‘Shall we do something like that and get out of here?’
The other thought it over and said, ‘Why should I? What have I to do outside?’
‘But I wish to get out. I can’t stand this place any more,’ said Sriram.
‘If you didn’t like this place, you should not have done things to bring you here, that’s all,’ said the other. ‘Even if you manage to get out, they will bring you back in no time, it’s not worth all the trouble. You can’t hide your face.’
‘I will grow a beard.’
‘They will pluck out your beard just to see how you look. That is how you bring dishonour on even holy Sadhus, who have beards.’
‘I promise I will keep out of the way of the police.’
The other shook his head. ‘What is the use of going out if you can’t move about freely?’ He seemed to take pleasure in teasing him and to disapprove of people who didn’t appreciate their life in gaol.
Finally, Sriram took out his trump card and said, ‘I want to escape because a girl I want to marry is out there.’
‘Where?’ asked the man ruthlessly.
Sriram was afraid to give the reply, but he blurted it out before he could hold it back. ‘She is in gaol too.’
‘Oh! Oh!’ the other cried amused. ‘Do you mean to say you are going to slip into her gaol and ask the gaoler to officiate at your nuptials?’ he asked coarsely.
Sriram felt angry and regretted that he had ever mentioned his angel to this coarse man. God knew what terrible things he would say now. He remained silent, afraid to open his mouth. And the other said: ‘If she is the kind to go to gaol, listen to my advice, leave her alone. You can’t bring up your children in gaol. There must be someone to look after the house. It’s not at all right that both a man and his wife should be the gaol-going sort.’
‘How is it with you?’ Sriram asked.
‘I have three wives, here and there, and they run the homes in my absence: if they didn’t I wouldn’t hesitate to put sense into them. That’s the way. You are not going to be here all your life. When you are let out, go and marry a good girl, I tell you. This gaol-bird will be no good for you.’
‘She is not a criminal, she has gone to prison on Mahatmaji’s command.’
‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ the other sneered. ‘Why do you drag in that great man’s name here?’
Sriram grew annoyed. Somehow the mention of Bharati seemed to rouse in the other the worst ideas. Sriram abruptly rose to his feet and went to his bed muttering, ‘Go on and sleep. Let us not talk any more.’
‘You are afraid I shall tell the Chief, aren’t you?’ the other sneered. ‘If you don’t join me with gusto in our Bhajans, I will report you to the Chief
‘I’m not afraid,’ said Sriram defiantly.
‘Well, we will see, don’t be surprised if they lock you up in a solitary cell. You will have only the walls to talk to,’ said the other. He took a fiendish pleasure in promising hell to Sriram.
Sriram paused for a moment and said, ‘I have not wronged you. Why do you hate me?’
The other said sulkily, ‘I have no sympathy for those who don’t believe in God. I don’t like fellows who speak ill of God.’
‘I have not said a word against God,’ Sriram said, wondering at the turn the subject was taking. ‘What have I said?’
‘I won’t repeat it,’ the other replied. ‘If you don’t respect God, you will be whipped in gaol, remember. That’s my experience. You should listen to a man with experience, that’s all.’
‘I am in need of no advice from anyone,’ said Sriram haughtily.
The forger turned in his sleep and swore, ‘Are you going to sleep or keep on talking all night? A wretched place, it’s becoming worse than the market place. No peace for a man who wants to sleep. I will call the guard if you fellows don’t shut up at once.’
In answer the bully let out a loud, challenging song in a stentorian voice, enough to wake the whole town. There was a sound of running feet outside. Sriram sneaked back to his bed. The guard asked through the bars: ‘What’s going on here?’
‘People are chattering and chattering. This has become worse than the market place,’ said the bully from his bed.
A friendly warder brought them the news of the outside world: ‘Mahatma Gandhi is becoming the Emperor of India,’ he said one day. ‘I heard it today from a person who knows these things. Some men have come by plane from England with the proposal.’
‘Don’t be silly. How can they want the Mahatma to become the King of India when they have put him in prison for fear that he may become one?’
‘Didn’t you know? It seems he is out of prison.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘I swear he is. They released him long ago because he was ill and his wife died. A woman who comes here to cut grass told me so.’
‘It is not safe to have any transaction with grass-cutting women. They will get you into trouble,’ said a veteran prisoner.
‘How do you know?’
‘It is because I have suffered. They are sirens. They will seduce you before you know where you are. And then you will have trouble everywhere. They don’t like such goings-on in a gaol.’
‘But this is an old woman who cannot seduce anyone. She is a grandmother, so don’t fear.’
‘Then it is all right. Go on.’
‘Her son is in the army. Her grandson sells newspapers in the market and he tells her what goes on in the world.’
Every one of the prisoners and their guards as well eagerly crowded round him to ask, ‘What is happening? What is happening? Tell us.’
‘It seems that some men have come from England and they want to make Mahatma a king.’
They clapped their hands in glee. ‘Oh, how good to hear this!’
‘Why does it make you so happy?’
‘Because if Mahatmaji becomes the king of our country he will not allow anyone to be kept in prison. He doesn’t like it. It’s because he is a very good man. It seems the British don’t like him because he says such things.’
‘They like him now, all right.’
The indulgent warder looked on as the prisoners discussed these matters among themselves, while going through their various duties. The warder didn’t however like the idea of a prison-less state. He said: ‘How can there be no prisons? There will always be prisons whoever may become the king.’ This was a ticklish technical point. The best thing was to consult the political expert in their midst. They turned to Sriram for guidance.
Sriram was breaking the stones unmindful of what they were saying. He was listening to their discussions, but he chose not to display any enthusiasm. He said, ‘I don’t know anything about anything.’
They plied him with questions: ‘Is it a fact or is it not a fact?’
‘How should I know? I am in your midst.’
‘Will they release us all from prison?’
‘All? I don’t think so; they are likely to release only political prisoners.’
The warder seemed relieved to hear it. ‘Ah, you say so. Political prisoners are different. There are some in the other block. I have heard that some of them are leaving every day. That is a different thing altogether. But you are not all political prisoners.’
They all said, ‘What if we aren’t? We are also human beings. Why should we not be treated well too? Whatever you may say, Mahatma Gandhi will help us. Do you mean to say that Mahatmaji will not care for us? He is a kind man.’
Their curiosity could not be contained. Night and day they worried about it, until one day a newspaper was smuggled in through the good offices of the friendly warder, and put into Sriram’s hand for perusal and explanation. While his audience sat round him, and the guard watched over them, at the quarry outside the gaol, Sriram read out to them the Daily News from the first line to the last. It was as if he had been given a sudden vision of a broad and active world. He read of the impending political changes, of the proposed division of India into Hindustan and Pakista
n, of Mahatmaji’s firm refusal to countenance the proposal, of the Cabinet Mission, and the endless amount of talking that was going on at Delhi, of death, disaster, and convulsive changes. The greatest triumph for Sriram was that the British were definitely quitting India. He said proudly, ‘I myself wrote on all the walls “Quit India”, and you see it has taken effect.’
People looked at him with wonder. He became a hero in their midst. ‘Will they give you some reward for all your work now?’
He read, and this was heartening, of the release of political prisoners from all the gaols in the country; but he could not hope to come under this category. He was not classified as a political prisoner.
The Chief sent for Sriram. His tone was suddenly friendly. ‘I don’t know what the Government order will be about you. But we have received a number of names for release this week. I am glad to do it, because it will reduce our pressure of work. However,’ he said, looking through the list, ‘your name is not on it.’
Sriram’s heart sank. He had a feeling that he was being kept in a cage when all the others were roaming the wide earth freely. He thought unhappily that someone was discriminating against him. It was a cruel and sadistic world. The Chief noted the pain in his face and said, ‘Evidently you have not been classified as a political prisoner. All those who have done what you have done are under the consideration of the Government. If you like, you may send in a representation, with an undertaking, and I will forward it.’
‘What representation and what undertaking?’ asked Sriram.
‘You will have to give an undertaking to report your movements to the police for some time till all the papers are scrutinized and your classification is settled.’
Sriram thought it over. ‘Is this a New India or are the British still here?’
The Chief answered, ‘I cannot tell you anything about it. That is politics. I am merely carrying on as per the rules.’
In a moment it flashed across Sriram’s mind that all the difficult, hazardous things he had done would be set at naught by this undertaking. If he met Bharati she’d probably say, ‘You sneak out of prison, do you? You have degraded yourself beyond description. Get out of my sight.’ He told the Chief: ‘No. I can’t give any such undertaking.’
‘All right, please yourself. Right, dismiss.’ The warders tugged his biceps and he turned and walked out of the room, more depressed than ever.
After all there came a day when he went into the office adjoining his Chief’s room, a spacious office in which there were a number of racks. He was led in there by his usual warders without much ado; he handed a slip of paper to a uniformed man sitting at the table; there were a number of others standing around him, to each of whom he was passing bundles of clothes. Sriram waited patiently till his turn came; the man took the slip from his hand, looked him up and down, and cried, ‘Number six seven,’ at which one of the attendants ran up a ladder and brought out a bundle, and placed it on the table. The man scrutinized the bundle, looked at Sriram and asked, ‘Are these yours?’ Sriram looked at the clothes; he had been made to take them off long, long ago and change into gaol uniform. He was thrilled at the sight. He hugged them close to his breast and said, ‘Yes, these are mine.’
‘Wait,’ said the other, snatching them back from his hand. ‘Sign here.’ He held a sheet of paper; there were numerous sheets of papers to be signed. Sriram was irked by the number of hurdles he had to cross before going out of this hateful place. At last the man was satisfied. He handed him the bundle, his old close-collared coat, shirt, and dhoti, in which he had been arrested ages ago at the cremation ground.
‘Change into your own clothes now. You are no longer a prisoner.’
Sriram proceeded to strip his gaol dress before everybody. Life here had toughened him. The man said, ‘You can go behind that shelf and undress.’
When Sriram emerged from behind a shelf loaded with old discoloured bundles of papers and documents, he felt he was back in his old shape. He rolled up his striped shorts and jacket, and shoved them into a corner. The man said, ‘You are free, you are discharged.’ Sriram stood still unable to decide which direction to take. ‘Go this way, the door opens out,’ said the man. Sriram saluted him vaguely, and muttered, ‘I am going,’ and opened the door; it gave on to a small yard which was closed with a barred gate at the other end; an armed sentry paced in front of it. Sriram’s first instinct was to turn back at the sight of him, but he told himself, ‘I am no longer a prisoner,’ and walked on haughtily. The man opened the door at his approach. He said as Sriram passed, ‘Going out! Very good, try not to come back, unless you like this place very much.’
‘I hate it,’ said Sriram with feeling. ‘I never wish to see a prison again.’
‘That is the right spirit,’ said the man, ‘keep it up.’ He was evidently used to uttering this formula to every outgoing prisoner. It was a sort of convocation address.
When the barred gate closed behind him Sriram could hardly believe that he was free. He felt weak and faint, and inexplicably unhappy. The memory of his cellmates who had become sullen and gloomy when it became known that he would be leaving was painful.
The bully had said, ‘You are a selfish sort. I don’t like your type.’
The forger said, ‘If you can be released, why not we? Tell Mahatmaji that we want to come out.’
Another one said, ‘If you become a big minister or some such thing, don’t forget me.’
The bully had added, ‘When I am released I will break into your house some night, and teach you good sense. I don’t like selfish fellows like you.’
The warders had trooped behind him for tips. There was a little money that had accumulated as his wages, which the Gaol Accountant had handed over to him, and his old warders followed him muttering, ‘We have been together so long. I would like you to remember us.’ ‘This is my child’s birthday. Give me something to remember you by.’ ‘We cannot come beyond this block and please give anything you like.’ ‘We have looked after you all these months.’
Sriram gave a rupee to each of the crowd that followed him importuning, and that took away fifty per cent of his earnings.
PART FIVE
He walked on as in a dream. It was difficult for him to move about without a guard following him, and without being told where he should go. He found the evening light dazzled his eyes, the wide open spaces were oppressive. He turned back to cast a look at the building which he had occupied for years now. It looked in its slate-grey colour innocent enough, but what a tyrannical world it had contained: a fellow there could not do anything he wanted, even the calls of nature had to be answered as per regulations! The gaol was outside the town limits at the Trunk Road end. He had never gone so far before; he had been living all along on the Trichy Trunk Road, not knowing where he was.
He walked down the road towards the town, wondering where he should go now. A few buses passed him. He hoped people would not recognize him. There was a policeman sitting in one of the buses and Sriram turned instinctively away from the direct line of his vision. He walked on along the edge of the road. ‘This is an independent India into which I am walking now,’ he reflected. What was the sign that it was independent? He looked about him. The trees were as usual, the road was not in the least improved, and policemen still rode on the footboard of highway buses. He felt tired and hungry. He had not more than a few rupees left after the warders had had their claim. He wished that some sort of transport was provided for prisoners let out of gaol: it was very inconsiderate, even in a free India to have to face this! He hoped that some day they would make him a minister and then he would open a canteen, and place station-waggons at the disposal of prisoners at the gaol gate so that those that came out might not feel so lost.
It was dusk when he got into the Market Road. Nobody seemed to notice him. Here and there he saw buildings hung with the tricolour flags, the charka in the middle. He saw that there was less traffic than formerly. Shops were lit and crowded as ever. He felt a pa
ng of disappointment. He had a gnawing hunger inside him. There were still a few rupees in his pocket, hard-earned, literally earned by the sweat of his brow. He put his hand into his pocket and jingled the coins, and remembered the axe he had wielded, and all the undreamt-of tasks that he had performed. He had a feeling of pride at the thought of all he had earned by his hard labour: no one could say that he was one who lived on the fat of the land. Even his granny could feel proud of his achievement and ability. He sat on the bench of a small park that had been formed at the traffic junction of New Extension and the Market Road. He sat there in order to think clearly how he ought to manage. There was no use trying to settle things while walking. This was a free country and no one was going to demand why he sat there and not somewhere else. It was difficult to get used to the idea, it was a luxurious idea worth brooding over. But he felt startled again and again as he thought from habit that he was exposing himself to the public gaze too much, and that he might have to slip swiftly into a hiding place. Sitting there on the cement bench beside a potted fern, he told himself: ‘I’m free. No one can come after me now. No one will bother whether I have a clean-shaven face or a hairy one.’ He felt hurt at first that the pedestrians went by without noticing him and the traffic without pausing to say, ‘Hallo, hero!’ But he soon realized the blessedness of being left alone after all the years of being hunted and looked for everywhere.
He realized that his first business was to eat something. He could do the clear thinking while sitting on a hotel chair instead of a park bench. He got up and moved briskly off down the road; the first hotel that showed itself in sparkling bulbs was ‘Sri Krishna Vilas’. He turned in. Most of the tables were empty. It was long past the rush hour. He sat at a marble-topped table and waited for someone to come and ask what he wanted. A man sat at the exit on a raised seat with a cash box. The waiting-boys were all in a group chattering among themselves. ‘They don’t care,’ Sriram told himself. ‘I suppose I look like a gutter-rat. They will drive me out.’ He looked around him. He recognized one of the waiters: he used to come here often in other days.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 65