The Painter of Signs Page 8

  ‘No one dare argue with you,’ Raman said, much to the delight of the old man.

  The roof was very low. A narrow corridor went around the shrine and an extra room at a cellar level was the living room of this hermit. An oil-lamp kept burning inside the sanctum and a stone image was visible faintly in that wick-light.

  ‘Go near and see the Goddess. Don’t fear,’ he commanded. ‘ That Goddess is not meant only for women, remember. Even men can worship her if they want to be determined and brave and achieve their objects.’

  ‘But you never mentioned about men, all along. Only women were allowed, I thought.’

  ‘Because they are more earnest about getting the blessing of this Goddess. He! He! He! Men don’t mind remaining imbeciles. Go, go, go near the Goddess and pray for whatever blessing you seek; I’d not normally allow men to enter this temple, but you seem to be an honest fellow. You may go near the Goddess; go and watch the power in her eyes and you will be the better for it.’ Raman stooped through two portals and stood before the image, which was decorated with flowers. The fragrance of flowers and incense hung in the air. The old man stood at the farthest end and cried, ‘Don’t stand moping. Pray to her and express your wish.’ Raman felt overwhelmed by the man’s authority. Still he could not tell him that his aim in life was to establish the Age of Reason, and he could think of no boons to ask of a Goddess. Yet he noticed the benevolence in the eyes of the image and a desire to impart grace. He just mumbled, ‘May Daisy be mine without further delay. I can’t live without her.’

  He turned round and went back to the old man, who grinned at him knowingly. ‘Did you notice the single flower that fell down from the crown? That’s an omen - which means success, but trouble before and after. Did you see that that flower rolled down to her arm first and then the feet and then on to the floor? It it had rested on her arm or lap, it’d have meant a good answer for your prayer. Don’t give up trying, don’t hesitate, you will gain nothing if you brood and mope and waste your time. Mopers will get nowhere in life ... Come here and sit down.’ Raman obeyed him implicitly and squatted on the floor facing him. The hermit sat, completely coiling up his long legs; his fluffy beard fluttered in a draft of air that seemed to be stealing in from somewhere.

  Raman made bold to ask, ‘Tell me about her.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Not when she is not present.’

  Raman cried, ‘I know nothing about her and she won’t talk about her past.’ The man smiled in a sinister manner. ‘Except what you said ... that she had left home when young.’

  ‘That’s all you need to know. And then didn’t I say where she was found?’

  ‘I don’t even know if she is married or not.’

  ‘What does it matter? Do you see a husband around?’

  ‘No. But he may turn up.’

  The old man laughed heartily. ‘H’m. Good reason to worry.’

  Raman felt he was making a fool of himself. There was something in this temple which cowed one and made one prattle. He wanted to assert himself and changed the subject, something to put the other man on the defensive. ‘And so the women who want to pray stay here?’

  ‘What’s that to you?’ asked the old man with a sudden aggressiveness. Raman looked about the semi-dark and lonely hall significantly. The old man said, ‘This Goddess helps women who are childless. Go away, man, you are a bad fellow with evil thoughts.’

  Raman got up, noticing the old man’s change of mood. He seemed to be so undependable. Raman said with a sudden firmness, ‘Will you permit me to write on your outer wall our “No children” message?’

  ‘No,’ said the old man with equal firmness. ‘You evil-minded man. No, no, no, you get out of here first.’ He dramatically held a finger towards the exit, and Raman slunk out shame-faced.

  They realized that the village walls were unsuitable for inscribing on, and decided to leave it over for the present, confining themselves to other forms of propaganda. Daisy wanted to know if any of the rockfaces would be suitable, but Raman became evasive and suggested that they could consider any fresh investigation only after the monsoon. ‘And let us hope that at least from next year they will take care of their birth-rates.’

  Daisy shot a look at him as if to gauge how serious he was. Raman set his face into a grim seriousness. They were all sitting on the teacher’s pyol ready for departure. They had spent three days in this camp and were partially satisfied with the work done. The hermit’s attack still rankled in her mind. ‘I fear we have to contend against that man’s propaganda.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about him. He understands what goes on everywhere.’

  ‘Why should one be afraid?’ Daisy asked. ‘We are all working for a cause that’s of national importance. I wish I could talk to him. I am sure he would be convinced.’

  ‘I’m telling you that he knows all that is said and done anywhere. Not necessary to go and speak to him again.’

  ‘Oh, master, you must rise above all such superstitious fears.’

  ‘Let us talk of something else,’ said the teacher, and rose to leave. They had to walk back the three or four miles to the highway and hope for a bus or a lorry to pick them up. The teacher was to escort them up to a point. His wife had packed rice, curds, vegetables, and other eatables for their lunch and dinner. She had grown attached to Daisy, and became sentimental at her departure. There were tears in her eyes, and her children stood around rather overawed by the scene of parting.

  Daisy looked at them critically. ‘Don’t suck your thumb, take it out, otherwise you will stammer,’ she said to one. To another one she said, ‘Stand erect, don’t slouch.’ She turned to their mother and added, ‘Correct posture is important. Children must be taught all this early in life.’ She was a born mentor, could not leave others alone, children had better not be born, but if born, must take their thumbs out of their mouths and avoid slouching. She somehow did not have any advice to offer the elders. She just looked at them as if to say, Behave yourselves, and bade the family good-bye. Raman never took his eyes off her even for a moment, fascinated by her positive manner and talk. He smiled and muttered his thanks in the midst of this babble, addressing himself to no one in particular, and stepped out. The teacher led the way mutely. A few villagers stood aside to watch them go and murmured among themselves, ‘The doctor is leaving,’ almost with relief. They would not have to feel apologetic any more for being fathers and mothers.

  She had many words of advice, cautions, and precautions for the teacher when they reached the main road on the hill. The teacher looked intimidated by Daisy’s manner. She spoke as if he’d be held responsible for any birth occurring in the village. ‘We will be delayed by the onset of the monsoon, but we will definitely be here as soon as possible after that,’ she said half-menacingly. Raman looked at the teacher as if wondering how this frail man was going to prevent the seven-hundred-odd men and women from ever coming together. What a task she was levying on this poor man!

  They waited in the shade of a tree at the cross-roads. The teacher said, ‘The bus should be here any minute.’ He repeated this message every few minutes in order to keep up the morale. Daisy sat on a boulder as if it were a throne. Her imperious manner both charmed and frightened Raman. In her previous incarnation, she must have been Queen Victoria, or in a still earlier incarnation Rani Jhansi, the warrior queen of Indian history. The air throbbed with the sound of a distant bus. A family of monkeys on a fig tree a few feet away chattered, the youngest one performing trapeze acts holding on to his mother’s dangling tail, while she combed the male monkey’s back for lice with her finger-nails. The family looked down on the human beings assembled below. The teacher hung about uncertainly. He was showing slight signs of restlessness. Perhaps he wanted to get back home, and not wait indefinitely for the bus, but was afraid to say so. The company was becoming dull and strained. Raman moved about aimlessly. He was getting tired of watching the shimmering horizon; his aesthetic sensibilities were deadened so that he was
not particularly thrilled by the sky and the mountain and the valleys and gorges or the ravines - he sighed for the bustle and noise of the Ellaman Street corner, around the Chettiar shop. He strolled up to the fig tree to watch the monkeys. He went back to Daisy as she sat on her throne with her thoughts, while the teacher stood a little apart, respectfully, like a courtier. Raman watched the teacher’s face; it was evident that he had been talked to on a variety of subjects, and now a phase of silence seemed to prevail. Raman breezily declared, ‘Did you see the monkeys on the tree?’ She looked up without much interest in the direction and looked down again, saying nothing. Raman felt an impulse to make a humorous comment about the family matters of monkeys, but could not pluck up enough courage to do so. He noted that she looked rather dry and her lips looked powdery, ashen, and as if they would crack like the ground in a sun-baked desert. He suggested solicitously, ‘A drink of water?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘We have to use it sparingly.’

  ‘Might we not finish our lunch?’

  ‘I’m more keen on a bus,’ she said with a condescending humour, feeling perhaps it was time to relax. Somehow today she seemed to have decided to conduct herself in a queenly manner in the presence of the teacher, who looked crushed and submissive; although on the pyol of his house he had ventured to be so argumentative. Raman thought, Every person is so much a part of his background — take him away from it and he becomes limp and featureless.

  ‘Where is the bus we heard?’

  ‘Must have been a lorry going down somewhere else,’ replied the teacher.

  ‘You have no idea of the bus timings?’

  ‘Some days they are irregular and don’t come at all.’

  ‘And so?’

  He blinked as if caught in a trap. ‘If the bus is delayed today - it should have arrived by this time. A bullock-cart may be found. I’ll go down the lower road and get one from the village. They generally avoid this road because of its gradient.’ At a nod from Daisy, he slipped down the slope, and soon disappeared round a bend. Raman again suggested lunch. They opened one packet and ate in silence. The second packet was for the night. A drink of water after it, and he felt refreshed, and he also noticed that Daisy looked better now.

  Eventually, around four o’clock, the bullock-cart rumbled in from somewhere and the teacher jumped out of it. ‘Teacher, you must be starving, we’ve had our lunch,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I have eaten at the village.’

  It was a mat-covered wagon, drawn by a white bull with small bells around its neck which jingled when it moved. A little time was spent in arguing about the fare. The teacher said, ‘I have fixed him for four rupees, and he will take you to Koppal, where you can take the bus for Malgudi Town.’

  The cart-driver, an old man who continuously swore at the animal, stared at his passengers while they climbed into the cart, and said, ‘I always like to take in newlyweds. If it had been someone else, I’d not have accepted this trip for less than six rupees, not a paisa less. The price of hay is going up. I am not the sort of person who’ll let his animals feed on roadside trees. That way you can shorten the beast’s life — “beast” - did I say “beast”? I don’t like the word, it’s a cruel and insulting word for a living creature. I smashed the eyes and nose of a fellow who called me “beast” once. Today I’m like this, but when I was young, oh, God, it looks like another Janma, and yet it’s so clear before my mind like a picture, my son was so little that he sat on my lap and held the reins and drove the bullocks himself; what a noise he’d make with his tongue, that’d make the animals gallop, I tell you. So small, just the size of the whip-handle but he could drive the bulls mad. But I didn’t want him to be a driver of bulls. I wanted him to study, the teacher in our village said that he would be the most intelligent boy in the country ...’ The old man went on talking all through the journey, to the tune of the jingling bells.

  Raman occasionally interrupted whenever he felt that the old man should give rest to his vocal cords. ‘Where is that son now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the old man said. ‘He went away to the town and worked in a factory, and won’t remember us any more.’ Raman wanted to inquire if he was married and how many children and so forth, but he avoided the topic as he did not like to stir up Daisy. The old man, just as an encouragement to the young couple, expatiated on the virtues of married life. He said, ‘I lost four wives, but never remained without one at any time. I tell you, there is no greater joy than a wife for a man. My fifth wife — ’

  ‘How many children?’ Raman asked, rather involuntarily.

  ‘Not more than four from each - God gives us children, and who are we to say no to Him?’ Luckily, Daisy was in a drowse leaning back on the mat-covered side, and Raman managed to change the topic.

  At some point Daisy woke up to inquire, ‘We are still on the road? What time is it?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Let us get into a bus, if one comes up.’

  ‘No bus here,’ the cartman added. ‘What’s wrong with this carriage? Are you unhappy in it?’ They were not. There was a layer of straw and a carpet over it - very cosy - and it had an agreeably musty smell about it. They went down the mountain road and finally reached the highway from the Mempi Hills leading to the towns in the plains, passing through a fine avenue lined with palmyra and coconut trees. The ride in the cart seemed to create an intimacy; with so little space between them, the barriers between them seemed to be falling. Daisy became more communicative. Raman realized that her communicative phase was reviving now and made the best of it. She presented a stiff, frozen personality when performing a public duty or talking to people like the teacher; once that was over, her normal charm returned, the kind of face she had presented when she opened the door for him at Number Seven, Third Cross. He loved her now unreservedly. When he stole a glance at her, his heart beat fast. He did a little introspection and said to himself, It’s the same person I saw in the village, and have been seeing here and there, the tight lipped monomaniac, but now what is it in her that is sending my heart racing? Silly ... But he could not help it. He wanted to go on talking to her, go on hearing her voice; but the only topics she could appreciate were birth-control, population, and allied subjects! There was no use talking to her about weather, political crises, or economic theories. She just turned a deaf ear to all other themes! No use involving her in a conversation even about music, or culture, or philosophy. She either did not care for such things, or deliberately hardened herself against them, in order, probably, not to lose her concentration. She was like a yogi with his eyes fixed on the centre of his nose, seeing nothing else in life. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered as long as she was there, and remained herself, with that aroma of some strange herb, perhaps some little hair oil — but he had never seen her grooming herself, never seen her spending any time before a mirror. But then, he reflected, how could he know what she did when she shut the door of whatever room she might happen to be in at the moment? His imagination wallowed in speculation of all.that she might do in the privacy of room, dressing or washing.

  At some point, the cartman was good enough to ask him to move back a little, to the centre of the carriage, in order to keep the balance on the axle; otherwise the cart tilted forward. It was a welcome suggestion, as it placed him nearer to her fragrant presence. He desperately wanted to establish union with her, at least verbally. He realized that the best policy would be to adopt the look of a simple-minded inquirer seeking illumination. She would definitely love to behave like a guru for such a disciple. As a first step this would be excellent. Once it was established, he could go on to the next stage. It’d not be necessary to stay on birth-control forever. He could gradually touch upon other matters, he could reveal himself in all his nakedness. Nakedness? Why did this word creep in now, he wondered. It was inevitable under the present circumstances. No one could prohibit him the use of that expression. Presently, assuming a most innocent look he remarked, ‘There are some questions about the us
e of certain types of contraceptives which I have never understood.’

  She sat up, coming out of a torpor induced by the movement of the carriage, and asked over the din of the wheels, ‘What in particular is it that you want to know about?’

  He didn’t expect to be cross-examined thus. He mumbled, ‘I always wanted to know whenever you talked about it, but I didn’t wish to interrupt you.’

  ‘That’s all right. What is it you want to know?’

  He had now to come out with it, and mentioned some vague point, which sounded so naive that she began to laugh. First time in many days. She laughed so loudly that the cartman turned round, nodded his head knowingly, and turned away to face the road once again.

  She said, ‘I hope you know enough physiology to follow any explanation?’

  Raman felt caught, he did not know whether to say yes or no. If he said yes she might begin to think ill of him, or if he said no she might take him to be a simpleton without any knowledge about the world. This was the lesser of the two evils.

  ‘Well, how could I be expected to know so much of this subject? Of course, some amount of physiology learnt in the classroom long ago and also some general knowledge picked up here and there. But it’s somewhat limited, naturally.’

  ‘Are you so innocent?’ she asked.

  He wondered if he should begin a confession! How that tall college girl of his class once enticed him, when they had gone on a holiday camp, to sneak behind an abandoned shed, while others were busy. And then ... only two other instances, mere calf-love and infructuous attempts at love-making, nothing of consequence or importance. Best not to speak of it now. She might lose trust in him. He pretended total ignorance of the entire subject; giving himself a saintly aura on the whole.