I
Once upon a time the Babus at Nayanjore were famous landholders. They
were noted for their princely extravagance. They would tear off the
rough border of their Dacca muslin, because it rubbed against their
delicate skin. They could spend many thousands of rupees over the
wedding of a kitten. And on a certain grand occasion it is alleged that
in order to turn night into day they lighted numberless lamps and
showered silver threads from the sky to imitate sunlight.
Those were the days before the flood. The flood came. The line of
succession among these old-world Babus, with their lordly habits, could
not continue for long. Like a lamp with too many wicks burning, the oil
flared away quickly, and the light went out.
Kailas Babu, our neighbour, is the last relic of this extinct
magnificence. Before he grew up, his family had very nearly reached its
lowest ebb. When his father died, there was one dazzling outburst of
funeral extravagance, and then insolvency. The property was sold to
liquidate the debt. What little ready money was left over was altogether
insufficient to keep up the past ancestral splendours.
Kailas Babu left Nayanjore and came to Calcutta. His son did not remain
long in this world of faded glory. He died, leaving behind him an only
daughter.
In Calcutta we are Kailas Babu's neighbours. Curiously enough our own
family history is just the opposite of his. My father got his money by
his own exertions, and prided himself on never spending a penny more
than was needed. His clothes were those of a working man, and his hands
also. He never had any inclination to earn the title of Babu by
extravagant display; and I myself, his only son, owe him gratitude for
that. He gave me the very best education, and I was able to make my way
in the world. I am not ashamed of the fact that I am a self-made man.
Crisp bank-notes in my safe are dearer to me than a long pedigree in an
empty family chest.
I believe this was why I disliked seeing Kailas Babu drawing his heavy
cheques on the public credit from the bankrupt bank of his ancient Babu
reputation. I used to fancy that he looked down on me, because my father
had earned money with his own hands.
I ought to have noticed that no one showed any vexation towards Kailas
Babu except myself. Indeed it would have been difficult to find an old
man who did less harm than he. He was always ready with his kindly
little acts of courtesy in times of sorrow and joy. He would join in all
the ceremonies and religious observances of his neighbours. His familiar
smile would greet young and old alike. His politeness in asking details
about domestic affairs was untiring. The friends who met him in the
street were perforce ready to be button-holed, while a long string of
questions of this kind followed one another from his lips:
"My dear friend, I am delighted to see you. Are you quite well? How is
Shashi? And Dada--is he all right? Do you know, I've only just heard
that Madhu's son has got fever. How is he? Have you heard? And Hari
Charan Babu--I have not seen him for a long time--I hope he is not ill.
What's the matter with Rakkhal? And er--er, how are the ladies of your
family?"
Kailas Babu was spotlessly neat in his dress on all occasions, though
his supply of clothes was sorely limited. Every day he used to air his
shirts and vests and coats and trousers carefully, and put them out in
the sun, along with his bed-quilt, his pillowcase, and the small carpet
on which he always sat. After airing them he would shake them, and
brush them, and put them carefully away. His little bits of furniture
made his small room decent, and hinted that there was more in reserve if
needed. Very often, for want of a servant, he would shut up his house
for a while. Then he would iron out his shirts and linen with his own
hands, and do other little menial tasks. After this he would open his
door and receive his friends again.
Though Kailas Babu, as I have said, had lost all his landed property, he
had still some family heirlooms left. There was a silver cruet for
sprinkling scented water, a filigree box for otto-of-roses, a small gold
salver, a costly ancient shawl, and the old-fashioned ceremonial dress
and ancestral turban. These he had rescued with the greatest difficulty
from the money-lenders' clutches. On every suitable occasion he would
bring them out in state, and thus try to save the world-famed dignity of
the Babus of Nayanjore. At heart the most modest of men, in his daily
speech he regarded it as a sacred duty, owed to his rank, to give free
play to his family pride. His friends would encourage this trait in his
character with kindly good-humour, and it gave them great amusement.
The neighbourhood soon learnt to call him their Thakur Dada. They would
flock to his house and sit with him for hours together. To prevent his
incurring any expense, one or other of his friends would bring him
tobacco and say: "Thakur Dada, this morning some tobacco was sent to me
from Gaya. Do take it and see how you like it."
Thakur Dada would take it and say it was excellent. He would then go on
to tell of a certain exquisite tobacco which they once smoked in the old
days of Nayanjore at the cost of a guinea an ounce.
"I wonder," he used to say, "if any one would like to try it now. I have
some left, and can get it at once."
Every one knew that, if they asked for it, then somehow or other the key
of the cupboard would be missing; or else Ganesh, his old family
servant, had put it away somewhere.
"You never can be sure," he would add, "where things go to when servants
are about. Now, this Ganesh of mine,--I can't tell you what a fool he
is, but I haven't the heart to dismiss him."
Ganesh, for the credit of the family, was quite ready to bear all the
blame without a word.
One of the company usually said at this point: "Never mind, Thakur Dada.
Please don't trouble to look for it. This tobacco we're smoking will do
quite well. The other would be too strong."
Then Thakur Dada would be relieved and settle down again, and the talk
would go on.
When his guests got up to go away, Thakur Dada would accompany them to
the door and say to them on the door-step: "Oh, by the way, when are you
all coming to dine with me?"
One or other of us would answer: "Not just yet, Thakur Dada, not just
yet. We'll fix a day later."
"Quite right," he would answer. "Quite right. We had much better wait
till the rains come. It's too hot now. And a grand rich dinner such as I
should want to give you would upset us in weather like this."
But when the rains did come, every one was very careful not to remind
him of his promise. If the subject was brought up, some friend would
suggest gently that it was very inconvenient to get about when the rains
were so severe, and therefore it would be much better to wait till they
were over. Thus the game went on.
Thakur Dada's poor lodging was much too small for his position, and we
used to condole with him about it. His friends would assure him they
quite understood his difficulties: it was next to impossible to get a
decent house in Calcutta. Indeed, they had all been looking out for
years for a house to suit him. But, I need hardly add, no friend had
been foolish enough to find one. Thakur Dada used to say, with a sigh of
resignation: "Well, well, I suppose I shall have to put up with this
house after all." Then he would add with a genial smile: "But, you know,
I could never bear to be away from my friends. I must be near you. That
really compensates for everything."
Somehow I felt all this very deeply indeed. I suppose the real reason
was, that when a man is young, stupidity appears to him the worst of
crimes. Kailas Babu was not really stupid. In ordinary business matters
every one was ready to consult him. But with regard to Nayanjore his
utterances were certainly void of common sense. Because, out of amused
affection for him, no one contradicted his impossible statements, he
refused to keep them in bounds. When people recounted in his hearing the
glorious history of Nayanjore with absurd exaggerations, he would accept
all they said with the utmost gravity, and never doubted, even in his
dreams, that any one could disbelieve it.