By Sujatha Balasubramanian, 1^st April 1964 -Onlooker

“There now, Dad,” said Betty fussing over the cushions on his chair. “Have a bit of rest, you look as if you haven’t slept a wink last night.”

Barlow grunted noncommittally. His eyes were red-rimmed and there were dark circles under them. Betty turned and put a hand on his shoulder. “Anything wrong, dad? Anything bothering you? Can’t you tell me?” she asked, her concern showing in her face.

Bothering hin=m? How could he tell her of the agony of those sleepless nights, the torment of those terror-stricken moments ticking away eternally till he was past caring whether it was night or day!

“Oh! I shall be alright,” he replied gruffly, trying to cloak his uncertainty with curtness.

“Well, Mrs. Hicks will be here to see to you as usual. Mind that you have a good, long nap.,” Betty said heartily and picked up her handbag. “Bye now Dad,” she waved to him as she went out of the house.

Barlow sat up and steered his chair at a furious pace  towards his bed. There, on a little table by the side of his bed were his most prized possessions; a cricket bat and a well-used, blackened pipe!

A hundred times a day his gentle fingers caressed the pipe and his hands lingered lovingly on the edges of his bat, as he read the inscription on it. “To John Barlow, a great sportsman.”

John Barlow! The name had meant something in those days. He had loved everything about the wide, open spaces, his riding, his swimming, but best of all his cricket. He had been the captain of his home side for many years. The sight of white flannels and the smell of an oiled bat had always been a part of his life.

“You might as well have been married to a cricket bat instead of me,” his wife Margaret used to complain fondly. And it was she who was all broken up, when he was crippled in the war. He had not been so bitter about spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair. But poor Margaret couldn’t bear it at all. She had sunk into herself and died within a couple of years.

Sometimes he wondered why people made such a fuss about his legs. 

“How well I remember the tall well-built figure striding forward on the field!” they would say. “And now to see him like this- a thin, shrunken shell of a man—it’s pitiful, that’s what it is,” they shook their heads sorrowfully.

Then, he used to smile to himself. He had nothing to grumble about. After all, he had had his day. He was content to feel the solid wood of his bat and fondle the bowl of his pipe which he no longer smoked, until now.

Until this challenge to his very manhood! Until he had woken up one night to face those tiny, unblinking eyes shining at him like twin jewels from the foot of his bed!

He had gazed, fascinated, almost hypnotized by the steady stare. The creature had stood still for a moment, looking for some sign of movement from the bed. Barlow lay there waiting helplessly, and for the first time a rising wave of anger had filled at his own impotence.

Encouraged by his quietness, the rat had slithered a few inches onto his bed. Barlow had felt an unreasonable terror, at the very thought of the creature moving one step further towards him. “if those eyes come an inch closer to mine, I shall scream,” Barlow had thought hysterically. “My legs! If only I could just get up on my legs once more!” he had wished frantically.  For the first time in all those years, he had realized his utter helplessness. He had made as if to rise, and the rat had vanished in an instant. Barlow had fallen back onto his bed, sweating with fright and helpless anger.

Barlow reached for his pipe and put it between his lips, trying to get a crumb of satisfaction from sucking the empty bowl. It tasted bitter as his own thoughts at the moment. 

Four nights he had lain awake, undergoing the torture of the damned. The rat had come up to the foot of his bed each time, biding its time, and had tried to move up towards the sheets.

Barlow knew he had nothing to fear physically from his nocturnal visitor. But there it was, daring him every night, challenging his very manhood! Unless he did something about it, he could never be at peace with himself. Never again be reconciled to his own physical weakness!

His teeth clenched tightly on the stem of his pipe as he swore with frustration. “Think, man. Think,” What was it that his old colonel used to say? “Use your brains, you fellows, a man is not all brawn. Use the grey matter. “

Yes, that’s what he must do now. Try to outwit the creature and destroy it. He must think of something, some scheme before tonight for he could never face another night of terror. Barlow’s weary body relaxed in his chair.

“Hello Dad,” Betty came in dispiritedly, and flung her gloves and bag on the table. ”Are you feeling better now?” she enquired solicitously. “Oh! Yes dear, I had a nice rest this afternoon,” Barlow replied good humouredly. “It has been one of those tiring days for me,” sighed Betty. “The class seems to be made up of thirty little devils instead of little boys and girls! Oh! My poor legs!”

There was a ring at the front door and Betty rose to answer it, muttering under her breath.

With all the gleeful cunning of a schoolboy stealing jam, Barlow surreptitously put a hand out and clutched Betty’s handbag. He opened it and rummaged inside for a moment. His groping fingers encountered what they were looking for. Stealthily he extracted a piece of chalk and hid it in his pocket. Betty returned saying “it was only Mr Roberts asking after your health.”

That night, Barlow laid his plans carefully. No general could have organized a more elaborate plan of attack. “What would you do, if the reach of your artillery was limited?” he asked himself. “Why wait for the enemy to come within firing range!” That was exactly what he was going to do!

With the aid of the cricket bat, he measured out a semi-circle outside his bed as far as his arm could reach and marked it with chalk. As soon as the rat stepped inside the line, it would be within striking distance of his bat and then he would get it!

With the patience of a hunter, he put the bat by his side and lay down on the bed, his eyes searching every corner of the room.

Soon, the rat came as it always did, from nowhere. In the pale moonlight, the beady eyes glittered darting this way and that. And with infinite care, the creature slowly came nearer and nearer the chalked line.  Barlow raised himself on one arm and clenched the bat tightly in his right hand. Veins stood out on his forehead, and with great effort he held his breath, lest the rat turn away.

Suddenly, the rat was over the line. Barlow leaned forward and brought the heavy cricket bat crashing down between the pair of shining eyes.

There was a dull smack as the bat hit soft flesh. The effort was too much for his frail body and Barlow felt himself falling.

“Dad?” Betty’s sleepy voice called  out from the next room. She opened the door and flicked on the switch. Light flooded the macabre scene.

Barlow lay in a heap on the floor, his crippled body bent grotesquely. She turned him over gently.  His right hand still held the blood-stained bat and there was a dead rat beside it. The duel had been fought.