Free Two Short Novels by Mulk Raj Anand Page A

His will relaxed and weakened.
    And yet the bitterness of his father’s cruelty lingered. This was the man . . . this was the man who was responsible for his very existence, this was the man who had loved him so when he was a little child in arms, with dark eyes and a fair complexion, when he was full of mischief and learning to toddle and speak. It seemed strange and unbearably tender; but his earliest memory, almost his first vivid recollection, was the Chaudhri laughing heartily as he flung him into the air playfully and kissed him at each fall, fairly smothering his face with kisses. After that, except now and then during the years, he had only worn a serious expression on his round, rugged face. But he had been proud even then of his father’s hefty, handsome form. Only afraid, so afraid, that he remembered only a very few occasions when he had lifted his eyes to face him. Although he must admit, he was also attracted by the magnetic presence of the man; in fact, the war between these two emotions in him had always led to awkward collisions, and he had faltered, stumbled, stammered, perspired whenever he had to say anything to the Chaudhri. His father had towered over him, simple and stubbornly upright. Was it because of his mother’s death that this difference had arisen between them? Anyhow, it was unfair. Was it because I, an only son, had been the cause of anxiety to him . . . I am a failure indeed. But why, oh why did he have to drag me into the dust by educating me? How could a parent expect to get a return for the money he had spent on his child? Why should he have expected anything? You produced me for your own pleasure . . . you produced me for your own pleasure, do you hear, and you didn’t consult me beforehand! Why didn’t you . . . if you had to hate me . . . and tell me afterwards? Why did you? I didn’t want to be born . . .
    He felt his soul rising in revolt and he rolled in a frenzy. His eyes saw the injustice of it all and welled with tears.
    ‘Oh God, why did he produce me if he had to be so hard to me? Oh, why did he have to educate me, why did he not let me sit at the shop and follow his own profession? Oh why did he, why did he, why did he . . . ? Why did he insist on my passing my M.A. if he had to blame me for it afterwards . . . ? Oh why did he drag me . . . ?’
    No one seemed to hear his cries and in order not to waste his suffering on the empty air, he stifled his moans and with averted eyes still filled with tears, thought of the injustice more coolly.
    ‘Whose fault is it? He gave me all this education to flatter his own vanity and not because he meant me to learn anything. And was it my fault that I couldn’t get into any of the Services? Was it not because I was his son, the confectioner’s son, who couldn’t get any recommendations? For had I not always worked hard and always been top of my class? Of course, he couldn’t understand what books or anything meant. But had I not always passed in the first division? Did he not hate me because, not having flourished himself, he could not see his own son fail to ascend the pinnacles of glory so that he could call the faithful to come and witness the success of his investment . . . and he hit me . . . ’
    His tears ran down his cheeks and he was convulsed with sobs . . . . ‘He has worked so hard in the grime and the dirt of the shop, the wretch has become surly and bad tempered serving his impatient customers,’ he thought. ‘But it was swinish the way he treated me, keeping a strict watch on everything I did. I must return home at seven. I must not consort with this man and that man. I must be respectful to his friends, his trusted friends, the pious practitioners of five prayers a day, who were always trying to kiss me and asking me to come and sit on their laps. And I dared not complain because they threatened to tell him that I didn’t go to say prayers at the mosque regularly. What right had he to fill me with fear. It was