He stood in the hot yellow sunshine, his air of modest importance
forming a halo round his old rickety figure, as with one hand he clung
to a plane-table, old and rickety as himself, and with the other to
one of those large-eyed, keen-faced Indian boys who seem to have been
sent into the world in order to take scholarships. The old man, on the
contrary, was of the monkey type of his race, small, bandy-legged, and
inconceivably wrinkled, with a three days' growth of grey beard
frosting his brown cheeks; only the wide-set brown eyes had a certain
wistful beauty in them.
In front of those appealing eyes sat a ruddy-faced Englishman backed
by the white wings of an office tent and deep in the calf-bound books
and red-taped files on the table before him. On either side,
discreetly drawn apart so as to allow the central group its full
picturesque value, were tall figures, massive in beards and wide
turbans, in falling folds of dingy white and indigo blue; massive also
in broad, capable features, made broader still by capable approving
smiles over the old man, the boy, and the plane-table. So standing
they were a typical group of Jat peasantry appealing with confidence
to English justice for the observance of Indian custom.
"Then the head-men are satisfied with this _ad-interim_ arrangement?"
asked the palpably foreign voice. The semicircle of writers and
subordinate officials on the striped carpet beyond the table moved
their heads like clockwork figures to the circle of peasants, as if
giving it permission to speak, and a chorus of guttural voices rose in
assent; then, after village fashion, one voice prolonged itself in
representative explanation. "It will be but for three years or so, and
the Shelter-of-the-World is aware that the fields cannot run away. And
old Tulsi knows how to make the Three-Legged-One work; thus there is
no fear." The speaker thrust a declamatory hand in the direction of
the plane-table, and the chorus of assent rose once more.
So the matter was settled; the matter being, briefly, the appointment
of a new _putwari_, in other words the official who measures the
fields, and prepares the yearly harvest-map, showing the area under
cultivation on which the Land Revenue has to be paid; in other words
again, the man who stands between India and bankruptcy. In this
particular case the recently defunct incumbent had left a son who was
as yet over young for the hereditary office, and the head-men had
proposed putting in the boy's maternal grandfather as a substitute,
until the former could pass through the necessary modern training in
the Accountants' College at head-quarters. The proposition was fair
enough, seeing that Gurditta was sure to pass, as he was already head
of the queer little village school which the elders viewed with
incredulous tolerance. And, to tell the truth, their doubts were not
without some reason; for on that very day when the Englishman was
inspecting, the first class had bungled over a simple revenue sum,
which any one could do in his head with the aid, of course, of the ten
God-given fingers without which the usurer would indeed be king. The
master had explained the mistake by saying that it was no fault of the
rules, and only arose because the boys had forgotten which was the
bigger of two numbers; but that in itself was something over which to
chuckle under their breaths and nudge each other on the sly. _Ari
hai!_ the lads would be forgetting next which end of the plough to
hold, the share or the handle! But _Purumeshwar_[39] be praised! only
upon their slates could they forget it; since a true-born Jat's hand
could never lose such knowledge.
---------------------
[Footnote 39: The Universal God.]
[Footnote 40: The Monkey-god.]
---------------------
So, underlying the manifest convenience of not allowing a stranger's
finger in their pie, the elders of the village had a secondary
consideration in pleading for old Tulsi Ram's appointment; a desire,
namely, to show the world at large and the Presence in particular that
there had been _putwaries_ before he came to cast his mantle of
protection over the poor. Besides, old Tulsi, though he looked like a
monkey, might be Sri Hunuman[40] himself in the wisdom necessary for
settling the thousand petty disputes, without which the village would
be so dull. Then he was a real saint to boot, all the more saintly
because he was willing to forego his preparation for another world in
order to keep a place warm for his grandson in this.
And after all it was only for three years! They, and Tulsi, and the
Three-Legged-One could surely manage the maps for so long. If not,
well, it was no great matter, since the fields could not possibly run
away. So they went off contentedly in procession, Tulsi Ram clinging
ostentatiously to the plane-table, which, by reason of its straighter,
longer legs, looked for all the world as if it were taking charge of
him, and not he of it.
It looked still more in possession as it stood decently draped beside
the old man as he worked away at the long columns of figures; for the
mapping season was over, and nothing remained but addition,
subtraction, and division, at all of which old Tulsi was an adept. Had
he not indeed dipped far into "Euclidus" in his salad-days when he was
the favourite disciple of the renowned anchorite at Janakpur?
Gurditta by this time was away at college, and Kishnu, his widowed
mother, as she cooked the millet-cakes in the other corner of the
courtyard, wept salt tears at the thought of the unknown dangers he
was running. Deadly dangers they were, for had not his father been
quite healthy until the Government had insisted on his using the
Three-Legged-One? And then, had he not gone down and wrestled with it
on the low, misty levels of newly reclaimed land by the river-side,
and caught the chills of which he had eventually died? Thus when the
rainy season came on, and the plane-table, still decently draped, was
set aside for shelter in the darkest corner of the hovel, it looked to
poor Kishnu like some malevolent demon ready to spring out upon the
little household. And so, naturally enough, when Tulsi went to fetch
it out for his first field-measurements, he found it garlanded with
yellow marigolds, and set out with little platters of curds and
butter. Kishnu had been propitiating it with offerings.
The old man looked at her in mild, superior reproof. "Thou art an
ignorant woman, daughter," he said. "This is no devil, but a device of
the learned, of much use to such as I who make maps. Thou shouldest
have known that the true Gods are angered by false worship; therefore
I counsel thee to remember great Mahadeo this day, lest evil befall."
So he passed out into the sunlight, bearing the plane-table in
debonair fashion, leaving the abashed Kishnu to gather up the
marigolds. _Baba-ji_, she told herself, was brave, but he had not to
bustle about the house all day with that shrouded thing glowering from
the corner. However, since for Gurdit's sake it was wise to propitiate
everything, she took the platters of curds and butter over to
Mahadeo's red stone under the big banyan tree.
Nevertheless, she felt triumphant that evening when old Tulsi came in
from the fields dispirited and professing no appetite for his supper.
He had in fact discovered that studying text-books and making
practical field-measurements were very different things, especially in
a treeless, formless plain, where the only land-marks are the mud
boundary-cones you are set to verify, and which therefore cannot, or
ought not to be considered fixed points.
However, he managed at last to draw two imaginary lines through the
village, thanks to _Purumeshwar_ and the big green dome of Mahadeo's
banyan tree swelling up into the blue horizon. Indeed he felt so
grateful to the latter for showing clear, even over a plane-table,
that he sneaked out when Kishnu's back was turned with a platter of
curds of his own for the great, many-armed trunk; but this, of course,
was very different from making oblation to a trivial plane-table. And
that evening he spent all the lingering light in decorating the
borders of the map (which was yet to come) with the finest flourishes,
just, as he told Kishnu, to show the Protector-of-the-Poor that he had
not committed the _putwari_-ship to unworthy hands.
Yet two days afterwards he replied captiously to his daughter's
anxious inquiries as to what was the matter. There was naught wrong;
only one of the three legs had no sense of duty, and he must get the
carpenter to put a nail to it. Despite the nail, however, the anxiety
grew on his face, and when nobody was looking he took to tramping over
the ploughs surreptitiously dragging the primeval chain-measure after
him; in which occupation he looked like a monkey who had escaped from
its owner the plane-table, which, with the old man's mantle draped
over it, and his pugree placed on the top, had a very dignified
appearance in the corner of the field; for it was hot work dragging
the heavy chain about, and old Tulsi, who was too proud to ask for aid
and so disclose the fact that he had had to fall back on ancient
methods, discarded all the clothing he could.
And after all he had to give in. "Gurdit's father did it field by
field," said the head-men carelessly when he sought their advice.
"Fret not thyself, _Baba-ji_. 'Twill come right; thou art a better
scholar than ever he was."
"Field by field!" echoed Tulsi aghast. "But the book prohibits it,
seeing that there is not verification, since none can know if the
boundaries be right."
A broad chuckle ran round the circle of elders. "Is that all, Sri
Tulsi?" cried the head-man. "That is soon settled. A Jat knows his own
land, I warrant; and each man of us will verify his fields, seeing
that never before have we had such a settling-day as thine. Not an
error, not an injustice! _Purumeshwar_ send Gurditta to be as good a
_putwari_ when he comes!"
"Nay, 'tis Gurdit who is _putwari_ already," replied Tulsi uneasily;
"and therefore must there be no mistake. So I will do field by field;
peradventure when they are drawn on paper it may seem more like the
book where things do not move. Then I can begin again by rule."
There was quite a pleasurable excitement over the attested measurement
of the fields, and old Munnia, the parcher of corn, said it was almost
as good as a fair to her trade. Each man clanked the chain round his
own boundary, while his neighbours stood in the now sprouting wheat to
see fair play and talk over the past history of the claim; Tulsi Ram
meanwhile squatting on the ground and drawing away as for dear life.
Even the children went forth to see the show, munching popped corn and
sidling gingerly past the Three-Legged-One which, to say sooth, looked
gigantic with half the spare clothes of the community piled on to it;
indeed the village women, peeping from afar, declared Kishnu to have
been quite right, and urged a further secret oblation as prudent, if
not absolutely necessary.
So she took to hanging the marigolds again, taking care to remove them
ere the old man rose in the morning. And the result was eminently
satisfactory, for as he put one field-plan after another away in the
portfolio Tulsi Ram's face cleared. They were so beautifully green,
far greener than those in the book; so surely there could be no
mistake. But alas! when he came to try and fit them together as they
should be on the map, they resolutely refused to do anything of the
kind. It was a judgment, he felt, for having disobeyed the text-book;
and so the next morning he rose at the peep of day determined to have
it out legitimately with the Three-Legged-One. And lo! it was
garlanded with marigolds and set out once more with platters of curds
and butter.
"Thou hast undone me, ignorant woman!" he said with a mixture of anger
and relief. "Now is it clear! The true Gods in despite of thy false
worship have sent a devil into this thing to destroy me." So despite
Kishnu's terror and tears he threw the offerings into the fire, and
dragged the plane-table out into the fields with ignominy.
But even this protestation failed, and poor old Tulsi, one vast
wrinkle of perplexity, was obliged once more to refer to the circle of
head-men.
"Gurdit's father managed, and thou hast twice his mettle," they
replied, vaguely interested. "Sure the devil must indeed be in it,
seeing that the land cannot run away of itself."
"It hath not run away," said Tulsi dejectedly. "There is not too
little, but too much of it."
Too much land! The idea was at first bewildering to these Jat
peasants, and then sent them into open laughter. Here was a mistake
indeed! and yet the lust of land, so typical of their race, showed in
their eyes as they crowded round the map which Tulsi Ram spread on the
ground. It was a model of neatness: the fields were greener than the
greenest wheat; but right in the middle of them was a white patch of
no-man's-land.
"_Trra!_" rolled the broadest of the party after an instant's
stupefaction. "That settles it. 'Tis a mistake, for look you, 'tis
next my fields, and if 'twere there my plough would have been in it
long ago." A sigh of conviction and relief passed through the circle,
for the mere suggestion had been disturbing. Nevertheless, since
Gurdit's father's map had never indulged in white spots, Tulsi's must
be purged from them also. "Look you," said one of the youngest; "'tis
as when the children make a puzzle of torn leaves. He has fitted them
askew, so let each cut his own field out of the paper and set it
aright."
Then ensued an hour of sheer puzzledom, since if the white spot were
driven from one place it re-appeared differently shaped in another.
The devil was in it, they said at last, somewhat alarmed; since he who
brought land might be reasonably suspected of the power of taking it
away. They would offer a scapegoat; and meanwhile old Tulsi need not
talk of calling in the aid of the new _putwari_ in the next village,
for he was one of the new-fangled sort, an empty drum making a big
noise, and, as likely as not, would make them pay double, if there
really was extra land, because it had not come into the schedule
before. No! they would ask the schoolmaster first, since he had
experience in finding excuse for mistakes. Nor was their trust
unfounded, for the master not only had an excuse in something he
called "a reasonable margin of error," but also a remedy which, he
declared, the late _putwari_ had always adopted; briefly a snip here,
a bulge there, and a general fudging with the old settlement-maps.
The elders clapped old Tulsi on the back with fresh laughter bidding
him not try to be cleverer than others, and so sent him back to his
drawing-board. But long after the dusk had fallen that evening, the
old man sat staring stupidly at the great sheet of blank paper on
which he had not drawn a line. It was no business of his what Gurdit's
father had done, seeing that he too was of the old school inwardly, if
not outwardly; but Gurdit himself, when he returned, would allow of no
such dishonesties, and he, Tulsi, was in the boy's place. There was
time yet, a month at least before inspection, in which to have it out
with the plane-table. So when the wild geese from the mudbanks came
with the first streak of dawn to feed on the wheat, they found old
Tulsi and his attendant demon there already, at work on the dewy
fields; and when sunset warned the grey crane that it was time to wing
their flight riverwards, they left Tulsi and the Three-Legged-One
still struggling with the margin of error.
Then he would sit up of nights plotting and planning till a dim, dazed
look came into his bright old eyes, and he had to borrow a pair of
horn spectacles from the widow of a dead friend. He was getting old,
he told Kishnu (who was in despair), as men must get old, no matter
how many marigolds ignorant women wasted on false gods; for she had
taken boldly, and unchecked, to the oblations again.
But in the end inspection-day found that white bit of land white as
ever, nay, whiter against the dark finger which pointed at it
accusingly; since, as ill-luck would have it, what only the natives
themselves may call a Black Judge was the inspecting officer. A most
admirable young Bachelor of Arts from the Calcutta University, full to
the brim of solid virtue, and utterly devoid of any sneaking
sentimental sympathy with the quips and cranks of poor humanity; those
lichens of life which make its rough rocks and water-worn boulders so
beautiful to the seeing eye. "This must not occur," he said, speaking,
after the manner of the alien, in English to his clerk in order to
enhance his dignity. "It is gross negligence of common orders. Write
as warning that if better map be not forthcoming, _locum tenens_ loses
appointment with adverse influence on hereditary claims."
Adverse influence on hereditary claims! The words, translated
brutally, as only clerks can translate, sent poor old Tulsi into an
agony of remorse and resolve.
A month afterwards Kishnu spoke to the headmen. "The Three-Legged-One
hath driven the _putwari_ crazy," she said. "Remove it from him or he
will die. Justice! Justice!"
So it was removed and hidden away with obloquy in an outhouse;
whereupon he sat and cried that he had ruined Gurdit--Gurdit the light
of his eyes!
"Heed not the Bengali," they said at last in sheer despair. "He is a
fool. Thou shalt come with us to the big Sahib. He will understand,
seeing that he is more our race than the other."
That is how it came to pass that Tulsi Ram sat on the stucco steps of
an Englishman's house, pointing with a trembling but truthful finger
at a white spot among the green, while a circle of bearded Jats
informed the Presence that Sri Hunuman himself was not wiser nor
better than their _putwari_.
"And how do _you_ account for it? I mean what do _you_ think it is?"
asked the foreign voice curiously.
The wrinkles on Tulsi's forehead grew deeper, his bright yet dim eyes
looked wistfully at the master of his fate. "'Tis an over-large margin
of error, _Huzoor_, owing to lack of control over the plane-table.
That is what the book says; that is what Gurdit will say."
"But what do _you_ say? How do _you_ think that bit of land came into
your village?"
Tulsi hesitated, gained confidence somehow from the blue eyes: "Unless
_Purumeshwar_ sent a bit of another world?" he suggested meekly.
The Englishman stood for a moment looking down on the wizened
monkey-like face, the truthful finger, the accusing white spot. "I
think he has," he said at last. "Go home, Tulsi, and colour it blue.
I'll pass it as a bit of Paradise."
So that year there was a blue patch, like a tank where no tank should
be, upon the village map, and the old _putwari's_ conscience found
peace in the correct total of the columns of figures which he added
together; while the Three-Legged-One, released from durance vile at
his special request, stood in the corner garlanded with the marigolds
of thanksgiving. Perhaps that was the reason why, next mapping season,
the patch of Paradise had shrunk to half its original size; or perhaps
it was that he really had more control over the plane-table. At any
rate he treated it more as a friend by spreading its legs very wide
apart, covering it with his white cotton shawl, and so using it as a
tent, when the sun was over hot.
And yet when, on Gurdit's return from college with a first-class
surveyor's certificate, Paradise became absorbed in a legitimate
margin of error, there was a certain wistful regret in old Tulsi's
pride, and he said that, being an ignorant old man, it was time he
returned to find Paradise in another way.
"But thou shalt not leave us for the wilderness as before," swore the
Jats in council. "Lo! Gurdit is young and hasty, and thou wilt be
needed to settle the disputes; so we will give thee a saintly sitting
of thy very own in our village."
But Tulsi objected. The fields were the fields, he said, and the
houses were the houses; it only led to difficulties to put odd bits of
land into a map, and he would be quite satisfied to sit anywhere. In
the end, however, he had to give in, for when he died, after many
years spent in settling disputes, some one suggested that he really
had been Sri Hunuman himself; at any rate, he was a saint. So the
white spot marking a shrine reappeared in the map, to show whence the
old man had passed to the Better Land.