The English Teacher

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘A real one?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t it like a cat?’ I nudged the teacher, and told him of her demand. He became very serious and said: ‘You must not think of a tiger as a pet, darling. It is a very big and bad animal. I will show you a tiger when a circus comes to the town next. Meanwhile you may have a picture of a tiger. I will give you one.’

  ‘All right, master, I will take it.’

  ‘And you can have a real cat. I will give you a small kitten I have at home.’

  She screamed with joy. ‘Is it in your house?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I will give it to you and also the picture of a tiger.’

  ‘Father, let us go with him …’

  ‘Surely, surely.’ The teacher looked delighted. ‘Come with me …’ He went on for a few minutes more and ceased. The story would run on for a full week. He stopped because the clock struck twelve. The children wouldn’t get up. The tiger had just been caught by a circus man for training. The children wanted to know more and more. ‘Master, you mustn’t stop. What happens to the tiger? Is he happy?’ He would answer none of their questions. He ruthlessly shut his books and got up.

  ‘We are hungry, teacher. We will go home.’

  ‘That’s why I stopped the story. Go home and come and listen to it tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘Do they kill the tiger?’ asked the child.

  ‘No, no, he is quite safe. He will be quite all right, trust me,’ said the teacher. The children, greatly pleased, ran out of the school. My daughter asked: ‘Is it the same circus you promised to take me to?’

  ‘Ah, something like it. Here too you will see a tiger,’ he replied and we got up. He locked the shed and the gate and walked down with us. When we reached our house, my daughter insisted upon going with him though she was hungry. He cajoled and coaxed her to go in. But she was adamant. At which he offered to come in and wait for the girl to finish her food and then take her with him. I seated him in my study.

  ‘This is the book I read,’ the girl said placing the big catalogue in his hand. He turned over its leaves and was lost in its pictures. I took her in to dine. I told the old lady: ‘There is another person for dinner today. Can you manage?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, although I knew she’d give her share of food or cook again. I invited the headmaster to sit down with me. He looked happy and at the same time uncomfortable: ‘My wife at home, she will be waiting …’

  ‘Won’t she guess you won’t be in?’ I asked. ‘Come on.’ He yielded.

  It was a most delightful party. I found him more and more fascinating. He took off his coat, folded up his sleeves, and asked: ‘Where is the bathroom? I should like to have a wash.’ He came out of the bathroom and said (his face wet with water and hands dripping): ‘Don’t offer me a towel please …’

  ‘Then how do you dry it?’

  ‘I just leave it alone, and it will evaporate. I never use a towel.’

  ‘Why, fear of infection?’

  ‘I don’t know. I have never liked a towel, not even my own. Even after a bath I just keep standing till the water evaporates, and then put on my dress with the result that every day my wife creates a most fearful row outside the bathroom, because you know it takes a little time for a wholesale drying like that.’

  My daughter was delighted that her teacher was dining with us. She was sitting down in her place with her silver plate in front of her, and was half-way through her rice. But when she saw her teacher she exclaimed with joy: ‘I will also eat with teacher,’ and tried to get up. She was, however, pressed back into her seat. She was very unhappy. ‘Eat slowly, but don’t get up. Eat slowly till your teacher joins us,’ I said. The teacher would want some more time for himself. ‘Please grant me fifteen minutes. I usually pray and meditate for fifteen minutes before dinner, the only time that I can spare. Just fifteen minutes … Another thing that seems to upset my wife.’ His wife seemed to be weighing on his mind. He muttered: ‘I could have managed well as a bachelor, but they wouldn’t let me alone.’ There was something very appealing in the way he spoke. He spoke of himself as if it were someone else. His own life seemed to give him as much amusement as he found the company of children inspiring. I found a place for him to sit and meditate, left him alone and came away. He preferred the back courtyard facing the east. He squatted on the floor and closed his eyes and was lost in it. He was completely wrapped in his own vision for quite a long while, and then came and joined me. He did not seem to have the slightest feeling of being in a stranger’s house. He conducted himself as if he were in his own house. As he came into the dining-room and took his seat on the plank next to mine he asked: ‘What have you done for dinner? I hope I have not put you to great difficulty or extra trouble?’

  ‘Oh no. Some simple fare. I hope you won’t find it too bad …’ The usual courtesies were going on in the usual manner, and he said suddenly: ‘Don’t you think we have evolved some silly social customs? For instance …’ Now as the old lady served us on the leaf the first course, fried brinjals, ‘I am not very fond of this. But can I say so?’ He gently pushed it away to a corner of the leaf: ‘Please forgive me if I don’t touch it. I would sooner swallow poison than eat brinjal …’ A most eccentric man. But we had almost arrived at a tacit understanding to be strictly truthful rather than formal. So I replied: ‘Well, I won’t apologize for it, you know. If you don’t like it, it is a pity. I hope you will like something else presently …’

  ‘That’s right. I like to speak and hear only on these lines. This is the simplicity to which all human conduct must be reduced. This is what the company of children has taught me. A fact which makes it very difficult for me to manage in an adult society. But then why should I ever try to get on with adults?’ My daughter remarked: ‘Our master doesn’t look like himself without his coat.’ He usually wore a loose, colourless coat, buttoned up to his neck. Now without it he certainly looked different. He looked rather young and slight. He seemed to put away ten years when he took off his coat. Indistinct features, greying at the temples, pouches under the red eyes. With all this there was a touch of freshness about him. My daughter asked: ‘Tell me a story, teacher …’

  ‘No, no, we must never tell stories while eating. Only at school. What should we do at school, if we had spent all the stories at home while eating?’

  After food he reclined on the mat in the hall. My daughter placed before him a plate of betel leaves and areca-nut. He chewed them with contentment. His lips became as red as his eyes. He looked very happy. The child sat nestling close to him and exhibited to him all her toys; the scores of coloured utensils, and brass miniature vessels, the rubber balls and her big doll. She carried the doll on her arm and said: ‘This girl wants to come with me every day to school. She cries and shouts every day. What shall I do, master?’

  He looked at the doll and said: ‘Not a bad girl.’ He pretended to pinch its cheeks and said: ‘See how soft she is …’ My daughter was greatly pleased. She looked at the doll affectionately and said: ‘She is a most lovely girl, master. But she does want to go with me to school, what shall I do?’

  ‘Do you want to bring her or not?’ She shook her head sadly. ‘No master. She is a bad baby and will give a lot of trouble at the school. She will not allow me to study there. She will quarrel with everyone.’ Certain inescapable anti-social characteristics of this doll seemed to sadden Leela, but she had steeled herself to a sort of resignation. So her teacher said: ‘Well, why don’t you lock her up in a box when you come to school?’ Leela shook her head: ‘That I can’t do because she will die. I will lock her up in a room.’

  The teacher asked: ‘Do you mind if I lie down and rest a while?’ He lay down and shut his eyes. My daughter insisted upon lying down beside him. Soon she was fast asleep. So was he. I went away to my room, picked up a book, lay on my camp easy-chair, and dozed.

  We were all ready to start out at four in the afternoon, my daughter persistently aski
ng for a cat.

  We walked down the road. His house was in Anderson Lane, which was a furlong east of my house – a locality we had never visited. It was a street within a street, and a lane tucked away into a lane. There was every sign that the municipality had forgotten the existence of this part of the town. Yet it seemed to maintain a certain degree of sanitation, mainly with the help of the sun, wind and rain. The sun burned so severely most months that bacteria and infection turned to ashes. The place had a general clean-up when the high winds rose before the monsoon set in, and whirled into a column the paper scraps, garbage, egg-shells, and leaves; the column precipitated itself into the adjoining street, and thence to the next and so on, till, perhaps, it reached a main thoroughfare where the municipal sanitary staff worked, if they worked anywhere at all. And it was followed by a good wash-down, when the rains descended in November and December and flushed the streets, and water flowed along the roadway and joined the river.

  Malgudi had earned notoriety for its municipal affairs. The management was in the hands of a council with a president, a vice-president, and ten elected members; they met on the last Saturday of every month and battled against each other. One constantly read of disputed elections, walk-outs, and no-confidence motions. Otherwise they seemed to do little by way of municipal work. However, when a distinguished visitor came to the town, the president and the members led him up the stairs of a tower in the municipal building and from there pointed out to him with great pride Sarayu cutting across the northern boundary of the town, glistening like a scimitar in moonlight.

  Carpenters, tinsmiths, egg-sellers and a miscellaneous lot of artisans and traders seemed gathered in this place. The street was littered with all kinds of things – wood shavings, egg-shells, tin pieces and drying leaves. Dust was ankle deep. I wondered why my friend had selected this of all places. I was afraid to allow my daughter to walk here. I felt she would catch all kinds of dreadful diseases. Unkempt and wild-looking children rolled about in the dust, many dogs growled at us, donkeys stood at attention here and there. I offered to carry my daughter on my arm but she refused to be lifted. Her teacher said: ‘Don’t worry, leave her alone. This is really a healthy place for all its appearance. She will be all right, don’t worry about her too much … No harm will come to her …’ I left her alone, rather abashed, and feeling rather that I had been found out.

  ‘Who is the Anderson of this lane?’ I asked, looking at the impressive name-plate nailed on to the wall of a house.

  ‘God knows. At least to honour the name I hope they do something for this place.… I have often tried to find out who Anderson was. But nobody seems to know. Perhaps some gentleman of the East India Company’s days!’

  He suddenly stopped and said: ‘Now this is my house.’ The tiles of the roof jutted into the street, a gutter gurgled and ran down in front of the house.

  ‘Come on carefully, don’t fall off into the gutter,’ he said.

  As soon as we had crossed the gutter, three children of ages between seven and ten stood in the doorway and hugged him. ‘Is your mother at home?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ they replied.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said and went in. He looked relieved to hear it. ‘Now, young fellows, here is a new friend, see what a fine girl she is.’ The children looked at Leela with interest. Somehow this attention seemed to puzzle her. She gripped my hands tight and tried to get behind me. The children adjusted their positions so that she might still be within range. Finally she could stand it no longer. ‘Let us go, father. Where is the cat?’

  ‘Wait, wait,’ I whispered. ‘You must not ask for it at once. See how nice those children are.’ They weren’t. They looked too wild. Their hair full of mud almost matted, their dress torn and dirty, an abnormal liveliness about them. They stood relentlessly staring at my child. Their father had slipped in and now came out with a roll of mat. He spread it in the passage, between the front door and the central hall, a large part of which was an open courtyard with a well in the middle; the whole place was unspeakably wet. The hall was choked with old furniture, clothes and vessels. Beyond was a narrow kitchen, black with soot. The mat was an old, tattered, Japanese one with a girl holding a parasol painted in the centre. I and my child sat down. The three children stood around gazing. He asked: ‘Where is your mother gone?’

  ‘We don’t know. We couldn’t ask because she was angry you hadn’t come. Why didn’t you come home, father?’ ‘I had somewhere else to go to,’ he replied lightly and tried to dismiss it from their minds. But they insisted until he said: ‘You mustn’t keep asking the same question.’

  The eldest asked: ‘Have you had food?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They looked at each other and said: ‘Mother went away thinking that you wouldn’t have eaten, and that you would come and ask for it.’

  ‘Not I,’ he said. ‘I know your mother – well, children, you may all go away now … or take this baby with you and play with her.’ There was consternation in my daughter’s face and she muttered: ‘Father, don’t let them call me.’ He saw this and said: ‘You don’t want to go with them? Then don’t. Now you may all leave us.’ With a great shout they ran towards the street and vanished. I couldn’t help asking: ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘I don’t know. I can’t say – perhaps to the gutter, or to some low-class den in the neighbourhood. I’ve no control over them. They are their mother’s special care, you know.’ There was a hint of a terrible domestic condition. I did not wish to pursue it. But I blundered into it. ‘Don’t they attend your school?’

  ‘They!’ he repeated: ‘I could sooner get the Emperor’s children. My school is for all the children in the world except my own.’

  ‘Where do they study?’

  ‘You may know better.…’ At this point a fat woman of about thirty-five, with sparse hair tied into a knot at the back of her head, her face shining with oil and perspiration, strode up the steps of the house. She threw a look at him and did not seem in the least to notice me sitting in the passage, though striding past us. She walked into the house, muttering: ‘So you have found the way home after all!’ gritting her teeth. He didn’t reply but merely looked at me sadly. She stood in the doorway of the house and said: ‘How long must I keep dinner waiting? Do you think I’m made of stone?’

  ‘Nobody asked you to wait.’

  ‘You are not to decide who should wait and who should not. You and your school! You don’t know the way back from your school, I suppose.’

  ‘Don’t speak rubbish. Here is a cultured visitor, who will laugh at us.’

  ‘Let him, what do I care? If he is big, he is a big man to you. He is not a big man to me. What do I care? Answer me first. Where were you all the time? Do you think I’m a paid watch-keeper for this house?’

  I could not watch this scene any longer. I got up and said: ‘We will be going.’ He looked at his wife and said: ‘I can’t bring a gentleman to visit me without your driving him away with your fine behaviour.’

  ‘Oh, no, it is not …’ I began.

  She replied: ‘Ah, what a fine sermon. I’m not going to be another woman than myself even if the king is here. What did I do to him?’

  ‘Don’t take it …’ I began, starting up. My daughter said: ‘The cat. He hasn’t given me the cat.’ He said: ‘Right. I never meant to forget.’ He looked at his wife and asked: ‘Where is that kitten? Is it inside?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the wife said. ‘I have too much to do to be keeping count of the cats and dogs that pass this way.’ He smiled at me weakly and said: ‘Can’t get a straight answer from her, at any time of the day! There are people in this world who have rough tongues but who are soft at heart – but this lady! I look ridiculous, speaking of my wife in this manner. But why should I not? Children have taught me to speak plainly, without the varnish of the adult world. I don’t care if it strikes anyone as odd.’ My daughter punctuated his narration with �
�Where is the cat?’ I had the feeling that I ought to run away. So I said: ‘Perhaps it has gone out, he will bring it when it comes back home.’ He said, ‘Wait,’ and went in and looked about and returned shaking his head. ‘It used to be in the store behind that tin. Forgive me, baby. I will positively get you a cat soon.’ My daughter looked very disappointed. So I cheered her up with a joke or two and walked out. He followed us back to our house. He seemed to feel more at home in my house than in his. He reclined in the easy-chair, pulled out a book and was soon lost in study. I looked at him in surprise. The book was a criticism of the Elizabethan dramatists, Beaumont and Fletcher. ‘This is the dullest work I’ve read in the English language. How is it that it interests you so much?’

  He lowered the book, removed his silver spectacles and said, ‘I’m not reading it. If I open a book like this and allow my eyes to rest on the lines, it helps me to do a lot of private thinking. I read very few books for any other purpose. This book, for instance, has helped me to reflect deeply and earnestly on the question of family, marriage, and such other institutions.’ My daughter came in and showed him a house she had made out of a matchbox. He seemed to forget all his troubles in an instant. ‘Oh, what a house, what a house. The only house worth having in this world,’ he added turning to me, as she went out, carrying it away with her. Her friends were at the gate calling for her, and she shouted, ‘Father, I’m going to play,’ and ran away and joined them. ‘She seems to have had enough of adults’ company since this morning,’ he remarked, putting away Beaumont and Fletcher. He looked at the book and said with a smile, ‘Not a line in the whole book to distract your thought – an ideal book for a contemplative turn of mind … Not a line in it …’ He put away the book, remained silent for a moment and said: ‘Did you notice how quickly that child dropped us and joined her fellows? Adult company is unfit for angels. Adults who can’t even keep a promise in regard to a kitten. Helpless fools we must appear to her. What wishy-washiness!’