‘That, oh, yes, I knew it long, long ago,’ he lied. ‘But you don’t know, the Mahatma is going in the air, with his wife Sita, and in a flower-chariot drawn by sixteen steeds, each one more beautiful than the other. And they will fly through the air and the heavens will let fall a rain of flowers. The Mahatma will have the Mother on his right, and our Master at his foot, and they will go across the clouds’ and the stars. And we shall gaze at them. Come, Rami,’ he dragged her towards him, ‘come, we shall run into the village to sit in the square to be the first to hear the Master speak. Come.’
He hooked his arm into hers, and taking the flag thrust it up into the air, and shouted, ‘Mother, Mother, Mother,’ and they ran across rut and puddle, dung and boulder, down the Rampur road, amidst screeching bats and hovering crows, over the canal bridge, and under the bulging, haunted pipal, and then turning round the Kuppur mound, they faced the cattle dust of the darkening village. The air was light, and the night was just falling. But, Lord, what a lot of stars!
A CLIENT
THE last bell rang. Gathering his notes and his books Ramu left the class with his usual hurry. Sundaresha was standing on the steps talking to somebody. No, Ramu would not see him. No, he would not! Unconsciously he jumped down from the verandah and walked along the gravelled path with redoubled speed. How he hated them all, these rich, carefree people. . Oh! if only he had his own books. It was not his fault if he had not done well in his last examinations. How could he? One cannot learn without books. His brother could write all that nonsense about working hard, getting a university scholarship, and bringing a name to their ancient, revered family. If only he knew what it was to wash one’s own clothes, clean the vessels, cook the food and sweep the floor, and spend uncountable hours waiting at the doors of Sundaresha’s to be condescendingly honoured with the loan of a book. To talk to them charmingly, when you detested them in the heart of your hearts, to flatter them, cringe before them, and even slave for them when necessary. It was not easy like swearing before peasants or commanding one’s wife. Bangalore is not Hariharapura. If only his brother knew that.
‘Ramu, Ramu.’ Somebody was calling him. Lifting up his head he saw Jayalakshmi, his neighbour in the chemistry class, coming towards him with her usual smile of friendliness and forced mockery.
‘Ramu, you’re coming with me in my Victoria.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I suppose women not being equal to men, you cannot sit by me.’
‘No. I’m in a hurry.’ The devil throw the girl into the fire. But somewhere, something graceful and mysterious swept up, drawing him into forbidden secrets, sweetly tender. But the Brahmin in him woke up. The caste mark was not on his face but on his soul. The sweetness sank into ashes. Away. .
‘Goodbye, Jayalakshmi.’
‘Bye-bye.’
He grit his teeth, and thrusting away all thoughts of Jayalakshmi, he walked on trying to think of the approaching examinations. As he passed by the pipal tree near the gate, he saw a queer old man standing on the road, and smiling to every student that came along, exaltedly, expectantly. He wore a gold-laced turban and a loose longcoat in the old fashion. He was bare-footed, and his dhoti, also gold-laced, was creamy white; and by contrast his wrinkled dust-covered feet seemed bluish-green like cow-dung. Coldly returning his smile Ramu walked away feeling somehow that things were not well with him. Perhaps it was just tiredness. Or only loneliness; or, who could say, maybe the cat he had seen at the window on waking up forbode something terribly evil. No, no, he assured himself, the gods would not desert him after all these years. They would help him and bless him. ‘O Kenchamma, O Goddess, my salutations to Thee!’
He hardly got to the Mysore Bank Square when he heard somebody calling him from behind. The voice was unfamiliar but affectionate. And turning round whom should he see but the same old man, more smiling than ever, and his eyes beaming with intense, surging love. Ramu shivered.
‘Ramu,’ cried the old man, running up to him, breathless, ‘Ramu, are you not our Ramu of Hariharapura?’
‘Yes,’ he murmured confusedly. His lips trembled and he perspired all over oppressed by some unaccountable fear. He would have preferred to meet the will o’ the wisp than this haunting old man.
‘That’s it,’ he exclaimed, putting his hands on Ramu’s shoulders. ‘There you are, my boy. When I saw you by the gate I was sure as the dog knows its food that you were our Ramu. . But I wanted to make certain. And when I asked somebody who came behind you he said I was right. Well done, my old man, I said to myself, no mistaking it. And I ran and ran. But how like a fawn you fly! Now let me see. So you’re our Krishnappa’s son and Shama’s brother? What, Ramu, how is Hariharapura? Is it always the same old Hariharapura?’ Who the devil could this be, thought Ramu to himself, as they moved on. He knows my father, he asks about Hariharapura — and the wretch that I am, I never remember people. How he speaks too with such familiarity! He must be somebody I know! Surely. .
‘Everything goes on as usual,’ he muttered mechanically.
‘And how is our old friend Bhatta? When I saw him last, he was already losing his eyesight and he had been rather ill. Is he better now?’
‘I believe he had died some years before I was born,’ answered Ramu, still confused. ‘But his son is living and I know him pretty well.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry for the old chap. Anyway when you see young Bhatta will you give him my blessings, and ask him if he still remembers me. Will you, my son? And now tell me: how are the Corner-house people? How many children has Venkanna’s son, Srikantha? I had been to his marriage. That was the last time I saw Hariharapura. Oh, that I should have left my byre and my manger. But in those days, who would have refused a job in the Bangalore Secretariat? I was young, I was brilliant, and one day I would be an amaldar or a sub-division officer, I thought. And I went. . And I have never been able to go back and visit my relations and find out whether they were dead or alive. Government service, my son, is like prostitution. Once you take that profession you cut away all bonds. But why all that now? I have had enough of that slavery. Thanks be to God, I am out of it. Well, I retired from my service, and have had to stay on here for the education of my children. Each summer I said to myself, let the vacations come and we will go to Hariharapura, and drink the sweet waters of the Hemavathy. But children never have enough! They always cry for more. If only they were like other children, obedient, loyal, hard-working. Oh, what shall I say of my children? But. . let me see. My Srinivasan is in your class. Surely, in yours. . You know Srinivasan? S.T. Srinivasan? Now, tell me, Ramu, and I shall swear to you on anything I shall never let it out, tell me if it is true that he is very full of pranks in the class, that he has joined a group of vagabonds who smoke cigarettes and go to the houses of prostitutes. Tell me, Ramu, tell me!’