A story about the high cost of procrastination

Literature is the richest source of entertainment as it opens the gates of unknown worlds and let you visit something surprising; music stimulates your heart and soul and thus takes you away from the world of worries; and art always leads you to the valleys of imagination where fairies, angels and deities sing and dance. These are the things that are divine, that fall on the human hearts like the rains and that are beyond the reach of human efforts. Music, art and literature make your mind healthy, refine your thoughts, keep all sorts of worries away and purify your soul, for a happy life. Wealth is necessary for a comfortable life but it alone cannot bring you all happiness and peace. Just try and see how "A Discovery of Society" brings you lasting happiness. Here is a story from the book:

Don’t Dilly-Dally

Summers are now not what they used to be. The welcome shade of banyan trees at noon in Baisakh and Jaisth (the hottest months of the year) has caught fire. The Kajari Songs (a traditional type of song sung by women during the monsoon season) and the Purwai (a wind coming from the east) of Sawan and Bhadon (monsoon months) have melted away. Life leaves the track just after Chaitra-Navratri (the holy period of nine days followed by the summer), and not until the arrival of the Sharad-Nauratri (the holy period nine days followed by the winter) does it get back on the rails. The summer is deadly but the rains (particularly, when the depression over the Bay of Bengal moves westward) is deadlier. 

Last year, the summer baked us black. Then the monsoon season boiled us to the full. And finally, when we were released we had only the last breath left. Our homes were no more homes but tanks of hot gas. Our workplaces were electric kettles; and markets, ponds of hot water. It felt as though we had lubricant massaged into our skin all the time. No face bore the sign of a smile; instead, dullness and fatigue could be seen permanently lodged on them.

                                                                        ~~~~

I got home in the evening as a matter of routine and chose to take off my shoes, shirts and pants before I did anything else. ‘I see no reason why people wear dress and insist on others being in it when it is more of a noose than any clothing,’ I murmured fretfully to myself, pulling them off the body like I was struggling to free myself from snakes coiled themselves tightly around my legs and limbs.

When it was over and done with, I sat on the table under the ceiling fan, panting terribly. However, I felt much relaxed and thought it was the end of all the afflictions of that day; but a little while later things seemed to be changing and slowly I turned uncomfortable again.

Being tormented with hot and humid air in the room, I rushed up the stairs to the rooftop. But as I reached there, I remembered that I should at least have come with a chair. ‘How foolish it is of me to forget things on time!’ I reproached myself and soon turned back to fetch one, though I was out of breath now. When I finally sat on the chair, I felt a surge of relief.

But this relief too did not last long, as the gap between worse and bad had started to shrink already. The torrid gas in the atmosphere bore out its nature that it was not friendly towards anybody. The trees stood still. They looked as if they had to offer their condolences. A mosquito buzzed around and I shivered with detestation. These appalling conditions led me to realize the truth of that old saying: ‘When God takes to punishing you, you are sure to have no room anywhere.’

Shortly afterwards, it occurred to me that a fan could do me good, but then again, the very thought reminded me of a few events when I failed in my duty, and, as a result, invited a lot of trouble. I, like my own worst critic, began to think over them.

‘No matter who you are,’ I mused, ‘you go like the fox in the fable that dug her cave all through the night and in the morning, as the sun touched her skin, she left the work incomplete and walked away, paying little attention to what she had done. Mr forgetful, you could have purchased a pedestal fan and a takht beforehand!’

The sweat started pouring off me and with that I found it hard to cope with the oppressive heat of the afternoon. I got up and walked over to the head of the stairs.

‘Bring me a fan somebody,’ I called out.

My wife was downstairs in the kitchen. She got mad at me as she heard me calling.

‘You Mr! Stop baying like that!’ she shouted, ‘and listen, we don’t have any!’ Then she got her own way. ‘I’ve asked this fella to buy a pedestal and a takht hundred times over, but not once did he listen to me. Anyone may feel embarrassed to admit making a mistake, but to admit the same mistake the second time would be too much for them. My word! This gentleman… there’s no limit to what he can do! He has a thick skin – he can keep repeating: “Oh, I’m sorry – I clean forgot! Well, you’ll definitely get them tomorrow.” His tomorrow begets tomorrows. – Kids, you’re not going up the stairs! Let him swelter there. After all he’s done, he deserves whatever he gets.’

I turned around and retraced my steps. The fear gained victory over the torture of the sizzling temperatures, and once again, I began to have nightmares about all I had been dawdling a long time.

Meanwhile, my children came up playing. To my astonishment, one of them was holding a fan. She came up and handed it to me. Then she turned around to join in with her sister.

My fear of falling prey to their mother’s fury lessened a bit, and the fan gave me some comfort besides. A quarter of an hour passed, thus fanning my face and watching the children at play; but after that it was felt that the labour involved in waving the fan was nullifying the effect of the air it cooled, and it also appeared that the same heat wave had no effect on the kids. I could not help thinking that God too loves children more than the grown-ups.

My children were playing before me and it was over such a pleasant thing to me. I did not want to interrupt them, but the mugginess was too oppressive just the same. I asked my younger daughter to wave the fan for me, despite myself. She came up to me, took the fan from my hand and started turning it wildly. My affection for her could exercise no restraint. I leaned forward and kissed her cheek. ‘Turn it slowly, poppet,’ I advised her with endearment, ‘and you’ll make the most of it.’

But on my saying so, she changed the pace – rather too slow to produce any result. I looked at her and found a sad look on her face. My conscience pricked me and I soon freed her. She went away hopping like a rabbit.

However, I could not go on fanning myself long. My perseverance trembled and I called the elder one. Ah, she was dutiful. She did it so diligently that I began to feel drowsy. I wished I had a takht to lie on.

After a few moments, the other one, having no partner to play with, came up too. She stood beside her sister and began to request repeatedly that the fan should be given to her.

At first the elder one tried to quieten her gently; but, when she failed in her attempt, she soon frowned at her disapprovingly. ‘You girl,’ she shouted, ‘do shut up! Don’t you see Pa’s tired?’

Innocence and sincerity clashed, thereby developing a great feeling in me. I put my arms round them both, and then pressed them against the chest. But at the same time the horrid sense of regret was out to get me more powerfully. I resolved that we would sit on a takht there the next day, cooling ourselves off in front of an electric fan.

                                                                        ~~~~

Next morning when I prepared to go to the office, I, with a view to disclosing my determination, asked them to be ready to say goodbye to the sultry evenings, whereupon the children jumped up with joy; their mother, meanwhile, reacted angrily, which in response provoked me, too, to ask her if she wanted to bet.

‘Yes,’ was her quick reply and it seemed as if she were sure I would go back on my word this time, too. Then she added somewhat contemptuously, ‘You’d better go to the office and enjoy boasting with your customers.’

‘You wait, old girl, I’ll change your opinion of me today!’ I murmured to myself, thinking it would not be proper for me to get into an argument with her. Then I went out, straddled the motorbike, and rode off.

On the way I began planning how to accomplish all I had set out to do. I would go to a cash machine before going to the office, I thought. Then after work I would ask my peon, Rakesh, to come to carpenter’s with me. There he would put a takht onto a cycle-rickshaw and with that they would follow me to an electrical shop to pick up a fan also. Lastly, the loaded rickshaw would reach home and surprise all of them. But I suddenly remembered that I had left my cash card at home. It upset me. I turned off the road and stopped, thinking what to do.

‘Friend, you ought to go back for your cash card, or else they’ll call you a fake,’ I said to myself, turning the bike around unwillingly. But hardly had I started back than it crossed my mind that the cheque book must be in the drawer. I gasped in delight and made for the office straight away.

When I sat at the table, I was keen to make sure that the cheque book was there in the drawer. I pulled it out and found that I was not mistaken. I wrote a cheque promptly and decided that I should soon send Rakesh to the bank to get it cashed. ‘Rakesh, Rakesh!’ I called, but he was not around.

I put the book back with the thought that I had the whole of the working day ahead and it was not worth bothering with it.

At last, he appeared in the doorway, rubbing tobacco in his hands. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ I said to him in a bitter tone of voice.

‘Bajrang Mishraji sent me to the bank!’

‘You know, I’ve a cheque to cash myself and God knows what might happen if I forgot.’

‘Just give it to me – I won’t be ten minutes.’

‘Not now, for sure,’ was my careless reply, as I had started writing the numbers of the files I had to deal with on a slip of paper. ‘I’d rather you go and fetch these files,’ I continued, handing him the slip. ‘But be sure to get the cheque cashed just after you have done what you’re now required to do here. As for some additional help that I expect from you, I think that will all be discussed by us in our free time.’

‘Okay then,’ he said and went slowly towards the record room.

                                                                        ~~~~

People often visualize what hell must be like, but I am sure anyone who had ever had a chance to visit my office must have experienced it. It would make one’s hair stand on end if one imagined what impact would the noise and smoke of the generators throbbing on the ground below have made on us; or what it would have been like sitting seven to eight hours every day in a hall which often took the shape of a local bus with the regular inflow of people, when the sultry heat in the office was trying our patience already. I will, however, thank customers for keeping us busy, or rather, helping us forget that poor working conditions.

In the afternoon, as the office had been closed, we would start our bikes to fly homeward in order that we might find some immediate relief from the nasty confinement, but the bewildered crowd hurrying on the sweaty street would trap us into moving like a hare struggling in the snare.

Things turned out worse than usual that day. In addition, the traffic along Chowk Bazar Avenue was heavy in the afternoon. Moving forward inch by inch, I came to a pharmacy which was run by an old friend of mine who was also a doctor. His clinic was adjacent to his shop. I was feeling ill so I stopped in front of it, parked my bike and stepped into the passage that led directly through the shop into the clinic.

My friend was busy at that moment; but as I entered in, he looked up from the prescription and asked me to take a seat on the bench. The room had air conditioning, which led me to feel that I had been transported into heaven. I was not in any hurry now – besides, I preferred to spend hours, thus waiting around.

Anyway, after he had written the patient the prescription, he turned to me. ‘Hello, dear!’ he said. ‘How are you? I hope you’re not ill today.’

‘I am,’ was my reply.

‘Then come over here,’ he whispered, pointing at the stool.

I thought he was in a bad mood that day because I had never seen him so serious before. But what soon happened was really amazing. He started cracking his own brand of jokes about me and, in consequence, the other gentleman laughed at me, too. Nevertheless, I felt flattered at being considered someone closer to the doctor. At last, after fifteen minutes, he took my pulse. But as soon as he did so, I remembered that I had only a hundred rupee note in my purse. My face fell, as it worried me that his fees together with the price of prescription drugs might exceed that amount. This was one thing that had been troubling me, but what followed was still worse. In fact, I suspected that the worried expression on my face might cause the doctor to have doubts as to whether I was offended by his jokes, and in next to no time my suspicion was confirmed. He eventually asked me why I was so anxious.

When he had fully examined me, he started writing me a prescription. Each line he wrote looked as if it consisted of five different names of medicines, which would I thought cost me no less than fifty rupees. There followed the second line then the third, fourth, fifth and he did not stop until the whole sheet was filled in. Now I was sure of becoming an object of ridicule. ‘Good God, what would happen if he asked five hundred rupees,’ I thought to myself and imagined the nervous giggles that I was to have, particularly in front of all those strangers sitting at the table.

I sat waiting for the last moment to come like a helpless man waits for his approaching death. A sales assistant went out with the piece of paper into the shop and soon fetched a pack of medicines, which he put before the doctor. As the time drew nearer, I grew anxious – rather to the level where I intended that it should happen soon whatever was to happen. But the doctor was engaged in talks with the other gentlemen. He did not turn his attention to me until I interrupted him by asking how much that was. He shut his eyes and began to work that out in his head. Every time he blinked, my heart skipped a beat. At last, he opened his eyes and said, ‘In all Rs 95 will do, dear sir.’ I breathed a sigh of relief, but did not show my excitement for fear that he might guess at the reason why I had been so worried.

However, it was not the end of my worries as a fearful thought soon flashed through my mind. I slowly stepped out on the road, deep in thought. At that moment, it occurred to me that I still had sufficient time to get through the terrible situation. I could at least purchase a pedestal fan. I had only to go home and get the ATM card. Yes, I would do so despite the humid conditions and my illness, I decided and with that I hurried towards where the motorbike was parked.

But I had hardly taken a few steps forwards when a familiar voice touched my ears. I stopped to look around and saw Santosh standing over the road at Kamta Chat shop.

‘Dada, come here – let’s enjoy chats,’ he shouted as I looked at him.

I knew my decency was not safe in the market as I had only five rupees on me. Furthermore, I was in a hurry. So I did not think it desirable to accept his offer.

‘No thank you, Santosh,’ I said politely, ‘it may be bad for my digestion, and I’ve a fever besides.’

He did not listen to me. Instead, he came up, grabbed my arm and dragged me across.

At one point I made up my mind to flatly refuse him. Then I changed my mind, thinking that he had no reason to expect me to pay for the chats.

The shop was overcrowded with women and children, so we took a patta (a small bowl made of leaves of a plant or tree) of hot tikki (a hot and spicy potato cutlet seasoned with curd, sauce and chopped onion) in our hands and began to eat it in small amounts, standing on the pavement.

With the chat being deliciously spicy; and the talk that we were having, absorbing, I almost forgot what I was mainly going to do. But as I raised my head, I saw two of my friends coming down the road, talking to each other. ‘My God, they’re already desirous of meeting me! What will happen if they did so here?’ I said to myself, quickly turning around to avoid their eyes. But nothing could happen – they came up and stood next to me. I had not for one moment imagined that it could happen to me.

I had no option but to turn to them. ‘Oh, hello,’ I said to them with a forced smile on my face. I wondered what to do – whether or not to ask them to join us for a chat. Right then it struck me that they would most probably decline my offer, so I should not compromise my propriety. I invoked God and did likewise.

After some hesitation one of them replied that a few golgappe (a type of snack consisting of a small round case of fried pastry filled with tamarind sauce) would do them. I was shocked to listen to it – too shocked to think. The earth seemed to be moving, the sky blazing. I began to collect myself. I began to hide my nervousness. Then not knowing what to do, I ordered their choice.

I was talking to them but half-heartedly. Those good friends of mine looked like bitter enemies. Even that tikki was not tasty any more. And on top of everything else, I developed a great hatred for myself. One can imagine how awkward it must have been for me to pretend to be happy when fear and helplessness had already captured every corner of my mind. I could think of nothing to do except pick at my chat very slowly.

Apprehension grew up with every passing minute. But it was not long before Santosh chucked his patta in the bin. Then the two of them, too, stopped swallowing golgappe dipped in sour mixture. The joker of the drama, however, stood wiping fake tears to make a show of the tikki being too hot for him. Anyway, when I raised my eyes, I saw Santosh looking at me, which, to be honest, sent shivers down my spine. But moments later, he asked us if we liked anything else. ‘No, not at all,’ was our reply and with that the joker was a gentleman again just after the bill was paid.

Having a short conversation with them, I said good-bye and made my way home again, pondering how to buy at least a pedestal fan the same evening.

                                                                        ~~~~

When I reached Peepal Chauraha (a town square), I happened to see Guru ji, holding a shopping bag and watching me from the side of the road. It took me no time to guess that he wanted me to give him a ride to his house and so I pulled up right by him and asked him to get on the motorcycle. ‘It’ll take some more time,’ I said to myself as we rode on. ‘But it is still possible to come back with the ATM card by a rickshaw before the market gets closed if he does not ask me to make a stop along the way.’

At that moment Guru ji happened to interrupt, ‘Take me straight home. You know, I’ve to leave for Faizabad soon.’

I was thrilled by his words. ‘Just ten minutes, Gurudev, and you are at your gate,’ I said to him. And in my excitement I accelerated to move a little faster.

But there are certain other things that happen sometimes quite unexpectedly. They are usually linked to bad luck, whereas they should be linked to carelessness. We had hardly had a five-minute ride when I heard the bike making a strange noise and then it jerked to a halt. My worries took a sudden turn. Now I was worried that I might not be able to take Guru ji home in time, and not that I would be late for coming back to the market. I tried again and again to kick start it, but it did not.

‘What has happened to it?’ asked Guru ji.

‘Nothing serious,’ I answered. ‘Perhaps its fuel pipe is choked up.’ I bent and took my head down to the engine so as to observe the pipe or a loose connection. However, no fault could thus be detected.

‘I told you to sell this old steel, but you didn’t listen.’

I knew he was annoyed and he had reason to, but all the same, it was not possible for me to ask him to take a rickshaw instead and he would not, I was sure, prefer to leave me alone either. ‘Guru ji, I’d think we might get off for a while,’ I said to him very politely, leaning the bike on its stand.

The evening was so humid and torrid that we started to sweat as soon as we dismounted. However, because I was becoming increasingly impatient, it did not matter to me much. I soon strode round to the right side of the bike, squatted down facing the engine and began to examine the lines and wires. But a few moments later, my hair started to drip with sweat, whose beads fell on to my glasses and left me almost blind. Now that a thin darkness had also begun to fall, I had to wipe them clean. But as I continued with my job, the same thing occurred again and from then on the insolent liquid did not let me go on with that. I took an instant dislike to the bike and grew so furious at it that I would have beaten it brutally if it were a boy. Still, I could not help pulling the fuel pipe off its joint violently.

After that what I saw was very alarming. The naked tip of the nozzle was not dripping any petrol. I shuddered to think what Guru ji would think of me when he knew that the engine had stopped for the want of fuel. Anyway, I connected the plastic pipe as quick as I could and began to think what to do next. The petrol pump that was just a little way ahead immediately sprang to mind; but as soon as I remembered the poor five rupee note in my pocket, my heart sank. I got up. ‘Now what?’ I thought to myself. ‘Should I disclose everything to Guru ji? No I won’t! Mayn’t he think I’m too hard up to afford to run a single motorcycle or mayn’t he be of the opinion that I’m too penny-pinching to be of any service to a gentleman like him? I’d rather die than ask him to pay for the petrol.’

Just then Guru ji came forward and stood behind me, putting his hand upon my shoulders.

‘Have a check in the tank, boy,’ he advised me in an agitated voice, ‘and see if there’s sufficient petrol in it.’

I pretended to take no notice of his suggestion so as to show it to be quite inconsequential although, to be fair, I began to sweat like a pig for fear that he might find the fact. ‘O Lord,’ I prayed, ‘save me – I’m sure to suffer a damn humiliation this time!’

Suddenly a thought struck me. I lumbered back to the left side, folded up the side-stand, laid the bike flat on the ground and stood it up after a few seconds. Then I straddled it and gave the kick-starter a few rough pushes. Fortunately, old 2998 agreed to carry us further on; and it felt as though she were going smoother and faster this time. But for all her functioning, I did not hold out much hope of reaching our destination. A slight change in the sound would frighten me out of my wits. I was thinking about the remaining distance quite frequently, like a mountaineer looks up to see how high he has yet to climb after every step he takes upwards. All of a sudden my oldie jolted to a halt again. Thank God the gate of Guru ji’s house was just before us.

Having got off hastily, he walked to the gate. He was so upset that he pushed it open and went in without so much as a goodbye. But all that he did was good for me because I did not actually want him to know that my motorcycle would never start again.

My home was only a short walk away. But as I began walking, pushing a 100-kg weight borne by two wheels, it seemed as if it were miles away.

By the time I arrived at my gate, I was utterly exhausted. My heart was pounding and I was gasping for breath. Covered in sweat from head to foot, I gave a knock at it. My legs felt as if they would not hold me up any longer because of a high fever. I was shaking like a leaf. I leaned against the bike to catch my breath, and was soon struck by the thought that my wife and children must be hopeful about getting a new fan and a takht and that I would certainly let them down, and eventually a shiver of guilt also ran through me.

The gate opened with a click and my little ones emerged from behind it, jumping up and down with enthusiasm. Their mother was standing in the doorway, with a cheerful smile on her face. But they were all struck dumb to look at me and then to see me struggling to propel the dead machine towards the porch. Both the kids drew closer after I had stood it there. They took my fingers, one on either side of me, and led me to the drawing room, where I threw myself on the sofa, all in. One of them rushed to bring me a glass of water and the other two began fanning my face. There was, however, no sign of complaint on their faces that day.

By Ramesh Tiwari 

  Monday, 06 June 2011

 

‘A Discovery of Society’ is a garden of exotic flowers;

Like a butterfly feeding on them spend a few hours.

With the smell of blossoms the garden is perfumed;

To the tastes of both young and old the book is tuned.

Like alcohol the stories will act quickly on your brain;

A single one is enough to ease your mind, your pain.’