Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (71 page)

Kanni said, ‘Don’t be anxious. She is like a mother to us. We shall take care of her.’

He was in detention at the Central gaol. He occupied a cell with a few others and slept on the hard cement floor. They woke him up at five in the morning. This irked him most. He sometimes wished that they wouldn’t pull him out of his retreat in a soft dream into the harsh reality of the prison world. And then the hurried getting up and washing at the dribbling water-tap, and the public toilet; this sickened him at first. He prayed that they might let him wait at least till the others had gone, but that could not be; the warder stood over him and the others and hustled them.

Sriram once attempted to approach the Most High of this world, in regard to it, when he came to inspect the prison. The superintendent of the prison lagged behind the Most High respectfully, with all the other officials trooping after them. Sriram had been in a file awaiting inspection at the central yard which was surrounded by the horrible slate-coloured barracks; the great man was marching by throwing a haughty glance at the file. The prisoners had been advised to stand stock still, and not to utter a word or move a muscle when the man passed; they were not to speak unless spoken to. But when Sriram saw the great god approach his part of the file, he could not resist the impulse to step forward and begin: ‘I have a complaint and a request to make, sir.’ At once several people seized him and pulled him out of the way; and the great man passed on, pretending not to have noticed anything. After he was gone, Sriram was summoned to the superintendent’s office. The guards held his biceps and kept him standing at attention before the superintendent’s table. The superintendent looked up and said: ‘You have violated gaol discipline and you are liable to receive punishment.’

‘What punishment?’ Sriram asked.

The man, who had trailed like a meek puppy behind the visitor an hour ago, stamped his foot under the table and shouted, ‘I will not have you talk to me in that manner, understand?’

Sriram felt cowed. He feared the other might go mad and kick him: he was the overlord here and was entitled to kill people if he chose. People might talk of monarchy being abolished, but here was absolute monarchy. This was his world, ruled by his authority, and no one could do anything about it, so Sriram said meekly, ‘Yes, sir,’ the very first time in his life he had adopted a tone of meekness.

The other was pleased with his submission and asked, ‘Why did you step out of the line? What did you want to say?’

Sriram felt it would be better to speak plainly. ‘I wanted to ask if something might not be done to provide us some privacy for our toilet.’

The superintendent sniggered, ‘So you thought you might get things done over my head? Eh?’

‘Not that, sir, but it hadn’t occurred to me earlier, that’s all,’ Sriram said.

The other said, ‘You saved yourself by not talking more, understand? If you had spoken to him, you would have been put in chains. Remember, we don’t want indiscipline in this prison, understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sriram said, completely crushed by his manner.

The other softened a little at this and said, ‘Ask me for anything you may want.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sriram found that this was the best way of talking to the man; the only idiom that didn’t upset him.

The superintendent asked, ‘What did you say you wanted to tell the I.G.?’

‘I wanted to ask about the privy arrangements,’ he said, feeling tired of all the repetition and publicity.

‘Oh, is that so?’ the other asked, and added, ‘Here is the reply to your representation.’

‘What, sir?’

‘You will not be getting any arrangements other than what you have already got, understand?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sriram, uttering the soothing word. ‘But may I know why?’

The guards pinched his biceps, alarmed at his impudence. But the superintendent did not seem to mind. He merely replied, ‘If it had been any other time you would have been shot without a word, remember. You are not our guest, but our prisoner. You are not a classified prisoner, but one in custody under the Defence of India Rules, remember.’

‘But there has been no trial. How long am I to be here?’

‘There is no need for a trial in cases such as yours. The whole world knows why you are here.’

‘I was only trying to do my duty,’ Sriram said.

The superintendent kicked the table and said, ‘I’ll not have you fellows talking politics here.’ The word ‘politics’ seemed to sting him.

‘Yes, sir,’ Sriram said, and this again soothed the man’s temper.

He said as a concession, ‘You are neither Gandhi’s man nor an ordinary criminal, but more dangerous than either.’

Sriram could express no opinion in the matter himself. The word ‘Gandhi’ brought to his mind the memory of Bharati and he heartily wished that he had surrendered himself to the police with her. They would probably have treated him as an honourable political prisoner. ‘Where is Bharati? Is she by any chance in this gaol? If so won’t you let me see her? Is she keeping well?’ Questions by the score buzzed in his head, as he stood staring at the wall.

The superintendent said, ‘I’m glad you are paying close attention to my words. But let me say at once, it won’t pay you to be troublesome within these walls. What are you thinking?’ he demanded suddenly.

‘I was only wondering how long I shall be kept here. It’s already several months. I have lost count of the months.’

‘It is unnecessary for you to keep count of anything, it’s not going to be of any use to you. Your stay here will be as long as His Majesty wishes you to be here, that is all. We’re instructed to keep you not very differently from your other friends here, under sentence of various terms of rigorous imprisonment. That’s all, dismiss.’

The guards clicked their heels, saluted, and turned Sriram round. As he was going the superintendent threw after him the remark, ‘You will ask me for anything you want.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘That’s all, dismiss.’ And the guards marched him off.

The days, weeks, and months, that followed were similar, one day following another without much distinction. Sriram began to feel at home: he looked forward to the little excitements that came to him in the course of his existence. When he was taken to break stones in the quarry behind the gaol, he welcomed it as a change: the rocks that he hewed were hot under his seat, the sun scorched his body, the iron hammer with which he broke the stones peeled his skin, but still he liked the job because it took him, though under surveillance, outside the gaol. He was with a gang of men, miscellaneous criminals, who were there for anything from murder down to confirmed pocket-picking. Most of them were planning what they would do at the end of their term. Some of them were planning to return again and again, and spend the rest of their lives here. Sriram felt uneasy in this rough company, who laughed at the soft-handed, soft-headed man. They simply could not make out why he should have courted all this trouble from the police because someone wanted him to do something, and not because such exploits as derailing a train brought him a share of profit. This was a fresh outlook that had not occurred to Sriram in his self-centred political existence. He had a feeling that he was running up against a new species of human being, speaking like monsters, but yet displaying sudden human qualities; they were solicitous that he should not undernourish himself; they pitied him for his inability to relish the food: a tough ball of boiled millet with very watery buttermilk. (The buttermilk was a recent addition because somebody had agitated for it in the press and in the assemblies, and the butter-milk content was just enough to satisfy the technical needs of all agitators in general.) While he ate he thought of all the good things that his granny had made for him and remembered how even during his very last visit to her, at their house, she had offered him something that a neighbour had sent. He felt agony at the memory of the crunchy, ghee-flavoured rice; he could almost hear the music of his bite, while he held up his aluminium platter to receive his quota. The very manner in which he munched made his fellow prisoners comment.

‘You still think of
Badam Halwa?
’ asked the Culpable Homicide not amounting to murder. They were sitting side by side during the break for food at midday.

‘If ever I leave this place, I am going to spend a hundred rupees on
Badam Halwa
at the corner shop, you know Krishna Vilas, the shop is small but it is a wonderful place; he serves on clean banana leaves and not on plates. You know his
idlies
are almost as if made of the lightest …’ Sriram was at a loss for a comparison, and his companion helped him with similes of jasmine, rose petals, soft butter, and so forth. Sriram added passionately, ‘And you know he gives free chutney to go with it, you can’t see the like of it anywhere else on the globe. You must have known the corner hotel?’

‘No,’ his companion shook his head. ‘I am from Bellary, I am not familiar with the town.’

‘I know that hotel,’ the guard added, joining in their conversation. ‘It’s a good place, but I go there rarely. I haven’t much chance of getting out of this place.’

‘You are like us?’ said one of the prisoners and all of them laughed happily at the joke.

Meal times were the best. Sriram’s neighbour, a veteran forger, whispered to him, ‘Don’t tell anyone. I am getting some good things to eat and drink next Thursday. I will give you some when I get them.’

‘What are you getting?’ asked Sriram, unable to control his curiosity.

‘Some
vadai
, and the nicest chicken
pulav
.’

Sriram retched at the mention of the chicken. He made a wry face: ‘Chicken! Chicken! Oh! I can’t stand the thought of it!’ he said, his face twisting with disgust. ‘I don’t eat those things!’ he cried. ‘I have not even eaten cakes because they contain eggs.’

The forger was amused. He rolled with laughter till the guard, who had been friendly hitherto, objected: ‘Stop that, where do you think you are!’

The central tower threw a welcome shade. The afternoon was languid, though warm. The superintendent would be snoring in his quarters, enjoying his afternoon siesta: there was really no one to object to anything, and this was the only hour when the prison
ceased to be a prison for a while and gained a human and habitable atmosphere; the warders themselves acquired a friendly mellowness, and all conversation flowed on the human level. This was the hour at which it was impossible to continue the rigours of the gaol atmosphere – it was almost like the midday recess at Albert Mission School of Sriram’s younger days.

The forger pleaded with the warder: ‘Don’t bother us for a while, please. A man needs some rest after all the labour of the day. Please leave us alone for a while.’ And then he turned his attention to Sriram: ‘I know they will use the purest ghee and nutmeg leaf and cinnamon bark for the
pulav
. If you scoop a handful of it, ghee will drip down your fingers; it’s so rich. Don’t say that you won’t have it. You must accept it. It will do you good. Once you taste it, you will keep demanding it every day. That’s the worst of it. It’ll be impossible to get it into the place every day, though once in a way we can do anything. Our friend here and his friends will not mind what we do. He knows he will get his share.’

A gong struck the hour. The warder jumped to his feet and said: ‘Get up and march,’ and he led them back to their quarry at the back of the gaol.

At night, Sriram had companions in his cell. Before lying down on their cement beds, wrapped in their blankets, they sat up talking. The sentry at the corridor cried, ‘Hush! Don’t talk.’ One fellow, the one who had committed house-breaking and murder, took it into his head to sing a hymn and insisted upon all the others joining him.
Rama Rama, Sita Rama
, he sang musically, and urged all the others to follow the chorus. He said, ‘This is the only thing which is real,’ in a very philosophical manner. ‘You must know what is real and what is unreal. You must know the nature of the world in which we live. You must repeat the name of the Lord ceaselessly.’ And he began a sing-song devotional recitation of the Lord’s name. Others followed. If they stopped, he shouted in the dark, ‘What Satan’s offspring is in this room with me? I will cast him out.’

Sriram could not help asking, ‘If you were so religious, why couldn’t you have remained outside and led your followers?’

‘It’s because the police would not let me be, that’s all,’ he said.

‘Of course, but for the police we would all be happier men,’ someone said.

After this they all started their chant again. The sentry came and peeped at them. They guffawed. He muttered something and went away. The leader said in the dark, ‘I am not afraid of anyone, I am not afraid of any gaoler.’

‘It’s because you are so experienced,’ said another admiringly.

‘I would have been swinging in that shed long ago, but the judge understood I didn’t kill because I wanted to. I only wanted to break the bones of that ill-fated fool.’

‘Which ill-fated fool?’ asked Sriram, unable to check his curiosity. Here were men who formed a new species. He might have to spend the rest of his life as a member of this family.

The other answered: ‘I only wanted him to give me the keys, as so many others had done, but he suddenly ran to the window, shouted for the police, and when I tried to run away he jumped on me and held me down. What could I do? I had to do something. I thought I might crack his legs and – but he pushed me, and that didn’t work. These people force us to do unhappy, unpleasant things.’ He ruminated for a while and sighed, ‘No use thinking of it, but the magistrate understood, and when I leave the gaol I shall take him some fruits, oranges, plantains, things like that. Let us not waste our time.’ And he began his chant with the others joining in. Sriram wanted to speak to them about politics, Mahatmaji and non-violence, and the British rule. He began to speak, but he was cut short by the man saying, ‘Who cares who rules? We don’t belong to that world. I’ve seen all those Gandhi followers in prison, and they think they are honoured guests! If you had been careful you could have enjoyed that too. They’d have put you in a bungalow with a cook and pocket-money and they would have given you books to read and sherbet to drink.’