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

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘You have the same style of talk as my grandmother. She is as sharp-tongued as you are,’ Sriram said pathetically.

  She ignored the comparison and asked, ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘I have never seen her, my grandmother has always been father and mother to me. Why don’t you meet her? You will like her, both of you speak so much alike!’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said the girl soothingly, ‘some day I will come and meet her as soon as this is all over. You see how busy I am now.’

  She became tender when she found that she was talking to someone without a mother, and Sriram noticing this felt it was worthwhile being motherless and grandmother-tended. She sat on the same step, with her legs dangling in the river, leaving a gap of a couple of feet between them. The river rumbled into the dark starlit night, the leaves of the huge tree over the ancient steps rustled and sighed. Far off bullock-carts and pedestrians were fording the river at Nallappa’s Grove. Distant voices came through the night. Mahatmaji’s camp was asleep. It was so quiet that Sriram felt like taking the girl in his arms, but he resisted the idea. He feared that if he touched her she might push him into the river. The girl was a termagant, she would surely develop into the same type as his grandmother with that sharp tongue of hers. Her proximity pricked his blood and set it coursing.

  ‘There is no one about. What can she do?’ he reflected. ‘Let her try and push me into the river, and she will know with whom she is dealing,’ and the next moment he blamed himself for his own crude thoughts. ‘It is not safe with the Mahatma there. He may already have read my thoughts and be coming here.’ He was a Mahatma because awake or asleep he was fully aware of what was going on all round him. God alone could say what the Mahatma would do to someone who did not possess absolute purity of thought where girls were concerned. It meant hardship, no doubt, but if one was to live in this camp one had to follow the orders that emanated from the great soul. He struggled against evil thoughts and said, ‘Bharati!’ She looked startled at being called so familiarly and he himself felt startled by the music of her name.

  ‘What a nice name!’ he remarked.

  ‘I am glad you like it,’ she said. ‘The name was given by Bapuji himself.’

  ‘Oh, how grand!’ he cried.

  She added, ‘You know my father died during the 1920 movement. Just when I was born. When he learnt of it Bapuji, who had come down South, made himself my godfather and named me Bharati, which means – I hope you know what.’

  ‘Yes, Bharati is India, and Bharati is the daughter of India, I suppose.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, and he was pleased at her commendation.

  ‘After my mother died, I was practically adopted by the local Sevak Sangh, and I have not known any other home since,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mean to say you are all the time with these people?’

  ‘What is wrong in it?’ she asked. ‘It has been my home.’

  ‘Not that, I was only envying you. I too wish I could be with you all and do something instead of wasting my life.’

  This appealed to her and she asked, ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘The same as what you are doing. What are you doing?’ he asked.

  ‘I do whatever I am asked to do by the Sevak Sangh. Sometimes they ask me to go and teach people spinning and tell them about Mahatmaji’s ideas. Sometimes they send me to villages and poor quarters. I meet them and talk to them and do a few things. I attend to Mahatmaji’s needs.’

  ‘Please let me also do something along with you,’ he pleaded. ‘Why don’t you take me as your pupil? I want to do something good. I want to talk to poor people.’

  ‘What will you tell them?’ she asked ruthlessly.

  He made some indistinct sounds. ‘I will tell them whatever you ask me to tell them,’ he said, and this homage to her superior intelligence pleased her.

  ‘H’m! But why?’ she asked.

  He summoned all his courage and answered, ‘Because I like you, and I like to be with you.’

  She burst into a laugh and said, ‘That won’t be sufficient … They …’ she indicated a vast army of hostile folk behind her back. ‘They may chase you away if you speak like that.’

  He became sullen and unhappy. He rallied and said presently, ‘Well, I too would willingly do something.’

  ‘What?’ she taunted him again.

  He looked at her face helplessly, desperately, and asked, ‘Are you making fun of me?’

  ‘No, but I wish to understand what you are saying.’

  She relented a little, presently, and said, ‘I will take you to Bapu, will you come?’

  He was panic-stricken. ‘No, no. I can’t.’

  ‘You have been there already.’

  He could give no reasonable explanation and now he realized the enormity of his rashness. He said, ‘No, no, I would be at a loss to know how to talk to him, how to reply to him and what to tell him.’

  ‘But you sat there before him like someone always known to him!’ she said, ‘like his best friend.’

  She laughed and enjoyed teasing him.

  ‘Somehow I did it, but I won’t do it again,’ he declared. ‘He may find me out if I go before him again.’

  Suddenly she became very serious and said, ‘You will have to face Bapuji if you want to work with us.’

  Sriram became speechless. His heart palpitated with excitement. He wished he could get up and run away, flee once and for all the place, be done with it, and turn his back on the whole business for ever. This was too much. The gods seemed to be out to punish him for his hardihood and presumption.

  He cried, ‘Bharati, tell me if I can meet you anywhere else, otherwise please let me go.’ He was in a cold sweat. ‘What should I say when I speak to him? I would blabber like an idiot.’

  ‘You are already doing it,’ she said, unable to restrain her laughter.

  He said pathetically, ‘You seem to enjoy bothering me. I am sorry I ever came here.’

  ‘Why are you so cowardly?’ she asked.

  Sriram said resolutely, ‘I can’t talk to Mahatmaji. I wouldn’t know how to conduct myself before him.’

  ‘Just be yourself. It will be all right.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to answer his questions properly.’

  ‘He is not going to examine you like an inspector of schools. You don’t have to talk to him unless you have something to say. You may keep your mouth shut and he won’t mind. You may just be yourself, say anything you feel like saying. He will not mind anything at all, but you will have to speak the truth if you speak at all.’

  ‘Truth! In everything!’ He looked scared.

  ‘Yes, in everything. You may speak as bluntly as you like, and he will not take it amiss, provided it is just truth.’

  Sriram looked more crushed than ever. In this dark night he seemed to have a terrible problem ahead of him. After brooding over it for a while he said, ‘Bharati, tell me if I may meet you anywhere else. Otherwise let me go.’

  She replied with equal resolution, ‘If you wish to meet me come to Bapuji, the only place where you may see me. Of course, if you don’t want to see me any more, go away.’

  This placed him in a dilemma. ‘Where? How?’ he asked.

  ‘Come to the door of Bapu’s hut and wait for me.’

  ‘When? Where?’

  ‘At three a.m. tomorrow morning. I’ll take you to him.’

  Saying this, she jumped to her feet and ran off towards her hut.

  Granny had slept fitfully. She had gone up to Kanni’s shop five times during the evening to enquire if anyone had seen Sriram, and sent a boy who had come to make a purchase there to look for Sriram everywhere. At last the school-master who lived up the street told her as he passed her house,

  ‘Your pet is in Mahatma’s camp. I saw him.’

  ‘Ah! What was he doing there?’ asked Granny alarmed. For her the Mahatma was one who preached dangerously, who tried to bring untouchables into the temples, and who involved people in
difficulties with the police. She didn’t like the idea. She wailed, ‘Oh, master, why did you allow him to stay on there? You should have brought him away. It is so late and he has not come home. As his old teacher you should have weaned him away.’

  ‘Don’t worry, madam, he is perfectly safe. How many of us could have the privilege of being so near the Mahatma? You must be happy that he is doing so well! Our country needs more young men like him.’

  Granny replied, ‘It is teachers like you who have ruined our boys and this country,’ and turned in, slamming the door.

  When Sriram arrived and knocked she was half asleep and in the worst possible mood. She opened the door, let him in, bolted the door again, and went back to her bed saying, ‘I have kept some rice in that bowl mixed with curd and the other one is without curd. Put out the lamp after you have eaten.’ Lying in bed, she listened to the sound of Sriram putting away his plate and leaving the kitchen. And then she turned her face to the wall and pretended to be asleep. She hoped that her grandson would understand her mood, come over, and assure her that he would not get into bad ways: but the young man was otherwise engaged. He was in a state of semi-enchantment. Bharati’s presence and talk still echoed in his mind, and he recollected the thrill of her touch. He liked to think that when he was not noticing she had touched his arm and patted his shoulder. He thought how he would prefer the rest of his life listening to her banter, but that meant – here was the conflict – he would have to go into the Presence. All else seemed to him insignificant beside this great worry. If it had been any other day he would have pulled his granny out of her sleep and narrated to her all the day’s events. If she happened to be in a bad mood he would have pulled her out of it. He knew now that she was not in a proper temper; he could sense it the moment he stepped on the threshold, but he preferred to leave her alone; he felt he had a far greater problem to tackle than appeasing the mood of a mere granny.

  He went to bed and slept in all less than an hour. Bharati wanted him there at three a.m., and he needed an hour to reach the place. He got up before one, washed and bathed and put on special clothes, bent over his granny’s bed to whisper, ‘I have to be going now, bolt the door.’

  She tried to ask, ‘What! At this hour, what has come over you?’ but he was gone on soft footsteps, closing the door behind him.

  He stood at the entrance to Mahatmaji’s hut, holding his breath. It was very difficult to decide what he should do now. She had asked him to be present at the portals of the Great Presence, but perhaps she had been fooling him. He feared that any sound he made might rouse the Mahatma and bring the entire camp about his ears. He stood ruefully looking at the camp. Street dogs were barking somewhere. Occasionally the branches of trees over the river rustled and creaked. He stood looking ruefully towards the women’s quarters. There a lantern was burning, people seemed to be awake and moving about. He thought, ‘What if the lantern is burning? They may be sleeping with lights on. Women are cowardly anyway.’ The stirring he heard might be them rolling in their beds, noisy creatures! Unaccountably he was feeling irritated at the thought of women, the species to which Bharati belonged. He saw a light in Mahatmaji’s camp. The door was shut. He heard soft footsteps moving in there. Long ago the Taluk Office gong had struck some small hour. He could hardly believe he had actually sacrificed his sleep and was standing here in the cold wind, at an unearthly hour. Even the scavengers, the earliest to rise in the town, were still asleep. He felt suddenly afraid that he might be attacked by thieves or ghosts. Or if a policeman saw him and took him to be a prowler, how should he explain himself? He couldn’t very well say, ‘Bharati asked me to wait at Mahatmaji’s hut at about three a.m.’ He wanted to turn and go away: he could at least go home and make up to his grandmother instead of hanging around here and wondering what to do. He could tell her: ‘I went to see the Mahatma, but changed my mind and came away. Why should I get to know him and then into all sorts of difficulties? Don’t you think so, Granny?’ And she was sure to revive and look happy again.

  He gave one forlorn look at the women’s quarters and turned away, his mind completely made up to earn the concrete goodwill of a granny rather than the doubtful and strange favours of big-wigs like the Mahatma and snobs like Bharati. Heaven knew who else would be there. But still the pull of Bharati was strong and he could not get away from the place so easily as he had imagined. He wanted to make just one more attempt to see her and bid her goodbye. Perhaps she was in a situation in which he could help her: people might have tied her up to her cot and gagged her mouth. Anything might happen to a beautiful girl like her. Otherwise there could be no explanation for her absence. Anyway, he felt it would be his duty to go and find out what was wrong and where. He’d have willingly gone near the women’s quarters, but he lacked the necessary courage and did the next best thing: once again repeating a rash act he tip-toed towards Mahatmaji’s hut: his idea was to peep in unobtrusively, and see if Bharati was there or anywhere else safe and sound and then move off. But in his befuddled state it did not occur to him that possibly he might be seen before he saw anyone. And it happened so. The door of Mahatmaji’s hut was half open. Light streamed out through the gap. Sriram went towards it like a charmed moth. If he had paused to reflect he would not have believed himself to be capable of repeating a foolhardy act a second time. But through lack of sleep, and tension of nerves, a general recklessness had come over him, the same innocent charge that had taken him tumbling into the hut the previous evening took him there again now. He peeped in like a clown. The door was half open; he had over-estimated its width from a distance, for he could not peep in without thrusting his head through.

  ‘Oh, there he is!’ cried Bharati, with laughter in her voice. ‘You may open the door if you wish to come in,’ she said. Sriram felt again that the girl was making fun of him. Even in the great presence, she didn’t seem to care. Here at least Sriram had hoped she would speak without the undertone of mischief. He felt so irritated at the thought that he replied with all the pungency he could muster in his tone: ‘You have – I waited for you there –’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said the Mahatma. ‘Why should you be standing there? You could have come straight in.’

  ‘But she asked me to wait outside,’ said Sriram, stepping in gingerly. From the door to where the Mahatma sat the distance was less than ten feet, but he felt he was taking hours to cover it. His legs felt weak and seemed to intertwine, he seemed to be walking like a drunkard, a particularly dangerous impression to create in the Mahatma, who was out to persuade even the scavengers to give up drinking. In a flash it occurred to him that he ought to have a sensible answer ready if the Mahatma should suddenly turn round and ask, ‘Have you been drinking toddy or whisky?’

  But his trial came to an end, when Gandhi said, ‘Bharati has just been mentioning you.’ He spoke while his hands were busy turning a spinning wheel, drawing out a fine thread. A man sitting in a corner, with a pad resting on his knee, was writing. Mahatmaji himself as always was doing several things at the same time. While his hands were spinning, his eyes perused a letter held before him by another, and he found it possible too to put in a word of welcome to Sriram. Through the back door of the hut many others were coming in and passing out. For each one of them Mahatmaji had something to say.

  He looked up at Sriram and said: ‘Sit down, young man. Come and sit as near me as you like.’ There was so much unaffected graciousness in his tone that Sriram lost all fear and hesitation. He moved briskly up. He sat on the floor near Mahatmaji and watched with fascination the smooth turning of the spinning wheel. Bharati went to an inner part of the hut, threw a swift look at Sriram, which he understood to mean, ‘Remember not to make a fool of yourself

  The Mahatma said, ‘Nowadays I generally get up an hour earlier in order to be able to do this: spinning a certain length is my most important work: even my prayer comes only after that. I’d very much like you to take a vow to wear only cloth made out of your own hands each day.’<
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  ‘Yes, I will do so,’ promised Sriram.

  When the gong in the Taluk Office struck four, the Mahatma invited Sriram to go out with him for a walk. He seized his staff in one hand and with the other supported himself on the shoulder of Bharati, and strode out of the hut – a tall figure in white. He had tucked his watch at his waist into a fold of his white dhoti. He pulled it out and said: ‘Half an hour I have to walk, come with me, Sriram. You can talk to me undisturbed.’ A few others joined them. Sriram felt he was walking through some unreal dream world. The Mahatma was in between him and Bharati, and it was difficult to snatch a look at her as often as he wanted. He had to step back a quarter of an inch now and then, in order to catch a glimpse of her laughing face. They walked along the river-bank. The sky was rosy in the east. Gandhi turned and spoke some business to those behind him. He suddenly addressed himself to Sriram: ‘Your town is very beautiful. Have you ever noticed it before?’ Sriram felt unhappy and gasped for breath. The morning air blew on his face, birds were chirping, the city was quiet: it was all well known, but why did the Mahatma mention it especially now? Should he say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’? If he said ‘Yes’ he would be lying, which would be detected at once; if he said ‘No’, God knew what the Mahatma would think of him. He looked about. A couple of scavengers of the colony who had joined the group were waiting eagerly to know what he would say: they were evidently enjoying his predicament, and he dared not look in the direction of Bharati. The Mahatma said: ‘God is everywhere, and if you want to feel his presence you will see him in a place like this with a beautiful river flowing, the sunrise with all its colours, and the air so fresh. Feeling a beautiful hour or a beautiful scene or a beautiful object is itself a form of prayer.’ Sriram listened in reverential silence, glad to be let off so lightly. When Gandhiji spoke of beauty, it sounded unreal as applied to the sun and the air, but the word acquired a practical significance when he thought of it in terms of Bharati. Gandhi said: ‘By the time we meet again next, you must give me a very good account of yourself