26

When Gora set out on his travels, four companions accompanied him — Abinash, Motilal, Basanta, and Ramapati. But they could not keep pace with his relentless vigour. Abinash and Basanta, pleading ill health as their excuse, returned to Calcutta within four or five days. Out of sheer devotion to Gora, Motilal and Ramapati could not bring themselves to abandon him and go. Yet their sufferings were without limit; for Gora was never wearied by walking, nor was he averse to settling in any one place for a while. In whatever villager’s home he was given shelter as a Brahmin guest — however inconvenient the food and the arrangements — he would pass day after day contentedly. The whole village would gather around him to hear his talk; no one wished to let him go.

It was for the first time that Gora saw what our country truly was, beyond the world of the respectable, the educated, and Calcutta society. This vast, secluded, rural India — how fragmented it was, how narrow, how weak; how utterly unconscious of its own strength, how completely ignorant and indifferent to the question of its own welfare; how absolute was the social gulf that separated one community from another at every five to seven leagues; how thoroughly it was thwarted in its forward movement by the obstacles it had fashioned for itself out of imagination; how enormously it magnified trifles, and how immovably rigid every custom and inherited notion was in its eyes; how deeply its mind slumbered, how faint its vitality, how feeble its effort — all this Gora could never have conceived had he not lived among the village people in this manner. While Gora was staying in one village, a fire broke out in a certain quarter. That even in so great a crisis the people possessed so little power to band together and fight the calamity with all their strength came as a shock to him. Everyone ran about, shouted, wept — but nothing was done in any ordered fashion. There was no pond or tank near that quarter; women fetched water from a distance every day for their household needs, yet even those who were well-to-do had never once thought of digging a simple well at modest cost to ease that daily hardship. In earlier times, too, fire had broken out in that quarter from time to time; everyone had simply accepted it as a visitation of fate and remained inactive, never making any effort to secure a supply of water nearby. When the power of perception concerning even the most immediate needs of the neighbourhood was so astonishingly numb, any discussion of the country’s wider concerns struck Gora as mockery. Most astonishing of all to him was that Motilal and Ramapati remained entirely unmoved by all these scenes and events; indeed, they seemed to consider Gora’s indignation misplaced. That the lower orders lived in just such a manner, thought in just such a way, and did not regard such hardships as hardships at all — that anything other than this was even possible for them — to imagine otherwise seemed to them an extravagance. The thought of how terrible and enormous was this weight of ignorance, inertia, and suffering — and how this burden pressed down upon the shoulders of all of us, educated and uneducated, rich and poor alike, allowing none to advance — now became clear to Gora and tormented his mind day and night.

Motilal received word of an illness at home and took his leave; of Gora’s companions, only Ramapati now remained.

As the two walked on together, they came at length to a Muslim settlement on a sandbar by the river. Seeking a place to receive hospitality, they searched through the entire village and found just one Hindu household — that of a barber. When the two Brahmins went to take shelter there, they found the old barber and his wife rearing a Muslim boy. Ramapati, who was extremely devout, was greatly agitated. When Gora rebuked the barber for this transgression of propriety, the old man replied, “Master, we say Hari, they say Allah — there is no difference.”

The sun was now blazing fiercely — a vast expanse of sand, the river far away. Ramapati, tormented by thirst, said, “Where is one to find water fit for a Hindu to drink?”

There was a mud-lined well in the barber’s compound — but Ramapati could not bring himself to drink from a well belonging to a household that had strayed from righteous ways, and sat with a despondent face.

Gora asked, “Has this boy no father or mother?”

The barber replied, “He has both, but it is as if he has neither.”

Gora said, “How so?”

The account the barber then gave amounted to this —

The zamindari in which they lived was under lease to indigo planters. There was no end to the disputes between the indigo factory and the ryots over the fields on the sandbar. All the other ryots had submitted, but the people of this Char-Ghoshpur had never been brought to heel by the planters. The ryots here were all Muslims, and their headman, Farru Sardar, feared no one. On two occasions, in the course of trouble with the indigo factory, he had beaten the police and served terms in gaol; his circumstances had become such that it could almost be said there was no food in his house — yet he had never learned to be cowed. The villagers had this season cultivated the newly formed sandbar of the river and obtained some winter paddy; now, about a month past, the manager of the indigo factory had come in person with his lathial retainers and plundered the ryots’ grain. In the course of that outrage, Farru Sardar had dealt the sahib’s right arm such a blow that it had been taken to hospital and the arm amputated. So audacious a deed had never before occurred in that region. Since then, the oppression of the police had spread from quarter to quarter like wildfire — nothing was left in anyone’s house; the honour of the women of the village was no longer safe. Farru Sardar and a great many others had been held in custody; most of the village men had become fugitives. Farru’s family was today without food; indeed, the single cloth he had to cover himself was in such a state that he could not step outside his door; his only son, a young boy named Tamij, used to address the barber’s wife as his village-aunt; seeing the child unfed, the barber’s wife had brought him into her own home and was raising him. The indigo factory’s kachery was about a league and a half away, where the darogha still remained with his men; no one knew when he might descend on the village or what he might do in the guise of investigation. The day before, police had descended on the house of old Nazim, the barber’s neighbour. A young nephew of Nazim’s, come from another district to visit his sister, had been struck by the darogha for no reason whatsoever — “the fellow is quite the strapping lad, look at his chest on him” — with the stick in his hand, a jab so hard it knocked out a tooth and drew blood; and when the man’s sister ran forward in distress at this assault, the darogha pushed the old woman down. In earlier times the police had not dared to commit such excesses in this quarter, but now all the sturdy young men of the village were either arrested or in flight. Using the search for those fugitives as a pretext, the police continued to terrorise the village. When this affliction would pass, no one could say.

Gora was disinclined to rise and go, while Ramapati was ready to give up the ghost. Before the barber had even finished his narrative, he asked, “How far away is a Hindu quarter?”

The barber replied, “About a league and a half away, where the indigo factory’s kachery stands — the tahsildar there is a Brahmin, one Madhab Chatujje.”

Gora asked, “And his character?”

The barber said, “Fit to be called Yama’s own messenger. So cruel and yet so cunning a man is rarely to be found. The darogha he has been harbouring these past few days — all the expense of that he will wring out of us, and keep a handsome profit for himself besides.”

Ramapati said, “Gaur Babu, let us go — I cannot bear it any longer.” And particularly when the barber’s wife stood the Muslim boy near the compound well and, drawing water with a pot, began bathing him, Ramapati felt such strong revulsion that he had no inclination whatsoever to remain in that house.

As Gora was leaving, he asked the barber, “In the midst of all this trouble, you have stayed on in this quarter? Have you no kinsmen elsewhere?”

The barber replied, “I have lived here a long time; an affection for these people has grown in me. I am a Hindu barber — I have no land worth speaking of, so the factory people do not lay hands on me. Today there is hardly a grown man left in this quarter; if I go, the women will die of fear.”

Gora said, “Very well. I shall return once I have eaten.”

In his extremity of hunger and thirst, this long account of the indigo factory’s oppression only made Ramapati angry at the villagers themselves. That these wretches had dared to raise their heads against the powerful seemed to him the height of recklessness and stupidity on the part of obstinate Muslims. He had no doubt that it would be altogether for the best if this insolence were crushed by the proper exercise of authority. Trouble with the police was exactly what such good-for-nothing fellows could expect, and what they had brought upon themselves — that was his conviction. Why raise an uproar? Why not settle matters with the master? Where had all their defiance got them now? In truth, Ramapati’s inner sympathies lay entirely with the indigo planter.

Walking on under the blazing noonday sun over the scorching sand, Gora did not speak a single word the entire way. Then, when the roof of the kachery-building could be seen at some distance through the trees, Gora suddenly turned to Ramapati and said, “Ramapati, you go and eat — I am going back to that barber’s house.”

Ramapati said, “What is this! Will you not eat? Come, eat something at Chatujje’s place, then go.”

Gora replied, “I shall do my duty. Now you eat and make your way back to Calcutta — I may need to stay on at Char-Ghoshpur for some days — that is not something you will be able to bear.”

Ramapati’s skin crept with horror. He could not fathom how a man as pious a Hindu as Gora could speak of dwelling in the house of these impure people. He began to wonder whether Gora had resolved upon a fast unto death, renouncing all food and drink. But this was no time for reflection; every moment felt to him an age; he needed little urging to abandon Gora’s company and flee to Calcutta. For a brief moment Ramapati looked back — Gora’s tall frame, casting a short shadow, walked alone through the scorching, sun-baked, deserted sand under the fierce midday glare, turning back the way they had come.

Hunger and thirst had overwhelmed Gora, but the more he thought that he would have to accept the hospitality of the corrupt and evil Madhab Chatujje to preserve his caste, the more insupportable it seemed. His face and eyes flushed red, his head grew hot, and a fierce rebellion rose within his mind. He thought: ‘What a terrible sin we are committing in India by making purity an outward thing! My caste will remain intact in the house of the very man who is harassing Muslims by inviting oppression upon them — and my caste will be lost in the house of the man who, in the face of that oppression, is protecting a Muslim’s son and is ready to bear the censure of society besides! Be that as it may — I shall think later about whether this observance is right or wrong. But just now I could not do it.’

The barber was astonished to see Gora returning alone. Gora came in and first scoured the barber’s brass pot with his own hands, drew water from the well and drank, then said — if there is any rice and lentil in the house, give them to me and I shall cook my own meal. The barber bustled about and arranged everything for the cooking. When Gora had eaten, he said, “I shall stay with you here for a few days.”

The barber joined his palms in alarm and said, “That you should honour this lowly dwelling with your presence — there is no greater fortune for me. But see, sir, the police have their eye upon us; if you stay, there is no telling what trouble may come of it.”

Gora replied, “If I am here, the police will not dare to commit any outrage. If they do, I shall protect you.”

The barber said, “I implore you, sir — if you try to protect us, there will be no protecting us at all. Those fellows will think I myself have plotted to bring you here and arrange witnesses against them. I have managed to hold on somehow all this time; I shall hold on no longer. If I too am forced to leave this place, the village will be utterly ruined.”

Gora had grown up all his life in the city; it was difficult for him to understand why the barber was so frightened. He believed that if one stood firm on the side of justice, injustice could be remedied by force. His sense of duty would not allow him to leave a village in distress without help. The barber then fell at his feet and said, “See, sir, you are a Brahmin — by some merit of mine you have come as a guest to my house, and I am guilty in asking you to leave. But knowing that you have compassion for us, I say this: if, while staying under my roof, you offer any opposition to the police, you will place me in very great danger.”

Gora, considering the barber’s fear to be groundless cowardice, left the house somewhat irritably in the afternoon. A certain dissatisfaction began to stir within him at the thought that he had eaten and rested in the house of this man who had strayed from righteous ways. Tired in body and vexed in spirit, he came to the indigo factory’s kachery as evening fell. Ramapati, having eaten, had not delayed a moment before setting off for Calcutta, so there was no finding him there. Madhab Chatujje received Gora with great cordiality and pressed him to accept his hospitality. Gora, blazing with sudden fury, replied, “I will not take so much as a drop of water in your house.”

As soon as Madhab asked in astonishment for the reason, Gora denounced him as a wrongdoer and an oppressor, and remained standing without taking a seat. The darogha had been reclining on a plank-bed, leaning against a bolster and drawing on a hookah. He sat up straight and asked roughly, “Who are you? Where is your home?”

Without answering him, Gora said, “You are the darogha, I take it? I have gathered full particulars of all the outrages you have committed on Char-Ghoshpur. If you do not mend your ways —”

Darogha. Are you going to have me hanged? Well, well — this is no ordinary fellow, I see. I had thought he was come to beg; and here he scowls at me! — Oi, Tewari!

Madhab jumped up anxiously, seized the darogha by the arm, and said, “Hush, what are you doing — he is a gentleman; do not insult him.”

The darogha flared up and said, “What manner of gentleman! He said whatever he pleased to you — is that not an insult?”

Madhab said, “What he has said is not untrue — so what use is there in being angry? I earn my bread as a servant of the indigo factory — nothing more need be said about that. Do not be angry, brother — you are the police darogha; is it an insult to call you Yama’s own bailiff? A tiger kills and eats men — he is no Vaishnava; that is a known thing. What can one do — he must eat, after all.”

No one had ever seen Madhab display anger without cause. Who could say from which man, at what moment, some service might be obtained — or, if estranged, what harm might be done? He calculated very carefully before causing anyone injury or dishonour — he did not waste the power to strike another in senseless outbursts of temper.

The darogha then said to Gora, “Look here, friend, we have come here on government business; if you say a word against it or cause any trouble, you will find yourself in difficulties.”

Without a word, Gora walked out of the room. Madhab hurried after him and said, “Sir, what you say is correct — this butcher’s work of ours — and that darogha fellow you see there, it is a sin to sit on the same bed as him — the foul deeds I have had done through him, I cannot even name them with my lips. Not much longer now — two or three years more of this, and I shall have enough set aside to marry off my daughters; after that, my wife and I will go and settle in Kashi. I have no heart for this any more, sir — at times I feel like hanging myself! Be that as it may — where will you go tonight? Stay here, eat, and rest. You need not go near that accursed darogha at all; I shall make all separate arrangements for you.”

Gora’s hunger was greater than the ordinary — he had not eaten properly that morning either — but his whole body seemed to be on fire; he could not stay there on any account, and said, “I have pressing business.”

Madhab said, “Very well then, Rasun — let me send a lantern along with you.”

Without a word in reply, Gora walked away at a rapid pace.

Madhab returned inside and said, “Brother, that man has gone to the district headquarters. Send a man to the Magistrate at once.”

The darogha asked, “Why — what is to be done?”

Madhab said, “Nothing much — just let it be known that a gentleman has come from somewhere and is going about trying to suborn witnesses.”