BY "VAGHEESAI"

It was a hot summer afternoon. The wind was blowing in gusts, bringing the dust with it. Our little station of D–looked deserted and sad. Afraid of missing the train, I had come here an hour ago, and was sitting in lonely splendour on my bundle of clothes and bedding, waiting patiently. I was going to Bombay to meet my son. He was my eldest born and the hope and the darling of the family; he had just finished his course in England and was returning home, crowned with success. But I felt cheerless and depressed. Would my son, hereafter, ever pay me the respect due to a father? I was only a poor clerk and he would be a big official, moving on terms of equality with Englishmen. Perhaps he might even feel a little ashamed of me–the thought of it stung me. A snub-nosed boy came running along the platform, crying out "The train is coming! chiff! chiff! The train is coming!" I started up and lifted my bundle, when he laughed out and said "Come along, sir, this is the train. One anna is my fare–won't you get in? Surely you must be tired of waiting!" I swore under my breath and tried to catch him, but he was too quick for me and ran away.

I again sat down on my bundle, but the next time the snub-nosed boy passed me I hit him on the shoulder, and that somehow relieved me. At last the train came, and soon I was comfortably lodged in a third-class compartment. A sharp whistle and it started off.

In my compartment, there were only three other men besides me. Two of them were evidently Punjabis. They wore long flowing beards and coloured turbans and talked to each other in a language I did not understand. The third man was a South Indian like me. He was a shabbily dressed and morose looking fellow who sat in a corner by himself, poring over a newspaper three days old. He did not even look up when I got in. So there was nothing for me to do but lean out of the window and gaze at the monotonous stretch of Agaves, planted along the railway lines. Presently a coal dust falling into my eye, I withdrew my head sharply within. Then I began to study my companion. He was a small dark and middle-aged man with a crumpled coat worn at the sleeves and neck; a torn shirt and a dirty dhotie. His hair was dishevelled and flying about, his face pinched and haggard. He had large dreamy eyes, but once, when he turned towards me, I saw there was an almost wild look in them. He somehow interested me very much, so I made bold to interrupt his reverie, for it was soon evident to me he was not reading his newspaper.

"May I know how far you are travelling, Sir?"

The man started, as one waking from an ugly dream, and dropped his paper.

"I–I am going–not very far–only as far as Raichur," he replied and smiled in a peculiar manner.

"That is not so near either," I said. Then I explained to him where I was going and for what purpose.

"You must be a proud father," he said and again relapsed into silence.

It was very difficult to make him talk, but I was determined to draw him out. I talked at random of all sorts of things, wondering what would interest him. Among other things, I mentioned philanthropy and spoke with great warmth of Father Damien and others who had sacrificed their lives for the sake of others. That seemed to rouse him at last. He became very excited and said, in an eager tone, "This reminds me–I will tell you a story. Will you listen to me? It is a true one, so you must not try to see a moral in it."

"Certainly," I replied gladly, "go on."

He began–

"When I was young, I had a friend. He was a very gifted young man. He could talk to you by the hour and make you forget your dinner! I often forgot mine, listening to him. I used to meet him at the Club. All the younger men there worshipped him. The older men envied him. And everyone had great hopes in him.

But–he was an idealist. This, sir, is a dangerous thing. I know it from experience. This unfortunate man believed in the inherent goodness of everything and specially in his own goodness. This is, of course, ridiculous. Men may be divided into the clever and the dense, the rich and the poor, the lucky and the unlucky,–whatever you like. But, the good and the bad! Bah! If men are good, it is because they fear either the Police in this life or the torments of Hell in the next. And some are good from sheer indifference or force of habit."

This was more than I could stand. Here was a man, who was still young, smashing up all my pet doctrines of life in one stroke! These were comforting doctrines to me and so I clung to them. Also, his superior tone and the assurance with which he expressed his absurd opinions–all irritated and annoyed me beyond measure. But an under-current of sadness, of almost despair, in his voice, made me keep quiet and let him go on.

"My friend had a beautiful and charming wife. She was the only daughter of a rich old man, who died a few months after her marriage, leaving all his money to her. She was very young then, and loved and trusted her husband implicitly. She was willing to sacrifice anything for his sake. And God, what a dog's life he led her! He made her live in a hovel and cook for him and all the dirty crew he brought with him daily, while all their money–her money, that is,–went towards the scheme for the betterment of the cheries around. Such self-sacrifice! The poor people blessed him as they passed his house. That was all he wanted. And much good their blessings did him!

Yet, his wife was not unhappy. Her lark-like voice was heard singing in the hot, dark kitchen that had become her prison now. Then, one day, a dry ugly little cough came and the bird could sing no more. The doctor warned my friend. It was not too late yet, he said. A change, fresh air, somewhere near the sea, and plenty of rest might work miracles.

"Rest, change! I can't afford it, man!" came quick reply, "Can Munian, the cooly, give his wife a change? Or Ramudu, the shoe-maker? No more can I."

It was useless to argue with him–The doctor rose and went sadly away.

A few short months, some red red blood, and the little bird was silenced for ever.

Now, Sir, you must not think my friend had no affection for his wife. He loved her deeply, fiercely even. It was this doctrine of living for others, and to him his wife was part of himself. This gave him no pleasure whatever and yet he could not break away from it. It had become a sort of dead habit with him. You understand me, don't you? A dead habit, that's what I say. All of us harbour these foul corpses within our bosoms. They lie there, snug and warm, kept warm by our heart's blood. And yet they are cold, cold and dead! Ha, ha!" And he burst into mirthless laughter.

I became seriously alarmed. I thought he was beginning to rave.

"Are you ill?" I cried out. "What is the matter with you?"

" Not ill, no, I am not ill" he replied hastily, "Only a little queer. I get this feeling sometimes. But it will soon pass away." He closed his eyes and passed his hand rapidly over his forehead several times. Then he looked up at me and suddenly smiled.

"You thought I was becom ing delirious, did you? No, my friend, I am all right."

By this time we had already reached Raichur station. My companion picked up his travelling bag and made ready to get down.

"But your friend, how is he now? Has he realised his folly at last or does he still–No, please don't go away without telling me."

The second bell was ringing now, but I kept a detaining hand on his arm.

"Oh, there is no friend, can't you guess? He exists only here."

And tapping his forehead lightly with a finger, he disappeared quickly into the crowd.

Long after he had gone, I sat there, in dazed bewilderment, oblivious of my own little sorrows; till at last the great meaning of his words slowly dawned on me.

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