‘Are you going to be married?’
‘Not yet.’
Margayya was mystified. ‘Where is your house? Are you still in that garden?’
‘No, no. I had to leave it long ago. Someone bought it, and has been farming on a large scale there. He cleared the place of all the weeds and undergrowth, which included me. But he appeared to be a nice man. I have been so far away and so busy. I have a house, I live in an outhouse in Lawley Extension … Someone else is in the main building. You must come to my house some day.’
They reached 10 Market Road, and at once Margayya was enchanted. He had always visualized that he would get some such place. The Malgudi gutter ran below his shop with a mild rumble, and not so mild smell. But Margayya either did not notice or did not mind it, being used to it in his own home. Margayya’s blood was completely the city man’s and revelled in crowds, noise and bustle; the moment he looked out and saw the stream of people and traffic flowing up and down the road, he felt that he was in the right place. A poet would perhaps have felt exasperated by the continuous din, but to Margayya it was like a background music to his own thoughts. There was a row of offices and shops opposite, insurance agencies, local representatives of newspapers, hair-cutting saloons, some film distributors, a lawyer’s chamber, and a hardware shop, into which hundreds of people were going every day. Margayya calculated that if he could at least filter twenty out of that number for his own purposes, he would be more than well off. In about a year he could pass on to the grade of people who were wealthy and not merely rich. He drew a lot of distinction between the two. A rich man, according to his view, was just one caste below the man of wealth. Riches any hardworking fool could attain by some watchfulness, while acquiring wealth was an extraordinary specialized job. It came to persons who had on them the grace of the Goddess fully and who could use their wits. He was a specialist in money and his mind always ran on lines of scientific inquiry whenever money came in question. He differentiated with great subtlety between money, riches, wealth, and fortune. It was most important people should not mistake one for the other.
Next to the subject of money, the greatest burden on his mind was his son. As he sat in his shop and spoke to his clients, he forgot for the time being the rest of the world, but the moment he was left alone he started thinking of his son: the boy had failed in his matriculation exam, and that embittered him very much. He wondered what he should do with him now. Whenever he thought of it, his heart sank within him. ‘God has blessed me with everything under the sun; I need not bother about anything else in life, but … but …’ He could not tell people, ‘My son is only fifteen and he has already passed into college.’ The son had passed that stage two years ago. Two attempts and yet no good. Margayya had engaged three home tutors, one for every two subjects, and it cost him quite a lot in salaries. He arranged to have him fed specially with nutritive food during his examination periods. He bought a lot of fruits, and compelled his wife to prepare special food, always saying, ‘The poor boy is preparing for his examination. He must have enough stamina to stand the strain.’ He forbade his wife to speak loudly at home. ‘Have you no consideration for the young man who is studying?’
He was in agonies on examination days. He escorted him up to the examination hall in Albert College. Before parting from him at the sounding of the bell he always gave him advice: ‘Don’t get frightened; write calmly and fearlessly… and don’t come away before it is time,’ but all this was worth nothing because the boy had nothing to write after the first half-hour, which he spent in scrawling fantastic designs on his answer book. He hated the excitement of an examination and was sullenly resentful of the fact that he was being put through a most unnecessary torment. He abruptly rose from his seat and went over to a restaurant near by. His father had left with him a lot of cash in view of the trying times he was going through. He ate all the available things in the restaurant, bought a packet of cigarettes, sought a secluded corner away from the prying eyes of his elders on the bank of the river behind the college, sat down and smoked the entire packet, dozed for a while, and returned home at five in the evening. The moment he was sighted his mother asked, ‘Have you written your examination well?’
He made a wry face and said, ‘Leave me alone.’ He hated to be reminded of the examination. But they would not let him alone. His mother put before him milk, and fruits, and the special edibles she had made to sustain him in his ordeal. He made a wry face and said, ‘Take it away, I cannot eat anything.’ At this she made many sounds of sympathy and said that he must get over the strain by feeding himself properly.
It was at this moment that his father returned home, after closing his office early, and hastening away in a jutka. All day as he counted money, his and other people’s, a corner of his mind was busy with the examination. ‘Oh, God, please enlighten my son’s mind so that he may answer and get good marks,’ he secretly prayed. The moment he saw his son he said, ‘I am sure you have done very well my boy. How have you done?’ The boy sat in a corner of the house with a cheerless look on his face. Margayya put it down to extreme strain, and said soothingly, ‘You stayed in the hall throughout?’ That was for him an indication of his son’s performance.
Whatever was the son’s reply, he got the correct answer very soon, in less than eight weeks, when the results came out. At first Margayya raved, ‘Balu has done very well, I know. Someone has been working off a grudge.’ Then he felt like striking his son, but restrained himself for the son was four inches taller as he stood hanging his head with his back to the wall, and Margayya feared that he might retaliate. So he checked himself; and from a corner the mother watched, silently with resignation and fear, the crisis developing between father and son. She had understood long before that the boy was not interested in his studies and that he attached no value to them, but it was no use telling that to her husband. She pursued what seemed to her the best policy and allowed events to shape themselves. She knew that matters were coming to a conclusion now and she was a helpless witness to a terrific struggle between two positive-minded men, for she no longer had any doubt that the son was a grownup man. She covered her mouth with her fingers, and with her chin on her palms stood there silently watching.
Margayya said, ‘Every little idiot has passed his S.S.L.C. exam. Are you such a complete fool?’
‘Don’t abuse me, father,’ said the boy, whose voice had recently become gruff. It had lost, as his mother noticed, much of the original softness. The more she saw him, the more she was reminded of her own father in his younger days; exactly the same features, the same gruffness, and the same severity. People had been afraid to speak to her father even when he was in the sweetest temper, for his face had a severity without any relation to his mood. She saw the same expression on the boy’s face now. The boy’s look was set and grim. His lips were black with cigarettes which she knew he smoked: he often smelt of them when he came home … But she kept this secret knowledge to herself since she didn’t like to set up her husband against him. She understood that the best way to attain some peace of mind in life was to maintain silence; ultimately, she found that things resolved themselves in the best manner possible or fizzled out. She found that it was only speech which made existence worse every time. Lately, after he had become affluent, she found that her husband showed excessive emphasis, rightly or wrongly, in all matters; she realized that he had come to believe that whatever he did was always right. She did her best not to contradict him: she felt that he strained himself too much in his profession, and that she ought not to add to his burden. So if he sometimes raved over the mismanagement of the household, she just did not try to tell him that it was otherwise. She served him his food silently, and he himself discovered later what was right and what was wrong and confessed it to her. Now more than in any other matter she practised this principle where their son was concerned. She knew it would be no use telling her husband not to bother the son over his studies, that it would be no use asking him to return home at
seven-thirty each day to sit down to his books with his home teachers … he simply would not return home before nine. It was no use shouting at him for it. It only made one’s throat smart and provided a scene for the people next door to witness. She left it all to resolve itself. Once or twice she attempted to tell the son to be more mindful of his father’s wishes and orders, but he told her to shut up. She left him alone. And she left her husband alone. She attained thereby great tranquillity in practical everyday life.
Now she watched the trouble brewing between the two as if it all happened behind a glass screen. The father asked in a tone full of wrath: ‘How am I to hold up my head in public?’ The boy looked up detached, as if it were a problem to be personally solved by the father, in which he was not involved. Margayya shouted again: ‘How am I to hold up my head in public? What will they think of me? What will they say of my son?’
The boy spoke with a quiet firmness, as if expressing what immediately occurred to the mother herself. She felt at once a great admiration for him. He said in a gruff tone: ‘How is it their concern?’
Margayya wrung his hands in despair and clenched his teeth. What the boy said seemed to be absolutely correct. ‘You are no son of mine. I cannot tolerate a son who brings such disgrace on the family.’
The boy was pained beyond words. ‘Don’t talk nonsense, father,’ he said.
Margayya was stupefied. He had no idea that the boy could speak so much. Talking till now was only a one-way business, and he had taken it for granted that the boy could say nothing for himself. He raved: ‘You are talking back to me, are you mad?’
The boy burst into tears and wailed: ‘If you don’t like me send me out of the house.’
Margayya studied him with surprise. He had always thought of Balu as someone who was spoken to and never one who could speak with the same emphasis as himself. He was offended by the boy’s aggressive manner. He was moved by the sight of the tears on his face. He was seized with a confusion of feelings. He found his eyes smarting with tears and felt ashamed of it before his son and before that stony-faced woman who stood at the doorway of the kitchen and relentlessly watched. Her eyes seemed to watch unwaveringly, with a fixed stare. So still was she that Margayya feared lest she should be in a cataleptic state. He now turned his wrath on her. ‘It’s all your doing. You have been too lenient. You have spoilt him beyond redemption. You with your –’
The boy checked his tears and interrupted him. ‘Mother has not spoilt me, nor anyone else. Why should anyone spoil me?’
‘There is too much talk in this house. That’s what’s wrong here,’ Margayya declared, and closed the incident by going in to change and attend to his other activities. The boy slunk away, out of sight. In that small house it was impossible to escape from one another, and the boy slipped out of the front door. The mother knew he would return, after his father had slept, bringing into the home the smell of cigarette smoke.
Margayya stayed awake almost all night. When the boy sneaked back after his rounds and pushed the door open, it creaked slightly on its hinges and he at once demanded: ‘Who is there? Who is there?’
Balu answered mildly: ‘It’s myself, father.’
Margayya was pleased with the softening that now seemed to be evident in his tone, but he wished at the same time that the boy had not disgraced him by failing. He said: ‘You have been out so long?’
‘Yes,’ came the reply.
‘Where?’ he asked.
There was no further reply. Margayya felt that failing the Matric seemed to have conferred a new status on his son, and unloosened his tongue. He felt in all this medley a little pride at the fact that his son had acquired so much independence of thought and assertiveness. He somehow felt like keeping him in conversation and asked, with a slight trace of cajolery in his voice: ‘Was the door left open without the bolt being drawn?’
‘Yes,’ replied the boy from somewhere in the darkness.
‘That’s very careless of your mother. Does she do it every day?’
There was once again a pause and silence. His wife seemed to have fallen asleep too, for there was no response from her. He somehow did not wish the conversation to lapse. He said as a stop-gap: ‘What’ll happen if a thief gets in?’ There was no response from the son. After blinking in the dark for a few minutes, Margayya asked: ‘Boy, are you asleep?’ And the boy answered: ‘Yes, I am.’ And Margayya, feeling much more at peace with himself at heart for having spoken to him, fell asleep at once, forgetting for a few hours the Matriculation examination and his other worries.
They got into a sort of live and let live philosophy. He hoped that when the schools reopened he could put the boy back at school, prepare him intensively for his examination, and if necessary see some of the examiners and so on. Margayya had a feeling that he had of late neglected his duties in this direction. He had unqualified faith in contacting people and getting things done that way. He could get at anybody through Dr Pal. That man had brought into his business a lot of people known to him. Margayya’s contacts were now improving socially. People were indebted to him nowadays, and would do anything to retain his favour. Margayya hoped that if he exerted himself even slightly in the coming year he would see his son pull through Matriculation without much difficulty. Of course the boy would have to keep up a show of at least studying the books and would have to write down his number correctly in the answer book and not merely scribble and look out of the door. It was extremely necessary that he should at least write one page of his answer and know what were the subjects he ought to study.
Margayya felt that if he could persuade Balu to make at least a minimum of effort for his own sake, his mind would be easier. He proposed it very gently to him about a fortnight later as they sat down to their dinner together. Margayya showed him extreme consideration nowadays; it was born out of fear and some amount of respect. The boy was always taciturn and grim. He recollected that it seemed ages since he had seen any relaxation in his face. He had a gravity beyond his years. That frightened Margayya. Except the one instance when he saw tears in his eyes on the day of the results, he had always found him sullen. He hoped to soften him by kindness, or, at least, outward kindness, for he still smarted inside at the results of the examination. He looked for a moment at the face of his son and said: ‘Balu, you must make another attempt. I’ll see that you get through the examination without the least difficulty.’
Balu stopped eating and asked: ‘What do you mean, father?’
Margayya sensed danger, but he had started the subject. He could not stop it now under any circumstances. So he said: ‘I mean about the Matriculation examination.’
‘I will not read again,’ said the boy definitely, defiantly. ‘I have already spoken to mother about it.’
‘H’m.’ Margayya turned to his wife who was serving him and said: ‘He has spoken to you, has he? What has he said?’
‘Just what he has told you,’ she answered promptly, and went back to the fireplace to fetch something.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about it?’ Margayya asked, eagerly looking for some lapse on her part to justify him in letting off steam.
She merely replied: ‘Because I knew he was going to tell you about it himself
Margayya burst out at her. ‘What do you mean by discussing all sorts of things with the boy and not telling me anything? These are matters –’
His son interrupted him: ‘Father, if you hate me and want to make me miserable, you will bother me with examinations and studies. I hate them.’
Margayya went on arguing with him all through the meal till the boy threatened to abandon his dinner and walk out of the dining-room. Margayya assumed a sullen silence, but the atmosphere ached with tension. Everyone was aware that the silence was going to be broken in a violent manner next moment, as soon as dinner was over. Father and son seemed to be in a race to finish eating first. Balu gobbled up his food and dashed to the backyard. He poured a little water on his hand, wiped it on a towel near by and
moved towards the street door. Margayya jumped up from his seat, with his hand unwashed, dashed to the street door and shut and bolted it. Frustrated, the boy stood still. Margayya asked: ‘Where are you going? I have still much to tell you. I have not finished speaking yet.’ The boy withdrew a few steps in response.
Meanwhile his mother had brought in a vessel of water; Margayya snatched a moment to wash his hand at the little open yard. He said, ‘Wait’ to his son. He opened his office box and brought from it the boy’s S.S.L.C. Register. He had secured it on the previous day from the headmaster of the school. The S.S.L.C. Register is a small calico-bound notebook with columns marked in it, containing a record of a high-school boy’s marks, conduct, handwriting and physical fitness. Margayya had got the register from the headmaster and studied its pages keenly the whole of the previous day. Matters did not now appear to him so hopeless. The headmaster had marked ‘Fair’ both for his handwriting and drill attendance. Margayya had no idea that his son could shine in anything. So this was an entirely happy surprise … His marks in almost all subjects were in single digits. The highest mark he had obtained was twelve out of a hundred in hygiene, and he had maintained his place as the last in the class without a variation.
One would have expected Margayya to be shocked by this, but the effect was unexpected. He was a fond and optimistic father, and he fastened on the twelve marks for hygiene. It seemed so high after all the diminutive marks the boy had obtained in other subjects. Margayya hoped that perhaps he was destined to be a doctor, and that was why his inclination was so marked for hygiene. What a wonderful opening seemed to be before him as a doctor! Doctor Balu – it would be very nice indeed. If only he could get through the wretched S.S.L.C. barrier, he’d achieve great things in life. Margayya would see to it that he did so; Margayya’s money and contacts would be worth nothing if he could not see his son through …
He had prepared himself to speak to Balu about all this gently and persuasively. He hoped to lead up to the subject with encouraging talk, starting with hygiene, and then to ask him if he wished to be a doctor. What a glorious life opened before a doctor! He would send him to England to study surgery. He could tell him all that and encourage him. Margayya had great faith in his own persuasiveness. He sometimes had before him a tough customer who insisted upon withdrawing all his deposits and winding up the account: a most truculent client. But Margayya remembered that if he had about an hour with him, he could always talk him out of it. The deposit would remain with him, plus any other money that the man possessed … Now Margayya wanted to employ his capacity for a similar purpose with his son. That’s why he had come armed with the S.S.L.C. Register. He could read out to him the headmaster’s remarks ‘Fair’, etc., and prove to him how hopeful everything was if only he would agree to lend his name and spare time to go through the formality of an examination in the coming year.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 39
