A Tame Rabbit.
When a penniless Hindu marries into a wealthy family he is sorely
tempted to live with, and upon, his father-in-law. But the ease
thus secured is unattended by dignity. The gharjamái, "son-in-law of
the house," as he is styled, shocks public opinion, which holds it
disgraceful for an able-bodied man to eat the bread of idleness. Pulin
incurred a certain degree of opprobrium by quartering himself on
Debendra Babu; neighbours treated him with scant courtesy, and the
very household servants made him feel that he was a person of small
importance. He bore contumely with patience, looking forward to
the time when Debendra Babu's decease would give him a recognised
position. His wife was far more ambitious. She objected strongly to
sharing her husband's loss of social standing and frequently reproached
him with submitting to be her father's annadás (rice-slave).
So, one morning, he poured his sorrows into Nalini's sympathetic ear.
"Mahásay," he said, "you know that people are inclined to blame me
for living in idleness, and I do indeed long to chalk out a career
for myself. But I don't know how to set about it and have no patron to
back me. Do you happen to know of any job which would give me enough
to live on? Salary is less an object with me than prospects. I would
gladly accept a mastership in some high school."
"You are quite right in seeking independence," replied Nalini, "and
I shall be glad to help you. But lower-grade teachers are miserably
paid, and their prospects are no better. It is only graduates who
can aspire to a head-mastership. Are you one?"
"No, sir, but I passed the F.A. examination in 1897."
"Ah, then, you are a Diamond Jubilee man--that's a good omen,"
rejoined Nalini, with a shade of sarcasm in his voice. "What were
your English text-books?"
"I read Milton's Absalom and Achitophel, Dryden's Holy Grail, and many
other poems, but I'm not sure of their titles after all these years."
Nalini suspected that his friend's English lore was somewhat rusty. In
order to test him further, he asked, "Can you tell me who wrote
'Life is real, life is earnest,'--that line applies to you!"
Pulin fidgeted about before answering. "It must have been Tennyson--or
was it Wordsworth? I never could keep poetry in my head."
Nalini thought that an F.A. might have remembered Longfellow's Psalm
of Life, but he refrained from airing superior knowledge.
"Do you know any mathematics?" he inquired.
"Mathematics!" replied Pulin joyously. "Why, they're my forte---I
am quite at home in arithmetic, algebra, and geometry. Please ask me
any question you like."
"Well, let us have Prop. 30, Book I. of Euclid."
Pulin rattled off Proposition 13 of that book, without the aid of a
diagram. Nalini now saw that the young man's mental equipment was
of the slenderest description. He said, "Well, you may call on me
another day, when I may be able to tell you of some vacancy".
Pulin, however, would take no denial. He became so insistent
that Nalini reluctantly gave him a letter of introduction to Babu
Kaliprasanna Som, Secretary of the Rámnagar High School, who, he
said, was looking about him for a fourth master. Pulin lost no time
in delivering it and was immediately appointed to the vacant post.
English education in Bengal is not regarded as a key which opens
the door of a glorious literature, but simply and solely as a
stepping-stone in the path of worldly success. The Department seems to
aim at turning out clerks and lawyers in reckless profusion. Moreover,
academic degrees are tariffed in the marriage market. The
"F.A." commands a far higher price than the "entrance-passed," while
an M.A. has his pick of the richest and prettiest girls belonging to
his class. Hence parents take a keen interest in their boys' progress
and constantly urge them to excel in class. With such lessons ringing
in his ears, the Bengali schoolboy is consumed with a desire to master
his text-books. The great difficulty is to tear him away from them,
and insist on his giving sufficient time to manly games. When a new
teacher takes the helm, he is closely watched in order to test his
competence. The older lads take a cruel pleasure in plying him with
questions which they have already solved from the Dictionary. Pulin
did not emerge from this ordeal with credit, and the boys concocted
a written complaint of his shortcomings, which they despatched to
the Secretary of the School Committee, The answer was a promise to
redress their grievances.
At 10.30 next morning Kaliprasanna Babu entered Pulin's classroom and
stood listening to his method of teaching English literature. Presently
one of the boys asked him to explain the difference between "fort"
and "fortress". After scratching his head for fully half a minute he
replied that the first was a castle defended by men, while the second
had a female garrison! The Secretary was quite satisfied. He left
the room and sent Pulin a written notice of dismissal. The latter was
disheartened beyond measure by this unkind stroke of fortune. He shook
the dust of Rámnagar from his feet and returned home to lay his sorrows
before Nalini, seasoning the story with remarks highly derogatory to
Kaliprasanna Babu's character. In order to get rid of an importunate
suitor Nalini gave him another letter of introduction, this time to
an old acquaintance named Debnath Lahiri who was head clerk in the
office of Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop, one of the largest mercantile firms
of Calcutta. Pulin was heartily sick of school-mastering, and the
prospect of making a fortune in business filled his soul with joy. He
borrowed Rs. 30 from Debendra Babu and took the earliest train for
Calcutta. On arriving there he joined a mess of waifs and strays like
himself, who herded in a small room and clubbed their pice to provide
meals. Then he waited on Debnath Babu, whom he found installed in a
sumptuous office overlooking the river Hughli. The great man glanced
at his credentials and, with an appearance of cordiality, promised
to let him know in case a vacancy occurred in the office. For nearly
a month Pulin called daily for news at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's, and
generally managed to waylay the head clerk, whose reply was invariably,
"I have nothing to suit you at present".
One morning, however, he was stopped by the darwán (doorkeeper) who
told him gruffly that the "Bara Babu did not like to have outsiders
hanging about the office". The baffled suitor reflected on his
miserable position. He had just eleven rupees and two pice left,
which he calculated would last him, with strict economy, for another
fortnight. When they were spent, he would have to return crestfallen
to Kadampur. But could he face the neighbours' sneers, the servants'
contumely--worse than all, his wife's bitter tongue? No, that was
not to be thought of. It were better to plunge into the river whose
turbid waters rolled only a few feet away.
Pulin was roused from this unpleasant train of thought by hearing
his name pronounced. It came from a well-dressed man, who was just
entering Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office, welcomed by a salám from the
surly doorkeeper. Pulin was delighted to recognise in the stranger
a certain Kisari Mohan Chatterji, who had taught him English in the
General Assembly's College more than a decade back. In a few words he
told his sad story and learnt that Kisari Babu had taken the same step
as he himself contemplated, with the result that he was now head clerk
in Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's export department. This news augured well
for his own ambition, but poor Pulin was disgusted on hearing that no
less than three vacancies had occurred in as many weeks, and that all
had been filled by relatives of Babu Debnath Lahiri. Kisari Babu added:
"A junior clerk is to be appointed to-morrow. Write out an application
in your very best hand, with copies of your testimonials, and bring it
to me here this evening at five. I'll see that it reaches our manager,
Henderson Saheb." Pulin punctually followed his friend's advice,
and dreamed all night of wealth beyond a miser's utmost ambition.
On arriving at Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's office next morning he joined a
crowd of twenty or thirty young men who were bent on a like errand. His
spirits sank to zero, nor were they raised when after hanging about
in the rain for nearly two hours the aspirants were told that the
vacancy had been filled up. Thereupon the forlorn group dispersed,
cursing their ill-luck and muttering insinuations against Mr. Henderson
and his head clerk. Pulin, however, lingered behind. By tendering a
rupee to the doorkeeper he got a slip of paper and pencil, with which
he indited a piteous appeal to Kisari Babu, and a promise that it
should reach him. Presently his friend came out in a desperate hurry,
with a stylograph behind his ear, and his hands laden with papers.
"It's just as I anticipated," he whispered to Pulin. "The head
clerk has persuaded Henderson Saheb to bestow the post on his wife's
nephew. But don't be disheartened. I will speak to our Saheb about
you this very day. Come here at five to learn the result."
Pulin did so and was overjoyed to find that he had been appointed
probationary clerk in the export department on Rs. 20 per mensem,
in supersession of Debnath Babu's nominee.
On the morrow he entered on his new duties with some trepidation,
but Kisari Babu took him under his wing and spared no pains to "teach
him the ropes". Pulin spent his evenings in furbishing up his English
and arithmetic, mastered the whole art of book-keeping, and, being
naturally intelligent, he soon had the office routine at his fingers'
ends. He grasped the fact that a young man who wishes to succeed
in life must make himself indispensable. In course of time Pulin's
industry and trustworthiness attracted the attention of Mr. Henderson,
who confirmed him as clerk, with a salary of Rs. 35.
But every cup has its bitter drop; and Pulin's was the persistent
enmity of the head clerk, who bore him a grudge for ousting his wife's
nephew and seized every opportunity of annoying him. Leagued with the
arch-enemy were two subordinate clerks, Gyánendra and Lakshminarain
by name, who belonged to Debnath Babu's gústi (family). This trio so
managed matters that all the hardest and most thankless work fell to
Pulin's lot. He bore their pin-pricks with equanimity, secure in the
constant support of Kisari Babu.
One muggy morning in August he awoke with a splitting headache,
the harbinger of an attack of fever, and was obliged to inform the
head clerk, by means of a note, of his inability to attend office. An
answer was brought by Gyánendra to the effect that three days' leave
of absence was granted, but that his work must be carried on by some
other clerk. He was, therefore, ordered to send the key of his desk
by the bearer. For three days the patient endured alternations of
heat and cold; but his malady yielded to quinine, and on the fourth
he was able to resume work.
Soon after reaching the office, he was accosted by one of the bearers,
named Rámtonu, who told him that the Bara Sahebwished to see him at
once. The moment he entered the manager's sanctum he saw that something
unpleasant had occurred. Without wishing him good morning, as usual,
Mr. Henderson handed him a cheque and asked sternly whether he had
filled it up. Pulin examined the document, which turned out to be an
order on the Standard Bank to pay Tárak Ghose & Co. Rs. 200, signed
by Mr. Henderson. He was obliged to admit that the payee's name, as
also the amount in words and figures, seemed to be in his handwriting.
"Yes," rejoined the manager, "and the signature is very like my own;
but it is a forgery. Do you hear me, Babu, a forgery!"
To Pulin's disordered senses the room, with its furniture and
Mr. Henderson's angry face, seemed to be turning round. He gasped
out, "I'm ill, sir!" and sank into a chair. The manager mistook the
remains of fever for a tacit admission of guilt. He waited till Pulin
had regained a share of his wits and said gravely: "I did not think
that one whom I trusted with my cheque-book would act thus. Now you
will search your books, to see whether they contain a record of any
payment of the kind, and return with them in half an hour. But I must
warn you that if this forgery is traced to you, I shall have to call
in the police."
Pulin staggered back to his room in despair and observed that Gyánendra
and Lakshminarain, who sat at the next desk, were evidently enjoying
his mental agony. Alas! the books showed no trace of any payment
to Tárak Ghose & Co. He wrung his hands in great distress and
sat bewildered, until Rámtonu came to summon him to the manager's
tribunal. In the corridor Rámtonu glanced round, to make sure that
no one was within hearing, and said, "Don't be afraid, Babuji. You
did me a good turn, and I may be able to help you now."
This Rámtonu was an office menial hailing from the district of Gáya,
in Behar. He was an intelligent man, but rather unlicked, and was
the butt of the younger clerks, who delighted in mocking his uncouth
up-country dialect. Pulin, however, had never joined in "ragging"
him, and, on one occasion, he lent Rámtonu Rs. 7 for his wife, who
was about to increase the population of Gáya. Gratitude for kindness
is a marked trait in the Indian character, and Pulin bethought him
of the old fable of the Lion and Mouse. He asked: "Why, what do you
know about lekha-para (reading and writing)?"
"Never mind," rejoined Rámtonu. "We must not loiter, for we should
be suspected of plotting together. Come to the Saheb's room. I shall
be admitted, for he knows that I don't understand English. All I ask
is that you will clasp your hands as a signal when I may come forward
and tell my story."
A European police officer was seated by Mr. Henderson's side, engaged
in writing from his dictation. They looked up, and the manager asked
whether Pulin had found any record of the payment in dispute.
On receiving a negative answer, he said: "Then I shall be obliged to
hand you over to the police".
Pulin clasped his hands in a mute appeal for mercy, whereon Rámtonu
stepped forward. Carefully extracting a folded sheet of foolscap from
the pocket of his chapkan (a tight-fitting garment, worn by nearly all
classes in full dress), he spread it out on the table and respectfully
asked the manager to run his eye over it.
"By Jove," remarked the latter, with great surprise, "here's some
one has been copying my signature--and Pulin's writing too!"
All eyes were now bent on the incriminating document. It was made up
of many fragments of paper, carefully pasted on a sheet of foolscap,
and bore the words, "Tárak Ghose & Co., two hundred rupees, 200,"
repeated at least twenty times. Below was "A.G. Henderson," also
multiplied many-fold. The manager asked where Rámtonu had found the
paper, and received the following answer:--"Your Highness, Pulin Babu
here did not come to office on Monday; and for the next few days his
work was done by Gyánendra Babu, who got the keys of his desk. I knew
that he and some other clerks detested Pulin Babu, so I watched their
movements narrowly, to see whether they would try to get him into a
scrape, and more than once I surprised Gyánendra and Lakshminarain
whispering together. On Tuesday neither of them left the office for
lunch with the other clerks, and I seized some pretext for entering
the room where they sit. Gyánendra roughly bade me begone; so I went to
the verandah outside and peeped through the jilmils (Venetian blinds)
of a window close to their desk. Lakshminarain was copying some English
words from a paper on his left side, while the other clerk looked on,
nodding and shaking his head from time to time. After writing in this
fashion for a while, Lakshminarain took a sheet of notepaper covered
with writing and copied the signature many times, until both babus
were satisfied with the result. Then I saw Gyánendra unlock Pulin
Babu's desk, take out a cheque-book, and hand it to the other man,
who filled up the counterfoil and body of one blank cheque, glancing
sometimes at the paper in front of him. He returned it to Gyánendra
who placed it in a pocket-book. After tearing up the papers they had
used and throwing them into the waste-paper basket, they left the
room. I ran round, carefully avoiding them, picked the fragments of
paper out of the basket, tied them in a corner of my gamcha (wrapper),
and left the office quickly, asking the doorkeeper what direction
they had taken. When he said that they had turned northwards, I
guessed that they were off to the Bank, in order to cash the cheque,
and sure enough I overtook them not more than a rassi from the
office. Following them at a little distance on the other side of the
street, I saw them stop outside the Standard Bank and look anxiously
around. Presently a schoolboy passed by, whom they hailed and, after
talking for a while, Gyánendra handed him the cheque with a small
linen money-bag, and pointed to the door of the Bank. The lad went
inside, while both babus waited round the corner. In a short time he
came out and handed the bag full of money to Gyánendra, who gave him
something and hurried back to the office with his companion. Putting
two and two together I felt assured that those clerks had forged the
cheque; and had I known where Pulin Babu lived, I would certainly
have communicated my suspicions to him. Having to work without his
help, I persuaded a student, who lodges near my quarters, to piece
the scraps of paper together. It took him two hours to do so, and we
then pasted them carefully on this sheet of foolscap. You will see,
Saheb, that there are thirty-seven in all, and only three missing."
The story made a deep impression on Mr. Henderson and the Police
Inspector, while Pulin was raised to the seventh heaven of delight
by the thought that his innocence might yet be established.
"Could you identify the boy?" asked the Europeans with one breath.
"I don't know his name," was Rámtonu's rejoinder; "but I think I could
pick him out, for he passes this office daily on his way to and from
school. But this is just the time when he goes home for tiffin. With
your Highness's permission, I will watch for him in the street."
"Do so by all means," was the Inspector's reply. "Meanwhile, I'll
take down notes of your statement."
Rámtonu went out and in a few minutes returned dragging with him
triumphantly a well-dressed lad of fifteen, who seemed terribly
alarmed by the company into which he was thrust. The Inspector calmed
his fears by assuring him that he would come to no harm if only he
spoke the whole truth. "You have been unwittingly made the instrument
of a forgery," he added, "and we want your help towards detecting
it." The boy plucked up courage and answered every question put him
quite candidly. His tale corroborated Rámtonu's in most particulars,
with the addition that the tall babu had given him eight annas bakshish
for cashing the cheque. He had not seen either of the men previously,
but thought he should be able to recognise one of them owing to his
unusual height.
"Now, bearer," said Mr. Henderson, "go and fetch both the clerks;
bring in the tall one first, but keep an eye on the other outside
and beyond earshot."
Rámtonu left the room with alacrity and presently returned ushering
Lakshminarain into the dreaded presence. The newcomer was beside
himself with terror; and when he was identified by the schoolboy as one
of the men who had employed him to cash the cheque, he did not wait
to be asked for an explanation. Throwing himself at Mr. Henderson's
feet he begged for mercy, promising to reveal the entire truth. The
Inspector would make no promises but simply adjured him to make a
clean breast of his share in the transaction. Lakshminarain obeyed,
and his statement, interrupted by many sobs, was duly recorded. His
accomplice was next introduced. At first Gyánendra was inclined to
put a bold face on the matter, stoutly affirming that it was a put-up
affair between Pulin and Rámtonu. When, however, the Inspector read
out to him the deposition of the bearer and schoolboy, he saw that
the game was up and confessed his misdoings, accusing the head clerk
of having prompted them. The culprits were taken in a ticcá gári
(four-wheeled cab) to the police station Pulin occupying the box,
while Rámtonu ran behind.
Well, to cut a long story short, the prisoners stuck to their
confession and refunded their ill-gotten gains. They were duly
committed to the High Court on charges of forgery and conspiring to
accuse an innocent man of the like offence. They both pleaded guilty,
and the judge remarked that it was one of the worst cases of the
kind he had ever tried. In passing sentence of two years rigorous
imprisonment on each prisoner, he added that they would have fared
worse but for the patent fact that they had been made catspaws of by
some one who kept in the background. As there was no evidence against
Debnath Babu, except that of accomplices, he was not prosecuted;
but immediately after the trial, Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop dismissed
him without notice. Kisari Babu was promoted to the vacant office of
head clerk, while Pulin stepped into his friend's shoes. By unfailing
application to duty, he won Messrs. Kerr & Dunlop's entire confidence,
and in fulness of time succeeded Kisari Babu as head clerk. Ten or
twelve years later, Pulin was rich enough to build a pakka (masonry)
house at Kadampur, which far eclipsed his father-in-law's, and had
a well-paid doorkeeper in the person of Rámtonu. The once-despised
gharjamái took a leading position among the local gentry.