Though both Madan Mohan’s parents were Brahmins, they had discarded Brahmin practices and Westernized themselves. It was his father Hari Mohan Pandey’s doing. He had made it to the Indian Civil Service the very first time he took the exam in Delhi, and thus found his way to England in the year 1928. In the one year of probation in Oxford, he had snipped off his topknot and discarded his sacred thread, the janeu. He had also committed the abominable crime of eating beef, and while in England, openly boasted to other Indian students, ‘If you like to eat meat, there is nothing tastier than a juicy beefsteak. Try it with a glass of red vintage wine and you’ll know what I mean.’ He often quoted a Punjabi adage: ‘Let it starve to death but do not kill it. Let vultures eat it but not mankind. Blessed be the Hindus, blessed their sacred cow.’ Back home in India, however, he abjured eating beef. He explained: ‘Here the cow is our mother, we drink its milk. We cannot kill and eat our gau mata. It is different in Europe. European cows are not sacred.’ Everyone agreed that he was a clever, pragmatic young man who had a bright future as a bureaucrat of the Raj.
A young bachelor in the ICS was the most sought-after groom by parents of unmarried daughters. Hari Mohan had lost both his parents shortly after his return from Oxford, so the decision was entirely his own. He settled for Parvati Joshi, a convent-educated daughter of a Brahmin family who owned the largest department store in Delhi. She brought a huge dowry and was a docile girl willing to adapt herself to the European lifestyle of her husband, even when she wasn’t entirely comfortable with it. Madan Mohan, their only child, was born a year after their marriage. Though the Pandeys had little faith in horoscopes, Parvati’s father, Satyanand Joshi, had one cast for his grandson a few days after he was born. No one bothered to read it. Parvati simply rolled up the parchment, tied it up with a red ribbon and put it away in the safe in which she kept her jewellery.
By the time Madan Mohan started going to nursery school, it became evident that he had a mind of his own and was not going to be dictated to by his parents. His father insisted that everyone in the family speak in English because it was the language of the rulers and the future language of the world. Hindi or Hindustani was only meant to give orders to the servants or communicate with illiterate people. But little Madan Mohan persisted in speaking Hindi. His mother agreed and spoke in Hindi to him. His father refused to do so and hardly ever spoke to him. Madan Mohan’s parents ate their meals with fork and knife; he wanted to eat with his fingers and threw a tantrum if he was not allowed to. Hari Mohan blamed his father-in-law, a pious and proud Brahmin, for his son’s native ways, since the boy spent a lot of time with his grandfather who lived a short walk away on Curzon Road. Hari Mohan gave his servants strict instructions that Chhotey Sahib was not to be taken to Curzon Road, not even when their Mataji went over to meet her parents. But he could do nothing about Satyanand Joshi’s visits to his own house when he was away on work, or in bed, two evenings a week, with the sisters Rasoolan and Akhtari of Chandni Chowk.
After nursery school, Madan Mohan was sent to the English-medium Modern School. But it was not English to which he paid much attention but Hindi, Sanskrit and mathematics. He did better in studies than his father. While his father’s performance had been consistently above average through school, Madan Mohan excelled in every subject, including English. Hari Mohan was secretly proud of his son’s scholarly achievements and was certain that if the boy sat for the Civil Services examination, he would make it without much difficulty. But he was not at all certain whether or not the boy would agree to sit for the exam. While still at school he had started talking of Gandhi in reverential tones, and had his school uniform made of the handspun khadi yarn that Gandhi was propagating.
After passing his matriculation, topping the Delhi list as everyone expected him to, instead of joining the prestigious St Stephen’s College, Madan Mohan opted for Hindu College. ‘I am a Hindu,’ he told his father. ‘I don’t want to go to a Christian institution.’ Being freed from wearing his school uniform of a blue shirt and dark blue shorts, he took to wearing white khadi kurtas and dhotis. And much to his father’s irritation, he also began to sport a pigtail and a red tilak on his forehead. For his subjects, he chose Hindi, Sanskrit, philosophy and mathematics. He took an active part in inter-collegiate debates. While other contestants spoke in English, Madan Mohan always spoke in Hindi, and his speeches were replete with quotations in Sanskrit from the Vedas, Upanishads and the Gita and anecdotes from the Ramayana and the Mahabharata. People began to call him Pandit Madan Mohan Pandey, or simply, Panditji. So under one roof, in a well-appointed bungalow of an ICS officer, lived three different people: Sahib, Mataji and Panditji.
It was one day during his vacations, awaiting results of the BA exam, that Madan Mohan asked his mother if she still had the horoscope cast at his birth. ‘Yes,’ she replied, a little surprised and a little pleased too, for despite her husband’s influence she remained a traditional Brahmin at heart. ‘I’m sure it is still in my safe. Nobody has ever bothered to read it. Your father doesn’t believe in such things, as you know.’ His father didn’t, Madan Mohan agreed, but he did, so could he see it, please. It was found as it had been put away over two decades ago, in a parchment scroll tied with a red ribbon. Madan Mohan took it to his room and opened it. On top it had the swastika emblem in saffron paste and the letter Om. Below this was a rectangle cut with different squares containing the names of eight planets. Madan Mohan had no difficulty in deciphering the contents of the horoscope, which were in Sanskrit. It read:
This child born in samvat 1989 of the Vikrami calendar corresponding to the date 15 August of the year 1931 of the Christian calendar will be most honehaar (gifted—this word was in Hindi). If properly nurtured by his parents, he will have a very bright future. He will be inclined to be somewhat headstrong, but if properly directed he will achieve great heights. If thwarted, he may turn into a rebel.
Madan Mohan paused. So far so good: every word of the horoscope had come true. His scholastic achievements did indeed presage a bright future. He had differences with his father. He was a rebel—with a cause. He continued to read:
He is likely to change his profession a few times. He may be in government service, an educationist and possibly even a politician. He is not likely to go into business. [How could he? He was a Brahmin, not the son of a bania tradesman, muttered Madan Mohan.] Whatever profession he undertakes, he will be highly successful. People born during the confluence of his planetary signs are leaders of men and are destined to achieve greatness. He may have a problem finding a suitable life partner and is advised to study the proposed bride’s horoscope very carefully before giving his consent. If the horoscopes match, he should have a happy marriage and a large family of sons and daughters. His health may also create problems, as being somewhat intense he may suffer from stomach ulcers. He is advised to eat only sattvik food without garlic, asafoetida, onions, pickles, etc. He should abstain from liquor and tobacco. If he follows a strict regimen of food and does the prescribed yoga asanas he should live a long and healthy life.
Madan Mohan pondered over the contents of his horoscope before he rolled it up and re-tied it with the red ribbon. His mother entered the room and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Beta, what does it say? We have never had it read. Your father never bothered with it.’
‘Theek hai—it is okay. What it says about me has come true up till now. If Pitaji did bother to read it, he would realize that horoscopes are never false. Ma, do you know, in no other country in the world can people predict the future course of events as accurately as in India. It is a science known only to Indians. There are many other things in our shastras which prove that our forefathers also knew about electricity, aviation, telecommunications and much else that the Western world claims as its discoveries. The Westerners lie. We are pioneers in every field of science, mathematics, physics, chemistry, astronomy, astrology. You name it, we had it.’
Parvati had already come around to believing that her s
on was destined for a great future. He was not an eccentric, as her husband often described him. She gradually persuaded him that there was more to their son than he gave him credit for. ‘Why can’t he be like other young men of his age?’ Hari Mohan grumbled. ‘All this business of a long chutia dangling at the back of his head, tilak on his forehead, dhoti-kurta, spouting Sanskrit and whatnot! I agree he is a bright fellow, but why doesn’t he move with the times?’
‘Because he believes we Indians had a great past of which our generation knows very little. He wants to make us all aware of it,’ Parvati said excitedly. ‘He just told me what is written in his horoscope. It forecasts a great future for him. So far whatever it says has come true. If Bhagwan wills, the rest will also come true.’
‘So be it,’ mumbled Pandey Senior and fell silent.
*
Madan Mohan topped the list in the university exam for the bachelor of arts degree, getting distinctions in Sanskrit and mathematics. He was immediately offered the post of lecturer in both subjects by the principal of Hindu College. He was only twenty at the time—the youngest ever to be offered a teaching job in the college.
His parents were delighted. But a teaching career had its limitations. He would undoubtedly become a professor, the head of his department, the principal of his college, and possibly even end up as the vice-chancellor of some university. But the civil services offered a much brighter future. His father pleaded with him—he no longer gave orders—to at least take a shot at the Indian Administrative Service. He could then decide his future career. The British had left, after all, and by joining the civil services now he would only be serving his own great country.
Madan Mohan gave in, only to please his father. He studied for the IAS exam. Apart from his favourite subjects, Hindi, Sanskrit and mathematics, he took Indian history. Studying for this paper confirmed his views of India’s great Hindu past, the depredations caused by Muslim invaders and rulers and the brainwashing of Indians carried out during British rule. It made his blood boil.
He was third on the list of successful candidates. All the Central services would be his for the asking after the formality of a viva voce. Having gone so far to accommodate his father’s wishes, he decided to put his foot down. He refused to go for the interview and so opted out of government service. He decided to accept the post of lecturer which was still open to him. The number of parents of nubile daughters who had approached the Pandeys for a marriage alliance when Madan Mohan cleared the written exam for the IAS, dropped sharply. When his mother told him about it, Madan Mohan scoffed: ‘See how low our society has fallen? Everyone is up for sale. I will put a stop to all this nonsense.’
Despite their disappointment at Madan Mohan refusing to join any civil service, his parents had reason to admire him. How many young men in the country would have the guts to walk away from a prestigious job and accept a lowly-paid lecturer’s salary? Their wide circle of relatives and friends, though they would no longer give their daughters in marriage to their son, showered praise on him. ‘If India had more of his kind of young men,’ they said, ‘we would have a different story to tell.’ And so Madan Mohan embarked on a career as an educationist, filled with a great sense of purpose. He would rescue young minds from false histories. On his first day as lecturer, he wore a new khadi kurta-pyjama, a longer than usual tilak on his broad forehead, and, for the first time, a silk angavastra around his neck, saffron with a gold border.
It is ironic that although Madan Mohan had chosen the teaching profession and mastered the subjects he taught, his students did not take to him. He was too pedantic, too rigid in his views, and did not like being questioned. According to him, now that British rule in India was over, it was time Hindus regained their cultural and scientific inheritance, and for this it was necessary to suppress the Muslims or throw them out of the country. Hindus would revive ancient Hindu science and technology enshrined in the vedas. The ancients knew all about aviation long before the Wright brothers flew a plane. Didn’t Shri Ram, Sita, Lakshman and Hanuman fly from Sri Lanka to Ayodhya in the Pushpak Viman? Didn’t Hanuman parachute down from the aircraft to land ahead of the rest of the party and alert the people of Ayodhya so they could give their beloved Ram a fitting welcome? Madan Mohan talked of Ayurveda as the greatest system of medicine and Vaastu as the foundation of all architecture. He mocked Muslim claims to having built the Qutab Minar and the Taj Mahal: ‘They were not builders; they were destroyers of great temples built by Hindu architects,’ he said. ‘You read ancient Sanskrit texts and they will open your eyes. Don’t accept what is written in English textbooks as gospel truth; they belittle everything our ancestors did only to glorify their own tiny achievements.’ And he went on in this manner while most of his students struggled to stay awake.
Attendance in Madan Mohan’s classes began to drop as students opted for other subjects after their mid-term exams. Boys and girls began referring to him in derision as Mahamahopadhya Chutiadhari (wearer of the pigtail) Pandit Madan Mohanji. Some invented new names for his initials: MM—Maha Moorakh, the great fool. Reports reached the Principal’s ears that Pandey, despite his brilliance, was not a good teacher. By the end of the year, Madan Mohan sensed that neither students nor the teaching fraternity were ready to accept his revolutionary ideas. He was not the one to make compromises. If they didn’t want him, he did not want them. And that was that.
The college authorities sensed that if they fired Madan Mohan there would be an uproar in university circles; if he resigned it would bring a bad name to the college. It was Madan Mohan himself who found a way out of the predicament. He applied for long leave without pay. With a great show of regeret the principal accepted his application and assured him that the post of lecturer he had held would not be filled till he decided to return.
Madan Mohan’s parents began to despair of their son all over again. ‘God gives with one hand and takes away with the other,’ remarked his father. ‘God gave him brains and God also made him wayward.’
‘He needs a stabilizing influence in his life,’ Parvati ventured. ‘Perhaps a good, understanding wife will make him more responsible.’
‘We had dozens of the richest Brahmin families offering their daughters to us. Who will want to hand over his child to an unemployed college teacher?’
‘What do you mean by unemployed teacher?’ Parvati retorted angrily. ‘He is an outstanding scholar, the likes of which this country does not have!’
Pandey Senior had no response to that but to throw up his hands in despair and grunt. After a while he said, ‘You have to ask him if he’s willing to get married. If I know him he will say no and give you a long lecture on the merits of remaining a brahmachari, with quotations on celibacy from Sanskrit texts that only he understands.’
His wife glowered at him. She did not like anything sarcastic being said about her son. But she knew that it would not be easy to get round the boy—he was unpredictable.
Unpredictable he proved to be. Parvati broached the subject as tactfully as she could. ‘Beta, you are getting on twenty-four now. Isn’t it time you found a life companion to look after you? We are getting old and find it increasingly difficult to look after ourselves. Your father has asthma. I have arthritis in my knees and struggle to walk. We need someone to run the house.’
Madan Mohan did not scoff at the idea as she had feared he would. Instead he asked, ‘Has any family approached you?’
‘Many families have made enquiries,’ she began happily. ‘We put them off by saying you didn’t have a pukka job and were not ready for marriage. Of course, you don’t need a job if you don’t want one. You have this house; it is yours after we go. And there is enough money in the bank to last your lifetime. Both of us are eager to see you married. It is for you to decide.’
Madan Mohan pondered over the matter for a while, then replied, ‘If that is what you want, I will abide by your wishes.’
His mother beamed a radiant smile and put her right hand on his head. �
��Jeetey raho, beta! May you live long. Would you like to see the girls whose parents have approached us, or their photos?’
‘No, Ma. I don’t want to see them or their photos. You choose. But I would like to examine the horoscopes of the girls you shortlist. I am in no hurry.’
Having left his teaching job, Madan Mohan joined the Hindu Sangathan. He had heard favourable accounts of the organization. It aimed to re-educate Hindus about their glorious past, the havoc caused by Muslim invaders and the insidious anti-Hindu propaganda carried out by Christian missionaries under British patronage. Its members assembled every morning in different parks of the city, dressed in white shirts, baggy khaki shorts and black caps. They were mainly shopkeepers with paunches and spindly, hairy legs. They were put through a drill with lathis, and performed yoga asanas and wrestled clumsily in the mud like overgrown schoolboys. The sessions ended with short sermons delivered by their leaders. Madan Mohan joined the shakha, or branch, closest to his home. His reputation as an extraordinary scholar and a champion of Hindu pride had preceded him. He was given a warm welcome. He was asked to deliver the morning sermons and was invited by other shakhas in the city to speak to them. Soon the chief of the Delhi Sangathan invited him to the central office. He was welcomed with a cordial embrace. The chief was a thin elderly man with thick glasses and a Charlie Chaplin moustache. He spoke very slowly. ‘I have heard great praise of your dedication to the Sangathan and the way you expound its ideals. You have qualities of leadership. I have also made enquiries about your background. You come from a noble and distinguished Brahmin family. You have been a professor and believe in the ideals of brahmacharya. Isn’t that so?’
Paradise and Other Stories Page 4