The Heart Of India

BOOKS BY

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL

THE HEART OF INDIA

(1958)

THE HEART OF AFRICA

(1954)

These are Borzoi Books
published in New York by Alfred A Knopf

THE HEART OF INDIA

Heart

Alexander Campbell

1958 ALFRED A. KNOPF NEW YORK

L. C Catalog card number 58-6530
Alexander Campbell, 1958

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK,
* PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A KNOPF, INC *

Copyright 1958 by Alexander Campbell. All rights reserved. No
part of this book may be reproduced in any form -without permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote
brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper.
Manufactured in the United States of America. Published simul-
taneously in Canada by McClelland & Stewart Ltd.

FIRST EDITION

CONTENTS

1. DELHI- The Shadow under the Lamp 3

2. MEERUT: Clubs and Cannibals 60

3. JODHPUR: Death of a Lady 73

4. AGRA: Women and Tigers 104

5. LUCKNOW: The Murderous Politicians 130

6. BENARES: HoZy India 151

7. GAYA: Peasants on the Left 165

8. NAGPUR: Christ versus Ganesh 178

9. BOMBAY: City in Flood 189

10. GOA: Guns in the Jungle 202

11. TRIVANDRTJM: The Red South 212

12. MADRAS: Marx at the Fair 217

13. HYDERABAD. Prophets and Martyrs 221

14. CUTTACK: The Mad Monk 241

15. CALCUTTA: "Russians Are Brothers" 246

16. EAST PAKISTAN: Moslems Divided 258

17. WEST PAKISTAN: Moslems United? 269

18. KASHMIR: Men in Fur Hats 304

19. AMRITSAR: Men in Blue Turbans 315

20. DELHI: The New Look 326

21. BOMBAY: City in Tumult 330
Index follows page 333

ILLUSTRATIONS

(FOLLOWING PAGE 150)

i Chandni Chowk, the famous bazaar street in Old Delhi

ii Typical Indian garden party

Nehru and Bhave in mass spinning demonstration

in JODHPUR Untouchable women selling wood and dung fuel
JODHPUR- Sacred cattle and fortress

iv Typical unsanitary village in the Sind, Pakistan
Primitive winnowing with the wind

v Wooden plow is almost universal
Bengali village near Calcutta

vi Tnbeswoman from northern mountains
Untouchable laden with silver jewelry
Kashmir woman
Rajput beauty

vii BOMBAY: Silver merchant and his wares
BOMBAY: Small native restaurant

vin Primitive Ferris wheel and temple festival
Jam procession in a Punjab town

ix Bathing ghats along the Ganges at Benares

x BENARES: Pilgrim with yellow caste marks
BENARES: Narrow street in the old city

xi Hindu holy man, head buried in sand
Hindu holy men, in the nude

xn BOMBAY: Decline of Victorian splendor downtown scene
BOMBAY: Native street in the business district

xin Entrance to the great temple at Madura

xiv Moslems at prayer at Jamma Masjid mosque, Old Delhi
Cattle feeding in financial district of Calcutta

xv Student health worker and poor family in Delhi
Candidate electioneering on a camel

xvi Women carrying salt in Baroda

Prime Minister of Jammu and Kashmir watching parading
children

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DELHI:
THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

The dominant fact in India is heat. WILL DURANT

_ALI, the wife of Shiva, shook her necklace of human skulls
in the dance of death. Under the pounding of the divine feet,
the earth shrank to a smoldering ember. It was the end of the
world but, with the cunning that comes only in dreams, I had
taken refuge inside one of the skulls of Kali's necklace. I could
smell the sweat of the goddess's flesh as she grew mad with the
joy of the dance. It was a poor refuge, for I was being shaken
and jolted over terrifying abysses of space and time. Only
Shiva could end the dance, and I wished he would come.

I awoke from nightmare, and the sweat was my own. Kali was
the train, rattling the blistered brown boxes of its carriages like
castanets. The shaking was real enough, for the train was rock-
ing across a vast glaring plain. It was morning, and I had a
taste of cinders in my mouth. Above the compartment's lavatory
door, a fan rasped tinnily behind its wire screen. From his corner
of the compartment, sitting comfortably cross-legged with his
bare feet on the green leather cushions, Mr. Kaviraj Lai was
telling Rud about the Godhead.

"On the controversial subject of attaining union with the
Godhead," he said, "Krishnamurti has some exceedingly sound
common sense."

DELHI:

Only in India, I thought, could one awake in a train and hear
such a remark start off a new day.

Mr. Lai was a plump man, with a round brown face. He had
large, jutting ears, and he wore a white cotton Gandhi cap which
he never removed. His brown legs were loosely wrapped in a
dhoti, consisting of several yards of thin white cotton, and over
this he wore a long white cotton shirt, with several pockets. One
of the pockets carried a row of ballpoint pens.

We were bound for Delhi, and Mr. Lai had been with us
since we left Bombay. At the Bombay railway station, just be-
fore the train started, he had appeared in the doorway of the
compartment, smiling his benign smile, carrying a furled black
umbrella with a bamboo handle, and followed by a railway
porter holding a large wicker basket.

Mr. Lai surveyed us blandly and, it seemed, approvingly.
Then he seated himself in the compartment, and with dignity
arranged the folds of his ample white dhoti. The large wicker
basket was respectfully placed on the luggage rack. The porter
slammed shut the compartment door. A bell clanged loudly; the
train started. "A warm day, gentlemen/' said Mr. Lai benevo-
lently. "Very humid."

Rud responded not just politely, but with positive enthusiasm.
He was still in that early stage of the foreigner's acquaintance
with India when the fact that many Indians speak English as if
it were their mother tongue (which for many Indians it is)
comes as a joyful surprise. Rud was a young American, not long
out of college. He had broad shoulders, reddish hair and alert,
pale blue eyes with sandy lashes, above freckled cheekbones.
His name was Rudyard Jack, and he proposed to study at
Benares University, learn about Gandhism, and go on a walking
tour with Gandhi's land-reforming heir, Vinoba Bhave. And
now here he was, at the very outset of his travels, locked up in a
railway compartment with an Indian who evidently spoke fluent
English and who appeared to be a man of some influence. Rud
was plainly delighted.

4

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

There was no question about the fluency of Mr. Lai's English,
but it had one fascinating peculiarity. He spoke it with a strong
Welsh accent. At some time or other the schools of India appear
to have been staffed almost entirely by Welsh teachers. Little
Hindus and Moslems had the message of the British Raj
drummed into them in the accents of Cardiff and Liverpool.
Mr. Lai might have hailed from Llandudno.

He was agreeably ready to tell us all about himself. He had
been imprisoned several times for making speeches demanding
Indian independence. Each time he was set free he made more
speeches and was invariably arrested again. But British jails and
British bayonets had proved powerless against the Gandhian
technique of soul-force. "Gandhi taught us that violence can do
the country no good," said Mr. Lai. "On the contrary, it further
aggravates the economic situation." When soul-force finally
triumphed and India was set free, Mr. Lai was elected to the
new House of the People as a member of the Congress Party,
by a large majority.

"You did well to come to India to sit at the feet of our great
teachers/' Mr. Lai assured Rud, with a kindly if superior smile.
"Americans are rich, but they are also very naive. India is not
interested in material things, but humbly seeks spiritual truths.
She has saved herself by her own exertions, and will save the
world by her example. I quote Burke. It is not for us to give ad-
vice to others, of course, but we are, after all, a very ancient na-
tion. Our past has been glorious and destiny has marked us for
great things. You Americans care nothing for us poor Asiatics,
we know; but we bear you no grudge. We have forgiven even
the British for enslaving us. For us, the means are more impor-
tant than the end. To adopt bad means leads to all sorts of
unpleasant consequences."

When the train halted at stations, Mr. Lai left the compart-
ment to stroll up and down the crowded platform. Magnificent
in the billowing white dhoti that flapped to his ankles, he smiled
complacently on porters and carefully sidestepped beggars. His

5

DELHI:

nod was sufficient to send a low-caste sweeper scurrying to the
compartment, to remove the scum of gritty dust that had accu-
mulated on the cushions, and to stand guard to see that the
compartment was not invaded by unfortunates who had bought
tickets but could find no place on the train. He was a very well-
read man, and could quote Aristotle, Humboldt, and Renan in
support of his opinions. Once, when Rud exclaimed at the sight
of an emaciated man stumbling past, bent double under an
enormous load, Mr. Lai followed Rud's gaze and nodded.

"Ah, yes; a coolie. What is it, Mr. Jack, that Eddington has to
say about the universe? I will tell you. Eddington said: 'The
world is all mind-stuff/ Nothing material is real, Mr. Jack- let
America please remember!" Laughing merrily, Mr. Lai led the
way back to the freshly swept compartment.

In Bombay the monsoon rains had just begun, but the coun-
tryside through which we were passing was as dry as an aban-
doned bone. Baked and rolled flat, it looked like a scorched
chapatti straight out of a gigantic oven: the dread handiwork of
some diabolical cook. The train clanked past the crumbling
mud huts of a village. A woman with a red skirt was molding
flat round cakes of cow-dung and adding them to an immense
mound of the fuel. In a field a man wearing only a loincloth
and a large white turban was leading two bullocks down a long
earth ramp, in order to raise buckets from a well. The man was
as thin as a stick insect. Man and beasts moved in a daze, as if
they were dragging the sun on their backs.

Rud and I ordered breakfast at a station, and it was brought
to the compartment at the next halt, the dishes wrapped in
cotton napkins. Unwrapped, they were found to contain thick
hot soup, an omelet filled with hot spices, and spiced chicken.
Lunch, when it came, consisted of hot thick soup, a highly
spiced omelet, and spiced chicken. From his large wicker bas-
ket, Mr. Lai produced a number of small brass dishes. One
of them contained a fresh green banana leaf, kept rolled and
moist. He laid it out flat, and spread on it curds and rice from

6

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
the other dishes. Then, like a painter mixing oils on a palette,
he put in red pepper and yellow mustard. Finally he added a
sprinkling of white chopped coconut, and began scooping up
the dribbling mixture in skillful fingers, making cheerful suck-
ing sounds. When he had finished, he wiped his fingers carefully
on the leaf before throwing it out the window, and rose to visit
the toilet.

Seated once more, with his bare feet tucked under him on
the green cushions and his black leather sandals discarded on
the floor, Mr. Lai turned from religion to history.

"Napoleon said: 'History is pack of lies agreed on/" He
smiled challengingly at Rud. "Isn't it, Mr. Jack?"

From time to time Rud attempted valiantly to argue back at
Mr. Lai. He had little success. It was like watching a boy with a
catapult trying to halt the massive onsurge of a steamroller.

The day wore on. Behind its wire screen, the ineffectual fan
buzzed and whined. Mr. Lai visited the toilet again.

"When I was a child," said Mr. Lai, returning, "the astrologer
who cast my horoscope told my father I would spend seven
years in prison. My father was a lawyer, and this news made him
very peevish. But the astrologer also assured him I would then
become a pillar of public life. It has all come true." He beamed.
"I also manufacture medicinal drugs. In the arts of medicine,
Mr. Jack, the ancient Hindus were supreme. Did you know that
the ancient Hindus performed every sort of surgery except liga-
tion of the arteries? It is so, I assure you. Ancient Hindus were
fully conversant with all so-called modern Western inventions.
Did you know it is established fact that they frequently flew
over the Himalayas in airplanes? Also, they had atomic power."

Mr. Lai smiled happily. "They keep those things from you,
of course. It is natural. Did you know that latest research proves
Hindus were the first people to discover America? Aztec wor-
ship of Vishnu demonstrates this conclusively."

I looked out the window. "We're almost in Delhi," I said.

Mr. Lai put on his sandals, and warmly shook our hands.

7

DELHI:

When Rud tried to thank him for making the journey so
interesting, Mr. Lai said with his kindly smile: "It was nothing;
it was my humble duty."

Old Delhi railway station exploded around us, in an uproar
of clanking coaches, hissing steam, and shouting porters. I saw
Jane on the platform, and waved to her. She waved back. "My
car is here," I told Mr. Lai. "Can I perhaps give you a lift?"

"No, no," said Mr. Lai, beaming. "I observe that some
friends of mine have come to the station to greet me."

I stepped down onto the platform. It was like stepping close
to the open door of a furnace. I introduced Rud to Jane, and
said: "Come along with us, why don't you? We might find
something interesting for you on your first evening in Delhi."

"If I won't be a nuisance "

"Not a bit; that's settled, then."

Singh, tall and bearded and looking more than ever like a
maharaja, was twisting his mustache and speaking loftily to the
porters who were quarreling over our bags. "Tell them to take
the lot to the car," I said.

Rud was looking back along the platform to where some sort
of ceremony seemed to be in progress. Mr. Lai was surrounded
by men, all wearing white Gandhi caps like his own. One man
was smearing vermilion rice powder on Mr. Lai's forehead. The
others were busily hanging garlands round his neck. Mr. Lai
submitted with smiling grace, placing the palms of his hands
lightly together in the Indian traditional greeting.

Outside the station the Studebaker was parked in a dusty
glare of ancient taxis, pedal-rickshaws, tethered camels, and
laden pack-mules. Though Old Delhi is a city of the plains, it
actually lies north of Everest, and it looks toward the hills and
the passes whence came the moslem invaders who built most of
it. The hill-folk still trade down along their route. Rud was
looking about him, as we drove, at the scarlet battlements of
Shah Jehan's Red Fort and the minarets and turnip-shaped
dome of Shah Jehan's Great Mosque. Luckily, perhaps, we

8

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

were too far from the mosque to see the beggars crowding its
huge stone steps, or the wooden shacks of the thieves' market,
crowded at their foot. But we passed a man who had squatted
and drawn aside his dhoti to urinate in the gutter outside a
second-hand clothes shop displaying faded regimental tunics;
and a cow wandered across the busy street, tangling traffic.

I asked Jane: "What's your news?"

"Kenny shot a cobra," she announced with pride. "It came
out of one of the old tombs and tried to eat his pigeons."

"My son," I explained to Rud. "He's twelve." Rud looked
suitably impressed.

To impress Rud still more, Singh drove with one hand, steer-
ing us skillfully between wildly swerving taxis and furiously ped-
aled rickshaws. With the other hand he twisted his mustache
and caressed his beard.

We passed under a railway bridge, and the refugees who
lived there peered out at us from the cool darkness of the
vaulted stone arches. Then we were in a narrow sweating street
where the air tasted of burning copper and was heavy with the
smell of frying food. The buildings had balconies from which
washing hung, and the balconies swarmed with people. A cin-
ema hoarding showed a woman, ten feet high, with a red mark
on her forehead; she was weeping tears the size of golf balls and
praying to a man in a blue turban who floated godlike in the
air above her, seated cross-legged on nothing. We approached
one of the old city gates, its red sandstone badly crumbling.
Singh maneuvered past a water buffalo, and with no break in
the continuity we passed from Old into New Delhi.

But beyond Queensway and the open-air stores, gaudy with
bales of bright cloth, the scenery changed. On our left was the
magnificent stone bulk of the palace of the Nizam of Hydera-
bad, and on our right the Rashtrapati Bhavan and the Secre-
tariat buildings, with their pink phallic domes. King George V
sat inscrutably inside his memorial with an inquisitive myna
bird perched on his marble crown and peering down at his

9

DELHI:

marble scepter. We were driving through the Princes' Park,
with its artificial stone lotuses in artificial lakes; the park smelled
of scorched grass. Beyond the park, on the road to Agra, were
the old Moslem tombs. In one of them shirts were hung to dry.
The shirts belonged to the policemen in a near-by police post.
Two policemen sat in the shade of the tomb smoking cigarettes.
They wore khaki tunics and red-and-brown turbans. On their
sleeves were white armbands. One armband said in English
"May I Help You?" and the other armband repeated this in
Hindi. The policemen grinned at Singh, who grinned back.
We drove on, past the police post, the tomb, the policemen,
and their washing.

Singh's smile vanished abruptly when we came to the rail-
way crossing and found the gate closed as usual. The steel
tracks shone like silver and looked as if they were about to melt.
They stretched forlornly away on either side, quite empty,
with no train in sight. Singh got out of the car and shouted an-
grily in Hindi at the gatekeeper, who paid no attention. He was
a large man, as big as Singh, and with a fiercer mustache. Singh
came back, shrugging, and got in the car. The sky was a tent of
aching blue and the air was a suffocating blanket. On cither
side of the tracks the earth was beaten flat and strewn with
cinders. On the left side of the road a black water buffalo
wallowed in a pit of mud that had once been a pool. Singh
pressed the hooter. A youth, quite naked, and smeared from
head to foot with ash, suddenly appeared, attracted by the
noise. He pranced up and down beside the gate, laughing idi-
otically. The gatekeeper roughly ordered him away. He left,
weeping.

Cars and trucks piled up behind us, all of them hooting. The
sugar-cane man had taken his usual stand beside the closed
gate, and he now began to squeeze sticks of sugar cane through
his hand press. The thick juice ran into a brass pot, and the
sugar-cane man filled glasses, adding slices of lemon and hand-
fuls of ice chips. He wore a dirty white cloth wrapped round his

1O

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

head, and he occasionally unwound it to wipe the glasses. Peo-
ple began to tumble out of the vehicles, prepared to risk cholera
at four annas a glass.

I told Rud: "During the Partition of India trains passed
through here crowded with Hindu refugees from Pakistan. The
trains were so crowded that they had people on the roofs of the
carriages. The Moslems of Delhi came out with rifles and
sniped at them all through the day. Elsewhere other Hindus,
and Sikhs, were slaughtering Moslems."

Beyond the railroad tracks we passed a man walking slowly
in the thick dust of the roadside. He was leading a shaggy danc-
ing bear on a chain. We drove through a village of refugees,
where men in pajamas slept stretched out on charpoys, the In-
dian rope-beds, outside the huts. A black-haired sow galloped
away pursued by eight pink piglets. A string of camels minced
toward us, followed by a long slow line of bullock carts. We
turned off into the side road that led to our white bungalow.
"Home!" said Jane.

The big living-room was comparatively cool, with the shades
drawn against the glare and the ceiling-fan whirling. As we
entered, the summertime lizards scampered across the walls,
twitching their long tails and racing for shelter behind the Afri-
can shield and the Picasso print of Gertrude Stein, their favor-
ite lurking places. Later, encouraged by our apparent non-
violence, they would come out to flick their tongues at the
insects that clustered round the wall lamps.

"First you want a shower," I told Rud. "Then a drink. After
that we'll see what Delhi has to offer us."

The usual gilt-edged invitations were on the mantel, below
the African shield where the lizards hid. While Rud was
showering, we examined them. The Vice-President of India had
invited us to meet a delegation from a World Religion Society.
The Minister of Education offered us Mrs. Nye Bevan, and the
Minister of Health was giving a party for a visiting Swedish
gynecologist who claimed to have evolved an oral contraceptive

11

DELHI:

from the common pea. We were also invited to a wedding in
Chandni Chowk, and to a reception for a world-peace delega-
tion. All these functions were being held that evening.

We decided to look in at the world-peace reception, and
afterwards to attend the wedding. I consulted Rud, who was
agreeable. "You'll have to wear black tie and cummerbund," I
warned him. "But those I can lend you."

The reception was in a house near the tomb of a sixteenth-
century sheik. The tomb made an imposing landmark, for it was
lit with crimson lamps. In a narrow lane beyond the tomb we
passed a string of sewage carts, smelling very strongly and hauled
by disdainful camels. Policemen were flashing torches in the
lane to guide guests' cars to the reception. In Delhi receptions
and official cocktail parties absorbed much of the time of the
police. When not thus engaged, they were usually to be found
lining the route from the airport to salute visiting or departing
delegations. It was an arrangement that well suited the gangs
who, in the frequent absence of the police from their normal
duties, went about stripping houses of their plumbing and steal-
ing manhole covers, items for which there was always a ready
sale on the thieves' market at the foot of the steps of the Great
Mosque.

A policeman in a red-and-brown turban saluted us and gave
Singh a numbered slip, handing me its duplicate. Another po-
liceman pointed the way to a large striped marquee which had
been set up on the lawn, whose surrounding trees were strung
with colored lights. The marquee was buzzing with people mak-
ing polite conversation. Barefoot servants went among them of-
fering drinks, snacks, and cigarettes from silver salvers. Three
of those bearers converged upon us. One offered us orange
juice. The second offered us lemonade. The third offered us
cigarettes, and lit them for us. The upholders of world peace
evidently smoked, but did not drink.

We pushed our way slowly through the crowd toward our
hostess, an elderly Hindu lady with gray hair and gentle eyes.

12

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

She was a cousin of the Prime Minister. Greeting us by pressing
the palms of her hands lightly together, she said: "Isn't it grand
that so many people are ready to work for world peace? It
makes one feel that India, now she has thrown off the yoke, can
do great things." She spoke B.B.C. English, not Welsh.

An Indian photographer with frayed shirtcuffs came up and
asked if she would pose for a picture beside a large man with
blond curls and blue eyes. She did so. Someone said the blond
man was a Soviet playwright and a member of the peace dele-
gation. Standing within the marquee was similar to being in a
Turkish bath. Little pools of sweat lay in the bags under the
playwright's eyes. My shirt was wet where it touched my skin.
I finished my orange juice, and a bearer immediately put an-
other in my hand. The ice in it had already melted. A woman
with a red caste mark on her forehead, wearing a gold sari, and
with a diamond in her nose came up and spoke to Jane. The
san disclosed four inches of pale brown midriff. She was the
daughter of a millionaire cotton-mill owner, and was also a
member of the Indian Communist Party. Her rouge and mas-
cara had begun to run.

Through the entrance of the marquee I could see a strip of
well-lit lawn and the high green hedge that separated the lawn
from the lane. The string of sewage carts we had passed came
slowly up the lane, and the camels peered inquisitively over the
hedge. They seemed astonished by what they saw.

Rud found himself face to face with a stout woman with
muscular arms who was wearing a green velvet dress that gaped
open at one side. A white rosette surmounted by a white dove
was pinned on her chest, like a medal. She pointed to it and
said slowly in English: "World-peace delegate. From Uzbeki-
stan. I am a railway-construction model worker." She eyed Rud
closely. "You are for world peace?"

Rud said: "Well, ma'am yes and no."

"You are Ameri-can?" The muscles under the green velvet
rippled aggressively. "Americans, bandits," she declared. A con-

13

DELHI:
vulsive movement of people around us abruptly removed her.

Her place was taken by a tall man with a long face, like a
grave horse. He wore a white turban tightly wound round his
high forehead. "If you believe in the Absolute," he told Rud,
"there can be no problem." Rud said doubtfully that he sup-
posed not. The tall man said: "Separateness is an illusion;
there is no otherness. Do you believe in reincarnation?" Rud
said he feared not. "But it all becomes so clear once you do,"
the tall man protested. He waved thin eloquent hands. "Recur-
rent but illusory deaths the soul develops continuously . . ."

He vanished in the crowd.

"World Religion Society, probably," I told Rud. "He must
have come to the wrong party. It often happens."

We glimpsed the man in the white turban talking vehemently
to the woman in the green velvet dress. She was protesting that
she was a railway-construction model worker and asking him
about the atom bomb.

Jane suggested: "Let's go on to the wedding "

I gave one of the helpful policeman my duplicate number
slip and he called for the Studebaker over the public-address
system that had been set up on the lawn. We drove through the
Princes' Park, now softly lamplit; fountains were spraying col-
ored water on the stone lotuses. Old Delhi's tumult engulfed
us. In Chandni Chowk cloth merchants and silversmiths sat
cross-legged, and the sidewalks were crowded. The press became
so great that we left the car and proceeded on foot. We could
hear a street band, and presently a funeral procession crept
down the street. It came slowly because of the crowds, but the
band blew lustily on trumpets, and the mourners were dancing
with ecstatic expressions before the bamboo bier on which lay
the corpse, wrapped from head to foot in cloth of gold.

"They seem pretty happy about it," said Rud, bewildered.

One of the mourners, a thin young man with a narrow
straight nose, had paused in his dancing and stood near us,
breathing deeply. He turned at Rud's words and said in Eng-

14

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

lish: "We rejoice because the dead man died at a great age: he
was sixty. Because the gods favored him, he will return as a
high-caste man perhaps even a Brahmin."

The funeral procession was moving on. The young man
searched quickly in his pocket and handed Rud a card. "My
jewelry store is just on the corner. You can't miss it. We have
special prices for foreigners. There is no obligation to purchase
if you care to come and look round. It will be our humble duty
to serve you." He danced off after the procession, waving his
arms and singing something in Hindi.

The wedding for which we were bound was being held in a
large house off Chandni Chowk. We would see the groom but
not the bride, for the bride held her wedding reception sepa-
rately. But the groom would have no advantage over us, for he
would not see his bride until his own wedding festivities con-
cluded, when he would meet her for the first time. The wed-
ding had been arranged by the parents after long consultations
with astrologers.

We groped our way along an alley, almost pitch-dark and
overhung by balconies that nearly touched. Then suddenly a lit
doorway spilled us into a bright inner courtyard, with stone
walls and inner balconies high overhead. Musicians sitting
cross-legged on the floor blew reed pipes and banged on
wooden drums. The wedding guests sat in rows on wooden
benches; on a raised wooden platform covered with bright car-
pets the bridegroom sat alone. He was one of the most discon-
solate bridegrooms I ever saw, for he wore a heavy gilt crown
too large for him with jewels that hung down half-concealing
his face; his mouth was sullen and his hands played nervously
with the rich embroidery of his scarlet coat. His fingers were
covered with rings, and he wore tight white trousers and crim-
son slippers with curling toes.

The guests were sipping coffee and drinking lime juice. A
small boy in a pink turban politely offered us some. Bhada
Prakash saw us and came over to join us. He was a small man

15

DELHI:

with black oiled hair and piercing black eyes. He wore a white
silk shirt and a silver cummerbund, and there were large sweat
patches under his arms. Bhada was the groom's elder brother.
The family had lived in Chandni Chowk for several genera-
tions. They had once been enormously rich, and were still
wealthy, but the family fortunes had been depleted in the trou-
bles that followed Partition. Bhada had been compelled to be-
come a businessman, and had proved to be a very good one.
But his younger brother had shown no such aptitude, and so
was now being married off to a girl whose family had no history
and were of no consequence, except that they were richer than
the Prakashes.

Bhada told us all this while we drank our coffee. He was very
gloomy. "It will probably turn out badly," he concluded. "They
say the girl can't speak a word of English, and that she eats
with her fingers and takes her shoes off in public." He sounded
bitter. He himself had been educated in England and spent as
much as possible of his time in Europe. When he was com-
pelled to pass a vacation in India, he went tiger-shooting.

The bridegroom came down from his platform and started
shaking hands with everyone. Then he made his way slowly and
reluctantly to the doorway, where his three sisters suddenly ap-
peared and dramatically cast themselves at his feet, clutching
his tight-trousered legs and imploring him not to leave them.
These sisterly appeals were merely a traditional part of the wed-
ding festivities, as was the bridegroom's next act: someone
handed him a large canvas bag, and from this he drew out
handfuls of silver rupees and presented them to the sorrowing
sisters, as a token that he was still their protector. The small
boy with the pink turban came along the alley, leading a richly
caparisoned horse. While the guests crowded round, the groom
buckled on a large sword and with difficulty mounted the horse.
The small boy promptly got up behind him, and the pair rode
off. The groom was still looking gloomy and nervous.

We said good-by to Bhada, and left the hall. As we went out,

16

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
I looked up in time to glimpse a woman, dressed in white and
with her head shaved, ducking out of sight on one of the bal-
conies. She was the groom's widowed aunt, and I hoped that
nobody else had seen her, for in India widows are rated only a
degree above the untouchables and are seldom allowed to
watch weddings, even from a balcony.

We walked back to the car, passing shops that displayed
mounds of pink, green and yellow sweetmeats. The night was
black and greasy. It was hotter than it had been at noon. My
cummerbund was a soaked rag and my black tie a wire noose.
"Let's go to the Birla Temple/' Jane suggested.

Round the temple's outer walls, flare-lit booths were doing a
brisk business, selling pakauras and papars, the former a pastry
stuffed with hot vegetables and the latter a thin pastry similar
to a potato chip. The smoke rising from the booths overhung
the entire area like a thick veil. The air stank of food being
cooked in bad oil. The temple's three phallic towers were garish
with electric lights. We walked up to the cement elephants at
the temple entrance. Inside the temple priests were reciting
bhajans and kirtas, which are Hindu religious verses that are
chanted, and verses from the Bhagavad-Gita, the song that the
Lord Krishna sang to Arjuna on the day of the battle.

The temple bells tolled, and in the temple courtyard conch
shells were blown to mark the conclusion of the evening pray-
ers. The crowds began to disperse.

We drove through the dark, baking streets to an air-condi-
tioned restaurant that served Chinese food. The imported Hun-
garian orchestra was a man short, because the previous night
one member, overcome by heat and homesickness, had cut his
throat while lying in bed. A Sikh with lascivious eyes was danc-
ing with a French girl with dyed blond hair. At one of the ta-
bles three Kashmiris were talking together in whispers. At an-
other table an Indian Government spy was watching them and
surreptitiously making notes.

We drove Rud to his hotel, and then drove home. The rail-

DELHI:

way-crossing gate was closed, and we waited in the stifling dark-
ness until a train clanked slowly past. The refugee village was
fast asleep. Our bungalow gate was opened for us by the chow-
kidar, the watchman who, armed with a long bamboo stave, pa-
troled all night on guard against plumbing burglars.

Lying in bed in the air-conditioned bedroom we could hear
the jackals howling, close at hand, near the old tomb where
Kenny had shot the cobra.

If there be a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here, it is here.

SHAH JEHAN

SINGH, his beard unwaxed and his long unbarbered hair hanging
down his back, was wearing pajamas and walking up and down
the vegetable garden, crooning to his two-year-old son. Over-
head a flock of bright green parrots wheeled against the bright
blue sky. In the distance, their outlines ghostlike in a raiment of
gently billowing dust, the crumbling Moslem tombs shimmered
in an early morning heat-haze. I got out the Studebaker and
drove into New Delhi.

Rud was putting up at a small hotel off Connaught Circus.
I walked leisurely round the Circle, careful to stay in the shade
of the arcaded sidewalks. In the railway booking-office the sign
was still up which read: "Please ask for a regret slip if a reserva-
tion is refused." I wondered, as I always did when I saw the
sign, what one was supposed to do with the regret slip after get-
ting it.

A beggar woman who had been squatting on the sidewalk
beside a man who was rolling bidi cigarettes rose when she saw
me approaching. She grabbed up a feebly stirring, cloth-cov-
ered bundle, and ran toward me, uncovering the bundle to

18

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

show me a week-old infant with hideous-looking sores on its
arms. She followed after me, holding up the baby and asking
for money in a sing-song voice. She was a professional beggar,
and she had hired the baby from an indigent mother. The
baby's sores were artificially produced by means of a chemical,
did not harm the baby, and were guaranteed removable in a
few hours. When she saw I was not going to give her any
money, she returned philosophically to her husband, who was
still rolling cigarettes.

An unattended leper with no nose and stumps for legs was
sitting upright in a wooden box on wheels. When he saw me
coming toward him, he beat on the side of the box with his
hand, and a ten-year-old boy ran out of an alley and began
pushing the leper along the sidewalk. I gave the boy eight
annas and the leper thanked me.

In the cool cavern of an enormous bookstore, serious-looking
young Indians with rows of ballpoint pens clipped in the pock-
ets of their cotton shirts were industriously reading. There were
fat books everywhere, crowding the shelves to the ceiling and
heaped on wooden tables. The young Indians were university
students, and puffs of dry dust went up from the books when
they opened them. The books were mainly studies in history,
treatises on economics, works of philosophy, and essays on Eng-
lish literature. They had been there a long time, slowly crum-
bling in the dry heat and becoming pulpy during the monsoon,
only to dry out again in the next dry season. The students
visited the bookstore to read them but I never saw anyone buy
one.

A fat man with a black beard shaped like a spade caught up
with me just beyond the bookstore. He fell in step with me,
flourishing a business card and chanting at me in a Welsh ac-
cent. "Today you will have very good fortune. It is in the cards.
For only twenty rupees I will tell you about the beautiful fair-
skinned girl you are going to meet tonight!" The price dropped
from twenty to ten and from ten to five. Finally he stopped,

19

DELHI:

out of breath, and panted after me: "Oh, mister, I tell you,
your luck is going to be very bad very bad, indeed!"

Walking in the road and impeding traffic, a procession
marched round the Circle. It was a long procession, and it
walked three abreast, carrying red flags and banners on bamboo
poles. The procession was being taken out by the Delhi Hotel
Workers' Union in protest against the workers' horrible condi-
tions, the banner declared. There were no women in it. The
men were waiters, bearers, sweepers, and cooks. Several police-
men carrying steel-tipped bamboo staves kept in watchful step
with the marchers.

Rud had acquired a pleasantly unpretentious room with a
balcony looking toward the Circle. It had no air-conditioning
but there was a big ceiling-fan. Rud, in an open-neck shirt worn
outside the trousers, was sitting on his bed talking to a young
Indian with large, bright eyes in a very thin face, who wore a
badly patched coat, grimy slacks, and brown laced shoes with-
out socks. His name was Raval Kalpa, and he was a magazine
editor; Rud had got a letter of introduction to him from Kalpa's
brother, who was studying engineering in Massachusetts. I
shook hands. Raval Kalpa's hand was as thin and cold as an
emaciated fish, but his smile was warm and friendly. He was
smoking a cigarette, and occasionally he put a thin hand to his
tattered coat, over his chest, as if he had a pain there.

Raval Kalpa was eager for Rud to meet a Socialist friend of
his called Jai Khungar at Kalpa's home that evening, and he
asked me if I would care to come, also. I said I would. Raval
looked at his watch and said he must return to his office. We
arranged to meet him there, for it was on the Circle, and he
could take us to his home; "you would have difficulty in finding
it by yourselves," he said, with a wry smile.

"I have to go over to the Secretariat," I told Rud. "Then I
thought we might have a look at Parliament."

New Delhi was planned by Sir Edwin Lutyens. The plan-
ning began in 1911 and Lutyens's city was finished in the

20

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
thirties. Imbedded in it, as it were, are such older structures as
Jai Singh's eighteenth-century observatory, and the thirteenth-
century Qutb Minar, a stone tower so exquisitely carved that it
looks as if it were made of lace. By the time New Delhi was
completed, the number of British officials in India had been re-
duced to 3,000. Soon afterwards India got her independence
and became a republic. But the imposing buildings put up by
the British remained, including the two massive red sandstone
wings of the Secretariat, which housed the various Indian Min-
istries.

Rud and I entered one of the wings, and plunged from eye-
aching glare into a maze of cool stone corridors. They smelled
of bidi cigarettes. I gave my card to a chaprassi, an old man
with a gray beard who wore a faded uniform, a tarnished silver-
handled dagger in a faded red scabbard, and ragged slippers.
He shuffled ahead of us along the corridor, and ushered us into
a darkened room, protected from the outside glare by thick cur-
tains over the windows. A man with a clipped black mustache
and hot eyes glinting behind thick spectacles rose from behind
a desk littered with flapping papers. There was a big ceiling-fan,
and the papers were prevented from blowing away only by be-
ing held down under large brass paperweights. Trapped under
the weights, the official files fluttered like imprisoned doves.

I introduced Rud to Mr. Vaidya Sharma of the Ministry of
Planning. We sat down, and the chaprassi was sent for cups of
tea. Sharma began telling Rud about India's Five Year Plan.
He had a responsible position in the Ministry, but not at the
highest level, so he spoke Welsh English. He took his job se-
riously, and he tended to address foreigners as if they were a
hostile public audience. He told Rud severely: "India is carry-
ing out a bloodless revolution. Austerity is our watchword, and
we need every man, woman, and child for honest constructive
work. As the Pandit has said: This generation of Indians is
condemned to hard labor/ Unlike the capitalist countries, we
cannot afford flunkies, Mr. Jack."

21

DELHI:

The chaprassi brought in the tea. Sharma spoke enthusiasti-
cally about new housing projects. "Here in Delhi/' he said, "we
have an immense refugee problem. After the Partition Delhi re-
ceived 377,000 refugees. The density of population rose from
932 to 2,632 per square mile. The population of Old and New
Delhi has increased fourfold in ten years and is now close to
2,000,000. We are very busy with housing developments." He
produced plans of a brand-new housing estate he called it a
"colony" and showed them to Rud. They looked impressive.
Rud examined them, then asked: "Who will occupy these
homes?"

"Government employees," said Sharma. "Clerks of various
grades. New Delhi is like Washington, Mr. Jack. There are
thousands of people here working for the government."

While Rud looked at the plans, Mr. Sharma snatched up a
cup of tea and drank it off in one gulp. He took off his specta-
cles and impatiently polished them. His eyes glistened more
hotly than ever. The papers fluttered madly under their brass
weights. Inexorably the big fan whirled round and round in the
ceiling, flailing the hot air. Mr. Sharma's right foot beat a nerv-
ous tattoo on the worn carpet, and he clutched his right knee
in a thin hand as if to restrain the motion. "We are building
homes for the people," he said, "and giving land to the peasants.
India has cast off the chains of imperialism and can breathe
again." Momentarily we had ceased to exist. Tapping his foot
and clutching a shaking knee, Mr. Sharma addressed some
large imaginary audience, in sing-song English with a Welsh ac-
cent. "The imperialists still seek to divide and rule, and have of-
fered arms to Pakistan to be used against us. Pakistan is like the
young man who murdered his father and mother and then
pleaded for alms on the ground that he was a poor orphan!"
Mr. Sharma laughed sarcastically. "Then there is Goa, where
the Portuguese Fascists still lord it over poor downtrodden In-
dians. They will not do so much longer. Let the Portuguese be
warned! Let the Atlantic Powers take heed! We are creating

22

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

a Socialist society of free men, where there will be no more
castes and no more classes, no more wealthy landowners and ex-
ploited masses. Free India is on the march!"

Rud pointed to the plan. "Here are the homes, but what are
those buildings near them? They look like garages, but "

Sharma laughed. "They are not garages. India is a poor na-
tion, and very few people can afford automobiles, least of all
government employees. No, no; these, of course, are the serv-
ants' quarters the bearers, sweepers, and so on."

He put away the housing-development papers, and talked
again about the Five Year Plan. "We have now entered the pe-
riod of the second Plan. The first Plan built up our food re-
sources; the second Plan will lay the foundations for rapid crea-
tion of heavy industry. Delhi, as the capital of India, will play a
big part, and we are getting ready to shoulder the burden. We
are going to build a big central stationery depot, with a special
railway-siding of its own. There will be no fewer than 12 halls,
each covering 2,000 square feet. They will be storage halls,
and," said Sharma triumphantly, "we calculate that the depot
will be capable of an annual turnover of 1,400 tons of official
forms, forms required for carrying out the commitments of the
second Five Year Plan!"

When we had shaken hands and were once more outside in
the corridor, Rud asked: "He did say 1,400 tons, didn't he?" I
nodded. "Of official forms?" I nodded again. "Uh-huh," said
Rud, "that's what I thought he said."

We walked along several corridors, then went up a stone
staircase, for I wanted Rud to meet Sett Rao. He occupied a
larger room than Sharma, and he sat behind a larger desk. There
were no papers on the desk, and he was leaning back and smok-
ing a cigar.

Sett Rao was a handsome man who looked like Hollywood's
notion of an Indian prince. He had been educated in England,
and he spoke Oxford, not Welsh, English. He also played
cricket.

23

DELHI:

We shoot hands and I introduced Rud. "You'd better talk
fast/' I told Sett Rao. "We've just been to see one of your col-
leagues in the Ministry of Planning. Rud Jack is shocked, for
he has been told that India's bloodless revolution means build-
ing homes for government clerks first and refugees afterwards,
and that the clerks' homes are to have servants' quarters at-
tached."

Sett Rao smiled at Rud. It was a smile that nicely blended
cynicism with humor. He said quietly: "I'm afraid you will find
Indians are very irritating people, Mr. Jack. In fact, we are prob-
ably the most exasperating people on earth. What was it Nehru
said? 'There is hardly a country that has such high ideals as
India, and there is hardly a country where the gap between
ideals and performance is so great.' Nehru also said: 'In India,
we live continually on the verge of disaster.' If you remember
that, you may begin to understand some of our absurdities/'

He looked thoughtfully at his cigar, burning evenly between
his slim brown fingers.

"In the beginning we planned a very different India from the
one that is represented by the architecture of New Delhi. It
was to be we hope one day it will be a decent country where
decent people can live in decency and some dignity. In fact,
what we got, at first, were bloodshed, massacres, and anarchy.
Gandhi, a saint, was assassinated; and we gave him the crown-
ing mockery of a military funeral. Only a few months before
his death, the Mahatma said: 'I do not want to live in darkness
and madness; I cannot go on.' Nehru inherited huge problems.
We had columns of refugees 45 miles long pouring in on us
from the Punjab. In the Punjab alone, there were 10,000,000
homeless and panic-stricken people. However, we survived, Mr.
Jack. Each year things get a little better. The problems are
still huge, and the absurdities remain. They will probably re-
main for a long time. But we are a very old nation, Mr. Jack."

"You yourself don't despair?" Rud asked him directly.

"No," said Sett Rao thoughtfully. "I don't despair." He

24

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

smiled. "I shrug; I laugh; I work. What else is there to do?"

Outside the Secretariat the sun glared down on the Great
Place, and on the huge empty roadway, broad as a parade
ground, that ended at the gates of the President's Palace.
Across the roadway shuffled the solitary figure of an aged chap-
rassi in his tarnished uniform, clutching a tattered official file
and bound for the West Wing. The burnished red sandstone of
the vast buildings looked too hot to touch, which it probably
was. Behind the sandstone walls in honeycombs of darkened of-
fices, several thousand Vaidya Sharmas sat behind desks heaped
with fluttering papers under wheeling fans, busily planning the
new India.

We eased ourselves into the Studebaker, trying not to come
in contact with the burning leather, and drove round the corner
to Parliament.

Parked neatly opposite the large circular Parliament building
were a dozen or so of Delhi's small black-and-yellow taxicabs.
They had just disgorged a number of men wearing saffron-col-
ored robes and carrying banners. More little taxicabs, similarly
freighted, were arriving every minute. One of the robed men
took his place under one of the largest banners and began to
speak loudly in Hindi. The banner was inscribed: "People of
India! Defend the Cow!"

As we parked beside the taxis, I explained to Rud: "It's a
meeting of holy men. They're protesting against cow slaughter.
Good Hindus don't eat beef, and they worship cows, but the
government allows cows to be slaughtered. The holy men are
trying to stop it."

"I never thought of holy men riding in taxis," Rud confessed.

"The police have been rounding them up and dumping
them outside the city. But the holy men have the support of a
Hindu millionaire who calls himself the Friend of the Cow. He
hires fleets of taxis to bring them back."

Sheltered from the sun by a black umbrella held by an at-
tendant, the chief holy man thundered his message of compas-

25

DELHI

sion for the cow in a voice like a bull. He was a burly man, with
arms like a blacksmith, and while he bellowed he shook a fist at
Parliament in a menacing manner. The other holy men shouted
their approval.

We walked along a circular stone corridor and then climbed
a stone staircase to a green baize door which admitted us to the
parliamentary gallery. Beyond the green baize door it was sud-
denly, delightfully cool. Down below us, on the floor of the vast
air-conditioned hall, members of the House of the People, wear-
ing white cotton shirts and dhotis and white cotton Gandhi
caps, sat on green leather benches. The galleries were filled with
spectators. Most of them were men, dressed, like the legislators
below, in white cotton. But the pattern of white, matching the
writhing plaster lines of the curving ceiling, was slashed and
made vivid by the brilliant green and pink and orange sans
of several women spectators. The women sat composed and
still; but almost every man, his eyes glued on the doings be-
neath him, was beating a nervous tattoo with his foot and
clutching his jerking knee in a thin nervous hand.

It was question-time, and from the floor there came a medley
of quick eager voices, echoing tinmly from the small wooden
loudspeakers that were placed at intervals along our part of the
gallery.

The voices all spoke in English, but the words were run
quickly together, in the odd familiar accent, like a Welsh sew-
ing-machine stitching at high speed.

"Mr-Speaker-sir-may-I-know . . . ?"

"May-I-know-sir . . . ?"

"Ansing-from-the-last-answer-will-the-Ministcr-tell-the-House-
what-steps-are-being-taken-m-the-matter . . . ?"

Into the miciophones, out of the loudspeakers, poured quick
question and answer, facts and figures in a torrential stream.
White-clad politicians jerked up and down like marionettes.
Chaprassis scurried in the green aisles with papers. Up in the
galleries listening heads nodded in sympathy or comprehen-

26

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

sion; all around us white-clad knees bobbed steadily, rhythmi-
cally, to the sewing-machine's beat.

Presently, when Rud had had enough, we rose and stole out.
The green baize door closed noiselessly behind us, the quick
querying voices were abruptly cut off, and the heat enfolded us.
We went down the stone staircase and along the circular stone
corridor, back the way we had come.

The holy men had just made a valiant attempt to take the
building by storm, and policemen, swinging their bamboo
lathis briskly, were forcing them back. A holy man fell, clutch-
ing a policeman; three other policemen lifted him bodily by his
tangled robes and bore him struggling from the field. Seeing
that the battle was lost, his comrades gathered up their banners
and retreated sullenly toward the waiting taxis. A few escaped,
but the remainder were encircled and herded into a large po-
lice van that suddenly appeared on the scene. They entered it
without much resistance, and the taxis immediately started up
their motors and prepared to follow it. At the outskirts of the
city the holy men would, the drivers knew from experience, be
released, the taxis would pick them up, and the holy men would
return to hold another meeting The cause of the cow was in
stubborn hands.

Jaya Durg's house was not far from the Parliament, and near
the Jai Singh observatory. We opened a creaking gate and
passed into a garden blazing with flowers. Through a window
we could see a small man with a brown bald head fringed with
very white hair. He was writing industriously while squatting
in pajamas on a mattress laid on the floor. lie scrambled ag-
ilely to his feet, and I introduced Rud. He inspected Rud
gravely, then bowed very low. "I am honored to be visited by
the friend of my very good friend."

The room contained, in addition to the mattress, a rope-bed,
a chair, a desk, a telephone, and several hundred old newspa-
pers scattered on the floor. It was a narrow room, not more
than five feet in width and eight or nine feet in length. Jaya

DELHI:

Durg called it his study. It had no fan and the sun-glare flooded
it with heat, for the whole of one side was glass. You could have
grown grapes in it.

Jaya Durg led us through a curtained doorway there was no
door into his library. The curtain swished into place, and we
were in cool semidarkness. Jaya Durg seated himself beneath
the painted plaster figure of a naked dancing girl, and we
groped our way to chairs. The library gradually revealed itself
to our returning eyesight as a large room with a lofty ceiling
and immense draperies. It contained a signed portrait of the
Nizam of Hyderabad, a signed portrait of King George V, two
signed portraits of Lord Mountbatten, a small framed snapshot,
unsigned, of Jaya Durg talking to Gandhi and Nehru, and sev-
eral thousand books in English, German, French, Swedish,
Hindustani, and Russian.

Jaya Durg usually made a profound impression on all those
who met him for the first time. As they got to know him better,
this impression deepened. He was a tiny man, not more than
four feet ten or eleven, with a broad, ugly face, a small paunch,
and small soft hands as immaculately kept as those of a French
countess. In his home he always wore pajamas and he almost
never shaved. When he left his house he invariably wore Lon-
don-tailored suits, and his chin was as smooth as brown silk. But
he ventured forth only in order to dine with ambassadors and
attend receptions for prime ministers and crowned heads. His
manners were more courtly than a raja's. He was a brilliant
writer and a born actor, had access to the most intimate political
secrets, and possessed one of the sharpest wits in India. There
was hardly a book he had not read, or a language he could not
speak. He knew many famous people by their first names, and
there was scarcely one about whom he could not tell at least
two scandalous stones.

Looking like a small Buddha in the twilight of his library,
with his bare feet drawn up under him and his tiny hands
crossed on his little paunch, Jaya Durg told Rud: "You will

28

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

find that India is a looted dustbin." He had a soft, deep voice
and a habit of fixing his eyes hypnotically on whomever he was
addressing. " 'Loot' was one of the earliest Hindu words to be
adopted into the English language. The riches of India fi-
nanced Marlborough's wars. Thomas Pitt bought the world's
largest diamond at Golconda for 16,000 and sold it to the
Regent of France for 125,000. The profit on this single trans-
action enabled him to buy the burgh of Old Sarum. India made
England wealthy enough to be able to afford the luxury of
democracy, to beat Napoleon, and to rule the world.

"But that was not the beginning. In the beginning there was
Akbar. He was the most powerful and the richest monarch
there has ever been. Rajas brought him elephant-trains of gold,
and he wore a new outfit of jewels every day. The English
wooed Akbar and his successors with burgundy wines, bull-
baiting mastiffs, and the cornet. Jchangir was so delighted with
this instrument that he persuaded the English cornet-player to
take up permanent residence at his court and turn Moslem.
The palace of the Moguls here in Delhi was larger than the
Kremlin. But by the time of the Indian Mutiny, a century ago,
it gave shelter only to armies of beggars. Nothing was ever
cleaned or mended, and the Mogul throne was coated with four
centuries' accumulation of the filth of birds and bats. Delhi is
as you see it today, and the rest of India is no better."

Though plainly overwhelmed by the hypnotic eye and the
bland flow of words, Rud made a gallant attempt to argue. "All
the same," he said, "it couldn't have been all bad." His eye
brightened as it fell on one of the signed photographs of Lord
Mountbatten with its cheery inscription: "Sincerely yours,
Dickie." Rud said: "I mean, the British did give India her free-
dom."

Java Durg unclasped his hands to hug his bare feet. He was
enjoying himself.

"The English are a nation of shopkeepers," he declared.
"The branch was failing to pay its way, so they closed it down.

29

DELHI:

As for giving India her freedom: what the English did, my good
friend, was simply to give the Indians a tremendous inferiority
complex first by ruling and despising them, then by giving
them their freedom without their having to fight for it."

"Didn't they do any good at all, then?"

"Oh, certainly!" Jaya Durg said cheerfully. "Remember what
Lady Asquith told our Mrs. Pandit when she asked the same
question. Mrs. Pandit is the sister of Mr. Nehru, and she is a
widow. She demanded to be told just one good thing the Brit-
ish had done for India. After considering the question Lady
Asquith replied: 'If it hadn't been for the British, you would
have been burned to death on your husband's funeral pyre/

"The British when they came to India found thugs who com-
mitted horrible murders not for gain but for religious reasons;
widows who were burned alive; Bengal children who were
thrown into the sea as human sacrifices; and Rajput female chil-
dren who were customarily strangled at birth. When the British
left India, they had abolished most of those practices and had
succeeded in irrigating seventy million acres of land the larg-
est irrigated area in the world and, I believe, three times larger
than the irrigated area of the United States. Unfortunately, by
putting an end to internal tumult and periodic civil war, they
also succeeded in increasing the Indian population from a hun-
dred, to nearly four hundred, million. Consequently the av-
erage yield per acre remains just what it was in Akbar's day,
and the Indians are wretchedly poor. That is what I mean
when I say that India today is a looted dustbin."

Rud coughed deprecatmgly. He was very conscious of the
hypnotic eye. Even I had to confess to myself that Jaya Durg
was in exceptionally fine form.

"All the same," Rud said stubbornly, "India does have her
freedom now. And I believe she did fight for it, and with a very
noble weapon, soul-force, or nonviolence, or whatever you care
to call it. The Congress Party can lead India to a better fu-
ture"

30

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

"My very good friend," said Jaya Durg, "If you believe that,
you will believe anything. Nonviolence had absolutely no exist-
ence, outside of my poor friend Gandhi's mind I knew him
rather well; we often discussed those matters in this very room,"
he added in careless parentheses. "No: when Gandhi told the
mobs to be nonviolent, what they did was to go out and mur-
der policemen and then burn the bodies in the policemen's
own police stations. The British, being a superstitious people
who hold religious zealots in great awe, made polite noises at
Gandhi; but they would not have let Gandhi beat them. The
mobs did that. The truth is nobody really listened to Gandhi,
least of all the mobs themselves. When Gandhi was on his last
fast here in Delhi, because of the terrible things that were hap-
pening following the Partition, the mobs marched round the
house where he lay, shouting: 'Let Gandhi die!' An Indian mob
is rather a dreadful phenomenon."

"But a lot of people went to prison rather than use violence
to win freedom for India," Rud protested. "The Congress
Party"

"And what did they do in jail, my good friend? They wrote
books, and prepared further speeches. This was the extent of
the terrible British tyranny, that it permitted its opponents to
write books and prepare speeches while they were in prison.
And now those jail wallahs sit in Parliament, wearing Gandhi
caps, and make more speeches; or they sit in offices, with foun-
tain pens in their hands and, because they have pens and have
been taught to read and write, imagine they are very wise. But,
my dear good friend, having been in prison is not necessarily
a good qualification for becoming a politician. 'The art of gov-
ernment/ said Bernard Shaw, 'is full of surprises for simpletons/
So our politicians are learning."

"Well," said Rud, "there's Nehru/'

"I know Nehru very well indeed; he and I have often chatted
together in this room. He occasionally allows me to proffer him
advice on some matter requiring specialized knowledge, though

31

DELHI:

nowadays he very seldom acts on it. Nehru is a man I hold
him in the highest regard, but without blinding myself to his
limitations who has drunk thirstily but not deeply at the Pie-
nan spring. He wanted in his youth to be a great scientist, then
decided to be a lawyer, and has become a politician in constant
danger of turning into a mere windbag. Nehru today is being
hailed as the Hindu Trinity, but what does his political philos-
ophy consist of? It is one third Socialism, one third Commu-
nism, and one third capitalism. That is what he offers India.
To the rest of the world he offers the panch shila, the Five
Principles which he and Chou En-lai concocted together; but
the panch shila on inspection turns out to be very like the
Hindu panch gavya, that is to say, the five products of the sa-
cred cow milk, butter, curds, urine, and dung."

"Java Durg," I said, while Rud silently struggled to absorb
those Shavian remarks, "will you lunch with us?"

"Alas, my dear good friend, I cannot: I have to lunch with
the Ambassador of Iraq."

I had a hotel luncheon engagement with a soft-drink manu-
facturer called Alpen. New Delhi's lunch-hour stretched from
noon until four. Connaught Circle was deserted, the shops
were all shuttered, and the beggars and lepers slept in the
shadow of the arcades, stretched full-length on the sidewalks.
The sun glared down on baking silence. But outside the hotel,
where the pseudo-Tibetans normally sat in their dyed robes,
selling imposing looking brassware made in Birmingham to
credulous tourists, there was considerable movement. The hotel
workers 7 procession had arrived and wound itself tightly round
the building, clutching its banners and waving its flags. Large
hired limousines had just disgorged a number of foreigners who
were trying agitatedly to break through the ranks of the hotel
workers and reach the cool sanctuary of the hotel. One of the
foreigners was a large, muscular woman in a green velvet dress
that gaped at one side. I recognized her. She was the railway-
construction model worker from Uzbekistan who was attending

32

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

the world-peace conference. The world-peace delegates had
just returned from a tour of Old Delhi's historic mosques. The
conference was being held in this hotel, where the delegates
were staying, and they were all looking forward to a sumptuous
capitalist lunch. Perspiring freely and looking harassed and not
a little frightened, they found themselves suddenly confronted
by hostile proletarian faces. The handful of policemen who
had marched with the procession to keep it in order were stand-
ing a little way off, watching. One of the world-peace delegates
went up to them. He pointed to the other delegates, pointed to
himself, and pointed toward the hotel, tantalizmgly close but
apparently inaccessible. The policemen shrugged. It was very
hot, and they, too, longed for their lunch; besides, it was a free
country and there was no law against the hotel workers picket-
ing a hotel if they wanted to do so. Most of the Delhi police,
being themselves underpaid, were in sympathy with the hotel
employees.

The world-peace delegate, meeting with no response, threw
up his arms in despair toward the burning sky, and said some-
thing in Korean. He clearly found himself at a loss in a coun-
try where the police stood idly by and allowed the masses to
come between important Communists and their lunch.

Finally one of the organizers of the procession addressed
the workers, who grudgingly cleared a narrow passage through
which the peace delegates hurried apprehensively. Rud and I
seized the chance to follow them into the hotel. As we did so,
one of the hotel workers thrust a pamphlet into my hand.

Alpen was waiting for us in the bar, sitting on the edge of
an overstuffed red plush couch and gazing morosely at a kidney-
shaped table with a black glass top. The walls were decorated
with improbable-looking murals drawing their inspiration from
Hindu mythology and topped by a scroll which proclaimed in
Latin that "In Drinking Lay Pleasure." At a near-by table the
owner of the hotel, a young Indian with oiled locks, sat swarth-
ily drinking champagne between two blondes, one French and

33

DELHI:

the other Scandinavian. Alpen was a stout man with a blue-
shadow chin and stomach ulcers. He greeted us gloomily. "I've
had a hell of a morning," he said.

I was acquainted with some of Alpen's troubles. He had ar-
rived in Delhi from Cairo some months before to put up a soft-
drinks factory. His company sold prodigious quantities of soft
drinks throughout the Middle, Near, and Far East. Alpen pro-
posed to turn out two million bottles a year for Indian con-
sumption. But in this endeavor he had encountered numerous
obstacles. Devout Hindus descended on him and demanded to
know if his crown corks contained animal glue. He was permit-
ted, at his own cost, to clear a jungle and make a road leading
to the factory site; but he sought in vain for months for official
permission to build a small shed to protect his workers' bicycles
during the monsoon. He had not been allowed to import trucks,
but had been compelled to have them manufactured in Bom-
bay and Calcutta; when the trucks were ready, Alpen was not
permitted to have them driven to Delhi, but had to rail them,
by the state-owned railways, at considerable expense and with
much consequent delay. In order to obtain water, he had had
to dig two wells, for the Delhi authorities refused him permis-
sion to run a pipe to the city mains, even though he offered to
pay for its construction. When the wells were dug, the water
that they yielded proved to be unfit for human consumption,
so Alpen had had to purchase two enormous water trucks to
make the eight-mile daily haul to and from the city. Unfortu-
nately the trucks, also, were obtainable only in Bombay, and
they, too, the authorities ruled, must be railed.

"And now it's ball-bearings," said Alpen bitterly. "I had to
import ball-bearings, and they've arrived, but they tell me
they've got to have the country of origin stamped into them.
When I point out that this would irretrievably ruin them as
ball-bearings, they just nod their heads at me, meaning 'No.' "

The bar swam in a dark green twilight. The overstuffed red-
plush couches looked curiously obscene. They had evidently not
been dusted for some considerable period, and from time to

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
time things stirred behind them. There were small soft scamper-
ings. While Alpen expounded his woes, Rud's attention wan-
dered elsewhere. He was plainly unable to make up his mind
which was more fascinating, the young Indian hotel-owner with
the two blondes, or the pink-tailed mouse that had suddenly
appeared behind Alpen's head and was scampering along the
top of the couch.

We went into lunch. At tables all around us the peace dele-
gates were hungrily consuming large steaks. The Russian play-
wright was sitting with the railway-construction model worker
from Uzbekistan and two black-bearded priests of the Russian
Orthodox Church. At another table sat two Buddhists from
North Vietnam with two nuns from Red China. The nuns, I
noticed, ate their steaks with as much concentration as the oth-
ers. I was reminded of the pamphlet that had been thrust into
my hand, and I took it out to read. It said: "We protest against
the anti-people and anti-national policy pursued by the hotel
managers, who indulge in barbarous repressions and anti-work-
ing class practices, subjecting employees to unprecedented
plunder, ruination and exploitation, and employing close rela-
tives and dancers at salaries many times more than our Presi-
dent and Prime Minister while paying workers less than what
a donkey-man charges for the cost of his donkey's labor-power."
The pamphlet also rather unfairly I thought, and was sure the
peace delegates would have agreed with me, if asked accused
the police of "torturing and beating the workers," and con-
cluded: "Long live working-class solidarity! Workers of the
world unite' Long live the Delhi Hotel Workers' Union!"

Alpen, lunching frugally off steamed white rice and a frag-
ment of boiled chicken, resumed the recital of his wrongs.

"This morning I found them installing the factory's roller
gates upside down, and the walls have begun to crack. And
we're having trouble with a fellow who claims the Hindus in-
vented cokes he's selling a soft drink called Tepsu-cola' and
wants us to buy him out. . . ."

After lunch I suggested to Rud we should take a closer look

DELHI:

at the world-peace meeting. The meeting was in progress up-
stairs in the hotel ballroom. At the head of the stairs stood
youthful Indians wearing blue running-shorts: guards of honor
for the peace delegates supplied by the Indian Congress Party.
The platform, flanked by the flags of eighteen participating na-
tions, had for its background a large blue cloth embroidered
with two silver doves pecking at a yellow lotus. On the platform
sat the chief delegates, smiling and wearing garlands of jas-
mines and roses. Red China had sent, in addition to the nuns,
a pretty film actress and the chairman of the National Commit-
tee of Churches in China for Self-realization. Russia had con-
tributed a consumptive-looking composer as well as the bulky
playwright; there was an expert on radioactive diseases from
Japan.

An Albanian was denouncing the American bandits and
Anglo-American imperialists; the railway-construction model
worker applauded vigorously. The delegates 7 Indian hosts were
looking glum and seemed somewhat dazed.

On the way out I handed the Delhi Hotel Workers' Union
pamphlet to a spectacled Chinese. He took it eagerly, rose,
bowed, and thanked me effusively. At the head of the stairs the
guards of honor in their blue running-shorts saluted us. I drove
Rud to his hotel, advised him to take a siesta, and arranged to
meet him at Raval Kalpa's office.

The office when I reached it that evening turned out to be
two small bare rooms up three steep flights of stone stairs, in a
decrepit building off Connaught Circle. The building had a
nairow passageway for entrance, and outside on the sidewalk
a man was selling contraband cigarettes and pornographic mag-
azines, while near by sat a snake-charmer in a loincloth amid
several baskets containing reptiles. I stepped over a python that
was slithering sluggishly from one of the baskets, and climbed
the stone stairs. They were liberally splashed with the red juice
of betel nut, like large bloodstains. On the stone landing out-
side Kalpa's office a woman sat watching an infant which she

36

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

had laid flat on its back, naked, on a heap of rags. Feebly stir-
ring its limbs, the infant made no sound: the state of the land-
ing suggested it was suffering from acute diarrhea, or possibly
from cholera. The door of the office was ajar: it bore a sign
which said: "The Intelligence: A Weekly Review. Editor,
Raval Kalpa." The two rooms were divided by a thm partition.
Their common ceiling seemed at one time to have collapsed,
probably during the monsoon, and was patched with straw and
propped up with timbers. In one of the rooms there were two
armchairs covered in faded green cloth and a low table with a
stack of well-thumbed issues of The Intelligence. In the other
room a wall fan roared rustily, blowing dust like a vacuum-
cleaner in reverse across two battered desks, on one of which
stood a black metal typewriter. Three tabs were missing from
its keyboard.

Raval Kalpa wore the same patched coat, slacks, and brown
shoes he had worn that morning. His face looked even thinner,
and when he drew on his cigarette he coughed more violently.
But when he gave me an emaciated hand his eyes lit up with
the same friendly warmth I had noticed before. Rud had al-
ready arrived, and Raval Kalpa said he was ready to go, if we
were. He padlocked the door of the office, and we went past
the woman with the sick infant and down the stone stairs
splashed with red betel-nut juice. Outside the snake-charmer
was blowing a sad tune on his bamboo flute, but the python
had retired to its basket.

The Intelligence was a very highbrow weekly review. Raval
Kalpa wrote most of it. He wrote articles about Indian philoso-
phy, politics, and economics, all with equal ease. They were
liberally sprinkled with quotations from the classics, and had
such titles as "Democracy or Communism: The Choice Before
India" and "The Second Five-Year Plan: A Critique/' He also
did a literary column, which reviewed English and American
books about six months after they were published and com-
pared Indian writers, unfavorably, with Jean-Paul Sartre and

37

DELHI:

Andr6 Gide. The magazine was written in English throughout.
It was aimed solely at the intelligentsia, eschewed news, ex-
plored large cultural horizons, and sold only a few hundred
copies. Raval Kalpa was always in financial troubles with his
printer, and spent most of his spare time soliciting advertise-
ments.

In the dark streets the heat was a tangible thing. We drove to
Old Delhi through the crumbling city gateway and past the
cinema with the tearful female giant praying to the godlike
man in the blue turban who floated in the air above her head.
Chandni Chowk swarmed stickily with white-clad figures and
wandering white cows. "We turn here," said Kalpa. "Drive to-
ward the Golden Mosque; I'll tell you where to stop/' I drove
along a narrow street looking for the mosque where, two cen-
turies ago, Nadir Shah had sat and enjoyed the massacre of
Delhi citizens by his soldiers. "We must stop now," Kalpa said
apologetically. "The rest of the way is too narrow for a car. But
it is not very far."

He led us into a strongly smelling alley and through it into
another, which stank. The ground was soft, as if mud, but our
nostrils told us it was not mud. We turned a corner, and sur-
prised a small boy defecating in a gutter under a lighted win-
dow. Walls rose sheerly around us and seemed to touch over-
head. Here for centuries, I reflected, the nobility of India, both
Hindu and Moslem, had lived, fought, murdered, intrigued,
and finally squandered away an empire. I thought of Akbar, the
richest ruler in the world, and of what had happened to his
palace, besieged by beggars and befouled by birds and bats.
Now, only a few yards from bustling Chandni Chowk and
within a stone's throw of the Golden Mosque, this quarter had
become a jumble: thieves live cheek by jowl with still wealthy
moneylenders, and the respectable poor, and Brahmins brush
shoulders with untouchables. But in scattered darkened rooms
throughout the warren, there probably survive a handful of very
old men with fading memories of past splendors. There had

38

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

still in 1857 been a Mogul emperor, even though he dwelt in
squalor and was half-blind.

And Raval Kalpa, who quoted Sartre and Gide, also lived
here. He guided us eventually up a pitch-dark stair and into a
room small enough to be mistaken for a cupboard. It was fur-
nished with two wooden chairs and a bed, and was crammed
with books. Sitting in one of the chairs and reading a book
was a man with a pear-shaped head and a smooth, pale brown
face. "This is my friend }ai Khungar," said Raval Kalpa

Jai Khungar was a man of about thirty-five, wiry and muscu-
lar, wearing a blue-check shirt, open at the neck and with short
sleeves, dark brown corduroy trousers, and leather strap-sandals
without socks. He stood up, holding the book it was John
Stuart Mill's On Liberty and looked at us with dark, heavy-
lidded, passionless eyes.

Raval Kalpa produced coffee; Jai Khungar accepted one of
Rud's cigarettes. "What do you think of India?" he asked Rud,
smiling.

Rud said it seemed to be a very complex country.

"We are larger than Europe but speak fewer languages. What
makes us different is that we are dead. There is nothing very
complex about a corpse."

Rud said diffidently that perhaps India had been asleep for a
long time, but now she was awakening, like all of Asia and
Africa.

"You've been listening to Congress Party propaganda. India
doesn't change; it only pretends to change."

He turned suddenly to Kalpa. "I hear you're being married
soon. Congratulations!" Kalpa smiled shyly. "But I haven't met
your girl yet, you know. Is she really lovely?"

Kalpa seemed disconcerted. "Why," he stammered, "she's
why, you know, she's all right "

Jai Khungar laughed. He seemed to fill the little room. I
found myself disliking him.

"Raval Kalpa hasn't even seen the girl," he said mockingly,

39

DELHI:

turning back to us. "The whole thing has been arranged by his
family and the girl's. His family are very pleased, for the girl's
people have money; her family are keen for her to marry an
'educated' man, even though he's as poor as a mouse. They
may hit it off; they may not. The point is Raval Kalpa will duti-
fully accept the bride chosen by his family. Won't you, Kalpa?"
It was painfully evident from Kalpa's face that this was so. "Yet
Kalpa is an Indian 'intellectual/ " said Jai Khungar, still mock-
ingly, "lie writes bold articles; he quotes all the most daring
thinkers of the West; he even calls himself a Socialist. Now,
Kalpa, I'll ask you something else. How about the caste system?
You've written plenty about it, you know. The caste system
must be destroyed'; 'In a Socialist society, there can be neither
classes nor castes.' Well, now, Kalpa, tell me, would you be seen
talking to an untouchable? Truthfully, now!"

Raval Kalpa said angrily: "Oh, I didn't ask you here to talk
nonsense, Jai Khungar! You know very well I've talked to lots
of untouchables. I refuse to acknowledge the existence of
caste!"

"So! Some of his best friends are untouchables!" laughed Jai
Khungar. "But have you ever, knowingly, shared a meal with an
untouchable?"

"I've never said I wouldn't," said Raval Kalpa sullenly. He
was throwing us appealing glances, apologizing in eloquent si-
lence for Khungar's behavior.

"And how about the other castes the castes lower than your
own?" inquired Khungar. "You're a twice-born, aren't you?
Suppose you were to fall in love with a girl of a lower caste:
would you marry her, even though your family cursed you?"

"Of course, I would: that is, if I felt sure I really loved her.
But"

" 'But/ " said Jai Khungar. "Ah, always that 'but'! Well, tell
me: were you ever invited to the home of a person of a lower
caste?"

"No: the lower castes are the most conservative of all. They
simply wouldn't suggest such a thing."

40

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

"There you are," declared Khungar, shrugging. "Higher castes
won't meet, mingle, visit, eat, or marry with lower castes; and
lower castes won't either with higher castes' I could quote you
scores of examples right here in Delhi. Old Pandit Pant says,
rightly: 'Delhi is the shadow under the lamp/ But not just
Delhi. The whole of India is in the same state. That's why I
say India is dead. A stinking corpse. A nasty scribble on the
wall. There's no depth of superstition to which Indians won't
sink. We worship cows and cobras. We have 8,000,000 'holy
men,' most of them naked and all of them mad. Everything of
any value was taken long ago by the conquerors, who have been
coming here for a thousand years. They took the strength from
the soil, the virtue from the women, and the will power from
the men. They left nothing behind but vices and weaknesses:
the cunning pliancy of slaves, the intrigues of degenerates, the
superstitions of peasants. India is like an empty tomb: the gold
gone, the jewels gone, nothing left but bones and a bad smell/'

He helped himself to another of Rud's cigarettes. The room
was stifling, and great sweat patches had grown under his arm-
pits, staining the blue-check shirt, while his curiously shaped
head dripped like a pear that had been dipped in water. But
his voice remained coldly sarcastic and his heavy-lidded eyes
showed no emotion. I liked him less and less.

"The Congress Party are the heirs of the British," he said.
"They sit in the seats the British vacated, wearing Gandhi caps
and oozing piety. But they still employ chaprassis with silver
daggers in silk sashes, just as the British did. India under Con-
gress rule is the mixture as before: four parts filth to one part
hypocrisy."

Raval Kalpa said valiantly: "Nehru is a Socialist."

"Nehru's Socialism is a fraud, for he still has the backing of
the big landlords and the industrialists."

"You talk like a Communist," said Kalpa accusingly.

Khungar merely laughed. "The Communists!" he said con-
temptuously. "The Communists are simply the new imperial-
ists. The Russians 'liquidated' God knows how many millions,

41

DELHI:

to what end? In order to create a bourgeois state with bourgeois
morals, ruled by bureaucrats who surround themselves with
flunkies and attend dull parties where they drink too much,
talk too much, and play at being Napoleons. In Russia and
China the 'revolution' has become an affair of clinking cham-
pagne glasses, solemn toasts, and stupid intrigues. India does
not have to go Communist to achieve that, for the Congress
Party has achieved it already. Congress Party officials behave
like butchers put in charge of goshalas the societies for the
protection of cows. At the first opportunity they cut the cows'
throats. A government clerk won't look at a poor man's appli-
cation unless it has a 5orupee bribe attached to it. The Gandhi
cap now signifies that its wearer is open to the highest bid. Con-
gress Party politicians pose as sniveling saints while they plun-
der the peasants. In Central India 10,000,000 people exist by
eating the barks of trees. The cotton workers still sweat in fetid
mills, children in coalmines do the work of pit ponies, and
women are put to mending roads. Our 'intellectuals' worship
the Soviet Union, but still wear their caste marks. Most of them
have never set foot in a village, though four fifths of Indians
live in villages. What they have in common with the Bolsheviks
they admire is a contempt for the common people."

He got to his feet, yawning. "I must go. I hope I haven't
bored or offended you. Raval Kalpa said you wanted to learn
the truth about India. Go and see the 50,000,000 untouchables
who are still shut out of temples and compelled to drink from
ditches, and you'll realize I'm not far wrong."

When Khungar had gone, Raval Kalpa said defensively:
"You must not take him too seriously. He is very fond of talk-
ing."

"I can see that," I said. "But tell us more about him."

"He is a member of the Indian Socialist Party which op-
poses both the Congress Party and the Communists but he
has no job. His brother is in the government, and offered him a
post."

42

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

"He refused, I suppose."

"Oh, no. He eagerly accepted. But he was no good at it, and
moreover he was caught taking bribes. Even his brother could
not protect him, and he had to go. That is why when he talks
about the Congress Party he sounds so peevish."

Presently we said good-night to Raval Kalpa, stumbled down
the dark stairway, and groped our way cautiously along the
alleys, fearful of what we would tread on.

"What do you make of it all?" I asked Rud.

"I still think it's a very complex country," Rud said.

Who does not get intoxicated by drinking of the vanity of
office? THE Nitisara OF SHUKRACHARYA

ALL ALONG the ten-mile route between New Delhi and the air-
port, flags had been planted and ceremonial arches erected.
The archways were made of bamboo poles, thickly twined with
marigolds. Straddling the highway at half-mile intervals, they
bore such inscriptions as "Long Live the God of Peace," and
"Welcome Home, Jewel of Asia." The crowds had been on the
move since dawn, converging on the airport on foot, on bi-
cycles, and in bullock carts. They squatted in thousands on both
sides of the road, which was being kept clear for official cars.
Delhi's hard-worked police were out in force. There was a po-
liceman every few yards, wearing a freshly pressed khaki uni-
form and a new red-and-brown turban, and armed with a busi-
nesslike bamboo lathi. But the crowds were good-humored
despite the stifling heat and the long hours of waiting, and the
policemen were disposed to relax while they had the chance.
They sat in the shade of the trees, removed their shoes in order
to wiggle their bare toes pleasurably in the dust, and exchanged
broad witticisms with bullock-cart drivers while they broke their

43

DELHI:

fast on cold chapattis. Only when an automobile showing the
Congress Party colors appeared in a cloud of dust did the po-
licemen spring to their feet, snatch up their lathis, and stand
rigidly at attention. When it had passed they went back to the
shade and to their chapattis.

At the airport itself, steel fences had been put up to prevent
the vast crowds from swarming on to the field. Beyond the
fences, near where Nehru's plane would land, a large tent or
shamiana sheltered dignitaries from the blazing sun. Inside the
shamiana the President of India chatted with foreign diplo-
mats, all looking excessively uncomfortable in glossy top hats
and black frock coats; behind the tent a pipe-band practiced
martial airs.

Rud and I occupied a semiprivileged position, on the air-
field side of the steel fences but not too close to the shamiana.
We could keep an eye on the dignitaries, and at the same time
listen to the crowd. There was a good deal of jostling. Remarks
in English floated toward us from time to time.

"Please move, you are obstructing our view."

"But I mean, kindly inform me to where I shall move in this
crowd?"

"That is not my outlook."

The plane bringing Nehru from Russia first appeared as a
white speck in the blue sky. A great roar went up from thou-
sands of Hindus. The plane came in view again, traveling much
more slowly but appearing very much larger. Momentarily the
noise of its engines drowned all other sounds. Then, its wings
dwarfing the crowd, it wheeled massively into place, and came
to a stop. The engines ceased to throb. In the aftermath of their
silence a gangway was pushed forward. The door of the plane
opened, and a broad-shouldered man with a handsome, lean
brown face appeared at the top of the gangway. He wore a
dazzlmgly white coat, with a single red rose in one buttonhole,
and a white Gandhi cap.

In India things seldom go off according to plan. Nehru was
to have descended with dignity from the plane and walked

44

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
across to the long line of diplomats now drawn up ready to re-
ceive him, amid the huzzas of the enthusiastic but immobile
thousands restrained behind the steel fences. What happened
instead was that, with one accord, the people surged forward
with wild shouts; the steel fences toppled and were trampled
underfoot; and in an instant the crowds were surrounding the
plane in a tumultuous, screaming mob. The pipe-band blew
valiantly, but no one could hear them; when they got in the
way, they were thrust impatiently aside. Officials ran forward,
waving their arms and opening and shutting their mouths; pre-
sumably they were shouting, but whatever they shouted was lost,
and they were quickly swallowed up by the crowds. Women
screamed; children tried to run away and were trapped amid
grown-up legs; intense pandemonium prevailed. The line of
diplomats, already wavering, was abruptly blotted from sight
and overwhelmed. A handful of hatless ambassadors fought
their way manfully back to the shelter of the shamiana, only to
find that the mob had overrun that, also, and were breaking
chairs by trying to stand on them. Several score of policemen,
belatedly summoned from the rear, came on the scene waving
their lathis. Less fortunate than their comrades back on the
roadway peacefully eating chcpattis, they suddenly found them-
selves called on to quell a riot in which they were grossly out-
numbered. The best they could do was to form a thin khaki
cordon and try to hold back fresh thousands from rushing on to
the airfield to join the thousands already there.

I stooped to pick up a sandal that had fallen from some pan-
icking foot. Then Rud and I continued to follow cautiously in
the wake of the crowd as it surged ever closer to the stationary
plane. The first human tidal wave had passed over us, leaving
us as it were in slack water. As it was impossible to retreat, we
advanced. Looking over my shoulder, I could see the police-
man's long, steel-tipped lathis forming a sort of background
frieze to the tumult. They rose and fell with almost monoto-
nous regularity, contacting heads with a dull thwacking sound.

Someone with good sense had dispatched a jeep to the Pan-

45

DELHI:

dit's rescue. In order to reach the plane, it had been compelled
to make a complete circuit of the airfield. It now appeared,
coming slowly toward us and forcing the mob to clear a lane
for it. The people cheered loudly. Nehru stood up in the jeep.
He was perspiring heavily and holding a short swagger cane
in both hands. The crowd began to pelt him with roses. Drop-
ping his cane, the Pandit began to throw the roses back. He
was laughing, and showing a flash of white teeth. The white
hair curling out from under his Gandhi cap contrasted oddly
with his still youthful face.

The jeep went slowly past, moving toward the shamiana. We
fell in immediately behind it. Suddenly we were leading a pro-
cession instead of being at the tail of a mob. At the shamiana
Nehru jumped down from the jeep. He had picked up his cane
again, and his expression abruptly altered from good humor
to moroseness as he looked at the tangle of broken chairs and
ripped-down cloth. People were still milling amid the wreckage
and loudly protesting as policemen tried to hustle them out.
The first person to greet Nehru was an immensely tall man
wearing a high turban. He overtopped the mob, and in the now
subsiding tumult the long blue streamers attached to his white
turban fluttered like a victor's banner. His composure was un-
ruffled, and he greeted the Pandit with a bland smile. He was
the Pakistan Ambassador and, judging from Nehru's tightened
lips, the Pandit regarded this as an unfortunate omen.

Catching sight of Nehru, the portion of the crowd that the
policemen in the background had so far managed to restrain
came surging forward with renewed shouts. This further demon-
stration of unruliness sparked an exhibition of the Pandit's well-
known temper. He thrust aside his swagger cane, snatched a
lathi from the astonished hands of a passing policeman, and
leaped up on one of the few unbroken chairs that stood in the
entrance of the shamiana. Wires trailed in confusion on the
trampled ground, and Nehru's eye fell on one of the micro-
phones to which they were attached. He made an imperious

4 6

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

gesture, and a disheveled official handed it to him. Brandishing
the lathi in his other hand, Nehru shouted: "Stop this uproar
at once!" Unfortunately the microphone was not working. But
even the deafest and most obtuse person present could hardly
have failed to grasp the Pandit's meaning. The sweat was rolling
down his face. His lower lip was outthrust belligerently, and his
eyes glared. From the benign God of Peace laughingly tossing
roses to the worshipping crowd, he had transformed himself in
a twinkling into a very picture of malignancy. An awed silence
fell. Nehru said, more quietly: "Thank you for your reception.
It was a little overwhelming. I have many things to tell you, and
I had meant to tell some of them to you here. But now they will
have to wait until a better time."

Someone cheered, but faintly; perhaps the crowd felt that
cheering would have been only an added impertinence. They
had been thoroughly cowed, and looked as sheepish as scolded
schoolboys. Nehru leaped down from the chair. A large black
limousine nosed its way towards the shamiana. Driven by a
liveried chauffeur, it contained the President of India, return-
ing, perhaps belatedly, to the stricken field. He embraced the
Pandit, the Pandit embraced him. They entered the car to-
gether, and drove away.

I found I was still holding the sandal in my hand. An official,
the official who had given the microphone to Nehru, came up
to me. He looked as if he had been having a very bad time.
His face was streaked with sweat and dust and his coat had been
half torn from his back. "I think I know whose that is," he said.
I surrendered it to him. Presently, as we were leaving, I saw him
giving it to a limping man, who accepted it gratefully and im-
mediately put it on. He was the Minister of Defense.

The President was giving a garden party to celebrate Nehru's
return. Jane and I were invited, and I also secured an invitation
for Rud. The invitation said: "Dress Official or Formal." This
meant wearing neckties but was not strictly observed. We
drove past saluting sentries and parked in the Palace courtyard.

47

DELHI:

Crowds were streaming through a stone gateway and toiling up
an inner stone staircase, leading to the gardens of the Rash-
trapati Bhavan. At intervals along the pathways, rigid, motion-
less, looking straight ahead and with their index fingers laid
along the creases of their regimental trousers, men of the House-
hold Guard in white and scarlet were stationed. The 3,000
guests poured along the paths, ignoring these living statues.
The gardens glowed with flowers Fountains splashed musically
and goldfish darted in artificial ponds The many-windowed
bulk of the Palace, which had been the Viceroy's, looked si-
lently down on the throng Formerly only Indian princes and
the very highest Indian officials had been invited here to mingle
with their British masters. Nowadays the Palace gardens were
opened to a wider public. There were still a be]cwclcd raja or
two, but most of the guests looked seedy A few wore long, high-
collared, tightly buttoned coats and tight white trousers, the
majority wore dhotis, flapping white cotton shirts without col-
lars, or ill-fitting Western clothes. I ceased being conscious of
my rather crumpled tropical suit, and Rud, who had been
apprehensive about his suit, was reassured.

But if the guests looked nondescript, their reception re-
mained impressive, The rigorous traditions of the British Raj
had been fully preserved. A band, gorgeously uniformed, dis-
pensed appropriate music. On either side of the huge lawn
long tables had been laid with snowy cloths, and behind them
hovered Palace waiters, wearing slashed velvet hats, ready to
serve tea. Trumpets suddenly shrilled The band began to play
the Indian national anthem. Everyone stood at attention. Down
one of the pathways from the Palace, heralded by trumpeters
and preceded by military aides in white uniforms hung with
yellow cords and tassels and stiff with epaulets, advanced the
President and the Pandit. They came amid the guests with
slow and ritual steps, and the guests respectfully fell back to
make way for them. The President, a cheerful-looking elderly
man with a grizzled mustache, pressed the palms of his hands
together in the namasthe greeting. Nehru did likewise. The

4 8

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

guests responded. The garden party had officially begun, and
would last for exactly an hour and a half.

Indians love appearances, but seldom keep them up for very
long. On this occasion they did so for the two minutes that it
took the President and Nehru to step fiom the pathway onto
the verge of the lawn and to commence to chat with the people
who happened to be nearest. The others made a bccline for the
tables where free tea and cakes were to be had Those who got
there first and grabbed quickest had to fight their way back out
of the line, precariously balancing cups and plates. The wisest
did not even attempt this, but remained where thc\ were,
drinking quickly and gobbling down cakes, and then demanded
more. Latecomers in the stampede freely used elbows and knees
to secure places, and manv loud arguments ensued The waiters
in the slashed velvet hats had a busy time

Jane had said she was dying of thirst. But when I extricated
myself from the squash bringing her a cup of tea she and
Rud had wandered off Seeking them in the cio\^d, I came face
to face with Nehru He was slowly pacing the garden, head
bent and his hands behind his back. There was a fresh rose in
his buttonhole, but, amid the hubbub, he seemed a strangely
neglected man. People fell back respectfully at his approach,
but offered no conversation, he passed on, and I suspected he
was as shy as they.

Being a great man had many disadvantages Nehru's sister
Krishna Hutheesingh, had just accused him, in a highly publi-
cized article, of becoming haish and cynical, overbearing and
peremptory with too much power, a dictator "Nowadays," she
had written, "he brooks no criticism and will not even suffer
advice gladly. He is highly conscious of his place in history."
Nehru on this occasion did not look overbearing to me I could
sec only a man, still almost boyishly handsome despite his
white hair, with a very sensitive face, who looked very tired.

He might be very conscious of his place in history, and prob-
ably was; but he himself had said, with a deprecatory sarcasm
not usual in dictators, that "listening to others I sometimes feel

49

DELHI:

I must be very wise and brilliant and important, then I look at
myself and begin to doubt this." I had been long enough in
India to cease to be astonished by the adulation Nehru received.
He was described daily as "the greatest man of our time"; "the
world's most talked of man"; "the idol of millions not only in
India but everywhere", and much more in the same vein.
Nehru's own view of himself was considerably more modest.
He had written: "I have been a dabbler in many things; I began
with science at college, and then took to the law, and, after
developing various other interests in life, finally adopted the
popular and widely practised profession of goal-going." He had
also written: "I have become a queer mixture of East and West,
out of place everywhere, at home nowhere; a lover of words
and phrases and an ineffective politician; being somewhat
imaginatively inclined, my mind runs off in various directions;
as I grow old, I tend to philosophise and to dole out advice to
others."

It was easy for his critics to attack him, for he himself sup-
plied them with all their best phrases. As early as 1937 he had
published an article about himself, written anonymously and
in the third person, in which he declared: "He has all the mak-
ings of a dictator vast popularity, a strong will, ability, hard-
ness, intolerance of others, and a certain contempt for the weak
and the inefficient." This warning about Nehru, by Nehru, had
been taken to heart by many and, apparently, never forgotten
by some.

In India Nehru-worship had replaced Gandhi-worship, but
Nehru was far from returning the compliment. He had great
ambitions for India "India cannot play a secondary role in
the world," I had heard him cry; "she will either count for a
great deal or not at all." But he often seemed to doubt his
people's ability to play the part he wished to assign to them,
for I had seen him get up and passionately declare before huge
abashed audiences, who had come to cheer him and who went
away bewildered: "You are slaves, and have the minds of slaves:
why do you bicker and quarrel over trivial nothings?"

50

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
Pacing slowly over the lawn, apparently sunk in melancholy
reflections, his face suddenly quickened into a smile. He had
just caught sight of his daughter, Indira.

The first time I saw Mrs. Indira Gandhi she had just returned
from a visit to Peking and was full of enthusiasm for the new
China. "China today is a disciplined nation, marching reso-
lutely towards the future," she declared ardently. "Even in-
fants are taught the benefits of collective life." It struck me as
a singularly humorless remark, and many Indians agreed, but
Indira remained unshaken. "Progress calls for a certain amount
of regimentation," she said simply. At this time she had begun
to go everywhere with her father. The Congress Party had made
her the first woman member of the election committee that se-
lected all Congress Party candidates; she addressed numerous
meetings on the need for India to emulate Chinese discipline.
Indian newspapers are no respecters of persons, and with their
tongues in their cheeks they began reporting that "Mrs. Indira
Gandhi is greeted wherever she goes by enthusiastic but dis-
ciplined masses." The second time I saw her was at a party
given for bearers and sweepers at the Prime Minister's house;
she was seated on the floor, chatting familiarly with squatting
servants and feeding a saucerful of milk to a tiger cub called
Bum. It was an impressive sight, but not an unusual function
for Indira. She recalled- "My public life started at the age of
three. I have no recollection of playing games, or playing with
other children. My favorite occupation as a small child was to
deliver thunderous speeches to the servants, standing on a high
table." When she was four, she was already accompanying her
mother to political meetings. When she was twelve, she organ-
ized a troop of politically conscious children called "the Monkey
Brigade," who carried urgent Congress Party messages under
the noses of British soldiers and policemen.

Nehru's favorite name for her was Priyadarshini, which means
"Dear to the sight." When she was thirteen he was in prison at
Naini, and from there he wrote to her on her birthday: "Do
you remember how fascinated you were when you first read

51

DELHI'

the story of Jeanne d'Arc, and how your ambition was to be
something like her? The year you were born in, 1917, was one
of the memorable years of history, when a great leader, his
heart full of love and sympathy for the poor and suffering,
made his people write a noble and never to be forgotten chapter
of history. In the very month in which you were born, Lenin
started the great revolution that changed the face of Russia "
The following year, still in prison, Nehru in another letter re-
minded her again: "You are a lucky girl. Born in the month
and year of the great revolution that ushered in a new era in
Russia, you are now a witness to a revolution in your own
country, and soon you may be active in it. It is the twilight of
capitalism, which has lorded it so long over the world. When
it goes, as go it must, it will take many an evil thing with it "

With such fatherly advice being constantly showered upon
her, it was scarcely surprising if Indira displayed revolutionary
ardor. At twenty-four, after an expensive education abroad, in
Switzerland and at Oxford, she was in a British Indian prison.
She was Nehru's only child, and her marriage to a young Indian
lawyer called Feroze Gandhi despite his name, he was not
a relative of the Mahatma evidently had done nothing to alter
her devotion either to the cause of Indian freedom or to her
father. When India gained independence, Indira moved with
her two young children into her widowed father's home to act
as the new prime minister's housekeeper and hostess.

I watched Nehru greet his daughter. The tiredness had gone
from his face, and he spoke animatedly. Indira was wearing a
silk sari, and she had white flowers in her glossy black hair. They
made a handsome couple as they moved slowly toward the
Palace. The heat-flushed evening sky was barred with pink and
lemon, and flocks of green parrots flew across it, screeching
hideously. The gardens were emptying. Jane had found a raja,
more helpful than I, to bring her tea. "He talked about polo,
skiing in Switzerland, and tiger-shooting," said Jane. The great
revolution seemed very far away. The waiters, whose slashed

52

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

velvet hats fascinated Rud, were busily clearing away the debris.
Accompanied by the military aides m their yellow-corded white
uniforms, the President retreated slowly indoors, past the stiff
figures of the Palace Guard. The band began packing up their
instruments. The garden party was over.

Sensitive people cannot put up with the vast gap between
human beings, it seems so vulgar. NEHRU

UEHHARANGRAI NAVAISHANKAR DHEBAR carefully placed a
large, loudly ticking watch on the plain deal table in front of
him The watch was to remind us both that he was a busy man.
He had already told me he had to catch a plane to Saurashtra
in an hour's time. "The Congress Party," he told me in a soft
voice, with a deprecating smile, "is a tear dropped from the
heart of suffering humanity."

lie was a man in his fifties: small, dark-skinned, wiry, wearing
a white cotton Gandhi cap and clothes of the coarsest hand-
spun cotton, for he was a staunch believer in the revival of sim-
ple village crafts as the salvation of India. lie had a small black
mustache that made him look like Charlie Chaplin playing the
part of the humble tailor who exchanged identities with the
Great Dictator. He was the president of the Congress Party and
one of the most powerful men in India.

I had gone to see him because the Congress Party was under-
going a severe bout of self-criticism, and he was popularly sup-
posed to be chiefly responsible for it. The Congress Party's All-
India Working Committee had set up a subsidiary body called
a Constructive Working Committee, which had just issued a
severely worded report. Cataloguing the Party's sins, it found
that it was suffering from too much pomp; loss of its sense of

53

DELHI:

function; and growing cleavage between the Party heads and the
rank and file. The report roundly condemned Ministers, Mem-
bers of Parliament, and high officials for living in luxury homes,
riding in large limousines, surrounding themselves with "elab-
orate security arrangements," and indulging in other "glaring
disparities between the life of Congress Party leaders and the
life of the masses."

There was nothing luxurious about Mr. Dhebar's present
surroundings. I made the appointment through a secretary, who
instructed me to go to the Parliament building, the Lok Sabha,
and ask to be taken to the Congress Party president: he warned
me to be on time. I was guided along a gloomy stone corridor
to a small, basementlike room. Its walls were painted a very
dark green, it had no windows; and it contained a single, naked
electric hghtbulb, a plain deal table, two wooden chairs, and
Mr Dhebar.

Or, as the secretary said devoutly: "Dhebarbhai," meaning
Brother Dhebar. For Mr. Dhebar was a Gandhian. He was one
of the last persons the Mahatma spoke to before his assassi-
nation, and Gandhi's blood had actually flowed over his foot on
that tragic day Like Gandhi, he was a Gujerat, having been
born in the village of Gangajala in Kathiawar: a village with
only fifty inhabitants, of whom the Dhcbars constituted a fair
fraction, for Mr. Dhebar had been the fifth child in a family
of eight. He did not drink or smoke; he lived on only one
vegetarian meal a day, he hand spun sufficient yarn to make all
his own clothes; he had never been abroad; and among Gan-
dhians he enjoyed enormous prestige. So much I had learned
from the devout secretary, a thin, spectacled, and talkative
young man. I recognized the loud-ticking watch as an old
Gandhi trick: on one occasion, the Mahatma had placed his
watch prominently on a table before him at a Congress Party
meeting and announced that, as the meeting was starting half
an hour late, India's freedom would also be postponed by an
avoidable half-hour.

54

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

Mr. Dhebar said gently: "Rivers of sorrow have flowed, and
we have committed some Himalayan blunders. We must purify
the Congress Party and come in closer contact with the people."

Mr. Dhebar was a lawyer. He had twice been jailed by the
British. On the second occasion they offered to release him be-
cause his wife was dying, but he refused their clemency and
insisted on being taken to the hospital each day under jail es-
cort; after the visits he duly returned to his cell, where he dili-
gently read the works of Tolstoy.

I asked him how he thought the Congress Party could best
be purified.

"Neither bullets nor bribery can corrupt us. Our richest in-
heritance from the Father of the Nation is his gospel of pure
means to attain pure ends. We must strengthen our internal
organization and convey Gandhi's message of love to every
hamlet. We must be goodhearted and keep our minds open to
all suggestions for improvement."

When the Nawab of Junagadh, a Moslem ruler, tried to take
his state into Pakistan, Mr. Dhebar urged the Nawab's Hindu
subjects to seize power. Indian troops were sent to help them do
so; the Nawab fled to Pakistan. Hundreds of tiny principalities
222, to be exact were merged in the new state of Saurashtra,
with a total population of 4,000,000. Mr. Dhebar became
Chief Minister of the new state. In its capital, Rajkot, he lived
austerely in four bare rooms. His entire worldly possessions con-
sisted of a cot, a chair, a table, a lamp, and his clothes. Saurash-
tra was infested with dacoits- traveling about with jeeploads of
armed police, Dhebar fought the bandits so strenuously and
caused so many people to be imprisoned under the Preventive
Detention Act, which the new Indian government inherited
from the British and which allowed no habeas corpus that he
became known, to his distress, as "Jenghiz Khan and Timerlane
rolled into one." Nehru, however, called him "one of the hum-
blest and quietest man in India."

The watch ticked loudly. Mr. Dhebar looked at it pointedly.

55

DELHI:

We did not seem to be getting very far. I had heard that his only
hobby was chess; I suspected he was probably very good at it.

I asked if he could perhaps be a little more specific about how
the Congress Party was to be purified.

"There is still too much speechmaking, and too little action.
We must all work harder. But the Congress Party must not
lose faith in itself. If it does then it will fail, and if it fails there
is no other party that can save the country."

"The Congress Party's goal is said to be Socialism," I said.

"A socialistic pattern of society," he corrected with a depre-
cating smile.

"How is that to be achieved?"

"We have the responsibility of viewing the whole problem of
needs and resources in their totality. We must work on the
basis of comprehensive planning, but the planning must bear
in mind India's own social values. Only if that is done can
there be proper social utilization."

I puzzled over this reply, and the more I puzzled, the more
confused I became. I decided to try another tack.

"Do you think Socialism is the only way to cure Indian
poverty?"

"A human being is not simply a mass of matter. We are in-
terested in more than merely material considerations."

"Is India in any danger of ever going Communist?"

"India is the largest democracy in the world."

"What in your opinion is the future of Communism?"

Mr. Dhebar smiled. At the same time he rose, and pocketed
his watch. "For a clue to the present and future of Communist
power," he said pleasantly, "I refer you to Gibbon's Decline and
Fall of the Roman Empire"

He paused in the doorway and pressed the palms of his
hands together in the Indian gesture that serves as both greet-
ing and farewell. Then he was gone, to catch the plane.

Rud was leaving shortly for Benares, and I myself was going
on a trip that would keep me away from Delhi for some time.

56

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP
But before we left we followed Mr. Nehru on a tour of the
city's worst slums. It was highly educative.

On both sides of a foul-smelling nala running from the Mori
Gate to Tis Hazari, an area about half a mile in length and only
thirty yards wide, five hundred families lived in shacks con-
structed out of empty kerosene cans, straw, rags, and mud. I
had seen the ghastly shantytowns of Moroka and Tobruk near
Johannesburg, but this was worse. No shack was roomier than
eight feet by ten feet; the families were large; and the interior
of each shack was fetid, stifling, and almost pitch-dark even at
high noon. Countless children, either wearing filthy rags or stark
naked, played in the muddy ditches, none of them, we were
told, had ever attended a school. "These," said Raval Kalpa
bitterly, "are the next generation of poverty-stricken illiterates."
And, despite the fearful overcrowding, the five hundred fami-
lies had sorted themselves out into a rigid caste pattern. The
highest caste were the hereditary sweepers. They were in regular
municipal employment, they earned as much as sixteen dollars
a month, and they felt very superior to the porters, odd-job men,
and beggars. They kept themselves to themselves and, amid the
filth, had their own "colonies."

This Sunday, Raval Kalpa said, the place was comparatively
clean, and smelled comparatively sweet. In anticipation of the
Pandit's visit, the municipal sweepers had been busy, patching
up the most dilapidated shacks and, above all, dumping large
quantities of bleaching powder in and around the nala. "It
drives away the flies, and helps to lessen the stench," Kalpa
explained.

We had got there early. An hour before Nehru's arrival large
squads of policemen suddenly appeared. Swinging their lathis,
they went systematically through the shacks, asking few ques-
tions but making a rigorous search. "They went to make sure
that there are no assassins lurking, waiting to throw a bomb,"
Kalpa added. "He's always complaining about having too much
police protection. But you can't blame the police: if anything

57

DELHI:

did happen, they would be blamed. They might even be ac-
cused of having arranged it."

When they had finished searching, the police took up po-
sitions along the route that Nehru would follow. It became
obvious that no one was going to be allowed very close to the
Prime Minister. Perhaps, in the minds of the authorities, if not
in Nehru's, the incidents at the airport still rankled.

Time passed, the heat steadily grew; so did the smells,
and more bleaching powder was hastily dumped in the nala.
Nehru arrived, in a large black limousine. It halted abruptly,
and Nehru got out, wearing his summertime white coat, with
a red rose in a buttonhole, and his white Gandhi cap. He was
hastily joined by two municipal officials, who approached him
at a stumbling run, apparently somewhat agitated. The police
exchanged significant glances. Things were not going according
to plan. Nehru, as was his way, had suddenly disapproved the
original arrangement, which was for him merely to drive slowly
past the shacks. He insisted on going on foot, and seeing things
at closer quarters. Impatiently clutching his short cane, and talk-
ing vigorously to the two officials who trotted alongside with
bowed heads, he walked smartly to the nearest shack. He
vanished inside, ducking his head, and came out a moment
later looking like a thundercloud. He inspected several more,
and his expression grew steadily more forbidding. A trembling
small boy, coming unexpectedly face to face with the great man,
backed hurriedly away. Nehru pounced on him, and put a gen-
tle hand on the boy's head. He addressed him in Hindi.

"Do you live here? Do you go to school? Why do you live
here? Do you have a father and mother? What does your father
do for a living? How much do they pay him? Do you have any
brothers or sisters? How many? Seven!"

He released the boy, who immediately ran away. "Shocking!"
said Nehru in English. "A scandal!" He repeated it in Hindi.
The officials bowed very low.

Their curiosity overcoming their timidity, the people of the
nala began to gather in groups. They followed the Pandit,

58

THE SHADOW UNDER THE LAMP

though at a respectful distance. A policeman with more zeal
than discretion darted forward to shoo them off. Nehru gave
him a dark look that stopped him in his tracks. "Why do the
police always try to come between me and the people?" he de-
manded loudly. "Ridiculous' Intolerable!" The officials, and
the police, looked abashed I looked at the people, rather hoping
that one of them would raise a cheer at those words, but their
expressions were disappointingly vacuous.

At the conclusion of his tour Nehru insisted on making a
short speech. It was plainly addressed not so much to the people
as to the officials. "It is a disgrace, it is intolerable, that people
should have to live in conditions like these. We talk of building
a new India, of having Socialism and all that, how can we look
the rest of the world in the face, when some people still live in
places like this? And here, almost in the heart of Delhi, the
capital of India' We talk of our ancient culture: it is folly to
talk about culture, or even to talk about God, while human
beings starve and rot and die. I hope something will be done
about this place, and immediately; it must be cleaned up." He
stopped as suddenly as he had begun, gave the namasthe greet-
ing, and got into his limousine, which drove quickly away.

"Well!" said Rud admiringly. "Did you see those officials'
faces? That's telling them!"

"Ah," said Raval Kalpa cynically, "but that's just what he
said back in 1952, when he visited this place for the first time.
He travels about India constantly, and he sees many places like
this, but he cannot remember them all: India is a very large
country."

Out of curiosity, we went back to see the nala a couple of days
later. Nothing had changed, except that the bleaching powder
had lost its effect and the shacks that had been hurriedly
patched up for Nehru's visit were once more falling down. The
flies and the stench were back, and the children who never went
to school still played in the deep muddy ditches, wearing filthy
rags or no clothes at all.

59

II

MEERUT: CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

People with a cow-dung mentality, living in a cow-dung coun-
try. NEHRU

A:

. FAIR proportion of India's 10,000,000 bullock carts seemed
to be on the road to Mecrut that morning. The patient, slow-
moving beasts plodded along in vast clouds of dust, the clumsy
cart wheels screaming like souls in anguish. As Singh cautiously
edged the Studebaker past those interminable processions, we
were faced with a difficult choice. When we opened the car
windows, the dust choked us, when we closed them to keep out
the dust, we were in danger of frying to death. Dozing on top
of their carts, the farmers protected themselves by wrapping the
white cloths of their turbans across their faces, bullocks require
little steering. Once a bullock defecated; its owner got down
and solicitously wiped its behind with his headcloth before re-
suming his journey.

Crumbling stone tombs. Crumbling mud huts. An occasional
rounded stone, worshipped for its phallic shape and lovingly
smeared with bright red clay. The scenery of the Indian plain
is singularly monotonous. I tried to forget the heat, and the 42
miles of bullock carts which presumably lay ahead of us, by
meditating on the strange tale I had heard, which was taking
me to Meerut.

At a mela, or religious bathing ceremony, at Garhmuktesar,
across the river from Meerut, the police had arrested 17 young
men whom they found hiding in a sugar-cane field. Seven

60

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

hundred thousand people had attended the meld; and several
agitated parents among the 700,000 reported to the police
that their children had disappeared. Indian melas and tragedy
frequently go hand m hand; at a recent mela near Benares
almost 500 people had been crushed to death. Numbers of
children are always reported missing on those occasions. Some
are kidnapped by a wandering gypsy-like tribe that specializes
in the capture and sale of children which is a recognized
caste, some get drowned, many simply wander off and later
turn up again, safe and sound. So the Meerut police were
understandably a little blase until they found the young men
hiding in the sugar-cane field, and discovered that one of them,
a youth of nineteen, was going about with a child's skull, which
he was using as a candy bowl. The police promptly took the
young men to Meerut, for questioning. I was now on my way
to Meerut from Delhi to try to discover what the outcome of
the police investigation had been. There were ugly rumors that
the missing children had not only been murdered, but had
been eaten.

Meerut was no better and no worse than most Indian towns.
It looked as if it had just been through a severe bombardment.
Many of the buildings appeared to have recently fallen down.
In fact, the rubble had lain for years, perhaps for centuries. But
it was overlaid with a more modern accretion of rusting mounds
of scrap iron. In India clay pots are smashed and discarded if a
casteless person or an untouchable has used them, and human
corpses are ceremonially burned; but anything more durable is
never thrown away. In Meerut, amid the rubble of houses that
had simply collapsed with old age, there was the rubble of ma-
chinery that had been worked to death but was still being
hoarded. Both served the same purpose. When people wanted
to build new houses, they carted away as much as they needed
of the ruins of the old, to serve as their building materials.
When a machine broke down, they rummaged in the piles of
old worn-out machines for spare parts. We drove past a factory

61

MEERUT:

that called itself "The Northern Indian Steel and Iron Corpo-
ration." It was no more than a large open shed in which work-
ers naked to the waist banged energetically at large sheets of
metal. The yard in front of the shed was heaped with gigantic
rusting springs, broken iron rods, gaunt wheel spokes, and the
remains of ancient engines. On the shed's flat roof, levitated
there by who knows what mysterious means, there crouched the
wheelless, engmeless shell of an entire omnibus.

Next door to the factory was a small brick building with dirty
windowpancs and a flaking wooden door. A sign above the
door read, in English- "Dr. B. C. Raji's University and Com-
mercial Business College."

The road became a narrow street running through the bazaar.
Cows foraged contentedly off the garbage outside vegetable
stores. A man sat, cross-legged, stirring an immense iron pot.
The low-roofed open shops were gaudy with brassware, green
celluloid combs, dusty bottles of violently colored soft drinks,
cotton sans. A man in pajama trousers furiously pedaled a
sewing-machine. A grain store sold red peppers. A shoe store
sold crimson slippers with curling toes. There was a profusion
of wicker baskets, stools, and charpoys. The buildings were
scrawled with inscriptions in Hindi and English. The street
overflowed with merchandise and swarmed with people, cows,
dogs, bicycles, and bullock carts. There were thin-cheeked
young Hindus, white-bearded Hindus, girls with long black pig-
tails, aged crones, ragged children with infant sisters and baby
brothers strapped on their backs, beggars, Brahmins, snake-
charmers, fortunetellers, and a youth beating a big drum out-
side the inevitable cinema, which was showing an Indian
version of Hamlet in which the gloomy Dane became a dusky
raja who joined Ophelia in nine specially written song-hits.
Loudspeakers blared outside tea shops, the snake-charmers'
flutes reedily pierced the air, bicycle bells rang, dogs barked,
street-vendors hoarsely called their wares, beggars whined, and
children cried.

62

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

Beyond the bazaar area, the road climbed and widened and
was lined with bungalows behind high walls and thick hedges.
We had come out of what the British, an alien handful in a
swarming land, used to call the "native town" into the "can-
tonment." A heavy hot silence brooded over it. Here one blis-
tering Sunday evening a century ago, the 3rd Bengal Cavalry
regiment revolted after 85 of their comrades had been impris-
oned for refusing cartridges that the Hindus said were greased
with cow-fat and the Moslems said were greased with pig-fat.
The British were all at evening service: the rebels marched off
toward Delhi and began the great Indian Mutiny. We drove
along the deserted Mall, past the church and the cemetery, and
after some difficulty located the white-pillared Meerut Club.

It seemed to be deserted, too, for our voices echoed vainly in
its vast entrance hall. My footsteps clattered loudly as I wan-
dered through a dusty library whose shelves were filled with de-
caying books and into an enormous smoking-room solemnly
lined with huge leather couches and bulky leather armchairs.
Beyond the smoking-room was an empty inner courtyard. I
tried a door at random, and found myself in a gargantuan wash-
room with high white walls, great white porcelain washbowls,
and rusting taps dripping discolored water. The slow dripping
made a melancholy sound. In a huge billiard room, the windows
were shuttered, and the green-clothed tables swam in a semi-
dusk: they looked larger and longer than normal billiard ta-
bles, as if only giants had ever played on them, standing nine
feet high and using poles to strike cannon balls. And while they
played they had smoked giant's cigars, and drunk down enor-
mous whiskies and sodas, for I could still smell cigar smoke and
the fumes of alcohol. But the smell of decay was stronger. The
green cloth on the tables had begun to rot.

A door other than the one through which I had entered took
me back into the smoking-room. Tables were scattered about
among the great black leather couches and armchairs, and some
of the tables still held old magazines: Tatler and Punch and

63

MEERUT:

The Illustrated London News. There were a few shelves of
books, mostly about sport, and many volumes of an encyclope-
dia, partly eaten by mice. Round the walls ranged the mounted
heads of big game: mostly tigers, but also some boars and buck.
Their glassy eyes stared vacantly. Below the heads and above
the shelves of moldering books the walls were lined with old
photographs, with waggish handwritten inscriptions. They were
regimental photographs. Bald colonels, mustached majors, and
toothy captains looked accusingly out of their frames at me.
They seemed to be asking if I had been properly introduced.
The handwritten inscriptions made a strange contrast, for they
had an almost feminine skittishness. "Captain Dash at the Mess
Dinner raises his glass to a Certain Miss!" "Where had the Gal-
lant Major been, the Night BEFORE?" But a graver note was
sometimes struck. "The Colonel and his Lady God bless
them!" "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow; We'll Miss You, Major
Blank!"

While I fingered the dusty books and looked at the faded
photographs, Singh had been exploring on his own, and shout-
ing lustily as he went. At length there was the faint shuffle of
bare feet, and a very old, bearded Hindu appeared in the door-
way. I asked him if we could have anything to eat or drink, and
he nodded tremblingly and vanished eagerly, presently to re-
turn miraculously with good beef and cheese sandwiches and
very good cold beer in bottles. I ate the beef; Singh ate the
cheese; we both drank the beer. The old man hovered anx-
iously, and the animal heads on the walls stared glassily.

"Do many people come here," I asked.

"Oh, no, sahib: very few; hardly ever."

The old man replied in English, but haltingly, as if he had
not spoken it for a very long time.

"But the club is still open?" I asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes, sahib!" He was eager again. "Club always open.
Sometimes people come."

After that, his English broke down completely. I never did

6 4

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

discover who kept the Meerut Club mysteriously going: vast,
empty, desolate, falling steadily into decay, its great billiard ta-
bles unused, its enormous washroom echoing only to the faint
dripping of rusty taps, its mounted heads slowly moldering, and
its magazines and encyclopedia accumulating dust; but with a
servitor still on the premises and able at a moment's notice to
produce excellent sandwiches and cold beer. When we had fin-
ished, the old man collected the empty bottles and glasses and
plates, humbly requested a ridiculously small sum it was about
a third of the price that the same meal would have cost any-
where else panted out broken gratitude for a modest tip, and
bowed himself out of the room backwards. We never saw him
again. When we drove away from the white-pillared building,
nesting in the neglected greenery that gave it protection from
the blazing sun, it was utterly silent and seemed utterly de-
serted. But for the beer and sandwiches, the old man might
have been a ghost, at one with the fading photographs in the
smoking-room and the gigantic forgotten tables in the billiard
room.

It stays in my mind as a monument to a ruling caste that was
almost exclusively male: Spartans who were soldiers, horsemen,
pig-stickers and, at heart if not in mind, schoolboys. They were
schoolboys who kept themselves too busy to have more sex-
consciousness than the archly old-fashioned waggish inscrip-
tions on the photographs displayed. This was the society that
produced Dr. Watson, the patient foil to A. Conan Doyle's de-
tective hero for schoolboys. ("My old Afghan wound still
troubled me.") Richard Hannay could have walked out of The
Thirty-nine Steps into the Meerut Club, performing his favor-
ite trick of tossing a Kashmiri dagger up in the air and catching
it in his teeth, with no questions asked. (There might have
been some good-natured applause in the smoking-room.) In-
dia, which is also a male society, and which understands caste,
accepted them. The British lost India when they began to
bring out their women. Nobody loved the mem-sahibs and the

MEERUT:

relations between British and Indians grew sour. The women
brought color-consciousness as well as sex-consciousness, and in
the great wave of anger and fear which followed in the wake of
the Mutiny both got full play. Things were never the same
again.

Before we left the club, Singh had asked the old man the
way to the police station. The chowki was a small brick build-
ing, and its single office had instead of a door, very sensibly, a
rolled-down bamboo screen, on which a bucket of water was
thrown at intervals, to lay the dust and keep the air compara-
tively cool. Behind a battered desk sat a sergeant, who was dili-
gently scratching on a piece of yellowing paper with an ancient
pen that needed frequent dipping in a cracked ink bottle con-
taining an eighth of an inch of muddy ink. He welcomed our
interruption enthusiastically, called out in Hindi for another
chair and some tea to be brought, and spoke to me in a friendly
Welsh accent.

"Oh, yes'" he said, nodding and smiling briskly. "The men
have confessed everything."

"To murdering the children?"

"They are Aghoris. The Aghons are a strange sect, and we
don't know much about them. People say they live in grave-
yards and get their food off funeral pyres. That is to say," the
sergeant explained, with happy relish, "they eat what's left of
cremated bodies."

"And these men you have arrested seventeen? they admit
they are Aghons, and they admit that is what Aghoris do?"

"They say they assembled together in Delhi, and came on
here from Delhi when they heard there was to be a mela." The
sergeant, a middle-aged man with a long humorous face, vigor-
ously shook his head from side to side, which is the Indian
way of nodding. "But they came originally from Allahabad. I'll
read you a bit of one of the confessions."

Unexpectedly he donned a pair of spectacles, which made
him look solemn, and from a drawer of the battered desk he

66

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

pulled another yellowing sheet. He translated fluently from its
Hindi.

" 'In Allahabad our father dwells. I am nineteen years of age
and have been an Aghori since childhood. The father called us
together in Allahabad and said, if we did such-and-such things,
which would revolt all mankind, we would achieve salvation.
We were to go to Delhi by diverse ways, and there the path
would be made known to us. In Delhi, we were told of the
mela, and so we separated, and by twos and threes we came
here. This is the truth, I swear it. Do not use the leather belt

The sergeant coughed loudly, and put the yellowed sheet
back in the drawer.

"What sort of things were they supposed to do?" I asked.

"Ah!" said the sergeant, darkly. "We haven't got to the foot
of it all yet, no, not by any means We are still chalking it out.
But this one who confessed said: 'such things as killing and
eating children/ "

"In Allahabad our father dwells." It sounded vaguely like the
opening words of a Christian hymn. And then the dreadful
things to revolt all mankind, including the killing and eating of
children. Rud had said, cautiously, that India was a very com-
plex country. Happily now on his way to the University of
Benares, Rud didn't know the half of it.

I said: "I thought you said they had all confessed?"

"Not all," said the sergeant, suddenly turning cautions him-
self. "Not yet. But they will."

"Have they been charged with murder? When will they come
to trial?"

"The superintendent could tell you that."

"Do you have them in jail here in Meerut? Could I see
them?"

The sergeant abruptly became evasive. "You should talk to
the superintendent."

But the superintendent was not immediately available.

MEERUT:

Meerut, the sergeant explained, was holding a show of local
crafts in the community center. A Congress Party M.P. was
opening it. The superintendent would almost certainly be
there.

We drove to the community center, but on the way a promi-
nently displayed poster caught my eye. I hastily called on Singh
to stop, and got out of the car to inspect it. Printed in English,
it read:

"A new star has risen on the horizon! Kaviraj Lai, M.P., is a
man of the masses. Simple and unostentatious, he lives his life
as they do. He speaks in accents which they understand. His
heart is large enough to find a place for all, without distinction
of race or creed. Honest to the core, his moral authority strikes
terror into the corrupt and the greedy. Speaking truth and only
truth, he seeks neither power nor pelf for himself, but every-
thing for the poor. His heart bleeds for the oppressed and
downtrodden throughout the world, and he is a determined
fighter in their cause. As long as India brings forth sons like
Kaviraj Lai, her place in the vanguard of human progress is as-
sured. A prince among patriots, Kaviraj Lai takes pride in every-
thing indigenous. Much practiced in ancient Hindu arts of
medicine etc., Kaviraj Lai has himself invented a rare sovereign
specific for all human ills. A revival of Ayurveda in all its pris-
tine glory! Only it can guard the people's health! Cures nervous
debility and brings happiness into woebegone lives! Buy Kavi-
raj LaFs famous remedy! (Patented)."

Singh had joined me, and we read this effusion together.
"Gentleman at the railway station?" Singh inquired. "Very rich
man, Mr. Kaviraj Lai." He was twirling his mustache, and his
tone was not without irony.

There was a crowd outside the community center. There
were also plenty of posters advertising Kaviraj Lai's famous
remedy. I asked for the police superintendent, and was told he
was expected but had not yet arrived. I was asked to wait. A
chair was brought, and was placed with much ceremony in the

68

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

shade of a tree. The crowd read the posters, chattered among
themselves, and came to gape at me. I sat under the tree, feel-
ing foolish. The man who had brought the chair dashed into
the community center. Presently he came out again. He was a
stoutish man who had not shaved for two days, but in spite of
the intolerable heat he was wearing a black jacket and a blue-
striped shirt with a collar, and a brown woolen tie. He perspired
rather freely. "Please come," he said. I was wearing a bush shirt
without a tie and khaki shorts. I followed him nervously.

Inside the community center the local crafts were laid out
on long tables. They seemed to consist mainly of garden shears.
"Best in India," said the man in the blue-striped shirt. There
were also some odd-looking rubber tubes. "Medical supplies,"
my guide explained. In vivid pantomime, he pretended to swal-
low one of the long tubes. "For examination of patients' inte-
riors."

At the far end of the room, a group of people were listening
to a blandly delivered lecture. There was no mistaking that ur-
bane voice, those jutting ears. His magnificent white dhoti bal-
looning round his ankles, wearing his long white cotton shirt
like a Roman toga, Mr. Kaviraj Lai advanced upon me and
greeted me with enthusiasm. "My dear fellow, what a pleasant
surprise to find you at our little function! You should have in-
formed me you wished to attend, I would have sent special
invitation!"

"As a matter of fact," I said, "I'm looking for the super-
intendent of police."

Mr. Kaviraj Lai looked surprised but not a bit disconcerted.

"Nevertheless you are interested in our local crafts? Permit
me to conduct you round the exhibit personally. These are
garden shears pure fine steel best in India. All manufac-
tured here in Meerut. Perhaps on your way in you saw the
Northern India Iron and Steel Corporation factory? I have a
small interest. We poor politicians must also live!" He laughed
heartily. The people who were following us round laughed po-

6 9

MEERUT:

litely, all save the stoutish man in the black jacket and brown
woolen tie, who laughed uproariously. "My secretary," Mr.
Kaviraj Lai explained in an aside. "Very efficient." He picked
up one of the long rubber tubes. "These are medical supplies,
also manufactured here in Meerut. For examining patients' in-
teriors. The tube is introduced orally. I myself am a manufac-
turer of medical supplies: pharmaceutical."

"I saw the posters," I said.

He nodded, well satisfied that I had done so. "Ninety per
cent of the people of our country are poor. It is beyond their
means to resort to foreign medicines. I decided Ayurvedic drugs
were the answer. I studied the ancient arts, and produced my
remedy after much toil. Results have surpassed all expectations,
I am happy to say. Millions are getting their desired relief." He
beamed with pride.

The secretary tugged his sleeve and whispered something in
his ear.

"Ah, yes! I am called upon to say a few words. Please remain."

I said: "If I could find the superintendent "

"Yes, it is very annoying. He should be here, but he must
have been delayed. I hope he does not miss my few remarks.
He is a highly intelligent man, very interested in the current
political situation." Mr. Lai's brown eyes unexpectedly
twinkled. "Some years ago it was his painful duty under the
British to have me put in jail, but he is now a loyal supporter of
the Congress Party."

The secretary then called the gathering to order, including
two small boys who were trying to cut one of the rubber tubes
in half with a pair of garden shears, and Mr. Lai made his
speech. He talked about the need for industrialization, and re-
ferred glowingly to the outstanding achievements of the North-
ern India Iron and Steel Corporation. Then he turned to poli-
tics, and declared that public office was a sacred duty, which
should not be lightly abused. He had begun to talk about de-
mocracy, and was quoting Burke, when a lean brown-skinned

70

CLUBS AND CANNIBALS

man in a dark blue uniform came up to me and said, in a
whisper, that he believed I wanted to see him.

The superintendent and I tiptoed out of the hall. In the
open he pulled out a pipe and looked at me with alert eyes.
"What can I do for you?"

I told him what I had heard about the imprisoned Aghoris,
and asked when they would come to trial. The police super-
intendent bit thoughtfully on the stem of his pipe, and crinkled
his eyes. He looked rueful.

"I don't know if they ever will come to trial. I doubt it. The
boy's confession wasn't made before a magistrate, and now he's
withdrawn it. They deny everything, except being Aghoris. We
could charge them with loitering in cemeteries" he wrinkled
his nose "but that wouldn't mean very much."

"But why did they confess to killing and eating the children
in the first place?"

"Ah," said the superintendent cheerfully, "I suppose some of
my men might have banged them about a bit."

"And the child's skull that one of them was using as a candy
bowl?"

"He could have picked it up after a cremation. The skulls
seldom get burned, you know. Anyway the skull has been ex-
amined by the experts we sent it to Calcutta and they think
the child probably died a natural death. Very hard to tell, with-
out the rest of the body, of course. As for the children reported
missing from the mela" he shrugged "that happens all the
time. None of them has been found; but they could have been
drowned, or kidnapped. I don't suppose we'll ever know."

And, the superintendent's tone implied, there wasn't much
use bothering about it in a country where a baby was born
every four seconds or so, and the already enormous population
increased by 5,000,000 each year. He was being neither cynical
nor fatalistic, only realistic.

There was a burst of hand-clapping, and Mr. Kaviraj Lai
came out of the community center, holding his dhoti, like a

71

MEERUT

Victorian lady holding her skirts, and beaming. He greeted us
jovially.

"Ah, there you are! I hope you liked my little speech." His
eyes fell on one of his own posters, and he paused to admire it.
"I think our local crafts must have astonished you, eh? We In-
dians are not so far behind the West as you had thought!" He
looked about him: at the brand-new concrete community cen-
ter, at the sparse little garden in front of it where I had waited
under the tree, at the slowly dispersing crowd. "A beautiful day
perhaps a little warm. How is Mr. Jack? I hope he is very
much enjoying India."

I could have asked again to be allowed to see the Aghoris,
but it would only have embarrassed the superintendent, whom
I rather liked. He said he had to get back to his duties; we shook
hands. Inexorably, Mr. Lai took me by the arm. "And now you
must come and have a cup of tea with me. I always have time
to spare to talk to a friend. Our meeting like this is very propi-
tious. No doubt it was written in our horoscopes! Have you
ever seriously studied astrology? You should certainly do so.
While we are having our tea, I shall tell you what the ancient
Hindus had to say about astrology."

Ill

JODHPUR: DEATH OF A LADY

And lay me down by my master's side to rale in Heaven his
only bride. KIPLING

"T

JL SUPPOSE you want to visit the cemetery first," Mr. Bhatkal
bawled briskly. He stood before me, his head cocked to one side
and a hand cupped over a hairy ear with the alert expectancy of
the very deaf, wearing a pair of spectacles askew on his broad
nose, a brown-check sport jacket with five ballpoint pens
clipped in the breast pocket, and a green tie fastened with an
imitation gold pin. Mr. Bhatkal, it was plain, was ready and
eager to go.

The Circuit House at Jodhpur stands on the side of a hill,
and is enclosed by a stone courtyard and sweet-smelling flower-
ing trees. I had been ushered into a spacious bedroom with a
splendid view of the fort that peers down on the town from a
precipitous crag. Adjoining the bedroom was an enormous
bathroom. The huge bed, unlike the beds in most Indian ho-
tels, looked soft and inviting. I was tired and, after Meerut, I
fancied I had had my fill of cemeteries. But I weakly muttered
that I supposed I ought to see it, and Mr. Bhatkal led the way
downstairs at a brisk trot.

We drove into town with Mr. Bhatkal sitting in the front seat
beside the driver and shouting directions. When the car had in-
serted its way into a narrow corkscrew lane, he bawled at the
driver to stop. He rushed up an outside wooden staircase, and

73

JODHPUR:

emerged triumphantly with a large woman and a small child.
"My wife," explained Mr. Bhatkal loudly. "My son." He bun-
dled them unceremoniously into the back of the car beside me.
"Thought they might like to have a look," Mr. Bhatkal shouted.
"Gives the child an outing. Hope you don't mind."

Mr. Bhatkal was a lawyer and a newspaper correspondent.
He also owned a small stationery store which sold newspapers
and paperback novels with lurid titles. He wrote articles, in-
defatigably, for a large number of Indian papers. His office,
which was in a small room at the back of a local cinema, was
a hive of activity. The steep stairs leading to it were always
crowded with people seeking legal advice. They remained hud-
dled on the stairs, sometimes for hours, while, inside the office,
Mr. Bhatkal instructed his clerk to hold them at bay until he
finished an article. He wrote his articles very quickly in a large
flowing hand, for he disdained the use of a typewriter, and
signed them all, with a flourish: "P. D. Bhatkal, Special Cor-
respondent." Then he thrust them into large brown envelopes,
stuck the envelopes down with gummed tape, and dispatched
them posthaste. The tedium of waiting was relieved for his
clients by the fact that the cinema's walls were very thin. While
Mr. Bhatkal wrote furiously, the entire building vibrated to
snatches of magnified dialogue and the thunder of film music.
It was this daily assault of sound that had made Mr. Bhatkal go
deaf.

The car successfully corkscrewed itself out of the narrow
twisting lane. But then it came to a halt again, for the main
street of Jodhpur was packed with expectant crowds. "Just in
time for the procession!" bawled Mr. Bhatkal, and instructed
his wife to stand the child up on the seat so that it would have
a good view. Presently, over the heads of the crowd, we saw a
large, flower-smothered chariot pass slowly down the street.
Propped up in it, amid the flowers, was the effigy of a woman,
wearing a red-and-gold sari. The chariot rolled ponderously on:
the crowds as it passed knelt down and said loud prayers. I

74

DEATH OF A LADY

looked at Mrs. Bhatkal: she was praying, too, her eyes closed
and her lips moving. The child leaped excitedly up and down
on the leather scat. Mr. Bhatkal was not praying: he had
whipped out one of his ballpoint pens and was making rapid
notes. "Fifteen papers have asked me for a descriptive/' he
shouted cheerfully at me. With every flourish of the pen, Mr.
Bhatkal was briskly earning rupees.

After the chariot had passed, we drove at a crawl toward the
cemetery, for the crowds were still thick. The cemetery had
wrought-iron gates and was full of people. Outside the gates
stood a barrow full of coconuts. It had the name "B. Ravi"
painted on its side in white letters, and B. Ravi was doing very
good business. The people streaming into the cemetery, mostly
women, all paused to buy a coconut. We got out of the car and
followed them in, along a winding path, to where the crowd
was densest. Undaunted, Mr. Bhatkal shouldered his way
through. I followed closely. Mrs. Bhatkal, who had purchased
a coconut, came last, pulling her child by the hand.

We struggled through toward a cleared space, in the midst of
which a fiie was burning Women were pacing slowly round the
fire, their heads bent and their faces covered. As they walked,
they chanted and, when they had circled the fire seven times,
they laid their coconuts reverently in the flames. The ground
was covered with scorched and blackened coconut shells. Mrs.
Bhatkal, still clinging to her child, joined the women who were
walking round the fire, her coconut held ready. A woman knelt
and kissed the ground, then took a handful of ashes, kissed
them, and placed them on her head. She knelt before a pitcher
filled with flowers and began to pray. The other women went
through the same ritual.

Mr. Bhatkal, notebook in hand, surveyed the scene through
his spectacles with a proprietary air. As he jabbed down notes,
he shouted explanations at me.

"This is where the sati took place. The fire has been kept go-
ing ever since. The coconuts are offerings to the sati, who has

75

JODHPUR:

passed through the fire to become a goddess. The pitcher be-
side the fire is the one she used for her last bath, on the day
she threw herself into the flames."

The background to the scene was a large marble tomb which
dominated the entire cemetery. Carved and fretted, it must
normally have been an imposing and dignified piece of work.
It was far from normal now, for it was luridly strung with col-
ored electric lightbulbs that robbed it of its dignity and re-
duced it to the level of a gaudy exhibit at a fair.

Mr. Bhatkal pointed to this monstrosity and shouted: "That
is the tomb of the satf s grandfather. It has been decorated in
her honor by the Jodhpur Electricians' Union, entirely at their
own expense."

Presently, after Mrs. Bhatkal had cast her coconut, smeared
her head with ashes, and finished praying, we left the cemetery.
At the gate a colored print was thrust into my hand by a street-
vendor, who promptly demanded five rupees and tried to sell
me, in addition, a garland and a poem specially written for the
occasion. The print showed a woman, dressed as the effigy in
the chariot had been dressed, seating amid decorative flames
and cradling a dead man's head in her lap. Hovering over the
flames was a viman or mythological Hindu airplane, heavy with
gilt and shaped like a balloon's gondola. In the gondola, smil-
ing happily, sat the same woman and the man, both transfig-
ured into deities. Brahma, Krishna, and Sita looked on approv-
ingly, and two Hindu saints sat on two prancing white horses,
holding lances. At the top of the picture other Hindu gods and
goddesses rode lions, played lutes, held tridents, and showered
down flowers.

We drove Mrs. Bhatkal and her child home. "Now you and I
will go and meet the satis family," shouted Mr. Bhatkal.

The house to which he took me was very large and very
gloomy. Several opulent looking motorcars stood in the drive-
way. People were grouped on the veranda, and as we ap-
proached, Mr. Bhatkal striding forward purposefully and I lag-

7 6

DEATH OF A LADY

ging apprehensively behind, a thin figure in white slipped away
from the group and hurried off, looking nervously over its shoul-
der.

Mr. Bhatkal waited for me to catch up and yelled in my ear:
'That is the family priest. He is skulking, because he fears he
may be in trouble with the police for aiding and abetting the

I felt somewhat relieved. For what they were worth, these
were the first words I had heard that even hinted at disapproba-
tion of the event that was attracting great crowds to Jodhpur.
Suttee the self-destruction of a Hindu widow on her husband's
funeral pyre still occurs in India, but usually only in villages
far off the beaten track and among obscure people. The Jodh-
pur suttee was unusual, for it had occurred in full view of some
five hundred people, and the victim was the widow of a high-
ranking and high-born soldier. On the day of the funeral, the
inconsolable widow, it was said, had dressed herself in her wed-
ding sari, entered the cemetery heavily veiled, and suddenly
cast herself into the flames. Now she was being worshipped as
a sati, or goddess.

Mr. Bhatkal strode briskly on to the veranda and loudly in-
troduced himself. Then, in equally stentorian tones, he intro-
duced me. I found myself unwillingly shaking the flabby hand
of a large unshaven man in a white turban. He looked at me
with dull eyes, said something in Hindi to Mr. Bhatkal, and
walked mto the unlighted house. "He has gone to fetch the
dead man's brother, who has come to take charge of the fam-
ily's affairs," Mr. Bhatkal explained.

A slim man came on to the veranda. His handshake was mus-
cular but perfunctory. He wore a small, neatly trimmed mus-
tache, and had a soldierly bearing.

"Happy to meet you/' he said. "Shall we sit down?" He
threw himself carelessly into a wicker chair, and swung a neat,
well-shod foot. "What can I do for you?"

"Ah, major/' shouted Mr. Bhatkal, happily, "you can do a

77

JODHPUR:

great deal. I want to write several articles. Whole country is
agog, isn't it?" He began pulling out handfuls of crumpled tele-
grams. "All my newspapers demanding special-correspondent
articles!"

"Not much I can tell you, actually," said the major. He spoke
in the clipped accents of Sandhurst Royal Military College. "Bit
of confusion, naturally. Of course I came dashin' up here as
soon as I heard about my brother's death. Poor old chap!" He
shook his head. "Not old, actually. In his forties. My sister-in-
law was some years younger. I got here too late for that part,
though. Missed the funeral altogether." He shook his sleek head
again, and I thought he was going to add: "Bad show," but he
didn't. Instead, he turned to me: "Know Jodhpur well?"

I said: "No."

"Very good huntin' country. Gone off a bit now, of course."

I said we were extremely sorry to intrude upon him at this
time of tragedy.

The major blinked. He was plainly disconcerted. "Sorry, I
don't quite follow."

"The tragedy of your brother's death and then your sister-
in-law's er suicide."

"Oh. Oh, yes." But the major was evidently still puzzled. "Of
course. Naturally. Yes, quite a shock." He considered: there was
a point he wanted to put, and he did not quite know how to
put it. Finally, brightening up, he said: "Only I don't know
that tragedy is quite the word, you know. We hardly look at it
that way. By dying the way she did, my sister-in-law felt she was
doing the right thing. After all, widows don't have much of a
life in India. And now instead of being a widow, she's become
a sati. And that's a very big thing for a family like ours; people
look up to us." He rose. "Well, hope you'll excuse me. Lots of
things to attend to, you know."

As we walked down the drive toward our car, Mr. Bhatkal
shouted enthusiastically: "Very fine chap, the major. Very big
sportsman."

78

DEATH OF A LADY

"Polo, I suppose," I said.

"And pig-sticking!" Mr. Bhatkal bawled.

The number of holy men increases every day. FROM THE PRE-
AMBLE OF A BILL FOR THE COMPULSORY REGISTRATION OF SadhuS

A LUNCH was being given in honor of the Chief Minister of
Rajasthan, who had come to Jodhpur to inquire into land dis-
turbances. Disgruntled former landlords who had been prom-
ised compensation but had not yet received it had launched a
satyagraha. They were taking out processions, holding up trains
by squatting on railroad tracks, and invading government of-
fices armed with cudgels. About two thousand of them were al-
ready lodged in the city jail.

Despite those exciting events, the lunch was a leisurely af-
fair. Several speakers, all of them belonging to the Chief Min-
ister's faction within the Congress Party, praised him extrava-
gantly to his face. He responded with a beaming smile, and fi-
nally made a speech himself, in which he poured ridicule on
his political opponents, accused them of being in league with
the dacoits, and declared he intended to uphold democracy at
all costs. Meanwhile, in the broiling streets, mobs were fasting
outside the jail, smashing windows, and stoning passing auto-
mobiles.

I found myself next to a gray-haired man who turned out to
be the superintendent of police. He might have been the brother
of the police superintendent in Meerut. Heartened by this co-
incidence, I asked him about the sati.

The superintendent took his time in replying. He looked like
a man who weighed his words.

"We've arrested the family guru/' he said. "But we may not
be able to prove anything."

79

JODHPUR:

I remembered the white figure that had slipped away so fur-
tively from the big gloomy house where we had met the sport-
loving major. I also recalled Mr. Bhatkal's words.

"You mean/' I said, "you suspect the family priest helped her
to reach the cemetery and commit suicide?"

The superintendent looked rather grim. "Not necessarily.
This isn't the first case of suttee I've investigated. Some of these
women become hysterical when their husbands die, and say
they mean to throw themselves on the funeral pyre. The word
gets about. There were over 500 people at that cremation, and
they had gone there expecting to see something." He paused.
"But often these women change their minds. Being burned
alive isn't the most pleasant of deaths."

"But this one evidently didn't change her mind."

The superintendent looked at me strangely. "Perhaps we'll
never know."

I was appalled. "You mean you suspect foul play?"

"What I suspect and what I can prove may be two different
things." He sounded tired and bitter. "All I know is that 500
people were crowded into that cemetery at the time the thing
happened, and not a single one is prepared to testify. Not one.
They all say they saw nothing, heard nothing. I know some of
the people who were there; a number of them are quite prom-
inent citizens. But they aren't talking." He paused again. "This
woman announced her intention of committing the act of sut-
tee: a religious act of tremendous and solemn significance in
Hindu eyes. I know just what it means, for I'm a Hindu myself.
Well! If you say you are going to become a goddess, you may
find you have to go through with it, whether you change your
mind at the last moment or not."

A policeman came up and leaned over to whisper in the su-
perintendent's ear. The superintendent looked exceedingly an-
noyed. "All right; I'll come at once." He excused himself to me,
and quickly slipped away. The Chief Minister, still on his feet,
was announcing that in a democracy public office was a sacred

so

DEATH OF A LADY

duty. The lunch, already interminable, looked as if it might
continue being very dull. Unobtrusively, I followed the su-
perintendent.

He was just getting into a police car, and it began to move
away at once. Temporarily separated from the invaluable Singh,
I looked helplessly around. A most elegant young man with a
cheerfully impudent grin hailed me. He was driving a brand-
new Chrysler.

"You are Mr. Bhatkal's friend? Please hop in!"

I hopped in. "They are going to the police station to pick
up more men," my unexpected ally explained. "I heard them
say so. Let's see the fun."

"Is it the land business?"

He shook his head. He had a handsome face, smooth as a
girl's, and very lively dark eyes. "No; they are going out to a
place called Lohardi. It's about eleven miles. A sadhu has taken
samadhi and is attempting to engrave himself alive. The police
disapprove, and will try to stop him."

We reached the police station in time to see a small cavalcade
set off. three police cars, with the superintendent's in the lead.
They evidently felt they had no moments to lose. Suitably dis-
guised from inquisitive eyes in a thick cloud of red dust, we fol-
lowed. My accomplice introduced himself as Suni Aiyyer. "I
am a qualified architect," he said proudly, "but have not yet
found a job. However, my father owns several cement factories,
so I should have no difficulty."

He drove with skill, swerving adroitly past bullock carts that
had already been pulled hastily into the side of the road to al-
low the police cars to pass. He wore a white silk shirt, with his
initials embroidered on the pocket, and cream-colored slacks.
He chattered happily as we sped along, plainly delighted to
have the tedium of a very hot day interrupted by so odd an ad-
venture. "A sadhu, I suppose you know, is a holy man. They
have a great influence over our superstitious villagers, and do a
great deal of harm. There are millions of them, and their num-

81

JODHPUR:

her is growing all the time, for it's a good life: a couple of cheap
conjuring trucks are all that's needed to pose as a new incarna-
tion of the Lord Krishna, or Vishnu returned to earth, or some
such nonsense. A sainadhi means a trance. Great renown at-
taches to a sadhu who has himself engraved alive while in state
of samadhi, so that he may emerge after many days, even weeks
or months, without having had food to eat, water to drink, or
air to breathe. The villagers then perform puja before him and
he is worshipped."

Shortly for even over a very bad road the new Chrysler rode
swiftly we came to a hillock at the entrance to a small and
wretched-looking mud village. A large, curious crowd had as-
sembled; Aiyyer got out of the car and pushed his way through
without ceremony. I followed meekly. The police cars had
halted untidily by the roadside, but the police at first glance
were not in evidence. We found them, farther round the side
of the hillock, busily attacking huge slabs of rock with pickaxes.
Aiyyer watched them for a while, then turned to the nearest
bystander, a villager with one blinded eye and a rapt look in
the other, and spoke to him vigorously in Hindi.

'The sadhu is in a pit, under those rocks/' he explained to
me, dismissing the villager presently with a cavalier nod. "He
was engraved yesterday, and these village people have been here
all night and all today, saying prayers and waiting to sec a mir-
acle. The police have already arrested one of the men who put
him in; the others are said to be hiding in the village temple
the people here are Shivaites and some policemen have gone
to arrest them, also." He inspected the laboring policemen crit-
ically. "If they find the sadhu dead, it will be a bad thing for
those who engraved him, even though he was engraved of his
own free will."

But the sadhu was not dead. Having finally loosened the
slabs of rock, the policemen began heaving and levering them
aside to reveal a small dark pit cut in the side of the hillock.
It was barely four feet square; and curled up inside it was a

82

DEATH OF A LADY

small, thin naked figure whom the policemen briskly hauled
out. Extremely dirty, he lay on the ground with his eyes closed;
but his thin chest moved, and an eyelid fluttered. The crowd
behind us exclaimed and muttered. Ignoring the police, Aiyyer
peered inquisitively into the pit. "There are some coconuts,"
he reported. "Not for food, of course, as the sadhu was in trance,
but as a religious offering; and there is also money quite a lot
of money." He straightened up grinning. "This sadhu was do-
ing quite well."

The sadhu was earned to a police car. The police began to
disperse the crowd. I kept cautiously out of the superintendent's
way. Presently the policemen who had gone off to search the
village temple returned with three thoroughly villainous look-
ing men in tow. They also were stowed in a police car. The
villager with one good eye, seeing the police busy elsewhere,
scrambled eagerly into the pit. He was disappointed: the po-
lice had already removed the sadhu 's money hoard, as well as
the coconuts. The police cars drove off. Aiyyer had vanished
into the crowd, and I waited patiently beside the Chrysler. Pres-
ently he reappeared and slid into the driver's seat.

"It is all the fault of the recent sati affair," he explained, as,
more sedately than we had come, we followed the police cars
back into Jodhpur. "That has drawn big crowds, you know, and
some people have made a lot of money out of it already. The
gurus, the garland-makers, and the sellers of coconuts have been
making business. The sadhus of Lohardi decided to try a 'mir-
acle/ also. They persuaded this man he is only an apprentice
sadhu to allow himself to be engraved. Thus they proposed to
exploit the blind faith of the people, sharing the income from
the samadhi. The sadhus sealed pit would have become quite
famous; people would have come many miles to see it and to
make offerings before it. You saw how much money the man
had himself collected even before he was engraved in the pit."

"But how would he have got out again?" I objected.

"Ah, his comrades of course would have persuaded the peo-

83

JODHPUR:

pie to go away for a short while, on some pretext. Then they
would quickly have released him, and sealed up the pit again
before the people returned. After that they might have exploited
the situation for years.

"Or," said Aiyyer brightly, a fresh thought striking him, "per-
haps they would not have done that. Perhaps they would just
have let him die. Then they would not have had to share the
money with him. He looked a very dull-witted fellow. His name
is Nathu, and he is from Bikaner. Yes, on the whole, I think
they would have let him die and told the people that, as he had
not come out of the pit, he must have ascended to heaven."

"But now, thanks to the police, he is alive and the people
know it was a swindle."

"Yes, that is so." Aiyyer sounded dubious "But there will be
another sadhu along next week or next month, and the villagers
will believe him when he tells them he can perform miracles,
and will make him coconut offerings and give him cash. We
Indians are very credulous people." He shrugged his elegant
shoulders. "Have you visited the Jodhpur Fort yet? It's well
worth seeing. Let's go there."

We drove up the steep winding road to the fort on its spur of
precipitious rock 400 feet above the town. There were seven
enormous gates, with spike-studded doorways yawning open.
Each was large enough to admit two elephants walking side by
side. On the wall just inside the last gate were the prints of fif-
teen tiny palms. "These are the handprints of the widows of
the maharajas," Aiyyer explained. "All of them committed sut-
tee. Six were the widows of the Maharajah Man Singh, who
signed a treaty with the British." He halted the car. "We shall
have to walk from here, I'm afraid: cars are not permitted to
go any farther."

It was a long, hot, steep walk over giant cobbles, but we saw
no one until we came to the first great courtyard on top of the
rock. Above us rose the round and square towers of the fort;

DEATH OF A LADY

peering over the thick wall, we could see far below us the
cramped yellow hieroglyphs of the town houses, lapped by the
sunbaked plain. In the courtyard, seated on a stone step and
paring his toenails, was a young man with thick black hair and
a scowl. When he saw us he got to his feet and exclaimed in
English: "Come and see how the exploiters lived' Palaces,
jewel-rooms, jade, women! Abolished by the great Congress
Party but kept for the proletariat to see monument of feudal
past. The guided tour lasts approximately thirty minutes and
the fee is only one rupee, unless you wish to pay more. You
may walk on the battlements, if you wish, at no extra charge.
Come'" He bounded up the stone steps and disappeared in-
side, though we could hear him still calling impatiently.

Aiyyer grinned and winked: we followed. Through vast
rooms, brocaded and many-windowed, up great staircases and
along corridors that seemed to stretch endlessly as in a dream,
out in the open again, under the hot sun, stone courtyard
within courtyard; sheer walls and dizzy balconies; more court-
yards, and the windows of the secluded women's quarters, now
empty. We paused to admire a vast green jade bowl of infinite
coolness, inspected a roomful of miniatures, gaped at very bad
full-length oil portraits of black-whiskered fierce-looking rajas
clasping curved jeweled swords. The young man with the black
hair and the scowl padded swiftly, predatonly ahead, talking
angrily through it all, but as a guide he was poor, for he had
but little historical information to impart. His subject was
Marxist-Leninism.

We paused breathless in a glittering ballroom hung with crys-
tal chandeliers and lined with stately high-backed chairs in blue
velvet.

"Congress Party is Marxist but first task was overthrow of
feudalism. Thus the revolution in India contains bourgeois
elements. This is unavoidable. Lenin said "

We panted down yet another corridor and were stunned by

85

JODHPUR:

the magnificence of a throne room, slashed with crimson, heavy
with gilt, with tiger skins spread casually on a polished dark
floor.

"Rich mill-owners and landlords supported Congress Party
not because they loved the masses but because they hoped for
own selfish purposes to oust British finance-capitalism. This
was capitalist contradiction we were entitled to exploit. In this
way even Indian capitalists helped to smash the yoke of im-
perialism. As Palme Dutt has written "

Abruptly, unexpectedly, we were ushered into another world.
The rooms were modern, and ordinary. The furnishing was
heavy, unimaginative, outmoded, and rather shabby. There was
a great deal of it, but it might have been picked up in an auc-
tion sale. Here, evidently, in the very last days of their fading
glory the feudal Rajput rulers had tried to come to terms with
the twentieth century. One could imagine the last maharani,
no longer in danger of suttee, sitting on that overstuffed couch,
knitting, while the maharaja tried to get the B.B.C. on that for-
biddingly upright knob-studded radio. I felt they had sought,
not very successfully, to make themselves cosy; and the guide
evidently felt the same.

"Bourgeois," he said, with emphatic disgust.

At last, for a space, he left, allowing us to stroll alone on the
battlements, inspect the ancient gaping-mouthed cannon, and
peer over the topmost walls down on the town, which from
this great height looked smaller than ever.

"A very trying fellow," said Aiyyer, annoyed. "In feudal days
I think he would have been trampled to death by elephants."

"Or engraved," I said.

After a few minutes the guide came bouncing back. He jin-
gled keys, looked impatiently at his wristwatch which was fas-
tened with a shiny metal bracelet, and hustled us back along
the corridors, through the courtyards, past the silent women's
quarters, down the final great staircase, back to where we had
come from. But he had one last thing to show us.

86

DEATH OF A LADY

He heaved up a great stone slab with an iron ring attached
to it, and led the way down steep, narrow stone steps into a tiny
gloomy chamber, in which candles gleamed palely. They lit up
a monstrous image, which at first sight looked like a decapitated
man, for on the ground there rested a huge head. The head of
stone was wearing a painted turban, with heave painted eyes, a
simpering painted smile, and with two great, black painted
mustaches. We regarded this object in astonished silence, which
the guide at length broke.

"This was prince's chapel," he said. "Prince worshipped dead
ancestor." He pointed. "Prince daily offered the ancestor food
and drink. If not forthcoming, then the prince's ancestor would
go to Hindu hell, which we call put. The Sanskrit word for a
son is putra, meaning one who frees the ancestor from put"

His tone was solemn. He regarded the stone head with rever-
ential awe. I suddenly realized that he was speaking in utmost
seriousness. The pseudoscientific claptrap about "feudalism"
and "capitalism" had dropped from him like a cloak.

Slowly we climbed back into the hot sunlight out of the dark
little chamber. The guide pocketed our rupees with alacrity,
and vanished with his usual abruptness. Aiyyer was choking
with laughter. "I told you we Indians are a credulous people,"
he said. "Even Marxist-Leninists!"

Husband -wanted for beautiful graduate girl, 23, with fine arts
and classical music qualifications. Domesticated. ADVERTISE-
MENT IN JODHPUR NEWSPAPER

NEAR JODHPUR dacoits captured a train. They robbed the pas-
sengers and crew and forced them into the jungle. Then they
sent the train crashing into a station, killing the stationmaster

8?

JODHPUR:

and three porters. In Jodhpur itself, 10,000 beggars and prosti-
tutes joined the disgruntled ex-landlords in a mass meeting and
quoted copiously from the Constitution of India.

But all this was put in the shade by the high priest of the
monkey-god temple, who after consulting the stars suddenly pro-
claimed an Akha Teej, or Auspicious Marriage Day. Families
frantically busied themselves with matchmaking, and the news-
papers were filled with advertisements of marriageable girls.
Sisters were married off in batches at joint ceremonies. One
bride was twelve and her groom was only eight. A two-week-
old girl was joined in matrimony with a four-month-old boy,
the two infants being carried seven times round the sacred fire
by their respective mothers. A grown man turned up at his wed-
ding with a nine-month-old girl in his arms. He explained she
was an orphan whom he had adopted. Now he wished to marry
her because this would be cheaper than providing her with a
dowry when she grew up and married someone else.

The beggars, the prostitutes, and the dispossessed landlords
continued stoning traffic and invading government offices: they
developed a particular passion for smashing tabulating-ma-
chines, which were supposed to have something to do with the
land question and the nonpayment of compensation. Daily, at
its appointed hour, the flower-strewn chariot with the effigy of
the sati was taken through the hot narrow streets. But fewer
people came to watch it, or they only turned their heads casu-
ally to follow its progress. The marriage epidemic gripped pub-
lic attention to the exclusion of everything else. Every street had
its wedding procession, complete with brassy trumpets and
prancing horses. The many houses where weddings were being
celebrated blazed nightly with colored lights, outshining the
marble tomb of the satis grandfather.

The rush of weddings produced some unfortunate incidents.
A middle-aged bridegroom keeled over and died in the midst of
his own wedding feast. The news was carefully kept from the
guests who were separately attending the wedding feast of his

DEATH OF A LADY

fourteen-year-old bride, lest the food that had been so elabo-
rately prepared should be wasted.

Aiyyer and I sat in the Jodhpur court all through one long
hot day, watching perspiring lawyers leap up and down ex-
citedly arguing the points of a complicated case. The complain-
ant, shrilly voluble, was a trembling old man with a dirty gray
beard. The defendants were his new, eighteen-year-old bride
and her entire family. The old man, who was rich, had ardently
sought a young bride, and finally one was produced. But after
the wedding he discovered that she was of a different and
lesser caste than his own, and, moreover, that her father was in
jail. The indignant groom called the police, charging the bride
and her family with fraud. The girl spiritedly claimed that in
the new India caste discrimination had been legally abolished,
and demanded her wifely rights. The old man's caste promptly
disowned him, but that, though fearful enough, was not the
end of his troubles. Emerging from jail where he had just fin-
ished his sentence, the bride's father brought a counter-charge
against his new son-in-law: of kidnapping his daughter and
marrying her without getting her father's consent. The affair
looked as if it would keep the lawyers busy for a very long time.

The marriage fever was not confined to Jodhpur. Pleased to
have a good excuse for driving his father's air-conditioned
Chrysler and for temporarily abandoning the fatiguing busi-
ness of looking for a job Aiyyer took me on long exploratory
forays into the Rajasthan countryside. In a village near Jaipur
we watched a young man who was securely tied to a bamboo
pole spinning around 50 feet above the ground, like a human
ceiling-fan. He was lowered to earth only after he had com-
pleted 21 giddy turns. The young man emerged grinning cheer-
fully from the ordeal. He was a Bhil, and he had passed success-
fully through the tribe's manyata ceremony in order to propiti-
ate the gods and win a bride. No self-respecting Bhil girl will
look twice at a suitor who has not performed manyata. The
young man's place on the whirling pole was immediately taken

8 9

JODHPUR:

by another, and more young Bhils were eagerly queuing up for
their turn. A crowd of Bhils, men and women, sat at the foot of
the bamboo platform that had been specially built for the occa-
sion, watching the wildly gyrating figure on the rotating pole,
clapping their hands, and singing loud cheerful songs. When
the ceremony was over for the day, a man decapitated a tethered
sheep with one stroke of a curved sword, and feasting began.

Rajasthan covers an area of over 132,000 square miles. A
square-shaped state, eater-cornered between Bombay and West
Pakistan, it is half as big as Texas. Much of it is desert, and the
desert is eating eastward at the rate of a half a mile a year,
spreading in a vast convex arc and bringing with it savage hot
winds and blasting duststorms. There are also 13,000 square
miles of scrub jungle and thorny forest. The old state of Jodh-
pur, now incorporated in Rajasthan, was called "The Land of
Death." Rajasthan is full of thick-walled forts built on top of
sheer rock cliffs, the eyries of the Rajputs.

Aiyyer and I explored the fort at Jaipur, then drove south to
the even more awe-inspiring fort at Chitor, which crowns a cliff
500 feet high and 3 miles long.

Comfortably insulated from the roasting heat, our eyes pro-
tected from the glare by tinted glass, we rode over shocking
roads through a strange world. It was as strange to Aiyyer as it
was to me, this world of jungle, desert, and mud villages; for
until he had talked his father into letting him take the trip, he
had never set foot in a village at all. At first he was even more
chary than I of eating village food, or drinking the scalding
brown tea, thick with coarse sugar and mixed with oily buffalo
milk, that the villagers brought us in great brass cups. Aiyyer
had lived a sheltered life, for he had never left Jodhpur except
to go to college in Bombay. "They are filthy places, those vil-
lages," he remarked with disdain. "Gandhi described them as
manure heaps, and he was right."

"But, Aiyyer, 84 per cent of the people of India live in vil-
lages."

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DEATH OF A LADY

"That is why we are building Socialism, in order to rescue the
people from the idiocy of village life."

From Chitor we drove northwest, for Aiyyer wanted to call
on a raja's son who had been at college with him. "His name is
Udai Jaswant," Aiyyer said, "and he flies his own plane." In all
other ways a charming youth, Aiyyer was a bit of a snob.

The raja's palace was a small fort, crowning a hill and over-
looking a gorge. The road to it was narrow, winding, and full
of loose stones. But we passed a small field, where cattle
browsed round an incongruous object colored bright red: a
Piper Cub. Aiyyer pointed to it proudly. "There is my friend's
plane." We drove through a large open gateway. In the burn-
ing stone courtyard a dirty old man was dispiritedly carrying
slop pails. He gaped at the Chrysler, as if petrified, then ran in-
doors. Starting on a low trembling note, a gong began to boom
inside the square stone building, which at close quarters
looked extremely dilapidated. One expected men-at-arms to
spring to attention. Instead, a plump young man wearing spec-
tacles and what looked like a white nightshirt came out and
blinked dubiously at us.

"Udai Jaswant!" yelled Aiyyer. They shook hands. I was in-
troduced. Udai Jaswant shook hands with me, also. His hand-
shake was flabby and perfunctory; he also looked somewhat an-
noyed. But he led us indoors.

Aiyyer chattered excitedly. We were on a short trip, and he
had decided to give his friend a little surprise. Wasn't that
Udai Jaswant's plane, in the little field: the Piper Cub? He
still flew regularly? Aiyyer shot me a triumphant look. He had
suspected me of disbelieving the part about the plane. Was
Udai Jaswant's father, the raja, at home?

"No, he is away in Delhi, on business." Udai Jaswant spoke
in English. His eyes, behind the spectacles, were evasive. "You
will want to wash up. Then we shall have tea."

The place was full of echoing corridors and awkwardly built
staircases. It was also dark and seemed dingy. Aiyyer's face be-

91

JODHPUR:

gan to fall. This was not what he had expected. On a corridor
wall someone had scribbled with chalk in English: "Merry
Xmas To All." The greeting seemed strangely out of place in
the middle of August. The notes of the gong had long since
died away, and the palace was shrouded in a brooding silence.
We had seen no one since encountering the dirty old man with
the slop pails. "This way," said our host, and opened the door
of an enormous bedroom.

Quick as light, a girl rolled off the bed and flashed out
through another door, too startled even to squeal. She was slim,
brown-skinned, and wore no clothes whatever.

Udai Jaswant did not say anything. He merely paused mo-
mentarily, frowning, then marched into the bedroom. "I think
you will find everything you need here. Unfortunately most of
the servants are away at the moment, but, if you pull the bell-
cord, the old man will come." His savoir-faire was remarkable.
He regarded us with eyes that were no longer evasive, but were
expressionless. I had the uncomfortable feeling all the same that
he was in a towering rage. "Excuse me, I think I would like to
change my clothes." He nodded coldly and left us.

Aiyyer was carefully not looking at me. I crossed to the win-
dow, and peered out. Below the old man was slowly tottering
across the courtyard. I could see the gorge, and the Piper Cub
in its field was a bright red toy. Beyond the gorge the wooded
countryside flattened out into a dusty plain, shimmering in a
heat haze. The silence became oppressive. Aiyyer began to
whistle nervously. Then he stopped. In the next room people
were whispering. They were girls' voices. One of them suddenly
giggled.

"I think we'd better go down," I said.

Directed by the old man, who popped up in our path in one
of the dark corridors, we found the raja's son in a large room
which was clearly a library. From floor to high ceiling, the walls
were lined with books, behind glass. They were uniformly
bound in bright red leather, and on the spine of each the raja's
crest was stamped in gold. It was an odd collection to find in

92

DEATH OF A LADY

so gloomy and tumbledown a building, but just how very odd it
was I had still to discover.

Udai Jaswant had changed into a long buttoned achkan and
tight white trousers. The buttoned-up coat made him look
plumper than ever. He was about Aiyyer's age, or perhaps a
couple of years older, but his manner was suave. Whatever had
been troubling him he had evidently determined to put at the
back of his mind.

"Ah, there you are!" He smiled jovially. "Tea will be along
presently. You must tell me all about your interesting journey."
He saw me looking at the books. "These are my father's collec-
tion. He is a great reader, and dotes on books. These he has
been collecting for years, for they represent his special interest.
I myself do not read very much, I'm afraid." His eyes gleamed
behind his spectacles. "I like to have fun! Flying, for example.
I like flying very much. And then there are other things. Really,
one does not have time to pore over books as well!" He laughed
good-naturedly. I thought of the girls upstairs. While his father
was safely out of the way, the raja's son had clearly been having
fun. He must have found our unexpected arrival exasperating.

One of the sliding glass doors that enclosed the bookshelves
was open. I lifted out a book, idly and at random. Bound in
red leather, stamped in gold, it was called Death Strikes at Mid-
night. The one next to it, by the same author, was called Death
for Company. I roamed the shelves, and the raja's special in-
terest became clear. The library contained nothing but mystery
stories.

"You will notice that they are all first editions," said Udai
Jaswant. "My father goes to a great deal of trouble to obtain
only first editions. Then he has them specially bound."

The old man brought in tea. It was served in cups of thin
china, but tasted little different from the tea we had been
drinking in the villages. There were also sugar cakes, and bis-
cuits imported from Britain. Aiyyer had found his tongue again,
and was talking about Bombay. The raja's son let him do all
the talking. I sipped my tea. Gradually Aiyyer ran out of remi-

93

JODHPUR:

niscences. The raja's son contributed none. When a pause en-
sued he raised a plump wrist and slowly, not casually, inspected
his gold watch.

"I think we must be getting along," I said.

Aiyyer jumped to his feet. Udai Jaswant got up more lei-
surely. "I am sorry you could not stay longer," he said pleas-
antly. "But I suppose you have a long journey still ahead and
are anxious to make a start."

Politely he accompanied us into the courtyard. It was still
very hot. Above us the fortlike palace towered, square, rather
shabby, and utterly silent. The old man was nowhere to be
seen. I thought I glimpsed a girl's face peering down from a
window.

"Perhaps we will meet in Jodhpur," Aiyyer said.

"Perhaps," the raja's son agreed. "Well, good-by." He turned,
and entered the building without glancing back.

We drove down the winding road, past the field with the red
Piper Cub and the cattle. Aiyyer drove more fiercely than usual.
"I am sorry," he said. "He was not very polite, was he?"

"He was perfectly polite," I said. "In the circumstances. We
ought to have let him know, somehow, that we were coming."

Aiyyer said he thought we could make a western detour on
the way back to Jodhpur, that would take us a little way into
the desert. It was I who insisted it should be only a little detour.
Left to himself, Aiyyer would cheerfully have driven all the way
to Jaisalmer. I did not want to ruin his father's Chrysler, or have
it purloined by bandits. The dacoits were reported to be very
strong in the desert fringes; one band was said to operate with
an anti-tank gun.

We left the gorge country behind, and entered a vast, flat,
desolate land. The road degenerated to a mere track. Great
dustclouds were drawn across the sky like a gray curtain, and
ahead of us there were wind-tossed sand dunes. We seemed to
be the only living things in those wastes.

Then out of the dust there suddenly appeared a jeep, bump-

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DEATH OF A LADY

ing over the track toward us. The jeep advanced steadily, com-
ing very fast in its own dustcloud. There were white men in it.
They wore goggles and dark shirts, and they passed us with-
out a second glance, sitting upright and looking stolid.

"Russians," said Aiyyer simply. "They are prospecting for oil
in the desert, under an agreement with the Indian Govern-
ment."

"There are Russian prospecting-teams operating between
here and the Pakistan border/' Aiyyer said. "Also, the Cana-
dians frequently fly over the desert, hoping to locate oil from
the air. And just across the border in Pakistan there are Ameri-
can prospectors who are also seeking oil." Rajasthan, it was
plain, was being stirred out of its long feudal sleep.

Meanwhile there were still the dacoits. Late on the following
afternoon we saw on the horizon, before the dust curtain
dropped again to blot them from sight, a long string of camels.
The men who rode them wore high striped turbans, and ready
to each man's hand was a rifle stock, sticking up out of his sad-
dle. The Indian Camel Corps has a formidable reputation. It
fought in China in 1900 under the Maharaja of Bikaner. Three
years later it was fighting in Somaliland. In the First World War
it fought in Egypt and in the Second World War in Abyssinia.

"Nowadays they patrol the Pakistan-India border, and they
also hunt the dacoits," said Aiyyer. "The Pakistanis, of course,
welcome the dacoits and give them sanctuary." (I found that
every Indian believed this; later, in Pakistan, I was assured that
the dacoits raided across the border into Pakistan and were a
great nuisance, but were difficult to catch because when pur-
sued they simply crossed back into India, where they were sure
of getting protection.) "If it were not for the Pakistanis, the
Camel Corps would long since have exterminated dacoits."

We stopped for tea at a desert village called Rama. The week
before the dacoits had paid it a visit, and Rama was still buzzing
with excitement. For people who had been visited and presum-
ably robbed by an armed dacoit band, the villagers seemed ex-

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JODHPUR:

traordinanly cheerful. A lean old man with a wrinkled leathery
face described the incident with gusto.

"They came riding through the village gate on horseback,
yelling their heads off and brandishing rifles. A fierce-looking
lot of men. The first thing they did, they forced us poor people
to point out for them the houses of the moneylender and the
goldsmith." His sun-faded eyes twinkled; I had a feeling the
villagers had perhaps not been unwilling. ''Well, they caught
them and trussed them up like chickens, saying they would
carry them off into the desert, and hold them until their ran-
soms were paid. The moneylender wept, and said he had only
one son, who lived in Bombay and was a bad lot: he would
never pay a rupee's worth of ransom to save his poor old father.
The dacoits laughed, and said that would be most unfortunate,
they couldn't afford to feed prisoners for more than a couple of
weeks/' The old man grinned in a leathery way. "But the da-
coits didn't ride off at once. They said they wanted to give a
party. They had us prepare a feast it was the goldsmith's food,
and his daughter did most of the cooking and then they sat
around, eating and drinking, and playing accordions, and sing-
ing songs from Indian films." He smacked his lips remimscently.
"It was a fine feast, I never tasted such food. . . . Oh, yes, we
were all invited. And then the dacoits gave what was left of
the food to the poor people, and gave sugar cakes to the chil-
dren, and handed out money to the untouchables. After that
they went away, taking the moneylender and the goldsmith
with them. The goldsmith's daughter had taken quite a fancy
to the dacoit chief he was a big, handsome man, with tremen-
dous mustaches and offered to go along with them: to look
after her father, she said. But the dacoit leader said the desert
was no place for a woman, and promised to send her father
back, just as soon as the ransom money was delivered. He said
to her: 'If you feel like delivering it yourself, of course, that's
a different matter. 7 She collected the money from her father's
family, and left yesterday after getting a message from the da-

9 6

DEATH OF A LADY

coits, telling her where to bring it. So I expect the goldsmith
will soon be back; but I'll be surprised if we ever set eyes on her
again."

"It's perfectly true/' Aiyyer said, as we drove away from Rama
village. "Women do sometimes fall in love with dacoits. I sup-
pose it's their Rajput blood. In the old days Rajput princesses
were always running off with their lovers. Anyway, many of
the dacoits are descendants of Rajput nobles. They are very
reckless and very brave and also very ruthless, just like the old
Rajput warriors."

"Don't they ever get caught?" I asked.

"Yes, but not very often. Take Kalwan Singh, for instance.
When a police chief's daughter was married at Pali, Kalwan
Singh's men came to the wedding disguised as cooks and serv-
ing-men. In that way they learned all about the plans the po-
lice were making for Kalwan Singh's capture. So Kalwan Singh
had no difficulty wriggling out of the net the police had spread
for him. Of course, when a dacoit gets caught, he's usually
doomed unless he has political protection. There was Suraj
Bham. The police caught and hanged him. But he was so rev-
ered by the poor people that the police had to burn his body
in secret, otherwise the villages would have built a shrine over
Sura] Bham's remains."

"Do some dacoits have political protectors?"

Aiyyer laughed. "If the dacoits happen to be supporters of
the Congress Party. There is a well-known dacoit called Bhan-
war Singh. In 1952 he surrendered himself to the police. He
said he had seen the error of his ways, and wanted to help
build the New India. He received a pardon, and helped the
Congress Party win an election at Jalore. That was easy, for the
village people loved him; he was so generous to the poor. But
after that he quarreled with an important Congress Party man,
a member of the State Parliament, and unfortunately killed
him. So he had to go back to being a dacoit again, at any rate,
until the affair blew over."

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JODHPUR:

"But I thought the Congress Party wanted to wipe out the
dacoits?"

"Ah, yes, of course," said Aiyyer patiently; "if they are really
and truly dacoits. But, you see, most of the dacoits are actually
just Rajputs/'

I said I didn't see.

"Well, there is very bad feeling here in Rajasthan between
the Rajputs and the Jats."

I thought I saw a gleam of light.

"The Rajputs support the Congress Party, and the Jats per-
haps are opposed to the Congress Party?"

"Oh, no: they both support the Congress Party. But for
many years the Rajputs lorded it over the Jats. The Jats were
not allowed to wear jewelry, or even to ride horses: the Rajputs
treated them like a lower caste. So, of course, when India got
independence and elections were held, the Rajputs and the
Jats fought each other -within the Congress Party. At first the
Rajputs controlled the party in Rajasthan. But now the Jats
control the party. They are kicking the Rajputs around. When
the big estates were broken up, the land set aside for distribu-
tion to the poor half a million acres was taken from Rajputs,
and given to Jats. That is why some Rajputs became dacoits.
Naturally those Rajput dacoits, who as you see are not really
and truly dacoits, get much sympathy and help from the Rajput
members of the Rajasthan Congress Party, who dislike the pres-
ent Rajasthan Congress Party Government, which is controlled
by Jat elements."

"Yes," I said, my head whirling. "I believe I see now."
But I didn't. Aiyyer clearly perceived this, though he was too
polite to say so. Instead, he tactfully suggested that when we got
back to Jodhpur, I should have a talk with his father, who was,
of course, a leading member of the Congress Party, and there-
fore very knowledgeable on the subject of Rajasthan politics.

In Jodhpur the marriage fever had subsided and politics were
again in the forefront of public attention. The beggars and

9 8

DEATH OF A LADY

prostitutes had all been arrested, and the ex-landlords had
formed a Bhooswami Sangh, or Landlords' League, and were
trying to have the Home Minister impeached for unparalleled
brutality, including the murder of the founder of the Bhooswami
Sangh, who had been killed by a bus.

Aiyyer renewed his invitation to me to meet his father. He
warned me, however, that his father was a devout follower of
Gandhi, and therefore lived in extremely simple style.

We drove to the house in the Chrysler. The house was a sim-
ple, flat-roofed, two-story affair, set down in three acres of lawns
and gardens. Several malis, men of the gardener caste, were dili-
gently watering the lawns and pruning the rosebushes. A sav-
age-looking goat was tethered at the side of the house, near the
double garage- Aiyyer explained that its function was to supply
milk for his father's frugal needs. A number of expensive-look-
ing automobiles were parked in the driveway, with livened
chauffeurs slumped asleep in the driver's seats. In the drawing-
room Aiyyer's father sat amid his guests on a long red leather
couch. The guests were all men, impressively handsome Indi-
ans in well-fitting dinner jackets They were talking loudly in
English. Soft-footed servants glided about the large room, of-
fering cigarettes from silver boxes and tall iced drinks on silver
trays.

Aiyyer's father, the owner of cement factories, was a very tall
man with a patrician nose and dark flashing eyes. He towered
over me, shaking my hand in a strong grip.

"But I mean," one of the men said heatedly, "it is very un-
democratic to push people under buses."

"There is no proof of that," said another, shaking his head.
"It is only a bazaar rumor."

"So now you are taking the side of the police," said the first
man, enraged. "I tell you that Kujal, our Bhooswami leader,
was standing quite aloof. The police commandeered a bus and
crushed him under its wheels."

"It is true!" declared a third man. "They are seizing bhoo-

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JODHPUR:

swamis and pushing them under buses in batches. They arrest
them and beat them, naked, until they bleed. They take them
into the jungles and leave them there to starve to death or be
eaten by wild animals."

"I think you are being unnecessarily fretful," said the man
who was defending the police. "Besides, it is well known that
some of the bhooswamis are working hand in hand with the
dacoits. That is shameful."

"Who said the bhooswamis have anything to do with the da-
coits?"

"Everyone knows it. The dacoits hand over part of the ran-
som money to the Bhooswami Sangh. Also, they have pledged
at the next election to force the villagers to vote only for B/ioo-
swami Sangh Congress Party candidates."

"All the dacoits are not evil men," someone declared. "Some
of them were very respectable before they had their land taken
and were compelled to become outlaws."

"It is all the fault of the Jats," someone else said.

"I do not defend the Jats," said the man who had defended
the police. "I am a Rajput."

"But the Congress Party in Rajasthan contains Rajputs as
well as Jats. It is time the Jats understood this."

"There is too much intrigue in the Congress Party," one man
said gloomily. "Yesterday's enemies are today's bedfellows, and
today's bedfellows will fly at one another's throat tomorrow."

A girl in a crimson sari came smiling into the room. The
men's eyes sparkled appreciatively. Those who had mustaches
twirled them. I did not blame them. She was an extremely
pretty girl, with glossy dark hair and sparkling teeth. I was not
surprised when Aiyyer introduced her as his sister. They might
have been twins.

Smiling prettily, she offered me a green sweetmeat from a
silver dish. "Please try it," she begged. "I myself made it." I
nibbled a piece, and said it was extremely good. She sighed.
"Oh, I am so pleased! It took me a long time to make. It con-

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DEATH OF A LADY

tains sixteen separate ingredients. One of them is goat's brain.
That is very hard to get/' I declined a second helping. "But it
is very good for the virility," one of the men whispered in my
ear. He took three pieces.

Aiyyer's father listened indulgently as the political discussion
continued. He was the oldest, and also the handsomest, man
present. He radiated personal magnetism and intellectual force.
His brow was calm and unruffled. He had a quiet, confident
smile, and gave the impression that he could, if he chose, sup-
ply the complete and definitive answer to any problem, includ-
ing the problem of landlordism in Rajasthan. But he never
opened his mouth. My admiration for him grew. He plainly
found the discussion jejune. These absurd accusations and
counter-accusations, his manner quietly suggested, were tire-
somely immature. These were the sort of wild charges the In-
dians had hurtled against the British, and were now busily
hurtling against one another. The new India could do better
than that. I looked forward eagerly to hearing him expound his
own views. I was sure he would do so when he judged the time
ripe.

When at length the disputants fell silent, he leaned forward
and said with simple authority: "You are all wrong. You are ap-
proaching the matter in too petty a spirit. You should reflect
more, as I have done, on the teachings of the Father of the Na-
tion. What India and the world need is a new philosophy. We
must try to give an activist interpretation to the Vedanta of
Sankura. Man is a being with two directions, the spiritual and
the material. We must reaffirm the individuality of man without
denying the reality of God."

In India political discussion is apt to take some surprising
turns.

Before leaving Jodhpur, I wanted to say good-by to the po-
lice superintendent, but he had been summoned to Bah, a dis-
trict where the Shakta sect flourished. A young Shakta called

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JODHPUR:

Odia Patel had walked into the police station at Bali wearing a
loincloth and carrying a blood-stained knife and his wife's nose,
which he had just cut off.

Shakta is one of the many names for the wife of Shiva. Those
who worship her under that name hold that the five best things
in life are sex, liquor, meat, fish, and grain. The highlight of
their worship is a communal sex orgy called kanchalia dharam,
or the ceremony of the blouse. After feasting and drinking, the
women take off their kanchalias, or blouses, and place them in
a large earthen jar. The men then fish them out, and each man
is entitled to spend the night with the woman whose blouse
he holds even if, as usually happens, she is someone else's wife.

Bali was a Shakta area, but Odia Patel had recently married
a girl called Naji, who was not a Shakta and who knew little
about their peculiar customs. On the night of the kanchalia
dharam, he told her to put on her wedding costume a black
kanchalia, with a billowing scarlet skirt, a scarlet headdress, and
bangles, toe-rings and nose-ring of heavy silver. She obeyed un-
questiomngly, and her husband then placed a silver lingam, or
phallic charm, on her forehead, and led her to where 84 other
Shaktas and their wives were gathered, with a guru in attend-
ance.

Naji was ordered to put her blouse in the jar along with the
others but when she discovered the significance of the cere-
mony she fled. Angered by this affront to his religion, Odia
Patel followed her home and there cut off her nose. When he
turned up at the police station with the nose, the knife, and
this tale, the police went with him to his hut; there they found
Naji, still wearing her wedding finery, noseless and hanging
from a beam, quite dead. Thus she had been faithful after her
fashion.

So I left Jodhpur without seeing the superintendent, and
drove east to Bharatpur, on the way to Agra. Bharatpur was in
a state of tumult. Several pandits and two Brahmin priests from
Benares were investigating a miracle.

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DEATH OF A LADY

The local temple contained an idol of the Lord Krishna, and
the temple priest was in the habit of walking reverently round
it waving a piece of lighted camphor in the presence of wor-
shippers. This was supposed to lull Krishna to rest, so that, when
the temple was closed for the night, he would sleep peacefully.
One morning the priest opened up the temple, and Krishna in-
stead of being upright was lying down, with his head on a silk
pillow.

Five pandits were immediately summoned, and they recom-
mended that the idol be restored to its original position, amid
chanting of mantras, to be followed by twenty-four hours of
prayer. It took four men to raise the idol, which was extremely
heavy. Meanwhile thousands of people streamed toward Bha-
ratpur from outlying districts to visit the temple and witness the
scene of such miraculous happenings. Unfortunately there were
skeptics who claimed the idol had merely fallen down in spite
of the presence of the pillow, which believers accepted as con-
clusive proof that a miracle had indeed occurred. Unabashed,
the skeptics demanded that the idol be removed and that a new
and less unstable one take its place. There were lively argu-
ments, and a number of heads were broken. More pandits were
called in. They in turn appealed to the Rajasthan State Govern-
ment, which sent for the two important priests from Benares.
Soon three committees of pandits and priests were sitting in
acrimonious session at the temple unable to agree on their
verdict.

When I passed through Bharatpur, the temple was still closed,
and the pandits and priests were still deliberating. Up to that
point the controversy had cost Bharatpur and the Rajasthan
Government some 20,000 rupees in fees paid to the three reli-
gious committees.

103

IV

AGRA: WOMEN AND TIGERS

''This is a national monument and under the care of the
Government of India. No tipping. SIGN AT THE TAJ MAHAL

A,

ALONG the road the trees were wrapped in an early morn-
ing mist, grape-blue, under a flat bright sky. Then the mist evap-
orated in the furnace breath of a new day. The heat grew
steadily, hour after hour, and the road, yellow with ancient
dust, passed through villages that looked as if they had not
known rain for centuries. Toward evening the sky turned yel-
low and then molten gold. Finally, when I reached Fatchpur
Sikri, the deserted city's huge red temples, mosques, and
tombs were ablaze under a fiery setting sun.

At Fatehpur Sikri I met a man called Ferguson The guides
were all asleep, or had gone home. We wandered unattended
through echoing acres of red sandstone and across vast empty
courtyards, and climbed five massive stone staircases to the top
of the Panch Mahal. Ferguson remarked that it was a good
place to watch the sun go down and think about India's his-
tory.

Ferguson was a large gray-faced man. Despite the manifest
absence of rain, he carried a dark blue raincoat over his arm.
He was hatless, and wore a rather shabby brown suit and brown
shoes. He had European features but an Indian's brown eyes,
and I guessed, correctly as it turned out, that he was an Anglo-
Indian.

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

Akbar, the Mogul Emperor, built the city of Fatehpur Sikn
to commemorate his conquest of Gujarat in 1572. The Em-
peror's stables held 12,000 horses and camels. Water for the
city's immense baths was raised by giant Persian wheels, turned
by elephants. Nevertheless, the water supply unaccountably
failed, and, within ten years of its completion, Fatehpur
Sikn was abandoned.

From the flat roof of the Panch Mahal, reared on 176 stone
pillars, we could sec Akbar's Hall of Audience, the Diwan-i-Am,
365 feet long, and the fantastic tapering tower, 70 feet high,
its sides bristling with elephant tusks carved in red sandstone,
from which the court ladies used to watch the games and
tournaments.

"Akbar was a great man," Ferguson said. "In Europe, in
his day, the Catholics and Protestants were slaughtering one
another. Akbar was a Moslem; but he invited Jesuits to his
court, befriended the Jams, and listened attentively to Hindu
priests."

"Did all those people listen to Akbar?" I inquired.

Ferguson laughed. "No, when he forbade the killing of cows
in order to please the Hindus, the Moslems were enraged. And
when he proposed to build a 'temple of all religions/ the
Jesuits were furious with him. They wanted him to turn Chris-
tian, and then to brand all other faiths as damnable heresies,
punishable by beheading, disemboweling, and burning at the
stake."

The walls of the deserted palaces were casting long shadows,
and nothing stirred below us, in all that wilderness of stone. We
were the day's last, belated visitors. The sun was setting very
fast, and soon Fatehpur Sikn would be given over to darkness,
and the bats. We climbed down hurriedly from the roof of the
Panch Mahal, and passed through the Buland Darwaza: 176
feet high, and the tallest gateway in India.

On its archways there are two inscriptions, one of which
runs: "The King of Kings, Shadow of God, Jalal-ud-din

105

AGRA:

Muhammad Akbar, the Emperor, on his return from conquer-
ing the kingdoms of the South and of Khandash, came to
Fatehpur in the forty-sixth year of his reign, and proceeded
from thence to Agra."

Ferguson read it aloud, and added: "Akbar tried to put an
end to wars, and to unite India by marrying Hindu and Moslem
wives. But when he failed to persuade men to follow the paths
of reason and religious toleration, he returned to wars of con-
quest."

The other inscription on the great gateway reads "Jesus, on
whom be peace, says- 'The world is a bridge: pass over it, but
build no house on it. 7 The world endures but an hour: spend it
in devotion "

Ferguson explained. "That was written, to Akbar's order, in
1601. Four years later Akbar was dead. Every man has two
sides. Akbar never resolved the contradiction that those two
inscriptions pose; and neither has anyone else."

We left the empty city together, and drove the 20 lonely
miles to Akbar's tomb outside Agra. Here, despite the thicken-
ing twilight, there was more bustle. Outside the main gate,
elaborate with mosaic, thin energetic touts were selling peanuts
and colored picture-postcards to tourists. The tourists fed the
peanuts to large gray monkeys that swarmed in the trees around
the Emperor's mausoleum.

Amid marble minarets and cloisters a corridor, 60 feet long,
slopes down to an underground chamber, where Akbar was
laid to rest. On the marble walls of the underground chamber
are inscribed the 99 names of Allah.

"There are four outstanding dates in Indian history," Fergu-
son said. "Akbar ascended the Mogul throne in 1556, when
he was only fourteen. The sun set on the Mogul Empire in
1757, the year of the British victory at Plassey. The British
Empire in India received its death-stroke in 1857, the year of
the Mutiny, though the British didn't realize it at the time.
The fourth date is 1947, when India became a Republic, 391

106

WOMEN AND TIGERS

years after Akbar was acclaimed Emperor." He smiled, some-
what bitterly, I thought. "It'll be interesting to see if Nehru
succeeds where the Moguls and the British failed."

Presently we left the ornate tomb to the hucksters and the
tourists, and drove, through narrow streets and past crumbling
yellow walls covered with Hindi scrawls, to a hotel for dinner.

In the ceiling a fan whirred listlessly, fighting a sad, hopeless
battle with the heat, which the coming of night had not
diminished. A waiter brought us thick, greasy soup, followed
by fish fried in dubious butter, followed by highly spiced roast
chicken. "A ghastly meal," said Ferguson gloomily as we stirred
our cups of muddy brown coffee. "Let's have some brandy."

After dinner we went into the hotel's large bare lounge.
Ferguson ordered another brandy. An Indian conjuror was
amusing the hotel guests. He was a small, smiling, deft man
who made coins vanish and reappear, separated steel hoops that
appeared to be indissolubly interlinked, and turned knotted
black shoelaces into a string of brightly colored flags. The
brandies had cheered Ferguson up. "Clever devils, some of
those Indians," he remarked, and lit a seedy-looking cigar.

I suggested we drive to the Taj Mahal to see it by moon-
light. Ferguson agreed, but insisted on struggling into his
dark blue raincoat, though he still wore no hat. On the way
we passed a furiously driven horse-drawn tonga. The driver
lashed his horse, the little carriage bounced perilously up and
down. Under the canopy the solitary passenger clung on with
one hand and with the other clutched at his khaki-colored sun
helmet. He was a frightened-looking man who despite the
sweltering heat wore a thin topcoat and a gray muffler as well.
Ferguson, whose good humor the brandies had not only re-
stored but had broadened into exuberance, chuckled loudly.
"He's a Eurasian," he said. "Funny chaps. They always wear
those sun helmets, and wrap themselves up well. God knows
why."

The moon had risen in a dark and starless sky. Suddenly,

107

AGRA:

just before the moon vanished again behind trees, we glimpsed
a second moon. White and softly round, seeming to float in
the breathless air, it was the marble dome of the Taj Mahal.

We passed on foot through the massive red sandstone gate-
way, topped by 12 cupolas, into the garden of the Taj. Directly
before us at the end of an avenue of cypresses the marble tomb,
silvered by moonlight, was reflected in still water.

Mumtaz Mahal, the second wife of Shah Jehan, died in 1631.
They had been married 18 years, and she died giving birth to
their i4th child, a daughter. The Taj is her monument. Twenty
thousand men took 22 years to build it. It is probably the most
beautiful building on earth.

The Hindus' attitude to women was harsh. Manu, the great
Hindu lawgiver, taught: "The source of dishonor is woman:
the source of strife is woman." He adds: "A faithful wife must
serve her lord as if he were a god, even though he be devoid
of every virtue." Manu declared that disobedient wives would
be reborn as jackals. Not surprisingly, perhaps, the wives seem
to hav^e been frequently unfaithful. A Hindu poet writes bit-
terly. "Women are as constant as the waves of the ocean; their
affection is as fugitive as a streak of sunset glow upon a cloud."
And another Hindu poet says women have the curves of
creepers, the bloom of flowers, the sweetness of honey, the
gaiety of sunbeams, the glances of deer but also the fickleness
of the wind, the vanity of the peacock, the cruelty of the
tiger, and the coldness of snow. The Moslems seem to have
shared those opinions, for they kept their women closely veiled
and confined and were obsessively jealous. To those harsh at-
titudes, the mutual devotion of Shah Jehan and Mumtaz
Mahal constitutes a refreshing and touching exception.

In the garden of the Taj, meanwhile, on this moonlit night,
people strolled quietly up and down, or sat on marble benches.
I had never seen an Indian crowd behave so quietly. Hardly
anyone spoke, and those who did so seemed to whisper. The
heat that had endured all day was no less oppressive now; we

108

WOMEN AND TIGERS

might have been standing in a Turkish bath. You could smell
the grass, and the people, and the clothes they wore, for in this
sultriness everything and everyone gave off an odor, as in a
hothouse. But no one minded the heat here. The vision of
almost unearthly loveliness which had drawn us all to this spot
created its own climate, like an oasis of white coolness in an
and desert. To look at it was to feel the touch of snowflakes;
in the presence of this marble coolness all fevers subsided We
stood where we were, a little inside the gateway, just looking,
for what seemed a long time. Ferguson had fallen silent, and
in silence he took off his dark raincoat and hung it slowly over
his arm. In the moonlight his face looked grayer, like a sick
man's.

Then suddenly a soft-footed man appearing seemingly from
nowhere was tugging impatiently at my sleeve and whispering
too fast in my ear.

"Very best time to see the Taj, by moonlight. You are very
lucky' My name is Bharaj. I can show you everything, explain
everything. You are lucky, for I was just going off duty, but for
you I will wait. One hour, two hours, as you please/ 7

"We don't want a guide," I said. "We only want to look."

"Official guide appointed by Government," said our tormen-
tor relentlessly. He was painfully thin, with a pocked face and
mean eyes. "I can show you everything. Other guides are not
as good. Ask anyone. This year I act as guide to American
millionaires, the Sultan of Zanzibar, the Austrian Ambassador,
the French Ambassador, the American Ambassador, the Crown
Prince of Cambodia, and Marshal Tito. All very pleased, very
impressed. The name is Bharaj. I am the official guide ap-
pointed by the Government of India. The other guides will
rob you, cheat you. I charge only fifteen rupees no: for you,
only ten." His voice became anxious, changed gear, and went
into a practiced whine. "I am very poor. I have a wife and
seven children. My wife is sick. The children have no shoes.
They are hungry. Times are very hard. I am a college graduate.

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AGRA:

I took high place in history at Calcutta. I know all the dates:
when the Taj was built, dates of Shah Jehan, dates of the
mosque, date of "

Ferguson was swearing under his breath. "Indians!" he said
bitterly. "Bloody Indians!"

"I'll give you five rupees just for going away," I told the
official guide appointed by the Government of India. "We
don't want a guide and we don't want to be told about dates.
We just want to be left alone."

I was dumfounded when, without an instant's hesitation,
he nodded and shot out his palm. "All right: five rupees and
I go away."

I gave him five rupees. He salaamed deeply. "A thousand
thanks, sahib. My wife will bless you. My children will bless
you. I am not offended. I see you do not want a guide, not
even the best. You only want to look at the Taj, by yourselves.
There are other guides here, but they will not trouble you.
I will see to it. The name is Bharaj. I am the official guide
appointed by government. They do what I tell them. You will
see. Good night, sahib."

He vanished swiftly into the warm darkness, but as he turned
away, it seemed to me he was smiling spitefully.

"You shouldn't have done that," said Ferguson severely. His
name was not as inappropriate as I had at first thought: some-
where in Ferguson, there really was some Scottish blood.
"Waste of money."

"I'd have paid double to get rid of him," I said.

Ferguson muttered something about a boot up the backside
being a better way. "Anyway," he added, "I'll bet he'll be up
to some trick."

Ferguson would have won his bet.

We strolled toward the beckoning miracle of the Taj and
had got halfway, as far as the marble pool where the fountains
plashed, when a second soft-footed man darted from behind
a cypress and started to tug insistently at my sleeve.

no

WOMEN AND TIGERS

I raised my voice. "We don't want a guide: understand?
No guide! Please go away!"

"Sahib, you need someone who knows the Taj to show you
all its wonders. I know every stone. Only this year I acted as
guide to the American Ambassador and to Tito of Yugoslavia.
They were full of praise of my work: I can show you their
fine testimonials. Let me conduct you and your friend to the
mausoleum, the minarets, the sepulchers "

I shouted. "Go away, d'you hear?"

He stood his ground- a thin man, even thinner than the first,
with a sly face and a relentless voice.

"I am the brother of Bharaj," he said simply. "You gave him
five rupees, to go away. When you give me five rupees, I will
go away also."

We passed into the interior of the Taj. Eight marble walls
surrounded us. The floor and ceiling were also of purest marble.
We stood in the heart of loveliness, bathed in purity. Across
the marble floor quickly shuffled an old man with a dirty
beard, clutching a lantern. His voice was rusty but his English
well rehearsed.

"I am the guardian of the tomb. The walls you see before
you were inlaid with the following precious stones, emeralds,
sapphires, onyx, and jasper. Some have now gone from the
settings, especially the emeralds. This way to the twin sepul-
chcrs."

Flourishing his lantern, he led the way to a tall marble
screen, lacy with the most delicate floral designs. "The screen
you now see is eight-sided. It is six feet two inches high. It
guards the scpulchers of Mumtaz Mahal and Shah Jehan "

He led us behind the screen. "Here you see the two graves,
executed throughout in marble. This is Shah Jehan's, that is
the grave of Mumtaz Mahal. The inscription on the tomb of
Shah Jehan reads as follows: The illustrious sepulcher of
His Most Exalted Majesty dignified as the guardian of Paradise
having his abode in Paradise and his dwelling in the starry

ill

AGRA:

heaven inhabitant of the region of bliss the second lord of the
Kiran Shah Jehan the King Valiant he traveled from this
transitory world to the world of eternity on the night of the
28th of the month of Rajab 1076 A.H/ " He paused, breathing
hard. "We now have a little ceremony."

As if by magic, another old man, identical with the first, ap-
peared before us. Quickly, before we could prevent him, he
smeared a vermilion paste mixed with yellow rice first on my
forehead, then on Ferguson's, muttering something in Hindi
as he did so. The two graybeards stepped back and regarded us
vulturously. "That will be five rupees," said the first graybeard.
I handed over five rupees: too eagerly. "And another five for
the other guardian of the tomb," he said quickly. I parted with
five more rupees, and we fled from the Taj Mahal.

Behind us, as we passed out through the great sandstone
gateway, the gardens were bathed in moonlight. The water
had a pearly gleam. The crowds moved slowly and solemnly,
unmolested, protected from rapacity by their darker skins: no
Indian regards another Indian as a tourist, even when he all
too obviously is one. In the midst of the gardens the Taj
gleamed whitely, softly, a giant flawless pearl floating in the
warm darkness of the night.

As we got into the car to drive back to the hotel, Ferguson
said morosely: "These fellows would never have dared do that,
under the Raj. But India is no place for a white man any
more."

The velvet tigers in the jungle. W. J. TURNER

THE HOTEL bedrooms were built round an inner courtyard.
Attached to each bedroom was a small, austere chamber, with
a sloping stone floor, containing a tm basin on an iron stand,

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

and a wooden commode with a hinged lid. I splashed tepid
water into the crumpled tin basin, and shaved without a mirror.
When I had finished, I unlatched the door to the courtyard,
leaving it meaningfully ajar. In the courtyard the hotel's un-
touchables patiently squatted, waiting to empty the slop pails
and remove the chamber pots from the commodes.

A party of American tourists had arrived from Delhi in
tourist limousines to visit the Taj Mahal. They wore gaily
patterned shirts, smoked cigars, and were festooned with 35-
millimeter cameras. They chattered happily, for they had not
yet investigated the plumbing. That would come after a few
more cups of the muddy brown coffee they were so light-
heartedly drinking. Later, purged by terror and self-pity, they
would fall an easy prey to Bharaj and his fellow pirates.

Ferguson and I breakfasted lightly off omelets stuffed with
peppers and weak tea. Ferguson wanted to go to Gwalior; I
was bound for Bhind. But it would be simple enough for me to
make a slight detour, and besides I had no objection to visiting
Gwalior. I offered to drive him there, and he readily accepted

Our bags were put in the car. Waiters, room-boys, sweepers,
chowkidars, and untouchables lined up expectantly. We tipped
them annas, and drove off. Some of the American tourists
were already wandering about the inner courtyard, looking
puzzled and harassed.

Ferguson, fortified by a couple of after-breakfast brandies,
was in a good humor. He lit a cigar, and talked exuberantly
about the cotton trade, of which he appeared to know a good
deal. "I managed a textile mill at Kanpur, once," he explained.
"It was owned by a Hindu who gave money to Gandhi and
who used to make speeches about Robert Owen. The mill
made 300 per cent profit every year and the workers were
treated worse than pigs."

Seen in the full light of day, Ferguson appeared to be in his
late forties or early fifties, large and gray and beginning to get
fat; in his faded dark blue raincoat which he persisted in

AGRA:

wearing in spite of the torrid heat he looked like a seedy
bagman.

"My father was I.C.S., but before him our background is
purely Indian Army. My grandfather fought in the Mutiny
he was a British colonel and I believe there was a Ferguson
at Plassey. As an Indian Civil Service wallah, my father was
pretty close to the Viceroy, but they couldn't see eye to eye
over the Indian National Congress. My father helped to start
it, along with Alan Hume, another I.C.S. man and a Scotsman.
The Viceroy it was the Marquess of Duffenn didn't ap-
prove. Personally I think the Viceroy was right and my father
was wrong. He didn't get any thanks for it from the Indians.
They're an ungrateful lot of beggars." Ferguson shook his
head. "There's no future now in this country for anyone who
isn't a Hindu."

We had left the dusty and arid countryside around Agra be-
hind us. The road ran through green country, bright with pea-
cocks.

The term "Anglo-Indian" originally meant an Englishman
who lived in India. Later it came to mean a person of mixed
English and Indian descent, and in 1911 the Government of
India officially designated Eurasians as "Anglo-Indians." I had
no doubt at all, and shortly was to have complete confirma-
tion, of which kind of Anglo-Indian Ferguson was. But I held
my tongue and, though neither of us was deceived, Ferguson's
self-esteem was precariously preserved. He freely admitted hav-
ing had his ups and downs. "Being born and brought up in
India is no joke, if you're not an Indian. They'd like us all to
go, you know. But there isn't anywhere else for a chap like me
to go to." He gave me a sidelong glance. "After all, India is
my count-y. I'd be lost back Home. The trouble is the Hindus
have always got dozens of brothers and cousins and nephews
wanting jobs. If you're not an Indian you find you've been
squeezed out.

"As a matter of fact," Ferguson went on, in a sudden burst

114

WOMEN AND TIGERS

of confidence, "that's why I'm going to Gwalior, to try to find
something to do. There's a chap I used to know in Kanpur
who has a business here. I wrote him and he didn't answer,
but probably he was away, or the letter went astray. He's an
Indian, of course, but rather decent."

Presently Gwalior appeared, a huddle of wretched-looking
houses, dominated by a huge and ancient fort on a rocky hill.
Ferguson pointed out a monstrously large white building,
shaped like a wedding-cake, behind high walls. "That's the
palace of the Maharaja. He's a great shooter of tigers, and he
likes to give banquets. He has a toy electric train made of solid
silver which runs round the banquet table."

Ferguson asked me to drop him off at a local hotel, which
almost rivaled the Maharaja's palace in size, but looked con-
siderably more dingy. Above us, on its sandstone hill, towered
the fort. In front of the hotel was a small park, its rusty gates
securely padlocked. Around us lay the wretched tumble-down
houses, their yards crammed with all manner of junk and their
narrow lanes jungle trails of filth. Ferguson shrugged when I
remarked on it. "It's just the usual filth and spit of India," he
said. "What else d'you expect?" He was right, of course; all the
same, I could not help thinking of the Maharaja's banquets,
and his solid-silver toy train.

I left Ferguson to his business, promised to call on him la-
ter in the day to see how he had got on, and drove in the
direction of Jhansi, to have a look at the countryside. I had not
driven very far when I came on a group of women down on
their hands and knees in the middle of the road. They were
sweeping its dusty surface with small brooms, and clearing it of
loose stones. The stones were being collected in wicker baskets,
and when the baskets were full they were taken up and their
contents dumped in the roadside ditches. The women made
way for me, and bowed low as I passed. I drove on, puzzled,
for the roads of India do not usually get this careful treatment,
and presently came on another group of women doing exactly

AGRA:

the same. In a distance of two miles I passed several road-
sweeping gangs all were women and my bewilderment
grew. Then from behind me, from the direction of the Maha-
raja's white palace, came a melodious hooting, and presently a
cavalcade of automobiles swept grandly past me. At the head
was an open car, done in powder-blue, containing men in
green shooting-jackets and green hunting-hats. The second car
was similarly filled with hunters. The third car contained po-
licemen. There were four more cars, which were crammed with
retainers of some kind.

The cavalcade hooted past me; but it did not get very far.
Round the next bend in the road I found it stationary and in
a state of disarray. The leading car, the open powder-blue one,
had skidded abruptly to a halt, and the others had jammed on
their brakes behind it. Some faced across the road, and some
had skidded round to face the way they had come. The occu-
pants of the cars, including the men in green coats, were
standing in the roadway, looking dismayed. In spite of the
roadwork of the women sweepers, the leading car had picked up
a sharp stone and got a flat. Along the road, coming from the
opposite direction, lumbered a number of high-piled haycarts.
They were summarily halted, and soon peasants had been in-
spanned to change the car's wheel, while other peasants from
the carts stood around, gaping. It was very hot, and dust
swirled thickly about the stranded cavalcade. Bits of straw
floated about. The policemen, fierce-looking, dark little men,
shouted orders; the peasants worked on the stranded car, or
stood shuffling their bare feet; the green-coated hunters
sneezed. I maneuvered my way past the scene, and drove on.

After about a half an hour there was a melodious but im-
patient tooting from the rear, and the cavalcade once again
swept past me.

I drove for some more miles, through a countryside that grew
progressively less inhabited and more jungly, and was thinking
of turning back to Gwalior, for tea, when I came on the cars,

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

this time neatly parked in a side road. The hunters had left
their automobiles and, armed with rifles, had clambered on to
the backs of two enormous elephants with long white tusks.
The elephants were moving slowly and grandly into the jungle.

The opportunity seemed too good to miss. I swung my car
into the side road, parked it alongside the others, and got out.
Two men, who had not mounted the elephants but were
carrying rifles, were going along behind on foot. Luckily I had
my binoculars and camera in the car, and I hurriedly slung
them on.

The policemen stood in a semicircle round the parked cars.
When one of them moved inquiringly toward me, I smiled,
pointed to my binoculars and camera in a businesslike way,
pointed toward the retreating elephants and the two riflemen
following on foot, and started briskly after them. The police-
man nodded and fell back, saluting. A little self-assuredness
and, above all, a white face are still the best passports in India.

The elephants vanished into a ravine, and the two men
carrying rifles followed. The road dwindled to a mere track
through long grass, and presently, after a perspiring half-hour
walk, I came suddenly on a large white noticeboard, which
said: "On this spot, on November 10, 1932, Lady Butterfield
shot a tiger which measured seven feet three inches." I con-
templated it with some misgiving. If there had been seven-foot
tigers about in 1932, it was reasonably certain that there were
still some about now. Lady Butterfield had presumably been
armed though for some reason I vaguely imagined her as
carrying nothing more lethal than a parasol and I was not.
Then, as I hesitated, I was much comforted by the appearance
of a small ragged boy carrying a wooden box on his head and
marching along stoutly about two hundred yards ahead. I re-
sumed my forward progress.

The small boy, it soon turned out, was only the first of a
long file. All of them were ragged, and all of them carried
wooden boxes on their heads. The boxes appeared to be heavy.

117

AGRA:

There were fully a hundred boys. Their average age was about
twelve, and they were walking barefooted round the lip of the
same ravine into which the elephants and the hunters had
plunged and which now took the shape of an ellipse. I peered
down into the ravine. The elephants were just visible, standing
up to their bellies in long grass. Near by, on a concrete ramp
higher than the elephants, stood the hunters. Their rifles were
held loosely under their arms, but they had an expectant air

From the wooden boxes the small boys took objects that
looked like hand grenades. These they cast into the ravine,
in the area of the thick jungle between the platform and the
ravine's steep western slope where the tigers had been spotted
and they went off with loud and terrifying explosions. They
were made of clay and were filled with gunpowder. Still
throwing the missiles, the boys marched round and round the
edge of the ravine, yelling fiendishly, balancing the boxes on
their heads, and beating wooden sticks against large pieces of
tin. The shrill ululations of a hundred pairs of young lungs
combined with the noise of sticks banging on tin and the
continuous sharp explosions to produce a hellish cacophony
that must have been heard back in Gwalior.

Presently, in the long grass of the ravine, there appeared two
frightened-looking tigers. The boys saw them, and increased
their shouting: clay grenades were showered on the tigers'
hindquarters from all sides. In order to escape the grenades,
the cowed beasts were compelled to advance. In this fashion
they were driven toward the concrete ramp and, when they had
approached close enough to constitute targets that it would
have been very difficult for even a bad marksman to miss, the
rifles banged briskly, the tigers leaped convulsively, another
fusillade followed, and all was over. On the concrete ramp the
hunters began to shake hands with one another, and the ele-
phants, prodded by mahouts, lumbered forward to collect the
carcases. I put away my binoculars and took some photographs
of the small boys.

By the time I got back to my car, walking slowly, the motor-

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

cade had departed. It was dark before I reached Gwalior,
and I called at Ferguson's hotel. He had taken a room for the
night, and I walked along a dingy passage and knocked on his
door. There was no reply, but when I pushed the door it
opened.

Ferguson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. On
the bedside table was a brandy bottle, two thirds empty. His
one shabby bag, only half -unpacked, spilled clothes on to the
threadbare carpet. At first I thought he was asleep, but he
opened his eyes, grunted, and struggled upright. His skin
looked even grayer, and the whites of his eyes had turned
yellow.

He squinted at me, then swung his legs over the side of the
bed. Morosely, he eyed the brandy bottle. "I'm drunk/' Fer-
guson said.

"You will be, if you drink any more brandy."

"I'm drunk now." He fumbled in his pockets. "Do you have
a cigarette?" I gave him one.

"I'm a Eurasian," Ferguson said suddenly. "So was my
father. My grandfather wasn't a colonel; he was a British
Tommy who married a Hindu woman. My father was a gov-
ernment clerk. He was a Christian, and every night he prayed
to the Viceroy as well as to Jesus Christ.

"He called himself an Anglo-Indian it didn't mean what it
means now. 'We are Anglo-Indians,' he used to say, 'just as
Mr. Kipling is an Anglo-Indian.' He called Britain 'Home,' or
'the Old Country'; and he was always talking about 'our Em-
pire.'

"He did join the Indian National Congress, but only be-
cause my mother made him. She was a Eurasian, too, and a
Christian, but she had more spirit than he had. My father
supported the Congress as long as it gave three cheers for the
Queen and was respectful to the Viceroy. He quit it when it
began talking about independence. He said it had got into
the hands of extremists.

"He was sure there would always be a Raj, and he regarded

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AGRA:

Gandhi as a Hindu agitator. 'The Viceroy must stand firm/ he
would say; or, 'the people of this country are fundamentally
Loyal at heart/

"When Gandhi and the Congress won the first constitu-
tional reforms, my father said: 'I don't know what they're
thinking of, back Home: they must have taken leave of their
senses/ "

Ferguson mashed out his cigarette, and defiantly poured
himself a stiff brandy.

"My father despised Indians, but he called every white man
'sir/ Indians hated him, and the Europeans laughed at him
behind his back. In his heart, he despised himself. But he
couldn't help putting on airs, and talking about his father as
'the colonel/

"After my mother died, he became quite ridiculous; I think
he went a little mad. He made up stories about my grand-
father's share in putting down the Indian Mutiny. 'We need
men like that now/ he would say, 'to deal with the trouble-
makers and the disloyal elements/

"It got him into a lot of trouble," Ferguson said, drinking
his brandy. "I'm glad he died before independence came."

Hearing a man unbare his soul is always embarrassing; and
Ferguson was drunk.

"The old man's crazy blood is in me," Ferguson said. "You
heard me, bullspittmg about my grandfather, the colonel, and
about my father having been in the Indian Civil Service, and
being pretty thick with the Viceroy. God, what crap! And,
what's more, you knew it was crap, and I knew that you knew.
But it didn't stop me from telling it.

"A couple of brandies, and I start spouting about the dear
old Raj. Then a Hindu looks me up and down, and talks to
me in an Oxford accent, and I start to bawl with self-pity/'

"Did you see your friend?" I asked.

"Yes, I saw him." He shrugged. "I told you he was a decent
fellow. We did a lot of back-slapping. All very hearty. So I get

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

the job. But inside of me I was saying: 'You damned grinning
little oily Hindu, for two pins I'd knock your teeth down your
throat/ And, at this moment, he's explaining to his friends:
'I hired a man called Ferguson today. Oh, no, not a European,
naturally; he's a Eurasian, but a good chap. Rather tragic, in a
way: please try not to laugh when he starts talking about his
Indian Army forebears. Now that we've got our independence,
I feel sorry for those Anglo-Indians, especially ones like this
Ferguson, who find it so damned difficult to adjust. One feels
one has to do something for them/ "

"I don't see why you shouldn't be able to adjust," I said.
"Lots of Anglo-Indians have already done so. After all, India
is your country; you were born here."

"Ah, but the trouble is, I don't really want to adjust,"
Ferguson explained. "I don't want to be assimilated into
Hindu society. That's always been the trouble in India, and
not just with the Anglo-Indians. Look at the Moslems, and the
Parsees; look at the castes."

Somehow he had drunk himself back into a state of almost
sober cheerfulness.

"Already, Anglo-Indians are marrying only other Anglo-
Indians; and the children stay Anglo-Indian. Probably, we'll
end up as yet another caste. That's India for you; that's the
way things go here."

On that note, presently, I left him. I had a feeling that, had
I stayed longer, he would have lit a cigar, called for another
bottle of brandy, and begun reminiscing again about his
grandfather, the colonel, who was on close terms with the
Viceroy. We parted quite amicably, and I never saw him
again; for all I know to the contrary, he is still there in
Gwalior selling cotton, or whatever it was his Indian friend
sold, near the old fort and the Maharaja's white 'vedding-cake
palace, where the solid-silver toy train runs around the ban-
queting table after tiger shoots. He was in many ways a re-
markable man, well educated, with a wry philosophy and an

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AGRA:

unusual personal problem. But he was quite unlike most of
the Anglo-Indians I met, who were solid citizens with keen
senses of humor and great ability to adjust themselves cheer-
fully to vastly changed circumstances.

The people call Putli Daku Rana, the bandit queen. INDIAN
POLICE REPORT

THE COUNTRY between Cwalior and Bhind is a maze of deep-
cut ravines. The ravines have long been infested with dacoits,
who have found them an excellent ready-made Maginot Line
against the tiresome interference of the police. The most pop-
ular of the bandits was a Thakore clansman of considerable
dignity and charm called Man Singh. A white-whiskered, In-
dian Robin Hood in a white turban, he murdered and pillaged
the rich, but gave generously to the poor. Over a period of 27
years Man Singh's gang committed 185 murders and over 1,000
robberies. Harassed officials collected a whole ton of docu-
ments against the day of Man Singh's capture and conviction.
The day never came, for the old warrior died in battle. Not
long before his death, Man Singh caught two policemen and
proposed to sacrifice them in a Shivaite temple. When the
policemen cried out that they were Moslems, Man Singh
ordered their release. "The Lord Shiva would not accept the
blood of Moslems," he said contemptuously. The Home Min-
ister of Madhya Bharat State, Mr. Narasinghrao Dixit, was also
a worshipper of Shiva. He announced that, all other methods
having failed, he would visit a Shiva shrine and there pray for
Shiva's help in bringing Man Singh and his gang to book. At
the same time, however, he prudently dispatched a company
of Gurkhas into the ravines. The combination of prayers and

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

Gurkhas proved efficacious. The Gurkhas trapped the dacoits
in the village of Kakekapura, and there, under a banyan tree,
Man Singh at last met his end. The bullet-riddled bodies of
Man Singh and his son Subedar, who had been his chief
lieutenant, were taken in hiumph into Bhind, and 40,000 peo-
ple from the surrounding villages came to look at them. But, to
the chagrin of the authorities, the villagers came weeping and
bearing garlands. They had long hailed the bandit chief as
their champion against rapacious merchants and moneylenders.

It was a lonely drive to Bhind over very bad roads. Bathed in
full moonlight, the ravines stretched ghostlily on either side, an
endless vista of steep treeless ridges and deep dark chasms. The
bright moonlight only made the chasms blacker. Houses were
few and far between, and were only wretched huts, showing
no lights; nothing stirred on the road, not even a bullock cart.
I might have been traveling on the moon. I had little fear of
being challenged by dacoits, who prefer raiding villages and
seldom bother to pounce on solitary travelers. Even if I had
encountered any, I should probably have been allowed to pass
unmolested, for the dacoits have their own peculiar code: a
policeman, a moneylender, or an Indian merchant is fair game,
and police informers are executed without ceremony; but for-
eigners are a different matter altogether. In the days of the
Raj, Englishmen not in uniform were seldom killed by dacoits,
and when it occasionally happened, both sides realized it must
have been an accident, and the dacoits were always quick to
apologize. The dacoits in the new India have so far continued
to observe this admirable custom. All the same, it was a lonely
journey through eerie country.

Abruptly, the road descended into a dried-up riverbed. I
rattled over an interminable wooden causeway of loose planks.
At the end of it men stood waving lanterns and calling on me
to halt. Out of the sultry night appeared a villainous bearded
face wrapped in a dirty white headcloth. Its owner carried a
lantern in one hand and clutched a formidable looking brass-

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AGRA:

tipped lathi in the other. The other men, equally villainous,
clustered behind him.

"Where are you going?"

"To Bhmd."

The man shook his head. "You won't get through, sahib.
All the roads through the ravines are closed tonight. They are
being patroled for dacoits."

"Well, I've come from Gwalior. I don't propose to go all the
way back."

He scratched perplexedly in his beard. He was plainly anx-
ious not to offend me, but didn't seem to know what to do
with me. An Indian traveler, I guessed, would have been
peremptorily ordered back unless he were a Congress Party
dignitary; but Congress Party dignitaries were highly unlikely
to be wandering about the dacoit-infested ravines of Bhmd at
night, and especially not alone. The patrolers had not bar-
gained for a foreigner.

"You'd better go on to the government bungalow," he said
at last. "It's only a couple of miles along the road. One of my
men will go with you and show you the way."

They might be police patrols hunting dacoits; on the other
hand, they might equally well be dacoits, pretending to be a
police patrol. But in any event I was given no choice. A par-
ticularly villainous-looking man, wearing cotton pajamas, got
in the car beside me. The door slammed. I drove off with my
unexpected passenger.

He lit an evil-smelling brown bidi cigarette, and proceeded
to make cheerful conversation in bad English.

"Plenty dacoits in ravines," he remarked. "Killing lots."

"But I thought Man Singh was dead."

"Man Singh shot. Subcdar shot. But now Putli."

"Putli? I never heard of him."

"She is worst of dacoit. Kill many men already." His tone
was full of undisguised admiration.

"She? You mean Putli is a woman?"

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WOMEN AND TIGERS

"Wife of sultan," he explained. ''Very brave; very bad."

I could make nothing of this. A female bandit who was also
a sultana was inconceivable. I wished that either I knew more
Hindi, or my companion knew more English.

'Turn here," he said, pointing. Obediently, I turned into a
sidetrack, which after many upward twists and turns led to a
high shelf of ground on which stood a solitary bungalow. My
guide got out, and presently reappeared with a bearer, who
took my bags and stood waiting for me to follow him. My
passenger raised the heavy bamboo lathi, of which he had not
once let go, in a cheerful salutation, and padded off barefoot
back down the winding track.

The bearer led the way up stone steps into the bungalow,
explaining in English as he went that unfortunately there were
no lanterns, and not even a candle. He brought me to a large,
bare room; in the filtered moonlight I could dimly discern a
large wooden table, and a rope-bed in a corner. There were no
other furnishings. I had left Gwalior without dining and was
extremely hungry; but in response to my inquiry, the bearer
explained apologetically that there was no food of any kind in
the bungalow. "Perhaps manage breakfast tomorrow/' he said
optimistically. Government bungalows can usually provide the
traveler with some sort of a meal; and they are usually tended
by more than one bearer I had plainly come to a very solitary
place. Then I reflected that it was surprising to find a govern-
ment bungalow here at all. My suspicions revived. "Are you
sure this is a government resthouse?" I asked sharply.

The bearer grinned, showing a bearded mouthful of black-
ened teeth.

"This is a new government bungalow, sahib/' he replied.
"Only, nobody ever comes. Dacoits keep everyone away." The
thought seemed to amuse him; he went off chuckling.

I was too hungry to feel sleepy. I was also very thirsty, and
cursed myself for not having asked the bearer for some water:
water there must be, even in the newest and least visited of

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AGRA:

government resthouses. I decided to explore, and groped my
way out of the room. The bungalow, built of stone, stood high
off the ground, and a stone veranda ran all the way round it. I
walked cautiously along the veranda, turned a corner, and
halted abruptly. I was not as alone as I had imagined. Re-
clining almost full-length on a long wooden restchair, his long
legs asprawl, was a figure in white. He sat with his back to the
bungalow, gazing out over the moonlit ravines, and he was
smoking a cigar. For a wild moment the cigar made me think
of poor Ferguson; then the figure spoke in excellent English.

"How the devil did you get here, my friend, and who are
you?"

"Sett Rao!" I exclaimed. "What the devil are you doing
here?"

Sett Rao peered in surprise, then laughed. "You'll find an-
other of those restchairs in the room behind me. Bring it out
and sit down."

It was no wonder I had not recognized him. The last time
I had seen him, with Rud, he was the immaculate bureaucrat
of New Delhi, wearing well-cut Western clothes. Now he wore
a long white shirt and a dhoti, and instead of shoes he wore
leather sandals. But he still smoked excellent cigars, and his
Oxford accent was unchangeable.

I gave him a brief account of my adventures. "I'm damned
hungry," I concluded.

Sett Rao rose, and presently returned with sandwiches and
a bottle of whisky.

"I generally carry my own rations," he said. "The villagers
are hospitable, but their food is awful. By the way, these men
who directed you here are my men; I shall commend them
highly. You shall have eggs for breakfast, for I told the bearer
to get some, somehow. But I'm afraid you will have to break-
fast alone, for I must be off long before daylight."

"What are you doing here?" I asked again.

"New Delhi wants to put an end to the dacoits. They don't

126

WOMEN AND TIGERS

fit in with the second Five Year Plan. As you may remember,
I learned a little about guerilla warfare in Kashmir a few years
ago."

"But you aren't a policeman, or a regular soldier. Isn't it a
job for the police, or the army?"

"It is. But it's also a political matter. Awkward questions are
being asked in Parliament. The government recently put up a
number of new resthouses in this district. Nobody dares use
them. Government officials come back to Delhi with terrible
tales. Congress Party members from this district daren't travel
in the ravines, even in daylight, except under armed escort. I
was sent to find out what is actually happening."

"I thought that after Man Singh was killed, the dacoits were
well on the way to being liquidated."

"That's what the officials and the M.P.'s thought. Unfortu-
nately Man Singh has a successor. Her name is Puth."

"Putli! The wife of a sultan?"

Sett Rao was amused. "Well, her boyfriend was called Sultan
Gujar. It's quite a romantic story, if also a little sordid in parts.
Putli comes from a Moslem family of traditional songstresses
and concubines. She was a streetsmger. In 1950, when she was
about twenty, she was hired as a professional entertainer at a
village wedding. During the wedding the village was attacked
by Sultan Gujar and his gang. Sultan took a fancy to her, and
apparently she took a fancy to him also, for she rode off with
the gang. In due course Putli bore Sultan a son, but mother-
hood did not soften her. She played a full part in the murders,
robberies, and kidnappings committed by the gang, and she is
known to have shot at least one unfortunate policeman dead
at Dholpur. Eventually, however, she and Sultan quarreled;
she became furiously jealous when he began paying attention
to another girl. Putli offered to betray Sultan to the police, if
they would give her a free pardon, and the reward. She asked
for the reward in advance, and got it; so she returned to the
gang, tipped off the police where to find Sultan he was duly

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AGRA:

ambushed and shot then formed a liaison with another ban-
dit called Luhari. She kept the police money, of course."

Sett Rao puffed contentedly at his cigar.

"Luhari didn't last long. I must say he didn't show much
sense, for a girl who betrays one dacoit leader isn't to be
trusted by another. Not long after she had taken up with
Luhari, she murdered him and joined forces with a third
dacoit, called Pahara Gujar, who is a cousin of the late Sultan.
She and Pahara are still together. She has an infant daughter
by him, and she also had a daughter by Luhari."

"What does she look like?"

"According to the police reports, she's no beauty. She's under
five feet, and rather fat. She wears her hair short, and dresses
like a man. She wears a gold chain round her neck, and a gold
ring on her finger inscribed 'Sultan-Puth.' They say she fights
on horseback, with a gun in one hand and her infant daughter
in her other arm."

"Do you think you will catch her?"

Sett Rao sighed. "The ravines have been in dacoit hands a
very long time. Every stranger who passes through the villages
is automatically suspected of being either a spy of the dacoits
or a spy of the police. On the whole, the villagers prefer the
dacoits. They've got used to them. Did you know that Aurang-
zeb, in the seventeenth century, appointed a governor of this
district, specially for the purpose of trying to control the
dacoits? In those days, the chief stronghold of the dacoits was
a place called Ater; today, Ater is still a dacoit-controlled
village. You foreigners constantly forget what a very old coun-
try India is, and how very slowly things change here: if they
change at all. Some of our own people sometimes tend to
forget it. ... As I told you and your friend in Delhi, the
problems are huge, and many of the anachronisms remain.
Dacoits are an anachronism in a country that calls itself civi-
lized, nevertheless we still have dacoits.

"But I for one don't despair. There is good even in dacoits.
In the second world war, this area" he gestured toward the

128

WOMEN AND TIGERS

silent ravines "gave the British Raj one hundred thousand
soldiers; and all the dacoits joined the army. Of course, they
didn't do so out of love of the British; they did it because they
like to fight. But courage is also a virtue. Too many Indians
lacked courage, and so India became a nation of slaves. The
dacoits at least have never been slaves."

He rose, yawned, and threw away his cigar. "Shall we catch
Puth tomorrow? I don't know; probably not. But we shall try
and, if we fail, try again. Poor Puth' She's doomed, anyhow,
in the new India of heavy industries which Mr. Nehru is de-
termined to create. Lady bandits can't coexist with steel plants.
Anyhow, I'm going to bed. I shan't see you in the morning, for
I'll be up long before you arc. Good-by and good luck."

"Good luck to you," I said.

Tall, lean, and handsome, Sett Rao smiled. "Wish all of us
Indians luck, the whole three hundred and seventy-odd mil-
lions of us," he said. "We shall need it."

He kept all his promises, for in the morning he was gone,
and the bearer brought me fried eggs, without spices, fresh
bread, and hot tea. On my way to Lucknow I passed through
Bhind without being challenged, and in that sullen village saw
many signs of police activity, but no sign of captured bandits.
In a little teashop, hardly more than an open booth by the
wayside, near the white Shiva temple, a broad-shouldered man
in a white turban and with immense white mustaches, who
might have been Man Singh himself, brewed me scalding-hot
tea and, squatting on his bare brown heels, fried me some
chapattis. Outside in the street, hot with dust and glaring sun-
light, policemen with lathis were halting villagers, making
them dismount from their bicycles, and questioning them.
They seemed to be getting few answers. The broad-shouldered
man with the white mustaches brought me my tea and golden
chapattis. He was chuckling.

"Did you hear the news?" He jerked a contemptuous thumb
back at the policemen. "They've been looking for Putli, the
little bandit queen. Of course, she got away."

129

LUCKNOW:
THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

In Lucknow we have entered the realm of lunatic fantasy.

O. H. K. SPATE

I

N BHIND I bought an astrological almanac put out by the
state government. It accompanied me on many of my further
travels, and became dog-eared with constant use. It ranks in
my opinion as one of the most fascinating documents ever
published by any government information agency. Until I
read it I did not know that it was a sign of good fortune if a
bat fell from the ceiling into one's lap but not if it fell onto
the back of one's neck or that seeing a Brahmin first thing in
the morning was an omen of good luck, while seeing a widow,
or a woman carrying a water pot, spelt a disastrous day ahead.

I found Lucknow in a state of public uproar. Past the long
dead nawabs' florid tombs; past the "European-style" castle,
complete with turrets, battlements, moat, and drawbridges,
and now used as a girls' high school; past the railroad station,
with its fantastic fluted columns, cupolas, and vast parapets;
past the Drug Research Institute, housed in a former palace,
and with a gilded umbrella suspended over its dome through
the crowded streets and alleys of Lucknow there swarmed
endless processions of angry demonstrators carrying banners of
protest. Public buildings had been stoned; several people had
already been killed in street clashes.

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THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

The cause of all the hubbub was a lost dog. A Nepalese
visitor to Lucknow had brought with him his pet dog, which
he led about on a silver chain. One day he found the dog
gone: either it had strayed or, more probably, someone had
taken a fancy to the silver chain, and stolen both. The bereft
owner advertised his loss in a local newspaper. He described
the missing animal, offered a reward, and explained that the
dog answered to the name "Mahmud."

Rioting automatically followed. Furious Moslems, of whom
there are a great many in Lucknow, surrounded the news-
paper office, howling for blood. To pacify the mob, the police
arrested the dog's owner. It was in vain that the unfortunate
man explained that, in calling his dog "Mahmud," he had
intended no affront to the Prophet; "mahmud," he declared,
was merely the Nepalese word for "power." But there are a
variety of ways of spelling the Prophet's name. "Mahomet" is
one; "Mohammed" is another; and "Mahmud" is a third. To
prevent the dog's owner from being lynched, the police wisely
smuggled him out of the city jail, and secretly sped him back
over the Nepal border without his dog, which remained un-
traced. When the mobs discovered that their prey had eluded
them, their fury increased. There were fresh riots, and more
stone-throwing. The police had a busy time.

The least perturbed man in Lucknow was Dr Sampurnan-
and, the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh State, of which
Lucknow is the capital. He was occupied with an experiment
in hydroponics, the growing of vegetables in a solution of
mineral salts instead of in soil.

He hoped that India might be the first country to succeed in
dispatching space ships to the stars. "The space-fliers," Dr.
Sampurnanand explained, "will have to depend on hydropon-
ics for their fresh vegetables, for, on such long voyages, soil
would deteriorate." Long devoted to vegeterianism and astrol-
ogy, India was seeing her destiny in the galaxies.

When the Russian leaders Bulganin and Khrushchev visited

LUCKNOW:

Uttar Pradesh, Dr Sampurnanand insisted that they stand on
a specially woven carpet embroidered with yellow hearts and
red flowers, with a lotus in the center: he explained to them
that, according to the astrologers, this would draw forth their
full powers of oratory. The Russian leaders were also greeted
by five girls (according to the astrologers, five is a most aus-
picious number), wearing saffron-colored sans, and blowing
conch shells. Uttar Pradesh is India's third largest state. Dr
Sampurnanand presided over it, assisted by 260,000 officials.
None of them dared to make a decision without first consult-
ing Dr Sampurnanand; and Dr Sampurnanand seldom author-
ised any action until he had consulted the stars.

In Lucknow I asked my friend Mulk Sangh to introduce me
to an astrologer. Mulk Sangh said he would ask one to tea. He
said it nonchalantly, and I said: "All right, just let me know
when he's coming " If I had asked him to produce a yogi, a
poet, or an atomic physicist, he would have treated the request
in the same casual way. Mulk Sangh is the son of a wealthy
man, and one day he would inherit his father's fortune. Mean-
while he and his pretty wife lived in a small but elegant
apartment and earnestly studied economics and sociology, in
order, Mulk Sangh explained, to fit themselves for strenuous
living in the new India. He was reading the works of Professor
G. D. H. Cole and she was a member of the All-India Family
Planning Association (they had no children). They made a
hobby of collecting odd characters and their apartment was
usually full of them, talking, eating, drinking, and listening to
gramophone records; the last time I had visited them, the chief
guest of the evening had been a British left-wing biologist who
wore a dhoti and explained that he proposed to spend the
rest of his life in India, because Britain had been reduced to
an outpost of American imperialism by oversexed American
troops who were permanently garrisoned there. "There is not a
virgin left in England," he kept saying gloomily. "Not one."

Mulk Sangh's wife, Adi, had urged me to visit the Drug

132

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS
Research Institute. She was a demure-looking girl with hair
like black silk and very long black eyelashes over warm brown
eyes. "There's a man who's trying to make an oral contracep-
tive from peas," she said. "And they're also doing very fine
work to combat adulteration of drugs by laying down mini-
mum standards." So I made my way cautiously through the
hot turbulent streets to the Drug Research Institute. The
demonstrators over the dog Mahmud were still taking out
processions with banners and flags, but neither the Moslems,
who were demonstrating, nor the Hindus, who feared that the
Moslems might start more communal riots, were interested in
a white foreigner. I reached the Institute without incident,
and a polite young man in a white coat, with a science degree,
showed me round. He seemed somewhat oppressed by the
magnitude of the problems that the Institute faced. "Every-
thing is adulterated," he said hopelessly. "We try to bring the
unscrupulous druggists to book, but they are always finding
new loopholes. And the Drugs Act is very difficult to enforce:
we have so few qualified inspectors. Only the other day in
Bombay an unfortunate unemployed man decided to end his
family's sufferings, he, his wife, and their seven children were
all starving. He spent his last few rupees on arsenic, and the
wife mixed it in the food. After taking this last meal, they said
their prayers and lay down to die. But in the morning they
woke up, perfectly unharmed. The 'arsenic' the man had
bought was adulterated." The young man looked at me mourn-
fully. "That is the sort of scandal we are trying to put a stop
to."

In the roadway outside the Drug Research Institute a large
crowd was being fiercely harangued by a snarling little man in
a red fez. He employed all the practiced venom of the profes-
sional agitator, and he was putting the blame for the dog
incident on Dr Sampurnanand and the Congress Party govern-
ment of Uttar Pradesh. The Moslems who were listening to
him cheered lustily. I had seen the man before, in Delhi; but

133

LUCKNOW:

then he had been a member of the Congress Party, which
welcomes Moslems into its fold. I was intrigued, to put it
mildly.

Mulk Sangh rang me up to say that, true to his word, he had
found an astrologer, who was coming to tea that afternoon.
I went round to Mulk Sangh's apartment, and was introduced
to the astrologer. He was a Hindu refugee from Lahore. At the
Partition millions of Hindus fled to India from Pakistan, and
half a million of them settled down in Uttar Pradesh. The
astrologer had long, sensitive hands, fine dark eyes, and spoke
in a gentle voice. He was plainly a highly intelligent man, and
I asked him to tell me, seriously, if he really believed there was
a place for astrology in the modern world of mechanics, meson
particles, and A and H bombs. He considered the question
carefully, then said in his mild, deprecating voice: "I think we
Indians have gone too far. We consult the stars too often, and
on too many trivial matters. I think some of our leading
astrologers are very wise men; but they are, after all, only
mortals, and mortals should not presume to too much knowl-
edge. I believe the masses have come to expect miracles from
astrology. It is time we faced the facts, and realised our limita-
tions/' He paused, regarded me steadfastly, and then said
gravely: "We should frankly confess that, despite all our striving
after perfection, astrology is not yet an exact science."

Over an excellent meal of biriani pillau, which consists of
rice cooked with meat and cunningly mixed with nuts and
spices, and which is a Lucknow specialty, I asked Mulk Sangh
if he could explain the seeming riddle of the man in the red
fez whom I had seen haranguing the Moslems.

Mulk Sangh was amused. "It's very simple. There are solid
blocks of Moslem voters in Lucknow, in Kanpur, in Bareilly
and Aligarh, and in many of the other cities of Uttar Paradesh.
The Moslem vote is one of the keys to political power in this
state. The Communists, the Socialists, even the Hindu Maha-
sabha, believe it or not, are all trying to win over the Moslems.

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THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

This dog business may seem utterly stupid to you, but the
Moslems take it very seriously. So it's a golden chance for
those who want to pose as the Moslems' friends and who are
trying to stir up trouble for the state government."

"But this man was claiming in Delhi to be a member of the
Congress Party."

"So he probably is. But the Congress Party in Uttar Pradesh
is split into two opposing factions," Muld Sangh explained.
"Dr Sampurnanand's faction is in power and the other faction
is trying to oust him. This man has obviously been bought
over by the anti-Sampurnanand faction. His being a Moslem is
what makes him valuable to them."

"You are a cynic," said Adi accusingly. "But I am afraid you
are quite right," she added despondently.

"We have worse things than hired agitators," said Mulk
Sangh, cheerfully. "In Uttar Pradesh we have hired assassins.
You can hire a professional assassin here for as little as five
rupees only one dollar. Many of the politicians do. Fortu-
nately, the assassins, like the politicians, believe in astrology,
and will not commit a murder until they have consulted the
stars. If the stars are in the wrong conjunction, no fee, how-
ever high, will tempt them. I know at least one Congress
Party member of the Legislative Assembly who owes his life to
that fact."

"You're pulling my leg," I protested, laughing.

"On the contrary, I am quite serious. Shall I prove it to you?
There is a district near Lucknow called Bara Banki, with a
town of that name. The district is under a reign of terror.
There have been four political assassinations in six weeks."

A few days later Mulk Sangh came to see me. I had for-
gotten this conversation, but he had not.

"You didn't believe me," he said. "Well, what do you think
of this?"

It was a report in the Lucfenow Herald. It described how
two Socialists had been murdered in the village of Badripur in

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LUCKNOW:

the Bara Banki district. They had called a meeting of villagers,
and were making speeches about the land reforms, when a
gang of armed men invaded the meeting. Some of the gang
held the villagers at bay with spears and clubs, while the
others proceeded to beat the two Socialists to death. The
villagers had to look on helplessly, unable to prevent the
killings. The gang had then burned the two bodies, and de-
parted. The newspaper report added that the Legislative As-
sembly in Lucknow was in an uproar.

'Td like to visit Badnpur and talk to the people," I said
rashly.

"Very well," said Mulk Sangh promptly. "I promised to
travel with you for a few da\s, and that would be a good place
to begin. Let's go by all means to Badnpur. But we had better
start as soon as possible." He smiled cynically. "The police are
there already. If they cannot find the assassins, they can always
arrest the villagers. If we do not go at once, there may be no
villagers left for you to talk to'"

In Uttar Pradesh we have achieved a bloodless land reform
that Russia might envy. NEHRU

WE TOOK a crowded train to Bara Banki The distance from
Lucknow was only eighteen miles, and we squeezed thankfully
into a second-class compartment whose wooden benches were
occupied by cheerful unshaven men in striped pajamas. Four
were eating mangoes and bananas which they took from a
large wicker basket. One was carefully paring his toenails. Two
were poring over a tattered copy of a Hindi newspaper. We
sat for a long time, for the train was an hour and thirty-five

136

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

minutes late in starting. But we dared not leave our seats, for
the platform was crowded with people still hoping to get on
board. When we did start, the more daring of them leaped on
to the footboards of the coaches and squatted there, hanging
on precariously to the doors and windows.

The men with the Hindi newspaper started a political dis-
cussion. In Nagpur a rickshaw-puller, presumably half-witted,
had attempted to stab Mr Nehru with a clasp knife.

"He will have been put up to it by the Jan Sangh" said one
of the men, darkly. "They hate Nehru because he wishes to
destroy caste."

"It is the work of the Moslems/' said the other man.

"No, the Moslems would not dare, and anyhow they are
afraid of what may happen to them when Nehru dies. It is
the Jan Sangh, which is run by Brahmins, who denounce
Nehru as an enemy of the Hindu religion."

Bara Banki is a railroad town, and looks it. A gloomy pall
of smoke hung over its mean streets, and it smellcd like an
oven. We did not linger long in it, for we had to catch the bus
to Badnpur. Hie train was so late that Mulk Sangh feared the
bus might have alrcad) left He need not have worried, the bus
was late, too. Passengers' baggage was still being roped into
place on the roof. But the bus, like the tram, was crowded, and
Mulk Sangh and I uere peiforce separated. He found a place
in the rear; I got a scat just behind the busdnvcr, and beside
a wispy benevolent gentleman with a ragged gray mustache
He courteously made room for me, with a smile that showed a
few yellow teeth.

The bus finally started. Its aged engine roared, the gears
shifted protcstmgly, and the whole chassi shook, making the
windows dance a violent jig. We lurched out of Bara Banki
in clouds of dust and choking, acrid engine fumes. The driver
was a huge man, with vast hairy arms that wrestled valorously
with the bucking steering-wheel. He wore only a cotton under-
vest and a dhoti, but soon his face ran with sweat, as if he had

137

LUCKNOW:

just sluiced himself with a bucket of water. The narrow twisting
road overflowed with bullock carts, water buffalo, and herds of
goats. The bus kept up a continuous hooting. We were thrown
from side to side, and bounced on broken springs toward the
roof. My seat companion, still smiling benevolently, approached
his gray mustache cautiously toward my ear, and unexpectedly
bawled in English: "Good morning!"

He was a village schoolmaster, he explained between lurches.
He had been teaching for twenty years, and his salary was forty
rupees a month about eight dollars. Often his words were
totally lost, with the violent motion and the engine's uproar.
But he continued to talk, to smile, and to nod. I could only
smile and nod back, and try to look comprehending.

He looked out of the window, nudged me with a sharp el-
bow to secure my attention, and pointed out a curious sight.
In a field, close to the road a man was walking round a small
fire of twigs; he appeared to be chanting aloud.

"He is praying for rain and good crops/' the village school-
master bawled. "He must walk round the fire until he has re-
cited a sacred verse 3,000 times. It says so in the astrological
almanac."

We passed through a village whose single street was so nar-
row that the bus seemed to brush the stalls, which were piled
high with gleaming brassware, several kinds of spiced meat,
several kinds of freshly baked bread, and stacks of colored prints
of Hindu gods. Women in sans of bright yellow, red, 01 green
were walking toward the village well, carrying pots of clay and
brass balanced on their heads.

We stopped, for some of the passengers had expressed a wish
to drink tea. When we had all finished doing so, it was dis-
covered that the driver had disappeared, his aunt lived in the
village, and he had gone to visit with her. The refreshed pas-
sengers, showing no surprise and no annoyance, sauntered idly
up and down the village street. Mulk Sangh and I looked over
the religious prints. Some depicted Ganesh, the elephant-

138

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS
headed god, who is a popular deity in Uttar Pradesh; others
showed Krishna chasing the milkmaids. One print represented
Vishnu reclining gracefully on the body of a many-headed ser-
pent; out of his naval there grew a lotus on which sat Brahma.
There were also prints of fat Indian holy men, who sat cross-
legged, left foot on right thigh and right foot on left thigh, the
soles of their feet turned upward, solemnly looking down at
their monstrous paunches There was a print of Gandhi, ema-
ciated, spectacled, wearing only a white loincloth and striding
sturdily along a dusty road, holding a staff. And, a startling
incongruity among all these, there was a colored photograph of
Stalin, wearing one of his wartime field-marshal uniforms, his
chest gaudy with medals.

Presently the busdnvcr returned, smoking a bidi cigarette,
and we all clambered back on board the bus, and lurched and
roared on our way.

Outside the village we passed a group of men, women, and
children, trudging along in the dust of the roadside, followed
by heavy-laden pack-oxen. The women wore a queer headgear:
a sort of shawl which was raised well above the head, supported
on what looked very like a pair of wooden horns. My friend
the schoolmaster pointed them out excitedly. They were, he
said, lambadi a wandering gypsy tribe with an evil reputation
for the buying and selling of stolen children. I thought of
Meerut, and the children who had disappeared at the inela.

Badnpur at first glance was a dismal disappointment. I did
not know quite what I had expected, but certainly something
more impressive than eighty sparsely distributed mud huts set
down in a baking open plain and surrounded by wretched little
fields, each hardly bigger than a suburbanite's lawn. There
seemed to be hardly any people about which, considering the
appalling heat, was perhaps not surprising but those we saw
looked furtive. The place had a ghostly air. The huts were
raised off the ground on mud platforms. Steps had been
molded in the mud, but were worn to a smooth, sagging shape

139

LUCKNOW:

by much use. Outside the huts cattle disconsolately panted:
painfully gaunt beasts, whose ribcages showed clearly through
the emaciated hides, matching with uncanny and pathetic ex-
actitude the curves of the worn baked-mud steps.

"But there is a government resthouse," said Mulk Sangh.
"We shall find the police chief there, for since the murders the
police have taken charge of the village and of the villagers,"
he added, rather grimly. "We'd better go and see him."

Mulk Sangh was quite right. Outside the resthouse which,
though only a bare bungalow, was larger than any of the village
huts, police guards patroled lethargically up and down. On the
veranda of the resthousc sat the police chief in his pajamas.
He was a small unhealthy-looking man with very hard brown
eyes, like stones. He sat upright in a wooden chair, and was
being shaved by an attendant.

"The attendant is a member of the government-resthouse
caste," Mulk Sangh explained, as we approached. "Yes, it is
true," he said impatiently, when I rashly smiled disbelief.
"There is a caste which exists to light the resthouse lamps,
carry government officials' baggage and shave the officials,
also."

We waited until the police chief had had his shave, and
then walked onto the veranda.

While we explained ourselves, the police chief sat perfectly
still, his hands crossed on his stomach, his hard brown eyes
looking over our heads, unblinkingly apparently straight at
the glaring sun. When we had finished talking, he said in good
English: "But there is nothing now for you to see in Badripur:
law and order have been restored." He seemed inclined to dis-
miss us out of hand.

"But," I said, "what about your investigation?"

"It is proceeding."

"You mean you have some clues to the murderers?"

"It is very difficult," the police chief complained. "The vil-
lagers' stories are confused. They say they cannot identify the
men. We do not know what happened at all."

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THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

"But two men 'were murdered?"

"We found some traces of two bodies having been burned,"
he said grudgingly.

Mulk Sangh said gently: "People find those murders, in this
district, very disturbing."

The police chief said loudly: "Law and order have been
restored. It is not true there has been serious deterioration in
the crime situation in this district. That is very exaggerated,
what the papers are saying."

He was beginning to talk like an official report.

"Then why were the two Socialists murdered?" I asked.

The police chief looked directly at me, and for the first time
his eyes blinked. "The Socialists," he said simply, "were agi-
tators."

Then he looked at his watch, which was strapped tightly to
his wrist, under the sleeve of his pajama coat. He said, more
cordially, but with an evident determination to end the inter-
view: "I am expecting an important Uttar Pradesh official here,
very soon. Why don't you come back later, and talk to him?"

We said we would, thanked him, and withdrew. He pro-
ceeded with dignity to scrutinize some papers, bending dili-
gently over a small wooden table that the attendant of the
government-resthouse caste had brought onto the veranda for
the purpose.

"Now we shall go and visit a man who is the leader of the
Socialists in this village," said Mulk Sangh. "I was given his
name in Lucknow."

On the way to the Socialist's house we passed a hut which
was part residence, part store. Outside it there hung a cage,
in which a large green parrot preened its feathers and cocked
a beady eye at us. "That is the home of the village money-
lender," Mulk Sangh explained. "He charges 25 per cent in-
terest: about 60 per cent of the villagers are in debt to him,
and will remain so all their lives. Most of them are born in
his debt, for the debt is passed from father to son."

The village Socialist, contrary to my expectations, was a

141

L U C K N O W :

merry man, with a broad, laughing face and bare, brawny
arms. His hut's single room had a mud floor smeared with
cow-dung mixed with water. It contained three upright wooden
chairs, a wooden bench against one wall, a rope-bed against
another wall, and a number of brass pots and brass trays. He
greeted us cheerfully, and his smiling wife gave us namasthe,
pressing the palms of her hands together. "You must be very
hungry!" he exclaimed, after he and Mulk Sangh had talked
a little. As if the words were an understood signal, his wife
rose and bustled outside. The village Socialist nodded after
her. "She is a good woman," he said, "and a brave one, for she
married me. We defied custom together, for she was a gold-
smith's daughter, and I am only a blacksmith. That was against
all caste laws. I am a Socialist, and it is my business to break
caste law. She is not a Socialist, nevertheless she broke the
custom for my sake. Therefore she is braver than me."

I told him, with Mulk Sangh interpreting, that we had come
to Badnpur to find out why the two Socialist speakers had
been murdered.

The broad-faced man reflected a while. Then he said: "There
is great bitterness in this district between the Congress Party
people and the Socialists."

"And the Communists?" I asked.

He shrugged. "In this matter of land the Communists are
with us, certainly. But there are not many Communists."

"The Congress Party claims to have made very great land
reforms in Uttar Pradesh."

He grinned. "Well, it all depends on the point of view. This
is how we see it. The Congress Party set up a Zamindars' Abo-
lition Fund: all was to be done legally, and there was to be no
confiscation of land. So, in order to get possession of the land
that they worked as tenants, the people had to pay to the
Zamindars 9 Abolition Fund a sum which is ten times the rent
they pay the zamindars annually. Only about 20 per cent of the
peasants could afford to do this, and then only if they had good

142

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS

crops, and also by putting themselves in debt to the money-
lender.

"But the zamindars were still not satisfied. The law said that,
if the tenants found the money, the zamindars had to accept
it, and had to part with all of their land, except that part which
they personally cultivated. With the help of corrupt officials,
the zamindars falsified the land records to 'prove* that most
of their land was under their 'personal cultivation/ "

He paused. "Let me give you a figure. The Congress Party's
own Committee on the Consolidation of Landholdings in
Uttar Pradesh recently admitted that they had investigated and
had found 3,576,853 'wrong entries' in 7,082 villages'"

The statistics rolled glibly off his tongue, but this did not
surprise me, and I did not doubt his word; I guessed that, like
most literate Indians, especially politicians, he had a phenom-
enal memory for figures.

"Well," he proceeded, "what happened next? Armed with
the falsified land records, the zamindars and their bribed offi-
cials started mass evictions of peasants, who had for long been
their tenants but who they now said were unlawful squatters
on the zamindars' 'personally cultivated' land. This, however,
was not enough; for the government passed a law to protect
people against mass evictions. The law was based on the ten-
ants' period of occupancy of a piece of land; even if they were
so-called 'squatters/ they still could not be evicted under this
law. But then the zamindars simply moved the tenants about,
from one piece of land to another, and then evicted them. The
law said nothing about that; and the tenants, most of whom
cannot read or write, were too bewildered to understand what
was happening/'

While he had been talking, several people had come quietly
into the cool semidarkness of the hut and had sat down. The
village Socialist nodded to them, but otherwise paid them no
attention. They were dark, earthy-looking men, mostly wearing
only loincloths: they sat, listening intently, but saying nothing.

143

LUCKNOW:

''Well!" said the Socialist, good-humoredly. "Now we have
in this village a panchayat, or village council. Perhaps we
should raise those matters in the panchayat? But the landlords
have traditionally been the bosses of the panchayat; and they
remain so. All that happens there, in the panchayat, is that
the rival leading castes fight among themselves for mastery
over it. But all are landlords, and usually Brahmins as well.
The people have a great awe of the high-caste Brahmins, and
dared not oppose them.

"This village also has a co-operative: perhaps the people
should try to gain their rights through the co-operative. But the
rival high castes fight to control that also. These castes seek
support among the rich peasants. The membership of the co-
operative has grown to almost twice what it was. But the mem-
bers are only pawns in the game played by the rival leading
castes. One caste has been very clever. It has maneuvered the
other caste into leadership of the co-operative. That seems to
you to be a strange thing to do? But see what happens. The
other caste, the one that has apparently surrendered the co-
operative to its rivals, urges the peasants to apply to the co-
operative for loans. The loans are grudgingly granted, because
the peasants are egged on to make threats that if they do not
get loans, they will burn the crops. Then the peasants are
ordered on no account to repay the loans. So, the caste that
was maneuvered into taking over mastery of the co-operative
is disgraced; but in the process the co-operative itself is made
bankrupt. Then the landlords nod their heads wisely, and say:
'In India there can be no co-operatives, for the peasants are
too ignorant to make them work; the co-operative is merely a
plant held in position by government, but its roots refuse to
enter the Indian soil/ "

He looked up. "Ah! Here is your food."

His smiling wife had come back into the hut, and she began
briskly to serve a feast. We ate kakori kababs, cigar-shaped bits
of meat that melted in the mouth, and they were followed by

144

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS
melons and mangoes. The blacksmith did not eat, saying
laughingly that he had already had his dinner. Mulk Sangh
and I discovered that we were famished. The silent peasants
watched us placidly, and seemed pleased that we showed a
good appetite. Badnpur, I thought, might be a wretchedly poor
place, but its hospitality was princely.

"Tell me," I said, with my mouth full of kabab, "who is the
government official who is coming here today?"

All the peasants laughed. One of them explained- "He calls
himself the chairman of the 'Grow More Food* Committee.
He is very officious and knows nothing, being from Lucknow
To us, he is only one more Yama, to add to our other burdens
these being the tax collector, the police, the vaccmator, and
the patwari." Everyone laughed again, more uproariously than
before: Yama is the Hindu God of Death.

"The patwari" the blacksmith Socialist explained, "is our
village headman. He is also the land-record officer and the rev-
enue officer. Besides that, he is a nephew of the moneylender "

One of the peasants said violently. "Give him an anna, and
he will denounce his own father as a bastard, I hope he drowns
in a tankful of maggots."

The blacksmith said: "He is very superstitious. Last year
when the floods came and the village well was defiled, because
of a corpse being found in it, he ordered cow's urine to be
poured down the well to purify the drinking water."

Another peasant said: "He also fixed a day for the whole
village to go to the shrine of Pochamma to pray to avert small-
pox. Very few people went. They are as superstitious as he,
but they also hate the patwari."

"Where is the shrine of Pochamma?" I asked.

"It is next to the new post office that the government built."

"Poor Nehru!" I thought.

"What are the police doing about the murders?" Mulk Sangh
asked.

"What d'you expect them to do? Bullying the villagers or

M5

LUCKNOW:

trying to; our people are rather tough. Sucking up to the land-
lords. I was not there when it happened," said the blacksmith.
He glowered fiercely. "I mean when our two comrades were
murdered. I wish I had been."

'They would have killed you, also, baba" said one of the
peasants.

"Perhaps: but I would certainly have killed some of them.
Cowards, to murder two unarmed men!"

"The Congress Party men who were murdered in Bara Banki
were also unarmed," said Mulk Sangh, mildly.

The blacksmith looked disconcerted. "Yes, that is true. The
whole business is perfectly horrible." He let his eyes widen,
and slapped a vast hand on his thigh. "You don't think we
Socialists had anything to do with the Bara Banki killings, do
you?"

It was a singularly unconvincing show of innocence. Mulk
Sangh remained silent. The squatting peasants looked thought-
fully up at the thatched ceiling. It was an awkward moment.
Mulk Sangh ended it by rising and saying: "My friend and I
would like to speak to the pat-wan. You have made us curious
about him."

"May he be forced to spend his time in hell drinking his own
urine," said one of the peasants.

The blacksmith directed us to the patwari's house. His amia-
bility had been fully restored. All the same, he seemed relieved
that we were taking our departure.

The patwari occupied a little dark hole of a house inside a
mud compound at one end of the village. Also inside the com-
pound, but built some distance from the main hut, was a
smaller hut, made mostly of straw. From this smaller hut, as we
walked past it, low moaning noises were coming; I thought it
must be an injured animal that was confined there. As we ap-
proached the larger hut, a young man came out of it, carefully
carrying a small bowl that contained rice and milk. Mulk Sangh
stopped him and spoke to him, then watched him walk past

146

THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS
the smaller hut and out of the compound, still carefully carry-
ing his bowl of food. "He is the patwarfs son," Mulk Sangh
said. "He is taking that rice and milk to an anthill where a
cobra lives. He takes food there for the cobra every day at this
time, he tells me; he is a believer in nagula panchami cobra
worship." Mulk Sangh added: "One day, of course, the cobra
will bite him. Then there will be one superstitious fool the less
in India." Mulk Sangh woefully lacked the proper spirit of
objective anthropological inquiry: his tone was contemptuous.
We had to bend our heads low to enter through the door of
the patwari's hut and, once inside, we found ourselves almost
in darkness. I dimly made out the figure of a man, dressed in
white and seated cross-legged on a rope-bed. He rose slowly as
we entered, and pressed the palms of his hands briefly together.
From the peasants' talk, I had expected to meet a repulsive-
looking old man; I had imagined a wrinkled skin, shifty eyes,
and a rapacious mouth. Instead, the patwari seen at close quar-
ters proved to be a very dignified man, elderly but still hand-
some, with a well-cut gray beard, a powerful hooked nose, and
eyes that seemed full of wisdom. He was the very picture of a
village patriarch and might have walked out of a documentary
film about the new India. He motioned us to be seated, and
sank back on the rope-bed. Mulk Sangh began explaining in
Hindi who we were. The patwari listened with grave courtesy,
stroking his beard: I got the impression that he already had
learned all about us, and privately thought of us as interfering
busybodies. But his outward manner gave no hint of this.
While Mulk Sangh talked, I let my eyes wander round the
interior of the hut. Gradually, as they adjusted themselves to
the lack of light, I began to make out objects. There were
rather a lot of them. In one corner stood a large grandfather
clock in a wooden case with a glass panel. Its brass pendulum
was motionless, and presently I realized that the clock-hands
were missing. A number of wicker baskets hung from the raft-
ers. On a small wooden shelf there were two china mugs, one

LUCKNOW:

containing pencils, the other holding toothbrushes. A saw
hung on the wall, and a scythe lay under it. Several bulging
grainbags lay on the floor. The walls were decorated with the
familiar, garish-colored prints of Hindu gods. The corner fac-
ing the grandfather clock had been made into a sort of alcove,
and in it there stood a curious figure. It was made of wood,
and was painted. It stood about three feet high, had three
vividly painted eyes, and seemed to have several sets of arms.
I longed to know what it was supposed to represent, and was
soon to learn.

Mulk Sangh stopped talking. The patwari looked at us, and
stroked his beard. Then he said "Gandhi preached the way of
nonviolence. But men's hearts are evil, and they are tempted
by devils to do wicked things. The land reforms have proved
very troublesome. They were to do good, and they have only
bred wickedness and greed. The villagers are children, and are
easily led into wrongdoing. They no longer obey the Brahmins
as they used to do. We are being punished for forsaking the old
ways of our fathers."

I thought it a disappointingly sententious speech.

A girl entered the hut. She approached the patwari, averting
her face from us. Sinking to her knees, she touched his feet.
The patwari paid her absolutely no attention. She rose and,
still with her face averted from us, went to the other end of the
hut and poured water from a large brass pot into a smaller
one. "She is his daughter," Mulk Sangh explained in English.

I asked the patwari: "You yourself then are a follower of
Gandhi?"

He nodded gravely.

"And a member of the Congress Party?"

"Of course! I am the patwari. The Congress Party knows I
am to be trusted."

"Do you think the Congress Party is carrying out Gandhi's
plans for India?"

"That is very difficult to do. Gandhi was a saint. We are only
mortals. The Mahatma has left us, and we do the best we can.

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THE MURDEROUS POLITICIANS
Gandhi/' said the patwari simply, "has ascended to heaven, and
there he sits with the gods, attended to by hundreds of servants,
and enjoying the very best food."

It was scarcely, I reflected, the sort of divine reward for
services on earth that the Mahatma himself would have ap-
proved; but the pat-wan seemed to think it eminently suitable.

The girl walked across to the alcove with the small brass pot
in her hand. There, after kneeling briefly, she rose and pro-
ceeded to lave the image.

"It is Ellamma, the goddess of boils," Mulk Sangh said in
English. "She is giving the image its daily bath."

The patwari listened uncomprehending to the foreign words,
and gave us a vague smile.

"Perhaps you could tell us why the land reforms have proved
troublesome," I said.

"I will tell you," the patwari nodded. "I myself am a Brah-
min. The peasants, and other people of the lower castes, used
to respect and fear the Brahmins. They knew their position.
We Brahmins, though twice-born, treated them almost like
members of our own caste. The low castes were grateful for
such favors from us. But now everything is changed. The low
castes demand more land, our land. We dared not refuse, for
the government has passed those laws. Yet the peasants are
not satisfied. They demand all our land. When we do not give
it to them, they burn the crops, and threaten to kill us. And
the Socialists encourage them and lead them. I hope the po-
lice will arrest all the Socialists in this village, for they are
wicked men who have turned against Gandhi's teachings of
nonviolence; I do not think they even believe in God."

In the alcove the girl finished bathing the image. She filled
a small brass dish with food, and laid it reverently at the foot
of the image.

"The food is laid before the goddess every day," Mulk Sangh
said. He added ironically: "The patwari is a very religious
man."

We rose, and said our good-bys. The patwari did not this

149

LUCKNOW

time get up from the rope-bed, but he bowed very low. I sud-
denly realized that he was complacently pleased that we had
visited him. He felt flattered.

As we walked out of the compound past the smaller straw
hut I heard the moaning sound again. It was louder and more
anguished than it had been.

"What is it?" I asked curiously. "A sick animal?"

"Oh, no," said Mulk Sangh. "I asked the son, as we came in.
It is the patwaris wife. She is in childbirth and therefore,
being unclean, must be kept segregated from the rest of the
family. She would defile the hut and her presence would dis-
please Ellamma, who might give them all boils."

We walked slowly back to the government resthouse. The
police chief was not there, but the official from Lucknow who
was in charge of the "Grow More Food" campaign was. He
was a plump and smiling man, and he greeted us effusively.

"You have had a talk with the patwari? I hoped you would,
when I heard you were in the village. He is a grand old man.
With his help, we are doing very fine work here which the
Socialists, of course, are trying to destroy. We have the village
panchayat going nicely, and we have managed to put new life
into the co-operative: the membership has recently much in-
creased. I think we have finally got the peasants to understand
what we are doing, and to appreciate our work. Yes, they are
really co-operating."

He beamed at us, then waved a hand toward the village at
large: the 80 wretched mud huts, the gaunt beasts with their
ribs showing, the bare little fields, and the moneylender's house
and store, with the green parrot in its wicker cage, hanging
outside the moneylender's door.

"These little village republics, as I might call them: they
have begun to play a most vital role in the great task of nat-
tional reconstruction. In their fight against poverty, ignorance,
and disease lies the greatest hope for our future!"

150

Cliamlni Clumk, tlic famous ba/aar sheet in Old Delhi
Many of the shops belong to gold and siher mei chants Tlu
car is co\cied against the penasixe dust, but the spiees anc

PIITI IP C rNDREAU VHOTO

WIDE WOItin PIIOIO

ABOVK A typical Indian garden party, with musicians, danc-
ers, and numerous servants BELOW Nehru and Vinoba Bhave
(right, bearded) join in mass SDinnm? Hemnmh-atinn nn nn_

Jodhpur Untouchable women selling
u ood and dung fuel in the market place,
\\hile cows gather in front of temple.

Jodhpur- Sacred cattle lord it in narrow

PHILIP GENDBEAU PHOTO

ABOVE: Mud, mud, mud every-
where in northern India and in
this typical unsanitary village in
the Smd, Pakistan. Here mud huts
are straw-covered to withstand rams
which left pools in the foreground,
LEFT: Primitive winnowing with
the wind. Landscape is character-
istic of vast central plain near
Delhi,

PHILIP OENDHEAU PHO'IO

ABOVE Wooden plow is almost uni-
versal. Village in the background,
built of mud bricks locally made, is
on a slight rise to escape floods
perhaps. RIGHT. A somewhat larger
Bengali village near Calcutta which
boasts a temple. Huts are mud and
straw; notice erosion in foreground.

COimTFS'V INFORMATION SFBMC 1 <)l INDIA

MIDI wom n PHOIO

WOMEN OK INDIA

ABOVE LI-PI A tnbcs\\oman from northern mountains \BOVI
RK.ui An untouchable laden \\ith sihcr p\cln, \\lnch is
the family bank nnow irn A Kashmir \\ 0111,111 lestmg at
the roadside in her large robe nnou RIGHI Neai Jaipur a

Rajput beauh, mured to haid \\ork, can earn gicat \\cielit

111
on her liuid

VISIBLE FROM THE ALLEYS OF BOMBAY
AHOVL A silver merchant and his wares BELO\\ A small

Pathetic escapes from the chabncss of
life i ii i In Benares a pnrnitnc
hand-tinned Feins \\lieel, and a fcs-
ti\al at the temple in backgiound
BLIOW A Jam procession in a Punjab
Icmii Bullocks in siher harness drau
a sihei c.nt containing Jam deih, in
honor of \\ 0111,111 \\lio fasted for si\
da\s

3 rt *

2 E e

N M-

S o S

'

12 s i s

th o*

-

an MJ

I'HIlll* Cl NDlirAU I'HOKl

BENARES

LI- i J A pilgrim with yellow caste marks
HFI.OW A narrow street in old city,
uhich thrives on pilgrims' purchases
Cows roam at vull, and trade hums in the
small shops raised above street lc\el

WII5F WOUTD PHOTOS

ABOVE A Hindu holy man, head buried in sand, attracts pilgrims
come to bathe in the Ganges. He is supposed to have discarded all
earthly desires and possessions, but each hour he raises his head to rest
and collect coins from the begging-bowl at his side BFLOW Hindu
holy men parading along the Ganges, they have renounced all posses-

BOMBAY- TRACES OF THE
BRITISH RAJ

ABOVE- The decline of Victorian splendor
(modified for the Indian climate) in this
downtown scene. The upper sign reads:
"Great Punjab Hotel", the lower, more
recent sign: "Great Punjab Lodging and
Rooming House." LEFT A once British,
now native street in the business district

PHILIP GFNDHFAU PHOTO

Entrance to the great temple at Madura, Its representations
of Hindu gods and goddesses are well preserved, At right,
lowest level, is many-armed Vishnu, the Preserver god, at
left is Ganesh, the elephant-god, symbol of worldly wisdom.

ABOVL Moslems at prayer at the Jamma
Masjid mosque, Old Delhi LEFI: Cat-
tle feeding undisturbed on refuse in
Clive Street, in the financial district of
Calcutta.

WIDE "WORLD PHOTO

COURTESY INFORMATION SERVICE OF INDIA

ABOVE: A student health worker says good-by to a poor family
in New Delhi after teaching them modern baby care. But
the handprints remain on the wall to protect the child from
evil. BELOW: A candidate electioneering on the broad, leafy
streets of British-built New Delhi. The camel, easily recog-

PHILIP GENDRtAU PHOTO

IN* OHM Al ION SERVICE OI INDIA

ABOVE The basket is universally used for bulk cairymg where
even wheelbarrows are a luxury Here women carry salt from
an open mine in Baroda BELOW Bakshi Culain Mohammed,
Prime Minister of Jammu and Kashmir, watches children

VI

BENARES: HOLY INDIA

Brahmins rule Benares still. KIPLING

DEVOUT Hindus hope to die in Benares and have their
ashes cast into the sacred Ganges.

I entered Benares with Rudyard Jack, to whom I had
written from Lucknow. We drove into the city along a dusty
road crowded with pilgrims. One man was walking behind a
cow and was holding the animal's tail. He had killed a cow
by accident and was making a public show of his remorse.
"Killing a cow is held to be as great a sin as killing a Brahmin,"
Rud explained; "for cows and Brahmin were created on the
same day."

Rud was thinner than when I had last seen him in Delhi.
He told me ruefully he had had a bad go of dysentry. But his
pale blue eyes, under the sandy lashes, were as alert and
friendly as I recalled them. He was studying at the Hindu
University in Benares. He had shaved his head because of the
heat, so that his reddish hair was only a stubble, and he wore
a loose white shirt and leather sandals in the Indian fashion.
This and his shaven head ought to have made him look like a
Brahmin or a Buddhist priest. Instead, his freckled cheekbones
and blue eyes made him look more American than ever. Alto-
gether he was a queer figure to find in Benares.

I told him so, and he grinned. "I don't pose to be a swami
or a guru, though some of the foreigners who come to study

BENARES:

at Benares seem to tend that way. But I'm learning a great
deal, and in spite of dysentry and other discomforts I'm really
enjoying myself. I don't propose to spend much more time
here, though. Benares is a place one can have enough of."

The sun blazed in a blue sky that shouted for the relief of
monsoon clouds; but Benares itself was under a pall of smoke,
from the burning ghats where the corpses were cremated. Out
of the smoke there loomed gilded sikharas, the conical pin-
nacles of Hindu temples; and there was a constant sound of
bells and temple gongs.

The Ganges was crowded with bathers and boats. Broad
flights of steps descended steeply to the water's edge past the
flanks of riverside palaces, like tributaries of stone. On the way
down I counted 17 lingams. All were monuments to Shiva and
fecundity; for the hngam is the penis of the god. Some were
of smooth-polished stone, others were badly weathered and
eroded. But only the rankest imagination could have found
them obscene. Stubby pillars with rounded tops, they looked
like pillarboxes: one instinctively examined them for the slit
through which to drop letters. Anyone who did not know what
they were meant to represent would scarcely have given them
a second glance. To the outward eye at least, they were as
decorous as sundials.

At the foot of the steps bathers stood waist-deep in the
muddy water of the river, which was the color of bad coffee
and which smelled of bilge. The bathers plunged their heads
under the surface, rinsed their mouths, gargled, and spat. On
the lowest flight of steps great masses of Hindus were grouped.
The men wore dhotis, or only simple loincloths. The women
wore ankle-length white dresses and had cowls over their heads.
All were barefoot. Some had spread carpets to sit on, and rested
in the shade of huge straw umbrellas, for the day was very hot.
Most of them seemed to have come in family groups. Infants
crawled and gurgled on the carpets. Small boys in white shirts
and knee-length pants and small girls with swinging, glossy

152

HOLY INDIA

black pigtails chased one another merrily up and down the
steps and round the lingams. Everyone looked cheerful. For
these families, at any rate, an afternoon beside the Ganges was
the equivalent of a day at the seaside. For the genuine pil-
grims, there were the temples, and for the mourners, the burn-
ing ghats.

Rud proposed to hire a boat and go for a row on the sacred
river. The boat was a gondola-like affair, with a canopy, red
side-curtains, and dirty cushions. The boatmen wore loincloths
and had a professional air. The Indian families at the water's
edge politely made way for us, and we gingerly embarked. The
boatmen pushed away from the bank, and poled the boat
slowly into midstream. But for the lingams and the loincloths,
we might have been in Venice.

Leisurely, Benares unfurled its four-mile riverfront for our
inspection. It was an astonishing sight. Behind a forest of tall,
thin bamboo poles fringing the river's edge, and a shifting
curtain of thin blue smoke from the burning ghats, great walls
of crumbling stone reared up like sheer cliffs. These were the
walls of the eighteenth-century palaces of the Mahratta princes.
Their tops formed a serrated skyline of turrets and towers,
interspersed with clusters of slender minarets, like exclamation
marks At some places gaping holes had been torn in this fan-
tastic stone fagade, showing where the Ganges, rising in flood,
had torn away entire palaces and temples, like teeth wrenched
from a jaw. But these devastations of nature merely heightened
the effect of ruined grandeur. Behind its shifting curtain of
corpse-smoke Benares was a holy city under a burning sun, like
something seen in the fever of a delirium-haunted dream.

The tiers of steps transformed the riverfront into a vast am-
phitheater. And the amphitheater was crowded. The day was
not an especially holy one. There was no lunar or solar eclipse,
or any of the other phenomena that the great melas are held
to celebrate. But stretched along all the four miles of river-
front, there must have been at least a million people. They

153

BENARES:

were massed thickly on the broad steps, on the stone platforms
of the bathing ghats, under the straw umbrellas that sprouted
like giant mushrooms on the stone terraces at the water's edge.
And the river was full of the bobbing heads and brown bodies
of the bathers, swimming from the bank or from boats.

Every tier and terrace had its rows of lingams, and its trum-
peting elephants, its bulls, and its placid sacred cows, carved
in stone or cast in brass. On one ghat there towered an idol
with two sets of arms. One hand held a trident, a second a
flower, and a third a club, the fourth hand was empty, but was
thrust out toward the river, the palm uplifted. Another ghat
was dominated by a figure representing Durga, one of Shiva's
wives: she had ten arms. Sprawled on its back over a whole
flight of steps was the huge clay figure of one of the legendary
Pandava brothers. The idol was painted, and had splendid
curving black mustaches, arching black eyebrows, and great
black astonished eyes. Stretched there with outflung arms, the
figure had a look of comically dismayed surprise, like a man
who has fallen down and finds he cannot get up again.

Meanwhile, from the 1500 temples of the city there came
all the time the solemn booming of gongs, the clanging and
tolling of innumerable bells, borne to us on the sullen, smoke-
laden air.

We went ashore at the Mamkarnika ghat. There were many
sati stones, commemorating the fiery deaths of pious Hindu
widows. Near by, boats with furled sails rocked lazily on the
muddy stream, in which people were washing clothes or col-
lecting water for cooking. On the brick-laid surface of the
burning ghat, several corpses lay stiffly stretched across twisted
branches and boughs, ready for cremation. The bodies were
tightly swathed in white or red cotton shrouds. Most of the
faces were covered. Wrapped in their cotton cocoons, the
heads seemed unnaturally large and round, like footballs. Here
and there a naked foot protruded rigidly, as if its owner were a
sleeper who had been laid on a bed that was too short.

154

HOLY INDIA

Children, with tangled black hair and running noses, paused
in their play to look curiously at the bodies. Grownups walked
past without a second glance, busy with their own affairs. The
whole scene had a casual air.

A small girl approached the corpse of an old woman whose
head was uncovered, and peered closely and inquisitively into
the aged face, whose jaws were locked in a death-grin. A man
called impatiently to the child, who obediently ran after him
and accepted his hand. The man and the child walked off.

"Some children love to watch the cremations/' Rud said.
"The skull is usually the last thing to be burned. Sometimes it
collapses with a loud pop, like a balloon bursting. When that
happens, the children clap their hands."

We walked from the ghat to the near-by Charanpaduka, to
inspect the miraculously preserved footprints of Vishnu: they
are visible, in marble, on top of a stone pedestal. A few high-
born families have the privilege of being cremated at the
Charanpaduka instead of on the ghat.

Higher up the steps from the Charanpaduka, pilgrims to
Benares were filing patiently into the Siddha Vinayak, the
temple to Ganesh. They had to queue up to receive the cer-
tificates which testified that they had not only visited the
sacred city but had completed the 36-mile circuit of it, which
is called the Panch Kosi. It takes six full days to go round the
circuit, for many temples and shrines have to be visited on the
way. Those who make the trip are automatically absolved of all
sins, and are born into a higher caste in their next incarnation;
while those who are fortunate enough actually to die within
the magic crescent of the Panch Kosi are not reborn at all,
but become one with Brahma. Given this belief, it is not diffi-
cult to understand why many aged people make the pilgrimage
to Benares, and linger hopefully along the Panch Kosi. Inside
the temple the pilgrims who had received their certificates were
performing puja before the elephant god, whose trunk is made
of silver.

155

BENARES:

We walked on and found ourselves in an area of narrow
lanes linking the ghats. The lanes were so narrow that even
the most intrepid of tonga drivers could not have maneuvered
his vehicle into them. But this did not deter the cyclists, who
whizzed up and down the crowded lanes with a wild shrilling
of bicycle bells, and who shot round corners and charged
straight at the pedestrians that blocked their path in a solid
mass. Nobody paid the slightest attention to them or seemed
to make way for them; but somehow they got through and dis-
appeared in the crowd, still briskly ringing their bells.

The lanes were crammed with little stores and overhung
with balconies that almost touched. Shops and houses were
painted a deep, dark red, and on the crimson dusky walls were
outlined the figures of bulls, gods, monkeys, warriors, priests,
and holy men in various attitudes of profound meditation. The
sharp angle of a building sprouted a winged figure with flowing
hair. From the top of another, sharply and fleetmgly outlined
against a patch of glimpsed blue sky, the monkey god extended
his paws. The pavement and sidewalks were painted with
gaudy yellow flowers and realistically hissing red cobras. Amid
this startling profusion of decorative art the crowds went plac-
idly about their business, in a dense but orderly swarm, like
bees in an ornate hive.

Coppersmiths hammered and blew. Woodworkers made lac-
quered birds. Giant wooden looms clacked, weaving rich bro-
caded silks. A Brahmin priest in an orange robe strode past,
looking neither to right nor left. Two sharp white teeth pro-
truded over his lower lip and the whites of his eyes showed
horribly: he seemed to be in some sort of walking religious
trance. Nobody heeded him. Sacred white cows shouldered
their way ponderously through the throng, occasionally pausing
to put down their heads and lick rice from the bowls of uncom-
plaining beggars. And all the while, the trick cyclists continued
to shoot round sharp corners like bullets, violently ringing their
bells and swerving wildly to avoid collisions by a hairbreadth.

156

HOLY INDIA

A crowd had gathered at the open door of a temple that was
no bigger than a wayside booth. They gaped at what lay inside:
a freakish five-legged calf, plainly regarded as being especially
holy.

Outside another temple confectioners were selling sugar
birds. The bird Garuda is the steed of Vishnu, who conferred
immortality on it after Garuda stole the moon. On the way
to the moon (which it concealed under its wing) Garuda
passed a lake where a tortoise 80 miles long was fighting an
elephant twice its size. Garuda seized the tortoise in one claw
and the elephant in the other, and flew with them to a tree
800 miles tall, where it ate them both.

In the temple to Garuda a priest stood in front of a stone
idol with a silver face and four sets of arms, waving a peacock
fan to drive off evil spirits. In his other hand the priest mean-
ingfully held out toward visitors a coconut shell for receiving
alms.

"Had enough?" Rud inquired pleasantly.

I was streaming with perspiration, footsore, plagued by clam-
oring beggars, deafened by the continuous clang of bells and
dm of gongs- dazed by all we had seen. I said I thought I had
had enough for one day.

"If we go along here/' Rud said, "I think we can get hold
of a tonga. . . ."

Next day Rud was engaged elsewhere. I rambled alone
through the streets and lanes of the sacred city, revisiting the
ghats and inspecting the Temple of the Moon, which claims
to be able to cure all diseases. I saw women praying to Shiva's
lingams, begging for sons, and I watched crowds of orthodox
Hindus shove and push one another to get into the Golden
Temple to drink water from Shiva's well. The worshippers all
wore Shiva's mark three horizontal lines smeared across the
forehead with cow-dung ash which is a common sight in the
Ganges plain.

Benares is Shiva's city, and no one knows how old Benares

157

BENARES:

is, for when Buddha visited it, in the sixth century before
Christ, it was already ancient. Shiva worship is probably the
oldest living faith of mankind. It was practiced in Mohenjo-
daro, in the Indus valley, perhaps five thousand years ago.
When the Aryans invaded India, legend says, the Shiva-
worshippers fled from the Indus valley and settled near the
Ganges. Shiva haunts graveyards, and is the lord of ghosts. He
married Sati, the granddaughter of Brahma. To do him honor,
she leaped into the sacrificial flames and so started a custom
that for centuries has been the curse of Hindu women. An-
other of Shiva's wives is Kali, who likes human sacrifices. A
third, Parvati, bore him a son called Ganesh. One day, in a
rage, Shiva cut off Ganesh's head. To conciliate Parvati, he
sent retainers into the forest with orders to bring back the
head of the first living thing they found. They returned with
the head of an elephant, and Shiva clapped it on Ganesh's
body, so that today Ganesh is the elephant-headed god of the
Hindus. Shiva appears to his devotees in the form of a typical
Hindu ascetic, his hair matted, and carrying a skull in one
hand and a begging-bowl in the other. The followers of Shiva
smear themselves with cow-dung ash, and their holiest men lie
on beds of nails, hang themselves upside down from trees,
and walk until they drop dead.

The Brahmins ruled Benares until India was conquered by
the Moslems. The Moguls were men of the Renaissance who
aped European monarchs and built imitations of Versailles.
But there continued to exist a vast, turbulent Hindu under-
world of yogis and priests, idols and castes. The worshippers of
Shiva survived the British. And it seemed to me conceivable
that they might survive India's contemporary ruling caste of
left-wing intellectuals. Walking through the crowded streets of
Benares and listening to the tolling bells of its 1500 temples, it
occurred to me that the confident planners in New Delhi had
not yet really come to grips with the Hindu mind.

"You must meet Pandit Appasamy," Rud said. "I'll intro-

158

HOLY INDIA

duce you to him. He's an authority on the Hindu religion, and
also he's a big shot in the Hindu Mahasabha. I think you'll
find him an interesting man."

The Hindu Mahasabha was one of India's two right-wing
Hindu political parties, the other being the Jan Sangh. I had
read their manifestoes, which seemed to me to be virtually
identical. They bitterly opposed the Congress Party, and par-
ticularly Nehru, whom they regarded as an enemy of Hinduism
because of his attacks on the caste system. They had had very
little time for Gandhi either. The man who assassinated Gandhi
was said to have been a fanatical member of the Jan Sangh;
and both the Jan Sangh and the Hindu Mahasabha were
reputed to be very strong in Nagpur, where a crazed rickshaw-
puller had recently tried to stab Nehru.

We drove out along the Durga Kund road, past the
Vizianagram Palace. Pandit Appasamy's house was a surprise.
He might be a Hindu mystic, but he was no ascetic, for his
home was amply furnished in a modern Western style. He
was a slim brown man, very good-looking, with the cultured
affability of a faculty dean in some American midwestern uni-
versity. He wore a white turban and a dhoti; but, after greeting
us, he sank gracefully into a deep leather armchair. Presently
a maid brought in tea, which was served in thin porcelain cups
and was poured from a silver teapot.

"Westerners are frequently baffled by Benares," said Pandit
Appasamy. He spoke pleasantly modulated English, and made
small gestures with his well-manicured hands. "Baffled: and
also disconcerted. They are confused by all the gods and god-
desses; and, besides, they find the whole place rather smelly!"
He gave a jolly laugh. "What they therefore frequently over-
look is that Hinduism is a very old and also a very sophisticated
religion. Hinduism is full of subtleties and profundities. It
has nourished great literature and great art; and it contains
very great religious truths."

He threw himself back in his chair, and wagged a reproach-

159

BENARES:

ful finger at us; it was evident that he had not lectured for
three years at Oxford University for nothing.

"All those gods and goddesses that distress you Westerners
they are only symbols. Symbols of what, you may ask? Well:
first of all, of various manifestations of nature. For in the be-
ginning we Hindus were nature-worshippers. There was Surya,
the sun god." He quoted. " 'Seven tawny-haired mares draw
thy chariot, O dazzling Surya'' And there were the rain gods."
He smiled, and with considerable relish quoted again. " They
press the clouds like a breast, they milk amid the roar of the
thunderbolt!'

"And Shiva Shiva was the god of both creation and de-
struction."

Pandit Appasamy paused, and raised a quizzical eyebrow,
like a lecturer who waits to see if there are any really bright
pupils in the class. He plainly wanted us to tell him what
Shiva represented.

I did so. We were, after all, drinking the Pandit's very ex-
cellent tea.

"Shiva was the monsoon'" I cried excitedly.

Pandit Appasamy smiled his approval.

"Just so! Shiva was the Monsoon. And in Bharat in those
days Bharat is what the ancients called our holy land of India,
and we hope the name will be revived in Bharat there were
many lesser gods, with whom we need not trouble ourselves:
Kama, the god of love, for example, who was armed with
flowery arrows and who rode a parrot. But all these were merely
symbols.

"But, as Hindu thought developed, they ceased to be sim-
ply symbols of crude natural forces. They became they are
today manifestations of different aspects of Truth." Pandit
Appasamy smiled triumphantly, and again shot out a finger at
us. "You of the West did not think of that, did you? But wait'
The Hindu mind delved still deeper! For human souls also

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HOLY INDIA

appeared as parts, or aspects, of one universal, divine substance,
or Truth whom we call the Brahma. Yes: the Brahma. With,
of course, each soul undergoing countless transmigrations, re-
incarnations, and so forth

"It was to meditate on this Truth that the yogis retired to
the forests. And after much deep and profound thought, this is
what they came up with."

The Pandit leaned forward, and ceased smiling. Impres-
sively, he announced: "Everything that lives, dies; and nothing
that dies, dies forever. That is what they came up with."

He shook his head solemnly. "In the 'Mahabharata,' our
great epic poem, Krishna says- 'That which is born is sure to
die, and that which is dead is sure to be born/ There you have
the essence of the Hindu view of life."

I thought of the women praying before the lingams, the five-
legged calf, and the man who had killed the cow I also thought
about the caste system, and the 50,000,000 untouchables.

"Pandit Appasamy," I said, "which aspect of Truth does the
caste system represent?"

"Order," said the Pandit immediately. "Symmetry. Har-
mony. The caste system, I fully realize, is not appreciated by
Westerners. But that is because they have not studied it prop-
erly. What has preserved the Hindu way of life through many
millennia of vicissitudes? Why are we the oldest civilization on
earth? The answer is: the caste system. In that system, every
man knows his place, because he is born into it. Lower castes
respect higher castes: higher castes respect lower castes. This
has been the secret of our immense stability. Destroy the caste
system, and you destroy Bharat."

"But suppose," I paused delicately "suppose you had
been born an untouchable, instead of a Brahmin. Wouldn't
you feel the arrangement was rather unfair?"

"Not at all," said the Pandit gravely. "For, by resolutely
casting out sin and obeying the Brahmins, an untouchable may

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BENARES:

himself hope after several reincarnations to become a Brahmin;
and a sinful Brahmin risks being reborn as an untouchable."

It appeared to be time to change the subject.

'Turning from religion to politics," I said, "how do you and
your friends in the Hindu Mahasabha feel about the situation
in India today?"

After so urbane a philosophical discourse, I had little hope
of getting specific answers. Another few yards of the silken
eloquence in which Pandit Appasamy seemed to specialize
would, I expected, be unrolled for our admiration. But in India
it is always the unexpected that happens.

In a twinkling he was transformed. Urbanity dropped from
him like a cloak, and his eyes flashed.

"Bharat is still not free!" he cried. "Already the glow of
illusory freedom has vanished from the hearts of the people.
Under Congress Party misrule, we live amid the reek of cor-
ruption. True Hindus are more vilely oppressed than they have
ever been before in their history. Nehru and the Congress
Party spurn Hindu ideals and the Hindu way of life. They
are trying to make Bharat a mere carbon copy of the West.
Worse! They are traitors. Bharat is a living organic whole. It
was not shaped by human hands. It has a culture that is one
and indivisible, which has flowed down to us in an unbroken
stream from the Vedas. Yet the Congress Party conspired with
the Socialists, the Communists, and the British Imperialists, to
cut Bharat in pieces to appease the Moslems."

I asked him what his party, the Hindu Mahasabha, proposed
to do about it.

"The Partition was a crime," he said forcefully. "It must be
revoked. A sacred duty lies upon us to protect the cruelly op-
pressed Hindu minority in Pakistan. First, we must take steps
to recover the thousands of Hindu women who were forcibly
abducted to Pakistan by Moslem rapists. Then we must work
and fight for a reunited India: a revived Bharat. There must
be undivided allegiance to Bharat."

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HOLY INDIA

He leaned forward. "In order to achieve this, we must get
rid of Nehru's misconceived notion of democracy. It can never
inspire the masses; and it gives full scope to the machinations
of the Socialists and Communists, to the detriment of the
nation.

"Co-operation must take the place of riotous individualism.
There must be discipline. Military training will be made com-
pulsory for all young men up to the age of twenty-five. Arms
will be given freely to the inhabitants of all areas bordering
on Pakistan. We shall resolutely oppose Moslem brutality and
trickery, and fight Congress Party persecution. India will be de-
veloped as a national home for Hindus, where the sublime
qualities of Hinduism can at last find fulfilment. We shall
establish a Hindu Raj.

"Sacrifices will have to be made by all. Monopoly capitalism
will be curbed. Capital will be compelled to accept the labor-
ing masses as an equal partner. Both will function under the
direction of the state. All strikes and lockouts will be forbidden.

"We shall restore the village as the centre of Hindu life.
The Hindu system of medicine, Ayurveda, will also be restored.
The killing of cows will again be sternly punished as a crime
against our religion.

"In time state compulsion will become unnecessary. The
state's bureaucratic machinery will be replaced by bands of
voluntary workers inspired by the ideal of service to the nation.
The free peasants will go cheerfully about their work, gaily
singing the Vedas. Thus Bharat will recover its soul, which
under Congress Party tyranny it has meantime lost."

I reflected that, between them, the Hindu Mahasabha and
the Jan Sangh claimed the political allegiance of some
5,000,000 Indians. That was perhaps not very many, in a coun-
try of over 370,000,000 people. But Hitler and Lenin had
started with less.

Rud and I got tactfully to our feet, and prepared to take our
leave.

BENARES

"Tell me," I said, in parting; "how do you feel about Indians
who have become Christians?"

"There will be no place in the new Bharat for imported
foreign religions," said the Pandit firmly. "An Indian who be-
comes a Christian necessarily has a divided allegiance. That
cannot be tolerated. We shall try to persuade as many as pos-
sible to return to the fold of Hinduism. Those who refuse to do
so will find they have little future in Bharat."

We left in a thoughtful silence.

"I was sure you would find him interesting," Rud said.
"What do you make of all that?"

"Pandit Appasamy may not frighten the Moslems," I re-
plied. "But, by God, he terrifies me!"

164

VII

GAYA: PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

There are two main facts about India: religion and poverty
ALL-INDIA RURAL CREDIT SURVEY

J. LEFT Rud in Benares, with a promise to meet again in
Hyderabad, and proceeded by rail to Gaya in Bihar. The train
rumbled and belched its way across a flat, stony plain, like a
Brahmimcal model of hell constructed of rude granite; this
year the monsoon was intolerably late in coming. When it came
Bihar would as usual be flooded, and the peasants' mud huts
which the train was passing would again be swept away. Mean-
while, the train's hard-class coaches were filled with peasants
on their way to Gaya, where they would offer pindas, or funeral
cakes, and perform sradh ceremonies, in the pious hope of
joining their ancestors and becoming one with Brahma.

My own immediate traveling companions were a fat man
with a shaved head and bristling black mustaches, who looked
like my conception of a Malay pirate after an unusually good
night of raping and throat-cutting, and a thin, quizzical Indian
newspaper reporter called Krishna Mahalmgam, who was en-
gaged currently in writing a series of articles about the Nehru
Government's land reforms. The piratical looking man was a
Bihar landlord, and Mahalingam skillfully goaded him into a
grudging discussion of the state's land problems. He viewed
the journalist with small, hard, suspicious eyes, but finally
boasted that he had just given fifty acres of land to the

165

GAYA:

bhoodan movement, for distribution to the poor. "Ah, well,"
said Mahalingam cheerfully, "that is more than you Bihar land-
lords ever gave to Buddha, who asked for land for the same
purpose, and got nothing. But I bet when Vinoba Bhave comes
to inspect your gift, he will find it consists mostly of barren
rock or unusable jungle." In high dudgeon, the landlord moved
into another compartment at the next halt, and Mahalingam
roared with laughter.

Bihar is about the size of Missouri, and its 40,000,000 people
are the poorest in India: poorer even than their 65,000,000
neighbors in adjoining Uttar Pradesh. Bihar has only one crop,
rice, which is sown at the end of the monsoon and harvested
in January. In the intervening six or eight months, the peasants
have literally nothing to do, and when they have sold or eaten
their rice crop, they subsist on onions and peppers. They are
deeply in debt to the village moneylenders, and grievously
oppressed by the landlords, who have a reputation for tough-
ness unusual even in India. Yet Bihar could be rich, for it pro-
duces 35 per cent of the world's mica, and under its granite
skin lie 3,000,000,000 tons of high-quality iron ore. The firm
of Tata has created a modern steel town at Jamshcdpur, and
the Nehru Government has vast irrigation schemes for Bihar,
which include two barrages and a dam higher than Boulder.
Meanwhile, however, 82 per cent of the people of Bihar scratch
a sub-living from farm plots.

Mahalingam was a cheerful traveling companion; he ex-
plained, with a loud laugh, that his name meant "Big Penis,"
then proceeded to relate the results of his researches into the
government's land reforms.

The government was establishing community-development
schemes, embracing blocks of villages: each village was sup-
posed to have a "multipurpose" worker, and each block a
development officer.

Mahalingam glanced out of the coach window. "You ought
to see an 'unimproved' village, then compare it with an 'im-

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PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

proved' one. If you care to break your journey, I could show
you both."

We left the train at the next station. With cheerful profi-
ciency, Mahalingam secured a taxi which, though it had admit-
tedly seen better days, had four wheels and was swifter than
a tonga; soon we were rattling along a dusty potholed road in
aching and blinding heat.

The village to which he took me crouched low on the stony
ground, as if to avoid the heat; there were few sheltering trees.
It was, however, superior to the village I had visited near
Lucknow, for it had five shops, a telegraph office, and, unfor-
tunately as it turned out, a village headman who was the proud
possessor of a telephone. He was an anxious-looking man, with
rheumy eyes and a stained gray beard, who spoke English with
a plaintive Welsh accent.

"This is not a good village to see," he complained. "We are
not yet in a development scheme. You should go to the im-
proved village. Sri Sewa is there today; he is the development
officer. There is nothing to see here."

Mahalingam, however, was equal to the occasion. The taxi-
driver, hitherto silent, revealed that his wife's brother lived in
this village, and offered to take us to him. Soon we were talking
earnestly to a typical, if "unimproved," tenant-farmer of Bihar.

A friendly but painfully unloquacious man, he had, after
all, little to tell us. He grew rice, but the landlord got most of
it, and the village moneylender most of the rest. The village
land was cut up into tiny strips one landlord claimed no
fewer than 200 of those pocket-handkerchief-size patches and
there was a great deal of confused litigation over who owned
what.

"But what about the government's land reforms?" Maha-
lingam demanded. He sat with his thin cotton shirt hanging
outside his pants, smoking a cigarette and impatiently rocking
one thin knee, like a vengeful prosecuting-lawyer. "Hasn't the
government offered more land to you people yet? Hasn't it

167

GAYA:

fixed ceilings on land, so the landlords must surrender some of
theirs to the tenants and the landless laborers?"

Zamindars, the taxi-driver's wife's brother meekly replied, had
not yet been abolished in Bihar: even when they were, they
would have to be paid compensation for the "surplus" land,
after ceilings had been placed on the land they could retain.
The tenants who wanted to acquire land would have to pay
either the market value of the land, or fifteen times their present
rent, whichever was less.

"Compensation already paid to zamindars in the five states
where landlords have been abolished has come to over
$1,000,000,000," Mahalmgam explained to me. He turned
back to the tenant-farmer. "Are you going to buy some land,
then, when the time comes?"

The man shrugged. "How can I afford to do that?" His
total income from the five acres he worked as a tenant was
only $154 a year; and he owed the moneylender $70, a sum
which remained constant from year to year, for he was always
having to reborrow.

"Now we shall go and visit the 'improved' village," Maha-
lingam said.

When we arrived there, it was evident that our visit came
as no surprise. The villagers indeed were waiting to greet us,
patiently lined up in the village street in the broiling heat.
When our taxi appeared, they even raised a feeble cheer. As
soon as the taxi halted, a man sprang forward to open its
door for us. "My name is Sewa." He briskly gave us a namasthe
greeting. "I am the development officer. I shall be very happy
to show you everything. We are rather proud of our work here.
Here we are really building up the new India."

I had not seen this particular set of smooth jowls before.
But I had seen plenty of jowls like them; also the well-
laundered shirt of the right kind of khaddar cloth; also the
carefully adjusted dhoti. Here was a professionally devout
Gandhian, a true "Congress wallah."

Inexorably, we were taken in hand; with practiced efficiency,

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PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

we were conducted round. We passed along a narrow lane
lined with new brick cottages, through whose open doors we
glimpsed infants suspended from the rafters in swinging wicker
baskets. Everything was neat and tidy, even the usual pi dogs
and goats had been, temporarily, cleared out of sight, though
we could hear the dogs' frustrated barking from behind the cot-
tages. "You will observe," said our guide, "that this little lane
has been paved Yes; paved' Truly a revolution in the lives of
those poor people." It was true: down the middle of the
lane, where the sewage normally ran, a fresh line of bricks had
been rather erratically laid. From their doorways the villagers
respectfully peered and, when they caught the development
officer's eye, bowed.

We were swept on to the village's new school. As we ap-
proached it, the fresh clear voices of children poured, not very
spontaneously, through the open windows Teachers bowed
and smiled. The well-drilled children rose smiling from behind
their desks. One by one, they were picked out to sing for us
carefully rehearsed songs, one boy also made what was evidently
a set speech prepared for such occasions. He was a thin
little boy, with large, sad eyes, and he was painfully polite
As soon as he had finished, small girls rushed forward with
ready-made garlands to hang round our necks.

Only when we visited the hot tiny office of the village's
"multipurpose" worker did the routine break down. The multi-
purpose worker was a very old man, and he had evidently been
dragooned into the job, without quite understanding what he
was taking on. He still did not understand it. He produced,
with pathetic eagerness, several large, crayon-colored charts
which purported to show how far the village had advanced, in
hygiene and in farm techniques, since its "improvement" had
begun. But the charts made little sense, for the figures that
they contained contradicted one another in several instances.
When Mahalmgam pointed this out, Mr. Sewa fidgeted, and
the old man gaped, with his jaw dropping, and then firmly
repeated his mechanical exposition.

169

GAYA:

''But how," Mahalingam insisted, "can the amount of land
you say has been brought under irrigation be greater than
the amount that you say is irrigable?"

The old man blinked his eyes, and looked as if he were about
to weep.

"There may have been some slight error in the returns,"
said Mr. Sewa smoothly. "The land records that we took over
from the British were not, I'm afraid, in all cases very accurate.
This project covers 10 villages altogether, and each village has
some 600 people. The work is rather new to him, and most of
the peasants are of course illiterate." He swept us out, leaving
the unfortunate multipurpose worker brooding over his charts,
but not before casting at him an ugly look which boded ill for
his future.

On the way back, however, Mr. Sewa recovered his spirits.
Had we not liked the children's singing? Was not the school a
great achievement? "What you have seen is just a little bit of
India's Plan," Mr. Sewa cried. "The plan is to set free the
creative energies of the people so that they may by their own
efforts build a better life. . . ." The speech rolled smoothly
on. "Creation of popular representative organs . . . multipur-
pose co-operative societies . . . complementing the machinery
of government by community efforts based on self-help . . ."
Then we were at the taxi, and Mr Sewa, deciding that nama-
sthe was not enough, was shaking hands. "I hope you will
not be too hard on us; there is so much to do, and so few
qualified people to do it; but we have really begun to
build. . . ." He was begging for a word of praise, a pat on
the back.

Suddenly I thought of Mr. Sewa as, probably, the only man
for miles who read a book, or even a newspaper. Once, cer-
tainly, he had been, not a smooth-spoken Congress wallah, but
an idealistic young man, his head stuffed with John Stuart
Mill, dreaming of a great Indian awakening. And I wondered
what I would do, if I were to be put in charge of a community-

170

PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

development project and instructed to change the lives of some
6,000 people, who were only one small part of 300,000,000
people whose lives it was proposed to change. Shaking hands,
I said: "You have a tremendous problem; I certainly hope you
will succeed in building a new India." Then we drove away,
leaving him standing there, in his khaddar shirt and his neatly
tucked dhoti.

As we bumped our way back to the railroad station, Maha-
lingam said: "Nehru claims there are 100,000,000 peasants al-
ready included in community-development projects. But half
the villagers don't know the name of their 'multipurpose
village-level worker/ and about a third of them don't even
know they are supposed to be living in a project area. All that
most of the peasants know is that suddenly they are being
taxed more; this is called a Voluntary contribution/ The devel-
opment officer is usually just the tax collector under another
title. The Community Projects Administration claims that
thousands of acres of lands have been 'consolidated' or 're-
claimed/ and that new roads are being made and wells are
being dug. But compulsory consolidation of holdings is called
'public participation/ and the road-making and the well-sinking
have become command performances."

"Well, what's the solution?" I demanded.

"Ah'" said Mahahngam, grinning. "You'll have to ask the
Socialists that. You'll find them in Gaya."

Stalin had a useful start. ASOKA MEHTA

GAYA. The place is named after a demon, so holy that all who
saw or touched him were immediately admitted to union with
Brahma. But it is also where the Buddha meditated and
preached under a fig tree. A few yards from the famous tree,

171

GAYA:

there is a temple where Hindu monks worship an image of the
Buddha as an incarnation of Vishnu.

But I had come to Gaya to see the Indian Socialists at work.
Their choice of Gaya as the place to hold their annual party
conference was unfortunate. Gaya is normally too hot even
for Indians' comfort. An influx of politicians in addition to the
usual throngs of pilgrims threw an intolerable strain on the
little town's totally inadequate resources of drinking water and
sanitation. Gaya panted like a suffering beast. Its mean, narrow
streets were packed to suffocation with animals and humans.
The oxen that wearily pulled the creaking carts were ghastly
caricatures of skin and bone, and the people all seemed to be
dressed in dirty rags. Everything and everyone smelled strongly
of perspiration. The thermometer was stuck at 112 degrees F.,
for the temperature did not vary even between high noon and
midnight. It was a mockery to try to rest, for going to bed
simply meant lying wide awake in darkness on a charpoy,
stark naked, while sweat oozed out of every pore. When in
the morning you drew aside a curtain, or opened a door, the
new day's hot breath rasped on your skin. It was like living
permanently in a stokehole. People fell down in the street,
with heatstroke, as if they had been poleaxed. Dysentry was
rife, and there were grave rumors of cholera. After a day and
a night or two, one's vision became blurred and blood-red,
one's brain felt like a sponge that was being inexorably
squeezed, and the hot walls of panic-breeding claustrophobia
began closing in.

This unhappy atmosphere strongly tinged the Socialists' con-
ference. The main meetings were being held in a very large
tent, which irresistibly recalled the more raucous sounds and
rankest smells of the circus. The leaders were grouped on a
platform, where they squatted on sweat-stained mattresses.
They had left off their shoes, and wore white cotton Gandhi
caps and thin white cotton tunics. This is the customary wear
of all Indian politicians, but the Socialists somehow managed
to look aggressively proletarian; perhaps because they were all

172

PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

lean and even cadaverous men, like hungry Cassiuses. Their
state of mind matched their appearance, for there was no doubt
that they regarded Nehru, with great bitterness, as a usurping
Caesar. They proclaimed as much, at considerable length, into
the platform microphones whose fat black cables trailed in
confusion across the mattresses, getting in the way of the
speakers' bare feet. The big tent reverberated with their tinny
protests and accusations. Squatting below the platform, on the
bare ground or on little straw mats, the Socialist groundlings
stoically endured the heat, and frequently applauded their
leaders. They looked even hungrier than the men who ha-
rangued them, for they seemed to be mostly of student age:
lean and tattered representatives of the millions of semiedu-
cated young men whom India's schools and colleges tirelessly
turn out, year after year, but who cannot find jobs.

"In close liaison with the landlords and moneylenders," a
Socialist speaker bawled, "the Congress Party led by Jawaharlal
Nehru is circumscribing the liberties of India, jeopardizing
democracy, shooting down the workers and systematically pul-
verizing all its opponents!"

Out of the loudspeakers, unnaturally magnified, poured the
vitriolic words, down below the platform, knees rocked in an
agony of concentration, heads nodded rapidly, and hands
smacked together in approval.

According to the Socialists, no fewer than 17,000 "martyrs"
were currently undergoing severe hardships in the Nehru Gov-
ernment's jails for having opposed the Congress Party's capital-
ist dictatorship and its attempts to suppress the workers and
peasants. In the eyes of the Socialists, Nehru had clearly re-
placed the British Raj as the source and mainspring of all the
evils afflicting Mother India. In the fetid atmosphere of Gaya,
and with all this fevered oratory besieging one's ears and one's
heat-squeezed brain, it was very difficult to take other than the
gloomiest possible view of Mother India's future.

Unhappily it rapidly became clear that the Socialists were
far from being united even among themselves. A severe schism

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GAYA:

existed, between the Praja Socialists assembled at Gaya, and
another group of Socialists, led by Ram Manohar Lohia,
who had taken themselves out of the Socialist Party and gone
off to Hyderabad to found a new, purified Socialist Party of
their own. The Praja Socialists denounced the Lohia Socialists
as undisciplined deviationists; the Lohia Socialists denounced
the Praja Socialists as persons who were simply out for personal
power and who did not really have the interests of the masses
at heart. Both continued to attack the Congress Party as the
deadly foe of all Socialists, if not of all mankind.

The most intelligent of the Indian Socialists seemed to me
to be Asoka Mehta. He was a slight and sensitive man, who
wore a beard which made him look like Jesus Christ, and who
had the manners and accent of a Cambridge or Oxford don.
"South and East Asia/' he said in his precise, very English
voice, "represent the ultimate cesspool of poverty, where wants
are truly raw." In Gaya, this appeared to me to be only too true.
"In the final analysis," Mehta continued, "factories cannot
work if the men in them starve. And that is where our true
quarrel with Nehru lies. Nehru, like Stalin, wants a form of
Socialism that will put all the emphasis on the rapid creation
of heavy industry: on the multiplication of factories. But in
India this cannot be achieved without totally estranging the
peasant; for who is to pay for the building of the factories,
except the peasant, who manifestly can't afford to let them be
built out of his sweat? Stalin had a useful start. Even as far
back as 1913, Russia's steel output was over 4,000,000 tons a
year, and her population was only a third of what ours is now.
India's steel production today is barely more than a quarter of
Russia's in 1913.

"Nevertheless," Mehta pointed out, "Stalin only achieved
'industrialization' by ruthlessly squeezing the Russian peasants.
How does India hope to attain industrialization, except by a
similar squeeze? Even China's task is easier, for she is leaning
heavily on Russia. As for Yugoslavia didn't Tito make his

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PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

break with Stalin precisely because he shrank from squeezing
his peasants to the point that Stalin demanded? Just because
of this historic refusal, there's at least a chance of Yugoslavia
becoming an interesting example of a Marxian mutation. But
Nehru, who goes about saying that Marxism is obsolete, is
preparing to tie the Indian peasant to the Stalinist flogging-
machine. Why? Because he wants to have more factories; wants
India to imitate Russia, to imitate the West. But for Asian
countries to achieve the visage of Russia, or of the industri-
alized West, is just not possible, except at a price which is far
too high to pay a political dictatorship that will bend the
peasant to make him fit the shape of the economic Plan, in-
stead of adjusting the shape of our planning to meet the needs
of the peasant.

"By quite modest means, India could increase its food out-
put by 50 per cent in 20 years. Wouldn't that mean a great
increase in the happiness of Indians of the Indian people?
I don't oppose small industries, which mean giving em-
ployment to the people, not squeezing them. But we cannot
imitate either industrialized Russia or the industrialized West.
Nehru is in love with his Five Year Plans; with gigantism.
To push his plans through, he will either have to borrow
massively from abroad which means opening India's doors
either to Soviet domination or to a new Western colonialism
or he will have to squeeze the necessary capital out of the
peasants. There is no other way. And, if he tries squeezing
the peasants, they will resist, and then he will have to become
a dictator, like Stalin."

According to another Indian Socialist, Jaya Prakash Narayan,
Nehru had become a Stalin-type dictator already. In an im-
passioned speech, Narayan attacked Nehru for developing a
"cult of personality" around himself, and accused him of "shoot-
ing down more Indian workers than the British ever did."

It was strange to hear those bitter charges being hurtled at
Nehru by Narayan; for many Indians had long supposed

175

GAYA.

Narayan to be Nehru's most likely successor. A tall and strik-
ingly handsome man, with gray eyes and a formidable jaw,
Narayan was the son of a poor peasant. He had worked his
passage to California and spent eight years in the United
States, where he studied economics and science at five uni-
versities (including Berkeley and Wisconsin) while earning
his keep by working as fruit-packer, farm-laborer, waiter, and
factory-hand. He returned to India unconverted to capitalism
and dedicated to Socialism, and in 1932 was jailed by the
British. Out of prison, he formed a railroad workers' union,
with a million members, and launched the Indian Socialist
Party. The British jailed him again in 1939, for they regarded
him as a desperate agitator. He went on a $i-day hunger strike,
then escaped from prison by scaling a 20-foot wall, and hid in
the jungles In 1946 after ha\mg led his Socialists into the
Congress Party, he led them out again and, after organizing a
big rail strike, was chiefly responsible for gaining 11,000,000
votes for the Socialists in free India's first elections.

In spite of his vigorous appearance, he suffered severely from
anemia and diabetes, and he disliked the Communists as much
as he had come to loathe the Congress Party Referring to the
Communists, he passionately declared "We must hurry, or else
those who believe in violence will step to power over our dead
bodies." Nevertheless, he dismayed the Socialists by suddenly
quitting the party, and dedicating himself to Vinoba Bhave's
bhoodan, or land-gift, movement

Narayan stood out strikingly amid his Socialist comrades, for
his tall figure was swathed in white cotton garments that seem
to have been tailored almost to a Dior design. But, despite his
new-found dedication to the strictly nonviolent methods of
Gandhism, he appeared to be even more bitter about Nehru
than they. "One can only hope," he said, with a handsome
sneer, "that the 'socialist pattern' about which Nehru now
talks will end the paradox of the few idle rich wallowing in
luxury, while the masses sweat for a loaf of bread." The sneer
eloquently indicated that, in fact, he entertained no such hope.

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PEASANTS ON THE LEFT

Yet Narayan, in his Dior-like dhoti, did not give the impression
of being one with the sweating masses. And, when the party
leaders rather pathetically appealed to him to return to the
fold and do some hard work for the Socialist cause, his answer
was prompt. "It is my irrevocable resolve," he declared solemnly,
"never again to take part in party politics, for my life belongs
to bhoodan." Like the Socialists, I could not but feel that this
was a highly unsatisfactory answer. It also appeared to me to
make nonsense of his vigorous onslaughts on Nehru and the
Congress Party, and to greatly weaken his alleged fear of
what the Communists would do to India, if nobody bothered
to fight them The unhappy, split Socialists, who badly needed
a leader, were presumably as baffled by Narayan as I was.
After further appeals, and more firm refusals, he swept out
of Gaya, in his elegant dhoti, to return to his ashram, or
saintly sanctuary, where doubtless he will continue to meditate
in a sneering sort of way on the folly and vanity of all human
beings save Jaya Prakash Narayan.

I was glad to be able to leave Gaya myself so glad, that I
rashly launched on a long journey by rail and road to Nagpur in
central India- a journey that I was to look back upon with a
considerable degree of horror. Unlike an ashram, it afforded
few opportunities for meditation. But one thing \\as clear in
my mind. For some time to come India would continue to be
ruled by the Congress Party, for the very simple reason that
India showed no signs of producing any alternative to it. In
spite of the undoubted intellectual eminence of one or two of
their leaders, the Socialists could not rule India, for they could
not even agree among themselves. The Communists despite
Nchrirs admiration of Russia were unlikely, while Nehru lived,
to be able to do much more than hang on to his coattails, and
the Jan Sangh and Hindu Mahasabha belonged (one hoped)
to the past rather than the future. But the Congress Party, in
effect, was Nehru, so what would happen to it, and to India,
when Nehru was no longer there?

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VIII

NAGPUR: CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

We advocate Socialism and cling to caste. NEHRU

The structural basis of Hindu society is caste- if and -when
caste disappears, Hinduism will also disappear. M. N. SRINIVAS

o,

'N THE railroad platform a woman rested against an iron
pillar, breast-feeding an infant. Bells clanged and red-turbaned
porters padded about with bare feet. Children begged for
annas. The hands of the station clock pointed to fifteen min-
utes after midnight.

In the compartment two small fat men were undressing and
talking in Welsh-English. I caught only snatches of their con-
versation.

". . . onion-skin for a nosebleed, and . . ."

"Achyal That is indeed interesting. But once, I tell you,
when I was just about to seat myself on the commode . . ."

The other passenger was a thin man with a shining, bald
brown head. He was wrapped in a thin brown shawl and his
spectacles had slid to the tip of his long nose.

I had been traveling southwest from Gaya for what seemed
days. The roads were bad, the food fly-blown, the water scummy.
Everything smelled of sweat, cinders, scorched earth, and cow-
dung. Hotels were nonexistent and the so-called "resthouses"
were rat-ridden and snake-infested. The heat-rotted strings of
the charpoys broke and the moldering wood concealed armies

CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

of bedbugs. I was sick of unending poverty, the bare squalor
of mud huts, and the swarming alleys of fetid towns.

When I awoke it was daylight, and the two small fat men
had gone. Big drops of rain crept down the windows of the
coach, tracing little rivers in the dust. Everything smelled of
wetness.

The thin man gave me a solemn friendly smile. "Achyal"
he said. "The monsoon."

His name was Vasagam, and he was an inspector of un-
touchables. The Nehru Government is striving to abolish un-
touchability. "But this cannot be done simply by issuing an
order from Delhi," Vasagam said. "I have been in villages
where untouchables may not draw water from the well. On
this tour I visited a place where forestry officials were using
the untouchables for slave labor."

We left the tram at Jubbulpore. The streets were ankle-deep
in mud, and gangs of bedraggled men wearing fezes were
roving about, shouting menacingly. A tonga drawn by a starving
horse took me through the rain to a hotel. Outside its gate a
man in dirty rags was boiling eggs. The hotel proprietor had a
hooked nose and thin black hair plastered over a sloping skull.
"I am a Moslem," he said, "and so are my waiters. They are
out taking part in the noting."

He saw I was puzzled.

"It is over the dog of Lucknow. It was called Mahmud. The
Moslems will not tolerate this. There were riots in Lucknow.
Now there are riots here. News travels slowly."

I asked if there had been much damage.

"A few Hindu stores destroyed," he said carelessly. "And
ten killed; or it may be fifteen. Let me show you the rooms."

The first had a strong smell and no window. The second
contained two beds piled on top of each other, several trussed-
up carpets, and five lampstands with no lamps. "I do not think
this one is quite ready," he said.

I finally settled for a room that had for a bed only a flat

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NAGPUR:

wooden board laid on trestles, but which looked comparatively
clean.

The dining-room was large and gloomy. I was the only diner.
The proprietor brought me four hard-boiled eggs, and I had
eaten three of them when a memory began to haunt me. I
quietly followed him when he went for bread and my suspicions
were confirmed. My supper had come from the man in dirty
rags who kept the foodstall at the hotel gate. "The cook has
joined the rioting also," the proprietor said.

I went to bed, using a shirt filled with rolled socks for a
pillow. But I had hardly stretched out on the wooden board
when the hotel exploded into cheerful noise. In adjoining
rooms lightswitchcs were snapped on, furniture was dragged
about, people laughed and talked loudly. This went on all
night. More people kept arriving and joining in the talk. At
half past three in the morning the early risers got ready to
leave. Charpoys scraped across stone floors, and water splashed
into tin basins. At half past four, I decided I, too, would make
an early start. It was still pitch-dark. The hotel proprietor, wear-
ing white cotton pajamas and a fur hat, offered me boiled
eggs, which I hastily declined.

A car splashed into the hotel courtyard, and out of it stepped
Mr. Vasagam. He greeted me warmly. "I am delighted you
are up and about to leave. I am driving toward Nagpur and
wondered if you would care to keep me company."

The way to get to know India, I reflected, was to travel on
Indian trains and meet the right people.

We left Jubbulpore behind and drove southwest through a
dark wet countryside over roads slippery with mud. The head-
lights showed only heavy rain falling and the gleaming eyes
of bullocks. Then the night lifted, and we could see fields and
houses, rich, black cotton-growing soil and in the distance, to
the south, the fringes of considerable forests.

"Once all this area was thick forest," Mr. Vasagam said,
"inhabited by Gonds and other Dravidian tribes. These tribes

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CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

still form a fifth of the population of central India, but they
have been gradually pushed into the remnants of the forest.
They are the 'tnbals/ "

Mr. Vasagam wished to send a telegram, and we stopped in
a village street outside a mud-walled telegraph office. An Indian
with a red cloth tied round his head offered us hard-boiled
eggs sprinkled with black pepper. I was hungry enough to eat
them. While we breakfasted the man in the red turban told
us about himself. He had traveled widely and spoke French
and Spanish as well as English. lie talked wistfully of Pans and
Madrid, like an exile condemned to live out his life in a strange
place. He wore rags and had not shaved for a week. "It is a
great pleasure to me to talk with civilized people once in a
while," he declared. Travel had made him a snob.

Near Nagpur was a village Vasagam wanted to inspect. We
were looking for the resthouse when we were overtaken by a
flaxen-haired young man and a red-haired girl in an ancient
Ford. The young man wore a check shirt and the girl wore
blue jeans. He hailed us in a hearty voice with a midwest accent.
"I am the Reverend Billy Jowitt and this is my wife, Alice/ 7
He addressed himself to me. ''Sir, are you in this neck of the
woods on the Lord's behalf?"

When I said I was not, he looked relieved. "Then we still
have this vineyard to ourselves, Alice!" he exclaimed. "Did you
see the Tabernacle, gentlemen, as you came in? It is the little
church we have just finished building unto the Lord. We are
the first pentecostal invasion team to hit this area." He looked
rather defiantly at Vasagam. "We are militant evangelists out
to capture the villages for Christ. Our goal is '600,000 villages
in 10 years/ "

"What do the Brahmins say?" I asked, and the Reverend
Billy Jowitt's brow darkened.

"Did the priests of Baal welcome the messengers of the Lord?
We are here to bathe lost souls in the blood of the Lamb."

At the resthouse we were greeted by an obsequious official.

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NAGPUR:

Mr. Vasagam's telegram had been received. Lamps had been
lit and rooms freshly swept. Bearers padded about with hot
water and towels, and a meal awaited us.

Thin and solemn, his bald head shining and his spectacles
sliding down his long nose, Vasagam asked sharp questions.
Did the untouchables have access to the village well? Could
they freely enter the temple?

He evidently found the official's answers evasive, for he
proceeded to issue peremptory orders.

"You tell me the untouchables may enter the temple only
on special occasions. Summon them, for I myself will lead them
to the temple this very evening."

The village untouchables were summoned by the beating
of a drum. The drummer, an untouchable sweeper, was a
short man with a grizzled mustache. The drum was large and
black, and he walloped it with vigor, producing an awesome
booming. The untouchables obeyed the summons, holding
aloft bedraggled black umbrellas and looking apprehensive.
It was difficult for them to believe that a summons by a gov-
ernment official meant anything but trouble.

Mr. Vasagam had put on a clean white shirt and dhoti.
With his thin brown shawl pulled over his head to protect it
from the rain, he looked like a taller Gandhi.

"I come to you from the Government of India, which is
trying to carry out the reforms promised by Gandhiji," he said
gently. "In the new India there are no longer untouchables,
or such a thing as untouchabihty. If you wish to enter the
temples, you need not break down their doors, or chase away
the priests. No man may try to prevent you. You must send
your children to school, and there they will sit freely beside
the children of your neighbors. You may use the village well
in the same way as others do, and all public places are open
to you."

Vasagam led his motley throng of butchers, tanners, and
cobblers through the village toward the temple. The street was

182

CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

lined with curious spectators, all holding umbrellas. They
showed neither hostility nor enthusiasm. I had no way of know-
ing what they were thinking. Caste is rooted in Indian vil-
lage life, but the poverty of the people makes outward signs of
class distinction almost impossible. The people who lined the
street were barefoot and their simple cotton clothes were little

different from the untouchables: even their umbrellas were the

same. Vasagam's action was possibly having an earth-shattering
effect, or perhaps they were accepting it philosophically as just
another bit of the incomprehensible behavior of the new Raj
in Delhi.

At the temple the untouchables left their umbrellas outside.
Candles lit the dim interior. There was a strong smell of
incense. The deities of this village were represented merely by
a number of stones, shapeless and of no imposing size. Some
were smeared with ocher, and all had garlands of mangolds
and halves of coconut shells laid before them. Standing before
the crude idols, the untouchables reverently raised their hands
to the level of their foreheads, and began to perform puja.

A man in an orange robe appeared and cast a garland round
Vasagam's neck. He pressed vermilion paste on Vasagam's fore-
head with his thumb, gabbling in Hindi. The untouchables
he ignored.

Outside, the drum began to bang. Obediently, the untouch-
ables filed out of the temple. The procession started back to
the village. Vasagam irritably rubbed the mess from his fore-
head. "That was the temple priest," he said. "He thanked me
for the visit and said he would remember me in his prayers."
His tone was ironical.

Vasagam led the way to the village restaurant. Wooden
benches flanked trestle tables. In a dark cubbyhole at the back,
a man squatting on bare heels attended to cooking-pots sim-
mering over a fire laid on the bare earth floor. But the untouch-
ables grinned hugely and, when the food was placed before
them, thrust eager fingers into the steaming mixture of rice

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and scrawny chicken bones. The restaurant-keeper, a fat man
with a greasy look, hovered anxiously in the background. When
he caught Vasagam's eye he bowed so violently I expected him
to topple over on his face.

I found myself seated next the drummer. He turned out to
be half-witted but amiable. He had two cows, two wives, and
four children all under three years of age. Both his wives were
pregnant, he told me proudly. I reflected that there were
50,000,000 untouchables like him.

When the last splinter of chicken bone had been gnawed,
the untouchables rose. One of them had slipped out, and now
he returned with two garlands. One was draped round Vasa-
gam's neck and the other, to my embarrassment, round mine.
Then they shyly gave us namasthe and passed out into the
rainy darkness, clutching their bedraggled black umbrellas.
Vasagam paid the bill. Twenty rupees, or slightly over $4.00,
had bought a meal for over 30 persons. On our way back to the
resthouse, Vasagam said: "We cannot hope to win 600,000
villages away from untouchabihty in 10 years; we can only
hope to make a start."

Before I fell asleep, I thought of Vasagam, traveling end-
lessly about the vast, hot countryside of India, scolding back-
sliding officials and leading untouchables into village tem-
ples. He had told me that in the course of his work he traveled
30,000 miles a year. Here, I felt, was at least one truly devoted
man.

In the morning it was still raining. We breakfasted frugally
off boiled eggs, and departed. On our way through the village
we saw a remarkable sight. Outside the restaurant where we
had eaten, the ground was strewn with smashed crockery. In-
side, down on his hands and knees, the fat restaurant-keeper
was frantically scrubbing the floor with milk instead of water.
Already scrubbed until they shone, the wooden benches and
trestle tables stood on end all round the walls.

I stared, uncomprehending.

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CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

"He has broken the cups and plates we used, because the
untouchables defiled them," Mr. Vasagam explained. "He is
scrubbing his restaurant with milk to purify it, and also by way
of penance for having been in contact with untouchables."

I had nothing to say, but Vasagam laughed quietly to him-
self all the way out of the village.

"We Indians are a remarkable people," he said.

Do mission hospitals stock poisons? OFFICIAL QUESTIONNAIRE

ADDRESSED TO CHRISTIAN CHURCHES IN INDIA

THE RAIN was still tumbling down when I reached Nagpur.
A shrine to Ganesh had been erected opposite the Anglican
cathedral. It was garish with electric lightbulbs, and a wheel of
light whirled behind the god's elephant head, like a halo. The
worshippers of Ganesh paraded through the streets, led by men
who wore tigers' tails and had painted their naked bodies with
yellow stripes. There was much chanting and beating of drums.

The state government had set up a commission to investigate
the Christian missions. Outside the Nagpur Assembly Hall was
a white statue of Queen Victoria. Inside a picture showing
Gandhi and Nehru together hung on the wall. There were
rows of wooden benches and a scattering of spectators. The
members of the commission sat on a raised platform behind a
large table. At a side desk a clerk hammered loudly and inex-
pertly on an ancient typewriter, drowning out the words of the
witnesses.

The commission was cross-examining an American mission-
ary. He was a Quaker from Ohio. He had thinning ginger hair
and wore a thin white cotton shirt and trousers. The soles of
his thin sandals were cracked.

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NAGPUR:

He explained he had been doing mission hospital work in
India since 1940. The hospital staff were all Indians.

"But they are all Christians?"

"Yes, they are Christians."

"And the patients: are they Christians?"

"No, sir," said the Quaker. "In the villages where we do
our work there are no Christians whatever."

"Achya, but you try to convert them?"

"No, sir," said the Quaker. "Our duty is to tend the sick.
It has never entered my head to try to convert sick men."

"But isn't it true that a mission doctor may offer up a prayer
before treating a patient who is seriously ill, even though that
patient is a Hindu?"

"Yes, sir," said the man from Ohio. "We do."

"But isn't that," his interrogator asked triumphantly, "an
insult to the Hindu's religion?"

He darted a sharp glance at the clerk, who immediately
hammered industriously on his typewriter.

A sullen-looking young Indian with a shock of black hair
testified that the missionaries in his district had a secret radio
transmitter. "It is for broadcasting India's secrets to the foreign
powers!" he cried.

Another young man described, with a lecherous leer, how
the missionaries abducted Hindu girls for immoral purposes.
A third declared Indian Christians were taught to sneer at
Indian culture.

At the testimony of a fourth, I pricked up my ears, for he
swore solemnly that the missionaries were self-confessed agents
of foreign governments, boasting that they were paving the
way for India's conquest. "I have heard them say it them-
selves," he cried. "They call themselves soldiers, and say they
are going to capture all the villages." I remembered the brash
words of the Reverend Billy Jowitt with his talk of "invasion
teams."

The people who filled the wooden benches listened in a sort

186

CHRIST VERSUS GANESH

of perplexed apathy. Most of them were poorly, but neatly
dressed, and it suddenly occurred to me they were probably
Indian Christians. When the day's proceedings adjourned,
they rose and drifted forlornly out into the rain. They were
careful not to look at the missionaries.

The Ganesh worshippers were still prancing through the
streets. Some were carrying umbrellas. A man was beating
monotonously on a drum outside the elephant god's well-lit
shrine. The Anglican cathedral was dark and silent.

Next day I called on one of the missionaries. "The modern
fakirs of the middle west have discovered India," he said gloom-
ily. "The Gandhi glamor had a lot to do with it. I've noticed
that Gandhism seems to attract people with rather odd minds.
The roads of India are filled with Jehovah's Witnesses, Holy
Rollers, and, if you'll pardon the expression, God knows what.
They play into the hands of the Hindu extremists."

Then I called on an Indian Christian minister. He was a
large listless man, with dark pouches under his eyes, and big,
broken-nailed hands. He invited me on to his veranda, and we
sat side by side, looking out at dripping orange trees. His
daughter, a plain girl in a black dress, brought us cups of weak
tea.

"I was an untouchable and have worked all my life among
them," he said. "But recently they have lost interest in the
church. Very few come to see me, and my congregation has
dwindled to a handful. The young men say they have no use for
religion and that everything must be done through politics.
Some support the Congress Party and others the Communists,
but they are all against the West. They say the church is a
fraud, and that it is rooted in colonialism. They have a great ad-
miration for Russia and China."

"There must be many who still seek religion," I said. "Which
way do you think they will turn?"

He looked at me with his dark-pouched eyes. "I think they
will find a third path."

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NAGPUR

From Nagpur, I planned to fly to Bombay. On the way
to the airport I passed a large procession of men and women,
led by two priests with shaved heads and wearing saffron
robes. There must have been a thousand people, and they
looked as if they knew where they were going.

"They are untouchables," my taxi-driver explained. "It is a
mass conversion. They have decided to become Buddhists."

The untouchables of Nagpur had found the third path.

188

IX

BOMBAY: CITY IN FLOOD

Two monsoons are the life of a man. BOMBAY SAYING

I

FLEW from Nagpur to Bombay in a little Dakota. A sign in
English and Hindi warned the passengers not to smoke, for
the plane was not fireproofed. Liquor was not permitted either,
for Bombay is a dry state. Presently a pretty Anglo-Indian
hostess in a dark blue uniform handed each passenger a card-
board box containing a frozen chicken leg and two hard-
boiled eggs. Lunch had been served.

My seat companion was an Indian businessman. He had just
come from the Delhi trade fair. India's biggest manufacturing
company had devoted part of its fair pavilion to an exhibit
pointedly praising private enterprise, in contrast with the
"public sector," and had invited a Cabinet Minister to a pre-
view. The Minister promptly ordered the exhibit to be closed
down.

"India is now on a Socialist path," said my businessman.
"We capitalists are guiltily conscious that in the past we have
behaved badly. We must accept Mr. Nehru's goal." He was a
fat, froglike man, and he said it with froglike solemnity. I
could detect no irony in his tone.

Bombay, almost twice the size of Oregon, is India's largest
state, and has 48,000,000 people. It is also the richest state, for
it has both the cotton mills and the rich black soil of the
cotton-growing areas. We had a bumpy ride, for the monsoon

BOMBAY:

was at its height. The plane flew on shuddering wings through
vast, billowing gray clouds. We were still in a gray murk when
we began to nose our way down. Then suddenly we were under
the clouds and over a great bay, with solid blocks of apartment
houses looking out to sea. The glimpsed city heeled away,
and we passed over tightly packed rows of shanties. The plane
skimmed over those slums and dropped neatly on to a runway
of the Bombay city air terminal.

Torrential rain was falling and a taxi-driver in a ragged
cotton shirt grabbed my luggage. With a clash of rusty gears,
we were off. The taxi plunged into a rutted lane between
smoke-blackened houses that were falling apart with damp and
woodrot. We raced through a maze of wretched lanes, hitting
submerged potholes. Great waves of muddy water broke over
us. The taxi's windshield-wipers were not working, but the
driver never slackened speed. An elderly man skipped agilely
out of the way, and three women ran screaming.

We skirted a vile-smelling swamp and came out on a main
highway. Suddenly the world was filled with whizzing cars and
charging trucks, hurtling through the monsoon. A train roared
past, perilously overhanging the road. It was packed, and
white-clad figures also clung on outside.

We whizzed along the rim of the bay. On our right the sands
of Chowpatti beach were crowded with people despite the rain.
They were carrying placards and banners and flags. "They are
taking out a procession against the Portuguese Fascists in Goa,"
the taxi-driver explained. Farther along the beach two rival
meetings had clashed, and people were hitting one another
with sticks. "It is the Maharashtrians and the Gujeratis," the
taxi-driver said. We passed the new Bombay Secretariat, and
he pointed. "Ah, there is more trouble, I think." Ragged
young men were fighting with policemen in the courtyard and
were heaving stones through the windows. They cheered as the
glass crashed. "They are Maharashtrians," the driver said.

190

CITY IN FLOOD

He made a startling U-turn and, after ricocheting off a
rickshaw, came to an abrupt halt.

"The hotel," he said proudly.

I paid him off with shaking fingers.

Four bellhops escorted me to the elevator and then along
a passage to my room. The hotel had an immense cathedral-
like roof with plaster ice-caking. But the walls of the passage
had succumbed to dinginess and damp, and the lock on the
door was broken.

The bathroom contained no soap or towels. The ceiling-fan
was loose and made a screeching noise. The cupboards, lined
with pages torn from the Times of India, smelled hideously of
old varnish and new green mold. The floorboards sagged, and
a large damp patch spread over one wall. On the back of
the door was thumbtacked a notice:

"Persons residing in this hotel are requested to allow any
drinking party in their rooms only after satisfying themselves
that all persons participating in the drinking are permit-holders
of the following classes: (i) special permits to visiting Sover-
eigns; (2) foreign visitors' permits.

"In the case of health permit-holders, such a drinking is not
permissible unless and until the said permit-holder brings his
own drink and participates same under his permit.

"A tourist's permit entitles holder to one quart of spirits or
three of wine or nine of beer.

"The permit-holder shall not get drunk in any public place."

Having no permit, I went for a walk. The streets were filled
with jostling crowds carrying black umbrellas with bamboo
handles. The men all wore white shirts without neckties. Hawk-
ers stood under archways, selling ballpoint pens, celluloid
combs, nail-scissors, spectacles, keyrings, bottles of hair-oil, bot-
tles of ink, imitation-leather briefcases, plastic cigarette cases,
pencils, erasers, notebooks, rubberbands, matchboxes, and betel
nuts. People paused to light their cigarettes from smoldering

191

BOMBAY:

bits of tarry rope obligingly hung outside booths. Beggars
whined, and an old man thrust out a bandaged leg fantastically
swollen with elephantiasis. A vast sweating warehouse of a
bookstore displayed numerous copies of the Kamasutra, the
Hindu "Art of Love/' The book urges newlyweds to bite one
another's flesh and leave lotus-shaped marks. Grooms are ab-
jured to bite their beloveds playfully, gently, and in the highest
moment of passion reverently: but never lustfully.

The rain became more torrential. A tram that went past with
a melancholy clanging of bells seemed to float like a great
metal barge, with water lapping it on all sides. To cross the
flooded street I removed my shoes and socks and rolled my
trousers above the knee. The street was full of similarly
minded waders, their hands full of sandals. I bought a pair of
black rubber boots and a black umbrella with a bamboo handle.

Jamsetjee Janah had made a dinner appointment with me.
He arrived three quarters of an hour late, in the Bombay
fashion. "Let us have a drink," he said. I pointed to the
notice tacked to my door. "Nonsense!" said Janah, and rang
the bell for a bellboy to whom he spoke in Maharashtnan.

"Bombay seems to be having trouble," I said.

"Yes, it is the fault of the Gujeratis. Because they are rich,
they think they own Bombay. In fact, Bombay is Maharash-
tnan. We and the Gujeratis have nothing in common. You for-
eigners think all Indians are alike but you are wrong. Maharash-
tnans and Gujeratis speak different languages. We eat meat,
they are vegetarians. We are as different from each other as
Germans and Frenchmen."

Almost half the 3,000,000 people of Bombay city are
Maharashtrians. The Gujeratis are only a third of the re-
mainder. But the Gujeratis are merchants and cotton-mill
owners, while most of the Maharashtrians are poor mill work-
ers, living in wretched tenements called chawls. The Gujeratis
had long been in effective control of Bombay city, but were
now being challenged by the Maharashtnan proletariat, led by

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CITY IN FLOOD

Communists and also by a few ambitious Maharashtrians who
had become rich.

"At least, you all agree about Goa," I said.

"Certainly," said Janah, with an air of injured surprise. "We
are all Indians, aren't we? Goa belongs to India, and the
Portuguese must get out. The Goans would have thrown them
out already but for this madness of prohibition. The Goans
want to be citizens of India instead of slaves of Portugal; but
they also want to be able to take a sip of wine when they feel
like it. There is no prohibition in Goa. Prohibition in Bombay
State was of course a Gujerati idea. It will be the ruin of
Bombay. That is why we Maharashtrians must oppose the
Gujeratis with all our strength."

There was a knock on the door and an old man with a
swollen leg came in. He was the beggar I had seen in the
street who had elephantiasis. Janah closed the door, and the
old man unwrapped his swollen leg. Taking off the wrappings
revealed not a hideously diseased limb but only a wooden one.
It was hollow and from it the old man produced a bottle of
whisky.

"One must resort to such subterfuges," said Janah. "It is so
hard to tell which policemen can be bribed and which can't."

After a while we left the hotel and drove to the Royal Turf
Club. Janah had the use of his father's Cadillac and his father's
chauffeur. His father was a Maharashtnan industrialist who
had started from scratch. Janah was a slim-waistcd young man
with a silky black mustache that he liked to stroke with a
well-manicured finger. He flirted with politics and for a time
had been a member of the Bombay Communist Party. But the
Communists, he said with scorn, were "low-caste men who have
married rich women and go to party meetings in their wives'
limousines." Janah quit the party and joined the Committee
for the Liberation of Goa.

"Sadenand Dass is dining with us," Janah said, as we sailed
along past hurrying shoals of black umbrellas. "I must warn

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BOMBAY:

you he is aggressive. He is a brilliant writer but he does not
like the West. Actually, he does not like anyone/'

The writer was waiting for us, seated at a table and biting
his fingernails. He was a squat man with bulging eyes. He
wore no necktie, and he sneered at our white jackets.

"Dass wants you to get mad and call him a Communist/'
Janah said. "Then he will accuse you of McCarthyism. He is
very impressed by the Russians."

"I loathe the Russians," said Dass promptly. "But at least
they do not arm the Pakistanis to attack India, as America does.
They do not ally themselves with the Portuguese Fascists."
He folded his amis and glared at me. "Why are the Americans
building air bases in Goa? Do they have colonial designs on
India?"

"If you do not unfold your arms you will not be able to eat
any dinner," Janah told him. "Besides, it is rude."

"I do not mind being rude," Dass said. "I am not bourgeois."

"He is determined to defy the British-club atmosphere,"
Janah said. "This was where the cream of Bombay white
society enjoyed themselves. Indians were not admitted. His
blood boils when he thinks of the sahibs."

It was a large dining-room, but there were very few diners
The waiters stood about yawning and inspecting their frayed
cuffs. The walls were stained with damp and the tablecloths
were not very clean. A creature that was either a large mouse
or a small rat skipped out from behind a heavy, old-fashioned
sideboard and ran under a table. A waiter flapped at it half-
heartedly with his napkin.

"The Russians are barbarians," Dass said suddenly. "I will
tell you how I know. I visited Russia with a good-will mission.
We were never left alone for an instant. Guided tours here,
guided tours there! They also gave us cameras and expensive
watches. The Russians are very crude.

"But the worst thing happened in Leningrad. We had a
handsome, young woman guide. She appeared sympathetic,

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CITY IN FLOOD

and she and I became friendly. One evening I suggested we
should slip off by ourselves. She agreed. I was delighted. We
dined and strolled in the park. There was a beautiful moon.
And then," said Dass dramatically, "I tell you, the mask was
torn from the face of Bolshevik Russia, revealing the hideous
lack of culture that lies behind it!"

"What happened?" I asked.

"She said if I believed in astrology then Indians must be
very backward people."

"I am thirsty," said Janah "We cannot get anything to
drink here but lemonade. Let us go elsewhere."

Dass rose with alacrity.

Janah told the gaudily sashed doorman to call his car. The
doorman stood on the step and bawled, but no car came.

"It is that chauffeur," Janah said, half annoyed, half laugh-
ing "He has gone off somewhere perhaps to attend a party
meeting. We shall have to take a taxi."

The obliging doorman produced a very small taxi. In addi-
tion to the driver it contained the driver's brother, a thirteen-
year-old boy with a witless look.

"We cannot all ndc in this," Janah told the driver im-
patiently. "You must tell your brother to get out."

The driver removed the boy, and we drove off. It was a
twenty-minute ride and the driver seemed determined to avoid
the slightest bump. We drew up outside a large office building
and I had my hand on the door of the taxi when it was
opened from the outside by the driver's brother. "I put him in
the trunk," the driver explained.

The building seemed deserted but Janah confidently pressed
the button for the elevator. At the top floor we stepped into a
different atmosphere. From behind closed doors came sounds
of gaiety, and a waiter passed us carrying a tray loaded with
bottles and glasses.

Janah ordered drinks, and presently we were joined by the
younger brother of a Cabinet Minister. The Minister was a

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BOMBAY:

Maharashtrian who was campaigning to take Bombay out of
the control of the Gujeratis. Other people kept dropping in,
and the party grew rapidly.

Someone prophesied there would soon be serious trouble
over Goa. "It is not really an urgent problem," he explained,
"but a diversion is very much needed. After the first flush of
liberty, the Indian masses are disillusioned. They have dis-
covered that as far as their every day life is concerned they are
no better off/ 7

"That is cynical," Janah protested. "Goa must be set free "

"If the Gujcratis can use the Maharashtrians to free it and
kill off some of them in the process, they will be happy to
agree with you," said the Cabinet Minister's younger brother
He turned to me. "You are Scottish. If an Irish minority con-
trolled Glasgow, would you like it? That is the position in
Bombay."

Janah looked at his watch. "Goan patriots are giving a con-
cert to raise funds for the freedom fighters," he told me. "I
think you should see it."

"I am sure they will strike terror into the hearts of the
Portuguese with their song-and-dance recitals," Dass said sar-
castically: he was again in a revolutionary mood.

We drove through the wet streets to a large concert hall
There were many empty seats. On the stage a number of young
girls were going through the motions of a slow dance and
singing plaintive songs. Slowly churned by large fans, the hu-
mid air gave one a sensation of drowning.

When the concert finished everyone applauded politely,
gathered up their umbrellas, and left the hall. Opulent-looking
automobiles were waiting to take most of them home.

"Let us walk," said Janah. He was in an expansive, but
serious mood. "I feel very keenly about the sufferings of the
people in Goa," he said. "They are kept in ignorance and
poverty. Most live wretched existences, always on the verge of
starvation. It's intolerable that such conditions should exist so

196

CITY IN FLOOD
close to Bombay. That is why we say Goa must be set free."

Many children were roving about the streets, though it was
very late. They went in bands, both boys and girls: furtive little
ragged figures, the oldest about ten and the youngest three or
four.

"Who are all those children?" I asked.

"They are the slum children of Bombay. There are many
thousands of homeless waifs. They beg during the day."

"And at night?"

"I do not know," said Janah, perplexed. "I suppose they
sleep somewhere: under railway bridges perhaps, or at the
railroad stations. Really, something should be done about it."

"Tell me, Janah," I said. "How does your friend Dass man-
age to drink so much, when there is supposed to be prohibi-
tion? He can't spend all his time at that club, or always be
sending out for bootleggers with wooden legs."

"He is a health permit-holder. A health permit-holder," Janah
explained, "gets his doctor to testify that he is a chronic
alcoholic Then he can buy as much liquor as he likes. There
arc many health permit-holders in Bombay."

As I rode up in the elevator, through the gloomy decaying
splendor of the hotel, to my shabby room under the wedding-
cake roof, I reflected that Janah had unwittingly put his finger
on the solution to the problem of those Goans who wanted
Goa to become part of Bombay State but who disliked Bom-
bay's prohibition laws. All they had to do was to become
health permit-holders.

Next .day I visited a clinic of the Family Planning Associa-
tion. Bombay is not only the center of the gospel of prohibi-
tion; it is also the center of the gospel of contraception.

One erf the clinic's doctors was forcefully eloquent on India's
urgent meed to coairol births. "One Indian is born every four
seconds," he said. ~India adds 5,000,000 to her population
every year- The population threatens to double every century.
There arc ^oocvooo Jbodian wives under the age of fourteen."

197

BOMBAY:

"When we opened this clinic," he went on, "we had a lot of
people coming to us who thought we were going to advise
them how to have more children. The more children a man
has, the better a Hindu he feels himself to be. Also, the men
fear that contraceptives would come between them and the
pleasures described in the Kamasutra," he added sarcastically.

I left him to his problems and set out to find a taxi. None
was in sight, and I hurried through the rain. A small car
passed me, then stopped. The driver wound down his stream-
ing window, and beckoned me. He had a face as round as a
brown moon, and his teeth were badly stained with betel-nut
juice. He offered me a lift, and I eagerly accepted. To my
dismay, he turned his head and said something in Hindi, and
the car's curbside rear door popped open and out of the car
trooped a stout lady in a sari and five children. "Please to come
in now," said the moon-faced man cheerfully. 'They will wait
here for me."

We left his wife and children standing uncomplaining in
the rain, under umbrellas.

"You are a stranger in Bombay?'* he asked, as we drove
along. "You study our politics? I myself am a businessman.
Politics I find very boring." He dismissed politics. "It is prob-
able that you have heard of me. I am Nagwajan Narayan."

When I confessed I hadn't, he looked honestly perplexed.

"That is strange. I thought everyone had heard of me. I am
a genius, you see," said Nagwajan Narayan. "I I alone in-
vented the world-famous remedy. I alone manufacture it, from
my own secret recipe. And I alone distribute it. Millions have
found it beneficial, and every day they call out blessings on
my name."

"What does it cure?" I asked.

"Everything," said Nagwajan Narayan confidently. "Any-
thing. It is the most powerful sovereign specific remedy ever
invented. If you have ulcers, it will cure ulcers; if you have

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CITY IN FLOOD

stones, it will dissolve them; if you have lost your sexual vigor,
it will restore it. There is nothing that my world-famous drug
will not cure." He gave me a sidelong glance. "You are doubt-
ful. You are hesitant. You are a foreigner and do not under-
stand. I will convince you. It is a miracle-working paste, and
its ingredients include diamonds, pearls, emeralds, rubies, and
sapphires. Of its absolutely genuine authenticity I give you my
personal word. Here we are, at your hotel. Try my cure at once.
It costs only five rupees a box seven rupees twelve annas for
the larger size. Sir, I am glad to have been of small service to
you."

"Mr. Narayan," I said, climbing with difficulty out of the
-small car, "I am extremely grateful to you."

"It is my humble duty."

I hesitated.

"Mr. Narayan," I said, "do you know a gentleman called
Kaviraj Lai? He is in your line of business."

Across the moonlike face there flitted an expression of strong
distaste. I could have sworn that the words "That charlatan'"
trembled on his lips. Then he recovered himself. "No, sir," said
Nagwajan Narayan, magnificently. "I have never heard of
him."

I watched admiringly as he drove away; perhaps he really
was a genius.

Janah took me to a meeting of the Committee for the Lib-
eration of Goa. We went through pouring rain to a hall that
was decorated with banners and Indian flags. At the entrance
we were challenged by young "freedom fighters," wearing
white shirts and white cotton Gandhi caps, and khaki shorts and
brown sandals. "He has come to see Peter Alvarez!" Janah
cried, and the young men were greatly impressed.

"Which ones are the Goans?" I asked Janah, in a whisper.

"Oh, there are no Goans. These are all Maharashtnans."

"But you said 40,000 Goans lived in Bombay."

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BOMBAY:

"Yes, but it was decided it would be wiser for them not to
attend our meetings. Their families still living in Goa might
suffer."

A hollow-cheeked man came up to us. He had large specta-
cles, one lens of which was cracked, and the thinnest face I
ever saw. When he spoke his jawbones clacked like knitting-
needles. He brought his face close to mine and a spiay of
saliva assaulted me.

"The Portuguese Fascists and the imperialists are allies," he
hissed. "The Americans are building airfields all over Goa.
They want to bomb Bombay, isn't it?"

Freedom fighters gathered round. He stopped spraying me
and began spraying them.

"The Americans and the Portuguese Fascists are allies," he
said.

"Achya!" the young men said, shaking their heads, meaning
"Yes."

"The Pakistanis have also made a shameful alliance with the
Portuguese Fascists."

"Achyar

"By a great coincidence, the Pakistanis are also in the pay of
the Americans," said the spitting man, sarcastically.

"Achya! That is right!"

"The Americans are* arming the Pakistanis with atom bombs
for attacking India in the north, while the Portuguese Fascists
attack in the south."

"Achya!"

"The Government of India is blind," he said angrily. "It
cannot see its own danger. The Fascists must be chased out of
Goa. The Pakistanis must be driven back from Kashmir. The
American plot must be exposed!"

Then the leaders arrived, and everyone scrambled for a place
near the platform.

Peter Alvarez was a man of about fifty. He wore a white
Gandhi cap and at first glance looked startlingly like Nehru.

2OO

CITY IN FLOOD

It was a resemblance that he seemed at some pains to cultivate.
The other leaders formed a white-capped frieze behind him.
They were mostly plump, professional Congress Party wallahs,
and they looked bored.

Peter Alvarez described the atrocious conduct of the Portu-
guese in India from the fifteenth century onward. It took him
a long time. His speech got only perfunctory applause from
the Congress Party men on the platform, but was received with
wild acclaim by the freedom fighters. One freedom fighter
hung a garland round Mr. Alvarez's neck and the others
formed a guard of honor to escort him from the hall.

On his way out we came face to face, and he looked at me
with considerable interest. I introduced myself and said: "Per-
haps we shall meet in Goa."

It seemed to me that an expression of acute alarm passed
over his face.

"I mean," I hastened to explain, "if Goa becomes part of
India/'

He looked relieved, but not pleased. "Goa is part of India,"
he said severely. "Goa will be under Indian rule before the
end of this year."

The end of the year was not far off. It was high time to go
to Goa, if I wished to see it while the Portuguese still occupied
it. I caught the night train from Bombay.

201

X

GOA: GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

The regime in Goa will collapse. NEHRU

I

T WAS dark when we clanked into Poona: dark and, of course,
raining. Poona was for about a century the parade-ground of fire-
eating British Blimps. Now there is a brand-new Defense Acad-
emy where Indian officers are trained. On my last visit I had
lunched with an Indian general and his smart cadets, in an ele-
gant messhall round whose walls ran rather indecent friezes of
sportive Indian gods and goddesses.

In the station restaurant I met a Sikh army captain, a hand-
some young man with a neat black beard. "India will not attack
Goa," he said. We have an army of 400,000 men and could over-
run it. But the terrain is difficult, all hills and rivers and jungle.
It would not be worth it."

He turned to other problems that interested him more. "The
Sikhs are the backbone of the Indian Army but the Hindus do
not trust us. The most revered Sikh in India is Master Tara
Singh, but Master Tara Singh is in jail. Yet the Sikhs are called
on to do all the dirty work. If there is serious trouble in Bombay
between the Maharashtrians and the Gujeratis, they will call in
the Sikhs. If there is a war with Pakistan, it is the Sikhs who will
have to defend India."

The Indian Army is kept well out of sight, except in Kashmir.
A fairly large force is stationed in the jungles of Assam, engaged
in a little-publicized guerilla war against the Naga hill headhunt-

2O2

GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

ers, who resent Indian rule as much as they formerly resented
British rule. But the average Indian likes to believe his country
relies exclusively on peaceful coexistence and soul-force.

Next morning I woke as the train clanked into Castle Rock.
Everyone had to get out for customs inspection. The luggage
was piled on wet wooden trestles on the platform. The customs
men, wearing dhotis, drank coffee and read the newspapers. We
were voluntarily entering Goa, therefore we were either fools or
Fascist spies. Suitcases were roughly opened: two passengers
were loudly bullied for not declaring their wristwatches. When
my turn came the customs clerk was tolerably affable. "Report
the truth about the horrible conditions of exploitation under
the Portuguese," he said. "Do not repeat Fascist lies about
India."

The train crawled on into Goa. Portuguese customs officials
boarded it. All copies of Indian newspapers, including my Times
of India, were confiscated. A Portuguese in a dark green uniform
said: "You will be expected to report the existence, which you
will see with your own eyes, of democratic freedom and religious
toleration in Goa. Do not repeat Indian Communist lies/'

Goa is about the size of Rhode Island. Occasionally the rain
mists parted to reveal roaring waterfalls and dizzy glimpses of
sheer cliffs and dense green jungle. The tram did not go farther
than Margao. A bus would take us to Panjim, another twenty-
five miles. Old women wearing torn gunny sacks to protect them
from the rain carried the luggage to the bus. It was an odd vehi-
cle, for it had brass sides and carved wooden seats. The last pas-
senger was wedged in and the door slammed. The driver ap-
peared twenty minutes later and we lurched off. Along the way
other passengers were picked up, some with goats. The bus soon
smelled strongly of goats and of Portuguese tobacco.

Panjim, the capital, was a small port with wide streets and
imposing official buildings along the quay. We drove past the
rain-blurred statue of Affonso d'Albuquerque, who conquered
Goa for Portugal in 1 510, and drew up at the Mandovi Hotel.

203

GOA:

The pretty dark-haired girl at the reception desk gave me a
form to fill in in triplicate. Two young men who had been loiter-
ing near the desk peered over my shoulder as I wrote. When I
had finished, one of them took one of the copies and went off to
deliver it to the secret police. The other also pocketed a copy,
then said gravely: "We welcome you on behalf of the Govern-
ment of Goa, which asks only that you report truthfully on what
you find. There is by the way absolutely no censorship: that is
one of the calumnies of the Indian Communist Government."

The hotel, subsidized by the state, was a large and splendid
establishment. In the red-plush-and-gilt-mirror cocktail lounge
I was joined by a thin elderly man with sad brown eyes. He
looked like a cross between Don Quixote and a harassed profes-
sor accused of liberal sympathies. I offered him a glass of port
wine, and he accepted with gratitude.

"I have been here fifteen years," he said, and sighed. "Time
passes slowly, for I have nothing to do. I had my own law firm
in Lisbon, but here I cannot practice." He lowered his voice.
"You see, I am a political exile. I criticized the regime in Portu-
gal, and was deported. My only friend for a long while was a
Goan doctor: a man of considerable learning and very popular
among the people. But he is no longer here. He criticized the
regime, and was deported to Portugal."

Before going to bed I took a stroll in the town. Only a few
stores were open, but all of them were well stocked with im-
ported goods. Only newspapers and magazines were lacking.
The only newspapers obtainable were the two that were printed
in Goa. One was called Heraldo and the other O Heraldo. They
contained only official communiques and speeches by Dr. Sala-
zar.

Next morning I was joined at breakfast by the two young
men. They wore identical brown suits and pointed brown shoes.
"I would like to interview the Governor-General," I said. They
exchanged triumphant glances. "An interview has already been
arranged for ten o'clock," they said. "It is now nine forty-five.
Let us go."

204

GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

We drove to the quay in a large motorcar which bore large
stickers that said in Portuguese: "Defend Goal We defy
Nehru!"

The Governor-General of Goa was a small, alert man who
exuded self-confidence. We sat under oil portraits of all Portu-
guese Viceroys of Goa since the year 1 520. "We are here and we
mean to stay," said the Governor-General. "Goa is not India's
affair."

I asked him what would happen if unarmed Indian satya-
grahis crossed the border.

"If Indians illegally cross our frontier we shall naturally take
all measures permitted by international law."

"What political rights do the 600,000 Goans have?" I asked.
"Do they elect some sort of assembly?"

"There is naturally an assembly."

"Is it in session?"

"Ah, no," said the Governor-General, smiling. "There is no
need for it to meet. Everything is calm."

The young men were waiting. "There is time before lunch to
go for a drive," they said.

We drove to the Church of the Good Jesus to see St. Francis
Xavier's jasper-and-marble tomb. Then we visited the Cathe-
dral, walking across the great square where the autos-da-fe were
held. "After lunch, we shall visit some coconut plantations," the
young men said.

I had other plans, but thought it wiser not to say so. I
watched them out of sight, then went to find a taxi. First I drove
to the telegraph office, where I cabled a brief report of my inter-
view with the cocksure Governor-General. Then I told the taxi-
man to drive as near as he could to the Indian border.

The road wound through soaked jungle. There were small
villages of mud huts, and all the villages had white Hindu tem-
ples. The Portuguese claim that almost half the people are Cath-
olics, but Christianity seemed to be confined to Panjim and its
immediate surroundings. In one village I was hailed by men
drinking beer on a veranda. A party was in progress. The host

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GOA:

was an enormously fat men, half Portuguese and half Goan. He
had a rifle laid across his knees and, tapping it, he said, "We
are getting ready to shoot tigers."

Everyone roared with laughter.

"Mr. Fernandez has shot many tigers," said one of the men.

"Twenty-three," said the fat man complacently. "But I am
waiting for the tigers from over there." He pointed toward the
Indian frontier.

"There are people who would like to welcome the Indians
and throw out the Portuguese," said Fernandez, and the men
around him looked uncomfortable. "But I know who they are.
They will all go to prison." He drank down beer amid a sudden
unhappy silence.

"People are afraid of that Fernandez," said the taxi-driver,
when we were out of earshot of the happy little group. "It is not
only tigers he has shot, or Indians either. He is too fond of other
men's wives."

Beyond the village was a frontier guardhouse. On the Indian
side of the frontier there was only empty and very damp jungle,
but I did not like the look of the guards, who were very young
and plainly nervous. Their officer was a strutting blue-chinned
man who wore a heavy revolver and binoculars. He peremptorily
waved me back.

I suggested we return to Panjim by a different route, and the
driver agreed. It turned out to be a lucky choice, for presently
we came on a large military encampment. It bristled with artil-
lery: the Portuguese were taking Peter Alvarez seriously.

I was made welcome and led to the officers' mess. In a
twinkling, bottles of wine were produced, also sardines, olives,
bread, meat, and an enormous assortment of cheeses. Someone
opened a box of cigars. The Portuguese Army did itself well.
They were pleasant young men, and they discussed the situation
with professional calm.

"We could not hold Goa against 400,000 men, but we could
make the Indians very sorry they attacked," one said. "If we

206

GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

have to take to the ships, the Indians will find they have paid a
high price. We have mined all the bridges."

"The Indians say they will not attack," I said.

"Then why have they deployed troops on the border? Why do
they have planes in position?"

I said I had seen no troops or planes, and added that the
Indians claimed the Americans were building air bases in Goa.
They laughed. "The Americans and the British would like us to
surrender meekly to Nehru. They wish to placate him. That is
their only interest in this affair."

I reached Panjim after dark, and the young men in the brown
suits and pointed shoes were waiting for me. Their faces were
rigid.

"We are sorry you did not tell us you wanted to go to the
border. We would have arranged it properly."

I felt rather ashamed, but not for long.

"There has been trouble about your cable: it will not be
sent."

"You told me there was no censorship," I said sharply.

"Certainly there is no censorship. But we reserve the right to
refuse to send messages that abuse the head of the state. You
called the Governor-General a cock."

"It is a mistake," I said. " 'Cocksure' means something quite
different. It means "

But they would not listen. "Ah, mother of God'" one said
bitterly. "You have disgraced us. We shall lose our posi-
tions."

"You had no right to hold up my message," I said. "I shall
return to India and send it from there. There is no censorship
in India," I added.

"You cannot leave Goa tonight," one of them said. "Tomor-
row perhaps you can explain matters to our superiors." He
stalked off, but the other young man lingered. "It was very rude
to call the Governor-General a cock," he said reproachfully.

The taxi-driver had been an interested onlooker. When the

207

GOA:

young men had gone, I asked him: "Is there no way of getting
a train out of here tonight?"

"There is one that leaves Margao, but you have barely an
hour, and the road is very bad."

"Would you be willing to try?"

"Certainly, if you wish it."

We hurtled down the winding road to Margao with a reck-
lessness that suited my mood. It would not really have mattered,
for the train, of course, was late in starting. At the Indian border
Portuguese officials came on board for a customs inspection. At
Castle Rock the Indian clerk said dubiously: "You have nothing
to declare? No American shirts, or Swiss wristwatches?"

"Nothing."

He said joyfully: "It is true then. The Portuguese Fascists are
feeling the pinch. Is it correct that there is great famine and
panic in Goa, and that the people are reduced to eating dogs?"

At Belgaum a cheerful unshaven man in a badly buttoned
waistcoat gave me a large omelet and buttered toast for break-
fast, and told me Alvarez's freedom fighters had already passed
through on foot on their way to the Goa border. I thought of
the nervous Portuguese frontier guards, and the tiger-shooting
Mr. Fernandez, and wondered what the effect on them would
be of bands of Indians suddenly appearing out of the jungle.
"You had better go to Vaki," said the unshaven man. "They
may have more news there. My cousin drives a taxi and he
will take you." But when I reached Vaki the freedom fighters
had already gone on toward the border. The unshaven man's
cousin drove me to where the road ended at a muddy river bank.
A large canoe poled by a nearly naked man was waiting. "You
must cross in the canoe," said my driver. "The border is not
very far. I shall wait for you here."

Across the river a narrow track wound through thick jungle.
It was raining. I had walked twenty minutes when I came on
two men. They made an odd pair. One carried a black bag and
wore pajama trousers and a white cotton jacket. He covered

208

GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

the ground with swift strides, though he went barefoot. The
other, who panted to keep up with his companion, carried a
camera.

"My name is Sitana," said the man with the camera. "I am a
Poona newspaper correspondent. The doctor is here to treat
those who will be wounded."

The doctor had strode on without sparing me a glance. We
hurried after him. It turned out to be a long march. The track
was often under water, and there were places where we waded
waist-deep. We clawed our way up cliffs and slithered down the
sides of steep ravines. The doctor continued to pad along bare-
foot He never said a word to either of us.

I had left the taxi a little after noon, but it was growing dark
when the doctor halted at a ruined white Hindu temple. The
place was filled with freedom fighters and women were stirring
giant cooking-pots suspended over blazing fires. They ladled out
steaming rice, with banana leaves for plates, and gave each man
as many chapattis as he could eat. The rice we ate with our fin-
gers. I was ravenously hungry and found the meal delicious. But
\ve had scarcely finished it when there was a stir, and Peter
Alvarez was in our midst, wearing a glistening wet raincoat and
a white Gandhi cap.

He made a speech; and then the men unfurled Indian flags
and marched out of the temple, shouting- "Goa India ek hai"
"Goa and India are one/' Sitana and I followed. It was now
completely dark and the column moved without lights. We
stumbled through tall wet grass, and ahead there was a roar of
rushing water. I almost fell into the river, but a man caught my
arm. "Only the satyagrahis cross; the rest of us wait at the tem-
ple," he said. We could hear them splashing across the river,
but the splashing finally stopped and there was no other sound.
"Achyal" said the man who had halted me, with satisfaction.
"They are all across and into Goa." On the way back to the
temple I found myself marching in step with Alvarez. He peered
at me, and I reminded him we had met in Bombay. He must

209

GOA:

have guessed my unspoken question for he shook his head. "No,
I am not crossing with them, for I have other work to do to-
night."

Alvarez did not wait at the temple. "Many satyagrahis are
crossing into Goa at different places/' a young man explained.
"He is going farther along the border."

I myself was too weary to stir another step. In the temple the
fires had died to a ruddy glow, and the women were unhooking
the cooking-pots. Everyone stretched out on the hard stone
floor to sleep. At midnight a group of men staggered in with a
wounded comrade. They had brought him back across the river,
they explained, for the Portuguese had attacked them. The
wounded man had a broken leg, and his face was bloody. The
doctor with the black bag suddenly appeared out of the shadows
and knelt at the man's side. "Elsewhere there has been much
shooting," one of the men said. "Many have been killed by the
Portuguese." The doctor put a splint on the broken leg.

It was still dark when Sitana shook me awake. "It is all over
here," he said. "We should make for Vaki, for there there will
be more news. It is a long walk," he added unnecessarily.

Our guide was a small man with an extraordinarily wizened
face topped by a mop of white hair. He looked decrepit, but he
was as agile as a squirrel. He led the way, carrying a small oil-
lamp. He was a remarkable guide, for he sang songs in a high-
pitched voice, and frequently burst into shrill cackles of laugh-
ter. The night shredded into a gray dawn, and he extinguished
his lamp and left it beside the path. Leaning on a borrowed
staff, I limped after the others, feeling stiff and sore. My shoes
had shrunk with the wading, and my feet were badly blistered.

The guide's name was Joshi. From time to time he dropped
back from the lead to walk beside me. He would shoot me
quick, squirrel-like glances, then clap me heartily on the back
and sing one of his preposterous songs. When I lagged too
much, he would dance mockingly ahead of me, and once out of
sheer exuberance he turned a number of brisk cartwheels. It
was a fantastic sight, for he had the face of a senile man. He

210

GUNS IN THE JUNGLE

came back to my side and proceeded to imitate my painful hob-
ble, shouting with glee. I decided the man was some sort of vil-
lage imbecile, and angrily quickened my pace.

We came at last to a tiny jungle hut, and Joshi halted us. "It
is my aunt's house," he said. Inside, I collapsed on a strip of
coconut matting spread on a bare earth floor. A withered old
woman was bending over me and holding to my lips a brass cup
filled with scalding tea. When I had drunk it, she fed me slices
of coconut. "We are just going outside, to smoke a cigarette,"
Joshi said, and he and the others vanished.

After a while I looked at my watch, and quickly sat up. Our
progress had been painfully slow. Joshi with his antics had kept
me going for fully seven hours. Left to themselves, he and the
others could certainly have traveled much faster. But they had
never complained. I hobbled outside. There was no sign of the
men, and they were gone a long time. Then they appeared with
Joshi leading, and he was pushing a bicycle. "It is my cousin's,"
he said. "I borrowed it for you. It is not far now to the river, and
the path is not bad." I had dismissed him as a village idiot!

I had another surprise: on the other side of the river the taxi
I had hired in Belgaum was still waiting for me. The driver
opened the door for me as casually as if I had been gone only a
few minutes instead of over twenty-four hours.

Joshi put out his hand. "I must return my cousin's bicycle,"
he said. "Good-by, my friend." We shook hands. He gave a
shrill cackle of laughter. "When you come to the Goa jungles
again, be sure your feet are in good conditionl"

But I never went there again.

At Vaki they told us the Portuguese had shot 22 satyagrahis,
and wounded or captured scores more. In Bombay mobs rioted,
demanding war on Portugal. The Bombay police opened fire
and shot 85 of the rioters. But India did not go to war, and
nothing was achieved. The Portuguese remained in Goa. As for
me, I lost some of my toenails, and was compelled to hobble
about painfully for many weeks.

211

XI

TRIVANDRUM: THE RED SOUTH

I incline more and more to a Communist philosophy. NEHRU

o,

"N A ROAD near Mysore city I met a young man of overpower-
ing holiness called Krishna Subrabrahmavishnu. He had re-
moved his shirt while he mended his bicycle, which had a flat
tire, and he wore looped over one bare shoulder the sacred
thread of the twice-born. He was so holy that he had covered the
saddle of his bicycle with deerskin (which is pure and sacred)
to avoid coming into contact with leather (which defiles). All
this he explained to me with great solemnity.

When in Mysore city I mentioned this wayside encounter to
a friend, he laughed cynically.

"Yes, he is so holy he will not drink tapwater, complaining it
passes through a leather washer. Actually he is no Brahmin but
belongs to a left-hand caste. Even untouchables of a right-hand
caste would refuse to eat with him. The left-hand caste people
are worshippers of Kali. Their wedding processions are not al-
lowed to go through streets where right-hand castes live."

Caste is a constant preoccupation in South India, despite a
literacy rate of 52 per cent, compared to the Indian average of
16 per cent. There are also serious language divisions. The ma-
jority of the 19,000,000 people of Mysore State, which is slightly
smaller than Nebraska, speak Kannada. Their next-door neigh-
bors in Kerala, which is half the size of Maine, speak Malaya-

212

THE RED SOUTH

lam. The people of Madras speak Tamil, and the people of
Andhra speak Telugu. All are afraid of being compelled to adopt
Hindi and therefore cling to English as a lingua franca.

I moved south by easy stages, pausing frequently to rest and
bathe my still tender feet at pleasant inns. The hill country
around Ootacamund is still full of English influence, and there
are still English-owned tea plantations there. It is the last place
in India where Indians have not yet defiled the English caste
system by demanding admission to English clubs.

In Kerala I was in a country of palm-thatched mud huts,
banana groves, and sharp-prowed wooden boats loaded with
rice and coconuts. Kerala seemed to consist more of water than
of land. There were moldering wharfs and mangrove swamps,
and the roads were green tunnels through black mud.

The communists were very busy in Kerala. I met their propa-
ganda carts everywhere. The carts were like boats, for they had
tall bamboo masts aflutter with red flags, and nailed to the
masts were pictures of Communist leaders. In the villages the
Communists put on open-air plays, watched by peasants who
came from miles around on foot and by bullock cart. The plays
were all about wicked landlords. Between the acts pretty girls
sang Communist songs in Malayalam.

The peasants found this propaganda more palatable than that
of the Congress Party. The Congress Party speakers, many of
whom were big landlords, said: "The Communists offer you
land, but that is impossible, for there is no land, unless the
Communists can bring it from Russia."

In a crooked backstreet in Trivandrum I came on a tiny book-
shop. I looked inside with no expectation of anything but a
wooden box filled with secondhand paperbacks, a few copies of
the Times of India, and a tray or so of ballpoint pens.

But there were shelves of books, and I went inside to examine
them. They were in English and had been printed in Moscow
and Peking. Some were illustrated with pictures of smiling work-
ers and peasants and none cost more than thirty cents.

213

T R I V A N D R U M :

"Yes, there is tremendous interest," said the studious young
man who kept the bookstore, complacently. "People naturally
want to know about the happy new life of the emancipated
toilers in Russia and China, for that is the life they want for
themselves."

I said I would like to meet a Tnvandrum Communist leader
or two.

"Certainly, I will take you to the party office if you wish."
And he reached for his sandals.

The party office was only a few minutes' walk from the book-
store. In an upstairs room two men sat smoking cigarettes and
knocking the ash into saucers placed on a table at their elbows.
One was a small man with a wizened face who reminded me of
Joshi of the Goa jungles, except that he had a harsher and more
pain-wracked look. The other was a plump middle-aged man
\\ ith a soft voice and a softer handshake.

On the walls were large framed photographs of Marx and
Lcnm, with Russian lettering, and smaller photographs of un-
smiling Indians who had posed stiffly, looking straight at the
camera The plump man saw me looking at these.

"They are the Telengana martyrs," he said. "Our comrade
here can tell you about them, for he was one himself "

'They were all shot," said the wizened man harshly. "I
escaped, but first I was tortured by the police lackeys of the
Congress Party, the party of landlords and capitalists led by
Jawaharlal Nehru."

"That was in 1948," said the plump man. "The Indian masses
have not forgotten. But even the Congress Party has learned
that the peasants and workers cannot be crushed by force.
Nehru is now talking seriously about Socialism, and the Five
Year Plan contains some constructive elements."

"How far do you go along with Nehru?" I asked.

The plump man smiled. "We look on ourselves as Nehru's
natural heirs. The Socialists are confused and divided, they are

214

THE RED SOUTH

only chauvinistic intellectuals. Either Nehru will falter in his
course or else his bourgeois party will turn against him. The
masses will join us We can afford to wait Time is on our side."

The wizen-faced man was muttering restively.

''Some of our comrades think we are not revolutionary
enough," the plump man said. "But why should we not use the
ballotbox if it will serve our purpose 7 In Kerala we shall win the
next elections We shall prove to the people of India that the
Communists can rule well. First South India will be ours, then
all India "

His eloquence was pumping along smoothly.

"The people of Kerala will vote Communist in the next elec-
tions because here, as elsewhere, the Congress Party has failed to
carry out its promises The peasants were promised land, but
now they are told there is no land We have many educated
men here, but what is their future under Congress Party rule?
College graduates work as messenger boys for five dollars a
month."

In Kerala the Communists were plamh getting the better of
it, aided by plenty of cheap books printed in Moscow and
Peking. I was not surprised when, at the next elections, Kerala
became the first state in India to be ruled by a coalition govern-
ment led by Communists. The Communists won 65 of the
State's 126 seats, and the Congress Party won only 43.

Nevertheless I doubted if the Communists were making such
a dent in Indian thinking as they believed I traveled south of
Tnvandrum to Cape Comorin and admired the red-and-white
wall of the Shiva temple that India, at the southernmost tip,
presents as its face to the Indian Ocean. In a village not far from
Cape Comorin I attended a South Indian wedding, a colorful
affair in which there was much blowing of conch shells.

The groom was a bright-looking young man, and I was told
he had been much sought after by men with marriageable
daughters.

215

TRIVANDRUM

"Because of his being a Communist," my informant ex-
plained. "The Communists get the best jobs. Communist bride-
grooms are becoming a caste of their own."

It seemed to me a moot point whether Communism would
conquer India, or whether India would, if it had to, simply
absorb Communism, by adding Marx to its already huge pan-
theon. Nehru has said: "In India, when we want to kill some-
thing, we deify it first." Marx has not been dead a century: the
caste system has been in existence two or more millennia. The
Marxists might end by wearing special caste marks.

216

XII

MADRAS: MARX AT THE FAIR

How are you better for smearing your body with ashes? An ass
can wallow in dirt as well as you. SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY
SOUTH INDIAN POET

A HE MAIN road into Pondicherry was lined with hundreds of
Madras State police wearing red and blue helmets like cardinals'
hats. Flowery gateways arched over the road with inscriptions
that read in English: "Welcome, Jewel of Asia!"

There was only one man in India for whom such a display
could be intended. Presently an open, powder-blue Cadillac
swept by with Pandit Nehru standing up in it, dressed in daz-
zling white and with a red rose in his tunic. In the car with him
was the new Indian High Commisioner of Pondicherry, a
Punjabi who had formerly been Indian Consul in Lisbon.

The Pandit was looking pleased. The Portuguese were still
entrenched in Goa, but the French had handed over Pondi-
cherry, which they had held for three hundred years.

But his pleasure was short-lived, for at the Pondicherry rail-
road station the organizers had botched their job. Six special
trains had come from Madras, but when Nehru arrived the
crowds were all looking the wrong way. The Pandit shook his
swagger-cane in a rage, and exclaimed: "The people are being
kept from me."

He was hurriedly garlanded, and then his car swept on, past
the Place Dupleix and the statue of Joan of Arc, to the mayor's

217

MADRAS:

palace. Children were grouped under an arch inscribed, this
time in French: "Nehru, I ami des enfants." Fresh green palm
boughs strewed the road over which the Cadillac would pass. But
the spectators squatting under large white parasols raised only
feeble cheers. Perhaps they were intimidated by the fact that
close behind the Jewel of Asia followed a bright blue bus filled
with Madras police.

At the mayor's palace, Nehru got a more enthusiastic wel-
come from a brass band and claque crying "Welcome, light of
the world!" The claque had been imported from Madras. Bas-
kets filled with paper flowers hung from glass chandeliers that
tinkled in the breeze from the blue Indian Ocean, which could
be seen through the palace's open windows. Nehru made a
speech from a dais, with his back to a huge mirror that filled all
of one wall.

Then the Pandit drove through Pondicherry's sweating and
malodorous streets to a meeting in a jungle clearing. His route
took him past mud and straw huts, and the hut-dwellers'
political convictions were not in doubt, for every hut wall was
daubed with a crudely painted hammer and sickle.

A Pondicherry Indian explained the political situation to me.
"The French were talked into handing over Pondicherry by the
Socialists. The Indian Socialists were very powerful here. But
now the Socialists are being forced to make way for Congress
Party men. The Congress Party is not popular, and in the end
the Communists will be the only gainers/'

Nehru made a speech welcoming into the Indian fold the
people of Pondicherry, Karikal, Mah6, and Yanam: an addition
of 190 square miles and 400,000 people to India's territory and
population. The audience consisted mostly of cows, whose horns
had been painted green and purple for the occasion. No great
man fails to make a fool of himself at least once; I suspected this
was Nehru's day for doing it.

I left before he had finished speaking, and returned to Pondi-
cherry. The Cafe Mends-France had been renamed the Nehru

218

MARX AT THE FAIR

Restaurant, but there was still a French Club. The 60 members
had gone off to the beach to swim and drink champagne.
"There will be no more champagne," said the French-speaking
bartender morosely. "Madras State is dry, like Bombay."

Madras State is somewhat smaller than Alabama, and has
about 30,000,000 people. I took the train from Pondicherry to
Madras city in time to see U.N. Dhebar, the Congress Party
president, arrive at the railroad station in a powerful aura of
Gandhism. He had traveled from Delhi in a hard-class coach,
as Gandhi used to do; but from the station he drove to the Con-
gress Party offices in a bright yellow Plymouth convertible with
the Congress Party colors painted on the side. "Mr. Dhebar likes
to back into the limelight," a local wit remarked.

The Congress Party offices in Madras were in a dingy two-
story building, with a concrete public lavatory on one corner. A
vast crowd wearing Gandhi caps jammed the street outside.
Opposite was a fire station and the firemen had mounted their
ladders to get a better view. Mr. Dhebar remained closeted with
his Madras colleagues for several hours. Then they all came out
and drove away in large limousines, with the yellow convertible
in the lead.

A man in a dhoti tugged my sleeve and led me up a narrow
steep stair. It was covered with a red strip of carpet and was
cumbered with potted plants all the way. At the top of the stairs
was a room with a large white mattress and a score of crumpled
pillows. The windows were closed and, as it was a hot day, it
must have been a stuffy session. My guide pointed to one of the
pillows. "That is where Mr. Dhebar sat," he said solemnly.

The Madras streets were filled with incredibly thin coolies.
Naked to the waist and dripping with sweat, they hauled enor-
mous carts. I could only hope the distressing sight had not
caused too much pain to the Congress Party dignitaries sweep-
ing past the coolies in their large limousines.

A big Congress Party meeting was being held some distance
from the city, near a temple to Shiva. Vast crowds trudged into

219

MADRAS

a huge arena, through an enormous gateway that outshone
Shiva's temple. The gateway had been built for the occasion by
one of the Madras film companies. It shimmered with gilt. In
the center of the arena was a great raised mound covered with
masses of flowers. Amid the flowers a tent the size of a circus
big top dominated the scene. Facing the crowds was a platform
supported by two wooden elephants with jeweled tusks, and
protected by a canopy. Loudspeakers boomed out the speeches
that were being made from this platform. The crowds sat
patiently listening in the hot sun. Mr. Dhebar finally appeared
on the platform and modestly clasped a microphone. "The Con-
gress Party is a tear dropped from the heart of suffering human-
ity," he began.

In Madras itself, the Congress Party was sponsoring a big fair
to coincide with the meeting. The fair was intended to show
the progress India was making under the Five Year Plan. But
someone had blundered, for the exhibit that was drawing the
second largest crowd was put on by the Madras Communist
Party. The Communists were selling quantities of Marxist books
printed in Moscow and Peking, and had on display pictures of
smiling Russian and Chinese toilers operating vast machines.
These pictures clearly fascinated Madras's half-naked and mal-
nourished coolies, and were in sharp contrast with the humble
pots and baskets and other products of Indian cottage industries
which were all that the Congress Party's fair had to offer.

The exhibit drawing the biggest crowd, however, was that of
the Madras Public Health Department. Outside a large white
tent a young man like a circus barker cried: "Fight venereal
disease! Have your stools and urine examined, free of charge.
Be tested today and we guarantee you the answer tomorrow!"
Eagerly hitching up their dhotis, the crowd shuffled past him
into the white tent.

220

XIII

HYDERABAD:
PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

The difference between me and a Communist is the difference
between a living man and a corpse. VINOBA BHAVE

I/ ROM MADRAS I flew to Hyderabad, the capital of Andhra
Pradesh, in another of India's little, unfireproofed Dakotas. An-
dhra Pradesh is larger than Colorado. Its 32,000,000 people
speak Telugu, which, next to Hindi and Bengali, is the mother
tongue of the largest group of Indians. Hyderabad is really two
linked cities, the other being Secunderabad. Outside Secundera-
bad white-hot sunlight rippled over vivid green ricepaddies,
where women with red skirts kilted above their knees bent to
their work; and a white temple was reflected in the still water
of a little lake. In Secunderabad I dined at a Chinese restaurant
called The New Peking and surrounded by garish cinemas. On
the walls of The New Peking were big, scowling photographs of
Mao Tse-tung and Chou En-lai, but an enormous radio was
pounding out American jazz.

Hyderabad was formerly the capital of the Nizam of Hydera-
bad. Outside the Mecca Masjid, the city's principal mosque, a
very ancient motorcar drew up, and a very old-looking, small,
shrunken, lean-shanked man got out of it. It was rather like
watching a tortoise get out of its shell. He wore a very faded coat
and cap, and very shabby red slippers. It was His Exalted High-

221

HYDERABAD:

ness the Nizam for the Indian Government, while depriving
him of all power, permitted him to retain the title. He had come
to visit the graves of his ancestors, who are buried in the quadran-
gle of the mosque. In Hyderabad an Indian bitingly remarked to
me: "There were some enlightened Indian princes: the Nizam
was not one of them." In the days of the Raj he was scolded by
Hyderabad's British residents the Raj's watchdogs in the
princely states for absolutism and neglect of his subjects. Even
after India achieved her independence, and the princely states
were absorbed in the Indian Union, the Nizam continued to
draw revenues from land amounting to 2,500,000 a year, and
had a privy purse of 500,000 a year. But that was the least part
of his huge fortune: it was said that in his white marble palace
in Hyderabad, the Nizam kept jewels estimated to be worth
35,000,000, and that the vaults were crammed with boxes filled
with gold bars. Despite this wealth, and his possession of a fleet
of automobiles including Rolls-Royces and Cadillacs, the Nizam
preferred to ride around in an old Ford and to dress like a
Moslem beggar.

Alone among Indian princes, the Nizam forcibly resisted the
incorporation of his 8i,ooo-square-mile state in the Indian
Union. He had surrounded himself with a militia of ragged cut-
throats, who opposed the Indian Army for a few days. This little
civil war was shortly followed by a bloody Communist uprising,
directed not against the Nizam but against Nehru. That also
was suppressed, and the Congress Party took over the reins of
government. The Nizam never had any popular support, but I
gathered that the people were finding Congress Party rule bewil-
dering. An old man told me. "Once the Nizam arranged to have
the palace nightingales sing for George the Fifth. But when the
King of England visited the palace, the nightingales did not
sing a note. Today we are like the Nizam's nightingales, for we
do not know the Congress Party tune. 'Work, work!' comes the
call from every Minister sitting in Delhi. But where is the work?
We are all unemployed. 'You must sweat and toil/ say the

222

PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

leaders. Again the question is, where to sweat and toil, and at
what?"

The Socialist faction led by Ram Manohar Lohia had turned
up in Hyderabad to capitalize on this bewilderment and dis-
content. Mr. Lohia, who looked like a dark frog wearing spec-
tacles, delivered a 2O,ooo-word speech, in which he complained:
"In India, under the Nehru Government, phrase-making and
speechmaking are increasingly becoming a substitute for action."
But it was difficult to discover what sort of action he wanted.
"No democratic government in the history of the world," he
declared, "has opened fire on its own people as often as the In-
dian Government." But the people, he hinted, were equally at
fault. "The people on their part," he chided, "should realize
that the rigorous discipline of civil disobedience does not admit
of their throwing stones and burning buses. In this country, the
government and the people behave toward each other like
murderous parents and irresponsible children."

The Indian Socialist Party, whose members I had heard de-
claiming at Gaya and from whom Mr. Lohia and a few fol-
lowers had recently broken away, were in his view even worse
than Nehru. "These Praja Socialists," he cried vehemently,
"have themselves violated all the principles of democracy." It
transpired that what this meant was that the Socialists had ob-
jected to Mr. Lohia remaining a member of their party and con-
tinuing violently to assail all the party's policies and all of
the other party-leaders. "Discipline," said Lohia mysteriously,
"should mean the long arm of free speech and the strong fist of
controlled action." I concluded that Mr. Lohia was simply a
windbag, but was intrigued by his final bit of political analysis.
"No opposition party," he said, "ever does its job well if it
yearns for power and office. The Socialist Party should not be
dependent on the fleeting mood of the people. If the people do
not listen, it does not matter." A tolerant friend of Lohia's ex-
plained: "He likes being in opposition- his role is to be against
the government any government."

223

HYDERABAD:

Another reformer was on his way to Hyderabad. Rudyard
Jack wrote: "As far as I can figure this outfit does not plan
much ahead and stays resolutely hazy about times and places
the best place for us to meet would be at a village called
Hanpet, which is a little southeast of the city. We travel fast
but irregularly, and nothing is sure. The old man's English is
perfect, and he speaks several other languages, including Arabic.
Despite this gift of tongues, he is not exactly communicative.
But, if you can make it, I think you would find this bunch in-
teresting." I thought I detected in my friend's spidery hand-
writing a note of tempered enthusiasm.

Vinoba Bhave, India's fast-walking saint whose disciples
hailed him as a second Gandhi, was a Maharashtnan Brahmin
of the same caste as the fanatic who assassinated Gandhi. At
the tender age of twelve, he took a vow of chastity. He was study-
ing in Benares when he first met Gandhi. The Mahatma had
just returned from South Africa. Vinoba Bhave promptly joined
Gandhi's ashram at Sabarmati in Gujerat and devoted himself
to opening new ashrams, or saintly sanctuaries one was for
village women, and another for sick and aged cows. Gandhi
preached the dignity of manual labor: Bhave helped villagers
dig wells, and with his own hands cleaned out laborers' latrines
along a stretch of railroad embankment. He also took part in
Gandhi's civil-disobedience campaign against the British and
spent three terms in prison; his last sentence, imposed in 1940,
was for five years. In jail he learned Tamil, Telugu, and Ma-
layalam, and read the Koran seven times to improve his Arabic.

Despite those accomplishments, Bhave was little known in
India until 1952, when he was fifty-seven. In that year he de-
manded 50,000,000 acres of land for his bhoodan, or voluntary
land-gift movement. His argument was simple. In India, he
said, there were 300,000,000 acres of cultivable land, and there
were 60,000,000 Indian families living off the land. If the total
were equally divided, each family would have five acres. But
there were in fact 10,000,000 families without any land who

224

PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

were employed by other peasants as farm laborers. Bhave, in-
sisting that "every family should have five acres, no more and
no less," therefore demanded 50,000,000 acres for distribution
to the 10,000,000 landless families. When it was argued that
this crude redistribution would only mean "distributing pov-
erty," Bhave retorted that farming families in Japan had an
average of just over two acres per family, but that Japanese
farmers nevertheless had a far higher living-standard than In-
dian farmers. He complained that the Nehru Government's
land reforms not only did not make any provision for people
without any land, but that the much-publicized abolition of
landlords was little better than a fraud. The former landlords,
Bhave said, had simply turned themselves into government of-
ficials, collecting state rents from the state's tenants, to be
handed over to themselves in the form of "compensation."
Bhave declared: "The peasants find they are paying the same
rents as formerly, to the same people as before." When he was
asked how he proposed to get his 50,000,000 acres, he staggered
everyone by announcing that he would collect them in person,
walking from village to village throughout the length and
breadth of India and demanding "land gifts."

I set off for Hanpet and on the road I passed caravans of
camels, loaded with bales of cotton, and bullock carts driven
by men with large white mustaches and large white turbans.
Their wives, wearing bright saris, peered inquisitively at me
from the carts. The fields were scarlet with pepper, and the
road was lined with thickly corded, muscle-bound palms grow-
ing at odd angles. In the villages women went about with small
brass pots balanced on their heads, and small girls wore shell-
pink pajamas and their raven's-wing black hair was glossy with
oil. At one place women road-menders were down on their
knees, filling baskets with loose stones. They were clad in rags,
but wore silver bangles and had jewels in their noses.

Before leaving Hyderabad I had called on the Communists.
A Communist member of the State Assembly received me in

225

HYDERABAD:

his quarters in the well-built "housing colony" that the gov-
ernment placed at the disposal of state legislators while they
were in the state capital.

I asked him what he thought of Vinoba Bhave's land-reform
plan. He shrugged. "He claims to have collected 3,000,000 acres:
that is not 50,000,000, is it? At his present rate of progress, it
will take him another hundred years. Besides, what has hap-
pened to this land that he says has been donated? How much
of it has actually been distributed to the landless? Some of the
bhoodan people say 60,000 acres, others say 250,000. Even if you
accept the higher figure, it is not much. Why has more not
been distributed? One reason is that the bhoodan people are
now finding out that most of it is useless land, jungle or granite
that the owners were glad to get rid of.

"How was the land donated? By a tearful landlord becoming
'converted' and hastily signing a piece of paper at one of Bhave's
meetings. He gets much applause: nobody bothers to inspect
the land until long afterwards. In some cases, 'converts' have
'donated* village common-land that was never theirs to give. In
other cases, landlords have given useless land to bhoodan, then
evicted their tenants and told them to get land from Bhave. The
bhoodan movement, in short, has proved a blessing to the Con-
gress Party for it helps to keep the masses quiet, and a smoke-
screen for the landlords, who pretend that by giving some use-
less acres to Vinoba Bhave they have become saints them-
selves."

"Vinoba Bhave says the Government's land reforms are a
fraud, and you think Bhave's bhoodan movement is also a
fraud," I said.

"Not exactly a fraud. He believes in it and we appreciate his
sincerity, just as we acknowledge that Gandhi was a great man."
(The Soviet Encyclopedia had just revised its former harsh
judgment of Gandhi, a fact of which my Indian Communist
informant was well aware.) "But we believe that Bhave, like
Gandhi, is an idealist who is somewhat out of touch with the

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harsh realities of a materialistic world which include class
conflicts. He dismisses Marx: we respect Marx. Vinoba Bhave
has declared that the difference between himself and a Com-
munist is the difference between a living man and a corpse.
Events will prove who is right. We for our part believe that
history is on our side. Bhave, like Nehru, is raising hopes among
the masses hopes that neither he nor Nehru can really fulfil.
We are grateful to them both for rousing such expectations
among the masses; for, when these expectations are inevitably
disappointed, it only means that the masses will then turn to
us. Vinoba Bhave himself is just beginning to realize this. He
began by saying that his revolution would be in the hearts of
men. He was contemptuous of material reforms and of changes
in the social order. Now he cries that the revolution can be
achieved only by 'abolishing land ownership/ He declares: 'I
want to wipe out individual ownership of land from this coun-
try/ So do we. He complains that since independence there has
been 'merely a change of masters/ and insists that 'the social
structure has to be recast/ That is just what we say: Bhave ought
to join the Communist Party instead of reviling it. He now
calls for gram raj village government and tells the villages to
elect committees to redistribute the land according to need,
based on size of family. What is that but Communism and an
appeal for Soviets?"

I concluded from this conversation that Vinoba Bhave, like
Gandhi, Mohammed, Jesus Christ, and other religious leaders,
had said so many different things that it was very easy for any
interested party to pick out from his sayings the ones that hap-
pened to please them best. It made me no less eager to have a
look at him.

At Hanpet the villagers had put up mango arches in honor of
the walking saint. I arrived just in time. Under the arches there
trundled a line of carts. The saint's disciples had preceded him
in order to get things in shape for Bhave's village meeting. The
carts' contents astonished me. The usual Gandhian spinning-

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HYDERABAD.

wheels, traditional symbols of Indian piety, I had expected, but
not the tape-recorders, the microphones, and the portable power
plant for the loudspeakers. Vinoba Bhave might be an Indian
saint, but he was also a twentieth-century one. One cart con-
tained rucksacks and, also, a much-traveled, battered suitcase
covered with travel labels, which I recognized as Rud's. Rud
himself came limping behind the cart accompanied by two
young Indian men, and all three looked footsore.

I waved to him, and he came over to me after a word with
his two companions, who nodded and followed after the cart.
He sank down on a rock and grinned at me. "We've been up
since before dawn I guess I've walked a hundred miles in the
last week. The old man is tough, for although he is over sixty
he always seems to be as fresh as a daisy "

"Where is he?" I asked

"He'll be along presently He likes to give them time to set
things up." Rud kicked off the dusty sandals he was wearing
and ruefully squinted down at his blistered feet. "He talks like
Christ, but sometimes he behaves like a touchy prophet out of
the Old Testament. I've seen village untouchables crowd round
to touch the hem of his garment and powerful landlords slink
away from him like whipped curs lie likes to believe he is full
of humility and loving-kindness, but he has the terrible pride of
the truly dedicated man. When he was in Bihar, and giving the
government hell, Nehru sent a message inviting him to Delhi to
tell the Cabinet what he thought they ought to do. Bhave ac-
cepted, but said he might be a little while, as he had urgent
business to attend to on the way. He walked the whole distance,
holding village meetings, and did not turn up in Delhi for three
months. The whole thing is crazy, magnificent, and rather pa-
thetic. He has a notion he may not have long to live he suffers
from anemia and dysentery, and has a weak chest but he re-
fuses to eat anything except curds, and he drives himself all the
harder. He seems to have no sort of proper organization, and a
lot of the land that bhoodan has collected is just paper promises

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PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

so far. When you try to talk to him about that, he looks you in
the eye and says gravely that everything is in God's hands,
though he adds that God helps those who help themselves "

We walked slowly through the village, to one of the huts that
had been set aside for the bhoodan people. "India is a queer
country," Rud said, "and Bhave may be just the miracle that it
needs. But personally I don't believe history repeats itself like
that. There can be only one Gandhi. Bhave is highly intelligent
and extremely well-read But he refuses to bother himself with
'political problems/ and he seems to have no understanding at
all of economics Talk about Five Year Plans just goes over his
head Anyway he loathes machines and factories, and his ideal
for India is a land of small peasants all leading idyllic existences,
owning everything through Sillage republics' and going about
their daily work singing Hindu and Christian hymns. India's
problem of ovcipopulation doesn't seem to worry him, though
he must know that if you aren't going to have periodic large-
scale famines you must have dams and irrigation works, and
you can't have those unless you have large-scale industry "

Rud shook his head. "Nehru respects Bhave enormously. But
Nehru is a practical statesman with a tremendous job to do,
and he does not even try to fit Bhave into his plans. I think
Nehru is right The Congress Party is unwieldy, topheavy, rid-
dled \\ith jealousies, and to a large extent corrupt, but it is still
the only hope for India, for it docs work, and nothing else does
It's true that there is a lot of disillusionment among the masses
with the Congress Party, but if it falls apart, the pieces will be
picked up not by Bhave but by the Communists, for they, too,
promise miracles, but they at least have an organization "

One of the young Indians put his head in at the door "He
is coming," he announced, and vanished.

Vinoba Bhave was a slight man with a short beard and large
spectacles. He wore only a hand-spun white dhoti, a thin white
shawl, and rubber sneakers. He entered the village with swift,
eager strides, looking neither to right nor left, as if he were

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HYDERABAD:

hastening to a tryst and was already very late. His formidable
reputation had clearly preceded him, for, though the villagers
crowded the road that they had decorated with mango arches
for his coming, they looked shy and abashed. They need not
have, for Bhave paid neither them nor the welcoming arches
the slightest attention. The road might have been empty, and
he a solitary figure hurrying along it. When someone, bolder
than the rest, stepped forward and thrust a garland into his
hands, he broke it in pieces as he walked, and threw the pieces
to the children who also lined the way. It was to a child that
he gave his only smile of greeting, and it transformed his face
from the stern mask of one constantly preoccupied with lofty
matters into a singularly sweet expression.

In the village a hut had been set aside for his special use.
When he reached it, he swerved abruptly into it, apparently by
divination, for there was nothing I could see that distinguished
it from the others. The door was left open, and together with
some of the more inquisitive villagers, I peeped in. Vinoba
Bhave ignored us. Removing his shawl, he seated himself on the
floor. An Indian girl, apparently one of the disciples, sat down
also, with writing paper and pencils, and Bhave spoke in a low,
quick voice while she wrote industriously. He was evidently dic-
tating either letters or a newspaper article I learned later from
Rud that by dictating in this fashion, at the end of each day's
march, he managed to keep up a vast correspondence and to
write many articles about the work of bhoodan. When he had
done, he rose hthely, walked across to the charpoy which was
the room's sole furnishing, and in what appeared to be seconds
was tranquilly asleep, with his lean brown back turned toward
us all. The girl composedly arranged her papers, got up, and left
him alone.

Bhave slept for exactly an hour. At the end of that time he
rolled off the charpoy, as if an alarm clock had rung in his ear,
and came briskly out of the hut. The disciples had been busy
arranging a platform at the end of the village street.

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He got on the platform and the villagers crowded expectantly
round. But instead of making a speech he squatted down, and
a girl disciple handed him a brass bowl filled with curds and a
glass which, Rud told me in a whisper, contained fresh lemon
juice sweetened with a touch of molasses. He drank the lemon
juice first, then proceeded to eat the curds, sitting bolt upright,
and staring severely at the villagers through his large spectacles,
rather like a stern schoolmaster. He sat cross-legged, and sud-
denly he shot out a thin arm and pointed a finger at a villager.
"What is your name and how much land do you have?"
The man, a thickset, hairy individual who had been eying
Bhave rather hostilely, stammered that his name was Dcshmukh
(which also means, literally, "village headman") and that he
owned six acres. He wilted visibly under the saint's steady glare.
"I am a poor man, your honor/' he stammered, "and I have no
land to give to bhoodan; for I have five sons, who expect to in-
herit from me, and I must do justice to them. That is the law
of Manu."

While the man talked, Bhave went on eating his curds. I
noticed that he carefully swirled each spoonful around exactly
eight times in his mouth, before swallowing, it seemed to be a
ritual with him.

When the man had finished speaking Bhave said: "You have
five sons But if you had six sons, would each not receive an
equal share? For that is as you have just said the law of Manu.
Treat me then as your sixth son, and give one acre of your land,
for bhoodaii " He put aside his empty bowl, and got to his feet.
The microphone was placed before him, and the loudspeakers
that the disciples had rigged up carried his voice, alarmingly
magnified, all over the village. "I am the sixth son: the ten
million families of India who have no land of their own. There
is enough land for all, but only if it is divided properly among
all the people who live on the land. God helps those who help
themselves. The Government of India has instituted land re-
forms, but these are not enough. Besides, the Government is far

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HYDERABAD:

hastening to a tryst and was already very late. His formidable
reputation had clearly preceded him, for, though the villagers
crowded the road that they had decorated with mango arches
for his coming, they looked shy and abashed. They need not
have, for Bhave paid neither them nor the welcoming arches
the slightest attention. The road might have been empty, and
he a solitary figure hurrying along it. When someone, bolder
than the rest, stepped forward and thrust a garland into his
hands, he broke it in pieces as he walked, and threw the pieces
to the children who also lined the way. It was to a child that
he gave his only smile of greeting, and it transformed his face
from the stern mask of one constantly preoccupied with lofty
matters into a singularly sweet expression.

In the village a hut had been set aside for his special use.
When he reached it, he swerved abruptly into it, apparently by
divination, for there was nothing I could see that distinguished
it from the others. The door was left open, and together with
some of the more inquisitive villagers, I peeped in. Vmoba
Bhave ignored us. Removing his shawl, he seated himself on the
floor. An Indian girl, apparently one of the disciples, sat down
also, with writing paper and pencils, and Bhave spoke in a low,
quick voice while she wrote industriously. He was evidently dic-
tating either letters or a newspaper article I learned later from
Rud that by dictating in this fashion, at the end of each day's
march, he managed to keep up a vast correspondence and to
write many articles about the work of bhoodan. When he had
done, he rose lithely, walked across to the charpoy which was
the room's sole furnishing, and in what appeared to be seconds
was tranquilly asleep, with his lean brown back turned toward
us all. The girl composedly arranged her papers, got up, and left
him alone.

Bhave slept for exactly an hour. At the end of that time he
rolled off the charpoy, as if an alarm clock had rung in his ear,
and came briskly out of the hut. The disciples had been busy
arranging a platform at the end of the village street.

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PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

He got on the platform and the villagers crowded expectantly
round. But instead of making a speech he squatted down, and
a girl disciple handed him a brass bowl filled with curds and a
glass which, Rud told me in a whisper, contained fresh lemon
juice sweetened with a touch of molasses. He drank the lemon
juice first, then proceeded to eat the curds, sitting bolt upright,
and staring severely at the villagers through his large spectacles,
rather like a stern schoolmaster. He sat cross-legged, and sud-
denly he shot out a thin arm and pointed a finger at a villager.

"What is your name and how much land do you have?"

The man, a thickset, hairy individual who had been eying
Bhave rather hostilely, stammered that his name was Deshmukh
(which also means, literally, "village headman") and that he
owned six acres. He wilted visibly under the saint's steady glare.
"I am a poor man, your honor," he stammered, "and I have no
land to give to bhoodan; for I have five sons, who expect to in-
herit from me, and I must do justice to them. That is the law
of Manu."

While the man talked, Bhave went on eating his curds. I
noticed that he carefully swirled each spoonful around exactly
eight times in his mouth, before swallowing: it seemed to be a
ritual with him.

When the man had finished speaking Bhave said: "You have
five sons. But if you had six sons, would each not receive an
equal share? For that is as you have just said the law of Manu.
Treat me then as your sixth son, and give one acre of your land,
for bhoodan." He put aside his empty bowl, and got to his feet.
The microphone was placed before him, and the loudspeakers
that the disciples had rigged up carried his voice, alarmingly
magnified, all over the village. "I am the sixth son: the ten
million families of India who have no land of their own. There
is enough land for all, but only if it is divided properly among
all the people who live on the land. God helps those who help
themselves. The Government of India has instituted land re-
forms, but these are not enough. Besides, the Government is far

231

HYDERABAD:

away, and it is busy with other matters that have to be at-
tended to. It is for you, the people of India, to settle this ques-
tion of the distribution of the land among yourselves. To the
rich, I say: 'If you do not give a sixth of your land to the poor
of your own free will, the Communists will come sooner or later
and will take far more than a sixth from you, by force/ To the
poor, I say: 'If you listen to the Communists who tell you that
only by force can you get what should be yours, your last state
will be worse than the first, for the Communists will take from
you the land that you took from the landlords, and you will
only have exchanged many masters for one master who will be
more powerful than they or you/ " He repeated his simple
arithmetical lesson about the amount of cultivable land that
there was in India and how, with equal distribution, every fam-
ily could have five acres. "I agree that five acres is not much,"
he said, looking at the man called Deshmukh. "It is certainly
less than six. But it is more than most Indians now have. And
it is better to give one acre than lose all six/'

This raised a laugh, as he had no doubt intended; and it also
concluded his speech. As soon as he had finished, the disciples
began calling for volunteers to give land to bhoodan. To my
surprise, a score of people surged forward, and they were led by
the thickset Deshmukh, who looked like a man who knew he
was doing a foolish thing but felt he had no choice. Bhave him-
self did not wait to see the result of his lecture. He simply got
down from the platform and strode back to the hut where he
had napped, without a backward glance.

Rud had decided to continue walking with Bhave for a few
days, and I rose before it was light to see him off. We waited at
the end of the village. Presently some of the disciples came
hurrying along, carrying lanterns, with Vinoba Bhave follow-
ing. He strode swiftly past us, looking straight ahead. Neither
Rud nor I might have existed, though Rud had been his close
companion for a week. Rud laughed softly. "He'll walk like that
until the sun rises. Then, if we're lucky, he may start a conversa-

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tion. If I'm very lucky, it may even be with me. The last time
he spoke to me, we were in the middle of fording a river, and
he began a discussion of Persian poetry!"

The carts came past, laden with the disciples' baggage, the
loudspeakers, the tape-recorder and the portable power plant.
Rud stepped out after them. I watched the carts creak past and
the lanterns bob away into the darkness. The smell of dawn was
already in the air. I hoped Rud's feet would last out better than
mine had done in the Goa jungles.

Bezwada in Andhra Pradesh is a railroad town. Sooty hills
bounce back the shrill whistling of shunting trains; the town is
bisected by a scummy canal filled with slow-moving barges.
Through the town's maze of narrow congested streets go root-
ing 50,000 large black pigs, Bezwada's only scavengers. The pigs
are owned by Yenada and Yeragua tribesmen who collect pig
manure to sell as fuel : every pig has attendant on it an anxious
"tribal," carrying a small shovel and a large bucket, who follows
the animal about with an air of hopeful expectation.

To get out of the railroad station, I climbed a steep flight of
iron stairs, pushing my way through hordes of tattered beggars,
and walked across an iron bridge. The bridge commanded a
view of the canal and the encircling hills, and I noticed that the
slopes of the hills were still marked with huge painted ham-
mers and sickles, relics of the recent hotly contested election in
which the Communists had been defeated. The most famous
man in Bezwada was Varagha Vayya, the gray-bearded presi-
dent of the Andhra Astrological Propaganda Society. He had
forecast a victory for the Congress Party, thus putting to rout
the professional fortunetellers. Throughout the election, the
fortunetellers squatted on the sidewalk outside the Bezwada
post office with packs of cards and a flock of green parrots. For
an anna, a parrot would pick a card foretelling the winner of
the election: a pair of yoked bullocks to symbolize the Con-
gress Party, a crossed hammer and sickle for the Communists.
The parrots had consistently picked the Communist card. "It

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was nothing," said Mr. Vayya carelessly, when I asked him
about it. "I also prophesied the fall of Malenkov."

I walked past the beggars, the pigs, the fortunetellers, and a
large statue of Gandhi standing outside a brand-new movie-
house advertizing Cinemascope. But when I reached a hotel, I
was dismayed to be told it was full. All the hotels were full. I
returned to the railroad station and sought a night's sanctuary
in the railroad "retiring-rooms": a long gaunt dormitory of cu-
bicles each containing a very large four-poster bed with a mos-
quito net hung over it. The "retiring-rooms" were built directly
over the tracks, and all night long I lay awake under the mos-
quito net, shaken by the thunder of passing trains and deaf-
ened by the screaming of their whistles.

I wanted to see something of the Andhra countryside, and to
visit a local raja. In the morning I hired a car and drove out
of the town, past green rice fields and through villages that
smelled of hay and bullocks, and were crowded with naked chil-
dren, black water buffaloes, and slow-moving, high-wheeled
sugar-cane carts. The village huts were built of dried mud and
thatched with palm fronds, and the shops were open-air booths,
whose owners squatted cross-legged amid mounds of white nee
and pyramids of fresh oranges. I passed a bald-headed man with
a big mustache, who was trudging along the road wearing only
a loincloth and carrying a large straw umbrella.

And once, in a clearing at the side of the road, I came on an
astonishing spectacle. Black-bearded men, wearing crimson
drawers with small jingling bells attached to them, were flog-
ging a woman with short, yellow-cord whips, urged on by a
musician who blew frantically on a flute. They were holy men,
I was told, and they were trying to cure the woman of a sick-
ness. She stood with her hands raised above, her head and her
eyes closed, as the holy men whirled around her in a mad sort
of dance. When they had whipped her until they were ex-
hausted, a very old man with a long gray beard hobbled up,
holding an iron ladle filled with ashes, and smeared the ash on

234

PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

her forehead. Then, as offerings to the local tree deity, a gar-
landed goat had its throat cut and chickens' heads were briskly
chopped off, and the woman, her eyes still tight shut, was led
away by an anxious-faced man. "He is her husband," I was told.

At Vuyyuru there was a white Hindu temple, its walls gay
with freshly painted statues of gods and goddesses and sacred
bulls, which stood out in sharp silhouette against the bright blue
sky. Around the temple, lying face down on the ground, were
several score of women, whose backs were smeared with ocher.
They were praying. The temple walls still bore election scrawls
in Hindi, urging the people to "Vote for Congress/' Near by
the temple and the praying prostrate women a market was in
full swing, and eager crowds were flocking toward a large, flimsy
wooden structure, which periodically shook to shattering roars
from within its own bowels. Inside, a man on an ancient motor-
cycle was driving round and round a "wall of death," and the
people could watch him from an upper platform by paying
four annas.

At Tiruvur the election had been fought between a 58-year-
old Congress Party candidate, Mr. Peta Batayya, and his 35-
year-old son, Mr. Peta Rama Rau, who was a Communist. The
father felt very bitLer about the whole thing. "My son went
about telling the people I was a capitalist," he said. "I own 25
acres of land. When my son joined the Communists, he was
unemployed, and I was in a British jail for supporting Gandhi."
When I went to see the son, he just shrugged. "We may have
lost one election," he said; "but the future still belongs to
Communism."

In spite of the election, the villages of central Andhra were
still very much a Communist stronghold. The Communists had
defiantly renamed the villages "Stalingrad," "Moscow," "Len-
ingrad," and so on. On the walls of the village houses there
were still tattered posters, with crude drawings of innocent
peasants being tortured by brutal policemen. One village had
erected a statue of a "Communist martyr." It was a very life-

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HYDERABAD:

like statue, for it wore a wnstwatch. The villagers treated it with
great reverence, for they burned incense before it, brought it
offerings of coconuts just as if it were a god, and hung it with
garlands of marigolds. A young Communist willingly led me
to it. "His name was Narayan Rao," he said, speaking like a
priest at a shrine. "He was shot down in cold blood by Nehru's
police." The face of the statue reminded me of the wild-eyed
young men whose photographs I had seen in the Communist
office in Trivandrum. Later I asked an Andhra police official
about him. "Before we caught up with him," he replied simply,
"he had murdered eight people." The Andhra Communists
had a reputation, doubtless fully deserved, for considerable
ferocity; they had tried to turn the Telengana district into a
sort of Yenan, and there had been much bloodshed. Yet the
Communists I met in Andhra showed no hint of this. They
were all quietly spoken young men, with mild round faces,
looking singularly guileless, with their large horn-rim spectacles,
neat white dhotis, and plain leather sandals. I suspected that in
their early days of struggle the Chinese Communists had struck
many observers in the same way.

A Communist introduced me to an Andhra toddy-tapper. He
was a squat, broad-shouldered man, with very thick black hair
that hung over his face, and wearing a loincloth. There were
formerly 200,000 toddy-tappers in Andhra. Carrying a small
jar slung on a cord round his neck, and with a sharp knife
gripped in his teeth, a toddy-tapper who belonged, of course,
to a hereditary caste would skim up a tall palm with pro-
fessional ease, and after slitting the trunk of the tree near the
top, under the fronds, would proceed to pour the sap into his
earthen jar. Sugar was then added to ferment it: the result was
palm-toddy. But this was before toddy-tapping was forbidden
by the prohibition-minded Congress Party. Now the toddy-
tappers had been thrown out of work.

I said I would like to taste some toddy, and without more ado
the ex-toddy-tapper burrowed in a corner of his hut, and pro-

PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

duced a jar. The contents smelled very bad, but to my surprise
tasted like a rather fine liqueur brandy. When I expressed my
appreciation, the toddy-tapper beamed.

"This man/' said the Communist indignantly, "almost
starved to death, because the Congress Party took away his live-
lihood. Now he is employed as a coolie in a rich raja's sugar
factory at a wage only a fifth of what he used to earn as a toddy-
tapper."

The Communists were, of course, fighting the Congress
Party's prohibition law. I tactfully forebore to point out that,
judging from the excellent contents of the jar from which I had
just drunk, the law did not seem to be very effective.

In the election a raja had defeated a leading Communist. The
raja had stood as a Congress Party candidate, which was a re-
markable conversion, for before India gained her independence,
the raja had been a great persecutor of Congress Party sup-
porters. Moreover, he was ably backed during the election by
his own former chief prosecutor, who in the courts had always
demanded "severe sentences' 7 for Congress Party members.

I called at the rajYs five-story palace. Sheltered behind high
thick walls, it was a large and rambling, if rather ramshackle
edifice. Green parrots perched on crumbling balconies; black
ravens peered inquisitively between the stout bars over most of
the windows. The raja was not at home, but I was made welcome
by his sixteen-year-old son We shook hands very solemnly; he
was a plump-cheeked youth who looked as if he would like to
be jolly but had decided instead to be very dignified. "You
must stay the night," he said gravely, and led me through a vast
stone entrance hall, decorated with big stone lions, where about
thirty men had laid themselves down to rest on straw mats on
the floor, under large bad oil portraits of former rajas. We
crossed several open courtyards, and then the raja's son led me
along a narrow stone corridor and up two flights of stone stairs.
We had evidently reached the family living-quarters. There
was a large room, containing a dimng-table and chairs, and

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an old-fashioned radio; adjoining this room was a bedroom.

"You will want to wash your hands/' he said, and a woman
servant led me to a tiny washroom off the bedroom. Small
brass pots filled with water stood on the stone floor. She picked
one of them up, and poured water over my outstretched hands.
Then she ceremoniously dried them with a small towel. This
feudal duty performed, she went back to laying the table.

It became clear that the raja's son and I were to dine together
alone. It was also very clear that he was tongue-tied with em-
barrassment at the prospect. We consumed soup, fish, a very
hot curry, a chicken pie, and a custard fruit tart, in pensive
silence. Though the ice can never be said to have been broken,
I managed to extract from him the information that he went to
school in Bombay. As soon as the meal was finished, he excused
himself, and fled. I retired to the bedroom, and was dropping off
to sleep when I became aware of a steady drone that rapidly
increased in volume. It sounded as if a squadron of planes
were circling the palace. But they were not planes, they were
mosquitoes. The air was thick with them. Sleep was out of the
question. I got up and decided to go for a walk. I tiptoed across
the deserted dining-room and down the stone stairs. I fervently
hoped I would not blunder by error into the women's quarters,
but I reached the courtyard without seeing anyone. In the
great entrance hall, the raja's retainers still slept, but not for
long. Even while I was admiring their tolerance of the mos-
quitoes, which hung over them in clouds, the sound of a stncken
brass gong boomed and shuddered through the palace. About
ten of the men rose hastily, grasping thick staves. They groped
their way outside for the only light came from a clouded
moon and got into a truck that stood ready waiting. The
truck roared off. I returned in perplexity to my room. I was
halfway there when I met the woman who had washed my
hands for me and served the meal.

"Where have the men gone at this time of night?" I asked.

PROPHETS AND MARTYRS

"They have gone to deal with some Communists who are
burning a field," she replied simply.

I reclimbed the stairs and paused in the doorway of the
dining-room. The raja's son had stealthily returned. He had
turned on the radio, and was snapping his fingers and doing
steps to a lively dance tune. We stared at each other guiltily.

"I thought you had gone to bed," he stammered.

"I thought you had gone to bed," I said.

We stared at each other again. And then he laughed. The ice
was really broken this time.

"Do you like jazz?" I asked.

"Very much! I like Duke Ellington and Count Basic and
Louis Armstrong and . . ."

We had a most entertaining chat, in spite of the mosquitoes.

Next morning the raja returned home. He arrived in a mud-
splattered 1933 Chrysler, with an ancient canvas roof, a spare
wheel screwed to the running-board, and a rubber-bulb hooter.
The raja was a short, stout man with a brown, bald head. He
had a red caste mark in the middle of his forehead, and rimless
glasses were perched on his small fat nose. He wore a brown
jacket and shapeless slacks, and had a very large diamond and
emerald ring on the third finger of his right hand.

He greeted me affably, and explained that he had just con-
cluded a tour of 120 villages, traveling over very bad roads. The
people he had been visiting had formerly been his subjects.
Since winning the election they had become his constituents.
"I am constantly at their beck and call," he said, a trifle de-
spondently.

The raja's right-hand man, formerly his chief prosecutor and
now his political secretary, drew me aside. He was eager to ex-
plain that the raja, as a good Congress Party man, had volun-
tarily given up his former vast estates, keeping only a few thous-
and acres and several sugar mills to himself.

"But he must have received compensation," I objected.

239

HYDERABAD

"Ah, yes: the Government gave him a little."

"How much?"

"Only half a million pounds sterling," said the raja's po-
litical secretary. "And, out of that, he has to pay all his re-
tainers, and fight the Communists."

I drove back to Bezwada. This time the railway "retiring-
rooms" were all full, and I found I could not get a train to
Cuttack until the next morning. I went the round of the hotels.
One of them had a room on the roof, directly under a glaring
green neon-sign but, the proprietor explained, it would not be
vacant until 11:00 p m

"Perhaps I could sec it," I suggested.

We climbed a steep outside staircase to the flat roof. A low
parapet ran round it I had another view of the muddy canal,
the town alleys, and the rooting black pigs followed by their
attendants holding shovel and bucket in constant readiness.
The room was one of several tiny wooden structures that had
been added to the accommodation to hold overflow guests. The
door was tightly shut, I peered through the one small window.
Inside, in a haze of cigarette smoke, nine men in cotton vests
sat on the single bed and on the floor, playing cards and drink-
ing palm-toddy.

"They will leave at eleven," the proprietor said. "They are
catching a train. Then you can have the room all to yourself."

I slept in the open on the flat roof, under the blinking green
neon-sign.

240

XIV

CUTTACK: THE MAD MONK

Why do you have faith in holy men w/io exploit and rob you?

NEHRU

A HE TORN-UP railroad tracks had been rclaid, but Pun railroad
station, destroyed by the mobs, seemed totally beyond repair
Pun is the scene of the famous annual car festival of Jagannath
Juggernaut, as Westerners miscall it. Jagannath, which means
Lord of the Universe, is really Vishnu. The idol it has a large
diamond in its forehead and its arms project from its cars is
drawn through the streets once a year, in a huge i6-wheelcd car,
45 feet high and 35 feet square. The idol is attended by 6,000
priests, and 100,000 pilgrims come from all over India to take
part in the festival. From time to time a few fanatics throw
themselves under the car's wheels and are crushed to death. But
the mobs who had destroyed the railroad station had not been
worshipping Vishnu. They were protesting against a proposal
to take some territory from Onssa State, and transfer it to
Bengal. Anarchy had reigned for several days.

In the circumstances I preferred not to linger in Puri, but to
press on to Cuttack, the chief city of Onssa. Onssa is somewhat
larger than Georgia, and has a population of 15,000,000, of
whom 3,000,000 are "tnbals," living in remote forests and
mountains. It is one of the poorest states in India: which may

241

CUTTACK:

account for the ferocity of its recurrent quarrels with its neigh-
bors Bengal and Bihar.

When I reached Cuttack, I made contact with a friendly
police official. He courteously escorted me to the kaliaboda
math, or holy place, that I had come to see. We had to drive a
considerable distance to reach it, over appalling roads and past
wretched villages that seemed to be entirely composed of out-
castes' hovels. "The people are very poor and very supersti-
tious," said my police escort, unnecessarily.

The kaliaboda math was a formidable fortress. It brooded
over the surrounding villages, reminding me forcibly of Dracula's
castle. At the time of our visit it was, of course, deserted. We
passed through the great main gate, and saw the courtyard
where the policemen had been killed. The statues of the founder
still dotted the overgrown gardens and orchards, and we in-
spected the chariot in which he had had himself hauled about
by his disciples. Then we visited the archery range, where the
wooden targets in the shape of human figures still stood. Under
the main building, of solid stone, was a maze of passages and
monks' cells; beneath them was the armory, with its steel doors,
and the dungeons where the women had been kept. Finally,
we visited the founder's private quarters. His bedroom was
still adorned with tiger skins, and he appeared to have had a
taste for pornographic statuettes.

"A holy man was almost stoned to death near here last week,"
my guide remarked, as we drove back through one of the villages.
"The villagers are very hostile to all sadhus now."

The founder of the kaliaboda math had been lodged in the
Cuttack jail. I was allowed to have a glimpse of him. It was a
depressing sight. An incredibly ancient-looking man, with a
tangled white beard, he sat in a corner with his arms folded,
staring straight ahead of him. But his wrinkled old face still
retained some battered dignity. He appeared to be muttering
to himself.

"He doesn't give too much trouble," said my policeman. "But

242

THE MAD MONK

he will keep asking for meat dishes. The other prisoners re-
ceive only vegetarian diet/'

There are about eight million sadhus in India. The vast ma-
jority are harmless enough. They wander about the countryside
with begging-bowls. Indians readily give them alms, partly from
piety, partly because they f ear" a sadhu's curse. But the man who
called himself Pagala Baba, "the mad monk," was in a class by
himself.

No one knew much about his origins, though there was a
story that he had taken the vows of chastity and poverty at a
very early age, and in his beginnings appeared to have been
genuinely religious. For most of his life he roamed the country-
side like any other obscure sadhu, and he was in his late sixties
before he achieved any sort of notoriety. But when he finally
did so, it was on an impressive scale.

He first came to prominence when he got up before a
gathering in Cuttack, and informed his awed listeners that, in
addition to appearing before them, he was simultaneously sitting
in a bus that was traveling from Calcutta. He explained that
he was able to do this because he was actually an incarnation
of Brahma, and that if he cared to exercise his full powers he
could easily destroy the universe.

In no time at all the Mad Monk was being worshipped by a
large and growing following. His disciples included a couple
of Maharajas, and wealthy converts poured money into his
coffers. With those offerings, he built the kaliaboda math, and
filled it with warlike retainers in the guise of monks.

When the crash came the Mad Monk was a venerable eighty.
He might easily have died in an odor of sanctity, within his
castle walls, if his own and his followers' concupiscence had not
gone too far.

The kaliaboda math began to acquire an evil reputation. The
monks discarded stealth and with increasing boldness sallied
out of their stronghold to demand money from the villagers.
When their demands were refused, they beat the villagers up.

243

CUTTACK:

For years village women had been disappearing, but unfaith-
ful wives who have lovers waiting to receive them are not un-
common in Orissa, and the husbands preferred to nurse their
hurt pride in silence. Now the disappearance of the women
began to be associated with the monks' forays.

The climax was reached when an eighteen-year-old village
bride vanished on her wedding night, and her husband traced
her to the very gateway of the kaliaboda math. Moreover, there
was ample evidence that the girl had not gone willingly. The
bereaved groom reported the kidnapping to the police, and de-
manded action. The police, who had long been suspicious of
the math and were waiting only for a suitable opportunity to
raid it, were only too glad to comply.

Even then the Mad Monk's reputation for miracles and piety
produced an extremely odd result. A small party of policemen
arrived at the main gateway of the math to find themselves
confronted with a row of monks on the walls, all armed with
bows and arrows. The Mad Monk himself appeared. He ex-
plained to the police that, as the math was a holy place, they
could not be permitted to enter unless they first removed all
contaminating objects made of leather from their persons not
only their shoes, but also their belts and revolver holsters.

Astonishingly, the policemen agreed to those conditions.
When they had discarded their arms, the great gate was swung
open, and the policemen marched in. Immediately they had
done so, horn bugles sounded shrilly, and the unhappy police-
men found themselves the targets for skillfully directed arrows
and thrown spears. The Mad Monk, according to one survivor,
sat in the courtyard throughout the battle, clad in animal skins
on a lotus-shaped throne, waving a red cloth and crying: "Let
blood flow!"

Most of the policemen managed to withdraw. They hastened
back to Cuttack and raised the alarm. A troop of soldiers were
dispatched to the scene of action.

By the time they arrived, some of the monks had fled. But

244

THE MAD MONK

the others, including the Mad Monk himself, had taken refuge
in their underground cells, and the military had to force them
out by using tear gas.

In the armory, behind the steel doors, the soldiers found vast
quantities of two-handed swords, tridents, spears, and bows and
arrows, as well as piles of slings and sacks filled with stones for
use as slingshot. They also found a fortune in gold and jewels
which had been donated to the math by wealthy followers of
the Mad Monk. And, in the dungeons they found eight terri-
fied women, including the kidnapped eighteen-year-old village
bride.

At his sensational trial the Mad Monk had the last word.
When he was given a sentence of two years' imprisonment, he
loftily announced: "I am indifferent to punishment by men,
for God's justice is supreme/' There was a good deal of tension
in Cuttack until it became clear that he did not, after all, propose
to carry out his threat to destroy the universe.

245

XV

CALCUTTA:
"RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS"

Life is strife, and strife means knife, From Howrah to the Bay

KIPLING

J.HE FIRST time I visited Calcutta a gaunt policeman wearing
faded khaki and a maroon beret stopped my car and handed
me a leaflet. The leaflet announced that the entire Calcutta
police force had gone on a hunger strike for more pay.

Protesting policemen had barricaded themselves in their
stations. When soldiers driving prison vans were sent to arrest
them, other policemen lay down in the roadway to prevent
the vans passing. Some hundreds of policemen were neverthe-
less removed to Dum Dum prison, five miles outside Calcutta.
But the Dum Dum prison-warders joined the strike. The po-
licemen and the warders were then taken to Fort William, and
locked up there.

Many fasting policemen fainted in the streets and were taken
to hospitals. At one hospital a nonstnking superintendent
visited his men to rebuke them. Policemen dragged themselves
from their beds and feebly smote him with their nightsticks.

The second time I visited Calcutta, I saw Bulganin and
Khrushchev being mobbed. The Soviet leaders' route from the
airport was lined with poles from which hung red wicker baskets.
An Indian official explained that the baskets represented the
toiling masses. "Laborers normally use such baskets for carrying
sand, bricks, and earth," he said. But the toiling masses insisted

246

"RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS"

on making a personal appearance. Every balcony and rooftop
was crowded. Red flags flew in every alley. The Communists
had brought 200,000 supporters into Calcutta and had set up
soup kitchens. An open Mercedes-Benz had been placed at the
Russians' disposal. At the intersection of Muktaram Babu Street
and Chattaranjan Avenue Mr. Khrushchev rose in his seat
waving his straw hat and affably shouted: "Hindi Russi bhai
bhai" "Indians and Russians are brothers." Scores of enthusi-
astically howling Indians immediately threw themselves bodily
on the car, which broke down. Bulganin, Khrushchev, and the
Chief Minister of Bengal, Dr. B. C. Roy, were rescued with
difficulty and driven off in a patrolwagon. The disappointed
masses stripped the abandoned Mercedes-Benz, then amused
themselves by pulling mounted policemen off their horses.

On my third visit to Calcutta I landed at the airport after
dusk. The air bus jolted through streets that smelled of sulphur,
past smoky hovels from which ragged creatures peered at us. My
companion on the bus was a man called Banerjee. He had sev-
eral gold teeth and wore a ring with two rubies in it. He at
once began to tell me the story of his life.

"The first Viceroy to reside in Calcutta," he remarked, "was
Cornwalhs, the general who lost the battle of Yorktown. He
had twenty-four successors. The last few, before the seat of
government was moved to Delhi, led rather harassed lives. I
threw a bomb at one of them, which missed. We young Ben-
galis were very revolutionary in those days."

Mr. Banerjce escaped abroad and traveled, under several
aliases, in Malaya, China, and, after the Bolshevik Revolution,
in Russia. "I broke with the Bolsheviks after they shot Radek,
who was my friend," he said. "It wasn't that I had ceased being
a revolutionary; but they had."

It was a remarkable story to hear from a complete stranger;
but almost anything can happen in Calcutta.

"I returned to India and joined the Congress Party," he said.
"It was a mistake. We Bengalis never dreamed that Bengal

247

CALCUTTA:

would be partitioned and that India would retain less than half
of it. Consequently, when the partition was announced, terrible
things happened in Calcutta. We Bengalis are a very volatile
people. I myself saw one Bengali, walking up and down the
Chowringhee, armed with a meat-hook. He was killing Mos-
lems."

Mr. Banerjee had organized a refugee camp for Hindus
streaming into the city from East Pakistan. "I insisted that the
people in my care should be vaccinated and that there should
be proper sanitation. The Brahmins objected. Nobody was
vaccinated, there was no sanitation, and the death rate in the
camp rose to 320 a week."

He peered out into the sulphury dusk. The bus had halted
in a narrow lane. "I think the bus has broken down," said Mr.
Banerjee. He lifted his luggage from the rack. "We had better
try to find a taxi."

We left the stranded bus and walked along the lane. One of
Calcutta's numerous wandering cows was eating garbage in the
gutter. In the other gutter the swollen corpses of several large
black rats lay in pools of their own blood. "We have much
trouble with rats in Calcutta," Mr. Banerjee said.

At the end of the lane we hailed a cruising taxi and were
driven to the Great Eastern Hotel. Ragged beggars roused them-
selves from the sidewalk and whined at us. Mr. Banerjee
brushed them aside. We dined together and after dinner went
for a stroll on the Chowringhee. It was an evening of soggy
heat, but Calcutta's main thoroughfare was packed with people.
Over 2,500,000 people live in Calcutta, and another 500,000
in Howrah across the river. Most of them live in tenements or
in hovels called bustees and prefer to spend as much of their
time as possible on the streets. The crowds poured along the
well-lighted Chowringhee in a solid flood: we were swept along
irresistibly with them, past garish cinemas, crowded caf6s, side-
walk booths, and squatting beggars. Most of the booths sold
glittering junk, but some of them called themselves "unnogeni-

248

RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS

tal clinics," and, near these, young men in white shirts were
displaying pornographic books. India's obsession with fecundity
and the organs of reproduction reaches a high tide mark in
Calcutta.

"Let us cross the river to Howrah," Mr. Banerjee suggested.

Howrah is Calcutta's factory area. Its tangled streets were
jammed with people, buses, bicycles, bullock carts, and wander-
ing cows. The factories looked like prisons, but were solidly
bourgeois and respectable compared with the tiny workshops
where gangs of children poisoned themselves making matches
and bidi cigarettes.

We plunged into an unlit lane that cut a muddy, uncertain
path between tightly packed hovels. "The people here live five
to a room," Mr. Banerjee remarked. "Each room is about ten
feet square. Fortunately, the bustees are frequently burned
down, in communal rioting."

The owners of the bustees were also the factory-owners. A
Calcutta social worker had recently calculated that in the bustee
area there were about 8 latrine seats and 2 watertaps to every
400 inhabitants. It was not surprising that Calcutta's infant
mortality rate was 673 per 1000 births.

"The death rate exceeds the birth rate," Mr. Banerjee said.
"But there is constant immigration from Bihar, which is poorer
than Bengal."

A Calcutta factory worker earned 60 cents a day; but only
20 cents of this was his wage. "The remainder is called his
dearness allowance," said Banerjee.

"Wages are kept low by the people who come from Bihar and
also by the refugees who still arrive from East Pakistan ten
years after Partition," he added. "The immigrants and the refu-
gees and the Bengali unemployed fight at the factory gates for
jobs."

Before the partition of India, Bengal was as big as Idaho.
Partition cut it down to the size of Maine, but it still had to
support a population of over 26,000,000. The Bengalis, who

249

CALCUTTA:

have a superiority complex toward other Indians, found this
hard to bear. In a flash, truncated Bengal was reduced from an
overlord of neighboring states to a supplicant for Lebensraum.
The jute mills of Calcutta were fed with human flesh from
Bihar; but Bengal demanded territory from Bihar as well. The
secretary-general of the Bihar Congress Party called Bengalis
"Hitlerites"; the president of the Bengal Congress Party talked
of "Fascist oppression of the Bengali minority in Bihar"
about 20 per cent. The Assam Congress Party denounced "Ben-
gali imperialism/' and mobs chased Bengalis out of Assam. Cal-
cutta had become a giant head on a pigmy body, and Bengal
warred verbally with its neighbors. There were times when all
that kept it from becoming a shooting war was Delhi's control
of the army and the fear by all concerned of Pakistan.

And Bengal went on having labor troubles. Banerjee and I
returned to the Great Eastern Hotel, and next morning I read
in the newspaper that 50,000 coalmmers had gone on strike. The
president of the state-run Coal Board announced that all the
strike-leaders had been arrested.

Cities are filled with thieves and vicious men. THE Vishnu
Purana

HE LIVED with his six wives in a large house surrounded by a
large garden. He was reputed to be a millionaire, but the big
house was in a poor state of repair. Some people said he was
the meanest man in Calcutta. He was one of several wealthy
Hindus who were devoted to the welfare of the cow. He had
built a number of homes for aged cows, and was very critical of
the Nehru Government for its refusal to ban the slaughter of
cows.

250

"RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS"

I called on the jute-mill owner by appointment. The double
gates of his "compound" were closed, and when I rang the bell
nothing happened. Then a small wooden Judas window opened,
and an eye and part of a whiskered face became visible. I ex-
plained my business and produced a visiting-card. The gates
slowly creaked open. Inside on guard stood two chowkidars,
carrying stout staves. One led me to the house while the other
carefully closed and barred the gates.

A white-clad bearer took me across a gaunt entrance hall,
with a marble floor that could have done with a good scrub, to
a room with windows looking on to the garden. The furniture
was massive, gloomy, and smelled of cheap furniture polish.
Except for large faded photographs of whiskered Hindus on the
walls, it could have been the sitting-room of a nineteenth-cen-
tury English ironmaster.

Suddenly from upstairs there came the shrill voices of several
scolding women. The voices rose accusingly and seemed to pur-
sue the object of their wrath. Then a door banged, there were
footsteps on the stairs, and presently a small wrinkled man
entered the room where I sat. He was looking vexed and was
mopping his brow with a handkerchief. I remembered the six
wives.

The conversation did not go well. His English was fluent
enough, but I wanted to talk about his mill-workers and he
wanted to talk about cows. It presently emerged that he had
thought I wanted to write an article about his goshalas, the
homes he had built for the cows. When we got on to the subject
of his workers' wages and living conditions, he scowled at me
suspiciously.

"They spend all their time listening to the Communists," he
squeaked. "The Communists hire goondas to destroy my prop-
erty." In India hoodlums are called goondas. "They are always
striking, rioting, threatening to kill me." I remembered the two
chowkidars at the gate.

"No, I do not think much of the present government, though

251

CALCUTTA:

I have given generously to the Congress Party funds. They are
always passing laws against property, those Congress wallahs.
Why should they tell me how to run my factories? They are
mine, isn't it?"

Calcutta was a wicked city, he said, full of thieves and vaga-
bonds. India was passing through bad times, and he did not
think things would get any better. He now regretted the passing
of the British Raj.

"It is all written down in our holy books," he said solemnly.
"It is the Age of Kali."

He produced a tattered book.

"This is the Vishnu Purana, which tells of the Age of Kali.
Now, see what it says."

He read the book.

" 'Women will become shameless: eating too much and talk-
ing too much/ " I thought of the angry voices upstairs. " 'Wars
will depopulate the earth. The kings of the earth will be violent
of temper and ever addicted to falsehood and wickedness. They
will seize the property of subjects/ "

He banged a hand against the open page. "You see, you see?
'They will seize the property of subjects.' Confiscation! Com-
munism! Precisely what is happening today'"

He had put on a pair of spectacles, and now he peered down
at the book again. Then he nodded energetically and with no
little satisfaction.

"Ah, see what it says next' 'They' that means the wicked
rulers 'they will rapidly rise and fall, their lives will be short/
It is so, isn't it? And the book also says: They will inflict death
on women, children, and cows/ So, it is truly the age of the
atom bomb and of cow slaughter that we are living in! We are
indeed in the Age of Kali!"

I said I wasn't quite sure what the Age of Kali was.

"Ah, you are not a Hindu. I will explain. The Day of Brahma
is 4,320,000 years, exact. It is divided into four ages. There is
a golden age, 1,728,000 years, exact: now over. Two ages follow,

252

RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS '

when virtue declines. Finally, the Age of Kali, in which the
world comes to an end."

It justified for him, I suddenly realized, his treatment of his
workers: the miserable wages, the bustees, the lack of latrines,
and the deaths of children. A nineteenth-century ironmaster
would have called it the iron laws of economics: more poetical,
he preferred to call it the Age of Kali. And meanwhile there
were always the cows to be succored, to prove he was on
Brahma's side. The Victorians, also, had been deeply moved by
the plight of the pit ponies.

India has great possibilities. KHRUSHCHEV IN CALCUTTA

A PRETIY Bengali girl introduced me to a group of Calcutta
university students. They were very angry young men who re-
garded me with rancor and suspicion.

"India has ten thousand years of culture behind her," one of
them insisted. "We are a wholesome and balanced people. We
do not lie on psychiatrists' couches like the money-mad Ameri-
cans."

He was, he said, training to be an architect. "India today has
450 architects. We are not going to allow ourselves to be used
by those who think only of profits. We will not be producing
sensational gadgets and silly skyscrapers. We do not want your
so-called 'industrial wizardry/ "

"When Khrushchev was here," said another student com-
pacently, "he remarked that in the Hydrogen Age it was foolish
to build anything over four stories."

"America is a country of peak wealth accumulation," said the
architect. "It is blinded by the thought of its 'progress' to its
terrible human failure."

253

CALCUTTA:

"Americans are always saying we are impracticable, they are
practical," said a third student. "What could be more imprac-
ticable than the extinction of the human race?"

I thought it might prove only too practicable, but forebore to
say so.

A young man with long black hair and a lantern jaw come
up. He approached me with a friendly smile and held out his
hand to be shaken. When I shook it, it felt boneless. But he
looked expectantly at me, as if I ought to recognize him.

"Your face seems familiar," I said cautiously, "but I can't
quite recall "

"We have never met," he said, laughing heartily, "so how
could you know my face?"

"Oh! Stupid of me."

"Ah, Westerners are always stupid about Indian faces. I wish
to talk to you, because I have been in America. I studied eco-
nomics and journalism. But it is very difficult to be a student
of those subjects in America. You do not believe this because
you close your eyes to everything in America that is bad, and
you criticize and belittle everything you see in India that is
good. The truth is that in America nobody is free and nobody
dares speak out. But an Indian cannot be silenced. That is why
I had to leave America."

"What did you speak out about?"

"About American Fascism. About how America is trying to
dictate to all countries that need its aids. I wrote letters to the
newspapers. The newspapers cannot help sometimes printing
a few lines from letters that criticize America. This is to preserve
the illusion of a free press.

"I wrote many letters. I wrote that SEATO is a great con-
spiracy by America against the peoples of Asia. They published
that. I wrote that Mr. Dulles was a thorough reactionary. They
published that, also."

"Then, what happened?"

"I am coming to it," he said crossly. "Do not interrupt. After

254

RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS

I had written the letters, I did not register for the fall seminar.
They sent two immigration officers after me. They asked me
why I was not at school. I said it was the blunder of the uni-
versity authorities, who were very stupid.

"They went with me to my room. They searched my books.
I had submitted a master's thesis on Lenin and Rosa Luxem-
bourg and had many Marxist books. I was asked all sorts of
questions, why wasn't I at school, how did I earn my living.
So, in the end, I left America. I was lucky to be allowed to
leave. Do you know that for American students who dare to
speak up, there are concentration camps?"

Not all the Calcutta university students were Communists.
But a good many of them were. And they were all bitterly criti-
cal of the West.

One of them asked me angrily: "Why is the United States
preparing for a war of aggression? 7 '

Another said: "If there is a war between the United States
and Russia, I do not think India should fight, I think she
should stay neutral. But if India did take sides, I hope it would
be with Russia."

India's five greatest problems are land, water, coivs, capital and
babies. NEHRU

I WAS invited to a Bengal wedding. The bride's father was a
glass manufacturer. Along the avenue leading to his home he
had erected pillars of flashing glass, and the house itself blazed
with colored lights. The total effect was dazzling.

The two families had spent anxious weeks consulting horo-
scopes and genealogies: for the couple's stars had to match,
and marriages between even seventh cousins were forbidden.

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CALCUTTA:

The bride's forehead had been smeared with sandal paste and
her body with mustard oil, and she had been presented with
20 cowrie shells, 21 betel nuts, and a mango branch with 5
leaves.

The wedding was held after sunset, as tradition demanded.
Over the main entrance of the house, a balcony had been
specially built for the orchestra of pipers and drummers. Several
family widows, dressed in white and with their heads shaved,
were permitted to view the proceedings from behind a screen.
On arrival the bridegroom, who wore a silk costume, was placed
on a wooden platform. The bride, veiled, jeweled, and wearing
a red sari, was placed on another platform. Then the bride on
her platform was ceremoniously carried round the bridegroom
seven times.

An elderly man, the bride's uncle, viewed those proceedings
without enthusiasm.

"They pretend to keep up the old ways," he grumbled, "but,
in fact, everything is changed. Formerly, it was compulsory for
girls to be wed before puberty. My niece imagine it! is nine-
teen. Formerly even child widows were compelled to shave
their heads and were forbidden to remarry. Now the parents
think nothing of marrying them off again as soon as possible.
In my day a wife treated her husband as a god. When he had
done eating, she ate off his leaf: but first she purified the spot
where it had rested with a solution of cow-dung. Wives prayed
for long lives for their husbands, and hoped to die first. If a
husband died first, everyone knew it was because the wife must
have sinned. Now wives sit down boldly with husbands to meals;
and they do not seem to care a fig if a husband dies."

A small man with a large head said he was sorely troubled by
the whole subject of marriage. He was a professor of moral
philosophy at a leading Bengal university.

"I believe child marriages are bad," he said. "But all the
same, one cannot help being perplexed by the fact that the
Shastras insist on them/' The Shastras are an important part of

256

RUSSIANS ARE BROTHERS

the Hindus' religious literature. "The Shastras seem clearly to
say that a girl can expect to reach puberty after the age of ten.
And the Shastras say that if a man has not married off his daugh-
ter by the time she is twelve, 'his ancestors will be cursed to
drink her menstrual flow month after month/

"What I have therefore concluded," said the professor of
moral philosophy, "is that the ancients had a different method
of reckoning years, and that when they said 'puberty/ they really
meant 'maturity/ Now a girl may not reach maturity until she
is eighteen, nineteen, or even older; and the Shastras say that
marriage should not occur until after that."

He shook his head mournfully. "All the same, it is very
worrying; for one cannot be sure . . "

257

XVI

EAST PAKISTAN: MOSLEMS DIVIDED

East Pakistan is a miserable overcrowded rural slum.

O. H. R. SPATE

AHE CALCUTTA railroad station was crowded with Hindu refu-
gees from East Pakistan. Ten years after the partition of India,
they were still entering Bengal at the rate of 25,000 a month.
They were herded into iron pens for health examination and
crouched there in their rags, more like animals than people.

Partition was a typical piece of twentieth-century politico-
surgery. The Punjab is at one side of India, and Bengal is right
at the other side. Both those extremities, one in the west and
the other in the east, were chopped up between Moslems and
Hindus amid fire and pillage, massacre and rape. The operation
involved the uprooting of a total of 17,000,000 people.

The Moslems found themselves in possession of a country,
Pakistan, which instead of being a geographical unity, like all
other countries, consists of two unequal pieces of real estate,
with the whole breadth of Hindu India wedged between them.
Divided by distance, the Moslem Punjabis and the Moslem
Bengalis are also divided by customs and language. The Pun-
jabis ruled the roost, for Karachi in West Pakistan was chosen as
the capital, and West Pakistan included the great empty spaces
of Baluchistan and Sind and the famous North-West Frontier
Province, as well as part of the Punjab. The Moslem Bengalis
separated from Karachi by 1,200 miles of India were also cut

258

MOSLEMS DIVIDED

off from Calcutta and crammed into a flooded corner of the
Ganges delta.

West Pakistan is bigger than Texas, and East Pakistan is
smaller than Wisconsin. East Pakistan is woefully overcrowded,
with 42,000,000 people to West Pakistan's 34,000,000. The
Hindu minority who were stranded in East Pakistan after the
partition continue striving to get to Bengal.

East Pakistan has other troubles. The Moslem peasants be-
lieved partition would nd them of their Hindu landlords. They
did not foresee it would bring them under the political domina-
tion of faraway Punjabis. All the high posts in Pakistan were
held by members of the Moslem League, which ruled Pakistan
as the Congress Party ruled India; and the Moslem League was
dominated by Punjabis, with whom the Bengali-speaking people
of East Pakistan had nothing in common save religion. When
East Pakistan rejected the Moslem League in the elections of
1954, an army general was sent from West Pakistan to "restore
order" and rule by decree.

I flew to Dacca, the capital of East Pakistan, over a flooded
countryside. All the rivers of Bengal and Bihar seemed to have
burst their banks, and we might have been flying over an in-
land sea. We landed at Dacca with difficulty, for the city was
mostly under water. It was a dismal introduction. On the way
in from the airport we passed a building with queues of people
wound round it. Men, women, and children stood patiently in
the damp heat, their bare feet squelching in black mud. They
clutched a few belongings that seemed to have been hastily
bundled together. I asked what the building was.

"It is the Indian Visa Office," I was told. "These people are
Hindus, who want to go to Bengal."

Ahead of them, if they got their visas, lay a slow, 38o-mile
journey by rail. At the end of it they would find themselves in
the iron cages at the Calcutta railroad station.

In the last floods that had overwhelmed East Pakistan,
American Globemasters had flown all the way from Tokyo with

259

EAST PAKISTAN:

food and drugs to fight famine and epidemics. Now the floods
had come again. No epidemic was threatened this time not
yet but it seemed to me that famine might not be far off.
The countryside around Dacca was hideously overcrowded,
and there appeared to be little food. The people lived in reed
huts built above the flood on mud platforms. In the humid
heat they sprawled listless and half-naked on their mud veran-
das, looking apathetically over the waters that had risen to
drown their rice.

I had introductions to a Moslem who worked in a foreign
embassy, and to a foreign missionary who had opened a library.
I called on the Moslem first.

He was a thin young man with a persecuted look, and he
spoke in a whisper that I could hardly hear. It soon became evi-
dent that my coming had thrown him into a panic. Once or
twice he got up, tiptoed to the door, and peered apprehensively
out into the stone corridor.

"Things are very bad," he said. "But it is better not to write
about it," he added.

I suggested that if he wanted privacy, we should close the
door.

"No: that might suggest I was telling you political secrets.
Did So-and-so get my last letter?" he asked, referring to our
mutual friend.

"He said he hadn't heard from you for about six weeks."

"Then he did not get my last letter. It must have been
opened. Oh dear, I wish I could remember exactly what I wrote
in it. I never keep copies, it is not advisable."

"Why should anyone object to what you wrote? Do they have
a political censorship in East Pakistan?"

"No, no, not a censorship, entirely. Sometimes though they
open one's letters. I have already been warned not to be sar-
castic about our politicians. Sometimes," he added dolefully,
"it is very difficult not to be sarcastic."

"What is the political situation?" I asked.

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MOSLEMS DIVIDED

"It is very complicated," he said vaguely. "The Moslem
League is finished, but the United Front that ousted it has
fallen to pieces. Now the Awami League is in power, but no
one knows how long it will last, for they are all quarreling
among themselves."

"Why is the Moslem League finished?"

He grinned. "Because their rapacity was intolerable even by
Pakistan standards." Then he put his hand over his mouth.
"Oh dear, I am being sarcastic again."

I went to visit the missionary. The library was not much, by
Pakistan or any other standards. It was housed in a small, half-
submerged building in a flooded back alley, near a swollen
creek. There were several shelves of books, and a reading-room
with nobody in it.

The missionary, who must have been a cheerful soul before
he came to Dacca but who now looked harried, led me into
what he called his den, behind the empty reading-room. He,
too, lowered his voice when he talked, but he had sufficient
spirit left to close his own door and let the suspicious-minded
draw whatever conclusions they chose.

"They are a difficult people," he confessed. When he first
opened the library the reading-room had been thronged with
eager young students. One young man in particular, who
seemed to be a student leader, had pored over the library books
and taken copious notes. Then one day the students abruptly
ceased coming.

"The next thing that happened," said the missionary, a little
bitterly, "was a threat to have the library closed down." The
diligent student had discovered a volume that contained a por-
trait of Mohammed the Koranic law forbids portrayal of the
Prophet and had reported the matter to the police.

"When the floods came, we tried to organize some of the
young men into help squads to build dykes. They agreed to
come along, but when they discovered they were expected to
dig, they all went away again. One of them explained: 'We

261

EAST PAKISTAN:

thought you wished us to survey the situation and write a report
for government. We are men of education, not ditch-fillers. 7 "

"What is the economic position of East Pakistan?" I asked.

"East Pakistan was never more than an agricultural back-
water of Calcutta. Now it is divorced from Calcutta's industries
and thrown enirely on its own resources, except for what it can
beg from West Pakistan. The population is rising and the value
of money is falling. There are almost no trained administrators,
for most of the trained people of the area were Hindus. At Par-
tition Dacca University lost 80 per cent of its lecturers; they
were all Hindus. But congestion of population is the worst
problem. In the Dacca district there are over 18,000,000 people:
twice as many as in the whole of Belgium."

I had arranged to dine with my Moslem friend and then go
on to a political meeting, followed by an appointment with a
mullah. I got in a taxi and splashed my way to the new apart-
ment house where the Moslem lived. It was a gray and undis-
tinguished building, and its foundations had already started to
sag. I climbed several flights of stone stairs and knocked on his
unpainted door: paint was as scarce in Dacca as everything else.
The front door opened directly on to a scullery and beyond the
scullery was squeezed a tiny living-room that also served as a
dining-room. My Moslem friend lived here with his wife, his
four children, and his mother-in-law.

The other guest was a lecturer at the university. He was an
excitable man, and he was bursting with grievances. We took
off our coats and ties because of the humid heat, and sat in our
shirtsleeves, drinking warm beer and smoking cigarettes. The
lecturer began to address me at the top of his voice.

"The University of Dacca was once the pride of Bengal, but
that was before the Moslem League vultures from the Punjab
descended upon us. When those Punjabi imperialists arrived
from Karachi, they seized everything for their own use. Most of
our buildings were turned into bureaucrats' offices. The Arts
Faculty was expelled in its entirety to what had formerly been

262

MOSLEMS DIVIDED

the servants' quarters. When the university authorities re-
quested building materials, the request was refused. They were
told that all building materials had been requisitioned to build
private mansions for top Punjabi officials."

"Hush!" said our host, alarmed. "Someone may hear you.
Please to remember you are in my apartment."

"I do not care who hears me," shouted the lecturer. "Let
them come. Let them arrest me. I am not afraid."

"But I shall lose my apartment. I managed to get it only be-
cause of my connection with the embassy. Also, I do not want
to lose my job."

"They cannot touch you. They need money from that gov-
ernment you work for."

"It is because I work for an embassy that they suspect me,"
said our host gloomily. He brightened up as his wife and
mother-in-law entered with plates. "Ah, here is our food."

We squeezed round the table. The wife and the mother-in-
law served us, but nobody paid the slightest attention to them.
The food was no sooner on the plates than our host began to
eat rapidly. The reason for his haste soon became apparent.
With the food came an enormous swarm of flies. They buzzed
round our heads in a thick cloud. Our host warded them off
with one hand, and quickly forked up his food with the other.
Some of the flies fell on the table and crawled feebly about.
They were green and bloated. I found I had little appetite.

The university lecturer ignored the flies. His attention was
concentrated on politics.

"The Punjabis have treated us Bengalis as if we were only
a colony of theirs," he shouted across the table at me. "They
came from Karachi and put up large official buildings. Every
Punjabi was a Minister, and every Minister had a Ministerial
secretary. But in no government office was the face of a Bengali
to be seen. All were fat smiling Punjabis. Not even in old Ben-
gal, under the Hindus, was there ever such corruption."

"That is why the Moslem League was overthrown," our host

263

EAST PAKISTAN:

explained to me, speaking through a busy mouthful of fried
chicken.

"The Moslem League was thrown out of office by the stu-
dents of the University," said the lecturer. "It was they who led
the fight. In the 1954 elections it was a student who defeated
the Moslem League Chief Minister. The new Government
led by Fazlul Huq sacked the Punjabi officials and replaced
them all with good Bengalis."

"All the same, the Bengalis should not have killed the paper-
mill manager," our host objected.

"It was the just vengeance of the people," said the lecturer.
"This paper-mill manager was a Punjabi, was he not?"

"They should not have killed so many Punjabis," insisted our
host.

"It was the Punjabis who opened fire on the people first. At
the jute mills at least a thousand innocent Bengalis were shot
down by Punjabi soldiers sent here by Karachi."

"If there had not been strikes and killings in the streets, Ka-
rachi would not have got its excuse to interfere in East Pakis-
tan's affairs."

"Those Punjabi imperialists would have intervened in any
case," said the lecturer. "They could not afford to lose East
Pakistan, which their army was holding down so that their offi-
cials could rob it."

"A state of emergency was declared," our host explained to
me, "and East Pakistan was placed under the rule of General
Iskander Mirza, who was sent from Karachi. Mirza sacked all
the Bengali politicians."

"What happened to them?" I asked.

"They all became traitors," shouted the lecturer. "When
General Mirza arrived at the airport, they fought one another
for the privilege of being the first to greet him. Some wept
and begged his forgiveness; others hung garlands round his
neck."

"They could not bear to be out of office once they had man-

264

MOSLEMS DIVIDED

aged to get into it," said our host. "They implored Mirza to
reinstate them. They needed the money."

"When General Mirza said he would consider giving them
back their jobs, one of them kissed his feet and cried: 'Good
days are in sight again!' " said the lecturer angrily.

"And what happened then?"

"General Mirza became President of Pakistan. He appointed
one of the deposed politicians Governor of East Pakistan, and
he allowed another to become Chief Minister."

"But these two men are bitter rivals. The Governor has se-
cretly sworn to undo the Chief Minister, and the Chief Minis-
ter secretly calls the Governor a traitor."

"Also, both really hate Mirza in their hearts. They would
very much like him to come to a bad finish."

"Many of Pakistan's leaders have come to a bad finish," said
our host: under the influence of several bottles of warm beer,
he was losing his caution and waxing sarcastic again. "One was
assassinated, one was imprisoned for treason, and one went
mad."

"Two went mad," corrected the lecturer loudly.

"In any case, most have been dismissed from office for cor-
ruption at one time or another."

"Unfortunately they are usually reinstated at the next turn
of fortune's wheel," the lecturer said.

"Pakistan's first ten years have been very tumultuous," said
our host.

After dinner we left the wife and the mother-in-law to wash
the dishes, and went to the political meeting. It was being held
in a small hall that during the day served as a schoolhouse, and
it was in full swing. There was not one speaker, but two. Both
had mounted chairs, and were talking at once. Each tried to
shout the other down, and sections of the crowd were simulta-
neously cheering the one and booing the other. The roof
leaked, and water had also seeped in under the door.

The lecturer shouted an explanation in my ear. "Both claim

265

EAST PAKISTAN:

to have been elected; each says the other tampered with the
votes. Both are leaders of the Awami League."

I recalled that the Chief Minister of East Pakistan, who was
also the chief leader of the Awami League, had recently de-
clared in a public speech that East Pakistan was "a sinking
ship." It seemed to me he might not be far wrong.

At this point all the lights went out. Considerable uproar en-
sued. The two rival groups in the hall shouted that their oppo-
nents had tampered with the lights as well as with the votes.
The door burst open and there was a sound of trampling boots
and also howls of anguish from those in the crowd who were
barefooted. The lights went on again to reveal that the hall was
now filled with helmeted policemen. One of the speakers pro-
tested; the other looked rather smug. But the meeting was
clearly over. We left as unobtrusively as possible.

I got in another taxi and again splashed my way downtown,
to keep my appointment with the mullah. A mullah is a Mos-
lem religious teacher, and in Pakistan the mullahs are politically
powerful. This one was particularly holy but was currently in
political disfavor. He had played a large role in the ousting of
the Moslem League and had consequently been accused by the
ruling clique in Karachi of being in the pay of both the Com-
munists and the Hindus. Compelled to flee, he had lent color
to those accusations by turning up in Delhi at the Communist-
staged peace conference, and also by attending a similar affair
in East Berlin. But now he was back in Pakistan, as large as life,
and apparently indestructible.

Most of Dacca's population seemed to live in back alleys that
were under water, and the mullah was no exception. I waded
along the alley and passed through a dark doorway. At the top
of some waterlogged wooden steps I was challenged by two
guards. They explained that the mullah was engaged in prayer
and asked me to wait. Presently they got bored and went down
the stairs and out of sight. I waited some time and nothing hap-
pened. Getting bored myself, I approached the door behind

266

MOSLEMS DIVIDED

which the mullah was supposed to be praying and took a quick
look through the keyhole. An old man with a gray beard, wear-
ing a skullcap and a fungi, which is a short white skirt resem-
bling the Indian dhoti, was seated cross-legged on a bed.
Drawn up before him was a table covered with dishes, and he
was eating heartily.

I knocked on the door and walked in. The mullah looked
up with no particular emotion and pushed aside the table,
belching slightly as he did so. He removed his skullcap, reveal-
ing a bald head, and motioned me to a chair.

I asked him if it were true, as his critics claimed, that he was
in sympathy with the Communists. The mullah smiled.

"I am close to the masses. That is why the politicians dislike
me. Many politicians have sought my help: all have turned
against me in the end But the masses never have. They know I
am on their side.

"First I am a Moslem. But second I am a Bengali. I spent
nineteen years in British jails. I may die in a Punjabi one. I
look to the masses to protect me "

"I don't understand this bitterness between Bengalis and
Punjabis in Pakistan," I said. "If you are all Moslems "

"It has a long history. Under the Raj, most of the Moslem
politicians were Bengalis. But Jinnah, the founder of Pakistan,
was a Punjabi. He centered political power in Karachi, and the
Punjabis treated Bengalis like dogs. But West Pakistan will
never be united. The Smdhis will fight the Pathans, both will
fight the Punjabis, and the Punjabi politicians will fight one an-
other. In the end, political control of Pakistan will fall to the
Bengalis. We are more numerous, and more intelligent. East
Pakistan is overcrowded, but West Pakistan is empty. It is the
Bengal's who will rule Pakistan."

A young man with a hooked nose came quickly into the
room and insisted on shaking hands with me.

"The mullah speaks no English," he said gravely. "I will in-
terpret."

267

EAST PAKISTAN

He spoke to the mullah in Bengali, then he turned to me.
"The mullah says that the present Pakistan politicians in both
the east and west are agents of American imperialism. The
downtrodden masses of Pakistan want only peace, and friend-
ship with the Soviet Union and Red China. They do not want
to be the pawns of the American imperialist game, which the
mullah has always fearlessly exposed and will continue to ex-
pose "

There was more in the same vein, but I was not listening. I
was watching the mullah, who was gravely stroking his beard,
and had a faraway look in his eyes. It was not entirely clear to
me whether the Communists were using the mullah, or the
mullah was using the Communists, but I thought I could make
a very good guess

268

XVII

WEST PAKISTAN: MOSLEMS UNITED?

In the Constitution of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan,
-women have been guaranteed equal rights with other citizens
of the State PAKISTAN GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL

i

FLEW from Dacca in East Pakistan to Karachi in West Paki-
stan, across 1,200 miles of Indian territory. The green rice-
paddies of Bengal were replaced by the stony hills of Bihar, the
plains of Uttar Pradesh, and the mountains of Rajasthan. Fi-
nally we flew over the desolate deserts of Smd, in a violent
duststorm.

We landed at two o'clock in the morning, at which hour any
international airport looks unfriendly. A hot wet wind, bitter
with salt, blew in over the sand dunes. The airport was being
extended, and we walked from the plane across an oil-spattered
concrete apron, where other machines were being serviced un-
der the glare of Cyclopean arc lights. Nobody wanted to have
much to do with us, everyone was tired and wished to go home

1 hired a taxi to take me into town, which proved to be a
mistake. The taxi had once been painted maroon, but the paint
had long since flaked off- it was the rustiest taxi I ever saw, and
it sounded rusty, too. The driver had a cloth wrapped round his
head in place of a cap, and I guessed his age to be about seven-
teen. He stowed my bags in his rusty trunk, and we set off.

Along the moonlit road from the airport new flat-roofed
buildings were going up: they looked like pallid submarine

269

WEST PAKISTAN:

turrets sprouting from the sand. They had not been there the
last time I was in Karachi, so that was a sign of progress. But I
had just come from East Pakistan, where another famine threat-
ened; and I knew that Pakistan was spending about 60 per cent
of its budget on arms, which the United States seemed fondly
to imagine were to defend the country against Russia, whereas
every Pakistani I ever talked to made no bones of his belief that
they were urgently needed for possible use against India. Mean-
while, however. Karachi was undoubtedly growing. In a com-
paratively few years it had transformed itself from a fishing
village into the capital of a brand-new country. It had a popu-
lation of about 2,000,000. Most of them unfortunately still had
nowhere to live.

These reflections were interrupted by the taxi jarring to an
abrupt halt, after a wild swerve that left it stranded in the mid-
dle of the road. The young taxi-driver said apologetically:
"Please wait," and jumped out. He opened the hood and be-
gan to poke experimentally into the car's silent innards. Then
he came round to my side, said "wait" again, held up two
fingers, and abruptly vanished into the night.

The two fingers presumably meant two minutes, and I as-
sumed he had gone to get help. Either the mechanical prob-
lem was beyond him, or else he had simply run out of gas,
which in Karachi happens frequently. I climbed out of the car
to smoke a cigarette. Standing there, it occurred to me that a
taxi apparently abandoned in the very center of the roadway
was a natural target for Karachi's numerous hit-and-run drivers
I twisted the steering-wheel and maneuvered the vehicle out of
the danger zone. Just in time. A truck, with one headlamp not
working and the other blinking like a feeble semaphore, hurtled
past with inches to spare.

The minutes ticked on. The taxi-driver did not return. Pres-
ently the air bus that I had been too impatient to wait for came
lumbering along. I hailed it, removed my bags from the taxi's
trunk, and climbed aboard.

270

MOSLEMS UNITED?

The hotel, like the airport, was being extended. It had been
built on the lines of a lamasery, with the simple object of hold-
ing as many people as possible. The numerous cell-like rooms
were ranged round a central courtyard, rising tier upon tier and
connected by long stone corridors. A lanky bellboy wearing the
ragged remnants of a uniform led me along corridor after corri-
dor: I began to feel like a Chinese Communist on the Long
March. Finally he creaked open a damp-swollen door, after
turning a rusty lock with a key attached by a piece of string to
an enormous slab of wood with the room's number crudely
painted on it, and ushered me into my cell.

"How long are you staying?" he inquired.

"Probably until Friday."

"Friday is my day off so I will take my baksheesh now,
please/*

I awoke to find Karachi paralyzed by a general strike. The
Lucknow incident of the dog Mahmud had continued to
smolder in Moslem hearts. Fresh flame had been struck from it
by the publication in India of a book (written, as it turned out,
by two Americans) which, the Moslems claimed, insulted the
Prophet. The Karachi strikers were being led round the city by
groups of university students, shouting "Death to Nehru." De-
lighted to reopen the dog incident, one of the city's leading
newspapers celebrated the occasion with an editorial, in which
it pointed out that, if Nehru were really sincere in his frequent
denials of hatred for Pakistan, he would have seen tp it that the
owner of the lost dog was sentenced to death the only possi-
ble penalty for behttlcrs of the Prophet instead of letting the
Hindu miscreant escape back to Nepal.

Apart from the demonstrators, the streets were almost de-
serted, except for women and some dung carts drawn by dis-
dainful camels. On top of one dung cart the driver lay peace-
fully asleep, with a cloth, tastefully embroidered with flowers,
drawn over his face. The women's faces were concealed, also,
for they all wore burqas. The burqa is a tentlike garment made

271

WEST PAKISTAN:

of coarse white cotton which drapes its unfortunate wearer
from head to foot. It lacks even eye-slits, having instead two
tiny, square, pin-size holes, which at first glance look merely
like a decorative flourish. Karachi's climate is both intensely hot
and intensely humid. The women who wear burqas must find
it almost impossible to breathe, and it is a fact that many such
women contract tuberculosis, chiefly from having to put on
this insanitary garment. Yet most of the women of Pakistan do
not dare appear in public in anything else, and the men shrug
their indifference, or hotly defend the custom.

I lunched with a pretty Pakistani girl who was fighting a spir-
ited war against the burqa and against other women's disabili-
ties. She was a small and fragile-seeming person with the breath-
less good looks of a Persian miniature But she was about as
gentle as a whip. She could not afford to be anything else. She
successfully ran a women's magazine, had two healthy children,
and kept her husband puzzled but devoted. Instead of a burqa
she wore make-up and a dress that would have caused heads to
turn in Pans, so snugly did it fit her small npc figure. But she
had very few friends, cither men or women.

"It's an uphill job," she said, accepting a cigarette and allow-
ing me to light it for her. "We shall win, of course, but 'the
price of liberty is eternal vigilance/ We have the vote but Pak-
istan has not had proper elections since the state was founded
ten years ago. Elections have been promised for 1958; but that
promise has been made before, and anyhow, we don't know
how the women will use their vote, if at all. The country is run
exclusively by men, and most of them are fanatical believers in
the burqa and all it symbolizes. Begum Liaqat Ah Khan, the
widow of our first Prime Minister who was assassinated is
Pakistan's Ambassador to the Netherlands: but that is only
window-dressing, to please the West and, particularly, the
Americans.

"At present, we're fighting polygamy. More and more of the
leading politicians, including the most Westernized ones, are
taking second wives." She laughed gaily. "We go to their meet-

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

ings and ask them embarrassing questions. They get furious.
Some of them have been shamed into divorcing their first wives,
but that's no improvement, of course. The wives have no proper
protection and are just cast off. We're not going to let them get
away with that."

Though a mere man, I wished her well in her struggle.

Later I called on a Moslem friend. I had known him a long
time, and I also had met his wife His name was Ahmad, and he
had been educated in Europe. He was deeply interested in poli-
tics, and had written a couple of books. His wife did not wear
a burqa; but she never accompanied her husband to parties,
and, even in their home, she usually kept strict purdah.

We discussed politics for a while, then I mentioned my visit
to the lady magazine-editor. He stiffened at the mention of her
name, and frowned.

"But surely you of all people don't object to what she is
doing'" I protested, I knew that his politics were if anything
left wing.

"It is not a subject that I as a Moslem can discuss with a for-
eigner," he said gravely.

"Come, Ahmad!" I laughed. "We've known each other too
long for you to try that one on me." A humorous thought
struck me. "All this jealous seclusion of women do you seri-
ously believe that if Mrs Ahmad and I were to be left alone to-
gether in the same room, sexual intercourse would take place?"

He looked me steadily in the eye. "Yes," he said, unsmiling.

There was nothing more to say We went back to talking pol-
itics. I never saw Mrs. Ahmad again.

Pakistan should never have been created. NEHRU

KARACHI'S ANTI-NEHRU strike ended. The students returned to
their classes. The hotel's long stone corridors rang noisily with

273

WEST PAKISTAN:

hammering, sawing, and chiseling. Concrete-mixers busily
churned, and on the way to the dimng-hall one picked one's
way past giant stone slabs and piles of timber. The lamasery
would soon be twice its present size.

I stepped out into the broiling street to find a maroon-
colored taxi waiting for me. The youthful driver greeted me
with enthusiasm. "Got plenty of gas now," he said. "No more
trouble." He had patiently tracked me down and composed
himself to lurk outside the hotel until I should emerge.

We drove to }innah's tomb. The streets were filled with light
vehicles, furiously driven. Men pedaling cycle-rickshaws were
triumphantly overtaken by men on motorcycle-rickshaws. The
ambition of every owner of a pedalcycle-nckshaw is to save up
enough money to acquire a motorcycle-rickshaw; and every
driver of a motorcycle-rickshaw dreams of one day owning a
taxi, even a rusty one. In the backs of the rickshaws the passen-
gers sat under flapping canvas canopies, enjoying the breeze
created by their own swift progress. This is the only way to keep
cool in Karachi.

On every side new buildings were going up, encased in long
twisted bamboo poles for scaffolding. The sidewalks were
crowded with men in pajamas and women in burqas. Most of
the shops looked dilapidated, and there was a great frequency
of clinics, displaying giant signs which proclaimed: "Urine and
Stools Examined Here." People milled outside the Cotton Ex-
change, Karachi's largest building.

Mohammad Ah Jmnah, the creator of Pakistan, was a frail
man with a consumptive's face and demoniac energy. He made
a large fortune at the Bombay Bar, and he wore a monocle on a
black silk cord He was born in Karachi in very humble circum-
stances, and he did not return to his birthplace until it had be-
come the capital of the new state. He died m Karachi of lung
disease not long after. His tomb in the center of the city is a
grandiose affair of marble. Near by is the tomb of Liaqat AH
Khan, Pakistan's first Prime Minister. Liaqat Ah Khan, like

274

MOSLEMS UNITED?

Gandhi, was assassinated. His assassin shot him dead at a politi-
cal meeting; and a policeman who was supposed to be guarding
the Prime Minister then shot the assassin. There were many
rumors that the assassination had been planned by political
rivals within the Moslem League. Years after her husband's
death Begum Liaqat Ah Khan was still so dissatisfied with the
investigation of the crime that she hired a Scotland Yard detec-
tive to reopen the inquiry. His findings were inconclusive, and
the affair still remains a mystery. Pakistan has been in a state
of political turmoil ever since.

Jinnah never expected to sec Pakistan created in his own life-
time. Only a few years before the historic decision to partition
India the majority of Moslems were still supporting the Con-
gress Party, not Jinnah's Moslem League. Jinnah never at-
tracted the masses as Gandhi and Nehru did: his black-rimmed
monocle, his long black cigarette-holder, and his aristocratic
manners were powerful barriers between him and them. The
brand-new state had to be built up hurriedly on very shaky
foundations. I took off my shoes and paid my respects to the
cold marble, then looked around The tombs of Jinnah and
Liaqat Ah Khan were ornate oases in a human desert of thou-
sands of refugee squatters' shacks.

I drove to the office of a government official. He was a Chris-
tian, but he had been in government service a long time, and
his ability had kept him his job, for Pakistan woefully lacked
trained administrators. He was a big, burly man, and he greeted
me cheerfully and called for coffee.

"At last we have a Constitution," he said. "It took eight
years to write it. Of course, it's an Islamic one. It makes me a
second-class citizen of a third-class state." He laughed heartily
at his own wry joke.

The birth of the Constitution had been a Caesarian affair.
After the deaths of Jinnah and Liaqat Ah Khan, power in Paki-
stan passed into the capable hands of Ghulam Mohammad,
the Governor-General. But Ghulam Mohammad was a Punjabi

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WEST PAKISTAN:

and the Prime Minister Mohammad Ali was a Bengali. The old
dispute between Punjabis and Bengalis flared up and was com-
plicated by disputes between Punjabis and Sindhis. After a tor-
tuous period of in-fighting, all within the Moslem League, the
Constituent Assembly tried to clip the Governor-General's
wings by passing laws without his assent. Ghulam, who was up-
held by the courts and backed by the army and General Iskan-
der Mirza, thereupon declared a state of emergency and dis-
solved the Constituent Assembly.

Ghulam's triumph was shortlived, for he was stricken by pa-
ralysis and sank into a coma. But before he died, he appointed
General Mirza in his place. Mirza, who had ruled East Pakistan
with a firm hand after government broke down there, pro-
ceeded to put an end to faction fighting in West Pakistan by
merging the Punjab, Sind, Baluchistan, the North-West Fron-
tier, and a number of other areas into a single province. He also
had himself proclaimed President, and the Moslem League
changed its name to the Republican Party. Mirza had to find a
new Prime Minister, and he chose another Bengali, Hussein
Shaheed Suhrawardy.

"And now what will happen?" I asked.

My friend the official shrugged.

"We can only hope. We are creating industries as fast as we
can, but our industrialists expect to get their capital back in
five years. Profits are enormous, and wages are very low. We
should be trading more with India, but the quarrel over Kash-
mir stands in the way. We have imported sugar from Brazil,
coal from South Africa, and cotton cloth from Shanghai,
though we could have got all those from India, much cheaper.
Eighty per cent of our income still comes from cotton. The
main issue is land reform, but our politicians will not face up
to it, for they themselves are big landlords. We are adding
1,000,000 a year to our population by natural increase, but food
shortages are becoming what Suhrawardy calls 'recurring fea-
tures/ Experts have warned us that at the rate we are using up

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

the soil, the valley of the Indus will be a desert in less than 50
years. But we need more water, and we are still mired in a dis-
pute with India over the use of the canals that the British
built."

"Yet you don't seem to despair," I smiled.

He threw out a big hand to indicate his office. It was a bare
enough room, containing only two desks, a couple of tele-
phones and typewriters, and some straight-backed wooden
chairs.

"After Partition there were no desks, no telephones, no type-
writers; there were not even chairs. We started absolutely from
scratch and had to build up from nothing at all. We are not
doing so badly."

I told the taxi-driver to take me to the Assembly building, but
on the way I stopped at the Central Telegraph Office. I wrote
my telegram standing up at a tall counter, for there were no
chairs or benches; underneath the counter, a goat grazed peace-
ably on wastepapcr from a black-painted iron trashcan. From
the bare and peeling yellow wall a very bad portrait of Jinnah
glared down at me: he was wearing a black fur hat and his thin
lips seemed to curl with contempt. The founder of Pakistan
had been a very arrogant man; probably he had needed to be.

The Assembly building was a domed white structure set un-
compromisingly in the middle of a glaring stone quadrangle.
Buzzards circled slowly in the blue sky above it, and a green
flag with a white crescent hung limply from a flagpole. A pro-
cession carrying banners inscribed "Liberate Kashmir" strag-
gled round the building, and the entrance was guarded by
soldiers carrying rifles, and also by plain-clothes men, wearing
astrakhan hats.

After all this the legislative chamber seemed disappointingly
small and ordinary. The politicians sat on benches, under rap-
idly whirling ceiling-fans; when one of them rose to speak, he
obligingly waited, smirking, until the newspaper photographers
had got their floodlights trained on him before launching into

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WEST PAKISTAN

oratory. I amused myself by counting those who had been sit-
ting there off and on through one constitutional crisis after an-
other, compelled to vacate their places from time to time to face
charges of corruption and abuse of office, but always somehow
managing to bob into prominence again: it came to a goodly
total.

But a comparatively new face in that chamber was Hussein
Shaheed Suhrawardy, the Prime Minister. He was a small
plump man who looked as if he had been carved out of dark
butter. He had had a remarkable career. Before Partition he was
Prime Minister of Bengal, and contrived to be both secretary of
the Moslem League and a close friend of Mahatma Gandhi.
When India was politically divided into two separate countries,
he found himself in the astonishing position of being both a
citizen of independent India and a duly elected member of the
Pakistan Constituent Assembly. He had had plenty of ups and
downs since then.

Suhrawardy, like Jinnah, was a lawyer, but, unlike Jmnah, he
had rich parents His father was a wealthy Calcutta mill-owner
who sent him to study at Oxford University In spite of this
background, Suhrawardy proceeded after Partition to turn him-
self into a champion of the East Pakistan masses, and ha-
rangued crowds in the ncepaddies, going about unshaven and
wearing a lungi. He helped oust the Moslem League from
power in East Pakistan, but was involved in the debacle that
followed, and prudently retired for a time to Switzerland.

The last time I had seen him had been at his big gloomy
house in Clifton, a Karachi suburb where only the very rich
live. The house was a jumble of )unk and genuine art treasures,
and I got the impression that Suhrawardy was a man with a
split personality. He was steeped in politics, and yet at the same
time he loved to climb into a dress suit and go the round of
Karachi's nightclubs, for he boasted that at sixty-four he could
still rumba until dawn.

I was ushered into a vast cluttered bedroom which among

278

MOSLEMS UNITED?

numerous other objects contained two beds. Only one of them
was used as a bed, for Suhrawardy was a widower. The other
bed he used as a sort of impromptu desk, heaping it with books,
papers, writing-pads, parliamentary reports, and two telephones,
both of which constantly rang. Mr Suhrawardy was still in his
nightshirt, and was in the middle of shaving But he evidently
regarded this as of no importance, and it was not for me to de-
mur, lie immediately launched into a long denunciation of
other Pakistan politicians, delivered in a deep, impressive voice,
and with gestures recalling Charles Laughton in the role of
Captain Bhgh His especial bete noire was General Iskander
Mirza, whose ancestry he described in picturesque detail. He
became so heated that he sliced his finger with the razor he was
still wielding.

A sen ant sprang to his side, but Suhrawardy waved him off.
Half his dark face still covered with white lather, he marched
up and down the room, declaiming

"Mirza is an unscrupulous schemer'" he cried. He wheeled
round and ^hook his bleeding finger at me, and drops of blood
spattered all over me, and over the bed that held the piles of
books and papers and the two ringing telephones.

From that interview I went to call on General Mirza. He re-
ceived me jovially in his large house in the center of Karachi.
We sat on a cool stoop overlooking dew\ green lawns, and the
general offered me a Turkish cigarette from a large silver box,
and mixed me a scotch and soda. He mixed one for himself,
also, and lit himself a big cigar. Moslems are not supposed to
drink hard liquor, but Mirza was no ordinary Moslem.

He was a very broad-shouldered man, with a wide brown
face, black eyebrows, and the brooding e\cs of a perplexed but
good-humored bloodhound lie had had a distinguished career
as a soldier, fighting for the British on the Khjbcr Pass, and
had received the O.B.E. for keeping order among the warring
tribesmen. He understood soldiering and he had no quarrel
with the tribesmen, whom he regarded with British-inculcated

279

WEST PAKISTAN:

good-natured contempt as natives: what puzzled him were the
Pakistan politicians.

"I have no time for politicians and mullahs," he said frankly.
"The politicians are corrupt intriguers and the mullahs are all
mad. My job is to keep order . . . People talk to me about
democracy. What do the peasants know about government?
They would give all power to the politicians, who are rascals
doing their best to ruin the country. Only the army and I stand
between the masses and the politicians who would destroy them
as wolves destroy sheep. I call this 'controlled democracy. 7 "

I said there were rumors that Suhrawardy hoped to become
Prime Minister.

"He will become Prime Minister only over my dead body!"
roared the general.

Only a few months later, however, General Mirza became
the President of Pakistan, and accepted Suhrawardy as his
Prime Minister, garlanding him with roses and jasmine. As I
did not believe the general was an unscrupulous schemer, but
thought of him as an able soldier in a political fix, I concluded
that the choice had been forced upon him, and that no love
was lost between President and Prime Minister despite the
roses and jasmine. Politics in Pakistan were merely pursuing
their normal course.

By summarily merging the different areas of West Pakistan
into one united province, Mirza had at least halted the local
rivalries that were threatening to ruin the country. But he had
not solved Pakistan's two major political problems: the bitter-
ness between West Pakistan and East Pakistan, and Pakistan's
quarrel with India over Kashmir. The Bengalis of East Pakistan
believed that they were being treated as a colony of the faraway
Punjab. The truth was that there were simply not enough funds
available for the proper development of either West or East,
and that in both areas the peasants groaned under a tyrannical
landlord system. But, simply by moving to Karachi as Prime
Minister of all Pakistan, Suhrawardy had largely lost the con-

280

MOSLEMS UNITED?

fidence of the Bengali peasants, who believed he had sold him-
self to the Punjabis.

Mirza had told me he would like to finish the dispute over
Kashmir and become friends with India. Suhrawardy said much
the same thing. I believed them both. A poor and divided coun-
try is unlikely to plan to go to war with a neighbor that has five
times its population, especially when its two unequal halves are
separated from each other by that neighbor's vast bulk. Never-
theless, Pakistan was spending 57 per cent of its budget on
arms, and India was spending 40 per cent of its budget for the
same purpose; and fear of each other was the primary motive in
both cases. There was only one practicable solution of the
Kashmir problem, and that was to accept the cease-fire line as a
borderline between India and Pakistan. But no Pakistani
leader, not even Mirza and certainly not Suhrawardy, was likely
to risk assassination by publicly discussing such a solution. The
Moslem fanaticism that had created Pakistan in the first place,
and of which Jinnah had been the fiery-eyed, chilly-faced em-
bodiment, was rooted in a hatred of Hindus; and that hatred
had become concentrated on the Kashmir issue.

I found out how strong this feeling was when I climbed into
my maroon taxi and drove from the Assembly, with its white-
crescented green flag, to the home of a Moslem religious leader.
He was the man who had inspired the absurd editorial demand-
ing the death sentence for the Nepalese dog-owner, and who
had organized the students that had led the mobs crying
"Death to Nehru." And he was a very different kettle of fish
from the mullah in Dacca who flirted with Communists and
wanted to free the peasants.

The house was silent and tightly shuttered. A soft-footed
servant led me into a darkened room, and presently brought me
a very small cup of exquisite coffee. From the outside the house
had looked forbidding, but the interior was austerely but taste-
fully furnished with soft low couches and very fine carpets. The
man who came in saluted me gravely. He had a long thin beard

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WEST PAKISTAN:

and a pair of very intense dark eyes. We sipped our coffee and
regarded each other in thoughtful silence.

I began to ask him some political questions, but he put them
aside with a motion of one fine hand.

"Politics and politicians! My concern is with higher matters.
The people do not read the Koran and think only of their bel-
lies. First they must regain their souls. Pakistan was created to be
an instrument of the divine will. It must be tempered and be-
come a sword. Among unbelievers our deadliest enemy is the
Hindu, who tirelessly seeks our destruction. Our fathers knew
this well: they knew how to treat Hindus. Sooner or later there
must be a jehad a holy war against the Hindus who slaugh-
tered our men and debauched our women. If the people of the
plains fail us, we shall turn to the people of the hills, as we did
nine years ago in the war for Kashmir. It is from the hills that
our salvation has always come, for there the fire of Islam still
burns/'

I looked into his glowing eyes and realized he was utterly
sincere. Pandit Appasamy in Benares had been sincere, too,
after his fashion. There was no arguing with such views, and I
did not attempt it. Both Pakistan and India were queer com-
pounds of fanatical religious zeal and political corruption, ec-
static bloody-mmdedness and outrageous self-seeking. Whether
they could coexist for long on the same continent was any-
body's guess.

A very advantageous, useful, humane piece of rascality. SIR
CHARLES NAPIER ON THE CONQUEST OF SIND

THREE COLORADOS could be squeezed into West Pakistan; but
over a third of the area consists of the mountainous wastes of
Baluchistan, which is the size of Montana and where only

282

MOSLEMS UNITED?

about a million or so of West Pakistan's 34,000,000 people live.
Two thirds of the population are in the Pakistan Punjab, and
most of the remainder are sparsely scattered throughout Sind
and the North- West Frontier. The political life of the federal
capital of Karachi is dominated by Punjabis, though Karachi is
really a part of Sind.

I traveled by rail from Karachi to Hyderabad, the capital of
Sind. Hyderabad in Sind is where they make the embroidered
saddles for the riding camels, and is not to be confused with
Hyderabad in India. My traveling companion was a professor
of English literature, a gentle-eyed man with a lost look, and
from him conversation flowed as from a tap. He put down his
book when I entered the compartment and plunged eagerly
into a literary discussion that lasted us the entire journey.

"Kipling says fact is fact and fiction is fiction, and never the
twain shall meet But I ask myself if this is really so. Does not
every author mix the two? Take Somerset Maugham!"

He held up the book he was reading: it was an early novel,
Liza of Lambeth no doubt an admirable if startling antidote
to the tedium of tram travel in a desert not many miles from
the borders of Persia and Afghanistan.

"Somerset Maugham says: Tact and fiction are so inter-
mingled in my work I can now hardly distinguish the one from
the other when I look back/ And it is so. In this story, for in-
stance, he confesses he uses material that he gathered from at-
tending to sixty-three confinement cases in three weeks at St.
Thomas Hospital, London!"

The professor laughed gently: he was thoroughly enjoying
himself.

"And this mixing of fact and fiction that is also what luna-
tics do." He rolled his eyes comically. "Hence, Shakespeare put
poets and lunatics in the same category.

"But now, what does Huxley say? Huxley was, after all, a
scientist. Huxley says: 'Logical consequences are the scarecrows
of fools and the beacons of wise men/ And then there is Hum-

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WEST PAKISTAN:

bolclt. Ilumboldt has written: 'Every understanding is a mis-
understanding ' "

lie beamed at me. "Arc mental processes factual 7 Do they
travel in the same direction as facts? On those questions,
science is silent. But Montesquieu is not. For Montesquieu
says 'Observations arc the facts of science, and theories are its
fairy tales *

"Now let us turn to modern psychology No more fairy tales,
please' cries the modern psychologist. Only facts! But then psy-
chology begins itself to use fictions as facts. Dreams' Night-
mares' A gorgeous palace built only on fanciful fictions!

"Let us see then what Aristotle sa\s Tins brainy chap dubs
science: 'outcome of minimum of experience satisfied for maxi-
mum of inference/ It is so 'Orderly universe* is a concept that
no serious intellectual now subscribes to. Ptolemy believed that
the sun revolved around the earth Fact then fiction now' Our
conclusion is, society takes pride of place in its own fickleness."

I confess that, after the politicians, I found the professor re-
freshing. Following my comcrsation with the Moslem zealot,
I needed reassuring that India had only recently been torn in
two and that despite this political change Indians and Paki-
stanis were fundamentally the same* sort of people who had
long lived under the same government, even though it was an
alien one that both resented. The professor furnished me with
just the reassurance I needed. He and Mr Kaviraj Lai might
have been brothers

But in Hyderabad, a hot little town without beauty, I was
back in politics once more.

Kverjone was still talking about the martyrdom of Mir
Chul am Ah Talpur, an aged aristocrat who had been Speaker
of the Smd Assembly The Mir had been bold enough to chal-
lenge the power of the political boss of Smd, Khan Bahadur
Mohammad Ayub Khuhro, and retribution had swiftly fol-
lowed.

In an attempt (which inevitably failed) to deal with local
political bosses, the Karachi Government had passed a whop-

284

MOSLEMS UNITED?

ping piece of legislation called the Public and Representative
Offices Disqualification Act, or PRODA for short. The measure
threatened to deprive Mr. Khuhro of his power, and embold-
ened the Mir to organize a parliamentary revolt against the
Khuhro regime Mr. Khuhro was due to be removed from office
anyway, but the Mir was in a hurry, and with good reason. The
landowners of Sind, of whom the Mir was a leading represent-
ative, were $12,000,000 in arrears with their tax payments the
total revenue of Sind was $18,000,000 and Mr Khuhro had
suddenly announced that if they did not pay up, he would have
them all arrested.

An obvious countcrmove might have been for the rebels to
ask Mr. Khuhro pointedly if he had paid his own taxes he
owned 25,000 acres of land But the landowners preferred not
to draw too much attention to the tax issue. Instead, they
planned to get up in the Assembly during the budget debate,
refuse to vote the budget, and so hasten Mr Khuhro's depar-
ture from office

It did not quite work out that \\a\, for when the members of
the Asscmblv \\ho were pnv\ to the plot turned up on budget
day, they found the legislative chamber surrounded by Mr.
Khuhro's policemen Mr Khuhro opened the proceedings by
announcing that the chief plotters, including the Mir, had all
been arrested the previous night on a charge of planning to as-
sassinate him and his entire Cabinet Mr Khuhro then blandly
called on the members of the Assembly not yet under arrest to
demonstrate their lo\alty to Pakistan and to himself, first by
voting for a new Speaker to replace the fallen Mir, and second
by passing the budget. The legislators did both, vuthout a mur-
mur

The Mir turned up a few days later, safe and sound, for Mr.
Khuhro was not a vindictive man lie had a hair-raising story
to tell, which he gasped out to hastily summoned newspaper re-
porters between long rests ordered by his doctors.

According to the Mir, he had been seized the night before
the budget debate and hustled off to a mosquito-infested bun-

285

WEST PAKISTAN:

galow. "I was refused medicines/' quavered the Mir patheti-
cally, "and policemen went with me when I wished to perform
even the necessities of life/*

Next, he was driven through the desert in a jolting jeep to
another and more remote place of confinement. "I was given
no water to wash with, and had no food," cried the Mir, but
rather spoilt it by adding, peevishly, that the food was "full of
sand." When the budget debate was safely over, the Mir was
brought back to Hyderabad, and released. Nothing more was
heard of the great murder plot. When I asked Mr. Khuhro
about it in Karachi, he blandly waved the question aside.

The Indus river saves Sind from being entirely desert. The
British began the building of the famous Sukkur Barrage,
which when finally completed will irrigate 5,500,000 acres
more than the present cultivated area of Egypt. Smd was con-
quered by the British in 1842 by Sir Charles Napier. Until then
it had been ruled by three Moslem robber barons, who levied
piratical toll on the Indus river traffic and called themselves the
Mirs of Sind.

Napier was a British eccentric. He was sixty years old when
he marched his Bombay army into Smd. Dickens's Oliver
Twist had just been published, and Napier's soldiers called him
Old Fagin. He wore a huge helmet of his own design, a large
pair of spectacles decorated his huge nose, and he grew his
whiskers down to his waist. Hindus as well as Moslems pro-
tested against Napier's military action, for he proposed to pro-
hibit some of their most cherished customs. Napier cheerfully
told the protesting Brahmins: "You say suttee is your custom.
Well, we too have a custom, which is to hang men who burn
women alive. Build your funeral pyre, and I will build a gallows
beside it, and let each act according to his own custom."

The British had no shadow of justification for annexing
Sind, which gave them the port of Karachi and control of the
Indus. But Napier's comment was characteristic. "We have
done what is best for the good government of the population,"
he said. "We refused to sacrifice that in an endeavor hopeless,

286

MOSLEMS UNITED?

I might add to give those drunken, debauched, tyrannical,
cheating, intriguing, contemptible Mirs a due portion of the
plunder they had amassed from the ruined people. There was
bound to be hardship on someone. It has fallen on the Mirs.
And it could hardly alight on a crew more deserving to bear it."

Which would have been fine, a Hyderabad friend said
sharply, if the British had really followed through. "But they
didn't. They left the land system exactly as it had been before.
Now in addition to Mirs we have political bosses who have no
lineage but own most land. In Smd we grow cotton, rice, and
wheat, but the land is held by a few wealthy men with enor-
mous estates, and the masses of the people are mere sharecrop-
pers/'

We were passing a building whose entrance bore the sign:
"Health Inspector/' Outside it an old man wearing a black fur
cap and a tattered khaki tunic sat in the dust, picking dirt from
between his toes.

"There you have a typical Pakistani," said my friend. "He is
dirty, he is ignorant, he is diseased. Most Westerners see only
Karachi, with its big international airport and its busy streets.
The Americans are impressed by our rate of industrial growth.
'A 154 per cent increase in only four years!' they exclaim. 'Paki-
stan is doing better than India/ But India has made at least a
start with land reform. We have done nothing, and our great
industrialization program will only replace what was lost
through the Partition. We are building cement factories; but
can the peasants eat cement?"

The Punjab is the heart of Pakistan. JINNAH

I FLEW to the ancient city of Lahore, with its thirteen gates, in
a Pakistani plane that was modern enough for the passengers

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WEST PAKISTAN:

to be permitted to smoke. On the plane I met a Punjabi, and
began to understand why the Punjabis dominated West Paki-
stan and why the Bengalis of East Pakistan disliked them so
much.

He was a powerfully built man, with arrogant nostrils and
heavy-lidded eyes. He lit a cigarette, and examined me curi-
ously.

"You are traveling in our country? You have been to many
places?"

I said I had come from Karachi, and before that had been in
Dacca.

"Ah, those Bengalis of East Pakistan!" he said, with con-
tempt. "They are not people one should bother oneself with.
They call themselves Moslems, but it is only skin-deep. Actually
most of them are low-caste Hindus who embraced Islam at the
point of the sword. Now they would like to go back to India
and Hinduism, if they could. They can talk about nothing but
'Calcutta, Calcutta, Calcutta/ They are born twisters and in-
triguers, every one of them. If it were not for its jute, we would
be well rid of East Pakistan, I tell you."

He laughed. "Losing the jute would be a small price to pay
to free ourselves of the Bengalis, with their limp handshakes
and false smiles. Punjabis and Bengalis have nothing in com-
mon. We eat wheat, they eat rice; we speak Urdu, they speak
Bengali."

East Pakistan had been a mistake, he thought. "The Mos-
lems should have demanded the whole of the Punjab, including
the five rivers. To get it, we could have made common cause
with all the hill people, who have always been true Moslems.
India would have been dependent on us for its water, and
would not have dared to seize Kashmir. Instead of this, we
have East Pakistan, which we have to subsidize and which is
full of Hindus; and Nehru is left in control of the canals system
and can blackmail us by threatening to dry up our fields."

He hated the Sikhs and the Hindus. "The Sikhs are butchers.

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When they ruled in Lahore, they persecuted the Moslems far
more than they did the Hindus, though they claim that their
religion is closer to ours. At the time of the Partition it was the
Sikhs who turned the Moslems out of the Punjab, which is
rightfully ours. There was a great killing of Moslems, and the
Sikhs did the killing. The Hindus, who have no stomach for
fighting, waited until the Sikhs had done their dirty work for
them, then preyed on helpless Moslem women. Thousands of
our women were abducted into India by Hindus. It is a wrong
that has still to be righted, and in God's good time it will be,"
he said fiercely.

We parted when the plane came down at Lahore, but we
were to meet again, in peculiar circumstances.

The undivided Punjab was the size of Nevada. At the Parti-
tion it was split between Pakistan and India, with Pakistan
getting two thirds of it. The division may or may not have
suited some politicians, but it created an enormous problem
for the irrigation engineers of both countries. Until 1917 the
whole of the Punjab suffered from alternate floods and
droughts. A British official wrote: "Half the country is burned
up by the sun, and the other half drowned by the rivers, while
the whole is waterlogged with debt." But in 1905 the British
had begun to harness the rivers by a vast and intricate system
of canals, and when the system was completed, the Punjab be-
came an immense food factory, the granary of British India.
The political solution of partition cut right across the canals
system. Unable to get enough water from the three western
rivers, the Indus, Jhelum, and the Chenab, Pakistan had to
draw from the three eastern rivers, the Sutlej, the Beas, and the
Ravi. In the state of tension between the two countries, this
led to perpetual disputes, with the Pakistanis claiming that In-
dia was deliberately restricting the flow of water in order to
blackmail Pakistan into abandoning her claim to Kashmir.

I arrived in Lahore to find that this charge was now being
hurtled at India in reverse. The Ravi had flooded the city, and

WEST PAKISTAN:

the Pakistani radio was in full blast, accusing India of trying to
drown out the capital of the Punjab and West Pakistan.

A smiling Ashiq met me at the airport. Mohammad Ashiq
and I were old acquaintances. He was a Moslem who had been
forced to leave Delhi at the time of the Partition, but since
then he had been back several times. His Hindu friends always
received him warmly, for Ashiq was a man who bore no
grudges. If there had been more Ashiqs in both camps, India
would not have had to be divided.

"Do you mind if we drive past the railroad station?" he asked
anxiously. "I have to meet a man who is coming by rail from
Delhi. He is a Hindu." Ashiq laughed. "He and I are in the
same boat. He used to live here in Lahore, but he had to flee to
Delhi during the trouble, and he has been there ever since."

"I thought the Pakistan Government objected to Hindus
visiting Pakistan: especially Hindus who once had their homes
here."

"Ah, but these Hindus are coming to watch the cricket," said
Ashiq seriously. "For that reason they have been given special
permits. My friend seized the opportunity, though he is not a
cricket fan."

We drove to the railroad station. It did not seem to me that
there was much likelihood of cricket. The floodwaters had re-
ceded, but had left much damage in their wake. Lahore looked
muddy and battered. "There were many drownings," said
Ashiq, shaking his head. "I'm afraid the people are very mad
with India." He brightened up. "But the Hindus who have
come all the way to watch the cricket will be all right. Cricket
is different."

A large crowd had gathered at the station. They were obvi-
ously on hand to meet the trainload of Hindus from Delhi, and
despite Ashiq's assurance I felt rather apprehensive. I had no
wish to see a massacre of Hindus by Moslem victims of the re-
cent flood. I need not have worried. When the train pulled in
and the passengers began to alight, the crowd surged forward,

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

but only in order to shake hands. "They are all cricket fans/'
said Ashiq. "Even during the trouble, cricket continued. The
Indian cricket team is very popular in Pakistan."

"Ah!" he cried, "there is my friend," and started shaking
hands with a small, middle-aged bearded man. Ashiq's friend
Dr. Gopal wore a blue-and-white striped blazer and white trou-
sers, like all the other cricketing tourists. But in his case this was
purely for camouflage. As soon as we could, we slipped un-
obtrusively away from those who had come to Pakistan to
watch and play cricket, and got into Ashiq's car.

As we drove through flood-damaged Lahore, Dr. Gopal
looked about him with much interest. "I have not been here
for over nine years," he told me. "I was born and brought up
here." He shook his head regretfully. "It has changed a great
deal a very great deal." He turned to Ashiq. "My dear fellow,
the city has not improved. It looks very run-down. Lahore was
formerly the pearl of the Punjab. What has happened to it?"

"But it is the flood," Ashiq cried. "Have you in Delhi not
heard about the flood? The Ravi came down in force, sweep-
ing everything before it. There was no time to take precautions,
for we received no warning. The Indian side could have told us
to be prepared, but they did not bother. Many people were
drowned. I think the Indian side was very mean about the
whole affair."

"That is not the story we heard when we passed through
Amntsar," said Dr. Gopal. "There they told us that repeated
warnings were given, but that your authorities refused to heed
them. Your people thought it was just an Indian trick to fool
them, so they did nothing."

"Ah, then we shall never know the truth of the matter,"
said Ashiq. "Probably both sides blundered."

Ashiq lived near the Mori Gate on the top floor of a tall,
narrow-chested building crammed with tenants and surrounded
by open-air booths selling everything from new bicycles to
second-hand clothes. We climbed a steep narrow wooden stair-

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case, pausing for breath on each landing. Ashiq's wife served us
coffee and told us briskly that lunch would soon be ready. She
was a pleasant-faced young woman and I was glad to see that
she did not wear a burqa. Ashiq petted his two pretty daughters
one was six and the other eight while we drank our coffee.
All the windows were open, and from the crowded quarter be-
low there came the constant thunder of passing trucks and the
hooting of bicycle-rickshaws. "One gets used to it," said Ashiq
philosophically.

Dr. Gopal excused himself to wash his hands. "Through that
door and to the right," said Ashiq carelessly. The doctor
walked through the doorway, and a few seconds later there was
a piercing female scream. Mrs. Ashiq dashed out of the kitchen;
Dr. Gopal came dashing back into the room. He looked shaken.

"I am sorry," he said. "I must have taken the wrong turning.
There was a woman seated with her back to me, and when she
saw me in a mirror she started screaming."

"It is my fault," said Ashiq remorsefully. "I should have
warned you. It is my aunt. She is in strict purdah."

Presently we sat down to lunch, without the aunt.

Dr. Gopal told us how he and his wife had fled from Lahore
when the Partition killings began.

"I could not believe that anything would happen to us," he
said. "Everyone knew us. We had scores of friends. Half our
neighbors were Moslems, the others were Hindus. We all got
on well together. I had lived in the same part of town for many
years, and most of the people around us, both Moslems and
Hindus, were patients of mine. Hardly any of us bothered much
about politics."

When tensions began to rise, Mrs. Gopal proposed that they
should leave the Punjab, as other Hindus were doing. The doc-
tor scoffed at the notion. Mrs. Gopal insisted on sending
their three children to relatives in Delhi. "Such nonsense!" the
doctor had snorted, but he had grudgingly consented.

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

Some Moslem friends came in secret and urged the couple to
quit Lahore. Dr. Gopal was shaken, but this only made him
more stubborn. "Let them come and kill me, then," he said.
"You are a fool/' said his more practical wife. "At least let us
draw our money from the bank and keep it in the house, in
case we do have to leave suddenly," she added. Dr. Gopal
brusquely rejected this advice.

Then the killing started. There were wild rumors of people
being shot and stabbed in the streets, and of houses being
burned down with people still in them. They could hear shoot-
ing, at first faint and sporadic, then drawing gradually nearer.
Mobs were going through the district, systematically breaking
into houses and killing all Hindus and Sikhs. It was impossible
to go out except after dark, and even then it was extremely
risky.

"I wanted to die," said Dr. Gopal simply. "Life had become
too horrible. The people who were being killed were my
friends, and those who were killing them had also been my
friends. I decided that, if they really wished me dead, I was
ready."

But Mrs. Gopal was made of sterner stuff. What would be-
come of their children, she asked, if they allowed themselves to
be slaughtered? There was still time to escape, she urged, if
they abandoned everything and left immediately. It might be
only one chance in a thousand, but it was worth taking.

Dr. Gopal smiled reminiscently, and stroked his beard. There
was a twinkle in his eye.

"I said it was too late, for we had no money. I admitted it
was my fault, for if I had taken her advice earlier and drawn
out all our money from the bank, we might have got away. But
now all the banks were closed down.

" Tool!' she said. 'Do you think I sat with folded hands
while you kept on saying there was nothing to fear? No. I drew
the money from the bank.' And from under our bed she pulled

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out a tin box that was crammed with rupees. 'I also have my
jewelry/ she said. 'What we cannot take, we shall hide. But the
jewels may help us buy our way across the frontier/

"And that is just what we did," said Dr. Gopal. "We left at
once in my car. We did not get very far in the car, of course:
the mobs were stopping all cars, looking for Hindus or Sikhs.
But we abandoned the car, and continued on foot. It took us
three days and nights to get out of Lahore. After that, it was
less difficult. We simply walked and, when we saw people, we
hid. But they were not all murderers. Most of the people we
saw, Moslem or Sikh or Hindu, were refugees like ourselves,
and utterly bewildered by what was happening. People were
helping as well as killing one another. I began to feel a little
better about human beings. And so, after a long and trouble-
some journey, we reached Delhi and were reunited with our
children."

"Meanwhile," said Ashiq, dryly, "I had been compelled to
flee from Delhi, and come to Lahore."

Dr. Gopal was not revisiting Lahore merely out of curiosity
or nostalgia. He had come on a definite and rather daring mis-
sion. Before fleeing from his home he had concealed such of
his wife's jewels as they could not carry with them. He hoped
they might still be there, and he proposed to try to retrieve
them.

"I was told the house is now standing empty," he said. "It
was not burned down, like so many others were, and it is just
possible the jewels were never found. I hid them well. If they
are still there, I would like to have them. After all," he added,
rather defiantly, "they do belong to me, or at least to my
wife."

Ashiq nodded. "It is true that nobody is living in that house
at the moment," he said. "I made inquiries."

I didn't know what the law was on the subject, and neither
did Ashiq; but it seemed to me the doctor had a strong claim.
"We shall all go together," said Ashiq happily, rubbing his

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

hands. "I shall say I want to look over the house. Dr. Gopal will
hunt for his jewels. It should not be difficult."

Dr. Gopal had lived on the road to Shahdara. We drove in
Ashiq's car. Evidence of flood damage increased as we went
along, for we were approaching the Ravi riverbank. Parts of
the road were still under water, and we had to go slowly. We
passed a grim procession of carts which were coming back from
the river carrying bodies. And then we came to where the
flooded river had taken a vast bite out of the land. The road
went no farther. There were piles of debris, sunken carts and
automobiles, twisted girders, the rubble of houses that had tum-
bled down, and a vast hole filled with water in which scores
of drowned animals floated.

Dr. Gopal pointed to the hole. "That is where my house
was," he said.

"Ah!" Ashiq exclaimed sorrowfully. "If only you had come a
few days earlier "

The doctor shrugged. He had already recovered his habit-
ual good humor. "I never really hoped to find anything," he
admitted. "At least let us be thankful that the house was empty
when it happened."

For the North
Guns always quietly but always guns. KIPLING

PESHAWAR MEANS "frontier town," and has twenty gates, seven
more than Lahore. The town was full of Pathans, wearing
bright-colored scarves and carrying fierce-looking knives. Pic-
turesque tribesmen are usually frauds, but there was nothing
phony about the Pathans.

"Some of these men are undoubtedly spies of the Fakir of

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Ipi, who is in Afghan pay," said the Pakistani official who
trudged with me through the dusty, brassily bright bazaar. "Un-
fortunately we do not know which ones, and there is not much
we can do about it. Many of the others support the Red Shirt
leader, Abdul Chaffer Khan."

Peshawar looks out toward the sharp-edged mountains that
flank the Khyber Pass on the way into Afghanistan. The Brit-
ish, whose famous Khyber Rifles held the Pass against the
tribesmen, were pretty well content to leave the tribesmen
alone so long as they did not close the Pass or attack Pesha-
war. Not so the Pakistan Government, which in this North-
West Frontier has become Britain's heir. Pakistan, which re-
gards the tribesmen as Moslem brothers, is determined to turn
them into sound citizens. A lot of money is being spent on
farming schemes, and schools are being built.

This policy gets its inspiration from General Mirza, who as a
young soldier in his twenties he is now in his late fifties
fought little wars against the tribesmen, with such British units
as the Cameromans and the Poona Horse. Afterwards he was
appointed Britain's "political agent" at the Khyber Pass, and
subsequently was Deputy Commissioner of Peshawar. Being
"political agent" meant that Mirza had to know what was go-
ing on in the tribesmen's heads. Sometimes the only way to find
out was to be your own spy, mixing with the tribesmen as one
of themselves. This was a risky business, and many a political
agent failed to report back. From his experiences with the
tribesmen, Mirza concluded that they were good fellows who
liked a bit of excitement but who were eminently civihzable,
being on the whole brave, loyal, truthful, upright, sincere, and
not afraid of hard work in other words quite unlike politi-
cians.

While acting as an agent for the British, Mirza frequently
crossed swords with the Red Shirts led by Abdul Chaffer Khan.
The Red Shirts' simple aim was to throw the British out. When
the British quit India, it was generally assumed that the Red

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

Shirts, being Moslems, would willingly throw in their lot with
Pakistan. The Pakistani politicians were astounded and aggrieved
when, instead of doing this, Abdul Chaffer Khan declared that
he had been fighting for Pathan independence and meant to go
on doing so. Abdul Chaffer 'Khan was a giant of a man, griz-
zled but still formidable, and since 1947 he had been entering
Pakistan jails with the same regularity as he used to enter Brit-
ish jails. The Red Shirt movement was still very much alive.

Another dissident was the Fakir of Ipi. He first appeared on
the Frontier scene in 1911, and he fought the British for thirty-
six years. He was as critical of the new Pakistan Government
as Abdul Chaffer Khan was, and for the same reason, but un-
like the Red Shirts his men played no part in politics, prefer-
ring to remain in their remote caves and fight with rifles in their
hands. The Fakir was a tough-minded old man who suffered se-
verely from lumbago; but he was even more of a problem to
Pakistan than Abdul Chaffer Khan, for his guerilla activities
had been getting the backing of the Afghan Government of
Daud Khan.

Though Afghanistan has a King, Daud Khan as Prime Min-
ister was virtually dictator, and not less powerful from being the
King's cousin and also his brothcr-m-law, for Daud married
the King's sister. Daud, who was in his late forties, was a marti-
net with a close-shaved bullet-shaped head and very rough man-
ners. He had been known to whip his own chauffeur in public,
and his personal bodyguard wore uniforms that recalled Hit-
ler's SS-men. His boast was: "An Afghan can outwit any man,"
and after the death of Stalin (whose funeral he attended),
Daud proceeded to get military aid from Russia and Czecho-
slovakia, while simultaneously wangling American credits for
big irrigation schemes. Daud called this "milking two cows."

But one of his primary ambitions was to take the Pathans
and as much of their country as possible away from Pakistan.
Afghanistan is about the size of Texas, and a third of its 12,-
000,000 people are Pathans. To the Pathans of the North- West

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Frontier of Pakistan, Daud held out the bait of an independent
"Paktoonistan," to be carved from Pakistan's northwest flank.
"Paktoonistan," if realized, would include Peshawar and as
much of Pakistan east of the Indus river as Daud could contrive
to tear away.

The Sikhs under Ran jit Singh captured Peshawar in 1834:
before that it was under Afghan rule. The Afghan ruler Dost
Mohammad sought British help to oust Ranjit Singh and re-
take Peshawar; but the British wanted Peshawar for themselves.
Dost Mohammad turned to Russia; the British invaded Af-
ghanistan to forestall the Russians. They unseated Dost Mo-
hammad, but their retiring forces were massacred, only one
man surviving to reach Jalalabad. Forty years later essentially
the same story was repeated. The British compelled the Afghan
ruler Yakub Khan, who had been listening to the Russians, to
accept a British adviser. The adviser Sir Louis Cavagnan was
murdered, with his entire mission, six weeks after reaching the
Afghan capital, Kabul. General Roberts marched to Kabul and
installed a new and more compliant Afghan ruler. In 1929, for
the third time, an Afghan ruler who was becoming too friendly
with the Russians was unseated and replaced by a more pro-
British King.

In the Khyber country, only the names change. Pakistan,
Britain's heir on the North- West Frontier, was confronted by
a hostile Afghanistan whose policy had the approval of Mos-
cow.

I traveled over the Khyber Pass as far as the Afghan border.
The road, bright with yellow dust, twists over the mountains
like a coil of hose. Over it there used to come camel caravans
laden with Karakul pelts and fruit. The caravans were escorted
by armed soldiers, and veiled women piled children and baskets
of protesting hens on the Ipacks of pack mules, while the men
of the caravan rode alongside with rifles slung on their backs,
and rolled-up blankets.

Nowadays the caravans consist of convoys of trucks. But the

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MOSLEMS UNITED?

traffic had been temporarily halted, by politics. A mob shouting
"Paktoonistan!" had looted the Pakistan Embassy in Kabul,
while Daud Khan's police looked idly on. The Pakistanis had
therefore begun to place obstacles in the way of Afghanistan's
export trade through the Khyber Pass.

At the frontier post several Afghan trucks were halted. Their
drivers, smoking cigarettes and looking sullen, hung about with
a disconsolate air. The Pakistani frontier guards kept a close
unfriendly eye on them. The trucks, which were loaded with
peaches, pomegranates, and white grapes carefully wrapped in
cotton wool, had been there some days, and the fruit was pal-
pably rotting. The Pakistanis explained with straight faces that
the trucks' papers were "not in order," and that they could not
let the trucks proceed over the Khyber Pass until they received
instructions from Karachi. "It may take some considerable
time," one of them said, with satisfaction.

Along the winding road on which the trucks had come, be-
yond the sharp-edged mountains and black cliffs, lay Kabul in
its circle of snow-capped hills. When I had visited Kabul some
months before, the town had been full of comic-opera traffic
policemen and burly Russians wearing white Panama hats. The
policemen, in purple uniforms, stood on tall concrete pillars at
the city's intersections, blowing whistles and making violent
gestures. But the traffic they were supposed to be directing was
almost nonexistent, for it consisted only of a few horse-drawn
tongas and a handful of jeeps. The Russians were mostly en-
gineers, for Russia had presented Daud with a hundred mil-
lion dollars worth of projects, ranging from oil storage tanks to
a new Kabul bakery. When not working, the Russians wan-
dered through the crowded bazaar, near the Bagh-i-Ammun
bridge, where they bought American cigarettes on the black
market. The cigarettes had been plundered from the American
Embassy's stores. The first secretary of the Russian Embassy was
a dapper, heavily scented man called Bogachev. When a party
of Russians were due to go home, a plane came from Moscow

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to fetch them, and they departed carrying smart new leather
suitcases, with their women wearing smart bourgeois clothes
and carrying bouquets of roses. They were the envy of the Af-
ghan officials, none of whom earned more than twenty-five dol-
lars a month. Meanwhile, Daud Khan's policemen kept a close
watch on the American Embassy, and pointedly wrote down
the names of all Afghans who dared to make use of the United
States Information Agency's library.

I remembered that all the public buildings in Kabul had
smelled strongly of mutton fat, and how the previous winter,
when there had been deep snow, one of the gorgeously uni-
formed traffic policemen had been found lying at the foot of
his concrete pillar, half eaten by a wolf.

The women of Kabul wore thick, unbecoming black burqas;
but some of them also wore underneath Western dresses
and silk stockings. I had flown from Kabul to Kandahar and
one of the other plane passengers had been an Afghan princess:
she wore her burqa when she entered the plane, but once we
were in the air she threw it aside with a slim shrug of disgust,
and lit an American cigarette. Kabul had four cinemas, and two
of them were reserved exclusively for men. Only the men ever
went to parties, and they never brought their wives. On the
whole, the happiest women in Afghanistan were the gypsies
who lived in the blackskin tents, nobody expected them to wear
burqas.

"They are rough people, over there," said my Pakistani
guide, as we turned back toward Peshawar. "Criminals are still
executed in public by having their throats cut." And he told
me a story he had heard from one of the truck-drivers.

"When Nadir Shah, the present King's father, was assassi-
nated in 1933, many people were thrown in prison. One was a
government official who never knew why he had been arrested.
No charge was ever brought against him, but he was not set
free.

"After Daud Khan became Prime Minister, the man one day

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was taken from his cell. He was shaved, bathed, and given fresh
clothes, but no one would tell him why. He had been in prison
for many years, and he was terrified. He was sure he was going
to his execution.

"Then he was marched into Daud Khan's presence, and to
his bewilderment the Prime Minister shook him warmly by the
hand.

" 'My dear fellow/ said Daud Khan, 'where have you been
all this time? I cannot understand why you have not called on
me/

"The man began to stammer out the story of his imprison-
ment, but Daud Khan cut him short. 'We have no time now/
he said, 'for your plane is leaving in a very short time. I trust
you have everything you need?'

" 'But where am I being sent?' the poor fellow inquired.

" 'What, haven't they told you?' Daud demanded. 'You're
our new Ambassador to Indonesia!' "

I traveled from Peshawar to Sialkot. In the sixth century it
was the capital of the Punjab, under the White Huns: but it
was now a sadly diminished town. For years its four factories
and its 70,000 cottage workers had been busily employed, mak-
ing cricket bats. Both Moslems and Hindus took enthusiasti-
cally to cricket from the moment the British introduced the
game to India, and it is now perhaps the one real bond be-
tween them. But this common bond had not done Sialkot any
good, for the willows for making the bats had come from Kash-
mir, which was now closed to Pakistan.

There was one Englishman still living in Sialkot. He was
needless to say a keen cricketer. He fumed against Nehru for
having seized Kashmir, pointing out that the cutting off of the
supply of wallows had made bats so scarce that there was se-
rious danger of the local batsmen losing all their skill.

I suggested that the Kashmir problem had even graver impli-
cations than that.

He looked at me, aggrieved. "Oh well, if you want to drag

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in politics and are going to be flippant about cricket, I have
no more to say."

Nehru held the famous Vale of Kashmir, but Pakistan had
occupied some five thousand square miles of mostly hilly and
desolate country. The Pakistanis promptly named it "Azad,"
or "Free," Kashmir; and put it under military rule. It was pretty
evident that, whatever else "Free" Kashmir had gained, it did
not have freedom. The people were wretchedly poor, and very
little was being done for them. They had the sullen and secre-
tive look of people who were continually spied on, were liable
to summary arrest and inquisition, and knew it.

Sialkot is almost within loud-speaker distance of Jammu, and
it was necessary for me to pass through Jammu on my way to
Srinagar, the capital of the part of Kashmir that India held.
But it was impossible to go direct from Sialkot to Jammu. It
would have been like trying to cross the demilitarized zone be-
tween South and North Korea, or like proposing to go direct
from Formosa to Fukien. Instead, I had to return to Lahore, in
order to cross from there into India to Amntsar, before enter-
ing Kashmir.

On my last evening in Lahore Ashiq suggested I should see
some of the city's night life. I was surprised. I had not known
that Lahore had any night life.

"I meant the slave market," Ashiq said.

We visited one of a series of opulent houses, all under the
same management. They were gaudily furnished, and the pa-
trons obviously had money to burn. In a large hall, gay with
cushions, men sat cross-legged, puffing contentedly at hookahs,
and waiting for the evening's entertainment to begin. The
crimson curtains parted, and a girl came in. She wore a silk
veil, a pair of silk trousers, and very little else. An unseen or-
chestra struck up, and the girl performed an elegant belly-
dance. Then she mounted an ivory-and-gold pedestal, and the
men began to bid for her. She was finally knocked down to a
fat, whiskered man with a perspiring bald head, who eagerly

302

MOSLEMS UNITED?
led her away. The curtains parted, and another girl came in.

"Some of them are members of old courtesan families, who
are trained to this sort of thing from childhood/' Ashiq ex-
plained. "But many are from refugee families. They sell them-
selves in order to keep their fathers and mothers from starving.
It is a great temptation, for they may even win a husband, or at
least a wealthy protector who will not treat them badly."

A man was walking through the hall chatting with the cus-
tomers. He had heavy-lidded eyes and a powerful hooked nose.
His air was one of arrogance. I easily recognized him as the
Punjabi I had met on the plane, the man who despised Bengalis
and hated Hindus and Sikhs.

"It is the proprietor of the establishment," Ashiq whispered.
"He is very rich."

I could not help wondering how he reconciled his profes-
sion with his horror and indignation at the thought of Hindus
preying on helpless Moslem women.

303

XVIII

KASHMIR: MEN IN FUR HATS

Sheik Abdullah is a brave man and a great leader of his peo-
ple. NEHRU

A period in prison is a very desirable part of one's education.

NEHRU

AMRITSAR I was joined by Singh, who had brought the
Studebaker up from Delhi. Beyond Pathankot we were in the
hill country. Dawn came with a quiet shake and shiver, reveal-
ing bright green parrots wheeling and squawking over wheat-
fields, against a towering background of ice-capped mountains.
We were stopped at a checkpost, and our papers were examined
by turbaned officials seated round a bare wooden table in the
open. We were still in Hindu country as far as Jammu, and we
drove past white temples and stones smeared with red ocher to
represent lingams. But after Jammu the scene changed. Tur-
bans became fur caps, and noses became more Semitic. Strung
out along the twisting mountain road were yellow buses whose
wooden sides had flowers gaily painted on them. The drivers,
all Moslems, wore flowers stuck rakishly behind their ears, and
they sang plaintive love songs, most of them addressed to im-
aginary delectable boys. The most popular ditty had a refrain
which began. 'There's a boy across the river with a bottom like
a peach."

At one place a white fox loped disdainfully across the road.

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MEN IN FUR HATS

At another we stopped for tea, which was served in scalding
brass cups from an open wayside booth.

Singh had driven my family from Delhi to Srinagar, where
they were living on a houseboat and had been awaiting me for
some weeks. They had had a bad journey, for the roads had
been flooded. At Jammu they found a great number of bus
and plane passengers stranded, and there was a shortage of beds.
A polite Indian had surrendered his room to Jane, on condi-
tion that she shared it with his two wives. He visited his wives
several times during the night.

We lunched at a village called Kud The resthouse clung to
the steep hillside; just below the level of the roadway were the
roofs of villagers' cottages Everything was canted at a sharp
angle, and all the lines sloped up toward the tall mountains
that still lay ahead. There were plenty of sharp-eyed police
about, for Kud is where Sheik Abdullah is imprisoned The
Sheik, a handsome six-footer, was a Moslem member of Mr.
Nehru's Congress Party. He headed the first Kashmir Govern-
ment, after Indian troops marched into Kashmir. But when he
began talking about an independent Kashmir, he was summa-
rily arrested; he had lam in prison at Kud for four years, with-
out ever being brought to trial.

We climbed to the Bamhal Pass and drove through the fa-
mous tunnel into another world. Snowy peaks encircled us,
looking close enough to touch. Nine thousand feet below us
the Valley of Kashmir was spread out like a carpet, decorated
with silver lakes and vivid-green nccpaddies. The road cork-
screwed wildly downhill in a hair-raising sequence of hairpin
bends.

We made the descent safely, more fortunate than the jeep-
load of Indian army officers whose fall was commemorated by
a large white stone tablet. The terraces of the ncepaddies came
up to meet us. Tall straight poplars lined the road into Srinagar,
which Mr. Nehru's Brahmin forebears called the City of
Knowledge. Singh parked the car beside the lakeside club-

305

KASHMIR:

house, and hailed a shikara, a gondola-like affair with plump
silk cushions and crimson carpets, to row us to the moored
houseboat. Skimming past floating islands of plaited reeds on
which melons and cucumbers grew, we were jubilantly trailed
by other shikaras, whose owners offered to sell us newspapers,
cigarettes, scarves, carpets, candy, fruit, silk, toy houseboats,
trays, ashtrays, tables, tablecloths, and wooden animals. When
we climbed on board the houseboat, the salesmen climbed on
board, too. In a cloud of mosquitoes, which had also been at-
tracted to the scene, they spread out their carpets, displayed
their scarves, and held up their wooden animals. The owner of
the houseboat, our temporary landlord, stood by with folded
arms, his face beaming with delight. The eager salesmen were
all cousins of his.

"This has been going on since we arrived," Jane said. "They
usually come on board before breakfast and stay all day." She
was looking strained.

We fled from the houseboat and the clamoring salesmen and
went for a stroll along the Bund. The Bund was crowded with
Indian soldiers and with Indian tourists from Bombay. It was
also filled with Kashmiris selling pewter teapots, brass trays,
hookahs, carpets, scarves, inlaid tables, toy houseboats, and
wooden animals. One Kashmiri called his store "Suffering
Moses' Emporium." Another described himself proudly as
"Sethar the Worst."

When I asked the latter why, he grinned. "To protect the
tourists the Kashmir Government published a list of stores that
overcharged. I headed the list." He seemed inordinately pleased
about it.

Three quarters of the population of Kashmir are Moslems.
When India took over the state, Mr. Nehru promised that a
plebiscite would be held to find out if the Moslem majority
preferred to join their country to Pakistan. This promise was
several times repeated, but no plebiscite was held. Most Indi-
ans with whom I talked about Kashmir reluctantly admitted

306

MEN IN FUR HATS

that in a plebiscite most of the Moslems would vote for Paki-
stan.

We entered a store selling antiques, and Jane admired a
golden topaz ring. The store was crowded with jostling Indian
tourists. They were talking in loud voices, and the Kashmiri
storekeeper watched them with a coldly hostile eye. He was a
thin man with a black fur cap, and he looked rather like Mo-
hammad AH Jinnah.

When the tourists had swept out, exclaiming loudly at the
outrageous prices, he angrily replaced on the shelves the ar-
ticles they had been handling.

"You have many tourists this season/' I said.

"Tourists?" He looked at me bleakly. "Only Indians. They
buy nothing. They behave as if they owned Kashmir. They
treat it as their colony. Let them take their soldiers away, and
then we shall see what will happen!"

We went to have coffee at the Indian Coffee House on the
Bund. The tourists from Bombay were seated at the next table.
They were still talking loudly. A plump Hindu dominated the
conversation.

". . . colonialism!" he was exclaiming. "Terrible! Disgust-
ing! Achya, I tell you, the people are ground under an imperial-
ist heel. They are kept down by bayonets. They would rebel if
they could, but what can they do against so many soldiers?
Their voice is not heard at all, yet the colonialists say: 'The
people are happy with our rule/ What hypocrisy, isn't it? Ah,
colonialism is a terrible thing."

But presently it became clear that he was talking about Goa.

That evening after our lampht meal of boiled chicken the
chicken tasted of oil and the oil-lamp smelled mysteriously
of chicken we were visited on our houseboat by two cordial
and smiling men from the Kashmir Government's Information
Department.

They accepted whisky and cigarcctes, and said how lucky we
were to have found such a delightful houseboat.

307

KASHMIR:

"You will like Kashmir/' one of them said enthusiastically.
"There is so much to do, so much to see! Here you may relax."

"Go to Sonamarg," the other urged. "Visit Gulmarg. See the
famous Shalimar garden where the Emperor Jehangir passed
the summer months. Try our trout fishing."

"Almond flowers," murmured the first man rhapsodically,
"almond flowers stretching for miles in the golden rapeseed
fields."

"Snow-capped peaks gleaming under the azure blue sky."

"Rainbows in the Mogul fountains."

"Lovely lakes amid some of the world's most beautiful seen-
ery."

"And, if there is anything we can do for you," said the first
man earnestly, "please do not hesitate to call on us. We are
entirely at your service."

"We are very honored to have you here in Kashmir," said the
second man. "We like to have Western correspondents visit us
and see all there is to be seen. We welcome them."

"Ah, he would not wish to be bothered here with business,"
the first man protested. "He is here purely on a holiday. He
wishes to rest, to forget politics."

"Of course," the second man agreed. "He is not here to talk
about politics."

"It would be a shame if anyone talked politics to him."

"Not only that," said the second man, avoiding my eye and
looking thoughtfully at the ceiling of the houseboat. "Not only
that: it would be impolite for one to come here as a tourist
and then to proceed to make inquiries into politics."

"It would be very impolite," said the first man. "It would be
tactless, and might lead to complications. But, of course, he
would not dream of doing anything of the kind."

"Naturally not," said the second man.

Then they finished their whiskies, shook hands with us, and
went off smiling back to Srinagar.

308

MEN IN FUR HATS

In whatever manner I look at the case, I do not see how Paki-
stan has any rights whatsoever. NEHRU ON KASHMIR

WE WENT for idle excursions on the lakes in cushioned shika-
ras f visited the Mogul gardens, explored the town, and took
healthy hillside walks. Every morning at breakfast the salesmen
would come on board and spread out their wares; each evening
when we returned from our expeditions they would be waiting
to greet us. They were as impossible to get rid of as the mos-
quitoes.

Srinagar had two bookstores, both kept by sad-eyed, black-
bearded Sikhs, and we armed ourselves with thick histories of
Kashmir which we never read and paperback detective novels
which we devoured. We drove out into the countryside through
villages ablaze with embroidered carpets, whose makers wound
them round the trees to attract tourists; and we visited Gul-
marg, the Meadow of Roses, to admire the snowy peak of
Nanga Parbat, and Pahlgam, which was filled with wild horse-
men and which had a notice that warned: Do not gallop
through the main street.

But the young men from the Information Department ran-
kled, and I decided to call on a Kashmiri Moslem politician
who supported Sheik Abdullah but who had not yet been im-
prisoned.

He was a little man with a brown fur cap and a beaky nose,
and he seemed very glad to see me. He sent for other politicians
whom he wanted me to meet, and while we waited for them
we sat drinking coffee.

"Kashmir is a police state," he told me. "The people live un-
der a reign of terror. The traitors who betrayed the Sheik have

309

KASHMIR:

made themselves dictators They are plundering the people day
and night. Scores have been shot, and hundreds arrested. Thou-
sands of supporters of the Sheik arc beaten and tortured. Kash-
mir is in the hands of Communists."

"You have not been arrested/' I said.

"Ah, no: not }et They are afraid of what the people would
do." He sounded a little complacent. "Besides, they arc still
hoping to bend the Sheik to their will. They would like to per-
suade him to abandon his principles and lend them the sup-
port of his name. But he will never do so: he assured me of this
only last week."

"He is permitted visitors?"

"Oh, yes, I see him from time to time. He also writes long
letters. He has just written one to the United Nations, exposing
Nehru "

"He is in good health?"

"lie is in excellent health."

A number of men came in. They all wore fur caps, and were
exceedingly voluble. All declared they were frequently beaten
and tortured.

"But we continue to hold meetings and rouse the people,"
said my host. "We refuse to be intimidated. We defy the gang-
ster police and the goo/idczs."

He invited me to stay to lunch. I accepted. Everyone sat
down at table in their fur hats. We ate mutton that had begun
to go bad To disguise the taste, it had been smothered in a
bright yellow mustard sauce.

"The traitors' day of reckoning is near," said our host. "When
it comes, they will be sorry. After our sufferings, we cannot be
expected to show them much mercy There will be a purge "

He ate the mutton with his fingers, letting the yellow sauce
drip down between them. With his fur cap, beaky nose, small
eyes, and busy mouth, he made a sinister sort of figure. I could
well believe in the purge, if he ever got back into a position of
power.

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MEN IN FUR HATS

I was much less impressed than I had expected to be by Kash-
mir's opposition politicians and their broad hints at a coming
Night of Long Knives. It seemed to me that, however bad the
existing regime might be, the Kashmiris were not likely to gam
from such an exchange. This impression was considerably
strengthened by what I was able to glean about the Sheik Ab-
dullah government's doings.

Kashmir, about the size of Minnesota, has a population of
around 4,000,000. Last century the British casually sold it to a
Rajput maharaja for 1,000,000 He and his Hindu descendants
gave the majority a bad time A Moslem who accidentally killed
a cow was liable to be hanged.

When India was being clmdcd up between the Hindus and
Moslems, it was agreed that rulers of princely states must
choose between India and Pakistan The Hindu maharaha of
Kashmir refused the difficult choice, when pressed, he took to
his bed with a diplomatic stomach-ache The impatient Paki-
stanis then committed the major blunder of sending \\ild
tribesmen over the border to take Kashmir by force. The loot-
ing tribesmen proceeded to slaughter Hindus and Moslems
alike, as well as any Christians they came across. The fright-
ened maharaja appealed to India for help, and Nehru rushed
in troops Meanwhile Sheik Abdullah seized power, pushed the
maharaja into the background, and set up his own government.
Nobody elected Abdullah, and nobody got the chance to vote
for or against him Aftci the tribesmen were driven out Abdul-
lah stayed in power, backed by the Indian Army. He set up a
one-party state and ruled like any other dictator. Anyone who
opposed Abdullah \\as promptly thrown in jail Much money
was voted for public woiks, but somehow the works never got
started. The peasants were more heavily taxed than before, but
they received no benefits in return.

It was not this corruption that brought about Abdullah's
downfall, but his harping on the need to hold a plebiscite to
let the Kashmiris decide whether they wished to stay with India

KASHMIR:

or join Pakistan. Abdullah's own wish was that Kashmir should
achieve some sort of independence of both. It turned out that
he was, after all, a Kashmiri. Abdullah's chief lieutenant, Bakshi
Ghulam Mohammad, turned against him and in a lightning
coup had him arrested. Abdullah was removed from his home
in the middle of the night, in his pajamas, and was sent to lan-
guish in prison at Kud. Bakshi took over. But Kashmir re-
mained a one-party state the Abdullah party was called the
National Conference, and Bakshi retained the name with
merely a change of dictators. Those who opposed Bakshi were
thrown in jail.

Jane and I were invited to a Mogul garden party at which
Bakshi was to appear. He went round shaking everyone's hand,
including ours. Bakshi was a stocky, broad-shouldered man but-
toned into a tight-fitting, long brown coat and wearing the in-
evitable fur hat. He looked rather like a prosperous butcher.
But he did not strut like a dictator, and he had an air of easy
informality. He laughed frequently, in a full-bellied fashion,
and he was not followed around by guards. Later on I ran into
him in a village, and he was walking about with the same in-
formality, chatting easily to the villagers. Again there were no
guards in sight, and anyone who wanted to take a potshot at
him would have found no difficulty. I had no doubt that Bakshi
was a dictator, and that opposing politicians had a rough time;
but it seemed to me that his reign of terror must be one of the
mildest on record.

The Kashmiris, when not trying to sell doubtful objets dart
to tourists, were a hard-working and cheerful race. They dili-
gently tended their floating vegetables gardens, sang rollicking
songs, were constantly bathing in the river, into which they
plunged literally from the doorsteps of their tall wooden
houses, and were passionately addicted to gambling. On the
lakes one would pass crowded houseboats filled with hookah-
pufEng gamblers intent on losing their shirts. The only thing
that marred their cheerfulness was the swarm of Indian tourists,

312

MEN IN FUR HATS

whom they obviously loathed. The Indian soldiers they ap-
peared to tolerate good-naturedly as an unavoidable evil: they
disliked the loud-mouthed tourists, but I doubted if they
wanted the murdering tribesmen back.

The Bakshi regime had instituted many reforms, and was
busy introducing more. Land reform led the way. A maximum
ceiling of 22 ?4 acres had been set on land holdings. Anything
in excess of that was confiscated, without compensation, and
handed over to the less-fortunate peasants. This had led to a
considerable increase in land ownership Peasants who were
still tenants paid their rent in the form of crops, but a ceiling
was placed on rents one quarter of the crop and the land-
lord, not the tenant, paid the land tax. Other taxation was neg-
ligible. Government spending on education was three times
greater than before, and on health it had doubled. Public works
were in full swing, and new power plants and irrigation works
were being built. Food prices were low, because food was sub-
sidized. The Indian Government made Kashmir a development
grant that equaled half the grant paid to Bombay State, which
had twelve times Kashmir's population.

I thought the suave gentlemen from the Information De-
partment who had made a special trip to my houseboat to warn
me not to pry into Kashmir's politics were fools. If I had been
in their shoes I would have encouraged visits to unimpressive
opposition politicians, and then invited attention to what the
Bakshi regime was doing for the people.

"After Bakshi struck down Abdullah," a Kashmiri told me,
"he behaved like a man who was terrified by what he had done.
He scarcely dared appear in public, and he was always heavily
guarded. But he has become increasingly self-confident and he
now mixes freely with the people."

The Indian Government had encouraged the Bakshi reforms,
and I suspected it had also put a brake on the corruption, and
warned Bakshi that if he did not behave, he could easily go
the same way as Abdullah. Bakshi was obviously leaning heavily

313

KASHMIR

on India for his success. He was more in Nehru's power than
Abdullah had ever been.

Kashmir was a well-run colony, but it was still a colony. I
asked an Indian how Nehru reconciled that with his frequent
attacks on colonialism. How for that matter did Indians recon-
cile it?

"Pakistan would never spend as much on the development
of Kashmir as we are doing," he replied. "Look at what is hap-
pening in 'Azad' Kashmir! The standard of living there is go-
ing down, not up. In a few years it will be impossible to reverse
the present economic trend in Kashmir. All Kashmir's ties now
are with India. The people are becoming too prosperous to
want to change. To hold a plebiscite now would simply unset-
tle them. But we will hold one eventually, and when we do, the
people will vote to stay with India."

It was perfectly clear that no plebiscite was going to be held
until India was quite sure of that.

XIX

AMRITSAR: MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

A Sikh is as saintly in peace as he is victorious in -war.

MASTER TARA SINGH

i

ARRIVED in Amritsar to find the Golden Temple under siege
and Sikhs dancing through the streets brandishing swords. Am-
ritsar is a town of innumerable winding alleys, and in the mid-
dle of the maze stands the Golden Temple of the Sikhs, where
blue water laps the marble sides of a huge square pool, and
relays of bearded musicians play all round the clock, while
priests indcfatigably intone hymns.

I removed my shoes and socks and entered respectfully on
the temple's 10,000 square yards of marble. A Sikh guide got
hold of me and told me in tones of quivering horror that the
enemies of his religion had bricked up the great guru Fateh
Singh alive. This happened in the seventeenth century, but he
spoke of it as though it had occurred that day.

The Sikhs had a more immediate grievance. Having helped
to root out the Moslems, they wanted a bigger say in the In-
dian Punjab which, they complained, was controlled by Hindus.
They had launched a campaign for their rights and, they said,
had been brutally attacked by the police. On display in the
Golden Temple were large photographs of policemen chasing
Sikhs, and also a mound of teargas shells which, the Sikhs
claimed, the police had fired into the sacred precincts.

Sikhs of all ages, but mostly bearded and all wearing bright
blue turbans and broad blue sashes, had gathered inside the

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AMRITSAR:

temple to pray, to make political speeches, and to vow venge-
ance on the police. Meanwhile, in the vast stone kitchens be-
hind the temple, women were cooking vast quantities of food
to keep their menfolk's spirits up.

Outside the temple the police were waiting to arrest the
Sikhs when they emerged. The constables patrolled the lanes,
and the officers sat on adjacent flat roofs, looking on. Surpris-
ingly, the police were all Sikhs. I climbed to one of the rooftops
and asked a Sikh police officer what he proposed to do if the
Sikhs refused to come out. He was a handsome man with a yel-
low turban and a silky black beard.

"Oh, they must come out some time."

"You don't intend to enter the temple to make arrests?"

"Certainly not, that would be sacrilege. Besides, we would
have to take off our shoes."

Finally the defiant Sikhs came out, in small groups. The po-
lice drove patrol wagons as near the temple gate as religious
scruples would allow, and the Sikhs obligingly entered them,
singing hymns.

I went to talk to Master Tara Singh, the leader of the Sikhs.

Tara Singh sat cross-legged on a charpoy, under a small tree
in a stone courtyard. He looked like Father Christmas. He had
a spreading white beard and jovial eyes in a merry, wrinkled
brown face. He wore a blue turban, and had on a pair of white
pajama trousers, whose strings had come undone. Fortunately
no ladies were present. He greeted me cheerfully and told me
that the Sikhs were winning hands down.

Tara Singh was in his mid-sixties. His family had been Hin-
dus, and he had not turned Sikh until he was seventeen. He
became a schoolteacher and also plunged into politics. He chal-
lenged British rule of India and was arrested. He defended him-
self with imperturbable good humor against a charge of "con-
spiring to depose the King-Emperor," and by his untiring elo-
quence spun out his trial to three years. This made him famous
and his followers nicknamed him "Patthar," or "the stone." He

MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

was soon in trouble again and was jailed for conspiring with the
Red Shirt leader Chaffer Khan. His contact with the Red Shirts
made him think of an independent Sikh State. "If Pakistan,"
said Tara, "why not Sikhistan?" Gandhi remarked grimly:
"Your sword is becoming long/'

When Sikhs began slaughtering Moslems in the Partition
riots, Master Tara Singh rescued a seven-year-old Moslem girl
whose parents had disappeared. "I will bring her up not as a
Sikh but as a Moslem," said Tara, "and then restore her to her
parents if I can find them, pure as the white snow of the Hima-
layas." The girl lived for six years with his family he and his
wife have three daughters and was the only Moslem in the
district. Then Tara located the girl's father, who had fled to
Pakistan, and restored her to him. "If I thank you 125,000
times, it will not be enough," said the grateful father.

In independent India Master Tara Singh continued to fight
for Sikh rights. "Jinnah got Pakistan, the Hindus got India, the
Sikhs got nothing," he cried. He quarreled fiercely with Nehru
and was jailed for his pains. But the conditions of his imprison-
ment were unusual. When he expressed a wish to play badmin-
ton, the prison authorities obligingly prepared a badminton
court for him.

When I visited him he had just emerged, haler and heartier
than ever, from another spell of imprisonment.

"There are 6,000,000 Sikhs in the Indian Punjab," he said,
"30 per cent of the state's population. But the state is ruled by
Hindus, and the Sihks are persecuted."

I took this contention with a grain of salt. The Sikhs held 34
per cent of the civil-service posts, and most of the police were
Sikhs. There were three Sikhs in the Punjab Cabinet, and four
Hindus. In India as a whole, the Sikhs formed only 1.7 per
cent of the population, but 1 5 per cent of the army were Sikhs,
and 21.7 per cent of the army officers.

"It will be all right," Master Tara Singh told me cheerfully.
"Nehru is here in Amritsar and I am seeing him tonight. We

317

AMRITSAR:

shall fix things up between us." I was sure they would: the sag-
ging Congress Party needed the support of the Sikhs.

Meanwhile the Sikhs of Amritsar with Master Tara Singh's
benevolent approval continued to take out processions. They
danced through the town's narrow lanes, beating sticks and
drums and twirling faster and faster to the music of brass bands
that played, incongruously, Scottish airs and "Way down upon
the Swanee River." I stood at the Hell Gate bazaar and
watched thousands of Sikhs parade past, all wearing blue tur-
bans and brandishing curved swords. The bandsmen blew into
enormous, curving brass trumpets shaped to resemble dragons'
heads. And several elephants had been inspanned. All other In-
dians regard the Sikhs as slightly crazy, and treat them with
careful respect. They are the Irishmen of India.

The Congress Party was also holding a rally in Amritsar, and
was also recalling its martyrs. The Jalhanwalla Bagh had got a
new coat of red paint, and a signboard proclaimed: "Here non-
violent Hindus, Moslems, and Sikhs who were holding protest
meetings in this garden were massacred by the British General
Dyer." In 1919 General Dyer opened fire on a large crowd. The
nonviolent mob had just set fire to a bank and killed five peo-
ple. The Indians claimed that General Dyer killed 2,000, the
British admit to 149. The 1919 bullet holes had been carefully
covered over with glass to preserve them.

At the Congress Party rally Mr. Dhebar, the Congress Party
president, was taken out in a procession, standing up in a jeep
and escorted by 61 maidens, 61 motorcycles, 61 bullocks, and
361 horses and 361 camels. The numbers apparently had some
mystical significance. Mr. Dhebar passed under 1,000 arches,
erected at a cost to the taxpayers of $40,000. He was followed
by a giant float in which hideous demons called "provincial-
ism" and "lingualism" had arrows shot at them by virtuous per-
sons representing "national unifying forces," which otherwise
remained unspecified. When he arrived at the meeting Mr.

MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

Dhebar was presented with a gold statuette of Mahatma
Gandhi and some thousands of rupees' worth of roses and nar-
cissuses. The slogan of the rally was "Toward a casteless society
on a socialist basis."

Eighty Congress Party leaders attending a "construction
workers' conference" at the town's Khalsa College left their
shoes outside: when they came out four hours later, all 80 pairs
of shoes were gone.

Amritsar received hundreds of badly needed telephone lines,
so that the politicians could keep in touch with Delhi: a cynic
remarked that they would normally have taken twenty years
to install. "The Congress Party has a new plan to end corrup-
tion," the newspapers proclaimed.

Official cars carried stickers saying: "On Official Duty." An
unscrupulous printer turned out some thousands of these and
sold them to all and sundry. The official stickers were changed
to: "VIP." The printer copied these, also. The official stickers
were changed again to read: "VVIP." Only cars bearing the
"WIP" sticker were allowed to enter the meeting-ground.

I secured a "WIP" sticker and drove to the rally. The recep-
tion committee had prepared vast quantities of literature. Mr.
Chaudhury Ranbur Singh, M.P., was described as "a rigid Con-
gress man accustomed to strict discipline without making even
the slightest allowance for mental reservation: he wields great
influence." Mr. Singh was the general secretary of the recep-
tion committee. The Chief Minister of the Punjab was de-
scribed as "a brilliant orator, extraordinarily diligent, an en-
thusiastic reformer, a persistent crusader against corruption, a
terror to publicmen of questionable integrity. Nobody can im-
agine that he holds a Master's degree in political science of an
American university." It struck me as an odd sort of tribute.

The hucksters had turned out in force for the rally. One of-
fered "a magic purgative (number of stools as desired)." An-
other displayed "a powder composed of pure pearls for all dis-

319

AMRITSAR:

eases of the eyes." A third high pressured customers with his
"best specific for spermatorrhea."

Indira Gandhi made a speech scolding the United States.
"The amount of foreign aid we get is not much compared with
our own efforts," she grumbled. "Even to get that much, we
give a sort of right to foreigners to slander our leaders and our
country. Some of them take it into their heads that they have
a right to interfere in our affairs. We cannot tolerate this." In-
dira was evidently still in favor of discipline, especially for for-
eigners.

Meanwhile former "criminal tribes" paraded outside, begging
the Congress Party to give them ten acres of Punjab jungle land
per family, which they humbly offered to clear with their own
hands. "As sturdy tillers, we will add new luster to the prosper-
ous lap of Mother India," their leaflet proclaimed.

Mr. Nehru, in a more sober mood than his daughter, warned
that "continued violence will lead to civil war." But nobody
paid much heed to that.

Do not sleep on the railroad tracks. SIGN AT BHAKRA NANGAL

THE PEASANTS of Patiala were afflicted by a plague of wild cows.
Over a thousand of the beasts were on the rampage. The peas-
ants had to sit up night after night to protect their fields: dis-
gruntled by official inaction, they had launched a civil-disobedi-
ence campaign and were refusing to pay rent. "The cows are
God's herds," said an official, shrugging. "What can we do?"

India has 140,000,000 cows, but most of them are useless
beasts. They contribute 100,000,000 tons of cow-dung a year to
the economy, for use as fuel and manure, but only a thin trickle
of milk. The Hindu's religion forbids him to kill useless cows.

320

MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

The cows of Patiala had gone dry and, therefore, had been
turned loose in the jungles in the hope that they would die.
Instead, the cows had turned savage and were raiding their
former owners' fields.

Ludhiana was celebrating Maghi, the day Guru Govind
Singh converted sinners. The celebrations took a novel form.
At a public ceremony the Sikh superintendent of police had 17
repentant criminals paraded before him. Their names had been
picked at random from the police dossier of local bad charac-
ters. The superintendent made a speech, addressing the crimi-
nals on the error of their ways. Would they please promise to
try to reform? They would indeed. "In that case," said the su-
perintendent magnificently, "you may go: from this day hence-
forth, you will no longer be known as bad characters/' Then he
went off to open a brand-new children's park.

We drove to Bhakra Nan gal, where under American super-
vision 125,000 workers were digging 700 miles of canals and
building a dam 680 feet high. It was Nehru's pet project, and
was costing the Indian Government $320,000,000. The man
in charge was Harvey Slocum, v/ho built the Grand Coulee and
had put up dams in Mexico and Cuba, the Argentine and
Alaska.

The Indian Punjab, with a population of 16,000,000, is the
size of Mississippi. By harnessing the Sutlej, the Bhakra Nangal
project will turn the Punjab into the sort of granary the undi-
vided Punjab was before Partition The dam, which Nehru
called "the biggest and toughest job being done anywhere in
the world," should be ready by 1960. Meanwhile Mr. Slocum
was having plenty of problems.

I spoke to some of the 40 American construction workers and
their families who were living at the site. They were wryly
amused by the fact that the Indian engineers privately referred
to them as "mere workmen without education." The Sutlej is a
sacred river: one of the Indian engineers had gained such pres-
tige from his contact with it that he had abandoned engineer-

321

AMRITSAR:

ing and retired to Agra, where he was currently worshipped as
especially holy. The Communists, however, were busy telling
the Punjab peasants that the water would not irrigate their
fields, because the Americans were removing its electricity.

"It's a constant uphill battle against ignorance, overconfid-
ence, and corruption," said one of the Americans. Most of the
Indian workmen had not known one end of a tool from the
other. They had never seen a locomotive and were in constant
danger of being run over. Punjab officials were chagrined to dis-
cover that they would not be permitted to hand out sub-con-
tracts to their relatives, and had acquired a deep loathing of
the Americans in consequence. There was some mild sabotage,
and there were constant pinpricks.

"The police are constantly arresting our domestic servants on
imaginary charges," the American said. "Then it's hinted to us
that we can have them released by paying their 'fine/ If we
don't pay promptly, the servants get beaten up."

We came down out of the rocky canyons through which the
Sutlej swiftly flows to Chandigarh, the new capital of the In-
dian Punjab. An area of 15 square miles had been handed over
to a team of architects and town-planners with instructions to
create a modern city. The all-star team included Le Corbusier
of France, Albert Mayer of New York, and the Maxwell Frys
(a husband-and-wife partnership) of England. The chief chal-
lenge to the experts was that their city, when completed, would
have as backdrop the 92 visible peaks of the Himalayas, all of
them over 24,000 feet high. The city would be expected to live
up to the scenery.

To my mind, the architects' joint efforts were shaping up into
a cubist's paradise and an ordinary man's nightmare. The sharp-
angled buildings, all squares, boxes, and oblongs, recalled the
submarine turrets that were sprouting along the highway into
Karachi. There was a great emphasis on "sun-breakers," project-
ing bricks and concrete fins set at angles in the walls. Turrets
with knobs on. "You will find here no gorgeous towers, no gi-

322

MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

gantic domes, no cupolas or ornate lattices," said an enthusiast.
'The planners have avoided the expressionist luxuries of tradi-
tional Indian architecture." That they had. So do the people
who design prisons.

But somehow caste had crept in. We were taken to see a
house in Sector 16. It looked like a large apartment house that
had been miraculously shrunk to the proportions of a single
home, but without losing any of its suggestion of communal
cubicle living. A flat-top, it had two walls of brick, but the rest
was white concrete. "It is an upper-category house," our guide
explained. "It is reserved for a higher-grade government serv-
ant." Then he took us to see some boxlike apartments, built in
two stones in a crouching row and faced with brick screens
pierced with round holes for ventilation. They looked to me
like a row of Indian sweepers bent double. "These are for per-
sonnel of a lower category," he explained.

Some children were playing in a scrubby park. They were
clambering up and down a concrete object that resembled the
twisted bleached branches one finds cast by the sea on a shore.
"It is a sculpture," said the guide. "It symbolizes the uplifted
caressing arms of a mother."

We inspected the nine-story Secretariat, oblong and very
knobby, then passed to the highlight of Chandigarh, the squat
square High Court building. A turbaned sentinel, complete
with rifle, stood on guard between the massive pillars flanked
by concave vaulted walls. In the Hall of Justice, which had
bright yellow chairs, the Chief Justice sat with his back to an
enormous abstract tapestry which would have provoked con-
troversy if placed in the Museum of Modern Art.

The official residences provided for Punjab Ministers had
sharp-angled snakes wriggling across the outside walls. "They
are zigzags," said the guide, "to break the monotony."

We visited the white-pinnacled temple of the goddess
Chandi, slayer of demons, and departed from Chandigarh with
mixed feelings.

323

AMRITSAR:

All things must be shared. THE Mahabharata

IN AN upland valley not far from Tanakpur, on the Nepal bor-
der, a sixteen-year-old girl was spiritedly contesting the valley
custom whereby all the younger sons share the elder son's wife.

The hill slopes were covered with tiny terraced fields and the
people, who looked Mongolian, lived in tall and rather splen-
didly carved wooden houses. On the veranda of her home the
girl went on determinedly spinning wool and paying no atten-
tion while her five husbands and the village elders pleaded with
her.

"I married only Gulab Singh," she said. "I will have nothing
to do with his four brothers." She cast the discomfited young
men a scornful look. "If I cannot have one husband, then I will
divorce all five." Gulab Singh, the elder brother, a handsomely
built man, looked both pleased and appalled.

The valley folk had devised the custom to prevent the little
farms from being subdivided. "If each son had his own wife,"
a village elder explained, "he would naturally want his own
farm." The Indian Government had taken note of the custom
and had dispatched a team of social workers to investigate.
"They go around with notebooks asking us indecent ques-
tions," said the elder indignantly. It did not seem to me that
the custom was going to be easily changed, for, apart from the
question of land, there was a great shortage of women, who
were outnumbered by the men by four to one. "The men arc
very sporting about each other's rights," a local politician told
me. But the women were evidently getting different ideas.

I had to leave this interesting experiment in polyandry, for at
Tanakpur I got news of two missing Welsh mountaineers.
Sydney Wignall and John Harrop had set out to climb a moun-
tain in western Nepal and had been seized and taken into Tibet
by the Chinese Communists. They had finally been released

324

MEN IN BLUE TURBANS

but had been compelled to walk back over dangerous passes,
with no equipment and little food, and had turned up at Pith-
oragarh.

Beyond Tanakpur the road wound steeply upwards toward
snowy peaks, while below the plain of the Terai tilted dizzily:
it was like seeing the earth from a high-altitude rocket. I left
Singh and the Studebaker at Ghatt, for there was no motor
bridge across the river, and walked two miles to catch a bus to
Pithorpgarh, twenty miles farther on. It was dark long before
the bus reach Pithoragarh, but the driver preferred feeling his
way to using his headlights. He also had a fearful habit of tak-
ing both hands off the steering wheel to make an obeisance
when the bus passed wayside shrines to Shiva. As the road was
excessively narrow as well as precipitous, so that the offside
wheels continually teetered over a dizzy drop, I found this prac-
tice somewhat unnerving.

But we reached Pithoragarh without mishap, and I stum-
bled up a steep pitch-dark street to a dark bungalow, to be en-
thusiastically greeted by two heavily bearded young men and
a smooth-faced one. The bearded men were Wignall and Har-
rop, and the smooth-faced one was their Nepalese guide, Damo-
dar Suwal, who had shared their adventure. He was an eight-
een-year-old student with a humorous eye and a plume of black
hair falling over his temple.

I had brought with me quantities of canned salmon, corned
mutton, cheese, sausages, ham, and beer, and the mountaineers
fell on the food voraciously. They had been kept locked up
in Tibet for a long time, and their diet there had left much to
be desired. When they were at last released they had been
forced to return over a hideously dangerous route, and they had
an angry suspicion that their captors had not expected them to
survive the march to tell their tale.

We went down the mountain in the morning and crossed
the river to Ghatt, where Singh and the Studebaker awaited
us. When we got back to Delhi the story had two odd sequels.

325

XX

DELHI: THE NEW LOOK

We are a more efficient and a cleaner nation than most nations
of the 'world. NEHRU

J_N NEW DELHI they were busy building new apartments
with servants' quarters for government bureaucrats. The apart-
ments were going up south of the Diplomatic Enclave, an area
set aside for foreign embassies. In the Diplomatic Enclave the
United States was planning to build an imposing new embassy
to resemble the Taj Mahal. I had my doubts if this would en-
dear the United States to the starving Indian masses.

Meanwhile in New Delhi's Connaught Circle the carpen-
ters' shops and printing presses and metal workshops had over-
flowed on to the sidewalks, where they competed for Lebens-
raum with the city's beggars and its 20,000 lepers. In Old Delhi
sewage overflowed the main streets, and the "markets" were
still piled high with junk and filth. In both New and Old
Delhi the drains were choked, and the goat carcases in the
butchers' shops were blanketed thickly with flies. The newspa-
pers were filled with an indignant clamor about those condi-
tions, and the Health Minister was finally prevailed on to send
round inspectors.

But the inspectors were withdrawn when a number of them
got stabbed, by people who protested that the inspectors were
trying to take away their livelihood and so add to the millions
of India's jobless. A wit explained: "The hawkers of Delhi hold

326

THE NEW LOOK

it as their fundamental right to poison the citizens, under the
umbrella of full employment."

There was an epidemic of jaundice, which was finally traced
to the fact that sewage had got into the city's drinking water.

Nehru gave a reception for the Shah of Iran in the Red Fort.
Officially it was a civic reception, and Nehru modestly declined
a front seat, contenting himself with a chair placed behind the
Delhi Chief Minister. There was a sycophantic roar of laughter
from the gathering over the Pandit's modesty, but in fact his
move proved a wise one. When the Shah turned up the crowd
stampeded in order to get a better view of him, and pande-
monium ensued. The members of the diplomatic corps, whom
I had last seen being trampled underfoot at the airport when
Nehru returned from Russia, this time scrambled to safety by
climbing up on top of the Red Fort's marble pavilion. A
floodlight came crashing down, narrowly missing the Pakistan
High Commissioner. An Indian lay screaming on the floor with
his leg caught in the steel bracket of an overturned chair, while
the crowd milled over him.

The builders of the new apartments were trying to give Delhi
a new look, but it all seemed distressingly familiar to me. This
I felt was where I had come in; and it was almost time to go.

I went to see Sett Rao, for I was anxious f o learn how he had
fared in his attempts to capture Puth, the bandit queen. "Oh,
she is still at large/' he said cheerfully. "The other day she led
her men into a village, on horseback, and had them tie up four-
teen villagers whom the dacoits suspected of being police in-
formers. She had them all shot, and then she rode away." When
I asked Sett Rao what he proposed to do, he shrugged. "It
is out of my hands; the government is sending me to Peking."

I was busy with my own departure plans. Jane and the chil-
dren were leaving first, by sea: I would follow them later. The
wicker shield and Picasso's portrait of Gertrude Stein were
packed away, to the distress of the lizards who had lurked be-
hind them while digesting flies. All our books were crated, and

327

DELHI:

a list in triplicate duly delivered to the Indian customs, lest we
might be trying to smuggle pernicious literature out of India.
At last I was left alone in the white bungalow.

The Welsh mountaineers had told their story, and the Nepa-
lese Embassy issued an indignant denial. Under pressure the
Embassy agreed to hold a press conference. The Welsh moun-
taineers were not invited, but the Embassy's star witness was
Damodar Suwal. He was an honest young man. When an In-
dian reporter asked if it were true that the mountaineers had
been ill-treated by the Chinese Communists, Suwal answered
cheerfully: "Oh, yes: they also beat me, with rifle butts." The
Nepalese Embassy officials were anxious not to offend Red
China, Nepal's powerful next-door neighbor. An official leaped
up, thrust Suwal back in his seat, and said: "Gentlemen, do not
pay any attention to our young friend, he has been drinking
too much brandy." That terminated the press conference. Su-
wal was hastily put on board a plane and flown back to Kat-
mandu, the capital of Nepal. I sincerely hoped he would come
to no harm for having told the truth.

The other sequel to the episode of the mountaineers was the
arrival in Delhi of a policeman from faraway Tanakpur. He
brought with him a warrant for Singh's arrest, but he had no
notion what the charge was. He simply repeated stolidly that
he had been sent by his superior officers to arrest my driver and
take him back to Tanakpur. I was appalled. We had not run
over as much as a chicken, and I could think of no offense that
either Singh or I could have committed. I racked my brains,
and thought back over the details of our mountain trip. We
had seen no traffic, for the road had wound desolately and pre-
cipitously over the mountains. We had passed a few herds of
goats, but hardly any people. Singh said gloomily that it would
take him at least a week to get to Tanakpur and back. I reluc-
tantly relinquished him to the policeman, and urged him to lose
no time in getting a message to me if the charge turned out
to be serious.

328

THE NEW LOOK

I went round saying good-by to all our friends, but the fare-
wells were overshadowed by my anxiety about Singh. I myself
had to leave soon for Bombay, but I could not go until I knew
what was happening to him.

He was away eight days, and when he turned up he was strok-
ing his beard and mustache, and grinning.

"What happened?" I cried.

"Very little. I had to appear in court, but I was only fined
five dollars."

"But what was the charge?"

Singh's grin broadened. "Crossing an intersection without
halting."

329

XXI

BOMBAY: CITY IN TUMULT

The -wisest foresee a rending and tearing of those kingdoms by
division 'when the king shall pay the debt to nature, and that all
parts will be torn and destroyed by a civil 'war. SIR THOMAS
ROE, 1616

i

N AMRITSAR Nehru had warned that a continuation of vio-
lence in India would lead to civil war. But the Maharashtrians
of Bombay were unimpressed by the arguments for national
unity, and were in the grip of the demons of provincialism
and lingualism.

Truckloads of steel-helmeted police drove round streets lit-
tered with debris. The Gujeratis' stores had been looted, and
an old man with a white beard lay over the threshold of his shop
in a pool of his own blood; the rock that had been used to
smash his skull lay beside him. In the alleys between the chawls,
tenements where the Maharashtrian mill-workers lived, the
mobs had hung up crude effigies of Nehru and Gandhi, and
had then set them on fire. The mobs smashed every statue of
Gandhi they could find, then garlanded the broken statues with
festoons of old shoes thQ ultimate Hindu insult, for shoes are
made of leather. "They have forgotten he was the Father of
the Nation," said a tight-lipped city official. "They only remem-
ber he was a Gujerati."

Young men in ragged shirts were dragging benches into the
middle of streets to serve as barricades. Behind the barricades,

330

CITY IN TUMULT

which were to halt the police trucks, they heaved up paving-
stones with crowbars, then carried the stones indoors and up to
the balconies of the tenements, from which they dropped them
with a resounding crash. Other young men were collecting the
broken chunks to use for throwing at the police.

A truck loaded with police swung round a corner and halted
at one of the barricades. It was greeted with a fusillade of stones,
and the police opened fire with rifles. A man fell screaming and
holding his bloody stomach, which had been ripped across. One
of the mob wrenched open the door of my taxi and bundled
the wounded man inside at my feet. Then he leaped in beside
the driver and ordered him to drive to the nearest hospital. The
blood of the wounded man soaked over my shoes, and on the
way to the hospital we ran into a barrage of tear gas. I washed
my eyes at the hospital fountain while they rushed the wounded
man indoors.

The police drew their trucks up in a long line, facing a row
of chawls. The trucks were suddenly showered with bottles
filled with acid, thrown from the upper windows, and the po-
lice fired back with their rifles. The windows were hastily closed.
A platoon of policemen with their heads lowered raced across
the street and battered their way into one of the tenements.
There were confused shouts, and shots, and the policemen re-
turned with struggling prisoners.

Sikh soldiers with bayoneted rifles stood by at the Cricket
Club. The Sikh captain I had met at Poona had been right:
when things got very bad, the Sikhs were called in. "But we
shall not interfere unless we have to," an officer told me. "The
trouble is that most of the police are themselves Maharash-
trians."

I called on one of Nehru's top Ministers at his big house on
Malabar Hill overlooking the bay. He was a Gujerati. We sat
on his veranda, looking down at the curve of the bay. He sat on
a couch, with a telephone close to his hand. Every few minutes
the telephone rang and more reports of violence came in. The

331

BOMBAY:

Gujeratis were beginning to leave the city; it looked like the
Partition all over again.

But he was remarkably calm. He talked patiently of the
virtues of nonviolence. It was a hot, sticky day, and there were
mosquitoes about. When I slapped one he looked pained.

"You should not have done that," he said severely. "It is
very bad to kill any living thing." He was a Gandhian, a
teetotaler, a nonsmoker, and a vegetarian. Killing for food and
for self-preservation had hitherto been the law of life, he said,
but it need not always be so. "Even the caterpillars eat the
cabbage leaves. But one day, by pure love, we shall teach them
to eat only dead leaves."

I brought the subject back to the killing that was going on be-
tween Maharashtrians and Gujeratis, and asked him what he
proposed to do about that.

His eyes flashed.

"You must show justice to a wolf; but you need not be kind
to it. These Maharashtrians are wolves. If we allow them to
have their way, they will destroy Bombay, which we Gujeratis
created. We must not give in, for, if we do, democracy will
become mobocracy, and all of India will be torn to pieces. I
shall restore order in Bombay if I have to shoot every Maharash-
trian!"

The rioting died down, flared up again, died down, simmered
sullenly with much unrest under the surface. It shifted finally
from Bombay to Ahmedabad, the great cotton town, where
the Gujeratis in their turn went on the streets to smite the
Maharashtrians amid further bloody rioting and police firing.
Nehru sped down from Delhi, and addressed a stormy meeting.
For the first time in his life, he was booed instead of being
cheered. Four thousand students from Gujerat University
howled him down. "You are neurotic, frustrated, juvenile
delinquents," Nehru told them. "You are Fascists, and the
Communists are your brothers." The Pandit was understandably
angry, for he had every reason to believe that India's right-wing

332

CITY IN TUMULT

parties had joined hands in an unholy alliance with the Com-
munists to keep the riots going and bring chaos to India. It was
already a far cry from the day when Nehru had smilingly
joined Khrushchev in the slogan: "Indians and Russians are
brothers!" I was not to know it at the time, but the Hungarian
revolt would shortly be adding to Nehru's growing doubts.

And so I left India: a continent, as someone had said, as
polyglot and populous as Europe; a land of snowy mountains
and rich river valleys, of baking plains and deserts, of thick
jungles and palm-fringed coasts. I had not seen all of it, but I
had seen a good deal. I had met many of its politicians; but I
had fonder memories of the friendly peasants in its 600,000
villages. They had been very kind to me: I could say, with
Kipling: "I have eaten your bread and salt/' And I recalled
what Nehru had said, sadly, in the midst of the riots on the
anniversary of Mahatma Gandhi's death: "We are all small
men, living in a big country." But there were some big men, too

INDEX

Abdul Chaffer Khan, 296-7, 317
Abdullah, Sheik Mohammed, 304,

309-14
Abyssinia, 95

Afghanistan, 283, 296-300
Aghons, 66-7, 71-2
Agra, 10, 102, 104-29, 322
Ahmad, Mr & Mrs , 273
Ahmedabad, 332
Aiyyer, Sum, 81-6, 89-93, 95 97>

99-101
Akbar, Jalal-ud-Dm Muhammad,

29-30, 38, 105-7
Akha Teej (Auspicious Marriage

Day), 88

Albuquerque, Affonso de, 203
Ahgarh, 134

Ah Khan, Liaquat, 272, 274-6
Ah Khan, Begum Liaquat, 272, 275
Allahabad, 667

All-India Family Planning Associa-
tion, 132

All-India Rural Credit Survey, 165
All-India Working Committee, 53
Alpen, Mr , 32-5
Alvarez, Peter, 199-201, 206, 208-

10
Americans, 4, 5, 13, 36, 194, 200,

207, 253-4, 271-2, 287, 322
American Embassy, 299, 300
Amntsar, 291, 302, 304, 315-25,

330
Andhra Astrological Propaganda

Society, 233

Andhra Pradesh, 213, 221, 233-6
Anglo-Indians, 104, 107, 114, 119,

121-2
Appasamy, Pandit, 158-62, 164,

282

Aristotle, 6, 284
Ar]una, 17

"Art of Love," see Kamasutra
Ashiq, Mohammad, 290-2, 294-5,

302

Ashiq, Mrs , 292
Assembly building, Karachi, 277,

281

Asquith, Lady, 30
Assam, 202, 250
Assam Congress Party, 250
Ater, 128

Aurangzeb, Emperor, 128
Awami League, 261, 266

Ayurveda (Hindu system of medi-
cine), 68, 163
Aztec, 7

Badnpur, 135-6, 140, 142, 145

Bagh-i-Ammun bridge, 299

Bah, Rajasthan, 101, 102

Baluchistan, 258, 276, 282

Banerjee, Mr , 247-50

Banihal Pass, 305

Bara Banki, 135-7, 156

Bareilly, 134

Batayya, Mr Peta, 235

Beas nver, 289

Bclgaum, 208, 211

Benares, 4, 56, 61, 67, 102-3, 151-

63, 165, 224, 282
Bengal, 241-2, 247, 249-50, 258,

259, 262, 269, 278
Bengal Congress Party, 250
Bengali language, 221
Bengalis, 247-50, 253, 258, 263-4,

267, 276, 280-1, 303
Bevan, Mrs Aneurm, 11
Bezwada, 233, 240
Bhagavad-Gita* 17
bhajans (Hindu religious verses),

17

Bhakra Nangal, 320-1
Bham, Sura), 97
Bhanwar Singh, 97
Bhara), 109-11, 113
Bharat, 160-2, 164
Bharatpur, 102-3
Bhatkal, P D , 73-81
Bhatkal, Mrs P D , 75-6
Bhave, Acharya Vmoba, 166, 170,

221, 224-32

Bhils, 89-90

Bhind, 113, 122-4, 129-30

bhoodan movement, 166, 176-7,

224, 226, 228, 230-1
Bhooswami Sangh (Landlords'

League), 99-100
Bihar, 165-8, 228, 242, 249-50,

259, 269

Bihar Congress Party, 250
Bikaner, 84
Bakaner, Sir Canga Singhji Bahadur,

Maharaja of, 95
Burn, 51

bmani pillau, 134
Birla Temple, 17

INDEX

Birmingham, England, 32

Bogachev, 299

Bolsheviks, 42, 247

Bombay, 4, 6, 34, 90, 93, 96, 133,
188-211, 219, 238, 274, 306-7
313, 329-33

Bombay Communist Party, 193

Brahma, 76, 139, 155, 158, 161,
165, 171, 243, 248, 252-3

Brahmins, 15, 38, 62, 137, 144,
148, 151, 158, 161-2, 181, 212,
224

Brazil, 276

Britain and the British, 16, 21, 23,
29-31, 41, 48, 63, 66, 70, 84,
93, 101, 106, 107, 119, 123, 132,
158, 162, 175-6, 207, 224, 277,
279, 286-7, 289, 296-8, 301, 322,
see also English language

Buddha, and Buddhism, 28, 35,
158, 166, 171-2, 188

Buland Darwaza, 105

Bulgamn, Nikolai A, 131, 246

Burke, Edmund, 5, 70

Butterfield, Ladv, 117

Cafe Mendcs-France, 218

Cairo, 34

Calcutta, 34, 71, 140, 243, 246-

59, 278

Cambodia, Crown Prince of, 109
Cameromans, 296
Campbell, Jane, 8, 9, 11, 13-14,

17, 47, 49, 305-7, 327
Campbell, Kenny, 9, 18
Canadians, 95
Cape Comonn, 215
Castle Rock, 203, 208
Catholicism, 105, 205
Cavagnan, Sir Louis, 298
Central Secretariat, Delhi, 9, 20-1,

25
Central Telegraph Office, Karachi,

277

Chandi, 323
Chandigarh, 322-3
Chandni Chov\k, 12, 14-16, 38
Charanpaduka, 155
Chenab river, 289
China and the Chinese, 36. 42, 51,

95, 174, 187, 214, 247, 220, 236,

see also Red China
Chitor, 90-1
Chou En-lai, 32, 221
Chownngree, 248
Christianity, 105, 119, 164, 181,

186-7, 205, 229, 234, 275, 311

Church of the Good Jesus, Panjim,

205

City of Knowledge, see Snnagar

Clifton, 278

Coal Board, Bengal, 250

Cole, George Douglas Howard, 132

Committee on the Consolidation of
Landholdmgs in Uttar Pradesh,
143

Committee for the Liberation of
Goa, 193, 199

Community Projects Administra-
tion, 171

Communism, 32, 37, 56, 216, 227

Communist Party, Indian, 13, 214

Communists, 33, 41-2, 134, 142,
162-3, 176-7, 187, 193, 213,
215-16, 220-1, 225-7, 229, 232,
233, 235-7, 239-40, 247, 251,
255, 266-8, 271, 281, 310, 322,
325, 328, 332, 333

Congress Party, 5, 30-2, 36, 39,
41-4, 51, 53-6, 68, 70, 85-6,
97-8, 100, 124, 127, 133-5,
142-3, 146, 148, 159, 162-3,

173-4, 176-7, 187, 201, 213-15,
2l8-2O, 222, 226, 229, 233,

235-7, 239, 247, 252, 259, 275,

305, 3l8-20

Connaught Circle, New Delhi, 18,

36, 326
Constructive Working Committee,

Cornwallis, Charles, 247
Cotton Exchange, Karachi, 274
Cricket Club, Bombay, 331
Cuttack, 241-5
Czechoslovakia, 297

Dacca, 2, 59, 261-2, 266, 269, 281,
288

Daku Ran a, see Putli

Dass, Sadcnand, 193-5, 197

Daud Khan, 297-301

Decline and Fall of the Roman Em-
pire (Gibbon), 56

Defense Academy, Poona, 202

Delhi, 22, 63, 66-7, 91, 113, 127-8,

133, 135, 179, 189, 219, 222,

228, 247, 250, 266, 290-1, 293-4,

304-5, 325r9, 332
'elhi Hoi

Delhi Hotel Workers' Union, 20,

35-6

Dcshmukh, 231-2
Dhebar, Uehharangrai Navaishan-

kar, 53-5, 219-20, 318-19
Dholpur, 127

11

INDEX

Diplomatic Enclave, New Delhi,

326

Diwan-i-Am, 105
Dixit, Narasmghrao, 122
Dost Mohammed Khan, 298
Duffenn, Marquess of, 114
Dulles, John Foster, 254
Dum Dum prison, 246
Durant, Will, quoted, 3
Durg, Jaya, 27-32
Durga, 154
Dutt, Palme, 86
Dravidian tribes, 180
Drug Research Institute, 130, 132-3
Dyer, Reginald Edward Harry, 318

East Berlin, 266

East Pakistan, 248, 249, 258-70

Eddington, Sir Arthur Stanley, 6

England, see Britain and the British

Egypt, 95, 286

Ellamma, 149-50

English language, 13, 15-6, 21-3,

26, 28, 38, 44, 159, 181, 213,

217, 224, 251, 267
Eurasians, see Anglo-Indians

Fakir of Ipi, 296-7

Family Planning Association, 197

Fascists, 22, 190, 194, 200, 203,

208, 254, 259, 332
Fatchpur Sikn, 104-5
Ferguson, Mr, 104, 106-7, i9>

112-15, 119-21, 126
Fernandez, Mr , 206, 208
five year plans, 21, 23, 37, 127, 175,

214, 220, 229

Fort William, 246

France and the French, 28, 33, 181,

217, 219, 322
Fncnd of the Cow, 25
Fry, Mr and Mrs Maxwell, 322

Gandhi, Fcroze, 52

Gandhi, Mrs Feroze (Indira
Nehru), 50-2, 320

Gandhi, Mohandas Karamchand, 4,
5, 24, 26, 28, 31, 41-2, 44, 46,
54, 55, 90, 101, 113, 120, 139,
148, 159, 182, 219, 224, 226-7,
229, 234-5, 275, 278, 319, 330,

332, 333
Gandhism, 4, 50, 168, 176, 187,

219
Ganesh, 138, 155, 158, 178, 183,

187
Gangajala, 54

Ganges river, 152-3, 157-8, 259

Garhmuktesar, 60

Garuda, 157

Gaya, 165-78, 223

George V, 9, 28, 222

Gibbon, Edward, 56

Ghatt, 325

Ghulam Mohammed, 276, 312, 313

Goa, 22, 190, 193-4, 196-7, 199,

200-11, 206, 214, 217, 233, 307
Golconda, 29
Golden Mosque, 38
Golden temples, 157, 315
Gonds, 180
Gopal, Dr , 291-5
Gopal, Mrs , 292, 294
Govind Singh, Guru, 321
gram raj, 227
Grand Coulee Dam, 321
Great Britain, see England
Great Eastern Hotel, Calcutta, 248,

250

Great Mosque of Shah Jehan,
it Delhi, 8, 12
"Grow More Food" Committee,

145, 150

Gulab Singh, 324
Gujar, Pahara, 128
Gujar, Sultan, 127-8
Gujerat, 54, 105, 224
Guieratis, 54, 105, 190, 192-3, 196,

202, 224, 330-2

Gujerat University, 332
Gurkhas, 122-3
Gulmarg, 308-9

Gvvalior, 113, 115-16, 118-19,
121-2, 124-5

Hamlet (Shakespeare), 62

Hanpet, 224-5, 227

Harrop, John, 324-5, 328

Heraldo, 204

Himalayas, 7, 322

Hindi language, 10, 15, 25, 183,

213, 221, 235

Hinduism, 17, 28, 29, 32-3, 145,

159-61, 163, 177-8, 186, 198,

229, 235, 252, 320

Hindu Mahasabha, see Mahasabha

Hindus, 5, 7, 11, 25, 34, 38, 44,

63, 64, 80, 105, 113-14, 120,

133-4, 151* 157-8, 160, 1623,

202, 248, 250-1, 257-9, 262-3,
266, 282, 286, 288-94, 301, 303,
311, 315, 317-18

"Hitlerites/' 250

111

INDEX

Holy Rollers, 187

House of the People, 5, 26

Howrah, 246, 249

Humboldt, Baron Wilhelm von, 6,

284

Hume, Alan, 114
Huq, Fazlul, 264
Hutheesmgh, Krishna, 49
Huxley, Thomas Henry, 283
Hyderabad, 165, 174, 221-40, 283,

284, 286-7
Hyderabad, Nizam of, 9, 28, 221,

222, 225

Illustrated London News, The, 64
Indian Army, 114, 202, 311
Indian Camel Corps, 95
Indian Civil Service, 114, 120
Indian Government, 95> 109-10,

114, l82, 200, 204, 222-3, 228,
231, 240, 313, 3J1, 324

Indian Mutiny, 29, 63, 66, 106,
114, 120

Indian National Congress, see Con-
gress Party

Indian Ocean, 215, 218

Indian Socialist Party, 176, 223

Indonesia, 301

Indus river, 158, 277, 286, 259,
298

Intelligence, The, 37

Iran, Shah of, 327

Islam, see Moslems

Jack, Rudyard, 3, 8, 11-15,

20-5, 27-31, 33, 35-7, 39, 43~5,

47-9, 53, 56, 59, 67, 72, 126,
151, 153, 155, 157-8, 163-5, 224,
228-33
agannath, 241

ains, 105

aipur, 89-90
/aisalmer, 94
Jai Singh observatory, 27
Jalalabad, 298
Jalhanwalla Bagh, 318
Jalore, 97

Jammu, 302, 304, 305
Jamshedpur, 166
Janah, Jamsetjee, 192-7, 199
Jan Sangh, 137, 159, 163, 177

apan, 36, 225, 259-60

aswant, Udai, 91-4

ats, 98, 100

ehangir, Emperor, 29, 308

ehovah's Witnesses, 187

[esuits, 105

Jhansi, 115
Jhelum river, 289
Jeanne d'Arc, 52, 217
Jmnah, Mohammad Ah, 267, 274,
275, 277, 278, 281, 287, 307, 317

odhpur, 73-90, 98-103

odhpur Fort, 84-7

Johannesburg, 57

'oshi, 210-11, 214

owitt, Reverend and Mrs William,

181, 186
Jubbulpore, 179-80
Juggernaut, see Jagannath
Junagadh, Nahwab of, 55

Kabul, 298, 299, 300

Kakekapura, 123

Kalwan Singh, 97

Kali, 3, 158, 212, 252-3

kahaboda math, 242-5

Kalpa, Raval, 20, 36-43, 57, 59

Kama, 160

Kamasutra, 192, 198

kanchaha dharam, 102

Kandahar, 300

Kannada, 212

Kanpur, 113, 115, 134

Karachi, 258, 262-6, 269-74, 278-9,

283-4, 286-8, 299, 322
Kankal, 218
Kashmir, 17, 127, 200, 202, 280-1,

288-9, 301-2, 304-14
Katmandu, 328
Kerala, 212-13, 215
Khalsa College, 319
Khandash, 106
Khrushchev, Nikita Sergeyevich,

131, 246, 253, 333
Khuhro, Bahadur Mohammad Ayub

Khan, 284-6
Khungar, Jai, 20, 39-42
Khyber Pass, 279, 296, 298-9
Khvber Rifles, 296
Kipling, Rudyard, 73, ^9, 151,

246, 283, 295, 333
Koran, 224, 282
Kremlin, 29
Krishna, 3, 17, 76, 82, 103, 139,

161

Kud, 305
Ku)al, 99

Lahore, 134, 287, 289, 291-5, 302
Lai, Kavira], 3-8, 69-71, 199, 284
Land reform, see Bhooswami Sangh
Le Corbusier, Charlcs-Edouard
Jeanneret, 322

iv

INDEX

Legislative Assembly, 135-6

Lenin, Nikolai, 52, 103, 214, 255

Leningrad, 194, 235

Lohardi, 81, 83

Lohia, Ram Manohar, 174, 223

Lohia Socialists, 174

Lofc Sabha, 54

Lucknow, 129-50, 167, 179, 271

Luhan, 128

Ludhiana, 321

Lutyens, Sir Edwin Landseer, 20

Luxembourg, Rosa, 255

Madhya Bharat, 122

Mad Monk, 242-5

Madras, 213, 217-21

Maghi, 321

"Mahabharata," 161, 324

Mahahngam, Krishna, 165-71

Maharashtnans, 190, 192-3, 196,

199, 202, 224, 330-2
Mahasabha, 134, 159, 162, 177
Mahe\ 218
"Mahmud" incident, 131, 133, 179,

271

Malabar Hill, 331
Malaya, 247
Malayalam, 212, 224
Malenkov, Georgi Maximihanovich,

234

Mandovi Hotel, Panjim, 203
Manikarnika, 154
Man Singh, 122-4, 127, 129
Manu, 108, 231
Mao Tse-tung, 221
Margao, 203, 208
Marlborough, ist Duke of, 29
Marx, Karl, 214, 216, 227
Marxist-Leninism, 85, 87
Marxism, 175, 216
Maugham, William Somerset, 283
Mayer, Albert, 322
McCarthyism, 194
Meadow of Roses, see Gulmarg
Mecca Masjid, 221
Meerut, 60-72, 139
Meerut Club, 63, 65
Mehta, Asoka, 171, 174
Mill, John Stuart, 39, 170
Mir Ghulair Ah Talpur, 284, 285-7
Mirza, General Iskander, 264-5,

276, 279-81, 296
missionaries, 181, 185-7
Moguls, 29, 105-7, *58
Mohammed, 227, 261; see also

Moslems
Mohenjodaro, 158

Montesquieu, Charles de Secondat,

284

Mori Gate, Delhi, 57, 292
Moroka, 57

Moscow, 213, 215, 220, 235, 298-9
Moslem Bengalis, 258
Moslem Punjabis, 258
Moslem League, 257, 261-4, 266,

275-6, 278
Moslems, 5, 8, 10, 11, 29, 38, 63,

105, 108, 121-2, 131-5, 137, 158,

l62-4, 179, 222, 248, 258-304,

306-7, 311, 315, 317-18

Mountbatten of Burma, ist Earl,

Louis, 28, 29
Mumtaz Mahal, 108, 111
Mutiny, see Indian Mutiny
Mysore, 212

Nadir Shah, 38, 300

Nagpur, 137, 159, 177-89

Nagpur Assembly Hall, 185

Naini, 51

Nanga Parbat, 309

Napier, Sir Charles James, 282, 286

Napoleon I, 29

Narayan, Java Prakash, 175-7

Narayan, Nagwajan, 198-9

Nathu, 84

National Committee of Churches in
China for Self -realization, 36

National Conference (Abdullah
party in Kashmir), 312

Nehru, Indira, see Mrs. Feroze
Gandhi

Nehru, Jawaharlal, 21, 24, 28, 30-2,
41, 43, 44, 46-50, 52, 55, 57-9,
107, 129, 137, 145, 159, 162-3,
165-6, 171, 173-5, 177-8, 189,

200, 2O5, 207, 215-l8, 223, 225,
228, 236, 250, 271, 275, 28l,
288, 301-2, 305-6, 310-11, 314,
317, 320, 327, 330, 332-3;

quoted, 53, 60, 136, 202, 212,
241, 255, 273, 304, 309, 326

Nepal, 271, 324, 328

Netherlands, 272

New Delhi, 9, 18, 20-2, 32, 43,
126, 158, 326

Nitisara of Shukracharya, 43

Northern India Iron and Steel Cor-
poration, 62, 69, 70

North Vietnam, 35

North-West Frontier, 258, 276, 283,
296-8

O Heraldo, 204 n ,

Old Delhi, 8-9, 14, 22, 33, 38, 3*6

Old Sarum, 29

On Liberty (Mill), 39

Ootacamund, 213

Onssa, 241-2

Owen, Robert, 113

Oxford University, 52, 160, 270

Pagala Baba, see Mad Monk
Pahlgam, 309

Pah, 97 ,

Pakistan, 11, 22, 55, 95, 134, 162-3,

202, 250, 258-303, 306-7, 309,
311-12,314,317

Pakistan Constituent Assembly, 278
Pakistanis, 95, 194, 200, 284, 287,

299, 311

"Paktoomstan, 297-9
Panch Kosi, 155
Panch Mahal, 104-5
Pandava, 154

Pandit, Ranjit Sitaram, 30
Panjim, 203-5, 206-7
Pant, Govmd Ballagh, 41
Parliament, House, Delhi, 20, 25-7,

31, 54, 120

Partition, 10, 16, 22, 31, 134, 102,
249, 258, 262, 277-8, 287, 289,
290, 292, 317, 321, 332
Parvati, 158
Pathankot, 304
Pathans, 295-?
Patiala, 320-1

Parsees, 121

Patel, Odia and Naji, 102

Peking, 51, 213, 215, 220-1, 327

Persia, 283

Peshawar, 295-6, 298, 300-1

Pithoragarh, 325

Pitt, Thomas, 29

Plassey, 106, 114

Pochamma, shnne of, 145

Pondicherry, 217-19

Poona, 202, 209, 331

Poona Horse, 296

Portugal, 193, 203-4, 211

Portuguese, 193, 201, 203, 205-0,
208, 210, 217

Praia Socialists, 174

Prakash, Bhada, 15-16

Preventive Detention Act, 55

Princes' Park, 10, 14

Ptolemy, 284 ^_

Public and Representative Offices
Disqualification Act (PRODA),
285

INDEX

Punch, 63

Punjab, 24, 258, 262, 280, 287,
289, 301, 315, 3i7, 3i9, 32i~2

Punjabis, 217, 259, 263-4, 267,
275-6, 281, 283, 288, 303

Pun, 241

Putll, 122, 124, 127, 129

Quakers, 185-6
Qutb Mmai, 21

Radek, Karl, 247

Raj, 5, 29, 48, 112, 119, 123, 129,

163, 173, 183, 222, 252, 267
Rajasthan, 73-103, 269
Rajasthan Congress Party, 98, 101
Rajkot, 55
Rajputs, 97-8
Rama, 95, 97
Rama Rau, Peta, 235
Ranjit Singh, 298
Rao, Narayan, 236
Rao, Sett, 23, 24, 126-9, 327
Rashtrapati Bhavan, 9, 25, 48
Ravi river, 289, 291, 295
Red China, 35, 36, 268, 328
Red Fort, 8, 327
Red Shirts, 297, 31?
Renan, Ernest, 6
Republican Party (new name of

Moslem League), 276
Roberts, Frederick Sleigh, 298
Roe, Sir Thomas, 330
Roy, Dr B C , 247
Royal Turf Club, Bombay, 193
Russia, 36, 42, 52, 174-5, 177, 187,

195, 213-14, 226, 227, 255, 270,

297-8, 327 ,

Russians, 35, 41, 95, 194, 220, 240-

57, 298-9

Sabarmati, 224

Salazar, Dr , 204

Sampurnand, Dr , 131-3, *35

Sangh, Adi, 132, 135

Sangh, Mulk, 132, 134-8, 140-2,

145-50

sati, 75-9, 88, 154, 158
Saurashtra, 53, 55
Secunderabad, 221
Sewa, Sn, 167-8, 170
Shahdara, 295

Shah Jehan, 8, 17, 108, 110-12
Shakespeare, William, 283
Shakta sect, 101-2
Shanghai, 276
Sharma, Vaidya, 21-3, 25

VI

INDEX

Shastras, 256-7

Shaw, George Bernard, 3 1

Shiva, 3, 82, 102, 122, 152, 154,

157-8, 160, 215, 219-20, 325
Sialkot, 301-2
Siddha Vinayak, 155
Smd, 258, 269, 276, 282-3, 284,

285, 286
Sindhis, 276
Sikhs, 11, 17, 202, 288-9, 293-4,

298 303, 309, 315-18, 331
Singh (driver), 8-10, 12, 18, 60,

64, 66, 68, 304-5, 310, 325,

328-9

Singh, Maharaja Sawai Man, 84
Sitana, Mr , 209
Slocuin, Harvey, 321
Socialism, 32, 44, 56, 59, 91, 174,

176, 178
Socialists, 20, 23, 40-1, 134-6,

141-5, 149-50, 162-3, 171-4,

176-7, 189, 218, 223
Socialist Party, Indian, 42, 223
Somahland, 95
Sonamarg, 308
South Africa, 224, 276
SEATO, 254

Spate, O H K, quoted, 130, 258
Snnagar, 302, 305, 308-9
Srmivas, M N , 1 78
Stalin. Joseph, 139, 171, 174-5, 297
Stalingrad, 235

Subrabrahmavishnu, Krishna, 212
Suhrawardy, Hussein Shahecd, 270,

278-81, 286
Surya, 160
suttee, see sati
Sutlej river, 289, 321-2
Suwal, Damodar, 325, 328
Switzerland, 52, 278

Taj Mahal, 104, 107-10, 112-13,

326

Tamil language, 213, 224
Tanakpur, 324-5, 328
Tara Singh, Master, 202, 318
Tata, 166
Tatler, 63
Telcgana, 214, 230
Telugu language, 213, 221, 224
Temple of the Moon, Benares, 157
Terai, 325

3rd Bengal Cavalry, 63
Tibet, 324-5

Times of India, 191, 203, 213
Tiruvur, 235

Tis Hazan, 57

Tito, Josip Broz, 109, 111, 174-5

Tobruk, 57

Tokyo, 259-60

Tolstoy, Leo, 55

Tnvandrum, 212-14, 236

Turner, W J , 1 1 2

United Front, 261

United Nations, 310

United States, 6, 7, 30, 176, 194,

253-5, 270, 320, 326
United States Information Agency,

300

University of Benares, 4, 67, 151
University of California, Berkeley,

176

University of Dacca, 262, 264
University of Wisconsin, 176
Urdu language, 288
Uttar Pradesh, 132-6, 139, 143,

166, 269
Uzbekistan, 13, 32, 35

Vaki, 208, 210

Vasagam, M V, 179-84

Vavya, Varagha, 233-4

Vedanta of Sankura, 101

VedaSy 162-3

Victoria, Queen, 119, 185

Vishnu, 7, 82, 139, 155, 157, 172,

241

Vishnu Purana, 250, 252
Vizianagram Palace, 1 59
Vuyyuru, 235

West Pakistan, 90, 258-9, 262, 269

Wignall Sydney, 324-5, 328

White Huns, 301

World Religion Society, 11, 14

World War I, 95

World War II, 95

Xavier, Saint Francis, 205

Yakub Khan, Mohammed, 298

Yama, 145

Yanam, 218

Yenada tribesmen, 233

Yenan, 236

Yeragua tribesmen, 233

Yugoslavia, 174-5

zamindars (landowners), 142-3, 168
Zammdars' Abolition Fund, 142
Zanzibar, Sultan of, 109

Vll

A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR

ALEXANDER CAMPBELL was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, on
October 19, 1912, and was educated at Edinburgh University.
He worked as an editorial writer on a Scottish newspaper until
1937, when he moved to South Africa, where he lived for seven-
teen years. The Heart of Africa (1954), a thorough survey of
that troubled continent, was his first book to be published in
this country, although six others had appeared in England and
South Africa. In 1954 Mr. Campbell left his post as Johannes-
burg bureau chief for Time and Life and moved to the New
Delhi bureau. During his two years in India he ranged from
Srinagar and Calcutta down to Bombay and Pondicherry, get-
ting the feel of the country by meeting its people face to face.
The Heart of India is the record of these encounters. Mr.
Campbell now heads the Tokyo bureau of Time and Life. He
is married and the father of three children.

A NOTE ON THE TYPE

This book is set in ELECTRA, a Linotype face designed by w. A DWIGGINS
(1880-1956), -who was responsible for so much that is good in contempo-
rary book design Although much of his early work was in advertising and
he was the author of the standard volume Layout in Advertising, Mr Dwig-
gins later devoted his prolific talents to book typography and type design,
and worked with great distinction in both fields In addition to his designs
for Electra, he created the Metro, Caledonia, and Eldorado series of type
faces, as well as a number of experimental cuttings that have never been
issued commercially.

Electra cannot be classified as either modern or old-style. It is not based
on any historical model, nor does it echo a particular penod or style It
avoids the extreme contrast between thick and thin elements which marks
most modern faces, and attempts to give a feeling of fluidity, power, and
speed

This book was composed, printed, and bound by KINGSPORT PRESS, INC.,
Kingsport, Tennessee. The paper was manufactured by s D. WARREN COM-
PANY, Boston. The typography and binding designs are based on originals
by w. A. DWIGGINS.

129557