Bhajansingh witnessed Chaudhary Sahib’s dilemma. He said in a choked voice, ‘Master, your kindness won’t allow you to raise your hand against me. You will not be able to kill a servant you’ve raised. But my life is yours. You saved it, you can take it whenever you want. You can send somebody in the morning tomorrow to collect what is rightfully yours. If I give it to you here, a riot will break out. If it happens in my own house, nobody will know who has killed me. Please forgive my mistakes.’
And Thakur walked away from there.
Translated from the Hindi by M. Asaduddin
Faith1
In those days Miss Joshi was the darling of Bombay’s high-flying social circle. Though she was only a schoolteacher in an insignificant institution for girls, her lifestyle and social standing put many a rich heiress to shame. She lived in a palatial bungalow, which at one time had been the residence of the maharaja of Satara. It was not unusual for business tycoons, rajas and government officials to make a beeline for her house all day. It was common knowledge through the entire province that she was the answer to the prayers of all those desirous of acquiring name and fame. Anyone hankering after a title kowtowed to Miss Joshi. If someone wanted a prestigious posting for himself or for a relative he worshipped the ground she walked on. Construction of government buildings, contracts for salt, liquor, hardware, opium and other items under government purview were all controlled by Miss Joshi. Whatever was accomplished was with Miss Joshi’s blessings, and if anything was a possibility only Miss Joshi could actually make it happen.
When Miss Joshi drove out in her phaeton drawn by the finest thoroughbred horses, the carriages of the rich gave way involuntarily, while the most respectable of shop owners quickly stood up to wish the lady reverently as she passed by. She was a beauty—though there were women in the city who were more beautiful than her. She was well-educated, witty and a good singer. Whether she spoke or laughed, or arched an eyebrow—it was done with a certain style and finesse that was unique. But then she did not have a monopoly over these arts. Clearly, the secret behind her prestige, power and fame lay elsewhere. Not just in the city, everyone in the entire province knew that Mr Johri, the governor of Bombay, was Miss Joshi’s slave. One look from Miss Joshi was a supreme command for Mr Johri. At dinner parties, theatres and other social functions he followed her around like a shadow and occasionally people saw his car leaving Miss Joshi’s bungalow in the dead of the night. Whether this relationship thrived more on lust or on adoration no one was quite sure. However, Mr Johri was married while Miss Joshi was a widow. Therefore those who condemned their association for being sinful were not being unduly harsh to them.
Recently, the Bombay administration had levied a tax on foodgrain and in protest the public had organized a massive rally. Representatives from all major cities had arrived in large numbers to participate in the event. The people of Bombay had gathered in a huge open ground right across Miss Joshi’s sprawling bungalow to give vent to their pent-up emotions. The chairman of the meeting had not yet arrived and so everyone chatted idly as they waited for their leader. Some commented on the misery of the workers, while others discussed the state of the nation and some drew attention to their own pathetic lives. It was felt that if the public had adopted a tough stance in the past the administration would have never slapped this tax on them—as a matter of fact it would have become difficult for government officials to even step out of their homes. Our simplicity and goodness have made us playthings in the hands of the officials, said a few. They know that the more pressure they apply the more we will succumb . . . and that we will never retaliate.
Apprehensive of hooliganism, the administration had called in the armed police, who had surrounded the ground from all sides. Uniformed officers, imperiously mounted on their horses, cracked a whip every now and then, boldly cutting their way through the crowd as though the ground was completely devoid of people. High-level government officials and the who’s who of Bombay had strategically positioned themselves in Miss Joshi’s high veranda, from where they could enjoy an uninterrupted view of the rally. While Miss Joshi welcomed her guests making sure they were comfortable, Mr Johri stretched himself out in an armchair, looking at the crowd with disgust and distaste, along with a certain degree of apprehension.
Soon, Apte, the chairman of the meeting, was seen arriving in a hired tonga. There was excitement everywhere as people ran to welcome their leader and escort him to the stage. Apte, who was not more than thirty to thirty-five years of age, was a thin man with greying hair. Though he was visibly tense, one could also discern a hint of a smile on his face. Dressed in a rough white kurta, his feet were bare and so was his head. The magical hold this semi-clad, emaciated, seemingly listless man had over the crowd was indeed intriguing. But there was no doubt about the fact that people loved Apte and would do anything at his bidding. This one man was so powerful that he could have all the factories and mills shut down in a matter of minutes and bring the city to a standstill. He had given sleepless nights to several officials. Some of them, it was believed, even screamed in their sleep—presumably at the thought of Apte. No living creature posed a bigger threat to them than Apte. This bag of bones could make the entire administration tremble in its well-polished
