part0010

B hind is an area of land comprising some thousands of square miles in the state of Madhya Pradesh, the most extensive state in renaissant India. Its largest town, the capital, bears the same name. The district itself is mainly covered with thick jungles, and human habitations are few and far between. It is a land of legend and folklore, fables and ghost stories told by the dancing flicker of firelight; most nearly approaching the India of bygone days. Men’s wants are few and simple, because money is hard to get. And due to its absence in too-large quantities, people are free and happy. Moreover, they are guileless and untainted for the most part by the vices of civilisation.

The men of Bhind require but few material possessions to make them contented. In the hot summer nights when people gasp for breath and perspiration trickles in rivulets between the breasts of a sleeper and bedews his forehead where, one drop uniting with another forms sufficient to drip down upon, and sodden his hard, dirty pillow, the canopy of the star-studded sky above may be the only roof over his head, a free gift to all her sons from Mother Nature for a shelter. When the rains come and the frogs croak in millions in the surrounding swollen streams and ponds; and wood-crickets chirp in their thousands; and fire flies scintillate and synchronise their elfin lamps to bejewel the night with a throbbing, pulsating phosphorescence; and snakes crawl out of their flooded holes to swallow the frogs and seek for drier abodes; and mosquitoes buzz and hum and dive and sting in hundreds; a man requires a little hut built of wattles with grass thatched roof, to afford some protection from the weather and the snakes.

But be the season dry or rainy, a man needs the presence of a woman, wife or concubine, to cook his food, be a companion to him and administer to his creature wants.

Then he will require a few annas a day to buy wheat flour for making his ‘chappatties’ (these are flat, circular cakes, a foot or so in diameter by perhaps one-fourth of an inch thick). It is the only form of bread known to the people of the area and comprises the staple diet and item of food.

Clothing is a simple matter and presents no problem whatsoever. A long cotton shirt, hanging over a cotton dhoti which is tied around the waist and passes between the legs; a length of cloth loosely wound around the head to form a turban; and a pair of rough, leather sandals to keep the sharp thorns from penetrating his feet; are the only articles worn by a peasant throughout the year. A coarse black blanket is an extra item, used in the chilly winter months from November to January.

Cultivation is scarce, the monsoon unreliable, and farming difficult. People are sometimes desperately poor, but everyone devoutly believes in a God that will supply all his daily necessities, and perhaps throw in a few extras as well.

But luxuries in any form are mostly quite unknown. Occasionally, God would appear to have grown angry with His poor people. A monsoon would fail and the subsequent drought kill all the standing crops. Then there would be no grain, no money, and consequently, no food. Or an epidemic of sickness would ravish the land and thousands would die beneath its spell. At such times of misfortune, even the stoutest hearts quailed from fear and people would sometimes wonder why they had ever been born.

To make matters worse would come the landlord or the servants of the local zamindar, demanding rent for the land that had yielded nothing, with threats of eviction if the money was not paid at once.

How could they pay money when they had none to pay? Their crops had failed and they had nothing to sell. A good number of them were already in debt, for they had not paid for the seed they had sown or the manure they had put down, all for no purpose, in their fields. Surely the landowner understood their plight?

But the landlords and the zamindars and their servants would molest and beat them, threaten to evict them; perhaps even throw them out physically, by force. They would face dire starvation by the roadside, for no man would give them anything, even if they begged.

Yes indeed; often would a poor peasant wonder why he had been born. Famine and pestilence would sometimes stalk the land and make them think like that, and despair. They would lift up their eyes to heaven and weep, and hope that God had heard their supplications.

But say; was there not one last hope of deliverance left to them on this earth? In the name of Rajah Man Singh; lover of the poor, the down-and-out and needy; benefactor and guardian; deliverer and saviour in time of need and distress. Beloved Man Singh, leader of his dacoit band and succourer of the benighted and starving.

Last year the little hamlet of Rampur had been on the verge of famine and starvation, its crops withered and parched and died beneath a merciless sun without a drop of rain to even moisten them. The rent-gatherers had been more than ever petulant and demanding. Life had held out no hope, and the people of Rampur had called on God to take them away swiftly, and spare them from the pangs of slow starvation and torture and death.

Then suddenly into the village one morning had rumbled eight bullock carts, their oxen tugging and straining under a top-load of gunny bags that reached right up to the eliptical grass roof of each vehicle. The bags were filled with wheat and the leader of the cartmen delivered them to the villagers of Rampur together with a simple message, ‘A gift from Man Singh’.

That gift had saved the village from disaster. Before it had been exhausted relief came from the Government in the form of abundant supplies of food. The situation was now well in hand, and the subsequent monsoon had been as plentiful as its predecessor had been scanty. But the inhabitants of Rampur never forgot Man Singh and his timely aid.

There was a reward of Rs. 15,000 offered by the Government for the apprehension of this notorious individual, who was charged with over two hundred murders and dacoities untold. Yet nobody claimed it. Because, nobody gave information against beloved Man Singh, or betrayed him.

The eight cartmen were closely questioned. They stated a man had hired them a week earlier to drive their carts to a railway station 40 miles away and load bags of grain that would be waiting there in a goods wagon. He had paid them Rs. 160 for the double trip at the rate of Rs. 20 for each cart. He had also whispered the name of Man Singh to them, and had said that, if they did not complete their part of the bargain and deliver the bags of grain to Rampur within the week, none of them would live to see the sunset on the first day of the following week. So they had delivered the bags on the sixth day.

The cartmen also added that when they reached the wayside railway station to which they had been told to go, the stationmaster there had affirmed that a goods wagon had arrived two days earlier, laden with bags of wheat, and had been kept on a siding awaiting their arrival to unload.

The wagon had been booked in the name of some individual calling himself Man Singh. After all, it was quite a common name in that district.

One summer evening the sun dipped itself in a ball of blood-red fire behind the serrated tops of the tall sal trees that stretched to the western horizon. A narrow, dusty roadway ran through the dense forest, hemmed in on both sides by the close array of the trunks of sal trees. One could not see far between them because of the gathering dusk. The still air yet throbbed with the heat of the day that was done.

Two men who had been striding rapidly along the road, came to a halt beneath a large tree bordering the wayside. One was a tall man, having a beard. The other was of normal height and well-built. They both wore khaki tunics and shorts, putties, service boots and khaki turbans. And they both carried .303 service rifles. For they were policemen.

There is hardly any dusk in the tropics, and there would be none in this densely-forested area. In a few minutes heavy darkness would descend upon them, leaving only the twinkling stars in a slate-blue sky above.

A ball of something soft and brown sailed overhead, flitted around for a moment on silent wings, but soon settled soundlessly before them to be lost to sight in the dust of the roadway. It was quiet for a minute, and then emitted a queer sound, resembling a pebble being thrown and bouncing along the surface of a flat rock. It sounded like ‘Chuck—chuck—chuck—chuck—chuckooo’.

The policemen recognised the sound and the bird that was making it. It was a ‘night jar’. Indeed, darkness was upon them and they were very apprehensive.

And they had every reason to be. For they were in the very heart of the domain of the notorious dacoit and bandit-leader, Man Singh Rathore. In fact, they were but one of many groups of policemen who had been sent out armed, and in pairs, to try to collect information about and, if possible bring in that infamous brigand.

What was worst of all was the thought that large numbers of policemen had been shot, stabbed or had their throats cut by this fearsome character and his followers in the past. Just last week, nine constables and a sergeant had been ambushed while asleep on the riverbank, decapitated, and their bodies thrown into the river. The ten heads had been left behind by the dacoits at their last encampment as a gift to the posse of police that were pursuing them.

The taller of the two policemen unslung his rifle from his shoulder and resting it against the tree trunk, addressed his squat companion. ‘Arre bhai! rath hogya’ (meaning, ‘Oh brother; night has fallen!). Continuing in Hindustani, he said, ‘We had better climb into the branches of this tree. There we will be safe from wild animals; and if we hide ourselves well, should the shaitan (devil) Man Singh and his gang of robbers pass this way they will not see us. What say you? ’

The shorter of the two policemen looked up to assess the height and comparative safety afforded by the overhanging boughs of the big tree. With the rapidly falling darkness, its leaves and branches clustered blackly against the steely-blue of the sky above, in which he noticed the stars had begun to twinkle one by one. Withal he was not impressed. He commenced to quarrel with his taller companion.

‘This is what comes of listening to you, you fool,’ he stated bitterly. ‘When I advised camping at the last village you assured me that the town of Kampampoli was but three or four miles further, where we could get a good night’s rest, food, and perhaps a woman to share between us. Since that time we have walked at least ten miles, and this blessed road seems to have no end. Nothing but jungle, everywhere; not a signpost or hut of any kind. And now you want me to spend the night in a tree, like a monkey. Idiot that you are!’

The tall constable appeared momentarily taken aback by his companion’s vehemence. Then he started to remonstrate.

‘Come brother,’ he placated, ‘why do you quarrel with me? Such hardships are but part and parcel of our lives as policemen. I only suggested it is safer at night in a tree.’

‘Not nearly as safe and as comfortable as we could have been at that last village,’ retorted the squat man. ‘If Man Singh or his band finds us now, our heads will join those of our ten colleagues who lost theirs last week.’

‘Don’t be afraid,’ rejoined the tall man, whose name was Dass. ‘Man Singh is nowhere near us. Even he would not hang out all night in the midst of a forest like this.’

His speech irritated Hariram, the shorter of the two still further. He mouthed an oath as foul in Hindustani as its English translation.

‘Who is afraid, Dass?’ he almost shouted. ‘You, or me? Who first suggested climbing into this blasted tree? You, or me? Who spoke about wild animals and Man Singh? You, or me? You can climb the tree yourself. As for me, I am going on. This damned road must lead us to some place, eventually.’ So saying, he reslung his rifle across his shoulder and made to proceed .

Dass lost his temper. As with most men of his nature when foiled, his ire vented itself in personal abuse and invective.

‘You short, fat pig,’ he hissed, ‘I have listened enough to your arrogant words. We are both constables, but as the senior in service, I order you to remain here with me till daylight. After all, if anything should happen to you, I will be held responsible, although as a matter of fact even the jackals would not touch your carcass, far less Man Singh.’

‘You be damned,’ retorted Hariram, who appeared to feel that what he lacked in height he made up for in weight and muscle, ‘you are just an ordinary constable like me, and not my senior. I am going on, and I would like to see you try to stop me.’

Their plight had filled both men with apprehension; terror of the jungle, the darkness, wild animals and of Man Singh. The quarrel that had just broken out had been a diversion to keep their minds off their real problem, which was fear of what might happen to them.

They faced each other, breathing hard and with set faces in the manner of angry men. It was quite dark now. The stillness and gloom around them seemed to scream a message of warning, as if from a thousand muted tongues.

Then they heard the sounds. Footsteps padding along the dust of the road before them; drawing nearer to them, ever nearer.

Could this be the dreaded dacoit and his band of followers? But the footfalls denoted there were only two or three men approaching them, and not a large band.

By now it was too late—and too dark—to attempt climbing into the tree in a hurry. As if by mutual consent, the policemen stepped behind its trunk and waited anxiously. Nor had they long to wait. In a few seconds two figures loomed in the murkiness and came to a halt almost opposite them.

‘Why do you hide behind the tree, brothers. Come out, we will not harm you.’ The words were uttered in a soft tone by a melodious voice that seemed to carry with it a hint of sarcasm and of amusement.

Dass had been angry before. Now he became furious. He strode forth from behind the tree and approached the two figures. Hariram followed a pace or two behind him .

‘What the hell do you mean by saying we are hiding and are afraid,’ he shouted at the top of his voice. ‘We are policemen and are afraid of nothing!’

‘I see,’ answered the same voice quietly. ‘Then why do you stand behind the tree trunk?’

Dass sized up the two men before answering. It was difficult to make out details in the gloom, but as far as he could see, the man who had spoken must be a fairly old fellow. His flowing beard and heavy moustache and whiskers could easily be made out, and even in the darkness they appeared to be completely grey. He was dressed in the usual manner, in a long shirt and dhoti, while an enormous turban enveloped his head. His companion was younger, very straight and tall, and appeared to possess a distinctly military bearing. With all that, Dass felt that he and Hariram could deal with the young fellow if occasion arose. The old man was not worth taking into account should a fight ensue.

‘Stop your insolence,’ he grated, ‘we heard footsteps approaching and hid behind the tree trunk to see if they were caused by the man for whom we are looking. And…’

‘And for whom are you looking?’ the old man inquired, mildly.

Dass swallowed hard. This old devil was annoying him, and would have to be taught a lesson.

‘Never mind,’ he snapped, ‘and who are you both?’

‘Farmers,’ came the quick answer.

‘Farmers?’ interjected Hariram incredulously; ‘in the middle of the jungle; at night! Funny sort of farmers, indeed. You appear to me to be more like suspicious characters. Farmers, forsooth!’

At hearing these words the old man shook with laughter, while a wide grin spread from ear to ear over the erstwhile stony countenance of his sturdy companion.

‘That is a good joke indeed,’ he cackled, ‘you calling us suspicious characters, while you go hiding behind trees yourselves! Ha, ha, ha.’ He fairly bounced with merriment.

‘Enough of your insane laughter,’ broke in Dass sternly. ‘Have I not just told you that we hid ourselves thinking you might be the man we are looking for?’

‘And who may he be?’ wheezed the bearded old man.

‘That rascally dacoit, Man Singh.’

‘And why do you want him? Has he done you any harm?’ asked long-beard querulously.

‘What a stupid question to ask,’ broke in Hariram. ‘Are you blind that you cannot make out our uniforms: We are policemen, while Man Singh is a dacoit. Every policemen in these four states is looking for him.’

‘Besides,’ added Dass, ‘what is more to the point is the fact that there is a reward of fifteen thousand rupees for his capture, dead or alive, and I want that money very badly. Say, can you give me any information about this rogue?’

‘Do you need this money so much that you would give away this Man Singh for it, provided you came to know where you could find him?’

For the moment Dass was nonplussed for a ready answer. He never imagined that anyone could be as dull as this old fool. Then he blurted out, ‘Look here, old man; I cannot stay here all night answering your silly questions. For the last time let me assure you that I would give away Man Singh and even my own superior officer in exchange for fifteen thousand rupees. I need the money badly. I have a daughter who has matured, and I must find a husband for her. No husband will agree to marry her without dowry money. And I am a poor man who has no money. If I get this reward I will be able to offer a reasonable dowry to whomsoever agrees to marry my daughter and have a good sum left over for myself.’

‘I understand,’ said the old man, apparently satisfied.

He was silent awhile, then added, ‘Folk round about here say this fellow, Man Singh, has helped many people in straightened circumstances with money. I wonder if you should ask him.’

‘Now I know you are really mad,’ Dass replied contemptuously. He took a beedi from the pocket of his tunic, put the end in his mouth, lit the other end with a match and inhaled the smoke into his lungs gratefully.

As a joke he said to the old man, ‘Perhaps you will be good enough to tell me where this character hangs out, in order that I might ask him. In any case, it is all a pack of lies. I don’t believe these stories one hears about that devil’s supposedly good actions. Personally, I think he is a crafty, murderous pig, and that’s about all.’

To add emphasis to his denunciation, Dass spat scathingly on the sandy road.

‘I am Man Singh.’

With a mighty start the two policemen straightened themselves. The hitherto feeble-looking old man looked feeble no longer. He appeared to grow before their very eyes both in height and girth. His companion, who had been a strapping-looking individual seemed to assume the proportions of a giant.

There was a faint gleam in the starlight as the giant whipped the naked blade of a footlong wicked-looking dagger from his waistband, and held it menacingly in his right hand, its point resting against the pit of Dass’s stomach.

Man Singh remained nonchalant. The two policemen were too thunderstruck to be able to speak. They just stood inarticulate. Slowly an expression of abject terror came into their eyes. They sweated and trembled in fright.

‘Give me your name and address, constable, and I will teach you what kind of person Man Singh is.’ The words were spoken quietly and without anger. But there was a peremptoriness in them that brooked no delay.

‘My name is Ganga Dass, police constable No. 451 of the Bhind town police. I live in Block No. 276 at the Police Lines there.’ The words came tumbling out of the policeman’s mouth, almost mechanically.

‘Go home, Dass, and find a husband for your daughter. Three thousand rupees will be paid to you before this week has ended at your very door in the Police Quarters. It will suffice for a dowry and none of it is to be kept over for yourself, do you hear ?

‘Tell your friends that Man Singh is sometimes merciful. Your heads and your bodies might have otherwise suddenly parted company.

‘And one thing more. The whole amount is to be spent for your daughter’s dowry. None of it is for you. I will inquire later, and if you have broken this injunction you will surely die! Goodnight.’

Turning to his younger companion, Man Singh said, ‘Come, son, let us be going. Our suppers will be getting cold.’

The next instant they were no longer in sight. Three or four seconds later and their footsteps had faded from hearing in the powdery dust of the roadway.

The two constables remained petrified. Their service rifles hung across their shoulders, suspended by their slings. In their pouches each man carried 20 rounds of live ammunition. Yet the idea of firing at Man Singh or trying to arrest him had never even occurred to either of them once.

At last the spell was broken. ‘Shaitan ka batcha!’ (spawn of the devil!) ejaculated Dass, as he took to his heels in the opposite direction.

Hariram followed suit. But in spite of his best efforts, he could not catch up with his running companion. Perhaps that man’s legs were longer, because he was taller.

Or was Hariram just a bit too fat?

When Dass and Hariram had eventually reached a village after running what had seemed to be endless miles that memorable night, unthinkingly they had both gasped out to various and astounded audiences garbled versions of what had happened.

They had altered the facts considerably, though. According to them, they had been waylaid by a dozen members of the gang, overpowered, tied hand and foot, and then questioned by Man Singh. They stated they had boldly admitted to the bandit that they were searching for him in an attempt to gain, and share, the reward offered. Dass had said he needed his portion of the ‘reward money to offer as a dowry for his daughter’s marriage, when Man Singh had undertaken to send him 3000 rupees within the week, to his address at the police quarters.

The tale spread like wildfire and next day reached the ears of the Commissioner of Police.

That Officer knew that Man Singh had hitherto never failed to keep his promises and would therefore assuredly attempt to pay the money within the stipulated time at the given address.

He determined to catch him when that happened.

An armed guard was placed, night and day, at the entrance to the Police Lines, while pickets surrounded it with instructions to shoot to kill any person entering or leaving under suspicious circumstances, or who did not answer a sentry’s challenge. Passes were issued to the residents of the police quarters.

The armed cordon was soon complete. For the next week it would be impossible for any unauthorised person to enter or leave the vicinity without being closely scrutinised.

P.C. Dass was in a bad mood.

He had enjoyed the publicity that had come with all these events. But now he had begun to realise he had been a fool to have mentioned anything about it. Maybe Rajah Man Singh had really meant to keep his word and give him that much-coveted amount of Rs. 3000. But now it would be humanly impossible for him even if he had meant to do so.

If only he had kept mum about the whole incident.

Of course he blamed P.C. Hariram for letting the cat out of the bag. Hariram had done most of the talking even if he, Dass himself, had been the first to speak about it upon reaching the village that night.

Then another day passed and there remained but one more. If Man Singh did not pay the money by midnight that night, he would have failed to keep his promise.

Excitement was keyed to fever pitch.

The Commissioner decided to be on hand himself in the event the dacoit-leader should determine to be bold enough to try to carry out his word and come in person.

So he sat in his office long after working hours that evening hoping that something would happen. Hardly a furlong away was the entrance to the Police Lines.

Police Constables Dass and Hariram had been strictly ordered to remain in their respective quarters all day and not to attempt to stir out until further instructions had been given them.

Dass’s 13-year-old daughter, Laxmi, who had recently matured and who had been the cause of all the trouble and excitement, although quite unwittingly, was not as happy and excited as she otherwise might have been. The reason was that her pet dog, which answered to the name of ‘Tiger’, could not be found since noon. Indeed, he had not come for his midday meal; something he had never missed all his lifetime.

He was only a nondescript, black mongrel, with straggling long hair. But Laxmi was devoted to him and the dog had never left her before. That morning he had followed her as usual to the marketplace and there he had mysteriously disappeared. She was anxious and began to cry.

At 8.30 p.m. the telephone on the Commissioner’s desk shrilled loudly. He grabbed the receiver and placed it against his ear. A pleasant voice spoke in Hindustani. ‘Police Commissioner Sahib, this is Man Singh speaking. Hasten quickly in your jeep to Quarter No. 276, in order that you may be there to witness the payment of the money I have promised to constable Dass.’

Then the line went dead at the other end.

With a loud oath the Commissioner banged the cradle of the telephone and then yelled to the operator at the Exchange, ‘Trace that call, immediately.’

Then he sprang to his feet and made for the doorway of his office, grabbing his leather belt from the peg in the wall from which it was hanging. Fixed to that belt was his holster containing his .38 revolver which he had loaded earlier that very evening .

Outside was the jeep with his orderly-driver lounging at the steering wheel. The glowing end of a beedi dangled from his lips, the acrid taint of its smoke reaching the police officer.

In three strides the Commissioner had arrived at the jeep and was clambering into the vacant seat to the right of the driver, who had just time to throw away his beedi.

‘Drive quickly to the Police Lines,’ he shouted, ‘and stop at the entrance.’

A couple of minutes later they were there.

Seeing the Commissioner suddenly arrive, the sentry had no time in which to ‘turn out’ the guard. But he hastily sloped arms and then came to the ‘present’.

‘Never mind the bloody drill formalities,’ shouted the irate Police Chief, ‘why the hell don’t you challenge me and ask me to show my pass?’

The sentry was taken aback and did not know what he should do next. Stoically returning his rifle to his shoulder at the ‘slope’ position, he demanded almost casually, ‘Halt! who goes there? Show your pass please,’ adding as an afterthought a rather timorous, ‘Sir’.

‘Oh, go to hell, growled the Commissioner, and then to the driver of the jeep, ‘Drive like blazes to quarters No. 276.’

His orderly let in the clutch and the jeep bounded forward.

Hazily, the sentry wondered whether or not he should obey orders now and shoot the Commissioner dead. For he had been definitely instructed to shoot to kill anyone who entered or left the lines without showing his pass on demand. And the Commissioner had just done that.

The Chief himself suddenly remembered his own orders and involuntarily flexed the muscles of his back, momentarily expecting to feel the sentry’s bullet in that region. It was just the sort of thing a dim-witted sentry, like the dolt he had left standing there, would do—shoot his own Commissioner—he mused.

But fortunately nothing happened and the jeep arrived in a cloud of dust at No. 276. The Commissioner bounded through the open front door, shouting, ‘Police Constable Dass; where are you? ’

The constable, who had been reclining on his bed bare-bodied and with only a dhoti, scrambled up hastily and stood at attention. ‘Here Sir,’ he stuttered.

‘Has anything happened? Has the money been paid? Speak up, man, and don’t stand there staring at me like an ‘oolu’ (owl).’

‘Nothing whatever has happened, Sir,’ answered the surprised constable.

The Commissioner was relieved. Thank God it had only been a hoax and not a reality. If the money was to be paid that night right under his very nose and in spite of all his precautions, he would be the laughing stock of the entire Police Force throughout the length and breadth of India. He would probably be compelled, through shame, to volunteer for retirement from active service although he had a couple of years left before that time came.

Just then a nondescript black mongrel entered by the front door behind the Commissioner. The girl, Laxmi, who had been standing at the other doorway at the rear, and wondering what all the confusion was about, spotted the dog and ran to him with outstretched hands.