Sympathy

SYMPATHY
(A Story)

As he stepped down from the train at the subnrban station he noticed a large crowd in front of the station-master’s office, and also people rushing from all sides shouting, “Hold him!” “Down with the beggar!” “Let him go!” “You will have to let him go!” He didn’t wish to be inquisitive and find out what was going on at the centre of the crowd. He would have liked to pass through the gate and be on his way home. But his way to the gate was blocked, and he had to halt “What’s up?” he asked a constable on duty, trying vainly to keep the crowd. “These refugees!” the constable growled, “They are always creating trouble.” “That’s usual” he commented. “Yes, that’s common,” the constable agreed. “Gangsters–that’s what these refugees are,” somebody said, “I wonder what our Government’s doing. Are they sleeping?” The constable pretended not to have heard this....

After a while the crowd began to disperse. Policemen marched off three refugees, and a few people followed them, mumbling curses. They all went out of the gate. There was no reason to wait now. So he folded up the newspaper which he had opened while waiting, and passed through the gate, and walked home.

“You feel all right” he asked his wife after going home.

She smiled feebly. “Yes, I believe I am all right.”

“Do you think you’ll have to go to the maternity home today?”

“Maybe yes, maybe no. It comes suddenly, don’t you know?”

“Yes, yes,” he said. But they had no reason to worry even if it came suddenly, he thought. He had reserved a room in the maternity and made all arrangements. The moment her time came he would bring a taxi, and take her there. There was nothing to worry about.

He went to his room, took off his clothes, and sat near his table. He must go to his office again and write out the leading article for tomorrow’s issue of his paper ‘Light’. He must think out his article...

“May I come in?” a voice asked.

He knew it was his son, “Yes, come in,” he said.

A tall, well-built, well-dressed young man walked up to the table. “I want to have a word with you, father,” he said, resting his hands on the edge of the writing table.

“Yes?–”

The young man flushed, and remained silent.

“Yes? What is it?” the father asked again.

“I intend to–well, I want to marry.” There was a strange mixture of impetuosity and nervousness in the young man’s voice, as though he had suddenly forgotten a speech he had carefully prepared, and was not quite sure of his step.

The father didn’t show any surprise, “Well, that’s a happy news,” he said. “Your mother would be delighted. Does she know?”

“I mean to tell her after I get your consent.”

“Well, my boy, my consent is always there. You are grown up. You have a job, It’s high time you married. Who is the girl?”

The young man unwrapped a photograph from a brown paper and placed it on the table. The father put on his glasses, and held the photograph in his hand. For a moment the girl’s beauty held all his attention, and his lips parted in an appreciative smile. But the smile soon faded out, and he frowned, “Doyou mean you want to marry this girl?”

The young man nodded and smiled.

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“And does she love you?”

“Very much.”

“Who is she? What’s her name?”

The young man told him.

“So she is a refugee?” there was sudden anger in the father’s voice. “Aren’t you ashamed–”

“Ashamed?” the young man asked. “Why should I be ashamed? We love each other and have decided to marry. Is that a crime?”

Was it a crime indeed, the father’s conscience repeated, to fall in love and marry. He remained silent for a while, thinking how to still his own voice and to scold his son. “Were all the girls in our country dead that you ran after this refugee girl and fell in love with her? he asked bitterly. “Don’t you know that these refugees are first class rogues–cheats, pick-pockets? Where did you meet this charming vamp?”

The son told him everything. “Father, you must try and understand,” he said in an urgent voice, “she comes from a very respectable family. She is today struggling with her poverty. But she is making a great fight of it. She is a brave girl...”

“Uh, nonsense. Lies.” The father shook his head and waved his hand. “I know that every refugee tells people that he belongs to a high-class family and that he owned a big house and lands over there in Sind. They know that people have to believe in whatever they say. So they tell stories and arouse your sympathy. But no sane man will trust them. They are a pack of bullies...”

“But, father,” the young man argued, “This girl really belongs to a high-class family. I can convince you. I’ll bring her and her mother. You may have a talk with them, and...”

“No!” the father snapped. “I don’t want to see their faces. I am sure some rogues are trying to trap you, and this pretty girl is only a bait. I know such rackets too well. You are being duped. Trapped. You don’t see it because you have lost your head...”

“No, father. I know she is good and I love her.”

“Shut up! I don’t wish to listen to you any more. You can’t marry this girl. My consent is impossible.”

“But I have decided to marry her.”

The father looked up at him. He wanted to get up and slap the young fool good and hard. But he checked his anger. It wouldn’t become his dignity, he thought, as the editor of a popular daily, to lose his temper like a common man, and beat his son. “Get out!” he therefore said, in a voice that was bitter but even and commanding. ‘Go away. Don’t you stand before me. Get out of here. And look here you mustn’t step into this house until you shed this madness.”

The young man frowned. He opened his mouth as though wanting to make a long speech. But he decided not to say anything. He turned and moved towards the door. He didn’t hang his head in shame, or despair. His steps were firm, and his eyes determined.

“Here! Take away this dirty picture,” the father shouted and flung away the photograph at him. It fell at the son’s feet.

He picked it up lovingly. With one hand on the door he looked . “I must respect your wish, and leave this house,” he told his father, “But I can’t go without telling you how wrong you are. How unreasonable your attitude is. You are being unjust not only to me, but also to the girl whom I love and want to marry. In fact you are doing a greater injustice to her. You have never met her, and you have decided that she is a bad girl. You should have agreed to meet her, to talk to her and to see for yourself what sort–”

“Go away. Get out of here,” the father shouted. “Don’t you try to teach me. I should have met her indeed! You tell me that? As if I don’t know that all these refugees are a gang of idlers and pests. I have heard many things about these refugee girls. I warn you again, my boy, that you are being tricked. This pretty girl is only a bait dangled before your eyes by some scoundrels who want to rob you. Open your eyes if you want to, or else get out of here. If you come again–”

But the young man was already gone, and so there was no need of any further words... The editor sat at his table thinking...He had better tell his wife about this, he thought. But he derided not to. It couldn’t be wise, he told himself, to disturb her mind now. He would tell her some time later–after her child was born, and she was fit again...He telephoned his office and asked the sub-editor on duty to send someone in the evening for the ‘copy’ of the leading article… He wouldn’t go to the office again. He felt terribly tired. He would write the article at home...He would fill it with all the hate and contempt of these refugees which had accumulated in his heart...

During the last nine months his feelings for these hordes who has swamped the city of Bombay, fleeing their homes, had steadily grown more and more bitter. Mounting from mild annoyance to antagonism and then to definite disgust, until it hardened into a blind relentless prejudice. He had first become aware of these invading ‘pests’–as he always called these refugees–when half a dozen of them had come into his yard and demanded shelter. Yes, ‘demanded’! Not implored or begged. As though they had unquestioned right to share his amenities and comforts. Then he had seen many of them behaving like rowdies at railway stations and in the market. The Press had been full of such news. Occasionally he had used a little space in editorial columns of his ‘Light’ to ask, “What are the Government doing? Do they intend to let loose these miscreants on the law-abiding and peace-loving citizens of Bombay?”...And now on top of all this, this refugee menace had reached his very door-step. His young son had come to tell him that he had fallen in love with a girl from the refugee camp. and wanted to marry her...Marry a homeless, penniless refugee girl!...The daughter of some provision merchant or baker in Sind!...Uh, this was the limit indeed...

Both as a father and as the editor of ‘Light’ he must now gird up his loins and fight this refugee menace with all the weapons at hand, It didn’t matter if his article proved too hot, and Government came down on him and his paper with their Security Regulations. He must save his own home and a thousand other homes from this enveloping tide of lawlessness and intimidation that stalked the land in the shape of these refugees. After all what was the Press for if not for the free ventilation of public grievances and fearless criticism of Government, if they refused to face the realities?...

Yes, he was going to write a long article on this refugee menace–the hottest and the bitterest he ever wrote... The office would send down a man at 6-30 in the evening. The stuff must be ready by the time...He settled in his chair and took out his deadly rapier–the pen. As he stabbed the first sheet of paper with lines on lines he forgot the outside world in the frenzy of writing,..

A terrible gust of wind made him aware of the world again. The door of his room swung to and fro with a bang. The shutters of windows clattered like the teeth of a man shivering in wintry cold, and the curtains flapped madly like the wings of a frightened owl. On the wall a calendar, showing Sunday 21st November, dangled limply…What was this?–he asked himself. Another gust of wind blew in, more violent and dust laden, and scattered away the sheets on which his article was crawled. He jumped to his feet, shoutin..He ran to one of the windows. But even before he put his hands to the shutters they rattled furiously, and he heard the splintering sound of crashing glass. He peered out of the window–only to see a scene which was, he thought, utterly crazy. The whole landscape was covered by a huge mass of flying dust and litter and small stones. Branches of trees cracked, and tall palms swayed in a savage dance...What was this?...A cyclone? –He fastened the window shutters. But through their chinks blew a hundred ominous whistles of the storm which raged outside with increasing fury. People in the neighbouring houses screamed. In the street under his balcony there was pandemonium...He turned , thinking of collecting the scattered sheets of his article. There came a dinning crash. The roof of an adjoining house, blown up by the wind, had hit his balcony. The next moment lights went out...He crept in the dark and reached his table, wishing to ring up his office. Lighting a match he dialed the number, and barked “Hullo! Hullo!..,”. The instrument was dumb and dead. The storm had cut off the electric connections…

He suddenly remembered his wife. Where was she? Crossing the drawing-room he rushed into her bed-room. There she was. Thank God! But she was writhing with pain, groaning and wailing. He bent over her, and in that moment he knew. She was in the throes of child birth. Of all moments her child had chosen this for coming into this crazy world. She clutched his hands. He realised his own utter uselessness in this crisis. He rushed to the door and called the maid servant. Then he remembered that it was her day off. He looked in the dark at the bed where his wife lay. A lump came into his throat at the thought that he was utterly incapable of helping the suffering woman. She was helpless. But he was himself even more helpless...The wind shrieked outside, and there was a loud patter of rain. It seemed as though the storm would go on forever...

He went to the bed and caressed his wife. She whispered to him that he must take her to the maternity home immediately. “Yes, yes,” he murmured. But in the very moment of saying so he knew how impossible it was to do what must be done. How could he take her to the maternity home? Ordinarily he could have asked for an ambulance car. But it was impossible to get into touch with the maternity home, since the telephone had been cut off. It was also impossible to find a taxi at the street corner…And here lay his wife in the bed wriggling with the spasms of a stabbing pain...O, God, what a moment!...In that instant he realised what it was to be utterly helpless and hopeless, and he also experienced the wild desperation that is born of such helplessness…

He rushed out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street not minding the fury of the wind and rain. He wobbled on, stumbling at every step. The street was dark and deserted. But he walked on. He knew a garage…Reaching it at last he described his plight to the taxi driver and implored him to help, But the fellow refused to take out his taxi.

“Name your price, man,” he begged, “but don’t say no.” He thought that the man would demand fifty rupees, or at the most a hundred–or two hundred. But no. Even if he were paid a thousand rupees the driver was not prepared to take out his taxi.

“What?” he shouted at the driver. “You wouldn’t help me? You’ll have no mercy for my wife when she is about to become a mother?”

“Is that any fault of mine, sir?” the driver asked and grinned.

This hurt the father in distress on some deep and delicate part of the heart. He picked up an iron bar that lay on the foot board of the car, and hit the driver...He saw the fellow drop to the floor...He searched his pocket and found the ignition key of the car...

As he drove the taxi the storm was howling and roaring. But he switched the head-lights full and stepped on the petrol. As he splashed his way across the gurgling streams of water in the street, he thanked God...Now he could take his wife to the maternity home. His mind turned again and again to the garage, where he had left the driver,–not dead, he hoped; but only unconscious. But his conscience did not sting him. He had hit the fellow and pinched his taxi because the fellow had refused to understand his dire need and to help him.

Reaching home he put his wife into the taxi. He also opened his safe and put all the cash he found there in his pocket. He might need it, he thought, at the maternity home. There might arise unforeseen difficulties, and it was wise to have as much money ready as possible. He was prepared to fling away his whole fortune if people at the maternity home demanded it.

As he dashed towards the maternity home in the taxi, he prayed to God not to let it be blown off by the storm. Once he reached there with his wife, everything was going to be all right. He would give the doctor any fee–even all the currency notes in his pocket. If the doctor refused to be tempted by the money, he would whip out, the dagger, which too he had brought along with him, and compel the doctor to attend to his wife. Hadn’t he hit the taxi, driver and committed what was evidently an act of robbery? He would similarly intimidate the doctor like a gangster, if that was needed. He and his wife were reduced to a state of extreme helplessness. The world must help them. Charity and mercy were due to them. And if these dues were not offered willingly, he was ready to be desperate, and wring people’s help by violence...

All of a sudden the thought flashed across his mind that he was behaving and thinking just like a refugee...He had seen the refugees from a distance, but had never tried to understand them–to understand their helpless and homeless condition and, in its context, their violence. Now he actually knew what it was to be a refugee–to be in dire need, to feel that others must help, and to be exasperated and furious and thoughtless if people refused to help...

The article which he had almost finished writing must never be published, he decided...All the anger and disgust of the refugees now died in his heart. In their place came a profound forgiveness and sympathy...