I felt like giving him a straight answer but that kind of discourtesy was impossible. I went again to my wife and asked for money. This time she handed it over to me without saying a word. Rather half-heartedly I gave it to Umapatiji. When his wife and daughter descended the stairs he picked up his bedding and respectfully took his leave. I acknowledged him with a nod from where I sat. I didn’t even see him off as far as the street.
A week later he wrote, I am going to Berar on work and will send your money on my return.
After a fortnight I wrote him a letter inquiring how he was. I received no reply. After another fortnight I again demanded the money. I received no reply to that either. After a month I made the same request and with the same result! I sent a registered letter. There was no doubt that it had reached its destination but it too failed to elicit a reply. I realized that what my sensible wife had said was totally correct. I fell silent in despair.
I never mentioned these letters to my wife and neither did she ever ask about this matter.2
This deceitful behaviour had the same effect on me as it ordinarily and naturally should have. Only an elevated and pure soul could have remained unmoved by such duplicity. Such a person would be satisfied about having fulfilled his duty. If the debtor did not repay the debt, then that was no fault of his. But I was not so generous. Only by racking my brains for months and wearing out my pens was I repaid with the sight of the Almighty Cash.
That same month another incident occurred. A new compositor from Bihar had joined my press. He seemed clever at his work. I took him on for fifteen rupees a month. He used to study before in some English-medium school but had given up his studies because of the Non-Cooperation Movement. His family had refused to give him any help and he had no other choice but to take up this profession for his livelihood. He was about seventeen or eighteen, and had a serious nature. He spoke very politely. Three days after he joined me he developed a fever. He managed to endure it somehow for a few days and then when his temperature didn’t go down he became alarmed and began to miss home. They would at least get him the treatment he needed if nothing else. He came to me and said, ‘Sir, I’m ill. If you could give my some money I will be able to go home. The moment I arrive I will make arrangements for the money to be sent to you.’
He really was sick and I knew it very well. I also knew that he could never return to health here. He did indeed need help. But I suspected that he too might digest my money. When a thoughtful, capable, scholarly man could deceive me, how could I expect a half-educated young man to keep his promise?
I stood for several minutes in a total dilemma. Finally I said, ‘I am very sad to see you in this state. But right now I can do nothing. I have no cash in hand. I’m sorry.’
Tears began to fall from his eyes at this blunt answer. He replied, ‘If you want you can certainly arrange the money. I will send it the moment I arrive.’
I said to myself, ‘Your intentions are good here but where’s the proof they’ll remain good once you reach home? And even if they do who knows whether you’ll be able to send the money or not. At least I won’t have any means of getting it back from you.’ Aloud I said, ‘I do not doubt you but I am sorry I do not have the money. However, you can take whatever salary you are owed.’
He didn’t reply. As if uncertain what to do he glanced up at the sky once and left. My heart was in anguish. I felt remorse for my selfishness. But in the end I stood by my decision. I contented myself with the thought that I was not so rich that I could go throwing money into water.
This was the result of the deception I had suffered at the hands of my poet friend.
I don’t know what bad fruits my weakness would have borne later, as fortunately that moment never came. God decreed that I would be saved from that disgrace. After the young man left me with tears in his eyes, he met Pandit Prithvinath, a clerk in my office. Panditji asked him what the matter was. When he heard the story Panditji took out fifteen rupees and gave it to the young man. He had to borrow this money from the office bookkeeper. When I heard this a weight was lifted from my heart. Now the poor lad would reach home in comfort. And this consolation cost me absolutely nothing. At the same time I was somewhat ashamed of my low behaviour. In lengthy essays I would lecture on compassion, humanity and virtuous behaviour and when it had come to the test I had simply looked after myself! And this poor clerk who devotedly read my work turned out to be so generous and altruistic! The guru stayed as raw jaggery, his disciple turned into sugar. Anyway, in all this there was also the ironic satisfaction that even if my spiritual instruction had no effect on me, at least it had an effect on others! If there was darkness underneath the lamp what did it matter? At least the light had spread. But in case the poor clerk didn’t get his money back (and that was not very likely) he would be totally bereft. Then I would give him a good talking-to. This wish of mine, however, was not fulfilled. Five days later the money
