Chapter 32

Mirza Khurshed, on coming out of the hospital, had started a new piece of work. To sit unoccupied was not in his nature. What was this work? To form a theatrical troupe of the prostitutes of the city. In his good days he had been thoroughly debauched, and in these days, in the solitude of the hospital, enduring the pain of his wounds, his soul had grown earnest. Remembering that life caused him deep mental anguish; at that time, had he had understanding, what great good he could have done to his fellow creatures, how he could have lightened the burden of the grief and poverty of so many—but that wealth he had squandered in debauchery. It is no new discovery that it is only in adversity that our soul finds awakening. In old age, who is not grieved over the errors of his youth? Would that he had spent that time in gathering knowledge or strength, had filled the treasury of good deeds, then today his mind would find such peace. There he had had the painful experience that in the world no one is one's own, that there was no one to shed tears at his death. Again and again an old incident of his life came back to him. In the village of Basra, when he had lain stricken with malaria in the camp, a village girl had nursed him with such self-surrender. When he had got well and wished to repay her kindnesses with money and ornaments, how she had filled her eyes with tears and bowed her head and refused to take those gifts. In the nursing of these nurses there is rule, there is system, there is sincerity, but where is that love, where that absorption, that was in that girl's unpractised, artless services? That image of devotion had been wiped from his heart long since. He had never gone to her after promising her that he would come again. In the frenzy of indulgence her memory had never even come to him. And if it came, there had been in it only pity, no love. He did not know what had befallen that girl. But these days her eager, gentle, calm, simple bearing kept passing constantly before his eyes. Would that he had married her, then how much sweetness there would have been in life today! And the grief of the injustice done to her made that whole class an object of his service and sympathy. As long as the river was in flood, the rays of light were scattered and lost in its muddy, swift, foaming current. Now the current had grown steady and calm, and the rays were reaching to its depths.

Mirza Sahib was sitting in the verandah of his hut on this cool evening of spring, talking of something with two courtesans, when Mr Mehta arrived. Mirza shook his hand with great warmth and said, "Here I am with the materials of your entertainment, waiting for you."

The two beauties smiled. Mehta was cut to pieces.

Mirza made a sign to the two women to leave from there and, seating Mehta on the cushion, said, "I was just about to come to you myself. It seems to me that the work I am about to undertake will not be completed without your help. You have only to lay your hand on my back and keep cheering me on—'Yes, Mirza, charge on, my brave!'"

Mehta said with a laugh, "Whatever work you set your hand to, there will be no need in it of bookworms like us. You are older in years than I. You have seen the world thoroughly too, and the power you have of casting your influence over little people—if I had that, who knows what God-knows-what I would have done."

In a few words Mirza Sahib explained his new scheme to him. His belief was that into the marketplace of beauty come only those women who either, for some reason, do not get an honourable shelter in their own homes, or who are driven to it by economic hardships; and if both these problems were solved, very few women would fall in this way.

Mehta, like other thinking gentlemen, had considered this question a good deal, and his opinion was that it was chiefly the saṃskāras of the mind and the craving for pleasure that drew women in this direction. Over this very point an argument broke out between the two friends. Each stood firm on his own side.

Mehta, clenching his fist and dashing it in the air, said, "You have not considered this question with a cool head. For livelihood there are many other means. But the hunger for luxury does not pass with bread. For that one needs the best things of the world. Until the organisation of society is changed from top to bottom, no benefit will come of a troupe of this kind."

Mirza twirled his moustache. "And I say that this is purely a question of livelihood. Yes, this question is not the same for all men. For the labourer it is merely a question of flour and dal and a hut of thatch. For a lawyer it is a question of a car and a bungalow and servants. Man does not want merely bread; he wants many other things too. If before women too that question comes in various shapes, what is their fault?"

Had Doctor Mehta considered it a little, he would have learned that between him and Mirza there was no difference, only a juggling of words; but in the heat of argument, where is the patience to consider? He said heatedly, "Excuse me, Mirza Sahib, as long as there are wealthy people in the world, there will be prostitutes too. Even if your troupe succeeds—though I have great doubt of that—you can never take more than five or ten women into it, and that too for a few days. Not all women have the power of acting, just as not all men can be poets. And even granting that the prostitutes settle permanently in your troupe, still their place in the marketplace will not stay empty. Until the axe is laid to the root, no result will come of plucking the leaves. Among the wealthy there sometimes emerge such people who renounce everything and go and sit in the remembrance of God, but the kingdom of wealth stands as ever. Not the least weakness has been allowed to come into it."

Mirza was grieved at Mehta's stubbornness. So learned and thoughtful a man, to talk in this way! Would the organisation of society change so easily? That was a matter of centuries. Until then was this evil to be allowed to go on? Was it not to be checked, were these weak women to be allowed to fall prey to men's lust? Why not shut the lion in a cage, so that, with teeth and claws though it had, it could harm no one? Was one to sit silent until the lion took a vow of non-violence? Let the wealthy squander their wealth in whatever way they pleased, Mirza ji had no grief. Let them drown in liquor, hang garlands of cars round their necks, build forts, raise dharmsalas and mosques—he had no care. But let them not ruin the lives of weak women. That Mirza ji could not bear to see. He would so empty the marketplace of beauty that there would not be found even anyone to spit on the gold coins of the wealthy. In the days when the picketing of liquor shops went on, did not good drinkers quench the fire of their hearts by drinking water and water?

Mehta laughed at Mirza's foolishness and said, "You ought to know that there are also countries in the world where there are no prostitutes. But the wealth of the rich produces means of diversion there too."

Mirza ji too laughed at Mehta's obstinacy. "I know, my friend, I know. By your grace I have seen the world, but this is Hindustan, not Europe."

"Human nature is the same all over the world."

"But let this also be remembered, that in every nation there is a thing one may call its soul. Chastity is the soul of Hindustani culture."

"Be your own Miyan-mitthu, then."

"You malign wealth so much, and yet you do not weary of championing Khanna. Tell me!"

Mehta's heat departed. He said in a gentle voice, "I have championed Khanna at the time when he has slipped from the clutches of wealth, and these days, if you see his condition, you will feel pity. And what championing will I do, who have no leave from my books and my college? At the most I can only show dry sympathy. The championing was done by Miss Malti, who saved Khanna. In the depths of the human heart, how much power lies hidden in sacrifice and self-immolation—of this I had had no experience till now. You too go one day and meet Khanna. He will not be able to contain his joy. At this time the thing he needs most is sympathy."

Mirza said, as though against his own will, "If you say so, I shall go. To go to hell with you I have no objection either, but it was you who were to be married to Miss Malti. It was very hot news."

Mehta said bashfully, "I am doing penance. Let us see when I get the boon."

"Why, she was dying for you."

"I too had had that delusion, but when I stretched out my hand to grasp her, I saw that she had gone up and seated herself in the sky. To that height—how shall I reach it? I am imploring and beseeching her to come down. These days she does not even speak to me."

Saying this, Mehta laughed a laugh full of weeping and rose up.

Mirza asked, "When shall we meet again now?"

"This time you will have to take the trouble. Be sure to go to Khanna."

"I shall go."

Mirza watched Mehta from the window as he went. In his gait there was not that briskness; he seemed sunk in some worry.