He found himself in a small room with no window whatever, in which stood a treadle, a cutting machine, a stitching machine, and a couple of type-boards. The printer was standing before one of them with a composing stick in his hand. He looked at Srinivas very casually and said: ‘Would you like to try your hand at type-setting?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Srinivas, and the other took him to a type-board, put a stick in his hand and spread out a manuscript on the board. ‘You just go on putting these letters here – all capitals here, and the lower-cases you will find here. If you can get used to seeing objects upside down or right to left, you will be an adept in no time.’
The printer’s page was set up, corrected and printed off at midnight. Srinivas for his share produced an uproarious proof-sheet. The printer corrected it. ‘I think it will be immensely enjoyed by your readers if you print a page of your own as it is,’ he remarked, laughing heartily at all the inverted letters and the unpronounceable words that had filled the page.
It was 4 a.m. when the printing of the issue was completed. A cock crew in a neighbouring house when the treadle ceased, and Srinivas went on to learn the intricacies of the stitching and folding apparatus. His fingers felt stiff and unwieldy when he knelt on the floor and wrote the addresses on labels and wrapped them round the copies drying on the floor. His eyes smarted, his temples throbbed, and the sound of the treadle remained in his ears, as the copies were gathered into bundles. The trains were passing Malgudi in an hour’s time. The printer had become less loquacious and even a little morose through lack of sleep. His voice was thick and tired as he said: ‘Even that boy has joined the strikers! Fancy! I’m afraid we shall have to help ourselves.’ He heaved a bundle on to his shoulder. Srinivas followed his example and took up the second bundle. They put out the lights, locked the front door and started out. There was already a faint light in the eastern sky, more cocks were crowing in the neighbourhood; cows and their milkmen were on the move, and the town was stirring. As they were about to turn into Market Road a figure halted before them. It was Srinivas’s wife accompanied by her very sleepy youngster. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ Srinivas asked. She was visibly taken aback by the sight of her husband, carrying a load on his shoulders. ‘What are you doing at this hour? One might mistake you for a robber!’ she cried, as her son hung on to her arms, almost asleep. ‘I was so worried all night.’ ‘Well, go home now. I’m quite well. I’ll come home and tell you all about it.’
At the railway station Sampath woke up the station-master and left the bundles in his charge to be sent up with the guards of the two trains. The station-master protested, but Sampath said: ‘It is no pleasure for us to come here at this hour, but, sir, circumstances have forced us. Have pity on us and don’t add to our troubles. You are at perfect liberty to throw these out. But please don’t. You will be making hundreds of people suffer; just tell the guard to put these down at the stations marked and they will be taken charge of
There was still a quarter of an hour for the first train to arrive, and they decided to trust the station-master and go home. The thought of bed seemed sweet to Srinivas at this moment. At the big square in Market Road, Sampath paused to say ‘Good-night or good-morning or whatever it is, sir. This is my road to New Extension and bed.’
‘To say that I’m grateful to you –’ began Srinivas. ‘All that tomorrow,’ said the other, moving away. He cried: ‘Just a moment,’ and came back. ‘Oh, I forgot to show you this, Editor; I printed and put this slip into the middle page of every copy.’ And he handed him a green slip. Srinivas strained his aching eyes and read by the morning light: ‘Owing to some machine breakdown and general overhauling, The Banner will not be issued for some time. We beg the forgiveness of our readers till it is resumed.’
‘You have done this without telling me –’
‘Yes, I set it up while you were busy and I didn’t like to bother you with it.’
‘But, but –’
‘There is no other way, Editor. We can’t repeat our last night’s performance next week or the week after that. The readers have got to know the position; isn’t that so? Good-night or good-morning, sir.’ He turned and went away, and Srinivas dully watched him go, his brain too tired to think. He heaved a sigh and set his face homeward.
The following days proved dreary. Srinivas left for his office punctually as usual every day. He took his seat, went through the mail, and sat till the evening making notes regarding the future of The Banner. Sampath was hardly to be seen. The room below was locked up and there was no sign of him. Srinivas hardly had the heart to open his letters. He could anticipate what they would contain. He did not have a very large circle of readers; but the few that read the paper were very enthusiastic. They complained: ‘Dear Editor: It’s a pity that you should be suspending the journal. Our weekend has become so blank without it.’ He felt flattered and unhappy. His brother wrote from Talapur: ‘I was quite taken aback to see your slip. Why’ve you suspended your journal indefinitely? Have you found it financially impossible? Is that likely to be the secret?’ Srinivas felt indignant. Why did these people assume that a journal was bound to land itself in financial difficulties – as if that alone were the chief item? He wrote back indignantly a letter saying that financially it was all right, quite sound, and nobody need concern himself with it. He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He put it away for posting, and went on to answer another letter and to say that The Banner would resume publication in a very short time; he wrote the same message to another and another. They piled up on one side of his untidy table. It was midday when he finished writing the letters. He looked at them again, one by one, as if revising, and told himself: ‘What eyewash and falsehood! I’m not going to post these.’ He tore up the letters and flung them into the wastepaper basket. His letter to his brother alone remained on the table. He went through it and was now assailed by doubts. He put it away and took out his accounts ledger. This was an aspect of the work to which he had paid the least attention. He now examined it page by page, and great uneasiness seized him. He picked up a sheet of paper and wrote on it: ‘Mr Editor,’ addressing himself, ‘why are you deluding yourself? An account-book cannot lie unless you are a big business man and want to write it up for the benefit of the income-tax department. The Banner ledgers have no such grandeur about them. They are very plain and truthful. You have neglected the accounts completely. Your printer alone must be thanked for keeping you free from all worries regarding it. He was somehow providing the paper and printing off the sheets and dispatching copies. You received the money orders and disposed of the receipts in every eccentric way – sometimes paying the legitimate bills, more often paying off your rent and domestic bills. The printer has been too decent to demand his money, and so let it accumulate, taking it only when he was paid. I’ve a great suspicion that all his trouble with his staff was due to The Banner, it being almost the major work he did, and without getting any returns for it. If it is so, Mr Editor, your responsibility is very great in this affair. You have got to do something about it. I remain, yours truthfully, Srinivas.’
He folded it and put it in an envelope, pasted the flap, and wrote on it: ‘To Mr Sampath, for favour of perusal.’ He put the letter in his pocket and got up. He took his upper-cloth from the nail on the wall, flung it over his shoulders and set out. He locked the room and went downstairs, his heart missing a beat at the sight of the bright brass lock on the front door of the press. He crossed Kabir Lane and entered the Market Road. It was midday and the sun was beating down fiercely. A few cars and buses drove along the road, stirring up the hot afternoon dust. The languor of the afternoon lay upon the place. Some of the shops in the market were closed, the owners having gone home for a nap. The fountain of the market square sparkled in the sun, rising in weak spurts; a few mongrels lay curled up at the market gate, a couple of women sat there with their baskets, a workman was sitting under a tree munching a handful of groundnuts he had bought from the wom
en. Srinivas felt suddenly drowsy, catching the spirit of the hour himself. It was as if he were breathing in the free air of the town for the first time, for the first time opening his eyes to its atmosphere. He suddenly realized what a lot he had missed in life and for so long, cooped up in that room. ‘The death of a journal has compensations,’ he reflected. ‘For instance, how little did I know of life at this hour!’ He toyed with the idea of going to the river for a plunge. ‘I had nearly forgotten the existence of the river.’ He hesitated, as he came before the National Stores. He would have to turn to his right here and cross into Ellaman Street if he were going to the river, but that would take him away from his destination, which was Sampath’s house at New Extension. He had two miles to go along the South Road. He felt suddenly very tired and his head throbbed faintly through the glare from the bleached roads; a couple of cars and lorries passed, stirring up a vast amount of dust, which hung like mist in the air. He saw a jutka coming in his direction, the horse limping along under the weight of the carriage. He called: ‘Here, jutka, will you take me to Lawley Extension?’ The jutka- man, who had a red dhoti around his waist and a towel tied round his head, with nothing over his brown body, was almost asleep with the bamboo whip tucked under his arm. He started up at the call of ‘Jutka!’ and pulled the reins.
‘Will you take me to Lawley Extension?’ Srinivas repeated. He looked at Srinivas doubtfully. ‘Oh, yes, master. What will you give me?’
‘Eight annas,’ Srinivas said without conviction. Without a word the jutka-man flicked the whip on the horse’s haunch, and it moved forward. Srinivas watched it for a moment, and started walking down the South Road. The jutka driver halted his carriage, looked back and shouted: ‘Will you give me fourteen annas?’ Srinivas stared at him for a second, scorned to give him a reply and passed on. ‘I would rather get burnt in the sun than have any transaction with these fellows,’ he muttered to himself. A little later he heard once again the voice of the jutka-man hailing him: ‘Sir, will you give me at least twelve annas? Do you know how horse-gram is selling now?’ Srinivas shouted back: ‘I don’t want to get into your jutka, even if you are going to carry me free,’ and walked resolutely on. He felt indignant. ‘The fellow would not even stop and haggle, but goes away and talks to me on second thoughts!’ He felt surprised at his own indignation. ‘There must be a touch of the sun in my head, I suppose. The poor fellow wants an anna or two more and I’m behaving like a –’ His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of carriage wheels behind him; he turned and saw the jutka pulling up close at his heels. The jutka driver, an unshaven ruffian, salaamed with one hand and said, rather hurt: ‘You uttered a very big word, master.’ Srinivas was taken aback. ‘I say, won’t you leave me alone?’ ‘No, master. I’m fifty years old and I have sat at the driver’s seat ever since I can remember. You could give me the worst horse, and I could manage it.’
‘That’s all very well, but what has that to do with me?’ Srinivas asked unhappily, and tried to proceed on his way. The jutka driver would not let him go. He cried ill-temperedly: ‘What do you mean, sir, by going away?’ Srinivas hesitated, not knowing what to do. ‘Why is this man pestering me?’ he reflected. ‘The picture will be complete if my landlord also joins in the fray with petitions about his granddaughter.’ The jutka driver insisted: ‘What have you to say, master? I’ve never been spoken to by a single fare in all my life –’ And he patted his heart dramatically. ‘And this will never know sleep or rest till it gets a good word from you again. You have said very harsh things about me, sir.’ Srinivas wondered for a moment what he should do. It was getting late for him; this man would not let him go nor take him into his vehicle. The sun was relentless. He told the jutka driver: ‘I’m a man of few words, and whatever I say once is final….’
‘Sir, sir, please have pity on a poor man. The price of grass and horse-gram have gone up inhumanly.’
‘I will give you ten annas.’
‘Master’s will,’ said the jutka-man, dusting the seat of the carriage. Srinivas heaved himself up and climbed in, the horse trotted along, and the wheels, iron bound, clattered on the granite. The carriage had its good old fragrance – of green grass, which was spread out on the floor, covered with a gunny-sack for passengers to sit upon. The smell of the grass and the jutka brought back to his mind his boyhood at Talapur. His father occasionally let him ride with him in the jutka when he went to the district court. He sat beside their driver, who let him hold the reins or flourish the whip if there were no elders about, when the carriage returned home after dropping his father at the court. Some day it was going to be made quite a stylish affair with shining brass fittings and leather seats, but it remained, as far as he could remember, grass-spread, gunny-sack covered. The driver of that carriage used to be an equally rough-looking man called Muni, very much like the man who was driving now. Srinivas wondered whether it could be the same person. It seemed so long ago – centuries ago – yet it was as if here once again was the same person, his age arrested at a particular stage. Somehow the sight of the hirsute, rough-looking driver gave him a feeling of permanence and stability in life – the sort of sensation engendered by the sight of an old banyan tree or a rock. The smell of the grass filled him with a sudden homesickness for Talapur. He decided to make use of the present lull in activities to visit his ancient home. The driver went on repeating: ‘The price of gram is – Master must have mercy on a poor man like me.’
At Lawley Extension the driver stopped his horse and grumbled at the prospect of having to go half a mile farther to New Extension. ‘I clearly heard you say Lawley Extension, master.’ Srinivas edged towards the foothold. ‘All right, then, I will get down and walk the rest of the distance.’ The driver became panicky. He almost dragged him back to his seat, pleading: ‘Master has a quick temper. Don’t discredit me,’ and whipped the horse forward. He went on to say: ‘If only grass sold as it used to I would carry a person of your eminence for four annas … as it is, I heard you distinctly say Lawley Extension. You had better tell me, sir, would anyone quote fourteen annas for New Extension? Please tell me, sir; you are a learned person, sir; please tell me yourself, sir … Horse-gram –’
Sampath’s house was at the third cross-road; he was standing at the gate of a small villa. Sampath let out a cry of welcome on seeing Srinivas and ran forward to meet him. Srinivas halted the jutka, paid him off briskly, and jumped out of the carriage. ‘I was not certain of your door number, though I knew the road.’ Broad roads and cross-roads, fields of corn stretching away towards the west, and the trunk road bounding the east, with the bungalows of Lawley Extension beyond; one seemed able to see the blue sky for the first time here. ‘What a lovely area!’ Srinivas exclaimed.
‘Yes, it looks all right, but if your business is in the town it is hell, I tell you. All your time is taken up in going to and fro.’
‘What a fine bungalow!’ Srinivas exclaimed.
‘Yes, but I live in the backyard in an outhouse. The owner lives in this.’
He led him along a sidewalk to the backyard. On the edge of the compound there was an outhouse with a gabled front, a veranda screened with bamboo-trellis, and two rooms. It was the printer’s house. Srinivas felt rather disappointed at seeing him in his setting now, having always imagined that he lived in great style. The printer hurriedly cleared the veranda for his visitor; he rolled up a mat in great haste, kicked a roll of bedding out of sight, told some children playing there: ‘Get in! Get in!’ and dragged a chair hither and thither for Srinivas and a stool for himself. Srinivas noted a small table at the further end littered with children’s books and slates; a large portrait hung on the wall of a man with side whiskers, wearing a tattered felt hat, with a long pipe sticking out of a corner of his mouth. His face seemed familiar, and Srinivas was wondering where he might have met him. The printer followed his eyes and said: ‘Do you recognize the portrait? Look at me closely.’ Srinivas observed his face. ‘Is that your picture?’
‘Ye
s. You don’t know perhaps that side of me. But I have not always been a printer. In fact, my heart has always been in makeup, costumes, and the stage – that was in those days. Lately I have not had much time for it. But even now no amateur drama is ever put on without me in it, and what a worry it is for me to squeeze in a little hour at the rehearsal, after shutting the printing office for the day.’ He became reflective and morose at this thought, then abruptly sprang up and dashed inside and returned in a few minutes.
Srinivas guessed his mission indoors and said: ‘I’m not in need of coffee now. Why do you worry your people at home?’ The printer said: ‘Oh! Is that so?’ and addressed loudly someone inside the house: ‘Here! Our editor doesn’t want you to be troubled for coffee; so don’t bother.’ He turned to Srinivas and said: ‘Well, sir, I’ve conveyed your request. I hope you are satisfied.’ Presently Srinivas heard footsteps in the hall; someone was trying to draw the attention of the printer from behind the door. The printer looked round with a grin and said: ‘Eh? What do you say? I can’t follow you if you are going to talk to me in those signals. Why don’t you come out of hiding? Are you a Ghosha woman?’ He giggled at the discomfiture of the other person at the door, and then got up and went over. A whispered conversation went on for a while and then the printer stepped out and said: ‘Well, sir, my wife is not agreeable to your proposition. She insists upon your taking coffee as well as tiffin now. She has asked me how I can disgrace our family tradition by repeating what you said about coffee.’ He looked at the door merrily and said: ‘Kamala, meet our editor.’ The person thus addressed took a long time in coming, and the printer urged: ‘What is the matter with you, behaving like an orthodox old crone of seventy-five, dodging behind doors and going into Purdha. Come on, come here, there is no harm in showing yourself Srinivas murmured: ‘Oh, why do you trouble her?’ and stepped forward in order to save the lady the trouble of coming out. ‘This is my wife,’ the printer said, and Srinivas brought his hands together and saluted her. She returned it awkwardly, blushing and fidgety. She was a frail person of about thirty-five, neither good-looking nor bad-looking, very short, and wearing a sari of faded red, full of smoke and kitchen grime. She was nervously wiping her hands with the end of her sari, and Srinivas stood before her, not knowing what to say; an awkward silence reigned. The printer said: ‘Very well, good woman, you may go now,’ and his wife turned to go in with great relief, while Srinivas resumed his seat.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 11
