“On the dais sat his Holiness Srimat Muniswamappa Rama-Swami, and on either side of him stood anxious disciples who looked with awe at his thin, clean-shaven lips and fanned his holy old poll with silver-handled yak tails. Near him sat the pleader and a few Brahmin grandees, whom he was in the habit of consulting in cases of importance. At a respectful distance were the men of the clan: they filed in slowly, prostrating themselves in turn before the Swami and uttering the name of the presiding deity with trembling lips, while his Holiness smiled a contemplative smile, and while his fingers counted the beads on his rosary.
“The proceeding opened with a sermon pronounced by the Swami. First, he praised Ganesa, Sarasvati, and half a dozen other assorted deities, and then with a great abundance of detail and many long-winded quotations he set forth the duties of the twice-born. He told them that a Brahmin should not break up clods of earth nor tear up the grass under his feet; that he should not look at the setting sun, the rising sun, the sun in eclipse, the image of the sun in a pool of water; that he should not point at the stars with fingers of irreverence; that he should not sleep with his head turned toward the north or west; that he should abstain from cutting his nails with his teeth, from using the same toothpick more than once, from eating off plates used by others, and from wearing sandals worn by strangers—and a thousand such foolish injunctions.
“The assembly was politely bored, but the Swami enjoyed himself hugely. For it gave him an opportunity to show his great learning and his wonderful memory, and then, like most holy men, he loved to lay stress on the outward emblems of his faith. He illustrated his sermon by relating several horrid examples, chiefly that of a wicked barber who had shaved a Brahmin with a razor which had been polluted by the shadow of a low-caste falling on it. Finally, he commented on the advent of modernity and expounded with more lengthy and tiresome quotations how the devils of progress, skepticism, irreverence, and anarchy were making headway amongst the twice-born, how the young Brahmins were making their names a name of scorn in the present world and spoiling their chances for the future world.
“Then he whispered a word to the pleader, who called up the case of Chaganti Samashiva Rao, a young Brahmin accused of having sullied his caste by marrying an infidel.
“There was a commotion at the door, and then Rao appeared, struggling furiously in the arms of half a dozen muscular youngsters. The pleader explained that Rao had studied in Boston and that he had brought home with him a girl, a native of the land of the foreigners and a Christian, whom he had married according to the laws of the Americans. He had thus polluted himself, his father, his mother, his cow, and his caste. Here the pleader was silent for a few moments to let the atrocity of the crime soak into all hearts, and then he asked the assembly for a verdict. And the assembly shouted like one man: Let him lose caste. Drive him out. Drive him out.
“But Rao rose and declared he was going to make a speech. He said he would tell the old fossils, including his Holiness Srimat Muniswamappa Rama-Swami, what he thought of them. There were roars of: Throw him out! Stop his unclean mouth! and angry hands were raised. But his Holiness smiled a thin, mocking smile and bade the assembly be quiet and listen to what the defendant would have to say for himself.
“Rao acknowledged this permission with a sarcastic bow of gratitude, pulled out his cuffs—he wore English clothes—and proceeded to shock the grave assembly greatly by declaring that he did not give ‘a whoop in Hades’—such was the expression he used, he being a perfect English scholar—for all the Brahmins, all the Swamis, and all the caste tribunals in the length and breadth of Hindustan. He had been brought into court by force, he indignantly complained, and he absolutely denied the power and the right of the assembly to punish him. For he had lived several years in America, had become an American citizen, and had voluntarily thrown away his caste as he would a pair of worn-out sandals.
“His Holiness interrupted him, saying that he would now pass sentence on him. But Rao exclaimed: ‘Sentence—the devil—you’ve neither the right nor the might to sentence me.’ The Swami, never heeding the interruption, continued with a calm and even voice: ‘I sentence you to the living death of the outcast until such time as you expiate your crime, acknowledge your errors, and regain your caste status, which you forfeit today, through the regular methods as laid down in the holy books. Your friends and relatives will assemble on the first unlucky day of next week, and will offer, as if to your manes, a libation in a pot of water which a slave girl shall dash against the walls of your house, and all who take part in this ceremony shall be regarded as impure for three days. Your friends and relatives shall not be permitted to accept your hospitality, nor shall you be allowed to share theirs. Your touch shall be pollution unspeakable. Your children shall be outcasts and shall not marry anybody but Mangs and Mahars. Your own father and mother shall be forbidden your house under the risk of losing caste. Neither your barber, your tailor, your cook, nor your washerwoman shall work for you. Nobody shall assist you in any way, not even at the funeral of a member of your household. You shall be debarred access to the temples—’
“Here Rao, who had mocked and laughed during all this sentence, cried: ‘Save your breath, oh holy one, for indeed all this tommyrot can never affect me. As to hospitality, I don’t care to invite those old fossils of Brahmins into my house, nor could I ever bring myself to set foot in theirs and listen to their tire some dissertations about the Veda and the Upanishads; besides, I’ve plenty of European friends. As to my children being outcasts, know, revered uncle, that I have none, and that if ever I should have any they will be Americans like myself and marry like myself. As to my father and mother being forbidden my house well, they’re both dead. As to my being debarred access to your temples by the great God Shiva I never go there anyway!’
“His Holiness waited until Rao had finished, and then he said, with the same inscrutable smile playing about the corners of his thin lips: ‘I furthermore sentence you to have torn from your body the sacred thread of your caste, though’—here he smiled again—‘I hardly believe that you, who have voluntarily given up your caste and who mock at everything connected with it, can by any chance still have the thread about your person.’
“Here Rao made a wild dash in the direction of the door, but he was stopped by many willing hands. There was a short and furious struggle, his clothes were torn—and, my friend, it appeared that he, the scoffer, the atheist, the expatriate, who had renounced India, who had thrown much filth at caste, who had become an American, a free-thinker, and a scoffer at superstitions—still wore next his heart the thin thread, the holy thread of his caste—the holiest, the most intimate, the most exclusive, the most secret, the most important emblem of the caste which he affected to despise—”
Ibrahim was silent, and the American asked: “Well—what happened?”
The Egyptian lit a cigarette and continued:
“Oh, the usual thing. Rao did penance, he feasted the priests, he went through the regular process of ceremonious purification—”
“But what about the girl?”
“His wife? Oh—he sent her back to her own country—” Ibrahim gave a dry little laugh. “Yes, my friend, you assuredly understand India. You can reform the world with your progress, your modernity, your splendid democracy—you wonderful Anglo-Saxons. Only it appears that there is a little thread—Allah, what a tiny little thread!—which brings to naught all your wonderful civilization, your liberty, your democracy. Ah, such a tiny little thread, my friend—”
GRAFTER AND MASTER GRAFTER
It is said that, compared to the cunning of the fakir, the Holy Man of Hindustan, even an Armenian, a trustee, a banker, a widow, a demon, and a female cobra during the Grishna Season, are only lisping, prattling babes.
Listen, then, to the tale of Harafr Lai, the babu, the banker, the giver of many nautch parties, the sufferer from that envied disease of the idle rich, diabetes; and of Krishna Chucker-jee, the fakir, the Holy Man, the ash-smeared darling
of the many gods.
Harar Lai, the babu, was the big man of the village. His earrings were of jade. His face was shiny with ghee. His wife was fat and very beautiful; none of your lean, panther-like women she, but a proper woman, with the walk of the king-goose and the waist of the she-elephant. A most proper woman indeed! Three times he had been to Bombay; and he had brought back marvelous devil-things; clocks which clucked like moor-birds, boxes which had songs and voices in their bowels, resplendent and beautiful ornaments with the magic legend “Made in Birmingham.”
He was a banker. And Fate endowed him with such a miraculous skill in the making-out of accounts that a man to whom he had loaned fifty rupees might go on making monthly payments of twenty rupees each for three years without reducing his debt by a single anna. Great are the virtues of Compound Interest! And, indeed, his books proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the debt, instead of being reduced, would grow with each successive payment, until in the end of a few years the original loan of fifty rupees had become half a lakh. He would then give thanks to Shiva, the great god, and to the just laws of the English.
For look you:
During the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a quick, crooked dagger-thrust would have ended the babu’s earthly career. But the British Raj, the guardian angel of the poor and the pitiful, had established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression. Thus Harar Lai carried on his business in security, under the shadow of the law, even as they do in England and in America.
There was nothing he would not lend money on, from a nautch girl’s blue beads to an unborn calf, from an acre of indigo plants to ten yards of muslin turban cloth; provided the papers were drawn up in proper form and witnessed by a notary public.
And so in good years, when abundant rain watered the smiling fields, when the crops were green and bounteous, the fish swarming in the river, and the trees heavy with fruit, he would reap a goodish share of the gifts of the gods, and—everything being so rich and plentiful—he would naturally increase the interest on loans a little, just a little; while in bad years, when black famine stalked through the fields, when the sun burnt as do the eternal fires in the seventh hall of perdition, when the smoky yellow haze rose from the ground and suffocated the parching crops, when the fish perished of thirst in the drying streams, when the land was dying of hunger, and the call to prayer gave way to the maddening chant of despair—when his heart, his poor, tortured heart—bled with the pity of it all, even then he would prosper exceedingly. For behold: he was a Hindu, a babu, a follower of the praised god who is Shiva, charitable to a fault and quite unlike the Armenian pigs who suck the heart-blood of the unhappy land to the west; again he would loosen the strings of his compassionate purse and advance thousands of rupees to the men of the village. Never would he accept more than three hundred and twelve percent a month, and he would be content, as only security, with a mortgage on every bullock and goat, every cartwheel and fishing-net, every tree and well in the blessed village.
His eyes filled with tears of gratitude when he be held the righteous growth of his treasures. I said that he prospered—and, indeed, there was never cartwheel tired, there was never net anchored, tree planted or grain sown but he received his fair share of the profits.
He was the Corporation of the Village.
It was when the juice was being collected from the heads of the opium poppies that three wandering fakirs, a guru and two disciples, strayed into the village—seeking shelter and cow-dung fuel from a wretched peasant who lived on the outskirts of the village. Money? No. They had none. They were fakirs, followers of the many gods, very holy, also very dirty. They had no money. Not a single rupee.
“But do not let that worry you,” said the guru. “Tonight I shall pray to Shiva. He will repay you.”
So the poor peasant gave rice and ghee and sweet meats and oil and onions and sugar and tamarinds to the three holy vampires who had never done a stroke of honest work in their lives. They did not have to. For they were of a most thorough and most astounding dirtiness and ditto holiness. They lived thus on the superstitions of the land of Hind; and they lived exceedingly well. They also gave thanks to Shiva, the great god and to the just laws of the English.
For look you:
During the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a sharp sword would have quickly removed the heads of the three fakirs. But then the British Raj has established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression; the laws which preach tolerance and equal rights for all religions and sects. And so these religious parasites had gripped their fangs in the bowels of the land’s prosperity, even as in England and in America.
The holy men asked the news of the village, carefully scanning the scraps of bazaar talk; and they learned about Harar Lai, the babu, and they evinced great interest.
The next morning the three were gone. But they had left ample payment for their entertainment. For in the shade of a great babul tree stood a brand-new idol, a Mahadeo which was so exceedingly ugly and bestial and obscene that it was certain to bring prosperity to the village, especially to the peasant who had been the host of the three so dirty, the three so holy men.
Soon its fame spread. Little chaplets of flowers were offered to the holy emblem of creation, and thin-lipped, weary-eyed men and patient, onyx-eyed women sent up many pathetic prayers to the grinning, staring, sensual idol. And the idol prospered. It shone with plentiful libations of ghee, and was more ugly and more holy than ever. The very babul tree did homage to it. For a gorgeous loofah creeper which for many hot and many cold weathers had used the tree for support and nourishment sent down strong shoots and encircled with its sweet-smelling, lascivious flowers the neck and the arms of the Mahadeo.
The babu saw it. He considered it. He was angry. For here was something in the village which could not be assisted with a mortgage at a reasonable rate of interest. Mahadeos are gods. Gods do not need money; only the fakirs, the Holy Men who serve the gods, need money.
Let it be understood that Harar Lai had no intention of fooling with the Mahadeo. He was a Hindu. He was deeply religious. He would sooner have killed his fat and beautiful wife than kill a cow.
Then, one day, the babu discovered how he could make the god pay without defiling his caste, without committing an irreligious act. On the contrary, he would do great honor to the Mahadeo. All he had to do, he thought, was to buy the plot of land which housed the idol. Of course the peasant would not desecrate the god by removing it from the shade of the babul tree which he had chosen for his abode. So he would buy a plot of land and would then acquire a reputation for sanctity by erecting a temple over it. He would spread the tale of the Mahadeo through the countryside. He would advertise in the Bande Mahrattam and other native papers; perhaps even in the English press, the Bombay Times, the Englishman, the Pioneer. There would be many offerings laid at the feet of the god. He would be the owner of the temple. He had a brother-in-law who was a Brahmin priest. Together they would collect the offerings. The plan was simple.
But the owner of the land absolutely refused to part with it. Neither cajolings nor threats were of the slightest avail.
“No, no!” exclaimed the superstitious ryot. “No, by Karma! I will not part with what the gods have sent me. The Mahadeo has brought luck to my house. Three weeks ago my wife gave birth to twin sons. And though she drank buttermilk, she did not die. Behold what a powerful Mahadeo he is! Also be pleased to observe his face. How ugly, how bestial, how obscene! No, there was never Mahadeo like mine.”
About this time one of the three fakirs, Krishna Chucker-jee by name, came again to the village. He was dirtier and holier than ever. Again he visited the house of the peasant. Again he asked for food and drink and cow-dung fuel. Gladly the peasant gave. He kissed the Holy Man’s feet.
Then he told him about the babu’s offer.
“Five times Harar Lai has asked me to sell him the
plot of land which houses the Mahadeo. Five times I have refused. And each time the babu forecloses on some of my land. What shall I do, O Holy Man?”
The fakir blessed the peasant. He praised him for his devotion. He told him that in a month he would receive the answer to his question. But in the meantime he was not to breathe a word to anybody about his, the fakir’s, second visit. Also he needn’t worry about the mortgages. Everything would be straightened out.
“See, my friend,” he concluded. “For fifteen years neither water nor soap nor scissors have defiled my body. Daily I grow and gain in holiness and filth. Tell me, have you ever seen so much holiness, so much filth, before?”
“No, beloved one of the gods,” stammered the peasant.
“Then trust in me. Everything will be straightened out. Even tonight I shall cover my body with ashes and cow-dung. Have faith… and the gods will be good to you. Praised be the many gods!”
The fakir left, again swearing the peasant to secrecy.
Three days afterwards the babu was on the furthest confines of the village, surveying with grim interest the crops on which he held mortgages, when five fakirs appeared suddenly before him.
They were naked. Their beards and hair were matted. Their lean bodies were covered with dirt and perspiration. Their finger nails had grown into long, twisted, fantastic curves and knots. Even at two miles, with a fair wind, your nose would have convinced you of their exceeding holiness.
So the babu bowed before them.
“Salaam, O babu-jee,” exclaimed the oldest and dirtiest of the five. “I have a message for thee.”
“Salaam, O Harar Lai,” rejoined the other four in the heavy, impressive manner of a Greek tragedy chorus. “We have a message for thee.”
The babu was surprised that they knew his name, and he asked them how they knew it.
The Second Achmed Abdullah Megapack Page 17
