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ANANDAMATH
OF
BANKIM CHANDRA
CHATTERJEE
First thirteen
chapters only
PROLOGUE
A
wide interminable forest. Most
of the trees are Sāls, but other kinds are not wanting. Treetop
mingling with treetop, foliage melting into foliage, the interminable lines
progress; without crevice, without gap, without even a way for the light to
enter, league after league and again league after league the boundless ocean
of leaves advances, tossing wave upon wave in the wind. Underneath, thick
darkness; even at midday the light is dim and uncertain; a seat of terrific
gloom. There the foot of man never treads; there, except the illimitable
rustle of the leaves and the cry of wild beasts and birds, no sound is
heard.
In this
interminable, impenetrable wilderness of blind gloom, if is night. The hour
is midnight, and a very dark midnight; even outside the wood-land it is dark
and nothing can be seen. Within the forest the piles of gloom are like the
darkness in the womb of the earth itself.
Bird and beast are
utterly and motionlessly still. What hundreds of thousands, what millions of
birds, beasts, insects, flying things have their dwelling within that
forest! But not one is giving forth a sound. Rather the darkness is within
the imagination; but inconceivable is that noiseless stillness of the ever-murmurous,
ever noise-filled earth. In that limitless empty forest, in the solid
darkness of that midnight, in that unimaginable silence, there was a sound:
“Shall the desire of my heart ever be fulfilled ?”
After that sound the
forest reaches sank again into stillness. Who would have said then that a
human sound had been heard in those wilds ? A little while after, the sound
came again, again the voice of man rang forth troubling the hush: “Shall the
desire of my heart ever be fulfilled?”
Three times the wide
sea of darkness was thus shaken. Then the answer came: “What is the stake
put down?”
The first voice
replied, “I have staked my life and all its riches.”
The echo answered,
“Life! it is a small thing which all can sacrifice.”
“What else is there?
What more can I give?”
This was the answer,
“Thy soul’s worship.”
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ANANDAMATH
CHAPTER ONE
It
is a summer day of the Bengali year 1176, The glare and heat of the sun lies
very heavy on the village of Padachinha. The village is crowded with houses,
yet there is not a man to be seen. Line upon line of shops in the bazaar,
rows upon rows of booths in the mart, hundreds of earthen houses
interspersed with stone mansions, high and low, in every quarter. But today
all is silent. In the bazaar the shops are closed, and where the shopkeeper
has fled no man can tell. It is market day today, but in the mart there is
no buying and selling. It is the beggars’ day, but the beggars are not out.
The weaver has shut up his loom and lies weeping in his house; the trader
has forgotten his traffic and weeps with his infant in his lap; the givers
have left giving and the teachers closed their schools; the very infant, it
would seem, has no longer heart to cry aloud. No wayfarers are to be seen in
the highways, no bathers in the lake, no human forms at door and threshold,
no birds in the trees, no cattle in the pastures; only in the burning-ground
dog and jackal crowd.
In that crowded
desolation of houses one huge building, whose great fluted pillars could be
seen from afar, rose glorious as the peak of a hill. And yet where was the
glory ? The doors were shut, the house empty of the concourse of men, hushed
and voiceless, difficult even to the entry of the wind. In a room within
this dwelling where even noon was a darkness, in that darkness, like a pair
of lilies flowering in the midnight, a wedded couple sat in thought.
Straight in front of them stood Famine.
The harvest of the
year 1174 had been poor, consequently in the year 1175 rice was a little
dear; the people suffered, but the Government exacted its revenues to the
last fraction of a farthing. As a result of this careful reckoning the poor
began to eat only once a day. The rains in 1175 were copious, and people
thought Heaven had taken pity on the land. Joyously once more the herdsman
sang his ditty in the fields; the tiller’s wife again began to tease her
husband for a silver bracelet. Suddenly in the month of Aswin Heaven turned
away its face. In Aswin and Kartick not a drop of rain fell; the grain in
the fields withered and turned to straw as it stood.
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Wherever a ear or two
flourished, the officials bought it for the troops. The people no longer had
anything to eat. First, they stinted themselves of one meal in the day; then
even from their single meal they rose with half-filled stomachs; next the
two meal-times became two fasts. The little harvest reaped in Chaitra was
not enough to fill the hungry mouths. But Mahomed Reza Khan, who was in
charge of the revenues, thought fit to show himself off as a loyal servant
and immediately enhanced the taxes by ten per cent. Throughout Bengal arose
a clamour of great weeping.
First, people began
to live by begging but afterwards who could give alms? They began to fast.
Next they fell into the clutch of disease. The cow was sold, plough and yoke
were sold, the seed-rice was eaten, hearth and home were sold, land and
goods were sold. Next they began to sell their girls. After that they began
to sell their boys. After that they began to sell their wives. Next, girl,
boy, or wife, —who would buy? Purchasers there were none, only sellers. For
want of food men began to eat the leaves of trees, they began to eat grass,
they began to eat weeds. The lower castes and the forest men began devouring
dogs, mice and cats. Many fled, but ,| those who fled only reached some
foreign land to die of starvation. Those ‘ who remained ate uneatables or
subsisted without food till disease took hold of them and they died.
Disease had its day,
— fever, cholera, consumption, small-pox. The virulence of small-pox was
especially great. In every house men began to perish of the disease. There
was none to give water to his fellow, none who would touch him, none to
treat the sick. Men would not turn to care for each other’s sufferings, nor
was there any to take up the corpse from where it lay. Beautiful bodies lay
rotting in wealthy mansions. For where once the small-pox made its entry,
the dwellers fled from the house and abandoned the sick man in their fear.
Mohendra Singha was
a man of great wealth in the village of Padachinha. but today rich and poor
were on one level. In this time of crowding afflictions his relatives,
friends, servants, maid-servants had all been ‘ seized by disease and gone
from him. Some had died, some had fled. In that once peopled household there
was only himself, his wife and one infant girl. This was the .couple of whom
I spoke.
The wife, Kalyani,
gave up thinking and went to the cowshed to milk the cow; then she warmed
the milk, fed her child and went again to give the cow its grass and water.
When she returned from her task Mohendra said, “How long can we go on in
this way?”
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“Not long,” answered Kalyani, “as long as
we can. So long as possible I will keep things going, afterwards you and the
girl can go to the town.”
mohendra
If we have to go to the town at the end,
why should I inflict all this trouble on you at all? Come, let us go at once.
After
much arguing and contention between husband and wife, Kalyani said, “Will there
be any particular advantage in going to the town?”
mohendra
Very possibly that place too is as empty of
men and empty of means of subsistence as we are here.
kalyani
If you go to Murshidabad, Cossimbazar or
Calcutta, you may save your life. It is in every way best to leave this place.
Mohendra
answered, “This house has been full for many years of the gathered wealth of
generations. All this will be looted by thieves.”
kalyani
If thieves come to loot it, shall we two be
able to protect the treasure? If life is not saved who will be there to enjoy?
Come, let us shut up the whole place this moment and go. If we survive, we can
come back and enjoy what remains.
“Will
you be able to do the journey on foot?” asked Mohendra. “The palanquin-bearers
are all dead. As for cart or carriage, where there are bullocks there is no
driver; and where there is a driver there are no bullocks.”
kalyani
Oh, I shall be able to walk, do not fear.
In
her heart she thought, even if she fell and died on the way, these two at least
would be saved.
The
next day at dawn the two took some money with them, locked up room and door,
let loose the cattle, took the child in their arms and set out for the capital.
At the time of starting Mohendra said, “The road is very difficult, at every
step dacoits and highwaymen are hovering about, it is not well to go
empty-handed.” So saying Mohendra returned to the house and took from it
musket, shot, and powder.
When
she saw the weapon, Kalyani said, “Since you have remembered to take arms with
you, hold Sukumari for a moment and I too will
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bring a weapon with me.” With these words she put her daughter into
Mohendra’s arms and in her turn entered the
house.
Mohendra
called after her, “Why, what weapon can you take with you?”
As
she came, Kalyani hid a small casket of poison in her dress. Fearing what fate
might befall her in these days of misfortune, she had already procured and kept
the poison with her.
It
was the month of Jyaistha, a savage heat, the earth as if a flame, the wind
scattering fire, the sky like a canopy of heated copper, the dust of the road
like sparks of fire. Kalyani began to perspire profusely. Now resting under the
shade of a bāblā tree, now sitting in the shelter of a
date-palm, drinking the muddy water of dried ponds, with great difficulty she
journeyed forward. The girl was in Mohendra’s arms and sometimes he fanned her
with his robe. Once the two refreshed themselves, seated under the boughs of a
creeper-covered tree flowering with odorous blooms and dark-hued with dense
shade-giving foliage. Mohendra wondered to see Kalyani’s endurance under
fatigue. He drenched his robe with water from a neighbouring pool and sprinkled
it on his and Kalyani’s face, forehead, hands and feet.
Kalyani
was a little cooled and refreshed, but both of them were distressed with great
hunger. That could be borne, but the hunger and thirst of their child could not
be endured, so they resumed their march. Swimming through those waves of fire
they arrived before evening at an inn. Mohendra had cherished a great hope that
on reaching the inn he would be able to give cool water to his wife and child
to drink and food to save their lives. But he met with a great disappointment.
There was not a man in the inn. Big rooms were lying empty, the men had all
fled. Mohendra after looking about the place made his wife and daughter lie
down in one of the rooms. He began to call from outside in a loud voice, but
got no answer Then Mohendra said to Kalyani, “Will you have a little courage
and stay here alone? If there is a cow to be found in this region, may Sri Krishna
have pity on us and I shall bring you some milk.” He took an earthen water jar
in his hand and went out. A number of such jars were lying about the place.
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CHAPTER TWO
Mohendra departed. Left alone with no one
near her but her little girl, Kalyani in that solitary and unpeopled place, in
that almost pitch-dark cottage began to study closely every side. Great fear
was upon her. No one anywhere, no sound of human existence to be heard, only
the howling of the dogs and the jackals. She regretted letting her husband
go—hunger and thirst might after all have been borne a little longer. She
thought of shutting all the doors and sitting in the security of the closed
house. But not a single door had either panel or bolt. As she was thus gazing
in every direction suddenly something in the doorway that faced her caught her
eye, something like a shadow. It seemed to her to have the shape of a man and
yet not to be human. Something utterly dried up and withered, something like a
very black, a naked and terrifying human shape had come and was standing at the
door. After a little while the shadow seemed to lift a hand — with the long
withered finger of a long withered hand, all skin and bone, it seemed to make a
motion of summons to someone outside. Kalyani’s heart dried up in her with
fear. Then just such another shadow, withered, black, tall, naked, came and
stood by the side of the first. Then another came and yet another came. Many came,
— slowly, noiselessly they began to enter the room. The room with its almost
blind darkness grew dreadful as a midnight burning-ground. All those
corpse-like figures gathered round Kalyani and her daughter. Kalyani almost
swooned away. Then the black withered men seized and lifted up the woman and
the girl, carried them out of the house and entered into a jungle across the
open fields.
A
few minutes afterwards Mohendra arrived with the milk in the water jar. He
found the whole place empty. Hither and thither he searched, often called aloud
his daughter’s name and at last even his wife’s. There was no answer, he could
find no trace of his wife and child.
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CHAPTER THREE
It was a very beautiful woodland in which
the robbers set down Kalyani There was no light, no eye to see the loveliness,
— the beauty of the wood remained invisible like the beauty of soul in a poor
man’s heart. There might be no food in the country, but there was a wealth of
flowers in the woodland; so thick was the fragrance that even in that darkness
one seemed to be conscious of a light. On a clear spot in the middle covered
with soft grass, the thieves set down Kalyani and her child and themselves sat around
them. Then they began to debate what to do with them, for what ornaments
Kalyani had with her were already in their possession. One group was very busy
with the division of this booty. But when the ornaments had been divided, one
of the robbers said, “What are we to do with gold and silver ? Someone give me
a handful of rice in exchange for an ornament; I am tortured with hunger, I
have eaten today nothing but the leaves of trees.” No sooner had one so spoken
than all echoed him and a clamour arose. “Give us rice, give us rice, we do not
want gold and silver!” The leader tried to quiet them, but no one listened to
him. Gradually high words began to be exchanged, abuse flowed freely, a fight
became imminent. Everyone in a rage pelted the leader with his whole allotment
of ornaments. He also struck one or two and this brought all of them upon
him striking at him in a general assault. The robber captain was emaciated and
ill with starvation; one or two blows laid him prostrate and lifeless,
Then one in that hungry, wrathful, excited, maddened troop of plunderers cried
out, “We have eaten the flesh of dogs and jackals and now we are racked with
hunger; come, friends, let us feast to-day on this rascal.” Then all began to
shout aloud, “Glory to. Kali! Bom Kali! today we will eat human flesh.” And
with this cry those black emaciated corpse-like figures began to shout with
laughter and dance and clap their hands in the congenial darkness. One of them
set about lighting a fire to roast the body of the leader. He gathered dried
creepers, wood and grass, struck flint and iron and set light to the collected fuel.
As the fire burned up a little, the dark green foliage of the trees that were
neighbors to the spot, mango, lemon, jackfruit and palm, tamarind and date, were
lit up faintly with the toes. Here the leaves seemed ablaze, there the grass
brightened in the light; in some places the darkness only became more crass and
deep, Mien the fire was ready, one began to drag the corpse by the leg and
was to throw it on the fire, but another intervened and said, “Drop it!
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stop, stop! if it is on the grand meat that
we must keep ourselves alive today, then why the tough and juiceless flesh of
this old fellow? We shall eat what we have looted and brought with us today.
Come along, there is that tender girl, let us roast and eat her.” Another said,
“Roast anything you like, my good fellow, but roast it; I can stand this hunger
no longer.” Then all gazed greedily towards the place where Kalyani and her
daughter had lain. They saw the place empty; neither child nor mother was
there. Kalyani had seen her opportunity when the robbers were disputing, taken
her daughter into her arms, put the child’s mouth to her breast and fled into
the wood. Aware of the escape of their prey, the ghost-like ruffian crew ran in
every direction with a cry of “Kill, Kill”. In certain conditions man is no
better than a ferocious wild beast.
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CHAPTER FOUR
The darkness of the wood was very deep and
Kalyani could not find her way. In the thickly-woven entanglement of trees, creepers,
and thorns there was no path at the best of times and on that there came this
impenetrable darkness. Separating the branches and creepers, pushing through
thorn and briar, Kalyani began to make her way into the thickness of the wood.
The thorns pierced the child’s skin and she cried from time to time; and at
that the shouts of the pursuing robbers rose higher. In this way with torn and
bleeding body, Kalyani made farther progress into the woodland. After a little
while the moon rose. Until then there was some slight confidence in Kalyani’s
mind that in the darkness the robbers would not be able to find her and after a
brief and fruitless search would desist from the pursuit, but, now that the
moon had risen, that confidence left her. The moon, as it mounted into the sky,
shed its light on the woodland tops, and the darkness within was suffused with
it. The darkness brightened, and here and there, through gaps, the outer
luminousness found its way inside and peeped into the thickets. The higher the
moon mounted, the more the light penetrated into the reaches of foliage, the
deeper all the shadows took refuge in the thicker parts of the forest. Kalyani
too with her child hid herself farther and farther in where the shadows retreated.
And now the robbers shouted higher and began to come running from all sides,
and the child in her terror wept louder. Kalyani then gave up the struggle and
made no further attempt to escape. She sat down with the girl on her lap on a
grassy thornless spot at the foot of a great tree and called repeatedly, “Where
art Thou? Thou whom I worship daily, to whom daily I bow down, in reliance on
whom I had the strength to penetrate into this forest, where art Thou, 0 Madhusudan?”
At this time, what with fear, the deep emotion of spiritual love and worship
and the lassitude of hunger and thirst, Kalyani gradually lost sense of her
outward surroundings and became full of an inward consciousness in which she
was aware of a heavenly voice singing in mid-air,
“0
Hari, 0 Murari, 0 foe of
Kaitabh
and Madhu!
0
Gopal, O Govinda, O Mukunda,
0 Shauri!
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0 Hari, 0 Murari, O foe of
Kaitabh
and Madhu!”
Kalyani
had heard from her childhood, in the recitation of the Puranas, that the sages
of Paradise roam the world on the paths of the sky, crying aloud to the music
of the harp the name of Hari. That imagination took shape in her mind and she
began to see with the inner vision a mighty ascetic, harp in hand,
white-bodied, white-haired, white-bearded, white-robed, tall of stature,
singing in the path of the azure heavens,
“0
Hari, 0 Murari, 0 foe of
Kaitabh and Madhu!”
Gradually the song grew nearer, louder she
heard the words,
“0
Hari, 0 Murari, 0 foe of
Kaitabh
and Madhu!”
Then still nearer, still clearer, —
“0 Hari, 0 Murari, 0 foe of
Kaitabh and Madhu!”
At last over Kalyani’s head the chant rang
echoing in the woodland,
“0 Hari, 0 Murari, 0 foe of
Kaitabh and Madhu!”
Then
Kalyani opened her eyes. In the half-lustrous moonbeams suffused and shadowed
with the darkness of the forest, she saw in front of her that white-bodied,
white-haired, white-bearded, white-robed image of a sage. Dreamily all her
consciousness centred on the vision. Kalyani thought to bow down to it, but she
could not perform the salutation; even as she bent her head, all consciousness
left her and she lay fallen supine on the ground.
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CHAPTER FIVE
In a huge tract of ground in the forest
there was a great monastery engirt with ruined masses of stone. Archaeologists
would tell us that this was formerly a monastic retreat of the Buddhists and
afterwards became a Hindu monastery. Its rows of edifices were two-storeyed; in
between were temples and in front a meeting-hall. Almost all these buildings
were surrounded with a wall and so densely hidden with the trees of the forest
that, even at day-time and at a short distance from the place, none could
divine the presence of a human habitation here. The buildings were broken in
many places, but by daylight one could see that the whole place had been
recently repaired. A glance showed that man had made his dwelling in this profound
and inaccessible wilderness. It was in a room in this monastery, where a great
log was blazing, that Kalyani first returned to consciousness and beheld in
front of her that white-bodied, white-robed Great One. Kalyani began once more
to gaze on him with eyes large with wonder, for even now memory did not return
to her. Then the Mighty One of Kalyani’s vision spoke to her: “My child, this
is a habitation of the Gods, here have no apprehension. I have a little milk,
drink it and then I will talk with you.”
At
first Kalyani could understand nothing, then, as by degrees her mind recovered
some firm foundation, she threw the hem of her robe round her neck and made an
obeisance at the Great One’s feet. He replied with. a blessing and brought out
from another room a sweet-smelling earthen pot in which he warmed some milk at
the blazing fire. When the milk was warm he gave it to Kalyani and said, “My
child, give some to your daughter to drink and then drink some yourself,
afterwards you can talk.” Kalyani, with joy in her heart, began to administer
the milk to her daughter. The unknown then said to her, “While I am absent,
have no anxiety,” and left the temple. After a while he returned from outside
and saw that Kalyani had finished giving the milk to her child, but had herself
drunk nothing; the milk was almost as it was at first, very little had been
used. “My child,” said the unknown, “you have not drunk the milk; I am going
out again, and until you drink I will not return.”
The
sage-like personage was again leaving the room, when Kalyani once more made him
an obeisance and stood before him with folded hands.
“What
is it you wish to say?” asked the recluse.
Then
Kalyani replied, “Do not command me to drink the milk, there ;ii an obstacle. I
will not drink it.”
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The
recluse answered in a voice full of compassion, “Tell me what is the obstacle;
I am a forest-dwelling ascetic, you are my daughter; what can you have to say
which you will not tell me? When I carried you unconscious from the forest,
you then seemed to me as if you had been sadly distressed with thirst and
hunger; if you do not eat and drink, how can you live?”
Kalyani
answered, the tears dropping from her eyes, “You are a god and I will tell you.
My husband remains still fasting and until I meet him again or hear of his
tasting food, how can I eat?”
The
ascetic asked, “Where is your husband?”
“I
do not know,” said Kalyani, “the robbers stole me away after he had gone out in
search of milk.” Then the ascetic by question after question elicited all the
information about Kalyani and her husband. Kalyani did not indeed utter her
husband’s name, — she could not; but the other information the ascetic received
about him was sufficient for him to understand. He asked her, “Then you are
Mohendra Singha’s wife?” Kalyani, in silence and with bowed head, began to heap
wood on the fire at which the milk had been warmed. Then the ascetic said, “Do
what I tell you, drink the milk; I am bringing you news of your husband. Unless
you drink the milk, I will not go.” Kalyani asked, “Is there a little water
anywhere here?” The ascetic pointed to ajar of water. Kalyani made a cup of her
hands, the ascetic filled it with water; then Kalyani approaching her hands
with the water in them to the ascetic’s feet, said, “Please put the dust of
your feet in the water.” When the ascetic had touched the water with his foot,
Kalyani drank it and said, “I have drunk nectar of the gods, do not tell me to
eat or drink anything else; until I have news of my husband I will take nothing
else.” The ascetic answered, “Abide without fear in this temple. I am going in
search of your husband.”
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CHAPTER SIX
It was far on in the night and the moon
rode high overhead. It was not the full moon and its brilliance was not so
keen. An uncertain light, confused with shadowy hints of darkness, lay over an
open common of immense extent the two extremities of which could not be seen
in that pale lustre. This plain affected the mind like something illimitable
and desert-like, a very abode, of fear. Through it there ran the road between
Murshi dabad and Calcutta.
On
the road-side was a small hill which bore upon it a goodly number of
mango-trees. The tree-tops glimmered and trembled with a sibilant rustle in the
moonlight, and their shadows, too, black upon the blackness of the rocks, shook
and quivered. The ascetic climbed to the top of the hill and there in rigid
silence listened, but for what he listened, it is not easy to say; for in that
great plain that seemed as vast as infinity, there was not a sound except the
murmurous rustle of the trees. At one spot there was a great jungle near the
foot of the hill, — the hill above, the high road below, the jungle between. I
do not know what sound met his ear from the jungle, but it was in that
direction the ascetic went. Entering into the denseness of the growth he saw in
the forest, under the darkness of the branches at the foot of long rows of
trees, men sitting, — men tall of stature, black of hue, armed; their burnished
weapons glittered fierily in the moonlight where it fell through gaps in the
woodland leafage. Two hundred such armed men were sitting there, not one
uttering a single word. The ascetic went slowly into their midst and made some
signal, but not a man rose, Bone spoke, none made a sound. He passed in front
of all, looking at each is he went, scanning every face in the gloom, as if he
were seeking someone lie could not find. In his search he recognised one,
touched him and made a sign, at which the other instantly rose. The ascetic
took him to a distance and they stood and talked apart. The man was young; his
handsome face we a thick black moustache and beard; his frame was full of
strength; his whole presence beautiful and attractive. He wore an
ochre-coloured robe and on all his limbs the fairness and sweetness of sandal
was smeared. The Brahmacharin said to him, “Bhavananda, have you any
news of Mohendra Singha?”
Bhavananda
answered, “Mohendra Singha and his wife and child left their house today; on
the way, at the inn, —”
At
this point the ascetic interrupted him, “I know what happened at
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the inn. Who did it?”
“Village rustics, I
imagine. Just now the peasants of all the villages have turned dacoits from
compulsion of hunger. And who is not a dacoit nowadays ? Today we also have
looted and eaten. Two maunds of rice belonging
to the Chief of Police were on its way; we took and consecrated it to a
devotee’s dinner.”
The ascetic laughed
and said, “I have rescued his wife and child from the thieves. I have just
left them in the monastery. Now it is your charge to find out
Mohendra and deliver his wife and daughter into
his keeping. Jivananda’s presence here will be
sufficient for the success of today’s business.”
Bhavananda undertook the mission and the ascetic departed elsewhere.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Mohendra
rose from the floor of the inn where he was sitting, for nothing could be
gained by sitting there and thinking over his loss. He started
in the direction of the town with the idea of taking the help of the
officials in the search for his wife and child. After journeying for some
distance he saw on the road a number of bullock-carts surrounded by a great
company of sepoys.
In the Bengali year
1175 the province of Bengal had not become subject to British
administration. The English were then the revenue officials of Bengal. They
collected the taxes due to the treasury, but up to that time they had not
taken upon themselves the burden of protecting the life and property of the
Bengali people. The burden they had accepted was to take the country’s
money; the responsibility of protecting life and property lay upon that
despicable traitor and disgrace to humanity, Mirzafar.
Mirzafar was incapable of protecting even
himself; it was not likely that he would or could protect the people of
Bengal. Mirzafar took opium and slept; the
English raked in the rupees and wrote despatches;
as for the people of Bengal they wept and went to destruction.
The taxes of the
province were therefore the due of the English, but the burden of
administration was on the Nawab. Wherever the
English themselves collected the taxes due to them, they had appointed a
collector, but the revenue collected went to Calcutta. People might die of
starvation, but the collection of their monies did not stop for a moment.
However, very much could not be collected; for if Mother Earth does not
yield wealth, no one can create wealth out of nothing. Be that as it may,
the little that could be collected, had been made into cart-loads and was on
its way to the Company’s treasury at Calcutta in charge of a military
escort. At this time there was great danger from dacoits, so fifty armed
sepoys inarched with fixed bayonets, ranked
before and behind the carts. Their captain was an English soldier who went
on horseback in the rear of the force. On account of the heat the
sepoys did not march by day but only by night.
As they marched, Mohendra’s progress was stopped
by the treasure carts and this military array. Mohendra,
seeing his way barred by sepoys and carts, stood
at the side of the road; but as the sepoys still
jostled him in passing, holding this to be no fit time for debate, he went
and stood at the edge of the jungle by the road.
Then a
sepoy said in Hindustani, “See, there’s a dacoit
making off.”
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The sight of the gun in
Mohendra’s hand confirmed this belief. He went
for Mohendra, caught hold of his neck and, with
the salutation “Rogue! thief!” suddenly gave him a blow of the fist and
wrested the gun from his hand. Mohendra,
empty-handed, merely returned the blow. Needless to say,
Mohendra was something more than a little angry,
and the worthy sepoy reeled with the blow and
went down stunned on the road. Upon that, three or four
sepoys came up, took hold of Mohendra
and, dragging him forcibly to the commander, told the
Saheb, “This man has killed one of the sepoys.”
The Saheb was smoking and a little bewildered
with strong drink; he replied, “Catch hold of the rogue and marry him.” The
soldiers did not understand how they were to marry an armed highwayman, but
in the hope that, with the passing of the intoxication, the
Saheb would change his mind and the marriage
would not be forced on them, three or four sepoys
bound Mohendra hand and foot with the halters of
the cart-bullocks and lifted him into the cart.
Mohendra saw that it would be in vain to use force against so many,
and, even if he could effect his escape by force, what was the use ?
Mohendra was depressed and sorrowful with grief
for his wife and child and had no desire for life. The
sepoys bound Mohendra securely to the
wheel of the cart. Then with a slow and heavy stride the escort proceeded on
its march.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
Possessed of the ascetic’s
command, Bhavananda, softly crying the name of
Hari went in the direction of the inn where
Mohendra had been sitting; for he thought it
likely that there he would get a clue to Mohendra’s
whereabouts.
At that time the
present roads made by the English were not in existence. In order to come
to Calcutta from the district towns, one had to travel by the
marvellous roads laid down by the Mogul
Emperors. On his way from Padachinha to the
town, Mohendra had been
travelling from south to north; thus it was that he met the soldiers
on the way. The direction Bhavananda had to
take from the Hill of Palms towards the inn, was also from south to north:
necessarily, he too on his way fell in with the sepoys
in charge of the treasure. Like Mohendra, he
stood aside to let them pass. Now, for one thing, the soldiers naturally
believed that the dacoits would be sure to attempt the plunder of this
despatch of treasure, and on that apprehension
had come the arrest of a dacoit on this very highway. When they saw
Bhavananda too standing aside in the night-time,
they inevitably concluded that here was another dacoit. Accordingly, they
seized him on the spot.
Bhavananda smiled softly and said, “Why so, my good fellow?”
“Rogue!” answered a
sepoy, “you are a robber.”
“You can very well
see I am an ascetic wearing the yellow robe. Is this the appearance of a
robber?”
“There are plenty of
rascally ascetics and Sannyasins who rob,”
retorted the sepoy, and he began to push and
drag Bhavananda.
Bhavananda’s eyes Hashed in the darkness, but he only said very
humbly, “Good master, let me know your commands.”
The
sepoy was pleased at
Bhavananda’s politeness and said, “Here, rascal, take this load and
carry it,” and he clapped a bundle on Bhavananda’s
head. Then another of the sepoys said to the
first, “No, he will runaway; tie up the rascal on the cart where the other
rogue is bound.” Bhavananda grew curious to know
who was the man they had bound; he threw away the bundle on his head and
administered a slap on the cheek of the soldier who had put it there. In
consequence, the sepoys bound
Bhava-nanda, lifted him on to the cart and flung
him down near Mohendra.
Bhavananda at once recognised
Mohendra Singha.
The
sepoys again marched on, carelessly and with
noise, and the
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creaking of the carts-wheels
recommenced. Then, softly and in a voice audible only to
Mohendra, Bhavananda
said, “Mohendra Singha,
I know you and am here to give you help. There is no need for you to know
just at present who I am. Do very carefully what I tell you. Put the
rope that ties your hands on the wheel of the cart.”
Mohendra, though astonished, carried out
Bhavananda’s suggestion without a word. Moving a little towards the
cart-wheel under cover of darkness, he placed the rope that tied his hands
so as to just touch the wheel. The rope was gradually cut through by the
friction of the wheel. Then he cut the rope on his feet by the same means.
As soon as he was free of his bonds, by Bhavananda’s
advice, he lay inert in the cart. Bhavananda
also severed his bonds by the same device. Both lay utterly still and
motionless.
The path of the
soldiers took them precisely by the road where the
Brahmacharin had stood on the highway near the jungle and gazed round
him. As soon as they arrived near the hill, they saw under it, on the top of
a mound, a man standing. Catching sight of his dark figure silhouetted
against the moonlit azure sky, the havildar
said, “There is another of the rogues; catch him and bring him here: he
shall carry a load.”
At that a soldier
went to catch the man, but, though he saw the fellow coming to lay hold of
him, the watcher stood firm; he did not stir. When the soldier laid hands on
him, he said nothing. When he was brought as a prisoner to the
havildar, even then he said nothing. The
havildar ordered a load to be put on his head; a
soldier put the load in place; he took it on his head. Then the
havildar turned away and started marching with
the cart. At this moment a pistol shot rang suddenly out, and the
havildar, pierced through the head, fell on the
road and breathed his last. A soldier shouted, “This rascal has shot the
havildar,” and seized the luggage-bearer’s hand.
The bearer had still the pistol in his grasp. He threw the load from him and
struck the soldier on the head with the butt of his pistol; the man’s head
broke and he dropped further proceedings. Then with a cry of “Hari!
Hari! Hari!” two
hundred armed men surrounded the soldiery. The sepoys
were at that moment awaiting the arrival of their English captain, who,
thinking the dacoits were on him, came swiftly up to the cart, and gave the
order to form a square; for an Englishman’s intoxication vanishes at the
touch of danger. The sepoys immediately formed
into a square facing four ways and at a further command of their captain
lifted their guns in act to fire. At this critical moment some one wrested
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suddenly the Englishman’s sword
from his belt and with one blow severed his head from his body. With the
rolling of the Englishman’s head from his shoulders the unspoken command to
fire was silenced for ever. Alt looked and saw,, a man standing on the cart,
sword in hand shouting loud the cry of “Hari,
Hari” and calling “Kill, kill the soldiers.” It
was Bhavananda.
The sudden sight of
their captain headless and the failure of any officer to give the command
for defensive action kept the soldiers for a few moments passive and
appalled. The daring assailants took advantage of this opportunity to slay
and wound many, reach the carts and take possession of the money chests.
The soldiers lost courage, accepted defeat and took to flight.
Then the man who had
stood on the mound and afterwards assumed the chief leadership of the attack
came to Bhavananda. After a mutual embrace
Bhavananda said, “Brother
Jivananda, it was to good purpose that you took the vow of our
brotherhood.” “Bhavananda,” replied
Jivananda, “justified be your name.”
Jivananda was charged with the office of
arranging for the removal of the plundered treasure to its proper place and
he swiftly departed with his following. Bhavananda
alone remained standing on the field of action.
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