The English Teacher

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘The trouble is I have not enough subjects to write on,’ I confessed. She drew herself up and asked: ‘Let me see if you can write about me.’

  ‘A beautiful idea,’ I cried. ‘Let me see you.’ I sat up very attentively and looked at her keenly and fixedly like an artist or a photographer viewing his subject. I said: ‘Just move a little to your left please. Turn your head right. Look at me straight here. That’s right … Now I can write about you. Don’t drop your lovely eyelashes so much. You make me forget my task. Ah, now, don’t grin please. Very good, stay as you are and see how I write now, steady …’ I drew up the notebook, ran the fountain-pen hurriedly over it and filled a whole page beginning:

  ‘She was a phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight:

  A lovely apparition, sent

  To be a moment’s ornament.’

  I went on for thirty lines, ending:

  ‘And yet a spirit still, and bright

  With something of an angel-light.’

  I constantly paused to look at her while writing, and said: ‘Perfect. Thank you. Now listen.’

  ‘Oh, how fast you write!’ she said admiringly.

  ‘You will also find how well I’ve written. Now listen,’ I said, and read as if to my class, slowly and deliberately, pausing to explain now and then.

  ‘I never knew you could write so well.’

  ‘It is a pity that you should have underrated me so long; but now you know better. Keep it up,’ I said. ‘And if possible don’t look at the pages, say roughly between 150 and 200, in the Golden Treasury. Because someone called Wordsworth has written similar poems.’ This was an invitation for her to run in and fetch her copy of the Golden Treasury and turn over precisely the forbidden pages. She scoured every title and first line and at last pitched upon the original. She read it through, and said: ‘Aren’t you ashamed to copy?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Mine is entirely different. He had written about someone entirely different from my subject.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do such a thing as copying.’

  ‘I should be ashamed to have your memory,’ I said. ‘You have had the copy of the Golden Treasury for years now, and yet you listened to my reading with gaping wonder! I wouldn’t give you even two out of a hundred if you were my student.’ At this point our conversation was interrupted by my old clock. It burst in upon us all of a sudden. It purred and bleated and made so much noise that it threw us all into confusion. Susila picked it up and tried to stop it without success, till I snatched Taine and smothered it.

  ‘Now, why did it do it?’ she demanded. I shook my head. ‘Just for pleasure,’ I replied. She gazed on its brown face and said: ‘It is not even showing the correct time. It is showing two o’clock, four hours ahead! Why do you keep it on your table?’ I had no answer to give. I merely said: ‘It has been with me for years, poor darling!’

  ‘I will give it away this afternoon – a man comes to buy all old things.’

  ‘No, no, take care, don’t do it …’ I warned. She didn’t answer, but merely looked at it and mumbled: ‘This is not the first time. When you are away it starts bleating after I have rocked the cradle for hours and made the child sleep, and I don’t know how to stop it. It won’t do for our house. It is a bother …’

  That evening when I returned home from college the first thing I noticed was that my room looked different. My table had lost its usual quality and looked tidy, with all books dusted and neatly arranged. It looked like a savage, suddenly appearing neatly trimmed and groomed. The usual corner with old newspapers and magazines piled up was clean swept. The pile was gone. So was the clock on the table. The table looked barren without it. For years it had been there. With composition books still under my arm, I searched her out. I found her in the bathroom, washing the child’s hands: ‘What have you done with my clock?’ I asked. She looked up and asked in answer: ‘How do you like your room? I have cleaned and tidied it up. What a lot of rubbish you gathered there! Hereafter on every Thursday …’

  ‘Answer first, where is the clock?’ I said.

  ‘Please wait, I will finish the child’s business first and then answer.’

  I stood at the bathroom doorway and grimly waited. She finished the child’s business and came out bearing her on her arm. While passing me she seized the child’s hand and tapped me under the chin with it and passed on without a word to her room. She later met me in my room as I sat gloomily gazing at the table.

  ‘Why have you not had your tiffin or wash?’ she asked, coming up behind and gently touching my shoulder.

  ‘I don’t want any tiffin,’ I snapped.

  ‘Why are you so angry?’ she asked.

  ‘Who asked you to give away that clock?’ I asked.

  ‘I didn’t give it away. That man gave me twelve annas for it – a very high price indeed.’

  ‘Now you are a …’ I began. I looked at the paper corner and wailed: ‘You have given away those papers too! There were old answer papers there …’

  ‘Yes, I saw them,’ she said. ‘They were four years old. Why do you want old papers?’ she asked. I was too angry to answer. ‘You have no business to tamper with my things,’ I said. ‘I don’t want any tiffin or coffee.’ I picked up my coat, put it on and rushed out of the house, without answering her question: ‘Where are you going?’

  I went straight back to the college. I had no definite plan. There was no one in the college. I peeped into the debating hall, hoping there might be somebody there. But the evening was free from all engagements. I remembered that I hadn’t had my coffee. I walked about the empty corridors of the college. I saw the servant and asked him to open our common room. I sent him to fetch me coffee and tiffin from the restaurant. I opened my locker and took out a few composition books. I sat correcting them till late at night. I heard the college clock strike nine. I then got up and retraced my way home. I went about my work with a business-like air. I took off my coat, went at great speed to the bathroom and washed. I first took a peep into my wife’s room. I saw her rocking the baby in the cradle. I went into the kitchen and asked the old lady: ‘Have the rest dined?’

  The old lady answered: ‘Susila waited till eight-thirty.’

  I was not interested in this. Her name enraged me. I snapped: ‘All right, all right, put up my leaf and serve me. I only wanted to know if the child had eaten.’ This was to clear any misconception anyone might entertain that I was interested in Susila.

  I ate in silence. I heard steps approaching, and told myself: ‘Oh, she is coming.’ I trembled with anxiety, lest she should be going away elsewhere. I caught a glimpse of her as she came into the dining-room. I bowed my head, and went on with my dinner unconcerned, though fully aware that she was standing before me, dutifully as ever, to see that I was served correctly. She moved off to the kitchen, spoke some words to the old lady, and came out, and softly moved back to her own room. I felt angry: ‘Doesn’t even care to wait and see me served. She doesn’t care. If she cared, would she sell my clock? I must teach her a lesson.’

  After dinner I was back in my room and sat down at my table. I had never been so studious at any time in my life. I took out some composition books. I noticed on a corner of my table a small paper packet. I found enclosed in it a few coins. On the paper was written in her handwriting:

  Time-piece 12 annas

  Old paper 1 rupee

  Total One rupee and twelve annas.

  I felt furious at the sight of it. I took the coins and went over to her room. The light was out there. I stood in the doorway and muttered: ‘Who cares for this money? I can do without it.’ I flung it on her bed and returned to my room.

  Later, as I sat in my room working, I heard the silent night punctuated by sobs. I went to her room and saw her lying with her face to the wall, sobbing. I was completel
y shaken. I didn’t bargain for this. I watched her silently for a moment, and collected myself sufficiently to say: ‘What is the use of crying, after committing a serious blunder?’ Through her sobs, she sputtered: ‘What do you care, what use is it or not. If I had known you cared more for a dilapidated clock.’ She didn’t finish her sentence, but broke down and wept bitterly. I was baffled. I was in an anguish myself. I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her. But there was a most forbidding pride within me. I merely said: ‘If you are going to talk and behave like a normal human being, I can talk to you. I can’t stand all this nonsense.’

  ‘You go away to your room. Why do you come and abuse me at midnight?’ she said.

  ‘Stop crying, otherwise people will think a couple of lunatics are living in this house …’

  I went back to my room – a very determined man. I lay on a mat, trying to sleep, and spent a miserable and sleepless night.

  We treated each other like strangers for the next forty-eight hours – all aloof and bitter. The child looked on this with puzzlement, but made it up by attending to her toys and going to the old lady for company. It was becoming a torture. I could stand no more of it. I had hoped Susila would try to make it up, and that I could immediately accept it. But she confined herself to her room and minded her business with great concentration and never took notice of me. I caught a glimpse of her face occasionally and found that her eyes were swollen. I felt a great pity for her, when I saw her slender neck, as she was going away from the bathroom. I blamed myself for being such a savage. But I couldn’t approach her. The child would not help us either; she was too absorbed in her own activities. It came to a point when I simply could not stand any more of it. So the moment I returned home from college next evening I said to her, going to her room:

  ‘Let us go to a picture …’

  ‘What picture?’ she asked.

  ‘Tarzan – at Variety Hall. You will like it very much …’

  ‘Baby?’

  ‘The old lady will look after her. We shall be back at nine. Dress up …’ I was about to say ‘Look sharp,’ but I checked myself and said: ‘There is a lot of time. You needn’t hustle yourself.’

  ‘No, I’ll be ready in ten minutes …’ she said rising.

  By the time we were coming out of the Variety Hall that night we were in such agreement and showed such tender concern for each other’s views and feelings that we both wondered how we could have treated each other so cruelly. ‘I thought we might buy a new clock, that’s why I gave away the old one,’ she said.

  ‘You did the best thing possible,’ I said. ‘Even in the hostel that wretched clock worried everyone near about. I am glad you have rid me of it.’

  ‘They make such beautiful ones nowadays,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, yes, right. We will go out and buy one tomorrow evening,’ I said. When we reached home we decided that we should avoid quarrelling with each other since, as she put it, ‘They say such quarrels affect a child’s health.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  On the occasion of our child’s third birthday, my father wrote to say that he would advance me money to buy a house in Malgudi or to build one. He did not think it was very wise to go on living in a rented house. This offer made us very happy. I and my wife sat down and carried on endless discussions to decide which would be better, whether a built house or a site on which to build. ‘A room all for myself where I can sit and spin out great poetry,’ I said.

  ‘Well, some place where you can be free from my presence?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you be plain?’ ‘No, no,’ I replied awkwardly.

  ‘I’m not eager to thrust my company on you either,’ she said: ‘I am as eager to have a separate room.’

  ‘In that case, I don’t want one,’ I replied. ‘Why should both of us have separate rooms?’

  ‘Are you fighting?’ the little one asked, gazing at us bewildered. ‘You are always scolding mother,’ she said looking at me, and I felt unhappy at this thrust.

  We agreed to go out on the following Sunday morning to Lawley Extension to choose a house or a site.

  We were up with the dawn. The old cook had gone out to see a relation on the previous evening. I had to light the fire and boil the water for coffee while Susila bathed, dressed, and prepared herself for the outing. As I sat struggling with smoke in my eyes and nostrils, she appeared at the kitchen doorway, like a vision, clad in her indigo sari, and hair gleaming and jasmine-covered. I looked at her indigo sari and smiled to myself. She noticed it and asked, ‘Why that?’

  ‘Nothing, nothing,’ I said with a cold damp in my nose. My voice was thick. ‘What is wrong with this sari? It is as good as another!’ she said.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ I replied. ‘That is why I say you should use it more sparingly, otherwise you will wear it out …’ Her eyes sparkled with joy; she spread the fragrance of jasmine more than ever. ‘The divine creature!’ I reflected within myself, looking at her tall, slim figure.

  ‘She was a phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight.’

  My mind unconsciously quoted – the habit of an English teacher. The water reached boiling point and was lifting and throwing down the lid. All around the kitchen lay scattered faggots and burnt matchsticks and coal. Smoke still hung in the air. I smelt the coffee powder. ‘Five spoons of powder and two tumblers of water, am I right?’ I asked. She suddenly pushed me aside and said: ‘Now, get ready. Let us be off. I will attend to this …’

  I went away, and returned in half an hour ready and dressed. She gave me coffee. The maidservant had come. Susila placed a tumbler of milk on a teapoy outside and told the servant: ‘Give this to the baby when she wakes up. Make her drink off the whole of it. Keep her engaged till the old lady returns. She will be back at about eight. Tell her that I will bring her fine toys and biscuits …’

  She threw a look at the sleeping baby, drew a blanket over her, and said: ‘Sit by her side, so that when she wakes up she may not cry.’

  As we stepped out of the house, she said: ‘I hope the child won’t cry …’

  ‘Don’t keep bothering about her. She will be all right. You will be spoiling her if you bother so much. She must learn to exist by herself …’ My wife merely smiled at me. ‘I’m confident that the old woman will keep her happy, but she must come back in time.’

  A fresh morning breeze blew. I took in a deep breath and said: ‘Do you know how I used to love the early morning walk along the river when I was in the hostel … There is a magic in the atmosphere …’ I was highly elated. The fresh sun, morning light, the breeze, and my wife’s presence, who looked so lovely – even an unearthly loveliness – her tall form, dusky complexion, and the small diamond ear-rings – Jasmine, Jasmine … ‘I will call you Jasmine, hereafter,’ I said. ‘I’ve long waited to tell you that …’

  ‘Remember, we are in a public road and don’t start any of your pranks here,’ she warned, throwing at me a laughing glance. Her eyes always laughed – there was a perpetual smile in her eyes. ‘The soul laughs through the eyes, it is the body which laughs with lips …’ I remarked. ‘What are you saying?’ she asked. ‘Nothing,’ I replied.

  ‘I hope you’ve not forgotten that we are in a public road?’ ‘What I say is perfectly innocent, no harm even if repeated on a public platform.’ We were now in Market Road. Vehicles were moving about. The market was stirring into activity.

  People as they passed threw a glance at us, some students saluted me. I said, ‘My boys, good fellows …’ ‘Must be, because they salute you,’ she said.

  We were now passing before Bombay Ananda Bhavan, a restaurant. ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked. I was only too delighted. I led her in. A number of persons were sitting in the dark hall over their morning coffee. There was a lot of din and clanging of vessels. Everybody turned and stared, the presence of a woman, particularly at that hour, being so very unusual. I felt rather shy. She
went ahead, and stood in the middle of the hall not knowing where to go. A waiter appeared. ‘Here Mani,’ I hailed, knowing this boy, a youngster from Malabar, who had served me tiffin for several years now. I felt very proud of his acquaintance.

  Mani said, ‘Family room upstairs, follow me.’ We followed him. There was a single room upstairs, with a wooden, marble-topped table and four chairs. The walls were lined as usual with fancy, coloured tiles.

  ‘These marbles are so nice,’ my wife said, with simple joy, running her fingers over them. ‘How smooth!’

  ‘Do you know they are used only in bathrooms in civilized cities; they are called bathroom tiles.’

  ‘They are so nice, why should these be used only for bathrooms?’

  ‘Do you think those bathrooms are like ours?’

  ‘Bathrooms are bathrooms wherever they may be …’ she replied.

  ‘No, no, a bathroom is very much unlike the smoke-ridden, wet, dripping bathing-place we have.’

  ‘I try to keep it as neat as possible, and yet you think it is not good,’ she remarked.

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  ‘I think you did mean it.’ I didn’t like to spoil a good morning with a debate. So I agreed: ‘I am sorry. Forgive and forget.’

  ‘All right,’ she said. She stretched her arms back and touched the wall behind her and said, ‘I like these tiles, so fine and smooth! When we have a house of our own, won’t you have some of them fixed like that on our walls?’

  ‘With pleasure, but not in the hall, they are usually put up only in the bathrooms,’ I pleaded.

  ‘What if they are! People who like them for bathrooms may have them there, others if they want them elsewhere …’

  At this moment Mani appeared carrying a tray of eatables. ‘How quickly he has brought these!’ she remarked: this was her first visit to Bombay Ananda Bhavan. Its magnitude took her breath away. Her eyes sparkled like a child’s.