MR SAMPATH

THE PRINTER.

OF MALGUDI.

CHAPTER ONE.

Unless you had an expert knowledge of the locality you would not reach the offices of The Banner. The Market Road was the life-line of Malgudi, but it had a tendency to take abrupt turns and disrupt itself into side-streets, which wove a network of crazy lanes behind the facade of buildings on the main road.

Kabir Lane was one such; if you took an inadvertent turn off the Market Road you entered it, though you might not if you intended to reach it. And then it split itself further into a first lane, a second lane, and so on; if you kept turning left and right you were suddenly assailed by the groans of the treadle in the Truth Printing Works; and from its top floor a stove-enamelled blue board shot out over the street bearing the sign 'The Banner'.

It was the home of truth and vision, though you might take time to accept the claim. You climbed a flight of wooden stairs (more a ladder), and its last rung was the threshold of The Banner. It was a good deal better than most garrets: you wouldn't knock your head on roof-tiles unless you hoisted yourself on a table; you could still see something of the sky through the northern window and hear the far-off rustle of the river, although the other three windows opened on the courtyards of tenement houses below. The owners of the tenements had obtained a permanent legal injunction that the three windows should not be opened in order that the dwellers below might have their privacy. There was a reference to this in the very first issue of The Banner. The editor said: 'We don't think that the persons concerned need have gone to the trouble of going to a court for it, since no one would open these windows and volunteer to behold the spectacle below.'

This stimulated a regular feature entitled 'Open Window', which stood for the abolition of slums and congestion. It described the tenements, the pigsties constructed for human dwellings in the four corners of the town by rapacious landlords. It became an enemy of landlords. In fact, it constituted itself an enemy of a great many institutions and conditions. Within twelve pages of foolscap it attempted to set the world right.

From the garret of The Banner the world did not appear to be a common place. There always seemed to be something drastic to be done about it. It had all the appearance of a structure, half raised and the other half might either go up or not at all. 'Some day,' The Banner felt, 'it must either go down or go up. It can't be left standing as it is indefinitely.' There was a considerable amount of demolition to be done, and a new way to be indicated. The possibilities of perfection seemed infinite, though mysterious, and yet there was a terrible kind of pig-headedness in people that prevented their going the right way. The Banner thus had twin work to do: on the one hand, attacking ruthlessly pig-headedness wherever found, and on the other prodding humanity into pursuing an ever-receding perfection. It was an immense task for anyone, with every conceivable equipment and support. It would be a tall order to give an editor. But in this case it worked because the editor had to take orders from only himself. And he felt that, after all, he had not made such a fool of himself as his well-wishers had feared, although the enterprise meant almost nothing to him financially.

In 1938, when the papers were full of anticipation of a world war, he wrote: 'The Banner has nothing special to note about any war, past or future. It is only concerned with the war that is always going on between man's inside and outside. Till the forces are equalized the struggle will always go on.'

Reading it over a couple of weeks later, Srinivas smiled to himself. There was a touch of comicality in that bombast. It struck him as an odd mixture of the sublime and the ridiculous. 'There is a curse hanging over an editorial table, vitiating everything a man wishes to say. I can't say "I want a cup of coffee" without appearing to be a slightly pompous donkey,' he told himself. 'I wish I could write all that stuff here,' he reflected, lying on his mat at home. Going to an office, sitting up in a chair at the table there was something wrong with the entire procedure. 'I wish I could do all my writing here,' he said to himself again and looked forlornly about him. The house was very quiet now because it was eleven at night and all the nerve-racked neighbours and their children were asleep.

There were four other families living in the same house. The owner of the house himself lived in a small room in Anderson Lane an old widower who tried to earn the maximum money and spend less than ten rupees a month on himself. He had several sons and daughters, all of them in various prosperous activities all over the country, from the Himalayas down to the South. He had a daughter in Malgudi, with whom he was not on speaking terms. He had led a happy family life in this house till the death of his wife, when the family scattered and disrupted. Thereafter the old man, with the help of a carpenter, partitioned off the entire house, so that half a dozen families might be lodged in it, the screens and partitions creating an illusion that each unit was living in a home with privacy for food, sleep and washing.

It was said that he bathed at the street-tap and fed himself on cooked rice, which was distributed as charity in a nearby temple. He was known to have declared to everyone concerned: 'The true Sanyasi has no need to live on anything more than the leavings of God.' He made himself out to be an ascetic. He collected the rent on the second of each month, took away the entire amount and placed it in Sarayu Street post-office bank. It was said that he never paid any rent for his room in Anderson Lane. The story was that he had advanced a small loan to the owner of the house, which multiplied with interest and became an unrecognizable figure to the borrower in due course. When his wife died the old man moved in to occupy the room in his debtor's house at such a low rent that he could stay there for over twenty years working off the loan.

The very first time Srinivas met him he saw the old man bathing at a street-tap, while a circle of urchins and citizens of Anderson Lane stood around watching the scene. They were all waiting for the tap to be free. But the old man had usurped it and held his place. Srinivas felt attracted to him when he saw him spraying water on the crowd as an answer to their comments. The crowd jeered: he abused it back; when they drew nearer he sprayed the water on them and kept them off, all the while going through his ablutions calmly. Srinivas asked someone in the crowd: 'What is the matter?' 'Look at him, sir, this is the same story every day. So many of us wait here to fill our vessels, and he spends hours bathing there, performing all his prayers. Why should he come to the tap built for us poor people? We can't even touch it till he has done with it.'

'Perhaps he has no other place.'

'No place!' a woman exclaimed. 'He is a rich man with many houses and relations!' At the mention of houses, Srinivas pricked up his ears. He was desperately searching for a house: all his waking hours were spent on this task.

The old man came out of his bath dripping, clad only in a loincloth. He told the crowd: 'Now go and drain off all the water you like. I don't care.' Srinivas felt it might be useful to ingratiate himself in his favour and asked: 'Do you do this every day?' The old man looked at him and asked: 'Who are you?'

'It is a profound question. What mortal can answer it?'

'You are joking with me, are you?' the old man said, briskly moving off. Srinivas watched the wet old man going away angrily. It seemed to him, watching his back, that the chance of a lifetime was receding from him. An irresistible piece of jocularity was perhaps going to place a gulf between him and this man, who might have provided a solution to his housing problem. 'Half a moment, please,' he cried and ran after him. 'I have an answer for you. At the moment I am a frantic house-hunter.' The other halted; his face was changed. 'Why didn't you say so? I will give you a house if you are prepared to abide by all the rules I mention. Make up your mind. I don't want to meet indeterminate souls.'

'What is your rent?' asked Srinivas.

'Tell me what you will pay. I have one for seventy-five, one for thirty, fifty, ten, five, one. What is it you want?'

'I will tell you presently. But perhaps you might first like to go home and dry yourself.'

'Home! Home!' he laughed. 'I have no home. Didn't I tell you that I am a Sanyasi, though I don't wear ochre robes? Come, come with me. I live in a small room which a friend has given me.' He went through the lane, pulled out a thin key knotted to his sacred thread, turned it in the lock and opened the door of a small room. It was roofed with old cobweb-covered tiles, with a window, one foot square, opening at the top of the wall; there was another window opening on the road. He stooped in through the narrow doorway. Srinivas followed him.

'Sit down,' said the old man. 'You have to sit on the floor. I have not even a mat.' Srinivas sat down, leaning against the wall. A few children from the main house came and stood by the doorway, looking in. The old man was spreading out his wet clothes on a cord tied across the wall. He opened a small wooden box and took out a dry dhoti and towel, a box containing ingredients for marking his forehead, and a rosary. He proceeded to decorate his forehead with a symbol, looking into a hand-mirror. The children stood in the doorway, blocking it. The old man turned from the mirror with a hiss. 'Get away. What are you doing here? Do you think a fair is going on?' The children turned and ran away, shouting mischievously, 'Grandfather is angry.' Srinivas felt hurt by the old man's conduct. 'Why are you hard upon those children?'

'Because I don't want them. Children are a bane. I must tell this fellow not to let them loose on me.'

'They called you grandfather,' Srinivas said.

'They will call you uncle presently. How do you like it? I am only a tenant here. I hate all children. I have had enough trouble from my own children; I don't want any more from strangers. Are you in the habit of praying?'

Srinivas fumbled for a reply. 'Not exactly '

'Well, I am. I am going to pray for about fifteen minutes. You will have to wait.' Srinivas settled down. The other took out his beads, shut his eyes, his lips muttering. Srinivas watched him for a moment and felt bored. He sat looking out. Someone was passing in and out of the main house. Children were dashing to and fro. The old man said, without opening his eyes: 'If you are a lover of children you have plenty to watch. All the children of the town seem to be concentrated in this street.' After this he continued his silent prayers.

Srinivas reflected: 'Who will know I am here, cooped up in a cell with a monstrous old man? If I ceased to breathe at this moment, no one would know what had happend to me. My wife and son and brother ' His thought went back to the home he had left behind. His elder brother could never understand what he was up to. 'He has every right to think I am a fool,' he reflected. 'Man has no significance except as a wage-earner, as an economic unit, as a receptacle of responsibilities. But what can I do? I have a different notion of human beings. I have given their notions a fair trial.' He thought of all those years when he had tried to fit in with one thing or another as others did, married like the rest, tried to balance the family budget and build up a bank balance. Agriculture, apprenticeship in a bank, teaching, law he gave everything a trial once, but with every passing month he felt the excruciating pain of losing time. The passage of time depressed him. The ruthlessness with which it flowed on a swift and continuous movement; his own feeling of letting it go helplessly, of engaging all his hours in a trivial round of actions, at home and outside. Every New Year's Day he felt depressed and unhappy. All around he felt there were signs that a vast inundation was moving onward, carrying the individual before it, and before knowing where one was, one would find oneself senile or in the grave, with so little understood or realized. He felt depressed at the sight of his son: it seemed as though it was an hour ago that he was born, but already he was in Second Form, mugging history and geography and dreaming of cricket scores.

'What exactly is it that you want to do?' his brother asked him one day.

'The answer is late in coming, but you will get it,' Srinivas replied, feeling rather awkward. The question of a career seemed to him as embarrassing as a physiological detail. His brother was the head of the family, an advocate with a middling practice a life of constant struggle with rustic clients and magistrates in that small town Talapur, where he had slipped into his position after his father's death. His father had been an advocate in his time and had had a grand practice, acquired extensive property in the surrounding villages, and had become a very respectable citizen. The family tradition was that they should graduate at Malgudi in the Albert Mission College, spend two years in Madras for higher studies in the law, and then return each to his own room in their ancient sprawling house.

This suited Srinivas up to a point. But he always felt suffocated in the atmosphere of that small town. His wife had to put up with endless misery at home through his ways, and his little son looked ragged. They put up with his ways for a considerable time before shooting the question at him. He remembered the day clearly even now. He had settled down in his room with a copy of an Upanishad in his hand. As he grew absorbed in it he forgot his surroundings. He wouldn't demand anything more of life for a fortnight more, and then he observed his elder brother standing over him. He lowered the book, muttering 'I didn't hear you come in. Finished your court?' And his brother asked: 'What exactly is it that you wish to do in life?' Srinivas flushed for a moment, but regained his composure and answered: 'Don't you see? There are ten principal Upanishads. I should like to complete the series. This is the third.'

'You are past thirty-seven with a family of your own. Don't imagine I am not willing to look after them, but they will be far happier if you think of doing something for their sake. They must not feel they are unwanted by you. Don't think I wish to relieve myself of the responsibility.' It was a fact: his elder brother looked after the entire family without making any distinction. 'Such a question should not be fired at me again,' he said to himself after his brother had left the room. He tried to get reabsorbed in the Upanishad he was reading. His mind echoed with the interview: perhaps something had been happening in the house. His mind wandered from one speculation to another; but he gathered it back to its task: 'Knowing the self as without body among the embodied, the abiding among the transitory, great and all-pervading '

said the text before him. On reading it, all his domestic worries and all these questions of prestige seemed ridiculously petty. 'My children, my family, my responsibility must guard my prestige and do my duties to my family Who am I? This is a far more serious problem than any I have known before. It is a big problem and I have to face it. Till I know who I am, how can I know what I should do? However, some sort of answer should be ready before my brother questions me again '

The solution appeared to him in a flash. He knew what he ought to do with himself. Within twenty-four hours he sat in the train for Malgudi, after sending away his wife and son to her parents' house in the village.

The old man came out of his prayer and said: 'Would it be any use asking who you are?'

'I'm from Talapur and I am starting a paper here '

'What for?' asked the man suspiciously.

'Just to make money,' Srinivas replied with a deliberate cynicism which was lost on the old man. He looked pleased and relieved. 'How much will it bring you?'

'Say about two thousand a month,' Srinivas said and muttered under his breath: 'Is this the only thing you understand?'

'Eh, what?'

'Come along, show me a house '

They started out. The old man elaborately locked up his cell, and took him through a sub-lane to the back of Anderson Lane. As he came before a house he cried to someone who was driving a nail in the wall: 'You! You! ... Do you want to ruin my wall? I will give you notice to quit if you damage my house '

Srinivas received a very confused impression of the whole house. It had a wet central courtyard with a water-pipe, and a lot of people were standing around it four children, waiting to wash their hands, three women to draw water, and three men, who had eaten their food, were waiting also to wash their hands. In addition to these there was a little boy with a miserable puppy tied to a string, waiting to bathe his pet. On seeing the old man, one woman turned on him and asked: 'Ah, here you are! Can't you do something about this dog? Should it be washed in the same pipe as the one we use for our drinking water?' The young boy tugged his dog nearer the tap. Somebody tried to drag it away, and the boy said: 'Bite them ' At which the dog set up a bark and wriggled at the end of its tether, and people grew restless and shouted at each other. The old man tried to pass on, without paying attention to what they were saying. One of the men dashed up, held him by the elbow and demanded: 'Are you going to give us another water-tap or are you not?'

'No you can quit the house '

'It is not how you should talk to a tenant,' said the other, falling back.

The old man explained to Srinivas: 'I tell you, people have no gratitude. In these days of housing difficulties I give them a house only to be shouted at in this manner '

'It must be heart-breaking,' agreed Srinivas. The old man looked pleased and stopped before a doorway in a dark passage and said: 'This is going to be your portion. It is an independent house by itself He turned the key, flung the door open; darkness seemed to flow out of the room. 'It only requires a little airing ... Nobody to help me in any of these things. I have to go round and do everything myself ...' He hurried forward and threw open a couple of window shutters.

'Come in, come in,' the old man invited Srinivas, who was still hesitating in the passage. Srinivas stepped in. The walls were of mud, lime-covered, with an uneven and globular surface; bamboo splinters showed in some places the skeleton on which the mud had been laid. The lime had turned brown and black with time. The old man ran his hand proudly over the wall and said: 'Old style, but strong as iron. Even dynamite couldn't break it '

'That's obvious,' Srinivas replied. 'They must have built it in the days of Mohenjodaro the same building skill '

'What is that?'

'Oh, very rare specimens of building thousands of years ago. They have spent lakhs of rupees to bring them to light ...'

'Walls like these?'

'Exactly.' The old man looked gratified. 'How wise of them! It is only the Europeans who can understand the value of some of these things. We have many things to learn from our ancients. Can our modern cement stand comparison with this?' He waited for an answer, and Srinivas replied: 'Cement walls crumble like rice-flour when dynamite is applied.'

'You see, that is why I look after my houses so carefully. I don't allow any nail to be driven into a wall The moment I see a tenant driving a nail into the wall ... I lose myself in anger. I hope you have no pictures '

'Oh, no. I have no faith in pictures.'

'Quite right,' said the old man, finding another point of agreement. 'I don't understand the common craze for covering walls with pictures.'

'Most of them representation of Gods by Ravi Varma.'

'His pictures of Gods are wonderful. He must have seen them in visions, that gifted man ' remarked the old man.

'And yet some people who know about pictures say that they aren't very good or high-class '

'Oh, they say it, do they?' the old man exclaimed. 'Then why do people waste their money on the pictures and disfigure their walls? I have not seen a single house in our country without a picture of Krishna, Lakshmi and Saraswathi on it '

'Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, must patronize every home, Saraswathi, the goddess of intelligence and learning, must also be there. Well, don't you talk so lightly of these; you would get no rent or not have the wit to collect it, if it were not for the two goddesses. So be careful '

'That is a very clever interpretation,' the old man said, and added a Sanskrit epigram to support the same idea.

Srinivas found that his house consisted of a small hall, with two little rooms to serve for kitchen and store....

'This is my best flat. I have refused it to a score of people. Such a clamour for it! Quite spacious, isn't it?' the old man asked, looking about. 'How big is your family?'

'We are three.'

'Oh, you will be very comfortable, I'm sure. There was once a person who lived here with his eleven children.'

He pointed out of the window. 'You have a very fine view from here. See the plant outside?' A half-withered citrus plant drooped in a yard-wide strip of garden outside. 'You must see it when it is in bloom,' he added, seeing that the plant didn't make much of an impression on his prospective tenant. 'You have a glorious view of the temple tower,' he said, pointing far off, where the grey spire of Iswara temple rose above the huddling tenements, with its gold crest shining in the sun.

'But but,' Srinivas fumbled. 'What about water a single tap?'

'Oh, it is quite easy. Only a little adjustment. If you get up a little earlier than the rest. All a matter of adjustment. Those others are savages '

On the very first day that he moved in with his trunk and roll of bedding a fellow tenant dropped in for a chat. He was a clerk in a bank, maintaining a family consisting of his father, mother and numerous little brothers and sisters, on a monthly income of about forty rupees. He paid a rent of two rupees for one room in which his entire family was cooped up. The children spent most of their time on the pyol of a house at the end of the street. Now, ever since Srinivas had come this man looked happy, as though Srinivas had settled there solely to provide him with a much-needed sitting-room. He spent most of his time sitting on Srinivas's mat and watching him. He had been the very first tenant to befriend Srinivas. He said: 'Do you know why the old devil agreed to give this to you for fifteen rupees?'

'No.'

'Because nobody would come here. It's been unoccupied for two years now. A tenant who was here hanged himself in that room, a lonely bachelor. Nobody knows much about him. But one morning we found him swinging from the roof '

Srinivas felt disquieted by this information. 'Why did he do that?'

'Some trouble or other, I suppose; a moody fellow, rather lonely. Every day the only question he used to ask was whether there were any letters for him. He died, the police took away his body, and we heard nothing further about it. One or two tenants who came after him cleared out rather abruptly, saying that his ghost was still here.' Srinivas remained thoughtful. The other asked: 'Why, are you afraid?'

'Not afraid. I shall probably see it depart. And even if it stays on, I won't mind. I don't see much difference between a ghost and a living person. All of us are skin-covered ghosts, for that matter.' Since his boyhood he had listened to dozens of ghost stories that their cook at home used to tell them. The cook dared Srinivas, once, to go and sleep under the tamarind tree in the school compound. He went there one evening, stayed till eight with a slightly palpitating heart, softly calling out to the ghost an appeal not to bother him in any way. 'I think I shall be able to manage this ghost quite well,' he said.

'I think good people become good ghosts and bad fellows I dread to contemplate what kind of ghost he will turn out to be when our general manager dies.'

'Who is he?'

'Edward Shilling a huge fellow, made of beef and whisky. He keeps a bottle even in his office room. I am his personal clerk. God! What terror it strikes in me when the buzzer sounds. I fear some day he is going to strike me dead. He explodes "Damn", "Damn" every few minutes. If there is the slightest mistake in taking dictation, he bangs the table, my heart flutters like a ' He went on talking thus, and Srinivas learnt to leave him alone and go through his business uninterrupted. At first he sat listening sympathetically; but later found that this was unpractical. Though the man had numerous dependants, he had less to say about them than about his beefy master. His master seemed to possess his soul completely, so that the young man was incapable of thinking of anything else, night or day. He seemed to have grown emaciated and dazed through this spiritual oppression. Srinivas had learnt all that was to be learnt about him within the first two or three days of his talk with him. So, though he felt much sympathy for him, he felt it unnecessary to interrupt his normal occupation for the sake of hearing a variation of a single theme.

He was setting up a new home and he had numerous things to do. He took the landlord's advice and got up at five o'clock and bathed at the tap before the other tenants were up. He went out for a cup of coffee after that, while the town was still asleep. He discovered that in Market Road a hotel opened at that hour a very tiny restaurant off the market fountain. It meant half a mile's walk. He returned directly to his room after coffee. He prayed for a moment before a small image of Nataraja which his grandmother had given him when he was a boy. This was one of the possessions he had valued most for years. It seemed to be a refuge from the oppression of time. It was of sandalwood, which had deepened a darker shade with years, just four inches high. The carving represented Nataraja with one foot raised and one foot pressing down a demon, his four arms outstretched, with his hair flying, the eyes rapt in contemplation, an exquisitely poised figure. His grandmother had given it to him on his eighth birthday. She had got it from her father, who discovered it in a packet of saffron they had brought from the shop on a certain day. It had never left Srinivas since that birthday. It was on his own table at home, or in the hostel, wherever he might be. It had become a part of him, this little image. He often sat before it, contemplated its proportions, and addressed it thus: 'Oh, God, you are trampling a demon under your foot, and you show us a rhythm, though you appear to be still. I grasp the symbol but vaguely. You hold a flare in your hand. May a ray of that light illumine my mind!' He silently addressed it thus. It had been his first duty for decades now. He never started his day without spending a few minutes before this image.

After this he took out his papers. He was about to usher his Banner into the world, and he had an immense amount of preparatory work to do. He had a thin exercise book and a copying pencil. He covered the pages of the exercise book with minute jottings connected with the journal. The problems connected with its birth seemed to be innumerable. He did not want to overlook even the slightest problem. He put down each problem with a number, and on an interleaf against it put down a possible solution. For instance, problem No. 20 in his notebook was: 'Should the page be made up as three column with 8-point type or double column with 10-point? The latter will provide easier reading for the eye, but the former would be more true to its purpose, in that it will give more reading matter. Must consult the printer about it.' He made the entry: 'Problem 20: The answer has been unexpectedly simplified. The printer says he favours neither two columns nor three columns; in fact, he has no arrangement whatever for printing in columns. Nor has he anything but 12-point in English a type that looks like the headings in a Government of India gazette. He insists upon saying that it is the best type in the whole country: no other press in the world has it. I fear that with this type and without the columns my paper is going to look like an auctioneer's list. But that can't be helped at this stage.' On the day his printer delivered the first dummy copy, which had to go up before a magistrate, his heart sank. It was nowhere near what he had imagined. He had hoped that it would look like an auctioneer's list, but now he found that it looked like a handbill of a wrestling tournament. One came across this kind of thing at week-ends, the thin transparent paper with the portraits of two muscular men on it, the print soaking through. It had always seemed to him the worst specimen of printing; but then the promoters of wrestling bouts could not be fastidious. But The Banner? He said timidly to his printer: 'Don't you think we ought to '

The printer said with a smile: 'No,' even before he completed his sentence. 'This is very good, you cannot get this finish in the whole of South India.' He spoke so very persuasively that Srinivas himself began to feel that his own view might not be quite correct. The printer was a vociferous, effusive man. When he took a sheet from the press he handled it with such delicacy, carrying it on his palms, as if it were a new-born infant, saying: 'See the finish?' in such a tone that his customers were half hypnotized into agreeing with him. He never let anyone look through the curtain behind him. 'I don't like my staff to watch me talking to my customers,' he often explained. He spoke of his staff with great pride and firmness, although Srinivas never got a precise idea of how many it included, nor what exactly lay beyond that printed curtain, on which was represented a purple lion attacking a spotted deer. Srinivas could only vaguely conjecture how many might be working there. All that he could hear was the sound of the treadle. Of even this he could not always be certain. Some days the printer appeared in khaki shorts, with grease spots on his hands, and explained: 'The best dress for my type of work. I'm going on the machine today. You see, I solve the labour problem by not being a slave to my workmen. When it comes to a pinch, I can do every bit of work myself, including gumming and pasting '

His help was invaluable to Srinivas. He felt he was being more and more bound to him by ties of gratitude. The printer declared: 'When a customer enters our premises he is, in our view, a guest of the Truth Printing Works. Well, you think, The Banner is yours. It isn't. I view it as my own.'

He acted up to this principle. In the weeks preceding the launching of The Banner he abandoned all his normal work: he set aside a co-operative society balance-sheet, four wedding invitations, and a small volume of verse, all of which were urgent, according to those who had ordered them. He dealt with all his customers amiably, but to no purpose. 'You will get the proofs positively this evening, and tomorrow you may come for the finished copies. Sorry for the delay. My staff is somewhat overworked at the moment. They've instructions to give you the maximum co-operation.' With all this suaveness he was not to be found in his place at the appointed hour. He threw a scarf around his throat, donned a fur cap, and was out on one or the other duties connected with The Banner. He arranged for the supply of paper, and he went round with Srinivas canvassing subscribers. The very first thing he did was to print a thousand handbills, setting forth the purpose and nature of The Banner. He had spent four nights and days devising the layout for it. Finally he decided upon a green paper and red lettering; when Srinivas saw it his heart sank within him. But the printer explained: 'This is the best possible layout for it; it must catch people's eye. I won't bill you for it except some nominal charge for paper.' He also printed a dozen tiny receipt books. He scattered the green-and-red notices widely all over the town, into every possible home; and then followed it up with a visit with the receipt book in hand. He worked out the annual subscription at about ten rupees, and managed to collect a thousand rupees even before the legal dummy was ready.

Srinivas was convinced that he could never have got through the legal formalities but for his printer. He had always disliked courts and magistrates; and he was really fearful as to how he would get through it all. The dummy to be placed before the magistrate was ready. Srinivas implored him: 'Please make another copy. Is this the paper we are going to use?'

'Oh, you don't like this paper! Norway bond I've refused it to some of our oldest customers, you know it is the strongest parchment in the market.'

'But the ink comes through.'

'Oh, we will check that. I have put a little extra ink on this because magistrates usually like the title to be very dark. They like to carry some printers' ink on their thumbs, I suppose,' he said. 'You had better leave this magistrate business to me.'

He walked into the hall of the court at Race-Course Road nonchalantly, adjusted his cap, stood before the court clerk, and handed up his application.

'Can you swear that all your statements in this are true?'