'Are you asking when I am going to die?'

The boy looked abashed: 'I am not saying that, but I cannot wait. I want my share urgently.'

'Pray, what is the urgency, may I ask?' said Margayya cynically. 'Do you think that I ought to drink poison and clear the way for your enjoyment?' The boy did not know how to answer. Margayya could no longer keep standing. He pushed the boy aside and walked out. He told the accountant: 'Put the bags and the statement into the car.' He got into the car and drove off, leaving his son standing on the steps of the bank.

Margayya felt restless. After closing his accounts, putting away the cash, and bolting down his food, he told his wife: 'I am going out for a moment. Close the door.'

'At this hour!' she asked, but he had gone. She turned in with resignation.

His driver had locked the car and gone home. Outside, the stars were sparkling in the sky, and the streets were deserted and silent. Margayya had to walk the entire way it was some months since he had walked and he felt exhilarated by the exercise today. 'I have perhaps been too severe,' he told himself. 'I must investigate what his troubles are more sympathetically. Probably he is genuinely hard up. Perhaps I might take him into business and see that he has a better income and standing.' He wondered if the boy would be surprised to see him there at that hour. 'This is the only time I can spare,' he told himself. 'If the morning rush starts ... He must also be fairly annoyed that I have not been seeing the grandson. Young parents think the world exists in order to take an interest in a newborn child,' he reflected philosophically. 'When Balu was born, we cut off relations who didn't come and stand over the crib and say admiring things about him. All the same, he had no business to upset me I have not been feeling well. He should have had more sense. Share of the property! The damned fool.' The recollection of this made him so angry that he stopped and almost turned to go back home. 'What right has that fool to make me walk to him at this hour? It is sheer nonsense, why should I go there?' he asked himself suddenly. 'Share of the property! Accursed fool! What share I gave him the right answer.' He chuckled at the memory of his vulgar repartee. 'Anyway, there is no other time when I can meet him and speak to him might as well get through it and see what ails him. I will make him a proposition to join me in business. That is the thing to do. It is ages since I saw Brinda nice girl '

He came to Lawley Road. It was about one o'clock. He stood before number 17, at Fourth Cross Road, a small villa with a bluebell creeper over the gatepost and a mesh-covered veranda. He stood outside and admired the house: 'Got this practically for a song less than two thousand rupees. If that fool of a fellow could not pay the interest even after two years, the fault is not mine if it falls in my lap the fruit can only fall on the palm of him who holds up his hands for it.' As he opened the little wooden gate and entered, he saw no light in the house: 'Probably the boy has slept,' he reflected. He was hesitating whether to turn back and go. But the gate had creaked; a veranda light was now switched on and the bolt of the front door was being drawn back.

'Who is there?' asked Brinda's voice from inside.

Margayya called out, 'Brinda,' to disclose himself. Brinda had just risen from bed; she looked sleepy and rather tired. She was a very elegant girl. Looking at her Margayya thought, 'What a fortunate thing to have secured this daughter-in-law. If those fool astrologers had their way!' He climbed the steps.

'You have come walking at this hour,' his daughter-in-law asked; her voice was soft and musical.

Margayya said: 'I couldn't find any other time. How is the baby?' He walked in and stood looking at the little fellow sleeping on his mother's bed. He gently touched his cheek.

The girl demurely said: 'He wouldn't sleep and gets up at the slightest sound.'

'Why should you not let him stay awake?' asked Margayya.

'He gives us no peace. He wants to be carried about all the time,' she answered. She was showing him the utmost respect as an elder.

He admired her for it her tone of courtesy, her soft movement and elegance. 'God bless her!' he told himself. 'Yes, Balu used to be troublesome too when he was a baby. Where is Balu?' he asked, noticing the vacant bed beside hers.

She hesitated ever so slightly before answering briefly: 'He has not yet come home.' Her face became serious when she said that.

'Where has he gone?' Margayya asked.

She still hesitated. She merely bit her lips. Margayya sensed something was wrong. He persisted, and she merely replied: 'He has gone to a cinema,' with an effort.

'A cinema! So late as this! How can he leave you and the child alone and go away like this?' There was so much genuine sympathy in his voice that the girl was affected by it and burst into tears. Margayya was totally at a loss to know what to do now. This was a new situation for him, and he did not know what to say. He said to her: 'Why don't you sit down? Why do you keep standing?'

She wouldn't sit down out of respect for her father-in-law. But he was able to persuade her. She rallied and said: 'I wanted to come and see you. Every day this happens: he comes home every day at two o'clock. If I ask him, he ... he ... I'm afraid of him.'

And then it came out bit by bit. Dr Pal was his constant companion. They gathered in a house and played cards it was the house of a man who called himself a theatrical agent. She had learnt from their servant that there were a lot of girls also in the building. Pal had something or other to do with these people, and picked Balu up in his car. They sat there continuously playing cards till midnight. They chewed tobacco and betel leaves, sometimes they drank also, and men and women were very free, and all of them dropped down wherever they sat and slept and became sick when they drank too much it was a revolting description that she gave: all learnt from the servant who worked in the house, the uncle of the girl who looked after the baby. Brinda also said that Balu seemed to be thinking of becoming a partner in their business. In fact he always explained to his wife that it was business that kept him out late. 'If I speak ... he threatens to drive me out. It's that Pal ... Can't you do something to keep him away?'

'How long has this been going on?'

'For months '

'Why didn't you tell us?'

'I was afraid. Even now, please don't tell him that I have said anything.'

Margayya brooded over it darkly. He now seemed to understand why his son was asking for a partition. 'Dr Pal! Dr Pal! What shall I do with him?' he reflected. He was torn between caution and an impossible rage. God knew where it would lead if he alienated Pal's sympathies: the fellow might do anything. He decided, within a fraction of a moment, that the thing to do was to separate his son from Pal without making a fuss about it, and then deal with his son separately. He would have to tempt Pal to go out of town probably on the pretext of a contact outside; but if he went there and ... Margayya found he was in terror of him. The only element that kept people from being terrified of each other was trust the moment it was lost, people became nightmares to each other; this seemed to be truly his problem, that he could neither keep the fellow in sight nor let him go out of sight. But anyway he had better move with the utmost caution. The daughter-in-law patiently sat in a chair and watched his face. He told her with a great deal of tenderness: 'You go in and sleep, my child. I will go home, and I will see about this tomorrow. Don't worry about anything. I will set your husband right. You lock the door now; look after the baby. Tell me if you need anything. Don't be afraid. I will send your mother-in-law to see you tomorrow morning.' He got up and left. The girl bolted the veranda door and put out the light.

As he was closing the wicket gate behind him, Dr Pal's Baby Austin drew up. The moment the rattling of its engine was heard the veranda light was switched on again and the bolt was drawn with a pat. At the same moment, Balu got down from the car. He leaned his elbow on the door and whispered something to Dr Pal, at which Dr Pal burst into a laugh and giggling sounds emanated from the back seat of the car. They did not notice Margayya's presence. Margayya could not restrain himself any longer. He was conscious of a desperation that impelled him on. All his caution and discretion was swept aside. He dashed to the other door of the car near the driving seat, thrust his arm in, got Pal by the scruff of his coat and dragged him out as Balu on the other side was saying: 'Good-night!' Nobody was prepared for it: and Dr Pal staggered out. The moment he was out of the car, Margayya took off one of his sandals and hit him with it; he kept hitting out with such tremendous power and frequency that Pal could hardly protect himself. He was blinded by pain, and blood oozed from the cuts on his face. The girls within the car screamed: Balu came over and demanded: 'What has come over you, father?'

Margayya turned on him, put his fingers around his neck and gave him a push towards the gate with: 'Get out of my way, you little idiot!' Balu staggered and hit his head on the gatepost.

His wife came down the veranda steps with the cry: 'Oh, are you hurt? What has happened?'

He rushed towards her asking: 'When did this father of mine come here?' Meanwhile the child had been awakened by the hubbub and started howling and Brinda turned and ran back into the house. Balu followed her blindly in.

Meanwhile, the two girls in the back seat of the car cried out: 'Help! Help!'

Margayya put his head in and ordered: 'Shut up, you whores!' He felt overpowered by the scent of powder filling the inside of the car. 'Who are you?' he demanded. They at once became silent, and his tone became more menacing: 'Who are you?' he thundered. His voice woke up a couple of street dogs and they started barking: which again woke up Balu's child so that it shouted more than ever.

The girls said: 'We belong to ... the theatre '

'The theatre! Why don't you say what you really are! If you are seen again anywhere '

The rest they could not hear, because Dr Pal wriggled himself free, and suddenly dashed into the car, started it, and was off. He looked back and remarked: 'You miserable miser, who cannot share your goods with your own son all right '

The red rear light of the car receded and vanished around a bend. Margayya hesitated on the road for a moment to decide whether he should follow his son into the house. But he saw his son bolt the veranda door, and put out the light. 'Good! Good! It is a good sign. He is a good son that trembles and runs away from his father,' he said to himself, and turned homeward.

Later in life Margayya often speculated what would have become of him if he had started back home after speaking to his daughter-in-law a little earlier and missed Dr Pal's Austin that night, or if he had remained in the shadows and had allowed Pal to go off after dropping Balu, whom he might probably have tackled with more circumspection and diplomacy: he might even have shared his property with him as he demanded: that would have saved him at least the rest of it and prevented the doctor from doing what he did.

Dr Pal went straight to a police station and recorded an immediate complaint of assault. The two actresses and Balu were his witnesses. Next morning he went round with plaster on his face to his various customers and business men. His first visit was to the blanket merchant. He took Balu along with him in the car. The blanket merchant was the first to ask: 'What has happened to your face, Doctor?'

The doctor looked sad and said: 'I am an academic man, and I should not have associated with business men '

'Can't you tell me what happened?' the blanket merchant persisted.

The doctor just shook his head and said: 'No, I can't better leave things alone. It was my mistake to have associated with all sorts of folks, and I ought to blame only myself... I'm paying for it.'

'Don't say so, sir. We have the greatest respect for you '

'Business people have money, and they can help me to set up my Psychological Clinic that was my chief interest: that would have been of the greatest benefit to them: nowadays psychological wear and tear has the highest incidence among business men: theirs is a life of the utmost strain. I thought I might be of some help to the business community more than to anyone else and what is the result?'

'No, sir, you must not speak like that. We have the greatest regard for you. But business life is becoming difficult with so many controls and permit forms to be filled up for all sorts of things. You have no idea how many obstacles a business man has to face before he can get through anything in the Government '

After this the doctor drew his attention again to the plaster over his cheeks. The merchant asked: 'You have not yet told me where you got it?'

Dr Pal lowered his voice to a whisper and said: 'You will not believe me! Margayya assaulted me last night near his son's house.'

'What! Why?'

'How can I say? He is somewhat queer these days. His son went up to him with some request and was slapped in the face. Later, I had to see him. Things are probably not going smoothly there.'

'Ah!' exclaimed the merchant.

He was the first to meet Margayya at his house that morning. 'I want to take back my deposit. There is a marriage proposal likely to shape out 'He grinned awkwardly, nervously, and held out the receipt issued by Margayya.

'My accountant has all the figures,' began Margayya. The blanket merchant cringed: 'It's urgent. I've to find immediate cash.'

'You have already drawn interest on it?'

'Yes ... yes ... But I want the principal.'

'Oh, yes, certainly,' said Margayya, and went into the small room and came out with a bundle of currency.

'You are a clever rogue! You have earned so much interest and are now getting your capital! Very clever, very clever,' Margayya said light-heartedly, which pleased the blanket merchant tremendously as he counted the cash and went out. This was the starting-point. Margayya could not leave for his office. One after another they came with their receipts. Margayya returned their cash without a murmur. The street became congested with people converging on his house; people hung about his steps and windows. He bolted the front door and dealt with them through the window.

Margayya's wife looked panic-stricken: 'What has happened? Why so many people?'

'They are wanting their money back, that's all.'

'What are you going to do?'

'Well, give it back, that's all.'

'You have not eaten this whole day.'

'I have no taste for food.' He felt very weak and still could not stomach the thought of food. His eyes smarted with scrutinizing so many receipts. His wrist pained him with the counting of notes. He wished he could get his accountant by his side. He saw him through the window, struggling to approach the house in the midst of the crowd. But he could not come nearer. Some persons recognized the accountant, and turned upon him. Margayya saw them manhandling the old man.

'I knew nothing about it. I swear. I still know nothing about it,' he was crying.

'My life's savings gone! I am a beggar today!' one of them shouted into the ears of the old man.

They were pulling him here and there. His spectacles were broken and his turban torn. A policeman came into the crowd and took away the old man.

By about four o'clock all the cash in the house was gone. All the mail sacks lay about empty and slack; yet peeping through the window, Margayya saw seas and seas of human heads stretching to the horizon, human faces at their most terrifying. The babble of the crowd was deafening. Luckily for him the front door of the house was at least a century old and made of thick timber, and could stand the battering by a hundred hands. People jammed the passage and windows and shouted menacingly. There seemed to be only one theme for all the cries: 'My money! My money gone! All my savings gone '

Margayya could sit up no longer. He just flung himself down on the floor beside the window. No air could come in. There were terrifying faces all around and the babble of voices; and over it all came the cry of an ice-cream pedlar: 'Ice cream! Ice cream for thirst!' as his bell tinkled.

Margayya's wife was scared by the siege and at the condition of her husband. She bent over him and asked: 'What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?'

'Call my brother,' said Margayya.

She ran to the backyard. Very soon Margayya's elder brother climbed the lavatory wall and the parapet of the well, jumped into the backyard and was in a minute by his side.

'Brother, what is this? What has come over you?'

'I'm tired ... Please send for the police ... Hurry up, otherwise they will mob this house: they will kill us, they will set it on fire, they will '

'Do you still owe all of them money?'

'To all of them and many more unseen; more will come tomorrow. More and more of them ... Get me the police to save us now and bring a lawyer. I am filing insolvency at once.'

'Insolvency! Think of your family reputation!'

'No other way out, none whatever.'

The brother, ever a man for a crisis, stood thinking. The hubbub outside was increasing every moment.

'The flood is outside,' Margayya said. 'It will wipe us out. Please, please run 'He felt too weak with his effort and lay still with his eyes closed.

His brother ran to his sister-in-law standing at the door sobbing. 'Quick, give him something '

'There is no milk in the house. The milkman could not come in. There is nothing in the house. We have been shut up here since the morning.'

'Oh, is that so?' He rushed away, and returned soon carrying a vessel full of coffee, and something to eat. He seemed to be enjoying the situation. He said excitedly: 'Now, try and give him something. I tried to see if there was a regular meal next door but it was not available: your sister-in-law will send you food presently. She has just started cooking.' He bustled round spreading his utensils about. 'Give him something at once. I will go and get the police to guard us. I will also get a lawyer. I will do everything to exempt this house at least from the schedule. This is inalienable property. They cannot attach this.' His talk was full of technicalities. He rushed off to the backyard and then on to his task.

The tide rolled back in about three or four months. Days of attending courts, lawyers, inventories and so on and so forth. Margayya felt that he had lost all right to personal life.

He relaxed completely. He lay on a mat with his eyes closed, his wife in the kitchen. A jutka stopped outside, and in marched his son followed by his wife, carrying the infant on her arm. The jutka-man brought in a couple of trunks and beds and placed them in the hall. Margayya clutched the baby to his bosom. His daughter-in-law went into the kitchen. Balu stood about uncertainly. Margayya did not speak to him for a long time. The boy stood in the passage undecided what he should do, his shirt unbuttoned at the throat. A feeling of pity overcame Margayya. The boy had lost some of the look of confidence that he wore before the radiance that shone on his face when there was money in the background. Money was like a gem which radiated subdued light all round. The boy looked just dull and puzzled. Margayya kept looking at him so long that he felt he had to explain: so he just said: 'I have come away they have attached the house.'

'With the furniture and all the other things?' Margayya asked. 'I was expecting it '

'It was difficult to come out even with our clothes and Brinda's jewellery. They demanded a list.'

'I was expecting it. Come here, Baku'

Balu approached him and sat beside him. Margayya put his arm round him: 'You see that box there. I have managed to get it out again.' He pointed to a corner where his old knobby trunk was kept. 'Its contents are intact as I left them years ago a pen and an ink-bottle. You asked for my property. There it is, take it: have an early meal tomorrow and go to the banyan tree in front of the Co-operative Bank. I hope the tree is still there. Go there, that is all I can say: and anything may happen thereafter. Well, what do you say? I am showing you a way. Will you follow it?'

The boy stood ruminating. He was looking crushed: 'How can I go and sit there? What will people think?'

'Very well then, if you are not going, I am going on with it, as soon as I am able to leave this bed,' said Margayya. 'Now get the youngster here. I will play with him. Life has been too dull without him in this house.'

WAITING FOR THE MAHATMA.

PART ONE.

His mother, who died delivering him, and his father, who was killed in Mesopotamia, might have been figures in a legend as far as Sriram was concerned. He had, however, concrete evidence of his mother in a framed photograph which for years hung too high on the wall for him to see; when he grew tall enough to study the dim picture, he didn't feel pleased with her appearance; he wished she looked like that portrait of a European queen with apple cheeks and wavy coiffure hanging in the little shop opposite his house, where he often went to buy peppermints with the daily money given him by his granny. Of his father, at least, there were recurring reminders. On the first of every month the postman brought a brown, oblong envelope, addressed to his granny. Invariably Granny wept when it came to her hand, and his childish mind wondered what it could contain to sting the tears out of her eyes. Only years later he understood that his granny had been receiving a military pension meant for him. When the envelope came she invariably remarked: 'I don't have to spend your pension in order to maintain you. God has left us enough to live on.' Then she took it to the fourth house in their row, which was known as the 'Fund Office' (what the name meant, he never understood) and came back to say: 'There is nothing so fleeting as untethered cash. You can do what you like with it when you are old enough.'

That portrait in the opposite shop fascinated his adolescent mind. The shopman was known as Kanni, a parched, cantankerous, formidable man, who sat on his haunches all day briskly handing out goods to his customers. Until eleven at night, when he closed the shop, his hollow voice could be heard haranguing someone, or arguing, or cowing his credit-demanding clientele: 'What do you think I am! How dare you come again without cash? You think you can do me in? You are mistaken. I can swallow ten of you at the same time, remember.' The only softening influence in this shop of cigars, beedis, explosive aerated drinks, and hard words was the portrait of the lady with apple cheeks, curls falling down the brim of her coronet, and large, dark eyes. 'Those eyes look at me,' Sriram often thought. For the pleasure of returning the look, he went again and again, to buy something or other at the shop.

'Whose is that picture?' he asked once, pausing between sips of a coloured drink.

'How should I know?' Kanni said. 'It's probably some queen, probably Queen Victoria,' although he might with equal justification have claimed her to be Maria Theresa or Ann Boleyn.