Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘I’m not. And if you try to imply that I have been drinking or spending the night in a brothel, I leave you free to think so –’

  The loss of the little book produced endless complications for Margayya. He could hardly transact any business without it, he had to conceal the loss from his customers, who he feared might take advantage of it. He had to keep out of the tree shade, remain standing or moving about, and give out figures from his head – it was all most irksome. It was an important day; he had to collect money from three or four men to whom he had advanced cash.

  ‘Where is the book, master?’ asked Kali, one of his old customers. Margayya said: ‘I’m rebinding it. You know it must look tidy. But it is really not necessary for me. I have everything I want here,’ he added, tapping his forehead. Kali had not been here for some weeks now and so looked with suspicion at this man standing beyond the gate, without his box, without his book. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Margayya, ‘Ami Doss has been speaking to him.’ Kali was like a tiger which suddenly meets the ring-master, without the ring, or the whip in his hand.

  ‘Why are you not in your place?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh! I’m tired of sitting and sitting – some sort of lumbago here,’ Margayya said. He sat down on the short compound wall. A country cart passed along, and it threw up dust. Margayya sneezed. ‘You see, you should not sit there,’ moralized the other. ‘I should not, that’s why I’m looking for an office hereabouts with chairs and tables. When eminent people like you arrive, you will be seated in chairs,’ he said. ‘I must also look to your convenience, don’t you see?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the other. ‘But that banyan shade was quite good, sir. So much fresh air. I always like it.’

  ‘I don’t,’ replied Margayya. ‘It’s all very well for a man like you, who comes out to lounge and have a nap in the afternoon. But for a business man it is not good. The uproar those birds make! I can hardly hear my own voice! And then their droppings! And those ants down below. I used to suffer agony when I was sitting there.’

  ‘Where is your box, sir?’ asked Kali, noticing its absence.

  ‘Sent it for repainting: it’s a lucky box, my dear fellow. I don’t like to throw it away … It’s not looking quite tidy. I’ve sent it for painting. I have it more as a keepsake.’

  ‘Yes, whatever article has grown up with us must be kept all our life … In our village there was a fellow who had a hoe with a broken handle –’

  ‘I know all that,’ Margayya cut in, snubbing him just for the sake of effect. ‘When he changed the handle, his harvest suffered, didn’t it?’

  ‘How do you know, sir?’ asked Kali, overawed.

  ‘I know everything that goes on in people’s minds; otherwise, I should not have taken to this banking business … Now I know what is going on in your mind. You have got in your purse, which you have tucked at the waist, money drawn from the bank.’

  ‘No, no, sir,’ he protested. ‘Is it so easy to get money out of them?’

  ‘Listen! Your loan application was considered and passed on Monday last. You must have in your purse now two hundred and seventy-nine rupees and four annas; that is, you have given eight annas to the clerk, and four annas as a tip to Arul Doss. Is it, or is it not a fact?’ He cast a searching look at Kali, who had wrapped himself in a large sheet. There were a hundred corners over his person where he might tuck a whole treasure. Kali met his gaze, and turned to go. It was the dull hour of the afternoon when his other clients had gone into the bank or were dozing in the shade. They would all come a little later. Margayya was glad it was so, because he wanted to tackle this difficult man alone. Others would not be able to take a lesson from him. Kali was attempting to retreat. He looked up at the sky and said: ‘Looks like three o’clock. They have asked me to call in at three again. You know how it is, if we go in even a minute late. They make it an excuse –’ Margayya looked at him. If he let him go out of sight, he would pass into the bank and then out of it by the back door.

  He said firmly: ‘You give me the fifty rupees I advanced, with interest.’ The other looked puzzled.

  ‘Fifty! With interest! What is it you are talking about, Margayya?’ At other times, if anyone said such a thing, Margayya would open the pages of his red-bound book and flourish it. He thought of his son. Why did the boy do such a thing? He had left the book alone all these days! Kali stopped, looked at him haughtily and said: ‘I never like to be called a liar! You may settle my account tomorrow, the first thing… Let me see what it is, and I will settle it the first thing tomorrow, to the last pie.’ He moved away. Margayya stood helplessly. He watched him with sorrow. He could not even throw after him any curse and threats (brilliant ones that occurred to him, as usual, a little too late). ‘Margayya, you have been made a fool of. They have made a frightful fool of you.’ ‘They haven’t … I should have told him … You son of a guttersnipe … Don’t I know what your father was! He went to gaol for snatching a chain from a child’s neck! You come of a family which would steal a matchstick rather than ask for it … I shouldn’t have associated with you, but I’ll get at you one day, don’t worry. I can –’ But it was no use arguing with himself in this manner. The man was gone, while Margayya stood watching him dumbly. He recollected that he had helped him get loans four times – when his life and honour, as he said, were at stake. ‘And this is what I get.’ He was filled with self-pity. He thought of the account-book. Suppose he announced a reward to any scavenger who might salvage it? Even if it was salvaged what was the use? How was it to be touched again and read!

  He had to wait at the gate, away from the line of vision of the secretary’s room, sitting on the short parapet, and keep an eye on all his old customers who might go in and come out of the building. Without giving himself too much away, he was able to tackle a few of his old customers, and they didn’t prove as tricky as Kali. He was able to salvage the bulk of his investments within the next fifteen days, which amounted to just two hundred rupees.

  Margayya stepped into the temple, driven there by a vague sense of desperation. He told himself several times over that he was going to see the God and not the priest. But he did not believe it himself – nor did the priest let him view only the God and go away. As soon as he entered the portals of the temple the priest’s voice came to him from an unknown, unobserved place, behind the image in the dark inner sanctum. ‘Oh, Margayya, welcome to this God’s home.’ Margayya was startled as if a voice from Heaven had suddenly assailed him. He trembled. The last worshipper had prostrated before the image and was leaving. Margayya prostrated on the ground before the inner sanctuary. A couple of feeble oil-lamps were alight; a mixed smell of burning oil, flowers, and incense hung in the air. That was a combination of scent which always gave Margayya a feeling of elation. He shut his eyes. For a moment he felt that he was in a world free from all worrying problems. It was in many ways a noble world, where everything ran smoothly – no Arul Doss or Co-operative Society Secretary, no villagers with their complex finances, no son to snatch away an account-book and drop it in a gutter. Life was a terrible affair. The faint, acrid smell of oil seemed to detach him from all worries for a moment. He shut his eyes and let himself float in that luxurious sensation, with the tip of his nose pressed against the flagstones of the corridor. It was still warm with the heat of the day’s sun. Its smell of dust was overpowering – the dust carried by the feet of hundreds of devotees and worshippers or blown in by the wind from Vinayak Mudali Street. When Margayya withdrew from the feeling of ecstasy and lifted his head, he saw the feet of the priest near his face. He looked up. The priest said: ‘Margayya’s mind is deeply engrossed in God … if a man’s piety is to be measured by the length of time he lies prostrate before God. Get up Margayya. God has seen your heart already.’ Margayya got to his feet. He smiled at him and felt some explanation was due. He began awkwardly: ‘You see, you see … I felt I should visit God at least once a week –’

  ‘Yes, you were here only last evening, have you forgott
en it already?’

  ‘Not at all, not at all,’ Margayya replied. ‘I wonder what the time is.’

  ‘In this house there is no need for us to look at a watch. If it is dark, it is night. If it’s sunny, it’s day: that’s all we know. This is not a bank, you see.’ At the word ‘bank’ Margayya gulped suddenly. He thought it referred to him. He said: ‘I don’t have a watch either.’

  ‘But you ought to,’ said the priest. ‘A bank keeps a watch to see how fast interest is accumulating.’

  ‘My bank is finished. This is all I have,’ said Margayya, taking out of his pocket a small packet of currency notes – all that he was able to salvage from his banking operations. ‘Just two hundred rupees – what is it worth?’

  ‘Two hundred rupees,’ replied the priest. ‘Come in. I will give you some milk and fruit!’

  ‘What again!’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Yes, again, and again!’ answered the priest. ‘Is there anything strange about it? Don’t we have to eat every day, again and again?’ Margayya was cowed. He explained: ‘It’s not that. I was wondering what the time might be.’

  ‘It’s not yet tomorrow, that’s all I know,’ replied the priest. ‘If it is really late for you, you can go.’ He turned and moved down the corridor and passed out of sight. Margayya stood still for a few moments. He looked at the image of the God and threw it a vague nod. His wife might once again start a lot of bother and pull a long face and think he’d been visiting a brothel. ‘Funny creature, so jealous at this age!’ he reflected. ‘I can tell her I’ve been out on important business. What makes her think I have sweethearts!’ Ever since he could remember she had always shown a sort of uneasiness about Margayya. ‘Who’d consent to be a sweetheart to me!’ he said. ‘A fellow with the name “Margayya”, which seems almost a branding with hot iron.’ He remembered how a year or so ago she raised quite a lot of bother when he mentioned that a woman had come to him as a client under the tree. She looked sullen for two days until he convinced her that he had only been joking.

  He found himself obeying the priest without a single thought of his own. At a look from this gaunt man, he peeled four plantains and swallowed them in quick succession, and he drank a huge vessel of milk, treating the matter with as much reverence as he could muster. When the priest said approvingly, ‘That’s very good indeed. That’s an excellent performance,’ he felt proud of the certificate. The priest added, ‘You have been hungry without knowing it.’

  ‘Yes, but when one’s mind is full of worries, one does not notice,’ he said, feeling that the time had come for him to say something. The stars were out. A cool breeze was blowing, and night seemed quiet; the nourishment he had taken filled him with a sense of harmony, and so when the priest said: ‘Margayya! What is ailing you? You can speak out,’ he felt that he could no longer hesitate and fumble; that all barriers between himself and the world had been swept away and that he stood alone; that he alone mattered. He had a right to demand the goods of life and get them, like an eminent guest in a wedding house – a guest who belongs to the bridegroom’s party, with the bride dancing attendance, ever waiting for the slightest nod or sign to run to his side and do some pleasing act … He swelled with his own importance … When he inhaled the fresh night air it seemed to increase his stature so much that the earth and the sky were only just big enough to hold him … He began to talk in a grand manner … the priest with his eyes glinting in the starlight listened without speaking a word … He looked like a sloth-cub in the darkness as he humped into a ball with his chin on his knees, his lank face thrust forward … Margayya catalogued all his demands. He was like a Departmental Officer indenting for his stationery – a superior baize cover for his office table, a crystal paperweight, a shining mirror-like paper-knife, and so on. There was no reason why he should be given the inferior things. Let the department stores beware, he would throw it out of the window if they sent in the miserable stuff they put on their fourth clerk’s tables. He would just throw it out, that’s all … He would be a man of consequence, let them beware: let the Gods beware – they that provided a man with a home, and cars, servants, the admiration of his fellow men, and good clothes. After letting him run on as long as he liked, the priest opened his mouth and said: ‘That means you would propitiate Goddess Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth. When she throws a glance and it falls on someone, he becomes rich, he becomes prosperous, he is treated by the world as an eminent man, his words are treated as something of importance. All this you seem to want.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Margayya, authoritatively. ‘Why not?’ He took out of his pocket his little snuff-box and tapped its lid. He flicked it open and took a deep pinch. The priest said: ‘Go on, go on, no harm in it. A devotee of Goddess Lakshmi need care for nothing, not even the fact that he is in a temple where a certain decorum is to be observed. It’s only a question of self-assurance. He has so much authority in his face, looks, so much money in his purse, so many to do his bidding that he cares for nothing really in the world. It’s only the protégé of Goddess Saraswathi* who has to mind such things. But when Saraswathi favours a man, the other Goddess withdraws her favours. There is always a rivalry between the two – between the patronage of the spouse of Vishnu and the spouse of Brahma. Some persons have the good fortune to be claimed by both, some on the contrary have the misfortune to be abandoned by both. Evidently you are one of those for whom both are fighting at the moment.’ Margayya felt immensely powerful and important. He had never known that anybody cared for him … and now to think that two Goddesses were fighting to confer their favours on him. He lifted his eyes, glanced at the brilliant stars in Heaven as if there, between the luminous walls, he would get a glimpse of the crowned Goddesses tearing at each other.

  ‘Why should they care for me?’ he asked innocently.

  The priest replied: ‘How can we question? How can we question the fancies of Gods? It’s just there, that’s all … it’s beyond our powers to understand.’

  Intoxicated by this, Margayya said: ‘A man with whom the Goddess of Wealth favours need not worry much. He can buy all the knowledge he requires. He can afford to buy all the gifts that Goddess Saraswathi holds in her palm.’

  The priest let out a quiet chuckle at Margayya’s very reckless statement. Margayya asked: ‘Why do you laugh?’ Already a note of authority was coming into his voice. The priest said: ‘Yes, this is what every man who attains wealth thinks. You are moving along the right line. Let me see your horoscope. Bring it tomorrow.’ Tomorrow! It seemed such along way off. ‘Can’t you say something today?’ Margayya asked pathetically, feeling that he was being hurled back to the earth. The priest said: ‘About the same time as today, meet me with your horoscope.’

  ‘Yet another night out and all the trouble with my wife,’ Margayya thought immediately.

  The priest saw him off at the door and shut the temple gate.

  The moment his wife opened the door Margayya demanded: ‘Where is my horoscope?’

  ‘Horoscope?’ his wife said dreamily. ‘What’s happened that you want it so urgently at this hour?’ She looked him up and down suspiciously and, feeling probably that it was not the right time to drag him into a talk, turned and went back to bed.

  It was eight o’clock when Margayya got up. He would probably have slept on till eleven, but for the fact that Balu sat on his chest and hammered his head with his lacquered wooden elephant. When he opened his eyes, Balu let out a shout of joy, put his arms round his neck, and pretended to lift him out of bed. Margayya looked at him benignly. ‘This boy must grow up like a prince. The Goddess willing, he’ll certainly …’ He sprang up from bed. In a quarter of an hour he was ready, bathed, wearing a clean dress, and his forehead smeared with red vermilion and a splash of sacred ash. He seemed to be in such a great hurry that his wife, although she had resolved to ignore his recent eccentric ways, was constrained to ask, ‘What is agitating you so much?’

  ‘Is coffee ready?’ he asked.

  She laugh
ed cynically. ‘Coffee! The milk-vendor created a scene here last evening demanding his dues. It was such a disgrace with the people in the next house watching.’

  ‘They seem to have nothing better to do,’ he said irrelevantly, his mind going off at a tangent.

  ‘Anybody will watch when there is something to watch,’ she said.

  ‘So, no coffee?’ he asked with a touch of despair. It seemed terribly hard for him to start the day without a cup of coffee. It produced a sort of vacuum, a hollow sensation. He braved it out saying: ‘That’s right. Why should we want coffee? As if our ancestors –’ She added: ‘There is no milk even for the child.’ Margayya threw a sad look at Balu. Balu seemed happy to be missing his milk. He said: ‘Let us drive away that milkman. It will be so nice.’

  ‘Why, aren’t you hungry?’ Margayya asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m hungry. Give me biscuits.’

  Margayya said: ‘Wait a little, young man. I’ll fill a whole shelf with biscuits and chocolates and fruit.’

  ‘All for me?’ the boy asked eagerly.

  ‘Yes, absolutely, provided you don’t bother me, but leave me alone now,’ Margayya said. He went into their little room and pulled out a wooden chest. It was filled with letters in their old envelopes of nearly thirty years ago: there you could find letters written by Margayya’s father from a village; Margayya’s father-in-law writing to his new son-in-law; a letter from an uncle saying that there was a nice girl to be married and proposing her for Margayya, enclosing horoscopes. There were several letters containing saffron-tipped horoscopes on old stiff paper. There were unknown names of girls – either proposed to Margayya or to his brother, with their horoscopes; and many acrimonious letters that passed between him and his brother before the partition. Every letter he picked up stirred a cloud of dust. Little Balu stole up and stood at his shoulder as he squatted on the ground. Margayya turned round and said: ‘Balu, you must promise not to put your hand out.’