When they were moving out, Srinivas noticed a familiar head stirring in the third row. It was his old landlord, transformed by a faded turban, a pair of glasses over his nose, and a black alpaca coat, almost green with years. Srinivas ran up to him and accosted him. He felt so surprised that he could not contain himself. ‘Oh, you are here!’ The old man gave him his toothless smile. ‘First time for thirty years I have come out so far – Sampath wouldn’t leave me alone. He sent me a car. Where is your artist friend? I thought he would be here.’
‘Ravi! He must be in the office. He doesn’t usually fancy these occasions.’ The old man looked about for Sampath and called to him loudly. Srinivas slipped away, somehow not wishing to be present at their meeting, feeling vaguely perhaps that Sampath might try and get a cheque out of the old man at this opportunity.
Srinivas was busy putting the finishing touches to his script. He worked continuously, not budging from his seat from nine in the morning till nine in the evening. Even Ravi, who came in when he had a little leisure, hesitated at the door and turned back without uttering a word. Srinivas worked in a frenzy. He was very eager to complete his part of the work, though he had at the back of his mind a constant misgiving about the final treatment they might hatch out of it, but he ruthlessly pushed away this doubt, saying to himself: ‘It is not my concern what they do with my work.’
Sampath was not to be seen for nearly a week, and then he turned up one evening, bubbling with enthusiasm. A look at him, and Srinivas decided that it would be useless to try to get on with his work. He put away his papers. Sampath began: ‘She has come!’
‘When?’
‘Five days ago, and we have been putting her through the tests. De Mello says she is the right type for the screen. She is a fine girl.’
‘Is she the same as – ?’ asked Srinivas, indicating the old sketch. Sampath smiled at this suggestion. He scrutinized the sketch, remarking under his breath: ‘Extraordinary how two entirely unconnected people can resemble each other.’ He laughed heartily, as if it were the biggest joke he had heard in his life. He seemed extraordinarily tickled by it. ‘Yes, she is somewhat like this picture, but there is a lot of difference, you know. In fact, this is her first visit to this town. She has never been here before. She was born and bred in Madras.’
‘Where is she at the moment?’ asked Srinivas.
‘I’ve found her a room in Modern Lodge. I could’ve put her up at my house if it was necessary; after all, I find that she is related to me, a sort of cousin of mine, though we never suspected it. Anyway, our problem is solved about Parvathi. She is going to do it wonderfully well. I foresee a very great future for her. We are finalizing the rest of the cast tomorrow; after that we must go into rehearsals.’
Srinivas was present at the rehearsal hall in the studio. It was a small room on the first floor, furnished with a few lounges covered with orange and black cretonne, a coir mattress spread on the floor and a large portrait of Somu decorating the wall. On the opposite wall was a chart, showing the life history of a film – starting with the story-idea and ending with the spectator in the theatre. The rehearsal was announced for eleven, and Srinivas caught an early bus and was the first to arrive. He sat there all alone, looking at the portrait of Somu and at the chart. A medley of studio sounds – voices of people, hammerings, and the tuning of musical instruments – kept coming up. Through the window he could see far off Sarayu winding its way, glimmering in the sun, the leaves of trees on its bank throwing off tiny reflections of the sun, and a blue sky beyond, and further away the tower of the municipal office, which reminded him of his Banner. Its whole career seemed to have been dedicated to attacking the Malgudi municipality and its unvarying incompetence. He felt a nostalgia for the whirring of the wheels of a press and the cool dampness of a galley proof. ‘When am I going to see it back in print?’ he asked himself. His whole work now seemed to him to have a meaning because, beyond all this, there was the promise of reviving The Banner. He had not yet spoken to Sampath about what he was to be paid for his work. He felt he could never speak about it. He found on his table on the second of every month a cheque for one hundred and fifty rupees, and that saw him through the month, and he was quite satisfied. How long it was to continue and how long he could expect it, or how much more, he never bothered.
His wife occasionally, waiting on him for his mood, asked him, and all that he replied was: ‘You get what you need for the month?’
‘Yes. But –’
‘Then why do you bother about anything? You may always rest assured that we will get what we need without any difficulty You will be happy as long as you don’t expect more.’
‘But, but –’
‘There are no further points in this scheme of life,’ he cut her short. And that was the basis on which his career and daily life progressed. ‘Of course, if The Banner could be revived,’ he reflected, ‘I could breathe more freely. Now I don’t know what I’m doing, whether I’m helping Sampath or Sampath is helping me – the whole position is vague and obscure. The clear-cut lines of life are visible only when I’m at my table and turning out The Banner.’ He had now a lot of time to reflect on The Banner. For one thing, he decided to rescue Ravi and get him to work for The Banner. ‘The Banner can justify its existence only if it saves a man like Ravi and shows the world something of his creative powers…’ He made a mental note of all the changes he was going to make in The Banner. He would print thirty-six pages of every issue; a quarter for international affairs, half for Indian politics, and a quarter for art and culture and philosophy. This was going to help him in his search for an unknown stabilizing factor in life, for an unchanging value, a knowledge of the self, a piece of knowledge which would support as on a rock the faith of Man and his peace; a knowledge of his true identity, which would bring no depression at the coming of age, nor puzzle the mind with conundrums and antitheses. ‘I must have a permanent page for it,’ he told himself. ‘This single page will be the keystone of the whole paper – all its varied activities brought in and examined: it will give a perspective and provide an answer for many questions – a sort of crucible, in which the basic gold can be discovered. What shall I call the feature? The Crucible? Too obvious…’
It was so peaceful here and the outlook so enchanting with the heat-haze quivering over the river-sand that he lost all sense of time passing, leaning back in the cane chair, which he had dragged to the window. He presently began to wish that the others would not turn up but leave him alone to think out his plans. But it seemed to him that perverse fates were always waiting around, just to spite such a wish. He heard footsteps on the stairs and presently Sampath and the new girl made their entry.
‘Meet my cousin Shanti, who is going to act Parvathi,’ Sampath said expansively. Srinivas rose in his seat, nodded an acknowledgement, and sat down. He saw before him a very pretty girl, of a height which you wouldn’t notice either as too much or too little, a perfect figure, rosy complexion, and arched eyebrows and almond-shaped eyes – everything that should send a man, especially an artist, into hysterics. Srinivas, as he saw her, felt her enchantment growing upon him. Her feet were encased in velvet sandals, over her ankles fell the folds of her azure translucent sari, edged with gold; at her throat sparkled a tiny diamond star. She seemed to have donned her personality, part by part, with infinite care. Srinivas said to himself: ‘It’s all nonsense to say that she does all this only to attract men. That is a self-compliment Man concocts for himself. She spends her day doing all this to herself because she can’t help it, any more than the full moon can help being round and lustrous.’ He caught himself growing poetic, caught himself trying to look at a piece of her fair skin which showed below her close-fitting sheeny jacket. He pulled himself up. It seemed a familiar situation; he recollected that in the story Shiva himself was in a similar plight, before he discovered the god of the sugar-cane bow taking aim. He seemed to realize the significance of this mythological piece more than ever now. And he prayed:
‘Oh, God, open your third eye and do some burning up here also.’ ‘Mankind has not yet learned to react to beauty properly,’ he said to himself. Shanti, who had by now seated herself on a sofa with Sampath beside her, muttered something to Sampath. And Sampath said: ‘My cousin says you look thoughtful.’ She at once puckered her brow and blushed and threw up her hands in semi-anger, and almost beat him as she said in an undertone: ‘Why do you misrepresent me? I never said any such a thing.’ She shot scared glances at Srinivas, who found his composure shaken. He said: ‘Don’t bother. I don’t mind, even if you have said it,’ and at once all her confusion and indignation left her. She said with perfect calm: ‘I only said that we seemed to have disturbed you while you were thinking out something, and he says –’ She threw a look at Sampath. Srinivas wanted to cut short this conversation and said rather brusquely: ‘I have waited here for two hours now. You said that rehearsals were at ten.’
‘Apologies, Editor,’ replied Sampath. ‘Shall I speak the truth? The real culprit is –’ He merely looked at his cousin, and she at once said apologetically: ‘Am I responsible? I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you have taken a little over three hours dressing up, you know,’ Sampath said. Srinivas noted that they seemed to have taken to each other very well. He said to the girl: ‘You are his cousin, I hear?’
‘I didn’t know that when I applied,’ she said.
‘Have you a lot of film experience?’ he asked and felt that he was uttering fatuous rubbish. Before she could answer he turned to Sampath and asked: ‘Have you told her the story?’ And he realized that it was none of his business and that he was once again uttering a fatuity. But that fact didn’t deter Sampath from building up an elaborate reply of how he had been talking to her night and day of the part she was to play, of how he was constantly impressing upon her the inner significance of the episode, and he added with warmth: ‘My association with you is not in vain, Editor.’ He constantly shot side-glances to observe the effect of his speech on the lady, and Srinivas listened to him without saying a word in reply, as he told himself: ‘I don’t seem to be able to open my mouth without uttering nonsense.’
Presently more footsteps on the staircase, and half a dozen persons entered, followed by Somu. Somu, who came in breezily, became a little awkward at seeing the beauty, and shuffled his steps, stroked his moustache, and in various ways became confused. ‘He will also find it difficult to speak anything but nonsense,’ Srinivas said to himself. The visitors spread themselves around, and Somu said, pointing at a strong paunchy man: ‘This is Shiva.’ The paunchy man nodded agreeably as if godhead were conferred on him that instant. He had a gruff voice as he said: ‘I have played the part of Shiva in over a hundred dramas and twenty films for the last twenty years. I act no other part because I’m a devotee of Shiva.’
‘You must have heard of him,’ Sampath added. ‘V.L.G. –’ Srinivas cast his mind back and made an honest attempt to recollect his name. It suddenly flashed upon him. He used to notice it on the wall of the magistrate’s court at Talapur, years and years ago –’V.L.G. in …’ some Shiva story or other. He almost cried out as he said: ‘Yes, yes, I remember it: rainbow-coloured posters’ – that colour scheme used to make his flesh creep in those days; and at the recollection of it he once again shuddered. Yes, it was in Daksha Yagna,’ Shiva said, much pleased with his own reputation. ‘I always do Shiva, no other part, I’m a devotee of Shiva.’
‘He gets into the spirit of his role,’ Sampath said. Shiva acknowledged it with a nod and repeated for the third time: ‘I do no other role. I’m a devotee of Shiva. Both in work and in leisure I want to contemplate Shiva.’ True to his faith his forehead was smeared with sacred ash and a line of sandal paste. Srinivas viewed him critically, remarking to himself: ‘His eyes are all right, but the rest, as I visualized Shiva, is not here. He certainly was without a paunch – the sort of austerity which is the main characteristic of Shiva in the story is missing. And he should not have such loose, hanging lips, all the inconvenient, ungodly paddings of middle age are here – what a pity! Some tens and thousands of persons have probably formed their notions of a god from him for a quarter of a century.’ As if in continuation of his reflections Sampath said: ‘When his name is on the poster as Shiva, the public of our country simply smash the box-office.’ Shiva accepted the compliment without undue modesty. He added in a gruff tone: ‘So many people were troubling me, and I refused them because I wanted some rest. But when I heard about the starting of this studio I said I must do a picture here,’ and Somu beamed on him gratefully. Srinivas felt inclined to ask more questions, so that he might clear the doubt at the back of his mind as to what special reason the actor had for conferring this favour on this particular studio; but he left the matter alone, one of the many doubts in life which could never be cleared. V.L.G. took out of his pocket a small casket, out of it he fished a piece of tobacco and put it in his mouth, and then proceeded to smear a bit of lime on the back of a betel leaf and stuffed it also into his mouth. He chewed with an air of satisfaction; and from his experience of tobacco chewers, Srinivas understood that V.L.G. was not going to talk any more, but would be grateful to be left alone to enjoy his tobacco. He seemed to settle down to it quietly and definitely. Others, too, seemed to understand the position, and they left Shiva alone and turned their attention to the man next him – a puny youth, with a big head and sunken cheeks and long hair combed back on his head. ‘He is going to be Kama,’ said Sampath. ‘He has been doing such roles in various films.’ Srinivas looked at him. He wondered if he might get up and make a scene. ‘I’m not going to allow the story to be done by this horrible pair.’ But presently another inner voice said: ‘If it is not this horrible pair, some other horrible pair will do it, so why bother?’ And his further reflections were cut short by the lady remarking as she looked at her tiny wrist-watch: ‘It’s four o’clock. When do we start the rehearsal?’
‘As soon as we finish coffee, which is coming now,’ said Sampath. It was six-thirty when they finished their coffee, and then they unanimously decided to postpone the rehearsals, and got up to go away with relief and satisfaction.
Srinivas was touching up the conversation between the disembodied Kama and his wife. Kama said: ‘Here I am. Don’t you see?’ And his wife answered: ‘Seen or unseen, you are my lord. You are in my thought. I will beg of Shiva to make me also invisible.’ Srinivas pondered over the sentence: it seemed too cloying for him. ‘Can’t I make it sound a little more natural?’ But another part of his mind argued: ‘You are not dealing with a natural situation. The agony of a wife whose husband is made invisible can be understood only by another in a similar position. What would my wife say if she suddenly found I’d been made invisible? I must find out from her.’ As he was contemplating this scene, without being able to come to a decision, Sampath came in jubilantly, crying: ‘I’ve achieved a miracle.’ Srinivas said: ‘I will listen to your miracle presently. But first sit down and answer my question. Suppose you were made suddenly invisible, what would be your feelings?’ Sampath thought it over and answered: ‘I should probably think that the clothes I wear are unnecessary.’ He laughed and added: ‘I think it would be a gain, on the whole.’
‘What do you think your wife would say?’ Srinivas asked.
‘If she were in her normal mood she would probably break down, but if she were in her ten a.m. mood she might say: “This is another worry. How I am to manage with an unseen husband God alone knows. But please tell me where you are; don’t surprise me from corners.”’
‘What is that ten a.m. mood?’ asked Srinivas curiously.
‘Every day at ten a.m. she is in a terrible temper; just about the time when the children have to be fed and sent to school and shopping has to be done and some lapse or other on my part comes to light, and all sorts of things put her into a horrible temper at that hour, and she will be continuously grumbling and finding fault with everyone. She is always on the brink, and if I don’t have my wit
s about me we might explode at each other damagingly.’
‘You must try to reduce all her irritations, poor lady!’ Srinivas said, much moved by the memory of how she stood behind the door on the day he visited Sampath. He suspected that Sampath hardly went home nowadays, spending all his time in the studio and running about, completely lost in his new interests. So he pleaded with him with special fervour: ‘You must forgive me if I appear to be presumptuous.’ He lectured him on family ties and responsibilities, a corner of his mind wondering at the same time what his wife might have to say about his own habits of work; he wondered if Sampath would retaliate. But he was too good to do it. He became rather sombre at the end of the lecture.