Malgudi Days (22 page)

After dinner Leela ran to her bed. Sidda had to be ready with a story. He sat down on the floor near the bed and told incomparable stories: of animals in the jungle, of gods in heaven, of magicians who could conjure up golden castles and fill them with little princesses and their pets . . .

Day by day she clung closer to him. She insisted upon having his company all her waking hours. She was at his side when he was working in the garden or chopping wood, and accompanied him when he was sent on errands.

One evening he went out to buy sugar and Leela went with him. When they came home, Leela's mother noticed that a gold chain Leela had been wearing was missing. ‘Where is your chain?' Leela looked into her shirt, searched and said, ‘I don't know.' Her mother gave her a slap and said, ‘How many times have I told you to take it off and put it in the box?'

‘Sidda, Sidda!' she shouted a moment later. As Sidda came in, Leela's mother threw a glance at him and thought the fellow already looked queer. She asked him about the chain. His throat went dry. He blinked and answered that he did not know. She mentioned the police and shouted at him. She had to go back into the kitchen for a moment because she had left something in the oven. Leela followed her, whining, ‘Give me some sugar, Mother, I am hungry.' When they came out again and called, ‘Sidda, Sidda!' there was no answer. Sidda had vanished into the night.

Mr Sivasanker came home an hour later, grew very excited over all this, went to the police station and lodged a complaint.

After her meal Leela refused to go to bed. ‘I won't sleep unless Sidda comes and tells me stories . . . I don't like you, Mother. You are always abusing and worrying Sidda. Why are you so rough?'

‘But he has taken away your chain . . .'

‘Let him. It doesn't matter. Tell me a story.'

‘Sleep, sleep,' said Mother, attempting to make her lie down on her lap.

‘Tell me a story, Mother,' Leela said. It was utterly impossible for her mother to think of a story now. Her mind was disturbed. The thought of Sidda made her panicky. The fellow, with his knowledge of the household, might come in at night and loot. She shuddered to think what a villain she had been harbouring all these days. It was God's mercy that he hadn't killed the child for the chain . . . ‘Sleep, Leela, sleep,' she cajoled.

‘Can't you tell the story of the elephant?' Leela asked.

‘No.'

Leela made a noise of deprecation and asked, ‘Why should not Sidda sit in our chair, Mother?' Mother didn't answer the question. Leela said a moment later, ‘Sidda is gone because he wouldn't be allowed to sleep inside the house just as we do. Why should he always be made to sleep outside the house, Mother? I think he is angry with us, Mother.'

By the time Sivasanker returned, Leela had fallen asleep. He said, ‘What a risk we took in engaging that fellow. It seems he is an old criminal. He has been in jail half a dozen times for stealing jewellery from children. From the description I gave, the inspector was able to identify him in a moment.'

‘Where is he now?' asked the wife.

‘The police know his haunts. They will pick him up very soon, don't worry. The inspector was furious that I didn't consult him before employing him . . .'

Four days later, just as Father was coming home from the office, a police inspector and a constable brought in Sidda. Sidda stood with bowed head. Leela was overjoyed. ‘Sidda! Sidda!' she cried, and ran down the steps to meet him.

‘Don't go near him,' the inspector said, stopping her.

‘Why not?'

‘He is a thief. He has taken away your gold chain.'

‘Let him. I will have a new chain,' Leela said, and all of them laughed. And then Mr Sivasanker spoke to Sidda; and then his wife addressed him with a few words on his treachery. They then asked him where he had put the chain.

‘I have not taken it,' Sidda said feebly, looking at the ground.

‘Why did you run away without telling us?' asked Leela's mother. There was no answer.

Leela's face became red. ‘Oh, policemen, leave him alone. I want to play with him.'

‘My dear child,' said the police inspector, ‘he is a thief.'

‘Let him be,' Leela replied haughtily.

‘What a devil you must be to steal a thing from such an innocent child!' remarked the inspector. ‘Even now it is not too late. Return it. I will let you off, provided you promise not to do such a thing again.' Leela's father and mother, too, joined in this appeal. Leela felt disgusted with the whole business and said, ‘Leave him alone, he hasn't taken the chain.'

‘You are not at all a reliable prosecution witness, my child,' observed the inspector humorously.

‘No, he hasn't taken it!' Leela screamed.

Her father said, ‘Baby, if you don't behave, I will be very angry with you.'

Half an hour later the inspector said to the constable, ‘Take him to the station. I think I shall have to sit with him tonight.' The constable took Sidda by the hand and turned to go. Leela ran behind them crying, ‘Don't take him. Leave him here, leave him here.' She clung to Sidda's hand. He looked at her mutely, like an animal. Mr Sivasanker carried Leela back into the house. Leela was in tears.

Every day when Mr Sivasanker came home he was asked by his wife, ‘Any news of the jewel?' and by his daughter, ‘Where is Sidda?'

‘They still have him in the lockup, though he is very stubborn and won't say anything about the jewel,' said Mr Sivasanker.

‘Bah! What a rough fellow he must be!' said his wife with a shiver.

‘Oh, these fellows who have been in jail once or twice lose all fear. Nothing can make them confess.'

A few days later, putting her hand into the tamarind pot in the kitchen, Leela's mother picked up the chain. She took it to the tap and washed off the coating of tamarind on it. It was unmistakably Leela's chain. When it was shown to her, Leela said, ‘Give it here. I want to wear the chain.'

‘How did it get into the tamarind pot?' Mother asked.

‘Somehow,' replied Leela.

‘Did you put it in?' asked Mother.

‘Yes.'

‘When?'

‘Long ago, the other day,'

‘Why didn't you say so before?'

‘I don't know,' said Leela.

When Father came home and was told, he said, ‘The child must not have any chain hereafter. Didn't I tell you that I saw her carrying it in her hand once or twice? She must have dropped it into the pot sometime . . . And all this bother on account of her.'

‘What about Sidda?' asked Mother.

‘I will tell the inspector tomorrow . . . in any case, we couldn't have kept a criminal like him in the house.'

Ramu's mother waited till he was halfway through dinner and then introduced the subject of marriage. Ramu merely replied, ‘So you are at it again!' He appeared more amused than angry, and so she brought out her favourite points one by one: her brother's daughter was getting on to fourteen, the girl was good-looking and her brother was prepared to give a handsome dowry; she (Ramu's mother) was getting old and wanted a holiday from housekeeping: she might die any moment and then who would cook Ramu's food and look after him? And the most indisputable argument: a man's luck changed with marriage. ‘The harvest depends not on the hand that holds the plough but on the hand which holds the pot.' Earlier in the evening Ramu's mother had decided that if he refused again or exhibited the usual sullenness at the mention of marriage, she would leave him to his fate; she would leave him absolutely alone even if she saw him falling down before a coming train. She would never more interfere in his affairs. She realized what a resolute mind she possessed, and felt proud of the fact. That was the kind of person one ought to be. It was all very well having a mother's heart and so on, but even a mother could have a limit to her feelings. If Ramu thought he could do what he pleased just because she was only a mother, she would show him he was mistaken. If he was going to slight her judgement and feelings, she was going to show how indifferent she herself could be . . .

With so much preparation she broached the subject of marriage and presented a formidable array of reasons. But Ramu just brushed them aside and spoke slightingly of the appearance of her brother's daughter. And then she announced, ‘This is the last time I am speaking about this. Hereafter I will leave you alone. Even if I see you drowning I will never ask why you are drowning. Do you understand?'

‘Yes.' Ramu brooded. He could not get through his Intermediate even at the fourth attempt; he could not get a job, even at twenty rupees a month. And here was Mother worrying him to marry. Of all girls, his uncle's! That protruding tooth alone would put off any man. It was incredible that he should be expected to marry that girl. He had always felt that when he married he would marry a girl like Rezia, whom he had seen in two or three Hindi films. Life was rusty and sterile, and Ramu lived in a stage of perpetual melancholia and depression; he loafed away his time, or slept, or read old newspapers in a free reading room . . .

He now sat before his dining leaf and brooded. His mother watched him for a moment and said, ‘I hate your face. I hate anyone who sits before his leaf with that face. A woman only ten days old in widowhood would put on a more cheerful look.'

‘You are saying all sorts of things because I refuse to marry your brother's daughter,' he replied.

‘What do I care? She is a fortunate girl and will get a really decent husband.' Ramu's mother hated him for his sullenness. It was this gloomy look that she hated in people. It was unbearable. She spoke for a few minutes, and he asked, ‘When are you going to shut up?'

‘My life is nearly over,' said the mother. ‘You will see me shutting up once and for all very soon. Don't be impatient. You ask me to shut up! Has it come to this?'

‘Well, I only asked you to give me some time to eat.'

‘Oh, yes. You will have it soon, my boy. When I am gone you will have plenty of time, my boy.'

Ramu did not reply. He ate his food in silence. ‘I only want you to look a little more human when you eat,' she said.

‘How is it possible with this food?' asked Ramu.

‘What do you say?' screamed the mother. ‘If you are so fastidious, work and earn like all men. Throw down the money and demand what you want. Don't command when you are a pauper.'

When the meal was over, Ramu was seen putting on his sandals. ‘Where are you going?' asked the mother.

‘Going out,' he curtly replied, and walked out, leaving the street door ajar.

Her duties for the day were over. She had scrubbed the floor of the kitchen, washed the vessels and put them in a shining row on the wooden shelf, returned the short scrubbing broom to its corner and closed the kitchen window.

Taking the lantern and closing the kitchen door, she came to the front room. The street door stood ajar. She became indignant at her son's carelessness. The boy was indifferent and irresponsible and didn't feel bound even to shut the street door. Here she was wearing out her palm scrubbing the floor night after night. Why should she slave if he was indifferent? He was old enough to realize his responsibilities in life.

She took out her small wooden box and put into her mouth a clove, a cardamom and a piece of areca nut. Chewing these, she felt more at peace with life. She shut the door without bolting it and lay down to sleep.

Where could Ramu have gone? She began to feel uneasy. She rolled her mat, went out, spread it on the
pyol
and lay down. She muttered to herself the holy name of Sri Rama in order to keep out disturbing thoughts. She went on whispering, ‘Sita Rama Rama . . .' But she ceased unconsciously. Her thoughts returned to Ramu. What did he say before going out? ‘I am just going out for a stroll, Mother. Don't worry. I shall be back soon.' No, it was not that. Not he. Why was the boy so secretive about his movements? That was impudent and exasperating. But, she told herself, she deserved no better treatment with that terrible temper and cutting tongue of hers. There was no doubt that she had conducted herself abominably during the meal. All her life this had been her worst failing: this tendency, while in a temper, to talk without restraint. She even felt that her husband would have lived for a few more years if she had spoken to him less . . . Ramu had said something about the food. She would include more vegetables and cook better from tomorrow. Poor boy . . .

She fell asleep. Somewhere a gong sounded one, and she woke up. One o'clock? She called, ‘Ramu, Ramu.'

She did not dare to contemplate what he might have done with himself. Gradually she came to believe that her words during the meal had driven him to suicide. She sat up and wept. She was working herself up to a hysterical pitch. When she closed her eyes to press out the gathering tears, the vision of her son's body floating in Kukanahalli Tank came before her. His striped shirt and mill dhoti were sodden and clung close to his body. His sandals were left on one of the tank steps. His face was bloated beyond all recognition.

She screamed aloud and jumped down from the
pyol.
She ran along the whole length of Old Agrahar Street. It was deserted. Electric lights twinkled here and there. Far away a
tonga
was rattling on, the
tonga
-driver's song faintly disturbing the silence; the blast of a night constable's whistle came to her ears, and she stopped running. She realized that after all it might be only her imagination. He might have gone away to the drama, which didn't usually close before three in the morning. She rapidly uttered the holy name of Sri Rama in order to prevent the picture of Kukanahalli Tank coming before her mind.