Chapter 13

Gobar rose while it was still dark and asked Kodai's leave. Everyone had come to know that his marriage had already taken place, and so no one had any talk of marriage with him. His gentle nature had charmed the whole household. To Kodai's mother he had, in such sweet words and while guarding her place as a mother, given such counsel that, well pleased, she had given him her blessing. "You are great, mother, you are worthy of worship. A son, even if he take a hundred births, cannot discharge his debt to his mother; even if he take a hundred thousand births, he cannot discharge it. Even taking a crore of births, he cannot..."

The old woman was overcome with emotion at this countless reverence. After this, whatever Gobar said, the old woman saw only her own good in it. Once a physician restores a patient to health, the patient will then gladly drink poison too from his hand. Now, just as today the daughter-in-law had gone off in a huff from the house — whose dishonour was it? Who knows the daughter-in-law? Whose daughter she is, whose granddaughter she is, who knows? It is possible her father was no more than a grass-cutter...

The old woman said with conviction, "A grass-cutter he is indeed, son, an out-and-out grass-cutter. See his face in the morning, and you will not get water all day."

Gobar said, "Then what mockery can there be of such a man? The mockery is of you and your husband. Whoever asked, asked only this: whose daughter-in-law is she? Then, she is still a girl, untaught, unbroken in. She is the daughter of low parents — from where is she to become good! You will have to teach the name of Ram to an old parrot. By beating she will not learn; she can be taught only by simple affection. Give chastisement too, but do not exchange words with her. Nothing of hers is spoiled — it is you who are insulted."

When Gobar was about to set off, the old woman gave him unrefined sugar and parched-grain flour mixed together to eat. Several other men of the village were going to the city in search of work for hire. The road was cut short in conversation, and by the time it struck nine, all the men had arrived at the Aminabad market. Gobar was astonished — where had so many men come from in the city? Man upon man tumbled over one another.

That day there were no fewer than four or five hundred labourers in the market. Masons and carpenters and blacksmiths and diggers and cot-weavers and basket-carriers and stone-cutters — all were gathered. Gobar grew despondent seeing this throng. Where would work be found for so many labourers? And he had no tool in his hand either. How would anyone know what work he could do? Why would anyone hire him? Without a tool, who would ask after him?

Slowly, one by one, the labourers were getting work. Some, despondent, were returning home. Most of those left over were the old and the useless, after whom no one inquired. And among them was Gobar. But at least for today he had something to eat. No matter.

Suddenly Mirza Khurshed came into the midst of the labourers and said in a loud voice, "Whoever wishes to work at six annas a day, let him come with me. Everyone will get six annas. There will be leave at five o'clock."

Apart from ten or five masons and carpenters, all of them got ready to go with him. A vast army of four hundred ragged men was arrayed. In front was Mirza, a thick staff on his shoulder. Behind was a long line of starvelings, like sheep.

An old man asked Mirza, "What work is to be done, master?"

When Mirza told them the work, they were all the more astonished. Only to play kabaddi! What kind of man is this, who is giving six annas a day to play kabaddi? Is he some sort of crank? On getting much wealth a man does become a crank. By reading too much also men go mad. Some began to feel a doubt — could this be some jest? If he takes us home from here and says, there is no work, then who can do anything to him! Let him play kabaddi, or blind-man's-buff, or gulli-danda — let him give the wage in advance. What trust can be placed in such a crank!

Gobar said with timidity, "Master, we have nothing to eat. If I get some money, I will buy and eat something."

Mirza promptly placed six annas in his hand and called out, "The wage will be given to everyone in advance as we go. Have no worry of that."

Mirza Sahib had taken a little plot of land outside the city. When the labourers went and looked, there was a large compound walled in, and inside it only one small thatched hut, in which there were three or four chairs, a table. A few books lay on the table. The hut, covered with creepers and vines, looked very pretty. In one part of the compound were planted mango and lemon and guava saplings, in another some flowers. The greater part was barren. Mirza stood them all in a line and distributed the wages first of all. Now no one had any doubt of his madness.

Gobar had already received his money; Mirza called him and assigned him the work of watering the saplings. He would not get to play kabaddi. He fretted inwardly. He would have lifted these old men up and slammed them down — but no matter. He had played plenty of kabaddi already. He had got his full wage.

Today, after long ages, these aged ones got the good fortune of playing kabaddi. Most were such that they could not even remember whether they had ever played kabaddi or not. All day they ground themselves down in the city. They reached home a quarter of the night gone, and ate whatever dry stuff they got and lay down. At dawn the same spinning-wheel began again. Life had become joyless, dreary, a mere rut. Today they got this one chance, and even the old men became young. Half-dead old men, mere skeletons, with no tooth in the mouth nor gut in the belly, hitching their dhotis or loincloths up above their thighs, slapping their thighs and leaping, as though youth had thrust itself into those old bones. In a trice the playing-court was made, two captains were chosen. The choosing of teams began, and by the time it struck twelve, the game had begun. The cool winter sun is the ideal season for such sport.

At the gate of the compound, meanwhile, Mirza Sahib was distributing tickets to the spectators. Some crank or other was always mounted on him in this fashion. To take money from the rich and distribute it among the poor. This old men's kabaddi had been advertised for several days. Great big posters had been pasted up, notices distributed. This game would be unique of its kind, wholly unprecedented. Whoever wished to see how sturdy India's old men still are, let him come and feast his eyes. Whoever did not see this spectacle would repent. Such a fine opportunity would not come again. The tickets ranged from ten rupees down to two annas. By the time it struck three, the whole compound was full. There was an unbroken line of motorcars and carriages. The crowd was no fewer than two thousand. For the gentry there was an arrangement of chairs and benches. For the common folk, clean swept ground.

Miss Malti, Mehta, Khanna, Tankha, and Rai Sahib were all seated.

When the game began, Mirza said to Mehta, "Come, Doctor Sahib, let us make a pair, you and I."

Miss Malti said, "A philosopher can only be matched with a philosopher."

Mirza, twisting his moustache, said, "So do you think I am not a philosopher? I have no pigtail trailing behind, but a philosopher I am — you may test me, Mehta-ji!"

Malti asked, "Well, tell me — are you an idealist or a materialist?"

"I am both."

"How is that?"

"Very well indeed. Whenever I saw the occasion such, I became such."

"Then you have no conviction of your own."

"The thing about which conviction has never to this day been reached, and never will be — how can I, pray, reach a conviction about that? And the conclusion at which others have arrived by ruining their eyes and devouring books, there I have arrived just like that. Can you tell me — has any philosopher ever done anything but exercise his wits in playing mind-games?"

Doctor Mehta said, undoing the buttons of his coat, "Then come, let us make our pair. Whether anyone else allows it or not, I count you a philosopher."

Mirza asked Khanna, "Shall I fix up a pair for you too?"

Malti egged him on. "Yes, yes, do take him along — with Mr Tankha."

Khanna said with embarrassment, "No, sir, excuse me."

Mirza asked Rai Sahib, "Shall I bring a pair for you?"

Rai Sahib said, "My pair is Onkarnath, but he does not seem to be in sight today."

Mirza and Mehta too, bare-bodied, wearing only loincloths, came onto the field. One on this side, the other on that. The game began.

The crowd laughed at the old men's antics, clapped, jeered, called out challenges, laid wagers. Splendid! Just look at this old grandfather! With what grandeur he is going, as though he will return only after killing everyone. Good — from the other side too his elder brother has come out. How the two of them are shifting their stances! There is plenty of life still in these bones, brother. As much ghee as these people have eaten, even water is now not within our reach. People say India is growing rich. Maybe it is. We only see that young men with the spirit of these old fellows will scarcely come forth today. There — that old man on the other side has caught this one in his grip. The poor wretch, how he is straining to break free — but now you cannot go, my boy. Three have clung onto one. In this way people were showing their interest, all their attention turned toward the field. They were absorbed in the players' blows and counter-blows, leaps and bounds, catches and grips, and their dying and surviving. Now from all sides peals of laughter would burst, now, seeing some injustice or foul play, people would raise an uproar of "Let go, let go." Some, growing heated, ran toward the playing-court — but the few gentlemen who, having taken higher-class tickets, sat in the canopied pavilion, were getting no special pleasure in this game. They were discussing matters of greater importance.

Khanna emptied his glass of ginger, lit a cigar, and said to Rai Sahib, "I have told you — the bank will in no way agree to less interest than this, and even this concession I have made for your sake, because with you it is a home matter."

Rai Sahib, wrapping a smile into his moustache, said, "In your policy, the people of one's home should be slaughtered with the blunt knife?"

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying it rightly. From Suryapratap Singh you took only seven per cent, from me you ask nine per cent, and on top of that you place an obligation — why not!"

Khanna burst out laughing, as though this remark were fit only to be laughed at.

"On those terms I will take the same interest from you too. We have taken his property in mortgage, and probably this property will not return to his hands again."

"I too will sell off some property of mine. Rather than pay nine per cent, it is far better to part with surplus property. Get my bungalow on Jackson Road sold. You may take a commission."

"That bungalow is rather difficult to sell off conveniently. You know how far that place is from the settlement — but no matter, I will see. What do you estimate its price at?"

Rai Sahib named a hundred and twenty-five thousand. There were fifteen bighas of land with it too. Khanna was struck dumb. He said, "You are dreaming a dream of fifteen years ago, Rai Sahib! You ought to know that the value of properties has lately fallen fifty per cent."

Rai Sahib took offence and said, "No, sir, fifteen years ago its price was a hundred and fifty thousand."

"I will be on the lookout for a purchaser, but my commission from you will be five per cent."

"From others it is probably ten per cent — why? What will you do with so much money?"

"Give whatever you wish. Now then, you have agreed. Have you still not bought the shares of the Sugar company? Now very few shares are left. You will be left rubbing your hands. You did not take out the insurance policy either. You have a bad habit of putting things off. When there is so much putting-off even in matters of your own profit, what profit can others get from people like you! That is why they say, an estate eats up a man's wits. If I had my way I would confiscate the estates of the talukdars."

Mr Tankha was casting his net over Malti. Malti had said plainly that she did not wish to fall into the entanglements of an election, but Tankha was not a man to admit defeat easily. He came and, leaning his elbows on the table, said, "Just reconsider that matter once more. I say, perhaps you will not get such an opportunity again. Rani Sahib Chanda has not a single anna in the rupee of a chance against you. My wish is only this — that such people go into the Council as have gained some experience in life and done some service to the public. A lady who has known nothing but indulgence and luxury, who has always regarded the public as the petrol of her car, whose most valuable service is the parties she gives to governors and secretaries — for her there is no place in this Council. In the new Council much authority will be in the hands of the representatives, and I do not wish that authority to go into the hands of the unworthy."

Malti said, to be rid of him, "But, sir, where have I ten or twenty thousand to spend on an election? Rani Sahib can spend two or four lakhs. From her I get five hundred or a thousand rupees a year too — even that sum would slip from my hands."

"First tell me this — do you wish to go or not?"

"I do wish to go, but if I get a free pass!"

"Then this is my responsibility. You will get a free pass."

"No, sir, excuse me. I do not wish to bear the humiliation of defeat. When Rani Sahib opens her purses of money and a gold coin is heaped upon every single vote, then perhaps you too will vote for her."

"In your opinion an election can be won merely by money?"

"No, sir, the person too is a thing. But what public service have I done apart from going to jail once? And if you ask truly, even that time I went for my own purpose, in the very way Rai Sahib and Khanna went. The basis of this new civilization is wealth. Learning and service and family and caste are all nothing before wealth. Sometimes such occasions arise in history when wealth has to bow its head before a movement, but consider that an exception. I speak of my own self. If some poor woman comes into the clinic, I do not even speak to her for hours. But if some lady has come in a car, I go to the very door to welcome her and worship her as though she were a goddess incarnate. There is no comparison between me and Rani Sahib. For the kind of Councils that are being formed, Rani Sahib is the more suitable."

Out there on the field Mehta's team was growing weaker. More than half the players were already dead. Mehta had never played kabaddi in his life. Mirza was a master of this art. Mehta's holidays were spent in the practice of acting. In putting on a role he could astound the very best. And for Mirza all the interest lay in the arena — that of wrestlers, and that of fairy-maidens too.

Malti's attention was turned that way too. Rising, she said to Rai Sahib, "Mehta's party is being badly beaten."

Rai Sahib and Khanna were talking of insurance. Rai Sahib seemed wearied of that subject. Malti, as it were, freed him from a bond. Rising, he said, "Yes indeed, they are being beaten. Mirza is a seasoned player."

"What is this whim that has struck Mehta? He is making a fool of himself for nothing."

"What folly is there in it? It is only a bit of fun."

"Whoever comes out on Mehta's side, dies straight off."

After a moment she asked, "Is there no half-time in this game?"

Khanna thought of some mischief. He said, "You set out to match yourself against Mirza. You thought this too was philosophy."

"I ask — is there no half-time in this game?"

Khanna teased again. "The game is just about over now. The fun will be when Mirza catches Mehta and grinds him down, and Mehta Sahib cries 'cheen.'"

"I am not asking you. I am asking Rai Sahib."

Rai Sahib said, "Half-time in this game! Only one man comes forward at a time."

"Well, another of Mehta's men has died."

Khanna said, "Keep watching. In this way they will all die, and in the end Mehta Sahib will die too."

Malti flared up. "You did not have the courage to come out, did you."

"I do not play the games of rustics. For me there is tennis."

"In tennis too I have given you hundreds of games."

"When have I ever claimed to win from you?"

"If you do claim it, I am ready."

Malti gave him a rebuke and came back to sit in her place. No one has any sympathy for Mehta. No one says, let the game be ended now. Mehta too is a strange simpleton — why does he not commit some foul play? Here too he is showing his love of justice. When he returns defeated, claps will fall from all sides. Now perhaps twenty more men will be on his side, and how delighted people are.

As the end drew near, people grew impatient and pressed forward toward the playing-court. The rope enclosure that had been made was broken. Volunteers were trying to hold them back, but in the frenzy of that eagerness their efforts availed nothing. So far did it go that the tide reached its final point and Mehta was left alone, and now he would have to play the part of the mute. Now the whole burden was upon him alone — if he escapes and returns to his own court, his side is saved; if not, he must return carrying all the dishonour and shame of defeat. As many men of the opposing side as he touches and returns to his own court, they will all die, and that many men on his side will come back to life. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Mehta. There — Mehta set off. The crowd came from all sides and ringed the court. The absorption was at its height. With what calm Mehta is going toward the foe. His every movement was reflected upon the crowd — someone's neck twisted aside, someone bent forward. The atmosphere grew hot. The mercury had reached the boiling-point. Mehta entered the enemy ranks. The ranks kept retreating. Their formation was so firm that no one was coming within Mehta's grip or touch. Many had hoped that Mehta would at least revive five or ten men of his own side; they were growing despondent.

Suddenly Mirza takes a leap and seizes Mehta round the waist. Mehta is straining to free himself. He is dragging Mirza toward the court. The people grow frenzied. Now it is hard to tell who is a player and who a spectator. All have become jumbled into one. A wrestling-bout is going on between Mirza and Mehta. Several of Mirza's old men sprang at Mehta and clung to him. Mehta lies on the ground in silence; if he could somehow drag himself two arm-lengths further, his fifty men would come back to life — but he cannot budge even an inch. Mirza is sitting on his neck. Mehta's face is turning red. His eyes are like scarlet velvet-mites. Sweat is dripping, and Mirza, with the weight of his bulky body, is pressing down on his back.

Malti drew near and said in an agitated voice, "Mirza Khurshed, this is not fair. Let the game be drawn."

Khurshed gave Mehta's neck a blow and said, "Until he says 'cheen,' I will by no means let go. Why does he not say 'cheen'?"

Malti came forward still further. "You cannot use such force to make him say 'cheen.'"

Mirza, pressing down on Mehta's back, said, "Of course I can. You tell him to say 'cheen,' and I will get off this very instant."

Mehta once again made an effort to rise, but Mirza pressed his neck down.

Malti, catching his hand and trying to drag it, said, "This is not a game, it is enmity."

"Enmity, then, so be it."

"You will not let go?"

That very instant it was as though an earthquake had come. Mirza Sahib lay on the ground, and Mehta was running off toward the court, and thousands of men were flinging up caps and turbans and sticks like madmen. How this turning of the tables had come about, no one could understand.

Mirza lifted Mehta into his arms and carried him to the pavilion. On every face were these words — the Doctor Sahib has carried off the game. And every man was amazed at this lost game being turned about all at once. Everyone was extolling Mehta's pluck and stamina and endurance.

For the labourers, oranges had been ordered in advance. Each was given an orange and sent off. In the pavilion there was an arrangement of tea and refreshments for the guests. Mehta and Mirza sat facing each other at the same table. Malti sat at Mehta's side.

Mehta said, "I had a new experience today. A woman's sympathy can turn defeat into victory."

Mirza looked toward Malti. "Ah! So that was it. No wonder I was puzzled how you suddenly came up on top."

Malti was turning red with shyness. She said, "You are a very ungallant man, Mirza-ji! I learned it today."

"It was his fault. Why did he not say 'cheen'?"

"I would never say 'cheen,' even if you took my very life."

For a while gossip went on among the friends. Then there were speeches of thanks and congratulation, and the guests took their leave. Malti too had to pay a visit. She too went off. Only Mehta and Mirza remained. They had still to bathe. They were caked with mud. How could they put on their clothes? Gobar drew water, and the two friends began to bathe.

Mirza asked, "When is the marriage to be?"

Mehta asked in astonishment, "Whose?"

"Yours."

"My marriage. With whom is it taking place?"

"Come now! You are dodging as though this too were a thing to be hidden."

"No, no, I speak the truth, I have no knowledge of it at all. Is my marriage going to take place?"

"And what do you suppose — that Miss Malti will stay on as your companion?"

Mehta said gravely, "Your idea is quite wrong, Mirza-ji! Miss Malti is beautiful, cheerful, intelligent, enlightened, and she has many other excellences too, but the quality I wish to see in my life-companion is not in her, and probably cannot be. In my mind a woman is the image of fidelity and sacrifice, who, by her speechlessness, by her self-sacrifice, by utterly effacing herself, becomes a part of her husband's soul. The body remains the man's, but the soul becomes the woman's. You will say — why does the man not efface himself? Why does he expect this only of the woman? The man has not that capacity. If he effaces himself, he becomes a void. He will go and sit in some cave and dream of merging into the World-Soul. He is a creature in whom energy is dominant, and in his pride, supposing himself the very embodiment of knowledge, he keeps imagining merging directly into God. Woman, like the earth, is patient, full of peace, forbearing. When the qualities of woman come into a man, he becomes a saint. When the qualities of man come into a woman, she becomes a wanton. A man is drawn toward a woman who is wholly woman. Malti has not yet drawn me. In what words shall I tell you what woman is in my eyes. Whatever is beautiful in the world, that image I call woman. I expect of her that, even if I were to kill her outright, no feeling of vengeance should arise in her. If, before her very eyes, I were to love some other woman, even then no jealousy should awaken in her. Finding such a woman, I would fall at her feet and offer myself up to her."

Mirza shook his head and said, "Such a woman you will scarcely find in this world."

Mehta said, clapping his hand, "Not one but thousands — otherwise the world would lie desolate."

"Give just one such instance."

"Take Mrs Khanna herself."

"But Khanna!"

"Khanna is unfortunate, who, having found a diamond, takes it for a piece of glass. Think how much sacrifice there is, and along with it how much love. In Khanna's beauty-besotted mind there is probably not a grain's worth of room for her, but if today some calamity were to come upon Khanna, she would sacrifice herself for him. If Khanna were today to become blind or a leper, even then there would be no flaw in her fidelity. Khanna is not valuing her now, but you will see, one day this same Khanna will wash her feet and drink the water. I do not want a wife with whom I can argue over Einstein's theory, or who will read the proofs of my writings. I want a woman who will make my life pure and luminous, by her love and her sacrifice."

Khurshed, passing his hand over his beard, said, as if recalling some forgotten matter, "Your idea is very right, Mr Mehta! If such a woman were to be found anywhere, I too would marry — but I do not expect that she will be found."

Mehta said with a laugh, "You keep searching too, I am searching too. Perhaps someday fortune will wake."

"But Miss Malti is not one to let you go. Shall I write it down for you?"

"With such women I can only divert myself, not marry. Marriage is self-surrender."

"If marriage is self-surrender, then what is love?"

"When love takes the form of self-surrender, only then is it marriage; before that it is dalliance."

Mehta put on his clothes and took his leave. Evening had come. Mirza went and saw that Gobar was still watering the trees. Mirza said, well pleased, "Go, you have leave now. Will you come again tomorrow?"

Gobar said piteously, "I want to take service somewhere, master."

"If you want to take service, we will keep you on."

"How much will I get, huzoor?"

"As much as you ask."

"What should I ask? Give whatever you wish."

"We will give you fifteen rupees and will work you hard."

Gobar does not fear hard work. If he gets money, he is ready to work all eight watches. If he gets fifteen rupees, what is there to ask. He would even give his life.

He said, "If I get a small room, I will lie there."

"Yes, yes, I will arrange a place. You may lie in one corner of this very hut."

It was as though Gobar had got heaven.