I apologized to the head on his behalf. After much cajoling, the head was brought around. He took half the things from each basket and bundle and sent them home. The remaining was evenly distributed among the rest. This is how the farce ended.4
The incident was followed by the rise of Garib in the office. Now, no one found fault with him, nor did Garib have to run errands. He was spared, too, the biting remarks of the colleagues. The other peons provided help to him in his job. His name, too, underwent a change—from Garib, he transformed into Garibdas. This affected his temperament. Self-assurance took the place of meekness. Also, his alert efficiency gave way to laziness. The change showed in his arriving late to the office quite often. On certain days, he would skip office with the excuse that he was unwell. No one in the office minded his lapses and mistakes. He had found the key to success and prestige. Every week or fortnight, he would get milk, curd, or something else as an offering to the head. He had learnt the art of propitiating the gods. His new strength was manipulative skills rather than an innocent way of life.
One day, the head sent him to the railway station to bring a delivery of parcels arriving from the government farms. There were a number of big bundles. These were carried on the carts. Garib had settled with the cart drivers a price of twelve annas for the cartage. When papers were sent to the office, Garib appropriately charged twelve annas from the office. When he came out, his mind changed. He asked for a share of four annas in payment. The carters were aghast and refused to part with the sum. This angered Garib, who put the entire sum in his pocket and said rudely, ‘I won’t pay you a paisa. Go tell anyone.’ Realizing that unless they paid his share from their amount, they would lose everything, the carters reconciled. Garib gave them eight annas and asked them to sign on a receipt of twelve annas. Then the receipt was deposited with the office.
This curious scene left me awestruck. This was the same Garib who, some months ago, had been an embodiment of humility and honesty, who hadn’t had the courage to claim even his own rights from the other peons. He hadn’t known how to bribe others or accept bribes. I felt saddened seeing this change in him. Who was responsible for this change? Yes, I was responsible and I had taught him this lesson of low-level manipulation and villainy. I started thinking—compared with this cynicism that places one’s hand on someone else’s throat, how was that naivety bad that had made him accept injustices from others in the past? It was an inauspicious moment when I guided this man to the path of success and false respect. In reality, the path was of horrific degradation. I had sacrificed his self-respect for the sake of him gaining hollow success.
Translated from the Hindi by Anand Prakash
A Special Holi1
It was the day of Holi, the carnivalesque spring festival. Mr A.B. Cross had gone out hunting and his groom, orderly, sweeper, waterman, milkman and dhobi were all celebrating Holi. No sooner had the sahib left than they had drunk a deep draught of bhang and were now sitting in the garden singing the lusty songs of Phaag. They glanced at the gate every now and then to see if the sahib had returned. But it was Sheikh Noor Ali who presently came and stood before them.
The groom asked him, ‘So Khansamaji, when is the sahib coming back?’
Noor Ali said, ‘The fellow can come back when he likes, but I am quitting today. I shan’t serve him any more.’
The orderly said, ‘You will never find a job like this again. The pay is good and you can also make a bit on the side. No reason why you should leave it.’
Noor Ali responded, ‘Hang it all, I say. I shan’t be a slave any more. They kick us around all the time and yet we go on slaving for them! I am quitting this place today. But come, let me give all of you a treat first. Follow me, be seated and feel at home in the dining room, and I shall serve you such fine drinks as will truly warm your hearts.’
‘What if the sahib were to return all of a sudden?’
‘He won’t return for a while yet. Come right in.’
Servants of British masters are often drunkards themselves. As soon as they enlist to serve the sahibs, they too become subject to the same affliction. When the master swigs bottle after bottle, why shouldn’t the servants do the same? At this invitation then, all of them brightened up. They were already high on bhang. They left their drums and cymbals right there and, following Noor Ali, went and sat at the dining table. Noor Ali opened a bottle of Scotch whisky, filled the glasses and they all began to quaff. When those used to coarser stuff found such fine liquor flowing they began to empty glass after glass. The khansama too did all he could to abet them. In a short while they had lost their heads and lost all fear too. One started to sing a traditional Holi song, and another joined in. The singing picked up. Noor Ali brought in the drums and cymbals and a concert got under way. As they sang on, one of them got up and began to dance. Another joined him. Soon all were cavorting around the room. A big hullabaloo arose. They proceeded from singing Kabir1 to Phaag2 to Chautal to trading abuses and even roughing each other up. Fearless, they felt truly at home. Chairs were knocked down, pictures came off walls, and someone even upturned the table. Another
