The Guide

  Even in my wild state, I did not make the mistake of asking again, “Shall I call her?” as that might have led to a very serious situation. I only asked, “Does she know about coffee?”

  “Yes, yes,” he cried impatiently. “Leave it there; she’ll take it. She has enough sense to look after herself.” He waved the switch, and we started out. Only once did I turn my head to look back, in the hope that she might appear at the window and call us back. “Did I come all the way for this monster’s company?” I asked myself as I followed him down the hill slope. How appropriate it would be if he should stumble and roll down hill! Bad thought, bad thought. He walked ahead of me. We were like a couple of African hunters—in fact, his dress, with his helmet and thick jacket, as I have already mentioned, was that of a wild African shikari.

  Our path through grass and shrub led to the valley. The cave was halfway across it. I felt suddenly irritated at the speed of his walk, as if he knew the way, swinging his cane and hugging his portfolio. If he could show half the warmth of that hug elsewhere! I suddenly asked, “Do you know the way?”

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “You are leading me!” I said, putting into it all the irony I was capable of.

  He cried, “Oh!” looked confused, and said, stepping aside, “Well, lead us,” and through an irrelevant association added, “kindly light.”

  The entrance to the cave was beyond a thicket of lantana. A huge door on its rusty hinges stood open. And, of course, all the crumbling brick and plaster was there. It was a cave with a single rock covering its entire roof; why any man should have taken the trouble to build a thing like this in a remote spot was more than I could understand.

  He stood outside and surveyed the entrance. “You see, this entrance must have been a later improvisation; the cave itself, I know, must have been about first century A.D. The entrance and the door are of a later date. You see, that kind of tall entrance and the carved doorway became a current fashion in the seventh or eighth century, when the South Indian rulers became fond of . . .” He went on talking. Dead and decaying things seemed to unloosen his tongue and fire his imagination, rather than things that lived and moved and swung their limbs. I had little to do as a guide; he knew so much more of everything!

  When he passed in, he completely forgot the world outside and its inhabitants. The roof was low, but every inch of the wall space was covered with painted figures. He flashed a torch on the walls. He took out of his pocket a mirror and placed it outside to catch the sunlight and throw a beam on the paintings. Bats were whirring about; the floor was broken and full of holes. But he minded nothing. He became busy measuring, writing down, photographing, all the time keeping up a chatter, not bothered in the least whether I listened or not.

  I was bored with his ruin-collecting activities. The wall painting represented episodes from the epics and mythology, and all kinds of patterns and motifs, with men, women, and kings and animals, in a curious perspective and proportion of their own, and ancient like the rocks. I had seen hundreds like them, and I saw no point in seeing more. I had no taste for them, just as he had no taste for other things.

  “Be careful,” I said. “There may be reptiles in those cracks.”

  “Oh, no,” he said indifferently; “reptiles don’t generally come to such interesting places; moreover, I have this.” He flourished his stick. “I can manage. I’m not afraid.”

  I suddenly said, “I seem to hear the sound of a car. If it’s Gaffur, I’d like to be there at the bungalow, so do you mind if I go? I’ll be back.”

  He said, “Keep him. Don’t let him go away.”

  “When you return, come the same way—so that we may not get lost.” He didn’t answer, but resumed his studies.

  I reached the house at a run and rested a while in the back yard to regain my breath. I went in, brushing back my hair with my hand and composing my features. As I entered, I heard her voice. “Looking for me?” She was sitting on a boulder in the shade of a tree. She must have seen me come up. “I saw you even half a mile away—but you couldn’t see me,” she said like one who had discovered a fault.

  “You were on the peak and I was in the valley,” I said. I went up to her and made some polite inquiries about her coffee. She looked both sad and profound. I sat down on a stone near her.

  “You have returned alone. I suppose he is wall-gazing?” she said.

  “Yes,” I replied briefly.

  “He does that everywhere.”

  “Well, I suppose he is interested, that’s all.”

  “What about me, interested in something else?”

  “What is your interest?”

  “Anything except cold, old stone walls,” she said.

  I looked at my watch. I had already been away from him for nearly an hour. I was wasting time. Time was slipping through my fingers. If I were to make good, I should utilize this chance. “Every night you generally sit up and quarrel, do you?” I asked boldly.

  “When we are alone and start talking, we argue and quarrel over everything. We don’t agree on most matters, and then he leaves me alone and comes back and we are all right, that’s all.”

  “Until it is night again,” I said.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “It’s unthinkable that anyone should find it possible to quarrel or argue with you—being with you must be such bliss.”

  She asked sharply, “What do you mean?”

  I explained myself plainly. I was prepared to ruin myself today if need be, but I was going to talk and tell her. If she wanted to kick me out, she could do it after listening to me. I spoke my mind. I praised her dancing. I spoke out my love, but sandwiched it conveniently between my appreciations of her art. I spoke of her as an artist in one breath, and continued in the next as a sweetheart. Something like, “What a glorious snake dance! Oh, I keep thinking of you all night. World’s artist number one! Don’t you see how I am pining for you every hour!”

  It worked. She said, “You are a brother to me” (“Oh, no,” I wanted to cry), “and I’ll tell you what happens.” She gave me an account of their daily quarrels.

  “Why did you marry at all?” I asked recklessly.

  She remained moody and said, “I don’t know. It just happened.”

  “You married him because of his wealth,” I said, “and you were advised by your uncle and the rest.”

  “You see,” she began, plucking my sleeve. “Can you guess to what class I belong?”

  I looked her up and down and ventured, “The finest, whatever it may be, and I don’t believe in class or caste. You are an honor to your caste, whatever it may be.”

  “I belong to a family traditionally dedicated to the temples as dancers; my mother, grandmother, and, before her, her mother. Even as a young girl, I danced in our village temple. You know how our caste is viewed?”

  “It’s the noblest caste on earth,” I said.

  “We are viewed as public women,” she said plainly, and I was thrilled to hear the words. “We are not considered respectable; we are not considered civilized.”

  “All that narrow notion may be true of old days, but it’s different now. Things have changed. There is no caste or class today.”

  “A different life was planned for me by my mother. She put me to school early in life; I studied well. I took my master’s degree in economics. But after college, the question was whether I should become a dancer or do something else. One day I saw in our paper an advertisement—the usual kind you may have seen: ‘Wanted: an educated, good-looking girl to marry a rich bachelor of academic interests. No caste restrictions; good looks and university degree essential.’ I asked myself, ‘Have I looks?’ ”

  “Oh, who could doubt it?”

  “I had myself photographed clutching the scroll of the university citation in one hand, and sent it to the advertiser. Well, we met, he examined me and my certificate, we went to a registrar and got married.”

  “Did you like him the moment you saw him?”

&n
bsp; “Don’t ask all that now.” She snubbed me. “We had had many discussions before coming to a decision. The question was, whether it would be good to marry so much above our wealth and class. But all the women in my family were impressed, excited that a man like him was coming to marry one of our class, and it was decided that if it was necessary to give up our traditional art, it was worth the sacrifice. He had a big house, a motor car, he was a man of high social standing; he had a house outside Madras, he was living in it all alone, no family at all; he lived with his books and papers.”

  “So you have no mother-in-law!” I said.

  “I’d have preferred any kind of mother-in-law, if it had meant one real, live husband,” she said. I looked up at her to divine her meaning, but she lowered her eyes. I could only guess. She said, “He is interested in painting and old art and things like that.”

  “But not one which can move its limbs, I suppose,” I said.

  I sighed deeply, overcome with the sadness of her life. I placed my hand on her shoulder and gently stroked it. “I am really very unhappy to think of you, such a gem lost to the world. In his place I would have made you a queen of the world.” She didn’t push away my hand. I let it travel and felt the softness of her ear and pushed my fingers through the locks of her hair.

  Gaffur’s car did not turn up. A passing truck-driver brought the message that it had had a breakdown and would be coming on the following day. No one in the party minded really. Joseph looked after us quite well. Marco said it gave him more time to study the walls. I did not mind. It gave me an occasion to watch the game beyond the sheet glass every night, holding her hand, while Marco sat in his room, poring over his notes.

  When Gaffur’s car did turn up Marco said, “I want to stay on here; it is going to take more time than I thought. Could you fetch from my room in the hotel my black trunk? I have some papers in it. I’d prefer to have you here also, if it is all the same to you.”

  I seemed to hesitate, and then looked up at the girl for a moment. There was a mute appeal in her eyes. I said yes.

  “You may treat it as a part of your professional work,” he said, “unless you feel it’s going to hurt your general business.”

  “All right,” I said hesitantly. “It’s true, but I’d also like to be of service to you. Once I take charge of anyone, I always feel that they are my responsibility till I see them off again safely.”

  As I was getting into the car she said to her husband, “I’ll also go back to the town; I want a few things from my box.”

  I added, “We may not be able to return tonight.”

  He asked his wife, “Can you manage?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  As we were going down the mountain road I often caught Gaffur looking at us through the mirror, and we moved away from the range of his vision. We reached our hotel in the evening. I followed her to her room. “Should we go back this evening?” I asked her.

  “Why?” she asked. “Suppose Gaffur’s car stops on the way? Better not risk it on that road. I’ll stay here tonight.”

  I went home to change. My mother was full of information the moment she saw me, and full of inquiries. I brushed everything aside. I rushed through my washing and grooming and took out another set of special clothes. I gave my old clothes in a bundle to my mother. “Will you tell that shop boy to take them to the dhobi and have them washed and ironed neatly? I may want them tomorrow.”

  “Becoming a dandy?” she said, surveying me. “Why are you always on the run now?” I gave her some excuse and started out again.

  I engaged Gaffur for my own rounds that day. I was a true guide. Never had I shown anyone the town with greater zest. I took Rosie all over the place, showed her the town hall tower—showed her Sarayu, and we sat on the sands and munched a large packet of salted nuts. She behaved like a baby—excited, thrilled, appreciative of everything. I took her through the Suburban Stores and told her to buy anything she liked. This was probably the first time that she was seeing the world. She was in ecstasies. Gaffur warned me when he got me alone for a moment outside the store, “She is a married woman, remember.”

  “What of it?” I said. “Why do you tell me this?”

  “Don’t be angry, sir,” he said. “Go slow; that is all I can say.”

  “You are unhealthy-minded, Gaffur. She is like a sister to me,” I said, and tried to shut him up.

  All he said was, “You are right. What is it to me? After all, that man is there, who has really married her. And I’ve my own wife to bother about.”

  I left him and went back to the store. She had picked up a silver brooch, painted over and patterned like a peacock. I paid for it and pinned it on her sari. We dined on the terrace of the Taj, from where she could have a view of the River Sarayu winding away. When I pointed it out to her she said, “It’s good. But I have had views of valleys, trees, and brooks to last me a lifetime.” We laughed. We were getting into a state of perpetual giggling.

  She liked to loaf in the market, eat in a crowded hotel, wander about, see a cinema—these common pleasures seemed to have been beyond her reach all these days. I had dismissed the car at the cinema. I did not want Gaffur to watch my movements. We walked to the hotel after the picture. We had hardly noticed what it was. I had taken a box. She wore a light yellow crepe sari which made her so attractive that people kept looking at her.

  Her eyes sparkled with vivacity and gratitude. I knew I had placed her in my debt.

  It was nearing midnight. The man at the hotel desk watched us pass without showing any interest. Desk-men at hotels learn not to be inquisitive. At the door of Number 28 I hesitated. She opened the door, passed in, and hesitated, leaving the door half open. She stood looking at me for a moment, as on the first day.

  “Shall I go away?” I asked in a whisper.

  “Yes. Good night,” she said feebly.

  “May I not come in?” I asked, trying to look my saddest.

  “No, no. Go away,” she said. But on an impulse I gently pushed her out of the way, and stepped in and locked the door on the world.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Raju lost count of the time that passed in these activities—one day being like another and always crowded. Several months (or perhaps years) had passed. He counted the seasons by the special points that jutted out, such as the harvest in January, when his disciples brought him sugar cane and jaggery cooked with rice; when they brought him sweets and fruits, he knew that the Tamil New Year was on; when Dasara came they brought in extra lamps and lit them, and the women were busy all through the nine days, decorating the pillared hall with colored paper and tinsel; and for Deepavali they brought him new clothes and crackers and he invited the children to a special session and fired the crackers. He kept a rough count of time thus, from the beginning of the year to its end, through its seasons of sun, rain, and mist. He kept count of three cycles and then lost count. He realized that it was unnecessary to maintain a calendar.

  His beard now caressed his chest, his hair covered his back, and round his neck he wore a necklace of prayer beads. His eyes shone with softness and compassion, the light of wisdom emanated from them. The villagers kept bringing in so many things for him that he lost interest in accumulation. He distributed whatever he had to the gathering at the end of the day. They brought him huge chrysanthemum garlands, jasmine and rose petals in baskets. He gave them all back to the women and children.

  He protested to Velan one day, “I’m a poor man and you are poor men; why do you give me all this? You must stop it.” But it was not possible to stop the practice; they loved to bring him gifts. He came to be called Swami by his congregation, and where he lived was called the Temple. It was passing into common parlance. “The Swami said this or that,” or “I am on my way to the Temple.” People loved this place so much that they lime-washed its walls and drew red bands on them.

  In the first half of the year they had evening rains, which poured down fussily for a couple of hours to the tune of tremendo
us thunder; later in the year they had a quieter sort of rain, steadily pattering down. But no rain affected the assembly. People came shielding themselves with huge bamboo mats or umbrellas or coconut thatch. The hall became more packed during the wet season, since the people could not overflow into the outer courtyard. But it made the gathering cozy, interesting, and cool; and the swish of rain and wind in the trees and the swelling river (which made them carry their children aloft on their shoulders and cross the river only at certain shallow points) lent a peculiar charm to the proceedings. Raju loved this season, for its greenness everywhere, for the variety of cloud-play in the sky, which he could watch through the columned halls.

  But he suddenly noticed at the end of the year that the skies never dimmed with cloud. The summer seemed to continue. Raju inquired, “Where are the rains?”

  Velan pulled a long face. “The first rains have totally kept off, Swamiji; and the millet crop, which we should have harvested by now, is all scorched on the stalks. It’s a big worry.”

  “A thousand banana seedlings are dead,” said another. “If it continues, who knows?” They looked anxious.

  Raju, ever a soothsayer, said consolingly, “Such things are common; don’t worry too much about them. Let us hope for the best.”

  They became argumentative. “Do you know, Swamiji, our cattle which go out to graze nose about the mud and dirt and come back, having no grass to eat?”

  Raju had some soothing remark for every complaint. They went home satisfied. “You know best, master,” they said and left. Raju recollected that for his bath nowadays he had to go down three more steps to reach the water. He went down and stood looking along the river course. He looked away to his left, where the river seemed to wind back to the mountain ranges of the Mempi, to its source, where he had often conducted tourists. Such a small basin, hardly a hundred square feet with its little shrine—what had happened there to make this river shrink so much here? He noticed that the borders were wide, more rocks were showing, and the slope on the other side seemed to have become higher.