Alien Souls/Grafter and Master Grafter
GRAFTER AND MASTER GRAFTER
It is said that, compared to the cunning of the fakir, the Holy Man of Hindustan, even an Armenian, a trustee, a banker, a widow, a demon, and a female cobra during the Grishna Season, are only lisping, prattling babes.
Listen, then, to the tale of Harar Lal, the babu, the banker, the giver of many nautch parties, the sufferer from that envied disease of the idle rich, diabetes; and of Krishna Chucker-jee, the fakir, the Holy Man, the ash-smeared darling of the many gods.
Harar Lal, the babu, was the big man of the village. His earrings were of jade. His face was shiny with ghee. His wife was fat and very beautiful; none of your lean, panther-like women she, but a proper woman, with the walk of the king-goose and the waist of the she-elephant. A most proper woman indeed! Three times he had been to Bombay; and he had brought back marvelous devil-things; clocks which clucked like moor-birds, boxes which had songs and voices in their bowels, resplendent and beautiful ornaments with the magic legend "Made in Birmingham."
He was a banker. And Fate endowed him with such a miraculous skill in the making-out of accounts that a man to whom he had loaned fifty rupees might go on making monthly payments of twenty rupees each for three years without reducing his debt by a single anna. Great are the virtues of Compound Interest! And, indeed, his books proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the debt, instead of being reduced, would grow with each successive payment, until in the end of a few years the original loan of fifty rupees had become half a lakh. He would then give thanks to Shiva, the great god, and to the just laws of the English.
For look you:
During the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a quick, crooked dagger-thrust would have ended the babu's earthly career. But the British Raj, the guardian angel of the poor and the pitiful, had established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression. Thus Harar Lal carried on his business in security, under the shadow of the law, even as they do in England and in America.
There was nothing he would not lend money on, from a nautch girl's blue beads to an unborn calf, from an acre of indigo plants to ten yards of muslin turban cloth; provided the papers were drawn up in proper form and witnessed by a notary public.
And so in good years, when abundant rain watered the smiling fields, when the crops were green and bounteous, the fish swarming in the river, and the trees heavy with fruit, he would reap a goodish share of the gifts of the gods, and—everything being so rich and plentiful—he would naturally increase the interest on loans a little, just a little; while in bad years, when black famine stalked through the fields, when the sun burnt as do the eternal fires in the seventh hall of perdition, when the smoky yellow haze rose from the ground and suffocated the parching crops, when the fish perished of thirst in the drying streams, when the land was dying of hunger, and the call to prayer gave way to the maddening chant of despair—when his heart, his poor, tortured heart—bled with the pity of it all, even then he would prosper exceedingly. For behold: he was a Hindu, a babu, a follower of the praised god who is Shiva, charitable to a fault and quite unlike the Armenian pigs who suck the heart-blood of the unhappy land to the west; again he would loosen the strings of his compassionate purse and advance thousands of rupees to the men of the village. Never would he accept more than three hundred and twelve per cent a month, and he would be content, as only security, with a mortgage on every bullock and goat, every cartwheel and fishing-net, every tree and well in the blessed village.
His eyes filled with tears of gratitude when he beheld the righteous growth of his treasures. I said that he prospered—and, indeed, there was never cartwheel tired, there was never net anchored, tree planted or grain sown but he received his fair share of the profits.
He was the Corporation of the Village.
It was when the juice was being collected from the heads of the opium poppies, that three wandering fakirs, a guru and two disciples, strayed into the village. They were very dirty, and thus very holy. They demanded food, drink, shelter and cowdung fuel from a wretched peasant who lived on the outskirts of the village. Money? No. They had none. They were fakirs, followers of the many gods, very holy, also very dirty. They had no money. Not a single rupee.
"But do not let that worry you," said the guru. "To-night I shall pray to Shiva. He will repay you."
So the poor peasant gave rice and ghee and sweetmeats and oil and onions and sugar and tamarinds to the three holy vampires who had never done a stroke of honest work in their lives. They did not have to. For they were of a most thorough and most astounding dirtiness and ditto holiness. They lived thus on the superstitions of the land of Hind; and they lived exceedingly well. They also gave thanks to Shiva, the great god and to the just laws of the English.
For look you:
During the lawless old Moghul days, the days when the Moslem dogs ruled to the South of the Passes, a sharp sword would have quickly removed the heads of the three fakirs. But then the British Raj has established the just laws of Europe in this land of oppression; the laws which preach tolerance and equal rights for all religions and sects. And so these religious parasites had gripped their fangs in the bowels of the land's prosperity, even as in England and in America.
The holy men asked the news of the village, carefully scanning the scraps of bazaar talk; and they learned about Harar Lal, the babu, and they evinced great interest.
The next morning the three were gone. But they had left ample payment for their entertainment. For in the shade of a great babul tree stood a brand-new idol, a Mahadeo which was so exceedingly ugly and bestial and obscene that it was certain to bring prosperity to the village, especially to the peasant who had been the host of the three so dirty, the three so holy men.
Soon its fame spread. Little chaplets of flowers were offered to the holy emblem of creation, and thin-lipped, weary-eyed men and patient, onyx-eyed women sent up many pathetic prayers to the grinning, staring, sensual idol. And the idol prospered. It shone with plentiful libations of ghee, and was more ugly and more holy than ever. The very babul tree did homage to it. For a gorgeous loofah creeper which for many hot and many cold weathers had used the tree for support and nourishment sent down strong shoots and encircled with its sweet-smelling, lascivious flowers the neck and the arms of the Mahadeo.
The babu saw it. He considered it. He was angry. For here was something in the village which could not be assisted with a mortgage at a reasonable rate of interest. Mahadeos are gods. Gods do not need money; only the fakirs, the Holy Men who serve the gods, need money.
Let it be understood that Harar Lal had no intention of fooling with the Mahadeo. He was a Hindu. He was deeply religious. He would sooner have killed his fat and beautiful wife than kill a cow.
Then, one day, the babu discovered how he could make the god pay without defiling his caste, without committing an irreligious act. On the contrary, he would do great honor to the Mahadeo. All he had to do, he thought, was to buy the plot of land which housed the idol. Of course the peasant would not desecrate the god by removing it from the shade of the babul tree which he had chosen for his abode. So he would buy a plot of land and would then acquire a reputation for sanctity by erecting a temple over it. He would spread the tale of the Mahadeo through the countryside. He would advertise in the Bande Mahrattam and other native papers; perhaps even in the English press, the Bombay Times, the Englishman, the Pioneer. There would be many offerings laid at the feet of the god. He would be the owner of the temple. He had a brother-in-law who was a Brahmin priest. Together they would collect the offerings. The plan was simple.
But the owner of the land absolutely refused to part with it. Neither cajolings nor threats were of the slightest avail.
"No, no!" exclaimed the superstitious ryot. "No, by Karma! I will not part with what the gods have sent me. The Mahadeo has brought luck to my house. Three weeks ago my wife gave birth to twin sons. And though she drank buttermilk, she did not die. Behold what a powerful Mahadeo he is! Also be pleased to observe his face. How ugly, how bestial, how obscene! No, there was never Mahadeo like mine."
About this time one of the three fakirs, Krishna Chucker-jee by name, came again to the village. He was dirtier and holier than ever. Again he visited the house of the peasant. Again he asked for food and drink and cowdung fuel. Gladly the peasant gave. He kissed the Holy Man's feet.
Then he told him about the babu's offer.
"Five times Harar Lal has asked me to sell him the plot of land which houses the Mahadeo. Five times I have refused. And each time the babu forecloses on some of my land. What shall I do, O Holy Man?"
The fakir blessed the peasant. He praised him for his devotion. He told him that in a month he would receive the answer to his question. But in the meantime he was not to breathe a word to anybody about his, the fakir's, second visit. Also he needn't worry about the mortgages. Everything would be straightened out.
"See, my friend," he concluded. "For fifteen years neither water nor soap nor scissors have defiled my body. Daily I grow and gain in holiness and filth. Tell me, have you ever seen so much holiness, so much filth, before?"
"No, beloved one of the gods," stammered the peasant.
"Then trust in me. Everything will be straightened out. Even to-night I shall cover my body with ashes and cowdung. Have faith … and the gods will be good to you. Praised be the many gods!"
The fakir left, again swearing the peasant to secrecy.
Three days afterwards the babu was on the furthest confines of the village, surveying with grim interest the crops on which he held mortgages, when five fakirs appeared suddenly before him.
They were naked. Their beards and hair were matted. Their lean bodies were covered with dirt and perspiration. Their finger nails had grown into long, twisted, fantastic curves and knots. Even at two miles, with a fair wind, your nose would have convinced you of their exceeding holiness.
So the babu bowed before them.
"Salaam, O babu-jee," exclaimed the oldest and dirtiest of the five. "I have a message for thee."
"Salaam, O Harar Lal," rejoined the other four in the heavy, impressive manner of a Greek tragedy chorus. "We have a message for thee."
The babu was surprised that they knew his name, and he asked them how they knew it.
And Krishna Chucker-jee, the guru, the oldest of the five, answered:
"We know many things, O babu-jee. We are Holy Men, beloved of the gods. Behold our filth! We know that at the age of fifteen thou didst leave thy home in Shahjahanabad, and that thou hadst only five rupees in thy waistband. We know that the gods smiled on thee, and that thou didst prosper exceedingly. All is known concerning thee. And now the gods have ordered us five to travel many miles because they wish to build a temple in thy village to the Mahadeo. Thus the gods send thee message through us."
"Be pleased to deliver it," said the babu, amazed at their intimate knowledge of his affairs.
But Krishna Chucker-jee replied in a dignified and haughty manner:
"Patience, O babu-jee. Patience! For remember that patience is the key of relief, and that nothing comes to an end except the beard of the beardless. Patience, then!"
He squatted on the ground. He rolled up his eyes in a thoroughly disgusting and very bewildering manner. His disciples crowded around him.
"Hush!" they admonished the banker. "Hush, O babu-jee! The guru is now communing with the deity, with Shiva." And they gave a well-trained shudder, in which the babu joined involuntarily.
Suddenly the guru gave a great sigh. He jumped up. His eyes assumed once more their normal, beady focus. He scratched his long, matted hair with his claw-like hands.- Then he addressed the babu in gentle tones.
"Shiva has whispered to me. At the appointed hour everything shall be made most clear. But first it is necessary that thou, O babu-jee, shouldst give us food for twelve days. At the end of the twelve days my four chelas shall go away. Eight days more I shall abide with thee, and then the message shall be given to thee. For the gods are pleased with thee, and they have heard of thy pious desires in the matter of the Mahadeo."
Here he winked furiously at the peasant who happened to pass by and who was watching the scene with open mouth and staring eyes.
The jubilant babu did as he was bidden. For to his Eastern mind there was nothing incredible in such an occurrence.
For twelve days the guru and his four chelas were the guests of the babu. Then they departed. Only Krishna Chucker-jee remained in the house of the banker.
The guru had an earnest talk with his host. He told him that during the eight days which intervened between that day and the delivery of the message he must prepare himself and purify his mind and soul by deeds of charity, ceremonious visits to the Mahadeo, and complicated devotional exercises.
He could rest assured that every rupee given away in charity would be returned a hundredfold to him.
"Wherefore hold not thy hand," said the ascetic at the end of his pious exhortation.
Strictly the babu obeyed the instructions of the Holy One. He tore up mortgages and he distributed food and coins to the gaping villagers.
Eight long days passed. On the morning of the ninth day, Krishna Chucker-jee ordered the babu to fetch a new earthenware jar, two cubits of khassa cloth and a seer of attah flour. And now he would see how everything that he had given away in charity would be restored by the gods a hundredfold.
As a token he told him to bring a rupee, and, taking it from the babu, he asked him to prostrate himself on the ground and to say certain lengthy passages from the Kata Upanishad, while he himself wrapped the rupee in the cloth, placed it in the pot, emptied the attah flour a-top, and then closed the mouth of the jar with a piece of khassa cloth which was sealed with the babu's own signet-ring. Then he told the babu to hide the jar somewhere in the open country.
The next day the jar was brought back. Nobody had tampered with it. The seal was intact. But, miraculous to relate, when the cloth was removed and the jar opened, there were two rupees wrapped in the cloth instead of one.
Three times the ceremony was repeated, with the same prostrations and prayers on the babu's part, while the guru sealed the jar. And finally the rupee had grown to be eight.
"Thou art beloved by the gods," said Krishna Chucker-jee. "Thy deeds of charity smell sweet in their holy nostrils. Again I admonish thee: hold not thy hand!"
And the babu did as he was bid. He held not his hand. He tore up all the other mortgages he had and returned many acres of land to the original owners, the peasants of the village.
"The period of probation has passed," said the guru.
Followed a day of prayer and fasting, and on the next morning the babu was told by Krishna Chucker-jee to bring an extra large jar and to fetch all his currency notes, all his gold and silver coins, his own jewels and those of his beautiful, fat wife.
"Fill the jar with them," said the guru. "But leave sufficient room on top so that the gods can double them."
The babu did as he was told. He was jubilant. Then Chucker-jee asked him to prostrate himself and to recite an especially long passage from the Kata Upanishad. Meanwhile he himself closed and sealed the jar.
Devotional exercises over, he directed Harar Lal to carry away the jar to a spot twenty times as far as the one which had contained the jar with the one rupee, and to guard it until the following dawn.
"Cease not to pray for a single minute," continued the Holy Man. "Let none approach thee or speak to thee. Do not fall asleep. Fast until thou comest here again. Obey strictly, so as not to kindle divine anger."
The babu obeyed. He took the jar and carried it a long distance into the country. He watched it. He allowed nobody to approach. He prayed incessantly. But, finally, worn out with his fastings and his prayers, he fell asleep.
The sun was high in the heavens and the shadows pointing northward when he awoke. Terror gripped his heart when he thought that he might have angered the Mahadeo by failing in his vigil. He seized the jar in alarm. He examined it carefully. But the seals were intact. Nobody had tampered with his treasures. So he felt relieved. Again he watched and prayed.
Finally he could not stand the suspense any longer. He picked up the jar and returned to the house.
The fakir was not there. He searched through house and garden. But there was no sign of the Holy Man.
He called loudly:
"Guru-jee … O guru-jee!"
But no answer came. Then he inquired of the villagers, but none had seen the Holy One.
Then he thought that perhaps the guru had set out in search of him and would return sooner or later. And he waited a long time till finally anxiety and hunger got the better of his fear. He ate, and then he opened the jar with the proper ceremonies …
But the gods had not doubled his riches. In fact, they had removed them altogether and had put in their place three large and heavy bricks.
The babu sat down and wept. That was the end of all things. To call in the police to aid him against the gods would be a futility. He visited the babul tree and looked at the Mahadeo. And it seemed to him that the Mahadeo was solemnly winking at him.
And a great fury seized him by the throat. He cursed the deities of his native land.
And six months later the Christian Messenger printed the glorious news that another pagan, this time a high-class Brahmin, a charitable native Indian banker, after giving away all his wealth in charities to the village where he lived, and tearing up all the mortgages he owned, had been converted to the True Faith; and had even risked his life and been severely beaten because in his righteous new zeal he had endeavored to break a horrid and grinning Mahadeo idol which stood in the shade of a great babul tree at the confines of the village.