A Brahman's Curse.
Despite his lack of training Samarendra Babu had great capacities
for business, and seldom lost a chance of profit-making. He saw that
people around him stood in constant need of funds to defray the cost
of religious and family rites, and were ready to pay 60 per cent for
loans--at least they undertook to do so. It occurred to him that if
he lent money on unimpeachable security at something under the market
rates, he could not fail to make a large fortune. Soon after he had set
up as a banker, the neighbours flocked to him for advances, which he
granted only to such as could offer substantial security; his charges
by way of interest being 30 to 40 per cent. He also started a business
in lending ryots rice for their seed-grain and support till the harvest
should be reaped. It is needless to add that his clients paid heavily
for this accommodation. So rapidly did his dealings increase that he
sought an agent to represent him at the district headquarters; and
particularly to buy up defaulters' estates at the auctions which are
held periodically under Government auspices. His choice fell upon one
Bipinbehári Bhur, who had a widespread reputation for acuteness. It
was not belied. In less than a year Bipin had secured for his master
estates yielding a net income of nearly Rs. 1,200, which had cost a
mere song at auction. Samarendra Babu never failed to reward him for
such bargains. On one occasion he had such a slice of luck that it
is worth while to narrate it in some detail.
He had just retired to rest for the night, when a servant knocked at
the door to say that Bipin had come on very urgent business. Samarendra
Babu went downstairs to his parlour, clad in a wrapper, to find
his agent pacing up and down in evident agitation. After the usual
compliments had been exchanged, he asked why Bipin had called so late.
"I have bad news for you, Mahásay," was the reply. "You remember
buying the Shibprakásh estate at last auction? Well, that property
may slip through your fingers." He paused to watch the effect of the
announcement on his master, and then went on: "The late proprietor
has lodged an objection to its sale, on the ground that no arrears
were due, producing a receipt to substantiate his contention. The
Collector has just called on us to show cause against the cancellation
of the sale and will take the case up the day after to-morrow."
Samarendra was thunderstruck by this information, the Shibprakásh
estate being one of the best bargains he had ever got. After pondering
a while, he asked, "What would you advise me to do? I am afraid it
is hopeless to contend against a receipt in full!"
Bipin was not so easily disheartened. He replied, "Let us consult
our pleader, Asu Babu, who is sure to have some plan for upholding
the sale. He won't ask more than Rs. 100, which is not a tenth of
the annual profits for Shibprakásh." This course commended itself to
Samarendra, who sent his headman back to Ghoria, promising to follow
next day, with the necessary sinews of war. He arrived betimes at
Bipin's house there, and took him to the Bar Library, where Asu
Babu was sure to be found when not engaged in Court. A few minutes
later the limb of the law came in, and asked what business brought
Samarendra to Ghoria.
After hearing the story of Shibprakásh and its vicissitudes of
ownership, he asked:--
"How much will you pay me if I win your case?"
Glancing at Bipin, Samarendra answered hesitatingly, "Well, I might
go as far as fifty rupees".
"Nonsense," was the rejoinder. "I won't take a pice less than
Rs. 100." After several minutes wasted on haggling, it was agreed
that Asu Babu should be paid Rs. 40 on the nail and Rs. 35 more
if he won the suit. The pleader pocketed this first instalment, and
assured Samarendra that he would prove the sale to have been perfectly
valid. Then the trio separated, Samarendra returning to Bipin's house
where they passed the day in forming plans for further purchases.
At 10.30 on the morrow, both attended at the Collectorate and
found that the Shibprakásh objection stood first for hearing. It was
opened by the appellant's pleader, who rose armed with a huge account
book and bundle of receipts, in order to prove that his client owed
nothing to Government, and that the sale proceedings were a blunder
from beginning to end. Asu Babu waited till his turn came, and then
informed the Collector that he would find, on examining his books, that
the appellant was Rs. 1 11. 0. in arrears at the date of the sale. The
Collector ordered his head clerk to produce the ledger account of
payments on account of the Shibprakásh estates, and, sure enough, they
showed a short payment of the amount stated. This was a thunderbolt
for the appellant, whose pleader vainly tried to pick holes in the
accounts, but was at last obliged to confess that a mistake had been
made. The only course open to him was to sue for mercy. The Collector,
however, was inexorable, and indeed he had no power to mitigate the
Draconian law of sale. That of Shibprakásh was duly confirmed, and
its new owner adjourned to the bar library to settle matters with
his pleader. The meeting was joyful indeed. After congratulating Asu
Babu on his unexpected success, Samarendra asked how he had managed
it. The pleader at first refused to gratify his curiosity, but yielded
to entreaty. "The tiger has a jackal," he said, "and I, who cannot
stoop to dirty tricks myself, have a certain mukhtiár (the lowest
grade of advocates) who is hand-in-glove with all the amlas (clerks)
and can twist them round his finger--for a consideration. I gave him
Rs. 10 out of the advance money and promised as much more if he could
persuade the Collectorate clerks to cook the appellant's accounts,
so as to show a short payment. You see how well he has succeeded,
and now I think the least you can do is to refund the douceur to
me." Samarendra agreed and handed Asu Babu Rs. 55, prophesying that
he would have a brilliant career at the bar.
He had to stop for a fortnight or so at Ghoria, in order to get
possession of his purchase from the Collectorate názir (bailiff)
who, according to custom, planted a bamboo thereon, as a symbol
of its transfer. While waiting for this formality he attended
another sale for arrears of revenue, in the hope of picking up
some profitable bargains. He was not disappointed. The last lot was
the whole of Jayrámpur, a small village quite close to his house,
inhabited by hardworking and submissive ryots, who paid their rent
punctually. Samarendra was all agog when the názir read out the
names of its proprietors, the amount of arrears, and the boundaries,
calling on the crowd to bid. A dead silence followed, which was at
last broken by a timid offer of Rs. 1,000. Samarendra promptly bid
Rs. 6,000; which he knew was hardly three years' purchase of the
net rental, and the rise was so tremendous that it choked off all
competition. Jayrámpur was knocked down to him; but his exultation
was tempered by the discovery that he had not nearly enough to meet
the amount of earnest money which had to be paid down at once. A
mukhtiár came to his aid by whispering offers of a loan, and the
requisite amount was forthcoming in five minutes, on Samarendra's
giving his note of hand with a bonus of 10 per cent. payable next day.
His star continued to be in the eleventh heaven; for this was one of
a series of profitable purchases. In seven or eight years he owned
estates yielding an income of Rs. 8,000, while his dealings in grain
produced half as much again.
Samarendra's ambition rose with growing prosperity. Visions of a
title hovered in his brain, and being a man of resource, he hit upon
an ingenious method of converting them into realities. Close to his
house there was an extensive bil (marsh) peopled in season by swarms
of wild-duck, teal and snipe. It was visited occasionally by Europeans
from Calcutta, who are always on the alert for a day's sport, but they
were inconvenienced by the total lack of accommodation. So Samarendra
built a neat bungalow, equipped it with European furniture, and placed
an old Khánsámá (Mohammadan butler) in charge, who was versed in
all the customs of Sáheb-log (Englishmen). This menial had orders to
report the arrival of white visitors and offer them hospitality. His
courtesy was highly appreciated, and there was scarcely a Sunday
during the cold weather which did not bring a couple of sportsmen to
the bungalow. Samarendra attended personally to their comforts, thus
making many friends. Through their influence he secured carte blanche
in the matter of guns and ammunition--a boon which seldom falls to the
lot of middle-class Indians. At their request he subscribed to various
European clubs, winning the reputation of being "not half a bad sort of
fellow". All this hospitality, however, was terribly expensive, and it
soon exceeded Samarendra's income. But he went on spending money like
water, in the assurance that one day it would yield a golden return.
On a bright morning, in January, 18--, he was sitting in his bungalow,
in the hope of welcoming guests, when a European entered it, attended
by two orderlies; and seeing a well-dressed Indian, was about to
retire. Samarendra introduced himself as the local Zemindar and
offered to send a shikári (game-keeper) with the visitor in order to
show him some sport. His overtures were gratefully received, and the
European, on returning at noon with a heavy bag, was delighted to find
an appetising tiffin ready for his acceptance. Samarendra kept out of
the way until it was finished, and then asked whether his guest had
enjoyed himself. The latter was profuse in thanks and, ere leaving
for the neighbouring railway station, asked whether he could be of
any service, tendering a card inscribed, "Mr. Charles Bernardson,
Indian Civil Service". He was none other than the Chief Secretary
to Government.
Such an acquaintance was not to be lost sight of. A week later
Samarendra went to Calcutta and called on Mr. Bernardson at his
chambers in the United Service Club. He was received, so to speak, with
open arms, questioned about crops, crime, sport, and other commonplace
topics, and again assured that Mr. Bernardson would serve him in any
way within his power. The latter hint was promptly taken. On receiving
permission to quit the great man's presence he timidly suggested
that he would like to be an Honorary Magistrate. Mr. Bernardson
took note of the wish, and a few weeks later the Gazette announced
Samarendra's nomination to the Ghoria Independent Bench, with power
to try cases singly.
The next point was to attract the attention of the district
authorities. Samarendra pored over the Penal and Procedure Codes,
took lessons in law from Asu Babu, and soon mastered the routine
of a petty Court of Justice. He never missed any sitting of the
Bench and signalised himself by a rigorous interpretation of the
law. Offenders had short shrift from him; and the police moved heaven
and earth to get their cases disposed of in his Court. His percentage
of convictions was larger than that of any honorary magistrate. Such
zeal deserved a suitable reward, and it soon attracted the attention
of the authorities. On New Year's Day, 189-, the Calcutta Gazette
came out with its usual list of honours, amongst which was seen a
Rái Bahádurship for Samarendra. This dignity answers to the English
knighthood, and it is usually made an excuse for rejoicings shared
by all classes. Samarendra, however, thought it unnecessary to waste
money on junketings. He preferred subscribing to movements favoured
by the "little tin gods" of Darjiling.
Towards the end of the same year, he was accosted, while leaving
Court one afternoon, by a chuprássi (orderly) attached to the
magistrate-collector's person, who salámed obsequiously and said that
the Bara Saheb wished to see him at once. Hastening to the district
chief's bungalow he was graciously received, and in the course of
conversation a remark fell from the great man's lips, which made the
blood course wildly through his veins. It seemed that a fund had been
started in Calcutta for the purpose of erecting some permanent memorial
to the late Viceroy, and a hint was thrown out that if Samarendra
subscribed liberally, he might possibly find himself gazetted a
"Rájá Bahádur". He assured the magistrate that the Memorial Fund
would receive a handsome donation from him and asked for a few days
in order to decide the amount.
On returning home, he made a rough calculation of his assets and
liabilities. The latter amounted to nearly a lakh of rupees (£6,666),
or about five times his net annual income. Common prudence suggested
that he ought not to increase the burden; but ambition prevailed,
and the only question which Samarendra set himself was, "What is
the least amount I can decently give?" After thinking over pros and
cons for a whole night, he decided that Rs. 10,000 would be enough;
raised that sum at 12 per cent, by mortgaging some landed property,
and sent it with a flowery letter to the District Magistrate, as a
humble donation to the Viceroy's Memorial Eund.
A few days later Samarendra was preparing for a visit to his favourite
rest-house, in the vague hope that Mr. Bernardson might turn up again,
when a strange Brahman entered the courtyard and thus addressed him:--
"Sir, you are an Amir, and I am a beggar. I have a request to make."
"Cut it short," replied Samarendra testily. "Come to the point--what
do you want?"
"Sir, I have a grown-up daughter who positively must be married;
but I cannot raise a sufficient dowry. Will your honour give me a
trifle towards making one up?"
"No, I won't; if you belonged to this village you would know that I
cannot afford to fling money about. My expenses are enormous!"
"Now, please, don't refuse me, Rái Bahádur; surely you can spare a
couple of rupees to a poor Brahman!"
Samarendra was exasperated by the man's importunity. He replied
sharply, "You and your kind seem to think that I am Kuver (the God of
Wealth) incarnate, who is able to satisfy every human need! I won't
give you anything!"
"Only one rupee, Rái Bahádur," pleaded the Brahman with folded hands.
"No! no! Get out of my house at once!" bellowed Samarendra; then
turning to his doorkeeper, he ordered him to "run the fellow out of
the yard by the neck".
The Brahman was deeply incensed. Drawing himself up to his full height,
he looked scornfully at Samarendra, and said:--
"Babu, you dare to order me, a Brahman, to be ejected with violence
from your house. Is there no religion left in this world? Mark
my words, a day is coming when you will be poorer even than
myself. I have spoken." Then he strode out of the courtyard in high
dudgeon. Samarendra merely laughed aloud and hurled mocking epithets
after his retreating figure, to which no reply was vouchsafed.
Next morning he received a letter from the District Magistrate which
filled him with mingled joy and terror. It contained a curt request
to call at once on a matter of great importance. He drove to the
great man's bungalow arrayed in his best, but was kept waiting for
nearly a quarter of an hour in the porch. When he was ushered into the
magistrate's study he saw intuitively that something was wrong. His
salám was returned by a mere inclination of the head and a request to
be seated. Then the Magistrate spoke in tones of chilling politeness:--
"Rái Bahádur, I've sent for you to say that a subscription of
Rs. 10,000 is wholly unworthy of your position. If you wish, I
will send it to the Secretary of the Memorial Fund; but I warn you
plainly that the most you can expect in return is an expression of
the Lieutenant-Governor's thanks in the Gazette. I could not possibly
recommend you for a title for such a paltry sum."
Poor Samarendra's heart beat more loudly than the clock on the
magistrate's mantelpiece. He stammered out: "I need only assure
your honour that I have given as much as I could afford; but if your
honour thinks the amount insufficient--er--er--er--I am quite willing
to give--twice as much". So saying he awaited a reply in trembling
apprehension. It was satisfactory.
"Now, Rái Bahádur, you are talking sense. Send me Rs. 10,000 more
for the fund and I'll undertake to submit your name to Government for
a Rájáship. It will be just in time for the New Year's Gazette. Now
you may take leave."
Samarendra bowed himself out with precipitation and, on returning
home, sent for his factotum, Bipin, to whom he related this momentous
interview, with an injunction to raise Rs. 10,000 more by hook
or by crook. Bipin shook his head ominously and feared that no
moneylender would advance any considerable sum on estates already
over-burdened. However, he promised to do his best and negotiated so
successfully that Rs. 10,000 were procured at 24 per cent. in less
than a week. This additional subscription was gracefully acknowledged
by the District Magistrate, and a fortnight later Samarendra's drooping
spirits were revived by the appearance of a notification in the Gazette
thanking him warmly for his "munificence and public spirit". There
was nothing for it but to count the days of the expiring year.
On 31st December, 189-, his impatience could brook no further
delay. Hurrying to Calcutta by train, he sent a trusty servant to the
Government printing office with orders to obtain the earliest copy of
the Gazette at any price. He slept not a wink on that fateful night
and rose betimes to intercept the messenger.
At last the bulky document was thrust into his hands. He unfolded it
with trembling fingers and glanced downwards through an interminable
list of newly-made Máhárájas, Nawáb Bahádurs, Rájá Bahádurs, and
Rájás--in the hope of finding his own name. Alas, it was conspicuous by
its absence. Oh, the pangs of hope deferred and wounded pride! Death
seemed to Samarendra preferable to a life of poverty and despair. He
returned home crestfallen and nursed his disappointment until it
landed him in a severe attack of brain fever. As soon as he felt
strong enough to leave the house, he drove to the magistrate's
house for explanation and comfort. He was courteously received,
but the Chief hinted that there might be a hitch about the title,
as he himself had enemies in the Secretariat, who would be glad of
an opportunity of placing him in a false position. He counselled
patience and expressed a conviction that the birthday Gazette would
contain the notification so ardently desired.
This was comforting, but Samarendra resolved to push his own
interests. He remembered the promises made by Mr. Bernardson and took
the next train to Calcutta in order to secure his influence. On
reaching the Secretariat he learnt, with deep annoyance, that
Mr. Bernardson had taken sick leave to England and was not likely
to return. So the only course open was to wait for 24th May. Again
he was disappointed, the list of birthday honours ignoring him
completely. Samarendra had not even the resource of consulting the
official who had lured him into extravagant expenditure. The District
Magistrate was transferred to a distant and unhealthy part of the
province, and his successor disclaimed all knowledge of the bargain.
Samarendra's long suspense and repeated disappointments told severely
on his health. He neglected business, leaving everything in the hands
of Bipin, who was more anxious to feather his own nest than extricate
his master from difficulties; so the interest in mortgages fell into
arrears. One creditor bolder than the rest sued him and foreclosed;
then others were encouraged to attack the ruined man. In less than a
year, Samarendra was stripped of every bigha (one-third of an acre)
of land he once possessed, and attachments galore were issued against
his moveable property. Too late did he see the depths of folly into
which he had fallen.
Grief and despair brought on a second attack of brain fever, which
exhausted his failing strength. After tossing for several weeks in
delirium he regained sense only to feel assured that the end of all
worldly ambition was fast approaching. Then he remembered the Brahman's
curse, and knowing that it was the cause of all his misfortunes he
endeavoured to make some reparation; but the holy man was not to be
found. One evening he fell into a deep slumber from which he never
awoke, leaving a wife and several helpless children in comparative
penury. Then a hush fell on the land, and people whispered that
Brahmateja (the power of Brahmans) was by no means extinct.