The English Teacher

by R. K. Narayan

  ‘No, it will be a bother for you. Not your hour. You’ll have to sit up at night too.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. I do not really mind a little overtime work,’ he said. I dipped my hand in Lentol and left the room.

  The child was delighted to see me out of the room so early. She clapped her hands in joy and ran towards me. ‘Not yet, not yet. Don’t touch me. You can speak to me from a distance, that is all. I have not had a wash yet. I’ll have it only at night.’ She made a wry face: ‘All right. I’ll go to grandfather.’

  ‘He is with mother.’

  She became angry on hearing this. ‘Everybody goes into that room. Who is to be with me?’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the next house and play with your friend?’

  ‘I don’t like her. She beats me whenever she sees me.’ This amused me. I knew they were the thickest of friends a second ago. And they would be playing together next minute. So I asked: ‘All right, then. Come to my room and see a picture book. You must not sit on my bed but a little way off.’

  She agreed to this condition and came to my room. My room served as a guest room for my father-in-law. In a corner there was his canvas hold-all and a trunk, and his coats and clothes hung on the peg. My table was dusty and confused, the books lying in a chaotic jumble, untouched for days and days now. All my waking hours were spent at the bedside, and I seldom visited this room. ‘In my happy days this table was a jumble. In my days of anxiety it was no less a jumble. Perhaps a table is meant to be so. No use wasting thought over it …’ I remarked to myself; the habit of wishing to do something or other with the table top, whenever I saw it, had persisted with me for many years now. I kicked up a roll of matting and threw myself down, deciding to relax while the chance was there. ‘Let the father and daughter settle it between themselves. I won’t go till I am called.’ My daughter, who had been standing in the doorway, asked: ‘Can I come in, father?’

  ‘Yes, yes, this is not a sickroom,’ I said. I had forgotten for a moment I had asked her to follow me in.

  She sat down on the edge of the mat, and asked: ‘Is this far enough?’

  ‘Yes, you mustn’t touch me, that is all, till I have a thorough wash at night.’

  ‘Does mother’s fever climb on your hands and stick there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Won’t it get into you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I am an elder,’ I said with a touch of pride in my voice. She was gradually edging nearer to my mat, and now only an inch of space separated us. ‘No, no. You are too near me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not touching you,’ she argued. I was too fatigued to argue with her, and left her alone, turned over to the other side, and shut my eyes, muttering: ‘You are a fine girl. Don’t disturb me. I am sleeping.’ She agreed to this proposal. But the moment I shut my eyes, she stretched her leg and gently poked my back with her toe.

  ‘Ah, why do you do it?’

  ‘You must not turn away from me. It makes me afraid to be alone.’ I turned over to face her and tried to sleep. She called: ‘Father.’

  ‘You mustn’t disturb me.’

  ‘You said you would give me a picture book.’ I groaned, ‘Leave me alone, baby. Take the book.’ She went over to the table, but could not reach any part of its top. ‘It is too high up, father.’ I got up and searched among the books on the table. There was not one fit for her perusal – all of them were heavy, academic, and unillustrated. Underneath all these was a catalogue of miscellaneous articles from a mail order firm in Calcutta. It was a stout enough volume. I gave it to her. She was delighted. It was full of small smudgy representations of all kinds of household articles. She kept it on her knee and was soon lost in it, turning the pages. Soothed by the rustling of the pages, I snatched a little sleep, although she constantly tried to get me to explain the pictures.

  When I woke up it was about five o’clock. The catalogue was sprawling on the floor. The child was not there. Her voice came from the kitchen. I went in and asked for some coffee. The child was sitting there on her grandmother’s lap, learning a song. On seeing me she stopped her song and asked: ‘Can I touch you now?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘You didn’t know it when I got up and ran away!’ she said with a great triumph in her voice, as if I had kept her in detention and she had managed to escape.

  ‘No, I didn’t. You are very cunning,’ I replied and it pleased her greatly.

  The patient was asleep. My father-in-law rose from his seat on seeing me, dipped his hand in the basin, and came out and whispered: ‘Will you take the watch now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She has managed to sleep after all. Let her sleep quietly. Rather restless today …’ he said and went away.

  I resumed my seat, pressing down the ice bag. She woke up. She looked up at me and said: ‘Oh, you have come!’ She gripped my arms gratefully.

  ‘I am always here. Don’t worry, dear.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m glad. Do you know what that man did?’

  ‘Who?’ I said.

  ‘He was here when you were away.’

  ‘Your father?’ I said.

  ‘Know what he did? He tried to remove this necklace.’ She lifted her gold neckchain between her fingers and showed it to me. ‘But I snatched it back. He wrenched my head. Bad man. You must never leave my side hereafter.’

  I agreed. Her fingers lightly ran over the bed clothes as if searching for something, and tugged the edges. She tried to kick away the blanket. She attempted to roll out of bed. When I checked her, she was furious. ‘Why do you stop me? I want to go away.’

  She held up her arms and asked: ‘Where is the baby?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ I explained.

  ‘Oh, who took her there?’

  ‘Your mother,’ I said.

  ‘All right. Let them be careful. They must not take away a small baby without telling me. They may drop it.’ I understood what she meant. She was imagining herself in childbed. Those memories were confusing her. She still held up her arms for the baby. I gently put them down. After that she started singing. Her faint voice choked with the strain. I couldn’t make out the words or the tune. I said: ‘Hush, stop it please. You must not sing. You will not get well if you exert yourself.’ But she would not stop. I protested, and she said: ‘I want to sing, and I will sing. Why should it offend you?’

  At night she ceased to sleep peacefully. She talked or sang all night. The doctor examined her more closely every time now. He examined her heart and said: ‘She must sleep. It is imperative. This continuous temperature is very taxing. She must rest. I will watch how it goes, and then give a mild hypnotic.’

  The ice was melting, we were wearing ourselves out nursing, but the fever would not subside. It never went below 103 in the mornings and rose and hovered about 105 every day. The doctor said: ‘The patient is very restless, that’s why she has a temperature. If only she could sleep for six hours, you would see a wonderful change.’

  The doctor was losing his cheerfulness, and looked harrowed and helpless. Next morning he brought in his car another doctor, a famous Madras physician. Even in our wildest dreams we could never have hoped to get this great physician. His reputation was all over the Presidency and his monthly income was in the neighbourhood of ten thousand. Dr Sankar came in advance and said: ‘It’s your luck, Doctor – came here for another case. I begged him to see your wife. You are lucky he has agreed. Please ask him in. He is a very good man.’ I and my father-in-law rushed out and greeted the great physician effusively, opened the door of the car, and led him in. Dr Sankar looked very nervous in his presence.

  The great man spent an hour examining the patient. He tapped her abdomen, scratched a key on it and watched, lifted her arm, flashed a torch into her eyes, and examined the temperature chart. We waited in great suspense. He asked numerous questions. �
�Mixture?’ he said and held his hand out for it without turning. Dr Sankar jumped up, clutched the medicine bottle, and put it in his hand. The great doctor shook the contents and watched it for a moment: ‘If I were you, I’d stop all this and go so far as to administer glucose and brandy every two hours, if possible with five minims of solomine. It is the best stimulant I can think of at the moment.’

  ‘How do you find the patient, sir?’ I asked.

  ‘Well …’ the expert drawled. ‘Her vitality is not very good, though there are no complications.’

  ‘What can we do? What can we do?’ my father-in-law asked in consternation. My mother-in-law stood in the doorway, and behind her the child, looking with wonder on this scene. The doctor did not answer. But my father-in-law writhed: ‘Is there anything wanting in our attention? Should we take her to the hospital?’

  ‘Not at all. Everything is quite well done here,’ said the physician and we were greatly pleased with the compliment. ‘Is there anything special we ought to do now?’

  ‘I will speak to your doctor,’ said the big man, with an air of snubbing us.

  We poured out our gratitude as he moved to his car, and asked: ‘Won’t you have a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Thank you, I never drink coffee,’ he said.

  Our doctor said: ‘I’ll see you again,’ and went away.

  The next morning I was jubilant. For the first time the temperature remained at 101. For weeks it had never gone below 102. Now it showed 101. What a joy! We were all jubilant. A ray of sun was breaking through the overcast sky. As soon as our doctor’s car drove up at our gate, I ran out to announce, ‘Doctor, the temperature has come down.’

  ‘Splendid,’ he cried. ‘Didn’t I tell you it would …’

  ‘And the patient slept grandly,’ I said. ‘In fact she is still sleeping …’

  The doctor examined her, but it didn’t wake her up. ‘Continue the mixture, and diet as usual. No ice bag … Have a hot water bottle ready. I will come again,’ he said and went away. For the first time these weeks my hand did not have to perform the duty of pressing down the ice bag. It lay on a stool untouched. It was a happy sight for me. And also there were still five pounds of ice in the sack. ‘Use it for ice cream, if you like,’ I told my father-in-law. The atmosphere had suddenly relaxed. The patient had gone into a profound sleep. I had nothing to do in the sickroom. I sat there till afternoon. I disinfected my hands and requested my father-in-law to keep an eye on the patient. I bathed, changed, and took the child upon my shoulder. She was astonished: ‘Has mother got well?’ she asked. ‘Can I go in now?’

  ‘Very soon you will be going in … but wait. I will take you out for a walk …’ She was elated. She put on her small green coat, clung to my hand and came out. I took her down the road. Her friend was standing at the gate. Leela said: ‘Let her also come with us, father. She is so poor!’

  ‘Is she very poor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What is meant by poor?’ I asked.

  ‘Nobody buys her peppermints …’ the child exclaimed.

  ‘Who taught you this?’

  ‘Grandmother,’ she replied promptly. So her friend joined us. We then paced down the road. They didn’t speak much, but constantly looked at each other and giggled. I took them to a shop at the end of the street, and allowed them to buy whatever they wanted. They chose a few lozenges, and some bright bamboo whistles pasted over with green coloured paper. We returned, both of them blowing through their whistles. All this had taken about an hour, and I had lived in a great peace. Ahead, at our gate I saw the doctor’s car standing. ‘Let us hurry up,’ I said walking fast, and the children trotted behind. At our door the child said: ‘I will go and play in the next house, father,’ and ran off. I went in. The doctor and my father-in-law were in earnest discussion; the patient was sleeping, breathing noisily.

  ‘The child, the child,’ the old man said in a shaking voice the moment he saw me. ‘Where is she?’

  I didn’t understand. ‘She has gone to play in the next house,’ I said.

  ‘Very well, very well,’ he replied. ‘Take care of her. You must mind her and keep her.’

  I looked at the patient. She had grown a shade whiter, and breathed noisily. There were drops of perspiration on her forehead. I touched it, and found it very cold. ‘Doctor, the temperature is coming down.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I knew it would …’ he said, biting his nails. Nothing seemed to be right anywhere. ‘Doctor … tell me …’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, don’t ask questions,’ he said. He felt the pulse; drew aside the blanket and ran his fingers over her abdomen which appeared slightly distended. He tapped it gently, and said: ‘Run to the car and fetch the other bag please, which you will find in the back seat …’

  The doctor opened it. ‘Hot water, hot water, please.’ He poured turpentine into the boiling water, and applied fomentations to her abdomen. He took out a hypodermic syringe, heated the needle, and pushed it into her arm: at the pressure of the needle she winced. ‘Perhaps it hurts her,’ I muttered. The doctor looked at me without an answer. He continued the fomentation.

  An hour later, he drew up the blanket and packed his bag. I stood and watched in silence. All through this, he wouldn’t speak a word to me. I stood like a statue. The only movement the patient showed was the heaving of her bosom. The whole house was silent. The doctor held his bag in one hand, patted my back and pursed his lips. My throat had gone dry and smarted. I croaked through this dryness: ‘Don’t you have to remain, doctor?’ He shook his head: ‘What can we do? We have done our best …’ He stood looking at the floor for a few moments, heaved a sigh, patted my back once again, and whispered: ‘You may expect change in about two and a half hours.’ He turned and walked off. I stood stock still, listening to his shoe creaks going away, the starting of his car; after the car had gone, a stony silence closed in on the house, punctuated by the stentorian breathing, which appeared to me the creaking of the hinges of a prison gate, opening at the command of a soul going into freedom.

  Here is an extract from my diary: The child has been cajoled to sleep in the next house. The cook has been sent there to keep her company. Two hours past midnight. We have all exhausted ourselves, so a deep quiet has decended on us (moreover a great restraint is being observed by all of us for the sake of the child in the next house, whom we don’t wish to scare). Susila lies there under the window, laid out on the floor. For there is the law that, the body, even if it is an Emperor’s must rest only on the floor, on Mother Earth.

  We squat on the bare floor around her, her father, mother, and I. We mutter, talk among ourselves, and wail between convulsions of grief; but our bodies are worn out with fatigue. An unearthly chill makes our teeth chatter as we gaze on the inert form and talk about it. Gradually, unknown to ourselves, we recline against the wall and sink into sleep. The dawn finds us all huddled on the cold floor.

  The first thing we do is to send for the priest and the bearers … And then the child’s voice is heard in the next house. She is persuaded to have her milk there, dress, and go out with a boy in the house, who promises to keep her engaged and out of our way for at least four hours. She is surprised at the extraordinary enthusiasm with which people are sending her out today. I catch a glimpse of her as she passes on the road in front of our house, wearing her green velvet coat, bright and sparkling.

  Neighbours, relations and friends arrive, tears and lamentations, more tears and lamentations, and more and more of it. The priest roams over the house, asking for one thing or other for performing the rites … The corpse-bearers, grim and subhuman, have arrived with their equipment – bamboo and coir ropes. Near the front step they raise a small fire with cinders and faggots – this is the fire which is to follow us to the cremation ground.

  A bamboo stretcher is ready on the ground in front of the house. Some friends are hanging about with red eyes. I am blind, dumb, and dazed.
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  The parting moment has come. The bearers, after brief and curt preliminaries, walk in, lift her casually without fuss, as if she were an empty sack or a box, lay her on the stretcher, and tie her up with ropes. Her face looks at the sky, bright with the saffron touched on her face, and the vermilion on the forehead, and a string of jasmine somewhere about her head.

  The downward curve of her lips gives her face a repressed smile … Everyone gathers a handful of rice and puts it between her lips – our last offering.

  They shoulder the stretcher. I’m given a pot containing the fire and we march out, down our street, Ellamman Street. Passers-by stand and look for a while. But every face looks blurred to me. The heat of the sun is intense. We cut across the sands, ford the river at Nallappa’s Grove, and on to the other bank of the river, and enter the cremation ground by a small door on its southern wall.

  The sun is beating down mercilessly, but I don’t feel it. I feel nothing, and see nothing. All sensations are blurred and vague.

  They find it necessary to put down the stretcher a couple of times on the roadside. Half a dozen flies are dotting her face. Passers-by stand and look on sadly at the smiling face. A madman living in Ellamman Street comes by, looks at her face and breaks down, and follows us on, muttering vile and obscure curses on fate and its ways.

  Stretcher on the ground. A deep grove of tamarind trees and mangoes, full of shade and quiet – an extremely tranquil place. Two or three smouldering pyres are ranged about, and bamboos and coirs lie scattered, and another funeral group is at the other end of this grove. ‘This is a sort of cloakroom, a place where you leave your body behind,’ I reflect as we sit down and wait. Somebody appears carrying a large notebook, and writes down name, age, and disease; collects a fee, issues a receipt, and goes away.

  The half a dozen flies are still having their ride. After weeks, I see her face in daylight, in the open, and note the devastation of the weeks of fever – this shrivelling heat has baked her face into a peculiar tinge of pale yellow. The purple cotton sari which I bought her on another day is wound round her and going to burn with her.