The English Teacher

by R. K. Narayan

  He put it away. After a few minutes’ interval he took his pencil to the paper again. His hand wrote: ‘We are here, trying to express ourselves. Sorry if you find our force too much for you. It is because you are not accustomed to this pressure. Please steady yourself and slow down. You will have better results.…’

  ‘I have the feeling of a crow flying in a storm,’ my friend muttered to me … But I … I suppose I must control myself. I am fat enough.…’

  He gripped the pencil as in a vice and steadied himself. ‘No, no,’ his hand wrote, ‘you must relax, you must not set your teeth and get down to it so resolutely.’ His hand wrote: ‘Relax, slow down, control yourself, even if you feel like rushing off.’

  ‘Rather a difficult combination of things. This relaxed control; till this moment I never imagined such a combination existed,’ he muttered. He put away the pencil for a minute, stretched his arm, cracked his fingers and picked up the pencil again and turned over a clean sheet of paper. He said: ‘Great souls, I’m ready.’ Scrawled-up sheets of paper lay on one side. ‘This is better. Go on slowly. Check yourself whenever you feel like running on fast. You will get good results.’ His hand steadied, his handwriting improved. The blank sheet was filling up. Letters and words danced their way into existence.

  ‘We are sorry to put you to this trouble. But please understand that this work may revolutionize human ideas, and that you are playing a vital part in it. This is an attempt to turn the other side of the medal of existence, which is called Death … Please go on for just half an hour today and then stop, or if there are unfinished messages, a maximum of forty minutes. And don’t attempt it again for a week more, that is, exactly this same hour, next week this day. We have to warn you that it will take some more sittings before your friend here gets accurate results, but for a start what you are going to receive today will be quite good. Now put away your pencil and then start after five minutes. Your nerves are too much in a tremble, and they must subside …’ My friend put away the pencil, and said to me: ‘Are you happy? The next batch of messages may be from your wife.’ ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ I said. We watched the stars on their course for a few minutes; and gazed idly at the pond. Five minutes passed. He picked up his pencil and placed it over the paper. ‘Your condition is better. Remember our instructions. Stop in half an hour.’ ‘I will remember,’ he replied and asked aloud, ‘Is my friend’s wife here?’ ‘Yes. She is here,’ his hand wrote, and the words covered half a page. My friend exercised control over his fingers, checked and presently the writing assumed normal form. His hand wrote: ‘Your friend’s wife has been here all along. In fact we are at this task mainly for her sake. She is so eager to communicate with her husband.’ I looked about. The semi-dark air seemed to glisten with radiant presences – like myriad dewdrops sparkling on the grass on a sunny morning. I strained my eyes and mind to catch a glimpse of these presences.

  I told my friend: ‘Please ask if my wife will be able to communicate now directly …’ In answer his hand wrote: ‘She is very much excited and she is also not able to collect her thoughts easily. At the moment, she finds it easier to tell us …’ I visualized her all a-tremble with excitement as on that day when I went to her place to see and approve the future bride. As I waited in the hall I caught a glimpse of her in another room through a looking glass, agitated and trembling! I had never again seen her so excited. There fell a pause, as my friend’s pencil waited. There did not seem to be any need to ask or answer. This was enough. The greatest abiding rapture which could always stay, and not recede or fall into an anti-climax like most mortal joys. After a few moments, I asked, ‘Do you remember the name of our child?’ The pencil wrote: ‘Yes, Radha.’ This was disappointing. My child was Leela. I was seized with a hopeless feeling of disappointment. To be unable to recollect the name of the child! What was wrong? Where? My mind buzzed with questions. ‘The lady is smiling at the agitation which this name is causing her husband, but assures him that he need not feel so miserable over it. We’ve warned you that results will not be very accurate today. There are difficulties. We will do our best and gradually all these handicaps will be removed. Meanwhile understand that this is as good as it can be.’

  I asked: ‘But our child’s name? Could this ever escape your mind?’

  ‘No. It can’t and it has not. You commit the mistake of thinking that she is responsible for giving that name. As a matter of fact it is a piece of your friend’s own mind. You see there are particular difficulties in regard to proper names. We try to get through a particular name, for instance your daughter’s … but since we use the mechanism of your friend’s writing, more often than not his mind interferes, bringing up its own selections. This is how you got Radha now.’ ‘But how is this difficulty to be surmounted?’ I asked. ‘Is there no hope at all?’ I asked. ‘Yes, yes, by and by. Even now you may remember we could get through your name and address the other day and he was able to send for you. But it was an exception: he was ideally unselfconscious and his mind was very passive. It will all depend upon our friend’s ability to remain passive, and keep his own thoughts out of the field. That’s why we have asked him to stop half an hour, which is the maximum time he can hold his ideas in the background.’ My friend said: ‘No. I can manage a little longer.’ ‘No. Half an hour will do … But by and by you may go on even longer … Please stop after this. The lady wants to say that she is as deeply devoted to her husband and child and the family as ever. She watches over them and prays for their welfare – only she is able to see things far more clearly than when she was on Earth, although you are not aware of my presence at times … God’s blessing be upon you and the child!’ The pencil ceased. My friend looked at me as if to say: ‘Go on. Get up. It is over.’ But I was reluctant. So many questions to ask. My heart choked with the questions still unasked: ‘Just a second more,’ I pleaded. ‘I have just one more question.’ I paused. It was not clear to me what the question was. I pondered. ‘Can’t we have it sooner than next week?… Please … Does she remember?…’ It was no use. The pencil stood unmoving. We waited for a moment. And then my friend said. ‘They are gone. We will try again next week.’

  On the following week we sat there just at the same hour, with the dusk falling about us. They wrote: ‘We are here. Conditions are favourable. But remember our instructions and go slowly. Susila, wife of Krishna, is here and will now go on by herself.’

  ‘I have watched you since we met last and seen your mind. I saw the doubts crossing and recrossing your mind regarding identity. Naturally. How can you believe what you can’t see? It might be me or someone else; was that not the line of thought going on in your mind? Correct me if I am wrong.’

  ‘You are right, absolutely right,’ I answered. It did not require much self-scrutiny to see it. ‘And so I decided to clear this doubt first. And all this interval I have been trying to master the art of communication, and our helpers here have been very good to teach me. This is the first step. I hope you like this. I hope I do well for a start.’

  ‘Very well, very well, for a start.…’ I replied in Tamil.

  ‘I had not learnt very grammatical Tamil in my days, and if there are any mistakes, don’t laugh at me.’

  ‘Oh, you are very good. You wrote beautiful letters,’ I said.

  ‘And yet you have destroyed every one of them!’ she said. ‘You found it possible to destroy every one of them!’ she repeated. I was startled. No one knew about it. In the secrecy of night, on that day her condition was declared to be hopeless, I sat in my room, bolted the door, took out of my drawer several bundles of letters she had written to me, tore them up into minute bits and burnt them, and I also did the same with a few diary pages I had kept in the first years of our married life. I remembered saying to myself, gritting my teeth: ‘Let life do its worst, this is my answer. Every shred of memory will be destroyed, I will avoid torment thus.…’

  ‘How have you come to know of it?’ I asked.r />
  ‘By watching your mind. I saw you yesterday as you pulled out your table drawer and reflected. I might not have known it at all if you hadn’t reflected on it every day. For on the occasion you were performing the deed, I was, you remember, passing over, and in that transition stage one is not aware of things. It takes some time before we are able to know things. You have destroyed not only all that I wrote, but also all the letters you wrote to me. Was that the reason why you demanded them back from me every time I came back to you from my parents?’ It was an unwritten law existing between us: whenever we were parted we wrote to each other on alternate days, and when we met again, I took back from her all the letters, bundled them up, and offered to destroy them, but she always protested and I just kept them with me.

  ‘Why did you do it?’ she persisted.

  ‘I am very sorry. I thought I might abolish memory!’

  ‘Have you been able to forget? Wasn’t it childish to work your temper on those letters?’

  ‘It seemed that memory would torment me.’

  ‘That’s how it may appear at first sight; but later, let me tell you that you will have a desire to be surrounded by everything belonging to the departed. Just a turn of the wheel. A man takes to drink to forget sad thoughts, but after a while they return with gathered force. I understand your feelings but can only laugh at the remedy.’ I felt really like a child who had misbehaved. ‘Please forgive me if I appear to be speaking more than I ought. But I felt very unhappy about it. So this. I hope you will forgive this outburst,’ she said.

  ‘You are perfectly right, and entitled to it,’ I said. ‘God bless you. I felt so vacant yesterday, when I had a longing to see your handwriting and could not find a single letter anywhere,’ I confessed.

  ‘The lady is laughing,’ the Helpers said. ‘She is shaking with laughter. She says don’t take anything too tragically – not even this!’

  ‘I accept your advice.…’ I said.

  ‘You need not be unduly docile,’ she said, ‘and strain yourself to be agreeable, just because I’m speaking from this side. Don’t hesitate to correct me if I appear silly.’

  ‘Oh, no, no, you are very sensible,’ I said.

  ‘You used to be so considerate on the first two days whenever we met after a visit to my parents. You would not contradict anything I said. Here is a piece of news for you. There are about fourteen letters which have been spared … I don’t remember whether they were yours or mine, but I remember tying them up in a bundle; you will find them either in my trunk, or in one of the boxes in my father’s place.’

  I thought over this and said: ‘I’m afraid you are wrong. There is not one letter left. I destroyed every bit that we wrote to each other.’

  ‘I’m sure of these fourteen: I remember the number precisely. I counted them, I tied them up and did not give them to you because you were very busy with something or other. I can’t say how long ago; I put them away and then I remember coming across the bundle again and again. What I can’t recollect is whether it was in my father’s house or in ours. I am certain that the letters are there.’ She insisted: ‘Will you please make a thorough search once again? – and if you find them please don’t repeat your previous act.’

  ‘No, no. I will be very careful,’ I said.

  ‘Also, I want you to keep for my sake a sandalwood casket. I have put into it all my knick-knacks.’ I cast my mind about. I had looked through all her possessions and I had a knowledge of everything she had.

  ‘I don’t think you ever had such a box,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘It is not a very big box, about eight or ten inches long, three inches high and about four inches wide; the lid of the box is not flat but slightly elevated. I kept all my knick-knacks in it. It was given to me by my mother-in-law. Box of ivory and sandalwood. Please find it and keep it. I was fond of it. You may throw away all my other things. They are of no particular value to me.’

  ‘I can’t throw out the tiniest speck that belonged to you. I will keep everything, including this box if I find it. But I’m not sure there is such a box.’

  At the next meeting she remarked: ‘You fret too much about the child. Have no kind of worry about her. When you are away at college, you hardly do your work with a free mind, all the time saying to yourself “What is Leela doing? What is she doing?” Remember that she is perfectly happy all the afternoon, playing with that friend of hers in the next house, and listening to the stories of the old lady. Just about the time you return, she stands at the door and looks down the street for you. And when you see her you think that she has been there the whole day and feel miserable about it. How you can help it, you never pause to consider. Do you know that she sometimes insists upon being taken to the little children’s school, which is nearby? And the old lady, whenever she is free, takes her there and she has become quite a favourite there? Why don’t you put her in that school? She will be quite happy there.’

  Immediately I contradicted: ‘I don’t think she is going to a school. She would have told me about it.…’

  ‘She went in casually once or twice, and perhaps forgot it later among other interests. I think she’ll tell you when she remembers it. Anyway, if she likes it she may go there.…’

  ‘All right, but is she not too young to be put to school?’

  ‘She’ll find it interesting, and it is not regular study. She can go and see other children and come home when she likes.…’

  ‘I have no objection, but the teacher may have some other system.’

  ‘No … It is a school meant for very small children.’

  ‘How much of the child do you see?’ I asked.

  ‘As much as anyone else, perhaps a little more. I have direct access to her heart now: I am always watching her.’

  ‘Does she see you?’

  ‘Perhaps she does. Children are keener-sighted by nature. She sees me, and perhaps takes it naturally, since children spontaneously see only the souls of persons. Children see spirit forms so often that it is natural to their condition and state of mind.’

  ‘If she sees you why doesn’t she cry out?’

  ‘It is a natural state to them, and in the depth of their soul they have certain reservations. Perhaps she doesn’t speak out as much as she would like because she observes and understands the reserve you are all exercising in her presence about me. She merely saves your feelings by not speaking of me. You must have observed how little she refers to me. Did you think that it was out of forgetfulness? And don’t you agree that there is a certain peace about her, which elders lack, although I was no less important to her than to anyone else?’

  Nowadays I went about my work with a light heart. I felt as if a dead load had been lifted. The day seemed full of possibilities of surprise and joy. At home I devoted myself to my studies more energetically. The sense of futility was leaving me. I attended to my work earnestly. All the morning I sat preparing my day’s lectures. My little daughter watched me curiously. ‘Father is reading!’ she exclaimed. She drew a chair close to mine and sat up with a book, with any book that caught her fancy, till she saw a squirrel or a sparrow alighting on the roof of the opposite house, and exclaimed: ‘Father, the sparrow is come. Do they also read? Do they also go to school?’

  ‘Little girl, just go out near the gate and ask,’ I said, with the idea of getting on with my work. Once she had gone out, she slowly got interested in something or other and forgot to come back. When she mentioned school, I pricked up my ears and was on the point of asking her a question, but I restrained myself, because I wanted to watch if the answer would come from her first or from the old lady. That very evening I heard the subject mentioned. When I returned home the child was out. There was only the old lady in the kitchen. I asked: ‘Where is Leela?’

  ‘Oh, she has gone to the school,’ the old lady replied.

  ‘Which school?’ I asked with feigned ignorance.

  �
�That babies’ school, in the next street. I took her there once or twice in the afternoon, because she liked to see the other children, and they all like her very much there. Today the teacher said he would bring her back in the evening. She wouldn’t come away either: because she is making some animals and other things with clay. They have also given her scissors and coloured paper to cut. She is so happy!’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before that you had taken her there?’