Sriram's heart quailed at the suggestion, remembering all the heartaches he had undergone in order to get rid of his old tuft and grow his present crop. His granny would not hear of it at first. She was certain that it would spoil his appearance, but one day he had just slipped away to the temple-tank on whose steps barbers sat and shaved their customers. He induced an old barber to cut off his tuft and run the machine over his ears, and on his lap he emptied all the pocket-money he had purloined from his own sealed money-box. He had widened the slit of the money-box and shaken out the coins, when his granny was in the kitchen. To disguise the rattling he had muffled it with a piece of cloth and carried the operation on till it shed eight annas in small coppers. His granny kept shouting from the kitchen, 'What is that noise?' 'Which noise?' shouted back Sriram, and had gone on with his job. He had had no clear idea how much a barber would demand for a crop-cut. He put it down at six annas, and two annas extra for any unlooked-for expense. But the barber at the tank had demanded a rupee to cut off the thick curly tuft Sriram had possessed. By haggling Sriram brought it down to six annas; and the barber went on muttering disappointed remarks to the tune of snapping scissors. Sriram saw himself in a small mirror produced out of the barber's tin box, and was delighted. He felt he had rid himself of a couple of pounds of tuft: it lay on the stone steps of the tank; and Sriram remembered how he shivered at the sight of the appendage, for no known reason. They were long and curly tresses, and he said: 'Sell it and you will get ten rupees for it.' The barber lost his temper at the suggestion: 'You take me for a hawker of hair. Mind how you speak, young gentleman. I should have cut your throat if it hadn't been yourself but someone else. Look, I don't want anything, but give me the dhoti you are wearing: that's the usual custom under these circumstances.'

Sriram was aghast: 'And how shall I reach home?'

'Bathe in this tank and run before anyone notices. Anyway, haven't you got your piece-cloth under your dhoti? That'll do for a young man of your age.' So saying he almost tugged the ends of Sriram's dhoti, and Sriram had to dodge him desperately. 'Oh!' cried the barber in great surprise. He made queer faces to indicate his feelings. 'Do you mean to say that you go about with 'He described vividly the under-clothes of respectable and honest citizens, and the habits of the modern generation. The topic was so below-the-waist that Sriram blushed and finally, wrenching himself free, ran off.

All this flashed across his mind now. He put his hand to the top of his head, ran his fingers over it and said to Jagadish: 'I can't sacrifice this crop. I like it.'

Sriram spent a sleepless night wondering how he could change his appearance. He even thought that he might disguise himself as a purdah lady and not show his face at all. Jagadish laughed all his propositions away. He seemed intent on disfiguring him in his own manner; bent upon shaving him like an egg, and making him as ridiculous as possible. Perhaps he wanted to make him the laughing-stock of the world and ruin his chance once for all with Bharati. She would refuse to take a second look at his face for the rest of his life. He wondered why he did not refuse to do anything that Jagadish suggested. Even the Slaughter House might be a huge practical joke or turn out to be a real slaughtering place after all! But his fears had no value. Whatever he might feel or fear the fact was always there that Jagadish was inescapable, and one had to do what he ordered.

Jagadish granted a period of three weeks for a respectable moustache to develop on Sriram's upper lip. He bought him a small bottle of coconut oil for massage to help a quick growth. 'How many things I have to do before I can see Bharati!' Sriram reflected. Jagadish checked the growth on the other's upper lip day after day. He nodded his head discouragingly each time. 'Very slow, very slow, too slow,' he said as if Sriram himself were responsible. Sriram clicked his tongue apologetically.

The period of three weeks was by no means wasted. In association with Jagadish and under his expert guidance, Sriram did a variety of jobs which he hoped would help the country in its struggle for freedom: he set fire to the records in half a dozen law courts in different villages; he derailed a couple of trains and paralysed the work in various schools; he exploded a crude bomb which tore off the main door of an agricultural research station, tarred out 'V' for Victory and wrote 'Quit India' over the emblem. He became so seasoned in this activity that a certain recklessness developed in him. He had no fear of the police: they seemed to him a remote, theoretical body, unconnected with his affairs. He knew he could always slip through. They were looking for him everywhere, except where they could find him. Jagadish kept repeating: 'Britain will leave India with a salaam, if we crush the backbone of her administration.' He was always talking in terms of backbone. Sometimes he said: 'Britain's backbone is, you know where?'

'At her back, I suppose?' said Sriram facetiously.

'Do you know where her back is?'

'Behind her front, I suppose,' said Sriram, still facetiously. He was beginning to enjoy these bouts, which were a relief in his lonely, drab life, isolated from all human association.

Jagadish forgave him his tricks. He explained: 'The prospect of the Slaughter House makes you sharp-witted, doesn't it?' He explained with a good deal of tolerance, 'Britain's backbone must be smashed, and it lies in the courts and schools and offices and railway lines, from these she draws the strength for her survival.'

It was an intricate logic which Sriram could not easily grasp. He asked pathetically, 'Why don't we smash her front also?'

'Because it's far away, and we can't reach so far.'

Jagadish dragged him about and made him his instrument and agent. Sriram was actually beginning to enjoy the excitement and novelty and above all the game of hide and seek with the police. It gave him a feeling of romantic importance. He felt that he was a character out of an epic, and on his activities depended future history. But now and then some kind of misgiving assailed his mind, when sitting concealed in a ditch in Jagadish's company, he saw the flames rising from a railway station or a government building and lighting up the night. Once he whispered, 'Do you think Britain will be affected by this fire?'

Jagadish declared unequivocally, 'Churchill will already know of it. It will make him groan. It will make him sit up. It must go on and on every hour of the day, all over the country, until Britain tells us, "We are bundling ourselves out tomorrow, do what you like with your country."

Sriram asked next, 'I wonder what Mahatmaji will say about all this!'

'I don't know,' replied Jagadish. 'It is not his line. But when the results turn out satisfactorily, I am sure he'll say, "You did well, my boy."'

Sriram felt doubtful. He shook his head. 'I'm not sure. Only Bharati knows exactly what Mahatmaji will say or think ...' And then his thoughts went off to the Slaughter House.

Jagadish seemed to weaken slightly at this point: 'We have not wilfully caused anybody's death. I'm always careful to see that no life is lost, but if in spite of our precautions, some people are accidentally caught in a mess and killed, we can't help it.'

'A lot of people are also shot down by the police when they disperse the mobs that gather to help us.'

'But that is none of our concern,' said Jagadish, and added, 'In a war lives are bound to be lost. However, the job of the moment is more important than any amount of theoretical speculation. Mahatmaji taught me this philosophy when I was with him at Wardha. Anyway, don't bother too much about these questions. He has asked us to work for the movement according to our individual capacities.'

On a certain day Jagadish examined Sriram's face and declared, 'The most satisfactory moustache that I ever saw in my life.' With a razor and scissors he helped Sriram to give its end a downward turn. He produced also some old silver-rimmed spectacles, and mounted them on his nose. He provided him too with an ill-fitting, close-buttoned coat, and a white turban for covering his head. He ordered him to tie up his dhoti bifurcated, like all respectable men. After all this, Sriram looked into a mirror, the very tiny one which he used for his shaving; it did not reveal a full picture but it showed enough for him to remark: 'I look like a wholesale rice merchant.'

Jagadish nodded appreciatively and said with considerable delight in his tone, 'True, true ... If I could only put a dark caste-mark on your forehead, that'd indeed complete the picture.'

Sriram as he sallied forth at about seven, after sunset, felt so different that he wondered why he should expect Bharati to admit him at all. He chuckled at the thought, 'Bharati may wonder why a rice merchant has taken a fancy to call on her, all of a sudden.' The spectacles gave him a dull ache on the bridge of his nose, and kept constantly slipping down, pestering him with a dull, misty vision. 'This is what comes of not surrendering oneself to the police when Bharati advises one to do so!' he reflected. At the little station he climbed into the train going towards Malgudi. There were a few sleepy passengers in his compartment. He ignored the whole lot. 'It's no business of a self-respecting rice merchant to speak to these folk,' he reflected and sat looking at his fellow passengers with indifference. Jagadish had proved himself a genius: the moustache was a tremendous asset; it was as if Sriram had worn a mask over his face, the transformation was so complete.

From Malgudi station it was an hour's walk southward through Market Road to the Slaughter House. As he passed along the familiar roads, Sriram felt sentimental and unhappy. It seemed as if he had left this world ages ago. Beyond those rows of silent and darkened shops was the house of his grandmother.

Jagadish had given precise instructions. The rice merchant crouched behind the eastern wall of the old Slaughter House. Bharati would come to the lavatory at that corner, stand up on a large stone, rolled into position for the purpose, look down and talk to him. Sriram was wondering if Bharati would notice his moustache in the darkness, he wondered if he could reach up and touch her hand. He patiently waited. The Taluk Office gong sounded two in the morning. He felt sleepy. He remembered Bharati asking him to meet her at three a.m., when the Mahatma came to Malgudi. 'She seems fond of spoiling other people's sleep,' he reflected. He sat there on the ground. The Taluk Office gong struck the next hour. 'How long am I to stay here?' he reflected. 'Has someone been playing a prank?' Angry thoughts were rising in his heart.

'Hey,' cried a voice.

He looked up hopefully. Over the wall a head appeared, but it was not Bharati's. It was one of the wardresses.

'Where is ...?' Sriram began, stretching himself up on his toes.

'Hush, listen. She won't come.'

'Is she not coming?'

'No. Catch this.' She dropped a letter. 'Read it,' said the head, 'and be off The rice merchant moved away clutching the piece of paper in his hand, his head buzzing with a thousand speculations.

Under the first street lamp, he spread out the note. It was a piece torn out of a memo pad. On it was a hurried pencil scribbling: 'I cannot bring myself to see you today. It seems degrading to have a meeting under these conditions. Bapu has always said that it is dishonourable to assume subterfuges. In a gaol we must observe the rules, or change them by Satyagraha openly, if possible. Forgive me. We shall meet again. But before that, please go and see your granny. A detenue who came in here told me that she was very ill. It is your duty to risk your life to see her. Go before it is too late.'

Not many people were able to recognize him when he ascended the steps of 14 Kabir Street. He saw Kanni, the shopman, coming out of the house. He was softly closing the door behind him. He didn't recognize Sriram, who for a moment forgot that he could not be recognized, and called 'Kanni!' almost involuntarily. His voice betrayed him. Kanni halted and suddenly cried, 'Oh! it's our young master. O, Ram, what is it you have been doing to yourself, deserting your house and the old lady who was your father, mother, and cousin and everything. Have you no heart? Thank God you have come now anyway. But you are too late.'

'Why? Why?' screamed Sriram. 'What has happened?'

'She is dead. She died at ten o'clock last night.'

Sriram ran past him into the house. There, in the old familiar place, under the good old hall lamp, lay the old lady. A white sheet was drawn over her. A couple of women from the neighbouring houses were sitting beside her, keeping vigil.

Sriram was sorrow-stricken: the familiar household, the old almanac still there under the roof tile: the copper vessel in which she kept drinking water still on the window-sill. The easy-chair which he had bought for her with his first money was still where he had put it. He had a glimpse of a past life. He went up to the corner of the house which used to be his and examined his books, pens, clothes, he opened the lid and looked into his old tin trunk. All the articles with which he had grown up were there, kept safe and intact. The vigil-keepers followed his movements with dull, sleep-filled eyes. Sriram wept. But he could not wipe away his tears; he realized that his spectacles were a nuisance: he suddenly plucked them off and flung them down, feeling: 'I'm answerable to Jagadish for this. I'm betraying myself.'

Kanni stood in the doorway, respectfully watching. 'How imperious she looks! Even now!' he cried. 'A great Soul.'

'I can't believe she is dead. She looks asleep! How do you know that she is dead?' Sriram asked.

Kanni merely laughed grimly. 'You had better telegraph to all your relatives. I'm sure many would want to have a last look at her face.'

Sriram sat down on the floor beside the old lady, quietly sobbing. The women looked at him for a moment, and lapsed into mournful silence. One of them turned to Kanni and asked, 'Is he the only relative to arrive or should we wait for some more?' Kanni preferred to ignore the question. The night was absolutely still and silent. Even the street dogs were asleep. Except the low voices conversing under the dim light, the entire world was asleep, following the example of Granny herself. Sriram suddenly rose to his feet, went to Kanni, put his arm round his shoulder, and whispered, 'Kanni, I am very hungry. Can't you open your shop and give me something to eat? There is nothing in the kitchen.'

'How can there be anything? She was ill so long; those ladies were bringing her milk and gruel.'

'I'm very hungry, Kanni,' Sriram said again pathetically.

Kanni jingled his keys and said, 'Come with me.'

They crossed the street. Kanni unlocked the door of his shop and lit a lamp. Sriram climbed the platform and went in, then bolted the door again from inside. The shop was hot and stuffy. Bananas hung down in bunches, buns and biscuits filled various glass containers; all, of course, were presided over by the European queen with apple cheeks. Sriram complained that it was stuffy. Kanni explained, 'I don't want anyone to suspect your presence. Though handing you over and collecting the reward might prove a better proposition than running a business in these difficult days!'

Sriram had not realized how hungry he was. He demanded and ate everything that he saw. Kanni took out a paper and calculated: 'That will be two rupees and four annas. I will put it down on your account.'

Now he was no longer hungry Sriram said: 'Tell me about my granny. What was wrong with her?'

Kanni paused for a while before answering. 'Ever since the police came asking for you in this house, she lost, if I may say so, her original spirit. She was always feeling that you had betrayed her. You may know all about Mahatma and so on, but all she knew was what people told her, that you had run after a girl. The old lady was much hurt. She hardly ever came out after that, and when the police came to take away your photograph, she was very much upset. She felt that she could not hold up her head in public again. She was always saying that you had betrayed her. The police came and questioned me too about you. I said, "You are merely wasting my shop time. I am not to be bothered about every scapegrace in the town because I have the ill-luck to have a shop opposite his house," and that satisfied them. I wish you had not gone away without telling her. It worried her too much. She kept saying, 'What can a little cobra do even if you have brought it up on cow's milk? It can only do what its breeding tells it to do."'

Sriram was visibly annoyed at this comparison. 'She was a very bitter-tongued person, that's why I preferred to go away without telling her at all. What chance did one have of talking to such an unreasonable character?' He forgot for a moment that he was talking about someone dead.

'People came and told her hair-raising tales about you. She was alarmed by your activities. What was the matter with you? I never thought the young master I had known so long ago could ever grow up into a Zigomar.'

Sriram felt hurt by this comparison with an old classical bandit. He said with a lot of self-pity, 'I wouldn't have come if I wasn't eager to see my granny.'

'That's true,' said Kanni. 'The Market Road doctor attended her often; even last evening he was there with his tube and needle and stayed till she passed away.'

'Was she talking all the time?' asked Sriram.

'She wasn't, but she might have been. Why think of all that now?' Kanni said. 'Let us think of what we should do next.'

'Yes, what is to be done?'

'The funeral. Get through it quickly. Are you going to wait for relatives?'

These were tough and complex domestic questions to which he was unaccustomed. He brooded over them. The word 'relative' brought to his mind only his grand-uncle whose dark descendant he was expected to marry; and a batch of miscellaneous folk who dropped in for a meal or two occasionally from their village, and always spoke of lands and litigation. Granny used to find their talk fascinating and forgot to notice Sriram's arrivals and departures, while he generally sneaked out to a nearby cycle-shop and learnt to balance himself on the pedal of a bicycle taken on hire. Sriram had a sudden vision of being responsible for gathering that entire crowd again: they might stand around the corpse and lament over their lands and litigation. He was aghast at the thought. He said: 'I don't care for anyone.'

'Yes, I know. I too think you should not keep the body too long. Better hurry through the funeral. But at least let the lady have the satisfaction of having her pyre lit by her grandson. That may assuage her spirit.'

'I don't know what to do about such things,' Sriram wailed.

'I will help you,' said Kanni.

'One thing. I can't go with the funeral procession,' said Sriram. 'I will manage to come at the end if you will manage the other things.'

'Even the police may not interfere now. After all, they are also human,' said Kanni.

Sriram went back into his house and took another look at his granny. The two vigil-keepers were asleep. They sat hunched up with their heads on the floor, curled beside the body, 'They look more dead than Granny,' thought Sriram. A cock crowed somewhere. Sriram went out, softly closing the door behind him. Meanwhile Kanni had locked the shop, and had returned. 'She is in your charge,' said Sriram. 'Will you be there at eight? Do everything nicely. Don't bother about expense.'

'Yes, I know. I can always get my debts. I have kept your account in full detail. You should have no misgiving even about an anna. I have even put into the account what I have been paying the doctor from time to time. Are you sure her relatives will not be angry with us later?'

'What do you care whether they are angry or pleased? What have we to do with them? A set of useless rustics,' said Sriram with a certain amount of unnecessary bitterness in his voice.

At about eight Sriram was on the cremation ground beyond the Sarayu river. A couple of pyres which had been lit on the previous day were still smouldering. Bamboo and discarded pieces of shroud were scattered here and there. A funeral procession was crossing Nallappa's Grove. The bier was decorated with flowers and some men wearing white shirts and rings on their fingers were shouldering the corpse. 'Must be devoted relatives,' he thought. 'They are bearing the burden. But poor Granny has no one to carry her.' Once again he felt angry at the thought of those village relatives. The heat was intense although it was not even eight in the morning. 'This is a very hot place,' he reflected. Bullock-carts were crossing the river, villagers on their way into the town with baskets on their heads chattered incessantly. He noticed people coming to the river for a wash. His mind made a dull note of all that his eyes saw. His main job now was to await the arrival of Granny. Why were they taking all this time? Probably priests were holding up the body so that they might get a higher fee for funeral citations. Or could the police have held up the procession? For a moment a fantastic fear seized him lest the police should have suspected foul play and held up the body for a post-mortem. The other, the pampered body carried by the devoted relatives, was now brought in through the gate and laid down on the ground. They were going through a lot of ceremonial activity ... Granny's pyre was also being built up, with dried cowdung cakes, on a small platform: all the arrangements were supervised by Kanni's shop assistant, who was haggling with fuel suppliers and ordering the graveyard assistants about. They obeyed him cheerfully, which made Sriram wonder why they obeyed him at all. 'It is in some people's blood to be respected by all kinds of people,' Sriram reflected, watching with a certain amount of envy all the fuss that the rich were making with the body in their hands.

Led by Kanni, who bore in his hand a pot of fire, a couple of neighbours, the manager of the Fund-Office, and two priests, Granny arrived on a bier made of bamboo, carried by four grim sub-human professional carriers. Sriram rushed to the small wooden doorway to meet the procession. Kanni was the first to step through. He held the pot of fire to Sriram saying, 'Really it is your duty to carry it.' Sriram took charge.

Granny's face was uncovered and faced the sun. Sriram felt a pang of fresh sorrow at the sight. The bier was laid on the ground. 'Sriram, bathe in the river and come back soon with wet clothes on you. She is at least entitled to so much consideration.' The words came from the old family priest. Sriram realized that he was still in the garb of a wholesale rice merchant, and felt ridiculous. The old priest had officiated at festivals and domestic ceremonies ever since Sriram could remember, including the grand ceremony of his first birthday. The old man was several years Granny's senior, but remarkably wiry and alert, with his greenish eyes and hook nose and greed for ceremonial fees.

He asked Sriram, 'Have you two rupees in coins?'

While Sriram fumbled for an answer, the ever watchful Kanni descended on him wrathfully, 'Why do you ask that? Haven't we agreed on a lump sum for everything?'

The priest who was squatting beside the body turned and said, 'Whoever said the lump sum included this? This can never go into that. This is a separate account. Our elders have decreed that the Dear Departed should have two silver coins on his or her chest from the hand of the nearest and dearest. It is said to smooth out the passage of the soul into further regions. I am only repeating what the shastras say. Our ancestors knew what was best for us, I am merely a mouthpiece.'

'And what happens to the coins?' asked the Fund-Office Manager. The priest pretended to ignore the question, but Kanni said, 'It goes the way of other coins, that is into a priest's money-box.'

'Yes, it does. Do you expect the soul to carry the silver with it? You must view it all in the proper light, you must take only its philosophical meaning. We carry nothing from this earth,' said the priest and quoted a Sanskrit verse. He suddenly looked across at the other part of the ground where the rich men were conducting their ceremonies. 'See there. They are devoted and very correct. They are not omitting a single rite.'

'We are not omitting anything either,' said Kanni angrily.

His tone cowed the priest, who mumbled, 'Don't think I am after money: I only do things in order to satisfy a great soul known to me for several decades now.' He looked up at Sriram and said, 'Now go and bathe quickly. Nothing can begin until after that.' He paused and added, 'You will find a barber there. You will have to shave off your moustache and the top of your head. Otherwise it would be very irregular. The shastras say ...'

'I will not shave my moustache nor my head,' said Sriram emphatically.

'All right,' said the priest. 'It is my duty to suggest what the shastras say, and it is left to you to follow it or modify it in any manner. Of course modern life makes it difficult to follow all the rules, and people have to adjust themselves. There are even people who like to perform their funerals with European hats on, nowadays. What can one do about them? "It is wisdom to accept what has come to pass," say the shastras, and we bow our heads to that injunction.'

Sriram presently returned from his bathe in the river, dripping wet with his hair sticking on his head and his clothes stuck to his body. They had now laid the corpse on the pyre. The pyre beyond was already aflame and the party was leaving the ground. 'They are very business-like,' said the priest. He seemed to admire everything they did. Sriram felt piqued, and Kanni said, 'Don't go on talking unnecessarily.'

The rites before the lighting of the pyre started. The old lady lay stretched out on the cowdung fuel. The priest placed a small vessel in Sriram's hand and asked him to pour the milk in it over the lips of the dead. Sriram poured the milk, chanted some mantras, and finally dropped the fire over Granny's heart, which was actually below a layer of fuel. The fire smouldered and crackled. 'Now it is all over with her,' Sriram said.

The Fund-Office Manager suddenly cried, 'See there, see there.' He was excited. They looked where he pointed. The big toe on the left foot of the lady was seen to move. 'Pull off the fire, pull off the fire ...' Someone thrust his hand in and snatched off the burning piece. The old lady's sari was already burning at one end. Sriram flung a pail of water on it and put it out. Now with the fire out, they stood around and watched. The toe was wagging.

'She is not dead, take her out,' cried Sriram.

'I've never heard of such a thing, you can't do that,' the priest cried. People seemed to have suddenly lost all common sense.

'You want us to burn Granny alive, do you? Get out of our way, priest,' cried Sriram. He kicked away the pile of fuel, lifted the body and placed it down again on the ground. 'I knew something was wrong. I knew Granny wouldn't die,' said Sriram. He sprinkled water on her face, forced some milk down her throat, and fanned her face. The priest stood aside with a doleful expression. Kanni seemed too stunned to speak. The shop assistant was running in circles announcing the glad tidings and collecting a crowd.

The Fund-Office Manager cried, 'Let us not waste time. I will fetch the doctor.' He started running towards the city.

Kanni cried, 'Oh, what doctors, these days! They don't even know whether someone is alive or dead! If we had failed to notice in time ... oh, what doctors.'

Under their nursing, the movement in the toe gradually spread. All the toes showed signs of revival, then her leg, then her arms. The old lady seemed to be coming back to life, inch by inch. Her eyes were still shut. Sriram murmured, 'Granny, Granny, open your eyes. I am here.' At this moment all politics were forgotten, all disputes and wars, Britain, even Bharati. 'Get up Granny, you are all right.' Now her heart began to throb, her breathing returned, ever so faintly. Sriram let out a cry of tremendous relief. He called the shop assistant, 'My granny will not die, she is not dead. God bless her.' He dragged Kanni by his hand and said, 'Kanni, Granny is alive.' He nursed his granny with one hand and put the other around Kanni's shoulder and sobbed. His face was wet with tears.

Kanni patted his back and said, 'Don't, don't. Be brave. You must not break down. She may open her eyes and she must see a happy face.'

The rattle of an old car was heard far off. Everyone cried, 'Doctor's car.' Presently a little car with a flapping hood was struggling over the sand and pebbles at the Nallappa's Grove crossing, and on through the rough sandy track leading to the southern door of the crematorium. The doctor was a puny man wearing an enormous white overall, with a straggling crop of hair resembling Einstein's; a small man above whom everyone seemed to tower. He jumped out of his car, followed by the Fund-Office Manager. 'Is this true, is this true?' cried the doctor running forward. He stopped suddenly and said, 'Someone go and fetch that bag from the car.' Presently he knelt above the old lady, took her wrist in his hand, pulled out his watch, held his fingers under her nostrils, and smiled at Kanni. 'Yes, she is not dead.'

'Oh, Doctor, can't you even say whether a person is dead or alive?' asked Kanni.

'Why go into all that now? Let us be happy that she is back from the other world.' The doctor brooded. This was the first situation of the kind in his experience. Previously he had known only one-way traffic. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

'How is she, Doctor?' asked Kanni.

'Her pulse is good. She is all right. She will need some rest and recuperation.' He took several things out of his bag. He sterilized a syringe needle, picked up a phial, and injected Granny's forearm. She twitched at the touch of the needle and groaned slightly. The doctor looked at her with approbation. 'Well, freaks like this just happen. We can't say why or how. Last night she was practically dead. I don't know. This is enough to make one believe in the soul, Karma, and all that.' He stood looking at her and biting his lips. 'I read about a similar thing in a medical journal years ago but never thought it would come within my view.'

Granny was reviving little by little. Her breathing was becoming normal. The doctor said, 'It is not right to keep her here when she becomes fully conscious. She must be moved. Why not take her back home? Take her in my car.'

The priest interrupted, 'How can you suggest such a thing? No one who has been carried here can ever step into the town bounds again. Don't you know that it will ... it will ...'

'What will happen?'

'Happen! The whole town will be wiped out by fire or plague. It is very inauspicious. Do anything you like, but she can't come back into the town.'

This point of view gathered a lot of support. The news spread to the town. People began to throng into the cremation ground. Everyone who came said, 'This is a big problem. What are you going to do with her?'

In deference to this view she had to be carried to one of the small abandoned buildings on the river-bank, which had once been used as a toll-gate station, and since the river was between her and the town, she was out of bounds. She was kept at the Toll Office, and nursed by the doctor. Her world hummed round her, Kanni, the Fund-Office Manager, Sriram, the old hook-nosed priest, and the two mournful women who had kept vigil. They nursed and fed the old lady as she lay on a bed in the old building. The doctor's little car drove up half a dozen times a day and Kanni practically abandoned his shop in order to conduct the operations. A vast concourse began to arrive in order to witness the miracle. Some close relatives of Granny who had not seen her for years came and cried, 'Oh, sister, how good to see you. No one sent word to us that you were dead.'

'Word was not sent because there was nothing to send.'