‘With your blessings,’ said Ramu politely.
‘My blessings,’ cried out Nanjundayya, bursting with milky enthusiasm, ‘well, my blessings are always with you, always, always! Why, Ramu, if I did not give my blessings to you, who else do you think should have them? For all the food that I have eaten in your father’s house, and for all the affection I have received from your family, could I not be even so generous as to give you my blessings? You will get through all your examinations brilliantly, and marrying a rich man’s daughter you will be a big official of His Highness the Maharaja’s Government. But when you are a Commissioner or a Judge, do not forget this poor Nanjundayya, my son. . Oh! do not. .
The word marriage disturbed Ramu. How often had he not racked his brains with it? From the day he had discussed with Jayalakshmi the unhappiness of most of the couples where the man is ‘modern’ and the wife of the old, traditional world, he somehow could not find peace within himself. He saw nothing clearly. To marry an uneducated girl, and be unhappy all one’s life, then. . To marry for money! Well, it would help one for a moment. But afterwards. . To have one’s life ruined because of a few rupees! Oh, no! How horrible. . But then, how long to live like this. . cooking. . washing. . sweeping. . counting each pie as though it contained the germ of eternal happiness. Impossible! A good marriage is profitable for the moment. . A room overlooking a spacious garden. . A smiling wife bringing in hot coffee. . The langour. . The mother-in-law’s supplications. . A veritable small divinity. . Books on the shelf, beautiful green, blue, golden books. An electric light at the bedside. . No smell of kerosene oil. . Work till midnight. . Exams. . ‘How have you done, Ramu?’ ‘Not bad.’ (In his heart: ‘Excellent!’) Results. . Ramu first! The eager, envious, flattering looks of the class-fellows. And all Hariharapura shouting his glory.
‘No, I will not forget you,’ mumbled Ramu, pursuing his own thoughts.
‘Let us see. Let us see,’ chuckled Nanjundayya. ‘Don’t I know these assurances! When you will be, say, a District Judge, and I come to you, you will ask the servant to tell me that you are either too busy or too tired to receive anybody, and thus politely turn me out. How many such cases have I not heard of or seen. Could you believe me, Executive Engineer Ramaswamy is my own father’s aunt’s grandson. And yet when I went to see him the other day, he sent word through his peon to say he was going out and that he could not receive me at the moment. And again, take Chandrasekharayya. Yes, Chandrasekharayya the Minister. He is my own cousin. . that is, my grandfather’s brother’s grandson. Today when he was passing by Chikpet in his new car, I greeted him and he did not even return it. Oh, Ramu, what shall I say of all the others who are my closest relations, and friends, and with whom I have played when I was a child? You see, my son, it is all due to this pernicious system of education. Yes, I know, Ramu, you will never treat me like that. I am sure you will not. What a dear fellow you are.’ He patted Ramu again enthusiastically. But poor Ramu! The idea that he would be a big government official at once flattered and disquieted him. Would he get to be a big man? A man of distinction and authority? Perhaps never. . But who could say? The future might hold pearls in its palms. Engineer? Minister? No, never.
‘Lakshmana,’ Nanjundayya shouted out again.
‘Yes, your esteemed Highness!’
‘Two coffees,’ he said, when Lakshmana arrived. ‘But wait a moment, Ramu, what more will you have?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Now, don’t play the woman! Come, tell me.’
‘Well, then I will have a dosè.’
‘I say, Lakshmana. Two coffees, warm, very warm, mind you. And two dosès.’
‘Yes, Your Highness!’ Lakshmana was amused at Nanjundayya’s generosity.
‘Now,’ said Nanjundayya, turning to Ramu, ‘look here, my son. Eat as much as you like. When one has a guest like you, even a miser will turn the Generous Cow. And especially when one knows that you have to cook your own food. I know, my dear Ramu, cooking one’s food for oneself makes the very rice and soup worse than manger-munch. I know it, poor boy!’ How Ramu hated him. He wanted pity from nobody. The wretch! The old owl! But how did he know about Ramu’s cooking his own food? If only he could catch the rascal who had revealed it. . Well. . But he smiled. He could not betray his thoughts.
Meanwhile Lakshmana brought the dosè and coffee. These little boys moved hither and thither like fairies; and they brought you things before you had winked your eyes a dozen times. Swallowing a big morsel of dosè, Nanjundayya continued.
‘There is nothing like having a home, my son. Especially for one like you who has lived in such comfort.’ (‘Have I?’ thought Ramu.) ‘You are so soft and quiet. Yes, my son, you need a home. And after all why not marry?’ He smiled confusedly. ‘I am sure you have already thought of it. And in these days which boy of your age would not have thought of it? Well, Ramu?’ Ramu was silent, Still the same tormenting question! Why the devil talk of it all the time? Stop it, old fellow! and leave me to myself! Please.
‘Anyway, tell me, my son. How old are you? Why, what a silly fool I am! Don’t I know it? I know your horoscope as I know my own! You were born under Jupiter, on the eleventh day of Asvin, in the year Bhova. So,’ he counted on his trained fingers, ‘you are nineteen years, four months and three days old.’ How the devil did he know all this? Who could have told him? Perhaps he remembers it? Or. .
‘At nineteen, my son, you must begin to think of marriage. And. .’
‘No, I have not thought of it. Nor shall I think of it. At least not for a few years.’ He was decisive. He felt happy to have made that decision. He needed such forced moments to make up his mind about things. And once made, he held to them stubbornly, irrevocably.
Nanjundayya went grey as a plantain flower. But he knew his trade much too well to lose hope. When he had tackled hundreds and hundreds of ‘modern young men’ of Bangalore, yes, of Bangalore, what did a country-kid like Ramu mean to him? Patience! And he would win the game.
‘I know all these sophisticated tricks, Ramu!’ He looked greatly amused. ‘I know them as I know myself. It is the same old story all over again. You say to us, in front of us, that you do not want to marry, and secretly you wish you could get a rich man’s daughter. Well, well, my son, don’t count me for a peasant. In this very Bangalore — this home of modernism — I have spent these three-and-thirty years. No, you must be plain. It is no use trying to hide your feelings. How will you hide them when you have a little wife by you, and a rich father-in-law shining only in your light?. . And then, you rascal, you will still tell me you don’t want to marry, you little monkey?’
‘I assure you, I don’t want to marry.’ Ramu was grave. He looked determined.
‘You need not marry now, my son. Nobody forces you to.’ Nanjundayya changed his tactics. He suddenly became serious and deep-voiced. ‘No, I do not want to force you to do anything. . But, you see. . I mean, you see. . I have placed all my hopes in you. . Your father, Ramu, was such a great friend of mine that I loved him as though he were my brother. And, though I have a son, he is not one in whom the hopes of a decrepit, dying old man like me can be placed. So you see, my son, I would like to see you a big man, a rich man, and married to the daughter of a man of money and distinction.’ He seemed almost to plead, to beg. Ramu was moved. How very affectionate, he thought. ‘Ramu, if I could ask the gods a boon, it would be to give me a son brilliant, sincere, loving like you. Of what use are all the herd of children I have — puling, shrieking, jealous, indifferent children! They eat all I can give them, and always want more, more. They are always hungry and always weep, crying they haven’t all the clothes they need. And yet, old as I am, I have to slave for them from dawn to midnight, to earn so that these brats, these vagabonds, may have enough to grow fat on! Oh, to earn for one like you, Ramu my son, it would dispense one of Benares!’ Nanjundayya had tears in his eyes. He would have sobbed like a woman were he not in a Coffee House. What would Ramu say to please him, to comfort him? He looked so pitiful, wretched. Ramu smiled with sympathy and respect. Nanjundayya’s face grew more lively and his eyes beamed forth confidence and hope. Yes, the game was not lost.