He said with humility, ‘My lord, please allow me to stay away from taking any position. I am your servant, anyway. Please select a suitable person for this position. I am a stubborn Rajput. What do I now about the ways of the Awadh state?’
The emperor said, ‘I don’t see anyone more suitable and loyal than you.’
But Raja Sahib was not persuaded. The emperor also did not insist much. A moment later, when the issue of Raushanuddaulah’s punishment came up, they disagreed so much that they began to shout at each other. The emperor wanted him to be killed and fed to the dogs. Raja Sahib insisted that he should not be killed but kept under surveillance. In the end, the emperor said angrily, ‘One day, this fellow will definitely betray you.’
Raja Sahib said, ‘I can’t take somebody’s life because of this fear.’
‘All right, you may like to forgive him, but I can never forgive him in my whole life.’
‘You have surrendered him to me. How can you take back something that you have already given?’
‘You leave me no choice then.’
Raushanuddaulah’s life was spared. Captain Sahib was made the prime minister. The surprising thing was that the British Resident expressed total ignorance about this conspiracy and said that the emperor could mete out whatever punishment he wanted for the English courtiers. He had no objection to it. ‘If I had them in my control, then I would have sent them to the emperor, but I have no idea of any of them. Probably all of them fled to Calcutta on the night of the incident.’
In history, this incident does not find any mention, but folktales, which are often more trustworthy than history, are a witness to the truth of this story.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
End of Enmity1
Lifting his elder brother’s body from the charpoy and laying it on the ground, Rameshwar Rai said to his younger brother, ‘If you’ve got some cash, go and get it. We must think of his last rites. My pockets are empty.’
His younger brother’s name was Vishweshwar Rai. He was a zamindar’s agent and had a good income. He replied, ‘Take half the money from me. You take care of the rest.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘So mortgage his share of the land.’
‘Go and make a deal with some moneylender. Don’t be long.’
Vishweshwar took a loan from one of his friends and their immediate needs were met. Later he took more money and mortgaged the land. There were five bighas in all. They fetched three hundred rupees. The villagers surmised that the funeral could hardly have cost one hundred rupees. But on the day of the shodashi ceremony Vishweshwar presented an account of three hundred and one rupees. Rameshwar Rai asked in astonishment, ‘All that money’s been spent?’
‘Am I so low as to filch money for my brother’s last rites?’
‘No. I’m not saying you’re dishonest. I was just asking.’
‘If you have any doubts, check with the bania I bought everything from.’2
One day, a year later, Vishweshwar Rai said to his brother, ‘If you have money, give it to me. We’ll redeem our land.’
‘Where will I get money from? It’s not as if I’ve hidden how things are at home.’
‘Then I’ll give the entire amount and redeem the land myself. When you have money, give me half the amount and take your share of the land.’
‘Fine. Get back the land then.’
Thirty years passed. Vishweshwar Rai enriched the land with plenty of cow dung and fertilizer and reaped its fruits.
He had decided that he would never give it up, that it was his rightful inheritance. No one could take it from him, even by going to court. Rameshwar Rai tried several times to get the money together to recover his share of the land but in thirty years he was never able to save the required one hundred and fifty rupees.
But Rameshwar Rai’s son Jogeshwar managed to improve matters slightly. He began hiring out his bullock cart to carry loads and found it very profitable. He thought constantly about reclaiming his share of the land. By labouring night and day he finally managed to save sufficient money.
One day he went with his father to his uncle and said, ‘Kaka, take your money. I’ll get our share registered in my name.’
Vishweshwar: ‘You’re not the only cunning son in the family. You didn’t lift a finger all these years and now that I’ve turned the land into gold you’ve come to claim your share? Did I go to seek any favour from you?’
Jogeshwar: ‘So now we won’t get the land then.’
Rameshwar: ‘No one can be happy robbing a brother of his rights.’
Vishweshwar: ‘The land’s mine. Not yours.’
Jogeshwar: ‘So you won’t give it up straightforwardly.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Neither straightforwardly nor crookedly. Go to court.’
Jogeshwar: ‘I don’t have the means to go to court. But I can promise this much—I may not get the land, but you won’t get to keep it either.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Try that threat on someone else.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Then never complain that your own brother became your enemy.’
Vishweshwar: ‘Hand over a tight bundle of a thousand rupees and then do what you please.’
Jogeshwar: ‘Where can a poor man like me get hold of a thousand rupees? But sometimes God is merciful to the humble.’
Vishweshwar: ‘I’m not digging myself a hole for fear of it.’
Rameshwar Rai fell silent but Jogeshwar was not so forgiving. He spoke to a lawyer. He was no longer content with half the land; he wanted to bite into all of it.
The late Siddeshwar Rai had a daughter by the name of Tapeshwari. She had been married off during his lifetime. She had no idea what her father had left or who had taken it. She was just happy that his last rites had been carried out well. She had come for the shodashi ceremony and then returned to her in-laws’ house. Thirty years had passed and neither had anyone from her father’s house called for her nor had
