mindâa glorious solution to all difficulties. Die and go to a world where there were young men free from examination who sported in lotus pools in paradise. No bothers, no disgusting Senate House wall to gaze on hopelessly, year after year. This solution suddenly brought him a feeling of relief. He felt lighter. He walked across to the hotel. The hotel man was about to rise and go to bed. âSaitji,â Iswaran said, âplease forgive my troubling you now. Give me a piece of paper and pencil. I have to note down something urgently.â âSo late as this,â said the hotel man, and gave him a slip of paper and a pencil stub. Iswaran wrote down a message for his father, folded the slip and placed it carefully in the inner pocket of his coat.
He returned the pencil and stepped out of the hotel. He had only the stretch of the Race Course Road, and, turning to his right, half the Market Road to traverse, and then Ellaman Street, and then Sarayu . . . Its dark swirling waters would close on him and end all his miseries. âI must leave this letter in my coat pocket and remember to leave my coat on the river step,â he told himself.
He was soon out of Ellaman Street. His feet ploughed through the sands of the riverbank. He came to the river steps, removed his coat briskly and went down the steps. âO God,â he muttered with folded hands, looking up at his stars. âIf I canât pass an examination even with a tenth attempt, what is the use of my living and disgracing the world?â His feet were in water. He looked over his shoulder at the cluster of university buildings. There was a light burning on the porch of the Senate House. It was nearing midnight. It was a quarter of an hourâs walk. Why not walk across and take a last look at the results board? In any case he was going to die, and why should he shirk and tremble before the board?
He came out of the water and went up the steps, leaving his coat behind, and he walked across the sand. Somewhere a time gong struck twelve, stars sparkled overhead, the river flowed on with a murmur and miscellaneous night sounds emanated from the bushes on the bank. A cold wind blew on his wet, sand-covered feet. He entered the Senate porch with a defiant heart. âI am in no fear of anything here,â he muttered. The Senate House was deserted, not a sound anywhere. The whole building was in darkness, except the staircase landing, where a large bulb was burning. And notice-boards hung on the wall.
His heart palpitated as he stood tiptoe to scan the results. By the light of the bulb he scrutinized the numbers. His throat went dry. He looked through the numbers of people who had passed in third-class. His own number was 501. The successful number before him was 498, and after that 703. âSo I have a few friends on either side,â he said with a forced mirth. He had a wild hope as he approached the Senate House that somehow his number would have found a place in the list of successful candidates. He had speculated how he should feel after that . . . He would rush home and demand that they take back all their comments with apologies. But now after he gazed at the notice-board for quite a while, the grim reality of his failure dawned on him: his number was nowhere. âThe river . . .â he said. He felt desolate, like a condemned man who had a sudden but false promise of reprieve. âThe river,â Iswaran muttered. âI am going,â he told the notice-board, and moved a few steps. âI havenât seen how many have obtained honours.â He looked at the notice-board once again. He gazed at the top columns of the results. First-classesâcuriously enough a fellow with number one secured a first-class, and six others. âGood fellows, wonder how they managed it!â he said with admiration. His eyes travelled down to second-classesâit was in two lines starting with 98. There were about fifteen. He
He returned the pencil and stepped out of the hotel. He had only the stretch of the Race Course Road, and, turning to his right, half the Market Road to traverse, and then Ellaman Street, and then Sarayu . . . Its dark swirling waters would close on him and end all his miseries. âI must leave this letter in my coat pocket and remember to leave my coat on the river step,â he told himself.
He was soon out of Ellaman Street. His feet ploughed through the sands of the riverbank. He came to the river steps, removed his coat briskly and went down the steps. âO God,â he muttered with folded hands, looking up at his stars. âIf I canât pass an examination even with a tenth attempt, what is the use of my living and disgracing the world?â His feet were in water. He looked over his shoulder at the cluster of university buildings. There was a light burning on the porch of the Senate House. It was nearing midnight. It was a quarter of an hourâs walk. Why not walk across and take a last look at the results board? In any case he was going to die, and why should he shirk and tremble before the board?
He came out of the water and went up the steps, leaving his coat behind, and he walked across the sand. Somewhere a time gong struck twelve, stars sparkled overhead, the river flowed on with a murmur and miscellaneous night sounds emanated from the bushes on the bank. A cold wind blew on his wet, sand-covered feet. He entered the Senate porch with a defiant heart. âI am in no fear of anything here,â he muttered. The Senate House was deserted, not a sound anywhere. The whole building was in darkness, except the staircase landing, where a large bulb was burning. And notice-boards hung on the wall.
His heart palpitated as he stood tiptoe to scan the results. By the light of the bulb he scrutinized the numbers. His throat went dry. He looked through the numbers of people who had passed in third-class. His own number was 501. The successful number before him was 498, and after that 703. âSo I have a few friends on either side,â he said with a forced mirth. He had a wild hope as he approached the Senate House that somehow his number would have found a place in the list of successful candidates. He had speculated how he should feel after that . . . He would rush home and demand that they take back all their comments with apologies. But now after he gazed at the notice-board for quite a while, the grim reality of his failure dawned on him: his number was nowhere. âThe river . . .â he said. He felt desolate, like a condemned man who had a sudden but false promise of reprieve. âThe river,â Iswaran muttered. âI am going,â he told the notice-board, and moved a few steps. âI havenât seen how many have obtained honours.â He looked at the notice-board once again. He gazed at the top columns of the results. First-classesâcuriously enough a fellow with number one secured a first-class, and six others. âGood fellows, wonder how they managed it!â he said with admiration. His eyes travelled down to second-classesâit was in two lines starting with 98. There were about fifteen. He
Similar Books
