When a dozen persons question openly or slyly a man’s sanity, he begins to entertain serious
doubts himself. This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh. And you could not blame
the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered
postal envelope and asked, ‘Please tell me what there is inside?’ The obvious answer was:
‘Open it and see . . .’ He seemed horrified at this suggestion. ‘Oh, no, no, can’t do it,’ he
declared, and moved off to another friend and acquaintance. Everywhere the suggestion was
the same, till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said, ‘If you don’t like
to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute.’ This was
suggested by an ex-compounder who lived in the next street.
‘What is it?’ asked Govind Singh. It was explained to him. ‘Where is it?’ He was directed to the
City X-ray Institute.
But before saying anything further about his progress, it would be useful to go back to an
earlier chapter in his history. After war service in 1914-18, he came to be recommended for a
gatekeeper’s post at Engladia’s. He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a
resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick. He gripped the stick and sat down on a
stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief’s car pulled up at the gate he stood at
attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred,
and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he
awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coming down the stairs, and rose stiffly and
stood at attention, and after he left, the hundreds of staff poured out. The doors were shut;
Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase and placed his stick across it. Then he
came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years
of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement
yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him; he could not catch
the Manager’s footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards. He
was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and
muttered, ‘We are very pleased with your work for us, and the company will give you a pension
of twelve rupees for life . . .’ Singh clicked his heels, saluted, turned on his heel and went out of
the room, his heart brimming with gratitude and pride. This was the second occasion when the
great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service. As he had stood at
his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked, ‘Who are
you?’
‘I’m the new gatekeeper, master,’ he had answered. And he spoke again only on this day.
Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In
Singh’s eyes the chief had acquired a sort of godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god
spoke to one only once or twice in a lifetime. In moments of contemplation Singh’s mind dwelt
on the words of his master, and on his personality.
His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and
sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him. He ate his food, went out and met
a few friends, slept and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned.
This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit,
walked to his old office and salaamed the accountant at the counter and received his pension.
Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down,
and saluted him as he got into his car.
There was a lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure. In this state he made a new
discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The
discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighbourhood brought to him its little
doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it. This discovery pleased him so
much that he very soon became absorbed in it. His back yard gave him a plentiful supply of
pliant clay, and the carpenter’s shop next to his cousin’s cigarette shop sawdust. He purchased
paint for a few annas. And lo! he found his hours gliding. He sat there in the front part of his
home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe; all the colours of life
were there, all the forms and creatures, but of the size of his middle finger; whole villages and
towns were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry
there—that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber-vendor; he had the eye of a
cartoonist for human faces. Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature
reflection of the world; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices, which enhanced
their attractiveness. He kept these in his cousin’s shop and they attracted huge crowds every
day and sold very briskly. More than from the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he saw admiring
crowds clustering around his handiwork.
On his next pension day he carried to his office a street scene (which he ranked as his best), and
handed it over the counter to the accountant with the request: ‘Give this to the Sahib, please!’
‘All right,’ said the accountant with a smile. It created a sensation in the office and disturbed
the routine of office working for nearly half an hour. On the next pension day he carried
another model (children at play) and handed it over the counter.
‘Did the Sahib like the last one?’
‘Yes, he liked it.’
‘Please give this one to him—’ and he passed it over the counter. He made it a convention to
carry on every pension day an offering for his master, and each time his greatest reward was
the accountant’s stock reply to his question: ‘What did the Sahib say?’
‘He said it was very good.’
At last he made his masterpiece. A model of his office frontage with himself at his post, a car at
the entrance and the chief getting down: this composite model was so realistic that while he sat
looking at it, he seemed to be carried back to his office days. He passed it over the counter on
his pension day and it created a very great sensation in the office. ‘Fellow, you have not left
yourself out, either!’ people cried, and looked admiringly at Singh. A sudden fear seized Singh
and he asked, ‘The master won’t be angry, I hope?’
‘No, no, why should he be?’ said the accountant, and Singh received his pension and went
home.
A week later when he was sitting on the pyol kneading clay, the postman came and said, ‘A
registered letter for you . . .’
‘For me!’ Any letter would have upset Singh; he had received less than three letters in his
lifetime, and each time it was a torture for him till the contents were read out. Now a
registered letter! This was his first registered letter. ‘Only lawyers send registered letters, isn’t it
so?’
‘Usually,’ said the postman.
‘Please take it back. I don’t want it,’ said Singh.
‘Shall I say “Refused”?’ asked the postman. ‘No, no,’ said Singh. ‘Just take it back and say you
have not found me . . .’
‘That I can’t do . . .’ said the postman, looking serious.
Singh seemed to have no option but to scrawl his signature and receive the packet. He sat
gloomily—gazing at the floor. His wife who had gone out and just returned saw him in this
condition and asked, ‘What is it?’ His voice choked as he replied, ‘It has come.’ He flung at her
the registered letter. ‘What is it?’ she asked. He said, ‘How should I know? Perhaps our ruin . . .’
He broke down. His wife watched him for a moment, went in to attend to some domestic duty
and returned, still found him in the same condition and asked, ‘Why not open it and see, ask
someone to read it?’ He threw up his arms in horror. ‘Woman, you don’t know what you are
saying. It cannot be opened. They have perhaps written that my pension is stopped, and God
knows what else the Sahib has said . . .’
‘Why not go to the office and find out from them?’
‘Not I! I will never show my face there again,’ replied Singh. ‘I have lived without a single
remark being made against me, all my life. Now!’ He shuddered at the thought of it. ‘I knew I
was getting into trouble when I made that office model . . .’ After deeper reflection he said,
‘Every time I took something there, people crowded round, stopped all work for nearly an hour
. . . That must also have reached the Sahib’s ears.’
He wandered about saying the same thing, with the letter in his pocket. He lost his taste for
food, wandered about unkempt, with his hair standing up like a halo—an unaccustomed sight,
his years in military service having given him a habitual tidiness. His wife lost all peace of mind
and became miserable about him. He stood at crossroads, clutching the letter in his hand. He
kept asking everyone he came across, ‘Tell me, what is there in this?’ but he would not brook
the suggestion to open it and see its contents.
So forthwith Singh found his way to the City X-ray Institute at Race Course Road. As he entered
the gate he observed dozens of cars parked along the drive, and a Gurkha watchman at the
gate. Some people were sitting on sofas reading books and journals. They turned and threw a
brief look at him and resumed their studies. As Singh stood uncertainly at the doorway, an
assistant came up and asked, ‘What do you want?’ Singh gave a salute, held up the letter
uncertainly and muttered, ‘Can I know what is inside this?’ The assistant made the obvious
suggestion. But Singh replied, ‘They said you could tell me what’s inside without opening it—’
The assistant asked, ‘Where do you come from?’ Singh explained his life, work and outlook, and
concluded, ‘I’ve lived without remark all my life. I knew trouble was coming—’ There were tears
on his cheeks. The assistant looked at him curiously as scores of others had done before, smiled
and said, ‘Go home and rest. You are not all right . . . Go, go home.’
‘Can’t you say what is in this?’ Singh asked pathetically. The assistant took it in his hand,
examined it and said, ‘Shall I open it?’ ‘No, no, no,’ Singh cried, and snatched it back. There was
a look of terror in his eyes. The assembly looked up from their pages and watched him with
mild amusement in their eyes. The assistant kindly put his arms on his shoulder and led him
out. ‘You get well first, and then come back. I tell you—you are not all right.’
Walking back home, he pondered over it. ‘Why are they all behaving like this, as if I were a
madman?’ When this word came to his mind, he stopped abruptly in the middle of the road
and cried, ‘Oh! That’s it, is that it?—Mad! Mad!’ He shook his head gleefully as if the full truth
had just dawned upon him. He now understood the looks that people threw at him. ‘Oh! oh!’
he cried aloud. He laughed. He felt a curious relief at this realization. ‘I have been mad and
didn’t know it . . .’ He cast his mind back. Every little action of his for the last so many days
seemed mad; particularly the doll-making. ‘What sane man would make clay dolls after twenty
five years of respectable service in an office?’ He felt a tremendous freedom of limbs, and
didn’t feel it possible to walk at an ordinary pace. He wanted to fly. He swung his arms up and
down and ran on with a whoop. He ran through the Market Road. When people stood about
and watched he cried, ‘Hey, don’t laugh at a madman, for who knows, you will also be mad
when you come to make clay dolls,’ and charged into their midst with a war cry. When he saw
children coming out of a school, he felt it would be nice to amuse their young hearts by
behaving like a tiger. So he fell on his hands and knees and crawled up to them with a growl.
He went home in a terrifying condition. His wife, who was grinding chilli in the back yard,
looked up and asked, ‘What is this?’ His hair was covered with street dust; his body was
splashed with mud. He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said, ‘Fancy what
has happened!’
‘What is it?’
‘I’m mad, mad.’ He looked at his work-basket in a corner, scooped out the clay and made a
helmet of it and put it on his head. Ranged on the floor was his latest handiwork. After his last
visit to the office he had been engaged in making a model village. It was a resplendent group: a
dun road, red tiles, green coconut trees swaying, and the colour of the saris of the village
women carrying water pots. He derived the inspiration for it from a memory of his own village
days. It was the most enjoyable piece of work that he had so far undertaken. He lived in a kind
of ecstasy while doing it. ‘I am going to keep this for myself. A memento of my father’s village,’
he declared. ‘I will show it at an exhibition, where they will give me a medal.’ He guarded it like
a treasure: when it was wet he never allowed his wife to walk within ten yards of it. ‘Keep off,
we don’t want your foot dust for this village . . .’
Now, in his madness, he looked down on it. He raised his foot and stamped everything down
into a multicoloured jam. They were still half-wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. He
gathered up the jam and flung it at the donkey with the remark: ‘Eat this if you like. It is a nice
village . . .’ And he went out on a second round. This was a quieter outing. He strode on at an
even pace, breathing deeply, with the clay helmet on, out of which peeped his grey hair, his
arms locked behind, his fingers clutching the fateful letter, his face tilted towards the sky. He
walked down the Market Road, with a feeling that he was the sole occupant of this globe: his
madness had given him a sense of limitless freedom, strength and buoyancy. The remarks and
jeers of the crowds gaping at him did not in the least touch him.
While he walked thus, his eye fell on the bulb of a tall street lamp. ‘Bulb of the size of a papaya
fruit!’ he muttered and chuckled. It had been a long cherished desire in him to fling a stone at
it; now he felt, in his joyous and free condition, that he was free from the trammels of
convention and need not push back any inclination. He picked up a pebble and threw it with
good aim. The shattering noise of glass was as music to his ears. A policeman put his hand on
his shoulder. ‘Why did you do it?’ Singh looked indignant. ‘I like to crack glass papaya fruit, that
is all,’ was the reply. The constable said, ‘Come to the station.’
‘Oh, yes, when I was in Mesopotamia they put me on half-ration once,’ he said, and walked on
to the station. He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked, ‘This road is not straight . . .’
A few carriages and cycles were coming up to him. He found that everything was wrong about
them. They seemed to need some advice in the matter. He stopped in the middle of the road,
stretched out his arms and shouted, ‘Halt!’ The carriages stopped, the cyclists jumped off and
Singh began a lecture: ‘When I was in Mesopotamia—I will tell you fellows who don’t know
anything about anything.’ The policeman dragged him away to the side and waved to the traffic
to resume. One of the cyclists who resumed jumped off the saddle again and came towards him
with, ‘Why! It is Singh, Singh, what fancy dress is this? What is the matter?’ Even through the
haze of his insane vision Singh could recognize the voice and the person—the accountant at the
office. Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute. ‘Excuse me, sir, didn’t intend to stop you. You
may pass . . .’ He pointed the way generously, and the accountant saw the letter in his hand. He
recognized it although it was mud-stained and crumpled.
‘Singh, you got our letter?’
‘Yes, sir—Pass. Do not speak of it . . .’
‘What is the matter?’ He snatched it from his hand. ‘Why haven’t you opened it!’ He tore open
the envelope and took out of it a letter and read aloud: ‘The General Manager greatly
appreciates the very artistic models you have sent, and he is pleased to sanction a reward of
one hundred rupees and hopes it will be an encouragement for you to keep up this interesting
hobby.’
It was translated to him word for word, and the enclosure, a cheque for one hundred rupees,
was handed to him. A big crowd gathered to watch this scene. Singh pressed the letter to his
eyes. He beat his brow and wailed, ‘Tell me, sir, am I mad or not?’
‘You look quite well, you aren’t mad,’ said the accountant. Singh fell at his feet and said with
tears choking his voice, ‘You are a god, sir, to say that I am not mad. I am so happy to hear it.’
On the next pension day he turned up spruce as ever at the office counter. As they handed him
the envelope they asked, ‘What toys are you making now?’
‘Nothing, sir. Never again. It is no occupation for a sane man . . .’ he said, received his pension
and walked stiffly out of the office.
