Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma (24 page)

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
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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
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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.’