Abdul called on me again this afternoon in great distress. The blow had fallen; his officer had ordered him to make ready to proceed to Sarwar to-morrow for a month.
What was he to do? I told him to go away and not to worry, for I would see to it that he was not sent to Sarwar. But I myself was worried—and rather angry. Later on Babaji Rao arrived, and I unloaded my annoyance on to him.
I said that if this ill-treatment to which Abdul was being subjected was still part of “the little scene” that had been got up between him and his officer, it had gone far enough. Although I did not expect the officer to consult me before giving orders to his subordinate, I felt I was entitled, at the very least, to notification before being deprived of my tutor, and since Abdul’s visit to me was not official this had not been done. Also the promise of increment, from which I had not withdrawn my support, had not been made good. I said I was sorry I had ever interfered on Abdul’s behalf, but that having done so I must now go on, and suggested that I had better call on the Dewan myself.
“Perhaps that would be best,” said Babaji Rao, gazing at the carpet, and promised, meanwhile, to write a letter to the officer requesting that, if convenient, Abdul should not be sent away. After this we spoke for a few moments of His Highness’s pilgrimage, which was regrettable, I said, coming at this particular time. Might not His Highness be persuaded to postpone it again, I suggested tentatively, so that we could all go and enjoy ourselves at Garha?
But now it was Babaji Rao’s turn to be angry.
He retorted, with some heat, against my selfishness, and said that His Highness’s religious duties were not to be compared in importance with such things as Garha festivals—indeed with anything else in his life; that they should have been performed years ago, but that His Highness was not a strong man, and owing to his ill-health they had had unfortunately (he coughed) to be postponed more than once; but that now His Highness was determined to delay no longer, and would not, of course, consider putting off a matter of such vital importance for such comparatively trivial reasons.
When he had finished I took his photograph with a camera I had borrowed from a Rajgarh lady.
His Highness has a sore throat, and I found him this evening looking a little dejected with a piece of white muslin wrapped round it. I saw in this a good omen, better than any mongoose, and told him of my remarks to Babaji Rao and of the latter’s heated reply.
“He bullies me, too,” said the little man, chuckling; “I am quite afraid of him.”
But, he added, suddenly assuming a grave expression, although his inclinations were to go with me to Garha, his conscience pointed him the other way. It was his duty to go, and besides, all the arrangements for accommodation and transport had been made, for there had to be special trains to carry him and his suite.
I asked how many people accompanied him. Seventy-five, he said; which included guards, pundits, cooks, water-carriers, washermen, servants and barbers, etc., and they were all quite indispensable.
MARCH 12TH
Promptly at his appointed time to-day Abdul arrived to give me a lesson. The order to remove to Sarwar had been canceled, so he was in excellent spirits, and wished to show me his gratitude by feasting me. Would I grant his feast? I said I wouldn’t. Never mind then, he would come and take me for walks in the evenings when I had leisure from my writings, and we would go wherever I wished and talk nothing but Urdu so that I should come to speak the language very well.
“No, Abdul,” I said, “one hour a day is quite enough.”
“Very well,” he replied; “I do not want to bore upon your time. So I will come to you whenever I wish in the evenings and we will not talk a word of Urdu.”
“What I meant,” I said, “was that one hour a day of you was quite enough.”
This seemed to amuse him, and he tittered into the pages of his book.
I sallied forth to call on the Dewan in the later afternoon. He lives in a big bungalow surrounded by the pleasant garden which was one of the first things I was shown when I arrived in Chhokrapur. It is situated just beyond the tennis-courts on the outskirts of the “city.” The Dewan frequently plays tennis himself, sometimes in brown leather slippers and dhoti, with his shirt hanging outside; sometimes in European flannels, when he tucks his shirt in. He is excessively fat, and hopes to decrease it in this way; but at the same time he is nervous about his heart and fears to overtax it, so that if he cannot get the doctor (who lives close by) to join in, he likes to have him among the spectators. They all play a very flabby game.
There were some servants sitting on the verandah of the house when I arrived, and I sent one of them in to ask the Dewan if he would speak to me.
Some little time afterwards he came waddling out, excusing the delay on account of massage treatment he had been receiving.
“So kind of you to call,” he said, in a voice that bubbled with politeness. “Very kind. Delighted. Please to seat yourself.”
I did so, and he sat beside me on a large heavy chair, rubbing his knees with his small brown hands, and uttering breathless, merry, exclamatory sounds. A servant came forward to put on his sandals.
We talked for some time of trivialities, and then I brought out the real object of my visit—the treatment of Abdul. No doubt he was expecting it, for as soon as I said that I should like to know more or less what the position was, he laid it unhesitatingly before me in a high-pitched, excitable voice. Of course, he said, he would be very pleased to do what I wished and instruct Abdul’s officer to give him an increment of eight rupees monthly; but the result would be very bad for Abdul, for as soon as I left he would lose his job, his officer would dismiss him, and no other officer would take him on. He (the Dewan) had told all this to His Highness, he said, and His Highness had replied, “But you must do this for Abdul. What will Mr. Ackerley say to me if you do not?” Well, he was perfectly ready to do it; it made no difference to him; he had merely to sign a paper, any one could do that; I had only to say the word, and Abdul would at once receive twenty rupees a month salary, but it would be the ultimate ruin of him. What was my wish? Please to instruct him.
But, I said with dismay, this would be a grave injustice to Abdul, and surely he, as Dewan, would prevent it.
But he was perfectly clear about what he would do; perfectly clear and outspoken. How he talked! It is quite impossible to reproduce it, his vigorous volubility, rising to shrillness as he emphasized his definite, unswerving policy, and accompanied by abrupt gestures of his small hands.
He would not prevent it. Perhaps he could, but he would not. He never interfered with his officers. They were good men; he had chosen them all carefully, without favoritism, with only one end in view—the efficient working of the State; and so long as that went forward smoothly and well, he was satisfied and asked no questions.
Efficiency—that was all that concerned him: the efficiency of each department combining for the efficiency of the whole. His officers were answerable to him personally for that; they had full powers to organize and work their separate departments as they thought fit; so long as they produced efficiency it was his policy never to interfere. Sometimes he himself would recommend men to them; but if they said they did not want them, he would at once reply, “Very well, then; do not have them.”
But, I said, the recommendation this time came from the King himself, and so, apart from questions of obedience, it must also be part of a Dewan’s policy, in governing a State which was a monarchy, to see to it that the King’s wishes were upheld and his promises fulfilled. But he denied this with amusement. His Highness, he said, had given him the power to run the State as he wished, so long as he reported on everything he did, and these orders he faithfully and loyally carried out. For nine years now he had been Dewan, and not even His Highness knew more about the administration of the State and its difficulties than he did; no man now could show him his business, and so he took orders from no man. If His Highness was displeased with him he could always get a new Dewan; b
ut this would not occur. Once he had resigned his office, but he had been recalled almost immediately; he was indispensable to His Highness. But where would the State be now if he had listened to His Highness’s recommendations? Dozens of times a day men came to him with promises from His Highness; but all he said to them was, “My good boy—go avay.”
“Then,” I said, “the upshot of all this is, that His Highness’s promises and my patronage are not only to prove of no benefit to Abdul, but will, if persisted in, cause his ruin?”
With this the Dewan imperturbably agreed.
But things could hardly be worse for Abdul than they were at present, I said; for even without his increment he seemed already to have forfeited the goodwill of his officer and was being persecuted by him. But the Dewan denied this; naturally his officer was displeased with Abdul for going behind his back, but this would soon be forgotten—unless the increment were granted.
I listened to him with amazement, astonished by the audacity, the cleverness of all this, with its flavor of insolence. Accustomed as I was to my unique, dignified position as “The Sahib,” it was quite the last reception I had expected, and I began to understand something of Abdul’s fear, Babaji Rao’s admiration, and the Political Agent’s dislike for this man, and why I had been practically ignored by him. Like all Europeans, I had been expected to interfere; I had interfered, and there was a feeling of personal animosity behind the Dewan’s words for which I was sorry, since I did not wish to make enemies.
He went on to say that though he himself had sometimes been tempted to make favorites of people, it was a thing he had never practiced; but I asked him to believe that neither had I been actuated by quite that feeling, and that I did not care for Abdul more than for any one else I had met in the State. I had only put myself in his position. He had quite reasonably looked upon me as a unique opportunity of securing benefits for himself, and I had allowed myself to be used by him. I was very sorry, I said, that I had done so; but it was the kind of error of judgment that most of us committed at some time or other in our lives, causing annoyance and unhappiness to other people and often to ourselves. Once one was involved it was difficult to withdraw. Just as Abdul had tried to make the most of me, I might exploit His Highness, I said, on the strength of the relationship between us, and perhaps would be considered a fool for not doing so. But I had not undertaken Abdul’s cause quite stupidly; if I had thought him a fool I should never have interfered; but he seemed to me to be an industrious and able man, poorly paid, and worthy of a rise. Apart, therefore, from promises and petitions, could not his officer quite honestly, without feeling himself under pressure or in any awkward position, raise Abdul’s salary, on account of industry and merit, if not to twenty rupees, at any rate by so much as he thought fit?
But the Dewan would not budge. Abdul was not worth a rise in salary, he said; but he would nevertheless instruct the officer to raise it if that were my wish.
I got up to go. I had been with him for an hour and a half, and it seemed clear that I might stay with him for the rest of my life without getting any further. I said I was sorry, but the matter had better be left where it was, and could I come one day to take his photo with my borrowed camera?
The effect of this request was quite remarkable. From being intractable, politely dictatorial, and rather unfriendly, he became suddenly bashful and shy, and began simpering and smoothing his belly.
“Very pleased. Thank you, thank you; yes, any time; thank you.”
And a little later on Babaji Rao came up to see me in my house, and brought word from the Dewan that he had thought the matter over and was prepared to raise Abdul’s salary (on account of merit) by three rupees with his blessing, but that any greater increment would be given without his blessing.
His Highness has been informed that there is plague in Gaya; which is a great misfortune, for it may mean another postponement of his pilgrimage. He has sent a messenger to find out the extent and gravity of the outbreak. Meanwhile his sore throat is better. But Babaji Rao, when he brought me this news with the Dewan’s message, rubbed his forehead a little impatiently; there is always a slight outbreak of plague in Gaya at this time of year, he said, but His Highness’s itinerary will not take him near the infected area.
MARCH 14TH
Narayan spent most of yesterday evening with me, and gave me betel to chew. He carries it with him, wrapped up in a piece of muslin, in a metal snuff-box. I chewed betel a good deal while I was away, accepting it from the various merchants in Benares, Agra, and Delhi from whom I bought things, and soon came to like it.
I asked Narayan which God in the Hindoo pantheon he worshipped, and he named Krishna, the dark hero-god.
He is the most popular of the Hindoo gods, he said, though all the others also have their adherents. I asked him how and when he worshipped, and he said that at twelve o’clock, before taking his food, he poured oblations of rice, sandal, and dhal (pulse) before an image of Krishna which he had in his house.
“What are the prayers that you pray?” I asked.
“Poetry,” he said.
“And do you make special requests of him?”
“Yes, for a better brain and a healthy body.”
Later on Sharma came up the hill to seek him, and we induced the boy to come and sit with us in my house. He seemed very nervous and kept his eyes fixed upon his friend.
I said it was a pity that they did not eat European food, for we might all have had dinner together, but Narayan said that as a matter of fact Sharma ate and drank in secret all manner of forbidden things, such as meat and eggs, cake, crystallized fruit, and invalid port. He would never admit to this, of course, but it was true nevertheless.
“He is a fool-boy!” he observed, expressing his disgust at the thought. But then all low-caste Hindoos were the same, he said; they ate meat or anything else they could get hold of—all of them, and he dismissed equally, with a contemptuous sweep of the hand, his friend beside him, the beautiful Sharma, favorite of the King, and the rude peasant workmen who were building the garage outside.
Sharma had no idea, of course, what was being said about him. They both came and sat with me while I ate my dinner, and though I tempted Sharma with chocolate and crystallized fruits, much to the amusement of Narayan and Hashim, he refused to accept them. After dinner the carriage came to take me to the Palace, and both the boys drove down with me into the city.
“What is sin?” His Highness greeted me with as I entered the enclosure and bowed to him. I wasn’t very good at this, not understanding what lay behind the question, and produced some excessively dull observations on transgression of the principles of Christian morality which must have bored him considerably.
“Why, anyway?” I asked, suddenly realizing that life was beginning to sag and that it was my fault.
“It is this tour of mine,” he said. “I have had such a day! They say that if I do not go it will be a sin.”
“Who say?” I asked.
“My priests—and Babaji Rao.”
“But I thought there was plague in Gaya?”
“I think so, too,” he said, popping a betel-leaf into his mouth; “but my messenger cannot get definite information.”
“Well,” I said, “since you have good health and good weather and a gay fair at Garha and a desire to enjoy it and good friends to enjoy it with, I think it will be a sin if you do go on your pilgrimage to Gaya.”
This was much more the kind of thing he was wanting, and with his arms clasped round his knees, he began to rock on his rump. Such a queer, unearthly little figure he looked, bareheaded and wrapped in a dark-red toga, rocking on his rump in the moonlight.
“All day long,” he said, “it has been a struggle between my conscience and my inclination. But I must go.”
There had been a kind of conference held during the day, he told me, to decide finally whether the pilgrimage was to be undertaken or not, for if it were undertaken, the rituals, the shaving and purifications, would hav
e to be begun by midday to-morrow, and from that moment there would be no getting out of it. The conference had decided nothing; but it had been very exhausting. The priests had quite rent him, he said, when he had shown a mild disposition to waver. They had been unanimous in their displeasure, and as for Babaji Rao—Babaji had been formidable. Chiefly moved, I expect, by acute nervousness at the idea of having to cancel at the last moment, for the second time in one month, all his arrangements for special rail-transport and accommodation, he had quite domineered over the little man, lecturing him on duty, expatiating on sin and eternal punishment (which had not impressed him much), and rebuking him for an infirmity of purpose which would bring down ridicule and contempt upon them both.
This last warning had certainly had its effect; but on top of it had come the Dewan, practical, skeptical, and scornful, who had told the King to do just as he wished, and not to take the least notice of any of them.
“They are all mad!” he had cried, waving a contemptuous hand at the opposition; “and as for Babaji Rao—he is the maddest of them all!”
His Highness wheezed with husky laughter as he repeated it to me; and so, he said, suddenly grave again, the conflict had continued all day—and I could very well picture his small thin figure sitting, crumpled but alert, in the midst of them, chewing betel and expressing, every now and then, a feeble determination to do his duty whilst egging on the Dewan with the same breath.
“But of course I must go,” he remarked, as though the whole city were bent on hindering him, and expectorated a bright-red stream into the spittoon beneath him.
I didn’t understand the reason for the resignation in his words, for there was none in his voice, and made my second mistake that evening. I urged him again to postpone.
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