True to his words, Rai Sahib sentenced Damrhi to six months of rigorous imprisonment. That same day he granted bail to the nobleman accused of murder.
I heard both these accounts and came away convinced that civilization is the art of getting away with your misdeeds. You can commit the worst of crimes, but if you are able to camouflage it, you are civilized and urbane, a gentleman. If, however, you lack this art, you are uncivilized and boorish, a rogue. This, indeed, is the secret of culture.
Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin
Temple and Mosque1
Chaudhary Itrat Ali was the owner of a big estate, a jagirdar. During the colonial period, his ancestors had served the British in high positions. This estate or jagir was a reward for their past services. By his efficient management his property had increased in value and now there was no one equal to him in riches and fame. The English officials made it a point to meet him whenever they were on an inspection tour. But Chaudhary Sahib himself never went to greet any official, even if it was the commissioner. He totally avoided going to the court. He didn’t even attend any court sessions. He considered it inappropriate to stand with folded hands before officials and flatter them. He stayed away as far as possible from lawsuits, even if it meant incurring a financial loss. This job was left entirely to his attorneys, and he didn’t much care whether they won or lost the cases. He was a scholar of Arabic and Persian, followed the sharia very strictly, considered charging interest on money lent to anybody a sin, offered namaz five times a day, kept all of the thirty rozas and read the Koran every day. Despite being ardently religious he was not touched by sectarian parochialism. Taking a holy dip in the Ganga was his daily routine. Come rain or hail, he would walk two miles and be at the banks of the Ganga at five in the morning. While returning he would fill his silver flagon with water from the Ganga, and he always drank this water. He didn’t take any other water except this. Even a Hindu ascetic would not have so much reverence for the waters of the Ganga. Every seventh day his entire house was plastered with cow dung inside and out. Not only this, a pandit recited the sacred Durga slokas for the entire year in his orchard. The warmth with which he welcomed saints and ascetics was rare even amongst the kings. In short, his house provided daily hospitality to such holy personages.
Food was cooked for the Muslim fakirs by the cooks in his own kitchen. More than a hundred people were fed at the community dinner each day. Even after so much benevolence he didn’t owe a penny to any moneylender. On the contrary, his prosperity grew by the day. He circulated a general order allowing the use of as much wood as was needed from the government-owned jungles for burning dead bodies or for feasts at sacrificial offerings or marriages. There was no need to ask Chaudhary Sahib. During the marriage of his Hindu tenants, there would be somebody or the other to represent Chaudhary Sahib. The amount he gave as a present was fixed. The amount of his contribution to the wedding of a daughter was fixed too. Besides elephants and horses from his stable, his canopy, tent, palanquin, carpets, fans, bedsheets and silver utensils were loaned to the people without any fuss. One merely had to ask for them. People were ready to lay down their lives for such a sagacious, kind and benevolent person like him.2
Chaudhary Sahib had a Rajput chaprasi named Bhajansingh. This six-feet-tall, broad-chested young man wielded the club well and could fight a hundred adversaries single-handedly. He was a stranger to fear. Chaudhary Sahib had immense faith in him, to the extent that he even took him along when he went to Mecca for hajj. Chaudhary Sahib had no dearth of enemies. The zamindars of the neighbouring areas were jealous of his power and fame. They were scared of ill-treating their tenants because Chaudhary Sahib was always ready to take the side of the weak.
When Bhajansingh was with him Chaudhary Sahib was not afraid even of sleeping at the enemy’s door. Many a time when he was surrounded by his enemies, Bhajansingh had risked his own life to get him out of the enemies’ clutches unhurt. He was ready to jump into the fire for his master’s sake. If he stepped out of the house alone on some errand, Chaudhary Sahib felt worried until he returned, lest he get into a brawl with someone. He was like a pet ram, ever ready to hit someone when freed from the leash. Only one person constituted his whole world and it was Chaudhary Sahib. You could call him a king, master or God— Chaudhary Sahib was everything to him.
The Muslims harboured a grudge against Chaudhary Sahib. They felt that he had turned his back on his faith. How could they understand such a complex lifestyle? If he was a true Muslim why should he drink Ganga water? Why should he show respect and be hospitable to Hindu saints and ascetics? Why should he arrange for the chanting of Durga slokas? The mullahs plotted against him and plans to humiliate the Hindus were afoot. They finally decided to attack the temple on the day of Janmashtami and inflict a humiliating defeat on the Hindus. They would prove, once and for all, that it was silly for the Hindus to swagger around on the strength of Chaudhary Sahib’s patronage. After all, what could Chaudhary Sahib
