The Modern Review/Volume 7/Number 1/"We Crown Thee King"
"WE CROWN THEE KING."
(A Short Story)
From the Bengali of Ravindranath Tagore.
WHEN Navendu Sekhar was allied in matrimony to Arunlekha, the God of marriage smiled a little from behind the sacrificial fire. Alas, what is sport for the gods is not always a joke to us, poor mortals.
Purnendu Sekhar, the father of Navendu, was a man well-known amongst the English officials of the Government. In the voyage of life he had arrived at the high and dry desert shores of Rai Bahadurship by diligently plying his oars of salaams only. He held in reserve resources enough for further advancement, but at the age of fifty-five, with his tender gaze still fixed on the not-so-distant misty peak of Rajah-hood he suddenly found himself transported to a region where earthly honours and decorations were naught and his salaam-wearied neck-bone found everlasting repose on the funeral pyre.
But according to modern science, force has no destruction but merely conversion of form and change of the point of its application. In this case the salaam-force, the constant hand-maid of the fickle Goddess of Fortune, descended from the shoulder of the father to that of his worthy son, and the youthful head of Navendu Sekhar began to move up and down at the doors of high-placed Englishmen, like unto a pumpkin[1] driven by gusts of wind.
The traditions of the family into which he had just married were of an entirely different character. Its eldest son, Pramathanath, had won for himself the love of his kinsfolk and the regard of all who knew him. His relations and his neighbours looked up to him as their ideal in everything.
Pramathanath was a University-man holding the degree of Banchelor of Arts and in addition was gifted with a large amount of common-sense. But he did not occupy any high official position carrying a handsome salary nor did he enjoy the reputation of wielding a mighty pen. There was no one among the powers that be, who would lend him a helping hand and this was because he was as anxious himself to keep his distance from Englishmen, as the latter themselves were in this respect. So it happened that Pramathanath shone within the limited sphere of his family and his friends, but failed to excite the admiration of those outside it.
Yet this Pramathanath, on a certain occasion, hade made a sojourn in England for a period of three years or so. During his stay there, the kindly treatment he received at the hands of the English people so overpowered him that he completely forgot the sorrow and the humiliation of his own country and returned home decked in European attire. It rather grieved his brothers and his sisters at first, but after a few days they began to think that European clothes suited nobody to better advantage, and gradually their minds became saturated with the pride and dignity of those clothes.
When returning from England, Pramathanath resolved that he would show the world how to associate with the Anglo-Indians on terms of equality. Those of our countrymen who thought that no such association was possible unless we bent our knees to them, showed their utter lack of self-respect and were also unjust to the English—so opined Pramathanath.
He had brought with him letters of introduction from many prominent Englishmen at home and these gave him some amount of recognition in Anglo-Indian society. He and his wife occasionally enjoyed their hospitality at tea, dinner, sports and other entertainments. Such good luck intoxicated him and began to produce a tingling sensation in every vein of his body.
About this time, on the occasion of the opening of a new railway line, many gentlemen of the town, proud recipients of official favour, joined the Lieutenant Governor on invitation to take the first trip. Pramathanath was among them. On the return journey, a European Sergeant of the Police, expelled some Indian gentlemen from a certain compartment in a highly insulting manner. Pramathanath, dressed in his European clothes, was there among them. He too was getting down when the Sergeant said to him—"You needn't move, Sir. Keep your seat, please."
At first Pramathanath felt a little flattered at the special respect thus shown to him. When, however, the train left, the dull rays of the setting sun at the western extremity of the fields, now ploughed up and devoid of green, seemed in his eyes, as though spreading over the whole country a glow of shame. Sitting near the window of his lonely compartment, he seemed to catch a glimpse of the down-cast eyes of his Motherland, hidden behind the trees. As Pramathanath sat there lost in reverie, burning tears flowed down his cheeks and his heart was bursting with indignation.
He now recollected the story of a donkey who was drawing the chariot of an idol along the street. The wayfarers were bowing down to the idol touching the dusty ground with their foreheads. The foolish donkey imagined that it was to him that all this reverence was being shown. "The only difference"—said Pramathanath to himself—"between the donkey and myself is that I understand today that the respect I receive is not rendered to me but to the burden on my back."
Arriving home Pramathanath called together all the children of the household and lighting up a big bonfire, threw one by one all his European clothes into it. The children began to dance round and round it and the higher the flames shot up, the greater was their merriment. After that Pramathanath gave up his sip of tea and bits of toast in Anglo-Indian houses and once again sat inaccessible within his castle of a house, while the insulted title-holders aforesaid went about from the door of one Englishman to that of another, bending their turbaned heads as before.
By a strange irony of fate, poor Navendu Sekhar married the second daughter of this house. His sisters-in-law were well-educated and a very handsome set of girls too. Navendu considered he had made a lucky bargain. But he lost no time in trying to impress on the family that it was a rare bargain on their side also. As if by mistake he would often pass on to the hands of his sisters-in-law, sundry letters that his late father had received from Europeans. When however the cherry lips of those young ladies betrayed a sharp sarcastic smile, like the point of a shining dagger peeping out of its sheath of red velvet, the unfortunate man realised his situation and regretted his error.
Labanyalekha, the eldest sister, surpassed the rest in beauty and cleverness. Finding an auspicious day, she put on the mantel-shelf of Navendu's bedroom, two pairs of English boots[2] bedaubed with vermilion, and arranged before them flowers, sandal-paste, incense and a couple of burning candles, in right ceremonial fashion. When Navendu came in, the two sisters-in-law stood on either side of him and said with mock solemnity—"Bow down to your gods and may your position[3] increase through their blessings."
The third sister Kiranlekha spent many days in embroidering with red silk one hundred common English names such as Jones, Smith, Brown, Thomson, &c., on a chadar. When ready, she presented this namavali[4] to Navendu Sekhar with great ceremony.
The fourth, Sasankalekha, although of no account owing to her tender age, said—"I will make you a string of beads, brother, with which to tell the names of your gods,—the sahibs." Her sisters reproved her, saying—"Run away, you saucy girl."
Feelings of shame and irritation assailed the mind of Navendu Sekhar by turns. Still he could not forego the company of his sisters-in-law,—especially as the eldest one was so pretty. Her honey was no less than her thorns—and Navendu's mind felt the exhilaration of the one and the stings of the other, simultaneously. The butterfly with its wings bruised buzzes round the flower in blind fury, unable to depart.
The society of his sisters-in-law so infatuated him that at last Navendu began to disavow his craving for European favours. On occasions when he went to salaam the Burra Sahib, he used to pretend that he was off to listen to a speech by Mr. Surendranath Banerjea. When going to the railway station to pay respects to the Chota Sahib returning from Darjeeling, he would tell his sisters-in-law that his youngest uncle was expected.
It was a sore trial to the unfortunate man placed between the cross-fires of his Sahibs and his sisters-in-law. The latter however secretly vowed that they would not rest till the former had been put to rout.
About this time it was rumoured that Navendu's name would be included in the forth-coming list of Birthday honours and that he would mount the first step of the ladder to Paradise by becoming a Rai Bahadur. But the poor fellow had not the courage to break the news, so overwhelmingly joyful, to his sisters-in-law. One evening, however, when the autumn moon was flooding the earth with its mischievous beams, Navendu's heart was so full that he could not contain himself any longer and told his wife. The next day Mrs. Navendu betook herself to her eldest sister's house in a palanquin and in a voice choked in tears, bewailed her lot.
"He isn't going to grow a tail"—said Labanya—"by becoming a Rai Bahadur—is he? Why should you feel so very humiliated?"
"Oh no, sissy dear"—said Arunlekha repeatedly—"I am prepared to be anything—but not a Rai-Bahadurni." The fact was that amongst her circle of acquaintances there was one Bhutnath Babu who was a Rai Bahadur—and that explained her intense aversion to that title.
Labanya said to her sister in soothing tones—"Don't you be upset about it, dear—I will see what I can do to prevent it."
Babu Nilratan,—the husband of Labanya—was a pleader at Buxar. When the autumn was over, Navendu received an invitation from Labanya to pay them a visit there. Before long he started for that place greatly pleased.
The early winter of the western province endowed Labanyalekha with new health and beauty and brought a glowing colour to her pale cheeks. She looked like the flower-laden kasa reeds on a clear autumn day, growing by the lonely bank of a rivulet. To Navendu's enchanted eyes she appeared like a malati plant in full blossom showering dew-drops resplendent with the morning light.
Navendu never felt better in his life before. The exhilaration of his own health and the genial company of his pretty sister-in-law made him feel as though he was light enough to tread on the air. The Ganges in front of their garden seemed to him to be flowing with an incessant noise to regions unknown, as though giving shape to his own wild fantasies.
When returning after his early morning constitutional on the bank of the river, the mellow rays of the winter sun gave his whole frame that pleasing sensation of warmth which lovers feel in each other's arms. Coming home he would occasionally find his sister-in-law amusing herself by cooking some dishes. He would offer his co-operation displaying his want of skill and ignorance at every step. But Navendu did not appear to be at all anxious to improve himself by practice and attention. On the contrary he seemed to thoroughly enjoy the rebukes he received from his sister-in-law. He was at great pains to demonstrate every day that he was inefficient and helpless as a new-born babe in the matter of mixing spices in proportion, handling the sauce-pan and regulating the heat so as to prevent things getting burnt—and he was duly rewarded with pitiful smiles and scoldings.
In the middle of the day, he did ample justice to the excellent viands set before him, driven on by his keen appetite and the coaxing of his sister-in-law. Later on, he would sit down to a game of cards—at which even, he betrayed the same lack of ability. He would cheat, pry into his adversary's hand, start quarrels—but never could he win a single rubber, and worse still, he would not acknowledge his defeat. This brought him no end of opprobrium every day but still he remained incorrigible.
There was however one matter in which his reform was complete. For the time being at least, he had forgotten that to win the smiles of Sahibs was the final goal of life. He was beginning to understand how happy and worthy we might feel by winning the affection and esteem of those near and dear to us.
Besides, Navendu was now moving in a new atmosphere. Labanya's husband, Babu Nilratan, a senior pleader of the bar there, was the subject of comment in certain quarters because he refrained from calling on European officials to pay his respects. To these criticisms Nilratan would reply—"No, thank you,—if they are not polite enough to return my call, then the politeness that I offer them is a loss that can never be made up for. May be that the sands of the desert are very white and shiny, but I would much rather sow my seeds in black soil where I can expect a return."
Navendu, too, began to adopt similar ideas, foregoing all thoughts of the future. His chance of Rai Bahadurship throve on the soil carefully prepared by his late father—and also by himself in days gone by, and no fresh watering was required. At great expense he had laid out a splendid race-course in a town which was the fashinonable resort of the European community.
The Congress season drew near and Nilratan received a request from headquarters to collect subscriptions. Navendu, free from any anxiety, was merrily engaged in a game of cards with his sister-in-law when Nilratan Babu came upon him with a subscription-book in his hand, and said—"Your signature, please."
His past habit of mind made him look horrified. Labanya, assuming an air of great concern and anxiety, said—"Never do that. It would ruin your race-course beyond repair."
Navendu blustered forth—"Do you suppose I pass sleepless nights through fear of that?"
"We won't publish your name in the papers"—said Nilratan reassuringly.
Labanya, looking grave and anxious, said—"Still it wouldn't be safe. Things spread so, from mouth to mouth—"
Navendu replied with vehemence—"My name wouldn't suffer by appearing in the newspapers." Saying so, he snatched the subscription list from Nilratan's hand and signed away a thousand rupees. He, however, hoped secretly that the papers would not publish the news.
Labanya struck her forehead with her palm and gasped out—"What—have you—done?"
"Nothing wrong"—said Navendu boastfully.
"But—but—" drawled Labanya—"The Guard-sahib of Sealdah Station, the shop-assistant at Whiteaway's, the syce-sahib of Hart Bros.—these gentlemen might be angry with you and decline to come to your Poojah dinner to drink your champagne, you know. Just think they mightn't pat you on the back when you meet them again."
"It wouldn't break my heart"—Navendu snapped out.
A few days passed. One morning Navendu was sipping his tea and glancing at a newspaper. Suddenly a correspondence, signed "X" caught his eye. The writer thanked him profusely for his donation and remarked that the increase of strength the Congress had acquired by having such a man as he within its fold, was simply inestimable.
Alas, father Purnendu Sekhar!—Was it to increase the strength of the Congress that you brought this wretch into the world?
But the misfortune had its silver lining too. That he was not a mere cypher was patent from the fact that the Anglo-Indian community on the one side and the Congress on the other were each waiting patiently, eager to hook him and land him to their own side. So Navendu, beaming with pleasure, took the paper to his sister-in-law and showed her the correspondence. Looking as though she knew nothing about it, Labanya exclaimed in surprise—"Oh, what a pity! Everything has come out! Who bore you such ill will? Oh, how nasty of him—how wicked of him!"
Navendu laughed out, saying—"Now—now—don't call him names, Labanya. I forgive him with all my heart—and bless him too."
A couple of days after this, an anti-Congress Anglo-Indian paper reached Navendu through the post. There was a letter in it signed "One who knows"—contradicting the above report. "Those who have the pleasure of Babu Navendu Sekhar's personal acquaintance"—the writer went on—"cannot for a moment believe this absurd libel to be true. For him to turn a Congresswalla is as impossible as it is for the leopard to change his spots. He is a man of genuine worth and neither a disappointed candidate for Government employ nor a briefless pleader. He is not one of those who after a brief sojourn in England, return aping our dress and manners, audaciously try to thrust themselves on Anglo-Indian society and finally go back in dejection. So there is absolutely no reason why Babu Navendu Sekhar," &c, &c.
Ah, father Purnendu Sekhar!—What a reputation you had made with the Europeans before you died!
This correspondence also was fit to be paraded before his sister-in-law, for did it not assert that he was no mean, contemptible scallywag—but a man of real worth?
Labanya exclaimed again in feigned surprise—"Which of your friends wrote it now? Oh come—is it the Ticket Collector or the hide merchant or is it the drum-major of the Fort?"
"You ought to send in a contradiction, I think"—said Nilratan.
"Is it necessary?"—said Navendu loftily—"Must I contradict every little thing they choose to say against me?"
Labanya filled the room with a deluge of laughter. Nevendu felt a little disconcerted at this and said—"Why? What's the matter?" She went on laughing, unable to check herself, and her youthful slender form waved to and fro. This torrent of jollity had the effect of overthrowing Navendu completely and he said in pitiable accents—"Do you imagine that I am afraid to contradict it?"
"Oh dear, no"—said Labanya—"I was thinking that you haven't yet ceased trying to save that racecourse of yours, so full of promise. While there is life there is hope, you know."
"That's what I am afraid of, you think, do you? Very well, you shall see"—said Navendu desperately and forthwith sat down to write his contradiction. When he finished, Labanya and Nilratan read it through and said—"It isn't strong enough. We must give it them pretty hot, mustn't we?"—and they kindly undertook to revise the composition. It ran—"When one connected to us by ties of blood turns our enemy he becomes far more dangerous than any outsider can possibly be. To the Government of India, the haughty Anglo-Indians are worse enemies than the Russians or the frontier Pathans themselves—they are the impenetrable barrier, for ever hindering the growth of any bond of friendship between the Government and people of the country. It is the Congress which has opened up the royal road to a better understanding between the rulers and the ruled and these Anglo-Indian papers have planted themselves like thorns across the whole breadth of that road," &c. &c.
Navendu had an inward fear as to the mischief this letter might create but at the same time felt elated at the excellence of its composition which he fondly imagined to be his own. It was duly published and for some days comments, replies and rejoinders went on in various newspapers and the air was full of the trumpet-notes proclaiming the fact of Navendu's having joined the Congress and the amount of his subscription.
Navendu had now grown desperate and talked as though he was a patriot of the most furious type. Labanya laughed inwardly and said to herself—"Well—well—you have to pass through the ordeal of fire yet."
One morning when Navendu, preparatory to his bath, had finished rubbing oil over his chest and was trying various devices to reach the inaccessible portions of his back, the bearer brought in a card inscribed with the name of the District Magistrate himself! Good heavens!—What would he do? He could not possibly go and receive the Magistrate Sahib, in his present oil-besmeared codition. He shook and twitched like a koi-fish, ready dressed for the frying pan. He finished his bath in a great hurry, tugged on his clothes somehow and ran breathlessly to the outer apartments. The bearer said that the Sahib had just left after waiting for a long time.—What portion of the sin for concocting this drama of totally false incidents lay at the door of Labanya and what portion the bearer was answerable for, is a nice problem for ethical mathematics to solve.
Navendu's heart convulsed with pain within his breast, like the tail of a lizard just cut off. He went about moping like an owl all day long.
Labanya banished from her face all traces of her inward merriment and kept on enquiring in very anxious tones—"What has happened to you? You are not ill, I hope?"
Navendu made great efforts to smile and find a humorous reply. "How can there be"—he managed to say—"any illness within your jurisdiction since you are the Goddess of Health yourself?"
But the smile flickered out the next moment. His thoughts were—"I subscribed to the Congress fund to begin with, published a nasty letter in a newspaper and on the top of that, when the Magistrate Sahib himself did me the honour to call on me—I kept him in waiting. I wonder what he is thinking of me."
Alas, Father Purnendu Sekhar, by a strange irony of Fate I am made to appear what I am not.
The next morning, Navendu decked himself in his best clothes, wore his watch and chain and put a big turban on his head.
"Where are you off to?"—enquired his sister-in-law.
"Urgent business"—Navendu replied. Labanya kept quiet.
Arriving at the Magistrate's gate, he took out his card-case.
"You cannot see him now"—said the orderly peon icily.
Navendu took out a couple of rupees from his pocket. The peon at once salaamed him and said—"There are five of us, sir." Immediately Navendu pulled out a ten-rupee note and handed it to him.
He was sent for by the Magistrate, who was doing some writing work in his dressing gown and bed-room slippers. Navendu salaamed him. The Magistrate pointed to a chair with his finger and without raising his eyes from the paper before him said—"What can I do for you, Babu?"
Fingering his watch-chain nervously, Navendu said in shaky tones—"Yesterday you were good enough to call at my place, sir—"
The Sahib knitted his brows and lifting just one eye from his paper, said—"I called at your place! Babu, what nonsense are you talking?
"Beg your pardon, Sir"—faltered out Navendu—"There has been a mistake—some confusion"—and wet with perspiration, tumbled out of the room somehow. And that night as he lay tossing on his bed, came into his ear with a recurring persistency a distant dream-like voice—"Babu, you are a howling idiot."
On his way back home Navendu came to the conclusion that the Magistrate denied having called, simply because he was highly offended.
Coming home he explained to Labanya that he had been out purchasing rose-water. No sooner had he uttered the words than half-a-dozen chuprassis wearing the Collectorate badge made their appearance and after salaaming Navendu, stood there grinning.
"Have they come to arrest you because you subscribed to the Congress Fund?"—whispered Labanya with a smile.
The six peons displayed a dozen rows of teeth and said—"Bakshish—Babu-saheb."
From a side room Nilratan came out and said in an irritated manner—"Bakshish? What for?"
The peons, grinning as before, answered—"The Babu-Saheb went to see the Magistrate—so we have come for bakshish."
"I didn't know"—laughed out Labanya—"that the Magistrate was selling rose-water now-a-days. Coolness wasn't the special feature of his trade before."
Navendu in trying to reconcile the story of his purchase with his visit to the Magistrate, uttered some incoherent words which nobody could make the sense of.
Nilratan spoke to the peons—"There has been no occasion for Bakshish,—you shan't have it."
Navendu said, feeling very small—"Oh they are poor men—what's the harm of giving them something?"—and he took out a currency note. Nilratan snatched it away from Navendu's hand, remarking—"There are poorer men in the world—I will give it to them for you."
Navendu felt greatly distressed in not being able to appease these ghostly retainers of the angry Siva. When the peons were leaving with thunder in their eyes, he looked at them languishingly as much as to say—"You know every thing, gentlemen, it is not my fault."
The Congress was to be held at Calcutta this year. Nilratan went down to the metropolis with his wife to attend the sittings. Navendu accompanied them.
As soon as they arrived at Calcutta, the Congress party surrounded Navendu and their delight and enthusiasm knew no bounds. They cheered him, honoured him and extolled him up to the skies. Everybody said that unless leading men like him devoted themselves to the cause, there was no hope for the country. Navendu was disposed to agree with them and emerged as a leader of the country out of the chaos of mistake and confusion. When he entered the Congress Pavilion on the first day, every body stood up, and shouted "Hip, hip, hurrah" in a loud outlandish voice, hearing which our Motherland reddened with shame to the root of her ears.
In due time the Queen's birthday came, Navendu's name was not found in the list of Rai Bahadurs.
He received an invitation from Labanya for that evening. When he arrived there, Labanya with great pomp and ceremony presented him with a robe of honour and with her own hand put a mark of red sandal paste on the middle of his forehead. Each of the other sisters threw round his neck a garland of flowers woven by herself. Decked in a pink Saree and dazzling jewels his wife Arunlekha was waiting in a side room, her face lit up with smiles and blushes. Her sisters rushed to her and placing another garland in her hand, persisted that she also should come and do her part in the ceremony—but she would not listen to it—and that principal garland, cherishing a desire for Navendu's neck, waited for the still and cosiness of midnight, holding its soul in secret patience.
The sisters said to Navendu—"To-day we crown thee King. Such honour will not be possible for anybody else in Hindoostan."
Whether Navendu derived any consolation from this, he alone can tell—but we greatly doubt it. We do believe that he will become a Rai Bahadur before he has done and the Englishman and the Pioneer will write heart-rending articles lamenting his demise. So, in the meanwhile, Three Cheers for Babu Purnendu Sekhar! Hip, hip, hurrah—Hip, hip, hurrah—Hip, hip, hurrah.
Translated by
Prabhat Kumar Mukerjee.
- ↑ In Bengali parlance, pumpkin symbolises stupidity.
- ↑ Worshiping the feet betokens extreme submission according to Hindoo ideals.
- ↑ The word in the original Bengali is pad which has a dual meaning, viz., legs and also position. The real meaning of the pun is, "May you turn a beast (quadruped)." Probably that is why two pairs of boots are mentioned.
- ↑ A namavali is a sheet of cloth printed all over with the names of Hindoo gods and goddesses and worn by pious Hindoos when engaged in devotional exercises.