Malgudi Days (5 page)

‘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.

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 . . .'