STORY -02
Semari and Belari, which lie five miles apart, are two villages in a district of Oudh. Hori lived in Belari and Rai Saheb Amarpal Singh in Semari. During the last Satyagraha Movement the Rai Saheb had resigned his membership of the Legislative Council and courted imprisonment. Since then his stock had risen among the tenants. Not that the tenants on his estate were shown any liberality or spared the rigours of forced labour. The ignominy of such harsh treatment was laid at the door of his agents and did not, in any way, tarnish the fair name of the Rai Saheb. Wasn't he himself the slave of circumstances?
The goodness of heart of the Rai Saheb was not supposed to deflect the routine of life from flowing through the regulated channels; life must proceed in the approved way. Therefore, though his authority and income had not suffered his prestige had rocketed. Was it not enough that he spoke kindly to his tenants? The lion must hunt. If instead of roaring and showing fangs the lion talked sweetly getting his prey would become the simplest of work.
In spite of being a Nationalist the Rai Saheb had kept up social intercourse with officials; customary presents were made to them and fixed annuities provided to petty government servants. He loved literature and music and was fond of the theatre; he was a fluent speaker, a forceful writer and an excellent shot. His wife had died ten years ago. But he decided to remain single. These diversions helped him to forget the tedium of a sad life.
When Hori arrived, preparations for celebrating the Dussehra were in full swing. At one place the stage was coming up and at others a pavilion, a guest house and thatched stalls for shops. Careless of the scorching heat the Rai Saheb himself supervised the arrangements. Along with the paternal property he had also inherited the devotion to Rama which every year found expression in a religious tableau and, incidentally, provided some entertainment. On this occasion invitations went to a large circle of friends and officials. For a day or two the place put on a gay face and hummed with life. The Rai Saheb had a large family: many uncles and brothers, scores of cousins and crowds of distant relatives. One uncle, a great devotee of Radha, lived permanently at Brindaban. He had a taste for composing devotional poems, getting them printed every now and then and distributed free among friends. Another uncle was a votary of Rama and was engaged at present in translating the Ramayana into Persian. The Estate had fixed stipends for each of them; the necessity of earning a livelihood did not exist.
Suddenly the Rai Saheb saw Hori. "So you have come, Hori," he said, "I was on the point of sending for you. This time you will play the gardener of King Janak. You see what I mean? You will stand with a bouquet and when Queen Janaki comes to the temple for prayer you will offer her the bouquet. Come with me to the kothi. I want a word with you."
Hori followed him. The Rai Saheb sat down on a chair under the thick shade of a tree and indicating Hori to sit down by his side on the ground, said, "I require Rs. 20,000. But I don't know how to go about it. You are of course wondering why the master is telling you all this. You find it funny, But what I can't stand is the laughter of my squads: it is full of jealously and sarcasm. Why not? I find plenty to laugh at when they are hard up. Hori, riches and fellow-feeling never go hand in hand. We give in charity, of course; but only to outshine our equals. Our benevolence smacks of vanity. If one of us is served with a decree or ejectment order or jailed for not paying revenue, all of us have a good laugh at his expense. If someone's son dies a premature death or is taken in by a prostitute or a widowed daughter elopes, all of us find cause for fun. The amusing thing about it is that outwardly we pose as though we are prepared to shed our last drop of blood for one another. What beats me is that even my own cousins who are having the time of their lives at the expense of my estate feel jealous of me. If I die today they'll tumble over in joy. They think I am immune to unhappiness. If I cry, it is to mock at sorrow. If I fall ill, it is because I find comfort in sickness! If I don't marry, I am selfish. If I do, I am carnal. If I don't drink, I am a miser; if I do, I drink the blood of my people. I get it in the neck both ways. They want me to turn a blind eye to everything so that they can strip me to my bones. I don't think they would like me to be any better than a moron."
The Rai Saheb stuffed two betel leaves into his mouth and looked intently at Hori's face as if he wanted to read his mind.
Hori gathered courage and said, "I knew such things were true of poor people like us. Little did I know they touched the rich too."
The Rai Saheb said, "Don't go by the look of things. Our names are big. But our deeds are small. The poor are selfish and spiteful; this is out of an instinct for self-preservation. I consider such self-interest excusable. If any one snatches your bread from you, you will of course do him in and force it out of his throat. But a Zamindar's animosity and jealously are for pleasure. We have become so big that deceit is now the salt of our lives. In fact, we have reached that stage of divinity where the other man's tears only arouse our mirth.
"You know how it is, Hori! In a large family like mine some one or the other is always falling ill. But we are not expected to suffer from ordinary illness. If there is a slight temperature we are treated for pneumonia; a pimple is always a carbuncle. Frenzied telegrams are sent to the assistant surgeon, the surgeon and the chief surgeon. Messengers rush to Delhi and Calcutta to bring hakims and vaids. In the family shrine Durga is invoked. The astrologers get busy on horoscopes. There is a tremendous to-do to save the patient from the jaws of death. On the slightest sign of indisposition the doctors get ready to shake the pagoda tree. Mind you, all this money is squeezed by the Zamindar from the peasants. I wonder why the sighs of the poor people do not reduce us to ashes. For all I know, we are gradually turning into ashes.
"To shield ourselves against trouble we solicit the help of the officials, the lawyers and the court. Like an attractive woman in trouble, we are no better than playthings in their hands. The world thinks we are happy; we own lands, palace, carriages, scores of servants to wait on us and concubines for our diversion. But I believe firmly that a person without self-respect and spiritual strength is not fit to be called a man. A person who cannot sleep peacefully for fear of the enemy, who licks the shoes of the officials and sucks the blood of his people cannot be called happy. When the British Officer comes out on tour or on a hunt I follow him like a shadow; a frown from him and I freeze to death. To what length I go to make him happy. If it comes to that, I don't even hesitate to prostrate myself before him. Indolence has crippled us; we have no confidence left in our perseverance. We fawn at the officers to win their favour; to oppress our people with the help of the officers is now our only aim in life. The flattery of toadies has made us so arrogant that the sense of tolerance, modesty and service, has died out in our hearts. Sometimes I think the government will be actually doing us a favour if it deprives us of our lands. If the signs of the time are any indication, our class is finished.
"I am ready for that day. It will be a day of redemption. We are the victims of circumstances, and as long as we are shackled with property we shall not be able to lead a life of dignity."
The Rai Saheb took out a few more betel leaves and stuffed them in his mouth. He was about to proceed with his talk when a chaprassi came with the news that the tenants who had been put on forced labour had refused to work. They were insisting upon being fed. When the chaprassi threatened them they struck work.
The Rai Saheb's forehead furrowed with rage. "Come, I'll set the rascals right. They were not served with food, in the past. What right have they to demand it now? They were paid an anna a day; not a pice more will they get now. Work they shall, whether they like it or not."
He turned to Hori. "You may go now. But remember what I said. I expect a collection of Rs. 500/- from your village."
The Rai Saheb left in a huff. Hori noticed the quick change in the Rai Saheb's attitude. All along he had been waxing eloquent on duty and goodness but it did not take him a minute to flare up at the chaprassi's news!
The sun was right overhead when Hori left. The heat ran shimmering through curled sleepy leaves; the sky-line shivered in the haze of the afternoon.
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