Read Mr Sampath-The Printer of Malgudi, the Financial Expert, Waiting for the Mahatma for Free Online Page A

asleep.
    There were four other families living in the same house. The owner of the house himself lived in a small room in Anderson Lane – an old widower who tried to earn the maximum money and spend less than ten rupees a month on himself. He had several sons and daughters, all of them in various prosperous activities all over the country, from the Himalayas down to the South. He had a daughter in Malgudi, with whom he was not on speaking terms. He had led a happy family life in this house till the death of his wife, when the family scattered and disrupted. Thereafter the old man, with the help of a carpenter, partitioned off the entire house, so that half a dozen families might be lodged in it, the screens and partitions creating an illusion that each unit was living in a home with privacy for food, sleep and washing.
    It was said that he bathed at the street-tap and fed himself on cooked rice, which was distributed as charity in a nearby temple. He was known to have declared to everyone concerned: ‘The true
Sanyasi
has no need to live on anything more than the leavings of God.’ He made himself out to be an ascetic. He collected the rent on the second of each month, took away the entire amount and placed it in Sarayu Street post-office bank. It was said that he never paid any rent for his room in Anderson Lane. The story was that he had advanced a small loan to the owner of the house, which multiplied with interest and became an unrecognizable figure to the borrower in due course. When his wife died the old man moved in to occupy the room in his debtor’s house at such a low rent that he could stay there for over twenty years working off the loan.
    The very first time Srinivas met him he saw the old man bathing at a street-tap, while a circle of urchins and citizens of Anderson Lane stood around watching the scene. They were all waiting for the tap to be free. But the old man had usurped it and held his place. Srinivas felt attracted to him when he saw him spraying water on the crowd as an answer to their comments. The crowdjeered: he abused it back; when they drew nearer he sprayed the water on them and kept them off, all the while going through his ablutions calmly. Srinivas asked someone in the crowd: ‘What is the matter?’ ‘Look at him, sir, this is the same story every day. So many of us wait here to fill our vessels, and he spends hours bathing there, performing all his prayers. Why should he come to the tap built for us poor people? We can’t even touch it till he has done with it.’
    ‘Perhaps he has no other place.’
    ‘No place!’ a woman exclaimed. ‘He is a rich man with many houses and relations!’ At the mention of houses, Srinivas pricked up his ears. He was desperately searching for a house: all his waking hours were spent on this task.
    The old man came out of his bath dripping, clad only in a loincloth. He told the crowd: ‘Now go and drain off all the water you like. I don’t care.’ Srinivas felt it might be useful to ingratiate himself in his favour and asked: ‘Do you do this every day?’ The old man looked at him and asked: ‘Who are you?’
    ‘It is a profound question. What mortal can answer it?’
    ‘You are joking with me, are you?’ the old man said, briskly moving off. Srinivas watched the wet old man going away angrily. It seemed to him, watching his back, that the chance of a lifetime was receding from him. An irresistible piece of jocularity was perhaps going to place a gulf between him and this man, who might have provided a solution to his housing problem. ‘Half a moment, please,’ he cried and ran after him. ‘I have an answer for you. At the moment I am a frantic house-hunter.’ The other halted; his face was changed. ‘Why didn’t you say so? I will give you a house if you are prepared to abide by all the rules I mention. Make up your mind. I don’t want to meet indeterminate souls.’
    ‘What is your rent?’ asked Srinivas.
    ‘Tell me what you will