UNDER THE BANYAN TREE R.K. NARAYAN

         Introduction to R.K. NARAYAN      

R.K. Narayan (born 1906) is one of the best known of the Indo-English writers. He created the imaginary town of Malgudi, where realistic characters in a typically Indian setting lived amid unpredictable events.
Rasipuram Krishnaswami Narayanswami, who preferred the shortened name R.K. Narayan, was born in Madras, India, on Oct. 10, 1906. His father, an educator, travelled frequently, and his mother was frail,, so Narayan was raised in Madras by his grandmother and an uncle. His grandmother inspired in young Narayan a passion for language and for people. He attended the Christian Mission School, where he said, he learned to love the Hindu God's simply because the Christian chaplain ridiculed them. Narayan graduated from Maharaja's College In Mysore in 1930. In 1934 he was married, but his wife, Rajam, died of typhoid in 1939. He had one daughter Hema. He never remarried. 
Creating a Small-Town World
             Narayan wrote his first novel, Swami and Friends, in 1935, after short, uninspiring stints and a teacher, and editorial assistant, and a newspaperman. In it, he invented the small South Indian city of Malgudi, a literacy microcosm that critics later compared to William Faulkner's Yoknapatawpha country. More than a dozen novel and many short stories that followed were set in Malgudi.

          Narayan's second novel, Bachelor of Arts (1939), marked the beginning of his reputation in English, where the novelist Graham Greene was largely responsible for getting it published. Greene has called Narayan "the novelist I most admire in the English language." His fourth novel, The English Teacher, published in 1945, was partly autobiographical, concerning a teacher's struggle to cope with the death of his wife. In 1953, Michigan State University published it under the title Grateful to Life and Death, along with his novel The Financial Expert; they were Narayan's first books published in the United States.
          Subsequent publications of his novels, especially Mr. Sampath, waiting for the Mahatma, The Guide, The Man-eater of Malgudi, and The Vendor of Sweets, established Narayan's reputation in the west. Many critics consider The Guide (1958) to be Narayan's masterpiece. Told in a complex series of Flashbacks, it concerns a tourist guide who seduces the wife of a client, prospers, and ends up in jail. The novel won India's highest literary honor, and it was adapted for the off-Broadway Stage in 1968.
        At least two of Narayan's novels, Mr. Sampath(1949) and The Guide (1958), were adapted for the movies. Narayan usually wrote for an hour or two a day, composing fast, often writing as many as 2,000 words and seldom correcting or rewriting.
Making the Mundane Extra-ordinary
        Narayan's stories begin with realistic and everyday happenings in the lives of a cross-section of Indian society, with characters of all classes. Gradually fate or chance, oversight or blunder, transforms mundane events to preposterous happenings. Unexpected disasters be fall the hero as easily as unforeseen good fortune. The characters accept their fates with an equanimity that suggests the faith that things will somehow turn out happily, whatever their own motivations or actions, Progress, in the form of western-imported goods and attitudes, combined with bureaucratic institutions, meets in Malgudi with long-held conventions, beliefs, and ways of doing things. The modern world can never win a clear-cut victory because Malgudi accepts only what it wants, according to its own private logic.
       Reviewing Narayan's 1976 novel The Painter of Sings, Anthony Thwaite of the New York Times said Narayan created "a world as richly human and volatile as that of Dickens." His next novel, A Tiger For Malgudi (1983), is narrated by a tiger whose hold master is trying to lead him to enlightenment. It and his fourteen novel Talkactive Nun (1987) received mixed reviews.
       In his 80s, Narayan continued to have books published. He returned to his original inspiration, his grandmother, with the 1994 book Grandmothers Tale and other stories, which publishers weekly called "an exemplary collection from one of Indian's most distinguished men of letters." Donna Seaman of Booklist hailed the collection of short stories that spanned over 50 years of Narayan's writing as "an excellent sampling of his short fiction, generally considered his best work." From "one of the world's finest story-tellers." Narayan once noted: 'Novels may bore me, but never people."

  UNDER THE BANYAN TREE 

    The village Somal, nestling away in the forest tracts of Mempi, had a population of less than three hundred. It was in every way a village to make the heart of a rural reformer sink. Its tank, a small expanse of water, right in the middle of the village, served for drinking, bathing and washing the cattle, and it bred malaria, typhoid, and heaven knew what else. The cottages sprawled anyhow and the lanes twisted and wriggled up and down and strangled each other. The population used the highway as the refuse ground and in the backyard of every drain water stagnated in green puddles. 
    Such was the village. It is likely that the people of the village were insensitive, but it is more than likely that they never noticed their surroundings because they lived in a kind of perpetual enchantment. The enchanter was Nambi the storyteller. He was a man of about sixty or seventy. Or was he eighty or one hundred and eighty ? Who could say ? In a place so much cut off as Somal (the nearest bus-stop was ten miles away), reckoning could hardly be in the familiar measures of time. If anyone asked Nambi what his age was, he referred to an ancient famine of an invasion or the building of a bridge and indicated how high he had stood from the ground at the time.
    He was illiterate, in the sense that the written word a mystery to him; but he could make up a story, in his head, at the rate of one a month; each story took nearly ten days to narrate.
    His home was the little Temple which was at the very end of the village. No one could say how he had come to regard himself as the owner of the Temple. The Temple was a very small structure with red-striped walls, with a stone image of the Goddess Shakti in the sanctum. The front portion of the Temple was Nambi's home. For aught it mattered any place might be his home; for he was without possessions. All that the possessed was a broom with which he swept the Temple; and he had also a couple of dhoties and upper cloth. He spent most of the day in the shade of the banyan which spread out its branches in front of the temple. When he felt hungry he walked into any house that caught his fancy and joined the family at dinner. When he needed new clothes they were brought to him by the villagers. He hardly ever had to go out in search of company; for the banyan shade served as a clubhouse for the village folk. All through the day people came seeking Nambi's company and squatted under the tree. If he was in a mood for it he listened to their talk and entertained them with his own observations and anecdotes. When he was in no mood he looked at the visitors sourly and asked, 'What do you think I am ? Don't blame me if you get no story at the next moon. Unless I meditate how can the Goddess give me a stray ? Do you think stories float in the air ? And he moved out to the edge of the forest and squatted there, contemplating the trees.
     On Friday evenings the village turned up at the temple for worship, when Nambi lit a score of mud lamps and arranged them around the threshold of the sanctuary. He decorated the image with flowers, which grew wildly in the backyard of the temple. He acted as the priest and offered to the Goddess fruits and flowers brought in by the villagers. 
      On nights he had a story to tell, he lit a small lamp and placed it in a niche in the trunk of the banyan tree. Villagers as they returned home in the evening saw this, went home, and said to their wives, 'Now, now, hurry up the hillock, men, women, and children gathered under the banyan tree. The storyteller would not appear yet. He would be sitting in the sanctum, before the Goddess, with his eyes shut, in deep meditation. He sat thus as long as he liked and when he came out, with his forehead ablaze with Ash and vermilion, he took his seat on a stone platform in front of the temple. He opened the story with a question. Jerking his finger towards a vague, faraway destination, he asked, 'A thousand years ago, a stone's throw in that direction, what do you think there was ? It was not the weed-covered waste it is now, for donkeys to roll on. It was not the ash-pit it is now. It was the capital of the king...' The King would be Dasaratha, Vikramaditya, Ashoka, or anyone that came into the old man's head; the capital was called Kapila, Kridapura, or anything. Opening thus, the old man went on without a pause for three hours. By then brick by brick the palace of the king was raised. The old man described the dazzling durbar hall where sat a hundred vassal kings, ministers, and subjects; in another part of the songs were sung over again by Nambi to his audience; and he described in detail the pictures and trophies that hung on the walls of the palace...
     It was story-building on an epic scale. The first day barely conveyed the setting of the take, and Nambi's audience as yet had no idea who were coming into the story. As the moon slipped behind the trees of Mempi Forest, Nambi said, 'Now friends, Mother says this will do for the day ? He abruptly rose, went in, lay down, and fell asleep long before the babble of the crowd ceased.
      The light in the niche would again be seen two or three days later, and again and again throughout the bright half the month. Kings and heroes, villains and fairy-like women, God's in human form, saints and assassins, jostled each other in that world which was created under the banyan tree.
 Nambi's voice rose and fell in an exquisite rhythm, and the moonlight and the hour completed the magic. The villagers laughed with Nambi, they went with him, they adored the heroes, cursed the villains, groaned when the conspirator had his initial success, and they sent up to the gods heartfelt prayer for a happy ending....
      On the day when the story ended, the whole gathering went into the sanctum and prostrated before the Goddess....
      By the time the next moon peeped over the hillock, Nambi was ready with another story. He never repeated the same kind of story or bought in the same set of persons, and the village folk considered Nambi a sort of miracle, quoted his words of wisdom, and lived on the whole in an exalted plane of their own, though their life in all other respects was hard and drab. 
      And yet it had gone on for years and years. One noon he lit the lamp in the tree. The audience came. The old man took his seat and began the story. '....When King Vikramaditya lived, his ministers was...' He paused. He could not get beyond it. He made  fresh beginning. 'There was the king...' he said, repeated it, and then his words trailed off into a vague mumbling 'What has come over me ? he asked pathetically. 'Oh, Mother, great Mother, why do I stumble and falter ? I know the story . I had the whole of it a moment ago. What was it about ? I can't understand what has happened ?' He faltered and looked so miserable that his audience said, 'Take your own time. You are perhaps tired ?'
      'Shut up !' he cried. 'Am I tired ? Wait a moment; I will tell you the story presently,' Following this there was utter silence. Eager faces looked up at him. Don't look at me !' he flared up. Somebody gave him a tumbler of milk. The audience waited patiently. This was a new experience. Some persons expressed their sympathy aloud. Some persons began to talk among themselves. Those who sat in the outer edge of the crowd silently slipped away. Gradually, as it neared midnight, others followed this example. Nambi sat staring at the ground, his head bowed in thought. For the first time he realized that he was old. He felt he would never more be able to control his thoughts or express them cogently. He looked up. Everyone had gone except his friend Mari, the blacksmith.'Mari, why aren't you also gone?'
     Mari apologized for the rest : 'They didn't want to tire you; so they have gone away ?'       Nambi got up. 'You are right. Tomorrow I will make it up. Age, age. What is my age ? It has come on suddenly ?' He pointed at his head and said, 'This says, Old fool, don't think I shall be your servant anymore. You will be my servant hereafter  ?' It is disobedient and treacherous.
     He lit the lamp in the niche next day. The crowd assembled under the banyan faithfully. Nambi had spent the whole day in meditation. He had been fervently praying to the goddess not to desert him. He began the story. He went on for an hour without a stop. He felt greatly relieved, so much so that he interrupted his narration to remark, 'Oh, friends. The Mother is always kind. I was seized with a foolish fear...?' And continued the story. In a few minutes he felt dried up. He struggled hard: 'And then...and then... what happened ?' He stammered. There followed a pause lasting an hour. The audience rose without a word and went home. The old man sat on the stone brooding till the cock crew. 'I can't blame them for it ?' He muttered to himself. 'Can they sit down here and mope all night ?' Two days later he gave another instalment of the story, and that, too, lasted only a few minutes. The gathering dwindled. Fewer persons began to take notice of the lamp in the niche. Even these came only out of a sense of duty. Nambi realized that there was no use in prolonging the struggle. He brought the story to a speedy and premature end.
       He knew what was happening. He was harrowed by the thoughts of his failure. I should have been happier if I had dropped dead years ago, he said to himself. Mother, why have you struck me dumb...? He shut himself up in the sanctum, hardly ate any food, and spent the greater part of the day sitting motionless in meditation.
       The next moon peeped over the hillock, Nambi lit the lamp in the niche. The villagers as they returned home saw he lamp, but only a handful turned up at night. 'Where are the others ?' the old man asked. 'Let us wait ?' He waited. The moon came up. His handful of audience waited patiently. And then the old man said, 'I won't tell the story today, not tomorrow unless the whole village comes here. I insist upon it. It is a mighty story. Everyone must hear it.' Next day he went up and down the village street shouting. 'I have a most wonderful tale to tell tonight. Come one and all; don't miss it....' This personal appeal had a great effect. At night a large crowd gathered under the banyan. They were happy that the storyteller had regained his powers. Nambi came out of the temple when everyone had settled and said : It is the Mother who gives the gifts; and it is she who takes away the gifts. Nambi is a dotard. He speaks when the Mother has anything to say. He is struck dumb when he has nothing to say. But what is the uses of the Jasmine when it has lost its scent ? What is the lamp for when all the oil is gone ? Goddess be thanked... These are my last words on this earth; and this is my greatest story.' He Rose and went into the sanctum. His audience hardly understood what he meant. They sat there till they became weary. And then some of them got up and stepped into the sanctum. There the storyteller sat with eyes shut. 'Aren't you going to tell us a story ?' they asked. He opened his eyes, looked at them, and shook his head. He indicated by gesture that he had spoken his last words.
       When he felt hungry, he walked into any cottage and silently sat down for food, and walked away the moment he had eaten. Beyond this he had hardly anything to demand of his fellow beings. The rest of his life (he lived for a few more years) was one great consummate silence.

 Summary of the Story  

Somal, the village with a population of less than three hundred, was very filthy. It was so much caught up in dirt and so ill-planned that even social reformer could feel depressed on looking at its hopeless condition. Its tank, no doubt, would provide water for drinking, bathing and washing the cattle but at the same time it was the Mother of numerous serious diseases like malaria and typhoid. The village had crooked and winding Lanes and the backyard of every house had puddles of stagnating water. People were insensitive to their surroundings, perhaps because of Nambi the perpetual enchanter who made them forget about their sordid reality by transporting them. He was an extraordinary storyteller whose age was very difficult to estimate. If anyone asked from outsider or the building of a bridge. Although he was illiterate, he had the gift of creating fabulous and entertaining stories that could fascinate anybody.
      The front part of a little temple was the humble abode of this storyteller. Nobody knew how he came to make that temple his home and his place of worship. He did not have many belongings. He had a couple of dhoties and upper clothes and a broom to sweep the temple. There was a banyan tree in front of the temple where Nambi used to spent most of his time. People would come in large numbers to this banyan tree in the evenings and got entertained by Nambi's observations and anecdotes. Sometimes he would say that he had to meditate and contemplate so that the goddess could bless him with a new story to tell. He assured the people that his stories were a gift from the goddess and did not float in air.
     The villagers used to worship at the temple of Friday evenings. Nambi would lit several mud lamps and arrange them around the inner part of the temple where the idol of the goddess was placed. He would decorate the idol of the goddess Shakti. On these occasions he would act as the priest and offer fruits and flowers to the goddess. When Nambi had story to tell, he would lit a lamp and place it in a hollow space in the trunk of the banyan tree. The villagers would notice the lamp and know that their enchanter had another story to entertain them with. They would hurry up with their  meals and gather under the banyan tree. The storyteller would come after his contemplation, forehead smeared with Ash and vermilion and sit on a stone platform in front of the temple.
       Nambi used to start his story in an interesting way by painting towards a vague and distant spot. He would begin his story by asking a question. He would talk about the great Kings and their palaces, capitals, etc. He would describe in detail the pictures and trophies hung on the walls of the palace and sing the songs sung by the musicians of the Kings. He used to build the story on an extended scale which required many days to tell it fully. The first day was usually taken up in describing the setting of the story. In the next sessions Nambi's voice would rise and fall while narrating the rest of the story where common aristocratic people, heroes, villains and supernatural powers jostled with one another in the fantastic world created under the banyan tree. The simple villagers would get swayed emotionally with the incidents of the story. After the story session, the whole audience used to go inside the temple and prostrate themselves before the goddess.
      Usually, with every new moon Nambi was ready with a new story. He never repeated the same type of story. This process went on smoothly for years. But one day an unusual thing happened. He lit the lamp and his fans gathered to listen to him. He started telling the story of King Vikramaditya and one of his ministers when all of a sudden he paused, repeated the same sentence but found his words turning into unclear sounds. He thought for a while and prayed to the goddess that he should not fumble and waver in his art. He could not understand why all of a sudden he forgot the story. It was an experience which was humiliating and painful for Nambi. The villagers who were eagerly waiting for his next words were also greatly puzzled. As the time passed they started chattering and after some time silently slipped away. Nambi was dumbstruck. He realized that he had grown old. He found that Mari, his old friend, was still sitting there while others had left. Nambi told him in a disappointed strain that his head had refused to be his servant and had become disobedient and disloyal.
      Next day he lit the lamp again and the villagers assembled faithfully. Nambi had prayed the whole day to the goddess not to leave him in lurch again. He started the story and went on for an hour. He thanked the goddess for not deserting him and continued his story. But after a few minutes, he paused, and groped for words but failed to start again. The audience got up silently and went home. Nambi did neither curse nor blame the villagers as they could not wait for hours for the story. After two days he started another story which lasted only for a few minutes and the gathering again withdrew. People started ignoring the lamp and Nambi wished that he would have died earlier. However, he shut himself into the inner part of the temple, ate little food and meditated in a motionless manner.
      When the next moon appeared, Nambi lit the lamp again. Only a handful of the villagers turned up. They waited for others and finally the storyteller refused to narrate the story till the whole village gathered. On the next day Nambi personally went around the village to tell the people that he had a wonderful story to tell and everyone should hear it.The villagers felt happy to know that the enchanter had regained his powers and a large crowd assembled under the banyan tree. But instead of telling a story, Nambi announced that he had become a dull and foolish old man who had tost his gift of storytelling. He added that the goddess was the giver and taker of this gift. He told them that the jasmine was useless without its smell and there was no use of the lamp when all of its oil was gone. He told that these were his last words and that was his greatest story. After that the storyteller got up and went inside the sanctum.
       The surprised villagers could not understand it and when some of them entered the temple and asked him entered the temple and asked him if he had nothing more to say, Nambi remained silent and indicated through gestures that he had spoken his last words. After this, he would walk into any cottage he liked and sit silently for food and walk away as soon as he had finished his food. He did not demand anything more from them. There was an utter silent in the rest of the life of the storyteller. The writer, thus, shows how the artist loses his powers one day and his art becomes stale and lifeless. A wise artist should stop when such a point is reached his career.