CHAPTER 24
The governor’s house was brightly lit up for the evening’s entertainment. The ballroom was ablaze with chandeliers and the porch where the guests alighted was so brightly illuminated that it could be clearly seen from the gate at the end of the long gravelled drive. In contrast the outhouses at the back of the house where the servants lived were in darkness and liveried servitors hurried to and fro like shadowy phantoms between the big house and the low, rambling, barracks-like dwelling where they lived.
Two tall, moustachioed, splendidly martial figures in scarlet tunics were acting as ushers, leading the guests up the steps to the hallway, where another rather gorgeous retainer conducted them through the passage to the ballroom. Over the portals was mounted a splendid bison head and within the passage stood two massive tigers in glass cases. Along the passage, guns, bows and arrows, battle-axes and otherweapons were displayed on the walls. I wonder why, thought Cartwright, as he looked at the trophies and weapons, the Raj always seemed like a club of big game hunters. He himself had never quite felt so masterful. Rumbold’s maxim, “they won’t give you a district charge until you’ve shot your first tiger,” came to his mind as he entered the ballroom and came face to face with the glittering array of men and women, all dressed up and eager to enjoy the evening.
The governor of the CP & Berar, Sir James Mottram, was short, portly figure, with twinkling eyes and a genial manner. Unlike the Viceroy, Lord Chemsford, who was cold and aloof, he circulated among the guests back-slapping and exchanging pleasantries as he went along. “Ah, Cartwright my dear boy, come along, come along. Have and drink.”
Cartwright was making his way through the room, intending to take up station near one of the bay windows which was invitingly open and through which the scent of honeysuckle was wafted into the ballroom from the moonlit garden, when the hubbub of voices suddenly died away. Looking back, he saw Sir Giles Winterman being wheeled into the room. The old man sat bolt upright in his wheelchair and with his silvery hair and walrus moustache looked as leonine as ever.
The Viceroy himself came up to him, “Ah Sir Giles! It’s a pleasure. And you are looking well. Enjoying your retirement in the backwoods of Pachmarhi, apparently.”
“Kind of your sir, to remember an old fogey like me. Yes, I do like the weather up here in the hills of Pachmarhi. It’s nice and quiet here, very far from the turmoil in the rest of country.”
“Well, I think the worst is already over. We’ll muddle through the rest of it somehow. We always do.”
“I wish you were right, sir. But know it will be different this time.”
“Oh! I know we all have our views on these matters. But do have a drink.” The Viceroy had an inkling of what was coming and he tried to head it off. Sir Giles’ tirades were famous, and the old man was reported to have become more crotchety of late. A double whisky was brought up to Sir Giles as the Viceroy detached himself from the group and headed off in another direction, followed by a group of officials and hangers on. But a large group still remained around the old man, including Sir Donald Crump, an old sparring partner in many a verbal duel.
“You keep saying these Sir Giles. But I don’t think you really believe what you say. You just like being the prophet of doom.”
“You know me better than that. And you know, or ought to know, that after what Dyer did in Amritsar, things will be never the same again. He didn’t just kill hundreds of defenceless people there, he also killed a myth – the myth that the Raj exists with the support and consent of the Indians. Only; unlike the myths of history this myth was a true one. That is why I say this is the beginning of the end.”
“Oh come now, Sir Giles, was an unfortunate incident no doubt, but it’s just one incident. Most Indians are still with us and we have the strength to deal with those who are not.”
“I think you are wrong on both counts. Most educated Indians – and they are the ones who matter – are no longer with us. Oh! They know the Raj is a great blessing, but they resent out racial arrogance. Many of them have been educated in England and have seen us with the mask off-and they can see through the imperial pose. It is this pose that Dyer and the government are trying to strike again and it won’t wash. The Indians will not let us get away with it.”
“You are assigning too much importance to a bunch of seditious lawyers and babus. The real India lives in the villages and the rural gentry, and the peasantry as well, are with us. Isn’t that right vicar.”
The vicar had joined the little group around Sir Giles. “You may well be right sir, but I am inclined to agree with Sir Giles. Only I would go one step further. I would say that Dyer not only destroyed a myth, he also created one. The myth that the British Raj was cruel and repressive. It is this myth that the Congress will use to attack British rule and people will tend to forget the greatest achievement of the Raj, which was to make India into a country. It was only a geographical expression before we came.”
At this point a strange thing happened, a think so unthinkable and shocking that for a while everyone was shocked into silence.
One of the waiters began to address the Vicar.
He was a tall, athletic man with a bearded face. “Excuse me sir !but you are wrong. India was a county long before the British came. One of our sacred texts, the Vishnu Purana, describes it as a part of the continent of Jambudwip in the territory of Aryavarta. The Vishnu Puranais thousands of years old, older than the oldest monuments of the Christian civilization, but I do not suppose you will be familiar with the sacred books of the Hindus sir. And now, if you do not mind gentlemen, please raise your hands over your heads and keep them raised, for as you can see I have a loaded revolver in my hands and if you care to look around you will see that my other friends likewise have similar weapons. Resistance would therefore be useless. Hands up please!”
Most people reluctantly complied with the instructions. The very fact of a native bearer speaking out to the Sahibs in a gathering of this sort was shocking quite apart from what was being said.
The hubbub of voices that followed this announcement soon died away, and absolute silence reigned. This silence was broken by the Viceroy’s dry rasping voice, “what do you want?”
“Freedom.”
“And how do you expect to get that?” This came from Donald Crump. “Do you think that by shooting down a few of us you will get rid of the British Raj. You must be out of your mind.”
“Not at all. You expect to get that the entire government of India is being held hostage here. We have the Viceroy of India and most of his council in our custody.”
“And what if you do. There is not a man here whom you an compel to act against his King and country, even on the pain of death. The only course open to you now, whoever you are, is to hand in your weapons and surrender. That will at least save your necks from the hangman’s noose. Nothing else will.”
The young man who was the leader of the group heard this with a smile. It was clear that the prospect of hanging did not seem to affect him or any of his men. “That’s the last thing I would worry about Mr. Crump. The fact is, as soon as it becomes known that we have taken the Government of India hostage, there will be a general rebellion all over the country. Troops will leave their barracks and rise up against their officers. Millions of public servants, from the highest covenanted officer to the lowest chobdar and police constable will simply refuse to take orders from the British. Once the tide starts turning against the Raj everyone will join us and that will be the end of foreign domination.”
Suddenly Cartwright rose from the window and walked up to Maan Singh with determined steps.
“Please stay where you are.”
“Give me your gun.” Said Cartwright advancing another step.
“One more step and I will have to fire.” The young man had turned his gun on the Cartwright.
“Go on then, fire away and kill me. But before you press the trigger look into my eyes and think whether your cause, whatever it is, justifies killing a fellow human being in cold blood.” Cartwright advanced another step and held out his hand.
“Go on fire!” said one of the other young men holding a gun.
“I know who you are. You are Maan Singh. I know that Mr. Bradley, the college principal thinks you are an idealist. It may surprise you to know that most of the men here are also idealists and have the same commitment to India that you have. Would it not be better therefore to give up your gun and put forward our views in a more peaceable way. You have the entire Government of India as your audience.”
“Is Dyer an idealist,” said the young man with a grim smile. “What sort of idealism is it to fire on unarmed and defenceless people and to go on firing until the ground is littered with corpses.”
“Dyer was a man acting in fear. He had the mind of a drill sergeant and the instincts of a parade ground bully. It is not men like Dyer who made the British Empire. Forget Dyer, a thing like this will never happen again.”
“So you say, but while you say this, Dyer is already a hero to the guardians of the Raj and funds are being collected in his name in England. But enough of this sir, please stand away from me, for have no wish to use the methods of Dyer.”
“Look young man, you believe in God don’t you. I believe in the same God and my god says it is wrong to kill other men, whatever be the cause or creed. So I am going to ask you to give me your gun. I don’t care if you kill med, but I don’t think you will. Please give me your gun, I beseech you in the name of God.” Cartwright advanced slowly towards the young man looking straight into his eyes.
“I don’t believe in God.” Said the young man. As he said this he wondered whether he should pull the trigger. It was funny but he had never really thought about killing anyone before. Of course he was quite prepared to kill an Englishman for the sake of India’s freedom, but that was killing in the abstract. Cartwright’s words had made killing a moral issue, somehow bigger than politics. And his frank blue eyes which looked at him so trustingly and without fear made killing seem like a horrible betrayal. Why did the fellow have to butt into the whole matter. It was unfortunate. Maybe God had willed it that way. And it wasn’t true that he did not believe in God. He did. In fact he prayed every day. It was a short, simple, prayer which he said in his own mind, without letting anyone know that he was praying. His friends would have thought it a mark of weakness. As Cartwright took another step towards him he realised with dismay that he probably wasn’t going to fire. He had become a revolutionary because it had seemed a fine and noble thing. He wanted to sacrifice himself on the altar of liberty, not to kill another person in a cold-blooded way. It didn’t seem quite such a noble thing to fire on a person who had put his own life on sufferance, as the young Englishman had done. And what if he did actually pull the trigger and kill the fellow. He had premonition that if he did that the spell would be broken and instead of surrender the other men in the room would try to overpower him and his friends. There would be bloodshed. Even if he fired all the rounds in his revolver, it would account for only six men. Murder and mayhem-the same sort of thing that Dyer had done. All these thoughts chased each other in his mind, as Cartwright extended his hand and gently removed the gun from his outstretched hand. No one spoke all this while, but the other conspirators backed away towards the windows and walked off into the night while Cartwright disarmed Maan Singh.
It took a while for the assembled crowd to break out of the stunned silence into which they had fallen. Then Maan Singh’s hands were tied up with hurriedly procured pyjama cords while the duty sergeant at the local police station was summoned to make a formal arrest and take charge of the prisoner. He duly arrived to handcuff the prisoner and march him off to the police lock-up. An alarm was raised for the other constipations, but then they were already lost in the surrounding forest.
