Malgudi days by rk narayan pdf free download

She clasped her hands together and implored : " Tell me the truth. A terrible wailing shot through the still house ; the patient stirred and looked about in bewilderment. The doctor got up again, went over to the kitchen door, drew it in securely and shut off the wail. When the doctor resumed his seat the patient asked in the faintest whisper possible, " Is that someone crying?

You mustn't talk. It was already agitated by the exertion. The patient asked, " Am I going? Don't hide it from me.

He had never faced a situation like this. It was not in his nature to whitewash. People attached great value to his word because of that. He stole a look at the other. The patient motioned a finger to draw him nearer and whispered, " I must know how long I am going to last. I must sign the will. It is all ready. Ask my wife for the despatch box. You must sign as a witness. You must be quieter. I can trust your word. I can't leave my property unsettled. That will mean endless misery for my wife and children.

You know all about Subbiah and his gang. Let me sign before it is too late. Tell me. He walked off to his car, sat in the back seat and reflected. He looked at his watch. If the will was to be signed, it must be done within the next two hours, or never. He could not be responsible for a mess there ; he knew too well the family affairs and about those wolves, Subbiah and his gang. But what could he do? If he asked him to sign the Will, it would virtually mean a death sentence and destroy the thousandth part of a chance that the patient had of survival.

He got down from the car and went in. He resumed his seat in the chair. The patient was staring at him appealingly. The doctor said to him- self, " If my word can save his life, he shall not die. The will be damned. He stooped over the patient and said with deliberate emphasis, " Don't worry about the will now.

You are going to live. Your heart is absolutely sound. He asked in a tone of relief, " Do you say so? If it comes from your lips it must be true. You are improving every second. Sleep in peace. You must not exert yourself on any account. You must sleep very soundly. I will sec you in the morning. The doctor picked up his bag and went out shutting the door softly behind him. On his way home he stopped for a moment at his hospital, called out his assistant, and said, " That Lawley Extension case.

You might expect the collapse any second now. Go there with a tube of Next morning he was back at Lawley Extension at ten. From his car he made a dash for the sick bed. The patient was awake and looked very well. The assistant reported satisfactory pulse. The doctor put his tube at his heart, listened for a while, and told the sick man's wife, " Don't look so unhappy, lady. Your husband will live to be ninety. He will live to be ninety. He has turned the corner. How he has survived this attack will be a puzzle to me all my life," replied the doctor.

This is what happened to ex-gateman Govind Singh. And you could not blame the public either. What could you do with a man who carried about in his hand a registered postal cover and asked : " Please tell me what there is inside?

Everywhere the suggestion was the same till he thought everyone had turned mad. And then somebody said : " If you don't like to open it and yet want to know what is inside you must take it to the X-ray Institute. It was explained to him.

But before saying anything further about his pro- gress, it would be usefiil to go back to an earlier chapter in his history. After war service in , he came to be recommended for a gatekeeper's post at Engladia's. He liked the job very much. He was given a khaki uniform, a resplendent band across his shoulder and a short stick.

He gripped the stick and sat down on a stool at the entrance to the office. And when his chief's car pulled up at the gate he stood at attention and gave a military salute. The office consisted of a staff numbering over a hundred and as they trooped in and out every day he kept an eye on them. At the end of the day he awaited the footsteps of the General Manager coining down the stairs and rose stiffly and stood at attention, and after he left the hundreds of staff poured out.

The doors were shut ; Singh carried his stool in, placed it under the staircase, and placed his stick across it. Then he came out and the main door was locked and sealed. In this way he had spent twenty-five years of service, and then he begged to be pensioned off. He would not have thought of retirement yet, but for the fact that he found his sight and hearing playing tricks on him ; he could not catch the Manager's footsteps on the stairs, and it was hard to recognize him even at ten yards.

He was ushered into the presence of the chief, who looked up for a moment from his papers and muttered : " We are very pleased with your work for us, and company will give you a pension of twelve rupees for your life.

This was the second occasion when the great man had spoken to him, the first being on the first day of his service. As he had stood at his post, the chief, entering the office just then, looked up for a moment and asked " Who are you? And he spoke again only on this day. Though so little was said, Singh felt electrified on both occasions by the words of his master. In Singh's eyes the chief had acquired a sort of Godhood, and it would be quite adequate if a god spoke to one only once or twice in a lifetime.

In moments of contemplation Singh's mind dwelt on the words of his master, and on his personality. His life moved on smoothly. The pension together with what his wife earned by washing and sweeping in a couple of houses was quite sufficient for him.

He ate his food, went out and met a few friends, slept, and spent some evenings sitting at a cigarette shop which his cousin owned. This tenor of life was disturbed on the first of every month when he donned his old khaki suit, walked to his old office, and salaamed the Accountant at the counter and received his pension. Sometimes if it was closing he waited on the roadside for the General Manager to come down, and saluted him as he got into his car. There was a lot of time all around him, an immense sea of leisure.

In this state he made a new discovery about himself, that he could make fascinating models out of clay and wood dust. The discovery came suddenly, when one day a child in the neighbourhood brought to him its little doll for repair. He not only repaired it but made a new thing of it.

This discovery pleased him so much that he very soon became absorbed in it. His backyard gave him a plentiful supply of pliant clay, and the carpenter's shop next to his cousin's cigarette shop sawdust.

He purchased paint for a few annas. And lo! He sat there in the front part of his home, bent over his clay, and brought into existence a miniature universe ; all the colours of life were there, all the forms and creatures, but of the size of his middle finger ; whole villages and towns were there, all the persons he had seen passing before his office when he was sentry there that beggar woman coming at midday, and that cucumber vendor ; he had the eye of a cartoonist for human faces.

Everything went down into clay. It was a wonderful miniature re- flection of the world ; and he mounted them neatly on thin wooden slices, which enhanced their attractive- ness. He kept these in his cousin's shop and they attracted huge crowds every day and sold very briskly.

More than the sales Singh felt an ecstasy when he saw admiring crowds clustering around his handiwork. On his next pension day he carried to his office a street scene which he ranked as his best , and handed it over the counter to the Accountant with the request : " Give this to the Sahib, please! It created a sensation in the office and disturbed the routine of office working for nearly half an hour. On the next pension day he carried another model children at play and handed it over the counter.

He made it a convention to carry on every pension day an offering for his master, and each time his greatest reward was the Accountant's stock reply to his question : " What did the Sahib say?

A model of his office frontage with himself at his post, a car at the entrance, and the chief getting down : this composite model was so realistic that while he sat looking at it, he seemed to be carried back to his office days.

He passed it over the counter on his pension day and it created a very great sensation in the office. A sudden fear seized Singh and he asked : " The master won't be angry, I hope? A week later when he was sitting on the fyol kneading clay, the postman came and said : " A registered letter for you.

Now a registered letter! This was his first registered letter. Please take it back. I don't want it," said Singh. Shall I say 'Refused'? Singh seemed to have no option but to scrawl his signature and receive the packet. He sat gloomily gazing at the floor.

His wife who had gone out and just returned saw him in this condition and asked : "What is it? He said: "How should I know. Perhaps our ruin. His wife watched him for a moment, went in to attend to some domestic duty and returned, still found him in the same condition, and asked : " Why not open it and see, ask someone to read it? It cannot be opened.

They have perhaps written that my pension is stopped, and God knows what else the Sahib has said. I will never show my face there again. That must also have reached the Sahib's ears. He lost taste for food, wandered about unkempt, with his hair standing up like a halo an unaccustomed sight, his years in military service having given him a habitual tidiness. His wife lost all peace of mind and became miserable about him. He stood at the cross-roads, clutching the letter in his hand.

He kept asking everyone he came across : " Tell me, what there is in this? As he entered the gate he observed dozens of cars parked along the drive, and a Gurkha watchman at the gate. Some people were sitting on sofas reading books and journals. They turned and threw a brief look at him and resumed their studies. As Singh stood uncertainly at the doorway, an assistant came up and asked : " What do you want?

But Singh replied : " They said you could tell me what's inside without opening it " The assistant asked : " Where do you come from? I knew trouble was coming " There were tears on his cheeks.

The assistant looked at him curiously as scores of others had done before, smiled, and said : " Go home and rest. You are not all right. Go, go home. The assistant took it in his hand, examined it and said : " Shall I open it? There was a look of terror in his eyes. The assembly looked up from their pages and watched him with mild amusement in their eyes. The assistant kindly put his arms on his shoulder and led him out.

I tell you are not all right. That's it, is that it? He now understood the looks that people threw at him. He laughed. He felt a curious relief at this realization.

Every little action of his for the last so many days seemed mad ; particularly the doll- making. He wanted to fly. He swung his arms up and down and ran on with a whoop. He ran through the Market Road. When people stood about and watched he cried : " Hey, don't laugh at a mad man, for who knows, you will also be mad when you come to make clay dolls," and charged into their midst with a war cry. When he saw children coming out of a school, he felt it would be nice to amuse their young hearts by behaving like a tiger.

So he fell on his hands and kneels and crawled up to them with a growl. He went home in a terrifying condition.

His wife who was grinding chilly in the backyard looked up and asked : " What is this? He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said : " Fancy what has happened! Ranged on the floor was his latest handiwork. After his last visit to the office he had been engaged in making a model village. It was a resplendent group ; a dun road, red tiles, green coconut trees swaying, and the colour of the sarees of the village women carrying water pots.

He derived the inspiration for it from a memory of his own village days. It was the most enjoyable piece of work that he had so far undertaken. He lived in a kind of ecstasy while doing it.

A memento of my father's village," he declared. He raised his foot and stamped everything down into a multi-coloured jam. They were still half wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. It is a nice village.

This was a quieter outing. He strode on at an even pace, breathing deeply, with the clay helmet on, out of which peeped his grey hair, his arms locked behind, his fingers clutching the fateful letter, his face tilted towards the sky.

He walked down the Market Road, with a feeling that he was the sole occupant of this globe : his madness had given him a sense of limitless freedom, strength and buoyancy. The remarks and jeers of the crowds gaping at him did not in the least touch him.

While he walked thus, his eye fell on the bulb of a tall street lamp : " Bulb of the size of a Papaya fruit! It had been a long cherished desire in him to fling a stone at it ; now he felt, in his joyous and free condition, that he was free from the trammels of convention and need not push back any inclination.

He picked up a pebble and threw it with good aim. The shattering noise of glass was as music to his ears. A policeman put his hand on his shoulder : " Why did you do it? The constable said : " Come to the station.

He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked : " This road is not straight He found that everything was wrong about them. They seemed to need some advice in the matter. He stopped in the middle of the road, stretched out his arms and shouted : " Halt! One of the cyclists who resumed, jumped off the saddle again and came towards him with : " Why!

It is Singh, Singh, what fancy dress is this? What is the matter? Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute : " Excuse me sir, didn't intend to stop you. You may pass. He recognized it although it was mud-stained and crumpled. Do not speak of it. A big crowd gathered to watch this scene. Singh pressed the letter to his eyes.

He beat his brow, and wailed : " Tell me, sir, am I mad or not? Singh fell at his feet and said with tears choking his voice : " You are a god, sir, to say that I am not mad.

I am so happy to hear it. As they handed him the envelope they asked : " What toys are you making now? Never again. It is no occupation for a sane man. I wandered up and down the country probing, exploring, and digging, in search of antiquities, a most interesting occupation, although cynics sometimes called us " grave-diggers. I had a master who was a famous archaeologist called Doctor something or other.

He was a superb, timeless being, who lived a thousand years behind the times, and who wanted neither food nor roof nor riches if only he was allowed to gaze on undisturbed at an old coin or chip of a burial urn. He had torn up the earth in almost all parts of India and had brought to light very valuable information concerning the history and outlook of people of remote centuries. His monographs on each of his excavations filled several shelves in all the important libraries. And then, as our good fortune would have it, he received an inspiration that Malgudi district was eminently diggable.

I am not competent to explain how he got this idea, but there it was. Word was brought to me that the great man was staying in the dak bungalow and was in need of an assistant.

Within an hour of hearing it I stood before the great man. He was sitting on the floor with the most crazy collection of articles in front of him pots and beads and useless coins and palm leaves, all of them rusty and decaying. He had a lens by his side, through which he looked at these articles and made notes. He asked me : " What do you know of the archaeological factors of your district? Honestly I didn't know there was any archaeology in our place.

He looked at me through his old spectacles, and I realized that my living depended upon my answer. I mustered up all the knowledge of elementary history I had acquired in my boyhood, and replied : " Well, nothing has so far been done in any methodical manner, although now and then we come across some ignorant villagers ploughing up old unusual bits of pottery and metal.

He engaged me on the spot at fifty rupees a month, and my main business was to follow him about and help him. I had my wits alive, and within a month I was in a position to lead him by the hand. Not the slightest object escaped my notice.

I picked up everything I saw, cleaned and polished it, and held it up for his opinion. Most times, I am sorry to confess, they were useless bits of stuff of known origin namely, our own times. But I am glad to say that once I scored a hit. We camped one week-end at Siral a village sixty miles from the town. It is a lovely ancient place, consisting of a hundred houses.

Sarayu River winds its way along the northern boundary of the village. The river here is broader than it is anywhere else in the district. On the other bank of the river we have the beginnings of a magnificent jungle of bamboo and teak.

The most modern structure in the place was a small two- roomed inspection lodge. The doctor occupied one room and I the other. We were scouting the surroundings for a mound under which was supposed to be a buried city. This discovery was going to push the earliest known civilization three centuries farther back and rival Mohenjadaro in antiquity. We might be pardoned if we set about our business with some intensity. Our doctor some- how seemed to possess an inexplicable feeling of rivalry with the discoverers of Mohenjadaro and such other places.

His greatest desire was to have a monopoly of the earliest known civilization and place it where he chose. This seemed to me a slight weak- ness in his nature, but pardonable in a great man, who had done so much else in life.

This is all beside the point. Let me get on with the story. One day I had gone to the river for a bathe. It was an exhilarating evening ; I had done a good day's work, assisting the doctor to clean up and study a piece of stained glass picked up in a field outside the village. The doctor kept gazing at this glass all day. He constantly shook his head and said : " This is easily the most important piece of work which has come under my notice.

This bit of glass you see is not ordinary archaeological stuff, but a very important link. This piece of glass is really Florentian, which went out of vogue in A. How did this come here? It is not found anywhere else in the world. If the identity of this is established properly we may ultimately have a great deal to say about the early Roman Empire and this part of India.

This will revolutionize our whole knowledge of history. He trembled with excitement and lost all taste for food. He kept on muttering : " We must tread warily and not overlook the slightest evidence. Keep your eyes open. We are on the eve of great discoveries. I was in this state when I plunged into the waters of Sarayu that evening.

I am a good diver. As I went down my hand struck against a hard object in the sandy bed. Feeling with my fingers, I found it to be a stone image. Vaidyanathan composed the score, while R. Narayan's younger brother and acclaimed. Malgudi Days is an Indian television series that started in , [1] and was filmed in both English first 13 episodes and Hindi all 54 episodes , based on the short story collection of the same name by R. Carnatic musicianL.

It is about an imaginary city named Malgudi. The stories are very interesting and each story will leave you with a different emotion. I loved the book a lot. I recommend this book to everyone above the age of Though the book is written for children, it can be enjoyed by the people of any age group. It is perfect to distress yourself after hours of work and tension.

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Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to fiction, short stories lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:.