WATERMAN NARAPPA

(Short Story)

By R.S. MUGALI, M.A.

(Rendered from Kannada by K. Sampathgiri Rao, M.A.)

(1)

Muddabbehalli, a taluk headquarters town in Vijayapuram district, was only a big village. Though removed from the railway station by some twenty miles, it was removed from civilisation by hundreds of miles. A court and some offices are there with some officials and graduates who made their living; they are islands surrounded by a sea of ignorance. Latterly a few buses ply to this village, and sound their horns announcing reformed life. In the wake of buses have sprung up some tea-shops and cigarette booths, catering to different communities, and providing the amenities of civilised existence. One of these shops is dedicated to the Radio goddess, and invites people to see and hear her. But the life of the people continues as a stagnant pool. If there should be any new ideas, it is like disturbing the stagnant water,–they are like garbage washed to the brink and strike no roots.

In such a village was a lawyer of the name of Bhagavantha Rao; Waterman Narappa arrived into his house. Naturally this raises the question whence he came: and indeed Narappa’s advent was something that attracted notice. Bhagavanta Rao was a noted lawyer, and his constant visits to villages had spread his fame far and wide. In any big criminal case he was certain to be the Defence Counsel. Those who were accused of murder took refuge in him hoping to be acquitted by his forensic skill, for he was so keen in argument and so fluent. Once he went to a village in connection with a murder case. The Headman of the village had made elaborate arrangements for his dinner and stay. But no cook was available. There was none to be found among the Brahmins of the place. Bhagavanta Rao was camping then for four or five days. Just about that time Narappa came to the village to call upon the Headman. He was not a professional cook or water-carrier but was handy at all jobs at a pinch. He readily agreed to go to the rescue of his life-long friend, the Headman. The question of dignity or prestige never once crossed his mind. The lawyer was greatly pleased with his efficient services. His preparations were delicious and the lawyer even acknowledged that his success in argument before the presiding Magistrate was indeed the result of the tasty rasam Narappa had served him.

One night he was taking rest about 10 o’ clock at night quite tired after a day’s hard intellectual work. His work in the village was over and he proposed to return to Muddabbehalli the next day. He was reclining on an easy chair with legs out-stretched before the village chavadi. It was a bright moonlit night. Suddenly a bright idea struck Bhagavanta Rao, and looking at the Headman who was sitting near, he said: “Look here, we shall have Parched Rice and Curds tonight. Send for four or five pots of curds.” The Headman heartily welcomed this chance of arranging a farewell dinner as suggested. But soon a shadow passed over his face as it was doubtful if he could secure curds so late at night. Immediately servants were sent round, but, as ill-luck would have it, no curd pots were available. Only an old woman had two pots in her keeping–it was found after some investigation and research. The village Headman went to the old woman himself but she would not part with the curds. She said that they had to be delivered to someone the next day and in any case she was not going to open a curd pot on a Monday. The real reason must have been that she feared she would get nothing in return from the Headman. The Headman returned disappointed. The lawyer awaiting the Headman’s return had dozed off to sleep on the easy chair and probably had dreams of Parched Rice and Curds! Narappa who was silent all this while broke in: “You wait; I shall bring the pots from the woman,” and taking a couple of rupees from the lawyer’s clerk went to the same old woman. He did not at first refer to object of his visit. He spoke of himself as an astrologer, hinted at the birth of a grandson to the old woman and thus insinuated himself into her favour. The old woman was charmed with his talk, bristling as it was with proverbs and wise sayings and looked upon him as almost a godly personage. After talking of this and that, he said, “You see, revered lady, you have always curd pots though they may be scarce in other houses.” “Yes, I have two, sir” owned the old woman. “Then please give them to me,” said he, and with this he took out the two rupees tucked in the cloth round his waist, and jingled them on the floor. The old woman’s mouth watered at the sight of the coins. “But today is Monday, sir,” she groused. Narappa led the old woman, outside the hut, showed her the full moon in the sky and said, “Look,’ Monday is past and Tuesday has come. It is past mid-night. Take my word, old woman, I am an astrologer.” And thus Narappa wheedled the two curd pots out of the old dame and carrying them on both his shoulders, stalked back to the chavadi, like Maruti carrying Rama and Lakshmana. The lawyer, who had just got out of his doze, and the Headman who was eagerly expecting him, were both greatly surprised at his success. It need hardly be mentioned that the further programme of Parched Rice and Curds was successfully gone through. Next morning when Bhagavanta Rao was leaving the village, he invited Narappa, “Narappa, go with me, and stay in my house.” Somehow Narappa was tired of his own village and he felt that the lawyer would be of help to him. So Narappa readily fell in with the proposal and after a few days went and settled down in Bhagavanta Rao’s house.

(2)

The arrival of Narappa brought great relief to Bhagavanta Rao in many ways. Muddabbehalli was notorious for its water scarcity. The wells of the village were mostly situated on its outskirts and people had to undertake long pilgrimages (as to Tirupati) to fetch water. If there was sufficient rain the tank would, fill and the wells too would get their supply of water. But if the rains failed, it was a different story. Instead of water one found frogs and crabs in the wells. In the past, they say, the village, was well stocked with water as in the Malnad regions. But water seems to have become scarce with the advent of modern people. And so it was a common sight to see ladies from all households, high and low, the lawyer’s as well as his clerk’s, undertaking their daily trek to distant wells. As Bhagavanta Rao prospered in his profession, he arranged for his supply of water through professional water- carriers. But still the ladies of the household were not entirely exempt from the drudgery. After Narappa came, he fetched all the water himself without allowing any one else to take any trouble in the matter. Moreover Bhagavanta Rao had married a second time only two years previously, and he was loth to expose his charming wife to this sordid task. His elder sister was a widow, and had been living for a long time past in his household. She was attending to kitchen work with the help of the new daughter-in-law. So Narappa became merely Waterman Narappa! Bhagavanta Rao had two children by his first wife–a boy four years old and a girl of two. He had employed the services of a person only to look after them and play with them. He felt that his second wife might not take so kindly to his first wife’s children. But somehow he had persuaded himself that a man employed on a salary would take adequate care of them. As time passed, he realised that this was a vain expectation. The man employed by Bhagavahta Rao was just doing mercenary work. But the atmosphere changed with the advent of Narappa into the household. The children took to him very affectionately and would not be separated from him. As soon as Narappa’s daily task of fetching water was done, he spent his time with the children, playing, talking, and sightseeing in their company. They were very fond of his interesting talk and fine story-telling. And Bhagavanta Rao’s second wife Susheela Bai, who had entered the house with apprehensions because of the presence of step-children, was gratified by the ways and demeanour of Narappa, and his cheerful, humourous manner lightened her life. Thus Narappa became a favourite of all.

He looked a happy soul and a fine jolly fellow. But this was only on the surface. Whoever suspected the thousand torments that troubled his inner life! Only some features of his daily life caused some surprise to the people in the house. As soon as he got up in the early morning he would go round the Tulasi plant muttering some prayers. He had installed an image of Maruti ¹ in front of the Brindavana. He would sit in front of the image offering prayers, slap his cheeks by way of repentance, and offer devout prostrations to the image. Often he was heard giving vent to heavy sighs. After a cup of tea, he wou1d smoke a country cigar, and get ready for his task of carrying water from the well. He was lank and thin of build but his limbs were firm and pliant like stalks of bamboo. It was a sight to see him hurrying back with a springing gait from the well carrying two pots of water. His body was dark of complexion and his face was a shade darker still, sunburnt by the tropical sun of the plains. And excessive smoking had rendered his lips particularly black. Only when he laughed and made others laugh, his shining rows of white teeth betokened his purity and character. Later, he wore a woollen piece of cloth and brought a few pots for the use of those who observed ceremonial purity. All this would be over by noon. And then he would have his cold water bath at a well, and, with his clothes dripping with water, he would visit the temple of Hanuman in front of the village, pour a pot of water on the image, go round the temple, offer prostrations and return to the house in the blazing sun. By that time Bhagavanta Rao would have had his dinner and gone to the court. Every day he had his food along with the ladies of the house–a late and cold meal. The lawyer had often remonstrated with him, out of sincere affection, to have his food earlier. He told him sternly to finish his ablutions and worship, earlier and join him at dinner. But to no purpose. Narappa’s was an iron will and his observances were inflexible. One day, returning from the Hanuman temple with bare feet and parched with thirst, he leaned against a wall and sank down. Susheela Bai who was seeing this felt greatly sad. Half in fun, and half in sorrow, she said to him: “Look here, Narappa, you go to the Hanuman temple every day without fail and pour water on Hanuman But what has he given you in return?” Narappa was roused by these words and he spoke with some warmth, “What you say, madam, is not untrue. I wash him every day with water. He has not softened towards me. He is a piece of stone and I am another. But, see, we must suffer our Fate. Has not the saint sung–

‘Can a man who flies from one place to another,

flee from the effects of his past Karma?

The mountain peacock, shedding

tears, can hardly soften the hunter’s heart.’

Susheela Bai rejoined ‘True enough’ and laughed.

Narappa used to have a nap for about an hour after dinner. After a wash, he would take out the bundle containing his old papers, documents and song books, and pore over them. His brother had wasted the ancestral property. A few good bits of land which had been mortgaged were likely to come back to his possession. He had begged Bhagavanta Rao to help him secure these properties, and the lawyer had said, “Let us see.” If he could get this much of help in return for all his services, he considered himself well-rewarded, and lived in that hope. Towards evening, clients returning from the court or other friends would gather in front of Bhagavanta Rao’s house. After taking his tea, Narappa would sit with the children and entertain them with his endless stories and encyclopaedic talk. He had perhaps read up only to three or four primary classes in the villages school, but the traditional idiom of the Kannada language was at his command and flowed from his lips like a perennial current. His humour was remarkable. He had suffered his fill of disappointment and sorrow, and had acquired the art of glossing them over with a veneer of humour. It was not the profound realisation of Vedantic truths: it was merely an intellectual reaction to the ironies of Fate of which he had been a victim.

All kinds of people made up to him and engaged him in talk. Ningappa was among those who got into his company. Ningappa was fond of litigation in courts and, though he lost his lands as a result of it, his fondness for courts had not left him. Narappa knew all about him. Once Ningappa asked him, “Narappa, I am wondering when I shall get back my fortune.” “Shall I tell you when?” replied Narappa laughing. “This sun must rise in the West and set in the East: the stream in front of your village must turn back its course. Then you shall regain your fortune. Even the Bombay High Court Judge cannot rub off the line of Fate engraved on your forehead. You have heard the story of Kunti’s sons, haven’t you? It is like that. Somehow, anyhow, Kunti’s sons shall not have their kingdom, as the saying goes. It is the same with us. Who owns anything forever on this earth, Ningappa? You gain a span and lose a yard–all gone to the dust.” Ningappa was gaping with wonder at this torrent of words. Still he would not give up expressing his optimism. “But, Narappa, our village astrologer is a knowing man. He also said that my lands would be redeemed and come back to me by the New Year’s Day. Then we shall raise crops and you must come to partake of the produce.” Narappa could not restrain his laughter. ‘O, yes. It is by eating such produce that I have been reduced to this condition. Isn’t it like carrying bags to fetch the grain seen in a dream? Dear fellow, please bid good-bye to the courts, and start on a pilgrimage. Go to Srisaila.” In this way Narappa’s discourse, with humourous thrusts, flowed on; and Ningappa continued to watch with open mouth and wonder.

Narapppa had some knowledge of herbs. He prepared his own medicines for personal ailments. People too came to him for treatment. It was a free dispensary and was frequented by many people. More than his recipes, his wise and humourous talk helped in effecting many cures. Once a lad about 20 years old who had been stung by a scorpion came howling with pain. Narappa could not help laughing on seeing him. He performed his incantations, spat on one side, pinched the boy hard and asked him, “Has the pain decreased?” “O God, it is burning; the pain is increasing,” wailed the young man. “What?” exclaimed Narappa in disgust. “Burning–is it? Is your body a lump of firewood? You who cannot put up with a little sting of a scorpion, how are you going to manage a family tomorrow, my young fellow?” The bystanders burst into laughter in Which the unfortunate young man could not help joining. Narappa’s chaffing helped to alleviate the pain, and peoples confidence in his curative powers increased.

Narappa’s treks to fetch water became less frequent in the evenings. He brought just four or five pots of water when it was absolutely necessary. His evenings were usually spent in lonely walks to the neighbouring village. A mile from Muddabbehalli, near the village of Muddanahalli, there is a field. It is surrounded by trees. It appears a devotee had a dream that Good Venkateswara of Tirupati was hidden in the rock. Since then worship was being offered to that stone. Some devotees had put up a platform there. There Narappa used to go and sit in peace. He used to offer his prayers to God Venkateswara for happiness and peace in life. One evening, as the sun was setting, its golden rays suffused the whole land as if a light yellow cloth had been spread over the earth. The leaves were fluttering and dancing in the gentle breeze. Just then a young husband and wife, with their child, from Muddanahalli came to offer their worship to Lord Venkatesa. They offered their prayer for the granting of their cherished desires. They took some of the ash and charcoal bits lying about and smeared it on their faces and the child’s and went back satisfied and happy. Narappa was watching the scene from his seat; but he was so demure and glum that they did not feel like engaging him in conversation. After going a few paces, the wife asked, “Who was that?” “Well, who knows answered the husband, “maybe a Sanyasi.” Narappa overheard this conversation. He was touched to the quick. Controlling himself with some effort till the visitors reached a safe distance, he jumped down and exclaimed, standing in front of the stone, “Yes I am a Sanyasi–only, a Sanyasi with wife and children,” and he fell to sobbing loudly. The picture of his family came vividly before his eyes. The wife whom he did not want, the child who was blind, and his own miserable life made up his family, and made his life an unending agony. He was enveloped in darkness. He sighed heavily, then pulled himself together. Folding his hands in prayer before Lord Venkatesa, “It is a dreary wilderness. But I have hardened myself. Death is the end anyhow, and then, I shall have release,” he prayed. He then trudged back to the village.

(3)

Narappa had grown to be a favourite in the village. If anything impossible had to be done, Narappa could be depended upon to do it. He became the trusted counsellor of Bhagavanta Rao, His first wife’s children had grown on Narappa’s lap, and took more to him than to their step-mother. Thus passed eight or ten years. Susheela became mother of a boy and a girl and the children were growing. Somehow they did not take kindly to Narappa. But Narappa was equally eager to play with all the children. Love of children was part of his nature. But in spite of him, differences showed up. Susheela Bai got the idea that he was fonder of her step-children than her own, which was not true, but she didn’t give expression to it for fear of offending her husband. The innocent children had, by their behaviour, only strengthened the notion of Susheela Bai. Once Narappa went on a visit to his village after a long interval. To the first wife’s children the home lost its charm in his absence. They were remembering him at every turn. It happened that the boy took ill with fever. Susheela Bai sat near him and did all she could to nurse him. But he was not feeling comfortable and was calling for Narappa every now and then. It was an unbearable situation for Susheela Bai. “Whatever I do, these children are not pleased,” She said with tears in her eyes. “Why so?” asked Bhagavanta Rao, “Why? Because of that incarnation of your first wife whom you have brought into the house,” said Susheela Bai in a moment of indiscretion. “Ah! Who may that be?” asked the lawyer with some annoyance. “Who else, but Narappa, the dirty Narappa,” answered the lady. The lawyer was deeply disturbed on hearing these words. He hummed and hawed but didn’t know what to say. “One should not use these words against such a person,” was all he said mildly. But the lady did not stop there, “Well, what is past is past. All this is because you have admitted him into the household. You have no idea of the differences created by him. Only those who suffer can understand. I can swear by God that he has not so much as touched any of my children,” proceeded Susheela Bai piping the usual tune of the jealous second wife. The lawyer’s heart shook within him that the demon of jealousy had entered his household. He uttered a few conventional words of comfort, and removed himself from the place on the pretext of some business.

Narappa returned from his village after four days. What he experienced in the village had cast a gloom on him: his cheerfulness was gone. Still he tried to recapture something of his buoyant temperament. He heard about the illness of the eldest boy; but naturally he had no idea of other things that had happened. But somehow he gradually realised there was a change in the demeanour of the lady of the house. He didn’t however mind anything else and became absorbed in his duties as usual. The lawyer’s daughter by his first wife was now fourteen; and the problem of her marriage became a source of anxiety to her father. After a prolonged search in many quarters, he at last decided on a match for his daughter, the dowry to be paid being two thousand rupees. The boy was a B.A. and had an income from his property of about a thousand a year. Narappa was as pleased as Bhagavanta Rao at this choice. He was happy that the girl whom he had brought up was going into a good household. He decided that the marriage should be performed with all due grandeur and he assured the lawyer of his best services to make the occasion a grand success.

The marriage was fixed to take place in the middle of May in the month of Vaisakha. This was the first big celebration in the lawyer’s house and preparations for it went on for two or three months. But the lawyer was filled with anxiety in regard to one particular matter. The wells in the village were drying up. The rains had failed this season. The village tank had breached and a great deal of water had been lost. Everyone was afraid of water scarcity such as had not been seen for ten or twelve years past. The girl had grown up, and putting off the marriage was out of the question. And neither the lawyer nor his friends liked the idea of having it celebrated in Tirupati or a far-off place quietly. If a noted lawyer like Bhagavanta Rao did not celebrate his daughter’s marriage in his own home-town, it would not redound to his glory. This social aspect of the matter led to the decision that the marriage should be performed in the village itself. One day the lawyer called Narappa into his room to take counsel with him regarding the problem of water: Narappa also agreed that the marriage should be performed in the village itself. “But how shall we provide for water?” asked Bhagavanta Rao. “You leave that to me,” assured Narappa. “Anyhow I have earned the name of Waterman Narappa. I shall see how much water there is in me.” The lawyer felt encouraged by this assurance. He knew well the capabilities of Narappa. So he said, “All right” without further thought. Somehow, Susheela Bai came to know what had passed between her husband and Narappa. That very night she put the other side of the case before her husband in the privacy of their room. “What does that Narappa brag about? There is not a drop of water in any village well. What is there for him to draw? One’s eyes are filled with water before one can get enough water for one’s daily needs.” “But,” said the lawyer, “don’t you know the prowess of Narappa?” “O, Yes, I know all about it. Drinking tea and smoking beedies, he has a strong chest indeed. He gasps ten times before bringing home a pot of water. You don’t understand these things. Later we shall be exposed to disgrace in the public eye,” said the lady. “Then where do you think, we should celebrate the marriage?” “Somewhere, say Yalagur, for instance, and have a quiet function.” The lawyer was greatly disturbed in mind by this conversation. He thought there was the malice of the step-mother behind all this. “Yes, yes, what matters it to you where the marriage is celebrated?” said the lawyer with undisguised disgust. And at this the lady wept and moistened all the sheets on which she lay.

May had begun. Only fifteen days were left for the marriage. The friends and relations of the lawyer began to arrive. The spacious residence of the lawyer was crowded with women and children, like a motor lorry on the day of a village fair. A thatched pandal was erected in front of the house and it was being decorated like Indra’s Palace-hall. But the water situation grew alarming day by day. There were queues of pots before every well in the village. There was a small vessel or cup accompanying each pot. People kept awake far into the night awaiting their turn. The placid life of the village seemed to hum with activity on this account. Water provided the sole topic of conversation. The summer was growing warmer but there was no indication of rain. When the skies were overcast and streaks of lightning appeared, “Yes; it may rain,” said the optimistic lawyer. But the lightning was like a mocking smile. “What shall we do? If there is no water at all, how indeed can you fetch any,” said Bhagavanta Rao in anxious tones to Narappa eight days before the marriage. “Don’t you worry, sir. Has not Sarvajna, the wise poet said, ‘The one who does things without talk follows the best way’?” The lawyer was obliged to be silent. To the wise sayings quoted by Narappa, what could indeed be added? But he was at a loss to know what stunt this modern Sarvajna was up to in the present crisis.

Narappa visited the surrounding villages within a radius of two or three miles, just as he visited Muddannahalli daily. About two miles off there was a big well with plenty of water. It was by the roadside. This turned out to be very convenient. Narappa secured four bullock carts and four pairs of bullocks, enlisted the services of eight to ten boys who used to carry water for the villagers, and, equipped with huge metallic pots, put them into the carts, went to the well at 4 A.M. and returned with the rattling and gurgling noise of water pots by 8 A.M. to the village. There were still two days for the marriage. The previous night Bhagavanta Rao went to bed and the nightmare of water-scarcity oppressed him. Waking up next morning, behold! there was water and any amount of it in the house. He was astonished said, “Bravo! Narappa!” “Nobody should waste water. Every one should realise what it means to Narappa to fetch all this water,” mildly appealed Bhagavanta Rao to every one in the house. “No, no,” rejoined Narappa, “No one should think of my trouble. This is a marriage house. Let everyone spill as much water as he or she chooses. I shall replenish all you need,” said Narappa like one inspired. It filled everyone with admiration for his prowess. In this drama of the marriage celebration, Narappa was the hero, and he became the centre of admiration by his extraordinary capacity for work.

The marriage celebration was a great success. The lawyer’s joy knew no bounds. “Truly he is Waterman Narappa,” was the universal chorus of appreciation. “I have justified my existence,” said Narappa to himself, immensely gratified by all this praise.

(4)

A month went by after the marriage; and the feast usually held to mark the end of the month was also celebrated. By that time the rains had come and the wells were supplied with water. Narappa’s burden was somewhat lightened. The marriage pandal was removed; the festoons of green mango leaves, which lent colour and grace to the auspicious occasion were now withered and dried up and consigned to the dung-heap. After the month’s celebrations, there was an unexpected incident. The gold necklace of Susheela Bai was missing. On the day of the feast numerous persons, including strangers, had assembled for dinner. It seems Susheela Bai had worn the necklace on that day, and, after polishing it, kept it on the platform in the worship-room in the evening and gone out as someone called her. She forgot all about the necklace. Next day when she was placing all the jewels and valuables back in her box, she noticed with a shock that the necklace was missing. Immediately she ran to her husband and told him about it. Everyone in the house carne to know about the loss. It was a valuable jewel, eight to ten tolas in weight. Who could have taken it? was everybody’s question. And then it was placed in the worship-room where servants or strangers had no access! Everyone was trying to solve the problem of the missing necklace. Suspicion moved and lighted for a moment on every possible person. Narappa was also greatly worried when he heard about the loss. But in his usual manner he consoled the lady “Why do you worry, madam? I shall trace it for you; the master himself may have hidden it from you in a mood of fun.”

This attempt to make Susheela Bai laugh did not succeed. Two or three days passed but still there was no trace of the necklace. One day the master was seated at dinner, Susheela Bai broached the topic. Narappa had gone to the Maruti temple as was his daily custom. Susheela Bai seemed bent on bringing the matter to a head. “I feel that someone who is well acquainted with the house has taken it,” she insinuated. “Whom do you mean?” asked the lawyer. Instead of answering directly she said, “The man who enjoys your utmost confidence.” “Ah, who may that be?” asked the lawyer with some amount of warmth. “Who else?” rejoined the lady, and just at this moment unfortunately Narappa returned home. Susheela Bai did not notice this but went on. “Narappa, your trusted Narappa,” she said with some scorn in her voice. These words fell on Narappa’s ears; he was startled and sat up to listen. The lawyer was also dismayed. “What! You mean Narappa is the thief? Your head has gone wrong,” said the lawyer raising his voice. Susheela Bai with a tearful face persisted, “Yes, I am always wrong, but that day when I left the necklace in the worship-room and left the place, Narappa was filling the vessels with water in that very place.” She advanced this evidence with her prejudiced mind. “Enough of your words,” said the lawyer with anger and went to his room.

By then Narappa, burning with resentment at the conversation he had overheard, had gone to the backyard of the house. He was shocked and thunderstruck beyond words. He was terribly pained that in this house they talked about him in this manner. Later, he retired to his room, wrapped himself up and rested. The lady sent word, through servants, calling him to dinner. He pleaded indisposition and excused, himself. She misunderstood this rather seriously. “What need of food for him after securing a precious necklace! Well, only we who talk about it make fools of ourselves,” she groused. That night was indeed a night of agony for Narappa. He could not get a wink of sleep. He was plunged in thought and at last came to a serious decision. Morning dawned.” Narappa went to the lawyer’s room and said abruptly, “Please give me leave.” Greatly surprised, the lawyer asked, “Why? What for?” “I want to go,” replied Narappa. The lawyer didn’t like the way things were developing, and made Narappa sit down and talked over with him. Without assigning any definite reason, Narappa begged for permission to leave. The lawyer obstinately refused to grant his request. Knowing that Narappa’s reason for leaving might be that he was the victim of an undeserved suspicion, the lawyer reassured him, “Don’t take these things so seriously. I am here with you.”

Thus two or three days passed. Susheela Bai, with conventional insincerity, asked him not to leave. But to Narappa a house that he had looked upon as his own for the last twelve years, now seemed forbidding, with people who scorned and suspected him. He could not bear the situation any longer. He packed up his things, and went one morning to the lawyer’s room and said to the master, “Don’t stop me any more; I am going with pleasure. I was the child of your affection all these twelve years. That has been enough. As Rama had his twelve years of forest life, I spent twelve years in your company, that has been my good fortune.” Saying this, he offered his prostrations to the lawyer and took his leave. The lawyer was visibly moved. Tears trickled down from his eyes and he said in a husky voice, “Well, then, good-bye. I may recover the necklace; but how shall I get one like you!”

Narappa went into the house and took leave of Susheela Bai and the lawyer’s sister. “Give me your blessings,” he said, “I have served you as Maruti served Sita. If I have done any wrong, pray forget it,” and left them. He embraced the children whom he had reared up and bade farewell to them. They sobbed at the separation. Taking up his things he passed the front door. The neighbours who looked on were greatly moved. One of them asked, “Where are you going” Narappa?” “Where else? I am going to the place wherefrom I came. All things have sometime or other to get back whence they came. If the village monkey strays into the town, won’t it be beaten back with sticks?” And joking in this strain he went on his way. A number of people followed him some distance to the very border of the town, and bade him farewell. His humorous words flowed on as ever. But now they evoked in the hearers mixed feelings of joy and sorrow.

On the day that Narappa left, Susheela Bai may have dined to her heart’s content. But not one soul in Muddabbehalli relished his or her meal that day.

¹ Hanuman.

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