Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (69 page)

‘A lot of people are also shot down by the police when they disperse the mobs that gather to help us.’

‘But that is none of our concern,’ said Jagadish, and added, ‘In a war lives are bound to be lost. However, the job of the moment is more important than any amount of theoretical speculation. Mahatmaji taught me this philosophy when I was with him at Wardha. Anyway, don’t bother too much about these questions. He has asked us to work for the movement according to our individual capacities.’

On a certain day Jagadish examined Sriram’s face and declared, ‘The most satisfactory moustache that I ever saw in my life.’ With a razor and scissors he helped Sriram to give its end a downward turn. He produced also some old silver-rimmed spectacles, and mounted them on his nose. He provided him too with an ill-fitting, close-buttoned coat, and a white turban for covering his head. He ordered him to tie up his
dhoti
bifurcated, like all respectable men. After all this, Sriram looked into a mirror, the very tiny one which he used for his shaving; it did not reveal a full picture but it showed enough for him to remark: ‘I look like a wholesale rice merchant.’

Jagadish nodded appreciatively and said with considerable delight in his tone, ‘True, true … If I could only put a dark caste-mark on your forehead, that’d indeed complete the picture.’

Sriram as he sallied forth at about seven, after sunset, felt so different that he wondered why he should expect Bharati to admit him at all. He chuckled at the thought, ‘Bharati may wonder why a rice merchant has taken a fancy to call on her, all of a sudden.’ The spectacles gave him a dull ache on the bridge of his nose, and kept constantly slipping down, pestering him with a dull, misty vision. ‘This is what comes of not surrendering oneself to the police when Bharati advises one to do so!’ he reflected. At the little station he climbed into the train going towards Malgudi. There were a few sleepy passengers in his compartment. He ignored the whole lot. ‘It’s no business of a self-respecting rice merchant to speak to these folk,’ he reflected and sat looking at his fellow passengers with indifference. Jagadish had proved himself a genius: the moustache was a tremendous asset; it was as if Sriram had worn a mask over his face, the transformation was so complete.

From Malgudi station it was an hour’s walk southward through Market Road to the Slaughter House. As he passed along the familiar roads, Sriram felt sentimental and unhappy. It seemed as if he had left this world ages ago. Beyond those rows of silent and darkened shops was the house of his grandmother.

Jagadish had given precise instructions. The rice merchant crouched behind the eastern wall of the old Slaughter House. Bharati would come to the lavatory at that corner, stand up on a large stone, rolled into position for the purpose, look down and talk to him. Sriram was wondering if Bharati would notice his moustache in the darkness, he wondered if he could reach up and touch her hand. He patiently waited. The Taluk Office gong sounded two in the morning. He felt sleepy. He remembered Bharati asking him to meet her at three a.m., when the Mahatma came to Malgudi. ‘She seems fond of spoiling other people’s sleep,’ he reflected. He sat there on the ground. The Taluk Office gong struck the next hour. ‘How long am I to stay here?’ he reflected. ‘Has someone been playing a prank?’ Angry thoughts were rising in his heart.

‘Hey,’ cried a voice.

He looked up hopefully. Over the wall a head appeared, but it was not Bharati’s. It was one of the wardresses.

‘Where is …?’ Sriram began, stretching himself up on his toes.

‘Hush, listen. She won’t come.’

‘Is she not coming?’

‘No. Catch this.’ She dropped a letter. ‘Read it,’ said the head, ‘and be off

The rice merchant moved away clutching the piece of paper in his hand, his head buzzing with a thousand speculations.

Under the first street lamp, he spread out the note. It was a piece torn out of a memo pad. On it was a hurried pencil scribbling: ‘I cannot bring myself to see you today. It seems degrading to have a meeting under these conditions. Bapu has always said that it is dishonourable to assume subterfuges. In a gaol we must observe the rules, or change them by
Satyagraha
openly, if possible. Forgive me. We shall meet again. But before that, please go and see your granny. A detenue who came in here told me that she was very ill. It is your duty to risk your life to see her. Go before it is too late.’

Not many people were able to recognize him when he ascended the steps of 14 Kabir Street. He saw Kanni, the shopman, coming out of the house. He was softly closing the door behind him. He didn’t recognize Sriram, who for a moment forgot that he could not be recognized, and called ‘Kanni!’ almost involuntarily. His voice betrayed him. Kanni halted and suddenly cried, ‘Oh! it’s our young master. O, Ram, what is it you have been doing to yourself, deserting your house and the old lady who was your father, mother, and cousin and everything. Have you no heart? Thank God you have come now anyway. But you are too late.’

‘Why? Why?’ screamed Sriram. ‘What has happened?’

‘She is dead. She died at ten o’clock last night.’

Sriram ran past him into the house. There, in the old familiar place, under the good old hall lamp, lay the old lady. A white sheet was drawn over her. A couple of women from the neighbouring houses were sitting beside her, keeping vigil.

Sriram was sorrow-stricken: the familiar household, the old almanac still there under the roof tile: the copper vessel in which she kept drinking water still on the window-sill. The easy-chair which he had bought for her with his first money was still where
he had put it. He had a glimpse of a past life. He went up to the corner of the house which used to be his and examined his books, pens, clothes, he opened the lid and looked into his old tin trunk. All the articles with which he had grown up were there, kept safe and intact. The vigil-keepers followed his movements with dull, sleep-filled eyes. Sriram wept. But he could not wipe away his tears; he realized that his spectacles were a nuisance: he suddenly plucked them off and flung them down, feeling: ‘I’m answerable to Jagadish for this. I’m betraying myself.’

Kanni stood in the doorway, respectfully watching. ‘How imperious she looks! Even now!’ he cried. ‘A great Soul.’

‘I can’t believe she is dead. She looks asleep! How do you know that she is dead?’ Sriram asked.

Kanni merely laughed grimly. ‘You had better telegraph to all your relatives. I’m sure many would want to have a last look at her face.’

Sriram sat down on the floor beside the old lady, quietly sobbing. The women looked at him for a moment, and lapsed into mournful silence. One of them turned to Kanni and asked, ‘Is he the only relative to arrive or should we wait for some more?’ Kanni preferred to ignore the question. The night was absolutely still and silent. Even the street dogs were asleep. Except the low voices conversing under the dim light, the entire world was asleep, following the example of Granny herself. Sriram suddenly rose to his feet, went to Kanni, put his arm round his shoulder, and whispered, ‘Kanni, I am very hungry. Can’t you open your shop and give me something to eat? There is nothing in the kitchen.’

‘How can there be anything? She was ill so long; those ladies were bringing her milk and gruel.’

‘I’m very hungry, Kanni,’ Sriram said again pathetically.

Kanni jingled his keys and said, ‘Come with me.’

They crossed the street. Kanni unlocked the door of his shop and lit a lamp. Sriram climbed the platform and went in, then bolted the door again from inside. The shop was hot and stuffy. Bananas hung down in bunches, buns and biscuits filled various glass containers; all, of course, were presided over by the European queen with apple cheeks. Sriram complained that it
was stuffy. Kanni explained, ‘I don’t want anyone to suspect your presence. Though handing you over and collecting the reward might prove a better proposition than running a business in these difficult days!’

Sriram had not realized how hungry he was. He demanded and ate everything that he saw. Kanni took out a paper and calculated: ‘That will be two rupees and four annas. I will put it down on your account.’

Now he was no longer hungry Sriram said: ‘Tell me about my granny. What was wrong with her?’

Kanni paused for a while before answering. ‘Ever since the police came asking for you in this house, she lost, if I may say so, her original spirit. She was always feeling that you had betrayed her. You may know all about Mahatma and so on, but all she knew was what people told her, that you had run after a girl. The old lady was much hurt. She hardly ever came out after that, and when the police came to take away your photograph, she was very much upset. She felt that she could not hold up her head in public again. She was always saying that you had betrayed her. The police came and questioned me too about you. I said, “You are merely wasting my shop time. I am not to be bothered about every scapegrace in the town because I have the ill-luck to have a shop opposite his house,” and that satisfied them. I wish you had not gone away without telling her. It worried her too much. She kept saying, ‘What can a little cobra do even if you have brought it up on cow’s milk? It can only do what its breeding tells it to do.”’

Sriram was visibly annoyed at this comparison. ‘She was a very bitter-tongued person, that’s why I preferred to go away without telling her at all. What chance did one have of talking to such an unreasonable character?’ He forgot for a moment that he was talking about someone dead.

‘People came and told her hair-raising tales about you. She was alarmed by your activities. What was the matter with you? I never thought the young master I had known so long ago could ever grow up into a Zigomar.’

Sriram felt hurt by this comparison with an old classical bandit. He said with a lot of self-pity, ‘I wouldn’t have come if I wasn’t eager to see my granny.’

‘That’s true,’ said Kanni. ‘The Market Road doctor attended her often; even last evening he was there with his tube and needle and stayed till she passed away.’

‘Was she talking all the time?’ asked Sriram.

‘She wasn’t, but she might have been. Why think of all that now?’ Kanni said. ‘Let us think of what we should do next.’

‘Yes, what is to be done?’

‘The funeral. Get through it quickly. Are you going to wait for relatives?’

These were tough and complex domestic questions to which he was unaccustomed. He brooded over them. The word ‘relative’ brought to his mind only his grand-uncle whose dark descendant he was expected to marry; and a batch of miscellaneous folk who dropped in for a meal or two occasionally from their village, and always spoke of lands and litigation. Granny used to find their talk fascinating and forgot to notice Sriram’s arrivals and departures, while he generally sneaked out to a nearby cycle-shop and learnt to balance himself on the pedal of a bicycle taken on hire. Sriram had a sudden vision of being responsible for gathering that entire crowd again: they might stand around the corpse and lament over their lands and litigation. He was aghast at the thought. He said: ‘I don’t care for anyone.’

‘Yes, I know. I too think you should not keep the body too long. Better hurry through the funeral. But at least let the lady have the satisfaction of having her pyre lit by her grandson. That may assuage her spirit.’

‘I don’t know what to do about such things,’ Sriram wailed.

‘I will help you,’ said Kanni.

‘One thing. I can’t go with the funeral procession,’ said Sriram. ‘I will manage to come at the end if you will manage the other things.’

‘Even the police may not interfere now. After all, they are also human,’ said Kanni.

Sriram went back into his house and took another look at his granny. The two vigil-keepers were asleep. They sat hunched up with their heads on the floor, curled beside the body, ‘They look more dead than Granny,’ thought Sriram. A cock crowed somewhere. Sriram went out, softly closing the door behind him.
Meanwhile Kanni had locked the shop, and had returned. ‘She is in your charge,’ said Sriram. ‘Will you be there at eight? Do everything nicely. Don’t bother about expense.’

‘Yes, I know. I can always get my debts. I have kept your account in full detail. You should have no misgiving even about an anna. I have even put into the account what I have been paying the doctor from time to time. Are you sure her relatives will not be angry with us later?’

‘What do you care whether they are angry or pleased? What have we to do with them? A set of useless rustics,’ said Sriram with a certain amount of unnecessary bitterness in his voice.

At about eight Sriram was on the cremation ground beyond the Sarayu river. A couple of pyres which had been lit on the previous day were still smouldering. Bamboo and discarded pieces of shroud were scattered here and there. A funeral procession was crossing Nallappa’s Grove. The bier was decorated with flowers and some men wearing white shirts and rings on their fingers were shouldering the corpse. ‘Must be devoted relatives,’ he thought. ‘They are bearing the burden. But poor Granny has no one to carry her.’ Once again he felt angry at the thought of those village relatives. The heat was intense although it was not even eight in the morning. ‘This is a very hot place,’ he reflected. Bullock-carts were crossing the river, villagers on their way into the town with baskets on their heads chattered incessantly. He noticed people coming to the river for a wash. His mind made a dull note of all that his eyes saw. His main job now was to await the arrival of Granny. Why were they taking all this time? Probably priests were holding up the body so that they might get a higher fee for funeral citations. Or could the police have held up the procession? For a moment a fantastic fear seized him lest the police should have suspected foul play and held up the body for a post-mortem. The other, the pampered body carried by the devoted relatives, was now brought in through the gate and laid down on the ground. They were going through a lot of ceremonial activity … Granny’s pyre was also being built up, with dried cowdung cakes, on a small platform: all the arrangements were supervised by Kanni’s shop assistant, who was haggling with fuel suppliers and ordering the graveyard
assistants about. They obeyed him cheerfully, which made Sriram wonder why they obeyed him at all. ‘It is in some people’s blood to be respected by all kinds of people,’ Sriram reflected, watching with a certain amount of envy all the fuss that the rich were making with the body in their hands.