'We are determined to finish this scene today, even if it is going to mean twenty-four hours of continuous shooting.'

'You have to wear a cobra around your neck.'

'Yes, yes, I know; we've got that tame one, I tried it: it is not bad, though it feels unearthly cold at the first touch.'

'Play back! Play back!' Sampath shouted presently. 'Sound!' He went over and gave instructions to De Mello, who stood at the camera, and then went to Shiva's seat on Kailas. A song blared forth from the loud-speaker a song with a sentimental lilt, and drums producing a kind of hot-air rhythm. The music department fully realizing the need of the hour had produced a brand-new tune by adapting a couple of tunes born in Hollywood from a South American theme. Srinivas despaired on hearing it. It produced anything but the holy-of-holies feeling that he had hoped would be the essence of the scene. As he saw Somu and Lal tapping their feet instinctively to the music he was filled with a desperation which he could not easily place or classify. Other feet picked up the rhythm, and presently he saw Sampath slowly stirring in his meditation. He rose to his feet. He twisted and wriggled his body and assumed the pose of a dance-carving one saw on temple walls. He moved step by step and approached the chair, which marked Parvathi's place.

'Cut!' rang out De Mello's voice. 'This will be the first cut,' he explained. Shiva relaxed his rigid pose. 'Call Parvathi!' he ordered.

People went out and returned, followed by Parvathi, with her anklets jingling and very modern ear-drops swinging on her ear-lobes and a crown scintillating on her brow. She stood there in her place. Once again the cry 'Music!' and All lights' and 'Final rehearsals'; and lights shot up all around, and Srinivas noted how cunningly they had managed to make her clothes unnecessary by the No. IO light, which shot up a beam of illumination from behind her at ground level. 'What ingenuity!' he commented to himself. Her body stood out as if X-rayed, her necklace and diadem glittered and shone and seemed to be the only apparel she wore. Everyone, the principals in canvas chairs, went over to the camera to look through the view-finder and shake their heads with academic approval. There was suddenly a small discussion on the same academic level.

'Will the censors pass this?'

'Censors! What have they to object to? It's only artistic. At that rate they should stop all dances and Bharata Natya; while professors and ministers are clamouring everywhere that we should revive our classical art ' another said.

'Lights off!' rang the voice, and switches pit-patted.

'We will have a final rehearsal and take the first shot afterwards.'

'Music!'

Music the South American tune started once again. Shiva got up from his trance and executed his slow rhythmic steps, but Parvathi stood still, and when they questioned her about it pleaded: 'No rehearsals are necessary for me. Don't tire me, please.' Shiva opened his eyes for a moment to say: 'Yes, don't tire her out.'

'Yes, yes, it is better that you don't tire her out,' repeated three more voices, catching the contagion. Everybody seemed to be saying the same thing and feeling the same way. And then they sounded a buzzer and stopped the music. Shiva returned to his place and sat under the tree once again in meditation. He said: 'De Mello, get ready to shoot. Call in the extras, Parvathi's companions. Fetch the cobra.'

Lights were once again wheeled about, with their little wheels creaking, porters moved hither and thither, assistants took out their long entry-books and made notes, makeup assistants dashed backward and forward: the cameraman and his assistants disposed themselves around the camera like sentries on duty. Someone went up with a tape and measured, someone else held up an exposure guide over Parvathi's nose elaborate rites of a very curious tribe, with their own high priests and medicine men. 'This is really an anthropological specimen,' Srinivas thought. His reflections were interrupted by the entry of Ravi at this stage. He came in bearing a portfolio in his hand and was waiting for an opportunity to catch the eye of the art director, who was busy on the set, making some final readjustment to the heavenly background. Seeing Srinivas, Ravi edged up to him and whispered: 'I have to get his approval for a design and send it up for block-making immediately.'

'He seems reluctant to get down from yonder heaven,' whispered Srinivas, but found no response. Ravi's eye was caught by the figure of Parvathi, and he looked hypnotized. Srinivas wanted to jerk him back to his normal state and asked: 'What is that thing in your file?' Ravi answered absently: 'Design and lettering.'

'Is it urgent?'

'Yes yes,' replied Ravi, without looking at him, with his eye still on Parvathi, who was now fanning herself. He stood transfixed. 'That is Sampath,' he whispered. 'See the cobra around his neck!' A live cobra was coiled about his throat, where he formerly wore his scarf, and it was making imperceptible gliding movements. Srinivas felt that he must say something to draw away Ravi's attention, searched about for a remark, and could only say: 'What a dangerous thing!'

'It has no fang, unfortunately!' remarked Ravi. Srinivas felt that he had made a blunder, and hastened to repair it with some other remark, but all to no purpose. Ravi stood as if transfixed, with his eyes on Parvathi and answering in monosyllables. Srinivas: 'Shall we go to the canteen for something? I feel rather parched.'

'No. I've got to get that fellow's approval.'

'Ready!' went up a cry. A whistle rang out. The extras lined up behind Parvathi and Shiva. 'Silence!' rang out another cry. 'Lights! All lights.' The lights flashed out, X-raying the dancer once again. 'Music!' Music started. 'Start! Silence.' The camera was switched on. Each man was at his post. The music squeezed all sense out of people and only made them want to gyrate with arms around one another. Shiva went forward, step by step; Parvathi advanced, step by step: he was still in a trance with his eyes shut, but his arms were open to receive her. Shanti's brassiere could be seen straining under her thin clothes. She bent back to fit herself into the other's arms. The Mexican melody worked up a terrific tempo. All lights poured down their brilliance. Scores of people stood outside the scene, watching it with open-mouthed wonder.

It was going to be the most expert shot taken. The light-boys looked down from their platforms as if privileged to witness the amours of gods. If the camera ran on for another minute the shot would be over. They wanted to cut this shot first where Shiva's arms went round the diaphanous lady's hips. But it was cut even a few seconds earlier in an unexpected manner. A piercing cry, indistinguishable, unworded, like an animal's, was suddenly heard, and before they could see where it originated, Ravi was seen whizzing past the others like a bullet, knocking down the people in his way. He was next seen on the set, rushing between Shiva's extended arms and Parvathi, and knocking Shiva aside with such violence that he fell amidst his foliage in Kailas in a most ungodly manner. Next minute they saw Parvathi struggling in the arms of Ravi, who was trying to kiss her on her lips and carry her off....

They soon realized that this scene was not in the script. Cries rang out: 'Cut.' 'Power.' 'Shut down.' 'Stop.' And several people tried to rush into the scene. Ravi attempted to carry off his prize, though she was scratching his face and biting his hands. In the mess someone tripped upon the cables and all the lights went out. Ravi seemed to be seized with a superhuman power. Nobody could get at him. In the confusion someone cried: 'Oh! Camera, take care!' 'Lights, lights, fools!' Somebody screamed: 'The cobra is free; the cobra is creeping here, oh!' People ran helter-skelter in the dark. While they were all searching and running into each other they could hear Ravi's voice lustily ringing out in another part of the studio. And all ran in his direction.

He was presently heard saying: 'She has slipped away again. Bring her, do you hear me?' His voice rose and filled the whole place in the dark. 'I'm not to be cheated again. She is ' He uttered aloud a piece of ribaldry. And if anyone goes near her I will murder him.' And he let out a whoop of joy and cried: Ah, here she is.' And somebody else cried: 'Oh, he has got me,' amidst other noises. There was the noise of a struggle in the dark. 'Leave me, leave me oh, save me,' some 'extra' girl screamed. And the crowd rushed in her direction. In the meantime one or two candles were brought in, and by their flickering light, people moved about in the direction of Ravi's voice. But the moment they came there, Ravi's voice was heard in another part of the building challenging them. In this pale light Srinivas could be seen trying to follow Ravi and persuade him persuade him to do what? Srinivas wondered in the middle of it all. He was blindly running along with the rest of them, catching the mood of the mob. It was evident that for most people now this was an exciting diversion, though the two who looked maddened and panicky were Sampath and Somu. Sampath had still Shiva's matted locks on his crown, and the tiger's skin girt his loins, but he looked despondent; even in that feeble light of a single candle his eyes looked care-worn and anxious as he paused to say: 'Editor, what is this! What devil has seized him! We are ruined. Do something. Stop him ' Ravi like a shadow was seen racing up a flight of steps. 'Oh, he is going into the storage. Stop him, stop him.' Somu's portly figure was hurrying towards the stairs. He was seen going up a few steps, when Ravi turned swiftly on his heel with a war cry and tried to fling himself on him; and Somu, startled beyond description, stood arrested for the fraction of a second, and turned and ran down again at full speed. This was the first time anyone had seen Somu running; and people forgot their main pursuit for a moment in watching this spectacle. Sohan Lal came up from somewhere, moving along with the general stream of the crowd and cried into Srinivas's face: 'I should not have given that advance on the picture. Now what is to happen to my money?' Somu was crying: 'Sampath! Sampath!' pointlessly in the dark. Srinivas felt so dumbfounded by everything that he merely stopped where he was, leaning for rest on one of the creeper-covered shed walls. 'Can't you get some more candles?' someone shouted. 'They are all required near the fuse-box.'

'Which fool is responsible for this?' Sampath cried somewhere. 'Carrying open lamps!' He ordered all the candles to be put out. And utter darkness enveloped them again.

De Mello was the only person who seemed to plan the campaign with any intelligence. He conducted himself as though such things were a part of the ordinary Hollywood training. 'There is no need to lose our heads over this,' he was heard saying again and again. 'It is only a mishap.' With a handful of picked men from the works section, armed with sticks, he surrounded the block and led the procession up the staircase. He proceeded stealthily, flashing his torch. 'Not enough torches to go round. That is our chief handicap.' He tiptoed into the top room, as if going into a tiger cage when the tiger was not looking. There was for a moment no sound after he went in. People down below held their breaths and waited with anxious faces. Presently the door opened and De Mello appeared on the landing and declared: 'He is not here.'

'Not there! What do you mean, not there, Mr De Mello?'

De Mello shouted something back and added: 'God knows, vanished probably through the window. He has made a frightful mess. Come up, please.'

They hesitated, trying to pluck up courage to go. Sampath moved a step or two, when a man came down. 'Shanti has swooned. She has a cut on her forehead bleeding.' Sampath exclaimed: 'Ah! Ah! Get a doctor,' and vanished from the spot. Meanwhile Somu gripped Srinivas's hand and cried: 'Please come up and see, sir.'

'Yes, yes, it is better you come up and see also,' added Sohan Lal, taking his other arm. Srinivas allowed himself to be steered. There was no need to question the relevancy of any action. This was not the moment for it.

This block contained the laboratory, storage, editing and allied departments, full of shelves, tables, wheels, troughs all kinds of apparatus resembling an alchemist's workshop.

The torch flashed and went out as they examined their surroundings. Somu cried in despair: 'Can't someone get a torch which doesn't go out?' The floor was strewn with broken bottles, chemicals and salt and trailing lengths of film. 'Be careful! Broken glass,' De Mello warned. Somu snatched a flashlight, stooped to the floor, picked up a film and held it up. They saw a close-up of Shanti, and farther along Shiva on Kailas, with dirt and scratches on both of them. 'Who left the negatives about so carelessly?' Somu thundered, glaring from his kneeling position on the floor. No one answered. All questions at this moment were destined to die without an answer.

'Well, sir, no one is particularly responsible for this; it's usual to keep the cut negatives in these racks. Nothing unusual,' said De Mello. Somu grunted and said: 'Our loss must be heavy.' He felt like saying a few other things, but somehow feared that he might hurt De Mello. He was too cautious even now. He suppressed many pungent remarks that rose to his lips, and merely said: 'Won't someone get a light?' In answer to this they heard a thundering command go forth. 'Here! Get Shanti and all her lights!'

Somu looked about panic-stricken and cried: 'He is here, get the light quick!'

'Get Shanti lights!' echoed the command. De Mello flashed his torch and saw Ravi crouching under a table, his eyes sparkling in the torch light. De Mello acted quickly, too quickly even for Ravi. He just stooped, thrust his hand in and pulled Ravi out. Somu shivered and tried to run. He became hysterical and chattered incoherently. Ravi struggled in De Mello's grip and mumbled: 'You are hurting. Love me, darling. Love me, darling,' he said in a sing-song. 'Darling, love me. Love is lust. Lust is portrait in oils, Editor. And all his colour of rain. What colour is lust?' In reply to all this, De Mello's left fist shot out, hit him under the chin, and knocked him down flat.

The lights were ablaze once again at 5 a.m. The police arrived in a van soon after.

The major part of the next four days Srinivas spent in running between the Market Road Police Station and his home.

Ravi's household was in a turmoil. His father was mad with rage, his mother wrung her hands helplessly, and even the little brothers and sisters looked stunned.

After his outburst Ravi became docile and uncommunicative. He didn't seem to recognize anyone. When Srinivas addressed him through the bars, Ravi would not even turn in his direction. His look had no fixed point. He kept muttering something to himself under his breath. No one could follow the sense of it. It sounded like the language of another planet.

Srinivas became familiar with the comings and goings of the police station. He saw a policeman pushing in a jutka driver for some traffic offence; he saw an urchin brought in and sent away with a couple of slaps on his face; he saw a terrified villager brought in for questioning and pushed away somewhere out of sight. All the while a sergeant sat at a table, implacably writing on brown forms, except when a bulky inspector came in swinging a short cane, when he stood up respectfully and saluted. Ravi sat hunched up in a corner seeing nothing, hearing nothing, but occupied with his own repetitions. Srinivas carried him food every day in a brass vessel. He had the lock-up opened, went in, sat beside Ravi and persuaded him to eat the food. Ravi seemed to have forgotten the art of eating. Srinivas attempted to feed him with a spoon, but even that was difficult. He kept a morsel on his tongue and swallowed only when he was persistently told to do so. It was an odd spectacle Srinivas sitting there in that dark corner beyond the bars, coaxing Ravi to eat, as the Market Road babble continued outside. Sampath came on the evening of the fourth day and stood watching the scene through the bars. He had a few scratches on his face and he limped slightly: otherwise there was no sign of the recent events. He still wore his smart silk shirt and gold studs. He stood watching silently till Srinivas finished the feeding and came out. Sampath said with a sigh: 'It was an evil hour that brought me and Ravi together. I never knew that a fellow could go so mad. Won't you come out? Let us sit in the car and talk.' Srinivas followed him to the car outside. Sampath opened the door and sat down in the driver's seat with Srinivas beside him. It was five in the evening, and traffic rolled past them. The babble of the market place kept a continuous background to their talk as Sampath said: 'I couldn't see you for three or four days, Mr Editor. There has been so much to do, mainly checking up the damage! Why should a thing like this happen to us?' Srinivas remained silent, feeling that an answer was beyond him. Sampath said with the air of a martyr: 'I've only been trying to do him a good turn and yet ... You know our losses?'

'Must be heavy,' Srinivas said casually, determined to discourage martyrdom at all costs.

'Damage to the settings, chemicals, lights, films exposed, and so on; we shall have to retake several shots. It is amazing how much havoc one man could do within an hour. It will be days before we set the studio right again. More than all this Shanti. She is so much shaken that she will be unfit for work for many weeks. She swore she would never come near the studio again. I couldn't mention the word "studio" without her getting hysterical. This would have been our greatest blow, but thank God, since yesterday she has grown calmer! I know I can manage her. She needs complete rest before she can return to work. But I'm sure she will be all right, and we will complete the film yet. Not a hundred Ravis can stop us from doing our work. Well, you will see us all up and doing once again. I'm sorry, though, to see that boy there, but I always felt he was not quite sound.'

'I wanted to see you about him, too. Will you withdraw your complaint? He should be in a hospital, not in prison,' pleaded Srinivas.

'But but ' Sampath hesitated.

'He will not come near you or the studio. I will guarantee you that.'

'Somu has lost his head completely. He is dead set on pursuing the matter.'

'You had better explain to him how silly it will be and that he will gain nothing by it. Please withdraw your complaint. You will not be troubled by him. I will see to it. You can do it on behalf of the studio. I promise I will ask nothing else of you in life.' He pleaded so earnestly that Sampath got down without a word, approached the sergeant, spoke to him and left with him a letter for the inspector. 'It is done, sir,' he said, getting back into his seat in the car. 'I only came to say goodbye. We are going to Mempi hills tomorrow.'

'Why Mempi hills, of all places?'

'It has a fine rest-house and it is a quiet place. I'm sure a couple of weeks' stay there will immensely benefit Shanti.' His car moved off. Srinivas watched him go. A vast sigh of despair escaped his lips at the irrepressible inevitable success that seemed to loom ahead of Sampath. 'God alone can rescue him,' he muttered to himself as he saw the car turn into Ellaman Street.

The inspector came down an hour later. He said: 'Well, you can take your friend home. I am glad they have withdrawn the complaint. What can we do with mentally defective people? It is like dealing with drunkards. We keep them in custody for three or four days and then send them off. If kept longer they prove a bother to themselves and to us.'

Srinivas walked into the cell and persuaded Ravi to leave with him. The inspector followed them to the door. He said: 'I used to read your Banner with great interest. What has happened to it?' This was a piece of encouragement from a most unexpected quarter. Srinivas stood arrested like a man recovering a lost memory. Traffic was passing, policemen were walking in and out with their boot-nails clanking on the hard stone floor. 'Why, what's the matter?' asked the inspector, turning the little stick in his hand. 'No, nothing,' Srinivas replied. All the jumble of his recent months came in a torrent: Sampath, the press, film, rotary, Linotype each struggling to be expressed and jostling the other out. Srinivas stood looking at the point of light in the inspector's belt-buckle, which caught a ray of light from the shop opposite. Ravi, his hair ruffled, his dress dirty and loose, stood beside him mutely. Srinivas felt that he himself had stood mute too long, and some answer from him was overdue. But he found himself tongue-tied. He felt he had been involved in a chaos of human relationships and activities. He kept saying to himself: 'I am searching for something, trying to make a meaning out of things.' The inspector kept looking at him, half amused and half puzzled. The groan of a man in custody was feebly heard... The implications of The Banner and all that it stood for flashed across Srinivas's mind for a brief second. He said desperately, imploringly: 'If I had a press I could start it tomorrow.'

The inspector said: 'What has happened to the press you were doing it in?' Once again he felt it impossible to speak; he struggled for expression. He overcame the struggle with a deliberate effort and said: 'Sampath, Sampath you know he is no longer a printer.'

'No, he is no longer a printer; I know.'

'I can't get anyone else to print my work,' said Srinivas, and felt like a baby talking complainingly. It sounded to him silly and childish to be talking thus at the police-station gate.

'If you will come here any time tomorrow evening I will take you to the Empire Press, who will print for you. He is a good printer and will oblige me. We must revive your weekly. It used to be interesting,' said the inspector.

Srinivas gripped his hand in an access of inexpressible gratitude. 'Please...' he implored. 'I'll be here tomorrow at eleven positively.'

He drew his arm through Ravi's and led him along through the crowded Market Road; a bus hooted, country carts tumbled by, villagers passed along with loads on their heads. But Srinivas felt that he had got back his enchantment in life. He chattered happily as he walked along: 'Ravi, something to keep me sane absolutely without The Banner ... Well, you will be well enough again, and then you can draw dozens of pictures for our paper. It will be your own paper,' he said and looked at the dull, uncomprehending eyes of Ravi, who walked beside him like a lamb, his lips muttering some unknown chant under his breath. They walked on a few paces thus, silently, on the edge of the road, avoiding and pushing their way through the groups of people going in the opposite direction. Srinivas slackened his pace and whispered: 'Don't you worry any more about Sampath or anyone else ... They all belong to a previous life.' He looked up at the other as he said it. A feeble ray of understanding seemed to glow in Ravi's eyes: that was enough for Srinivas. His heart was filled with joy and he forgot all else in the relish of this moment.

CHAPTER TEN.

Srinivas had nowadays little time to bother about the outside world, being fully engaged on the revived Banner. It now emerged from an office in Market Road itself coming off the Empire Press, which, though small in itself, seemed to Srinivas a vast organization; it had at least half a dozen type-boards, a twin cylinder machine turned off the formes, and one did not have to wait for four pages to be printed to get the types ready for the next four. In contrast with the Truth Printing Works, this appeared to be a revolutionary step forward. A small room was partitioned off with a red movable screen, and that separated the printer from the editor. The printer was a taciturn, dull man, who took no interest in the matter he printed, who would show no accommodation in financial matters, but who was thoroughly punctual and precise in doing his work.

Srinivas found himself facing, for the first time, financial problems as a reality. He couldn't restart The Banner without paying an advance and buying the paper for it. There was no longer Sampath between him and financial shocks. He spent long worrying hours speculating how he should manage it. He solved the problem by writing a letter to his brother, asking for the amount out of his share in the ancestral property. He hated himself for writing thus, but it was the only way out. He avoided deliberately any highfalutin references to his work, any abstract principles involved in it, but tried to appear sordid. He wrote: 'You know the old fable of a man who mounted a tiger I'm in the same position. The Banner has to be kept fluttering in the air if I'm to survive. I may tell you that it has built itself up nicely, and there is not much groundwork to be done for it now. I've still all the old subscribers' rolls, and I'm also taking in a few pages of advertisements; and so don't you worry at all about its finances. But I require some temporary accommodation. If you can lend me a couple of thousands or, if it is impossible, give me two thousand out of my share in our property, I shall be grateful for the timely help.' His brother accepted it as a legitimate demand and sent him the amount with only the admonition: 'Please be a little more practical-minded in the management of your affairs. I would strongly advise you to have an accountant to look after your accounts and tell you from time to time how you stand. Don't grudge this expense.' He added a note of warning: 'You will understand that ancestral property is after all a sacred trust, and not loose money meant for the fanciful expenditure of the individual; it really belongs to our children and their children.' 'Children and their children'; it produced a lovely picture on the mind like the vista of an endless colonnade. But the first part of the sentence made him indignant. 'He blesses with his hand, and kicks with his feet,' he moaned. 'Shall I send back this amount?'

His wife advised him: 'He has merely said that you must be careful with the money. Why should that make you angry?'

Srinivas cooled down and said: 'All right then, I will take it now, but return it at the earliest possible moment.' He wrote to his brother to this effect, while acknowledging the amount, and it had the unexpected result of bringing from him a warm letter appreciating the resolution and repeating the advice to provide himself with an accountant. He accepted the reasonableness of this suggestion and acted upon it immediately. The Empire Press man lent him his own accountant for a couple of hours each day, for a small consideration.

Srinivas turned his back on Kabir Lane without a sigh. He rummaged his garret, filled a couple of baskets with all the papers there, and descended the steps for the last time. The building was now held on lease by Sunrise Pictures, and no life stirred there. The door of the registered offices and of the director of productions remained locked up. He felt he could no longer stand a meeting with Somu, Sohan Lal or De Mello. They seemed to him figures out of a nightmare. He merely sent the key to the studio with a messenger. Out of all the welter of paper he was carrying away he took care not to miss the little sketch of Ravi's in the cardboard file.

'Nonsense an adult occupation' was one of the outstanding editorials he wrote after The Banner's rebirth. He analysed and wrote down much of his studio experience in it. Adulthood was just a mask that people wore, the mask made up of a thick jowl and double chin and diamond earrings, or a green sporting shirt, but within it a man kept up the nonsense of his infancy, worse now for being without the innocence and the pure joy. Only the values of commerce gave this state a gloss of importance and urgency.

This brought Somu into his office one day. His fingers sparkled with diamonds as he clutched his cane. Srinivas sent up a silent prayer at the sight of him. 'Oh, God, save me from these people and give me the strength to face them now.' Somu's incapacity to speak out was once again evident. He sat clearing his throat and trying to smile. Srinivas forbore to ask him about the studio or their picture. 'Oh, God, don't involve me again with these people,' he prayed. Somu asked: 'How is it, you don't come near the studio?'

Srinivas felt it was unnecessary to give any answer. Somu persisted, and Srinivas merely said: 'I have no business there.'

'Ah! Ah! How can you say so? How can we run a studio without the help of story-writers like you, sir?'

Srinivas had no answer to give. He felt a deep hurt within him; seeing those fat cheeks and diamonds and the memory of Ravi in the cell, mumbling incoherently, he felt like crying out: 'You are all people who try to murder souls.'

Somu said: 'Your journal, your journal. We see you have said something about us.' This seemed to be interesting. Srinivas asked: 'What exactly have I said?'

Somu tapped the table nervously and said: 'I didn't read it fully.'

'How much of it really did you read then?'

'H'm ... In fact, I meant to read it later, but De Mello took it away and told me about it. He said that there was something about the studio,' said Somu.

'In that case you may read it now,' said Srinivas, taking out a copy of the issue and handing it to him. Somu looked at it for a few moments, turned its pages curiously, and rolled it up. 'Why are you folding it up?' asked Srinivas.

'I will read it at home,' replied Somu apologetically.

'No. I want you to read it at once,' said Srinivas. A look of panic came into Somu's eyes. 'All of it?' he asked, looking at the rolled-up copy in his hand.

'Yes, it is only twelve pages.'

'Oh, sir, please excuse me,' begged Somu. Srinivas became adamant. He enjoyed very much bullying Somu. It seemed to him that he was getting a bit of his own back after all. He wanted to cry Ah, how should I have felt when you fellows worried me to death and had everything your own way?' He enjoyed Somu's discomfiture, and again and again insisted upon his going through the journal on the spot. He wondered why Somu did not brush him aside and ask him to mind his business. But he didn't. He meekly said: 'I came only to spend a few minutes with you and find out about the article.'

'Yes, but how can you talk about it unless you read it? Go on, at least read the article you wish to discuss.' Somu looked at him appealingly for a moment, took out his glasses and poised them over his nose, spread out the issue and tilted it towards the window light. Looking at him thus, Srinivas felt that this must be counted as a major conquest in his career. He attended to the papers on his table, and a clearing of the throat from the other drew his attention: he looked up and saw Somu anxiously looking at him, wondering if he would be permitted to put down the paper now. He started taking off his glasses when Srinivas looked at him fixedly and said: Yes?'

'I've finished reading it.'

Srinivas wondered for a moment whether he could command him to go through the next article, but he refrained: it might prove to be the last straw: Somu might, after all, assert his independence and refuse. Srinivas felt, seeing the agonized face of the other as he was put through this trial, that all his wrongs of recent months were sufficiently avenged, and he felt his humanity returning. He became almost tender as he asked: 'Well, sir, what about it now?'

'De Mello said there was something about our production in it,' said Somu. 'That's why I came here.'

'Now you find nothing in it?' asked Srinivas.

'Nothing about our production. I don't know what made De Mello say so.' He appeared indignant at the trick played upon him.

Srinivas said quietly: 'De Mello is right. If you take the copy home and read it carefully, you will understand, and then you can come and talk it over with me.'

He looked puzzled. 'Why should you attack our film, sir?' he asked angrily. 'After all, you wrote the story. It is not right, sir, that you should be unkind to us.' He clutched his walking-stick and got up to go.

Srinivas said: 'You must read the paper regularly if you are to understand my point of view. It is not unkindness. Why don't you take out a subscription for a year? It is only ten rupees.'

'I have no time to read, sir, that is the trouble.'

'Just as you find the time to eat and sleep you must find the time to read a paper like The Banner. It's meant for people like you.' Somu took out ten rupees and placed it on the table. Srinivas wrote out a receipt and gave it him. Somu folded it and put it in his purse and started to go, but said, stopping half-way: 'After all, we spend lakhs of rupees on our pictures, and you must be careful not to prejudice the public against us and damage us.'

Srinivas kept Ravi in his own home. He had more or less the task of running both the households on his own means. Ravi's little sister came in several times a day with a petition for a rupee or two, and Srinivas ungrudgingly parted with them and advised his wife to do so in his absence. Ravi's father had given up talking not only to Ravi but also to Srinivas. He let out a sort of growl whenever he sensed Srinivas passing in front of his house. He was reported (by Srinivas's wife) to be continually saying: 'He ruined my son by putting notions into his head. Now he wants to ruin the rest of the family.' This naturally roused her indignation, and she asked: 'Why should we ever bother about these people when they are so ungrateful!' Srinivas merely told her: 'Don't waste your energy listening to what he or anybody says. Just give them any help you can.'

'For how long?' she asked.

Srinivas scratched his head. There seemed to be really no means of saying how long.

'And what are you going to do about him?' she asked, indicating the corner of the hall where Ravi sat mumbling his chant. Srinivas kept him with him because he had a feeling that Ravi's own home might hinder rather than help a possible recovery. He fed him, looked after his personal needs and kept him there. 'He must be protected from his family,' he explained. All this discussion had to be carried on in subdued voices in the kitchen while dining, since the front half of their house was occupied by one or the other of Ravi's relations. His little brothers and sisters came round and sat there in front of him. Sometimes they laughed at him and sometimes they ran away in fear. Unremittingly he kept repeating his sentences, though no one could follow anything that he was saying. Often his mother came up and sat in front of him, coaxed him to eat this or that, some special preparation that she made at home with her meagre resources. Srinivas's wife, after her initial protests, was often moved by this spectacle and sat down with her and tried to comfort her.

The old lady was beginning to think that the matter with Ravi was that he was possessed. She recounted a dozen instances similar to his, where exorcizing restored a man to his normal state.

So one evening, returning home from his office, Srinivas found strange activities going on. Ravi had become the centre of the picture. In front of him were set out trays of saffron and flowers, huge twigs of margosa leaves, and a camphor flare. A wild-looking man with huge beads around his neck, clad in red silk, his forehead dabbed with vermilion, officiated at the ceremony. He looked very much like Shiva in makeup. The air choked with incense burning in a holder. He had a couple of assistants sitting behind him, one bearing a cymbal and the other a little rattling drum which produced a peculiarly shrill noise. The chief man had a thin cane of a whip-like thinness at his feet, and he had smeared it with saffron and vermilion. Ravi's mother sat near this group with a reverent look in her eyes, and Srinivas saw his own wife running about, ministering to their wants ungrudgingly. Little Ramu and the other youngsters of the neighbouring house stood peeping in at the doorway. They looked slightly scared and thought it safer to keep their distance so. Srinivas stood at the threshold, arrested by this scene. Ramu had wanted to bound towards him and tell him in advance, but he was unwilling to forfeit his place in the doorway, and so kept calling in a suppressed voice: 'Father, Father.' But before he could say anything more Srinivas had come upon the scene. An exclamation of surprise escaped his lips. His wife came to him in great haste and drew him away into the kitchen. She closed the middle door and cautioned him: 'Don't say any inauspicious word now.'

'Whose idea is this?' he asked sourly.

'That lady has been wanting to do it. You must not say anything against it. Where can she go, poor lady? Her husband might not allow it or he might swear at them all the time.'