“Of course, one’s kith and kin are bound to support one. What are they worth otherwise?” Velan brooded over the cut on his forehead, and a few others suddenly recollected their various injuries. They could not decide how far this could be forgiven. They consoled themselves with the thought that a good number in the other group must also be nursing injuries at that moment; it was a very satisfying thought. They suddenly decided that they should have a third party to come and arbitrate, so that the fight could be forgotten, provided the other group paid for the burned-down haystacks and entertained the chief men of this group at a feast. And they spent their time discussing the conditions of peace and rose in a body, declaring, “Let us all go and pay our respects to Swami, our savior.”
When he heard voices beyond the mound, he felt relieved. He composed his features for his professional role and smoothed out his beard and hair, and sat down in his seat with a book in his hand. As the voices approached, he looked up and found that a bigger crowd than usual was crossing the sands. He was puzzled for a second, but felt that perhaps they were jubilant over the fact that he had prevented a fight. He felt happy that he had after all achieved something, and saved the village. That idiot brother of Velan did not seem so bad after all. He hoped that they had the flour in a bag. It’d be improper to ask for it at once; they were bound to leave it in the kitchen.
They softened their steps and voices as they came nearer the pillared hall. Even the children hushed their voices when they approached the august presence.
They sat around in a silent semicircle as before, each in his place. The women got busy at once sweeping the floor and filling the mud lamps with oil. For ten minutes Raju neither looked at them nor spoke, but turned the leaves of his book. He felt curious to see how much of Velan’s person was intact. He stole a glance across, and saw the scars on his forehead, and threw a swift look around and found that actually there was less damage than he had pictured in his mind. He resumed his studies, and only after he had gone through ten minutes of reading did he look up as usual and survey the gathering. He looked at his flock, fixed his eyes on Velan in particular, and said, “Lord Krishna says here—” He adjusted his page to the light and read a passage. “Do you know what it means?” He entered into a semiphilosophical discourse on a set of rambling themes, starting with the eating of good food and going on to absolute trust in God’s goodness.
They listened to him without interrupting him, and only when he paused for breath at the end of nearly an hour did Velan say, “Your prayers will surely be answered and save our village. Every one of us in the village prays night and day that you come through it safely.”
Raju was puzzled by what he heard. But he thought that such high and bombastic well-wishing was their habit and idiom and that they were only thanking him for putting enough sense into their heads not to go on with their fight. The assembly grew very loquacious and showered praise on him from all directions. A woman came up and touched his feet. Another followed. Raju cried, “Have I not told you that I’ll never permit this? No human being should ever prostrate before another human being.”
Two or three men came up, one of them saying, “You are not another human being. You are a Mahatma. We should consider ourselves blessed indeed to be able to touch the dust of your feet.”
“Oh, no. Don’t say that—” Raju tried to withdraw his feet. But they crowded round him. He tried to cover his feet. He felt ridiculous playing this hide-and-seek with his feet. He could find no place to put them. They tugged at him from various sides and they seemed ready to tickle his sides, if it would only give them his feet. He realized that there was really no escape from this demonstration and that it would be best to let them do what they liked. Almost everyone in the crowd had touched his feet and withdrawn, but not too far away; they surrounded him and showed no signs of moving. They gazed on his face and kept looking up in a new manner; there was a greater solemnity in the air than he had ever known before.
Velan said, “Your penance is similar to Mahatma Gandhi’s. He has left us a disciple in you to save us.” In their own rugged idiom, in the best words they could muster, they were thanking him. Sometimes they all spoke together and made a confused noise. Sometimes they began a sentence and could not get through with it. He understood that they spoke with feeling. They spoke gratefully, although their speech sounded bombastic. The babble was confusing. But their devotion to him was unquestionable. There was so much warmth in their approach that he began to feel it was but right they should touch his feet; as a matter of fact, it seemed possible that he himself might bow low, take the dust of his own feet, and press it to his eyes. He began to think that his personality radiated a glory. . . . The crowd did not leave at the usual hour, but lingered on.
Velan had assumed that he was on a fast today and for the first time these months had failed to bring in any food. Just as well. When they attached so much value to his fasting he could not very well ask, “Where is the stuff for my bonda?” It would be unseemly. No harm in attending to it later. They had assumed that he was fasting in order to stop their fight, and he was not going to announce to them that he had already had two meals during the day. He would just leave it at that, and even if his eyes should droop a little out of seeming fatigue, it would be quite in order. Now that it was all over, why couldn’t they go away? He signed to Velan to come nearer. “Why not send away the women and children? Isn’t it getting late?”
The crowd left at nearly midnight, but Velan remained where he had sat all the evening, leaning against a pillar. “Don’t you feel sleepy?” Raju asked.
“No, sir. Keeping awake is no big sacrifice, considering what you are doing for us.”
“Don’t attach too much value to it. It’s just a duty, that is all, and I’m not doing anything more than I ought to do. You can go home if you like.”
“No, sir. I’ll go home tomorrow when the Headman comes to relieve me. He will come here at five o’clock and stay on till the afternoon. I’ll go home, attend to my work, and come back, sir.”
“Oh, it’s not at all necessary that someone should always be here. I can manage quite well.”
“You will graciously leave that to us, sir. We are only doing our duty. You are undertaking a great sacrifice, sir, and the least we can do is to be at your side. We derive merit from watching your face, sir.”
Raju felt really touched by this attitude. But he decided that the time had come to get to the bottom of it. So he said, “You are right. ‘One who serves the performer of a sacrifice derives the same merit,’ says our scripture, and you are not wrong. I thank God that my effort has succeeded, and you are all at peace with one another; that’s my main concern. Now that’s over, things are all right. You may go home. Tomorrow I’ll take my usual food, and then I shall be all right. You will remember to fetch me rice flour, green chili, and—”
Velan was too respectful to express his surprise loudly. But he couldn’t check himself anymore. “Do you expect it to rain tomorrow, sir?”
“Well . . .” Raju thought for a moment. What was this new subject that had crept into the agenda? “Who can say? It’s God’s will. It may.” It was then that Velan moved nearer and gave an account of what his brother had told them, and its effect on the population around. Velan gave a very clear account of what the savior was expected to do—stand in knee-deep water, look to the skies, and utter the prayer lines for two weeks, completely fasting during the period—and lo, the rains would come down, provided the man who performed it was a pure soul, was a great soul. The whole countryside was now in a happy ferment, because a great soul had agreed to go through the trial.
The earnestness with which he spoke brought the tears to Raju’s eyes. He remembered that not long ago he had spoken to them of such a penance, its value and technique. He had described it partly out of his head and partly out of traditional accounts he had heard his mother narrate. It had filled an evening’s program and helped him divert his audience’s mind from the drought. He
had told them, “When the time comes, everything will be all right. Even the man who would bring you the rain will appear, all of a sudden.” They interpreted his words and applied them now to the present situation. He felt that he had worked himself into a position from which he could not get out. He could not betray his surprise. He felt that after all the time had come for him to be serious—to attach value to his own words. He needed time—and solitude to think over the whole matter. He got down from his pedestal; that was the first step to take. That seat had acquired a glamour, and as long as he occupied it people would not listen to him as to an ordinary mortal. He now saw the enormity of his own creation. He had created a giant with his puny self, a throne of authority with that slab of stone. He left his seat abruptly, as if he had been stung by a wasp, and approached Velan. His tone hushed with real humility and fear; his manner was earnest. Velan sat still as if he were a petrified sentry.
“Listen to me, Velan; it is essential that I should be alone tonight. It is essential that I should be alone through the day tomorrow too. And then come and see me tomorrow night. I’ll speak to you tomorrow night. Until then neither you nor anyone else should see me.”
This sounded so mysterious and important that Velan got up without a word. “I’ll see you tomorrow night, sir. Alone?”
“Yes, yes; absolutely alone.”
“Very well, master; you have your own reasons. It is not for us to ask why or what. Big crowds will be arriving. I’ll have men along the river to turn them back. It’ll be difficult, but if it is your order it must be carried out.” He made a deep obeisance and went away. Raju stood looking after him for a while. He went into an inner room, which he was using as a bedroom, and laid himself down. His body was aching from too much sitting up the whole day; and he felt exhausted by the numerous encounters. In that dark chamber, as the bats whirred about and the far-off sounds of the village ceased, a great silence descended. His mind was filled with tormenting problems. He tried to sleep. He had a fitful, nightmare-ridden, thought-choked three hours.
Did they expect him to starve for fifteen days and stand in knee-deep water eight hours? He sat up. He regretted having given them the idea. It had sounded picturesque. But if he had known that it would be applied to him, he might probably have given a different formula: that all villages should combine to help him eat bonda for fifteen days without a break. Up to them to see that the supply was kept up. And then the saintly man would stand in the river for two minutes a day, and it should bring down the rain sooner or later. His mother used to say, “If there is one good man anywhere, the rains would descend for his sake and benefit the whole world,” quoting from a Tamil poem. It occurred to him that the best course for him would be to run away from the whole thing. He could walk across, catch a bus somewhere, and be off to the city, where they would not bother too much about him—just another bearded sadhu about, that was all. Velan and the rest would look for him and conclude that he had vanished to the Himalayas. But how to do it? How far could he go? Anyone might spot him within half an hour. It was not a practical solution. They might drag him back to the spot and punish him for fooling them. It was not even this fear; he was perhaps ready to take the risk, if there was half a chance of getting away. . . . But he felt moved by the recollection of the big crowd of women and children touching his feet. He felt moved by the thought of their gratitude. He lit a fire and cooked his food, bathed in the river (at a spot where he had to scoop the sand and wait five minutes for the spring to fill his vessel), and gulped down a meal before anyone should arrive even accidentally. He kept a reserve of food, concealed in an inner sanctum, for a second meal at night. He thought suddenly that if they would at least leave him alone at night, he could make some arrangement and survive the ordeal. The ordeal then would be only standing knee-deep in water (if they could find it), muttering the litany for eight hours. (This he could suitably modify in actual practice.) It might give him cramps, but he’d have to bear it for a few days, and then he believed the rains would descend in their natural course sooner or later. He would not like to cheat them altogether about the fast if he could help it.
When Velan arrived at night, he took him into his confidence. He said, “Velan, you have been a friend to me. You must listen to me now. What makes you think that I can bring the rain?”
“That boy told us so. Did you not tell him so?”
Raju hesitated without giving a direct reply. Perhaps even at this point he might have rectified the whole thing with a frank statement. Raju hesitated for a moment. By habit, his nature avoided the direct and bald truth even now. He replied dodgingly, “It’s not that that I am asking. I want to know what has made you think so about me.”
Velan blinked helplessly. He did not quite understand what the great man was implying. He felt that it must mean something very noble, of course, but he was unable to answer the question. He said, “What else should we do?”
“Come nearer. Sit down and listen to me. You may sleep here. I’m prepared to fast for the sake of your people and do anything if I can help this country—but it is to be done only by a saint. I am no saint.” Velan uttered many sounds of protest. Raju felt really sorry to be shattering his faith; but it was the only way in which he could hope to escape the ordeal. It was a cool night. Raju asked Velan to go up with him to the river step. He took his seat on it, and Velan sat on a step below. Raju moved down to his side. “You have to listen to me, and so don’t go so far away, Velan. I must speak into your ears. You must pay attention to what I am going to say. I am not a saint, Velan, I’m just an ordinary human being like anyone else. Listen to my story. You will know it yourself.” The river trickling away in minute driblets made no noise. The dry leaves of the peepul tree rustled. Somewhere a jackal howled. And Raju’s voice filled the night. Velan listened to him without uttering a word of surprise or interjection, in all humility. Only he looked a little more serious than usual, and there were lines of care on his face.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I was accepted by Marco as a member of the family. From guiding tourists I seemed to have come to a sort of concentrated guiding of a single family. Marco was just impractical, an absolutely helpless man. All that he could do was to copy ancient things and write about them. His mind was completely in it. All practical affairs of life seemed impossible to him; such a simple matter as finding food or shelter or buying a railway ticket seemed to him a monumental job. Perhaps he married out of a desire to have someone care for his practical life, but unfortunately his choice was wrong—this girl herself was a dreamer if ever there was one. She would have greatly benefited by a husband who could care for her career; it was here that a handy man like me proved invaluable. I nearly gave up all my routine jobs in order to be of service to them.
He stayed for over a month at Peak House and I was in entire charge of all his affairs. He never stinted any expense as long as a voucher was available. They still kept their room in the hotel. Gaffur’s car was permanently engaged, almost as if Marco owned it. The car did at least one trip a day between the Peak House and the town. Joseph looked after Marco so well that it was unnecessary for anyone else to bother about him. It was understood that I should devote a lot of time to looking after him and his wife, without sacrificing any other job I might have. He paid me my daily rate and also let me look after my “routine jobs.” My so-called routine jobs now sounded big, but actually reduced themselves to keeping Rosie company and amusing her. Once in two days she went up to see her husband. She was showing extra solicitude for him nowadays. She fussed a great deal over him. It was all the same to him. His table was littered with notes and dates, and he said, “Rosie, don’t go near it. I don’t want you to mess it up. It is just coming to a little order.” I never cared to know what exactly he was doing. It was not my business. Nor did his wife seem to care for the task he was undertaking. She asked, “How is your food?” She was trying a new technique on him, after the inauguration of our own intimacy. She arranged his room. She spoke to J
oseph about his food. Sometimes she said, “I’ll stay on here and keep you company.” And Marco acknowledged it in an absent-minded, casual manner. “All right. If you like. Well, Raju, are you staying on or going back?”
I resisted my impulse to stay on, because I knew I was having her company fully downhill. It would be polite to leave her alone with him. So I said, without looking at him, “I must go back. I have some others coming in today. You don’t mind, I hope.”
“Not at all. You are a man of business. I should not monopolize you so much.”
“What time will you need the car tomorrow?”
He looked at his wife and she just said, “Tomorrow, as early as you can.” He generally said, “Bring me a few sheets of carbon, will you?”
As the car sped downhill, Gaffur kept throwing glances at me through the looking-glass. I was cultivating a lot of reserve with him nowadays. I didn’t like him to gossip too much about anything. I was afraid of gossip. I was still sensitive to such things and I was nervous at being alone with Gaffur and felt relieved as long as his remarks were confined to automobiles; but it was not in his nature to stick to this subject. He would begin with automobiles but soon get mixed up. “You must give me an hour for brake adjustments tomorrow. After all, mechanical brakes, you know; I still maintain they are better than hydraulic. Just as an old, uneducated wife is better than the new type of girl. Oh, modern girls are very bold. I wouldn’t let my wife live in a hotel room all by herself if I had to remain on duty on a hilltop!”
It made me uncomfortable and I turned the topic deftly. “Do you think car designers have less experience than you?”
“Oh, you think these engineers know more? A man like me who has to kick and prod a car to keep it on the road has, you may be sure . . .” I was safe; I had turned his mind from Rosie. I sat in suspense. I was in an abnormal state of mind. Even this did not escape Gaffur’s attention. He mumbled often as he was driving me downhill, “You are becoming rather stuck-up nowadays, Raju. You are not the old friend you used to be.” It was a fact. I was losing a great deal of my mental relaxation. I was obsessed with thoughts of Rosie. I reveled in memories of the hours I had spent with her last or in anticipation of what I’d be doing next. I had several problems to contend with. Her husband was the least of them. He was a good man, completely preoccupied, probably a man with an abnormal capacity for trust. But I was becoming nervous and sensitive and full of anxieties in various ways. Suppose, suppose—suppose? What? I myself could not specify. I was becoming fear-ridden. I couldn’t even sort out my worries properly. I was in a jumble. I was suddenly seized with fears, sometimes with a feeling that I didn’t look well enough for my sweetheart. I was obsessed with the thought that I hadn’t perhaps shaved my chin smoothly enough, and that she would run her fingers over my upper lip and throw me out. Sometimes I felt I was in rags. The silk jibba and the lace-edged dhoti were being overdone or were old-fashioned. She was about to shut the door on me because I was not modern enough for her. This made me run to the tailor to have him make a few dashing bush shirts and corduroys, and invest in hair- and face-lotions and perfumes of all kinds. My expenses were mounting. The shop was my main source of income, together with what Marco gave me as my daily wage. I knew that I ought to look into the accounts of the shop a little more closely. I was leaving it too much to the boy to manage. My mother often told me, whenever she was able to get at me, “You will have to keep an eye on that boy. I see a lot of hangers-on there. Have you any idea what cash he is collecting and what is happening generally?”