‘But it’s not right, is it, to burn fancy candles in your home instead of one oil lamp, and leave the mosque in darkness?’
‘Living with you is like falling into a well. What happiness do you give? You took my jewellery from me and even now you don’t give me a moment’s peace.’
‘My cousins’ lives are dearer to me than your jewellery.’
His wife turned her head away and said, ‘The children of an enemy can never be trusted.’
As he walked out, Jogeshwar replied, ‘Enmity ends with the enemy’s death.’
Translated from the Hindi by Gillian Wright
The Fool1
I had been in Devipur for only five days, but not a day had passed without a mention of the fool. The villagers flocked around me from morning to night. Never had I met such an opportunity or such temptation to flaunt my knowledge. Finding a ready audience I waxed eloquent about what the viceroy had said to Gandhi Baba and what Gandhi Baba’s reply was. I improvised further: ‘You haven’t seen anything yet, wait and see what happens next. Fifty thousand young men are willing and ready to go to jail. Gandhiji has asked all Hindus to do away with the practice of untouchability, or the future will be bleaker than ever!’
People would listen to me with rapt attention, their faces wearing delighted expressions, aglow with pride. They would burst forth elatedly, ‘We trust only in the mahatma now.’ Then they would say, ‘Had the fool been here, he wouldn’t have let you off for an instant. You’d find it difficult to eat or drink. He’d listen all night long to your conversations.’
Finally, one day, I asked, ‘Who is this fool? Is he some mad man?’
One gentleman answered, ‘Not really mad, just a fool. His family is rolling in money. They own a sugar mill in Siwan, two factories in Chhapra, and have servants at home, but look at him! He roams around in tatters. His family had sent him to Siwan to supervise the sugar mill. Within two months he had quarrelled with the manager, who finally sent in his resignation. He complained to the family that their son was inciting the workers and they were no longer paying attention to their work. The family had to call him back. His servants rob and pilfer at will, and he is least bothered. But that mango orchard you see there? He guards it day and night. No one dares throw a stone in that direction.’
Another gentleman piped up, ‘Sir, all kinds of delicacies are cooked in his house, but it seems he is destined to eat lentils and coarse bread, and nothing else. His father buys him the best of clothes, but he doesn’t even look at them. He only wears a rough kurta and a loincloth. What else can we say about him? He is a complete fool.’2
My curiosity was piqued. Suddenly, someone said, ‘Look! There’s the fool, coming this way.’ I glanced in that direction, my interest aroused. A young man of twenty or twenty-one, bare-headed, wearing a rough kurta and baggy pants, was walking towards me. He was wearing shoes. When he came closer, I said, ‘Welcome. Do take a seat.’ He looked at the assembled gathering with derision. Then he replied brashly, ‘Not today, some other day.’ And he walked off.
When the audience scattered at dusk, he slowly walked out of the mango orchard and sat down next to me. He began, ‘These people must have said a lot against me. I know I’ve been given the sobriquet of “fool”.’
I replied hesitantly, ‘Well, yes, you were indeed one of the subjects of our discussion. But I was very keen to meet you. What’s your real name?’
‘My name is Mohammad Khalil,’ he answered. ‘But people here and in the nearby five or ten villages know me only by my alias, which, as you know, happens to be “the fool”.’
‘But why do they call you by this name?’ I persisted.
He began to explain. ‘It’s their choice, what else can I say? My way of life is different, so I don’t even have permission to read the namaz five times a day. My father and my uncle are both engrossed in their work day and night. Accounts, profit and loss, demand and supply—these are the only things that interest them, as though they’re not servants of God, but servants of wealth. My uncle oversees cans of sugar syrup being loaded on to trucks late into the night. My father weighs the sugar with his own hands. He eats his afternoon meal in the evening and his evening meal at midnight. Neither has the time to read the namaz. I keep telling them, “Why do you hassle yourself so for this business? As a big businessmen, you have to trust people, and you may bear some losses while doing that. Only small enterprises work with one’s own personal effort.” But no one likes what I say. And so I’m called a fool.’
‘I think your principles are quite right,’ I said.
‘Don’t ever say that in public,’ he exclaimed, ‘or else there will be two fools instead of one! The only thing that interests people is business. They don’t care in the least for the poor, the world, the nation or the community. I read the newspaper, and I want to contribute to the Smyrna Fund. I think of it as my duty to also contribute to the Khilafat Fund. And the worst part is that I am in favour of the Khilafat Movement. Well, sir, when my country, my people and the poor are being attacked by the enemy from all directions, isn’t it my duty to sacrifice the profit of my class for the well-being of my nation? And that’s why both at home and outside, I’ve
