Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (73 page)

His only consoling thought, perversely enough, was that perhaps Bharati herself was languishing similarly within the bounds of the Old Slaughter House. It was not that he wanted to see her suffer, but the idea of her suffering established a community of interest. If he succeeded in escaping from the gaol, he would smuggle the tip to Bharati, wherever she might be, so that she might climb out of her prison, meet him outside its formidable walls, and hug him as her hero. But she might insist upon going back to her cell, refusing to walk out of it unless they opened the gates for her in a right royal manner. She might spurn him for his labour. She was incalculable in her behaviour. She would want the sanction of Bapuji, perhaps. Bapuji would probably applaud the proposal, if it could be proved that Sriram’s technique would enable all prisoners to climb out of gaols; they would at once understand its national implications: how the British could be driven to despair if they were made to realize that their prisons could hold no one. It might drive them mad and make them decide, ‘Well, we will quit. We can’t hold India any longer.’

It was wishful thinking on a very big scale, but that could not be helped. It was the only excitement that he could ever conjure up. In his desperation he consulted the bully in his cell when an opportunity occurred. One evening he was unusually friendly, and Sriram slipped over to his cement bed and sat there. He whispered: ‘Why don’t we all escape from this hell?’

The other laid a clammy sympathetic hand on Sriram and said, ‘It’s usual to get that feeling. But nowadays I don’t get it. I just do my
Bhajan
and feel all right. You must also join us in our
Bhajan
.’

‘Well, we will speak about that later. But now let us discuss how we should escape.’

‘How?’ asked the other.

‘You must help us. You are experienced. Have you never escaped from a prison?’

‘Yes, twice, that’s why I’m doing my seven years now.’

‘You should not have allowed yourself to be caught.’

‘Well, these things just happen, we can’t help it,’ said the other philosophically.

Sriram was interested in the method and asked, ‘How did you escape?’

‘Easy,’ said the other, looking up at the ventilator. ‘We were just six in a cell. We spun out the blanket strands, raised ourselves on each other’s shoulders, tied up the rope, and climbed out: it didn’t take much time. We were crossing the
cholam
fields in about an hour. No one would have found us again, but a fellow who had come out with us broke the lock of a house on the way and was caught.’

‘Shall we do something like that and get out of here?’

The other thought it over and said, ‘Why should I? What have I to do outside?’

‘But I wish to get out. I can’t stand this place any more,’ said Sriram.

‘If you didn’t like this place, you should not have done things to bring you here, that’s all,’ said the other. ‘Even if you manage to get out, they will bring you back in no time, it’s not worth all the trouble. You can’t hide your face.’

‘I will grow a beard.’

‘They will pluck out your beard just to see how you look. That is how you bring dishonour on even holy Sadhus, who have beards.’

‘I promise I will keep out of the way of the police.’

The other shook his head. ‘What is the use of going out if you can’t move about freely?’ He seemed to take pleasure in teasing him and to disapprove of people who didn’t appreciate their life in gaol.

Finally, Sriram took out his trump card and said, ‘I want to escape because a girl I want to marry is out there.’

‘Where?’ asked the man ruthlessly.

Sriram was afraid to give the reply, but he blurted it out before he could hold it back. ‘She is in gaol too.’

‘Oh! Oh!’ the other cried amused. ‘Do you mean to say you are going to slip into her gaol and ask the gaoler to officiate at your nuptials?’ he asked coarsely.

Sriram felt angry and regretted that he had ever mentioned his angel to this coarse man. God knew what terrible things he would say now. He remained silent, afraid to open his mouth. And the other said: ‘If she is the kind to go to gaol, listen to my advice, leave her alone. You can’t bring up your children in gaol.
There must be someone to look after the house. It’s not at all right that both a man and his wife should be the gaol-going sort.’

‘How is it with you?’ Sriram asked.

‘I have three wives, here and there, and they run the homes in my absence: if they didn’t I wouldn’t hesitate to put sense into them. That’s the way. You are not going to be here all your life. When you are let out, go and marry a good girl, I tell you. This gaol-bird will be no good for you.’

‘She is not a criminal, she has gone to prison on Mahatmaji’s command.’

‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ the other sneered. ‘Why do you drag in that great man’s name here?’

Sriram grew annoyed. Somehow the mention of Bharati seemed to rouse in the other the worst ideas. Sriram abruptly rose to his feet and went to his bed muttering, ‘Go on and sleep. Let us not talk any more.’

‘You are afraid I shall tell the Chief, aren’t you?’ the other sneered. ‘If you don’t join me with gusto in our
Bhajans
, I will report you to the Chief

‘I’m not afraid,’ said Sriram defiantly.

‘Well, we will see, don’t be surprised if they lock you up in a solitary cell. You will have only the walls to talk to,’ said the other. He took a fiendish pleasure in promising hell to Sriram.

Sriram paused for a moment and said, ‘I have not wronged you. Why do you hate me?’

The other said sulkily, ‘I have no sympathy for those who don’t believe in God. I don’t like fellows who speak ill of God.’

‘I have not said a word against God,’ Sriram said, wondering at the turn the subject was taking. ‘What have I said?’

‘I won’t repeat it,’ the other replied. ‘If you don’t respect God, you will be whipped in gaol, remember. That’s my experience. You should listen to a man with experience, that’s all.’

‘I am in need of no advice from anyone,’ said Sriram haughtily.

The forger turned in his sleep and swore, ‘Are you going to sleep or keep on talking all night? A wretched place, it’s becoming worse than the market place. No peace for a man who wants to sleep. I will call the guard if you fellows don’t shut up at once.’

In answer the bully let out a loud, challenging song in a stentorian voice, enough to wake the whole town. There was a sound of running feet outside. Sriram sneaked back to his bed. The guard asked through the bars: ‘What’s going on here?’

‘People are chattering and chattering. This has become worse than the market place,’ said the bully from his bed.

A friendly warder brought them the news of the outside world: ‘Mahatma Gandhi is becoming the Emperor of India,’ he said one day. ‘I heard it today from a person who knows these things. Some men have come by plane from England with the proposal.’

‘Don’t be silly. How can they want the Mahatma to become the King of India when they have put him in prison for fear that he may become one?’

‘Didn’t you know? It seems he is out of prison.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘I swear he is. They released him long ago because he was ill and his wife died. A woman who comes here to cut grass told me so.’

‘It is not safe to have any transaction with grass-cutting women. They will get you into trouble,’ said a veteran prisoner.

‘How do you know?’

‘It is because I have suffered. They are sirens. They will seduce you before you know where you are. And then you will have trouble everywhere. They don’t like such goings-on in a gaol.’

‘But this is an old woman who cannot seduce anyone. She is a grandmother, so don’t fear.’

‘Then it is all right. Go on.’

‘Her son is in the army. Her grandson sells newspapers in the market and he tells her what goes on in the world.’

Every one of the prisoners and their guards as well eagerly crowded round him to ask, ‘What is happening? What is happening? Tell us.’

‘It seems that some men have come from England and they want to make Mahatma a king.’

They clapped their hands in glee. ‘Oh, how good to hear this!’

‘Why does it make you so happy?’

‘Because if Mahatmaji becomes the king of our country he will not allow anyone to be kept in prison. He doesn’t like it. It’s because he is a very good man. It seems the British don’t like him because he says such things.’

‘They like him now, all right.’

The indulgent warder looked on as the prisoners discussed these matters among themselves, while going through their various duties. The warder didn’t however like the idea of a prison-less state. He said: ‘How can there be no prisons? There will always be prisons whoever may become the king.’ This was a ticklish technical point. The best thing was to consult the political expert in their midst. They turned to Sriram for guidance.

Sriram was breaking the stones unmindful of what they were saying. He was listening to their discussions, but he chose not to display any enthusiasm. He said, ‘I don’t know anything about anything.’

They plied him with questions: ‘Is it a fact or is it not a fact?’

‘How should I know? I am in your midst.’

‘Will they release us all from prison?’

‘All? I don’t think so; they are likely to release only political prisoners.’

The warder seemed relieved to hear it. ‘Ah, you say so. Political prisoners are different. There are some in the other block. I have heard that some of them are leaving every day. That is a different thing altogether. But you are not all political prisoners.’

They all said, ‘What if we aren’t? We are also human beings. Why should we not be treated well too? Whatever you may say, Mahatma Gandhi will help us. Do you mean to say that Mahatmaji will not care for us? He is a kind man.’

Their curiosity could not be contained. Night and day they worried about it, until one day a newspaper was smuggled in through the good offices of the friendly warder, and put into Sriram’s hand for perusal and explanation. While his audience sat round him, and the guard watched over them, at the quarry outside the gaol, Sriram read out to them the
Daily News
from the first line to the last. It was as if he had been given a sudden vision of a broad and active world. He read of the impending
political changes, of the proposed division of India into Hindustan and Pakistan, of Mahatmaji’s firm refusal to countenance the proposal, of the Cabinet Mission, and the endless amount of talking that was going on at Delhi, of death, disaster, and convulsive changes. The greatest triumph for Sriram was that the British were definitely quitting India. He said proudly, ‘I myself wrote on all the walls “Quit India”, and you see it has taken effect.’

People looked at him with wonder. He became a hero in their midst. ‘Will they give you some reward for all your work now?’

He read, and this was heartening, of the release of political prisoners from all the gaols in the country; but he could not hope to come under this category. He was not classified as a political prisoner.

The Chief sent for Sriram. His tone was suddenly friendly. ‘I don’t know what the Government order will be about you. But we have received a number of names for release this week. I am glad to do it, because it will reduce our pressure of work. However,’ he said, looking through the list, ‘your name is not on it.’

Sriram’s heart sank. He had a feeling that he was being kept in a cage when all the others were roaming the wide earth freely. He thought unhappily that someone was discriminating against him. It was a cruel and sadistic world. The Chief noted the pain in his face and said, ‘Evidently you have not been classified as a political prisoner. All those who have done what you have done are under the consideration of the Government. If you like, you may send in a representation, with an undertaking, and I will forward it.’

‘What representation and what undertaking?’ asked Sriram.

‘You will have to give an undertaking to report your movements to the police for some time till all the papers are scrutinized and your classification is settled.’

Sriram thought it over. ‘Is this a New India or are the British still here?’

The Chief answered, ‘I cannot tell you anything about it. That is politics. I am merely carrying on as per the rules.’

In a moment it flashed across Sriram’s mind that all the difficult, hazardous things he had done would be set at naught by this undertaking. If he met Bharati she’d probably say, ‘You sneak out of prison, do you? You have degraded yourself beyond description. Get out of my sight.’ He told the Chief: ‘No. I can’t give any such undertaking.’

‘All right, please yourself. Right, dismiss.’ The warders tugged his biceps and he turned and walked out of the room, more depressed than ever.

After all there came a day when he went into the office adjoining his Chief’s room, a spacious office in which there were a number of racks. He was led in there by his usual warders without much ado; he handed a slip of paper to a uniformed man sitting at the table; there were a number of others standing around him, to each of whom he was passing bundles of clothes. Sriram waited patiently till his turn came; the man took the slip from his hand, looked him up and down, and cried, ‘Number six seven,’ at which one of the attendants ran up a ladder and brought out a bundle, and placed it on the table. The man scrutinized the bundle, looked at Sriram and asked, ‘Are these yours?’ Sriram looked at the clothes; he had been made to take them off long, long ago and change into gaol uniform. He was thrilled at the sight. He hugged them close to his breast and said, ‘Yes, these are mine.’

‘Wait,’ said the other, snatching them back from his hand. ‘Sign here.’ He held a sheet of paper; there were numerous sheets of papers to be signed. Sriram was irked by the number of hurdles he had to cross before going out of this hateful place. At last the man was satisfied. He handed him the bundle, his old close-collared coat, shirt, and
dhoti
, in which he had been arrested ages ago at the cremation ground.

‘Change into your own clothes now. You are no longer a prisoner.’

Sriram proceeded to strip his gaol dress before everybody. Life here had toughened him. The man said, ‘You can go behind that shelf and undress.’