The Pride of Kadampur.

The Pride of Kadampur.Kadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural or artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census population is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus, engaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who follow the same avocations but dwell in aPárá(quarter) of their own. TheBhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten Kayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini Kanta Basu’s took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest competence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second Afghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His first care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task which occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It slowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinctMaháls(wings)—the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the ladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and thePujardálán(family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front, facing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants’ quarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings.Villagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily at someChandimandap(a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess Durga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu’s was a favourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation, card-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon in February, was an old gentleman, called Shámsundar Ghosh, and known to hosts of friends as “Shám Babu”. He was head clerk in a Calcutta merchant’s office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (£48 a year at par), which sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter, respectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to make two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at the outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half an hour’s run of the Metropolis. Shám Babu’s position and character were generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for Calcutta gossip.On this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and somebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes ought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom.“True,” observed Sham Babu, “but a market is still more necessary. We have to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are obtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If one were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages at least.” Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the subject dropped.It came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to his friend:—“I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village, and should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would it cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the price of grain, fodder andghi(clarified butter used in cooking), but I really know very little about other things.”The confession elicited a general laugh, and Shám Babu replied, “It will be a matter of Rs. 200”.“Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts.”“True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of cordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have to do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand with their rent to work for you gratis.”“That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people to live while engaged inbegár(forced labour) on my behalf? They must be paid.”“Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market buildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up the unsold stock of perishable goods brought byFarias(hucksters); you must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain, cloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find that they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for space allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180 must be set apart for these preliminary expenses.”Kumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere he announced to the neighbours gathered in hisChandimandapthat he intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring oneBigha(one-third of an acre), known as the Kamárbári (Anglice, “Abode of Blacksmiths”). On an auspicious day towards the end of April, he inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots were enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who had hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers; and business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors) generally have to wait for months and spend money like water before they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a newmarket. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in less than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the Karmárbári remained unoccupied; his Hát-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for vendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly one. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten villages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good counsel in times of difficulty.There is some truth in the notion that fortune’s gifts seldom come singly. Kumodini Babu’s success in a business venture was immediately followed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly thirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was, indeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu’s comparative poverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had sought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that he might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu parent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where he was resting after a heavy day at office.“Why has the moon risen so early?” he asked.“Because the moon can’t do otherwise,” she answered, with a faint smile. “But, joking apart, I wantto consult you about Saili. Our neighbour Kanto Babu’s wife called on me just before you returned from Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini Babu’s younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her.”Shám Babu’s face wore a worried look.“Surely that would be flying too high for such as us,” he rejoined. “The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their family which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British rule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for his B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini Babu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk.”“Still, there is no harm in trying,” remarked the wife. “If you don’t feel equal to approaching him, there’s Kanto Babu who would do so. It was his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think that they have been discussing it together.”“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Shám Babu. “I’ll go to him at once.” And taking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu’s house, which was barely fifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with the news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between.Kanto Babu was as good as his word. That veryevening he called on Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading theMahábhárata(an epic poem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked casually:—“Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty, I believe.”“My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in my opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait till he has passed the B.A. examination.”“Your wife’s idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say so. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students are exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising lads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing bitter grief to their parents!”Kumodini Babu started. “You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta was as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at once. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don’t care about money, but—”“That I do,” interrupted Kanto Babu, “There’s Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest, loving and kind-hearted! You won’t find her equal in thiseláqa(lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman with her family.”Kumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. “I know Shaibalini well by reputation, and she is all you describe her. Shám Babu, too, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and depends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his daughter. But wait a bit: whatgotra(clan) does he belong to?”“I believe he is a Dakhin Rárhi,” answered Kanto Babu.“But I am an Uttar Rárhi,” remarked Kumodini Babu. “Is not that a fatal objection?”For the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are split into clans—probably a survival of the tribal organisation which preceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King of Bengal named Ádisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha servants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended the Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are generally recognised as Kúlin (Angl., “aristocratic”) Kayasthas, while the Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik—“coming of a good stock”. Ádisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and the same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are the supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still termed Saptasati, “the SevenHundred”. The ancient Greeks reckoned their neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as “barbarians”. So Brahmans and Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the GangesRárh, or “uncivilised”. The epithet survives in Uttar (north) and Dakhin (south) Rárhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. Bárendra is another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges, which answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra.Kanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short time he asked, “Now why should such a trifling matter cause any trouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary difference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas.”“You are quite right,” was Kumodini Babu’s reply, “and personally I am above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be Dakhin Rárhi, Banga-ja, or Bárendri for all I care, provided she be comely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will Shám Babu be equally tolerant?”“That I can’t say until I have consulted him,” answered Kanto Babu. “One thing more I must know. What is your idea ofDená Páona(a word answering to our ‘settlements’)?”“Rám, Rám!” exclaimed Kumodini Babu. “AmI the man to sell my son for filthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I am quite opposed to the custom. Should Shám Babu agree to this match, I will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in very moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please see him at once and let me have his decision.”Kanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over his diplomacy.Shám Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was delighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match, but his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his agitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, “I don’t see why a matter, which is not even mentioned in our Shástras (holy books), should cause one moment’s hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well.”“Perhaps so,” murmured Shám Babu. “But I do stand in awe of the Samáj” (a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches of custom).“That’s all nonsense! Look at our friend Kunjalál Babu who has just married his son to a Bárendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It is true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all came round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores of similar instances toprove that this prejudice against marrying into a different clan is quite out of date.”Shám Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty arguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on the morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from his wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family offered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of excommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that the proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were satisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The Páká Dekhá is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom’s family to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and decide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed off without a hitch, and thepurohit(family priest) fixed Sraván 17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward preparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the esteem in which both families were held.Kumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst these was a younger brother, Ghaneshyám Basu by name, who practised as a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after disposing of his interest in the familyestate to Kumodini Babu. This important person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as Kumodini Babu’s increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to do so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely reached man’s estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally to the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu’s disappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger brother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a threat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted in! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view of softening Ghaneshyám Babu’s heart by a personal appeal, but the anger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini Babu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of the marriage being broken off. If Ghaneshyám did not choose to take part in it, so much the worse for him!Soon after dusk on Sraván 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed in a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set out forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating of drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride’s abode, where her family, with Shám Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later Nalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage ceremonybegan. It lasted until nearly eleven o’clock, when the young couple were taken to the Básárghar, or nuptial apartment. During these rites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they chewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic acknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed.On the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in palanquins to Kumodini Babu’s house, where she instantaneously won every heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-Bhát ceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride (bau) distributes cooked rice (bhát) with her own hands to bidden guests, in token of her reception into her husband’s family and clan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties from localgoálas(dairymen) andmoiras(confectioners) with a view to eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind.Early in the morning of the Bau-Bhát day a palanquin was carried into Kumodini Babu’s courtyard; and who should emerge from it but Ghaneshyám Babu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours in the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini Babu’s heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent,who admitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned that cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices, and begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It is needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that Ghaneshyám Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks to his supervision the Bau-Bhát feast passed off at night without the slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the magnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up as a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice with him, he remitted a year’s rent to every ryot, besides lavishing considerable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened section of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true Hindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their choicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found material to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices.The Rival Markets.The immediate success of Kumodini Babu’s market caused infinite annoyance to Ramani Babu, who owned one long established in the neighbourhood. Hucksters and country-folk found the tolls levied there so much lighter, that the attendance at Ramani’s fell off grievously. It is well known that when a new market is started, proprietors already in the field endeavour to break it up with the aid of paidláthiáls(clubmen). If, as often happens, the daring speculator be a man of substance, he employs similar means in his defence. Free fights occur on market-days, ending in many a broken head—sometimes in slaughter. The battle is directed by Gomasthas (bailiffs) on either side, with the full knowledge of their masters, who keep discreetly aloof from the fray.Ramani Babu did not foresee that his property would be injured by the new venture, and allowed it to be firmly established without striking a single blow. Finding a lamentable decrease in his receipts,he ordered the bailiff to “go ahead,” and took an early train for Calcutta in order to set up an alibi in case of legal proceedings. A day or two later his bailiff, attended by six or seven men armed with iron-shod bamboo staves, assembled at the outskirts of Kumodini Babu’s market, on a spot where four roads met.Ere long a cart was descried approaching from eastwards, whose driver bawled snatches of song and puffed his hookah between whiles. When it reached the crossing, the bailiff shouted:—“Stop! whither so early, friend?”“To market,” the man replied carelessly.“Whose market?”“The new one, started by Kumodini Babu.”“What have you got in those baskets of yours?”“Oh, sweet potatoes,brinjáls(egg-plants), and a lot of other vegetables.”“Why don’t you attend Ramani Babu’s market?”“Because it does not pay me to go there.”“So you used to take your vegetables to Ramani Babu’s market?”“Yes; but there are hardly any customers left. Now please let me go; the sun is high up.”“So you won’t obey me!”“No!” roared the carter, prodding his oxen viciously.“Stop a minute, I tell you! Whose ryot (tenant) are you?”“Ramani Babu’s.”“What, you are his ryot and yet are acting against his interests? If he hears of your perfidy he will certainly turn you out of his estate!”“Why should he?” asked the fellow, now thoroughly frightened. “I am a very poor man, and Ramani Babu is my father and mother. He cannot object to my selling a few vegetables wherever I please.”“But he does object,” rejoined the bailiff sternly. “What’s your name and residence?”“Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi.”“Now, do you know who I am?”“No-o,” replied Sádhu, hesitatingly.“I am Ramani Babu’s new bailiff, sent with these men to see that his market is well attended.”Sádhu’s tone completely changed. “Sálam, Babu,” he whined. “I did not know who you were. Please let me pass or I shall be too late.”“Not so fast, friend,” shouted the bailiff. “Once for all, are you going to obey me or not?”Sádhu prodded his bullocks into a lumbering canter; but the bailiff gave a signal to his clubmen, who ran after him, dragged him out of the cart, and thrashed him soundly. Then two of them escorted him, with his wares, to their master’s market, whichwas being held about three miles away. The bailiff waited at the crossing for new arrivals. They were not long in coming. A fishwoman, heavily laden, passed by. He hailed her, and on learning whither she was bound, ordered his men to drag her to their master’s market, which they did, despite the volume of abuse which she hurled at their heads. In this manner some half a dozen deserters were captured and escorted to the old market.The story of his tyranny spread like wildfire through neighbouring villages, with many amplifications, of course. Kumodini Babu heard that his rival had arrested a hundred frequenters of his market and was about to destroy the shelters he had erected for salesmen. This information filled him with anxiety and, after consulting friends, he lodged a complaint at the police station. In the remote interior of Bengal policemen are all-powerful. They usurp authority to which they are not entitled by law, and use it for private ends. All classes go in perpetual fear of them; for, by a stroke of the pen, they can ruin reputations and defeat justice. No one has recourse to their dreaded agency who can avoid doing so or has the means of gratifying their greed. By giving a handsomedouceurto the Sub-Inspector, Kumodini Babu obtained a promise of support, which he was simple enough to rely upon.Meantime Ramani Babu’s market bailiff was not idle. Knowing that he had acted illegally, he resolved to “square” the executive. So, one evening, he persuaded his master to accompany him to the police station, provided with a bundle of ten-rupee currency notes. After discussing commonplaces with the Sub-Inspector, they adjourned to an inner room, where they induced him to take their side—for very weighty reasons.Matters now began to look ugly for Kumodini Babu. Every vendor who approached his market was intercepted. He implored the help of the Sub-Inspector, who, however, observed a strict neutrality, hinting that the complainant was at liberty to defend himself with the aid of clubmen. But Kumodini Babu was a man of peace, and finding the policeman something less than lukewarm, he resigned himself to the inevitable.His evil star continued to prevail, for, soon after these untoward events, it brought him into collision with the police. In consequence of an understanding with Ramani Babu, the Sub-Inspector took to buying provisions from the few shopkeepers who still attended Kumodini Babu’s market and referring them to him for payment. His constables, too, helped themselves freely to rice and vegetables without even asking the price, and had their shoes blacked gratis by KumodiniBabu’smuchis(leather-dressers). His bailiff put up with their vagaries, until the shopkeepers came in a body to say that unless they were stopped, the market would be entirely deserted. The luckless Zemindar was staggered by the tale of oppression. He paid for every article extorted by the police, but strictly forbade the vendors to give any further credit. The Sub-Inspector was deeply incensed in finding this source of illicit profit cut off, and his vengeance was perpetrated under the pretence of law.One evening, while Kumodini Babu was conning theMahábhárata(an ancient epic) in his parlour, the Sub-Inspector came in, armed with a search warrant issued by the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria, which he showed the astonished master of the house. A charge of receiving stolen property brought against him was indeed a bolt from the blue; but when Kumodini Babu regained his scattered wits, he told the Sub-Inspector scornfully that he might search every hole and corner of his house. For half an hour the police were occupied in turning his furniture and boxes topsy-turvy; and at last the Sub-Inspector went alone into a lumber-room, while his head constable kept Kumodini’s attention fixed on the contents of analmeira(ward-robe) which he was searching. Shouting, “I have found the property!” he emerged from the room with a box containing various articlesof gold and silver, which he said were hidden under some straw. On comparing them with a list in his possession he declared that they exactly tallied with property reported as part of the spoils of a burglary in the neighbouring village. In vain Kumodini Babu protested his entire innocence and asked whether he, a respectable Zemindar, was likely to be a receiver of stolen goods. He was handcuffed and taken to the police station on foot, while the Sub-Inspector followed in a palanquin. Kumodini Babu’s women-folk filled the house with their lamentations; and his eldest son, Jadu Náth, was the first to recover from the prostration caused by sudden misfortune. He had a pony saddled and galloped to the railway station, whence he telegraphed to his uncle, Ghaneshyám Babu, the pleader, “Father arrested: charge receiving stolen goods”. Ghaneshyám arrived by the next train, and after hearing the facts returned to Ghoria, where he applied to the Deputy Magistrate for bail. There was a strong disinclination to grant it, owing to the gravity of the charge; but finally an order was issued, releasing the prisoner on personal recognisance of Rs. 10,000 and two sureties of Rs. 5,000. The necessary security was immediately forthcoming, and Kumodini Babu found himself temporarily a free man, after enduring nearly forty-eight hours of unspeakable misery in the station lock-up.In due course his case came on for hearing before the Deputy Magistrate. Ghaneshyám Babu secured the services of a fighting member of the Calcutta bar and was indefatigable in his efforts to unearth the nefarious plot against his brother. Proceedings lasted for four days in a court packed with spectators. The Sub-Inspector and his accomplices told their story speciously enough. A burglary had really been committed and the jewellery found in Kumodini Babu’s outhouse was proved to have been part of the stolen goods. The issue was—who placed them there? On this point the Sub-Inspector’s evidence was not by any means satisfactory. He finally broke down under rigorous cross-examination, and was forced to admit that it was quite possible that some one acting on his behalf had hidden the property in Kumodini Babu’s lumber-room. The battle of the markets was related in all its dramatic details. Shopkeepers and ryots alike, seeing that justice was likely to prevail, came forward to depose to acts of tyranny by Ramani Babu’s servants and their allies, the police. Evidence of the prisoner’s high character was forthcoming, while his age and dignified bearing spoke strongly in his favour. The Magistrate saw that he had been the victim of an abominable conspiracy and released him amid the suppressed plaudits of the audience. His reasons for discharge containedsevere strictures on the local police, and even suggested their prosecution. Thus, after weeks of agonising suspense and an expenditure on legal fees running into thousands of rupees, Kumodini Babu was declared innocent. He took the humiliation so much to heart, that he meditated retiring to that refuge for storm-tossed souls, Benares. But Ghaneshyám Babu strongly dissuaded him from abandoning the struggle, at least until he had turned the tables on his enemies. So Kumodini Babu moved the District Magistrate to issue process against Ramani Babu and the Sub-Inspector. He met with a refusal, however, probably because the higher authorities thought fit to hush up a glaring scandal which might “get into the papers,” and discredit the administration. Ramani Babu, therefore, was not molested, but his accomplice was departmentally censured, and transferred to an unhealthy district. Kumodini Babu also thought of discontinuing the market which had been the fount and origin of his misfortunes. Here again his brother objected that such a course would be taken to indicate weakness and encourage further attacks. His advice was followed. The new market throve amazingly, while Ramani Babu’s was quite deserted.A Foul Conspiracy.On a certain morning in February Ramani Babu sprung a mine on his tenants by circulating a notice among them to the effect that they would have to pay up every pice of rent on or before the 10th prox. Some hastened to discharge their liabilities, while others ran about asking for loans or sat with downcast eyes, unable to decide what course to take. The English reader is perhaps unaware that every Bengal landowner is required to pay revenue to Government four times a year,vis., on the 28th January, March, June and September. Any one failing to do so before sunset on these dates becomes a defaulter, and his estate is put up to auction in order to satisfy the demand, however small it may be. Property worth many thousands of rupees has often been sold for arrears of eight annas (a shilling) or even less. The near approach of thesekist(rent) days is of course a period of great anxiety to landlords; some of whom are forced to borrow the necessary amount on the security of their wives’ ornaments.On March 28th, 18—, Ramani Babu had to pay about Rs. 10,000 as land revenue; but his ryots’ crops had failed, owing to want of rain, and by the end of February he had been able to realise only Rs. 1,000, the greater portion by threats of force. The Indian peasant’s lot is not a happy one. He depends solely on the produce of the soil, which yields little or nothing if the annual rains should fail, or there be an excess of moisture. Millions of cultivators never know what it is to have a good, solid meal. In order to meet the landlord’s demands they have recourse to aMahájan(moneylender) whose exactions leave them a slender margin for subsistence. But religion and ages of slavery render them submissive creatures. They murmur only when very hard pressed.Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi, lived by raising vegetables for sale in Kumodini Babu’s market, until he was forbidden to do so by Ramani Babu’s clubmen. Failing this resource, he abandoned the little trade; and thus got deeper into the books of his moneylender. At this crisis he received a written notice ordering him to attend Ramani Babu’skucheri(office) on 17th March without fail. A visit to the local moneylender was fruitless and only led to a hint that old scores must be cleared off. So Sádhu returned home crestfallen and determined to abide by his fate. On obeying the summons, he found Ramani Babu,sitting in his office to receive rent, which was brought him by a crowd of dejected-looking ryots. A great hubbub was going on; one Bemani insisting that he had paid up to date while Ramani Babu’sgomastha(bailiff) stoutly denied the assertion and called n the objector to produce his receipt. This was not forthcoming for the simple reason that Ramani had mislaid it. He asked the bailiff to show him the ledger account, and after spelling through the items laboriously be found that not a pice stood to his credit, although he had paid nearly sixty rupees since the lasthist(rent) day. There are few who understand the value of thedákhilas(rent receipts) which landlords are compelled by law to give them. The little slips of paper are lost or destroyed, with the result that many ryots have had to pay twice over. Bemani vainly invoked Allah to witness that he had discharged his dues; the bailiff ordered him to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of severe punishment. Goaded to fury by this palpable injustice the poor man declined to do anything of the kind. At this stage Ramani Babu intervened:—“You son of a pig, are you going to obey my orders or not?”“No, I have paid once, and I won’t pay again,” yelled Bemani, thoroughly roused.Ramani Babu beckoned to a stalwart doorkeeperfrom the Upper Provinces, who was standing near.“Sarbeshwar, give this rascal a taste of your Shámchand (cane)!”He was zealously obeyed and poor Bemani was thrashed until he lay writhing in agony on the ground. After taking his punishment he rose, and looking defiantly at Ramani Babu said:—“You have treated me cruelly; but you will find that there is a God who watches all our actions. He will certainly deal out retribution to you!” He then turned to go.“I see you are not yet cured,” exclaimed Ramani Babu. “Let him have another dose of Shámchand.”“Yes, go on!” roared Bemani, “beat me as much as you please; you’ll have reason to repent sooner or later!” With this remark he stood erect, looking fearlessly at his tormentors. Sarbeshwar administered another welting, which drew blood at every stroke but was borne without sound or movement. When the doorkeeper stopped for want of breath, Bemani cast a look of scorn at Ramani Babu and strode out of the house in silence, full of rage.Presently another disturbance was heard. One of the ryots had paid his rent in full but declined to add the usual commission exacted by the bailiffs, who fell on him in a body and pummelled him severely.Sádhu witnessed these horrors from a corner of the room and inwardly besought Allah to save him from the clutches of those demons. But Srikrishna, who was the bailiff of his circle, happened to see him and asked whether he had brought his rent. Sádhu got up, salámed humbly, and replied, “Babuji, you know my present circumstances well”. “Answer yes or no,” thundered Srikrishna, “I have no time to listen to your excuses.”“Your servant is a very poor man,” continued Sádhu, shaking from head to foot.“Who is this person?” inquired Ramani Babu.“This is Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi,” was the bailiff’s reply, “the very same rascal who gave evidence against your honour in that faujdári (criminal) case.”“Is that so?” roared Ramani Babu. “And the son of a pig owes me rent?”“Now, please, do not abuse me, Babuji,” protested Sádhu, “only listen to my tale for one minute!”“What, you dare to bandy words with me,haramzúdú(bastard)?” shouted Ramani Babu, rising from his seat. “Doorkeeper, let him have fifty cuts, laid on hard!”Swish, swish, swish, sounded the nimble cane, and made a grey pattern on Sádhu’s naked flesh. His screams and prayers for mercy were mocked by theobsequious crowd, and at length he fell senseless on the floor.“Look, he is shamming,” observed Ramani Babu; “drag him outside and souse him with water until he comes to.” The command was obeyed, and when Sádhu was able to sit up he was brought back to the dreaded presence. Again his arrears of rent were demanded, and once more he feebly protested that he could not discharge them. Thereon Ramani Babu ordered him to be hung up. Forthwith, a dozen eager hands were laid on him, a rope was passed under his armpits, and the free end thrown over a rafter of the office. By this means he was hauled from the ground and swung suspended, a butt of sarcasm and abuse for Ramani Babu’s myrmidons. After enduring this humiliation for an hour or so, he was let down and a final demand made on him for the arrears of rent. On his again asserting inability Ramani Babu ordered his hut to be levelled with the ground and pulse to be sown on its site, as a punishment for his disobedience. He was then allowed to leave the scene of his misery.On reaching home he found Bemani seated in the porch, in expectation of his arrival. His fellow-victim said that he had lodged an information against Ramani Babu and his servants at the police station and intended going to Ghoria, next day, to complainto the Deputy Magistrate. Would Sádhu help him by giving evidence? he asked. “That I will,” was the reply, “but I must first consult Jadunath Babu, who, I am sure, will help me.” After Bemani’s departure Sádhu went to his protector and told the story of his sufferings in full. Jadunath Babu bade him be of good cheer; for he would do all in his power to bring Ramani Babu to justice. Sádhu was comforted by this promise. He returned home and soon forgot all his sorrows in sleep.About midnight he was aroused by voices in his yard, and, sallying forth, discovered a gang of clubmen employed by Ramani Babu, in the act of tearing the roof from his hut. Remonstrance was met by jeering and threats of violence; so the luckless man stood helplessly under a neighbouring tamarind tree, while his house was reduced to a heap of bamboos and thatch. The material was taken away in carts, the site dug up, and pulse sown thereon. Thus not a trace of Sádhu’s home was left. He passed the remaining hours of the night under the tree; and early next morning he called on Jadu Babu, to whom he unfolded the story of this latest outrage. His patron boiled over with indignation. He sent Sádhu to the police station, in order to lay an information against his persecutors, promising to give him a house and land to compensate his losses. In less than a fortnight,the injured man was installed in a new hut and in possession of enough land to support him comfortably. Then he settled down, with heartfelt prayers for Jadu Babu’s long life and prosperity. He even sent for his wife and a young sister-in-law, who had been staying with her brother near Calcutta.Meantime Bemani had taken out a summons for causing grievous hurt against Ramani Babu and his servants. When the case came on for hearing before a Deputy Magistrate at Ghoria, all the accused pleaded “not guilty.” They could not deny the fact that he had been beaten within an inch of his life, but alleged provocation on his part, inasmuch as he had fomented a rebellion among the ryots. Jadu Babu was not idle. He provided the complainant with first-rate legal advice and paid all the expenses of adducing witnesses. Emboldened by his support, at least a dozen of Ramani Babu’s ryots who were present while he was being thrashed, came forward to give evidence of the brutal treatment he had received and to deny the counter charge brought by the defendants. Thus the case ended in the conviction of Ramani Babu and three of his servants, who were sentenced to fines aggregating Rs. 200. Then the charges preferred by Sádhu were taken up by the Deputy Magistrate. As they were of a far graver character, the barrister brought from Calcuttaby Ramani Babu obtained a week’s adjournment in order to procure rebutting evidence.At this time the Muharram festival was in full swing. Sádhu was too busy in getting up his case to take part in it; but he sent his wife to some relatives at Ghoria, while his young sister-in-law, who was suffering from fever, remained at home. He was aroused one night by loud screams coming from the hut occupied by this girl. On running out to see what was the matter, he fell into the arms of a stranger who was crossing his yard in a desperate hurry. A struggle ensued, but the intruder managed to escape, not before Sádhu had recognised him as a ryot of Ramani Babu, named Karim. On asking his sister-in-law what had happened, the poor girl told him with many sobs that a man had broken into the hut, and awakened her by seizing her throat, but had been scared away by her screams. As soon as day dawned, Sádhu ran to the house of Karim’s uncle, in the hope of finding him there. The uncle, however, declared that Karim had been absent since the previous evening, and on learning the grave charge preferred by Sádhu, he begged with folded hands that the scandal might be stifled, at any cost, for the sake of both families. Sádhu would promise nothing, but for obvious reasons he laid no information against Karim.Two days later he was engaged on his evening meal, when a Sub-Inspector appeared. After asking whether his name was Sádhu, the policeman slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and turned a deaf ear to his bewildered request for information as to the charge preferred against him. Thus he was ignominiously taken to the station lock-up, followed by a crowd, whom he begged to inform Jadu Babu of his trouble. The latter was speedily fetched by a compassionate neighbour, and, after conversing with the police officer, he told Sádhu that he was actually charged with murder! Karim’s uncle had informed the police that, his nephew having disappeared since the day of the alleged trespass, he suspected Sádhu of foul play. An inquiry followed which led to Sádhu’s transfer to the district jail.Jadu Babu was certain that his enemy had instigated the charge, and knew that he was quite capable of suppressing Karim in order to get Sádhu into trouble. He was advised by friends whom he consulted not to poke his nose into so ugly an affair: but his sense of justice prevailed. He went to Ghaneshyám Babu, whom he told the whole story related by Sádhu. On learning that Ramani Babu was implicated, the pleader saw an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on the persecutor of his brother. Gladly did he undertake the prisoner’s defence.In due course the charge preferred by Sádhu against Ramani Babu was heard by a Deputy Magistrate. With Ghaneshyám Babu’s aid, the complainant proved it up to the hilt, and all concerned were heavily fined. Soon afterwards Sádhu himself appeared before the Deputy Magistrate to answer a charge of murder. The circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he was committed to the Sessions Court. When brought up for trial there, he astounded his backers by pleading guilty and offering to point out the spot where he had buried Karim’s corpse. The case was forthwith adjourned for a local inquiry; and the European District Superintendent of Police took Sádhu to the place indicated, where he had the soil turned up in all directions without result. Sádhu admitted that he was mistaken and piloted the police to another spot, where they again failed to discover any trace of the missing man. On these facts being reported to the judge, he fixed the morrow for final hearing.At 11 A.M. he took his seat on the bench in a Court packed with eager spectators, and was reading a charge to the jury, strongly adverse to the prisoner, when an uproar was heard outside. Proceedings were suspended while the judge sent an usher to ascertain the cause; but ere he returned, half a dozen men burst into the courtroom cryingDohai!(justice!).Jadu Babu, who was one of the intruders, signalled the others to be silent, and thus addressed the judge with folded hands:—“Your Honour, the dead has come to life! Here is Karim, who was supposed to have been murdered!”There was a tremendous sensation in Court. When it subsided the judge thrust aside his papers and asked for evidence as to Karim’s identity, which was soon forthcoming on oath. Then he ordered him to be sworn, and recorded the following deposition:—“Incarnation of Justice! I will make a full confession, whatever may happen to me. I was sent for about a month ago by my landlord Ramani Babu, who ordered me to insult some woman of Sádhu’s household, in order that he might be excommunicated. In fear of my life I consented to do so, and that very night I broke into the hut where Sádhu’s sister-in-law lay asleep. Her cries attracted Sádhu, who grappled with me in his yard. However, I managed to escape, and on reporting my failure to Ramani Babu, he sent me in charge of aBarkamdúz(guard) to Paliti, which is ten coss (20 miles) away. There I was confined in aKacheri(office building) until yesterday, when I got away after nightfall. I had to pass through Ghoria Bazar, on my way home this morning, and there I ran up against Jadu Babu, who stopped and questioned me closely about mymovements. There was nothing for me but to make a clean breast of everything. He took me to a babu’s house where he was staying, and thence brought me to your honour’s presence.”Karim’s confession took every one by surprise, and it was corroborated by Jadu Babu in the witness-box. The judge then asked Sadhu why he pleaded guilty.“Incarnation of Justice,” was the reply, “it was the Daroga Babu (Sub-Inspector of Police) who frightened me into making a confession. He told me again and again that he had quite enough evidence to hang me, and advised me to escape death by admitting the charge of murdering Karim. While I was shut up alone in jail, I had no one to consult or rely on. Through fear, my wits entirely left me and I resolved to obtain mercy by making a false confession.”These circumstances, strange as they may appear to the Western reader, were no novelty to the Sessions Judge. In charging the jury, he commented severely on the conduct of the station police and directed them to return a verdict of not guilty, which they promptly did.Ghaneshyám Babu did not let the matter drop. He moved the District Magistrate to prosecute Ramani Babu and his bailiff, Srikrishna, for conspiring tocharge an innocent man with murder. Both were brought to trial and, despite the advocacy of a Calcutta barrister, they each received a sentence of six months’ rigorous imprisonment. Justice, lame-footed as she is, at length overtook a pair of notorious evil-doers.

The Pride of Kadampur.Kadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural or artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census population is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus, engaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who follow the same avocations but dwell in aPárá(quarter) of their own. TheBhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten Kayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini Kanta Basu’s took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest competence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second Afghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His first care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task which occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It slowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinctMaháls(wings)—the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the ladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and thePujardálán(family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front, facing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants’ quarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings.Villagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily at someChandimandap(a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess Durga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu’s was a favourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation, card-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon in February, was an old gentleman, called Shámsundar Ghosh, and known to hosts of friends as “Shám Babu”. He was head clerk in a Calcutta merchant’s office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (£48 a year at par), which sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter, respectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to make two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at the outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half an hour’s run of the Metropolis. Shám Babu’s position and character were generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for Calcutta gossip.On this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and somebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes ought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom.“True,” observed Sham Babu, “but a market is still more necessary. We have to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are obtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If one were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages at least.” Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the subject dropped.It came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to his friend:—“I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village, and should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would it cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the price of grain, fodder andghi(clarified butter used in cooking), but I really know very little about other things.”The confession elicited a general laugh, and Shám Babu replied, “It will be a matter of Rs. 200”.“Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts.”“True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of cordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have to do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand with their rent to work for you gratis.”“That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people to live while engaged inbegár(forced labour) on my behalf? They must be paid.”“Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market buildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up the unsold stock of perishable goods brought byFarias(hucksters); you must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain, cloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find that they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for space allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180 must be set apart for these preliminary expenses.”Kumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere he announced to the neighbours gathered in hisChandimandapthat he intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring oneBigha(one-third of an acre), known as the Kamárbári (Anglice, “Abode of Blacksmiths”). On an auspicious day towards the end of April, he inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots were enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who had hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers; and business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors) generally have to wait for months and spend money like water before they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a newmarket. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in less than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the Karmárbári remained unoccupied; his Hát-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for vendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly one. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten villages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good counsel in times of difficulty.There is some truth in the notion that fortune’s gifts seldom come singly. Kumodini Babu’s success in a business venture was immediately followed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly thirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was, indeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu’s comparative poverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had sought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that he might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu parent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where he was resting after a heavy day at office.“Why has the moon risen so early?” he asked.“Because the moon can’t do otherwise,” she answered, with a faint smile. “But, joking apart, I wantto consult you about Saili. Our neighbour Kanto Babu’s wife called on me just before you returned from Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini Babu’s younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her.”Shám Babu’s face wore a worried look.“Surely that would be flying too high for such as us,” he rejoined. “The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their family which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British rule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for his B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini Babu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk.”“Still, there is no harm in trying,” remarked the wife. “If you don’t feel equal to approaching him, there’s Kanto Babu who would do so. It was his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think that they have been discussing it together.”“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Shám Babu. “I’ll go to him at once.” And taking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu’s house, which was barely fifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with the news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between.Kanto Babu was as good as his word. That veryevening he called on Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading theMahábhárata(an epic poem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked casually:—“Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty, I believe.”“My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in my opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait till he has passed the B.A. examination.”“Your wife’s idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say so. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students are exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising lads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing bitter grief to their parents!”Kumodini Babu started. “You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta was as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at once. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don’t care about money, but—”“That I do,” interrupted Kanto Babu, “There’s Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest, loving and kind-hearted! You won’t find her equal in thiseláqa(lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman with her family.”Kumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. “I know Shaibalini well by reputation, and she is all you describe her. Shám Babu, too, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and depends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his daughter. But wait a bit: whatgotra(clan) does he belong to?”“I believe he is a Dakhin Rárhi,” answered Kanto Babu.“But I am an Uttar Rárhi,” remarked Kumodini Babu. “Is not that a fatal objection?”For the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are split into clans—probably a survival of the tribal organisation which preceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King of Bengal named Ádisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha servants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended the Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are generally recognised as Kúlin (Angl., “aristocratic”) Kayasthas, while the Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik—“coming of a good stock”. Ádisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and the same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are the supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still termed Saptasati, “the SevenHundred”. The ancient Greeks reckoned their neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as “barbarians”. So Brahmans and Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the GangesRárh, or “uncivilised”. The epithet survives in Uttar (north) and Dakhin (south) Rárhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. Bárendra is another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges, which answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra.Kanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short time he asked, “Now why should such a trifling matter cause any trouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary difference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas.”“You are quite right,” was Kumodini Babu’s reply, “and personally I am above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be Dakhin Rárhi, Banga-ja, or Bárendri for all I care, provided she be comely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will Shám Babu be equally tolerant?”“That I can’t say until I have consulted him,” answered Kanto Babu. “One thing more I must know. What is your idea ofDená Páona(a word answering to our ‘settlements’)?”“Rám, Rám!” exclaimed Kumodini Babu. “AmI the man to sell my son for filthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I am quite opposed to the custom. Should Shám Babu agree to this match, I will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in very moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please see him at once and let me have his decision.”Kanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over his diplomacy.Shám Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was delighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match, but his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his agitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, “I don’t see why a matter, which is not even mentioned in our Shástras (holy books), should cause one moment’s hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well.”“Perhaps so,” murmured Shám Babu. “But I do stand in awe of the Samáj” (a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches of custom).“That’s all nonsense! Look at our friend Kunjalál Babu who has just married his son to a Bárendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It is true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all came round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores of similar instances toprove that this prejudice against marrying into a different clan is quite out of date.”Shám Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty arguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on the morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from his wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family offered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of excommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that the proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were satisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The Páká Dekhá is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom’s family to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and decide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed off without a hitch, and thepurohit(family priest) fixed Sraván 17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward preparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the esteem in which both families were held.Kumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst these was a younger brother, Ghaneshyám Basu by name, who practised as a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after disposing of his interest in the familyestate to Kumodini Babu. This important person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as Kumodini Babu’s increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to do so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely reached man’s estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally to the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu’s disappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger brother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a threat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted in! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view of softening Ghaneshyám Babu’s heart by a personal appeal, but the anger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini Babu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of the marriage being broken off. If Ghaneshyám did not choose to take part in it, so much the worse for him!Soon after dusk on Sraván 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed in a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set out forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating of drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride’s abode, where her family, with Shám Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later Nalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage ceremonybegan. It lasted until nearly eleven o’clock, when the young couple were taken to the Básárghar, or nuptial apartment. During these rites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they chewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic acknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed.On the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in palanquins to Kumodini Babu’s house, where she instantaneously won every heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-Bhát ceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride (bau) distributes cooked rice (bhát) with her own hands to bidden guests, in token of her reception into her husband’s family and clan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties from localgoálas(dairymen) andmoiras(confectioners) with a view to eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind.Early in the morning of the Bau-Bhát day a palanquin was carried into Kumodini Babu’s courtyard; and who should emerge from it but Ghaneshyám Babu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours in the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini Babu’s heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent,who admitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned that cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices, and begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It is needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that Ghaneshyám Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks to his supervision the Bau-Bhát feast passed off at night without the slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the magnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up as a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice with him, he remitted a year’s rent to every ryot, besides lavishing considerable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened section of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true Hindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their choicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found material to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices.

Kadampur is a country village which is destitute of natural or artificial attractions and quite unknown to fame. Its census population is barely 1,500, four-fifths of whom are low-caste Hindus, engaged in cultivation and river-fishing; the rest Mohammadans, who follow the same avocations but dwell in aPárá(quarter) of their own. TheBhadralok, or Upper Crust, consists of two Brahman and ten Kayastha (writer-caste) families. Among the latter group Kumodini Kanta Basu’s took an unquestioned lead. He had amassed a modest competence as sub-contractor in the Commissariat during the second Afghan War, and retired to enjoy it in his ancestral village. His first care was to rebuild the family residence, a congenial task which occupied five years and made a large hole in his savings. It slowly grew into a masonry structure divided into two distinctMaháls(wings)—the first inhabited by men-folk; the second sacred to the ladies and their attendants. Behind it stood the kitchen; and thePujardálán(family temple) occupied a conspicuous place in front, facing south. The usual range of brick cattle-sheds and servants’ quarters made up quite an imposing group of buildings.

Villagers classed amongst the gentry are wont to gather daily at someChandimandap(a rustic temple dedicated to the goddess Durga, attached to most better-class houses). Kumodini Babu’s was a favourite rendezvous, and much time was killed there in conversation, card-playing, and chess. Among the group assembled, one crisp afternoon in February, was an old gentleman, called Shámsundar Ghosh, and known to hosts of friends as “Shám Babu”. He was head clerk in a Calcutta merchant’s office, drawing Rs. 60 a month (£48 a year at par), which sufficed for the support of his wife and a son and daughter, respectively named Susil and Shaibalini. After a vain attempt to make two ends meet in expensive Calcutta, he had settled down at the outskirts of Kadampur, which has a railway station within half an hour’s run of the Metropolis. Shám Babu’s position and character were generally respected by neighbours, who flocked to his house for Calcutta gossip.

On this particular occasion talk ran on Kadampur requirements, and somebody opined that another tank for bathing and drinking purposes ought to be excavated at once; he did not say by whom.

“True,” observed Sham Babu, “but a market is still more necessary. We have to trudge four miles for our vegetables and fish, which are obtainable in a more or less stale condition only twice a week. If one were started here, it would be a great boon to ten villages at least.” Kumodini Babu assented, without further remark, and the subject dropped.

It came up again on the following Sunday, when Kumodini Babu said to his friend:—

“I have been thinking about your idea of a market in this village, and should like, if possible, to establish one myself. How much would it cost me? As an old commissariat contractor, I am well up in the price of grain, fodder andghi(clarified butter used in cooking), but I really know very little about other things.”

The confession elicited a general laugh, and Shám Babu replied, “It will be a matter of Rs. 200”.

“Two hundred rupees! Surely that is far too much for a range of huts.”

“True enough. Your own bamboo clumps, straw-stacks and stores of cordage would provide raw material; and as for labour, all you have to do is to order some of your ryots (tenants) who are behindhand with their rent to work for you gratis.”

“That would be contrary to my principles. How are these poor people to live while engaged inbegár(forced labour) on my behalf? They must be paid.”

“Very well, then, let us set apart Rs. 20 to meet the cost of market buildings. But, for the first few weeks, you will have to buy up the unsold stock of perishable goods brought byFarias(hucksters); you must patronise the shopkeepers who open stalls for selling grain, cloth, confectionery, tobacco and trinkets. Once these people find that they are making fair profits they will gladly pay you rent for space allotted, besides tolls on the usual scale. At least Rs. 180 must be set apart for these preliminary expenses.”

Kumodini Babu never did anything in haste. A fortnight elapsed ere he announced to the neighbours gathered in hisChandimandapthat he intended starting a bi-weekly market on a vacant plot measuring oneBigha(one-third of an acre), known as the Kamárbári (Anglice, “Abode of Blacksmiths”). On an auspicious day towards the end of April, he inaugurated the new enterprise with some ceremony. His own ryots were enjoined to attend; shopkeepers, hucksters, and fishermen who had hitherto gone much further afield, came in considerable numbers; and business was amazingly brisk. Zemindars (landed proprietors) generally have to wait for months and spend money like water before they gain a pice (a bronze coin worth a farthing) from a newmarket. Kumodini Babu, however, began to reap where he had sown in less than a fortnight. Not an inch of space in the Karmárbári remained unoccupied; his Hát-Gomastha, or bailiff, levied rent and tolls for vendors, at whose request the market was proclaimed a tri-weekly one. His fame as a man of energy and public spirit spread over ten villages, whose people felt that he was one who would give them good counsel in times of difficulty.

There is some truth in the notion that fortune’s gifts seldom come singly. Kumodini Babu’s success in a business venture was immediately followed by one in his domestic affairs. It fell out in this wise. Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini, was still unmarried, though nearly thirteen and beautiful enough to be the pride of Kadampur. Money was, indeed, the only qualification she lacked, and Sham Babu’s comparative poverty kept eligible suitors at a distance. For three years he had sought far and wide for a son-in-law and was beginning to fear that he might, after all, be unable to fulfil the chief duty of a Hindu parent. One evening his wife unexpectedly entered the parlour where he was resting after a heavy day at office.

“Why has the moon risen so early?” he asked.

“Because the moon can’t do otherwise,” she answered, with a faint smile. “But, joking apart, I wantto consult you about Saili. Our neighbour Kanto Babu’s wife called on me just before you returned from Calcutta, and, after beating about the bush, suggested Kumodini Babu’s younger son, Nalini, as a suitable match for her.”

Shám Babu’s face wore a worried look.

“Surely that would be flying too high for such as us,” he rejoined. “The Basus are comparatively rich, and very proud of their family which settled here during the Mughal days (i.e., before British rule, which in Bengal date from 1765). Young Nalini is reading for his B.A. examination and wants to be a pleader (advocate). Kumodini Babu would hardly allow his son to marry the daughter of a poor clerk.”

“Still, there is no harm in trying,” remarked the wife. “If you don’t feel equal to approaching him, there’s Kanto Babu who would do so. It was his wife who broached the subject to me, which makes me think that they have been discussing it together.”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Shám Babu. “I’ll go to him at once.” And taking his stick, he set out for Kanto Babu’s house, which was barely fifty yards off. In half an hour he returned to gladden his wife with the news that their neighbour had consented to act as a go-between.

Kanto Babu was as good as his word. That veryevening he called on Kumodini Babu, whom he found reading theMahábhárata(an epic poem). After dwelling now on this matter, now on that, he asked casually:—

“Have you never thought of getting Nalini married? He is over twenty, I believe.”

“My wife has been urging me to look out for a wife for him, but in my opinion he is too young for such responsibilities. Better wait till he has passed the B.A. examination.”

“Your wife’s idea is sounder than yours, if I may be permitted to say so. Just think of the awful temptations to which unmarried students are exposed in that sink of profligacy, Calcutta! How many promising lads have succumbed to them, wrecking their own lives and causing bitter grief to their parents!”

Kumodini Babu started. “You surprise me! I had no idea that Calcutta was as bad as you paint it. We must certainly get Nalini married at once. I wonder whether you know of a likely match for him. I don’t care about money, but—”

“That I do,” interrupted Kanto Babu, “There’s Shám Babu’s daughter, Shaibalini. What a pretty creature she is; modest, loving and kind-hearted! You won’t find her equal in thiseláqa(lit. jurisdiction). If you approve, I will gladly be your spokesman with her family.”

Kumodini Babu mused awhile before answering. “I know Shaibalini well by reputation, and she is all you describe her. Shám Babu, too, comes of excellent lineage, though he is not a Zemindar, and depends on service. I should not object to marrying Nalini with his daughter. But wait a bit: whatgotra(clan) does he belong to?”

“I believe he is a Dakhin Rárhi,” answered Kanto Babu.

“But I am an Uttar Rárhi,” remarked Kumodini Babu. “Is not that a fatal objection?”

For the benefit of non-Hindu readers I may explain that Kayasthas are split into clans—probably a survival of the tribal organisation which preceded the family almost everywhere. According to tradition, a King of Bengal named Ádisur imported five Brahmans, and as many Kayastha servants from Kanauj in Upper India. From the latter are descended the Ghosh, Basu, Mitra, Guha, and Datta families. The first four are generally recognised as Kúlin (Angl., “aristocratic”) Kayasthas, while the Dattas and seven other families are known as Sindhu Maulik—“coming of a good stock”. Ádisur and his companions found 700 Brahmans and the same number of Kayasthas already established in Bengal. These are the supposed ancestors of a large number of Kayastha families still termed Saptasati, “the SevenHundred”. The ancient Greeks reckoned their neighbours beyond the Hellenic pale as “barbarians”. So Brahmans and Kayasthas of Central Bengal styled their congeners north of the GangesRárh, or “uncivilised”. The epithet survives in Uttar (north) and Dakhin (south) Rárhi, but has lost its offensive meaning. Bárendra is another phrase for the inhabitants of a tract north of the Ganges, which answers to the modern districts of Rajshahi, Pabna, and Bogra.

Kanto Babu was evidently perplexed; but after reflecting for a short time he asked, “Now why should such a trifling matter cause any trouble whatever? The time has long since passed away when arbitrary difference of clan was considered a bar to marriage among Kayasthas.”

“You are quite right,” was Kumodini Babu’s reply, “and personally I am above these old-fashioned prejudices. My daughter-in-law may be Dakhin Rárhi, Banga-ja, or Bárendri for all I care, provided she be comely, well-mannered and come of good stock. But will Shám Babu be equally tolerant?”

“That I can’t say until I have consulted him,” answered Kanto Babu. “One thing more I must know. What is your idea ofDená Páona(a word answering to our ‘settlements’)?”

“Rám, Rám!” exclaimed Kumodini Babu. “AmI the man to sell my son for filthy lucre? I hear that Calcutta folks occasionally do so, but I am quite opposed to the custom. Should Shám Babu agree to this match, I will make no stipulations whatever as to a money payment. He is in very moderate circumstances, and may give whatever he chooses. Please see him at once and let me have his decision.”

Kanto Babu promised to do so and withdrew, inwardly chuckling over his diplomacy.

Shám Babu called on him the same evening to learn its issue. He was delighted to find that Kumodini Babu was not averse to the match, but his face fell on hearing of the difference of clan. Observing his agitation, Kanto Babu observed gently, “I don’t see why a matter, which is not even mentioned in our Shástras (holy books), should cause one moment’s hesitation. Pluck up your courage, man, and all will go well.”

“Perhaps so,” murmured Shám Babu. “But I do stand in awe of the Samáj” (a caste-assembly which pronounces excommunication for breaches of custom).

“That’s all nonsense! Look at our friend Kunjalál Babu who has just married his son to a Bárendri girl. Is he an outcast? Certainly not. It is true that the ultra-orthodox kicked a bit at first; but they all came round, and joined in the ceremony with zest. I can quote scores of similar instances toprove that this prejudice against marrying into a different clan is quite out of date.”

Shám Babu had nothing to urge in opposition to these weighty arguments. He promised to let Kanto Babu have a definite reply on the morrow and kept his word. Having endured a curtain lecture from his wife, who proved to him that an alliance with the Basu family offered advantages far outweighing the slight risk there was of excommunication, he authorised Kanto Babu to assure Kumodini Babu that the proposed match had his hearty approval. Once preliminaries were satisfactorily settled, all other arrangements proceeded apace. The Páká Dekhá is a solemn visit paid by males of the future bridegroom’s family to that of his betrothed, during which they are feasted and decide all details regarding the marriage ceremonies. It passed off without a hitch, and thepurohit(family priest) fixed Sraván 17th as an auspicious day for consummating the union. Thenceforward preparations were made for celebrating it in a manner worthy of the esteem in which both families were held.

Kumodini Babu issued invitations to all his relatives. Chief amongst these was a younger brother, Ghaneshyám Basu by name, who practised as a pleader (advocate) at Ghoria, where he had built a house after disposing of his interest in the familyestate to Kumodini Babu. This important person was asked to supervise the ceremonies, inasmuch as Kumodini Babu’s increasing age and infirmities rendered him unfit to do so efficiently, while his eldest son, yclept Jadu Babu, had barely reached man’s estate. The letter of invitation referred incidentally to the difference of clan as a matter of no importance. Kumodini Babu’s disappointment may be conceived when he got an answer from his younger brother, expressing strong disapproval of the match and ending with a threat to sever all connection with the family if it were persisted in! The recipient at first thought of running up to Ghoria, in view of softening Ghaneshyám Babu’s heart by a personal appeal, but the anger caused by his want of brotherly feeling prevailed. Kumodini Babu and his wife agreed that matters had gone too far to admit of the marriage being broken off. If Ghaneshyám did not choose to take part in it, so much the worse for him!

Soon after dusk on Sraván 17th, Nalini entered his palanquin, arrayed in a beautiful costume of Benares silk. The wedding procession set out forthwith, amid a mighty blowing of conch-shells and beating of drums. At 8 P.M. it reached the bride’s abode, where her family, with Shám Babu at the head, were ready to receive them. An hour later Nalini was conducted to the inner apartments, where the marriage ceremonybegan. It lasted until nearly eleven o’clock, when the young couple were taken to the Básárghar, or nuptial apartment. During these rites the men-folk were perhaps more pleasantly engaged in doing ample justice to a repast provided for them in the outer rooms. Then they chewed betels in blissful rumination, before separating with emphatic acknowledgments of the hospitality they had enjoyed.

On the following afternoon both bridegroom and bride were taken in palanquins to Kumodini Babu’s house, where she instantaneously won every heart by her grace and beauty. Two days later the Bau-Bhát ceremony was held. This is a feast in the course of which the bride (bau) distributes cooked rice (bhát) with her own hands to bidden guests, in token of her reception into her husband’s family and clan. Kumodini Babu had requisitioned an immense supply of dainties from localgoálas(dairymen) andmoiras(confectioners) with a view to eclipsing all previous festivals of the kind.

Early in the morning of the Bau-Bhát day a palanquin was carried into Kumodini Babu’s courtyard; and who should emerge from it but Ghaneshyám Babu! He ran up to his brother, who was sitting with some neighbours in the parlour, and, clasping his feet, implored forgiveness. Kumodini Babu’s heart leaped for joy. Tenderly did he embrace the penitent,who admitted that his peace of mind had fled from the moment he penned that cruel letter. He now saw the absurdity of his prejudices, and begged Kumodini Babu to forget his unbrotherly conduct. It is needless to add that the prayer was cordially granted and that Ghaneshyám Babu received a blessing from his elder brother. Thanks to his supervision the Bau-Bhát feast passed off at night without the slightest contretemps. Ten years later people still dwelt on the magnificent hospitality they had received, and held Kumodini Babu up as a model to fathers-in-law. In order that all classes might rejoice with him, he remitted a year’s rent to every ryot, besides lavishing considerable sums on Brahmans and poor folk. The more enlightened section of Kayasthas were unanimous in pronouncing him to be a true Hindu, on whose descendants the gods on high would pour down their choicest blessings. There were others, however, whose malignity found material to work on in his disregard of caste prejudices.

The Rival Markets.The immediate success of Kumodini Babu’s market caused infinite annoyance to Ramani Babu, who owned one long established in the neighbourhood. Hucksters and country-folk found the tolls levied there so much lighter, that the attendance at Ramani’s fell off grievously. It is well known that when a new market is started, proprietors already in the field endeavour to break it up with the aid of paidláthiáls(clubmen). If, as often happens, the daring speculator be a man of substance, he employs similar means in his defence. Free fights occur on market-days, ending in many a broken head—sometimes in slaughter. The battle is directed by Gomasthas (bailiffs) on either side, with the full knowledge of their masters, who keep discreetly aloof from the fray.Ramani Babu did not foresee that his property would be injured by the new venture, and allowed it to be firmly established without striking a single blow. Finding a lamentable decrease in his receipts,he ordered the bailiff to “go ahead,” and took an early train for Calcutta in order to set up an alibi in case of legal proceedings. A day or two later his bailiff, attended by six or seven men armed with iron-shod bamboo staves, assembled at the outskirts of Kumodini Babu’s market, on a spot where four roads met.Ere long a cart was descried approaching from eastwards, whose driver bawled snatches of song and puffed his hookah between whiles. When it reached the crossing, the bailiff shouted:—“Stop! whither so early, friend?”“To market,” the man replied carelessly.“Whose market?”“The new one, started by Kumodini Babu.”“What have you got in those baskets of yours?”“Oh, sweet potatoes,brinjáls(egg-plants), and a lot of other vegetables.”“Why don’t you attend Ramani Babu’s market?”“Because it does not pay me to go there.”“So you used to take your vegetables to Ramani Babu’s market?”“Yes; but there are hardly any customers left. Now please let me go; the sun is high up.”“So you won’t obey me!”“No!” roared the carter, prodding his oxen viciously.“Stop a minute, I tell you! Whose ryot (tenant) are you?”“Ramani Babu’s.”“What, you are his ryot and yet are acting against his interests? If he hears of your perfidy he will certainly turn you out of his estate!”“Why should he?” asked the fellow, now thoroughly frightened. “I am a very poor man, and Ramani Babu is my father and mother. He cannot object to my selling a few vegetables wherever I please.”“But he does object,” rejoined the bailiff sternly. “What’s your name and residence?”“Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi.”“Now, do you know who I am?”“No-o,” replied Sádhu, hesitatingly.“I am Ramani Babu’s new bailiff, sent with these men to see that his market is well attended.”Sádhu’s tone completely changed. “Sálam, Babu,” he whined. “I did not know who you were. Please let me pass or I shall be too late.”“Not so fast, friend,” shouted the bailiff. “Once for all, are you going to obey me or not?”Sádhu prodded his bullocks into a lumbering canter; but the bailiff gave a signal to his clubmen, who ran after him, dragged him out of the cart, and thrashed him soundly. Then two of them escorted him, with his wares, to their master’s market, whichwas being held about three miles away. The bailiff waited at the crossing for new arrivals. They were not long in coming. A fishwoman, heavily laden, passed by. He hailed her, and on learning whither she was bound, ordered his men to drag her to their master’s market, which they did, despite the volume of abuse which she hurled at their heads. In this manner some half a dozen deserters were captured and escorted to the old market.The story of his tyranny spread like wildfire through neighbouring villages, with many amplifications, of course. Kumodini Babu heard that his rival had arrested a hundred frequenters of his market and was about to destroy the shelters he had erected for salesmen. This information filled him with anxiety and, after consulting friends, he lodged a complaint at the police station. In the remote interior of Bengal policemen are all-powerful. They usurp authority to which they are not entitled by law, and use it for private ends. All classes go in perpetual fear of them; for, by a stroke of the pen, they can ruin reputations and defeat justice. No one has recourse to their dreaded agency who can avoid doing so or has the means of gratifying their greed. By giving a handsomedouceurto the Sub-Inspector, Kumodini Babu obtained a promise of support, which he was simple enough to rely upon.Meantime Ramani Babu’s market bailiff was not idle. Knowing that he had acted illegally, he resolved to “square” the executive. So, one evening, he persuaded his master to accompany him to the police station, provided with a bundle of ten-rupee currency notes. After discussing commonplaces with the Sub-Inspector, they adjourned to an inner room, where they induced him to take their side—for very weighty reasons.Matters now began to look ugly for Kumodini Babu. Every vendor who approached his market was intercepted. He implored the help of the Sub-Inspector, who, however, observed a strict neutrality, hinting that the complainant was at liberty to defend himself with the aid of clubmen. But Kumodini Babu was a man of peace, and finding the policeman something less than lukewarm, he resigned himself to the inevitable.His evil star continued to prevail, for, soon after these untoward events, it brought him into collision with the police. In consequence of an understanding with Ramani Babu, the Sub-Inspector took to buying provisions from the few shopkeepers who still attended Kumodini Babu’s market and referring them to him for payment. His constables, too, helped themselves freely to rice and vegetables without even asking the price, and had their shoes blacked gratis by KumodiniBabu’smuchis(leather-dressers). His bailiff put up with their vagaries, until the shopkeepers came in a body to say that unless they were stopped, the market would be entirely deserted. The luckless Zemindar was staggered by the tale of oppression. He paid for every article extorted by the police, but strictly forbade the vendors to give any further credit. The Sub-Inspector was deeply incensed in finding this source of illicit profit cut off, and his vengeance was perpetrated under the pretence of law.One evening, while Kumodini Babu was conning theMahábhárata(an ancient epic) in his parlour, the Sub-Inspector came in, armed with a search warrant issued by the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria, which he showed the astonished master of the house. A charge of receiving stolen property brought against him was indeed a bolt from the blue; but when Kumodini Babu regained his scattered wits, he told the Sub-Inspector scornfully that he might search every hole and corner of his house. For half an hour the police were occupied in turning his furniture and boxes topsy-turvy; and at last the Sub-Inspector went alone into a lumber-room, while his head constable kept Kumodini’s attention fixed on the contents of analmeira(ward-robe) which he was searching. Shouting, “I have found the property!” he emerged from the room with a box containing various articlesof gold and silver, which he said were hidden under some straw. On comparing them with a list in his possession he declared that they exactly tallied with property reported as part of the spoils of a burglary in the neighbouring village. In vain Kumodini Babu protested his entire innocence and asked whether he, a respectable Zemindar, was likely to be a receiver of stolen goods. He was handcuffed and taken to the police station on foot, while the Sub-Inspector followed in a palanquin. Kumodini Babu’s women-folk filled the house with their lamentations; and his eldest son, Jadu Náth, was the first to recover from the prostration caused by sudden misfortune. He had a pony saddled and galloped to the railway station, whence he telegraphed to his uncle, Ghaneshyám Babu, the pleader, “Father arrested: charge receiving stolen goods”. Ghaneshyám arrived by the next train, and after hearing the facts returned to Ghoria, where he applied to the Deputy Magistrate for bail. There was a strong disinclination to grant it, owing to the gravity of the charge; but finally an order was issued, releasing the prisoner on personal recognisance of Rs. 10,000 and two sureties of Rs. 5,000. The necessary security was immediately forthcoming, and Kumodini Babu found himself temporarily a free man, after enduring nearly forty-eight hours of unspeakable misery in the station lock-up.In due course his case came on for hearing before the Deputy Magistrate. Ghaneshyám Babu secured the services of a fighting member of the Calcutta bar and was indefatigable in his efforts to unearth the nefarious plot against his brother. Proceedings lasted for four days in a court packed with spectators. The Sub-Inspector and his accomplices told their story speciously enough. A burglary had really been committed and the jewellery found in Kumodini Babu’s outhouse was proved to have been part of the stolen goods. The issue was—who placed them there? On this point the Sub-Inspector’s evidence was not by any means satisfactory. He finally broke down under rigorous cross-examination, and was forced to admit that it was quite possible that some one acting on his behalf had hidden the property in Kumodini Babu’s lumber-room. The battle of the markets was related in all its dramatic details. Shopkeepers and ryots alike, seeing that justice was likely to prevail, came forward to depose to acts of tyranny by Ramani Babu’s servants and their allies, the police. Evidence of the prisoner’s high character was forthcoming, while his age and dignified bearing spoke strongly in his favour. The Magistrate saw that he had been the victim of an abominable conspiracy and released him amid the suppressed plaudits of the audience. His reasons for discharge containedsevere strictures on the local police, and even suggested their prosecution. Thus, after weeks of agonising suspense and an expenditure on legal fees running into thousands of rupees, Kumodini Babu was declared innocent. He took the humiliation so much to heart, that he meditated retiring to that refuge for storm-tossed souls, Benares. But Ghaneshyám Babu strongly dissuaded him from abandoning the struggle, at least until he had turned the tables on his enemies. So Kumodini Babu moved the District Magistrate to issue process against Ramani Babu and the Sub-Inspector. He met with a refusal, however, probably because the higher authorities thought fit to hush up a glaring scandal which might “get into the papers,” and discredit the administration. Ramani Babu, therefore, was not molested, but his accomplice was departmentally censured, and transferred to an unhealthy district. Kumodini Babu also thought of discontinuing the market which had been the fount and origin of his misfortunes. Here again his brother objected that such a course would be taken to indicate weakness and encourage further attacks. His advice was followed. The new market throve amazingly, while Ramani Babu’s was quite deserted.

The immediate success of Kumodini Babu’s market caused infinite annoyance to Ramani Babu, who owned one long established in the neighbourhood. Hucksters and country-folk found the tolls levied there so much lighter, that the attendance at Ramani’s fell off grievously. It is well known that when a new market is started, proprietors already in the field endeavour to break it up with the aid of paidláthiáls(clubmen). If, as often happens, the daring speculator be a man of substance, he employs similar means in his defence. Free fights occur on market-days, ending in many a broken head—sometimes in slaughter. The battle is directed by Gomasthas (bailiffs) on either side, with the full knowledge of their masters, who keep discreetly aloof from the fray.

Ramani Babu did not foresee that his property would be injured by the new venture, and allowed it to be firmly established without striking a single blow. Finding a lamentable decrease in his receipts,he ordered the bailiff to “go ahead,” and took an early train for Calcutta in order to set up an alibi in case of legal proceedings. A day or two later his bailiff, attended by six or seven men armed with iron-shod bamboo staves, assembled at the outskirts of Kumodini Babu’s market, on a spot where four roads met.

Ere long a cart was descried approaching from eastwards, whose driver bawled snatches of song and puffed his hookah between whiles. When it reached the crossing, the bailiff shouted:—

“Stop! whither so early, friend?”

“To market,” the man replied carelessly.

“Whose market?”

“The new one, started by Kumodini Babu.”

“What have you got in those baskets of yours?”

“Oh, sweet potatoes,brinjáls(egg-plants), and a lot of other vegetables.”

“Why don’t you attend Ramani Babu’s market?”

“Because it does not pay me to go there.”

“So you used to take your vegetables to Ramani Babu’s market?”

“Yes; but there are hardly any customers left. Now please let me go; the sun is high up.”

“So you won’t obey me!”

“No!” roared the carter, prodding his oxen viciously.

“Stop a minute, I tell you! Whose ryot (tenant) are you?”

“Ramani Babu’s.”

“What, you are his ryot and yet are acting against his interests? If he hears of your perfidy he will certainly turn you out of his estate!”

“Why should he?” asked the fellow, now thoroughly frightened. “I am a very poor man, and Ramani Babu is my father and mother. He cannot object to my selling a few vegetables wherever I please.”

“But he does object,” rejoined the bailiff sternly. “What’s your name and residence?”

“Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi.”

“Now, do you know who I am?”

“No-o,” replied Sádhu, hesitatingly.

“I am Ramani Babu’s new bailiff, sent with these men to see that his market is well attended.”

Sádhu’s tone completely changed. “Sálam, Babu,” he whined. “I did not know who you were. Please let me pass or I shall be too late.”

“Not so fast, friend,” shouted the bailiff. “Once for all, are you going to obey me or not?”

Sádhu prodded his bullocks into a lumbering canter; but the bailiff gave a signal to his clubmen, who ran after him, dragged him out of the cart, and thrashed him soundly. Then two of them escorted him, with his wares, to their master’s market, whichwas being held about three miles away. The bailiff waited at the crossing for new arrivals. They were not long in coming. A fishwoman, heavily laden, passed by. He hailed her, and on learning whither she was bound, ordered his men to drag her to their master’s market, which they did, despite the volume of abuse which she hurled at their heads. In this manner some half a dozen deserters were captured and escorted to the old market.

The story of his tyranny spread like wildfire through neighbouring villages, with many amplifications, of course. Kumodini Babu heard that his rival had arrested a hundred frequenters of his market and was about to destroy the shelters he had erected for salesmen. This information filled him with anxiety and, after consulting friends, he lodged a complaint at the police station. In the remote interior of Bengal policemen are all-powerful. They usurp authority to which they are not entitled by law, and use it for private ends. All classes go in perpetual fear of them; for, by a stroke of the pen, they can ruin reputations and defeat justice. No one has recourse to their dreaded agency who can avoid doing so or has the means of gratifying their greed. By giving a handsomedouceurto the Sub-Inspector, Kumodini Babu obtained a promise of support, which he was simple enough to rely upon.

Meantime Ramani Babu’s market bailiff was not idle. Knowing that he had acted illegally, he resolved to “square” the executive. So, one evening, he persuaded his master to accompany him to the police station, provided with a bundle of ten-rupee currency notes. After discussing commonplaces with the Sub-Inspector, they adjourned to an inner room, where they induced him to take their side—for very weighty reasons.

Matters now began to look ugly for Kumodini Babu. Every vendor who approached his market was intercepted. He implored the help of the Sub-Inspector, who, however, observed a strict neutrality, hinting that the complainant was at liberty to defend himself with the aid of clubmen. But Kumodini Babu was a man of peace, and finding the policeman something less than lukewarm, he resigned himself to the inevitable.

His evil star continued to prevail, for, soon after these untoward events, it brought him into collision with the police. In consequence of an understanding with Ramani Babu, the Sub-Inspector took to buying provisions from the few shopkeepers who still attended Kumodini Babu’s market and referring them to him for payment. His constables, too, helped themselves freely to rice and vegetables without even asking the price, and had their shoes blacked gratis by KumodiniBabu’smuchis(leather-dressers). His bailiff put up with their vagaries, until the shopkeepers came in a body to say that unless they were stopped, the market would be entirely deserted. The luckless Zemindar was staggered by the tale of oppression. He paid for every article extorted by the police, but strictly forbade the vendors to give any further credit. The Sub-Inspector was deeply incensed in finding this source of illicit profit cut off, and his vengeance was perpetrated under the pretence of law.

One evening, while Kumodini Babu was conning theMahábhárata(an ancient epic) in his parlour, the Sub-Inspector came in, armed with a search warrant issued by the Deputy Magistrate of Ghoria, which he showed the astonished master of the house. A charge of receiving stolen property brought against him was indeed a bolt from the blue; but when Kumodini Babu regained his scattered wits, he told the Sub-Inspector scornfully that he might search every hole and corner of his house. For half an hour the police were occupied in turning his furniture and boxes topsy-turvy; and at last the Sub-Inspector went alone into a lumber-room, while his head constable kept Kumodini’s attention fixed on the contents of analmeira(ward-robe) which he was searching. Shouting, “I have found the property!” he emerged from the room with a box containing various articlesof gold and silver, which he said were hidden under some straw. On comparing them with a list in his possession he declared that they exactly tallied with property reported as part of the spoils of a burglary in the neighbouring village. In vain Kumodini Babu protested his entire innocence and asked whether he, a respectable Zemindar, was likely to be a receiver of stolen goods. He was handcuffed and taken to the police station on foot, while the Sub-Inspector followed in a palanquin. Kumodini Babu’s women-folk filled the house with their lamentations; and his eldest son, Jadu Náth, was the first to recover from the prostration caused by sudden misfortune. He had a pony saddled and galloped to the railway station, whence he telegraphed to his uncle, Ghaneshyám Babu, the pleader, “Father arrested: charge receiving stolen goods”. Ghaneshyám arrived by the next train, and after hearing the facts returned to Ghoria, where he applied to the Deputy Magistrate for bail. There was a strong disinclination to grant it, owing to the gravity of the charge; but finally an order was issued, releasing the prisoner on personal recognisance of Rs. 10,000 and two sureties of Rs. 5,000. The necessary security was immediately forthcoming, and Kumodini Babu found himself temporarily a free man, after enduring nearly forty-eight hours of unspeakable misery in the station lock-up.

In due course his case came on for hearing before the Deputy Magistrate. Ghaneshyám Babu secured the services of a fighting member of the Calcutta bar and was indefatigable in his efforts to unearth the nefarious plot against his brother. Proceedings lasted for four days in a court packed with spectators. The Sub-Inspector and his accomplices told their story speciously enough. A burglary had really been committed and the jewellery found in Kumodini Babu’s outhouse was proved to have been part of the stolen goods. The issue was—who placed them there? On this point the Sub-Inspector’s evidence was not by any means satisfactory. He finally broke down under rigorous cross-examination, and was forced to admit that it was quite possible that some one acting on his behalf had hidden the property in Kumodini Babu’s lumber-room. The battle of the markets was related in all its dramatic details. Shopkeepers and ryots alike, seeing that justice was likely to prevail, came forward to depose to acts of tyranny by Ramani Babu’s servants and their allies, the police. Evidence of the prisoner’s high character was forthcoming, while his age and dignified bearing spoke strongly in his favour. The Magistrate saw that he had been the victim of an abominable conspiracy and released him amid the suppressed plaudits of the audience. His reasons for discharge containedsevere strictures on the local police, and even suggested their prosecution. Thus, after weeks of agonising suspense and an expenditure on legal fees running into thousands of rupees, Kumodini Babu was declared innocent. He took the humiliation so much to heart, that he meditated retiring to that refuge for storm-tossed souls, Benares. But Ghaneshyám Babu strongly dissuaded him from abandoning the struggle, at least until he had turned the tables on his enemies. So Kumodini Babu moved the District Magistrate to issue process against Ramani Babu and the Sub-Inspector. He met with a refusal, however, probably because the higher authorities thought fit to hush up a glaring scandal which might “get into the papers,” and discredit the administration. Ramani Babu, therefore, was not molested, but his accomplice was departmentally censured, and transferred to an unhealthy district. Kumodini Babu also thought of discontinuing the market which had been the fount and origin of his misfortunes. Here again his brother objected that such a course would be taken to indicate weakness and encourage further attacks. His advice was followed. The new market throve amazingly, while Ramani Babu’s was quite deserted.

A Foul Conspiracy.On a certain morning in February Ramani Babu sprung a mine on his tenants by circulating a notice among them to the effect that they would have to pay up every pice of rent on or before the 10th prox. Some hastened to discharge their liabilities, while others ran about asking for loans or sat with downcast eyes, unable to decide what course to take. The English reader is perhaps unaware that every Bengal landowner is required to pay revenue to Government four times a year,vis., on the 28th January, March, June and September. Any one failing to do so before sunset on these dates becomes a defaulter, and his estate is put up to auction in order to satisfy the demand, however small it may be. Property worth many thousands of rupees has often been sold for arrears of eight annas (a shilling) or even less. The near approach of thesekist(rent) days is of course a period of great anxiety to landlords; some of whom are forced to borrow the necessary amount on the security of their wives’ ornaments.On March 28th, 18—, Ramani Babu had to pay about Rs. 10,000 as land revenue; but his ryots’ crops had failed, owing to want of rain, and by the end of February he had been able to realise only Rs. 1,000, the greater portion by threats of force. The Indian peasant’s lot is not a happy one. He depends solely on the produce of the soil, which yields little or nothing if the annual rains should fail, or there be an excess of moisture. Millions of cultivators never know what it is to have a good, solid meal. In order to meet the landlord’s demands they have recourse to aMahájan(moneylender) whose exactions leave them a slender margin for subsistence. But religion and ages of slavery render them submissive creatures. They murmur only when very hard pressed.Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi, lived by raising vegetables for sale in Kumodini Babu’s market, until he was forbidden to do so by Ramani Babu’s clubmen. Failing this resource, he abandoned the little trade; and thus got deeper into the books of his moneylender. At this crisis he received a written notice ordering him to attend Ramani Babu’skucheri(office) on 17th March without fail. A visit to the local moneylender was fruitless and only led to a hint that old scores must be cleared off. So Sádhu returned home crestfallen and determined to abide by his fate. On obeying the summons, he found Ramani Babu,sitting in his office to receive rent, which was brought him by a crowd of dejected-looking ryots. A great hubbub was going on; one Bemani insisting that he had paid up to date while Ramani Babu’sgomastha(bailiff) stoutly denied the assertion and called n the objector to produce his receipt. This was not forthcoming for the simple reason that Ramani had mislaid it. He asked the bailiff to show him the ledger account, and after spelling through the items laboriously be found that not a pice stood to his credit, although he had paid nearly sixty rupees since the lasthist(rent) day. There are few who understand the value of thedákhilas(rent receipts) which landlords are compelled by law to give them. The little slips of paper are lost or destroyed, with the result that many ryots have had to pay twice over. Bemani vainly invoked Allah to witness that he had discharged his dues; the bailiff ordered him to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of severe punishment. Goaded to fury by this palpable injustice the poor man declined to do anything of the kind. At this stage Ramani Babu intervened:—“You son of a pig, are you going to obey my orders or not?”“No, I have paid once, and I won’t pay again,” yelled Bemani, thoroughly roused.Ramani Babu beckoned to a stalwart doorkeeperfrom the Upper Provinces, who was standing near.“Sarbeshwar, give this rascal a taste of your Shámchand (cane)!”He was zealously obeyed and poor Bemani was thrashed until he lay writhing in agony on the ground. After taking his punishment he rose, and looking defiantly at Ramani Babu said:—“You have treated me cruelly; but you will find that there is a God who watches all our actions. He will certainly deal out retribution to you!” He then turned to go.“I see you are not yet cured,” exclaimed Ramani Babu. “Let him have another dose of Shámchand.”“Yes, go on!” roared Bemani, “beat me as much as you please; you’ll have reason to repent sooner or later!” With this remark he stood erect, looking fearlessly at his tormentors. Sarbeshwar administered another welting, which drew blood at every stroke but was borne without sound or movement. When the doorkeeper stopped for want of breath, Bemani cast a look of scorn at Ramani Babu and strode out of the house in silence, full of rage.Presently another disturbance was heard. One of the ryots had paid his rent in full but declined to add the usual commission exacted by the bailiffs, who fell on him in a body and pummelled him severely.Sádhu witnessed these horrors from a corner of the room and inwardly besought Allah to save him from the clutches of those demons. But Srikrishna, who was the bailiff of his circle, happened to see him and asked whether he had brought his rent. Sádhu got up, salámed humbly, and replied, “Babuji, you know my present circumstances well”. “Answer yes or no,” thundered Srikrishna, “I have no time to listen to your excuses.”“Your servant is a very poor man,” continued Sádhu, shaking from head to foot.“Who is this person?” inquired Ramani Babu.“This is Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi,” was the bailiff’s reply, “the very same rascal who gave evidence against your honour in that faujdári (criminal) case.”“Is that so?” roared Ramani Babu. “And the son of a pig owes me rent?”“Now, please, do not abuse me, Babuji,” protested Sádhu, “only listen to my tale for one minute!”“What, you dare to bandy words with me,haramzúdú(bastard)?” shouted Ramani Babu, rising from his seat. “Doorkeeper, let him have fifty cuts, laid on hard!”Swish, swish, swish, sounded the nimble cane, and made a grey pattern on Sádhu’s naked flesh. His screams and prayers for mercy were mocked by theobsequious crowd, and at length he fell senseless on the floor.“Look, he is shamming,” observed Ramani Babu; “drag him outside and souse him with water until he comes to.” The command was obeyed, and when Sádhu was able to sit up he was brought back to the dreaded presence. Again his arrears of rent were demanded, and once more he feebly protested that he could not discharge them. Thereon Ramani Babu ordered him to be hung up. Forthwith, a dozen eager hands were laid on him, a rope was passed under his armpits, and the free end thrown over a rafter of the office. By this means he was hauled from the ground and swung suspended, a butt of sarcasm and abuse for Ramani Babu’s myrmidons. After enduring this humiliation for an hour or so, he was let down and a final demand made on him for the arrears of rent. On his again asserting inability Ramani Babu ordered his hut to be levelled with the ground and pulse to be sown on its site, as a punishment for his disobedience. He was then allowed to leave the scene of his misery.On reaching home he found Bemani seated in the porch, in expectation of his arrival. His fellow-victim said that he had lodged an information against Ramani Babu and his servants at the police station and intended going to Ghoria, next day, to complainto the Deputy Magistrate. Would Sádhu help him by giving evidence? he asked. “That I will,” was the reply, “but I must first consult Jadunath Babu, who, I am sure, will help me.” After Bemani’s departure Sádhu went to his protector and told the story of his sufferings in full. Jadunath Babu bade him be of good cheer; for he would do all in his power to bring Ramani Babu to justice. Sádhu was comforted by this promise. He returned home and soon forgot all his sorrows in sleep.About midnight he was aroused by voices in his yard, and, sallying forth, discovered a gang of clubmen employed by Ramani Babu, in the act of tearing the roof from his hut. Remonstrance was met by jeering and threats of violence; so the luckless man stood helplessly under a neighbouring tamarind tree, while his house was reduced to a heap of bamboos and thatch. The material was taken away in carts, the site dug up, and pulse sown thereon. Thus not a trace of Sádhu’s home was left. He passed the remaining hours of the night under the tree; and early next morning he called on Jadu Babu, to whom he unfolded the story of this latest outrage. His patron boiled over with indignation. He sent Sádhu to the police station, in order to lay an information against his persecutors, promising to give him a house and land to compensate his losses. In less than a fortnight,the injured man was installed in a new hut and in possession of enough land to support him comfortably. Then he settled down, with heartfelt prayers for Jadu Babu’s long life and prosperity. He even sent for his wife and a young sister-in-law, who had been staying with her brother near Calcutta.Meantime Bemani had taken out a summons for causing grievous hurt against Ramani Babu and his servants. When the case came on for hearing before a Deputy Magistrate at Ghoria, all the accused pleaded “not guilty.” They could not deny the fact that he had been beaten within an inch of his life, but alleged provocation on his part, inasmuch as he had fomented a rebellion among the ryots. Jadu Babu was not idle. He provided the complainant with first-rate legal advice and paid all the expenses of adducing witnesses. Emboldened by his support, at least a dozen of Ramani Babu’s ryots who were present while he was being thrashed, came forward to give evidence of the brutal treatment he had received and to deny the counter charge brought by the defendants. Thus the case ended in the conviction of Ramani Babu and three of his servants, who were sentenced to fines aggregating Rs. 200. Then the charges preferred by Sádhu were taken up by the Deputy Magistrate. As they were of a far graver character, the barrister brought from Calcuttaby Ramani Babu obtained a week’s adjournment in order to procure rebutting evidence.At this time the Muharram festival was in full swing. Sádhu was too busy in getting up his case to take part in it; but he sent his wife to some relatives at Ghoria, while his young sister-in-law, who was suffering from fever, remained at home. He was aroused one night by loud screams coming from the hut occupied by this girl. On running out to see what was the matter, he fell into the arms of a stranger who was crossing his yard in a desperate hurry. A struggle ensued, but the intruder managed to escape, not before Sádhu had recognised him as a ryot of Ramani Babu, named Karim. On asking his sister-in-law what had happened, the poor girl told him with many sobs that a man had broken into the hut, and awakened her by seizing her throat, but had been scared away by her screams. As soon as day dawned, Sádhu ran to the house of Karim’s uncle, in the hope of finding him there. The uncle, however, declared that Karim had been absent since the previous evening, and on learning the grave charge preferred by Sádhu, he begged with folded hands that the scandal might be stifled, at any cost, for the sake of both families. Sádhu would promise nothing, but for obvious reasons he laid no information against Karim.Two days later he was engaged on his evening meal, when a Sub-Inspector appeared. After asking whether his name was Sádhu, the policeman slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and turned a deaf ear to his bewildered request for information as to the charge preferred against him. Thus he was ignominiously taken to the station lock-up, followed by a crowd, whom he begged to inform Jadu Babu of his trouble. The latter was speedily fetched by a compassionate neighbour, and, after conversing with the police officer, he told Sádhu that he was actually charged with murder! Karim’s uncle had informed the police that, his nephew having disappeared since the day of the alleged trespass, he suspected Sádhu of foul play. An inquiry followed which led to Sádhu’s transfer to the district jail.Jadu Babu was certain that his enemy had instigated the charge, and knew that he was quite capable of suppressing Karim in order to get Sádhu into trouble. He was advised by friends whom he consulted not to poke his nose into so ugly an affair: but his sense of justice prevailed. He went to Ghaneshyám Babu, whom he told the whole story related by Sádhu. On learning that Ramani Babu was implicated, the pleader saw an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on the persecutor of his brother. Gladly did he undertake the prisoner’s defence.In due course the charge preferred by Sádhu against Ramani Babu was heard by a Deputy Magistrate. With Ghaneshyám Babu’s aid, the complainant proved it up to the hilt, and all concerned were heavily fined. Soon afterwards Sádhu himself appeared before the Deputy Magistrate to answer a charge of murder. The circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he was committed to the Sessions Court. When brought up for trial there, he astounded his backers by pleading guilty and offering to point out the spot where he had buried Karim’s corpse. The case was forthwith adjourned for a local inquiry; and the European District Superintendent of Police took Sádhu to the place indicated, where he had the soil turned up in all directions without result. Sádhu admitted that he was mistaken and piloted the police to another spot, where they again failed to discover any trace of the missing man. On these facts being reported to the judge, he fixed the morrow for final hearing.At 11 A.M. he took his seat on the bench in a Court packed with eager spectators, and was reading a charge to the jury, strongly adverse to the prisoner, when an uproar was heard outside. Proceedings were suspended while the judge sent an usher to ascertain the cause; but ere he returned, half a dozen men burst into the courtroom cryingDohai!(justice!).Jadu Babu, who was one of the intruders, signalled the others to be silent, and thus addressed the judge with folded hands:—“Your Honour, the dead has come to life! Here is Karim, who was supposed to have been murdered!”There was a tremendous sensation in Court. When it subsided the judge thrust aside his papers and asked for evidence as to Karim’s identity, which was soon forthcoming on oath. Then he ordered him to be sworn, and recorded the following deposition:—“Incarnation of Justice! I will make a full confession, whatever may happen to me. I was sent for about a month ago by my landlord Ramani Babu, who ordered me to insult some woman of Sádhu’s household, in order that he might be excommunicated. In fear of my life I consented to do so, and that very night I broke into the hut where Sádhu’s sister-in-law lay asleep. Her cries attracted Sádhu, who grappled with me in his yard. However, I managed to escape, and on reporting my failure to Ramani Babu, he sent me in charge of aBarkamdúz(guard) to Paliti, which is ten coss (20 miles) away. There I was confined in aKacheri(office building) until yesterday, when I got away after nightfall. I had to pass through Ghoria Bazar, on my way home this morning, and there I ran up against Jadu Babu, who stopped and questioned me closely about mymovements. There was nothing for me but to make a clean breast of everything. He took me to a babu’s house where he was staying, and thence brought me to your honour’s presence.”Karim’s confession took every one by surprise, and it was corroborated by Jadu Babu in the witness-box. The judge then asked Sadhu why he pleaded guilty.“Incarnation of Justice,” was the reply, “it was the Daroga Babu (Sub-Inspector of Police) who frightened me into making a confession. He told me again and again that he had quite enough evidence to hang me, and advised me to escape death by admitting the charge of murdering Karim. While I was shut up alone in jail, I had no one to consult or rely on. Through fear, my wits entirely left me and I resolved to obtain mercy by making a false confession.”These circumstances, strange as they may appear to the Western reader, were no novelty to the Sessions Judge. In charging the jury, he commented severely on the conduct of the station police and directed them to return a verdict of not guilty, which they promptly did.Ghaneshyám Babu did not let the matter drop. He moved the District Magistrate to prosecute Ramani Babu and his bailiff, Srikrishna, for conspiring tocharge an innocent man with murder. Both were brought to trial and, despite the advocacy of a Calcutta barrister, they each received a sentence of six months’ rigorous imprisonment. Justice, lame-footed as she is, at length overtook a pair of notorious evil-doers.

On a certain morning in February Ramani Babu sprung a mine on his tenants by circulating a notice among them to the effect that they would have to pay up every pice of rent on or before the 10th prox. Some hastened to discharge their liabilities, while others ran about asking for loans or sat with downcast eyes, unable to decide what course to take. The English reader is perhaps unaware that every Bengal landowner is required to pay revenue to Government four times a year,vis., on the 28th January, March, June and September. Any one failing to do so before sunset on these dates becomes a defaulter, and his estate is put up to auction in order to satisfy the demand, however small it may be. Property worth many thousands of rupees has often been sold for arrears of eight annas (a shilling) or even less. The near approach of thesekist(rent) days is of course a period of great anxiety to landlords; some of whom are forced to borrow the necessary amount on the security of their wives’ ornaments.

On March 28th, 18—, Ramani Babu had to pay about Rs. 10,000 as land revenue; but his ryots’ crops had failed, owing to want of rain, and by the end of February he had been able to realise only Rs. 1,000, the greater portion by threats of force. The Indian peasant’s lot is not a happy one. He depends solely on the produce of the soil, which yields little or nothing if the annual rains should fail, or there be an excess of moisture. Millions of cultivators never know what it is to have a good, solid meal. In order to meet the landlord’s demands they have recourse to aMahájan(moneylender) whose exactions leave them a slender margin for subsistence. But religion and ages of slavery render them submissive creatures. They murmur only when very hard pressed.

Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi, lived by raising vegetables for sale in Kumodini Babu’s market, until he was forbidden to do so by Ramani Babu’s clubmen. Failing this resource, he abandoned the little trade; and thus got deeper into the books of his moneylender. At this crisis he received a written notice ordering him to attend Ramani Babu’skucheri(office) on 17th March without fail. A visit to the local moneylender was fruitless and only led to a hint that old scores must be cleared off. So Sádhu returned home crestfallen and determined to abide by his fate. On obeying the summons, he found Ramani Babu,sitting in his office to receive rent, which was brought him by a crowd of dejected-looking ryots. A great hubbub was going on; one Bemani insisting that he had paid up to date while Ramani Babu’sgomastha(bailiff) stoutly denied the assertion and called n the objector to produce his receipt. This was not forthcoming for the simple reason that Ramani had mislaid it. He asked the bailiff to show him the ledger account, and after spelling through the items laboriously be found that not a pice stood to his credit, although he had paid nearly sixty rupees since the lasthist(rent) day. There are few who understand the value of thedákhilas(rent receipts) which landlords are compelled by law to give them. The little slips of paper are lost or destroyed, with the result that many ryots have had to pay twice over. Bemani vainly invoked Allah to witness that he had discharged his dues; the bailiff ordered him to pay within twenty-four hours on pain of severe punishment. Goaded to fury by this palpable injustice the poor man declined to do anything of the kind. At this stage Ramani Babu intervened:—

“You son of a pig, are you going to obey my orders or not?”

“No, I have paid once, and I won’t pay again,” yelled Bemani, thoroughly roused.

Ramani Babu beckoned to a stalwart doorkeeperfrom the Upper Provinces, who was standing near.

“Sarbeshwar, give this rascal a taste of your Shámchand (cane)!”

He was zealously obeyed and poor Bemani was thrashed until he lay writhing in agony on the ground. After taking his punishment he rose, and looking defiantly at Ramani Babu said:—

“You have treated me cruelly; but you will find that there is a God who watches all our actions. He will certainly deal out retribution to you!” He then turned to go.

“I see you are not yet cured,” exclaimed Ramani Babu. “Let him have another dose of Shámchand.”

“Yes, go on!” roared Bemani, “beat me as much as you please; you’ll have reason to repent sooner or later!” With this remark he stood erect, looking fearlessly at his tormentors. Sarbeshwar administered another welting, which drew blood at every stroke but was borne without sound or movement. When the doorkeeper stopped for want of breath, Bemani cast a look of scorn at Ramani Babu and strode out of the house in silence, full of rage.

Presently another disturbance was heard. One of the ryots had paid his rent in full but declined to add the usual commission exacted by the bailiffs, who fell on him in a body and pummelled him severely.

Sádhu witnessed these horrors from a corner of the room and inwardly besought Allah to save him from the clutches of those demons. But Srikrishna, who was the bailiff of his circle, happened to see him and asked whether he had brought his rent. Sádhu got up, salámed humbly, and replied, “Babuji, you know my present circumstances well”. “Answer yes or no,” thundered Srikrishna, “I have no time to listen to your excuses.”

“Your servant is a very poor man,” continued Sádhu, shaking from head to foot.

“Who is this person?” inquired Ramani Babu.

“This is Sádhu Sheikh, of Simulgachi,” was the bailiff’s reply, “the very same rascal who gave evidence against your honour in that faujdári (criminal) case.”

“Is that so?” roared Ramani Babu. “And the son of a pig owes me rent?”

“Now, please, do not abuse me, Babuji,” protested Sádhu, “only listen to my tale for one minute!”

“What, you dare to bandy words with me,haramzúdú(bastard)?” shouted Ramani Babu, rising from his seat. “Doorkeeper, let him have fifty cuts, laid on hard!”

Swish, swish, swish, sounded the nimble cane, and made a grey pattern on Sádhu’s naked flesh. His screams and prayers for mercy were mocked by theobsequious crowd, and at length he fell senseless on the floor.

“Look, he is shamming,” observed Ramani Babu; “drag him outside and souse him with water until he comes to.” The command was obeyed, and when Sádhu was able to sit up he was brought back to the dreaded presence. Again his arrears of rent were demanded, and once more he feebly protested that he could not discharge them. Thereon Ramani Babu ordered him to be hung up. Forthwith, a dozen eager hands were laid on him, a rope was passed under his armpits, and the free end thrown over a rafter of the office. By this means he was hauled from the ground and swung suspended, a butt of sarcasm and abuse for Ramani Babu’s myrmidons. After enduring this humiliation for an hour or so, he was let down and a final demand made on him for the arrears of rent. On his again asserting inability Ramani Babu ordered his hut to be levelled with the ground and pulse to be sown on its site, as a punishment for his disobedience. He was then allowed to leave the scene of his misery.

On reaching home he found Bemani seated in the porch, in expectation of his arrival. His fellow-victim said that he had lodged an information against Ramani Babu and his servants at the police station and intended going to Ghoria, next day, to complainto the Deputy Magistrate. Would Sádhu help him by giving evidence? he asked. “That I will,” was the reply, “but I must first consult Jadunath Babu, who, I am sure, will help me.” After Bemani’s departure Sádhu went to his protector and told the story of his sufferings in full. Jadunath Babu bade him be of good cheer; for he would do all in his power to bring Ramani Babu to justice. Sádhu was comforted by this promise. He returned home and soon forgot all his sorrows in sleep.

About midnight he was aroused by voices in his yard, and, sallying forth, discovered a gang of clubmen employed by Ramani Babu, in the act of tearing the roof from his hut. Remonstrance was met by jeering and threats of violence; so the luckless man stood helplessly under a neighbouring tamarind tree, while his house was reduced to a heap of bamboos and thatch. The material was taken away in carts, the site dug up, and pulse sown thereon. Thus not a trace of Sádhu’s home was left. He passed the remaining hours of the night under the tree; and early next morning he called on Jadu Babu, to whom he unfolded the story of this latest outrage. His patron boiled over with indignation. He sent Sádhu to the police station, in order to lay an information against his persecutors, promising to give him a house and land to compensate his losses. In less than a fortnight,the injured man was installed in a new hut and in possession of enough land to support him comfortably. Then he settled down, with heartfelt prayers for Jadu Babu’s long life and prosperity. He even sent for his wife and a young sister-in-law, who had been staying with her brother near Calcutta.

Meantime Bemani had taken out a summons for causing grievous hurt against Ramani Babu and his servants. When the case came on for hearing before a Deputy Magistrate at Ghoria, all the accused pleaded “not guilty.” They could not deny the fact that he had been beaten within an inch of his life, but alleged provocation on his part, inasmuch as he had fomented a rebellion among the ryots. Jadu Babu was not idle. He provided the complainant with first-rate legal advice and paid all the expenses of adducing witnesses. Emboldened by his support, at least a dozen of Ramani Babu’s ryots who were present while he was being thrashed, came forward to give evidence of the brutal treatment he had received and to deny the counter charge brought by the defendants. Thus the case ended in the conviction of Ramani Babu and three of his servants, who were sentenced to fines aggregating Rs. 200. Then the charges preferred by Sádhu were taken up by the Deputy Magistrate. As they were of a far graver character, the barrister brought from Calcuttaby Ramani Babu obtained a week’s adjournment in order to procure rebutting evidence.

At this time the Muharram festival was in full swing. Sádhu was too busy in getting up his case to take part in it; but he sent his wife to some relatives at Ghoria, while his young sister-in-law, who was suffering from fever, remained at home. He was aroused one night by loud screams coming from the hut occupied by this girl. On running out to see what was the matter, he fell into the arms of a stranger who was crossing his yard in a desperate hurry. A struggle ensued, but the intruder managed to escape, not before Sádhu had recognised him as a ryot of Ramani Babu, named Karim. On asking his sister-in-law what had happened, the poor girl told him with many sobs that a man had broken into the hut, and awakened her by seizing her throat, but had been scared away by her screams. As soon as day dawned, Sádhu ran to the house of Karim’s uncle, in the hope of finding him there. The uncle, however, declared that Karim had been absent since the previous evening, and on learning the grave charge preferred by Sádhu, he begged with folded hands that the scandal might be stifled, at any cost, for the sake of both families. Sádhu would promise nothing, but for obvious reasons he laid no information against Karim.

Two days later he was engaged on his evening meal, when a Sub-Inspector appeared. After asking whether his name was Sádhu, the policeman slipped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists and turned a deaf ear to his bewildered request for information as to the charge preferred against him. Thus he was ignominiously taken to the station lock-up, followed by a crowd, whom he begged to inform Jadu Babu of his trouble. The latter was speedily fetched by a compassionate neighbour, and, after conversing with the police officer, he told Sádhu that he was actually charged with murder! Karim’s uncle had informed the police that, his nephew having disappeared since the day of the alleged trespass, he suspected Sádhu of foul play. An inquiry followed which led to Sádhu’s transfer to the district jail.

Jadu Babu was certain that his enemy had instigated the charge, and knew that he was quite capable of suppressing Karim in order to get Sádhu into trouble. He was advised by friends whom he consulted not to poke his nose into so ugly an affair: but his sense of justice prevailed. He went to Ghaneshyám Babu, whom he told the whole story related by Sádhu. On learning that Ramani Babu was implicated, the pleader saw an opportunity of wreaking vengeance on the persecutor of his brother. Gladly did he undertake the prisoner’s defence.

In due course the charge preferred by Sádhu against Ramani Babu was heard by a Deputy Magistrate. With Ghaneshyám Babu’s aid, the complainant proved it up to the hilt, and all concerned were heavily fined. Soon afterwards Sádhu himself appeared before the Deputy Magistrate to answer a charge of murder. The circumstantial evidence against him was so strong that he was committed to the Sessions Court. When brought up for trial there, he astounded his backers by pleading guilty and offering to point out the spot where he had buried Karim’s corpse. The case was forthwith adjourned for a local inquiry; and the European District Superintendent of Police took Sádhu to the place indicated, where he had the soil turned up in all directions without result. Sádhu admitted that he was mistaken and piloted the police to another spot, where they again failed to discover any trace of the missing man. On these facts being reported to the judge, he fixed the morrow for final hearing.

At 11 A.M. he took his seat on the bench in a Court packed with eager spectators, and was reading a charge to the jury, strongly adverse to the prisoner, when an uproar was heard outside. Proceedings were suspended while the judge sent an usher to ascertain the cause; but ere he returned, half a dozen men burst into the courtroom cryingDohai!(justice!).Jadu Babu, who was one of the intruders, signalled the others to be silent, and thus addressed the judge with folded hands:—

“Your Honour, the dead has come to life! Here is Karim, who was supposed to have been murdered!”

There was a tremendous sensation in Court. When it subsided the judge thrust aside his papers and asked for evidence as to Karim’s identity, which was soon forthcoming on oath. Then he ordered him to be sworn, and recorded the following deposition:—

“Incarnation of Justice! I will make a full confession, whatever may happen to me. I was sent for about a month ago by my landlord Ramani Babu, who ordered me to insult some woman of Sádhu’s household, in order that he might be excommunicated. In fear of my life I consented to do so, and that very night I broke into the hut where Sádhu’s sister-in-law lay asleep. Her cries attracted Sádhu, who grappled with me in his yard. However, I managed to escape, and on reporting my failure to Ramani Babu, he sent me in charge of aBarkamdúz(guard) to Paliti, which is ten coss (20 miles) away. There I was confined in aKacheri(office building) until yesterday, when I got away after nightfall. I had to pass through Ghoria Bazar, on my way home this morning, and there I ran up against Jadu Babu, who stopped and questioned me closely about mymovements. There was nothing for me but to make a clean breast of everything. He took me to a babu’s house where he was staying, and thence brought me to your honour’s presence.”

Karim’s confession took every one by surprise, and it was corroborated by Jadu Babu in the witness-box. The judge then asked Sadhu why he pleaded guilty.

“Incarnation of Justice,” was the reply, “it was the Daroga Babu (Sub-Inspector of Police) who frightened me into making a confession. He told me again and again that he had quite enough evidence to hang me, and advised me to escape death by admitting the charge of murdering Karim. While I was shut up alone in jail, I had no one to consult or rely on. Through fear, my wits entirely left me and I resolved to obtain mercy by making a false confession.”

These circumstances, strange as they may appear to the Western reader, were no novelty to the Sessions Judge. In charging the jury, he commented severely on the conduct of the station police and directed them to return a verdict of not guilty, which they promptly did.

Ghaneshyám Babu did not let the matter drop. He moved the District Magistrate to prosecute Ramani Babu and his bailiff, Srikrishna, for conspiring tocharge an innocent man with murder. Both were brought to trial and, despite the advocacy of a Calcutta barrister, they each received a sentence of six months’ rigorous imprisonment. Justice, lame-footed as she is, at length overtook a pair of notorious evil-doers.

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