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

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘Where should I go?’

  ‘Like all the other men, why don’t you try to do some work and earn some money?’

  ‘Money is not a pebble in the street to be picked up by just going out.’

  ‘Oh, is that so? I didn’t know. I thought it was something to be had in the street.’

  Thus their talk went on, entirely lacking in point. She had no clear idea of what she expected him to do and he had no clear idea of what he should do outside the house. He tried it for a few days. His steps naturally led him to the Co-operative Bank. But it was clear that he had lost his place. His previous clients only tried to avoid him, fearing that he might accost them for their old dues. He had no one to talk to. He went through the town like a lost soul, but although to begin with some people spoke to him, now nobody took any notice of him. He could not go down the Market Road for fear of being stopped by the optician … So after a few days of aimless wandering, he took to staying at home. It delighted only his little son and no one else. Next door they remarked: ‘What has come over that man? He is hardly to be seen outside. Is he hiding from creditors?’ They had also wondered previously why so much scent of incense emanated from the next house. ‘They must be up to some mischief; perhaps trying black magic on someone they don’t like. We must be careful with such people.’

  As the month came to an end and Margayya had to buy rice and salt for the pantry, he found himself short by ten rupees, and they had to manage without ghee. His wife declared: ‘I have never been in this plight before.’ Balu made matters worse by asking: ‘Mother, I want ghee.’

  ‘There is no ghee, my boy. You must eat your food as it is,’ Margayya replied.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Balu, throwing away the rice and getting up.

  ‘You’ll learn to be contented with what you get,’ Margayya moralized foolishly.

  ‘No. I won’t. I want ghee,’ said the boy rebelliously, kicking away his rice plate.

  ‘If you kick away your rice, I will kick you,’ Margayya said; at which the boy burst into tears and appealed to his mother. She burst into tears too because it reminded her of the story of Gora Kumbar, a potter, who was devoted to the God Vishnu and took no care of his family. At meal times his little son demanded ghee, without which, just like Balu, he would not eat. The lady went out to borrow ghee from the next house, leaving the child in the care of the father, who was stamping on wet clay all the time. When she was gone, he got into a mystic ecstasy and started dancing, and did not notice the child crawling under his feet … and when the mother returned with ghee the child had been stamped into the wet mud. Margayya’s wife burst into tears, remembering this story, which she had seen as a drama in her young days. Margayya, bewildered and pained by all the scene, ate his food in silence, but, without ghee and with all this misery, it tasted bitter.

  He decided to search out the priest. ‘I can’t keep quiet any more. He will have to tell me what is what – otherwise, I will not let him off lightly.’

  Margayya sought him out late that night. He pretended to go to the temple very late in the evening for worship, and hung about till the crowd cleared. He heard the priest’s voice inside the sanctum. When the crowd dispersed he moved up to the threshold of the sanctum and peered in. There was a new man there.

  Margayya asked: ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The other priest –’

  ‘Why?’

  Margayya felt annoyed. Why were these priests assuming such impudent and presumptuous manners? But the priest was in the proximity of God, and Margayya was afraid to speak sharply. He controlled his voice and temper and answered: ‘I have some business with him.’

  ‘What business?’ asked the priest, tossing flowers on the image without turning in his direction. ‘Does this man think he is God?’ wondered Margayya. ‘He is so indifferent!’

  Probably, he thought, the other priest had told him: ‘Margayya may be dropping in often, asking for me. If he comes, show him the utmost rudeness and keep him out.’ It seemed quite possible to his sickly imagination. Margayya opened his lips to say something, but in came some devotees with coconut and camphor, and the priest became busy attending to them. Margayya noted with pain the differential treatment that was being meted out. ‘It’s quite clear that he has been told to snub me … see how warm and effusive he is to those people! It is because he hopes to get money out of them. Money is everything, dignity, self-respect…. This fellow is behaving towards me like the Cooperative Bank Secretary.’ In his mind he saw arrayed against him the Secretary, Arul Doss, this man, and the washer-woman who abused him on the day his son destroyed the account-book. It seemed such a formidable and horrible world that he wondered how he had managed to exist at all.

  The priest now came out bearing a plate with a camphor flame on it, which lit up his face. Margayya noted that he was a very young man. The others put money into the plate after touching the flame. The priest paused near Margayya, who just looked away. ‘I have paid enough for these godly affairs,’ thought Margayya. The priest threw a sour look at him and went in. The devotees left. The priest sat down before the image and started reciting some holy verse. Margayya stood on the threshold. The other paused during his recitation and asked: ‘What are you waiting for?’

  ‘I’m only waiting for your honour to come out and answer my question.’

  ‘Am I an astrologer? What’s your question?’

  ‘This man is practising studied rudeness on me. He has been taught to … this young fellow!’ thought Margayya. His anger rose. He became reckless. ‘Hey, young man, who taught you to speak so rudely?’

  The young man looked surprised for a moment, and then raised his voice and resumed his recitation.

  Margayya cried: ‘Stop it and answer me! A very devout man, indeed!’

  ‘You want to stop God’s work. Who are you?’

  ‘A youngster like you need not ask unnecessary questions. Learn to give correct answers before you think of putting questions … At your age!’

  The youth asked: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘What I want to know is, where is the old priest? And, if you can, answer without asking why.’

  ‘He has gone on a pilgrimage.’

  ‘When did he go?’

  ‘About a month ago.’

  ‘When will he come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘To Benares – from there he is going on foot all along the course of the Ganges, to its very source in the Himalayas.’

  ‘Why is he doing all this?’

  ‘I don’t know. How can I say?’

  Margayya felt indignant. He walked out of the temple without another word. He felt he had been cheated. That old priest had played a trick on him, making him waste all his money in performing fantastic things. ‘Benares, Ganges! Himalayas! How am I to get at him!’ He wished he could go to the Himalayas and search him out. For a moment he speculated pleasantly on what might happen to the old man there. He might get drowned in the Ganges, or die of sunstroke on the way, or get frozen in the ice of the Himalayas.

  Next day he wandered up and down, through the east and the west districts of the town, in search of an idea. He got up in the morning, hoping that some miracle would happen, some chance or fortune be picked up on the doorstep. He got up early and opened the door. There were the usual goings on of Vinayak Mudali Street, and nothing more – a curd-seller passing with the pot on her head, a couple of cyclists going to a mill, some children running out to play an early game, and so on. But he saw nothing that was likely to bring him the fruits of his penance. He felt acutely unhappy.

  He wandered all over the town in search of an idea. He went up to the northern section and sat on the hot sands of the Sarayu thinking. He sat in the shade of a tree and watched the sky and river. His mind had become blank. He went down the Market Road, looking at every shop. He was searching for an idea. He watched every trade critically. Tailoring? Hair-cutti
ng saloon? Why not? Any labour had dignity … But all of them would be more troublesome than anything he had known. ‘Nobody will give me money for nothing. I must give them something in exchange –’ He sat on the parapet of the Market Fountain and thought. What was it that people most needed? It must be something that every person could afford. The best business under the sun was either snuff or tooth powder or both. It had to be something for which every citizen would be compelled to pay a certain small sum each day. He was engrossed in profound economic theories. Snuff… his mind gloated over the visions of snuff… The initial outlay would be small, just enough to buy a bundle of tobacco…. He knew all about it, for there used to be a snuff-maker in front of his house. All his equipment was a few cinders of charcoal, a small iron grate, and a mud pot for frying the tobacco in. Fry and pound the tobacco, and a little lime, and leave the rest to the snuffers themselves. ‘Margayya’s snuff for flavour’, this was worth trying. It was an investment often rupees. He must fry the leaves in a place far away from human habitation. Tobacco, while being fried, sent up a choking smoke which kept the neighbourhood coughing and complaining. He wondered how long it would take to realize the profits. A year or less or not at all. Suppose people never touched his snuff and it accumulated in tins up to the ceiling? What could he do with them? He might probably use the stock himself. But he himself had been addicted to the Golden Monkey Brand for years, and he dared not try any other. Or he might manufacture tooth powder. His mother used to make a sort of tooth powder with burnt almond shell and cinnamon bark and alum, and it was said to convert teeth into granite.

  Margayya now thought of his mother with gratitude. There was always a big crowd of sufferers waiting for her at the hall of their old house. She was of a charitable disposition. She took the stock out of a large earthen jar, and distributed it liberally. His father used to declare: ‘You will be reborn in a Heaven of Golden Teeth for this.’ She did it as a form of charity, and their house was known as the Tooth Powder House. It seemed an ideal business to start now. The world was going to be transformed into one of shining teeth … But a misgiving assailed him. How could he make people buy it rather than the dozen other tooth powders? He didn’t know the art of selling tooth powder. He couldn’t go about hawking it in the streets … It would be a fine look out if the Secretary of the Co-operative Society caught him at it. Ami Doss would call out ‘Hey, tooth powder, come here, give me a packet. Here are three pies.’ And he would have to gather the coppers like a beggar, with peals of laughter ringing out from the whole world. And the old priest might chuckle from the Himalayas for having reduced him to a picker of copper coins! ‘No,’ he told himself, ‘I’m a business man. I can only do something on the lines of banking. It’s no good thinking of all this.’ He watched the fountain hissing and squirting, while the traffic flowed past, and sighed, as he had sighed so often before, at the thought of his banyan tree business. He sighed, reflecting: ‘Here is an adult, sitting on the fountain like a vagrant when he ought to be earning.’ He feared that if this state of affairs continued he might find himself looking for an orphan’s corpse and dashing about with a mud tray in his hand.

  ‘Hello, friend,’ cried Dr Pal from the other side of the fountain. He was coming down the road on his cycle. ‘I thought I should never see you again – you went away without telling me where you lived. You didn’t come again for lotus!’ It took time for Margayya to be shaken from his business reverie. ‘Oh, you!’ he cried, not exactly liking being disturbed by this man now. He felt shy of meeting him, associating him with smut. Dr Pal leaned his cycle on the parapet and came over and sat beside him.

  ‘You didn’t come again for lotus,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, lotus – one was enough for me,’ said Margayya, putting into his tone all the despair he felt at the whole wasted activity.

  ‘People always go for lotus in a series, never in singles –’ said the other obscurely. Margayya laughed, pretending that he read some inner meaning. ‘Well, what makes you spend your time sitting here?’ Pal asked.

  Margayya thought: ‘Why can’t people leave me alone?’ He didn’t like to give the correct explanation. He said: ‘Someone has promised to come up and meet me here.’

  ‘Oh, a business meeting, I suppose.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Margayya. ‘I have no time for just casual meetings. The time is –’ He looked around him.

  ‘Four,’ said the other, looking at his wrist-watch. ‘You won’t mind if I keep you company?’

  ‘Oh, not at all,’ replied Margayya mortified, but he overcame his mortification enough to add, ‘I only fear it may hold you up unnecessarily. You may have other business.’

  ‘I’m on duty even when I’m sitting here and talking to you. I’ll make a story of it for my paper – that’s all they want. They won’t mind as long as I fulfil my duty.’

  ‘Surely, you won’t write about me!’ Margayya said.

  ‘Why not! I might say Mr – –. Oh, what’s your name please? I’ve not enquired, although I’ve been around with you so much.’

  ‘Why do you want my name?’ Margayya asked defensively.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t publish it. I just want to know as a friend, that’s all. Suppose somebody asks me who is that friend with whom I have been talking and I say I don’t know, it’d look grotesque. Isn’t that so? What is your name?’

  ‘People call me Margayya –’

  ‘Excellent name; initials?’

  ‘No initials –’

  ‘Oh, no initials, that’s excellent. Initials indicate town and parentage … But that’s for lesser folk who have to announce their antecedents.’

  ‘It’s not necessary for me. If you say Margayya, everyone will know. However, that’s not my name.’

  ‘Oh, I thought it was.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘How? How? The “how” of things is my trade secret. Otherwise I wouldn’t be a writer. My business is to know things – not tell anyone how, you understand.’

  ‘Extraordinary fellow,’ Margayya said.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said the other. ‘I know it. Come along, let us go somewhere and gossip.’

  ‘We are doing it here quite well,’ said Margayya.

  ‘Oh, no … This place is too noisy. I want to talk to you privately. Come on, come on; don’t say “no!” ‘He was irresistible. Margayya remembered in time to protest: ‘But I have told you I am waiting here for someone.’

  ‘Oh, he will follow us there, don’t worry.’

  ‘Come along to my office. I must show you my office.’

  They walked along, through the crowd. It seemed to be all the same for Margayya, what he did or where he went. He followed the other blindly. He took him through the eastern end of Market Road, turned into a lane, stopped before a house and knocked on the door. A little boy opened it. ‘Who is inside?’ Pal asked.

  ‘No one,’ the boy said.

  ‘That’s fine!’ said Pal. ‘As I expected. Open my office then, young fellow!’

  The young man disappeared and opened a side door and put his head out. ‘Hold the cycle,’ commanded Pal. The young man came out with alacrity and took hold of the bicycle. Pal marched in, asking Margayya to follow. He followed him into a very small room stuffed with empty packing cases, piled up to the ceiling. There was a stool in the middle of it with a higher stool before it. On the wall hung a printed sheet: ‘Silver Way – Chief Representative’s Office’. There were a few stacks of paper in a corner. ‘Don’t look shocked by the state of my office,’ said Pal. ‘This is only a temporary place. I’m moving into a big office and showroom as soon as it is ready.’

  ‘Where?’ Margayya asked.

  ‘Wherever it may be available. That’s all I can say. You know how it is with the present housing conditions!’ Margayya did not feel disposed to agree with him. He said: ‘You can get houses if you honestly try. After all, you want only a room –’

  ‘But nobody will give it to me free, don’t you see, and that is the o
nly condition on which our chief office is prepared to accept any accommodation! You see my problem. They want a place in the town to be called their office, but they won’t pay any rent for it. I got this because I also write accounts for these business men and they have allowed me to hang up my board.’

  ‘What do they deal in? Tooth powder or something like that?’ Margayya asked.

  ‘They make cheap soap and export it to Malaya – make a lot of money –’ he said.

  ‘Must be an easy job,’ Margayya reflected aloud.

  ‘Most messy, and a terrible gamble.’

  ‘But I think there is a lot of money in it,’ said Margayya. His mind at once went off He had no clear idea how soap was made. He only remembered some piece of odd knowledge about coconut oil and caustic. Perhaps a hundred rupees invested might soon multiply, provided the soap became popular. Give it a lot of attractive colouring and sell it cheap and people would flock to buy it – Margayya’s soap, Margayya’s tooth powder, Margayya’s snuff. The choice of his business now seemed to be between these three. He would have to make up his mind about it and start somewhere instead of idling away the day on the fountain parapet… There was silence during these reflections. The other watched him, and then asked: ‘Have you done with your deep reflections?’

  ‘Some ideas connected with my business came to my mind suddenly –’

  ‘Sit down there; it’s not nice to remain standing,’ said Pal.

  Margayya sat down. Pal sat down on the higher stool.

  ‘Margayya, listen to me very attentively,’ he began. ‘I am speaking to you on a very important matter now.’