Hussein

by Patrick O'Brian

  At last the rains came, just as Hussein had dreamt of them, and Jehangir and the buffaloes stood out in it, absorbing it through their skins. But it was too late: nearly everything was dead.

  The stream rose several feet in the night, and the irrigation ditches overflowed, but it was too late. Several of the water-buffaloes had died, and the whole village, with one or two exceptions, was in debt to the full extent of its pledgeable value.

  Hussein sat in Jehangir’s shelter, between the elephant’s great feet, watching the tremendous rain falling. The dry earth drank it in with a strange sucking noise that seemed to come from everywhere, yet from no one place in particular.

  Hussein looked out over his fields, and he said, with a bitter smile, ‘What is written is written. Inshallah!’ for he was well-nigh ruined. But he sighed, for he had worked on his own land as he had never worked before, and he loved every inch of it.

  The rain poured on, beating down with a loud roar, and Jehangir stepped delicately out over Hussein to stand in it. His wrinkled skin shone with the wetness, and he was happy. He was only happy with his body, however, for he felt in his mind that Hussein was miserable, so he was miserable in sympathy.

  Before long Hussein had to go to Purun Dass like the rest of the villagers, and he borrowed money on the field next to the jungle.

  One day Rustum Singh had a letter. His son had been killed on the Border. The old man no longer cared to live, and he fell sick of a palsy. Hussein and Hurri Singh fed him with a spoon, and tended him night and day, but it was of no avail. He died within a week. Purun Dass, the bunnia, seized all his land, showing bonds to justify himself. Hurri Singh protested, for he was sure that his cousin had not borrowed so much, but the bunnia showed the bonds. They were all signed with Rustum Singh’s mark.

  Hurri Singh would have yielded, but Hussein said, ‘Have you read the bonds?’

  ‘No, for I am a plain man, as you know, and unable to read.’

  ‘Then show them to me, for I am surpassingly learned, and I can read all manner of tongues.’

  The bunnia looked uneasy, but he could not refuse. He passed the bonds to Hussein, and as he put them into his hands, he cunningly shuffled three rupees in among them, and winked at Hussein, who slid the money into his waistband. But in spite of the bribe Hussein read the bonds aloud as they were written.

  The bunnia had no right whatsoever to the whole of the land. The first bond was on half the next year’s produce of two of the fields, the second was on a charpoy and two buffaloes, and the third was on a spade, an axe, and some furniture. When he heard these things Hurri Singh cried out in anger, and fell upon Purun Dass, threatening him with his lath, but the Hindus of the village, who were sitting around — they were all in the open space in the evening — dragged him off, and the bunnia, who was a Brahmin, and therefore holy, escaped to his temple. The Sikh sent after him those things to which he was entitled: then he regaled Hussein with a great feast in spite of his poverty, for he held gratitude in high esteem.

  The bunnia cherished a great hatred against Hussein after this: he hated him anyhow for a Muslim, but now he hated him as a personal enemy as well, but he dissimulated it well.

  As time went on Hussein’s small stock of money dwindled away. He sold various things, but he could not scrape together nearly enough to be able to sow his fields again for the next crop. At length, having sent out feelers through various friends to ascertain whether the bunnia would entertain the idea of another loan, he went to the Brahmin, who received him pleasantly, but with black hate well hidden.

  Hussein borrowed a good sum, and for security he gave a bond on the rest of his land. With this he was able to buy enough seed to plant his fields well.

  In his letters to Sashiya and to old Abd’Arahman he did not say that he was doing so badly, for he wanted Sashiya always to think of him as one who did not make mistakes, so he merely said that the price of millet had gone down, so that he had got a relatively poor sum for his harvest, and that what with one thing and another, she would have to wait just a little longer before he could come to Haiderabad and take her away in the splendour which she deserved. He wrote his fiction well, so well, indeed, that he even managed to deceive her, which was a remarkably difficult thing to do, because she loved him very deeply, and nearly always she could tell when a note of insincerity crept into his letters.

  But the price that he had to pay for replanting his land was a stiff one, and it left him with practically nothing to live on, and presently he had to go to the bunnia again, and he pledged his house.

  The interest was 60 per cent, not too exorbitant for the average bunnia: the loan was to be repaid when Hussein’s next crop was sold, or else, by the bond, the bunnia could seize the house and the land. Hussein could read, and he scanned the documents carefully for any trickery, but he signed them when he was satisfied that there was none. But the bunnia, educated at a secondary school, was more cunning than Hussein, and after the 60 per cent he had written in, ‘per mensem’ instead of ‘per annum', which made the interest 720 per cent, so that Hussein, who could not read the English characters, and who had not suspected the trickery to lie there, was hopelessly in the Brahmin’s power.

  Time passed, and the money went while the crops were ripening, but it had all gone before the harvest was ready to be reaped, for it had been planted late: nevertheless, it was a magnificent crop, and as Hussein looked out across his fields, waving thick and green down to the jungle, his heart filled with pride. His pride echoed to Haiderabad, and Sashiya dreamt of the wind in the fields, rippling the high crops like water.

  But while they ripened, there was the problem of existence to be faced, and Hussein had to go to Purun Dass again: this time Hussein had no more land to pledge, so he offered to give a bond on the produce of his fields for the following year, but the bunnia refused, saying that anything might happen to the crops, whereas a bond on Jehangir would be as good as the security of land. Hussein refused indignantly, and went home.

  The bunnia had not disclosed the trick in the bond yet, for he wished to get everything possible out of his enemy, and he would wait until the sugar-cane and the millet were reaped and sold, so that he would get the utmost in money as well as land. But above all things, even above money, the bunnia desired to get possession of Jehangir, for he knew that Hussein loved the elephant.

  The next day Hussein came back and offered to give a bond on his produce over the next two years, and he said that he would even pay a higher rate of interest, but the priest laughed pleasantly, and said that he would rather have a bond on the elephant, and Hussein could not shake him from that decision. Hussein refused again, but that night he went and drank arrack with Hurri Singh, who was as poverty-stricken as himself, but who also had a fine crop standing in his fields, and they felt justified in celebrating. They both had considerably more than they could stand. Towards the setting of the moon Purun Dass appeared, and they received him cordially, for their hearts were warmed towards all men.

  Presently Hurri Singh fell asleep, and Purun Dass urged Hussein to sign the bond on Jehangir that he had prepared. As his usual caution was gone, and as he felt very optimistic about his crops, Hussein signed, took the money, and fell asleep counting it.

  The crops ripened daily, and it was obvious to all Laghat that it was to be a very fortunate year. The time of reaping came, and Hussein sold his produce well to the travelling merchants who came round from village to village with their train of bullock carts, and their great scales with shining brass pans.

  He came back to his house from the place where the merchants stood with a great bag of silver rupees on his head, for he distrusted notes. In the doorway of his house Purun Dass was waiting for him, with papers in his hand. Hussein greeted the moneylender cheerfully, for he had easily enough to pay off the debt, principal and interest, and still leave him sufficient to live on until the next harvest. First he put down the sums that he had borrowed and then he said, ‘Let us work out the interest.
’

  ‘Here are the bonds,’ replied the bunnia. ‘You will see that the interest is 60 per cent per month — quite a usual rate for a short-term loan.’

  Hussein protested, thinking that the bunnia was jesting, but Purun Dass explained the meaning of ‘per mensem', and he kept stressing the point that the bonds were quite legal, because they were bonds that made it appear as though the loan were to be repaid in a short time. He smirked as he computed the huge amount due to him, and tittered nervously as he noted it down on a sheet of paper. Hussein was overwhelmed: he could never amass such an amount, and he saw everything that he had going from him, even Jehangir. He had the poor man’s innate distrust of the law, and it never entered his head that he should employ a lawyer to adjust the matter in court.

  The bunnia began a remark about the exceeding unwisdom of infidels interfering with Brahmins, but when he looked at Hussein’s face, he snatched up his bonds and ran to his own house.

  Hussein sat in his doorway, quite still, until it became dark. His usually quick mind seemed numbed. Then he arose and fetched a jar of arrack. He pulled fiercely at a bowlful of the fierce spirit: he had drunk a good deal before he felt his mind working as usual. Then he emptied the jar and opened another. When he was half-way through the second he thought of a plan: he would take his money — the bunnia had not touched it, he had thought it wiser to wait until Hussein was numbed with despair — and Jehangir and go as fast as he could into the jungle, but first he would visit the bunnia. He sprang to his feet; he was rather unsteady, but he could walk perfectly well. He took the broken handle off a hoe from the corner of the room and went out.

  Passing Hurri Singh’s house, he saw the burly Sikh standing in his doorway. He said nothing, but went on; presently he came to the small temple in which Purun Dass and two other Brahmins lived. Hussein went in through the open courtyard. Before the gate of the temple he paused, and took off his turban, which he wound round his face and head with a vague idea of disguising himself. Then he pushed at the door; it gave with a squeak, for it was not locked. Hussein went in: he walked past two great images of Krishna and Siva, and he spat contemptuously. From beneath the door of a little room behind the images a beam of light showed clearly. Hussein, leaning on his stick to steady himself, crept to the door, and opened it softly. The Hindu did not hear him at first; he was adding up a row of figures, and muttering to himself; sometimes he tittered in a peculiarly revolting way. Suddenly the Brahmin looked up and saw Hussein standing in the doorway. They looked at each other: neither said anything, Hussein because the words seemed confused as they came to his mouth, owing to the arrack, and Purun Dass because he was stiff with fright.

  Suddenly the Hindu flung a small brass kali at Hussein, hitting him on the chest. Hussein grunted, and leapt upon Purun Dass; he hit him on the head, knocking him out of his seat. Then he put his foot on the Brahmin’s back as he sprawled on the ground, holding him down firmly, and he thrashed the squirming body all over, wherever he could for its wriggling. Purun Dass screamed in a high falsetto that broke ludicrously; he had not even the spirit to try to drag Hussein down on to the ground, but flung his hands about in a wild endeavour to protect himself from the rain of blows. To stop the foolish, piglike screaming, Hussein hit him very hard two or three times on the head, and after that he lay still, only squirming a little. Presently he stopped squirming, and the hoe handle broke over his head: Hussein threw the end away, and rolled the bunnia over with his foot. Purun Dass was bleeding all over, particularly from his head, for the stick had been tipped with iron. Hussein sobered quickly when he saw what he had done: he knelt, and tried to see whether the Hindu was still breathing, but Purun Dass was quite still, and Hussein could detect no pulse.

  Hussein straightened, and ran from the room: he was not particularly frightened or sorry, but he knew that the sooner he was out of Laghat the greater would be his chance of escape. At the gate of the temple he paused, and went back. The big red account book and a dozen bundles of bonds lay on the table; he took them, and ran out again. In the courtyard he ran into the arms of the two other Brahmins, but they were slight men, and he knocked them aside: they did not follow, for he was stained with blood, and looked very grim.

  He came on to the road, and from behind some trees Hurri Singh ran out to him.

  ‘Come quickly; the other priests heard you, and they have raised all the Hindus, crying sacrilege. I have Jehangir waiting for you.’

  They darted behind the trees. A loud shouting came from the village: the priests had said that the temple was being desecrated, and it had taken little time for the news to spread. Hussein started at the waving torches; he was still not quite himself.

  Hurri Singh tugged at his sleeve. ‘Quick,’ he said, ‘I have put food and money in this bag. But why did you use a stick and not a knife? So much less noise.’

  ‘I never meant to kill him. Take these books and burn them; they are the accounts of all the debts. Allah’s blessing on your head and house.’

  Hussein gave Hurri Singh the papers, and mounted Jehangir; then he leant down, and whispered — all their talk had been in whispers — ‘There is a great bag of rupees in my house. Put them in a safe place for me.’ In another moment the elephant had disappeared among the trees.

  Fourteen

  Hussein travelled all through the night. The next day he was fifty miles away, in the heart of the jungle. Until his food gave out he pushed on, and then he came into a village to buy provisions. He had left Jehangir in the jungle a mile from the village, and he answered vaguely to the questions put to him by the shopkeepers; it was a fairly large village, and that day there were a number of merchants gathered there, so all might have passed off well, for he walked about with a nonchalant air, as if his business took him into strange villages every day. But one of the merchants spoke to him and said, ‘Are you not the same man whom I saw, long ago, telling tales in the city of Agra?’

  ‘No,’ replied Hussein, ‘I have never been there.’

  ‘That is strange; I could have sworn that you were the same man. Pray, what do you do here?’

  ‘I am merely passing through this village on my way to the shrine of Pir Jafer, which is in Minapur.’

  ‘That is odd — I was there last year … come and partake of some cous-cous with us.’ Hussein did not like to refuse, so he went with the merchant to the place where the company lodged, and he fed with them. When they had wiped the grease from their hands and from their beards, the man who had first spoken to Hussein began speaking of all the cities he had visited, and of the strange sights that he had seen. ‘Once,’ he said, ‘I was in Peshawar … there I saw an old man killed, I know not for what reason … it was a curious thing, for the people who stood around said that a cobra came from beneath his clothes … a white cobra.’ Hussein felt a curious cold shiver run down his back; he looked attentively at the man. He felt almost sure that he had seen him somewhere, but where he could not remember. Then the man lit a pipe, and in the flare that shot up from the bowl — for it was twilight — Hussein recognised him; it was the same man whom he had seen long ago, in Peshawar, at the house of Huneifa, a little while before old Feroze Khan had been killed. He strove to recall the name that he had heard, and then, quite suddenly, a little bit of conversation came back to him. There was the dancing girl Azizun, filling him a pipe. ‘But this is Ram Narain’s special pipe — he will be very angry — here is another one for you …’

  The man was looking at Hussein in a singular way all the time he told this tale, but Hussein set his face in an expressionless mask, and said composedly, ‘Very curious; I heard of a similar instance once in Poonch.’

  After a little more speech, Hussein rose to take his departure. After he had gone a little way, he was aware of Ram Narain following close behind him.

  ‘This is my way also,’ said Ram Narain. ‘We will walk together for a little way.’ There was a pause; each was trying to guess if the other was sure of his ground; then Ram Narain said,
‘I think the name of the old man whom I saw killed was Feroze Khan; perchance you may have heard of him? He was a notable teller of tales.’

  ‘Feroze Khan is quite a common name: I remember one called by that name who was a dealer in grain at Jubbulpore, but he was a youngish man, with a wen on his neck.’

  ‘No, this was an old man: in Peshawar he had, I remember, a young man with him, for whom, so they say, the police have been searching for some time, for it is said that he was a seditious man, one who carried messages from certain princes to an emir of Waziristan.’

  Hussein did not reply, but yawned elaborately. They came to a place where the path forked: ‘Which is your road?’ asked Hussein.

  ‘The left,’ replied Ram Narain.

  ‘Mine, unfortunately, is the right,’ said Hussein.

  It was many days before Hussein went to another village, for he was very much exercised in his mind as to the significance of Ram Narain and his curious speech. He knew that there was something very odd about Feroze Khan’s death in Peshawar, and the old man had told him that he was in the service of the Dewan of Waziristan. He thought for several days about the matter, but he could arrive at no conclusion, so eventually he dismissed it from his mind.

  At length his money ran out, and he had to live in the jungle. At first he did not do so badly; his old skill in snaring small beasts returned to him, but one day he was afflicted with the most grievous fever, so that for a while he was out of his wits. That did not endure long, however, but when he recovered he was very weak, so he made his way to a small town, and, having left Jehangir in a safe place, he sat in the market-place, and told several tales. His recompense was meagre, but it brought him food, and the next day he did the same thing in a village some distance away. For several weeks he travelled like this, until one day, when he had become sufficiently confident to hire himself and Jehangir as he had done before he came to Laghat, a policeman questioned him, saying that an elephant had been stolen from the palace of a local rajah. Hussein was taken to the village police-thana, and kept there until the rajah’s mahout came, and said that it was not the same elephant. The incident shook Hussein considerably, for he thought that if a report had been circulated that a man with an elephant had murdered a bunnia, the police of that village might remember it, and report that he had been seen. For a considerable period after this he kept to the very small villages, and made himself as inconspicuous as possible. He had thought of sending to Hurri Singh to ask him to send him his money, but then he remembered that Hurri Singh could not read, and that the only men in the village who could were the Brahmins.