With thatched sheds constructed in rows, blindingly floodlit, an old football ground beyond the level crossing had been transformed into Expo ’77-78 by an enterprising municipal committee. At the Expo, as they claimed, you could get anything from a pin to an automobile, although the only automobile in sight was a 1930 Ford displayed under a festoon of coloured bulbs and offered as a prize to anyone with a certain lucky number on his ticket. Special buses leaving the Market Road disgorged masses of humanity at the Expo archway all day. Loudspeakers mounted on poles every few yards saturated the air with an amalgam of commercial messages and film-songs, against the unceasing din of the crowd. The organizers had succeeded in creating an incredible world of noise, glare, dust and litter.
Raman found the crowd tiresome and the assaults on his eardrums painful. He wished that nature had provided the human ear with a flap to shut off noise. ‘Oh, then how blissfully I could move about, untouched by that incessant ranting about Tiger-brand underwear or that obscene film-song conveying the heartache of some damn fool . . .’ He further reflected, ‘I came here to escape boredom, but this is hell, a bedlam . . .’ He regretted the trip he had undertaken from Ellaman Street, but he could not make up his mind to leave; the bustle and pandemonium seemed to take him out of himself, which relief he needed these days. He drifted along with the crowd, occasionally pausing to take a professional and critical look at a signboard or poster. The one that arrested his attention at the moment was a huge placard outside a stall, depicting a woman who had the body of a fish from the waist down. He speculated how he would have dealt with this fish-woman if he had had a chance to design this and other signboards. He would have imparted a touch of refinement to the Expo and also minted money if only he had cared to seek their patronage. But he was in the grip of a deadly apathy. He saw no point in any sort of activity. For months he had not gone near his workshed, which proved a blessing to his rival Jayaraj of the Market Gate. ‘Let him prosper,’ Raman reflected, ‘although he has the artistic sense of a chimpanzee.’ He stared at the picture of the fish-woman with a mixture of disgust and fascination, while the promoter of this show stood on a platform and appealed through a tin megaphone, ‘Don’t miss the chance to see this divine damsel, a celestial beauty living half-sunk in water; rare opportunity, talk to her, ask her questions and she will answer . . .’
‘What questions?’ Raman asked himself. Could he ask how she managed not to catch a cold or what fabric was best suited to clothe her scaly body? While he was hesitating whether to go in or not, he heard over the babble the announcement ‘Boy of five, calls himself Gopu, cries for his parents, come at once to the Central Office and take him . . .’ For the fourth time this message was coming through the loudspeakers. He pulled himself out of the spell cast by the fish-woman, determined to go up and take a look at the lost child. ‘Must know what sort of a child gets lost. What sort of parents are those that prove so careless, or have they wilfully abandoned the child? Perhaps a bastard or a delinquent to be got rid of . . .’ He moved towards the Central Office, cleaving his way through a long queue of people outside a medical exhibition displaying human kidney, heart, lungs and foetus, in glass jars, along with an X-ray of a live person.
On the way he noticed pink, gossamer-like candy spinning out of a rotating trough on wheels and bought one—it was very light but huge, and covered his face when he tried to bite it. ‘Rather absurd to be nibbling this in public,’ he thought. He held it away as if bearing it for someone else, and discreetly bit off mouthfuls now and then with relish. ‘Sweetest stuff on earth,’ he reflected. Holding it like a bouquet in one hand, only a few wisps around his mouth to betray his weakness for it, he stepped into the Central Office, which was at the southern gateway of the Expo. A busy place with typists at work and a variety of persons rushing in and out. In their midst he noticed a boy sitting on a bench, vigorously swinging his legs and amusing himself by twisting and bending and noisily rocking the bench on its rickety, uneven legs, much to the annoyance of a clerk at a table who kept saying, ‘Quiet, quiet, don’t make all that noise,’ at which the boy, who had rotund cheeks and a bulbous nose, grimaced with satisfaction, displaying a row of white teeth minus the two front ones. ‘Must be seven, not five,’ Raman thought on noticing it. Raman held up to him the half-eaten candy, at which the boy shot forward as if from a catapult, snatched it and buried his face in its pink mass. Raman appreciated his gusto and patted his head. The grumpy office clerk looked up to ask, ‘Are you taking him away?’
‘Yes,’ said Raman on a sudden impulse. The other thrust a register at him and said, ‘Sign here.’ Raman signed illegibly as ‘Loch Ness Monster’.
‘Why don’t you people keep an eye on your children? Don’t lose him again . . . It’s a bother to keep such a boy here . . . can’t attend to any routine work. Now I’ll have to stay here till midnight to clear my papers,’ said the clerk.
‘You announced that he was crying?’
‘He is not the sort, but one has to say so, otherwise parents will never turn up until they are ready to go home, leaving it to us to keep watch over the little devils. It’s a trick. Where is his mother?’
‘Over there, waiting outside,’ said Raman, and extended a hand, which the boy readily clutched. They marched off and were soon lost in the crowd. While piloting the boy through, Raman kept turning over in his mind the word ‘mother’. It was tantalizing. How he wished he had a wife waiting outside. The grumpy clerk had somehow assumed that he had one. ‘Naturally, ’ Raman reflected, ‘I look quite wife-worthy. Nothing wrong with me—an outstanding, original signboard painter with a satisfactory bank-balance, and an owner of property extending on the sands of Sarayu, with a workshed . . .’ Apart from this adopted child, there was bound to be another, his own, inside Daisy. Who could say? Even at this moment, she might be wanting to send a desperate appeal, ‘You have made me pregnant!’ and that would serve her right for being such a bigoted birth-controller and busybody, as she fancied, always intruding into the privacy of every home in town or village, remonstrating with couples not to produce children. She had arrogated to herself too much, and what a fool he was to have trailed behind her! Not his fault, really! She had seduced him by asking him to blazon on every wall in the countryside her silly message NO MORE CHILDREN, and forced him to travel and live with her in all sorts of lonely places; and how could the vows of virginity ever survive under such conditions? It’d be the funniest irony of the century if, for all her precautions and theories, she became desperately, helplessly pregnant and sought his help! He felt tickled at the prospect and laughed to himself. The boy, clutching at his finger, now looked up and also grinned. Raman looked at his merry face and asked, ‘Why do you laugh?’ ‘I do not know,’ said the boy, and grinned again.
It was difficult to progress through the crowd, especially with the boy’s feet faltering and lagging at every eating-stall in his route. Expo ’77 had provided snacks and drinks at every stop. Mounds of green chillies, cucumber and tomato, vegetable bajjis, wafer-like appalam sizzling in oil and expanding like the full moon before your eyes or fresh golden jilebis out of the frying pan, not to mention scores of other delicacies, enticing passers-by both by sight and smell.
Raman felt a surge of compassion for the child, who had taken to him so spontaneously. ‘Do you like to eat?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said the boy promptly, and pointed at a cotton-candy trolley. Raman was afraid to let go of the boy’s finger for fear he might get lost again, and left him to use the other hand for gesticulating or eating. Soon the boy buried his face in the crimson floral mass and lost interest in the other sights of the exhibition. When it was finished Raman asked, ‘Ice-cream?’ The boy nodded appreciatively and Raman bought two cones of chocolate ice-cream and kept the boy company. Raman forgot for the moment his own travail, the gloom and boredom which had seized him, making existence a dreary cycle of morning, noon and night. He asked himself as he watched the boy, ‘Why am I happy to find him happy? Who is he? Perhaps my child in our last incarnation.’ He wondered in what other way he could make the child happy. ‘Do you want to ride on that wheel?’ he asked, pointing at the Giant Wheel, which groaned and whined and carried one sky-high. Of course, the boy welcomed the idea. Raman pushed the boy along towards the wheel, and took his seat in the cradle, holding the boy at his side. ‘Good way to keep him from eating,’ Raman thought. He was getting concerned with the boy’s health. Should he complain of stomach ache, he would never forgive himself for overfeeding him. As he sat waiting to be whirled up on the Giant Wheel, he had enough time to reflect on the situation which was developing. This child didn’t seem to bother about his parents.
Perhaps an orphan who had strayed into the exhibition grounds? But how nice to think he was not going to be an orphan any more. He would train him to address him as ‘Daddy’ or ‘Appa’. As the Giant Wheel went up gradually, his thoughts too soared. The boy clutched his arms tightly. Raman murmured, ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here, enjoy yourself.’ If people questioned him, ‘Who is this child?’ he would reply, ‘My son . . . you remember Daisy? She had brought him up in a convent, one of her funny notions, but I took him away; you know a child must be raised in the atmosphere of a home.’
‘Where is his mother?’ they might ask.
‘I don’t know, she ran away with somebody,’ he would say as a revenge for the anguish Daisy had caused him by letting him down, at the last moment, on the eve of their wedding, after having slept with him day after day. He suddenly glanced to his side and asked, ‘What is your age?’ The boy blinked and shook his head. Raman pronounced, ‘You are not less than seven years,’ and to the question as to how Daisy could have a seven-year-old son, since she had come down to this town only two or three years before, he replied aloud, ‘I’ll have to invent an answer, that’s all.’ At this the boy looked up bewildered and asked, ‘When will this go up fast?’ Raman felt he would be quite content to stay there and not go up higher, as he feared it might make him uncomfortable. But the boy was evidently becoming impatient. In order to divert his attention, he engaged him in conversation. ‘Will you come with me to my house?’
‘I feel hungry,’ said the boy. ‘I want something to eat.’
Marvelling at his appetite, Raman said, ‘If you come to my house, you will have all the eating things.’
The boy sat up attentively. ‘Chocolates or ice-cream or bubble-gum? ’
‘Yes, everything, and also plenty of jilebi . . .’
‘I like jilebi—surely . . .’ the boy said, happy at the thought, and inquired, ‘Can I help myself or should I ask you each time?’
‘It will all be yours; you may take and eat as much as you like,’ Raman said.
The boy’s mouth watered at this vision. ‘My father says I’ll be sick if I eat!’
‘Where is he?’ The boy shook his head. ‘Is he somewhere in this exhibition?’
The boy somehow did not wish to pursue the subject. Evidently he was afraid that he might be handed over and thus lose access to all that store of chocolate and bubble-gum. Raman said, ‘Of course, you must not eat too much, you will have tummy-ache.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said the boy confidently. ‘When my uncle came, you know how much I ate?’ He spread out his arms to indicate a vast quantity. Raman felt happy to note the health of the boy; otherwise if he was sickly he might have to take him to Malgudi Medical Centre to be treated by Dr Krishna. Oh, he could not stand the anxiety if the child became sick, with no one to look after him at home. Of course, he’d have to give him a room. The room he had cleaned for Daisy in the hope she was going to occupy it next day was still there, but she had deserted him. The boy could make it his own room, keep his clothes, books and toys, and have his bed there. He hoped that he would sleep alone and not cry out at night. He must train the boy to sleep alone and look after his books and clothes; he could send him to Kala Primary School, not too good, but he knew the headmistress, having given her a signboard free for her school. Actually a two-by-six plank, and he had used plastic emulsion with a sprinkling of silver powder. The school was across the road near the temple, and the boy should be trained to go up and return home by himself. Unfortunately, he would have to come to an empty house after school.
A pang shot through his heart, but for Daisy messing up his life his aunt would still be there, as she had been since his childhood. She would have lived there to her last hour. She had felt that she must clear the way for Daisy by banishing herself to distant Benares. Ah! when she managed the home, he did not have to bother about food—food and snacks she provided at all hours, always stayed at home and opened the door for him at any hour, day or night. Nowadays he mostly starved, too weary even to make coffee or go up to the Boardless Hotel, where the company bored him lately. He could not stand the repetitive talk and smugness. Could be that the mistake lay in him. He must have changed after Daisy’s treacherous act, soured perhaps. Day after day of emptiness, nothing to plan, nothing to look forward to, life of frustration and boredom, opening his eyes every morning to a blank day, feeling on awakening, ‘Another damned day,’ in a house totally deserted and empty, no life of any sort—even the house sparrows seemed to have fled, while there used to be hordes of them chirping and flitting about the storeroom filled with rice and grains; now there was nothing, only emptiness. Raman felt sometimes that he was witnessing a historical process, how a structure decayed and became an archaeological specimen. Now things will change with a child in the house, who would brighten up the surroundings. He must fix brighter lamps in all the rooms, most of the bulbs had fused out and not been replaced. He was going to throw himself zestfully into the role of a father and bring up the child so that he would grow into a worthy citizen, cultured and urbane. He had neglected his profession after Daisy’s exit, he must set out and revisit the clients every morning and write signboards again, he would need all the money to bring up the boy, later to put him in Lovedale Boarding at Ooty. He said to the boy, ‘You’ll go to school, a nice place, where you’ll get many friends . . .’ The boy’s face fell on hearing it and he said emphatically, ‘I won’t go to school. Don’t like it . . .’
‘Why?’
‘Why! Because they’ll beat me.’ Raman tried to argue him out of his fear, but the boy was adamant and was in tears as he repeated, ‘No school, no school . . .’
‘All right, you don’t have to go to school, come with me and eat chocolates,’ Raman said soothingly, making a mental note to stop by Chettiar Stores and buy sweets. ‘It’ll take time, I must not rush him,’ he told himself. ‘By easy stages, I’ll persuade him. I remember how I hated school myself . . .’
After the Giant Wheel, the boy wanted a ride in a toy-train circling the grounds. When it stopped after one round, the boy refused to leave his seat but demanded another round and another. He had had four excursions but would not get off the train. Raman, too, enjoyed the thrill of the ride and could forget Daisy for the time being. After the train ride and more eating, Raman realized, thanks to the boy, he’d also been gorging himself, though he had had nothing to eat since the morning. Now he felt cheerful. ‘The boy’s company has been a tonic to me, revived me,’ he reflected. How much more it was going to mean when he came to live with him! Except for his working hours, Raman would devote all his time to keeping the boy company. He must buy some storybooks and read them to him regularly; tell him the story of Ramayana. When the boy halted his steps at a stand where some gigantic bondas were being lifted out of a deep frying pan, Raman said resolutely, ‘No, my boy . . .’ fearing that the boy might start vomiting if he sent anything more down his throat—he himself was beginning to feel an uncomfortable rumbling inside. Instead of buying bondas , he took him to watch some shows: a parrot performing miniature circus feats, a dog picking out playing cards, a motorcyclist’s daredevil ride within a dome—the boy shrieked in excitement.
The boy exhibited, when he had a chance, signs of mischief: he toppled flower pots, tore off posters, performed an occasional somersault wherever he found a little free space, splashed water from fountains, particularly on passing children; he also wrenched himself free and dashed forward to trip up any other boy of his age or tug at the pigtail of a girl; he picked up pebbles and aimed them at light-bulbs. Raman held him in check no doubt, but secretly enjoyed his antics. Raman felt nervous while standing in a queue with the boy since no one could foresee what he would do at the back of a person ahead. Raman admired the little fellow’s devilry and versatility, but held him in check, more to prevent his being thrashed by others. He told himself, ‘Normal high spirits, it’ll be canalized when he is put in school. In our country we don’t know how to handle children without impairing their development.’
They were now near a merry-go-round. ‘I want to ride that horse,’ the boy declared as he noticed other children seated on caparisoned horses. Raman was wondering how safe it’d be to send him flying alone, since he did not wish to go on a ride. He said, ‘You have been on that Giant Wheel, it is the same thing . . .’
‘No,’ said the boy, stamping his foot, ‘I want to ride that horse . . .’ Raman did not know how to handle the situation. He tried to divert his attention by suggesting something to eat or drink, although he knew it would not be safe. The boy merely said, ‘Yes, after the horse-ride.’ ‘Ah, they are showing a movie there, let us see it,’ Raman cried with sudden enthusiasm. The boy briefly turned in the direction indicated, seeing only a thick wall of backs hiding his view, and shook his head. Raman said, ‘I’ll lift you so high . . . you’ll be able to see better than others . . .’
The boy persisted, ‘I want to go on that horse.’ Without a word Raman hoisted him on his shoulder and moved towards the screen, saying, ‘Yes, yes, later, now a lot of tigers and monkeys in that movie. See them first or they’ll be gone soon . . .’ The boy was heavy and his muddy unshod feet were soiling Raman’s clothes, and he was also kicking in protest, but Raman was determined to take him away from the merry-go-round and moved to a vantage position in the crowd watching the movie. He panted with the effort to move with that load on his shoulder. He himself could hardly see the screen except in patches between the shoulders in front. He couldn’t guess what the movie was, but hoped there would be a tiger and monkey in it as promised by him. The child should not lose trust in him and think he was a liar. ‘What do you see?’ he asked the boy. From his eminence, he replied, ‘No monkey, a man is kicking a ball—Get me a ball?’
‘Yes, I’ll buy you one,’ said Raman. ‘We will buy it when we leave.’ He had seen a shop choked with plastic goods and rubber balls, though he could not recollect exactly where. He would investigate and buy a couple of balls, one to be kept in reserve in case the other was lost. His whole frame vibrated as the boy, spotting someone from his height, suddenly let out a thundering shout: ‘Amma!’ He wriggled, freed himself and slid down from Raman’s shoulder, shot along through the crowd and reached a group resting on a patch of grass beside the Life Insurance stall, the only quiet spot in the exhibition. Raman followed him. In the centre of the group was a man, tall and hefty, perhaps a peasant from a village, a middle-aged woman in a brown sari and two girls; packages and shopping-bags lying about on the ground indicated that they were on an excursion and would return to their village by bus at night. The boy flew like an arrow into their midst! They got up and surrounded him and fired questions at him over the general hubbub of the exhibition. Raman could hear the hefty man’s voice booming, ‘Where have you been, you rascal? We have missed the bus on account of you,’ and then he saw him twist the boy’s ear and slap him. ‘Oh!’ groaned Raman, unable to stand the sight of it. ‘Oh, don’t,’ he cried. Before the man could repeat the dose, the boy’s mother, with shrill protests, drew him away and warded off the second blow the man was aiming. Raman realized that this was the end of a dream, sought the exit and the road back to his home on the sands of Sarayu.
