Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (18 page)

‘Why not ten thousand?’

‘Why not fifty thousand?’ asked the old man. ‘You seem to imagine I’ve a lot of cash!’ He looked horror-stricken at the thought of someone thinking him rich. ‘I’ve only a few coppers
kept for the marriage of that child. If it can be multiplied without any trouble it will mean a little more happiness for the child. Sampath is taking an interest in her, and so I thought …’ He meandered on, and then feeling that he had spoken too much of his finances, shut up suddenly. ‘Well, I will get back. I thought you might be able to give me some information.’ He turned abruptly round, leaving Srinivas to go forward alone. Srinivas went to his office, trying to divine what exact technique Sampath was employing with the old man. An indication of it was not long in coming.

Sampath followed him upstairs to his room. ‘Well, Mr Editor, I think after all I can make up the capital.’ Srinivas did not feel it necessary to put any question, since he was listening to something he already knew. He hooked up his upper-cloth and went to his chair. Sampath looked at his wrist-watch. Recently a watch had appeared on his wrist, and he constantly looked at it. ‘I can manage to stay with you for a quarter of an hour more. I’ve asked some people from the music department to come and meet me.’

Apparently he intended to become reflective for those fifteen minutes. ‘I’m really puzzled, nowadays, Mr Editor. I shall be obliged if you will enlighten me. What am I in this scheme of things? On one side I interview actors, artists and musicians; I run about for Somu, doing various errands for the studio, and I have the task of our picture, its direction and so on.’ He swelled with importance. ‘Now what am I?’ He looked so puzzled that Srinivas felt obliged to answer: ‘Who can answer that question? If you understood it, you would understand everything.’ He thought that perhaps Sampath’s formal studies with the old man had wakened him to new problems. This idea was soon dispelled by Sampath: Am I the producer of this picture or am I not? It was just to decide this question that I wanted capital. I think I can make up the amount; at any rate your landlord is showing an interest in the proposition.’ ‘And also clearing a lot of your philosophical doubts, I suppose?’ Srinivas added. Sampath laughed heartily, ‘Well, sir, believe me, I do wish to know something about Self and the universe. What greater privilege can one have than studying at the feet of a great master?’ He shut his eyes reverently and pressed his palms in a salute at the
memory of his
Guru
. And Srinivas asked: ‘And how are you going to fulfil your promise to see his granddaughter married?’

‘Oh, that! Well, that is really a problem; I hope’ – he lowered his voice –’that our friend downstairs will help us.’

‘But you have already promised to find him his sweetheart,’ Srinivas reminded him.

‘Oh, yes, yes.’ He looked agonized at the number of the undertakings that weighed him down. An idea flashed into his mind and he looked relieved. ‘Probably it was this granddaughter that he used to see at the temple. Who knows? Let us have a look at that sketch, Editor.’ Srinivas took out the sketch. At the sight of it, with its ray of light reflected off the diamond on the ear-lobe, Srinivas was thrilled and cried out: ‘Oh, the boy ought to be drawing and painting and flooding the world with his pictures. This is a poorer world without them.’ He sighed.

‘Yes, sir, I agree. Even today if he were prepared to get on to the art department, I would make a place for him there.’ He scrutinized the picture and shook his head despondently. ‘No, the landlord’s granddaughter is different.’

‘Have you seen her?’

‘Oh, yes, daily. I am coaching her in the arts. Smart girl. I wish Ravi would see sense. But’ – he became reflective –’I don’t know what we can do if he has set his heart on this type, though a girl in the flesh ought to be worth a dozen on paper. Can’t you put some sense into him? I think he will listen to you, and it will please the old man.’ Srinivas said nothing in reply. Sampath remained gazing at the picture absent-mindedly, and suddenly cried: ‘This face looks familiar – wait a minute.’ He got up and ran downstairs and returned bearing an album under his arm. He opened its leaves, placed it on the table and pointed at a snapshot of a girl pasted in it. Under it was written: Appln. No. 345, Madras – Name Shanti.’ Srinivas looked at the face and then compared it with that in the sketch. ‘Well, it looks very much like it. Have you got her address?’

‘Of course; we can call her up. Her face struck me as the most feasible type for Parvati.’ Sampath scrutinized her face very carefully now. ‘I will send off a telegram!’ he cried. ‘We must give her a mike and camera test at once, and if that is O.K. I am
sure she will do very well. We can make a star of her.’ Srinivas felt happy. ‘So this means Ravi’s worst troubles are over. He will be so glad. Let us tell him.’ Sampath was hesitant. ‘Oh, please wait. She may be someone else or she may have some other problems; I think we’d better wait.’

‘Well, there doesn’t seem to be any harm. All that he wants is to take a look at her; that’ll ease his mind so much that we can get him to work.’ Sampath was very lukewarm about that proposition. He shut the album, put it under his arm and started to go. He paused in the doorway to say: ‘No, Mr Editor. Please do not tell him anything yet. It’s studio business; it’s better that such things should not get complicated. You see, we have to move cautiously. As you know, Somu is a funny sort of man, and he may misconstrue the whole thing.’ He wandered on, Srinivas not comprehending much. When Somu’s name cropped up, there were always hints of vast complications, and Srinivas left it all alone.

A story conference met on the day Srinivas mentioned that his writing was completed. Somu was beside himself with joy, and Sampath was stung into fresh activity. De Mello said: ‘Well, sir, the studio only starts its real work now.’ He rolled up his sleeves and lit a cigarette and gave an affectionate pat to his green cigarette tin. They sat around Srinivas’s table as he began the reading. ‘Scene one, Kailas – mountain peaks in the background, rolling peaks, with ice gleaming in multicolour –’ De Mello interrupted to say: ‘Oh, don’t bother about all that detail; it is the business of the art department. You can just indicate the location.’

‘Go ahead, Mr Srinivas,’ implored Somu, who looked docile and pleased. He seemed quite ready to do Srinivas’s bidding at this moment; he was so awestruck by his ability to fill up a hundred-odd foolscap sheets with the story. But he was not prepared to confess his admiration in full. He said: ‘Writing requires a lot of patience; you must sit down and fill up page after page – a thing which we business men cannot afford to do. That is why we have to depend upon intellectuals like you, sir.’ He spoke as if he were presenting a casket and reading out the address printed on silk. Sampath cut him short with: ‘Shan’t we go on with the story?’ De
Mello put down a cigarette stub and pressed his shoe on it. Tobacco smoke hung in the air. Srinivas read on. ‘Second scene, Parvathi – a young woman of great beauty, with her maids.’ De Mello interrupted: ‘How can we be sure till we fix up the actress?’ Somu looked despondent. He looked pathetically at Sampath and asked: ‘Yes. What do you say to that?’

‘In Hollywood we never approach the story till we have fixed up the chief artists.’

‘This is not Hollywood,’ Srinivas said. ‘So let us try to find the people who will do the part….’

‘But that doesn’t pay, Mr Srinivas. In films the real saleable commodity is the star-value. All other things are secondary.’ Sampath tried to smooth matters out with: ‘We will make stars, if the ready-made ones are not available.’ Somehow this seemed to please the other members of the conference, and Somu and De Mello said almost simultaneously: ‘That is a very good point, Sampath. We’ve got to make stars.’ To Srinivas it seemed as if they were going to cling to this phrase now and for ever. He shuddered to think that they might be going to repeat it like a litany: ‘Star! Star! We must make a star!’ But he realized that the matter was proceeding on correct conference lines. It was the essence of a conference that somebody should say something, and somebody else should say something else, and a third person should throw out a catch phrase for all to pick up and wear proudly like a buttonhole. This was the approved method of a conference, and he could not object to it. And so, although he was being constantly interrupted, he curbed his own annoyance and continued his reading. He felt he was emulating a street preacher he had encountered in his younger days in his town, a man who came to propagate Christianity and lectured to a crowd, unmindful of the heckling, booing, and general discouragement. Srinivas had even seen a grass-seller throwing her burden at the preacher’s head, but he went on explaining the gospels. Such a faith in one’s mission was needed at this moment. Srinivas persisted: scene after scene with the description, action and dialogue followed; and this continuous drone lulled them into silence. As darkness gathered around his room and voices rose from the tenements below he became lost in his own
narration; his listeners seemed to him just shadows. Even De Mello’s tobacco fog rose to the cobweb-covered ceiling and paused there. Srinivas read on, inspired by his own vision, though he could not decide whether they were lost in enjoyment of his reading or were asleep. He read with difficulty in the gathering darkness, afraid to get up and switch on the light, lest that should break the spell and set them talking.

The next important event was the opening ceremony. A special bus ran from the city to the studio on the other bank of the river. The bus was painted ‘Sunrise Pictures’ along its whole body, and placards were hung out on its sides: ‘The Burning of Kama – Switching-on Ceremony’. It slowly perambulated along the Market Road, and anyone who carried an invitation to the function could stop it and get in.

The invitation was printed on gold-sprinkled cartridge sheets, on which was stamped a map of India, represented as a mother with a bashful maiden kneeling at her feet, offering a spring of flowers, entitled ‘Burning of Kama’. The maiden was presumably ‘Sunrise Pictures’.

‘Is this your idea?’ Srinivas asked Sampath, who worked without food and sleep for the sake of the function. Sampath was cautious in answering: ‘Why, is it not good?’ Srinivas hesitated for a moment whether he should be candid or just not answer the question. He decided against expressing an opinion and asked: ‘What do others say?’

‘Everybody says it is so good. Somu was in raptures when he saw it. Our boys did it, you know – something patriotic: we offer our very best to the country, or something like that.’

‘Your idea?’ Srinivas asked. Sampath was rather reluctant to be cross-questioned, and turned the subject to the task of printing: ‘What a trouble it was getting this through in time! They couldn’t fool me. I sat tight and got it through.’ Srinivas quietly gloated over this vision of Sampath harassed by printers. ‘I’ve not been home at all for three nights; I sat up at the Brown press and handled the machine myself. How I wish I’d my own press now!’ He sighed a little. ‘No need to worry; we are on the way to getting our big press.’ He seemed distressed at the memory of
printing, and Srinivas obligingly changed the subject. ‘How many are you inviting?’

‘Over a thousand!’ Sampath said, brightening. ‘It is going to be the biggest function our city has seen.’

As the bus turned into Nallapa’s Grove, far off one saw the bunting flying in the air, made up of flags of all nations, including China, Scandinavia and the Netherlands. One could pick them out by referring to Pears’ Encyclopaedia. The bunting was an odd treasure belonging to the municipal council; no one could say how they had come to gather all this medley of ensigns; but they were very obliging and lent them for all functions, private and public, unstintingly. And no gathering was complete unless it was held under the arcade of these multi-coloured banners: there were even a few ships’ signals included among them.

The vast gathering was herded into studio number one, in which hundreds of wooden folding chairs were arrayed. The switching-on was fixed for 4.20, since at 4.30 an inauspicious period of the day was beginning. The district judge, who was to preside, was not to be seen. They fidgeted and waited for him and ran a dozen times to the gate. Sampath calmed Somu by pulling him along to the microphone and announcing: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the president is held up by some unexpected work, but he will be here very soon. Meanwhile, in order not to lose the auspicious hour, the switch will be put on.’ He himself passed on to the camera on the tripod, and asked: ‘Ready?’ and pressed the switch. The lights were directed on to a board fixed on an easel on which the art department had chalked up: ‘Sunrise Pictures proudly present their maiden effort, “The Burning of Kama”’, and they shot a hundred feet of it. De Mello cried ‘Cut’. He had come in a dark suit, his moustache oiled and tipped. Thus they caught the auspicious moment, although the big wicker-chair meant for the president was still vacant.

A committee of astrologers had studied the conjunction of planets and fixed the day for the inauguration ceremony. There had been a regular conference for fixing the correct moment, for as Somu explained to the others: ‘We cannot take risks in these matters. The planets must be beneficial to us.’ And he gave three rupees and a coconut, each on a plate, for the Brahmins who
had given him the date. The Brahmins officiated at the ceremony now, after deciding what the ritual should be. A couple of framed portraits of Shiva and a saint, who was Somu’s family protector, were leant against the wall, smothered under flowers. The holy men sat before them with their foreheads stamped with ash and vermilion and their backs covered with hand-spun long wraps. They each wore a rosary around the throat, and they sat reading some sacred texts. In front of them were kept trays loaded with coconut, camphor and offerings for the gods. A few minutes before the appointed moment they rose, lit the camphor, and circled the flame before the gods, sounding a bell. Then they went to the camera and stuck a string of jasmine and a dot of sandal paste on it. De Mello trembled when he saw this. They seemed to be so reckless in dealing with the camera. He felt like crying out: ‘It’s a Mitchel, so – please … It costs Rs 40,000,’ but he checked himself as he confessed later: ‘In this country, sir, one doesn’t know when a religious susceptibility is likely to be hurt. A mere sneeze will take you to the stake sometimes – better be on the safe side.’ The priests finished with the camera and then offered him a flower, which he did not know what to do with, but vaguely pressed it to his nose and eyes, and then they gave him a pinch of vermilion and ash, which also worried him, till he saw what others did, and followed their example and rubbed it on his brow. He looked intimidated by these religious observances. It was an odd sight: De Mello in a dark suit, probably of Hollywood cut, and his forehead coloured with the religious marking. ‘It’s just as well,’ Srinivas remarked to himself. ‘They are initiating a new religion, and that camera decked with flowers is their new god, who must be propitiated.’ To him it seemed no different from the propitiation of the harvest god in the field. To Somu and all these people, God, at the present moment, was a being who might give them profits or ruin them with a loss; with all their immense commitments they felt they ought to be particularly careful not to displease Him. As he was a champion of this religious sect, there was nothing odd in De Mello’s submissiveness before it. Srinivas wished he had his
Banner
. What an article he could write under the heading: ‘The God in the Lens’.

And these rituals were being witnessed by an audience of over five hundred with open-mouthed wonder. There was suddenly a bustle: ‘The president has arrived,’ and Somu ran out in great excitement to receive him. There was a stir in the audience, and people craned their necks to look at the president. Though they saw him every day, they never failed to see him as the president with renewed interest, and in this setting he was peculiarly interesting. In strode a strong dark man, wearing coloured glasses and grinning at the assembly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said loudly. ‘I was held up by court work. Is it all over?’ They propelled him to his wicker-chair; he pulled the invitation out of his pocket, to study the items of the programme. He looked at the flower-decked camera and the Brahmins and asked: ‘Is this the first scene you are going to shoot?’ Sampath explained to the president and apologized, garlanded him, and gave him a bouquet. ‘Why are they centring all their affection on him? Have they met here today to fuss about him or to get their film started?’ Srinivas wondered. He was struck with the rather pointless manner in which things seemed to be moving. ‘Subtle irrelevancies,’ he told himself as he sat, unobserved on an upturned box in a corner of the studio. They presently brought the president to the microphone. He said, with the rose garland around his neck: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I know nothing about films, and court work held me up and delayed the pleasure of being here earlier. I don’t usually see films – except probably once a year when my little daughter or son drag me there.’ And he smiled in appreciation of this human touch. He rambled on thus for about an hour; and people looked as though they were subsiding in their seats. He went on to advise them how to make films. ‘I see all around too many mythological and ancient subjects. We must throw all of them overboard. Films must educate. You must appeal to the villager and tell him how to live, how to keep his surroundings clean; why he should not fall into moneylenders’ hands, and so on. The film must not only tell a story but must also convey a message to the ignorant masses. There are problems of cultivation and soil – all these you can tackle: there is nothing that you cannot include, if only you have the mind to be of service to your fellow men. They say that the film is the quickest medium of instruction; we all like to see films;
let us see ones that tell us something. You have been too long concerned with demons and gods and their prowesses. I think we had better take a vow to boycott Indian films till they take up modern themes.’ At this point he was gently interrupted. They had all along wished they could gag him, but it was not an easy thing to choke off a district judge, particularly when he was the president of the occasion. So Sampath and Somu popped up on either side of the judge and carried on a prolonged conversation with him in an undertone. After they withdrew, the judge said: ‘I’m sorry I forgot to notice’ – he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the invitation –’what story they are starting. Now my friend Somu tells me it is an epic subject. Our epics undoubtedly are a veritable storehouse of wisdom and spirituality. They contain messages which are of eternal value and applicable to all times and climes, irrespective of age, race, or sex and so on. The thing is that they must be well done. India has a lesson to teach the rest of the world. Let us show the world a sample of our ancient culture and wisdom and civilization. Blessed as this district is by a river and jungles and mountains, with these energetic captains at the helm, I’ve no doubt that Malgudi will soon be the envy of the rest of India and will be called the Hollywood of India.’ De Mello’s voice could be heard corroborating the sentiment with a timely ‘Hear! Hear!’ and resounding applause rang out. The president went to his seat, but came back to the microphone to say: ‘I’m sorry I forgot again. I’m asked to announce the happy news that there is going to be a dance entertainment by some talented young artists.’ To the accompaniment of the studio orchestra some new recruits to the studio threw their limbs about and gave a dance programme with the studio lights focused on them. Afterwards with the president beside the camera, and Somu and Sampath touching the switch, still photos were taken from four different angles. This was followed by a few baskets being brought in, out of which were taken paper bags stuffed with coconuts and sweets, which were distributed to all those present. Sampath went to the microphone and thanked the audience and the president for the visit.

When they were moving out, Srinivas noticed a familiar head stirring in the third row. It was his old landlord, transformed by a faded turban, a pair of glasses over his nose, and a black alpaca
coat, almost green with years. Srinivas ran up to him and accosted him. He felt so surprised that he could not contain himself. ‘Oh, you are here!’ The old man gave him his toothless smile. ‘First time for thirty years I have come out so far – Sampath wouldn’t leave me alone. He sent me a car. Where is your artist friend? I thought he would be here.’

‘Ravi! He must be in the office. He doesn’t usually fancy these occasions.’ The old man looked about for Sampath and called to him loudly. Srinivas slipped away, somehow not wishing to be present at their meeting, feeling vaguely perhaps that Sampath might try and get a cheque out of the old man at this opportunity.

Srinivas was busy putting the finishing touches to his script. He worked continuously, not budging from his seat from nine in the morning till nine in the evening. Even Ravi, who came in when he had a little leisure, hesitated at the door and turned back without uttering a word. Srinivas worked in a frenzy. He was very eager to complete his part of the work, though he had at the back of his mind a constant misgiving about the final treatment they might hatch out of it, but he ruthlessly pushed away this doubt, saying to himself: ‘It is not my concern what they do with my work.’

Sampath was not to be seen for nearly a week, and then he turned up one evening, bubbling with enthusiasm. A look at him, and Srinivas decided that it would be useless to try to get on with his work. He put away his papers. Sampath began: ‘She has come!’

‘When?’

‘Five days ago, and we have been putting her through the tests. De Mello says she is the right type for the screen. She is a fine girl.’

‘Is she the same as – ?’ asked Srinivas, indicating the old sketch. Sampath smiled at this suggestion. He scrutinized the sketch, remarking under his breath: ‘Extraordinary how two entirely unconnected people can resemble each other.’ He laughed heartily, as if it were the biggest joke he had heard in his life. He seemed extraordinarily tickled by it. ‘Yes, she is somewhat like this picture, but there is a lot of difference, you know. In fact, this is her first visit to this town. She has never been here before. She was born and bred in Madras.’

‘Where is she at the moment?’ asked Srinivas.

‘I’ve found her a room in Modern Lodge. I could’ve put her up at my house if it was necessary; after all, I find that she is related to me, a sort of cousin of mine, though we never suspected it. Anyway, our problem is solved about Parvathi. She is going to do it wonderfully well. I foresee a very great future for her. We are finalizing the rest of the cast tomorrow; after that we must go into rehearsals.’

Srinivas was present at the rehearsal hall in the studio. It was a small room on the first floor, furnished with a few lounges covered with orange and black cretonne, a coir mattress spread on the floor and a large portrait of Somu decorating the wall. On the opposite wall was a chart, showing the life history of a film – starting with the story-idea and ending with the spectator in the theatre. The rehearsal was announced for eleven, and Srinivas caught an early bus and was the first to arrive. He sat there all alone, looking at the portrait of Somu and at the chart. A medley of studio sounds – voices of people, hammerings, and the tuning of musical instruments – kept coming up. Through the window he could see far off Sarayu winding its way, glimmering in the sun, the leaves of trees on its bank throwing off tiny reflections of the sun, and a blue sky beyond, and further away the tower of the municipal office, which reminded him of his
Banner
. Its whole career seemed to have been dedicated to attacking the Malgudi municipality and its unvarying incompetence. He felt a nostalgia for the whirring of the wheels of a press and the cool dampness of a galley proof. ‘When am I going to see it back in print?’ he asked himself. His whole work now seemed to him to have a meaning because, beyond all this, there was the promise of reviving
The Banner
. He had not yet spoken to Sampath about what he was to be paid for his work. He felt he could never speak about it. He found on his table on the second of every month a cheque for one hundred and fifty rupees, and that saw him through the month, and he was quite satisfied. How long it was to continue and how long he could expect it, or how much more, he never bothered.