The day of the match

A NARROW road branching to the left of the Trunk Road attracted Swaminathan
because it was shaded by trees bearing fruits. The white balllike wood-apple, green
figs, and the deep purple eugenia, peeped out of thick green foliage. He walked a
mile and did not like the road. It was utterly deserted and silent. He wished to be
back in the Trunk Road in which there was some life and traffic, though few and far
between: some country cart lumbering along; or an occasional motor-car with
trunks and bedding strapped behind, whizzing past and disappearing in a cloud of
dust; or groups of peasants moving on the edge of the road. But this branch road
oppressed him with its stillness. Moreover, he had been wandering for many hours
away from home, and now longed to be back there. He became desperate at the
thought of home. What fine things the cook prepared! And how mother always
insisted upon serving ghee and curds herself! Oh! how he would sit before his leaf
and watch mother open the cupboard and bring out the aluminum curd-pot, and
how soft and white it was as it noiselessly fell on the heap of rice on the leaf and
enveloped it! A fierce hunger now raged within him. His thighs were heavy and
there was pain around his hips. He did not notice it, but the sun's rays were coming
obliquely from the west, and the birds were on their homeward flight.
When hunger became unbearable, he plucked and ate fruits. There was a
clean pond near by.
He rested for some time and then started to go back home. The only
important thing now was home, and all the rest seemed trivial beside it. The Board
School affair appeared inconsequent. He marvelled at himself for having taken it
seriously and rushed into all this trouble. What a fool he had been! He wished with
all his heart that he had held out his hand when the Head Master raised his cane.
Even if he had not done it, he wished he had gone home and told his father
everything. Father would have scolded him a little (in case he went too far, granny and mother could always be depended upon to come to his rescue). All this
scolding and frowning would have been worth while, because father could be
depended upon to get him out of any trouble. People were afraid of him. And what
foolishness to forgo practice with the match only two days ahead! If the match was
lost, there was no knowing what Rajam would do.
Meanwhile, Swaminathan was going back towards the Trunk Road. He
thought he would be presently back in it, and then he had only to go straight, an d it
would take him right into Market Road, and from there he could reach home
blindfold. His parents might get angry with him if he went home so late. But he
could tell them that he had lost his way. Or would that be too mild? Suppose he
said that he had been kidnapped by Pathans and had to escape from them with
great difficulty....
He felt he had been walking long enough. He ought to have reached the
Trunk Road long ago, but as he stopped and looked about, he found that he was
still going along the thick avenue of figs and wood-apple. The ground was strewn
with discoloured, disfigured fruits, and leaves. The road seemed to be longer now
that he was going back. The fact was that he had unconsciously followed a gentle
imperceptible curve, as the road cunningly branched and joined the Mempi Forest
Road. Some seventy miles further it split into a number of rough irregular tracks
disappearing into the thick belt of Mempi Forests. If he had just avoided this
deceptive curve, he would have reached the Trunk Road long ago.
Night fell suddenly, and his heart beat fast. His throat went dry as he
realised that he had not reached the Trunk Road. The trees were still thick and the
road was still narrow. The Trunk Road was broader, and there the sky was not
screened by branches. But here one could hardly see the sky; the stars gleamed
through occasional gaps overhead. He quickened his pace though he was tired. He
ran a little distance, his feet falling on the leaf-covered ground with a sharp rustling
noise. The birds in the branches overhead started at this noise and fluttered their
wings. In that deep darkness and stillness, the noise of fluttering wings had an uncanny ghostly quality. Swaminathan was frightened and stood still. He must
reach the Trunk Road and thence find his way home. He would not mind even if it
were twelve o'clock when he reached the Trunk Road. There was something
reassuring in its spaciousness and in the sparseness of vegetation. But here the
closeness of the tree-trunks and their branches intertwining at the top gave the
road the appearance of a black bleak cavern with an evil spirit brooding over it.
The noise of the disturbed birds subsided. He started on again. He trod
warily so as not to make a noise and disturb the birds again, though he felt an urge
to run, run with all his might and reach the Trunk Road and home. The conflict
between the impulse to run and the caution that counselled him not to run was
fierce. As he walked noiselessly, slowly, suppressing the impulse to run on madly,
his nerves quivered with the strain. It was as if he had been rope-walking in a gale.
His ears became abnormally sensitive. They caught every noise his feet
made, with the slightest variations. His feet came down on the ground with a light
tick or a subdued crackle or a gentle swish, according to the object on the ground:
small dry twigs, half-green leaves, or a thick layer of dry withered leaves. There
were occasional patches of bare uncovered ground, and there the noise was a light
thud, or pit pat; pit pat pit pat in monotonous repetition. Every noise entered
Swaminathan's ears. For some time he was conscious of nothing else. His feet
said pish--pish--pish--pat--pit--pat--swish and crackled. These noises streamed into
his head, monotonously, endlessly. They were like sinister whispers, calling him to
a dreadful sacrifice. He clearly heard his name whispered. There was no doubt
about it. 'Swami.... Swami.... Swami.... Swami.... Swami....' the voice said, and then
the dreadful suggestion of a sacrifice. It was some devil, coming behind him
noiselessly, and saying the same thing over and over again, deep into his ears. He
stopped and looked about. There the immense monster crouched, with its
immense black legs wide apart, and its shadowy arms joined over its head. It now
swayed a little. He dared not take his eyes off it for fear that it might pounce upon
him. He stood frozen to the ground and stared at this monster. Why did it cease its horrid whispers the moment he turned back? He stood staring. He might have
spent about five minutes thus. And when the first thrill of fear subsided, he saw a
little more clearly and found that the monster consisted of massive tree-trunks and
their top branches.
He continued his journey. He was perhaps within a yard of the Trunk Road,
and afterwards he would sing as he sauntered home. He asked himself whether he
would rest awhile on the Trunk Road or go, without stopping, home. His legs felt as
if they had been made of stone. He decided that he would sit down for some time
when he reached the Trunk Road. It did not matter. The Trunk Road was safe and
secure even at twelve o'clock. If he took a rest, he would probably be able to run
home....
He came to a clearing. The stars were visible above. The road wound
faintly in front of him. No brooding darkness, no clustering crowded avenue here.
He felt a momentary ecstasy as he realised that he had come to the Trunk Road. It
bore all the characteristics of the Trunk Road. The sight of the stars above, clear
and uninterrupted, revived him. As he paused and watched the million twinkling
bodies, he felt like bursting into music, out of sheer relief. He had left behind the
horrid, narrow, branch-roofed road. At this realization his strength came back to
him. He decided not to waste time in resting. He felt fit to go forward. But presently
he felt uneasy. He remembered clearly that the branch road began at right angles
to the Trunk Road. But here it continued straight. He stood bewildered for a
moment and then told himself that it was probably a continuation of the branch
road, a continuation that he had not noticed before. Whatever it was, the Trunk
Road must surely cut this at right angles, and if he turned to his right and went
forward he would reach home. He looked to his right and left, but there was not the
faintest trace of a road anywhere. He soon explained to himself that he was
probably not able to see the Trunk Road because of the night. The road must be
there all right. He turned to his right, took a step or two, and went knee-deep in
quagmire. He waded through it and went forward. Long spiked grass tickled his face and in some places he was lost in undergrowth. He turned back and reached
the road.
Presently he realised his position. He was on an unknown distant road at a
ghostly hour. Till now the hope that he was moving towards the familiar Trunk
Road sustained him. But now even the false hope being gone, he became faint
with fear. When he understood that the Trunk Road was an unreal distant dream,
his legs refused to support him. All the same he kept tottering onwards, knowing
well that it was a meaningless, aimless, march. He walked like one half stunned.
The strangeness of the hour, so silent indeed that even the drop of a leaf
resounded through the place, oppressed him with a sense of inhumanity. Its
remoteness gave him a feeling that he was walking into a world of horrors,
subhuman and supernatural.
He collapsed like an empty bag, and wept bitterly. He called to his father,
mother, granny, Rajam, and Mani. His shrill loud cry went through the night past
those half-distinct black shapes looming far ahead, which might be trees or devils
or gate-posts of Inferno. Now he prayed to all the gods that he knew to take him
out of that place. He promised them offerings: two coco-nuts every Saturday to the
elephant-faced Ganapathi; a vow to roll bare-bodied in dust, beg, and take the
alms to the Lord of Thirupathi. He paused as if to give the gods time to consider his
offer and descend from their heights to rescue him.
Now his head was full of wild imaginings. He heard heavy footfalls behind,
turned and saw a huge lump of darkness coming towards him. It was too late, it
had seen him. Its immense tusks showed faintly white. It came roaring, on the way
putting its long trunk around a tree and plucking it over by the roots and dashing it
on the ground. He could see its' small eyes, red with anger, its tusks lowered, and
the trunk lifted and poised ready. He just rolled to one side and narrowly escaped.
He lay panting for a while, his clothes wet with sweat. He heard stealthy footsteps
and a fierce growl and before he could turn to see what it was, heavy jaws snapped
behind his ears, puffing out foul hot breath on his nape. He had the presence of mind to lower his head and lie flat, and the huge yellow-and-black tiger missed him.
Now a leopard, now a lion, even a whale, now a huge crowd, mixed crowd of wild
elephants, tigers, lions, and demons, surrounded him. The demons lifted him by his
ears, plucked every hair on his head, and peeled off his skin from head to foot.
Now what was this, coiling round his legs, cold an slimy? He shrank in horror from
a scorpion that was advancing with its sting in the air. No, this was no place for
human being. The cobra and the scorpion were within a inch of him. He shrieked,
scrambled to his feet, and ran He kept looking back, the scorpion was moving as
fast as he, there was no escaping it: he held his breath and with the last ounce of
strength doubled his pace-- He had touched the other wicket and returned. Two
runs. He stood with the bat. The captain of the Y. M. U. bowler and he hit a sixer.
The cheers were deafening. Rajam ran round the field in joy, jumped up the wall
and down thrice. The next ball was bowled. Instead of hitting it, Swaminathan flung
the bat aside and received it on his head. The ball rebounded and speeded back
towards the bowler--the Board High School Head Master; but Swaminathan ran
after the ball, overtook it halt-way, caught it, and raising his arm, let it go with terrific
force towards the Captain's head, which was presently hit and shattered. The M. C.
C. had won, and their victory was marked by chasing the Y. M. U. out of the field,
with bricks and wickets, hats and balls; and Swaminathan laughed and laughed till
he collapsed with exhaustion.
Ranga, the cart-man, was returning to his village, five miles on this side of
Mempi Forests, early on Saturday morning. He had left Malgudi at two in the
morning so as to be in his village by noon. He had turned the long stretch of the
Mempi Forest Road, tied the bullock-rope to the cart, and lain down. The soft
tinkling of the bells and the gentle steady pace of the bullock sent him to sleep at
once.
Suddenly the bullock stopped with a jerk. Ranga woke up and uttered the
series of oaths and driving cries that usually gave the bullock speed, and violently
tugged the rope. The bullock merely tossed its head with a tremendous jingle of its bells, but did not move. Ranga, exasperated by its conduct, got down to let the
animal know and feel what he thought of it. In the dim morning light, he saw a
human form across the way. He shouted, 'Hi! Get up lazy lubber. A nice place you
have found to sleep in! Be up and doing. Do you follow me'?' When the sleeper
was not awakened by this advice, Ranga went forward to throw him out of the way.
'Ah, a little fellow! Why is he sleeping here'?' he said, and bending closer
still, exclaimed, 'Oh, Siva, he is dead!' The legs and arms, the exposed portions of
the body, were damp with the slight early dew. He tore the boy's shirt and plunged
his hand in and was greatly relieved to find the warmth life still there. His simple
mind tortured itself with the mystery of the whole situation. Here was a little boy
from the town, his dress and appearance proclaimed, alone in this distant highway,
lying nearly dead across the road. Who was he? Where did he come from? Why
was he there? Ranga's brain throbbed with these questions. Devils were known to
carry away human beings and leave them in distant places. It might be, or might
not be. He gave up the attempt to solve the problem himself, feeling that he had
better leave such things to learned people like the sircar officer who was staying in
the Travellers' Bungalow three stones on this side the forests. His (Ranga's)
business would be nothing more than taking the boy to the officer. He gently lifted
the boy and carried him to the cart.
He sat in his seat, took the ropes in his hand, raised a foot and kicked the
bullock in the stomach, and loosened the rope with the advice to his anim al that if
it did not for once give up its usual dawdling ways, he would poke a red-hot pike
into its side. Intelligently appreciating the spirit of this advice, the bullock shook
itself and set off at a trot that it served for important occasions.
Swaminathan stared blankly before him. He could not comprehend his
situation. At first he had believed he was where he had been day after day for so
many years--at home. Then gradually, as his mind cleared, he remembered
several remote incidents in a confused jumble. He blinked fast. He put out his arm
and fumbled about. He studied the objects before him more keenly. It was an immense struggle to keep the mind alert. He fixed his eyes on a picture on the wall-
or was it a calendar?--to find out if it was the same thing that hung before his bed
at home. He was understanding its details little by little when all of a sudden his
mind collapsed with exhaustion, and confusion began. Was there an object there at
all on the wall? He was exasperated by the prank of the mind.... He vaguely
perceived a human figure in a chair near by. The figure drew the chair nearer and
said, That is right, boy. Are you all right now?'... These words fell on ears that had
not yet awakened to life. Swaminathan was puzzled to see his father there. He
wanted to know why he was doing such an extraordinary thing as sitting by his
side.
'Father,' he cried, looking at the figure.
'You will see your father presently. Don't worry,' said the figure and put to
him a few questions which would occur to any man with normal curiosity.
Swaminathan took such a long time to answer each question and then it was all so
incoherent and irrelevant that the stranger was first amused, then irritated, and in
the end gave up asking questions. Swaminathan was considerably weakened by
the number of problems that beset him: Who was this man? Was he father? If he
was not, why was he there? Even if he was, why was he there? Who was he?
What was he saying? Why could he not utter his words louder and clearer?
This father-and-not-father person then left the room. He was Mr. M. P. S.
Nair, the District Forest Officer, just then camping near Mempi Forests. He had
been out in the forest the whole day and returned to the Travellers' Bungalow only
at seven in the evening. He had hardly rolled off his puttees and taken off his heavy
boots when he was told about the boy. After hours of effort with food and medicine,
the boy was revived. But what was the use? He was not in a fit condition to give an
account of himself. If the boy's words were to be believed, he seemed to belong to
some strange unpronounceable place unknown to geographers.
Early next morning Mr. Nair found the boy already up and very active. In
the compound, the boy stood a few yards from a tree with a heap of stones at his feet. He stooped, picked up a stone, backed a few yards, took a few quick steps,
stopped abruptly, and let the stone go at a particular point on the tree-trunk. He
repeated this like clock-work with stone after stone.
'Good morning, young man,' Mr. Nair said. 'How are you now?'
'I am grateful to you, sir, you have saved me from great trouble.'
'Oh, yes.... You are very busy?'
'I am taking practice, sir. We are playing a match against the Y. M. U. and
Rajam is depending upon me for bowling. They call me Tate. I have not had
practice at all--for--for a long time. I did a foolish thing in starting out and missing
practice with the match coming off on--What day is this, sir?'
'Why do you want to know?'
'Please tell me, sir. I want to know how many days more we have for the
match.'
'This is Sunday.'
'What? What?' Swaminathan stood petrified. Sunday! Sunday! He gazed
dully at the heap of stones at his feet. What is the matter?'
'The match is on Sunday,' Swaminathan stammered.
'What if it is? You have still a day before you. This is only Saturday.'
'You said it was Sunday, sir.'
'No. No. This is Saturday. See the calendar if you like.'
'But you said it was Sunday.'
'Probably a slip of the tongue.'
'Sir, will you see that I am somehow at the field before Sunday?'
'Certainly, this very evening. But you must tell me which your place is and
whose son you are.'