Free Read online Bachelor of Arts by R. K. Narayan PART 2

Free Read online Bachelor of Arts by R. K. Narayan PART 2

Just when Father was dressed and ready to go out, Chandran came out of his room and said

in a voice that was thick: "Father, will you still try and find out if something can't be done?"

Father was about to answer: "Don't worry about this girl, I shall get you another girl," but he

looked up and saw that Chandran's eyes were red. So he said: "Don't worry. I shall find out what is

wrong and try to set it right." He went out and Chandran went back to his room and bolted the door.

Chandran's father wrote next day: "dear mr. krishnan--I shall be very glad if you will kindly

come and see me this evening. I meant to call on you, but I did not know what hour would suit you.

Since I am always free, I shall be at your service and await the pleasure of meeting you."

Mr. Krishna Iyer came that evening. After the courtesies of coffee and inane inquiries were

over, Chandran's father asked: "Now, sir, please tell me why the horoscopes don't match."

"I ought not to be saying it, sir, but there is a flaw in your son's horoscope. Our astrologer has

found that the horoscopes cannot be matched. If my girl's horoscope had Moon or Mars in the Seventh

House, there couldn't be a better match than your son for her. But as it is..."

"Are you sure?"

"I know a little of astrology myself. I am prepared to over- look many things in a horoscope. I

don't usually concern myself with the factors that indicate prosperity, wealth, progeny, and all that. I

usually overlook them. But I do feel that we can't ignore the question of longevity. I know hundreds of

cases where the presence of Mars in this house... I can tell you that..." He hesitated to say it. "It kills the

wife soon after the marriage," he said, when pressed hy Chandran's father.

Chandran's father was for dropping the question at this point, but when he remembered that

Chandran had shut himself in his room, he sent for one Srouthigal, an eminent astrologer and almanaccompiler

in the town.

The next day there was a conference over the question of the stars and their potency. After

four hours of intricate calculations and the fi lling of several sheets of paper with figures, Srouthigal said

that there was nothing wrong with Chandran's horoscope. D. W. Krishna Iyer was sent for, and he

came. Srouthigal looked at Krishna Iyer and said: "These two horoscopes are well matched."

"Did you notice the Mars'?"

"Yes, but it is powerless now. It is now under the sway of the Sun, which looks at it from the

Fifth House."

"But I doubt it, sir," Krishna Iyer said.

Srouthigal thrust the papers into Krishna Iyer's hands, and asked: "How old is the boy?"

"Nearly twenty-three."

"What is twelve and eight?"

"Twenty."

"How can the boy be affected by it at twenty-three. If he had married at twenty, he might have

had to marry again, but not now. Mars became powerless when the boy was twenty years, three

months, and five days old."

"But I get it differently in my calculations," said Krishna Iyer. "The power of Mars lasts till the

boy reaches twenty-five years and eight months.

"Which almanac do you follow:1" asked Srouthigal, witt a fiery look.

"The _Vakya,"__ said Krishna Iyer.

"There you are," said Srouthigal. "Why don't you base your calculations on the _Drig__

almanac?"

"From time immemorial we have followed only the _Vakya__, and nothing has gone wrong so

far. I think it is the only true almanac."

"You are making a very strange statement," said the Srouthigal, with a sneer.

When he went home Krishna Iyer took the papers with him, promising to calculate again and

reconsider. He wrote to Chandran's father next day: "I worked all night, till about 4 a.m., on the

horoscopes. Our astrologer was also with me. We have not arrived at any substantially different results

now. The only change we find is that the Sun's sway monies in the boy's twenty-fifth year and fourth

month and not in the eight month as I stated previously."

"Any one who is not a fanatic of the _Drig__ system will see that the potency of Mars lasts

very nearly till the boy's twenty-fifth year. This is not a matter in which we can take risks. It is a question

of life and death to a girl. Mars has never been known to spare. He kills.

"I seek your forgiveness for all the trouble I may have caused you in this business. I cannot

find adequate words to express how unhappy I am to miss the opportunity of an alliance with your great

house. I hope God will bless Mr. Chandran with a suitable bride soon...."

Chandran's mother raved: "Why can't you leave these . creatures alone? A black dot on

Chandran's horoscope is what we get for associating with them. If they go on spreading the rumour that

Chandran has Mars, a nice chance he will have of ever getting a girl. This is what we get for trying to

pick up something from the gutter."

When she was gone, Chandran suggested to his father: "Let us grant that Mars lasts till my

twenty-fifth year. I am nearly twenty-three now. I shall be twenty-five very soon. Why don't you tell them

that I will wait till my twenty-fifth year; let them also wait for two years. Let us come to an understanding

with them."

Chandran's father knew that it would be perfectly useless to reason things with Chandran.

Hence he said that he would try to meet Krishna Iyer and suggest this to him.

Thereafter every day Chandran privately asked his father if he had met Krishna Iyer, and

Father gave the stock reply that Krishna Iyer could not be found either at home or in his office. after

waiting for a few days Chandran wrote a letter to Malathi. He guarded against making it a love letter. It

was, according to Chandran's belief, a simple, matter-of-fact piece of writing. It only contained an

account of his love for her. It explained to her the difficulty in the horoscope, and asked her if she was

prepared to wait for him for two years. Let her write the single word "Yes" or "No" on a piece of paper

and post it to him. He enclosed a stamped addressed envelope for a reply.

He took the letter to Mohan and said: "This is my last chance."

"What is this?"

"It is a letter to her."

"Oh, God! You can't do that!"

"It is not a love letter. It is a dry, business letter. You must see that it is somehow delivered to her."

"Have I to wait for a reply?"

"No. She can post a reply. I have arranged for it."

"They will shoo me out if they see me delivering a letter to a grown-up girl."

"But you must somehow manage it for my sake. This is my last attempt. I shall wait till I

receive a reply..." said Chan-dran, and completed the sentence in sobs.

Next morning he went to the post office and asked the Lawley Extension postman if there was

any letter for him. This became a daily routine. Day followed day thus. He rarely went to the river now.

He avoided going to the Modern Indian Lodge because it was opposite to her house.

On an evening, a fortnight later, Chandran started for the Modern Indian Lodge. "I must grit

my teeth and pass before her house, go to the hotel, see Mohan, and ask him why there is no letter yet,"

he told himself.

When he came to Mill Street he heard a drum and pipe music. His heart beat fast. When he

reached the Modern Indian Lodge he saw that the entrance of the opposite house was decorated with

plantain stems and festoons of mango leaves. These were marks of an auspicious event. Chandran's

body trembled. The drummer, sitting on the pyol in front of the house, beat the drum with all the vigour

in his arms; the piper was working a crescendo in _Kalyani raga__. The music scalded Chandran's ears.

He ran up the steps to Mohan's room.

"What are they doing in the opposite house?"

Mohan sprang up, put his arms around Chandran, and soothed him: "Calm yourself. This

won't do."

Chandran shouted: "What are they doing in the opposite house? Tell me! Why this pipe, why

the mango leaves, who is going to be married in that house:5"

"Nobody yet, but presently. They are celebrating the Wedding Notice. I learn that she is to

marry her cousin next week."

"What has happened to my letter?"

"I don't know."

"Will nobody choke that piper? He is murdering the tune."

"Sit down, Chandran."

"Did you deliver that letter?"

"I couldn't get a chance, and I destroyed it this morning when I learnt that she is to be

married."

Chandran threw at him an angry look. He said: "Goodbye," turned round and fled down the

stairs.

The opposite house shone in the greenish brilliance of two Kitson lamps. People were coming

to the house, women wearing lace-bordered saris, and men in well-ironed shirts and upper cloths--

guests to the Wedding Notice ceremony. Chandran ran down the street, chased by the _Kalyani raga__,

and the doom-doom of the drummer.

Chandran had fever that night. He had a high temperature and he raved. In about ten days,

when he was well again, he insisted on being sent to Madras for a change. His father gave him fifty

rupees, sent a wire to his brother at Madras to meet Chandran at the Egmore Station, and put Chandran

in a train going to Madras. Chandran's mother said at the station that he must return to Malgudi very

plump and fat, and without any kind of worry in his head; Father said that he could write for more money

if he needed it; Seenu, who had also come to the station, asked: "Brother, do you know Messrs. Binns in

Madras?"

"No," said Chandran.

"It is in Mount Road," said Seenu, and explained that it was the most magnificent sports

goods firm in the country. "Please go there and ask them to send me their fat catalogue; there are a lot

of cricket pictures in it. Please buy a Junior Willard bat for me. Note it down, you may forget the name, it

is Binns, Junior Willard," he cried as the engine lurched, and Mother wiped her eyes, and Father stood

looking after the train.

Part Three

CHAPTER 11

Next morning, as the train steamed into the Madras Egmore Station, Chandran, watching

through the window of his compartment, saw in the crowd on the platform his uncle's son. Chandran

understood that the other was there to receive him, and quickly withdrew his head into the compartment.

The moment the train halted, Chandran pushed his bag and hold-all into the hands of a porter, and

hurried off the platform. Outside a _jutka__ driver greeted him and invited him to get into his carriage.

Chandran got in and said: "Drive to the hotel."

"Which hotel, master?"

"Any hotel you like."

"Would you like the one opposite to the People's Park?"

"Yes," said Chandran.

The _jutka__ driver whipped his horse and shouted to the pedestrians to keep out of the way.

The _jutka__ stopped in front of a red smoky building. Chandran jumped out of the carriage

and walked into the hotel, the _jutka__ driver following him, carrying the bag and the hold-all.

A man was sitting before a table making entries in a ledger. Chandran stood before him and

asked: "Have you rooms?"

"Yes," said the man without looking up.

"My fare, sir," reminded the _jutka__ driver at this point.

"How much?" Chandran asked.

"A rupee, master. I have brought you here all the way from the station."

Chandran took out his purse and gave him a rupee, and the _jutka__ driver went away

gasping with astonishment. Invariably if he asked for a rupee he would be given only a quarter of it, after

endless haggling and argument. Now this fare had flung out a rupee without any question. It was a good

beginning for the day; he always regretted afterwards that it hadn't occurred to him to ask for two rupees

at the first shot.

The man at the table pressed a bell; a servant appeared. The man said: "Room Three,

upstairs," and gave him a key. The servant lifted the hold-all and the bag and disappeared. Chandran

stood hesitating, not knowing what he was expected to do.

"The advance," said the man at the table.

"How much?" Chandran asked, wishing that the people of Madras were more human; they

were so mechanical and impersonal; the porter at the station had behaved as if he were blind, deaf, and

mute; now this hotel man would not even look at his guest; these fellows simply did not care what

happened to you after they had received your money; the jutka man had departed promptly after he

received the rupee, not uttering a single word.... Chandran had a feeling of being neglected. "How many

days are you staying?" asked the man at the table. Chandran realized that he had not thought of this

question; but he was afraid to say so; the other might put his hand on his neck and push him out;

anything was possible in this impersonal place.

"Three days," Chandran said.

"Then a day's advance will do now," the man said, looking at Chandran for the first time.

"How much?"

"Four rupees. Upstair room four rupees a day, and downstair two-eight a day. I have sent your

things to Three upstairs."

"Thank you very much," Chandran said, and gave him the advance.

His room was up a winding staircase. It was a small room containing a chair, a table, and an

iron bedstead.

Chandran sat on the bedstead and rubbed his eyes. He felt weary. He got up and stood

looking out of the window: tramcars were grinding the road; motor-cars, cycles, rickshaws, buses,

_jutkas__, and all kinds of vehicles were going up and down in a tremendous hurry in the General

Hospital Road below. Electric trains roared behind the hotel building. Chandran could not bear the noise

of traffic. He returned to his bedstead and sat on it, holding his head between his hands. Somebody was

humming a tune in the next room. The humming faded and then seemed to come nearer. Chandran

looked up and saw a stranger, carrying a towel and a soap box, standing in the doorway. He was a

dark, whiskered person. He stood for a while there, looking at Chandran unconcernedly and humming a

tune.

"Not coming to bathe, friend;1" he asked.

"No. I shall bathe later," replied Chandran.

"When? You won't have water in the tap after nine. Come with me. I will show you the

bathroom."

From that moment the whiskered man, who announced that his. name was "Kailas," took

charge of Chandran. He acted as his guide and adviser in every minute detail of personal existence.

They went out together after breakfast. Chandran had absolutely no courage to oppose the

other in anything.

Kailas had an aggressive hospitality. He never showed the slightest toleration for any

amendment or suggestion that Chandran made. Chandran was taken out and was whirled about in all

sorts of tramcars and buses all day. They had tiffin in at least four hotels before the evening. Kailas paid

for everything, and talked without a pause. Chandran learnt that Kailas had married two wives and loved

both of them; had years ago made plenty of money in Malaya, and had now settled down in his old

village, which was about a night's journey from Madras, and that he occasionally descended on Madras

in order to have a good time. "I have brought two hundred rupees with me. I shall stay here till this is

spent, and then return to my village and sleep between the two wives for the next three months, and

then again come here. I don't know how long it is going to last. What do you think my age is?"

"About thirty," Chandran said, giving out the first number that came to his head.

"Ah, ah, ah! Do you think my hair is dyed?"

"No, no," Chandran assured him.

"In these days fellows get greying hairs before they are twenty-five. I am fifty-one. I shall be

good enough for this kind of life for another twenty years at least. After that it doesn't matter what

happens; I shall have lived a man's life. A man must spend forty years in making money and forty years

in spending it."

By the evening Chandran felt very exhausted. To Kailas's inquiry Chandran replied that he

was a student in Tanjore come out to Madras on a holiday tour.

At about five o'clock Kailas took Chandran into a building where ferns were kept in pots in the

hall.

"What is this?" Chandran asked.

"Hotel Merton. I am going to have a little drink, if you don't mind."

Kailas led Chandran up a flight of stairs, and selected a table in the upstair veranda. A waiter

appeared behind them.

"Have you Tenets?" Kailas asked.

"Yes, master."

"Bring a bottle and two glasses. You will have a small drink with me?" he asked, turning to

Chandran.

"Beer? No, sorry. I don't drink."

"Come on, be a sport. You must keep me company."

Chandran's heart palpitated. "I never take alcohol."

"Who said that there was alcohol in beer? Less than five per cent. There is less alcohol in

beer than in some of the tonics your doctors advise you to take."

The waiter came with a bottle of beer and two glasses. Kailas argued and debated till some

persons sitting at other tables looked at them. Chandran was firm. In his opinion he was being asked to

commit the darkest crime.

Kailas said to the waiter: "Take the beer away, boy. That young master won't drink. Get me a

gin and soda. You will have lime juice?"

"Yes."

"Give that master lime juice." The waiter departed. "Why won't you have a little port or

something?"

"No, no," said Chandran.

"Why not even a port?"

"Excuse me. I made a vow never to touch alcohol in my life, before my mother," said

Chandran. This affected Kailas profoundly. He remained solemn for a moment and said: "Then don't.

Mother is a sacred object. It is a commodity whose value we don't realize as long as it is with us. One

must lose it to know what a precious possession it is. If I had my mother I should have studied in a

college and become a respectable person. You wouldn't find me here. After this, where do you think I

am going?"

"I don't know."

"To the house of a prostitute." He remained reflective for a moment and said with a sigh: "As

long as my mother lived she said every minute 'Do this. Don't do that.' And I remained a good son to

her. The moment she died I changed. It is a rare commodity, sir. Mother is a rare commodity."

The spree went on till about eight-thirty in the evening, whisky following gin, and gin following

whisky. There was a steady traffic between the table and the bar. At about eight-thirty Kailas balched

loudly, hiccuped thrice, looked at Chandran with red eyes, and asked if Chandran thought he was drunk;

he smiled with great satisfaction when Chandran said that he did not think so.

"There are fellows," said Kailas in a very heavy voice, "who will get drunk on two pegs of

brandy. I throw out a challange to any one. Put fifteen pegs of neat whisky, neat, mind you, into this

soul"--he tapped his chest--"and I will tell you my name, do any multiplication or addition, and repeat

numbers from a hundred backwards."

They left the hotel. Kailas put his arm on Chandran's shoulder for support. They walked down

Broadway, this strange pair. Kailas often stopped to roll his eyes foolishly and scratch his whiskers. He

was discoursing on a variety of topics. He stopped suddenly in the road and asked: "Did you have

anything to eat?"

"Thanks. Plenty of cakes."

"Did you drink anything?"

"Gallons of lime juice."

"Why not a little beer of something? What a selfish rascal Iam!" "No, no," said

Chandran with anxiety. "I have made a vow to my mother never to touch alcohol."

"Ah!" said Kailas. He blew his nose and wiped his eyes with his kerchief. "Mother! Mother!" He

remained moody for some time, and said with an air of contentment: "I know that my mother will be

happy to know that I am happy." He drew in a sharp breath and moved on again resolutely, as if

determined not to let his feelings overcome him.

They walked in silence to the end of the road, and Kailas said: "Why won't you call a taxi?"

"Where am I to find it?"

Kailas gave a short, bitter laugh. "You ask me! Go and ask that electric post. Has God made

you so blind that you can't see that I can't walk owing to a vile corn on the left foot?"

Chandran stood puzzled. He was afraid to cross the road, though the traffic was light now.

Kailas appealed to him: "Don't stand there, gaping open-mouthed at the wonders of the world, my boy.

Get brisk and be helpful. Be a true friend. A friend in need is a friend indeed. Haven't you learnt it at

school? I wonder what they teach you in schools nowadays!"

A passer-by helped Chandran to find a taxi. Kailas gave Chandran a hug when the taxi came.

He got into the taxi and asked the driver: "Do you know Kokilam's house?"

"No," replied the driver.

Kailas threw at Chandran an accusing look and said: "This is the kind of taxi you are pleased

to call! Let us get down."

"Where does she live?" asked the taxi driver, "Round about Mint Street."

"Ah!" said the taxi driver, "don't I know Kokilam's house?" He started the car, and drove it

about and about for half an hour and stopped before a house in a narrow congested road. "Here it is,"

he said.

"Get down," said Kailas to Chandran. "How much?"

"The meter shows fifteen rupees, eight annas," said the driver.

"Take seventeen-eight," said Kailas, and gave him the money.

The taxi drove away.

"Whose house is this?" asked Chandran.

"My girl's house," said Kailas. He surveyed the house up and down and said doubtfully: "It

looks different to-day. Never mind," He climbed the steps and asked somebody at the door: "Is this

Kokilam's house?"

"What does a name matter? You are welcome to my poor abode, sir." It was a middle-aged

woman.

"You are right," said Kailas, greatly pleased. He suddenly asked Chandran: "Did you take the

taxi number?"

"No."

"Funny man! Do you want me to be telling you every (moment what you must do? Have you

no common sense?"

"I am sorry," said Chandran. "The taxi is over there. I will note the number and come back."

He turned round, feeling happy at this brilliant piece of strategy, and jumped down the steps of the

house. Kailas muttered: "Good boy. You are a good friend in need is a friend inde-e-eed."

Chandran fled from Mint Street. He had escaped from Kailas. This was the first time he had

been so close to a man in drink; this was the first time he had stood at the portals of a prostitute's

house. He was thoroughly terrified.

After leaving Kailas several streets behind, Chandran felt exhausted and sat down on a

pavement. He felt very home- sick. He wondered if there was any train which would take him back to

Malgudi that very night. He felt that he had left home years ago, and not on the previous evening. The

thought of Malgudi was very sweet. He would walk to Lawley Extension, to his house, to his room, and

sleep on his cot snugly. He lulled his mind with this vision for some time. It was not long before his

searching mind put to him the question why he was wandering about the streets of a strange city,

leaving his delightful heaven? The answer brought a medley of memories; piper shrieking through his

pipe _Kalyani raga__, glare of Kitson lamps, astrologers, horoscopes, and unsympathetic Mother. Ah,

even at this moment Malathi was probably crying into her pillow at having to marry a person she did not

like. What sort of a person was he? Would he be able to support her, and would he treat her well?

Somebody else to be her husband, and he having dreamed for weeks on the evening sands of Sarayu.

Chandran decided never to return to Malgudi. He hated the place. Everything there would

remind him of Malathi--the sands on Sarayu bank, the cobbles in Market Road, Mill Street, the little

shopkeeper with Malathi's eyebrows. It would be impossible for him to live again in that hell. It was a

horrible town, with its preparation for Malathi's wedding.... Suppose even now some epidemic caught

her future husband? Such things never happened in real life.

Chandran realized that he had definitely left his home. Now what did it matter where he lived?

He was like a _sanyasi__. Why "like"? He was a _sanyasi;__ the simplest solution. Shave the head, dye

the clothes in ochre, and you were dead for aught the world cared. The only thing possible; short of

committing suicide, there was no other way out. He had done with the gamble of life. He was beaten. He

could not go on living, probably for sixty years more, with people and friends and parents, with Malathi

married and gone.

He got up. He wandered a little in search of his hotel, and then suddenly realized that it was

quite an unnecessary search. What was he going to do after finding the hotel? Pay the bill, take the bag,

and clear out somewhere? Why should a _sanyasi__ carry a bag? Cast the bag and the hold-all aside,

he told himself. As for payment, the hotel man had already been paid an advance, and if he wanted he

could take the bag and the hold-all also into possession.

He slept that night on a pavement, rolling close to some wall. A board hung on the wall. He looked at it

to make out what place it was; but the board only said "Bill Stickers Will Be Prosecuted," with its Tamil

translation elaborated in meaning, "Those Who Stick Notices Wi ll Be Handed Over To The Police."

"Don't worry, I won't stick notices here," he told the wall, and lay down. The fatigue of the day

brought on sleep. Bill Stickers.... He dreamt a number of times that while sleeping close to the wall he

was mistaken for a poster, peeled off the wall by policemen, and placed under arrest. next morning he

was awakened by a sweeper. Chandran sat rubbing his eyes. When his mind emerged from sleep, he

resolved to get out of Madras immediately. There was no use remaining in the city any longer. It was so

big and confusing that one didn't know even the way out of it. There was, moreover, the danger of being

caught again by Kailas.

He found his way to the Central Station, went to a ticket counter, and asked: "When is the

next train leaving?"

"For?"

"For--for," repeated Chandran; "wait a minute, please." He glanced at a big railway map

hanging on the wall and said: "Bezwada."

"Grand Trunk Express at seven-forty."

"One third-class, please, for Bezwada."

He got into the train. The compartment was not crowded. He suddenly felt very unhappy at

having to go to Bezwada. He looked at the yellow ticket in his hand, and turned it between his fingers....

He was not going to be tyrannized over by that piece of yellow cardboard into taking a trip to Bezwada.

He didn't like the place, a place with the letter "z" in its name. He was not going to be driven to that

place by anything. The first bell rang. He flung the ticket out of the window and jumped out of the train.

He was soon out of the station.

He crossed the road, and got into a tram, and settled down comfortably in a seat. The

conductor came and said: "Ticket, please."

"Where does this go?"

"Mylapore."

"One ticket, Mylapore. How much?"

For the next half-hour his problems as to where to go were set at rest. When the tram halted

at the terminus he got down and walked till he saw the magnificent grey spire of Kapaleeswarar temple

against the morning sky.

He entered the temple, went round the holy corridor, and prostrated before every image and

sanctuary that he saw.

He saw a barber sitting on the steps of the temple tank waiting for customers. Chandran went

to him and asked: "Will you shave me?"

"Yes, master." The barber was rather surprised. Young [ 104 ] students with hair never

showed any trust in him. His only customers were widows who shaved their heads completely and

orthodox Brahmins who shaved their heads almost completely. Now here was a man willing to abandon

his hair into his hands. Chandran said: "I will give you a lot of money if you will do me a little service."

"I can also crop well, master."

"It is not only that. You must buy a cheap loin-cloth and an upper covering for me, dye them in

ochre, and bring them to me. After that you can shave my head, and take these clothes I am wearing

and also the purse in my pocket." He held the purse open before him. The barber saw in it rupees and

some notes, wages for six months' work in these days of safety razors and self-shaving.

"But not a word about it to any one, mind you," said Chandran.

"Are you becoming a _sanyasi?"__

"Don't ask questions," commanded Chandran.

"Master, at your age!"

"Will you stop asking questions or shall I get into a bus and go away? I want your help

because I don't know where to get these things in this wretched place. What is your name?"

"Ragavan."

"Ragavan, help me. You will gain my eternal gratitude. You will also profit yourself. My heart is

dead, Ragavan. I have lost everybody I love in this world, Ragavan. I will be waiting for you here. Come

soon."

"Master, if you don't mind, why should you not come and wait in my poor hut?"

Chandran went with him to his house, beyond a network of stifling lanes and by-lanes. It was

a one-roomed house, with a small bunk attached to it, full of heat and smoke, serving as kitchen. A very

tall, stout woman came out of it and asked the barber: "Why have you come back so soon?" He went

near her and whispered something.

He unrolled a mat for Chandran, requested him to make himself comfortable, and went out.

Chandran's mind and spirit had become so deadened that it did not matter to him where he

waited, and how long. So, though he had to spend nearly half the day alone in the barber's house,

seeing nothing but the barber's oily pillow and a red rug; and a calendar picture, without month or date

sheets, showing Brahma, the Creator of the Universe; and an iron-banded teakwood box, Chandran did

not feel the passing of the time.

The barber returned at three o'clock in the afternoon. He brought with him two pieces of cloth

dyed in ochre. He brought also a few plantains and a green coco-nut.

Chandran was hungry, and did not refuse the coco-nut and fruits. He sent the barber out

again for a postcard.

When the postcard was brought, Chandran borrowed a short pencil from the barber, and

wrote to his father: "Reached this place safely. I am staying with a friend I met at the station, and not

with uncle. I am leaving this for... I won't tell you where. I am going to wander about a lot. I am quite

happy and cheerful. Don't fear that I am still worried about the marriage. Not at all. I am going to wander

a good deal, and so don't run to the police station if you don't hear from me for a long time. You must

promise not to make a fuss. My respects to Mother. I shall be all right." He added a postscript: "Am

going with some friends, old classmates, whom I met here."

CHAPTER 12

His dress and appearance, the shaven pate and the ochre loincloth, declared him now and

henceforth to be a _sanyasi--__ one who had renounced the world and was untouched by its joys and

sorrows.

He travelled several districts on foot. When he felt tired he stopped a passing country cart and

begged for a lift. No one easily refused an obligation to a _sanyasi__. Occasionally he stopped even

buses on the highway.

He never cared to know where he was going or where he was staying (except that it was not

in the direction of Mal-gudi). For what did it matter to a _sanyasi__ where he was going? One town was

very much like another: the same bazaar street, hair-cutting saloons, coffee hotels, tailors squatting

before sewing-machines, grocers, Government officials, cycles, cars, and cattle. The difference was

only in the name, and why should a _sanyasi__ learn a name?

When he felt hungry he tapped at the nearest house and begged for food; or he begged in the

bazaar street for a coconut or plantain.

For the first few days his system craved for coffee, to which he was addicted since his

childhood. Whi le one part of him suffered acutely, another part derived a satisfaction in watching it

writhe and in saying to it: "Go on: suffer and be miserable. You were not sent into this world to enjoy. Go

on: be miserable and perish. You won't get coffee." Circumstances gradually wore this craving out.

If anybody invited him to sleep under a roof he did it; if not, he slept in the open, or in a public

rest-house, where were gathered scores like him. When he was hungry and found none to feed him, he

usually dragged himself about in a weak state, and enjoyed the pain of hunger. He said to his stomach:

"Rage as much as you like. Why don't you kill me?"

His cheekbones stood out; the dust of the highway was on him; his limbs had become homy;

his complexion had turned from brown to a dark tan. His looks said nothing; they did not even seem to

conceal a mystery; they looked dead. His lips rarely smiled.

He shaved once or twice and found that it was easier to allow the hair to grow as it pleased

than to keep it down. His hair grew unhindered; in course of time a very young beard and moustache

encircled his mouth.

He was different from the usual _sanyasi__. Others may renounce with a spiritual motive or

purpose. Renunciation may be to them a means to attain peace or may be peace itself. They are

perhaps dead in time, but they do live in eternity. But Chandran's renunciation was not of that kind. It

was an alternative to suicide. Suicide he would have committed but for its social stigma. Perhaps he

lacked the barest physical courage that was necessary for it. He was a _sanyasi__ because it pleased

him to mortify his flesh. His renunciation was a revenge on society, circumstances, and perhaps, too, on

destiny. after about eight months of wandering he reached Koopal Village in Sainad District. It was a

small village nestling at the foot of the range of mountains that connected the Eastern and the Western

Ghats.

On a hot afternoon Chandran arrived in this village, and drank water in the channel that fed

the paddy fields. He then went and sat in the shade of a banyan tree. He had been walking since the

dawn, and he felt tired. He reclined on a [ 108 ] stout root of the banyan and closed his eyes.

When he opened his eyes again he saw some villagers standing around him.

"May we know where our master is coming from?" somebody asked.

Chandran was tired of inventing an answer to this question. On the flash of an idea he

touched his mouth and shook his head. "He is dumb."

"No, he can hear us. Can you hear us?"

Chandran shook his head in assent.

"Can you talk?"

Chandran shook his head in assent, held up his ten fingers, touched his lips, looked

heavenward, and shook his head. They understood. "He is under a vow of silence of ten years or ten

months or ten days."

A number of villagers stood around Chandran and gaped at him. Chandran felt rather

embarrassed at being the target of the stare of a crowd. He closed his eyes. This was taken by the

others for meditation.

An important man of the village came forward and asked: "Won't you come and reside in my

poor abode?"

Chandran declined the offer with a gesture, and spent the night under the tree.

Next day, as the vi llagers passed him on their way to the fields, they saluted him with joined

palms. Somebody brought a few plantains and placed them before him; somebody else offered him

milk. Chandran accepted the gifts, consumed them, and then rose to go.

Somebody asked him: "Master, where are you going?"

With a sweep of his hands Chandran indicated a far-away destination.

At this they begged him to stay. "Master, our village is so [ 109] unlucky that few come this

way. Bless us with your holy presence for some more days, we beg of you." Chandran shook his head,

but they would not let him go. "Master, your very presence will bless our village. We rarely see holy men

here. We beg of you to stay for some days more."

Chandran was touched by this request. No one had valued his presence so highly till now. He

was treated with consideration everywhere, but not with so much of it as he saw here. He felt: "Poor

fellows. Probably no interesting person comes this way, which is God-knows-how-far from everywhere.

Why not stay if it is going to give them any pleasure. This is as good a place as another."

He went back to the banyan seat. There was great rejoicing when he consented to stay. Men,

women, and children followed him to the banyan tree.

Soon the news spread from hamlet to hamlet and village to village that a holy man under a

vow of si lence for ten years had arrived, and that he spent his time in rigorous meditation under a

banyan tree.

Next day scores of visitors came from all the surrounding villages, and gathered under the

banyan tree. Chandran sat in the correct pose of a man in meditation, cross-legged and with his eyes

shut.

It never occurred to them to doubt. They were innocent and unsophisticated, in most matters

(excepting their factions and fights), and took an ascetic's make-up at its face value.

Late in the evening Chandran opened his eyes and saw only a few vi llagers standing around

him. He signed to them to leave him alone. After this request was repeated twice they left him.

The night had fallen. Somebody had brought and left a [no] lighted lantern beside him. He

looked about. They had all brought gifts for him, milk and fruits and food. The sight of the gifts sent a

spear through his heart. He felt a cad, a fraud, and a confidence trickster. These were gifts for a

counterfeit exchange. He wished that he deserved their faith in him. The sight of the gifts made him

unhappy. He ate some fruit and drank a little milk with the greatest self-deprecation.

He moved away from the gifts; still the light shone on them. He even blew out the lantern--he

did not deserve the light-Sitting in the dark, he subjected his soul to a remorseless vivisection. From the

moment he had donned the ochre cloth to the present, he had been living on charity, charity given in

mistake, given on the face value of a counterfeit. He had been humbugging through life. He told himself

that if he were such an ascetic he ought to do without food or perish of starvation. He ought not to feed

his miserable stomach with food which he had neither earned nor, by virtue of spiritual worth, deserved.

He sought an answer to the question why he had come to this degradation. He was in no

mood for self-deception, and so he found the answer in the words "Malathi" and "Love." The former had

brought him to this state. He had deserted his parents, who had spent on him all their love, care, and

savings. He told himself that he had surely done this to spite his parents, who probably had died of

anxiety by now. This was all his return for their love and for all that they had done for him. The more he

reflected on this, the greater became his anger with Malathi. It was a silly infatuation. Little sign did she

show of caring for a fellow; she couldn't say that she had no chance. She had plenty of opportunities [ni]

to show that she noticed him. Where there was a wi ll there was a way. She had only been playing with

him, the devil. Women were like that, they enjoyed torturing people. And for the sake of her memory he

had come to this. He railed against that memory, against love. There was no such thing; a foolish

literary notion. If people didn't read stories they wouldn't know there was such a thing as love. It was a

scorching madness. There was no such thing. And driven by a non-existent thing he had become a

deserter and a counterfeit.

He wondered if he ought not to stand in the village street, call everybody, and announce to

them what he was. They might not believe, or they might think he had gone mad, or they might believe

and feel that they were fooled and mob him and beat him to a pulp. He toyed with this vision, a

punishment that he would surely deserve.

He rose. He decided to leave the village, as the most decent and practical thing that he could

do. He moved out of the banyan shade. Chandran walked all night, and early in the morning sighted a

bus. He stopped it.

"Will you please take me in?"

"Where are you going?"

"In your direction."

The conductor looked at the seats and grumbled.

"I will get down anywhere you like, any time you get passengers for the full bus."

The bus was still empty, and the request from one who wore the ochre garb, and the

conductor said: "Come on."

The _sanyasi__ climbed the bus and said: "I have walked all night. Put me down in a place

where there is a telegraph ' office."

The bus conductor thought for a moment and said: "There is one at Maduram."

"How far is it from here?"

"About ten miles, but we do not go there. We branch off about two miles from Maduram. This

bus goes to Kalki." Chandran got down from the bus at the cross-roads and walked to Maduram. It was

a small town on the banks of Samari River. In the central street there was a post and telegraph office.

Chandran tapped on the post office window and said to the postmaster: "I want to have a word with you.

Can I come in?"

After a severe scrutiny of the visitor the postmaster said: "Yes."

Chandran went into the small post office. The postmaster looked at Chandran suspiciously.

Too many English-speaking _sanyasis__ were about the place now, offering to tell the future, and

leaving their hosts minus a rupee or two at the end.

"You want to tell me my future, I suppose," said the postmaster.

"No, sir. I don't know any astrology."

"Too many _sanyasis__ come here nowadays. We simply can't afford to pay for all the

astrology that is available."

"I wish I had at least that to give in exchange," said Chandran, and then opened his heart to

the postmaster. He gave a clear account of his life and troubles.

After hearing his story the postmaster agreed to lend him a rupee and eight annas for sending

a telegram to his father for money.

Chandran expressed a desire for a shave and a change of clothing. The postmaster sent for a

barber and gave Chan- [113! dran an old shirt and a white _dhoti__.

Chandran requested the barber to pay special attention to his head, and to use the scissors

carefully there. He also requested the barber to shave his face thrice over.

After that he went in for a bath, and came out of the bathroom feeling resurrected. He was

dressed in the postmaster's _dhoti__ and shirt. He had in his hand his _sanyasi__ robes in a bundle.

After inviting the postmaster to witness the sight, he flung the bundle over the wall into the adjoining

lane.

He asked for a little hair oil and a comb. He rubbed the oil on his head and tried to comb his

hair before a mirror.

The feel of a shirt on his body and of a smooth chin, after months of shirtless and prickly

existence, gave him an ecstatic sensation.

At about four in the afternoon a message arrived endowing Chandran with fifty rupees, though

he had wired for only twenty-five.

The mail train towards Madras passed Maduram station at one o'clock at night. Chandran

bought a ticket for Mal-gudi, changed trains at two junctions, and finally got down at Malgudi station in

the morning two days later.

Part Four

CHAPTER 13

His parents were amazed to see him so transformed.

"I should have come to the station, Chandar," said his father, "but I was not sure when you

were coming."

Mother said: "You are looking like a corpse. How your bones stick out! What sunken cheeks!

What were you at all these days?"

Seenu said: "What about the cricket bat? Where is your coat? Your shirt is a bit loose. You

have also spoilt your hair. It is very short. Where is your bag?"

Father and Mother looked very careworn.

Mother asked: "Why couldn't you write to us at least a card?"

"I did," said Chandran.

"Only one. You should have written to us at least once after that."

Father asked: "Did you travel much? What were the places you visited?"

"Lots of places. Rolled about a great deal," said Chandran, and stopped at that. His father

could never get more than that from him.

"Why didn't you go to your uncle's?"

"I didn't fancy him," said Chandran. "Were you all very greatly worried about me?"

"Your mother was. She thought that something terrible had happened to you. Every morning

she troubled me to go and inform the police." He turned to his wife and added: "Have I not been telling

you that you were merely imagining things?"

"Ah," she said, "as if you weren't anxious! How many times did you say that an announcement

must be made in the papers?"

Father looked abashed.

Chandran asked: "I hope you haven't told the police or advertised in the papers?"

"No, no," said Father. "But I should certainly have done something if I hadn't heard from you

for some weeks more. It was only your mother who was very, very worried."

"As if you weren't," Mother retorted. "Why did you go thrice to Madras, and then to

Trichinopoly, and write to all sorts of people?"

Seenu said: "Father and Mother were worried about you, brother. Nobody would talk to me in

this house. They were all very ill-tempered and morose all these months. I didn't like our house, brother.

No one to talk to in the house except the cook. You ought to have written to us at least once or twice. I

hoped that you would go to Binns' and bring at least their catalogue."

Chandran went to his room and there found everything just as he had left it. The books that

had been kept on the table were there; the cot in the same position, the bookshelf in the same old place,

his old grey coat on the same hook on the coat stand; the table near the window with even the writingpad

in the same position. There was not a speck of dust on anything, nor a single spider's web. In fact

the room and all the objects in it were tidier than they had ever been. The sight of things spick and span

excited him. Everything excited him now. He ran to his mother and asked, panting: "Mother, how is it

everything is so neat in my room?" r ___, t [ 116]

Father replied: "She swept and cleaned it with great care every day."

"Why did you take so much trouble, Mother?"

She became red and was embarrassed. "What better business did I have?"

"How did you manage to keep Seenu out of my room, Mother?"

"Mother used to lock up the room, and never left it open even for an hour," Seenu replied.

Chandran suddenly asked: "What has happened to Ramu? Did anybody hear from him?"

"No."

"No letters from him for me?"

"None," his mother replied.

"Where are his people? Are they not in the next house?"

"His father was transferred to some Telegu district, and they have cleared out of this place,

bag and baggage."

Chandran realized that this was the last he would hear of Ramu. Ramu was dead as far as

Chandran was concerned. Ramu was never in the habit of writing. Except one card he had not written

for nearly two years now. His people ti ll now were in the next house, and there was some hope of

hearing about him. Now that too was gone. Chandran reflected gloomily: "I and he are parted now. He

won't bother about me any more. Very frivolous minded. Won't bother about a thing that is out of sight."

Mother said: "They came here to take leave of us, and they said that Ramu had found an

appointment at seventy-five rupees a month in the Bombay railways."

Chandran felt very hurt on hearing this. Here was a person who didn't care to communicate to

a friend such happy news as the securing of a job. That was like Ramu. Friendship was another illusion

like Love, though it did not reach the same mad heights. People pretended that they were friends, when

the fact was they were brought together by force of circumstances. The classroom or the club or the

office created friendships. When the circumstances changed the relations, too, snapped. What did

Ramu care for him now, after all the rambles on the river, cigarettes, cinema, and confidences?

Friendship--what meaningless expressions had come into use!

'What is the matter, Chandra, you are suddenly moody?" asked Chandran's father.

"Nothing, nothing," said Chandran. "I was only thinking of something. Father, have you any

idea where your old college friends are now?"

Father tried to recollect. He gave up the attempt. "I don't know. If I look at the old college

group photo I may be able to tell you something." He turned to his wife and asked: "Where is that group

photo?"

"How should I know?" she replied. Seenu said: "I don't know if it is the one you want. I found a

large group photo in the junk room, and I have hung it over my table, but the glass is broken."

Chandran said: "I don't mean the whole class. Just some particular friends you had in the

college."

"For the four years I spent in the Christian College I had about three or four intimate friends.

We were room-mates and neighbours in the hostel. We were always together.... Sivaraman, he entered

the Imperial Service and was in Bihar for some time. It is over thirty years since we wrote to each other.

I recently saw in the papers that he retired as Chief something or other in the Railway Board. Gopal

Menon, he was in the Civil Service. He died some time ago of heart failure. This, too, I saw only in the

papers, and then wrote a condolence letter to his wife. The other, we used to call him Kutti, his full name

was something or other. I don't know where he is now. The only old friend who is still in this town is

Madhava Rao."

"You mean the old man who lives near the college?"

"No, that is another person. I am referring to K. T. Madhava Rao, the retired Postal

Superintendent. He and I were very intimate friends."

"Do you meet often now?"

"Once in a way. He doesn't come to the club. Now that you ask me, I remember I went to his

house about four years ago, when he was laid up with blood pressure."

"And you used to spend all your time together in the college?"

"Yes, yes. But you see... We can't afford to be always together, you know. Each of us has to

go his own way."

To Chandran it was a depressing revelation. Well, probably ages hence he would be saying to

his grandson: "I had a friend called Ramu. It is fifty years since we have written to each other. I don't

know if he is still living." His father at least had a group photo in the junk room; he hadn't even that--he

had simply forgotten to buy his class group, this too I saw only in the papers...." The callousness of

Time!

He stepped down into the garden. He found the garden paths overgrown with grass, and

plants in various stages of decay. Thick weeds had sprung up everywhere, and were choking a few

cretons and roses that were still struggling for life. He had never seen the garden in this state. Ever

since he could remember his father had worked morning and evening in the garden. Now what had

happened to the gardener? What had happened to Father?

He went in and asked: "What has happened to the plants?"

Father looked awkward and said: "I don't know...."

"What, have you not been gardening?"

"I couldn't attend to the plants," he said.

"What were you busy with, then?"

"I don't know what account to give of myself."

Mother said mischievously: "He was busy searching for a missing son."

"But I wrote to you, Father, that you wouldn't hear from me for a long time and not to worry."

"Oh, yes, you did. It wasn't that. Your mother is only joking. Don't take her seriously."

Chandran went to Mohan's hotel in the evening. Before starting, he said to his mother: "I may

not come back tonight. I shall sleep in Mohan's hotel."

As he approached Mohan's hotel he could not help recollecting with a grim detachment the

state of mind he was in the last time he was here. The detachment was forced, his heart beat fast as he

came in front of the Modern Indian Lodge. Suppose she was standing at that very moment at the

entrance of the opposite house? Before slipping into the hotel, in spite of his resolve, he turned his head

once; but there was no one at the entrance. As he climbed the staircase he reproached himself severely

for this. Still a prey to illusions! Was he making for another bout of asceticism and wandering?

He stopped at the landing and found Room 14 locked. On the door some other name was

scrawled in pencil. Chandran descended the stairs and asked the manager if Mohan was still in the

hotel.

"Room 14," said the manager.

"But it is locked. Some other name on the door."

"That is the old Fourteen. The new Fourteen is on the topmost floor."

Chandran went up and found Mohan in a newly bui lt small room at the topmost part of the

building. It was airy and bright, a thorough contrast to the wooden-partitioned cell on the landing. There

were a table and a chair; a few pictures on the wall. Everything tidy.

Mohan was speechless for five minutes, and then he opened his mouth and let out a volley of

questions: "What did you do with yourself? Where were you? Why..."

"This is really a splendid room!" Chandran said. "How did you manage to leave the old one?"

"I am prosperous now, you see," Mohan said happily. "Tell me about yourself."

"Mine is a long story. It is like _Ramayanam__. You will hear it presently. Tell me how you are

prospering."

"Quite well, as I told you. The _Daily Messenger__ now sells a total of thirty thousand copies

a day. They pay me now five rupees a column, and don't cut much because they want to establish a

good circulation in these districts. New company running it now. They are very regular in payment. I am

making nearly twenty columns a month. Besides this, they publish my poems once a week in their

magazine page, and pay me four annas a line." Mohan looked very healthy and cheerful.

"This is great news," said Chandran. "I am glad you have left that old cell."

"I am paying five rupees more for this room. I insisted on this room being called Fourteen. It is

a lucky number. So this is known as the New Fourteen, and the other as the Old Fourteen. This room

was built very recently. The hotel proprietor is very prosperous now; he has purchased this building, and

has added many rooms. The poor fellow was down in luck for a number of years; but now lots of guests

come here, and he is doing very well. I thought of shifting to another hotel, but hadn't the heart to do it.

The old man and I have been friends since our bad days. In those days sometimes he would not have a

measure of rice in the whole hotel; and I have several times borrowed a rupee or two and given it to him

for running the hotel."

After attempting to smother the question a dozen times Chandran asked: "Are they sti ll in the

opposite house?"

Mohan smiled a little and paused before answering: "Soon after the marriage they left that

house. I don't know where they are now."

"Who is living in the house now?"

"Some _marwari__, a moneylender, has acquired it."

Everywhere there seemed to be change. Change, change, everywhere. Chandran hated it.

"Have I been away for only eight months or eighteen years?" Chandran asked himself. "Mohan, let us

go and spend the whole evening and night on Sarayu bank. I have a lot of things to tell you. I want you.

Let us eat something at an hotel and go to the river."

Mohan demurred. His presence was urgently needed at an Adjourned Meeting of the

Municipality.

Chandran turned a deaf ear to the call of duty, and insisted on seducing Mohan away from the

meeting. Mohan yielded, saying: "I shall take it from the _Gazette__ man tomorrow. I have got to report

it to my paper."

They went to a coffee hotel, and then to the river bank.

Long after the babble of the crowd on the sands had died, and darkness had fallen on the

earth, Chandran's voice was heard, in tune with the rumble of the flowing river, narrating to Mohan his

wanderings. He then explained his new phi losophy, which followed the devastating discovery that Love

and Friendship were the veriest illusions. He explained that people married because their sexual

appetite had to be satisfied and there must be somebody to manage the house. There was nothing

deeper than that in any man and woman relationship.

The Taluk Office gong sounded eleven at night when Chandran said: "Remember, I have not

told any one that I was a _sanyasi__ for eight months. You must keep it all to yourself. I don't want any

one to talk about me."

They rose and walked back to the hotel through the silent streets.

CHAPTER 14

Chandran settled down to a life of quiet and sobriety. He felt that his greatest striving ought to

be for a life freed from distracting illusions and hysterics.

He tended the garden a great deal now. Every morning he spent over two hours in the

garden. He divided his time between plants and books. In the evening he took his bicycle (a secondhand

one that he had bought recently) and went out for long rides on the Trunk Road. Late in the

evening he went to Mohan's hotel.

This kind of life was conducive to quiet and, possibly, sobriety. With an iron will he chased

away distracting illusions, and conscientiously avoided hysterics, with the care of one walking on a

tightrope. He decided not to give his [ 123 ] mind a moment of freedom. All the mischief started there.

Whatever he did, he did it with a desperate concentration now. If he dug the garden, the mind was

allowed to play about only the soil and the pick. If he read a book, he tried to make the print a complete

drug for the mind. The training of the mind was done feverishly and unsparingly.

There were still sights and sounds and hours which breathed, through some association or

other, memories of Malathi. But he avoided them. He rarely went to the river before sundown; and never

to the old spot. He was glad that the house opposite to the Modern Indian Lodge was now occupied by

a moneylender. The sound of pipe music, especially when _Kalyani raga__ was played on it, disturbed

his equanimity; when going to Mohan's hotel, he carefully avoided the route that took him by the Shiva

temple, where there was pipe music every evening. He never looked at the shop in Market Road for fear

of encountering the eyebrows of the boy in the shop. Even then something or other was sure to remind

him of Malathi and trouble him. At such moments he fumigated his mind with reflections: this is a

mischievous disturbance; this is false; these thoughts of Malathi are unreal because Love is only a brain

affection; it led me to beg and cheat; to desert my parents; it is responsible for my mother's extra

wrinkles and grey hairs, for my father's neglect of the garden; and a poor postmaster is a shirt and a

_dhoti__ less on account of my love.

However, there was another matter that troubled him, which could not be forced off the mind.

It was the question of occupation. He often told himself that he was making arrangements to go to

England in the coming year, and that he ought to come back from there with some distinction, and then

search for employment. Sometimes this quietened his mind, sometimes not. He was getting on for

twenty-four. It was nearly two years since he left college, and he was still leeching on his father. He was

so much bothered by this thought one day that he went to his father in the garden and asked: "Why

should I not apply for a Government post?"

Father looked up from the bed of annuals that he was digging. "Why do you want to do it?"

Chandran mumbled something.

Father understood that something was troubling him and said: "Well, there is no hurry."

"But I have wasted a lot of time already, Father. It is nearly two years since I became a

graduate, and I have neither studied further nor done anything else."

"It is no waste," Father said. "You have been reading and getting to know people and life and

so on. Don't worry. Time enough to apply for jobs after you return from England. It will be really worth

whi le, you see. There is no use in getting a bare forty or fifty as a clerk, though even that would be

difficult to secure in these days."

"But I am nearly twenty-four, Father, not a baby. There are fellows who support a family at my age."

"Well, you too could have done it if it was necessary. You could have finished your college

before you were twenty if I hadn't put you to school late, and if you hadn't been held up by typhoid for a

year."

Chandran admired his father for admitting as causes of wasted time late schooling and

typhoid, and leaving out of account the vagrant eight months, but for which he would have been in

England already. Chandran comforted himself by saying that he would compensate for all this by doing

something really great in England and getting into some really high post in the Education service. His

father was constantly writing to his brother at Madras for a lot of preliminary information connected with

Chandran's trip to England. These letters gave Chandran a feeling of progress towards an earning life.

But there were times when he doubted this too. He wondered if he really ought to put his father to that

expense. He wondered if his comfort from the thought of going to England soon was not another

illusion, and if it would not be super-parasitic of him. He could not decide the issue himself. He

consulted Mohan. Mohan asked why, if he felt so, he should not do something else. Chandran asked

what, and Mohan explained, "Why not the Chief Agency of our paper? They are not satisfied with the

present agent, and have given him notice. They have advertised for an agent in this and in a few other

districts."

"What is it likely to bring?"

"It all depends. If you canvas a large circulation, you will make a lot of money."

Chandran was sceptical. "Where am I to go and canvas?"

"That is what an agent gets his income for. In six months the daily circulation of the

_Messenger__ has gone up to thirty thousand, quite a good figure, and it circulates all over the

Presidency. It ought to find a sale in this place also. But for the agent the circulation would not have

gone above a bare twenty-five. All the same they are publishing my news because they hope that it will

ultimately pull up the circulation."

Chandran was not quite convinced that it was a very useful line to take.

Next day Mohan came out with further information. "I saw the present agent. He qets a

quarter of an anna per paper sold." Mohan wrote to the office for information, and in due course, when it

arrived, passed it on to Chandran. After some more talk and thought, Chandran became quite

enthusiastic. He asked his father: "Will you be disappointed if I don't go to England?"

"What is the matter? I have already written for official information."

"I feel that going to England will only mean a lot of expense."

"You need not worry about that."

"Getting a distinction and coming back and securing a suitable appointment, all these seem to

be a gamble."

Father was silent. He felt nervous when Chandran came and proposed anything. But

Chandran went on developing exquisitely the theme of the _Messenger__ agency. He saw in it a

beautiful vision of an independent life full of profit and leisure. He quoted facts and figures. A quarter of

an anna per day per paper sold. With a miserly circulation of i,000 for the whole district, he would be

making 250 annas a day. He would get at that rate about 480 rupees a month, which one couldn't

dream of getting in the Government service even after fifteen years of slavery. And there was always

the possibility of expanding the business. He gave the area of Malgudi, its population, out of which the

English-knowing persons were at least 10,000; out of number at least 5,000 would be able to spend an

anna a day on a newspaper; and it was these who were going to support the _Daily Messenger__.

"For the agency we must give a security of 2,000 rupees, for which they later pay interest.

Somebody has written from the office that a number of people have already applied and that there is a

keen fight for the agency. They are selecting the agent only on the first. It is a good chance, Father. I

think it is better than going to England."

Father listened in silence.

Mother, who was twisting small cotton bits into wicks for the lamps in God's room, said: "I

think so. Why should he go to England?"

Father replied that the question could not be so easily settled. He was very ignorant of the

newspaper business. He wrote a letter to his brother in Madras for enlightenment on the subject. That

evening, in the club, he took aside Nan-jundiah, a barrister of the town, a public figure, and his particular

friend, and asked him: "Do you read the _Daily Messenger?"__

"Yes."

"What sort of a paper is it? I saw a copy, but I should like to have your opinion."

"I don't subscribe for it but get it from a neighbour. It is quite a good paper, non-party and

independent."

"You see," said Chandran's father, "my son wants to take up the agency, giving a security of

2,000 rupees. I have absolutely no idea what it is all about, but he seems to think that it will be a good

investment."

"What about his going to England?"

"Seems to be more keen on this. I don't know, that boy gets a new notion every day; but I

don't like to stand in his way if it is really a sound proposition."

He said to Chandran that night: "I spoke to Nanjundiah about the paper. He thinks well of it,

but doesn't know anything else. However, he has promised to find out and tell me."

Chandran said: "We can't be wasting time over all these inquiries. There is a rush for the

agency. We must look sharp."

After Chandran had gone to his room, his mother said: 'Why are you tormenting the boy?"

Father did not vouchsafe an answer but merely rustled his paper. She repeated the question, and he

said: "Why don't you leave it to me?"

"If the boy wishes to stay here, why won't you let him stay? What is the use of sending him to

England? Waste of a lot of money. What do our boys, who go to England, specially achieve? They only

learn to smoke cigarettes, drink wine, and dance with white girls."

"It is my hope that our boy will do something more than that."

"If there is as much money in the paper as he says, why shouldn't he do that work?"

"If there is; that is what I must know before I let him do it. I can't very well give him a cheque

for 2,000 rupees and ask him to invest it, without knowing something about the persons that are running

the paper, how long it will last, and other things. There is hardly any sense in letting him in for work

which may not last even a year! I have written to my brother. Let me see what he writes."

"You have to write to your brother about everything," she said, rising to go in. "Only I don't

want you to drive the boy to desperation."

Father looked after her for a long time, shifted in his easy chair a little, and rustled the paper.

Chandran said to himself: "I have no business to hustle and harass my father. He has every

right to wait and delay. If I am destined to get the agency, I shall get it; if not, I shall not get it for all the

hustling."

There was a delay of four or five days before a reply arrived from his uncle. Ti ll then Father

went about his business without mentioning the paper, and Chandran too conducted himself as if there

was no such thing as the _Daily__

_Messenger__. But every morning he went out at about nine o'clock, met the Lawley

Extension postman on the way and asked if there was any letter for Father. At last, one morning, the

postman carried a letter in his hand for Father. It bore the Madras postmark. At other times Chandran

would have snatched the letter from the postman, taken it to his father, and demanded to be told of its

contents. But now he curbed that impulse, asked the postman to carry the letter himself, went to the

Town Reading-room, and returned home at midday. He did not go before Father at all, but confined his

movements between the kitchen and the dining-hall, till Father himself called Chandran and gave him

the letter. Chandran opened the letter and read: "... There is an influential directorate at the head of the

paper. J. W. Prabhu, Sir N. M. Rao, and others are on it. An agency would really be worth while, but

would not be easy to secure. If you send Chandran over here immediately I shall see if anything can be

done through a friend of mine who knows the Managing Director...."

Chandran read the letter twice, gave it back to his father, and asked as casually as possible:

"What do you think of it?"

"You can go to Madras to-day. I shall send a wire to your uncle."

"All right."

He went to his mother and said: "I am starting for Madras to-day."

She asked anxiously: "When will you be back?"

"In two or three days, as soon as my work is finished."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh, don't worry, Mother. I shall positively come back."

He immediately started packing his trunk. As he sat in his room, with all his clothes lying

scattered about, his father frequently came in with something or other for Chandran in hand. He brought

half a dozen handkerchiefs.

"You may want these in Madras." He came next with a pair of new _dhoties. "I__ have a lot

more in the chest of drawers." He then brought a woolen scarf and requested Chandran to hand it over

to his brother in Madras. Mother came in and asked if Chandran would like to carry anything to eat on

the way. She then expressed a desire to send a small basket of vegetables to her sister-in-law.

Chandran said that he would not take it with him. But she argued that she wasn't asking him to carry the

load on his head. He threatened that if he were given any basket he would throw it out of the train.

At five o'clock he had finished his dinner and was ready to start. His steel trunk and a roll of

bedding were brought to the hall. Mother added a small basket to Chandran's luggage. Chandran

protested at the sight of the basket. Mother lifted the basket and said: "See, it is very light; contains only

some vegetables for your aunt. You mustn't go with empty hands."

His father, mother, and Seenu saw Chandran off at the station. Seenu said: "Don't stay away

long. Don't forget Binns this time." next morning as the train steamed into the Madras Egmore station

Chandran, peeping out of the window, saw his uncle on the platform.

His uncle was about forty years old, a cheerful plump man with a greying crop, and wearing

thick-rimmed spectacles. He was a business man and a general broker, doing a lot of work, and

knowing all possible persons in the city.

As Chandran got down from the train, his uncle said: "I came here myself in order that you

might not slip away this time."

Chandran blushed and said: "Father has sent you a scarf."

"So after all he has the strength to part with it. Is it the same or a different one?"

"Deep blue wool."

"It is the same. He wouldn't give it to me for years."

A porter carried the things to a car outside. Chandran sat with his uncle in the front seat.

"How do you like this car?" his uncle asked.

"It is quite good."

"I bought it recently, giving away my old Essex in exchange."

"Oh," said Chandran. He felt quite happy that his uncle was speaking to him like an equal, and

was not teasing him as he used to do before. Chandran had always avoided his uncle if he could, but

now he found him quite tolerable.

His uncle asked why Chandran had dropped the idea of going to England. He chatted

incessantly as he drove along, cutting across tramcars, hooting behind pedestrians, and taking turns

recklessly.

He lived in a bungalow in the Luz Church Road. Chan-dran's aunt and cousins (one of his

own age, a youngster, and a girl) were standing on the veranda to receive Chandran.

"Ah, how tall Chandra has grown!" said his aunt; and Chandran felt very tall and proud.

"Mother has sent a basket of vegetables for you, Aunt," he said, and surveyed his cousins.

The one of his own age smiled and said: "I came to the station last time."

"Oh," said Chandran, and blushed. When were people going to forget his last trip?

"Raju, take Chandra's things to your room, and then show him the bathroom," Uncle said to

this cousin.

His cousin took him to his room. Chandran removed his coat, and Raju said again: "I came to

the station last time, and searched for you on the platform."

Chandran paid no attention, but opened his trunk, took out a towel and soap, and sternly said:

"Show me the bathroom."

When Chandran was combing his hair, his aunt brought in a very small child with curly hair

and large eyes, and said: "Have you seen this girl? She is just up from bed. She simply wouldn't stay in

it, but wanted to be taken to you immediately."

Chandran tapped its cheeks with his fingers. "What is her name?"

"Kamala," replied his aunt.

"Ah, Kamal. What, Kamala?" Chandran asked, staring at the child, and raising his hand once

again to tap its cheeks. The child looked at him fixedly for a moment and began to cry. Chandran stood

still, not knowing what he was expected to do. Aunt took away the child, saying: "She can't stand new

faces. She will be all right when she gets to know you a little more."

At eleven o'clock, after food, his uncle took him but in the car. The car stopped before a fourstoried

building in Linga Chetty Street.

He followed his uncle up three flights of stairs, past a corridor and a glass door, into an office.

Before a table littered with files a man was sitting.

His uncle said: "Good morning, Murugesam."

"Hallo, hallo, come in," said the man at the table, pushing aside a fi le that he was reading.

Uncle said: "This is my nephew whom I spoke to you about. This is Mr. S. T. Murugesam,

General Manager of Engladia Limited."

Chandran stretched his hand across the table and said: "I am glad to meet you, sir."

"Take a chair," said Murugesam.

Uncle and Murugesam talked for a while, and then Uncle got up. "I shall have to be going

now. Some railway people are coming to my office at twelve. So you will take this boy and fix him up?"

"I will do my best."

"That is not enough," said Uncle. "You have got to fix him up. He is a graduate, son of a big

Government pensioner; he will give any security you want. You must fix him up. He has even cancelled

his trip to England for the sake of this paper.... You can keep him here. I shall pick him up on my way

back." He went out.

Murugesam looked at the time and said: "We shall go out at two o'clock. I hope you won't

mind half an hour's wait."

"Not at all. You can take your own time, sir," said Chandran, and leant back in his chair.

Murugesam signed a heap of papers, pushed them away, gripped the telephone on the table, and said

into it: "Shipping," and waited for a moment and said, "Inform Damodars that we can't load _Waterway__

before Thursday midnight. Thursday midnight. Bags are still arriving. She is not sailing before

Saturday evening.... Right. Thank you."

Chandran watched him, fascinated. For the first time he was witnessing a business man at

work. Chandran felt a great admiration for Murugesam, a slight man, keeping in his hands the strings of

mighty activities; probably ships were waiting to sail at a word from him. How did he pick up so much

business knowledge? What did he earn? Ten thousand? What did he do with so much money? When

would he find time to spend the money and enjoy life with so many demands on his attention? The

telephone bell rang. Murugesam took it up and said: "That is right. Tell them they will get the notice in

due course. Thank you," and put down the receiver. An assistant brought in some letters and put them

before him, Murugesam wrote something on them, gave them back to the assistant, and said: "I am

going out, and shall not be back for about half an hour. If there are any urgent calls, you can ring me up

at the _Daily Messenger."__

"Yes, sir."

"But remember, don't send anyone there. Only very urgent calls." He rose and picked up his

fur cap. Chandran was impressed with the other's simplicity of dress. He was wearing only a _dhoti__, a

long silk coat, and a black fur cap.

He led Chandran out of the building, and got into a sedan. They drove in the car for about a

quarter of an hour through whirling traffic, and got down before a new, white building in Mount Road,

before which stood in huge letters the sign _"Daily Messenger."__ They went up in a lift, through several

halls filled with tables and men bent in work, past shining counters and twisting passages. Murugesam

pushed a red-curtained door. A man was sitting at a table littered with files. "Hallo, Murugesam," he

said. He was a pink, bald man, wearing rimless glasses. A fan was whirring over his head.

"I have brought this young man to see you," Murugesam said.

The bald man looked at Chandran coldly, and said to Murugesam: "You were not at the club

yesterday."

"I couldn't come. Had to go to the wharf."

A servant brought in a visiting-card. The bald man looked at it critically and said: "No more

interviews to-day. Tomorrow at one-thirty."

Murugesam went over to the other side of the table and spoke in whispers to the bald man.

Murugesam almost sat on the arm of the bald man's revolving chair. Chandran was not asked to sit, and

so he stood, uncertainly, looking at the walls, with his arms locked behind him. The bald man suddenly

looked at Chandran and asked: "Your father is?"

"H. C. Venkatachala Iyer."

"He was?"

"A District Judge."

"I see," said the bald man. He turned to Murugesam and said: "I have no idea what they are

doing in regard to the agencies. I must ask Sankaran. I will let you know afterwards."

Murugesam made some deprecating noises and said: "That won't do. Call up Sankaran and

tell him what to do. Surely you can dictate." He left the arm of the chair and went to another chair,

saying: "He is a graduate, comes from a big fami ly, prepared to give any security. He has cancelled his

tour to England for the sake of your paper."

"Why did you want to go to England?" asked the bald man, turning to Chandran.

"Wanted to get a doctorate."

"At?"

"The London University."

"In?"

"Economics or Politics," said Chandran, choosing his subject for the first time.

"Why do you want to work for our paper?"

"Because I like it, sir."

"Which? The paper or the agency?"

"Both," said Chandran.

"Are you confident of sending up the circulation if you are given a district?"

"Yes, sir."

"By how much?"

Chandran quoted 5,000, and explained the figures with reference to the area of Malgudi, its

literate population, and the number of people who could spend an anna a day.

"That is a fair offer," said Murugesam.

The bald man said with a dry smile: "It is good to be optimistic."

"Optimistic or not, you must give him a fair trial," said Murugesam.

The bald man said: "The trouble is that I don't usually interfere in these details. The managers

concerned look to it. I have no idea what they are doing."

"Well, well, well," said Murugesam impatiently. "There is no harm in it. You can break the rule

occasionally and dictate. Just for my sake. I have to go back to the office. Hurry up. Send for Sankaran."

Murugesam pressed a bell. A servant came. Murugesam said: "Tell Mr. Sankaran to come up."

A man with a scowling face came in, nodded, went straight to a chair, sat down, and leaned

forward.

The bald man asked: "Have you any vacancies in the Southern Districts?"

"For correspondents? No."

"I mean agencies."

"Yes, a few where we want to change the present agents."

"Yours is Malgudi, is it not?" asked the bald man, turning to Chandran.

"Yes, sir."

"I think that is one of the places," said Sankaran.

The bald man said: "Please give me some details of the place."

Sankaran pressed a bell, scribbled something on a bit of paper, and gave it to the servant.

"Take it to Sastri."

The servant went out and returned in _a__ few minutes followed by an old man, who was

carrying a register with him. He placed the register on the table before Sankaran, opened a page, and

stood away respectfully.

Murugesam said at this point: "Sit down, Mr. Chandran."

"Yes, yes, why are you standing?" asked the bald man.

Chandran sat in a chair and looked at the bald man, Sankaran, the turban-wearing Sastri, and

Murugesam, and thought: "My life is in these fellows' hands! Absolute strangers. Decision of my fate in

their hands, absolutely! Why is it so?"

Sankaran said, looking at the register: "Here are the facts, sir. Malgudi Agency: The present

man has been there since the old regime. The top circulation 35 till two years ago; since then steady at

25! Eleven applications for the agency up to date; one from the old agent himself promising to turn over

a new leaf. Potential circulation in the district, 7,000."

"Thank you," said the bald man. 'When are you settling it?"

"I want to wait till the first."

"Why should there be any delay? If you have no particular objection, give the agency to this

gentleman. He promises to give the security immediately and work for the paper."

Sankaran looked at Chandran and said to the bald man: "Some more applications may be

coming in, sir."

"File them."

"Very well, sir," said Sankaran, and rose. "Come with me," he said to Chandran.

Sankaran took Chandran into a hall, where a number of persons were seated at tables, from

the edges of which galley proofs streamed down to the floor. They went to the farthest end of the hall

and sat down. Sankaran began a short speech on the _Daily Messenger__: "The _Daily Messenger__

is not the old paper that it was a year or two ago. The circulation has gone up from 8,000 to 30,000 in

less than a year. That is due both to the circulation and the editorial departments. They have both work

to do, just as you need both legs for walking." He spoke over the din of the office and of the press below

for half an hour, winding up with the threat that if Chandran did not show real progress within six months

from the date of appointment, the agency would be immediately transferred to another. chapter 15

Chandran returned to Malgudi and plunged himself in work. He took a small room in Market Road for a

rent of seven rupees a month, and hung on the doorway an immense sign: "THE _DAILY

MESSENGER__ (Local Offices)." He furnished his office with a table, a chair, and a long bench.

He sat in his office from eleven till five, preparing a list of possible subscribers in the town. At

the lowest estimate there were five hundred. After enlisting them, he would go out into the district and

enlist another five hundred; and for six months he would be quite content to stay at a thousand.

He took out a sheet of paper and noted on it the procedure to be followed in canvassing. He

often bit the pen and looked at the traffic in Market Road, steeped in thought. After four days of intense

thinking and watching of traffic, he was able to sketch out a complete plan of attack. He wrote: "Bulletin;

Specimen; Interview; Advance." He would first send his bulletin to the persons on his list, then supply

free specimen copies for two days, then go and see them in person, and finally take a month's

subscription in advance.

Next he planned the Bulletin. It approached a client in four stages: Information; Illumination;

Appeal; and Force.

Bulletin One said: '

'Mr. H. V. Chandran, B.A., requests the pleasure of your company with fami ly and friends at 0-

96 Market Road, where he has just opened the local offices of the _Daily Messenger__ of Madras."

Bulletin Two said: "Five reasons why you should immediately subscribe to the _Daily Messenger__: Its

daily circulation is 30,000 in the Presidency, and 30,000 persons cannot be making a mistake every

day. It is auspicious to wake to the thud of a paper dropped on the floor; and we are prepared to provide

you with this auspicious start every morning by bringing the D.M. to your house and pushing it in

through your front window. It has at its command all the news services in the world, so that you will find

in it a Municipal Counci l resolution in Malgudi as well as a political assassination in Iceland, reported

accurately and quickly. The mark of culture is wide information; and the D.M. will give you politics,

economics, sports, literature; and its magazine supplement covers all the other branches of human

knowledge. Even in mere bulk you will be getting your anna's worth; if you find the contents

uninteresting you can sell away your copy to the grocer at a rupee per _maund."__ Bulletin Three said:

"As a son of the Motherland it is your duty to subscribe to the D.M. With [ every anna that you pay, you

support the anaemic child, Indian Industry. You must contribute your mite for the economic and political

salvation of our country." Bulletin Four merely stated: "To the hesitant. It is never too late. Come at once

to 0-96 Market Road and take your paper, or shall we send it to your house? Never postpone to a tomorrow

what you can do to-day."

He gave these for printing to the Truth Printing Works, which was situated in another room

like his, four doors off. The Truth Works consisted of a treadle, a typeboard, and a compositor, besides

the proprietor.

The printer delivered the bulletins in about a week. Chandran put them in envelopes and

addressed them according to the list he had prepared. He had now in his service three small boys for

distributing the paper, and he had purchased for them three cheap cycles. He divided the town into

three sections and allotted each of them a section, and gave them the envelopes for distribution. He

sent the bulletins out in their order, one on each day.

After that he engaged a small party of brass band and street boys, and sent them through the

principal streets of the town in a noisy procession, in which huge placards, shrieking out the virtues of

the _Daily Messenger__, were carried.

He then distributed a hundred copies of the _Messenger__ every day as specimens to the

persons to whom he had sent the bulletins.

After all this preparation, he set out every morning on his cycle, neady shaved and groomed,

and dressed in an impeccable check suit, and interviewed his prospects. He took the town ward by

ward. He calculated that if he worked from eight in the morning till eight in the evening he would be able

to see about thirty-six prospects a day, giving about twenty minutes to each prospect.

He sent his card into every house and said as soon as his prospect appeared: "Good

morning, sir. How do you like our paper?" Soon he became an adept salesman, and in ten minutes

could classify and label the person before him. He now realized that humanity fell into four types: (i)

Persons who cared for the latest news and could afford an anna a day. (2) Persons who were satisfied

with stale news in old papers which could be borrowed from neighbours. (3) Persons who read

newspapers in reading-rooms. (4) Persons who could be coerced by repeated visits.

Chandran talked a great deal to i and 4, and never wasted more than a few seconds on 2 and 3.

He visited club secretaries, reading-room secretaries, headmasters of schools, lawyers,

doctors, business men, and landowners, and every literate person in the town, at home, office, and club.

To some places, when he was hard-pressed for time, he sent Mohan. in a few weeks he settled down to

a routine. Every morning he left his bed at five o'clock and went to the station to meet the train from

Madras at five-thirty. He took the bundles of papers and sent them in various directions with the cycle

boys. After that he returned home, and went to his office only at eleven o'clock, and stayed there till five

in the evening, when Mohan would drop in after posting his news for the day. Often Mohan would set

him on the track of new clients: "I have reported an interesting criminal case to-day. Full details will

appear in to-morrow's paper." As soon as the report appeared Chandran would go to the parties

concerned and show them the news in print and induce them to part with a month's subscription, or if

that was not possible, at least manage to sell them some loose copies containing their names. Some

persons would be so pleased to see their names in print that they would buy even a dozen copies at a

time. These stray sales accounted for, on an average, half a dozen copies every day. Mohan reported a

wide variety of topics: excise raids, football matches, accidents, "smart" arrests by police sub-inspectors,

suicides, murders, thefts, lectures in Albert College Union, and social events like anniversaries, teaparties,

and farewell dinners. the _D. M__. was responsible for taking him back to his old college after

two years. Mohan had secured the Union and college orders. One of the boys came and told Chandran

one day, suddenly: "Sir, the college clerk says that they won't want the paper from to-morrow."

"Why?"

"I don't know, sir. They said the same thing in the Union too."

Chandran went to the college in person. The Union clerk recognized him and asked: "How are

you, Mr. Chandran?"

"I say, my boy tells me that you have stopped the paper. Have you any idea why?"

"I don't know, sir. It is the President's order."

"Who is the President this year?"

"History Ragavachar," said the clerk.

He left the Union and went to the college, to the good old right wing, in which his Professor's

room was situated. Ragavachar was holding a sjnall class in his room, and Chandran went back to the

Union to wait till the end of the hour. He sat in the gallery of the debating hall, and nobody took any

notice of him. One of two boys stared at him and passed.

He had been the Prime Mover in this very hall on a score of occasions; he had been the focus

of attention. In those days, when he sat like this in the interim periods, how many people would gather

round him, how they would all swagger about and shout as if they owned the place, and how they would

throw pitying looks at strangers who sometimes came to look at the Union and moved about the place

timidly. "Not one here that belonged to my set, all new faces, all absolute strangers. Probably these

were High School boys when we were in the college.... Ramu, Ramu. How often have I come here

looking for Ramu. If any class or lecture threatened to be boring Ramu would prefer to come away and

spend his time reading a novel here or up in the reading-room. He had been quite a warm friend, but

probably people changed. Time passed swiftly in Ramu's company. He would have some comment or

other to make on every blessed thing on earth.... If he had real affection for a friend he should have

written letters, especially when there was happy news like the securing of a job. Out of sight out of mind,

but that is not a quality of friendship. There is no such thing as friendship...."

Chandran rose from the gallery and stood looking at some group photos hanging on the wall.

All your interests, joys, sorrows, hopes, contacts, and experience boiled down to group photos,

Chandran thought. You lived in the college, thinking that you were the first and the last of your kind the

college would ever see, and you ended as a group photo; the laughing, giggling fellows one saw about

the Union now little knew that they would shortly be frozen into group photos.... He stopped before the

group representing the 1931 set. He stood on tiptoe to see the faces. Many faces were familiar, but he

could not recollect all their names.

Where were all these now? He met so few of his classmates, though they had been two

hundred strong for four years. Where were they? Scattered like spray. They were probably merchants,

advocates, murderers, police inspectors, clerks, officers, and what not. Some must have gone to

England, some married and had children, some turned agriculturists, dead and starving and

unemployed, all at grips with life, like a buffalo caught in the coils of a python....

There was Veeraswami, the revolutionary. He had appeared only once on the sands of

Sarayu, like a dead man come to life for an instant. He had talked of some brigade and a revolution and

Nature Cure. Where was he? What had he done with himself?... Among the people seated in the front

row there was Natesan, the old Union secretary, always in complications, always grumbling and

arranging meetings. Chandran realized that he hadn't heard of Natesan after the examination; didn't

know to which part of the country he belonged. He had been a good friend, very helpful and

accommodating; but for his help the Historical Association could not have done any work. Where was

he? Had he committed suicide? Could an advertisement be inserted in the papers: "Oh, Natesa, my

friend, where are "V* you?

The bell rang. Chandran hurried out to meet Ragavachar. He saw several students walking in

the corridors of the college. Scores of new faces. "At any rate they were better built in our days. All

these fellows are puny." He recognized a few that had been the rawest juniors in his days, but were

senior students now. They greeted him with smiles, and he felt greatly pleased. He strode into

Ragavachar's room. Ragavachar sat in his chair and was just returning his spectacles to their case.

"Good morning, sir," said Chandran. The Professor appeared to be slightly loose in the joints

now. How he had been terrified of him in those days, Chandran reflected, as the Professor opened his

case, put on the spectacles, and surveyed his visitor. There was no recognition in his manner.

"Please sit down," said the Professor, still trying to place his visitor.

"Don't you recognize me, sir?"

"Were you in this college at any time?"

"Yes, sir, in 1931.! was the first secretary of the Historical Association. My name is H. V.

Chandran."

"H. V. Chandran," the Professor repeated reflectively. "Yes, yes. I remember. How are you?

What are you doing now? You see, about two hundred persons pass out of the college every year;

sometimes it is difficult to recollect, you see."

Chandran had never thought that Ragavachar could talk so mildly. In those days how his

voice silenced whole classes!

"What are you doing, Chandran?"

Chandran told him, and then stated his business.

"Send for the Union clerk," said the Professor. When the clerk came, he asked: "Why have

you stopped the _Daily__ Messenger?"

"There was a President's order to stop some of the papers," replied the clerk.

"And you chose the _Daily Messenger__, I suppose?" growled Ragavachar. His voice had

lost none of its tigerishness. "Which daily are you getting in the Union?"

"The _Everyday Post__, sir."

This name set up a slight agitation in Chandran. The Post was his deadliest enemy; but for it

he would have enlisted a thousand subscribers in a fortnight. He said: "The Post! It isn't served by the

Planet News Service, sir."

"Isn't it?" asked Ragavachar.

"No, sir. It gets only the 'C grade of the B. K. Press Agency."

"Is there much difference?"

"Absolutely, sir. I am not saying it because I am the agent of the _Messenger__. You can

compare the telegrams in the _Messenger__ with those in the Post, and you will see the difference, sir.

B. K. Agency is not half as wide an organization as the Planet, and its 'C' grade is its very lowest

service, and supplies the minimum news; the 'A' and 'B' grades are better. Our paper gets the 'A' and 'B'

grades of the B. K. Agency in addition to the First Grade of the Planet Service; so that our paper gives

all the news available."

"Still, a lot of people buy the _Post,"__ said Ragavachar.

"No, sir. Quite a lot of people are buying now only the _Messenger__. The circulation of the

Post has steadily gone down to 2,000. Once upon a time it reigned supreme, when it was the only paper

in the south."

Ragavachar turned to the clerk and commanded: "Get the _Messenger__ from to-morrow.

Stop the Post."

When Chandran rose to go, the Professor said: "I wish you luck. Please keep in touch with us.

It ought to be easier for our students to remember us than for us to remember them. So don't forget."

"Certainly not, sir," Chandran said, resolving at that moment to visit his Professor at least

once a week.

The college library clerk told him that Gajapathi was in charge of the college reading-room.

Chandran went to the Common Room and sent his card in and waited, wondering if Gajapathi was

going to resume his attacks on Dowden and Bradley.

"Hallo, hallo, Chandran. It is ages since I saw you. What are you doing now?" Gajapathi put

his arm round Chan-dran's shoulders and patted him. Chandran was taken aback by this affability,

something they had not thought him capable of. Except for this Gajapathi had not changed. He still wore

his discoloured frame spectacles and the drooping moustache.

When Chandran stated his business, Gajapathi said: "If they are getting the _Messenger__ in

the Union we can't get it in the college reading-room, because the Principal has passed an order that

papers and magazines should not be duplicated in the two reading-rooms."

"But it is a waste of money to get the Post, sir. There is absolutely no news in it. It has a very

inadequate service for telegrams, and it hasn't half as many correspondents as the _Messenger__ has."

"Whatever it is, that is the Principal's order."

"Why don't you subscribe to my paper, sir?"

"Me! I never read any newspaper."

Chandran was horrified to hear it. "What do vou do for ,/ news, sir?"

"I am not interested in any news."

Evidently this man read only Shakespeare and his critics.

"Well, sir, if you won't consider it a piece of impertinence, I think you ought to get into the

newspaper habit. I am sure you will like it. I am sure you wouldn't like to be without it even for a day."

"Very well then, send it along. What is the subscription?"

"Two-eight a month and the paper is delivered at your door."

"Here it is, for a month." Gajapathi took out his purse and gave a month's subscription. "You

can ask your boy to de liver it to me at----" r 0 -, [ 148]

"Thank you, sir. I shall send the receipt to-morrow."

"Don't you trouble yourself about it. I only want my old students to do well in life. I am happy

when I see it."

Chandran had never known this fact, and now he was profoundly moved by it.

"You must visit my office some time, sir," he said.

"Certainly, certainly. Where is it?"

Before parting, Chandran tried to gratify him by saying: "I have been reading a lot since I left

the college, sir."

"Really very glad to hear it. What have you been reading?"

"A little of Shakespeare; some Victorian essayists. But in fiction I think the present-day writers

are really the masters. Don't you think, sir, that Wells, Galsworthy, and Hardy are superior to the old

novelists?"

Gajapathi paused before pronouncing an opinion. "I honestly think that there has not been

anything worth reading after the eighteenth century, and for anyone who cares for the real flavour of

literature nothing to equal the Elizabethans. All the rest is trash."

"Galsworthy, sir?"

"I find him tiresome."

"Wells and Hardy?" gasped Chandran.

"Wells is a social thinker, hardly a literary figure. He is a bit cranky too. Hardy? Much

overrated; some parts of _Tess__ good."

Chandran realized that Time had not touched his fanaticisms. What an unknown,

unsuspected enemy Wells, Galsworthy, Hardy, and a host of critics had in Gajapathi, Chandran thought.

"Don't forget to visit my office, sir, some time," Chandran pleaded before taking his leave.

CHAPTER 16

One evening at five o'clock, as Chandran sat in his office signing receipts and putting them in

envelopes for distribution next morning, his father walked in. Chandran pushed his chair back and rose,

quite surprised for Father seldom came to the office; he had dropped in on the opening day, and again

at another time with a friend, explaining apologetically that the friend wanted to see Chandran. Now this

was his third visit.

"Sit down, Chandar, don't disturb yourself," said Father, and tried to sit on the bench.

Chandran pushed the chair towards him, entreating him to be seated on it.

Father looked about and asked: "How is your business?"

"Quite steady, Father. The only trouble is in collection. If I go in person they pay the

subscription; if I send the boys they put them off with some excuse or other. I can't be visiting the 350

subscribers in person every morning. I must engage a bill collector. I can just afford one now."

"Are they pleased with your work in the Head Office?"

"They must be. For six months I have shown a monthly average of over fifty new

subscriptions; but they have not written anything, which is a good sign. I don't expect anything better. If

work is unsatisfactory our bosses will bark at us; if it is satisfactory they won't say so, but merely keep

quiet."

"You are right. In Government service, too, it is the same; the best that we can expect from

those above us is a very passive appreciation."

And then the conversation lagged for some time. Father suddenly said: "I have come on a

mission. I was sent by your mother."

"Mother?"

"Yes. She wants this thing to be made known to you. She is rather nervous to talk to you

about it herself. So she has sent me."

"What is it, Father?"

"But I wish you to understand clearly that I have not done anything behind your back. I have

had no hand in this. It is entirely your mother's work."

"What is it, Father?"

"You see, Mr. Jayarama Iyer, who is a leading lawyer in Talapur, sent his daughter's

horoscope to us some time ago; and for courtesy's sake yours was sent to them in return. Yesterday

they have written to say that the horoscopes match very well, and asking if we have any objection to this

alliance. I was for dropping the whole matter there, but your mother is very eager to make it known to

you and to leave it to your decision. They have got in touch with us through our Ganapathi Sastrigal."

Chandran sat looking at the floor. His father paused for a moment and said: "I hear that the

girl is about fifteen. They have sent a photo. She is good-looking. You can have a look at the photo if

you like. They have written that she is very fair. They are prepared to give a cash dowry of 3,000 and

other presents."

He waited for Chandran's answer. Chandran looked at him. There were drops of sweat on

Father's brow, and his voice slighdy quivered. Chandran felt a great pity for his father. What a strain this

talk and the preparation for it must have been to him! Father sat silent for a moment and then said,

rising: "I will be going now. I have to go to the club."

Chandran saw his father off at the door and watched his back as he swung his cane and

walked down the road. Chan- dran suddenly realized that he hadn't said anything in reply, and that his

father might interpret silence for consent and live on false hopes. What a dreadful thing. He called his

office boy, who was squatting on the steps of a neighbouring shop, asked him to remain in the office,

took out his cycle, and pedalled in the direction his father had taken. Father hadn't gone far. Chandran

caught up with him.

"You want me?"

"Yes, Father."

Father slowed down, and Chandran followed him, looking at the ground. "You have taken the

trouble to come so far, Father, but I must tell you that I can't marry, Father."

"It is all right, Chandar. Don't let that bother you."

Chandran followed him for a few yards, and said: "Shall I go back to the office?"

"Yes."

As Chandran was about to mount his cycle, Father stopped him and said: "I saw in your office

some papers and letters lying loose on your table. They are likely to be blown away by a wind. Remind

me, I will give you some paperweights to-morrow."

He came back to his table and tried to sign a few more receipts. His father's visit opened a lid

that had smothered raging flames. It started once again all the old controversies that racked one's soul.

It violently shook a poise that was delicate and attained with infinite trouble and discipline.

He could not sign any more receipts. He pushed away the envelopes and the receipt books in

order to make room for his elbows, which he rested on the table, and sat with his face in his hands,

staring at the opposite wall.

Mohan came at six o'clock. He flung his cap on the table and sat down on the bench before

the table, obstructing Chandran's view of the opposite wall.

Chandran asked mechanically: "What is the latest news?"

"Nothing special. The usual drab nonsense; lectures and sports and suicides. I am seriously

thinking of resigning."

He was very sullen.

"What is wrong now?" asked Chandran.

"Everything. I took up this work as a stop-gap till I should get a footing in the literary world.

And now what has happened? Reporting has swallowed me up. From morning to night I roam about the

town, noting other people's business, and then go back to the hotel and sleep. I hardly have any

inclination to write a single line of poetry. It is four months since I wrote a single line. The stuff you see in

the magazine page are my old bits. When I take my pen I can't write anything more soul-stirring than

'Judgment was delivered today in a case in which somebody or other stood charged with something or

other.

"I am very hungry," said Chandran. "Shall we go to a hotel?"

"Yes."

When they came out of the hotel, Mohan's mood had changed. He now condemned his

previous mood. "If I have not written anything, it is hardly anybody's fault. I ought to plan my time to

include it."

They smoked a few cigarettes and walked along the river. They walked to Nallappa's Grove,

crossed over to the opposite bank, walked some distance there, turned back, and sat down on the

sands. Mohan went on talking and solacing himself by planning. He even stretched the definition of

poetry; he said that there ought to be no special thing called poetry, and that if one was properly

constituted one ought to get a poetic thrill out of the composing of even news para- graphs. There ought

to be no narrow boundaries. There ought to be a proper synthesis of life.

When Mohan had exhausted his poetic theories, Chan-dran quietly said: "My father came to

the office at five o'clock with an offer of marriage." The troubles of a poet instantly ceased or were

forgotten. He listened in silence to Chan-dran's narration of his father's visit. And Mohan dared not

comment. From the manner in which Chandran spoke Mohan couldn't tell which way he was inclined;

there was the usual denunciation of Love, Marriage, and Woman, but at the same time there was a lack

of fire in the denunciation. Mohan could not decide whether it was the beginning of a change of attitude

or whether it was a state of atrophy, so complete than even fury and fire were dead. Chandran

concluded: "... And I ran after my father and told him that it was unthinkable."

Chandran stopped. Mohan did not offer any comment. For some moments there was only the

rustle of the banyan branches on the water's edge.

"I am very sorry for my poor mother, for her wild hope and her fears. I curse myself for having

brought her to this state. But what can I do? What other answer could I give to my father?"

"How did he take it?"

"Quite indifferently. He talked of paperweights. My trouble is, I don't know, I don't know. I can't

get angry with my mother for busying herself with my marriage again. I have had enough of it once."

"Then leave it alone. You are under no compulsion to worry about it."

"But I pity my father and mother. What a frantic attempt. There is something in the whole

business that looks very pathetic to me."

"What I can't understand is," said Mohan, "why you are still worrying about it, seeing that you

have very politely told your father that it is unthinkable. I can't understand why you still talk about it."

"You are right. That question is settled. Let us talk of something else."

"Something else" was not easy to find. There was another interlude of silence.

"Shall we be starting back?" asked Mohan.

"Yes," said Chandran, but again sat in silence, not making any effort to get up! For nearly a

quarter of an hour Mohan sat listening to the voice of the river, and Chandran drew circles in the sand.

"What would you do in my place?" asked Chandran abruptly.

"How can I say? What would you do in mine?" asked Mohan.

Chandran asked directly: "What would you honestly advise me to do?"

"If the girl is not bad-looking, and if you are getting some money into the bargain, why don't

you marry? You will have some money and the benefits of a permanent helpmate."

Chandran remarked that Mohan had grown very coarse and prosaic. No wonder he could not

write any more poetry.

Stung by this Mohan said: "If one has to marry one must do it for love, if there is such a thing,

or for the money and comforts. There is no sense in shutting your eyes to the reality of things. I am

beginning to believe in a callous realism." He liked immensely the expression he had invented. He loved

it. He delivered a short speech on Callous Realism. He had not thought of it ti ll now. Now that he had [

155 ] coined the expression he began to believe in it fully. He raised it to the status of a personal

philosophy. Before he had expatiated for five minutes on it, he became a fanatic. He challenged all other

philosophies, and pleaded for more Callous Realism in all human thought. When he reached the height

of intoxication, he said with a great deal of callous realism: "I don't see why you shouldn't consider this

offer with the greatest care and attention. You get a fat three thousand, and get a good-looking

companion, who will sew on your buttons, mend your clothes, and dust your furniture while you are out

distributing newspapers, and who will bring the coffee to your room. In addition to all this, it is always

pleasant to have a soft companion near at hand."

"And on top of it pleasing one's parents," added Chan-dran.

"Quite right. Three cheers for Her Majesty the Soft Companion," cried Mohan.

"Hip, hip, hoorayi"

The callous realist now asked: "Will you kindly answer a few questions I am going to ask?"

"Yes."

"You must answer my questions honestly and truthfully. They are to search your heart."

"Right, go on," said Chandran.

"Are you still thinking of Malathi?"

"I have trained my mind not to. She is another man's wife now.'

"Do you love the memory of her still?"

"I don't believe in love. It doesn't exist in my philosophy. There is no such thing as love. If I am

not unkind to my parents it is because of gratitude, and nothing else. If I get a wife I shall not wrench her

hand or swear at her, because it would be indecent. That is all the motive for a lot of habitual decent

behaviour we see, which we call love. There is no such thing as love."

"Then it ought not to make any difference to you whether you marry or not; and so why don't

you marry when you know that it will please your parents, when you are getting a lot of money, and

when you are earning so well?"

There was no answer to this. Chandran chewed these thoughts in silence, and then said:

"Mohan, let us toss and decide." They rose and walked across the sand to a dim municipal lantern at the

end of North Street. The lantern threw a pale yellow circle of light around a central shadow. Chandran

took a copper coin from his pocket. Mohan held Chandran's hand and said: "Put that back. Let us toss a

silver coin. Marriage, you know." Mohan took out a four-anna silver coin, balanced it on the forefinger of

his right hand, and asked: "Shall I toss?"

"Yes. Heads, marriage."

"Right."

Mohan tossed the silver coin. It fell down in the dim circumference of light. Both stooped.

Mohan shouted: "You must keep your word. Heads. Ha! Ha!"

"Is it?" There was a tremor in Chandran's voice. "Very well, if the girl is good-looking, only if

she is good-looking," said Chandran.

"That goes without saying," said Mohan, picking up the coin and putting it in his pocket.

chapter 17 early in the morning, five days later, Chandran, with his mother, was in a train going to

Talapur. He was to look at the girl who had been proposed to him, and then give his final word.

He said to his mother for the dozenth time: "If I don't like the girl, I hope they won't mind."

"Not at all. Before I married your father, some three or four persons came and looked at me

and went away."

"Why did they not approve of you?" Chandran asked, looking at her.

"It is all a matter of fate," said Mother. "You can marry only the person whom you are destined

to marry and at the appointed time. When the time comes, let her be the ugliest girl, she wi ll look all right

to the destined eye."

"None of that, Mother," Chandran protested. "I won't marry an ugly girl."

"Ugliness and beauty is all as it strikes one's eye. Everyone has his own vision. How do all the

ugly girls in the world get married?"

Chandran became apprehensive. "Mother, are you suggesting that this girl is ugly?"

"Not at all. Not at all. See her for yourself and decide. You have the photo."

"She is all right in the photo, but that may be only a trick of the camera."

"You will have to wait for only a few hours more. You can see her and then give your

decision."

"But, Mother, to go all the way to their house and see the girl, and then to say we can't marry

her. That won't be nice."

"What is there in it? It is the custom. When a girl is ready for marriage her horoscope will be

sent in ten directions, and ten different persons will see her and approve or disapprove, or they might be

disapproved by the girl herself; and after all only one wi ll marry her. A year before my marriage a certain

doctor was eager for an alliance with our family; the horoscopes, too, matched; and his son came to

look at me, but I didn't like his appearance, and told my father that I wouldn't marry him. It was after that

that your father was proposed, and he liked my appearance, and when my father asked me if I would

marry him I didn't say 'no.' It is all settled already, the husband of every girl and wife of every man. It is

in nobody's choice."

They reached Talapur at 4 p.m. A boy of about eighteen came and peeped into the

compartment and asked: "Are you from Malgudi?"

"Yes," said Chandran.

"I am Mr. Jayarama Iyer's son. Shall I ask my servant to carry your baggage?"

"We have brought nothing. We are going back by the seven o'clock train, you see," said

Chandran. Chandran and his mother exchanged a brief look. "This is the girl's brother," the look said.

Chandran took another look at the boy and tried to guess the appearance of the girl. If the girl looked

anything like her brother...! The boy was dark and rugged. Probably this was not her own brother; he

might be her first cousin. Chandran opened his mouth, and was about to ask if Jayarama Iyer was his

own father, but he checked himself and asked instead: "Are you Mr. Jayarama Iyer's eldest son?"

"I am his second son," replied the boy. This answer did not throw any light on the appearance

of the girl, as, in some absurd manner, Chandran had imagined that it would.

The boy took them to a car outside. They were soon in the Extensions.

They were welcomed into the house by Mr. Jayarama Iyer and his wife, both of whom

subjected Chandran to a covert examination just as he tried to make out something of his future

relatives-in-law. He found Mr. Jayarama Iyer to be a middle-aged person with a greying crop and a

sensitive face. He was rather dark, but Chandran noted that the mother looked quite fair, and hoped that

the girl would have a judicious mixture of the father's sensitive appearance and the mother's

complexion.

And to his immense satisfaction he found that it was so, when, about an hour later, she

appeared before him. She had to be coaxed and cajoled by her parents to come to the hall. With her

eyes fixed on the ground she stepped from an inner room, a few inches into the hall, trembling and

uncertain, ready to vanish in a moment.

Chandran's first impulse was to look away from the girl. He spent a few seconds looking at a

picture on the wall; but suddenly remembered that he simply could not afford to look at anything else

now. With a sudden decision, he turned his head and stared at her. She was dressed in a blue _sari.

A__ few diamonds glittered in her ear-lobes and neck. His heart gave a wild beat and, as he thought,

stopped. "Her figure is wonderful," some corner of his mind murmured. "Her face must also be

wonderful, but I can't see it very well, she is looking at the ground." Could he shriek out to Mr. Jayarama

Iyer, sitting in the chair on his right and uttering inanities at this holy moment: "Please ask your daughter

to look up, sir. I can't see her face?"

Mr. Jayarama Iyer said to his daughter: "You mustn't be so shy, my girl. Come here. Come

here."

The girl was still hesitating and very nervous. Chandran felt a great sympathy for her. He

pleaded: "Sir, please don't trouble her. Let her stay there."

"As you please," said Jayarama Iyer.

At this moment the girl slightly raised her head and stole a glance at Chandran. He saw her

face now. It was divine; there was no doubt about it. He secretly compared it with Malathi's, and

wondered what he had seen in the latter to drive him so mad....

Jayarama Iyer said to his daughter: "Will you play a little song on the _veena?"__ Chandran

saw that she was still nervous, and once again rushed to her succour. "Please don't trouble her, sir. I

don't mind. She seems to be nervous."

"She is not nervous," said her father. "She plays very well, and also sings."

"I am happy to hear that, sir, but it must be very difficult for her to sing now. I hope to hear her

music some other day."

Jayarama Iyer looked at him with amusement and said: "All right."

It was with a very heavy heart that Chandran allowed himself to be carried away in the car

from the bungalow. He could have cried when he said "Good-bye" to his future brother-in-law, and the

train moved out of Talapur station.

His mother asked him in the train: "Do you like the girl?"

"Yes, Mother," said Chandran with fervour. "Did you tell them that?"

"We can't tell them anything till they come and ask us."

Chandran made a gesture of despair and said: "Oh, these formalities. I loathe them. All this

means unnecessary delay. Why shouldn't we send them a wire to-morrow?"

"Be patient. Be patient. All in its time, Chandra."

"But supposing they don't ask us?"

"They will. In two or three days they will come to us or write."

"I ought to have told Mr. Jayarama Iyer that I liked his girl," Chandran said regretfully.

Mother asked apprehensively: "I hope you have not done any such thing?"

"No, Mother."

"Patience, Chandra. You must allow things to be done in proper order."

Chandran leaned back, resigned himself to his fate, and sat looking out of the window sulkily.

Hejasked: '

'Mother, do you like the girl?"

"Yes, she is good-looking."

"Is>her voice all right? Does she talk all right?"

"She talks quite well."

"Does she talk intelligently?"

"Oh, yes. But she spoke very little before me. She was shy before her future mother-in-law."

"What class is she reading in, Mother?"

"Sixth Form."

"Is she a good student?"

"Her mother says that she is very good in her class."

"Her father says that she plays very well on the _veena__. It seems she can also sing very

well.... Mother, her name is?" He knew it very well, but loved to hear it again.

"Susila," Mother said.

"I know it," Chandran said fearing that his Mother might understand him. "I want to know if she

has any other name at home."

"Her mother called her once or twice before me, and she called her Susila."

For the rest of the journey the music of the word "Susila" rang in his ears. Susila, Susila,

Susila, Her name, music, figure, face, and everything about her was divine. Susila, Susila--Malathi, not

a spot beside Susila; it was a tongue-twister; he wondered why people liked that name.

CHAPTER 18

A fortnight later the ceremony of the Wedding Notice was celebrated. Jayarama Iyer and a

party came to Malgudi for that purpose. It was a day of feast and reception in Chan-dran's house. A

large number of guests were invited, and at the auspicious moment Jayarama Iyer stood up and read

the saffron-touched paper which announced that, by the blessing of God, Chandran, son of So-and-so,

was to marry Susila, daughter of So-and-so, on a particular auspicious date, ten days hence.

The days that followed were days of intense activity. They were days of preparation for the

wedding, a period in which Chandran felt the _Daily Messenger__ a great nuisance. Chandran had an

endless round of visits to make every day, to the tailor, to the jewellers, to the silk shops, and to the

printer.

The invitation cards, goldedged and elegantly printed, were sent to over a thousand in

Malgudi and outside. It was whi le sitting in his office and writing down the addresses that Chandran

realized once again how far time had removed him from old classmates and friends. He was very

anxious not to miss anyone. But with the utmost difficulty he could remember only a dozen or so that he

occasionally met in the town; he could recollect a few more, but couldn't trace their whereabouts. It rent

his heart when he realized his helplessness in regard to even Ramu, Veeraswami, and Natesan. While

he knew that Ramu was somewhere in Bombay, there was no one who could give him his address.

Heaven knew where Natesan was. And Veeraswami? "Probably he is a political prisoner somewhere, or

he may be in Russia now."

"Or it is more likely that he is a tame clerk in some Gov- ernment office," said Mohan.

"What has happened to his Brigade?"

"I have no idea; he came to my hotel once or twice some years ago. I didn't see him after

that."

"Probably his brigade has a strength of a million members now, all of whom may be waiting to

overthrow the Government," said Chandran.

"It is more likely that he has a lucrative job as a police informer," said the cynical poet. He

repeated: "I have no idea where he is. He came and stayed in my hotel twice several months or years

ago."

This started a train of memories in Chandran. Evenings and evenings ago; Chandran, Mohan,

and Veeraswami, Malathi evenings; mad days.... There was a radiance about Susila that was lacking in

Malathi.... No, no. He checked himself this time; he told himself that it was very unfair to compare and

decry; it was a very vile thing to do. He told himself that he was doing it only out of spite.... Poor Malathi!

For the first time he was able to view her as a sister in a distant town. Poor girl, she had her points. Of

course Susila was different.

"What are you thinking?" asked Mohan.

"That postmaster, the Maduram postmaster, we must send him a card. I don't know if he still

remembers me." whi le Chandran was away at Talapur for his wedding, Mohan looked after the

newspaper.

Chandran returned a new man, his mind full of Susila, the fragrance of jasmine and sandal

paste, the smokiness of the Sacred Fire, of brilliant lights, music, gaiety, and laughter.

For nearly a month after that Mohan had to endure mono- logues from Chandran: "On the first

day she was too shy to talk to me. It was only on the third day that she uttered a few syllables. Before I

came away she spoke quite a lot. Shy at first, you know. She is a very sensible girl; talks very

intelligently. I asked her what she thought of me; she merely threw at me a mischievous side-glance.

She has a very mischievous look. She has promised to write to me on alternate days; she writes

beautiful English...."

Thereafter, every day, Chandran spent a large portion of his waking hours in writing letters to

herxw in receiving her letters. He would have to live on them for nearly a year more. His talks to Mohan

were usually on the subject of these letters. "She has written a wonderful letter to me to-day, has

addressed me as 'My Own Darling' for the first time; she has sent me twenty thousand kisses though I

sent her only fifteen thousand in my last letter...." Or "She likes very much the silk pieces that I sent to

her. She says that they are wonderful." Or, touching his inner pocket, in which more than one of her

letters always rested, "Poor girl! She writes asking me to take very great care of my health. Says that I

ought not to get up so early every morning. She has inquired about the business and wishes me more

subscribers. She wishes the _Daily Messenger__ long life and health. She has a very great sense of

humour."

Two months later, one evening, Chandran was sitting in his office in a very depressed state.

Mohan came, sat on the bench, and asked: "What is wrong?"

Chandran lifted a careworn face to him, and said: "No letter even to-day. This is the sixth day.

I don't know what the matter is."

"Probably she is studying for the examination or something. She will probably write to you tomorrow."

"I don't think so." said Chandran. He was in complete despair. "This is the first time she has

not written for so many days."

Mohan was baffled. He had never been face to face with such a problem before.

Chandran said: "I shouldn't worry but for the fact that she is unwell. She wrote in her last letter

that she had a bad cold. She is probably down with high fever now. Who knows what fever it might be."

"It may be just malaria," hazarded Mohan.

"For six days, unintermittently!" Chandran laughed gloomily. "I dare not name anything now. I

don't know if her people will attend to her properly.... I must go in person and see. I shall go home now,

and then catch the six o'clock train. I shall be in Talapur to-morrow morning. Till I come back, please

look after the office, will you?"

"Yes," said Mohan to the afflicted man.

"Many thinks. I shall try to be back soon," said Chandran and rose. He stepped into the road,

took out his cycle from its stand, and said to Mohan: "I have marked two addresses on the tablet. If they

don't give the subscription tell the boys not to deliver them the papers to-morrow."

As he was ready to get on the cycle, Mohan ran to the door, and said: "Look here, not that I

shirk work and don't want to look after the office or anything, but why do you suppose all these terrible

things? On the authority of absent letters and the mention of a slight cold?"

Chandran scorned this question, jumped on his cycle without a word, and pedalled away.

Mohan stood looking after the cycle for some time, and turned in, throwing up his arms in despair. But

then, it is a poet's business only to ask questions; he cannot always expect an answer.

The End