Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (66 page)

‘Yes?’ she said, stopping and looking at him. He noticed beads of perspiration on her upper lip and wanted to wipe them off with his fingers. He was seized with desolation at the thought that he would not see her any more coming round the bend of the road. He wanted to seize her in his arms and take a stormy leave of her, but he had to content himself with asking, ‘Will you marry me after we are out of all this, will you promise, if Bapuji permits?’

‘Yes, I promise …’ she said and hurried off before he could talk to her or follow her. He stood where he was and saw her raising her hands to her eyes once or twice in order to wipe off the tears gathering there.

A person called Jagadish dropped in one day very casually and introduced himself as a national worker. He said he was a photographer in Malgudi by profession, and claimed he had a formula for paralysing Britain in India. His studio in Malgudi with its dark interior served as a meeting ground for a group who were bent upon achieving immediate independence for the country. Jagadish came because he was in need of an out-of-town lair for his activities, and he was looking for a place where he could instal a small radio set which could also transmit code messages.

He came trudging uphill while Sriram was reclining against his stone tablet. He came with a haversack on his back and wore a
khadi
dress. Sriram had been reading his old newspaper. Bharati’s exit from his life had created a vacuum, which he found it hard to fill. He felt somewhat confused as to what he should do with himself now.

Jagadish set down his haversack, sat beside Sriram and asked, ‘You are Sriram?’

‘Yes.’

‘I am Jagadish. I used to know Bharati also. We are all doing more or less the same work.’

This was enough to stir Sriram out of his lethargy. He sat up and welcomed the other profusely with a great deal of warmth and asked, ‘Where, where is she?’

‘In detention … We don’t know where, but one of our boys met her just before she surrendered herself to the police.’

Sriram asked, ‘Where is this man?’

‘He too has surrendered to the police; before that he came and saw me.’

‘Are you going to court imprisonment?’

‘No, I have other things to do. That is why I have come here.’

Sriram was happy to find a kindred soul and at once poured into his ears his own feelings. ‘I told Bharati not to be a fool …’

‘Don’t say that. In this matter we all judge and act individually. Those who cannot follow Mahatmaji’s orders are free to act as they think best.’

‘How right you are,’ Sriram cried, feeling he had blundered into the right set.

The other said, ‘This is a war in which we are engaged, we are passing through abnormal times, and we do what we think best.’

He began to unpack his haversack. Sriram, always hungry and rather tired of the monotonous food he was eating, hoped childishly that something nice to eat would come out of it. He hoped it would be chocolate or fruit or biscuits. Oh, how long it was since he had eaten anything like
idli
, those white sensitive things made by his granny on most Sundays. Why Sunday and not on any other day, he had often asked. Now Jagadish took from his bag a small box, unwrapped the paper around it and brought out a tiny radio set.

‘You will have to keep this,’ he said. ‘It can transmit as well as receive. I had it in my studio all these days … but the police have become very watchful nowadays.’ He installed it behind the god’s image, and camouflaged it with some bamboo leaves.

From then on the god with the eyeless sockets saw a great deal of Jagadish. He was of short stature with a brown wrap around his shoulders. He had a shaggy crop of minute, springy curls, which spread out parallel to the earth, projecting several inches beyond his ears. He parted his shaggy crop in the middle and applied a vast quantity of oil over his curls so that the top of his skull was always resplendent, and often Sriram saw the midday sun shining back from his head in a thousand colours. He was a very dark man with a large bulbous nose, but there was a fire in him that consumed everything before it, and Sriram felt afraid to oppose him. It seemed incredible that an elegant slender creature like Bharati should ever have spoken to this bear-like personality.

A stab of jealousy passed through him. Could it be that she had ever toyed with the notion of marrying him? God knew what he did with himself when he was out of sight. How did he make a
living out of photography? Sometimes he didn’t appear for days, and when he turned up he explained, ‘The wedding season, you know. More fools getting married, and they drop in to get themselves photographed. I can’t afford to waive all the business.’ Or he explained, ‘The jasmine season, and this is a heavy time for a photographer. What a lot of young girls come with jasmine buds knitted in their braids – the problem for the photographer is to photograph a girl’s face and the back of her jasmine-covered head simultaneously, which is what they demand. Poor things, they sit up all night when they have the jasmine in their hair, for fear of crushing it on the pillows. They arrive at the rate of two a minute. When they are in the darkness of the studio, I try to find out their politics and give them our cyclostyled circulars and the latest news. The studio is a help for us in this job. When anyone comes there he is more responsive than he is anywhere else. People generally come to a studio with a cheerful mind, ready to oblige the photographer by being agreeable and responsive, and by listening to all he has to say, the same as being with a barber. They have a feeling that they are obliged to the photographer in some vague way and readily listen to his talk, and I make use of this for our national cause. That’s why I keep the studio going, although it’s so difficult, without a proper supply of materials. When our country gets independence, if I have anything to do with things, you will see what I shall do to the beggars who are black-marketing spools now!’ He ground his teeth at the thought of them.

He was soon converting the temple into a fortress. He explained: ‘The advantage of this place, do you know what it is? Except for a few antiquarians, no one knows of its existence. And it is not visible from outside. I’ve observed it from various points. It cannot be seen from the road down below. I wonder why anyone built a temple here at all. I believe it must have been used as a place for conspirators a thousand years ago,’ and he laughed grimly. Sriram laughed. He began to like him.

‘Don’t think this is always going to be safe,’ said the other. ‘Sooner or later they will find it.’

‘There is an underground chamber,’ began Sriram.

‘Yes, where I know aged cobras live, if you prefer them to the police. But we have to manage somehow between the cobras and the police.’

‘Yes, yes, with so much to do –’

Jagadish handed him a small axe and told him to cut the bamboo foliage, large branches of it, and drag them up. Sriram went at it till the skin on his palm smarted and peeled off. Jagadish induced Sriram to climb the rampart of the old temple and stick the foliage here and there according to his directions. He was shouting energetically. Standing in the sun all day, his face shone like mahogany with sweat. He said, ‘I can screen this whole mountain if it comes to that.’ Sriram felt tired and indignant. He wondered, ‘Why should I let this fellow order me about, when he does nothing but stand around and instruct?’ Probably it would have been more pleasant to have gone to gaol. But Jagadish never gave him much opportunity to dwell on such thoughts. He said: ‘We are waging a war, remember. Mahatmaji in his own way and we in our own. All our aims are the same.’

‘But I thought we were all working out the Mahatma’s orders.’

‘We are, we are,’ he said vaguely. ‘I used to be a devoted follower too. I’m still one, but he is no longer there to guide us. What can we do? He permits us all to carry on our work to the best of our abilities.’

‘But strictly non-violently,’ said Sriram.

‘Of course, this camouflaging is not violence. It doesn’t hurt anybody. It’s done only that we may be left alone to work out our plans without interference. I don’t want even that postman to see too much of this place. After all, he is a member of the Imperial Government.’

Sriram’s next assignment was more complicated. He found he had become a blind slave of Jagadish, and a word of encouragement from him pleased him to the depths of his soul. He felt proud of his position. He thought that perhaps the other associates hardly ever got a good word from him. All day long, he sat up with the radio behind the god, with a writing-pad on his lap, and a pencil between his fingers, taking down the news and messages coming from Rangoon, Singapore and Germany, which purported to give the hour-to-hour progress of the war
in Europe and the Far East. Sriram worked far into the night. His pencil wore out every three days. He had never worked so hard in his life. The only reward he got was Jagadish’s ‘Very good! Excellent job. More of our troops have joined the Indian National Army, they will soon be marching into India.’ He sat by the lamp and went over the reports with concentration as Sriram sat chasing out the gnats and beetles that were trooping in towards the light. Jagadish made several markings on the messages, and carried them off to be cyclostyled and distributed from his studio at Malgudi.

The radio said: ‘This is Tokyo calling. Here is Subhas Chandra Bose, your own leader at the mike, addressing you on a special occasion.’ A few seconds later the message said, ‘This is Subhas Chandra Bose speaking.’ Sriram sat up respectfully. ‘What good fortune that I should hear his voice!’ At the sound of it, Sriram felt reverence for this man who had abandoned his home, comfort, and security, and was going from country to country, seeking some means of liberating his Motherland. With what skill he had managed to slip away from his home in Calcutta in spite of police vigilance, disguising himself as a Sadhu! Sriram felt he was peculiarly fortunate to be hearing the hero’s voice.

Subhas Chandra Bose’s voice said, ‘Men of the Indian Army, be patriots. Help us free our dear Motherland. Many of your friends are here, having joined the Indian National Army which is poised for attack on your borders. We are ready. We shall soon be across, and then you can join the fight on our side. Till then don’t aim your guns at us, but only at the heart of our enemy.’ And then followed a ten-point programme of National Service that the men of the Indian Army should undertake. Sriram wrote at breakneck speed. He felt as if the commanding presence of Subhas Chandra Bose itself was at his elbow dictating. He filled up several sheets of the pad in respectful silence. He was overawed by the look of the radio now as its lamps burned red. Outside crickets chirped, a train rattled away somewhere, and the bamboo clumps rustled. The radio went on and on. Its red eyes glowed, and threw a red glare on the ankle of the god on the pedestal. Sriram lost count of time. He had never written so
much in his life. That the broadcast came through in English was a great trial, for his spelling was none too good.

Subhas Chandra Bose was saying: ‘And now stand by for a most important message. Be attentive.’ Sriram wanted to catch it without fail, without any possibility of a mistake, but just at that moment a contrary noise began to emanate from the radio. It was as if a bee had started buzzing in time with the Great Message. Sriram felt distressed. If the thing went on undisturbed for a few seconds more, the message would be over. He strained his ears, but the other noise was becoming too loud. He ground his teeth. His left hand strayed towards the knob of the radio, and turned it. It only seemed to irritate the radio further. He lifted his eyes from the paper and glared at the radio. He saw on the dial on the outside of the glass sheet, illuminated by a small light inside, a very small cockroach, its pale body quivered with the battery of noise from the radio. Sriram felt revulsion at the sight of its white belly pressed against the glass dial. He could see but not reach it. He felt sick and angry. He cried, ‘You cursed creature, how dare you come and interfere with this most important message! Get away.’ He tapped the glass with his finger. He felt indignant. ‘Am I here to wear out my pencil, taking down your stupid loathsome noises!’ His tapping was so furious that whether it affected the insect or not, he tapped the light away, and all noise from the machine ceased. The radio was dead. Sriram laid aside his pad and pencil and shook the radio, but nothing happened. He turned the knobs, shook his fist at it, and cursed and cried, but nothing happened. He asked pathetically, ‘Couldn’t you have waited for five minutes more!’ Why should this have happened just when the most serious part of the message was coming through? What would Jagadish say about him now? Sriram looked at the radio and realized his utter helplessness. He had seen youngsters who could take any mechanism to pieces and assemble them again. He wasn’t fit to turn even a screw. His own limitations came back to him with a good deal of force, and he said, ‘I am a fool, I have been brought up as a fool by that granny of mine. It is a wonder that a girl like Bharati cares for me at all!’

This note of self-reproach was fully endorsed when Jagadish turned up at two a.m. After putting the radio out of commission,
Sriram sat for a while wondering what to do, blew out the lamp, kicked open his mat and lay down on it. When Jagadish arrived and struck a match to look for the lamp, Sriram woke up and cried excitedly, ‘Who are you?’ A sleepy vision of the very dark man illumined by a match-flare was unnerving.

‘Hush, it is myself, get up.’

Sriram sat up, rubbing his eyes. The lamp was lit. Jagadish gave him a slight shake in order to wake him fully; he sat beside him and asked, ‘What is special today?’

Sriram triumphantly held out his pad to him. He snatched it, crying excitedly: ‘Ah, a message from Subhas Babu! How lucky you are to have heard him. Good boy! Good boy! You shall be a big man when our country becomes free and independent.’ He ran his eyes down it, muttering, ‘These are men who are gods on earth; whose deeds must be recited in odes to posterity. I’ll have a
lavani
composed of Subhas Babu’s life, his sacrifice, patriotism, courage, and make it compulsory to sing it every day in every school in this country.’ He went on reading aloud, ‘“My countrymen, heroes of our Indian Army” – ‘in a sing-song manner, interlarding it with appreciative comments of his own, such as, ‘Very good!’ ‘Precisely’, ‘It is a great mind speaking!’ ‘Listen and learn, all ye good folk,’ and so on and so forth. Till he came down to: ‘“Now be attentive. In the first place all of you who” – ‘He turned the paper over in his hand and asked, ‘Where is the continuation?’

‘There is no continuation, the message stopped there. Someone has been tampering with the broadcast.’

‘What do you mean? Let us see.’ He dashed to where the radio was and turned the knob. There was no sign of life. He shook it and cried, ‘What has happened to this blessed radio?’