The children liked to play among the chillies and tamarind, for these were sold as a side line by the ration-shop vendor to make a little extra money. His programme was, he who eats rice cannot eat it alone, so why not make some more profit? Government or no government, who is there to come and see? Sometimes the children went and sat in the huge scales, shouting and chaffing, one weighing against the other till the women, who came with their baskets and sacks, would jerk and let the scale go from one side to the other as if it were a cradle. And the louder shouted the children, the wilder became the crowd. Meanwhile people from the street came rushing forward to see the fun, and old ladies standing in the queue would say: ‘The sun is hot for us. The fun is over now. Why make us hunger more?’ And from the staircase of the ration office, a head or two would show, to prove that under the office is the ration shop, and one should not play with such serious things. What is this nonsense going on? The first to come would of course be Govindan Nair, his underclothes showing (it was always too hot for him) and a pen in his hand. He had a long nose, pointed and expressive, and when he turned anywhere, it was as if he could speak with his nose. He looked at the children and laughed. Then, going to the scale, he pushed the needle to the middle and said: ‘Everything in the world weighs the same. Look, look!’ And the women looked up and saw and said: ‘Of course, look, everybody weighs the same. How did he do it?’ The children lost some fun. But when he let go, he did so with a bump, and the younger child went up shouting: ‘Father! Father!’ Then he caught hold of one of the children of the crowd and set it against the uplifted child. The scale went down with a thud. The elder child, called Gopi, cried. ‘Gopi, Gopi,’ said Govindan Nair, ‘you can’t always be at the top. Even Hitler some time has to come down. Now, children, you go home to grandpapa. When you come next time I’ll build you a swing in the garden. And I will sit with you under the casuarina tree. And we shall see the sky.’ Meanwhile, half of the ration office staff — except, of course, the boss, Bhoothalinga Iyer (he lived in the fort near the temple, an honest, disgruntled man with a hair knot on his head, namam10 on his face, and a Ramayana on his lap; so he sat, looking after the ration office) — would come down.
There are very few interesting faces in the ration office. Abraham is a Syrian Christian from Nagercoil, and he looks the very image of Christ with his flat face and longish beard. He hurts no one, he earns enough for his childless wife and himself, and he smokes incessantly. Sometimes he talks poetry to Govindan Nair, especially of Eletchan,11 and they compare notes on Malayalam words. When everything is over, Govindan Nair will say: ‘Man, how can you know Malayalam? You have to be a Nair.’ Abraham accepted this as an axiom. Only a Nair can know Malayalam. Only a Nair can belong to Malabar. Only a Nair can see right. Look at the boss, Bhoothalinga Iyer. He can no more understand truth than the buffalo can see a straight line.
Velayudhan Nair is the opposite number of Govindan Nair. He is tall and fair and shouts at the top of his voice that his father was a Brahmin. That does not make him equal either to Bhoothalinga Iyer or to Govindan Nair. He is one with one and other with the other. He manipulates ration cards with a facility that makes everybody wonder whether he learned street jugglery.
There was the famous case of Ration Card No. 65477919, which just disappeared from the office. The register marked the name Appan Pillai, of Medi Vithu, Palayam. The thumb impression of Appan Pillai was there. His people said they have been getting the right rations, but when asked about the card, they said they never received it. Inquiries brought forward four or five such cases. Govindan Nair just joked. He knew A from B as he knew left eye from right eye. He knew just enough about the matter to show Velayudhan Nair he knew. So Velayudhan Nair smiled at him and thought his colleague too would know what was to be known and perform what was to be performed. After all, sir, it is wartime and everybody has children. Two is the limit — but then if you have three — on forty-seven rupees, how can you feed a third child? Especially if it has a bit of difficulty in the spleen? Three years old and she has the belly of one of eight. Spleen may be just a pouch on the left side of man but it gives infinite trouble. It makes the child bloat and cry. What can you do with a child’s cry? Doctors are expensive — even government doctors. They don’t take fees, but they like gifts. What is the gift for a good-sized spleen? Thirty rupees, etc., etc.
Velayudhan Nair’s wife, when you see her at a cinema, has an array of gold bangles on her hands. She inherited some money from her aunt. We all have aunts; why don’t we inherit? is a pertinent question and Govindan Nair, who is pertinence itself, asked it. He was interested in children, in houses for children, in medicines for spleen that bloats, etc. When one is curious one can know anything. It’s like the kitten seeking the cat, etc. (I use etc. because that is exactly Govindan Nair’s language. It comes from working in offices disinterestedly, he says, does Govindan Nair.)
So, to use his phrase, the cat came out of the bag. It was a big cat and the bag was a gunnysack. It smelled peculiarly of rice. There’s a saying of Kabir they often quoted in the ration shop: On each grain of rice is writ the name of he who’ll eat it. The ration card is the proof. Medicine for spleen is proof of the ration card. The child is proof of his father, said Velayudhan Nair, showing his child to Govindan Nair. ‘My son has no spleen. He has malaria or filaria, I don’t know what it is,’ said Govindan Nair. ‘You must take him to a decent doctor,’ said Velayudhan Nair. ‘Who is your doctor? ‘ asked Govindan Nair. ‘Why, Doctor Velu Pillai, MBBS, MRCP from Edinburgh. Specialist in children’s diseases.’ ‘My son is seven years old. He is neither a child nor a man. So where shall we take him?’ laughed Govindan Nair. ‘Why,’ replied Velayudhan Nair, ‘I have just the fellow for that. You come here tomorrow at five. And we’ll settle it.’
‘Ah, sir, the cat is out of the bag,’ he said, coming to see me that evening. Hitler was winning his wars. The prices went up. The British army poured into India. India sent rice to Persia. Russia attacked the German left flank. Von Boch was hurtling towards Moscow. Von Rundstedt’s armies rushed towards Kiev. The Dnieper Dam was blasted. Paris decreed against Jews. Roosevelt was wiping his spectacles — that was one of the pictures stuck against the wall in our office. We liked Roosevelt because we hated Churchill. We love what we cannot have. When we have it, we have it not, because what it is not, is what we want, and thus on to the wall. The mother cat alone knows. It takes you by the skin of your neck, and takes you to the loft. It alone loves. Sir, do you know love? O Lord, I want to love. I want to love all mankind. Why should there be spleen when in fact there is no malaria? Why don’t children sit in scales and play the game of ration cards? Who plays, Lord, who plays? ‘Give unto me love that I love,’ such was the prayer that went up from across my garden wall to the nowhere.
‘How is Shantha?’ asked Govindan Nair abruptly, as if suddenly he had seen the mother cat with the kitten, and I said: ‘She was asking your wife about a good maternity doctor. Dr Krishna Veni Amma is no good. She is too young. Do you know of one?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am seeing a child’s doctor tomorrow. I think he will do.’
What is a doctor? One who knows diseases is the simplest definition. One who knows a wound and heals a pain is a doctor.