Chapter 1
AN ASTROLOGER'S DAY
Punctually at midday he opened his bag and spread out his professional equipment, which
consisted of a dozen cowrie shells, a square piece of cloth with obscure mystic charts on it, a
notebook and a bundle of palmyra writing. His forehead was resplendent with sacred ash and
vermilion, and his eyes sparkled with a sharp abnormal gleam which was really an outcome of a
continual searching look for customers, but which his simple clients took to be a prophetic light
and felt comforted. The power of his eyes was considerably enhanced by their position—placed
as they were between the painted forehead and the dark whiskers which streamed down his
cheeks: even a half-wit's eyes would sparkle in such a setting. To crown the effect he wound a
saffron-coloured turban around his head. This colour scheme never failed. People were
attracted to him as bees are attracted to cosmos or dahlia stalks. He sat under the boughs of a
spreading tamarind tree which flanked a path running through the Town Hall Park. It was a
remarkable place in many ways: a surging crowd was always moving up and down this narrow
road morning till night. A variety of trades and occupations was represented all along its way:
medicine-sellers, sellers of stolen hardware and junk, magicians and, above all, an auctioneer of
cheap cloth, who created enough din all day to attract the whole town. Next to him in
vociferousness came a vendor of fried groundnuts, who gave his ware a fancy name each day,
calling it Bombay Ice-Cream one day, and on the next Delhi Almond, and on the third Raja's
Delicacy, and so on and so forth, and people flocked to him. A considerable portion of this
crowd dallied before the astrologer too. The astrologer transacted his business by the light of a
flare which crackled and smoked up above the groundnut heap nearby. Half the enchantment
of the place was due to the fact that it did not have the benefit of municipal lighting. The place
was lit up by shop lights. One or two had hissing gaslights, some had naked flares stuck on
poles, some were lit up by old cycle lamps and one or two, like the astrologer's, managed
without lights of their own. It was a bewildering crisscross of light rays and moving shadows.
This suited the astrologer very well, for the simple reason that he had not in the least intended
to be an astrologer when he began life; and he knew no more of what was going to happen to
others than he knew what was going to happen to himself next minute. He was as much a
stranger to the stars as were his innocent customers. Yet he said things which pleased and
astonished everyone: that was more a matter of study, practice and shrewd guesswork. All the
same, it was as much an honest man's labour as any other, and he deserved the wages he
carried home at the end of a day.
He had left his village without any previous thought or plan. If he had continued there he would
have carried on the work of his forefathers—namely, tilling the land, living, marrying and
ripening in his cornfield and ancestral home. But that was not to be. He had to leave home
without telling anyone, and he could not rest till he left it behind a couple of hundred miles. To
a villager it is a great deal, as if an ocean flowed between.
He had a working analysis of mankind's troubles: marriage, money and the tangles of human
ties. Long practice had sharpened his perception. Within five minutes he understood what was
wrong. He charged three pies per question and never opened his mouth till the other had
spoken for at least ten minutes, which provided him enough stuff for a dozen answers and
advices. When he told the person before him, gazing at his palm, 'In many ways you are not
getting the fullest results for your efforts, ' nine out of ten were disposed to agree with him. Or
he questioned: 'Is there any woman in your family, maybe even a distant relative, who is not
well disposed towards you?' Or he gave an analysis of character: 'Most of your troubles are due
to your nature. How can you be otherwise with Saturn where he is? You have an impetuous
nature and a rough exterior.' This endeared him to their hearts immediately, for even the
mildest of us loves to think that he has a forbidding exterior.
The nuts-vendor blew out his flare and rose to go home. This was a signal for the astrologer to
bundle up too, since it left him in darkness except for a little shaft of green light which strayed
in from somewhere and touched the ground before him. He picked up his cowrie shells and
paraphernalia and was putting them back into his bag when the green shaft of light was blotted
out; he looked up and saw a man standing before him. He sensed a possible client and said:
'You look so careworn. It will do you good to sit down for a while and chat with me.' The other
grumbled some vague reply. The astrologer pressed his invitation; whereupon the other thrust
his palm under his nose, saying: 'You call yourself an astrologer?' The astrologer felt challenged
and said, tilting the other's palm towards the green shaft of light: 'Yours is a nature . . .' 'Oh,
stop that,' the other said. 'Tell me something worthwhile . . .'
Our friend felt piqued. 'I charge only three pies per question, and what you get ought to be
good enough for your money . . .' At this the other withdrew his arm, took out an anna and
flung it out to him, saying, 'I have some questions to ask. If I prove you are bluffing, you must
return that anna to me with interest.'
'If you find my answers satisfactory, will you give me five rupees?'
'No.'
'Or will you give me eight annas?'
'All right, provided you give me twice as much if you are wrong,' said the stranger. This pact
was accepted after a little further argument. The astrologer sent up a prayer to heaven as the
other lit a cheroot. The astrologer caught a glimpse of his face by the match-light. There was a
pause as cars hooted on the road, jutka-drivers swore at their horses and the babble of the
crowd agitated the semi-darkness of the park. The other sat down, sucking his cheroot, puffing
out, sat there ruthlessly. The astrologer felt very uncomfortable. 'Here, take your anna back. I
am not used to such challenges. It is late for me today . . .' He made preparations to bundle up.
The other held his wrist and said, 'You can't get out of it now. You dragged me in while I was
passing.' The astrologer shivered in his grip; and his voice shook and became faint. 'Leave me
today. I will speak to you tomorrow.' The other thrust his palm in his face and said, 'Challenge is
challenge. Go on.' The astrologer proceeded with his throat drying up. 'There is a woman . . .'
'Stop,' said the other. 'I don't want all that. Shall I succeed in my present search or not? Answer
this and go. Otherwise I will not let you go till you disgorge all your coins.' The astrologer
muttered a few incantations and replied, 'All right. I will speak. But will you give me a rupee if
what I say is convincing? Otherwise I will not open my mouth, and you may do what you like.'
After a good deal of haggling the other agreed. The astrologer said, 'You were left for dead. Am
I right?'
'Ah, tell me more.'
'A knife has passed through you once?' said the astrologer.
'Good fellow!' He bared his chest to show the scar. 'What else?'
'And then you were pushed into a well nearby in the field. You were left for dead.'
'I should have been dead if some passer-by had not chanced to peep into the well,' exclaimed
the other, overwhelmed by enthusiasm. 'When shall I get at him?' he asked, clenching his fist.
'In the next world,' answered the astrologer. 'He died four months ago in a far-off town. You
will never see any more of him.' The other groaned on hearing it. The astrologer proceeded.
'Guru Nayak—'
'You know my name!' the other said, taken aback.
'As I know all other things. Guru Nayak, listen carefully to what I have to say. Your village is two
days' journey due north of this town. Take the next train and be gone. I see once again great
danger to your life if you go from home.' He took out a pinch of sacred ash and held it out to
him. 'Rub it on your forehead and go home. Never travel southward again, and you will live to
be a hundred.'
'Why should I leave home again?' the other said reflectively. 'I was only going away now and
then to look for him and to choke out his life if I met him.' He shook his head regretfully. 'He
has escaped my hands. I hope at least he died as he deserved.' 'Yes,' said the astrologer. 'He
was crushed under a lorry.' The other looked gratified to hear it.
The place was deserted by the time the astrologer picked up his articles and put them into his
bag. The green shaft was also gone, leaving the place in darkness and silence. The stranger had
gone off into the night, after giving the astrologer a handful of coins.
It was nearly midnight when the astrologer reached home. His wife was waiting for him at the
door and demanded an explanation. He flung the coins at her and said, 'Count them. One man
gave all that.'
'Twelve and a half annas,' she said, counting. She was overjoyed. 'I can buy some jaggery and
coconut tomorrow. The child has been asking for sweets for so many days now. I will prepare
some nice stuff for her.'
'The swine has cheated me! He promised me a rupee,' said the astrologer. She looked up at
him. 'You look worried. What is wrong?'
'Nothing.'
After dinner, sitting on the pyol, he told her, 'Do you know a great load is gone from me today?
I thought I had the blood of a man on my hands all these years. That was the reason why I ran
away from home, settled here and married you. He is alive.'
She gasped. 'You tried to kill!'
'Yes, in our village, when I was a silly youngster. We drank, gambled and quarrelled badly one
day—why think of it now? Time to sleep,' he said, yawning, and stretched himself on the pyol.
Chapter 2
THE MISSING MAIL
Though his beat covered Vinayak Mudali Street and its four parallel roads, it took him nearly six
hours before he finished his round and returned to the head office in Market Road to deliver
accounts. He allowed himself to get mixed up with the fortunes of the persons to whom he was
carrying letters. At No. 13, Kabir Street, lived the man who had come halfway up the road to ask
for a letter for so many years now. Thanappa had seen him as a youngster, and had watched
him day by day greying on the pyol, sitting there and hoping for a big prize to come his way
through solving crossword puzzles. 'No prize yet,' he announced to him every day. 'But don't be
disheartened.' 'Your interest has been delayed this month somehow,' he said to another. 'Your
son at Hyderabad has written again, madam. How many children has he now?' 'I did not know
that you had applied for this Madras job; you haven't cared to tell me! It doesn't matter. When
I bring you your appointment order you must feed me with coconut payasam.' And at each of
these places he stopped for nearly half an hour. Especially if anyone received money orders, he
just settled down quite nicely, with his bags and bundles spread about him, and would not rise
till he gathered an idea of how and where every rupee was going. If it was a hot day he
sometimes asked for a tumbler of buttermilk and sat down to enjoy it. Everybody liked him on
his beat. He was a part and parcel of their existence, their hopes, aspirations and activities.
Of all his contacts, the one with which he was most intimately bound up was No. 10, Vinayak
Mudali Street. Ramanujam was a senior clerk in the Revenue Division Office, and Thanappa had
carried letters to that address for over a generation now. His earliest association with
Ramanujam was years and years ago. Ramanujam's wife was away in the village. A card arrived
for Ramanujam. Thanappa, as was his custom, glanced through it at the sorting table itself; and,
the moment they were ready to start out, went straight to Vinayak Mudali Street, though in the
ordinary course over 150 addresses preceded it. He went straight to Ramanujam's house,
knocked on the door and shouted, 'Postman, sir, postman.' When Ramanujam opened it, he
said, 'Give me a handful of sugar before I give you this card. Happy father! After all these years
of prayers! Don't complain that it is a daughter. Daughters are God's gift, you know . . .
Kamakshi—lovely name!'
'Kamakshi,' he addressed the tall, bashful girl, years later, 'get your photo ready. Ah so shy!
Here is your grandfather's card asking for your photo. Why should he want it, unless it be . . .'
'The old gentleman writes rather frequently now, doesn't he, sir?' he asked Ramanujam, as he
handed him his letter and waited for him to open the envelope and go through its contents.
Ramanujam looked worried after reading it. The postman asked, 'I hope it's good news?' He
leaned against the veranda pillar, with a stack of undelivered letters still under his arm.
Ramanujam said, 'My father-in-law thinks I am not sufficiently active in finding a husband for
my daughter. He has tried one or two places and failed. He thinks I am very indifferent . . .'
'Elderly people have their own anxiety,' the postman replied. 'The trouble is,' said Ramanujam,
'that he has set apart five thousand rupees for this girl's marriage and is worrying me to find a
husband for her immediately. But money is not everything . . .' 'No, no,' echoed the postman;
'unless the destined hour is at hand, nothing can help . . .'
Day after day for months Thanappa delivered the letters and waited to be told the news. 'Same
old news, Thanappa . . . Horoscopes do not agree . . . They are demanding too much . . .
Evidently they do not approve of her appearance.' 'Appearance! She looks like a queen. Unless
one is totally blind . . .' the postman retorted angrily. The season would be closing, with only
three more auspicious dates, the last being May 20. The girl would be seventeen in a few days.
The reminders from her grand-father were becoming fiercer. Ramanujam had exhausted all the
possibilities and had drawn a blank everywhere. He looked helpless and miserable. 'Postman,'
he said, 'I don't think there is a son-in-law for me anywhere . . .'
'Oh, don't utter inauspicious words, sir,' the postman said. 'When God wills it . . .' He reflected
for a while and said, 'There is a boy in Delhi earning two hundred rupees. Makunda of Temple
Street was after him. Makunda and you are of the same subcaste, I believe . . .'
'Yes . . .'
'They have been negotiating for months now. Over a hundred letters have passed between
them already . . . But I know they are definitely breaking off . . . It is over some money question
. . . They have written their last message on a postcard and it has infuriated these people all the
more. As if postcards were an instrument of insult! I have known most important
communications being written even on picture postcards; when Rajappa went to America two
years ago he used to write to his sons every week on picture postcards . . .' After this digression
he came back to the point. 'I will ask Makunda to give me the horoscope. Let us see . . .' Next
day he brought the horoscope with him. 'The boy's parents are also in Delhi, so you can write to
them immediately. No time to waste now.'
A ray of hope touched Ramanujam's family.
'I have still a hundred letters to deliver, but I came here first because I saw this Delhi postmark.
Open it and tell me what they have written,' said Thanappa. He trembled with suspense. 'How
prompt these people are! So they approve of the photo! Who wouldn't?'
'A letter every day! I might as well apply for leave till Kamakshi's marriage is over . . .' he said
another day. 'You are already talking as if it were coming off tomorrow! God knows how many
hurdles we have to cross now. Liking a photo does not prove anything . . .'
The family council was discussing an important question: whether Ramanujam should go to
Madras, taking the girl with him, and meet the party, who could come down for a day from
Delhi. The family was divided over the question. Ramanujam, his mother and his wife—none of
them had defined views on the question, but yet they opposed each other vehemently.
'We shall be the laughingstock of the town,' said Ramanujam's wife, 'if we take the girl out to
be shown round . . .'
'What queer notions! If you stand on all these absurd antiquated formalities, we shall never get
anywhere near a marriage. It is our duty to take the girl over even to Delhi if necessary . . .' 'It is
your pleasure, then; you can do what you please; why consult me? . . .'
Tempers were at their worst, and no progress seemed possible. The postman had got into the
habit of dropping in at the end of his day's work and joining in the council. 'I am a third party.
Listen to me,' he said. 'Sir, please take the train to Madras immediately. What you cannot
achieve by a year's correspondence you can do in an hour's meeting.'
'Here is a letter from Madras, madam. I am sure it is from your husband. What is the news?' He
handed the envelope to Ramanujam's wife, and she took it in to read. He said, 'I have some
registered letters for those last houses. I will finish my round and come back . . .' He returned as
promised. 'Have they met, madam?'
'Yes, Kamakshi's father has written that they have met the girl, and from their talk Kamakshi's
father infers they are quite willing . . .'
'Grand news! I will offer a coconut to our Vinayaka tonight.'
'But,' the lady added, half-overwhelmed with happiness and half-worried, 'there is this
difficulty. We had an idea of doing it during next Thai month . . . It will be so difficult to hurry
through the arrangements now. But they say that if the marriage is done it must be done on the
twentieth of May. If it is postponed the boy can't marry for three years. He is being sent away
for some training . . .'
'The old gentleman is as good as his word,' the postman said, delivering an insurance envelope
to Ramanujam. 'He has given the entire amount. You can't complain of lack of funds now. Go
ahead. I'm so happy you have his approval. More than their money, we need their blessings, sir.
I hope he has sent his heartiest blessings . . .' 'Oh, yes, oh, yes,' replied Ramanujam. 'My father
in-law seems to be very happy at this proposal.'
A five-thousand-rupee marriage was a big affair for Malgudi. Ramanujam, with so short a time
before him, and none to share the task of arrangements, became distraught. Thanappa placed
himself at his service during all his off-hours. He cut short his eloquence, advice and exchanges
in other houses. He never waited for anyone to come up and receive the letters. He just tossed
them through a window or an open door with a stentorian 'Letter, sir.' If they stopped him and
asked, 'What is the matter with you? In such a hurry!' 'Yes, leave me alone till the twentieth of
May. I will come and squat in your house after that'—and he was off. Ramanujam was in great
tension. He trembled with anxiety as the day approached nearer. 'It must go on smoothly.
Nothing should prove a hindrance.' 'Do not worry, sir; it will go through happily, by God's grace.
You have given them everything they wanted in cash, presents and style. They are good people
. . .'
'It is not about that. It is the very last date for the year. If for some reason some obstruction
comes up, it is all finished for ever. The boy goes away for three years. I don't think either of us
would be prepared to bind ourselves to wait for three years.'
It was four hours past the Muhurtam on the day of the wedding. A quiet had descended on the
gathering. The young smart bridegroom from Delhi was seated in a chair under the pandal.
Fragrance of sandal, and flowers, and holy smoke hung about the air. People were sitting
around the bridegroom talking. Thanappa appeared at the gate loaded with letters. Some
young men ran up to him demanding, 'Postman! Letters?' He held them off. 'Get back. I know
to whom to deliver.' He walked over to the bridegroom and held up to him a bundle of letters
very respectfully. 'These are all greetings and blessings from well-wishers, I believe, sir, and my
own go with every one of them . . .' He seemed very proud of performing this task, and looked
very serious. The bridegroom looked up at him with an amused smile and muttered, 'Thanks.'
'We are all very proud to have your distinguished self as a son-in-law of this house. I have
known that child, Kamakshi, ever since she was a day old, and I always knew she would get a
distinguished husband,' added the postman, and brought his palms together in a salute, and
moved into the house to deliver other letters and to refresh himself in the kitchen with tiffin
and coffee. Ten days later he knocked on the door and, with a grin, handed Kamakshi her first
letter. 'Ah, scented envelope! I knew it was coming when the mail van was three stations away.
I have seen hundreds like this. Take it from me. Before he has written the tenth letter he will
command you to pack up and join him, and you will grow a couple of wings and fly away that
very day, and forget for ever Thanappa and this street, isn't it so?' Kamakshi blushed, snatched
the letter from his hands and ran in to read it. He said, turning away, 'I don't think there is any
use waiting for you to finish the letter and tell me its contents.'
On a holiday, when he was sure Ramanujam would be at home, Thanappa knocked on the door
and handed him a card. 'Ah!' cried Ramanujam. 'Bad news, Thanappa. My uncle, my father's
brother, is very ill in Salem, and they want me to start immediately.'
'I'm very sorry to hear it, sir,' said Thanappa, and handed him a telegram. 'Here's another . . .'
Ramanujam cried, 'A telegram!' He glanced at it and screamed, 'Oh, he is dead!' He sat down
on the pyol, unable to stand the shock. Thanappa looked equally miserable. Ramanujam rallied,
gathered himself up and turned to go in. Thanappa said, 'One moment, sir. I have a confession
to make. See the date on the card.'
'May the nineteenth, nearly fifteen days ago!'
'Yes, sir, and the telegram followed next day—that is, on the day of the marriage. I was
unhappy to see it . . . “But what has happened has happened,” I said to myself, and kept it
away, fearing that it might interfere with the wedding.'
Ramanujam glared at the postman and said, 'I would not have cared to go through the marriage
when he was dying . . .' The postman stood with bowed head and mumbled, 'You can complain
if you like, sir. They will dismiss me. It is a serious offence.' He turned and descended the steps
and went down the street on his rounds. Ramanujam watched him dully for a while and
shouted, 'Postman!' Thanappa turned round; Ramanujam cried, 'Don't think that I intend to
complain. I am only sorry you have done this . . .'
'I understand your feelings, sir,' replied the postman, disappearing around a bend.
Chapter 3
THE DOCTOR'S WORD
People came to him when the patient was on his last legs. Dr Raman often burst out, 'Why
couldn't you have come a day earlier?' The reason was obvious—visiting fee twenty-five
rupees, and more than that, people liked to shirk the fact that the time had come to call in Dr
Raman; for them there was something ominous in the very association. As a result, when the
big man came on the scene it was always a quick decision one way or another. There was no
scope or time for any kind of wavering or whitewashing. Long years of practice of this kind had
bred in the doctor a certain curt truthfulness; for that very reason his opinion was valued; he
was not a mere doctor expressing an opinion but a judge pronouncing a verdict. The patient's
life hung on his words. This never unduly worried Dr Raman. He never believed that agreeable
words ever saved lives. He did not think it was any of his business to provide comforting lies
when as a matter of course nature would tell them the truth in a few hours. However, when he
glimpsed the faintest sign of hope, he rolled up his sleeve and stepped into the arena: it might
be hours or days, but he never withdrew till he wrested the prize from Yama's hands.
Today, standing over a bed, the doctor felt that he himself needed someone to tell him
soothing lies. He mopped his brow with his kerchief and sat down in the chair beside the bed.
On the bed lay his dearest friend in the world: Gopal. They had known each other for forty
years now, starting with their kindergarten days. They could not, of course, meet as much as
they wanted, each being wrapped in his own family and profession. Occasionally, on a Sunday,
Gopal would walk into the consulting room and wait patiently in a corner till the doctor was
free. And then they would dine together, see a picture and talk of each other's life and
activities. It was a classic friendship, which endured untouched by changing times,
circumstances and activities.
In his busy round of work, Dr Raman had not noticed that Gopal had not called in for over three
months now. He only remembered it when he saw Gopal's son sitting on a bench in the
consulting hall one crowded morning. Dr Raman could not talk to him for over an hour. When
he got up and was about to pass on to the operating room, he called up the young man and
asked, 'What brings you here, sir?' The youth was nervous and shy. 'Mother sent me here.'
'What can I do for you?'
'Father is ill ...'
It was an operation day and he was not free till three in the afternoon. He rushed off straight
from the clinic to his friend's house, in Lawley Extension.
Gopal lay in bed as if in sleep. The doctor stood over him and asked Gopal's wife, 'How long has
he been in bed?'
'A month and a half, Doctor.'
'Who is attending him?'
'A doctor in the next street. He comes down once in three days and gives him medicine.'
'What is his name?' He had never heard of him. 'Someone I don't know, but I wish he had had
the goodness to tell me about it. Why, why couldn't you have sent me word earlier?'
'We thought you would be busy and did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily.' They were
apologetic and miserable. There was hardly any time to be lost. He took off his coat and opened
his bag. He took out an injection tube, the needle sizzled over the stove. The sick man's wife
whimpered in a corner and essayed to ask questions.
'Please don't ask questions,' snapped the doctor. He looked at the children, who were watching
the sterilizer, and said, 'Send them all away somewhere, except the eldest.'
He shot in the drug, sat back in his chair and gazed at the patient's face for over an hour. The
patient still remained motionless. The doctor's face gleamed with perspiration, and his eyelids
drooped with fatigue. The sick man's wife stood in a corner and watched silently. She asked
timidly, 'Doctor, shall I make some coffee for you?' 'No,' he replied, although he felt famished,
having missed his midday meal. He got up and said, 'I will be back in a few minutes. Don't
disturb him on any account.' He picked up his bag and went to his car. In a quarter of an hour
he was back, followed by an assistant and a nurse. The doctor told the lady of the house, 'I have
to perform an operation.'
'Why, why? Why?' she asked faintly.
'I will tell you all that soon. Will you leave your son here to help us, and go over to the next
house and stay there till I call you?'
The lady felt giddy and sank down on the floor, unable to bear the strain. The nurse attended to
her and led her out.
At about eight in the evening the patient opened his eyes and stirred slightly in bed. The
assistant was overjoyed. He exclaimed enthusiastically, 'Sir, he will pull through.' The doctor
looked at him coldly and whispered, 'I would give anything to see him pull through but, but the
heart . . .'
'The pulse has improved, sir.'
'Well, well,' replied the doctor. 'Don't trust it. It is only a false flash-up, very common in these
cases.' He ruminated for a while and added, 'If the pulse keeps up till eight in the morning, it
will go on for the next forty years, but I doubt very much if we shall see anything of it at all after
two tonight.'
He sent away the assistant and sat beside the patient. At about eleven the patient opened his
eyes and smiled at his friend. He showed a slight improvement, he was able to take in a little
food. A great feeling of relief and joy went through the household. They swarmed around the
doctor and poured out their gratitude. He sat in his seat beside the bed, gazing sternly at the
patient's face, hardly showing any signs of hearing what they were saying to him. The sick
man's wife asked, 'Is he now out of danger?' Without turning his head the doctor said, 'Give
glucose and brandy every forty minutes; just a couple of spoons will do.' The lady went away to
the kitchen. She felt restless. She felt she must know the truth whatever it was. Why was the
great man so evasive? The suspense was unbearable. Perhaps he could not speak so near the
patient's bed. She beckoned to him from the kitchen doorway. The doctor rose and went over.
She asked, 'What about him now? How is he?' The doctor bit his lips and replied, looking at the
floor, 'Don't get excited. Unless you must know about it, don't ask now.' Her eyes opened wide
in terror. She clasped her hands together and implored, 'Tell me the truth.' The doctor replied,
'I would rather not talk to you now.' He turned round and went back to his chair. A terrible
wailing shot through the still house; the patient stirred and looked about in bewilderment. The
doctor got up again, went over to the kitchen door, drew it in securely and shut off the wail.
When the doctor resumed his seat the patient asked in the faintest whisper possible, 'Is that
someone crying?' The doctor advised, 'Don't exert yourself. You mustn't talk.' He felt the pulse.
It was already agitated by the exertion. The patient asked, 'Am I going? Don't hide it from me.'
The doctor made a deprecating noise and sat back in his chair. He had never faced a situation
like this. It was not in his nature to whitewash. People attached great value to his word because
of that. He stole a look at the other. The patient motioned a finger to draw him nearer and
whispered, 'I must know how long I am going to last. I must sign the will. It is all ready. Ask my
wife for the despatch box. You must sign as a witness.'
'Oh!' the doctor exclaimed. 'You are exerting yourself too much. You must be quieter.' He felt
idiotic to be repeating it. 'How fine it would be,' he reflected, 'to drop the whole business and
run away somewhere without answering anybody any question!' The patient clutched the
doctor's wrist with his weak fingers and said, 'Ramu, it is my good fortune that you are here at
this moment. I can trust your word. I can't leave my property unsettled. That will mean endless
misery for my wife and children. You know all about Subbiah and his gang. Let me sign before it
is too late. Tell me . . .'
'Yes, presently,' replied the doctor. He walked off to his car, sat in the back seat and reflected.
He looked at his watch. Midnight. If the will was to be signed, it must be done within the next
two hours, or never. He could not be responsible for a mess there; he knew the family affairs
too well and about those wolves, Subbiah and his gang. But what could he do? If he asked him
to sign the will, it would virtually mean a death sentence and destroy the thousandth part of a
chance that the patient had of survival. He got down from the car and went in. He resumed his
seat in the chair. The patient was staring at him appealingly. The doctor said to himself, 'If my
word can save his life, he shall not die. The will be damned.' He called, 'Gopal, listen.' This was
the first time he was going to do a piece of acting before a patient, simulate a feeling and
conceal his judgement. He stooped over the patient and said, with deliberate emphasis, 'Don't
worry about the will now. You are going to live. Your heart is absolutely sound.' A new glow
suffused the patient's face as he heard it. He asked in a tone of relief, 'Do you say so? If it
comes from your lips it must be true . . .' The doctor said, 'Quite right. You are improving every
second. Sleep in peace. You must not exert yourself on any account. You must sleep very
soundly. I will see you in the morning.' The patient looked at him gratefully for a moment and
then closed his eyes. The doctor picked up his bag and went out, shutting the door softly
behind him.
On his way home he stopped for a moment at his hospital, called out his assistant and said,
'That Lawley Extension case. You might expect the collapse any second now. Go there with a
tube of———in hand, and give it in case the struggle is too hard at the end. Hurry up.'
Next morning he was back at Lawley Extension at ten. From his car he made a dash for the sick
bed. The patient was awake and looked very well. The assistant reported satisfactory pulse. The
doctor put his tube to his heart, listened for a while and told the sick man's wife, 'Don't look so
unhappy, lady. Your husband will live to be ninety.' When they were going back to the hospital,
the assistant sitting beside him in the car asked, 'Is he going to live, sir?'
'I will bet on it. He will live to be ninety. He has turned the corner. How he has survived this
attack will be a puzzle to me all my life,' replied the doctor.
Chapter 4
GATEMAN'S GIFT
When a dozen persons question openly or slyly a man's sanity, he begins to entertain serious
doubts himself. This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh. And you could not blame
the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered
postal envelope and asked, 'Please tell me what there is inside?' The obvious answer was:
'Open it and see . . .' He seemed horrified at this suggestion. 'Oh, no, no, can't do it,' he
declared, and moved off to another friend and acquaintance. Everywhere the suggestion was
the same, till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said, 'If you don't like
to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute.' This was
suggested by an ex-compounder who lived in the next street.
'What is it?' asked Govind Singh. It was explained to him. 'Where is it?' He was directed to the
City X-ray Institute.
But before saying anything further about his progress, it would be useful to go back to an
earlier chapter in his history. After war service in 1914-18, he came to be recommended for a
gatekeeper's post at Engladia's. He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a
resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick. He gripped the stick and sat down on a
stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief's car pulled up at the gate he stood at
attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred,
and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he
awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coming down the stairs, and rose stiffly and
stood at attention, and after he left, the hundreds of staff poured out. The doors were shut;
Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase and placed his stick across it. Then he
came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years
of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement
yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him; he could not catch
the Manager's footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards. He
was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and
muttered, 'We are very pleased with your work for us, and the company will give you a pension
of twelve rupees for life . . .' Singh clicked his heels, saluted, turned on his heel and went out of
the room, his heart brimming with gratitude and pride. This was the second occasion when the
great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service. As he had stood at
his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked, 'Who are
you?'
'I'm the new gatekeeper, master,' he had answered. And he spoke again only on this day.
Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In
Singh's eyes the chief had acquired a sort of godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god
spoke to one only once or twice in a lifetime. In moments of contemplation Singh's mind dwelt
on the words of his master, and on his personality.
His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and
sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him. He ate his food, went out and met
a few friends, slept and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned.
This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit,
walked to his old office and salaamed the accountant at the counter and received his pension.
Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down,
and saluted him as he got into his car.
There was a lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure. In this state he made a new
discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The
discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighbourhood brought to him its little
doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it. This discovery pleased him so
much that he very soon became absorbed in it. His back yard gave him a plentiful supply of
pliant clay, and the carpenter's shop next to his cousin's cigarette shop sawdust. He purchased
paint for a few annas. And lo! he found his hours gliding. He sat there in the front part of his
home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe; all the colours of life
were there, all the forms and creatures, but of the size of his middle finger; whole villages and
towns were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry
there—that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber-vendor; he had the eye of a
cartoonist for human faces. Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature
reflection of the world; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices, which enhanced
their attractiveness. He kept these in his cousin's shop and they attracted huge crowds every
day and sold very briskly. More than from the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he saw admiring
crowds clustering around his handiwork.
On his next pension day he carried to his office a street scene (which he ranked as his best), and
handed it over the counter to the accountant with the request: 'Give this to the Sahib, please!'
'All right,' said the accountant with a smile. It created a sensation in the office and disturbed
the routine of office working for nearly half an hour. On the next pension day he carried
another model (children at play) and handed it over the counter.
'Did the Sahib like the last one?'
'Yes, he liked it.'
'Please give this one to him—' and he passed it over the counter. He made it a convention to
carry on every pension day an offering for his master, and each time his greatest reward was
the accountant's stock reply to his question: 'What did the Sahib say?'
'He said it was very good.'
At last he made his masterpiece. A model of his office frontage with himself at his post, a car at
the entrance and the chief getting down: this composite model was so realistic that while he sat
looking at it, he seemed to be carried back to his office days. He passed it over the counter on
his pension day and it created a very great sensation in the office. 'Fellow, you have not left
yourself out, either!' people cried, and looked admiringly at Singh. A sudden fear seized Singh
and he asked, 'The master won't be angry, I hope?'
'No, no, why should he be?' said the accountant, and Singh received his pension and went
home.
A week later when he was sitting on the pyol kneading clay, the postman came and said, 'A
registered letter for you . . .'
'For me!' Any letter would have upset Singh; he had received less than three letters in his
lifetime, and each time it was a torture for him till the contents were read out. Now a
registered letter! This was his first registered letter. 'Only lawyers send registered letters, isn't it
so?'
'Usually,' said the postman.
'Please take it back. I don't want it,' said Singh.
'Shall I say “Refused”?' asked the postman. 'No, no,' said Singh. 'Just take it back and say you
have not found me . . .'
'That I can't do . . .' said the postman, looking serious.
Singh seemed to have no option but to scrawl his signature and receive the packet. He sat
gloomily—gazing at the floor. His wife who had gone out and just returned saw him in this
condition and asked, 'What is it?' His voice choked as he replied, 'It has come.' He flung at her
the registered letter. 'What is it?' she asked. He said, 'How should I know. Perhaps our ruin . . .'
He broke down. His wife watched him for a moment, went in to attend to some domestic duty
and returned, still found him in the same condition and asked, 'Why not open it and see, ask
someone to read it?' He threw up his arms in horror. 'Woman, you don't know what you are
saying. It cannot be opened. They have perhaps written that my pension is stopped, and God
knows what else the Sahib has said . . .'
'Why not go to the office and find out from them?'
'Not I! I will never show my face there again,' replied Singh. 'I have lived without a single
remark being made against me, all my life. Now!' He shuddered at the thought of it. 'I knew I
was getting into trouble when I made that office model . . .' After deeper reflection he said,
'Every time I took something there, people crowded round, stopped all work for nearly an hour
. . . That must also have reached the Sahib's ears.'
He wandered about saying the same thing, with the letter in his pocket. He lost his taste for
food, wandered about unkempt, with his hair standing up like a halo—an unaccustomed sight,
his years in military service having given him a habitual tidiness. His wife lost all peace of mind
and became miserable about him. He stood at crossroads, clutching the letter in his hand. He
kept asking everyone he came across, 'Tell me, what is there in this?' but he would not brook
the suggestion to open it and see its contents.
So forthwith Singh found his way to the City X-ray Institute at Race Course Road. As he entered
the gate he observed dozens of cars parked along the drive, and a Gurkha watchman at the
gate. Some people were sitting on sofas reading books and journals. They turned and threw a
brief look at him and resumed their studies. As Singh stood uncertainly at the doorway, an
assistant came up and asked, 'What do you want?' Singh gave a salute, held up the letter
uncertainly and muttered, 'Can I know what is inside this?' The assistant made the obvious
suggestion. But Singh replied, 'They said you could tell me what's inside without opening it—'
The assistant asked, 'Where do you come from?' Singh explained his life, work and outlook, and
concluded, 'I've lived without remark all my life. I knew trouble was coming—' There were tears
on his cheeks. The assistant looked at him curiously as scores of others had done before, smiled
and said, 'Go home and rest. You are not all right . . . Go, go home.'
'Can't you say what is in this?' Singh asked pathetically. The assistant took it in his hand,
examined it and said, 'Shall I open it?' 'No, no, no,' Singh cried, and snatched it back. There was
a look of terror in his eyes. The assembly looked up from their pages and watched him with
mild amusement in their eyes. The assistant kindly put his arms on his shoulder and led him
out. 'You get well first, and then come back. I tell you—you are not all right.'
Walking back home, he pondered over it. 'Why are they all behaving like this, as if I were a
madman?' When this word came to his mind, he stopped abruptly in the middle of the road
and cried, 'Oh! That's it, is that it?—Mad! Mad!' He shook his head gleefully as if the full truth
had just dawned upon him. He now understood the looks that people threw at him. 'Oh! oh!'
he cried aloud. He laughed. He felt a curious relief at this realization. 'I have been mad and
didn't know it . . .' He cast his mind back. Every little action of his for the last so many days
seemed mad; particularly the doll-making. 'What sane man would make clay dolls after twenty
five years of respectable service in an office?' He felt a tremendous freedom of limbs, and
didn't feel it possible to walk at an ordinary pace. He wanted to fly. He swung his arms up and
down and ran on with a whoop. He ran through the Market Road. When people stood about
and watched he cried, 'Hey, don't laugh at a madman, for who knows, you will also be mad
when you come to make clay dolls,' and charged into their midst with a war cry. When he saw
children coming out of a school, he felt it would be nice to amuse their young hearts by
behaving like a tiger. So he fell on his hands and knees and crawled up to them with a growl.
He went home in a terrifying condition. His wife, who was grinding chilli in the back yard,
looked up and asked, 'What is this?' His hair was covered with street dust; his body was
splashed with mud. He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said, 'Fancy what
has happened!'
'What is it?'
'I'm mad, mad.' He looked at his work-basket in a corner, scooped out the clay and made a
helmet of it and put it on his head. Ranged on the floor was his latest handiwork. After his last
visit to the office he had been engaged in making a model village. It was a resplendent group: a
dun road, red tiles, green coconut trees swaying, and the colour of the saris of the village
women carrying water pots. He derived the inspiration for it from a memory of his own village
days. It was the most enjoyable piece of work that he had so far undertaken. He lived in a kind
of ecstasy while doing it. 'I am going to keep this for myself. A memento of my father's village,'
he declared. 'I will show it at an exhibition, where they will give me a medal.' He guarded it like
a treasure: when it was wet he never allowed his wife to walk within ten yards of it. 'Keep off,
we don't want your foot dust for this village . . .'
Now, in his madness, he looked down on it. He raised his foot and stamped everything down
into a multicoloured jam. They were still half-wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. He
gathered up the jam and flung it at the donkey with the remark: 'Eat this if you like. It is a nice
village . . .' And he went out on a second round. This was a quieter outing. He strode on at an
even pace, breathing deeply, with the clay helmet on, out of which peeped his grey hair, his
arms locked behind, his fingers clutching the fateful letter, his face tilted towards the sky. He
walked down the Market Road, with a feeling that he was the sole occupant of this globe: his
madness had given him a sense of limitless freedom, strength and buoyancy. The remarks and
jeers of the crowds gaping at him did not in the least touch him.
While he walked thus, his eye fell on the bulb of a tall street lamp. 'Bulb of the size of a papaya
fruit!' he muttered and chuckled. It had been a long cherished desire in him to fling a stone at
it; now he felt, in his joyous and free condition, that he was free from the trammels of
convention and need not push back any inclination. He picked up a pebble and threw it with
good aim. The shattering noise of glass was as music to his ears. A policeman put his hand on
his shoulder. 'Why did you do it?' Singh looked indignant. 'I like to crack glass papaya fruit, that
is all,' was the reply. The constable said, 'Come to the station.'
'Oh, yes, when I was in Mesopotamia they put me on half-ration once,' he said, and walked on
to the station. He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked, 'This road is not straight . . .'
A few carriages and cycles were coming up to him. He found that everything was wrong about
them. They seemed to need some advice in the matter. He stopped in the middle of the road,
stretched out his arms and shouted, 'Halt!' The carriages stopped, the cyclists jumped off and
Singh began a lecture: 'When I was in Mesopotamia—I will tell you fellows who don't know
anything about anything.' The policeman dragged him away to the side and waved to the traffic
to resume. One of the cyclists who resumed jumped off the saddle again and came towards him
with, 'Why! It is Singh, Singh, what fancy dress is this? What is the matter?' Even through the
haze of his insane vision Singh could recognize the voice and the person—the accountant at the
office. Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute. 'Excuse me, sir, didn't intend to stop you. You
may pass . . .' He pointed the way generously, and the accountant saw the letter in his hand. He
recognized it although it was mud-stained and crumpled.
'Singh, you got our letter?'
'Yes, sir—Pass. Do not speak of it . . .'
'What is the matter?' He snatched it from his hand. 'Why haven't you opened it!' He tore open
the envelope and took out of it a letter and read aloud: 'The General Manager greatly
appreciates the very artistic models you have sent, and he is pleased to sanction a reward of
one hundred rupees and hopes it will be an encouragement for you to keep up this interesting
hobby.'
It was translated to him word for word, and the enclosure, a cheque for one hundred rupees,
was handed to him. A big crowd gathered to watch this scene. Singh pressed the letter to his
eyes. He beat his brow and wailed, 'Tell me, sir, am I mad or not?'
'You look quite well, you aren't mad,' said the accountant. Singh fell at his feet and said with
tears choking his voice, 'You are a god, sir, to say that I am not mad. I am so happy to hear it.'
On the next pension day he turned up spruce as ever at the office counter. As they handed him
the envelope they asked, 'What toys are you making now?'
'Nothing, sir. Never again. It is no occupation for a sane man . . .' he said, received his pension
and walked stiffly out of the office.
Chapter 5
THE BLIND DOG
It was not a very impressive or high-class dog; it was one of those commonplace dogs one sees
everywhere—colour of white and dust, tail mutilated at a young age by God knows whom, born
in the street, and bred on the leavings and garbage of the marketplace. He had spotty eyes and
undistinguished carriage and needless pugnacity. Before he was two years old he had earned
the scars of a hundred fights on his body. When he needed rest on hot afternoons he lay curled
up under the culvert at the eastern gate of the market. In the evenings he set out on his daily
rounds, loafed in the surrounding streets and lanes, engaged himself in skirmishes, picked up
edibles on the roadside and was back at the Market Gate by nightfall.
This life went on for three years. And then a change in his life occurred. A beggar, blind in both
eyes, appeared at the Market Gate. An old woman led him up there early in the morning,
seated him at the gate, and came up again at midday with some food, gathered his coins and
took him home at night.
The dog was sleeping nearby. He was stirred by the smell of food. He got up, came out of his
shelter and stood before the blind man, wagging his tail and gazing expectantly at the bowl, as
he was eating his sparse meal. The blind man swept his arms about and asked, 'Who is there?'
at which the dog went up and licked his hand. The blind man stroked its coat gently tail to ear
and said, 'What a beauty you are. Come with me—' He threw a handful of food, which the dog
ate gratefully. It was perhaps an auspicious moment for starting a friendship. They met every
day there, and the dog cut off much of its rambling to sit up beside the blind man and watch
him receive alms morning to evening. In course of time, observing him, the dog understood
that the passers-by must give a coin, and whoever went away without dropping a coin was
chased by the dog; he tugged the edge of their clothes by his teeth and pulled them back to the
old man at the gate and let go only after something was dropped in his bowl. Among those who
frequented this place was a village urchin, who had the mischief of a devil in him. He liked to
tease the blind man by calling him names and by trying to pick up the coins in his bowl. The
blind man helplessly shouted and cried and whirled his staff. On Thursdays this boy appeared at
the gate, carrying on his head a basket loaded with cucumber or plantain. Every Thursday
afternoon it was a crisis in the blind man's life. A seller of bright-coloured but doubtful
perfumes with his wares mounted on a wheeled platform, a man who spread out cheap
storybooks on a gunnysack, another man who carried coloured ribbons on an elaborate
frame—these were the people who usually gathered under the same arch. On a Thursday when
the young man appeared at the eastern gate one of them remarked, 'Blind fellow! Here comes
your scourge—'
'Oh, God, is this Thursday?' he wailed. He swept his arms about and called, 'Dog, dog, come
here, where are you?' He made the peculiar noise which brought the dog to his side. He stroked
his head and muttered, 'Don't let that little rascal—' At this very moment the boy came up with
a leer on his face.
'Blind man! Still pretending you have no eyes. If you are really blind, you should not know this
either—' He stopped, his hand moving towards the bowl. The dog sprang on him and snapped
his jaws on the boy's wrist. The boy extricated his hand and ran for his life. The dog bounded up
behind him and chased him out of the market.
'See the mongrel's affection for this old fellow,' marvelled the perfume-vendor.
One evening at the usual time the old woman failed to turn up, and the blind man waited at the
gate, worrying as the evening grew into night. As he sat fretting there, a neighbour came up
and said, 'Sami, don't wait for the old woman. She will not come again. She died this
afternoon—'
The blind man lost the only home he had, and the only person who cared for him in this world.
The ribbon-vendor suggested, 'Here, take this white tape'—he held a length of the white cord
which he had been selling—'I will give this to you free of cost. Tie it to the dog and let him lead
you about if he is really so fond of you—'
Life for the dog took a new turn now. He came to take the place of the old woman. He lost his
freedom completely. His world came to be circumscribed by the limits of the white cord which
the ribbon-vendor had spared. He had to forget wholesale all his old life—all his old haunts. He
simply had to stay on for ever at the end of that string. When he saw other dogs, friends or
foes, instinctively he sprang up, tugging the string, and this invariably earned him a kick from
his master. 'Rascal, want to tumble me down—have sense—' In a few days the dog learnt to
discipline his instinct and impulse. He ceased to take notice of other dogs, even if they came up
and growled at his side. He lost his own orbit of movement and contact with his fellowcreatures.
To the extent of this loss his master gained. He moved about as he had never moved in his life.
All day he was on his legs, led by the dog. With the staff in one hand and the dog-lead in the
other, he moved out of his home—a corner in a choultry veranda a few yards off the market: he
had moved in there after the old woman's death. He started out early in the day. He found that
he could treble his income by moving about instead of staying in one place. He moved down
the choultry street, and wherever he heard people's voices he stopped and held out his hands
for alms. Shops, schools, hospitals, hotels—he left nothing out. He gave a tug when he wanted
the dog to stop, and shouted like a bullock-driver when he wanted him to move on. The dog
protected his feet from going into pits, or stumping against steps or stones, and took him up
inch by inch on safe ground and steps. For this sight people gave coins and helped him. Children
gathered round him and gave him things to eat. A dog is essentially an active creature who
punctuates his hectic rounds with well-defined periods of rest. But now this dog (henceforth to
be known as Tiger) had lost all rest. He had rest only when the old man sat down somewhere.
At night the old man slept with the cord turned around his finger. 'I can't take chances with
you—' he said. A great desire to earn more money than ever before seized his master, so that
he felt any resting a waste of opportunity, and the dog had to be continuously on his feet.
Sometimes his legs refused to move. But if he slowed down even slightly his master goaded him
on fiercely with his staff. The dog whined and groaned under this thrust. 'Don't whine, you
rascal. Don't I give you your food? You want to loaf, do you?' swore the blind man. The dog
lumbered up and down and round and round the marketplace with slow steps, tied down to
the blind tyrant. Long after the traffic at the market ceased, you could hear the night stabbed
by the far-off wail of the tired dog. It lost its original appearance. As months rolled on, bones
stuck up at his haunches and ribs were reliefed through his fading coat.
The ribbon-seller, the novel-vendor and the perfumer observed it one evening when business
was slack, and held a conference among themselves. 'It rends my heart to see that poor dog
slaving. Can't we do something?' The ribbon-seller remarked, 'That rascal has started lending
money for interest—I heard it from the fruit-seller—He is earning more than he needs. He has
become a very devil for money—' At this point the perfumer's eyes caught the scissors dangling
from the ribbon-rack. 'Give it here,' he said and moved on with the scissors in hand.
The blind man was passing in front of the eastern gate. The dog was straining the lead. There
was a piece of bone lying on the way and the dog was straining to pick it up. The lead became
taut and hurt the blind man's hand, and he tugged the string and kicked till the dog howled. It
howled, but could not pass the bone lightly; it tried to make another dash for it. The blind man
was heaping curses on it. The perfumer stepped up, applied the scissors and snipped the cord.
The dog bounced off and picked up the bone. The blind man stopped dead where he stood,
with the other half of the string dangling in his hand. 'Tiger! Tiger! Where are you?' he cried.
The perfumer moved away quietly, muttering, 'You heartless devil! You will never get at him
again! He has his freedom!' The dog went off at top speed. He nosed about the ditches happily,
hurled himself on other dogs and ran round and round the fountain in the Market Square
barking, his eyes sparkling with joy. He returned to his favourite haunts and hung about the
butcher's shop, the tea-stall and the bakery.
The ribbon-vendor and his two friends stood at the Market Gate and enjoyed the sight
immensely as the blind man struggled to find his way about. He stood rooted to the spot,
waving his stick; he felt as if he were hanging in mid-air. He was wailing. 'Oh, where is my dog?
Where is my dog? Won't someone give him back to me? I will murder it when I get at it again!'
He groped about, tried to cross the road, came near being run over by a dozen vehicles at
different points, tumbled and struggled and gasped. 'He'd deserve it if he was run over, this
heartless blackguard—' they said, observing him. However, the old man struggled through and
with the help of someone found his way back to his corner in the choultry veranda and sank
down on his gunnysack bed, half-faint with the strain of his journey.
He was not seen for ten days, fifteen days and twenty days. Nor was the dog seen anywhere.
They commented among themselves: 'The dog must be loafing over the whole earth, free and
happy. The beggar is perhaps gone for ever—' Hardly was this sentence uttered when they
heard the familiar tap-tap of the blind man's staff. They saw him again coming up the
pavement—led by the dog. 'Look! Look!' they cried. 'He has again got at it and tied it up—' The
ribbon-seller could not contain himself. He ran up and said, 'Where have you been all these
days?'
'Know what happened!' cried the blind man. 'This dog ran away. I should have died in a day or
two, confined to my corner, no food, not an anna to earn—imprisoned in my corner. I should
have perished if it continued for another day—But this thing returned—'
'When? When?'
'Last night. At midnight as I slept in bed, he came and licked my face. I felt like murdering him. I
gave him a blow which he will never forget again,' said the blind man. 'I forgave him, after all a
dog! He loafed as long as he could pick up some rubbish to eat on the road, but real hunger has
driven him back to me, but he will not leave me again. See! I have got this—' and he shook the
lead: it was a steel chain this time.
Once again there was the dead, despairing look in the dog's eyes. 'Go on, you fool,' cried the
blind man, shouting like an ox-driver. He tugged the chain, poked with the stick, and the dog
moved away on slow steps. They stood listening to the tap-tap going away.
'Death alone can help that dog,' cried the ribbon-seller, looking after it with a sigh. 'What can
we do with a creature who returns to his doom with such a free heart?'
Chapter 6
FELLOW-FEELING
The Madras-Bangalore Express was due to start in a few minutes. Trolleys and barrows piled
with trunks and beds rattled their way through the bustle. Fruit-sellers and beedi-and-betel
sellers cried themselves hoarse. Latecomers pushed, shouted and perspired. The engine added
to the general noise with the low monotonous hum of its boiler; the first bell rang, the guard
looked at his watch. Mr Rajam Iyer arrived on the platform at a terrific pace, with a small roll of
bedding under one arm and an absurd yellow trunk under the other. He ran to the first third
class compartment that caught his eye, peered in and, since the door could not be opened on
account of the congestion inside, flung himself in through the window.
Fifteen minutes later Madras flashed past the train in window-framed patches of sun-scorched
roofs and fields. At the next halt, Mandhakam, most of the passengers got down. The
compartment built to 'seat 8 passengers; 4 British Troops, or 6 Indian Troops' now carried only
nine. Rajam Iyer found a seat and made himself comfortable opposite a sallow, meek
passenger, who suddenly removed his coat, folded it and placed it under his head and lay
down, shrinking himself to the area he had occupied while he was sitting. With his knees drawn
up almost to his chin, he rolled himself into a ball. Rajam Iyer threw at him an indulgent,
compassionate look. He then fumbled for his glasses and pulled out of his pocket a small book,
which set forth in clear Tamil the significance of the obscure Sandhi rites that every Brahmin
worth the name performs thrice daily.
He was startled out of this pleasant languor by a series of growls coming from a passenger who
had got in at Katpadi. The newcomer, looking for a seat, had been irritated by the spectacle of
the meek passenger asleep and had enforced the law of the third-class. He then encroached on
most of the meek passenger's legitimate space and began to deliver home-truths which passed
by easy stages from impudence to impertinence and finally to ribaldry.
Rajam Iyer peered over his spectacles. There was a dangerous look in his eyes. He tried to
return to the book, but could not. The bully's speech was gathering momentum.
'What is all this?' Rajam Iyer asked suddenly, in a hard tone.
'What is what?' growled back the newcomer, turning sharply on Rajam Iyer.
'Moderate your style a bit,' Rajam Iyer said firmly.
'You moderate yours first,' replied the other.
A pause.
'My man,' Rajam Iyer began endearingly, 'this sort of thing will never do.'
The newcomer received this in silence. Rajam Iyer felt encouraged and drove home his moral:
'Just try and be more courteous, it is your duty.'
'You mind your business,' replied the newcomer.
Rajam Iyer shook his head disapprovingly and drawled out a 'No.' The newcomer stood looking
out for some time and, as if expressing a brilliant truth that had just dawned on him, said, 'You
are a Brahmin, I see. Learn, sir, that your days are over. Don't think you can bully us as you have
been bullying us all these years.'
Rajam Iyer gave a short laugh and said, 'What has it to do with your beastly conduct to this
gentleman?' The newcomer assumed a tone of mock humility and said, 'Shall I take the dust
from your feet, O Holy Brahmin? O Brahmin, Brahmin.' He continued in a singsong fashion:
'Your days are over, my dear sir, learn that. I should like to see you trying a bit of bossing on us.'
'Whose master is who?' asked Rajam Iyer philosophically.
The newcomer went on with no obvious relevance: 'The cost of mutton has gone up out of all
proportion. It is nearly double what it used to be.'
'Is it?' asked Rajam Iyer.
'Yes, and why?' continued the other. 'Because Brahmins have begun to eat meat and they pay
high prices to get it secretly.' He then turned to the other passengers and added, 'And we non
Brahmins have to pay the same price, though we don't care for the secrecy.'
Rajam Iyer leaned back in his seat, reminding himself of a proverb which said that if you threw a
stone into a gutter it would only spurt filth in your face.
'And,' said the newcomer, 'the price of meat used to be five annas per pound. I remember the
days quite well. It is nearly twelve annas now. Why? Because the Brahmin is prepared to pay so
much, if only he can have it in secret. I have with my own eyes seen Brahmins, pukkah
Brahmins with sacred threads on their bodies, carrying fish under their arms, of course all
wrapped up in a towel. Ask them what it is, and they will tell you that it is plantain. Plantain
that has life, I suppose! I once tickled a fellow under the arm and out came the biggest fish in
the market. Hey, Brahmin,' he said, turning to Rajam Iyer, 'what did you have for your meal this
morning?' 'Who? I?' asked Rajam Iyer. 'Why do you want to know?' 'Look, sirs,' said the
newcomer to the other passengers, 'why is he afraid to tell us what he ate this morning?' And
turning to Rajam Iyer, 'Mayn't a man ask another what he had for his morning meal?'
'Oh, by all means. I had rice, ghee, curds, brinjal soup, fried beans.'
'Oh, is that all?' asked the newcomer, with an innocent look.
'Yes,' replied Rajam Iyer.
'Is that all?'
'Yes, how many times do you want me to repeat it?'
'No offence, no offence,' replied the newcomer.
'Do you mean to say I am lying?' asked Rajam Iyer.
'Yes,' replied the other, 'you have omitted from your list a few things. Didn't I see you this
morning going home from the market with a banana, a water banana, wrapped up in a towel,
under your arm? Possibly it was somebody very much like you. Possibly I mistook the person.
My wife prepares excellent soup with fish. You won't be able to find the difference between
dhall soup and fish soup. Send your wife, or the wife of the person that was exactly like you, to
my wife to learn soup-making. Hundreds of Brahmins have smacked their lips over the dhall
soup prepared in my house. I am a leper if there is a lie in anything I say.'
'You are,' replied Rajam Iyer, grinding his teeth. 'You are a rabid leper.'
'Whom do you call a leper!'
'You!'
'I? You call me a leper?'
'No. I call you a rabid leper.'
'You call me rabid?' the newcomer asked, striking his chest to emphasize 'me'.
'You are a filthy brute,' said Rajam Iyer. 'You must be handed over to the police.'
'Bah!' exclaimed the newcomer. 'As if I didn't know what these police were.'
'Yes, you must have had countless occasions to know the police. And you will see more of them
yet in your miserable life, if you don't get beaten to death like the street mongrel you are,' said
Rajam Iyer in great passion. 'With your foul mouth you are bound to come to that end.'
'What do you say?' shouted the newcomer menacingly. 'What do you say, you vile humbug?'
'Shut up,' Rajam Iyer cried.
'You shut up.'
'Do you know to whom you are talking?'
'What do I care who the son of a mongrel is?'
'I will thrash you with my slippers,' said Rajam Iyer.
'I will pulp you down with an old rotten sandal,' came the reply.
'I will kick you,' said Rajam Iyer.
'Will you?' howled the newcomer.
'Come on, let us see.'
Both rose to their feet simultaneously.
There they stood facing each other on the floor of the compartment. Rajam Iyer was seized by a
sense of inferiority. The newcomer stood nine clean inches over him. He began to feel
ridiculous, short and fat, wearing a loose dhoti and a green coat, while the newcomer towered
above him in his grease-spotted khaki suit. Out of the corner of his eye he noted that the other
passengers were waiting eagerly to see how the issue would be settled and were not in the
least disposed to intervene.
'Why do you stand as if your mouth was stopped with mud?' asked the newcomer.
'Shut up,' Rajam Iyer snapped, trying not to be impressed by the size of the adversary.
'Your honour said that you would kick me,' said the newcomer, pretending to offer himself.
'Won't I kick you?' asked Rajam Iyer.
'Try.'
'No,' said Rajam Iyer, 'I will do something worse.'
'Do it,' said the other, throwing forward his chest and pushing up the sleeves of his coat.
Rajam Iyer removed his coat and rolled up his sleeves. He rubbed his hands and commanded
suddenly, 'Stand still!' The newcomer was taken aback. He stood for a second baffled. Rajam
Iyer gave him no time to think. With great force he swung his right arm and brought it near the
other's cheek, but stopped it short without hitting him.
'Wait a minute, I think I had better give you a chance,' said Rajam Iyer.
'What chance?' asked the newcomer.
'It would be unfair if I did it without giving you a chance.'
'Did what?'
'You stand there and it will be over in a fraction of a second.'
'Fraction of a second? What will you do?'
'Oh, nothing very complicated,' replied Rajam Iyer nonchalantly, 'nothing very complicated. I
will slap your right cheek and at the same time tug your left ear, and your mouth, which is now
under your nose, will suddenly find itself under your left ear, and, what is more, stay there. I
assure you, you won't feel any pain.'
'What do you say?'
'And it will all be over before you say “Sri Rama”.'
'I don't believe it,' said the newcomer.
'Well and good. Don't believe it,' said Rajam Iyer carelessly. 'I never do it except under extreme
provocation.'
'Do you think I am an infant?'
'I implore you, my man, not to believe me. Have you heard of a thing called jujitsu? Well, this is
a simple trick in jujitsu perhaps known to half a dozen persons in the whole of South India.'
'You said you would kick me,' said the newcomer.
'Well, isn't this worse?' asked Rajam Iyer. He drew a line on the newcomer's face between his
left ear and mouth, muttering, 'I must admit you have a tolerably good face and round figure.
But imagine yourself going about the streets with your mouth under your left ear . . .' He
chuckled at the vision. 'I expect at Jalarpet station there will be a huge crowd outside our
compartment to see you.' The newcomer stroked his chin thoughtfully. Rajam Iyer continued, 'I
felt it my duty to explain the whole thing to you beforehand. I am not as hot-headed as you are.
I have some consideration for your wife and children. It will take some time for the kids to
recognize Papa when he returns home with his mouth under . . . How many children have you?'
'Four.'
'And then think of it,' said Rajam Iyer. 'You will have to take your food under your left ear, and
you will need the assistance of your wife to drink water. She will have to pour it in.'
'I will go to a doctor,' said the newcomer.
'Do go,' replied Rajam Iyer, 'and I will give you a thousand rupees if you find a doctor. You may
try even European doctors.'
The newcomer stood ruminating with knitted brow. 'Now prepare,' shouted Rajam Iyer, 'one
blow on the right cheek. I will jerk your left ear, and your mouth . . .'
The newcomer suddenly ran to the window and leaned far out of it. Rajam decided to leave the
compartment at Jalarpet.
But the moment the train stopped at Jalarpet station, the newcomer grabbed his bag and
jumped out. He moved away at a furious pace and almost knocked down a coconut-seller and a
person carrying a trayload of coloured toys. Rajam Iyer felt it would not be necessary for him to
get out now. He leaned through the window and cried, 'Look here!' The newcomer turned.
'Shall I keep a seat for you?' asked Rajam Iyer.
'No, my ticket is for Jalarpet,' the newcomer answered and quickened his pace.
The train had left Jalarpet at least a mile behind. The meek passenger still sat shrunk in a corner
of the seat. Rajam Iyer looked over his spectacles and said, 'Lie down if you like.'
The meek passenger proceeded to roll himself into a ball. Rajam Iyer added, 'Did you hear that
bully say that his ticket was for Jalarpet?'
'Yes.'
'Well,' he lied, 'he is in the fourth compartment from here. I saw him get into it just as the train
started.'
Though the meek passenger was too grateful to doubt this statement, one or two other
passengers looked at Rajam Iyer sceptically.
Chapter 7
THE TIGER'S CLAW
The man-eater's dark career was ended. The men who had laid it low were the heroes of the
day. They were garlanded with chrysanthemum flowers and seated on the arch of the highest
bullock cart and were paraded in the streets, immediately followed by another bullock-drawn
open cart, on which their trophy lay with glazed eyes—overflowing the cart on every side, his
tail trailing the dust. The village suspended all the normal activity for the day; men, women and
children thronged the highways, pressing on with the procession, excitedly talking about the
tiger. The tiger had held a reign of terror for nearly five years, in the villages that girt Mempi
Forest.
We watched this scene, fascinated, drifting along with the crowd—till the Talkative Man patted
us from behind and cried, 'Lost in wonder! If you've had your eyeful of that carcass, come aside
and listen to me . . .' After the crowd surged past us, he sat us on a rock mount, under a
margosa tree, and began his tale: I was once camping in Koppal, the most obscure of all the
villages that lie scattered about the Mempi region. You might wonder what I was doing in that
desolate corner of the earth. I'll tell you. You remember I've often spoken to you about my
work as agent of a soil fertilizer company. It was the most miserable period of my life. Twenty
five days in the month, I had to be on the road, visiting nooks and corners of the country and
popularizing the stuff . . . One such journey brought me to the village Koppal. It was not really a
village but just a clearing with about forty houses and two streets, hemmed in by the jungle on
all sides. The place was dingy and depressing. Why our company should have sought to reach a
place like this for their stuff, I can't understand. They would not have known of its existence but
for the fact that it was on the railway. Yes, actually on the railway, some obscure branch-line
passed through this village, though most trains did not stop there. Its centre of civilization was
its railway station—presided over by a porter in blue and an old station-master, a wizened man
wearing a green turban, and with red and green flags always tucked under his arms. Let me tell
you about the station. It was not a building but an old railway carriage, which, having served its
term of life, was deprived of its wheels and planted beside the railway lines. It had one or two
windows through which the station-master issued tickets, and spoke to those occasional
passengers who turned up in this wilderness. A convolvulus creeper was trained over its
entrance: no better use could be found for an ex-carriage.
One November morning a mixed train put me down at this station and puffed away into the
forest. The station-master, with the flags under his arm, became excited on seeing me. He had
seen so few travellers arriving that it gave him no end of pleasure to see a new face. He
appointed himself my host immediately, and took me into the ex-compartment and seated me
on a stool. He said, 'Excuse me. I'll get off these papers in a minute . . .' He scrawled over some
brown sheets, put them away and rose. He locked up the station and took me to his home—a
very tiny stone building consisting of just one room, a kitchen and a back yard. The station
master lived here with his wife and seven children. He fed me. I changed. He sent the porter
along with me to the village, which was nearly a mile off in the interior. I gathered about me the
peasants of those forty houses and lectured to them from the pyol of the headman's house.
They listened to me patiently, received the samples and my elaborate directions for their use,
and went away to their respective occupations, with cynical comments among themselves
regarding my ideas of manuring. I packed up and started back for the station-master's house at
dusk, my throat smarting and my own words ringing in my ears. Though a couple of trains were
now passing, the only stopping train would be at 5:30 on the following morning. After dinner at
the station-master's house, I felt the time had come for me to leave: it would be indelicate to
stay on when the entire family was waiting to spread their beds in the hall. I said I would sleep
on the platform till my train arrived . . . 'No, no, these are very bad parts. Not like your town.
Full of tigers . . .' the station-master said. He let me, as a special concession, sleep in the station.
A heavy table, a chair and a stool occupied most of the space in the compartment. I pushed
them aside and made a little space for myself in a corner. I'd at least eight hours before me. I
laid myself down: all kinds of humming and rustling sounds came through the still night, and
telegraph poles and night insects hummed, and bamboo bushes creaked. I got up, bolted the
little station door and lay down, feeling forlorn. It became very warm, and I couldn't sleep. I got
up again, opened the door slightly to let in a little air, placed the chair across the door and went
back to my bed.
I fell asleep and dreamt. I was standing on the crest of a hill and watching the valley below,
under a pale moonlight. Far off a line of catlike creatures was moving across the slope, half
shadows, and I stood looking at them admiringly, for they marched on with great elegance. I
was so much lost in this vision that I hadn't noticed that they had moved up and come by a
winding path right behind me. I turned and saw that they were not catlike in size but full-grown
tigers. I made a dash to the only available shelter—the station room.
At this point the dream ended as the chair barricading the door came hurtling through and fell
on me. I opened my eyes and saw at the door a tiger pushing himself in. It was a muddled
moment for me: not being sure whether the dream was continuing or whether I was awake. I at
first thought it was my friend the station-master who was coming in, but my dream had fully
prepared my mind—I saw the thing clearly against the starlit sky, tail wagging, growling, and,
above all, his terrible eyes gleaming through the dark. I understood that the fertilizer company
would have to manage without my lectures from the following day. The tiger himself was rather
startled by the noise of the chair and stood hesitating. He saw me quite clearly in my corner,
and he seemed to be telling himself, 'My dinner is there ready, but let me first know what this
clattering noise is about.' Somehow wild animals are less afraid of human beings than they are
of pieces of furniture like chairs and tables. I have seen circus men managing a whole
menagerie with nothing more than a chair. God gives us such recollections in order to save us
at critical moments; and as the tiger stood observing me and watching the chair, I put out my
hands and with desperate strength drew the table towards me, and also the stool. I sat with my
back to the corner, the table wedged in nicely with the corner. I sat under it, and the stool
walled up another side. While I dragged the table down, a lot of things fell off it, a table lamp, a
long knife and pins. From my shelter I peeped at the tiger, who was also watching me with
interest. Evidently he didn't like his meal to be so completely shut out of sight. So he cautiously
advanced a step or two, making a sort of rumbling noise in his throat which seemed to shake up
the little station house. My end was nearing. I really pitied the woman whose lot it was to have
become my wife.
I held up the chair like a shield and flourished it, and the tiger hesitated and fell back a step or
two. Now once again we spent some time watching for each other's movements. I held my
breath and waited. The tiger stood there fiercely waving its tail, which sometimes struck the
side walls and sent forth a thud. He suddenly crouched down without taking his eyes off me,
and scratched the floor with his claws. 'He is sharpening them for me,' I told myself. The little
shack had already acquired the smell of a zoo. It made me sick. The tiger kept scratching the
floor with his forepaws. It was the most hideous sound you could think of.
All of a sudden he sprang up and flung his entire weight on this lot of furniture. I thought it'd be
reduced to matchwood, but fortunately our railways have a lot of foresight and choose the
heaviest timber for their furniture. That saved me. The tiger could do nothing more than perch
himself on the roof of the table and hang down his paws: he tried to strike me down, but I
parried with the chair and stool. The table rocked under him. I felt smothered: I could feel his
breath on me. He sat completely covering the top, and went on shooting his paws in my
direction. He would have scooped portions of me out for his use, but fortunately I sat right in
the centre, a hair's-breadth out of his reach on any side. He made vicious sounds and wriggled
over my head. He could have knocked the chair to one side and dragged me out if he had come
down, but somehow the sight of the chair seemed to worry him for a time. He preferred to be
out of its reach. This battle went on for a while, I cannot say how long: time had come to a dead
stop in my world. He jumped down and walked about the table, looking for a gap; I rattled the
chair a couple of times, but very soon it lost all its terror for him; he patted the chair and found
that it was inoffensive. At this discovery he tried to hurl it aside. But I was too quick for him. I
swiftly drew it towards me and wedged it tight into the arch of the table, and the stool
protected me on another side. I was more or less in a stockade made of the legs of furniture.
He sat up on his haunches in front of me, wondering how best to get at me. Now the chair,
table and stool had formed a solid block, with me at their heart, and they could withstand all
his tricks. He scrutinized my arrangement with great interest, espied a gap and thrust his paw
in. It dangled in my eyes with the curved claws opening out towards me. I felt very angry at the
sight of it. Why should I allow the offensive to be developed all in his own way? I felt very
indignant. The long knife from the station-master's table was lying nearby. I picked it up and
drove it in. He withdrew his paw, maddened by pain. He jumped up and nearly brought down
the room, and then tried to crack to bits the entire stockade. He did not succeed. He once again
thrust his paw in. I employed the long knife to good purpose and cut off a digit with the claw on
it. It was a fight to the finish between him and me. He returned again and again to the charge.
And I cut out, let me confess, three claws, before I had done with him. I had become as
bloodthirsty as he. (Those claws, mounted on gold, are hanging around the necks of my three
daughters. You can come and see them if you like sometime.)
At about five in the morning the station-master and the porter arrived, and innocently walked
in. The moment they stepped in the tiger left me and turned on them. They both ran at top
speed. The station-master flew back to his house and shut the door. The porter on fleet foot
went up a tree, with the tiger halfway up behind him. Thus they stopped, staring at each other
till the goods train lumbered in after 5:30. It hissed and whistled and belched fire, till the tiger
took himself down and bolted across the tracks into the jungle.
He did not visit these parts again, though one was constantly hearing of his ravages. I did not
meet him again—till a few moments ago when I saw him riding in that bullock cart. I instantly
recognized him by his right forepaw, where three toes and claws are missing. You seemed to be
so much lost in admiration for those people who met the tiger at their own convenience, with
gun and company, that I thought you might give a little credit to a fellow who has faced the
same animal, alone, barehanded. Hence this narration.
When the Talkative Man left us, we moved on to the square, where they were keeping the
trophy in view and hero-worshipping and fêting the hunters, who were awaiting a lorry from
the town. We pushed through the crowd, and begged to be shown the right forepaw of the
tiger. Somebody lowered a gas lamp. Yes, three toes were missing, and a deep black scar
marked the spot. The man who cut it off must have driven his knife with the power of a
hammer. To a question, the hunters replied, 'Can't say how it happens. We've met a few
instances like this. It's said that some forest tribes, if they catch a tiger cub, cut off its claws for
some talisman and let it go. They do not usually kill cubs.'
Chapter 8
ISWARAN
When the whole of the student world in Malgudi was convulsed with excitement, on a certain
evening in June when the Intermediate Examination results were expected, Iswaran went about
his business, looking very unconcerned and detached.
He had earned the reputation of having aged in the Intermediate Class. He entered the
Intermediate Class in Albert Mission College as a youngster, with faint down on his upper lip.
Now he was still there; his figure had grown brawny and athletic, and his chin had become
tanned and leathery. Some people even said that you could see grey hairs on his head. The first
time he failed, his parents sympathized with him, the second time also he managed to get their
sympathies, but subsequently they grew more critical and unsparing, and after repeated
failures they lost all interest in his examination. He was often told by his parents, 'Why don't
you discontinue your studies and try to do something useful?' He always pleaded, 'Let me have
this one last chance.' He clung to university education with a ferocious devotion. And now the
whole town was agog with the expectation of the results in the evening. Boys moved about the
street in groups; and on the sands of Sarayu they sat in clusters, nervously smiling and biting
their fingernails. Others hung about the gates of the Senate House staring anxiously at the walls
behind which a meeting was going on.
As much as the boys, if not more, the parents were agitated, except Iswaran's, who, when they
heard their neighbours discussing their son's possible future results, remarked with a sigh, 'No
such worry for Iswaran. His results are famous and known to everyone in advance.' Iswaran said
facetiously, 'I have perhaps passed this time, Father, who knows? I did study quite hard.'
'You are the greatest optimist in India at the moment; but for this obstinate hope you would
never have appeared for the same examination every year.'
'I failed only in Logic, very narrowly, last year,' he defended himself. At which the whole family
laughed. 'In any case, why don't you go and wait along with the other boys, and look up your
results?' his mother asked. 'Not at all necessary,' Iswaran replied. 'If I pass they will bring home
the news. Do you think I saw my results last year? I spent my time in a cinema. I sat through
two shows consecutively.'
He hummed as he went in for a wash before dressing to go out. He combed his hair with
deliberate care, the more so because he knew everybody looked on him as a sort of an outcast
for failing so often. He knew that behind him the whole family and the town were laughing. He
felt that they remarked among themselves that washing, combing his hair and putting on a
well-ironed coat were luxuries too far above his state. He was a failure and had no right to such
luxuries. He was treated as a sort of thick-skinned idiot. But he did not care. He answered their
attitude by behaving like a desperado. He swung his arms, strode up and down, bragged and
shouted, and went to a cinema. But all this was only a mask. Under it was a creature hopelessly
seared by failure, desperately longing and praying for success. On the day of the results he was,
inwardly, in a trembling suspense. 'Mother,' he said as he went out, 'don't expect me for dinner
tonight. I will eat something in a hotel and sit through both the shows at the Palace Talkies.'
Emerging from Vinayak Street, he saw a group of boys moving up the Market Road towards the
college. Someone asked: 'Iswaran, coming up to see the results?'
'Yes, yes, presently. But now I have to be going on an urgent business.'
'Where?'
'Palace Talkies.' At this all the boys laughed. 'You seem to know your results already. Do you?'
'I do. Otherwise do you think I would be celebrating it with a picture?'
'What is your number?'
'Seven-eight-five,' he said, giving the first set of numbers that came to his head. The group
passed on, joking, 'We know you are going to get a first-class this time.'
He sat in a far-off corner in the four-anna class. He looked about: not a single student in the
whole theatre. All the students of the town were near the Senate House, waiting for their
results. Iswaran felt very unhappy to be the only student in the whole theatre. Somehow fate
seemed to have isolated him from his fellow-beings in every respect. He felt very depressed
and unhappy. He felt an utter distaste for himself.
Soon the lights went out and the show started—a Tamil film with all the known gods in it. He
soon lost himself in the politics and struggles of gods and goddesses; he sat rapt in the vision of
a heavenly world which some film director had chosen to present. This felicity of forgetfulness
lasted but half an hour. Soon the heroine of the story sat on a low branch of a tree in paradise
and wouldn't move out of the place. She sat there singing a song for over half an hour. This
portion tired Iswaran, and now there returned all the old pains and gloom. 'Oh, lady,' Iswaran
appealed, 'don't add to my troubles, please move on.' As if she heard this appeal the lady
moved off, and brighter things followed. A battle, a deluge, somebody dropping headlong from
cloud-land, and somebody coming up from the bed of an ocean, a rain of fire, a rain of flowers,
people dying, people rising from graves and so on. All kinds of thrills occurred on that white
screen beyond the pall of tobacco smoke. The continuous babble on and off the screen, music
and shouting, the cry of pedlars selling soda, the unrestrained comments of the spectators—all
this din and commotion helped Iswaran to forget the Senate House and student life for a few
hours.
The show ended at ten o'clock in the night. A crowd was waiting at the gate for the night show.
Iswaran walked across to Ananda Bhavan—a restaurant opposite the Palace Talkies. The
proprietor, a genial Bombay man, was a friend of his and cried, 'Ishwar Sab, the results were
announced today. What about yours?'
'I did not write any examination this year,' Iswaran said.
'Why, why, I thought you paid your examination fees!'
Iswaran laughed. 'You are right. I have passed my Intermediate just this evening.'
'Ah, how very good. How clever you must be! If you pray to Hanuman he will always bring you
success. What are you going to do next?'
'I will go to a higher class, that is all,' Iswaran said. He ordered a few tidbits and coffee and rose
to go. As he paid his bill and walked out, the hotel proprietor said, 'Don't leave me out when
you are giving a dinner to celebrate your success.'
Iswaran again purchased a ticket and went back to the picture. Once more all strifes and
struggles and intrigues of gods were repeated before him. He was once again lost in it. When
he saw on the screen some young men of his age singing as they sported in the waters of some
distant heaven, he said, 'Well might you do it, boys. I suppose you have no examination where
you are . . .' And he was seized with a longing to belong to that world.
Now the leading lady sat on the low branch of a tree and started singing, and Iswaran lost
interest in the picture. He looked about for the first time. He noticed, in the semi-darkness,
several groups of boys in the hall—happy groups. He knew that they must all have seen their
results, and come now to celebrate their success. There were at least fifty. He knew that they
must be a happy and gay lot, with their lips red from chewing betel leaves. He knew that all of
them would focus their attention on him the moment the lights went up. They would all rag
him about his results—all the old tedious joking over again, and all the tiresome pose of a
desperado. He felt thoroughly sick of the whole business. He would not stand any more of
it—the mirthful faces of these men of success and their leers. He was certain they would all
look on him with the feeling that he had no business to seek the pleasure of a picture on that
day.
He moved on to a more obscure corner of the hall. He looked at the screen, nothing there to
cheer him: the leading lady was still there, and he knew she would certainly stay there for the
next twenty minutes singing her masterpiece . . . He was overcome with dejection. He rose,
silently edged towards the exit and was out of the theatre in a moment. He felt a loathing for
himself after seeing those successful boys. 'I am not fit to live. A fellow who cannot pass an
examination . . .' This idea developed in his mind—a glorious solution to all difficulties. Die and
go to a world where there were young men free from examination who sported in lotus pools
in paradise. No bothers, no disgusting Senate House wall to gaze on hopelessly, year after year.
This solution suddenly brought him a feeling of relief. He felt lighter. He walked across to the
hotel. The hotel man was about to rise and go to bed. 'Saitji,' Iswaran said, 'please forgive my
troubling you now. Give me a piece of paper and pencil. I have to note down something
urgently.' 'So late as this,' said the hotel man, and gave him a slip of paper and a pencil stub.
Iswaran wrote down a message for his father, folded the slip and placed it carefully in the inner
pocket of his coat.
He returned the pencil and stepped out of the hotel. He had only the stretch of the Race Course
Road, and, turning to his right, half the Market Road to traverse, and then Ellaman Street, and
then Sarayu . . . Its dark swirling waters would close on him and end all his miseries. 'I must
leave this letter in my coat pocket and remember to leave my coat on the river step,' he told
himself.
He was soon out of Ellaman Street. His feet ploughed through the sands of the riverbank. He
came to the river steps, removed his coat briskly and went down the steps. 'O God,' he
muttered with folded hands, looking up at his stars. 'If I can't pass an examination even with a
tenth attempt, what is the use of my living and disgracing the world?' His feet were in water.
He looked over his shoulder at the cluster of university buildings. There was a light burning on
the porch of the Senate House. It was nearing midnight. It was a quarter of an hour's walk. Why
not walk across and take a last look at the results board? In any case he was going to die, and
why should he shirk and tremble before the board?
He came out of the water and went up the steps, leaving his coat behind, and he walked across
the sand. Somewhere a time gong struck twelve, stars sparkled overhead, the river flowed on
with a murmur and miscellaneous night sounds emanated from the bushes on the bank. A cold
wind blew on his wet, sand-covered feet. He entered the Senate porch with a defiant heart. 'I
am in no fear of anything here,' he muttered. The Senate House was deserted, not a sound
anywhere. The whole building was in darkness, except the staircase landing, where a large bulb
was burning. And notice-boards hung on the wall.
His heart palpitated as he stood tiptoe to scan the results. By the light of the bulb he scrutinized
the numbers. His throat went dry. He looked through the numbers of people who had passed in
third-class. His own number was 501. The successful number before him was 498, and after
that 703. 'So I have a few friends on either side,' he said with a forced mirth. He had a wild
hope as he approached the Senate House that somehow his number would have found a place
in the list of successful candidates. He had speculated how he should feel after that . . . He
would rush home and demand that they take back all their comments with apologies. But now
after he gazed at the notice-board for quite a while, the grim reality of his failure dawned on
him: his number was nowhere. 'The river . . .' he said. He felt desolate, like a condemned man
who had a sudden but false promise of reprieve. 'The river,' Iswaran muttered. 'I am going,' he
told the notice-board, and moved a few steps. 'I haven't seen how many have obtained
honours.' He looked at the notice-board once again. He gazed at the top columns of the results.
First-classes—curiously enough a fellow with number one secured a first-class, and six others.
'Good fellows, wonder how they managed it!' he said with admiration. His eyes travelled down
to second-classes—it was in two lines starting with 98. There were about fifteen. He looked
fixedly at each number before going on to the next. He came to 350, after that 400, and after
that 501 and then 600.
'Five-nought-one in second-class! Can it be true?' he shrieked. He looked at the number again
and again. Yes, there it was. He had obtained a second-class. 'If this is true I shall sit in the B.A.
class next month,' he shouted. His voice rang through the silent building. 'I will flay alive anyone
who calls me a fool hereafter . . .' he proclaimed. He felt slightly giddy. He leant against the
wall. Years of strain and suspense were suddenly relaxed; and he could hardly bear the force of
this release. Blood raced along his veins and heaved and knocked under his skull. He steadied
himself with an effort. He softly hummed a tune to himself. He felt he was the sole occupant of
the world and its overlord. He thumped his chest and addressed the notice-board: 'Know who I
am?' He stroked an imaginary moustache arrogantly, laughed to himself and asked, 'Is the
horse ready, groom?' He threw a supercilious side glance at the notice-board and strutted out
like a king. He stood on the last step of the porch and looked for his steed. He waited for a
minute and commanded, 'Fool, bring the horse nearer. Do you hear?' The horse was brought
nearer. He made a movement as if mounting and whipped his horse into a fury. His voice rang
through the dark riverside, urging the horse on. He swung his arms and ran along the sands. He
shouted at the top of his voice: 'Keep off; the king is coming; whoever comes his way will be
trampled . . .'
'I have five hundred and one horses,' he spoke to the night. The number stuck in his mind and
kept coming up again and again. He ran the whole length of the riverbank up and down.
Somehow this did not satisfy him. 'Prime Minister,' he said, 'this horse is no good. Bring me the
other five hundred and one horses, they are all in second-classes—' He gave a kick to the horse
which he had been riding and drove it off. Very soon the Prime Minister brought him another
horse. He mounted it with dignity and said, 'This is better.' Now he galloped about on his horse.
It was a strange sight. In the dim starlight, alone at that hour, making a tap-tap with his tongue
to imitate galloping hoofs. With one hand swinging and tugging the reins, and with the other
stroking his moustache defiantly, he urged the horse on and on until it attained the speed of a
storm. He felt like a conqueror as the air rushed about him. Soon he crossed the whole stretch
of sand. He came to the water's edge, hesitated for a moment and whispered to his horse, 'Are
you afraid of water? You must swim across, otherwise I will never pay five-nought-one rupees
for you.' He felt the horse make a leap.
Next afternoon his body came up at a spot about a quarter of a mile down the course of the
river. Meanwhile, some persons had already picked up the coat left on the step and discovered
in the inner pocket the slip of paper with the inscription:
'My dear father: By the time you see this letter I shall be at the bottom of Sarayu. I don't want
to live. Don't worry about me. You have other sons who are not such dunces as I am—'
Chapter 9
SUCH PERFECTION
A sense of great relief filled Soma as he realized that his five years of labour were coming to an
end. He had turned out scores of images in his lifetime, but he had never done any work to
equal this. He often said to himself that long after the Deluge had swept the earth this Nataraja
would still be standing on His pedestal.
No other human being had seen the image yet. Soma shut himself in and bolted all the doors
and windows and plied his chisel by the still flame of a mud lamp, even when there was a bright
sun outside. It made him perspire unbearably, but he did not mind it so long as it helped him to
keep out prying eyes. He worked with a fierce concentration and never encouraged anyone to
talk about it.
After all, his labours had come to an end. He sat back, wiped the perspiration off his face and
surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. As he looked on he was overwhelmed by the
majesty of this image. He fell prostrate before it, praying, 'I have taken five years to make you.
May you reside in our temple and bless all human beings!' The dim mud flame cast subtle
shadows on the image and gave it an undertone of rippling life. The sculptor stood lost in this
vision. A voice said, 'My friend, never take this image out of this room. It is too perfect . . .'
Soma trembled with fear. He looked round. He saw a figure crouching in a dark corner of the
room—it was a man. Soma dashed forward and clutched him by the throat. 'Why did you come
here?' The other writhed under the grip and replied, 'Out of admiration for you. I have always
loved your work. I have waited for five years . . .'
'How did you come in?'
'With another key while you were eating inside . . .'
Soma gnashed his teeth. 'Shall I strangle you before this God and offer you as sacrifice?' 'By all
means,' replied the other, 'if it will help you in any way . . . but I doubt it. Even with a sacrifice
you cannot take it out. It is too perfect. Such perfection is not for mortals.' The sculptor wept.
'Oh, do not say that. I worked in secrecy only for this perfection. It is for our people. It is a God
coming into their midst. Don't deny them that.' The other prostrated before the image and
prayed aloud, 'God give us the strength to bear your presence . . .'
This man spoke to people and the great secret was out. A kind of dread seized the people of the
village. On an auspicious day, Soma went to the temple priest and asked, 'At the coming full
moon my Nataraja must be consecrated. Have you made a place for him in the temple?' The
priest answered, 'Let me see the image first . . .' He went over to the sculptor's house, gazed on
the image and said, 'This perfection, this God, is not for mortal eyes. He will blind us. At the first
chant of prayer before him, he will dance . . . and we shall be wiped out . . .' The sculptor looked
so unhappy that the priest added, 'Take your chisel and break a little toe or some other part of
the image, and it will be safe . . .' The sculptor replied that he would sooner crack the skull of
his visitor. The leading citizens of the village came over and said, 'Don't mistake us. We cannot
give your image a place in our temple. Don't be angry with us. We have to think of the safety of
all the people in the village . . . Even now if you are prepared to break a small finger . . .'
'Get out, all of you,' Soma shouted. 'I don't care to bring this Nataraja to your temple. I will
make a temple for him where he is. You will see that it becomes the greatest temple on earth . .
.' Next day he pulled down a portion of the wall of the room and constructed a large doorway
opening on the street. He called Rama, the tom-tom beater, and said, 'I will give you a silver
coin for your trouble. Go and proclaim in all nearby villages that this Nataraja will be
consecrated at the full moon. If a large crowd turns up, I will present you with a lace shawl.'
At the full moon, men, women and children poured in from the surrounding villages. There was
hardly an inch of space vacant anywhere. The streets were crammed with people. Vendors of
sweets and toys and flowers shouted their wares, moving about in the crowd. Pipers and
drummers, groups of persons chanting hymns, children shouting in joy, men greeting each
other—all this created a mighty din. Fragrance of flowers and incense hung over the place.
Presiding over all this there was the brightest moon that ever shone on earth.
The screen which had covered the image parted. A great flame of camphor was waved in front
of the image, and bronze bells rang. A silence fell upon the crowd. Every eye was fixed upon the
image. In the flame of the circling camphor Nataraja's eyes lit up. His limbs moved, his anklets
jingled. The crowd was awe-stricken. The God pressed one foot on earth and raised the other in
dance. He destroyed the universe under his heel, and smeared the ashes over his body, and the
same God rattled the drum in his hand and by its rhythm set life in motion again . . . Creation,
Dissolution and God attained a meaning now; this image brought it out . . . the bells rang louder
every second. The crowd stood stunned by this vision vouchsafed to them.
At this moment a wind blew from the east. The moon's disc gradually dimmed. The wind
gathered force, clouds blotted out the moon; people looked up and saw only pitchlike darkness
above. Lightning flashed, thunder roared and fire poured down from the sky. It was a
thunderbolt striking a haystack and setting it ablaze. Its glare illuminated the whole village.
People ran about in panic, searching for shelter. The population of ten villages crammed in that
village. Another thunderbolt hit a house. Women and children shrieked and wailed. The fires
descended with a tremendous hiss as a mighty rain came down. It rained as it had never rained
before. The two lakes, over which the village road ran, filled, swelled and joined over the road.
Water flowed along the streets. The wind screamed and shook the trees and the homes. 'This is
the end of the world!' wailed the people through the storm.
The whole of the next day it was still drizzling. Soma sat before the image, with his head bowed
in thought. Trays and flowers and offerings lay scattered under the image, dampened by rain.
Some of his friends came wading in water, stood before him and asked, 'Are you satisfied?'
They stood over him like executioners and repeated the question and added, 'Do you want to
know how many lives have been lost, how many homes washed out and how many were
crushed by the storm?'
'No, no, I don't want to know anything,' Soma replied. 'Go away. Don't stand here and talk.'
'God has shown us only a slight sign of his power. Don't tempt Him again. Do something. Our
lives are in your hands. Save us, the image is too perfect.'
After they were gone he sat for hours in the same position, ruminating. Their words still
troubled him. 'Our lives are in your hands.' He knew what they meant. Tears gathered in his
eyes. 'How can I mutilate this image? Let the whole world burn, I don't care. I can't touch this
image.' He lit a lamp before the God and sat watching. Far off the sky rumbled. 'It is starting
again. Poor human beings, they will all perish this time.' He looked at the toe of the image. 'Just
one neat stroke with the chisel, and all troubles will end.' He watched the toe, his hands
trembled. 'How can I?' Outside, the wind began to howl. People were gathering in front of his
house and were appealing to him for help.
Soma prostrated before the God and went out. He stood looking at the road over which the
two lakes had joined. Over the eastern horizon a dark mass of cloud was rolling up. 'When that
cloud comes over, it will wash out the world. Nataraja! I cannot mutilate your figure, but I can
offer myself as a sacrifice if it will be any use . . .' He shut his eyes and decided to jump into the
lake. He checked himself. 'I must take a last look at the God before I die.' He battled his way
through the oncoming storm. The wind shrieked. Trees shook and trembled. Men and cattle ran
about in panic.
He was back just in time to see a tree crash on the roof of his house. 'My home,' he cried, and
ran in. He picked up his Nataraja from amidst splintered tiles and rafters. The image was unhurt
except for a little toe which was found a couple of yards off, severed by a falling splinter.
'God himself has done this to save us!' people cried.
The image was installed with due ceremonies at the temple on the next full moon. Wealth and
honours were showered on Soma. He lived to be ninety-five, but he never touched his mallet
and chisel again.