In the meantime, one of the young man’s companions had also joined them and said, ‘Sir, I tell you the honest truth, if God gives anyone a son, let it be like this one. He didn’t concern himself with the costs. He spent all of the wealth in his home on his father’s treatment. He sold even what little land he owned, but man cannot stave off death.’
Growing emotional, the young man said, ‘Money and wealth are meaningless things. They come and go, but you can’t compensate for the loss of life easily. If I’m alive, I will find a way to survive, but at least I won’t have any regrets and think, Alas! I didn’t do that, or I didn’t go to that doctor, or else he’d still be alive. There’s a saying, “Take my home and my wealth, just give my father another moment’s health.” This world of illusion and lies that goes by the name “life”, what is there of substance in it? Life is more valuable than wealth and faith is more valuable than life. Sir, I tell you the truth, if I had spared anything in my power for my father, I wouldn’t be able to keep myself from bawling today. My own pyre would taunt me. Or else this moment would feel to me as if I had paid for my own well-being with a heavy debt. As long as his soul finds peace and happiness, everything will turn out fine for me.’
Chaitanya Das hung his head as he listened to all this. Each word stung his heart like an arrow. This magnanimity revealed his own heartlessness, his soullessness, his materialism in a terrible light. The effect of this blow on his conscience could only be measured by the fact that he spent thousands on Prabhu Das’s final rites. This was the only salve possible for his afflicted heart.
Translated from the Hindi by Snehal Shingavi
After Death1
Ishwarchandra Datt acquired his taste for writing articles for the newspaper back in college. Every day he was preoccupied with new issues. He got much more joy in seeing his name in print in the newspapers than he did in passing his exams or winning the top rank in his class. He was the leader of the extremists1 in college. It was his responsibility to critique confusing exam papers and the inappropriate behaviour of teachers in the newspaper. This had earned him a position of leadership in college. Every time it was necessary to editorialize, his name would come up for leading the charge. He was confident that he would be more successful in the vast playing field of the real world once he had left this limited one. He thought that he was destined for public life. Coincidentally, even before his name had figured on the list of students appearing for the MA exam, the editor-in-chief of Gaurav2 announced his retirement and decided that he would leave the burden of managing the paper in Ishwarchandra Datt’s hands. Ishwarchandra was beside himself with joy when he heard the news. I am so fortunate to be considered worthy of this distinction. There is no doubt that he was aware of the seriousness of his responsibilities, but his love of fame had left him unprepared to confront the obstacles in his way. He wanted to enhance the respect, progress and responsibility of the profession. He had ambitions of bringing Indian newspapers up to Western standards.
He finally had the opportunity to make good on his ambitions. Overcome with ecstasy, he leapt into the river.2
Ishwarchandra’s wife, Manaki, came from a rich family with a high status and she had imbibed the false pride and prestige of such families. When she heard the news, she was worried lest her husband get caught up in all this and turn his back on studying law. But when Ishwarchandra assured her that his work would not get in the way of his studying law, she didn’t say anything.
But very quickly, Ishwarchandra realized that being an editor was very invidious work that quickly overran all the other things in the mind. He thought of it as a means of entertainment and an instrument to increase his fame. He wanted to use it to do something useful for his community. He hadn’t even given any thought to how much he would earn. But once he got in the boat, he knew that the journey would not be as easy as he had thought. With all of the revising, correcting and editing of articles, corresponding with writers, finding interesting topics and worrying about staying ahead of his partners, he never had the chance to study. He would sit down to study in the morning, resolving not to get up until he had finished a hundred pages, but as soon as the mail arrived, he fell upon it eagerly, and the book remained unread. Again and again he would vow to study regularly and not spare more than a certain amount of time for editorial work. But as soon as the bundle of papers arrived, he would lose control over himself. Everything worked its magic on him: the carping letters to the editor, the arguments in the journals, the arguments and criticisms, the poetic brilliance of the poets, the eloquent craft of the writers, and all the rest. On top of that, the problems with the printers, the worry about increasing the number of subscribers and the hopes of making his newspaper wholly beautiful all made his life even more difficult. Occasionally, he would be filled with regret—I got tangled
