Shahjadpur
January 1890
So it was that in the afternoon I put on my turban, wrote my name on a card, got into my palanquin and set off as the jamidār-bābu. The saheb was dispensing justice from the veranda of his tent, the police spies to his right. Those seeking justice were waiting around on the grounds, the fields, under the trees—the palanquin was put down right under his nose, so the saheb politely seated me on a chair. A young lad, a hint of a moustache, very blonde hair with occasional black patches in between—so that it had turned out very strange; one might suddenly think him an old man, yet the face was very immature. Exchanged a vast amount of felicitations with the saheb; said to him, ‘Come and have dinner with me tomorrow evening.’ He said, ‘I’m leaving for somewhere else today itself to arrange for pig-sticking’ (I was secretly pleased). Said I’m very sorry to hear that. The saheb said, ‘I return on Monday’ (which made me very gloomy). I said, ‘Then make it on Monday.’ He was instantly agreeable. Anyway, I sighed and reminded myself that Monday was still some distance away, and reached home. Terrible clouds darkened the sky—an immense storm, pounding rain. Didn’t feel like touching a book, it was impossible to write, the mind became terribly restless, what in poetic language one would say is a feeling of something missing, some desired one absent and not to be found anywhere near, etc. I paced through this room and that—it had become dark, thunder rolled, lightning struck repeatedly, gusts of wind whistled though the air and seemed to take hold of the low tree in front of our veranda and shake it by its beard—in no time at all our dry canal filled up almost completely … I feel like writing another like that, but perhaps there is nothing more to write. Anyway, while wandering around in this manner, it suddenly struck me that it was my duty to ask the magistrate to shelter in my house in this storm. Dashed off a letter, ‘Saheb, you shouldn’t leave for pig-sticking in this weather—although you are the son of a saheb, it is impossible for the species who live on land to reside in tents, therefore if you think dry land is a good thing, then do come and take shelter with me.’ After sending off the letter, when I went to inspect the room I saw that it had two bamboo hammocks with mattresses, pillows and dirty quilts hanging from them—the servants’ tobacco, two wooden chests, also theirs, a worn-out quilt, also theirs, a coverless oily pillow and a blackened cane mat, also theirs, a piece of torn jute with a variety of worn-out faded marks—some … boxes with the remnants of broken things—such as the rusted lid of a kettle, a bottomless broken iron oven, a very dirty zinc sheet, the bottom of some glass tumblers, shards of glass from a broken lamp, a dirty candlestick, two filters, a meat safe, some thin liquid gur in a soup-plate that had become thick with layers of dust, many broken and whole plates, a few dirty, wet, black dusters—in one corner, a bucket to wash plates in, Gofur Mian’s dirty kurta and old velvet skull cap, a weather-beaten, ant-eaten, mirror-less dressing table adorned with water marks, oil marks, milk marks, gur marks, black marks, brown marks, white marks and mixed-colour marks—its frameless broken mirror kept leaning somewhere else against a wall, its cavities filled with dust, toothpicks, napkins, old locks, bottoms of broken glass tumblers and soda water bottle wires, some bed stands, rods and rice, one broken-legged washhand stand, a terrible smell, the walls stained and with nails driven in here and there—seeing this state of affairs, I was completely astounded.—‘Call everybody, bring the nāẏeb,* call the khājāñci,† find some coolies—bring the broom, bring water, set up the ladder, untie the cord and the bamboo sticks, pull down the pillows, the quilt, the covers, pick up the pieces of broken glass bit by bit, dislodge the nails one by one …’ ‘Hey, what are all of you doing standing there open-mouthed, take, take these things away one by one—O my God, broken, they’ve broken everything—bang, crash, smash—three glass lamps broken to bits—pick them up piece by piece.’ I pulled down and threw away the broken baskets full of accumulated dust and torn mats with my own hands—five or six cockroaches emerged from under them with their families and scattered all over the place. They had been residing with me as part of my joint family—living off my gur, my bread, and the varnish off my very own burnished new shoes. The saheb wrote, ‘I’m coming right now, am in grave danger.’ ‘Ore, he’s here, he’s almost here—hurry, quickly.’ And then—there comes the saheb! Quickly dusting off my hair and beard, I become quite the bhadralok, sitting with him in the hall as if I had no work at all at hand, as if I had been sitting around relaxing the entire day. With the occasional little smile and much waving of hands I begin to chat with the saheb in a most carefree way. The thought of what had become of the saheb’s bedroom kept pushing its way into my mind from time to time. Went and saw that it had somehow managed to pass muster. Perhaps the night might even pass peacefully, unless those homeless cockroaches tickle the soles of his feet at night. The saheb said, ‘I’ll leave tomorrow morning for shikar.’ I didn’t object. In the evening, the saheb’s broken-down pāik came and reported that his tent had been torn to pieces in the storm. His kāchāri tent too was destroyed in the rain, so the plan to hunt animals had to be put on hold, and he has had to remain stationary at the jamidār-bābu’s for now.*