Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Very well, get out of here,’ he thundered.

  ‘Give me my salary; I will go,’ said Shiva, descending from Kailas defiantly.

  ‘That’ll be settled in a court of law. You have violated a contract, and you will have to face the consequences.’

  ‘What injustice is this!’ cried Shiva, completely losing his head.

  Sampath told De Mello: ‘De Mello, take him out of the studio. I don’t want any further indiscipline in this studio,’ and De Mello assigned a couple of assistants to lead Shiva out. Sampath subsided in his chair, exhausted by the effort. There remained a strained silence as everybody waited, and top-light boys looked down from their platforms, and assistants stood hushed at their posts. Somu was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. He said timidly: ‘Well, Mr Sampath, what shall we do now?’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ Sampath said grandly. ‘We need not be at the mercy of these mercenaries. I will do Shiva myself. I’ve been an actor once.’

  He looked up at the makeup artist and asked: ‘You can make me up for Shiva?’ The artist looked at him critically and said: Yes, sir.’

  ‘But the dance, sir?’ Somu said.

  ‘We’ve bothered our heads with it for four days. I always felt that we might do it ourselves, save all trouble instead of trying to teach it to these fools. What do you say, Dance Master?’

  ‘Yes, sir, they do not easily learn.’

  Sohan Lal said: ‘We must always be ready to do many things.’ And then he spoke for a long while with Sampath in his western Indian dialect, and Sampath smiled and said something in reply. Sohan Lal was perhaps recounting a reminiscence of a similar nature. Sampath went over to Shanti and said: ‘So sorry. Further delay. Forgive us, dear. I’ll be ready in a moment. You can relax for half an hour in your room, while they make me up.’

  Some time later when Srinivas came into the studio he was surprised at being greeted by the familiar voice: ‘Hallo, Editor, don’t be shocked!’ But it came from within a heavy beard and matted locks. ‘Sampath! What is the matter?’ He wore a tiger’s skin at his loins.

  ‘Well, people do not realize that no one is indispensable in this world,’ he said and explained the position. Sampath’s versatility took his breath away.

  ‘We are determined to finish this scene today, even if it is going to mean twenty-four hours of continuous shooting.’

  ‘You have to wear a cobra around your neck.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know; we’ve got that tame one, I tried it: it is not bad, though it feels unearthly cold at the first touch.’

  ‘Play back! Play back!’ Sampath shouted presently. ‘Sound!’ He went over and gave instructions to De Mello, who stood at the camera, and then went to Shiva’s seat on Kailas. A song blared forth from the loud-speaker – a song with a sentimental lilt, and drums producing a kind of hot-air rhythm. The music department fully realizing the need of the hour had produced a brand-new tune by adapting a couple of tunes born in Hollywood from a South American theme. Srinivas despaired on hearing it. It produced anything but the holy-of-holies feeling that he had hoped would be the essence of the scene. As he saw Somu and Lal tapping their feet instinctively to the music he was filled with a desperation which he could not easily place or classify. Other feet picked up the rhythm, and presently he saw Sampath slowly stirring in his meditation. He rose to his feet. He twisted and wriggled his body and assumed the pose of a dance-carving one saw on temple walls. He moved step by step and approached the chair, which marked Parvathi’s place.

  ‘Cut!’ rang out De Mello’s voice. ‘This will be the first cut,’ he explained. Shiva relaxed his rigid pose. ‘Call Parvathi!’ he ordered.

  People went out and returned, followed by Parvathi, with her anklets jingling and very modern ear-drops swinging on her ear-lobes and a crown scintillating on her brow. She stood there in her place. Once again the cry ‘Music!’ and All lights’ and ‘Final rehearsals’; and lights shot up all around, and Srinivas noted how cunningly they had managed to make her clothes unnecessary by the No. IO light, which shot up a beam of illumination from behind her at ground level. ‘What ingenuity!’ he commented to himself. Her body stood out as if X-rayed, her necklace and diadem glittered and shone and seemed to be the only apparel she wore. Everyone, the principals in canvas chairs, went over to the camera to look through the view-finder and shake their heads with academic approval. There was suddenly a small discussion on the same academic level.

  ‘Will the censors pass this?’

  ‘Censors! What have they to object to? It’s only artistic. At that rate they should stop all dances and Bharata Natya; while professors and ministers are clamouring everywhere that we should revive our classical art –’ another said.

  ‘Lights off!’ rang the voice, and switches pit-patted.

  ‘We will have a final rehearsal and take the first shot afterwards.’

  ‘Music!’

  Music – the South American tune – started once again. Shiva got up from his trance and executed his slow rhythmic steps, but Parvathi stood still, and when they questioned her about it pleaded: ‘No rehearsals are necessary for me. Don’t tire me, please.’ Shiva opened his eyes for a moment to say: ‘Yes, don’t tire her out.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is better that you don’t tire her out,’ repeated three more voices, catching the contagion. Everybody seemed to be saying the same thing and feeling the same way. And then they sounded a buzzer and stopped the music. Shiva returned to his place and sat under the tree once again in meditation. He said: ‘De Mello, get ready to shoot. Call in the extras, Parvathi’s companions. Fetch the cobra.’

  Lights were once again wheeled about, with their little wheels creaking, porters moved hither and thither, assistants took out their long entry-books and made notes, makeup assistants dashed backward and forward: the cameraman and his assistants disposed themselves around the camera like sentries on duty. Someone went up with a tape and measured, someone else held up an exposure guide over Parvathi’s nose – elaborate rites of a very curious tribe, with their own high priests and medicine men. ‘This is really an anthropological specimen,’ Srinivas thought. His reflections were interrupted by the entry of Ravi at this stage. He came in bearing a portfolio in his hand and was waiting for an opportunity to catch the eye of the art director, who was busy on the set, making some final readjustment to the heavenly background. Seeing Srinivas, Ravi edged up to him and whispered: ‘I have to get his approval for a design and send it up for block-making immediately.’

  ‘He seems reluctant to get down from yonder heaven,’ whispered Srinivas, but found no response. Ravi’s eye was caught by the figure of Parvathi, and he looked hypnotized. Srinivas wanted to jerk him back to his normal state and asked: ‘What is that thing in your file?’ Ravi answered absently: ‘Design and lettering.’

  ‘Is it urgent?’

  ‘Yes – yes,’ replied Ravi, without looking at him, with his eye still on Parvathi, who was now fanning herself. He stood transfixed. ‘That is Sampath,’ he whispered. ‘See the cobra around his neck!’ A live cobra was coiled about his throat, where he formerly wore his scarf, and it was making imperceptible gliding movements. Srinivas felt that he must say something to draw away Ravi’s attention, searched about for a remark, and could only say: ‘What a dangerous thing!’

  ‘It has no fang, unfortunately!’ remarked Ravi. Srinivas felt that he had made a blunder, and hastened to repair it with some other remark, but all to no purpose. Ravi stood as if transfixed, with his eyes on Parvathi and answering in monosyllables. Srinivas: ‘Shall we go to the canteen for something? I feel rather parched.’

  ‘No. I’ve got to get that fellow’s approval.’

  ‘Ready!’ went up a cry. A whistle rang out. The extras lined up behind Parvathi and Shiva. ‘Silence!’ rang out another cry. ‘Lights! All lights.’ The lights flashed out, X-raying the dancer once again. ‘Music!’ Music started. ‘Start! Silence.’ The camera was switc
hed on. Each man was at his post. The music squeezed all sense out of people and only made them want to gyrate with arms around one another. Shiva went forward, step by step; Parvathi advanced, step by step: he was still in a trance with his eyes shut, but his arms were open to receive her. Shanti’s brassière could be seen straining under her thin clothes. She bent back to fit herself into the other’s arms. The Mexican melody worked up a terrific tempo. All lights poured down their brilliance. Scores of people stood outside the scene, watching it with open-mouthed wonder.

  It was going to be the most expert shot taken. The light-boys looked down from their platforms as if privileged to witness the amours of gods. If the camera ran on for another minute the shot would be over. They wanted to cut this shot first where Shiva’s arms went round the diaphanous lady’s hips. But it was cut even a few seconds earlier in an unexpected manner. A piercing cry, indistinguishable, unworded, like an animal’s, was suddenly heard, and before they could see where it originated, Ravi was seen whizzing past the others like a bullet, knocking down the people in his way. He was next seen on the set, rushing between Shiva’s extended arms and Parvathi, and knocking Shiva aside with such violence that he fell amidst his foliage in Kailas in a most ungodly manner. Next minute they saw Parvathi struggling in the arms of Ravi, who was trying to kiss her on her lips and carry her off….

  They soon realized that this scene was not in the script. Cries rang out: ‘Cut.’ ‘Power.’ ‘Shut down.’ ‘Stop.’ And several people tried to rush into the scene. Ravi attempted to carry off his prize, though she was scratching his face and biting his hands. In the mess someone tripped upon the cables and all the lights went out. Ravi seemed to be seized with a superhuman power. Nobody could get at him. In the confusion someone cried: ‘Oh! Camera, take care!’ ‘Lights, lights, fools!’ Somebody screamed: ‘The cobra is free; the cobra is creeping here, oh!’ People ran helter-skelter in the dark. While they were all searching and running into each other they could hear Ravi’s voice lustily ringing out in another part of the studio. And all ran in his direction.

  He was presently heard saying: ‘She has slipped away again. Bring her, do you hear me?’ His voice rose and filled the whole place in the dark. ‘I’m not to be cheated again. She is –’ He uttered aloud a piece of ribaldry. And if anyone goes near her I will murder him.’ And he let out a whoop of joy and cried: Ah, here she is.’ And somebody else cried: ‘Oh, he has got me,’ amidst other noises. There was the noise of a struggle in the dark. ‘Leave me, leave me – oh, save me,’ some ‘extra’ girl screamed. And the crowd rushed in her direction. In the meantime one or two candles were brought in, and by their flickering light, people moved about in the direction of Ravi’s voice. But the moment they came there, Ravi’s voice was heard in another part of the building challenging them. In this pale light Srinivas could be seen trying to follow Ravi and persuade him – persuade him to do what? Srinivas wondered in the middle of it all. He was blindly running along with the rest of them, catching the mood of the mob. It was evident that for most people now this was an exciting diversion, though the two who looked maddened and panicky were Sampath and Somu. Sampath had still Shiva’s matted locks on his crown, and the tiger’s skin girt his loins, but he looked despondent; even in that feeble light of a single candle his eyes looked care-worn and anxious as he paused to say: ‘Editor, what is this! What devil has seized him! We are ruined. Do something. Stop him –’ Ravi like a shadow was seen racing up a flight of steps. ‘Oh, he is going into the storage. Stop him, stop him.’ Somu’s portly figure was hurrying towards the stairs. He was seen going up a few steps, when Ravi turned swiftly on his heel with a war cry and tried to fling himself on him; and Somu, startled beyond description, stood arrested for the fraction of a second, and turned and ran down again at full speed. This was the first time anyone had seen Somu running; and people forgot their main pursuit for a moment in watching this spectacle. Sohan Lal came up from somewhere, moving along with the general stream of the crowd and cried into Srinivas’s face: ‘I should not have given that advance on the picture. Now what is to happen to my money?’ Somu was crying: ‘Sampath! Sampath!’ pointlessly in the dark. Srinivas felt so dumbfounded by everything that he merely stopped where he was, leaning for rest on one of the creeper-covered shed walls. ‘Can’t you get some more candles?’ someone shouted. ‘They are all required near the fuse-box.’

  ‘Which fool is responsible for this?’ Sampath cried somewhere. ‘Carrying open lamps!’ He ordered all the candles to be put out. And utter darkness enveloped them again.

  De Mello was the only person who seemed to plan the campaign with any intelligence. He conducted himself as though such things were a part of the ordinary Hollywood training. ‘There is no need to lose our heads over this,’ he was heard saying again and again. ‘It is only a mishap.’ With a handful of picked men from the works section, armed with sticks, he surrounded the block and led the procession up the staircase. He proceeded stealthily, flashing his torch. ‘Not enough torches to go round. That is our chief handicap.’ He tiptoed into the top room, as if going into a tiger cage when the tiger was not looking. There was for a moment no sound after he went in. People down below held their breaths and waited with anxious faces. Presently the door opened and De Mello appeared on the landing and declared: ‘He is not here.’

  ‘Not there! What do you mean, not there, Mr De Mello?’

  De Mello shouted something back and added: ‘God knows, vanished probably through the window. He has made a frightful mess. Come up, please.’

  They hesitated, trying to pluck up courage to go. Sampath moved a step or two, when a man came down. ‘Shanti has swooned. She has a cut on her forehead – bleeding.’ Sampath exclaimed: ‘Ah! Ah! Get a doctor,’ and vanished from the spot. Meanwhile Somu gripped Srinivas’s hand and cried: ‘Please come up and see, sir.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is better you come up and see also,’ added Sohan Lal, taking his other arm. Srinivas allowed himself to be steered. There was no need to question the relevancy of any action. This was not the moment for it.

  This block contained the laboratory, storage, editing and allied departments, full of shelves, tables, wheels, troughs – all kinds of apparatus resembling an alchemist’s workshop.

  The torch flashed and went out as they examined their surroundings. Somu cried in despair: ‘Can’t someone get a torch which doesn’t go out?’ The floor was strewn with broken bottles, chemicals and salt and trailing lengths of film. ‘Be careful! Broken glass,’ De Mello warned. Somu snatched a flashlight, stooped to the floor, picked up a film and held it up. They saw a close-up of Shanti, and farther along Shiva on Kailas, with dirt and scratches on both of them. ‘Who left the negatives about so carelessly?’ Somu thundered, glaring from his kneeling position on the floor. No one answered. All questions at this moment were destined to die without an answer.

  ‘Well, sir, no one is particularly responsible for this; it’s usual to keep the cut negatives in these racks. Nothing unusual,’ said De Mello. Somu grunted and said: ‘Our loss must be heavy.’ He felt like saying a few other things, but somehow feared that he might hurt De Mello. He was too cautious even now. He suppressed many pungent remarks that rose to his lips, and merely said: ‘Won’t someone get a light?’ In answer to this they heard a thundering command go forth. ‘Here! Get Shanti and all her lights!’

  Somu looked about panic-stricken and cried: ‘He is here, get the light quick!’

  ‘Get Shanti lights!’ echoed the command. De Mello flashed his torch and saw Ravi crouching under a table, his eyes sparkling in the torch light. De Mello acted quickly, too quickly even for Ravi. He just stooped, thrust his hand in and pulled Ravi out. Somu shivered and tried to run. He became hysterical and chattered incoherently. Ravi struggled in De Mello’s grip and mumbled: ‘You are hurting. Love me, darling. Love me, darling,’ he said in a sing-song. ‘Darling, love me. Love is lust. Lust is portrait in oils, Editor. And all his colour of rain. What colour is
lust?’ In reply to all this, De Mello’s left fist shot out, hit him under the chin, and knocked him down flat.

  The lights were ablaze once again at 5 a.m. The police arrived in a van soon after.

  The major part of the next four days Srinivas spent in running between the Market Road Police Station and his home.

  Ravi’s household was in a turmoil. His father was mad with rage, his mother wrung her hands helplessly, and even the little brothers and sisters looked stunned.

  After his outburst Ravi became docile and uncommunicative. He didn’t seem to recognize anyone. When Srinivas addressed him through the bars, Ravi would not even turn in his direction. His look had no fixed point. He kept muttering something to himself under his breath. No one could follow the sense of it. It sounded like the language of another planet.

  Srinivas became familiar with the comings and goings of the police station. He saw a policeman pushing in a jutka driver for some traffic offence; he saw an urchin brought in and sent away with a couple of slaps on his face; he saw a terrified villager brought in for questioning and pushed away somewhere out of sight. All the while a sergeant sat at a table, implacably writing on brown forms, except when a bulky inspector came in swinging a short cane, when he stood up respectfully and saluted. Ravi sat hunched up in a corner seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but occupied with his own repetitions. Srinivas carried him food every day in a brass vessel. He had the lock-up opened, went in, sat beside Ravi and persuaded him to eat the food. Ravi seemed to have forgotten the art of eating. Srinivas attempted to feed him with a spoon, but even that was difficult. He kept a morsel on his tongue and swallowed only when he was persistently told to do so. It was an odd spectacle – Srinivas sitting there in that dark corner beyond the bars, coaxing Ravi to eat, as the Market Road babble continued outside. Sampath came on the evening of the fourth day and stood watching the scene through the bars. He had a few scratches on his face and he limped slightly: otherwise there was no sign of the recent events. He still wore his smart silk shirt and gold studs. He stood watching silently till Srinivas finished the feeding and came out. Sampath said with a sigh: ‘It was an evil hour that brought me and Ravi together. I never knew that a fellow could go so mad. Won’t you come out? Let us sit in the car and talk.’ Srinivas followed him to the car outside. Sampath opened the door and sat down in the driver’s seat with Srinivas beside him. It was five in the evening, and traffic rolled past them. The babble of the market place kept a continuous background to their talk as Sampath said: ‘I couldn’t see you for three or four days, Mr Editor. There has been so much to do, mainly checking up the damage! Why should a thing like this happen to us?’ Srinivas remained silent, feeling that an answer was beyond him. Sampath said with the air of a martyr: ‘I’ve only been trying to do him a good turn and yet … You know our losses?’