In a moment Jagadish had come up and was standing by his side. He said, ‘Very unsafe, young man. If it had been a policeman instead of myself, you would still have been sitting there, day-dreaming, and he’d have put a nice collar round your neck and led you along to the gaol.’
Sriram, rather irritated, asked, ‘What’s wrong with daydreaming?’
‘There is much that is not right. You must be more watchful. Our cave is probably not visible from outside, but someone may think of exploring these parts. You are probably not seen but don’t imagine that can last for ever. You should always watch, even through the camouflage. Be careful.’
‘All right,’ Sriram said, cowed by the other’s manner, very much like a tiger in the circus ring which subsides on the spot indicated by the ring-master with a rolling growl.
Jagadish sat down beside him with the remark, ‘And if you imagine that it’s better the police come after you so that they may detain you at the Old Slaughter House, you are mistaken. They will do nothing of the kind: it’s reserved for women prisoners.’
At the mention of the Old Slaughter House, Sriram softened. The associations of the Old Slaughter House might not be pleasant for everyone, but for Sriram the name produced the happiest associations and a very profound sense of peace.
‘Old Slaughter House? Old Slaughter House?’ Sriram said, adopting a playful attitude for the first time these many days. ‘Old Slaughter, the sound is familiar! What has that to do with us?’
‘It’s virtue is that it is an Old Slaughter House, and not a new one,’ said Jagadish. ‘Many a goat trembles when it passes that building, but it makes you smile and joke. All the slaughter of the place is forgotten … Yet it’s still a place that attacks the heart, doesn’t it?’ he said.
Sriram felt completely happy. He would have gone on talking of the Slaughter House for the rest of his days: it was an opiate which made him forget politics, history, the police, and his own loneliness.
‘If you wish to visit the place, you will have to make certain alterations to your good self,’ Jagadish said. He explained, ‘First you must look unlike the photo the police have published. If someone wants to make money by informing, you should not help him to do so. I fear the police have published your photo far and wide, and any street urchin may denounce you. It shows the evil of leaving one’s photos about. I have an advantage in this respect – there is no photo of me and they have only described me: having been so busy photographing others, I had no time for myself. You have been scattering your portraits about like a film star.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Sriram had to agree dolefully. He recollected the cheap four-for-one-rupee quick photos that he had indulged in some time after he came into his wealth. Often Sriram had seen his pictures displayed on the advertisement boards of the photographers; and the walls of his house were full of his own pictures. He remembered his grandmother saying: ‘In our days people hung up portraits of gods and ancestors, you have nothing but your own! I wonder why you do it?’
‘Does it mean the police have taken the photos from our house in Kabir Street?’ Sriram asked, assailed by a sudden thought.
‘Definitely. That’s the first thing they will have done.’
‘I wonder what Granny said.’
‘She will repeat it all when she sees you next. Don’t worry,’ he replied. He studied Sriram closely and said: ‘You will have to change your appearance. You will have to undertake some drastic changes. First and foremost grow a nice small moustache, a little one that droops at the ends will make you look slightly like a mongol, but don’t let that weigh on your mind, they are looking for you, not for a mongol. And then, do you think you could shave off your crop in order to complete the picture?’
Sriram’s heart quailed at the suggestion, remembering all the heartaches he had undergone in order to get rid of his old tuft and grow his present crop. His granny would not hear of it at first. She was certain that it would spoil his appearance, but one day he had just slipped away to the temple-tank on whose steps barbers sat and shaved their customers. He induced an old barber to cut off his tuft and run the machine over his ears, and on his lap he emptied all the pocket-money he had purloined from his own sealed money-box. He had widened the slit of the money-box and shaken out the coins, when his granny was in the kitchen. To disguise the rattling he had muffled it with a piece of cloth and carried the operation on till it shed eight annas in small coppers. His granny kept shouting from the kitchen, ‘What is that noise?’ ‘Which noise?’ shouted back Sriram, and had gone on with his job. He had had no clear idea how much a barber would demand for a crop-cut. He put it down at six annas, and two annas extra for any unlooked-for expense. But the barber at the tank had demanded a rupee to cut off the thick curly tuft Sriram had possessed. By haggling Sriram brought it down to six annas; and the barber went on muttering disappointed remarks to the tune of snapping scissors. Sriram saw himself in a small mirror produced out of the barber’s tin box, and was delighted. He felt he had rid himself of a couple of pounds of tuft: it lay on the stone steps of the tank; and Sriram remembered how he shivered at the sight of the appendage, for no known reason. They were long and curly tresses, and he said: ‘Sell it and you will get ten rupees for it.’ The barber lost his temper at the suggestion: ‘You take me for a hawker of hair. Mind how you speak, young gentleman. I should have cut your throat if it hadn’t been yourself but someone else. Look, I don’t want anything, but give me the dhoti you are wearing: that’s the usual custom under these circumstances.’
Sriram was aghast: ‘And how shall I reach home?’
‘Bathe in this tank and run before anyone notices. Anyway, haven’t you got your piece-cloth under your dhoti? That’ll do for a young man of your age.’ So saying he almost tugged the ends of Sriram’s dhoti, and Sriram had to dodge him desperately. ‘Oh!’ cried the barber in great surprise. He made queer faces to indicate his feelings. ‘Do you mean to say that you go about with – ‘He described vividly the under-clothes of respectable and honest citizens, and the habits of the modern generation. The topic was so below-the-waist that Sriram blushed and finally, wrenching himself free, ran off.
All this flashed across his mind now. He put his hand to the top of his head, ran his fingers over it and said to Jagadish: ‘I can’t sacrifice this crop. I like it.’
Sriram spent a sleepless night wondering how he could change his appearance. He even thought that he might disguise himself as a purdah lady and not show his face at all. Jagadish laughed all his propositions away. He seemed intent on disfiguring him in his own manner; bent upon shaving him like an egg, and making him as ridiculous as possible. Perhaps he wanted to make him the laughing-stock of the world and ruin his chance once for all with Bharati. She would refuse to take a second look at his face for the rest of his life. He wondered why he did not refuse to do anything that Jagadish suggested. Even the Slaughter House might be a huge practical joke or turn out to be a real slaughtering place after all! But his fears had no value. Whatever he might feel or fear the fact was always there that Jagadish was inescapable, and one had to do what he ordered.
Jagadish granted a period of three weeks for a respectable moustache to develop on Sriram’s upper lip. He bought him a small bottle of coconut oil for massage to help a quick growth. ‘How many things I have to do before I can see Bharati!’ Sriram reflected. Jagadish checked the growth on the other’s upper lip day after day. He nodded his head discouragingly each time. ‘Very slow, very slow, too slow,’ he said as if Sriram himself were responsible. Sriram clicked his tongue apologetically.
The period of three weeks was by no means wasted. In association with Jagadish and under his expert guidance, Sriram did a variety of jobs which he hoped would help the country in its struggle for freedom: he set fire to the records in half a dozen law courts in different villages; he derailed a couple of trains and paralysed the work in various schools; he exploded a crude bomb which tore off the main door of an agricultural research station, tarr
ed out ‘V’ for Victory and wrote ‘Quit India’ over the emblem. He became so seasoned in this activity that a certain recklessness developed in him. He had no fear of the police: they seemed to him a remote, theoretical body, unconnected with his affairs. He knew he could always slip through. They were looking for him everywhere, except where they could find him. Jagadish kept repeating: ‘Britain will leave India with a salaam, if we crush the backbone of her administration.’ He was always talking in terms of backbone. Sometimes he said: ‘Britain’s backbone is, you know where?’
‘At her back, I suppose?’ said Sriram facetiously.
‘Do you know where her back is?’
‘Behind her front, I suppose,’ said Sriram, still facetiously. He was beginning to enjoy these bouts, which were a relief in his lonely, drab life, isolated from all human association.
Jagadish forgave him his tricks. He explained: ‘The prospect of the Slaughter House makes you sharp-witted, doesn’t it?’ He explained with a good deal of tolerance, ‘Britain’s backbone must be smashed, and it lies in the courts and schools and offices and railway lines, from these she draws the strength for her survival.’
It was an intricate logic which Sriram could not easily grasp. He asked pathetically, ‘Why don’t we smash her front also?’
‘Because it’s far away, and we can’t reach so far.’
Jagadish dragged him about and made him his instrument and agent. Sriram was actually beginning to enjoy the excitement and novelty and above all the game of hide and seek with the police. It gave him a feeling of romantic importance. He felt that he was a character out of an epic, and on his activities depended future history. But now and then some kind of misgiving assailed his mind, when sitting concealed in a ditch in Jagadish’s company, he saw the flames rising from a railway station or a government building and lighting up the night. Once he whispered, ‘Do you think Britain will be affected by this fire?’
Jagadish declared unequivocally, ‘Churchill will already know of it. It will make him groan. It will make him sit up. It must go on and on every hour of the day, all over the country, until Britain tells us, “We are bundling ourselves out tomorrow, do what you like with your country.”
Sriram asked next, ‘I wonder what Mahatmaji will say about all this!’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Jagadish. ‘It is not his line. But when the results turn out satisfactorily, I am sure he’ll say, “You did well, my boy.”’
Sriram felt doubtful. He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure. Only Bharati knows exactly what Mahatmaji will say or think …’ And then his thoughts went off to the Slaughter House.
Jagadish seemed to weaken slightly at this point: ‘We have not wilfully caused anybody’s death. I’m always careful to see that no life is lost, but if in spite of our precautions, some people are accidentally caught in a mess and killed, we can’t help it.’
‘A lot of people are also shot down by the police when they disperse the mobs that gather to help us.’
‘But that is none of our concern,’ said Jagadish, and added, ‘In a war lives are bound to be lost. However, the job of the moment is more important than any amount of theoretical speculation. Mahatmaji taught me this philosophy when I was with him at Wardha. Anyway, don’t bother too much about these questions. He has asked us to work for the movement according to our individual capacities.’
On a certain day Jagadish examined Sriram’s face and declared, ‘The most satisfactory moustache that I ever saw in my life.’ With a razor and scissors he helped Sriram to give its end a downward turn. He produced also some old silver-rimmed spectacles, and mounted them on his nose. He provided him too with an ill-fitting, close-buttoned coat, and a white turban for covering his head. He ordered him to tie up his dhoti bifurcated, like all respectable men. After all this, Sriram looked into a mirror, the very tiny one which he used for his shaving; it did not reveal a full picture but it showed enough for him to remark: ‘I look like a wholesale rice merchant.’
Jagadish nodded appreciatively and said with considerable delight in his tone, ‘True, true … If I could only put a dark caste-mark on your forehead, that’d indeed complete the picture.’
Sriram as he sallied forth at about seven, after sunset, felt so different that he wondered why he should expect Bharati to admit him at all. He chuckled at the thought, ‘Bharati may wonder why a rice merchant has taken a fancy to call on her, all of a sudden.’ The spectacles gave him a dull ache on the bridge of his nose, and kept constantly slipping down, pestering him with a dull, misty vision. ‘This is what comes of not surrendering oneself to the police when Bharati advises one to do so!’ he reflected. At the little station he climbed into the train going towards Malgudi. There were a few sleepy passengers in his compartment. He ignored the whole lot. ‘It’s no business of a self-respecting rice merchant to speak to these folk,’ he reflected and sat looking at his fellow passengers with indifference. Jagadish had proved himself a genius: the moustache was a tremendous asset; it was as if Sriram had worn a mask over his face, the transformation was so complete.
From Malgudi station it was an hour’s walk southward through Market Road to the Slaughter House. As he passed along the familiar roads, Sriram felt sentimental and unhappy. It seemed as if he had left this world ages ago. Beyond those rows of silent and darkened shops was the house of his grandmother.
Jagadish had given precise instructions. The rice merchant crouched behind the eastern wall of the old Slaughter House. Bharati would come to the lavatory at that corner, stand up on a large stone, rolled into position for the purpose, look down and talk to him. Sriram was wondering if Bharati would notice his moustache in the darkness, he wondered if he could reach up and touch her hand. He patiently waited. The Taluk Office gong sounded two in the morning. He felt sleepy. He remembered Bharati asking him to meet her at three a.m., when the Mahatma came to Malgudi. ‘She seems fond of spoiling other people’s sleep,’ he reflected. He sat there on the ground. The Taluk Office gong struck the next hour. ‘How long am I to stay here?’ he reflected. ‘Has someone been playing a prank?’ Angry thoughts were rising in his heart.
‘Hey,’ cried a voice.
He looked up hopefully. Over the wall a head appeared, but it was not Bharati’s. It was one of the wardresses.
‘Where is …?’ Sriram began, stretching himself up on his toes.
‘Hush, listen. She won’t come.’
‘Is she not coming?’
‘No. Catch this.’ She dropped a letter. ‘Read it,’ said the head, ‘and be off
The rice merchant moved away clutching the piece of paper in his hand, his head buzzing with a thousand speculations.
Under the first street lamp, he spread out the note. It was a piece torn out of a memo pad. On it was a hurried pencil scribbling: ‘I cannot bring myself to see you today. It seems degrading to have a meeting under these conditions. Bapu has always said that it is dishonourable to assume subterfuges. In a gaol we must observe the rules, or change them by Satyagraha openly, if possible. Forgive me. We shall meet again. But before that, please go and see your granny. A detenue who came in here told me that she was very ill. It is your duty to risk your life to see her. Go before it is too late.’
Not many people were able to recognize him when he ascended the steps of 14 Kabir Street. He saw Kanni, the shopman, coming out of the house. He was softly closing the door behind him. He didn’t recognize Sriram, who for a moment forgot that he could not be recognized, and called ‘Kanni!’ almost involuntarily. His voice betrayed him. Kanni halted and suddenly cried, ‘Oh! it’s our young master. O, Ram, what is it you have been doing to yourself, deserting your house and the old lady who was your father, mother, and cousin and everything. Have you no heart? Thank God you have come now anyway. But you are too late.’
‘Why? Why?’ screamed Sriram. ‘What has happened?’
‘She is dead. She died at ten o’clock last night.’
Sriram ran past him into the house. There, i
n the old familiar place, under the good old hall lamp, lay the old lady. A white sheet was drawn over her. A couple of women from the neighbouring houses were sitting beside her, keeping vigil.
Sriram was sorrow-stricken: the familiar household, the old almanac still there under the roof tile: the copper vessel in which she kept drinking water still on the window-sill. The easy-chair which he had bought for her with his first money was still where he had put it. He had a glimpse of a past life. He went up to the corner of the house which used to be his and examined his books, pens, clothes, he opened the lid and looked into his old tin trunk. All the articles with which he had grown up were there, kept safe and intact. The vigil-keepers followed his movements with dull, sleep-filled eyes. Sriram wept. But he could not wipe away his tears; he realized that his spectacles were a nuisance: he suddenly plucked them off and flung them down, feeling: ‘I’m answerable to Jagadish for this. I’m betraying myself.’
Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma Page 61
