The man eater of malgudi, p.8
The Man-Eater of Malgudi, page 8
* * *
I went sneezing up the wooden stairs. The staircase was narrower than the one leading to my attic devoted to dead wild life, and creaked in a way which dimmed the sneezings of a visitor. Although I was born and bred in the district, this was the first time I had trod Abu Lane, which was only four blocks away from my press, conveniently tucked away from the views and turmoil of Market Road. There you saw his signboard, bleached by time and weather – Mr . . . , Pleader – nailed to a pillar on which a more aggressive board announced Nandi Cotton Corporation. Inside you saw nothing at first except bales and bales of cotton, and then a heap in a corner with some women beating them into fluff for bed-making. It was this process which spread tuberculosis and asthma among would-be litigants. Our lawyer’s chamber was right on the landing, which had been converted into a room, with one table, one chair, and one bureau full of law-books. His clients had to stand before him and talk. The table was covered with dusty paper bundles, old copies of law reports, a dry ink-well, an abandoned pen, and his black alpaca coat, going moss-green with age, hung by a nail on the wall. Down below, the cotton-fluffers kept up a rhythmic beating. He had a very tiny window with wooden bars behind him, and through it one saw the coconut tree by a neighbouring house, a kitchen chimney smoking, and a number of sloping roof-tiles, smoky and dusty, with pieces of tinsel thrown away by someone gleaming in the bright sun.
‘Allergy?’ he cried on seeing me. My sneezings had announced my arrival. I stepped in, blowing my nose and rubbing my eyes. There was a beatific smile on his face, and his single tooth was exposed. He sat at the table and commented, ‘Some people suffer from allergy to dust and cotton. But I never notice such things.’ He seemed to feel that his superior physique had come about through a special arrangement between himself and God, and he enjoyed the sight of allergy in others as if it gave him an assurance that God was especially good to him. ‘Allergy, they say, is just mental, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It is something you should overcome by your own resolution,’ he added grandly. I stood in front of his table like a supplicant, and placed before him the brown document. He put on his spectacles, opened the paper, spread it out with the palm of his hand, put a weight on it (the inkless bottle), reared back his head in order to adjust his vision, and read. His unshaven jowl and chin sparkled as if dusted over with silver powder.
He sighed deeply. ‘Of course, you have given him no sort of receipt?’
‘Receipt? What for?’ I asked.
‘For the rent, I mean. I suppose you have been sensible enough not to take a cheque from him?’
I was appalled. He was falling into the same pattern of thought as a dozen others, including my wife. I declared, ‘I have not rented him the house.’
‘Have you taken a lump sum?’ he asked.
‘Look here, he is not my tenant.’
‘Whose tenant is he then?’ he asked, cross-examining me.
‘I don’t know. I can’t say.’ I was losing my equanimity. Why were people so pig-headed as not to know or want to understand my position? My legs felt heavy with climbing the ladder, and he would not give me a seat. He seemed to delight in punishing people who came to see him. I could hardly recognize my own voice, it sounded so thick with cotton dust.
The man was pursuing his inquiry. ‘If he is not your tenant, what is he?’
‘He is not a tenant, but a . . . friend,’ I said, almost unable to substitute any other word.
He was quick to catch it. ‘Friend! Oh! Oh! What sort of friend is he to file a complaint against you! This is a fairly serious offence according to the present Housing Act. Why could you not have straightaway gone through the usual formalities, that is . . . ’
‘Stop! Stop!’ I cried. ‘I swear that I gave him the attic free, absolutely free, because he asked for it.’
‘If I were a judge, I would not believe you. Why should you let him live with you? Is he a relative?’
‘No, thank God; it’s the only thing that is good about the present situation.’
‘Are you indebted to him in any way?’
‘No. On the contrary, he should feel himself in debt to me, and yet he doesn’t hesitate to have me hanged!’ I cried. I explained to him at length how Vasu had come in search of me and how it had all come about. Feeling that perhaps the lawyer was too sympathetic to my enemy, I tried to win him over by saying, ‘You remember that day when you came to have the wedding invitations printed, and how he pulled me out and left you – that’s how he does everything. Now you understand what he is capable of.’
That prejudiced him. He reflected with bitterness. ‘And I had to sit there and waste a whole day to no purpose.’ He spoke to me on many legal technicalities, and took charge of my summons. He pulled out of a drawer a sheet of paper and took my signature. Then he put everything away with relief, ‘I’ll deal with it; don’t worry yourself any more about it. How much money have you now?’
‘Not an anna,’ I said, and emptied my pockets to prove it. He looked gloomy at this bankruptcy.
‘I would not charge more than a minimum, you know. Some routine charges have to be paid – stamp charges, affidavit charges, and coffee charges for the bench clerk. He is the man to help us, you know.’
‘Oh, how?’
‘Don’t ask questions. Now I’m wondering how to pay these charges, absolutely nominal, you know. Even if you can spare about five rupees . . . ’
‘I thought since . . . since you have . . . you might adjust your accounts.’
He threw up his arms in horror, ‘Oh, no, absolutely different situations. Don’t mix up accounts, whatever else you may do. It always leads to trouble. Can’t you send someone to your press to fetch your purse, if you have left it there?’
I felt like banging my fist on his table and demanding immediate settlement of my account, but I felt humbled by circumstances; the lawyer must save me from prison. So I said, ‘If you will manage it somehow, I will send the amount to your house as soon as I’m back at the press.’
‘I am not going home. There is no time today for me to go to court if I go home, and so, I don’t want to seem to trouble you too much, but one oughtn’t to start out on a business like this without cash of any kind.’
‘I came only to consult you,’ I said.
‘I hope you have found it satisfactory,’ he replied ceremoniously.
‘Yes, of course,’ I said. I felt like a pauper petitioning for help. How long would he keep me standing like this? I could not afford to be critical. So I asked breezily, ‘Now what is to be done?’
‘First things first.’ He studied the sheet of paper intently. ‘The summons is for 11 a.m. Tuesday the 24th; today is Monday the 23rd. It is 10.30 now. I must file your application for non-appearance almost at once. The ruling gives twenty-four hours if a summons is to be non-responded. It would have been a different matter if you had dodged the summons. Did you sign that little paper the fellow had?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Ah, inexperience, inexperience,’ he cried. ‘You should have consulted me before touching it or looking at it.’
‘I had no idea it was coming,’ I said, putting into my voice all the shock I had felt at Vasu’s treachery.
‘That’s true, that’s true,’ he said. ‘You must have thought it was some printing business from the district court, ha?’
‘Now, is that all?’ I asked.
‘H’m, yes,’ he said. ‘I can always depend upon the bench clerk to help me. I’ll do what I can. You must feel happy if you are not on the list tomorrow. I’ll have to plead that you are away and need more time or notice.’
‘But everybody can see me at my press,’ I pleaded.
‘Oh, yes, that’s a point. But how can the court take cognizance if you are there? In any event, it’ll be better if you don’t make yourself too conspicuous during the hours of the court sitting.’
‘Except when I am called out, I’m usually behind the blue curtain,’ I said.
‘That’s good, it is always helpful,’ he said.
‘And what’s the next step?’
‘You will be free for at least four weeks. Rent court is rather overworked nowadays. They won’t be able to re-issue the summons for at least four weeks.’ I felt grateful to the man for saving my neck for four weeks; but now he added a doubt. ‘Perhaps the complainant will file an objection.’
‘He may also say that I’ve not gone anywhere, as he lives right over my head.’
‘But the court is not bound to take cognizance of what he says. It’s not that way that your mala fides can be established.’
I didn’t understand what he meant.
‘I have some work now,’ I said apologetically. I did not want to hurt his feelings with the least hint that I didn’t like to be kept standing there while he talked; as a matter of fact my legs were paining me.
‘You may go,’ he said grandly. ‘I’ll be back home at three o’clock. I will manage it all somehow. If you are sending anyone at all to my house, send an envelope with ten rupees in it. Anyway I’ll give you a complete accounting when it is all over.’
The proof of the lawyer’s handiwork: I was sitting unscathed at my press, printing three-colour labels, on the day following my D-day. I gladly sent him ten rupees through Sastri. He would account for it all at the end. I was not to mix up accounts. Great words of wisdom they seemed to me in my fevered state.
Chapter Six
Fifteen days passed uneventfully. We left each other alone. I heard Vasu come and go. His jeep would arrive at the yard, I could hear that mighty fist pulling at the brake, and feet stumping upstairs. Amidst all his impossible qualities, he had just one virtue: he never tried to come to my part of the house; he arrived and departed as he liked. Only the stench of drying leather was on the increase. It disturbed the neighbourhood. I had a visitor from the health department, one fine day – a man in khaki uniform. He was a sanitary inspector whose main business was to keep the city clean, a hard job for a man in a place like Malgudi, where the individual jealously guarded his right to independent action.
The sanitary inspector had the habit of occasionally dropping in at my press and sitting in a chair quietly when his limbs ached from too much supervision of the Market Road. He would take off his pith helmet (I think he was the only one in the whole town who had such headgear, having picked it up at an army disposal store), place it on the chair next to him, wipe his brow with a check-coloured handkerchief, sigh and pant and call for a glass of water. I could not say he was a friend, but a friendly man. Today, he leaned his bicycle on the front step of my press, and came in saying, ‘There is a complaint against you.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket and took out a sheet of paper, and held it to me.
I was beginning to dread the sight of brown envelopes nowadays. A joint petition from my neighbours, signed by half a dozen names, had been presented to the municipal authority. They complained that on my terrace they noticed strange activities – animal hides being tanned; the petitioners pointed out that the tanning and curing of skins should be prohibited in a residential area as it gave rise to bad odour and insanitary surroundings. They also complained of carrion birds hovering around my terrace. One part of my mind admired my neighbours for caring so much for sanitation; the rest of it was seized with cold despair.
I requested the inspector to take a seat and asked what he expected me to do. He said, ‘Can I have a glass of water?’ I called Sastri to fetch water. The sanitary inspector said, after gulping it down in one mouthful (he was the most parched and dehydrated man I had ever seen in my life), ‘By-law X definitely prohibits the tanning of leather indiscriminately in dwelling areas; By-law Y specifies exactly where you can conduct such a business. I did not know you were engaged in this activity. Why? Is your press not paying enough?’
I slapped my brow with my palm in sheer despair. ‘I have not turned tanner!’ I cried. ‘I am still a printer. What makes you think I’m not?’
‘Where is the harm?’ asked the inspector. ‘There is dignity in every profession. You don’t have to be ashamed of it, only you must carry it on at the proper spot without violating the by-laws.’
‘All right, I’ll do so,’ I said meekly.
‘Oh, good, you will co-operate with us! That is the difference between educated people and uneducated ones. You can grasp our problems immediately. Of course people will do wrong things out of ignorance. How can we expect everyone to be versed in municipal by-laws? I never blame a man for not knowing the regulations, but I’m really upset if people don’t mend their ways even after a notice has been issued. May I have another glass of water, please?’
‘Oh, surely, as many as you want. Mr Sastri, another glass of water.’ I could hear Sastri put away the urgent job he was doing and prepare to fetch the glass.
The inspector emptied the second supply at one gulp and rose to go. He said in parting, ‘I’ll send off an endorsement to the parties, something to silence them.’
‘What will you say?’ I asked, a sudden curiosity getting the upper hand.
‘We have a printed form, which will go to them to say that the matter is receiving attention. That is enough to satisfy most parties. Otherwise they’ll bombard us with reminders.’
I saw him off on the last step of my press. He clutched the handlebars of his bicycle, stood for a moment thinking and said, ‘Take your time to shift, but don’t be too long. If you get a notice, please send a reply to say that you are shifting your tanning business elsewhere and pray for time.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, ‘I’ll certainly do all that you say.’ I was beginning to realize that it was futile to speak about any matter to anyone. People went about with fixed notions and seldom listened to anything I said. It was less strenuous to let them cherish their own silly ideas.
* * *
The septuagenarian came along, tapping his stick; he stood in the road, looked up through his glasses, shading his eyes with one hand, and asked in a querulous voice, ‘Is Nataraj in?’ The usual crowd was there. ‘Now is the testing time for Nehru,’ the journalist was saying. ‘If the Chinese on our border are not rolled back –’ The poet had brought the next canto of his poem and was waiting to give me a summary of it. The septuagenarian asked again, ‘Is Nataraj here?’ unable to see inside owing to the glare.
‘Yes, yes, I’m here,’ I cried, and went down to help him up the steps.
He seated himself and looked at the other two. ‘Your friends? I may speak freely, I suppose?’ I introduced them to him, whereupon he expatiated on the qualities of a poet, and his duties and social relationships, and then turned to me with the business on hand. ‘Nataraj, you know my grandson had a pet – a dog that he had kept for two years. He was very much devoted to it, and used to play with it the moment he came back from school.’ I almost foresaw what was coming. ‘Someone killed it last night. It lay under the street-lamp shot through the heart; someone seems to have shot it with a gun. Who has a gun here in these parts? I thought no one but the police had guns.’
‘Why did you let it out?’
‘Why? I don’t know. It generally jumps over the wall and goes around the neighbourhood. It was a harmless dog, only barking all night, sitting under that street-lamp. I don’t know what makes these dogs bark all night. They say that ghosts are visible to the eyes of a dog. Is it true? Do you believe in ghosts?’
‘I haven’t been able to see any,’ I began.
‘Oh, that’s all right. Most people don’t see them. Why should they? What was I saying?’ he asked pathetically, having lost track of his own sentence. I was loath to remind him. I hesitated and wavered, hoping that he’d forget the theme of the dead dog and concentrate on the ghosts. But the journalist said, ‘You were speaking about the dog, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, yes. I could not bear to see its corpse, and so I asked the scavenger to take it away. I don’t know what you call that breed. We called it Tom and it was black and hairy, very handsome; someone brought it from Bombay and gave it to my son, who gave it to this little fellow – quite a smart dog, very watchful, would make such a row if anyone tried to enter our gate, would wait for me to get up from my morning prayer, because he knew he would get a piece of the bread I eat in the morning. For the last three years doctors have ordered me to eat only bread, one slice of it. Before that I used to take idli every day, but they think it’s not good for me. My father lived to be a hundred and never missed idli even for a single day.’ He remained silently thinking of those days.
I was glad he was not asking to be reminded of his main theme. I hoped he would get up and go away. Everyone maintained a respectful, gloomy silence. If it had continued another minute, he would have risen and I’d have helped him down the steps. But just at the crucial moment Sastri came in with a proof for my approval. As soon as he entered by the curtain, instead of handing me the proof and disappearing he stood arrested for a minute, staring at the old man. ‘What was all that commotion at your gate this morning? I was coming to the press and had no time to stop and ask. But I saw your grandchild crying.’
‘Oh, is that you, Sastri?’ asked the old man, shrinking his eyes to slits in order to catch his features. ‘How are you, Sastri? It’s many months since I saw you. What are you doing? Yes, of course I know you are working with Nataraj. How do you find his work, Nataraj? Good? Must be good. His uncle was my class-mate, and he had married the third daughter of . . . He used to come and play with my nephew. Where do you live, Sastri? Not near us?’ Sastri mentioned his present address. ‘Oh, that is far off Vinayak Street; ah, how many centuries it seems to me since I went that way. Come and see me some time, I’ll be pleased.’
Sastri seemed pleased to be thus invited. He said, ‘I must, I must come some time.’
‘How many children have you?’ Sastri mentioned the number, at which the old man looked gratified and said, ‘Bring them also along when you come. I’d like to see them.’
