Rámdá.
Nagendra Babu was now the wealthiest man in Ratnapur. Puffed up by
worldly success, he began to treat his neighbours arrogantly and,
with one exception, they did not dare to pay him back in his own
coin. Rámdás Ghosal, known far and wide as Rámdá, flattered or
feared no one. Having a little rent-free and inherited land, he was
quite independent of patronage. Rámdá was "everyone's grandfather,"
a friend of the poor, whose joys and sorrows he shared. He watched by
sick-beds, helped to carry dead bodies to the burning-ghát, in short
did everything in his power for others, refusing remuneration in any
shape. He was consequently loved and respected by all classes. Rámdá
was the consistent enemy of hypocrisy and oppression--qualities which
became conspicuous in Nagendra Babu's nature under the deteriorating
influence of wealth. He met the great man's studied insolence with a
volley of chaff, which is particularly galling to vain people because
they are incapable of understanding it.
Nagendra Babu did not forget the Brahman's presumption and determined
to teach him a lesson. So, one day, he sent him a written notice
demanding the immediate payment of arrears of rent due for a few
bighas (one-third of an acre) of land which Rámdá held on a heritable
lease. As luck would have it the crops had failed miserably, and Rámdá
was unable to discharge his debts. On receiving a more peremptory
demand seven days later, he called on Nagendra Babu, whom he thus
addressed:--
"Why, Nagen, what's the matter with you? You are plaguing me to
death with notices, yet you must be aware that I can't pay you a pice
at present."
"Thákur," replied Nagendra Babu in stern accents, "I will listen
to none of your excuses. Do you mean to tell me that you decline to
discharge your arrears?"
"I never said that," protested Rámdá; "but you must really wait till
the beginning of next year. My cold weather crops are looking well;
and--"
"No, that won't do at all. If you do not pay up in a week, I will
certainly have recourse to the civil court."
"Do so by all means if your sense of religion permits," rejoined Rámdá,
leaving the parlour in smothered wrath.
When the week of grace had expired, Nagendra Babu filed a suit in the
local Múnsiffs Court against his defaulter. As soon as the fact was
bruited abroad a universal protest was roused against Nagendra Babu's
harshness. Some of the village elders remonstrated with him, but were
told to mind their own business; whereon they laid their heads together
and subscribed the small sum due from the Brahman. A deputation of
five waited on him with entreaties to accept it, but he refused to
take the money on any other footing than a loan. So Rámdá paid his
arrears and costs into Court, to the plaintiff's intense annoyance.
Samarendra Babu had left his wife and children in comparatively poor
circumstances; for, after discharging his debts, they had barely
Rs. 300 a year to live on. The widow declined to seek Nagendra Babu's
help, even if she were reduced to beg in the streets. After her
brother's imprisonment, she had no one to manage her little property
which, as a Purdanashin (lit. "one sitting behind the veil"), she
was unable to do herself. After mature reflection she sent for Rámdá,
who had known her from infancy. He obeyed the summons with alacrity
and gave the poor woman sound advice regarding the direction of
the Zemindary. By acting on it she was able to increase her income
and live in tolerable comfort. Observing that Rámdá was a frequent
visitor, Nagendra Babu hinted to his sister-in-law that, if she cared
for her reputation, she would not be so thick with him. She flared
up instantly. "I will talk to any of my friends I please," said she,
"and you shan't poke your nose into my affairs!"
"Very well," replied Nagendra angrily, "but you may rely on my making
it hot for that old scoundrel shortly!"
This threat was of course repeated to Rámdá, who merely laughed. As
far as he was concerned Nagendra might act as he pleased.
A few days afterwards the bailiff of Nagendra Babu's estate, known
as Lakhimpur, called on Rámdá with a verbal request that he should
surrender his ancestral tenure and, meeting with a curt refusal,
left the house threatening all sorts of evil consequences. Next
day, indeed, Rámdá received a notice from Nagendra Babu, calling
on him to show cause against the cancellation of his lease on the
ground that, by mismanaging the land, he had rendered it unfit for
cultivation. Rámdá called some of his neighbours together, to whom
he exhibited the document. They expressed the greatest indignation
and assured him that they would spend their last rupee in defending
his interests. Rámdá gave them a heartfelt blessing and promised a
divine reward for their sympathy.
Calling on Samarendra's widow the same day, he was distressed to
find that she had received a similar notice, which aimed at robbing
her of a small estate, on the ground that it had been surrendered
by her husband in part payment of his debt to Nagendra Babu. She
knew nothing of any such arrangement and assured Rámdá that, if the
property was lost, her income would fall to little more than Rs. 100,
meaning starvation for herself and little ones. Her trusty counsellor
told her not to lose heart, for she might rely on his help.
In due course the suit against Rámdá came on for hearing before the
Munsiff. His pleader established by documentary evidence that the
tenure was one without any condition whatever; while the neighbours
came forward to prove that the land in dispute had been admirably
tilled. The plaintiff, therefore, was non-suited, with costs. The very
same result attended Nagendra Babu's action against his sister-in-law,
whose case excited universal sympathy. He lost heavily in purse and
left the Court with a ruined reputation. It was natural that a man
so evil-minded should regard Rámdá as the author of misfortunes due
to his own wicked nature. He plotted the poor Brahman's destruction,
but no effectual means of compassing it suggested itself.
As days and weeks wore on, his despondency became deeper and, one
evening, while sitting with the Lakhimpur bailiff, he asked whether
there was any remedy which would restore his peace of mind. The
cunning rascal said nothing at the time; but at a late hour on the
morrow he came to Nagendra Babu's house with a large bottle hidden
under his wrapper. It contained some light brown fluid, which the
bailiff poured into a tumbler. Then adding a small quantity of water,
he invited his master to swallow the mixture. A few minutes after doing
so, the patient was delighted to find that gloomy thoughts disappeared
as if by magic. An unwonted elation of spirits succeeded; he broke into
snatches of song, to the intense surprise of the household! His amateur
physician left the bottle, advising him to take a similar dose every
night; and Nagendra Babu followed the prescription punctiliously, with
the best effect on his views of life. After finishing the bottle he
asked for another, which was brought to him secretly. It had a showy
label reading, "Exshaw No. 1 Cognac". Nagendra Babu's conscience
accused him of disobeying the Shástras; but the die was cast. He
could no longer exist without a daily dose of the subtle poison;
and gradually increased it to a tumblerful, forgetting to add water.
His faithful wife did her best to wean him from the fatal habit. She
even ventured to abstract his brandy bottle and dilute its contents. On
being detected, she underwent a personal correction which was not
soon forgotten. The poor creature, indeed, underwent every sort of
humiliation from her worthless husband, which she bore in silence,
hoping that time would bring him to his senses.
Drunken men are proverbially cunning. After brooding long over
his supposed grievances Nagendra matured a scheme of revenge. He
intercepted Rámdá, one afternoon, on his way to visit Samarendra's
widow, and, affecting sincere penitence for the injury he had
endeavoured to work, he invited the unsuspecting Brahman into
his sitting-room. Once inside, he suddenly thrust a brass vessel
into his visitor's hand and dragged him into the yard, shouting
"Thief! thief!" The Lakhimpur bailiff, who was sitting on the
verandah, also laid hands on Rámdá and, with the aid of two up-country
servants, he was dragged to the police station, too bewildered to
resist. On their way thither they met one of Nagendra's neighbours
named Harish Chandra Pál, who stopped them and asked what was the
matter. On learning particulars of the charge, he saw how the land
lay, and resolved to defeat an infamous plot. So waiting till the
little crowd was out of sight, he ran back to Nagendra's house and
whispered to him that the bailiff had sent for more property, in order
that the case against Rámdá might look blacker. Nagendra handed him a
fine muslin shawl and loin-cloth, and a set of gold buttons, adding
that he would follow in half an hour in order to depose against the
thief. On reaching the police station, Harish found the Sub-Inspector
recording the statements of the witnesses. He looked on in silence
until Nagendra arrived. Then he asked the Sub-Inspector: "Do these
people mean to say that the brass vessel belongs to Nagendra Babu?"
"Certainly," was the reply. "Here are three witnesses who have
identified it."
"Well, that's strange," said Harish; then producing the shawl and
loin-cloth he said: "These are mine, but if you ask Nagen Babu he
will tell you a different story".
"But they are mine!" roared Nagendra, "and part of the stolen
property."
"Dear me," said Harish, "perhaps you will say that these buttons are
yours too?"
"Of course they are," was the rejoinder.
"Now, Sub-Inspector Babu," said Harish, "you must see that Nagendra
Babu is subject to strange hallucinations since he has taken to
drink. He fancies that he is the god of wealth personified, and
that everything belongs to him. I am quite certain that Rámdá has
been falsely charged with stealing a brass vessel which is his own
property."
The Sub-Inspector evidently thought so too. He called the prosecutor
into an inner room. What passed between them there was never known;
but presently the Sub-Inspector returned to the office and ordered
the prisoner to be at once released. Rámdá was truly grateful to
Harish Pál for having so cleverly saved him from ruin, and the whole
story soon became common property. Nagendra overheard his neighbours
whispering and pointing to him significantly, and village boys called
him ill-natured nicknames in the street. His irritation was increased
by recourse to the brandy bottle, and he vented it on his luckless
wife. She suffered so terribly that, one morning, Nagendra found
her hanging from a rafter in his cowshed. This suicide was the last
straw. Nagendra saved himself from prosecution for murder by a heavy
bribe, and got leave from the police to burn his wife's body. But
so universally was he execrated that not a man in the village would
help him to take her body to the burning-ghát. In dire despair
he humbled himself so far as to implore Rámdá's assistance. The
magnanimous Brahman forgot his wrongs and cheerfully consented to
bear a hand. Others followed his example, and thus Nagendra was
able to fulfil the rites prescribed by religion. The lesson was not
altogether lost on him. The scales fell from his eyes; he dismissed
the rascally servant, who had led him from the path of duty, and
foreswore his brandy bottle.