Into this pandemonium the most welcome sound impinged – the college bell. It was the end of the hour and of the day. I felt like a schoolboy, genuinely happy that I could go home now to the child waiting for me there, all ready and bubbling with joy; ready to be taken out and ready with a hundred questions on her lips …
I made my way into the common room, to put away the books in my locker, pick up my umbrella, and go out. As I was closing my locker, the servant came up and said: ‘There is someone asking for you, master.’ I looked out. He was a stranger, a young boy about fifteen years old. He was standing on the path below the veranda, a thin young man with a tuft behind, and wearing a small cap – a poor boy, I felt, by the look of him; out to ask for a donation for his school fee or something of the kind. ‘Father seriously ill, money for his medicines.’ One or other of the numerous sad excuses for begging. Of late they were on the increase … Formerly I used to investigate and preach to them and so on, but now I felt too weary to exert myself and paid out change as far as possible. I saw his hand, bringing out an envelope, and I put my hand in my pocket for my purse. ‘The usual typewritten petition addressed to all whom it may concern,’ I said to myself.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Are you Krishna of the English section?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here is a letter for you.’
‘From whom?’
‘My father has sent it …’
‘Who is your father?’
‘You’ll find it all in that letter,’ he replied. It was a bulky envelope. I tore it open. There was a long sheet of paper, wrapped around which was a small note on which was written:
‘Dear Sir,
‘I received this message last evening, while I was busy writing something else. I didn’t understand what it meant. But the directions, address and name given in it are clear and so I have set my son to find out if the address and name are of a real person, and to deliver it. If this letter reaches you (that is, if you are a real person) please read it, and if it means anything to you keep it. Otherwise you may just tear it up and throw it away; and forgive this intrusion.’
He had given his name and address. I opened the other large sheet. The handwriting on it seemed to be different. It began:
‘This is a message for Krishna from his wife Susila who recently passed over … She has been seeking all these months some means of expressing herself to her husband, but the opportunity has occurred only today, when she found the present gentleman a very suitable medium of expression. Through him she is happy to communicate. She wants her husband to know that she is quite happy in another region, and wants him also to eradicate the grief in his mind. We are nearer each other than you understand. And I’m always watching him and the child …’
It was very baffling. I stared at the boy. I made nothing of it. ‘Boy, what is this?’ ‘I don’t know, sir. My father has been trying to send that for a week and could do it only today. I was searching everywhere; and I couldn’t get away from my class …’
‘Oh, stop, stop all that, boy. Why has your father sent this letter to me?’
‘I don’t know, sir.’ I stood there and read it again and again and as my head cooled I was seized with elation.
‘Take me to your house,’ I cried.
‘It’s far off, sir. In the village Tayur …’ It was on the other side of the river, a couple of miles off.
‘No matter, I will come with you. What is your father?’
‘He looks after his garden and lands in the village, sir. I read in the Board High School. I had leave today in the last period and so could bring you this letter.’
‘Good boy, good boy, take me to your father.’ I walked beside him. The child would be waiting at home. ‘One minute, will you come with me to my house? I will give you coffee and sweets. We will go …’
‘No, no, sir. I have to go away soon. I have to do some work at …’ I tried to persuade him. But he was adamant. So was I. Finally we agreed upon a compromise. He gave me directions to reach his house. He’d go ahead and wait for me at the crossing and take me to his place. As I saw him go off towards the river, a sudden fear and doubt seized me. Suppose I should never meet him again. It was a horrible thought. ‘Boy,’ I had to beg him, ‘are you sure to wait?’
‘Yes, yes. I will stand on the trunk road.’
‘If you will wait here a moment, I’ll run home, get back and join you,’ I said. If it had been any work other than seeing the child … The boy said: ‘I will wait for you at the trunk road positively, even if you are very late.’ ‘Good boy, good boy,’ I cried and raced home. The child was dressed and ready, waiting for me at the door.
As we left the kitchen and came to the hall, I told her: ‘Today the little dear will go out with Granny – because father has to go out on business …’ She remained thoughtful and asked: ‘What business? Have you to go to college again?’
‘No. I’ve to go and see someone, very important business.’
‘When will you come back?’
‘As usual. But if you feel sleepy before I come, you just sleep …’
‘I won’t do that,’ she replied. ‘I will go with Granny. She has promised to show me a small doll’s house which has electric light. Won’t you buy one for me?’
‘Well, see it first, we will buy it later.’
‘Buy me a small house – this size,’ she showed me her thumbnail size, ‘with dolls so small.’
‘Where can you buy it?’
The old lady answered, ‘It is not for sale; it is a small house kept in that medicine shop for decoration …’ I remembered seeing a small plywood doll’s house kept in a small medicine seller’s shopfront. He sold some home-made pills; it was more or less a quack shop which gave medicine under no known system, but the shop was always crowded. In the centre of his shop he had mounted on a stand a plywood house with electric light … It was hard to understand what purpose it served there. But perhaps its real purpose was to interest a person like Leela … I put on a shirt and an upper cloth and rushed out – along Ellamman Street, down river, crossing at Nallappa’s Grove. As I passed it I could not help looking at the southern wall of the cremation ground far off. Smoke was climbing over its walls. Jingling bullock-carts, talkative villagers returning home from the town, and a miscellaneous crowd on the dusty path leading to the Tayur Road on the other side. The sun inclined to the west. If I did not reach the crossroad before dusk I’d never be able to spot the boy. I almost ran up the road, and I reached the crossroad, where the boy had promised to wait for me. There I was. The west was ablaze with the sun below the horizon. Dusk would soon fall on us. But there was no sign of the boy. ‘Boy, Boy,’ I cried; not having asked him his name. Birds twittered on the trees, passers-by moved about, and my voice cried to the evening ‘Boy, Boy.’ What a fool I was not to have asked his name or precise directions!
‘Boy, Boy,’ I shouted like a madman and passers-by looked at me curiously. I searched about frantically, and in the end saw the fellow coming up a path across the fields. ‘Sorry to be late, excuse me, sir.’
‘Good boy,’ I cried. ‘You are very kind to come.’ I liked him. I said to myself that I would do him all the kindness possible when he came my way again. He would get a lot of marks from me when he came to college. I asked him about his school, books, teachers and all sorts of other things as we walked on.
‘That’s our house.’ He pointed at the sloping tiles visible through the dense cluster of trees. A mongrel came and jumped at the boy: ‘Oh, keep quiet, Tiger. Go and tell father that a gentleman has come to see him.’ Tiger listened with his head tilted and at the mention of father bounced off in the direction of the house, vaulting over the gate of thorns and brambles. By the time we reached the gate, it was opened from the other side and a chubby and cheerful-looking person came towards me extending his hands. He had such good cheer in his face that it melted all the
strangeness of the situation. He gripped my hand and said: ‘You must forgive the trouble I have given you. You must have thought it was a call from a lunatic asylum!’ He laughed, ‘Oh, not at all, not at all,’ I muttered idiotically. I was too confused. My feelings were all in a mess. I didn’t know whether I was happy or unhappy. I was excited and muddled.
He said: ‘You see, I would have searched you out, but it seemed too wild, and I thought it was all a fool’s errand. I was most surprised to hear there was such a person. I hope you are the person …’
‘I’m the person, name, initials, and address and in regard to the other things … Have you known my name before …?’
‘Good God, no! You mustn’t think so! I sent the letter as a test with the boy. I sent it out just as I got it, including the address … I sent it out with the boy … and you could have blown me over with a breath, in spite of my size, when the boy came and told me that he had delivered the letter. I thought the boy was playing a practical joke, but he said you were coming. Are you sure you are yourself?’ he asked with a rich quiet laugh. It’d be wrong to say that he laughed … He hardly made any special sound or noise, but it was there all the time, a permanent background against which all his speech and gestures occurred, something like the melody of a veena string from which music arises and ends. ‘Come in, come in, we have a lot of things to say to each other,’ he said, and took me in through his small gate. The dog followed. He patted its back and said: ‘Nice animal, isn’t it? I’m very fond of him. I don’t much fancy the sentimental cynicism of some dog lovers who say that they prefer dog to man! It’s nonsense. A dog is a nice fellow to have around. Though an animate creature, when you don’t like him you can put him away, out of sight and hearing. He will obey you cheerfully. He never talks back.’
I looked about. It looked like a green haven. Acres and acres of trees, shrubs and orchards. Far off, casuarina leaves murmured. ‘Beyond that casuarina, would you believe it I have a lotus pond, and on its bank a temple, the most lovely ruin that you ever saw! I was in ecstasy when I found that these delightful things were included in the lot.’
‘I’d love to see that temple, what temple is it?’
‘The Goddess. It is said that Sankara when he passed this way built it at night, by merely chanting her name over the earth, and it stood up, because the villagers hereabouts asked for it. The Goddess is known as Vak Matha, the mother who came out of a syllable. Would you like to see it? But first rest and refreshment and then the other things of life. This has always been my motto. Shall we sit down here?’ We sat down on a stone bench under a spreading mango tree. He pointed at the cottage and said: ‘You must also come in and see my home. I’ve a little library too. Here comes my wife.’ He introduced me to her as the unknown man for whom a letter was sent. She looked at me and said: ‘We wouldn’t believe you really existed. I thought it was some joke of my husband’s – won’t you have some coffee and fruits?’ She went in and brought a tray-load of good things. My host ate heartily, talking all the time; he told me numerous things about himself and the farm. How he purchased these acres eight years ago, and had worked on them night and day. He liked the pond, the temple and the trees, he wanted to be out of town, but near enough to be able to run into it. ‘My views have always been that it must be a quiet retreat, but a railway line must be visible from your veranda or at least a trunk road. Now we’ve both. If you sit here for a while longer, you will see the Madras mail passing over that ridge. I came here, so near the town, but you know for eight years I’ve hardly moved out of this estate. I’m quite happy where I am. By the way, my wife thinks if I moved up and down a little more into the town, I could occupy less space in my house. As if town-going were a sort of slimming exercise!’ I listened to it all with only partial interest. I was very anxious to hear more about that letter and other matters connected with it.
‘Shall we go round and see things?’ He fetched two staves from a cluster strung on the fork of the mango tree, and gave one to me. He explained: ‘When an odd twig catches my eye I cut it off and make a stick. Tree twigs have a sense of humour and adopt funny shapes. I think it is one of Nature’s expressions of humour. If only we can see them that way …’ He pointed at his collection: crooked, piked, stunted, awry, all shapes and kinds were there. ‘It is better to carry a staff, there are a lot of cobras about. Though I’ve never killed one in my life. When I see a snake I usually cry for help.’
We wandered about the garden. He spoke incessantly, bursting with mirth, and explaining his garden. All the time he was talking my mind was elsewhere, in a hopeless tension, waiting to hear about the letter. I hoped he would open the subject himself. But he spoke on about all sorts of other things. I tried once or twice to ask him but checked myself and remained quiet. Somehow, I felt too shy to open the topic – like a newly-wed blushing at the mention of his wife.
It was nearly dark when we came to the northern edge of the estate. It was ineffably lovely – a small pond with blue lotus; a row of stone steps leading down to the water. Tall casuarina trees swayed and murmured over the banks. A crescent moon peeped behind the foliage. On the bank on our side stood a small shrine, its concrete walls green with age, and its little dome showing cracks; it had a small portal, and a flagstaff at the entrance.
There was a small platform on the threshold of the temple. The temple was locked. We washed our feet and sat on the platform; it appeared an enchanting place. We squatted on the platform. ‘Shall I have the temple opened?’ he asked.
‘No, don’t worry about it now,’ I said.
‘There is an old priest who occasionally comes here once a month or so … A very fine man, with whom it is a pleasure to talk. A very learned man. I’m really afraid of him. He is too good for this place; but comes here only out of piety, and he is running some charity institution in the town. He treats this as an opportunity to worship the Goddess …’ He talked, I listened to him in silence. My mind was trembling with eagerness. I listened in tense silence. He asked with a smile: ‘You think I’m a bore?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Doubtless, you want to know all about that letter …’
‘Of course I’m very eager,’ I said, and added with a pathetic foolishness: ‘It was so long ago …’ I stopped abruptly not knowing how to finish the sentence.
‘Now listen,’ he said: ’Of late I have got into the habit of spending more and more of my evenings all alone here on this pyol. This casuarina and the setting sun and the river create a sort of peace to which I’ve become more and more addicted. I spend long hours here, and desire nothing better than to be left here to this peace. It gives one the feeling that it is a place which belongs to Eternity, and that it will not be touched by time or disease or decay. One day before starting for this place I felt a great urge to bring writing materials with me. Since the morning it had hung on my mind. I felt that an old sin of my undergraduate days of writing prose-poems was returning, but there was no harm in succumbing to it. I slipped a pad and a pencil into my pocket when I started out in the evening on my rounds. I sat down on this pyol with the pencil and pad. For some time I could write nothing; it seemed that a hundred ideas were clamouring to express themselves, crowding into my head. It was a lovely sky. I felt I must write something of this great beauty in my lines. Let me assure you that I’m by no means a poetical-minded fellow. I’m a dead sober farmer … but what was this thing within? I felt a queer change taking place within me.
‘It was dusk when I sat down with the pad and pencil. Before the light should be fully gone I wanted to write down my verse or drama or whatever it was that was troubling me.
‘I poised the pencil over the paper. Presently the pencil moved … I was struck with the ease with which it moved. I was pleased. All the function my fingers had was to hold the pencil, nothing more … “Thank you” began the page. “Here we are, a band of spirits who’ve been working to bridge the gulf between life and after-life. We have been
looking about for a medium through whom we could communicate. There is hardly any personality on earth who does not obstruct our effort. But we’re glad we’ve found you … Please, help us, by literally lending us a hand – your hand, and we will do the rest.” I replied, “I’m honoured, I will do whatever I can.”
“ ‘You need do nothing more than sit here one or two evenings of the week, relax your mind, and think of us.” “The pleasure is mine,” I said. And then my hand wrote: “Here is Susila, wife of Krishna, but as yet she is unable to communicate by herself. But by and by she will be an adept in it. Will you kindly send the following as coming from her to her husband.” And then I received the message I sent you and they also gave me your name and address!’
Our next meeting was a week later; on the following Wednesday. He brought with him a pad of paper, and a couple of pencils, and a pencil sharpener. ‘I don’t want to risk a broken pencil,’ he remarked. ‘There must be no complaint of any omission on my part,’ he explained.
The casuarina looked more enchanting than ever. Purple lotus bloomed on the pond surface. Gentle ripples splashed against the bank. The murmur of the casuarina provided the music for the great occasion. We took our seats on the pyol of the little shrine. My friend shut his eyes and prayed: ‘Great souls, here we are. You have vouchsafed to us a vision for peace and understanding. Here we are ready to serve in the cause of illumination.’ He sat with his eyes shut, and as the dusk gathered around us, utter silence reigned. I too sat, not knowing what we waited for. The casuarina murmured and hushed, the ripples splashed on the shore. A bright star appeared in the sky. I almost held my breath as I waited. There was such a peace in the air that I felt that even if nothing happened this was a rich experience – a glimpse of eternal peace. We sat in silence, not speaking a word to each other. I felt we could spend the rest of our life sitting there thus. He poised his pencil over the pad and waited. Suddenly the pencil began to move. Letters appeared on the paper. The pencil quivered as if with life. It moved at a terrific speed across the paper; it looked as though my friend could not hold it in check. It scratched the paper and tore the lines up into shreds and came through. The scratching it made drowned all other sounds. It seemed to be possessed of tremendous power. My friend said with a smile: ‘I think my wrist will be dislocated at this rate, unless I have my wits about me …’ Sheet after sheet was covered thus with scribbling, hardly clear or legible – not a word of it could be deciphered. It looked like the work of a very young child with paper and pencil. By the light of a lantern he tried to make it out and burst into a laugh: ‘This writing does me no credit. If I leave it behind, it will be a headache for future epigraphists!’ He looked at it again and again and laughed very happily. ‘I remember that for writing precisely this sort of thing, my teacher broke my knuckles once.’
The English Teacher Page 13
