THE LOAN SQUARE

By K. Ramalakshmi, Madras, India.

Translated into Telugu by Nidadavolu Malathi

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The Loan Square is a business district, in Madars, India. How could, even emagine that, atrocities against unwary women, can be committed in broad daylight, in the heart of the city, by men, who look like perfect gentlemen?

Santa and I were talking our heads off in the car. Our car was passing through Broadway. It is broadway is broad only in name. You can’t find a street narrower than that! The road is crowded with rickshaws, trucks, cycle-rickshaws; and on the top of all these vehicles, the hand-pulled carts moving on royally. Because of all these modes of conveyance, the cars usually move at a snails’ pace on Broadway. I told several times that I am scared even to consider a visit to her home for the reasons mentioned above. Eventually we came up with a plan, mutually agreed upon. We decided to meet at a movie theater or on the beach. First, she will come to my place and pick me up and then we proceed together to our destination. On our way back, I drop her off at her place.

This time there was an unusaul delay to get home. We just finished watching a movie that was 19 reels long; it was so boring it could be 22 reels. We managed to sit through the end, and chatting on our way back home.

Our car got stuck and was dithering between two trucks, like a heroine between two villains. The horns were honking on all sides, in front, in the back, and on either side. Everybody is cursing everybody else, the car drivers cursing the truck drivers, the cycle-rickshaw drivers were blaming the car drivers, the bike-riders are blaming the rickshaw-drivers; all of them, together, condemning the hand-cart pullers.

It was beginning to feel like earthquake. Amidst this noise, Santha said suddenly, “Do you know Lakshmi! People say that one should not take a rickshaw here, in Loan Square.”

“What do you mean? We all know that rickshaws command this place,” I said.

“No. I am telling the truth. It is dangerous to get into a rickshaw here. My co-attorneys warned me several times. I used to laugh it away. Then…” Santha cut it short. The truck in front of us moved one yard ahead, and as a result, the rest of the traffic started moving on as well.

“Then?” I said suggestively.

“Then I learned by experience that it is true—it is dangerous to take a rickshaw here,” she said casually.

“What?” The question popped out of my mouth involantarily, and sounding disbelief.

“Yes, Lakshmi. It’s true,” she said seriously.

That’s the problem with Santha. She drops a bombshell as if it were a very ordinary matter and keeps quiet. She knows very well that I can’t sleep, after that, until I get the whole story!

“You are not a child, not even a high school student. You are an attorney, and a criminal lawyer to be specific. How could you say anything frightens you?” I asked her.

“Is that why you writers sandwich the truth between slices of bread neatly?” she laughed, as she took jab at me.

“That’s it. I am going to get down at your place. I will call home and let them know that I would be home late.” The car stopped with a jerk before I finished the sentence. The turn signal is hollering about the need to take a turn. To be honest, we are almost at Santha’s place. I could holler from where we are and it could be heard in her home.

Although we are so close, it might still take another half hour to get there because of the traffic jam.

Some invisible Gods probably took pity on us; a huge truck stood in front of us. That truck cannot move forward until and unless our car gives way. We may be able to stop somebody from dying but there is no way we can stop the truck. So the rest of the vehicles around us are forced to make room for our car to move. The driver thanked all the stars and took the turn into the side street.

At Santha’s home it is very pleasant. Being an older home, it has high ceilings and cement slab flooring, which, together give a feeling of spaciousness. “Santha, it is so pleasing inside your home; and it is such a hassle to get here,” I commented with a laugh, and walked toward the phone.

“I will home late,” I said and was about to hang up. My daughter at the other end will not let go of the phone so easily. She kept asking, “How was the movie? Why the delay? Are you and auntie going to another movie?” I managed somehow to her short and returned to Santha’s room.

Santha was lying relaxing on the bed. I pulled a chair near her bed, stretched my legs on the bed frame and said, “Okay, now continue your story.”

“Why do they make these movies? Why can’t they go into some business if they have money,” Santha commented on the movie we watched a while ago.

It didn’t matter that much since we got free tickets. Or else we would have felt worse, I added. It was bad enough we were bored to death; wouldn’t we feel worse if we were to spend money also on that one?

The servant girl brought lemonade. That was refreshing.

“Go on. Tell me why we shouldn’t take a rickshaw in Loan Square?” I asked again, unable to bear the suspense.

“’Cause the rickshaw driver will take you to he thinks is right rather than where you want to go,” she said, laughing.

“What is that? You are talking utter nonsense. Why would he take you if you don’t tell him? Where would he take you?” I am confused.

“That is the beauty of it. Listen,” she started narrating the story.

Santha gets upset if we cut in and ask questions like why and how. So, I laid back and continued to listen.

After attending the lawyers’ meeting in the high court, I started walking toward Broadway. Some 4 or 5 persons were walking ahead of me. It wasn’t really very late. Probably it was about 8:30 in the evening. I have been living here for over 20 years. I wasn’t scared at all. I was walking fast. The persons walking ahead of turned into side streets. The stores were still open. Suddenly I noticed that I was being followed.

“Psch! Who would follow you?” I said.

“That’s exactly my point. You know we are not college girls, or society ladies. Anyway, it was true. A gentleman was walking behind me. I raised my pace. I was just about ten yards away from the Loan Square. That location is always busy with several trucks and rickshaws, and so, no reason to worry, I told myself. The gentleman behind me also increased his pace. Suddenly, for the first time in my life, I felt a little scared. I called for a rickshaw, hopped in, and told him to go ahead, gesturing forward.

The rickshaw driver hopped on the seat but did not start peddling. He kept looking back as if he was looking for someone.

“Hey, I am telling you to go on. What are you looking for,” I yelled at him.

He didn’t seem to care about my yelling. “Isn’t he coming?” he asked.

I felt a shiver in my spine. I was choking for my anger. The gentleman who was following me, came near my rickshaw and stood with his hand on the handlebar.

I could see his face clearly in the street lights. His hair was greased and was shining. He was wearing a short-sleeved, white shirt and a white lungi; his shoes seemed to be expensive;the bright daimond ring on his finger was sparkling because of the lights. He had a stupid smile on his lips.

“Hey, can’t you hear what I am saying? I am telling you to move on. Who is this man?” I said aloud, covering my fear.

“What’s the problem, madam? He sent me and so I am waiting for him,” the rickshaw driver spoke in a higher pitch.

I remembered in that moment the words of my friend, Chandra. Long time back, she mentioned that we should not get into a rickshaw here. The words were ringing in my ears. I jumped out of the rickshaw in a flash.

“Wait, madam,” the rickshaw driver was saying.

“Shut up. Just shut up and listen. Obviously you didn’t realize who you are dealing with. I am an attorney. By tomorrow this time you will know the full extent of your actions,” I said.

As soon as he heard my words, the gentleman removed his hand from the handlebar and walked away in big strides. The rickshaw driver took off like an aeroplane and disappeared into some side street. I was still hearing the sounds from the rickshaw bells as I quickly walked toward my home. I felt like somebody was still walking behind me until I reached the front steps. That was the last time I ever got into a rickshaw in Loan Square.

“My God! What was he, I mean the rickshaw driver thinking?” I said, utterly taken aback.

Santha laughed lightly. They are all pimps. They come on trucks and drop they merchandise in the godowns. Then they go around looking for fun. They leave next morning in the same trucks. After I had this experience, everybody else started talking about their experiences. See?” Santha said.

“So be it. What about the police? Don’t they know about it? Why can’t them round them all in one sweep?” Iasked.

“Why? How many times do you think they have rounded up the prostitutes’ homes? Did they go away? Anyway, there is more to it. I wouldn’t have remembered it so clearly if it were not for the follow up,” she said sounding casual.

There is more to it? Come on, tell me,” I said as I learned forward with curiosity.

“Ha, ha! That’s cute. I tell you nice stories, and you publish them in your name?” she said, teasing me.

“Come on. Fill me in. It is getting late,” I said looking out the window. Since the house is an old timer, the sun was spreading colorfully through the mosaic windows.

“It’s about six months back, I think this happened. I almost forgot about it. Then something jogged my memory as if somebody was poking on my back,” Santha stopped for a second.

“Which day? When? Are you saying you saw that gentleman again?”

Santha laughed lightly. “It’s true I saw him. But not at a place I could report to the police; saw him where the press reporters rush for news.”

“What do you mean? God! Santha, you are confusing me.,” I said and called Gauri, their maid and told her to get me some coffee.

“You all are alike. Drink too much coffee and ruin your health,” she started a lecture on my health. I interjected, “Nevermind my coffee habit. Tell me the story.”

“It was at the community center, on the day they were inaugurating the installation a Gandhi painting in the new Community Hall that recently built. All of us, I mean my family, decided to attend the function. For the same reason we arrived late at the meeting. By the time we arrived there, the President was ready to introduce the donor of the Gandhi painting.

I am losing my patience. I want to know how this gentleman with greasy hair showed up. “All these formalities are quite common. Just tell me what happened.”

“Hold your horses. Do you want me say in a few words like, ‘he came, he saw , and he conquered’? What kind of story telling is that? Anyway, the President talked about the greatness of Gandhi, and about the generosity of the donor who donated the painting, and then gently unvieled the painting. Gandhi in the painting presented himself to the public amidst a great grandeur with his teethless smile.

After that, the chairperson, well-known social activist, stood up and invited the donor to come up to the stage and stand next to the painting so they could take a picture of him with his generous donation. There was a huge applause from the audience. The gentleman in the front row, and walked up to the stage with a big smile stood next to the painting.

My heart stopped beating for a second.

I was staring at him wondering: Is he really there, or am I imagining things?

Vasanti was next to me. She nudged at my side and said, “Hey! What is it? What’s wrong with you? The gentleman has donated 5000 rupees. Don’t have the sense at least to clap?”

I came back to my senses. I couldn’t believe it. “Is he really the same person who donated the painting?” I asked.

“Of course. Plus he donated 5000 rupees donation. That is the reason for all that hullabaloo, you know, the garlands, the picture-taking, and all that,” Vasantha said.

“My God! Lakshmi, I couldn’t believe my own eyes. This donor is the same gentleman who stood the other day near my rickshaw with his hand on the handlebar; no change at all, not even in his smile,” she said.

I felt sweat on my forehead. I kept staring at Santha as if I was miles away.

“What happened? Why are you looking like that?” Santha said.

“Is he really a gentleman? How is it possible?” I asked her.

“Why not? Why is it not possible? What is your speciality?” Santha laughed.

“Santha, that is really scary to get into a rickshaw there. But, how can we protect ourselves when these gentlemen change colors like cameleons and pass for respectable men in society?” I said.

“Good point,” Santha said.

“I am not talking about a point. It is a problem. Suppose you see the same gentleman in some seminar or public meeting. What are we supposed to do?”

“You are so stupid. Don’t you know the English proverb: We will cross the bridge when we get there,” she remarked, laughing.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, we worry about it when we get there. That’s it. Now, get up. It is getting late for you,” she reminde me.

“You are right. My sister would start giving me hard time. She would ask if the morning show went on till late in the evening,” I said, getting up to leave. My mind is still wandering somewhere.

I was walking down the steps. I commented, “How could somebody have such cheap taste and still pass for a great humanitarian at the same time?”

“Yes. In some cases, the true colors and the innate colors could be diametrically opposite,” she said, as she walked me to the car.

After I got into the car, she commented before shutting the door, “You deadweight! My worry is not that. I am more concerned that they have defiled the good name of Gandhi.” She waved with a smile.

This happened long time back. I still smile every time I am on my way to Santha’s house. I peak through the car window at the cement slab on which the words “The Loan Square” were etched in black.

One day I casually mentioned to my driver, “Do you know that people say that it is dangerous to get into a rickshaw here?”

“Yes, madam, almost everybody knows about it,” he replied.

I was surprised to learn that I was the only one who did not know about it; for

everybody else it is a common knowledge.

That is the problem when civilization goes out of kilter. It makes us non-believers, even in matters, which we would have understood, instictively, and could have accepted.

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