Malgudi Days by R. K. Narayan
He returned the pencil and stepped out of the hotel. He had only the stretch of the Race Course Road, and, turning to his right, half the Market Road to traverse, and then Ellaman Street, and then Sarayu . . . Its dark swirling waters would close on him and end all his miseries. ‘I must leave this letter in my coat pocket and remember to leave my coat on the river step,’ he told himself.
He was soon out of Ellaman Street. His feet ploughed through the sands of the riverbank. He came to the river steps, removed his coat briskly and went down the steps. ‘O God,’ he muttered with folded hands, looking up at his stars. ‘If I can’t pass an examination even with a tenth attempt, what is the use of my living and disgracing the world?’ His feet were in water. He looked over his shoulder at the cluster of university buildings. There was a light burning on the porch of the Senate House. It was nearing midnight. It was a quarter of an hour’s walk. Why not walk across and take a last look at the results board? In any case he was going to die, and why should he shirk and tremble before the board?
He came out of the water and went up the steps, leaving his coat behind, and he walked across the sand. Somewhere a time gong struck twelve, stars sparkled overhead, the river flowed on with a murmur and miscellaneous night sounds emanated from the bushes on the bank. A cold wind blew on his wet, sand-covered feet. He entered the Senate porch with a defiant heart. ‘I am in no fear of anything here,’ he muttered. The Senate House was deserted, not a sound anywhere. The whole building was in darkness, except the staircase landing, where a large bulb was burning. And notice-boards hung on the wall.
His heart palpitated as he stood tiptoe to scan the results. By the light of the bulb he scrutinized the numbers. His throat went dry. He looked through the numbers of people who had passed in third-class. His own number was 501. The successful number before him was 498, and after that 703. ‘So I have a few friends on either side,’ he said with a forced mirth. He had a wild hope as he approached the Senate House that somehow his number would have found a place in the list of successful candidates. He had speculated how he should feel after that . . . He would rush home and demand that they take back all their comments with apologies. But now after he gazed at the notice-board for quite a while, the grim reality of his failure dawned on him: his number was nowhere. ‘The river . . .’ he said. He felt desolate, like a condemned man who had a sudden but false promise of reprieve. ‘The river,’ Iswaran muttered. ‘I am going,’ he told the notice-board, and moved a few steps. ‘I haven’t seen how many have obtained honours.’ He looked at the notice-board once again. He gazed at the top columns of the results. First-classes—curiously enough a fellow with number one secured a first-class, and six others. ‘Good fellows, wonder how they managed it!’ he said with admiration. His eyes travelled down to second-classes—it was in two lines starting with 98. There were about fifteen. He looked fixedly at each number before going on to the next. He came to 350, after that 400, and after that 501 and then 600.
‘Five-nought-one in second-class! Can it be true?’ he shrieked. He looked at the number again and again. Yes, there it was. He had obtained a second-class. ‘If this is true I shall sit in the B.A. class next month,’ he shouted. His voice rang through the silent building. ‘I will flay alive anyone who calls me a fool hereafter . . .’ he proclaimed. He felt slightly giddy. He leant against the wall. Years of strain and suspense were suddenly relaxed; and he could hardly bear the force of this release. Blood raced along his veins and heaved and knocked under his skull. He steadied himself with an effort. He softly hummed a tune to himself. He felt he was the sole occupant of the world and its overlord. He thumped his chest and addressed the notice-board: ‘Know who I am?’ He stroked an imaginary moustache arrogantly, laughed to himself and asked, ‘Is the horse ready, groom?’ He threw a supercilious side glance at the notice-board and strutted out like a king. He stood on the last step of the porch and looked for his steed. He waited for a minute and commanded, ‘Fool, bring the horse nearer. Do you hear?’ The horse was brought nearer. He made a movement as if mounting and whipped his horse into a fury. His voice rang through the dark riverside, urging the horse on. He swung his arms and ran along the sands. He shouted at the top of his voice: ‘Keep off; the king is coming; whoever comes his way will be trampled . . .’
‘I have five hundred and one horses,’ he spoke to the night. The number stuck in his mind and kept coming up again and again. He ran the whole length of the riverbank up and down. Somehow this did not satisfy him. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said, ‘this horse is no good. Bring me the other five hundred and one horses, they are all in second-classes—’ He gave a kick to the horse which he had been riding and drove it off. Very soon the Prime Minister brought him another horse. He mounted it with dignity and said, ‘This is better.’ Now he galloped about on his horse. It was a strange sight. In the dim starlight, alone at that hour, making a tap-tap with his tongue to imitate galloping hoofs. With one hand swinging and tugging the reins, and with the other stroking his moustache defiantly, he urged the horse on and on until it attained the speed of a storm. He felt like a conqueror as the air rushed about him. Soon he crossed the whole stretch of sand. He came to the water’s edge, hesitated for a moment and whispered to his horse, ‘Are you afraid of water? You must swim across, otherwise I will never pay five-nought-one rupees for you.’ He felt the horse make a leap.
Next afternoon his body came up at a spot about a quarter of a mile down the course of the river. Meanwhile, some persons had already picked up the coat left on the step and discovered in the inner pocket the slip of paper with the inscription:
‘My dear father: By the time you see this letter I shall be at the bottom of Sarayu. I don’t want to live. Don’t worry about me. You have other sons who are not such dunces as I am—’
SUCH PERFECTION
A sense of great relief filled Soma as he realized that his five years of labour were coming to an end. He had turned out scores of images in his lifetime, but he had never done any work to equal this. He often said to himself that long after the Deluge had swept the earth this Nataraja would still be standing on His pedestal.
No other human being had seen the image yet. Soma shut himself in and bolted all the doors and windows and plied his chisel by the still flame of a mud lamp, even when there was a bright sun outside. It made him perspire unbearably, but he did not mind it so long as it helped him to keep out prying eyes. He worked with a fierce concentration and never encouraged anyone to talk about it.
After all, his labours had come to an end. He sat back, wiped the perspiration off his face and surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. As he looked on he was overwhelmed by the majesty of this image. He fell prostrate before it, praying, ‘I have taken five years to make you. May you reside in our temple and bless all human beings!’ The dim mud flame cast subtle shadows on the image and gave it an undertone of rippling life. The sculptor stood lost in this vision. A voice said, ‘My friend, never take this image out of this room. It is too perfect . . .’ Soma trembled with fear. He looked round. He saw a figure crouching in a dark corner of the room—it was a man. Soma dashed forward and clutched him by the throat. ‘Why did you come here?’ The other writhed under the grip and replied, ‘Out of admiration for you. I have always loved your work. I have waited for five years . . .’
‘How did you come in?’
‘With another key while you were eating inside . . .’
Soma gnashed his teeth. ‘Shall I strangle you before this God and offer you as sacrifice?’ ‘By all means,’ replied the other, ‘if it will help you in any way . . . but I doubt it. Even with a sacrifice you cannot take it out. It is too perfect. Such perfection is not for mortals.’ The sculptor wept. ‘Oh, do not say that. I worked in secrecy only for this perfection. It is for our people. It is a God coming into their midst. Don’t deny them that.’ The other prostrated before the image and prayed aloud, ‘God give us the strength to bear your presence . . .’
This
‘Get out, all of you,’ Soma shouted. ‘I don’t care to bring this Nataraja to your temple. I will make a temple for him where he is. You will see that it becomes the greatest temple on earth . . .’ Next day he pulled down a portion of the wall of the room and constructed a large doorway opening on the street. He called Rama, the tom-tom beater, and said, ‘I will give you a silver coin for your trouble. Go and proclaim in all nearby villages that this Nataraja will be consecrated at the full moon. If a large crowd turns up, I will present you with a lace shawl.’
At the full moon, men, women and children poured in from the surrounding villages. There was hardly an inch of space vacant anywhere. The streets were crammed with people. Vendors of sweets and toys and flowers shouted their wares, moving about in the crowd. Pipers and drummers, groups of persons chanting hymns, children shouting in joy, men greeting each other—all this created a mighty din. Fragrance of flowers and incense hung over the place. Presiding over all this there was the brightest moon that ever shone on earth.
The screen which had covered the image parted. A great flame of camphor was waved in front of the image, and bronze bells rang. A silence fell upon the crowd. Every eye was fixed upon the image. In the flame of the circling camphor Nataraja’s eyes lit up. His limbs moved, his anklets jingled. The crowd was awe-stricken. The God pressed one foot on earth and raised the other in dance. He destroyed the universe under his heel, and smeared the ashes over his body, and the same God rattled the drum in his hand and by its rhythm set life in motion again . . . Creation, Dissolution and God attained a meaning now; this image brought it out . . . the bells rang louder every second. The crowd stood stunned by this vision vouchsafed to them.
At this moment a wind blew from the east. The moon’s disc gradually dimmed. The wind gathered force, clouds blotted out the moon; people looked up and saw only pitchlike darkness above. Lightning flashed, thunder roared and fire poured down from the sky. It was a thunderbolt striking a haystack and setting it ablaze. Its glare illuminated the whole village. People ran about in panic, searching for shelter. The population of ten villages crammed in that village. Another thunderbolt hit a house. Women and children shrieked and wailed. The fires descended with a tremendous hiss as a mighty rain came down. It rained as it had never rained before. The two lakes, over which the village road ran, filled, swelled and joined over the road. Water flowed along the streets. The wind screamed and shook the trees and the homes. ‘This is the end of the world!’ wailed the people through the storm.
The whole of the next day it was still drizzling. Soma sat before the image, with his head bowed in thought. Trays and flowers and offerings lay scattered under the image, dampened by rain. Some of his friends came wading in water, stood before him and asked, ‘Are you satisfied?’ They stood over him like executioners and repeated the question and added, ‘Do you want to know how many lives have been lost, how many homes washed out and how many were crushed by the storm?’
‘No, no, I don’t want to know anything,’ Soma replied. ‘Go away. Don’t stand here and talk.’
‘God has shown us only a slight sign of his power. Don’t tempt Him again. Do something. Our lives are in your hands. Save us, the image is too perfect.’
After they were gone he sat for hours in the same position, ruminating. Their words still troubled him. ‘Our lives are in your hands.’ He knew what they meant. Tears gathered in his eyes. ‘How can I mutilate this image? Let the whole world burn, I don’t care. I can’t touch this image.’ He lit a lamp before the God and sat watching. Far off the sky rumbled. ‘It is starting again. Poor human beings, they will all perish this time.’ He looked at the toe of the image. ‘Just one neat stroke with the chisel, and all troubles will end.’ He watched the toe, his hands trembled. ‘How can I?’ Outside, the wind began to howl. People were gathering in front of his house and were appealing to him for help.
Soma prostrated before the God and went out. He stood looking at the road over which the two lakes had joined. Over the eastern horizon a dark mass of cloud was rolling up. ‘When that cloud comes over, it will wash out the world. Nataraja! I cannot mutilate your figure, but I can offer myself as a sacrifice if it will be any use . . .’ He shut his eyes and decided to jump into the lake. He checked himself. ‘I must take a last look at the God before I die.’ He battled his way through the oncoming storm. The wind shrieked. Trees shook and trembled. Men and cattle ran about in panic.
He was back just in time to see a tree crash on the roof of his house. ‘My home,’ he cried, and ran in. He picked up his Nataraja from amidst splintered tiles and rafters. The image was unhurt except for a little toe which was found a couple of yards off, severed by a falling splinter.
‘God himself has done this to save us!’ people cried.
The image was installed with due ceremonies at the temple on the next full moon. Wealth and honours were showered on Soma. He lived to be ninety-five, but he never touched his mallet and chisel again.
FATHER’S HELP
Lying in bed, Swami realized with a shudder that it was Monday morning. It looked as though only a moment ago it had been the last period on Friday; already Monday was here. He hoped that an earthquake would reduce the school building to dust, but that good building—Albert Mission School—had withstood similar prayers for over a hundred years now. At nine o’clock Swaminathan wailed, ‘I have a headache.’ His mother said, ‘Why don’t you go to school in a jutka?’
‘So that I may be completely dead at the other end? Have you any idea what it means to be jolted in a jutka?’
‘Have you many important lessons today?’
‘Important! Bah! That geography teacher has been teaching the same lesson for over a year now. And we have arithmetic, which means for a whole period we are going to be beaten by the teacher . . . Important lessons!’
And Mother generously suggested that Swami might stay at home.
At 9:30, when he ought to have been shouting in the school prayer hall, Swami was lying on the bench in Mother’s room. Father asked him, ‘Have you no school today?’
‘Headache,’ Swami replied.
‘Nonsense! Dress up and go.’
‘Headache.’
‘Loaf about less on Sundays and you will be without a headache on Monday.’
Swami knew how stubborn his father could be and changed his tactics. ‘I can’t go so late to the class.’
‘I agree, but you’ll have to; it is your own fault. You should have asked me before deciding to stay away.’
‘What will the teacher think if I go so late?’
‘Tell him you had a headache and so are late.’
‘He will beat me if I say so.’
‘Will he? Let us see. What is his name?’
‘Samuel.’
‘Does he beat the boys?’
‘He is very violent, especially with boys who come late. Some days ago a boy was made to stay on his knees for a whole period in a corner of the class because he came late, and that after getting six cuts from
‘If he is so violent, why not tell your headmaster about it?’
‘They say that even the headmaster is afraid of him. He is such a violent man.’
And then Swami gave a lurid account of Samuel’s violence; how when he started caning he would not stop till he saw blood on the boy’s hand, which he made the boy press to his forehead like a vermilion marking. Swami hoped that with this his father would be made to see that he couldn’t go to his class late. But Father’s behaviour took an unexpected turn. He became excited. ‘What do these swine mean by beating our children? They must be driven out of service. I will see ...’
The result was he proposed to send Swami late to his class as a kind of challenge. He was also going to send a letter with Swami to the headmaster. No amount of protest from Swami was of any avail: Swami had to go to school.
By the time he was ready Father had composed a long letter to the headmaster, put it in an envelope and sealed it.
‘What have you written, Father?’ Swaminathan asked apprehensively.
‘Nothing for you. Give it to your headmaster and go to your class.’
‘Have you written anything about our teacher Samuel?’
‘Plenty of things about him. When your headmaster reads it he will probably dismiss Samuel from the school and hand him over to the police.’