Caught in the rebound

S.V. Vijayaraghavachariar

Our town was of the usual modern varietyinfested with motor buses, dust,
mosquitoes and lawyers. Before Mrs. Natesan came, it was a dull and sleepy
placesleepy in the sense that nothing exciting ever happened. Some small
excitement was no doubt provided at the time of the Municipal Elections, when
we hap-hazardly gathered in groups, and discussed how Kumaraswami Naidu
spent Rs. ,, failed, and became a pauper, and how his rival Rangaswami
Nattan spent Rs. ,, succeeded, and became a pauper. We also occasionally
contributed an M.L.C. from our town (God bless him) who, as a consolation for
having spent Rs. , over his election, received from an overjoyed people six
garlands, six congratulatory addresses, and six cups of tea (which by the way he
never drank, overcome by grateful sentiments) and who subsequently got too
much pre-occupied with adjusting his frenzied nances to care much for the
welfare of his constituencythat is, even if he could do anything by caring. We
had a few festivals in the temple when the God got about in procession
accompanied by a number of hunchbacked widows and a motley crowd of idlers
and street urchins. Once in a way we had a prize distribution or some such
function in the local High School, when the school authorities indiscriminately
garlanded all the ocialsthe Deputy Collector, the District Munsi, the Police
Sub-Inspector, the Duadar, and so forth, and took absolutely no notice of even
important non-ocial gentlemen, not even our M.L.C. receiving recognition. And
then some of us got righteously indignant, stormed, and angrily commented on
the peoples stupid apotheosis of ocialdom. Beyond these small and infrequent
utterings, the town had absolutely no sort of life. We had nothing to do, nowhere
to go to, and outside working hours, we had to kill time anyhow, till it was time for
bed.

And then, Mr. Natesan came. And Mrs. Natesan with him. Two highly evolved
souls, perfectly suited to each other in habits as well as in temperament.
Mr. Natesan was a Water-works Engineer. He was a tall, fair gentleman, with a
handsome face and athletic features, carrying about him all the outward trappings
of civilisation. He was the nest product of modern culture, with advanced views
on social and sex questions, ultra modern in habits of life, and holding, in
common with the great majority of the civilised folk, the highly reasoned opinion
that to look like a Hindu or do anything like a Hindu was a sign of moral weakness
detracting from a civilised existence. On that account, though he was the son of a
pious old orthodox Brahmin, he discarded his caste-mark, cropped his hair in
three dierent lengths, with a thin stubble at the back, a slightly longer stubble on
the occiput, a bush in the front (which he combed back neatly and artistically) and
shaved his face clean except for two bits of moustache, like two bumble-bees
perched on the upper lip. On top of it all, he donned a cap of the correct fashion.
He put his feet in charge of the best boot-makers in Europe, and his trunk and
limbs in charge of outtters not inferior to those in Bond Street. In fact, he
outrose all common Hindu vulgarities in appearance, and so metamorphosed
himself that the best detective in ction could have taken points from him in
disguise. For aught one might say, he might have been a Jap, a Mongolian, a
Russian or a Swede, but nobody could suspect him of being a Brahmin or a Hindu.
A Jap perhaps would never think of looking anything but a Jap, a China-man
anything but a China-man, and the most freedom-loving and radical Englishman,
compelled to live amongst us, would never think of discarding his trousers in
favour of our dhoti, though all the time proclaiming it to be the most suitable dress
for our climate; but it is the glory of a Hindus adaptability to civilisation that he
would delight in nothing less than looking nondescript, looking anything but a
Hindu. Far be it from anybody to suggest that these are vices. Not at all. ey are
at worst only follies, but even as such, deserve to be beaten down into sanity,
especially where they involve a question of self-respect, and are calculated to
create a contempt for habits and institutions long established by tradition, which,
even if they are granted to be purposeless, must at least be conceded to be
perfectly harmless. Gandhi and Motilal Nehru never fell into savagery for
descending from Paris-washed shirts and sti-necked high collars, and there are
not many men in India more respected than they.

But with Mr. Natesan, the claims of civilisation were stronger than parochial
patriotism, and on equally moral grounds he never ate koottu or sambar or any such
vulgar Indian dish, but took his food directly from the sealed tin. He never wore
his sacred thread, never did his tharpanam on New Moon days and bathed only in
the nights apparently as a protest against the Indian habit of bathing before meals.
And when it was said that Mr. Natesan was a Brahmin and Mrs. Natesan a Naidu,
you may easily gather what stage the couple had reached in the evolution of the
Hindu community towards its millennium.
Mrs. Natesan was a sweet girl of nineteen, with innite grace and charm, with
wonderful eyes, wonderful clothes, and a wonderful way of wearing them to
advantage. In fact she was one of those charming girls that one always reads about
in the novel but never meets in life. But she had all the sweet audacity of a
modern girl. She could drive a motor car, she could play tennis, she could fell you
with a smart repartee, and she could look at you in a way that would make your
heart vibrate like a motor bus.
If a lawyer were askedand lawyers are squeamish fellowshe would probably
never give her the status of Mrs. Natesan, as theirs was a union of free love, based
on the mutual conviction that the institution of marriage was an ancient error,
and a superstition that sapped the vigorous growth of society. Mistress then?
Hell, re and blazes! If Mr. Natesan had heard that word, nobody could come with
the teeth whole in their sockets. She was his wife, wife of course, whatever a stupid
world might say, for which neither of them cared a snap.
ere was however a legal Mrs. Natesan alive. Probably when Mr. Natesans
opinion was still immature on the question of marriage, he had been induced to go
through a form of marriage with a girl, Kanti by name, charming no doubt but too
primitive to consort with a man of such high attainments and rened tastes. She
was the daughter of a poor Sub-Registrar, who, with more ambition than sense,
gave to Mr. Natesan, his daughter and a dowry of Rs. , but Mr. Natesan kept
the dowry and forthwith returned the girl to the bosom of her aectionate
parents.
ereafter, Mr. Natesan fell passionately in love with Mrs. Natesan, attached her
to him, and continued to live with her as man and wife.

When Mr. and Mrs. Natesan came to our town, it was nothing strange that they
found the place dull and drab. According to the correct etiquette, they made their
calls on all the ocials of importance, and mourned to each otherparticularly
Mrs. Natesan, over the dullness of the place. It was a shame, she said, that in a big
town like ours, with so many ocials and educated men, there should be no
diversion from the dull monotony of daily life. Cannot something be done to liven
it up? Cannot a club be started where we could meet and have some recreation,
some amusement, and some social life?
And as a matter of fact a club was started within a week. We had at this time a
particularly nice set of ocials. We had the usual contingent of a District Munsi,
a ne amiable gentleman with a passion for auction bridge, snu and an incessant
rattling of the tongue.
A Deputy Collector, a jolly old Brahmin, with two wives, who, alas! when it was too
late, discovered that one wife was deuce enough to manage in one lifetime, and
who, if he could nd anywhere to go to, would gladly escape from both of them.
A Deputy Superintendent, a loud-voiced gentleman, who addressed you as if you
were on the top of a hill.
A Tahsildar, who when he was not disposing darkhast applications or falling foul
with the Village Ocers, blew clouds of smoke from a perpetual succession of
cigarettes.
A Deputy Inspector of Schools who never stirred except behind the belt and badge
of his peon, for fear he may not be recognised as an ocial of importance.
And a Veterinary Surgeon, poor gentleman, who even ocially had no connection
with human beings and had to be content with the company of she-bualoes and
washer-womens donkeys.
e ocials caught up the idea of a club with a craze. e District Munsi met the
Deputy Superintendent, the Deputy Superintendent met the Deputy Collector,
one met the other, the other met the one, and all of them met together, sent for
this man, that man, a third man, and a fourth (there was chivalry also working
behind, you see), and nally resolved that invitations for a meeting to form a club
should go in the name of the Hon. Magistrate, instead of in the name of any of the
ocialsfor obvious reasons.

e Hon. Magistrate was an ocials manbelonging to all the ocials without

distinction. He was a groundnut merchant and twenty-ve. He had immense
wealth and not much education, having twice failed in the S.S.L.C. and on that
account never talked in any language but English. To bask in the ocial sunshine
was the ambition of his life, which he compassed by visiting them every day both
morning and evening and indulging in a good deal of pleasing sycophancy. He
always appeared in an immaculate white turban, a smart coat and a steel cane, and
never without them, as if it would be disrespectful to groundnuts if he should at
any time be caught without these habiliments. After breakfast every morning, he
went out trimmed as above, and visited all the ocials, chatted with such as were
free, and spent the day retailing to his merchant friends what happened when he
was talking to the Deputy Collector this morning or to the District Munsi that
evening. He was particularly a favourite with the women-folk in the ocials
houses. How do they sell tamarind in the market, Mr. can you get me Rs.
worth of it? Of course he could and he did. He was friendly with their children.
He would playfully poke the belly of the District Munsis baby with the end of his
stick, he would nudge the District Collectors boy on the cheek and call him a
young rascal, and carry away the Deputy Superintendents child to the Doctor,
even without being told, if he found the child ailing with anything. In fact, in all
ocials houses he was a sort of a person they would miss, useful, serviceable,
occupying the dubious position between a servant and a friend.
e Hon. Magistrate felt as if he had reached the summit of his glory. Issue
invitations to all the merchants also, said the Deputy Collector, democratically.
Else the ocials alone cant nd the money to run a club, respectfully submitted
the Tahsildar, who had a practical turn for the money side of things.
We must have some Tea and Refreshments, suggested the District Munsi.
Righto, roared the Deputy Superintendent, and dug the District Munsi in the
ribs and the whole aair was settled accordingly.
e Hon. Magistrate bustled about the town for a week looking highly important,
meeting merchants, and telling them to come without fail, as the Deputy Collector
particularly wished it, intimating in a way that it was practically a summons. Such
things are among the misfortunes and penalties of ocial life.

Carry with you some money that day, I tell you, you may have to donate
something. ey asked me what you could pay and I told them you were not
having business. However bring some money with you, he said and the merchant
imploring the Hon. Magistrate not to put it high, he assured him that he would
see that they were not hard on him.
e eventful evening arrived. e whole town was stirred to its depth. e District
Munsi closed his court at , the Deputy Collector did not come to oce at all,
the Deputy Superintendent was issuing orders to the Sub-Inspectors, and the
Hon. Magistrate was ying about the town breathless and panting.
e meeting was held in a choultry the outside of which was a mass of constables,
duadars, dalayats, process servers, and a motley crowd of spectators. e Deputy
Collector presided. Two hundred visitors were present and the club was started
amidst great enthusiasm and clapping of hands. Every ocial was garlanded, the
only non-ocal being Mrs. Natesan. Vote of thanks was proposed to the chair in
which it was intimated that the town would never rest satised unless the Deputy
Collector was forthwith made an Executive Councillor, at which we boisterously
clapped hands for a full period of ten minutes, and the meeting closed.
e club was in full swing within another week. A beautiful tennis-court was laid.
Dailies and Weeklies were subscribed for, two bridge tables were opened, a
ping-pong table was installed and everything went on like oclock. At the stroke
of , we all trooped into the club ground one by one, ung our coats, hats and
turbans on the clothes-stand, and abandoned ourselves to the joys of the evening.
e Deputy Superintendent roared more mirthful roars, the Tahsildar blew more
clouds of smoke, and the District Munsi rattled his pleasant rattles betwixt
pinches of snu.
And Mrs. Natesan pervaded us all.
We had on the whole a perfectly hectic time of it, the only cloud being that we
were all afraid to go back home, as our wives seriously grumbled that we never
returned to our homes as early as we used to.
We were sixty members of the club including three lady members, Mrs. Natesan
and two missionary ladies. e youngest of us was a stripling of twenty-two with
undened social position. He had passed the stage of a student, having given up

his studies a year ago, on account of a slight misunderstanding between himself

and the Intermediate examiners; and he was not yet an ocial for the reason that
he had not found an employer. He therefore led the full, free life, of a gentleman
without care, carrying within himself, like every other youth, potential
possibilities of any day becoming anything between a cabinet minister and a cook.
Among his friends, he had the reputation of being smart and intelligent; and in his
opinion he was a genius much ill-used by an unappreciative world. Six times he
pressed his genius before the Intermediate examiners, and six times that
unimaginative body refused to have anything to do with a boy who displayed
originality in nothing but spelling, and who had no notion whether Shakespeare
was a dramatist or a non-irritant ointment. Shakespeare be blowed, he said and
discarded education contemptuously to stew in its own gravy. It was not his fault
that he was not without appointment. He applied to all the oces, also enclosing
along with his application his sacred thread, as a guarantee that he had renounced
his Brahminism, for which he was not in the least responsible, but the ocers had
other applicants on hand. On the whole, he felt he was a much wronged person,
and had come to believe that there must be something radically wrong in a
universe in which there was no provision of Rs. or so a month for an elegant
young man like himself. But these depressions were with him only momentary.
He was a gay, jovial fellow, with attractive features, irrepressible laughter and
mirth, and plenty of pep, go, and boisterous good humour in vast and abounding
quantities. He would ride anything that had a back, drive anything that had a bit
of steering wheel, and in tennis, had covered himself with a number of medals for
championship.
Mrs. Natesan was attracted by his tennis. She was herself one of the best players
going; she was also attracted by his charming young face, and the Boy alsowe
called him e Boy for funfelt something funny inside whenever he played with
her or talked the game over with her. He often visited her house, of course for
discussing tennis, and at the club also they were often found in company, smiling
and chatting, with unmistakable sweetness.
Vague signs were not wanting for some days that Mr. Natesan was not over much
pleased with Mrs. Natesans over-enthusiasm for tennis. It was a ne day. And
Mrs. Natesan, laughing with all the joyousness of a summer evening, was playing

tennis with the Boy. Mr. Natesan was fanning himself limply with his
handkerchief, lying on a canvas chair, and was vaguely angry with her about the
Boy. He listened to the progress of the game and cooled himself with an iced
lemonade.
Presently he heard Mrs. Natesans clear voice Game and set, six love and then the
two players, Mrs. Natesan slim and straight with the ush of the game on her
cheeks, and the Boy, hot, perspiring, and sweetly looking at her, stood close
together discussing the set. Already pre-occupied in mind, the matter assumed a
great importance in Mr. Natesans mind, and it found expression, when later,
seated by his side, Mrs. Natesan upbraided him for not playing with her for the
last three days.
Why have you sulked these three days, deary? she said.
Too hot. And you have got a nice young boy to play with, he said in a tone with
just the right intonation.
You mean e Boy? Isnt he a dear? she said.
I expect so, he said. But where did he get that awful voice from?
And then the District Munsi appeared and took her away to a game of bridge.
e blow fell next morning. Mr. Natesan awoke and instead of nding his wife,
found a neat letter on the table.
Dear Deary,
We came together unconventionally and we part unconventionally
too. Dont worry your poor dear brain, but forgive. e Boy may have
an awful voice, but love is like politics. No one is ever convinced by
arguments.
Yours,

Poor Mr. Natesan! He loved the girl passionately. He rushed to the Deputy
Superintendent, to the District Munsi, to the Deputy Collector, and to all whom

he knew. He wanted the Police to be sent behind them, and the wretch of a boy
brought bound in chains and compelled to atone his wickedness from inside a jail
cell. But he discovered that there was no law which could satisfy his passionate
desire, and then he settled himself in a gloom.
e town was excited for a day, and then it settled itself to gaiety and mirth. e
club goes on jolly grand like oclock.
Reactions were equally amusing. Mr. Natesan now wears khaddar and bristles with
a caste-mark covering the whole facial landscape. Each evening after club, he
retires to the bosom of Kanti, a charming girl, bashful and coy.
What will you have for the night? she asks.
Koottu and Sambar, my girl, he says, and imprints a kiss on her cheek.