‘Oh, no, I told you that he wasn’t bad as bridegrooms go ...’
‘I am sure he must have been a delinquent of some sort,’ Raman said, and added, ‘I never knew that you viewed people so critically, or even cared to say much — ’
‘There was no occasion for me to say anything, that was all, and I don’t fish for compliments.’ Raman had nothing further to say and remained silent. ‘ warned you not to interrupt me, but you are constantly saying things that disturb me.’
‘I only wanted to clear up some doubts. Go ahead ...’
‘As I said, I strode up like a soldier marching and stood before the fellow, and he perhaps thought I would knock him down, and retreated slightly. They all looked a little shaken at the very style of my walk. His father seemed so taken aback that he ceased to speak of his son’s achievements. My mother said, “Make your obeisance, prostrate yourself on the ground.” I shook my head. I have always hated the notion of one human being prostrating at the feet of another.’
‘So do I,’ said Raman. ‘It is odious. I have never fallen at anyone’s feet in my life.’
‘Don’t interrupt me. You can tell me about yourself later,’ said Daisy. ‘Then the man asked, “What class are you studying in?” A routine question that all would-be brides have to answer modestly. But I turned it round to ask, “What class are you studying in?” And that completely bowled them over, since the bright young fellow did not seem to have got beyond the kindergarten, his only merit and qualification being wealth. They got over this shock, and asked, “Can you sing?”
‘ “Can you?” I asked. Surprisingly enough, he answered, “Yes, I can.” His father explained, “He has learnt from professionals, and his ambition is to perform in Madras Music Academy. Can you sing?” Before I could answer, my father butted in to say, “A teacher comes three days in the week from the town.” “But,” I said, “I am no good. I am not interested in music.”
‘It could not go on like this. Plainly the whole proposal had collapsed. Before I could do further damage, they hustled me back to an inner room and a hundred eyes scowled at me. I thought they’d all strangle me. But they left me alone. For days no one spoke to me. I had brought disgrace on the family by my unseemly behaviour. A highly respected family in these parts had been offended and insulted and it was going to be difficult to find a bridegroom for me any more or for the other girls in the family as well. I had damaged the family reputation.’
Daisy stopped suddenly to count aloud as the gong of the Taluk office sounded. She leapt up and was gone before Raman could realize what was happening. He only heard her words receding in darkness, ‘Nine o’clock! Never thought it was so late.’ He felt angry at the manner in which she had left him.
‘I don’t know what to make of her, she is a puzzle,’ he reflected as he crossed the sands and hopped back to his shed. His aunt was watching him from the back door, and asked in surprise, ‘Why are you jumping over the wall? The door is open.’ Evidently this busybody had been at the back yard and had unbolted the door. He became cross if his aunt trespassed near his work-shed, it was a tacit understanding between the two that she should not unnecessarily wander around his shed. But she came along occasionally to gather the wood-shavings for lighting the oven. At such times she always sought his permission; otherwise she kept away and the workshop door was to be opened or closed only at his discretion; he was the sole authority in that area. She could open it only when she went across to the river for her bath. Now she had no reason whatever to come up so far unless she was trying to spy on his movements. If she had come up to the back door and opened it, she must have peeped out and seen him on the steps — an uneasy thought. Not that he cared for her opinion. He asked, ‘Why did you have to open the door?’
‘he street door was left open, and you were not to be seen anywhere and so I got quite anxious.’ She went back into the kitchen. Raman realized that it would be no use speculating whether she had seen him holding hands with Daisy. What if she had, what if she hadn’t? It was all the same. Holding hands — idiotic pleasure — while Daisy could just wrench herself away and run off without the least feeling. He’d do better than to worry about her. ‘What’s he to Hecuba or Hecuba to him?’ he repeated to himself, some odd titbit floating up from the cesspool of scholastic memory. She should rename herself Hecuba instead of Daisy - one who could behave so undaisy-like. More like emery paper. What if the gong sounded nine? Who would question her? Whom was she accounting to? If there was anyone to demand an explanation, it could only be himself... rather a flattering notion. He realized that his thoughts were pellmell, following her sudden departure, which had frustrated his plan for a tender parting. He had still sufficient self-analysis to conclude, ’To hell with everything. What am I to Hecuba?’ and then lit up a lantern and sat down to resume work on the bangle-seller’s board He sat hunched up over it far into the night. His aunt knew better than to disturb him at such times. She herself lay down on the kitchen floor and slept. Later on that night, he stood at the threshold of the kitchen, hesitating whether to wake her or not. But she got up and served his dinner. He was afraid for a while lest she might question him; he might have to be both rude and evasive; but when he was nearing the final rice and buttermilk stage of dinner, she just said, ‘Krishna’s advice to Arjuna on the battlefield was the discourse today, and it thrilled me. The pundit is so learned, you know.’
The bangle-seller seemed to be a changed man. When Raman carried a sign-board for him, he had come to the market dreading lest there should be a repetition of his previous experience, in spite of the affability shown by the man while ordering the board. The shop, as ever, was filled with girls of all ages and shapes. The bangle-seller was clutching a tender wrist but dropped it unceremoniously on seeing Raman. ‘Aha, welcome, sir, be seated.’ He pointed to a stool in a corner, while all his fawning, chattering customers sat around on a carpet spread on the floor.
Raman unwrapped the sign-board in a routine manner, saying the routine words, ‘Don’t touch, not completely dry yet,’ and leaned it on a wall.
The bangle-seller examined it approvingly. He looked at his audience and asked, ‘How do you like it?’ And they all murmured, ‘Looks nice.’
Enslaved ones, Raman thought, judgement according to His Eminence’s views. He said, ‘Shall I hang it up for you? I have brought nails - show me where.’ The whole company took part in this activity: Raman stood on the ladder to nail up the board, several elegant, bangle-bound hands held the ladder for him, and all the women who had come to buy bangles now stood around watching or placed their hands solicitously on the ladder. ‘Be careful, please, we are holding it from slipping, don’t worry.’ The bangle-seller stood across the path on the other side to study the sign from a point of vantage and uttered many words of appreciation. A small crowd of onlookers also joined. When finally Raman stepped off the last rung of the ladder, he felt like a hero. He almost expected to be offered sweets and to be garlanded with rose and jasmine. He walked back into the shop wiping the sweat off his palm, self-conscious as the spectators stood aside to let him pass into the bangle shop.
The shopman followed him in, saying, ‘I’m happy that you have paid special attention to the nylon bangles. Pray be seated ...’ He pointed again to the stool in the corner. Raman’s legs ached with the strain of ladder-climbing, and he was grateful for a seat, while his admiring public went back to their carpet. The bangle-seller addressed them generally, ‘I’ll attend to you in a minute,’ turned to Raman, and said, ‘Can I get you coffee, Coca-Cola, or Fanta? What’d you like?’
‘Thanks, anything,’ said Raman and added, ‘also I’d like payment of my bill.’
‘Now?’ asked the bangle-seller.
‘Yes, yes, immediately. Seventy-five rupees, less the advance, please.’
‘Ah, seventy-five rupees for one board!’ cried the man in consternation.
‘Yes, yes, seventy-five rupees for one board; one hundred and fifty for two, two hundred twent
y-five for three, that’s our rate today. I’ve to change a brush for every fourth line, or hundred applications, and I have given you the loveliest rosewood plank, come straight from the Mempi jungles — even if it’s exposed to sun and rain for the next hundred years it won’t warp. I have used pure linseed oil and paint from Germany and the sign will stay fresh when your grandson succeeds to your business.’
‘Oh, I have not thought of marriage.’
Why not, you have enough opportunities, I’m sure, Raman thought, looking at the clientele. After the shop hour, you have only to keep your hold on one of those slender wrists and it’s done ... but aloud he said, ‘I wanted to give you first-class work, and that means first-class material.’ Raman enjoyed being back in the professional stream with all that business banter, trade and sales jargon. He felt now that he was regaining his personality, which had been drowned in Daisy-ism, too much of it. Daisy-ism was all right - interesting, titillating, and diverting up to a point - but not to be taken too seriously or tragically. For months now he had been wasting himself in Daisy-ism. I must cure myself of it by constantly questioning, What’s Daisy to me or me to Daisy? and lose myself in robust, manly, professional encounters, rounding up the day at The Boardless in healthy company. What if she had come in search of him and sat on the river-step close to him? He was now a hardened man who ought not to attach too much value to such situations. After all, if only he cared to, he could command the attention of all the women of the town, and he wished Daisy had been there to witness how many hands came up to hold the ladder. He knew his personality was not unattractive. He should leave Daisy alone, and shake off this silly burden on the mind. ‘You are becoming a contemplative, like a yogi,’ said the bangle-seller.
‘Yes, yes, my next business demands my immediate attention.’
‘What’s the next?’ asked the bangle-seller, his curiosity aroused.
‘Must you know?’ asked Raman mischievously.
‘Oh, I am always interested in the prosperity of my friends.’
Raman took a diary out of his bag. Its calico was faded, and the year on it was 1962. The bangle-seller remarked, ‘It’s more than ten years old ...’
‘Why not?’ asked Raman. ‘I can still use it for ten more years. After all one can write only four lines a day, and not every day, and the diary has three-hundred and sixty pages or more; it’d be a national waste not to use a diary for ten years.’ He opened a page and held it up to him to read.
The bangle-seller read aloud,’ “Finance and Investment Corporation”, “India Textiles”, “Dr Gurunath”, “Mathilda Nursery School”, “Danger: 440 volts”,’ and cried, ‘Quite a busy writer! Must be making a lot of money.’
‘Why not? I never go after business. It comes to me. And the delivery is strictly by turn, that’s all. No one can hustle me. You see the date against each item. Even if he is a maharaja, he’ll get his delivery only on the due date, and I can guarantee the best material, not like others who pass off soft-wood plank and lamp-black letters!’ Raman laughed ironically. He couldn’t really explain why he was launching on such a personal account except to impress the gathering in the shop. He was swelling with importance.
This impressed the bangle-seller, and he crossed over to his desk, opened a cashbox and fetched fifty-five rupees, and held them out to Raman with, ‘How I wish you could show us some concession.’
‘Of course, I have billed you with the discount. Otherwise it would be eighty-five or ninety rupees for fifteen square feet.’ There was no sign of the drink offered and Raman said, ‘Don’t worry, if you can’t send for a drink, I can have it on the way.’
‘Oh, no, impossible,’ said the man and looked at a very young girl waiting to be fitted with bangles: ‘Be a good girl. Get a Fanta, tell him I want it.’
While they waited for the girl’s return there was a pause, and Raman said, ‘Attend to them. Why keep them waiting?’
‘Oh, they will not mind,’ and his clients nodded in agreement and murmured something pleasant. This chap has cast a spell on them, thought Raman.
The Fanta came, Raman drank it, and got up. The bangle-seller rose courteously and followed him out. Before parting, he said, ‘I want a favour from you. There is a lady here, in the birth-control department. Do you know her?’
Raman asked, ‘Why?’
‘I hear that she is known to you.
‘How? Why? How can I have anything to do with a birth-control woman?’
‘No, no don’t mistake me; one of my customers has seen you in her office, that’s all. If you know her, I want your recommendation, that’s all.’
‘You said you were a bachelor, what’s your problem? She is not an abortionist.’
‘No, no, not that, not that way, sir. It seems she is going to distribute bangles to villagers as a reward for getting operated on for birth-control. If it’s so, please let me do the supplies. I’m prepared to visit the villages and fit them up nicely. Some of my nylon bangles are unique models. If you can come back into the shop for a minute and see for yourself.’
‘Oh, no, I can take your word for it.’
‘They are unbreakable, and women will do anything to get those bangles.’
Part Four
Now Raman had a fine excuse to knock on the door of Number Seven, Third Cross, that night. Daisy let him in.
He said, ‘I won’t keep you long, only a quarter of an hour.’ She looked rather drawn and tired. Overworked, actually, with no relief, poor girl, he thought. If you had stood by the door and eavesdropped as did an urchin who had brought her her dinner from a near-by restaurant, you would have heard his voice: ‘I just came to inquire, on behalf of a friend, if you are offering nylon bangles to village women who — ’
‘Rubbish!’ said her voice. ‘We don’t believe in that kind of conversion. They must understand what they are doing, and not be enticed in this childish manner. Tell your friend to keep his bangles. I know him. He came here twice with a few samples, and I asked him to pack up and go. I gave him only two minutes. This sort of thing maddens me, I tell you.’ A pause and some movement of feet. Her voice: ‘No, no, you will be in trouble again. Be sensible.’
‘I used to be the most sensible person known at one time. Full of good sense, logic, reason. I could talk the most irrational fellow back into sense.’
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said the female voice. ‘Why not give me also the pleasure of watching your logic and reason at work? I see you only as a rash, head-strong ... H’sh, don’t be childish, let go, you are hurting me; behave like an adult.’
‘But you let me touch you on the river-step the other evening!’
‘Oh, that! That was different, it was dark there.’
‘I can switch off the light here too.’
And then one heard a scuffle and a struggle to reach the switch, feet and hands reaching for the switch, and a click of the switch, off. The eavesdropper applying his eye to the keyhole at this point would see nothing. A stillness followed before the light went up again, the female voice saying, ‘If you must stay, please bring your bicycle in. I don’t want it to be stolen, or worse, seen on my veranda at this hour.’
‘You command, I’m ever your slave.’
‘Don’t you feel ashamed to say it?’
‘No, proud and happy.’ And as the door bolt is heard drawn, the eavesdropper vanishes, leaving Daisy’s food at the threshold.
All day long Raman went on his rounds of business or sat and painted in his shed. At six he washed and groomed and wore fine clothes and was off on his bicycle. Raman’s aunt was bewildered and worried. She noticed the style of dress, and his going and coming. The man in the Sakti Laundry, the one beside the Chettiar shop, now and then remarked to her, ‘Your nephew takes great care of his clothes nowadays. Good for us. He wants his shirt pressed every day. There must not be a single wrinkle on it, anywhere ...’ She was hearing rumours. She hardly spoke to anyone at the temple assembly for fear they might talk about him. She discouraged her n
eighbours or the Chettiar of the shop to hold her in conversation. She connected various titbits of her own observations about him and spoke to him one day while he was finishing his lunch; she waited till the very end before asking, for fear he might stop eating and go away.
‘Where do you go away in the evenings?’ she asked, unable to phrase her question more diplomatically. Raman remained silent, got up from his seat, washed his hands at the back yard, and hesitated for a moment at the central hall to decide whether to go back to the kitchen and speak to her or go into his room and enjoy a siesta. He felt rather drowsy nowadays during the day-time, but - at five every evening until after midnight revived and bloomed and felt absolutely fresh and active during the hours spent in Daisy’s company. Daisy, for her part, nowadays found it difficult to remain awake in her office during the day. Her visitors sometimes surprised her while she dozed in her chair. One evening she said to Raman determinedly, ‘You must go back home for dinner, not later than nine,’ and unknowingly they chatted and dallied till the Taluk office clock boomed eleven and she got up briskly and showed him the door, and he went out on his cycle swearing, ‘That Taluk office gong must be smashed.’ But this system did not always work. They ignored the gong on some days, and Raman awoke from their bed only in time to cycle back home before the townsmen should be out, especially before the opening time of the Chettiar shop, which had become of late a sort of watch-tower noting the arrivals and departures in their street. Until this moment Aunt had resigned herself to the situation. Her question annoyed him. He was an adult past thirty and no aunt or even a goddess could ever have the right to question his movements. Why should he feel uneasy about it? Let all the citizens of Ellaman Street gape and wonder, he would not give them any quarter. He would go his own way. Millions of men and women all over the world were going about their normal business without seeking approval or permission of an aunt or Chettiar or any of the hostile and peering crowd of Ellaman Street. This was a wretched part of the town. He wondered for a moment whether he should not sell this old house and take up his residence in a more civilized locality like the New Extension or leave Malgudi itself - this conservative town unused to modern life. But his self-esteem asserted itself and he said to himself, Why should I change my locality or the town - where I have lived since my childhood? Let others get out if they don’t like to see me go up and down on my own business, living my own life. The more he thought of his home, the more he began to love it — there was no other spot in the whole town - such a coveted spot by the river, with the breeze blowing. Why should I leave this place?