‘Isn’t it?’ she asked. ‘I had gone to a jungle in Malabar once on a holiday, and this thing …’ She struggled to hide something and ended abruptly: ‘Yes, it was a king cobra. It was shot at once, and then a bag was made of it.’ She trailed off, and Srinivas did not like to pursue the matter.
Later, when she went away for some costume rehearsals, Sampath said: ‘My cousin married a forest officer, and they had to separate, you know, and all kinds of things, and then she became a widow. She feels somewhat uncomfortable when she thinks of all that, you know.’
‘Well, I didn’t intend to hurt her or anything. But I was struck by her bag because it seemed such a symbolic appendage for a beautiful woman and for us men to see and learn.’
‘Yes, yes, quite right,’ Sampath said. He was more keen on continuing his narrative. ‘They were in a forest camp. The cobra cornered her in her room, as she lay in a camp cot in their forest lodge and it came over the doorway, hissing and swaying its hood. She thought that her last hour had arrived, but her husband shot it through a window.’ Srinivas decided to turn the topic from the cobra. People might come in, and he might lose all chance of talking to Sampath alone for the rest of the day. So he at once said: ‘I came here to talk to you about Ravi.’
‘Oh! Yes, I wanted to speak to you, too. It seems he has not been coming to the office for three or four days now. What is he doing?’
Srinivas said: ‘He is prepared to work in the art section. Why don’t you take him in? We ought to do everything in our power to give him the chance, if it will make him draw pictures. It is our responsibility.’
In his habitual deference to Srinivas’s opinions, Sampath did not contradict him. ‘If I were free as I was before, I would do it before you finished the sentence. But there are difficulties. I’m now in a place which has become an institution.’
‘Look here. Are you going to take him in or not? That’s what I want to know.’
‘I will ask Somu. I don’t wish to appear to be doing things over his head. After all, he is very important.’
Of late, after the old landlord’s death, Srinivas noted a new tone of hushed respect in Sampath’s voice whenever he referred to Somu.
‘All right, talk to him and tell me. I will wait.’
‘Now? Oh, no, Mr Editor! Please give me a little time. I don’t know what he is doing now.’ Srinivas looked resolute. ‘Don’t tell me that you can’t see him when you like. Surely you shouldn’t tell me that.’ There was in his tone a note of authority which Sampath could not disobey.
‘Well, my editor’s wishes before anything else – that’s the sign of a faithful printer, isn’t it?’ he said and went downstairs. When he was gone his cousin came up. ‘I’ve finished the costume business,’ she said. ‘Where is he?’
‘I’ve sent him down on some business.’ This seemed to Srinivas a golden chance to get her to talk. But he dismissed the thought instantly as unworthy. He wanted at best to ask her: ‘I heard you were at the office yesterday,’ but he suppressed that idea also. He knew it would not be a very sincere question. He would ask it only with a view to getting her to talk about Ravi. But even that seemed to him utterly unworthy. He hated the idea of being diplomatic with so beautiful a creature. So he merely asked: ‘Do you like the part you are going to play?’
‘Really?’ she said. ‘I have got to do what is given to me, and I wish to do my best. That’s why I get into such a lot of trouble with Sampath over the interpretations. I like to give the most correct one. But we’ve so little voice in these matters: we shall have to do blindly what the director orders.’ During her costume trials she seemed to have disarranged her hair and sari ever so slightly and that gave her a touch of mellowness. ‘What a pleasure to watch her features!’ Srinivas thought. ‘No wonder it has played such havoc with Ravi’s life.’ She didn’t pursue the conversation further, but went to a corner and sat there quietly, looking at the sky through the window.
Sampath returned. He looked fixedly at his cousin for a second. She remained looking out of the window. He beckoned to Srinivas to go out with him for a moment and told him, when they were on the terrace: ‘I’ve managed it.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said Srinivas. ‘You will see what wonderful pictures he will draw now …’
‘Well, I hope so, sir. But I hope he will not create complexities here,’ he said, glancing in the direction of his cousin.
Ravi’s new chief was the director of art and publicity, a large man in a green sporting shirt and shorts, who went about the studio with a pencil stuck behind his ear. He had an ostentatious establishment, a half-glass door, a servant in uniform, and a clerk at the other end of the room. He sat at a glass-topped table on which were focused blinding lights; huge albums and trial-sheets were all over the place. He wore rimless glasses with a dark tassel hanging down. He called this the control room; it was in the heart of the arts and publicity block, and all around him spread a number of rooms in which artists worked, some at their tables and some with their canvases and sheets of paper spread out on the floor.
Sampath walked in two days later, almost leading Ravi by the hand into the hall. ‘Well, Director of art and publicity, here I’ve brought you the best possible artist to help you.’ The director looked him benignly up and down and asked: ‘Where were you trained?’ Ravi was struggling to find an answer when Sampath intervened and said: ‘Wouldn’t you like to make a guess? See his work and then tell me.’
‘Very well,’ said the director and rang the bell. His servant appeared. ‘Three cups of coffee,’ he called out. Ravi muttered an apology. ‘No, it’s my custom to drink a cup with my assistants at least on the first day,’ said the director. After coffee he ceremoniously held out his large palm and said: ‘Your room is over there, I will send you instructions.’ He pressed a bell again. A boy entered. ‘Show him room four.’ Ravi followed him out without a word. His docility pleased Sampath. He said: ‘Director, he is a good boy…. If I may give you a little advice …’
Yes?’ began the director, all attention. Sampath wondered for a moment how he could finish the sentence, and then rose to go. ‘Oh, nothing, you know how best to handle your boys.’ He went out and completed the sentence at Srinivas’s office in Kabir Lane: ‘If you don’t think it strange of me, I’d like to suggest that you give some advice to Ravi –’
‘Yes, what about?’ Srinivas asked, looking up.
‘Well –’ Sampath drawled, and Srinivas saw that he was awkward and could not say what he had in his mind. This was probably a very rare sight – Sampath unable to speak freely. ‘I mean, Editor, I have transferred Ravi as you desired: I want you to do me a little favour in return, that is – well, I suppose, I must say it out. You know Shanti is there. I wish he would keep out of her way as far as possible.’
‘He may have to see her in the course of his work.’
‘Oh, that doesn’t matter at all. That is a different situation. I’m not referring to that, but don’t let him –’
‘Pursue her or talk to her, isn’t that what you wish to say?’ asked Srinivas with a twinkle in his eye. Sampath merely smiled, and Srinivas said: ‘Well, I don’t think he will do anything of the kind, but I will caution him, all the same. Let us hope for the best. In any case, she is a different person. Isn’t that so?’
Sampath made a gesture of despair. ‘Well, who can say how an artist looks at things? I’ve always been rather bewildered by Ravi’s ways.’
Srinivas waited for Ravi to come home that night. Srinivas heard him arrive in the studio van and then went over and called softly: ‘Ravi!’ Ravi came out. ‘If you are not too tired, let us go out for a short stroll.’ ‘Very well,’ he said. A little sister clung to his arm and tried to go out with him. But he gently sent her back with a promise: ‘I will buy you chocolates tomorrow; go in and sleep, darling –’ As they went through the silent Anderson Lane with people sleeping on pyols, talking or snoring, Srinivas wondered how he was to convey the message from Sampath. But he v
iewed it as a duty. He simply let Ravi follow him in silence for a while. ‘How do you like your work?’ he asked.
‘It is quite good,’ Ravi said. ‘They leave me alone, and I leave the others alone. I just do what I’m instructed to do. At ten o’clock the van is ready to take me back home, and I come back here. I’m doing a portrait. Come and see it some time, when you are in the studio.’
‘I’m very happy to hear it,’ said Srinivas. ‘What is the subject?’
‘My only subject,’ Ravi said. ‘I’ve only one subject on this earth, and I’m quite satisfied if I have to do it…’
‘You are not asking for a sitting, are you?’ Srinivas asked. In the darkness Srinivas could see Ravi shaking with laughter. ‘Sitting? Who wants a sitting? It’s all here,’ he said, pointing at his forehead, ‘and that is enough. I’m doing a large portrait, all in oils – that’s a work I’m not paid for, but I’m snatching at it whenever I’m able to find a little time. I’m experimenting with some vegetable colours also, some new colouring matter. My subject must have a tint of the early dawn for her cheeks, the light of the stars for her eyes, the tint of the summer rain-cloud for her tresses, the colour of ivory for her forehead, and so on and on. I find that the usual synthetic stuff available in tubes is too heavy for my job…’
Srinivas was somewhat taken aback by this frenzy. At the same time he was happy that a picture was coming. He could hardly imagine what it would turn out to be. He felt it would probably convulse the world as a masterpiece, the greatest portrait of the century – to thrill human eyes all over the world. At this moment he felt that any risk they were taking in keeping Ravi there was well worth it. Any sacrifice should be faced now for the sake of this masterpiece. It struck him as a very silly, futile procedure to caution Ravi. A man who followed his instincts so much could not be given a detailed agenda of behaviour. He decided at the moment not to convey to him Sampath’s warning. They had now reached Market Road. It was deserted, with a few late shops throwing their lights on the road, and municipal road lights flickering here and there. The sky was full of stars, a cool breeze was blowing. And it appeared to Srinivas a very lovely night indeed. He felt a tremendous gratitude to Ravi for what he was doing or going to do.
Srinivas bade him good-night without saying a word of what Sampath had commissioned him to say. But he decided to take the first opportunity to tell Sampath, since he hated the idea of keeping him under any misapprehension about it. The chance occurred four days later, when Sampath came to his room, ostensibly to discuss some point in the story, but really to ask about Ravi. His discussion of the story did not last even five minutes. He mentioned a few vague objections about the conclusion of some sequence, and ended by agreeing with every word Srinivas said. He then passed direct to the subject of Ravi. ‘You will not mind my coming back to the subject, Editor,’ he said. ‘Which subject?’ asked Srinivas, bristling up. ‘I’m very sorry to worry you so much about it,’ Sampath said pleadingly. And at once Srinivas’s heart melted. He felt a pity for Sampath and his clumsy fears. He looked at him. He had parted his hair in the middle and seemed to be taking a lot of care of his personal appearance. There were a few creases under his eyes. Clearly he was going through a period of anxiety at home, in the studio, about Ravi and about all kinds of things. His personality seemed to be gradually losing its lustre. Srinivas wished that Sampath would once again come to him, not in the silk shirt and muslin dhoti and lace-edged upper-cloth which he was flaunting now, but in a faded tweed coat with the scarf flung around his neck, and his fingers stained with the treadle grease. He looked at the other’s fingers now. The nails were neatly pared and pointed, his fingers were like a surgeon’s, and one or two nails seemed to be touched with the garish horrible red of a nail polish. Srinivas was alarmed to note it and asked: ‘What’s that red on your finger?’ Sampath looked at his finger with a rather scared expression and, trying to cover it up, said in an awkward jumble of words: ‘Oh, that cousin of mine; she must have played some joke on me when I was not noticing. She has all kinds of stuff on her table,’ he tried to add in a careless way. He flushed and looked so uncomfortable that Srinivas dropped the subject, and went on to talk of what was most in the other’s mind: ‘I know you want to tell me about Ravi – well, go on.’
‘Have you spoken to him about what I said?’ Sampath asked.
‘I’m not going to,’ replied Srinivas, with as little emphasis as possible. ‘Things will be all right; don’t worry.’
‘Listen to my difficulties, please. He is a little conspicuous nowadays. I see him almost every day at the gate; he hangs about the costume section at odd hours.’
‘Does it mean that he is not doing his work properly?’
‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t be fair to say such a thing, but he is a little noticeable here and there.’
‘What is wrong with that?’ asked Srinivas.
Sampath took time to answer, because there seemed to be an element of challenge in this question. He said: ‘There is a studio rule that people should not be seen unnecessarily moving about except where they have business.’
‘I guarantee you that he won’t go where he has no business,’ Srinivas said, and his reply seemed to overwhelm the other for a moment. He remained silent for a little before he said: ‘You see, there is this trouble. Even my cousin has noticed it. She said she is oppressed with a feeling of being shadowed all the time. She even remarked: “Who is that boy? I find him staring at me wherever I go. The way he looks at me, I feel as if my nose were on my cheek or something like that.”’
‘Let her not worry, but just look into a mirror and satisfy herself.’
‘But you see it affects her work if she feels that she is being stared at all the time.’
‘Sampath, she cannot know she is being stared at unless she also does it – the cure is in her hands. I find her a good girl; tell her not to get ideas into her head, and don’t put any there yourself.’
When he next paid a visit to the studio Srinivas went over to meet Ravi. He was not in his seat in room number four. He found him coming out of the works department with an abstracted air. He didn’t seem to notice anything around him now. ‘I’ve been to see you,’ Srinivas said. He seemed to come back to himself with a start. ‘Oh, Editor, I’m sorry I didn’t notice you here.’
‘I thought I might see your new picture.’
‘Oh, that!’ He seemed hesitant. ‘Let me get on with it a little more. I don’t like anyone to see it now.’ They were in the little park. ‘I am free for about half an hour. Care to sit down for a moment?’ he asked. Srinivas followed him. They sat under a bower. De Mello had engaged a garden supervisor who was filling up the place with arcades and bowers and lawns wherever he could grow anything. Ravi sat down and said: ‘Something must be done about this gardening department. It is getting on my nerves. This horrible convolvulus creeper everywhere. That garden supervisor is an idiot; he has trained convolvulus up every drainpipe. His gardening sense is that of a forest tribesman.’
‘It looks quite pretty,’ Srinivas said, looking about him.
‘But don’t you see how inartistic the whole thing is? There is no arrangement, there is no scheme, no economy. What can we achieve without these?’ He looked so deeply moved that Srinivas accepted his statement and theories without a murmur. And Ravi went on: ‘Our art director is the departmental head of this gardening section, and he ought to sack the supervisor. But how can we blame him? He is not an artist. You must see the frightful composition he has devised for Parvathi – both her ornaments and settings. He probably wants her to look like a – like a – like a –’ He could not find anything to compare her with, and he abandoned the sentence. He said: ‘He is an awful idiot. But I take my orders from him, and obey him implicitly. Let him give me the worst, the most hideous composition, and I execute it gladly without a murmur: I’m paid for that. But let them stop there!’ He raised his voice as if warning the whole world. He waggled his fingers as he said: ‘Let them stop t
here. Let them not come near my own portrait: that’s my own. I do it in the way I want to do it. No one shall dictate to me what I should do. If I didn’t have that compensation I would go mad.’ Srinivas found that his mood of calm contentment of a few nights ago during the walk had altered; some dark, irresponsible mood seemed to be coming over him. But Srinivas didn’t bother about it. ‘It’s all in the artist’s makeup,’ he told himself. Srinivas felt that it was none of his business to pass any comment at the moment. He listened in silence. Ravi said: ‘My portrait is come to a blind end, do you know? I’m not able to go on with it: that’s why I don’t wish to show you anything of it now. I’ll tell you what has happened. My director called me up a couple of days ago and told me not to go about the studio unless I’d any definite business anywhere. I felt like hitting him with my fist and asking “Why not?” But I bowed my head and said “Yes, sir”, and I have tried to keep myself in confinement. What’s the result? I see so little of her now. I can’t get even a glimpse of her. How can I work? Even at the gate, while she comes in, the car has side curtains put up. Do you know where I’m coming from now? From the works department, where I have no business at the moment. But there, if I stand on a block of wood – a gilded throne pedestal of some setting really – I can see the courtyard of the costume section which she crosses. That’s helped me to clear a point or two, and I shall be able to add something to her portrait today.’ A clock struck four, and he sprang up, saying: ‘I must leave you now, Editor, there is a publicity conference in the directors’ room.’ And he sped away.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 19
