The Painter of Signs

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Part One

  Part Two

  Part Three

  Part Four

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  PENGUIN TWENTIETH-CENTURY CLASSICS

  THE PAINTER OF SIGNS

  R. K. Narayan was born in Madras, South India, and educated there and at Maharaja’s College in Mysore. His first novel, Swami and Friends (1935), and its successor, The Bachelor of Arts (1937), are both set in the enchanting fictional territory of Malgudi. Other ‘Malgudi’ novels are The Dark Room (1938), The English Teacher (1945), Mr Sampath (1949), The Financial Expert (1952), Waiting for the Mahatma (1955), The Man-Eater of Malgudi (1961), The Vendor of Sweets (1967), The Painter of Signs (1977), A Tiger for Malgudi (1983) and Talkative Man (1986). His novel The Guide (1958) won him the National Prize of the Indian Literary Academy, his country’s highest literary honour. As well as five collections of short stories, A Horse and Two Goats, An Astrologer’s Day and Other Stories, Lawley Road, Malgudi Days and Under the Banyan Tree, he has published two travel books, My Dateless Diary and The Emerald Route; four volumes of essays, Next Saturday, Reluctant Guru, A Story-teller’s World and A Writer’s Nightmare; the retold legends, Gods, Demons and Others, The Ramayana and The Mahabharata; a volume of memoirs, My Days; and a collection of three novellas, The Grandmother’s Tale. In 1980 he was awarded the A. C. Benson Medal by the Royal Society of Literature and in 1982 he was made an Honorary Member of the American Academy and Institute of Arts and Letters. Many of his books are published by Penguin.

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

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  First published in the USA by The Viking Press 1976

  First published in Canada by The Macmillan Company of Canada Ltd 1976

  First published in Great Britain by William Heinemann Ltd 1977

  Published in Penguin Books 1982

  Copyright © R. K. Narayan, 1976

  eISBN : 978-0-143-03966-2

  All rights reserved

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Part One

  Raman’s was the last house in Ellaman Street; a little door on the back wall opened, beyond a stretch of sand, to the river. He would lay out a plank of wood brushed over with black or white base and leave it out to dry, on the sand. This was a fairly untroubled work spot, the granite steps where bathers congregated being further down the river; but for some goatherd who might peep over the wall, no one disturbed his peace; occasionally, however, if he was careless, a strong breeze blowing from the river sprayed sand particles on his wet board. He had had trouble, a couple of months before, with a lawyer who was setting up his office in Kabir Street, and who had ordered his nameboard to be delivered on a certain auspicious day.

  Earlier, Raman had been button-holed by the lawyer at the market gate.

  ’The very man I was looking for,’ said the lawyer, holding him up. He had undergone a correspondence course in law. ‘I must give you the happy news just received: I have passed the law, and I want your help to get my nameboard done immediately.’

  ’Certainly, I’m at your service,’ said Raman.

  ’I knew you would help me,’ said the lawyer. ‘I want it before eleven a.m. on Thursday.’

  ’Impossible,’ said Raman. ‘I want at least five days - drying takes time ...’ He felt desperate, having to explain to man after man how one had to allow time for paint to dry. No one understood the importance of this.

  The lawyer said, ‘Come on, let us have coffee. I must explain.’ They were jostled by the evening crowd at the market gate. Pushing his bicycle along, Raman followed him into the restaurant across the street, from where emanated not only the flavour of frying oil but also loud film music from a radio fixed to the wall. They sat at a table. The lawyer beckoned to a boy who was darting about the tables, and bawled his order over the din of clattering cups and film music. Sipping coffee, the prospective lawyer said, ‘I must have the board absolutely on Thursday before eleven. I should not miss that time.’

  ’Why not?’ Raman asked.

  ’My astrologer says so. Please, you must ...’ He leaned forward and shouted over the noise, ‘I am not taking a refusal from you. What’ll you charge?’

  ’Thirty rupees for three lines minimum, one three-by-one-and-a-half plank, including nailing.’

  ’Show some concession, please. I’m just starting on my career.’

  ’Materials alone will cost about eighteen rupees ‘ began Raman.

  ’I like the letters to be slanted a little,’ the lawyer said.

  Here is the fellow, with nothing settled but talks of style, thought Raman. ‘Impossible,’ he cried, having his own notions of calligraphy suitable for a lawyer. ‘Slanting letters are suitable only for oil-merchants and soap-sellers.’

  The lawyer became insistent. Raman tried to explain his philosophy of calligraphy. ‘Sir, listen to me. The letters on a lawyer’s board must always stand up proudly, and not lie supine. Head erect.’ The man repeated his specification. Raman felt that he needed enlightenment and launched on fierce dialectics; persons seated at other tables suspended their own arguments to watch the fun here.

  ’You are going to be a lawyer, not a kerosene-merchant,’ said Raman.

  The other replied, undaunted, ‘I want the letters to be slanted, to the left - otherwise it will be of no use to me.’

  Raman’s curiosity got the better of him, and he asked, ‘What makes you so firm?’

  ’It’s my astrologer again, who believes that a left slant is auspicious for my ruling star, which is Saturn.’

  Raman was upset. All day long he was engaged in arguing with his old aunt who advised him to do this or that according to the stars. He was determined to establish the Age of Reason in the world. ’I want a rational explanation for everything,’ he cried. ‘Otherwise my mind refuses to accept any statement.’ He was bursting with self declarations. ‘I’m a rationalist, and I don’t do anything unless I see some logic in it.’

  The lawyer, born to controvert all statements, said, ‘What more logic do you want than that I’m paying for it? And I want it that way and the slanting letters to be shaded; that’s all there is to it. What more do you want than that?’

  ’That sounds pretty convincing,’ Raman cried, holding out his hand. ‘Don’t forget that no money has passed yet, and the command is premature.’ The lawyer dramatically pulled out his purse and gave him a ten-rupee note. Raman said, ‘Make it twenty. I have to buy the wooden plank and paint. You may pay the balance on delivery.’

  ’On Thursday before eleven,’ emphasized the man once more, and they rose to leave. Before they parted at the junction of Kabir Street, Raman asked again, ‘So you don’t mind the oil-monger style?’

  ’I go by what my astrologer says,’ said the lawyer. ‘Saves a lot of trouble that way.’

  ’I prefer to think for myself,’ Raman said before turning his cycle round homeward. ‘All our great minds, from Valluva
r down to Bernard Shaw and Einstein, say ...’

  ’Say what?’ asked the lawyer, pausing.

  ’I couldn’t quote,’ Raman said, ‘even if I were the author of those sentiments, but I’ll copy them down for you some day.’

  ’Before eleven on Thursday, at least half an hour before. Must have time to fix it on the wall.’

  Raman worked feverishly until late on Wednesday night, and on Thursday he cycled up to Kabir Street carrying the sign-board in a wrapping, tied to the cycle cross-bar. The lawyer had given a grand setting to his inauguration, with his threshold strung with mango leaves. Only a pipe and band and a bride missing to make it a wedding celebration, Raman reflected.

  The lawyer had invited some guests, who were being received by his aged father and seated on a carpet in the passage amidst incense, holy fire, and a lot of chanting by a group of priests. The scent of jasmine pervaded the air. Numerous children chased each other about noisily. The lawyer himself was in a state of holiness, draped in red silk, forehead blazoned with vermilion and sandal paste. He had gone hoarse reciting holy verse all through the morning. Raman leaned his bicycle on the lamp-post beside the gutter in front of the house and was locking up its wheels when someone from within the house cried, ‘No need to lock the cycle, we are all here ...’

  What if you are there? commented Raman inaudibly. Who are you? How do I know that you won’t steal the cycle yourself? He inserted the chain between the spokes and clicked the lock, saying to himself, Now this is better. If a chap wants to steal, he will have to carry the bicycle on his head because the wheels won’t roll now. He untied the sign-board from the cross-bar of his bicycle and carried it in delicately. At the sight of him several people cried, ‘The board has come, the board has come!’

  ’Leave way!’ shouted the lawyer, who became excited at the sight of it.

  Raman pointed triumphantly at the hands of his wrist watch. ’Ten-thirty means ten-thirty in my dictionary.’

  ’I was anxious whether it’d come in time, if it had been late ...’

  A tufted priest came up to remark, ‘The essence lies in correct timing, a minute this way or that can make all the difference between a millionaire and a mendicant.’

  ’Be scientific, please, scientific,’ Raman tried to say, but felt distracted when several hands reached for the board. He held off, warning everyone, ‘Not yet, not yet. Still not dry. The letter “A” with all that amount of shading on its side will take time to dry. Don’t touch “A” whatever you may do.’ He held up the plank, lifting a corner of the plastic wrap to afford a glimpse of the writing on it to the lawyer.

  ’Ah!’ cried the lawyer, ‘I hope it’s perfect. That slant, I mean.’

  Raman spurned the man’s anxiety about the angle of the letters and his esoteric theories, and merely said, ‘You will not miss anything you have asked for. Let me first nail it up properly. Tell me where you want it.’

  ’I have kept some nails -’ began the lawyer.

  ’Keep them,’ said Raman. ‘I provide the nails and also the services of a hammer for hitting them on the head.’ He indicated a bag, slung on his shoulder, with the bust of Gandhi printed in green dye on it. He found himself surrounded by an admiring crowd. They’ll probably ask for my autograph soon, Raman thought. Why should they gape at me like this? Nothing else to do ... hundreds and thousands of people in this town have nothing better to do than watch, watch, watch and gape, all day.

  The parched old man, the lawyer’s father, said over the babble, ’You may start nailing up in a quarter of an hour.’ The lawyer and his two cousins became suddenly very active and effusive, and gently propelled Raman towards the kitchen, saying, ‘Coffee and idli for this man.’ They shouted, ‘Idli for one,’ into the kitchen. A group of little boys and girls followed him wherever he went. Out of the smoke-filled kitchen, a woman emerged blowing her nose and wiping her eyes, bearing on a little banana leaf two white idlis, tinted with red chilli-powder and oil; at the sight of this, Raman felt hungry. He had had no respite since the morning to think of breakfast, although his old aunt had gone on inquiring from her kitchen, ‘What do you like to have? You have eaten nothing today.’ He had ignored her, as he had to concentrate on the finishing of the board. Now, he carefully placed the board against the wall, ate the two idlis, and after washing them down with coffee served in a brass cup, felt revived, though he felt like announcing, This coffee is too dilute. Not the way it should be made. Anyway, you give it at a scalding temperature, which benumbs the tongue and one can’t notice what one is consuming. But your idli is light and up to the mark, thank you all.

  Every little movement of his and every word that he uttered were being watched by a zealous crowd; he only hoped that they would not read his thoughts. He was aware that he had of late got into the habit of communicating on two planes - audibly and inaudibly at the same time. Through the open roof of the courtyard, smoke from the holy fire was escaping with the unholy fire from the kitchen. Raman thought, They are blinding that poor lady, whoever she may be, who is manufacturing the idlis in that black hole of a kitchen. A row of crows sat on the parapet waiting to dive at any edible within sight. Children kept up an unvarying noise level. The heat and congestion were oppressive, and Raman wished he could flee, leaving the nailing to others. But that would be against his professional practice. He liked to hang up a sign properly. He thought, Some people are so dense that they might hang a thing upside down and then blame the sign-board painter for writing the letters upside down!

  The parched old man came up to him with the chief priest, ordered the children, ‘Get out of the way, brats.’ He was getting excited at the approach of the auspicious moment. Raman briskly got up and followed the old man out. He said, ‘This is where it must be,’ pointing at an outer wall. Raman now unwound the wrapping, held the board against the wall, made a pencil mark, and plied the hammer. He ignored the assembly, and the street-hawkers and passersby who paused to watch the proceedings. The priest stretched a jasmine garland across the board, touched it with sandal paste, recited something aloud, commanding the lawyer to repeat after him, circled a camphor, and sounded a bell all at once. Several women emerged from various corners of the house and congratulated the new lawyer. All this was staged on a narrow space between the wall of the house and the edge of a gutter.

  Tears filled the eyes of the parched old man. ‘We come of a family of judges and lawyers. That’s why I was so keen my son should become a lawyer. Now these are not outsiders or guests — but members of my own family. We are six brothers, and these are nephews and grandchildren.’

  Someone turned on gramophone music inside that congested house. A note of discord was struck when the lawyer suddenly said after touching the surface of the board, ‘What’s this? Dirt? Am I to start my career with dirt on my name?’ Raman looked puzzled, and then felt panicky at the sudden threat of a crisis. He wanted to remain non-committal as long as possible and for a moment wished he could hop on his bicycle and run away. The crowd became silent, just waiting to see what interesting developments would follow. Meanwhile the lawyer had taken hold of Raman’s hand and was navigating him closer to the board. Raman snapped his hand free as if he were being asked to touch fire and cried, ‘Careful! Four “A”s are still wet. You don’t want them to become smears, do you? Thank God you are not a barrister-at-law, otherwise there would have been three more “A”s, and with your passion for slanting and shading the stroke we’d never have got anywhere with this programme.’

  The auspicious plans seemed to have suddenly come to a halt. Even the gramophone inside ceased, and a bunch of young men, students of the local college, admirers of hippie philosophies, as evident from their side-burns and check shirts, came out to see what was going on, adding to the circle of watchers. Arguments were proceeding apace. The lawyer asked, ‘Do you want me to start my career with dirt on my name?’

  You are bound to have it sooner or later, why not now? But aloud Raman said with a forced laugh, running his
finger over the surface of the board, ‘Oh! This is not dirt, only river sand, to give it a stucco effect.’

  ’What’s stucco?’ asked the lawyer challengingly.

  A hippie-like youth came out to explain, ‘Don’t you know, uncle? Latest in architectural surfaces.’ He was a student of engineering.

  Bless your enlightened mind. May your side-burns flourish! thought Raman. Nodding a thanks to the fellow, ‘You look like Robert Louis Stevenson, Faraday, and a host of other celebrities to be seen only in our ancient schoolbooks.’

  ’I never asked for it,’ said the lawyer. ‘I don’t want to pay for a lot of sand on my first board.’ Raman understood how it must have happened. While giving the final touches to the board at his back yard, he had felt cool and grateful for a sudden gust of wind from the river, but it had brought along a minute pinch of sand and scattered it all over the wet white base.

  A sudden sense of fair play seized Raman, and he said, ‘I’ll write another one for you. Keep this one for the day, because you should not miss the good time.’ The tension in the air suddenly relaxed. People stirred on the margin of the gutter and made way for Raman to move.

  The old father came up with the chief priest and said, ‘Yes, that’s what I also wanted to suggest; but after all we are old-fashioned, and I don’t know modern fashions. Yes, what’s done is God’s will and we must leave it alone.’

  ’But I will replace it soon,’ said Raman, fumbling for his cycle-key.

  The lawyer said, ‘Of course, that’s all right. But don’t go away yet.’ He commanded one of his nephews, ‘Give him coconut and leaves.’ They brought a pink paper bag stuffed with a coconut and betel leaves and held it out to him, which meant that the honoured guest could now depart.