The Guide

  I felt bored and terrified by the boredom of normal life, so much had I got used to a glamorous, romantic existence. Gradually I found taking tourists around a big nuisance. I began to avoid the railway station. I let the porter’s son meet the tourists. He had already attempted his hand at it before. Of course, the tourists might miss my own speeches and descriptions, but lately I had become dull-witted, and they probably preferred the boy, as he was at least as curious and interested as they in seeing places. Perhaps he was beginning to answer to the name of Railway Raju too.

  How many days passed thus? Only thirty, though they looked to me like years. I was lying asleep on the floor of my house one afternoon. I was half awake and had noted the departure of the Madras Mail at four-thirty. When the chug-chug of the train died away, I tried to sleep again, having been disturbed by its noisy arrival. My mother came and said, “Someone is asking for you.” She didn’t wait for questions, but went into the kitchen.

  I got up and went to the door. There stood Rosie on the threshold, with a trunk at her feet and a bag under her arm. “Rosie, why didn’t you say you were coming? Come in, come in. Why stand there? That was only my mother.” I carried her trunk in. I could guess a great many things about her. I didn’t want to ask her any questions. I didn’t feel like knowing anything. I fussed about her, lost my head completely. “Mother!” I cried. “Here is Rosie! She is going to be a guest in our house.”

  My mother came out of the kitchen formally, smiled a welcome, and said, “Be seated on that mat. What’s your name?” she asked kindly, and was rather taken aback to hear the name “Rosie.” She expected a more orthodox name. She looked anguished for a moment, wondering how she was going to accommodate a “Rosie” in her home.

  I stood about awkwardly. I had not shaved since the morning; I had not combed my hair; my dhoti was discolored and rumpled; the vest I wore had several holes on the back and chest. I folded my arms across my chest to cover the holes. I could not have made a worse impression if I had tried hard. I was ashamed of the torn mat—it had been there since we built the house—the dark hall with the smoky walls and tiles. All the trouble I used to take to create an impression on her was gone in a moment. If she realized that this was my normal setting, God knew how she would react. I was glad at least I was wearing my torn vest instead of being bare-bodied, as was my habit at home. My mother hardly ever noticed the hairiness of my chest, but Rosie, oh—

  My mother was busy in the kitchen, but she managed to come out for a moment to observe the formality of receiving a guest. A guest was a guest, even though she might be a Rosie. So my mother came up and sat down on the mat with an air of settling down to a chat. The very first question she asked was, “Who has come with you, Rosie?” Rosie blushed, hesitated, and looked at me. I moved a couple of steps backward in order that she might see me only dimly, and not in all my raggedness.

  I replied, “I think she has come alone, Mother.”

  My mother was amazed. “Girls today! How courageous you are! In our day we wouldn’t go to the street corner without an escort. And I have been to the market only once in my life, when Raju’s father was alive.”

  Rosie blinked and listened in silence, not knowing how to react to these statements. She simply opened her eyes wide and raised her brows. I watched her. She looked a little paler and slightly careworn—not the swollen-eyed, gruff-toned monster she had seemed the other day. Her tone was sweet as ever. She looked slightly weak, but as if she hadn’t a care in the world. My mother said, “Water is boiling; I’ll give you coffee. Do you like coffee?” I was relieved that the conversation was coming down to this level. I hoped my mother would continue to talk about herself rather than ask questions. But it was not to be. She asked next, “Where do you come from?”

  “From Madras,” I answered promptly.

  “What brings you here?”

  “She has come to see some friends.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No,” I answered promptly.

  My mother shot a look at me. It seemed to be meaningful. She withdrew her glance swiftly from me, and, looking at her guest kindly, asked, “Don’t you understand Tamil?”

  I knew I should shut up now. I let Rosie answer in Tamil, “Yes. It’s what we speak at home.”

  “Who else have you in your house?”

  “My uncle, my aunt, and—” She was trailing away, and my mother shot at her the next terrible question. “What is your father’s name?”

  It was a dreadful question for the girl. She knew only her mother and always spoke of her. I had never questioned her about it. The girl remained silent for a moment and said, “I have . . . no father.”

  My mother was at once filled with the greatest sympathy and cried, “Poor one, without father or mother. I am sure your uncle must be looking after you well. Are you a B.A.?”

  “Yes,” I corrected. “She is an M.A.”

  “Good, good, brave girl. Then you lack nothing in the world. You are not like us uneducated women. You will get on anywhere. You can ask for your railway ticket, call a policeman if somebody worries you, and keep your money. What are you going to do? Are you going to join government service and earn? Brave girl.” My mother was full of admiration for her. She got up, went in, and brought her a tumbler of coffee. The girl drank it off gratefully. I was wondering how best I could sneak out and groom myself properly. But there was no chance. My father’s architectural sense had not gone beyond building a single large hall and a kitchen. Of course, there was the front pyol on which visitors and menfolk generally sat. But how could I ask Rosie to move there? It was too public—the shopboy and all his visitors would come round, gape at her and ask if she was married. This was a little difficult situation for me. We had got used to a common living in that hall. It had never occurred to us to be otherwise. We never wanted anything more than this. My father lived in his shop, I played under the tree, and we received male visitors on the outside pyol and left the inner room for mother or any lady that might come. When we slept we went in. If it was warm, we slept on the pyol. The hall was a passage, a dressing-room, drawing-room, study, everything combined. My shaving mirror was on a nail; my finest clothes hung on a peg; for a bath I dashed to a chamber in the backyard, half open to the sky, and poured over my head water drawn straight from the well. I ran up and down and conducted my toilet while my mother came into or out of the kitchen or slept or sat moping in the hall. We had got used to each other’s presence and did not mind it in the least. But now with Rosie there?

  My mother, as if understanding my predicament, said to the girl, “I’m going to the well. Will you come with me? You are a city girl. You must know something of our village life too.” The girl quietly rose and followed her; I hoped she’d not be subjected to an inquisition at the well. The minute their backs were turned I got busy, ran hither and hither, scraped my chin in a hurry, cut myself a little, bathed, groomed myself, and changed into better clothes, and by the time they were back from the well I was in a condition to be viewed by the Princesses of the Earth. I went over to the shop and sent the boy to fetch Gaffur.

  “Rosie, if you would like to wash and dress, go ahead. I’ll wait outside. We’ll go out after that.”

  It was perhaps an unwarranted luxury to engage Gaffur for an outing. But I saw no other way. I could not talk to her in our home, and I could not make her walk through the streets. Although I had done it before, today it seemed different. I felt a little abashed to be seen with her.

  I told Gaffur, “She is back.”

  He said, “I know it. They were here at the hotel, and he went by the Madras train.”

  “You never told me anything.”

  “Why should I? You were going to know anyway.”

  “What, what has happened?”

  “Ask the lady herself, now that you have her in your pocket.” He sounded resentful.

  I told him placatingly, “Oh, don’t be sour, Gaffur. . . . I want the car for the evening.”

 
“I’m at your service, sir. What do I have the taxi for unless it is to drive you where you command?” He winked and I was relieved to see him back in his old cheerful mood. When Rosie appeared at the door I went and told my mother, “We will come back, Mother, after a little outing.”

  “Where?” asked Gaffur, looking at us through the glass. As we hesitated he asked puckishly, “Shall I drive to the Peak House?”

  “No, no,” Rosie cried, becoming very alert at the mention of it. “I have had enough of it.” I didn’t pursue the subject.

  As we passed the Taj I asked, “Would you like to eat there?”

  “Your mother gave me coffee; that is enough. What a fine mother you have!”

  “The only trouble is she asks you about marriage!” We laughed nervously at this joke.

  “Gaffur, drive on to the river,” I said. He drove through the market road, honking his horn impatiently through the crowd. It was a crowded hour. Lots of people were moving around. The lights were up. Shop lights sparkled and lit up the thoroughfare. He took a sharp turn at Ellaman Street—that narrow street in which oil-merchants lived, the oldest street in the city, with children playing in it, cows lounging, and donkeys and dogs blocking the passage so narrow that any passing car almost touched the walls of the houses. Gaffur always chose this way to the river, although there was a better approach. It gave him some sort of thrill to honk his car and scatter the creatures in the road in a fright. Ellaman Street ended with the last lamp on the road, and the road imperceptibly merged into the sand. He applied the brake under the last lamp, with a jerk sufficient to shake us out of the car. He was in an unusually jovial mood today; he was given to his own temperaments and moods, and no one could predict how he would behave at a given moment. We left him under the lamp. I said, “We want to walk about.” He winked at me mischievously in reply.

  The evening had darkened. There were still a few groups sitting here and there on the sand. Some students were promenading. Children were playing and running in circles and shouting. On the river step, some men were having their evening dip. Far off at Nallappa’s grove cattle were crossing the river with their bells tinkling. The stars were out. The Taluk office gong sounded seven. A perfect evening—as it had been for years and years. I had seen the same scene at the same hour for years and years. Did those children never grow up? I became a little sentimental and poetic, probably because of the companion at my side. My feelings and understanding seemed to have become suddenly heightened. I said, “It’s a beautiful evening,” to start a conversation. She briefly said, “Yes.” We sought a secluded place, away from the route of promenading students.

  I spread out my handkerchief, and said, “Sit down, Rosie.” She picked away the kerchief and sat down. The gathering darkness was congenial. I sat close to her and said, “Now tell me everything from beginning to end.”

  She remained in thought for a while and said, “He left by the train this evening, and that is all.”

  “Why did you not go with him?”

  “I don’t know. It is what I came for. But it didn’t happen that way. Well, it is just as well. We were not meant to be in each other’s company.”

  “Tell me what happened. Why were you so rude to me that day?”

  “I thought it best that we forgot each other, and that I went back to him.”

  I did not know how to pursue this inquiry. I had no method of eliciting information—of all that had gone before. I fumbled and hummed and hawed in questioning, till I suddenly felt that I was getting nowhere at all. I wanted a chronological narration, but she seemed unable to provide it. She was swinging forward and backward and talking in scraps. I was getting it all in a knot. I felt exasperated. I said, “Answer me now, step by step. Give an answer to each question. I left you with him to speak about the proposal we had discussed. What did you tell him?”

  “What we had agreed—that he should permit me to dance. He was quite happy till I mentioned it. I never spoke about it that whole day or till late next day. I led him on to tell me about his own activity. He showed me the pictures he had copied, the notes he had made, and spoke far into the night about their significance. He was going to be responsible for the rewriting of history, he said. He was talking about his plans for publishing his work. He said later he would go to Mexico, and to some of the Far Eastern countries to study similar subjects and add them on to his work. I was full of enthusiasm, although I did not follow everything he said. I felt after all an understanding was coming between us—there in that lonely house, with trees rustling and foxes and animals prowling around, some light glimmering in the far-off valley. Next morning I went with him to the cave to have a look at the musical notations he had discovered. We had to pass through the main cave and beyond it into a vault by a crumbling ladder. A fierce, terrifying place. Nothing on earth would have induced me to go to a spot like that, stuffy, fierce, and dark. ‘There may be cobras here,’ I said. He ignored my fears. ‘You should feel at home, then,’ he said and we laughed. And then he lit up a lantern and showed me the wall on which he had scraped off the lime and discovered new pictures. They were the usual grotesque, ancient paintings of various figures, but he managed to spell out the letters around them, and take them down as musical notations. It was nothing I could make out or make use of. They were abstract verse about some theories of an ancient musical system or some such thing. I said, ‘If these were about dancing, I could perhaps have tried—’ He looked up sharply. The word ‘dance’ always stung him. I was afraid to go on with the subject. But there, squatting on the ancient floor, amidst cobwebs and bats, in that dim lantern light, I felt courage coming back. ‘Will you permit me to dance?’

  “Promptly came his reply, with a scowl, the old face was coming back. ‘Why?’

  “ ‘I think I’d be very happy if I could do that. I have so many ideas. I’d like to try. Just as you are trying to—’

  “ ‘Oh, you want to rival me, is that it? This is a branch of learning, not street-acrobatics.’

  “ ‘You think dancing is street-acrobatics?’

  “ ‘I’m not prepared to discuss all that with you. An acrobat on a trapeze goes on doing the same thing all his life; well, your dance is like that. What is there intelligent or creative in it? You repeat your tricks all your life. We watch a monkey perform, not because it is artistic but because it is a monkey that is doing it.’ I swallowed all the insults; I still had hopes of converting him. I lapsed into silence and let him do his work. I turned the subject to other things, and he was normal again. After dinner that night he went back to his studies and I to my game-watching on the veranda. As usual, there was nothing to watch, but I sat there turning over in my head all that he had said and all that I had said, and wondering how to get through the business. I ignored all insults and troubles in the hope that if we reached agreement in the end, it’d all be forgotten. As I sat there, he came behind me, and, putting his hand on my shoulder, said, ‘I thought we had come to a final understanding about that subject. Did you or did you not promise that you’d never mention it again?’ ”

  The Taluk office gong sounded eight and all the crowd had vanished. We were alone on the sand. Still I’d not learned anything about Rosie. Gaffur sounded the horn. It was no doubt late, but if I went home she would not be able to speak. I said, “Shall we spend the night at the hotel?”

  “No. I’d like to go back to your house. I have told your mother that I’ll be back.”

  “All right,” I said, remembering my cash position. “Let us stay here for half an hour more. Now tell me.”

  “His tone,” she resumed, “was now so kind that I felt I need not bother even if I had to abandon my own plans once for all: if he was going to be so nice, I wanted nothing more—I’d almost made up my mind that I would ask nothing of him. Yet as a last trick I said, encouraged by his tone, ‘I want you to see just one small bit—which I generally do as a memento of my mother. It was her piece, you know.’ I got up and pulled him by his hand to our room.
I pushed aside the chair and other things. I adjusted my dress. I pushed him down to sit on the bed, as I had done with you. I sang that song about the lover and his girl on the banks of Jamuna and danced the piece for him. He sat watching me coldly. I had not completed the fifth line when he said, ‘Stop, I have seen enough.’

  “I stopped, abashed. I’d been certain that he was going to be captivated by it and tell me to go ahead and dance all my life. But he said, ‘Rosie, you must understand, this is not art. You have not sufficient training. Leave the thing alone.’