Malgudi Days by R. K. Narayan Page B

condition. His wife, who was grinding chilli in the back yard, looked up and asked, ‘What is this?’ His hair was covered with street dust; his body was splashed with mud. He could not answer because he choked with mirth as he said, ‘Fancy what has happened!’
    â€˜What is it?’
    â€˜I’m mad, mad.’ He looked at his work-basket in a corner, scooped out the clay and made a helmet of it and put it on his head. 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 saris 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. ‘I am going to keep this for myself. A memento of my father’s village,’ he declared. ‘I will show it at an exhibition, where they will give me a medal.’ He guarded it like a treasure: when it was wet he never allowed his wife to walk within ten yards of it. ‘Keep off, we don’t want your foot dust for this village . . .’
    Now, in his madness, he looked down on it. He raised his foot and stamped everything down into a multicoloured jam. They were still half-wet. He saw a donkey grazing in the street. He gathered up the jam and flung it at the donkey with the remark: ‘Eat this if you like. It is a nice village . . .’ And he went out on a second round. 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!’ he muttered and chuckled. 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?’ Singh looked indignant. ‘I like to crack glass papaya fruit, that is all,’ was the reply. The constable said, ‘Come to the station.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, when I was in Mesopotamia they put me on half-ration once,’ he said, and walked on to the station. He paused, tilted his head to the side and remarked, ‘This road is not straight . . .’ A few carriages and cycles were coming up to him. 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!’ The carriages stopped, the cyclists jumped off and Singh began a lecture: ‘When I was in Mesopotamia—I will tell you fellows who don’t know anything about anything.’ The policeman dragged him away to the side and waved to the traffic to resume. 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?’ Even through the haze of his insane vision Singh could recognize the voice and the person—the accountant at the office. Singh clicked his heels and gave a salute. ‘Excuse me, sir, didn’t intend to stop you. You may pass . . .’ He pointed the way generously, and the accountant saw the letter in his