At the sight of the notebook the boy asked: ‘What is this? Why have you brought it from school?’ as if it were the most repulsive article he had seen in the whole of his life. His face went a shade darker. It symbolized for him all the wrongs that he had suffered in his life: it was a chronicle of all the insults that had been heaped upon him by an ungracious world – a world of schools, studies and examinations. What did they mean by all this terrible torment invented for young men? It had been an agony for him every time the headmaster called him up and made him go through the entries and sign below. Such moments came near his conception of hell. Hell, in his view, was a place where a torturing God sat up with your scholastic record in his hand and lectured you on how to make good and told you what a disgrace you were to society. His bitterness overwhelmed him suddenly, as his father opened a page and started: ‘Here is your hygiene –’
The boy made a dash for the book, snatched it from his father’s hand before he knew what was happening, tore its entire bulk into four pieces (it had been made of thick ledger paper and only his fury gave him the necessary strength to tear it up at one effort), and ran out into the street and threw the pieces into the gutter. And Vinayak Mudali Street gutter closed on it and carried the bits out of sight. Margayya ran up and stood on the edge of the gutter woefully looking into its dark depth. His wife was behind him. He was too stunned to say anything. When he saw the last shred of it gone, he turned to his wife and said: ‘They will not admit him in any school again, the last chance gone.’ And then he turned to tackle his son – but the boy had gone.
* * *
The only sign of prosperity about him now was the bright handle of the umbrella which was hooked to his right forearm whenever he went out. He was a lover of umbrellas, and the moment he could buy anything that caught his fancy, he spent eight rupees and purchased this bright-handled umbrella with ‘German ribs’, in the parlance of the umbrella dealers. Hitherto he had carried for years an old bamboo one, a podgy thing with discoloured cloth which had been patched up over and over again. He protected it like his life for several years. He had his own technique of holding an umbrella which assured it a long lease of life and kept it free from fractures. He never twisted the handle when he held an umbrella over his head. He never lent it to anyone. Margayya, if he saw anyone going out in the rain in imminent danger of catching and perishing of pneumonia, would let him face his fate rather than offer him the protection of his umbrella. He felt furious when people thought that they could ask for an umbrella. ‘They will be asking for my skin next,’ he often commented when his wife found fault with him for his attitude. Another argument he advanced was, ‘Do people ask for each other’s wives? Don’t they manage to have one for themselves? Why shouldn’t each person in the country buy his own umbrella?’ ‘An umbrella does not like to be handled by more than one person in its lifetime,’ he often declared, and stuck to it. He had to put away his old umbrella in the loft, carefully rolled up, because its ribs had become too rickety and it could not maintain its shape any longer. It began to look like a shot-down crow with broken wings. Though for years he had not noticed it, suddenly one day when he was working under the tree in the Co-operative Bank compound, someone remarked that he was looking like a wayside umbrella repairer and that he had better throw it away; he felt piqued and threw it in the loft, but he could never bring himself to the point of buying a new one and had more or less resigned himself to basking in the sun until the time came when he could spend eight rupees without calculating whether he was a loser or a gainer in the bargain. That time had come, now that thousands of rupees were passing through his hands – thousands which belonged to others as well as to him.
Except for this umbrella, he gave no outward sign of his affluence. He hated any perceptible signs of improvement. He walked to his office every day. His coat was of spun silk, but he chose a shade that approximated to the one he had worn for years so that no one might notice the difference. He whitewashed the walls of his house inside only, and built a small room upstairs. He bought no furniture except a canvas deckchair at a second-hand shop. On this he lounged and looked at the sky from his courtyard. He told his wife to buy any clothes she liked, but she was more or less in mourning and made no use of the offer. She merely said, ‘Tell me about Balu. That is what I need, not clothes.’
Margayya replied: ‘Well, I can only offer you what is available. If you are crying for the moon, I can’t help you much there.’
‘I am asking for my son, not crying for the moon,’ she said.
She was always on the verge of hysteria nowadays. She spoke very little and ate very little; and Margayya felt that at a time when he had a right to have a happy and bright home, he was being denied the privilege unnecessarily. He felt angry with his wife. He felt that it was her sulking which ruined the atmosphere of the home. They had so much accustomed themselves to the disappearance of their son that he ceased to think of it as a primary cause: the more immediate reasons became perceptible. He tried in his own clumsy manner to make her happy. He told her, ‘Ask for any money you want.’
‘What shall I do with money?’ she said. ‘I have no use for it.’
He disliked her for making such a statement. It was in the nature of a seditious speech. He merely frowned at her and went on with his business. What was that business? When at home he carried about him the day’s financial position finely distilled into a statement, and was absorbed in studying the figures. When he wanted relaxation he bought a paper and went through its pages. Nowadays he did not borrow the paper from the newspaper dealer but subscribed for a copy himself. He read with avidity what was happening in the world: the speeches of statesmen, the ravings of radicals, the programme for this and that, war news, and above all the stocks and shares market. He glanced through all this because a certain amount of world information seemed to be an essential part of his equipment when he sat in his office. All kinds of people came in and it was necessary that he should be able to take part in their conversation. To impress his clients, he had to appear as a man of all-round wisdom.
He walked to his work every day soon after his morning meal. The house was in suspense till he was seen safely off. He did not believe in employing servants at home and so his wife had to do all the work. He often said, ‘Why should we burden ourselves with servants when we are like a couple of newly-weds? Ours is not a very big family.’ The lady accepted it meekly because she knew it would not be much use arguing it out with Margayya. She knew, as he himself did, that he did not employ a cook because he did not like to spend money on one. But he was sure to give some other reason if he was asked. He would in all probability say, ‘Where is the need to show off?’ She knew that he viewed money as something to accumulate and not to be spent on increasing one’s luxuries in life. She knew all his idioms even before he uttered them. Sometimes when he saw her sitting at the fireplace, her eyes shrunken and swollen with the kitchen smoke, he felt uneasy and tried to help her with the kitchen work, keeping up the pretence of being newly-weds. He picked up a knife here and a green vegetable there, cut it up in a desultory manner, and vaguely asked, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ She hardly ever answered such a question. She merely said, ‘Please come in half an hour, and I will serve your meal.’ She had become very sullen and reserved nowadays.
She brooded over her son Balu night and day. She lost the taste for food. Margayya behaved wildly whenever he was reminded of their son. ‘He is not my son,’ he declared dramatically. ‘A boy who has an utter disregard for his father’s feelings is no son. He is a curse that the Gods have sent down for us. He is not my son.’ It all sounded very theatrical, but the feeling was also very real. When he remembered the floating bits of calico in the street gutter, he felt sorry that his son was no longer there to be slapped. His fingers itched to strike him. He reflected: ‘If he had at least disappeared after receiving the slap I aimed, I would not have minded much.’ He discouraged his wife from mentioning their son again and had grandly
ordered that the household must run on as if he had not been born. When he spoke in that tone his wife fully understood that he meant it. His affluence, his bank balance, buoyed him up and made him bear the loss of their son. He lived in a sort of radiance which made it possible for him to put up with anything. When he sat at his desk from early in the day till sunset, he had to talk, counsel, wheedle out, and collect money; in fact go through all the adventures of money-making. At the end of the day as he walked back home his mind was full of the final results, and so there was practically no time for him to brood over Balu.
Late at night when the voices of the city had died down and when the expected sleep came a little late, he speculated on Balu. Perhaps he had drowned himself. There was no news of him, although several days and weeks had passed. His wife accused him at first of being very callous and not doing anything about it. He did not know what was expected of him. He could not go and tell the police. He could not announce a reward for anyone who traced him. He could not… He hated to make a scene about it, and solved the whole thing by confiding in Dr Pal. Dr Pal had promised to keep an eye on the matter and tell him if anything turned up. No one could do more than that. Margayya had generally given out that his son had gone on a holiday to Bombay or Madras, and lightly added: ‘Young boys of his age must certainly go out by themselves and see a bit of the world: I think that’s the best education.’
‘But boys must have a minimum of S.S.L.C.,’ someone remarked.
Margayya dismissed it as a foolish notion. ‘What is there in Matriculation? People can learn nothing in schools. I have no faith in our education. Who wants all this nonsense about A squared plus B squared? If a boy does not learn these, so much the better. To be frank, I have got on without learning the A squared and B squared business, and what is wrong with me? Boys must learn things in the rough school of life.’ Whatever he said sounded authoritative and mature nowadays, and people listened to him with respectful attention. These perorations he delivered as he sat in his office.
His office consisted of a medium-sized room with four mattresses spread out on the floor. At the other end of it there was a sloping desk where an accountant sat. He was a lean old man, with a fifteen-day-old silver beard encircling his face at any given time. He was a pensioner, a retired revenue clerk, who wore a close coat and a turban when he came to the office. He was expected to arrive before Margayya. It pleased Margayya very much to see him at his seat, bent over his ledgers. He was instructed not to look up and salute when Margayya came in since it was likely to disturb his calculations and waste his time. Margayya said: ‘I do not want all this formality of a greeting. I see you every day. If you want to please me, do your work, and get on with it without wasting your time.’ But when he felt he needed an audience for his perorations he addressed him, and any other clerks who might be there.
Margayya sat in one corner of the hall. He had a desk before him made of smooth polished wood which he had bought from the blanket merchant at a second-hand price. Margayya loved to gaze on its smooth, rippled grains – remnants of gorgeous designs that it had acquired as a tree-trunk – hieroglyphics containing the history of the tree. Whenever he gazed on it, he felt as if he were looking at a sea and a sky in some dream world. ‘But what is the use of gazing on these and day-dreaming?’ he told himself, sharply pulling his mind back. He lifted the lid and gazed inside, and there was the reality which he could touch and calculate and increase: a well-bound half-leather ledger, a bottle of red ink, a bottle of black ink, an oblong piece of blotting-paper, and a pen – the red holder of which his fingers had gripped for years now. And beside it was a small bag made of thick drill, into which went all the cash he collected. His clerk did not know what he collected each day. He did not look into the account-book which Margayya kept, nor did he count the cash. It was all done by Margayya himself. He did not believe that it was necessary for anyone to share his knowledge of his finances; it was nobody’s business but his own. The work that he gave the accountant was copying down the mortgages that were left with him by the villagers who came round for financial assistance. He not only kept the deeds, but put the old man to the task of copying them down entirely in a big ledger. He alone could say why he wanted this done, but he would not open his mouth about it to anyone. The old man was being paid fifty rupees a month, and he was afraid of being thrown out if he questioned too much. He just did his duty. At about two o’clock Margayya locked his safe box and got up saying, ‘I’m going out for tiffin – will be back in a minute. Look after the office, and keep anyone who may come here till I return.’
Margayya was always used to having a semi-circle of persons sitting before him as in the old days and never interrupted his studies or calculations to look at them or receive their greetings. He was a very busy man whose hours were valuable: as the day progressed it was a race with time, for he had to close his books before sunset.
The owner of the house, the blanket dealer, did not like to waste money on installing electric lights. He went on dodging his tenant’s appeals day after day. His excuse was that materials were not available in quantities he needed or at prices he was prepared to pay. He went on saying that he had sent a direct order to the General Electric in America, that he had business associates of his blanket-contract days who would supply his wants direct, and that he was looking for a reply with every sailing; and thus he kept his tenants in hope. The plain fact seemed to be that he did not like to waste money. He confided to his friends: ‘Why should anyone keep his shop or office open after six o’clock? Let him work and earn during the day: that is quite enough. I hear that they are going to introduce a law limiting working hours, when it will be a grave penalty to keep shops or offices open after sunset.’ The result was that the shops remained without light, and since Margayya did not believe in spending his own money on an oil-lamp, he had to rush through his day’s work and close the accounts before darkness fell. He worked without wasting a minute.
One or two of his clients, who had waited long enough to catch his attention, cleared their throats and made other small sounds. Margayya suddenly looked up from his desk and told one of them, ‘Go there,’ pointing at his accountant, sitting at the other end of the hall: ‘He will give you the deed back.’ The other showed no sign of moving, at which he said sharply, ‘You heard me? If I have got to speak each sentence twice, I shall have to live for two hundred years and be satisfied with a quarter of my present earnings.’
‘Why do you say such harsh things, master?’ the other asked. ‘Is it because I am asking for my deed back? Is it wrong?’
‘It is not wrong. Why should anyone refuse to give a title deed that is yours by right?’ He said it in such a tone that the other hesitated and said, ‘You have been as a father to me in my difficulties and you have helped me as much as you could.’
‘And yet you have not the grace to trust me with your title. Do you think I am going to make a broth of it and drink it off?’
The client rose and said, ‘I will come again for it tomorrow, sir, just to show that I am in no hurry.’ He rose and walked out.
Margayya said to the others, ‘You see that fellow … the ingratitude of some of these folk sometimes makes me want to throw up everything and …’ The others made sympathetic sounds just to please him. His accountant added from his corner his own comment in his hollow, hungry voice:
‘He is afraid he may have further interest to pay if he leaves his papers here … I know these people: they are docile and lamb-like as long as they hold our money, but the moment they return the principal and interest –’
Margayya did not like this: ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Sastri, go on with your work.’ He hated the hungry, tired tone of his accountant.
‘I was only giving you a piece of observation … it is getting to be a nuisance, some of these fellows demanding their papers back at short notice,’ Sastri persisted. At this Margayya realized that it would not be feasible to put his accountant down so easily, and cut him short wit
h, ‘True, true … We must include a condition that they must give us at least three days for returning their papers.’
A visitor who felt that he had waited too long asked, ‘Margayya, don’t you recognize me?’
‘No,’ replied Margayya promptly.
‘I am Kanda,’ he said.
‘Which?’
‘Of Somanur –’
‘No, you are not,’ replied Margayya promptly.
The other laughed, leaned forward almost over the desk, and asked, ‘Do you still say that I am not Kanda, master?’
Margayya scrutinized him closely and cried, ‘You, old thief, it is you, yes! What has come over you? You look like a man a hundred years old … Why those wrinkles round your nose? Why those folds at the chin and that silver filing all over your face? What is the matter with you and where are your teeth gone?’ The other just raised his arms heavenward, lifted up his eyes as much as to say, ‘Go and put that question to the heavens if you like.’ Now Margayya wanted to clear his hall of all his visitors. He felt that here was the man he would like to talk to the whole day. He looked at the others, gave a paper back to someone, and said, ‘I cannot advance you on this –’
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 40