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