by Farahad Zama
'But that's ridiculous,' said Jeurg. 'This is just daylight robbery. I worked hard all my life and denied myself many pleasures to accumulate that money and you are telling me it was all a waste.'
The branch manager, who too had lost his life savings, did not meet his customer's eyes. Jeurg went to the cashier and said he wanted to withdraw all his money. The cashier passed him bundles of notes and Jeurg stuffed his leather satchel full. The cashier asked him to add a second signature across the back of the withdrawal form. Jeurg put the leather satchel by his feet and signed the form.
The clerk took the form, looked at it carefully and nodded. Jeurg bent to pick up the leather satchel – which was not there. Jeurg's heart stopped for a moment. 'Thieves!' he cried. 'My money! Somebody's stolen all my money.'
He ran towards the door and there by the exit, he saw a pile of money and the notebook he always kept in his satchel. The leather bag itself was nowhere to be seen. It was then that the full horror of what was happening struck Jeurg and he collapsed to the floor, weeping like a child. His life savings were now worth so little that a thief had emptied all the currency notes on the floor and walked away with the satchel.
Later that day Mr Kolberg, the brewer turned up at Otto's house with a horse cart and a thousand marks. 'I've come to take all your bottles,' Kolberg said, handing him the money. Otto smiled and was about to invite the man in when his nephew Erik came running over. 'Uncle, stop!' he cried, his little legs pumping hard, like pistons on a train engine. 'Mum says you must not sell the bottles.'
Kolberg laughed nervously and waved his hand, as if shooing Erik away like an unwanted fly. 'Go away you horrid boy,' he said. 'Don't interfere when grown men are conducting business.'
Otto frowned. 'Don't talk to my nephew like that,' he said, and picked up Erik.
Karla walked over. She appeared to have been crying. Otto took one look at her and said, 'What is it Karla? Is everything all right?'
'Don't sell the bottles Otto,' she said. 'They are probably the only thing that will save you, and us, from starvation.'
Kolberg quietly drove his cart away, knowing that the chance for a quick killing had disappeared.
The news spread all over town like wild fire. Even on that day when the whole financial world had turned upside down, the news that respectable, prudent Jeurg had become a pauper while his prodigal brother who had not worked one day in his life and had not seen a drink or a woman he did not spend money on had become rich – from empty bottles! - was juicy gossip. Klara told Hannelore, who told her sometime lover Leon, schoolmaster, who told Mr and Mrs Hotti, the bakers, who talked to the widow Bergdorf who then mentioned it to Father Martin when he came to pick up the pen that he had forgotten when he visited her the previous day. Half the people in the village felt happy for Otto. Unlike some people who became nasty when under the influence, Otto was a happy drunk. Most of those who were pleased with the news were women – Klara and Hannelore among them. The men had mixed feelings. A very few were happy, but there was also envy, and money was a big problem for everybody with the hyperinflation and unemployment.
Father Martin was in two minds about the news. He was happy for Otto, of course, as he would be when anybody in his flock came into good news. But he could not believe that God had allowed Otto to become rich again. Was this really a good lesson for anybody? That a man can spend all his youth on drinking and womanising and end up richer than men who worked diligently all their lives like good burghers?
Jeurg resigned his job and wandered the streets of the village like a madman for two days. He did not listen to Klara's entreaties to come home and when Otto approached him, Jeurg turned violent until Otto had to leave. Father Martin finally convinced Jeurg to return home. Jeurg packed his bags in silence as Klara and the children cried. He came out of the house, carrying the bags while his children clutched his legs, trying to hold him back. Otto and Father Martin stood silent on the street, aghast at the turn of events.
'Please,' said Klara. 'At least tell use where you are going and how long you'll be.'
Jeurg grunted, shaking the children off his legs. 'I am going to Munich to join Hitler so I can fight for our fatherland,' he said.
As he stomped down the street, Klara started crying even more loudly and the children wailed. Otto walked over to them and hugged both children. 'Don't cry,' he said awkwardly to Klara. 'I'll look after you all until we hear from him again.'
Klara sobbed and said quietly, 'We are living on the edge of time and I can't help thinking that we will fall into an abyss and see horrors worse than any we've seen so far.'
Father Martin moved closer and said, 'I wouldn't worry about Jeurg. He is just a bureaucrat who follows orders without question. His only talent is to draw up efficient train schedules. What harm can he do?'
~ ~ ~
3. Kindness
31st January 1948:
Prisons are noisy places and one of the freedoms denied to a prisoner is the liberty to have a quiet lie-in. On this wintry morning, fifty-year old Vithal Rao, a veteran resident of many jails, lay on a rope-strung cot, doing nothing, and enjoying the silence. The previous year, knowing that he would never again have to go to prison, he had had this little room constructed across the yard and away from the rest of the house for precisely this reason.
'Bapujee!' The shout tore apart the stillness. Vithal frowned. Why was his son shouting out to him so early in the morning? 'BAPUJEE...'
The tone of his son's voice made Vithal jump out of bed. Had something happened to one of his grandchildren? Meena had been unwell all last week. Had she suffered a relapse? His son came rushing through the door. 'What happened Gopal?' Vithal asked. 'Is everything all right? Is Meena okay?'
Gopal just shoved the crumpled newspaper he was carrying towards his father. Vithal's first thought was that the British had come back to take over India again. In that case he would have to rejoin the fight for freedom and go back to prison. Then he shook his head at the silly notion. The British had been driven out – not by arms, but by the sheer power of goodness and non-violence by the real Bapujee, the Father of the Nation, Mahatma Gandhi. Jawaharlal Nehru was now Prime Minister and Sardar Patel the home minister and Gandhi was still around to guide the young nation. He took the paper from his son and struggled briefly to tame its recalcitrant folds until it was spread out, pliant, on the cot. The headline leapt at him: Gandhiji Shot Dead. Vithal sat heavily down, feeling as if his legs had been cut off under him.
There was a black-and-white wire photo of the man he knew so well lying down with his eyes closed as if sleeping. Only the white cotton sheet covering the leader to his chest with rose petals strewn all over showed that he was not in fact asleep. He read the article quickly, which described how the Mahatma was walking towards his evening prayers when a young man stepped in front of him, exchanged a few words and then shot him point blank. The identity of the young man was only revealed at the end: It is learnt that the name of the assassin is Nathuram Vinayak Godse (aged 36), a Mahratta. He described himself as the Editor of a daily paper called Hindu Rashtra published in Laxmipet, Poona.
He remembered busy Laxmi Road with its bustling shops on either side. He wondered where on the road the man's printing shop was. He shook his head. A Poona-man, a fellow Mahratta had carried out this dastardly deed! What a shameful day this was for his community. Then his eyes went back to the name: Nathuram Godse. Nathu Ram... He felt his fingers curling, wishing he could wring the man's neck, as he could have probably done once upon a time. Then his shoulders stooped and he felt ashamed. Was that what Gandhiji had taught him? To take revenge and give in to anger? No. A hundred times no. Hate the sin, the Mahatma had told him several times, but not the sinner. After the Rowlatt act stirred riots in the Konkan, Gandhiji had told him to go the region because he said, 'I can trust you to be calm. The police will come after you strongly and I know you won't give into the provocation of retaliating. Remember that ahimsa, non-violence, is our weapon.'
/> Tears rolled down his cheeks and sobs wracked him as he remembered the gentle yet steely leader, the Mahatma, the great soul, who asked much of his followers, but still far less than what he himself gave. A sound like a rolling thunder came from outside the room and Gopal left his father and went to the door. He took one look and called out 'Bapujee, come here.'
Vithal Rao wiped his eyes with the end of his dhoti and joined his son. The whole village seemed to be outside, marching to his house. 'Sarpanch,' he said, shouting in a voice that carried over the noise of the crowd. 'What is going on?'
'Have you heard that Gandhiji has been killed?'
Vithal nodded. 'Yes,' he said. 'This is a sad day that will remain in infamy.'
'It's those Pakistanis who did it. We are going to wipe out Muslims from our village. We will not let them darken our land anymore.'
Vithal was surprised. 'Where did you hear that?' he asked. 'Did you read it in a newspaper?'
'You are joking Vithal. You know that none of us can read – only you Brahmins. But it stands to reason – only Muslims would have hated him enough to kill him. You were a friend of the great man. You must know that.'
Vithal raised his hands and shouted, 'Stop everybody. Listen to what I am saying. I was a personal friend of Gandhiji and with that authority I can tell you that even if a Muslim had committed this atrocity, he would not want you to attack other Muslims in his name. Ahimsa was his creed, and if we throw it away, we dishonour his memory. And there is one more thing – the Mahatma was not assassinated by a Muslim. I am ashamed to say that it was one of us, a Chitpavan Brahmin, who committed this crime.'
The crowd was stunned into silence at this revelation. Vithal Rao took a deep sigh. 'Yes, a man of my community is responsible. The criminal is a man called Nathu Ram Godse. I knew Nathu Ram's uncle and I met his father. I've even met Nathu himself, I am sorry to say. So if you want revenge, attack me. Burn my house down. Drive my family out of this village.'
There was silence for a few seconds, then the Sarpanch said, 'Don't be silly, Vithal. You are not responsible for what a criminal does.'
Vithal Rao did not press the point that it was exactly what the villagers were going to do when they believed that the murderer was a Muslim. He raised his voice and said, 'We will hold a condolence meet here in one hour. Please come.'
Using the same energy and organizational skills that Gandhi had admired in Vithal, the open area in front of the house was transformed within the hour. Tall bamboo poles were stuck into the ground and a coconut-leaf roof was set up, creating a marquee. The ground was covered with thick cloth and a small stage set up on which a large photo of a smiling Gandhi took pride of place. A garland of lotus leaves was obtained and put round the portrait as a mark of respect for the departed leader. When the villagers assembled again, Vithal Rao said, 'Let us sing Gandhi's favourite bhajan.' He was lost for a moment until his son touched his elbow. Vithal shook his head and there were tears in his eyes. 'We sang this song as we marched to Dandi to break the salt laws of the British,' he added.
Raghupati Raaghava Raaja Ram, Patita Paavana Sita Ram,
Ishwara Allah Tero Naam, Sabko Sanmati de Bhagwan...
Lift up those of us who have fallen, Lord Ram.
Ishwar and Allah are your names, give us real wisdom O God...
After they had finished singing, the sarpanch said, 'You knew Gandhiji personally for a long time. Tell us a story about him – something from his life that we can all appreciate.'
Vithal Rao nodded. 'Gandhi's whole life was a story and an example to all of us. Let me think...' His head dropped to his chest for a moment, and then he smiled and lifted his head. 'As you all know, I left home at the age of eighteen to study Engineering in Poona. I was in my third year of college when I heard about Gandhi. He had just returned from South Africa where he had struggled for the rights of Indians and other coloured people using ahimsa and satyagraha – resistance with non-violence and an insistence on truth. I was amazed – before then, I could only imagine driving the British out by violence. Who was this crazy man, I thought, who talked of making the British see the error of their ways by passive resistance, the way a wife resists against an unreasonable husband? Without telling my father, I left the college and went to Bombay to see this mad man with my own eyes. This was before he had started wearing only a dhoti, like a half-naked fakir as his opponents called him. The man I met was wearing a good suit, hat and shoes. He looked like a successful lawyer. There were a number of other people who had come to see him and once he started explaining his philosophy, I thought to myself, this man is correct. This is the only way to make the mighty British Empire listen without losing our own souls to hatred and violence.
Within months, I became a complete follower of Gandhi. At that time, Justice Rowlatt had just proposed bills that would have made the mere possession of an anti-government document a criminal offence. Gandhi led a movement against the bills, which he felt were unjust and unwarranted. He asked me to organize a meeting in the Engineering College at Poona so he could address the students there. It was after the monsoons that year, I remember, when we finally set off from Bombay to Poona. You should have seen the response from the students to Gandhi's speech! The crowds were so large and so many non-students also wanted to see Gandhi that I organized an evening talk in the fair ground by the Chatushrungi temple. It was past midnight by the time the crowds left Gandhi alone. 'Vithal,' he told me that day. 'You are a gem – a satyagrahi with the management skills of an Englishman.'
You see, Gandhi was quite clear-eyed about what we Indians should learn from the British – organization, he used to say, and punctuality. 'I am going to Solapur and then Hyderabad and I can do with a man like you. Do you want to come with me?' he asked.
Of course I said yes, and early the next morning we left by the Kharadi Road towards Indapur and Solapur. We reached Baramati village late in the afternoon and we stopped by the banks of the Karha river so we could see the magnificent Siddeshwar temple. Just as we were about to leave, Gandhi noticed a little boy – about eight or nine years old – being teased by some bigger boys. He signaled to me and started walking towards them. I ran after him and said, 'Sir, we need to leave now otherwise we'll be late at the guesthouse where people are waiting for you and I know you don't like that.'
Gandhi nodded. 'Yes, I know,' he said. 'But let me see what the problem here is.'
The little boy was dressed like a girl and even had a nose ring in his nostril and that's why the other boys were teasing him. 'He is a girl. He is a girl!'
Nobody can be crueler than children. Gandhi squatted on his knees by the little boy and asked him gently, 'What is your name?'
'Ramachandra,' the boy said, wiping his tears with the backs of his hands.
'Ramachandra, that's a fine name. Rama was a king who fought against evil and created a golden age in India. Did you know that?'
'Of course I know,' said the boy. 'Everybody knows the Ramayana.'
'You are a clever boy. Clothes don't make you a girl. You must learn to ignore boys who tease you.'
The boy nodded, then his lips turned down at the corners. 'I try sir, but it is difficult.'
'I know my son. It is not easy. But if you can ignore the taunts of others, you can become great. Otherwise it will be easy and everyone can do it. Did you know that when I went to England, I was scared too. Everybody seemed so confident and rich and I was afraid that I'd make a fool of myself.'
'I see,' said Ramachandra. 'Did you?'
'Did I what?' said Gandhi.
'Make a fool of yourself.'
Gandhi laughed. 'I am sure I did – more than once. But you know what? It doesn't matter. I saw a white man collecting rubbish from the doorsteps and I realized that they were men just like me. I was the King's subject just as much as they were.'
'Did you meet the king?'
'No, but I met his representative in Bombay and he gave me the Kaiser-i-Hind award. The Lion of India.'
'Why did he give you the prize?'
'For saying just that – I am a subject of the King's commonwealth and I have as many rights as any other man. So you see, the boys around you – they might look as if they are very confident and strong, but actually they are afraid too, secretly.'
'What are they afraid of?'
'I don't know. It'll be different for each boy – may be one is afraid of his father, another of the dark and yet another of ghosts,' said Gandhi.
'Surinder over there,' said Ramachandra pointing at one of the lads. 'He is scared of his mother.'
'There you see,' said Gandhi. 'When he is teasing you, just think of how he looks when his mother is scolding him.'
The boy thought about it and smiled. 'I can do that.' Without a backward glance, he skipped away and ran through the ring of boys surrounding him and towards his home.
Gandhi got up and stretched his legs. I hurried over and said, 'Sir, we have to go. Otherwise we'll be late.'
Gandhi nodded but before we reached our car, Ramachandra had stopped and sat on a stone, holding his head in his hands. Gandhi again went to the boy and I followed him. 'What is it Ramachandra?' asked Gandhi.
'I spent too much time outside and I am late. My father will beat me when he sees me.'
'May be he won't,' said Gandhi.
The boy shook his head. 'He will beat me,' he said and looked ready to cry again.
'Come,' said Gandhi. 'Show me your house and I will take you there. I will explain to your father that the boys have been teasing you and that's why you are late. Then he won't hit you.'