The contractor merely said, 'Please leave us alone. We don't wish to get into all this bother.' He whispered, 'Please don't disturb our labour, please.'

'I'm not out to create labour trouble. You must not send that timber out of the country for this hellish purpose. All wars are against Mahatmaji's creed of Ahimsa. Do you accept it or not?'

'Ah, Mahatmaji. I gave five thousand rupees to the Harijan Fund. I have a portrait of him in my house, the first face I see is his, as soon as I get up from bed.'

'Do you know what he means by non-violence?'

'Yes, yes, I never missed a day's lecture when he came to Malgudi.'

'You must also have attended an equal number of Loyalist Meetings, I suppose.'

The contractor bowed his head shyly. He muttered: 'After all, when the Collector comes and says, "Do this or that," we have to obey him. We cannot afford to displease government officials.'

'How much have you given to the War Fund?'

'Only five thousand. I'm very impartial; when the Governor himself comes and appeals how can we refuse? After all we are business men.'

The man had inveigled Sriram into entering his tent under a tree. It prevented the mahouts from wasting their time listening to their talk. The forest resounded with the sound of logs rolling down and mahouts goading the elephants, chaffing among themselves, and laughing. The air had a slight smell of eucalyptus and green leaf, and also of the tobacco that the mahouts had been smoking. The contractor seated Sriram on a chair, took out an aluminium kettle smoking on a stove and poured two cups of tea. Sriram felt depressed at the sight of him. He was a lank man with a clean-shaven head, wearing a knitted banian and a dhoti, and at his waist he had tucked in a leather purse and some rolls of paper. The man seemed prosperous, with a thin gold chain around his neck, and a wrist-watch on his left hand, but he looked haggard with overwork.

Sriram said: 'You are no doubt making a lot of money, but it is worth nothing unless you develop some spirit of of 'He fumbled for words. He wanted to say, 'National Service', or 'Patriotism', but he was tired of these expressions, they smacked of platform speeches. He said: 'If you have a photo of Mahatma Gandhi, pray that he may inspire you with reasonable thinking, that's all I can say.' He got up abruptly.

The man said: 'Drink your tea and go.'

Sriram said, 'I don't want it.' He walked out of the tent, slipped through a gap in the hedge, and was off.

He lost count of time. He went on doing things in a machinelike manner. He entered forests and villages and conveyed what he felt to be Mahatmaji's message. Wherever he went he wrote, 'Quit India'. And it was followed by loyalists amending it with: 'Don't' or an T before 'Quit'. In one place a man asked Sriram: 'What is the use of your writing "Quit India" in all these places? Do you want us to quit?'

'It does not mean that.'

'Then write it where it can be seen by those for whom it is meant.'

'They are everywhere, sometimes seen and sometimes unseen. It is better to have it written everywhere.'

'Waste of time and paint,' said the man.

'I'm merely carrying out an order, and I cannot afford to stop and listen to too much wisdom.'

There was a plantation 4,000 feet above sea level, whither Sriram carried his pot of paint and his brush. It meant nearly half a day's job for him. He arrived at the estate late one afternoon. He saw a picturesque gatepost with the sign, 'Mathieson Estates', over it. There wasn't a single human being to be seen for miles around. Sriram wondered for a moment: 'Is it worth writing any message here?' He looked about and hesitated, but dismissed the doubt as unworthy. He briskly dusted a portion of the gatepost and wrote in a beautiful round handwriting: 'Quit India', and turned to go.

An estate labourer who was passing, stopped to look at the message and asked: 'Are you writing a board?'

Sriram explained at length the import of the message. The man listened for a while and said: 'Go away. That Dorai is a bad fellow. Always with a gun. He may shoot you.'

Sriram hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it would be more worth while to get shot or to go away peacefully. He suddenly felt he need not have come up so far if it were only to go back safely. He hadn't climbed 4,000 feet above sea level for nothing. The labourer with the pick-axe went away after uttering his warning. Sriram walked forward towards an ancient bungalow that he saw in front. 'Hope he doesn't have bull-dogs,' he reflected. He pictured the scene ahead in a somewhat gory way. He would approach the steps and the Dorai would level his double-barrelled gun, and Sriram would go up in smoke and blood. Probably that would fill Bharati with remorse. She would tell herself: 'I wish I had shown my love more definitely when he was alive.' Anyway why was he doing this? The High Command had not instructed him to go and bare his chest before a gunman.

A seven-foot figure with a red face and sandy hair accosted him by the porch. He was smoking a pipe, and had one hand comfortably tucked in his trouser pocket. For a second Sriram felt a little reluctant to go forward.

'Hullo! Who may you be?'

Sriram felt dwarfed by his side. He went up and said in a shrill voice: 'I have brought a message.'

'Oh, good. From where?'

'From Mahatmaji.'

The man took out his pipe and said: 'Oh! What?'

'From Mahatma Gandhi.'

'Well? What is it?'

'That you must quit India.'

The other looked abashed for a second. But he recovered his composure in a moment. He said: 'Why do you say that?'

'I'm not saying it. I'm merely giving you the message.'

'Oh! Come in and have a drink, won't you?'

'No. I never drink.'

'Oh, yes, yes. I didn't mean spirits, but you can have anything you want, sherbet, or coffee or tea.'

'I need nothing.'

'You look tired, come in, let us have a chat anyway. Boy!' he shouted and his bearer appeared. 'Two glasses of orange juice,' he ordered. 'Look sharp.'

'Yes, sir,' said the Boy, going away.

The servant wore a white uniform with a lot of buttons. Sriram reflected, 'This man wants even a particular kind of dress for Indians who act as his servants', and felt an inexplicable rage. The other watched his face for a while, then said, 'Come along, let us go on the veranda.' He conducted him up the steps to the veranda, which had been furnished with wicker chairs covered with a beautiful chintz: there were also a few decorative plants in large pots here and there. Sriram contrasted it with his own surroundings, a ruined building built thousands of years ago, full of snakes and scorpions and with only a mat to sleep on. He could not help asking, 'How do you manage to do all this? May I know?'

'Do what?' asked Mathieson.

'Manage so much decoration and luxury so far away?' said Sriram and pointed at all the things around.

Mathieson laughed gently and said, 'I wouldn't call this luxury, my friend.'

'And all this while millions of people here are going without food or shelter!' he said in a general way, the statistics he had picked up from Bharati deserting him for the moment.

'It is our prayer,' said Mathieson, 'that all of them may have not only enough to eat soon but also beautiful houses to live in, something, I hope, better than this, which is only a makeshift.'

Sriram put down this explanation to racial arrogance. 'It is his prosperity and the feeling of owning the country that makes him talk like this,' he reflected, and wanted to shout at the top of his voice, 'Quit, quit, we shall look after ourselves, we don't care for wicker furniture and gaudy coverings for them, we don't care even for food, what we care for 'He was not clear how to end his sentence. He merely said aloud, 'What we most care for is to do what Mahatmaji tells us to do.'

'And what has he advised you to do?'

'We will spin the charka, wear khadi, live without luxury, and we shall have India ruled by Indians.'

'But you have rejected the opportunity to try it. Don't you think it is a pity you should have turned down Cripps's offer?'

Sriram did not reply for a while. It seemed to him a technical point with which he was not concerned. Such intricate academic technicalities refused to enter his head, and so he merely said, 'Mahatmaji does not think so,' and there was an end to the discussion. He knew a jumble of phrases Dominion Status, Reservation for Muslims, and this and that, but although he had gathered all these from the newspapers they seemed to him beside the point, the only thing that mattered was that Mahatmaji did not think the proposals had anything to do with the independence of India. 'It is just eyewash,' he said, remembering a newspaper comment. 'We don't want all that. We have no use for such proposals. We don't want charity.'

This last thought so worked him up that presently when the butler came bearing a tray with two glasses of orange juice he wanted to knock the tray down dramatically and say, 'I don't want it,' but it was a beautiful drink, yellow and fresh, in a long and almost invisible tumbler, and the climb and exertion had parched his throat. He hesitated.

Mathieson handed him a glass and, raising his own, said, 'Here's to your health and luck.'

Sriram could merely mumble, 'Thanks', and drained his glass. The passage of the juice down his throat was so pleasant that he felt he could not interrupt it under any circumstance. He shut his eyes in ecstasy. For a moment he forgot politics, Bharati, strife, and even Mahatmaji. Just for a second the bliss lasted.

He put down his glass and sighed. The other had taken an invisible infinitesimal layer off the top level in his glass and was saying, 'Care to have another?'

'No,' said Sriram and started to leave. The other walked with him halfway down the drive. Sriram said, 'Don't rub off the message I have painted on your doorway.'

'Oh, no, I shan't. It is a souvenir and I shall keep it proudly.'

'But won't you be leaving this country, quitting, I mean?' asked Sriram.

'I don't think so. Do you wish to quit this country?'

'Why should I? I was born here,' said Sriram indignantly.

'I was unfortunately not born here, but I have been here very much longer than you. How old are you?'

'Twenty-seven, or thirty. What does it matter?'

'Well, I was your age when I came here and I am sixty-two today. You see, it is just possible I am as much attached to this country as you are.'

'But I am an Indian,' Sriram persisted.

'So am I,' said the other, 'and perhaps I am of some use to the people of this country seeing that I employ five thousand field labourers and about two hundred factory hands and office workers.'

'You are doing it for your own profit. You think we can only be your servants and nothing else,' said Sriram, not being able to think of anything better, and then he asked, 'Aren't you afraid? You are all alone, if the Indians decide to throw you out, it may not be safe for you.'

Mathieson remained thoughtful for a moment and said, 'Well, I suppose I shall take my chance, that is all, but of one thing I feel pretty sure I am not afraid of anything.'

'It is because Mahatmaji is your best friend. He wants this struggle to be conducted on perfectly non-violent lines.'

'Of course that is also a point. Well, it was nice meeting you,' he said, extending his hand. 'Goodbye.'

Sriram went down the pathway, overhung with coffee shrubs, hedge plants, bamboo clusters, and pepper vine winding over everything else, with very dark green grass covering the ditches at the side. He felt so tired that he wondered why he did not lay himself down on the velvet turf and sleep, but he had other things to do. He had unremitting duties to perform.

It was the village named Solur three miles away that was his next destination. The place consisted of about fifty houses on a hill slope. Valleys and meadows stretched away below it. It was seven o'clock when Sriram arrived. The village was astir with activity. Men, women and children were enthusiastically gathered under the banyan tree of the village, in bright chattering groups. A gaslight had been hung from the tree, and one or two people were arranging a couple of iron chairs brought in from one of the richer households in the village. The two iron chairs were meant for some distinguished men who were expected. Sriram went to the only shop in the village, purchased a couple of plantains, and washed them down with a bottle of soda-water. He felt refreshed. He asked the shopman, 'What time does the meeting begin?'

'Very soon, they are bringing someone to entertain us. It is going to be a nice function. Can't you stay on for it?'

'Yes, I will.'

'Where are you coming from?'

'From far away,' said Sriram.

'Where are you going?' the other asked.

'Far away again,' said Sriram, attempting to be as evasive as possible. The other laughed, treating it as a nice joke. The man supported himself by clutching with one hand a rope dangling from the ceiling. It was a box-like little shop made entirely of old packing cases, with a seat cushioned with gunny-sacks for the proprietor to sit on. Bottles containing aerated water in rainbow colours adorned his top shelf, bunches of green bananas hung down by nails in front of his shop, almost hitting one in the face, and he had several little boxes and shallow tins filled with parched rice, fried gram, peppermints, sugar candy, and so forth. He enjoyed Sriram's joke so much that he asked, 'I have some nice biscuits, won't you try them?'

'Are they English biscuits?' Sriram asked.

'The best English biscuits.'

'How can you be sure?'

'I got them through a friend in the army. They are supplied only to the army now. Purely English biscuits which you cannot get for miles around. In these days, no one else can get them.'

'Have you no sense of shame?' Sriram asked.

'Why, why, what is the matter?' the other said, taken aback, and then said, 'Hey, give me the money for what you took and get out of here. You are a fellow in khadi, are you? Oh! Oh! I didn't notice. And so you think you can do what you like, talk as you like, and behave like a rowdy.'

'You may say anything about me, but don't talk ill of this dress. It is it is too sacred to be spoken about in that way.'

The shopman felt cowed by his manner and said, 'All right, sir, please leave us alone and go your way. I don't want you lecturing here. Your bill is two annas and six pies ... two bananas one anna each, and soda six pies ...'

'Here it is,' Sriram said, taking out of his tiny purse two small coins and a six-pie piece and passing them to him.

'You see,' the other said, softening, 'this is not the season for bananas and so they are not as cheap as they might be.'

'I am not questioning your price, but I want you to understand that you should not be selling foreign stuff. You should not sell English biscuits.'

'All right, sir, hereafter I will be careful, after I dispose of the present stock.'

'If you have any pride as an Indian you will throw the entire stock in the gutter and won't let even a crow peck at it. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir,' said the shopman, not liking the little circle of watchful people who were gathering. At the end of the street the lecture platform was being set up with groups of people standing around watching. The villagers were very happy, some lively business was going on there as well starting here. The shopman saw an old enemy of his who liked to see him in trouble standing on the edge of the crowd with a grin on his face. As if to satisfy him, the gods had brought this man in khadi here, a born trouble-maker. He appealed to Sriram, 'Now sir, please go away a little. I must close the shop.'

'You may close the shop if you like but I want you to destroy those biscuits,' said Sriram firmly.

'What biscuits?' asked the shopman alarmed. 'Please leave me alone, sir.'

'You have English biscuits, you said.'

'I have no English biscuits, where should I get them? Even in the black market they are not available.'

'If they are not English biscuits, so much the better. My esteem for you goes up, but may I have a look at one of them?'

'I have no biscuits at all,' pleaded the shopman. The crowd guffawed. Somebody shouted to someone else, 'Hey, here is Ranga in the soup, come on.'

'You have got them in that box,' Sriram said, pointing to one of the tin boxes. The shopman immediately lifted its lid and displayed its contents, white flour, luckily for him.

'But did you not say that you had biscuits a moment ago?'

'Who? I? I was merely joking. I am a poor shopkeeper, how could I afford to pay black market rates for biscuits and keep them for sale?'