Left from the Nameless Shop Read online

  Having cleaned under the sofa as much as it was possible to do, Nagalakshmi straightened up. Despite herself, her eyes darted nervously around to meet the old woman’s. The expression in the milky eyes did not vary.

  That bloody husband of mine is the reason for all of this! thought Nagi as she began to wipe the floor. Worked for that stinking miser for a pittance all these years, and now that he had got the boot, he has given up and taken to his bed. Permanently, it seems!

  At first, Nagalakshmi had been more shocked by the degree of her husband’s despair than she cared to admit. But now his despair had sunk into dejection, with no sign of abating. The household straits were terrible, and Nagi’s sympathy for her husband’s plight had turned into desperation for her own.

  It was not that Devendrappa did not care that his wife was struggling. It was only that he didn’t know what to do about it. Like his paints and brushes lying forgotten on the shelf of the old urinal of Vishnu Talkies, his heart too now lay in the hollow of his chest, unused and gathering dust.

  One morning, when Nagi didn’t wake up at her usual hour, Devendrappa raised his head and turned to see her groaning softly on her straw mat on the floor. Slowly, he lowered his feet to the ground and crossed the room to her side. At the touch of his cool palm on her fevered brow, she pulled away sharply and continued to moan.

  Worried, Devendrappa lifted her up in his arms. Months of lying around had weakened his body, and by the time he had laid her down on the charpoy he had just vacated, he was panting for breath.

  Nothing but a chaapey between her and the cold floor must have been agony, poor thing, he thought. Bending over his wife and stroking her hair gently, he whispered, ‘Tadi Nagi, I will send the neighbour’s boy to fetch Doctor Ayya. Bega baruttene, ma.’ She grunted in response.

  Doctor Bhaskara lived near Five Lights, just behind Narayanamma’s tuck shop, and came at once in his green Standard Herald car, bringing the neighbour’s son with him. He examined Nagi carefully, while she kept up a tirade: ‘Ayyayo, my back, my legs! The pain is killing me! Doctorey, kapadi! Only you can save me now!’

  Her husband, who was hovering in the periphery, glanced anxiously at the doctor. The good doctor, however, went about his business calmly, unaffected by Nagi’s theatrics.

  ‘It is all his fault!’ erupted the patient, causing her husband to cower a little in anticipation of what he knew was coming next.

  ‘He troubled me for years. No money, always broke … now lost his job! Lies around staring at the walls … I have to go to work. That’s why I am sic—’

  ‘What did you drink yesterday?’ the doctor cut in. Nagalakshmi paused in her rant, flummoxed.

  ‘It was something cold,’ said the doctor. It was not a question.

  ‘Er … where would I find cold things, Doctor Ayya?’ she asked, innocently. ‘You know we don’t have—’

  ‘In Sheshadri’s fridge. What was it, iced water?’

  ‘Buttermilk,’ she mumbled and went into a violent spasm of coughing. Coughing piteously, she decided, was as quick a way to make an exit from an embarrassing conversation as any.

  Doctor Bhaskara put away his stethoscope, then placed his hand on the woman’s groaning head. Devendrappa thought he saw the doctor mutter something, but couldn’t be sure. Nagi’s cough subsided immediately, as did her tirade, and she lay quietly on her side, spent from the morning’s exertions. Meanwhile, the doctor selected some tablets from his bag, and placed them on the rickety wooden stool. By the time he left the house, Nagalakshmi had fallen asleep. Devendrappa followed the doctor to the car, folded his hands, and bestowed upon the old man a look of pure gratitude – the only payment he could afford.

  Devendrappa sat beside Nagalakshmi’s bed the whole day. He prepared ganji and fed it to her. She was quiet now and her fever was gone. She ate in silence, then went back to sleep. Had there been any, his thoughts might have filled the interminable hours that stretched before him, lending him their chaotic company. But there were none. For some weeks now, Devendrappa had descended into a kind of numbness, a vacuum of no movement, no flow. Not a place for the living or even for the dead, but for one caught between those two states.

  The shadow of the sun inched across the front yard to disappear around the back of the hut. Devendrappa rose to peek inside the bin beside the kerosene stove. They were nearly out of firewood. Lifting the axe from behind the door, he hoisted it to his shoulder and left the hut on unsteady feet.

  He walked until he reached the woods beside the river bank. It felt strange being out in the open again. He wasn’t sure that his body was capable of wielding the axe, but he couldn’t afford to return home without doing so. The firewood in the bin wouldn’t last another night.

  He gathered a few dead branches lying about and began to chop them up. His body quivered with the effort, his breath coming in short gasps long before he had collected enough. At one point, he felt so tired that he dropped the axe and sat down, holding his head in his hands.

  ‘Devare,’ he called in distress to the gods. ‘Devare …’ he muttered, over and over again.

  Suddenly, a melodious voice, carrying an alapana pure and true floated across the waters to Devendrappa, before easing effortlessly into a bhajana.

  ‘Te jo nidhi loha gole, Bhaskara he gagana raja …’ (O ball of blazing iron, O Sun, emperor of the skies…)

  It was the temple priest, Raghuvir. Devendrappa knew nothing about music. But his was a nature sensitive to beauty, and a thrill went through him. He raised his head and listened, mesmerized. The voice went on, the liquid notes of the tanpura undulating beneath each nuance like the waters of the river beside which the singer sat. Of their own accord, Devendrappa’s eyes shut and his breath stilled; no longer the stillness of the living dead, this, but of being alive. It throbbed, infused him with energy and carried him away in the currents of its flow.

  An image formed behind Devendrappa’s eyelids. A man, a musician, eyes closed, head leaning against the arm of his tanpura, merged with his song. His Anant Nag in the Hamsageethe poster, who had seemed so familiar on that distant day when Devendrappa had painted him…

  And suddenly, Devendrappa understood. It was not so much the outer form as the divinity encapsulated within it, that his heart had thrilled to. The Familiar that lives and haunts those secret places, now reached out to reclaim the poster painter, stirring his dusty heart to life once more.

  Sitting by the river bank with his head in his hands, Devendrappa wept for all the beauty that, in the past months, he had let slip away.

  Awakened from its stupor, the body no longer quivered when Devendrappa, with his bundle of firewood, steered it towards home. Was it the bhajana? The weeping? Or the laughter that had followed on its heels, elicited by the sudden thought of Nagi stealing buttermilk from Sheshadri Saab’s fridge? The image of her looking around furtively before gulping down the icy liquid had brought forth a rush of mirth in the wake of Devendrappa’s tears.

  She could have been a character in one of my film posters! thought Devendrappa, and in laughing over it, rediscovered his impossible, irritating, gallant wife, who had stood by him through these many years of hunger and hardship.

  Where would I be without my Nagi? I must go home and light a fire for her. And tomorrow, I will look for a job.

  2

  A Brush with New Purpose

  ‘Banni, Devanna! It’s good to see you!’ exclaimed Suresh, the head mechanic at Rudrapura Only Mechanics. ‘We’re always short-staffed, so when Narayani Akka told us you wanted to come in to work with us, we were very happy!’

  Devendrappa smiled. He knew that Suresh was exaggerating to make him feel less awkward, for what would a poster painter do in a mechanic’s garage? Still, he was determined to do any task given to him, and to do it well. The previous week, when he had asked around and found no work, he had slowly approached despair again. But then this opening had come up, and Devendrappa had accepted it gratefully. There had been no talk of money and
he had asked for none. Instead, he spent the morning gathering and arranging pieces of scrap metal in the front yard by the gate in preparation for the scrap dealer to lug them away. In the afternoon, he shared a simple meal of ragi mudde and saaru with the mechanics, then proceeded to assist Suresh in the tuning of an engine, fetching and carrying tools as and when they were required. Finally, he cleaned up the oil spills and swept the garage before they shut for the day. As Devendrappa washed his hands, unbidden came the memory of paint under his fingernails. Nagi had been right: he had never bothered to wash very thoroughly before, perhaps because paint had never felt alien to his body. Grease, on the other hand … He smiled sadly as he scrubbed to get rid of it from his fingers.

  At least Nagi will be happy now, he thought.

  As he made to leave for home, Suresh called him and handed him twenty rupees.

  ‘It isn’t much, Devanna. I’m sorry that this is all we can afford. But please accept it.’

  Devendrappa looked down at the small wad of one and two rupee notes in his palms. Then he looked up at Suresh and smiled. And here he had thought he wouldn’t be paid at all. God was kind!

  Life went on in this manner for the poster painter who no longer painted posters. He was a mechanic’s assistant now. Did he enjoy his work? He wasn’t sure. But he enjoyed being employed and useful again. Felt warmed by the laughter and the kindness of Suresh and his apprentices. He liked it when old man Basavaraj, who had retired as head mechanic at the Rudrapura Only Mechanics a few years ago, came in of a morning to sit with the boys and speak of the old days. Devendrappa was grateful for the memory of paint that lingered under his fingernails, the remembered feel of a paint brush in his hand. He felt that as long as these flesh memories stayed with him, he could work as a garage assistant or anything else, and still remain a poster painter at heart.

  One day, while Suresh, Devendrappa and the apprentices were hard at work, a dusty truck came rumbling along the Bangalore–Shivamogga Road. It slowed down and stopped outside the garage, and everybody looked up from what they were doing. The truck driver was a thin man. He had a cloth wound around his head like a turban, the corner of the fabric rusty with the stain of blood. He looked shaken and scared. His companion leapt out of the passenger side and hurried around to support him. The two made their way to the entrance of the garage. Wiping his greasy hands on a piece of cloth, Suresh came out to meet them.

  ‘Eeyn aayth, Anna?’ called Suresh. His boys joined him at the gate.

  ‘We were in an accident. The truck … please take a look at it,’ called out the second fellow. The driver said nothing.

  ‘Hmm. Drinking and driving, were you?’ said Suresh pleasantly, motioning for his boys to bring the truck into the garage premises.

  At this, the driver suddenly found his voice. ‘Illa Anna, never! I swear to god, I never drink! I never ever drink … and drive,’ his words trailed off, losing both volume and conviction. His breath reeked of alcohol.

  ‘Chhee!’ exclaimed one of the apprentices taking a hurried step back as a whiff of the man’s stale breath reached him. ‘Nobody drinks and drives, Suresh Anna! The highway is chock-full with accidents that are someone else’s fault, didn’t you know?’

  Suresh chuckled. The driver began to sob and hiccup.

  ‘Anna, please fix the problem. If the boss finds out, I will lose my job! Please, Anna…’

  ‘Seri, seri, aaythu,’ said Suresh reassuringly. ‘Go sit under that tree and we’ll look into it. Ay Mani, go and fetch these men some coffee from Narayani Akka’s. They look like they could do with some.’

  ‘There’s a dent in the back, Anna. The sethu will surely notice. What will we do?’ asked the companion worriedly, after Mani had left.

  ‘If you want to get it fixed,’ said Suresh, ‘you’ll have to leave the truck with us for at least a day.’

  ‘But we have to be in Bangalore by tonight or we’ll lose our jobs!’ wailed the driver.

  Devendrappa, who was standing aside, watching the proceedings quietly, felt sorry for the man. While the others were busy under the bonnet of the vehicle, he went around to examine the dent. There it was, on the front fender, somewhere towards the left corner. Clearly, the truck had collided with something hard – another vehicle or a tree, perhaps. The impact had created a small but unmistakable depression in the metal.

  What an interesting shape. Almost like a bird in flight … thought the poster painter who no longer painted posters, his artistic eye deducing image and form even in an ungainly dent. He ran his fingers over it appraisingly. An idea was beginning to form in his mind. He turned to look at the truck driver, sitting hunched in the shade of the tree, sipping coffee noisily from a glass that he held cupped with both hands as if it were a lifeline.

  Everybody needs something to hold on to, thought Devendrappa. He quietly left the garage premises and walked on until he came upon the tuck shop. Making a left from the tuck shop, he reached the gates of Vishnu Talkies. Fighting the sudden ache in his heart and keeping his eyes averted, he continued walking until he reached Karpagambal Street. There, his friend Anjaneya and a team of painters were working on the grills of a newly constructed house.

  Anjaneya – or Aanji, as he was called – greeted Devendrappa warmly. When Devendrappa told him what he wanted, Aanji was happy to oblige. Truth be told, he was relieved to see his friend back on his feet and looking close to his old, cheerful self again.

  ‘Take whatever you need, Devanna,’ said Aanji.

  Devendrappa picked a can each of red, brown, white and black enamel paints, and with them, two brushes.

  ‘I will use these sparingly,’ he said gratefully.

  Back at Rudrapura Only Mechanics, Devendrappa dipped the tip of one of the brushes into the can of brown, pressed it a few times against the rim to drain off the excess paint, and began to craft the body of a butterfly out of the dent in the fender. He used the depression in the metal to achieve a three-dimensional effect…

  The truck driver wept for joy. There were butterflies fluttering across the front of his truck, delicate and airy. The ugliness of the dent was like the proverbial caterpillar from which the first of those bewitching winged creatures had emerged. He pulled out a few rupee notes from his shirt pocket and pressed them into Devendrappa’s palm. Then he kissed the back of his hand gratefully.

  ‘This is all I have, Anna. But please accept it. You have saved my job!’

  Embarrassed, Devendrappa tried to return the money, but the driver and his companion would not hear of it. That evening, he returned the paints and the brushes to Aanji, along with the money the driver had given him and his twenty-rupee wage for the day. Aanji wanted to protest, but he knew his friend well enough to refrain from doing so. As Devendrappa walked back to the vatara that evening, his feet felt strangely light. Lighter than they had felt in many months.

  The following week, old man Basavaraj came hurrying to the garage, beaming.

  ‘Basava Thatha, what happened? Eeke naguttiddira neevu?’ asked Suresh.

  ‘I’m smiling because I have wonderful news! Ay Suresha, Narayani won her court case, kano! Nobody can threaten to take her house or the tuck shop away from her after this!’

  Suresh let out a whoop of delight as the others came hurrying over from their various corners to share in the news.

  ‘Devendrappa, I have an idea,’ said old man Basavaraj. ‘Why don’t we get a proper signboard painted for her shop? We will all pool in the money and purchase the paints and the board. You paint it for us.’

  ‘Good idea, Thatha!’ cried Suresh. ‘But what name should we put on it? The shop still doesn’t have a name…’

  ‘Devanna! Devanna!’ came an urgent voice just then from up the street. Everyone turned around to see Chinna running towards them, waving his arms wildly. Basavaraj grabbed Chinna’s arms as he reached them.

  ‘What happened? Is it Raghuvir?’ he demanded anxiously, for the temple priest was like a son to the old man, and very dear.


  ‘Illa Thatha, nothing like that. Diesel Sir has sent for Devanna urgently.’

  A sudden hush fell over the place and everyone stiffened – everyone except Devendrappa, who looked truly concerned. It was common knowledge that Diesel Pai had unceremoniously thrown the poster painter out as soon as he laid his hands on the first digital poster. What did that scoundrel want from him now?

  ‘Devanna, Coolie philum is due to release in Vishnu Talkies next week. But because of an accident along the way, the posters have arrived from Bombay in a severely damaged condition. Diesel Sir wants you to … er … come and paint.’

  Chinna’s voice trailed off in embarrassment as the others hissed in indignation and glared at him. It was really a case of shooting the messenger, though, because everybody present knew how distressed Chinna had been when Devendrappa had lost his job at the Talkies, and how he had pleaded – to no avail – with Diesel Pai to let him stay.

  Devendrappa turned to Suresh and asked him for permission to leave.

  ‘But after the way that man treated you—’ burst out Suresh.

  ‘It is not for Bala Sir that I am going,’ interrupted Devendrappa quietly. ‘It is for Vishnu Sir. How can I let his memory and the talkies down?’

  ‘But Devanna—’ protested Suresh, then fell abruptly silent when Basavaraj placed a hand on his shoulder.

  They watched Devendrappa leave with Chinna. The other apprentices returned to work. Only Suresh remained standing there.

  ‘Let him go, Suresha,’ said old man Basavaraj gently. ‘He loves that place the way I love this garage. The way you love Ga…’

  Suresh turned towards Basavaraj, sudden emotion flaring in his eyes. They looked at each for a long moment.

  ‘Some things never change. We must all go where our hearts take us,’ said the old man at last, and turned away with a sigh.

  The poster of Coolie had been painted and mounted from the balcony of Lalita Kuteer Mansion. The moving poster had travelled through the streets of Rudrapura, draped over the back of a bullock cart; musicians had played, little boys had danced, taken off their shirts, fought over sweets on land and in the air.