We shall be ruined if we go on making gifts and endowments, and the preservation of our property and the keeping up of our position will be rendered very difficult."
Krishna Gopal became uneasy at finding that times should have changed so much. "Well, well," he murmured to himself, "the younger generation knows best, I suppose. Our old-fashioned methods won"t do now. If I interfere, my son might refuse to manage the property, and insist on my going back. No, thank you--I would rather not. I prefer to devote the few days that are left me to the service of my G.o.d."
II
So things went on. Bipin Bihari put his affairs in order after much litigation in the Courts, and by less const.i.tutional methods outside.
Most of the tenants submitted to his will out of fear. Only a fellow called Asimuddin, son of Mirza Bibi, remained refractory.
Bipin"s displeasure was keenest against this man. He could quite understand his father having granted rent-free lands to Brahmins, but why this Mohammedan should be holding so much land, some free and some at rents lower than the prevailing rates, was a riddle to him.
And what was he? The son of a low Mohammedan widow, giving himself airs and defying the whole world, simply because he had learnt to read and write a little at the village school. To Bipin it was intolerable.
He made inquiries of his clerks about Asimuddin"s holdings. All that they could tell him was that Babu Krishna Gopal himself had made these grants to the family many years back, but they had no idea as to what his motive might have been. They imagined, however, that perhaps the widow won the compa.s.sion of the kind-hearted _zemindar_, by representing to him her woe and misery.
To Bipin these favours seemed to be utterly undeserved. He had not seen the pitiable condition of these people in days gone by. Their comparative ease at the present day and their arrogance drove him to the conclusion that they had impudently swindled his tender-hearted father out of a part of his lawful income.
Asimuddin was a stiff-necked sort of a fellow, too. He vowed that he would lay down his life sooner than give up an inch of his land. Then came open hostilities.
The poor old widow tried her best to pacify her son. "It is no good fighting with the _zemindar_," she would often say to him. "His kindness has kept us alive so long; let us depend upon him still, though he may curtail his favours. Surrender to him part of the lands as he desires."
"Oh, mother!" protested Asimuddin. "What do you know of these matters, pray?"
One by one, Asimuddin lost the cases inst.i.tuted against him. The more he lost, the more his obstinacy increased. For the sake of his all, he staked all that was his.
One afternoon, Mirza Bibi collected some fruits and vegetables from her little garden, and unknown to her son went and sought an interview with Bipin Babu. She looked at him with a tenderness maternal in its intensity, and spoke: "May Allah bless you, my son. Do not destroy Asim--it wouldn"t be right of you. To your charge I commit him.
Take him as though he were one whom it is your duty to support--as though he were a ne"er-do-well younger brother of yours. Vast is your wealth--don"t grudge him a small particle of it, my son."
This a.s.sumption of familiarity on the part of the garrulous old woman annoyed Bipin not a little. "What do you know of these things, my good woman?" he condescended to say. "If you have any representations to make, send your son to me."
Being a.s.sured for the second time that she knew nothing about these affairs, Mirza Bibi returned home, wiping her eyes with her ap.r.o.n all the way, and offering her silent prayers to Allah.
III
The litigation dragged its weary length from the Criminal to the Civil Courts, and thence to the High Court, where at last Asimuddin met with a partial success. Eighteen months pa.s.sed in this way. But he was a ruined man now--plunged in debts up to his very ears. His creditors took this opportunity to execute the decrees they had obtained against him. A date was fixed for putting up to auction every stick and stone that he had left.
It was Monday. The village market had a.s.sembled by the side of a tiny river, now swollen by the rains. Buying and selling were going on, partly on the bank and partly in the boats moored there. The hubbub was great. Among the commodities for sale jack-fruits preponderated, it being the month of _Asadh_. _Hilsa_ fish were seen in large quant.i.ties also. The sky was cloudy. Many of the stall-holders, apprehending a downpour, had stretched a piece of cloth overhead, across bamboo poles put up for the purpose.
Asimuddin had come too--but he had not a copper with him. No shopkeepers allowed him credit nowadays. He therefore had brought a bra.s.s _thali_[22] and a _dao_[23] with him. These he would p.a.w.n, and then buy what he needed.
[22] _Thali_: plate.
[23] _Dao_: knife.
Towards evening, Bipin Babu was out for a walk attended by two or three retainers armed with _lathis_.[24] Attracted by the noise, he directed his steps towards the market. On his arrival, he stopped awhile before the stall of Dwari, the oilman, and made kindly inquiries about his business. All on a sudden, Asimuddin raised his _dao_ and ran towards Bipin Babu, roaring like a tiger. The market people caught hold of him half-way, and quickly disarmed him. He was forthwith given in custody to the police. Business in the market then went on as usual.
[24] _Lathis_: stick.
We cannot say that Bipin Babu was not inwardly pleased at this incident. It is intolerable that the creature we are hunting down should turn and show fight. "The _badmash_," Bipin chuckled; "I have got him at last."
The ladies of Bipin Babu"s house, when they heard the news, exclaimed with horror: "Oh, the ruffian! What a mercy they seized him in time!"
They found consolation in the prospect of the man being punished as he richly deserved.
In another part of the village the same evening the widow"s humble cottage, devoid of bread and bereft of her son, became darker than death. Others dismissed the incident of the afternoon from their minds, sat down to their meals, retired to bed and went to sleep, but to the widow the event loomed larger than anything else in this wide world. But, alas, who was there to combat it? Only a bundle of wearied bones and a helpless mother"s heart trembling with fear.
IV
Three days have pa.s.sed in the meanwhile. To-morrow the case would come up for trial before a Deputy Magistrate. Bipin Babu would have to be examined as a witness. Never before this did a _zemindar_ of Jhikrakota appear in the witness-box, but Bipin did not mind.
The next day at the appointed hour, Bipin Babu arrived at the Court in a palanquin in great state. He wore a turban on his head, and a watch-chain dangled on his breast. The Deputy Magistrate invited him to a seat on the das, beside his own. The Court-room was crowded to suffocation. So great a sensation had not been witnessed in this Court for many years.
When the time for the case to be called drew near, a _chapra.s.si_ came and whispered something in Bipin Babu"s ear. He got up very agitated and walked out, begging the Deputy Magistrate to excuse him for a few minutes.
Outside he saw his old father a little way off, standing under a _banian_ tree, barefooted and wrapped in a piece of _namabali_.[25]
A string of beads was in his hand. His slender form shone with a gentle l.u.s.tre, and tranquil compa.s.sion seemed to radiate from his forehead.
[25] A garment with the name of Krishna printed over it.
Bipin, hampered by his close-fitting trousers and his flowing _chapkan_, touched his father"s feet with his forehead. As he did this his turban came off and kissed his nose, and his watch, popping out of his pocket, swung to and fro in the air. Bipin hurriedly straightened his turban, and begged his father to come to his pleader"s house close by.
"No, thank you," Krishna Gopal replied, "I will tell you here what I have got to say."
A curious crowd had gathered by this time. Bipin"s attendants pushed them back.
Then Krishna Gopal said: "You must do what you can to get Asim acquitted, and restore him the lands that you have taken away from him."
"Is it for this, father," said Bipin, very much surprised, "that you have come all the way from Benares? Would you tell me why you have made these people the objects of your special favour?"
"What would you gain by knowing it, my boy?"
But Bipin persisted. "It is only this, father," he went on; "I have revoked many a grant because I thought the tenants were not deserving.
There were many Brahmins among them, but of them you never said a word. Why are you so keen about these Mohammedans now? After all that has happened, if I drop this case against Asim, and give him back his lands, what shall I say to people?"
Krishna Gopal kept silence for some moments. Then, pa.s.sing the beads through his shaky fingers with rapidity, he spoke with a tremulous voice: "Should it be necessary to explain your conduct to people, you may tell them that Asimuddin is my son--and your brother."
"What?" exclaimed Bipin in painful surprise. "From a Musalman"s womb?"
"Even so, my son," was the calm reply.
Bipin stood there for some time in mute astonishment. Then he found words to say: "Come home, father; we will talk about it afterwards."
"No, my son," replied the old man, "having once relinquished the world to serve my G.o.d, I cannot go home again. I return hence. Now I leave you to do what your sense of duty may suggest." He then blessed his son, and, checking his tears with difficulty, walked off with tottering steps.
Bipin was dumbfounded, not knowing what to say nor what to do. "So, such was the piety of the older generation," he said to himself. He reflected with pride how much better he was than his father in point of education and morality. This was the result, he concluded, of not having a principle to guide one"s actions.
Returning to the Court, he saw Asimuddin outside between two constables, awaiting his trial. He looked emaciated and worn out.
His lips were pale and dry, and his eyes unnaturally bright. A dirty piece of cloth worn to shreds covered him. "This my brother!" Bipin shuddered at the thought.