Mr Cock's machine

SundayHerald Short Story Competition 2016

An Indian, an Englishman and a machine form a matrix of problem-solving in this whimsical tale rooted in pre-independent India

Subba Bhat, the primary school teacher in the quaint little village of Vamanjoor, sat on the veranda of his house on an easy chair that overlooked the sea. The weather was hot and humid, more so than usual on that particular day as the sun burnt the clay tiles of the roof with its blazing heat.

He whipped out a hand fan made out of coconut fibre and began fanning himself to dissipate the pearls of sweat on his forehead, which later flowed down his thin, bare torso like a stream before disappearing into his white mundu.

“The heat is unbearable,” muttered Subba Bhat, “Look at the British. They have invented fans that can turn endlessly, forcing air through the blades, making their lives bearable in Bharat. If not for the fans, they would have gone home long ago.” “No wonder it’s cold in Britain,” he mused with a smile on his face. “With so many fans working together, one could freeze an entire ocean within a couple of months.” Thinking about the wonders of a country far removed from his own, he dozed off into a siesta as the hand fan landed on the floor.

“Ree Subbu... ree... lunch is ready. Eat before it gets cold,” cried out Balamani, a rotund woman in her mid-30s, peering out from the smoke-filled kitchen window that overlooked the veranda. Seeing that her call had gone unanswered, she, clad in a red sari, sauntered towards the chair and shook her husband like a rag doll, out of his stupor, with her plump hands.

“Who is it, who?” shouted a startled Subba Bhat, looking around for the source of his inconvenience.

“Who do you think will wake you up at two in the afternoon? Lunch is ready. Eat and go back to your sleep. Anyway, all you ever do is sleep. Have you forgotten you had to be at school today? How can you be so irresponsible when your son is studying there? What sort of an example are you setting for the boy?”

“What would you know about my travails, Balu?” sighed Subba Bhat. “All through the day it is the heat, and during the nights, when I’m tired to the bone and crawl into my bed, the bedbugs won’t let me sleep. Look how thin I’ve become. They have literally sucked me dry, those tiny parasites. Don’t worry about Vasu. The boy has seen the critters crawling in and out of my bed. Though he tried to catch a few, he failed miserably for he is too young and the bugs are too fast for him. I have sent a note through Vasu to the principal indicating that I’m unwell and will be back to school tomorrow.”

“Do what you please,” sighed Balamani, “But take care not to get sacked from your job due to your frequent absence; we have a family to take care of. Now come for lunch; I can’t wait endlessly for you to finish yours to have mine.”

That evening, Vasu returned home from school later than usual. Subba Bhat was in his sparsely decorated room, which consisted of a cot, a small table, and a chair. He was watching the trees sway in the evening wind.

“Vasu,” he called out as soon as he saw his son enter the house.
“Yes, appa?”
“The school lets you off at 4 pm. It’s nearing six. Where had you been?”
“I was at the beach, appa, playing with my friends.”
“And what is that in your pocket? Are you stealing mangoes from the neighbour’s yard again?” Subba Bhat narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you know thieving is a sin? Empty your pockets, Vasu, right now!”

Vasu scratched his head, hesitantly put his hands inside the bulging pocket and pulled out a fistful of treasure that included a broken pencil, a piece of chalk, a few pebbles and shells from the beach.

“You’ve been stealing chalk from school, Vasu? You should know better since you are the teacher’s son!”

“Sorry, appa. It was thrown at my head by the English teacher when she found me inattentive. I could not have thrown it back at her. So...”

“Alright, enough of your explanations. Did you hand over my note to the principal today?”
“Yes, appa. He has asked you to meet him first thing in the morning.”

“Okay. He now needs an explanation from me, does he? Go inside and eat something. Amma has been waiting for you for a long time. One should never keep their mothers waiting. Do you know how worried they get?”

With this, Vasu disappeared into the kitchen, calling out, “Amma, amma, I’m back.”
                                                                                                          
                     
The heat of the day carried on into the night with no mercy. Subba Bhat lay on his bed as the occasional breeze blew from the sea through the open window. Just as he was about to fall asleep, he felt a bite on his back, another on his leg. More followed until he could not bear them anymore and sat up on his bed in agony.

“The insects are back from their miserable hideout. They think a feast has been laid out for them to enjoy! Do they think Subba Bhat is some kind of an animal to be played around with? I’ll teach them a lesson,” he murmured, lighting a candle that was on his bedside table. Upon seeing the bugs scurrying back to their abode, he vowed in silence to exterminate each one of them by throwing the bed into the ocean the following evening, after he was back from school. He picked up the pillow from his bed, placed it on the floor, and lay down for a night of fitful sleep.

The next morning, principal Arnie Trembor was setting right his tie in front of a small mirror in his chamber when he heard a feeble knock on the door.

“Come on in,” he ordered, with a voice befitting a taskmaster. “Yes, Mr Bhat, a very good morning to you. The reason I called you here is that I have been noticing that you are very irregular to school. You, being a teacher, should ensure your wards do not lag behind in their studies because of your tardiness.”

“Sir, I’m extremely sorry for my absence. You see, I’m facing a crisis at home,” said Subba Bhat, putting his head down, staring at his feet.

“Fights with the wife, is it, Mr Bhat? Even I have them regularly. But that has not stopped me from discharging my duties!”

“Sir,” began Subba Bhat, “It’s not my wife. With a brave heart I put up with her on a regular basis. The problem is much more miniscule than her.”

“Miniscule? What do you mean, Mr Bhat?”
“It’s bedbugs, Sir. Not a night goes by without me being eaten alive. I have been suffering this trauma silently for so many months. I cannot take it anymore. I’m exhausted due to lack of sleep.”

“Hmm...” exhaled the principal, adjusting his tie. “I was only joking about my missus. Coming back to you, are you suggesting that a few bugs are harassing you out of a good night’s sleep? I might have a solution for that. I had come across an advertisement in the Madras Gazette regarding a contraption that kills bugs. Here, let me look for it.” The principal rummaged a pile of newspapers that sat on the corner of his large desk. Attaching a monocle to his right eye, he went through the advertisement section of the newspaper dated February 28, 1937.

“There you go, straight from Britain, a contraption invented by one Mr Robert Cock that promises to kill bedbugs efficiently,” proclaimed the principal, handing over the paper to Subba Bhat.

Subba Bhat accepted the paper by extending his frail hands as well as gratitude on his face, thanking him profusely, promising to order one straightaway if the principal allowed him to run across to the post office to send a money order to the mentioned address.

“Alright, Mr Bhat, but be back right after that. I don’t want you to miss school anymore.”
“Thank you very much, Sir.”

He shuffled backwards out of the principal’s chamber with measured steps as the eyes of the trophy stag — mounted on the wall behind the desk — gazed at him vacantly with its glassy eyes.

All the way to the post office, Subba Bhat reread the advertisement that announced how, in an instant, one could get rid of one’s worst enemy — the disease-causing, blood-sucking critters — efficiently, with Robert Cock’s easy-to-use contraption.

“You have to give it to the British! No wonder they have been ruling us for so many years. Moreover, this Mr Cock must be a genius to have come up with a device to rid humanity of the scourge called bedbugs. For all I know, he may be the personal inventor to the Queen herself.”

Later that evening, Subba Bhat broke the news of the new bug-killing machine at home and showed Balamani the advertisement. “Do you know Mr Cock? Have you ever heard of him before? Just wait and see how those damn scums will scurry for dear life upon seeing Mr Cock’s machine. Though it has cost me half a month’s salary, I’m none the poorer for it. A healthy man is a wealthy man,” he exclaimed.

“How will you know you’ll ever get anything from him?” asked Balamani. “You seem to have squandered your salary, Subbu. You might as well have thrown it into the water!”

“This... this is the reason Bharat is not progressing, Balu. It’s because of people like you. You do no good, nor let anyone else do so. I got an acknowledgement saying that the machine will be dispatched from Madras tomorrow. Do you know anyone apart from the British who are so prompt with a promise? You won’t be so sarcastic when you see the machine in action.” Over tea that same evening, Subba Bhat lectured Vasu about how one should not waste time collecting shells and pebbles, or steal chalk from school. A man could achieve many things with ambition. “Take Mr Cock, for example. Who in the world knew he would invent a contraption to kill nasty bugs when he grew up? He applied all his energies towards his goal. Look where he is today! He claims to have sold more than 10,000 of his unique invention all over Bharat.”

Vasu stood there scratching his head. “Okay, appa, I’ll try to become like Mr Cock when I grow up.”

Subba Bhat turned restless. He could not wait for the moment when he would hold Mr Cock’s machine in his hands and use it to kill the critters that had sucked his blood for so long. Fifteen days passed without any sign of the package, and every afternoon during lunch break, he enquired at the post office regarding the same, only to be countered with a curt ‘no’. Frustrated, he cursed the postal system for their inefficiency. He even snapped at Balamani and Vasu at the slightest provocation.

On the 20th day, as Subba Bhat was on his way back home from school, he saw the mail carrier. Rushing towards him, he asked the postman the same question he had on his lips for the greater part of the month, to which the postman said that indeed, there had been a parcel he had delivered at Subba Bhat’s house that afternoon.

Subba Bhat rushed home like a man possessed, not stopping once to catch his breath. He was exhausted when he reached home. Balamani, seeing her husband in a state of frenzied euphoria, brought the package out, handed it over to him, and began to wipe the sweat from his face with the end of her sari.

“Vasu, oh Vasu,” he cried out, “Get a knife from the kitchen, will you? Hurry up.”
With the knife in his hand, Subba Bhat carefully put the package on the compound wall that enclosed the veranda, exclaiming how heavy the box was, and praising the Englishman’s attention to details of packaging and addressing the recipient. He cut open the top of the box with measured strokes and made sure not to disturb the prized possession. Parting the cardboard flaps revealed a letter placed on top of the contraption. The letter opened to these words written calligraphically in red ink:

Dear Mr Subba Bhat,We thank you for being our kind customer. Without your patronage, we doubt if we could have ever crossed the 10,000th mark of sales in India. For
being our 10,001th customer, we are proud to include a bug stunner along with the exterminating machine. Hope you have a lovely time, and happy hunting.

Yours sincerely,Robert CockPS: Instructions enclosed“Look, Balu!” said Subba Bhat with admiration. “Mr Cock, himself, may be the greatest inventor of our generation, but has taken the time to address me personally. Such a humble man. He has the right kind of head upon his shoulders.” To which Balamani smiled coyly, cursing herself to have doubted her husband’s prudence. He then thrust the letter into her hands and took out the contraption enclosed in oilpaper, and set it on the compound. Parting the oilpaper, he came across two large objects that resembled the pebbles he had seen in Vasu’s hands just a few days back. Also included was a small stick. Upon inspection, he found out that they were indeed pebbles marked faintly with the numbers 1 and 2. He searched for the instruction manual. The manual read...

Enclosed are two contraptions that can kill bugs efficiently. Follow the given instructions carefully:

1. Stun the bug with the free bug-stunner provided.
2. Hold the contraption marked number 1 in your left hand and place the stunned bug on it.
3. Hold the contraption marked number 2 in your right hand and bring it down on contraption 1 with all your might. A 90-degree swing of your arm would be preferable.
4. Your bug should be dead beyond any reasonable doubt.
5. Rinse the contraption after at least 10 times of continuous usage for cleaner results.
Upon reading the last line, Subba Bhat’s last lines, screamed in a fit of anger, were: “You bloodsucking Cock of an Englishman, you are worse than the bloodsuckers that I have been living with. For this affront of yours, I will make sure that you will quit Bharat very soon!”


Preetham Chandra (43)

Preetham, a media professional based in Bengaluru, believes the act of writing is a way to liberate oneself from the pressures of living, by escaping into the world of words where anything is possible. He reads widely and deeply across genres, especially the works of R K Narayan and Anton Chekhov. A lover of nature, he feels at home exploring the wilderness, or strolling on the beach.