A SHADOW

Sambu demanded, ‘You must give me four annas to see the film tomorrow.’ His
mother was horrified. How could this boy! She had been dreading for six months
past the arrival of the film. How could people bear to see him on the screen when
they knew he was no more? She had had a vague hope that the producers might
not release the picture out of consideration for her feelings. And when a
procession appeared in the street with tom-tom and band, and with young boys
carrying placards and huge coloured portraits of her husband, she resolved to go
out of town for a while; but it was a desperate and unpractical resolve. Now the
picture had arrived. Her husband was going to speak, move and sing, for at least
six hours a day in that theatre three streets off. Sambu was as delighted as if his
father had come back to life. ‘Mother, won’t you also come and see the picture?’
‘No.’ ‘Please, please. You must come.’ She had to explain to him how utterly
impossible it would be for her to see the picture. The boy had a sort of ruthless
logic: ‘Why should it be impossible? Aren’t you seeing his photos, even that big
photo on the wall, every day?’ ‘But these photos do not talk, move or sing.’ ‘And
yet you prefer them to the picture which has life!’ The whole of the next day
Sambu was in great excitement. In his classroom whenever his master took his
eyes off him for a moment he leant over and whispered to his neighbour, ‘My
father was paid ten thousand rupees to act in that film. I am seeing it this evening.
Aren’t you also coming?’ ‘To see Kumari!’ sneered his friend. He hated Tamil
pictures. ‘I won’t even pass that way.’ ‘This is not like other Tamil films. My father
used to read the story to us every night. It is a very interesting story. He wrote the
whole story himself. He was paid ten thousand rupees for writing and acting. I will
take you to the picture if you are also coming.’ ‘I won’t see a Tamil picture.’ ‘This
is not an ordinary Tamil picture. It is as good as an English picture.’ But Sambu’s
friend was adamant. Sambu had to go alone and see the picture. It was an
attempt at a new style in Tamil films—a modern story with a minimum of music. It
was the story of Kumari, a young girl who refused to marry at fourteen but
wanted to study in a university and earn an independent living, and was cast away
by her stern father (Sambu’s father) and forgiven in the end. Sambu, sitting in the
four-anna class, was eagerly waiting for the picture to begin. It was six months
since he had seen his father, and he missed him badly at home. The hall
darkened. Sambu sat through the trailers and slide advertisements without
enthusiasm. Finally, his father came on the screen. He was wearing just the dhoti
and shirt he used to wear at home; he was sitting at his table just as he used to sit
at home. And then a little girl came up, and he patted her on the head and spoke
to her exactly as he used to speak to Sambu. And then Father taught the girl
arithmetic. She had a slate on her knee and he dictated to her: ‘A cartman wants
two annas per mile. Rama has three annas on hand. How far will the cartman
carry him?’ The girl chewed her slate pencil and blinked. Father was showing signs
of impatience. ‘Go on, Kumari,’ Sambu muttered. ‘Say something, otherwise you
will receive a slap presently. I know him better than you do.’ Kumari, however,
was a better arithmetician than Sambu. She gave the right answer. Father was
delighted. How he would jump about in sheer delight whenever Sambu solved a
sum correctly! Sambu was reminded of a particular occasion when by sheer fluke
he blundered through a puzzle about a cistern with a leak and a tap above it. How
father jumped out of his chair when he heard Sambu declare that it would take
three hours for the cistern to fill again. When the film ended and the lights were
switched on, Sambu turned about and gazed at the aperture in the projection
room as if his father had vanished into it. The world now seemed to be a poorer
place without Father. He ran home. His mother was waiting for him at the door.
‘It is nine o’clock. You are very late.’ ‘I would have loved it if the picture had lasted
even longer. You are perverse, Mother. Why won’t you see it?’ Throughout the
dinner he kept talking. ‘Exactly as Father used to sing, exactly as he used to walk,
exactly . . .’ His mother listened to him in grim silence. ‘Why don’t you say
something, Mother?’ ‘I have nothing to say.’ ‘Don’t you like the picture?’ She
didn’t answer the question. She asked, ‘Would you like to go and see the picture
again tomorrow?’ ‘Yes, Mother. If possible every day as long as the picture is
shown. Will you give me four annas every day?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Will you let me see both
the shows every day?’ ‘Oh, no. You can’t do that. What is to happen to your
lessons?’ ‘Won’t you come and see the picture, Mother?’ ‘No, impossible.’ For a
week more, three hours in the day, Sambu lived in his father’s company, and felt
depressed at the end of every show. Every day it was a parting for him. He longed
to see the night show too, but Mother bothered too much about school lessons.
Time was precious, but Mother did not seem to understand it; lessons could wait,
but not Father. He envied those who were seeing the picture at night. Unable to
withstand his persuasions any more, his mother agreed to see the picture on the
last day. They went to the night show. She sat in the women’s class. She had to
muster all her courage to sit down for the picture. She had a feeling of great relief
as long as the slide advertisements and trailer pieces lasted. When the picture
began, her heart beat fast. Her husband talking to his wife on the screen, playing
with his child, singing, walking, dressing; same clothes, same voice, same anger,
same joy—she felt that the whole thing was a piece of cruelty inflicted on her. She
shut her eyes several times, but the picture fascinated her: it had the fascination
of a thing which is painful. And then came a scene in which he reclined in a chair
reading a newspaper. How he would sit absorbed in a newspaper! In their years
of married life, how often had she quarrelled with him for it! Even on the last day
he had sat thus after dinner, in his canvas chair, with the newspaper before him;
she had lost her temper at the sight of it and said, ‘You and your newspaper! I
could as well go and sleep off the rest of the day,’ and left his company. When she
saw him later he had fallen back in his chair with the sheets of newspaper over his
face . . . This was an unbearable scene. A sob burst from her. Sambu, sitting in his
seat on the men’s side, liked to see his father in the newspaper scene because the
girl would presently come and ask him what he was reading, annoy him with
questions and get what she deserved: Father would shout, ‘Kumari! Will you go
out or shall I throw you out?’ That girl didn’t know how to behave with Father,
and Sambu disliked her intensely . . . While awaiting eagerly the snubbing of the
girl, Sambu heard a burst of sobbing in the women’s class; presently there was a
scramble of feet and a cry: ‘Put the lights on! Accident to someone! ’ The show
was stopped. People went hither and thither. Sambu, cursing this interruption,
stood up on a bench to see what the matter was. He saw his mother being lifted
from the floor. ‘That is my mother! Is she also dead?’ screamed Sambu, and
jumped over the barrier. He wailed and cried. Someone told him, ‘She has only
fainted. Nothing has happened to her. Don’t make a fuss.’ They carried her out
and laid her in the passage. The lights were put out again, people returned to
their seats and the show continued. Mother opened her eyes, sat up and said, ‘Let
us go away.’ ‘Yes, Mother.’ He fetched a jutka and helped her into it. As he was
climbing into it himself, from the darkened hall a familiar voice said, ‘Kumari! Will
you go out or shall I throw you out?’ Sambu’s heart became heavy and he burst
into tears: he was affected both by his mother’s breakdown and by the feeling
that this was the final parting from his father. They were changing the picture
next day.