My last article was my own view. But this article cannot be actually called a article. It is a light hearted and good short story of R.K.Narayan. Please give your comments if you like it and if yes, what you like in it.
NITYA
"Nitya, at six on Friday morning," said his father determinedly, "We leave by bus." Nitya noticed preparations at home for this trip, Mother planning a packed lunch for three and filling a basket with coconut, flowers, and incense for worship at the temple. Nitya very well knew how much he was involved in their plans. His mother had talked of nothing else whenever he stepped into the kitchen for coffee. "After all, a vow has to be fulfilled," she would keep repeating. Nitya would try to change the subject, banter, joke and run away. They had made a vow to God in a distant hill that Nitya's head would be shaved clean and his hair offered with due rites if his life was spared. That was when he was two years old and stricken with whooping cough and convulsions. Now he was twenty, and although the time limit for fulfilment seemed to be past, yet, they felt, it would not be safe or proper to postpone further. When casually turning the leaves of an old diary, Father discovered the record of their promise to God. Mother, too, recollected having knotted a little coin in a peice of cloth as a reminder, although she could not trace it now. The promise and the diary were lost sight of during Nitya's growing years when the family suddenly found itself drawn into a legal battle over their property. The case was prolonged year after year through the labours of a specially gifted lawyer on the opposite side who could manoeuvre a postponement out of the toughest judge at a crucial point, with the idea of starting it all over again before a new judge in due course. Father was determined to fight it out as the will was unequivocally in his favour and made him sole heir to the property. By the time the final decision came his assets had dwindled, his lawyer himself had changed from a scintillating youth of promise to a toothless character in a frayed gown haunting the corriders of the civil court.
Today, when Father mentioned a firm date for the trip, Nitya protested, "It doesn't concern me, your twenty year old promise. You had no business to pawn my scalp without consulting me."
"You were only two years old then."
"You should have done it when you could handle my head as you pleased."
"But you were very sick and for a long time, too."
"I have survived, which proves that the disease died rather than me and so where is God's hand in this, if there is a God and if he is interested in my hair?"
His parents were aghast at his manner of talk. Mother pleaded, "Whatever you do, don't talk like that."
Father admonished, "Nitya, you must not be blasphemous. If God hadn't responded to our prayers and saved your life......" He could not complete the sentence.
"Was it a bargain?" Nitya asked leeringly.
"Yes," replied his father. "It was indeed a bargain and there can be no going back on it."
"Very well, but the head offered for a shave was not yours. You have been carrying on negotiations with a commodity that did not belong to you."
"It was for your welfare."
"Did I ask for it?" Nitya asked puckishly. His mother burst into tears. Father remarked with a scowl,"You talk like a sinner, cold and godless. Wonder where you inherited from."
At this point their neighbour, an alcoholic who had stationed hinself in front of the house listening to the debate, suddenly thundered from the street, "Silence! I am wifeless. Others have two or three- selfish bastards!" He had been a chief engineer in government service, but was dismissed for drunkenness, and later abandoned by his family, too. Nitya loved his antics as he strode up and down the street shouting obscenities after visits to the tavern at the market. Nitya had nopted in his private journal: "The merry engineer mistook the kitchen for the toilet, and that proved too much for his better half." Now on the pretext of sending him away, Nitya went down the steps and escaped his parents. Later, however, his father kept a close watch on him and clung to him till they reached their seats in the yellow bus at the market gate on Friday.
Father looked triumphant with Nitya secure at his side in the bus, and engaged him in a small talk. Mother sat away from them in a back row, enjoying the company of women returning to their villages. The bus passed through Ellaman and crossed Nallappa's Grove and climbed the other bank of the river, splashing up water. The driver displayed immense self-assurance and goaded his bus on with reckless gusto. Passengers were tossed sideways and jolted up and down, but no one minded except Nitya. "What sort of journey is this?"
"You must learn to be patient, my boy, ours is a poor country. We cannot afford the luxuries they have in Bombay or Madras." The passengers, mostly villagers, were happy chatting and laughing and also exchanging jokes with the conductor from time to time. Passengers got in and out all along the route whenever the bus stopped with its wheels screeching and churning up dust. At certain points the bus became almost empty, at others overcrowded, the conductor shouting,"Move up, move up." People got in somehow and stayed on somehow, packed to the windscreen. No one protested, but parted with their coins cheerfully. The conductor, hanging on the footboard precariously, pocketed all the cash, which inspired Nitya to note in his diary, "The bus rocks and sways, and sighs with its burden, but won't burst yet. Perhaps the last straw is yet to arrive. But the real question is, Who owns this? Definitely not this conductor, though he grows heavier every minute with the coins dropping like manna into his pocket."
"You should get down here and walk up to that hill, the bus can't take you there," said the conductor at a stop. They struggled their way out of the bus, Mother carrying her bundle of offerings and food delicately through the crush. As the bus started on its way again, Father asked the driver, "When are you returning?"
"At five, six, or seven; if you miss, tommorow morning."
The temple perched on a hillock was visible across the field, but it was impossible to judge the distance. A track formed by the tread of feet meandered through the fields. They had to cross in single file with Nitya in the middle, Father ahead, and Mother bringing up the rear. Nitya reflected, Afraid I might run away, they are sandwiching me. But what chance have I, trapped by slush and vegetarian on both sides of this narrow path.
An hour's walk brought them to a hamlet skirting the base of the hillock. Nitya was on the point of asking, Why come so far, if God is everywhere? I could as well have surrendered my head to our Vinayak Street barber, who shaves you at your doorstep. As if reading his mind, Father began to explain, "This temple was established by our ancestors five hundred years ago-earlier; it's on this hill that Kumara annihilated the demon whose name I can't recollect now."
Demon is a demon, whatever the name," said the young man. Father ignored his quip and continued,"The temple was built by a Chola king who ruled these parts, and in course of time it was turned over to the care of our ancestors."
"How are you sure?" Nitya asked.
"You've got into the habit of questioning everything."
"I just want to know, that's all."
"Well, it is all recorded in copper plate, stone pillars, and palm leaves, from which deductions are made by scholars. Don't imagine you are the only wise man. There is a document in the temple in palm leaf mentioning my great-grandfather by name and commiting our family to the expenses of the annual Chariot Festival. I pay them two hundred rupees a year and twenty measures of rice for a public feast on that day. They come to the town for collections in December, ten days before the festival.... Luckily, a copy of this document is in my possession with the receipts of annual payments which clinched the issue in our favour at the appellate stage." Nitya noted later in his diary, "Even at this distance and on a consecrated spot my father is unable to keep his mind off the civil court, verily like the engineer of his wifelessness." When they came to the border of the village, Father slowed his steps and, with a slight frown, threw a general question in the air: "Where is everybody?" as if the reception committee had failed him.
He halted at a corner and shouted, "Hey, Rama," and a group of women and boys emerged from some corner and came running on seeing him. They invited him into their homes. Father said impatiently, "Yes, later. First the temple. Call the headman."
"They are all way weeding," said a woman, and turning to a young man jabbed his cheek with her forefinger and said, "Run up and tell Rama that the Trustee is come." The boy shot off like an arrow. They dragged out of their homes an assortment of furniture and put it up in the shade of a tree, and then bustled about and conjured up a bunch of bananas and a jug of milk for the visitors and laid the fare on a wooden stool. Nitya cried , "Oh, just what I need," and tried to reach out for a fruit, but Father said, "Not now, after the vow." (Nitya noted in his diary, "Not now, but after the vow, says God through my father in a perfect rhyme, while the banana wilts in the tray and the milk curdles irreparably.") The headman arrived. After the initial courtesies, much business talk ensued, with a crowd standing around and listening intently. Father enquired authoritatively, "Where is the priest? The temple must be opened. We have to leave by the evening bus."
The headman said out of courtesy,"Must you? You may spend the night at the rest house, sir. You have come after a long time."
Immediately, Nitya protested, "You may both stay back if you choose, but I want to catch the bus," feeling nostalgic for his evening group at the College Union. Mother said, "Be patient." But Nitya replied, "I've much to do this evening." Father said, "What could be more iportant than your duty to God? Be patient, having come so far."
The temple priest, his forehead ablaze with sacred ash and vermilion, shoulder wrapped in a red shawl, a lanky person with a booming voice, arrived dangling a large key in an iron hoop. After greeting the Trustee in the correct manner, he plunged straight into business, cataloguing his demands.
"The well at the temple needs to be deepened. The temple lock must be replaced. It is worn out, sir. These are very bad days. We are finding it difficult to get flowers for the worship. We were getting supplies from the other village. But they raise their rates each time and are very irregular too. They have to come up from the other side of the hill and don't like it, and so have started a rumour that they see a wolf or panther prowling around, and have stopped coming altogether."
"Nonsense, only an excuse," cried Father. "No panther or tiger in these parts, never heard such rubbish in my life."
"He mentioned wolf, not tiger," corrected Nitya.
"What if? It is just gossip and nonsense-the rumour-mongers!" Father cried with passion, looking outraged at the notion of any wild life in the vicinity of his ancestral temple. He dismissed the subject peremptorily and commanded, "Get the barber down. My son's tonsure today whatever happens," and the assembly looked with fresh interest at Nitya's head, at which he simpered, squirmed, and ran his fingers through his crop. The priest turned to a little fellow in the crowd and said,"Don't bite your nail, you fool! Go to the tank bund and tell Raghavan to come up with his tin box immediately, this very second. Run, run." The little messenger was off like a short again.
They started up the hill, led by the priest, a crowd following. It was a short climb, but Nitya's mother panted and rested in three places, while Father hovered around her and fidgeted impatiently. The climb ended at the door of the temple, which was unlocked, and two large doors were pushed open.It was a little shrine with a granite-pillared hall and paved corridor around the sanctum, which housed an image on a pedestal. Father became grim and devout. Mother shut her eyes and recited a prayer. The priest lit the wicks in the sanctum and the image began to glow with the oil anointed on it and gradually took shape. The priest was grumbling,"Even this oil is adulterated nowadays." He had managed to secure a handful of marigolds and nerium ad stuck them on image. While they were all in this state of elation, the young messenger returned from his mssion and bellowed from the door, "The barber's house is locked, not a soul there."
"Did you ask the neighbours?"
"They don't know. They only saw the family go out for the bus with their baggage."
Nitya cried aloud, "God is great, really."
Father commented, "This is the worst of it, having one barber for the whole place. He thinks he can do what he pleases. One and only Padmavathi for a whole city, as the saying goes," he said, unable to contain himself. His wife said with a frown,"Hush! What awful words to utter in this place" (Padmavathi was a reference to a whore). Father glowered at her for checking him, but they were all assembled in the presence of God and could not engage in acrimony. Nitya giggled but suppressed himself when his father glanced in his direction. The headman said in a respectful whisper, "Raghavan cannot make both ends meet unless he ekes out with the fee for playing the pipe at weddings. It is tehir family tradition." Father leaned over to Mother and whispered, "For thousands of years somehow barbers have also been outstanding pipers and custodians of pure classical music." While this was going on, the priest sounded a bell and circled a camphor flame around the image and they stopped talking and were lost in meditation.
When the priest came out of the sanctum, bearing a tray with camphor flame, a discussion began as to what course of action the scriptures prescribed when an essential barber was absent.
"We are at the mercy of a single man," Father kept repeating monotonously, firmly supressing the name "Padmavathi," which kept bobbing up again and again on his tongue. The priest put the tray back in the sanctum, came out, and joined the discussion. He finally said, gaping at Nitya's crop, which was the main topic of discussion and purpose of the trip, "Sometimes, the vow is taken to be fulfilled through a token performance with penalty added. These days young men will not allow barbers to come near them."
"They won't allow their terrifying whiskers to be touched either!" added Father.
"No tonsure is possible unless done in babyhood," said the priest.
"Too true, well spoken," said Nitya, pleased with the tenor of talks, and offered, "Get me a pair of scissors, and I will give you four inches of my front lock, the best available-that's all, and God will be satisfied. After all, with so many offerings, where can he keep his collection?"
The priest said, "The fruits and coconuts you have brought are adequate, leave them behind, and add whatever cash you can spare."
Father and Mother looked disappointed and kept throwing covetous glances at Nitya's head. Nitya felt relieved, but the relief threatened to be short-lived. Soon there was a commotion. Someone at the doorway announced excitedly, "Raghavan is coming up," followed by the appearance of a fat barber holding in his hand a tiny tin box. He was panting and perspiring; he started at the gathering form the doorway, and without a word went straight to the well at the backyard, peeled of his vest, drew a pot of water and emptied it over his head, and reappeared, dripping and ready. "He never opens his razor box without a bath at first when he has to perform a tonsure ceremony," explained the priest admiringly. The barber explained, "I had only gone to a nearby farm for a baby's first shave, that was all."
"Not to play the pipe at a wedding?" soemone asked.
"Oh, no. I have jealous neighbours who created false rumours to spoil my business. If I had known the Trustee was coming I would not have accepted even a thousand pieces of gold anywhere outside. When the boy came on a bicycle and told me, I snatched it from his hand and rode down immediately. Now I am ready, my master." Father and Mother looked pleased at this turn of events. Nitya giggled at the thought of the fat barber on the boy's bicycle. Father took Nitya by hand. "Let us sit on that stone platform in the corridor, that's where he shaves----"
Nitya shook himself free and said, "I agreed to give four inches of hair, it was up to you to have taken it. Now you have lost the opportunity, which must be siezed by the forelock."
"Now, with this man here, we must fulfil the vow as originally promised," said Mother.
"Let Father use the barber if he likes. I am not interested."
The barber started pleading and arguing. The priest edged up to Nitya with his pleas and said ingratiatingly, "You must not hurt your parent's feelings. Please move on to that platform, the barber is ready."
"But my head is not ready. You promised to accept four inches of my hair. Now you are demanding my head itself. Have you no logic or reason? No contentment or consistency? How can God tolerate fickle-minded people like you! Now I have changed my mind--I won't give even an inch......."
Both Father and Mother cried simultaneously, "Don't talk to the priest like that in his own temple." Nitya was angry, also hungry. They would not let him touch even one plantain out of the dozens offered by the villagers under the tree. While his parents stood staring at him helplessly, Nitya suddenly turned on his heel, dashed out, and sped downhill saying, "I will wait for you both at the bus stop, but only till the bus arrives......."
THE END
