Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (54 page)

He vaguely followed this trail, hoping that he would be able to catch another glimpse of her. If ever he saw her again he would take charge of the money-box and make the collection for her, whatever it might be for. He looked over the crowd for a glimpse again of the white
sari
, over the shoulders of the jostling crowd, around the vegetable stalls … But it was a hopeless quest, not a chance of seeing her again. Who could she be and where did she come from? Could it be that she was the daughter of a judge or might she be an other-worldly creature who had come suddenly to meet him and whom he did not know how to treat? What a fool he was. He felt how sadly he lacked the necessary polish for such encounters. That was why it was urged on him to go to a college and pass his B.A. Those who went to colleges and passed their B.A. were certainly people who knew how to conduct themselves before girls.

He passed into the market arch in the direction she took. At the fly-ridden jaggery shop he said tentatively: ‘A lot of people are about collecting money for all sorts of things.’

The jaggery merchant said sourly, ‘Who will not collect money if there are people to give?’

‘I saw a girl jingling a money-box. Even girls have taken to it,’ Sriram said, holding his breath, hoping to hear something.

‘Oh, that,’ the other said, ‘I too had to give some cash. We have to. We can’t refuse.’

‘Who is she?’ Sriram asked, unable to carry on diplomatically any further.

The jaggery merchant threw a swift look at him which seemed slightly sneering, and said: ‘She has something to do with Mahatma Gandhi and is collecting a fund. You know the Mahatma is coming.’

Sriram suddenly woke from an age-old somnolence to the fact that Malgudi was about to have the honour of receiving Mahatma Gandhi.

In that huge gathering sitting on the sands of Sarayu, awaiting the arrival of Mahatma Gandhi, Sriram was a tiny speck. There were a lot of volunteers clad in white
khadar
moving around the dais. The chromium stand of the microphone gleamed in the sun. Police stood about here and there. Busybodies were going round asking people to remain calm and silent. People obeyed them. Sriram envied these volunteers and busybodies their importance, and wondered if he could do anything to attain the same status. The sands were warm, the sun was severe. The crowd sat on the ground uncomplainingly.

The river flowed, the leaves of the huge banyan and
peepul
trees on the banks rustled; the waiting crowd kept up a steady babble, constantly punctuated by the pop of soda-water bottles; longitudinal cucumber slices, crescent-shaped, and brushed up with the peel of a lime dipped in salt, were disappearing from the wooden tray of a vendor who was announcing in a subdued tone (as a concession to the coming of a great man), ‘Cucumber for thirst, the best for thirst.’ He had wound a green Turkish towel around his head as a protection from the sun.

Sriram felt parched, and looked at the tray longingly. He wished he could go up and buy a crescent. The thought of biting into its cool succulence was tantalizing. He was at a distance and if he left his seat he’d have no chance of getting back to it. He watched a lot of others giving their cash and working their teeth into the crescent. ‘Waiting for the Mahatma makes one very thirsty,’ he thought.

Every ten minutes someone started a
canard
that the great man had arrived, and it created a stir in the crowd. It became a joke,
something to relieve the tedium of waiting. Any person, a microphone-fitter or a volunteer, who dared to cross the dais was greeted with laughter and booing from a hundred thousand throats. A lot of familiar characters, such as an old teacher of his and the pawnbroker in Market Road, made themselves unrecognizable by wearing white
khadar
caps. They felt it was the right dress to wear on this occasion. ‘That
khadar
store off the Market Fountain must have done a roaring business in white caps today,’ Sriram thought. Far off, pulled obscurely to one side, was a police van with a number of men peering through the safety grill.

There was a sudden lull when Gandhi arrived on the platform and took his seat.

‘That’s Mahadev Desai,’ someone whispered into Sriram’s ears.

‘Who is the man behind Gandhiji?’

‘That’s Mr Natesh, our Municipal Chairman.’

Someone sneered at the mention of his name. ‘Some people conveniently adopt patriotism when Mahatmaji arrives.’

‘Otherwise how can they have a ride in the big procession and a seat on the dais?’

Over the talk the amplifiers burst out ‘Please, please be silent.’

Mahatma Gandhi stood on the dais, with his palms brought together in a salute. A mighty cry rang out, ‘Mahatma Gandhi Ki Jai!’ Then he raised his arm, and instantly a silence fell on the gathering. He clapped his hands rythmically and said: ‘I want you all to keep this up, this beating for a while.’ People were halfhearted. And the voice in the amplifier boomed, ‘No good. Not enough. I like to see more vigour in your arms, more rhythm, more spirit. It must be like the drum-beats of the non-violent soldiers marching on to cut the chains that bind Mother India. I want to hear the great beat. I like to see all arms upraised, and clapping. There is nothing to be ashamed of in it. I want to see unity in it. I want you all to do it with a single mind.’ And at once, every man, woman, and child, raised their arms and clapped over their heads.

Sriram wondered for a moment if it would be necessary for him to add his quota to this voluminous noise. He was hesitant.

‘I see someone in that corner not quite willing to join us. Come on, you will be proud of this preparation.’

And Sriram felt he had been found out, and followed the lead.

Now a mighty choral chant began:
Raghupathi Raghava Raja Ram, Pathitha Pavana Seetha Ram
, to a simple tune, led by a girl at the microphone. It went on and on, and ceased when Mahatmaji began his speech. Natesh interpreted in Tamil what Gandhi said in Hindi. At the outset Mahatma Gandhi explained that he’d speak only in Hindi as a matter of principle. ‘I will not address you in English. It’s the language of our rulers. It has enslaved us. I very much wish I could speak to you in your own sweet language, Tamil; but alas, I am too hard-pressed for time to master it now, although I hope if God in His infinite mercy grants me the longevity due to me, that is one hundred and twenty-five years, I shall be able next time to speak to you in Tamil without troubling our friend Natesh.’

‘Natesh has a knack of acquiring good certificates,’ someone murmured in an aggrieved tone.

‘Runs with the hare and hunts with the hounds,’ said a schoolmaster.

‘He knows all of them inside out. Don’t imagine the old gentleman does not know whom he is dealing with.’

‘I notice two men there talking,’ boomed Gandhiji’s voice. ‘It’s not good to talk now, when perhaps the one next to you is anxious to listen. If you disturb his hearing, it is one form of
himsa.’
And at once the commentators lowered their heads and became silent. People were afraid to stir or speak.

Mahatma Gandhi said: ‘I see before me a vast army. Every one of you has certain good points and certain defects, and you must all strive to discipline yourselves before we can hope to attain freedom for our country. An army is always in training and keeps itself in good shape by regular drill and discipline. We, the citizens of this country, are all soldiers of a non-violent army, but even such an army has to practise a few things daily in order to keep itself in proper condition: we do not have to bask in the sun and cry “Left” or “Right”. But we have a system of our own to follow: that’s
Ram Dhun;
spinning on the
charka
and the practice of absolute Truth and Non-violence.’

At the next evening’s meeting Sriram secured a nearer seat. He now understood the technique of attending these gatherings. If he hesitated and looked timid, people pushed him back and down. But if he looked like someone who owned the place, everyone stood aside to let him pass. He wore a pair of large dark glasses which gave him, he felt, an authoritative look. He strode through the crowd. The place was cut up into sectors with stockades of bamboo, so that people were penned in groups. He assumed a tone of bluster which carried him through the various obstacles and brought him to the first row right below the dais. It took him farther away from the sellers of cucumber and aerated water who operated on the fringe of the vast crowd. But there was another advantage in this place: he found himself beside the enclosure where the women were assembled. Most of them were without ornaments, knowing Gandhiji’s aversion to all show and luxury. Even then they were an attractive lot, in their
saris
of varied colours, and Sriram sat unashamedly staring at the gathering, for his favourite hobby at the moment was to speculate on what type he would prefer for a wife.

He fancied himself the centre of attraction if any women happened to look in his direction. ‘Oh, she is impressed with my glasses – takes me to be a big fellow, I suppose.’ He recollected Gandhiji’s suggestion on the previous day: ‘All women are your sisters and mothers. Never look at them with thoughts of lust. If you are troubled by such thoughts, this is the remedy: walk with your head down, looking at the ground during the day, and with your eyes up, looking at the stars at night.’ He had said this in answering a question that someone from the audience had put to him. Sriram felt uncomfortable at the recollection: ‘He will probably read my thoughts.’ It seemed to be a risky business sitting so near the dais.

Gandhi seemed to be a man who spotted disturbers and cross-thinkers however far away they sat. He was sure to catch him the moment he arrived on the platform, and say, ‘You there! Come up and make a clean breast of it. Tell this assembly what your thoughts were. Don’t look in the direction of the girls at all if you cannot control your thoughts.’ Sriram resolutely looked away in another direction, where men were seated. ‘A most uninteresting
and boring collection of human faces; wherever I turn I see only some shopkeeper or a school-master. What is the use of spending one’s life looking at them?’ Very soon, unconsciously, he turned again towards the women, telling himself, ‘So many sisters and mothers. I wish they would let me speak to them. Of course I have no evil thoughts in my mind at the moment.’

Presently Mahatmaji ascended the platform and Sriram hastily took his eyes off the ladies and joined in the hand clapping with well-timed devotion and then in the singing of
Raghupathi Raghava Raja Ram
. After that Gandhi spoke on non-violence, and explained how it could be practised in daily life. ‘It is a perfectly simple procedure provided you have faith in it. If you watch yourself you will avoid all actions, big or small, and all thoughts, however obscure, which may cause pain to another. If you are watchful, it will come to you naturally,’ he said. ‘When someone has wronged you or has done something which appears to you to be evil, just pray for the destruction of that evil. Cultivate an extra affection for the person and you will find that you are able to bring about a change in him. Two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ meant the same thing when he said, “Turn the other cheek.’”

Thus he went on. Sometimes Sriram found it impossible to follow his words. He could not grasp what he was saying, but he looked rapt, he tried to concentrate and understand. This was the first time he felt the need to try and follow something, the first time that he found himself at a disadvantage. Until now he had had a conviction, especially after he began to operate his own bank account, that he understood everything in life. This was the first time he was assailed by doubts of his own prowess and understanding. When Mahatmaji spoke of untouchability and caste, Sriram reflected, ‘There must be a great deal in what he says. We always think we are superior people. How Granny bullies that ragged scavenger who comes to our house every day to sweep the backyard!’ Granny was so orthodox that she would not let the scavenger approach nearer than ten yards, and habitually adopted a bullying tone while addressing him. Sriram also took a devilish pleasure in joining the baiting and finding fault with the scavenger’s work, although he never paid the
slightest attention to their comments. He simply went about his business, driving his broom vigorously and interrupting himself only to ask, ‘When will master give me an old shirt he promised so long ago?’

He suddenly noticed on the dais the girl who had jingled a money-box in his face a few days ago, at the market. She was clad in a
sari
of
khadar
, white homespun, and he noticed how well it suited her. Before, he had felt that the wearing of
khadar
was a fad, that it was apparel fit only for cranks, but now he realized how lovely it could be. He paused for a moment to consider whether it was the wearer who was enriching the cloth or whether the material was good in itself. But he had to postpone the whole problem. It was no time for abstract considerations. There she stood, like a vision beside the microphone, on the high dais, commanding the whole scene, a person who was worthy of standing beside Mahatmaji’s microphone. How confidently she faced the crowd! He wished he could go about announcing, ‘I know who that is beside the microphone into which Mahatmaji is speaking.’ The only trouble was that if they turned and asked him, ‘What is her name?’ he would feel lost. It would be awkward to say, ‘I don’t know, she came jingling a collection box the other day in the market. I wish I could say where she lives. I should be grateful for any information.’

At this moment applause rang out, and he joined in it. Gandhiji held up his hand to say, ‘It is not enough for you to clap your hands and show your appreciation of me. I am not prepared to accept it all so easily. I want you really to make sure of a change in your hearts before you ever think of asking the British to leave the shores of India. It’s all very well for you to take up the cry and create an uproar. But that’s not enough. I want you to clear your hearts and minds and make certain that only love resides there, and there is no residue of bitterness for past history. Only then can you say to the British, “Please leave this country to be managed or mismanaged by us, that’s purely our own business, and come back any time you like as our friends and distinguished guests, not as our rulers,” and you will find John Bull packing his suit-case. But be sure you have in your heart love and not bitterness.’