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

by R. K. Narayan

  It was Margayya’s constant fear that when the time came to marry his son, people might say: ‘Oh, they are after all corpse-bearers, didn’t you know?’ But fortunately this fear was unfounded. At any rate, his financial reputation overshadowed anything else. Horoscopes and petitions poured in by every post. It produced a sense of well-being in Margayya, and a quiet feeling of greatness.

  Sastri had done his part of the work efficiently. He had set aside all ledger work for the moment, and had written out scores of letters to men known to him within a radius of about two hundred miles. He was a compendium of likely parties with daughters to marry. He went out and saw in person quite a good many locally, as an ambassador. In all his correspondence and talk he described Margayya as the ‘Lord of Uncounted Lakhs’ or as one who was ‘the richest in India’; and he spoke of Balu as inheritor of all this wealth and an apprentice in his father’s own business and a young man whose education was deliberately suspended because his father, having his own idea of education, was more keen on training the young fellow in business than letting him acquire useless degrees. Margayya scrutinized quite a file of applications and horoscopes. He rejected most of the proposals. They were from quite unworthy aspirants. Margayya felt, ‘Why should these people waste my time and their own? Are they blind? I have a certain position in life to keep up and I naturally want only alliances which can come up to that expectation.’

  Finally he picked up the horoscope of a girl who seemed to him desirable from every point of view. Her name was Brinda. She was seventeen years old. Her father in his first letter described her as being ‘extremely fair’. He was a man who owned a tea-estate in Mempi Hills. At once it biased Margayya’s mind in his favour. It was not a very large estate but yielded an income often thousand rupees a year. Margayya sent Sastri out to fetch an astrologer. There was one practising in the lane behind the Market Road. A man presently entered with beads at his throat and sacred ash on his forehead, wrapped in a red silk toga and dressed every inch for his part. There were a few of Margayya’s clients waiting for him, and he had to dispose of them before he could attend to the astrologer. He seated the astrologer and made him wait for a few moments. The astrologer fretted at having to wait. He sat shifting uneasily in his seat, cleared his throat, and coughed once or twice in order to attract attention. Margayya looked up and understood. He interrupted himself in his work to tell the astrologer: ‘Hey, Pandit, can’t you remain at peace with yourself for a moment?’ The astrologer was taken aback, but curbed his restlessness. Margayya disposed of his clients, looked up and said: ‘Come nearer, Pandit.’ The astrologer edged his way nearer.

  By his manner and words, Margayya had now completely cowed the man. It seemed necessary as a first step to dictate to the planets what they should do. Margayya had made up his mind that he was going to take no nonsense from the planets, and that he was going to tell them how to dispose their position in order to meet his requirement: his requirement was the daughter of a man who owned tea-estates in Mempi Hills, and he was consulting the astrologer purely as a formality. These were not days when he had to wait anxiously on a verdict of the stars: he could afford to ask for his own set of conditions and get them. He no longer believed that man was a victim of circumstances or fate – but that man was a creature who could make his own present and future, provided he worked hard and remained watchful. ‘The gold bars in the safe at home and the cash bundles and the bank passbook are not sent down from heaven – they are a result of my own application. I need not have stayed at my desk for ten hours at a stretch and talked myself hoarse to all those clients of mine and taken all that risk on half-secured loans! … I could just have sat back and lost myself in contemplation –’

  His mind sometimes pursued such a line of thought. But he at once realized that it was not always quite safe to think so and added the rider: ‘Of course Goddess Lakshmi or another will have to be propitiated from time to time. But we must also work and be able to keep correct accounts and pay for what we demand.’ This was no doubt a somewhat confusing and mixed-up philosophy of life, but that was how it was – and its immediate manifestation was to say to the astrologer, as he pushed before him his son’s horoscope and the tea-estate daughter’s, ‘Pandit, see if you can match these horoscopes.’

  The Pandit put on his glasses and tilted the horoscopes towards the light at the door and studied them in silence.

  Margayya watched his face and said: ‘What is your fee for your services?’

  ‘Let my fee alone,’ the other said. ‘Let me do my work properly first.’

  Margayya said: ‘Well, probably I shall be able to add a couple of rupees to your usual charges … and if the alliance concludes successfully, well, of course, a lace dhoti and all honours for the Pandit –’

  ‘Give me a pencil and paper,’ the other said briefly.

  The astrologer filled the sheet of paper with numbers and their derivatives, and worked up and down the page and on the back of it. He asked for another sheet of paper and worked up further figures. Margayya watched him anxiously. He said softly: ‘I want this alliance to go through. I shall appreciate it very much if you will work towards that objective. I can show my appreciation concretely if –’

  The astrologer shook his head and muttered: ‘Impossible – you will have to find –’

  ‘I don’t want you to talk unnecessarily,’ Margayya said.

  ‘The seventh and ninth houses in your son’s horoscope are … are not quite sound. The girl’s marriage possibilities are the purest. The two horoscopes cannot match – they are like soap and oil.’

  ‘I have no faith in horoscopes personally –’

  ‘Then you need not have gone to the extent of looking at these,’ the astrologer said.

  Margayya felt angry. He asked finally: ‘Is there nothing that you can do?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. What can I do? Am I Brahma?’

  Margayya could not trust himself to speak further. He called across the room: ‘Sastri –’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Give this Pandit a rupee and see him off

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Sastri proceeded to open a money bag.

  The Pandit said: ‘A rupee! Am I a street-astrologer! My fee is usually –’

  ‘I am not interested. My fee for such service as you do is just one rupee maximum. You will not get even that if you misbehave,’ said Margayya, and he shot out his hand and snatched back the horoscopes and the sheet of calculations. He looked for a moment at it to see if he could read anything. It was a maze of obscure calculations and figures. He thought of tearing it up, but remembering that he had paid for it, folded it neatly and put it into his personal desk. The astrologer got up loftily and walked towards the accountant, received his rupee with an air of resignation, and strode out without relaxing his looks.

  Dr Pal helped Margayya to find a different astrologer who rearranged the stars of Balu to suit the circumstances. Margayya did not meet the astrologer in person. Dr Pal took upon himself the task. He made several journeys between the astrologer and Margayya carrying the envelope containing the horoscopes, and finally came back one day with the astrologer’s written report on a saffron-tipped paper; the report said that the two horoscopes perfectly matched, with reasons adduced. Considering the mightiness of the task the fee of seventy-five rupees which Dr Pal said the astrologer charged was purely nominal.

  Events then moved briskly. Dr Pal’s services became indispensable and constant. He saw Margayya through the preliminary negotiations, the wedding celebrations, and the culmination in a newspaper photo with Balu wearing tie and collar, his handsome bride at his side.

  It was the third year of the war, and Margayya decided that the time was now ripe for starting a new line. He walked into Dr Pal’s Tourist Home and asked: ‘Doctor, how are you faring?’

  ‘Not badly,’ said the Doctor.

  Margayya observed the dust-laden table, the penholder which had not been moved, and the unwritten sheets of paper before hi
m – unmistakable signs of dull business. Margayya settled in the chair and began: ‘Doctor, I think you ought to make more money.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just for your own good. I will show you a way, if you like.’

  ‘I’m quite contented with what I have.’

  ‘You are not, sir,’ said Margayya. ‘You forget I’m also in the same building as you are. Don’t tell me that there are many fellows coming into your office to seek your assistance in tourism or whatever it may be –’

  Dr Pal became submissive: ‘I have tried one thing after another in life. You know I am a qualified sociologist – one of the handful in this country –’

  ‘Let us not talk of all that,’ said Margayya, not liking the idea of going back to the Domestic Harmony days. It was something which had gone clean out of his mind, except one copy of the book which he retained as a memento of his earlier days and which he kept locked up in his iron safe at home for fear that Balu might get at it. Fortunately, he felt, his daughter-in-law’s father did not seem to have heard anything about his association with it. Otherwise he might never have gone through with the alliance – it was as risky as the ancestry of his corpse-bearing grandfathers. And so now he cut short Dr Pal’s reference to sociology and psychology as if it were dangerous talk, and said: ‘I want to do you a good turn.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the Doctor.

  ‘Because – ‘began Margayya, and was about to say, ‘you did me a good turn once by forcing on me your manuscript,’ but checked these words, and said, ‘Don’t ask why. Because I have known you for a long while, and have seen you also – and I sincerely wish that you could make a little money and live comfortably –’

  ‘Tourism,’ said Dr Pal, ‘is a very honourable and paying proposition in the West, but here nobody cares. There is not a single person anywhere here, who knows the history and archaeology of the country round about. Do you know that there are half a dozen different jungle-tribes to be found on the top of the Mempi Hills? All of them live, breed and die in the jungles – but there are so many differences between them. No inter-marriage? My tourism does not confine itself to telling people, “There is the river,” “There is the valley,” “Here is big game” – and pointing to a few ruined temples – that’s not my idea of tourism; it’s something different, something that’s as good as education.’

  ‘But it hasn’t been a paying line,’ said Margayya, growing impatient with his lecture. ‘For the moment, if you want a good income, listen to me. If I throw out a word about it, I am sure there will be dozens ready to take it up, but I want to give you the first chance because – ‘He once again narrowly avoided reference to Domestic Harmony, and said: ‘Because, because, I’ve been seeing you for quite a long while, and I would like to see you prosper.’

  There was another reason why Margayya wanted to help, which was also not mentioned. He found Dr Pal hanging too much about his son’s establishment at Lawley Road. Margayya gave one of the houses he had acquired to his son for setting up a family independently, although Margayya’s wife did not much like the idea of living separated from him. But Margayya told her: ‘Think for a moment, my dear girl, Brinda comes from an up-to-date family, and already shows her superior training. Is she very comfortable in this house?’

  His wife thought it over and agreed: ‘I don’t think so. Balu has been saying that the new room you have put up on the terrace is not good enough. In her father’s house she has four rooms, all her own.’ She added: ‘The girl hardly comes out of her room all day. I have to call her a dozen times before she will come downstairs for her meal. I hardly see anything of Balu either. He doesn’t speak much. I’m probably not good enough for a modern girl like her.’

  ‘Tut! Tut!’ Margayya said to her. ‘Don’t get into the habits of a mother-in-law. I like the girl very much myself – if those two are happy, I think it’s best they are left alone to manage their affairs in their own fashion. I have recently acquired a house in Lawley Extension. I think it best that they move off there.’

  ‘So far!’ exclaimed the mother horrified.

  ‘It’s not so far as you imagine … just half an hour by a jutka.’ He studied her face for a while and added: ‘Don’t make a fuss. The boy is eighteen years old and he ought to look after himself. The girl will manage the household for him.’

  To Margayya’s wife it seemed an unthinkable proposition. ‘They hardly know how to boil water or even to light an oven.’

  ‘They will learn everything,’ Margayya said. ‘And they can engage a cook if they want.’ He was adamant: ‘Sooner or later the boy will himself open the subject and ask for this and that. If he does that it will annoy me very much, and I will resist. I’d rather do things before he speaks – it’ll look better. I will give him a house and a settlement. I want to see if that will make him think of doing something with his time.’

  His wife did not like the note of irony in his voice and protested: ‘You have already forgotten what happened. I dread to think you have already started again thinking you ought to improve him!’

  Margayya’s wife nearly broke down on the day Balu bundled up his clothes into a neat leather suit-case presented to him by his father-in-law, put them into a taxi and drove away with his young wife. Margayya’s wife had spent a good part of an entire week in running up and down between Vinayak Mudali Street and Lawley Extension, arranging the bungalow at Lawley Extension for its new occupants. The girl prostrated at her mother-in-law’s feet before taking leave of her.

  Balu, a taciturn man, just said: ‘I’m going,’ got into the car, and sat down leaving space for his wife. Margayya’s brother’s family had crowded on the parapet of the next house. Margayya himself was away, for it had been a busy day for him at his office.

  The house for Margayya’s wife seemed to have become dull and lonely without her son. It reminded her of the days when he had gone away without telling anybody, but Margayya noticed no difference because his mind was busy formulating a new plan which was going to rocket him to undreamt-of heights of financial success …

  Margayya observed that after Balu settled in his new house, Dr Pal became a constant visitor there. Whenever he went there, at the end of a day’s work, he saw Dr Pal settled comfortably in the hall sofa. He played cards with Balu and his wife. He also suspected that Dr Pal constantly took cash from his son. Margayya did not like a man who could write Domestic Harmony to associate with young, impressionable minds; he would probably recite passages from it, talk over further projects with his son, and he couldn’t say what Balu might or might not do under those circumstances. At any rate, it seemed imperative to wean his son away from Dr Pal – and it seemed best to do it by employing Dr Pal’s hours usefully and so making it unnecessary for him to go to the youngster, at least for money.

  Now Margayya told Dr Pal: ‘You can make a thousand rupees a month easily if you will associate with me. After you have made some money it’ll be much more feasible to try your tourism to your heart’s content. Are you willing to try and do something?’

  ‘Yes, definitely,’ said Dr Pal. At which Margayya began a lecture on money conditions. The war had created a flood of inflated currency. All sorts of people were making money in all sorts of ways – some of it unaccounted or unaccountable.

  ‘You know what the market has been!’ said Margayya. ‘This is the time when I wish to attract deposits rather than lend. People have money and are looking for a place to put it – and I look to you to get me a few contacts. I will make it worth while. You know all kinds of people as a journalist, and you are the man for me.’

  ‘I will do my best,’ declared Dr Pal enthusiastically, thinking: ‘At least next month I can pay the stores, instead of dodging; I am tired of dodging.’

  ‘I am tired of this tame business of lending to my rustic clients,’ Margayya said. ‘I want to do something better for a change. It does not mean I’m giving up my village clients. I shall continue to serve them as a sort of duty to them … but –’
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  Margayya’s instinct was right in choosing Dr Pal as his tout. He was a man who visited almost all the shopmen in the town every day. He knew the rice merchant in a certain back street who hoarded rice in a secret godown, whose frontage was stuffed with innocent-looking rag and old paper collected for the paper mills, who sold rice at about a rupee for half a seer to needy people, and made an enormous quantity of money each day. Dr Pal knew the man who supplied office glue to the army and hoarded enough cash by showing a joint stock firm with imaginary partners; another merchant who supplied screws in cartons only half-filled, the contractor who built huts and got enormous bills passed easily by bribing the Garrison Engineer. He was a rich man because his huts meant to stand for three years would stand only for a couple of months – till the bills were passed by the friendly Garrison Engineer! It was this margin that gave him real wealth. There were drug stockists who didn’t show their stock, but bargained when it was a matter of life and death to a customer; there were military men with pensions, and go-betweens and busy-bodies who could secure contacts at New Delhi for a consideration, people who could manage export and import priority. All these people had a lot of money – the town was reeking with it. Only a part of it came out in income-tax returns, and the balance remained hidden in bundled-up currency notes in dark boxes – it was these that Margayya wanted to attract to his own stronghold. Besides these, people generally had a lot of cash these days. Margayya had decided that all the cash must go to him. He had a feeling that, though by ordinary standards he might be termed a man of wealth, yet the peak was still a long way off. He was like a fanatical mountaineer who sets his heart on reaching the summit of Everest. He might be standing on the highest peak. Yet he can never feel that he has really attained the highest …

  The blanket man was Dr Pal’s first client. Dr Pal sat in his shop amidst piles of dark blankets and lectured him so long that he expressed a desire to meet Margayya. Dr Pal said: ‘I will see him first and speak to him. He is very reluctant to accept deposits. But I think my recommendation will work – wait until I see you again tomorrow.’