HIDE AND SEEK

(A short story)

By BUTCHI BABU

(Translated by the author from his own Telugu version)

It all happened suddenly. He woke up half refreshed from the afternoon nap and, yawning lazily, he looked up at his reflection in the looking glass on the wall. The hair receded at the temples, grey hairs showed through the black ones, the brow was lined and there were crow’s feet round his eyes. He wondered whether he was as old as he looked. They say a schoolmaster looks old but he was happy he was no more a schoolmaster. The School management were busy building up a case for his discharge from service on the ground that he preached atheism and free love to the students; but actually it was a vindictive step provoked by his zeal for reform. For, Ramadass had threatened to make public the affairs of the management, his chief charge being the misappropriation of school funds. But, with the exception of a few youngsters, nobody believed him. They had always looked askance on his views and now they had come to regard him as a crank. He had no alternative but to tender his resignation which he did that forenoon. As he looked at the mirror, Ramadass made a wry face at the reflection. He might be fifty but he was no more a schoolmaster.

In the mirror, he saw reflected, the old deal-wood box in the corner. He walked across the room, opened the lid of the box and began to rummage idly at the contents. On the top were the few letters which he had written to his wife, Kalyani, during the early days of their marriage. He took out one and began reading. He was surprised at his capabilities as a lover. Yet, during the six years of their married life, he was consumed by jealousy. He was jealous because she remained cold and aloof. It was a coldness, amounting to frigidity, which chilled his ardours. He thought, she never surrendered herself completely to him, because there was someone else. Another grouse was, she bore him no children. He wondered whether something was wrong with him. He wanted to put it to test by taking another wife. He was not rich enough to provide for two wives. Also they might quarrel among themselves and make his home like hell. Ramadass was then thirty two years old and fell in love with a young girl living in a nearby house. But of course he did not keep this a secret from his wife. The result was, she charged him with unfaithfulness and made angry scenes. In a way these scenes made him happy because they gave him a sense of power over his wife. Some months had elapsed and Kalyani contracted pneumonia. Ramadass recalled, with aversion, the many friends who used to come enquiring after her. Some one among them, he thought, must be intimate with her, and his inability to place the adventurer maddened him. However, these trials were short-lived, for Kalyani died and he was a free man. His freedom to remarry came too late, for the girl he had desired to marry was married to some one else and had settled down elsewhere. All this had happened fifteen years ago and Ramadass, ever since, remained a widower. He hoped love would come again into his life, but it did not; he was miserable. Soon he learnt to glory in his unhappiness. His married life was a failure and he came to believe that marriage is a bore. His preaching was consistent with his experience. He said children are a nuisance, besides over-populating the country. He thought men humbugs and women wicked. However he forgot himself in his work as a teacher and his cynicism gave his teaching a peculiar force.

Ramadass put aside the letters and took out the album of photographs. The album had been his wedding present and he often looked at the wedding photograph, for it brought him sad memories. He was then so slim and graceful. People, who looked at it years after, expressed surprise when told that it was himself. He was so changed that he took out the photograph from the wall and put it inside the album lest it might call forth comment which should pique him. Then there was his photograph as a boy of fifteen with wide, innocent looking, eyes. It was ironical that he never enjoyed the quietude of innocence. A strange sense of sin haunted him, and in vain he sought escape from it, for it returned again and again. It was in a way a small matter–the failure to call the doctor in time when his wife was in bed with pneumonia. At the time he never thought it would take such a serious turn; even his wife had spoken lightly of it. The doctor himself never hinted that he was called in too late. His wife had died, and it looked as though he was somehow responsible for it. Some people–probably those who envied his freedom–had made vague remarks that her death had suited him. His life had been a sort of running away from this sense of guilt and he hastily put away the album of photographs. He rummaged below for some clothing with which to cover the album. He picked it up and found that it was a theatrical costume, worn out and faded–a relic of his histrionic activities in his younger days. There were others too, made of muslin, the king’s tunic, the minister’s turban in gold lace, and a sherwani in striking crimson. At the bottom was the loose long yellow-coloured robe of the mendicant, and whiskers. There was also the T-shaped palmyra stick, short and crooked, on which the monk supported himself when he sat in meditation. As a teacher, Ramadass was in charge of the annual school stage event, and often he himself had taken the role of the sage Narada–the mischief-making sage of classical mythology–who composed quarrels. Ramadass had always wanted to be an actor; something told him that he had in him the makings of a great actor. His life itself had been a long piece of superb acting. There he seemed to have succeeded but on the actual stage he was a failure. After the death of his wife, he wanted to be a philosopher and a sage in real life. Once he met a band of mendicants in a railway carriage. They spoke to him of the glory of renunciation, and of the ecstacy of meditation in the heart of the Himalayas; he thought of Buddha and of Ramakrishna and was lost in imagined spiritual bliss. As the train stopped, however, the band of mendicants were marched off by the ticket examiner for ticketless travel, and his vision was shattered.

Almost without his knowing, Ramadass had donned the loose garb of the monk, attached the whiskers to his chin, wound a piece of yellow cloth as turban, and looked into the mirror on the wall. The costume fitted him admirably. He looked every inch a sage. The look of benevolence, the pursed lips, and the purposeful knitting of eyebrows–these had imparted the calm of repose. The grey hairs now symbolised maturity and wisdom. Yes, this was his real forte. He was meant for the role of the Recluse. Suddenly an idea occurred to him–how will it be to look at the world in the make up of the mendicant! It should be a thrilling experience. The clock struck three as though it approved of his idea. He called to the maid and told her that she need not come for the day. He took the T -shaped stick in his hand, bolted the door of the wall inside, locked up the door opening into the yard, looked up and down the street, and making sure that none had seen him, stepped out.

He walked a few steps, so as to get a complete view of his house, and gazed at it fondly, as though he was looking at it for the last time. A minute after, he started walking briskly and soon came on to the main thoroughfare, wondering whether anybody had recognised him. As he looked on the passers by he felt distant and somehow superior. There they were, miserable, crawling humanity, each wrapped up in a cloud of care, weeping for what they knew not. That was the bank clerk hurrying back home from office–his home was another bank where he handed over money to his–life across the bedstead. In that car went the Government official hatching schemes that would secure him rapid promotion. As their ambitions were fulfilled they became bolder and aimed at bigger things, till at last the clouds burst and destroyed what they had achieved. Yet, they were happy because they wanted some thing. Only those who did not know what they wanted were unhappy.

Ramadass came to the park where urchins played and pedlars were trying to sell things. He saw a couple of ‘Sadhus’ inhaling ‘bhang’. Anxious to avoid running into them, he moved on stealthily and came to the bank of the canal. Alongside of it were several huts and a group of women seated under a tree, weaving palmleaf baskets. He began walking briskly till he reached a solitary spot. He heard footsteps and when he turned round, he saw a man who accosted him with the traditional obeisance. He was careworn and his eyes were wet with tears which he brushed aside with a towel thrown across his shoulder. Ramadass wondered whether he should speak to him.

‘You are sad’ he remarked.

‘Yes, Swamiji,’ the man said ‘Please take me away with you.’

‘Whereto?’

‘Any where. You came from the Himalayas?’

‘Yes.’

There was a pause.

‘I shall ask nothing of you’ the man began, ‘Only take me to a lonely, far off place, where there is peace and quiet.’

‘But why? What is the matter?’

‘Oh, I am fed up with life.’

Ramadass smiled dryly.

‘What do you know of life, that You should begin to dislike it?’ he asked, remembering similar statements made by the ‘sage’ who usually appeared in the films.

‘Swamiji, I know enough to want to go away from home and never return. Please let me come with you,’ the man said disconsolately. Ramadass was startled at the prospect of going out with this disciple. He was groping for some appropriate remark when the man suddenly held up his right hand and said:

‘You are a sage from the Himalayas and you know now to read palms. Tell me what is in store for me.’ Ramadass was surprised and fell back a step. He did not know what to do. Should he tell him that he did not know to read palms? He took the palm in his hands and gently caressing it, scrutinized the lines.

`‘There is a great future for you’ he said. It was safe and noncommital.

‘No. Swamiji–I have no future. I had only a bitter past. I shall come away with you. I shall renounce life.’ With this the man sank on the bank and buried his face in his hands. Ramadass sat down beside him, gently patting his shoulder.

‘Don’t be childish–he began, for he was able to speak better while the man was not looking at him. ‘You are too young to think of these things. You should remain at home, look after your wife and children and, inspired by their affection, serve society. By running away from society you are disturbing the cycle of life,’ said Ramadass wondering what it all meant.

It pleased him to realise that nothing is easier than philosophising about life. He had read and heard of these things a hundred times and the words came readily.

‘Yes, my child. This is only a passing fit. It will soon go off. The world is a stage which is never blank. You have got to play your part well. Think of the many wonderful things you are going to achieve. Think of the dreams which come true through your children. They carry on where you left off and life is an eternal becoming.’

‘No Swamiji–I can never look forward for a woman’s love and inspiration.’

‘But why? Do tell me.’

‘It is a sad story and the telling of it gives me pain.’

‘You are mistaken, my young man. Our burdens are lessened by sharing them with others. May be I may help you to overcome the gloomy thoughts and reconcile you to life. But first I am eager to hear your story.’

‘Oh Swamiji, you are a holy man and I dare not make myself small in your eyes by telling of earthly love.’

‘Nothing is too small for the Almighty–all acts are ordained by Him, including even earthly love. But tell me your story.’

The man wiped his face, placed his chin on the knees and idly throwing stones into the water began to tell his story.

‘It was an ordinary marriage arranged by my parents. The girl was good looking and the moment I saw, I took a liking for her. She was then nineteen and I was twentyfour. After the honeymoon I went back to the college and, completing my studies, returned home, eight months after. She was by then delivered of a male child. The boy was christened Hari. Soon after I took a job and we had settled down happily for five years, when my second child ‘Radha’ arrived. Hari was always deeply attached to his mother and I felt that he regarded me with hostility, while at the sawe time a bond had sprung up between myself and Radha. A friend of mine one day remarked that Radha resembled me. I suddenly saw that Hari did not resemble me, and that he had features which did not take after my family. I was seized with the lurid suspicion that I was not the father of the child. Hardly ten months had elapsed after the marriage and I could not believe that I was the father...”

He stopped here and fell into a silence. ‘Is that all? There is such a thing as premature delivery,’ put in Ramadass.

‘Yes. But what about the features? My suspicions grew stronger as the months rolled by and I began to look up among my friends and relations and find out the truth. For I had not the courage to face her with a charge unsupported by evidence. Her affection and tenderness for me had begun to grow with my suspicion. I thought it all a pose, deliberately assumed to lull me. I made vague references, threw sly hints and there were scenes, each of which ended in increased showers of mutual love. But...but...’

The man broke out into sobs. Slowly he recovered and proceeded with his narration.

‘This afternoon I found the truth.’

‘Won’t you explain?’

‘I have no doubts about it. The father of the boy ‘Hari’ is my friend Lakshmipathy. We were friends since schooldays and worked at the same place for a few years. At the time of my marriage he was in the same place where I was. Afterwards he was transferred to another town and two days back he came to see us...

I saw his features in Hari. He was of course a close friend of mine and my wife eagerly joined in our conversation. There was a mute understanding between them which I could not penetrate. It was not so much what they said as the way in which they looked at each other and at me that put me on my guard.’ Ramadass gave a mild laugh and said:

‘Is this the use you find for your best friend, making him a target for your suspicions?

‘But that is not all. Lakshmipathy departed this morning. The thing happened when I returned home after seeing him off. It was midday. Radha was asleep and Hari had not come home from school. I crossed the hall and gently pushed aside the door of the bedroom. I found her seated on the cot with a scrap of paper in her right palm. The moment I entered, she closed her fingers around it and concealed the fist in the folds of her saree. She had had an oil bath; her hairs uncombed hung loosely on the shoulders and the wetness of the body still clung to her saree. I asked her what it was. She shuddered at my question but there was hauteur in her bearing.

‘Nothing’ she said.

‘I know what it is.’

‘Then why ask me?’

‘Only to verify my guess.’

‘Tell me your guess first.’

‘I won’t.’

‘Then I won’t tell you what it is.’

‘Give that paper to me’, I said, advancing a step forward.

‘I won’t give it to you’, she said, and fell back a step.

‘I can take it by force.’ I muttered in a hoarse whisper.

‘Can you?’

‘I say give it to me’, I cried aloud and caught hold of the end of her saree which had fallen on her knees.

‘Please don’t touch me. Keep away’ she pleaded in a defiant tone.

‘Why don’t you give it to me?’ I asked.

‘Why do you persist in asking for it?’

‘Because I know everything.’

‘Don’t be silly. What do you know?’

‘You know what I know.’

‘I know nothing.’

‘They say the husband is the last man to know,’ I said..

‘Aha’ she said, suppressing a laughter which can only be called hysterical.

‘Then he should also be the last man to believe,’ she ended.

I became blind with rage, and struck on her mouth, and tried to snatch the scarp of paper from her palm. She wrestled with me, and supporting herself on the bed-post, gave me a tremendous push, and I fell on the bed in a heap. I walked into the hall, to pick up something with which to hit her, and took hold of the flower vase. I hurled it through the threshold and it struck at ‘Hari’ who had entered just then. There was a loud moan and suddenly the doors were closed on me. I heard the boy saying, ‘go away and don’t come back to us’, or something to that effect. I was dazed, like a man who fell headlong from a mountain-top. I walked out and here I am. I can never get back home. Oh Swami, take me with you.’

The man’s lips quivered and his frame shook with each fresh sob. Ramadass took up the man’s face in his hand and looked deeply into his eyes.

‘Look, my dear friend. You say ‘I this’ and ‘I that’. Where is this ‘I’? It does not exist. If you are hungry you cry for food; if you are tickled you laugh, if you are hurt you weep. What is there in all this which distinguishes you from the rest? Forget ‘I’ and you are no more subject to tears and laughter. You think of your ‘self’ till at last you come to hate it. That is why you wanted to run away from home. You are not really hating your wife or children; you are hating yourself. That flower vase you threw at your wife, and which hit Hari, was really aimed at yourself. And you ran in pain.’

Ramadass wanted to quote a Sanskrit text from the Bhagavadgita but his knowledge of it was shaky and he did not want to betray his ignorance.

‘Yes, Swamiji, I wanted to love them, but how can I love a polluted object?’

Ramadass smiled.

‘No, my friend. You do not love her, you only desire her. But desire fades with years. To be able to love when desire is no more–that is true love’. ‘But, Sir, what is the good of love without happiness?’

‘Yes, my friend, you think you seek happiness. What you really seek is thrill, excitement and novelty. These things pass as the body decays. But love remains and the heart is filled with bliss. You have decided to go away...?’

‘……’

‘Now, look in your heart. Do you find hate, ‘do you see jealousy?’

‘No; you speak in a language I understand; now there is peace in my heart’

‘Think of your children and your wife’, continued Ramadass. ‘Pour out to them your love, make them happy and you achieve happiness. That is the message of the Vedas.’

‘But how can I?’

‘Why not?’ You have not seen the scrap of paper which you thought your wife concealed from you. It may be an ordinary piece of paper. It may be an old letter which you yourself had written years ago, in the prime of youth. Old memories make one happy. She might have been reading an old letter.’

‘If so, why could she not show it to me?’

‘You see, my son, like you, she too has a self. You asserted yourself and she was provoked to assert her ‘Self’. Your domineering approach might have roused her to antagonism. It is a conflict of wills–of secret selves. Now, please go back to her. Fall on her lap, tell her you behaved like a fool and ask her pardon; and she will open her heart to you, and love you with a love that encompasses the universe.’

‘You want me to love a child born to someone else?’

‘Yes, my son, all of us are children of God. Love the child even if he were born to someone else.’

‘No, no, Swamiji, I can’t do that.’

‘You can. Your wife might have sinned in ignorance, as a victim of circumstances. Forgive her past and give her a chance to be good. There is none among us who is good from birth to death. We falter and fumble, make mistakes, indulge in foolish acts and thoughts, then realise and repent. Do look at me. Do you honestly feel that you never sinned that way? Surely you thought of other women and other excitements...”

‘Yes, but I am a man.’

‘And she is a woman, with the added responsibility of fulfilling herself through motherhood.’

‘If what you say is true, there is no morality!’

‘People think of morality only in connection with sexual irregularities. Acts prompted by dishonesty, greed, envy, falsehood and corruption–these also are immoral; and these are condoned and, in some quarters, even acclaimed if they lead to affluence. I once knew...’

Here Ramadass checked himself.

‘Yes Swamiji...you speak as though you had a great experience of life.’

‘Nothing. I have no experience of life but I know what love is. It can be as big as the universe, and as lasting...’

Ramadass fell into a melancholy and the man rose.

‘Come with me, young man’ said Ramadass guiding the man’s steps.

‘Where to?’

‘We shall go to a doctor, take him home and attend on your child.’

They began walking in silence.

‘Forgiveness and resignation, love and faith these are not empty words’ began Ramadass as they passed by the huts on the bank.

‘Poverty and sickness, disease, hate and war, and above all, the inability to love, these are the great evils of life. Go back to your home, to those who hunger for your love and affection. Serve them and you serve God.’

They reached the park. The man quickened his pace.

‘Oh Swamiji, you are wonderful. I am beginning to see light. There is peace in my heart. I shall go back...now...I shall run to the doctor and attend to my boy...oh how I hurt my poor wife...I shall love her...oh Swami, what can I do for you...?’

‘I did nothing, I deserve nothing. Live for others and God will bless you.’

The man walked away and soon disappeared behind the park.

Ramadass gave a short, dry laugh. He was tickled with what had happened. He thought philosophy a sham and man a humbug; he never seriously thought of God. Yet here was a man who took solace from him, who believed in him. How gulible, how foolish men are to be swayed by pompous phrases and empty sentiments. Sweat broke out at his brow and he was piqued that his own eloquence had stirred him emotionally. He took out the turban and pulling at the edge, he wiped his face; he sun cast long shadows and twilight fell like a scarlet mantle on the trees and the street. He saw the Sadhus wind up their bags and chatting merrily walk towards the canal. One of them turned back and looked at him. Ramadass quickly put on the turban and walked to the other side of the park. He washed his face and drank some water at the tap. He bypassed the pedlars and the beggars and walked inside the park. He felt tired and exhausted. He selected a wooden bench in the corner and sat on it with the legs drawn up, and closed his eyes; a few minutes had elapsed, and he heard the ringing laughter and high pitched voices of a group of children at play.

Children are usually up to all kinds of mischief and he wondered whether he should move away to another spot. But they were absorbed in the game and had not noticed him. He was amused with their gay laughter and joyous abandon and he sat watching. The crimson faded from the sky and dark violet shadows had gathered on the west. Somewhere a factory horn sounded; and pigeons rose high up in the trees.

Ramadass saw and counted six children playing at hide and seek. One was a girl of about six or seven and evidently the thief; for, a kerchief was put across her eyes and tied into a knot behind. The other five ran hither and thither, hiding behind the benches and the bushes nearby. The girl, with faltering steps, was groping, trying to catch whatever came her way. She was coming nearer to Ramadass. He was about to stand when the girl caught his shoulder and cried out ‘Here is the culprit. I got the culprit. I got at last...’ There was a roar of laughter from the others. The girl pulled out the cloth from over her eyes and the children gathered round her. ‘He is the culprit’ said the girl as the others began to pull at Ramadass. He was afraid lest his whiskers should come off. He rose up and the girl felt bashful and ran away giggling, and the others ran after her.

Ramadass reached the entrance to the park and saw a jutka stop some yards away. The man who went home, and his boy ‘Hari’, alighted from it and ran to him.

‘Oh Swamiji, I knew you would be here. There, you see, my wife and my girl ‘Radha’ are in the jukta. We came to the park and I knew you would be here. My wife wants to pay her respects to you. This is my ‘Hari’–he was only slightly bruised. The doctor put a bandage and, Swamiji, what you said was right. What she was reading was not an old letter; she was only looking over an old photograph–our wedding photograph. It was exactly as you had described. The photograph transported her into a world of romance, and I was an intruder. I was foolish, I told her all and sought her pardon. You are a miracle, Swamiji. But wait a minute, I will bring her here. The man went hurriedly followed by Hari. Ramadass saw the woman alighting, get down, and walk slowly towards him. He looked at her and quickly walked away. When the man returned he was gone far and the man whet running after him. ‘Oh Swamiji, why do you go away? Won’t you bless my wife and children?’

‘God will bless them and you too...but 1 must go.’

‘Where to?’

‘Home.’

‘I thought you said you had no home.’

‘Yes, my son. God is my home.’

Ramadass began walking quickly till he came to the main thoroughfare. He saw the man turn back towards the park. Ramadass knew the moment he saw Hari that he himself was the culprit. Only a few hours ago he had seen the photograph of himself as a boy of fifteen. Hari closely resembled the boy in the photograph. The words of the girl at play ‘I caught the culprit’ rang in his ears. The laughter knocked at his heart and he was unmasked. He thought philosophy sham and man a humbug. He was the humbug. Did he love his wife and ask her forgiveness? Was his threat to expose the school management inspired by hate for them or by love of the good?

Did he ever believe in others? Did he believe in himself? Why did he not call the doctor in time when his wife was ill? Was it not an unconscious wish that if she died, he could marry the other woman, who bore his child?

He reached the street which led to his house. His pace slackened and his eyes had become wet with tears. A six-day old moon stood on the sky covered by a thin white cloud. He looked at the faint stars, the wan moon and saw a light flash in the darkness of his mind. The street was empty. Here and there a light showed up in the windows of the houses. There was his house, where he hid all these years. He was always hiding, in the house, in the school, behind whiskers and gowns. And now he was sought out. He could hide no more.

Ramadass suddenly turned back, walked on and reached the end of the street. He crossed the main thoroughfare and walked past the park and soon came to the tents on the bank of the canal. He pulled out his whiskers and threw them in the water. He walked on and on, towards the blue hill covered in mists, towards too mystery beyond.

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