by Pandey Kapil
All his friends in Calcutta had severed ties with their former selves. They were now absorbed into their respective new lives and trades. But Mahendar wasn’t so stone-willed; the harder he tried to get away from his past, the more deeply entangled he got. His tender heart always proved a traitor. In the past, on several occasions, it had emboldened him to take a leap of faith. But just in the nick of time, it had always raised unforeseen roadblocks, causing him to stumble and fall.
When he could no longer bear living in Calcutta, he decided to go back to Mishrawaliya, his own village. The memories of the city travelled with him. He also decided on carry along two of his acquisitions from the city: his newfound fondness for alcohol to assuage his aching heart and the printing machine to keep body and soul together.
15
For your love
Mahendar returned to Mishrawaliya after ten long years. His ancestral home lay in an acute state of disrepair. Even in the olden days, his family had never seen good times. However, during those intervening years, poverty had aggravated their hardships. As soon as he reached the doorway of his old house, he was greeted by his brother; years of deprivation had reduced him to a mere skeletal frame. Those excruciating signs of scarcity—his brother’s emaciated body and his ramshackle house—moved him to pity and self-loathing.
Mahendar’s arrival heralded a reversal of fortunes: the house was restored, fields were tilled after long, and once more, cattle grazed on their land. Now that he had clutched a genie by its matted hair, anything seemed possible; the machine that printed money made all his dreams come true.
Mahendar was having the time of his life. He spent his days managing affairs of the farm, while his evenings were reserved for musical gigs and get-togethers. In the middle of it all, once in a while, hundred-rupee banknotes were printed secretly in a gas lamp-lit room. At the end of each clandestine operation, the one-foot tall printing machine was shoved back in a stack of hay. The agents who took the fake banknotes to the market charged a commission of fifty rupees for every hundred they smuggled. The remainder was splurged on routine revelries and imported wine. Every night, Mahendar took to bed heavily inebriated. Yet, each dawn, he woke up dutifully to say his morning prayers and observe the rituals. Those were the bright days of abundance and hope!
One morning, as he was about to conclude his morning puja, an agent by the name Ramlal Singh appeared at his doorstep. He had brought a stranger along. Ramlal was Mahendar’s most trusted accomplice; right from his early days of counterfeiting in Calcutta, He had assisted Mahendar with printing and smuggling. ‘Misir Baba, this is Gopichand Sahu from Arrah. He is in the business of money-lending. I have known him for a long time, and based on that, I trust him, as much as a man trusts a member of his own family. He is very clever at exchanging bank notes. But, of late, he has fallen on hard times. If we could make use of his skills, it would be profitable for everyone involved,’ said Ramlal, introducing his friend.
Mahendar narrowed his eyes and cast probing glances at Gopichand Sahu. He was rather quaintly attired; he had wrapped himself up in a frilled woollen shawl, with a soiled coarse sheet layered above it. Mahendar could not suppress his laughter.
‘Well, Mr Moneylender, why do you hide your precious shawl under that dirty sheet?’ asked Mahendar.
‘Sir, this is the only shawl in my entire family. If this, too, were to get soiled, attending social gatherings during winters would cause a lot of embarrassment to my people.’
Mahendar found him to be an amusing person. And when he took out his betel-box to serve Magahi leaf and flavoured tobacco from Banaras, Mahendar was completely won over. After gossiping for a while, he felt confident enough to ask Gopichand pointblank, ‘So, Mr Moneylender, what is the cut that you seek?’
After a brief reflection, Gopichand replied, ‘Sarkar, I’ll take five per hundred.’
‘Only five per hundred? Well, others demand a much higher commission. Why would you settle for five?’ Mahendar asked, somewhat surprised.
‘Baba, didn’t I tell at the very outset that I want no more than what I deserve. As you already know, I am a moneylender by trade. I can’t just sit quietly atop a mound of banknotes and do nothing with them; I must lend them out to others. Such is my nature. And I cannot handle more cash than what I’ll get from you; it is already too sumptuous a meal to digest, much more than I can chew. Besides, in spite of the nature of our trades, it is good to observe a little honesty. Riches amassed with cunning seldom last.’
The deal was struck. Gopichand was required to carry hundred-rupee banknotes to the market and after a few days, return with ninety-five. In no time he soared very high in Mahendar’s estimation. Whenever he stopped by, he remembered to bring along Magahi betel leaves and Banarasi tobacco. Mahendar was overwhelmed with this small tribute. Gopichand was truly deft at the art of keeping one’s employer happy. One day, as Mahendar was singing a poorvi song, all by himself, Gopichand joined him and started improvising on a tabla lying close at hand. That gesture had Mahendar completely floored. He thanked his stars for he had found a man so versatile and loyal. Soon, the two became intimate friends.
Having earned Mahendar’s trust, Gopichand made a rather unusual request, ‘Misir Baba, I am a very poor man. If you could initiate me into your secret art, I’ll be forever indebted; for then, I’ll be able to feed my family well.’
Mahendar readily agreed to the request, and thus, Gopichand Sahu’s apprenticeship commenced. His visits became much more frequent, and whenever he came, he was showered with a lot of warmth. During the nights, when Mahendar and his brother conducted the business of counterfeiting, Gopichand stood in a corner, quietly learning the craft. Life went on as usual, until one day Gopichand caught hold of Ramlal and tried to entice him with a proposition, ‘Brother Ramlal, let’s just learn this art once and for all. For how much longer would we get by as mere agents? You see, Misir Baba wraps up the whole process at such a frantic speed that many of the details escape our attention. But I have a plan to buy a little extra time: if you feign diarrhea and keep running out to the fields on the pretext of relieving yourself, the interruptions will hold him up and I can use that additional time to learn the rest of the tricks. Then, the two of us can move on and launch our own business. Say, how else we can hope to provide for our families,’ urged Gopichand.
Ramlal turned the idea over in his mind and agreed to the plan. That evening, as soon as the courtyard room was shut and the process of counterfeiting commenced, he dashed out to the field, leaving ajar all the doors on the way. Mahendar followed him and ensured that the doors were closed. After a while, when Ramlal returned from the field after relieving himself, Mahendar had to go out again, to let him in. Once the doors were bolted, the process recommenced. But shortly, he pretended to have another bout of diarrhea and ran out of the house carrying a mug of water. However, on this occasion, Mahendar got a little complacent and did not bother over taking the necessary precautions. Although Gopichand had shut the door of the printing room, the entrance to the courtyard remained unbolted.
A little later, when the door opened again, it wasn’t Ramlal who walked in; in the blink of an eye, the room was swarmed by policemen. Mahendar was absorbed in operating the printing roller. Before he could react, he was overpowered by a burly policeman. His brother was apprehended, too. Once all the culprits were nabbed, Gopichand Sahu revealed his true identity; he wasn’t Mahendar Misir’s poor hireling, he was inspector Babu Jatadhari Prasad of the CID. Alas, who in this world could Mahendar Misir trust!
* * *
On the third day of his arrest, the sensational story found its way into the newspapers. It triggered a huge furore, especially across Chhapra. At the Red Mansion, Ramprakash Sahay shared the news with his grand-aunt, ‘Dadi, listen to this interesting news that has appeared in today’s newspaper. In Mishrawaliya, a man named Mahendar Misir has been arrested for counterfeiting banknotes. Printing equipment found to be in his possession has been seized. A CID inspector
named Jatadhari, who frequented the culprit’s house disguised as Gopichand Sahu, is responsible for busting the racket.’
‘Apprehended who? Mahendar Misir? Mahendar Misir of Mishrawaliya?’ Gulzaribai exclaimed, utterly stupefied.
The flares that always flickered secretly in her bosom had burst out as a huge conflagration. Ramprakash didn’t have the faintest notion of her past. Feeling encouraged by her curiosity, he showed great keenness in reading the rest of the report out loud. But, lost in thought, she paid no attention to him. A little later, as she returned to her senses, she picked up the newspaper and started checking the details herself. Soon, her carriage was sent for, and for the first time in a long while, she drove out of the Red Mansion. Ramprakash was quite astonished at the course of events and the dramatic speed at which they had unfolded. Since the day he had arrived unannounced at the mansion, he had never seen his grand-aunt step out of the premises. He wondered as to where, after reading that piece of news, did her grandmother suddenly rush to.
But it wasn’t meant to be a one-time affair; that excursion soon turned into a routine of sorts. Gulzaribai had taken it upon herself to organize Mahendar’s defence. ‘Advocate Sahib, I urge you to present the strongest possible defence. Come what may, Mahendar Misir must be rescued. However much money is needed, just ask me. I’ll reward you with gold equal to his weight,’ she appealed.
When Ramprakash heard her persuasive plea to the lawyer, he was surprised by the note of desperation in her tone. ‘Who is this Mahendar Misir? But then, what does he really know about his own grand-aunt?’ for the first time since his arrival, he began reflecting on these questions.
He had come to Chhapra as a ragamuffin orphan and it was Gulzaribai who had generously granted him shelter. At the start of his perilous odyssey from Gunzarawala in Punjab, he knew precious little about the place or the whereabouts of his grand-uncle, Babu Haliwant Sahay. He had nothing but a few names to steer his journey towards a largely unknown destination; he knew of a certain Sheetlapur in Bihar, which came under the jurisdiction of Manjhi police station in Chhapra; he was aware that the said Sheetlapur was his ancestral village and that some of his blood relations still lived there; he was told that his grandfather had once visited the village in his boyhood, and later, exchanged a few letters with Haliwant Sahay. But in spite of his little knowledge of the place and its many attendant uncertainties, there was something he was absolutely sure of: he knew it for a fact that Haliwant Sahay was a prominent resident of Chhapra. It was perhaps for this very reason that his plague-stricken grandfather, alone in his deathbed after the death of his entire family, had tearfully beseeched him to seek refuge at the White Mansion.
However, no end to his miseries was in sight. At the conclusion of his onerous journey from Punjab, when he reached Chhapra, yet another misfortune awaited him; no sooner had he arrived at the Chhapra junction than he learnt of Haliwant Sahay’s act of renunciation and departure from the town. Seeing him so distraught, a few sadistic reprobates had jeered at him saying, ‘Dear son, don’t panic. Go to the Red Mansion. There sits his concubine who has usurped all his wealth. Go, beg her for help.’
Ramprakash was so distracted that he could not get the drift of those snide remarks. When he arrived at the Red Mansion, he had found a motherly guardian in Gulzaribai, sacred as the Tulsi plant and pure as the water that flows through the Ganga-ji. Gulzaribai was equally elated to have found Ramprakash. Gradually, the responsibilities of the estate were made to rest on his inexperienced young shoulders. And, at the same staggered pace, she had started dissociating herself from the affairs of the estate. Of late, most of her time was spent inside the shrine room; she would light an incense stick and spend hours in the quiet company of the two portraits that adorned it—one of Haliwant Babu, the other of Revel Sahib. Ramprakash often saw her sitting in deep meditation.
But now, seeing her get so impatient over Mahendar Misir, he was evidently dumbfounded. He tried hard to figure out everything, but nothing made sense. What restiveness had seized his grand-aunt, he wondered. What explains her round-the-clock obsession with his court case? Who is this Mahendar Misir anyway? And what could be the true identity of his grand-aunt? The young Ramprakash felt overwhelmed by several of these puzzling questions.
Soon Mahendar Misir’s trial began. Whenever he emerged from the jail complex, he would be handcuffed, surrounded by sepoys and led on by a rope tied around his waist. Inside the courtroom, as he waited in the dock, he was mostly quiet. On the days of his trial, the courtroom would be crammed with people. Gulzaribai and Ramprakash were always in attendance at his hearings. Mahendar’s thick, overgrown beard contrasted handsomely with his fair complexion. Every time Gulzaribai’s keen gaze lingered on his face, she felt her mind wander away into a deep reverie. Ramprakash often noticed that searching look on his grand-aunt’s face.
The team of lawyers hired for Mahendar Misir’s defence performed unprecedented feats of argumentative jugglery; the assignment was difficult and their endeavors were monumental. A web of arguments, comprising the most unfathomable of questions and the most outlandish of responses, was carefully woven. Every conceivable connection that could lead to a favorable verdict was greased with loads of money. The defence worked so tirelessly that Mahendar’s acquittal appeared virtually assured.
But things took an unexpected turn on the big day—the day of the verdict. Mahendar stood impassively in the dock, just as on his previous hearings. And like always, nestled among the milling multitudes, Gulzaribai waited for the trial to commence. Jatadhari alias Gopichand had already submitted his deposition. The judge turned to the accused and asked, ‘How do you plead to the charges alleged against you?’
When he raised his drooping head to answer, his wearied gaze fell on Gulzaribai. For a moment, their eyes met. He then turned intently to Gopichand, the betrayer. He was standing in the witness box, across the courtroom. As he tried to remember the names and the faces of the people he had known and loved, he felt a strange stirring in his blood. In the heat of the moment, he turned towards the judge and answered without flinching, ‘Indeed, Sarkar. I have been in the dirty business of counterfeiting, and I was at it when arrested.’
Gulzaribai slumped to the ground, utterly devastated. Leaning against Ramprakash, she stepped out of the courtroom and tottered to her carriage. Mahendar Misir was sentenced to ten years of rigorous imprisonment. As he was being brought out of the courtroom, chained and handcuffed, people swarmed to him from all sides. Gulzaribai closed her rheumy eyes and waited for the carriage to advance. But caught in a swirl of bereaved admirers and fascinated onlookers, her vehicle could not budge.
A little later, Gopichand came out of the courtroom. Upon seeing him, Mahendar let out a roaring laughter of disdain. Gopichand could not muster enough courage to look him in the eye; avoiding his gaze, he paced off in a different direction. Seeing him scamper away, Mahendar let out an impromptu wail.
‘O’ Gopichand,
You treated me to betel leaves, golden and tender,
But behold what becometh me; your love had me jailed forever.
O’ Gopichand, your love . . .’
For a while, enraptured by his haunting song, the crowd fell silent. Gulzaribai was desperate to escape the scene, completely ruffled and struggling hard to conceal her emotions. ‘Drive the carriage, hurry,’ she demanded in a vexed voice. Ramprakash was still at a loss. The carriage sped off, but Mahendar’s voice was still audible in the background.
Once they reached the Red Mansion, Gulzaribai flew to the shrine room and locked herself in. Fatigued by an endlessly perplexing day, Ramprakash decided to take rest on the veranda. Just then he heard a heart-rending tune of lament.
‘To what avail did you print those banknotes?
O’ Mahendar Misir
To what avail . . .’
He turned his ears to the source of that plaintive ballad. Yes, it was indeed coming from the shrine room. Years ago, on the banks of the river Ravi in P
unjab, he had once heard a heer—a Punjabi folk song of love, longing and parting. But her grand-aunt’s song was more haunting and grief-stricken than any tune he had ever heard before. Was it really his grand-aunt? He continued to wonder.
16
A Champak Tree for the Lovebirds
It was after many years that Lachhman Prasad of the White Mansion had walked over to Gulzaribai’s home. At the gate itself he ran into Ramprakash. That chance encounter left him awestruck. Ramprasad was the spitting image of Babu Haliwant Sahay; he had the same arresting face, the same height and the same burly physique.
‘Son, who are you?’ he asked.
‘My name is Ramprakash, sir. Babu Haliwant Sahay is my grand-uncle. My grandfather, Babu Hargovind Sahay, was his cousin.’
‘And do you stay here?’
‘That’s right, sir.’
‘Where is your father?’
‘He is dead, sir,’ answered Ramprakash, saddened by the question.
Prasad knew all the relatives of Babu Haliwant Sahay. He had interacted with most of them in connection with that infamous lawsuit. Yet, Babu Hargovind Sahay’s name had never been broached. The mention of his name piqued his curiosity and he started probing further. When he learnt of the calamity that had befallen the boy, he was moved for a moment. However, a scheme soon took shape in his mind.