Rabindranath Tagore, "The Riddle Solved" (Translated 1918) (Short Story)
Tags: Zemindars, modernization, family secrets, cross-religious romance, Muslims and Hindus, reputation
THE RIDDLE SOLVED
I
Krishna Gopal Sircar, zemindar of Jhikrakota, made over his estates to
his eldest son, and retired to Kasi, as befits a good Hindu, to spend
the evening of his life in religious devotion. All the poor and the
destitute of the neighbourhood were in tears at the parting. Every one
declared that such piety and benevolence were rare in these degenerate
days.
His son, Bipin Bihari, was a young man well educated after the modern
fashion, and had taken the degree of Bachelor of Arts. He sported a
pair of spectacles, wore a beard, and seldom mixed with others. His
private life was unsullied. He did not smoke, and never touched
cards. He was a man of stern disposition, though he looked soft and
pliable. This trait of his character soon came home to his tenantry
in diverse ways. Unlike his father, he would on no account allow the
remission of one single pice out of the rents justly due to him.
In no circumstances would he grant any tenant one single day's grace
in paying up.
On taking over the management of the property, Bipin Bihari discovered
that his father had allowed a large number of Brahmins to hold land
entirely rent-free, and a larger number at rents much below the
prevailing rates. His father was incapable of resisting the importunate
solicitation of others--such was the weakness of his character.
Bipin Bihari said this could never be. He could not abandon the
income of half his property--and he reasoned with himself thus:
_Firstly_, the persons who were in actual enjoyment of the concessions
and getting fat at his expense were a lot of worthless people, and
wholly undeserving of charity. Charity bestowed on such objects only
encouraged idleness. _Secondly_, living nowadays had become much
costlier than in the days of his ancestors. Wants had increased apace.
For a gentleman to keep up his position had become four times as
expensive as in days past. So he could not afford to scatter gifts
right and left as his father had done. On the contrary, it was his
bounden duty to call back as many of them as he possibly could.
So Bipin Bihari lost no time in carrying into effect what he conceived
to be his duty. He was a man of strict principles.
What had gone out of his grasp, returned to him little by little. Only
a very small portion of his father's grants did he allow to remain
undisturbed, and he took good care to arrange that even those should
not be deemed permanent.
The wails of the tenants reached Krishna Gopal at Benares through the
post. Some even made a journey to that place to represent their
grievances to him in person. Krishna Gopal wrote to his son intimating
his displeasure. Bipin Bihari replied, pointing out that the times
had changed. In former days, he said, the _zemindar_ was compensated
for the gifts he made by the many customary presents he received from
his tenantry. Recent statutes had made all such impositions illegal.
The _zemindar_ had now to rest content with just the stipulated
rent, and nothing more. 'Unless,' he continued, 'we keep a strict
watch over the payment of our just dues, what will be left to us?
Since the tenants won't give us anything extra now, how can we allow
them concessions? Our relations must henceforth be strictly commercial.
We shall be ruined if we go on making gifts and endowments, and the
preservation of our property and the keeping up of our position will be
rendered very difficult.'
Krishna Gopal became uneasy at finding that times should have changed
so much. 'Well, well,' he murmured to himself, 'the younger
generation knows best, I suppose. Our old-fashioned methods won't
do now. If I interfere, my son might refuse to manage the property,
and insist on my going back. No, thank you--I would rather not. I
prefer to devote the few days that are left me to the service of my
God.'
II
So things went on. Bipin Bihari put his affairs in order after much
litigation in the Courts, and by less constitutional methods outside.
Most of the tenants submitted to his will out of fear. Only a fellow
called Asimuddin, son of Mirza Bibi, remained refractory.
Bipin's displeasure was keenest against this man. He could quite
understand his father having granted rent-free lands to Brahmins, but
why this Mohammedan should be holding so much land, some free and
some at rents lower than the prevailing rates, was a riddle to him.
And what was he? The son of a low Mohammedan widow, giving himself
airs and defying the whole world, simply because he had learnt to read
and write a little at the village school. To Bipin it was intolerable.
He made inquiries of his clerks about Asimuddin's holdings. All that
they could tell him was that Babu Krishna Gopal himself had made
these grants to the family many years back, but they had no idea
as to what his motive might have been. They imagined, however, that
perhaps the widow won the compassion of the kind-hearted _zemindar_, by
representing to him her woe and misery.
To Bipin these favours seemed to be utterly undeserved. He had not
seen the pitiable condition of these people in days gone by. Their
comparative ease at the present day and their arrogance drove him to
the conclusion that they had impudently swindled his tender-hearted
father out of a part of his lawful income.
Asimuddin was a stiff-necked sort of a fellow, too. He vowed that he
would lay down his life sooner than give up an inch of his land. Then
came open hostilities.
The poor old widow tried her best to pacify her son. 'It is no good
fighting with the _zemindar_,' she would often say to him. 'His
kindness has kept us alive so long; let us depend upon him still,
though he may curtail his favours. Surrender to him part of the lands
as he desires.'
'Oh, mother!' protested Asimuddin. 'What do you know of these
matters, pray?'
One by one, Asimuddin lost the cases instituted against him. The more
he lost, the more his obstinacy increased. For the sake of his all,
he staked all that was his.
One afternoon, Mirza Bibi collected some fruits and vegetables from
her little garden, and unknown to her son went and sought an interview
with Bipin Babu. She looked at him with a tenderness maternal in its
intensity, and spoke: 'May Allah bless you, my son. Do not destroy
Asim--it wouldn't be right of you. To your charge I commit him.
Take him as though he were one whom it is your duty to support--as
though he were a ne'er-do-well younger brother of yours. Vast is
your wealth--don't grudge him a small particle of it, my son.'
This assumption of familiarity on the part of the garrulous old woman
annoyed Bipin not a little. 'What do you know of these things, my good
woman?' he condescended to say. 'If you have any representations
to make, send your son to me.'
Being assured for the second time that she knew nothing about these
affairs, Mirza Bibi returned home, wiping her eyes with her apron all
the way, and offering her silent prayers to Allah.
III
The litigation dragged its weary length from the Criminal to the
Civil Courts, and thence to the High Court, where at last Asimuddin
met with a partial success. Eighteen months passed in this way. But he
was a ruined man now--plunged in debts up to his very ears. His
creditors took this opportunity to execute the decrees they had
obtained against him. A date was fixed for putting up to auction every
stick and stone that he had left.
It was Monday. The village market had assembled by the side of a tiny
river, now swollen by the rains. Buying and selling were going on,
partly on the bank and partly in the boats moored there. The hubbub was
great. Among the commodities for sale jack-fruits preponderated, it
being the month of _Asadh_. _Hilsa_ fish were seen in large quantities
also. The sky was cloudy. Many of the stall-holders, apprehending a
downpour, had stretched a piece of cloth overhead, across bamboo
poles put up for the purpose.
Asimuddin had come too--but he had not a copper with him. No
shopkeepers allowed him credit nowadays. He therefore had brought a
brass _thali_[22] and a _dao_[23] with him. These he would pawn,
and then buy what he needed.
[22] _Thali_: plate.
[23] _Dao_: knife.
Towards evening, Bipin Babu was out for a walk attended by two or
three retainers armed with _lathis_.[24] Attracted by the noise, he
directed his steps towards the market. On his arrival, he stopped
awhile before the stall of Dwari, the oilman, and made kindly inquiries
about his business. All on a sudden, Asimuddin raised his _dao_ and
ran towards Bipin Babu, roaring like a tiger. The market people
caught hold of him half-way, and quickly disarmed him. He was forthwith
given in custody to the police. Business in the market then went on as
usual.
[24] _Lathis_: stick.
We cannot say that Bipin Babu was not inwardly pleased at this
incident. It is intolerable that the creature we are hunting down
should turn and show fight. 'The _badmash_,' Bipin chuckled; 'I
have got him at last.'
The ladies of Bipin Babu's house, when they heard the news, exclaimed
with horror: 'Oh, the ruffian! What a mercy they seized him in time!'
They found consolation in the prospect of the man being punished as
he richly deserved.
In another part of the village the same evening the widow's humble
cottage, devoid of bread and bereft of her son, became darker than
death. Others dismissed the incident of the afternoon from their minds,
sat down to their meals, retired to bed and went to sleep, but to
the widow the event loomed larger than anything else in this wide
world. But, alas, who was there to combat it? Only a bundle of wearied
bones and a helpless mother's heart trembling with fear.
IV
Three days have passed in the meanwhile. To-morrow the case would come
up for trial before a Deputy Magistrate. Bipin Babu would have to be
examined as a witness. Never before this did a _zemindar_ of Jhikrakota
appear in the witness-box, but Bipin did not mind.
The next day at the appointed hour, Bipin Babu arrived at the Court
in a palanquin in great state. He wore a turban on his head, and a
watch-chain dangled on his breast. The Deputy Magistrate invited him
to a seat on the daïs, beside his own. The Court-room was crowded to
suffocation. So great a sensation had not been witnessed in this Court
for many years.
When the time for the case to be called drew near, a _chaprassi_ came
and whispered something in Bipin Babu's ear. He got up very agitated
and walked out, begging the Deputy Magistrate to excuse him for a few
minutes.
Outside he saw his old father a little way off, standing under a
_banian_ tree, barefooted and wrapped in a piece of _namabali_.[25]
A string of beads was in his hand. His slender form shone with a gentle
lustre, and tranquil compassion seemed to radiate from his forehead.
[25] A garment with the name of Krishna printed over it.
Bipin, hampered by his close-fitting trousers and his flowing
_chapkan_, touched his father's feet with his forehead. As he did
this his turban came off and kissed his nose, and his watch, popping
out of his pocket, swung to and fro in the air. Bipin hurriedly
straightened his turban, and begged his father to come to his pleader's
house close by.
'No, thank you,' Krishna Gopal replied, 'I will tell you here what
I have got to say.'
A curious crowd had gathered by this time. Bipin's attendants pushed
them back.
Then Krishna Gopal said: 'You must do what you can to get Asim
acquitted, and restore him the lands that you have taken away from
him.'
'Is it for this, father,' said Bipin, very much surprised, 'that you
have come all the way from Benares? Would you tell me why you have made
these people the objects of your special favour?'
'What would you gain by knowing it, my boy?'
But Bipin persisted. 'It is only this, father,' he went on; 'I have
revoked many a grant because I thought the tenants were not deserving.
There were many Brahmins among them, but of them you never said a
word. Why are you so keen about these Mohammedans now? After all that
has happened, if I drop this case against Asim, and give him back his
lands, what shall I say to people?'
Krishna Gopal kept silence for some moments. Then, passing the beads
through his shaky fingers with rapidity, he spoke with a tremulous
voice: 'Should it be necessary to explain your conduct to people,
you may tell them that Asimuddin is my son--and your brother.'
'What?' exclaimed Bipin in painful surprise. 'From a Musalman's
womb?'
'Even so, my son,' was the calm reply.
Bipin stood there for some time in mute astonishment. Then he found
words to say: 'Come home, father; we will talk about it afterwards.'
'No, my son,' replied the old man, 'having once relinquished the
world to serve my God, I cannot go home again. I return hence. Now I
leave you to do what your sense of duty may suggest.' He then blessed
his son, and, checking his tears with difficulty, walked off with
tottering steps.
Bipin was dumbfounded, not knowing what to say nor what to do. 'So,
such was the piety of the older generation,' he said to himself. He
reflected with pride how much better he was than his father in point
of education and morality. This was the result, he concluded, of not
having a principle to guide one's actions.
Returning to the Court, he saw Asimuddin outside between two
constables, awaiting his trial. He looked emaciated and worn out.
His lips were pale and dry, and his eyes unnaturally bright. A dirty
piece of cloth worn to shreds covered him. 'This my brother!' Bipin
shuddered at the thought.
The Deputy Magistrate and Bipin were friends, and the case ended in a
fiasco. In a few days Asimuddin was restored to his former condition.
Why all this happened, he could not understand. The village people were
greatly surprised also.
However, the news of Krishna Gopal's arrival just before the trial
soon got abroad. People began to exchange meaning glances. The
pleaders in their shrewdness guessed the whole affair. One of them,
Ram Taran Babu, was beholden to Krishna Gopal for his education and
his start in life. Somehow or other he had always suspected that
the virtue and piety of his benefactor were shams. Now he was fully
convinced that, if a searching inquiry were made, all 'pious' men
might be found out. 'Let them tell their beads as much as they
like,' he thought with glee, 'everybody in this world is just as
bad as myself. The only difference between a good and a bad man is
that the good practise dissimulation while the bad don't.' The
revelation that Krishna Gopal's far-famed piety, benevolence, and
magnanimity were nothing but a cloak of hypocrisy, settled a difficulty
that had oppressed Ram Taran Babu for many years. By what process
of reasoning, we do not know, the burden of gratitude was greatly
lifted off his mind. It was a vast relief to him!
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