Father's help. By R.K Narayan.

        FATHER'S  HELP 

                            BY R.K NARAYAN.

Lying in bed, Swami realised with a shudder that it was
Monday morning. It looked as though only a moment ago
it had been the last period on Friday. Already Monday was
here. He hoped that an earthquake would reduce the school
building to dust, but that good building—Albert Mission
School—had withstood similar prayers for over a hundred
years now. At nine o’clock Swaminathan wailed, ‘I have a
headache.’ His mother said, ‘Why don’t you go to school
in a jutka?’
‘So that I may be completely dead at the other end? Have
you any idea what it means to be jolted in a jutka?’
‘Have you many important lessons today?’

‘Important! That geography teacher has been teaching the
same lesson for over a year now. And we have arithmetic,
which means for a whole period we are going to be beaten
by the teacher… important lessons!’
And Mother generously suggested that Swami might stay
at home.
At 9.30, when he ought to have been shouting in the
school prayer hall, Swami was lying on the bench in
Mother’s room. Father asked him, ‘Have you no school
today?’
‘Headache,’ Swami replied.
‘Nonsense! Dress up and go.’
‘Headache.’
‘Loaf about less on Sundays and you will be without a
headache on Monday.’
Swami knew how stubborn his father could be and
changed his tactics. ‘I can’t go so late to the class.’
‘I agree, but you’ll have to; it is your own fault. You should
have asked me before deciding to stay away.’
‘What will the teacher think if I go so late?’
‘Tell him you had a headache and so are late.’
‘He will beat me if I say so.’
‘Will he? Let us see. What is his name?’
‘Samuel.’
‘Does he beat the boys?’
‘He is very violent, especially with boys who come late.
Some days ago a boy was made to stay on his knees for a
whole period in a corner of the class because he came late
and that too after getting six cuts from the cane and having
his ears twisted. I wouldn’t like to go late to Samuel’s class.’
‘If he’s so violent, why not tell your headmaster about it?’
‘They say that even the headmaster is afraid of him. He is
such a violent man.’
And then Swami gave a lurid account of Samuel’s
violence; how when he started caning he would not stop
till he saw blood on the boy’s hand, which he made the
boy press to his forehead like a vermilion marking. Swami
hoped that with this his father would be made to see that
he couldn’t go to his class late. But Father’s behaviour
took an unexpected turn. He became excited. ‘What do
these teachers mean by beating our children? They must
be driven out of service. I will see…’
The result was that he proposed to send Swami late to
his class as a kind of challenge. He was also going to send
a letter with Swami to the headmaster. No amount of
protest from Swami was of any avail.
Swami had to go to school.

By the time he was ready, Father had composed a letter
to the headmaster, put it in an envelope and sealed it.
‘What have you written, Father?’ Swaminathan asked
apprehensively.
‘Nothing for you. Give this to your headmaster and go to
your class.’
‘Have you written anything about our teacher, Samuel?’
‘Plenty of things about him. When your headmaster reads
it, he will probably dismiss Samuel from the school and
hand him over to the police.’
‘What has he done, Father?’
‘Well, there is a full account of everything he has done in
the letter. Give it to your headmaster. You must bring an
acknowledgement from him in the evening.’
Swami went to school feeling that he was the worst
perjurer on earth. His conscience bothered him: he wasn’t
at all sure if he had been accurate in his description of
Samuel. He could not decide how much of what he had
said was imagined and how much of it was real. Hestopped for a moment on the roadside to make up his
mind about Samuel: he was not such a bad man after all.
Personally he was much more genial than the rest; often
he cracked a joke or two centering around Swami’s
inactions and Swami took it as a mark of Samuel’s
personal regard for him. But there was no doubt that he
treated pupils badly…. His cane skinned pupils’ hands.
Swami cast his mind about for an instance of this. There
was none within his knowledge. Years and years ago he
was reputed to have skinned the knuckles of a boy in
first standard and made him smear the blood on his face.
No one had actually seen it. But year after year the story
persisted among the boys.... Swami’s head was dizzy with
confusion in regard to Samuel’s character—whether he
was good or bad, whether he deserved the allegations in
the letter or not.... Swami felt an impulse to run home
and beg his father to take back the letter. But Father was
an obstinate man.
. As he approached the yellow building he realised that he
was perjuring himself and was ruining his teacher.
Probably the headmaster would dismiss Samuel and then
the police would chain him and put him in jail. For all
this disgrace, humiliation and suffering, who would be
responsible? Swami shuddered. The more he thought of
Samuel, the more he grieved for him—the dark face, his
small red-streaked eyes, his thin line of moustache, his
unshaven cheek and chin, his yellow coat; everything
filled Swami with sorrow. As he felt the bulge of the letter
in his pocket, he felt like an executioner. For a moment he
was angry with his father and wondered why he should
not fling into the gutter the letter of a man so unreasonable
and stubborn.
As he entered the school gate an idea occurred to him, a
sort of solution. He wouldn’t deliver the letter to the
headmaster immediately, but at the end of the day—to
that extent he would disobey his father and exercise his
independence. There was nothing wrong in it and Father
would not know it anyway. If the letter was given at the
end of the day there was a chance that Samuel might do
something to justify the letter.
 Swami stood at the entrance to his class. Samuel was
teaching arithmetic. He looked at Swami for a moment.
Swami stood hoping that Samuel would fall on him and
tear his skin off. But Samuel merely asked, ‘Are you just
coming to the class?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You are half an hour late.’
‘I know it.’ Swami hoped that he would be attacked now.
He almost prayed: ‘God of Thirupathi, please make
Samuel beat me.’
‘Why are you late?’
Swami wanted to reply, ‘Just to see what you can do.’ But
he merely said, ‘I have a headache, sir.’
‘Then why did you come to the school at all?’
A most unexpected question from Samuel. ‘My father said
that I shouldn’t miss the class, sir,’ said Swami.
This seemed to impress Samuel. ‘Your father is quite right;
a very sensible man. We want more parents like him.’
‘You don’t know what my father has done to you,’ Swami
thought. He was more puzzled than ever about Samuel’s
character.
‘All right, go to your seat. Have you still a headache?’
‘Slightly, sir.’
 Swami went to his seat with a bleeding heart. He had
never met a man so good as Samuel. The teacher was
inspecting the home lessons, which usually produced (at
least, according to Swami’s impression) scenes of great
violence. Notebooks would be flung at faces, boys would
be abused, caned and made to stand up on benches. But
today Samuel appeared to have developed more tolerance
and gentleness. He pushed away the bad books, just
touched people with the cane, never made anyone stand
up for more than a few minutes. Swami’s turn came. He
almost thanked God for the chance.

‘Swaminathan, where is your homework?’
‘I have not done any homework, sir,’ he said blandly.
There was a pause.
‘Why—headache?’ asked Samuel.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, sit down.’ Swami sat down, wondering what had
come over Samuel. The period came to an end, and Swami
felt desolate. The last period for the day was again taken
by Samuel. He came this time to teach them Indian History.
The period began at 3.45 and ended at 4.30. Swaminathan
had sat through the previous periods thinking acutely. He
could not devise any means of provoking Samuel. When
the clock struck four, Swami felt desperate. Half an hour
more. Samuel was reading the text, the portion describing
Vasco da Gama’s arrival in India. The boys listened in half-
languor. Swami suddenly asked at the top of his voice, ‘Why
did not Columbus come to India, sir?’
‘He lost his way.’
‘I can’t believe it, it is unbelievable, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘Such a great man. Would he have not known the way?’
‘Don’t shout. I can hear you quite well.’
‘I am not shouting, sir, this is my ordinary voice, which
God has given me. How can I help it?’
‘Shut up and sit down.’
Swaminathan sat down, feeling slightly happy at his
success. The teacher threw a puzzled, suspicious glance
at him and resumed his lessons.
11. His next chance occurred when Sankar of the first bench
got up and asked, ‘Sir, was Vasco da Gama the very first
person to come to India?’
Before the teacher could answer, Swami shouted from the
back bench, ‘That’s what they say.’
The teacher and all the boys looked at Swami. The teacher
was puzzled by Swami’s obtrusive behaviour today.
‘Swaminathan, you are shouting again.’
‘I am not shouting, sir. How can I help my voice, given by
God?’ The school clock struck a quarter-hour. A quarter
more. Swami must do something drastic in fifteen
minutes. Samuel had scowled at him and snubbed him,
but it was hardly adequate. Swami felt that with a little
more effort Samuel could be made to deserve dismissal
and imprisonment.
The teacher came to the end of a section in the textbook
and stopped. He proposed to spend the remaining few
minutes putting questions to the boys. He ordered the
whole class to put away their books, and asked someone
in the second row, ‘What’s the date of Vasco da Gama’s
arrival in India?’
Swaminathan shot up and screeched, ‘1648, December 20.’
‘You needn’t shout,’ said the teacher. He asked, ‘Has your
headache made you mad?’
‘I have no headache now, sir,’ replied the thunderer
brightly.
‘Sit down, you idiot.’ Swami was thrilled at being called
an idiot. ‘If you get up again I will cane you,’ said the
teacher. Swami sat down, feeling happy at the promise.
The teacher then asked, ‘I am going to put a few questions
on the Mughal period. Among the Mughal emperors,
whom would you call the greatest, whom the strongest
and whom the most religious emperor?’
Swami got up. As soon as he was seen, the teacher said
emphatically, ‘Sit down.’
‘I want to answer, sir.’
‘Sit down.’
‘No, sir, I want to answer.’
‘What did I say I’d do if you got up again?’
‘You said you would cane me and peel the skin off my
knuckles and make me press it on my forehead.’
‘All right, come here.’
13. Swaminathan left his seat joyfully and hopped onto
the platform. The teacher took out his cane from the
drawer and shouted angrily, ‘Open your hand, you little
devil.’ He whacked three wholesome cuts on each palm.
Swami received them without blenching. After half a
dozen the teacher asked, ‘Will these do, or do you want
some more?’
Swami merely held out his hand again and received
two more; and the bell rang. Swami jumped down from
the platform with a light heart, though his hands were
smarting. He picked up his books, took out the letter lying
in his pocket and ran to the headmaster’s room. He found
the door locked.
He asked the peon, ‘Where is the headmaster?’
‘Why do you want him?’
‘My father has sent a letter for him.’

‘He has taken the afternoon off and won’t come back for a
week. You can give the letter to the assistant headmaster.
He will be here now.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Your teacher, Samuel. He will be here in a second.’
Swaminathan fled from the place. As soon as Swami went
home with the letter, Father remarked, ‘I knew you
wouldn’t deliver it, you coward.’
‘I swear our headmaster is on leave,’ Swaminathan began.
Father replied, ‘Don’t lie in addition to being a coward…’
Swami held up the envelope and said, ‘I will give this to
the headmaster as soon as he is back.’ Father snatched it
from his hand, tore it up and thrust it into the waste-
paper basket under his table. He muttered, ‘Don’t come
to me for help even if Samuel throttles you. You deserve
your Samuel.’

              The END