‘He is our proprietor’s friend. He prints all our bill-books and invoices.’
‘What!’
‘Prints –’
‘Has he a press? Where?’
Next moment he had left his half-finished cup of coffee on the table and gone over to the counter. He looked at the printer and asked: ‘I wish to talk to you.’
‘To me? Well, I’m all attention.’
‘Will you kindly come with me for a minute? Let us sit over there.’
‘Oh, yes.’ He descended from the counter with great dignity. He appeared to take charge of Srinivas immediately, although he had come at the latter’s invitation. It was as if he were arranging a grand reception. He cried something to the proprietor in northern Indian accents and then called someone and sent him running upstairs. He sent someone else running in another direction. He kept the whole place spinning around. His voice commanded people hither and thither and held itself monarch above the din. People turned their heads and stared at them. Presently he said, with an elaborate note of invitation in his voice, pointing at the staircase: ‘This way, please.’ Srinivas felt embarrassed and uttered a mild protest, which the other brushed aside gently and said: ‘You will be more comfortable there; we can talk quietly.’ Srinivas began to be troubled by an uneasy feeling that he had perhaps given a totally false and grand impression of himself. Perhaps the other was completely mistaken. He proceeded to say at once, stopping half-way up the step: ‘You see, it is nothing so –’ The other would not allow him to proceed. He categorically said: ‘I know all that. Please go up.’
They came to a cosily furnished room upstairs – a very special room as a board hung outside it said: ‘For ladies and families only’. Srinivas halted before it, finding another excuse: ‘We are neither ladies nor families. How can we go in?’
‘These rules are not for me,’ the other said. He unhooked the board and handed it to a passing server and said: ‘Take it to the Saitji and tell him not to send up any ladies or families or anyone into that room while I’m there, and come back.’ The servant hesitated, at which the other went over to the landing and cried down: ‘Sait Sab,’ and was eloquent in some northern language. After that he led Srinivas into the special room, drew up a cushioned chair for him and seated him on it. He then proceeded to give elaborate orders to a server who was waiting at the door. The table was presently littered with plates and cups, and he would not allow Srinivas to speak a word till they had had their repast. After that he called a servant to clear the table. He ordered pans and cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke, leaned back in his chair, and said: ‘Well, sir, I’m at your service – what can I do for you?’ Srinivas was stunned by all this hospitality. He said: ‘You are extremely kind to me.’ The other asked: ‘Do you think so?’ with such earnestness that Srinivas felt constrained to explain: ‘I’m, after all, a stranger.’
‘There are no strangers for Sampath.’
‘Who is Sampath?’ asked Srinivas, rather puzzled.
‘Speaking,’ the other said, as if into a telephone. Srinivas looked up at him for a moment and cried: ‘Oh!’ and burst into a laugh. The other joined unreservedly. He said: ‘I tell you, sir, I’m an optimist in life. I believe in keeping people happy. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name.’ ‘My name is –’ The other cut him short. ‘It is immaterial to me. I don’t want it what am I going to do with your name?’
‘Shall I at least state my business?’
‘If it pleases you.’
‘I’m the editor of an unborn journal. Can you print it?’
‘Do you want me to print it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, in that case I’ve nothing to say. Customers are God’s messengers, in my humble opinion. If I serve them aright I make some money in this world and also acquire merit for the next.’
‘All the printers in this town seemed to be afraid of taking up my journal.’
‘The worst lot of printers in any part of the world is to be found in this town,’ Sampath said.
‘They seem to be always afraid of breaking the law.’
The other said: ‘By the look of you I don’t think you would wish to see me in gaol, but if ever you, as the editor, get into trouble it will be my business to share your trouble. When a person becomes my customer he becomes a sort of blood relation of mine; do you understand? But, first of all, let us go to the press.’
* * *
That was Srinivas’s first entrance into Kabir Lane: it was within a few minutes’ walk of the hotel. After twisting their way through some lanes Sampath went a little ahead, stepped on his threshold, and said: ‘You are welcome to the Truth Printing Works, Mr Editor.’ The treadle was grinding away out of sight. The printer pointed out a seat to Srinivas and then cried: ‘John! John!’ There was no response. The machine was whirring away inside, but there was no sign of John.
‘Boy! Boy!’ he cried.
‘Yes, sir,’ answered a thin, youngish voice, and the machine ceased.
The curtain behind the printer parted and a head peeped out – of a very young fellow. He waited for a moment, watching the back of his employer, and then withdrew his head and disappeared softly. Presently the rattle of the machine began again. ‘Well, sir, I thought I could introduce my staff to you, but they seem to be –’
‘Oh, don’t disturb them; let them go on with their work. How many have you there?’
The printer turned and took a brief look at the curtain behind him and said with an air of confidence, jerking his thumb in the direction of the other room: ‘I tell you, labour is not what it used to be. We have to go very cautiously with them. Otherwise we invite trouble. Well, sir, I’m at your service. Here is a sample of my work.’ He opened a cupboard and threw down on the table a few handbills, notices, pamphlets and letter-heads. He held up each one of them delicately with a comment. ‘I don’t like this, sir,’ he said, holding up a letter-paper. ‘I don’t approve of this style, but the customer wanted it. Printing is one of the finest arts in the world, sir, but how few understand it!’
At this moment there appeared at the door a middle-aged man wearing a close coat and turban. His face was rigid, and with a finger he was flicking his moustache. At the sight of him the printer jumped out of his seat and dashed towards him with a lusty cry of welcome: ‘What an honour this is today for Truth Printing!’
‘I’m tired of sending my clerk and getting your evasive answers. That is why I have come myself.’
‘What a blessing! What a blessing!’ cried the printer and took him by the hand and pulled him to a chair. ‘I don’t want all this,’ the other said curtly. ‘Are you going to give me your printed forme today or not? I must know that immediately.’
‘Of course you are getting it,’ said the printer, turning and going back to his seat. ‘Meet our editor. He is going to print his weekly here.’ The other looked at Srinivas condescendingly, his second finger still on his moustache, his face still rigid, and asked: ‘What sort of weekly – humorous or –’ Srinivas turned away, looked at the printer, and asked with cold, calculated indifference: ‘Who is he? You have not told me.’
‘Haven’t I?’ cried the printer, almost in a panic. ‘He is our District Board President, Mr Soma Sundaram. I’m one of the few privileged to call him Mr Somu.’ Mr Somu’s face slightly relaxed and a suspicion of a smile appeared somewhere near his ears. He said rather grimly: ‘You promised me the printed speech ten days ago, and I don’t think you have started it at all; the function is coming off on Wednesday.’
Sampath explained to Srinivas: ‘He is opening a bridge, five miles from here, across the Saraya – a grand function. Do you know that it is going to transform our entire Malgudi district? This is going to be the busiest district in South India. Do you know what odds he had to face, with the Government on one side and the public on the other?’ Mr Somu added: ‘Mr Editor, public life is a thankless business. If you knew how much they opposed the scheme!’
�
�It is a history by itself,’ Sampath continued. ‘It is all in his speech. It is going to create a sensation.’
The other pleaded: ‘But please let me have it in time.’
Sampath said: ‘My dear sir, I don’t know what you think of me, but I treat this bridge-opening as my own business. When a customer steps over this threshold all his business becomes mine: if you have trust in Sampath you will be free from many unnecessary worries.’ The other was completely softened by now. He wailed: ‘I have come to you, of all printers in this town, doesn’t it show you how I value your service?’ Sampath bowed ceremoniously, acknowledging the sentiment. ‘With the function only five days ahead, you have not yet given me the proof,’ began the other.
‘Don’t I know it? There is a very special reason why I have not given you the proof yet. You will not get it till a day before the function – that’s settled.’
‘Why? Why?’ Sampath took no notice of the question. He rummaged among the papers in a tray and brought out a manuscript. He opened the manuscript and said: ‘Now listen. Ladies and gentlemen,’ as if addressing a gathering. It was a masterly declamation, giving a history of the Sarayu bridge and all its politics. The idea of putting up a bridge over the Sarayu was as old as humanity. Sarayu was one of the loveliest rivers in India, coming down from the heights of Mempi Hills and winding its way through the northern sector of Malgudi, an ornament as well as a means of irrigating tens of thousands of acres. The preamble consisted of a long dissertation on the river Sarayu, followed by a history of the whole idea of bridging it, starting with a short note by a Collector, Mr Frederick Lawley (later Sir Frederick), in a District Gazeteer nearly a century old and culminating in Mr Somu’s own enthusiasms and struggles. It was a hotch-potch of history, mythology, politics and opinion. It was clear that several hands had written that speech for Mr Somu.
The district board president’s face was beaming by this time. He listened appreciatively to his own speech, nodding his head in great approbation. He constantly looked up at Srinivas in order to punctuate the reading with an explanation. ‘You see, it refers to the Government note issued at that time. Oh! Public life is a thankless business. Do you know what they tried to do when the voting was demanded? Sometimes people stoop to the lowest means to gain their ends …’ It was quite half an hour before Sampath put down the speech and leant back in his chair. He let out a slight cough before saying: ‘Mr Somu, do you now see why I can’t give you the proof until a day before the show?’ The president scratched his head and tried to make out what the reason could be. He turned to Srinivas and said: ‘Don’t you think that the speech is very good?’ Srinivas simpered non-committally, and the district board president looked greatly pleased. He begged: ‘Sampath, if you will kindly give it me in time, I can go through it and make any additions.’
‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m holding up your proof. I don’t want you to touch up the speech, which is very good as it is. And then, do you note that your reference in the third paragraph to your predecessor in office cannot yet be printed?’
‘Why so?’
‘In my view you may have to put everything into the past tense, and I don’t want to waste paper and stationery. Don’t you know that he has had a heart attack and is seriously ill?’
‘I didn’t know he was so bad,’ said the president, pausing.
‘I can’t take risks, sir. You would have got the two thousand printed copies delivered to you twelve days ago. I even set up a page, but then I heard that Mr So-and-so was ill. I at once put it away and sent my boy running to ascertain how he was.’
‘It is very considerate of you.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’ve a great responsibility as a printer, sir. If there is any blunder in the speech it is the printer who will be laughed at, sir.’
‘True, true,’ the other agreed, completely carried off his feet.
‘I never delay unnecessarily, without sufficient reason. You may rest assured of it,’ Sampath said in a tone full of resentment. The president said: ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Sampath. I didn’t mean to –’
‘Pray don’t mention it,’ Sampath said. ‘You are perfectly within your rights in hustling me. It is your duty. Your speech will be in your hands in time, sir,’ he said formally. The other was too pleased to say anything. He showed signs of making his exit, and Sampath clinched it for him by saying: ‘I will go with you a little way.’
When he was gone Srinivas found himself all alone and surveyed the room – a small table and chair blocking the doorway, which was curtained off, beyond which lay a great mystery. The sound of a machine could be heard. He felt tempted to part the curtain and peep in. But he dared not. He turned over in his mind the recent scene he had watched between the printer and his customer, and he felt greatly puzzled about his future printer. He speculated: ‘Suppose he does the same thing with the weekly when it is out?’ He felt a little uneasy, but told himself presently: ‘I have no right to disbelieve what I have heard and seen. He may have genuine feelings for the president’s predecessor. All the same, I must take care that some such thing doesn’t happen to the weekly on the due date. If I don’t accept his services, where is the alternative? Anyway, God alone must save me –’ Just at this moment the printer returned, apologizing profusely for his absence, and said: ‘Sir, let us get on with your journal.’
It went smoothly on until today – until this moment when Sampath came to announce the strike which had taken place among his men. For Srinivas the world seemed to be coming to a sudden end. He was facing the most disgraceful situation in his life. What explanation was he to give to those hundreds of subscribers? He looked at his table littered with proofs and manuscripts; only the editorial and one or two other features remained to be set up today. His editorial entitled ‘To all whom it may concern’, dealing with a profound subject – the relation between God and the State – was almost finished: he had only another paragraph to add, after ascertaining how much space was available on the page. Now he pushed across the manuscript and asked: ‘Will this fill up the first page or can I add another paragraph?’ The printer scrutinized it, measured the lines. ‘Make your paragraph short, and we can squeeze it in. If you have something important to say, how can we omit it?’
‘Thank you; wait a moment,’ said Srinivas. He seized his pen and dashed off the concluding paragraph: ‘If you are going to reserve a seat for various representatives of minorities, you could as well reserve a seat for the greatest minority in the world-namely, God. A seat must be reserved for Him in every council and assembly and cabinet: then we shall perhaps see things going right in the world.’ The printer read it and said: ‘Well, sir, I am beaten now. I can’t make out a line of what you have written. However, it is none of my business. But how are we going to print it?’
‘I will help you. Do it somehow.’
‘How is it possible, sir?’ He remained brooding for a while and then said, with a great deal of determination in his voice: ‘Well, sir, I will do my best, if it costs me my life. I can’t be defeated by my men, the ingrates, I gave them a bonus last year. But I don’t think we can catch tonight’s train: we shall probably have the bundles ready for tomorrow morning.’
‘But that will mean a day’s delay,’ wailed Srinivas.
‘Don’t you think, Mr Editor, that your readers would prefer it to not getting the journal at all?’ He looked at his watch and said: ‘We’ve only three hours for the night train. Impossible, even if we employ supernatural powers. Now, sir, give me the stuff, and I will start.’
Srinivas was very happy to see Sampath in his usual spirits again. ‘Come on, I will help you in the pressroom.’
‘No, sir, I have never heard of any printer using an editor to assist him. No, sir, I should make myself the laughing-stock of the entire printing community. Please stay where you are.’ He hastily got up and went out. Srinivas picked up the pages of his manuscript and followed him without a word.
Downstairs the printer flung off his coat, a
nd took out a blue overall which had lain folded up in a cupboard. With elaborate care he put it on and tied up the strings, rolled up his sleeves, smiled, and without a word parted the purple-dotted curtain and passed in. Srinivas hesitated for a while, wondering what he should do. He wondered how far he could make bold to push that curtain aside and follow. Sampath’s oft-repeated compliment that he had told many people the editor had never seen beyond the curtain rang in his ears. But he told himself: ‘I’m not going to be beaten by a compliment.’ This seemed a golden chance to enter the great mystery. He felt on the verge of an unknown discovery, and let his impulse carry him on. He pushed through the curtain, a corner of his mind still troubled whether he would find himself thrown out next moment.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 10
