The English Teacher

by R. K. Narayan

  It had always been my great anxiety that my wife should not share this fate. My mother seemed to feel that some reference of more immediate interest was due to me and said: ‘Susila is a modest girl. She is not obstinate.’ I was grateful for that negative compliment. That was at the beginning of our married years. They had constant contact after that, and with every effort Susila came out better burnished than before. And then came a point when my mother declared: ‘Susila has learnt how to conduct herself before guests.’ At this point they separated; now they were meeting again, with Susila having a home of her own to look after, and my mother ready to teach the obedient pupil her business. It was really this which I secretly dreaded.

  On the following Friday, I was pacing the little Malgudi railway station in great agitation. I had never known such suspense before. She was certain to arrive with a lot of luggage, and the little child. How was all this to be transferred from the train to the platform? and the child must not be hurt. I made a mental note, ‘Must shout as soon as the train stops: “Be careful with the baby.” ’ This seemed to my fevered imagination the all-important thing to say on arrival, as otherwise I fancied the child’s head was sure to be banged against the doorway … And how many infants were damaged and destroyed by careless mothers in the process of coming out of trains! Why couldn’t they make these railway carriages of safer dimensions? It ought to be done in the interests of baby welfare in India. ‘Mind the baby and the door.’ And then the luggage! Susila was sure to bring with her a huge amount of luggage! She required four trunks for her saris alone! Women never understood the importance of travelling light. Why should they? As long as there were men to bear all the anxieties and bother and see them through their travails! It would teach them a lesson to be left to shift for themselves. Then they would know the value of economy in these matters. I wrung my hands in despair. How was she going to get out with the child and all that luggage! The train stopped for just seven minutes. I would help her down first and then throw the things out, and if there were any boxes left over they would have to be lost with the train, that was all. No one could help it. I turned to the gnarled blue-uniformed man behind me. He was known as Number Five and I had known him for several years now. Whatever had to be done on the railway platform was done with his help. I had offered him three times his usual wages to help me today. I turned to him and asked: ‘Can you manage even if there is too much luggage?’

  ‘Yes, master, no difficulty. The train stops for seven minutes.’ He seemed to have a grand notion of seven minutes; a miserable flash it seemed to me. ‘We unload whole waggons within that time.’

  ‘I will tell the pointsman to stop it at the outer signal, if necessary,’ he added. It was a very strength-giving statement to me. I felt relieved. But I think I lost my head once again. I believe, in this needless anxiety, I became slightly demented. Otherwise I would not have rushed at the station-master the moment I set eyes on him. I saw him come out of his room and move down the platform to gaze on a far-off signal post. I ran behind him, panting: ‘Good-morning station-master!’ He bestowed an official smile and moved off to the end of the platform and looked up. I felt I had a lot of doubts to clear on railway matters and asked inanely: ‘Looking at the signals?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, and took his eyes down, and turned to go back to his room. I asked: ‘Can’t they arrange to stop this train a little longer here?’ ‘What for? Isn’t there enough trouble as it is?’ I laughed sympathetically and said: ‘I said so because it may not be possible for passengers to unload all their trunks.’

  ‘I should like to see a passenger who carries luggage that will take more than six minutes. I have been here thirty years.’

  I said: ‘My wife is arriving today with the infant. I thought she would require a lot of time in order to get down carefully. And then she is bound to have numerous boxes. These women, you know,’ I said laughing artificially, seeking his indulgence. He was a good man and laughed with me. ‘Well, sometimes it has happened that the train was held up for the convenience of a second-class passenger. Are your people travelling second?’ ‘I can’t say,’ I said. I knew well she wouldn’t travel second, although I implored her in every letter to do so. She wrote rather diplomatically: ‘Yes, don’t be anxious, I and the baby will travel down quite safely.’ I even wrote to my father-in-law, but that gentleman preserved a discreet silence on the matter. I knew by temperament he disliked the extravagance of travelling second, although he could afford it and in other ways had proved himself no miser. I felt furious at the thought of him and told the station-master. ‘Some people are born niggards … would put up with any trouble rather than …’ But before I could finish my sentence a bell rang inside the station office and the station-master ran in, leaving me to face my travail and anguish alone. I turned and saw my porter standing away from me, borrowing a piece of tobacco from someone. ‘Here, Number Five, don’t get lost.’ A small crowd was gathering unobtrusively on the platform. I feared he might get lost at the critical moment. A bell sounded. People moved about. We heard the distant puffing and whistling. The engine appeared around the bend.

  A whirling blur of faces went past me as the train shot in and stopped. People were clambering up and down. Number Five followed me about, munching his tobacco casually. ‘Search on that side of the mail van.’ I hurried through the crowd, peering into the compartments. I saw my father-in-law struggling to get to the doorway. I ran up to his carriage. Through numerous people getting in and out, I saw her sitting serenely in her seat with the baby lying on her lap. ‘Only three minutes more!’ I cried. ‘Come out!’ My father-in-law got down. I and Number Five fought our way up, and in a moment I was beside my wife in the compartment.

  ‘No time to be sitting down; give me the baby,’ I said. She merely smiled and said: ‘I will carry the baby down. You will get these boxes. That wicker box, bring it down yourself, it contains baby’s bottle and milk vessels.’ She picked up the child and unconcernedly moved on. She hesitated for a second at the thick of the crowd and said: ‘Way please,’ and they made way for her. I cried: ‘Susila, mind the door and baby.’ All the things I wanted to say on this occasion were muddled and gone out of mind. I looked at her apprehensively till she was safely down on the platform, helped by her father. Number Five worked wonders within a split second.

  I wouldn’t have cared if the train had left now. The mother and child stood beside the trunks piled up on the platform. I gazed on my wife, fresh and beautiful, her hair shining, her dress without a wrinkle on it, and her face fresh, with not a sign of fatigue. She wore her usual indigo-coloured silk sari. I looked at her and whispered: ‘Once again in this sari, still so fond of it,’ as my father-in-law went back to the compartment to give a final look round. ‘When will she wake up?’ I asked pointing at the child, whom I found enchanting, with her pink face and blue shirt.

  ‘Father is coming down,’ she said, hinting that I had neglected him and ought to welcome him with a little more ceremony. I obeyed her instantly, went up to my father-in-law and said: ‘I am very happy, sir, you have come …’ He smiled and said: ‘Your wife and daughter got comfortable places, they slept well.’

  ‘Did they, how, how? I thought there was such a crowd …’ My wife answered: ‘What if there are a lot of others in the compartment? Other people must also travel. I didn’t mind it.’ I knew she was indirectly supporting her father, anticipating my attacks on him for travelling third. ‘I only thought you might find it difficult to put the child to sleep,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, everybody made way for us, and we got a whole berth to ourselves,’ she said, demanding of me by every look and breath that I should be sufficiently grateful to her for it. I turned to him and said: ‘I’m so happy you managed it so well, sir.’ He was pleased. He said: ‘People are ever so good when they see Susila and the baby.’

  ‘I hope you will stop with us for at least a week,’ I said, and looked at my wife for approval. But her father de
clined the invitation with profuse thanks. He was to be back in his town next day and he was returning by the evening train. He said: ‘There were three Bombay men, they liked Leela so much that they tried to give her a lot of biscuits. She was only too eager to accept, but I prevented …’

  ‘Biscuits are bad for the baby,’ I said. We moved on. I stretched out my hand: ‘Let me carry her,’ I said. My wife declined: ‘You don’t know how to carry a baby yet. You will sprain her.’ She clasped her closer, and walked off the platform.

  A Victoria carriage waited for us outside. Our trunks were stuffed into it, and we squeezed ourselves in. I shared the narrow seat behind the driver with my father-in-law, leaving the other seat for mother and child. Between us were heaped all the trunks and I caught patches of her face through the gaps in the trunks. She talked incessantly about the habits of the infant, enquired about the plan of our house, and asked the names of buildings and streets that we passed.

  My mother came down and welcomed her at the gate. She had decorated the threshold with a festoon of green mango leaves and the floor and the doorway with white flour designs. She was standing at the doorway and as soon as we got down cried: ‘Let Susila and the child stay where they are.’ She had a pan of vermilion solution ready at hand and circled it before the young mother and child, before allowing them to get down from the carriage. After that she held out her arms, and the baby vanished in her embrace.

  A look at my mother, her eagerness as she devoured them with her look, and led them into the house, and I was moved by the extraordinary tenderness which appeared in her face. All my dread of yesterday as to how she would prove as a mother-in-law was suddenly eased.

  !My mother was swamped by this little daughter of mine. She found little time to talk or think of anything else. She fussed over the young mother and the child. She felt it her primary duty to keep the young mother happy and free to look after the little one. The child seemed to be their meeting point; and immediately established a great understanding and harmony between them. All day my mother compelled my wife to stay in her own room and spent her entire time in the kitchen preparing food and drink for her and the child. When the child cried at nights, my mother, sleeping in the hall, sprang up and rocked the cradle, before the young mother should be disturbed. The child still drew nourishment from its mother, and so the latter needed all the attention she could get.

  My mother stayed with us the maximum time she could spare – two months – and then returned to the village.

  * * *

  I left the college usually at 4.30 p.m., the moment the last bell rang, and avoiding all interruptions reached home within about twenty minutes. As soon as I turned the street I caught a glimpse of Susila tinkering at her little garden in our compound, or watching our child as she toddled about picking pebbles and mud … It was not in my wife’s nature to be demonstrative, but I knew she waited there for me. So I said: ‘I have taken only twenty minutes and already you are out to look for me!’ She flushed when I said this, and covered it up with: ‘I didn’t come out to look for you, but just to play with the child …’ My daughter came up and hugged my knees, and held up her hands for my books. I gave her the books. She went up the steps and put them on the table in my room. I followed her in. I took off my coat and shirt, picked up my towel and went to the bathroom, with the child on my arm, as she pointed at the various articles about the house and explained them to me in her own terms. Most of her expressions were still monosyllables, but she made up a great deal by her vigorous gesticulations. She insisted upon watching me as I put my head under the tap. The sight of it thrilled her and she shrieked as water splashed about. I put her safely away from the spray as I bathed, but she stealthily came nearer step by step and tried to catch some of the drops between her fingers. ‘Ay, child, keep off water.’ At this she pretended to move off, but the moment I shut my eyes under water and opened them again, she would have come nearer and drenched a corner of her dress, which was a signal for me to turn off the water and dry myself. I rubbed myself, lifted her on my arm, went to my room, and brushed my hair. I did this as a religious duty because I felt myself to be such a contrast to them when I returned in the evening, in my sagging grey cotton suit, with grimy face, and ink-stained fingers, while the mother and daughter looked particularly radiant in the evenings, with their hair dressed and beflowered, faces elegantly powdered.

  By the time I reached this stage my wife came out and said: ‘Your coffee is getting cold. Won’t you come in?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ and we moved off to our little dining-room. An alcove at the end of the dining-room served for a shrine. There on a pedestal she kept a few silver images of gods, and covered them with flowers; two small lamps were lit before them every morning. I often saw her standing there with the light in her face, her eyes closed and her lips lightly moving. I was usually amused to see her thus, and often asked what exactly it was that she repeated before her gods. She never answered this question. To this day I have never learnt what magical words she uttered there with closed eyes. Even when I mildly joked about it, ‘Oh! becoming a yogi!’ she never tried to defend herself, but merely treated my references with the utmost indifference. She seemed to have a deep secret life. There hung about this alcove a perpetual smell of burnt camphor and faded flowers.

  I sat down on the plank facing the shrine, with the child on my lap. A little plate came up with some delicacy or titbit heaped on it – my tiffin. Susila placed this in front of me and waited to see my reaction. I looked up at her standing before me and asked: ‘What is this?’ She replied: ‘Find out for yourself, let us see if you recognize it …’ As I gazed at it wondering what it might be, the child thrust her hand out for it. I put a little into her mouth while the mother protested: ‘You are going to spoil her giving her whatever she wants …’

  ‘No, just a little …’

  ‘It will make her sick, she has been eating all sorts of things lately. Don’t blame me if she gets sick …’

  ‘Oh, she won’t, just a little won’t do her any harm …’ As Leela held up her hands for more, her mother cried: ‘No, baby, it won’t do. Don’t trouble father, come away, come away,’ and the little one stuck to me fast, avoiding her mother’s gaze, and I put my left arm about her and said: ‘Don’t worry about her, I won’t give her any more …’ As I finished what was on the plate Susila asked: ‘Do you want some more?’ This was always a most embarrassing question for me. As I hesitated she asked, ‘Why, is it not good?’

  ‘It is good,’ I groaned, ‘but …’

  ‘But smells rather smoky, doesn’t it? But for the smell it would be perfect,’ she said. And I couldn’t but agree with her. ‘I prepared such a large quantity thinking you would like it …’ She went in and brought out a little more and pushed it on to my plate and I ate with relish just because she was so desperately eager to get me to appreciate her handiwork!

  She gave me coffee. We left the kitchen, and sat down in the hall. The child went over to her box in a corner and rummaged its contents and threw them about and became quite absorbed in this activity. My wife sat in the doorway, leaning against the door and watching the street. We spent an hour or more, sitting there and gossiping. She listened eagerly to all the things I told her about my college, work and life. Though she hadn’t met a single person who belonged to that world, she knew the names of most of my colleagues and the boys and all about them. She knew all about Brown and what pleased or displeased him. She took sides with me in all my discussions and partisanships, and hated everyone I hated and respected anyone I respected. She told me a great deal about our neighbours, their hopes and fears, and promises and qualities. This talk went on till darkness crept in, and the lights had to be switched on. At the same time the clattering at the toy box ceased. This was a signal that the child would demand attention. She came towards us whimpering and uttering vague complaints. My wife got up and went in to light the oven and cook the dinner, while I took charg
e of Leela and tried to keep her engaged till her food was ready.

  On the first of every month, I came home, with ten ten-rupee notes bulging in an envelope, my monthly salary, and placed it in her hand. She was my cash-keeper. And what a ruthless accountant she seemed to be. In her hands, a hundred rupees seemed to do the work of two hundred, and all through the month she was able to give me money when I asked. When I handled my finances independently, after making a few routine savings and payments, I simply paid for whatever caught my eyes and paid off anyone who approached me, with the result that after the first ten days, I went about without money. Now it was in the hands of someone who seemed to understand perfectly where every rupee was going or should go, and managed them with a determined hand. She kept the cash in a little lacquer box, locked it up in her almirah, and kept a minute account of it in the last pages of a diary, four years old.