THE COACHMAN 'S SON

SWAMINATHAN had two different attachments: one to Somu, Sankar, and the
Pea--a purely scholastic one, which automatically ceased when the school gates
closed; his other attachment was more human to Rajam and Mani. Now that they
had no school, they were free from the shackles of time, and were almost always
together, and arranged for themselves a hectic vacation.
Swaminathan's one consuming passion in life now was to get a hoop. He
dreamt of it day and night. He feasted on visions of an ex-cycle wheel without
spokes or tyre. You had only to press a stick into the groove and the thing would
fly. Oh, what joy to see it climb small obstacles, and how gently it took curves!
When running it made a steady hum, which was music to the ear. Swaminathan
thought that anybody in Malgudi would understand that he was coming, even a
mile away, by that hum. He sometimes kept awake till ten thirty in the night,
thinking of this hoop. He begged everyone that he came across, from his father's
friends to a municipal sweeper that he knew, to give him a cycle wheel.
Now he could not set his eyes on a decent bicycle without his imagination
running riot over its wheels. He dreamt one night that he crossed the Sarayu near
Nallappa's Grove 'on' his wheel. It was a vivid dream; the steel wheel crunched on
the sandy bed of the river as it struggled and heaved across. It became a sort of
horse when it reached the other bank. It went back home in one leap, took him to
the kitchen, and then to his bed, and lay down beside him. This was fantastic; but
the early part of the dream was real enough. It nearly maddened him to wake to a
hoopless morning.
In sheer despair he opened his heart to a coachman--a casual
acquaintance of his. The coachman was very sympathetic. He agreed that existence was difficult without a hoop. He said that he would be able to give
Swaminathan one in. a few hours if the latter could give him five rupees. This was
an immense sum, which Swaminathan hoped to possess in some distant future
when he should become as tall as his father. He said so. At which the coachman
gave a convincing talk on how to get it. He wanted only six pies to start with; in a
short time he would make it six annas, and after that convert it to six rupees. And
Swaminathan could spend the five out of the six rupees on the hoop and the
balance of one rupee just as he pleased. Swaminathan declared that nothing would
give him greater happiness tlian giving that extra rupee to the coachman. If any
doubts arose in Swaminathan's mind, they were swept away by the other's rhetoric.
The coachman's process of minting higher currency was this: he had a special
metal pot at home in which he kept all base copper coins together with some
mysterious herb (whose name he would not reveal even if he were threatened with
torture). He kept the whole thing, he said, buried in the ground, he squatted on the
spot at dead of night and performed some yoga, and lo when the time came, all the
copper was silver. He could make even gold, but to get the herbs for it, he would
have to walk two hundred and fifty miles across strange places, and he did not
consider it worth all that exertion.
Swaminathan asked him when he might see him again as he had to think
out and execute a plan to get six pies. The coachman said that if the other did not
get the money immediately he would not be available for weeks to come as his
master was going away and he would have to go away too. Swaminathan cringed
and begged him to grant him six hours and ran home. He first tried granny. She
almost shed tears that she had no money, and held her wooden box upside down
to prove how hard up she was.
'I know, granny, you have a lot of coins under your pillows.'
'No, boy. You can search if you like.'
Swaminathan ordered granny to leave the bed and made a thorough
search under the pillows and the carpets.
'Why do you want money now?' granny asked.
'If you have what I want, have the goodness to oblige me. If not, why ask
futile questions?'
Granny cried to mother: 'If you have money, give this boy six pies.' But
nobody was prepared to oblige Swaminathan. Father dismissed the request in a
fraction of a second, which made Swaminathan wonder what he did with all the
money that he took from his clients.
He now tried a last desperate chance. He fell on his hands and knees, and
resting his cheek on the cold cement floor, peered into the dark space under his
father's heavy wardrobe. He had a wild notion that he might find a few coins
scattered there. He thrust his hand under the wardrobe and moved it in all
directions. All that he was able to collect was a disused envelope musty with
cobweb and dust, a cockroach, and pinches of fine dust.
He sometimes believed that he could perform magic, if only he set about it
with sufficient earnestness. He also remembered Ebenezar's saying in the class
that God would readily help those that prayed to him. He secured a small
cardboard box, placed in it a couple of pebbles, and covered them with fine sand
and leaves. He carried the box to the pooja room and placed it in a corner. It was a
small room in which a few framed pictures of Gods hung in the wall, and a few
bronze and brass idols kept staring at Swaminathan from a small carved wooden
pedestal. A permanent smell of flowers, camphor, and incense, hung in the air.
Swaminathan stood before the Gods and with great piety informed them of
the box and its contents, how he expected them to convert the two pebbles into two
three-pie coins, and why he needed money so urgently. He promised that if the
Gods helped him; he would give up biting his thumb. He closed his eyes and
muttered: 'Oh, Sri Rama! Thou hast slain Ravana though he had ten heads, can't you give me six pies?... If I give you the six pies now, when will you give me the
hoop? I wish you would tell me what that herb is.... Mani, shall I tell you the secret
of getting a hoop?
Oh, Rama! Give me six pies and I will give up biting my thumb for a year....'
He wandered aimlessly in the backyard persuading himself that in a few
minutes he could return to the pooja room and take his money--transmuted
pebbles. He fixed a time limit of half an hour.
Ten minutes later he entered the pooja room, prostrated himself before the
Gods, rose, and snatching his box, ran to a secluded place in the backyard. With a
fluttering heart he opened the box. He emptied it on the ground, ran his fingers
through the mass of sand and leaves, and picked up the two pebbles. As he gazed
at the cardboard box, the scattered leaves, sand, and the unconverted pebbles, he
was filled with rage. The indifference of the Gods infuriated him and brought tears
to his eyes. He wanted to abuse the Gods, but was afraid to. Instead, he vented all
his rage on the cardboard box, and kicked it from place to place and stamped upon
the leaves and sand. He paused and doubted if the Gods would approve of even
this. He was afraid that it might offend them. He might get on without money, but it
was dangerous to incur the wrath of Gods; they might make him fail in his
examinations, or kill father, mother, granny, or the baby. He picked up the box
again and put back into it the sand, the leaves, and the pebbles, that were crushed,
crumpled, and kicked, a minute ago. He dug a small pit at the root of a banana tree
and buried the box reverently.
Ten minutes later he stood in Abu lane, before Mani's house, and whistled
twice or thrice. Mani did not appear. Swaminathan climbed the steps and knocked
on the door. As the door-chain clanked inside, he stood in suspense. He was afraid
he might not be able to explain his presence if anyone other than Mani should open
the door. The door opened, and his heart sank. A big man with bushy eyebrows
stood before him. 'Who are you?' he asked.
'Who are you? Where is Mani?' Swaminathan asked. This was intended to
convey that he had come to see Mani but was quite surprised to meet this other
person, and would like to know who it was, whom he had the pleasure of seeing
before him. But in his confusion, he could not put this sentiment in better form.
'You ask me who I am in my own house?' bellowed the Bushy-Eyebrows.
Swaminathan turned and jumped down the steps to flee. But the Bushy-Eyebrows
ordered: 'Come here, little man.' It was impossible to disobey this command.
Swaminathan slowly advanced up the steps, his eyes bulging with terror. The
Bushy-Eyebrows said: 'Why do you run away? If you have come to see Mani, why
don't you see him?' This was logic absolute.
'Never mind,' Swaminathan said irrelevantly.
'Go in and see him, little man.'
Swaminathan meekly entered the house. Mani was standing behind the
door, tame and unimpressive in his domestic setting. He and Swaminathan stood
staring at each other, neither of them uttering a single word. The Bushy-Eyebrows
was standing in the door-way with his back to them, watching the street.
Swaminathan pointed a timid finger and jerked his head questioningly. Mani
whispered: 'Uncle.'
The uncle suddenly turned round and said: Why do you stand staring at
each other? -Did you come for that? Wag your tongues, boys.' After this advice he
stepped into the street to drive away two dogs that came and rolled in front of the
house, locked in a terrible fight. He was now out of earshot. Swaminathan said:
'Your uncle? I never knew. I say, Mani, can't you come out now?... No?... I came
on urgent business. Give me--urgent--six pies--got to have it--coachman goes
away for weeks--may not get the chance again--don't know what to do without
hoop....' He paused.
Mani's uncle was circling round the dogs, swearing at them and madly
searching for stones. Swaminathan continued: 'My life depends on it. If you don't
give it, I am undone. Quick, get the money.'
'I have no money, nobody gives me money,' Mani replied.
Swaminathan felt lost. 'Where does your uncle keep his money? Look into
that box....'
'I don't know.'
'Mani, come here,' his uncle cried from the street, 'drive away these devils.
Get me a stone.'
'Rajam, can you lend me a policeman?' Swaminathan asked two weeks
later.
'Policeman! Why?'
'There is a rascal in this town who has robbed me.' He related to Rajam his
dealings with the coachman. 'And now,' Swaminathan said continuing his tale of
woe, 'whenever he sees me, he pretends not to recognise me. If I got to his house,
I am told he is not at home, though I can hear him cursing somebody inside. If I
persist, he sends word that he will unchain his dog and kill me.'
'Has he a dog?' asked Rajam.
'Not any that I could see.'
'Then why not rush into his house and kick him?'
'It is all very well to say that. I tremble whenever I go to see him. There is
no knowing what coachmen have in their houses.... He may set his horse on me.'
'Let him, it isn't going to eat you,' said Mani.
'Isn't it? I am glad to know it. You come with me one day to tailor Ranga
and hear what he has to say about horses. They are sometimes more dangerous
than even tigers,' Swaminathan said earnestly.
'Suppose you wait one day and catch him at the gate?' Rajam suggested.
'I have tried it. But whenever he comes out, he is on his coach. And as
soon as he sees me, he takes out his long whip. I get out of his reach and shout.
But what is the use? That horse simply flies! And to think that he has duped me of
two annas!'
'It was six pies, wasn't it?'
'But he took from me twice again, six pies each time....'
'Then it is only an anna and a half,' Rajam said.
'No, Rajam, It is two annas.'
'My dear boy, twelve pies make an anna, and you have paid thrice, six pies
each time; that is eighteen pies in all, one anna and a half.'
'It is a useless discussion. Who cares how many pies make an anna?'
Swaminathan said.
'But in money matters, you must be precise--very well go on, Swami.'
'The coachman first took from me six pies, promising me the silver coins in
two days. He dodged me for four days and demanded six more pies, saying that he
had collected herbs for twelve pies. He put me off again and took from me another
six pies, saying that without it the whole process would fail. And after that, every
time I went to him he put me off with some excuse or other; he often complained
that owing to the weather the process was going on rather slowly. And two days
ago he told me that he did not know me or anything about my money. And now you
know how he behaves--I don't mind the money, but I hate his boy--that dark rascal.
He makes faces at me whenever he sees me, and he has threatened to empty a
bucketful of drain-water on my head. One day he held up an open penknife. I want
to thrash him; that will make his father give me back my two annas.'
Next day Swaminathan and Mani started for the coachman's house.
Swaminathan was beginning to regret that he had ever opened the subject before
his friends. The affair was growing beyond his control. And considering the interest that Rajam and Mani displayed in the affair, one could not foresee where it was
going to take them all.
Rajam had formed a little plan to decoy and kidnap the coachman's son.
Mani was his executive. He was to befriend the coachman's son. Swaminathan had
very little part to play in the preliminary stages. His duty would cease with pointing
out the coachman's house to Mani.
The coachman lived a mile from Swaminathan's house, westward, in
Keelacheri, which consisted of about a dozen thatched huts and dingy hovels,
smoke-tinted and evil- smelling, clustering together irregularly.
They were now within a few yards of the place. Swaminathan tried a last
desperate chance to stop the wheel of vengeance.
'Mani, I think the coachman's son has returned the money.'
What!'
'I think...'
'You think so, do you? Can you show it to me?'
Swaminathan pleaded: 'Leave him alone, Mani. You don't know what
troubles we shall get into by tampering with that boy....'
'Shut up or I will wring your neck.'
'Oh, Mani--the police--or the boy himself--he is frightful, capable of
anything.' He had in his heart a great dread of the boy. And sometimes in the night
would float before him a face dark, dirty and cruel, and make him shiver. It was the
face of the coachman's son.
'He lives in the third house,' Swaminathan pointed out. At the last moment
Mani changed his plan and insisted upon Swaminathan's following him to the
coachman's house. Swaminathan sat down in the road as a protest. But Mani was
stubborn. He dragged Swaminathan along till they came before the coachman's
house, and then started shouting at him.
'Mani, Mani, what is the matter?'
'You son of a donkey,' Mani roared at Swaminathan and swung his hand to
strike him.
Swaminathan began to cry. Mani attempted to strangle him. A motley
crowd gathered round them, urchins with prodigious bellies, women of dark aspect,
and their men. Scurvy chickens cackled and ran hither and thither. The sun was
unsparing. Two or three mongrels lay in the shade of a tree and snored. A general
malodour of hencoop and unwashed clothes pervaded the place.
And now from the hovel that Swaminathan had pointed out as the
coachman's, emerged a little man of three feet or so, ill-clad and unwashed. He
pushed his way through the crowd and, securing a fine place, sucked his thumb
and watched the fight in rapture. Mani addressed the crowd indignantly, pointing at
Swaminathan: 'This urchin, I don't know who he is, all of a sudden demands two
annas from me. I have never seen him before. He says I owe him that money.'
Mani continued in this strain for fifteen minutes. At the end of it, the coachman's
son took the thumb out of his mouth and remarked: 'He must be sent to the jail.' At
this Mani bestowed an approving smile upon him and asked: 'Will you help me to
carry him to the police station?'
'No,' said the coachman's son, being afraid of police stations himself.
Mani asked: 'How do you know that he must be taken to the police station?'
'I know it.'
'Does he ever trouble you similarly?' asked Mani.
'No,' said the boy.
'Where is the two annas that your father took from me?' asked
Swaminathan, turning to the boy his tear-drenched face. The crowd had meanwhile
melted, after making half-hearted attempts to bring peace. Mani asked the boy
suddenly: 'Do you want this top?' He held a shining red top.
The boy put out his hand for the top.
Mani said: 'I can't give you this. if you come with me, I will give you a bigger
one. Let us become friends.'
The boy had no objection. 'Won't you let me see it?' he asked. Mani gave it
to him. The boy turned it in his hand twice or thrice and in the twinkling of an eye
disappeared from the place. Mani took time to grasp the situation. When he did
grasp it, he saw the boy entering a hovel far off. He started after him.
When Mani reached the hovel the door was closed. Mani knocked a dozen
times, before a surly man appeared and said that the boy was not there. The door
was shut again. Mani started knocking again. Two or three menacing neighbors
came round and threatened to bury him alive if he dared to trouble them in their
own locality. Swaminathan was desperately appealing to Mani to come away. But it
took a great deal more to move him. He went on knocking.
The neighbours took up their position a few yards off, with handfuls of
stones, and woke the dogs-sleeping under the tree.
It was only when the dogs came bouncing towards them that Mani
shouted: 'Run,' to Swaminathan, and set an example himself.
A couple of stones hit Swaminathan on the back. One or two hit Mani also.
A sharp stone skinned Mani's right heel. They became blind and insensible to
everything except the stretch of road before them.