Six months passed by. It was evening. Some guests had arrived to discuss Bechu’s son Malkhan’s marriage. When Bechu came in to talk to his wife about something, she said, ‘Where will the liquor come from? Do you have some money?’
Bechu: ‘Didn’t I already give you whatever I had?’
Wife: ‘But I bought rice, dal, and ghee with that. I’ve cooked for seven people. All of it got used up.’
Bechu: ‘So what do I do then?’
Wife: ‘They will hardly eat without drinking first. It will be so embarrassing.’
Bechu: ‘Whether it is embarrassing or disgraceful, it is not possible for me to get liquor now. At the most what will happen? The marriage will not be fixed. So let it not.’
Wife: ‘Hasn’t that shawl come in for washing? Go pawn it at a bania’s shop and get back four or five rupees. You can retrieve it in two or three days. We must keep our honour. Or else, everyone will say, “All talk, and nothing to show. He couldn’t even serve us liquor.”’
Bechu: ‘What are you saying? Is this dushala mine to pawn?’
Wife: ‘Whosoever’s it may be, at this moment, just use it. No one will come to know.’
Bechu: ‘No, this I cannot do, whether we get liquor or not.’
And he walked out. When he came in again, he saw his wife digging up something from a hole in the ground. Seeing him, she quickly covered the hole with the end of her sari.
Bechu went out again smiling to himself.
Translated from the Hindi by Moyna Mazumdar
Hoodwinked1
Seth Chandumal would heave a sigh whenever he saw his shop and godowns filled with goods. How would all this get sold? The bank interest was going up, the shop rental was due, and so were the wages of the employees. All this would have to be paid off from the savings. It seemed that all of it had to be paid with his own money. If this situation continued for a few more days, he would go totally bankrupt. Even then, the protesters kept pestering like a devil on one’s head.
Chandumal’s shop was in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. In the suburbs, too, he had many shops. When the Congress Committee of the city wanted him to stop the import and sale of foreign cloth, he did not pay heed. Seeing him, several other traders refused to sign the pledge paper. The kind of leadership he assumed following this was totally unprecedented without him having done much. He was a well-wisher of the government. From time to time, he would send gifts to appease the sahib bahadur. He was close to the police, too. He was also a member of the municipality. By opposing the Congress programme, he had even become the treasurer of the Peace Committee. All these benefits were the result of his support. To welcome the prince, the officials bought from him cloth worth twenty-five thousand rupees. Why should such a powerful man fear the Congress? What was the Congress anyway?
The police also backed him—‘Don’t sign the contract. Let’s see what these people can do. Just watch us send them to jail one by one.’
Chandumal’s courage was bolstered. He resolved to fight the Congress. The result was that for the past three months from early morning till nine in the night volunteers were posted in front of his shop to keep vigil. Several times the police hauled up the volunteers, abused them, and even beat them up. Chandumal too aimed a volley of angry words at them but their vigil was not lifted. He became unpopular because of all the ill treatment meted out to the volunteers, and his business suffered. The bookkeepers of the shops in the suburbs plied him with further bad news. It was really a difficult situation. There seemed to be no way out. He saw that those who had signed the contract kept buying foreign goods on the sly. There was no vigilance on their shops. All these hassles assailed only him.
What benefit did I get from my friendship with the police and the administration, he thought. No matter what they do, they cannot dislodge the surveillants. The sipahis did not inspire customers to visit him! If they could be removed somehow, then things would be resolved.
Meanwhile, the bookkeeper called out, ‘See, Lalaji. Some traders were coming to our shop. But these vigil-keepers have told them something. They are all going back.’
Chandumal answered, ‘If somebody could shoot these sinners, I would be most happy. They will only rest after ruining me.’
‘It’s your ego. You could have signed the pledge and got these surveillants removed. We too could have sold off our goods somehow then.’
‘I’ve thought about this too; but imagine how insulting it would be for me. After acting so stubborn, one cannot simply bend over. I will fall in the eyes of the administrators. People will mock me and say, look at that fellow, he thought he could fight the Congress! So browbeaten have I been that I have come to my senses. Those whom I had beaten or got beaten, those whom I mocked, those whom I abused . . . with what face can I go in their refuge? There is one way out, though. If the trick works, things will be okay. As the saying goes, kill the snake, but save the stick. I can get the vigil lifted, but without appeasing anyone.’2
It was past nine. Chandumal had come back from a dip in the Ganges and was seated on a bolster, reading his letters. The bookkeepers from his other shops had written about their difficulties. His anger grew with each letter he read. Meanwhile, two volunteers came holding banners in their hands and stopped in front of his shop.
Chandumal said angrily, ‘Move away from my shop.’
One volunteer replied, ‘Sir, I am on the
