A Devoted Son Notes | Grade 12 Short Stories Unit 3 Notes | Anita Desai

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Short Stories Notes – All Units

UnitStoriesAuthor
1Neighbours NotesTim Winton
2A Respectable Woman NotesKate Chopin
3A Devoted SonAnita Desai
4The Treasure in the ForestH. G. Wells
5My Old HomeLu Xun
6The Half-closed Eyes of the Buddha and the Slowly Sinking SunShankar Lamichhane
7A Very Old Man with Enormous WingsGabriel Garcia Marquez

When the results appeared in the morning papers, Rakesh scanned them barefoot and
in his pajamas, at the garden gate, then went up the steps to the verandah where his
father sat sipping his morning tea and bowed down to touch his feet.
“A first division, son?” his father asked, beaming, reaching for the papers.

“At the top of the list, papa,” Rakesh murmured, as if awed. “First in the country.”
Bedlam broke loose then. The family whooped and danced. The whole day long visitors
streamed into the small yellow house at the end of the road to congratulate the parents
of this Wunderkind, to slap Rakesh on the back and fill the house and garden with the
sounds and colors of a festival. There were garlands and halwa, party clothes and gifts
(enough fountain pens to last years, even a watch or two), nerves and temper and joy,
all in a multicolored whirl of pride and great shining vistas newly opened: Rakesh was
the first son in the family to receive an education, so much had been sacrificed in order
to send him to school and then medical college, and at last the fruits of their sacrifice
had arrived, golden and glorious.
To everyone who came to him to say “Mubarak, Varmaji, your son has brought you
glory,” the father said, “Yes, and do you know what is the first thing he did when he
saw the results this morning? He came and touched my feet. He bowed down and
touched my feet.” This moved many of the women in the crowd so much that they
were seen to raise the ends of their saris and dab at their tears while the men reached
out for the betel-leaves and sweetmeats that were offered around on trays and shook
their heads in wonder and approval of such exemplary filial behavior. “One does not
often see such behavior in sons anymore,” they all agreed, a little enviously perhaps.
Leaving the house, some of the women said, sniffing, “At least on such an occasion
they might have served pure ghee sweets,” and some of the men said, “Don’t you think
old Varma was giving himself airs? He needn’t think we don’t remember that he comes
from the vegetable market himself, his father used to sell vegetables, and he has never
seen the inside of a school.” But there was more envy than rancor in their voices and it
was, of course, inevitable—not every son in that shabby little colony at the edge of the
city was destined to shine as Rakesh shone, and who knew that better than the parents
themselves?
And that was only the beginning, the first step in a great, sweeping ascent to the radiant
heights of fame and fortune. The thesis he wrote for his M.D. brought Rakesh still
greater glory, if only in select medical circles. He won a scholarship. He went to the
USA (that was what his father learnt to call it and taught the whole family to say—not
America, which was what the ignorant neighbors called it, but, with a grand familiarity,
“the USA”) where he pursued his career in the most prestigious of all hospitals and
won encomiums from his American colleagues which were relayed to his admiring
and glowing family. What was more, he came back, he actually returned to that small
yellow house in the once-new but increasingly shabby colony, right at the end of the
road where the rubbish vans tipped out their stinking contents for pigs to nose in and
rag-pickers to build their shacks on, all steaming and smoking just outside the neat
wire fences and well-tended gardens. To this Rakesh returned and the first thing he did
on entering the house was to slip out of the embraces of his sisters and brothers and
bow down and touch his father’s feet.

As for his mother, she gloated chiefly over the strange fact that he had not married in
America, had not brought home a foreign wife as all her neighbors had warned her he
would, for wasn’t that what all Indian boys went abroad for? Instead he agreed, almost
without argument, to marry a girl she had picked out for him in her own village, the
daughter of a childhood friend, a plump and uneducated girl, it was true, but so oldfashioned, so placid, so complaisant that she slipped into the household and settled in
like a charm, seemingly too lazy and too good-natured to even try and make Rakesh
leave home and set up independently, as any other girl might have done. What was
more, she was pretty—really pretty, in a plump, pudding way that only gave way to
fat—soft, spreading fat, like warm wax—after the birth of their first baby, a son, and
then what did it matter?
For some years Rakesh worked in the city hospital, quickly rising to the top of the
administrative organization, and was made a director before he left to set up his own
clinic. He took his parents in his car—a new, sky-blue Ambassador with a rear window
full of stickers and charms revolving on strings—to see the clinic when it was built,
and the large sign-board over the door on which his name was printed in letters of red,
with a row of degrees and qualifications to follow it like so many little black slaves
of the regent. Thereafter his fame seemed to grow just a little dimmer—or maybe it
was only that everyone in town had grown accustomed to it at last—but it was also the
beginning of his fortune for he now became known not only as the best but also the
richest doctor in town.
However, all this was not accomplished in the wink of an eye. Naturally not. It was the
achievement of a lifetime and it took up Rakesh’s whole life. At the time he set up his
clinic his father had grown into an old man and retired from his post at the kerosene
dealer’s depot at which he had worked for forty years, and his mother died soon after,
giving up the ghost with a sigh that sounded positively happy, for it was her own
son who ministered to her in her last illness and who sat pressing her feet at the last
moment—such a son as few women had borne.
For it had to be admitted—and the most unsuccessful and most rancorous of neighbors
eventually did so—that Rakesh was not only a devoted son and a miraculously goodnatured man who contrived somehow to obey his parents and humor his wife and show
concern equally for his children and his patients, but there was actually a brain inside
this beautifully polished and formed body of good manners and kind nature and, in
between ministering to his family and playing host to many friends and coaxing them
all into feeling happy and grateful and content, he had actually trained his hands as
well and emerged an excellent doctor, a really fine surgeon. How one man—and a man
born to illiterate parents, his father having worked for a kerosene dealer and his mother
having spent her life in a kitchen—had achieved, combined and conducted such a
medley of virtues, no one could fathom , but all acknowledged his talent and skill.

It was a strange fact, however, that talent and skill, if displayed for too long, cease to
dazzle. It came to pass that the most admiring of all eyes eventually faded and no longer
blinked at his glory. Having retired from work and having lost his wife, the old father
very quickly went to pieces, as they say. He developed so many complaints and fell
ill so frequently and with such mysterious diseases that even his son could no longer
make out when it was something of significance and when it was merely a peevish
whim. He sat huddled on his string bed most of the day and developed an exasperating
habit of stretching out suddenly and lying absolutely still, allowing the whole family
to fly around him in a flap, wailing and weeping, and then suddenly sitting up, stiff and
gaunt, and spitting out a big gob of betel-juice as if to mock their behavior.
He did this once too often: there had been a big party in the house, a birthday party
for the youngest son, and the celebrations had to be suddenly hushed, covered up and
hustled out of the way when the daughter-in-law discovered, or thought she discovered,
that the old man, stretched out from end to end of his string bed, had lost his pulse; the
party broke up, dissolved, even turned into a band of mourners, when the old man sat
up and the distraught daughter-in-law received a gob of red spittle right on the hem
of her organza sari. After that no one much cared if he sat up cross-legged on his bed,
hawking and spitting, or lay down flat and turned gray as a corpse. Except, of course,
for that pearl amongst pearls, his son Rakesh.
It was Rakesh who brought him his morning tea, not in one of the china cups from
which the rest of the family drank, but in the old man’s favorite brass tumbler, and sat
at the edge of his bed, comfortable and relaxed with the string of his pajamas dangling
out from under his fine lawn night-shirt, and discussed or, rather, read out the morning
news to his father. It made no difference to him that his father made no response apart
from spitting. It was Rakesh, too, who, on returning from the clinic in the evening,
persuaded the old man to come out of his room, as bare and desolate as a cell, and
take the evening air out in the garden, beautifully arranging the pillows and bolsters
on the divan in the corner of the open verandah. On summer nights he saw to it that
the servants carried out the old man’s bed onto the lawn and himself helped his father
down the steps and onto the bed, soothing him and settling him down for a night under
the stars.
All this was very gratifying for the old man. What was not so gratifying was that he
even undertook to supervise his father’s diet. One day when the father was really sick,
having ordered his daughter-in-law to make him a dish of soojiehalwa and eaten it
with a saucerful of cream, Rakesh marched into the room, not with his usual respectful
step but with the confident and rather contemptuous stride of the famous doctor, and
declared, “No more halwa for you, papa. We must be sensible, at your age. If you must
have something sweet, Veena will cook you a little kheer, that’s light, just a little rice
and milk. But nothing fried, nothing rich. We can’t have this happening again.”

The old man who had been lying stretched out on his bed, weak and feeble after a day’s
illness, gave a start at the very sound, the tone of these words. He opened his eyes—
rather, they fell open with shock—and he stared at his son with disbelief that darkened
quickly to reproach. A son who actually refused his father the food he craved? No,
it was unheard of, it was incredible. But Rakesh had turned his back to him and was
cleaning up the litter of bottles and packets on the medicine shelf and did not notice
while Veena slipped silently out of the room with a little smirk that only the old man
saw, and hated.
Halwa was only the first item to be crossed off the old man’s diet. One delicacy after
the other went—everything fried to begin with, then everything sweet, and eventually
everything, everything that the old man enjoyed.
The meals that arrived for him on the shining stainless steel tray twice a day were
frugal to say the least—dry bread, boiled lentils, boiled vegetables and, if there were
a bit of chicken or fish, that was boiled too. If he called for another helping—in a
cracked voice that quavered theatrically—Rakesh himself would come to the door,
gaze at him sadly and shake his head, saying, “Now, papa, we must be careful, we
can’t risk another illness, you know,” and although the daughter-in-law kept tactfully
out of the way, the old man could just see her smirk sliding merrily through the air. He
tried to bribe his grandchildren into buying him sweets (and how he missed his wife
now, that generous, indulgent and illiterate cook), whispering, “Here’s fifty paisa,” as
he stuffed the coins into a tight, hot fist. “Run down to the shop at the crossroads and
buy me thirty paisa worth of jalebis, and you can spend the remaining twenty paisa
on yourself. Eh? Understand? Will you do that?” He got away with it once or twice
but then was found out, the conspirator was scolded by his father and smacked by his
mother and Rakesh came storming into the room, almost tearing his hair as he shouted
through compressed lips, “Now papa, are you trying to turn my little son into a liar?
Quite apart from spoiling your own stomach, you are spoiling him as well—you are
encouraging him to lie to his own parents. You should have heard the lies he told his
mother when she saw him bringing back those jalebis wrapped up in filthy newspaper.
I don’t allow anyone in my house to buy sweets in the bazaar, papa, surely you know
that. There’s cholera in the city, typhoid, gastroenteritis—I see these cases daily in the
hospital, how can I allow my own family to run such risks?” The old man sighed and
lay down in the corpse position. But that worried no one any longer.
There was only one pleasure left in the old man now (his son’s early morning visits
and readings from the newspaper could no longer be called that) and those were
visits from elderly neighbors. These were not frequent as his contemporaries were
mostly as decrepit and helpless as he and few could walk the length of the road to visit
him anymore. Old Bhatia, next door, however, who was still spry enough to refuse,
adamantly, to bathe in the tiled bathroom indoors and to insist on carrying out his brass
mug and towel, in all seasons and usually at impossible hours, into the yard and bathe

noisily under the garden tap, would look over the hedge to see if Varma were out on
his verandah and would call to him and talk while he wrapped his dhoti about him and
dried the sparse hair on his head, shivering with enjoyable exaggeration. Of course
these conversations, bawled across the hedge by two rather deaf old men conscious of
having their entire households overhearing them, were not very satisfactory but Bhatia
occasionally came out of his yard, walked down the bit of road and came in at Varma’s
gate to collapse onto the stone plinth built under the temple tree. If Rakesh was at
home he would help his father down the steps into the garden and arrange him on his
night bed under the tree and leave the two old men to chew betel-leaves and discuss
the ills of their individual bodies with combined passion.
“At least you have a doctor in the house to look after you,” sighed Bhatia, having
vividly described his martyrdom to piles.
“Look after me?” cried Varma, his voice cracking like an ancient clay jar. “He—he
does not even give me enough to eat.”
“What?” said Bhatia, the white hairs in his ears twitching. “Doesn’t give you enough
to eat? Your own son?”
“My own son. If I ask him for one more piece of bread, he says no, papa, I weighed out
the ata myself and I can’t allow you to have more than two hundred grams of cereal
a day. He weighs the food he gives me, Bhatia—he has scales to weigh it on. That is
what it has come to.”
“Never,” murmured Bhatia in disbelief. “Is it possible, even in this evil age, for a son
to refuse his father food?”
“Let me tell you,” Varma whispered eagerly. “Today the family was having fried
fish—I could smell it. I called to my daughter-in-law to bring me a piece. She came to
the door and said no. . . .”
“Said no?” It was Bhatia’s voice that cracked. A drongo shot out of the tree and sped
away. “No?”
“No, she said no, Rakesh has ordered her to give me nothing fried. No butter, he says,
no oil. . . ”
“No butter? No oil? How does he expect his father to live?”
Old Varma nodded with melancholy triumph. “That is how he treats me—after I have
brought him up, given him an education, made him a great doctor. Great doctor! This is
the way great doctors treat their fathers, Bhatia,” for the son’s sterling personality and
character now underwent a curious sea change. Outwardly all might be the same but the
interpretation had altered: his masterly efficiency was nothing but cold heartlessness,
his authority was only tyranny in disguise.
English: Grade 12 195
There was cold comfort in complaining to neighbors and

, on such a miserable diet,
Varma found himself slipping, weakening and soon becoming a genuinely sick man.
Powders and pills and mixtures were not only brought in when dealing with a crisis like
an upset stomach but became a regular part of his diet—became his diet, complained
Varma, supplanting the natural foods he craved. There were pills to regulate his bowel
movements, pills to bring down his blood pressure, pills to deal with his arthritis and,
eventually, pills to keep his heart beating. In between there were panicky rushes to
the hospital, some humiliating experience with the stomach pump and enema, which
left him frightened and helpless. He cried easily, shriveling up on his bed, but if he
complained of a pain or even a vague, gray fear in the night, Rakesh would simply
open another bottle of pills and force him to take one. “I have my duty to you papa,”
he said when his father begged to be let off.
“Let me be,” Varma begged, turning his face away from the pills on the outstretched
hand. “Let me die. It would be better. I do not want to live only to eat your medicines.”
“Papa, be reasonable.”
“I leave that to you,” the father cried with sudden spirit. “Leave me alone, let me die
now, I cannot live like this.”
“Lying all day on his pillows, fed every few hours by his daughter-in-law’s own hand,
visited by every member of his family daily—and then he says he does not want to live
‘like this,’” Rakesh was heard to say, laughing, to someone outside the door.
“Deprived of food,” screamed the old man on the bed, “his wishes ignored, taunted
by his daughter-in-law, laughed at by his grandchildren—that is how I live.” But he
was very old and weak and all anyone heard was an incoherent croak, some expressive
grunts and cries of genuine pain. Only once, when old Bhatia had come to see him and
they sat together under the temple tree, they heard him cry, “God is calling me—and
they won’t let me go.”
The quantities of vitamins and tonics he was made to take were not altogether useless.
They kept him alive and even gave him a kind of strength that made him hang on long
after he ceased to wish to hang on. It was as though he were straining at a rope, trying
to break it, and it would not break, it was still strong. He only hurt himself, trying.
In the evening, that summer, the servants would come into his cell, grip his bed, one at
each end, and carry it out to the verandah, there sitting it down with a thump that jarred
every tooth in his head. In answer to his agonized complaints, they said the doctor
sahib had told them he must take the evening air and the evening air they would make
him take—thump. Then Veena, that smiling, hypocritical pudding in a rustling sari,
would appear and pile up the pillows under his head till he was propped up stiffly into
a sitting position that made his head swim and his back-ache.
“Let me lie down,” he begged. “I can’t sit up any more.”
196 English: Grade 12
“Try, papa, Rakesh said you can if you try,” she said, and drifted away to the other
end of the verandah where her transistor radio vibrated to the lovesick tunes from the
cinema that she listened to all day.
So there he sat, like some stiff corpse, terrified, gazing out on the lawn where his
grandsons played cricket, in danger of getting one of their hard-spun balls in his eye,
and at the gate that opened onto the dusty and rubbish-heaped lane but still bore,
proudly, a newly touched-up signboard that bore his son’s name and qualifications, his
own name having vanished from the gate long ago.
At last the sky-blue Ambassador arrived, the cricket game broke up in haste, the car
drove in smartly and the doctor, the great doctor, all in white, stepped out. Someone
ran up to take his bag from him, others to escort him up the steps. “Will you have tea?”
his wife called, turning down the transistor set. “Or a Coca-Cola? Shall I fry you some
samosas?” But he did not reply or even glance in her direction. Ever a devoted son, he
went first to the corner where his father sat gazing, stricken, at some undefined spot in
the dusty yellow air that swam before him. He did not turn his head to look at his son.
But he stopped gobbling air with his uncontrolled lips and set his jaw as hard as a sick
and very old man could set it.
“Papa,” his son said, tenderly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and reaching out to
press his feet.
Old Varma tucked his feet under him, out of the way, and continued to gaze stubbornly
into the yellow air of the summer evening.
Papa, I’m home.”
Varma’s hand jerked suddenly, in a sharp, derisive movement, but he did not speak.
“How are you feeling, papa?”
Then Varma turned and looked at his son. His face was so out of control and all in
pieces, that the multitude of expressions that crossed it could not make up a whole and
convey to the famous man exactly what his father thought of him, his skill, his art.
“I’m dying,” he croaked. “Let me die, I tell you.”
“Papa, you’re joking,” his son smiled at him, lovingly. “I’ve brought you a new tonic
to make you feel better. You must take it, it will make you feel stronger again. Here it
is. Promise me you will take it regularly, papa.”
Varma’s mouth worked as hard as though he still had a gob of betel in it (his supply
of betel had been cut off years ago). Then he spat out some words, as sharp and bitter
as poison, into his son’s face. “Keep your tonic—I want none—I want none—I won’t
take any more of—of your medicines. None. Never,” and he swept the bottle out of his
son’s hand with a wave of his own, suddenly grand, suddenly effective

His son jumped, for the bottle was smashed and thick brown syrup had splashed up,
staining his white trousers. His wife let out a cry and came running. All around the old
man was hubbub once again, noise, attention.
He gave one push to the pillows at his back and dislodged them so he could sink down
on his back, quite flat again. He closed his eyes and pointed his chin at the ceiling, like
some dire prophet, groaning, “God is calling me—now let me go.”

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