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

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘Go ahead, I am not deaf… You can speak in whispers if you like, if it is such a great secret,’ Margayya said.

  ‘If you are thinking of making money or more money or just money, speak out,’ said Pal almost in a whisper, coming close to his face. His eyes were so serious that Margayya said: ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘There are only two things that occupy men’s minds. I’m a psychologist and I know.’

  ‘What are they?’ Margayya said.

  ‘Money … and Sex … You need not look so shocked. It is the truth. Down with your sham and hypocritical self-deception. Tell me truthfully, is there any moment of the day when you don’t think of one or the other?’ Margayya did not know how to answer. It seemed a very embarrassing situation. Pal said: ‘I’m an academician and I’m only interested in Truth and how human beings face it.’

  ‘I think of plenty of other things too,’ Margayya said defensively.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘About my son and what he is doing.’

  ‘What is it but sex?’ asked the dialectician. ‘You cannot think of your son without thinking of your wife.’

  ‘Oh, that will do,’ said Margayya indignantly. ‘I don’t like anyone to talk of my wife.’

  ‘Why not?’ persisted Pal. ‘Have you considered why people make such a fuss about their wives? It is all based on primitive sexual jealousy.’

  ‘No – you should not speak lightly about wives. You know nothing about them. If you are a bachelor, then I don’t know what you are.’

  ‘I am a sociologist, and I cannot sugarcoat my words. I have to speak scientifically.’

  Margayya was overawed by the man’s speech. He did not quite grasp what he was saying. All the same, he said: ‘It is generally understood that you may talk of any subject freely – but you must not make free reference to another man’s wife.’

  ‘Nor to one’s own wife,’ added Pal. ‘I don’t think anyone can speak openly about his wife. If he could speak out openly what she means to him and what she thinks of him or he of her behind the screen of their house or behind the screen of their bed chamber, you will know.’

  ‘Oh, stop, stop,’ cried Margayya. ‘I won’t hear any more of it.’ He felt ashamed. This ‘sociologist’ or whatever he called himself seemed to be preoccupied with only one set of ideas. Margayya said: ‘I wish you would marry some strong girl and settle down. It will give you other things to think of

  ‘I don’t want to think of anything else. I feel I am made by God in order that I may enlighten people in these matters and guide their steps to happiness,’ asserted Pal. ‘And do you know it is the most paying, most profitable occupation in the present-day world?’

  At this Margayya sat up. This was a sentiment which appealed to him. He said: ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m going to start a sociology clinic, a sort of harmony home, a sort of hospital for creating domestic happiness, a sort of psychological clinic, where people’s troubles are set right … I can charge a small fee. Do you know how many people will come in and go out of it each day? I am certain to earn five hundred rupees a day easily. My book “Bed Life” – you remember you saw it? –’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s only a first step in the scheme … When that book is published, I expect to have at least a lakh of copies sold.’

  ‘At what price?’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Say at about a rupee per copy. You must not price it higher than that. After all, our purpose is to reach the common man.’

  ‘You mean to say that you are going to make a lakh of rupees out of it?’

  ‘Yes, what is strange about that? That’s only for a start.’

  One Lakh of Rupees! One Lakh of Rupees! In Margayya’s eyes this man began to assume grandeur. This lank fellow, cycling about and gathering news, held within his palm the value of a lakh of rupees. Margayya was filled with admiration. Tooth powder and snuff and all the rest seemed silly stuff beside this …You could never see a lakh of rupees with these commodities; it would probably go back into the oven again and again, perhaps. But here was a man who spoke of a lakh of rupees as if it were a five-rupee note!

  ‘That’s only a starting point,’ Pal added. ‘There is no reason why it should not go on earning a similar sum year after year. It’s a property which ought to bring in a regular rent. There is no limit to your sales. The book will simply be – there will be such a clamour from humanity for this stuff that ultimately every human being will own a copy. The Tamil-speaking area in India gives us a good start; add to it the tens and thousands of people in Siam, Burma, South Africa and so on, and you get the number of copies you should print. And then if it is translated into Hindi, it should reach the whole of India – and the population of India is three hundred and sixty millions according to the last census. If every man parts with a rupee, see where you are.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Margayya greatly impressed. ‘I never thought there was such a wide scope for selling books.’

  ‘Not for all books. For instance, if I wrote a book of, say, poems or philosophy, nobody would touch it – but a book like “Bed Life” is a thing that everyone would like to read. Do you know, people like to be told facts, people like to be guided in such matters. Ultimately, as I told you, I shall open a clinic. I want to serve mankind with my knowledge. I don’t want to keep it within my closed fists. We must all be helpful to each other. I have worked for years and years studying and writing, just in order that mankind may be helped.’ He spoke without stopping for breath, and concluded: ‘Do you know, if I just throw down a hint anywhere that there is such a book as this people will fall over each other to publish it.’

  ‘Indeed!’

  ‘Yes, there are offers often thousand rupees or more for it. But I won’t part with it for ten times that amount.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Because I can do better than that if I keep it. If people come to make a business offer, they will find me very hard, let me assure you, because I know my mind.’

  ‘So it will be impossible to get it out of you?’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Yes, generally, if anyone comes to me as a business man.’

  ‘Oh!’ Margayya said, remembering with despair that he came under that category.

  The other added: ‘But let a man come to me as a friend and hold out his hand, the book is his.’

  ‘But you will lose your lakh –’

  ‘I wouldn’t care. Don’t imagine I am so fond of money. I treat money as dirt.’

  This was a shocking statement for Margayya. He cried: ‘Oh, don’t say such things. You must not.’ He recollected how the Goddess Lakshmi was such a sensitive creature that if a man removed a tumbler of milk she fled from the place and withdrew her grace.

  ‘I’m a man who cares for work, human relationships, and service to mankind,’ said Dr Pal. ‘Money comes last in my list.’

  Margayya felt a desperate idea welling up in him. He could hold it back no longer. It almost burst through his lips, and he asked: ‘Suppose I say “give me that for printing and selling”, what would you do?’

  In answer, the other went out and came back carrying the bag which had been hanging from his cycle handle. He thrust his hand into the bag, and brought out the manuscript. Without another look at it he dropped it on Margayya’s lap as he sat on the stool.

  ‘Are you playing?’ asked Margayya, hardly able to believe his eyes. It was bound in a blue wrapper. He vaguely turned its leaves to assure himself that it was the right book. ‘Principles of Embracing’.

  ‘You take it. It’s yours. Do whatever you like with it,’ said Pal magnificently.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Margayya. ‘How can I?’

  ‘It’s no longer mine,’ said the other. ‘It is a bargain which is closed.’ He looked resolute. He then held out his hand and said: ‘Give me what you have in your pocket. I will take it in exchange. It’s a bargain. You cannot back out of it.’

  Margayya said
: ‘I haven’t brought any money –’

  ‘Then why have you brought that purse? I see its outline.’

  Margayya looked down with a sigh. Yes, the damned stuff was showing. ‘It’s not a purse,’ he tried to say. But the other said: ‘Take it out, let me see what it is that looks like a purse, but isn’t. Stick to your bargain.’ Margayya put his hand in and brought out the little purse, which had a silver George V embossed on it. He opened it. Twenty-five rupees were all its contents. He took out a five-rupee note and placed it on the outstretched palm of Dr Pal. The other didn’t close his fingers or withdraw his arm. He sternly said: ‘Stick to your bargain. Empty it.’

  ‘This is all I have,’ pleaded Margayya.

  ‘I’m giving you all that I have for my part.’

  Margayya said: ‘I have to buy rice. I have a wife and child.’

  ‘Don’t be theatrical. Stick to your bargain. Here is something I’m giving you worth at least a lakh of rupees. In return for it, give me your purse. I will take it whether it contains one rupee or one thousand or none. Isn’t it a fair bargain?’

  ‘I can’t give you my purse. It’s a lucky purse. I’ve had it for countless years now.’

  ‘I don’t want your purse. Give me only its contents.’

  ‘I don’t want your book. I don’t know how to print or sell a book.’

  ‘Go to a printer and he will print it. You tell the public the book is ready and they will come and buy it. There are no further complications. It’s the easiest business under the sun. In fact you will hardly be able to meet the demand.’

  ‘Then why have you not done it yourself?’ asked Margayya.

  ‘Well, I was about to. But just to show you what is a bargain, I’ve made my offer,’ he drawled. ‘If you are really keen on cancelling this bargain, I am ready for it. On second thoughts, I don’t see why I should waste my breath on you.’ He reached for the manuscript on Margayya’s lap, saying: ‘Every man must make his choice in life. This is a crossroads at which you are standing. Some day you will see another man going away in his Rolls, while you sit on the Market Fountain and brood over my words of this evening. I will give you five minutes to think it over. I’ll have the entire contents of your purse or none at all.’ He kept his arm outstretched to receive the manuscript back and fixedly gazed at his wrist-watch. His face was grim.

  Margayya’s face perspired with intense excitement. ‘I’m losing twenty thousand each minute,’ he told himself. ‘Twenty, forty, sixty.’ He wanted to say: ‘Give me five minutes more,’ but his throat had gone dry. No words came. By the time he could get his voice to produce a sound again another ten seconds were gone. Looking at this man, he prayed, ‘God, why have you put me in the company of this terrible man amidst these wooden boxes?’ A yellowish sunlight came in through a top ventilator, and fell on the opposite wall. ‘He will probably choke me if I don’t agree,’ he ruminated. He wondered if he should scream for help. Somewhere a cycle bell sounded. Wasn’t it auspicious, the sounding of a bell? ‘Three seconds more,’ said the other. The sound of the bell was the voice of God. God spoke through his own signs. Margayya’s decision was made. He suddenly felt lighter and said jocularly: ‘Three seconds! That’s a great deal yet.’ He added grandly: ‘Tell me when there is still half a second to go,’ and pushed away the other’s outstretched arm.

  Margayya carried the manuscript home as if he was trying to secrete a small dead body. He was afraid lest somebody should stop him on the way and look at it. He had begged Pal at least to wrap it in paper. Pal snatched up an old issue of Silver Way and wrapped it up. Margayya told himself all along the road: ‘I must see that the young fellow doesn’t get at it.’ His plan had been to tuck it within the folds of a stack of clothes in his box the moment he reached home. At the front door he saw his wife with his son on her lap, inducing him to swallow his food by diverting his attention to the stars in the sky and the street below. ‘Father!’ the little fellow cried joyfully, trying to jump out of his mother’s arms. ‘Wait, wait,’ Margayya said, and passed in swiftly, trying to conceal the bundle under his arm.

  ‘What is it that you are carrying?’ his wife asked as he went by. ‘Bread?’

  He made no reply but walked straight in, opened his box and securely locked it up. He then went through his routine of changing and washing. His wife brought in the child and gave him into his care.

  Balu said: ‘A monkey came to our house.’

  ‘That’s very good,’ Margayya said. ‘What did it do?’

  ‘It ate coconut and will come again tomorrow. Father, why don’t you buy me a monkey?’

  ‘Yes, when you are a good boy.’

  ‘Balu is a good boy,’ he replied, certifying to his own conduct.

  Margayya sat in the corridor with his son on his lap. He felt light and buoyant, expansive, and full of hope that the good things of life were now within his reach. He hummed a tune to himself, and played with his son. All the time his wife was very curious to know what he had brought in the parcel. She knew by trying to look severe she would never get the truth out of him. She said something agreeable about the boy: ‘Do you know what a change is coming over the little fellow? He is so quiet and obedient nowadays,’ she said, coming and standing beside him.

  Margayya replied: ‘He is the finest youngster except when he is otherwise,’ and laughed. The boy looked at him bewildered and said: ‘Why do you laugh?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Margayya said, and all of them laughed heartily.

  The boy, having heard a good report about himself, wanted to keep it up, and did nothing to exasperate his father. He ate a quiet dinner, lay down on his mat and ordered his father to tell him a story. Margayya strained his memory and began the story of the fox, the crow and the lion, till the boy interrupted him with: ‘I don’t like the fox story. Tell me a flower story.’

  ‘I don’t know any flower story,’ Margayya pleaded. At this the boy threatened to kick his legs and cry. Margayya hastily began: ‘Once upon a time there was a good flower –’ and fumbled and hemmed and hawed, wondering how people wrote hundreds of pages of stories; which brought to his mind Dr Pal and his book – how those people ever could sit down and write so many pages. He admired for a moment their patience, and subsequently corrected himself. He didn’t like to admire anyone and so said to himself: ‘These fellows have no better business; that’s why they sit down and fill up sheets, whereas we business men have hardly any time left even to compose our letters.’

  The boy insisted on knowing at this stage: ‘What flower was it?’

  ‘Lotus,’ he felt like saying, but checked himself and said: ‘Some flower – why do you want its name now?’ and then blundered through a clumsy, impossible story, till the boy fell asleep out of sheer lack of interest.

  After finishing all her work, his wife came up with an endearing smile and sat beside him on the mat. He put his arm round her and drew her nearer, recollecting the chapter on ‘Principles of Embracing’. She nestled close to him. It was as if they had thrown off twenty years and were back in the bridal chamber. He said: ‘Why don’t you buy flowers regularly? I see that you don’t care for them nowadays.’

  ‘I am an old woman, flowers and such things –’

  ‘But this old man likes to see some flowers in this old lady’s hair,’ he said. They laughed and felt very happy. And then she asked at the correct moment: ‘What is that bundle you brought with you?’

  ‘Oh, that! You wish to see it?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, quite thrilled at the prospect.

  He got up, opened his trunk and brought out the packet wrapped in Silver Way. He slowly opened the wrapping and took out the manuscript. At the sight of it her face shadowed with disappointment.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a book.’

  ‘Oh! I thought you had brought me a sari, some surprise gift, I thought.’ There was a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘Book! Paper,’ she said contemptuousl
y. ‘What book is this?’

  ‘You see for yourself,’ he said, and gave her the packet.

  She turned the leaves and was horrified. ‘What is it all about? It seems to be …’ But she could not say anything more. ‘It seems to be so vulgar!’

  ‘No, no, don’t say such a thing,’ he said. He didn’t like to hear any disparaging reference to the book. ‘It’s a scientific book. It’s going to bring in a lot of money.’

  She made a wry face and said: ‘How can anybody have written about all this? You men have no …’

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s something going on all over the world every moment. It’s very important. People should possess correct scientific knowledge, and then all marriages will be happy. I’m going to educate Balu in all these matters the moment he is interested.’

  ‘Oh, stop that,’ she cried, and flung away the book.

  He picked it up, bent close to the lamp and started reading it aloud. It was probably too scientific for ordinary mortals. She listened both horrified and fascinated.

  A few days later, Margayya walked into the Gordon Printery in Market Road. It was a fairly big establishment in Malgudi – every form, letter-head, and bill-book in Malgudi was printed at Gordon’s. Its proprietor was a man from Bombay who came and settled down here years ago – a hefty, rosy-cheeked man called Madan Lai. He sat at a table, right in the middle of a hall where a dozen people were creating the maximum amount of noise with various machines, which seemed to groan and hiss and splutter. In this general uproar he sat calmly poring over proofs, and opposite his table were ranged two iron chairs. Margayya stood at the entrance. He felt lonely and isolated and unhappy. They might sneer at him and tear up his manuscript. If the Secretary and Arul Doss came down at this moment to see some of their own printing … He overcame this sinking feeling immediately. ‘“Self-assurance” is the most important quality to cultivate,’ he realized. He sounded quite assertive when he asked someone at the entrance: ‘Where is your proprietor?’

  ‘Sitting there,’ the man replied.