Moteram said disapprovingly, ‘This thinking of yours is false. The Jaunpuri imartis cannot compete with Agra’s motichoor and Delhi’s sohan halva.’
‘Prove your point.’
‘Prove the obvious?’
‘This is your foolishness.’
‘You’ve only gorged all your life, never known how to savour.’
At this Chintamani threw his rug at Moteram. Moteram rose to combat and leapt towards Chintamani like an elephant gone berserk, but the crowd present there separated the two mahatmas.
Translated from the Hindi by Swati Pal
Black Face1
They were faced with a great famine. Not a drop of rain had fallen for an entire year. Dust flew in the fields. There was neither a grain nor a drop of water. People would pull out the bark of the trees and eat it. Hot winds blew even at night, and it seemed as if the earth was spitting fire in the afternoons. The earth appeared like a volcano. Even people’s hearts had dried up. They would not ask anything from each other. Everyone was trapped in their own misery. Huge groups would gather in temples and mosques. People would weep and howl, but it seemed that it had no impact. It appeared as if there was no mercy left in the heart of the Angel of Death. Day and night, huge crowds gathered in front of the houses of fortune tellers and forecasters. Small urchins would run around naked in the streets singing ditties imploring the Cloud God to send some rain.
A chemist came up with the bright idea that he could bring rain through a chemical procedure. People donated huge sums of money. Doctor Sahib tried to create a magnetic impact on the skies, but without any luck. Neither did Indra1 melt nor were there any rains, and the public suffered more and more with every passing day.2
Helpless, one day, the people decided that they should plead in the courts of the Muslim and Hindu saints. Their services were required at this critical hour. Thousands of Hindus gathered and sat in front of the hut of Baba Durlabhdas in protest. The Muslim populace gathered at the threshold of Khwaja Rasheed Jalali. Both the saints had compassion for common people. Babaji sent for all the holy people of the country. Khwaja Sahib asked for help from the chosen religious people. Within a week, groups of sadhus and fakirs started pouring in. Never before had one seen such a sanctified and holy atmosphere in the capital. These people were famous for miracles and tricks. The public was positive that even if these saints would only lift their eyebrows, Indra would not dare go against their wishes. One day, Durlabhdas stepped out of the city with his group of saints. It was a magnificent procession. The drum-beaters were mounted on camels that led the procession. Following them were relics and pennants of various kinds. Bells rang and conch shells blew in the rear. There were groups of sadhus. Some were seated on elephants decorated with golden howdahs, some on decorated horses, while some sat on beautiful palanquins. Their disciples walked behind them, with umbrellas in hand, fanning them. A few steps behind this procession was the line of the khwaja. Although they didn’t have this royal glitz, the way they were dressed had the glory of the fakirs. After circling the entire city, the procession reached a high mound. Here these people sat down to plead with God. Some sat cross-legged to meditate while the others started reciting the Ramayana. The devotees of Lord Krishna thought that singing hymns in his praise was more than enough. Some saints started chanting the rosary. Some were engrossed in their pain and some in heavenly pleasures. Three hours went by like this. Millions of people were standing at a distance, watching this sight. On and off, they would look at the sky to see if there was any change in the clouds. The sun had reached its peak by the afternoon. The faces had begun to get redder and not a portion of a cloud was to be seen. Disappointed, people started to get down from the mound. Khwaja Rasheed Jalali called out in a loud voice, ‘Such a state of the country is the result of the injustice of the king. Till the time Raja Sahib does not lament in the durbar of God, this divine wrath will not cease. All of you should go and fall at his feet. You will only attain salvation by his intervention.’
Raja Prithvi Pati Singh was a man given to sensual pleasures. He was only concerned with his own luxury and comfort. He would not step out of his palace for months. There was only talk of music and festivities. All the rascals, scoundrels and useless people were his close friends. New varieties of liquor were tried every day. Foods of diverse assortments were prepared. He was only in love with poetry and that too the kind which incited the fire of passion. He himself would compose the thumri and dadra, and very often, intoxicated, he would even dance with the dancing girls. He was unaware of the calamity in his kingdom. His ministers were also selfish. It was in their vested interests to keep the real condition of the kingdom from the king. Whatever problems descended on the kingdom, money for the royal expense was managed. The common people did not have the courage to interfere in the day-to-day affairs of the state. The public was becoming disappointed with the king. They tried to tackle whatever problem befell them, but
