Chapter 28

To Mr Khanna this strike of the labourers seemed wholly unjustified. He had always tried to stand alongside the common people. He thought of himself as a man of the people. In the recent national movement he had shown great fervour. He had been a leading figure in the district, had gone to jail twice and had borne losses of several thousand rupees. Even now he was prepared to hear the labourers' grievances, but it was hardly possible for him to ignore the interests of the sugar mill's shareholders. He could be prepared to sacrifice his own self-interest, if his loftier sentiments were touched, but to fail to protect the shareholders' interests, that was a breach of duty. This was business, after all, not a charitable kitchen where everything is simply parcelled out among the labourers. The shareholders' money had been raised on the assurance that there was a profit of fifteen or twenty per cent in this enterprise. If they did not even get ten per cent, they would surely regard the directors, and Mr Khanna in particular, as swindlers. And then, how could he reduce his own salary? Compared to other companies he had kept his salary low. He took only a thousand rupees a month. He did get some commission too, but if he took that much, he also ran the mill. The labourers worked only with their hands. The director worked with his intellect, his learning, his talent, his influence. The value of the two kinds of power could surely not be the same. Why could the labourers not be content that times were hard, and that with unemployment spreading on every side men had become cheap? If they got even three-quarters of a rupee in place of one whole rupee, they ought to remain satisfied. And to tell the truth, they were satisfied. It was no fault of theirs. They were simpletons, the dolts! The mischief was Onkarnath's and Mirza Khurshed's. It was these men who were making those poor wretches dance like puppets, all for the sake of a little money and fame. They never thought how many homes their tomfoolery would ruin. If Onkarnath's newspaper did not pay its way, what was poor Khanna to do! And if his paper were to acquire a hundred thousand subscribers today, and from them a profit of five lakhs began to flow in, would he take only enough for his own keep and distribute the rest among the remaining workers? Nothing of the kind! And that ascetic Mirza Khurshed was once a millionaire too. Thousands of labourers had been his servants. So did he take only enough for his own keep and distribute everything among the labourers? Out of that very keep he went sporting with European girls. He held banquets with great officials, he drank away thousands of rupees' worth of liquor a month, and every year he went travelling to France and Switzerland. Today his heart bleeds at the labourers' condition.

For these two leaders Khanna had no concern. He fully suspected the purity of their intentions. Nor did he care about the Rai Sahib, who always echoed Khanna's every word and endorsed every step he took. Among his acquaintances there was only one person on whose impartial judgement Khanna placed full reliance, and that was Doctor Mehta. Ever since Mehta had begun to grow intimate with Malti, his standing in Khanna's eyes had fallen a good deal. Malti had for years been the mistress of Khanna's heart, yet he had always regarded her as a plaything. There was no doubt that the plaything was very dear to him. At its loss, or its breaking, or its being snatched away, he would weep freely, and he had wept, but it was a plaything all the same. He never quite trusted Malti. She had never been able to pierce his outer covering of pleasure and reach his inmost being. If she herself had proposed marriage to Khanna, he would not have accepted. He would have put her off with some excuse. Like so many other beings, Khanna's life too was double, or two-faced. On the one side he was a devotee of sacrifice and public service and benevolence, on the other of self-interest and luxury and dominion. Which was his true face it was hard to say. Perhaps the better half of his soul was made of service and warmth of heart, the duller half of self-interest and luxury. But between this better and this duller half there was a constant struggle. And it was the duller that, through its insolence and obstinacy, prevailed over the gentle and calm better half. That duller half inclined towards Malti, the better towards Mehta, but now the better had become one with the duller. He could not understand how a man as idealistic as Mehta had become enamoured of a woman as flighty and pleasure-loving as Malti. However hard he tried, he could not fix Mehta as a prey of the passions, and sometimes the suspicion would even arise in him that Malti had some other aspect too, which he could not see, or which he lacked the capacity to see.

Having considered every aspect of the case, for and against, he came to this conclusion: that in this situation it was only Mehta who could give him light.

Doctor Mehta had an addiction to work. He went to sleep at midnight and rose while the night still lay deep. Whatever the task, he would somehow find time for it. Whether it was a game of hockey or a university debate, the organising of a village or an invitation to a wedding, he had both the zeal and the time for every kind of work. He also wrote articles in the papers, and for several years had been writing a vast work of philosophy, which was now near completion. At present too he was playing a scientific game. Seated in his garden he was conducting experiments on the action of electric currents upon plants. He had recently demonstrated before an assembly of scholars that crops could be raised by the power of electricity in a very short time, that their yield could be increased, and that out-of-season produce could also be grown. These days he spent two or three hours every morning on these very experiments.

When he had heard Mr Khanna's tale, he looked at him with a hard expression and said, "Was it really necessary that, because the duty had been imposed, the labourers' wages should be cut? You ought to have complained to the government. If the government did not listen, why should the labourers be punished for it? Do you think the labourers are paid wages so handsome that cutting them by a quarter will cause the labourers no hardship? Your labourers live in burrows—filthy, foul-smelling burrows—where if you stayed even a minute you would be sick. The clothes they wear, you would not even wipe your shoes with them. The food they eat, even your dog would not eat it. I have shared in their lives. You want to fill your shareholders' bellies by snatching the bread from their mouths?"

Khanna said impatiently, "But not all our shareholders are wealthy. Many of them have given up their whole substance to this very mill, and apart from its profit they have no other support for their lives."

Mehta replied in a tone that suggested this argument had no value in his eyes. "A man who takes a share in some business is not so poor that he regards its profit alone as the support of his life. It may be that, on getting a smaller profit, he has to dismiss one of his servants, or that his bill for butter and fruit is reduced, but he will not go naked or hungry. Those who wear out their lives in toil have a greater right than those who merely put in money."

Pandit Onkarnath had said the very same thing. Mirza Khurshed too had given the same advice. Even Govindi had taken the labourers' side, but Khanna had not heeded those people. Yet hearing the very same thing from Mehta's lips, he was moved. He thought Onkarnath self-seeking, Mirza Khurshed irresponsible and Govindi incompetent. In Mehta's words there was the force of character, of learning, and of goodwill.

Suddenly Mehta asked, "Did you take your good lady's opinion on this matter too?"

Khanna said hesitantly, "Yes, I asked her."

"And what was her opinion?"

"The same as yours."

"That is what I expected. And you regard that learned lady as incompetent."

At that very moment Malti arrived, and seeing Khanna she said, "Ah, here you are taking your ease—I have invited Mehta to dinner today. I have cooked everything with my own hands. I invite you too. I shall get your offence pardoned by Govindi Devi."

Khanna was curious. So Malti had begun to cook food with her own hands now? Malti, the very Malti who never even put on her own shoes, who never even pressed an electric switch herself, whose whole life had been pleasure and amusement!

Smiling, he said, "If you have cooked it, I shall certainly come. I could never even have imagined that you were skilled in the art of cookery too."

Malti said without embarrassment, "He has beaten me into a physician. How could I disregard his command? Man is a god, after all!"

Enjoying this sarcasm, Khanna said, winking at Mehta, "Man was not such an object of respect to you before."

Malti was not abashed. Grasping the import of this hint, she said in a tone full of warmth, "But I have become so now, because the image of man that I had seen within the circle of my acquaintances—this is far more beautiful than that. Man so beautiful, so tender of heart..."

Mehta looked at Malti piteously and said, "No, Malti, have pity on me, or I shall run away from here."

In those days, whoever met Malti, she would heap praises on Mehta in a great cascade, like a new convert going about beating the drum of his new beliefs. She did not even keep good taste in mind. And poor Mehta would feel himself cut to pieces within. Harsh and bitter criticism he listened to with great relish, but at hearing his own praise he was as if made a fool of; his face would shrink a little, as though some jest had been cracked. And Malti was not one of those women who could keep things inside. She could only stay on the outside, before and now, in conduct as in thought. To keep anything within her mind she did not know how. Just as, on getting a fine sari, she grew impatient to wear it, in the same way, if any beautiful sentiment came into her mind, she found no peace until she had expressed it.

Coming nearer and placing her hand on his back, as though shielding him, Malti said, "All right, don't run away, I shall say nothing more. It seems you like your own censure better. Then hear censure—Khanna ji, this gentleman has cast the net of his love over me..."

The chimney of the sugar mill could be clearly seen from here. Khanna looked towards it. That chimney stood with its head raised in the sky like a pillar of Khanna's renown. Pride flashed in Khanna's eyes. At this very moment he had to go to the mill office. There an urgent meeting of the directors would have to be held, and this situation explained to them, and a way of solving the problem laid out as well.

But where was this smoke rising from, near the chimney? In a moment the whole sky was filled with smoke like a balloon. Everyone looked in that direction with alarm. Could a fire have broken out somewhere? It did look like a fire.

Suddenly thousands of men were seen running towards the mill along the road in front. Khanna stood up and called loudly, "Where are you all running to?"

One man stopped and said, "Why, sir, a fire has broken out in the sugar mill. Don't you see it?"

Khanna looked at Mehta, and Mehta at Khanna. Malti ran into the bungalow and came out with her shoes on. There was no occasion for regret or complaint. Not a word came from anyone's lips. In danger our consciousness turns inward. Khanna's car was standing ready. The three of them, in their agitation, came and got in and sped off towards the mill. When they reached the crossroads, they saw that the whole town was surging towards the mill. There is a magic in fire that draws men to it. The car could not move forward.

Mehta asked, "You had taken out fire insurance, hadn't you?"

Khanna drew a long breath and said, "No, brother, the papers were still being drawn up. Who knew this calamity was about to come?"

The car was abandoned there to its fate, and the three men, cutting through the crowd, made their way to the front of the mill. They saw an ocean of fire surging up into the sky. The frenzied waves of fire rose one upon another, gnashing their teeth, flickering their tongues, as if they would swallow up the very sky. Beneath that sea of fire such a smoke had spread that it seemed the storm-cloud of Sawan had descended below after bathing in soot. Above it stood, as it were, a trembling, boiling Himalaya of fire. In the compound was a crowd of a hundred thousand men, the police too, the fire brigade too, the volunteers of the relief societies too, but all of them seemed unstrung by the terror of the fire. The jets of the fire brigade seemed to be extinguished the moment they went into that sea of flame. Bricks were burning, iron girders were burning, and channels of melted sugar were flowing on every side. And more than that—flames were rising from the very earth.

From a distance Mehta and Khanna had wondered why so many men stood watching the spectacle, why they did not help to put out the fire, but now they too realised that, apart from watching the spectacle, to do anything else was beyond their power. To go within fifty yards of the mill walls was to risk one's life. Pieces of brick and stone were cracking apart and flying up. Now and then the wind would shift this way, and there would be a stampede.

These three men stood at the back of the crowd. Nothing came to mind, what they should do. After all, how had the fire started! And how had it spread so quickly? Had no one seen it earlier? Or had they seen it and yet made no attempt to put it out? Questions of this kind were rising in everyone's mind, but whom were they to ask there? The mill staff would surely be among the crowd, but in that throng it was hard to find any trace of them.

Suddenly such a fierce gust of wind came that the flames of fire bent low and leapt this way, as though a tide had risen in the sea. People fled, putting their feet upon their heads. They fell upon one another, jostling, as if some lion were pouncing on them. The flames of fire seemed to have become living, conscious too, as if some great Shesh-Nag were spewing fire from its thousand mouths. Many men were crushed in this stampede. Khanna fell flat on his face; Mehta was holding Malti with both hands, or she would surely have been crushed. The three of them came and stopped near the compound wall, under a tamarind tree. Khanna stood gazing at the mill chimney with a kind of consciousness-less absorption.

Mehta asked, "You haven't been badly hurt, have you?"

Khanna gave no answer. He kept staring in that direction. In his eyes was that emptiness which is a sign of derangement.

Mehta took his hand and asked again, "We are standing here to no purpose. I fear you have been badly hurt. Come, let us go back."

Khanna looked at him and spoke as if struck with a frenzy. "Those whose handiwork this is, I know them well. If they find contentment in this, then God do them good. I care nothing for it, care nothing for it, care nothing for it! If I wish, I can raise such a new mill today. Yes, sir, I can raise a wholly new mill. What do these people take me for? The mill did not make me, I made the mill. And I can make it again, but those whose handiwork this is, I shall grind them into the dust. I know it all, I know every particle of it."

Mehta looked at his face and his gestures and said in alarm, "Come, let me get you home. You are not well."

Khanna burst into a peal of laughter and said, "I am not well—because the mill has burned down. Such mills I can open in a snap of the fingers. My name is Khanna, Chandraprakash Khanna! I put my all into this mill. In the first mill we paid twenty per cent profit. Encouraged by that I opened this mill. Half the money in it is mine. I put two lakhs of the bank's money into this mill. An hour ago—no, half an hour ago—I was a man worth ten lakhs. Yes, ten—but at this moment I am a destitute starveling—no, a bankrupt! I owe the bank two lakhs. The house I live in is no longer mine. The vessels I eat from are no longer mine either! I shall be turned out of the bank. The Khanna whom people once burned with envy to see—that Khanna is now mingled with the dust. I have no place in society now. My friends will think me an object not of their trust but of their pity. My enemies will not envy me, they will laugh at me. You do not know, Mr Mehta, how I have murdered my own principles. How many bribes I have given, how many bribes I have taken. To weigh the peasants' cane what kind of men I kept, what false weights I kept. What is the use of hearing all this? But why should Khanna stay alive to suffer this ruin? Let happen what must, let the world laugh as much as it likes, let friends grieve as much as they like, let people abuse as much as they wish. Khanna will not live on to see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears. He is not shameless, he is not without honour!"

Saying this, Khanna began to beat his head with both hands and to weep loudly.

Mehta clasped him to his breast and said in a grieved voice, "Khanna ji, have a little patience. You are a sensible man, and yet you make your heart so small. The respect a man gets from wealth is not respect for him, it is respect for his wealth. Even poor you can remain the trusted friend of friends, and of enemies too—rather, then no one will be your enemy at all. Come, let us go home. With a little rest your mind will grow calm."

Khanna gave no answer. The three men came to the crossroads. The car was standing there. In ten minutes they reached Khanna's mansion.

Getting down, Khanna said in a calm voice, "You take the car away. I have no need of it now."

Malti and Mehta got down too. Malti said, "Come, lie down and rest, we shall sit and chat. There is no such hurry to go home."

Khanna looked at her with gratitude and said in a piteous voice, "Whatever offences I have committed, forgive them, Malti! You and Mehta—besides you two I have no one in the world. I hope you will not let me fall in your eyes. Perhaps in five or ten days I shall have to give up this mansion too. What a deception fate has played!"

Mehta said, "I tell you truly, Khanna ji, the respect I have for you in my eyes today, I never had before."

The three men entered the room. The moment she heard the door open, Govindi came in from inside and said, "Are you all coming from there? The maharaj has brought very bad news."

In Khanna's mind there rose such a strong, unstoppable, stormy impulse to fall at Govindi's feet and wash them with his tears. In a heavy voice he said, "Yes, my dear, we are ruined."

His lifeless, despairing, wounded soul was crying out for consolation, for consolation steeped in true affection—like that invalid who, even when the thread of life has grown thin, still looks with hope-filled eyes at the physician's face. The very Govindi on whom he had always inflicted cruelty, whom he had always humiliated, to whom he had always been unfaithful, whom he had always considered a burden upon his life, whose death he had constantly wished for—that very Govindi seemed at this moment to be hovering over him with blessing and good fortune and fearlessness gathered in the fold of her sari, as though her life's heaven lay in those very feet, as though merely by laying her hand on his ill-starred head she would set the blood flowing again in his lifeless veins. In this weak state of mind, in this terrible calamity, she seemed to be standing ready to clasp him to her bosom. The very rocks that, while we go boating on the water, we think deadly, and wish that someone would dig out and cast away—when the boat is wrecked, those are the very rocks we cling to.

Govindi seated him on a sofa and said in a tender, affectionate voice, "Then why do you make your heart so small? For wealth, which is the root of all sins! What happiness did we have from that wealth? From morning till midnight one entanglement after another—the utter ruin of the soul! The boys longed to talk with you; you could not even find leisure to write a letter to your relations. Was there great respect? Yes, there was, because the world worships wealth nowadays and always has done so. It has no concern with you. As long as you have the goddess of fortune, it will wag its tail before you. Tomorrow it will prostrate itself with equal devotion at others' doors. It will not even look at you. Worthy men do not bow their heads before wealth. They look at what you are; if there is truth in you, justice, sacrifice, manliness, they will worship you. Otherwise, taking you for a robber of society, they will turn their faces away—rather, they will become your enemies. Am I saying anything wrong, Mehta ji?"

Mehta spoke as though startled out of a heavenly dream. "Wrong? You are saying the very thing that the great men of the world have said after experiencing the essence of life. This is the true foundation of life."

Govindi, addressing Mehta, said, "Who is wealthy, no one stops to consider. Is it he who, by his cunning, can make fools of others?"

Khanna cut in and said, "No, Govindi, to earn wealth one needs a certain temperament within. Wealth does not come by cunning alone. For it too one must practise sacrifice and austerity. Perhaps in so much striving one might even attain God. The harmony of all our spiritual, intellectual and physical powers—that is the name of wealth."

Govindi, not turning adversary but speaking in a mediating spirit, said, "I grant that no small austerity has to be practised for wealth, yet even so we have come to think it of far more importance in life than it really has. I, for one, am glad that this burden has been lifted from your head. Now your sons will become men, not images of self-interest and pride. The happiness of life lies in making others happy, not in plundering them. Do not take it ill—until now the meaning of your life has been self-service, indulgence and luxury. Fate, by depriving you of those means, has opened to you the road of a higher and holier life. If, in attaining this fulfilment, there is some hardship too, welcome it. Why do you regard this as a calamity at all? Why do you not understand that you have been given an opportunity to fight against injustice? In my view it is far better to be the oppressed than the oppressor. If by losing wealth we can find our soul, that is no costly bargain. The glory, the joy there is in fighting as soldiers of justice—have you forgotten it so soon?"

On Govindi's pale, withered face there was such a glow of brilliance, as though some uncommon power had entered her, as though all her silent striving had blazed forth eloquently.

Mehta was gazing at her with eyes full of reverence; Khanna, head bowed, was trying to take this for a divine inspiration; and Malti was ashamed within. Govindi's thoughts were so lofty, her heart so vast, and her life so radiant.