It was the month of Jeth but in Shimla, there were neither scorching winds nor punishing heat. Dayakrishna was opening letters that had come from abroad. Seeing Balakrishna’s letter he was delighted, but on reading it, sadness covered his face. He took the letter to Rajeshwari.
She asked in enthusiasm, ‘Has a letter come from Bala?’
‘Yes, this is it.’
‘When is he coming?’
‘He has written nothing about it. The entire letter is a lament on my treachery and denouement. According to him, I am an enemy of the nation, selfish, a damned soul, all of that. I do not understand what has caused such a difference in his thought. I used to consider him a very peaceful, grave, strong-willed and ethical young man and used to take pride in him. And not satisfied with this letter, he has published a detailed critique of my speech in an esteemed English magazine. He has been careful enough not to publish the article under his own name or I would not be eligible to show my face anywhere. I don’t understand whose bad company has led to this. According to him, the job under Maharaja Bhind is slavery and Manorama’s marriage to Raja Bhadra Bahadur Singh is disgusting and shameful. He has grown so bold as to call me artful, crafty, a seller of ideals, betrayer of the clan! Such shame! I do not want to see his face again . . . ’
‘Here, let me take a look at the letter! He was never so bare-faced.’
Saying this, she took the letter from her husband’s hand and, after having read half of it within a minute, said, ‘Where are the cruel words in it? I do not find a single bad word in it.’
‘Look at the tone, do not go by the words alone.’
‘When there is a gulf between your ideals, how can he be respectful to you?’
However, Dayakrishna was losing his patience. He was further inflamed by Rajeshwari’s words. He went to his office in this state of mind and started writing a letter, each word of which was sharper than a knife or a machete.
Two weeks after this incident when Dayakrishna opened his outstation mail, there was no letter from Balakrishna. He thought that his attack had worked, that Balakrishna had returned to the straight path and had, thus, not been brave enough to reply. He then opened the London Times (he read this paper with great enthusiasm) and looked at the telegrams. A gasp escaped his mouth, the newspaper fell from his hands, and opened at the first news story:
‘Meeting of Indian Patriots at London, Disappointment with the Speech of Honourable Mister Mehta, Mister Balakrishna Mehta’s Opposition and Suicide’
Last Saturday, a mass gathering of Indian youths and leaders was conducted at Baxton Hall. The president, Mr Talibaja said, ‘Even a prolonged search would not reveal a speech so heart-rending and so cruel from any English member of the council. We have not heard a more misleading, more tyrannical opinion from the mouth of any statesman. This speech has proved that there is no salvation for India other than self-rule, the essence of which is complete freedom of mind and expression. If we had not lost faith in evolution so far, have we done so now? Our illness has become malignant. This cannot be cured by powders and syrup. It’s not recuperation that we need but rejuvenation. Higher posts do not make us independent; instead, it increases the potency of our initial subjugation. It is our firm conviction that Mr Mehta covertly considers false the very opinions he has propagated; however, desire for respect, desire for credit and desire for the post has compelled him to strangle his soul . . .’
[Someone said aloud: ‘This is a false accusation.’]
The people looked on in surprise as Mr Balakrishna remained standing in position. His body trembled with rage. He wanted to say something but people surrounded him and started blaming and showering indignities upon him. The president managed to quieten the crowd with great difficulty but Mr Balakrishna walked away.
The next day when his friends came to visit him, they found Balakrishna’s corpse on the floor. Two bullets from his pistol had found their way to his heart. On the open pages of the diary lying on his desk, they found the following lines:
‘My pride was let down at the meeting today. I cannot bear this insult. I do not know how much blame I’ll have to face on account of my venerable father. It would be better to end this battle of ideals. It is likely that my life will be an obstacle on his unyielding path. May God grant me strength!’
Translated from the Hindi by Shalim M. Hussain
A Philosopher’s Love1
Lala Gopinath had been inclined towards philosophy right from early youth. He had barely reached class twelve when names like Mill and Berkeley had become quite familiar to him. He would stay away from any kind of recreational or other activities of interest, to the extent that even a college cricket match could not arouse his urge for entertainment. He would run away from the company of spirited, interesting or light-hearted friends. Talking to him about the affairs of the heart or women was like showing the cross to the devil. Tucking a volume on philosophy under his arm, he would set out for a spot under some shady tree outside the city, spending the day absorbed in deep study. He was the last person to be interested in fiction, poetry or creative writing of any kind. Chances were that he hadn’t
