‘What has he done, Father?’
‘Well, there is a full account of everything he has done in the letter. Give it to your headmaster and go to your class. You must bring an acknowledgement from him in the evening.’
Swami went to school feeling that he was the worst perjurer on earth. His conscience bothered him: he wasn’t at all sure if he had been accurate in his description of Samuel. He could not decide how much of what he had said was imagined and how much of it was real. He stopped for a moment on the roadside to make up his mind about Samuel: he was not such a bad man after all. Personally he was much more genial than the rest; often he cracked a joke or two centring around Swami’s inactions, and Swami took it as a mark of Samuel’s personal regard for him. But there was no doubt that he treated people badly . . . His cane skinned people’s hands. Swami cast his mind about for an instance of this. There was none within his knowledge. Years and years ago he was reputed to have skinned the knuckles of a boy in First Standard and made him smear the blood on his face. No one had actually seen it. But year after year the story persisted among the boys . . . Swami’s head was dizzy with confusion in regard to Samuel’s character—whether he was good or bad, whether he deserved the allegations in the letter or not . . . Swami felt an impulse to run home and beg his father to take back the letter. But Father was an obstinate man.
As he approached the yellow building he realized that he was perjuring himself and was ruining his teacher. Probably the headmaster would dismiss Samuel and then the police would chain him and put him in jail. For all this disgrace, humiliation and suffering who would be responsible? Swami shuddered. The more he thought of Samuel, the more he grieved for him—the dark face, his small red-streaked eyes, his thin line of moustache, his unshaven cheek and chin, his yellow coat; everything filled Swami with sorrow. As he felt the bulge of the letter in his pocket, he felt like an executioner. For a moment he was angry with his father and wondered why he should not fling into the gutter the letter of a man so unreasonable and stubborn.
As he entered the school gate an idea occurred to him, a sort of solution. He wouldn’t deliver the letter to the headmaster immediately, but at the end of the day—to that extent he would disobey his father and exercise his independence. There was nothing wrong in it, and Father would not know it anyway. If the letter was given at the end of the day there was a chance that Samuel might do something to justify the letter.
Swami stood at the entrance to his class. Samuel was teaching arithmetic. He looked at Swami for a moment. Swami stood hoping that Samuel would fall on him and tear his skin off. But Samuel merely asked, ‘Are you just coming to the class?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are half an hour late.’
‘I know it.’ Swami hoped that he would be attacked now. He almost prayed: ‘God of Thirupathi, please make Samuel beat me.’
‘Why are you late?’
Swami wanted to reply, ‘Just to see what you can do.’ But he merely said, ‘I have a headache, sir.’
‘Then why did you come to the school at all?’
A most unexpected question from Samuel. ‘My father said that I shouldn’t miss the class, sir,’ said Swami.
This seemed to impress Samuel. ‘Your father is quite right; a very sensible man. We want more parents like him.’
‘Oh, you poor worm!’ Swami thought. ‘You don’t know what my father has done to you.’ He was more puzzled than ever about Samuel’s character.
‘All right, go to your seat. Have you still a headache?’
‘Slightly, sir.’
Swami went to his seat with a bleeding heart. He had never met a man so good as Samuel. The teacher was inspecting the home lessons, which usually produced (at least, according to Swami’s impression) scenes of great violence. Notebooks would be flung at faces, boys would be abused, caned and made to stand up on benches. But today Samuel appeared to have developed more tolerance and gentleness. He pushed away the bad books, just touched people with the cane, never made anyone stand up for more than a few minutes. Swami’s turn came. He almost thanked God for the chance.
‘Swaminathan, where is your homework?’
‘I have not done any homework, sir,’ he said blandly.
There was a pause.
‘Why—headache?’ asked Samuel.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, sit down.’ Swami sat down, wondering what had come over Samuel. The period came to an end, and Swami felt desolate. The last period for the day was again taken by Samuel. He came this time to teach them Indian history. The period began at 3:45 and ended at 4:30. Swaminathan had sat through the previous periods thinking acutely. He could not devise any means of provoking Samuel. When the clock struck four Swami felt desperate. Half an hour more. Samuel was reading the red text, the portion describing Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India. The boys listened in half-languor. Swami suddenly asked at the top of his voice, ‘Why did not Columbus come to India, sir?’
‘He lost his way.’
‘I can’t believe it; it is unbelievable, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Such a great man. Would he have not known the way?’
‘Don’t shout. I can hear you quite well.’
‘I am not shouting, sir; this is my ordinary voice, which God has given me. How can I help it?’
‘Shut up and sit down.’
Swaminathan sat down, feeling slightly happy at his success. The teacher threw a puzzled, suspicious glance at him and resumed his lessons.
His next chance occurred when Sankar of the first bench got up and asked, ‘Sir, was Vasco da Gama the very first person to come to India?’
Before the teacher could answer, Swami shouted from the back bench, ‘That’s what they say.’
The teacher and all the boys looked at Swami. The teacher was puzzled by Swami’s obtrusive behaviour today. ‘Swaminathan, you are shouting again.’
‘I am not shouting, sir. How can I help my voice, given by God?’ The school clock struck a quarter-hour. A quarter more. Swami felt he must do something drastic in fifteen minutes. Samuel had no doubt scowled at him and snubbed him, but it was hardly adequate. Swami felt that with a little more effort Samuel could be made to deserve dismissal and imprisonment.
The teacher came to the end of a section in the textbook and stopped. He proposed to spend the remaining few minutes putting questions to the boys. He ordered the whole class to put away their books, and asked someone in the second row, ‘What is the date of Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India?’
Swaminathan shot up and screeched, ‘1648, December 20.’
‘You needn’t shout,’ said the teacher. He asked, ‘Has your headache made you mad?’
‘I have no headache now, sir,’ replied the thunderer brightly.
‘Sit down, you idiot.’ Swami thrilled at being called an idiot. ‘If you get up again I will cane you,’ said the teacher. Swami sat down, feeling happy at the promise. The teacher then asked, ‘I am going to put a few questions on the Mughal period. Among the Mughal emperors, whom would you call the greatest, whom the strongest and whom the most religious emperor?’
Swami got up. As soon as he was seen, the teacher said emphatically, ‘Sit down.’
‘I want to answer, sir.’
‘Sit down.’
‘No, sir; I want to answer.’
‘What did I say I’d do if you got up again?’
‘You said you would cane me and peel the skin off my knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.’
‘All right; come here.’
Swaminathan left his seat joyfully and hopped on the platform. The teacher took out his cane from the drawer and shouted angrily, ‘Open your hand, you little devil.’ He whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm. Swami received them without blenching. After half a dozen the teacher asked, ‘Will these do, or do you want some more?’
Swami merely held out his hand again, and received two more; and the bell rang. Swami jumped down from th
e platform with a light heart, though his hands were smarting. He picked up his books, took out the letter lying in his pocket and ran to the headmaster’s room. He found the door locked.
He asked the peon, ‘Where is the headmaster?’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘My father has sent a letter for him.’
‘He has taken the afternoon off and won’t come back for a week. You can give the letter to the assistant headmaster. He will be here now.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Your teacher, Samuel. He will be here in a second.’
Swaminathan fled from the place. As soon as Swami went home with the letter, Father remarked, ‘I knew you wouldn’t deliver it, you coward.’
‘I swear our headmaster is on leave,’ Swaminathan began.
Father replied, ‘Don’t lie in addition to being a coward . . .’
Swami held up the envelope and said, ‘I will give this to the headmaster as soon as he is back . . .’ Father snatched it from his hand, tore it up and thrust it into the wastepaper basket under his table. He muttered, ‘Don’t come to me for help even if Samuel throttles you. You deserve your Samuel.’
THE SNAKE-SONG
We were coming out of the music hall quite pleased with the concert. We thought it a very fine performance. We thought so till we noticed the Talkative Man in our midst. He looked as though he had been in a torture chamber. We looked at him sourly and remarked, ‘We suppose you are one of those great men who believe that South Indian music died one hundred years ago. Or were you at any time hobnobbing with all our ancient musicians and composers, the only reason many persons like you have for thinking that all modern singing is childish and inane? Or are you one of those restless theorists who can never hear a song without splitting it into atoms?’
‘None of these,’ answered the Talkative Man. ‘I am just a simple creature who knows what he is talking about. I know something of music, perhaps just a little more than anyone else here, and that is why I am horrified to see the level to which taste has sunk . . .’
We tried to snub him by receiving his remarks in cold silence and talking among ourselves. But he followed us all the way, chatting, and we had to listen to him.
Seeing me now (said the Talkative Man), perhaps you think I am capable of doing nothing more artistic than selling chemical fertilizers to peasants. But I tell you I was at one time ambitious of becoming a musician. I came near being one. It was years and years ago. I was living at the time in Kumbum, a small village eighty miles from Malgudi. A master musician lived there. When he played on the flute, it was said, the cattle of the village followed him about. He was perhaps the greatest artist of the century, but quite content to live in obscurity, hardly known to anyone outside the village, giving concerts only in the village temple and absolutely satisfied with the small income he derived from his ancestral lands. I washed his clothes, swept his house, ran errands for him, wrote his accounts, and when he felt like it, he taught me music. His personality and presence had a value all their own, so that even if he taught only for an hour it was worth a year’s tuition under anyone else. The very atmosphere around him educated one.
After three years of chipping and planing, my master felt that my music was after all taking some shape. He said, ‘In another year, perhaps, you may go to the town and play before a public, that is, if you care for such things.’ You may be sure I cared. Not for me the greatness of obscurity. I wanted wealth and renown. I dreamt of going to Madras and attending the music festival next year, and then all the districts would ring with my name. I looked on my bamboo flute as a sort of magic wand which was going to open out a new world to me.
I lived in a small cottage at the end of the street. It was my habit to sit up and practise far into the night. One night as I was just losing myself in bhairavi raga, there came a knock on the door. I felt irritated at the interruption.
‘Who is there?’ I asked.
‘A sadhu; he wants a mouthful of food.’
‘At this hour! Go, go. Don’t come and pester people at all hours.’
‘But hunger knows no time.’
‘Go away. I have nothing here. I myself live on my master’s charity.’
‘But can’t you give a small coin or at least a kind word to a sadhu? He has seen Kasi, Rameswaram . . .’
‘Shut up,’ I cried, glared at the door and resumed my bhairavi.
Fifteen minutes later the knocks were repeated. I lost my temper. ‘Have you no sense? Why do you disturb me?’
‘You play divinely. Won’t you let me in? You may not give me food for my stomach, but don’t deny me your music.’
I didn’t like anyone to be present when I practised, and this constant interruption was exasperating. ‘Don’t stand there and argue. If you don’t go at once, I will open the door and push you out.’
‘Ah, bad words. You needn’t push me out. I am going. But remember, this is your last day of music. Tomorrow you may exchange your flute for a handful of dried dates.’
I heard his wooden clogs going down the house steps. I felt relieved and played for about ten minutes. But my mind was troubled. His parting words . . . what did he mean by them? I got up, took the lantern from its nail on the wall and went out. I stood on the last step of my cottage and looked up and down the dark street, holding up the lantern. I turned in. Vaguely hoping that he might call again, I left the door half-open. I hung up the lantern and sat down. I looked at the pictures of gods on the wall and prayed to be protected from the threat of the unseen mendicant. And then I was lost in music once again.
Song after song flowed from that tiny bamboo and transformed my lonely cottage. I was no longer a petty mortal blowing through a piece of bamboo. I was among the gods. The lantern on the wall became a brilliant star illuminating a celestial hall . . . And I came to the snake-song in punnaga varali. I saw the serpent in all its majesty: the very venom in its pouch had a touch of glory: now I saw its divinity as it crowned Shiva’s head: Parvathi wore it as a wristlet: Subramanya played with it: and it was Vishnu’s couch . . . The whole composition imparted to the serpent a quality which inspired awe and reverence.
And now what should I see between the door and me but a black cobra! It had opened its immense hood and was swaying ecstatically. I stopped my song and rubbed my eyes to see if I was fully awake. But the moment the song ceased, the cobra turned and threw a glance at me, and moved forward. I have never seen such a black cobra and such a long one in my life. Some saving instinct told me: ‘Play on! Play on! Don’t stop.’ I hurriedly took the flute to my lips and continued the song. The snake, which was now less than three yards from me, lifted a quarter of its body, with a gentle flourish reared its head, fixed its round eyes on me and listened to the music without making the slightest movement. It might have been a carven snake in black stone, so still it was.
And as I played with my eyes fixed on the snake I was so much impressed with its dignity and authority that I said to myself, ‘Which God would forgo the privilege of wearing this in His hair? . . .’ After playing the song thrice over, I commenced a new song. The cobra sharply turned its head and looked at me as if to say, ‘Now what is all this?’ and let out a terrible hiss, and made a slight movement. I quickly resumed the snake-song, and it assumed once again its carven posture.
So I played the song again and again. But however great a composition might be, a dozen repetitions of it was bound to prove tiresome. I attempted to change the song once or twice, but I saw the snake stir menacingly. I vainly tried to get up and dash out, but the snake nearly stood up on its tail and promised to finish me. And so I played the same song all night. My distinguished audience showed no sign of leaving. By and by I felt exhausted. My head swam, my cheeks ached from continuous blowing and my chest seemed to be emptied of the last wisp of breath. I knew I was going to drop dead in a few seconds. It didn’t seem to matter very much if the snake was going to crush me in its coils and fill me with all the venom in its sac. I flung dow
n the flute, got up and prostrated before it, crying, ‘Oh, Naga Raja, you are a god; you can kill me if you like, but I can play no more . . .’
When I opened my eyes again the snake was gone. The lantern on the wall had turned pale in the morning light. My flute lay near the doorway.
Next day I narrated my experiences to my master. He said, ‘Don’t you know you ought not to play punnaga varali at night? That apart, now you can never be sure you will not get the snake in again if you play. And when he comes he won’t spare you unless you sing his song over again. Are you prepared to do it?’
‘No, no, a thousand times no,’ I cried. The memory of the song was galling. I had repeated it enough to last me a lifetime.
‘If it is so, throw away your flute and forget your music . . . You can’t play with a serpent. It is a plaything of gods. Throw away your bamboo. It is of no use to you any more. . . .’ I wept at the thought of this renunciation. My master pitied me and said, ‘Perhaps all will be well again if you seek your visitor of that night and beg his forgiveness. Can you find him?’
I put away my flute. I have ever since been searching for an unknown, unseen mendicant, in this world. Even today, if by God’s grace I meet him, I will fall at his feet, beg his forgiveness and take up my flute again.
ENGINE TROUBLE
There came down to our town some years ago (said the Talkative Man) a showman owning an institution called the Gaiety Land. Overnight our Gymkhana Grounds became resplendent with banners and streamers and coloured lamps. From all over the district crowds poured into the show. Within a week of opening, in gate money alone they collected nearly five hundred rupees a day. Gaiety Land provided us with all sorts of fun and gambling and sideshows. For a couple of annas in each booth we could watch anything from performing parrots to crack motorcyclists looping the loop in the Dome of Death. In addition to this there were lotteries and shooting galleries where for an anna you always stood a chance of winning a hundred rupees.