'There is no other way, Editor. We can't repeat our last night's performance next week or the week after that. The readers have got to know the position; isn't that so? Good-night or good-morning, sir.' He turned and went away, and Srinivas dully watched him go, his brain too tired to think. He heaved a sigh and set his face homeward.

The following days proved dreary. Srinivas left for his office punctually as usual every day. He took his seat, went through the mail, and sat till the evening making notes regarding the future of The Banner. Sampath was hardly to be seen. The room below was locked up and there was no sign of him. Srinivas hardly had the heart to open his letters. He could anticipate what they would contain. He did not have a very large circle of readers; but the few that read the paper were very enthusiastic. They complained: 'Dear Editor: It's a pity that you should be suspending the journal. Our weekend has become so blank without it.' He felt flattered and unhappy. His brother wrote from Talapur: 'I was quite taken aback to see your slip. Why've you suspended your journal indefinitely? Have you found it financially impossible? Is that likely to be the secret?' Srinivas felt indignant. Why did these people assume that a journal was bound to land itself in financial difficulties as if that alone were the chief item? He wrote back indignantly a letter saying that financially it was all right, quite sound, and nobody need concern himself with it. He folded the letter and put it in an envelope. He put it away for posting, and went on to answer another letter and to say that The Banner would resume publication in a very short time; he wrote the same message to another and another. They piled up on one side of his untidy table. It was midday when he finished writing the letters. He looked at them again, one by one, as if revising, and told himself: 'What eyewash and falsehood! I'm not going to post these.' He tore up the letters and flung them into the wastepaper basket. His letter to his brother alone remained on the table. He went through it and was now assailed by doubts. He put it away and took out his accounts ledger. This was an aspect of the work to which he had paid the least attention. He now examined it page by page, and great uneasiness seized him. He picked up a sheet of paper and wrote on it: 'Mr Editor,' addressing himself, 'why are you deluding yourself? An account-book cannot lie unless you are a big business man and want to write it up for the benefit of the income-tax department. The Banner ledgers have no such grandeur about them. They are very plain and truthful. You have neglected the accounts completely. Your printer alone must be thanked for keeping you free from all worries regarding it. He was somehow providing the paper and printing off the sheets and dispatching copies. You received the money orders and disposed of the receipts in every eccentric way sometimes paying the legitimate bills, more often paying off your rent and domestic bills. The printer has been too decent to demand his money, and so let it accumulate, taking it only when he was paid. I've a great suspicion that all his trouble with his staff was due to The Banner, it being almost the major work he did, and without getting any returns for it. If it is so, Mr Editor, your responsibility is very great in this affair. You have got to do something about it. I remain, yours truthfully, Srinivas.'

He folded it and put it in an envelope, pasted the flap, and wrote on it: 'To Mr Sampath, for favour of perusal.' He put the letter in his pocket and got up. He took his upper-cloth from the nail on the wall, flung it over his shoulders and set out. He locked the room and went downstairs, his heart missing a beat at the sight of the bright brass lock on the front door of the press. He crossed Kabir Lane and entered the Market Road. It was midday and the sun was beating down fiercely. A few cars and buses drove along the road, stirring up the hot afternoon dust. The languor of the afternoon lay upon the place. Some of the shops in the market were closed, the owners having gone home for a nap. The fountain of the market square sparkled in the sun, rising in weak spurts; a few mongrels lay curled up at the market gate, a couple of women sat there with their baskets, a workman was sitting under a tree munching a handful of groundnuts he had bought from the women. Srinivas felt suddenly drowsy, catching the spirit of the hour himself. It was as if he were breathing in the free air of the town for the first time, for the first time opening his eyes to its atmosphere. He suddenly realized what a lot he had missed in life and for so long, cooped up in that room. 'The death of a journal has compensations,' he reflected. 'For instance, how little did I know of life at this hour!' He toyed with the idea of going to the river for a plunge. 'I had nearly forgotten the existence of the river.' He hesitated, as he came before the National Stores. He would have to turn to his right here and cross into Ellaman Street if he were going to the river, but that would take him away from his destination, which was Sampath's house at New Extension. He had two miles to go along the South Road. He felt suddenly very tired and his head throbbed faintly through the glare from the bleached roads; a couple of cars and lorries passed, stirring up a vast amount of dust, which hung like mist in the air. He saw a jutka coming in his direction, the horse limping along under the weight of the carriage. He called: 'Here, jutka, will you take me to Lawley Extension?' The jutka- man, who had a red dhoti around his waist and a towel tied round his head, with nothing over his brown body, was almost asleep with the bamboo whip tucked under his arm. He started up at the call of 'Jutka!' and pulled the reins.

'Will you take me to Lawley Extension?' Srinivas repeated. He looked at Srinivas doubtfully. 'Oh, yes, master. What will you give me?'

'Eight annas,' Srinivas said without conviction. Without a word the jutka-man flicked the whip on the horse's haunch, and it moved forward. Srinivas watched it for a moment, and started walking down the South Road. The jutka driver halted his carriage, looked back and shouted: 'Will you give me fourteen annas?' Srinivas stared at him for a second, scorned to give him a reply and passed on. 'I would rather get burnt in the sun than have any transaction with these fellows,' he muttered to himself. A little later he heard once again the voice of the jutka-man hailing him: 'Sir, will you give me at least twelve annas? Do you know how horse-gram is selling now?' Srinivas shouted back: 'I don't want to get into your jutka, even if you are going to carry me free,' and walked resolutely on. He felt indignant. 'The fellow would not even stop and haggle, but goes away and talks to me on second thoughts!' He felt surprised at his own indignation. 'There must be a touch of the sun in my head, I suppose. The poor fellow wants an anna or two more and I'm behaving like a ' His thoughts were interrupted by the rattling of carriage wheels behind him; he turned and saw the jutka pulling up close at his heels. The jutka driver, an unshaven ruffian, salaamed with one hand and said, rather hurt: 'You uttered a very big word, master.' Srinivas was taken aback. 'I say, won't you leave me alone?' 'No, master. I'm fifty years old and I have sat at the driver's seat ever since I can remember. You could give me the worst horse, and I could manage it.'

'That's all very well, but what has that to do with me?' Srinivas asked unhappily, and tried to proceed on his way. The jutka driver would not let him go. He cried ill-temperedly: 'What do you mean, sir, by going away?' Srinivas hesitated, not knowing what to do. 'Why is this man pestering me?' he reflected. 'The picture will be complete if my landlord also joins in the fray with petitions about his granddaughter.' The jutka driver insisted: 'What have you to say, master? I've never been spoken to by a single fare in all my life ' And he patted his heart dramatically. 'And this will never know sleep or rest till it gets a good word from you again. You have said very harsh things about me, sir.' Srinivas wondered for a moment what he should do. It was getting late for him; this man would not let him go nor take him into his vehicle. The sun was relentless. He told the jutka driver: 'I'm a man of few words, and whatever I say once is final....'

'Sir, sir, please have pity on a poor man. The price of grass and horse-gram have gone up inhumanly.'

'I will give you ten annas.'

'Master's will,' said the jutka-man, dusting the seat of the carriage. Srinivas heaved himself up and climbed in, the horse trotted along, and the wheels, iron bound, clattered on the granite. The carriage had its good old fragrance of green grass, which was spread out on the floor, covered with a gunny-sack for passengers to sit upon. The smell of the grass and the jutka brought back to his mind his boyhood at Talapur. His father occasionally let him ride with him in the jutka when he went to the district court. He sat beside their driver, who let him hold the reins or flourish the whip if there were no elders about, when the carriage returned home after dropping his father at the court. Some day it was going to be made quite a stylish affair with shining brass fittings and leather seats, but it remained, as far as he could remember, grass-spread, gunny-sack covered. The driver of that carriage used to be an equally rough-looking man called Muni, very much like the man who was driving now. Srinivas wondered whether it could be the same person. It seemed so long ago centuries ago yet it was as if here once again was the same person, his age arrested at a particular stage. Somehow the sight of the hirsute, rough-looking driver gave him a feeling of permanence and stability in life the sort of sensation engendered by the sight of an old banyan tree or a rock. The smell of the grass filled him with a sudden homesickness for Talapur. He decided to make use of the present lull in activities to visit his ancient home. The driver went on repeating: 'The price of gram is Master must have mercy on a poor man like me.'

At Lawley Extension the driver stopped his horse and grumbled at the prospect of having to go half a mile farther to New Extension. 'I clearly heard you say Lawley Extension, master.' Srinivas edged towards the foothold. 'All right, then, I will get down and walk the rest of the distance.' The driver became panicky. He almost dragged him back to his seat, pleading: 'Master has a quick temper. Don't discredit me,' and whipped the horse forward. He went on to say: 'If only grass sold as it used to I would carry a person of your eminence for four annas ... as it is, I heard you distinctly say Lawley Extension. You had better tell me, sir, would anyone quote fourteen annas for New Extension? Please tell me, sir; you are a learned person, sir; please tell me yourself, sir ... Horse-gram '

Sampath's house was at the third cross-road; he was standing at the gate of a small villa. Sampath let out a cry of welcome on seeing Srinivas and ran forward to meet him. Srinivas halted the jutka, paid him off briskly, and jumped out of the carriage. 'I was not certain of your door number, though I knew the road.' Broad roads and cross-roads, fields of corn stretching away towards the west, and the trunk road bounding the east, with the bungalows of Lawley Extension beyond; one seemed able to see the blue sky for the first time here. 'What a lovely area!' Srinivas exclaimed.

'Yes, it looks all right, but if your business is in the town it is hell, I tell you. All your time is taken up in going to and fro.'

'What a fine bungalow!' Srinivas exclaimed.

'Yes, but I live in the backyard in an outhouse. The owner lives in this.'

He led him along a sidewalk to the backyard. On the edge of the compound there was an outhouse with a gabled front, a veranda screened with bamboo-trellis, and two rooms. It was the printer's house. Srinivas felt rather disappointed at seeing him in his setting now, having always imagined that he lived in great style. The printer hurriedly cleared the veranda for his visitor; he rolled up a mat in great haste, kicked a roll of bedding out of sight, told some children playing there: 'Get in! Get in!' and dragged a chair hither and thither for Srinivas and a stool for himself. Srinivas noted a small table at the further end littered with children's books and slates; a large portrait hung on the wall of a man with side whiskers, wearing a tattered felt hat, with a long pipe sticking out of a corner of his mouth. His face seemed familiar, and Srinivas was wondering where he might have met him. The printer followed his eyes and said: 'Do you recognize the portrait? Look at me closely.' Srinivas observed his face. 'Is that your picture?'

'Yes. You don't know perhaps that side of me. But I have not always been a printer. In fact, my heart has always been in makeup, costumes, and the stage that was in those days. Lately I have not had much time for it. But even now no amateur drama is ever put on without me in it, and what a worry it is for me to squeeze in a little hour at the rehearsal, after shutting the printing office for the day.' He became reflective and morose at this thought, then abruptly sprang up and dashed inside and returned in a few minutes.

Srinivas guessed his mission indoors and said: 'I'm not in need of coffee now. Why do you worry your people at home?' The printer said: 'Oh! Is that so?' and addressed loudly someone inside the house: 'Here! Our editor doesn't want you to be troubled for coffee; so don't bother.' He turned to Srinivas and said: 'Well, sir, I've conveyed your request. I hope you are satisfied.' Presently Srinivas heard footsteps in the hall; someone was trying to draw the attention of the printer from behind the door. The printer looked round with a grin and said: 'Eh? What do you say? I can't follow you if you are going to talk to me in those signals. Why don't you come out of hiding? Are you a Ghosha woman?' He giggled at the discomfiture of the other person at the door, and then got up and went over. A whispered conversation went on for a while and then the printer stepped out and said: 'Well, sir, my wife is not agreeable to your proposition. She insists upon your taking coffee as well as tiffin now. She has asked me how I can disgrace our family tradition by repeating what you said about coffee.' He looked at the door merrily and said: 'Kamala, meet our editor.' The person thus addressed took a long time in coming, and the printer urged: 'What is the matter with you, behaving like an orthodox old crone of seventy-five, dodging behind doors and going into Purdha. Come on, come here, there is no harm in showing yourself Srinivas murmured: 'Oh, why do you trouble her?' and stepped forward in order to save the lady the trouble of coming out. 'This is my wife,' the printer said, and Srinivas brought his hands together and saluted her. She returned it awkwardly, blushing and fidgety. She was a frail person of about thirty-five, neither good-looking nor bad-looking, very short, and wearing a sari of faded red, full of smoke and kitchen grime. She was nervously wiping her hands with the end of her sari, and Srinivas stood before her, not knowing what to say; an awkward silence reigned. The printer said: 'Very well, good woman, you may go now,' and his wife turned to go in with great relief, while Srinivas resumed his seat.

In a short while a tender voice called: 'Appa, Appa,' and the printer looked at the door and said: 'Come here, darling, what do you want?' A child, a girl of about four, came through, climbed on to his knee, approached his right ear and whispered into it. 'All right, bring the stuff down. Let us see how you are all going to serve this uncle,' pointing at Srinivas. The child went in with a smile, and came back with a tumbler of water and set it on the stool; it was followed by another child bringing another tumbler. The second child was slightly older. She complained: 'Look at Radhu; she will not let me carry anything.' The printer patted their backs and said: 'Hush! You must not fight. All of you try and bring one each.' He turned to Srinivas and said: 'Would you like to wash your hands?' Srinivas picked up the tumbler, went to the veranda steps and washed his hands, drying them on his handkerchief Now he found a sort of procession entering a procession formed by four children, all daughters, ranging from nine to three, each carrying a plate or tumbler of something and setting it on a table and vying with each other in service. The small table was littered with plates. The printer dragged it into position before Srinivas and said: 'Well, honour me, sir '

'What a worry for your wife, doing all this,' Srinivas said apologetically.

'She has got to do it in any case, sir. We've five children at home, and they constantly nag her so this is no extra bother. Please don't worry yourself on that score.'

After the tiffin and coffee the printer cleared the table himself and came out bearing on his arm a small child under two years, who had not till then appeared. Srinivas, by a look at the child, understood that it must be the one the artist would not draw. 'Is this your last child?' he asked. 'Yes, I hope it is,' the printer said, and added: 'I'm very fond of this fellow, being my first son. I wanted that artist to draw a picture of him. I don't know, he is somehow delaying and won't show me anything '

'Artists are difficult to deal with. They can't do a thing unless the right time comes for it.'

'I thought it would be so nice to hang up a sketch of this boy on the wall ...' Srinivas wondered for a brief second if he could tell him the truth, but dismissed the idea. 'Well, we will have some entertainment now,' he said. He called: 'Radhu!' and the young child came up. He said: 'Come on, darling, this uncle wants to see you dance. Call your sisters.' She looked happy at the prospect of a demonstration and called immediately: 'Sister! Chelli ' and a number of other names till all the four gathered. She said: 'Father wants us to dance.' The eldest looked shy and grumbled, at which their father said: 'Come on, come on, don't be shy fetch that harmonium.' A harmonium was presently placed on his lap. He pressed its bellow and the keys. The children assembled on a mat and asked: 'What shall we do, Father?' darting eager glances at their visitor. He thought it over and said: 'Well, anything you like, that thing about Krishna ' He pressed a couple of keys to indicate the tune. The eldest said with a wry face: 'Oh, that! We will do something else, Father.'

'All right, as you please. Sing that ' He suggested another song. Another child said, 'Oh, Father, we will do the Krishna one, Father.'

'All right.' And the printer pressed the keys of the harmonium accordingly. There were protests and counter-protests, and they stood arguing till the printer lost his temper and cried arbitrarily: 'Will you do that Krishna song or not?' And that settled it. His fingers ran over the harmonium keys. Presently his voice accompanied the tune with a song a song of God Krishna and the cowherds: all of them at their boyish pranks, all of them the incarnation of a celestial group, engaging themselves in a divine game. The children sang and went round each other, and the words and the tune created a pasture land with cows grazing under a bright sun, the cowherds watching from a tree branch and Krishna conjuring up a new vision for them with his magic flute. It seemed to Srinivas a profound enchantment provided by the father and the daughters. And their mother watched it unobtrusively from behind the door with great pride.

Srinivas was somehow a little saddened by the performance; there was something pathetic in the attempt to do anything in this drab, ill-fitting background. He felt tears very nearly coming to his eyes. Two more song and dance acts followed in the same strain. Srinivas felt an oppression in his chest, and began to wish that the performance would stop; the printer pumping the harmonium on his lap, the bundles of unwashed clothes pushed into a corner, and the children themselves clad uniformly in some cheap grey skirt and shirts and looking none too bright it all seemed too sad for words. There was another song, describing the divine dance of Shiva: the printer's voice was at its loudest, and the thin voice of the children joined in a chorus. Just at this moment someone appeared in the doorway and said: 'Master says he can't sleep. Wants you to stop the music' An immediate silence fell upon the gathering. The printer looked confused for a moment and then said: 'H'm seal up your master's doors and windows if he wants to sleep don't come here for it. I'm not selling sleep here.' The servant turned and went away. Srinivas felt uncomfortable, wondering whether he were witnessing a very embarrassing scene. The printer turned to Srinivas: 'My landlord! Because he has given me this house he thinks he can order us about!' He laughed as if to cover the situation. He told the children: 'All right, you finish this dance, darlings.' He resumed his harmonium and singing, and the children followed it once again as if nothing had happened. It went on for another fifteen minutes, and then he put away the harmonium. 'Well, children, now go. Don't go and drink water now, immediately.' Srinivas felt some compliment was due to them and said: 'Who taught them all this?'

'Myself I don't believe in leaving the children to professional hands.'

Srinivas addressed the children generally: 'You all do it wonderfully well. You must all do it again for me another day.' The children giggled and ran away, out of sight, and the printer's wife withdrew from behind the door. The printer put away the harmonium and sat back a little, sunk in thought. The children's voices could be heard nearly at the end of the street: they had all run out to play. The wife returned to the kitchen, and the evening sun threw a shaft of light through the bamboo-trellis, chequering the opposite wall. A deep silence fell upon the company. Srinivas took the envelope out of his pocket and gave it to the printer, who glanced through it and said: 'It's my duty to see that The Banner is out again. Please wait. I will see that the journal is set up on a lino machine and printed off a rotary and dispatched in truck-loads every week. For this we need a lot of money. Don't you doubt it for a moment. I am going to make a lot of money, if it is only to move on to the main building and get that man down here to live as my tenant. And if ever I catch him playing the harmonium here, I will I will ' He revelled in visions of revenge for a moment, and then said: 'A friend of mine is starting a film company and I'm joining him. Don't look so stunned: we shall be well on our way to the rotary when my first film is completed.'

'Film? Film?' Srinivas gasped. 'I never knew that you were connected with any film 'I've always been interested in films. Isn't it the fifth largest industry in our country? How can I or anyone be indifferent to it? Come along, let us go, and see the studio.'

'Which studio? Where is it?'

'Beyond the river. They have taken five acres on lease.'

His fur cap and scarf and a coat hanging on a peg were in a moment transferred on to his person. They started out. Sampath stopped a bus on the trunk road. The bus conductor appeared very deferential at the sight of him and found places for him and Srinivas. As the bus moved, Sampath asked the conductor: 'What sort of collection have you had today?'

'Very good, sir,' he said, leaning forward.

'Tell your master that I travelled in his bus today.'

'Yes, sir.' Sampath turned to Srinivas and said: 'This is almost our own service, you know.'

'You have printed for them?' Srinivas asked.

'Tons of stuff every form in their office.'

'What will they do now?'

'They will wait till my rotary is ready.'

'Why, sir?' the conductor asked, 'Is your press not working now?'

'Old machines: they are worn out,' he said easily.

The bus stopped at the stand beyond Market Square. They got down. Sampath waved his arm. An old Chevrolet came up, with its engine roaring above the road traffic and its exhaust throwing off a smoke-screen. They took their seats. The driver asked: 'Studio, sir?' The car turned down Ellaman Street, ground along uneven sandy roads, and then forded the river at Nallapa's mango grove. People were relaxing on the sands, children played about, the evening sun threw slanting rays on the water. A few bullock-wagons and villagers were crowding at the crossing; the bulb-horn of the taxi rasped out angrily, the driver swore at the pedestrians till they scattered, and then the wheels of the taxi splashed up the water and drenched them. Srinivas peeped out and wished that his friend would put him down there and go forward. He was seized with a longing to sit down on the edge of the river, dip his feet in it, and listen to its rumble in the fading evening light. But the Chevrolet carried him relentlessly on till, half a mile off, it reached a gateway made of two coconut tree-trunks, across which hung the sign 'Sunrise Pictures'. They got out of the car. Sampath swept his arms in a circle and said: 'All this is ours.' He indicated a vast expanse of space enclosed with a fencing of brambles. Groups of people were working here and there; sheets of corrugated iron lay on a pile; some hammering was going on.

They moved through the lot and reached a brick hutment with a thatched roof. A man emerged from it. He let out a cry of joy on seeing Sampath: 'I was not sure if you were coming at all.' The orange rays of the setting sun from beyond the bramble fencing touched him and transfigured for a second even that rotund, elderly man, in whose ears sparkled two big diamonds, and whose cheeks came down in slight folds. He was bald and practically without eyebrows, and his spectacle frames gleamed on his brow.

'This is our editor,' began Sampath, and Srinivas added: 'I've met him before at your press. Is he not Mr Somu the district board president?'

'Yes; I relinquished my office six months ago. It is too hard a life for a conscientious man.'

'How is that bridge over Sarayu?' asked Srinivas.

'Oh, that!' The other shook his head gloomily. 'Somehow the function never came off Srinivas looked at the printer questioningly. The printer read his thought at once and hastened to correct it: 'Not due to me. I printed his speech and delivered the copies in time.'

'Oh, what a waste the whole thing proved to be! I must somehow clear off all that printed stuff; gathering too much dust in a corner of the house,' said Mr Somu and added: 'Why keep standing here? Come in, come in.' He took them in. They sat round a table on iron chairs. Sampath said by way of an opening: 'The editor wanted to see the studio.'

'I never knew that there was a studio here,' added Srinivas.

'There is no encouragement for the arts in our country, Mr Editor. Everything is an uphill task in our land. Do you know with what difficulty I acquired these five acres? It was possible only because I was on the district board. I've always wanted to serve Art and provide our people with healthy and wholesome entertainment.' And Srinivas felt that Mr Somu could really still keep his bridge speech, which might serve, with very slight modifications, for the opening of the studio. 'I'm sparing no pains to erect a first-class studio on these grounds.'

'He has an expert on the task, who is charging about a thousand rupees a month.'

'Come on, let us go round and see '

They rambled over the ground, and Mr Somu pointed out various places which were still embryonic, the makeup department, stage one and two, processing and editing, projection room and so forth.

'When do you expect to have it ready?'

'Very soon. The moment our equipment is landed at Bombay. Well, I am entirely depending upon our friend Sampath to help me through all this business, sir. I want to serve people in my own humble way.'

CHAPTER FIVE.

In Kabir Lane the old stove-enamelled blue board had been taken down. In its place hung the inscription 'Sunrise Pictures (Registered Offices)'. Over Sampath's door shone the brass inscription 'Director of Productions'. The director was usually to be found upstairs in Srinivas's garret. Somu was also to be found there several hours a day. Sampath had planted a few more chairs in Srinivas's office, because, as he said, it was virtually the conference room of Sunrise Pictures.

A young man in shirt-sleeves, clad in white drill trousers, of unknown province or even nationality, whose visiting card bore the inscription 'De Mello of Hollywood' was the brain behind the studio organization. He called himself C.E. (chief executive), and labelled all the others a variety of executives. He was paid a salary of one thousand rupees a month, and Somu had so much regard for him that he constantly chuckled to himself that he had got him cheap. Sampath, too, felt overawed by the other's technical knowledge, and left him alone, as he roamed over the five acres, from morning to night, supervising and ordering people about, clutching in one hand a green cigarette tin. In addition to raising the studio structure and creating its departments, De Mello established a new phraseology for the benefit of this community. 'Conference' was one such. No two persons met, nowadays, except in a conference. No talk was possible unless it were a discussion. There were story conferences and treatment discussions, and there were costume conferences and allied discussions. Lesser persons would probably call them by simpler names, but it seemed clear that in the world of films an esoteric idiom of its own was indispensable for its dignity and development. Kabir Lane now resounded with the new jargon. They sat around Srinivas's table, and long stretches of silence ensued, as they remained stock still with their faces in their palms, gazing sadly at paperweights and pin-cushions. One might have thought that they were enveloped in an inescapable gloom, but if one took the trouble to clarify the situation by going three miles across the river and asking De Mello he would have explained: 'The bosses are in a story conference.'

And what story emerged from it? None for several days. The talk went round and round in circles and yet there was no story. A few heavy books appeared on the table from time to time. Srinivas suddenly found himself up to his ears in the affair. Sampath piloted him into it so deftly that before he knew where he was he found himself involved in its problems, and what is more, began to feel it his duty to tackle them. It took him time to realize his place in the scheme. When he did realize it his imagination caught fire. He felt that he was acquiring a novel medium of expression. Ideas were to march straight on from him in all their pristine strength, without the intervention of language: ideas, walking, talking and passing into people's minds as images like a drug entering the system through the hypodermic needle. He realized that he need not regret the absence of The Banner. He felt so excited by this discovery that he found himself unable to go on with the conference one afternoon. He suddenly rose in his seat, declaring: 'I've got to do some calm thinking. I will go home now.' He went straight home, through the blazing afternoon. At Anderson Lane he saw his wife sitting in front of Ravi's block, along with his mother and sister. A cry of surprise escaped her at the sight of him. She left their company abruptly.

'What is the matter?' she asked eagerly, following him into their house and closing the main door. He turned on her with amusement and said: 'What should be the matter when a man returns to his own house?' She muttered: 'Shall I make coffee for you? I have just finished mine.'

'Oh, don't bother about all that; I've had coffee. Get me a pillow and mat. I'm going to rest.'

'Why! Are you ill?' she asked apprehensively, and she pulled a pillow out of the rolls of bedding piled in a corner. The beds fell out of their order and unrolled on the floor untidily. She felt abashed, muttered 'careless fool', and engaged herself in rolling them up and rearranging them, while Srinivas took off his upper-cloth and shirt and banyan and went to the bathroom. In the little bathroom a shaft of light fell through a glass tile on the copper tub under the tap and sent out a multi-coloured reflection from its surface. He paused to admire it for a moment, plunged his hands into the tub, splashed cold water all over his face and shoulders. As he came out of the bathroom he hoped that his wife would have spread out the mat for him. But he found her still rolling up the beds.

'Where is my mat?' he cried. 'I have no time to lose, dearest. I must sleep immediately.'

'Why have you splashed all that water on yourself like an elephant at the river-edge?'

'I found my head boiling that's why I have to do a lot of fresh thinking now.' He paused before the mirror to wipe his head with a towel and comb back his hair. After that he turned hopefully, but still found her busy with the beds. He cried impatiently: 'Oh, leave that alone and give me a mat.' She shot him a swift look and said: 'The mat is there. If you can't wait till I put all this back ... I hate the sight of untidy beds.' She went on with her work. Srinivas picked up a mat and spread it in a corner, snatched a pillow and lay down reflecting: 'How near a catastrophe I have been.' He looked on his wife's face, which was slightly flushed with anger. He felt he had come perilously near ruining the day. He knew her nature. She could put up with a great deal, except imperiousness or an authoritarian tone in others. When she was young a music master, who once tried to be severe with her for some reason, found that he had lost a pupil for ever. She just flung away her music notebook, sprang out of the room and bade farewell to music. Everybody at her house respected her sensitiveness, and even Srinivas's mother was very cautious in talking to her. Srinivas had, on the whole, a fairly even life with her, without much friction, but the one or two minor occasions when he had seemed to give her orders turned out to be memorable occasions. His domestic life seemed to have nearly come to an end each time, and it needed a lot of readjustment on his part later. He respected her sensitiveness. He told himself now: 'Well, I shot the shaft which has hurt her and brought all that blood to her face.' He rebuked himself for the slightly authoritative tone he had adopted in demanding the mat. 'It's the original violence which has started a cycle violence which goes on in undying waves once started, either in retaliation or as an original starting-ground the despair of Gandhi ' He suddenly saw Gandhi's plea for non-violence with a new significance, as one of the paths of attaining harmony in life: non-violence in all matters, little or big, personal or national, it seemed to produce an unagitated, undisturbed calm, both in a personality and in society. His wife was still at the beds. He felt it his duty to make it up with her. He asked: 'When does Ramu return from school?'

'At four-thirty,' she replied curtly.

'Come and sit down here,' he said, moving away a little to make space for her. She looked at him briefly and obeyed. Her anger left her. Her face relaxed. She sat beside him; he took her hand in his. She was transformed. She sat leaning on him. He put his arm around her and pressed his face against her black sari. A faint aroma of kitchen smoke and damp was about her. He told her softly: 'I'm taking up a new work today.' He explained to her and concluded: 'Do you realize how much we can do now? I can write about our country's past and present. A story about Gandhiji's non-violence, our politics, all kinds of things.' He chattered away about his plans.

'This seems so much better than that paper!' she exclaimed happily. 'I'm sure more people will like this that Banner was so dull! You will not revive it?'

'Can't say. When Sampath gets a new machine with the money he is going to make 'Why should you bother about it?' she asked. 'Will this bring you a lot of money?'

'I don't know,' he said.

'We must have a lot more money to spend,' she said. 'We must go and live in a better house,' she pleaded.

'I don't know, I don't know,' he said, looking about helplessly. 'I don't know if I would care to live elsewhere. I like this place.' And he smiled weakly, realizing at once what a hopeless confusion his whole outlook was. He could not define what he wanted. They went on talking till the boy knocked on the door and cried at the top of his voice: 'Mother! Mother! Why have you bolted the door?' 'Oh, he has come,' she cried, and ran up and opened the door. The boy burst in with a dozen inquiries. He flung his cap and books away and let out a shout of joy on seeing his father, and threw himself on him. His mother attempted to take him in and give him his milk and tiffin, but he resisted it and announced: 'In our school there was a snake today '

'Oh, really!'

'But it didn't bite the masters,' he added.

'Then what else did it do?'

'I don't know,' he said. 'I didn't see it. A friend of mine told me about it.' His mother took him by his hand and dragged him into the kitchen. Srinivas shut his eyes tight with almost a sense of duty. But his wife presently came out of the kitchen and said: 'Take me out this evening. Let us go to the market.'

'Oh, but ' Srinivas began. The boy became irrepressible. 'Oh, don't say but, Father, let us go, let us go, ask him, Mother. Don't let him say "but", Mother. Let us go to a cinema.' His mother said: 'Yes, why not? I will finish the cooking in a moment and be ready.'

'All right,' Srinivas said, unable to refuse this duty.

All night his head seethed with ideas and would not let him snatch even a wink. Haifa dozen times he interrupted a possible coming sleep to get up, switch on the light, and jot down notes. He got up late next day and rushed to his office. He knew no peace till he was back at his untidy table. He seized his rose-coloured penholder, dipped it in the inkpot, and kept dipping it there, as if excavating something out of its bed. The sheets before him filled up, and he became unconscious of the passing of time, till he heard a car stop and the shout from below: 'Editor!' He concluded a sentence he had begun, and put away his pen as footsteps approached.

Somu and Sampath sat in their chairs. 'We have just come from the studio took a few test shots with the camera.' Sampath pointed at Somu and said: 'They have taken five hundred feet of our friend entering the studio. He makes such a fine screen personality, you know.' Somu tried to blush and remarked: 'It's a good camera, sir, it has cost us forty thousand.'

'Forty thousand!' Srinivas exclaimed. The scales of value in this world amazed him. All calculations were in terms of thousands. 'Where do they find all this money?' he wondered.

'Everything is ready,' Sampath said. 'Camera at forty thousand; De Mello costing a thousand rupees a month, and other executives spending ten thousand in all all waiting; but where is the story?' Srinivas felt that he was somehow responsible for keeping the great engines of production waiting. Sampath added: 'If we have a story ready '

'We can go into production next month.' Somu confessed: 'I have tried to jot down a few ideas for a story. I don't know if it will look all right.' He fumbled in his pocket, but Sampath, stretching out his arm, prevented the other from bringing out his paper, saying at the same time: 'Well, Editor, we rely upon you to give us something today.'

Srinivas cleared his throat and said: 'Here is an outline. See if you can use it.' He read on. The others listened in stony silence. The hero of the story was one Ram Gopal, who had devoted his life to the abolition of the caste system and other evils of society. His ultimate ambition in life was to see his motherland freed from foreign domination. He was a disciple of Gandhi's philosophy, practising ahimsa (non-violence) in thought, word and deed, and his philosophy was constantly being put to the test till in the end a dilemma occurred when through circumstances a single knife lay between him and a would-be assailant; it was within the reach of both; it was a question of killing or getting killed ...

Srinivas had not decided how to end his story. The other two listened in grim silence. Somu looked visibly distressed. He looked at Sampath as if for help in expressing an opinion. 'It is a beautiful story, Editor. I wish I had the press so that we might print and broadcast it.'

'You see,' Srinivas explained. 'This is the greatest message we can convey, the message of Gandhiji in terms of an experience. Don't you agree?'

'Yes,' Sampath replied a little uncomfortably. Somu fidgeted in his seat. There was an uncomfortable pause, and Sampath said: 'But we need something different for films.'

'Do you mean to say that this cannot be done in a film?' Srinivas asked as calmly as he could. He felt slightly irritated by this cold reception, but told himself: 'Take care not to be violent in discussing a story of non-violence. They are entitled to their view.' Somu cleared his voice and ventured to mutter within his throat: 'You see, we must have romance in the story.'

'Romance!' Srinivas gasped. 'What sort of romance?'

'You see, we are bound to engage a leading lady who will cost us at least two thousand a month, and we have got to give her a suitable role.'

Sampath said: 'Of course, the type of subject you think of needs much skill and experience in making. Only Russians or Americans would be able to tackle it. I have just been glancing through a book by Pudovkin. De Mello lent me his copy. There is a great deal in it for us to learn, but it will take time. You see, our public '

'Don't abuse the public, please,' said Srinivas.

'We have got to be practical in this business ...'

Srinivas was amazed at the speed with which they seemed to imbibe ready-made notions (including Pudovkin, whom everyone in the studio mentioned at least once a day: it was a sort of trade-mark).

'I would like to see that book myself,' Srinivas said. 'Yes, I will bring it down tomorrow,' Sampath said. 'You will see what our difficulties are. After all, we are making a start. After we have made three or four films we shall perhaps gain confidence enough to take up a subject like yours, but now we have to move on safe ground.' Somu kept up an accompanying murmur, stamping his approval on all that Sampath was saying. Srinivas saw their point, their limitations and their exigencies. He merely said: 'Well, I was viewing it differently. Let us consider the question afresh.' Somu sat up, his face beamed with relief. He quickly plunged his hand into his pocket and brought out a roll of paper and his spectacle case. He put his glasses on and read too quickly for Sampath to check him: 'Krishna Leela the boyhood of Krishna and his friends, up to his killing of the demon Kamsa ' He looked up to add: 'I was talking to my grand-aunt, you know how our people are a treasure-house of stories, and she mentioned these stories one by one. You see, we can do wonderful camera tricks, and Krishna will always be popular with our audience. Or if you don't like it' he went on to the next 'the burning of Lankha by the Monkey-god Hanuman; the disrobing of Draupadi by the villainous gambler Duryodhana; the battle of Kurukshetra, and teaching of Bhagavad Gita; the pricking of the vanity of Garuda the Divine Eagle, who served as God's couch ...' And so he continued for over twenty subjects, all from the epics and mythology. The grand-aunt, like all grand-aunts, was really a treasure-house, and Somu did not hesitate to draw on it to its fullest capacity.

Sampath briefly dismissed each one of them with: 'This subject is not new. Already been done by others; this story has been produced three times over ...'