What could he answer? The question came all of a sudden and Ramu was still thinking, trying to remember all the people he knew, and all the relatives one talked of at home, and yet he could remember no one resembling this queer old man, who spoke with such familiarity and affection. Brother Shama, his brother, who knew his relatives to the tenth generation, had never said a word about him. Surely he would have, and no doubt have sent Ramu along directly to this old man when Ramu first came to Bangalore. And again, this Srinivasan? He had no class-fellow with that name.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stuttered, embarrassed to put a straight question. ‘I’m sorry. Excuse me. . I don’t remember where I could have seen you.’
‘Good God! Ramu, how scandalous that you should ask who I am! Good God! If you should forget your relatives so soon then I know how little you will care for us all, when you will have gone through the Civil Service examinations and become District Judge or Assistant Commissioner! Really, really! I cannot believe my ears. No, I cannot. But. . I must accept it. It is not your fault, my son; it is the immoral influence of this ignoble education called “modern”.’ He gave an accentuated sigh, and pathetically holding on to Ramu’s arms, he continued, ‘Well, my son, anyway don’t ignore your relations. No, please don’t. But, as you have forgotten who I am, I’ll tell you. I am Hosakere Nanjundayya. . Ho-sa-ke-re Nan-jun-dayya.’ He stood straight in front of Ramu, peering at his eyes. Ramu felt somehow abashed, repentant, revolted. Hosakere Nanjundayya, . Ho-sa-ke-re Nan-jun-dayya. . No, he could remember no such name. He felt unhappy. The cat at the window reappeared. Ill-luck. Wretched. . Wretched. .
Looking at the old man he suddenly felt relieved. The shame turned into pity, and then into courage.
‘Please pardon me,’ he burst out almost without a thought, ‘I think I still cannot recall where I could have seen you. I really am ashamed of myself. . But, you see, my memory. . ’
Nanjundayya now wriggled with amused laughter.
‘Why,’ he cried, still laughing, ‘why, I knew your family before you were born!’ How often I dined in your house. Oh, how often! Your father, dear Ramu, simply adored me. He could not, he used to swear, live without me. You see, he was my sister’s brother-in-law’s wife’s maternal uncle. And when I went to see my sister in Kantur, he always sent for me and would not let me go till the vacations were over. . And my sister naturally complained that I never stayed in her house. Poor thing! now she is dead, and so is your revered father. Oh, that I should survive them.’ He seemed almost in tears. But he soon gave a forced smile, and continued. ‘Now, tell me, Ramu, my son, are you still in the Verandah-House? Or have you moved to the new one your father was building by the mango grove? I told him it would simply be a waste of money. But he would not listen. “I want my children to be happy,” he would declare. “I will build a house that will house all of them with their wives and children and children’s children.’’’
‘We still live in the old Verandah-House,’ said Ramu. In fact he had never heard of such a plan. He was still rummaging through his memory to find out who Hosakere Nanjundayya was. Neither his sister-in-law nor his brother Shama, nor in fact the talkative Bhatta, had ever spoken of a Hosakere Nanjundayya. Strange! So very strange. Absurd.
They were now in Chikpet, and Nanjundayya insisted on taking Ramu to the Udipi Coffee House. Ramu refused at first, but when Nanjundayya forced him with threats and prayers, he accepted, and they went in. The Coffee House was full. But they found a comfortable corner near the kitchen door.
‘Now tell me, Ramu, my son,’ said Nanjundayya, as soon as they were seated, ‘what will you have, dosè or uppittu?’ What kindness! What respectful friendliness! Ramu said with his usual sense of politeness that he did not want anything. But Nanjundayya was a man of experience. He knew a man by his face. A few kind words and Ramu said he would have uppittu.
‘Lakshmana,’ shouted Nanjundayya, familiarly and authoritatively. A curly-haired, bright-eyed, intelligent-looking, immaculately-dressed young boy came running, with an amused, almost mocking smile upon his face.
‘What ho! Nanjundayya, it is ages since I have seen you. Perhaps you haven’t had enough clients.’
Clients! Ramu was startled. Why, the old man had just said Government Service was so damnable. . And clients! But then, he said he had retired from service. Perhaps he is a clerk to some lawyer. So many retired people become clerks to pleaders and advocates. But why did the boy smile so mockingly? No, no. Perhaps Nanjundayya comes here often. The boy was just joking with familiarity. Surely. .
Meanwhile somebody called Nanjundayya from behind. Ramu turned back. The man looked crude and malicious. ‘What, my dear Nanjundayya,’ the man shouted teasingly, and his ‘dear’ was interminably long and emphatic, ‘What, my dear, dear Nanjundayya, does the world still go round and round, my man? Ahum! With your gold-laced turban, your beautiful velvet coat, your gold-laced dhoti, you look, my young man, a veritable bridegroom. What! Whose daughter? The Prime Minister’s or the Maharaja’s, hè?’ Lord! This very devil, this villain of a Vishwanath, to come here, here. . and at this moment. . Nanjundayya was furious. And with a violence that seemed strange in that smiling, sentimental old man, he howled: ‘Get away, you impertinent man, get away! Do not display your monkey tricks before respectable company! Go your way, you devil!’ And turning to Ramu Nanjundayya gave a broad, triumphant smile. This devil was not his friend! No! The brute took undue liberties of familiarity. How Nanjundayya had spat on him. Couldn’t get away with it. Isn’t that so, Ramu?
Vishwanath was gone. He laughed heartily, amused at the serious air of Nanjundayya. Harsh words did not matter to him. He was accustomed to it. He was a professional jester. He sat not far from them, chattering away to a young man who laughed so contentedly that he spat out the coffee that he had half-swallowed. Ramu was burning with anger. He detested them all.
Now the uppittu was brought. And munching it, they continued to talk.
‘Then you do not know anything about my Srinivasan?’
‘No.’
‘Anyway, you must come with me and meet my wife and children. After we leave the Coffee House you will come along with me. You will, my son, won’t you?’
‘I would very willingly have come. But, you see, my exams are approaching. . ’
‘Exams! Exams! Why, for a brilliant boy like you, why this fear of the examinations? Being first in all the examinations, you cannot plead with me that you are afraid of them! No, you cannot!’ It was a painful blow to Ramu. First! Why, if only he could get through, merely have the minimum. First! Yes, in Hassan High School. Not here. Not here. He felt humiliated. He felt angry. The cat suddenly appeared at the window, glared at him, and disappeared. Was he only talking in his dream?
‘Anyhow, look here, my son,’ Nanjundayya was shouting at Ramu trying to make him more attentive to his talk, ‘Do you mean to say examinations are the end and aim of all your existence? It is because of these examinations that we have become such slaves, losing our ancient traditions and our self-respect. Do you know what Mahatma Gandhi thinks of it? He thinks it to be one of the most pernicious elements of our modern life. Do you listen to me, my son? And after all what does it matter in these days whether you are a BA or MA? All get the same thirty or forty rupees a month. And even to get that, what fortitudes, what briberies, what dust-licking humiliations one has to bear. But, Ramu,’ he corrected himself, patting the other’s back, ‘no, no, I do not mean that you will be one of these twenty-five or thirty-rupee clerks! Oh, Ramu! I swear to you on the spirits of my ancestors, no, I did not mean it. I am sure as the hawk knows its prey that you will have ten such clerks under you.’