Sandals for his son

Source: Suresh Vaidya, The London Mercury 38: (223), 46-53.

(This strikes me as so similar to R.K. Narayan that I have counted it as a pastiche, but scholars may differ. I wonder whether the author thought, I can do this style even better. Next week on “Unfinished matters of literary justice from the 1930s...”)

“TANG—Tang—Ta—Tang—Tang—Ta—Tang—Tang! !—“

The sound of the bell came from round the corner of the village, sonorously, monotonously, heralding the arrival of the postman. People hurriedly left their work and gathered round him in a circle, observing him interestedly and anxiously, as they always did on Mondays, which was his day of call. A great event was the postman’s arrival, quite as important as the rising of the sun or the weekly market day.

When he saw that the majority of the villagers were in his presence he stopped sounding the bell, hung it by the hook on his leather belt and, putting on his steel-rimmed glasses, began fingering the wad of letters in his hand.

“Tanu Mota; farmer; living in the house next to the Green Stable,” he droned, and amplified the same by shouting: “Hey, is Tanu Mota here?”

Tanu Mota came forward, took the letter, saluted the postman and retired. Tanu Mota was in possession of something mysterious, a letter.

“Genu Saba; blacksmith; living in the cottage in the Cauliflower Garden,” the postman went on mechanically, and shouted again: “Hey, is Genu Saba here?”

Genu Saba received his letter with a bow, and withdrew; another lucky fellow.

“Gopal Mali,” continued the postman, “Living in the house near the Maruti Temple—Hey, where is Gopal Mali?” and in a high-pitched, and slightly irrated voiced, added: “Where is he? Let him come here.”

The wizened little Gopal nervously went up to the postman, eyed him carefully, put his hands forward as if he was a mendicant receiving alms, grabbed the letter and returned among the crowd, outwardly calm but inwardly excited. A letter it was, no doubt, in a white envelope, with a picture of the king on a red little square in its corner. He looked at it for a minute or two, thrust it into his toga pocket, holding it securely there between his thumb forefinger, lest someone should rob him of it.

The postman, having finished his business, murmured something into the ears of the Town Clerk Sadasiv, the Brahmin, and, retrieving his staff, went his way to the other villages. The excitement was over, and the crowd melted away.

Gopal Mali hurriedly returned to his house, knocked at the door vehemently but, since it would not open, sat on the stone steps, took out the letter and examined its outer surface gleefully. He held it straight, then sideways, then upside down, looked very carefully at the stamp with the picture of the king on it, and thrust it back into his toga pocket as if it was a treasure. This was the second time he had received a letter in his life, and no doubt it was from his son Pandu who went to the city some four months ago in search of work.

He crossed his legs, placed his elbow on his knee and supported his chin on his clenched fist, thinking. Now what was the news about Pandu this letter purveyed? That he had got a job and was doing well: or that he had no luck yet and his money was exhausted: or that he had fallen ill, or was robbed? What, for goodness sake, what? He speculated rapidly, quite oblivious to the world, not even conscious enough to notice that his wife, Sita, had opened the door and was inquiring harshly: “Why did you knock the door so hard? Has a devil possessed you?”

Gopal Mali did not reply but merely gazed at Sita foolishly, as if she was transparent like glass.

“What?” persisted Sita. “Is your intention to break the door?”

Gopal Mali smiled but said not a word, so overwhelmed was he by the arrival of the letter. His dumbness further annoyed Sita, and she was about to break out into a spirited attack on his character, his habits, and even his appearance, for failing to answer her, when Gopal suddenly mumbled: “A letter; a letter arrived this morning.”

“A letter!” exclaimed Sita, short of her erstwhile impertience and hostile attitude. “A letter indeed!”

“A letter,” emphasized Gopal, brought the treasure out of his pocket, showed to his wife from a distance, and restored it to its former place quickly. “Did you see? A letter from Pandu.”

“Give it to me,” said Sita, holding out her hands.

But Gopal would do nothing of the kind; he sprang back, increasing his hold on the precious object while doing so. “I must get it read,” he said. “Must go and get it read from the Town Clerk, first.” And without waiting to hear his wife’s denunciation of him, which automatically followed his rebuff, he began hurrying towards Sadasiv’s house.

* * *

On the way he encountered several acquaintances, who greeted him “Peace,” but Gopal was in no mood either to stop and say a word to them, or even to return their greeting. He made for Sadasiv's with immodest haste, raced past Tanu Mota and Genu Saba, who, having received letters, were also bound thither. It would not do for Gopal to let them get there before him; no, he wanted his letter read first.

Sadasiv, the Town Clerk, was seated on the veranda of his house, scribbling away on a scroll of paper with an eagle plume. He scarcely noticed Gopal who stood solicitously before him, murmuring “Peace” till his last “Peace” sounded like a war-cry.

The Town Clerk looked up and beckoned Gopal to a seat in a corner with his eagle plume. “Let me finish this last line,” he said, and went on scribbling.

“Come here to get your letter read, have you?” asked Sadasiv when he had finished his work and had deposited the scroll of paper and the eagle plume into the drawer of his stunted desk.

Gopal edged forward, nodding, smiling, and placed the letter on the Brahmin’s lap. “A letter,” he said. “A letter from my son.”

Sadasiv screwed up his eyebrows and felt the epistle in his fingers. “The reading will cost you a bunch of bananas,” he said.

“Ho, a bunch of bananas,” replied Gopal with mock surprise. “It isn’t big; not worth a bunch of bananas, anyway.”

By this time the Town Clerk had torn it open and had put the envelope on one side and the enclosed letter on his desk. He observed it minutely for a minute or two. “A bunch of bananas at least,” he said, emphatically. “It is closely written, and the handwriting is clumsy.”

Gopal wanted to protest further, for the price demanded was exorbitant according to his calculation, but he saw Tanu Mota entering the house and so said: “If that is your fee it must be given, mustn’t it?”

The Town Clerk thereupon sat in contemplation, his eyes glued on the letter before him. He wiped his mouth, rubbed his eyes, scratches his hands, and began reading it:

“To Gopal Mali, his son Pandu Mali sends his respects. Four months have passed since I arrived here. A big place is this city, so big that one cannot walk through it all day, so long are the roads. I have found no work yet, but the money has lasted me up till now. However, it will soon be finished. All the same I am hoping to get a job in a few days in the Grain Wharf. How are you getting on there? My respects to you and to mother. I told you at the beginning of this letter that the city is a big place and the roads are long. And consequently my sandals have worn out. I would have bought a pair here, but prices in the city in the high, and, besides, I have no money to spare. So will you please send me a pair of sandals by return post? I need them badly.”

“Did you hear what your son says?” asked Sadasiv, concluding the reading and inserting the letter in the envelope. “He wants a pair of sandals, he says,” and, giving back the letter to Gopal, added: “And bring my bunch of bananas when you are this way next.”

“My son wants sandals, does he?” inquired Gopal.

“Yes,” replied the Town Clerk. “The roads in the city are long and wear them out quickly, he says.”

“And he wants a pair of them by return?”

The Town Clerk nodded gravely, flicking a fly off his face.

“When will the post for the city be leaving?”

“It had already left.”

“Ah!”

“The postman took away the outgoing letters with him. But if you are in a hurry go to the town, and there you might get the post till to-morrow morning.”

Gopal’s face lit up. “Then will you kindly take down a letter for me?”

The Brahmin rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That will cost you two more bunches of bananas,” he said, “or six cucumbers, if you have any in your garden,” adding: “Writing is more difficult than reading.”

“Ho, what is difficult in writing? It is just making marks on a paper with ink.”

“Two bunches of bananas, or six cucumbers,” insisted the Brahmin.

Sadasiv brought out his scroll of paper, his eagle plume, and began writing:

“From Gopal Mali, to his son Pandu Mali. We are glad to hear you are well. We were anxious about you. But now that you say you will be getting a job in a few days we feel much relieved. You say the roads in the city are long and you have worn out your sandals. They were good sandals you took away with you, hard and strong, mind you. But we are sending you another pair with this letter, which we hope will serve your need. We are happy here and wish to hear from you always. Write to us when you receive the sandals.”

* * *

When Gopal returned home his wife received him with a hostile frown. But now Gopal’s anxiety had slightly abated, and he communicated to her the contents of the letter, which had the effect of pacifying her. She even obliged him by going into the garden and cutting three bunches of bananas for the Town Clerk, though she saw to it that they were the smallest of the lot. Gopal collected the packet of lunch which Sita had prepared for him, put his money purse into his pocket, deposited the letter to his son in his turban, and took the road. “I will be back to-morrow,” he said at the time of leaving.

He reached the town before sunset, which was good, for there were some cobblers in the market who had not yet wound up their stalls. Gopal at first made an examination of their wares from a distance and finally set his mind upon a shop with a tarpaulin roof.

“A good pair of sandals I want,” he said to the stallkeeper. “A strong, durable pair to send to my son in the city. The roads being long there, one must have a strong pair, harken.”

The stallkeeper put a large assortment of footwear before Gopal. Gopal picked up the pairs one by one, pulled them this way and that, tried to tear them apart, and decided to purchase the pair with a red flower design on it. He liked them because not only were they strong and durable but there was an artistic design on them which made them look fashionable.

“How much are these?” he inquired.

“Two rupees,” replied the stallkeeper.

“Ho, two rupees! As if I have never purchased sandals before. I can get them cheaper elsewhere.”

Gopal weighed the situation. The pair was good, no doubt. He would certainly like to beat down the man, but there was hardly time left to do so.

“A high price it is, I can assure you,” he grumbled, paying the man the money.

“They are worth it.”

“And will you please tie them in a parcel,” and, producing the letter from his turban, “and this with it?”

* * *

Gopal took the bundle and made straight for the post office. Thank God he had lost no time, for soon after it would have closed. As it was there was only the postmaster seated behind the counter on a tall wooden stool.

Gopal approached him with an ingratiating smile.

“This is going to the city,” he said to the postmaster, placing the parcel on the counter. “It must go soon, for my son needs it badly.”

The postmaster weighed the thing in his hand but shook his head dejectedly. “The post has already left,” he said.

“Indeed it cannot have,” broke in Gopal impatiently. “Our Town Clerk Sadasiv said it would leave to-morrow morning.”

“Your Town Clerk does not know anything about posts,” replied the postmaster, handing back the parcel to Gopal.

“The Town Clerk emphatically said so—the swindler! And he charged me two bunches of bananas for writing this letter——”

He sat down, scratched his head, felt the parcel in his hand, and inquired: “When will the next post be leaving?”

“Next week.”

“Not before?”

“No.”

Disappointment overwhelmed him; he had scampered all that day, without a moment’s rest, to get the thing ready in time, and here was the postmaster telling him that the post had already left. The fault was the Town Clerk’s. How he would writhe in perdition for cheating honest folk like Gopal!

Out on the street he met a returning postman. The sight of him made Gopal feel uneasy; should he pluck up courage and ask him whether the post had already left? Maybe this man knew better than the postmaster himself. Perhaps it was within his power to take letters urgently and he would oblige Gopal by taking the parcel. But then he began to think of the darker side of the question; would he, Gopal, be snubbed for pestering him? Would the postman go in and tell the postmaster about it? Was there a penalty for troubling postal employees while they were on duty?

However,, at the last moment, Gopal boldly approached the man. “Hey, mister,” he shouted, his heart beating fast. “Has the post left?”

The postman, contrary to Gopal’s expectations, replied civilly: “Yes, it has.”
There it was; he needed no further assurances that the post had left and his parcel was destined to go next week. Fate’s dirty trick! he reflected sullenly.

“Is it an important letter?” the postman asked.

“Very important indeed,” replied Gopal.

“Then why don’t you send it by wire?”

“Wire!” asked Gopal incredulously. “What’s a wire?”

“Aye but wire!” Gopal’s astonishment was genuine.

The postman led Gopal to the other side of the road and showed him the string of wires relayed over long metal poles that started from the post office, entered the country and disappeared near the horizon. “It is carried over that,” he said, and went away.

Gopal contemplated. A wire was a new thing to him; but it had been brought to his notice at an opportune time. It was going to solve his present problem. A wire—indeed, a wire——!

He mused for a while, looking at the grey metal pillars interestedly. He had a good mind to send his parcel by wire, whatever happened. He knew he had no money to spend on it, but he was going to cheat the post office and use the wire all the same. Resolutely he began walking away from the town to conduct his operations in a distant field where there was no chance of his being caught.

The girth of the telegraph pole was small, and its surface was slippery, thus making it difficult to climb. However, it would be unwise to give up the attempt after coming all the way to this place. He tightened his dhoti, tightened his turban, held the parcel under his arms and began scaling the pole with the agility of a circus monkey. He slipped many a time but held fast all the same, and, panting, managed to reach the cross bars at the top where the wires were attached to white china cylinders. He sat himself precariously on the cross bars, took the parcel from under his arm and tied it carefully over the wire. Without pausing to rest, he glided down the pole speedily and was on hard ground again. Now the parcel would go by wire and reach his son within an hour. The postman had said so...

* * *

He stopped in the town for the night. At first he had felt quite happy and elated, but later on his mind became sceptical. He had begun to wonder whether things could really be carried by the wire. He had observed the cables minutely while he was on the cross bars and had found them to be as thin as strings. Could the parcel go through them? Should he go to the fields and see what had happened for himself? But it was late at night; he gave up the idea.

Next morning, however, he was hurrying to the place. He had become so impatient that half the journey he did by running. When he was near the pole he could see its top clearly, and to his great consternation even saw something hanging from the wires. The parcel had not gone——!

He tightened his dhoti and his turban and began scaling the pole. He sat himself on the cross bar and lunged forward to snatch the parcel, when he noticed that it was not his parcel after all but a different one, tied in a dirty old rag. He loosed its knot, put it under his arm and hastily glided down the pole. On opening it he found an old pair of sandals and a small note written in pencil.

It was the note that made all the difference, for otherwise Gopal would have flung the thing in the nearest well and gone home cursing. But the note, well the note——

He returned to the town. At the post office he approached one of the professional letter-writers who were sitting on the steps waiting for clients.

“Read me this letter, will you?” he asked the man, handing him the note and seating himself beside him.

The letter write put his penholder behind his ear, opened the note and began reading it:

“To Gopal Mali, his son Pandu Mali sends his respects. I got the new pair of sandals which you sent me. Yes, the roads in the city are long, and so I wore out my previous pair soon. This new pair will come very useful, and thank you very much for it. Herewith I am sending back my old pair, which please keep.”