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Man eater of Malgudi – R K Narayan

I could have profitably rented out the little room in front of my press. On Market Road, with a view of the fountain, it was coveted by every would-be shopkeeper in our town; I was considered a fool for not getting my money's worth out of it, while all the space I needed for my press and its personnel was at the back, beyond the blue curtain. I could not explain myself to sordid calculating folk. I hung a framed picture of Goddess Laxmi poised on her lotus and holding aloft the bounties of earth in her four hands, and through her grace I did not do too badly. My son, little Babu, went to Albert Mission School and felt adequately supplied with toys, books, sweets, and other odds and ends that he fancied from time to time. My wife gave herself a new silk sari, glittering with lace, every Deepavali, not to mention the ones acquired for no particular reason at other times. She kept the pantry well stocked and our kitchen fire aglow, continuing the traditions of our ancient home in Kabir Street.

I had furnished my parlor with a high-backed chair made of teakwood, Queen Anne style as claimed by the auctioneer who had sold it to my grandfather, a roll-top desk supported on bow legs with ivy vine carved on them, and four other seats of varying heights and shapes.

Anyone whose feet ached while passing Market Road was welcome to rest in my parlor, filling any seat that happened to be vacant at the time. Resting there, people got ideas and allowed me to print their bill forms, visiting cards, or wedding invitations. But there also came in a lot of others whose visit did not mean a paisa to me. Among my constant companions was a poet who was writing the life of God Krishna in monosyllabic verse. His ambition was to compose a grand epic, and he came almost every day to recite to me his latest lines. My admiration for him was unbounded.

I felt thrilled to hear clear lines such as "Girls with girls did dance in trance," and I felt equally thrilled when I had to infer the meaning of certain lines, as when he totally failed to find a monosyllable but achieved his end by ruthlessly carving up a polysyllabic word.

On such occasions even the most familiar term took on the mysterious quality of a private code language. Invariably, in deference to his literary attainments, I let him occupy the Queen Anne chair. I sat perched on the edge of my roll-top desk.

In the other best seat, a deep basket in cane, you would find Sen the journalist, who came to read the newspaper on my table and held forth on the mistakes Nehru was making. These two men and a few others remained in their seats even at six in the evening when the press was silenced. It was not necessary that I should be present or attend to them in any manner. They were also good enough, without being told, to vacate their chairs and disappear when anyone came to discuss business.

Between my parlor and the press hung a blue curtain. No one tried to peer through it. When I shouted for the foreman, compositor, office boy, binder, or accountant, people imagined a lot of men on the other side, although if it came to a challenge I should have had to go in and play the ventriloquist.