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

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘What class?’ he was asked.

  ‘Class! I am not travelling in a saloon. If there is a fourth class – ‘Margayya pushed in his money for a third-class ticket.

  There was such a crowd that he had to push himself in through a window – not an easy task considering the paunch that he was developing as a prosperous man. The compartment was no more than normally crowded in a railway system which issued tickets ‘till the fingers ached’. It was a compartment meant to seat twelve – a conception in an ideal world. Perhaps it technically satisfied the rule – because those who could technically be said to be seated were twelve. The rest kept themselves in it, in all manner of ways, with their bundles heaped about. People sat on each other’s laps, hung by each other’s necks, curled themselves on luggage racks overhead, spread their beds and stretched themselves comfortably in the space under the seats. One of them was explaining: ‘This is the best way of travelling. I have always thought this better than even the first class. I always come two hours before and spread my bed.’

  Margayya had extreme difficulty in hanging his legs down because quite a lot of people seemed to be sleeping there, and he could not cross his legs because he had managed to secure only half a seat, and had to dispose of the rest of himself somehow in mid-air. Seeing the manner in which the others had disposed themselves, he felt triumphant that he had at least got this seat – and he congratulated himself on his pluck. The moment he had shot in through the window, the impact of his arrival displaced someone who was already seated. Margayya just let himself down there before the other could recover. He was a villager.

  When he did recover he cried: ‘Get out of my seat.’

  ‘Why don’t you learn better manners?’ Margayya said in his habitual masterful way with villagers.

  ‘I have been sitting here from Trichinopoly,’ the other began.

  ‘Well, you must be tired of sitting – a change will do you good,’ replied Margayya.

  The others enjoyed the joke and laughed. Thick tobacco smoke hung in the air. Someone had opened even the lavatory door and forgotten to close it. Margayya cried: ‘Why does not someone pull to that door?’ Everyone agreed with him that it must be done, but no one was prepared to risk leaving his place to do it – and the man nearest the door did not care to put out his arm for the purpose. The train, clattering and jingling, went its way, stopping at every station, where more people tried to force their way in through windows and doors, but those inside formed themselves into a class and were unanimous in keeping them out. At about two o’clock the fever in the compartment seemed to subside: people slept and wriggled in the positions in which they found themselves, and snored. Margayya found a peculiar peace in these crazy circumstances. He had found a place for his neck, though not for the little bundle in his hand, which he closely hugged to his bosom. He was amused to see a seller of glass bangles, sitting right in the middle of the carriage with all his fragile merchandise tied up in a huge cloth bundle by his side, who kept warning everyone: ‘Be careful, sirs, don’t knock on this – ‘And people were very considerate. There was a little girl who was looking wistfully at the bangles through her half-sleepy eyes. Margayya felt drawn to this man and found out that he was going to a fair at a wayside station on the following day. ‘The day after tomorrow you will see me return this way without my bundle,’ he said. ‘But your purse fully loaded, I suppose,’ said Margayya. He liked the man as a prospective bearer of money. He suddenly felt that he had kept away too long from the thought of money. It was like a tobacco chewer suddenly realizing that he had been away too long from his pouch. Margayya took a pinch of snuff; at the sight of it a police officer sitting next him held out his fingers and Margayya passed him the box. The officer took a deep pinch, felt grateful and became communicative: ‘Things are not quite good, yet, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ replied Margayya, thinking it best to be agreeable with a policeman in plain clothes.

  ‘All kinds of bothers,’ he said. ‘People will not leave us in peace –’

  Margayya looked about cautiously and said: ‘Can’t you put them in their places?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the policeman. ‘That’s what keeps me on the move like this. My home is in Madras, but I don’t get even a couple of hours a month to spend with my family. I have to be on the move constantly – well, they think I have a nose for … for … wrongdoers, political, criminal, or whatever –

  ‘Well, it’s a dangerous job, I suppose,’ Margayya said opening his eyes wide.

  The policeman adjusted himself in his seat more comfortably and said: ‘Well, it all depends how we view it. I have been in it for twenty years and have survived.’

  ‘Well, one must do one’s duty,’ said Margayya, generalizing. ‘As they say in Bhagavad-Gita, God helps those who do their duty.’

  The other leaned forward and said: ‘Do you know I had to carry a notice of arrest even to Mahatma Gandhi once? I would rather have prostrated before that man, but I had to arrest him. Such is life!’ he philosophized vaguely, sleepily. Margayya noticed his sleepiness and said, ‘But they ought to give you a second-class pass at least.’

  This tickled the policeman considerably. ‘I can travel first, if I like; nobody will question me. I am really an officer, you know. But what will be the use? I’m not travelling in order to sleep comfortably – that’s why I travel third: my catches are almost all in a third-class carriage. Sometimes I have to follow political suspects, sometimes brigands, sometimes murderers – all kinds of things: they can assign me any job – but it is always necessary for me to keep wide awake and stay in a crowd.’

  Most of the others in the compartment had gone to sleep. Only these two were awake. Margayya confided to him his troubles. ‘I don’t know where to go in Madras, or even what to do.’

  ‘Have you got the card with you?’ asked the policeman.

  Margayya took it out of his pocket. The policeman examined it by the dim, insect-ridden light of the compartment. Looking carefully at the post-mark he said: ‘It’s from Park Town.’

  Margayya asked: ‘Where is that?’

  The Inspector ignored his question, and asked, ‘This handwriting must also be analysed.’ He turned the card and said: ‘How long will you stay in Madras?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Margayya said pathetically, refraining from adding: ‘They have pushed me out on this journey. I don’t know where I’m going: I would not even know Madras when I arrived there.’

  The police officer took charge of Margayya as soon as they arrived in Madras Egmore Station. He took him to the waiting-room and said: ‘Make yourself at home. There is the platform restaurant. You can rest as much as you like. I will be back. Give me that postcard.’ He spoke to a platform official about Margayya.

  Margayya began to doubt how far he ought to trust the man. Perhaps he would throw him in gaol or perhaps he was a brigand himself. He was gradually changing his mind about wanting the man’s help. In the cold, morning light of Madras, things seemed different and more reassuring; there was a certain hopelessness in the dim-lit compartment, which made him want to confide in someone and enlist his sympathy. But now it all seemed different. He reflected: ‘Why not run away from here?’ Suppose he opened the door on the off-side and cleared out. But the police officer gave him no chance. He said, taking him by the sleeve: ‘Don’t move out of here till I come back. I will see what I can do for you.’

  ‘Oh, no, I wouldn’t bother you,’ said Margayya, trying to withdraw. The other paid no heed, but just turned round and went away. ‘Why should anyone be so considerate to a stranger?’ Margayya’s devious mind kept ringing, ‘particularly in this city, which is notoriously cold-blooded.’

  After food, Margayya stretched himself on a bedstead in the waiting-room and slept soundly. He snored so loudly that the people moving about the platform stopped and looked in. Margayya dreamt that he had got down at Mempi, and someone whom he could not recognize pointed up to the sun-lit horizon, and said, ‘All
that is yours.’ Margayya was struggling to work up the interest rate on this proposition and was involved in a terrible quantity of figures when the police officer came in again and woke him up. Margayya felt very apologetic for having fallen asleep. He said clumsily, ‘You see … I am sorry –’

  ‘There is nothing to apologize about,’ said the Inspector. ‘Well, if you like to have a wash, let us go out.’ Margayya got up and went round with him in search of a tap. The Madras heat seemed to prick him in a dozen places. He felt better after he emerged from under the tap. He went back to his room dripping, tidied himself up, and put on a long coat and turban. In the heat of Madras, it was like getting into steel armour and helmet.

  The Inspector said: ‘Well, I have good news for you.’ He returned the postcard to Margayya and said: ‘I have spent the whole day tracing the author of that postcard. It’s a falsehood he has written.’ Margayya’s mind was still clouded with sleep and calculations of interest. He looked dull and uncomprehending. The Inspector held out his hand for a pinch of snuff. ‘Give me your snuff. It’s very good… and I will tell you what you should do. You go back to your wife at once and tell her that your son is alive.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Margayya asked, still dazed.

  ‘Because we’ve managed to trace it back to the author. He is a madman in Park Town who keeps writing messages like that to any address that he picks up.’

  ‘How did he pick up my address?’

  ‘Well, that’s what we shall investigate, if you will stay for another day,’ said the Inspector.

  The Inspector took him along to a house in Park Town. It was a very big house in a lane, occupying the space of three or four blocks together. Its outside was painted green and red in alternating strips with oil distemper. Its front veranda was enclosed by iron rods painted yellow: the whole scheme made the house look like a crayon box with its lid open. Over it all was hung a board painted ‘The House of Enlightenment’. It was a hot, dusty afternoon, and the taxi had run through several winding lanes. Seeing so much gaudy colour made Margayya’s throat parched and thirsty; it also made him feel homesick. Before the car came to a halt the Inspector said: ‘I was able to trace this man through the post office. Don’t be surprised by anything you may see or hear, we are going out to meet a madman, remember. He is a very wealthy man, gone mad. He owns a theatre, and his relations are managing it.’

  They got down. He knocked on the door. An attendant opened the door and showed the way. They went through several pillared halls. The pillars were of smooth granite, and the floors mosaic-covered. Potted ferns were kept here and there. Some parrots and miscellaneous birds were twittering in the cages hanging down from the ceiling. The house was so deep inside that the noises of the city came in from far off, completely muffled. The place was cool and shady. All along the walls of the corridors and passages and halls there were pictures of Gods in terrible shape and fury destroying the world. Margayya felt he was in an utterly strange world. The world of Vinayak Mudali Street, of his wife and brother, and Market Road, and banking, seemed to be distant and unreal … The Inspector whispered to him: ‘Don’t you feel that you are in a zoo?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Margayya, just to please him, although he did not know what it looked like inside a zoo. They were now in a large hall where a man sat on a divan, surrounded by cushions. He wore an ochre robe and had grown a beard. From two tall incense-holders smoke was curling. The man had about him a heap of postcards, a pen and a writing-pad. He was writing furiously when they entered. He had an attendant fanning him, although there was an electric fan above. There were two seating cushions along the wall. The man took no notice of the arrival of the visitors. The Inspector whispered to Margayya: ‘Take your seat there.’ They sat on the cushions and waited. The attendant bent over and whispered into the ear of the big man. He put away the pen, leaned back and looked at the Inspector. The Inspector salaamed. The other’s face relaxed a little, and a smile hovered about it; but the next moment it became rigid again as he said: ‘Who is that mortal next to you who does not seem to recognize us? Is it likely that we are invisible to his eyes?’

  ‘Yes, that’s so,’ said the Inspector. ‘That’s the correct explanation.’

  ‘Oh, it never occurred to me. I can make myself seen. We often forget that we divine creatures are transparent, and that we cannot be seen.’

  ‘But it is easily remedied, if your holiness makes up his mind.’ The other shook his head in approval, then waved his arm, looked at Margayya, and asked: ‘Do you see me?’

  The Inspector muttered: ‘Salute him.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Margayya with a reverential salaam.

  ‘Now, what is your business, mortal?’

  The Inspector said: ‘He has come after his son Balu, about whom a card has emanated from here.’ He held up the card and said, ‘He wants to know in which world to look for him.’

  The other shook his head and said: ‘That I am not allowed to say. That only God can do. I am not God, but only God’s agent. He ordered, “Go and prepare the world for my coming.” That I am doing. I write every day to every King, Ruler, Viceroy, President and Minister in the world, that their boss is soon arriving, and let them get ready for it. Every day I write to President Roosevelt, Stalin, and Churchill, particularly.’ He indicated a big file of letters waiting to be posted.

  The Inspector said: ‘That’s fine – but we want to know the whereabouts of Balu. He is not a Maharaja or anything like that and it is enough for us to know in which world he is to be found. Will you please look up the necessary reference?’

  ‘Is this his earthly father?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Inspector.

  ‘Does he believe in Death?’

  ‘He does not,’ replied the Inspector.

  ‘I am very pleased about it. It’s my mission in life to inform at least ten mortals about Death each day and educate them. People must learn to view Death calmly.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ said the Inspector and added: ‘Please look into your file.’

  The other took out a ponderous file, turned over its leaves, muttering ‘Balu … Balu … Son of… Malgudi …’ Margayya could hardly believe his ears. He cried involuntarily: ‘How did you get my address?’ The Inspector suppressed him with a gesture and said: ‘Where did you pick up this mortal’s address?’

  ‘How do I pick up George VI’s address or Mahatma Gandhi’s address?’ he answered back. ‘Whenever anyone comes to me for charity, I will not give them an anna unless they give me their true address. Whenever anyone comes to me for employment in any of my businesses, I won’t take him in unless he gives me his true address.’

  ‘How do you know it is his true address?’

  ‘By writing a card to that address,’ the other said triumphantly. ‘You must not forget that there is God above me.’

  ‘Did this boy come to you for employment?’

  ‘Didn’t he?’

  ‘Or for charity?’

  ‘I don’t believe in charity. Whenever anyone comes to me for charity, I give them employment.’

  ‘But when they come to you for employment –’

  ‘I give them charity,’ the other said.

  ‘Where is this Balu?’ persisted the Inspector.

  ‘You may persist for a million years, but you will not get a reply unless God sanctions an answer.’

  ‘Hasn’t he sanctioned it?’ asked the Inspector.

  ‘No,’ replied the madman.

  ‘In that case we are going,’ said the Inspector rising. The Inspector walked away unceremoniously. Margayya hesitated for a moment at the door, and then followed the Inspector out. ‘What are we to make of it?’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Don’t worry. Your son is living somewhere. We’ll have to find that out. We will do it. Don’t worry.’

  ‘How do you know that my son still lives?’

  ‘Because I know this man. Every day he writes ten death notices and sends them to the post. His servants
usually do not post them, but your one card must have slipped through into the ordinary post.’

  ‘My misfortune is that he should have got at my address!’ Margayya wailed, suddenly realizing: ‘It’s three days since I went to my office. God knows what is happening to my business. Probably this is the beginning of the end – ‘he reflected ruefully.

  The Inspector took Margayya to the Central Talkies that evening. The Manager rose in his seat when the Inspector entered his room. The police were a troublesome lot and it was best to keep on good terms with them. The Manager became elaborately fussy and cried: ‘What a pleasure! It’s ages since you came here, Mr Inspector. Shall I order coffee? The film is on now. Would you like to see it?’ He was as proud of the picture as if it were his own product. Margayya sat in a chair, idly gazing on the pictures of film stars hung on the walls in sepia print. A stale, surcharged tobacco smell pervaded the air and made Margayya more bilious than ever. The Manager said: ‘We are showing – – – on the 26th. You must definitely send your children.’

  The Inspector waved off the invitation with a gentle indifference and said: ‘We saw your boss sometime ago –’

  ‘Oh! How is he?’

  ‘As usual, I suppose. How does he manage the business?’

  ‘His son-in-law looks after everything. What he does is – he comes round occasionally, sits through a show, notes down the names of all the people he meets and goes – that he does once in a while.’

  ‘Have you a new boy in your employment now?’

  ‘Yes … Yes … We got one a few weeks ago. He seems to be an educated boy.’

  ‘Is his name Balu?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it,’ said the Manager. ‘Why, anything wrong?’

  ‘Is he about eighteen?’ asked the Inspector, and gave a further description which the other accepted.

  ‘What does he do?’ asked Margayya interested.

  ‘Well, miscellaneous things. Just now he is out with the sandwich boys. They will all come back before the evening show.’

  They had to wait there till the crowd for the evening show began to arrive at the ticket-window. A kettle-drum was heard approaching over the noise of the crowd. It came nearer and stopped, and now through the gate streamed in street-arabs wearing sandwich boards, on which colourful posters were stuck announcing: ‘Krishna Leela.’ The boys were ragged street-urchins with matted hair and sun-scorched complexions – covering their middles with loin-cloths and practically bearing on their bare bodies the sandwich frames. They put down their frames and gathered in front of the Manager’s room along with the drummers and pipers. Presently Balu arrived, saying: ‘Payment only for three, sir; the rest dozed off under the trees.’ At which the rest started arguing furiously. ‘What injustice to get work out of us and cheat us! Hey, you are no –’