Vinodlal said, ‘That is not right. Maybe he is guilty. But he has a son, and the little boy is innocent. What about him?’
‘I shall give him one pie.’
‘One pie is not enough.’
Krishnakanta said, ‘The income from my estate is two lakhs of rupees. One pie of that is three thousand rupees. A householder can live comfortably on this. Anyway, I shall give no more.’
Vinodlal argued for a long time, but the old man did not change his mind.
2
BRAHMANANDA, AFTER HIS DAILY BATH AND LUNCH, WAS ABOUT TO TAKE HIS siesta, when he was surprised to see Haralal Roy, who came in and sat at the head of the bed.
Brahma said, ‘Hello! Is it you, “big” babu? When did you get home?’
Haralal said, ‘I haven’t been home yet.’
‘So you came straight here! When did you arrive from Calcutta?’
‘Two days ago. I was in hiding. I understand a new will is to be made!’
‘So I hear.’
‘This time nothing in my share.’
‘The master said so in anger, but he will change his mind.’
‘I understand that it will be written this afternoon, and you are going to write it.’
‘What am I to do? I cannot say “no” to the master’s command.’
‘Well! It is not your fault. Now, do you wish to earn something?’
‘What! Slaps and blows? Go ahead and hit me.’
‘No! One thousand rupees.’
‘How? By marrying a widow?’
‘Yes!’
‘Oh! I am too old for such a thing.’
‘Then do something else and start now. Let me give this to you as an advance.’
So saying, Haralal placed a five hundred rupee note in Brahmananda’s hand. Brahmananda looked at it carefully, turning it over and over, and said, ‘What shall I do with this?’
‘Keep it as a saving and give ten rupees to Mati, the milkwoman.’
Brahmananda said, ‘I have no business with the milkwoman or anyone else! But what do you want me to do?’
‘Mend two pens so that they write exactly like each other.’
Brahma said, ‘All right, friend, whatever you say.’
Saying this, the son of the Ghosh family (Brahmananda) mended two pens and trying them, he saw that they wrote exactly alike.
Then Haralal said, ‘Put one pen in your box. When you go to write the will, use this one; with the second pen we shall write something here. Have you got good ink?’
Brahmananda took out his inkpot and showed it to Haralal, who said, ‘Good! Take this ink with you when you go to write this will.’
‘Is there no pen or ink in your father’s house that I must carry all these with me?’
Haralal said, ‘Don’t worry. I have a plan. Otherwise why would I give you so much money!’
‘I thought as much; you have got it all planned.’
‘Someone may wonder why you have brought your own pen and inkpot today. To convince them you must curse the ink and pen from the steward’s office.’
‘I can curse the steward, not just his pen and ink.’
‘That won’t be necessary. Now let us get down to the real job.’
Then Haralal gave Brahmananda two sheets of ‘general letter’. Brahmananda said, ‘Why, this is government paper.’
Haralal said, ‘No. This is not government paper. This is the paper used in attorney’s offices. The master uses such paper for his wills. That’s why I got it. Now you write what I tell you, using this pen and ink.’
Brahmananda wrote the will as Haralal dictated it. The substance of the will was thus: Krishnakanta Roy decided that after his death, Vinodlal should receive three annas of his estate and one pie each for Govindalal, Krishnakanta’s wife, Sailavati the daughter and Haralal’s son; the remaining twelve annas would go to Haralal, the eldest son.
When he finished writing, Brahmananda said, ‘The will is written. But who signs it?’
‘I do,’ said Haralal, and he signed Krishnakanta’s name and names of four witnesses.
‘This is forgery,’ cried Brahmananda.
‘No, this is the genuine will. The will that you will write this afternoon is the forgery.’
‘How?’
‘When you go to write the will, take this will, hidden in your coat pocket. While there, write a will as my father dictates, but using this ink and this pen. The paper, pen, ink and writer of the two wills will look alike. After my father’s will has been read out and signed, you take it back to sign it yourself. Turn your back to the others when you are signing it and take the opportunity to exchange the wills. And give the master my will and bring his will back to me.’
After some thought Brahmananda said, ‘Whatever one may think, there is no doubt that this is a clever plan.’
Haralal said, ‘Then what is in your mind?’
‘I am tempted to do it but I am afraid. Take back your money. I won’t be involved in a forgery.’
‘Then return my money,’ said Haralal and put out his hand. Brahmananda returned the note. Haralal got up and was about to leave, when Brahmananda said, ‘What! Going already, my friend?’
‘No, I am not,’ said Haralal.
‘You gave me an advance of five hundred rupees. What more will you give?’
‘Another five hundred after you bring me the other will.’
‘That is a lot of money. It is difficult to resist temptation.’
‘Then you agree?’
‘What else can I do? But how do I change the wills? They will certainly catch me out.’
‘Why should they? Here, I will change them before your own eyes. Catch me out if you can.’
Haralal was not an educated man. He had no particular skill, but he was a clever trickster. He put the will in his pocket, took out another sheet of paper and proceeded to write on it. How, in the meantime, the paper went from his hand into his pocket, and the will from his pocket into his hands, Brahmananda did not see. He praised Haralal’s skills.
‘I shall teach you,’ Haralal said, and he showed Brahmananda how the trick was done. Brahmananda mastered the trick after some practice. Then Haralal took his leave.
‘I shall go now, but I shall be back with more money in the evening.’
Soon after Haralal’s departure, Brahmananda was seized with fear. He realized that he had agreed to commit a serious crime, which was punishable by law. Who knows, he might have to spend the rest of his life in prison. What if he were caught while changing the wills? Why should he do it? But a thousand rupees was within his grasp; he could not let that go while he lived.
Alas! The anguish that the prospect of a ritual feast has brought to many a poor Brahmin! He may be suffering from infectious fever and an enlarged spleen which fills his stomach when an invitation to a ritual feast arrives. His eyes feast on many delicacies such as luchi, sandesh, mihidana and sitabhog, served beautifully on brass dishes or plantain leaves. What should a poor Brahmin do? Should he eat them or leave the feast? I can swear that the holy Brahmin will not be able to solve this knotty problem even if he ponders over it for a thousand years. Unwillingly, he must put the food in his mouth.
This is exactly what happened to Brahmananda. He knew that the money offered by Haralal could land him in prison, but his greed was as great as his fear of the consequences. Like the poor Brahmin, he could not make a rational decision, his heart was set on the money.
3
AFTER WRITING THE WILL, BRAHMANANDA RETURNED HOME IN THE EVENING and found Haralal waiting for him.
‘What happened?’ Haralal asked.
Brahmananda was fond of poetry. Forcing a smile he recited,
I stretched my hands to catch the moon,
But the thorns of babla scratched my fingers.
‘So, you could not do it?’
Brahma said, ‘My friend, I was nervous.’
‘You could not do it!’
‘No, I could not. Here—take your counterfeit will
and your money.’ And he took out Haralal’s will and his note for five hundred rupees and returned them to him.
Haralal’s eyes turned red and his lips trembled with anger. ‘Fool! Incompetent fool! You could not do what an ordinary woman could do. I am going. But be careful, do not utter a word about it to anyone, else your life is in danger.’
‘Do not worry; I shall keep quiet about it.’
Haralal went to the kitchen. Since Haralal was almost a son of the family, he had access to all parts of the house. He found Rohini, Brahmananda’s niece, cooking there.
Now, this Rohini has a special role to play, and I must, therefore, say something about her appearance and her character—although these days there is not much demand for descriptions of beauty and it is risky under recent laws to describe anyone’s character but one’s own. But I have to say this: that Rohini was then in the full bloom of youth, and overflowing with beauty like the harvest moon in autumn. She had become a widow in her early youth, but had acquired some improper habits for a widow: she wore a black-bordered dhoti, bangles on her wrists and took up chewing betel leaves. On the other hand, she excelled in cooking—she was like Draupadi: all Bengali vegetarian dishes, jhol, ambal, charchari, ghanta, dalna, etc. received a special flavour in her hands. She had no rival in needlework, in decorating with rice paste and in flower decoration. She was the only one who was in demand in the neighbourhood for dressing women’s hair and arraying brides.
Rohini, the raving beauty, was stirring dal in the pot with a wooden spoon—and now and then darting bitter-sweet glances at a cat which sat at some distance, its pads on the floor. Rohini was trying to find out whether animals were thrilled by provocative flashes from the corners of a woman’s eyes. But the cat, taking these glances as an invitation to eat the fried fish, was advancing slowly.
Just then, Haralal entered the kitchen, with his shoes squeaking. The cat, frightened, bolted, abandoning its hunt for fried fish. Rohini got up, put back the stirrer, washed her hands and pulled the end of her dhoti over her head in modesty. Rubbing her fingernails, she asked, ‘When did you get in, Big Uncle?’
‘Yesterday. I want to have a word with you.’
Rohini shivered in expectation. ‘Will you have a meal here? Shall I put some fine rice on the fire?’
‘Put it on if you like. But that is not what I wanted to talk about. Do you remember what happened to you one day some time ago?’
Rohini stood silently looking at the ground. Haralal continued, ‘Remember that day when you were coming back from bathing in the holy Ganga and got separated from your fellow pilgrims?’
Rohini, holding the fingers of her left hand with her right hand and looking down, said, ‘I remember.’
‘Remember! You lost your way and found yourself in a field and a group of ruffians followed you?’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Who rescued you then?’
‘You. You were going somewhere on horseback . . .’
‘I was visiting my sister-in-law.’
‘You rescued me and sent me home in a palanquin. How can I forget that? I can never repay that debt.’
Haralal said, ‘You can repay it today. You can put me in your debt for the rest of my life.’
‘Tell me how. I shall give my life to help you.’
‘Whether you help me or not, do not mention to anyone what I tell you now.’
‘Never, not as long as I live.’
‘Swear to it.’
Rohini swore. Then Haralal told her about the will and the counterfeit will and said, ‘You have to steal the genuine will and replace it with the counterfeit will. You move freely in my father’s house and you are intelligent, you can do it easily. Will you do it for me?’
Rohini shuddered. ‘Steal? I couldn’t do it even if I were cut into pieces.’
‘Women are really such worthless creatures! Mere masses of words. Is this why you said that you would not be able to repay me in this life?’ ‘Ask me anything else, I will do it; if you want my life, I will die for you. But I cannot betray my benefactors.’
Having failed to persuade Rohini in any other way, Haralal offered Rohini a thousand rupee note. ‘Take this as an advance. You must do it.’
Rohini refused. ‘I do not care for money. I wouldn’t do it even if you offered me all your father’s estate. I would do it if it were possible, just for your asking.’
Haralal sighed deeply and said, ‘I thought you were my friend and well-wisher. But I am nothing to you. If my wife were alive today I wouldn’t come to you. She would have done it for me.’
Now Rohini laughed a little.
‘Why are you laughing?’ Haralal asked.
‘Hearing you speak of your wife reminded me of your proposed widow marriage. Do you still intend to marry a widow?’
‘I do, but where can I find a widow to my liking?’
‘Well, widow or married woman—I mean widow or unmarried woman, it would be good to see you settled as a family man again. We, your friends and relatives, would be delighted.’
‘You see, Rohini, widow remarriage is allowed by our sacred books.’
Rohini said, ‘So they say now.’
‘You can also marry again, and why shouldn’t you?’ Rohini pulled her dhoti over her head and turned around. Haralal continued, ‘You only call me uncle because we are your neighbours; there is no blood relationship, nothing to prevent us from getting married.’
Now Rohini covered her head fully, sat down by the oven and started stirring the dal. Haralal, disappointed, turned to go. When he reached the door, Rohini called, ‘You may leave the paper, I will see what I can do.’
Haralal took the counterfeit will and the note and left them near Rohini.
‘Not the note; only the will,’ said Rohini.
Haralal left the will, took back the note and left.
4
THAT DAY, AT ABOUT EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE EVENING, KRISHNAKANTA ROY was in his bedroom, sitting up in bed resting his back on a pillow. He was smoking and dozing under the influence of that medicine, the best of intoxicants—opium. In that state of stupor, he imagined that his will had suddenly become a deed of sale, and Haralal had bought up his entire estate for three rupees, thirteen annas and one pie. Someone said that this was not a deed or gift, but a bond. Instantly he registered that this bond was executed by Vishnu, son of Brahma, when he borrowed a box of opium. In fact, Vishnu gave Mahadeva the mortgage on the universe, which Mahadeva forgot to foreclose, being under the influence of hemp.1
At that moment, Rohini came slowly into the room, and said, ‘Are you asleep, Grandfather?’
Still dozing, Krishnakanta said, ‘Is it you, Nandi? Ask your master to foreclose now before it is too late.’
Rohini understood that Krishnakanta was under the influence of opium, and said, ‘Who is Nandi, Grandfather?’
Without raising his head, Krishnakanta said, ‘You are right; in Brindavan he ate up the milkman’s butter and till today has not paid a penny for it.’
Rohini burst out laughing, which startled Krishnakanta. He raised his head and looked at her. ‘Who is that—Aswini, Bharani, Krittika, Rohini. . .?’
Rohini continued the listing, ‘. . . Mrigasira, Adra, Punabsu, Pusya.’
‘. . . Aslesa, Magha, Purvaphalguni.’2
Rohini then said, ‘Grandfather, have I come to learn astrology from you?’
Krishnakanta said, ‘True, that cannot be; then what do you want? Some opium?’
‘How can I want something that you cannot part with for your life? My uncle sent me.’
‘Then it must be for some opium.’
‘No, no, Grandfather, it is not for opium. Uncle said that the will that was written today was not signed by you.’
‘How can that be? I remember well that I signed it.’
Rohini said, ‘But Uncle said that as far as he could remember, you did not sign it. In any case, why remain in doubt? Why not bring out the will and see for yourself?’
/> ‘Ah, well, hold the lamp then.’
While Rohini held the lamp, Krishnakanta got out of bed and took a key from under his pillow. With it he opened a small box and took out another unusual-looking key. With this key, he opened a drawer in the chest. After some searching he brought out the will. Then he got his glasses out of their case and tried to put them on his nose, but was some time doing it for he was still under the influence of opium. When the glasses were fixed at last, Krishnakanta looked at the will and said with a laugh, ‘Rohini, you think I am old and senile, but look, here’s my signature.’
Rohini said, ‘Dear, dear, you aren’t old. But you insist on calling me your granddaughter. Well, I had better go and tell Uncle.’
Rohini left Krishnakanta’s bedroom.
Late that night, Krishnakanta was asleep; suddenly he woke up, he saw that the lamp in his room, which was always kept lighted the whole night, had been put out. At the same time, a sound came to his ears, as if someone had turned a key. It seemed that a person was moving about in the room. The person then came to the head of his bed and put a hand under the pillow. Krishnakanta was heavily under the influence of opium, neither quite asleep nor awake, incapable of perceiving anything clearly. He could not be sure that there was no light in the room—even when he was awake he could not open his eyes. When he finally opened them he saw that the room was indeed dark. But under the influence of opium, he imagined that he was in prison. He had been sent there for submitting a forged document in a lawsuit against one Hari Ghosh. He heard a faint sound as of a key turning—was it the key turning in the prison door? Startled, Krishnakanta searched for the pipe of the hookah in vain. He called out for his servant, ‘Hari!’
Krishnakanta did not sleep in the inner building, nor in the outer building, but in a room situated between the two. A servant called Hari guarded him. Krishnakanta called him again, but not receiving an answer he began to doze again. Meanwhile, the genuine will had been removed and the counterfeit put in its place.
Bankimchandra Omnibus: Volume - 1: v. 1 Page 36