Doctor Sahib started longing for revenge. I’ve never let any fakir, any sadhu, stand at the door. Even though I wanted to, I’ve never invited my friends home; I’ve always stayed away from relatives and associates. For this? If I could find out who he is, I’d kill him with a poisoned injection.
But there’s no remedy. A poor weaver vents his anger on his beard. Even the intelligence bureau is just so in name, they’re not capable of finding out. All their intelligence is expended in political speeches and writing false reports. I ought to go to someone who knows mesmerism; he’ll be able to solve this problem. I’ve heard that in Europe and America robberies are often traced this way. But who is such a master of mesmerism here, and besides, the answers mesmerism gives are not always to be trusted. Like astrologers, they too start taking plunges in the endless ocean of guesswork and conjecture. Some people can divine names too. I’ve never believed in these stories but there’s an element of truth in them for sure, otherwise in this day and age they wouldn’t exist. Even today’s scholars concede that there is something like spiritual power. But even if someone tells me the name, what means do I have at hand to take revenge? Inner knowledge won’t suffice as evidence. Except for the moment’s peace my heart will get, what else is to be gained from this?
Yes, I remember now. That sorcerer who sits near the river—I’ve heard stories about his feats. It seems he can trace stolen money, instantly make the sick well, locate stolen goods and cast spells. I’ve heard praises of that spell—the spell is cast and blood begins to spill from the thief’s mouth. Till he returns the goods, the bleeding won’t stop. If this meets its mark then my heart’s desire is fulfilled. I’ll get the outcome I want. The money is returned to me and the thief is taught a lesson! There’s always a crowd at his place. If he isn’t capable why would so many people congregate there? There is a glow on his face. Today’s educated people don’t have faith in these things, but among the lower classes and the society of the foolish there is a great deal of talk about him. Every day I hear stories about ghosts and spirits. Why don’t I go to this sorcerer? Even if I don’t gain anything what could be the harm? Where five hundred have gone, let two or four rupees more be squandered. The time is right. The crowd will be smaller, I should get going.3
Having thus made up his mind, Doctor Sahib went towards the sorcerer’s house. It was nine o’clock on a winter’s night. The streets had almost emptied. The sound of the Ramayana being chanted was occasionally heard from the houses. After a while complete silence descended. There were fertile green fields on either side of the road. The wailing of jackals became audible. It seemed the pack was quite near. Doctor Sahib had generally had the good fortune to hear their melodious voices from afar. Not close up. Now, in this silence, to hear their shrieks from so near frightened him. He repeatedly knocked his stick on the ground and stamped his feet. Jackals are cowards; they don’t come near human beings. But then he thought, If any one of them is mad, then his bite will be lethal. As soon as he thought of this the memory of germs, bacteria, Pasteur Institute and Kasuali began whirring in his head. He began to take hurried strides. Suddenly, it occurred to him—What if someone from my own home has taken the money? He immediately stopped but in a moment resolved this too. There’s no harm; in fact, the family should get even harsher punishment. I can have no compassion for the thief, but I have a right to the family’s sympathy. They ought to know that whatever I do, I do for them. If I kill myself day and night it’s for them that I kill myself. If despite this they’re prepared to betray me then who could be more heedless, more ungrateful, more heartless than them? They should be punished severely. So severely, so instructively, that no one ever dares do something like this again.
Eventually he arrived near the sorcerer’s house. The lack of a crowd calmed him. But his pace had slowed down a little. He thought to himself again—If all this turns out to be a complete fraud, I’ll be needlessly shamed. Whoever hears will take me for a fool. Perhaps the sorcerer himself will consider me a fool. But now that I’ve come, let me try this. If nothing else, I’ll have tried it.
The sorcerer’s name was Budh. People called him Chaudhuri. He was a tanner by caste. His
