‘Hush, it is myself, get up.’
Sriram sat up, rubbing his eyes. The lamp was lit. Jagadish gave him a slight shake in order to wake him fully; he sat beside him and asked, ‘What is special today?’
Sriram triumphantly held out his pad to him. He snatched it, crying excitedly: ‘Ah, a message from Subhas Babu! How lucky you are to have heard him. Good boy! Good boy! You shall be a big man when our country becomes free and independent.’ He ran his eyes down it, muttering, ‘These are men who are gods on earth; whose deeds must be recited in odes to posterity. I’ll have a lavani composed of Subhas Babu’s life, his sacrifice, patriotism, courage, and make it compulsory to sing it every day in every school in this country.’ He went on reading aloud, ‘“My countrymen, heroes of our Indian Army” – ‘in a sing-song manner, interlarding it with appreciative comments of his own, such as, ‘Very good!’ ‘Precisely’, ‘It is a great mind speaking!’ ‘Listen and learn, all ye good folk,’ and so on and so forth. Till he came down to: ‘“Now be attentive. In the first place all of you who” – ‘He turned the paper over in his hand and asked, ‘Where is the continuation?’
‘There is no continuation, the message stopped there. Someone has been tampering with the broadcast.’
‘What do you mean? Let us see.’ He dashed to where the radio was and turned the knob. There was no sign of life. He shook it and cried, ‘What has happened to this blessed radio?’
‘How can I say? Am I a radio engineer?’
‘Don’t get into an argument with me about it. It’ll not take us anywhere. Subhas Babu must have said some very vital things, and you have chosen to choke the radio.’
‘No. You are wrong. It choked itself. Probably a cockroach I saw there must have done it.’
Jagadish clenched his great fist and remained silent. Sriram feared he would hit him. If he did, he wouldn’t go down without a fight. He looked at a corner where he kept a bamboo staff for cobras and scorpions. He wondered for a moment whether he should make an immediate dash to it. Would the other give him the necessary time?
After many moments of grim silence the man said, ‘Well, let us not bother about it any more. As soldiers, we must learn not to brood over what is definitely past, mind you, what is definitely past.’ He said, ‘Give me that pencil.’ Sriram passed the pencil to him. Jagadish adjusted the lamp, read the message carefully, and after spending one minute thinking, filled in the rest of the sheet briskly. ‘You must, you must and you must.’ He wrote with inspiration. It took him nearly an hour to complete the writing of the message, he looked over it and shook his head with satisfaction. He gave the pad to Sriram and commanded, ‘Now read it, young man, this is exactly how he would have gone on if the cockroach had not stood there acting like a censor.’ After this triumph a sudden sorrow assailed him. He was reminded of the radio. ‘The last battery set – you could have spoken back to Subhas Babu, if you had only been careful. It was a two-way radio … I suppose I’d better take it back with me and repair it. As a soldier I will not cry over split milk.’
‘Is it split milk?’ Sriram asked nervously.
‘Of course it is,’ asserted Jagadish, ‘when milk goes bad, it splits into water and solid, you know. It’s no use crying over split milk,’ he repeated.
Next afternoon, a little while after the train blew its whistle, Jagadish arrived with a bundle of papers hidden under his shirt. For the purpose of carrying that quantity of paper he wore an inner shirt with an enormous pocket and over it another large cloak-like shirt, and looked so big with all this literature hidden about his person that Sriram sometimes wondered if the impressiveness of his personality might not be due to excessive padding.
Jagadish unwound his robes and took out a bundle of papers, and once again Sriram childishly as ever expected him to produce some nice eatables. ‘Come on, sit down,’ said Jagadish. Jagadish first went to look up and down and assure himself that no one was watching. He dramatically attempted to close the large door which creaked on its mighty hinges, but could be moved only half an inch forward. Sriram watched him without a word. After these preparations, he pulled Sriram to a seat beside him on the mat. He pressed a sheet of cyclostyled messages into his hand, and said, ‘Read it.’ Sriram read aloud, ‘“Men of the Indian Army, etc., etc.,”’ all that he had monitored on the previous day, but it continued for several paragraphs more. ‘“First, don’t co-operate with our enemy Government. Lay down your arms and lay down your lives, if necessary. You will be the heroes of the day when the Indian National Army marches into Delhi and flies its flag on the Red Fort, the very place where our men are now imprisoned.”’ And it went on and on, giving precise directions to the army as to what it should do, for the liberation of the country. Sriram felt a profound admiration for the man. ‘How did you manage to get the rest of the message?’ he asked innocently.
‘Don’t bother how,’ replied Jagadish, ‘where there is a will there is a way. All out of this,’ he said proudly touching his forehead. ‘I could easily guess how the rest of the message would have run. It is just a matter of thought-reading, more or less,’ he declared proudly. ‘It is an extremely important message for our army at this moment. It is very vital to us. And it is to your honour that you got it first, although (never mind, let us not think of what is past) you couldn’t get the full message; nothing is lost, and so don’t bother about it. Furthermore, it should be your honour to see that the message reaches those for whom it is intended.’
Sriram was somewhat confounded. He asked, ‘What should I do?’
‘Listen to me carefully. I will give you fifty copies of this and you will take them to the army camp at Belliali. The poor fellows there cannot have any notion of what is happening in the world since they are not allowed to listen-in to truth, but only to the cock and bull stories that the British War Department issues. Our boys must know the truth. They must know where Subhas Babu is, where the Indian National Army is stationed, and what is to be done. It is our duty to propagate truth wherever it may be. Has not Mahatmaji told us so?’
‘Yes, yes,’ agreed Sriram, to whom this argument appealed. ‘What will you do with the rest of the copies? Why don’t you let me carry some more?’
‘No, I can spare only fifty. I have made one hundred and fifty copies in all. These are days of paper shortage, remember. I am going to send fifty copies to Lakshi camp, and take fifty myself to the third one at –. You will have to go up tonight and complete the task allotted to you.’
‘Agreed,’ said Sriram.
Before parting Jagadish said, ‘We shall probably all three of us get shot in this enterprise. But don’t bother. Our lives are not very important. Our work is more important.’
‘I don’t care whether I live or die,’ said Sriram, remembering the frustrations he had experienced with Bharati. What was the use of dragging on one’s existence with this girl always inaccessible? Probably this national fight would never be over, and if over, might probably involve her in further activities. She was bound to be pursuing something else all her life … This thought caused him so much weariness that he declared with all sincerity his readiness to die. He added, ‘If I fail to return, will you tell Bharati what I think of her?’
‘What do you think of her?’ asked the other with amusement.
‘That if she had married me I should probably not have died or something like that.’
‘Well, I will tell her that. If I am shot, you can take charge of my studio. It is yours for the asking.’
Sriram felt too moved to speak. ‘You are kind,’ he murmured. ‘How good you are.’
The other just twirled the end of his fancy scarf. ‘But I am afraid you will find it hard to run it with the position of chemicals being what it is! Anyway, I wish you luck.’
The pamphlets were written in a convenient size which could easily be carried concealed on one’s person. Sriram placed them neatly in a small bundle in a long strip of a towel, brought together its corners and tied them, put the towel
around his waist and knotted it; over it he put on his khadi vest, and over it his jiba. The messages pressed his stomach uncomfortably, but he bore this with fortitude. He went down hill at nightfall. Jagadish had given him precise directions.
Sriram walked down the road and waited under a tree for a bus. There were one or two villagers sitting under the tree, waiting too. It was dark, and beyond the horizon there was the glow of Malgudi town. He sighed like an outcast. ‘What a wretched hour it was when I set out to face life! Granny!’ he addressed her mentally, ‘I want to be back but I can’t be, don’t worry. All troubles must end. I wish they would release Mahatmaji. As long as he is in prison we will fight this devilish government. How dare they lay their hands on him? If they hadn’t done that, Bharati would be out and happy, and Mahatmaji would have given his consent to her marriage.’
‘Eh? What do you say, sir?’ asked one of the villagers, peering at him curiously.
Sriram became cautious and asked, ‘Who is there?’ He looked closer, and asked, ‘What are you waiting for?’
‘The bus is late today,’ they said by way of conversation, and Sriram agreed, ‘It should have been here long ago, isn’t that so?’
‘How is the war going, sir?’ asked one of them, the usual question that any villager would put to any man who looked informed.
Sriram suddenly became very cautious. He asked, ‘Why?’
The other said, ‘Because if it is over soon, we shall all be free from troubles.’
‘I don’t know,’ Sriram drawled. In the darkness he could not make out the features of the man to whom he was talking. It might be a police spy or a constable himself.
‘How is the war going, sir?’ persisted the man.
‘Well, the papers say this and that, and that is all I know,’ replied Sriram.
‘But someone says that it is all false! My brother knows a lot of people and he said that the English are being defeated everywhere. He said that the Germans are already in Madras. If they come, will they release our Mahatmaji from prison?’
Sriram wished to divert the question and asked, ‘Have you seen Mahatma Gandhi?’
‘Yes, sir, he passed through our village,’ began the man, and the headlights of the bus became visible far off. The man picked up his bundle, ran to the middle of the road crying, ‘Unless we stop the bus, he won’t stop.’ By the time the bus arrived he stood right in the middle of the road gesticulating wildly.
‘You will be run over!’ cried Sriram.
The driver jammed on his brakes and cursed: ‘What are you doing? Do you want to kill yourself? Why don’t you join the army and die if you want to die?’ he asked and laughter came from the bus.
The villager cried, ‘I wish to go to –.’
‘Clear off and don’t stand there talking. There’s no place even for an ant in this chariot.’
‘Let him in,’ cried the conductor, to whom this meant extra income. Such passengers were unaccounted for at the end of the day.
‘I will sit on the floor,’ pleaded the villager.
‘Five annas,’ cried the conductor.
‘Three annas,’ cried the passenger. ‘Last week you took me for three annas.’
‘Last week is not this week,’ cried the conductor.
Sriram, who had watched the proceedings with detachment till now, suddenly came forward. ‘Take him for three annas if you did so last week.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the conductor, awed by Sriram’s manner.
‘And drop me at –. How much?’
‘Three annas, sir.’
‘I will stand on the footboard if there is no space inside,’ said Sriram.
The conductor became officious. He said, ‘You may come in, sir. I’ll make room.’
All the passengers craned their necks out of the bus; the engine was hissing like a serpent. ‘No, I will stand on the footboard,’ said Sriram and clutched the handrail when the bus moved. ‘He probably thinks I am a bus inspector off duty,’ reflected Sriram, clutching the cold handrail as the night breeze blew on his face. Within the bus someone was snoring, someone was explaining the war and its progress on all fronts, someone was talking about God and Fate, a child was crying, a woman was yawning, the driver and conductor exchanged private jokes and giggled. ‘They are probably enjoying the thought of their ill-gotten money,’ thought Sriram. The bus ached and groaned under its load. He feared that its bottom might fall out. Unfortunately, he was not a bus inspector.
All the same, he assumed a voice of authority and asked, ‘Conductor, what is your limit of loading?’
The conductor replied with humility, ‘The Government have set aside the rule, sir. We may take in as many as we can hold. This is wartime, sir, otherwise how many poor folk would get stranded on the highway.’
Many murmurs of approval came from the passengers. ‘What with these air raids and troubles, it would be most dangerous to get stranded on the road,’ someone ventured.
The bus rocked past sleeping villages. The lights were shaded according to the wartime rule, and the headlights threw a faint patch of light ahead. Someone was humming a tune; all these human sounds were welcome to Sriram’s ears, which had grown atrophied through his lonely existence. He revelled in the music of human voices.
The bus slowed down and he jumped off at a village called Sangram. The time was about eleven at night and the entire village was asleep. He waited on the road till the bus was out of sight, and then patted his person to see if his material was intact: a wire-cutter in his inner pocket, and the precious message at his waist. When he stooped, a lump in the belly pained him. ‘If only to be relieved of this pain, I must scatter the message,’ he reflected. Turning down a road to his left, he walked on the extreme side of the road since one or two military lorries were passing, and he did not want to be noticed. He came up against a vast jungle of barbed-wire entanglements, enclosing a group of bamboo and mud huts, with a private road winding through. The main entrance was on the other side. This was a military depot and training centre, and from here all day the rattle of convoys agitated the silence.
Presently he found himself cutting a portion of the barbed-wire fence. The snap resounded through the place; he feared somebody might machine-gun him. He heard the footsteps of the patrol sentry, and lay low. He thought, ‘Well, this is my last moment. Suppose I am sent to hell?’ He remembered all the details of hell that his grandmother had given him in childhood, and shuddered. ‘There is no sense in getting shot by an unknown sentry,’ he reflected. ‘One unknown man shooting another unknown man, a ridiculous thing to happen.’ On the strength of this, he put away the cutter. He took out a little glue, sat down and applied it neatly to the back of a few sheets, pasted the notices on the pillars supporting the wire and facing the inner barracks. The barb scratched the skin of his forearm. ‘Blood is drawn, and this is the utmost I’m prepared to shed on Jagadish’s orders.’ After this, he rolled up his sheets into one mass, and flung them into the enclosure. He saw under the star-lit heaven the notices fluttering down. ‘The boys may pick up and read the messages at their leisure tomorrow morning,’ he reflected, and turned back.
Jagadish said, ‘Why that lacklustre and far-away look in your eyes, young man? You do a lot of service to the great cause. But your heart is not really in it. May I know why?’ Sriram had nothing definite to reply. ‘I should have said, “Look pleasant, please,” or “Smile please,” as becomes a photographer. You must put your heart into your job, my dear young man, otherwise you will not help our country. We are passing through crucial times, as our statesmen say, and we have to do something. I have a suspicion that you let your thoughts play too much around a certain person. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s a futile occupation, since it’s the government who think it would be in your best interests to keep you two apart. You don’t even know where they are keeping her.’
‘That’s true,’ said Sriram dolefully.
‘But I know where she is
,’ said Jagadish. ‘I’ve my own agents. She is not actually in any regular prison, all gaols being full now. She is in a hurriedly made up one … You know the Old Slaughter House? She is in it, along with a number of other women prisoners.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I know a guard who works there. He likes me because he is an old customer, whose photograph in my stock helped him in some family litigation. He will help you to meet your friend if you are inclined that way.’
Sriram’s heart palpitated. This was as if the dead had come to life, or at least were promising to come to life.
‘A nice fellow, he will help you, at the risk of his own life, to meet and talk to Bharati for about half an hour.’
‘When? When?’ Sriram asked anxiously.
‘As soon as you have done your job smartly. Some business about chrome ore, and I need your assistance.’
‘You mean I shall be rewarded for my services.’
‘Yes, that’s what I mean. One good turn deserves another.’
‘Who is going to be benefited by my good turn?’ Sriram asked.
‘Well, the country. A train load of chrome ore is leaving a certain railway station for England. It should not reach the port. If it reaches the port, it will return to us in the form of triggers and what not and plague us … I can’t think of anyone but you to assist me in this job.’
It was inevitable that soon the police should publish Sriram’s photograph and announce a reward for anyone giving information of his whereabouts.
Sriram had a racking fear that Jagadish might be playing a practical joke. ‘If he is playing a joke, heaven help him,’ he told himself. ‘I will crush his skull with a big stone,’ and he revelled in visions of extraordinary violence. He pulled his mind back sharply when he realized how Bharati would react. The thought of Bharati softened him. He told himself he would not hesitate to fall at the feet of any villain if Bharati desired him to do so. Anything to please her and earn her approval. His whole being acquired a meaning only when he was doing something in relation to Bharati. He wondered how he should conduct himself when she came out and the photographer too was there. He hoped that his jealousy would not drive him to do wild things. Anyway, he hoped that the photographer would mind his business and leave him alone in order to pursue his life as he liked, he hoped the fight with the British Government would end soon, he hoped Britain would leave India, so that he might return to Kabir Street and live in peace with Bharati and Granny! Ah, that was the trouble. What would Granny do about it? She would probably nag Bharati night and day and compare her with her brother’s granddaughter in looks and competence in household duties, but he hoped Bharati would turn round and challenge her to say whether that village niece of hers would have faced a charging police force or spoken to Mahatmaji. As he reclined on his couch at the entrance to his cave and looked at the top of the blue gum trees his mind roamed unchecked.
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 60
