Sharp-hand Artist of Madras

• TAMBIMUTTU HAT year the crêpe-flowers in my Bombay garden reflected my rosy mood. A year's putting my best foot forward had produced a great crop of MSS ready for the presses (if their lords could be persuaded) besides a gallimaufry of pieces for The Times of India and The Times of Ceylon.

Ananda Bhavan, B. J. Road, Bandra, Bombay 20. March 26, 1951.

Most Honoured Bara Sahib, By a friend of mine I come to know that there is several Indian sharp hand artists required under your honour, so 1 must humbly offer my hand. As to my justness, I appeared for the Matric domination at Darjeeling but failed, the reason for which I shall describe. To begin with my writing was illegible. This was due to climatic reasons, for 1 come up from a warm climate and found my fingers stiff and disobedient to my mind wishes. Further I was under great shock to my mental system in the shape of death of my fond and loving brother from one and same mother. So you can judge my mental distress through this loss, so mind refused to act.

Furthermore, most honoured Father, I beg to state that I am in most uncomfortable circumstances, being the sole support of ' my fond brother's seven issues, consisting of three adults and four adultresses, the latter being the bane of my existence owing to provide husbands for each one of them at a very high premium. Besides all this bane I have to support two of my own wives besides their legitimate and illegitimate issues of which, by God's misfortune the feminine gender predominates. I am, therefore, most humble sir, in a most pitiful ragged condition, with every hopes of further addition to my family; I humbly pray that your honour will favour me with my appointment, for which your menial will always pray for your long life and prosperity as well as your honour's posthumous olive branches.

Always considering that your honour has a drop of human milk in your noble breast, I am, Your Most Humble Servant, C. Marikkar

Pleased with the result of my ad, I wrote a hasty p.c. to Mr. Marikkar, offering him a hundred and twenty-five rupees e month, if I found his work satisfactory, and a lunch allow- „Ellice of a rupee a day, on work days. I pointed out that there was a South Indian vegetarian hotel, within walking distance of my house, where, for eight annas, they loaded your banana-leaf plate with endless mounds of rice—as much as a man could carry—served with curds, melted ghee, rasams and Vegetable curries. Though Safiya was against the extravagance of a secretary, on the initial success of my mania flapdoodles, as she called my masterworks, I performed convincingly for her benefit. There were undoubtedly many masterworks among my writings. Once properly double-spaced on my special onion skin, we 411culd certainly be going places ! Safiya hissed between her teeth, something about the black crow--to him his young ones are golden birds—I was shame- lessly squandering her patrimony. The articles on botanising, photomania and Anglomania, among my. other ' mania' pieces, had been roaring successes. The time seemed ripe for me to hire a secretary, and so I quickly sent in my two rupees and eight annas to the Advertising Manager of the Free Press Journal, where they do these things on the cheap. Four days passed without a single postman's call. But on the fifth day, hearing the agitation of the letter-box's flap. Y I rushed to the front door, and saw an envelope flutter to the r floor. It was long and narrow, cut out of old newspaper, and probably pasted together with grains of rice left over from the previous night's dinner. Tearing open the makeshift covering, I found a sheet of paper from a school exercise book, closely covered on both sides with writing, and I began to read : Ah, what is the use,' she said at last. Let a man put in a pin and he will push in a pestle.'

The next morning Safiya and I were lounging in the verandah after breakfast, among her grandfather's porcelain jardinières, when a magnificent figure of a man bore down upon us. Striding down the red gravel path, he stopiped by the trellis of thunbergia, suddenly, as if petrified, and gazed upwards. Dash it, it was only the sunbirds that the fellow had found. They were hanging round the flowers in the garden, flowers themselves, counterpointed. The sheer impudence of the man irritated me—perhaps he had not seen us—still, here he was after a job, (it certainly was he) and he seemed to be in no hurry about it !

The feeling of irritation increased as he turned towards the house with an easy gesture, and marched down like a parading Sikh on Rajgrahi day. He was an impressive figure of six feet, in European clothes which seemed to ill suit him: handsome too, with big smouldering eyes, and a blue-black mop sleeked down with hair oil.

Aiyah, I am Marikkar,' he said in Tamil, salaaming—he must have guessed from my name that I was Tamil. He was a Southerner then. I had assumed right in writing to him about the vegetarian curry place.

Marikkar was the very soul of efficiency. It was a pleasure to see him at work. He arrived punctually every morning before 9.30, and sitting at the desk on the verandah, worked at lightning speed on transcribing my MSS. He was a veritable copying machine. Never one mistake ! Gifted with the quick Indian eye that makes easy work of polo or field hockey, he transferred them, letter for letter, and word for word, on to his neat typescript.

He often worked overtime to finish off the day's work if I made further corrections. Safiya and I were delighted. The work progressed at a speed that was incredible, and our hopes soared.

Then one morning Marikkar failed to show up. It was a few days before his monthly salary fell due. We were greatly worried. Perhaps he was ill and needed our help. So we sent him a telegram asking him to let us know if anything was the matter.

That afternoon's mail brought in a letter, and I knew from the familiar makeshift envelope that it was from Marikkar. I tore it open and we read the letter, nearly ripping it in two between us in our haste. This was what it said :

Most Honoured Bara Sahib, When I offered you my hand I did it owing to idea of improving my status. Since then certain hopes have materialised, and today my fond uncle (RIP) has tendered his all to my jurisprudence.

i

It is good tobacco land, so you can judge I can now look forward to old age f,pr my two wives and myself, as well as a happy ending to my brother's unfortunate issues, as well as my own.

As to my justness to give you entire satisfaction, you are fully aware. I would still like to continue, but in these straits, my spirit won't brook mincing the matter. To begin with, dear master, I have been full of hankering for the familiar hearth and village sounds, owing to my disobedient mind wishes. Furthermore, throughout my adultery and Minority, I have thought that my European education, learning Latin for example, has ill-equipped me for the life-struggle, and with all my soul-force 1 have thought to become a farmer in my native Madras State—a wish I can crown now, by a happy coincidence, with the myrtle-leaves of success. I am making plans to return to Madras by the end of the month, to which conclusion to this poor menial's life, I hope your honour will add your encomiums by sending me a postal order by return for salary. It is thus I hope to serve my country and dependents, in This March of Time '—as the adage states. In conclusion, most honoured Father, I hope that heaven will bless you, and keep your powder dry for all emergencies.

I am, Your Most Humble Servant, C. Marikkar

Safiya and I were distressed. We wished we had got to know Marikkar better—or at least invited the fellow to lunch.

Postage on this issue: Inland and Overseas lId.; Canada (Canadian Magazine Post) Id.