Hide and Seek

(A Story)

BY PROF. V. N. BHUSHAN
(Rendered by the Author from the original in Telugu)

“HELLO, Sastry. You must come with me–must–” shot out Mohan.

“Well, if I must, I will–” carolled Sastry.

But it was really an unimaginably irksome task for Sastry to start so suddenly for Madras, and so unexpectedly, after such hard work. He was in a state of mental exhaustion, bordering on nervous prostration–having spent all his time and energy for the previous one month in bringing out the Special Dasara Number of the Monthly Paranjyoti of which he was Editor. Thank God, he had at last succeeded against odds in publishing the Number–unparalleled in its sumptuous contents and artistic get-up. But the work had squeezed out the last ounce of energy in him, and he was yearning for respite and rest. It was at that time that Mohan–his most intimate friend, the very life of his life–pressed him to accompany him to Madras. The offer of a vast dominion and a fairy princess would not have succeeded in tempting Sastry to undertake such an arduous journey of hundreds of miles in that paralysed condition of his mind and body. But Mohan’s pressure was irresistible. After all, Mohan was going on a visit to his sweetheart–his prospective bride. And Sastry, even at the risk of personal inconvenience, should do everything to make him feel happy.

As the clock was chiming eight, the Madras Mail reached its destination, steaming into the Central Station–with its heavy load of men and things. Neither the jerky halt of the train nor the loud buzzing noise on the platform brought consciousness to Sastry who was lulled into slumber by the cool breeze of the early morning. He took his own time to wake up and to get out of the compartment. By then, Mohan was already in rapt conversation with the august trinity who had come to receive him. As Sastry made his leisurely way towards them, and as the party showed signs of eagerness to be introduced, Mohan drew Sastry near him and began, “This is Dr. Sarma, my friend.” Two hands met in a hearty shake and four eyes exchanged mutual recognition. Loosening his grip on Sastry’s hand, Dr. Sarma turned in the direction of his wife and daughter and introduced them to Sastry.

Both the ladies were ultra-fashionable, absolutely up-to-date in their make-up, dress, movements, manners. Their fashions and freeness, their powder and paint, their unconventionalism and cosmopolitanism, struck the orthodox Sastry as rather strange, if not silly. Sastry had, of course, seen and known the world very well, had won his spurs as an able Editor of one of the most up-to-date and fashionable journals, had secured public recognition even at such an early age as a man of sound learning and scholarship. Yet, having been born and bred up in a Brahmin family well-known for generations for its staunch orthodox his mental outlook had an inevitable leaning towards moderation and conservatism. He could not therefore easily reconcile himself to the spectre of heterodoxy that seemed to have incarnated itself in the two ladies before him. Even the courtesy of returning their greetings assumed for Sastry the proportions of a serious problem. How to do it? By offering to shake their hands, or by folding his hands in the traditional Hindu style? It was literally a dazing moment. As if discerning his predicament, the two ladies held out their hands to him with a smile. And they seemed to have guessed, from his nervous handshake, his peculiar embarrassment.

“So this is the Editor of Paranjyoti–” interjected Mrs. Sarma, in the tone of one who has come across the treasure of one’s heart’s desire. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Sastry, your journal is immensely loved in this family, explained Mohan turning to Sastry. “Truly, Mr. Sastry, especially my daughter Nirmala is so fond of your magazine that she at times gives up food and water when intent on reading it–” interposed Dr. Sarma.

“Excuse me, but is the special Dasara Number ready?” queried Nirmala enthusiastically.

“Yes, yes. Copies were despatched to our subscribers. Din’t you get it? Perhaps, you will receive it in your today’s mail.”

“Perhaps! But haven’t you brought any copies with you?” “I think I have. I’ll get you one in the evening.” “Evening? Where are you going now? You are our guest, are’nt you? You can’t go elsewhere,” said Dr. Sarma, with mixed feelings of surprise and self-assurance. Mrs. and Miss Sarma too, joined Dr. Sarma in insisting that Sastry should go with them to their residence and not think of any other host. It was a difficult task for Sastry to higgle out his freedom, but he succeeded in the end with the aid of Mohan who came to his rescue. After promising to go to them for tea in the evening, Sastry took leave, and went his way to a friend of his at the University Club. Mohan accompanied his hospitable hosts with the air of a royal guest.

It was nearing three-thirty. As the minutes passed, the question of going to Dr. Sarma’s place began to oppress Sastry. To go or not to go, was the problem. Since seeing the mother and daughter, he had contracted a kind of meaningless prejudice against the whole family. The very thought of the two ladies sent him into a mood of unreasoning disgust and irritation. Of course, he could understand and tolerate, to some extent, fashions and forwardness in the case of Nirmala. After all, she was only eighteen years old, had taken an Honours Degree, had moved in all kinds of society. There was some justification in her being
Unconventional and heterodox. But what about the mother? She might be at least thirty-five, if not more. And the way she dressed, as if she was younger than her daughter?–and the way in which she moved and laughed and tittered, as if she was a maid of sweet seventeen? Was it becoming? Oh, no! Sastry could not have even tea with such a creature! He could send the journal to them through someone. If he did not go, perhaps Mohan himself would come, and then things might be clarified.

But…wait! In the morning, did he not tell them he would go to them. They must be waiting for him, then. Was it not a breach of common etiquette, to prove false to his own word, and to disappoint them? And, he was acquainted with them for the first time, and as Mohan’s friend! No, what would they think of Mohan, as one having an unmannerly friend? After all, he had come with Mohan, for Mohan’s sake, and he should do nothing to belittle his prestige, or undermine his, honour. He must go now. He may not go a second time, that was a
different matter.

Deciding was doing with Sastry. He dressed himself up as punctiliously as possible, so that he may not be very much out of harmony with the company of those fashionable creatures. And, as he reached their newly built, stylish, palatial residence in Edward Elliot’s Road a tremendously affectionate welcome awaited him. All the three–husband, wife, and daughter–vied with one other in receiving him! For once, Sastry was overwhelmed with the pure feeling of gratitude. What boundless tenderness and natural affection was there, behind all their apparent artificiality, he reflected!

Nirmala appeared to Sastry more charming than in the morning. She seemed to have dressed up specially for the party. She wore a cream-coloured silk sari with red and gold flowers in the broad border of tree Agra pattern. The pearl necklace was bright with a brightness that only pearls can diffuse. And in her lotus eyes and rosy cheeks, the lustre of youth! She was altogether an apparition of beauty, a feast to the eye! Even Sastry, even he could not but be moved to admiration by Nirmala,–forgetting all his traditional orthodoxy, all his erstwhile irritation.

Sastry was seated next to Nirmala. She had still in her hands the Dasara Number of Paranjyoti which Sastry had given her on his arrival. Turning page after page with an avidity peculiarly her own, punctuating her perusal with interjections, exclamations, queries, praises, compliments, she did not even take her tea properly.

Sastry too didn’t feel like honouring any of those variegated dishes displayed on the table. His reasons, however, were different. He was not sure what ingredients the eatables contained! He recalled to his mind the practical jokes that his class-fellows had played on him long by giving him non-vegetarian stuff in disguise. He remembered, too, his friends telling him how, oftentimes it was next to impossible to distinguish between vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes. Maybe the fashionable Sarma family belonging to the highest order of Brahmin-hood had taken to non-vegetarian stuff even as they had saturated themselves with western modes and manners. It was better to be on one’s guard and avoid touching those inviting dishes. And so, he had to content himself with sipping a simple cup of tea, excusing himself elaborately, every time his hosts pressed him to try the other things. It was all over somehow.

He could not say no when, after about twenty minutes, Dr. Sarma proposed a stroll on the marina. He could not think of a convenient way of excusing himself? And so they all went, and returned after nearly two hours–as the clock in the drawing-room was showing nine. It was rather late for Sastry to go to his friend at the club–thought Mrs. Sarma, and so pressed him to stay on for dinner. It would have been a bolt form the blue for Sastry. Had he not already scented such an invitation an hour and concocted his apology? As his protestations appeared sincere and grew louder, Mrs. Sarma suggested a compromise by saying that he would be free to go, provided he came again the next evening for tea.

That was an expected alternative. And Sastry was by temperament incapable of meeting anything unexpected. Somehow, the words, “No, I am sorry. I won’t come; sorry I won’t be able to come–” danced on his tongue, but they died in the throat. A refusal though uttered in delicate tones, might brand him forever as rude. So he gave his assent with a forced and awkward smile.

The next day, at ten in the morning, Mohan made his appearance at the University Club, having sped at top-speed in Dr. Sarma’s luxurious limousine. Sastry’s affection for Mohan, the lucky lover and the aesthete revealing in sweet dreams, surged up in a tide as he saw Mohan enter his room. In his mind unintelligible and vague thoughts began to struggle into life. Mohan was with his friend for well-nigh an hour. And all the while his talk was about Nirmala, her beauty, her manners, her intellectual equipment, her imaginative reach, her poetic faculty, her artistic temperament, her aesthetic susceptibility. Sastry’s enjoyment of Mohan’s talk was spontaneous, perfect. Without protest, without weariness, without interruption, he hung on his friend’s accents, as they etched the figure of Nirmala before his mind’s eye! At last, Mohan made a move, reminding Sastry of his engagement in the evening.

Sastry’s thoughts followed Mohan, outdistanced his speeding car, ran along Elliot’s Road, burst into Dr. Sarma’s compound, and entered Nirmala’s room, where she was busy with her toilet, busy with puff and powder, and paint and perfume, busy coaxing her recalcitrant hair into artistic waves, busy cajoling the large looking-glass into reflecting her features in the most fascinating manner. Nirmala! What a lovely apparition of a girl to be gazed at and wondered at! The orthodox Sastry’s apathy, annoyance, and suspicion melted into nothingness, at his contemplation of Nirmala. Of course, Mohan was fit to be her mate in life. But, after all, was he so fit? After all, what special or extraordinary of virtues had he? Sastry checked himself. It was not meet that he should be a prey to treacherous thoughts! Had he not come all the way only for Mohan’s sake? How could he be a traitor and betray him who had been the very life of his life for so long? No, that was unbecoming, unworthy. Base... mean….But, Nirmala!

Self-control, which had been the strongest and brightest characteristic of Sastry almost since his birth, had now for once become weak, hopelessly weak! Sastry realised it, but all his attempts to regain his old power were futile before the turbulence of his disturbed thoughts.

“He felt as one uprooted, as one who had lost his moorings. Time, however, passed on, and as the long evening shadows indicated four, Sastry’s own shadow trudged along Elliot’s Road.

The bungalow presented an unusually silent appearance. None came forward to greet him. He went in, and there was none in the drawing-room. Unable to guess as to what had happened to the members of the household, he sent his looks into all possible nooks and corners. In vain rather confused, he inadvertently drew aside the door curtain of the adjacent room.

There! Ensconced comfortably in a spacious arm-chair, with feather-soft cushions piled all around her, like a lovely bird in its feathery nest, there was Nirmala, reading Paranjyoti with uncommon concentration!

Seeing Sastry as he drew a side the curtain, Nirmala rose from her couch with a Sweet ‘Hello’, called him in, and as she neared the sofa, made him sit near her.

“Father, Mother, Mohan, all have gone out shopping. They’ll be returning just now-” Nirmala opened the conversation.

“Is’t? I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Sastry half-rose from his seat.

“O, not at all. What disturbance? I was just wondering why yow had not turned up yet and just to while away time have been turning over the pages of Paranjyoti. What a lovely journal! The more I see it, the more I love it. It must he costing you a good bit, Mr. Sastry?”

Yes.. yes... a good lot. Yes, with a determination to make my magazine as artistic as Possible, I’m not counting the cost, you see.”

Sastry was almost emotional, for he loved his journal more than he loved himself.

“Surely, surely, as far as I know, there is no other periodical in our Telugu worthy of being compared with this. I should think Paranjyoti beats even some of the well-known English and American journals. What neatness, what get-up, what lay-out, what feast of literary fare! It’s really excellent that you publish only poems and stories, and not all kinds of heavy stuff.

“You’re right. I felt the need for such a literary journal, and I launched Paranjyoti. By God’s.grace, a year has passed...”

“I’m sure your magazine will live long. It will succeed, no doubt.”

“Thank you ever so much! Infant mortality is a common feature of Indian journals. I, however, hope to succeed. But persons like you must also be of some help to me.”

“How?”

By sending some contributions now and then, though not regularly. A poem a story…”
“But, I don’t write anything.”

“O, you don’t write? Don’t you? Don’t you bluff me any more. Only this morning, Mohan told me all your secrets”–and he smiled.

“Secrets! ha–ha, ha, secrets!–that silly Mohan revealed them to you, and you foolishly believed him! How nice!...ha, ha, ha ...” she burst into laughter.

“Please, don’t laugh away the whole thing. You must accede to my request, and give me something for the next issue of the journal, please,” he pleaded.

“You are really funny, Sastryji. You see I am not a writer at all!

I just scribble a few things. Poems and stories, for my own pleasure. Absolutely amateur stuff, not worth publishing at all, not worthy the paper they are written on, believe me–” Nirmala was all humility.

“But, you see, one can’t be one’s own judge. Let me see the things, if you have no serious objection, and I’ll decide whether they are worth publication or no.”

‘Of course, I have no objection to your seeing the stuff, but I don’t think that even one of the things will satisfy you. I am almost sure…”

“But, let me see.”

“Not just now, if you don’t mind! I have to fish them out. I’ll give them tomorrow, when you come to tea in the evening.”

“By the way, excuse my curiosity, who is that Vasant Kumar who contributes poems and stories to Paranjyoti?”

“Why are you curious?”

“Nothing very particular. But, to tell you the truth, I love every line of his. I am definite that there is none writing half as well as he! What marvellous march of ideas! What matchless command of language! In fact, to reveal a secret of mine, his writings are the unfailing inspiration of my verses and stories.”

Sastry never dreamt, never could have dreamt, that Nirmala would ask him about Vasant Kumar. And, having been asked, how could he help feeling tickled, thrilled? As a man of self-control, he could conceal the emotion evoked in him by the question. But her subsequent commentary and confession confused him completely. He was silent.

“What, lost in meditation,” Nirmala shot forth the naughty remark.

“Yes, somewhat. Trying to recollect who Vasant Kumar is. I think….I’ll tell you tomorrow. When I come to tea.” It was an unconscious ‘naughtyism’ on the part of Sastry.

“Very well, got in my own coin. But you mustn’t pretend forgetfulness tomorrow also.” Nirmala was nothing if not coquettish,

Sastry was unbalanced and would have betrayed himself, but for the sound of the horn which announced the return of the party.

The three returned, full of apologies for the unexpected delay. It was always so in shopping! You couldn’t be punctual, in spite of your best intentions.

Tea was served. It was an ordeal for Sastry to be his normal self. He almost hid himself behind Mohan, avoiding Nirmala’s keen searching looks.

Returning to the club, he spent sometime with his friends, talking of all things under the sun. It was nearly midnight by the time Sastry sought the comfort of his bed. Yes, bed and comfort were there. But, where was sleep? Where was peace of mind? Waves on waves, and still more waves of disturbing thoughts!”

What, what about this Nirmala affair? Was she really in love with Mohan or not? In her actions, her words, her behaviour, she did not show any special partiality for Mohan. Yet, it was all settled. It was understood that she was to be Mohan’s. But, then, why did she ask about Vasant Kumar? Why did she confess that his writings were her inspiration? Why should she care to know who he was? Was it possible that love of his writings was slowly transforming itself into love of the writer himself? Was it possible? It. was not impossible either.

Should he tell her, really tell her who Vasant Kumar was? And, if he revealed, what about Mohan? Between these present feelings of Sastry and the feelings of indifference and aversion he had at the very first sight of Nirmala, what a difference!

Even God, the invisible actor in every human drama, seemed to be blessing the new nursling of Sastry’s romantic hope. Who can, after all, strive however he may, escape the path graphed out by the Moving Finger?

That evening, when Sastry made his appearance at Dr. Sarma’s bungalow, Nirmala was alone, as on the previous day, Sarma and his prospective son-in-law had gone to George Town, and Mrs. Sarma was busy inside talking to her lady friends who had visited her after a long lapse of time.

Nirmala was in the library, sitting near the window, reading something, as the soft evening light suffused her with ah angelic light. Sastry went in, silent and shy as a kitten, and, unwilling to disturb her, engaged himself in scanning the names of the books on the shelves. What a magnificent library it was, rich with masterpieces from ancient to modern times! Best editions of the best books, kept with care and tidily arranged.

She saw him, closed her book, and fluting a ‘Hello’ walked up to him. He met her half-way with the insipid question–“Reading?”

“Yes. Red Lily of Anatole France. Beautiful novel...no?”

“Sure. How far have you come?”

“Up to where Vivian Bell, the poetess, is inviting her friends.”

“Splendid! That’s one of the most lovely scenes in the novel.”

“Sit down. Father and Mohan will be coming just now. O, by the by, have you recollected that point?”

“You promised to show me your writings, didn’t you?”

“O, you have not forgotten that?”

“Impossible–how could I, please?”

She went to the writing table in the corner, opened the drawer, and brought with her a lovely coloured folder, loosened the light-red ribbon round it and placed the papers before Sastry. With enlivened curiosity, Sastry turned the page. They were mostly stories, and a few poems.

His attention was arrested by a story with the inviting title Lotus Eyes. ‘That lovely lady was proud, legitimately proud, of her match-less beauty. Whoever that sees her once can keep his self-control?’ The story began. Sastry looked at Nirmala with questioning eyes, as if to enquirer whether the description was subjective!

She knew it, but pretended. “You must tell me now–about that Vasant Kumar”–she reminded him.

“O–Vasant Kumar, I’ll tell you. How beautiful this story begins!”

It was evident he was deliberately avoiding the topic of Vasant Kumar. And so, she insisted. “Let the story go; you must tell me, here and now.”

“But let me read this story. Even its title is fascinating Lotus Eyes.” His whole being trembled with ecstasy.

“No. You can read later. First, tell me–” she fixed him with her challenging glance.

“What use is it to you, to know who Vasant Kumar is?”

“Use? What do you mean? That’s not your concern any way. Don’t try to evade telling me. Out with it!”

“You know who he is,” he almost whispered.

“No, I don’t know who he is. Honestly. Well, if you don’t want to tell me—”

“But, you have seen him too.”

“Seen! Him! When?”

“You have...also...talked with him.”

Nirmala was bewildered. Her eyes were wide and quick, engaged in recollection. Then, like a young boy who gives a wrong reply to his teacher’s question, knowing it to be wrong, she asked, “You, mean Mohan?”

Sastry was bewildered in his turn. He did not like her uttering that name, Mohan. He could not hide the mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Yes, or no?”

What could he say? That such a pointed question was unnecessary was evident from their intermingled looks!

She understood, but naughty girl–she pretended not to have!

“Vasant Kumar! My!” The delight of discovery flashed forth from her sparkling eyes. The next minute, Nirmala’s right ear-ring tickled and thrilled Sastry’s cheek.

But, what about Mohan? Who bothers about him? When Nirmala and Sastry themselves have forgotten him, in the midst their new found joy? Innocent Mohan, unaware of the fact that his own dear friend had proved a fifth-columnist and that his own ‘dearest girl’ had thrown him overboard, was in the drawing room quietly perusing a new book of poems. For the moment ignorance was bliss!