The Guide

by R. K. Narayan

  “No; she is not going,” I said very calmly.

  He heaved a sigh, glared at the girl, looked at my mother. “Well, sister, you must starting packing, then. We will go by the evening bus.”

  My mother said, “All right. I can pack in a minute.”

  “Don’t go, Mother,” I pleaded.

  “See that girl’s obstinacy. She watches it all so calmly,” said my uncle.

  Rosie pleaded, “Mother, don’t go.”

  “Oho!” said my uncle. “She has reached the stage of addressing you as Mother. Next she will be calling me Uncle-in-law, I suppose.” He turned to me with a horrible grin and said, “Your mother needn’t quit really. This house is hers for her lifetime. If I had had her cooperation, I’d have shown you a few nice tricks today. She would have stayed on till the end. My brother-in-law was no fool. He made you master of only one-half of the home. . . .” All of a sudden he entered into legal complexities, arising from my father’s will, and described how he would have tackled the whole situation if he had been in my mother’s position, and how he would have disputed every inch of the ground and taken the matter to the Supreme Court, and how he would have shown the world what to do with scapegraces who had no respect for family traditions but yet tried to enjoy their ancestors’ hard-earned wealth. I was relieved as long as he waxed eloquent over legalities, as it helped him forget Rosie for the time being. True to the tradition of the landed gentry, he found litigation an engrossing subject. But the spell was broken when my mother came in to say, “I’m ready.” She had picked up a few clothes here and there. Her large steel trunk, which had never been moved from its place in a corner for decades and decades, was packed and ready to be lifted out. She had a basket with a handle into which she had thrown a few copper and brass vessels. My uncle announced, “These belong to our house, given by my father when this girl, my dear sister, married and was going to set up her own family. It’s our gift to her, and so don’t gaze on it with such a look.”

  I looked away and said, “She certainly can take what she likes. Nobody will say anything.”

  “Aha, you are proud of that, are you?” he said. “You are showing a lot of liberality to your mother, aren’t you?”

  I had never in my life seen him so unpleasant. We had always been in terror of him when we were children, but this was the first occasion I had seen so much of him as an adult. My mother looked saddened rather than angry, and seemed almost ready to come to my rescue. She interrupted him sharply to say with extraordinary consideration in her voice, “I need nothing more. This will do.” She picked up several small prayer-books, which she read every day of her life before her midday meal, sitting before the pictures of the god, in meditation. I had seen her for years at the same time sitting with closed eyes in front of the niche in the wall, and it now filled me with sadness that I would not see her there anymore. I followed her about the house as she picked out her articles and packed. My uncle, as if to keep an eye on me, followed my steps. Apparently he feared I might induce my mother to stay on.

  In spite of his supervision, I asked, “Mother, when will you be back?”

  She hesitated to answer, and said finally, “I’ll—I’ll—let us see.”

  “The moment she gets a telegram that the line is clear,” said Uncle and added, “We are not the sort to let down our sisters, remember. That house in the village is always hers to return to; so that she has not got to be at anybody’s mercy. Our house belongs to our sister as much as to us,” he added boastfully.

  “Don’t fail to light the lamps in the god’s niche,” said my mother, going down the steps. “Be careful with your health.” Uncle carried the trunks and she carried the basket. Soon they were at the end of the street and turned the corner. I stood on the step watching. At the threshold stood Rosie. I was afraid to turn round and face her, because I was crying.

  “Plans!” said the sleeper, awakening. “What plans?”

  She smiled at this and said, “There you are, always lying on the mat watching me or holding me in your arms. I have now good practice—I can manage a show of four hours, although with accompaniments it would have been much more helpful—”

  “I’m here, accompanying and marking time for you. What other accompaniment do you want?”

  “I need a full orchestra. We have stayed indoors long enough,” she said. I found her so earnest that I had not the courage to joke any more.

  I said, “I’m also thinking. Very soon we must do something.”

  “ ‘Rosie’ is a silly name,” I said as a first step after two days of hard thinking. “The trouble with you is that although your people are a traditional dance family, they didn’t know how to call you. For our public purpose, your name must be changed. What about Meena Kumari?”

  She shook her head. “It’s no better. I see no reason to change my name.”

  “You don’t understand, my dear girl. It’s not a sober or sensible name. If you are going to appear before the public with that name, they will think it’s someone with cheap tricks, such as those we see in gambling side-shows. For a classical dancer, you should call yourself something that is poetic and appealing.”

  She realized that there was a point in what I said, and she picked up a pad and pencil and noted down all the names that came into her head. I added my own. We wanted to see how they sounded and also how they looked on paper. Sheet after sheet was filled up and discarded. It became a sort of joke. We seemed to be forgetting our main job in enjoying the fun. Each name had something ridiculous about it, comic-sounding or an impossible association. At dead of night she sat up to ask, “What about——?”

  “The name of the wife of a demon-king—people will be frightened,” I said. Eventually, after four days of hard thinking and elimination (a labor which gave us the satisfaction of being engaged in professional duties), we arrived at “Nalini,” a name that could have significance, poetry, and universality, and yet be short and easily remembered.

  The next morning Rosie had tidied up the hall so that it did not look too bad. She had decorated the place with flowers from a gold mohur tree. She had stuck the bunch in a bronze tumbler, and kept it in a corner; it touched up our little home with some sort of beauty. She had also pushed away our rolls of bedding and other boxes, stools, and odds and ends to the farthest corner, thrown a dhoti over the heap, and covered it again cunningly with a striped carpet pulled from under a bed. This gave it a mysterious look. She had shaken the old mat and rolled it up so that the tattered portions were invisible. She managed to have ready cups of brown, steaming coffee. All this was an excellent preparation, calculated to win a public for her. The men, two of them, came and knocked on the door. When I opened it there they stood. Rosie had hung a printed sheet over the kitchen doorway and was behind it. I opened the door, saw the men there, and said, “Oh, you have come!” as if I had thought they wouldn’t. Somehow I felt it would be good to give it all a casual air. They smirked foolishly, realizing they had come on an agreeable errand to watch a possible beauty.

  I seated them on the mat, spoke to them of world politics for a moment, and said, “You can spare a little time, I suppose? I’ll ask my cousin if she is free.”

  I walked through the kitchen curtain and she was standing there. I grinned at her and winked at her. She stood stock still and grinned back at me. We were enjoying this piece of stage-management; we felt we had already begun to put on a show. She had tied her hair into a knot, decorated her forehead with a small vermilion dot, lightly sprinkled a little powder on her face, and clad herself in a blue cotton sari—an effect of simplicity produced with a lot of preparation. After five minutes of silent waiting, I nodded, and she followed me out.

  The Secretary and the Treasurer gaped. I said, “These are my friends. Sit down.” She smiled, and seated herself on a small mat—modestly away. I knew at that moment that her smile was an “open sesame” to her future. There was an awkward pause for a moment and then I said, “These are my friends. They are having
a variety show in the College Union, and were wondering if you would do anything for them.”

  She asked, “Variety? What other items are you having?” and puckered her brow in a superior way.

  They said apologetically, “A few fancy-dress items, mimicry and such things.”

  She said, “How can you fit my program into that? How much time do you want to give me?” She was taking charge of their program.

  They said, greatly flustered, “One hour, an hour and a half—anything you like.”

  Now she delivered them a homily. “You see, a dance program is not like variety, it needs time to be built up. It’s something that has to develop even as one is performing and one is watching.”

  They agreed with her sentiments absolutely. I interrupted to say, “Their main idea in coming now is to see you, and to see whatever bit of your art you can show them. Would you oblige us?”

  She made a wry face and grumbled, looked hesitant, and gave us no reply.

  “What is it? They are waiting for a reply from you. They are busy men.”

  “Oh, no. No need to hustle the lady. We can wait.”

  “How, how to—manage now—no accompaniments—without accompaniments I never like—” she was saying, and I said, “Oh, this is not a full-dress show. Just a little—When there is a full-dress show we shall have accompaniments. After all, you are the most important item.” I cajoled her and the other two happily joined me; and Rosie agreed hesitantly, saying, “If you are so keen, I can’t refuse. But don’t blame me if it is not good.” She went behind the curtain once again, returned bearing coffee on a plate, and set it down.

  Out of formal politeness the gentlemen said, “Why bother about coffee?” I pressed them to accept it.

  As they sipped their coffee, Rosie began her dance, to the accompaniment of a song that she lightly sang. I ventured to beat time with my hands, like a very knowing one. They watched in fascination. She suddenly paused, wiped the perspiration from her brow, took a deep breath, and, before resuming again, said to me, “Don’t beat time; it misleads me.”

  “All right,” I said, awkwardly grinning, trying not to look snubbed. I whispered, “Oh, she is so precise, you know.” They shook their heads.

  She finished her piece and asked, “Shall I go on? Shall I do ‘The Dancing Feet’?”

  “Yes, yes,” I cried, glad to be consulted. “Go on. They will like it.”

  When they recovered from the enchantment, one of them said, “I must admit I have never cared for Bharat Natyam, but watching this lady is an education. I now know why people are in raptures over it.”

  The other said, “My only fear is that she may be too good for our function. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll reduce the other items to give her all the time she wants.”

  “We must make it our mission to educate the public taste,” I said. “We must not estimate the public taste and play down to it. We must try to raise it by giving only the best.”

  “I think up to the interval we shall have the variety and all such tomfoolery. After the interval this lady can take up the entire show.”

  I looked up at her for a second as if waiting for her approval, and said, “She’ll, of course, be pleased to help you. But you must provide the drummer and accompanists,” and thus acquired at last the accompanists Rosie had been clamoring for all along.

  CHAPTER NINE

  My activities suddenly multiplied. The Union function was the start. Rocketlike, she soared. Her name became public property. It was not necessary for me to elaborate or introduce her to the public now. The very idea would be laughed at. I became known because I went about with her, not the other way round. She became known because she had the genius in her, and the public had to take notice of it. I am able to speak soberly about it now—only now. At that time I was puffed up with the thought of how I had made her. I am now disposed to think that even Marco could not have suppressed her permanently; sometime she was bound to break out and make her way. Don’t be misled by my present show of humility; at the time there was no limit to my self-congratulation. When I watched her in a large hall with a thousand eyes focused on her, I had no doubt that people were telling themselves and each other, “There he is, the man but for whom—” And I imagined all this adulation lapping around my ears like wavelets. In every show I took, as a matter of right, the middle sofa in the first row. I gave it out that that was my seat wherever I might go, and unless I sat there Nalini would be unable to perform. She needed my inspiring presence. I shook my head discreetly; sometimes I lightly tapped my fingers together in timing. When I met her eyes, I smiled familiarly at her on the stage. Sometimes I signaled her a message with my eyes and fingers, suggesting a modification or a criticism of her performance. I liked the way the president of the occasion sat next to me, and leaned over to say something to me. They all liked to be seen talking to me. They felt almost as gratified as if they spoke to Nalini herself. I shook my head, laughed with restraint, and said something in reply; leaving the watching audience at our back to guess the import of our exchanges, although actually it was never anything more than, “The hall seems to have filled.”

  I threw a glance back to the farthest corner of the hall, as if to judge the crowd, and said, “Yes, it’s full,” and swiftly turned round, since dignity required that I look ahead. No show started until I nodded to the man peeping from the wings, and then the curtain went up. I never gave the signal until I satisfied myself that everything was set. I inquired about the lighting, microphone arrangements, and looked about as if I were calculating the velocity of the air, the strength of the ceiling, and as if I wondered if the pillars would support the roof under the circumstances. By all this I created a tenseness which helped Nalini’s career. When they satisfied all the conditions a performance began, the organizers felt they had achieved a difficult object. Of course, they paid for the dance, and the public was there, after paying for their seats, but all the same I gave the inescapable impression that I was conferring on them a favor by permitting the dance. I was a strict man. When I thought that the program had gone on long enough I looked at the watch on my wrist and gave a slight nod of the head, and Nalini would understand that she must end the show with the next item. If anyone made further suggestions, I simply laughed them off. Sometimes slips of paper traveled down from the back of the hall, with requests for this item or that, but I frowned so much when a slip was brought near me that people became nervous to pass on such things. They generally apologized. “I don’t know. Someone from the back bench—it just came to me—” I took it with a frown, read it with bored tolerance, and pushed it away over the arm of the sofa; it fell on the carpet, into oblivion. I made it look as if such tricks should be addressed to lesser beings and that they would not work here.

  One minute before the curtain came down, I looked for the Secretary and nodded to him to come over. I asked him, “Is the car ready? Please have it at the other door, away from the crowd. I’d like to take her out quietly.” It was a false statement. I really liked to parade her through the gaping crowds. After the show, there were still people hanging around to catch a glimpse of the star. I walked ahead of her or beside her without much concern. At the end of the performance they presented her with a large garland of flowers, and they gave me one too. I accepted mine with protest. “There is really no reason why you should waste money on a garland for me,” I said; I slung it carelessly on my arm or in the thick of the crowd dramatically handed it over to Nalini with, “Well, you really deserve two,” and made her carry it for me.

  It was a world of showmanship till we reached the privacy of our house, when she would throw off the restraint and formality of hours and give me a passionate hug with, “Even if I have seven rebirths I won’t be able to repay my debt to you.” I swelled with pride when I heard her, and accepted it all as my literal due. Methodically she started wrapping the flowers in a wet towel so that they might remain fresh in the morning.

  On program days she cooked our supper
in the afternoon. We could easily have afforded to engage a cook, but she always said, “After all, for two people, we don’t need a cook moping around the house. I must not lose touch with my womanly duties.” She spoke of the evening show all through dinner, criticizing some arrangement or the background accompaniment, how so and so just failed to catch up. She lived entirely in the memory of her evening show. Sometimes after food she demonstrated a piece. And then she picked up a book and read on till we went to bed.

  In a few months I had to move out of my old house. The Sait managed to score a point of law and secured an attachment of the property before judgment. My lawyer came to me and said, “Don’t worry about it; it only means he will have to pay the house tax, with arrears, if any. Of course, your mother’s signature may be required too, but I’ll get it. It is just like mortgaging the house to him. You may have to give him rent—a nominal one if you stay here.”

  “Paying rent for my own house!” I said. “If I have to pay rent I prefer a better house.” For our growing stature the house was inadequate. No visitor could be entertained. No privacy. No place for any furniture. My father had designed this house for a shopkeeper, not for a man of consequence and status who had charge of a growing celebrity. “Moreover, where is the place for you to practice in?” I asked Nalini when she demurred at the notion of moving out. Somehow she was deeply attached to the house, the place which first gave her asylum.

  The lawyer went to the village and returned with my mother’s signature on the document. “How did she take it?” I could not help asking.

  “Not badly, not badly,” said the adjournment expert. “Well, of course, we cannot expect elderly people to take the same view as we do. I had to argue and persuade her, though your uncle proved a difficult man.”