EPILOGUE
It was 1977. Mrs Gandhi had lost the elections and the Emergency was over. The Janata Party was in power. James Cartwright-MP from East Coker, was part of the delegation of British parliamentarians to visit India that year. He took time out to visit the district of Hoshangabad where he was received, as per protocol, by the district Collector.
Sundereshan the Collector, was a south Indian who had lived in the north and been educated there. He was a tall, rather bookish young man, who spoke faultless English and was rather vain about this accomplishment.
The old Bungalow where the Conservator of Forest used to live in British days had been converted into the Circuit House and this was where Cartwright was lodged. It was already evening when he reached Hoshangabad and the first thing that he did after a wash and a cup of tea was to visit Bains’ grave. The Collector had deputed a Thsildar to attend to the British sahib and this officer accompanied him to the cemetery. When he reached the graveyard, he saw at a glance that the place was in a state of complete neglect. The boundary wall had collapsed in places and the rickety wooden gate was leaning askew. The little lodge at the gate was now a roofless ruin. As for the graves, it was obvious that no one looked after them – they were overgrown with nettles and the gravestones were almost smothered in rank vegetation. Bains’ grave was in no better shape than the rest. Cartwright placed a wreath on the grave and stood lost in thought for a while. It was sad that the grave of so noble a man had been allowed to fall into such a state of ruin. But then India was a country of ruins. He turned sadly from the cemetery. The pastor of the local church, who was nominally in-charge of the cemetery, lived nearby and Cartwright stopped at his residence to talk to the man. The pastor was a small, bespectacled, rather harassed looling individual. He had not heard of Bains at all, to him his grave was only one among many. He had no money to look after the cemetery. Indeed, he had no money to look after his church either, which was a pity, because it was a fine gothic building and one of the oldest in central India. His congregation was too small and he got no help from the Church. Even this meagre congregation was dwindling, as people were moving out to Bhopal or the bigger towns. If things went on like this he would soon have no one to attend the service on Sundays. The Protestants of Hoshangabad were a small and marginalised community and the Church of Saint Geroge, whose gothic edifice now had a rather menacing crack running down the entire façade, was in imminent danger of collapse. These were sad days indeed. Things weren’t so bad if you were Catholic. They had the money to maintain their churches and their convent schools were flourishing. But for the poor protestants the outlook the bleak.So at least said the pastor.
At night Cartwright dined with the Collector. The old bungalow by the river where the Collector lived was the same as ever. The garden was in good trim, the hedges pruned and pollarded, the lawn immaculate, the flowers beds flourishing, the whole house in fact was kept in the same spic-and-span condition that it used to be during the old times. If anything the number of liveried attendants had increased and the Collector was still very much the local grandee. The more things change, the more they remain the same, thought Cartwright as he was greeted by the Collector, who came out on the porch to receive him.
“The old place doesn’t seem to have changed at all.”
“Well, if you mean the old house hasn’t changed much you are right, but elsewhere things have changed all right,” said the Collector as Cartwright was ushered into the drawing room.
“Of course they have. India is now a free country.”
“Oh! I don’t mean in the sense. The Collector is still the prime mover in the schemes of things. If anything his authority has grown as the size of the government machinery has grown. No, what I meant was that now we have politicians. You didn’t have to contend with them.”
Cartwright thought of all the Congress politicians he had known in the old days. “Politicians are a necessary evil in a democracy, don’t you think. Besides, I am one myself.”
“Oh! Your politicians are quite different from ours.”
“Really, I would have thought they are the same, the world over.”
“No, your politicians have the same social background as you do, they go to the same schools and speak the same language. Our politicians are semi-literate, rustics who neither speak the same language, nor play the same games as we do. To tell you the truth, I feel more at home talking to you, than I would to my local MP. It would be an embarrassment to have him as a dinner guest.”
“Well, I am surprised. I do remember the old Congress politicians of my days. They well-educated and polished.”
”Those days are gone Mr Cartwright. Those politicians were idealists. Now they are just power hungry upstarts.”
“Too bad. But I am sure things will improve as we go on. By the way, there was something will improve as we go on. By the way, there was something that I wanted to tell you. Make a request, you know.”
“You don’t have to formal, sir. Just tell me what you want, it will be done.”
“It’s only a small favour. You may have heard of Bains, one of your remote predecessors?”
“Of course I have. Everyone knows the story of how he went out to rescue the villagers in the flood and was drowned.”
Cartwright was pleasantly surprised to know that Bains wasn’t entirely forgotten. “Well, do you know he is buried in the local churchyard?”
“Is he really. No, I did not know that. I do know that at Kanchanpur-the village where his body was washed ashore-an annual fair is held. Old timers tell me that this fair is actually to commemorate Mr Bains’ sacrifice, thought most people not don’t seem to remember that. But I didn’t know that he was buried here.”
“Well, he is buried right here in the old churchyard in Hoshangabad and the sad part is, the pastor has no money to tend to the grave. Now, it would be great favour, if you could ensure that the grave is kept clean and in good repair.”
“Of course, take it as done. As a matter of fact I am rather sorry, that the grave should have been allowed to fall into disrepair. But then you know we are rather negligent about our history. Old things soon turn into ruin, but they live on as legend, just as Bains sahib has done.”
“Thank you. You have taken a weight off my mind.”
After dinner, the conversation turned back to politics. “Mr Cartwright,” said the Collector, “you have been a politician and a civil servant. How would you compare your present career with your old one.”
“Well, it’s natural that you should ask that. The fact is, civil servants in India during the Raj, weren’t really civil servants, they were rulers. We thought of ourselves as Plato’s Guardians and we had the authority to do pretty much what we liked. Being a politician in modern day Britian is very different. Far less authority, you know, and a lot of responsibility.”
“So given a choice you would rather be a civil servant.”
“Yes, if you are talking of the old days. As a matter of fact, those were the best days of my life. There was so much to do and such authority at one’s command. But don’t misunderstand me, the Raj had lived out its purpose. The Indians didn’t want us anymore, and we didn’t have the stomach to stay on despite the opposition. It was right to go when we did. At least we didn’t leave behind a legacy of bitterness. Talking of the old days, tell me about my old friends, Sunanda and Manmohan Dube. Do you happen to know them, by any chance.”
“Know them! Of course I know them. Everyone knows them sir! In fact the leady was a minister in the last Congress regime. Now there’s a real politician of the old school. So well- educated, so intelligent, so gracious. The people worship her, you know.”
“I know. They did even in the old days. And what about her cousin Manmohan.”
“Well, he is something of an enigma. People say if he contested an election he would win hands down, but he has always kept out of politics. Spends most of his time tending to his fields and wandering. They say he has travelled all over India. Still, he is widely respected. Well, no doubt you are anxious to meet your old friends.”
“Yes indeed. Can it be arranged. If it is possible I would like to visit them is their ancestral house in the village of Neelkant, Isn’t that where they live?”
“You are absolutely right sir, your memory is excellent. I will send word to them about your visit. They would be glad to receive you, no doubt. In fact, I would like to have come with you myself, but I have some urgent work and must stay here.”
“That’s all right. You have been very kind and I am grateful for the courtesy shown to me.”
Next morning he was at the village of Neelkant, landing at the make-shiftetty on the bathing ghats, where his old friends – both Sunanda and Maan Singh were waiting for him.
“Mr Cartwright ….. James, what a nice surprise. Of course we knew that you were in India. Read about it in the papers-which reach us two days late. But to see you after all these years is wonderful.” Sunanda was smiling as she said this.
“It’s good to see you both, looking so well. The years sit lightly on you Sunanda, and you too my old friend. You don’t look very much older than you did thrity years ago, although I have become an old man,” said Cartwright, touching his own mop of unruly grey hair.
They walked up to the old house. Charis had been placed on a platform overlooking the river and commanding a view of the distant Mahadeo hills, and here they sat for a long time. They had much to say to each other, and time passed quickly. Soon it was evening. As the sun set behind a bank of quickly. Soon it was evening. As the sun set behind a bank of cloud, a pale, luminous light suffused the scene. Below them the river flowed on serenely. The mountains rose in serried ranks on the horizon, pale green in the foreground, but facing away to violet and hazy grey in the distance. In the middle distance rose the forest of Sohagpur, silent and majestic in its inviolate, green expanse. It was an immemorial scene.
They listened as the aarti began in the temple on the river bank, the reverberations of the drum, the clashing of cymbals, the jagling of bells, all sounding lound and clear in the quiet of the dusk. “I wonder why you have never come to India even once during all these years, Mr Cartwright.” Asked Sunanda as the sounds of the aarti faded away.
“Please call me James. Now that we are all old, we can dispense with the formalities. I am not a representative of the Raj, you know. Although you never let me forget that in the old days.”
Sunanda looked at him with a smile. “Did I do that James?’ I certainly did not intend to.”
“Well you did, keeping me always at arm’s length, if you know what I mean. I thought we could be friends, but I always met with an ivisible wall that stood between us.”
It was Maan Singh who responded before Sunanda could answer. “You are right about the invisible wall. But that wall is now gone and we can at last be friends. Real friends. But you haven’t answered my cousin’s question. Why didn’t you ever think of revisiting India.”
Cartwright thought for a moment, looking up at the starts that had begun to appear. “I did, several times. But every time I did I was restrained by the feeling that we had a lot to answer for as far as India was concerned.”
Maan Singh looked Cartwright straight in the eye as he answered. “You are wrong James. You know I am no friend of the Raj. I hated it with all my heart when I was young. I fought against it in my own way. But now that it’s gone I can take a more detached view. There is so much that we have to thank the Raj for. It showed us our real face for the first time. It showed us what we were not, but also gave us a foretaste of what we could become. It gave us a new language, new modes of thought, new ways of acting. Of course, we had to get rid of the Raj. It was a question of self-respect. But it was the Raj that made us conscious of our degradation and roused our self-respect. Yes, we have to a great deal to be thankful for.”
“Yes, yes but can you forgive us for what Dyer did for example. And that is just one instance. There must have been hundreds of Dyers in their time.”
“You forget my dear James,” said Sunanda, “that India has a great capacity to forgive. The past is gone, let us be friends now.’
Below them the timeless river flowed on to the eternal sea.
