ANOTHER COMMUNITY - RK NARAYAN

 
I am not going to mention caste or community in this story. The newspapers of recent months have given us a tip which is handy  namely the designation:  One Community  and  Another Community . In keeping with this practice I am giving the hero of this story no name. I want you to find out, if you like, to what community or section he belonged; I m sure you will not be able to guess it any more than you will be able to say what make of vest he wore under his shirt; and it will be just as immaterial to our purpose.

He worked in an office which was concerned with insurance business. He sat at a table, checked papers and figures between noon and five p.m. every day, and at the end of the month his pay envelope came to his hands containing one hundred rupees. He was middle-aged now, but his passage from youth to middle age was, more or less, at the same seat in his office.
He lived in a little house in a lane: it had two rooms and a hall and sufficed for his wife and four children, although he felt embarrassed when a guest came. The shops were nearby, the children s school was quite close, and his wife had friends all around.

It was on the whole a peaceful, happy life  till the October of 1947, when he found that the people around had begun to speak and act like savages. Someone or a body of men killed a body of men a thousand miles away and the result was that they repeated the evil here and wreaked their vengeance on those around. It was an absurd state of affairs.

But there it was: a good action in a far-off place did not find an echo, but an evil one did possess that power. Our friend saw the tempers of his neighbours rising as they read the newspaper each day. They spoke rashly,  We must smash them who are here   he heard people say.  They have not spared even women and children!  he heard them cry.  All right, we will teach those fellows a lesson. We will do the same here  the only language they will understand. 
But he tried to say,  Look here.  He visualized his office colleague sitting on his right, his postman, the fellow at the betel-leaves shop, and his friend at the bank  all these belonged to another community. He had not bothered about their category all these days: they were just friends  people who smiled, obliged and spoke agreeably.
But now he saw them in a new light: they were of another community. Now when he heard his men talk menacingly, he visualized his post office friend being hacked in the street, or the little girl belonging to that colleague of his, who so charmingly brought him lemon squash whenever he visited them, and displayed the few bits of dance and songs she knew  he visualized her being chased by the hooligans of his own community while she was on her way to school carrying a soap carton full of pencils and rubber! This picture was too much for him and he whispered under his breath constantly,  God forbid!  He tried to smooth out matters by telling his fellow men:  You see but such things will not happen here .
But he knew that was wishful thinking. He knew his men were collecting knives and sticks. He knew how much they were organizing themselves, with a complete code of operations  all of which sounded perfectly ghastly to his sensitive temperament. Fire, sword, and loot, and all the ruffians that gathered for instructions and payment at his uncle s house, who often declared:  We will do nothing by ourselves yet. But if they so much as wag a tail they will be finished. We will speak to them in the only language they will understand. 
Life seemed to have become intolerable. People were becoming sneaky and secretive. Everyone seemed to him a potential assassin. People looked at each other with suspicion and hatred. It seemed to him a shame that one should be throwing watchful, cautious looks over one s shoulder as one walked down the street.
The air was surcharged with fear. He avoided meeting others. Someone or other constantly reported:  You know what happened? A cyclist was stabbed in street last evening.
Of course the police are hushing up the whole business.  Or he heard:  A woman was assaulted today, 
or,  Do you know they rushed into the girls  school and four girls are missing. The police are useless; we must deal with these matters ourselves.  Such talk made his heart throb and brought a sickening feeling at his throat: he felt his food tasting bitter on his tongue. He could never look at his wife and children without being racked by the feeling, Oh innocent ones, what perils await you in the hands of that bully! God knows.
At night he could hardly sleep: he lay straining his ears for any mob cries that might burst out all of a sudden. Suppose they stole upon him and broke his door? He could almost hear the terrified screams of his little ones. And all night he kept brooding and falling of into half sleep and struggled to keep awake, awaiting the howl of riotous mobs.
The cries of a distant dog sounded so sinister that he got up to see if any flames appeared over the skies far off. His wife asked sleepily,  What is it?  He answered,  Nothing. You sleep,  and returned to his bed. He was satisfied that nothing was happening. He secretly resolved that he d fetch the wood-chopper from the fuel room and keep it handy in case he had to defend his home. Sometimes the passage of a lorry or a cart pulled him out of his scant sleep and set him on his feet at the window: he stood there in the dark to make sure it was not a police lorry racing along to open fire on a murderous crowd. He spent almost every night in this anxious, agitated manner and felt relieved when day came.
Everyone mentioned that the coming Wednesday, the 29th of the month, was a critical day. There was to
be a complete showdown that day. It was not clear why they selected that day, but everyone mentioned it. In his office people spoke of nothing but the 29th. The activity in his uncle s house had risen to a feverish pitch. His uncle told him,  I m glad we shall be done with this bother on the 29th. It is going to end this tension once for all. We shall clean up this town. After all, they form only a lakh and half of the town population, while we  He went into dizzying statistics.
Zero hour was approaching. He often wondered amidst the general misery of all this speculation how they would set off the spark: will one community member slap the cheek of another at a given moment in a formal manner?  Suppose nothing happens?  he asked, and his uncle told him,  How can nothing happen? We know what we are doing. They hold secret assemblies almost every night. Why should they meet at midnight? 
 They may not be able to gather everyone except at that hour,  he replied.  We don t want people to meet at that hour. We do not ask for trouble, but if everything happens, we will finish them off. It will be only a matter of a few hours; it will work like a push-botton arrangement. But we will avoid the initiative as far as possible. 
On the 29th most of the shops were closed as a precaution. Children stayed away from school, and said cheerfully,  No school today, Father,  you know why? It seems there is going to be a fight today.  The coolness and detachment with which his children referred to the fight made our friend envy them. His wife did not like the idea of his going to the office.  It seems they are not going to the office today,  she said, referring to some neighbours.  Why should you go?  He tried to laugh off the question and, while setting out, said half humorously,  well, keep yourselves indoors, if you choose, that is if you are afraid.  His wife replied,  No one is afraid. As long as your uncle is near at hand, we have no fear. 
At the office, hiss boss was there, of course, but most of his colleagues were absent. There seemed to be a sudden outbreak of  urgent private business  among them. The few that came wasted their time discussing the frightful possibilities of the day. Our friend s head had become one whirling mass of rumours and fears. He hated to hear their talk. He plunged himself in work with such intensity that he found himself constantly exhausting its sources. So much so that, just to keep himself engaged, he excavated old files and accounts for some minute checking. The result was that it was past seven-thirty when he was able to put away the papers and leave the office.
The old files had had a sort of deadening effect on his mind. But now he felt a sudden anxiety to reach home in the shortest time possible. God knows what is happening to my family, he wondered. The usual route seemed to him laborious and impossible. It seemed to his fevered mind that it might take hours and hours. He felt the best course would be to dash through the alley in front of his office and go home by a short cut. It was a route he favoured whenever he was in a hurry although, under normal circumstances, he avoided it for its narrowness, gutters, and mongrels. He snatched a look at his watch and hurried along the dark alley. He had proceeded a few yards when a cyclist coming up halted his progress. The cyclist and the pedestrian had difficulty in judging each other s moves, and they both went off to the left or to the right together, and seemed to be making awkward passes at each other, till the cyclist finally slipped off the saddle, and both found themselves in the road dust.
Our friend s nerves snapped and he yelled out,  Why can t you ride carefully? 
The other scrambled to his feet and cried,  Are you blind? Can t you see a cycle coming? 
 Where is your light? 
 Who are you to question me?  said the other, and shot out his arm and hit the face of our friend, who lost his head and kicked the other in the belly. A crowd assembled. Somebody shouted,  He dares to attack us in our own place! Must teach these fellows a lesson. Do you think they are afraid?  Shouts and screams increased. It was deafening.
Somebody hit our friend with a staff, someone else with his fist; he saw a knife flashing out. Our friend felt his end had come. He suddenly had an access of recklessness. He was able to view the moment with a lot of detachment. He essayed to lecture to the crowd on the idiocy of the whole relationship, to tell them that they should stop it at once. But no sound issued from his voice box  he found himself hemmed in on all sides. The congestion was intolerable: everyone in that rabble seemed to put his weight on him and claw at some portion of his body. His eyes dimmed; he felt very light. He mumbled to someone near,  But I will never, never tell my uncle what has happened. I won t be responsible for starting the trouble.
This city must be saved. I won t utter the word that will start the trouble, that will press the button, so to say. That ll finish up everybody, you and me together. What is it all worth? There is no such thing as your community or mine. We are all of this country. I and my wife and children: you and your wife and children. Let us not cut each other s throats. It doesn t matter who cuts whose: it s all the same to me. But we must not, we must not. We must not. I ll tell my uncle that I fell down the office staircase and hurt myself. He ll never know. He must not press the button. 
But the button did get pressed. The incident of that alley became known within a couple of hours all over the city. And his uncle and other uncles did press the button, with results that need not be described here.
Had he been able to speak again, our friend would have spoken a lie and saved the city; but unfortunately that saving lie was not uttered.
His body was found by the police late next afternoon in a ditch in that wretched alley, and identified through the kerosene ration coupon in his breast pocket.