Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (37 page)

‘This is all I have,’ pleaded Margayya.

‘I’m giving you all that I have for my part.’

Margayya said: ‘I have to buy rice. I have a wife and child.’

‘Don’t be theatrical. Stick to your bargain. Here is something I’m giving you worth at least a lakh of rupees. In return for it, give me your purse. I will take it whether it contains one rupee or one thousand or none. Isn’t it a fair bargain?’

‘I can’t give you my purse. It’s a lucky purse. I’ve had it for countless years now.’

‘I don’t want your purse. Give me only its contents.’

‘I don’t want your book. I don’t know how to print or sell a book.’

‘Go to a printer and he will print it. You tell the public the book is ready and they will come and buy it. There are no further
complications. It’s the easiest business under the sun. In fact you will hardly be able to meet the demand.’

‘Then why have you not done it yourself?’ asked Margayya.

‘Well, I was about to. But just to show you what is a bargain, I’ve made my offer,’ he drawled. ‘If you are really keen on cancelling this bargain, I am ready for it. On second thoughts, I don’t see why I should waste my breath on you.’ He reached for the manuscript on Margayya’s lap, saying: ‘Every man must make his choice in life. This is a crossroads at which you are standing. Some day you will see another man going away in his Rolls, while you sit on the Market Fountain and brood over my words of this evening. I will give you five minutes to think it over. I’ll have the entire contents of your purse or none at all.’ He kept his arm outstretched to receive the manuscript back and fixedly gazed at his wrist-watch. His face was grim.

Margayya’s face perspired with intense excitement. ‘I’m losing twenty thousand each minute,’ he told himself. ‘Twenty, forty, sixty.’ He wanted to say: ‘Give me five minutes more,’ but his throat had gone dry. No words came. By the time he could get his voice to produce a sound again another ten seconds were gone. Looking at this man, he prayed, ‘God, why have you put me in the company of this terrible man amidst these wooden boxes?’ A yellowish sunlight came in through a top ventilator, and fell on the opposite wall. ‘He will probably choke me if I don’t agree,’ he ruminated. He wondered if he should scream for help. Somewhere a cycle bell sounded. Wasn’t it auspicious, the sounding of a bell? ‘Three seconds more,’ said the other. The sound of the bell was the voice of God. God spoke through his own signs. Margayya’s decision was made. He suddenly felt lighter and said jocularly: ‘Three seconds! That’s a great deal yet.’ He added grandly: ‘Tell me when there is still half a second to go,’ and pushed away the other’s outstretched arm.

Margayya carried the manuscript home as if he was trying to secrete a small dead body. He was afraid lest somebody should stop him on the way and look at it. He had begged Pal at least to wrap it in paper. Pal snatched up an old issue of
Silver Way
and
wrapped it up. Margayya told himself all along the road: ‘I must see that the young fellow doesn’t get at it.’ His plan had been to tuck it within the folds of a stack of clothes in his box the moment he reached home. At the front door he saw his wife with his son on her lap, inducing him to swallow his food by diverting his attention to the stars in the sky and the street below. ‘Father!’ the little fellow cried joyfully, trying to jump out of his mother’s arms. ‘Wait, wait,’ Margayya said, and passed in swiftly, trying to conceal the bundle under his arm.

‘What is it that you are carrying?’ his wife asked as he went by. ‘Bread?’

He made no reply but walked straight in, opened his box and securely locked it up. He then went through his routine of changing and washing. His wife brought in the child and gave him into his care.

Balu said: ‘A monkey came to our house.’

‘That’s very good,’ Margayya said. ‘What did it do?’

‘It ate coconut and will come again tomorrow. Father, why don’t you buy me a monkey?’

‘Yes, when you are a good boy.’

‘Balu is a good boy,’ he replied, certifying to his own conduct.

Margayya sat in the corridor with his son on his lap. He felt light and buoyant, expansive, and full of hope that the good things of life were now within his reach. He hummed a tune to himself, and played with his son. All the time his wife was very curious to know what he had brought in the parcel. She knew by trying to look severe she would never get the truth out of him. She said something agreeable about the boy: ‘Do you know what a change is coming over the little fellow? He is so quiet and obedient nowadays,’ she said, coming and standing beside him.

Margayya replied: ‘He is the finest youngster except when he is otherwise,’ and laughed. The boy looked at him bewildered and said: ‘Why do you laugh?’

‘I don’t know,’ Margayya said, and all of them laughed heartily.

The boy, having heard a good report about himself, wanted to keep it up, and did nothing to exasperate his father. He ate a
quiet dinner, lay down on his mat and ordered his father to tell him a story. Margayya strained his memory and began the story of the fox, the crow and the lion, till the boy interrupted him with: ‘I don’t like the fox story. Tell me a flower story.’

‘I don’t know any flower story,’ Margayya pleaded. At this the boy threatened to kick his legs and cry. Margayya hastily began: ‘Once upon a time there was a good flower –’ and fumbled and hemmed and hawed, wondering how people wrote hundreds of pages of stories; which brought to his mind Dr Pal and his book – how those people ever could sit down and write so many pages. He admired for a moment their patience, and subsequently corrected himself. He didn’t like to admire anyone and so said to himself: ‘These fellows have no better business; that’s why they sit down and fill up sheets, whereas we business men have hardly any time left even to compose our letters.’

The boy insisted on knowing at this stage: ‘What flower was it?’

‘Lotus,’ he felt like saying, but checked himself and said: ‘Some flower – why do you want its name now?’ and then blundered through a clumsy, impossible story, till the boy fell asleep out of sheer lack of interest.

After finishing all her work, his wife came up with an endearing smile and sat beside him on the mat. He put his arm round her and drew her nearer, recollecting the chapter on ‘Principles of Embracing’. She nestled close to him. It was as if they had thrown off twenty years and were back in the bridal chamber. He said: ‘Why don’t you buy flowers regularly? I see that you don’t care for them nowadays.’

‘I am an old woman, flowers and such things –’

‘But this old man likes to see some flowers in this old lady’s hair,’ he said. They laughed and felt very happy. And then she asked at the correct moment: ‘What is that bundle you brought with you?’

‘Oh, that! You wish to see it?’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ she said, quite thrilled at the prospect.

He got up, opened his trunk and brought out the packet wrapped in
Silver Way
. He slowly opened the wrapping and took out the manuscript. At the sight of it her face shadowed with disappointment.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘It’s a book.’

‘Oh! I thought you had brought me a
sari
, some surprise gift, I thought.’ There was a note of disappointment in her voice. ‘Book! Paper,’ she said contemptuously. ‘What book is this?’

‘You see for yourself,’ he said, and gave her the packet.

She turned the leaves and was horrified. ‘What is it all about? It seems to be …’ But she could not say anything more. ‘It seems to be so vulgar!’

‘No, no, don’t say such a thing,’ he said. He didn’t like to hear any disparaging reference to the book. ‘It’s a scientific book. It’s going to bring in a lot of money.’

She made a wry face and said: ‘How can anybody have written about all this? You men have no …’

‘What’s wrong with it? It’s something going on all over the world every moment. It’s very important. People should possess correct scientific knowledge, and then all marriages will be happy. I’m going to educate Balu in all these matters the moment he is interested.’

‘Oh, stop that,’ she cried, and flung away the book.

He picked it up, bent close to the lamp and started reading it aloud. It was probably too scientific for ordinary mortals. She listened both horrified and fascinated.

A few days later, Margayya walked into the Gordon Printery in Market Road. It was a fairly big establishment in Malgudi – every form, letter-head, and bill-book in Malgudi was printed at Gordon’s. Its proprietor was a man from Bombay who came and settled down here years ago – a hefty, rosy-cheeked man called Madan Lai. He sat at a table, right in the middle of a hall where a dozen people were creating the maximum amount of noise with various machines, which seemed to groan and hiss and splutter. In this general uproar he sat calmly poring over proofs, and opposite his table were ranged two iron chairs. Margayya stood at the entrance. He felt lonely and isolated and unhappy. They might sneer at him and tear up his manuscript. If the Secretary and Arul Doss came down at this moment to see some of their own printing … He overcame this sinking feeling immediately. ‘“Self-assurance” is the most important quality to
cultivate,’ he realized. He sounded quite assertive when he asked someone at the entrance: ‘Where is your proprietor?’

‘Sitting there,’ the man replied.

‘Oh, I didn’t notice,’ Margayya said, and went up. The man looked up from his papers and asked: ‘What can I do for you?’ He pointed at an iron chair. Margayya sat down, placed his manuscript before him and said with a lot of self-assurance: ‘I wish to have this book printed. Can you take it on?’

‘That I can say only after going through the manuscript.’

‘Go on, read it.’

‘I have no time now. You can leave it here.’

‘Impossible,’ said Margayya. ‘I am not prepared to leave it with anyone. You can go through it here while I wait.’

‘I’ve other business.’

‘I’ve also other business. I have come to you for printing, not for any other business. If you are not prepared to take it on, say so,’ and he put out his arms towards the manuscript.

‘Oh, no, don’t lose your patience,’ the other pleaded. ‘I was only –’ He picked up the manuscript and glanced at the title page: ‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. And then he passed on. Every chapter-heading and every page seemed to fascinate him. He kept exclaiming, ‘Ah!’ ‘Ah!’ and Margayya sat before him and watched with complete aloofness. He admired himself for it. ‘This is the right attitude to cultivate in business. If we show the slightest hesitation or uneasiness others are only too ready to swallow us up.’ Proof-bearers came up and waited around until Lai should look up. An accountant stood there with an open ledger in his hand, waiting to catch his attention. Lai kept exclaiming, ‘Ah! Ah!’ every few seconds. His staff stood around in a circle. ‘Get out of the way everyone and give me light,’ he suddenly shouted. The accountant alone came up and said undaunted: ‘This is urgent.’ He placed the fat book on the manuscript; Lai snatched a minute to look into it, and pushed it away. When his accountant showed signs of looking over his shoulder, he said brusquely: ‘Don’t try to see what people are reading. Go away.’ And the accountant went away. Lai looked for a moment at Margayya and said: ‘The curiosity some people have! They have a lot of unhealthy curiosity about all sorts of things.’

Margayya said: ‘Are you going to read through the entire manuscript?’

‘Yes,’ said the other. ‘Otherwise, how can I know whether I can print it or not?’

‘Have I to sit here all the time?’ asked Margayya.

‘Why not? That’s what you said you would do. Otherwise you may go out and return.’

What was the man proposing? Margayya reflected. Perhaps he had some dark design. No, even if it took a whole day, he would sit up there. Never go out of sight of those papers. ‘I will wait here,’ said Margayya. ‘Go through it fast.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the other cut in impatiently. ‘Don’t disturb me.’

Papers continued to come to him. Lai was indifferent. Proofs piled up on his table. Attenders waited around for approval of copy. The accountant came up again and again for his signature on a leather-bound book. Lai snapped at him and signed. And then he pushed the other papers unceremoniously off his table saying: ‘No one is to come near me till I am through with this piece of work: this is very urgent and important. Don’t you see this gentleman waiting?’ The machine-room foreman came up presently. He hovered about, cleared his throat, and ventured to say: ‘The School report, sir. The machine is idle.’

‘Oh!’ he replied, then rummaged amongst his papers, snatched a proof, and after the briefest glance at it, flung it at him. ‘Go ahead.’

It was one o’clock in the afternoon when Lai looked up and said: ‘I’m hungry, and yet I have not finished. Still thirty pages more. I have to go home. You wouldn’t leave this with me, I suppose!’

‘No,’ said Margayya resolutely. ‘How can I?’

‘Then you come along with me for lunch.’

Margayya felt worried. This man from the North – God knew what he ate at home: perhaps beef and pork and strange spices. How could he go and sit with him? He said bluntly: ‘I have already had my food.’

‘That’s excellent; come along with me.’

‘No, I have to go home.’

‘Why should you if you have had your dinner already?’

‘I have got some other business.’

‘Then what do you want me to do? Sit here with this, forgoing my meal, is that it?’

‘As you please. You must have read enough of it to know what to tell me.’

‘Be reasonable, Mister,’ he appealed. ‘If you give me a little more time, I will finish it and then I shall be in a position to discuss the matter with you.’

‘Then go on,’ Margayya said. ‘I am not preventing your reading further.’

The other hammered on the call bell impatiently till an attendant came up and stood before him: ‘Go home and tell them I’m not coming for my meal today. Send somebody and get something from the restaurant for two.’

Coffee and several plates arrived. Lai pushed away all the papers to make space for the plates and invited Margayya to eat. He kept the manuscript on his lap, his eyes running down the lines; his fingers strayed towards the plates on the table and carried the food to his mouth as if they had an independent life of their own. He looked up for a brief moment at Margayya and said: ‘Go on, go on, make yourself comfortable.’