Ishwarchandra wanted to prove that there was no better route to wealth, fame and respect than running a newspaper, but even more important was the fact that it gave one a real chance to defend truth and justice. But Manaki wasn’t moved in the slightest by this oratory. She didn’t have the insight to see things at a distance. Manaki could not see a single example of a successful editor before her.3
Sixteen years had passed. Ishwarchandra had created a name for himself in the world of editors; he had written important books for the nationalist movement, had brought out a new daily newspaper and had earned the respect of several officials. His eldest son had earned a BA. The younger ones were studying in lower classes. A daughter was married into a wealthy family. It seemed as though his life had turned out very well, but his economic situation was still a cause for concern. His expenses had outstripped his income. He had had to sell off around a thousand rupees’ worth of his family’s assets, and on top of that he was always worried about being in debt to the bank for something or the other. Nor did he have any credit in the market. Sometimes it got so bad that he had to avoid the market streets. And now he constantly regretted his youthful lack of foresight. The feeling of service to the nation was still strong in his heart but he observed that he did all the work and the lawyers and the merchants got all the credit. He was still considered a junior partner. Even though the entire city knew that he was the spirit of the public life, it was a fact that none ever expressed this. These were the reasons why Ishwarchandra began to hate his editorship. Day by day, his enthusiasm waned, but he could come up with no way to escape this prison. His work possessed no vitality, nor did his writing have any force. His indifference peeked from the pages of both his newspaper and his magazine. He had turned over all the work to his assistants. He worked very little. True, both publications were now well-established so there was no discernible drop in subscriptions. He was living off his reputation.
But in this age of conflict and struggle it was impossible to remain indifferent. Several competitors rose to challenge Gaurav and their fresh energy stole a march over it. Its share of the market began to dry up. The public welcomed the competition gladly. They began to grow. Even though they had the same beliefs, the same writers and the same topics, the newcomers brought new life to the old issues. And seeing their energy, Ishwarchandra was also excited to give one more push to his stalled car, but not only did he lack energy, there was no one around to lend him a hand. His eyes looked around helplessly until they were resigned. Oh! I spent my entire life doing social work, I ploughed and tended to my fields, paid no heed to whether it was night or day, I burnt in the sun, I was drenched in the rains, and after all of this effort, when it is time to harvest, I don’t even have the strength to carry my sickle. Other people who were nowhere to be seen at the time are now filling their granaries with grain while I stand like a fool. He had total confidence that if he had an enthusiastic youth working under him, Gaurav could still defeat its competitors. He still had a large following in high society; the circumstances were in his favour. All he needed was fresh blood. He could not find anyone more suited to this task than his eldest son. He was also interested in this line of work, but his fear of Manaki’s anger made him bite his tongue. Two years passed without him raising the issue, and things had come to a head: Either he would have to throw in the towel with Gaurav or he would have to commit himself to returning it to its prior status.
Ishwarchandra steeled himself for a last-ditch effort at revitalizing it. There was no other alternative. The newspaper was everything to him. It was connected to his life and death. He could not even imagine closing it down. Although his health had deteriorated, his natural instinct for self-preservation made him willing to sacrifice everything for his newspaper. Soon, he spent his entire day absorbed in reading and writing. He wouldn’t lift his head from his work for even a moment. The writings in Gaurav began to show a new vitality again, the educated classes started talking about its content once more, his peers began to cite its articles and other publications began to give it complimentary reviews. The old master’s roars were heard in the wrestling arena again.
But as the magazine retained its prior status, his health deteriorated further. He began to show signs of heart disease. Deficiency in his blood made his face look jaundiced. Still, despite his condition, he worked from morning until night. In the country, a struggle had erupted between capital and labour. Ishwarchandra’s humanist nature had made him a partisan of labour. His criticism and arguments against the capitalists made his blood boil and sparks began to fly from his words, although these sparks did alleviate his hot-bloodedness.
It was an extremely cold night. The clock had struck ten. Manaki quietly crept into his room. In the light of the candle, the jaundice on his face was even more apparent. He was lost in some thought with a pen in his hand. He didn’t realize when Manaki stepped into the room. She stared at him for a while with deep concern. Then she said,
