Malgudi Days Read online

  He had left his village without any previous thought or plan. If he had continued there he would have carried on the work of his forefathers—namely, tilling the land, living, marrying and ripening in his cornfield and ancestral home. But that was not to be. He had to leave home without telling anyone, and he could not rest till he left it behind a couple of hundred miles. To a villager it is a great deal, as if an ocean flowed between.

  He had a working analysis of mankind’s troubles: marriage, money and the tangles of human ties. Long practice had sharpened his perception. Within five minutes he understood what was wrong. He charged three pies per question and never opened his mouth till the other had spoken for at least ten minutes, which provided him enough stuff for a dozen answers and advices. When he told the person before him, gazing at his palm, ‘In many ways you are not getting the fullest results for your efforts, ’ nine out of ten were disposed to agree with him. Or he questioned: ‘Is there any woman in your family, maybe even a distant relative, who is not well disposed towards you?’ Or he gave an analysis of character: ‘Most of your troubles are due to your nature. How can you be otherwise with Saturn where he is? You have an impetuous nature and a rough exterior.’ This endeared him to their hearts immediately, for even the mildest of us loves to think that he has a forbidding exterior.

  The nuts-vendor blew out his flare and rose to go home. This was a signal for the astrologer to bundle up too, since it left him in darkness except for a little shaft of green light which strayed in from somewhere and touched the ground before him. He picked up his cowrie shells and paraphernalia and was putting them back into his bag when the green shaft of light was blotted out; he looked up and saw a man standing before him. He sensed a possible client and said: ‘You look so careworn. It will do you good to sit down for a while and chat with me.’ The other grumbled some vague reply. The astrologer pressed his invitation; whereupon the other thrust his palm under his nose, saying: ‘You call yourself an astrologer?’ The astrologer felt challenged and said, tilting the other’s palm towards the green shaft of light: ‘Yours is a nature . . .’ ‘Oh, stop that,’ the other said. ‘Tell me something worthwhile . . .’

  Our friend felt piqued. ‘I charge only three pies per question, and what you get ought to be good enough for your money . . .’ At this the other withdrew his arm, took out an anna and flung it out to him, saying, ‘I have some questions to ask. If I prove you are bluffing, you must return that anna to me with interest.’

  ‘If you find my answers satisfactory, will you give me five rupees?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or will you give me eight annas?’

  ‘All right, provided you give me twice as much if you are wrong,’ said the stranger. This pact was accepted after a little further argument. The astrologer sent up a prayer to heaven as the other lit a cheroot. The astrologer caught a glimpse of his face by the match-light. There was a pause as cars hooted on the road, jutka-drivers swore at their horses and the babble of the crowd agitated the semi-darkness of the park. The other sat down, sucking his cheroot, puffing out, sat there ruthlessly. The astrologer felt very uncomfortable. ‘Here, take your anna back. I am not used to such challenges. It is late for me today . . .’ He made preparations to bundle up. The other held his wrist and said, ‘You can’t get out of it now. You dragged me in while I was passing.’ The astrologer shivered in his grip; and his voice shook and became faint. ‘Leave me today. I will speak to you tomorrow.’ The other thrust his palm in his face and said, ‘Challenge is challenge. Go on.’ The astrologer proceeded with his throat drying up. ‘There is a woman . . .’

  ‘Stop,’ said the other. ‘I don’t want all that. Shall I succeed in my present search or not? Answer this and go. Otherwise I will not let you go till you disgorge all your coins.’ The astrologer muttered a few incantations and replied, ‘All right. I will speak. But will you give me a rupee if what I say is convincing? Otherwise I will not open my mouth, and you may do what you like.’ After a good deal of haggling the other agreed. The astrologer said, ‘You were left for dead. Am I right?’

  ‘Ah, tell me more.’

  ‘A knife has passed through you once?’ said the astrologer.

  ‘Good fellow!’ He bared his chest to show the scar. ‘What else?’

  ‘And then you were pushed into a well nearby in the field. You were left for dead.’

  ‘I should have been dead if some passer-by had not chanced to peep into the well,’ exclaimed the other, overwhelmed by enthusiasm. ‘When shall I get at him?’ he asked, clenching his fist.

  ‘In the next world,’ answered the astrologer. ‘He died four months ago in a far-off town. You will never see any more of him.’ The other groaned on hearing it. The astrologer proceeded.

  ‘Guru Nayak—’

  ‘You know my name!’ the other said, taken aback.

  ‘As I know all other things. Guru Nayak, listen carefully to what I have to say. Your village is two days’ journey due north of this town. Take the next train and be gone. I see once again great danger to your life if you go from home.’ He took out a pinch of sacred ash and held it out to him. ‘Rub it on your forehead and go home. Never travel southward again, and you will live to be a hundred.’

  ‘Why should I leave home again?’ the other said reflectively. ‘I was only going away now and then to look for him and to choke out his life if I met him.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘He has escaped my hands. I hope at least he died as he deserved.’ ‘Yes,’ said the astrologer. ‘He was crushed under a lorry.’ The other looked gratified to hear it.

  The place was deserted by the time the astrologer picked up his articles and put them into his bag. The green shaft was also gone, leaving the place in darkness and silence. The stranger had gone off into the night, after giving the astrologer a handful of coins.

  It was nearly midnight when the astrologer reached home. His wife was waiting for him at the door and demanded an explanation. He flung the coins at her and said, ‘Count them. One man gave all that.’

  ‘Twelve and a half annas,’ she said, counting. She was overjoyed. ‘I can buy some jaggery and coconut tomorrow. The child has been asking for sweets for so many days now. I will prepare some nice stuff for her.’

  ‘The swine has cheated me! He promised me a rupee,’ said the astrologer. She looked up at him. ‘You look worried. What is wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  After dinner, sitting on the pyol, he told her, ‘Do you know a great load is gone from me today? I thought I had the blood of a man on my hands all these years. That was the reason why I ran away from home, settled here and married you. He is alive.’

  She gasped. ‘You tried to kill!’

  ‘Yes, in our village, when I was a silly youngster. We drank, gambled and quarrelled badly one day—why think of it now? Time to sleep,’ he said, yawning, and stretched himself on the pyol.

  THE MISSING MAIL

  Though his beat covered Vinayak Mudali Street and its four parallel roads, it took him nearly six hours before he finished his round and returned to the head office in Market Road to deliver accounts. He allowed himself to get mixed up with the fortunes of the persons to whom he was carrying letters. At No. 13, Kabir Street, lived the man who had come halfway up the road to ask for a letter for so many years now. Thanappa had seen him as a youngster, and had watched him day by day greying on the pyol, sitting there and hoping for a big prize to come his way through solving crossword puzzles. ‘No prize yet,’ he announced to him every day. ‘But don’t be disheartened.’ ‘Your interest has been delayed this month somehow,’ he said to another. ‘Your son at Hyderabad has written again, madam. How many children has he now?’ ‘I did not know that you had applied for this Madras job; you haven’t cared to tell me! It doesn’t matter. When I bring you your appointment order you must feed me with coconut payasam.’ And at each of these places he stopped for nearly half an hour. Especially if anyone received money orders, he just settled down quite nicely,
with his bags and bundles spread about him, and would not rise till he gathered an idea of how and where every rupee was going. If it was a hot day he sometimes asked for a tumbler of buttermilk and sat down to enjoy it. Everybody liked him on his beat. He was a part and parcel of their existence, their hopes, aspirations and activities.

  Of all his contacts, the one with which he was most intimately bound up was No. 10, Vinayak Mudali Street. Ramanujam was a senior clerk in the Revenue Division Office, and Thanappa had carried letters to that address for over a generation now. His earliest association with Ramanujam was years and years ago. Ramanujam’s wife was away in the village. A card arrived for Ramanujam. Thanappa, as was his custom, glanced through it at the sorting table itself; and, the moment they were ready to start out, went straight to Vinayak Mudali Street, though in the ordinary course over 150 addresses preceded it. He went straight to Ramanujam’s house, knocked on the door and shouted, ‘Postman, sir, postman.’ When Ramanujam opened it, he said, ‘Give me a handful of sugar before I give you this card. Happy father! After all these years of prayers! Don’t complain that it is a daughter. Daughters are God’s gift, you know . . . Kamakshi—lovely name!’

  ‘Kamakshi,’ he addressed the tall, bashful girl, years later, ‘get your photo ready. Ah so shy! Here is your grandfather’s card asking for your photo. Why should he want it, unless it be . . .’

  ‘The old gentleman writes rather frequently now, doesn’t he, sir?’ he asked Ramanujam, as he handed him his letter and waited for him to open the envelope and go through its contents. Ramanujam looked worried after reading it. The postman asked, ‘I hope it’s good news?’ He leaned against the veranda pillar, with a stack of undelivered letters still under his arm. Ramanujam said, ‘My father-in-law thinks I am not sufficiently active in finding a husband for my daughter. He has tried one or two places and failed. He thinks I am very indifferent . . .’ ‘Elderly people have their own anxiety,’ the postman replied. ‘The trouble is,’ said Ramanujam, ‘that he has set apart five thousand rupees for this girl’s marriage and is worrying me to find a husband for her immediately. But money is not everything . . .’ ‘No, no,’ echoed the postman; ‘unless the destined hour is at hand, nothing can help . . .’

  Day after day for months Thanappa delivered the letters and waited to be told the news. ‘Same old news, Thanappa . . . Horoscopes do not agree . . . They are demanding too much . . . Evidently they do not approve of her appearance.’ ‘Appearance! She looks like a queen. Unless one is totally blind . . .’ the postman retorted angrily. The season would be closing, with only three more auspicious dates, the last being May 20. The girl would be seventeen in a few days. The reminders from her grand-father were becoming fiercer. Ramanujam had exhausted all the possibilities and had drawn a blank everywhere. He looked helpless and miserable. ‘Postman,’ he said, ‘I don’t think there is a son-in-law for me anywhere . . .’

  ‘Oh, don’t utter inauspicious words, sir,’ the postman said. ‘When God wills it . . .’ He reflected for a while and said, ‘There is a boy in Delhi earning two hundred rupees. Makunda of Temple Street was after him. Makunda and you are of the same subcaste, I believe . . .’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘They have been negotiating for months now. Over a hundred letters have passed between them already . . . But I know they are definitely breaking off . . . It is over some money question . . . They have written their last message on a postcard and it has infuriated these people all the more. As if postcards were an instrument of insult! I have known most important communications being written even on picture postcards; when Rajappa went to America two years ago he used to write to his sons every week on picture postcards . . .’ After this digression he came back to the point. ‘I will ask Makunda to give me the horoscope. Let us see . . .’ Next day he brought the horoscope with him. ‘The boy’s parents are also in Delhi, so you can write to them immediately. No time to waste now.’

  A ray of hope touched Ramanujam’s family.

  ‘I have still a hundred letters to deliver, but I came here first because I saw this Delhi postmark. Open it and tell me what they have written,’ said Thanappa. He trembled with suspense. ‘How prompt these people are! So they approve of the photo! Who wouldn’t?’

  ‘A letter every day! I might as well apply for leave till Kamakshi’s marriage is over . . .’ he said another day. ‘You are already talking as if it were coming off tomorrow! God knows how many hurdles we have to cross now. Liking a photo does not prove anything . . .’

  The family council was discussing an important question: whether Ramanujam should go to Madras, taking the girl with him, and meet the party, who could come down for a day from Delhi. The family was divided over the question. Ramanujam, his mother and his wife—none of them had defined views on the question, but yet they opposed each other vehemently.

  ‘We shall be the laughingstock of the town,’ said Ramanujam’s wife, ‘if we take the girl out to be shown round . . .’

  ‘What queer notions! If you stand on all these absurd antiquated formalities, we shall never get anywhere near a marriage. It is our duty to take the girl over even to Delhi if necessary . . .’ ‘It is your pleasure, then; you can do what you please; why consult me? . . .’

  Tempers were at their worst, and no progress seemed possible. The postman had got into the habit of dropping in at the end of his day’s work and joining in the council. ‘I am a third party. Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Sir, please take the train to Madras immediately. What you cannot achieve by a year’s correspondence you can do in an hour’s meeting.’

  ‘Here is a letter from Madras, madam. I am sure it is from your husband. What is the news?’ He handed the envelope to Ramanujam’s wife, and she took it in to read. He said, ‘I have some registered letters for those last houses. I will finish my round and come back . . .’ He returned as promised. ‘Have they met, madam?’

  ‘Yes, Kamakshi’s father has written that they have met the girl, and from their talk Kamakshi’s father infers they are quite willing . . .’

  ‘Grand news! I will offer a coconut to our Vinayaka tonight.’

  ‘But,’ the lady added, half-overwhelmed with happiness and half-worried, ‘there is this difficulty. We had an idea of doing it during next Thai month . . . It will be so difficult to hurry through the arrangements now. But they say that if the marriage is done it must be done on the twentieth of May. If it is postponed the boy can’t marry for three years. He is being sent away for some training . . .’

  ‘The old gentleman is as good as his word,’ the postman said, delivering an insurance envelope to Ramanujam. ‘He has given the entire amount. You can’t complain of lack of funds now. Go ahead. I’m so happy you have his approval. More than their money, we need their blessings, sir. I hope he has sent his heartiest blessings . . .’ ‘Oh, yes, oh, yes,’ replied Ramanujam. ‘My father-in-law seems to be very happy at this proposal.’

  A five-thousand-rupee marriage was a big affair for Malgudi. Ramanujam, with so short a time before him, and none to share the task of arrangements, became distraught. Thanappa placed himself at his service during all his off-hours. He cut short his eloquence, advice and exchanges in other houses. He never waited for anyone to come up and receive the letters. He just tossed them through a window or an open door with a stentorian ‘Letter, sir.’ If they stopped him and asked, ‘What is the matter with you? In such a hurry!’ ‘Yes, leave me alone till the twentieth of May. I will come and squat in your house after that’—and he was off. Ramanujam was in great tension. He trembled with anxiety as the day approached nearer. ‘It must go on smoothly. Nothing should prove a hindrance.’ ‘Do not worry, sir; it will go through happily, by God’s grace. You have given them everything they wanted in cash, presents and style. They are good people . . .’

  ‘It is not about that. It is the very last date for the year. If for some reason some obstruction comes up, it is all finished for ever. The boy goes away for three years. I don’t thin
k either of us would be prepared to bind ourselves to wait for three years.’

  It was four hours past the Muhurtam on the day of the wedding. A quiet had descended on the gathering. The young smart bridegroom from Delhi was seated in a chair under the pandal. Fragrance of sandal, and flowers, and holy smoke hung about the air. People were sitting around the bridegroom talking. Thanappa appeared at the gate loaded with letters. Some young men ran up to him demanding, ‘Postman! Letters?’ He held them off. ‘Get back. I know to whom to deliver.’ He walked over to the bridegroom and held up to him a bundle of letters very respectfully. ‘These are all greetings and blessings from well-wishers, I believe, sir, and my own go with every one of them . . .’ He seemed very proud of performing this task, and looked very serious. The bridegroom looked up at him with an amused smile and muttered, ‘Thanks.’ ‘We are all very proud to have your distinguished self as a son-in-law of this house. I have known that child, Kamakshi, ever since she was a day old, and I always knew she would get a distinguished husband,’ added the postman, and brought his palms together in a salute, and moved into the house to deliver other letters and to refresh himself in the kitchen with tiffin and coffee. Ten days later he knocked on the door and, with a grin, handed Kamakshi her first letter. ‘Ah, scented envelope! I knew it was coming when the mail van was three stations away. I have seen hundreds like this. Take it from me. Before he has written the tenth letter he will command you to pack up and join him, and you will grow a couple of wings and fly away that very day, and forget for ever Thanappa and this street, isn’t it so?’ Kamakshi blushed, snatched the letter from his hands and ran in to read it. He said, turning away, ‘I don’t think there is any use waiting for you to finish the letter and tell me its contents.’