Chapter 6

The sad, hot evening of the month of Jeth was being cooled and gladdened by the sprinkling of water over the roads and lanes of Semari. All around the pavilion, pots of flowers and plants had been arranged, and electric fans were turning. Rai Sahib had electricity generated at his own works. His constables, in their yellow uniforms and blue turbans, strode about lording it over the crowd. Servants in spotless tunics, saffron headcloths bound on, attended to the comfort and welcome of the guests and headmen. Just then a motor-car drew up before the lion-gate, and three notable gentlemen stepped out. The one in the homespun khaddar tunic and sandals is named Pandit Onkarnath. He is the celebrated editor of the daily paper Bijli, whom anxiety for his country has worn quite thin. The second gentleman, in coat and trousers, is a lawyer; but since his practice would not flourish, he works as a broker for an insurance company, and earns far more by securing loans for the landholders from moneylenders and banks than he ever did at the bar. His name is Shyambihari Tankha. And the third gentleman, dressed in a silk achkan and tight pyjamas, is Mr B. Mehta, a professor of philosophy at the University. All three gentlemen are among Rai Sahib's old fellow-students, and have been invited to the festival of betrothal. Today the tenants from all over the estate will come and present their offerings of betrothal money. At night there will be the play of the breaking of the bow, and a feast for the guests. Hori has given five rupees as his offering, and dressed in a pink quilted jacket, a pink turban bound on, his loincloth tucked up to the knees, a hoe in his hand and powder applied to his face, he has become the gardener of Raja Janak; and he has swelled with so much pride that it is as though this whole festival were being held by virtue of his own exertions.

Rai Sahib welcomed the guests. He was a tall man of doubled breadth, a well-knit body, a glowing face, a high forehead, a fair complexion, against which the sherbet-coloured silk shawl showed beautifully.

Pandit Onkarnath asked, "Which play is intended for performance this time? That is the one thing here to my taste."

Seating the three gentlemen on chairs before his marquee, Rai Sahib said, "First there will be the breaking of the bow, and after that a farce. No good play could be found. One was so long that perhaps it would not finish even in five hours, and another so difficult that perhaps not a single person here would understand its meaning. In the end I wrote a farce myself, which will be done in two hours."

Onkarnath had grave doubts about Rai Sahib's powers of composition. His notion was that genius shines only among the poor, like a lamp that gives its light only in the darkness. With a disdain that he did not even trouble to conceal, Pandit Onkarnath turned his face away.

Mr Tankha did not wish to be drawn into such pointless talk, yet he wanted to show Rai Sahib that he too had a right to speak on the matter. He said, "Any play can be good, if its actors are good. The very best play, falling into the hands of bad actors, can become bad. Until educated actresses come onto the stage, our dramatic art cannot be redeemed. This time you have caused quite a stir with your questions in the Council. I can say with confidence that no member's record is so brilliant."

Mr Mehta, the professor of philosophy, could not endure this praise. He wished to oppose it, but under cover of principle. He had recently written a book, the labour of several years. It had not received a hundredth part of the acclaim it should have. He was much grieved by this. He said, "Brother, I am not convinced by questions. What I want is for our life to be in keeping with our principles. You are a well-wisher of the farmers; you want to grant them concessions of every kind, you want to strip the landlords of their rights, indeed you call them the curse of society — and yet you yourself are a landlord, just such a landlord as the thousands of other landlords are. If you hold the conviction that the farmers should be shown concessions, then begin with yourself first — write out the tenancy leases without taking premiums, abolish forced labour, throw to the winds the enhancement of rent, give up the grazing lands. I have not the slightest sympathy for those people who talk like Communists, but whose life is that of the gentry — just as luxurious, just as full of self-interest."

Rai Sahib was stung. The lawyer's brow furrowed, and it was as though soot had been smeared over the editor's face. He himself was a worshipper of collectivism, but he did not wish to set fire to his own house directly.

Tankha pleaded Rai Sahib's case. "I think that if all landlords were to behave with their tenants as well as Rai Sahib does, then this whole question would simply vanish."

Mehta struck the second blow of the hammer. "I grant that you treat your tenants very well, but the question is whether or not there is self-interest in it. May not one of its causes be this — that food cooks more tastily over a slow flame? He who kills with molasses may succeed far better than he who kills with poison. I only know this much — that either we are socialists or we are not. If we are, then let us act on it; if we are not, then let us give up the prattle. I am an enemy of false living. If you think eating meat is good, then eat it openly. If you think it bad, then do not eat it — that I can understand; but to think it good and to eat it in secret, that I cannot understand. I call it both cowardice and cunning, which in truth are one and the same."

Rai Sahib was a man skilled in company. He had the practice of bearing insult and injury with patience and generosity. Somewhat at a loss, he said, "Your view is entirely correct, Mehta ji! You know how greatly I respect your plain speaking, but you forget that, like other journeys, the journey of ideas too has its halting-stages, and you cannot leap from one halting-place to the next. The history of human life is direct proof of this. I have been reared in an atmosphere where the king is God and the landlord is God's minister. My late father showed such pity to his tenants that in years of frost or drought he would remit now half and now the whole of the rent. He would take grain from his own granary and feed it to his tenants. He would sell the ornaments of the house to give help in the marriages of their daughters — but only so long as the people called him their lord and an incarnation of dharma, and worshipped him, regarding him as their deity. To cherish his people was his eternal religion; but in the name of right he would not break off so much as a cowrie's tooth and give it to them. I have been reared in that very atmosphere, and I am proud that, whatever I may do in practice, in my ideas I have advanced beyond them, and have come to believe that until the farmers receive these concessions in the form of rights, their condition cannot be improved on the basis of goodwill alone. If goodwill renounces its own self-interest, that is an exception. I myself, even while showing goodwill, cannot renounce self-interest, and I want our class to be compelled, by the force of government and policy, to renounce its self-interest. You will call this cowardice; I call it helplessness. I admit that no one has the right to grow fat upon the labour of others. To live as a parasite is a matter of grievous shame. To do work is the religion of every living creature. Such an ordering of society, in which a few make merry while the many are ground down and worn out, can never be a happy one. Capital and education — which I regard as merely one form of capital — the sooner their fortress is broken down, the better. That those who cannot get their bellies' bread should have officers and employers drawing ten and five thousand a month — this is laughable, and shameful too. How much luxury, how much depravity, how much servility, and how much shamelessness this system has filled into us landlords — that I know full well; but I do not oppose this system for these reasons. What I say is that even from the standpoint of our own self-interest it cannot be approved. To keep up this grandeur we have to murder our souls so much that not even the name of self-respect remains in us. We are compelled to plunder our tenants. If we do not give the officers costly baskets of gifts, we are taken for rebels; if we do not live in style, we are called misers. At the slightest rustle of progress we begin to tremble, and we run with complaints to the officers, begging, 'Protect us.' We have no faith left in ourselves, nor any manliness left. In short, our condition is that of children reared by being fed milk with a spoon — fat from outside, feeble within, without substance, and dependent."

Mehta clapped his hands and said, "Hear, hear! Would that there were even half as much intelligence in your mind as there is on your tongue. The pity is that, even understanding everything, you do not bring your ideas into practice."

Onkarnath said, "A single gram of pulse cannot crack open the oven, Mr Mehta! We must walk along with the times, and also make the times walk along with us. It is not only in bad works that cooperation is needed. For good works too cooperation is just as necessary. Why is it you alone who swallow eight hundred rupees a month, when your crores of brothers are sustaining themselves on a mere eight rupees?"

Rai Sahib looked at the editor with outward sorrow but inward satisfaction, and said, "Do not criticize on personal matters, Editor ji! We are here considering the ordering of society."

Mr Mehta, with that same cool mind, said, "No, no, I do not think it bad. Society is made up of individuals. And forgetting the individual, we cannot consider any system. I take so large a salary precisely because I have no faith in this system."

The editor was astonished. "Indeed — so you are a supporter of the present system?"

"I am a supporter of the principle that in the world the small and the great will always exist, and that they ought always to exist. To strive to abolish this would be the cause of the ruin of the human race."

The wrestling-pairs had changed. Rai Sahib stepped aside. The editor came down into the arena. "You believe in the distinction of high and low, even in the twentieth century?"

"Yes, sir, I believe in it, and I believe in it most strongly. The doctrine of which you are a supporter is also no new thing. From the time the sense of possessiveness developed in man, that very doctrine was born. Buddha and Plato and Christ were all promoters of equality in society. Greece and Rome and the Syrians — all civilizations tested it, but, being unnatural, it could never become permanent."

"I am astonished to hear what you say."

"Astonishment is but another name for ignorance."

"I am grateful to you! If only you would start a series of articles on this subject."

"Sir, I am not such a fool. Get me a good sum of money, and then, by all means."

"You have chosen for yourself just such a principle that you may plunder the public from an open treasury."

"The difference between you and me is only this — that whatever I believe, on that I act. You people believe one thing and do another. Wealth you may by some injustice spread out equally. But intelligence, character, beauty, talent, and strength — to spread these out equally is beyond your power. The distinction of small and great does not arise from wealth alone. I have seen great lords of wealth kneeling before beggars, and you too will have seen it. Great monarchs rub their noses on the threshold of beauty. Is this not social inequality? You will give the example of Russia. There, what is there besides this — that the mill-owner has taken on the form of a state official? Intelligence ruled then too, it rules now, and it will always rule."

The pan had arrived on a tray. Giving the guests pan and cardamom, Rai Sahib said, "If intelligence be free of self-interest, then we have no objection to acknowledging its sovereignty. This is the very ideal of socialism. We bow our heads before saints and holy men precisely because they have the strength of renunciation. In the same way we wish to give into the hands of intelligence both authority and honour and leadership, but property — by no means. The authority and honour of intelligence pass away with the individual, but its property, after his death, grows still more powerful for the sowing of poison. Without intelligence no society can be steered. We wish only to break the sting of this scorpion."

A second motor-car arrived, and Mr Khanna alighted, the manager of a bank and the managing director of a sugar mill. Two ladies were with him as well. Rai Sahib helped both ladies down. The one wearing a khaddar sari, who looks very grave and thoughtful, is Mr Khanna's wife, Kamini Khanna. The other lady, who is wearing high-heeled shoes and on whose face the laughter seems ready to burst forth, is Miss Malti. She has returned from England trained as a doctor, and now she practises. She has much entry into the palaces of the landholders. She is the very living image of the new age. Her body delicate, but filled to the brim with sprightliness. Of hesitation or bashfulness there is nowhere a trace; expert at make-up, terribly ready of wit, a good judge of male psychology, one who regards amusement and pleasure as the essence of life, skilled in the art of charming and beguiling. Where the soul should have its place, display; where the heart should have its place, gesture and pose; a stern control over the emotions, so that desire or longing seemed almost to have been blotted out.

Shaking hands with Mr Mehta, she said, "I tell you truly, you look like a philosopher from your very face. In this new work of yours you have unstitched the idealists and laid them bare. While reading it, several times the feeling came into me that I should quarrel with you. Why does fellow-feeling vanish among philosophers?"

Mehta grew embarrassed. He was unmarried, and he begged refuge from the women of the new age. In the company of men he chirped away merrily, but the moment any lady came and his tongue was sealed, it was as though a lock fell upon his intelligence. He could not even keep in mind how to behave civilly with women.

Mr Khanna asked, "What is the special thing in the faces of philosophers, Devi ji?"

Looking at Mehta with an expression of pity, Malti said, "Mr Mehta, if you would not take it amiss, may I tell?"

Khanna was among Miss Malti's worshippers. Wherever Miss Malti went, it was incumbent upon Khanna to arrive there. He kept hovering about her like a bumblebee. At all times this was his one desire — that he should speak with Malti as much as possible, that her gaze should rest as much as possible on him alone.

Khanna gave a wink and said, "A philosopher does not take anyone's words amiss. That is his very quality."

"Then listen — philosophers are always dead of heart; whenever you look, they are sitting absorbed in their own thoughts. They will look towards you, but they will not see you; you may go on talking to them, they will hear nothing, as though they were flying about in empty space."

Everyone roared with laughter. Mr Mehta seemed to sink into the earth.

"At Oxford my professor of philosophy was Husband!"

Khanna broke in, "What an extraordinary name."

"Yes, sir — and he was a bachelor —"

"Mr Mehta is a bachelor too —"

"This disease afflicts all philosophers."

Now Mehta got his chance. He said, "And are you not yourself a prisoner of this very malady?"

"I have made a vow that I shall marry a philosopher, and this class takes fright at the very name of marriage. Mr Husband, on seeing a woman, would hide himself in the house. Among his pupils there were several girls. If any of them at any time went into his office to ask something, he would grow so flustered, as though a tiger had come. We used to tease him heartily — the poor man, very simple-hearted. He had an income of several thousands, yet I always saw him wearing one and the same suit. He had a widowed sister. It was she who managed the whole running of his house. As for Mr Husband, he had no thought even for his food. For fear of visitors, he would shut the door of his room and do his reading and writing. When the time for the meal came, his sister would go softly in to him by the inner door and close the book; then he would learn that the time to eat had come. At night too the mealtime was fixed. His sister would put out the light of the room. One day his sister tried to close the book, and he pressed the book down with both hands, and a contest of strength began between brother and sister. In the end his sister dragged his wheeled chair into the dining room."

Rai Sahib said, "But Mehta Sahib is very good-humoured and sociable — or else why would he come into this commotion?"

"Then he would not be a philosopher. When our heads begin to ache from our own anxieties, how can anyone, loading the anxiety of the whole world onto his head, remain happy?"

Over on the other side, the editor was telling Mrs Khanna the tale of his financial difficulties. "Just understand it thus, Madam — that the life of an editor is one long lamentation, hearing which people, instead of taking pity, put their hands over their ears. The poor man can neither do good to himself nor to others. The public, indeed, expects of him that in every movement he should be at the very front, that he should go to jail, take the blows, have the goods and chattels of his house attached — this is held to be his duty; but no one gives a thought to his difficulties. He must be everything. He should be accomplished in every branch of learning, every art, but he has no right to remain alive. You write nothing at all these days. Why do you keep me deprived of the little good fortune that I might have of serving you?"

Mrs Khanna had a fondness for writing poetry. On this account the editor used to come and visit her now and then; but, being kept busy with the work of the household, she had been unable to write anything for many days now. The truth of the matter is that it was the editor himself who, by encouraging her, had made her a poet. Of true talent she had very little.

"What should I write — nothing comes to mind at all. Have you never asked Miss Malti to write something?"

The editor said with an air of disdain, "Her time is valuable, Kamini Devi! It is those who write who have within them some pain, some attachment, some absorption, some thought. Those who have made wealth and the enjoyment of pleasure the aim of life — what will they write?"

Kamini said, with an envy-tinged jest, "If you could get her to write something, your circulation would double. In Lucknow there is no man of taste who would not become your subscriber."

"If wealth had been the ideal of my life, I would not today be in this condition. I too know the art of earning money. If I wished it today, I could earn lakhs; but here I have never reckoned wealth as anything at all. The service of literature is the aim of my life, and shall remain so."

"At the very least have my name entered among the subscribers."

"I shall write your name not among the subscribers but among the patrons."

"As patrons keep the queens and the great queens, by flattering whom a little you can turn your paper into a thing of profit."

"My queen and my great queen are you. Before you I count no queen or great queen as anything at all. She in whom there is mercy and discernment, she alone is my queen. Flattery I hold in disgust."

Kamini took a pinch. "But it is me you are flattering, Editor ji!"

The editor, growing grave, said in a tone full of reverence, "This is not flattery, Devi ji — these are the true outpourings of my heart."

Rai Sahib called out, "Editor ji, do come this way a moment. Miss Malti wishes to say something to you."

All that stiffness of the editor vanished. Becoming the very image of humility and modesty, he came and stood there. Looking at him with kindly eyes, Malti said, "I was saying just now that of all things in the world I fear editors the most. You people can ruin whomever you wish in a single instant. The Chief Secretary Sahib himself once said to me, 'If I could lock up this bloody Onkarnath in jail, I should count myself fortunate.'"

Onkarnath's great moustaches stood up on end. The light of pride flashed in his eyes. Ordinarily he was a man of very calm nature, but on hearing a challenge his manhood became roused. In a tone full of firmness he said, "For this kindness I am grateful to you. In that assembly at least my name is mentioned, in whatever fashion it may come. Tell the Secretary Sahib that Onkarnath is not among those men who take fright at such threats. His pen will take its rest only when the journey of his life comes to its end. He has taken upon himself the charge of digging out injustice and arbitrary rule by the very roots and casting them away."

Miss Malti goaded him further. "But this policy of yours I cannot understand — that when by ordinary courtesy you might obtain the cooperation of the authorities, why do you shy away from them? If you would put a little less of fire and poison into your criticisms, then I promise that I can get you considerable help from the Government. You have tried the public already. You appealed to it, you flattered it, you told it the tale of your difficulties, but no result came of it. Now try the authorities too, just once. If within three months you do not begin going about in a motor-car, and being invited to government feasts, then curse me as much as you please. Then these very gentry and nationalists who pay you no heed will be making the rounds of your door."

Onkarnath said with pride, "That is the very thing I cannot do, Devi ji! I have always kept my principles high and holy, and as long as I live I shall guard them. Worshippers of wealth you will find in lane after lane; I am among the worshippers of principle."

"I call this conceit."

"As you please."

"You care nothing for wealth?"

"Not by murdering my principles."

"Then why are there advertisements for foreign goods in your paper? In no other paper have I seen so many foreign advertisements. You make yourself out an idealist and a man of principle, but for your own profit you feel not the slightest grief in sending the country's wealth abroad? You cannot support this policy by any argument."

Onkarnath truly had no answer. Seeing him glancing under his armpits, Rai Sahib took his part. "But after all, what is it you want? If he is struck from this side and struck from that side too, then how is the paper to run?"

Miss Malti had not learned mercy.

"If the paper does not run, then close it down. To run your own paper you have no right to promote foreign goods. If you are compelled, then give up the pretence of principle. As for me, I blaze up at the sight of papers of principle. I feel like showing them a match. The man who cannot keep harmony between his deeds and his words — whatever else he may be, a man of principle he is not."

Mehta brightened up. A little while before he had himself propounded this very view. He learned that there was, in this woman, also the power of thought — that she was not a mere butterfly. His shyness departed.

"This is the very thing I was saying just now. The lack of harmony between thought and conduct is itself cunning, it is roguery."

Miss Malti said with a glad face, "Then on this subject you and I are one, and I too may lay claim to being a philosopher."

Khanna's tongue was itching. He said, "Your every limb is steeped in philosophy."

Malti pulled in his reins. "Indeed — so you too have a hand in philosophy? I had thought you long ago drowned your philosophy in the Ganga. Otherwise you would not be the director of so many banks and companies."

Rai Sahib steadied Khanna. "So you think that philosophers ought always to remain destitute and carefree?"

"Yes, sir. If a philosopher cannot win victory over attachment, then what kind of philosopher is he?"

"By that reckoning, then, perhaps Mr Mehta too would not stand as a philosopher."

Mehta said, as though rolling up his sleeves, "I never made any such claim, Rai Sahib! I only know this much — that with the tools the blacksmith works with, the goldsmith does not work. Do you wish that the mango too should flower and fruit in the same conditions as the acacia or the palm? For me, wealth is only the name of those conveniences by which I can make my life meaningful. Wealth, for me, is not a thing to flower and fruit upon; it is only a means. I have no desire for wealth at all; furnish me that means by which I can put my life to use."

Onkarnath was a collectivist. How was he to accept this pre-eminence of the individual?

"In the same way every labourer can say that, for the conveniences of doing his work, he needs a thousand a month."

"If you think that without that labourer your work cannot go on, then you will have to give him those conveniences. If another labourer will do that same work for a little wage, there is no reason for you to flatter the first labourer."

"If authority were in the hands of the labourers, then woman and liquor too would become as necessary a convenience for the labourers as they are for philosophers."

"Then believe me, I would not envy them."

"When woman is so necessary to make your life meaningful, then why do you not marry?"

Mehta said, without hesitation, "Precisely because I think that free enjoyment is no obstacle to the development of the soul. Marriage, on the other hand, shuts the soul and life up in a cage."

Khanna supported this. "Bondage and restraint are old theories. The new theory is free enjoyment."

Malti seized the topknot. "Then now Mrs Khanna ought to be ready for divorce."

"Let there be a divorce bill."

"And perhaps you yourself will be the first to make use of it?"

Kamini looked at Malti with poison-filled eyes and twisted her mouth, as though saying, "Khanna is yours, much good may he do you; I do not care."

Malti, looking towards Mehta, said, "And what are your views on this subject, Mr Mehta?"

Mehta grew grave. When he expressed his opinion on any question, it was as though he poured his whole soul into it.

"Marriage I regard as a social compact, and the right to break it belongs neither to the man nor to the woman. Before making the compact you are free; once the compact is made, your hands are cut off."

"So you are opposed to divorce — why?"

"Firmly."

"And the principle of free enjoyment?"

"That is for those who do not wish to marry."

"Everyone wishes for the full development of his own soul — then who should marry, and why?"

"Precisely because everyone wishes for liberation, but there are very few who can free their necks from greed."

"Which do you regard as the higher — married life, or unmarried life?"

"From the standpoint of society, married life; from the standpoint of the individual, unmarried life."

The performance of the breaking of the bow was near. From ten to one, the breaking of the bow; from one to three, the farce — that was the programme. The preparations for the meal had begun. For the guests there was a separate arrangement for staying in the bungalow. Two rooms had been kept for the Khanna family. Many other guests had arrived as well. All went to their own rooms, and, changing their clothes, gathered in the dining hall. Here there was no distinction of caste-pollution. People of all castes and varnas sat together to eat. Only the editor, Onkarnath, went off separately to his room to eat his fruit fare. And Kamini Khanna had a headache; she declined to eat. In the dining hall the number of guests was not less than twenty-five. There was liquor too, and meat as well. For this festival Rai Sahib used to have liquor of good quality specially ordered. It was procured under the name of medicine, but it was pure liquor. Meat too was cooked in several ways — koftas, kebabs, and pulav. Cock, hen, goat, deer, partridge, peafowl — let whoever liked what eat it.

When the meal had begun, Miss Malti asked, "Where has the editor stayed behind? Send someone, Rai Sahib, to fetch him here."

Rai Sahib said, "He is a Vaishnava; why bring him here and destroy the poor man's religion? He is a man very strict in observance."

"Well, if nothing else, at least there will be the fun of it."

Suddenly, catching sight of a certain gentleman, he called out, "So you too grace us with your presence, Mirza Khurshed — this task is entrusted to you. Your competence shall be put to the test."

Mirza Khurshed was a fair-skinned man, with brown moustaches, blue eyes, a doubled body, the crown of his head bald and clean-shaven. He wore a checked achkan and gathered pyjamas. Over it he would put on a hat. He was a member of the Council, but during fruit fare he would keep on snoring. At the time of voting he would start awake and cast his vote with the nationalists. He was a Sufi Muslim. He had been twice on the Haj, yet he drank liquor heartily. He used to say, "When we never obey even a single command of God's, why should we lay down our lives for religion?" He was a great jester, a carefree creature. Formerly he had carried on a contracting business in Basra. He earned lakhs, but evil times came upon him — he fell into an intrigue with a memsahib. There was litigation. He barely escaped going to jail. He was ordered to leave the country within twenty-four hours. Whatever he had, wherever it was, he left it there, and, taking only fifty thousand, took to his heels. In Bombay he had agents. He had thought he would settle accounts with them, and on whatever came of it would pass his life; but the agents, by trickery, wrung even those fifty thousand from him. In despair he went from there to Lucknow. On the train he met a holy man. The holy man, showing him green gardens, made off with his watch, his rings, his money — everything. When the poor man reached Lucknow, he had nothing but the clothes on his body. He had an old acquaintance with Rai Sahib. Partly with his help and partly with the help of other friends, he opened a shoe shop. It was now the most flourishing shoe shop in Lucknow, with sales of four or five hundred a day. In a short time the public came to have such trust in him that, having brought low a very great Muslim landholder, he made his way into the Council.

Sitting in his place, he said, "No, sir, I spoil no one's religion. This task you should do yourself. The fun is in this — that you should let them go only after making them drink liquor. This is a trial of the magic of your beauty."

From all sides voices came, "Yes, yes, Miss Malti, today show us your accomplishment." Malti challenged the Mirza, "Will you give some prize?"

"A purse of a hundred rupees."

"Hush! A hundred rupees! Am I to spoil a religion worth a lakh of rupees for a hundred?"

"Well then, name your fee yourself."

"A thousand — not a cowrie less."

"Well, agreed."

"No, sir — bring it and place it in Mehta ji's hand."

The Mirza at once took out a hundred-rupee note from his pocket, and, showing it, stood up and said, "Brothers! This is a matter of the honour of all of us men. If Miss Malti's command is not fulfilled, then there will be nowhere left for us to show our faces. If I had the money, I would sacrifice a lakh upon each single gesture of Miss Malti's. An old poet sacrificed the provinces of Samarkand and Bokhara for a single black mole of his beloved's. Today is the examination of the valour and beauty-worship of all you gentlemen. Let each man, whatever he has, draw it out like a true champion and lay it down. I adjure you by your learning, I adjure you by the gestures of the beloved, I adjure you by your honour — do not draw your steps back. Men! The money will be spent, the name will remain forever. Such a spectacle is cheap even at a price of lakhs. See how the queen of the beauties of Lucknow casts the spell of her beauty over an ascetic."

The moment he finished his speech, the Mirza began searching everyone's pockets. First Mr Khanna was searched. Five rupees came out of his pocket.

The Mirza, his mouth gone sour, said, "Bravo, Khanna Sahib, bravo! Great name, scant glory — director of so many companies, an income of lakhs, and five rupees in your pocket. Where are the strength and power, Mehta? You go and recover at least a hundred rupees from Mrs Khanna."

Khanna said sheepishly, "Oh, she will not have a single paisa. Who knew you would start searching here?"

"Well, you keep quiet. Let us at least try our luck."

"Very well, then I will go and ask her."

"No, sir, you cannot stir from here. Mr Mehta, you are a philosopher, a pandit of psychology. See that you do not get yourself disgraced."

Mehta, having drunk liquor, would become intoxicated. In that intoxication his philosophy flew away and his wit came to life. He sprang off to Mrs Khanna and in just five minutes returned with a long face.

The Mirza asked, "Oh — what, empty-handed?"

Rai Sahib laughed. "Even the mice in the qazi's house are clever."

The Mirza said, "You are most fortunate, Khanna, by God."

Mehta gave a roar of laughter and drew from his pocket five hundred-rupee notes.

The Mirza sprang up and clasped him to his bosom.

From all sides voices began to come — "Marvellous! I grant it, Ustad — and why not, he is a philosopher after all!"

The Mirza, pressing the notes to his eyes, said, "Brother Mehta, from today I have become your pupil. Tell me, what magic did you work?"

Mehta said, swaggering, gazing about with reddened eyes, "Oh, nothing. What great task was it? I went and asked, 'May I come in?' She said, 'Is that you, Mehta ji? Come in.' I went inside and said, 'Over there people are playing bridge. Miss Malti has lost five hundred rupees, and is selling her ring. The ring is worth not less than a thousand. You have seen it. That is all. If you have the money, then for five hundred rupees take a thing worth a thousand. Such a chance will not come again. If Miss Malti does not give the money now, she will get off scot-free. Who pays afterwards? Perhaps that is why she has taken off the ring — who keeps five hundred rupees by them?' She smiled and at once drew five notes from her purse and gave them, saying, 'I never leave home without taking something. There is no knowing when one may need it.'"

Khanna said sheepishly, "When this is the state of our professors, then God alone is the master of the University."

Khurshed sprinkled salt on the wound. "Oh, and what so great a sum is it, over which your heart is sinking? If God does not make me lie, this is your income for a single day. Just suppose that one day you fell ill — and even so it would go into Miss Malti's hands. The medicine for your heart's ache lies, after all, with Miss Malti."

Malti gave a kick. "See here, Mirza ji — kicking about in the stable is not a good thing."

The Mirza wagged his tail. "I hold my ears, Devi ji!"

Mr Tankha was searched. Barely ten rupees came out; from Mehta's pocket only an eight-anna piece. Several gentlemen gave one or two rupees themselves. When the account was added up, there was a shortfall of three hundred. This shortfall Rai Sahib made up with generosity.

The editor had eaten his dried fruit and fruit, and was just straightening his back, when Rai Sahib went and said, "Miss Malti is remembering you."

Pleased, he said, "Miss Malti is remembering me — what good fortune!" Along with Rai Sahib he came and seated himself in the hall.

Over there the servants had cleared the tables. Malti came forward and welcomed him.

The editor showed his modesty. "Be seated, do not stand on ceremony. I am not so great a man."

Malti said in a tone full of reverence, "You will think it ceremony; I think that I am increasing my own honour. You may, indeed, count yourself nothing — and that very thing becomes you — but all the gentlemen gathered here are well acquainted with your service to the nation and to literature. The important work you have done in this field — though people may not yet understand its value, that time is not far off — I would say that time has come — when in every city roads will be made in your name, clubs will be founded, your portraits will be hung in town halls. Whatever little awakening there now is, it is the gift of your great labours. It will please you to learn that there are now in the country such followers of yours as are eager to lend you their hand in your village-reform movement, and those gentlemen have a great desire that this work should be done in an organized form, and that a Village Reform Association should be established, of which you should be the president."

This was the first occasion in Onkarnath's life that he had received so much honour among men of the topmost rank. True, he sometimes spoke at public gatherings, and was the secretary and assistant secretary of several societies, but educated society had until now only slighted him. He could in no way mingle among those people, and so at public gatherings he used to complain of their inactivity and their self-interested blindness, and in his paper he used to lay into them one by one. His pen was sharp, his speech harsh; in the place of plain speaking he would fall into unruliness, and so people regarded him as an empty drum. In that very society, today, so much honour for him! Where are they now — the editors of Swaraj and Swadhin Bharat and Hunter — let them come and see, and cool their hearts. Today, surely, the gods looked upon him with favour. Right effort never goes fruitless — it is the saying of the sages. He rose in his own eyes. Thrilling with gratitude, he said, "Devi ji, you are dragging me through thorns. Whatever little service I did to the public, I did regarding it as my duty. I regard this honour not as the honour of an individual, but as the honour of that aim to which I have dedicated my life; but my humble submission is that the office of president should be given to some man of influence. I do not believe in offices. I am a servant, and I wish to serve."

Miss Malti could in no way accept this. The president pandit ji would have to become. In the city she could see no other man so influential. He in whose pen there is magic, in whose tongue there is magic, in whose very personality there is magic — how can he say that he is not influential? That age is gone when wealth and influence went together. Now is the age when talent and influence go together. The editor would certainly have to accept this office. Miss Malti would be secretary. For this society a subscription of a thousand had already been gathered, and the whole city and province still lay before them. Four or five lakhs would be a commonplace thing to get.

A kind of intoxication began to mount over Onkarnath. The sort of fluttering thrill that was rising in his mind took on the form of grave responsibility. He said, "But understand this much, Miss Malti — that this is a work of great responsibility, and you will have to give it much of your time. For my part I assure you that you will find me present in the assembly hall before anyone else."

The Mirza added a flourish. "Even your greatest enemy cannot say that you have ever lagged behind anyone in discharging your debt."

Miss Malti saw that the liquor had begun to take some effect, and so, becoming graver still, she said, "If we had not understood the greatness of this work, then neither would this society have been founded, nor would you be its president. We could make some man of the gentry or some landholder the president and gather wealth in plenty, and under cover of service accomplish our own self-interest; but that is not our aim. Our one and only aim is to serve the public. And the greatest instrument of that is your paper. We have resolved that it shall be promoted in every city and village, and that as quickly as possible its number of subscribers shall be brought up to twenty thousand. The chairmen of all the municipalities and district boards of the province are our friends. Several chairmen are seated here at this very moment. If each one were to take even five hundred copies, then you may count twenty-five thousand copies as a certainty. Then Rai Sahib and Mirza Sahib are of this opinion — that a resolution on this subject should be placed before the Council, that for every village one copy of Bijli should be ordered by the government, or that some annual grant be approved; and we have full confidence that this resolution will be passed."

Onkarnath, as though swaying in his intoxication, said, "We shall have to take a deputation to the Governor."

Mirza Khurshed said, "Certainly, certainly!"

"We shall have to tell him how great a matter of shame and disgrace it is for any civilized government that, though it is the one and only paper for village uplift, even the existence of Bijli is not acknowledged."

Mirza Khurshed said, "Surely, surely!"

"I take no pride. The time for pride has not yet come; but I do lay claim to this — that the labour Bijli has performed for village organization —"

Mr Mehta corrected him. "No, sir — say austerity."

"I thank Mr Mehta. Yes, it should indeed be called austerity — a very hard austerity. The austerity that Bijli has performed is unprecedented in the history not only of this province but of this nation."

Mirza Khurshed said, "Surely, surely!"

Miss Malti gave one more peg. "Our Association has also resolved this — that for the seat which falls vacant in the Council this time, you should be put up as a candidate. You will have only to give your consent. All the rest of the work the people will do. You need have no concern with expense, nor with propaganda, nor with running about."

The light in Onkarnath's eyes doubled. With proud humility he said, "I am the servant of you all; take from me whatever work you wish."

"It is just such hope that we have of you. We have grown weary, until now, of rubbing our noses before false gods, and nothing has come to hand. Now we have found in you a true guide, a true teacher. And in the joy of this auspicious day, today we ought, of one mind and one soul, to throw to the winds our pride and our conceit. From today there is among us no Brahmin, no Shudra, no Hindu, no Muslim, none high, none low. We are all the children of one mother, playmates of one lap, brothers who eat from one platter. For those who believe in distinction and discrimination, for those who are worshippers of separateness and bigotry, there is no place in our society. In a society whose president is so large-hearted a man as the venerable Onkarnath, there can be no distinction of high and low, of food and drink, of caste and clan. Those gentlemen who do not believe in unity and in nationality, let them be so good as to rise and go from here."

Rai Sahib raised a doubt. "In my view, this is not the meaning of unity — that all people should give up their scruples over food and drink. I do not drink liquor; must I then withdraw from this society?"

Malti said in a pitiless tone, "Without a doubt you will have to withdraw. Remaining in this Association, you cannot keep any kind of distinction."

Mehta tapped the pitcher. "I suspect that our president himself does not believe in unity of food and drink."

Onkarnath's face turned pale. What untimely flute had this rascal struck up? Let not the scoundrel begin digging up buried corpses — otherwise all this good fortune would dissolve like a dream into emptiness.

Miss Malti, looking at his face with a questioning gaze, said firmly, "Your suspicion is groundless, Mehta Mahoday! Do you think that so unique a worshipper of the nation's unity, so generous-minded a man, so refined a poet, would hold this meaningless and shameful distinction worthy? To raise such a doubt is to insult his nationality."

Onkarnath's face grew radiant. The glow of pleasure and satisfaction shone forth.

Malti said in that same tone, "And, even more than that, it would be an insult to his manly feeling. Receiving the cup of liquor from the hands of a woman, what gentleman would there be who would refuse it? That would be an insult to womankind — to that womankind by whose arrow-glances every man longs to have his heart pierced, upon whose gestures the greatest of monarchs remain eager to die. Bring the bottle and the glasses, and let the round go on. On this great occasion, any kind of doubt, any kind of objection, is nothing less than treason to the nation. First we shall drink the toast to the health of our president."

Ice, liquor, and soda were ready from before. Malti, with her own hands, gave Onkarnath a glass filled with red poison, and looked at him with such a magic-laden glance that all his orthodoxy, all his varna-superiority, evaporated. His mind said: all conduct and observance is subject to circumstance. Today you are poor; you see a motor-car raising the dust, and you grow so vexed that you would smash it to pieces with stones — but is there not in your mind the longing for a car? Circumstance is itself the law, and nothing else. If forefathers and grandfathers did not drink, let them not have drunk. When did such an occasion ever come to them? Their livelihood was on books and papers. Where would they bring liquor from, and even if they drank it, where would they go? Besides, they did not ride on the railway train, they did not drink the water of the tap, they thought reading English a sin. How greatly the times have changed. If you cannot walk along with the times, then they will leave you behind and go on. If poison even should be received from the soft hands of such a lady, it ought to be borne upon one's head. The good fortune for which great kings yearn stands today before him. Can he spurn it?

He took the glass, and, bowing his head to show his gratitude, drank it down at a single breath; and then he looked at the people with proud eyes, as though saying, "Now you have come to trust me. What did you think — that I was a mere stupid pandit? Now you cannot have the boldness to call me a hypocrite and a sham."

Such an uproar arose in the hall — do not ask — as though peals of laughter shut up in a basket had burst out! Bravo, Devi ji! What is there to say! Marvellous, Miss Malti, marvellous! She has broken it — broken the salt law, broken the fortress of religion, smashed the pitcher of observance!

No sooner had the liquor reached down below Onkarnath's throat than his refinement became eloquent. He smiled and said —

"I have given over the trust of my religion into the soft hands of Miss Malti, and I am confident that she will guard it as is fitting. Upon this gift of her lotus-feet I could offer up a thousand such religions."

The hall rang with peals of laughter.

The editor's face had swelled; his eyes kept falling shut. Filling a second glass, he said, "This is the toast to the health of Miss Malti. Let you all drink and give her your blessing."

The people again emptied their glasses.

At that very moment Mirza Khurshed brought a garland and placed it round the editor's neck and said, "Gentlemen, your humble servant has just composed an ode in praise of our venerable president sahib. If you all give permission, I shall recite it."

Voices came from all sides — "Yes, yes, certainly recite it."

Onkarnath used to drink bhang every other day, and his brain had become accustomed to it; but this was his first occasion of drinking liquor. The intoxication of bhang came on at a slow pace, like a dream, and spread over the brain like a cloud. His consciousness remained. He himself was aware that at such times his speech was very flowing and ornate, and his imagination very powerful. The intoxication of liquor pounced upon him like a lion and seized him. He says one thing, but something else comes out of his mouth. Then even this awareness departed. What he said and what he did — of this there was no recollection at all. This was not the romantic strangeness of a dream; it was that whirl of waking, in which the formed becomes the formless.

There is no knowing how it was that this fancy awoke in his brain — that to recite an ode was some great and improper thing. Banging his hand on the table, he said, "No, never. Here no ode will be recited, no ode. We are the president. It is our order. We can break up this whole gathering this very moment. This very moment we can break it up. We can throw everyone out. No one can do anything to us. We are the president. There is no other president."

The Mirza folded his hands and said, "Huzoor, in this ode you yourself are being praised."

The editor looked with red but lustreless eyes. "Why did you praise us? Why did you? Speak — why did you praise us? We are no one's servant. We are no one's father's servant; we do not eat the bread given by any brother-in-law. We are an editor ourself. We are the editor of Bijli. We will praise everyone in it. Devi ji, we will not praise you. We are no great man. We are everyone's slave. We are the dust of your feet. Malti Devi is our Lakshmi, our Saraswati, our Radha —"

Saying this, he bent towards Malti's feet and fell flat on his face on the floor. Mirza Khurshed ran and steadied him, and, moving the chairs aside, laid him down right there on the ground. Then, bringing his mouth close to his ears, he said, "Ram, Ram is truth! Shall we, if you so order, carry out your bier?"

Rai Sahib said, "Tomorrow you will see how he carries on. He will lay into every one of us in his paper. And he will lay into us so that you too will remember it! He is the one scoundrel — he shows mercy to no one. In writing, indeed, none can match him. How so foolish a man can write so well is a mystery."

Several men lifted up the editor and carried him off and laid him down in his room. Over in the pavilion the breaking of the bow was being performed. Several times men had come to call these people. Several officials too had arrived in the pavilion. People were getting ready to go over there, when suddenly an Afghan came and stood there. A fair complexion, great moustaches, a tall stature, a broad chest, his eyes filled with the frenzy of fearlessness; a loose, low-hanging tunic, salwar trousers on his legs, a brocaded waistcoat, a turban and cap on his head, a leather bag slung from his shoulders, a gun resting on his shoulder, and a sword bound at his waist — from no one knew where, he came and stood, and roared out, "Beware! Let no one go from here. There has been a robbery upon one of our men. Whoever is the chief here, he has plundered our man; you will have to give back his goods. Every single cowrie you will have to give. Where is the chief — call him!"

Rai Sahib came forward and said in a tone full of anger, "What plunder? What robbery? This is the work of you people. Here no one plunders anyone. Speak plainly — what is the matter?"

The Afghan rolled his eyes, and, banging the butt of his gun on the ground, said, "He asks us, what plunder, what robbery? You plunder, your man plunders. We are the master of the trading-house here. In our house there are twenty-five young men. Our man came collecting the money. One thousand. That you plundered, and he says, what robbery? We will show what robbery is. Our twenty-five young men come this very moment. We will plunder your village. No scoundrel can do anything, can do nothing."

When Khanna saw the Afghan's frowns, he quietly rose to slip away. The chief shouted at him loudly, "Where do you go? No one can go anywhere, or else we will slaughter everyone. We will fire this very moment. You can do nothing to us. We are not afraid of your police. The police-man runs at the sight of our face. We have our own consul; we can write him a letter and go to the Lord Sahib. We will let no one go from here. You plundered one thousand rupees of ours. If you do not give back our money, then we will leave no one alive. All you men plunder the goods of others, and here you drink liquor with your beloved."

Miss Malti, dodging his eye, began to leave the room, when, swooping down like a falcon, he came and stood before her and said, "You get our goods given back from these rascals, or else we will carry you off to our trading-house and hold a feast. We have fallen in love with your beauty. Either give us one thousand this very instant, or you will have to come with us. We will not let you go. We have become your lover. Our heart and liver are bursting. We have twenty-five young men in this place. In this district five hundred of our young men work. We are the khan of our tribe. In our tribe there are ten thousand soldiers. We can fight the Amir of Kabul. The English Government gives us twenty thousand a year in tribute. If you do not give our money, then we will plunder the village and carry off your beloved. We find delight in murder. We will set a river of blood flowing."

A terror spread over the gathering. Miss Malti forgot her chirping. Khanna's calves were trembling. The poor man, from fear of knocks and bruises, lived in a one-storey bungalow. To climb a staircase was for him no less than mounting the gallows. Even in the heat he slept in a downstairs room out of fear. Rai Sahib had the pride of a thakur. He thought it laughable to be frightened, in his own village, by a single Pathan; but what could he do about that gun? If he gave the slightest backtalk, this man would fire the gun. Brutes they all are, and how unfailing the aim of such men is — if there had not been a gun in his hand, Rai Sahib would have been ready even to lock horns with him. The difficulty was just this — that the scoundrel let no one go outside. Otherwise, in no time at all the whole village would have gathered and beaten his entire band to a pulp.

At last he steeled his heart, and, putting his life at stake, said, "We have told you that we are no thieves or robbers. I am a member of the Council here, and this Devi ji is a renowned doctor of Lucknow. All here are respectable and honourable people. We have not the slightest knowledge of who plundered your men. Go and lodge a report at the police station."

The khan stamped his foot on the ground, changed his fighting stance, and, taking the gun down from his shoulders into his hand, thundered, "Do not babble. A member of the Council we crush like this beneath our feet" — he ground his foot on the ground — "our hand is strong, our heart is strong, we are afraid of no one but God Almighty. If you do not give our money, then we" — gesturing towards Rai Sahib — "will slaughter you this very moment."

Seeing the twin barrels of the gun towards himself, Rai Sahib bent down level with the table. His life was caught in a strange calamity. The devil kept saying by force, "You have plundered our money." He neither listened to anything, nor understood anything, nor let anyone go in or out. The servants and attendants, the constables and orderlies, were all absorbed in watching the breaking of the bow. The servants of landlords are lazy and work-shy in any case; until they are called ten times over they do not even answer, and at this moment they were engaged in an auspicious work. The breaking of the bow was for them not merely a show but the play of God. If even one man had come this way, the constables would have got word, and in a moment all the khan's khan-hood would have been knocked out of him, every single hair of his beard plucked out. How short-tempered he is. And they are veritable executioners. No grief at dying, no joy at living.

He said to Mirza Sahib in English, "Now what should we do?"

Mirza Sahib looked at him with astonished eyes. "What can I say? My wits are not working at all. Today I left my pistol at home, otherwise I would have given him a taste of it."

Khanna, making a tearful face, said, "Give him some money, and somehow get rid of this calamity."

Rai Sahib looked towards Malti. "Devi ji, what is your advice now?"

Malti's face was flushed. She said, "What will happen? Such an insult is being done to me, and you people sit watching! In the presence of twenty men, one boorish Pathan is bringing me to such a sorry state, and not the slightest heat comes into your blood! Is your life so dear to you? Why does one man not go outside and raise a clamour? Why do you not all pounce upon him and snatch the gun from his hand? He will only fire the gun, after all? Let him fire it. Only one or two lives will be lost? Let them be lost."

But what Devi ji thought so easy — to die — others did not think so. If a man should again venture to go outside, and the Pathan in his rage should let off five or ten shots, then there would be a clean sweep here. At most, the police would sentence him to hang. But even that — who knew? He was the chief of a great tribe. In hanging him, even the government would think and reconsider. Pressure would come from above. Before politics, who pays heed to justice? It would be no wonder if cases were instead filed against us, and a punitive police force stationed here. How merrily the jest and laughter had been going on. By now they would have been enjoying the drama. This devil had come and raised a new calamity, and it seemed that he would not be satisfied without committing one or two murders.

Khanna rebuked Malti. "Devi ji, you scold us as though to protect one's own life were some sin. The clinging to life exists in every creature, and if it exists in us too, it is no shame. That you should think our lives so cheap — to see this grieves me. It is a matter of only a thousand. You have a thousand had for free; why do you not give it and send him off? You are getting yourself insulted; what fault is that of ours?"

Rai Sahib said heatedly, "If he lays a hand on Devi ji, then though my corpse should be left writhing right here, I will grapple with him. After all, he too is only a man."

Mirza Sahib shook his head with doubt and said, "Rai Sahib, you are not yet acquainted with the temper of these men. If he begins to fire, then he will leave no one alive. Their aim is unerring."

Poor Mr Tankha had come to settle the problem of the coming election. He had been dreaming of going home after pocketing ten or five thousand. Here his very life had fallen into peril. He said, "The simplest course is the very one Khanna ji has just suggested. It is only a matter of a thousand, and the money is present; why are you all thinking and reconsidering so much?"

Miss Malti looked at Tankha with eyes full of scorn.

"I did not think you people were such cowards."

"And I did not think that money was so dear to you — and that, money had for free!"

"When you people can watch my insult, then you could watch the insult of the women of your own homes too?"

"Then you too would not hesitate, for the sake of money, to offer up the men of your own home."

The khan, all this while, had been listening, half-fuming, to the gabble of these people. All at once he roared out, "We will not endure it any more now. We have stood here so long, you people give no answer." Taking a whistle from his pocket, he said, "We give you one moment more; if you do not give the money, then we will blow the whistle, and our twenty-five young men will come here. That is all!"

Then, filling his eyes with the flame of love, he looked at Miss Malti.

"You will come with us, sweetheart! We will be ravished over you. We will lay our life at your feet. So many men are your lovers, but not one is a true lover. What true love is, we will show. At a single gesture from you, we can plunge a dagger into our own breast."

The Mirza said in a whining voice, "Devi ji, for God's sake give this wretch the money."

Khanna, folding his hands, begged, "Have mercy on us, Miss Malti!"

Rai Sahib said, drawing himself up, "Never. Whatever is to happen today, let it happen. Either we shall die ourselves, or we shall teach these tyrants a lesson for all time."

Tankha admonished Rai Sahib. "To enter a lion's den is no bravery. I consider it folly."

But Miss Malti's feelings were quite otherwise. The khan's longing-bright eyes had reassured her, and now in this affair she was finding the delight of recklessness. Her heart, after staying a while among these gentlemen, was yearning to taste the delight of his barbaric love. She had already had experience of the weakness and lifelessness of civilized love. Today her mind was running towards the frenzied love of the rough, uncouth Pathans, as one runs, after enjoying the delight of music, to watch a fight of maddened elephants.

Going up before the khan sahib, she said in an undismayed manner, "You will not get the money."

The khan, stretching out his hand, said, "Then we will carry you off as plunder."

"From among so many men you cannot carry me off."

"We can carry you off from among a thousand men."

"You will have to lose your life over it."

"For our beloved we can have every morsel of our flesh torn off."

He caught Malti's hand and pulled it. At that very moment Hori set foot in the room. He had been playing the gardener of Raja Janak, and his acting had set the villagers rolling with laughter. He had thought, why have the masters not yet come? Let them too come and see how skilful the village folk are in this work. Let their friends and acquaintances see too. How was he to call the master? He had been searching for an opportunity, and the moment he got the chance, he came running here; but, on seeing the scene here, he stood thunderstruck. Everyone, keeping silent, trembling, was watching the khan with timid eyes, and the khan was pulling Malti towards himself. His natural good sense formed a guess of the situation. At that very moment Rai Sahib called out, "Hori, run and go fetch the constables — quick, run!"

Hori had just turned back when the khan, levelling the gun in front of him, shouted, "Where do you go? Pig — we will shoot you."

Hori was a rustic. At the sight of a red turban his life would flee out of him; but at a maddened bull he would fall on with a staff. He was no coward — he knew both how to strike and how to die; but against the tricks of the police nothing of his ever availed. Why go about bound hand and foot? Where was he to bring the bribe-money from? With whom was he to leave his children? But when the master gave the call, then what fear of anyone? Then he could leap even into the mouth of death.

He sprang and caught the khan round the waist, and tripped him with such a hook that the khan went sprawling flat on his back on the ground and began to swear curses in Pashto. Hori climbed up onto his chest and, gripping his beard, pulled hard. The beard came away into his hand. The khan at once flung off his cap and, exerting himself, stood up. Why — this is Mr Mehta! Bravo!

People surrounded Mehta from all sides. Some embraced him round the neck, some patted him on the back, and on Mr Mehta's face there was neither laughter nor pride; he stood quiet, as though nothing at all had happened.

Malti said with feigned anger, "Where did you learn this play-acting? My heart is still going pit-a-pat."

Mehta said, smiling, "I was just testing the manliness of these good gentlemen. Whatever rudeness there has been, forgive it."