My Days by R. K. Narayan Page A

familiar ground, only half-way between Mysore and Bangalore; it would be like being in both places at once. Many were the benefits and blessings of being posted to Chennapatna rather than anywhere else, and of course I caught a part of their enthusiasm and had pictured Chennapatna as a haven of pleasant prospects. But the memories and impressions created in childhood could be very misleading. My train arrived at Chennapatna at about ten-thirty in the morning, and I had to climb into a jutka with a roll of bedding and my trunk, and drive straight to the high school in order to report for duty before eleven. The government order had said, “You must report yourself in the forenoon on the first of December.” This was the first of December, and forenoon. I paid off the jutka and left my baggage on the school verandah and went into the headmaster’s room, announced myself, and signed a register of service. The headmaster gave me a few words of welcome and advice, and sent me off to a sixth-form class to teach Tennyson’s “Morte d’Arthur.” I had no notion how I should teach. An old servant of the school, whom we used to call Venkata, followed me uttering advice in a menacing undertone. He had survived since the days of my father’s headmastership. He said in a warning manner, “Take care that you don’t let down your great father’s reputation.” He used to escort us when we were children during our evening walks, and now did not seem to recognize that I was a grown-up and a teacher appointed by the government. He warned me, “If you don’t maintain the reputation of my old master, I will not let you off lightly, remember!” While I took my seat in the teacher’s chair, he stood at the door surveying me with great satisfaction, and nodded his head approvingly when I tapped the table with my hands and cried, “Silence!” Somehow it had an effect. An eerie silence ensued as the boys studied their new master with interest. “Page seventy . . . I hope all of you have your copies ready. Never come to the class without your books,” I said, discovering a new principle for myself. “I am very strict about it.”
    â€œYes sir,” said a few voices in a chorus. I didn’t like it. Perhaps they were being ironical. There was a tall Muslim boy in a last row. I looked at him and said, “You read out on page seventy.” He got up. Too old for his class. He was slow in taking out his book and turning the pages. The boys looked around with smiling faces. I didn’t know why. The tall boy was also smiling without reading out. I felt I had committed a mistake, but how could a teacher go back on his command? “What is your name?” I asked.
    â€œAnweruddin.”
    â€œAnweruddin,” I said, “I hope you have your poetry book.”
    â€œNo sir,” he said.
    â€œThen what is that book in your hand?”
    He held it up for me to see. I could not make out at this distance what he was displaying.
    â€œBring it here,” I said. He stepped forward and walked up. The class was enjoying the scene. I could hear giggling and whispers. I took it and said, “Why don’t you try and fetch the right book? I don’t like people coming in without their books.” I had enunciated a principle and had to stick to it. Moreover, old Venkata’s words about living up to my father’s reputation still rankled in my mind. I was going to prove who was the real master here. He hesitated, and I said rather firmly, “Now you may go and fetch the poetry book if you have left it somewhere.”
    â€œYes sir,” he said and turned on his heels and went back to his seat. Giggles and whispers and a mild excitement running through the class. I felt victorious. On the very first occasion one should establish one’s superiority. If that was delayed, one would forever be taken for a milksop. In spite of the