'Why not ten thousand?'

'Why not fifty thousand?' asked the old man. 'You seem to imagine I've a lot of cash!' He looked horror-stricken at the thought of someone thinking him rich. 'I've only a few coppers kept for the marriage of that child. If it can be multiplied without any trouble it will mean a little more happiness for the child. Sampath is taking an interest in her, and so I thought ...' He meandered on, and then feeling that he had spoken too much of his finances, shut up suddenly. 'Well, I will get back. I thought you might be able to give me some information.' He turned abruptly round, leaving Srinivas to go forward alone. Srinivas went to his office, trying to divine what exact technique Sampath was employing with the old man. An indication of it was not long in coming.

Sampath followed him upstairs to his room. 'Well, Mr Editor, I think after all I can make up the capital.' Srinivas did not feel it necessary to put any question, since he was listening to something he already knew. He hooked up his upper-cloth and went to his chair. Sampath looked at his wrist-watch. Recently a watch had appeared on his wrist, and he constantly looked at it. 'I can manage to stay with you for a quarter of an hour more. I've asked some people from the music department to come and meet me.'

Apparently he intended to become reflective for those fifteen minutes. 'I'm really puzzled, nowadays, Mr Editor. I shall be obliged if you will enlighten me. What am I in this scheme of things? On one side I interview actors, artists and musicians; I run about for Somu, doing various errands for the studio, and I have the task of our picture, its direction and so on.' He swelled with importance. 'Now what am I?' He looked so puzzled that Srinivas felt obliged to answer: 'Who can answer that question? If you understood it, you would understand everything.' He thought that perhaps Sampath's formal studies with the old man had wakened him to new problems. This idea was soon dispelled by Sampath: Am I the producer of this picture or am I not? It was just to decide this question that I wanted capital. I think I can make up the amount; at any rate your landlord is showing an interest in the proposition.' 'And also clearing a lot of your philosophical doubts, I suppose?' Srinivas added. Sampath laughed heartily, 'Well, sir, believe me, I do wish to know something about Self and the universe. What greater privilege can one have than studying at the feet of a great master?' He shut his eyes reverently and pressed his palms in a salute at the memory of his Guru. And Srinivas asked: 'And how are you going to fulfil your promise to see his granddaughter married?'

'Oh, that! Well, that is really a problem; I hope' he lowered his voice 'that our friend downstairs will help us.'

'But you have already promised to find him his sweetheart,' Srinivas reminded him.

'Oh, yes, yes.' He looked agonized at the number of the undertakings that weighed him down. An idea flashed into his mind and he looked relieved. 'Probably it was this granddaughter that he used to see at the temple. Who knows? Let us have a look at that sketch, Editor.' Srinivas took out the sketch. At the sight of it, with its ray of light reflected off the diamond on the ear-lobe, Srinivas was thrilled and cried out: 'Oh, the boy ought to be drawing and painting and flooding the world with his pictures. This is a poorer world without them.' He sighed.

'Yes, sir, I agree. Even today if he were prepared to get on to the art department, I would make a place for him there.' He scrutinized the picture and shook his head despondently. 'No, the landlord's granddaughter is different.'

'Have you seen her?'

'Oh, yes, daily. I am coaching her in the arts. Smart girl. I wish Ravi would see sense. But' he became reflective 'I don't know what we can do if he has set his heart on this type, though a girl in the flesh ought to be worth a dozen on paper. Can't you put some sense into him? I think he will listen to you, and it will please the old man.' Srinivas said nothing in reply. Sampath remained gazing at the picture absent-mindedly, and suddenly cried: 'This face looks familiar wait a minute.' He got up and ran downstairs and returned bearing an album under his arm. He opened its leaves, placed it on the table and pointed at a snapshot of a girl pasted in it. Under it was written: Appln. No. 345, Madras Name Shanti.' Srinivas looked at the face and then compared it with that in the sketch. 'Well, it looks very much like it. Have you got her address?'

'Of course; we can call her up. Her face struck me as the most feasible type for Parvati.' Sampath scrutinized her face very carefully now. 'I will send off a telegram!' he cried. 'We must give her a mike and camera test at once, and if that is O.K. I am sure she will do very well. We can make a star of her.' Srinivas felt happy. 'So this means Ravi's worst troubles are over. He will be so glad. Let us tell him.' Sampath was hesitant. 'Oh, please wait. She may be someone else or she may have some other problems; I think we'd better wait.'

'Well, there doesn't seem to be any harm. All that he wants is to take a look at her; that'll ease his mind so much that we can get him to work.' Sampath was very lukewarm about that proposition. He shut the album, put it under his arm and started to go. He paused in the doorway to say: 'No, Mr Editor. Please do not tell him anything yet. It's studio business; it's better that such things should not get complicated. You see, we have to move cautiously. As you know, Somu is a funny sort of man, and he may misconstrue the whole thing.' He wandered on, Srinivas not comprehending much. When Somu's name cropped up, there were always hints of vast complications, and Srinivas left it all alone.

A story conference met on the day Srinivas mentioned that his writing was completed. Somu was beside himself with joy, and Sampath was stung into fresh activity. De Mello said: 'Well, sir, the studio only starts its real work now.' He rolled up his sleeves and lit a cigarette and gave an affectionate pat to his green cigarette tin. They sat around Srinivas's table as he began the reading. 'Scene one, Kailas mountain peaks in the background, rolling peaks, with ice gleaming in multicolour ' De Mello interrupted to say: 'Oh, don't bother about all that detail; it is the business of the art department. You can just indicate the location.'

'Go ahead, Mr Srinivas,' implored Somu, who looked docile and pleased. He seemed quite ready to do Srinivas's bidding at this moment; he was so awestruck by his ability to fill up a hundred-odd foolscap sheets with the story. But he was not prepared to confess his admiration in full. He said: 'Writing requires a lot of patience; you must sit down and fill up page after page a thing which we business men cannot afford to do. That is why we have to depend upon intellectuals like you, sir.' He spoke as if he were presenting a casket and reading out the address printed on silk. Sampath cut him short with: 'Shan't we go on with the story?' De Mello put down a cigarette stub and pressed his shoe on it. Tobacco smoke hung in the air. Srinivas read on. 'Second scene, Parvathi a young woman of great beauty, with her maids.' De Mello interrupted: 'How can we be sure till we fix up the actress?' Somu looked despondent. He looked pathetically at Sampath and asked: 'Yes. What do you say to that?'

'In Hollywood we never approach the story till we have fixed up the chief artists.'

'This is not Hollywood,' Srinivas said. 'So let us try to find the people who will do the part....'

'But that doesn't pay, Mr Srinivas. In films the real saleable commodity is the star-value. All other things are secondary.' Sampath tried to smooth matters out with: 'We will make stars, if the ready-made ones are not available.' Somehow this seemed to please the other members of the conference, and Somu and De Mello said almost simultaneously: 'That is a very good point, Sampath. We've got to make stars.' To Srinivas it seemed as if they were going to cling to this phrase now and for ever. He shuddered to think that they might be going to repeat it like a litany: 'Star! Star! We must make a star!' But he realized that the matter was proceeding on correct conference lines. It was the essence of a conference that somebody should say something, and somebody else should say something else, and a third person should throw out a catch phrase for all to pick up and wear proudly like a buttonhole. This was the approved method of a conference, and he could not object to it. And so, although he was being constantly interrupted, he curbed his own annoyance and continued his reading. He felt he was emulating a street preacher he had encountered in his younger days in his town, a man who came to propagate Christianity and lectured to a crowd, unmindful of the heckling, booing, and general discouragement. Srinivas had even seen a grass-seller throwing her burden at the preacher's head, but he went on explaining the gospels. Such a faith in one's mission was needed at this moment. Srinivas persisted: scene after scene with the description, action and dialogue followed; and this continuous drone lulled them into silence. As darkness gathered around his room and voices rose from the tenements below he became lost in his own narration; his listeners seemed to him just shadows. Even De Mello's tobacco fog rose to the cobweb-covered ceiling and paused there. Srinivas read on, inspired by his own vision, though he could not decide whether they were lost in enjoyment of his reading or were asleep. He read with difficulty in the gathering darkness, afraid to get up and switch on the light, lest that should break the spell and set them talking.

CHAPTER SIX.

The next important event was the opening ceremony. A special bus ran from the city to the studio on the other bank of the river. The bus was painted 'Sunrise Pictures' along its whole body, and placards were hung out on its sides: 'The Burning of Kama Switching-on Ceremony'. It slowly perambulated along the Market Road, and anyone who carried an invitation to the function could stop it and get in.

The invitation was printed on gold-sprinkled cartridge sheets, on which was stamped a map of India, represented as a mother with a bashful maiden kneeling at her feet, offering a spring of flowers, entitled 'Burning of Kama'. The maiden was presumably 'Sunrise Pictures'.

'Is this your idea?' Srinivas asked Sampath, who worked without food and sleep for the sake of the function. Sampath was cautious in answering: 'Why, is it not good?' Srinivas hesitated for a moment whether he should be candid or just not answer the question. He decided against expressing an opinion and asked: 'What do others say?'

'Everybody says it is so good. Somu was in raptures when he saw it. Our boys did it, you know something patriotic: we offer our very best to the country, or something like that.'

'Your idea?' Srinivas asked. Sampath was rather reluctant to be cross-questioned, and turned the subject to the task of printing: 'What a trouble it was getting this through in time! They couldn't fool me. I sat tight and got it through.' Srinivas quietly gloated over this vision of Sampath harassed by printers. 'I've not been home at all for three nights; I sat up at the Brown press and handled the machine myself. How I wish I'd my own press now!' He sighed a little. 'No need to worry; we are on the way to getting our big press.' He seemed distressed at the memory of printing, and Srinivas obligingly changed the subject. 'How many are you inviting?'

'Over a thousand!' Sampath said, brightening. 'It is going to be the biggest function our city has seen.'

As the bus turned into Nallapa's Grove, far off one saw the bunting flying in the air, made up of flags of all nations, including China, Scandinavia and the Netherlands. One could pick them out by referring to Pears' Encyclopaedia. The bunting was an odd treasure belonging to the municipal council; no one could say how they had come to gather all this medley of ensigns; but they were very obliging and lent them for all functions, private and public, unstintingly. And no gathering was complete unless it was held under the arcade of these multi-coloured banners: there were even a few ships' signals included among them.

The vast gathering was herded into studio number one, in which hundreds of wooden folding chairs were arrayed. The switching-on was fixed for 4.20, since at 4.30 an inauspicious period of the day was beginning. The district judge, who was to preside, was not to be seen. They fidgeted and waited for him and ran a dozen times to the gate. Sampath calmed Somu by pulling him along to the microphone and announcing: 'Ladies and gentlemen, the president is held up by some unexpected work, but he will be here very soon. Meanwhile, in order not to lose the auspicious hour, the switch will be put on.' He himself passed on to the camera on the tripod, and asked: 'Ready?' and pressed the switch. The lights were directed on to a board fixed on an easel on which the art department had chalked up: 'Sunrise Pictures proudly present their maiden effort, "The Burning of Kama"', and they shot a hundred feet of it. De Mello cried 'Cut'. He had come in a dark suit, his moustache oiled and tipped. Thus they caught the auspicious moment, although the big wicker-chair meant for the president was still vacant.

A committee of astrologers had studied the conjunction of planets and fixed the day for the inauguration ceremony. There had been a regular conference for fixing the correct moment, for as Somu explained to the others: 'We cannot take risks in these matters. The planets must be beneficial to us.' And he gave three rupees and a coconut, each on a plate, for the Brahmins who had given him the date. The Brahmins officiated at the ceremony now, after deciding what the ritual should be. A couple of framed portraits of Shiva and a saint, who was Somu's family protector, were leant against the wall, smothered under flowers. The holy men sat before them with their foreheads stamped with ash and vermilion and their backs covered with hand-spun long wraps. They each wore a rosary around the throat, and they sat reading some sacred texts. In front of them were kept trays loaded with coconut, camphor and offerings for the gods. A few minutes before the appointed moment they rose, lit the camphor, and circled the flame before the gods, sounding a bell. Then they went to the camera and stuck a string of jasmine and a dot of sandal paste on it. De Mello trembled when he saw this. They seemed to be so reckless in dealing with the camera. He felt like crying out: 'It's a Mitchel, so please ... It costs Rs 40,000,' but he checked himself as he confessed later: 'In this country, sir, one doesn't know when a religious susceptibility is likely to be hurt. A mere sneeze will take you to the stake sometimes better be on the safe side.' The priests finished with the camera and then offered him a flower, which he did not know what to do with, but vaguely pressed it to his nose and eyes, and then they gave him a pinch of vermilion and ash, which also worried him, till he saw what others did, and followed their example and rubbed it on his brow. He looked intimidated by these religious observances. It was an odd sight: De Mello in a dark suit, probably of Hollywood cut, and his forehead coloured with the religious marking. 'It's just as well,' Srinivas remarked to himself. 'They are initiating a new religion, and that camera decked with flowers is their new god, who must be propitiated.' To him it seemed no different from the propitiation of the harvest god in the field. To Somu and all these people, God, at the present moment, was a being who might give them profits or ruin them with a loss; with all their immense commitments they felt they ought to be particularly careful not to displease Him. As he was a champion of this religious sect, there was nothing odd in De Mello's submissiveness before it. Srinivas wished he had his Banner. What an article he could write under the heading: 'The God in the Lens'.

And these rituals were being witnessed by an audience of over five hundred with open-mouthed wonder. There was suddenly a bustle: 'The president has arrived,' and Somu ran out in great excitement to receive him. There was a stir in the audience, and people craned their necks to look at the president. Though they saw him every day, they never failed to see him as the president with renewed interest, and in this setting he was peculiarly interesting. In strode a strong dark man, wearing coloured glasses and grinning at the assembly. 'I'm sorry,' he said loudly. 'I was held up by court work. Is it all over?' They propelled him to his wicker-chair; he pulled the invitation out of his pocket, to study the items of the programme. He looked at the flower-decked camera and the Brahmins and asked: 'Is this the first scene you are going to shoot?' Sampath explained to the president and apologized, garlanded him, and gave him a bouquet. 'Why are they centring all their affection on him? Have they met here today to fuss about him or to get their film started?' Srinivas wondered. He was struck with the rather pointless manner in which things seemed to be moving. 'Subtle irrelevancies,' he told himself as he sat, unobserved on an upturned box in a corner of the studio. They presently brought the president to the microphone. He said, with the rose garland around his neck: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I know nothing about films, and court work held me up and delayed the pleasure of being here earlier. I don't usually see films except probably once a year when my little daughter or son drag me there.' And he smiled in appreciation of this human touch. He rambled on thus for about an hour; and people looked as though they were subsiding in their seats. He went on to advise them how to make films. 'I see all around too many mythological and ancient subjects. We must throw all of them overboard. Films must educate. You must appeal to the villager and tell him how to live, how to keep his surroundings clean; why he should not fall into moneylenders' hands, and so on. The film must not only tell a story but must also convey a message to the ignorant masses. There are problems of cultivation and soil all these you can tackle: there is nothing that you cannot include, if only you have the mind to be of service to your fellow men. They say that the film is the quickest medium of instruction; we all like to see films; let us see ones that tell us something. You have been too long concerned with demons and gods and their prowesses. I think we had better take a vow to boycott Indian films till they take up modern themes.' At this point he was gently interrupted. They had all along wished they could gag him, but it was not an easy thing to choke off a district judge, particularly when he was the president of the occasion. So Sampath and Somu popped up on either side of the judge and carried on a prolonged conversation with him in an undertone. After they withdrew, the judge said: 'I'm sorry I forgot to notice' he fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the invitation 'what story they are starting. Now my friend Somu tells me it is an epic subject. Our epics undoubtedly are a veritable storehouse of wisdom and spirituality. They contain messages which are of eternal value and applicable to all times and climes, irrespective of age, race, or sex and so on. The thing is that they must be well done. India has a lesson to teach the rest of the world. Let us show the world a sample of our ancient culture and wisdom and civilization. Blessed as this district is by a river and jungles and mountains, with these energetic captains at the helm, I've no doubt that Malgudi will soon be the envy of the rest of India and will be called the Hollywood of India.' De Mello's voice could be heard corroborating the sentiment with a timely 'Hear! Hear!' and resounding applause rang out. The president went to his seat, but came back to the microphone to say: 'I'm sorry I forgot again. I'm asked to announce the happy news that there is going to be a dance entertainment by some talented young artists.' To the accompaniment of the studio orchestra some new recruits to the studio threw their limbs about and gave a dance programme with the studio lights focused on them. Afterwards with the president beside the camera, and Somu and Sampath touching the switch, still photos were taken from four different angles. This was followed by a few baskets being brought in, out of which were taken paper bags stuffed with coconuts and sweets, which were distributed to all those present. Sampath went to the microphone and thanked the audience and the president for the visit.

When they were moving out, Srinivas noticed a familiar head stirring in the third row. It was his old landlord, transformed by a faded turban, a pair of glasses over his nose, and a black alpaca coat, almost green with years. Srinivas ran up to him and accosted him. He felt so surprised that he could not contain himself. 'Oh, you are here!' The old man gave him his toothless smile. 'First time for thirty years I have come out so far Sampath wouldn't leave me alone. He sent me a car. Where is your artist friend? I thought he would be here.'

'Ravi! He must be in the office. He doesn't usually fancy these occasions.' The old man looked about for Sampath and called to him loudly. Srinivas slipped away, somehow not wishing to be present at their meeting, feeling vaguely perhaps that Sampath might try and get a cheque out of the old man at this opportunity.

Srinivas was busy putting the finishing touches to his script. He worked continuously, not budging from his seat from nine in the morning till nine in the evening. Even Ravi, who came in when he had a little leisure, hesitated at the door and turned back without uttering a word. Srinivas worked in a frenzy. He was very eager to complete his part of the work, though he had at the back of his mind a constant misgiving about the final treatment they might hatch out of it, but he ruthlessly pushed away this doubt, saying to himself: 'It is not my concern what they do with my work.'

Sampath was not to be seen for nearly a week, and then he turned up one evening, bubbling with enthusiasm. A look at him, and Srinivas decided that it would be useless to try to get on with his work. He put away his papers. Sampath began: 'She has come!'

'When?'

'Five days ago, and we have been putting her through the tests. De Mello says she is the right type for the screen. She is a fine girl.'

'Is she the same as ?' asked Srinivas, indicating the old sketch. Sampath smiled at this suggestion. He scrutinized the sketch, remarking under his breath: 'Extraordinary how two entirely unconnected people can resemble each other.' He laughed heartily, as if it were the biggest joke he had heard in his life. He seemed extraordinarily tickled by it. 'Yes, she is somewhat like this picture, but there is a lot of difference, you know. In fact, this is her first visit to this town. She has never been here before. She was born and bred in Madras.'

'Where is she at the moment?' asked Srinivas.

'I've found her a room in Modern Lodge. I could've put her up at my house if it was necessary; after all, I find that she is related to me, a sort of cousin of mine, though we never suspected it. Anyway, our problem is solved about Parvathi. She is going to do it wonderfully well. I foresee a very great future for her. We are finalizing the rest of the cast tomorrow; after that we must go into rehearsals.'

Srinivas was present at the rehearsal hall in the studio. It was a small room on the first floor, furnished with a few lounges covered with orange and black cretonne, a coir mattress spread on the floor and a large portrait of Somu decorating the wall. On the opposite wall was a chart, showing the life history of a film starting with the story-idea and ending with the spectator in the theatre. The rehearsal was announced for eleven, and Srinivas caught an early bus and was the first to arrive. He sat there all alone, looking at the portrait of Somu and at the chart. A medley of studio sounds voices of people, hammerings, and the tuning of musical instruments kept coming up. Through the window he could see far off Sarayu winding its way, glimmering in the sun, the leaves of trees on its bank throwing off tiny reflections of the sun, and a blue sky beyond, and further away the tower of the municipal office, which reminded him of his Banner. Its whole career seemed to have been dedicated to attacking the Malgudi municipality and its unvarying incompetence. He felt a nostalgia for the whirring of the wheels of a press and the cool dampness of a galley proof. 'When am I going to see it back in print?' he asked himself. His whole work now seemed to him to have a meaning because, beyond all this, there was the promise of reviving The Banner. He had not yet spoken to Sampath about what he was to be paid for his work. He felt he could never speak about it. He found on his table on the second of every month a cheque for one hundred and fifty rupees, and that saw him through the month, and he was quite satisfied. How long it was to continue and how long he could expect it, or how much more, he never bothered.

His wife occasionally, waiting on him for his mood, asked him, and all that he replied was: 'You get what you need for the month?'

'Yes. But '

'Then why do you bother about anything? You may always rest assured that we will get what we need without any difficulty You will be happy as long as you don't expect more.'

'But, but '

'There are no further points in this scheme of life,' he cut her short. And that was the basis on which his career and daily life progressed. 'Of course, if The Banner could be revived,' he reflected, 'I could breathe more freely. Now I don't know what I'm doing, whether I'm helping Sampath or Sampath is helping me the whole position is vague and obscure. The clear-cut lines of life are visible only when I'm at my table and turning out The Banner.' He had now a lot of time to reflect on The Banner. For one thing, he decided to rescue Ravi and get him to work for The Banner. 'The Banner can justify its existence only if it saves a man like Ravi and shows the world something of his creative powers...' He made a mental note of all the changes he was going to make in The Banner. He would print thirty-six pages of every issue; a quarter for international affairs, half for Indian politics, and a quarter for art and culture and philosophy. This was going to help him in his search for an unknown stabilizing factor in life, for an unchanging value, a knowledge of the self, a piece of knowledge which would support as on a rock the faith of Man and his peace; a knowledge of his true identity, which would bring no depression at the coming of age, nor puzzle the mind with conundrums and antitheses. 'I must have a permanent page for it,' he told himself. 'This single page will be the keystone of the whole paper all its varied activities brought in and examined: it will give a perspective and provide an answer for many questions a sort of crucible, in which the basic gold can be discovered. What shall I call the feature? The Crucible? Too obvious...'

It was so peaceful here and the outlook so enchanting with the heat-haze quivering over the river-sand that he lost all sense of time passing, leaning back in the cane chair, which he had dragged to the window. He presently began to wish that the others would not turn up but leave him alone to think out his plans. But it seemed to him that perverse fates were always waiting around, just to spite such a wish. He heard footsteps on the stairs and presently Sampath and the new girl made their entry.

'Meet my cousin Shanti, who is going to act Parvathi,' Sampath said expansively. Srinivas rose in his seat, nodded an acknowledgement, and sat down. He saw before him a very pretty girl, of a height which you wouldn't notice either as too much or too little, a perfect figure, rosy complexion, and arched eyebrows and almond-shaped eyes everything that should send a man, especially an artist, into hysterics. Srinivas, as he saw her, felt her enchantment growing upon him. Her feet were encased in velvet sandals, over her ankles fell the folds of her azure translucent sari, edged with gold; at her throat sparkled a tiny diamond star. She seemed to have donned her personality, part by part, with infinite care. Srinivas said to himself: 'It's all nonsense to say that she does all this only to attract men. That is a self-compliment Man concocts for himself. She spends her day doing all this to herself because she can't help it, any more than the full moon can help being round and lustrous.' He caught himself growing poetic, caught himself trying to look at a piece of her fair skin which showed below her close-fitting sheeny jacket. He pulled himself up. It seemed a familiar situation; he recollected that in the story Shiva himself was in a similar plight, before he discovered the god of the sugar-cane bow taking aim. He seemed to realize the significance of this mythological piece more than ever now. And he prayed: 'Oh, God, open your third eye and do some burning up here also.' 'Mankind has not yet learned to react to beauty properly,' he said to himself. Shanti, who had by now seated herself on a sofa with Sampath beside her, muttered something to Sampath. And Sampath said: 'My cousin says you look thoughtful.' She at once puckered her brow and blushed and threw up her hands in semi-anger, and almost beat him as she said in an undertone: 'Why do you misrepresent me? I never said any such a thing.' She shot scared glances at Srinivas, who found his composure shaken. He said: 'Don't bother. I don't mind, even if you have said it,' and at once all her confusion and indignation left her. She said with perfect calm: 'I only said that we seemed to have disturbed you while you were thinking out something, and he says ' She threw a look at Sampath. Srinivas wanted to cut short this conversation and said rather brusquely: 'I have waited here for two hours now. You said that rehearsals were at ten.'

'Apologies, Editor,' replied Sampath. 'Shall I speak the truth? The real culprit is ' He merely looked at his cousin, and she at once said apologetically: 'Am I responsible? I didn't know.'

'Well, you have taken a little over three hours dressing up, you know,' Sampath said. Srinivas noted that they seemed to have taken to each other very well. He said to the girl: 'You are his cousin, I hear?'

'I didn't know that when I applied,' she said.

'Have you a lot of film experience?' he asked and felt that he was uttering fatuous rubbish. Before she could answer he turned to Sampath and asked: 'Have you told her the story?' And he realized that it was none of his business and that he was once again uttering a fatuity. But that fact didn't deter Sampath from building up an elaborate reply of how he had been talking to her night and day of the part she was to play, of how he was constantly impressing upon her the inner significance of the episode, and he added with warmth: 'My association with you is not in vain, Editor.' He constantly shot side-glances to observe the effect of his speech on the lady, and Srinivas listened to him without saying a word in reply, as he told himself: 'I don't seem to be able to open my mouth without uttering nonsense.'

Presently more footsteps on the staircase, and half a dozen persons entered, followed by Somu. Somu, who came in breezily, became a little awkward at seeing the beauty, and shuffled his steps, stroked his moustache, and in various ways became confused. 'He will also find it difficult to speak anything but nonsense,' Srinivas said to himself. The visitors spread themselves around, and Somu said, pointing at a strong paunchy man: 'This is Shiva.' The paunchy man nodded agreeably as if godhead were conferred on him that instant. He had a gruff voice as he said: 'I have played the part of Shiva in over a hundred dramas and twenty films for the last twenty years. I act no other part because I'm a devotee of Shiva.'

'You must have heard of him,' Sampath added. 'V.L.G. ' Srinivas cast his mind back and made an honest attempt to recollect his name. It suddenly flashed upon him. He used to notice it on the wall of the magistrate's court at Talapur, years and years ago 'V.L.G. in ...' some Shiva story or other. He almost cried out as he said: 'Yes, yes, I remember it: rainbow-coloured posters' that colour scheme used to make his flesh creep in those days; and at the recollection of it he once again shuddered. Yes, it was in Daksha Yagna,' Shiva said, much pleased with his own reputation. 'I always do Shiva, no other part, I'm a devotee of Shiva.'

'He gets into the spirit of his role,' Sampath said. Shiva acknowledged it with a nod and repeated for the third time: 'I do no other role. I'm a devotee of Shiva. Both in work and in leisure I want to contemplate Shiva.' True to his faith his forehead was smeared with sacred ash and a line of sandal paste. Srinivas viewed him critically, remarking to himself: 'His eyes are all right, but the rest, as I visualized Shiva, is not here. He certainly was without a paunch the sort of austerity which is the main characteristic of Shiva in the story is missing. And he should not have such loose, hanging lips, all the inconvenient, ungodly paddings of middle age are here what a pity! Some tens and thousands of persons have probably formed their notions of a god from him for a quarter of a century.' As if in continuation of his reflections Sampath said: 'When his name is on the poster as Shiva, the public of our country simply smash the box-office.' Shiva accepted the compliment without undue modesty. He added in a gruff tone: 'So many people were troubling me, and I refused them because I wanted some rest. But when I heard about the starting of this studio I said I must do a picture here,' and Somu beamed on him gratefully. Srinivas felt inclined to ask more questions, so that he might clear the doubt at the back of his mind as to what special reason the actor had for conferring this favour on this particular studio; but he left the matter alone, one of the many doubts in life which could never be cleared. V.L.G. took out of his pocket a small casket, out of it he fished a piece of tobacco and put it in his mouth, and then proceeded to smear a bit of lime on the back of a betel leaf and stuffed it also into his mouth. He chewed with an air of satisfaction; and from his experience of tobacco chewers, Srinivas understood that V.L.G. was not going to talk any more, but would be grateful to be left alone to enjoy his tobacco. He seemed to settle down to it quietly and definitely. Others, too, seemed to understand the position, and they left Shiva alone and turned their attention to the man next him a puny youth, with a big head and sunken cheeks and long hair combed back on his head. 'He is going to be Kama,' said Sampath. 'He has been doing such roles in various films.' Srinivas looked at him. He wondered if he might get up and make a scene. 'I'm not going to allow the story to be done by this horrible pair.' But presently another inner voice said: 'If it is not this horrible pair, some other horrible pair will do it, so why bother?' And his further reflections were cut short by the lady remarking as she looked at her tiny wrist-watch: 'It's four o'clock. When do we start the rehearsal?'

'As soon as we finish coffee, which is coming now,' said Sampath. It was six-thirty when they finished their coffee, and then they unanimously decided to postpone the rehearsals, and got up to go away with relief and satisfaction.

Srinivas was touching up the conversation between the disembodied Kama and his wife. Kama said: 'Here I am. Don't you see?' And his wife answered: 'Seen or unseen, you are my lord. You are in my thought. I will beg of Shiva to make me also invisible.' Srinivas pondered over the sentence: it seemed too cloying for him. 'Can't I make it sound a little more natural?' But another part of his mind argued: 'You are not dealing with a natural situation. The agony of a wife whose husband is made invisible can be understood only by another in a similar position. What would my wife say if she suddenly found I'd been made invisible? I must find out from her.' As he was contemplating this scene, without being able to come to a decision, Sampath came in jubilantly, crying: 'I've achieved a miracle.' Srinivas said: 'I will listen to your miracle presently. But first sit down and answer my question. Suppose you were made suddenly invisible, what would be your feelings?' Sampath thought it over and answered: 'I should probably think that the clothes I wear are unnecessary.' He laughed and added: 'I think it would be a gain, on the whole.'

'What do you think your wife would say?' Srinivas asked.

'If she were in her normal mood she would probably break down, but if she were in her ten a.m. mood she might say: "This is another worry. How I am to manage with an unseen husband God alone knows. But please tell me where you are; don't surprise me from corners."'

'What is that ten a.m. mood?' asked Srinivas curiously.

'Every day at ten a.m. she is in a terrible temper; just about the time when the children have to be fed and sent to school and shopping has to be done and some lapse or other on my part comes to light, and all sorts of things put her into a horrible temper at that hour, and she will be continuously grumbling and finding fault with everyone. She is always on the brink, and if I don't have my wits about me we might explode at each other damagingly.'

'You must try to reduce all her irritations, poor lady!' Srinivas said, much moved by the memory of how she stood behind the door on the day he visited Sampath. He suspected that Sampath hardly went home nowadays, spending all his time in the studio and running about, completely lost in his new interests. So he pleaded with him with special fervour: 'You must forgive me if I appear to be presumptuous.' He lectured him on family ties and responsibilities, a corner of his mind wondering at the same time what his wife might have to say about his own habits of work; he wondered if Sampath would retaliate. But he was too good to do it. He became rather sombre at the end of the lecture.

'Has anyone been complaining about me?' asked Sampath.

'Well, not yet,' replied Srinivas.

Srinivas felt that he had encroached too much into personal matters and checked himself. He said: 'Now tell me how this dialogue sounds.' He read what he had written. Sampath listened to it intently and said: 'It's very elevating. Let us try to add a song there.' He then passed on to the business that had brought him. 'Do you know, your landlord has, after all, agreed to finance our scheme!'

'That's the miracle, is it?' asked Srinivas.

'Isn't it?' Sampath said.

Srinivas declared warmly: 'You are a great fellow. People must bow before you for your capacity.' 'Well, wait, wait,' Sampath said grinning. 'You can compliment me after I show you the first instalment of cash. He is going to give it in five instalments. And he wants separate notes for each. He will give me each instalment, deducting his twelve and a half per cent interest in advance, but writing up the note for the full amount.'

'Oh, God! You have not agreed to it?'

'I have no choice.'

'And you are going to deal with his granddaughter's marriage, too?'

'Of course.' Sampath lowered his voice and pointed downstairs. 'I don't know why that old man has set his heart on him. He has never even spoken to him. I must get at him some time and do something.' He looked worried at the thought of Ravi. 'Why will he not listen to reason? That girl is bringing five thousand plus twelve and a half per cent interest. I think artists should be trained up in more practical ways of thinking. Tomorrow morning we are going to a lawyer's office to write the first note and then he will hand me the money. I'm also mortgaging with him some gold and silver knick-knacks we have at home.'

Your wife's?'

'We have accumulated a variety of silver things during our marriage, you know!' he said with affected lightness. He remained moody for a moment. 'That'll help me face Somu's conditions. After that I shall really be able to make a substantial deal. Our rotary is not so far out of reach, sir. I'm really grateful to you for introducing me to the old man; under him I have made tremendous progress in Sanskrit studies. Though it is so difficult to make him talk of his passbook, he readily opens his mind and soul to every spiritual inquiry. It is a pleasure to sit with him and hear him talk.' He raised his voice and recited in fluent Sanskrit: 'The boy is immersed in play; the youth, in the youthful damsel; the old, in anxiety; (but) none in the Supreme Being!'

'Do you know, he gives six different interpretations for the same stanza?'

It was getting on towards evening, and Srinivas left his table to go home. There was a car waiting for Sampath downstairs. 'I will drop you at home,' Sampath said.

'I prefer to walk home.'

Sampath got into his seat. 'Boy!' he cried, sitting in his car, and a servant came up, brightly buttoned, wearing a cap. 'This is our old office boy he has come back.' The boy smiled affably, and Srinivas recognized the young printer's devil of Banner days, transformed by an inch more of height and a white-and-green uniform. 'White and green is our studio colour,' Sampath said. 'I've ordered even our paperweights to be made in this colour.' The boy stood waiting. 'Boy, is Master Ravi there? Ask him if he is coming home with me.' The boy ran in and returned in a moment to say: 'He is not coming now, sir. He says he has work.' Sampath said gloomily: 'That boy Ravi, somehow he is very reserved nowadays. He is aloof and overworks. I thought I might take him out with me and speak to him on the way and do something about that old man's pet. Well, another occasion, I suppose. You see how smart that little devil is! I knew he would come back. This is only the beginning. I know that all the rest of my staff will also come back: I shall know how to deal with them. Well, good-night, sir; I will go home and take the wife and children for a drive. Your advice is very potent, you know.' He drove away.

In Anderson Lane, Srinivas noticed an unusual liveliness. Groups of people were passing to and fro. They stood in knots and seemed deeply concerned. But Srinivas was absorbed in his own thoughts. He didn't bother about it. The citizens of Anderson Lane had a tendency to get excited over nothing in particular almost any evening; but what struck him now was the number of persons from other streets who were moving about, and it made him pause and wonder. He found the crowd very thick in one place, in front of the house where his landlord had his room. Young boys chatted excitedly, old men, women, students and adults stood staring at the house. 'What is the matter?' he asked a young fellow. Three or four young men and an adult gathered round and started talking at once. The young fellow said: 'We were playing cricket in this road. Every day we play here, our team is known as Regal, and we had a match today with Champion Eleven ...' His voice was a high-pitched shriek. But a higher-pitched shriek of another was superimposed on it: 'But we couldn't complete the match. We could play only half the match today. We won't take it as a draw.' Yet another member of the team was eager to add, even before the previous sentence was finished: 'The ball went through that window.' And they looked at each other guiltily, twirling their little bats in their hands, and said: 'The old man is dead.' 'Which old man?' They pointed sadly at the landlord's room. Srinivas ran in that direction. A constable was there on duty. He would let no one pass. Srinivas pushed his way through the crowd. The crowd watched him with interest. 'He is his son,' he heard someone remark. 'No, can't be; he has no son,' remarked another. 'They won't let you go there,' said another. Srinivas ignored them all and went on. The constable barred his way. The crowd watched the scene with interest. 'Go back,' the constable said. His face was lined with gloom and boredom. Srinivas did not know what to do. He said: 'Look here, constable, I have got to go and see him.'

'Our inspector has ordered that no one should be allowed to go near the body.'

'Just let me. I won't take even five minutes. I wish to have a last look at him. Wouldn't you want to do the same thing in my place?' There was such earnestness in his request that the constable asked: 'Are you related to him?' Srinivas thought for a minute and said: 'Yes, I'm his only nephew. I live in his house. He is my uncle.' And at the same time he prayed to God to forgive him the falsehood. 'I can't help it at this horrible moment,' he explained to God. The policeman said, his face relaxing: 'In that case it is different. I always allow blood relations to go and see, whatever may happen. The inspector reprimanded me once or twice for it, but I told him "Even a policeman is a human being, after all. Relations are relations ..."'

Srinivas did not hear the rest of the statement. He went past him and stood in the doorway. The policeman came up, and the crowd pressed forward. The policeman said: 'You should not go into that room, sir. You can stand in the doorway and watch. Don't take a long time; the inspector will be back any moment.' Srinivas stood and looked in. The old man seemed to sit there in meditation, his fingers clutching the rosary. His little wicker box containing forehead-marking was open, and his familiar trunk was in its corner. Dusk had gathered and his face was not clear. The boys' ball lay there at his feet. Srinivas felt an impulse to snatch it up and return it to the boys, but he overcame it. He felt a silly question bobbing up again and again in his head: 'Are you sure he is dead?' he wanted to ask everybody. He felt he had stared at the body long enough. It seemed to him hours, but the constable said: 'Hardly a minute; you could have stayed there a little longer. But what can you do? People must die, old people especially.' Srinivas passed out of the crowd. They looked on him as a hero. They asked eagerly, thronging behind him: 'What, sir, what?' He didn't reply, but went straight home, went straight to the single tap, which was fortunately free, took off his shirt, and sat under it and then went into his house. 'A great final wash-off to honour his memory,' he told his wife. She told him the rest of the story. 'It seems they saw him bathe at the street-tap as usual and saw him go in at about eleven in the morning. But no one saw him again.' His son, who had just come in from Ravi's house, added: 'We were playing against Champion Eleven, and some rascal of that team shot the ball in; they got up to the window to ask for it and called him to throw up the ball, but ' he shook his head. 'I came running home when I heard he was dead. I was the first to tell Mother.'

'Your ball didn't hit and kill him, I hope?' said Srinivas with serious misgivings.

'How could it, Father? We were playing the match with a tennis ball. It hits us so many times. Are we all dead?' He added ruefully: 'It was their batting, and they are claiming a boundary for it. Is that right, Father?'

The greater part of the next day Srinivas had to spend at the inquest. The Panchayatdars (a board of five) sat around a room, examining the post-mortem report. They summoned Srinivas because he had called himself his nephew. They took a statement from him as to when he had seen the old man last, and about his outlook and antipathies and phobias. They summoned Sampath because he was often seen going there. He looked panicky, as if they were going to haul him up for murder. A statement from him was recorded as to why he visited the old man so often. He explained that he was his student and was learning Sanskrit from him. And then they set out a number of exhibits a savings bank passbook, a piece of paper on which were scrawled 12 1/2 per cent, 5,000, and the name Sampath. He was asked if he had seen the passbook before. Sampath said 'No'. He was asked to explain what he knew about the piece of paper containing his name and the 12 1/2 per cent calculation. He said that he was consulted by the old man regarding some investment calculations, and possibly he had tried to work it out. The Panchayatdars pried further and wanted to know what the investment was. Sampath, who had by now recovered something of his composure, answered: 'How should I know? Occasionally my master would talk of investments generally, and work out hypothetically some figures. I don't know what he had in mind.' Two more witnesses had been summoned, the owner of the house where the old man had his room, and his son-in-law. They were questioned very briefly, and then the board adjourned for a moment into another room, and came out to say: 'We are satisfied that ... died seven hours before he was seen, as the doctors think. Death is due to natural causes, old age and debility.'

CHAPTER SEVEN.

The sound of a car moving off reached Srinivas's ears, and at the same moment he heard the cry on the stairs: 'Editor! Editor! Editor!' It was such an excited cry that he ran out to the landing. He saw Ravi at the foot of the staircase. 'Editor! Editor!' he cried. 'Did you see?'

'What?' asked Srinivas.

'Are you free? Shall I come up?' Ravi asked. He climbed up in three bounds. Srinivas moved back to his chair and pointed the other to his usual seat. Ravi wouldn't sit down. He was too excited. He could speak neither in whispers nor in a loud voice and struggled to find a via media and made spluttering sounds. He came over to Srinivas's chair, gripped its arms and said: 'She she ' He couldn't finish his sentence. His face was flushed. Srinivas had never seen him so excited. He gently pushed him to a chair and said: 'Calm yourself first.' But Ravi was not one to be calmed. It didn't seem necessary at the moment. He said: 'Give me that sketch.' He held out his hand. Srinivas took it out and passed it to him. It seemed to act as a sedative, and Ravi became calmer. 'I can do it now; on a big canvas, in oils, if you like.' Srinivas felt, amidst the various misgivings in his mind, that this was the moment he had been waiting for all his life.

Ravi was lost in the contemplation of the sketch he had in his hand. He was going into a sort of loud reverie. 'Nobody told me she was here. I didn't know she had come to the studio. How providential! Don't you see the hand of God in it?' Srinivas asked: 'Did you speak to her?'

'Yes, yes. I was in the office attending to those damned accounts. I heard footsteps and went on with my work, thinking it was just another of those damned visitors dropping in all through the day. I heard little sandals pit-patting: that itself seemed music to my ears, but as a rule I never look up. But the footsteps approached and stopped at my table. "Accountant," the voice called, and I looked up, and there she was. Oh, Editor, it was a stunning moment. I don't remember what she asked and what I said: I fell into a stupor, and she turned round and vanished. I thought it was an apparition, but the office boy was also there, and he says that she asked for Sampath and went away.' He was rubbing his hands in sheer joy and pacing up and down. Srinivas watched him uneasily. He felt he should tell him the truth and check him a little. 'Ravi, are you sure she is the same?' 'What doubt is there? She gets a high light on her right cheek bone. That is the surest mark. Even if other things are a mistake, nobody can go wrong in this. I challenge '

'But she says this is her first visit to this town.'

'She says that, does she? But I have seen her; I know her, that high light no one else can have.'

'Did she recognize you?' Srinivas asked.