by Premchand
Mulia was panting and said, ‘I’ve wanted to meet you for many days. When I saw you coming, I ran. I don’t go to sell grass these days.’
Chain Singh said, ‘That’s good.’
‘Have you ever seen me selling grass?’
‘Yes, I saw you one day. Has Mahaveer told you everything? I asked him not to.’
‘He never hides anything from me.’
They stood quietly for a second. Neither knew what to say. Suddenly, Mulia said with a smile, ‘This is where you held my hand.’
Chain Singh said in embarrassment, ‘Forget about that, Mula. God knows what devil had possessed me.’
Mulia said in a faltering voice, ‘Why should I forget about it? You’re still fulfilling the obligation you took on by seizing my arm. Poverty makes people do what it will. You have saved me.’
They both fell silent again. After a little while Mulia said, ‘You must have thought that I was oblivious to all that laughter and talk?’
Chain Singh said forcefully, ‘No, Mulia, I didn’t think that for even a moment.’
Mulia said with a smile, ‘This is what I expected from you. And still expect.’
The air was coming down to rest on the furrowed fields, the sun was slipping away silently into the lap of the night, and in that dim light Chain Singh stood watching Mulia’s figure slowly fade into the darkness.
Translated from the Hindi by Ranjeeta Dutta and Anjum Hasan
The Mantra
1
There was magic in Pandit Leeladhar Choubey’s words. Whenever he stood on a podium and showered the nectar of his voice on the audience, the souls of all those who listened were satiated and charmed, almost as if they had been intoxicated. Choubeyji’s speeches carried little substance and even the wordplay was not very beautiful. Its effect, however, was not dulled even by repetition. On the contrary, it became more effective upon repetition, like the blows of a hammer. I do not believe this, but those who listen to him claim that he has memorized just one speech and repeats it verbatim in every assembly, though in a different style. Praising the Hindu community was the prime characteristic of his speeches. The moment he ascended a podium, he charmed everybody by his encomiums to the glory of ancient India and to the immortal fame of the ancestors. For instance:
‘Good people! Whose eyes will not overflow with tears after listening to the tale of our utter degradation? When we remember our ancient glory, it becomes doubtful if we are the same people or we have changed. One who could formerly challenge a lion to a duel now searches for a rat hole when he sees a mouse. There must be a limit to this decline. Why look far off when we can talk about Emperor Chandragupta’s reign? A famous Greek historian records that in that age, doors were never locked here, thefts were unheard of, there was no promiscuity, documents had not been invented, lakhs were exchanged on mere chits, and judges passed their time swatting flies! Good people! In those days, no man died young. (Applause) I repeat, in those days, no man died young. A son passing away before his father was an unprecedented—in fact, impossible—event. In this age, how many such parents can be found whose hearts have not been blighted by the demise of a youthful son? It is not the same India any more. India has come undone.’
Such was Choubeyji’s style. He kindled people’s nationalistic pride by lamenting the present fallen and pitiable condition, and singing paeans to the prosperity and glory of the past. It was for this accomplishment that he was counted as one among the leaders. In particular, he was considered the flag-bearer of the Hindu Sabha. Among the Sabha’s followers, there was none as enthusiastic, as competent or as diplomatic. It can be said that he had devoted his life to the Sabha’s cause. Surely, he was not wealthy. At least this is what people believed, but he did have the invaluable gems of courage, patience and wisdom, and all this had been dedicated to the Sabha. In fact, he was the life of the shuddhi movement. He believed that the rise and fall, and the life and death of Hindu society was predicated on this very question. There could not be a way other than shuddhi for the resurgence of Hindus. The panacea for the moral, physical, psychological, social, economic and religious ills of the community was dependent on the success of this very movement, and his body and mind were both industriously engaged in it. He was especially competent at collecting donations. God had granted him that special knowledge by which even stones could be turned pliable. His dealings with misers were like the strokes of a blunt knife—the gentlemen learnt a lesson they’d never forget! In this matter, he employed all kinds of persuasion, enticement, punishment and deceit. So much so that he even considered robbery and theft to be forgivable, if undertaken in the interest of the nation.
2
It was the summer season and Panditji was making preparations for a sojourn in a cool, hilly region. It would be an outing, and if the opportunity arose, he could collect some donations too. Whenever he desired a tour, he would set out with a group of friends as a deputation. Who loses anything if out of a collection of one thousand rupees, half was spent on his tours? By this arrangement, the Hindu Sabha also received some money. None would be collected but for his efforts! This time around, Panditji decided to take his family along. His financial condition, which was hitherto a cause for concern, had become quite stable since the emergence of the shuddhi movement.
How can the devotees of community welfare have the good fortune of experiencing the pleasure of living in peace? In fact, they were born to wander around aimlessly. There was word about the Tablighis wreaking havoc in the Madras province. Village after village of Hindus was embracing Islam. The maulvis were promoting the Tablighi movement with great fervour. If the Hindu Sabha did nothing to stop this current, the entire province would be emptied of Hindus. It would be impossible to spot a single Hindu!
All hell broke loose in the Hindu Sabha. Immediately, a special session was convened and the problem was presented before the leaders. After much deliberation, it was decided that Choubeyji must be entrusted with this responsibility. He must be requested to proceed to Madras at once and rescue the converted brothers.
It only needed to be said once. Choubeyji, who had anyway dedicated himself to the service of the Hindu community, gave up the idea of a mountain tour and agreed to visit Madras. With tears in his eyes, the Hindu Sabha minister requested him, ‘Sir, you alone can shoulder this responsibility. God has granted these powers to you alone. There is no man in this great India, except you, who can be of help during such a calamity. Have pity on the fallen condition of the community.’ Choubeyji could not decline this prayer. A group of volunteers was promptly constituted and it set out under Panditji’s leadership. A grand farewell feast was given in his honour, a charitable rich man presented him with a purse, and thousands gathered at the railway station to bid him farewell.
Writing an account of the journey is not required. At every major station on the way, the volunteers were welcomed with honour. At many places, purses were presented. The Ratlam principality gifted an awning. A motor car was given by the Baroda principality so that volunteers would not have to suffer walking on foot. By the time they reached Madras, the volunteers’ group had collected many other useful things, apart from a substantial sum.
In Madras, the Hindu Sabha camped in an open ground far from habitation. The national flag was raised above the camp. The volunteers put on their uniforms, local wealthy tycoons sent provisions for a feast and tents were pitched. The hustle-bustle was such that it seemed as if a king were camping there.
3
It was eight o’clock at night. Close to a settlement of untouchables, the camp of the volunteers was glittering under the gaslights. Many thousands had gathered, amongst whom most were untouchables. Separate burlap seating was laid out for them. The Hindus of higher castes were seated on carpets. Pandit Leeladhar’s invigorating lecture was on. ‘You are the children of the same seers who could create a new world beneath the heavens! The very same to whose justice, wisdom and intellect the entire world bows today.’ Suddenly, an old u
ntouchable man rose and questioned, ‘Are we too children of the same seers?’
Leeladhar replied, ‘Without doubt! The blood coursing through your veins is of the very same seers, and even though the cruel, hard-hearted, thoughtless and narrow-minded Hindu society of today looks down upon you with disdain, you are not inferior to any Hindu, no matter how superior he might consider himself to be.’
The old man countered, ‘Then why does your Sabha not remember us in its programmes?’
Leeladhar said, ‘The Hindu Sabha was founded just sometime ago, and they can be proud of whatever they have achieved in this short period. The Hindu community has woken up after centuries of slumber, and the time is nigh when, in India, no Hindu will think of another Hindu as inferior, and all will think of all as brothers. Lord Rama had embraced Nishada, who was a tribal, and accepted the half-eaten berries of Shabari, an untouchable—’
The old man countered again, ‘If you are really the children of such great beings, why do you so wholly believe in the separation of the high and the low?’
Leeladhar tried to explain, ‘Because we have fallen. Ignorance has made us forget those great souls.’
The old man continued, ‘So now that your slumber is broken, will you eat with us?’
Leeladhar responded, ‘I have no objection.’
The old man was not done yet, and threw another challenge, ‘Will you have your daughter marry my son?’
Leeladhar, trying to save his face, said, ‘Until you change your birth rituals, until your lifestyle has undergone a transformation, we cannot establish marital relations with you. Give up meat eating, give up alcohol drinking, accept education. Only then can you mingle with high-caste Hindus.’
Finally the old man burst out, ‘We know many such high-born Brahmins who stay inebriated day and night, and do not eat a morsel without meat, and there are many who are also completely illiterate, but I see you dining with them. You will never refuse to have marital relations with them. When you yourself are wallowing in ignorance, how can you uplift us? Even now your heart is full of pride. Go and reform your soul for a few more days. You cannot uplift us even if you try. So long as we are part of the Hindu community, our foreheads will remain stained with the mark of inferiority. However learned we become, however genteel we become, you will think of us as inferior as you do now. The conscience of Hindus has died and arrogance has taken its place! Now we are taking refuge in that god whose followers are ready to embrace us as we are today. They do not demand that we join them by giving up our culture. Whether we are good or evil—they are calling out to us in our present condition. If you are high-born, stay high. We have no need of flying high.’
Leeladhar made a feeble attempt, ‘Such words from a child of the seers astonish me. It was the seers who separated the varnas. How can you erase that?’
The old man fired the last salvo, ‘Don’t heap ignominy on the seers. All this false ritualism was invented by you people. You accuse us of drinking alcohol but you prostrate yourself before drunkards. You cringe from us because we eat meat, but you supplicate yourself before beef eaters. Only because they are more powerful than you! Today if we were to become kings, you would stand before us with folded hands. In your religion, the powerful are superior, and the powerless inferior. Is this your religion?’
Having said this, the old man left the gathering and many other people followed him. Only Choubeyji and some members of his group were left on the stage, like a recital’s echo hanging in the air long after the performance has concluded.
4
When the Tablighis heard of Choubeyji’s arrival, they were worried, anxious and determined to keep him away from the people. Choubeyji’s name was known far and wide. The Tablighis knew that if he persisted there, all their own efforts would become futile. He should not be allowed to plant his feet there. The maulvis started thinking of a solution. After much debate, fuss and argument, it was decided that this kafir had to be assassinated. There was no shortage of men eager to earn such merit. The gates of paradise would open for such a man, the virgins of paradise would bless him, the angels would collect the dust of his feet as kohl, the Prophet will bless him with prosperity, and the godly would embrace him, calling him their dear friend. Two strong young men promptly assumed the responsibility.
It was past ten o’clock in the night. Silence spread across the Hindu Sabha camp. Only Choubeyji was awake in his tent, writing a letter to the minister of the Hindu Sabha. ‘The greatest requirement here is that of money. Money! Money! Money! Send as much as you can. Send out deputations for collections, dig into the pockets of rich moneylenders, or beg. The unfortunate here cannot be uplifted without money. Unless a school is opened, a hospital is established, or there is a library, how will they believe that the Hindu Sabha is concerned about their welfare? If I can manage even half of what the Tablighis are spending, the standard of Hindu religion will fly high. Just speeches will not do the trick. Only blessings are not enough for survival.’
Suddenly he heard someone’s footsteps and was startled. Raising his eyes, he saw two men standing there. Suspicious of them, Panditji inquired, ‘Who are you? Why have you come here?’ The response came, ‘We are angels of Israel. We have come to capture your soul. Israel has summoned you.’
Panditji, who was otherwise a very strong man, could have pushed them to the ground with just one shove. In the morning, his breakfast comprised three quarters of semolina pudding and two litres of milk. For lunch he laced his dal with a quarter measure of ghee, and in the evening, he consumed hemp with milk, mixed with a ser of cream and half a ser of almonds. Then he ate a heavy dinner because after that he would not eat anything till morning. The crowning glory was that he never walked even one step! What pleasure if a palanquin could be arranged! It would feel as if his bed was flying through the air. If nothing, at least the buggy was there, although there were very few buggy drivers in Kashi who, when they saw Choubeyji, did not declare, ‘The buggy is already hired.’ In a wrestling mud pit, such a man could tire out an opponent just by lying flat on the ground and not moving at all. On occasions that required agility and swiftness, he proved to be a turtle out for a walk in the sand.
Panditji spied the door from the corner of his eye. There was no opportunity to escape. This infused some courage into him, courage which comes when the threshold of fear is breached. He reached for his cane and thundered, ‘Get out of here!’
An attack of canes began even before he could complete his words. Panditji fell down unconscious. His enemies approached him for inspection and, finding no sign of life, took the mission to be accomplished. They had not planned to loot the place but what harm was there in reaching out for things when there was no one to question it? Whatever they could find, they gathered, and set off.
5
In the morning, when the old untouchable man strolled past the camp, there was absolute silence there. Not a soul could be seen! Even the tents had vanished! He wondered what the matter was. Everything had disappeared overnight, just like Aladdin’s castles. Not even one of those who’d feasted on semolina pudding in the morning and churned hemp in the evening could be seen. As he went closer and peeped into Pandit Leeladhar’s tent, his heart seemed to stop beating! Like a corpse, Panditji was lying on the ground. Flies buzzed around his mouth and blood had clotted in his hair like the colours of a painter’s brush. His clothes too were soaked with blood. He understood that Panditji’s companions had killed him and gone their own way. Suddenly, a cry of agony escaped Panditji mouth. The old man thought, ‘There is still some life left.’ The old man ran back to his village and gathered some men to carry Panditji to his own house.
Then began the dressing and nursing. The old man sat next to Panditji all day and night. His family members too busied themselves with serving Panditji and the villagers extended help in whatever capacity they could. They would argue, ‘Which dear one of his is here? Familiar or stranger, we are the only ones. He came here to uplift us, otherwise what rea
son did he have to come here?’ Panditji had taken ill many times at home too, but his family had not nursed him with such dedication. The whole family of the old man . . . in fact the whole village had devoted itself to Panditji’s service. Selfishness that comes with civilization had not yet strangled the feeling of serving guests as if it was a religious duty. Even today the rustic shaman hurries and covers five or ten miles on foot to cure snakebites, even on a dark, overcast winter night. He does not double his fee or demand a ride. The old man even cleaned Panditji’s natural waste, ignored his reprimands, and begged the entire village for milk for Panditji. And he did all this without ever complaining about it. If his family neglected Panditji while he was away, he would scold everybody when he returned.
Panditji recuperated after a month and it was only then that he came to know the extent of their beneficence. He realized, ‘It was these people’s efforts that saved me from the jaws of death, otherwise was I not already dead? The people whom I considered lowly and whose uplift I took up as my responsibility are far greater than me. In a situation like this I would have just sent the patient to a hospital and prided myself on my dutifulness, and would have believed that I had brought glory to ancestors like Dadhichi and Harishchandra.’ Every hair on his body blessed these godlike people.
6
Three months passed in this manner. Neither the Hindu Sabha nor Panditji’s family sought any news of him. The Sabha mouthpiece shed tears on his death and praised his work. A fund was instituted to collect money for building a memorial to him. His own family gave up the matter after some mourning.
