"The tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things....
The tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly
poison."--ST JAMES iii 5-8.
Roy spent ten days in Delhi--lodging with one Krishna Lal, a jewel
merchant of high standing, well known to Sir Lakshman--and never a word
or a sight of Dyán Singh. The need for constant precautions hampered him
not a little; but if the needle he sought was in this particular
haystack, he would find it yet.
Meanwhile, at every turn he was imbibing first impressions, a
sufficiently enthralling occupation--in Delhi, of all places on earth:
Delhi, mistress of many victors; very woman, in that she yields to
conquer; and after centuries of romance and tragedy, remains, in
essence, unconquered still. The old saying, 'Who holds Delhi, holds
India,' has its dark counterpart in the unwritten belief that no alien
ruler, enthroned at Delhi, shall endure. Hence the dismay of many loyal
Indians when the British Government deserted Calcutta for the Queen of
the North. And here, already, were her endless, secretive byways
rivalling Calcutta suburbs as hornet-nests of sedition and intrigue.
Roy was to grow painfully familiar with these before his search ended.
But the city's pandemonium of composite noises and composite smells was
offset by the splendid remnants of Imperial Delhi:--the Pearl Mosque, a
dream in marble, dazzling against the blue: inlaid columns of the
Dewan-i-Khas--every leaf wrought in jade or malachite, every petal a
precious stone; swelling domes and rose-pink minarets of the Jumna
Musjid rising superbly from a network of narrow streets and shabby
toppling houses. For, in India, the sordid and stately rub shoulders
with sublime disregard for effect. In the cool aloofness of tombs and
temples, or among crumbling fragments of them on the plain, or away
beyond the battered Kashmir Gate--ground sacred to heroic memories--he
could wander at will for hours, isolated in body and spirit, yet
strangely content....
And there was yet a third Delhi, hard by these two; yet curiously aloof:
official, Anglo-Indian Delhi, of bungalows and clubs and painfully new
Government buildings. Little scope here for imaginative excursions, but
much scope for thought in the queer sensation, that beset him, of seeing
his father's people, as it were, through his mother's eyes.
New as he was to Anglo-Indian life, these glimpses from the outskirts
were sufficiently illuminating. Once he was present in the crowd at a
big Gymkhana; and more than once he strolled through the Club gardens
where social Delhi pursued tennis-balls and shuttle-cocks--gravely, as
if life hung on the issue; or gaily, with gusts of laughter and chaff,
often noisier than need be. And he saw them all, now, from a new angle
of vision. Discreetly aloof, he observed, in passing, the complete
free-and-easiness of the modern maiden with her modern cavalier;
personalities flying; likewise legs and arms; a banter-wrangle interlude
over a tennis-racquet; flight and pursuit of the offending maiden,
punctuated with shrieks, culminating in collapse and undignified
surrender: while a pair of club peons--also discreetly aloof--exchanged
remarks whose import would have enraged the unsuspecting pair. Roy knew
very well they never gave the matter a thought. They were simply
'rotting' in the approved style of to-day. But, seen from the Eastern
standpoint, the trivial incident troubled him. It recalled a chance
remark of his grandfather's: "With only a little more decorum and
seriousness in their way of life out here, they could do far more to
promote good understanding socially between us all, than by making
premature 'reforms' or tilting at barriers arising from opposite kinds
of civilisation."
Here was matter for the novel--or novels--to be born of his
errantry:--the 'fruit of his life' that _she_ had so longed to bold in
her hands. Were she only at Home now, what letters-without-end he would
be pouring out to her! What letters he could have poured out to
Arúna--did conscience permit.
He allowed himself two, in the course of ten days; and the spirit moved
him, after long abstention, to indulge in a rambling screed to Tara
telling of his quest; revealing more than he quite realised of the inner
stress he was trying to ignore. The quest, he emphasised, was a private
affair, confided to her only, because he knew she would understand. It
hurt more than he cared to admit to feel how completely his father would
_not_ understand his present turmoil of heart and brain....
Isolated thus, with his hidden thwarted emotion, there resulted a
literary blossoming, the most spontaneous and satisfying since his slow
struggle up from the depths. Alone at night, and in the clear keen
dawns, he wrote and wrote and wrote, as a thirsty man drinks after a
desert march:--poems chiefly; sketches and impressions; his dearest
theme the troubled spirit of India,--or was it the spirit of
Arúna?--poised between crescent light and deepening shadow, looking for
sane clear guidance--and finding none. A prose sketch, in this vein,
stood out from the rest; a fragment of his soul, too intimately
self-revealing for the general gaze: no uncommon dilemma for an artist,
precisely when his work is most intrinsically true. Had he followed the
natural urge of his heart, he would have sent it to Arúna. As it was, he
decided to treasure it a little longer for himself alone.
* * * * *
Meantime Dyán--half forgotten--suddenly emerged. It was at a
meeting--exclusively religious and philosophical; but the police had
wind of it; and a friendly inspector mentioned it to Krishna Lal. The
chief speaker would be a Swami of impeccable sanctity. "But if you have
a sensitive palate, you will doubtless detect a spice of political
powder under the jam of religion!" quoth Krishna Lal, who was a man of
humour and no friend of sedition.
"Thanks for the hint," said Roy--and groaned in spirit. Meetings, at
best, were the abomination of desolation; and his soul was sick of the
Indian variety. For the 'silent East' is never happier than when it is
talking at immense length; denouncing, inaugurating, promoting; and a
prolonged dose of it stirred in Roy a positive craving for men who shot
remarks at each other in 'straight-flung words and true.' But no stone
must be left unturned. So he went;--guided by the friendly policeman,
who knew him for a Sahib bent on some personal quest.
Their search ended in a windowless inner room; packed to suffocation;
heavy with attar of rose, kerosene, and human bodies; and Roy as usual
clung to a doorway that offered occasional respite.
The Swami was already in full flow:--a wraith of a man in a
salmon-coloured garment; his eyes, deep in their sockets, gleaming like
black diamonds. And he was holding his audience spellbound:--Hindus of
every calling; students in abundance; a sprinkling of Sikhs and Dogras
from the lines. Some form of hypnotism,--was it? Perhaps. Even Roy could
not listen unmoved, when the spirit shook the frail creature like a gust
of wind and the hollow chest-notes vibrated with appeal or command. Such
men--and India is full of them--are spiritual dynamos. Who can calculate
their effect on an emotional race? And they no longer confine their
influence to things spiritual. They, too, have caught the modern disease
of politics for the million. And the supreme appeal is to youth--plastic
and impressionable, aflame with fervours of the blood that can be
conjured, by heady words, into fervours infinitely more dangerous to
themselves and their country.
In an atmosphere dense with spilled kerosene, with over-breathed air and
over-charged emotion, that appeal rang out like a trumpet blast.
"It is to youth the divine message has come in all ages; the call to
martyrdom and dedication. 'Suffer little children to come unto me,' said
the inspired Founder of Christianity. So also I say in this time of
revival, suffer the young to fling themselves into the arms of the
Mother. My sons, she cries, go back to the Vedas. You will find all
wisdom there. Reject this alien gift--however finely gilded--of a
civilisation inferior to your own. Hindu Rishis were old in wisdom when
these were still unclothed savages coloured with blue paint. Shall the
sacred Motherland be inoculated with Western poison? It is for the
young to decide--to act. Nerve your arms with valour. Bring offerings
acceptable, to the shrine of Kali Mai. Does she demand a sheep? A
buffalo? A cocoanut? Ask yourselves. The answer is written in your
hearts----"
His emaciated arms shot up and outward in a gesture the more impressive
because it was maintained. For a prolonged moment the holy one seemed to
hover above his audience--as it were an eagle poised on outspread
wings....
Roy came to himself with a start. His friend the policeman had plucked
his sleeve; and they retreated a step or two through the open door.
"The Sahib heard?" queried Mán Singh in cautious undertone.
"There's hearing--and hearing," said Roy, aware of some cryptic message
given and understood. "I take it _they_ all know what he's driving at."
"True talk. They know. But _he_ has not said. Therefore he goes in
safety when he should be picking oakum in the jail khana. They are
cunning as serpents these holy ones."
"They have the gift of tongues," said Roy. "May one ask what is Mai
Kali's special taste in sacrifices?"
The Sikh gave him an odd look. "The blood of white goats--meaning
Sahibs, Hazúr."--Roy's 'click' was Oriental to a nicety.--"'A white goat
for Kali' is an old Bengali catchword. Hark how their tongues wag. But
there is still another--much esteemed by the student-_lóg_; one who can
skilfully flavour a _pillau_[16] of learned talk, as the Swami can
flavour a pillau of religion. Where he comes, there will be trouble
afterwards, and arrests. But no Siri Chandranath. He is off making
trouble elsewhere."
"Chandranath--_here_?" Roy's heart gave a jerk, half excitement, half
apprehension.
"Your Honour has heard the man?"
"No. I'm glad of the chance."
As they entered, the second speaker stepped on to the platform....
True talk, indeed! There stood the boy who had whimpered under Scab
Major's bullying, in the dark coat and turban of the educated Indian;
his back half turned, in confidential talk with a friend, who had set a
carafe and tumbler ready to hand. The light of a wall lamp shone full on
his friend's face--clean-cut, handsome, unmistakable....
_Dyán_! Dyán--and Chandranath! It was the conjunction that confounded
Roy and tinged elation with dismay. He could hardly contain himself till
Dyán joined the audience; standing a little apart; not taking a seat.
Something in his face reminded Roy of the strained fervour in his letter
to Arúna. Carefully careless, he edged his way through the outer fringe
of the audience, and volunteered a remark or two in Hindustani.
"A full meeting, brother. Your friend speaks well?"
Dyán turned with a start. "Where are _you_ from, that you have not heard
him?" He scrutinised Roy's appearance. "A hill man----?"
Roy edged nearer and spoke in English under his breath. "Dyán--look at
me. Don't make a scene. I am Roy--from Jaipur."
In spite of the warning, Dyán drew back sharply. "_What_ are you here
for--spying?"
"No. Hoping to find you. Because--I care; and Arúna cares----"
"Better to care less and understand more," Dyán muttered brusquely. "No
time for talk now. Listen. You may learn a few things Oxford could not
teach."
The implied sneer enraged Roy; but listen he must, perforce: and in the
space of half an hour he learnt a good deal about Chandranath and the
mentality of his type.
To the outer ear, he was propounding the popular modern doctrine of
'Yoga by action.' To the inner ear he was extolling passion and
rebellion in terms of a creed that enjoins detachment from both;
inciting to political murder, under sanction of the divine dictum, 'Who
kills the body kills naught ... Thy concern is with action alone, never
with results.' And his heady flights of rhetoric, like those of the
Swami, were frankly aimed at the scores of half-fledged youths who hung
upon his utterance.
"What are the first words of the young child? What are the first words
in your own hearts?" he cried, indicating that organ with a dramatic
forefinger. "_I want_! It is the passionate cry of youth. By indomitably
uttering it, he can dislodge mountains into the sea. And in India to-day
there exist mountains necessary to be hurled into the sea!" His
significant pause was not lost on his hearers--or on Roy.
"'Many-branched and endless are the thoughts of the irresolute.' But to
him who cries ardently, '_I want_,' there is no impediment, except
paucity of courage to snatch the seductive object. Deaf to the anæmic
whisper of compunction, remembering that sin taints only the weak, he
will be translated to that dizzy eminence, where right and wrong, truth
and untruth, become as pigmies, hardly discerned by the naked eye. There
dwells Káli--the shameless and pitiless; and believing our country that
deity incarnate, _her_ needs must be our gods. 'Her image make we in
temple after temple--Bande Mátaram?'" The invocation was flung back to
him in a ragged shout. Here and there a student leapt to his feet
brandishing a clenched fist. "Compose your laudable intoxication,
brothers. I do not say, 'Be violent.' There is a necromancy of the
spirit more potent than weapons of the flesh:--the delusion of
irresistible suggestion that will conquer even truth itself...."
Abstraction piled on abstraction; perversion on perversion; and that
deluded crowd plainly swallowing it all as gospel truth----! To Roy the
whole exhibition was purely disgustful; as if the man had emptied a
dust-bin under his aristocratic nose. Once or twice he glanced covertly
at Dyán, standing beside him; at the strained intentness of his face,
the nervous clenched hand. Was this the same Dyán who had ridden and
argued and read 'Greats' with him only four years ago--this hypnotised
being who seemed to have forgotten his existence----?
Thank God! At last it was over! But while applause hummed and fluttered,
there sprang on to the platform, unannounced, a wiry keen-faced man,
with the parted beard of a Sikh.
"Brothers--I demand a hearing!" he cried aloud; "I who was formerly
hater of the British, preaching all manner of violence--I have been
three years detained in Germany; and I come back now, with my eyes
open, to say all over India--cease your fool's talk about
self-government and tossing mountains into the sea! Cease making
yourselves drunk with words and waving your Vedic flags and stand by the
British--your true friends----"
At that, cries and counter-cries drowned his voice. Books were hurled;
no other weapon being handy; and Roy noted, with amused contempt, that
Chandranath hastily disappeared from view.
The Sikh laughed in the face of their opposition. Dexterously catching a
book, he hurled it back; and once more made his strong voice heard above
the clamour. "Fools--and sheep! You may stop your ears now. In the end I
will make you hear----"
Shouted down again, he vanished through a side exit; and, in the turmoil
that followed, Roy's hand closed securely on Dyán's arm. Throughout the
stormy interlude, he had stood rigidly still: a pained, puzzled frown
contracting his brows. Yet it was plain he would have slipped away
without a word, but for Roy's detaining grasp.
"You don't go running off--now I've found you," said he good-humouredly.
"I've things to say. Come along to my place and hear them."
Dyán jerked his imprisoned arm. "Very sorry. I have--important duties."
"To-morrow night then? I'm lodging with Krishna Lal. And--look here,
_don't_ mention me to your friend the philosopher! I know more about him
than you might suppose. If you still care a damn for me--and the others,
do what I ask--and keep your mouth shut----"
Dyán's frown was hostile; but his voice was low and troubled. "For God's
sake leave me alone, Roy. Of course--I care. But that kind of caring is
carnal weakness. We, who are dedicated, must rise above such weakness,
above pity and slave-morality, giving all to the Mother----"
"Dyán--have you forgotten--_my_ mother?" Roy pressed his advantage in
the same low tone.
"No. Impossible. She was _Dévi_--Goddess; loveliest and kindest----"
"Well, in her name, I ask you--come to-morrow evening and have a talk."
Dyán was silent; then, for the first time, he looked Roy straight in the
eyes. "In her name--I will come. Now let me go."
Roy let him go. He had achieved little enough. But for a start it was
not so bad.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 16: An Indian dish.]