Man eater of Malgudi by R K Narayan

This story revolves around sun which is the life of an Indian printer named Nataraj. Nataraj lives in a huge ancestral house in Malgudi, a fictional town in south India. This place is near Mempi hills which is very calm, plesant and beautiful. He leads a contented lifestyle, with his own circle of friends, such as a poet, a journalist named Sen, and his one employee, Sastri. Like his other novel,Talkative Man, R.K. Narayan introduces a character who enters the life of Nataraj and the town of Malgudi. The character, Vasu, is a taxidermist who comes to Malgudi in search of the wildlife in Mempi hills near Malgudi. His introduction begins with his arrival at Nataraj's printing press, where he demands the printing of 500 visiting cards. This arrival begins the relationship between Vasu and Nataraj. While Nataraj wasn't sure whether Vasu is a friend or an enemy, he likes the company of Vasu because being around him is fun.


From the book

I could have profitably rented out the little room  in front of my press. On 
Market Road, with a view of the fountain, it was coveted by every would-be 
shopkeeper in our town; I was considered a fool fornot getting my money's 
worth out of it, while all the space I needed for my press and its personnel was 
at the back, beyond the blue curtain. I could not explain myself to sordid 
calculating folk. I hung a framed picture of Goddess Laxmi poised on her lotus 
and holding aloft the bounties of earth in her fourhands, and through her grace 
I did not do too badly. My son, little Babu, went to Albert Mission School and felt 
adequately supplied with toys, books, sweets, and other odds and ends that he 
fancied from time to time. My wife gave herself a new silk sari, glittering with 
lace, every Deepavali, not to mention the ones acquired for no particular reason 
at other times. She kept the pantry well stocked and our kitchen fire aglow, 
continuing the traditions of our ancient home in Kabir Street. 
I had furnished my parlor with a high-backed chair  made of teakwood, Queen 
Anne style as claimed by the auctioneer who had sold it to my grandfather, a 
roll-top desk supported on bow legs with ivy vine carved on them, and four other 
seats of varying heights and shapes. 
Anyone whose feet ached while passing Market Road was welcome to rest in 
my parlor, filling any seat that happened to be vacant at the time. Resting there, 
people got ideas and allowed me to print their billforms, visiting cards, or 
wedding invitations. But there also came in a lot of others whose visit did not 
mean a paisa to me. Among my constant companions was a poet who was 
writing the life of God Krishna in monosyllabic verse. His ambition was to 
compose a grand epic, and he came almost every day  to recite to me his latest 
lines. My admiration for him was unbounded. I felt  thrilled to hear clear lines 
such as "Girls with girls did dance in trance," andI felt equally thrilled when I 
had to infer the meaning of certain lines, as when  he totally failed to find a 
monosyllable but achieved his end by ruthlessly carving up a polysyllabic word. 
On such occasions even the most familiar term took on the mysterious quality of 
a private code language. Invariably, in deference to his literary attainments, I let 
him occupy the Queen Anne chair. I sat perched on the edge of my roll-top desk. 
In the other best seat, a deep basket in cane, you would find Sen the journalist, 
who came to read the newspaper on my table and heldforth on the mistakes 
Nehru was making. These two men and a few others remained in their seats 
even at six in the evening when the press was silenced. It was not necessary 
that I should be present or attend to them in any manner. They were also good 
enough, without being told, to vacate their chairs  and disappear when anyone 
came to discuss business. 

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