next moment, as soon as dinner was over. Father and son seemed to be in a race to finish eating first. Balu gobbled up his food and dashed to the backyard. He poured a little water on his hand, wiped it on a towel near by and moved towards the street door. Margayya jumped up from his seat, with his hand unwashed, dashed to the street door and shut and bolted it. Frustrated, the boy stood still. Margayya asked: ‘Where are you going? I have still much to
tell you. I have not finished speaking yet.’ The boy withdrew a few steps in response.

Meanwhile his mother had brought in a vessel of water; Margayya snatched a moment to wash his hand at the little open yard. He said, ‘Wait’ to his son. He opened his office box and brought from it the boy’s S.S.L.C. Register. He had secured it on the previous day from the headmaster of the school. The S.S.L.C. Register is a small calico-bound notebook with columns marked in it, containing a record of a high-school boy’s marks, conduct, handwriting and physical fitness. Margayya had got the register from the headmaster and studied its pages keenly the whole of the previous day. Matters did not now appear to him so hopeless. The headmaster had marked ‘Fair’ both for his handwriting and drill attendance. Margayya had no idea that his son could shine in anything. So this was an entirely happy surprise … His marks in almost all subjects were in single digits. The highest mark he had obtained was twelve out of a hundred in hygiene, and he had maintained his place as the last in the class without a variation.

One would have expected Margayya to be shocked by this, but the effect was unexpected. He was a fond and optimistic father, and he fastened on the twelve marks for hygiene. It seemed so high after all the diminutive marks the boy had obtained in other subjects. Margayya hoped that perhaps he was destined to be a doctor, and that was why his inclination was so marked for hygiene. What a wonderful opening seemed to be before him as a doctor! Doctor Balu – it would be very nice indeed. If only he could get through the wretched S.S.L.C. barrier, he’d achieve great things in life. Margayya would see to it that he did so; Margayya’s money and contacts would be worth nothing if he could not see his son through …

He had prepared himself to speak to Balu about all this gently and persuasively. He hoped to lead up to the subject with encouraging talk, starting with hygiene, and then to ask him if he wished to be a doctor. What a glorious life opened before a doctor! He would send him to England to study surgery. He could tell him all that and encourage him. Margayya had great faith in his own persuasiveness. He sometimes had before him a tough customer who insisted upon withdrawing all his deposits
and winding up the account: a most truculent client. But Margayya remembered that if he had about an hour with him, he could always talk him out of it. The deposit would remain with him, plus any other money that the man possessed … Now Margayya wanted to employ his capacity for a similar purpose with his son. That’s why he had come armed with the S.S.L.C. Register. He could read out to him the headmaster’s remarks ‘Fair’, etc., and prove to him how hopeful everything was if only he would agree to lend his name and spare time to go through the formality of an examination in the coming year.

At the sight of the notebook the boy asked: ‘What is this? Why have you brought it from school?’ as if it were the most repulsive article he had seen in the whole of his life. His face went a shade darker. It symbolized for him all the wrongs that he had suffered in his life: it was a chronicle of all the insults that had been heaped upon him by an ungracious world – a world of schools, studies and examinations. What did they mean by all this terrible torment invented for young men? It had been an agony for him every time the headmaster called him up and made him go through the entries and sign below. Such moments came near his conception of hell. Hell, in his view, was a place where a torturing God sat up with your scholastic record in his hand and lectured you on how to make good and told you what a disgrace you were to society. His bitterness overwhelmed him suddenly, as his father opened a page and started: ‘Here is your hygiene –’

The boy made a dash for the book, snatched it from his father’s hand before he knew what was happening, tore its entire bulk into four pieces (it had been made of thick ledger paper and only his fury gave him the necessary strength to tear it up at one effort), and ran out into the street and threw the pieces into the gutter. And Vinayak Mudali Street gutter closed on it and carried the bits out of sight. Margayya ran up and stood on the edge of the gutter woefully looking into its dark depth. His wife was behind him. He was too stunned to say anything. When he saw the last shred of it gone, he turned to his wife and said: ‘They will not admit him in any school again, the last chance gone.’ And then he turned to tackle his son – but the boy had gone.

* * *

The only sign of prosperity about him now was the bright handle of the umbrella which was hooked to his right forearm whenever he went out. He was a lover of umbrellas, and the moment he could buy anything that caught his fancy, he spent eight rupees and purchased this bright-handled umbrella with ‘German ribs’, in the parlance of the umbrella dealers. Hitherto he had carried for years an old bamboo one, a podgy thing with discoloured cloth which had been patched up over and over again. He protected it like his life for several years. He had his own technique of holding an umbrella which assured it a long lease of life and kept it free from fractures. He never twisted the handle when he held an umbrella over his head. He never lent it to anyone. Margayya, if he saw anyone going out in the rain in imminent danger of catching and perishing of pneumonia, would let him face his fate rather than offer him the protection of his umbrella. He felt furious when people thought that they could ask for an umbrella. ‘They will be asking for my skin next,’ he often commented when his wife found fault with him for his attitude. Another argument he advanced was, ‘Do people ask for each other’s wives? Don’t they manage to have one for themselves? Why shouldn’t each person in the country buy his own umbrella?’ ‘An umbrella does not like to be handled by more than one person in its lifetime,’ he often declared, and stuck to it. He had to put away his old umbrella in the loft, carefully rolled up, because its ribs had become too rickety and it could not maintain its shape any longer. It began to look like a shot-down crow with broken wings. Though for years he had not noticed it, suddenly one day when he was working under the tree in the Co-operative Bank compound, someone remarked that he was looking like a wayside umbrella repairer and that he had better throw it away; he felt piqued and threw it in the loft, but he could never bring himself to the point of buying a new one and had more or less resigned himself to basking in the sun until the time came when he could spend eight rupees without calculating whether he was a loser or a gainer in the bargain. That time had come, now that thousands of rupees were passing through his hands – thousands which belonged to others as well as to him.