Swami disappears

SWAMINATHAN'S father felt ashamed of himself as he approached Ellaman
Street, the last street of the town, which turned into a rough track for about a
hundred yards, and disappeared into the sands of the Sarayu River. He hesitated
for a second at the end of Market Road, which was bright with the lights of a couple
of late shops and a street gas lamp, before he turned to plunge into the darkness
and silence of Ellaman Street. A shaft of greenish light from the gas-lamp fell
athwart Ellaman Street, illuminating only a few yards of the street and leaving the
rest in deep gloom. A couple of municipal lanterns smouldered in their wicks,
emphasising the darkness around.
Swaminathan's father felt ashamed of himself. He was going to cross the
street, plod through the sand, and gaze into the Sarayu--for the body of his son!
His son, Swami, to be looked for in the Sarayu! It seemed to him a ridiculous thing
to do. But what could he do? He dared not return home without some definite news
of his son, good or bad. The house had worn a funereal appearance since nine
o'clock. His wife and his old mother were more or less dazed and demented. She--
his wife--had remained cheerful till the Taluk Office gong struck ten, when her face
turning white, she had asked him to go and find out from Swaminathan's friends
and teachers what had happened to him.
He did not know where Swaminathan's Head Master lived. He had gone to
the Board School and asked the watchman, who misdirected him and made him
wander over half the town without purpose. He could not find Mani's house.
He had gone to Rajam's house, but the house was dark, everybody had
gone to bed, and he felt that it would be absurd to wake up the household of a
stranger to ask if they had seen his son. From what he could get out of the servant
sleeping in the veranda, he understood that Swaminathan had not been seen in
Rajam's house that evening. He had then vaguely wandered in the streets. He was
doing it to please his wife and mother. He had not shared in the least his wife's nervousness. He had felt all along that the boy must have gone out somewhere
and would return, and then he would treat him with some firmness and nip this
tendency in the bud. He had spent nearly an hour thus and gone home. Even his
mother had left her bed and was hobbling agitatedly about the house, praying to
the God of the Thirupathi Hills and promising him rich offerings if he should restore
Swaminathan to her safe and sound. His wife stood like a stone image, looking
down the street. The only tranquil being in the house was the youngest member 'of
the family, whose soft breathings came from the cradle, defying the gloom and
heaviness in the house.
When Swaminathan's father gave his wife the news--or no news--that he
had gathered from his wanderings, he had assumed a heavy aggressive
cheerfulness. It had lasted for a while, and gradually the anxiety and the
nervousness of the two women infected him. He had begun to feel that something
must have happened to his son--a kidnapping or an accident. He was trying to
reason out these fears when his wife asked in a trembling voice: 'Did you search in
the hospital?' and broke into a hysterical cry. He received this question with
apparent disdain while his mind was conjuring up a vision of his son lying in a pulp
in the hospital. He was struggling to erase this picture from his mind when his
mother made matters worse with the question: 'Tell me--tell me--where could the
boy have gone? Were you severe with him for anything this morning?' He was
indignant at this question. Everybody seemed to be holding him responsible for
Swaminathan's disappearance. Since nine o'clock he had been enduring the sly
references and the suspicious glances. But this upset him, and he sharply asked
his mother to return to her bed and not to let her brain concoct silly questions. He
had after that reviewed his behaviour with his son since the morning, and
discovered with surprise and relief that he had not seen him the whole day. The
boy had risen from bed, studied, and gone to school, while he had shut himself up
in his room with his clients. He then wondered if he had done anything in the past
two or three days. He was not certain of his memory, but he felt that his conduct
was blameless. As far as he could remember there had not been any word or act of his that could have embittered the boy and make him do--do--wild things. It was
nearing twelve and he found his wife still sobbing. He tried to console her and rose
to go out saying, again with a certain loud cheerfulness: 'I am going out to look for
him. If he comes before I return, for Heaven's sake don't let him know what I am
out for. I don't care to appear a fool in his eyes.'
He had walked rather briskly up Hospital Road, but had turned back after
staring at the tall iron gates of the hospital. He told himself that it was unnecessary
to enter the hospital, but in fact knew that he lacked the courage. That very window
in which a soft dim light appeared might have behind it the cot containing
Swaminathan all pulped and bandaged. He briskly moved out of Hospital Road and
wandered about rather aimlessly through a few dark lanes around the place. With
each hour, his heart became heavier. He had slunk past Market Road, and now
entered Ellaman Street.
He swiftly passed through Ellaman Street and crossed the rough toot-path
leading to the river. His pace slackened as he approached the river. He tried to
convince himself that he was about to do a piece of work which was a farce.
But if the body of his son, sodden and bloated, should be seen stuck up
among the reeds, and rocking gently on the ripples.... He shut his eyes and prayed:
'Oh, God, help me.' He looked far up and down the river which was gliding along
with gentle music. The massive -peepul trees overhanging the river sighed to the
night. He started violently at the sight of the flimsy shadow of some branch on the
water; and again as some float kept tilting against the moss-covered parapet with
muffled thuds.
And then, still calling himself a fool, he went to the Malgudi Railway Station
and walked a mile or so along the railway line, keenly examining the iron rails and
the sleepers. The ceaseless hum and the shrill whistle of night insects, the whirring
of bats, and the croaking of frogs, came through the awful loneliness of the night.
He once stooped with a shudder to put his finger on some wet patch on the rails.
As he held up the finger and examined it in the starlight and found that it was only
water and not blood, he heaved a sigh of relief and thanked God.