GRANNY SHOVES HER IGNORANCE

WORK was rather heavy in the Board High School. The amount of home-work
given at the Albert Mission was nothing compared to the heap given at the Board.
Every teacher thought that his was the only subject that the boys had to study. Six
sums in arithmetic, four pages of 'hand-writing copy', dictionary meanings of scores
of tough words, two maps, and five stanzas in Tamil poetry, were the average
home-work every day. Swaminathan sometimes wished that he had not left his old
school. The teachers here were ruthless beings; not to speak of the drill three
evenings a week, there were scout classes, compulsory games, etc., after the
regular hours every day; and missing a single class meant half a dozen cane cuts
on the following day. The wizened spectacled man was a repulsive creature, with
his screeching voice; the Head of the Albert Mission had a majestic air about him in
spite of all his defects.
All this rigour and discipline resulted in a life with little scope for leisure.
Swaminathan got up pretty early, rushed through all his home-work, and rose just
in time to finish the meal and reach the school as the first bell rang. Every day, as
he passed the cloth shop at the end of Market Road, the first bell reached his ears.
And just as he panted into the class, the second bell would go off. The bell lacked
the rich note of the Albert Mission gong; there was something mean and nasal
about it. But he soon got accustomed to it.
Except for an hour in the afternoon, he had to be glued to his seat right on
till four-thirty in the evening. He had lost the last-bench habit (it might be because
he had no longer Mani's company in the classroom). He sat in the second row, and
no dawdling easygoing nonsense was tolerated there; you sat right under the
teacher's nose. When the four-thirty bell rang, Swaminathan slipped his pencil into
his pocket and stretched his cramped aching fingers. The four-thirty bell held no
special thrill. You could not just dash out of the class with a howl of joy. You had to
go to the drill ground and stand in a solemn line, and for three- quarters of an hour the Drill Master treated you as if you were his dog. He drove you to march left and
right, stand attention, and swing the arms, or climb the horizontal or parallel bars,
whether you liked it or not, whether you knew the thing or not. For aught the Drill
Master cared, you might lose your balance on the horizontal bars and crack your
skull.
At the end of this you ran home to drink coffee, throw down the books, and
rush off to the cricket field, which was a long way off. You covered the distance half
running, half walking, moved by the vision of a dun field sparsely covered with
scorched grass, lit into a blaze by the slant rays of the evening sun, enveloped in a
flimsy cloud of dust, alive with the shouts of players stamping about. What music
there was in the thud of the bat hitting the ball! Just as you took the turn leading to
Lawley Extension, you looked at the sun, which stood poised like a red hot coin on
the horizon. You hoped it would not sink. But by the time you arrived at the field,
the sun went down, leaving only a splash of colour and light in the sky. The
shadows already crept out, and one or two municipal lanterns twinkled here and
there. You still hoped you would be in time for a good game. But from about half a
furlong away you saw the team squatting carelessly round the field. Somebody was
wielding the bat rather languidly, bowled and fielded by a handful who were equally
languid--the languor that comes at the end of a strenuous evening in the sun.
In addition to the misery of disappointment, you found Rajam a bit sore. He
never understood the difficulties of a man. 'Oh, Swami, why are you late again?'
'Wretched drill class.'
'Oh, damn your drill classes and scout classes! Why don't you come early?'
'What can I do, Rajam? I can't help it.'
'Well, well. I don't care. You are always ready with excuses. Since the new
bats, balls and things arrived, you have hardly played four times.'
Others being too tired to play, eventually you persuaded the youngest
member of the team (a promising, obedient boy of the Fifth Standard, who was
admitted because he cringed and begged Rajam perseveringly) to bowl while you
batted. And when you tired of it, you asked him to hold the bat and started bowling, and since you were the Tate of the team, the youngster was rather nervous. And
again you took up batting, and then bowling, and so on. It went on till it became
difficult to find the ball in the semi-darkness and the picker ran after small dark
objects on the ground, instead of after the ball. At this stage a rumour started that
the ball was lost and caused quite a stir. The figures squatting and reposing got
busy, and the ball was retrieved. After this the captain passed an order forbidding
further play, and the stumps were drawn for the day, and soon all the players
melted in the darkness. You stayed behind with Rajam and Mani, perclied upon
Rajam's compound wall, and discussed the day's game and the players, noting the
improvement, stagnation, or degeneration of each player, till it became quite dark
and a peon came to inform Rajam that his tutor had come.
One evening, returning home from the cricket field, after parting from Mani
at the Grove Street junction, Swaminathan's conscience began to trouble him. A
slight incident had happened during the early evening when he had gone home
from the school to throw down the books and start for the cricket field. He had just
thrown down the books and was running towards the kitchen, when granny cried,
'Swami, Swami. Oh, boy, come here.'
'No,' he said as usual and was in a moment out of her sight, in the kitchen,
violently sucking coffee out of a tumbler. He could still hear her shaky querulous
voice calling him. There was something appealing in that weak voice, and he had a
fit of pity for her sitting and calling people who paid no heed to her. As soon as he
had drunk the coffee, he went to her and asked, 'What do you want?'
She looked up and asked him to sit down. At that he lost his temper and all
the tenderness he had felt for her a moment back. He raced, 'If you are going to
say what you have to say as quickly as possible.... If not, don't think I am a silly
fool....'
She said, 'I shall give you six pies. You can take three pies and bring me a
lemon for three pies.' She had wanted to open this question slowly and
diplomatically, because she knew what to expect from her grandson. And when
she asked him to sit down, she did it as the first diplomatic move.
Without condescending to say yes or no, Swaminathan held out his hand
for the coins and took them. Granny said, 'You must come before I count ten.' This
imposition of a time-limit irritated him. He threw down the coins and said, 'If you
want it so urgently, you had better go and get it yourself.' It was nearing five-thirty
and he wanted to be in the field before sunset. He stood frowning at her as if giving
her the choice of his getting the lemon late when he returned from the field, or not
at all. She said, 'I have a terrible pain in the stomach. Please run out and come
back, boy.'
He did not stay there to hear more.
But now all the excitement and exhilaration of the play being over, and
having bidden the last 'good night', he stood in the Grove and Vinayak Mudali
Street junction, as it were face to face with his soul. He thought of his grandmother
and felt guilty. Probably she was writhing with pain at that very moment. It stung his
heart as he remembered her pathetic upturned face and watery eyes. He called
himself a sneak, a thief, an ingrate, and a hardhearted villain.
In this mood of self-reproach he reached home. He softly sat beside
granny and kept looking at her. It was contrary to his custom. Every evening as
soon as he reached home he would dash straight into the kitchen and worry the
cook."
But now he felt that his hunger did not matter.
Granny's passage had no light. It had only a shaft falling from the lamp in
the hall. In the half-darkness, he could not see her face clearly. She lay still.
Swaminathan was seized with a horrible passing doubt whether she might not be
dead--of stomach-ache. He controlled his voice and asked, 'Granny, how is your
pain?' Granny stirred, opened her eyes, and said, 'Swami, you have come! Have
you had your food?'
'Not yet. How is your stomach-ache, granny?'
'Oh, it is all right. It is all right.'
It cost him all his mental powers to ask without flinching, 'Did you get the
lemon?' He wanted to know it. He had been feeling genuinely anxious about it.Granny answered this question at once, but to Swaminathan it seemed an age--a
terrible stretch of time during which anything might happen, she might say
anything, scold him, disown him, swear that she would have nothing more to do
with him, or say reproachfully that if only he had cared to go and purchase the
lemon in time, he might have saved her and that she was going to die in a few
minutes. But she simply said, 'You did right in not going. Your mother had kept a
dozen in the kitchen.'
Swaminathan was overjoyed to hear this good news. And he expressed
this mood of joy in: 'You know what my new name is? I am Tate.'
'What?'
'Tate.'
'What is Tate?' she asked innocently. Swaminathan's disappointment was
twofold: she had not known anything of his new title, and failed to understand its
rich significance even when told. At other times he would have shouted at her. But
now he was a fresh penitent, and so asked her kindly, 'Do you mean to say that
you don't know Tate?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Tate, the great cricket player, the greatest bowler on earth.'
'I hope you know what cricket is.'
'What is that?' granny asked. Swaminathan was aghast at this piece of
illiteracy. 'Do you mean to say, granny, that you don't know what cricket is, or are
you fooling me?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Don't keep on saying "I don't know what you mean". I wonder what the
boys and men of your days did in the evenings! I think they spent all the twenty-
four hours in doing holy things.'
He considered for a second. Here was his granny stagnating in appalling
ignorance; and he felt it his duty to save her. He delivered a short speech setting
forth the principles, ideals, and the philosophy, of the game of cricket, mentioning
the radiant gods of that world. He asked her every few seconds if she understood,and she nodded her head, though she caught only three per cent of what he said.
He concluded the speech with a sketch of the history and the prospects of the M.
C. C. 'But for Rajam, granny,' he said, 'I don't know where we should have been.
He has spent hundreds of rupees on this team. Buying bats and balls is no joke.
He has plenty of money in his box. Our team is known even to the Government. If
you like, you may write a letter to the M. C. C. and it will be delivered to us
promptly. You will see us winning all the cups in Malgudi, and in course of time we
shall show even the Madras fellows what cricket is.' He added a very important
note: 'Don't imagine all sorts of fellows can become players in our team.'
His father stood behind him, with the baby in his arms. He asked, "What
are you lecturing about, young man?' Swaminathan had not noticed his father's
presence, and now writhed awkwardly as he answered, 'Nothing.... Oh, nothing,
father.'
'Come on. Let me know it too.'
'It is nothing--Granny wanted to know something about cricket and I was
explaining it to her.'
'Indeed! I never knew mother was a sportswoman. Mother, I hope Swami
has filled you with cricket-wisdom.'
Granny said, 'Don't tease the boy. The child is so fond of me. Poor thing!
He has been trying to tell me all sorts of things. You are not in the habit of
explaining things to me. You are all big men....'
Father replied, pointing at the baby, 'Just wait a few days and this little
fellow will teach you all the philosophy and the politics in the world.' He gently
clouted the baby's fat cheeks, and the baby gurgled and chirped joyfully. 'He has
already started lecturing. Listen attentively, mother.' Granny held up her arms for
the baby. But father clung to him tight and said, 'No. No. I came home early only for
this fellow's sake. I can't. Come on, Swami, I think we had better sit down for food.
Where is your mother?'
The captain sternly disapproved of Swaminathan's ways. 'Swami, I must
warn you. You are neglecting the game. You are not having any practice at all.'
'It is this wretched Board School work.'
'Who asked you to go and join it. They never came and invited you. Never
mind. But let me tell you. Even Bradman, Tate, and everybody spends four to five
hours on the pitch every day, practising, practising. Do you think you are greater
than they?'
'Captain, listen to me. I do my best to arrive at the field before five. But this
wretched Board High School time-table is peculiar.'
A way out had to be found. The captain suggested, 'You must see your
Head Master and ask him to exempt you from extra work till the match is over.' It
was more easily said than done, and Swaminathan said so, conjuring up before his
mind a picture of the wizened face and the small dingy spectacles of his Head
Master.
'I am afraid to ask that monster,' Swaminathan said. 'He may detain me in
Second Form for ages.'
'Indeed! Are you telling me that you are in such terror of your Head
Master? Suppose I see him?'
'Oh, please don't, captain. I beg you. You don't know what a vicious being
he is. He may not treat you well. Even if he behaves well before you, he is sure to
lull me when you are gone.'
'What is the matter with you, Swami? Your head is full of nonsense. How
are we to go on? It is two months since we started the team, and you have not
played even for ten days....'
Mani, who had stretched himself on the compound wall, now broke in: 'Let
us see what your Head Master can do. Let him say yes or no. If he kills you I will
pulp him. My clubs have had no work for a long time.'
There was no stopping Rajam. The next day he insisted that he would see
the Head Master at the school. He would not mind losing a couple of periods of his
own class. Mani offered to go with him but was advised to mind his business.Next morning at nine-thirty Swaminathan spent five minutes rubbing his
eyes red, and then complained of headache. His father felt his temples and said
that he would be all right if he dashed a little cold water on his forehead.
'Yes, father,' Swaminathan said and went out. He stood outside father's
room and decided that if cold water was a cure for headache he would avoid it,
since he was praying for that malady just then. Rajam was coming to see the Head
Master, and it would be unwise to go to the school that morning. He went in and
asked, 'Father, did you say cold water?'
'Yes.'
'But don't you think it will give me pneumonia or something? I am also
feeling feverish.'
Father felt his pulse and said, 'Now run to school and you will be all right.' It
was easier to squeeze milk out of a stone than to get permission from father to
keep away from school.
He whispered into his granny's ear, 'Granny, even if I die, I am sure father
will insist on sending my corpse to the school.' Granny protested vehemently
against this sentiment.
'Granny, a terrible fever is raging within me and my head is splitting with
headache. But yet, I mustn't keep away from school.'
Granny said, 'Don't go to school.' She then called mother and said, 'This
child has fever. Why should he go to school?'
'Has he?' mother asked anxiously, and fussed over him. She felt his body
and said that he certainly had a temperature. Swaminathan said pathetically, 'Give
me milk or something, mother. It is getting late for school.' Mother vetoed this
virtuous proposal. Swaminathan faintly said, 'But father may not like it.' She asked
him to lie down on a bed and hurried along to father's room. She stepped into the
room with the declaration, 'Swami has fever, and he can't go to school.'
'Did you take his temperature?'
'Not yet. It doesn't matter if he misses the school for a day.'
'Anyway, take his temperature,' he said. He feared that his wife might
detect the sarcasm in his suggestion, and added as a palliative, 'that we may know
whether a doctor is necessary.'
A thermometer stuck out of Swaminathan's mouth for half a minute and
indicated normal. Mother looked at it and thrust it back into his mouth. It again
showed normal. She took it to father, and he said, 'Well, it is normal,' itching to add,
'I knew it.' Mother insisted, 'Something has gone wrong with the thermometer. The
boy has fever. There is no better thermometer than my hand. I can swear that he
has 100.2 now.'
'Quite likely', father said.
And Swaminathan, when he ought to have been at school, was lying
peacefully, with closed eyes, on his bed. He heard a footstep near his bed and
opened his eyes. Father stood over him and said in an undertone, 'You are a lucky
fellow. What a lot of champions you have in this house when you don't want to go
to school!' Swaminathan felt that this was a sudden and unprovoked attack from
behind. He shut his eyes and turned towards the wall with a feeble groan.
By the afternoon he was already bedsore. He dreaded the prospect of
staying in bed through the evening. Moreover, Rajam would have already come to
the school in the morning and gone.
He went to his mother and informed her that he was starting for the school.
There was a violent protest at once. She felt him all over and said that he was
certainly better but in no condition to go to school. Swaminathan said, 'I am feeling
quite fit, mother. Don't get fussy.'
On the way to the school he met Rajam and Mani. Mani had his club under
his arm. Swaminathan feared that these two had done something serious.
Rajam said, 'You are a fine fellow! Where were you this morning?'
'Did you see the Head Master, Rajam?'
'Not yet. I found that you had not come, and did not see him. I want you to
be with me when I see him. After all it is your business.'
When Swaminathan emerged from the emotional chaos which followed
Rajam's words, he asked, 'What is Mani doing here?'
'I don't know,' Rajam said, 'I found him outside your school with his club,
when he ought to have been in his class.'
'Mani, what about your class?'
'It is all right,' Mani replied, 'I didn't attend it today.'
'And why your club?' Swaminathan asked.
'Oh! I simply brought it along.'
Rajam asked, 'Weren't you told yesterday to attend your class and mind
your business?'
'I don't remember. You asked me to mind my business only when I offered
to accompany you. I am not accompanying you. I just came this way, and you have
also come this way. This is a public road.' Mani's jest was lost on them. Their minds
were too busy with plans for the impending interview.
'Don't worry, young men,' Mani said, 'I shall see you through your troubles.
I will talk to the Head Master, if you like.'
'If you step into his room, he will call the police,' Swaminathan said.
When they reached the school, Mani was asked to go away, or at worst
wait in the road. Rajam went in, and Swaminathan was compelled to accompany
him to the Head Master's room.
The Head Master was sleeping with his head between his hands and his
elbows resting on the table. It was a small stuffy room with only one window
opening on the weather beaten side-wall of a shop; it was cluttered with dust-laden
rolls of maps, globes, and geometrical squares. The Head Master's white cane lay
on the table across two ink-bottles and some pads. The sun came in a hot dusty
beam and fell on the Head Master's nose and the table. He was gently snoring.
This was a possibility that Rajam had not thought of.
'What shall we do?' Swaminathan asked in a rasping whisper.
'Wait,' Rajam ordered.
They waited for ten minutes and then began to make gentle noises with
their feet. The Head Master opened his eyes and without taking his head from his
hands, kept staring at them vacantly, without showing any sign of recognition. He
rubbed his eyes, raised his eyebrows three times, yawned, and asked in a voice
thick with sleep, 'Have you fellows no class?' He fumbled for his spectacles and put
them on. Now the picture was complete--wizened face and dingy spectacles
calculated to strike terror into the hearts of Swaminathan. He asked again, 'To what
class do you fellows belong? Have you no class?'
'I don't belong to your school,' Rajam said defiantly.
'Ah, then which heaven do you drop from?'
Rajam said, 'I am the captain of the M. C. C. and have come to see you on
business.'
'What is that?'
'This is my friend W. S. Swaminathan of Second C studying in your
school....'
'I am honoured to meet you,' said the Head Master turning to
Swaminathan. Rajam felt at that moment that he had found out where the Board
High School got its reputation from.
"I am the captain of the M. C. C.'
'Equally honoured...'
'He is in my team. He is a good bowler....'
'Are you?' said the Head Master, turning to Swaminathan.
'May I come to the point?' Rajam asked.
'Do, do,' said the Head Master, 'for heaven's sake, do.'
'It is this,' Rajam said, 'he is a good bowler and he needs some practice.
He can't come to the field early enough because he is kept in the school every day
after four-thirty. What do you want me to do?'
'Sir, can't you permit him to go home after four-thirty?'
The Head Master sank back in his chair and remained silent.
Rajam asked again, What do you say, sir, won't you do it?'
'Are you the Head Master of this school or am I?'
'Of course you are the Head Master, sir. In Albert Mission they don't keep
us a minute longer than four-thirty. And we are exempted from drill if we play
games.'
'Here I am not prepared to listen to your rhapsodies on that pariah school.
Get out.'
Mani, who had been waiting outside, finding his friends gone too long, and
having his own fears, now came into the Head Master's room.
'Who is this?' asked the Head Master, looking at Mani sourly. 'What do you want?'
'Nothing,' Mani replied and quietly stood in a corner.
'I can't understand why every fellow who finds nothing to do comes and
stands in my room.'
'I am the Police Superintendent's son,' Rajam said abruptly.
'Is that so? Find out from your father what he was doing on the day a gang
of little rascals came in and smashed these windows.... What is the thing that fellow
has in his hand?'
'My wooden club,' Mani answered.
Rajam added, 'He breaks skulls with it. Come out, Mani, come on, Swami.
There is nothing doing with this--this mad- cap.'