Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma by R. K. Narayan Page B

much more than his working – when all his pride and seriousness were bestowed on the latter. ‘Your meal will be late today,’ she explained. ‘I’m going to give you
Aviyal
for your dinner; Ramu has gone out to the market to buy the vegetables for it.’ A stew of over a dozen vegetables; Srinivas was very fond of it: his mother used to feed him with it whenever he came home during vacation in those days: how the girl remembered his particular taste in all these things and with what care she tended him now. He was touched for a moment. ‘But all this puts an additional burden on one in life,’ he told himself. He asked: ‘I’ve a guest; can you manage some coffee for him?’
    ‘Yes, who is he?’ He held the door slightly open for her to see through. ‘Oh, that man!’ she exclaimed. ‘Why has he come? Have you not paid the rent?’ She added: ‘Not enough coffee for two.’ Srinivas said: ‘Hush! Don’t be so cantankerous. Poor fellow! Put out the sitting-planks.’
    The old man was overjoyed when he heard the invitation. He became nearly incoherent with joy. He was torn between the attraction of the offer and shyness. For the first time Srinivas observed that the man could be moved by shyness. ‘No, no, I never eat anywhere. Oh, don’t trouble yourself about it … No, no …’ he said, but all the same got up and followed Srinivas into the kitchen. He grinned affably at Srinivas’s wife and commented flatteringly: ‘I have always told a lot of people to come and observe this lady for a model. How well she looks after the house. I wish modern girls were all like her.’ Srinivas gently propelled him to a plank, on which he sat down. He observedfrom his wife’s face that she was pleased with the compliment, and Srinivas felt that the old man’s coffee was now assured him. His wife came out with a tumbler of water and two leaves and set them in front of them. She then served a couple of cakes on each leaf, and the old man rubbed his hands with the joy of anticipation. At a signal from Srinivas he fell to; and Srinivas wondered how long it was since the other had had any food. ‘What do you eat at nights?’ he asked testingly. The old man tore off a piece of cake and stuffed it in his mouth and swallowed it before he answered, shaking his head: ‘I’m not a youth. Time was when I used to take three meals a day – three full meals a day in addition to tiffin twice a day. Do you know –’
    ‘That’s remarkable,’ agreed Srinivas admiringly. ‘But now what do you do?’
    ‘I’m a
Sanyasi
, my dear young man – and no true
Sanyasi
should eat more than once a day,’ he said pompously. He ate the cakes with great relish. When a tumbler of coffee was placed beside him he looked lovingly at it and said: ‘As a
Sanyasi
I have given up coffee completely, but it is a sin not to accept something offered,’ he said.
    ‘You are right,’ Srinivas replied, and added: ‘So drink it up now.’ The old man raised the tumbler, tilted back his head, and poured the fluid down his throat; he put down the tumbler and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He shook his head appreciatively and murmured: ‘If somebody is going to make coffee as good as this, it will prove very difficult for people like me to who wish give it up.’ Srinivas’s wife acknowledged the compliment with a smile and asked, half peeping out of the doorway: ‘When are you going to give us another tap?’
    ‘Oh!’ cried the old man. ‘How many people ask me this question every morning!’
    ‘I have to fill up every vessel at three in the morning, and even then people try to be there earlier,’ she said. The old man made a noise of sympathy, clicking his tongue, got to his feet and passed on to the washing-room without a word. After cleaning his hands and face he went on to the front room and sat down on the mat. Srinivas still sat on the plank, saying something to his wife, and the old man’s voice reached him from the hall.