Inspector Matadeen on the Moon - Harishankar Parsai

Inspector Matadeen On The Moon

satires byHarishankar Parsai

Translated by C N Naim

Contents

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4

Inspector Matadeen on the Moon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8

A Ten Day Fast . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18

Contesting an Election in Bihar . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

Poor Trishanku . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34

The Twenty Eighth Tale of the Vetal . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 39

Family Planning . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43

The First Bridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48

Gentlemen, Conmen and Congressmen . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 52

When the Soul Cries Out . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56

Mufat Lal Goes For An Interview . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61

Honouring the Sahab . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67

The Prospectus of a Proposed Private College . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

Iti Shri Researchayah . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75

A Journey with a Premi . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

Bholaram’s Soul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 84

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Tiny Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89The Right Punishment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89The Right Medicine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89A Boy of Destiny . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90Caste . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90The effigy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91The sorrow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91

A Fast Unto Death . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 93

Pulled Down Lamp Posts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 98

Shivering Republic . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101

Divine Lunatic Mission . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

The Days of Gardish . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 108

Biographical Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114

Introduction

Modern Hindi prose had its beginnings in the 1870s. Bharatendu Harishchan-dra (d. 1885), the father of almost everything modern in Hindi, also devel-oped the language as an effective vehicle for humour and satire. He directedhis barbs not merely at the hypocrisy of his fellow countrymen but also atthe English misrule, thus setting the path for all future satirists in Hindi.Politics and society became the two most popular — and deserving — tar-gets. Of course, these two topics also found favour with all serious writers inHindi, just as many of them found some form of humour to be not only ef-fective but often inevitable in the course of their predominantly non-satiricalwritings. Premchand, for example, had much success with his satirical seriesMote Ram and even had to face serious legal trouble on its account.

Post-Independence Hindi witnessed an explosion of satirical writing. Parninda sukh or schadenfreude being the staple in any beleaguered society,satire flourished in Hindi as never before. Magazines and newspapers carriedregular satirical columns, and there was no dearth of satirical stories andeven novels. Writers like Shrilal Shukla, Sharad Joshi, Manohar Shyam Joshi,Mudra Rakshas, Gopal Chaturvedi, Sudhish Pachauri, Prem Janamejaya andLatif Ghonghi — led by Harishankar Parsai — helped Hindi satire attain itsfull stature as a valid literary genre.

No writer is perhaps so inseparably identified with his chosen genre inHindi literature as is Harishankar Parsai with satire. But his earliest writingswere in that pathos-arousing idealistic mode that was so characteristic ofHindi writers — mostly from the lower middle class — who took to writingafter 1947. His first book, Hanste Hain Rote Hain (We Laugh, We Cry),published in the early fifties, was a collection of heart-wrenching short storiesbased on the trials of his adolescent life. By then, he had come under theinfluence of the so called “radical socialists” — led by Acharya NarendraDevi, Jayaprakash Narayan, Ram Manohar Lohia, and others — who hadbroken away from the Congress led by Nehru. Though he soon becamedisenchanted with them due to their negativism after their abject electoraldefeats. That experience also cured him of his romantic idealism. He became

Harishankar Parsai Introduction

an ardent Marxist and continued to remain one, the dissolution of the SovietUnion notwithstanding.

But Parsai was neither a demagogue nor a blinkered theoretician. Theroots of his commitment did not lie in Das Kapital but in his bitter experi-ences in our caste and class ridden society. As the barely adolescent bread-winner of his orphaned family and the surrogate father to his two unmarriedsisters, Parsai experienced first hand the hypocritical morass of contradic-tions that Hinduism could degenerate into.

A significant but often overlooked fact in Parsai’s biography is that hegave up his very first job in the forest department, thus refusing to makea fortune by conniving with the rapists of India’s ecology, and chose in-stead to become a humble school teacher. In the classroom he came faceto face with the overwhelmingly poverty ridden “future” of India. On thelarger national scene he saw the comparatively painlessly won freedom be-ing gradually gnawed away by a more predatory class of native masters —corrupt bureaucrats, avaricious politicians, amoral businessmen, rapaciouscontractors, permit-brokers and middlemen, smugglers and mafia dons, andthe much worse purveyors of linguistic, regional and caste hatreds and thefundamentalist fascists of various faiths.

It was this milieu that made Parsai opt for satire as his literary forte andweapon. But he had little patience for literary niceties, even of the socialist-realist kind. Whatever he wrote had to be direct, unambiguous and bold.His friendship with the great poet and critic Gajanan Madhav Muktibodh(d. 1964) further strengthened him in his socio-political commitment. Bythe mid-fifties, Parsai had gained enough reputation and self-confidence tolaunch — with considerable help from friends — a literary magazine, Va-sudha, from Jabalpur. Though it attracted wide attention and significantcontributors, it had to be discontinued after three years for want of finan-cial support. Meanwhile, the growing pungency — and popularity — ofParsai’s writings were posing a serious problem to him, a teacher and a gov-ernment servant venting his spleen at everything that was venerated in thebody politic. He then took a decision — undreamt of in those days of acuteunemployment and fraught with risks even in this era of an apparent mediaboom. He resigned from his teaching job to become a freelance writer, andremained one till his dying day.

It was only in 1985, when his scattered writings in books and newspaperswere collected in six volumes running into nearly two thousand and fivehundred pages of demi octavo size, that the astounding dimensions of Portal’soeuvre revealed themselves. Very few authors in Hindi have been so honouredin their life and Parsai, characteristically, made some fun of himself and thebook’s editors in a prefatorial note to the Rachnavali. That collection, which

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Introduction Harishankar Parsai

was not definitive even then, was left far behind by Parsai’s prolific pen.Though illness and age took their toll, there was no stopping Parsai in hisiconoclasm, boldness and subversion. The only concession he seemed to havemade to age was to write memoirs of several of his friends and acquaintancesand some autobiographical pieces published in two volumes. But in his laterbook, with its provocatively ambiguous title Aisa Bhi Socha Jata Hai (Itis Thought This Way Too), he offers yet again an assortment of essays onpolitics, culture, society and even literature, but almost none without somehomage to his muse of satire.

What is the key to Parsai’s popular and critical success? First of all, hewrote mainly about the middle and the lower-middle classes of our urban soci-ety and their social and political vagaries. In this, he often did not spare eventhe so called common man. He wrote about concrete things ands events, withbarely any theorizing, but abounding in pithy observations. No ideology buta solid human commonsense pervaded his writings. Almost single-handedly,Parsai rescued Hindi humour from the vulgarities of the basically male chau-vinistic “domestic” situations, the cruel burlesque of physical deformities orfailings, the not-so-subtle caste or community stereotypes, and the maliciouscaricature of linguistic or regional traits. On the other hand, he freely usedfantasy, folk tale, a pseudo-puranic style, epistolary mode, Socratic interro-gation, cliches, jargon and demagoguery, plain narrative, the hyperbolic andthe absurd — all types of literary modes in various combinations and per-mutations. Most importantly, Parsai’s language was almost totally innocentof superfluity — each word, sentence and paragraph was honed to perfectionfor its desired effect.

Though Parsai had in him elements of the divine jester mendicant Narada,he also combined in himself the much feared Durvasa and the systematic“realist” Chanakya. He had the compassion of the Buddha too, and revivedin Hindi the great reform tradition as imitated by such saint poets as Kabirand Tukaram. I may also add that to my mind no writer before him broughtto Hindi the element of a Socratic inquiry. If the Greek gurus addressedtheir acolytes in the open spaces of Athens, Parsai spoke to his millions offollowers through newspaper columns — in the sixties and seventies, in thefiercely independent column Kahat Kabir (Says Kabir) in the Hindi daily NaiDuniya and later, in the daily Deshbandhu in his iconoclastic Answers to theReaders’ Questions. Since he missed no opportunity to lampoon and exposereligious fanaticism and obscurantism, he often had to face threats of “direconsequences” and was at least once physically assaulted by fundamentalistgoons. But undaunted, Parsai continued his crusade with the same vigour.Almost the entire community of Hindi writers was behind him, just as it washis fearless pen that had inspired and strengthened them.

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Harishankar Parsai Introduction

What is being offered here only fractionally represents Parsai, but it isa sampling that should whet the appetite for more. It is perhaps the firstanthology from a major Hindi satirist in English. and its validity lies in theapt selections and enjoyable translations. It was an honour undeserved andinadequately vindicated for me to be asked to write an introduction. It did,however, give me an opportunity to repay, howsoever poorly, a debt to thisindisputed master, a debt that many like me in Hindi feel we owe him. Itis a painful paradox that Parsai’s writings have acquired more relevance inthe recent years as communal, caste and other socio-political tensions havecontinued to get worse. But to most of his readers in Hindi, Parsai was theIndian Vulcan and his unflinching prose a roaring furnace, wherein he forgedthe conscience of our age.

Vishnu Khare1

1This book is a revised version of Inspector Matadeen on the Moon, published byManas, an imprint of Affiliated East-West Press Private Limited, Chennai in 1994.

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Inspector Matadeen on theMoon

Scientists say there is no life on the moon. But the senior inspector, Mata-deen, known in the department as MD Saab, says, “The scientists lie. Thereare men, just like us, on the other side of the moon.”

Science has always lost out to Inspector Matadeen. Let experts argue tillthey are hoarse that the prints on the dagger do not match the fingerprintsof the accused, Inspector Matadeen will still manage to put his man behindbars.

Matadeen says, “These scientists, they never investigate a case thor-oughly. Just because they can see only the bright side of the moon they’vedeclared there’s no life on it. I’ve been to the dark side. There are men livingthere.”

That has to be true. When it comes to dark sides, Inspector Matadeenis the recognized expert . . .

But, you might ask, why did he go to the moon? As a tourist? To catcha fugitive?

No. He went under the Cultural Exchange Scheme, to represent India.The Government of Moon wrote to the Government of India, “We are anadvanced civilization, but our police force is still not good enough. Theyoften fail to catch or punish criminals. We understand you have establishedRam Rajya in your country. Please send one of your police officers to giveour men proper training.”

The home minister told the home secretary, “Send some IG.”

He replied, “Sir, we cannot send an inspector general. It’s a matter ofprotocol. Moon is only a small satellite of Earth. We cannot send someoneof too high a rank there. Let me depute some senior inspector.”

And so they chose Inspector Matadeen, the investigating officer of a thou-sand and one cases, and the Moon Government was asked to send an earth-ship to fetch him.

Meanwhile the home minister sent for Inspector Matadeen. “You’re going

Harishankar Parsai Inspector Matadeen on the Moon

there.” he said. “to represent the glorious traditions of the Indian Police.Make sure you do a good job. Make the universe applaud our department,so that even the prime minister hears about us.”

On the appointed day, an earth-ship arrived from Moon. Bidding ev-eryone goodbye, Inspector Matadeen started walking towards the ship. Hewas chanting a chaupai under his breath — “Pravisi nagara kijai sab kajaa,hridaya rakhi kausalpur raja . . . ”1

On reaching the ship, Inspector Matadeen suddenly called out to his clerkMunshi Abdul Ghafoor. “Munshi!”

Abdul Ghafoor clicked his heels, saluted, and said, “Yes, Pectsa,”“Did you remember to pack some FIR forms?”“Yes, Pectsa.”“And a blank copy of the Daily Record Register?”“Yes, Pectsa.”Inspector Matadeen then sent for Havaldar Balbhaddar and said to him,

“When it’s time for delivery in our house, send your bed to lend a hand.2”Balbhaddar replied. “Yes. Pectsa”“You needn’t worry. Pectsa,” Abdul Ghafoor added. “I’ll send my house

too.”Inspector Matadeen then turned to the pilot. “You have your driver’s

licence?”“Yes sir.”“And your headlights work?”“Yes sir.”“They’d better,” growled Inspector Matadeen to his men, “otherwise I’ll

challan the bastard mid-space.”The pilot overheard him and said, “In our country, we don’t talk to people

in this manner.”“I know, I know,” Inspector Matadeen sneered, “no wonder your police

is so weak-kneed. But I’ll kick them into shape soon enough.”He had placed one foot inside the earth ship’s door when Havaldar Ram

Sanjivan came running. “Pectsa.” he said. “the house of SP Saab asks youto bring her a heel-polishing stone from the moon.”

Inspector Matadeen was delighted. “Tell Bai Saab I’ll definitely get herone.”

1Pravisi nagara . . . This line is from a verse from Tulsidas’s Ramcharitmanas, recitedby Lankini, the residing deity of Lanka, inviting Hanuman to enter Lanka reached therein quest of Sita.

2The words “house” and “bed” in certain strata of soceity, were used loosely to referto the wife.

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Inspector Matadeen on the Moon Harishankar Parsai

Finally he climbed in and took his seat and the earth-ship took off. Ithad barely crossed the earth’s atmosphere when Inspector Matadeen shoutedto the pilot, “Abe, why aren’t you honking?”

“There’s nothing for millions of miles!” the-pilot replied.“But a rule is a rule,” Inspector Matadeen snarled. “Keep, your thumb

down on the horn.”The pilot pressed the horn, and kept it pressed all the way till they arrived

on Moon.

Senior officers of Moon Police had come to receive Inspector Matadeen.He swaggered out of the earth-ship and ran an eye over their shoulder-patches. None had a star on it, or even a ribbon. Inspector Matadeendecided it wasn’t necessary to click his heels or salute. He also thought,After all, I’m now a Special Advisor, not just an inspector.

The welcome party took him to the local Police Lines and put him up ina fine bungalow.

After a day’s rest, Inspector Matadeen decided to begin his work First hewent out to inspect the Police Lines. In the evening he expressed his surpriseto the host Inspector General. “There’s no Hanuman temple in your PoliceLines! In our Ram Rajya, every Police Lines has its Hanumanji.”

The IG asked, “Who is Hanuman? We’ve never heard of him.”Inspector Matadeen explained. “Every policeman must have a daily dar-

shan of Hanumanji. You see, Hanumanji was in the Special Branch in Sug-riv’s administration. It was he who discovered where Ma Sita was being heldforcibly. It was a case of abduction — Section 362 IPC, you know. Hanu-manji punished Ravan right on the spot — set fire to his entire property.The police must have that kind of right. They should be able to punish acriminal as soon as they catch him. No need to get bogged down in courts.But sad to say, we are yet to achieve that in our Ram Rajya.

“Anyway, Bhagwan Ram was highly pleased with Hanumanji. He tookhim to Ayodhya and assigned him the city beat. That same Hanumanji isour patron god. Here, I brought his photograph along. Use this to get somefigures cast, then have them set up in all the Police Lines.”

A few days later, an idol of Hanumanji was enshrined in each and everyPolice Lines on the moon.

In the meantime, Inspector Matadeen began to study how the local policeworked. It seemed to him that the Moon Police was careless and lacked inenthusiasm, that it showed little concern for crime. But the reason for thisattitude was not apparent.

Suddenly, a thought occurred to Inspector Matadeen. He sent for thesalary register. One glance at it and everything was clear. Now he knew why

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the Moon Police behaved the way it did.That evening he reported to the police minister. “Now I know why your

men are so lackadaisical. You pay them large salaries, that’s why. Fivehundred to a constable, seven hundred to a havaldar, and a thousand to athanedar! What kind of foolishness is this? Why should your police try tocatch any criminal? In our country, we give the constables just one hundred,and the inspectors two. That’s why you see them running around catchingcriminals. You must immediately reduce the salaries.”

“But that would be highly unfair,” the police minister protested. “Whywould they work at all if they are not given good salaries?”

Inspector Matadeen replied, “There’s nothing unfair about it. In fact, assoon as the first reduced pay cheques are sent out, you’ll see a revolutionarychange in your men’s attitude.”

The police minister ordered a cut in the salaries. Sure enough, in a coupleof months, a drastic change was evident. The policemen suddenly becamemost zealous in their performance. Aroused from sleep, they became doublyalert and kept an eye on everything. There was panic in the criminal world.When the police minister sent for the records kept at the police stations,he was amazed to see that the number of registered cases was several timeshigher than before. He said to Inspector Matadeen, “I must praise your keeninsight. You have brought about a revolution! But do tell me, how it works.”

“It’s very simple,” Inspector Matadeen explained. “If you pay an em-ployee little money, he won’t be able to live on it. No constable can supporta family on just one hundred rupees a month, nor can an inspector live withdignity on two hundred. Each will have to make some extra money. And hecan do that only if he starts catching criminals. Immediately, he becomesconcerned about crime, and turns into an alert and dutiful policeman. That’swhy we have a most efficient police system in our Ram Rajya.”

The news of this miracle spread all over the moon. People began to cometo look at the man who could reduce salaries and yet create efficiency. Thepolicemen were the most happy. They said to Inspector Matadeen, “Guru,if you hadn’t come we’d have continued living on our salaries alone.” TheMoon Government was also delighted, for it could now have a surplus budget.

Half the problem was taken care of thus. The police had started catchingcriminals. Now only the investigative process remained to be reformed — howto get a criminal sentenced after one had caught him. Inspector Matadeendecided to wait for some major incident so that he could use it as a modelto display his special methods.

One day, some people quarrelled and one of them got killed. When In-spector Matadeen heard of it, he marched to the police station, sat down ata desk, and declared, “I shall investigate this case to show you how it’s done.

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All of you just watch and learn. This is a murder case. And in a murdercase one must have rock solid evidence against the accused.”

The station officer said, “Before we start collecting evidence against any-one, shouldn’t we first try to discover who did the killing?”

Inspector Matadeen replied, “No, why work backwards? First make sureof your evidence. Did you find any blood? On someone’s clothes or else-where?”

One of the inspectors said, “The assailants ran away while the victim laydying on the road. A man who lives near the spot picked him up and broughthim to the hospital. His clothes did have some blood on them.”

“Arrest the man immediately.”“But sir,” the station officer remonstrated, “he only tried to help the

dying man!”“That may well be true,” explained Inspector Matadeen, “but where else

would you now find blood spots? You must grab the evidence which is readilyavailable.”

The man was arrested and brought to the police station. He protested,“But I carried the dying man to the hospital! Is that a crime?”

The local officers were visibly moved, but not Inspector Matadeen. Ev-eryone waited to see how he would respond.

“But why did you go where the fight occurred?” Inspector Matadeenasked the man.

“I didn’t go there,” he replied. “I happen to live there. The fight tookplace right in front of my house.”

It was clearly a test of Inspector Matadeen’s genius. He quietly responded,“True, your house is there, but why go where a fight is taking place?”

There could be no answer to that question. The man could only repeatand go on repeating, “I didn’t go there. I live there.”

And each time Inspector Matadeen responded, “That is true, but why gowhere a fight is taking place?”

This line of questioning greatly impressed the local officers.Inspector Matadeen settled back and explained his investigative princi-

ples. “Look,” he said, “a man’s been killed. This means someone definitelykilled him. Someone is the murderer. Someone has to be convicted andpunished. You might ask, who is guilty? But, for the police, that’s not soimportant. What is important is who can be proven guilty or, better still,who should be proven guilty?

“A murder has occurred. Eventually, someone will be convicted. It’s notfor us to worry if it is the actual killer or someone innocent. All humanbeings are equal. In each of them is present a bit of the same god. We don’tdiscriminate. We’re humanists.

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“So the question actually is who ought to be proven guilty? That dependson two things. One, has the man been a nuisance to the police, and two, willhis conviction please the men at the top?”

Inspector Matadeen was told that though the arrested man was otherwisea decent person, he was given to criticizing whenever the police made amistake. As for the question of pleasing the men at the top, the man belongedto the opposition party.

“It’s a first-rate case,” Inspector Matadeen declared, thumping the table.“Rock solid evidence, plus support from the top!”

One inspector tried to protest. “But we can’t let a decent man be con-victed of a crime he didn’t commit!”

Inspector Matadeen explained patiently, “Look. I’ve already told youthat the same god resides in all of us. Whether you convict this man or theactual killer, it is god who will hang. Further, in this instance, you’re gettingblood spattered clothes. Now where would you find bloodstains if you lethim go? Go ahead, file the FIR as I tell you.”

Inspector Matadeen dictated the First Information Report leaving a fewspaces blank for future needs.

Next day, the station officer came to Inspector Matadeen and said, “Gu-rudev, we’re in deep trouble. Numerous citizens have come to demand, Whyare you trying to frame that poor innocent man? It has never been donebefore. What should we say? We feel so ashamed . . . ”

“Don’t worry,” Inspector Matadeen consoled him. “In this job, one alwaysfeels some compunction in the beginning. But later you’ll feel ashamed forletting innocent people go free. Now understand this, every question has ananswer. The next time someone comes to you to question, tell him, We knowthe man is innocent, but what can we do? Those at the top want it so.”

“In that case they’ll go to the SP.”

“Let him say, Those at the top want it so.”

“Then they’ll complain to the IG.”

“He too should say, It’s the men at the top who want it so.”

“They’ll then go to the police minister.”

“So what? He should say the same thing, Friends, what can I do? Thoseat the top want it so.”

“But the people won’t give up. They’ll go to the PM.”

“The PM should respond in the same way, I know he’s innocent but thoseat the top want it so.”

“Then . . . ”

“Then what?” Matadeen stopped him short. “Who can they go to next?To god? But has anyone ever come back after going to god?”

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The station officer remained silent. Such brilliant logic left him dumb-founded.

Inspector Matadeen continued, “That one sentence — Those at the topwant it so — has always come to the rescue of our government in the lasttwenty five years. You too should learn it well.”

They began to get the case ready for trial. Matadeen ordered, “Bring mea few eyewitnesses.”

“How can we do that?” the station officer asked. “How can there beeyewitnesses when no one saw him kill that man?”

Matadeen smacked his head in despair. “God, what fools I have to dealwith! They don’t even know the ABC of this business.” Then he addedangrily, “Do you know who an eyewitness is? An eyewitness is not someonewho actually sees, he’s one who claims that he saw.”

“But why would someone make such a claim?” the station officer pro-tested.

“Why not?” thundered Inspector Matadeen. “I can’t see how you peoplemanage to run your department at all. Arre, the police must always have aready list of eyewitnesses. When one is needed, you just pick a name fromthat list and present the person in the court. In our country we have peoplewho eyewitness hundreds of cases every year. Our courts have recognized thatthese men possess some divine power that lets them foresee the place wheresome incident is going to happen, allowing them to reach there beforehand.

“I’ll get you eyewitnesses. Bring me some bad characters. You know thekind — petty thieves, gamblers, goondas, bootleggers.”

Next day, half a dozen fine specimens showed up at the police station.Inspector Matadeen was delighted. It had been too long since he had lastseen such men. He had been lonely. His voice melting with affection, heasked them, “You saw that man assault the deceased, didn’t you?”

They replied, “No sir, we didn’t see a thing. We weren’t even there.”Inspector Matadeen knew it was the first time for them. He patiently

continued, “I know you weren’t there. But you saw him attack with a lathi,didn’t you?”

The men decided they were dealing with a lunatic. Who else would talksuch nonsense? They began to laugh.

“Don’t laugh!” said Inspector Matadeen sternly. “Answer my question.”They again replied, “How can we say we saw it when we weren’t even

there?”Inspector Matadeen lost his temper. “I’ll tell you how,” he snarled. “I

have here detailed reports on what you fellows have been up to. I can haveeach one of you locked up for at least ten years. Now tell me, you wish tostay in business or would you rather go to jail?”

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The men were scared out of their wits. “No sir, we don’t want to go tojail.”

“In that case, you saw that fellow beat the victim with a lathi, didn’tyou?”

“Yes sir, we did. We saw him come out of his house and start hitting theman with a lathi until the poor fellow fell to the ground.”

“Good. In future too, you’ll see more such incidents, won’t you?” Mata-deen pressed on.

“Yes sir. We’ll see what you tell us to.”The station officer was overwhelmed by this miracle. He couldn’t move

for a few minutes. Then, getting up from his chair, he threw, himself atInspector Matadeen’s feet.

“Here now, let go. Let me do my work,” Inspector Matadeen remon-strated, but the station officer clung to him and kept repeating, “I want tospend the rest of my days at your feet.”

In due course, Inspector Matadeen put together the entire dossier and, inthe process, taught the local police everything he, knew — how to substituteFIRS, how to leave some pages blank for future use, how to change entriesin the Daily Record, how to win over hostile witnesses . . . The man he hadgot arrested was sentenced to twenty years.

The Moon Police was now fully trained. Case after case was broughtbefore the courts and, in every instance, a conviction was won. The MoonGovernment was delighted. The Moon Parliament passed a resolution tothank the Government of India. It noted the remarkable efficiency the MoonPolice had achieved under Inspector Matadeen’s guidance. Inspector Ma-tadeen was given a civic reception. Covered with garlands, he was takenaround in a procession in an open jeep. Thousands of people lined the roadand shouted his praises. Inspector Matadeen responded in the style of hishome minister with folded hands, lowered eyes, full of humility. But this washis first time and he felt somewhat ill at ease. He had never even dreamt,when he had entered the service some twenty six years ago, that one dayhe would be so honoured on Moon. He wished he had remembered to bringalong a dhoti kurta and a Gandhi cap.

On Earth, the Indian home minister watched the proceedings on televi-sion. “This may be the time for me to make a goodwill visit,” he mused.

A few more months passed.Then, suddenly one day, the Moon Parliament met in an emergency ses-

sion. It was a stormy but secret meeting, and so its report was not madepublic. We can only offer what was faintly heard by people outside thechamber. The members seemed enraged and could be heard shouting:

15


“No one takes care of sick parents!”“No one tries to rescue a drowning child!”“No one helps if a house catches fire”“Men have become worse than animals!”“The government should immediately resign!”“Resign! Resign!”

Next day the prime minister of Moon sent for Inspector Matadeen. In-spector Matadeen could see that the prime minister had visibly aged, that heseemed not to have slept for a few nights. He looked quite disconsolate as hesaid, “Matadeenji, we are extremely grateful to you and to the Governmentof India but you should go back tomorrow.”

“No sir,” Matadeen replied, “I’ll return only after I’ve finished my termhere.”

“We’ll give you your full term’s salary,” the prime minister said. “Doublethe amount . . . triple, if you wish.”

Inspector Matadeen was polite but firm. “No sir, I’m a man of principles.My work is more dear to me than money.”

In the end, the prime minister of Moon sent a confidential letter to theprime minister of India.

Four days later, Inspector Matadeen received orders from his IG to re-turn immediately. Picking up a heel-polishing stone for the wife of his SP,Inspector Matadeen climbed aboard the earth-ship and bade farewell to themoon. The entire Moon Police burst in tears as the earth-ship lifted off.

What happened on Moon that he had to leave so suddenly? What didthe prime minister of Moon write to the prime minister of India? Thesequestions remained unanswered for a long time.

Then someone got hold of that confidential letter and made part of itpublic.

Thank you for lending us the services of Inspector Matadeen, butnow you must recall him immediately. We had thought India wasour friend, but only an enemy could have done what you did tous. We were innocent and trusting, and you deceived us.

Ever since Inspector Matadeen has trained our police, things havecome to a terrible pass. No one comes to the help of an assaultvictim for fear he might himself be accused. Sons abandon theirsick parents, less they be charged with murder. Houses catch fireand burn down, but neighbours don’t help for fear they mightbe accused of arson. Children drown before people’s eyes but noone comes to their rescue lest they be accused of drowning them.

16


All human relations are breaking down. Your man has destroyedalmost half of our civilized life. If he stays around longer he’lldestroy the remaining half. Please call him back immediately toyour own Ram Rajya . . . 3

3“Inspector Matadeen on the Moon” was first published in Hindi as “Inspector Mata-deen Chand Par” in 1968.

17

A Ten Day Fast

10 January

Today I said to Bannu, “Look here, Bannu, nothing works these days —the parliament, the judges, the bureaucracy, nothing. Today all major de-mands are gained only through threats of fasts and self-immolation. Ourdemocracy is twenty years old now and is so finely tuned that the threat ofjust one man starving or killing himself can seal the fate of millions of people.Now’s the time you too went on an indefinite fast — for that woman.”

Bannu remained silent. For sixteen years he has been after RadhikaBabu’s wife, Savitri. Once he even got badly roughed up when he tried todrag her away. Bannu can’t get her to leave her husband and live with himbecause Savitri hates even the sight of his face.

Finally, after some thought, Bannu said, “But can one go on a fast oversuch a matter?”

“You can fast for anything these days,” I replied. “Just recently BabaSankidas went on a fast and got a new law passed which requires peopleto grow long hair but never shampoo. Now everyone has a stinking head.Compared to it, your demand is a mere trifle. You only want that woman.”

“What’re you talking about!” Surendra, who had been listening to us,spoke up. “Go on a fast to grab someone else’s wife? you should be ashamedof yourself. We’ll be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood.”

“Look,” I tried to explain, “even great sadhus and saints didn’t feelashamed when they went on a fast, so what’s the big fuss about us com-mon folks? As for people laughing at us, they’ve laughed so much at theCow Protection Movement that they can’t laugh any more. Even if theywere to try, they’d only cry out in pain. In fact, for the next ten years, nonewill dare to laugh lest he kills himself.

“But will it work?” Bannu asked.

“That depends on how you set up the issue. If the issue is set up wellyou’ll get your woman.” I then added, “Let’s go to an expert and get hisadvice. Baba Sankidas is your man. He has quite a thing going these days.Right now he has four men fasting under his directions.”

Harishankar Parsai A Ten Day Fast

We went to Baba Sankidas. After listening to us, he said, “Fine. I’ll takeup your case, but do as I tell you.” Then, turning to Bannu, he asked, “Canyou threaten to immolate yourself?”

Bannu shook with fear. “I’m scared,” he whimpered.“You don’t actually have to burn yourself. Just threaten that you might.”“I can’t even think of it,” Bannu cried. “It scares me to death.”“In that case,” Baba said, “you should go on a fast. As for setting up the

issue, leave it to me. I’ll take care of it.”Bannu was still very nervous. “I won’t have to die, will I?” he asked.Baba replied, “Smart people don’t die. They keep one eye on their med-

ical chart, the other on the mediator. But don’t you worry, we won’t let youdie. We’ll also get you the woman.”

11 JanuaryBannu has settled down in a tent for his Fast Unto Death. Incense sticks

burn near him, and a group is lustily singing Mahatma Gandhi’s favouritesong, Sab ko Sanmati de bhagwan. The atmosphere is very holy, even on thisfirst day. There is no doubt that Baba Sankidas is a master of his art. TheDeclaration of Principles that he wrote and distributed on Bannu’s behalf issimply brilliant. In it Bannu says, “My soul calls out to me saying, I’m asyet only one half. My other half is in Savitri. My soul says, Bring the twohalves together and make them one. Or else set me free from this body. I’mstarting this fast to bring the two halves of my soul together. I demand thatSavitri should be given to me. If I don’t get her, I’ll fast unto death to letmy half of the soul be rid of this transient body. I fear nothing, for I standfor Truth. May Truth be victorious!”

Savitri came into the tent, boiling with rage. She said to Baba Sankidas,“The bastard is fasting to get me, isn’t he?”

“Devi,” the Baba replied gently, “you shouldn’t abuse him. His fast ispure. He may have been a bastard earlier, but he isn’t one anymore. He’snow on a fast unto death.”

“But he should’ve asked me first,” Savitri retorted. “I spit on him.”In his calmest voice the Baba said, “Devi. you’re merely the Issue, and

no one asks the issue in such matters. Did the Cow Protection Movementpeople ask the cow before they launched their campaign? You should gohome, devi. If you ask my advice, neither you nor your husband should comehere any more. In a day or two, once the public opinion is fully formed, somepeople may not allow for your nasty comments.”

Savitri went away, muttering under her breath.Bannu turned gloomy. Baba tried to console him, “Don’t worry. Victory

will be yours. In the end, Truth always emerges victorious.”

19

A Ten Day Fast Harishankar Parsai

13 JanuaryIt seems Bannu has little tolerance for hunger. Today’s only the third

day, but he’s started to moan and groan.He asked me, “Has Jayaprakash Narayan come yet?“He comes only on the fifth day,” I explained, “or on the sixth. That’s

his principle. We have, of course, informed him.”A few minutes later Bannu asked, “What did Vinoba say?”“He made some comments on the relative importance of means and ends,”

Baba Sankidas replied. “But with a little word-twisting, we can use hisremarks to support our position.”

Bannu closed his eyes. He said, “Bhaiya, get Jayaprakash Babu heresoon.”

Today some journalists came to see us. They asked all sorts of questions.“What caused him to fast?” “Is it a public cause?”

“One doesn’t ask about the cause at this stage,” Baba told them. “Theproblem right now is how do we save Bannu’s life. When someone goes on afast he makes such a sacrifice that any cause becomes pure.”

“There will be some public benefit too,” I added. “Many of us secretlywish to snatch others’ wives but don’t know what to do. If Bannu’s fastsucceeds, it will show the public the right path to follow.”

14 JanuaryBannu has become quite weak. He has been threatening to end the fast.

That would be a disaster. Baba Sankidas had to spend a lot of time con-vincing him.

Today the Baba did another amazing thing. He had a statement publishedin the papers by some Swami Rasanand. The swami has declared, “I haveperformed many ascetic acts. Those acts have given me the power to seeboth the past and the future. I have discovered that Bannu was a sage in hisprevious life, and that Savitri was his wife. In that life, Bannu’s name wasRishi Vanamanus. Now, after three thousand years, he has again taken thebody of a man. He and Savitri had sacred marital ties in all their previousbirths. lt’s a terrible sin that a sage’s wife should now live in the house ofan ordinary man like Radhika Prasad. I plead to all Dharma-loving peoplethat they shouldn’t let this sinful state continue any further.”

Swamiji’s statement has had good effect. Some people came to our camp,shouting, “Victory to Dharma!” Another large group went to Radhika Babu’shouse and shouted, “Radhika Prasad is a sinner!” “May the sinner soonperish!” “Victory to Dharma!”

Swamiji also arranged to have prayers said in several temples for savingBannu’s life.

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15 JanuaryLast night someone threw rocks at Radhika Babu’s house. Public opinion

has crystallized. These are some of the remarks our spies heard aroundthe city — “Poor Bannu! He’s been without food for five days!” “I reallyadmire his determination.” “But that cruel woman hasn’t softened at all.”“Look at her husband, what a shameless man!” “I hear Bannu was a sage inhis previous birth.” “Why, didn’t you read Swami Rasanand’s statement?”“They say it’s a great sin to keep a sage’s wife as your own.”

Today eleven virtuous, married women came and performed aarti to hon-our Bannu. Bannu was delighted. Whenever he sees a virtuous, marriedwoman, his heart leaps with joy.

The newspapers are full of news of the fast.Today we sent a small crowd to the prime minister’s residence, to appeal

to him to interfere in the matter and save Bannu’s life. The PM refused tomeet them. (Well, we’ll see about that.)

Jayaprakash Narayan arrived this evening. He was rather severe. “Howmany lives must I save?” he asked crossly. “Is that my profession now?Every other day someone starts a fast, then shouts Save me. If you wantyour life saved, why not eat something? You don’t need a mediator to saveyour life. Such nonsense! Now they’re using the virtuous means of a fast tograb another man’s wife!”

We explained to him, “This is a different kind of issue. It’s Bannu’s soulthat has cried out.”

Jayaprakash Narayan calmed down and said, “If it’s a cry of his soul thenI’ll willingly lend a hand.”

“And the unanimous voice of millions of devout people has also joinedit,” I added.

Jayaprakash Babu agreed to mediate. He’ll first talk to Savitri and herhusband, then he’ll go to see the PM.

All the while, Bannu gazed at Jayaprakash Babu with abject, gratefuleyes.

Later we chided him “You bastard, don’t look so pathetic. If one our ofthe leaders catches on to you, he’ll immediately offer you a glass of orangejuice. Don’t you see so many of them are hanging around your tent, theirshoulder bags bulging with oranges?”

16 JanuaryJayaprakash Babu has failed in his mission. No one is willing to agree.

The PM said, “We sympathize with Bannu, but there’s nothing we can do.Get him to break his fast first, then we’ll have talks to find a solution.”

We were disappointed.

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But not Baba Sankidas. He said, “At first everyone rejects the demand.That’s the convention. We must now expand our struggle. We should putin the papers that there was much acetone in Bannu’s urine today, that hisdeteriorating condition is causing great anxiety. Other statements shouldalso appear demanding that Bannu’s life must be saved at any cost. Whyisn’t the government doing anything? It should immediately take steps tosave Bannu’s precious life.”

The Baba is simply amazing. Who knows what schemes are tucked awayinside his head!

He continued, “The time has come to inject the issue of caste in ourcampaign. Bannu is a brahmin, Radhika Prasad is a kayasth. Some peopleshould work on the brahmins, others on the kayasths. I understand the headof the Brahmin Sabha plans to stand in the next general elections. Someoneshould explain to him that this might be his big chance to get all the brahminvotes.”

A request came today from Radhika Babu. He wanted Bannu to letSavitri tie a rakhi on his wrist and thus make him her brother.

We rejected the offer.

17 JanuaryThe headlines today were — “Save Bannu’s life.” “Bannu’s condition

causes anxiety.” “Prayers said in temples to save Bannu’s life.”In one paper we had the following advertisement put in.

Millions of Virtuous People Demand Bannu’s Life Must beSaved

Horrible Consequences if Bannu Dies

The president of the Brahmin Sabha has issued a statement. He sees thesituation as a challenge to the honour of all brahmins, and threatens to takeDirect Action.

We have hired four local goondas. Tonight they’ll throw rocks intokayasth homes. Afterwards, they’ll go to the brahmin neighbourhood and dothe same there. Bannu had to pay them in advance.

Baba thinks that by tomorrow or the day after we should make the au-thorities impose a curfew. Or at least make them impose Section 144 of theIndian Penal Code. Baba says that will make our case stronger.

18 JanuaryLast night stones were thrown into brahmin and kayasth homes.In the morning there was a pitched battle between several group of the

two castes who freely threw stones at each other.

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Section 144, restricting public assembly, has now been imposed on theentire city.

The city is tense.

A delegation of our representatives met the prime minister. He told them,“There are legal problems here. This may require some changes in our mar-riage laws.”

“Then you should make the changes. Or, better still, issue ordinance,”we replied. “If Bannu dies the entire country will go up in flames.”

He said, “First get him to end the fast.”

“No, the government should first accept the principle of his demand andset up a committee,” we countered. “That committee could then find someway for this man to get his woman.”

The government is watching the situation carefully. Bannu will have tosuffer some more. The matter is at a standstill. The talks are at a deadlock.

Small skirmishes continue.

Last night we had some rocks thrown at the police station. That hadsatisfactory results.

The slogan “Save the Life” is now being heard much louder.

19 January

Bannu has become extremely weak. He’s scared he might die. He ravesthat we’ve led him into a trap. We’re worried. If he issues a statement we’llall be exposed.

We must do something soon. We have warned Bannu that if he were tobreak his fast now, when nothing’s been gained, the public will lynch him.

Our delegation is to see the PM again.

20 January

“Deadlock!” the headlines screamed.

Only one bus could be burned today. Bannu is in a very bad shape.

We issued a statement on his behalf, “I may die but I shall not retreat.”

The government too seems rather worried.

Today the All India Sadhu Sabha endorsed our demand.

The Brahmin Sabha has issued an ultimatum — “If the demand is notmet, ten brahmins will immolate themselves.”

Savitri tried to commit suicide but was saved.

There is a constant line of people outside who want to have Bannu’sdarshan.

A telegram has been sent to the secretary general of the United Nations.

Prayer meetings are being held all over the country.

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Dr Ram Manohar Lohia, the socialist leader, has issued a statement, “Solong as the present government remains in power, no just demand of thepeople can be expected to be met. We suggest that instead of going afterSavitri, Bannu ought to run away with the government itself.”

21 JanuaryThe government has accepted Bannu’s demand in principle. A committee

has been set up to resolve procedural problems.Amidst loud singing of bhajans and prayers, Baba Sankidas offered a glass

of orange juice to Bannu. Baba declared, “In a democracy public opinionhas to be respected. This issue involved the sentiment of millions of people.It’s good that it was resolved peacefully, otherwise, a violent revolution couldhave taken place.”

The man from the Brahmin Sabha has made a deal with Bannu. Bannuwill campaign on his behalf in the next general elections. He has also givenBannu plenty of money. Bannu’s price has gone up.

To the hundreds of men and women who come to touch his feet in ado-ration, Bannu says, “What happened was god’s wish. I was merely hismedium.”

People are shouting — “Victory to Truth!” “Victory to Dharma!”1

1“A Ten Day Fast” was originally published in Hindi as “Das Din ka Anshan” in 1966.

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Contesting an Election in Bihar

Dear readers, I’m not the Harishankar who used to write satires. My name,residence, actions, have all changed. I have shifted to politics. As I tourthrough Bihar, I’m preparing to contest in the mid term elections.

Now I call myself Babu Harishankar Narain Prasad Singh.

You’ll remember that, won’t you? You won’t forget?

And please don’t laugh at my new way of speaking. I’ve just started tolearn the pure language. I speak the best I can. After all, I’m a new man1.

I’ve come to Bihar in response to the outcry raised by the people of Bihar.How the outcry of a people reaches the ears of politicians, I can’t tell you.It’s a trade secret.

The people’s outcry can sometimes be like the bleating of a lamb. It callsfor its mother but instead gets a wolf. In fact, even if the lamb stays quiet,the wolf comes anyway. It says, “You called for me?” The lamb says, “No,I didn’t even open my mouth.” The wolf replies, “Then I must have heardthe silent cry of your heart.”

The people of Bihar might say to me, “We didn’t call you. We don’t wantyou to be the agent of our salvation. Why are you so bent upon doing us afavour?”

I’ll respond, “Even in faraway Madhya Pradesh, I heard the silent cries ofyour hearts. Since they are not having mid term elections there, I’m unableto serve the people of Madhya Pradesh. And I can’t live if I’m not servingthe people. If you won’t accept my services, I shall force my services on you.”

And it’s not just me. Bhagwan Sri Krishna himself has come to Bihar, toserve and save its people — the flood driven, drought stricken, disease riddenpeople of Bihar. A people also dying from famine.

One day I ran into Bhagwan Krishna. I immediately recognized him. Hispeacock feathers, yellow garments and flute were unmistakable.

I asked, “You’re Bhagwan Krishna, aren’t you?”

1The author is referring to pure language here as the first few paragraphs of this storyare set in a local dialect used in Bihar, and not in standard Hindi.

Contesting an Election in Bihar Harishankar Parsai

He replied, “Yes, the same. However, now my name is Bhagwan BabuKrishna Narain Prasad Singh. You can also call me Krishna Babu.”

I said, “Bhagwan, have you come to lead the Cow Protection Movement?The elections are close, so the cows must be protected. I guess you’ll easilyget into politics through the Protect the Cow agitation.”

“No, I haven’t come for that,” Krishna replied. “The Cow ProtectionMovement is for the general elections. In a small, mid term election, onecan manage fairly well with even a movement to protect mice. But that’ssomething that might interest Ganeshji. It doesn’t interest me.”

I said, “Then you must have been invited by Ramsevak Yadav — to makesure of the Yadav vote.”

That annoyed the bhagwan. He said, “Let me speak too. I came becausethe people of Bihar cried out to me.”

“You must have misunderstood,” I said. “They were the supporters ofShri Krishnavallabh Sahai, and they were loudly shouting his name to makesure it was heard by the Congress High Command in Delhi. So he could getthe ticket. You thought they were calling you.”

“No,” Krishna retorted, “I heard with my own ears. The people weresaying, Bhagwan, you’re our only recourse. Only you can save us now. Itwas this distressful cry that made me come here.”

Well, that’s possible too. After the fourth general elections, only god’spower has remained firm. For in Bihar, by the time its afflicted peoplewould appeal to the government in Patna, there would be a reshuffle and anew government would come into power. Perhaps in desperation the peopleappealed to the only stable government, that of bhagwan.

I said, “It’s good that you came. What do you intend to do now?”He said, “My three point programme is well-known — Protect the sadhus2,destroy the sinners, and establish dharma.”

“Any economic programmes, et cetera?” I asked.“No, only the three point programme.”I asked, “Did you come across any sadhu among the local politicians?”“Not one.”“And non-sadhus?”“None. Here everyone calls himself sadhu, and others non-sadhu. I’m not

sure whom I should destroy.”Just then I realized that he didn’t have with him his unique weapon, the

sudarshan chakra. How was he to do any destruction then? When I asked,Sri Krishna replied, “It’s at home. I don’t have a licence for it. Anyway,they have already enforced Section 144 of the Indian Penal Code here.”

2Sadhu here refers to honest and good men.

26

Harishankar Parsai Contesting an Election in Bihar

I explained to him, “Bhagwan, even if you had a licence for the chakra,you would still get convicted under Section 302 if you killed someone.”

Krishna looked a bit perturbed. “In that case, how will I establishdharma?”

“It’s being established through communal riots,” I explained. “You throwa bone into a temple and get a riot going in the name of the Hindu dharma.These days, dharma is used only to start riots. Your ideas are too old. Whatwe’re doing now is for only one purpose — save the sinners.”

I continued, “You can’t uplift the people without elbowing yourself intoour parliamentary democracy. You should contest for a seat and become thechief minister of this state. Then send for Rukminiji too. That way, if you’dinaugurate a tournament she’d distribute the prizes. One pair of Lotus-feetwill serve two purposes.”

It was with great difficulty that I could push democracy down the throatof his feudal values. Compared to him, the maharaja of Darbhanga, BabuKamakhya Narain Singh, had become a democrat in no time at all.

I had something to gain in getting Krishna to contest the elections. Iwas myself a new entrant in politics. It was essential that I first become thechamcha of someone important. A dada needs a chamcha and a chamchaneeds a dada3. When the dada becomes the chief minister, the chamchagets to be his home minister. I thought, since some people have got theShankaracharya to side with them, I should link up with Bhagwan Krishnahimself.

We decided that we must first mould public opinion in our favour andonly then start negotiations with the political parties. And so we set out tomeet the public. I became his chamcha. I’d say a few words to introduce him,then stay silent the rest of the time. I was fully confident that someone whocould, through arguments, make an unwilling Arjun plunge into a battle, willhave no trouble reasoning with people and getting them to side with him.But gradually I began to feel anxious. Krishna didn’t seem to be gettinganywhere.

We talked to some people active in politics. Krishna told them that hewas contesting an election. They said, “Of course. Why shouldn’t you? Youare bhagwan. People sing bhajans to you, even worship you. They talk ofyou all the time. Your photos are sold everywhere. If you won’t contest theelection, who will? After all, you’re a yadav, aren’t you?”

Krishna said, “I’m god. I don’t have a caste.”

They said, “Look, sir, being god won’t do you any good around here. Noone will vote for you. How do you expect to win if you won’t maintain your

3Dada, literally a hoodlum, here refers to a patron and chamcha is his yes-man.

27


caste?”This got us worried. Bhumihar, kayasth, kshatriya, yadav — one had to

be one of these first, only then could one be a Congressite, a Socialist, or aCommunist. Clearly, Krishna had to be a yadav first. After that, it didn’tmatter even if he became a Marxist.

Krishna was soon fed up with this casteism. He said, “They are allbackward people. Let’s go to the universities. We should seek the supportof the educated to remove this evil from its very roots.”

In one university, we talked to a professor of Political Science. He wasfrank with us. “I’m a kayasth and so I’ll support only a kayasth.”

Krishna asked, “You’re so learned and yet so parochial?”“Look,” the professor explained to him, “through learning man comes

to recognize his true self. I obtained learning and discovered that I was akayasth.”

This disturbed Krishna so much that he walked out and lay down in theshade of a tree. He said to me, “I think I’ll go back. I can’t make anyheadway in politics where god can’t get a vote by being just god.”

Meanwhile, the news of Krishna’s entry into politics had spread widely,and all regular political parties were showing some wariness. The Jansanghleaders thought that being a cowherd Krishna will naturally side with them.But they decided to be prepared, just in case. They set up a committee ofstorytellers and asked them to look into their books and find some dirt onKrishna. “If he causes any problem, well ruin his reputation.”

In fact, character-assassination had started and some rumours were al-ready circulating. As Krishna dozed in the cool shade and I sat near him, aman came to us. He asked me in a whisper, “He’s Bhagwan Krishna, isn’the?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Just look at his beauty.”The man said, “May I tell you something? Keep it to yourself, but I know

all is not right with his Mrs. She’s a runaway. He seduced her. It causeda big fight. We have the evidence. It’s written in a book. Now tell me, ifsomeone who made a young woman elope with him comes into power, whatwill happen to the honour of our daughters and wives?”

When Krishna awoke, I said to him, “Bhagwan, they’ve started to assassi-nate your character. You should now either boldly plunge into the campaignor let me be on my own. I’ll hitch myself to someone else. For if I stay withyou my own political future might be endangered.”

The short nap had apparently refreshed Krishna’s mind. With greatconfidence, he said, “I just got an idea. I have several thousand devoutsupporters here. I’d forgotten that there are thousands of my temples in thisland. Their pujaris must be devoted to me. With their help, I can easily win

28


all the seats. Let’s go and talk to them.”We went to one temple. When the pujari saw Krishna, he went wild with

joy. He started to dance. He said, “What blessed fate! My life-long devotionhas finally borne fruit. I’m looking at god himself.”

Krishna explained to the pujari that he was contesting the election andthat the pujari will have to secure votes for him.

The pujari said, “You are bhagwan, you won’t lack for votes.”Krishna said. “Even so, one has to make sure. You will vote for me,

won’t you?”The pujari wistfully rubbed his hands and said, “I worship you. You’re

my bhagwan. But as for my vote, it must go to someone from my own caste.Had there been no candidate of my own caste I’d certainly vote for you.”

I don’t think Krishna could have felt as hurt when he had been hit by thathunter’s arrow as he felt just then. He said to me, “There’s nothing left forme now but to join the Bhoodan Movement. My own pujari has abandonedme! For such a loser in politics, there are only two choices — join the BharatSevak Samaj or enlist in the Bhoodan Movement. Let’s go to Baba.”

I said, “That stage hasn’t come yet. We haven’t yet lost an election.There are people who, even after losing four or five elections, haven’t joinedthe Sarvodaya. Come, we’ll go and talk to some political parties.”

First we went to the Congress office. There we were told that there wasno Congress there. The secretary said, “Here there is Krishnavallabh Babu,there is Mahesh Babu, there are Ram Khilavan Babu and Mishra Babu —but there is no Congress here. In any case, why join the Congress? Afterall, whatever group comes into power becomes the Congress, and the losinggroup ceases to be it. Only after the elections are over shall we know whothe Congress is. You see the Congress doesn’t any longer form governments,it only brings them down. You should first contest the elections. Then, ifyou get a few legislators to support you, come back to us. We’ll get you amajority and you may yourself form the government. We had helped MandalBabu form the government, remember?”

We then went to the Samyukta Socialist Party. They were first wary ofus. But when we confided to them that the rose that Jawaharlal used towear in the buttonhole of his sherwani was in fact made of paper, they werevery happy. One of them said, “Your ideas are very revolutionary. Just see,how that Nehru fooled the country all that time.”

I said, “We want to be Socialists.”He said, “Being a Socialist isn’t as important as being anti-Congress.

Even a dacoit who is against the Congress is superior to any Socialist.”Krishna remarked, “But certainly you must have some ideology?”“Anti-Congressism is an ideology,” the SSP man replied. “Thanks to it

29


we can come to an agreement with any group — with the Jansangh, on theprotection of cows, with the Swatantra Party, concerning the protection ofcapital, with the Praja Socialist Party, on democratic socialism and with theCommunists, concerning people’s revolution.”

I said, “I remember Dr Lohia had said that in order to gain the people’sconfidence, any non-Congress government must perform some miracle withinthe first six months of its coming into power. Did it happen?”

The man replied, “Yes, we performed not one miracle but many. Justrecall the amazing somersault our own Mandal Babu performed when hecame to power.”

Next we went to the Communists. The CPI people said, “Well, ComradeKrishna, we know your history. You have often displayed leftist adventurismand radical confusion. You better go to the Marxists.”

The Marxists were blunt. They said, “You are nothing but a reformist.Your class character has been entirely reactionary.”

But the Jansangh man welcomed us with open arms. He said, “You havebeen a member of our party since the Dwapara Yuga. We need only to openyour mind now.”

He took a piece of paper and wrote on it, “Hindi Rashtra, Cow Protection,Indian Culture.” Then he folded it with a printed form. Next he took outa key and a lock from a cabinet. Finally, using a peculiar instrument, hestarted prying open Krishna’s skull.

Krishna was startled. He tried to struggle away and asked angrily, “Whatare you doing?”

The man said, “Your intellectual induction. I shall open your skull, putthese ideas inside, then lock it up. The key will be sent to Nagpur, toGuruji. Then there won’t be any risk of some adulterous or anti-nationalthought sneaking into your mind.”

Krishna was scared out of his wits. Freeing himself with a jerk, he fled.“Stop, please stop,” the Jansangh man called after him, “at least let ourvolunteers have some of your sudarshan chakras.”

Hastening away, we went straight to the Backward Bloc. They said, “Youcan’t join us, you are not backward yet. You will become one when you getto be a legislator but fail to be a minister. Failing to become a minister, youmay rightfully claim to be an exploited and backward person. Then comeand join us.”

We had planned to meet Mahamaya Babu of the Forward Bloc, but wewere told that after withdrawing the two hundred and eighteen cases he hadfiled against Kamakhya Babu, he had gone into hiding in the latter’s coalmine. At the entrance of the mine we ran into Raja Kamakhya Narain Singhalias Kamakhya Babu. He said, “If you were to join me you’ll be asked to

30


make a tour of the entire world of politics. That might be too much for you.Not everyone can be as agile as I am. See for yourself — first I broke awayto form the Janata Party, then I moved to the Swatantra Party. From thereI returned to the Congress. Later I shifted my allegiance to the BharatiyaKranti Dal, only to leave it and revive the old Janata Party. To me, politicalparties are like underwear. I can’t wear any for long. It begins to stink. Ihave with me seventeen legislators, but no government can function withoutme. Let me give you some advice. Form a party of your own and get some ofyour own people elected to the assembly. Then you can sit majestically andhave the Congressites, the Jansanghists, the Socialists, the Revolutionaries,the Communists, and what have you — all sit at your feet and serve you. Butif you stick to Principles you’ll be wiped out. The most important principleis to bargain.”

We too were by now convinced that we won’t quite get along in any party,that we better form a party of our own. That if we succeed in getting in afew legislators, then, through manipulations, defections and deals, we canalways control the government itself.

Now we have set up a new party. It will function for the time being onlyin Bihar. If it gets strong public support in the mid term elections, we’llmake it national. Herewith is a summary of our manifesto.

The opportunism, lack of principles, and basic instability thatprevail in contemporary Indian politics are enough to break theheart of any true servant of the masses. Corruption in higher pol-itics has caused millions of people to starve, go without clothes,remain jobless. They are falling prey to famines, floods, droughtsand epidemics. From countless throats rises only one cry —“Bhagwan, come, form a new party and take political power inyour hands to save us.” Responding to this heart-rending pleaof the people, Bhagwan Krishna has incarnated himself in Bi-har and, joining hands with that world-renowned public servant,Babu Harishankar Narain Prasad Singh, has established a newpolitical party. It is called Bharatiya Janmangal Congress.

In contemporary politics, it has become quite a fashion to usethe word Janata or Jan or Lok in party names. That’s why wetoo have included Jan in our party’s name. We, however, appealto the people that they shouldn’t take it too seriously. It’s just apolitical joke.

The word Bharatiya in our party’s name is also for a reason.It will facilitate if, in the future, it becomes necessary for us tomerge with the Bharatiya Jansangh and share power with them.

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Likewise, we have the word Congress, so that if the IndiraCongress finds it necessary to form a coalition government, itshould first turn to us.

No party has ever explained what the word Janata means. Weare doing so for the first time. Janata are those men and womenwho are voters and whose votes elect legislators and ministers.In this world, the usefulness of the janata lies entirely in thefact that their votes elect ministries. If it were possible to formgovernments without votes, there would be absolutely no needfor the janata.

The people are raw material. From them one makes the morepukka stuff — the legislators and ministers. In order to makesomething more solid, one must do away with what is raw. Wegive our full assurance to the people that doing away with themwe shall fashion a high quality government.

Our minimal goal is to remain in power.Ideologically we believe in the maxim, As is the king, so are

his subjects. If the king lives in luxury, his people too live inluxury. If the king is happy, so are his people. That’s why theministers in our government shall live only lavishly. The peoplemust understand that we’d be doing so under duress, in fact, onlyfor their own sake. As is the king, so are his subjects.

Our candidates shall nor enter the elections to become leg-islators. They shall seek votes to become ministers. When thepeople vote for us they will be voting for ministers. Every suc-cessful candididate of our party will be included in the cabinet.That will ensure that no one defects. But if any of them mustdo so, he should first talk to us — to make sure that we cannotpossibly meet his demands.

The government’s main job is to govern, nor to solve the prob-lem of roti. That’s why our government will take no interest infood production. If any company is interested in producing moregrain we will gladly give it all the land in Bihar.

We shall create new administrative districts on the basis ofcaste. For example, no kshatriya will be allowed to live in abrahmin district. District commissioners will be appointed bythe caste panchayats.

Countless people die in epidemics and famines in Bihar everyyear. But Kashi is not a part of Bihar. We have only Gaya forthe final rites of the dead. Our party will launch an agitation toget Kashi annexed to Bihar. Then the people of Bihar can die in

32


Kashi and have their rites done right here.We give the people our solemn word that we shall topple any

government that won’t include us. If we ourselves fail to get amajority, we shall provide the people the pleasure of having agovernment every month.

This, of course, is just a summary draft of our manifesto. Weshall give the details later.

People should pray for our party’s victory.Industrialists, contractors and professional troublemakers

should immediately contact us to negotiate terms.Our brothers, cousins, uncles, nephews, in-laws and other rel-

atives — wherever they may be — should all come and settlein Bihar. They should also immediately send in applications forwelfare funds, together with any proof of their relationship to us.Any delay would only benefit impersonators.4

4“Contesting an Election in Bihar” was originally published in Hindi as “Ham BiharMein Chunao Lad Rahe Hain” in 1965.

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Poor Trishanku

In a certain city, in a small house in a dirty neighbourhood, there lived aman called Trishanku.1 He was a teacher in a school.

Trishanku was dissatisfied with nearly everything in his life, but mostof all with his house. His biggest ambition was to move into a larger placein some decent neighbourhood someday. Consequently, he was exceptionallynice to those children whose fathers owned rental properties in the city. Comeexamination time, he would tell them the “important” questions they shouldprepare for. He would even give them better marks. Trishanku believed thatsome day some house-owning parent would be so pleased with him that hewould ask. “Do you want anything?” Then he would have his chance to say,“Yes, a nice house.”

The rent control officer in that town was a certain Vishwamitra. It washis job to keep an eye on the house rents in the city and allot vacant housesto the needy.

It so happened that Vishwamitra’s son was a student in Trishanku’s class.Naturally, Trishanku was very loving towards him. But the boy was ex-tremely poor in studies. In fact, his father had warned him not to lose anyof his textbooks, for they were sure to be needed again next year. But Tr-ishanku told him such important questions — and later gave him such goodmarks — that the boy passed.

Vishwamitra was delighted. A few days later, when Trishanku was sittingnear him eating laddus to celebrate, Vishwamitra said, “Trishanku Master,I’m very pleased with you. I would like to do something for you. Tell me,what do you want?”

Trishanku had waited for years for this moment. Countless houses flashedbefore his eyes, but he didn’t display any eagerness. “Sir, what have I donethat I might wish to be rewarded!” he humbly responded. “I only did what

1Trishanku: A ruler of the Surya dynasty, who sought to enter heaven after his deathencased in his mortal Chandal body, but was pushed down from the gates of heaven byLord Indra. His guru, Sage Vishwamitra, halted the fall, and Trishanku hung upside downmidway between earth and heaven.

Harishankar Parsai Poor Trishanku

was my duty. You provide homes to the entire city. If your son had failed inhis exams it would have been a disgrace to the city itself: I merely did whatwas required of me as a citizen of this city. I need nothing except that youcontinue to look upon me favourably.”

These words only enhanced Vishwamitra’s genial mood. He felt a tremen-dous urge to do Trishanku some favour. “No, Trishanku Master, you mustask for something,” he persisted. “I’m obliged to you. Every child has twofathers. One gives him life, the other gives him knowledge. You taught myson not only reading and writing and all that, but you also taught him some-thing invaluable. You taught him how to succeed despite being unworthy ofsuccess. Your rank, therefore, is even above me. So tell me, is there anythingyou want?”

Trishanku could see the iron was hot. “All right, sir,” he meekly said, “if itreally pleases you, please get me a nice house in some decent neighbourhood.”

Vishwamitra was forced to think for a minute. Then he said, “TrishankuMaster, that’s a tough one. Houses are very scarce. I’d have had no problemif you had instead asked for a country. Anyway, now that I have promised,I must find you a house.”

Vishwamitra pulled open his desk drawer and took out a notebook. Afterflipping through several pages he stopped, and dialed a number — “Hello,Is Indraji there? . . . This is Vishwamitra speaking . . . Namaskar . . . Yes,all’s well, thanks to your blessings . . . Ha, ha, ha . . . I’m sorry to botheryou but it’s something rather special . . . You don’t happen to have a vacanthouse, do you? You do! . . . He’s someone close to me. My own man, youmight say. Yes, a very decent person . . . Should I send him to you? . . . Thisevening? . . . All right, I’ll do that . . . Thank you very much.”

He put the receiver down and turned to Trishanku. “Well, TrishankuMaster, that takes care of your need. I’ve found you a house in the bestneighbourhood in the city”

As the phone conversation had proceeded, Trishanku’s face had bright-ened little by little. Now it lit up fully. “Where is this house?” he askedeagerly.

“In the most beautiful part of the city — in Swargapuri. They also callit the Civil Lines. There, a gentleman named Indradev owns a number ofhouses. Formerly he was an engineer in Public Works Department, but heserved the country so well that when he retired he had some fifteen or sixteenhouses of his own. These he rents out. I have asked him to let you have aportion of one of the houses.”

Trishanku’s next question was, “What’s the rent?”Vishwamitra said, “Don’t worry. I’ll speak to him about it. All you have

to do is to meet him this evening and take possession of the house he shows

35

Poor Trishanku Harishankar Parsai

you. Today’s the last day of the month. Vacate your present house today,otherwise the owner will make you pay another month’s rent. In fact, whenyou go to see Indraji, take all your things with you.”

Trishanku felt a bit unsure. Swargapuri, or the Civil Lines, was anotherworld. The people who lived there were totally different. Trishanku alwayslooked at them with envy and fear. No doubt, he had often fantasized aboutliving there, but now that a chance had actually come up, he wasn’t so sure.How would I live there? he thought, And why would they ever let me?

With much trepidation he said, “Sir, a very different kind of people livethere. You might even say, a different species. How will they ever let me liveamong them?”

“What nonsense is that, Trishanku Master,” Vishwamitra replied. “Ahouse in that area is a matter of good fortune, and you are turning it down?Don’t be scared. Go there without fear. Now that I’ve myself spoken toIndraji, he’ll offer you the house only too eagerly.”

But Trishanku’s heart was still unwilling. In his most abject manner hesaid, “Sir, I don’t know why but I’m scared. I feel we can live in Swargapurionly in our mind. If we go there physically, the local people won’t acceptus.”

Vishwamitra’s sense of pride was aroused. How could Trishanku doubthis powers? He leapt out of his chair, his face red with anger. “Trishanku,I’m Vishwamitra, the rent control officer,” he roared. “No landlord can sayno to what I tell him to do. I’ve been in the service for the last twenty years.That’s nothing to laugh at. I’ll see to it that you live in Swargapuri. I havemade you a promise. It can’t go waste. Now go and be sure to see Indrajithis evening.”

That evening, Trishanku hired a pushcart and loading it with all hispossessions, set off for Swargapuri. When he arrived at Indradev’s bungalow,the latter was lolling in an armchair in his front garden, giving instructionsto a gardener. Trishanku had the pushcart stop outside on the road and wentand stood before Indradev.

“Namaskar, sahab.”When he got only a Hunh in response to his namaskar, Trishanku was a

bit upset. He felt as if he were a beggar at someone’s door and a voice frominside the house was telling him to move on. But he let it pass. After all,he was there for a purpose. Resolutely he said, “Sir, Mr Vishwamitra hadcalled you about a house, that’s why . . . ”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” Indradev interjected, “where is your sahab?’Trishanku couldn’t follow the drift of his remark. “What sahab?’ he

asked.“The sahab who will live in that house,” Indradev replied with some

36

Harishankar Parsai Poor Trishanku

annoyance.Trishanku was jolted. He stammered, “Ah . . . ah . . . I will live in that

house.” Indradev sat up. He glared at Trishanku. “You! You’ll live in myhouse!” he shouted. “Has Vishwamitra taken to drinking during the daytoo?”

Trishanku desperately tried to put up a bold front. “Why? Why do yousay that? Has he done something crazy?”

“I thought,” Indradev said, speaking as if to himself, “I thought he wantedthe house for some gentleman.”

Trishanku gave up any remaining hope of getting the house. That madehim bold. In a strong voice he said, “Why can’t I live in that house? Am Inot a man?”

Indradev looked at him intently, then said, “No one who is just a mancan live in this neighbourhood.”

“What do you mean?”“Simply, that you’re not fit to live here. I need only look at a man to

know all about him.”Now the school teacher in Trishanku was aroused. He wanted to under-

stand the matter fully and also make sure that the other party understoodhim equally well. He asked, “So what are the prerequisites for living here?”

Indradev looked at him with annoyance. “Beggars, for one, can’t livehere,” he replied. “Do you have a car? A radiogram? A refrigerator? A sofaset?”

Trishanku couldn’t move his eyes away from Indradev’s wrathful face.“Do your children go to a public school,” Indradev continued, “or do they

go with the riffraff? How many varieties of cactus can you name? Whichclub do you go to in the evening?”

After briefly pausing for some response, Indradev concluded, “In thatcase, how dare you come here?”

“I was sent here by Vishwamitra,” Trishanku replied with some force.“He is the rent control officer. His order . . . ”

Indradev stood up in rage. Poking a finger at Trishanku’s chest, heshouted, “You’re threatening me with Vishwamitra’s name! I’ve seen dozensof RCOs. Just wait, I’ll have him transferred tomorrow. Even Vishwamitra’sfather can’t get you a house here. You think my houses are homes for thepoor?”

When Indradev began to swear at Vishwamitra, Trishanku saw no reasonto linger any further. He walked out of the garden and, asking the pushcartman to follow him, went straight to Vishwamitra’s bungalow. He said tohim, “Sir, Indraji turned me away. He said I wasn’t fit to live there. He alsocalled you some bad names.”

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Poor Trishanku Harishankar Parsai

A scowl appeared on Vishwamitra’s face. His eyes flashed with anger.“How dare he!” he hissed, “I’ll take care of that fellow tomorrow. Find someplace for yourself tonight. Tomorrow I’ll put you in his house.”

With folded hands, Trishanku pleaded, “Sir, I won’t live there. They’rea wild lot. I don’t want to live among them.”

Vishwamitra glared at him. “You’ll have to live there,” he thundered.“It’s no longer just a matter of your house. It’s now a question of my pres-tige.”

“Sir, forget all that. I won’t go there. I’ll just stay on in my old house.”And Trishanku turned around to walk away.

“But you can’t live there,” Vishwamitra shouted after him. “I’ve alreadyallotted it to someone else.”

For a moment everything blurred before Trishanku’s eyes. Somehow hemanaged to get on the road and, with the loaded pushcart following him,staggered off to look for a dharmashala.

And ever since that day, Trishanku has been living in a dharmashala inthe city.2

2“Poor Trishanku” was originally published in Hindi as “Trishanku Bechara” in 1966.

38

The Twenty Eighth Tale of theVetal

Then the vetal said, “So, Vikram, you have again dragged me down from thetree? Your devotion to your task pleases me. I’ll now tell you another taleto entertain you. Listen . . .

Once upon a time, in a certain city, there lived a cloth merchant whosename was Dharamchand. True to his name, Dharamchand was a man fullof piety. He would go to the temple mornings and evenings and pray therefor almost an hour. And every so often, while concentrating his mind onworship, he would come up with lucky numbers for the daily game. He alsokept a charity box at the shop. Everyone considered him a gentle and friendlyman. All eighteen hours of his waking day his face was lit up with a hugesmile. This had caused his mouth to spread to his ears. His teeth stuckout, which only made it easier for him to show how humble a person he was.When Dharamchand would speak to someone, there would be such a sweetsmile on his face and his protruding teeth would indicate such humility —and his eyes, such helplessness — that even if he were to ask that man for hishead, the man would probably hesitate for a moment or two before sayingno. Dharamchand was also a very honest man, for as he talked to customershe would constantly say, “Honestly . . . ” And he was a virtuous man too,for he would quote a price or tell a creditor his account only after saying, “Iswear to god . . . ”

O Vikram, god likes to test virtuous men again and again. Dharamchandhad to suffer many litigations. Sometimes it was he who would file a caseagainst someone, at others, someone else would sue him. Once, when justsuch a litigation was going on, the presiding judge was transferred to anothercity and a new judge arrived. Now it so happened that Dharamchand’s case,in that instance, was rather weak. He could have lost. But he didn’t give uphope.

One day the new judge came to the market to buy some cloth, and bysome sheer chance entered Dharamchand’s shop. Dharamchand immediately

The Twenty Eighth Tale of the Vetal Harishankar Parsai

recognized him. He dropped the bolt of cloth he was measuring from andgreeted the judge with folded hands. After making certain that he was com-fortably seated, he offered him some paan and said, “How very kind of you,sahab! What humble service may I do for you?” The judge replied, “Pleaseshow me some nice cloth for shirts.”

Dharamchand started pulling down bolt after bolt from the shelves andspread them out before the judge. He did it with loving care as if he werea devotee serving food before a god. The sahab finally liked a pattern andasked the price. Dharamchand folded his hands abjectly and said, “Whymust you embarrass me? This is your store, sahab. Just tell me how manyyards.”

The judge’s face became stern. He said, “No, I don’t buy things thatway. I never have. Tell me the price.”

O Vikram, the sahab also was very honest. It now became a contestbetween two honest men. Dharamchand remained silent for a few momentsthen, in a sad voice, said, “Four rupees seven annas per yard.”

Suddenly the sahab’s face lost its sterness. Instead. it took on a painedlook. He seemed rather worried. Dharamchand kept his eyes fixed on thesahab’s face. The sahab’s pained look could have broken his own tenderheart. With difficulty the words came out of the sahab’s mouth, “No, Icannot afford to wear such expensive clothes.” He got up to leave.

Dharamchand looked at the sahab’s face and almost broke into tears.Most abjectly he said, “Sahab, don’t worry about the price. Just take thecloth now.” But, for some reason, that only made sahab very angry. Hepushed Dharamchand aside and stomped out of the store. Dharamchandremained standing at the door until the judge was out of sight, then with aheavy heart he returned to his usual tasks.

O Vikram, in that encounter between two honest souls, Dharamchandwas sorely defeated.

That evening, when Dharamchand sat down to pray at the temple, a voicerose out of his gentle heart — “O Dharamchand, did you see the sahab’sdejected face? How helpless he looked. How disappointed he was. Howeagerly he had chosen the pattern and then, when he heard the price, howhis face fell. The sahab must have thought, We’re called officers and yet wecan’t even wear the kind of clothes we want. O Dharamchand, you know wellthe life of these government officers. You call yourself a kind man. Don’tyou feel pity for the sahab? Can’t you fulfil one small wish of his? Shameon you, Dharamchand! Shame on all your prayers! You fool, kindness is theessence of religion . . . ”

Dharamchand listened to his soul. His heart filled up. The sahab’s de-spondent face appeared before his eyes and they flowed over with tears. He

40

Harishankar Parsai The Twenty Eighth Tale of the Vetal

wiped the tears with his dhoti’s end and with folded hands addressed god,“God, I made a terrible mistake. O most generous one, I know how kind youare when it comes to clothes. You gave endless number of saris to Draupadi.Can’t I, your humble devotee, give just one shirt to the sahab? Lord thesesahabs are the Draupadis of today. The Dusshasan of inflation has deprivedthem of their clothes. Give me some strength, lord, give me some power.Bless me, that I may remove the grief of that grief-stricken person. I swearto you, lord, I’ll have the sahab wearing that shirt within the month.” Oncehe had made his vow, Dharamchand felt a heavy burden lift from his heart.

Eight days passed. Early on the ninth morning, Dharamchand bathed,then put a tilak on his forehead and went to his store. He pulled out the boltof cloth that had struck the sahab’s fancy, and measured out enough clothfor four shirts. Carefully wrapping the piece in a newspaper, he tucked itunder his arm, then, with his mind fixed on god’s true name, he walked tothe sahab’s house.

The sahab recognized him. “What brings you here, sethji?” he asked.With hesitant hands, Dharamchand unwrapped the cloth and placed it

before the sahab. Then he said, “Sahab, I had gone to Bombay recently.There, in the cut-piece market, I found this piece of cloth. You wouldn’tbelieve me but it came to only seven annas a yard. I bought the whole piece,enough for six shirts. I kept enough for two shirts for myself, and broughtthe rest for you.” He placed the cloth in the sahab’s hands.

The sahab looked at the cloth, looked at Dharamchand and then lookedout of the window. Finally he looked at the ground and said, “That’s reallycheap. It was very nice of you to get it for me.”

Dharamchand said, “Sahab, we’re always ready to serve you in every waywe can. You know, money doesn’t accompany a man when he dies. It’s onlythe service he does here that goes with him.”

The sahab paid him for the cloth at seven annas a yard and Dharamchandhappily took the money. As he was leaving, he said, “Sahab, the local tailorsare all crooks. You’re new here. I’ll send you my own trustworthy man.”

That evening Dharamchand’s own trustworthy tailor came to the sahabto get his measurements and the cloth. That same night, Dharamchand satdown before god and prayed, “Lord, I’ve done what I vowed to do. Nowthe sahab should he able to wear a shirt of that cloth. This came aboutonly because you, in your kindness, wished it so. Now my honour is in yourhands.”

O Vikram, the shirts were made and neatly ironed. They were readyto be worn. On the morning of the day his case was to be heard in court,Dharamchand took the shirts to the sahab’s house. When the sahab saw theshirts he was most pleased. He once again thanked Dharamchand.

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The Twenty Eighth Tale of the Vetal Harishankar Parsai

O Vikram, can there be any sahab who would delay wearing such shirts?None, of course. And so the sahab put on one of the new shirts and went tothe court.

The case was called and the file was placed before the sahab. He examinedthe details, for and against. Just then Dharamchand happened to pass bythe open door. The two looked at each other and smiled. O Vikram, noteven the finest writer can describe that wonderful scene.

The sahab picked up his pen to write the judgement. At that moment,some inner urge made him look at his shirt. Suddenly, a miracle happened.The piece of cloth became hard as steel. Its weight began to bend the sahab’sspine. Gradually the shirt grew tight on his body. The sleeves shrank andgripped his wrists. The collar began to choke his throat. The sahab groaned.The shirt became even more constricting. In desperation, the sahab quicklywrote the judgement in favour of Dharamchand. Behold, O Vikram, imme-diately another miracle occurred. The shirt became soft as silk again.

The news of Dharamchand’s victory spread. All were amazed. One personremarked, “The sahab has lost his integrity.” Another responded, “Whatcould the poor sahab do? It’s Dharamchand who lost his integrity.” Stillothers said, “No, both of them lost their integrity.”

Having brought his tale to an end, the vetal fell silent for a few moments.Then he said, “O Vikram, now you know the whole story. Tell me, who losthis integrity — the sahab, Dharamchand, or both?”

“Neither,” Vikram promptly replied, “neither of them lost any integrity.Dharamchand accepted money for his cloth and the sahab paid money forhis shirt.”

Upon hearing these words, the vetal flew up into the tree and once againsuspended himself from a branch.1

1“The Twenty Eighth Tale of the Vetal” was originally published in Hindi as“Arthaiswin Katha” in 1966.

42

Family Planning

In one of the warehouses of the Creator’s Department of Souls, a clerk wasgoing around with a list in one hand. He would look up a number on thelist, then locate that particular soul on the shelves. Next, he would carefullywrap the soul in a piece of cloth and place it in a bag that he carried in hisother hand. The bag was rather worn out, for he had also been using it todeliver fresh vegetables to the Creator’s house.

He picked up soul No D–865372 and was about to put him in the bag,when the soul spoke up. “Where are you taking me?”

The clerk replied, “You will be put into a body to be born again.”

The soul asked, “In whose house? To whose wife?”

The clerk felt a bit peeved. He said, “Look, I’m not supposed to talk toyou. Last month someone went to the sahab and complained that I had takenbribes from souls and switched their parents. If you have any questions, youbetter come and ask the sahab.”

The clerk took the soul to the sahab. The sahab was in a rage. No soonerhe saw the clerk than he started shouting. “What a mess you have made!I received another complaint today, that you placed a wolf’s soul in somewoman’s womb. Now the boy goes around pestering girls on the streets.You had done something similar earlier. I’d have fired you long ago, but myhands are tied since you deliver vegetables to His house!”

The clerk remained silent.

The sahab asked, “Why have you come now?”

The clerk took the soul out of the bag, placed it on the sahab’s table andsaid, “Sahab, this soul talks too much.”

The sahab said, “It must be due to his previous birth. Perhaps, he wasa salesman for some third-rate company.”

“No, I wasn’t a salesman,” the soul retorted. “I was a doctor, a specialistin family planning. And I don’t talk too much. I merely want to know whosehouse I’m going to be born in.”

The sahab opened his record book. “What’s your number?”

“D–865372.”

Family Planning Harishankar Parsai

The sahab checked the record, and said, “You’re to be the son of oneHariprasad Pandey, a schoolmaster.”

“How much does he earn?”“One hundred and fifty rupees per month.”“How many children does he already have?”“Six. You’ll be the seventh.”The soul was enraged. “I’m not at all prepared to be his seventh child,”

he fumed. “I won’t be born. I refuse to accept rebirth.”The sahab was not known for tolerating such scenes. “You think your

rebirth depends on your wish?” he growled. “Even the greatest rishi mustperform austerities all his life, only then may he expect release from the cycleof birth and death. And if some woman happens by as he does his austerities,his entire labour goes to waste. It’s like walking on the edge of a sword. Yourrage means nothing to me.”

The soul retorted, , “But I won’t let you get away with it. I shall speakto the Creator himself. Now what was that name? Hariprasad Pandey?Somehow, it sounds familiar to me. Where does the poor beggar live?”

“In Khandwa,” the sahab replied.The soul bounced up and down on the table in excitement. “Khandwa!”

he exclaimed. “That’s where I lived. I know the man. His house was closeto my clinic. Now I remember, he’s that Do It-Master.”

The sahab asked, “Do It-Master? What kind of a name is that? Theydon’t have such names in that part of the world.”

The soul said, “That’s the name he’s known by. It was given to him byhis students. When one of them would ask him a question he wouldn’t givean answer. Instead, he would pull the boy’s ears and scream, “Do it, youfool, just do it!” And so the boys began calling him “Do It-Master.” I knowthe fellow well. You think I’d agree to be his seventh son?”

The sahab had had a long and frustrating life. These remarks providedhim some amusement. He said, “I like you. But I can’t do anything for you.I have to go by the rules. Life and death are in the Creator’s hands. I canforward you to him, that’s the best I can do.”

The soul was taken before the Creator. The Creator was in a good mood.He had been looking at a handsome new edition of stutis in his praise. Show-ing the soul the book, he asked, “Have you seen it? What do you think?”

The soul said, “I read parts of it, then I was bored. It’s well-written, butit’s not very scientific — if you know what I mean.”

The Creator decided not to argue. “What brings you here?” he asked.The soul replied, “You’ve placed me in a funny situation. In my previous

birth I was a specialist in family planning. I must have done thousands ofvasectomies and tubectomies on people who had had two children. But now

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Harishankar Parsai Family Planning

you’re sending me as the seventh child of a schoolmaster! Just think aboutit for a moment.”

“But what are you objecting to?” the Creator asked.The soul tried to explain, “Bhagwan, you don’t seem to see or understand

anything. You just go on sending down one child after another. I know whatthe life of the seventh child of that poor schoolmaster will be like. He livesclose to my former clinic. His children get neither a decent meal nor enoughclothes. Hungry, skinny, filthy — that’s how his children are. Poor in health,poor in mind — without any education, without a future. And I’d be hisseventh child. Just try to imagine what it would he like for me. His firstson’s jacket was handed down to the second son, the third son got the secondson’s jacket and the fourth son got the third’s. I won’t get even a worn-outrag, for his next children were all daughters. You know, for three or fouryears after his marriage that schoolmaster used to wear nice clothes. Butlater, I myself saw him use the edge of his jacket to wipe the running nosesof his sons.”

“But he does want children,” the Creator countered.“He does not!” the soul retorted. “In fact. he’s tired of children. He

simply can’t help having them. He beats them, he swears at them, he saysto them, Why don’t you all die? He constantly fights with his wife. Heshouts at her, It’s all your fault. You just kept on producing children. Hiswife shouts back, Did I do it alone? Lost for argument, he then starts hittingher. His children see him beat their mother on their account. They hatehim, and he hates them. And you want to send me into such a home?”

The Creator was beginning to enjoy this conversation. He said, “Butyou were a family planning doctor. Why didn’t you get him to stop havingchildren? Perhaps you were neglectful in your duties.”

The soul’s pride was hurt. He said heatedly, “Everyone there knows howhard I worked. I can’t even begin to count the number of families I planned.If you had let me live another ten years I’d have had even dogs and catssewed up after two deliveries — not to mention human beings. As for thatstupid schoolmaster, I told him . . . ”

“You should be more respectful,” the Creator interjected, “he’s going tobe your father.”

The soul shrugged off the reprimand. “That man won’t be my father,” hesaid. “If anything he would be an enemy. After he had his third child, I toldthe fool, “Now stop! You live in the atomic age. Science has provided us withmany simple devices. Come to my clinic.” He even seemed to agree withme. But then he began to avoid me. I don’t know what fear or doubt cameover him. Then his fourth child arrived and, just before I returned here, hisfifth. Now they tell me he has had one more. You see, there are these men

45

Family Planning Harishankar Parsai

down there who wear modern clothes but are still like cavemen underneath.They belong to the Stone Age, so bound are they to their natural urges. Thescientific gains of millions of years mean nothing to them. Even you can’tplan their families. You might stop giving them babies, but they’ll startproducing dogs and cats.”

“But why are you so against someone having many children?” the Creatorasked. “Look, I have countless, millions of children. All believers call meFather.”

The soul could barely suppress his smile. He said, “That’s another ofyour favourite delusions. It’s only within their temples and churches thatthey call you father. No one claims you outside. There, when asked abouttheir fathers, they give other names. Yes, there was once a man who wentaround openly calling you his father but he was declared a criminal, andthose other lying sons of yours crucified him.”

That was a bit too much for the Creator. He didn’t feel like talkingto that soul any more. He gave his final verdict, “My decision cannot bechanged. You’ll have to be reborn as that schoolmaster’s child.”

The soul, having lost all hope, now lost his temper too. “Do Justiceand Injustice mean anything to you, he shouted angrily, or are they justempty words? Let’s take for example your actions as Vishnu. When youwished to be born you carefully chose a chakravarti king, Dasharath, foryour father. Tell me, why didn’t you prefer to be born as the seventh child ofsome schoolmaster? No, you wanted to be a raja’s son. Then, even though inthose days rajas always had hundreds of sons, your father had only four —and of them, you of course were the eldest. You had a palace, countlessservants, heavenly food, and a private tutor, no less. Or take that othertime, when you were born in a commoner’s family, Vasudev’s wife. Then youwere number nine. But you had the previous eight sent back, using Kansas your instrument. You became the only child in the family. And yet youinsist that I should go down as the seventh child of a poor man!”

The soul had misjudged. You don’t say such frank and harsh words tosomeone who hears only stutis in praise day and night.

The Creator went purple with rage. He thundered, “No one has the rightto choose his father. Get out! Tomorrow you will be placed in the womb ofthe schoolmaster’s wife.”

As he was dragged away, the soul burst into tears. “No, no!” he cried.“Not the seventh!”

A few months later, the newspapers carried the following item.

A strange boy has been born to the wife of Hariprasad Pandey, alocal schoolmaster. He is old from birth. His hair is snow-white,

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Harishankar Parsai Family Planning

his face is wrinkled, and his shoulders are bent low. He neithersmiles nor cries. He remains withdrawn and silent, like an oldman. There is another strange thing about this baby. Day ornight, at the hour of seven, he suddenly lets out a cry, and on theseventh day of every month he cries all day long. Many devoutpeople believe that the baby had been a great rishi in his previousbirth and was sent to this transient world against his wish.1

1“Family Planning” was originally published in Hindi as “Family Planning.”

47

The First Bridge

One day Babu Ram Sevak of the Public Works Department suddenly resignedfrom his job and began to devote his entire time to remembering BhagwanRam. People speculated. One offered, Babu Ram Sevak was caught in abribery case and escaped by resigning. Another said, Babuji received a hugegift of money from his in-laws which he now planned to use to start a business.But whenever Babu Ram Sevak opened his lips, out came only the name ofRam. Consequently, the truth of the matter remained hidden from the publicfor a very long time.

One day I went to Babuji. He was seated cross-legged on deerskin. Besidehim was a pile of papers, and in front lay a pen and a bottle of ink. Heappeared to be lost in some profound thought.

When he heard my steps he opened his eyes, and recognizing me, gaveme a slight smile. “What brings you here today?” he asked.

I sat down. “Nothing special,” I replied. “I hadn’t seen you for sometime. You don’t seem to go out at all.”

He said, “Hahn bhai, my world has changed. Now my heart’s set onsomething else. All ties should be with Ram, so said Tulsidas. That’s exactlyhow I feel.”

“But the people say something different,” I said, a bit hesitantly.

He smiled and nodded his head. “Let them say what they want. I’vetranscended the dichotomies of praise and blame, honour and disgrace . . .virtue and vice.”

Gathering a bit more courage, I persisted, “But only you know why youresigned. If you don’t mind, please . . . ”

Babu Ram Sevak closed his eyes and remained silent for a few moments.When he opened his eyes again, he fixed them on my face and said gen-tly, “Now that you have asked, I’ll tell you. I left my job because I wascommanded to do so by Hanumanji.”

I was flabbergasted. I couldn’t believe my ears. “Did Hanumanji actuallyhonour you with a darshan?” I asked.

“Hahn bhai,” Babu Ram Sevak said. “One night Hanumanji appeared to

Harishankar Parsai The First Bridge

me in a dream and said, You wretch, you imbecile, why are you squanderingyour life? Cast away the maya of your office. Don’t waste your precioushuman life in writing memos, you fool. Write instead the story of Ram. Isomehow stammered out, Maharaj, how can that be? I’m a foolish person. Ipossess no learning. I have no talent other than that of writing memos andfilling forms and making entries in registers.

”Hanumanji said, Your true talent will soon shine forth — that’s myblessing upon you. All poets in their humility say similar things. Tulsihad similar feelings too — Kavya-viveka ek nahin more, satya kahaun likhkagada kore. You too should just get up and start writing. I folded my handssubmissively and said, Master, your command must be obeyed. But whatwill I write? So many great poets and saints, so many devotees of Ram havealready written the blessed story. What is now left there for me to write?

“Then Hanumanji gently explained to me, Every poet has his own per-spective, his own insight. Every poet, influenced by his own age, gives thestory of Ram a new shape. Don’t you find any difference between Valmikiand Bhavabhuti, between Bhavabhuti and Tulsi? You too should write usingyour own discretion and give the Ram story a shape that suits your times.Then he disappeared, but I was tranformed. In the morning I went to theoffice and quietly submitted my resignation, and on my way out picked up ahandful of memo-pads from my desk to use for writing the story of BhagwanRam”

“Have you written it?” I asked.Babuji replied, “Yes. As a matter of fact, it’s almost finished. Just this

morning I completed the section dealing with the construction of the bridgeto Lanka. Would you like to hear it?”

I said, “Of course. Who wouldn’t like to hear the story of Ram!”Babu Ram Sevak opened the bundle in front him and pulled out a sheaf

of papers. But before starting to read, he decided to explain a few things.He said, “Look here, bhai, you’ll find some new things in my story Don’tlet that startle you or don’t let that make you disbelieve what I tell you.When Hanumanji appeared to me, he assured me that after I’ve completedthe tale he would come to me again and sign Approved on it. Then no onewill have any doubt. And I’ll tell you one more secret — the bridge that Rameventually used to go to Lanka was a second bridge. There was another, anearlier bridge, and that’s what I have written about. Now listen.”

He took off his glasses, wiped them clean and then began to read.

When the bridge was finished, Nala and Nila came to Shri Ramchandra,prostrated themselves full length before him, and said, “Maharaj, the bridgeis ready.” Ram looked towards them, amazed, and said, “What! The bridge

49

The First Bridge Harishankar Parsai

is ready? Nothing like this has ever happened. Why, it was just the otherday that I laid its foundation stone. Anything that has a proper Foundationceremony never gets done so soon — in fact, it doesnt get done at all. Yousee, what must get done never has its foundation stone laid, and what getsits foundation stone laid is never done. Years ago, when I had gone outon a tour with Guru Vasisht, I had laid the foundation stones of so manybuildings on people’s insistence. But when I set out more recently — tofollow the command of my father and go into exile — and passed throughthose places again, I found that the foundation stones were still in the originalcondition. Not one bit of construction had begun. But you’re saying thatyour bridge is finished. How can it be? I had no expectation that it wouldever be finished. In fact, I was trying to figure out some other way of reachingLanka. Nala, Nila, you’ve done something truly amazing.”

Nala and Nila stood with folded hands and submitted, “Maharaj, it’s thefruit of your blessings upon us. The bridge is ready. You may give orders tothe army to move forward.”

Then Ramchandra sent for Sugriv, and said to him, “Bhai, the bridgeis ready. Nala and Nila have amazing powers, but even they couldn’t haveachieved much if you hadn’t helped them with your wealth. Dear friend, I’mgreatly indebted to you.”

Sugriv replied, “Maharaj, such humility doesn’t become you. You’re thefuture king of this vast and ancient country. I’m merely the petty chief of asmall piece of land. It can only be a matter of pride for me, maharaj, if mytreasure has been of any use to you.”

Ram said, “Bhai, tell the army to start for Lanka tomorrow.”When Sugriv heard that he was quite shocked. He said, “Maharaj, what

are you saying! How can the army set out tomorrow? The bridge is yet tobe inaugurated.”

Ram gently said, “Look brother, we must remember that even a day’sdelay might result in injury to Sita’s honour. It’s not incumbent at this timeto perpetuate the tradition of a formal inauguration.”

Sugriv was so astounded, he almost fell from his perch in the sky. “Howcan we step upon a bridge without first properly inaugurating it?” he ex-claimed. “Has it ever happened before? Even now so many bridges lie com-pleted here and there but no one can walk upon them because they haven’tyet been inaugurated. Maharaj, bridges are not made for crossing over,they’re made for inaugurations. If they are also used for crossing over —why that’s quite irrelevant.”

When he saw Sugriv so insistent, Ram modified his position and said, “Inthat case, let’s get started. Whom should we ask to inaugurate the bridge?”

Sugriv immediately said, “In my humble opinion, maharaj, the bridge

50

Harishankar Parsai The First Bridge

should be inaugurated by your honoured father-in-law, Raja Janak.”Ram agreed, “Excellent idea. Please invite him right away. Sugriv im-

mediately sent his most trusted monkeys to Raja Janak to invite him tocome.”

Raja Janak set out with his retinue from Mithila and in a few days arrivedat the coast. The cost of his journey was paid by Sugriv, who calculated thatthe amount could have paid for two more bridges.

An auspicious day and time were set for the inauguration. Janak per-formed the proper religious rituals, then with a pair of golden scissors cut theribbon. All the monkeys shouted — “Raja Janak ki Jai! Raja Ramchandraki Jai! Raja Sugriv ki Jai!”

Then Raja Janak addressed the assembled monkeys.“Brothers, I’m deeply grateful to Ramchandra for the honour he bestowed

on me by inviting me to inaugurate this bridge. But he did the right thing.Who else could he invite — after all he is my son-in-law. Brothers, everyoneknows how important bridges are in the life of our nation. Today it’s ourtask to develop the country, and no country can develop unless it has a lotof bridges. Bridges are a nation’s true wealth. No nation can march towardsprogress without bridges. Consider the history of the world — only thosenations have been able to progress which have plenty of bridges. That’swhy I believe that we should make nothing but bridges in our country. Fillthe entire land with bridges. Let there be bridges over land. Let there bebridges over rivers, seas and oceans. Let’s not stop there. Let’s make bridgesin the air too — the way we make castles. This bridge here is just the firstlink in that great chain of bridges that we must construct. Once again, Icongratulate you and thank all of you.”

There was a great burst of applause as Raja Janak sat down.But just then, right there in front of everyone, the entire bridge collapsed.They say that a commission of enquiry was immediately set up, but even

today, in the fourth quarter of the kaliyug, it has yet to submit its report.1

1“The First Bridge” was originally published in Hindi as “Pahla Pul”

51

Gentlemen, Conmen andCongressmen

Leaning against a bolster, he was sprawled on a thick mattress. In frontof him lay a plate of prepared paans. His cheeks bulged, and, with closedeyes, he was slowly chewing away. I quietly sat down in a chair near him.After some ten minutes he opened his eyes to reach for some more paansand, seeing me, smiled. After re-stuffing his mouth, he somehow asked, “Sir,why did you trouble yourself?”1

I replied, “Bhaiya Saab, I’ve come to interview you. I’d like to ask yousome questions.”

He slowly counted the paans on the plate, then said, “You’ll have to waitfor about two hours. There are still twelve paans left. It’s a rule with meto lie down at noon and chew twenty paans. a meditative act. It’s also acreative act. It can’t be disturbed. I’ll finish the remaining twelve paans intwo hours — for you I might even do it in less time. But you must sit herequietly till then.”

He closed his eyes again. I sat and watched his slowly moving jaws. Everyten minutes or so, he would open his eyes just long enough to grab a coupleof more paans.

After nearly two hours he sat up and said, “Please do forgive me. you hadto wait for long. But the fact is, I’m very firm when it comes to principles. Ihave a fixed schedule which I can’t give up at any cost. For example, everyevening I sit on my terrace and engage in “mass-contact” as people go backand forth on their business on the street below. Similarly, I’ve made it a ruleto worship Khadiji every day.”

“Worship Khadiji? I don’t understand.”

1Author’s note: There are three kinds of men — gentlemen, conmen and Congress-men. A gentleman, after he suffers a defeat at the hands of another person, looks only athimself, a conmen looks only at the other man, but a Congressman frequently does both.To remind him that a third person might also be looking at him, I publish this interviewwith a leader-type Congressman.

Harishankar Parsai Gentlemen, Conmen and Congressmen

He pointed to one corner of the room, “See there?”A miniature platform was set in a corner on which lay a bolt of khadi

cloth marked with kumkum and decorated with fresh flowers. In front, onthe floor, lay a tray with items for performing an aarti.

Bhaiya Saab said, “You know, I’m an old Gandhian. I’ve not given upmy dharma — unlike others. I still worship Khadiji. In fact, in my houseyou can still find both Takliji and Charkhaji.”

I asked, “Bhaiya Saab, I’m sure you’ll concede that there is much dif-ference of opinion within the Congress party, that there are many cliques.Which group do you belong to? In other words, whose principles do youacknowledge and accept?”

“I don’t get involved in cliques,” he replied. “I follow Pandit Nehru. Iact according to the principles he has set up.”

I pursued the matter further, “What are those principles of Panditji’sthat you are so devoted to?”

Bhaiya Saab stood up. He put on the sherwani that was hanging froma hook, then inserted a bouquet of roses into one of its huge buttonholes.With a smile he said, “What better proof do you need? panditji likes roses.He always has a rosebud in his buttonhole. I have a whole bouquet. Bhaimere, I have absolute faith in panditji’s policies.”

I changed the subject. “Bhaiya Saab, come election time and one alwayshears the demand that new blood should be given a chance — what’s youropinion regarding that?”

He first gave a twirl to his white moustache, then said, “The young haveno patience. Look, they have a whole life ahead of them to gain big positions.So why are they in such haste? We, on the other hand, have barely five toten more years left.”

Then he became sombre and thought for a while. Finally he continued,“Old rice tastes better. In fact, I want to see the day when there would belines of ambulances in front of the assembly halls and ministers and MLAswould be carried in on stretchers. You see, the chief reason for the rebellionbrewing in the Congress party is that some very old Congressites are unem-ployed. For example, Rajaji. Now you tell me, if Rajaji had a job today, doyou think he’d be making so much noise? But the father-in-law of MahatmaGandhi’s own son remains jobless. Isn’t that disgraceful?”

He looked very sad. A kind of piety mixed with remorse showed on hisface. Then, recovering himself, he said, “It will be a great loss to the publicif all the old people were to retire. For example, if one day some membersof the general public get arrested for gambling, do you think a new leaderwould be able to get them freed? Of course not. Only an older man can getthat done. Only he would have the necessary connections with the officials.”

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Gentlemen, Conmen and Congressmen Harishankar Parsai

My second question was, “What programme do you have to fight thecommunalism of the Jansangh?”

His face brightened up. With total self-confidence, he replied,“Even Panditji lacks the grip I have on this problem. The antidote to

communalism is casteism. I used this tactic in my area and deflated theJansangh. If they come with Hinduvada, I counter with Brahminvada. Asthe saying goes, If you dance on every branch, I shall dance on every leaf.They can’t win against me.” And he guffawed with delight.

I was very impressed by his confidence.He leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “You may say anything, but

caste and religion are eternal. They can’t be erased. But if Panditji says allare one, that’s right too — I’ll go along with that.”

Now that I had some grasp of Bhaiya Saab’s clear thinking, I thought ofasking some more difficult questions. I began, “Bhaiya Saab, your detractorscriticize the Congress party and its government on several issues. For examplethey say . . . ”

His fist clenched as he interrupted me, “I can force them to eat theirwords, and I have often done that. What are they saying now?”

“They claim, for example, that our foreign policy of non-alignment hasbeen unsuccessful and that we ought to give it up. Please tell me why didwe adopt that policy in the first place, and how has it benefited us?”

Bhaiya Saab bowed his head, deep in thought.I looked towards him for an answer. “You didn’t answer my question.”He raised his head and said, “I will. Just wait.”Then suddenly he got up and standing on top of the bolster, raised both

his arms upwards, and shouted, “Gandhiji ki Jai! Pandit Nehru ki Jai!”I was flabbergasted. But he sat down with a calm look on his face and

said, “Next question, please.”I wasn’t sure, but he looked so satisfied with his previous answer that

I continued for his sake. I asked, “Bhaiya Saab, the dissenters are alwaysvery critical of the public sector of our economy. Can you explain for thecommon man the importance of the public sector industries in the nation’sdevelopment — what are their achievements so far and what do they hopeto accomplish in the future?”

Again he fell into deep thought. Then, as suddenly, he jumped up andclimbed on top of the table. Raising his arms high he shouted, “Pandit NehruZindabad!”

Then he climbed down from the table, sprawled again on the mattressand said, “Next question, please.”

I asked, “Will you throw some light on your policy towards China? Also,why do you think friendly ties with a Communist Russia are in our national

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Harishankar Parsai Gentlemen, Conmen and Congressmen

interest despite the recent invasion by Communist China?”Once again Bhaiya Saab became lost in thought. This time when he

jumped up, he climbed on a chair and, waving his arms, shouted, “Strengthenthe hands of Pandit Nehru!”

Then he settled down on the mattress again and very calmly said, “Yes,go on please. I’m deeply interested in matters of policy and principles. I tearapart dissenters’ arguments like a blade of grass.”

I said, “Bhaiya Saab, your goal is to create a socialist framework — canyou delineate its outline in the context of the past three economic plans?”

This time he climbed up on the sofa’s back and shouted, “Chacha NehruZindabad! Chacha Jawahar Zindabad!” Then he again settled down on themattress and said, “Go on.”

I cast a glance around the room and lost my courage, but he continuedto press me to ask him another question. Finally I said, “I’m afraid.”

“Why, what are you afraid of?” he asked most gently. “Go ahead, ask. Idon’t mind.”

“The reason I’m scared,” I replied, “is that there are now only two thingsleft in the room for you to climb upon — that huge almirah and I, yourhumble servant. But the almirah might be a bit too high for you. I’m afraidif I ask you one more question . . . ”

Bhaiya Saab burst into laughter.I took advantage of his gaiety and quickly slipped out of the room.2

2“Gentlemen, Conmen and Congressmen” was originally published as “Sajjan, Durjan.aur Kangressjan” in 1965.

55

When the Soul Cries Out

Sometimes the weather changes suddenly and thousands of moths appear outof nowhere.

Sometimes the weather changes suddenly and honesty rears its head fromwhere it lay hidden under a hundred covers.

Honesty and moths, suddenly they begin to buzz around — it all dependson the weather.

This March, for the first time in twenty years, our weather changedso much that where there had been nothing previously, honesty suddenlypopped up and began to buzz — where there had been only clay, suddenlya soul was born and began to make noises.

Those who know all about weather say that this change is due to theforthcoming elections, that not until the second general elections are overwill the weather change, that until then honesty and soul will continue to beextremely active.

The other day, Harcharan, a resident of my village, told me that his soulwas also crying out. Harcharan is a second term Congress legislator from ourconstituency.

Harcharan said, “Bhaiya, Please write a nice statement giving reasons formy resignation from the Congress.”

“And why are you leaving the Congress?” I asked.

He replied, “My soul is crying out to do so. The Congress is murderingthe principles of our late, revered Bapu. The Congress can no longer protectour democracy. I’m a man of principles — you know that.”

I was truly astounded. l had never even dreamt that I’d hear Harcharantalk of Soul, Principles and Democracy. Who knows what worse days mightlie ahead for me!

I asked,“Tell me, Harcharan, when did your soul start talking? It hadbeen dumb so far. Did you go to some doctor?”

He said, “Bhaiya, day before yesterday I went to see the chief minister.I told him, The principles for which the Congress stands are being killed. Icannot tolerate that. He replied, You tolerated it until now. Just go on doing

Harishankar Parsai When the Soul Cries Out

the same. I said, I can’t tolerate any further. Six other legislators belongingto my caste also think that principles are now being killed on a larger scale.The chief minister said, If you alone had told me that principles were beingkilled I wouldn’t have believed you, but since you have six other legislatorswith you saying the same thing, I have to believe it. I too want to protectprinciples. Why don’t we join hands and do it together? I’ll appoint youa parliamentary secretary. Will that protect your principles sufficiently? Ireplied, No sir, how can one protect great principles with such a small post.You should at least make me a deputy minister — then I might be able togive the necessary protection. The chief minister said, No, that stage hasn’tcome yet. Well, bhaiya, no sooner did I leave his bungalow than my soulbegan to cry out.”

I asked, “Did it speak out loud and clear?”He replied, “Yes, bhaiya, very loudly. Those who happened to be nearby

asked, Who is saying such nice things? I replied, It’s the soul of this mosthumble servant of Gandhiji.”

“And what was your soul saying?” I asked.“It was saying, You fool, for five years you’ve been sitting in the legis-

lature, but what have you accomplished? Look at Khuman Singh. He’s adeputy minister now. You’re beginning to get a bad name in your caste.The Congress is dead. It can no longer protect democracy. Today, all prin-ciples are being killed in the Congress. How can they who can’t even makeyou a deputy minister be expected to protect democracy? Get out of thisCongress.” Then he added, “For two days now my soul has been telling methe same thing. I’m most upset. Please write a nice statement that I canuse.”

I said, “Harcharan, I hope you’re not being hasty. I hope you don’t losethis chance of becoming a parliamentary secretary.”

He explained, “No, I have talked with people. The rebel group will forma new government in a fortnight or so. They have promised to make me adeputy minister. A pure soul is a smart soul. None can deceive it.”

“Which rebel group do you plan to join?” I asked.“I’ll remain in the middle and thus protect democracy from both groups.

You know, these days I get more respect than I ever received before. Allsorts of big men come to see me and I get invited to many special parties.”

I persisted, “But which party do you really like?”“All the parties are good, bhaiya,” he replied innocently. “They all serve

the country. Members of all the parties speak nicely to me. Tikadamkarji ofthe Jansangh speaks nicely to me. Azad Sahab of the SamSoPa and AandhiBehanji of the PraSoPa also treat me very nicely. To me they are all verynice. Anyway, this talk of parties and platforms is just needless pretension.

57

When the Soul Cries Out Harishankar Parsai

I don’t believe in these distinctions. Except the Communists — I stay awayfrom them. I hear they don’t get along even with god.”

I prepared a statement for Harcharan, detailing his reasons for leavingthe Congress party. He had it published in the papers.

Some four or five days later Harcharan came to me again. He lookedharried. He said, “Bhaiya, my soul was quiet for three or four days, butsince yesterday my soul has again started to cry out.”

“It’s a bad disease you’ve got, Harcharan,” I said. “What made your soulcry out this time?”

He replied, “Bhaiya, the chief minister sent for me two days ago. Heasked my why I had left the Congress. I was frank. I told him that Ihad some fundamental differences with the party and that I can’t tolerateit if principles are killed before my own eyes. He said, Principles can’t beprotected on the other side either. The Opposition is a crazy mess of oddsand ends — anything can happen there. All those parties will start fightingamong themselves and their cabinet will soon disintegrate. You won’t remaina deputy minister for more than a month or two. The Congress, on the otherhand, is a stable party. Come back to us. I’ll make you a minister of state.”And Harcharan fell silent.

I asked, “Then what happened?”He said, “Well, bhaiya, my soul began to cry out. O Harcharan, principles

are getting trampled on this side too. The killing of principles in Congress isknown to you. At least you have already had that experience. But the rebelsmight start destroying principles in some new way. That would be intolerablefor you. Think for a moment — who sticks more to priniciples — those whoare making you just a deputy minister or those who want to make you aminister of state? You should go back to the congress. I listened to my souland accepted what it told me. Please prepare a new statement explainingmy reasons for returning to the Congress.”

I protested, “But just a few days ago you sent a signed anti-Congressstatement to the papers! How will you now contradict yourself? What canyou possibly say?”

Harcharan said, “You should write that the Opposition had threatenedme and forced me to sign the statement through deception. They are in factstill trying to woo me. But I cherish the principles the Congress stands for,and only the Congress can benefit the masses. I’m returning to the Congressin order to preserve my principles.”

I wrote his statement for him. I thought, now he would become a ministerof state and that would silence his soul for good.

But four days later he was back. He said, “My soul is in great distress.”“What happened now?”

58

Harishankar Parsai When the Soul Cries Out

“Something terrible is about to happen. The rebels now have the majorityand the Congress government is going to fall. The rebels are also willing tomake me a minister of state. My soul repeatedly warns me that if I fail tojoin them, our democracy will be destroyed. I’m not worried about myself,but I cannot fail to protect democracy. Perhaps god desires that democracyshould be preserved through me. How can I turn away from such a greatresponsibility. Bhaiya, you must prepare a new statement.”

“And what reasons should we offer this time?” I asked resignedly.

“Write the truth. After all, Truth always wins,” said Harcharan. “Writethat the Congress people had threatened and deceived me and made mesign the previous statement under duress. That the Congress is destroyingthe country, and a patriotic and honest public servant like me cannot be apartner to such destruction. Also add at the end that I warn the Congresspeople not to try to woo me again.”

Once again I prepared a statement.

When only two days were left for the test of power in the legislativeassembly, Harcharan came to see me again. His face was ashen. He said,“This time my soul is most persistent. It keeps saying, The Congress got thecountry its freedom, the Congress was nurtured by Gandhiji and Nehruji —so don’t leave the Congress. Only the Congress can benefit the country. Onlythe Congress can protect our democracy.”

“What made your soul cry out this time?”

“What can I tell you! It was the marijuana.”

That startled me. I knew that marijuana had made the souls of theWestern youth cry out, but Harcharan’s soul?

“Have you started smoking marijuana?” I asked sharply.

“No, bhaiya. The thing is that two days back someone threw a kilo-gramme of marijuana into my room, and when I returned to my room thepolice suddenly appeared . . . Yesterday the chief minister sent for me again.He said, You seem to have got involved in a serious case. What do you saynow? What would you like to enter — the jail or the Congress? I’ll havethe case withdrawn if you come back to us. Bhaiya, my innermost soul ispiteously crying out, Harcharan, don’t leave the party of Gandhi and Nehru.Only the principles laid down by the Congress can bring good to the nation.”

I asked “Have they promised to make you a minister?”

He replied, “Why would they promise me anything, now that I’m in thismarijuana mess. In any case. I’m not greedy for position. I want to servethe masses as just an ordinary soldier in the Congress. Today our countryneeds honest and faithful people to serve it well.”

I prepared his final statement. Now Harcharan is serving the nation as

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When the Soul Cries Out Harishankar Parsai

an ordinary soldier, eternally vigilant due to his Marijuana case.1

1“When the Soul Cries Out” was originally published in Hindi as “Dal Badalnewala”.

60

Mufat Lal Goes For AnInterview

Our readers will remember that Mufat1 Lal had applied for the post of deputycollector.

Recruitments for all government jobs in the country were done undertwo conditions, (i) when certain jobs had become vacant and candidateswere needed to fill them, or (ii) when special candidates were lying vacantand jobs were needed to fill them. According to Article 2, section 11, sub-section 3 of the Government Service Manual, a special candidate was “anyjob-seeking citizen whose qualifications are ordinary but whose connectionsare extraordinary — for example, he may be the recommendee of someonewho either himself holds a high government post or has influence over suchoffice holders.”

As occasions would arise — to seek candidates for jobs, or jobs for can-didates — the government would seek applications by advertising in thenewspapers, under the heading — Needed. The country’s newspapers soldonly because of these Needed advertisements. Any paper that didn’t have asingle such notice could find no takers. Some didn’t hesitate to cheat in orderto increase their sales. One newspaper frequently printed in bold letters onits front page, NEEDED . . . People would eagerly buy it, only to discoverunderneath the following in small print:

. . . a mountain, by the river; . . . some soil, by the tree; . . . a littlegrass, by the cow; . . . a mother, by the child; . . . some clothes, by thenaked; . . . two eyes, by the blind; . . . a collar, by the dog; . . . twohorns, by the bull; . . . a servant, by the master; . . . devotees, by god.Who is there without a need? We all need something or someone.

In retaliation, another paper published a warning.

1Mufat is the colloquial form of “muft” meaning free, gratis.

Mufat Lal Goes For An Interview Harishankar Parsai

Beware of Imitators! Envious of our large circulation, some newspa-pers have started deceiving our trusting public by publishing nonsen-sical statements in Needed columns. These spurious ads contain noreference to jobs. We alert the citizens to this fact and advise themto look for genuine advertisements and read entire texts before buyingany newspaper.

Each job advertisement attracted several thousand applications, requiringtwo to three years for them to be sorted through. Then followed tests andinterviews of the candidates. According to the rules, every candidate had tosend in a note every three months, confirming that he was still alive. If anyfailed to do so, he was assumed to be dead and had his name deleted fromthe list. This made the selection process that much easier.

And so, two years later, Mufat Lal received his copy of the letter fromthe secretary, Administrative Services Commission, sent to him through theOffice of the Employment Officer. The secretary, ASC, at the time was aShri Aspasht2.

Below, we reproduce that letter.

Administrative Services Commission Copy

Shri Mufat Lal, BA

Ref: Application for the post of a deputy collector

You are hereby informed that your application was received in ouroffice in due time. Pursuant to Section 17 of the AdministrativeServices Code, you must inform this office within three monthsas to whose man you are and what his official rank is. Propercertificates must be attached.

Yours, et cetera.Aspasht

(Secretary)

Mufat Lal sent in the necessary information within a week. We reproducehis letter below.

To

Shri AspashtSecretaryAdministrative Services Commission.

2Aspasht literally means unclear. Shri Aspasht here means “Mr Illegible.”

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Harishankar Parsai Mufat Lal Goes For An Interview

Sir,

I am pleased to inform you that I am Kunwar Astabhan’s Man. Iam just like a member of his family. As proof of this relationship,please find enclosed a photograph, in which I stand beside KunwarSahab.

Yours, et cetera.Mufat Lal

Obviously, every candidate tried to be the man of someone big. Thesebig men came in three categories. Members of the royal family, ministersand deputy ministers were in Category A. Members of the legislative counciland departmental secretaries were in Category B. And those who could haveany influence over the aforementioned people were placed in Category C.The categorization was not simply on the basis of rank, actual influence alsocounted for a great deal. For example, the personal physician of the chiefwas obviously in a category by himself.

Once all the responses had arrived, the applicants were placed in differentcategories according to their respective big men. To make clear how usefulall this was, we reproduce below the entries concerning Mufat Lal.

Administrative Services CommissionForm B

Name Qualifications Age Whose Category Relationship Gifts To beman Taken

Mufat Lal BA 28 Kunwar A Friend No YesAstabhan’s

As the above makes it clear, anyone who was not someone’s man had nochance of being selected. Usually, he didn’t even get invited for an interview.But if any such person happened to have truly exceptional qualifications, hewas summoned — in a show of fair play — only to be found unqualified inthe interview. The interviews and selection were conducted by a commissionof five sages, who received copies of all Form Bs, and accordingly set up twosets of questions — one for those who had to be taken, the other for thosewho had to be disqualified.

The day for the interviews was announced and Mufat Lal received hisnotice.

The commission met in a room in an imposing building. Outside, in theveranda, milled hundreds of candidates. Some stood around, others paced thefloor, while still others sat down here and there, exhausted. Every candidate

63


had dressed up as best as he could. Some looked as if they had just steppedout of a laundry, body and soul. Some wore such colourful clothes they lookedlike actors waiting to go on stage. Some had put on brand new suits, otherswore old but freshly cleaned ones. Then, in a class by themselves, were thosewho were in borrowed clothes. Some of them wore trousers, but walked as ifthey were wearing a dhoti, while others seemed to have even retained theirdhotis under the trousers. Each candidate carried a fat bundle of degreesand recommendations. A few had even brought their framed degrees. Theywere all perspiring profusely, and continuously patting their faces dry. Everyso often, some candidate would lean over the edge of the veranda and wringout his handkerchief, then he’d resume dabbing at his perspiring brow.

Mufat Lal was totally composed and confident as he arrived. As hetook his position on the veranda, he encountered a smart, handsome andimpressive-looking young man. Mufat Lal casually asked him, “What areyour qualifications?”

The man said, “MA (First Class), LLB (First Class).”Mufat Lal was not impressed. To find out what really mattered, he asked,

“Whose man are you?”The young man was taken by surprise. Flushing with anger, he retorted,

“Why should I be someone’s man? I’m not some domestic animal. It’s theywho are described as Gopal’s cow or Kakkar’s dog. I don’t need an owner’stag around my neck.”

These sharp words didn’t faze Mufat at all. On the contrary, he felt pityfor that unfortunate youth.

Now the young man asked, “And whose man are you?”“Kunwar Astabhan’s,” Mufat Lal proudly replied.“And your qualifications?”“Do I need any other?” Mufat Lal rejoindered.The young man smiled.For the first time, Mufat Lal felt angry. He felt as if the young man’s MA

(First Class) was chasing his own BA (Third Class) down a road. calling itall sorts of names. His voice dripped with poison as he said, “Listen, it’s Iwho’ll be a deputy collector — not you. You don’t have a chance. But whenyou start starving and find you can’t survive on your smart looks, come andsee me. I’ll appoint you as a clerk in my office.”

The young man wanted to make some suitable retort but just then hisname was called by a chaprasi. He patted his face with his handkerchief andstrode off for the interview.

Five sages were seated at a table. One of them asked the young man hisname. When they heard his reply, they looked at his Form B. Under thequestion, Whose Man?, it said, No one’s.

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Harishankar Parsai Mufat Lal Goes For An Interview

The interview began.

One sage asked, “What’s the difference between the concept of maya inthe vedanta and the concept of prakriti in the sankhya?”

The candidate had not studied philosophy so deeply. He didn’t know thatone had to be a philosopher in order to be a deputy collector. He, however,gave the question some thought and tried to frame an answer.

The chief sage scowled at the delay and said, “You’re taking too long.Very dull!”

The second sage asked, “How has Kant defined Pure Reason?”

The candidate was dumbfounded. He hadn’t been a student of philosophy.He stared at the faces before him, while perspiration ran down his face.

The second sage said, “He doesn’t know a thing. Totally dull!”

The chief sage turned to the remaining two sages, “Would you like to aska question?”

“There’s no need,” they replied. “We’ve seen enough.”

The interview ended. The candidate walked out with a long face. MufatLal saw him and made the sound of a goat.

A bit later, the chaprasi called Mufat Lal’s name. Mufat Lal went in andstood before the five sages. When he told them his name, they consulted hisForm B. In the Whose man column, it said, Kunwar Astabhan’s.

The five sages looked at him with great affection. The chief sage lovinglysaid, “Why are you standing, son? Take a seat.”

Mufat Lal sat down, and the interview started.

One sage asked, “How is Kunwar Sahab?”

“He’s fine.”

Another sage asked, “What did you have for lunch today?”

“Roti, chawal, dal, sabji, and some achar,” Mufat Lal replied heartily.

Everyone was impressed by his prompt responses. The chief sage re-marked, “How quick he is! Very smart.”

The third sage asked, “Which is the best film in town these days?”

“Chaudawin ka Chand, starring Waheeda Rahman, Guru Dutt, JohnnyWalker and Helen.”

“Shabash!” the chief sage said. “What a well-informed boy!”

The questions stopped.

The chief sage turned to Mufat Lal. “Son, we are all very impressed to seehow well-qualified you are. You’ve been selected. Now go and wait for yourappointment letter. Remember, it can take anywhere from three months tothree years — or even ten. Some people, in fact receive their letters whenthey’re close to their retirement age. But since, you’re Kunwar Sahab’s Man,you should get your letter very soon. Go, you have a bright future.”

65


Mufat Lal saluted the sages and left the room.3

3“Mufatlal Goes For an Interview” has been excerpted from Rani Nagphani ki Kahanioriginally published in Hindi in 1960–62.

66

Honouring the Sahab

What appeared in the papersLast night, in Shanti Bhawan located in the main market of our city

a function was organized by the local cloth dealers to honour the incometax officer, Shri Devendra Kumar “Kamal,” for his contribution to Hindiliterature. Paying homage to Shri Kamal, Seth Babulalji, president of theCloth Dealers’ Association, said, “Shri Kamal is a great poet and litterateur.With his fine poems he has filled the lap of Mother India. Our city hasindeed been blessed that a poet of the rank of Kalidas and Tagore has comehere.” Responding to the felicitations, Shri Kamal said, “In honouring me,you have, in truth, honoured the Goddess of Art, Ma Saraswati herself. I’mendlessly grateful to you. I don’t know how I can ever return the great favouryou have done to me.” Following his remarks, local poets recited their verses.Several dealers from the cloth market also read poems honouring Shri Kamal.Finally, Shri Kamal gratified the audience by reciting his poems for almosttwo hours. The meeting ended with a reception.

What didn’t appear in the papersShri Devendra Kumar came to the city as the income tax officer some

eighteen months ago. He was fond of poetry and used Kamal as his penname. Every evening his subordinate staff would gather at his house andlisten to his poems. He wrote a poem on the occasion of Diwali last year.It became so popular that he recited it until the festival came around again.The poem opens — “Beloved, you’re far away from me, how then should Ilight my lamp?” It made his wife very angry. She asked, “Who’s the wretchthat you’re pining for?” Shri Kamal gently explained, “It is you. As thepoet has said — you are near yet far away . . . ” Shri Kamal had but onecomplaint. He felt that the city hadn’t sufficiently recognized his talents.

Then one day, by the grace of god, a special circular arrived from thecentral Income Tax Office ordering that the records of every dealer shouldbe examined most stringently, that taxes should be raised, and that severeaction should be taken against anyone found hiding his true income. It causedgreat commotion among the dealers. Everyone started thinking of ways to

Honouring the Sahab Harishankar Parsai

avoid taxes. Fortunately, it turned out that Rasiklal, son of Seth Surajmal,secretary of the Cloth Dealers’ Association, also had much interest in poetry.He also had close ties with Shri Kamal’s personal assistant, Shri Brajkishore“Brajendra.” Shri Brajendra too is a poet. He said to Rasiklal, “The sahab’sweakness is poetry. You should honour him as a poet. He’ll then be pleasedwith all the dealers and will go easy on them.”

Subsequently, last week, a meeting of the Cloth Dealers’ Associationunanimously decided that there was nothing wrong in honouring Shri De-vendra Kumar “Kamal,” as a poet. That, in fact, it was important to lethim know that they, the cloth dealers, viewed him as a very great poet.

Consequently, last night, in Shanti Bhawan, a function was organized bythe Cloth Dealers’ Association in honour of Shri Kamal. Hundreds of clothdealers gathered in the hall, together with all the employees of the income taxdepartment and a few local poets. Any dealer who was involved in some taxinquiry had received a special notice from the Association — Get someoneto write a poem felicitating Shri Kamal, and read it at the meeting.

The meeting started with Shri Brajendra introducing the audience tothe literary greatness of Shri Kamal. Brajendra, still unconfirmed in his job,began, “I told the dealers that an extraordinary genius has arrived in the city,and yet, unfortunately, the city has failed to recognize its good fortune . . . ”

Immediately he was interrupted by the president of the Cloth Dealers’Association, who got up and said, “You’re wrong. You didn’t tell us. Werecognized his greatness on our own. My son Rasiklal knows all about poetryand all that.”

The two men started to argue. Seeing that the situation was getting outof hand, Shri Kamal himself calmed them down.

Then the president of the association, Seth Babulal, felicitated Shri Ka-mal in the following manner.

“As we honour Shri Kamal, our hearts are filled with joy, the same joythat fills the heart of an Indian woman when she sees a Banarasi sari. Thecolourful bunting and banners that you see here decorating the hall to wel-come you, are made of calico, rayon silk, Madras jean, georgette and flannel.

“Shri Kamal, for years the wish to honour you lay buried in our heartslike the actual details of our sales. This wonderful event kept getting pushedbehind, the way a yardstick is when we measure a piece of cloth. It tookus eighteen months to learn that you were a poet too. In fact, if the neworder hadn’t come from the Central Office we might have never found thisout. Everything happens at its proper time. For example. we always sellmore silk during the wedding season. Likewise, when the right time comeswe immediately recognize who is a decent person — just as we never fail todiscover who his relatives are when some sales tax inspector confiscates our

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Harishankar Parsai Honouring the Sahab

books.“There are other dealers too in the city — grain sellers, grocers, hardware

merchants. But they all failed to recognize that you are a poet. We aredifferent. After all, calico cloth is different from ordinary linen. Only clothdealers know what art is. The previous sales tax officer used to paint pictures.He did a painting of Shiv and Parvati that looked just like the poster for thefilm Shankar Vivah. Our Seth kalumal had it reproduced on his calendar.Later the Sethji was tried for not paying sufficient sales tax, but the blessingsof Bhagwan Shiv were upon him and the case was dismissed.

“Sir, we have a proud tradition of honouring our artist officers. We aretraders. Our ties with officers should be close — the way imitation silk istied in with real silk. We don’t know what a poem is. The only poems welisten to are those on the radio — about toothpastes and vitamin pills. Butwhen Rasiklal told us that you are a poet, we immediately understood.

“The other traders in the city, they too will have their income tax in-creased. Their accounts too are in a mess. Some of them are even involvedin cases. But not one of them paid any heed to the fact that you are a poet.They have dishonoured you, while we offer you our deepest respects. Pleasedon’t ever forget that. We felicitate you with open hearts. Tonight, eventhose of us who are involved in cases will recite some sweet verses felicitatingyou. It is our good fortune that you have graced the occasion with yourbenign pretence. Please grace our stores too in the same manner — this isour humble prayer.”

Responding to the address, Shri Kamal said,“Tonight, experiencing the love that you have showered upon me, I feel

the same joy that an income tax officer feels when suddenly, in the deadof night, some trader appears at his door, bearing all his account books.Tonight I feel as if I have leaped over my senior officers and reached a veryhigh position. Like the Urgent papers that lie forgotten under my blottingpad, there was a secret wish tucked away in my heart that I must somedayappear before the traders in the guise of a poet. That such an occasion cameafter a very long time doesn’t bother me at all, for I was brought up onthe precepts of Red-tapeism, whose first and foremost principle is — Delay.Tonight I feel as if the finance minister himself pulled me out from amongthousands of income tax officers and asked me to make all the arrangementsfor paan on the occasion of his daughter’s wedding!

“I know there is a big difference between you and the other traders. Theyonly trade. You on the other hand are like a religious trust which is exemptfrom income tax. The address you have given me. I’ll have it framed. Itshall hang in my drawing room and guide me in my life, just as an old clerkguides his new officer. How can I ever repay your kindness? But let me at

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Honouring the Sahab Harishankar Parsai

least assure you that I’ll always look after you. You needn’t worry about thenew orders from the ministry.

“I offer you my heartfelt thanks. On this occasion, I shouldn’t forgetBrajendra, my PA. It’s due to his efforts alone that I received recognition inthis city as a poet. Just think what injustice could’ve occurred if Brajendrahad not been my PA, but had instead worked under the sales tax officer. Thenit would have been him standing here, being honoured by you! It’s nothingbut a boon of Brajendra’s devotion that I’m being honoured tonight. I wantto see him confirmed in his job. Once again I thank all of you. Have no fear.Do your business in peace.”

After that some poets read their compositions. Finally Shri Kamal recitedhis poems for almost two hours. The entire assembly of cloth dealers wasdrenched in bliss.

Unfortunately, an untoward incident happened at the conclusion of thismost beautiful event. Seth Lapete Lal of Ram Gopal and Shri Gopal gotinto an angry argument with the president of the association. Lapete Lalwas heard shouting, “I have to appear before the sahab tomorrow still youdidn’t give me a chance to read my poem! You only let your relatives read.I paid ten rupees for this poem. Now they’re gone for nothing.”

But the sahab intervened and saved the situation. Then everyone wenthome happy.1

1“Honouring the Sahab” was originally published in Hindi as “Sahab ka Samman.”

70

The Prospectus of a ProposedPrivate College

May Goddess Lakshmi always bless us.

We the present owners of Babulal, Chhotelal & Co are in the process ofopening another new branch of our famous firm.1

It will be called Gobardhandas College.

As the entire world knows, Shri Gobardhandas was our revered father. Hehas now departed from this world of illusion, and that has made everythingmeaningless — except the firm itself. We know there is not much profit ineducation as there is in cement or sugar. Our merchant brethren will considerit the height of folly for us to open an education store. They will ask, “Whyare you opening a college? Why don’t you buy a stock of sugar with thatmoney?”

In a way, what they say is true. However, we have a somewhat philo-sophical attitude towards everything. One gets a human form after passingthrough eighty four lakh births — it has been said in religious discourses.That is why one ought to seek in life both what is selfish and what is eternaland spiritual. But what is eternal and spiritual? The answer is, any actionthat makes people consider you generous, self-sacrificing and a servant of thesociety. It brings you greater glory. And that greater glory is eternal andspiritual. In our life we must do at least one such act to immortalize ourname.

Our late father always had a great desire to become immortal, but duringhis own life he couldn’t arrange it. He was always too busy with the firm’swork. That responsibility has now fallen upon our shoulders. We wish toimmortalize our father. Earlier, every summer, we used to set up a freewater stand in his honour. We are sure people couldn’t have forgotten the

1Author’s note: A certain party is establishing a new college. It has already publishedone prospectus in the papers. But like its account books, that party actually prepared twodifferent prospectuses. The other, private prospectus was tucked away in the true accountbook. Here it is published for the first time.

The Prospectus of a Proposed Private College Harishankar Parsai

Shri Gobardhandas Water Stand at the intersection near the railway station.But then we realized that the water stand keeps our late father’s good namealive only during the months of summer — the remaining ten months he istotally forgotten. Even those who survive through the summers by drinkingwater daily from our stand don’t, in the winter months, remember the greatfavour our father did them. People are so ungrateful!

The water stand cannot immortalize our late father during all twelvemonths, or for hundreds of years — though it does cost so little. But hasanyone ever become immortal through frugality? Then we thought we shouldhave a dharmashala built in his name — not only will his name live as longas the building stands, but even if with the passage of time it sinks into theground, some archaeologist in the future will dig it out and our fathers namewill be enshrined in the annals of history forever. But then certain wise menadvised us that there was much talk of socialism going on and there mightbe bad times ahead. If socialism arrives there would be no poor or needy —“Who would then seek shelter in your dharmashala,” they asked, “who wouldthen remember your father’s name?”

That’s why, after a great deal of thought, we have decided to open acollege.

The opening of a college will also remove a blot from our good name. Ourlate, revered father was not literate. Indeed, it is a matter of great shamethat the man who carried the firm to such heights was illiterate. But whenfuture generations see a college named after him, they will only concludethat Gobardhandas must have been a great scholar or educationist in thetwentieth century. Why else would there be a college in his name? Certainlythat kind of benefit cannot be gained from an orphanage or a dharmashala.

We have contributed one lakh rupees for the establishment of the college.Of course, few people know that actually only forty thousand came out ofour pockets — the other sixty would have gone to the taxman in any case.To buy the glory of a lakh by contributing only forty thousand, that wasonly befitting the memory of our revered father.

We went to our brethren, the other traders, and asked them to helpus immortalize our late father’s name. They gladly contributed. After all,if it was our father’s cause today, it could be their father’s tomorrow. Inthis manner we collected three lakhs. Then we called upon the educationminister. The minister’s great grandfather had been the account keeper inour great grandfather’s shop. We always make sure to remind him of it —lest he starts to forget. Incidentally, in the last election we made sure thatour entire caste group voted for him.

We placed our scheme before the education minister, then told him thatwe were still short of funds. The education minister replied, “Your late father

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Harishankar Parsai The Prospectus of a Proposed Private College

was like a father to me too. I have to fight my next election in that area. Ineed his blessings. I was myself thinking of immortalizing him by openinga university in his name. But if you’re satisfied with just a college, I’ll behappy to donate seven or eight lakhs on behalf of the government.”

In this manner, at the cost of only forty thousand rupees, our father willgain an estate of some ten or twelve lakhs. The body may have died but, asthe Gita says, the soul lives on. His soul is still functioning with the sameprofessional acumen.

It is our intention that the new institution should function in a profes-sional manner. We want to make it an ideal institution. With that in mindwe have set up certain principles and rules for its administration. These mustbe followed carefully. They are listed below.

1. The contract for the construction of the college will go to the husbandof our father’s sister. That is a must for us in order to be true to thememory of our late father. When our father had organized the con-struction of the Shiv temple through public subscription, its contractwas also given to our phuphaji.

2. If for some reason the government interferes and gives the constructioncontract to the education minister’s brother-in-law, the cement andbricks for the project should still be obtained only through us.

3. If, while the college is under construction, we have some building ofour own going up, the supplies for the former may be utilized for thelatter’s benefit. After all, the firm is one.

4. As long as our mamaji has his stationery store, all the stationery forthe college must be bought from him. Our father had great love forhim. In fact, it was he who had inaugurated the store. It would greatlypain our father’s soul if the stationery were bought elsewhere.

5. In the college yard mango, papaya and jackfruit trees should be planted.All the produce must always be sent to our house. If the principal failsto do so, he may be sued for breach of contract.

6. Whenever there is a wedding in our family, the college building will bevacated for the groom’s party to stay. The charges for electricity, etcetera, will be paid by the college.

7. We will be the secretaries of the managing committee of the college,and after us our sons will get the jobs. This convention will continue.Additionally, several members of the Management Committee will befrom the clans of our parents.

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The Prospectus of a Proposed Private College Harishankar Parsai

8. Other members of the Management Committee should have only theremotest connection with education and learning. Learned men splithairs and cause trouble. Further, since this will be a vocational college,the merchant class should have a greater hand in running it.

9. As it has been declared at the very beginning, this college is a branch ofour firm. Consequently, the principal of the college will have the samerank as that of the chief accountant of our firm. And the professorswill be considered equal to ordinary accountants.

10. The principal will have to come daily to our store and greet us saying,“Jai Ramji ki.” He won’t get paid for any day that he fails to come. Ifhe is absent for fifteen consecutive days he will be fired.

11. Every professor will have to come at least once every week to say “JaiRamji ki” to us. Any professor who does so daily will have a betterchance to be promoted as the principal.

12. All the chaprasis will work half the time at the college and the otherhalf at the store. They shouldn’t object. After all, the firm is one.

13. The education of any boy or girl of our family will be the responsibilityof the staff of the college. They will have to come to our house totutor the children. Further, they must not only tell the children thetest questions but also later make sure that they get good marks, evenfrom outside examiners.

14. The main job of the professors will be to visit us frequently to flatterus and to report on their colleagues. We’ll always be ready to listen totheir backbiting, even if it is past midnight.

15. If perchance any progeny of ours turns out to be a failure at business,the college must appoint him as a professor.

We make these declarations in sound mind and in full control of oursenses. We hope that everyone will cooperate in making the college an idealinstitution.

Iti.(Let any mistake be forgiven.)2

2“The Prospectus of a Proposed Private College” was originally published in Hindi as“Private Kalij ka Ghoshnapatra” in 1965.

74

Iti Shri Researchayah

AD 1950 . . .Babu Gopalchand was a big leader. He had explained to the people —

and the people had understood too — that if in the great freedom strugglehe had not gone to the jail twice and served as an A Class prisoner, Indiacouldn’t have become free.

On the night of 3 December, 1950, in the seventh room of the third floorof his house, lying on a foot thick mattress on a three foot high bed, BabuGopalchand was tossing and turning restlessly. No, he hadn’t become a vic-tim of someone’s bewitching glances. He was suffering the pangs of planning.Recently he had raised some four lakh rupees from public subscription. Thatmoney was to be used to build a grand Martyrs’ Memorial, to commemoratethose who lost their lives in the great freedom struggle. His plan was to havea poem full of patriotism and sacrifice engraved on the gate to the monu-ment. And the problem besetting his mind was — whose poem should it be?There were any number of poets who had themselves gone to jail during thestruggle and had written splendid poems on the subject — and could writenew ones if needed — but Babu Gopalchand didn’t like their poems. “Theydon’t have power,” he would say. “They lack the power of the soul.”

In desperation, he picked up the book of Akbar Birbal jokes that lay byhis pillow and began to read.

. . . Akbar said to Jaggu Dheemar, “Bring the most handsome boyin the city to the court tomorrow morning. If you fail to do soyour head will be chopped off.” When he heard the king, JagguDheemar was scared. How was he to find the most handsomeboy in the city! He lay in despair on a cot in his veranda whenhis wife came by. “You look. gloomy today,” she said, “hassomething happened?” Jaggu explained his problem. His wifesaid, “So that’s what’s bothering you, such an easy matter? Justtake our own Kallu to the king. There’s no boy more handsomein the city.” Jaggu liked her suggestion. He sat up, delighted,and said, “Look as that! What a simple matter and I didn’t think

Iti Shri Researchayah Harishankar Parsai

of it. Who can match our darling son in looks?” Next morning,Jaggu presented Kallu in the court. It so happened that Kalluwas terribly dark and had a face that was pitted with pockmarks.He also had a bulging belly, two tiny eyes, and a flat nose . . .

By now Babu Gopalchand was as ecstatic as Jaggu. He sat up and calledto his son, “Gobardhan! Are you asleep? Come here for a minute.”

Gobardhan had just then returned from a drinks party. He walked in onunsteady feet. Babu Gopalchand asked, “Arre, you still write poems, don’tyou?”

Gobardhan was dumbfounded. Dreading that he might again be repri-manded, he replied, “No Babuji, I gave up that bad habit.”

“Listen, beta,” Babu Gopalchand said gently, “tell me the truth. There’snothing wrong in writing poetry.”

Gobardhan felt life coming back into his body. He said, “Babuji, I wrotea few poems, but people didn’t appreciate them. Once as a kavi sammelanthey booed me off the stage. After that I stopped writing.”

“Beta, the world does that to every genius,” Babu Gapalchand consoledhim. “They laughed because they failed to understand your complex poems.Now go and write a few verses on sacrifice and patriotism and give them tome by tomorrow.”

Gobardhan continued to stare at his feet. He said, “Babuji, I’ve neverwritten on such light topics. I write love poems, One of them is on JahuranBai, the singer. Will it do?”

Babu Gopalchand was ready to explode, but somehow controlled himselfand said gently, “These days sacrifice, renunciation and patriotism are infashion. One should write on them alone. It’s also becoming fashionable towrite on poverty. You may write on any of these subjects. All I want fromyou is a few lines on sacrifice and the love of the land. I wish to use themfor a national cause.”

“Will they be published?” Gobardhan asked eagerly.“Engraved, not published. I’ll have them engraved on the gate of the

Martyrs’ Memorial.”Now Gobardhan was truly inspired, By next evening he had composed

four verses. On reading them. Gopalchand jumped up with joy. “Wah beta,”he exclaimed, “you have captured an epic in these four lines. It’s like . . . anocean poured into a cup!”

On 6 December, 1950, those four verses were engraved on the gate of thegrand new Martyrs’ Memorial. Under the verses was the poet’s name —Gobardhandas.

AD 2950 . . .

76

Harishankar Parsai Iti Shri Researchayah

In the research seminar in the Department of Hindi at the university,Dr Venus Nandan was talking to his favourite student, Robert Mohan.(Readers, by then such international names were fairly common.) RobertMohan was doing research under Dr Venus Nandan. His subject was Twen-tieth Century Hindi Poetry.

Mohan was very excited. “Sir,” he eagerly said to Dr Nandan, “thanksto the Department of Archaeology I have found a clue to the identity ofthe greatest national poet of that age. Until now we had been flounderingin darkness. The written tradition has given us incorrect information. Ni-rala, Pant, Prasad, Makhanlal Chaturvedi, Dinkar — the written traditiongives only these five names. But, in fact, that ungrateful age let its greatestnational poet fall into obscurity. I’m about to bring bring him to light.”

“You are an idiot.” Dr Nandan said.“And you are a fool,” replied his student. (Readers, by then such cordial

relations between a student and a teacher were fairly common.)Dr Nandan laughed, then said amiably. “Robert, you must tell me the

whole story.”“Sir.” Robert Mohan began. “recently a magnificent Martyrs’ Memorial

built in 1950 was excavated. The inscriptional evidence indicates that it wasbuilt to commemorate the martyrs of the great freedom struggle of India. Onits main gate are four verses. Apparently it was the biggest memorial in thecountry. The entire nation, it appears, paid tribute to its heroes by buildingit. It must therefore follow that the poet whose verses adorn its gate musthave been the greatest poet of that time.”

“And the name of the poet?” Dr Nandan asked. “Gobardhandas,” Mo-han replied, and pushed before his mentor the piece of paper on which he hadcopied the verses. Dr Nandan was very pleased. “Well done! Well done!” heexclaimed.

“But now I need your help, sir,” Robert Mohan continued, “so far weknow of only these four verses by this poet. What can I write about the restof his work?”

“That’s simple enough,” Dr Nandan replied. “Just say, the rest of hiswritings were lost in the tide of Time. In those days, poets were divided intosmall cliques. But Gobardhandas was by nature an extremely simple andgentle person. He ploughed his lonely furrow, and never joined any clique.Consequently, the critics of his time did him tremendous injustice. Theyneglected him completely. He couldn’t even find a publisher. And when afew of his books did get published, other poets got together and, buying allthe copies from the publisher, burnt them.”

Mohan’s face lit up. “Should I also say that Gobardhandas had writtenmore than one hundred books?” he asked.

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Iti Shri Researchayah Harishankar Parsai

“Of course you should. In fact, you should write that he authored twohundred books. Also, that in those days hordes of people filled with patrioticfervour used to sing Gobardhandas’s brilliant poems as they marched off tosacrifice themselves for the great cause.”

“But sir,” Mohan said hesitantly, “these verses are rather poor. Myconclusions might turn out to be wrong.”

“Robert, don’t you know the first principle of research?” Dr Venus Nan-dan scolded him. “What is old is best. Only the present is not good enough.Further, the whole purpose of research is to find something that is not there.These verses don’t have any poetic beauty, and so you’ll have to find itin them. After all, Gobardhandas was a great poet. You can’t treat himlightly.”

Poor Robert Mohan was scared.Dr Nandan continued, “But Robert, you mustn’t forget to praise the great

man who recognized the genius of the great poet and preserved for posterityat least these four verses. Who was the founder of that memorial?”

Mohan consulted his notes and said, “Some leader named Babu Gopal-chand.”

“He must have been a great man,” Dr Nandan said, his eyes, closed inthought. “In that clique-ridden age, he must have been a unique soul torecognize a neglected genius and give him his due honour. I wonder if itwasn’t Mahatma Gopalchand who gave shelter to that indigent but greatpoet and thus made him a target of his peers’ rage? They must have burntwith jealousy and said the nastiest things about him. I wouldn’t be surprisedif some of them even went on a fast outside his door — those were the greatdays of satyagraha, after all. There may be some reason to believe thatNirala wrote his poem ‘Kukurmutta’ only in response to that horrid situation.Dinkar, too, might have raised the same issue in that famous poem of his —‘Kasmai Devaya Havisha Vidhema.’ You see, Robert, research moves forwardon hypotheses.”

And so Robert Mohan’s revolutionary research was finally published, andthrough it the world came to know of Gobardhandas, the greatest nationalistpoet of the twentieth century.1

1“Iti Shri Researchayah” was originally published in Hindi as “Iti Shri Researchayah”in 1962.

78

A Journey with a Premi

Jagannath Kaka and I were coming back by train after attending a wedding.We had gone along with the groom’s party. At the station, our companionsquickly took over an entire compartment. Kaka said to me, “If you knowwhat’s good for you, better find another compartment. There is no wilderpack of animals than a marriage party. One must keep one’s distance fromthem, particularly when they’re coming back from a wedding. Then theyhave had their taste of blood at the bride’s house and are ready to pounceon anyone at sight. If a fight starts we might get thrashed along with thisbunch.”

We went and found seats for ourselves in the sleeper coach.

On the opposite bench were three passengers — an old woman, a youngwoman, and a young man. Kaka fixed his eyes on them.

To get a conversation going, I said, “Kaka, it looks like America won’tstop bombing North Vietnam.”

He paid no attention.

After a while I cried again, “Kaka, the anti-Hindi agitation in Madras isgetting worse.”

“Sssh!” He continued to give the three passengers an intense look.

Then, a few minutes later, he turned to me and said, “Beta, you want toentangle me in national and international affairs, but you should first sortour what’s in front of us right here. Tell me, what’s the relationship betweenthis young man and the old woman?”

“Must be her son.” I replied. “He’s being so attentive to her, taking careof her needs.”

“No. he can’t be her son,” said Kaka. “He attends upon the old woman,but seeks the record of his service in the girl’s eyes. He is the premi1 of thegirl. Well, not quite yet a premi, but on the way to becoming one, for noone wastes time attending upon the mother after fully becoming a premi ofthe daughter. Then he merely asks, as he walks into the house, “How’re

1A Premi is a lover or one who is in love.

A Journey with a Premi Harishankar Parsai

you. Amma?” and continues on into the girl’s room, saying, “How’s Sushmadoing in her studies?”

Kaka again fixed his eyes on the three.

Suddenly he remarked, “How sad! In this land of ours, if one wishes tofind a place in a girl’s heart one has to go through the hearts of her parents.That can make a wreck of any young lover. Remember how Shirin’s fathertold her lover to dig a channel through a mountain and how that stupidFarhad immediately got going?”2

“But Kaka,” I tried to argue, “here it seems to have been all worked out.Why else would they be travelling together like this? I think the boy has itall fixed.”

“No,” Kaka said confidently, “as yet the boy only knows them well. Prob-ably he’s been going to their house. The old woman might have asked hima few times to do some shopping for her. Perhaps, once in a while, even thegirl gave him some sample of knitting wool and asked him to find out theprice in the market. That’s about all. You see, the poor boy is still in thestage of making an impression. He probably thought he would get that takencare of during this journey. Travelling with the girl, one can accomplish ona train in ten hours what would otherwise take ten years. All the daily littletasks of life come up on a train journey too. A candidate can fully displayhis talents on such an occasion.”

What Kaka said was true. The young man had certainly been puttingon quite a show. He opened the windows, turned the ceiling fans towardsthe old lady, and opened two bedrolls and spread them on the berths. Thenhe went and filled a flask with cold drinking water. When he had paid thecoolie, he had counted out an extra ten paisa, saying, “Here take another tenpaisa. Poor man!” Perhaps he was telling the girl, I’m generous.

Then he went and got some magazines. He gave the pile to the girl, butmade sure to place a film magazine on top. The cover had the picture of ascreen couple — the hero was holding the heroine’s hands. The girl took themagazines from him and began to flip through the pages.

Kaka whispered in my ear, “Did you see that magazine? The cover? He’ssaying to her, Wouldn’t it be nice if we too were holding hands like that?”

I began to look at them more intently.

“Beta,” Kaka continued, “you shouldn’t stare at them that way. It maycause offence. Let me do the staring. That’s the special privilege of old men.They may stare at any woman and no one can take offence. Behind the shieldof our grey hair, we can do things that you young men can’t even dream of.”

In the meantime, the premi had gone and got some paan. He offered the

2Shirin and Farhad are famous lovers of a Persian romance.

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Harishankar Parsai A Journey with a Premi

packet to the old woman. She took two. Then he offered it to the girl. Shetook one. The premi’s face took on a hopeful look.

But he had forgotten to get some tobacco for the old woman. Hastily,he got off the train, and rushed to the paanwala. By the time he got sometobacco and climbed back, the train had already started to move. When hegave the packet to the old lady, she expressed some concern, “You shouldn’thave. I was worried.”

“There was no need to worry,” the boy replied. “Anyway, I couldn’t besure about getting any at the next station.”

The old lady said, “Yes, beta, I can’t do without tobacco. Without it,paan has no flavour for me. But you should be more careful and not jumpon to moving trains.”

The boy turned and looked at the girl.Kaka whispered to me, “See, he’s telling her, For you I can jump off and

on even faster trains. I’m bold. I’m bold and brave and ready to lay downmy life any time.”

Just then the conductor in charge of the compartment came by. The boyjumped up and started arguing with him in English about his berth, “But Itold you . . . ”

Kaka explained to me, “Now he’s scolding the conductor in English. Theyouth of this land still believe that girls fall in love with those who speakEnglish. Now, beta, let me ask you a question — What if he had fallen underthe train at that time?”

I replied, “What of it? Such sacrifices are common in love.”“How could it have been a sacrifice in love?” Kaka retorted. “He’d have

lost his life for the sake of the old woman’s tobacco. The trouble is, the youthof this land don’t even know how to die for love. They die in love all right,but in a sickening way. Killing themselves for some other cause, they believeit’s for love. All right, what do you think he’ll do next?”

“He’ll show off by pulling the alarm chain,” I suggested. “First he’ll throwthe old lady’s shawl out of the window, then he’ll pull the chain to stop thetrain.”

“No. Think harder.”“Probably he’ll hand out money to all the passengers.”“No. He’s already displayed compassion when he gave the extra ten paisa

to the coolie.”I thought some more, then said, “I know. He’ll sing a song.”Kaka laughed. “No, he isn’t the singing kind,” he said. “I don’t think

you know anything about premis. As for me, one look at a man’s face andI can tell you how long he’s been in love, what stage he’s at presently, andwhat he may be expected to do next.”

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A Journey with a Premi Harishankar Parsai

“In that case,” I rejoindered, “you tell me what his next move will be.”Kaka said, “Next he’ll start a fight with someone. He has displayed his

tender side, now he must show the brute in him. If a man hasn’t displayedto his woman that he’s a wild animal too, he believes his total personalityhasn’t emerged. This boy will now look for someone who’s weaker than him,He’ll then find some excuse to start a fight and beat him up. We should becareful, beta, for we too can become his victims,”

“If he gets nasty with us, I’ll . . . ”“No,” Kaka interjected, “if you beat him he’d fall low in the girl’s eyes.

It’s a great sin to mess up love.”“But it’s all right to let a stranger beat us up?” I retorted.Kaka said, “Well, if that should happen we must at least appear to have

been roughed up by him. We must make sure of that. If we’re made to suffersome pain or shame for the sake of this premi, so be it. Of course, we shouldalso try at the same time to protect ourselves.”

Kaka and I sat up, alert. The premi was rolling up his steeves and lookingaround the compartment.

At the next station a handsome young man came on board, carrying asmall suitcase. The premi looked him over. As the young man passed himby, the suitcase rubbed against the knees of the premi. The premi jumpedup, boiling with rage. He grabbed the young man’s collar and swore at him,then slapping him hard across the face, he pushed him down. Kaka and I gotup and stopped the fight. We commiserated with the new man and madehim sit near another window across the aisle. His face was red with angerand shame.

The premi turned triumphantly towards the girl, but she was staring outof the window. He began to boast to the old lady, “If they hadn’t stoppedme I’d have beaten him to a pulp.”

The girl turned around, looked with contempt at the premi, then cast aglance at the newcomer.

“Beta, our drama is becoming quite complex,” Kaka whispered to me.“It’s now turning into a triangular affair.”

The premi was beginning to look rather perturbed. By now the girl hadlooked towards that young man several times.

The premi took out his packet of paan and offered it to the old lady, butshe had dozed off. He then offered it to the girl. “No,” the girl said curtlyand gave him a withering look.

Now the girl would look out of her window for a few moments, then turnaround to look at the newcomer. He too would alternate between gazing outof his window and looking at the girl. Eventually, the two started watchingthe outside scene through each other’s windows.

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Harishankar Parsai A Journey with a Premi

“It’s happened!” Kaka exclaimed. “It’s happened!”“What has happened?” I asked.Kaka explained. “She has given herself to the weak. Women are strange.

They give themselves to those who get thrashed. May god save us from theirwiles. Now it’s all over.”

The premi was in a bad state. He looked most rueful. He said loudly tono one in particular, “I myself feel very sorry that I hit him.”

Kaka said to me, “Beta, this boy has lost out because of his manliness.Right now he wishes someone would rough him up. You’re always willingto help others. Why don’t you get up and slap him around a bit? He’d beeternally grateful to you.”

“I can’t do that, Kaka,” I replied. “How can I hit him without any causeor anger?”

“For his sake, beta, for his sake — the way a surgeon cuts up a body,”explained Kaka. “The poor boy is desperately looking for someone to givehim a beating. Then he too might deservedly claim the girl’s compassion.He’s been forced into competing with the fellow he himself beat up.”

“Why don’t you give him a beating?”“It won’t help him at all if an old man does that,” Kaka explained. “He

wants to be beaten by someone young. Anyway, it’s you who is alwayschampioning the cause of others, not me.”

Then Kaka got up from his seat and, stepping closer to the premi, said,“Bhai premi, if you think a good thrashing would help your lost cause, I canask my friend here to help you out.”

The girl burst out laughing. The premi too began to laugh. Kaka floppedback on his seat, looking sorely disappointed.3

3“A Journey with a Premi” was originally published in Hindi as “Premi ke Sath EkSafar.”

83

Bholaram’s Soul

This had never happened. For millions of years, Dharmaraj had been al-lotting homes in hell or heaven to millions of people on the basis of theirkarma or some personal recommendation. But this sort of thing had neverhappened before.

Seated in front of him was Chitragupt, repeatedly wiping his glasses clean,moistening a finger with his tongue and flipping through the pages of oneregister after another. But he just couldn’t pin down the mistake. In sheerexasperation, he banged the last register shut with such force that a poor flygot squashed between its pages. Chitragupt wiped the traces clean with afinger, then turned to Dharmaraj. “Maharaj,” he said, “our record is prettyclear. Bholaram’s soul left his body five days ago. It also set out for herewith our emissary who had been sent to bring it. However, somehow it hasfailed to arrive.”

“And where is the emissary?” asked Dharmaraj

“He too has disappeared, maharaj.”

Just then the doors were flung open and the emissary entered the hall.He seemed utterly distraught. His naturally ugly face looked much worsefor all the toil and terror he seemed to have suffered. Chitragupt shouted,“Where were you all this time? And where is Bholaram’s soul?”

The emissary folded his hands suppliantly before Dharmaraj, and said,“Merciful One, how can I tell you what happened. I’ve never been deceivedbefore, but Bholaram’s soul has made a fool of me. Five days ago, when itleft Bholaram’s body, I grabbed it and set out for this world. But after wecame out of the city and just as I caught a fast upper current of air to comehere, it managed to slip out of my fingers and disappeared. For these pastfive days I have turned the universe upside down but have failed to find anytrace of it.”

“Fool!” Dharmaraj growled. “For millions of years you’ve been fetchingall kinds of souls, but now you claim that the soul of some decrepit old manmanaged to give you the slip?”

The emissary bowed his head still lower and said, “Maharaj, I was ex-

Harishankar Parsai Bholaram’s Soul

tremely careful. There’s no precaution that I didn’t take. As you know, eventhe most crafty lawyer can’t slip out of these skilled hands of mine. But inthis instance, it seems as if Indra himself put one over me.”

“Maharaj,” Chitragupt intervened, “lately such things seem to happena lot on Earth. People send parcels to friends, but they vanish in transit.Entire wagons of goods trains disappear. Another strange thing that’s be-come common is that leaders of one political party kidnap leaders of anotherparty and hold them confined. I wonder if that didn’t happen to Bholaram’ssoul?”

Dharmaraj gave him a scornful look, and said, “Looks like you too needretirement. What interest could anyone have in a worthless wretch like Bho-laram?”

Just then that eternally footloose sage, Narad, walked in. When he sawDharmaraj so agitated, he asked, “What’s bothering you, maharaj? Is itthat old problem of not having enough housing in Hell?”

“No, that was resolved some time ago,” Dharmaraj replied. “Lately thesemost ingenious people have been coming to Hell. Many of them are buildingcontractors who, when alive, always extracted full payments but left thebuildings unfinished. Some are famous civil engineers who worked hand inglove with contractors on various five year plans. Then there are the overseerswho supervised the work and collected wages of thousands of labourers whodidn’t even exist. These men quickly put up any number of new buildings inHell. I’m faced now with something more difficult. A man named Bholaramdied five days ago. This emissary was bringing his soul here when somehowit gave him the slip and disappeared. He searched all over the universe butcouldn’t find any trace of it. If such goings-on continue, there won’t be anydistinction left between right and wrong.”

Narad asked, “Did Bholaram have any arrears of income tax? Perhapsthe Income Tax people caught hold of him.”

Chitragupt said, “Why talk of tax when he had no income! Bholaramdied starving.”

“Hmm. That makes it very interesting,” said Narad. “Give me his fullname and address. I’ll go down and look for him.”

Chitragupt read aloud from his register, “Bholaram. He lived in Jabalpur,in a tiny house by the sewage drain, in the neighbourhood called Ghamapur.He had a wife, two sons and one daughter. His age was around sixty. Heused to work in a government office but had retired some five years ago. Hishouse rent hadn’t been paid for the previous twelve months and the landlordwas ready to throw him out. Just then Bholaram passed away. That wasfive days ago. Probably the landlord, true to his trade, threw the family outon the road. You may have to look around a bit to find them.”

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Bholaram’s Soul Harishankar Parsai

Narad had no trouble finding the house. The loud wailing of the widowand the daughter made it easy. He stood at the door and loudly said,“Narayan, Narayan.” The daughter peeked out and said, “Maharaj, go some-where else.”

Narad said, “Beti, I’m not seeking alms. I want to ask some questionsthat concern Bholaram. Tell your mother to come to the door for a minute.”

Bholaram’s widow came to the door. Narad said to her, “Mata, what didBholaram die of?”

“What can I say,” she replied, “he died of poverty. He retired five yearsago, but never received any of his pension. He would post a reminder everyweek or so, but either he never received a reply or if a letter came it only said,“The matter is under consideration.” We first lived on the little jewellery Ihad, then we had to sell our pots and pans. Now we had nothing left. Somedays we’d have nothing to eat. Desperate and starving, he suddenly passedaway.”

“You can’t change things, mata. They were all the years he was given tolive,” Narad tried to console her.

“Maharaj, don’t say that. He still had many years in him. If he hadreceived his little pension every month, he could have supplemented it byworking somewhere — that would have met our needs. We could have sur-vived. But what could we do? He came home from work five years ago, butwe’re yet to receive a single paisa in pension.”

Narad didn’t have the time to listen to her woes. He turned to what wason his mind, “Tell me, mata, was he particularly fond of anyone — someonewhom his soul would refuse to part from?”

The widow replied, “One can be so fond of only one’s family, maharaj.”“No, it can be outside the family too. I mean, was there another

woman . . . ?”Bholaram’s widow glared at Narad. “Don’t be so loose with your tongue,

maharaj. You’re a sadhu, not a rogue,” she said heatedly. “In all his life henever ever raised his eyes to look at another woman.”

“Yes, yes, you’re absolutely right to think that way. All good wives liveby that precept,” said Narad, with a laugh. “Now, mata, I must take myleave.”

The widow said, “Maharaj, you’re a sadhu. You’re gifted with specialpowers. Can’t you do something to get his pension released? It would feedthese children a few days.”

Narad was moved. He said, “Who listens to sadhus now? Also, I don’thave any followers here. But I’ll go to the office and give it a try.”

When Narad arrived at the pension office, he went directly to the first

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Harishankar Parsai Bholaram’s Soul

clerk he saw and asked about Bholaram’s case. The clerk looked at himcarefully, then said, “Yes, Bholaram did send in many applications but hedidn’t put any weight on them — they must have flown away.”

Narad said, “Bhai, what about these paperweights on your table Youcould have used one of them.”

The clerk laughed. “You’re a sadhu. You don’t know the ways of theworld. Applications are not kept in place by paperweights. Anyway, youshould talk to that babu over there.”

Narad went to the other babu. He sent him to a third man, who directedhim to a fourth person, who in turn asked him to see a fifth man, and so on.After Narad had been to see some thirty or so different clerks, a peon tookpity on him. He said, “Maharaj why did you get yourself involved in thismess? You may go round and round like this for a whole year, but it won’tget you anywhere. You should see the chief sahab. If you manage to pleasehim, your work will he done in an instant.”

Narad strode over to the office of the chief sahab. The peon outside thedoor was dozing on his stool, so Narad had no trouble getting in. But thechief sahab was not pleased. “You take this for some temple of yours?” heasked with annoyance. “Why didn’t you first send in your card?”

“How could I” Narad replied. “The peon was asleep.”“So what’s your problem?” the chief asked rather regally.Narad explained the case of Bholaram’s withheld pension.“You’re a sadhu,” the chief sahab replied, “you don’t understand how

things are done in government offices. The fault lies with Bholaram. You see,this place, too is like a temple. Here too one must make offerings. You seemto be close to Bholaram. You should put some weight on his applications.Then they will stay in place and won’t fly away.”

Narad thought, Here we go again, talking about weights!Seeing the perplexed look on Narad’s face, the chief sahab continued,

“Look, this involves government money. A pension file must go to countlessdifferent offices. It takes a long time. Delays happen. Sometimes the samenote must be copied and entered twenty different times. Only then can onebe sure of the final decision. You might say, the amount of any pension equalsthe cost of the stationery required for the paperwork. Of course, things canbe expedited. But . . . ” He stopped and gave Narad a meaningful look.

“But what?” asked Narad.“It requires some weight,” the chief sahab replied, with a smile. “Let me

explain. Take this fine veena of yours, it too can be used as a weight onBholaram’s application. My daughter is taking music lessons. I can give itto her. It’s after all a sadhu’s veena. It should produce lovely music.”

The sudden prospect of losing his veena made Narad nervous, but he

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quickly recovered his poise. “Here, take it,” he said, placing the veena on thetable. “Now, please issue an order rightaway for the release of Bholaram’spension.”

The chief sahab was delighted. He offered Narad a chair, took the veenaand put it in one corner of the room. He then pressed a bell. When the peonarrived, the chief sahab ordered, “Get the file on Bholaram’s pension fromthe head clerk.”

A few minutes later, the peon came back with the file. It was bulging withthe two hundred or so petitions that Bholaram had sent. It also containedall the necessary papers for the final approval. The chief sahab checked thename on the file, then to make sure that there was no mistake he askedNarad, “What was the name again?”

Narad thought the chief sahab was perhaps short of hearing. He clearedhis throat and said somewhat loudly, “Bholaram.”

Suddenly a thin voice came out of the file, “Who is it? Is it the postman?Have the orders come?”

Narad was startled, but the next instant he understood everything. “Bho-laram?” he asked. “Are you Bholaram’s soul?”

“Yes, I am,” came the reply.“I am Narad. I have come to take you to Dharmaraj. Come, they are

waiting for you in Heaven.”“I can’t come,” the voice replied. “I’m caught up in my pension case. I

can’t abandon my file and go off elsewhere.”1

1“Bholaram’s Soul” was originally published in Hindi as “Bholaram ka Jeev” in 1954.

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Tiny Tales

The Right Punishment

An artist committed a serious crime and was brought before the king. Theking asked his minister. “Shall we send him to jail for three years?”

“His is a serious crime, maharaj,” the minister replied. “Three yearswon’t be enough.”

“Let it be ten years then,” the king said.

“No, maharaj, ten years aren’t enough either.”

“Well, should it be for life?”

“Even that’s not enough, maharaj”

“Should he be hanged?”

“No, maharaj, that’s still not enough.”

The king seas exasperated. “What can be worse than that?” he asked.

“Let him be tied to a post,” the minister replied, “then have someonepraise other artists before him.”

The Right Medicine

The great poet, Anangji, was on his death bed.

His doctors had declared that he had, at the most, only an hour to live.His wife begged them to give her husband something that would keep himalive for a few more hours, just long enough for him to meet their son whowas arriving by the evening train. The doctors regretfully told her that theyhad no such medicine.

Just then a friend of Anangji came to see him. He said, “I can easily keephim alive for several hours.”

The doctors laughed. “That’s impossible,” they said.

The friend said, “Let me at least try. Please leave me alone with him.”

They left the room.

Tiny Tales Harishankar Parsai

The friend sat down by Anangji’s bed and whispered to him, “Anangji,you’re about to leave us forever. We’ll never get to hear your sweet voiceagain. Please recite a few verses before you pass away.”

No sooner had the friend spoken the words than Anangji sat up. He said,“I don’t quite feel up to it, but of course I can’t say no to you. Please getme my notebook from the shelf.”

The friend brought him the notebook and Anangji started to read him hisverses. Hour followed hour. The evening train arrived, and with it Anangji’sson. When the son entered the room he found his father sitting on the bed,reciting a poem, but the father’s friend had fallen to the floor, dead.

A Boy of Destiny

A woman took her young son to a fortune teller and said, “Panditji, pleasetell me the future of this boy. What will he become when he grows up?”

The fortune teller replied, “Ma, tell me about his habits. Have you seenhim do anything unusual?”

The woman said, “Often at night he suddenly cries out — Awake! MoveForward!”

“When he cries out these words.” the fortune teller asked, “does he doanything himself?”

“No, he doesn’t,” the woman replied. “He stays sound asleep, doesn’tmove a limb — he lies there like a rock”

The fortune teller remained silent in thought for a few moments. Thenhe said, “Ma, your son’s future is very bright.”

“What will he be, Panditji?” the woman asked eagerly.“The leader of a democracy.”

Caste

A factory was set up, and a housing colony was built for all the employees.From Thakurpura came Thakur Sahab. From Brahminpuri came Pan-

ditji. They joined the factory and lived in the colony in adjoining blocks.Thakur Sahab had a son. Panditji had a daughter. The two met and got

to know each other. They decided they should get married.When Panditji heard their decision, he said, “No, that’s impossible. A

brahmin’s daughter marrying a thakur? Never! We’ll lose our caste.”Thakur Sahab responded similarly, “Never. We’ll lose our caste if you

marry outside it.”

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Harishankar Parsai Tiny Tales

A third person tried to reason with them. He said, “Look, both theboy and the girl are mature, sensible and educated. Let them get married.Suppose they don’t marry, but continue to meet secretly and somethinghappens — won’t that be fornication?”

“So what!” Thakur Sahab and Panditji retorted. “Fornication doesn’tmake you lose your caste, marriage does.”

The effigy

In a certain city in a certain raj, the police was so brutal with the peoplethat they decided to burn the effigy of the police minister.

The built his effigy. It was huge and had a horrible face.The administration imposed Section 144 of the Indian Penal Code and

the police confiscated the effigy.But now the police was faced with a dilemma — what should it do with

the effigy?The constables went to their officers and asked, “Sir, this effigy takes up

too much space. Should we burn it or should we take it apart?The officers said, “Are you crazy? It is the minister sahab’s effigy! We

can’t burn it. You want to lose your jobs?”Then the festival of Dushehra came around, and with it the enactment of

Ramlila. A senior police officer had a brainwave. He sent for the organizersand said, “You need an effigy of Ravana, don’t you? Take this one here. Allit needs is nine more heads — you can easily provide those yourselves.”

The sorrow

The office workers were very gloomy that day. One of them had been trans-ferred to another city. He was a very decent man. His colleagues organized asmall function to bid him farewell. Some of them gave speeches. They saidit seemed as if they were losing a brother.

A man sitting by himself in a corner was crying bitterly. His tears seemedendless.

Someone said to him, “His impending departure seems to have really hityou.”

“Yes,” the man replied, between sobs.“You must have been very close to him?”“No.”“Then why are you crying so?”

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Tiny Tales Harishankar Parsai

“The bastard’s going on a promotion, that’s why,” the man replied, al-most choking on his words.1

1“Tiny Tales” contains some “short” short stories from Laghu Kathayen originallypublished in Hindi. “The Right Punishment” was published as “Dand” in 1965, “TheRight Medicine” as “Dava” in 1964, “A Boy of Destiny” as “Honhaar” in 1966, “Caste” as“Jaati”, “The Effigy” as “Pulis Mantri ka Putla” and “The Sorrow” as “Dukh” in 1965.

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A Fast Unto Death

We present below a chapter from the book Our Glorious Ancestors,published in 3002 AD. To quote from it’s Preface — “. . . the gloryof our ancestors is inscribed in silver letters on the pages of history.Their resoluteness, their sacrifice, the nobility of their character canbe glimpsed in this book. Like lamp posts they light the road for ourchildren.”

This happened in 1960. In a certain city, a certain Gobardhan Babuwas the chairman of the municipal corporation. He was well known for hisservices to society. During his tenure only his kinsmen had been appointedto civic positions and his relatives alone handled all the contracts issuedby the corporation. In the same city there also lived a Seth Kishori Lal, awholesale dealer in textiles. He was a devoutly religious man, and thanksto Gobardhan Babu, all his goods could enter the city without paying anyoctroi duty. Naturally, the two were great friends.

One day Gobardhan Babu was visiting Seth Kishori Lal. The Sethjicomplained to him that the new octroi inspector had caused him some troublea few times. Gobardhan Babu said, “You’ve done the right thing in lettingme know I like to hear all complaints personally. I shall reprimand that manright away!”

After some more similar chit chat, Gobardhan Babu said, “Sethji, god hasgiven you everything — wealth, prestige, children, a happy family. There’sjust one thing that’s still missing,”

“And what’s that?” Kishori Lal asked.“You’ve not yet been immortalized. You ought to get it done now.”“How can that be?” the Sethji spoke in philosophical tones. “Who has

ever been immortalized in this world? One who has come in this world mustalso leave, whether he is a king or a pauper.”

“What I meant was,” Gobardhan Babu said, “that your name should beimmortalized. You, of course, may die, but your name must live on.”

“Well, it shall live on,” the Sethji responded innocently. “My son willalways write it in the paternity column on contract forms. I’ll also have it

A Fast Unto Death Harishankar Parsai

put on the signboard over the shop.”“That’s fine,” Gobardhan Babu persisted, “that’s fine. But what I mean

is that you should be immortalized in the public’s eve. The people shouldremember you and sing your praises for centuries.”

“Yes, I’d also like that,” Seth Kishori Lal responded. “But how can thatbe? I haven’t done anything . . . ”

“You leave that to me,” Gobardhan Babu interrupted. “I have a planthat will immortalize you and also cost you very little. The corporation hasdecided to have a statue of Mahatma Gandhi set up in Azad Park. Thatshould cost three to four thousand rupees. Now, if you donate the statue,your name gets engraved on its base. For centuries to come, those who’lllearn about Gandhiji will also come to know of you. Your name will betaken in the same breath with Gandhiji’s. People will bow their heads beforeit.”

The Sethji fell into a reverie.“The statue,” Gobardhan Babu pressed on, “will be unveiled by Bhaiya

Sahab. You know who he is. His word is supreme in the Congress partythese days. He can make anyone an MLA, or even an MP. If he’s pleasedwith you he’ll get you elected as an MLA in the next elections. He may evenmake you a minister. As wise men have said, One should always do whatbenefits one in this birth and also the next.”

Seth Kishori Lal could no longer hesitate, “As you wish, GobardhanBabu,” he said humbly, “I accept. You get the statue made, I’ll pay forit.”

The statue was made. Covered with a sheet of cloth, it was placed on aplatform in Azad Park. Gobardhan Babu fixed a time with Bhaiya Sahab forthe unveiling ceremony. He also had a fenced flower garden laid out aroundthe statue. It had a small gate that faced the front of the statue.

One day before the unveiling ceremony, Gobardhan Babu went to thepark with a stone cutter and instructed him to carve into the base of thestatue, on the side facing the gate, the following words, “Erected during thetenure and through the efforts of Babu Gobardhan Das.” The man had juststarted when seth Kishori Lal arrived.

“What’s going on?” the sethji asked, and took the paper from the stonecutter’s hand. As he read, his face flushed with anger. “Why are you gettingthis carved?” he asked. “Is the statue mine, or yours?”

“It’s yours, that’s true,” Gobardhan Babu replied. “And your name willalso be engraved.”

“Where?” the sethji asked.“There,” Gobardhan Babu pointed towards the back of the statue,

“there . . . it will be carved there.”

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“Oh yes!” the sethji said, with some sarcasm. “The name of the one whopaid for it will be on the back, but the name of the one who didn’t spend apaisa will be in the front! So when people come through the gate they seeyour name first. Hunh?”

Gobardhan Babu tried to reason with him, “After all, sethji, I’m thechairman of the municipal corporation — the first citizen of the city. I toohave some prestige, don’t I?”

“That I understand very well,” the sethji responded, with some heat.“You can’t make a fool of me that easily. Now listen. Here, facing the gate,should be my name. If that’s not done, I’ll take the statue home.”

Gobardhan Babu knew when he was defeated. He had Seth Kishori Lal’sname carved on the front and his own on the back. The carver had not yetfinished when a man arrived with a letter from Bhaiya Sahab. GobardhanBabu smiled as he read it, then he handed it to the sethji. Bhaiya Sahabhad written, “It’s been my experience that often the name of the person whoinaugurates gets carved together with the names of other people. That ispatently wrong. The name of the inaugurator should be the most prominentand also all by itself. Anyone coming to the site should first see the name ofthe person who inaugurated it.”

“Well?” There was a triumphant ring to Gobardhan Babu’s voice. Butthe sethji remained firm. “Well what?” he retorted. “Who paid for thestatue, I or Bhaiya Sahab? Put his name there, on the left side of the base.”And he marched off.

With a heavy heart, Gobardhan Babu had the names carved the way hehad been instructed. The unveiling was to take place in the morning. Allnight long, Gobardhan Babu remained busy completing the arrangements.

Tents were put up. Chairs were laid out. The space around the statuewas gaily decorated.

Seth Kishori Lal arrived a bit early and went straight to the statue. Whathe saw left him dumbfounded. During the night the gate in front of the statuehad been closed. Instead, a new gate had been constructed facing the statue’sback. Once again, his name was not the first to be seen.

“Gobardhan Babu!” the sethji shouted. “Please come here.”Gobardhan Babu came somewhat sheepishly.“You have again deceived me!” Seth Kishori Lal bellowed. “Is there no

limit to your tricks? Why did you move the gate overnight to the other side?”Gobardhan Babu tried to soothe him. “You see, one shouldn’t come face

to face with a great person suddenly. The visitors will now approach fromthe back, walk around one side and only then step before . . . ”

“But they’ll see your name first!” Kishori Lal interrupted him vehemently.“Look here, Gobardhan Babu. I won’t let the ceremony take place until my

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name is in the front again. If you continue to persist, I’ll simply take thestatue home.”

People had started to arrive. Some of them had sauntered over andwere now listening to the exchange. Just then Bhaiya Sahab’s car arrived.He walked over to the two luminaries and asked. “What is the problem,Gobardhan Babu?”

Seth Kishori Lal said, “Bhaiya Sahab, if the gate isn’t moved to the frontof the statue I won’t let the inauguration take place. I’ll start a fast untodeath right here to get justice done.”

Now Gobardhan Babu also became adamant, “No, the gate will remainwhere it is. I too will go on an indefinite fast for the sake of justice.”

Bhaiya Sahab grasped the situation. “You’re wrong,” he declared, “bothof you. The gate should face the side where my name is. It is I who have themost important task to perform here. These hundreds of people have comehere because of me, not because of you. Please move the gate immediatelyso it faces my name.”

The conflict became triangular. It was a test for both the sethji andGobardhan Babu. But the two remained staunch in their resolve. They said,“No, that can’t be done.”

When he heard that, Bhaiya Sahab quickly climbed up to the rostrum andbegan to address the crowd, “Friends, we’re suddenly faced with a seriousethical problem. This is the question — whose name should face the gate?Seth Kishori Lai, Babu Gobardhan Das and your humble servant — each ofus believes that the gate ought to face his name. All three of us are on thepath of Truth. Truth has many faces — this person looks at one face, that atanother. But the question is, whose Truth is supreme? It’s a tough question.But no question is so difficult that it can’t be resolved through nonviolentmeans. And so, the three of us have vowed to go on a fast unto death righthere. We’ll put moral pressure on each other and thus try to bring about achange of heart. The one who succeeds in changing the hearts of the othertwo will have the gate placed facing his name.

”Friends, it’s your duty to immediately set up a Peace Committee. Itshould first place marigold garlands around our necks, then arrange to haveghee lamps lit here. Next it should organize a chorus to sing continuouslythat great favourite of Mahatma Gandhi, the Ramdhun. It will also be thePeace Committee’s job to publicize our fast and keep a watch on us to makesure that we strictly follow the rules. Most importantly, it should find outrightaway from each of us the name of the person from whose hands he wouldeventually like to receive the orange juice to break his fast. As for me, I havegone on a fast seventy three times in the past. In no instance did I break myfast at the hands of anyone lower in rank than that of a chief minister.

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Harishankar Parsai A Fast Unto Death

“Friends, we three are risking our lives for the sake of Truth and Justice.We hope that you too will do what is your duty.”

The three fasters settled down under a tent. Garlands were put aroundtheir necks. Ghee lamps were lit. A chorus also started to sing — Sab kosanmati de bhagwan . . . Telegrams were sent to spread the news. Newsmenand photographers began to arrive. Every morning the chairman of the PeaceCommittee would go to each of the fasting person and ask, “Sir, has therebeen a change of heart in you?”

The answer was always the same, “No. Go, ask the others.” On thefourth day the condition of the three fasters became serious. Still no one hada change of heart.

The chief minister arrived on the fifth day. He went directly to the sethjiand whispered in his ear, “Look, if you don’t have a change of heart within thehour you won’t get the contract to supply uniforms to all the state chaprasis.”

Then he went to Gobardhan Babu and whispered, “Listen, if you don’thave a change of heart within the hour I’ll suspend the municipal corpora-tion.”

Very shortly the public heard the news. Both Seth Kishori Lai and BabuGobardhan Das had had a change of heart. The two had acknowledged thatthe gate should rightly face the side which carried Bhaiya Sahab’s name.The three stalwarts drank glasses of orange juice. Bhaiya Sahab’s neck wasloaded with marigold garlands.

Such, dear readers, were our brave ancestors. For the sake of Truth andJustice, they even risked their lives.1

1“A Fast Unto Death” was originally published in Hindi as “Aamaran Anshan” in 1964.

97

Pulled Down Lamp Posts

One day the raja became so exasperated with all the profiteers that he an-nounced that he would have every one of them hanged from the nearest lamppost.1

Next morning, people began to gather near lamp posts. Reverently theybowed before the posts, performed aarti and put tilak marks on them. Theythen waited till evening for the profiteers to be brought and hanged. Butnone was.

The people went in a procession to the raja. They said, ”Maharaj, youhad announced that you’ll have the profiteers hanged from the lamp posts,but the posts stand bare as ever while the profiteers are well and prospering.”

The raja said, ”If I said so then it will happen — they will be hangedfrom the posts. But it will take a little time. We need nooses to hang themwith. I have given the orders. As soon as the nooses arrive, I’ll have all theprofiteers hanged from the posts.”

A man stepped forward from the crowd. He said, ”But, maharaj, it’s oneof the profiteers who got the contract to supply the nooses!”

”So what? He’ll be hanged from his own noose.”A second spoke up. “But he was saying he’s also got the contract to do

the hangings.”“No, that can’t be,” said the raja. “Hanging is not yet in the private

sector.”The people asked, “So when will they be hanged?”The raja replied, “Exactly sixteen days from today you’ll see them hang-

ing from the lamp posts.”The people began to count the days.On the sixteenth morning, when the people came out they found all the

lamp posts lying on the ground. They were astounded. There had been nostorm the previous night, nor any earthquake. What caused them to toppleover? They wondered.

1Profiteers . . . hanged from the nearest lamp post: A famous announcementby Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru.

Harishankar Parsai Pulled Down Lamp Posts

They found a man standing near one of the posts. He told them that theprevious night someone had hired him and several other men to pull downthe lamp posts. The people dragged him to the raja.

“Maharaj,” they complained, “you were going to have the profiteershanged from the lamp posts today, but last night all the posts were knockeddown. We have brought this man to you. He says that someone ordered himto do so.”

The raja turned to the man, “You there, who told you to knock downthe lamp posts?”

The man replied, “Maharaj, the overseer sahab gave the order.”The overseer was sent for.The raja asked him, “You know that I had announced to have the profi-

teers hanged from the lamp posts today, don’t you?”“Yes, maharaj.”“Then why did you tell this man to knock down all the lamp posts?”“Because the engineer sahab ordered me to have it done overnight,”

replied the overseer.The engineer was summoned. He said. “I was ordered by the chief electric

engineer to have all the lamp posts dug out.”When the CEE was asked for an explanation, he humbly admitted that

he was so ordered by the secretary, Department of Electricity.The raja asked the secretary if he had ordered for the posts to be knocked

down.The secretary acknowledged that he had.“How dare you!” the raja thundered. “Didn’t you know that I intended

to use the posts today to hang the profiteers?”The secretary said, “Maharaj, it was a question of the safety of the city,

If the posts had not been removed Iast night, the entire city would have beenin ruins today.”

“What made you believe that?” the raja asked. “Did anyone tell yousomething?”

“Maharaj, an expert advised me to do so,” the secretary replied. “He saidthat if I wanted to save the city I should have all the posts dug up beforedawn.”

“And who’s that expert? Is he someone trustworthy?” the raja asked.“Absolutely trustworthy, maharaj.” said the secretary. “Someone, in

fact, from my family. My brother-in-law. I’ll bring him to you.”The expert came. He said, “Maharaj, I’m an expert. I study the earth

and its environment. Through tests I came to know that a huge electricstorm was brewing underground. I also discovered that it must pass underour city today. You may not feel it, maharaj, but I know that right now

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monstrous electric currents are passing through the ground underneath us.If our lamp posts had remained in position, that electric surge would havecome above ground through them. It would have then collided with thepower generated by our own stations and caused a horrible explosion. Itwould have been as if thousands of lightning bolts had struck the city atonce. Not one person could have escaped alive, not one building could havesurvived. I immediately informed Secretary Sahab, who then took the rightaction just in time and saved the city.”

The people were dumbfounded. They completely forgot about the prof-iteers. They were overwhelmed by the terror whose barest image they hadjust been exposed to. They cowered with gratitude that their lives had beensaved. Silently they turned around and left.

That week, the following cash deposits were made at a local bank:

In the account of Mrs Secretary — Rs 2 lakh.

In the account of Mrs CEE — Rs 1 lakh.

In the account of Mrs Engineer — Rs 1 lakh.

In the account of Mrs Expert — Rs 25,000.

In the account of Mrs Overseer — Rs 5,000.

The same week, in the account book of the National Profiteers’ Associa-tion, the following amounts were entered under Charitable donations:

To the Leprosy Hospital — Rs 2 lakh.

To the Widows’ Ashram — Rs 1 lakh.

To the TB Sanatorium — Rs 1 lakh.

To the Mental Hospital — Rs 25,000.

To the Orphanage — Rs 5,000.1

1“Pulled down Lamp posts” was originally published in Hindi as “Ukhre Khambe.”

100

Shivering Republic

I have seen the Republic Day parade in Delhi four times. I don’t have thestrength to see it a fifth time. Why is it that every time I go to attend theparade the weather turns awfully cruel? Just before 26 January, it snows inthe hills and a cold wave sets in — clouds gather, it drizzles a few times,and the sun goes into hiding. Just as Delhi doesn’t have its own economicpolicy, it doesn’t have a weather of its own either. Delhi’s economic policyis established by the International Monetary Fund and the Aid India Con-sortium. Delhi’s weather is determined by Kashmir, Sikkim, Rajasthan, andwhat have you.

I’m not so foolish that I believe it happens only the years I go to see theparade. Even they who go every year say that on Republic Day the sky isalways sunless and the weather bitterly cold. Why? What’s the mystery?

When there was just one Congress party, I had asked a Congress minister,“Why is it that the sun remains hidden on every Republic Day? Why can’twe celebrate the day under a bright sun?”

His reply was, “Be patient. We’re trying to make it come out, but it’snot easy with such a big sun. It will take time. You should give us at leasta hundred years in power.”

All right, so we give you a hundred years to bring the sun out all theway. But in the meantime, shouldn’t we be able to see at least a bit of it onevery Republic Day? You’d think the sun was a baby stuck in the horizon’swomb — one day they’d do a caesarian and suddenly pull it out!

More recently, after the Congress had split, I asked an Indi-cate Con-gressite. He replied, “In the past, whenever we tried to get the sun out, theSyndicate people put up some obstacle. Now we promise you we’ll have thesun out on the next Republic Day.”

A Syndicatewala was close by, eavesdropping. He said, “Their Madam isin the clutches of the Communists. It’s they who are pushing her to bringthe sun out from behind the clouds. They hope it will be their beloved Redsun. But we ask, why is it necessary to bring the sun out? Shouldn’t it beenough just to remove the clouds?”

Shivering Republic Harishankar Parsai

I questioned a bhai from the Samyukta Socialist Party. He replied, “Thesun must act in an anti-Congress way. It has signed — at Dr Lohia’s in-stance — our party’s membership form. Certainly you don’t expect it tocome out and watch some Congresswala review the parade? Put a non-Congress man on the reviewing stand, then you’ll see — you’ll have ten sunsshining in the sky.”

I then went to a Jansanghi bhai. He was quite frank. “Had the sun beensecular, it would have shown itself for this party’s parade. You think thesesecular people can persuade Bhagwan Amshumali to come out? He shallshine forth when we come into power.”

The Communists were still more blunt. “Its a CIA conspiracy — theSeventh Fleet sends these clouds to Delhi every year.”

The Prajatantra Socialist Party bhai, on the other hand, was somewhatbrusque. He said, “It’s a complex issue. Our National Council will come toa decision in its next meeting. I’ll let you know then.”

I couldn’t get hold of Rajaji, but if I had he would have only said, “Whycomplain? At least the stars still come out at night in the Raj.”

I’ll wait. Let the sun come out when it will.

Likewise our Independence Day comes in the middle of heavy rains. TheBritish were very clever. They gave us freedom in the middle of the rainyseason, then walked away — like the wicked lover who walked off with theumbrella of his beloved. Now, when she walks to the bus stop in the rain, sheis tortured not so much by the memory of her absent lover as by the thoughtof her stolen umbrella.

Our Independence Day gets rained on, our Republic Day comes in shiv-ering.

I stand watching the parade. My hands are stuffed in the pockets of myovercoat. The prime minister goes by in an open car, some foreign dignitaryriding with her. The commentator on the radio says, “People are clappingloudly.” I look around. No one around me is clapping. We all have our handsstuffed in our pockets. No one wants to expose his or her hands. They mightfreeze.

But others do clap even if we don’t. The people seated on the bare groundclap. They don’t have coats to stuff their hands into. It seems our RepublicDay depends on freezing hands, for only those hands clap in welcome whoseowners don’t have coats to warm them.

Some say, “Poverty should be removed.”

Others respond, “They who make such demands are a threat to democ-racy.”

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Harishankar Parsai Shivering Republic

There are floats from every state in the Republic Day parade. They aren’t,however, truly representative. Our motto is “Satyameva Jayate,” but thefloats tell only lies. They highlight development programmes, folk culture,history. But surely each state ought to display on its float only that whichmade it famous in the preceding twelve months. For example, the Gujaratfloat this year should depict the Ahmedabad riots — a burning house, achild thrown into the flames. Last year I had hoped that the Andhra floatwould show some Harijans being burned alive. But it didn’t happen. Thestate gained international fame for its riots, but its float displayed small scaleindustries! What mendacity! I ask you, is there a better Cottage Industryin our country than communal riots?

Two years ago, my own Madhya Pradesh tried to come closer to the truth.On their float they displayed famine relief activities. But, again, that wasonly half the truth. That year Madhya Pradesh had gained a name not forits relief work, but for the malpractice in it. Had I had my way, our floatwould have had clerks falsifying muster rolls, paymasters putting their ownthumbprints against thousands of names, and netas, officers and contractorspassing on money to each other. The actual float didn’t come anywhere nearthe truth. Then last year our state gained fame on account of the “burlapincident.” I would have enjoyed a tableau of ministers and civil servantsstanding around, munching on pieces of burlap.

As with the floats, so with the public announcements. Every year it isofficially announced, “Socialism is coming.” Well, it has yet to arrive. Wheredid it get stuck? Just about every party has promised to bring Socialism,but it isn’t coming.

I have a dream. Socialism has come — it stands on a hill outside the city.The people in the city stand ready with aarti trays to welcome it. But thehill has been surrounded by Socialists of every colour. Each has promisedthe people that he would personally lead Socialism by the hand into the city.

Socialism shouts from the hilltop, “Take me to the people.”The Socialists encircling the hill shout back. “But we must first decide

who will hold your hand and lead you into town.”Socialism has been gheraoed. There are the Democratic-Socialists of the

PSP and the SSP, there are the Communists of both the People’s Democracyand the National Democracy, there are the Congressites of the two varieties,and there are several stalwarts from the Socialist Unity Forum. There are,of course, the Revolutionary Socialists too. And each of them wants to leadSocialism by the hand into the city and declare, “Here, I have brought youSocialism.”

Socialism is bewildered. So are the people. Socialism stands ready tocome, but the Socialists are engaged in fisticuffs. Socialism tries to sneak

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down but is showered with rocks and threats. “Stop right there! Not thatway!” A Socialist grabs its right hand, another its left. They try to pull it inseparate directions. Then other Socialists jump in and pull it free. Socialismrushes back to the hilltop, badly battered.

In this country, those who champion something are always the ones whodestroy it. Those who demand freedom of expression try to rob the writer ofhis freedom. Those who are charged with establishing cooperatives seek todemolish them. They say, cooperation is of the spirit. They cooperate witheach other — in filling their pockets.

Meanwhile the prime minister has announced. “Socialism is just aroundthe corner.”

I have another dream. A pronouncement has been made in Delhi, “So-cialism will soon start on a tour of the country. It will go everywhere. Everyeffort should be made to welcome it.”

One secretary remarks to another, “Here comes another VIP. Now wemust make arrangements for it too. What a pain . . . !”

Circulars go out to the collectors in all districts, who forward them to thesenior district officers, and they in turn pass them on to the tehsildars.

A secret memo reaches the police officers — Protect Socialism!In the head office, the Bade Babu asks the Chhote Babu, “Arre, Tiwari

Babu, didn’t we get a Government Order about Socialism. You think youcan find it?”

Tiwari Babu looks for the Government Order and brings it over. TheBade Babu exclaims, “Arre, that Socialism fellow passed through here twodays ago! No one went to the station to meet it! Tiwari Babu, why mustyou always sit on files? It’s such a bad habit.”

All the senior officials go to the chief secretary. “Sir, can’t this Socialismcome a bit later? The fact is, we’re unable to make any sort of arrangementfor its protection. Dushehra is not far off. There might be riots. Our entireforce is busy.”

The chief secretary writes to Delhi — “We are unable to provide fullprotection to Socialism. Its tour should be postponed for a while.”

A government that misplaces files concerning Socialism’s tour, that can’tprovide it proper protection — if you wish to bring in Socialism with thehelp of such a government, go ahead, bring it in. I have no particular ob-jection. After all, if Socialism eventually comes, not through the efforts ofthe people but through the channels of the government, that in itself will besome historical event.1

1“A Shivering Republic” was originally published in Hindi as “Thithurta huaGanatantra.”

104

Divine Lunatic Mission

India is faced at present with a major question — what should it send toAmerica next? The Americans have already read the Kamasutra. Theyhave seen enough yogis, saints and ascetics. Young Americans have enjoyedmarijuana. They have also watched cobras and tigers, and bought antiqueson the Janpath. America has also imported plenty of spiritualism from here.In return, it continues to ship us wheat. And, of course, there has alreadybeen enough chanting of Hare Rama, Hare Krishna.

Mahesh Yogi, Bal Yogeshwar. Bal Bhogeshwar. They’ve all been there.Who should it be next? I’m quite patriotic, but I also understand the Amer-ican. I know he belongs to a Bored society — that is, he’s a bore. His stocksautomatically bring in dollars. His den contains a television set and plentyof liquor. In the evening, he goes out and says Hi to a few people, but thatdoesn’t cure his boriyat1. No matter how often it bombs Hanoi, Americadoesn’t feel exhilarated. America feels the need for something — somethingfrom India.

I worry about America. I’m equally worried about my fellow Indians.They too need something.

So what should we Indians take next to America, to get dollars thereand bring rupees here? Ravi Shankar bores them. They have had enough ofsadhus and saints. The Americans need something new to end their boriyatand re-ignite their enthusiasm. They’re, of course, ready to pay in dollars.

I have a modest suggestion — let’s send them a Divine Lunatic Missionfrom India. Such a mission has never gone there. It will be something rare —a Divine Lunatic Mission from India, that is, a mission of spiritual lunatics.

I know. I know. Every American would likely say, “We’ve already seenone, his name was Krishna Menon.” But our representatives should tellthem, “He was neither divine, nor a lunatic. It’s only now that actual DivineLunatics are coming to you from India.”

Spiritual missions often engage in smuggling. But the Government of

1Boriyat usually means “boredom” but here it is also being used to mean “being abore.”

Divine Lunatic Mission Harishankar Parsai

India and ordinary Indians don’t know that. They don’t know that peopleare often smuggled into paradise too. It’s done through the Department ofSpiritualism. India is indeed a great country. Here in a village in Gujarat, aman distributed “holy water” and turned the village into a ruin. You thinkwe can’t smuggle America into paradise?

Everyone knows about the smuggling of goods, but there is also a kindof spiritual smuggling. Suppose a man grows a long beard and goes off toAmerica with a disciple and declares, “I’m one thousand years old. I livedas an ascetic in the Himalayas for centuries, and have talked to god threetimes.” The trusting, and yet doubtful American will ask the disciple, “Isyour guru telling the truth? Is he really a thousand years old?” The disciplewill respond, “I can’t say for sure. I’ve been with him only half that time.”In other words, the disciple smuggles in five hundred years for his own use.Now he can open shop independently.

Anyway, I believe we have exported to America everything Indian. Onlyone more thing can still be sent. An Indian divine lunatic. That’s why I’murging the immediate establishment of an Indian Divine Lunatic Mission.No doubt, there are far more important people in this country, but I toowish to serve India. I also wish to remove the boriyat of my American bigbrother. Of course, I’m fully aware that even after chanting “Hare Rama,Hare Krishna” for a thousand years, we still must buy things in the blackmarket. So what can the Americans hope to obtain in just a few days? Butevery rich and pleasure loving society has its own ways of finding peace andcomfort, and if it obtains them from India, why, that only adds to India’sglory.

Bertrand Russell is said to have remarked that the American society wentfrom barbarism to decadence, skipping the stage of civilization. But I’venothing to do with Russell. I’m only interested in starting a new internationalbusiness.

All over the world. lunatics are simply lunatics. In India, they are divine.I wish to create a Divine Lunatic Mission, restricted only to those who werenever sent to an asylum. We need them. Only they can properly act aslunatics. It’s quite easy to act as a yogi. It’s easy even to act as god. Butto act as a lunatic is extremely difficult. Only the really talented can do it.I already have my sights on a couple of academic friends, and have appealedto them to join my mission.

The Mission will be formed, I’ve no doubt of it. Our publicity men inAmerica will announce, See Genuine Indian Divine Lunatics. The news ofour impending arrival in New York will be in the papers. Television cameraswill whirr. Mrs Roberts will ask Mrs Simpson. “Honey, have you seen agenuine Indian lunatic?”

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Harishankar Parsai Divine Lunatic Mission

“No,” Mrs Simpson will reply, “is there one in this country?”“Yes,” Mrs Roberts will tell her, “a mission of Divine Lunatics from India

is arriving in New York. Let’s go and see them. It’ll be a truly spiritualexperience.”

Thousands of people will gather at the airport to have the Mission’sdarshan, to be rid of the boriyat of their daily lives. They will heartilywelcome us by putting garlands around our necks, and set us up in luxuryhotels.

We shall put on for them a show of divine lunacy. The members of ourmission will have been fully trained to act as true lunatics. A ticket to theshow will cost fifty dollars. Thousands of Americans will spend hundreds ofthousands of dollars to watch the Divine Lunatics from India.

As the leader of the Mission, I’ll introduce the show, “We are real IndianDivine Lunatics. Our rishis and munis declared thousand of years ago thatthe way to real internal peace and salvation lies through lunacy.” Then mycompanions will perform their lunatic acts. They’ll be showered with dollars.Our business will flourish.

Those who’d like to join the Mission will be urged to contact me. Our onlycondition will be that they shouldn’t really be lunatics. Actual lunatics willnot be accepted — just as actual sadhus are never admitted to membershipin the Sadhu Sabha.

When we return from America, we’ll be felicitated on the RamlilaGrounds, or perhaps in front of Red Fort. I’ll try to get the prime min-ister to grace the occasion. But if she’s unable to find time, there are plentyof leaders, doing penance out in the political wilderness, who are alwaysavailable.

Of course, all the smugglers in Delhi will give us their full cooperation.We’re also having talks with the law enforcement agencies and the cus-

toms services. We hope they too will cooperate in spirit.There will be a speech at the reception, “This is yet one more grand

victory for Indian spiritualism. Our Divine Lunatics have returned aftergiving the world the message of true internal peace and salvation. We aresure this tradition of Divine Lunacy will continue to flourish in our greatland for ever and evermore.”

Yes, the Divine Lunatic Mission must go to America. Now that thediplomatic relations between the two countries have significantly improvedit is doubly imperative that we send them a mission of our lunatics.2

2“Divine Lunatic Mission” was originally published in Hindi as “Divine Lunatic Mis-sion.”

107

The Days of Gardish

I have sat down to write, but I don’t know what the editor’s intentions areor what the readers want — why the two wish to peek into the days whichare the writer’s very own and which he has long placed behind a cover. Howshould I return to those days of gardish1 which belonged to someone who hadmy name — as myself the writer, or in the capacity of that other person?But in reliving a gardish as a writer and making it manifest to others, thereis release for both. Here I’m not repeating what is said about the separationbetween one who experiences and one who creates. But to recall a gardishor to relive it can also be most dangerous. Once, I had pushed aside thesharp horns of Time, should I now pull them back towards my breast andsay, “Here, be my guest?”

There was gardish once, long ago. There’s none now, and there won’t beany in the future — that’s utter nonsense. The continuum of gardish is stillwith me. I’m sensitive and extremely restless. I can never be at peace. Forme, gardish is destiny.

But I have plenty of memories. Perhaps the readers’ interest lies in findingout what the life has been like of this man who is called Harishankar Parsai —who laughs, is full of zest, and can be quite sharp and bitter. When did hemeet a fall? When did he rise again? How did he break apart? What piecedhim together again — this man who is so harsh and pitiless, so cantankerous.

Typically, my sharpest memory of childhood is of plague. It was 1936 or37 and I was probably in class eight. The plague raged in our small ruraltown, and most people had abandoned their homes and fled to live in hutsin the jungle. Our family hadn’t. Ma was terribly sick. We couldn’t takeher to the jungle. In our desolate, silence-struck neighbourhood, only ourhouse showed any trace of life. Dark nights and their only light — a tinycandle in our home. And I was scared of candles. Even the town’s stray dogs

1It is difficult to find an exact equivalent in English of Gardish. Gardish, literally “acircular movement.” means trouble or travail as brought about by the “turning” of theheavens. The word implies persistence and repetition as well as the transitoriness of anygrief or pain. In other words, calling your troubles gardish is not bleak fatalism.

Harishankar Parsai The Days of Gardish

had disappeared. In the overwhelming stillness of those nights even our ownvoices frightened us. But every evening we’d sit near our dying mother andsing the aarti — Om jai jagadisha hare. Bhakt jano ke sankat pal mein durkare . . . In the middle of the song, Pitaji would start sobbing, Ma wouldburst into tears and pull us children to her breast, and we too would startcrying. This happened every day. Late at night, Pitaji, Chachaji, or someother relative, would pick up a spear or staff and walk the perimeter of thehouse to keep watch. Then, one such terrifying night, Ma passed away. Weraised loud howls of pain and grief. Suddenly some stray dogs appearedoutside to lend support.

Among the five brothers and sisters, I alone understood what Ma’s deathmeant — I was the eldest.

Those dark nights of plague have sunk deep into my heart. It would taketoo many pages to give a full measure of the terror and despair that filled ourlives then. None of us was broken — except Pitaji. He was devastated. Helived on for a few more years but was continuously sick, despondent, scaredof himself. Soon his business closed. Now we had only his meagre savingsand our household goods to live on. Everyone was waiting for me to finishhigh school. I knew Pitaji too was about to go. Despite his ill health, hemanaged to get one of my sisters married. What a terrible occasion thatwas! I understood, of course, that he was only trying to lighten my burden.But there were still two sisters and one brother to be looked after.

I began preparing myself. I was always a big reader, a big eater, and abig sportsman. In books and sports I’d forget everything. Then I finishedhigh school and found a job in the forestry department. I even lived in theforest, in a little hut provided by the government. My bed was made of bricksand boards, but the ground underneath it was hollow with rat tunnels. Therats scurried around noisily all night long, but I always managed to get mysleep. I used to wake up if one of them ever climbed on top of me, but wouldimmediately go back to sleep. I spent six months among those boisterousrats.

Poor Parsai?No, no. I was enjoying myself too much. Hard work all day long. A

long walk in the jungle at dusk. Then a hearty meal prepared with my ownhands — pure ghee and fresh milk!

But the rats did me a great favour. They taught me an excellent habit. Insubsequent life I have had other rats — even a few snakes — scurrying aroundme, but I have always managed to lie down on my bricks and boards and get agood night’s sleep. I have been bitten all right, not just by rats — frequentlysome human-faced snake or scorpion has also made me its victim — but Ihave always had with me that perfect antidote I obtained long ago. No, I

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have never allowed any occasion for “Poor Parsai!” From that young age Ihave felt extreme disgust for false pity. Even now, when I encounter someonemaking a big display of sympathy I feel like slapping him in the face. I haveto struggle to control myself.

Next came a school job, followed by a training course at a teachers college.Pitaji was close to death. My younger brother had to drop out of school tolook after him. The two younger sisters had been sent to stay with theirmarried sister — and there I was, going myself to school to be a teacher!

Then came a second job search. By now I had developed a new talent.I travelled on trains without a ticket. From Jabalpur to Itarsi, to Timarniand Khandwa, to Indore and Devas, and back to Jabalpur — innumberabletrips in search of a job. I had no money. When my train would come I’dfearlessly climb aboard — ticketless. I had learned many ways of not gettingcaught and if ever some ticket-checker caught me I’d speak to him in properEnglish and tell him my woeful tale. The use of English never failed to haveits effect. They always said, “Let’s help the poor boy.”

The second skill I learned was to borrow money. Again without any fear,I could ask anyone for a loan. In fact, I’m good at it even now.

The third thing I learned was to have no care — an attitude of what-ever will be, will be. No matter what happens, it’ll always be for good.I had an aunt — desperately poor, life filled with gardish, but possessingimmense energy to survive. Come cooking time, the daughter-in-law wouldsay to Bua, “Bai, what shall I cook? We have neither dal nor vegetables.”Bua would reply. “Not to worry,” and march out of the house. Strollingaround the neighbourhood she’d soon notice some vine spread over some-one’s thatched shed and shout to the owner, usually a woman of her ownage, “Arre Kaushalya, your turais look nice. How about a couple for me?”Then, without even waiting for a reply, she’d herself pick a few. Returninghome, she’d say to the daughter-in-law, “Here cook these — just be sure toadd extra water.” I would often visit her, worn out from my futile wander-ings, and she’d say to me, “Not to worry. Here, sit down and have somethingto eat.”

That favourite phrase of hers became my strength — “Not to worry!”

I went to Hoshangabad and asked the education officer for a job. Asusual, I was disappointed, and had to trudge back to the railway station towait for the train to Itarsi. My pockets were empty. The one rupee I hadearlier, had fallen out somewhere. I could get to Itarsi ticketless, but howwas I to feed my hunger? This was during the time of the Second WorldWar and trains were running very late. My stomach was empty I repeatedly

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tried to fill it with water. Finally I lay down on a bench. Fourteen hourspassed. Then a poor peasant family came and sat down nearby. They hadsome melons with them in a basket. By then I was ready to become a thief.The man started to slice a melon. I remarked, “The melons look good. Mustbe from your own field.” He said, “It’s all Ma Narmada’s blessings. They’resweeter than sugar. Here, see for yourself,” and gave me two big slices. Idevoured them, barely leaving any rind to throw away, then topped off withtap water. Just then my train arrived and I scrambled aboard through awindow.

Finally a job came through, at the government school in Jabalpur — butwho had the train fare to get there? The newly appointed Master Sahabwrapped up his few clothes in a durrie and got on the train without a ticket.That bundle, however, made me feel more vulnerable. Then I discoveredthat a man sitting near me was the khansama of the collector at Jabalpur.We started talking. I found him quite likeable. When Jabalpur came near, Itold him my problem. He said, “Don’t worry. Give me your bundle. I’ll waitfor you outside. You just pretend to look for drinking water and get yourselfnear the fence where the hand pump is. Nearby there is a gap in the fencewhere some bars have been twisted. You can easily sneak through.” I didas he had told me. He was indeed waiting for me outside. I recovered mybundle and set off on foot for the city, confident that I’d find someone who’dgive me shelter for a few days. By then I was well-versed in surviving amidstuncertainty.

I found it delightful, that first day of being a proper “Mas’sahab.” Butonly a day or two after receiving my first salary I also got the news of Pitaji’sdeath. I sold Ma’s few remaining ornaments for his final rites, then, shoul-dering my responsibilities as best I could, set out on life’s long journey, secureonly in the knowledge that I still had a job.

Why did I describe in such detail the gardishes of that phase in my life?There were many gardishes later too. They occur even now. Surely therewill be some in the future also. But the gardishes of young age have theirown significance. They have a profound effect on the future development ofany author’s thought and personality.

As I have said, I’m emotional, sensitive and restless by nature. A normalperson would have taken care of his responsibilities sedately and also workedout some way to get along with the world. He could even have found somesatisfaction in spending his life as a faceless toiler.

That didn’t happen with me. Responsibilities, a past full of pain andnow, total exposure to the relentless attacks of the world. In the midst of allthis, the biggest issue before me was how to preserve my individuality and

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thought. Then, I hadn’t even dreamt of becoming a writer one day. Evenso, I wanted to protect my individual self.

I told myself, Parsai, don’t be afraid of anyone. The moment you feelscared, you die. Harden yourself outside, no matter how you feel inside.Bear your responsibilities in an irresponsible manner. If you try to bearthem responsibly you’ll surely destroy yourself. Also, you won’t lose yourindividuality if you were to step out of yourself and join others. You mighteven gain something. Come out of yourself. Look, understand, and laugh!

I became fearless. Even when I was being dishonest I didn’t feel scared.And because I didn’t let any fear touch me, I lost jobs, benefits, positions,rewards. As for being irresponsible, this is how bad I was. On the way hometo have one of my sisters married I managed to get my pocket picked onthe train. So I got off at the next station, had a good meal, then sat downcarefree on a bench, confident that something was bound to happen to getme out of my predicament. It did. Of course, I had to toil and suffer for it.That pitch dark night, in a heavy downpour, I walked with a pujari all theway to my married sister’s village and back. Then I had to run around somemore. Eventually, help arrived and the wedding was performed.

Now I wonder how did the author in me come forth in the midst of suchhappenings? At first, I was totally engrossed in my own troubles. Man canfind happiness even in convincing himself — and making others believe ittoo — that he’s inflicted with troubles. A lot of people find satisfaction inhearing themselves described as pitiable. In the beginning, I too felt thatway. But then I realized — how could I be pitiable when so many aroundme are much worse off? How could my struggle compare with the moreformidable struggles going on all around me?

I must have taken up writing as a way to fight the world. I saw in it away to protect my individuality. In other words, I started writing in orderto save myself from becoming faceless. That’s how it was, I think. That’show it must have been then.

But I soon freed myself from this fascination with the sorrows of justone individual, me. I expanded myself. There were others too besieged withtrouble. Many others too had suffered injustice. Victims of exploitation werecountless. I was only one of them. And I had a pen in my hand and was richwith ideas.

That’s when the satirist must have been born. I must have thought —No tears. Fight back. Fight with whatever weapon you find in your hands.I then began a systematic study of history and society, politics and culture.Simultaneously, I shaped for myself an odd and difficult persona and, withutmost deliberateness, set about writing satires.

But salvation doesn’t come to the solitary. One can’t separate oneself

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from the rest or find good for oneself alone. Man feels restless — to obtainsalvation, to gain happiness, to find justice. But this enormous battle cannotbe fought alone. Only that person, who has no battle to fight, feels happyin being solitary. His is a different tale. As for me, I see countless peoplewho look happy and wonder, how come they’re happy? No question or doubtarises in their minds. They only make infrequent complaints. Complainingtoo gives them pleasure. They feel that much happier for it. Kabir has said,

The world is happy, it eats and sleeps.Unhappy is Kabir, he’s awake and weeps.

The crying of the one who is awake never ends. The gardish of the satiristdoesn’t end either.

My newest gardish — I recently tortured myself for a political seat. Some-one had me believe that I’d be nominated to the Rajya Sabha. A month ofgardish ensued. I’m not in the habit of conspiring. It feels like death to me ifI have to send my chit in and then wait outside some door. More valiant mencan sit like that for months and feel no mortal threat, but I can’t. So the lastfew months were of just such gardish. Of course, Profit doesn’t just walk overto your door and knock. One has to cajole and supplicate it. When Profitclears its throat you must extend your palm to receive the spit. I suffered alot. I underwent much gardish.

There is yet another gardish for any writer like me. If he fails to put intowords the storm he feels raging inside him, he goes through a torture that isunending and remorseless. It becomes a time of extreme gardish, of the kindonly another maker can understand.

I have a long memory of gardishes. But the truth is that no day is free ofgardish, nor does gardish have an end. It’s another matter that, for purelydecorative purposes, we might select or highlight a few choicest gardishes,that we might put make-up on them, teach them a few beguiling tricks —the livelier a gardish the better it is — then tell the reader, “Here, brother,look at my gardish.”2

2“The Days of Gardish” was originally published as “Gardish ke Din” in 1971–72.

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Biographical Notes

Harishankar Parsai, the noted satirist and humorist of modern Hindi lit-erature, is known for his simple and direct style. His satires deal mostlywith the absurdities and hypocrisies of socio-political life. Parsai was bornat Jabalpur, Madhya Pradesh in 1924. After completing his MA, he startedhis career as a teacher but gave that up to become a free lance writer. Hiswritings include Hanste Hain Rote Hain, Tat Ki Khoj, Tab Ki Baat Aur Thi,Jwala Aur Jal, Bhut Ke Panv Piche, Rani Nagphani Ki Kahani, Jaise UnkeDin Phire, Beimani Ki Partein, Sadachar Ka Taviz, Aur Ant Mein, AisaBhi Socha Jata Hai. He received the Sahitya Akademi Award for his satireViklang Shradha Ka Daur in 1982. He died in 1985.

C M Naim teaches at the University of Chicago in the Department of SouthAsian Languages and Civilizations. He hails from Barabanki, Uttar Pradeshand received his education in India and the United States. He has publishedstories, poetry and criticism and has also translated numerous modern Urdupoets and short story writers. He is a former editor of the Journal of SouthAsian Literature, and the Annual of Urdu studies. His translation of Zikr-e-Mir, the autobiography of Mir, one of Urdu’s foremost poets, was publishedin 1999.

Vishnu Khare is a Hindi poet, critic, translator and columnist. He hasmore than fourteen works to his credit.

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Inspector Matadeen on the Moon - Harishankar Parsai

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