The Painter of Signs

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘From fifty feet; this size lettering is meant for it, though it’s somewhat more expensive per letter — more paint and more time are consumed ...’

  She stepped back and viewed the board. ‘It seems all right to me, very clean work, I must say ...’

  ‘This is only a proof. When it is finished, it’ll look perfect.’

  ‘Perfect?’ she repeated, raising her brow. Till now he had been talking to her with his eyes looking away, but now he lifted his eyes in her direction, looked through his glasses. He noticed that she seemed heavy-jowled and somewhat ridiculous, with her forehead slightly tapering. The Hong King optician has excelled in his art, he thought. She looks terrible. This is even better than Gandhi’s plan to keep one’s mind pure. She seemed to grin, and looked like a demoness! Soorpanaka’s approach should have had the same effect on Rama, he reflected, recollecting an episode from the Ramayana. Her teeth seemed to jut out and were uneven. He smiled to himself. She was saying through her ridiculous mouth, ‘Is there anything more you wish to do with it or will you finish it as it is?’

  ‘It is up to you to tell me. I could perhaps give a red outline — a rectangular border, which will set off this red-triangle emblem at the corner. Does the ensign seem to you all right?’

  She studied it closely, placing herself near and far. Each time she moved by his side a whiff of perfume hit his senses and made his resolution reel.

  ‘If you like, I can shade the angles of all the vowels with sepia — they’ll look decorative.’

  ‘Go ahead, if you think so. I will trust you to do your work in the best manner possible. How long will you take to finish it?’

  ‘Next week this day; if the weather continues sunny like this, it should be dry completely.’ She didn’t seem to notice his dhoti and the striped bush-shirt. ‘Shall I pack it up?’ he asked, and she nodded. He wrapped the paper around, tied it up, and made ready to leave.

  ‘Are you in a hurry to go?’ she asked suddenly.

  He hesitated for half a second. If he had said ‘Yes,’ it might have made a lot of difference to his days ahead. But he hesitated between yes and no, and she decided it for him. ‘Come and sit down for a while,’ and he followed her sheepishly. She went back to her seat at the desk, and watched him in silence for a while. She asked suddenly, ‘Why those glasses? Don’t you find them a nuisance inside a room at this hour?’

  He had to find an explanation. ‘Some dust blew into my eyes — ’ he began to spin a yarn.

  ‘Does it bother?’ she asked.

  ‘Slightly,’ he said, without looking at her.

  She suddenly came over and pulled off the glasses, and stared into his eyes. This action was so sudden that Raman could hardly comprehend what had been happening until she was back in her seat and said, ‘I see nothing now. Perhaps you’ll do well to give your eyes a wash. I have had some doctor’s training, too, you know?’

  ‘Oh, how wonderful!’ he said, ‘I’ll come to you if I am in difficulty.’

  She had not returned his glasses to him, but carried them with her, held them up against the light, waved them up and down and said, ‘Throw this thing away, the lenses are uneven and full of errors. You’ll become squint-eyed ...’

  ‘It’s from Hong Kong,’ he said by way of defence.

  ‘No wonder,’ she said, and he did not know what she meant.

  He lay tossing in bed that night. She had touched him, and that had sent his blood-pressure up so high that he had felt giddy, and her perfume had nearly stunned him. He had stolen a glance at her when she was fumbling with the glasses on his nose. But she stood so close that he could not see her clearly; still, many points about her personality were puzzling. He told himself, I must get over this obsession. Till yesterday I was a free man with my mind unfettered. Today I am unable to think of any other subject. She has even deprived me of the glasses which would have helped my mental calm. He lay tossing all night. All kinds of dreams bothered him, every act was mixed up with that woman, She said several times, ‘Come, dear, to my side,’ and had no clothes on. When he woke up, he felt ashamed of himself. An edifice of self-discipline laboriously raised in a lifetime seemed to be crumbling down. He had chosen to remain a bachelor, in spite of the several opportunities that came his way to choose a bride for himself, if not at least to flirt with. That accountant-general from Nagpur and his daughter — what a beauty she was! - educated, urbane, tall, and flashy like a film star. How much they had tried to involve him in their set last year — the man had left his daughter unchaperoned with him in their room at Anand Bhavan Hotel, but he determinedly kept his distance from her and spurned the whole proposal for no other reason than that he would not be interested in women. He wished to establish that the man-woman relationship was not inevitable and that there were other more important things to do in life than marrying.

  And then another and another. The girls who ogled him when he went to the college on business, and the parents of eligible girls sending down horoscopes, and all sorts of women who paused to look at him, as if ready to follow if beckoned. But he was resolute. He often told himself, The more they try, the more firmly will they be repulsed. He had steeled himself against this blunder committed by human beings since Adam. If Adam had possessed a firm mind, the entire course of creation would have taken a different turn. Mind conditioned by story-writers, poets, and dramatists from time immemorial who had no other theme than love - easiest subject to deal with. This philosophy had been my armour ana made me unique all these years. Now am I on the verge of defeat?

  Yes, said his truthful conscience. You are absolutely right. You are now in a different category. You are an honest man. Examine your thoughts, assay the contents of your deepest thoughts, see what there is. You are preoccupied with her physical form inch by inch all the time you are discussing the measurement of your sign-board. The clothes on her simply do not exist for you, you are preoccupied with what you can accidentally glimpse at, hoping for a chance to see her clothes blown off; while she sits away at her desk, you fancy her on your lap; while she is conversing, you are sealing her lips with your kiss. That is the tragedy of womanhood - utility articles whether in bed or out. You never view them normally until they are past sixty and look shrunken-skinned. Do you ever recollect the face of the woman whose thighs you so long meditated upon at the river-steps ?

  I am in bad shape, he told himself, sitting up in bed. I am a victim of some shock, and must get over it if I am not to make a fool of myself in this world. Finish her work completely and forget her, finish the transaction without raising my gaze to her.

  In order to escape these thoughts, he switched on the light and picked up the Planter’s Story and tried to read. The book was open, but his mind wandered and like an elastic returning to its starting point, back to Seven, Third Cross, facilely crossing the barriers of roads, distance, doors, and the darkness of the night. I wonder if she is also thinking of me! A flattering speculation.

  His aunt asked from the other room, ‘Aren’t you asleep? Why still awake?’

  He felt as usual irritated and that irritation was a momentary distraction from love-sickness. He put out the light in anger. I must explain everything, I suppose, to this old woman. I have no freedom. In darkness he confessed to himself. This is true love-sickness, I suppose. I used to laugh at this condition whenever I came across it in stories.

  When the board was dry and ready, he carried it along, properly wrapped, to her office. With the board under his arm, he went up the staircase, resolutely saying to himself, No nonsense, strictly business. The eye leads the thoughts and the hand follows the mind and then outruns it.

  ‘I thought I would never see you again!’ she cried when he stood on the landing. ‘What had you done with yourself?’

  ‘I was busy,’ he said briefly, doing his best not to look at her eyes. She probably hypnotizes, he thought; safer to look at her as little as possible. ‘This is ready,’ he said, and unwrapped the board and leaned it against the wall,
like an artist showing his new painting.

  She looked at it from a distance and then came nearer and saw it, nodded her head in approval. ‘Good,’ she said.

  ‘Would you like to hang it up now?’ he asked in what he believed to be a purely business-like tone.

  She just said, ‘Yes, I will show you the place. Come with me.’ She walked onto the veranda, leaned over the balcony, and pointed to a spot on the roadside wall. He kept his look strictly where she was pointing, although he wanted to gaze on her in the sunlight and watch her curves straining through her sari as she bent over the parapet. She is a siren, planning to eat me up, I suppose. I must be careful, he thought. She was saying, ‘It would be best to have it here, but how will you get up here?’

  He moved up beside her with downcast eyes, and looked out. The Market Road traffic and pedestrians were interesting to watch from here - a colourful kaleidoscope. He was lost in this vision for a few seconds while Daisy watched him surreptitiously, as it seemed to him. He asked, ‘Do you want this nailed up now?’

  ‘Yes, should I get you some help?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Fixing up the board is a part of my job, I can do it. You don’t have to wait for it; you may attend to your work while I finish it.’ There was a wry smile on her face. He felt that he had spoken too much. He felt heroic as he vaulted over the parapet, stood on a ledge, and surveyed the spot. He took out a pencil and scale, marked the exact position, and asked, ‘Is this all right?’ She leaned over again and he could see the top of her head almost touching his and the perfume lulled his senses, almost defeating his resolutions. She has lovely natural waves, he commented to himself.

  She said, ‘It is all right, but I feel nervous while you stand there.’

  He felt rather pleased at her concern, but overcame it. What is it to her if I fall off? What am I to her? These are the well-known tricks of wily women. Must not be taken in by it. He hopped back to the veranda, went across the room to fetch the board. He took out of his Gandhi-print bag nails and a hammer. When she asked, ‘Shall I hold it?’ he just shook his head; with the board in one hand, he jumped onto the ledge again, and in a few minutes had nailed it securely, and was back on the veranda with a flicker of a smile on his face.

  He took out his kerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Well, it is done,’ he said to her. She leaned over once again to take a look at it and he half averted his eyes from her back bent over the wall. ‘Is it all right?’ he asked, and added, ‘Perhaps you should inspect it from the road, if you can spare a moment to do it.’

  She seemed pleased at the suggestion. Raman picked up his bag, ready to go down the staircase. He stood aside at the landing to let her pass. This should give me a chance to see her in sunlight, he reflected, and at once scotched the thought. He followed her down, striving his best not to watch her back, looking fixedly at his own feet. They came out of the building; already there were people standing on the pavement and reading the sign aloud, and commenting among themselves. The two crossed the street and stood on the other edge of the road. A side glance convinced him that the full sunlight on her face made no difference to her complexion, only he noticed a faint down on her upper lip and the vestige of a pimple on her right cheek. Her eyes seemed to acquire extra brilliance in the sunlight. That is an unnatural gleam, a sure sign that she is a siren, he thought, strengthening the self-protective forces within. Looking up, she said, ‘Very clear and the letters shaded so well stand out.’

  ‘That should bring in a lot of visitors and keep you busy,’ he said, feeling that he should say something pleasant after all, because he was going to take leave of her. They walked back to the building; one or two acquaintances of Raman’s nodded, smiled, and passed. The sign seemed somehow to make people smile. At the building Raman took his bicycle from its stand, and prepared to depart.

  She said, ‘Your bill?’

  ‘I will send it by post, and you can send me a cheque.’ he said and mumbled, ‘Good-bye, thanks.’

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ she whispered with her foot on the staircase.

  This will pass, truly, said Raman to himself. It has passed, I have escaped. No more reason to see her again. He cycled up and down, sought the company of his friends at The Boardless, with a feeling of relief that again he would be in the company of men who would not affect his own temper and temperament in all those strange ways, with whom he could speak thoughtlessly, irresponsibly, and even licentiously, and also make a few jokes about birth-control. The seriousness and solemnity that he had to maintain in the presence of the lady got on his nerves, and of course there were also the unfathomable psychological disturbances that she caused by her siren-like ways. Showing concern for him when he had his foot on the balcony, pretending to help and wanting to hold the board or the bag - always trying to reach out to him. He was not one who could be deceived by such tricks. She had hoped, perhaps, that their hands would touch. And all that straining over the wall with her bodice nearly bursting! That was most unseemly. He could see through all those tricks and, thank God, he had had enough self-control and indifference - otherwise that office room would have become a love-chamber in no time. He congratulated himself especially on the smart and clipped manner in which he had spoken about the bill coming by post, and he could see that she was shaken by his stern manner. Bicycling along, his mind was as usual very busy, now, at the task of analysing; there was a great deal of misreading and exaggeration while brooding over her actions and speech, but it was only a reaction from his previous state of complete surrender; and it gave him a feeling of being strong and uninfluenceable. When I need a wife, I will know how to set about it, all in good time. I don’t have to succumb to the first female brushing against me, he said to himself, and continued the discussion on the same lines when he met his friends over coffee at The Boardless.

  Part Two

  It was an awkward moment. He was not prepared to receive any visitor, least of all the girl. He had been having a nap in the afternoon, falling asleep over a volume of verse. His aunt woke him up: ‘Ram ... Ram, get up. There is a girl at the door to see you. Who is she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, befuddled with sleep. ‘Speak to her, I won’t get up now.’ He turned over and slept again. He was aware of Aunt’s standing there for a little while and then fading out. When he woke up again, he heard a voice in the kitchen. He got up and looked in. Daisy was seated on a mat outside the kitchen, sipping coffee. Oh, God! Here she is! Me to be seen in this state! His aunt’s voice was coming from within the kitchen. She was reminiscing as usual. Daisy looked rather domesticated in these surroundings, sitting comfortably on a small mat, with her back to him. He was barebodied, wearing a dhoti. No need to take pains to make himself unpresentable now; if she saw him in his present state, she would have no illusions about him, and that would be the best antidote for love-sickness in case she suffered from it; better than distorting goggles. He tiptoed back silently, before his aunt should notice. Otherwise that garrulous creature would indiscreetly hail him. ‘All the way, my grandfather walked back from Poona ...’ she was saying. That’d be a long narration, and Raman retreated quietly, wondering why Daisy should have come in search of him. After hanging up the sign-board at her office, he had kept away from her. He had sent the bill for the work. That was two weeks ago. After that he had resumed his normal activities - painting and reading and political analysis and gossip at The Boardless. He had expected his cheque to arrive by post, and avoided the Family Planning area. He had resolutely avoided any thought of her. He wanted to retain his sobriety. But here she was under his very roof. His mind was in a confusion. If I dress and slip away by the back door, he speculated, nothing terrible is going to happen. After all, she is here on her own. I didn’t ask her. Aunt has received her and can dispose of her; she can have her fill of reminiscences.

  In a half hour, he washed, groomed, and made himself fit to be seen by a queen. Still with her back to him, sitting at the kitchen entrance, Daisy was engrosse
d in Aunt’s narrative. Must by this time be familiar with all that happened on the highway, and the concubine’s exit. Raman cried with extra gusto, ‘Ah! what an unexpected pleasure and privilege. Sorry I was asleep.’

  Daisy turned round and said, ‘Your aunt has kept me engaged. I didn’t notice the time passing.’

  Aunt came out of the kitchen saying, ‘She has told me all about her duties. Isn’t it by God’s will that children are born?’

  ‘But our government does not agree with God,’ Raman said. Daisy got up, ignoring the joke. Raman said breezily, ‘I am sorry, I don’t have chairs; we manage with mats.’

  She said, ‘Oh, what does it matter, where we sit? It’s all the same to me. I did not see a chair till I was eighteen. In our village no chair was to be seen except one in the village munsif’s house; even that was brought out only when the collector came on an inspection.’

  Aunt said, ‘Chairs are bad for the limbs and joints, people lose their flexibility. Sitting on the tloor and rising is the best way to keep from growing fat.’

  ‘Those who grow fat will do so, whether they sit down on the floor or chair ... it’s not that,’ said Daisy, contradicting Aunt. All of a sudden, Raman put an end to this discussion with, ‘I’m comfortable here and won’t exchange it for a palace.’

  Daisy now came up, took out of her handbag an envelope. ‘I thought I might fetch your cheque in person, I had the address on your letter, you know ...’

  Raman received the envelope with murmurs of thanks, led her to his room, and seated her on the mat. He said apologetically, ‘I let my aunt run this house in her own way and see no need to interfere. This is our old ancestral house, you see.’

  She said, ‘How lucky to have a river running in your back yard! I noticed it the first thing when I came in.’ After some further palaver, Daisy said, ‘I have now come to ask if you are prepared to do a little work outside in some of the villages. We have an intensive campaign in rural areas.’