A bit about the physical book itself: This is a paperback I bought in India (Bangalore). It’s clearly a foreign book—the paper is rather creamy, and the typesetting job is just slightly uneven, though there’s something satisfying about the way the paper seems to absorb just a little bit of the ink. It’s bound with little strings, and here and there in the inner corner of the pages you can see a little number that showed the binder how to put the book together. It’s full of the kind of object-ness, a feeling of being handmade, that you don’t get with e-books or electronic readers (yet—I can imagine uniqueness or idiosyncracies being built into future readers and documents).
I brought a few other Narayans back with me, too. He writes such perfect plain English.
Some quotes:
It was no use arguing with that man Varma; he was self-made, rising from a menial job to his present stature as the proprietor of the Boardless [Hotel], which fact proved, according to him, that he knew his mind and could never be wrong.
“Full of protein, you know, packed and hermetically sealed by nature, not the minutest microbe can sneak in: you may pick the nut off the road dust, crack it open, and eat it without fear of infection. Don’t you consider the arrangement splendid?”
“You are in charge?” enquired the visitor.
“Yes, sir, I’m the station master,” replied the man with a touch of pride but restraining himself from adding, I’ve still two years to go and then will retire honourably, back to my village where we have our ancestral land, not much, four acres and a house.
“Where is the waiting room?”
“Over there, sir, but please wait, I’ll get it ready for you.”
He himself took charge of the suitcase from the porter…
“Don’t drag it, I’ll carry it,” implored the visitor.
“Never mind, sir,” said the station master and would not let go his grip till he reached the verandah. The porter was gone to fetch the keys of the waiting room and also a broom, duster, mop, and a bucket. Opening the door, the station master begged, “Don’t come in yet.” With the porter’s help he opened a window, dusted and swept the room, and got it ready for occupation. He kept saying, “I’ve requisitioned for carpet and furniture at headquarters.”
After a couple of days, he realised that the grand visitor had no intention of leaving.
Now he remarked from his seat that an autorickshaw ride was heating to the blood and also disjointed the bones. The autorickshaw driver Kari was upset at this remark and retorted haughtily:
“People are jealous and create such rumours. Simpson Company at Madras have built the body and they know what is good for our bones.”
“I took care not to go beyond a certain limit in caresses, cuddling and fondling—though within that limit, we attained supreme happiness.”
The lady left the next day for Delhi. The station master became maudlin at the parting—a man who was used to seeing off hundreds of passengers each day in either direction, in a cold businesslike manner, had tears in his eyes when the engine pulled up…His life and children were there to bid her farewell. First time I noticed what a lot of children he had produced under his little roof. I suspected that the Delhi woman must have distributed liberally gifts and tips…
“This is the future occupant of our planet,” he said in a tone of quiet conviction: “This is a weed spreading under various aliases in every part of the earth—known in some places as Congress weed, don’t know which Congress is meant, Mirza Thorn, Chief’s Tuft, Voodoo Bloom, the Blighter and so on. Whatever the name, it’s an invader, may have originated out of the dust of some other planet left by a crashing meteor. I see it everywhere; it’s a nearly indestructible pest. Its empire is insidiously growing—I have surveyed its extent and sent a memorandum to headquarters.”
I refrained from asking, Which headquarters? Like the word “project” it’s a tabloid word which needs no elucidation. He went on as if inspired: “No one has found a weedicide capable of destroying it. They seem to go down at the first spraying, we tried it in Uganda, but a second generation come up immune to it…I have calculated through computers that, at the rate of its growth, the entire earth will be covered with it as the sole vegetation by about A.D. 3000. It’ll have left no room for any other plant life; and man will starve to death as no other growth will be possible and this has no food value—on the contrary, it is a poison. You will notice that cattle don’t touch it. In addition to other disservices, it sucks and evaporates all the ground water. We should call it the demon grass. My notes on this are voluminous—and the book, when it comes out, will be a sensation.”
“What’s your field of study?” I could not help asking.
[A librarian:] “My fate has not decreed me a better life than sitting here guarding dusty volumes. Don’t add to my troubles. If you don’t see the book, it’s not there, that’s all….Go, go take your seat; don’t stand here and block the air, please.”
For platonic purposes one did not have to take a trip to Peak House in Gaffur’s taxi.
From the author's postscript:
...When I am at work on a novel, I imagine that I am keeping a crowd of characters waiting outside my door, who are in search of their author.
…I feared that I might be compelled to inflate my stories with laboured detail and description of dress, deportment, facial features, furniture, food and drinks—passages I ruthlessly skip when reading a novel. While writing, I prefer to keep such details to a minimum in order to save my readers the bother of skipping. Also, I have the habit of pruning and trimming, when I look over the first draft, and then in a second draft a further lopping off is certain, until I am satisfied that the narrative progresses smoothly.