Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (11 page)

As an example: here was the printer telling Ravi imaginary stories about his ability to find the other’s sweetheart. Ravi’s head was in the clouds on account of those stories; and here was the artist helping the printer also to keep his head in the same cloud-land with promises of sketching his child: these two seemed to balance each other so nicely that Srinivas felt astounded at the arrangement made by the gods. If only one could get a comprehensive view of all humanity, one would get a correct view of the world: things being neither particularly wrong nor right, but just balancing themselves. Just the required number of wrongdoers as there are people who deserved wrong deeds, just as many policemen to bring them to their senses, if possible, and just as many wrongdoers again to keep the police employed, and so on and on in an infinite concentric circle. He seized his pen and jotted down a few lines under the heading ‘Balance of Power’. He was occupied for fully fifteen minutes. He said: ‘Don’t mistake me, Ravi, I had to jot down some ideas just as they came, otherwise I’d lose them for ever.’ He felt thrilled by the thought
that he stood on the threshold of some revolutionary discoveries in the realm of human existence – solutions to many of the problems that had been teasing his mind for years. He merely said: ‘You see, I’m getting some new ideas which may entirely change our
Banner
.’

The expected revolution in
The Banner
came in another way. On a Friday, when the editor flung down the manuscript with: ‘Matter’ – the shout came back from the bottom of the staircase: ‘Editor, you have to spare me a few minutes today,’ and the printer came upstairs. His face didn’t have the usual radiance; he leaned over the table and said: ‘Your formes are not going in.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘My men have gone on a strike today.’

Srinivas was aghast. He jumped to his feet, crying: ‘We can’t let down our subscribers.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said the printer. ‘We’ve got to do something – I don’t know: labour trouble – we are helpless against labour everywhere.’

‘How many?’ Srinivas asked, hoping that at least now he’d know how many worked behind that purple curtain.

‘All of them are on strike,’ replied the printer, and shattered his hope. ‘All of them: the entire lot. They gave no signs of it and went on a lightning strike at midday; even the first forme for the day had gone on the machine. They walked out in a body.’ Srinivas’s mind once again wondered how many workers could form a strike, and his speculations lashed vainly against that purple-dotted curtain.

He looked helplessly down the stairway and ruminated over the hollow silence that reigned in the treadle-room. The printer pushed away a few papers and seated himself on the edge of the table. Srinivas’s head was buzzing with alternative suggestions. His mind ran over all the available presses in the town: the Crown Electric, the City Power, Acharya Printing, Sharpe Printing Works, and so on and so forth. He had gone the round once before, when starting the journal, and recollected what a hopeless task it had proved to get any press to undertake the printing of his
journal. There was a press law which terrified most printers: they understood very little of it, but always seemed to feel it safer not to go near a periodical publication: they had not enough confidence to read the articles and judge whether they would land themselves in trouble or not (the printer being a willy-nilly partner, by virtue of the Government’s order, in all that an editor or publisher might do). They avoided trouble by confining themselves to visiting cards, catalogues and wedding invitations. Everywhere Srinivas got the same reply: ‘Journal? Weekly. Oh! Sorry, we are not sure we should be able to print the issues in time. Oh, sorry we cannot undertake –’ It was only this printer who had said at once: ‘Leave it to me. I will manage somehow.’ Going round the town in search of a printer Srinivas had wasted nearly a week, and was weary of the stock reply. He had gone up and down, and accidentally met this man at the Bombay Anand Bhavan in Market Road, where he had gone in for a cup of coffee. Srinivas had by now almost decided to give up all ideas of printing his work in Malgudi, as he sat gloomily in the noisy hall of the Bombay Anand Bhavan, sipping his coffee. He was attracted to his future printer by his voice, a rich baritone, which hovered above the babble of the hall, like a drone. Srinivas understood little of what he had been saying, since he spoke in Hindi and could be easily mistaken for a North Indian, with his fur cap and the scarf flung around his neck. He sat in a chair next to the proprietor at the counter and seemed to be receiving special attention, by the way waiters were carrying him plates and cups and pressing all sorts of things on him. Apparently he said something amusing to everyone who went near him, since everyone came away from him grinning. He seemed to be keeping the whole establishment in excellent humour, including the fat proprietor. Srinivas was so much struck by his personality that he asked the boy at his table: ‘Who is that man?’

‘He is our proprietor’s friend. He prints all our bill-books and invoices.’

‘What!’

‘Prints –’

‘Has he a press? Where?’

Next moment he had left his half-finished cup of coffee on the table and gone over to the counter. He looked at the printer and asked: ‘I wish to talk to you.’

‘To me? Well, I’m all attention.’

‘Will you kindly come with me for a minute? Let us sit over there.’

‘Oh, yes.’ He descended from the counter with great dignity. He appeared to take charge of Srinivas immediately, although he had come at the latter’s invitation. It was as if he were arranging a grand reception. He cried something to the proprietor in northern Indian accents and then called someone and sent him running upstairs. He sent someone else running in another direction. He kept the whole place spinning around. His voice commanded people hither and thither and held itself monarch above the din. People turned their heads and stared at them. Presently he said, with an elaborate note of invitation in his voice, pointing at the staircase: ‘This way, please.’ Srinivas felt embarrassed and uttered a mild protest, which the other brushed aside gently and said: ‘You will be more comfortable there; we can talk quietly.’ Srinivas began to be troubled by an uneasy feeling that he had perhaps given a totally false and grand impression of himself. Perhaps the other was completely mistaken. He proceeded to say at once, stopping half-way up the step: ‘You see, it is nothing so –’ The other would not allow him to proceed. He categorically said: ‘I know all that. Please go up.’

They came to a cosily furnished room upstairs – a very special room as a board hung outside it said: ‘For ladies and families only’. Srinivas halted before it, finding another excuse: ‘We are neither ladies nor families. How can we go in?’

‘These rules are not for me,’ the other said. He unhooked the board and handed it to a passing server and said: ‘Take it to the Saitji and tell him not to send up any ladies or families or anyone into that room while I’m there, and come back.’ The servant hesitated, at which the other went over to the landing and cried down: ‘Sait Sab,’ and was eloquent in some northern language. After that he led Srinivas into the special room, drew up a cushioned chair for him and seated him on it. He then proceeded to give elaborate orders to a server who was
waiting at the door. The table was presently littered with plates and cups, and he would not allow Srinivas to speak a word till they had had their repast. After that he called a servant to clear the table. He ordered
pans
and cigarettes. He lit a cigarette, blew out the smoke, leaned back in his chair, and said: ‘Well, sir, I’m at your service – what can I do for you?’ Srinivas was stunned by all this hospitality. He said: ‘You are extremely kind to me.’ The other asked: ‘Do you think so?’ with such earnestness that Srinivas felt constrained to explain: ‘I’m, after all, a stranger.’

‘There are no strangers for Sampath.’

‘Who is Sampath?’ asked Srinivas, rather puzzled.

‘Speaking,’ the other said, as if into a telephone. Srinivas looked up at him for a moment and cried: ‘Oh!’ and burst into a laugh. The other joined unreservedly. He said: ‘I tell you, sir, I’m an optimist in life. I believe in keeping people happy. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name.’ ‘My name is –’ The other cut him short. ‘It is immaterial to me. I don’t want it what am I going to do with your name?’

‘Shall I at least state my business?’

‘If it pleases you.’

‘I’m the editor of an unborn journal. Can you print it?’

‘Do you want me to print it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, in that case I’ve nothing to say. Customers are God’s messengers, in my humble opinion. If I serve them aright I make some money in this world and also acquire merit for the next.’

‘All the printers in this town seemed to be afraid of taking up my journal.’

‘The worst lot of printers in any part of the world is to be found in this town,’ Sampath said.

‘They seem to be always afraid of breaking the law.’

The other said: ‘By the look of you I don’t think you would wish to see me in gaol, but if ever you, as the editor, get into trouble it will be my business to share your trouble. When a person becomes my customer he becomes a sort of blood relation of mine; do you understand? But, first of all, let us go to the press.’

* * *

That was Srinivas’s first entrance into Kabir Lane: it was within a few minutes’ walk of the hotel. After twisting their way through some lanes Sampath went a little ahead, stepped on his threshold, and said: ‘You are welcome to the Truth Printing Works, Mr Editor.’ The treadle was grinding away out of sight. The printer pointed out a seat to Srinivas and then cried: ‘John! John!’ There was no response. The machine was whirring away inside, but there was no sign of John.

‘Boy! Boy!’ he cried.

‘Yes, sir,’ answered a thin, youngish voice, and the machine ceased.

The curtain behind the printer parted and a head peeped out – of a very young fellow. He waited for a moment, watching the back of his employer, and then withdrew his head and disappeared softly. Presently the rattle of the machine began again. ‘Well, sir, I thought I could introduce my staff to you, but they seem to be –’

‘Oh, don’t disturb them; let them go on with their work. How many have you there?’

The printer turned and took a brief look at the curtain behind him and said with an air of confidence, jerking his thumb in the direction of the other room: ‘I tell you, labour is not what it used to be. We have to go very cautiously with them. Otherwise we invite trouble. Well, sir, I’m at your service. Here is a sample of my work.’ He opened a cupboard and threw down on the table a few handbills, notices, pamphlets and letter-heads. He held up each one of them delicately with a comment. ‘I don’t like this, sir,’ he said, holding up a letter-paper. ‘I don’t approve of this style, but the customer wanted it. Printing is one of the finest arts in the world, sir, but how few understand it!’

At this moment there appeared at the door a middle-aged man wearing a close coat and turban. His face was rigid, and with a finger he was flicking his moustache. At the sight of him the printer jumped out of his seat and dashed towards him with a lusty cry of welcome: ‘What an honour this is today for Truth Printing!’

‘I’m tired of sending my clerk and getting your evasive answers. That is why I have come myself.’

‘What a blessing! What a blessing!’ cried the printer and took him by the hand and pulled him to a chair. ‘I don’t want all this,’ the other said curtly. ‘Are you going to give me your printed forme today or not? I must know that immediately.’

‘Of course you are getting it,’ said the printer, turning and going back to his seat. ‘Meet our editor. He is going to print his weekly here.’ The other looked at Srinivas condescendingly, his second finger still on his moustache, his face still rigid, and asked: ‘What sort of weekly – humorous or –’ Srinivas turned away, looked at the printer, and asked with cold, calculated indifference: ‘Who is he? You have not told me.’

‘Haven’t I?’ cried the printer, almost in a panic. ‘He is our District Board President, Mr Soma Sundaram. I’m one of the few privileged to call him Mr Somu.’ Mr Somu’s face slightly relaxed and a suspicion of a smile appeared somewhere near his ears. He said rather grimly: ‘You promised me the printed speech ten days ago, and I don’t think you have started it at all; the function is coming off on Wednesday.’

Sampath explained to Srinivas: ‘He is opening a bridge, five miles from here, across the Saraya – a grand function. Do you know that it is going to transform our entire Malgudi district? This is going to be the busiest district in South India. Do you know what odds he had to face, with the Government on one side and the public on the other?’ Mr Somu added: ‘Mr Editor, public life is a thankless business. If you knew how much they opposed the scheme!’

‘It is a history by itself,’ Sampath continued. ‘It is all in his speech. It is going to create a sensation.’

The other pleaded: ‘But please let me have it in time.’

Sampath said: ‘My dear sir, I don’t know what you think of me, but I treat this bridge-opening as my own business. When a customer steps over this threshold all his business becomes mine: if you have trust in Sampath you will be free from many unnecessary worries.’ The other was completely softened by now. He wailed: ‘I have come to you, of all printers in this town, doesn’t it show you how I value your service?’ Sampath bowed ceremoniously, acknowledging the sentiment. ‘With the function only five days ahead, you have not yet given me the proof,’ began the other.

‘Don’t I know it? There is a very special reason why I have not given you the proof yet. You will not get it till a day before the function – that’s settled.’

‘Why? Why?’ Sampath took no notice of the question. He rummaged among the papers in a tray and brought out a manuscript. He opened the manuscript and said: ‘Now listen. Ladies and gentlemen,’ as if addressing a gathering. It was a masterly declamation, giving a history of the Sarayu bridge and all its politics. The idea of putting up a bridge over the Sarayu was as old as humanity. Sarayu was one of the loveliest rivers in India, coming down from the heights of Mempi Hills and winding its way through the northern sector of Malgudi, an ornament as well as a means of irrigating tens of thousands of acres. The preamble consisted of a long dissertation on the river Sarayu, followed by a history of the whole idea of bridging it, starting with a short note by a Collector, Mr Frederick Lawley (later Sir Frederick), in a District Gazeteer nearly a century old and culminating in Mr Somu’s own enthusiasms and struggles. It was a hotch-potch of history, mythology, politics and opinion. It was clear that several hands had written that speech for Mr Somu.

The district board president’s face was beaming by this time. He listened appreciatively to his own speech, nodding his head in great approbation. He constantly looked up at Srinivas in order to punctuate the reading with an explanation. ‘You see, it refers to the Government note issued at that time. Oh! Public life is a thankless business. Do you know what they tried to do when the voting was demanded? Sometimes people stoop to the lowest means to gain their ends …’ It was quite half an hour before Sampath put down the speech and leant back in his chair. He let out a slight cough before saying: ‘Mr Somu, do you now see why I can’t give you the proof until a day before the show?’ The president scratched his head and tried to make out what the reason could be. He turned to Srinivas and said: ‘Don’t you think that the speech is very good?’ Srinivas simpered non-committally, and the district board president looked greatly pleased. He begged: ‘Sampath, if you will kindly give it me in time, I can go through it and make any additions.’