Margayya struck a match and lit the dim kerosene lamp. He resigned himself to whatever might be coming. The boy said, ‘I want to speak to you about something very serious.’
Margayya suppressed the annoyance that was coming over him. He felt afraid to be angry. Probably his son had taken to drinking: he sniffed the air to find if it was confirmed by his breath. He found himself clutching the ruler on his table – but relaxed his hold at the thought, ‘After all it’s Balu – ‘It seemed to be an unworthy move to make. He let go his hold on the ruler and waited. The boy still would not open his lips. Margayya felt exasperated. He pulled out his watch and said: ‘It’s about seven o’clock. If you do not speak before the clock hand points to seven-five, I will go. I will knock you down and walk out if necessary.’ He felt relieved after delivering this threat. He felt his authority re-established: ‘The boy cannot have it all his own way,’ he told himself. He placed the watch on his desk dramatically, turning it towards Balu.
Balu fidgeted for a moment with his eyes fixed on the clock and then said: ‘I want a share of property – my share of property.’
‘What property?’ asked Margayya.
‘Well, I mean, my share of property – our ancestral property.’
‘H’m – I see. Why? Why do you want it?’
‘Because I have attained my majority. You know it as well as I do. I am nineteen and entitled to my own share of property.’
‘What property?’ asked Margayya.
‘Ancestral property,’ the boy answered.
At this Margayya put his hand into his pocket, brought out a half-rupee coin, placed it on the table, pushed it over, and said: ‘There it is, take it – that’s exactly half of what your grandfather left in cash: take it and give me a receipt.’
The boy picked it up and looked at it: ‘Is this all the movable and immovable property?’
‘What movable and immovable property … movable?’ Margayya lost his temper on hearing it, lost his head completely: ‘Movable! Immovable! You want me to give you a list, is that it? Here it is: this is, this is what it was, listen,’ and he described in coarse terms the movable and immovable properties possessed by his worthy ancestors: he was filled with chagrin at the memory of the travails he had gone through with his brother before the partition of their single house, the trip to the courts, the hours of waiting on the old lawyer’s bench, the Court Commission visiting their house and so on and so forth. He remembered how miserable he had felt, wondering where his wife was going to cook the next meal and where they were to put the youngster down to sleep, while the legal proceedings were going on and they hung on to his brother’s house uncertainly. Those miseries could not be understood by the boy even if explained to him. He felt sorry. He said softly: ‘Boy, let us go home now and discuss it. It’s all right. This is not the right time to talk of all those things.’
‘No,’ said the boy. ‘Don’t try to dodge me.’
‘Where did you pick up all this language?’
‘I’m old enough to know the world,’ retorted the boy. ‘If you don’t give me an immediate account, I will go to court.’
‘Very well – go ahead, I have nothing more to say.’ Margayya got up and tried to move out. The boy once again sprang up, spread out his arms and blocked the door. Margayya slapped his face, crying: ‘Get out of the way, you swine.’ The boy burst into tears, and sobbed. Margayya looked at his face and was moved. There were tears in his eyes too. He put his arm around the boy and said: ‘You are being misled by someone, probably a lawyer, who wants an occupation. Don’t listen to such people. Here I am, your father, ready to do anything for you: only ask what you want.’
‘I want a share of your property –’
‘Idiot! What obstinacy is this! What property is there?’
‘I know how much you have made. I am entitled to half of it.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Because it is multiplied out of grandfather’s property and I am entitled to half by right.’
‘I have given you a house to live in, I give you three hundred rupees a month for your expenditure. Well, if you want, ask for some more, I will probably increase it to four hundred.’
The boy shook his head. ‘I want nothing of it. I want my share.’
‘And why?’ asked Margayya.
‘I want to buy – ‘He stopped short, changed his mind and merely said: ‘I want it for various things.’
Margayya said in a mollifying manner: ‘All that I have is yours, my boy. Everything that I have will come to you: who else is there? To whom can I pass these on after my time?’
‘After your time! When is that?’
‘Are you asking when I am going to die?’
The boy looked abashed: ‘I am not saying that, but I cannot wait. I want my share urgently.’
‘Pray, what is the urgency, may I ask?’ said Margayya cynically. ‘Do you think that I ought to drink poison and clear the way for your enjoyment?’ The boy did not know how to answer. Margayya could no longer keep standing. He pushed the boy aside and walked out. He told the accountant: ‘Put the bags and the statement into the car.’ He got into the car and drove off, leaving his son standing on the steps of the bank.
Margayya felt restless. After closing his accounts, putting away the cash, and bolting down his food, he told his wife: ‘I am going out for a moment. Close the door.’
‘At this hour!’ she asked, but he had gone. She turned in with resignation.
His driver had locked the car and gone home. Outside, the stars were sparkling in the sky, and the streets were deserted and silent. Margayya had to walk the entire way – it was some months since he had walked – and he felt exhilarated by the exercise today. ‘I have perhaps been too severe,’ he told himself. ‘I must investigate what his troubles are more sympathetically. Probably he is genuinely hard up. Perhaps I might take him into business and see that he has a better income and standing.’ He wondered if the boy would be surprised to see him there at that hour. ‘This is the only time I can spare,’ he told himself. ‘If the morning rush starts … He must also be fairly annoyed that I have not been seeing the grandson. Young parents think the world exists in order to take an interest in a newborn child,’ he reflected philosophically. ‘When Balu was born, we cut off relations who didn’t come and stand over the crib and say admiring things about him. All the same, he had no business to upset me – I have not been feeling well. He should have had more sense. Share of the property! The damned fool.’ The recollection of this made him so angry that he stopped and almost turned to go back home. ‘What right has that fool to make me walk to him at this hour? It is sheer nonsense, why should I go there?’ he asked himself suddenly. ‘Share of the property! Accursed fool! What share – I gave him the right answer.’ He chuckled at the memory of his vulgar repartee. ‘Anyway, there is no other time when I can meet him and speak to him – might as well get through it and see what ails him. I will make him a proposition to join me in business. That is the thing to do. It is ages since I saw Brinda – nice girl –’
He came to Lawley Road. It was about one o’clock. He stood before number 17, at Fourth Cross Road, a small villa with a bluebell creeper over the gatepost and a mesh-covered veranda. He stood outside and admired the house: ‘Got this practically for a song – less than two thousand rupees. If that fool of a fellow could not pay the interest even after two years, the fault is not mine if it falls in my lap – the fruit can only fall on the palm of him who holds up his hands for it.’ As he opened the little wooden gate and entered, he saw no light in the house: ‘Probably the boy has slept,’ he reflected. He was hesitating whether to turn back and go. But the gate had creaked; a veranda light was now switched on and the bolt of the front door was being drawn back.
‘Who is there?’ asked Brinda’s voice from inside.
Margayya called out, ‘Brinda,’ to disclose himself. Brinda had just risen from bed; she looked sleepy and rather tired. She was a very elega
nt girl. Looking at her Margayya thought, ‘What a fortunate thing to have secured this daughter-in-law. If those fool astrologers had their way!’ He climbed the steps.
‘You have come walking at this hour,’ his daughter-in-law asked; her voice was soft and musical.
Margayya said: ‘I couldn’t find any other time. How is the baby?’ He walked in and stood looking at the little fellow sleeping on his mother’s bed. He gently touched his cheek.
The girl demurely said: ‘He wouldn’t sleep and gets up at the slightest sound.’
‘Why should you not let him stay awake?’ asked Margayya.
‘He gives us no peace. He wants to be carried about all the time,’ she answered. She was showing him the utmost respect as an elder.
He admired her for it – her tone of courtesy, her soft movement and elegance. ‘God bless her!’ he told himself. ‘Yes, Balu used to be troublesome too when he was a baby. Where is Balu?’ he asked, noticing the vacant bed beside hers.
She hesitated ever so slightly before answering briefly: ‘He has not yet come home.’ Her face became serious when she said that.
‘Where has he gone?’ Margayya asked.
She still hesitated. She merely bit her lips. Margayya sensed something was wrong. He persisted, and she merely replied: ‘He has gone to a cinema,’ with an effort.
‘A cinema! So late as this! How can he leave you and the child alone and go away like this?’ There was so much genuine sympathy in his voice that the girl was affected by it and burst into tears. Margayya was totally at a loss to know what to do now. This was a new situation for him, and he did not know what to say. He said to her: ‘Why don’t you sit down? Why do you keep standing?’
She wouldn’t sit down out of respect for her father-in-law. But he was able to persuade her. She rallied and said: ‘I wanted to come and see you. Every day this happens: he comes home every day at two o’clock. If I ask him, he … he … I’m afraid of him.’
And then it came out bit by bit. Dr Pal was his constant companion. They gathered in a house and played cards – it was the house of a man who called himself a theatrical agent. She had learnt from their servant that there were a lot of girls also in the building. Pal had something or other to do with these people, and picked Balu up in his car. They sat there continuously playing cards till midnight. They chewed tobacco and betel leaves, sometimes they drank also, and men and women were very free, and all of them dropped down wherever they sat and slept and became sick when they drank too much – it was a revolting description that she gave: all learnt from the servant who worked in the house, the uncle of the girl who looked after the baby. Brinda also said that Balu seemed to be thinking of becoming a partner in their business. In fact he always explained to his wife that it was business that kept him out late. ‘If I speak … he threatens to drive me out. It’s that Pal … Can’t you do something to keep him away?’
‘How long has this been going on?’
‘For months –’
‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘I was afraid. Even now, please don’t tell him that I have said anything.’
Margayya brooded over it darkly. He now seemed to understand why his son was asking for a partition. ‘Dr Pal! Dr Pal! What shall I do with him?’ he reflected. He was torn between caution and an impossible rage. God knew where it would lead if he alienated Pal’s sympathies: the fellow might do anything. He decided, within a fraction of a moment, that the thing to do was to separate his son from Pal without making a fuss about it, and then deal with his son separately. He would have to tempt Pal to go out of town – probably on the pretext of a contact outside; but if he went there and … Margayya found he was in terror of him. The only element that kept people from being terrified of each other was trust – the moment it was lost, people became nightmares to each other; this seemed to be truly his problem, that he could neither keep the fellow in sight nor let him go out of sight. But anyway he had better move with the utmost caution. The daughter-in-law patiently sat in a chair and watched his face. He told her with a great deal of tenderness: ‘You go in and sleep, my child. I will go home, and I will see about this tomorrow. Don’t worry about anything. I will set your husband right. You lock the door now; look after the baby. Tell me if you need anything. Don’t be afraid. I will send your mother-in-law to see you tomorrow morning.’ He got up and left. The girl bolted the veranda door and put out the light.
As he was closing the wicket gate behind him, Dr Pal’s Baby Austin drew up. The moment the rattling of its engine was heard the veranda light was switched on again and the bolt was drawn with a pat. At the same moment, Balu got down from the car. He leaned his elbow on the door and whispered something to Dr Pal, at which Dr Pal burst into a laugh and giggling sounds emanated from the back seat of the car. They did not notice Margayya’s presence. Margayya could not restrain himself any longer. He was conscious of a desperation that impelled him on. All his caution and discretion was swept aside. He dashed to the other door of the car near the driving seat, thrust his arm in, got Pal by the scruff of his coat and dragged him out as Balu on the other side was saying: ‘Good-night!’ Nobody was prepared for it: and Dr Pal staggered out. The moment he was out of the car, Margayya took off one of his sandals and hit him with it; he kept hitting out with such tremendous power and frequency that Pal could hardly protect himself. He was blinded by pain, and blood oozed from the cuts on his face. The girls within the car screamed: Balu came over and demanded: ‘What has come over you, father?’
Margayya turned on him, put his fingers around his neck and gave him a push towards the gate with: ‘Get out of my way, you little idiot!’ Balu staggered and hit his head on the gatepost.
His wife came down the veranda steps with the cry: ‘Oh, are you hurt? What has happened?’
He rushed towards her asking: ‘When did this father of mine come here?’ Meanwhile the child had been awakened by the hubbub and started howling and Brinda turned and ran back into the house. Balu followed her blindly in.
Meanwhile, the two girls in the back seat of the car cried out: ‘Help! Help!’
Margayya put his head in and ordered: ‘Shut up, you whores!’ He felt overpowered by the scent of powder filling the inside of the car. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. They at once became silent, and his tone became more menacing: ‘Who are you?’ he thundered. His voice woke up a couple of street dogs and they started barking: which again woke up Balu’s child so that it shouted more than ever.
The girls said: ‘We belong to … the theatre –’
‘The theatre! Why don’t you say what you really are! If you are seen again anywhere –’
The rest they could not hear, because Dr Pal wriggled himself free, and suddenly dashed into the car, started it, and was off. He looked back and remarked: ‘You miserable miser, who cannot share your goods with your own son – all right –’
The red rear light of the car receded and vanished around a bend. Margayya hesitated on the road for a moment to decide whether he should follow his son into the house. But he saw his son bolt the veranda door, and put out the light. ‘Good! Good! It is a good sign. He is a good son that trembles and runs away from his father,’ he said to himself, and turned homeward.
Later in life Margayya often speculated what would have become of him if he had started back home after speaking to his daughter-in-law a little earlier and missed Dr Pal’s Austin that night, or if he had remained in the shadows and had allowed Pal to go off after dropping Balu, whom he might probably have tackled with more circumspection and diplomacy: he might even have shared his property with him as he demanded: that would have saved him at least the rest of it – and prevented the doctor from doing what he did.
Dr Pal went straight to a police station and recorded an immediate complaint of assault. The two actresses and Balu were his witnesses. Next morning he went round with plaster on his face to his various customers and business men. His first visit was to the blanket merchant. He took Balu
along with him in the car. The blanket merchant was the first to ask: ‘What has happened to your face, Doctor?’
The doctor looked sad and said: ‘I am an academic man, and I should not have associated with business men –’
‘Can’t you tell me what happened?’ the blanket merchant persisted.
The doctor just shook his head and said: ‘No, I can’t – better leave things alone. It was my mistake to have associated with all sorts of folks, and I ought to blame only myself… I’m paying for it.’
‘Don’t say so, sir. We have the greatest respect for you –’
‘Business people have money, and they can help me to set up my Psychological Clinic – that was my chief interest: that would have been of the greatest benefit to them: nowadays psychological wear and tear has the highest incidence among business men: theirs is a life of the utmost strain. I thought I might be of some help to the business community more than to anyone else – and what is the result?’
‘No, sir, you must not speak like that. We have the greatest regard for you. But business life is becoming difficult with so many controls and permit forms to be filled up for all sorts of things. You have no idea how many obstacles a business man has to face before he can get through anything in the Government –’
After this the doctor drew his attention again to the plaster over his cheeks. The merchant asked: ‘You have not yet told me where you got it?’
Dr Pal lowered his voice to a whisper and said: ‘You will not believe me! Margayya assaulted me last night near his son’s house.’
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 46
