“……, do swear in the name of God, that I shall bear true faith and allegiance to….” repeated a thinly built man along with the Governor of the Central Provinces. The interim cabinet was being sworn in after Independence had become a reality for the citizens of the Central Provinces.
The small crowd sitting in the lawns of the Governor’s house applauded as the thinly built man completed speaking. Slowly he climbed down the steps from the dais with folded hands towards the audience and took his seat among them.
“It is of great honour that a revolutionary of Madholal’s stature has come into mainstream politics”, commented one of the audience. The other nodded in approval.
******
“The rain-gods do not seem to be kind on us this year”, Madholal muttered to himself as he looked at the sky with hope.
It was devoid of any clouds. The sun was grinning at him with its full intensity making him all the more miserable. The season to sow the seeds was fast approaching and there were no clouds to be seen. Not that seeds were aplenty. His small piece of land was parched and hopes for Madholal were dwindling day by day.
“Any hopes of the rain-gods showering some mercy?” asked Birju as he approached Madholal. Birju owned the lands adjacent to his and was a childhood friend. When Madholal gave out a negative gesture, Birju also could not hide his disappointment.
Famines had struck Haripur. Haripur- the small hamlet inhabited by Madholal, Birju and other families was under severe drought conditions. Actually, the whole of the Central Provinces was affected. British India was under effect of both natural and human uprising. On one hand, nature was unleashing its fury, and on the other hand, Gandhi’s “Quit India” movement was keeping the colonial masters awake. Combined, both of them were giving a tough time to the British administration in India.
The summer was at its prime and with no rains in the past, crops had failed. There was hardly anything to sow, or even to eat.
“Hurry up, you retards, Makhan Singh is dead, “shouted Karamchand to both of them as he ran towards the village. Makhan Singh was the wrestler of the village. The famine had initially sucked out his youth from him, and now it was his life which had taken a flight. Makhan Singh had lost his greatest fight- his life.
“This drought has taken away half the village”, Madholal commented, as they both started walking towards the village. In between they would turn around with the hope that the clouds would be visible to them, but destiny had willed otherwise. Clouds remained a distant possibility. They kept walking, and turning, and walking.
The corpse was resting on the ground covered with a white sheet. A few of the village elders sat around the body with the village priest chanting prayers. Madholal joined the gathering silently.
******
“It did not rain even this year”, Madhoal cribbed to his wife Bhanumati. His voice had an element of despair in it. She silently looked at him not knowing what to do or what to say. "Mother Nature had been so cruel", he thought.
He had waited weeks for the rains to fall on his parched piece of land, but the drops of rain never fell.
There was nothing to eat in the house. Even the children had gone hungry for the last two days. Water was also scarce. The village pond had dried up. She heard her husband muttering something. She made no efforts to hear what he said. Soon she was asleep-her body ached with fatigue and hunger, but she did not have the will to complain. After all she was taught to be tolerant.
“Let us go to the city”. These were the first words that came out of Madholal’s mouth the next day. Bhanumati thought he was under some delirium and decided to ignore him. She has household chores to attend to, most important being fetching water from the small hole in the pond which had dried up. She picked up the earthen pot and with her sleepy daughter in tow, started walking.
“Where are you going?” he asked her.
“To fetch water”, she calmly replied knowing that any other reaction would flare him up. She knew his anger and frustration was rising and thus decided not to confront him in any way. Solitude would calm him down. She quietly left.
When she came back he was still lying on the floor.
“When do you want us to leave? And what are we going to do there? And what about our land?” The volley of questions disturbed the trance that he was in.
He kept on staring at her. He said nothing, but his facial expression gave her the answer. Although she would not agree with him on a normal day, but today was different. Survival was in question. The drought was making it difficult to survive with every passing day. She decided that she would start packing her meagre belongings once she came back from fetching water. Let their life be given a new lease. They deserved it.
******
On a hot summer day, Madholal reached the “Estate”. It was a huge bungalow surrounded by huge walls on all sides. The Servant’s entrance was on the back side of the estate. A narrow kutcha road led to the entrance. The “entrance” was actually a hole in the brick lined wall surrounding the estate.
“Madho”, shouted a man from inside. A sense of relief came up on Madholal’s face as a short stocky man dressed in a loincloth and a vest approached them.
Babulal was his second cousin, who worked as a gardener at the “estate”. After initial pleasantries, Madholal and his family were taken to Babulal’s hutment. Babulal got him employed at “Sahib’s house” as a gardener. He was told to follow one golden rule- his existence should never be known to the “Sahib” in any form. Only his labour in the form of a beautiful kitchen garden should be visible.
“And what if the Sahib comes in front of me?” he asked Babulal, confused how to react in such a situation.
“Pray to almighty that such a day doesn’t come”, Babulal said and continued showing him the kitchen garden. The summers had taken a toll on it and he prayed that the situation improved before Sahib noticed it.
******
Leonard Johnson’s constitution scared Madholal. “Johnson Sahib” was nearly six and a half feet tall, built like the stump of a banyan tree and screamed like a trumpet. Every time his lips moved, an army of orderlies lined up in front of him. In short his overbearing presence kept everybody on their toes all the time.
All Madholal could understand was that “Johnson Sahib” was very important. He travelled in a big car. Men in uniform gave him a crisp salute while others stood in front of him till he gestured them to sit down. Only once had he seen “Sahib” bow in front of another firangi. He later learnt that the man was a “Bada Sahib” who had come from Delhi.
Madholal took instructions from Peter, the Sahib’s butler. Peter’s lineage was the much discussed topic amongst the servants of the household. Although Peter was nowhere close to being a native with his fair skin, his distance from being a British was equally established as he was born to an Indian mother. This propounded many theories among the servants. The most widely circulated theory was that some firangi had sown his “seeds” into Peter’s mother. Whatever the theory may have been or whatever Peter’s lineage, his importance in the household could not have been undermined by anybody.
Peter was always well dressed in a starched white uniform. When not serving the Sahib or Memsahib he ordered the servants around. He carried a cane which did the talking for him. The servants knew his will by the way the cane was used. It was used to point, and to punish.
******
“Carnage at Central Provinces Residency; Lt. Governor perishes”, read the headlines of the Northern Gazetteer.
The detailed news read that Colonel Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson, the Lt. Governor of Central Provinces died in a fire that razed his bungalow. Also presumed dead were his wife Rosemary Johnson, and his Butler. The cause of the fire was not yet known. Casualties could have been higher but it was late at night and none of the servants except the butler were present in the house. The fire and the subsequent commotion woke up the servants who tried to douse the fire but the inferno was too large to handle. The choicest willow frames and teak furniture collected by Lady Johnson hastened their departure to their tombs.
The report also said that although there were no suspects, but a few servants had seen an unidentified man leaving the estate.
******
“The British are leaving India. The firangis will no longer rule us”, exclaimed Ram Kumar as he entered the small dimly lit room. Huddled in the small room were about twenty men.
The members of Central Provinces Revolutionary Party were hiding in a barn a midst the sugarcane fields of Haripur. Their heroics had shaken the comfortable existence of British administration in the Central Provinces in the recent past. Their guerilla tactics were giving sleepless nights to the whole law and order machinery. Kaka Khan, their leader had executed a daring raid on the treasury at Gamalpur while Madholal had made them famous by single-handedly assassinating, Lt. Governor Johnson.
Ram Kumar brought out a tattered newspaper. The headlines on thefront page of Northern Gazetteer read, “ British rule in India set to end. London agrees to withdraw”.
A celebration broke out in the room. People hugged and congratulated each other. But there was one man who breathed a sigh of relief. Madholal quietly got up and let himself out of the room. The fresh breeze blew past his face calming down his stressed body. For the others independence meant a free country but for Madholal it meant a free life.
He would get to see his children again. It had been almost 5 years since he had seen them. Destiny has turned him into something that he was not. Nobody except for him knew the truth. The reality was his identity as a farmer who tilled his land and reaped a honest harvest which was a result of his sweat and blood. Today he was a revolutionary. For the people he was a revolutionary- a daredevil who had put his life in peril for the cause of Mother India. For the British, he was no more than a belligerent. He was for them a fugitive who was on the run, an outlaw.
“Are independence and self-rule the real reasons why I am here?” he asked himself. He knew the answer. He could not lie to himself. But all of this would end. He would go back to become Madholal- the farmer. Life would take the normal course, he assured himself.
He turned to go back into the room. As he took the first step, an explosion deafened him. The impact of the explosion threw him on the ground. The explosion was followed by a hail of bullets. A firangi voice ordered the rounds that came in his direction. He crawled into the neighbouring fields. The sugarcane fields gave him the cover as he ran into the opposite direction. He knew they had come for him.
He ran for his life, his survival, his children. He could make no assessment of how much distance he covered. He kept on running till his legs tired out. By then he had entered the jungles of Terai. He climbed up a tree and looked at the sky. He could see no lights anywhere. He was thankful that it was a dark night. He just needed to stay put. His thoughts wandered into various directions as he waited for a new day.
*****
“You bloody thief, how did you have the courage to steal memsahib’s clothes”, Peter shouted at Bhanumati. Only curses in English and vernacular came out of his mouth. Then he stopped abusing and let his hands did the talking. He dragged her into the courtyard in front of the servant’s hutments and took out his cane. Every time the cane spoke, Bhanumati screamed. Madholal jumped to his wife’s rescue only to be caned harder by Peter. Every time the cane fell on their skin, it cut through the skin and drew blood. Peter’s actions personified sadism.
The couple pleaded innocence with folded hands, but to no avail.
“She threw it away”, Bhanumati said. “I picked it up from the garbage”. At this Peter brought down the cane on her with greater intensity. .
At this their child ran towards Peter clutching a piece of her clothing in her hand. Fear was visible on her face. She raised her hand and offered the piece of clothing to Peter. Her hopes were dashed when the piece of clothing was taken but the beating did not stop.
Both of them were on Peter’s feet, but to no avail. Both the cane and the hand got tired after a while. But the anger and hatred did not decrease. The hand rose and made a gesture. The rest of the servants were chased away into their hutments while the couple was dragged into a desolated corner of the estate.
Madholal and Bhanumati kept on wailing but the people did not stop.
Peter’s cane rose again. A burly fellow tied Madholal to a tree. His mouth was gagged with his own loincloth.
Then Peter did something which none of them anticipated. The others turned their faces away while a heinous crime was perpetrated. The gag on Madholal’s face stopped him from screaming while his body furiously tried to free itself from the rope which bound him to the tree. Bhanumati’s screams were loud enough to wake up the whole estate but no one came to save her from this ultimate humiliation. After Peter, the other four thugs subjected her to further humiliation while Peter’s sadistic laughter clearly showed the psychopath in him.
They left them after a while. Madholal saw a motionless Bhanumati sprawled on the ground with almost no clothing on her. The piece of clothing that she apparently stole was lying near her. The calm of the night was broken only by Madholal’s sobs and sounds made by insects.
******
Madholal quietly crept into the Bungalow. He had waited for four months before he found the right opportunity.
Bhanumati had died the next day after she was raped by Peter and his cronies. When the servants found them he was unconscious while she was dead. He left the estate with her body and his children. Every individual was just a silent spectator as a sobbing Madholal did not know whom to curse for his misery. But he knew one thing. He wanted to see the same look on somebody else’s face. He would come back.
The house was empty. The master and the mistress slept in the bedroom in the corner while Peter had a small room next to the pantry. He tiptoed towards the Pantry. It was hot summer night. The pankhawallah was asleep too. Before he could react, a piece of iron put him to sleep. Madholal just hoped the sleep was not permanent.
Peter was sleeping on the bed. Madholal’s anger rose. But he did not lose his nerve. He drew a piece of clothing from his waistband and put it on Peter’s face. As Peter looked at his attacker in the dark, a sickle slowly ran across his neck. The pain was unbearable but the attacker had gagged him. He could make no sounds. Madholal could see his eyes going red with pain. He turned him around and bound his hands with a rope.
Dragging him he started walking towards the room where the sahib and the memsahib slept.
Although Leonard Johnson was a strong man, his strength was of no use once Madholal tied his hands. A cloth gagged him and the sickle again ran across another neck slitting the jugular vein. His wife watched in horror as Madholal threw Johnson on the ground with Peter. She was so terrified that she couldn’t even scream.
“Don’t hurt me”, she murmured, but Madholal was an animal now. He hit her with the piece of iron. Before she could scream, he gagged her as well. He looked towards the two men who lay bleeding on the floor. His eyes said something which sent a chill down their spines. He only thought of his dead wife while he did something which for him was unimaginable a few months back. And he made both Johnson and Peter watch as he did it. Deep inside him laughter broke out. Both were going through what he went through.
He carefully set the house on fire, choosing things which were easily inflammable. Then leaving the three people inside, he slipped out into the dark. He thought he had avenged Bhanumati’s death.
******
After India became independent, Madholal became a hero. His name was taken in the same league of revolutionaries as Kaka Khan, Ram Kumar and others. During the general elections, the party declared his candidature from Haripur. He did not know what to say. They took it to be h is acceptance. He won unopposed from Haripur. After all, if he could kill Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson, his opponents felt, he could slaughter them as well. Maybe not literally, but yes, he could slaughter them.
******
“Sir, a firangi woman has come to meet you”, the orderly whispered into Madholal. He was sitting with inhabitants of a village in his constituency. As he was the irrigation minister of Central Provinces, they had approached him for a canal in their village which would solve the problem of water for their fields.
The orderly was gestured to let the visitor in. A petite lady entered the room with a uniformed British army officer. She introduced herself as Margaret Dexter. The uniformed officer said he was to be addressed as Major Dexter.
“I fail to understand the purpose of your coming down to meet me”, Madholal started the conversation. The guests looked at each other before they looked back at Madholal.
The lady cleared her throat with a glass of water and continued, “Actually, there was something that has been on my mind for the last ten years and I thought you could help me with it”. Madholal gave out a confused expression.
“I am Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson’s daughter”, she said, her voice breaking as she pronounced each word with a pause. Madholal’s eyes widened as the sentence was completed.
“I would not ask you why you killed my parents, but I will ask you if they suffered before they died”, Margaret asked Madholal. She did not get an answer. She slowly rose from the chair, supported by her husband and walked out of the door.
******
Madholal did not rise from the chair in his office that evening. The Doctor’s report said that he had gone down to a massive Cardiac arrest. His death was mourned far and wide.
At his funeral, Kaka Khan told his son Chamanlal, “Your father was a pious man. We should be happy that he died in peace.” A huge crowd watched as a twenty one gun salute was given to the departed soul.
Madholal probably died with one question in his mind, “Why did he punish two people who were totally oblivious of the crime perpetrated on him and his family?” He did not have an answer to this. All he had in his mind was remorse!
P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.
