6

BY the time the rolls of material were under his arm Ravi

had forgotten the rigors of the night that had produced them. All he could think of was that at last he had a passport that would get him into the house he wished to enter. He walked boldly up to the door and knocked.

"What isit?"

Jayamma stood widely in the doorway, hands on her hips. How uncouth she was, he thought, barring his way as if he

were an interloping pi-dog, speaking in that brassy voice ill-

suited to a woman! He said, civilly, "I've got a few things here . . . I think your husband might be interested."

"What sortofthings?"

"Cloth ...material ..." He began to stammer. "I thought you . . . your husband might be interested."

"My husband has gone out."

"Apu said he wouldn't be long." The girl was peeping over

her mother's shoulder — trying, Ravi thought with a surge of pleasure, to help him. His confidence returned.

"I can wait," he said, and deftly avoiding Jayamma, stepped in.

It was the first step that counted: this had been one of his

father's maxims, automatically rejected along with scores of others. Now, however, Ravi endorsed it,for here he was, as a

result of that first step, ensconced in a house to which he would never otherwise have gained entry. Acceptance, of course, was another matter: but he could see it coming as he worked at it assiduously, collecting and delivering for Apu, running errands for Jayamma, never saying no to whatever task he was set to do. Already there were signs that the older woman was softening. Nowadays, ifhe came early, she would bring him an apam, with some of her own homemade pickle, or if it were evening a tumblerful of coffee. The old

man, too — roughly from the time his loving greedy fingers

had felt the rich heavy textures of Ravi's offering — appeared to be revising his earlier unfavorable impression. He spoke to

him now as to the son of an equal, some other respect- able tradesman: and once or twice Ravi had felt himself being

thoughtfully studied, as if the old man were considering ab- sorbinghiminto the busy hive of his industry.

It was, Ravi knew, within his power to do so: for despite appearances it was he, Apu, who ran the business, who made the decisions, who held the household together. Jayamma, large and vocal, carried the appurtenances of strength: it was her mouselike husband who exercised it.Ruminating on itRavi

sometimes felt affronted, indignant almost, that this shriveled-

up nonentity, whom he had seen by night cowering and cring- ing before him. should by day order him about here and there.

At these times he would wrap the jungle around him for com- fort ... ah yes, the jungle, its darkness, its lawlessness,

where a man's strength and courage alone gave him mastery . . . be given that, and then see who would shine!

Mostly, however, he did not resent Apu. Indeed as the days went bv his respect for the old man grew, in which at least one ingredient was a kind of reverence for the fact— incredible

it seemed to Ravi — that he had fathered X'alini.

X'alini, my girl. He said it to himself sweetly, roundly, secretlv, and it filled him with a delicious sense of pleasure.

Xalini, the girl who could make a man feel like a man even outside the jungle of his choosing, the girl for whom he was ready to repudiate all in his life that was unworthy. And what this was, he realized clearly, was precisely what would have alienated his own respectable family: his dubious activities on the fringes of the law in the dubious company of Damodar. But whereas the standards of his family filled him with con-

tempt—for what had it taught them except an excessive en-

durance,andwhat had itbrought them except perpetual pov-

erty—he accepted them as entirely necessary for this girl. Xor did the split in his thinking trouble him. One varied ones cri- teriatocircumstance, as any fool knew: and how a man re-

actedtothe strictures of his father was entirely different from the returns he willingly made to his girl.

For her, he resolved, everything would be different, he would be different. Xo act of his should sully the wholesome

quality he discerned in her, a kind of vulnerable purity that he

wanted to enclose and guard, feeling himself cleansed and en- richedbyit. Even so he did not close with the past, cast no

moral stricture on what he had done, saw no wrong in it. It

simply part of the battle of life: and, equally simply, now it had ceased to be good enough.

My girl. He said itto himself again, softly, and felt a gentle glow diffuse itself throughout his body. Yet in what way was she his girl? He came to her house as often as he could, slaved for her mother, worked for her father, bore with the whims

of the hangers-on in the household, neglected his own dis-

tinctly precarious finances — for what? For the few words he was able to exchange with her in between, if he was lucky. Sometimes there was not even this: sometimes after a whole

day's sufferance all he had for his comfort was the sound of her, the swish of her sari as she whisked about the place at her

mother's bidding, or a glimpse of her sitting cross-legged like an inaccessible goddess in one of the inner rooms. Except once,

when someone had forgotten to close the door that led to the tiny open courtyard beyond, and he had seen her sitting on a small wooden plank near the tap in the center, soft and flushed from her bath, dressed in a pink mull sari with her hair loose about her shoulders. It was like a curtain, her hair: a

shining silk curtain that rippled and shimmered as the ivory

comb worked down from root to tip. He hardly dared to

breathe, he was so taken by the beauty of it,her grace, the

lovely movement of head and rounded arm that curved and lifted her uncovered breast.

But this was only once, a single isolated moment of distilled

pleasure.

Mostly, otherwise, it was frustration: frustration and peo-

ple,tomany people for one house, whose presence made it almost impossible for him to communicate with the girl. Cou-

sin, nephew, in-law — a whole host had attached itself to the household and, as far as he could make out, lived off the old

man. Day in, day out — except for occasions of free food and

merriment like a marriage or a naming ceremony when they departed in a body leaving the house empty as it had been on his first entry. Otherwise they ate here, they slept here. It was with envy and a great longing that in the mornings Ravi saw

the tottering pile of bedding-rolls, for he would have given anything to share the same roof with Nalini as they unthink-

inglydid.Jealousy, too, was interwoven in his feelings, jeal- ousythattenuous links of blood or marriage should allow these others a familiarity with Nalini that he, the outsider, was

denied. From an amalgam of his emotions sprang a contempt for them of which he was hardly conscious until an ill-chosen remark of Varma, the nephew, gave it form and an uncom-

promising name.

"Well, if it isn't our friend Ravi again," said Varma face-

tiously, "propping up the wall as usual.''

It happened to be true, this particular morning. Ravi had

come looking for work, and been told there was none. He was lounging against the wall, having nothing better to do. It lent a keener edge to his voice.

"At least," he said, "I don't get paid for doing nothing."

"What do you mean? " Varma's voice was haughty, that of a householder with entrenched rights addressing a disfran-

chisedsquater.

"I mean I'm not a parasite," said Ravi explicitly.

"Something of a leech though, aren't you?" Varma was annoyed, but not unduly perturbed. And why should he be,

thought Ravi, as a relative his security was established, no family would boot a relative into the street.

"I shall know soon enough if I am," he rejoined. "When

it'stime for me to go— I'llgo."

Varma smiled. It was a superior smile, as if he knew better —

and indeed so did Ravi, for there was hardly a household that

did not have its hanger-on who, once in, it was virtually im- posibletodislodge. All the same he knew he was not in that

class, whereas Varma undoubtedly was. He turned away con- temptuously.

This prickly exchange had taken place in the street, outside the house, and the door had been closed. Nevertheless their

voices must have carried, or at any rate the overtones, for

without any precise indications Ravi became aware that Apu was aware of the situation, and had come down on his side. He

did nothing about it— simply let it go, and watched. Mean- whilethehope Ravi had unwisely allowed to quicken, that

he would be speedily promoted from leech to regular, pain- fulydied.

Then one day out of the blue on his way to the fitting of an important customer Apu invited Ravi to accompany him.

Ravi obeyed with alacrity— indeed, it had been more of a command than an invitation, observing which Jayamma had

prudently refrained from insisting that he finish her work first

— which was trimming the oil lamps against electricity failures that nearly every night plunged them into darkness.

They went out together, Ravi carrying the brocade gown over his arm, its rich stiff folds enclosed in starched muslin

against creasing, the old man with his box and bundle that held

everything conceivably necessary for his craft. Apu never said

much — he left speech mostly to his wife. Now they walked in silence until they were some distance from the house — for the whole object of the exercise was privacy — and then he said,

not even slackening his pace, 4'Do you still earn your living like a ruffian?"

Ravi gaped. Itwas not apromising start.

"Why, no," he stammered. "That night I— I must have been drunk — "

"You were."

"I don't know what came over me," said Ravi desperately,

"I don't make a habit of— of that kind of thing, you know." "Good."

"I— I fell into bad ways." It was the truth, but Ravi offered it tentatively, watching the old man narrowly for his reaction.

Confession was all very well, but you never knew which

visage the two-faced goddess would turn on you — forgive-

nes,orcondemnation and banishment. "But that's all over," he said.

"Is it?"

"Yes," said Ravi earnestly. "Over and done with. It was

just a phase." "Was it?"

"Yes." Ravi persevered, though he found the dry monosyl-

labic questions unnerving. "I'm going straight now."

"Then how do you live?"

Live? Ravi hadn't thought about it for some time, his mind

had been engaged in other matters. Now that he did he real-

izedthathe existed on one meal a day and Jayamma's bounty, plus the few coins he earned commuting between coffee shop

and Apu's household.

"Oh, I get by," he said awakwardly. "It's a little difficult, of

course, but— "

"Nothing saved up, Isuppose."

"No." Ravi was slightly shocked. Saving was something his father had done, uselessly stacking one anna over another and

in the end the pile had not saved them from anything, not even

the sight of his mother's prolonged dying for want of decent food and medicine. No, he did not believe in saving, nor any

of his gang. When a deal came their way, after they had done a job, they spent it all, gloriously, in one day if possible. That

was the way to know life, however briefly: to taste what it could be like, to understand what it was about, before the

final pall descended.

The old man said nothing. He kept on walking, taking short

precise steps that brought his sandals up sharply against his bare soles, his legs working like pistons. Ravi kept pace with him, uneasy, wanting to ask the point of the inquisition but

quelled by Apu's seniority, his authority as head of the family and controller of the household — the patriarchal authority he had by his own decree refused on his flight to the city, though he found himself unable to resist it now.

They were in Nungambakkam, nearing the end of their

long walk, before the old man broke the silence. It was quiet

here, with large cool detached houses, and dancing patches of

shade from spreading tamarind trees and gulmohur such as

never lined the streets where they lived, and in the shade an

occasional slab of stone or a concrete bench were people could sit.

"Let us rest."

Ravi was glad to do so. It was a dry hot day, and his arm

ached from the stiff, stilted way he was obliged to carry the

precious brocade dress. He sank down gratefully on the low stone slab.

"Careful with that dress! You're crushing it— quick, up!"

Ravi shot up, extending his arm like an iron rod in front of him asbefore.

"No need to stand." Apu gazed at him distastefully. "Just

be careful, boy, a little less clumsy if you can!"

Ravi sat down again, gingerly, the accursed dress held

against his body as if he were some ghastly female imperson- ator.Didit really matter, he thought indignantly, if the dress

showed a crease? Would the wearer melt away, be consumed by shame? He gave the cloth a surreptitious, angry tweak.

"It is important not to lose a customer." Apu, thought Ravi disgustedly, missed nothing. His rheumy old eyes, which ran

so that you would hardly believe he could see through the fluid, saw much more than was good for others.

"Clothes," the old man went on, "rich clothes are not im- portantoyou and me, nor can we afford to think about them for ourselves. But goodwill is,the goodwill of our customers. Unless you understand that, understand and act on it, you

cannot be of any use to me."

"I do understand!" Ravi gulped. Here he was, on the point of getting a proper foothold in the household, and he had al-

most thrown his chances away by one careless move. "I do realize the customer comes first. It was just that . . . that — "

"You are young." Apu shut him up. "Patience, care, crafts- manship—all these are things you will have to learn. The ques-

tionis,are you willing to make a start?"

"Do you mean go into business with you ... in partner-

ship?" Excitement bubbled up in Ravi.

"As an apprentice."

"I'm willing." Despite the comedown, Ravi managed to sound fervently grateful, as indeed he would have been but for

higher expectations. "More than willing. Any time you say. Anything you want me to do, I'll do."

"I've noticed that. I've been watching you. I don't like doing

things in a hurry, you know, but I'm getting old . . . one

begins to feel very much alone when one is old."

Alone? With that armv encamped in the house? Ravi

glanced at the old man cautiously.

"Ah yes, that mob." The old man flicked disparaging fin- gers. "They don't count. There's Varma. You ever seen him

work? He eats and sleeps and talks— Why, to hear him talk

you'd think he was a jagirdhar, not my nephew at all. He thinks so too, that's why he can't work. Then there's my

son-in-law. He's got a shop, it's been losing money for years,

he doesn't even go near it now, but ask him to do something

and that's where he has to go, at once, urgently. And then

there's that cripple." Apu stared at Ravi owlishly. Ravi had the feeling he was not really seeing him at all, or even talking

to him, but rather listing the ills that were eating into him

simply because once started he could not stop. "He can't help being a cripple, I suppose. So he sits all day long nursing that

shrunken claw as if God hadn't given him one sound hand to be getting on with. Idlers, I tell you, idlers all. Che!"

"Che!" echoed Ravi dutifully. He shook his head in sym- pathyandwondered when Apu would come to the point.

"Jackals," the old man said, "waiting for me to die. No, I havenouseforthem.What Ineedisaman,someone tocarry

on when I am gone, someone who would learn from me in a

spirit of humility as you might."

"I would," said Ravi fervently. Apu did not hear him. He

brooded and went on, bitterly, "A man needs sons ... I

have none, only daughters."

Ravi almost ceased to listen. He clamped an expression of

grave concern on his face and thought that really he could not

be bothered to involve himself in an old man's woes. More- overhehad heard it all before, or something very like it. A man needs sons, his father had said. Well, he had had them and

much good they had done him for in the end they had all quit,

leaving him to scratch around alone on his barren acre bewail- ingthesorrows they had brought him. Sons or daughters, it

came to the same thing, thought Ravi, so long as all you had to offer them was empty hands and an appeal to their filial piety. Now for his children, when he had them, he would do better than that, he would see to itthat—

"So that's settled."

Ravi started. "Yes," he said. He had no idea what settlement

had been reached, but fortunately for him his brain had re- cordedthetalk, and going confusedly back he realized that

he had been accepted as a tailor's apprentice.

Secretly, he did not think very much of it,this petty craft

of stitching clothes. He did not deny, of course, that it was an

honest, respectable calling: but there were two special yard- sticksheapplied to it,of both of which itfell sickeningly short. Firstly there was the seed his father, out of his own extremity,

had implanted in him: that better things were due to a man who could read and write, better things than working with his hands for a pittance, things, for instance, like working in a government office for one hundred rupees per mensem (after all, had he not been the brightest pupil in his class at school? )

and a pension when he retired.

Secondly, he knew to the last degree of intensity the ribald

light in which Damodar and his friends would view his

worthy calling as they compared it with the glitter, the ex- citement,thelanguid gentlemanly days and pulsing hopeful

nights, and finally, the prizes that lay around the corner of their choice of living.

Ravi sighed, deeply, secretly, with a profound sense of sacri- fice.AhNalini, he thought, Nalini. She was worth it,worth

anything, even worth giving up the sweet life for. He put it all on her, forgetting the trinity of hunger, drink and misery that had been remittant companion to his sweet life, and

wliich. had forced his entry into Apu's menage in the first place.