2

WHEN he woke in the morning he found that he could not

move. A bicycle chain was fastened around his ankles, its free

length clamped under a big stone mortar; and his arms had

been crossed and bound in a woman's cotton sari which in turn was tied to a tin trunk. The mortar he could not shift, but

when he heaved, the trunk moved, allowing his torso limited

play. It also roused his guard, a fat middle-aged woman who

sat nearby, half-fearful, half-ferocious, a rolling-pin clutched in her hand.

"Don't you dare move, do you hear?" Her voice was very shrill.

He was partially sitting up. The stance was insupportable, he had to move. Instantly she began hitting him. The blows

fell indiscriminately — back, shoulders, head. Too late, he tried to avert his face: the blow caught his temple, splitting an eyebrow and almost stunning him. Blood began to drip, a warm trickle down his face, vivid scarlet on the white cloth

imprisoning his arms. He stared at the spreading stain, stu- pidly.Wasthis really happening to him, Ravi, bound like a

criminal, beaten as if he were a mad dog? Pain and bewilder- ment combined; he lowered his head into his arms, so that the

woman should neither see him bleed nor weep.

"My God, what have you done to him!" The man had re- turned.Hisface was mottled and discolored with shock.

"I didn't mean to ... I swear it. I thought he was trying

to escape — "

"Never mind what you thought! Water, quickly."
The woman brought water, a towel, rags to staunch the

flow. The man released him, fears forgotten in horror of

bloodshed, grunting and straining as he shifted the heavy im- prisoningweights,his meager frame bent with the effort.

"Here, hold up your head. It'll help to stop the bleeding." He did so, obediently, thankfully abrogating his responsibil-

itiestotheir will. She bathed his eyes, his temple, the cut eye- brow,driedthe wound and bound it.The man unbuttoned

his shirt, his hands moved over Ravi's back, pressing and prob- ing.

"No broken bones, thank God."

"The cut isquite shallow too. Thank God."

They stared at him, awkwardly, waiting for him to— well, what the hell did they expect him to do, walk out with a

bloody bandage on and his head swimming like a shoal of fish? He said bitterly, "What did you have to hit me like that

for?"

"What did you expect, breaking in like a ruffian?" "I was hungry," he said sullenly. "I hadn't eaten — "

"But you were drunk."
He looked at the old man, hating him, but the hate guttered

away like a cheap candle, dissolving into drab listlessness. He

shrugged. "So would you be," he said, "if all you had was one rupee between you and kingdom come."

"You could have bought a meal," the old man said accus- ingly, "instead of boozing. A rupee buys a very reasonable

meal."
"Yes, and what then?" He roused himself. "I didn't want

to buy reason, I don't want to buy reason, what I wanted to buy was something quite different, something that would stop

me thinking about tomorrow because the more I think of it

the sicker Iget— sick, sick of it!"
"One must!" The old man was shocked, the shock over-

ridingevenhis agitation in the face of violence. "A young man like you — you must think of the future! "

"What future?" He sneered. "It's bad enough getting through the day, without dragging that in! "

"You mustn't talk like that." Now the woman was starting on him.

"Why shouldn't I?" he shouted. "You know noth-

ing about me, nothing about how I feel or why I feel it!" They took no notice of him. They were no longer even

afraid of him. Where was his power of the night? Reduce

everything to the jungle, he thought, and then see— see who is

the beater, and who the beaten-down. He lay back, his head throbbing. He was alone. The man had gone to the small

paved courtyard to wash, he could hear the water splashing, purling along the runnels that skirted the sides. The woman had gone too. She had washed first, and was now clattering about in the kitchen. They, he thought, had taken up their or-

into the steamer, knowing exactly what he would see: three

idlies, composed in clover pattern in the steamer, each

wrapped in butter muslin, well-risen, rounded and pure white. His mouth began to water.

"Here you are."
There were two for him on a square of plantain leaf, with

ghee, pickle, a tumblerful of coffee.
If I had a wife, he thought as he ate, she would cook for me,

it would be like this every day . . . but what had he to offer

to get himself a wife? ... I'll buy her a little house, small but nice, he thought as he finished, and some nice new shiny

aluminum cooking vessels, these brass things are too heavy, old-fashioned . . . and with a job one can save say a quarter of one's wagre —

"How are you feeling? "

"Oh. I'm allright." "Head ache?"

"Well, itwas abitofaclout."

Without any warning her indignation exploded. "What

right have you to criticize my behavior? Didn't you deserve what you got? Perhaps a few more blows and you would

really have learned your lesson! "
She was about to strike him again, he thought, the bitch!

He said, furiously, "I've got a good mind to complain to the police about you."

"The police!" She was gasping with anger. "Yes, that's just what we should have done, gone straight to the police,

it's not worth taking pity on you and your like." She turned to her husband. "Come on, we can still go, it's not too late by any means. They'll have you under lock and key— "

They would, he thought dully, he didn't stand a chance, especially if that bastard of a sergeant was there and his luck

was such that he would be. He didn't stand a chance eifhe was innocent, and he wasn't innocent, even he knew that.

"It was only a joke," he said uncomfortably, swallowing his anger.

"We don't understand jokes like that in this house."
He had finished everything, the last crumb, the last drop

of coffee. He folded the four corners of his leaf inward, picked up the parcel fastidiously, between finger and thumb, bore it out into the street and flung it into the open gutter where cows were nosing. Then he came back, washed his face and hands, the tumbler he had drunk from, poured water over his feet and finally stood before her.

"I'm going now."

She looked up. Her anger had simmered down to indigna- tion.

"Behaving like that," she said, "a decent boy like you! "
He went out. Decent? When had he last been decent? Not

since he had left that arid dump in the village which his

mother, and indeed their neighbors, lyingly labeled "a decent home." What had been decent about it? When he tried to be honest he knew that what was decent about it was its hon-

esty. They did not lie, they did not cheat, they did not rob

and maraud. But then in that small struggling farming com- munitywhatwas there to maraud? As far back as he could

see they had all lived between bouts of genteel poverty and

acute poverty — the kind in which the weakest went to the wall, the old ones and the babies, dying of tuberculosis, dysen-

tery,the"falling fever," "recurrent fever," and any other names for what was basically, simply, at its heart and core,

nothing but starvation. The pattern must have gone on a long

time, generations, because nobody objected, nobody pro- tested,theyjust kept going, on and on, and were thankful that

they were able to.
And yet, somewhere, a leaven must have been at work, arestlessness, a discontent in the towns whose spores had spread even as far as the villages so that suddenly it was not good enough and like a pricking, first one home and then another began to lose its sons, young men like him who felt, obscurely,

that it was not right for them and — this with conviction — that itwould be utterly wrong for their children.

Where now? He whittled it down, as he had learned to do,

from long vistas of the future that he could have contem- platedtothe next actual hour. He could go and work in the coffee shop, earn himself the few coppers he needed to tide

him through the day. Or he could rout up some of the gang for a game of dice which they played against chits that mort-

gagedthenext day's earnings. Or he could go and hang around the docks, there might be a small job going. Then he

remembered his head. It felt better, almost well, but he could

hardly be expected to do anything with his head swathed like this. Anyhow who expected him to? Xo one, he had no

one. Well, there was only one thing to do— rest. He began to walk — at last with some vague sense of purpose.

They had made the station their headquarters for the time

being — he and one or two others. It made a good base, rent- free, where they could be sure of meeting one another, where

one or other could be trusted to keep watch over their pitch and their possessions, removing themselves at speed whenever the railway banchots came along to carry on the war against just such as they.

At this time of day it was not difficult to get in. The crush grille was open, and the ticket collector sat comatose on his hard high wooden stool, his clippers in his hand. A quick look round, then he was past the sleeper, onto the platform,

past the refreshment rooms and into the waiting room — all without trouble.

"Yah, Damodar!" He padded in silently and pounced on his friend. Instantly Damodar was in flight, a quick practiced

flight that he cut short abruptly, sourly.

"You and your silly tricks. Is it funny to frighten people? You could easily give them a heart attack — Why, what have

you done to your head?"

"I've been hitting it against a wall," Ravi said flippantly, and moved his eyes to the two on the nearby bench. Damodar

nodded and got up. They took their possessions and sat in a far corner, lowering their voices against people who might or might not be like themselves.

"Was itthe police?"

"No," said Ravi. "A woman. She thought I was about to

do her."
"Were you?"

"No, no," said Ravi impatiently. "You should have seen her, the bitch. But she gave me a good meal. Idlies, with

spoonjuls of ghee," "What for?"

"For not robbing them, Isuppose."

Damodar's eyes grew reflective. "Sounds like a good

racket."
"What does?"

"Getting paid for not doing something."

Ravi shrugged. "I didn't plan it that way. It just happened." "How?"

"Well, I was drunk," said Ravi, "and the old man got my

back up, otherwise, Iwould never have broken in." "How didyou?"

"The window was pretty low," said Ravi, "and the bars— well, I'm not a weed, you know, I wasn't going to be de-

featedbya few bars, I wrench at them — " "Don't boast."

"Anyhow, that is how I got in! Go and ask them if you

like."
"Where's the house?"

"Oh. Near George Town." "Ink?"

"No, near. One of those streets that run — " He stopped.

"Near the brewery?"

"Why doyouwanttoknow?"

"Want to keep a good thing to yourself, do you?" said Damodar, and beneath the teasing Ravi felt the steel.

"All I got was a meal," he said. "It just happened that way, I tell you! I wouldn't — I mean those people, they weren't too bad, Iwouldn't want — "

"Who said I was going to do anything?" Damodar slapped his stomach, which was lean and curved inward. "All / want is a meal — a nice hot home-cooked meal, not bazaar muck —

but if you don't want anyone on easy street except your-

self—"
"It's not that!"

"— Isuppose Ibetter start shifting for myself." "Where are you going?" Ravi asked nervously.

"The coffee shop. That's probably my best bet." 'Til come too."

"What for? You don't want to work when you don't need

to!"
"You can have my share," Ravi offered.
Damodar grinned broadly and slapped him on the back.

"Ai, you have got a soft conscience! But you're a decent one, I'll say that for you: a decent one."

In the night Ravi grew uneasy again. They took it in turns to sleep, but even when it was his turn he could not. Curled

on a bench, his head resting on his bedroll, he watched Damo-

dar, dozing on guard duty beside the swing doors of the wait- ing room, and wondered whether he had not said too much.

Really, he would not like any harm to come to the couple who

had — not exactly coddled him, but they had not thrown him

to the wolves either. Supposing Damodar — ? Damodar who knew the brewery, who knew all the bootleggers in town, who knew the town like the back of his hand — it would not take him long to pinpoint the house with the broken grating.

And his friend wasn't like him, a country youth newly up from a village. He was a city slicker, born and bred in the

streets of the city, with city standards that were not exactly different from his own but tougher, more elastic, so that he,

Ravi, was never sure exactly how far they would stretch. Usu- alyitdid not concern him. He knew that life was a battle in

which the weak always went under, he accepted that the man was a fool who did not do what he could to keep on top. He would never fault Damodar on that score. It was simply that he had some way to go yet in toughening his own fiber, flabby from allthose homilies on decency.

In his corner Damodar yawned and stretched and came shambling over.

"Up, lazy."

"It's not my turn yet." "It is."

"How do you know?"

"Clock inmy head."
It was true, Damodar did have a timekeeping brain. His

own had broken down. The clock that in the country woke him with precision, told him the time of day, here refused to work, or buzzed fitfully, giving wrong information. One day,

when he had money to spare, he would buy himself a clock —

an alarm with a soft repeating chime and a luminous dial— "Come on?

"All right. I'm coming." He grumbled, but he was glad to beup;itwas atedious affair,pretending tosleepwhen hecould not. Damodar had no such block. In two minutes he was snor-

ing gently, his thin body careless of punishment meted out by the hard wooden bench.