Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (13 page)

‘Will you take me to Lawley Extension?’ Srinivas repeated. He looked at Srinivas doubtfully. ‘Oh, yes, master. What will you give me?’

‘Eight annas,’ Srinivas said without conviction. Without a word the
jutka-man
flicked the whip on the horse’s haunch, and it moved forward. Srinivas watched it for a moment, and started walking down the South Road. The
jutka
driver halted his carriage, looked back and shouted: ‘Will you give me fourteen annas?’ Srinivas stared at him for a second, scorned to give him a reply and passed on. ‘I would rather get burnt in the sun than have any transaction with these fellows,’ he muttered to himself. A little later he heard once again the voice of the
jutka-man
hailing him: ‘Sir, will you give me at least twelve annas? Do you know how horse-gram is selling now?’ Srinivas shouted back: ‘I don’t want to get into
your jutka
, even if you are going to carry me free,’ and walked resolutely on. He felt indignant. ‘The fellow would not even stop and haggle, but goes away and talks to me on second thoughts!’ He felt surprised at his own indignation. ‘There must be a touch of the sun in my head, I suppose. The poor fellow wants an anna or two more and I’m behaving like a –’ His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of carriage wheels behind him; he turned and saw the
jutka
pulling up close at his heels. The
jutka
driver, an unshaven ruffian, salaamed with one hand and said, rather hurt: ‘You uttered a very big word, master.’ Srinivas was taken aback. ‘I say, won’t you leave me alone?’ ‘No, master. I’m fifty years old and I have sat at the driver’s seat ever since I can remember. You could give me the worst horse, and I could manage it.’

‘That’s all very well, but what has that to do with me?’ Srinivas asked unhappily, and tried to proceed on his way. The
jutka
driver would not let him go. He cried ill-temperedly: ‘What do you mean, sir, by going away?’ Srinivas hesitated, not knowing what to do. ‘Why is this man pestering me?’ he reflected. ‘The picture will be complete if my landlord also joins in the fray with
petitions about his granddaughter.’ The
jutka
driver insisted: ‘What have you to say, master? I’ve never been spoken to by a single fare in all my life –’ And he patted his heart dramatically. ‘And this will never know sleep or rest till it gets a good word from you again. You have said very harsh things about me, sir.’ Srinivas wondered for a moment what he should do. It was getting late for him; this man would not let him go nor take him into his vehicle. The sun was relentless. He told
the jutka
driver: ‘I’m a man of few words, and whatever I say once is final….’

‘Sir, sir, please have pity on a poor man. The price of grass and horse-gram have gone up inhumanly.’

‘I will give you ten annas.’

‘Master’s will,’ said the
jutka-man
, dusting the seat of the carriage. Srinivas heaved himself up and climbed in, the horse trotted along, and the wheels, iron bound, clattered on the granite. The carriage had its good old fragrance – of green grass, which was spread out on the floor, covered with a gunny-sack for passengers to sit upon. The smell of the grass and the
jutka
brought back to his mind his boyhood at Talapur. His father occasionally let him ride with him in
the jutka
when he went to the district court. He sat beside their driver, who let him hold the reins or flourish the whip if there were no elders about, when the carriage returned home after dropping his father at the court. Some day it was going to be made quite a stylish affair with shining brass fittings and leather seats, but it remained, as far as he could remember, grass-spread, gunny-sack covered. The driver of that carriage used to be an equally rough-looking man called Muni, very much like the man who was driving now. Srinivas wondered whether it could be the same person. It seemed so long ago – centuries ago – yet it was as if here once again was the same person, his age arrested at a particular stage. Somehow the sight of the hirsute, rough-looking driver gave him a feeling of permanence and stability in life – the sort of sensation engendered by the sight of an old banyan tree or a rock. The smell of the grass filled him with a sudden homesickness for Talapur. He decided to make use of the present lull in activities to visit his ancient home. The driver went on repeating: ‘The price of gram is – Master must have mercy on a poor man like me.’

At Lawley Extension the driver stopped his horse and grumbled at the prospect of having to go half a mile farther to New Extension. ‘I clearly heard you say Lawley Extension, master.’ Srinivas edged towards the foothold. ‘All right, then, I will get down and walk the rest of the distance.’ The driver became panicky. He almost dragged him back to his seat, pleading: ‘Master has a quick temper. Don’t discredit me,’ and whipped the horse forward. He went on to say: ‘If only grass sold as it used to I would carry a person of your eminence for four annas … as it is, I heard you distinctly say Lawley Extension. You had better tell me, sir, would anyone quote fourteen annas for New Extension? Please tell me, sir; you are a learned person, sir; please tell me yourself, sir … Horse-gram –’

Sampath’s house was at the third cross-road; he was standing at the gate of a small villa. Sampath let out a cry of welcome on seeing Srinivas and ran forward to meet him. Srinivas halted the
jutka
, paid him off briskly, and jumped out of the carriage. ‘I was not certain of your door number, though I knew the road.’ Broad roads and cross-roads, fields of corn stretching away towards the west, and the trunk road bounding the east, with the bungalows of Lawley Extension beyond; one seemed able to see the blue sky for the first time here. ‘What a lovely area!’ Srinivas exclaimed.

‘Yes, it looks all right, but if your business is in the town it is hell, I tell you. All your time is taken up in going to and fro.’

‘What a fine bungalow!’ Srinivas exclaimed.

‘Yes, but I live in the backyard in an outhouse. The owner lives in this.’

He led him along a sidewalk to the backyard. On the edge of the compound there was an outhouse with a gabled front, a veranda screened with bamboo-trellis, and two rooms. It was the printer’s house. Srinivas felt rather disappointed at seeing him in his setting now, having always imagined that he lived in great style. The printer hurriedly cleared the veranda for his visitor; he rolled up a mat in great haste, kicked a roll of bedding out of sight, told some children playing there: ‘Get in! Get in!’ and dragged a chair hither and thither for Srinivas and a stool for himself. Srinivas noted a small table at the further end littered
with children’s books and slates; a large portrait hung on the wall of a man with side whiskers, wearing a tattered felt hat, with a long pipe sticking out of a corner of his mouth. His face seemed familiar, and Srinivas was wondering where he might have met him. The printer followed his eyes and said: ‘Do you recognize the portrait? Look at me closely.’ Srinivas observed his face. ‘Is that your picture?’

‘Yes. You don’t know perhaps that side of me. But I have not always been a printer. In fact, my heart has always been in makeup, costumes, and the stage – that was in those days. Lately I have not had much time for it. But even now no amateur drama is ever put on without me in it, and what a worry it is for me to squeeze in a little hour at the rehearsal, after shutting the printing office for the day.’ He became reflective and morose at this thought, then abruptly sprang up and dashed inside and returned in a few minutes.

Srinivas guessed his mission indoors and said: ‘I’m not in need of coffee now. Why do you worry your people at home?’ The printer said: ‘Oh! Is that so?’ and addressed loudly someone inside the house: ‘Here! Our editor doesn’t want you to be troubled for coffee; so don’t bother.’ He turned to Srinivas and said: ‘Well, sir, I’ve conveyed your request. I hope you are satisfied.’ Presently Srinivas heard footsteps in the hall; someone was trying to draw the attention of the printer from behind the door. The printer looked round with a grin and said: ‘Eh? What do you say? I can’t follow you if you are going to talk to me in those signals. Why don’t you come out of hiding? Are you a
Ghosha
woman?’ He giggled at the discomfiture of the other person at the door, and then got up and went over. A whispered conversation went on for a while and then the printer stepped out and said: ‘Well, sir, my wife is not agreeable to your proposition. She insists upon your taking coffee as well as tiffin now. She has asked me how I can disgrace our family tradition by repeating what you said about coffee.’ He looked at the door merrily and said: ‘Kamala, meet our editor.’ The person thus addressed took a long time in coming, and the printer urged: ‘What is the matter with you, behaving like an orthodox old crone of seventy-five, dodging behind doors and going into
Purdha
. Come on, come here, there
is no harm in showing yourself Srinivas murmured: ‘Oh, why do you trouble her?’ and stepped forward in order to save the lady the trouble of coming out. ‘This is my wife,’ the printer said, and Srinivas brought his hands together and saluted her. She returned it awkwardly, blushing and fidgety. She was a frail person of about thirty-five, neither good-looking nor bad-looking, very short, and wearing a
sari
of faded red, full of smoke and kitchen grime. She was nervously wiping her hands with the end of her
sari
, and Srinivas stood before her, not knowing what to say; an awkward silence reigned. The printer said: ‘Very well, good woman, you may go now,’ and his wife turned to go in with great relief, while Srinivas resumed his seat.

In a short while a tender voice called:
‘Appa, Appa,’
and the printer looked at the door and said: ‘Come here, darling, what do you want?’ A child, a girl of about four, came through, climbed on to his knee, approached his right ear and whispered into it. ‘All right, bring the stuff down. Let us see how you are all going to serve this uncle,’ pointing at Srinivas. The child went in with a smile, and came back with a tumbler of water and set it on the stool; it was followed by another child bringing another tumbler. The second child was slightly older. She complained: ‘Look at Radhu; she will not let me carry anything.’ The printer patted their backs and said: ‘Hush! You must not fight. All of you try and bring one each.’ He turned to Srinivas and said: ‘Would you like to wash your hands?’ Srinivas picked up the tumbler, went to the veranda steps and washed his hands, drying them on his handkerchief

Now he found a sort of procession entering – a procession formed by four children, all daughters, ranging from nine to three, each carrying a plate or tumbler of something and setting it on a table and vying with each other in service. The small table was littered with plates. The printer dragged it into position before Srinivas and said: ‘Well, honour me, sir –’

‘What a worry for your wife, doing all this,’ Srinivas said apologetically.

‘She has got to do it in any case, sir. We’ve five children at home, and they constantly nag her – so this is no extra bother. Please don’t worry yourself on that score.’

After the tiffin and coffee the printer cleared the table himself and came out bearing on his arm a small child under two years, who had not till then appeared. Srinivas, by a look at the child, understood that it must be the one the artist would not draw. ‘Is this your last child?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I hope it is,’ the printer said, and added: ‘I’m very fond of this fellow, being my first son. I wanted that artist to draw a picture of him. I don’t know, he is somehow delaying and won’t show me anything –’

‘Artists are difficult to deal with. They can’t do a thing unless the right time comes for it.’

‘I thought it would be so nice to hang up a sketch of this boy on the wall …’ Srinivas wondered for a brief second if he could tell him the truth, but dismissed the idea. ‘Well, we will have some entertainment now,’ he said. He called: ‘Radhu!’ and the young child came up. He said: ‘Come on, darling, this uncle wants to see you dance. Call your sisters.’ She looked happy at the prospect of a demonstration and called immediately: ‘Sister! Chelli –’ and a number of other names till all the four gathered. She said: ‘Father wants us to dance.’ The eldest looked shy and grumbled, at which their father said: ‘Come on, come on, don’t be shy – fetch that harmonium.’ A harmonium was presently placed on his lap. He pressed its bellow and the keys. The children assembled on a mat and asked: ‘What shall we do, Father?’ darting eager glances at their visitor. He thought it over and said: ‘Well, anything you like, that thing about Krishna –’ He pressed a couple of keys to indicate the tune. The eldest said with a wry face: ‘Oh, that! We will do something else, Father.’

‘All right, as you please. Sing that –’ He suggested another song. Another child said, ‘Oh, Father, we will do the Krishna one, Father.’

‘All right.’ And the printer pressed the keys of the harmonium accordingly. There were protests and counter-protests, and they stood arguing till the printer lost his temper and cried arbitrarily: ‘Will you do that Krishna song or not?’ And that settled it. His fingers ran over the harmonium keys. Presently his voice accompanied the tune with a song – a song of God Krishna and the cowherds: all of them at their boyish pranks, all of them the incarnation of a celestial group, engaging themselves in a divine
game. The children sang and went round each other, and the words and the tune created a pasture land with cows grazing under a bright sun, the cowherds watching from a tree branch and Krishna conjuring up a new vision for them with his magic flute. It seemed to Srinivas a profound enchantment provided by the father and the daughters. And their mother watched it unobtrusively from behind the door with great pride.

Srinivas was somehow a little saddened by the performance; there was something pathetic in the attempt to do anything in this drab, ill-fitting background. He felt tears very nearly coming to his eyes. Two more song and dance acts followed in the same strain. Srinivas felt an oppression in his chest, and began to wish that the performance would stop; the printer pumping the harmonium on his lap, the bundles of unwashed clothes pushed into a corner, and the children themselves clad uniformly in some cheap grey skirt and shirts and looking none too bright – it all seemed too sad for words. There was another song, describing the divine dance of Shiva: the printer’s voice was at its loudest, and the thin voice of the children joined in a chorus. Just at this moment someone appeared in the doorway and said: ‘Master says he can’t sleep. Wants you to stop the music’ An immediate silence fell upon the gathering. The printer looked confused for a moment and then said: ‘H’m – seal up your master’s doors and windows if he wants to sleep – don’t come here for it. I’m not selling sleep here.’ The servant turned and went away. Srinivas felt uncomfortable, wondering whether he were witnessing a very embarrassing scene. The printer turned to Srinivas: ‘My landlord! Because he has given me this house he thinks he can order us about!’ He laughed as if to cover the situation. He told the children: ‘All right, you finish this dance, darlings.’ He resumed his harmonium and singing, and the children followed it once again as if nothing had happened. It went on for another fifteen minutes, and then he put away the harmonium. ‘Well, children, now go. Don’t go and drink water now, immediately.’ Srinivas felt some compliment was due to them and said: ‘Who taught them all this?’