On the first of the following month Srinivas was wondering to whom he should pay the rent. He had not long to wonder, for a stranger turned up at 6.30 a.m. and woke him. Srinivas opened the front door and saw a middle-aged man, wearing a close alpaca coat and a turban. He remembered seeing the same turban and coat somewhere else and then suddenly saw as in a flash that he had seen his old landlord wear it on the day he was present at the inauguration of their film. Srinivas concluded there was some connexion between this visitor and the old man. He had a pinched face and sharp nose and wore a pair of glasses. ‘I’m Raghuram, the eldest son-in-law of your landlord. I’ve come for the rent.’ Srinivas took him in and seated him on a mat, though he was still sleepy. He wondered for a moment if he might send the man away, asking him to return later, while snatching a further instalment of sleep. But his nature would not perpetrate such a piece of rudeness. He sat the man on a mat, and in about fifteen minutes returned to him ready for the meeting.
The stranger said: ‘My name is … and I’m the eldest son-in-law of your late landlord. My father-in-law has assigned this property to my wife, and I shall be glad to have the rent.’
‘How is it I have never seen you before?’ asked Srinivas.
‘You see, my father-in-law was a peculiar man, and we thought it best to leave him alone: he must always go his own way. We’d asked him to come and stop with us, but he did what he pleased.’
‘He used to tell me about you all, but he said he had a daughter in Karachi.’
‘That is the next sister to my wife. I came early because I didn’t know when else to find you.’ He looked about uncertainly, eagerly awaiting the coming of the cash. Srinivas did not know how to decide. He went in and consulted his wife as she was scrubbing a brass vessel in the backyard. ‘The old man’s son-in-law is here; he will be our landlord now. He has come for rent. Shall I give it him?’
‘Certainly,’ she said, not liking to be interrupted in this job she liked so much. She would give her consent to anything at such a moment. ‘Ask him when he is going to give us an independent tap.’ Srinivas returned, opened an almirah, took out a tiny wooden box, and out of it six five-rupee notes. He put it into his hand. ‘Do you want a receipt?’ he asked. He pulled out a receipt book, filled it up and gave it to Srinivas. Srinivas said: ‘You have to give us an independent water-tap.’ ‘Haven’t you got one? Surely, surely – of course I must give you one, and’ – he surveyed the walls and the ceiling –’yes, we must do everything that’s convenient for our tenants.’
During the day, as he sat working in the office, another visitor came – a younger person of about thirty-five. ‘You are Mr Srinivas?’ he asked timidly, panting with the effort to climb the staircase. He was a man of slight build, wearing a khadar jiba, and his neck stood out like a giraffe’s. Srinivas directed him to a chair. He sat twisting his button and said: ‘I’m a teacher in the corporation high school. I’m your late landlord’s son-in-law. My wife has become the owner of this property. I’ve come for the rent.’
Srinivas showed him the receipt. The visitor was greatly confused on seeing it. ‘What does he mean by coming and snatching away the rent in this way?’ He got up abruptly and said: ‘I can’t understand these tricks! My daughter was his favourite, and he set apart all his property for her, if it was going to be for anyone.’
Your daughter is the one studying in the school?’
He was greatly pleased to hear it. ‘Oh, you know about it, then!’ He went back to the chair. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial pitch and asked: ‘I say, you will help me, won’t you?’
‘In what way?’
He rolled his eyes significantly and reduced his speech to a whisper as he said: ‘My daughter was his one favourite in life. He mentioned an amount he had set apart for her marriage. Has he ever mentioned it to you?’ He waited with bated breath for Srinivas’s reply, who was debating within himself whether to speak to him about it or not. Srinivas said finally: ‘Yes, he mentioned it once or twice,’ unable to practise any duplicity in the matter. The visitor became jumpy on hearing it. His eyes bulged with eager anticipation.
‘Where did he keep this amount?’ he asked.
‘That I can’t say,’ replied Srinivas. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’
The other became desperate and pleaded: ‘Don’t let me down, sir, please help me.’
Srinivas looked sympathetic. ‘How can I say anything about it? He mentioned the matter once or twice – I really don’t know anything more.’
‘I hear that he has all his money in the Post Office Savings Bank. Is it true?’ Srinivas had once again to shake his head. He could not help adding: ‘It is difficult to get any money, even of living people, out of the Post Office Savings Bank!’
‘Oh, what shall I do about my daughter’s marriage?’ the visitor asked sullenly. He looked so concerned and unhappy that Srinivas felt obliged to say: ‘If he had lived a little longer, I am sure he would have done everything for your daughter. He was so fond of her.’
‘Just my luck,’ the other said, and beat his brow. ‘Why should he have held up his arrangements?’ He complained against sudden death, as if it were a part of the old man’s cunning, and looked completely disgusted with the old man’s act of dying. He got up and said: ‘I will look into it. Till then, please don’t pay the rent to anyone else.’ He took a step or two, then returned and said: ‘He used to confide in Mr Sampath. Do you think he will be any use and tell us something?’
‘Well, you can try him. He will probably be downstairs. You can see him as you go.’
Towards evening yet another person came: a tall man, who introduced himself as the eldest son of the old man.
‘I know my father wrote a will. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Sorry, no …’
The man looked pleased. ‘That’s right. He wrote only one will and that is with me. If anyone else starts any stunt about any codicils I shall know how to deal with them. It’s a pity you have paid the rent for this month. After this don’t pay it to anyone else till you hear from me.’ Yet another called on him next morning, demanding the rent and a hidden will, and Srinivas began to wonder if he would ever be able to do anything else than answer these people for the rest of his life. ‘I hear,’ said this latest visitor, ‘that he has put everything in the Car Street Post Office Savings Bank. How are we to get at it? He has left no instructions about it.’ All this seemed to Srinivas a futile involvement in life. ‘Where were all these people before this? Where have they sprung from?’ he wondered.
He decided to get clear of their company and its problems, and started looking for a house. But Malgudi being what it was, he could not get another. He forgot that if such a thing were possible he would not have become a tenant of the old man at all, and so he wasted a complete week in searching for a house. His wife had meanwhile become so enthusiastic about it and looked forward to a change with such eagerness that every evening when he came home her first question at the door was: ‘What about the house?’
‘Doesn’t seem to be much use; tomorrow I must try Grove Street and Vinayak Street. And after that –’ She became crestfallen. Mentally she had accommodated herself in a better house already, and now it seemed to her impossible to live in this house any more. She found everything intolerable: the walls were dirty and not straight, plaster was crumbling and threatening to fall into all the cooked food; the rafters were sooty and dark, the floor was full of cracks and harboured vermin and deadly insects, and, above all, there was a single tap to draw water from. Srinivas listened to her troubles and felt helpless. His son added to the trouble by cataloguing some of his own experiences: ‘Do you know, when I was bathing, a tile fell off the roof on my head? There is a pit in the backyard into which I saw a scorpion go,’ and so on. They had both made up their minds to quit. The relations of the old man also drove him to the same decision. But no house was available. What could anyone do? He confided his trouble to Sampath. ‘We shall manage it e
asily,’ Sampath said, very happy to be set any new task.
The final version of the will which the old man was supposed to have made proved to be a blessing for the moment. When one of the relatives came next, Sampath neither accepted nor denied knowledge of the matter, and very soon had all of them running after him. ‘We shall have to convene a lost-will conference,’ he said. He was nearly in his old form, and Srinivas was delighted to notice it. Through his finery and tidiness an old light came back to his eyes.
He got the half-dozen relatives sitting around Srinivas’s table on a Saturday afternoon. They threw poisoned looks at each other; not one of them seemed to be on speaking terms with the others. Sampath said unexpectedly in a voice full of solemnity: ‘We are all gathered today to honour the memory of a noble master.’ They could not easily dispute the statement. ‘I have had the special honour of being in his confidence. I’ve had the privilege of learning the secrets of truth. Even in mundane matters, I think, I was one of the few to whom he opened his heart…’ Here they looked at each other darkly. ‘I must acknowledge my indebtedness to our Srinivas, our editor, for introducing me to the old gentleman.’ They once again looked at each other darkly. He added vaguely: ‘Let us now pull together – his relations and sons and friends – and do something to cherish the memory of this great soul; that we can do by treating each other liberally and charitably.’ Srinivas was amazed at Sampath’s eloquence. Presently he came down to practical facts. ‘He has left us his houses, his money in the post office, and all the rest that may be his. No doubt, if he had had the slightest inkling of what was coming, he might have made some arrangements for the distribution of his worldly goods. But this I doubt, for after all, for such a saintly man, worldly goods were only an impediment in life and nothing more. He used to quote an old verse:
“When I become a handful of ash what do I care who takes my purse,
Who counts my coins and who locks the door of my safe,
When my bones lie bleaching, what matter if the door of my house is left unlocked?”
‘However, this is a digression. Now it is up to us to decide what we should do. Here is Srinivas and my other friend Ravi in a portion of the house in Anderson Lane, among the tenants I have most in mind. Now the position is that our editor does not know to whom he should pay the rent.’ A babble arose. Sampath silenced them with a gesture and said: ‘It’s certainly going to someone or everyone; that I don’t dispute. It will certainly be decided very soon, but till then, where is he to pay the monthly rent, since he is a man who does not like to keep back a just due?’
‘That question is settled,’ said several voices. Sampath made an impatient gesture and then said without any apparent meaning: ‘Yes, as far as everyone of us is concerned. But where is a tenant to pay in his rent till the question is established beyond a shadow of doubt? My proposal is that till this is established my friends will pay their monthly rents into a Savings Bank account to be specially opened.’ There were fierce murmurs on hearing this, and Sampath declared: ‘This is the reason why my friend wants to move to another house. He says “How can I live in a house over which people fight?”’ And he paused to watch the effect of this threat on the gathering. They looked bewildered. They need not have been. But somehow, since the remark was delivered as a threat, they were half frightened by it. ‘You cannot afford to lose an old, valued tenant,’ Sampath added, driving the threat home.
‘No, no, we do not want to disturb him,’ they all said and looked at each other sourly. ‘What we want to know is, where is the will?’ asked a voice. ‘I thought we had come here about that. Do you know anything about it?’ Now all eyes were fixed on Sampath. He replied simply: ‘In a delicate matter like this, how can I say anything? I have heard him mention so many things.’
You need not tell us anything of other things. But, surely, you could tell us about the will,’ they cried. Sampath said decisively: ‘No. I will not speak of it for two months. By that time whatever there is to be known will be known. Of that I’m certain.’
‘Here is the copy of the will, registered by my father. Please examine this, Mr Sampath,’ said the eldest son. The others became feverish. Sampath bent over and read out its contents ceremoniously: ‘I do hereby bequeath … and I hold that there is no further will.’
‘What about my daughter?’ ‘What about my share?’ ‘You certainly were not his dearest one…’ ‘Have you forgotten…’ A babble broke out. ‘It must be tested in a court and not here,’ Sampath said. ‘We do not care to be involved in all this. After all, blood relations may quarrel today and unite the day after. It is none of a stranger’s business to get involved in such a matter. We will pay the rent to whoever is justly entitled to it … Meanwhile, whoever thinks that he is entitled to the house, ought to complete all the unfinished business of the old gentleman; he will have to undertake some responsibility; that’ll establish his claim.’
‘What responsibility?’ they asked.
Sampath said: ‘There is a car below; please follow me.’ He got up. They trooped behind him. They seemed very happy to have the chance of a car ride. They sat crushing each other. Sampath went straight to Srinivas’s house. It was like an investigation committee examining the spot. The first thing he said was: ‘This is the only source of water for four families – imagine!’ And then the various families, including Srinivas’s, gathered round and mentioned a list of all their requirements.
The result was: in a few days the block of houses in Anderson Lane became transformed: it only meant a little dislocation for Srinivas – having to shift with his family to his office. When he returned he found the walls scraped and lime-washed, tiles changed, floor smoothed with cement, and an independent water-tap planted in his own backyard; some of the partitions behind Ravi’s house were knocked down, and now only three families lived where there had been four or five before. It would not have been easy to investigate and say who was mainly responsible for these changes. All the relations seemed to have vied among themselves to give their tenants amenities. Srinivas’s wife was delighted. Sampath said: ‘So that settles your problem, Mr Editor. You will have to send your rent to the Savings Bank on the first. They’ve agreed to it. Meanwhile, the entire gang is going to the court for succession rights. But it’s none of our business at the moment.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
One of the most important sequences. Shiva is in a trance. He opens his eyes and keeps looking at Parvathi. Vague desires stir in him. He looks into his own mind for the reason. Till today he was able to receive her ministrations with absolute detachment, but today he finds himself interested in her. He feels that there is some mischief afoot and looks for the reason, and he espies in a corner the God of Love aiming his shaft at him, and burns him up immediately; then he resumes his meditation.
This was filmed and projected on the screen. They lounged in their comfortable cushion chairs, lit their cigarettes and watched in silence. Somu, Sampath, Sohan Lai, who was buying the picture, De Mello, and a number of technicians in the back row. The operator in his cabin was tired of mechanically throwing the same reel on the screen over and over again. Somu was the first to break the gloomy silence. He asked Mr Lai: ‘Well, what do you say, Mr Lal?’
Lal said: ‘It’s no good. I shall be obliged if you will retake it. It is lacking in something.’
‘It’s lacking in pep, if I may put it in a word,’ added De Mello. ‘There is a lot of scope for working up this sequence on the right lines. I agree with Mr Sohan Lal.’
‘Well, if everyone thinks the scene must be retaken, we’ve got to do it, that is all. The script will have to be rewritten.’ They all looked at Srinivas. ‘Do you think that the scene can be rewritten?’
‘How?’ asked Srinivas, trying to look as calm and considerate as possible. He felt pity for them, for the hunted look they wore. They were dealing with things beyond them, and the only pressure was commerce. He tried to sympathize with them and suppress the indignation that was rising within him. H
is question remained unanswered. They looked at each other in a frightened way and whimpered uncomfortably. It was De Mello who plucked up enough strength to say: ‘Perhaps a dance act will serve the purpose: that will appeal to the public’
‘Yes,’ agreed Sohan Lai. ‘A dance act would be excellent. This picture needs some entertainment.’
‘The comedy is there,’ said Somu, for he was particularly proud of this contribution. Srinivas tried not to hear, for his blood boiled whenever he thought of those comic scenes. He had detached himself from them early; and Sampath and Somu had hatched them between themselves, shot them separately, and cut them up and scattered them like spice all along the story. He found that some of the most sublime moments he had conceived faded into the horseplay of Gopu and Mali and their suggestive by-play. They were the highest-paid comedians on the films, and they propped up any picture by this means. The public always flocked to see them and hear their gags. Somu was highly gratified with his own efforts. To his remark Sohan Lal replied: ‘Well, that’s only comedy. We must have an entertainment item like a dance sequence.’ And they decided to convert this scene into a dance act, and they at once called up a number of people from various parts of the studio. Srinivas accepted the position with resignation. He only exerted himself to the extent of refusing to write the scene any further. This was one of his favourite scenes. By externalizing emotion, by superimposing feeling in the shape of images, he hoped to express very clearly the substance of this episode: of love and its purification, of austerity and peace. But now they wanted to introduce a dance sequence. Srinivas found himself helpless in this world. He tried not to take a too tragic view of the situation. He wanted to avoid further tortures to his mind, and so leaned over and whispered to Sampath: ‘I’m going. I don’t have to explain why?’
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 20