CHAPTER12
Maan Singh had made a quick getaway from the logging camp because Rumbold’s carelessly fired bullet had actually found its mark, cutting a deep gash through the fleshy part of his thigh. As he rode back to his forest hideout the wound was bleeding profusely and he had difficulty in getting off the horse when he reached his destination. He stumbled and nearly fell as he slithered off the horse and had to sit down against a tree, feeling faint. He may actually have passed out, because when he woke up he found himself inside the cave with the Korkus attending him. They had cleaned the wound, made a poultice of some leaves and tied it round the gash. The Korkus had a host of such traditional remedies which they claimed worked better than modern medicine. But they did not seem to be working on him. A fever came on after the second day and it did not seem to be getting any better in spite of the ministrations of the Koarkus. He could see they were a worried lot. Maan Singh tried to put a brave face on it, but he knew he was getting weaker. His leg was swollen and the wound, though clean, still had an angry red appearance.
On the fourth day, when he was drifting in and out of consciousness and fearing the first onset of delirium, he could hear a fierce consultation going on among the Korkus. Before he sank into unconsciousness he dimly heard the word, “Padre Saheb’; and then be fainted.
Later, he saw through a haze of semi-consciousness, a stranger, a white man filling a hypodermic syringe form a vial. He hardly felt the pain as the stranger jobbed the needle into his buttocks.
A few days passed.
The injections were repeated. Maan Singh now felt fully conscious. The fever had abated. He saw the stranger clearly for the first time. He was a portly gentleman, clearly past fifty, with a large genial face and eyes that twinkled behind thick spectacles. Maan Singh had an impression of having seem him somewhere.
“Kaise ho, how do you feel?” Asked the white man as he looked at him with a smile.
Maan Singh smiled back without saying anything.
“You’re going to be all right,” said the stranger, patting his arm with a podgy white hand. A large silver crucifix dangled from a chain around his chest. Maan Singh realised thathe was looking at reverend Bainbridge, the Vicar for Pachmarhi.
“Thank you Father,” hHe said in English.
“Ah, you know me then.”
“You are the Vicar of Pachmari, sir,”
“That’s right. And how do happen to be here, young man. You are not a native of these parts, of course.”
“No. I just help the Korkus, now and then.”
“Ah! That is exactly what I do too, and you are lucky that they came to me in the nick to time. When I reached here you were far gone. Your would looked bad and you were delirious. When I saw you, I thought I should put away my doctor’s bag and start praying. But a million units of penicillin can do wonders sometimes. You will soon be up and about, no cause for worry now. Your little friends can take care of you from now on”
“You are not going father.” Asked Maan Singh,
“Well, I have my flock to look after, you know. They might be getting restless, though we have a good curate to hold the fort, the poor chap might be hard pressed by now. You know the summer is coming and my congregation increases tenfold during the season.”
“I know. The whole government will come up during the summer.”
Just then a Korku came up and whispered something in the padre’s ears. The padre had a way of raising his eyebrows that was very expressive. There was a look of concern on his broad face. “It looks like I might have to stay back after all. They tell me that the old man-he meant the Korku headman – is very ill. Shivering and fever.Could be Malaria.Chalo! Lets have a look at the old fellow”
The padre was back after a while. “Just as I had though, malaria. A dose of quinine should see him through, but I might as well spend the night here, as it is late already. I’ll leave in the morning when the old chap is better.”
“I am gold you are staying the night father. I wanted to ask you some questions.”
“Of course, but not in this cave. Rather muggy in here. Let us go out. Come on… I’ll help you up.”
“Thanks! father, but I think I can manage on my own.” He was given a stout stick to lean on and using this as a crutch, he hobbled out. The sun was close to setting. Sitting on a rocky ledge they could see the tall trees with their columnar trunks and symmetrical crowns rising up all around them. The teak trees were in flower, the green foliage crowned with abundant clusters of tiny buff blossoms. On the distant horizon were the summits of some other mountain, so far away that they were only a violet shadow seen dimly.
“A pretty scene, this.”
“Yes, the forest is lovely. Only a timber thief called Rumold may one day cut it all down, if he is not stopped in his tracks. “Said Maan Singh.
“Oh! Rumbold, he is up to his old tricks then. You haven’t run into him by any chance, have you?”
“Run into him..? Well yes, you could say that I have.”
“People like Rumbold give a bad name to the entire British Community. But not all of us are like that, you know.”
“No, not all. There are people like you also. But if you don’t mind my saying to, it is people like Rumbold who represent the true face of the Raj in India.” Said Maan Singh.
“Good god! No, Rumbold is only a black sheep. Every community has them. But you can’t tar the whole lot because of one black sheep.” The padre fished out a bottle from some deep pocket and unscrewed the cap. A Korku appeared instantly with a glass. “You don’t mind if I have a drink, do you. “said the padre, “I should have offered you some but perhaps it is too early for you to be having a plug of brandy.”
“No, no sir, thank you all the same. It is kind of the offer a drink to a native, as the say.”
“Kind of you! But I don’t mean it as a kindness, dash it, I would genuinely like youto have a drink with me.”
“Perhaps you would. Still, I have been brought up to think of Englishmen as superior beings, as gods almost. To have a drink with one is almost unthinkable.”
“Well yes, racial snobbery is an article of faith to the empire builder, but I am only a priest, not a jingo imperialist, I don’t think Christ made any distinction between black and with, or brown either for the matter of that. So let us drink up. I think a tot brandy might be good for you after all.” The Padre asked a Korku to bringa leaf cup for Maan Singh.
“You will have to make do with this, I am afraid, they have only a single glass which they keep for my use.” So saying he poured out a shot of brandy into the leaf cup and made Maan Singh gulp it down.
The drink brought on a small fit of spluttering and coughing. “That’s all right, that’s,” said the padre, slapping him on the back as the regained his breath. “Now that the ice is broken, let me come back to your question. What you say about our snobbery is actually quite correct, but I think it is quite right to keep aloof from the Indians on a personal level and to let them have free play in their social and religious customs. The British have imposed a political system on India and left its society to its own devices, which is I think much the best way to govern India. The alternative would be the French way, that is to Frenchify Indian society but defer to its political prejudices, much worse, don’t you think.”
“I had never thought of it like that,” admitted Maan Singh. “But sir, there is another alternative which you haven’t mentioned.”
“And what is that.”
“Leaving the Indians to run their country as they like.”
“Ah!but there I must confess I am an imperialist. I do think our rule in India is an unmixed blessing. Young man, ask yourself honestly if you would rather have that last Mogul back on the throne of Delhi. Think of the debauchery, the venality, the eunuchs and concubines running the government of a great country like this, Do you really think British rule is actually as bad as all that.”
“Probably not, but that at least was our own rule. This is the rule of firanghees, who keeps reminding us that they belong to a superior race.”
“I would not be so sure. The Moghuls were a central Asian tribe, no mere Indian than we are, and before them there were that Turks and Afghans. If we hadn’t come in, may be some other predatory horde would have poured down the Khyber pass. But whatever new barbarian might have come down to impose his rule in India, it would have been infinitely worse than British rule. Of that I am sure.”
“I am not so sure. They came to conquer India, but in the end were conquered by it. Whatever they might have been at the start, they all became Indians in the end, only the British have stubbornly refused to do so. Moreover I think India is now strong enough to repulse all foreigner invaders. For the first time in her history she stands united.”
“Well, if she does, don’t you think the credit goes to the British.”
“Yes, sir, there I will agree with you. Opposition to British rule has for the First time united the country. We would still have been quarrelling about caste and creed and all our foolish superstitions if it hadn’t been for them. They have given us the language of parliamentary democracy and changed the whole political discourse. But I don’t want to get into a political argument with you sir, After all I own my life to you.”
The padre had trick of wagging his eyebrows and putting his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. He now took out his spectacles from a case and put them on with some deliberation. Then be looked over them at Maan Singh with his pale blue eyes. “Who are you young man, you are no country bumpkin. You talk like a politician but you are not a Congresswallah either, I can see that.”
Maan Singh smiled. “Oh, I am no politician sir. If I have political ideas, I owe them to Mr Bradley the British Principal of the College where I studies. That is why I said we are grateful to the British for having made us conscious of our servitude. We had been slaves for so long that we had developed the morality of slaves-which is that the strong man is always right. It is the British who taught us the language of freedom.”
“So you do see something to admire in us after all.”
“Oh! yes, but the time has come for us to take charge of our own affairs. To make our own mistakes if it comes to that, but to get fee of the British yoke.”
The padre took off his spectacles and put them on again after polishing them again. “Young man, tell me what kind of mistakes will you make once you are in power.”
“I haven’t thought of the mistakes. But one thing is certain, if ever we do take power from the British, we will abolish all class and caste distinctions. And we will make sure every one gets free education. Only education can save the poor, benighted masses of my country.”
“Good, then I can find a place as a schoolmaster in your utopia, if not as a padre.”
“Of course you will, but won’t you go back England?”
“Not until you force me to leave. I have spent all my life in India, or most of it anyway. I have come to love the country, love these forests and hills, and these people who seem to need me more than my own people. I love the big rain that comes pouring down to bless the parched earth, so unlike to damp and drizzle of my own country. I love the blue skies that seem not to have any end. I love the stars that fill the firmament, shining brighter than I have seen them anywhere else. I love the velvet night herself when wide, sweet scents come to you on the wandering breeze. Oh! You could hardly understand the depth of my love for this land. Perhaps no native could. You have to be a foreigner to love India properly. Perhaps even to understand her.”
There was a little silence after this. The padre was shocked at the unexpected depth of his own feelings. And Maan Singh was silenced because he knew that the padre’s words had come out of some depth which he himself had never fathomed. It had become dark and the stars filled the clear sky. The breeze brought them to the scent of teak flowers, those millions of tiny star shaped blossom-now invisible-gave off a fragrance that seemed to be the essence of the forest itself.
“And it was your love for this land that brought you here to serve these Korkus, no doubt,” asked Maan Singh after a pause,
“I don’t know” The Padre was once again fiddling with his glasses. “You know son. I have this feeling that I am not good enough to be a priest. I have too much love for things of the earth, not enough perhaps for things of the spirit. I try to wash off this sense of unworthiness by playing the Good Samaritan when I can. But the guilt remains.”
“I can’t believe that father. If you are not worthy to be a man of God who is?”
“I drink too much son, should a priest be a drunkard?”
“A priest does not need to be an ascetic. We Hindus believe a priest should be a man who has experienced the joys of this would, without being enslaved by them.”
“Well, its not just drink. I have done worse things.”
“No matter sir, If a man has not experienced Kama and Artha, or sex and money he cannot attain salvations. This is he settled conviction of Hindus.”
“You pagans are lucky, I think. You have no concept of original sin. But I am a Christian and shall remain one. And try as I might, sin and guilt are a part of man’s heritage for me. But here are our friends.”
The tom-toms were sounding all over the little clearing and a bonfire had been built in the middle. Round the bonfire men and women were dancing in a circle that widened and narrowed, following the rising and falling rhythms of the drums. A group of Korku elders had come to ask the Padre to witness the dance. When they took their seats along one side of the circle, the flames were leaping high and the dancers were beginning to warm up to their task. A bowl fashioned from a gourd was filled with the fiery liquor brewed by the Korkus form mahua flowers and this was being passed around freely. The Padre stuck to his brandy flask but was persuaded to drink some of the local liquor. It seemed not to have any ill effects on him, except making his pale blue eyes shine a little more brightly.
The dance went on for a while and so did the drinking. The dancers took short breaks to refresh themselves with drink before going on again, as did the drummers. It was fairly late when-tired and drunk-they started dropping off one by one and the festivities came to an end. It was then that the padre spoke up again with sudden animation.” Young man, I’ll tell you now why the British don’t socialise with the Indians. It is because they are afraid.”
“What are they afraid of afraid.”
“They are afraid you will find out that they are no different from you. That they lust for women just as you do.That they hold their guts and rush to their commodes,or puke their stomachs out, when the cholera gets them. That they fart and belch just as you do and probably smell worse. That in this country they are more vulnerable than you are to all the rigours of the climate and all the temptations of the flesh. It is this that they want to hide from you. Hence the myth of the white man’s superiority.Hence no Indians in the clubs. They know that this myth of their superiority is their best protection and once this goes they will be at the mercy of the Indians and they are afraid to that. The Mutiny has left scars that run very deep.”
“Is that why Dyer massacred two thousand of my countrymen in Amritsar?”
“What Dyer did was indefensible, but yes, he was afraid. He was afraid that if he didn’t show his strength of the natives the British would be massacred. Hence the grotesquely disproportionate use of force.”
“A massacre to prevent a massacre, even the Muslim invaders did not slaughter innocent and unarmed civilians. Dyer will have to pay a price for his crime. And the British Empire will have to pay for what Dyer did.”
On that sombre note the evening ended.
