Malgudi Days, Page 4

  On a holiday, when he was sure Ramanujam would be at home, Thanappa knocked on the door and handed him a card. ‘Ah!’ cried Ramanujam. ‘Bad news, Thanappa. My uncle, my father’s brother, is very ill in Salem, and they want me to start immediately.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear it, sir,’ said Thanappa, and handed him a telegram. ‘Here’s another . . .’

  Ramanujam cried, ‘A telegram!’ He glanced at it and screamed, ‘Oh, he is dead!’ He sat down on the pyol, unable to stand the shock. Thanappa looked equally miserable. Ramanujam rallied, gathered himself up and turned to go in. Thanappa said, ‘One moment, sir. I have a confession to make. See the date on the card.’

  ‘May the nineteenth, nearly fifteen days ago!’

  ‘Yes, sir, and the telegram followed next day—that is, on the day of the marriage. I was unhappy to see it . . . “But what has happened has happened,” I said to myself, and kept it away, fearing that it might interfere with the wedding.’

  Ramanujam glared at the postman and said, ‘I would not have cared to go through the marriage when he was dying . . .’ The postman stood with bowed head and mumbled, ‘You can complain if you like, sir. They will dismiss me. It is a serious offence.’ He turned and descended the steps and went down the street on his rounds. Ramanujam watched him dully for a while and shouted, ‘Postman!’ Thanappa turned round; Ramanujam cried, ‘Don’t think that I intend to complain. I am only sorry you have done this . . .’

  ‘I understand your feelings, sir,’ replied the postman, disappearing around a bend.

  THE DOCTOR’S WORD

  People came to him when the patient was on his last legs. Dr Raman often burst out, ‘Why couldn’t you have come a day earlier?’ The reason was obvious—visiting fee twenty-five rupees, and more than that, people liked to shirk the fact that the time had come to call in Dr Raman; for them there was something ominous in the very association. As a result, when the big man came on the scene it was always a quick decision one way or another. There was no scope or time for any kind of wavering or whitewashing. Long years of practice of this kind had bred in the doctor a certain curt truthfulness; for that very reason his opinion was valued; he was not a mere doctor expressing an opinion but a judge pronouncing a verdict. The patient’s life hung on his words. This never unduly worried Dr Raman. He never believed that agreeable words ever saved lives. He did not think it was any of his business to provide comforting lies when as a matter of course nature would tell them the truth in a few hours. However, when he glimpsed the faintest sign of hope, he rolled up his sleeve and stepped into the arena: it might be hours or days, but he never withdrew till he wrested the prize from Yama’s hands.

  Today, standing over a bed, the doctor felt that he himself needed someone to tell him soothing lies. He mopped his brow with his kerchief and sat down in the chair beside the bed. On the bed lay his dearest friend in the world: Gopal. They had known each other for forty years now, starting with their kindergarten days. They could not, of course, meet as much as they wanted, each being wrapped in his own family and profession. Occasionally, on a Sunday, Gopal would walk into the consulting room and wait patiently in a corner till the doctor was free. And then they would dine together, see a picture and talk of each other’s life and activities. It was a classic friendship, which endured untouched by changing times, circumstances and activities.

  In his busy round of work, Dr Raman had not noticed that Gopal had not called in for over three months now. He only remembered it when he saw Gopal’s son sitting on a bench in the consulting hall one crowded morning. Dr Raman could not talk to him for over an hour. When he got up and was about to pass on to the operating room, he called up the young man and asked, ‘What brings you here, sir?’ The youth was nervous and shy. ‘Mother sent me here.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Father is ill ...’

  It was an operation day and he was not free till three in the afternoon. He rushed off straight from the clinic to his friend’s house, in Lawley Extension.

  Gopal lay in bed as if in sleep. The doctor stood over him and asked Gopal’s wife, ‘How long has he been in bed?’

  ‘A month and a half, Doctor.’

  ‘Who is attending him?’

  ‘A doctor in the next street. He comes down once in three days and gives him medicine.’

  ‘What is his name?’ He had never heard of him. ‘Someone I don’t know, but I wish he had had the goodness to tell me about it. Why, why couldn’t you have sent me word earlier?’

  ‘We thought you would be busy and did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily.’ They were apologetic and miserable. There was hardly any time to be lost. He took off his coat and opened his bag. He took out an injection tube, the needle sizzled over the stove. The sick man’s wife whimpered in a corner and essayed to ask questions.

  ‘Please don’t ask questions,’ snapped the doctor. He looked at the children, who were watching the sterilizer, and said, ‘Send them all away somewhere, except the eldest.’

  He shot in the drug, sat back in his chair and gazed at the patient’s face for over an hour. The patient still remained motionless. The doctor’s face gleamed with perspiration, and his eyelids drooped with fatigue. The sick man’s wife stood in a corner and watched silently. She asked timidly, ‘Doctor, shall I make some coffee for you?’ ‘No,’ he replied, although he felt famished, having missed his midday meal. He got up and said, ‘I will be back in a few minutes. Don’t disturb him on any account.’ He picked up his bag and went to his car. In a quarter of an hour he was back, followed by an assistant and a nurse. The doctor told the lady of the house, ‘I have to perform an operation.’

  ‘Why, why? Why?’ she asked faintly.

  ‘I will tell you all that soon. Will you leave your son here to help us, and go over to the next house and stay there till I call you?’

  The lady felt giddy and sank down on the floor, unable to bear the strain. The nurse attended to her and led her out.

  At about eight in the evening the patient opened his eyes and stirred slightly in bed. The assistant was overjoyed. He exclaimed enthusiastically, ‘Sir, he will pull through.’ The doctor looked at him coldly and whispered, ‘I would give anything to see him pull through but, but the heart . . .’

  ‘The pulse has improved, sir.’

  ‘Well, well,’ replied the doctor. ‘Don’t trust it. It is only a false flash-up, very common in these cases.’ He ruminated for a while and added, ‘If the pulse keeps up till eight in the morning, it will go on for the next forty years, but I doubt very much if we shall see anything of it at all after two tonight.’

  He sent away the assistant and sat beside the patient. At about eleven the patient opened his eyes and smiled at his friend. He showed a slight improvement, he was able to take in a little food. A great feeling of relief and joy went through the household. They swarmed around the doctor and poured out their gratitude. He sat in his seat beside the bed, gazing sternly at the patient’s face, hardly showing any signs of hearing what they were saying to him. The sick man’s wife asked, ‘Is he now out of danger?’ Without turning his head the doctor said, ‘Give glucose and brandy every forty minutes; just a couple of spoons will do.’ The lady went away to the kitchen. She felt restless. She felt she must know the truth whatever it was. Why was the great man so evasive? The suspense was unbearable. Perhaps he could not speak so near the patient’s bed. She beckoned to him from the kitchen doorway. The doctor rose and went over. She asked, ‘What about him now? How is he?’ The doctor bit his lips and replied, looking at the floor, ‘Don’t get excited. Unless you must know about it, don’t ask now.’ Her eyes opened wide in terror. She clasped her hands together and implored, ‘Tell me the truth.’ The doctor replied, ‘I would rather not talk to you now.’ He turned round and went back to his chair. A terrible wailing shot through the still house; the patient stirred and looked about in bewilderment. The doctor got up again, went over to the kitchen door, drew it in secure
ly and shut off the wail.

  When the doctor resumed his seat the patient asked in the faintest whisper possible, ‘Is that someone crying?’ The doctor advised, ‘Don’t exert yourself. You mustn’t talk.’ He felt the pulse. It was already agitated by the exertion. The patient asked, ‘Am I going? Don’t hide it from me.’ The doctor made a deprecating noise and sat back in his chair. He had never faced a situation like this. It was not in his nature to whitewash. People attached great value to his word because of that. He stole a look at the other. The patient motioned a finger to draw him nearer and whispered, ‘I must know how long I am going to last. I must sign the will. It is all ready. Ask my wife for the despatch box. You must sign as a witness.’

  ‘Oh!’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘You are exerting yourself too much. You must be quieter.’ He felt idiotic to be repeating it. ‘How fine it would be,’ he reflected, ‘to drop the whole business and run away somewhere without answering anybody any question!’ The patient clutched the doctor’s wrist with his weak fingers and said, ‘Ramu, it is my good fortune that you are here at this moment. I can trust your word. I can’t leave my property unsettled. That will mean endless misery for my wife and children. You know all about Subbiah and his gang. Let me sign before it is too late. Tell me . . .’

  ‘Yes, presently,’ replied the doctor. He walked off to his car, sat in the back seat and reflected. He looked at his watch. Midnight. If the will was to be signed, it must be done within the next two hours, or never. He could not be responsible for a mess there; he knew the family affairs too well and about those wolves, Subbiah and his gang. But what could he do? If he asked him to sign the will, it would virtually mean a death sentence and destroy the thousandth part of a chance that the patient had of survival. He got down from the car and went in. He resumed his seat in the chair. The patient was staring at him appealingly. The doctor said to himself, ‘If my word can save his life, he shall not die. The will be damned.’ He called, ‘Gopal, listen.’ This was the first time he was going to do a piece of acting before a patient, simulate a feeling and conceal his judgement. He stooped over the patient and said, with deliberate emphasis, ‘Don’t worry about the will now. You are going to live. Your heart is absolutely sound.’ A new glow suffused the patient’s face as he heard it. He asked in a tone of relief, ‘Do you say so? If it comes from your lips it must be true . . .’ The doctor said, ‘Quite right. You are improving every second. Sleep in peace. You must not exert yourself on any account. You must sleep very soundly. I will see you in the morning.’ The patient looked at him gratefully for a moment and then closed his eyes. The doctor picked up his bag and went out, shutting the door softly behind him.

  On his way home he stopped for a moment at his hospital, called out his assistant and said, ‘That Lawley Extension case. You might expect the collapse any second now. Go there with a tube of———in hand, and give it in case the struggle is too hard at the end. Hurry up.’

  Next morning he was back at Lawley Extension at ten. From his car he made a dash for the sick bed. The patient was awake and looked very well. The assistant reported satisfactory pulse. The doctor put his tube to his heart, listened for a while and told the sick man’s wife, ‘Don’t look so unhappy, lady. Your husband will live to be ninety.’ When they were going back to the hospital, the assistant sitting beside him in the car asked, ‘Is he going to live, sir?’

  ‘I will bet on it. He will live to be ninety. He has turned the corner. How he has survived this attack will be a puzzle to me all my life,’ replied the doctor.

  GATEMAN’S GIFT

  When a dozen persons question openly or slyly a man’s sanity, he begins to entertain serious doubts himself. This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh. And you could not blame the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered postal envelope and asked, ‘Please tell me what there is inside?’ The obvious answer was: ‘Open it and see . . .’ He seemed horrified at this suggestion. ‘Oh, no, no, can’t do it,’ he declared, and moved off to another friend and acquaintance. Everywhere the suggestion was the same, till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said, ‘If you don’t like to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute.’ This was suggested by an ex-compounder who lived in the next street.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Govind Singh. It was explained to him. ‘Where is it?’ He was directed to the City X-ray Institute.

  But before saying anything further about his progress, it would be useful to go back to an earlier chapter in his history. After war service in 1914-18, he came to be recommended for a gatekeeper’s post at Engladia’s. He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick. He gripped the stick and sat down on a stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief’s car pulled up at the gate he stood at attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred, and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coming down the stairs, and rose stiffly and stood at attention, and after he left, the hundreds of staff poured out. The doors were shut; Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase and placed his stick across it. Then he came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him; he could not catch the Manager’s footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards. He was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and muttered, ‘We are very pleased with your work for us, and the company will give you a pension of twelve rupees for life . . .’ Singh clicked his heels, saluted, turned on his heel and went out of the room, his heart brimming with gratitude and pride. This was the second occasion when the great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service. As he had stood at his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m the new gatekeeper, master,’ he had answered. And he spoke again only on this day. Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In Singh’s eyes the chief had acquired a sort of godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god spoke to one only once or twice in a lifetime. In moments of contemplation Singh’s mind dwelt on the words of his master, and on his personality.

  His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him. He ate his food, went out and met a few friends, slept and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned. This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit, walked to his old office and salaamed the accountant at the counter and received his pension. Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down, and saluted him as he got into his car.

  There was a lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure. In this state he made a new discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighbourhood brought to him its little doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it. This discovery pleased him so much that he very soon became absorbed in it. His back yard gave him a plentiful supply of pliant clay, and the carpenter’s shop next to his cousin’s cigarette shop sawdust. He purchased paint for a few annas. And lo! he found his hours gliding. He sat there in the front part of his home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe; all the colours of life were there, all the forms and creatures, but of the size of his middle finger; whole villages and towns were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry th
ere—that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber-vendor; he had the eye of a cartoonist for human faces. Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature reflection of the world; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices, which enhanced their attractiveness. He kept these in his cousin’s shop and they attracted huge crowds every day and sold very briskly. More than from the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he saw admiring crowds clustering around his handiwork.

  On his next pension day he carried to his office a street scene (which he ranked as his best), and handed it over the counter to the accountant with the request: ‘Give this to the Sahib, please!’