The barber was surprised to see Gora returning alone. When he arrived, Gora first scrubbed the barber’s ghoti thoroughly with his own hands, then collected water from the well to drink.
‘If there’s some rice and dal in the house, please let me have some,’ he requested. ‘I’ll cook for myself.’
Flustered, the barber made arrangements for him to cook.
‘I’ll stay with you a few days,’ Gora informed him, after he had eaten.
Terrified, the barber pleaded with folded hands: ‘I cannot be more fortunate than to have you stay with someone as humble as myself. But the police have their eye on us, you see; there’s no saying what problems might transpire if you remain here.’
‘As long as I am present here, the police won’t dare trouble you,’ declared Gora. ‘If they do, I shall protect you.’
‘I beg you,’ urged the barber, ‘if you try to protect us, we shall have no rescue. Those fellows will think that I have conspired to get you here as a witness against them. I have survived somehow, all these days, but I cannot continue here if that happens. If I, too, am uprooted from here, the village will be trampled underfoot.’
Having grown up in the city, Gora found it hard to even understand the barber’s apprehensions. He thought taking a strong stand on behalf of justice was sufficient to combat injustice. His conscience refused to let him abandon an endangered village, leaving it helpless. Now the barber prostrated himself at his feet.
‘Look, sir, you are a Brahman,’ he pleaded. ‘On the strength of my punya, the accumulated virtue of my past lives, you have become our guest. It is wrong of me to ask you to leave. But because I know your sympathy for us, I can tell you that if you stay here and try to prevent police harassment, you would place us all in grave danger.’
Taking the barber’s anxieties for baseless cowardice, Gora was rather annoyed. He left their home and set out in the late afternoon. He even began to regret having accepted food and other hospitality at this heretic’s dwelling. Physically exhausted and mentally embittered, he arrived at the nilkuthi courthouse in the evening. Ramapoti had wasted no time in setting off for Kolkata after his meal, so there was no sign of him. With a special show of cordiality Madhab Chatujje offered Gora his hospitality.
‘I shall not even taste the water in your house,’ declared Gora, flying into a rage.
When a surprised Madhab asked him why, Gora abused him for being an unjust oppressor. He remained standing, refusing to take a seat. The police officer was lolling against a bolster, puffing upon his gurguri, the hookah with its long flexible tube.
‘Who are you, mister?’ he asked belligerently, sitting up. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Are you the superintendent?’ Gora inquired, without answering his question. ‘I have learnt all about your assaults on Ghoshpur Chor. If you don’t take heed now,…’
‘Will you send me to the gallows?’ laughed the superintendent. ‘A fine fellow, I must say. I thought he had come to beg for favours, but he threatens us instead! O Tewari!’
Flustered, Madhab grasped the superintendent’s hand. ‘Arré, what are you doing?’ he said. ‘Don’t insult him, he’s a bhadralok!’
‘What sort of bhadralok is he!’ fumed the superintendent. ‘When he was so rude to you, wasn’t that an insult, too?’
‘What he said was not untrue,’ said Madhab. ‘So how can we be angry? We make our living as agents of the nilkuthi sahebs; need we say more? Don’t mind Dada, but you’re a police superintendent, after all; would it be infamy to call you an agent from hell? It’s well understood that the tiger is a man-eater, no vegtetarian boshtom ascetic. What’s the tiger to do? He must survive, mustn’t he?’
No one had seen Madhab angry without reason. When someone might prove useful—or when crossed, what harm they might do—who could tell? Extremely careful about injuring or insulting anybody, he did not waste his destructive powers by making others the target of his wrath.
‘Look here baba,’ said the superintendent to Gora, ‘we are here to serve the government. If you object to that, or make a nuisance of yourself, you’ll be in trouble.’
Gora left the room without a word.
‘Moshai, what you say is true,’ admitted Madhab, rushing after him. ‘Our job makes butchers of us, and as for that superintendent, it’s a sin even to share the same divan with him. I can’t bring myself to mention all the misdeeds I’ve made him perform. It won’t take much longer—if I work for just two or three years more, I’ll acquire the means to marry off these daughters of mine, and after that, my wife and I will head for Kashi, renouncing the world. I don’t relish all this anymore, moshai; sometimes I want to hang myself. Anyway, where else will you go tonight? Please dine with us and spend the night here. You need not come anywhere near that superintendent fellow. I’ll make separate arrangements for you.’
Gora’s appetite was above the ordinary, and he had not had a proper meal in the morning, either. But his entire body seemed to be on fire. He could not remain here under any circumstances.
‘I have some urgent work,’ he declared.
‘Wait, then, I’ll organize a lantern.’
Gora rushed away without offering any reply.
‘Dada, that man is on his way to the headquarters,’ said Madhab, returning to his room. ‘Send a messenger to the magistrate while there is still time.’
‘Why, what must we do?’ asked the superintendent.
‘Nothing, just let him inform them that a bhadralok has surfaced from somewhere and is at large, trying to subvert witnesses.’
~27~
At sunset, Magistrate Brownlow was walking along the riverside path. With him was Haranbabu. Not far away, his wife, the mem, was savouring the air in the motor car, along with Poreshbabu’s daughters.
From time to time, Brownlow Saheb would invite the Bengali bhadraloks to garden parties at his house. It was he who acted as chief guest at prize distribution ceremonies at the district entrance school. If invited to wedding rituals at some well-to-do person’s house, he would accept the householder’s hospitality. In fact, when invited to a jatragaan performance of songs from indigenous popular theatre, he would recline on a large armchair and for a while, patiently try to listen to the music. During the last puja, he had particularly appreciated the performance of the two lads who had played the bhisti or water-carrier and the methrani or scavenger-woman, in the jatra enacted at the house of the government pleader at his court. At his request, their scene had been replayed for his benefit more than once.
His wife was a missionary’s daughter. Sometimes, they hosted a tea for missionary women at their house. He had established a girls’ school in the district, and tried very hard to ensure that it had no shortage of students. He always encouraged the educational discussions he had witnessed among the female members of Poreshbabu’s house. He would drop them a line every now and then, even when he was far away, and send them religious books for Christmas.
The mela was on. Borodasundari and the girls, accompanied by Haranbabu, Sudhir and Binoy, were present at the occasion, all of them. They had been offered accommodation at the Inspection Bungalow. Poreshbabu had no patience for such noisy events; he had stayed behind in Kolkata, by himself. Sucharita had tried very hard to remain with him, to give him company, but advising her strongly that it was her duty to respect the magistrate’s invitation, Poresh sent her away. It had been decided that on the penultimate day, in the presence of the Commissioner Saheb and the Lieutenant Governor and his wife, at the after-dinner party at the magistrate’s house, Poreshbabu’s daughters would perform and recite. Many of the magistrate’s British friends from the district as well as from Kolkata had been invited to the event. A few select Bengali bhadraloks were also to attend. There would even be snacks prepared for them by Brahman cooks in a garden tent, so it was rumoured.
In a very short time, Haranbabu had succeeded in winning the heart of the magistrate saheb by virtue of his lofty conversation. The saheb had been amazed at
Haranbabu’s extraordinary knowledge of Christian theology, and he had even asked Haranbabu why he had the slightest hesitation in embracing the Christian faith. This afternoon, pacing the riverside path, he was deeply engaged in discussion with Haranbabu about Brahmo and Hindu practices. At this juncture, Gora appeared before him.
‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.
Trying to meet the magistrate the previous day, he had realized that he must grease the sentry’s palm to cross the saheb’s threshold. Unwilling to tolerate such subjugation and insult, he had come to meet the saheb during his outing today. During this action, Haranbabu and Gora showed no sign of mutual recognition.
The saheb was rather perplexed when he saw this man. He could not recall having encountered such a person in Bengal, more than six feet tall, heavy boned, sturdy. Even his complexion was unlike that of the ordinary Bengali. Khaki shirt, coarse, faded dhoti, bamboo stave in hand, chador wound around his head like a turban.
‘I’ve just come from Ghoshpur Chor,’ Gora told the magistrate.
The magistrate gave a surprised whistle. He had received news the previous day, that an outsider was obstructing the investigations at Ghoshpur. So this was the man! ‘What is your caste?’ he asked Gora, surveying him once from top to toe.
‘I am a Bengali Brahman.’
‘Oh! Do you have any connections with the press?’
‘No.’
‘Then what are you doing at Ghoshpur Chor?’
‘I took shelter there during my wanderings. Having witnessed the predicament of the village under police torture, and realizing the likelihood of further trouble, I have come to you to ask for redress.’
‘Are you aware that the people at Ghoshpur Chor are utter scoundrels?’
‘They’re no scoundrels. They’re bold and independent, unable to endure unjust oppression in silence.’
The magistrate was incensed. He concluded privately that this new Bengali had learned to parrot some words gleaned from history books. This was insufferable!
‘You understand nothing of the present situation!’ roared the magistrate.
‘You know much less than me about the situation here,’ thundered Gora in reply.
‘I warn you,’ declared the magistrate, ‘if you interfere in the Ghoshpur matter in any way, you will not get off easily.’
‘Since you have decided not to counter the injustice that is taking place, and since your attitude towards the villagers is predetermined and unshakable, I have no choice but to incite the villagers against the police, by my own efforts.’
‘What!’ The magistrate stopped suddenly in his tracks. ‘How dare you!’ he shouted, wheeling about to face Gora.
Gora stalked away slowly, without uttering another word.
‘Haranbabu,’ said the magistrate, ‘what does the behaviour of your countrymen signify?’
‘It’s due to lack of in-depth study, especially due to the total absence of spiritual and ethical education in our country that all this is happening,’ Haranbabu asserted. ‘They have not yet earned the right to receive the best of English education. If these ungrateful people are reluctant even now to acknowledge British rule in India as God’s decree, it’s only because they have merely learned by rote. Their religious sense is extremely underdeveloped.’
‘Without embracing Christianity, people’s religious sense will never develop to maturity in India,’ the magistrate declared.
‘In a sense, that is true,’ Haranbabu assented. He had then engaged the magistrate in a discussion of his possible conversion to Christianity, making fine distinctions between where his opinions coincided with or differed from a Christian’s. So deeply had he kept the magistrate engrossed that when the memsaheb, returning in the carriage after dropping Poreshbabu’s daughters at the dak bungalow, called to her husband: ‘Harry, we must go home,’ the magistrate started, took out his watch and exclaimed: ‘By Jove, it’s eight twenty!’
Before stepping into the car, he wrung Haranbabu’s hand. ‘Our discussion has made this evening very enjoyable,’ he said, by way of farewell.
Back at the dak bungalow, Haranbabu recounted his interchange with the magistrate in detail. But he made no mention of his encounter with Gora.
~28~
Forty seven accused persons had been condemned to prison without being tried for any crime, just to keep the village under control. After his meeting with the magistrate, Gora set out in search of a lawyer. Someone told him that Satkori Haldar was a good lawyer.
‘Wah, it’s Gora, isn’t it?’ exclaimed Satkori, as soon as Gora arrived at his house. ‘What brings you here?’ It was as Gora had thought: Satkori was his classmate.
‘The accused at Ghoshpur must be released on bail and their cases fought in court,’ Gora declared.
‘Who will stand security for bail?’ Satkori asked.
‘I will.’
‘What resources do you possess, to stand guarantor for forty seven persons on bail?’
‘If all the mukhtars, the legal representatives, collectively offer security, I shall pay their fees.’
‘It won’t be a small amount.’
The next day, they applied for bail at the magistrate’s court. Looking askance at the previous day’s hero dressed in his faded garments and turban, the magistrate ignored the request. From a fourteen year old boy to an old man of eighty, all the accused were condemned to rot in jail.
Gora requested Satkori to defend their case.
‘Where will you find witnesses?’ Satkori asked him. ‘All potential witnesses are among the accused. Moreover, the people of this area are overwrought due to the investigation into the case of those murdered sahebs. The magistrate is convinced there is a secret bhadralok hand in this whole affair. Who knows, perhaps he even suspects me! The English papers keep saying that if the local people are incited to such daring, the unprotected, helpless British can’t survive in the provincial areas any more. Meanwhile, things have reached a stage where our countrymen can’t survive in their own land. I know there is oppression, but there’s nothing we can do.’
‘Why not?’ thundered Gora.
‘You’re exactly as you were in school, I see,’ smiled Satkori. ‘When I say there’s nothing we can do, I mean we have wives and children at home. If we don’t earn our daily bread, many will go hungry. There aren’t many in this world willing to give up their lives shouldering other people’s burdens, especially in a country where the family is not taken lightly. Those with many dependants have no time for the problems of all and sundry.’
‘So you’ll do nothing for these people?’ said Gora. ‘If, by a motion in the high court, we …’
‘Arre, they’ve killed Englishmen, don’t you see!’ cried Satkori impatiently. ‘Every Englishman is a raja, after all. To murder even an ordinary Englishman amounts to a minor act of treason. I can’t let myself fall into the magistrate’s bad books in a false bid to achieve something futile.’
Gora set out the next morning, planning to catch the ten-thirty train to Kolkata, to see if he some lawyer there could help him with the case, when he encountered an obstacle. To coincide with the local mela, a cricket tournament had been scheduled, between students from Kolkata and the local students’ team. The Kolkata boys were playing amongst themselves, to hone their skills. One of the boys was severely hurt when the cricket ball hit him on the leg. There was a large pond at the end of the field. Carrying the injured boy to the pond’s edge, a couple of students shredded a chador, soaked the strips and began to bandage his leg with them. Suddenly, a watchman appeared from nowhere, and shoved a student by the shoulder, abusing him in obscene language. The Kolkata students did not know that it was forbidden to enter this pond because it was reserved for drinking water. Even had they known, they were not used to accepting such sudden humiliation from a watchman. Being physically strong as well, they began to suitably avenge the insult. Witnessing this spectacle, four or five constables rushed to the spot. At that very moment, Gora arrived on the scene.
The students recognized Gora, for he had often played cricket with them.
‘Don’t hit them! I warn you!’ cried Gora, unable to bear the sight of the students being beaten and dragged away.
When the watchman’s party swore abominably at Gora as well, he created such a commotion, hitting and kicking them, that a crowd collected on the street. Meanwhile, the students quickly formed a cluster. When they attacked the police at Gora’s urging and command, the watchman’s party at once beat a hasty retreat. Onlookers in the street found this highly amusing. But needless to say, this spectacle did not remain a mere piece of entertainment for Gora.
At around three or four in the afternoon, when Binoy, Haranbabu and the girls were busy rehearsing at the dak bungalow, a couple of students known to Binoy came and reported that Gora and a few students had been arrested by the police and put in the lockup. The following day, the case would come up at the magistrate’s very first session in court. Gora in the lockup! Everyone but Haranbabu was dumbfounded. Binoy immediately rushed to their classmate Satkori Haldar and having first told him the whole story, took him along to the lockup. Satkori offered to defend Gora in court, and to try getting him out on bail at once.
‘No,’ said Gora. ‘I won’t engage a lawyer, and there’s no need to try and get me out on bail either.’
How could he say that!
‘Look at this!’ expostulated Satkori, turning to Binoy. ‘Who would think Gora is out of school! His mindset remains exactly the same.’
‘I don’t want to be free of lockup and handcuffs simply because I’m fortunate enough to have money and friends,’ declared Gora. ‘According to our nation’s religious law, we know it is the ruler’s responsibility to ensure justice; it’s the ruler who must be blamed if his subjects suffer injustice. But in this kingdom, if subjects must rot in the lockup and die in jail because they can’t afford the lawyer’s fee, if even under a king’s rule one must go bankrupt trying to buy a fair verdict with money, I wouldn’t spend a paisa on such justice.’
Gora Page 21
