A Bit of a Pencil

(A STORY)

(Translated from the original in Marathi by the author)

When I left my friend’s place I was all raw, nerves on edge. It began as a simple friendly chat, but it had very nearly developed into a bitter quarrel.

My friend’s guest had kept on asserting that a woman should not cultivate the company of men, barring of course the husband. "Who knows?" he argued. "She may let her fancy stray; and, even otherwise, it is quite possible that the husband may grow jealous. Happy married lives should not be risked that way."

We had argued, he and I, and nearly hurled names at each other.

I had said to him:

"Look here, Mr. Niranjan, you depict a morbid man. No normal husband would suspect his wife so easily. Weak brains and feeble hearts should however look after themselves."

But it was no use persisting in an argument which was fast shaping into a quarrel. So I left it at that, and invited my friend and Mr. Niranjan to have tea with me the next day.

My friend happened to have a professional engagement, and he was not free; and just to show that he had taken the discussion in good sport, Mr. Niranjan agreed to come alone!

On my way I did not think of anything but of Mr. Niranjan and the discussion I had with him.

I said to myself: This Niranjan thinks he is an authority on the relations between man and woman. He is smart and intelligent, no doubt; but his attitude is really strange. The man is against a wife even meeting the friends of the husband. Surely he has a nasty mind!

I decided to introduce my wife, Vimal, to Mr. Niranjan, and to let him see that I was one of those persons who equate their life with their opinions, and further to show him that my wife was above all suspicion and myself above all jealousy.

I reached home.

When I entered the house, I found Vimal squatting on the floor with a heap of odds and ends spread around her. There was an open trunk in front of her, and the floor was littered with all sorts of things.

"Good God!" I exclaimed, "Have you opened a Fancy Bazaar?"

We had been married quite recently, and our relations still showed signs of formality.

"No! No!" protested Virnal, "I have long had a mind to clear this trunk. There has been such a muddle of it. I had nothing to do just now, so I thought………but, oh, I’ll first get you some tea." And she quickly slipped into the kitchen.

"Look here!" I returned, as she came with my tea, "We will be having a guest this time tomorrow. Mind you give him nice tea."

Vimal looked up and said,

"Guest?"

"Yes," I nodded.

"Who is he?"

"A gentleman from Nagar, quite a smart chap, "I replied, as I sipped the tea.

"Surely he has a name!"

"I am sure you don’t know him."

She was about to say something, when a peon from my office called me out.

As soon as I had finished with the peon, I came inside and, just to please Vimal, said,

"Wait! I’ll help you to pack this muddle."

My helping her was only a pretence. I just wanted to spend some time in Vimal’s company, and so I began to ask her silly questions about nothing in particular, for they say soft and silly words are meat and wine to young love.

Vimal’s trunk was a museum in miniature. There were in it a lot of embroidery work, one or two photographs of her friends, some books on cookery, a necklace of cultured pearls, small and long needles, bundles of dyed wool, a saffron-smeared coconut preserved from our wedding ceremony, a few dried flowers and ‘Kunkum’ from some temple, silk pieces, ribbons, pins kept in an empty soap box and a few naphthalene balls–all sorts of things which women store for no particular reason. I began to clean up an article, and passed it on to her bag.

In this process, a small paper box, the size of a cigarette packet, came to my hand. I cleaned it with a towel and was about to hand it over to Vimal when its contents slipped through my fingers.

There was an orange-coloured tissue paper of the kind they use to wrap gold ornaments in; and, on removing it, I discovered–

A bit of a pencil!

I laughed.

"What folly!" I exclaimed. "A wretched stub of a pencil, and you have kept it so well-sheltered?"

I was about to throw it out when Vimal snatched it from me as if it were a treasured photograph of a dear friend.

" Nonsense!" I insisted.

But wrapping it up again in the same thin paper, Vimal kept that bit of a pencil in the same box. "Why throw it?" she pouted.

The more Vimal showed herself reluctant the more was curiosity roused in my mind.

Naturally, we had quite a bit of a quarrel.

I asked her about the history of the pencil, but she only said, "Why do you want to know? It is all so silly!"

"Silly or wise, what harm is there if you tell me what it is about?"

In the end, I kept quiet. Silence rather than argument made Vimal speak.

And this was her tale about the pencil:

"Two years ago, when I was in the Matriculation class, a new teacher–hardly a teacher, he was just a young man straight from college–came to our school. One of our teachers was on leave, and so he had been deputed as a substitute for a couple of days."

"Well?"

"Of course, there was nothing particular about him but he taught exceedingly well. I liked his method of teaching immensely. At least I had not found such merit in any teacher so far."

"But where does this pencil come in?" I interrupted.

"Well, it was like this, One day, when I was about to take notes of his lecture in the class, I found that I had lost my pencil. I don’t know how, but he happened to notice my difficulty, and he gave me a small bit of a pencil. Next day, however, he did not come to the school, but since then I have kept this pencil as a kind of souvenir. And here it is."

Just to play with the sentimental mood of Vimal, I asked, "But what was the name of that teacher?"

"Oh, he was no teacher, I told you. He was just a graduate, and had come to our school only for a couple of days. He was a Fellow of his College, reading for his M. A. His name….his name was….something like…..M. P. Niranjan."

"What? Niranjan?" I asked, in obvious surprise.

Vimal was taken aby my tone. Impatiently she asked, "Why? Do you know him?"

With some difficulty, I managed to pull myself together, and said, "No! No! Not in the least! How could I know him? I thought I had heard the name somewhere. Of course, it must be a mistake!"

"Yes. But, you know, he was a very smart man and must now be a professor somewhere. Of course, I left school four months later and–since then I have not heard of him. But, anyhow, I always remember those two days when he taught us."

Saying this, Vimal opened the small box and looked once again at the pencil.

Half an hour later, I sent a note to the house of my friend:

Dear Mr. Niranjan, I had invited you to tea tomorrow noon. But as I have received an urgent telegram, I am going out of town immediately. I am afraid I shall take at least four days to return. I am very sorry indeed to lose the opportunity of meeting you again, and I beg you to accept my apologies.

And after I returned from my evening stroll, I said to my wife,

"I must inform you of it, Vimal. The guest that was to come tomorrow for tea has received an urgent telegram and has left this place all of a sudden. I got his note to that effect just a little while ago."

Well, I cannot help feeling somewhat ashamed when I recollect this little incident. I am now an old man of fifty and Vimal is the mother of five children. The problem had solved itself, or rather it had ceased to exist. But one question pricks my conscience yet–whether it was just on my part to have prevented Vimal from meeting Mr. Niranjan.