‘Till it takes effect.’
‘What does it say, sir?’
‘It is “Quit” – meaning that the British must leave our country.’
‘What will happen, sir, if they leave? Who will rule the country?’
‘We will rule it ourselves.’
‘Will Mahatmaji become our Emperor, sir?’
‘Why not?’ he said, shaping the letters, with his back turned to them. He taught the school children to cry, ‘Quit India’ in a chorus. They gleefully obeyed him. Their teacher came and expostulated: ‘What is this you are doing, sir, you are spoiling them!’
‘How?’
‘By teaching them seditious behaviour. The police will be after us soon. Do you want us to end in gaol?’
‘Yes, why not? When more important persons than you are already there.’ The crowd jeered at the teacher. The boys were ever ready to seize an opportunity to jeer him. But the old man was more tough than he looked. He put on his spectacles and looked Sriram up and down.
The boys cried: ‘Oh, the master is looking through his spectacles, oh! oh!’ They laughed and cried: ‘Quit India.’
The teacher pushed his way through and cried: ‘Add if possible one “e” before “t”; what we need in this country is not a “Quit” programme, but a “Quiet India”. Why don’t you write that?’
Sriram finished his job of writing. He had borrowed a ladder from someone. He turned round and said to the teacher: ‘Please do something more useful than standing there and talking, master. Please see that this ladder is returned to its owner, I forget his name, and you will have done your bit to free our country.’
The teacher relented a little. He came forward and said: ‘It’s not that I don’t want to see our country freed. I am as much a patriot as you, but honestly do you think we are ready to rule ourselves? We aren’t. Don’t delude yourself. We are not ready yet for anything. Let this war be over, and you will find me the first to fight for Swaraj. Patriotism is not your monopoly.’ The boys stood around and cried slogans.
Sriram said: ‘Be careful, you will be beheaded when Britain leaves India. We have a list of everybody who has to be beheaded.’
The teacher lost his temper completely and said: ‘How dare you say that! I don’t want to see Britain go. I am not one of those who think that we’ll be happier when Hitler comes, perhaps with the help of people like you. Let me tell you you will be the first to be shot then.’
Part of the crowd was appreciative of the teacher’s point of view, and said: ‘The master is right, why should we irritate the sircar?’
Sriram turned on them with rage and said: ‘You should not only irritate, you must not recognize the government. You don’t have to pay taxes to it at all. They are ten thousand miles away from us, why do you give them your tax?’
‘Fellows like this should not be allowed to go about as they like: that’s why I’ve always asked for a police outpost here. If there had been a policeman here, would he have dared to come and lecture like this?’
‘How far away is the police station?’ asked Sriram.
‘The Circle Station is beyond ten stones,’ replied someone.
‘See that,’ said Sriram, ‘your sircar have not given you even a police station! Is it because it is unnecessary when there is a person like this master in your midst?’
The boys raised a shout of appreciation and cried, ‘Quit India’ in a sing-song manner. It was a vociferous, happy gathering. Their shouts and general riotous behaviour frightened a pair of bullocks drawing a load of hay down the road. The bullocks lowered their heads and pulled the cart into a ditch, and it created a general mêlée, people running hither and thither, and shouting directions to each other. The carter, while pulling the animals back to the road, swore at them and at the disturbance. ‘These politicians, Gandhi folk, they won’t leave anyone in peace. Why do you come and trouble us here?’
Sriram said: ‘Hey, pull up your cart and listen. Don’t talk like a baby. You are old enough to know what you are talking about. What’s your age?’
The carter pulled up his reins and said over the jingle of the bells round the necks of his animals, ‘I think I’m twenty!’
‘Twenty! More likely you are fifty.’
‘May be, sir, a little this way and that. I used to be twenty.’
‘How many children have you?’
‘Five sons, sir, and a grandson.’
‘You are fifty, my dear fellow, and you look it. Don’t talk irresponsibly. Do you know Mahatma Gandhi is in gaol?’
‘Yes, master.’
‘You know why he is there?’ The man shook his head. ‘So that you may be a free man in this country. You are not a free man in this country now.’
* * *
Sriram’s orbit of operations lay in the mountain villages scattered here and there, connected by more or less self-formed roads, which wound their way through thick wooded vegetation and forests. Their connection with the outside world was through a postal runner, who passed through some of the better villages once or twice a week, bringing in the mails dumped at the railway station at Koppal. There were a few police outposts scattered over the whole area, with a petty officer and a handful of men in each, who kept in touch with their headquarters through the telephone lines which passed overhead and often vanished into the vegetation on the mountain slope. One would hardly have associated this remote green wilderness with politics, but it was as good a front line in the fight with Britain as any other.
He went into a part of the jungle where elephants were hauling timber. Huge logs were being cut and herds of elephants picked them up on their trunks and rolled them and piled them on trucks waiting in the heart of the jungle. Sriram penetrated here with his own message. He watched them at work and remarked: ‘You are cutting down green unripe timber. You know where it is going?’ The mahouts on the elephants paused in their tasks, and looked down at him with amusement. Sriram explained, ‘They are going into the making of ships and rifles and bridges and what not, all of which are to be used for the destruction of this world. They are going into a war which we are forced to fight because Britain chose to drag us into it. We shouldn’t have to strip our forests for this task. It’s going far away, to far-off countries, and the money you are getting is a puffed-up, illusory currency, which will lose its value soon. Don’t supply these materials for the war, it will take centuries for us to grow all this timber again. Refuse to do this job; it’s in your hands. Don’t strengthen the hand that is oppressing you.’
The timber-contractor who was observing him came up and pleaded, ‘Don’t trouble us please, after all we are business men. If tomorrow you place an order with us for a fair quantity at a good price –’
‘This is not the time for acquiring wealth. This is the time to join in the fight for independence.’
The contractor merely said, ‘Please leave us alone. We don’t wish to get into all this bother.’ He whispered, ‘Please don’t disturb our labour, please.’
‘I’m not out to create labour trouble. You must not send that timber out of the country for this hellish purpose. All wars are against Mahatmaji’s creed of Ahimsa. Do you accept it or not?’
‘Ah, Mahatmaji. I gave five thousand rupees to the Harijan Fund. I have a portrait of him in my house, the first face I see is his, as soon as I get up from bed.’
‘Do you know what he means by non-violence?’
‘Yes, yes, I never missed a day’s lecture when he came to Malgudi.’
‘You must also have attended an equal number of Loyalist Meetings, I suppose.’
The contractor bowed his head shyly. He muttered: ‘After all, when the Collector comes and says, “Do this or that,” we have to obey him. We cannot afford to displease government officials.’
‘How much have you given to the War Fund?’
‘Only five thousand. I’m very impartial; when the Governor himself comes and appeals how can we refuse? After all we are business men.’
The man had inveigled Sriram into entering his tent under a tree. It prevented the mahouts from wasting their time listening to their talk. The forest resounded with the sound of logs rolling down and mahouts goading the elephants, chaffing among themselves, and laughing. The air had a slight smell of eucalyptus and green leaf, and also of the tobacco that the mahouts had been smoking. The contractor seated Sriram on a chair, took out an aluminium kettle smoking on a stove and poured two cups of tea. Sriram felt depressed at the sight of him. He was a lank man with a clean-shaven head, wearing a knitted banian and a dhoti, and at his waist he had tucked in a leather purse and some rolls of paper. The man seemed prosperous, with a thin gold chain around his neck, and a wrist-watch on his left hand, but he looked haggard with overwork.
Sriram said: ‘You are no doubt making a lot of money, but it is worth nothing unless you develop some spirit of – of – ‘He fumbled for words. He wanted to say, ‘National Service’, or ‘Patriotism’, but he was tired of these expressions, they smacked of platform speeches. He said: ‘If you have a photo of Mahatma Gandhi, pray that he may inspire you with reasonable thinking, that’s all I can say.’ He got up abruptly.
The man said: ‘Drink your tea and go.’
Sriram said, ‘I don’t want it.’ He walked out of the tent, slipped through a gap in the hedge, and was off.
He lost count of time. He went on doing things in a machinelike manner. He entered forests and villages and conveyed what he felt to be Mahatmaji’s message. Wherever he went he wrote, ‘Quit India’. And it was followed by loyalists amending it with: ‘Don’t’ or an T before ‘Quit’. In one place a man asked Sriram: ‘What is the use of your writing “Quit India” in all these places? Do you want us to quit?’
‘It does not mean that.’
‘Then write it where it can be seen by those for whom it is meant.’
‘They are everywhere, sometimes seen and sometimes unseen. It is better to have it written everywhere.’
‘Waste of time and paint,’ said the man.
‘I’m merely carrying out an order, and I cannot afford to stop and listen to too much wisdom.’
There was a plantation 4,000 feet above sea level, whither Sriram carried his pot of paint and his brush. It meant nearly half a day’s job for him. He arrived at the estate late one afternoon. He saw a picturesque gatepost with the sign, ‘Mathieson Estates’, over it. There wasn’t a single human being to be seen for miles around. Sriram wondered for a moment: ‘Is it worth writing any message here?’ He looked about and hesitated, but dismissed the doubt as unworthy. He briskly dusted a portion of the gatepost and wrote in a beautiful round handwriting: ‘Quit India’, and turned to go.
An estate labourer who was passing, stopped to look at the message and asked: ‘Are you writing a board?’
Sriram explained at length the import of the message. The man listened for a while and said: ‘Go away. That Dorai is a bad fellow. Always with a gun. He may shoot you.’
Sriram hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it would be more worth while to get shot or to go away peacefully. He suddenly felt he need not have come up so far if it were only to go back safely. He hadn’t climbed 4,000 feet above sea level for nothing. The labourer with the pick-axe went away after uttering his warning. Sriram walked forward towards an ancient bungalow that he saw in front. ‘Hope he doesn’t have bull-dogs,’ he reflected. He pictured the scene ahead in a somewhat gory way. He would approach the steps and the Dorai would level his double-barrelled gun, and Sriram would go up in smoke and blood. Probably that would fill Bharati with remorse. She would tell herself: ‘I wish I had shown my love more definitely when he was alive.’ Anyway why was he doing this? The High Command had not instructed him to go and bare his chest before a gunman.
A seven-foot figure with a red face and sandy hair accosted him by the porch. He was smoking a pipe, and had one hand comfortably tucked in his trouser pocket. For a second Sriram felt a little reluctant to go forward.
‘Hullo! Who may you be?’
Sriram felt dwarfed by his side. He went up and said in a shrill voice: ‘I have brought a message.’
‘Oh, good. From where?’
‘From Mahatmaji.’
The man took out his pipe and said: ‘Oh! What?’
‘From Mahatma Gandhi.’
‘Well? What is it?’
‘That you must quit India.’
The other looked abashed for a second. But he recovered his composure in a moment. He said: ‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’m not saying it. I’m merely giving you the message.’
‘Oh! Come in and have a drink, won’t you?’
‘No. I never drink.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. I didn’t mean spirits, but you can have anything you want, sherbet, or coffee or tea.’
‘I need nothing.’
‘You look tired, come in, let us have a chat anyway. Boy!’ he shouted and his bearer appeared. ‘Two glasses of orange juice,’ he ordered. ‘Look sharp.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Boy, going away.
The servant wore a white uniform with a lot of buttons. Sriram reflected, ‘This man wants even a particular kind of dress for Indians who act as his servants’, and felt an inexplicable rage. The other watched his face for a while, then said, ‘Come along, let us go on the veranda.’ He conducted him up the steps to the veranda, which had been furnished with wicker chairs covered with a beautiful chintz: there were also a few decorative plants in large pots here and there. Sriram contrasted it with his own surroundings, a ruined building built thousands of years ago, full of snakes and scorpions and with only a mat to sleep on. He could not help asking, ‘How do you manage to do all this? May I know?’
‘Do what?’ asked Mathieson.
‘Manage so much decoration and luxury so far away?’ said Sriram and pointed at all the things around.
Mathieson laughed gently and said, ‘I wouldn’t call this luxury, my friend.’
‘And all this while millions of people here are going without food or shelter!’ he said in a general way, the statistics he had picked up from Bharati deserting him for the moment.
‘It is our prayer,’ said Mathieson, ‘that all of them may have not only enough to eat soon but also beautiful houses to live in, something, I hope, better than this, which is only a makeshift.’
Sriram put down this explanation to racial arrogance. ‘It is his prosperity and the feeling of owning the country that makes him talk like this,’ he reflected, and wanted to shout at the top of his voice, ‘Quit, quit, we shall look after ourselves, we don’t care for wicker furniture and gaudy coverings for them, we don’t care even for food, what we care for – ‘He was not clear how to end his sentence. He merely said aloud, ‘What we most care for is to do what Mahatmaji tells us to do.’
‘And what has he advised you to do?’
‘We will spin the charka, wear khadi, live without luxury, and we shall have India ruled by Indians.’
‘But you have rejected the opportunity to try it. Don’t you think it is a pity you should have turned down Cripps’s offer?’
Sriram did not reply for a while. It seemed to him a technical point with which he was not concerned. Such intricate academic technicalities refused to enter his head, and so he merely said, ‘Mahatmaji does not think so,’ and there was an end to the discussion. He knew a jumble of phrases – Dominion Status, Reservation for Muslims, and this and that, but although he had gathered all these from the newspapers they seemed to him beside the point, the only thing that mattered was that Mahatmaji did not think the proposals had anything to do with the independence of India. ‘It is just eyewash,’ he said, remembering a newspaper comment. ‘We don’t want all that. We have no use for such proposals. We don’t want charity.’
This last thought so worked him up that presently when the butler came bearing a tray with two glasses of orange juice he wanted to knock the tray down dramatically and say, ‘I don’t want it,’ but it was a beautifu
l drink, yellow and fresh, in a long and almost invisible tumbler, and the climb and exertion had parched his throat. He hesitated.
Mathieson handed him a glass and, raising his own, said, ‘Here’s to your health and luck.’
Sriram could merely mumble, ‘Thanks’, and drained his glass. The passage of the juice down his throat was so pleasant that he felt he could not interrupt it under any circumstance. He shut his eyes in ecstasy. For a moment he forgot politics, Bharati, strife, and even Mahatmaji. Just for a second the bliss lasted.
He put down his glass and sighed. The other had taken an invisible infinitesimal layer off the top level in his glass and was saying, ‘Care to have another?’
‘No,’ said Sriram and started to leave. The other walked with him halfway down the drive. Sriram said, ‘Don’t rub off the message I have painted on your doorway.’
‘Oh, no, I shan’t. It is a souvenir and I shall keep it proudly.’
‘But won’t you be leaving this country, quitting, I mean?’ asked Sriram.
‘I don’t think so. Do you wish to quit this country?’
‘Why should I? I was born here,’ said Sriram indignantly.
‘I was unfortunately not born here, but I have been here very much longer than you. How old are you?’
‘Twenty-seven, or thirty. What does it matter?’
‘Well, I was your age when I came here and I am sixty-two today. You see, it is just possible I am as much attached to this country as you are.’
‘But I am an Indian,’ Sriram persisted.
‘So am I,’ said the other, ‘and perhaps I am of some use to the people of this country seeing that I employ five thousand field labourers and about two hundred factory hands and office workers.’
‘You are doing it for your own profit. You think we can only be your servants and nothing else,’ said Sriram, not being able to think of anything better, and then he asked, ‘Aren’t you afraid? You are all alone, if the Indians decide to throw you out, it may not be safe for you.’
Mathieson remained thoughtful for a moment and said, ‘Well, I suppose I shall take my chance, that is all, but of one thing I feel pretty sure – I am not afraid of anything.’