Indulekha

by O. Chandu Menon

  "Where have you hidden it?" asked the officer.

  "Oh, Oh, in the room I sleep in. Oh let me go, let me go," shrieked the butler.

  "There, you see!" said the station master to Madhavan. "He’s the thief; He’s the man who robbed you. You are far too tenderhearted, you are; now we’ll see your property come back to you."

  Madhavan was horrified, and felt sure that the confession had been made simply because the torture was unbearable. Events proved that he was right because when they went into the room, the butler stood empty-handed. As he had none of the property, he could not produce it. Nevertheless the police continued for a time to examine him, and then thrashed some porters and workmen. No. clue, however, was obtained, and about midnight these myrmidons departed, promising to return at daybreak.

  Gopinath Bannerjee came by the first train in the morning, and made some enquiries concerning the theft. Then charging the police officer and others to continue the investigation he returned to his residence, taking Madhavan with him. As soon as he reached home, he telegraphed all the facts to Babu Govind Sen, and received a reply by wire as follows:

  "Very grieved at Madhavan’s misfortune. Put two thousand rupees at his disposal for expenses of trip to Northern India and return home. Don’t give all the money at once, but enough ready cash for the present; rest in installments by cheques on Allahabad, Agra, Delhi, Lahore banks. Send our Byram Khan accompany Madhavan till return to Bombay. He has experience travelling. Tell Madhavan not grieve over loss."

  My readers must picture to themselves the reverence and esteem Madhavan felt for Govind Sen on reading this telegram. But nevertheless he felt that it would be the height of injustice to burden Govind Sen with any further expense on his account, and addressed Gopinath Bannerjee accordingly:

  "Long may Govind Sen, the prince of generosity, live and do good in his generation," he said, "but I think I shall now return to Madras. I will come back here soon to see you and him, and I only want enough money to take me to Madras."

  "Very good," replied Gopinath Bannerjee, "but you will make me very happy if you will stay here with me for a few days," and Madhavan gladly consented.

  As stated in the last chapter, Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutty Menon stopped for some time in Bombay, but the former continued to feel ill, and their journey to Burma was postponed from day to day. Then it fell out that one evening while Govindan Kutty Menon was standing near the esplanade enjoying the breeze, Babu Kesab Chandra Sen passed by, and recognizing in his face a likeness to Madhavan, went up and spoke to him.

  "What countryman are you, sir, may I ask?" he said.

  "I belong to Malabar," replied Govindan Kutti Menon. .

  "Ah! quite so. I was sure of it when I saw you," rejoined Kesab Chandra Sen. "Do you happen to know anyone from Malabar named Madhavan?"

  Govindan Kutti Menon started in amazement when he heard this question, and his heart palpitated violently with joy and anxiety and astonishment.

  "Where is he?" he asked eagerly. "He is a relation of mine, and left home suddenly nearly two months ago. His father and I have been looking for him everywhere, and are heartbroken because we can’t find him. We have been here now eight or ten days."

  Kesab Chandra Sen lost no time in telling him all that had happened, and added, "He must have left Calcutta by this time, but I’ll wire to my father and find out."

  Accompanied by Govindan Kutty Menon, he went at once to the telegraph office. and thence, after despatching his message, called on Govinda Panikkar, whom and whose servant he conducted to his own house. About eight o’clock that night, the following answer to his telegram was received:

  "Madhavan left Calcutta, must be with Gopinath Bannerjee. No need for his father to feel anxious; will see him safe immediately."

  Another telegram was at once sent to Gopinath Bannerjee simply enquiring if Madhavan was with him, and the reply was, "Madhavan left this evening six o’clock for Bombay. Quite well. Will see you immediately on arrival."

  The joy which overpowered Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutty Menon when they read that message may be better imagined than described.

  On the day when Madhavan’s train was expected, Kesab Chandra Sen prepared it pleasant surprise for him, and went alone in a carriage to meet him at the station. Persuading Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutty Menon to remain to at home with their servants, and not to show themselves when he returned to the house, he arranged to bring Madhavan into their presence unexpectedly. When he reached the station, the train had arrived, and Madhavan was in the act of stepping out of it when he caught sight of his friend. They shook hands warmly and proceeded to Kesab Chandra Sens house, where they sat down in the verandah while Madhavan recounted his adventures since they parted at Calcutta. After listening attentively, Kesab Chandra Sen said, "Well, never mind, you got an introduction to the Sub-Judge of Allahabad at any rate, and there’s no great harm in losing a little money when you find such a good friend!"

  Madhavan joined in the laugh against himself, and then Kesab Chandra Sen said, "But what do you mean to do now? Go back to Malabar, I suppose."

  "No," replied Madhavan. "I shan’t return to Malabar yet, but will go to Madras tomorrow, and come back here in a week or so."

  "Do you mean you’ll go only as far as Madras, and then come back?" said Kesav Chandra Sen. "Why don’t you go on to Malabar? Surely you’d like to see your father and some others, wouldn’t you?"

  This reference to his father went to Madhavan’s heart, but other memories thronged on him, and he felt inclined to curse Malabar.

  "I would give a great deal to see my father," he said, "but it seems impossible just now."

  "Well I suppose it’s almost time for dinner. Will you have a bath?" said Kesab Chandra Sen.

  "Yes, please," said Madhavan rising.

  "I have asked two friends of mine to have the pleasure of meeting you at dinner today, and I think they’ll be delighted to see you," remarked his host.

  "Your friends are my friends, and I am very glad you have asked them," replied Madhavan, and as soon as he had gone to bathe, Kesab Chandra Sen called Govinda Panikkar and Govindan Kutty Menon, and made them sit down to a table in the dining room, taking his own seat at the same time. As soon as he saw Madhavan coming, he met him at the door and, introducing him into the room, said, "These are the two friends whom I invited. You may have seen them before, but you know best." Madhavan looked and-but why should I describe the scene?

  "Oh father, father!" cried Madhavan, "I never dreamt of this!" and Govinda Panikkar rising, folded him in his arms, stammering out, "My son, my son! why did you bring all this sorrow on me?"

  Kesab Chandra Sen retired to another room, and when the first ecstasy of meeting was over, Govinda Panikkar hastened to speak.

  "Telegraph home at once, Govindan Kutty" he said. "We don’t know if his mother and that girl haven’t died of grief by this time."

  "What girl?" asked Madhavan. "Who’s the girl that would die of grief for me?"

  "Only my niece, Indulekha," said Govindan Kutti Menon "What a lunatic you are, Madhavan! What’s the meaning of all this nonsense? What have you been up to all this time?"

  Madhavan had in his lifetime been unexpectedly placed face to face with danger, and had also known moments of joy, but never had he felt so utterly paralyzed as he did now; and when Govindan Kutti Menon had finished speaking, he stood stock still, with all his limbs benumbed and rigid.

  "Just see what mischief you have done, my boy," said Govinda Panikkar. "You have nearly driven your mother and Indulekha and us wild with grief. You came home and heard some empty tale and bolted blindly, when we, who knew, could have told you the truth! My boy, my boy! you must have been bewitched, but it’s all over now."

  Madhavan sank into a chair unable to utter a syllable, and just then Kesab Chandra Sen entered the room.

  The latter saw that some catastrophe had happened, but refrained from asking any question, and the whole party sat down to dinner
, Madhavan making a pretence of eating. After dinner, Govindan Kutti Menon telegraphed their news to Malabar, and when Kesab Chandra Sen had left the room, Govinda Panikkar said, "What is it, my son? You haven’t spoken a word."

  "Of course not, he aren’t say anything after all his folly," chimed in Govindan Kutti Menon.

  "Father," replied Madhavan, "all this seems to me like a story out of the Arabian Nights."

  "And a very fine story, too," answered Govinda Panikkar. "You go and nearly break Indulekha’s heart, and I’m not at all sure if your mother is alive. You must have been as mad as you well could be."

  Madhavan, bursting into tears, hid his face, and nothing more was said on the subject.

  Having determined to stay with Kesab Chandra Sen that night, and start by train for Malabar next day, the three Malayalis betook themselves to the terrace roof of the house and, sitting there in the moonlight, fanned by the cooling breeze, indulged in a conversation which I wish to place before my readers, and which is given in the next chapter.

  Chapter 18

  After Govinda Panikkar, Madhavan and Govindan Kutti Menon had sat for some time in the clear cool moonlight, Govinda Panikkar opened the conversation by saying "Well, boys, it seems to me that, with all the good which you derive from being educated, according to the new fashion, in English, you are also liable to certain evils, and I observe with great regret that, as a rule, these evils corrupt the good that is in you and spoil you completely. I will make my meaning clear by giving you some instances. In the first place you striplings, who have not yet reached maturity of understanding, gain from books and other sources a smattering of knowledge concerning many things of which a true comprehension can be personally acquired only in process of time and by study of their innate properties and by experience of their merits and defects, and then, blindly, forsaking all established ordinances and forms of religion, end by daring to think that you are at liberty to say or do anything you please. In the next place, it follows from this state of things that the reverence you should pay your spiritual preceptors and family elders, the faith you should have in them, the love you should bear them, are gradually weakened until they cease to exist at all. Take Madhavan’s late escapade for example; I am of opinion that he was prompted to it solely by the ideas and the mode of thinking he has adopted in consequence of his English education. When he made up his mind to leave home, he never bestowed a thought on his parents, but, forsooth, because he happened to feel a little unhappy, promptly fled the country in order to relieve his feelings. He never reflected an instant on the pain he would give his mother and myself, and the reason for this is the destruction of his veneration and faith and love. The cause of all this, I say, is English education. Faith in God and piety should rank foremost in the hearts of men, but you, who learn English, have neither. Following on faith in God and fear of Him, should come belief in and reverence for your spiritual preceptors, but if such faith and fear are absent, how can there be any such belief? Everything is out of joint and we can do nothing."

  "Oh, father!" exclaimed Madhavan, "I am distressed beyond measure that you should form such a mistaken opinion about me. If I had never studied English, I should have behaved just as I did in the matter. Does no one who is ignorant of English never leave his country?"

  "Only those who have received such an education as yours would so cruelly pain their parents in matters of this kind," replied Govinda Panikkar, "Your newfangled knowledge and notions have ruined everything. I see you continually forsaking the good old practices which we Hindus have observed from time immemorial, losing the benefits derived from them and, in a spirit of reckless ridicule, laughing them to scorn. All this hostility to our time-honored rules of virtuous life is due to nothing but the study of English. If the acquisition of knowledge and culture come into conflict with faith in things divine, then they are most utterly worthless. It behoves each and every man to cling to the faith of his forefathers, but you apparently think that the Hindu religion is altogether contemptible. I have never seen you, Madhavan, in these latter days, go to a temple to pray, and you, Govindan Kutti, never go. You may wear sandal on forehead as a beauty patch, ashes you never put on. Shame, shame that you should end in this!"

  "Don’t be, so sad about it, father," said Madhavan, "I am no atheist. On the contrary I am firmly convinced for many reasons that there is a God, and I have never held that one should not go to the temples. I would not have the least objection to putting on the caste-mark if I had the ashes, but I cannot see what connection there is between sandal and ashes and temples and God. If you convince me of it, father, I will hereafter consider attendance at the temples and the caste-mark of ashes as most essential."

  "What do you think about it, Govindan Kutti?" asked Govinda Panikkar.

  "I think that as human knowledge increases, faith in religion must decrease," replied Govindan Kutti Menon. "What is called religion is simply a fabric of each man’s brain, and all are at liberty to hold their own opinions concerning its merits and demerits. It is entirely a mistake to say that because our forefathers followed some religion without discussing its pros and cons, therefore we are obliged to "do the same."

  "There!" exclaimed Govinda Panikkar, "such a monstrous doctrine as that could only be prompted by English education. Do you, or do you not, believe that there is a God, Govindan Kutti?"

  "I do not believe that there is any single supreme power which can be called God. I know that the origin, preservation, growth and decay of the whole world are due to natural forces, but more than this I do not know. I do not see anywhere any entity which can be called God, nor do I see any irresistible signs of the power of such an entity. How then can I believe that such an entity exists?"

  "Shocking, shocking!" said Govinda Panikkar, "you are worse than Madhavan. He thinks at least there is a God, but you deny even this. You were both brought up in the same school, were you not? Then how can you take such different views? At any rate you are, both of you, wonderful examples of the times. Madhavan concedes that there is a God, but you, Govindan Kutti, say there is none, is that it?"

  "Yes," answered Govindan Kutti, "I see no reason for thinking that there is a God."

  "Never mind that just now," said Madhavan. "I want to hear you explain, father, how attendance at the temples and the caste mark of ashes are necessary for the worship of God."

  "I will tell you," replied Govinda Panikkar, "but I am not at all sure that I shall convince you. It will be difficult not to put your minds in the right track, but I will explain. A temple is a place set apart by the Hindus for the worship of God. God fills every place, even the most secret, with His presence, but nevertheless, because men are apt to ignore this attribute, our forefathers, from generation to generation, most wisely established temples to remind them of the admiration and homage due to the Almighty and prescribed forms and ceremonies of prayer and thanksgiving to be offered up therein. The use of ashes and sandal forms part of the ritual ordained for the worship of God, and this is the connection between them."

  "I understand, sir, now the relation which temples and ashes and sandal bear to each other," said Madhavan, "but I do not yet understand what is the connection between these three things and the Almighty;"

  "Quite so, that is just the danger," replied his father. "Did I not say that a temple is a place set apart for the worship of God?"

  "Yes," answered Madhavan. "You said that our ancestors had wisely established temples in order that ordinary mortals might be brought to adore and worship God therein. But in that case it is only those who are not satisfied, except with a formal display of reverence and piety in a temple, and those who never feel such reverence and piety elsewhere, that need go to the temple. In that case it is clear that those who remember and reverence God, without entering the temples, need not have recourse to them, that, according to your own statement, father, the temples are nothing but symbolical institutions founded by pious individuals for the benefit of those who have no natural inclinati
on to piety, and that there is no essential connection between the temples and God."

  "I think it is possible only for saints who have emancipated themselves from all worldly lusts and passions, and are supremely indifferent to such human weaknesses as hunger and sleep and sensual gratification, to live without going to the temples," replied the father. "But it would be a matter of the utmost difficulty for us, who are of the world and worldly, to keep alive our faith in God and to meditate on him without the outward and visible help given to us by the temples and the idols and the other emblems of our religion."

  "I don’t believe that there are any human beings who have shaken off all worldly passions and attained the supreme indifference you describe, father," replied Madhavan. "Man is a living creature formed by God to walk according to the natural laws of the world, and no man can ever acquire the power of swerving a hair’s breadth from those laws. If any man makes a show of possessing this power, it is nothing but impudence and folly and those who put any faith in it are sadly deceived. If you will point out any man who is superior to hunger and sleep, to love, anger and desire, then I will admit that he is a saint emancipated from all earthly frailties, but my firm belief is that no such man as this exists. Moreover in their nature all men are alike, and although, through education and knowledge, differences may be observed among them on various points, still it is impossible that their real nature can be materially changed, and hence I say, father, that in all mankind there is no one who has eliminated from his system hunger and need of sleep and the other appetites you mentioned. If, as you said at first, temples were established for the use of ordinary, ignorant mortals, then the worship of God therein is necessary only for those who feel the want of them. I acknowledge with you that God is present throughout the whole world, and that there is an Almighty Being with whom lies the power of creation, preservation, and destruction. Then with this conviction in my mind, it would surely be a gross mockery on my part to go to a temple and pretend that the image set up therein was my God and worship it and prostrate myself before it."