Servants of India

by R K Laxman

  R.K. LAXMAN

  Servants of India

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  About the Author

  Dedication

  Keshab the Handyman

  Swami the Cook

  Shanti the Maid

  Kumar the Actor

  Parvati the Ayah

  Anthony the Chauffeur

  Iswaran the Storyteller

  Ramu the Retainer

  Narasimha the Terrible

  The Saga of Ramaswami

  Copyright Page

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  SERVANTS OF INDIA

  Rasipuram Krishnaswamy Laxman was born and educated in Mysore. Soon after he graduated from the University of Mysore, he began cartooning for the Free Press Journal, a newspaper in Bombay. Six months later, he joined the Times of India as staff cartoonist, a newspaper he has been with for over fifty years.

  He has written and published numerous short stories, essays and travel articles, some of which were published in a book, Idle Hours. He has also written two novels, The Hotel Riviera and The Messenger, both published by Penguin Books. Penguin has also published several collections of Laxman’s cartoons in the series The Best of Laxman and Laugh with Laxman. The Tunnel of Time, Laxman’s autobiography, is also available from Penguin Books, as is Collected Writings, an omnibus of his prose.

  R.K. Laxman was awarded the prestigious Padma Bhushan by the Government of India. The University of Marathwada conferred an honorary Doctor of Literature degree on him. He has won many awards for his cartoons, including Asia’s top journalism award, the Ramon Magsaysay Award, in 1984.

  R.K. Laxman lives in Mumbai.

  To Kamala, my wife

  Keshab the Handyman

  Ganesh was busy composing an article on the mosquito menace in the town, decrying the lack of initiative on the part of the civic authorities in the matter of cleaning up clogged drains. He was a freelance journalist and wrote on varying subjects, ranging from mosquitoes—which was what he was busy with at the present moment—to saving the Taj Mahal from pollution, from the dire need for a children’s playground in the city to the effect brand images and market forces had on the morals of cricket players.

  Through Cosmos Syndicate his articles found their place in a wide range of magazines and newspapers. The income from his efforts allowed him to lead a comfortable life and had also paid for his son’s degree in computer science which had found him his ultimate destiny in Chicago in a software firm.

  Ganesh had even managed to get him married to a girl from a well-to-do NRI family. He had seen an advertisement in the matrimonial column in a newspaper: ‘Affluent parents of a fair, pretty, slim, modern educated girl seek alliance with well to do, handsome, tall … etc.’ Gancsh had responded on an impulse. It was not long before the marriage was settled and the boy now lived happily with his wife.

  While Ganesh was concentrating on mosquitoes his ears were recording the various noises from the kitchen: clanking vessels, dropped spoons, mixtures being churned, water gushing from the tap etc. The cook was a new chap. He was being drilled by his wife Geetha to fit into the lifestyle of the household. The previous fellow had asked permission to take a day off, saying someone owed him money and he had to go and collect it. He had said he would be back the following morning to prepare breakfast. He had never mined up again and disappeared without a trace.

  He had actually been squirreling away his possessions bit by bit over a week to another place. Finally when he got his salary on the first of the month he had left swinging his empty hands rather conspicuously. In the three years he had served them he had become one of the mechanical fixtures in the kitchen. Now his sudden absence had thrown the household out of gear.

  Ganesh had sat at his desk watching his wife with concern. She would dash in and out of the kitchen wiping the sweat off her face with the end of her saree end cursing her fate and the community of ingrate servants in general. She now had to prepare breakfast, lunch and dinner all on her own, without a moment’s rest.

  After they had appealed to all sorts of people—friends, relatives and sundry acquaintances—to find them a new cook, the present one had turned up. He had shown them a string of recommendations and certificates. ‘Varadan is an excellent cook, honest, clean, hard-working and God-fearing. He was in our service for many years till I was transferred …’

  The very picture of him standing framed in the doorway had given the couple such relief that they found it hard to hide. The obvious questions were shot at him. ‘Where were you working before?’ ‘In the High Court judge’s house.’ ‘Why did you leave the job?’ ‘He retired and left the town.’ And so on.

  Finally he was appointed. Geetha found him satisfactory. The tension that was building up dangerously at home eased suddenly. The after-dinner conversations were now carried on in a lighter vein, recalling their experience with crooked cooks and eccentric and cunning servants.

  On one such occasion Geetha said, ‘It is really funny—come to think of it. You write about so many things. Why don’t you write a series called “Servants of India”?’

  At first it seemed merely a good-humoured leg-pull. But slowly the idea began to germinate in Ganesh’s mind. He recalled the hordes of cooks, drivers, servants, maids and various other helping hands who had passed through his home over the years. It was a colourful army composed of diverse characters: miserably poor people from the villages who had lost their all in a family dispute or famine, drivers with hopes of becoming a chauffeur for the chairman of some industrial giant, widows, orphans and a few plain thieves.

  Ganesh remembered Keshab. He was an all-purpose hand in the household. He was a good help to Geetha in the kitchen when the cook absented himself. In an emergency he could double up as gardener or driver. He was also a handyman who could fix a blown-out fuse and restore the lights, drive a nail on the wall to hang a picture, repair the grinder in the kitchen and set right a leaking tap in the bathroom, all within the space of an hour.

  Keshab proved a great asset whenever Ganesh threw a cocktail party at home or invited people over for dinner. He used to act like a professional waiter serving drinks and snacks, and keeping a vigilant eye on the liquid-level in the guests’ glasses. They were an assorted variety: newspaper editors, lawyers, business tycoons, art critics, government officials and so on. They were all useful to Ganesh since they could provide him with material for his column.

  On one such occasion Ganesh’s drawing room was abuzz with guests who had turned up for cocktails. Keshab was softly gliding in and out of the gathering with a tray of drinks. Among those present was the Commissioner of Police.

  As time passed the crowd began to thin out. Before leaving the commissioner took Ganesh aside and asked, ‘How did you come to engage that bearer of yours?’

  ‘Oh, you mean Keshab?’ Ganesh responded, thinking like so many others that the commissioner was admiring Keshab’s smartness and his unobtrusively efficient service. He showered praise on Keshab and said he was an asset to the household. ‘I can see that. Smart chap. But where did you find him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sam, my wife found him! He was recommended by her friend’s friend and so on. You know how these things happen.’ Ganesh laughed. ‘He is truly a godsend.’

  The commissioner looked grim and said in a hollow tone, ‘I am afraid I have to arrest him. He is a wanted criminal …!’

  The rest of what the commissioner was saying did not register on Ganesh. He felt as if the very earth was slipping away from under his feet. He began to perspire. Holding on to the commissioner for support he led him to the balcony. He was afraid he would pass out and make a fool of himself before the few guests who were still lingering in the doorway.

  ‘Wh
en are you going to arrest him?’ Ganesh managed to ask once they were outside.

  ‘Right away! I will call the station and they can come and pick him up,’ said the commissioner.

  ‘Please don’t, Sam, for God’s sake,’ Ganesh pleaded. ‘My wife will not stand the shock. She will have to make alternate arrangements and she can’t do it at such short notice. She will have to clean up and set the house right after the guests leave. Our cook can’t do it. If you ask him he will also leave. We will be in a mess. Have some sympathy, Sam. Keshab has been going about freely all these days. A few more hours of freedom will not matter. You can arrest him tomorrow, Sam.’ Ganesh sounded truly pathetic.

  ‘But, Ganesh, it is dangerous to keep such a criminal in the house. One can’t say what he would do …’ the commissioner argued.

  Ganesh could not believe that Keshab had suddenly become a monster overnight. ‘He has been with us over six months now and we have not lost a pin,’ he said, ‘nor has he ever misbehaved. Just let him be for one more night, Sam. We will take all possible care. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Well, no ill feelings, Ganesh,’ the commissioner said. ‘It is my duty to arrest criminals—I am a police officer. But all right, since you insist, I will wait till tomorrow. But first thing in the morning.’ He left after taking a good look at Keshab who was holding the door for the guests and saluting them as they departed.

  Ganesh felt a deep sadness when he saw Keshab. He could not believe that the handsome face with high cheekbones, well-shaped nose and arched eyebrows that he saw before him was actually a mask hiding a criminal. At any moment, he thought, the face might transform itself into a sinister visage complete with bushy eyebrows, hawk-like nose, rows of large teeth, thick lips, and black rings round the bulging eyeballs.

  Now there was the problem of telling his wife about the criminal under their roof. His heart broke when he saw her cheerfully telling the kitchen staff including Keshab how well the party had gone off and how delicious the preparations were. Ganesh, meanwhile, was moving around glumly, picking up the bottles of liquor and putting them back on the bar shelf. He saw himself addressing Keshab: ‘Look, the police are coming.’ He shuddered at the vision.

  Ganesh was caught in a dilemma—whether to betray Sam and deny him the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of arresting a notorious criminal or betray Keshab and deny him the chance to escape from a long term in prison. Both Sam and Keshab were dear to him.

  He could hear his wife in the kitchen giving the servants a list of the guests who had attended the party: the manager of the Paradise Bookshop, the proprietor of Camban Industries, The Daily Call reporter, the Commissioner of Police, the dentist … Here Ganesh heard Keshab interrupt and ask what the police commissioner looked like. ‘Oh, he was that tall man in the blue safari suit …’ his wife described him. Keshab did not say anything.

  Just as Ganesh had feared, the cook banged on the bedroom door the next morning to announce that Keshab had disappeared. ‘He has also taken my shaving kit, comb and mirror,’ the cook complained.

  Geetha was stunned! She stood still trying to comprehend the situation, biting her lips nervously. Then she made a dash to her cupboard to see if all her jewellery was safe.

  Ganesh tried to tell them what the commissioner had told him. But both the cook and his wife were engaged in an excited exchange of views they had always held about Keshab.

  ‘He’s a cunning rascal,’ said the cook.

  ‘I always had a suspicion about that crook,’ said the wife.

  ‘I never trusted him and knew he was hiding something.’

  ‘That’s why I never wanted to leave him alone in the house.’

  Thus they went on airing their feelings about the departed servant. The discussion ended with the wife pointing to Ganesh and saying, ‘Keshab was his favourite and I knew it was no use airing my opinion about him. That’s why I kept my mouth shut.’

  Ganesh kept quiet with just a grunt of denial in answer to the allegation. He was too tired to argue and didn’t want to get into a quarrel with his wife. He had not slept the whole night thinking of the prospect that awaited him in the morning.

  Some time later he wrote an article entitled ‘The Making of a Thief’ for Cosmos Syndicate. For this he took the help of his many friends and acquaintances in the police force. He had access to the police records of pick-pockets, stranglers, of old ladies, chain snatchers at the bus stand, extortionists, smugglers and so on. But he ignored most of the material he had acquired. He concentrated only on the case of Keshab, tracing his evolution in the crime world. He could not help admiring the fellow. He wondered how a person with such an amazing degree of intelligence and aptitude could have taken to crime.

  Keshab was the son of a textile factory worker. After dropping out of high school, he became a tailor’s apprentice for a while but bunked one night after collecting all the suiting and shirting material in the shop.

  He then found a job in an auto workshop. Within a short span of time he learnt a great deal about the mechanism of cars. But he left sensing that the proprietor had begun to search for the missing batteries, fan belts and tyres.

  The travel agency he worked for next gave him an opportunity to drive an Ambassador car all over the country for assorted tourists. His next job was that of a waiter in a five-star hotel. It was even rumoured in police circles that he had joined a gang led by a notorious criminal who operated from some middle-eastern country. Under his leadership Keshab broke into several jewellery shops after assaulting and beating up the watchman. His career continued thus leaving in its wake innumerable police cases and arrest warrants. The police record showed that once he was even arrested but escaped from police custody when being escorted to the magistrate’s court. The police seemed to have lost track of him for several years after this.

  Eventually he reappeared, under an assumed name. He had changed his hairstyle, grown rather prominent whiskers and done his best to avoid any resemblance to the photograph that had appeared in all the prominent dailies in the column titled, ‘Wanted for criminal offence’.

  With the passing of time he gained courage and gradually transformed himself back to his original looks: a closely trimmed crop and a thin line of moustache arching the upper lip. This was the personality Ganesh had hired when he was in dire need of a domestic help.

  Six months later Keshab had to be on the run again after he was identified by the police commissioner at Ganesh’s cocktail party.

  Swami the Cook

  Ganesh enjoyed telling the story of Keshab to his friends, garnishing it with narrative embellishments, making his audience feel as if they had been present when the incident took place.

  Infected by the mood of the gathering, Vasu, a close companion of Ganesh, said he was eager to share the experience he had with one of the cooks who had served in his household. But Vasu lacked the verve and sense of drama that Ganesh possessed. His account of Swami the cook was bland and matter of fact, like a government report—lacking suspense, the element of surprise or humour.

  However, Ganesh, when putting the story down on paper, used his creativity in order to hold the interest of the reader.

  ‘Ganesh, I don’t know if you remember,’ Vasu began. ‘Some years ago we were both invited by a friend of ours to his daughter’s engagement ceremony. There were quite a few people in the hall and you sat on the sofa next to an orthodox looking fellow …’ Ganesh nodded, trying to recollect. ‘Well, can you believe he was our cook once? You might have noticed he was the pundit who conducted the engagement ceremony!’

  Vasu launched into the story of Swami the cook. He had come recommended by a relative of Vasu’s who lived in Bangalore. They had met Swami at the station and brought him home. He was a quiet fellow, with a smile always on his lips. Vasu’s wife instandy took to him and found him extremely agreeable. On the day he landed up he went straight to the garden tap, had a bath and then moved to the kitchen, familiarizing himself with the surroundings and asking Vasu�
��s wife questions about where to find what. He did not even mention anything about the salary. At the end of the month when Vasu asked him how much he expected, he replied, ‘Whatever you think I deserve, sir,’ and giggled.

  He did his work well and Vasu’s wife was immensely pleased. She ignored some of the strange traits he had—like talking to himself when he was alone in the kitchen. He also had a habit of leaning against the kitchen doorway and gazing unabashedly at visitors who might have dropped in. Sometimes it became embarrassing and he had to be asked to look for some sundry work in the kitchen.

  Of all the eccentricities of Swami’s what Vasu liked was his butting in with clichés when he was busy talking to his wife at the dining table. ‘Noble thoughts should be accepted even if they are from a crook,’ Swami would pronounce; or ‘A fish and a cat cannot be friends’; or ‘You can change the name of a person but you cannot change his character.’

  Once Vasu developed a severe soar throat in the middle of the night. He felt the need for gargling. Not wanting to disturb his wife, he quietly groped his way in the dark to the kitchen to boil some water and get some salt.

  When he switched on the light he was shocked. Swami was lying on the floor stretched out like a corpse, eyes shut tight. His forehead was plastered with sacred ash and saffron. His dhoti was dripping wet. But his lips were twittering faintly as though uttering something.

  Vasu decided this was no time to prepare hot water for gargling. He switched off the light and quietly tiptoed back to bed. His wife was still fast asleep.

  Next morning at the breakfast table Vasu behaved as if he had not seen anything strange in the kitchen the previous night. The cook, of course, having been in a state of trance when he was lying on the floor, was unaware of the master’s midnight visit to the kitchen. Vasu could not believe that the same Swami who was serving breakfast so normally was the very man he had found stretched out on the kitchen floor the previous night, looking like one who was being prepared for human sacrifice.