Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (12 page)

‘That’s one of the reasons why I’m holding up your proof. I don’t want you to touch up the speech, which is very good as
it is. And then, do you note that your reference in the third paragraph to your predecessor in office cannot yet be printed?’

‘Why so?’

‘In my view you may have to put everything into the past tense, and I don’t want to waste paper and stationery. Don’t you know that he has had a heart attack and is seriously ill?’

‘I didn’t know he was so bad,’ said the president, pausing.

‘I can’t take risks, sir. You would have got the two thousand printed copies delivered to you twelve days ago. I even set up a page, but then I heard that Mr So-and-so was ill. I at once put it away and sent my boy running to ascertain how he was.’

‘It is very considerate of you.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’ve a great responsibility as a printer, sir. If there is any blunder in the speech it is the printer who will be laughed at, sir.’

‘True, true,’ the other agreed, completely carried off his feet.

‘I never delay unnecessarily, without sufficient reason. You may rest assured of it,’ Sampath said in a tone full of resentment. The president said: ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Sampath. I didn’t mean to –’

‘Pray don’t mention it,’ Sampath said. ‘You are perfectly within your rights in hustling me. It is your duty. Your speech will be in your hands in time, sir,’ he said formally. The other was too pleased to say anything. He showed signs of making his exit, and Sampath clinched it for him by saying: ‘I will go with you a little way.’

When he was gone Srinivas found himself all alone and surveyed the room – a small table and chair blocking the doorway, which was curtained off, beyond which lay a great mystery. The sound of a machine could be heard. He felt tempted to part the curtain and peep in. But he dared not. He turned over in his mind the recent scene he had watched between the printer and his customer, and he felt greatly puzzled about his future printer. He speculated: ‘Suppose he does the same thing with the weekly when it is out?’ He felt a little uneasy, but told himself presently: ‘I have no right to disbelieve what I have heard and seen. He may have genuine feelings for the president’s predecessor. All the same, I must take care that some such thing doesn’t happen to the weekly on the due date. If I don’t accept his services, where is
the alternative? Anyway, God alone must save me –’ Just at this moment the printer returned, apologizing profusely for his absence, and said: ‘Sir, let us get on with your journal.’

It went smoothly on until today – until this moment when Sampath came to announce the strike which had taken place among his men. For Srinivas the world seemed to be coming to a sudden end. He was facing the most disgraceful situation in his life. What explanation was he to give to those hundreds of subscribers? He looked at his table littered with proofs and manuscripts; only the editorial and one or two other features remained to be set up today. His editorial entitled ‘To all whom it may concern’, dealing with a profound subject – the relation between God and the State – was almost finished: he had only another paragraph to add, after ascertaining how much space was available on the page. Now he pushed across the manuscript and asked: ‘Will this fill up the first page or can I add another paragraph?’ The printer scrutinized it, measured the lines. ‘Make your paragraph short, and we can squeeze it in. If you have something important to say, how can we omit it?’

‘Thank you; wait a moment,’ said Srinivas. He seized his pen and dashed off the concluding paragraph: ‘If you are going to reserve a seat for various representatives of minorities, you could as well reserve a seat for the greatest minority in the world-namely, God. A seat must be reserved for Him in every council and assembly and cabinet: then we shall perhaps see things going right in the world.’ The printer read it and said: ‘Well, sir, I am beaten now. I can’t make out a line of what you have written. However, it is none of my business. But how are we going to print it?’

‘I will help you. Do it somehow.’

‘How is it possible, sir?’ He remained brooding for a while and then said, with a great deal of determination in his voice: ‘Well, sir, I will do my best, if it costs me my life. I can’t be defeated by my men, the ingrates, I gave them a bonus last year. But I don’t think we can catch tonight’s train: we shall probably have the bundles ready for tomorrow morning.’

‘But that will mean a day’s delay,’ wailed Srinivas.

‘Don’t you think, Mr Editor, that your readers would prefer it to not getting the journal at all?’ He looked at his watch and said: ‘We’ve only three hours for the night train. Impossible, even if we employ supernatural powers. Now, sir, give me the stuff, and I will start.’

Srinivas was very happy to see Sampath in his usual spirits again. ‘Come on, I will help you in the pressroom.’

‘No, sir, I have never heard of any printer using an editor to assist him. No, sir, I should make myself the laughing-stock of the entire printing community. Please stay where you are.’ He hastily got up and went out. Srinivas picked up the pages of his manuscript and followed him without a word.

Downstairs the printer flung off his coat, and took out a blue overall which had lain folded up in a cupboard. With elaborate care he put it on and tied up the strings, rolled up his sleeves, smiled, and without a word parted the purple-dotted curtain and passed in. Srinivas hesitated for a while, wondering what he should do. He wondered how far he could make bold to push that curtain aside and follow. Sampath’s oft-repeated compliment that he had told many people the editor had never seen beyond the curtain rang in his ears. But he told himself: ‘I’m not going to be beaten by a compliment.’ This seemed a golden chance to enter the great mystery. He felt on the verge of an unknown discovery, and let his impulse carry him on. He pushed through the curtain, a corner of his mind still troubled whether he would find himself thrown out next moment.

He found himself in a small room with no window whatever, in which stood a treadle, a cutting machine, a stitching machine, and a couple of type-boards. The printer was standing before one of them with a composing stick in his hand. He looked at Srinivas very casually and said: ‘Would you like to try your hand at type-setting?’

‘With pleasure,’ said Srinivas, and the other took him to a type-board, put a stick in his hand and spread out a manuscript on the board. ‘You just go on putting these letters here – all capitals here, and the lower-cases you will find here. If you can get used to seeing objects upside down or right to left, you will be an adept in no time.’

The printer’s page was set up, corrected and printed off at midnight. Srinivas for his share produced an uproarious proof-sheet. The printer corrected it. ‘I think it will be immensely enjoyed by your readers if you print a page of your own as it is,’ he remarked, laughing heartily at all the inverted letters and the unpronounceable words that had filled the page.

It was 4 a.m. when the printing of the issue was completed. A cock crew in a neighbouring house when the treadle ceased, and Srinivas went on to learn the intricacies of the stitching and folding apparatus. His fingers felt stiff and unwieldy when he knelt on the floor and wrote the addresses on labels and wrapped them round the copies drying on the floor. His eyes smarted, his temples throbbed, and the sound of the treadle remained in his ears, as the copies were gathered into bundles. The trains were passing Malgudi in an hour’s time. The printer had become less loquacious and even a little morose through lack of sleep. His voice was thick and tired as he said: ‘Even that boy has joined the strikers! Fancy! I’m afraid we shall have to help ourselves.’ He heaved a bundle on to his shoulder. Srinivas followed his example and took up the second bundle. They put out the lights, locked the front door and started out. There was already a faint light in the eastern sky, more cocks were crowing in the neighbourhood; cows and their milkmen were on the move, and the town was stirring. As they were about to turn into Market Road a figure halted before them. It was Srinivas’s wife accompanied by her very sleepy youngster. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’ Srinivas asked. She was visibly taken aback by the sight of her husband, carrying a load on his shoulders. ‘What are you doing at this hour? One might mistake you for a robber!’ she cried, as her son hung on to her arms, almost asleep. ‘I was so worried all night.’ ‘Well, go home now. I’m quite well. I’ll come home and tell you all about it.’

At the railway station Sampath woke up the station-master and left the bundles in his charge to be sent up with the guards of the two trains. The station-master protested, but Sampath said: ‘It is no pleasure for us to come here at this hour, but, sir, circumstances have forced us. Have pity on us and don’t add to our troubles. You are at perfect liberty to throw these out. But please
don’t. You will be making hundreds of people suffer; just tell the guard to put these down at the stations marked and they will be taken charge of

There was still a quarter of an hour for the first train to arrive, and they decided to trust the station-master and go home. The thought of bed seemed sweet to Srinivas at this moment. At the big square in Market Road, Sampath paused to say ‘Good-night or good-morning or whatever it is, sir. This is my road to New Extension and bed.’

‘To say that I’m grateful to you –’ began Srinivas. ‘All that tomorrow,’ said the other, moving away. He cried: ‘Just a moment,’ and came back. ‘Oh, I forgot to show you this, Editor; I printed and put this slip into the middle page of every copy.’ And he handed him a green slip. Srinivas strained his aching eyes and read by the morning light: ‘Owing to some machine breakdown and general overhauling,
The Banner
will not be issued for some time. We beg the forgiveness of our readers till it is resumed.’

‘You have done this without telling me –’

‘Yes, I set it up while you were busy and I didn’t like to bother you with it.’

‘But, but –’

‘There is no other way, Editor. We can’t repeat our last night’s performance next week or the week after that. The readers have got to know the position; isn’t that so? Good-night or good-morning, sir.’ He turned and went away, and Srinivas dully watched him go, his brain too tired to think. He heaved a sigh and set his face homeward.

The following days proved dreary. Srinivas left for his office punctually as usual every day. He took his seat, went through the mail, and sat till the evening making notes regarding the future of
The Banner
. Sampath was hardly to be seen. The room below was locked up and there was no sign of him. Srinivas hardly had the heart to open his letters. He could anticipate what they would contain. He did not have a very large circle of readers; but the few that read the paper were very enthusiastic. They complained: ‘Dear Editor: It’s a pity that you should be
suspending the journal. Our weekend has become so blank without it.’ He felt flattered and unhappy. His brother wrote from Talapur: ‘I was quite taken aback to see your slip. Why’ve you suspended your journal indefinitely? Have you found it financially impossible? Is that likely to be the secret?’ Srinivas felt indignant. Why did these people assume that a journal was bound to land itself in financial difficulties – as if that alone were the chief item? He wrote back indignantly a letter saying that financially it was all right, quite sound, and nobody need concern himself with it. He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He put it away for posting, and went on to answer another letter and to say that
The Banner
would resume publication in a very short time; he wrote the same message to another and another. They piled up on one side of his untidy table. It was midday when he finished writing the letters. He looked at them again, one by one, as if revising, and told himself: ‘What eyewash and falsehood! I’m not going to post these.’ He tore up the letters and flung them into the wastepaper basket. His letter to his brother alone remained on the table. He went through it and was now assailed by doubts. He put it away and took out his accounts ledger. This was an aspect of the work to which he had paid the least attention. He now examined it page by page, and great uneasiness seized him. He picked up a sheet of paper and wrote on it: ‘Mr Editor,’ addressing himself, ‘why are you deluding yourself? An account-book cannot lie unless you are a big business man and want to write it up for the benefit of the income-tax department.
The Banner
ledgers have no such grandeur about them. They are very plain and truthful. You have neglected the accounts completely. Your printer alone must be thanked for keeping you free from all worries regarding it. He was somehow providing the paper and printing off the sheets and dispatching copies. You received the money orders and disposed of the receipts in every eccentric way – sometimes paying the legitimate bills, more often paying off your rent and domestic bills. The printer has been too decent to demand his money, and so let it accumulate, taking it only when he was paid. I’ve a great suspicion that all his trouble with his staff was due to
The Banner
, it being almost the major work he did, and without getting any
returns for it. If it is so, Mr Editor, your responsibility is very great in this affair. You have got to do something about it. I remain, yours truthfully, Srinivas.’

He folded it and put it in an envelope, pasted the flap, and wrote on it: ‘To Mr Sampath, for favour of perusal.’ He put the letter in his pocket and got up. He took his upper-cloth from the nail on the wall, flung it over his shoulders and set out. He locked the room and went downstairs, his heart missing a beat at the sight of the bright brass lock on the front door of the press. He crossed Kabir Lane and entered the Market Road. It was midday and the sun was beating down fiercely. A few cars and buses drove along the road, stirring up the hot afternoon dust. The languor of the afternoon lay upon the place. Some of the shops in the market were closed, the owners having gone home for a nap. The fountain of the market square sparkled in the sun, rising in weak spurts; a few mongrels lay curled up at the market gate, a couple of women sat there with their baskets, a workman was sitting under a tree munching a handful of groundnuts he had bought from the women. Srinivas felt suddenly drowsy, catching the spirit of the hour himself. It was as if he were breathing in the free air of the town for the first time, for the first time opening his eyes to its atmosphere. He suddenly realized what a lot he had missed in life and for so long, cooped up in that room. ‘The death of a journal has compensations,’ he reflected. ‘For instance, how little did I know of life at this hour!’ He toyed with the idea of going to the river for a plunge. ‘I had nearly forgotten the existence of the river.’ He hesitated, as he came before the National Stores. He would have to turn to his right here and cross into Ellaman Street if he were going to the river, but that would take him away from his destination, which was Sampath’s house at New Extension. He had two miles to go along the South Road. He felt suddenly very tired and his head throbbed faintly through the glare from the bleached roads; a couple of cars and lorries passed, stirring up a vast amount of dust, which hung like mist in the air. He saw a
jutka
coming in his direction, the horse limping along under the weight of the carriage. He called:
‘Here, jutka
, will you take me to Lawley Extension?’ The
jutka-
man, who had a red
dhoti
around his waist and a towel tied
round his head, with nothing over his brown body, was almost asleep with the bamboo whip tucked under his arm. He started up at the call of
‘Jutka!’
and pulled the reins.