These words hypnotised Sharma and, stretching his hands across the large table, he reached out for the gift.
Mr. Acton noticed the unsureness of his hand and pushed it gently forward.
Srijut Sharma picked up the red box, but in his eagerness to follow the Sahib’s behests, dropped it, even as he had held it aloft and tried to open it.
The Sahib’s face was livid as he picked up the box and hurriedly opened it. Then, lifting the watch from its socket, he wound it and applied it to his ear. It was ticking. He turned it round and showed the inscription to the dispatch clerk.
Srijut Sharma put both his hands out, more steadily this time, and took the gift in the manner in which a beggar receives alms. He brought the glistening object within the orbit of his eyes, but they were dimmed to smile, however, and, then with a great heave of his head, which rocked his body from side to side, he pronounced the words: ‘Thank you, Sir...’
Mr. Acton got up, took the gold watch from Srijut Sharma’s hands and put it back in the socket of the red case. Then he stretched his right hand towards the dispatch clerk, with a brisk handshake and offered the case to him with his left hand.
Srijut Sharma instinctively took the Sahib’s right hand gratefully in his two sweating hands and opened the palms out to receive the case.
‘Good luck, Sharma,’ Mr. Acton said, ‘Come and see me after your leave is over. And when your son matriculates let me know if I can do something for him...’
Dumb, and with bent head, the fumes of his violent emotions rising above the mouth which could have expressed them, he withdrew in the abject manner of his ancestors going out of the presence of feudal lords.
Mr. Acton saw the danger to the watch and went ahead to open the door, so that the clerk could go out without knocking his head against the door or fall down.
As Srijut Sharma emerged from the General Manager’s office, involuntary tears flowed from his eyes and his lower lip fell in a pout that somehow controlled him from breaking down completely.
The eyes of the whole office staff were on him.
In a moment, a few of the men clustered around his person.
One of them took the case from his hands, opened it and read the inscription out aloud:
“In appreciation of the loyal service of Mr. Sharma to Henry King & Co., on his retirement...”
The curiosity of his colleagues became a little less enthusiastic as the watch passed from hand to hand.
Unable to stand, because of the wave of dizziness that swirled in his head, Srijut Sudarshan Sharma sat down on his chair, with his head hidden in his hands and allowed the tears to roll down. One of his colleagues, Mr. Banaji, the accountant, patted his back understandingly. But the pity was too much for him.
“To be sure, Seth Makhanji, the new partner has a relation, to fill Sharma’s position,’ another said.
‘No no,’ another refuted him. ‘No one is required to kill himself with work in our big concern... We are given the Sunday off’! And a fat pension years beyond it is due. The bosses are full of love for us!...
‘Damn fine gold watch, but it does not go!’ said Sriraman, the typist.
Mr. Banaji took the watch from Sriraman and, putting it in the case, placed it before Srijut Sharma and he signalled to the others to move away.
As Srijut Sharma realised that his colleagues had drifted away, he lifted his morose head, took the case, as well as his hat, and began to walk away.
Mr. Banaji saw him off to the door, his hands on Sharma’s back.
‘Sahibji,’ the Parsi accountant said, as the lift came up and the liftman took Srijut Sharma in.
On the way home Srijut Sharma found that the gold watch only went when it was shaken. Obviously, some delicate part had broken when he had dropped it on Mr. Acton’s table. He would get it mended, but he must save all the cash he could get hold of and not go spending it on the luxury of having a watch repaired now. He shouldn’t have been weak with his son and given him his old silver watch. But as there would be no office to go to any more, he would not need to look at the time very much, specially in Jullunder, where time just stood still and no one bothered about keeping appointments.
Khushwant Singh
13 Karma
Sir Mohan Lal looked at himself in the mirror of a first class waiting room at the railway station. The mirror was obviously made in India. The red oxide at its back had come off at several places and long lines of translucent glass cut across its surface. Sir Mohan smiled at the mirror with an air of pity and patronage.
“You are so very much like everything else in this country, inefficient, dirty, indifferent,” he murmured.
The mirror smiled back at Sir Mohan.
“You are a bit of alright, old chap,” it said. “Distinguished, efficient – even handsome. That neatly trimmed moustache – the suit from Saville Row with the carnation in the button hole the aroma of eau de Cologne, talcum powder and scented soap all about you! Yes, old fellow, you are a bit of alright.”
Sir Mohan threw out his chest, smoothed his Balliol tie for the umpteenth time and waved a goodbye to the mirror.
He glanced at his watch. There was still time for a quick one. “Koi Hai?”
A bearer in white livery appeared through a wire gauze door. “Ek Chota,” ordered Sir Mohan, and sank into a large cane chair to drink and ruminate.
Outside the waiting room Sir Mohan Lal’s luggage lay piled along the wall. On a small grey steel trunk Lachmi, Lady Mohan Lal, sat chewing a betel leaf and fanning herself with a newspaper. She was short and fat and in her middle forties. She wore a dirty white sari with a red border. On one side of her nose glistened a diamond nose-ring, and she had several gold bangles on her arms. She had been talking to the bearer until Sir Mohan had summoned him inside. As soon as he had gone, she hailed a passing railway coolie.
“Where does the zenana stop?” “Right at the end of the platform.”
The coolie flattened his turban to make a cushion, hoisted the steel trunk on his head, and moved down the platform. Lady Lal picked up her brass tiffin carrier and ambled along behind him. On the way she stopped by a hawker’s stall to replenish her silver betel leaf case, and then joined the coolie. She sat down on her steel trunk (which the coolie had put down) and started talking to him.
“Are the trains very crowded on these lines?”
“These days all trains are crowded, but you’ll find room in the zenana.”
“Then I might as well get over the bother of eating.”
Lady Lal opened the brass carrier and took out a bundle of cramped chapatties and some mango pickle. While she ate, the coolie sat opposite her on his haunches, drawing lines in the gravel with his finger.
“Are you travelling alone, sister?”
“No, I am with my master, brother. He is in the waiting room. He travels first class. He is a vizier and a barrister, and meets so many officers and Englishmen in the trains and I am only a native woman. I can’t understand English and don’t know their ways, so I keep to my zenana inter-class.”
Lachmi chatted away merrily. She was fond of a little gossip and had no one to talk to at home. Her husband never had any time to spare for her. She lived in the upper storey of the house and he on the ground floor. He did not like her poor illiterate relatives hanging about his bungalow, so they never came. He came up to her once in a while at night and stayed for a few minutes. He just ordered her about in anglicized Hindustani, and she obeyed passively. These nocturnal visits had, however, borne no fruit.
The signal came down and the clanging of the bell announced the approaching train. Lady Lal hurriedly finished off her meal. She got up, still licking the stone of the pickled mango. She emitted a long, loud belch as she went to the public tap to rinse her mouth and wash her hands. After washing she dried her mouth and hands with the loose end of her sari, and walked back to her steel trunk, belching and thanking the gods for the favour of a filling meal.
The train steamed in. Lachmi found
herself facing an almost empty inter-class zenana compartment next to the guard’s van, at the tail end of the train. The rest of the train was packed. She heaved her squat, bulky frame through the door and found a seat by the window. She produced a two-anna bit from a knot in her sari and dismissed the coolie. She then opened her betel case and made herself two betel leaves charged with a red and white paste, minced betelnuts and cardamoms. These she thrust into her mouth till her cheeks bulged on both sides. Then she rested her chin on her hands and sat gazing idly at the jostling crowd on the platform.
The arrival of the train did not disturb Sir Mohan Lals sang-froid. He continued to sip his Scotch and ordered the bearer to tell him when he had moved the luggage to a first class compartment. Excitement, bustle, and hurry were exhibitions of bad breeding, and Sir Mohan was eminently well-bred. He wanted everything ‘tickety-boo’ and orderly. In his five years abroad, Sir Mohan had acquired the manners and attitudes of the upper classes. He rarely spoke Hindustani. When he did, it was like an Englishman’s only the very necessary words and properly anglicized. But he fancied his English, finished and refined at no less a place than the University of Oxford. He was fond of conversation, and like a cultured Englishman he could talk on almost any subject – books, politics, people. How frequently had he heard English people say that he spoke like an Englishman!
Sir Mohan wondered if he would be travelling alone. It was a Cantonment and some English officers might be on the train. His heart warmed at the prospect of an impressive conversation. He never showed any sign of eagerness to talk to the English as most Indians did. Nor was he loud, aggressive and opinionated like them. He went about his business with an expressionless matter-of-factness. He would retire to his corner by the window and get out a copy of The Times. He would fold it in a way in which the name of the paper was visible to others while he did the crossword puzzle. The Times always attracted attention. Someone would like to borrow it when he put it aside with a gesture signifying “I’ve finished with it.” Perhaps someone would recognise his Balliol tie which he always wore while travelling. That would open a vista leading to a fairyland of Oxford colleges, masters, dons, tutors, boat-races and rugger matches. If both The Times and the tie failed, Sir Mohan would “Koi Hai” his bearer to get the Scotch out. Whisky never failed with Englishmen. Then followed Sir Mohan’s handsome gold cigarette case filled with English cigarettes. English cigarettes in India? How on earth did he get them? Sure he didn’t mind? And Sir Mohan’s understanding smile – of course he didn’t. But could he use the Englishman as a medium to commune with his dear old England? Those five years of grey bags and gowns, of sports blazers and mixed doubles, of dinners at the Inns of Court and nights with Piccadilly prostitutes. Five years of a crowded glorious life, worth far more than the forty-five in India with his dirty, vulgar countrymen, with sordid details of the road to success, of nocturnal visits to the upper storey and all-too-brief sexual acts with obese old Lachmi, smelling of sweat and raw onions.
Sir Mohan’s thoughts were disturbed by the bearer announcing the installation of the Sahib’s luggage in a first class coupe next to the engine. Sir Mohan walked to his coupe with a studied gait. He was dismayed. The compartment was empty. With a sigh he sat down in a corner and opened the copy of The Times he had read several times before.
Sir Mohan looked out of the window down the crowded platform. His face lit up as he saw two English soldiers trudging along, looking in all the compartments for room. They had their haversacks slung behind their backs and walked unsteadily. Sir Mohan decided to welcome them, even though they were entitled to travel only second class. He would speak to the guard.
One of the soldiers came up to the last compartment and stuck his face through the window. He surveyed the compartment and noticed the unoccupied berth.
“Ere, Bill” he shouted, “one ‘ere.”
His companion came up, also looked in, and looked at Sir Mohan.
“Get the nigger out,” he muttered to his companion.
They opened the door, and turned to the half-smiling, half- protesting Sir Mohan.
“Reserved!” yelled Bill.
“Janta – Reserved. Army – Fauji’ exclaimed Jim, pointing to his khaki shirt.
“Ek dum jao get out!”
“I say, I say, surely,” protested Sir Mohan in his Oxford accent.
The soldiers paused. It almost sounded like English, but they knew better than to trust their inebriated ears. The engine whistled and the guard waved his green flag.
They picked up Sir Mohan’s suitcase and flung it onto the platform. Then followed his thermos flask, suitcase, bedding and The Times. Sir Mohan was livid with rage.
“Preposterous, preposterous,” he shouted, hoarse with anger.
“I’ll have you arrested – guard, guard!”
Bill and Jim paused again. It did sound like English, but it was too much of the King’s for them.
“Keep your ruddy mouth shut!” And Jim struck Sir Mohan flat on the face.
The engine gave another short whistle and the train began to move. The soldiers caught Sir Mohan by the arms and flung him out of the train. He reeled backwards, tripped on his bedding, and landed on the suitcase.
“Toodle-oo!”
Sir Mohan’s feet were glued to the earth and he lost his speech. He stared at the lighted windows of the train going past him in quickening tempo. The tail-end of the train appeared with a red light and the guard standing in the open doorway with the flags in his hands.
In the inter-class zenana compartment was Lachmi, fair and fat, on whose nose the diamond nose-ring glistened against the station lights. Her mouth was bloated with betel saliva which she had been storing up to spit as soon as the train had cleared the station. As the train sped past the lighted part of the platform, Lady Lal spat and sent a jet of red dribble flying across like a dart.
14 The Mark of Vishnu
“This is for the Kala Nag,” said Gunga Ram, pouring the milk into the saucer. “Every night I leave it outside the hole near the wall and it’s gone by the morning.”
“Perhaps it is the cat,” we youngsters suggested.
“Cat!” said Gunga Ram with contempt. “No cat goes near that hole. Kala Nag lives there. As long as I give him milk, he will not bite anyone in this house. You can all go about with bare feet and play where you like.”
We were not having any patronage from Gunga Ram.
“You’re a stupid old Brahmin,” I said. “Don’t you know snakes don’t drink milk? At least one couldn’t drink a saucerful every day. The teacher told us that a snake eats only once in several days. We saw a grass snake which had just swallowed a frog. It stuck like a blob in its throat and took several days to dissolve and go down its tail. We’ve got dozens of them in the lab in methylated spirit. Why, last month the teacher bought one from a snake-charmer which could run both ways. It had another head with a pair of eyes at the tail. You should have seen the fun when it was put in the jar. There wasn’t an empty one in the lab. So the teacher put it in one which had a Russel’s viper. He caught its two ends with a pair of forceps, dropped it in the jar, and quickly put the lid on. There was an absolute storm as it went round and round in the glass tearing the decayed viper into shreds.”
Gunga Ram shut his eyes in pious horror.
“You will pay for it one day. Yes; you will.”
It was no use arguing with Gunga Ram. He, like all good Hindus, believed in the Trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva – the creator, preserver, and destroyer. Of these he was most devoted to Vishnu. Every morning he smeared his forehead with a V mark in sandalwood paste to honour the deity. Although a Brahmin, he was illiterate and full of superstition. To him, all life was sacred, even if it was of a serpent or scorpion or centipede. Whenever he saw one he quickly shoved it away lest we kill it. He picked up wasps we battered with our badminton rackets and tended their damaged wings. Sometimes he got stung. It never seemed to shake his faith. More dangerous the animal, the more dev
oted Gunga Ram was to its existence. Hence the high regard for snakes; above all, the cobra, who was the Kala Nag.
“We will kill your Kala Nag if we see him.”
“I won’t let you. It’s laid a hundred eggs and if you kill it all the eggs will become cobras and the house will be full of them. Then what will you do?”
“We’ll catch them alive and send them to Bombay. They milk them there for anti-snake-bite serum. They pay two rupees for a live cobra. That makes two hundred rupees straightaway.”
“Your doctors must have udders. I never saw a snake have any. But don’t you dare touch this one. It is a phannyar – it is hooded. I’ve seen it, it’s three hands long. And for its hood!” Gunga Ram opened the palms of his hands and his head swayed from side to side. “You should see it basking on the lawn in the sunlight”
“That just proves what a liar you are. The phannyar is the male, so it couldn’t have laid the hundred eggs. You must have laid the eggs yourself.”
The party burst into peals of laughter.
“Must be Gunga Ram’s eggs. We’ll soon have a hundred Gunga Rams.”
Gunga Ram was squashed. It was the lot of a servant to be constantly squashed. But having the children of the household make fun of him was too much even for Gunga Ram. They were constantly belittling him with their newfangled ideas. They never read their scriptures. Nor even what the Mahatma said about non-violence. It was just shotguns to kill birds and the jars of methylated spirit to drown snakes. Gunga Ram would stick to his faith in the sanctity of life. He would feed and protect snakes because snakes were the vilest of God’s creatures on earth. If you could love them, instead of killing them, you proved your point.
What the point was which Gunga Ram wanted to prove was not clear. He just proved it by leaving the saucerful of milk by the snake hole every night and finding it gone in the mornings.
5 Indian Masters Page 16