“Except for those who wear crores worth of jewelry, these pleaders are nothing at all,” he declared, “so please forgive our mistake—I came running here in a hurry just to say that!”

We all burst out laughing. These half-dead lawyers dashed off to console the wives of those who were mourning for them.

If I begin to recount such stories, countless incidents from my meager experience come to mind.

Court affairs are proceeding quite satisfactorily. Everything is going along with great enthusiasm. Whenever I have some free time, I explain lessons to Saraswati—just enough to prepare her for her exams. I keep bringing her the books she needs and handing them over. She is diligently studying. Her studies are her business; my court work is mine. Thus, without interfering in each other’s affairs, we pass our days according to a timetable, meeting only when absolutely necessary—no, not what you’re thinking, only for meals and such—meeting at those times, and running our household without any mishaps.

As Saraswati’s exams approached, she devoted all her time to studying. I took up the responsibility of preparing meals, or, if I was also busy, we would get food from the hotel for both of us. No matter what happened, or how the meals arrived on time, there was no end to criticism—how the food came, whether it was on time, and so on. Amidst all this, Saraswati completed her exams, not just somehow, but quite satisfactorily. Exhausted and drained, she slept for two or three days straight.

Without a care in the world, during those days, I would occasionally take a break from my court work, sit beside her, and offer her fruit or drinks—she was so absorbed in her studies, she didn’t even notice. Be that as it may, on the fourth day, she woke up fresh and light, singing like a cuckoo, smiling like a flower, and appeared before me in the morning with a plate of fruit, singing me awake.

Apparently, the news had arrived that she had passed the exams with flying colors in both subjects. That evening, when I returned home, the celestial maiden—

I heard someone singing, as if from afar. Curious to know what was going on, I hurried over and was about to knock on the door when, lo and behold, someone flung it open with a dramatic flourish, grabbed my hand, pulled me into a tight embrace, and before I could wriggle free, I looked up to see who it was—was this a dream, or some Vaishnava illusion?—and there she was, shaking with laughter, giggling uncontrollably.

“Why are you staring at me so pale and bewildered? It’s me! Your Saraswati, your better half. Hurry up and get ready. I’ve decided to take you to the beach today, and my joy won’t be complete until I do. Why are you still gawking at me? I came first in my class in the recent exams! As a token of gratitude, I wanted to shower you with every possible honor, and here you are, blinking at me like an owl! Where did I find this husband, I wonder! No wonder they say men are rare and precious. Now, come on, quickly change out of those clothes.”

I was about to ask, “What’s all this?” when Saraswati herself barged in from behind.

For a week or ten days, I was utterly at her mercy, unable to think of anything, barely able to breathe, as she had me wrapped around her little finger and dragged me all over town. She paid no heed to my words or my affairs, much like a stubborn client who ignores a lawyer’s objections.

That evening, when I returned home, the newspapers were abuzz with the news that the next morning, a political leader—Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi—would be arriving in Madras by the early train. While I was studying in Edinburgh during the Great War, I knew that he had specially organized the Indian Red Cross to aid the thousands of helpless Indian soldiers being slaughtered. For some months now, the papers had been reporting that he was vigorously organizing the national movement. Without telling Saraswati, I finished my morning chores early and hurried to Central Station.

Inside and outside the station, the crowds were packed so tightly that not even a grain of sand could fall to the ground. Volunteers were making heroic efforts to line everyone up in order. Somehow, I managed to slip through the crowd and, pretending to be a leader myself, slowly made my way inside. There, quite unexpectedly, I saw—at a meeting in Edinburgh—

Mokkapati Narasimha Shastri, 513

After making me recite a few poems, my dear friend Duggirala Gopalakrishnayya, who had become quite close to me by then, exclaimed, “Hey! Parvateesam, so you’re here! Why didn’t you tell me? Had I known, I would have come straight to your house! Anyway, you’ve come at the perfect time. Come on!” Saying this, he grabbed me by the arm and led me forward, introducing me in rapid succession to two or three poets and a handful of political leaders. As he introduced me with such enthusiasm, they all seemed unsure of what status to assign me, and I, too, decided that I must surely be someone important. So, they let me proceed along with Gopalakrishnayya.

At about nine o’clock, with a great commotion, the mail train arrived at the station. The moment its sound was heard, nearly a hundred thousand people waiting inside and outside the station raised their voices in unison, shouting “Victory to Gandhi! Victory to Mother India!” The sound thundered to the skies. Inside the station, thousands upon thousands surged forward with such eagerness that it seemed as if they might throw themselves onto the train. The police and the volunteer guards stationed there had a truly herculean task in restraining the crowd.

In this tumult, to ensure that the guest of honor, Gandhiji, was not harmed, his foremost disciples and the tall, broad-shouldered Muslim brothers, Shaukat