On the eighth day, he shook off his gloom, saying to himself, ‘Of course, this will pass ... it must ...’; tidied himself up; dressed; and started out on his bicycle. He realized he had been passing through an infantile atavism and fear. When he passed the Chettiar shop, he noticed that the man looked up and stared at him. Raman had an impulse to stop and ask, What have you been hearing about me? Come on, be truthful. He occupied his seat at The Boardless and ordered coffee. He looked around. His friends were not yet come. He was a bit early. The restaurant man cried from his grandstand where he sat and collected cash, ‘Not to be seen for days! Where have you been?’
Raman merely bared his teeth in a symbolic smile and said nothing. He knew that most questions of this nature would wilt away if unanswered, the questioner not minding such extinction. Most social talk was such meaningless jabber, which somehow comforted mankind with a sense of communication. He drank his coffee in silence. The standard was as expected. Not deteriorated. After all he had not been gone such a long time to warrant all this nostalgia and sense of history. He had been out only for three weeks, though it seemed ages. His friend Gupta the businessman came in, and shouted in joy from the very entrance, ‘Ho! Rare one! Expanding your field of operation, where have you been? What have you been doing with yourself? Tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ He took the next chair, beaming at Raman. He looked happy, as if he had retrieved a lost friend. ‘Well, tell me what your luck has been?’
‘About thirty slogans in different areas, planned now, special rates for eye-hitting large-size letters. No escape for couples wherever they may turn.’
‘Have you brought down the birth-rate?’
‘Should be down five per cent in a year, which will be creditable.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Well, we can only try and hope, that’s all. A medical team will be visiting the areas soon to continue the propaganda in practical ways.’ He stopped short, realizing that he was beginning to sound like Daisy.
‘Don’t you look forward to any addition of your own to the population growth?’
Raman knew what he meant. They had bandied about many masculine jokes on his latest association. But Raman felt sensitive now and repelled by such humour. Gupta noticed the change and said, ‘You have lost your brilliance. What is the matter?’
Raman wondered if Gupta knew, and how much, and whether he had any clue about Daisy’s possible complaint to the police. He paused as if to give Gupta a chance to say something. When Gupta said nothing, Raman said, ‘Lot of tiring travel, that’s all. Everything went according to schedule. We found people in the villages responsive and open-minded.’
Gupta, whose hobby was to talk in the tone of an intellectual, was pleased and added, ‘Our whole outlook in propaganda must start on the assumption that people are willing to hear you and give a trial, whatever it may be. People are not so dense as city folk usually imagine.’
Raman was anxious that Gupta should not revert to Daisy; the thought of her pained him and made him uneasy. He had thought he might exorcize the obsession if he went out and joked about these matters with his friends at The Boardless, but he realized that he’d rather avoid her name; it seemed too sacred to be bandied about at the coffee-table. He turned the topic. ‘We had a difficult encounter at only one place -’ and described the temple for barren women and the extraordinary man living in it.
Gupta looked thoughtful on hearing it and seemed suddenly to lose the faith in the people that he himself had proclaimed. ‘Superstition, faith, the working of real incalculable forces, all three operate in our country, but we can never be certain where one begins and the other ends ... we are in a mixed-up state. Social workers have to take this into account.’ After his homily he ordered another round of coffee and left.
To Raman this was a refreshing revival, a sense of return to the normal life. After this meeting, he felt reassured. A man-about-town, Gupta would have been the first to hear of it if there had been any police report about him.
Raman cycled up Market Road, took a right turn, and went down Court Road in the hope of meeting the lawyer and getting some money out of him. He found him in the court quadrangle, slowly pacing, talking to a client, with his black gown trailing behind him. He was probably coaching a witness. Other lawyers were passing up and down in a hurry; litigants from distant villages lounged around clutching bundles of documents. Busy place where nobody had the time to look at Raman or talk to him. But eventually the lawyer noticed Raman and nodded to him, saying to his client, ‘Come back on Monday, the stamp-paper will cost ninety rupees.’ He said to Raman, ‘Long time since I saw you, what have you been doing with yourself all along?’
Raman felt uneasy at the question. Everybody seemed to be asking the same question, as if they had been coached. Could it have any significance? Could his reputation have seeped down to Kabir Street? He wondered secretly, but replied, ‘Had to go out of town on business. Have to find fresh business, with prices going up.’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed the lawyer. ‘Come and see us sometime. I have opened an office in the town over the cotton godown. Come sometime.’
‘Don’t you want a new board for it?’ Raman asked, his professional interest being roused.
‘I got one from someone...’
Raman felt upset and jealous. ‘Who did it for you?’
‘Oh, some fellow at the market gate, known to a client,’ he replied in an off-hand manner.
Raman didn’t like this treachery on the part of the lawyer - that Jayaraj seemed to dog his steps and grab his clients. He said, There is a small balance due on the sign I hung up for you.’ And held out his hand as if to receive alms.
The lawyer withdrew haughtily: ‘ This is not the place for you to make your collections.’
‘Have I to make a special appointment for it?’
‘Yes, of course. I’m busy and you can’t expect me to carry a cashbox around.’
Why should you as long as you have your hands in your client’s pocket? But aloud Raman said, ‘It’s a long time and you remember -’
‘Of course, of course I remember,’ said the lawyer and moved away.
Thank God, you don’t remember that I promised to give you a new board. I hope the sand on your name stays on well, you skinflint. Jayaraj is the right man for you.
Next Raman went in search of one of the court-clerks, who was his relative. He enjoyed meeting him occasionally and talking family politics. But today the man was very busy in his office, pointed to a seat on a bench, on which some persons were already sitting, dolefully, waiting for his attention; he was taking documents out of a file and rushing away to a courtroom where a hearing was in progress. When he came back he took his seat and began, ‘Sarala’s marriage is settled. Curiously ... it happened this way — ’ he began, but a buzzer sounded and he disappeared again. Raman watched the faces around him in that gloomy assembly. In greater trouble than I am, he reflected; about to be hanged, perhaps, or lose a property or a home - what a sad gathering! Waiting to know the worst and to get a copy of the court-order... That was in the clerk’s dispensation, and perhaps he made money out of everyone in trouble — no wonder so affluent now. He was a cousin of Raman’s through his aunt, an orthodox bandicoot with a tuft and caste mark. Raman waited, in order to see if the rumours and gossip about himself had reached him - just a morbid desire to chase rumours and verify them. The cousin came back from the chambers and began, ‘I heard’ - Raman sat up - ‘you were out of town.’
‘Yes, yes, have to find more business, you know.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I had gone to the temple and met your aunt and she mentioned it. I find it difficult to come as far as that temple, except once in a while, and I was happy to meet her there. She told me about you.’
‘What?’
‘That you were on a tour.’
‘Yes, yes. Have to get more business, you know, with the prices going up and so many bad debts to write off. Fe
llows get their boards written, but dodge payment.’
‘Oh, this is a bad world,’ said the cousin, being familiar with the troubles of mankind. The cousin looked innocent, and Raman was satisfied that there had been no back-chat about him nor any police reports. The cousin opened his lips to say something about a marriage again, but the buzzer sounded and he got up and left. Raman also left unceremoniously.
The afternoon was bright and green. Outside the court, he lingered for a while. He had nothing specific to do. Today it was only an exploration. Tomorrow he’d go round canvassing business — he had his well-set orbit for that. So far no mention of the police. So far so good. But perhaps all of them knew he was doomed and were avoiding the topic to save his feelings. This was a possibility. He might be in a fool’s paradise with the fetters kept ready for his wrists. Best clear it one way or another. Learn the worst once and for all. He came down the Court Road and passed the town police station. He cycled up and down a couple of times. If there was nothing, he’d be a free man, or if there was the worst to face - well, take it, that’s all, nothing could be worse than this suspense. Perhaps they’d let him have a lawyer, and he could get the sandy lawyer to deal with his case ... thus off-setting the debt.
He passed into the police station through an arch covered with a blue-bell creeper and a short length of walk lined with flower-pots and ferns. Decorated, Raman thought, not bad, as a possible halt on the way to a bigger jail. He ruminated on his present action. Verily like the moth rushing to the candle flame, never waiting for it to come to him, he said to himself. Now one understands why the moth is so impatient to scorch its wings. Assured destruction is better than a half-anticipated one, he thought. What daemon is driving me on in this manner to the police inspector? Even now not too late to turn back, the inspector has not seen me yet, he will as usual be busy writing.
But the daemon propelled him on. He walked up to the little veranda and into the station house itself. A small hall with dark walls and a corner built like a cage with iron bars. Lock-up for miscreants like me, I suppose, he told himself; they’ll keep me here for three days.
The inspector looked up at the sound of his footsteps and cried out, ‘Aha, the very person I was thinking of!’
Raman’s blood turned cold. Sweat broke out. So this is the end, he told himself. He threw a look to his right into the cage-like corner, espied some dim figure clutching the bars, and wondered, My companion, I suppose!
The inspector said, ‘Come, come, take your seat.’
Raman obeyed him and said rather awkwardly, ‘Good morning. I ... I ... just thought I might see you ... long time...’
‘Yes, yes, if not I would have come in search of you.’
Raman’s tongue became dry. He essayed to ask, ‘You knew my house?’
‘Of course, we in the police force can always find the whereabouts of anyone we want. Address of a person is no problem.’ Good heavens, how calmly he says that. Now the cat has got the mouse between its paws ... swiftly reflected Raman.
‘If some person is O.V. it can only be a temporary phase, we can always track him down.’
Raman asked rather sorrowfully, ‘What is “O.V.”?’
‘Out of View,’ promptly declared the inspector. ‘The point is-’ he began, but they were disturbed by the sound of the rattling of a tin can near the roof. ‘Oh, this damned thing again! Five-Nought-Seven,’ he called suddenly.
‘Yes, coming, sir,’ cried a voice.
Raman said to himself, He is summoning his man.
Five-Nought-Seven, a policeman in semi-uniform, came in and saluted, and Raman rose immediately as if to surrender without delay, but the inspector gestured to him to sit down and said to the policeman, ‘That damned monkey is here again,’ and the other looked up at a ventilator high in the wall. Raman saw a tiny hand thrust through the ventilator trying to seize hold of a tin can kept there. Five-Nought-Seven glared up and commanded, ‘Hey, go away,’ in such a stentorian voice that the hand withdrew quickly.
But the inspector was still not able to finish explaining why he had looked for Raman. He began for the tenth time, as it seemed, ‘The reason why — ’ and the rest of his sentence was lost again in the clatter of the tin can. The little hand was once more inside the ventilator. The inspector screamed. ‘Five-Nought-Seven! The damned thing is here again. Can’t you do something?’ Five-Nought-Seven again appeared in his semi-uniform and wildly gesticulated at the ventilator, with appropriate cries. In response the hand withdrew. But the minute Five-Nought-Seven turned to go the rattle came once more with renewed vigour. ‘Go and get a long pole and drive it away, I say. Don’t be fooling around, Five-Nought-Seven. Get out and do something.’
While he was gone to fetch a pole, a hollow voice from the dark cell announced, ‘It’s been coming every day. If you light fire-crackers, it’ll go - only way. Or if you want to catch it, soak a nut in brandy and put it out for his reach.’
‘Hey, shut up and don’t concern yourself with all that. We know what to do. Go back.’ ‘Go back’ meant back to the depth of the cell, far into it to the wall. Perhaps the inspector was trying to clear the space for fresh arrivals. Raman was already getting used to the notion of the police station and the world around it. All through this, the rattling went on intermittently, overwhelming all other sounds. Five-Nought-Seven finally came with a bamboo pole and poked it through the ventilator, the hand withdrew, and there was peace again.
The inspector explained to Raman, ‘I keep a little Follidol in a tin up there, and the monkey is after it. This is an awful place, infested with monkeys, and if a monkey touches that Follidol, it’ll drop dead, and the public will set fire to this station; if it is kept down here, any budmash in custody may reach for it and commit suicide, and the mob will come for us alleging that we have beaten him to death.’
‘Why do you want that terrible poison here anyway?’
‘To get rid of the bugs which swarm down these walls at night. I have these walls washed with Follidol. If you want to see the fun, stay in that lock-up and you will find a million bugs descending the walls and coming for you after dusk.’ Raman shuddered at the prospect. The inspector continued, ‘If you look at this crime chart, behind me, you’ll see that our lock-up is always full. But I want to maintain a good reputation. I am paying for the Follidol from my own pocket so that these poor fellows in custody may sleep at night; but for Follidol, they would be eaten up. I am also growing a garden. Our superintendent who inspected remarked that this is the best-maintained police garden anywhere. Did you notice the blue-bell arch?’
‘Beautiful,’ said Raman. ‘Why did you want to meet me?’
‘I wanted -’ but before the inspector could continue his sentence a crowd rushed in holding a man by the scruff of the neck. The inspector sprang to his feet. ‘Oh, this blackguard again!’ He slapped the man’s face and hit him on the head with his cane, ordered the crowd to keep off, and instructed, ‘Push him in ...’ Two constables shoved the man into the lock-up, cursing and slapping. The inspector explained to Raman, ‘He was let out only today. Already he is up to mischief. Seven convictions.’ The crowd jabbered and spoke simultaneously. The inspector picked up his stick and cap, and hurried out saying, ‘All right, I’ll come and see the spot myself. I must write the first report.’ He turned back to Raman and said, ‘Don’t go away, I’ll be back.’
The police station became silent and empty as everyone made for the exit through the blue-bell arch. Raman sat alone for a while, wondering how long he would be expected to stay. If he tried to leave, perhaps they would drag him back and put him in chains. Five-Nought-Seven came in after his gardening efforts and stood guard at the gate. Raman, as a test, got up and took his bicycle and started out. Five-Nought-Seven would prevent him if he had been ordered so. He just watched and said, ‘Going? Well, it’ll be late before the officer returns,’ and added reflectively, ‘Daylight attempt by O.O., and it will take too much time to write the report.’
‘
What is “O.O.”?’ asked Raman, unable to contain his curiosity.
‘Old Offender, sir,’ explained the constable.
A cry from inside: ‘I have done nothing ... you are lying.’
Five-Nought-Seven said calmly, ‘He is a desperado.’ Raman got on his bicycle and was off.
Fifteen days passed. Raman resettled into his routine life. His visit to the police station had cleansed his mind of all fears. He visited all his clients and picked up his old business. The fear that Jayaraj might have stepped in and snatched away his customers was no longer there. His clients were happy to see him back in business. The soap-nut merchant at the market almost hugged him for being seen at all. The ‘cut-piece’ cloth-seller hailed him as a saviour appearing just in time; of course, the bookseller loved to see him again for no purpose whatever. Everyone seemed to have missed him, although he did not like the sly manner in which one or two looked at him. That co-operative secretary seemed to be out for gossip as he gave an impression of throwing a significant wink in the course of their conversation. People seemed to know more than they cared to express. However, he could not prevent people from thinking what they pleased. He became a little hardened and felt the better for it.
Raman was also beginning to bother about the fee for his tour which Daisy had promised, and regretted the loss of that big chunk of business that had nearly come to him. If he had done those thirty signs - it’d have made a lot of difference in the turnover. He didn’t believe in pursuing money or in sighing over a missed account - but some complex motive and habitual manner of thinking made him feel the loss of it.
Business is one thing, these complications are another, why should one be missed on account of the other?
The Painter of Signs Page 11