Night Train at Deoli and Other Stories Page 4

  I thought that over for a minute. Perhaps I had misjudged my man.

  ‘Can you feed me?’ I asked.

  ‘Can you cook?’ he countered.

  ‘I can cook,’ I lied.

  ‘If you can cook,’ he said, ‘I’ll feed you.’

  He took me to his room and told me I could sleep in the veran- dah. But I was nearly back on the street that night. The meal I cooked must have been pretty awful, because Arun gave it to the neighbour’s cat and told me to be off. But I just hung around smiling in my most appealing way; and then he couldn’t help laughing. He sat down on the bed and laughed for a full five minutes, and later patted me on the head and said, never mind, he’d teach me to cook in the morning.

  Not only did he teach me to cook, but he taught me to write my name and his, and said he would soon teach me to write whole sentences, and add money on paper when you didn’t have any in your pocket!

  It was quite pleasant working for Arun. I made the tea in the morning and later went out shopping. I would take my time buying the day’s supplies and made a profit of about 25 paise a day. I would tell Arun that rice was 56 paise a pound (it generally was), but I would get it at 50 paise a pound. I think he knew I made a little this way, but he didn’t mind, he wasn’t giving me a regular wage.

  I was really grateful to Arun for teaching me to write. I knew that once I could write like an educated man there would be no limit to what I could achieve. It might even be an incentive to be honest.

  Arun made money by fits and starts. He would be borrowing one week, lending the next. He would keep worrying about his next cheque but, as soon as it arrived, he would go out and celebrate lavishly.

  One evening he came home with a wad of notes, and at night I saw him tuck the bundles under his mattress, at the head of the bed.

  I had been working for Arun for nearly a fortnight and, apart from the shopping, hadn’t done much to exploit him. I had every oppor- tunity for doing so. I had a key to the front door, which meant I had access to the room whenever Arun was out. He was the most trust- ing person I had ever met. And that was why I couldn’t make up my mind to rob him.

  It’s easy to rob a greedy man, because he deserves to be robbed; it’s easy to rob a rich man, because he can afford to be robbed; but it’s difficult to rob a poor man, even one who really doesn’t care if he’s robbed. A rich man or a greedy man or a careful man wouldn’t keep his money under a pillow or mattress, he’d lock it up in a safe place. Arun had put his money where it would be child’s play for me to remove it without his knowledge.

  It’s time I did some real work, I told myself; I’m getting out of practice . . . If I don’t take the money, he’ll only waste it on his friends . . . He doesn’t even pay me . . .

  Arun was asleep. Moonlight came in from the verandah and fell across the bed. I sat up on the floor, my blanket wrapped round me, considering the situation. There was quite a lot of money in that wad, and if I took it I would have to leave town — I might make the 10.30 express to Amritsar . . .

  Slipping out of the blanket, I crept on all fours through the door and up to the bed, and peeped at Arun. He was sleeping peacefully with a soft and easy breathing. His face was clear and unlined; even I had more markings on my face, though mine were mostly scars.

  My hand took on an identity of its own as it slid around under the mattress, the fingers searching for the notes. They found them, and I drew them out without a crackle.

  Arun sighed in his sleep and turned on his side, towards me. My free hand was resting on the bed, and his hair touched my fingers.

  I was frightened when his hair touched my fingers, and crawled quickly and quietly out of the room.

  When I was in the street, I began to run. I ran down the bazaar road to the station. The shops were all closed, but a few lights came from upper windows. I had the note at my waist, held there by the string of my pyjamas. I felt I had to stop and count the notes though I knew it might make me late for the train. It was already 10.20 by the clock tower. I slowed down to a walk, and my fingers flicked through the notes. There were about a hundred rupees in fives. A good haul. I could live like a prince for a month or two.

  When I reached the station I did not stop at the ticket-office (I had never bought a ticket in my life) but dashed straight on to the platform. The Amritsar Express was just moving out. It was moving slowly enough for me to be able to jump on the foot-board of one of the carriages, but I hesitated for some urgent, unexplainable reason.

  I hesitated long enough for the train to leave without me. When it had gone, and the noise and busy confusion of the platform had subsided, I found myself standing alone on the deserted platform. The knowledge that I had a hundred stolen rupees in my pyjamas only increased my feeling of isolation and loneliness. I had no idea where to spend the night; I had never kept any friends, because sometimes friends can be one’s undoing; I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous by staying at a hotel. And the only person I knew really well in town was the person I had robbed!

  Leaving the station, I walked slowly through the bazaar keeping to dark, deserted alleys. I kept thinking of Arun. He would still be asleep, blissfully unaware of his loss.

  I have made a study of men’s faces when they have lost some- thing of material value. The greedy man shows panic, the rich man shows anger, the poor man shows fear; but I knew that neither panic nor anger nor fear would show on Arun’s face, when he discovered the theft; only a terrible sadness not for the loss of the money but for my having betrayed his trust.

  I found myself on the maidan and sat down on a bench with my feet tucked up under my haunches. The night was a little cold, and I regretted not having brought Arun’s blanket along. A light drizzle added to my discomfort. Soon it was raining heavily. My shirt and pyjamas stuck to my skin and a cold wind brought the rain whip- ping across my face. I told myself that sleeping on a bench was something, I should have been used to by now, but the verandah had softened me.

  I walked back to the bazaar and sat down on the step of a closed shop. A few vagrants lay beside me, rolled up tight in thin blankets. The clock showed midnight, I felt for the notes; they were still with me, but had lost their crispness and were damp with rainwater.

  Arun’s money. In the morning he would probably have given me a rupee to go to the pictures but now I had it all. No more cooking his meals, running to the bazaar, or learning to write whole senten- ces. Whole sentences . . .

  They were something I had forgotten in the excitement of a hundred rupees. Whole sentences, I knew, could one day bring me more than a hundred rupees. It was a simple matter to steal (and sometimes just as simple to be caught ) but to be a really big man, a wise and successful man, that was something. I should go back to Arun, I told myself, if only to learn how to write.

  Perhaps it was also concern for Arun that drew me back; a sense of sympathy is one of my weaknesses, and through hesitation over a theft I had often been caught. A successful thief must be pitiless. I was fond of Arun. My affection for him, my sense of sympathy, but most of all my desire to write whole sentences, drew me back to the room.

  I hurried back to the room extremely nervous, for it is easier to steal something than to return it undetected. If I was caught beside the bed now, with the money in my hand, or with my hand under the mattress there could be only one explanation: that I was actu- ally stealing. If Arun woke up, I would be lost.

  I opened the door clumsily, then stood in the doorway in clouded moonlight. Gradually my eyes became accustomed to the darkness of the room. Arun was still asleep. I went on all fours again and crept noiselessly to the head of the bed. My hand came up with the notes. I felt his breath on my fingers. I was fascinated by his tranquil features and easy breathing and remained motion- less for a minute. Then my hand explored the mattress, found the edge, slipped under it with the notes.

  I awoke late next morning to find that Arun had already made the tea. I found it difficult to face him in the harsh light of day. His
hand was stretched out towards me. There was a five-rupee note between his fingers. My heart sank.

  ‘I made some money yesterday,’ he said. ‘Now you’ll get paid regularly.’ My spirit rose as rapidly as they had fallen. I congratu- lated myself on having returned the money.

  But when I took the note, I realised that he knew everything. The note was still wet from last night’s rain.

  ‘Today I’ll teach you to write a little more than your name,’ he said.

  He knew; but neither his lips nor his eyes said anything about their knowing.

  I smiled at Arun in my most appealing way; and the smile came by itself, without my knowing it.

  The Boy who Broke The Bank

  Nathu grumbled to himself as he swept the steps of the Pipalnagar Bank, owned by Seth Govind Ram. He used the small broom hur- riedly and carelessly, and the dust, after rising in a cloud above his head settled down again on the steps. As Nathu was banging his pan against a dustbin, Sitaram, the washerman’s son, passed by.

  Sitaram was on his delivery round. He had a bundle of freshly pressed clothes balanced on his head.

  ‘Don’t raise such dust!’ he called out to Nathu. ‘Are you annoyed because they are still refusing to pay you an extra two rupees a month?’

  ‘I don’t wish to talk about it,’ complained the sweeper-boy. ‘I haven’t even received my regular pay. And this is the twentieth of the month. Who would think a bank would hold up a poor man’s salary? As soon as I get my money, I’m off! Not another week I work in this place.’ And Nathu banged the pan against the dustbin several times, just to emphasize his point and giving himself confidence.

  ‘Well, I wish you luck,’ said Sitaram. ‘I’ll keep a lookout for any jobs that might suit you.’ And he plodded barefoot along the road, the big bundle of clothes hiding most of his head and shoulders.

  At the fourth home he visited, Sitaram heard the lady of the house mention that she was in need of a sweeper. Tying his bundle together, he said; ‘I know of a sweeper boy who’s looking for work. He can start from next month. He’s with the bank just now but they aren’t giving him his pay, and he wants to leave.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Mrs. Srivastava. ‘Well, tell him to come and see me tomorrow.’

  And Sitaram, glad that he had been of service to both a customer and his friend, hoisted his bag on his shoulders and went his way.

  Mrs. Srivastava had to do some shopping. She gave instructions to the ayah about looking after the baby, and told the cook not to be late with the mid-day meal. Then she set out for the Pipalnagar market place, to make her customary tour of the cloth shops.

  A large shady tamarind tree grew at one end of the bazaar, and it was here that Mrs. Srivastava found her friend Mrs. Bhushan shelter- ing from the heat. Mrs. Bhushan was fanning herself with a large handkerchief. She complained of the summer, which she affirmed, was definitely the hottest in the history of Pipalnagar. She then showed Mrs. Srivastava a sample of the cloth she was going to buy, and for five minutes they discussed its shade, texture and design. Having exhausted this topic, Mrs. Srivastava said, ‘Do you know, my dear, that Seth Govind Ram’s bank can’t even pay its employees? Only this morning I heard a complaint from their sweeper, who hasn’t received his wages for over a month!’

  ‘Shocking!’ remarked Mrs. Bhushan. ‘If they can’t pay the sweeper they must be in a bad way. None of the others could be getting paid either.’

  She left Mrs. Srivastava at the tamarind tree and went in search of her husband, who was sitting in front of Kamal Kishore’s photogra- phic shop, talking with the owner.

  ‘So there you are!’ cried Mrs. Bhushan. ‘I’ve been looking for you for almost an hour. Where did you disappear?’

  ‘Nowhere,’ replied Mr. Bhushan. ‘Had you remained stationary in one shop, I might have found you. But you go from one shop to another, like a bee in a flower garden.’

  ‘Don’t start grumbling. The heat is trying enough. I don’t know what’s happening to Pipalnagar. Even the bank’s about to go bankrupt.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Kamal Kishore, sitting up suddenly. ‘Which bank?’

  ‘Why the Pipalnagar bank of course. I hear they have stopped paying employees. Don’t tell me you have an account there, Mr. Kishore?’

  ‘No, but my neighbour has!’ he exclaimed; and he called out over the low partition to the keeper of the barber shop next door. ‘Deep Chand, have you heard the latest? The Pipalnagar Bank is about to collapse. You’d better get your money out as soon as you can!’

  Deep Chand who was cutting the hair of an elderly gentleman, was so startled that his hand shook and he nicked his customer’s right ear. The customer yelped with pain and distress: pain, because of the cut and distress because of the awful news he had just heard. With one side of his neck still unshaven, he sped across the road to the general merchant’s store where there was a telephone. He dialled Seth Govind Ram’s number. The Seth was not at home. Where was he, then? The Seth was holidaying in Kashmir. Oh, was that so? The elderly gentleman did not believe it. He hurried back to the barber’s shop and told Deep Chand: ‘The bird has flown! Seth Govind Ram has left town. Definitely, it means a collapse.’ And then he dashed out of the shop, making a beeline for his office and chequebook.

  The news spread through the bazaar with the rapidity of forest fire. From the general merchant’s it travelled to the shop, circulated amongst the customers, and then spread with them in various direc- tions, to the betel-seller, the tailor, the free vendor, the jeweller, the beggar sitting on the pavement.

  Old Ganpat the beggar, had a crooked leg. He had been squatting on the pavement for years, calling for alms. In the evening someone would come with a barrow and take him away. He had never been known to walk. But now, on learning that the bank was about to collapse, Ganpat astonished everyone leaping to his feet and actu- ally running at top speed in the direction of the bank. It soon became known that he had a thousand rupees in savings!

  Men stood in groups at street corners discussing the situation. Pipalnagar seldom had a crisis, seldom or never had floods, earth- quakes or drought; and the imminent crash of the Pipalnagar Bank set everyone talking and speculating and rushing about in a frenzy. Some boasted of their farsightedness, congratulating themselves on having already taken out their money, or on never having put any in; others speculated on the reasons for the crash, putting it all down to excesses indulged in by Seth Govind Ram. The Seth had fled the State, said one. He had fled the country, said another, He was hiding in Pipalnagar, said a third. He had hanged himself from the tamarind tree, said a fourth, and had been found that morning by the sweeper-boy.

  By noon the small bank had gone through all; its ready cash, and the harassed manager was in a dilemma. Emergency funds could only be obtained from another bank some thirty miles distant, and he wasn’t sure he could persuade the crowd to wait until then. And there was no way of contacting Seth Govind Ram on his houseboat in Kashmir.

  People were turned back from the counters and told to return the following day. They did not like the sound of that. And so they gathered outside, on the steps of the bank shouting ‘Give us our money or we’ll break in !’ and ‘Fetch the Seth, we know he’s hiding in a safe deposit locker!’Mischief makers who didn’t have a paisa in the bank, joined the crowd and aggravated their mood. The man ager stood at the door and tried to placate them. He declared that the bank had plenty of money but no immediate means of collect- ing it; he urged them to go home and come back the next day.

  ‘We want it now!’ chanted some of the crowd. ‘Now, now, now!’ And a brick hurtled through the air and crashed through the plate glass window of the Pipalnagar Bank.

  Nathu arrived next morning to sweep the steps of the bank. He saw the refuse and the broken glass and the stones cluttering the steps. Raising his hands in a gesture of horror and disgust he cried: ‘Hooligans! Sons of donkeys! As though it isn’t bad enough to be paid late, it seems my work has also to be increased!’ He s
mote the steps with his broom scattering the refuse.

  Good morning, Nathu,’ said the washerman’s boy, getting down from his bicycle. ‘Are you ready to take up a new job from the first of next month? You’ll have to I suppose, now that the bank is going out of business.’

  ‘How’s that?’ said Nathu.

  ‘Haven’t you heard? Well you’d better wait here until half the population of Pipalnagar arrives to claim their money.’ And he waved cheerfully — he did not have a bank account — and sped away on his cycle.

  Nathu went back to sweeping the steps, muttering to himself. When he had finished his work, he sat down on the highest step, to await the arrival of the manager. He was determined to get his pay.

  ‘Who would have thought the bank would collapse!’ he said to himself, and looked thoughtfully into the distance. ‘I wonder how it could have happened . . .

  His Neighbour’s Wife

  No (said Arun, as we waited for dinner to be prepared), I did not fall in love with my neighbour’s wife. It is not that kind of story.

  Mind you, Leela was a most attractive woman. She was not beauti- ful or pretty; but she was handsome. Hers was the firm, athletic body of a sixteen-year-old boy, free of any surplus flesh. She bathed morning and evening, oiling herself well, so that her skin glowed a golden-brown in the winter sunshine. Her lips were often coloured with paan-juice, but her teeth were perfect.

  I was her junior by about five years, and she called me her ‘younger brother’. Her husband, who was forty to her thirty-two, was an official in the Customs and Excise Department: an extrovert, a hard-drinking, backslapping man, who spent a great deal of time on tour. Leela knew that he was not always faithful to her during these frequent absences; but she found solace in her own loyalty and in the well-being of her one child, a boy called Chandu.

  I did not care for the boy. He had been well-spoilt, and took great delight in disturbing me whenever I was at work. He entered my rooms uninvited, knocked my books about, and, if guests were present, made insulting remarks about them to their faces.