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 ND CANDLER 
 
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GANDHI MEMORIAL 
 LIBRARY 
 
 fif ^ % ?Rr ^ eft W?=^ f R ^ ^ I 
 
 THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS DEFEAT IN 
 
 NONVIOLENCE. THE END OF VIOLENCE IS 
 
 SUREST DEFEAT. 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
ABDICATION 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/abdicationOOcandrich 
 
ABDICATION 
 
 BY 
 
 EDMUND CANDLER 
 
 AUTHOR OF " SIRI RAM ' 
 
 CONSTABLE & COMPANY Ltd. 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • SYDNEY 
 
First Published ig22 
 
 VM^L^cj /a^r^^l 
 
 Pkintbo in Great Britain bV Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, 
 
 BUNGAY, SUFFOLK. 
 

 TO 
 
 MY WIFE 
 
 M7r^7l7 
 
BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 THE UNVEILING OF LHASA 
 THE LONG ROAD TO BAGHDAD 
 THE MANTLE OF THE EAST 
 ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD 
 SIRI RAM: REVOLUTIONIST 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 II. BANARSI DAS 
 
 III. THE CAVE OF ADULLAM . 
 
 IV. BARKATULLAH 
 
 V. THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 
 
 VI. CHATTER JI » 
 
 VII. THE MAHATMA COMES 
 
 VIII. THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 
 
 IX. RILEY .... 
 
 I 
 
 28 
 
 64 
 
 109 
 
 212 
 241 
 264 
 
ABDICATION 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE 
 
 Riley was aware of a perceptible lifting of the 
 heart as he rode through the Mori Gate and left Anglo- 
 India behind him. The frank squalor of the city 
 pleased his eye if not his nose. Thompsonpur was 
 efficient, and logically planned to serve the conveniences 
 of life, but unsatisfying whether viewed by the inward 
 or the outward eye. The barracks, the cupolaed tele- 
 graph and post offices, the hideous excrescent cathedral 
 with its slate pepper-box spires, depressed him. The 
 new PubHc Gardens with their half-grown trees, each 
 bearing a zinc ticket inscribed by some sedulous 
 botanist with its scientific name, made him think of 
 real gardens and real trees; the garish flower-beds 
 of homely herbaceous borders in cool lands; and the 
 thinly sprouting turf, of genuine green lawns. The 
 road beyond was straight and broad ; one sighted folk 
 a mile before one met them. 
 
 The shops and houses on either side were neither 
 of the East nor of the West. Each was approached 
 by an in-an-out drive, bordered by a cHpped, dusty. 
 
2 ABDICATION 
 
 two-foot hedge of duranta, as ugly as a toothbrush. 
 The plinths were high, the red-brick verandahs spacious. 
 There was any amount of space in Thompsonpur. 
 In the Deputy Commissioner's compound there was 
 camping ground for a battalion ; in the Commissioner's 
 for a brigade. Government House was yet in the 
 building, but it was estimated that the grounds would 
 be as big as Bushey Park. One had left it two miles 
 behind before one reached the Mori Gate and the defile- 
 ment of the city. One had to pass the fire-engine 
 station with the chimneys of the electric power-house 
 behind it; then blocks of houses, shops, and hotels. 
 Here, too, the verandahs were roomy, the plinth high, 
 and on the frieze above the pillars, in glazed enamelled 
 letters, such words as Globe, Empire, British, Victoria, 
 European, caught the eye, canaHsing the impressions 
 of the Imperial-minded, which run in channels none 
 too broad at any time. The Curzon Cafe, the Minto 
 Motor Works, the Hardinge Home, all spoke of the 
 casual and matter-of-fact way in which we dump our 
 British institutions on an unresponsive and reluctant 
 soil. 
 
 Unresponsive, Riley noted, but not consistent in 
 its lack of response. Thompsonpur being an outpost 
 of Progress, had its statuary like other advanced 
 towns. The monument, or effigy, as Samuel Butler 
 would have called it, of Queen Victoria, the gift of 
 Rai Bahadur Muni Ram, O.B.E., Chairman of the 
 Municipality, fronted the Mori Gate. Riley reined 
 up as he passed it, and watched an adoring Jat pros- 
 trate himself on the plinth. The peasant's homage 
 was paid to a feeble amorphous old lady tottering 
 forward without a stick, with a scroll, or proclamation, 
 in her hand, which she held out cajolingly. It might 
 
THE * HARTAL' 8 
 
 have been the advertisement of some potent drug. 
 The Jat surmising something divine in the marble of 
 the figure, and its eminence, and dazzled by the white- 
 ness of it, was paying his dues. The old man's reverence 
 for the estabhshed token, whatever it might signify, 
 struck Riley as peculiarly pathetic at the moment, 
 though it did not diminish his mood of abdication. 
 He rode through the gate with a vague sense of squan- 
 dered opportunities, dreamily, neglecting to moraUse, 
 or rather to pursue his moral to a conclusion, as was 
 his wont. 
 
 Riley had forgotten what had taken him to the city. 
 He was only conscious that he had left Thompsonpur. 
 " The City," by the way, must not be confused with 
 Thompsonpur. That was the name of the " Civil 
 Station " and cantonments that had grown up all 
 round it, the headquarters of the youngest canal colony, 
 and the capital of the New Province. The walled city 
 within the gate had been known since the days of the 
 Mahdbharata, that is to say, since the dawn of time, 
 as Gopalpura. Yet, though Thompsonpur had entirely 
 eclipsed it, visually and materially, it had been per- 
 mitted to retain its ancient name. Once, in the Thomp- 
 son era, the genius of the city had narrowly escaped 
 being deposed. Riley still kept among his office files 
 the letter of Rai Bahadur Muni Ram, Chairman of 
 the Municipahty — or was it the Rai Sahib's predecessor ? 
 — in which he suggested that in conformity with fitness 
 Gopalpura should henceforth be known as Thompson- 
 pur City, or Old Thompsonpur. That was when Sir 
 Thomas Thompson (K.G.I. E., G.S.I.) was yet aUve, 
 fifty years before Riley had taken over the editorial 
 chair of the Gazette, in the happy days when the loyal 
 Indian was not afraid of betraying his honest emotions. 
 
4 ABDICATION 
 
 Muni Ram wished to prove himself the agent by 
 which the halo already irradiating the brow of the 
 creator of the youngest canal colony should attain 
 full circle. He hoped perhaps that a ray of beatifica- 
 tion might descend upon his own head. But Gopalpura 
 remained Gopalpura. Sir Thomas Thompson cared 
 for none of these things. 
 
 Once through the gate Riley left the main bazaar 
 and drifted into the network of alleys, too narrow to 
 admit wheels. By stretching out his arms he could 
 almost touch the walls on either side. On this hot 
 and sultry afternoon Gopalpura was asleep. One 
 moved in an atmosphere of ancient and undisturbed 
 peace. Muni Ram's baptismal zeal had spared the 
 Hindu quarter of the city, which had escaped Thomp- 
 sonisation in feature, as in name. Few of these houses 
 had been vulgarised by modern hands. The walls 
 of the lower stories were all dead to the street. But 
 in some the doors stood open, huge brass-studded 
 gateways, through which one had a glimpse of a court- 
 yard, a well, a thorn-tree, gentle-eyed cattle, or it 
 might be a small shrine with an image of Ganesh 
 smeared all over with red paste. An old serving- 
 woman would look up from her sleepy work at the sound 
 of horses' hoofs in the alley, or a lemon-coloured skirt 
 ghde behind a pillar as softly as a shadow. The lintels 
 of the doors were of shisham wood, the colour of walnut, 
 intricately carved. Many of the windows were cor- 
 belled, the lattices and screens fretted, the balconies 
 supported by brackets of wood or stone. In one house, 
 the property of an ancient line of astrologers, the 
 cornice was supported by rows of stone peacocks 
 purple-beaked, with purple golden-starred wings, 
 spread fanwise behind. The passage leading to it 
 
THE * HARTAL' 5 
 
 was a blind alley. Riley remembered the guilty sense 
 of prying he had when he first explored these purlieus. 
 The charm of the quarter revived in him feelings which 
 he had almost forgotten, the curiosity, the love of 
 unfamiliar things, the itching for adventure he had 
 felt six years earlier when he first came out to India — 
 " the romance of the East," still exploited by managers 
 of theatres and novehsts, though one's sensitiveness 
 to it has been dulled by the war, which has flattened 
 out everything or brought it too near to us; or, as 
 in Riley's case, by the hybrid cares of politics, and racial 
 questions which, attractive as they are to certain 
 minds as an abstract theme, have a way of presenting 
 themselves in concrete instances in their naked common- 
 place, divested of all glamour. 
 
 As Riley passed the small kiosk-like Hanuman 
 shrine set in the wall at the comer of the astrologer's 
 street and came out into Sheikh Afzal's bazar, he was 
 conscious of a stir. Evidently during the few minutes 
 he had been loitering in these backwaters, something 
 had happened ; something unusual was afoot. 
 
 An atmospheric change had come over the city. 
 Everyone was running about excitedly. He met a 
 man charging down the street with a huqa in his hand, 
 another carrying a brass mortar and pestle, yellow 
 with pounded turmeric. It seemed that for some reason 
 all the normal activities of life were held in suspense. 
 He heard the jingle of metal-ware and crockery hastily 
 packed away, the bolting of locks, the rattling of sliding 
 doors, the closing down of shutters. He was mystified 
 by the spontaneity of it all. He saw folk running 
 and looking over their shoulders, as if seeking shelter 
 from an unseen hand, as who should say, " It has come." 
 It was like a rustle in the trees before a storm. A 
 
6 ABDICATION 
 
 dust-storm or an earthquake crossed his mind. He had 
 seen people running about in just the same way in an 
 earthquake. His sense of something impending was 
 so strong that he even imagined a darkening of the 
 sky. Someone was shouting that the shops were 
 already closed in every other quarter of the city. 
 Then above the confused murmur he heard the cry 
 of " Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai," and he remembered 
 it was the hartal, Gandhi had been arrested. The 
 news had just reached the bazar. Riley had expected 
 it, but he had heard nothing an hour earlier when he 
 left Thompsonpur and the offices of the Gazette. 
 
 The rhythmic chorus v/as repeated all down the narrow 
 alleys, tributary to the bazar. Women's voices could 
 be heard chanting it from the upper stories of the houses. 
 Riley was conscious of a stir behind closed lattices; 
 purdah chicks were held aside an inch's space from the 
 doorways of the balconies, giving glimpses of pale 
 hands and faces, paler than any that could be seen in 
 the street. It was said that the women of Gopalpura 
 adored Gandhi. They had never seen him, but they 
 spoke of him as an avatar. Now their eyes, straining 
 through the lattices, were focussed on an Englishman, 
 a rare sight at any time in the purHeus of the city, 
 and at this particular moment more than a little pro- 
 vocative. Riley would have given a great deal to 
 read their fears and hopes, the nature and dimensions 
 of their hostiHty. They loved Gandhi because they 
 thought him a holy man, and believed that he had the 
 power to rid India of the incubus of which he, Riley, 
 was a symbol; yet Gandhi their prospective saviour, 
 was arrested, while the casual Englishman, of the race 
 of the Mahatma's persecutors, the visible refutation 
 of his pride, was at large, a soHtary intruder isolated 
 
THE * HARTAL' 7 
 
 among many thousands. And no one laid hands on 
 him. He could imagine rays of malevolence emitted 
 from behind the latticed windows, pricking his sensitive 
 skin Hke sparks. He was aware of the sullen gloom 
 of the faces in the crowd, the hostile glances thrown 
 at him from the balconies. No doubt they believed 
 all manner of evil of his Enghsh soul. Yet their 
 hostility aroused no resentment in him. "It must 
 be beastly being run by foreigners," he thought; 
 *' I should hate it. Of course it was aR right before 
 they began to worry about these things. What a 
 bore it must be to be poUtically minded, if one happens 
 to be of a subject race." He felt less charitable when 
 men spat as he passed. A potsherd thrown from an 
 upper window struck the closed shutters of a shop, 
 glanced against his mare's quarters and set her plung- 
 ing. He was glad to have a horse imder him and to 
 feel again the illogical sense of security he had derived 
 more than once when imder fire from being mounted. 
 Some hairy-breasted, half-naked fanatic clutched 
 at his bridle. He struck at the man's hand with his 
 whip and urged his mare on. The crowd yielded and he 
 passed through into the open square by the mosque 
 pursued only by hoots. He heard the cry of " Topi- 
 walla." The chant of mourning became one of hate. 
 All down the street behind him the dirge for the ma- 
 hatma ceased, and there arose a more sinister and angry 
 chorus, "Hai Hai Rowlatt Bill." It followed him 
 through the square by Amir Khan's mosque and the 
 relative quiet of Hari Mandi. The echo of the rhythmic 
 beat of it sounded in his ears till he passed through the 
 Baradari Gate and regained the complacent security 
 of Thompsonpur. 
 
ABDICATION 
 
 II 
 
 Riley had almost threaded the city when his eye 
 was caught by a signboard emblazoned with the rising 
 sun, and he remembered for the first time since he 
 entered the Mori Gate, what had brought him to 
 Gopalpura. The red ball of fire with porcupine bristles 
 such as one sees on Persian Consulates in the East 
 irradiating the lion, advertised to the world the offices 
 of the Roshni — a word of which the literal, though in 
 this instance euphemistic, interpretation is " Light." 
 The particular torch-bearer in Gopalpura was one 
 Barkatullah, a fanatical firebrand who was seldom 
 seen, but whose shrill insistent voice with its message 
 of hate penetrated to every city in the north of India, 
 and even disturbed the peace of mind of bureaucracy 
 in Thompsonpur. Memsahibs had heard of the Roshni 
 and Barkatullah. The editor's name was associated 
 vaguely with gathering storms, and in the mind of 
 the provident with such questions as whether it was 
 worth while booking a return passage to Bombay. 
 The Deputy Commissioner knew him, and the Super- 
 intendent of Police; his record filled two almirahs in 
 the offices of the C.I.D. But apart from the policeman 
 and the magistrate his encounters with EngHshmen 
 were negligible. Riley was probably the only member 
 of the Thompsonpur Club who wished to extend them. 
 He believed in contact. If only they met us and knew 
 us, he argued, it would be all right. All this alienation 
 is more than half our own fault. Naturally folk cannot 
 come to an understanding who are always shouting 
 angrily at each other through an impenetrable thick- 
 set hedge ; naturally they are blind to any human trait 
 
THE * HARTAL' 9 
 
 that may be discovered in the unseen monster lurking 
 on the other side. But " young Riley " was an eccentric, 
 a visionary. His tastes were unorthodox, his sym- 
 pathies suspect. He was always hobnobbing with 
 riff-raff and poking his nose into queer places. If 
 it had not been for a certain pleasant air he had, and 
 the fact that he had earned an M.G. and a bar to his 
 D.S.O. in Mesopotamia, one might have taken him 
 for a Radical. Most men you met at the bar or in the 
 billiard- or bridge-room at the Thompsonpur Club 
 would tell you that he was letting the Gazette down, 
 and that it was a great pity that he had been appointed 
 to act for Willsdon when he was at home on leave. 
 " Willsdon was fine. He let the beggars have it. But 
 you never knew how to take Riley or what he would 
 be at next. That last leader he stuck in about Gandhi 
 was positively anti-British. It might have been written 
 by a Babu." 
 
 Opportunities for contact on the afternoon of April 
 loth were not propitious in Gopalpura; or, rather, 
 contact was likely to take the form of collision. More- 
 over, there was no sign of Ufe in the Roshni as Riley 
 rode by. The " Light " was extinguished. The doors 
 were closed and padlocked on the street. The illumina- 
 tor was away swinging his torch elsewhere no doubt; 
 the blunder of Gandhi's arrest had added lustre to it. 
 Riley wondered what had happened to Banarsi Das, 
 who, he heard, had become Barkatullah's protege 
 though he was about to be rejected by him. He pic- 
 tured him in the procession, one of the torch-bearers, 
 crying out with the others, " Hai Hai Rowlatt Bill; 
 Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai." He, too, would be stuffed 
 full of rumours and Hes. It was on account of Banarsi 
 Das that Riley had come to the city. Skene had written 
 
10 ABDICATION 
 
 to him from Gandeshwar asking him to look after his 
 old pupil, who had drifted after many failures into the 
 Roshni office, though apparently Barkatullah had no 
 further use for him. Skene mentioned two or three 
 appointments he had obtained for Banarsi Das, none 
 of which he had held for any length of time. Riley 
 had openings for proof-readers and had promised to 
 give the young man a chance, though he was not a 
 promising proteg6. He might, of course, have sent 
 for Banarsi Das, but he preferred to look in at the 
 Roshni office casually. It seemed a good chance of 
 getting into touch with the Illuminator. As a further 
 pretext for his visit he had a profitable scheme to dis- 
 cuss with Barkatullah which would secure the Roshni 
 many columns of advertisements. Riley was one 
 of many whom Skene, the Principal of Gandeshwar 
 College, had asked to advance the interests of Banarsi 
 Das. The collective efforts of heads of departments 
 on behalf of this worthless young miscreant called to 
 mind the birth-pangs of mountains in the nativity 
 of a mouse. But Banarsi Das had a special claim 
 for tutelage, if not for sympathy, and the weight of 
 responsibility sat heavily on Skene. Riley had heard 
 his story. The youth had been the bosom friend of 
 Siri Ram who had murdered Merivale at Gandeshwar 
 railway station and who would have been hanged for 
 it in Gandeshwar Gaol if he had not taken poison in 
 his condemned cell a few hours before the moment 
 appointed for his dispatch. Banarsi Das had been 
 taken to see Siri Ram in the prison. He had bent over 
 his dead body when it was still warm, and tried to 
 resuscitate it into life. Skene had led him away, 
 weeping bitterly. After that Banarsi Das had, figura- 
 tively, fed out of the hand of Skene for a year, a contrite 
 
THE ' HARTAL ' 11 
 
 youth, devoted to his Principal and seeing in him a 
 benevolent impersonation of the Raj. Riley had 
 Siri Ram's story from Skene. A more pathetic history 
 he had never heard. A weak youth, compact of vanity, 
 yet not devoid of virtue, he had become the dupe and 
 scapegoat of the revolutionists, who had dragooned 
 every generous instinct in him and perverted it, and 
 then led him blindfold to the sacrificial stone. 
 
 Banarsi Das, Skene believed, or such was his impres- 
 sion of him as a student, was a youth of the same kidney, 
 the prey of chance influences, equally impressionable, 
 gulUble, and unstable. Skene had been faithful to 
 his unspoken vow made over Siri Ram's body in 
 Gandeshwar Gaol, to help the youth as far as he was 
 able. Riley had not all the details of Banarsi Das' 
 record. He knew that he had been a clerk in a Coopera- 
 tive Credit Society, then a master in a Government 
 School. He had given up this post, quite in the manner 
 of Siri Ram. No one could accuse Banarsi Das of 
 initiative; yet in a sense it might be said of him that 
 he was a non-cooperator before the age of non-coopera- 
 tion. Now to all appearances he was being swept 
 off his feet by the new tide of agitation. His presence 
 in the Roshni office could mean nothing else. He, 
 too, had become a cultivator of the plant " Rumour " 
 in the garden of lies. The disturbance Riley had 
 witnessed in the bazar had been a ripple of the Rowlatt 
 Act. He remembered how the He had been born, 
 and how confidence in Government had been destroyed 
 in a week. On Monday it was given out that a new 
 Act had been passed against the liberties of the people. 
 On Tuesday they were saying in the bazar, " Indians 
 may never be seen together in crowds. It is forbidden 
 that four persons should talk together in the street." 
 
12 ABDICATION 
 
 On Wednesday it was said, " No longer will one be able 
 to follow the marriage ceremonies of one's own relations. 
 The heart of Government is black towards the people. 
 This is the reward of our services in the war." Thurs- 
 day repeated, " The hated police will supervise the 
 funerals of our dear relatives. Government is about 
 to seize our grain." And Friday, " Even family 
 gatherings and meetings for prayers are prohibited, 
 and if an ill-wisher gives a report to the police about 
 anyone, however false it may be, that person will be 
 arrested and cast into prison without any form of 
 trial." On Saturday it was darkly whispered, " Our 
 brides are to be examined by doctors; their dowries 
 are to be taxed. Land revenue will be doubled and 
 trebled. Liberty is dead. There is nothing before us 
 but ruin and shame." 
 
 Months passed and none of these dreadful things 
 happened, yet rumour kept resentment alive. How 
 much was deliberately grafted on the plant, how much 
 grew of itself, was one of the mysteries of the East that 
 are never determined. Evidently the will to believe 
 was there. The same kind of talk must have been 
 heard in the bazars in '57 when the story of the pig- 
 defiled cartridges was propagated with its progeny of 
 lies. The nature of the soil, Riley morahsed, is more 
 important than the seed that falls on it. Was it our 
 fault, he wondered, that the ground had become too 
 sterile to bear any decent crop? The Rowlatt Act 
 certainly was bad husbandry, a tactless measure at 
 the time. Yet if it had not been that, it would have 
 been something else. Had the Bill never been moved 
 or passed, the agitator would have found some other 
 measure to torture into the expression of bureaucratic 
 malevolence. In the old days he had been content 
 
THE HARTAL' 18 
 
 with the perversion of the intelligentsia; now he was 
 turning to the political education of the masses. It 
 was not a pleasant thing to watch the infection at 
 work. In that lull before the storm when Riley found 
 himself in Sheikh Afzal's bazar he felt as if he had 
 been in contact with some spirit. If he had not heard 
 its voice, he had been watching people who were listen- 
 ing to it. Afterwards he thought of Rumour as a 
 person, lurking in alleys, and behind the great wooden 
 doors of havelis, dwelling in temples, and mosques and 
 ruined tombs, an ugly monster, erect or latent, fed 
 with lies, and sometimes — and here was more sustaining 
 nourishment — with half-truths. 
 
 HI 
 
 Half an hour after he had passed through the Bara- 
 dari Gate the club received him, sohd, homely, inviting, 
 a fortress against the invasion of hybrid cares. There 
 were times when he hated the place; to-night he was 
 only conscious of its compensations. He approached 
 the bar with stealth, peering through the glass of the 
 folding doors — a somewhat apprehensive reconnais- 
 sance. All manner of men were collected there, 
 standing in groups at the bar, or sitting in arm-chairs 
 round little tables, men he would run miles to avoid, 
 and men after his own heart. He looked for Dean 
 the policeman, lately transferred from Gandeshwar. 
 Dean would be able to tell him about the arrest of 
 Gandhi and whether there was any likelihood of trouble ; 
 but Dean was away, probably in the bazar stemming 
 the tide. 
 
 The abdars were carrying round trays of whisky-and- 
 
14 ABDICATION 
 
 soda in champagne glasses. Thompsonpur had evolved 
 this system of the pau, or quarter-peg, by which one 
 could drink many times between sunset and dinner- 
 time. Certain old stagers were already ensconced 
 in their accustomed arm-chairs and hailed everybody 
 who came into the room : " Have a 'pau. Have a 
 pau. Abdar, two more, three more, four more pans." 
 The new-comer would be drawn into one of the circles 
 and in his turn would order paus all round. And so 
 the groups swelled and multipHed and split up and 
 sorted themselves. A few would drop away to play 
 bridge or pool, or to read La Vie or The Morning Post. 
 Others who, after playing some ball game, had washed 
 and invested themselves in white evening dress, would 
 stay on and talk, disjointedly after the manner of their 
 kind, until nine o'clock, discussing horses or motors 
 or tennis or golf, deploring the good old days, and dis- 
 covering again how Government had ceased to govern 
 and how everything and everybody was going to the 
 dogs. Political discussions generally began and ended 
 here. The meaning of the Reforms was but dimly 
 apprehended. It would be too painful to pull aside 
 the curtain; if, indeed, things had gone as far as the 
 staging of them. The reactionary element in Thomp- 
 sonpur felt that they had played their part when they 
 had damned the Secretary of State, and expressed 
 a pious hope that he might be physically involved 
 in the debris he was pulling down about their ears — 
 hard workers, disinterested, giving their best as a 
 matter of course and expecting no thanks for it, yet 
 utterly incapable of getting inside an Indian's skin 
 and seeing his point of view. Nationalists were ana- 
 thema to them, and talk of Swaraj, ^ on the immediate 
 1 Self-government. 
 
THE * HARTAL' 15 
 
 horizon, sedition. Not that there were wanting 
 thoughtful folk in the club who were earnestly scheming 
 how to adjust themselves and the machinery of adminis- 
 tration to the new order. Riley noticed at least two 
 of them at the bar. He also noted the absence of 
 youth. The younger generation of Thompsonpur 
 were mostly in the Gymkhana, dancing. Someone 
 had observed that they looked more tired than their 
 seniors, though they were certainly untroubled by 
 pohtical cares and were always ready to dance to a 
 gramophone, after their solemn fashion, if there were 
 no band. If they toiled and spun, it was without 
 zeal, yet they get through their work somehow. As 
 for the dispensations of hfe, they let nothing go by; 
 they took what came to their hand and consumed it 
 joylessly. 
 
 As his eyes explored the hall in search of good- 
 fellowship they fell upon the ample form of Skene 
 filling the most spacious arm-chair. Riley pushed 
 the door open and approached him from beliind, 
 feeling at least five years younger as he smote his old 
 friend on the shoulder. Skene caught his forearm 
 and drew him down gently into the chair by his side. 
 Riley felt as if he were being lowered into it by a crane. 
 The placid strength of the man, his quiet responsive- 
 ness, that unexpected rumble of a laugh, that seemed 
 to shake his whole frame though it proceeded from him 
 automatically, without visible effort, dehghted Riley. 
 He liked Skene better than anyone in Thompsonpur. 
 His benedictory " young Riley " warmed him. 
 
 Hill and Bolton, the two other men at the table, 
 echoed Skene's " young Riley," though a little quizzi- 
 cally. Riley with his quick sensitiveness detected a 
 note of irony in the intonation of their greeting, a more 
 
16 ABDICATION 
 
 qualified acceptance. He saw himself as he appeared 
 in their eyes, his errors in conformity, the kinks in 
 him to be straightened out, the excrescences to be 
 smoothed and flattened down. 
 
 '* Why didn't you tell me you were coming? " he 
 asked Skene. ''When did you leave Gandeshwar? 
 Have you come about Banarsi Das? " 
 
 *' No, young Riley. One greater than he has called 
 me. Even the Lat Sahib." 
 
 "Haven't you heard, yoimg Riley? And you a 
 newspaper man. Skene is our new D.P.I. The reporter 
 of The Standard is waiting outside. You must get in 
 your biographical sketch first. Where's Who's Who ? 
 Publications, " Misogyny," " Banting," " From Bar- 
 barism to Babuism," Clubs, The AthencBum, and the 
 " Thompsonpur Pig and Whistle," Recreation, ** The 
 Corruption of Youth." Good old Skene. Abdar, 
 four more pans." 
 
 The bald-headed, eye-glassed, quizzical Hill was in 
 form. Exchange had gone up to one-and-eight. 
 
 " But who is Banarsi Das ? " asked Bolton. 
 
 " Barnasi Das is a young revolutionist Skene is 
 interested in." 
 
 " He turns them out by the dozen," said Hill. 
 
 "By the way, have you heard about Gandhi?" 
 Riley asked. 
 
 " Now we are up-to-date, young Riley. You will 
 have to decide between him and Skene for precedence 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " I was in the city an hour ago. Complete hartal 
 in ten minutes. They threw brickbats at me. I 
 was glad to get out." 
 
 " Young Riley been studying the psychology of 
 the Indian masses. We will have Thompsonpur in 
 
THE aiARTAL' 17 
 
 The Quarterly, ' The Political Sensitiveness of an Indian 
 City,' by Brian Riley. Did they hit you? " 
 
 " What does Gandhi think he is out for? " Bolton 
 asked in the detached academic voice of the Secretariat. 
 
 " He's out for himself, of course. The man's a prize 
 charlatan." 
 
 Riley surveyed Hill's bald pate and colourless eyes 
 with tired contempt. " No wonder they hate us," 
 he thought, and he was tempted to say so. But Skene, 
 to whom the face of his young friend was an open book, 
 intervened to avert controversy. " Gandhi is out for 
 Swaraj," he said. " He does not think we are doling 
 it out quick enough." It came better from Skene. 
 
 Riley, however, would not be side-tracked. " Have 
 you ever met Gandhi? " he asked Hill. 
 
 " No, I haven't. But I know his kind. He is 
 like a mischievous monkey on a tea-table. He upsets 
 everything and doesn't even get away with the cream." 
 
 Bolton blinked at the vulgar metaphor. 
 
 " I gather," he ventured obliquely at Riley, *'that 
 Government has never set its face against Con-stit-ut- 
 i-on-al agitation." Bolton was incapable of slurring 
 one of the six syllables of " constitutional." 
 
 Hill's directness was relatively refreshing. " You 
 don't imagine, young Riley, that if Gandhi were to 
 upset our apple-cart he could run his own show ? " 
 
 " I don't. But I can imagine him wanting to. And 
 I can imagine that you or I, if we were under-dogs, 
 might kick a little, and if we unseated the bureau- 
 crats " 
 
 ** Metaphors, Riley. Soul of The Quarterly ! Have 
 it one way, horse or dog." 
 
 " Well, we wouldn't worry much what sort of a mess 
 came of it so long as we were left to muddle along in our 
 c 
 
18 ABDICATION 
 
 own way. I can't forget that Hun policeman I used 
 to see in my nightmares at the comer of Piccadilly. 
 I almost felt him in April '15. In April '18 he filled 
 the pavement. I couldn't squeeze in between him 
 and the wall." 
 
 " There is no analogy." 
 
 " There never is," Riley exploded, looking fiercely 
 at Hill. The other two regarded him uncomfortably. 
 " Young Riley " was so terribly in earnest. He would 
 like to have added, " Why can't you be honest with 
 yourself? A little imagination. Other people have 
 feelings like us. But you bureaucrats never look at 
 facts. Your vision is bounded by convenience. Nothing 
 contrary to the accepted decencies and traditions has 
 any real existence for you. You can't see, or sym- 
 pathise with, anything that does not square with your 
 comfort. Yet you think you are honest." 
 
 " There never is any analogy," he repeated. " Or 
 rather you refuse to see any." 
 
 " Ghost of Thompson," exclaimed Hill. " I believe 
 young Riley is going to whitewash Gandhi in the 
 Gazette." 
 
 " It is inconceivable to me," objected the Secretariat, 
 " that you can justify this agitation." 
 
 " I am not justifying it. I am explaining it." 
 
 " Our Aryan brother has not the shadow of a griev- 
 ance now we have given him the Reforms. What would 
 he have said to the Montagu scheme three years ago ? " 
 
 Riley was reminded of the lady, mildly interested in 
 politics, who had consulted him on the P. and 0. coming 
 out. 
 
 " But now they are going to have the Reforms they 
 will be satisfied, won't they? " she asked. Riley had 
 not been sufficiently reassuring. 
 
THE 'HARTAL' 19 
 
 " Not satisfied ! Huge chunks of liberty thrown 
 at them. What wolves ! " 
 
 " What I should like to know," said Skene, *' is 
 exactly how much they believe of these rumours. 
 I would give a good deal to see the British Raj through 
 the eyes of Banarsi Das." 
 
 Riley thought he could see Banarsi Das' bogey 
 personij&ed in Hill. He even pursued the image in its 
 physical outline. " Hill's head is like a turnip," he 
 thought, " in shape and complexion. A turnip lantern 
 would not be a very far-fetched simile. Only the 
 candle in it shines through the pores of the skin and 
 not through the eyes." 
 
 " I think I understand what these extremists feel," 
 he said, unconsciously staring at Hill as he concluded 
 his hostile review of his physiognomy. " Or rather, 
 what they have made themselves feel, and it comes 
 to the same thing. Put it in our own bat,^ and it runs 
 somehow like this : * We have stuck it out. You've 
 bled us white. We have played the game. And now 
 when it is all over and we expect peace, confidence, 
 concessions, rewards, you have given us the Rowlatt 
 Act.'" 
 
 " But we haven't bled them white. And the Rowlatt 
 Act does not touch their lives." 
 
 " I know. The Rowlatt Act is only a symbol, 
 but they have twisted a tissue of lies out of it. If 
 it hadn't been the Rowlatt Act it would have been 
 something else. The tragic thing is they are deter- 
 mined to hate us." 
 
 " And what's your remedy? " 
 
 " We've got to make them trust us." 
 
 " And how will you do that ? " 
 1 Language.^ 
 
20 ABDICATION 
 
 " One way would be to let them run their own 
 army. They will never be capable of self-government 
 until they are capable of defending themselves." 
 
 " Incidentally you would give them the opportunity 
 of cutting our throats in the progress." 
 
 " We'll have to take the risk. If we are sincere we 
 must trust them and go the whole way. If we are 
 not sincere, then the sooner we clear out of the country 
 the better." 
 
 " Good God ! " Hill gasped. " This beats Gandhi. 
 The man's a defeatist. Ghost of Thompson ! An 
 anti-British firebrand in the editorial chair of The 
 Thompsonpiiv Gazette.*' 
 
 He rose wearily and drifted to the reading-room, 
 remembering that he had not seen last week's Capital. 
 Bolton was speechless. He left the table without a 
 word and followed Hill. Between them they drafted a 
 letter of protest to the Directors, pointing out Riley's 
 unfitness to edit the Gazette. 
 
 Skene and Riley were left alone. " Abdar," Skene 
 called, " two more pans.'' He admitted his young 
 friend's courage but deplored his want of discretion. 
 " Now, tell me," he said, " exactly what you mean. 
 I am not quite sure that I agree with your panacea. 
 You say they don't trust us, but can we trust them ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not. Still we are pledged to self-govern- 
 ment and we have got to see it through. They must 
 have their own organisations of self-defence. Other- 
 wise the scheme means nothing ; it is mere camouflage. 
 Votes do not give liberty to an unarmed people." 
 
 " They would kill us off first, and then begin mas- 
 sacring themselves." 
 
 " We can't have it both ways. If we are sincere 
 about giving them self-government we must act as 
 
THE * HARTAL' 21 
 
 if we believed in it. You will never get the Indian 
 to believe that he is a free man until you trust him 
 with arms. This scheme of modified Swaraj under 
 an alien military administration won't deceive anyone. 
 We might as well say to them, ' When your hearts 
 and natures are changed we will return what we have 
 taken from you. When the impossible has become 
 possible we will deal it out to you joyously, bountifully, 
 with both hands.' " 
 
 " Now you are talking like a leading article. For 
 Heaven's sake don't put that in the Gazette, young 
 Riley. Your Swadeshi army is all very well on paper, 
 but you know as well as I do that we cannot trust 
 them." 
 
 " If we cannot trust them there are only two things 
 to do. Either we must clear out of India and take our 
 army with us, or we must drop all talk of Swaraj, 
 and hold the country by armed force. Then what of 
 the pledge ? Even if the Home Government consented 
 to turning the country into an armed camp it would 
 only be for a year or two. The masses are already 
 being taught to hate us. The nationahst leaders will 
 get at the army next. After that the deluge." 
 
 " You do not think about our responsibility to the 
 masses," Skene said, and refused to be drawn further 
 into politics. He saw in Riley's attitude the reverse 
 side of defeatism, a kind of deranged chivalry. He had 
 to remind himself sometimes of his young friend's rare 
 sincerity and independence of thought, to avoid saying 
 things that might hurt him. Besides, one could not 
 reconcile defeatism with a bar to the D.S.O. and a 
 Military Cross. He was weary to death of the racial 
 question and felt that he would be sick and giddy if he 
 let his mind revolve any longer in the vicious circle. 
 
22 ABDICATION 
 
 He leant back in his deep chair, still and silent, in a 
 state of abstraction which Riley had come to define 
 as " a Skene-like trance,'* as if suddenly isolated, very 
 placid to the outward view, though his fixed gaze 
 and the clouds of tobacco-smoke which he emitted with 
 the sequence of rhythm betrayed inward controversy. 
 
 Riley felt that it would be an intrusion to speak 
 to him. He put the case to himself for the hundredth 
 time, his mind revolving like a squirrel, seeking a way 
 out, but brought up by the bars at each end of the cage. 
 What is to be done ? We must either go back on our 
 word, or betray the masses who still believe in us. 
 Government in its attempt to avoid either evil is falling 
 into both. Why cannot they look facts in the face? 
 The nose of bureaucracy is glued down to files. Simla 
 has not got the pluck of a weevil. All they care about 
 is appearances, making a case for themselves, carrying 
 on a little bit longer. They have no contact with 
 reality, never had any. Not one of them has the imagi- 
 nation of a louse. The Home Government has abdi- 
 cated. Why cannot the Government of India recognise 
 it and let the people see that we are really handing 
 over? Instead they stand on the brink shivering, 
 afraid to take the plunge. Conciliation by driblets, 
 each new concession wrung out of them by agitation 
 and conceded by fear. Naturally the impression is 
 that we mean to hang on to the substance as long as 
 we can and put them off with the image or shadow. 
 They do not believe in us. Why should they? We 
 do not trust them, and we are not even honest with 
 ourselves. Yet there is not a soul in this club who 
 understands Gandhi's point of view. 
 
 " Do not brood, young Riley." Skene had come 
 out of his clouds to wake him from his troubled reverie. 
 
THE 'HARTAL' 28 
 
 " I wish you were not so politically-minded. Give 
 the city a rest and go to the villages. You will see 
 our prestige is not so dead as you think. My college 
 students are most of them sensible lads. But damn 
 politics ! Come and have a rubber of bridge." 
 
 But politics was not to be exorcised. Riley might 
 have allowed himself to be detached if he had not 
 looked up and seen Dean standing at the door of the 
 bar. Everyone was asking the policeman about the 
 hartal. There had not been much excitement in the 
 city, he told them. People had seemed rather bored 
 with it. Some of the shopkeepers had put up their 
 shutters sulkily. They did not like closing; yet not 
 one of them had dared to show indifference. Dean 
 had been amused at their tired assumption of woe. 
 He described a hunniah locking up his chests, and 
 then his door, with deliberate irony, like an actor 
 forced to play a part that irritated him. The man 
 had put the key of his safe into his pocket with a stage 
 gesture, as much as to say, " Well then, if you will have 
 it, go on with your silly hartal. No one can say that 
 I stand aside. But if God does not give you more sense, 
 I hope the Sircar may whip it into you." 
 
 The impression Dean gave was of a somewhat per- 
 functory demonstration. '* Of course there were the 
 usual firebrands," he added, " jumping about and 
 working themselves up into a frenzy with an excited 
 mob at their heels, hoping for loot. Barkatullah was 
 one of them. He waved a black handkerchief on a 
 stick. One of my sergeants heard him howling out, 
 ' Handcuffs are ornaments for men. A nation that 
 forgets its martyrs is dead.' " 
 
 Riley told Dean that he was on his way to Barka- 
 tullah's office when he ran into the hartal. 
 
24 ABDICATION 
 
 " You would not have found him at home," Dean 
 said. " The Roshni Press was closed down this morn- 
 ing. Barkatullah's security has been confiscated.** 
 
 Skene had a picture of Banarsi Das again adrift. 
 He saw him on the skirts of the hartal, a pathetic figure, 
 aping defiance, hugging his vanity with both hands. A 
 little uncertain of it perhaps, and conscious of the 
 disparity of the image he carried about with him and 
 its market worth. Skene could see, through Banarsi 
 Das' eyes, a perspective of petitions, chairs in verandahs, 
 admittance after long waiting into offices, the " sun- 
 dried bureaucrat " inside under the punkah, physically 
 hemmed in with a fortification of files, and morally 
 inaccessible by reason of his thick skin and his inability 
 to appreciate what Banarsi Das had himself described 
 in more than one application as " a winning personality 
 and a commanding appearance." 
 
 " Do not forget," Skene reminded Riley. " Banarsi 
 Das is now on your staff. He has enough English 
 for proof-reading, possibly too much. You will get 
 plenty of amusement out of him, if nothing else." 
 
 Here Dean was detached by Parkinson, the Chief 
 Secretary, a rare visitant at the bar, evidently drawn 
 there to-night in search of information. Parkinson 
 emerged from his office at least half an hour after 
 everyone else had finished playing games. No, he 
 would not have a pan or a vermouth. The care 
 entrenched on his high brow rebuked Dean*s idle oifer. 
 Riley watched him nod his head mechanically as he 
 noted one point after another in Dean's narrative, 
 and he knew that each nod registered a paragraph in 
 a mental file. He has got it all right, Riley thought 
 to himself. He will have it on paper if he has to com- 
 pose the file in his sleep. It will be all there, what 
 
THE * HARTAL' 25 
 
 they said and did, all the political catchwords and 
 inflammatory speeches, nothing omitted save the essence 
 and soul of the thing. Parkinson would not have 
 the ghost of an idea what anyone of them were feeling. 
 He knew nothing of men. To him Gandhi was a 
 seditionist, BarkatuUah was a seditionist, men of the 
 same category, whom it was Government's business 
 to prosecute. He saw no difference between them save 
 that one was more dangerous than the other. Riley 
 would have told him that Gandhi was an avatar, 
 a leader of men, an embodied protest quivering with 
 humiliation at being a subject of an aUen race; and 
 Barkatullah a vulgar tub-thumper, a notoriety seeker, 
 out for himself, an exploiter of nationalism for his own 
 profit. 
 
 " The only thing to do with agitators like Gandhi 
 and Barkatullah," Parkinson was saying, and Riley 
 overhearing him was tempted to bellow his scorn in 
 head-lines : " Gandhi and Barkatullah ! Garibaldi 
 and Guy Fawkes ! Mind and Matter ! Mercury 
 and Mud ! " But he only gasped, '* Poor old Par- 
 kinson." 
 
 Skene heard him. " Poor old Parkinson," he 
 repeated. " A big brain, but a corpse. If he had not 
 been dead for at least five years he would be the Lieu- 
 tenant-Governor of the New Province." 
 
 The Chief Secretary left the bar with an almost 
 conscious aloofness. Riley thought he looked more 
 melancholy and funereal than ever. He muttered 
 to Skene, " A mute at the obsequies of an empire." 
 
 Dean, released from his cross-examination, joined 
 them at their little table as Riley was speaking. 
 " According to old Parkinson," he said, " the procession 
 to the grave has already started. There's been a 
 
26 ABDICATION 
 
 rising at Amritsar and shooting at Lahore. At Am- 
 ritsar they've been kilKng EngUshmen and burning 
 them in kerosene oil and knocking lady missionaries 
 on the head. They say a Miss Sherwood is dead or 
 dying. They've looted all the banks and killed the 
 managers, burnt the churches and destroyed the post 
 offices and telegraph offices. At six o'clock the city 
 was in the hands of the mob, and it was touch and go 
 whether they broke through into the civil lines." 
 
 It became known that Dean was the repository of 
 news. As he spoke half a dozen men crowded to his 
 table. Hill and Bolton joined the group again with 
 Galton, the A.D.C., who had the last official messages. 
 " The telegraph wires are all cut," Galton told them. 
 " Lahore is isolated except by wireless. They are 
 sacking and burning railway stations all over the place 
 and pulling up the rails. It looks like a general 
 rising." 
 
 Osborne, the G.S.O.I., said that a Gurkha havildar 
 had told him at half-past six that there had been a 
 
 mutiny in Lahore cantonments. The Punjabis 
 
 had despatched their British officers and were marching 
 on the city. " How the deuce do they pick up these 
 rumours? We've only just heard about Amritsar 
 ourselves." 
 
 "The Punjab is lucky to have O'Dwyer," Hill 
 remarked. " He is the last man to stand any damned 
 nonsense. But what about the troops here ? " 
 
 " Our troops are all right," Osborne said. " They'll 
 soon wipe up the riff-raff if there is any trouble in the 
 bazar." 
 
 Bolton asked Dean if there was much excitement in 
 the city. Dean did not expect trouble. '' Thompson- 
 pur is too busy making money," he said. " If it were 
 
THE * HARTAL' 27 
 
 a little poorer or a little more prosperous, it would be 
 more dangerous." 
 
 " But, of course, if the Punjab goes " Hill ejacu- 
 lated. Then he caught Riley's eye. " And this is 
 the crowd you want to arm ! " he added. 
 
 Riley returned his stare. He said nothing, but he 
 felt that fathoms had been added to the gulf that 
 divided him from nearly every soul in the room. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 BANARSI DAS 
 
 Banarsi Das sat alone in the Roshni office composing 
 articles that were never published. Barkatullah was 
 on tour in the New Province and the Punjab seeking 
 aid from the patriotic for the revival of his Press. He 
 had foreseen that the temporary extinction of The 
 Roshni would be no unmixed evil ; indeed, his provoca- 
 tion of the official extinguisher had been deliberate, 
 though he had not quite realised how the glamour 
 of persecution would irradiate him. Parkinson and 
 his undiscerning school were not the only folk who spoke 
 of him now in the same breath with Gandhi. 
 
 In Barkatullah's inflammatory articles in The 
 Roshni the incitement to bloodshed had been but 
 thinly veiled. He had taken care to be offensive 
 enough to provoke confiscation, yet not so offensive 
 as to endanger the security of his own person. He had 
 steered a happy course. Now he was a popular hero. 
 He had earned the crown of martyrdom, and none 
 knew better than he how to turn a halo to profit. 
 The subscriptions he had collected already amounted 
 to twice the sum needed for the new security, and no 
 one would dream of asking to see the account. Prob- 
 ably it never entered anyone's head that Barkatullah 
 
 28 
 
BANARSI DAS 29 
 
 was not making a good thing out of it. Just as in the 
 days when The RosJini first shone on the horizon of 
 Gopalpura, nobody troubled about what came of the 
 fund collected by the editor, and contributed by pious 
 Moslems, in aid of the wives and orphans of Turks 
 murdered by the truculent Armenians in AnatoUa. 
 In Gopalpura, when the cause is patriotism, one pays 
 one's mite and automatically becomes a patriot. No 
 true nationahst questions the motives of another. 
 Ideals must not be smirched, not on paper at any rate. 
 It does not do to drag one's fellow-patriots before the 
 tribunal of a superior alien code, or to provide a text 
 for the irony of The Thompsonpur Gazette. Besides, 
 what does a little leakage matter ? It is by giving that 
 one obtains merit. The main thing is to appear 
 selfiessly devoted to the Turk. So when Shans-ud- 
 din, a rival editor, unkindly suggested that the Roshni 
 fund had never benefited the widows and orphans in 
 Anatolia for whom it was intended, he was howled 
 down. His patriotism was impugned. From the day 
 of his protest he began to lose in influence and impor- 
 tance. The circulation of his paper. The Aj, dwindled. 
 The Roshni, in the meanwhile, prospered; its rays 
 illumined an ever-widening field, penetrating far 
 beyond the New Province and the Punjab. 
 
 BarkatuUah had suffered what he imagined was an 
 injustice at the hands of Government, and now he 
 could indulge his personal resentment and his vanity 
 at the same time. He was becoming a man of con- 
 sequence. Wherever he halted a small crowd met him 
 at the railway station and he was conducted by a band 
 of volunteers, never more than eight or nine, to the 
 house of some local magnate, generally a pleader. 
 It is true that the volunteers did not march in step, 
 
30 ABDICATION 
 
 that they were ragged and unkempt and had no kind 
 of uniform, and instead of arms carried poles over their 
 shoulders with pennons emblazoned with the star and 
 crescent, all sloping at different angles. It was a 
 demonstration that might have been dispersed by a 
 single policeman. Nevertheless it was comforting to 
 pride. Vindictiveness had the sanction of patriotism. 
 Barkatullah woke up every morning with a sense of 
 moral worth. He had also the material satisfaction of 
 the subscriptions. It is not often that virtue is 
 remunerative. 
 
 Banarsi Das had none of Barkatullah's consolations. 
 He sat in the shuttered office of The Roshni, inarticulate. 
 These were dark days. His friend, Amba Pershad, 
 when he visited the Roshni to borrow BarkatuUah's 
 Who is Who in India, found the sub-editor in deep 
 dejection. Piles of manuscript littered his desk, 
 written in that round disarming handwriting which 
 Skene knew so well. Banarsi Das rose to meet Amba 
 Pershad. " I cannot utter," he said dolefully, pointing 
 at his unpublished articles with a pathetic effort to 
 appear j aunty and self-assured. Amba Pershad fancied 
 he saw the track of a tear under the rim of his spectacles. 
 Banarsi Das threw his Httle round cap on the mountain 
 of papers in which his eloquence lay obscured. His 
 eye brightened at the prospect of declaiming a passage 
 or two to his friend. ** The British will soon be crossing 
 the sea," he said. " You have read what the Satans 
 have done at Gujranwala? They are not long for 
 Bharat Mata." 
 
 The Punjab atrocities were the theme of the hour. 
 Nothing else was talked about in Gopalpura. The 
 Rowlatt Act and even Gandhi's arrest were forgotten. 
 The Lahore editors were muzzled under a sterner 
 
BANARSI DAS 81 
 
 regime, but in the New Province authority had set 
 its face against repression. Barkatullah was the 
 unfortunate exception . ' ' They have ceased to govern , ' ' 
 Bolton said. " The Press has complete licence and 
 can be as inflammatory as it chooses." And never 
 was there such fuel for a blaze. On April 12th news 
 of the massacre in the JaUianwala Bagh at Amritsar 
 reached the city. A few days afterwards The Ittihad 
 published a story which was not easily credited, but 
 which everybody hoped was true. General Dyer, 
 it said, had ordered the people of Amritsar to crawl on 
 their bellies like serpents, in order to humiUate the 
 Indian race. Then one heard of the whipping of 
 students, the handcuffing of lawyers, the internment 
 of patriots who were " rotting in gaol." Now it was 
 the bombing of the innocents at Gujranwala. Amba 
 Pershad had read it in The Aj. Happier journals were 
 publishing the details of the Punjab " atrocities " 
 every day. Only The Roshni was extinguished. It 
 was gaUing to Banarsi Das that the beacon alone should 
 be unlighted. Lesser luminaries shed their flickering 
 beams, while the naked light of truth, which should 
 have been intensive and bhnding, was darkened by the 
 shutters put up by the police. Not a gUmmer reached 
 the multitude through the chink. 
 
 *' When is Barkatullah coming back?" Amba 
 Pershad asked. 
 
 For a moment Banarsi Das wished that he 
 would come back, deposit the security at once, 
 and start again. Then he remembered that his 
 days in the Roshni oflice were numbered, and the 
 hours, which might be made eloquent, were shpping 
 away. 
 
 " You are leaving Roshni?'' Amba Pershad asked. 
 
32 ABDICATION 
 
 " Who is Barkatullah going to appoint as his new 
 assistant editor? " 
 
 Banarsi Das was flattered. Barkatullah never 
 recognised his editorial capacity. He referred to him 
 simply as " my translator." As a matter of fact very 
 little original work by Banarsi Das had appeared in 
 The Roshni, and now he had proved an inefficient trans- 
 lator. His Urdu was too highflown; it was inter- 
 spersed with rare Persian and Arabic words ; he could 
 not resist the dazzling trope ; he let himself be carried 
 away in a flood of rhetoric. Barkatullah wanted a 
 man who was capable of rendering a column of news 
 from The Thompsonpiir Gazette in language which could 
 be understood in the bazar. Banarsi Das had lost 
 The Roshni many subscribers. He was too much in 
 the clouds to promote sales or propaganda. 
 
 "Who is Barkatullah getting?" Amba Pershad 
 repeated. " Did he read my articles on Swaraj in 
 The Kali Yuga ? " 
 
 Banarsi Das looked at his friend with suspicion as 
 a potential usurper. Amba Pershad commanded a 
 more biting pen even than he. But he was a Govern- 
 ment servant. He held a pensionable post which he 
 was not likely to give up. His contributions to The 
 Roshni were surreptitious. 
 
 '* I do not hit it off with Barkatullah," he explained 
 to Amba Pershad. " I do not know who he is getting 
 to succeed me in the assistant editorial chair. By 
 comparison with me he is a timid gentleman. He is 
 afraid, when I speak openly shaming the Government, 
 because he has not my courageous fortitude. Besides, 
 after all, no doubt he has not my literary abiHties." 
 
 Amba Pershad defended Barkatullah from the charge 
 of timidity. He pointed out that he was the only 
 
BANARSI DAS 88 
 
 editor in Gopalpura who had frightened the bastard 
 officials into confiscating his Press. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! He is clever no doubt," Banarsi Das 
 hinted darkly. 
 
 It was true that Banarsi Das was master of a more 
 perfect courage at the moment than Barkatullah could 
 command. He would have gone to gaol gladly to be 
 called a hero. The mountain of invective on the ofiice 
 table was a proof of it. He would have welcomed the 
 shadow of the police constable on the stairs if he could 
 have been proclaimed to the world as the author of 
 the work. He had long had a vision of a procession 
 to the Deputy Commissioner's ofiice, himself the princi- 
 pal figure in the crowd. The picture had taken so 
 distinct a shape in his mind that he lamented the 
 absence of chains and handcuffs, a decoration denied 
 to poHtical prisoners. The freedom of hands and feet 
 was altogether too unimpressive. It marred the 
 sjmibolism of his picture and left him only half a 
 martyr. For Banarsi Das, so long as he trod the clouds, 
 was an intransigeant. It was only when his feet touched 
 earth that he recognised his infirmities. For the 
 moment he was a hero lacking a stage. The pity of 
 it was that there was nobody to listen to his heroics. 
 Banarsi Das felt that he had surpassed himself. Where 
 Barkatullah had chastised the Government with whips, 
 he had laid about him with scorpions. 
 
 Banarsi Das had begun his indictment in Urdu with 
 the vain hope that The Roshni might be resuscitated, 
 and that Barkatullah, converted by his eloquence, 
 would permit him to " utter." Then, finding Urdu 
 inadequate, he lapsed into English. The language 
 of the oppressor had a fascination for Banarsi Das. 
 It led him by flowery paths of rhetoric to eminences 
 
 D 
 
84 ABDICATION 
 
 to which no indigenous eloquence could aspire. *' Give 
 me English column," he had implored BarkatuUah. 
 " The newspaper that is bilinguous kills two kinds of 
 readers with single stone." But the editor of The 
 Roshni had been unresponsive. "He gave me the 
 non-posthumous," as Banarsi Das put it. He set his 
 face against bilingual experiments. Banarsi Das had 
 slain enough subscribers with the language at his 
 command. In his disappointment he tried to find vent 
 for his English in The Gopalpura Standard, the only 
 Indian-owned newspaper printed in EngUsh in the city. 
 The Standard was an institution of which Gopalpura 
 was proud. It had its own London correspondent and 
 subscribed to Renter. It was widely quoted by the 
 Press of Bengal, Madras and Bombay. Riley himself 
 could not compete with The Standard in a political 
 leader. The editor, Suresh Chandra Chatter ji, a 
 Bengah who had never left India, wrote better English 
 than most English journalists. Even Parkinson ad- 
 mitted the dignity and consistency of The Standard, 
 bitter and venomous as it was in its attacks on " the 
 ahen bureaucracy." Chatter ji was a bit of a recluse, 
 and in his way, something of a seer. A genuine patriot, 
 and a man of principle, he was not easily accessible to 
 the staff of scurrilous and irresponsible papers hke 
 The Ittihad and The Roshni, who gave away the cause 
 every day by their crudeness, inaccuracy and violence. 
 Beyond a letter airing some student's grievance which 
 The Standard had pubHshed, the importunities of 
 Banarsi Das had gained him no admission into the 
 circle. His articles on the Punjab " atrocities " were 
 neither acknowledged nor printed. 
 
 It became evident to Banarsi Das that if his inspired 
 work was to secure the immortahty it deserved, it 
 
BANARSI DAS 85 
 
 could only be through oral tradition. He caught at 
 Amba Pershad as the heaven-sent transmitter. Pick- 
 ing up his file of manuscript he began to declaim rapidly. 
 *' See," he shrilled, " what heinous and abominable 
 crimes the tyrannical and blood-sucking oppressors 
 have perpetrated in Punjab." As he spoke he fingered 
 the pages lovingly. When a particular passage caught 
 his eye he fell into recitation. Amba Pershad made 
 a movement in his chair as if to escape, but his 
 courtesy restrained him. Banarsi Das was so terribly 
 in earnest. 
 
 " Punjab, the home of lions," he continued, " has 
 become hiding-place of jackals. When the Punjabis 
 have crawled on all fours, when they have been 
 whipped on their bare buttocks in the presence of 
 demi-mondaines " — Banarsi Das had consulted his 
 dictionary of synonyms here — " it is useless to speak 
 of them as men. Punjabi heroes, the beastly EngHsh 
 have defiled your sacred home, the land of the five 
 rivers where the sacred hymns of Vedas and the Holy 
 Granth were first chanted. How many hundred heroes, 
 whom God made to walk erect, were made to crawl 
 on their bellies hke serpents. When a usurper is in 
 one's house it behoves each and every right-minded and 
 self-respecting gentleman to kick him out. Time is 
 not now for talk. Swaraj is not to be secured by begging, 
 it is the birthright of patriots. The haven of hberty 
 is to be attained only by swimming through leagues of 
 blood. If courage is shown and chests are exposed to 
 bullets of tyrants success is sure." 
 
 Here Banarsi Das paused with his hand on his breast 
 and looked at his friend for commendation. 
 
 " Oh yes ! " Amba Pershad remarked drily. " I 
 admire your composition. It is very eloquent." But 
 
36 ABDICATION 
 
 he spoke without conviction. His sympathies for the 
 moment were with Barkatullah. 
 
 Banarsi Das was disappointed that his friend was not 
 more impressed. But Amba Pershad found it difficult 
 to feign enthusiasm. What he had hstened to was the 
 kind of thing that was being preached every day in the 
 bazar. Only Banarsi Das had memorised the more 
 eloquent passages and embroidered them with his 
 text-book EngHsh. 
 
 He turned again to the manuscript. " ' Appeal to 
 Punjabi Brothers ' is not half bad," he said modestly. 
 " But after all it is mere flea-bite in ocean. Listen now 
 to my defamation of EngHsh. You will see I have 
 reached apogee." Here he picked up a thumbmarked 
 sheet of the yellowish paper used in the Roshni office 
 and selected an earlier passage, written in Urdu when 
 he still hoped to persuade Barkatullah to put on the 
 true crown of martyrdom. 
 
 " Punjabis, shun all meetings with the English 
 until you can go with lathis in your hands. It is sinful 
 to look now upon an English face. We are no longer 
 ignorant children to spend the happy years flying the 
 kite of the Montagu scheme. It was not until the 
 empire was in danger that the British discovered that 
 we were brothers and fellow-countrymen. How do 
 they look upon us now ? They say that we are black 
 men and lower in the scale of creation than they. But 
 who can be lower than the English flesh-eaters, wine- 
 bibbers and ravishers of our women ? If an English- 
 man shoots an Indian and is brought to court, he pleads 
 that the Indian resembled a black bear. India is like 
 a lotus flower that has attracted many poisonous 
 flies. Is it the will of God that Indians should remain 
 under the rule of men who were Hke beasts roaming in 
 
BANARSI DAS 87 
 
 the jungle when Indians taught them to wear clothes 
 and be civilised? The British claim that they are 
 protecting India is false. Our own troops are protecting 
 us. The British did not conquer India with the sword 
 as the Muhammadans did. They have taken away our 
 arms and now bomb us and shoot at us from the air 
 in safety in their aeroplanes. Even a woman can worry 
 a caged lion. But the English will not be with us 
 long. Are we not united under Gandhi-ji? A large 
 snake can easily be killed when alone, but little ants 
 in number can move anybody out of bed." 
 
 " Shabash ! Banarsi Das." Amba Pershad broke in 
 with genuine commendation. He preferred Banarsi 
 Das' Urdu to his English. He had not heard the snake 
 and the ant parable before. The rest of the declama- 
 tion was a mosaic of coloured scraps borrowed from 
 the speeches of different agitators and worked into a 
 pattern. Very dear to Banarsi Das was the ominous 
 innuendo. 
 
 " The English are the elephants, not the sheep, of 
 Christ," he continued. " When an ant gets into the 
 trunk of an elephant, it bites it and the elephant dies. 
 So also will we bite, and the EngUshmen " 
 
 Here Banarsi Das dropped his manuscript and looked 
 anxiously at Amba Pershad. His aposiopesis was 
 effective, if unpremeditated. Somebody was coming 
 up the stairs. The sound of the footsteps was 
 unfamiliar to Banarsi Das. He was accustomed to a 
 light and soft patter of feet, hesitating sometimes on 
 account of the darkness. If there was any noise on 
 the staircase it was generally the khatib's loose drag- 
 ging slippers which tapped the stone at every step. 
 The tread of this visitor was heavy and deliberate; 
 he wore metal on his soles. No Indian walked like 
 
38 ABDICATION 
 
 that or wore such heavy boots. Banarsi Das was 
 convinced that it was the poHce. " Feringhi officer/' 
 he whispered hoarsely to Amba Pershad and began 
 bundling his manuscript into an almirah, fear and pride 
 racing in his heart. As the steps drew nearer pride 
 lagged behind. The incentive to it was soon stowed 
 away with the relics of other lost causes on the shelves 
 of the almirah. The intruders, whoever they might 
 be, would find the assistant editor of The Roshni 
 seated at a white unpolished schoolroom desk with a 
 bench attached to it, looking very innocent and 
 submissive. 
 
 A loud English voice dispelled all doubt. 
 
 " Hullo ! Banarsi Das ! Are you still a rebel? *' 
 
 Banarsi Das looked up and saw the huge frame of 
 Skene filling the door at the head of the stairs. He 
 remembered another occasion when his old Principal 
 had surprised and confounded him in the act of con- 
 spiracy. It was in the boarding-house of Gandeshwar 
 College and Siri Ram was one of the company. The 
 memory revived a sense of guilt and he was a little 
 ashamed of it. He was a little vexed and ashamed too 
 of the revival of affection for his old Principal. There 
 was a kind look in Skene's eyes, and his hand was 
 outstretched in greeting. 
 
 Banarsi Das grasped it. Skene understood that the 
 almost jaunty air he adopted was intended to reconcile 
 respect with independence. He introduced Banarsi 
 Das to Riley, who had followed him into the room. 
 Amba Pershad, feeling that the Roshni office was not 
 the best vantage ground for the introduction of a 
 subordinate Government servant to the head of a 
 Department, slipped quietly down the stairs. 
 
 Banarsi Das found himself shaking hands with the 
 
BANARSI DAS 89 
 
 editor of The Thompsonpur Gazette, who was glad to 
 meet a member of his profession. He was not proof 
 against this courtesy. 
 
 *' It is a long time since we met, Banarsi Das," 
 Skene said. " Tell me all about yourself. Is it true 
 that you are leaving The Roshni ? " 
 
 Banarsi Das admitted that " he did not pull on with 
 Mr. BarkatuUah." His tenure of office was on this 
 account precarious. 
 
 " And what are you going to do? Are you looking 
 out for work ? I think Mr. Riley has an opening " 
 
 Banarsi Das did not wait to hear the nature of the 
 gap he was to fill. He leapt at it blindly. " Sir," he 
 said, achieving a fortuitous accuracy of idiom, " I aspire 
 to commence author." 
 
 Skene smiled. " I am afraid you will find it difficult 
 to square your political views with the Gazette," he 
 said. 
 
 " Sir, I can contribute. Thoynpsonpur Gazette has 
 become very liberal paper under Mr. Riley." 
 
 Riley explained that he wanted a man who under- 
 stood office work and who was also a competent proof- 
 reader. 
 
 " No doubt I am accomplished clerk and proof- 
 reader. But you may try me on editorial staff. I am 
 staunch nationalist, of course. I spurn Rowlatt Act 
 and Punjab atrocities. Nevertheless I can be moderate 
 if, and when, benign Government showers blessings." 
 
 Riley had no doubt that the benign Government 
 would afford opportunities for moderation in the near 
 future. Support of the Reforms, for instance, would 
 be quite consistent with Banarsi Das' ardent national- 
 ism. He even promised to consider any contributions 
 that Skene's young prot6g6 might send in ; but it was 
 
40 ABDICATION 
 
 a clerk he wanted, not an assistant editor. Nevertheless 
 Banarsi Das was importunate. With the pertinacity 
 of his kind he refused to look unpleasant facts in the 
 face. Riley had to repeat two or three times that he 
 had no vacancy for him on his editorial staff. 
 
 In the end Skene had to step in. " You know, 
 Banarsi Das," he said, " you can't expect to start at 
 the top of the ladder. And you must think of ways and 
 means. What are you going to do next ? " 
 
 Banarsi Das confessed that he found it difficult to 
 make " the two ends meet." " My bed of roses in 
 this life has been very thorny, not to say muricate." 
 
 " Well, then, Mr. Riley is going to give you the chance 
 of a softer bed. You may be able to pick out all the 
 thorns. What has been your trouble? " 
 
 Banarsi Das laid his hand on his short-cropped hair, 
 a familiar gesture when he was in difficulties as to the 
 marshalling of his points and the most effective way 
 of delivering them. " Sir," he began, " I have been 
 outraged by Fortune." But here he checked himself, 
 hesitating perhaps to betray mankind's concerted 
 indifference to his worth. He had been ejected by the 
 Government school in which Skene had secured him a 
 mastership. He had failed as an agent and advertiser 
 for a firm of Aurvedic medicines. The Cooperative 
 Credit Society discovered that they had no need for 
 him. The revolutionary gang, of which he was to be a 
 paid employe, had discarded him at the last moment, 
 doubting his staunchness. As assistant in the Religious 
 Bookshop, and again as translator in The Roshni 
 
 Banarsi Das blinked at Skene and Riley and pre- 
 served an inscrutable silence about his past. It was 
 no doubt this rapid mental review of his reverses that 
 influenced his decision. For in the end he accepted the 
 
BANARSI DAS 41 
 
 post that Riley offered him on the Gazette with the 
 air of conferring a favour. 
 
 He might have remembered that Skene and Riley 
 had to disappoint young men nearly every day who 
 came to them for patronage and employment ; but he 
 did not feel in the least grateful. He preceded the two 
 Englishmen to the foot of the spiral staircase. They 
 shook hands with him and he saw them depart, to be 
 merged again in the scheming, acquisitive, material 
 world in which they dwelt, devoid of sympathy, 
 unconscious of ideals. As he brooded over the manu- 
 script, now restored from the almirah to the desk, his 
 recollection of the interview became coloured with 
 resentment. Riley's refusal to admit him into the 
 fold of the elect was all part of the concrete barrier 
 which the British opposed to his countrymen's aspira- 
 tions. The editor of The Thompsonpiir Gazette had 
 denied Banarsi Das one more opportunity, and it had 
 seemed almost within his grasp, to " utter." 
 
 II 
 
 Skene and Riley paused in the square outside the 
 Roshni office and admired the signboard emblazoned 
 with the rising sun. Underneath the ball of gold 
 Barkatullah had inscribed a Persian motto, " How can 
 the Shades of Darkness resist the Flood of Light? " 
 From the balcony of an adjoining house, inhabited by 
 what Skene called " a vernacular band," a large trumpet 
 proclaimed to the world in melodies unheard the readi- 
 ness of the hireling orchestra within to satisfy the 
 sensual ear at pomps and marriages. Sun and trumpet, 
 glare and blare, were always associated in Riley's mind 
 
42 ABDICATION 
 
 with BarkatuUah's stentorian propaganda. The 
 thought of the pathetic figure of Banarsi Das alone and 
 inarticulate in the darkened offices of The Roshni 
 was singularly incongruous. Was he still bending over 
 that schoolroom desk? It might have been the very 
 bench at which he had sat, at Skene's feet, when 
 he paraphrased the " Ode to a Nightingale " at 
 Gandeshwar. 
 
 " What on earth did Banarsi Das mean by * muri- 
 cate '? " Riley asked Skene as he got into the trap. 
 
 " Heaven knows ! I always have to look up words 
 in a dictionary when I've been talking with Banarsi 
 Das. He has a wonderful memory. I believe he spends 
 hours learning the EncyclopcBdia by heart." 
 
 " I've got it," Skene shouted as they swung out of 
 the square by Amir Khan's mosque. " * Who fished 
 the murex up? ' " 
 
 Riley capped the quotation. " ' What porridge had 
 John Keats ? ' Do all your Arts Students talk English 
 like that? " 
 
 " Banarsi Das is a freak. He is out for colour. 
 ' Stokes x)utdares Nokes in azure feats.' If he had been 
 at Oxford or Cambridge he would have been a decadent 
 or a Bolshevik. No; I think the average student's 
 grasp of English is extraordinary." 
 
 Banarsi Das' grasp of the language was certainly 
 crushing. At Gandeshwar he had not been reckoned 
 a particularly intelligent youth, as students go. Skene 
 had pushed him up through the Intermediate to the 
 Fourth Year class. He was a failed B.A. He could 
 tell you the names of the Sylphs who attended Belinda 
 at her toilet in " The Rape of the Lock." He could 
 repeat an annotator's rendering in Babu English of the 
 most difficult passages in " Adonais." He could 
 
BANARSI DAS 48 
 
 enumerate the virtues and defects of poets like Words- 
 worth and Tennyson, and he had mastered the logical 
 sequences of ideas, if not the philosophy, expressed 
 in Keats* " Ode to a Nightingale." Banarsi Das 
 often compared literature to a garden ; it was a pleasance 
 in which he trampled freely, a collector and despoiler. 
 
 " Did you hear him tell me that he would be at my 
 office at ten o'clock on Monday morning with the 
 punctuality of a tick ? " 
 
 " Sounds a bit ominous," Skene remarked drily. 
 " But Banarsi Das was always a pessimist." 
 
 " What on earth is he doing on a Muhammadan 
 newspaper? I thought he was a Samajist." 
 
 " He was. Probably he is now. He and Siri Ram 
 were accomplices and sat at the feet of Narasimha 
 Swami. That BarkatuUah should have taken him on 
 The Roshni is a sign of the times." 
 
 " You mean the Hindu-Moslem entente? " 
 
 " Yes. It is only just beginning in earnest. It's 
 going to be the biggest political movement of the 
 century. Dean is very uneasy about it. Up till now 
 when there has been any trouble we've had the Muham- 
 madans or Sikhs or Hindus on our side. Next time 
 we are going to be up against the whole combine. 
 Even the Sikhs are disaffected." 
 
 " We are making a nation of them all, and the cement 
 is hatred of the British." 
 
 " Just so. We've made Indian nationahty quite 
 unconsciously. Remove us and they will be at each 
 other's throats in two months." 
 
 " Still it is not our business to divide them. If only 
 this Hindu-Moslem entente were genuine it would be 
 the best thing that could happen to them. We could 
 clear out with honour. We don't want India. It's 
 
44 ABDICATION 
 
 nothing but a festering sore. I'm all for a White 
 Empire." 
 
 " And let the Indians go to the devil in their own 
 way? " 
 
 " I'd rather they went there alone than that we 
 went with them in a mutually abhorrent embrace." 
 
 " But what about the old zemindar? " Skene said. 
 "After all he makes up nine-tenths of the population, 
 and the only person so far to save him from the vakil ^ 
 and the bumtiah^ has been the British civihan." 
 
 " The zemindar would look after himself all right." 
 
 *' With lathis, you mean ? Sheer anarchy. Nothing 
 else." 
 
 ** We must leave him the Government he deserves." 
 
 " But he doesn't deserve it. Your scuttle policy is 
 hopeless, Riley. Think of our obligations." 
 
 " To tell you the truth, old man, I'm tired of being 
 reminded about our obligations. We've got all 
 articulate India howling out to us to hand over and 
 go, and we tell them * We're here for your good.' " 
 
 "Well. Isn't it true? " 
 
 " It used to be true, but with this race-hatred 
 kindling everywhere British rule is a positive calamity. 
 Nothing could be worse for them or for ourselves. 
 They simply don't believe in us. And why should 
 they? I don't believe in Government myself. They 
 hang on to every scrap of privilege and authority as 
 long as they can, and then let it go bit by bit, when 
 they can't hold on any longer. They are afraid to 
 govern and daren't abdicate. And the people are 
 beginning to see that they are frightened. That is 
 quite enough to detach the unpoHtical masses. Gandhi 
 will whistle them away hke the Pied Piper of Hamelin, 
 1 Lawyer, 2 Money-lender. 
 
BANARSI DAS 45 
 
 It must end in revolution. After that, repression. 
 India an armed camp, or the deluge. The sun-dried 
 bureaucrat sees it coming, but all he thinks about is 
 his own umbrella, just to hang on a little longer till he 
 gets his pension. He hopes India will last his time, 
 but it won't." 
 
 " And what is your remedy, young Riley? " 
 
 " Tell them that if they don't want us we are going 
 in two years. Gall in the native chiefs. Hand over 
 responsibiUty for law and order to them. Hyderabad 
 in the south, Patiala in the north, Gwahor and Indorc 
 in the west. Give the east to Pertab Singh and his 
 Rajputs. Let them make the best of it they can. 
 Everyone who knows the country understands that 
 this democracy business is all bunkum. Yet we can't 
 stay here and go back on our silly pledge." 
 
 " And who is going to protect the North-West 
 Frontier? Someone must hold the ring. What's 
 going to prevent the Gurkhas overrunning Bengal? " 
 
 " That is India's look-out. There is no reason why 
 we should not hold the North- West Frontier, if they 
 want us there, and they probably will. India of 
 course would have to pay, and the different States 
 could supply troops on a rotatory system to be trained 
 by us." 
 
 " I see. You have got it all on paper. The Golden 
 Age again. Have you allowed for the financial crash ? " 
 
 " The box- wallah will shake the pagoda-tree, when 
 we have gone, more lustily than ever. Don't you see, 
 as soon as we hand over this race-hatred will die. 
 They'll want Enghshmen. As for pensions and all 
 that, we could hold Bombay, Calcutta and Madras as 
 a security. They'd soon pay up and buy us out." 
 
 " I hke your Utopia, young Riley. You might as 
 
46 ABDICATION 
 
 well unchain a lot of mad dogs in a yard and leave them 
 to fight it out. Do you really think our departure 
 would bring feUcity to Barkatullah and Banarsi 
 Das? " 
 
 "I'm sure it would — relative felicity at any rate. 
 And we've got ourselves to think of. If we stay on 
 like this and drift, there will be another Amritsar every 
 week, white men murdered in out-stations, white 
 women and children knocked on the head. Either 
 that or the Prussian heel and Dyer again." 
 
 " My God ! " Skene shouted. " If they touched our 
 women I would train monkeys in hell to fight them." 
 
 They had passed the Mori Gate and were entering the 
 cantonments. Queen Victoria under her marble canopy 
 held out her scroll to an unbeheving world. Yet there 
 was nothing ominous in the atmosphere of Thomp- 
 sonpur, nothing to imply any rude awakening from 
 her dream, or rejection of her proffered gift. In the 
 hybrid quarter outside the gate, where the old and new 
 towns meet, the unoiled wheels of bullock carts chanted 
 a drowsy litany of content. The drivers bent forward 
 sleepily over the yoke. Files of soft-footed camels 
 moved like creatures wound up and impelled by 
 necessity, the automata of fate. No human figure 
 stood erect under that blistering sun. Only the 
 bhisti, bent over his mussaq, attacked the dust with 
 rhythmic sweeps. The rest of the world seemed to 
 be wrapped in a profound uncomfortable slumber. 
 Rumour herself was asleep. 
 
 As they passed the Queen's statue, Riley, pointing 
 at this particular facet of " the brightest gem in her 
 diadem," said, " Give me the village green, geese on 
 the pond, duckweed and water-buttercups, and a hairy- 
 heeled old cart-horse dipping her mane in the weeds." 
 
BANARSI DAS 47 
 
 " Throw in a big shady willow-tree/' Skene added, 
 " gorse in blossom and a lark in the sky." 
 
 After that neither of them spoke until Skene drew up 
 and dropped his friend at the offices of the Gazette. 
 
 " Good-bye, young Riley," he shouted back at him. 
 " Give Banarsi Das a chance. And don't publish your 
 new gospel in the Gazette.*' 
 
 " Good-bye, old Skene." 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Religion is country," Banarsi Das repeated to 
 himself as he pored over the Koran in the Roshni 
 office. " AUahu Akbar and Om are one name." He 
 did not find the words in the holy book; they formu- 
 lated a new and startling creed. He had overheard 
 them in a conversation between Barkatullah and the 
 moulvi of Amir Khan's mosque, and he had caught at 
 them with the instinct of a pioneer. The formula was 
 soon to become one of the familiar political catchwords 
 of the hour. 
 
 Banarsi Das had travelled far in tolerance since his 
 association with Siri Ram. There had been an 
 Anglophile period after the tragic death of his friend. 
 For a full year after leaving Gandeshwar he had 
 maintained relations with Skene. Then — it was in the 
 drifting phase between the Government school and the 
 Cooperative Credit Bank — he had fallen among 
 revolutionaries again; Ghadr pamphlets and the tales 
 of returned emigrants revived the rancour of old days. 
 He became a member of a Samiti. He was flattered 
 by his confederates. There was mystery and glory 
 in it. Ramesh, a wandering Bengali ascetic, was the 
 
48 ABDICATION 
 
 first to fire his imagination. The youth had something 
 of the appeal of Narasimha Swami and aspired to the 
 Mahatma's mantle. A master of pose, he seduced 
 Banarsi Das by ritual. Nothing stood out so sahently 
 in our young friend's memory as the night of his 
 initiation. He was dedicated by Ramesh to Kali. 
 The goddess was conveyed to the place of ceremony 
 wrapped in a crimson cloth in an ekka. The night was 
 pitch, and the conspirators walked by the side of the 
 cart, all save Ramesh, who strode ahead chanting 
 mantras, and Banarsi Das himself, who rode in un- 
 comfortable state clasping the idol. Kali seemed to 
 be endowed with a divine energy. With every jerk 
 of the ekka she Hfted Banarsi Das as if to precipitate 
 him in the dust beneath the wheels. After a time his 
 embrace became passive; the goddess grasped him 
 with her many arms; she seemed about to eject him 
 with violence. Long before they reached the burning 
 ghat Banarsi Das was convinced that he was un- 
 acceptable; and what was worse, he no longer wished 
 to be accepted. He was shaken and confused, a prey 
 to vague apprehensions, fear of the ceremony and all 
 that it might imply, and the unknown sacrifice to 
 succeed it at which Ramesh had hinted darkly. He 
 longed for his bed in the serai, the homely muffled 
 sound of tethered baggage animals, of camels chewing 
 their dry provender, and the prosy snore of merchants 
 and drovers. 
 
 As they entered the narrow lane which led into the 
 field of ashes a huge banian-tree with spreading arms 
 made the darkness more intense. Banarsi Das re- 
 membered it by twiHght as a place so haunted by the 
 spirits of the dead that he was afraid to approach it. 
 The ekka pony, an unresponsive, sleepy jade, with 
 
BANARSI DAS 49 
 
 outlines of skin and bone, half-starved into inanition, 
 now became a sensitive. It trembled and snorted and 
 sweated and jibbed, and backed the cart with its holy 
 freight up the bund towards the canal. Little owls, 
 disturbed by the commotion, dropped from the branches 
 Hke weighed djinns. A jackal howled carnivorously. 
 Banarsi Das fancied that luminous eyeballs betrayed 
 the presence of the unseen. Ramesh was dragging him 
 to the ground. KaU was thrust into his arms. He had 
 to carry her past the cavernous roots of the tree. 
 
 Banarsi Das half-fainting with fear was prompted 
 through the ceremony by Ramesh. The vow of 
 dedication was taken by him before the goddess with 
 a sword and gita on his head, kneeling on his left knee. 
 In this, the pratyalirha position, he was supposed to 
 represent a Hon springing on his prey, though anything 
 more unhke a Hon than Banarsi Das, unless it was the 
 terrified ekka pony, it would be difficult to imagine. 
 Evidently the conspirators had gauged Banarsi Das' 
 mettle. He was to have been taken the next day to 
 see the national flag hidden in an alcove of a ruined 
 shrine ; but he was told the goddess had commimicated 
 with Ramesh in the night and rejected him. His vows 
 were not binding, as the ritual was incomplete. His 
 confederates consorted with him no more. 
 
 One would think that the memory of his relief at his 
 escape from the embrace of Kali might have sobered 
 Banarsi Das and subdued his inclination for perilous 
 adventure. One of Ramesh's accompHces was in the 
 Andamans ; another had been executed ; the mutilated 
 body of a third, believed to be a betrayer and victim of 
 the Samiti, was found in a trunk in a railway carriage 
 in Bengal. Ramesh himself had disappeared. But 
 the craving for self-expression in Banarsi Das was 
 
 £ 
 
50 ABDICATION 
 
 inordinate. A day or two before Skene had brought 
 Riley to see him he had been given a ghmpse of another 
 part in which he might figure heroically. The new call 
 was for *' sacrificing men." He was persuaded that 
 there was immediate glory in it, though the arena for 
 sacrifice was yet far away. He was tempted to become 
 a conspirator again. He was in two minds about 
 joining the Gazette. It would mean promotion and 
 security — more than a mere livelihood. He pictured 
 himself in the office among other clerks, Indian and 
 Eurasian, and was undecided as to whether he should 
 wear " the English costume." Many of his friends 
 would envy him, but the greater number would regard 
 him as a backslider. It was becoming more and more 
 the fashion to apply epithets of contempt to the servants 
 of the English, more especially to Government officials 
 and title-holders. A correspondent of the Roshni had 
 recently denounced all Khan Sahibs, Rai Bahadurs, 
 and such-like decorated supporters of Government as a 
 sycophantic tribe, " the daroghas (doorkeepers) of 
 hell," And ridicule was still harder to bear. Banarsi 
 Das did not like the idea of being called an apke-wasti, 
 jo-hookum, or khusandi (lickspittle, time-server, toady). 
 His association with the Roshni gave him a certain 
 status among patriots as a chartered revolutionary. 
 He was in a position to despise the infirm who sold 
 their birthright for a mess of pottage. One of the 
 commonest terms of abuse in the Moslem world to 
 which he was becoming initiated was the word ** kafir." 
 In the school of Barkatullah any young man who sought 
 the favour of Christians, or mixed with them for the 
 sake of honour, was a kafir, as was any who doubted 
 that India under British rule had become dar-ul-harb, 
 a land hostile to Islam, or who reconciled obedience to 
 
BANARSI DAS 51 
 
 the Government with obedience to Allah, or who wore 
 a tie and collar, or who did not profess himself ready 
 to sacrifice his life and property for his Caliph. Such 
 was the lip-service paid to rehgion, and religion with 
 the Moslem was becoming nothing more nor less than 
 a cultivated Xenophobia; not the hatred of the 
 Hindu — he was no longer a stranger — but the hatred 
 of the alien white man, so superior, proud and efficient, 
 who made laws and assessed taxes, and drilled and 
 exploited Asiatic hordes, growing fat on the fruits of 
 the land, and who was now plotting to destroy the 
 garden of Islam. 
 
 Hindu and Moslem were in need of one another. 
 Neither would admit the opportunism that prompted 
 such cries as " Allahu Akbar and Om are one name." 
 As the local poet put it plaintively, " Tears always well 
 up in both eyes, not in one only." The young Mussal- 
 mans of Gopalpura had admitted Banarsi Das into their 
 ranks as a free companion. He had been taken by 
 them to more than one meeting held in the graveyard 
 by the ruined mosque of Ain-ul-Quzzat, a mile and a 
 half outside the city. Here he had heard bolder 
 incitements to rebellion, more confident predictions of 
 the expulsion of the British from the Motherland, 
 than at any of the gatherings of his Hindu associates 
 in Gandeshwar when he was an accomplice of Siri Ram. 
 The red fez and the woolly Astrakhan cap were never 
 seen at those meetings. Now the sword of the avenger 
 was in the hands of Islam. The air was charged with 
 immediate menace. When he listened to these fire- 
 brands he could not believe their fulminations were 
 in vain. In the days when he and Siri Ram and Lachmi 
 Ghand had held forth at Gandeshwar it had been like a 
 debating society, in which schoolboys played with a 
 
52 ABDICATION 
 
 dream. Their vows were dedicated to an image which 
 they knew was unreal. Siri Ram alone had risen to 
 sacrifice, and he had been pushed and dragged to the 
 altar. These were men of action. Their eyes shone. 
 They had the air of martyrs. Their religion was 
 threatened, and Banarsi Das believed that they were 
 ready to die. Only two days before Skene and Riley 
 climbed the corkscrew stair to his office he had heard a 
 greybeard, who gave himself out to be an Afghan, say 
 that next year the Indians would rule India. The 
 Amir of Kabul would attack the English and drive 
 them over the Indus, and the whole of Hindustan would 
 rise against them, when to escape slaughter they would 
 abandon the country. He added that it was not 
 necessary to admonish Indians of this, as they would 
 receive natural promptings to rise when the time came. 
 When the fiery little man had finished, all the company 
 in the graveyard rose to their feet and cried " Amin." 
 Th-e inspiration and the prompting, Banarsi Das 
 felt, were not far distant. Defiance was visible on the 
 face of every Moslem in the circle. The desire to court 
 imprisonment and internment and to earn the title of 
 " Hero " and " Martyr " had become endemic in 
 Gopalpura. The old man, however, who styled himself 
 an Afghan, was a stranger. He had seemed the very 
 incarnation of energy amidst the dust and decay of the 
 cemetery where the funereal cypresses, like plumes on a 
 hearse, and the weeping tufted tamarisks with their 
 caked tassels, overhung the innumerable little graves, 
 all pointing one way, in which the faithful lay with 
 their feet towards Mecca. The heat of the afternoon 
 was overpowering. The metallic sky hung low and 
 solid above their heads like a dome or an oven, of the 
 same consistency as earth, and emitting the same hard, 
 
BANARSI DAS 58 
 
 fiery particles that pricked and parched the skin and 
 dried up the moisture in one's throat. It was the kind 
 of day on which one is reminded that the East has been 
 the home of futihty for the last thousand years, and 
 that by the decree of Allah and the conr>piracy of the 
 elements it could not be otherwise. Yet this grey- 
 beard, who sprung from nobody knew where, and 
 spoke with the voice of a bell, had awakened a sense of 
 life and victory in a scene so dead, that one would think 
 no impulse towards resurrection could survive in it. 
 
 The " Afghan " was staying with a Wahabi moulvi 
 in Amir Khan's mosque. Jemal Khan, a friend of 
 Banarsi Das and his sponsor in the Moslem world, had 
 visited him there. He had been with him half the 
 night when he met Banarsi Das the next morning and 
 opened out to him a project of adventurous service. 
 The Afghan was an emissary of the Hindustani fanatics 
 who dwelt under the mountain of caves at Asmas, 
 beyond the Indus, in the territory of the Nawab of 
 Amb. There is a verse in the Koran, known to the 
 initiate, which is used as a text to recognise a mujahid. 
 When Jemal Khan recited the verse, the Afghan 
 unbosomed himself. He had come to sound the people 
 of India, he said. In every community there were 
 people who hated the English, and who looked to the 
 Afghans to restore Islam. If Turkey were destroyed, 
 the Amir would call the faithful to arms, and all who 
 refused to take part in the Jehad would be denounced 
 as Kafirs by the moulvi es, and their honour would be the 
 honour of those who had been beaten with shoes. The 
 last time Afghanistan waged war on the English she 
 was a single nation ; this time when she raised the flag 
 of the Jehad she would be assisted by every other 
 Asiatic race. 
 
54 ABDICATION 
 
 " He has sowed a song and will reap a sword," 
 Banarsi Das quoted aptly from the Persian. 
 
 " The harvest is sure," Jemal Khan told him. " He 
 has come and he has gone, no one knows whither." 
 
 Jemal Khan could not tell Banarsi Das his name. 
 " They call him * the Bulbul-i-Sehwan, the nightingale 
 of Sehwan,' " he said. " Sehwan is the shrine of the 
 Malang faqirs in Sind. I do not know what his real 
 name is. Probably he has many." 
 
 But on the morning when Skene and Riley visited 
 him Banarsi Das' enthusiasm for Islam was tempered 
 with doubt. What kind of respect, he asked himself, 
 would the Afghans show the Hindus of his Samaj ? 
 Someone had told him once that when they came to 
 India to help the Muhammadans they would kill all 
 who were beardless, taking them for the enemies of 
 Islam. The Afghans were worse tyrants than the 
 British; the Amir still blew his rebels from his guns. 
 Any sensible Hindu of the old school would tell him 
 that it was foolish to lift the dam that held back the 
 Pan-Islamic flood. One minute he saw himself carried 
 along on it in safety; the next overwhelmed. But 
 the cataclysm, if it ever came, was comfortably remote. 
 In the meanwhile he was attracted by the wandering 
 life, the honour and mystery and uncertainty of his 
 errand. There seemed very little danger in it. The 
 men of violence among whom he would have to mix 
 would honour him, and be his friends. It was national 
 work. He would be a messenger of Moslems to 
 Moslems. 
 
 " Men are needed to come and go, for nothing may 
 be sent by post." 
 
 Banarsi Das was flattered by the emphasis with which 
 Jemal Khan pronounced the word " men." And he 
 
BANARSI DAS &5 
 
 would not go alone. He understood that he would 
 return alone, but that he would go with a party. 
 
 " Who are the party? " he asked Jemal Khan. 
 
 " Before I make you acquainted with them you will 
 take a vow of secrecy with the Koran on your head. 
 If your decision is clear, and you have removed all 
 doubt, meet me at Amir Khan's mosque on the night 
 when the moon is first sighted in the month of Rajab." 
 Jemal Khan did not think in Kafir dates. 
 
 Banarsi Das discovered from the calendar that the 
 moon of the month of Rajab would be sighted on the 
 Monday of the next week. It was the very evening of 
 the day on which he was to join the Gazette. Riley's 
 offer complicated his decision. 
 
 All Saturday and Sunday he was vexed with doubt. 
 On Sunday morning he found Amba Pershad in his 
 quarters over the fruit market near the Mori Gate. 
 Amba Pershad was a man of the world. He might 
 laugh at Banarsi Das, but he would probably give him 
 good advice. Not that Banarsi Das had any intention 
 of following it; but he thought that by talking over 
 Riley's offer with his friend he might discover something 
 more definite about his own inclinations. He had no 
 intention, of course, of revealing his traffic with Jemal 
 Khan. 
 
 As Banarsi Das passed along the sun-baked verandah 
 over the bazar, he heard the dying croak of a gramo- 
 phone. It guided him to Amba Pershad 's room. 
 Amba Pershad was sitting at his writing-table when 
 he saw the hesitating figure of his young friend through 
 the chick. Banarsi Das had the appearance of having 
 drifted there absent-mindedly; his air of uncertainty 
 evoked an encouraging summons from the oracle he had 
 come to consult. Amba Pershad's hearty " Come in, 
 
56 ABDICATION 
 
 Banarsi Das," was an unconscious prescription for 
 infirmity. The young man looked as if he might be 
 blown back again like a leaf down the stairs into the 
 street. The Babu rose and lifted the chick for him. 
 Banarsi Das floated in, and stood blinking in the 
 doorway. The room was dark to him after the blinding 
 glare of the verandah. The first thing he noticed, as 
 the possessions of Amba Pershad took shape, was the 
 huge mouth of the gramophone. It stood on a small 
 table beside a desk, which was strewn with sheets of 
 foolscap neatly inscribed. The dark blue table-cloth, 
 the folding cane arm-chair, and the bookshelf, which 
 held more pamphlets than bound volumes, suggested 
 an English interior. A bright new Amritsar carpet 
 covered half the floor. Three plush-seated chairs 
 with gilded backs, probably the discarded furni- 
 ture of a Raja's Durbar hall picked up in the bazar, 
 gave the room a sense of prosperity, almost of ex- 
 ^ travagance. Amba Pershad's person bore out the 
 general impression of well-being. He wore a well-cut 
 tussore lounge suit in the English style and a soft collar 
 and tie. The only Oriental thing about him was his 
 neatly-tied turban which he had taken off and thrown 
 on the table by the gramophone, baring his high 
 episcopal brow. He was a handsome man, a Brahmin. 
 His beaked aquiline nose and inscrutable eyes would 
 have attracted notice an3rwhere. 
 
 " Well, what is the news? " he asked Banarsi Das. 
 " Has Barkatullah returned? " 
 " I am not waiting for him." 
 " You will not stay if he requests you? " 
 " He will no doubt procure another assistant. I 
 have been offered appointment on The Thompsonpur 
 Gazette" 
 
BANARSI DAS 57 
 
 Amba Pershad evinced no surprise. Never by the 
 movement of an eyelid, or by any modulation of his 
 voice had he betrayed so vulgar an emotion. 
 
 " I have always predicted that you would become 
 famous," he said. " Will you write the leaders? " 
 
 " They want an assistant in the editorial chair." 
 
 " Mr. Riley has been reading your articles. He has 
 been hearing of your literary ability. You have 
 converted him, no doubt, to share your views. Which 
 was Mr. Riley? the thick man like a buffalo, or the 
 thin keen man like a bamboo ? " 
 
 It occurred to Banarsi Das that the simile in Riley's 
 case was apt. The editor of The Thompsonpur Gazette 
 was erect and thin like a cane. He was notorious as a 
 castigator. One could credit him with resilience. 
 " Mr. Skene is a corpulent gentleman, no doubt," he 
 explained. " Mr. Riley, on the other hand, is quite the 
 vice versa." 
 
 Amba Pershad pointed to the sheets of manuscript 
 on his table. " This work is for His Corpulency," he 
 said, " the Director of Public Instruction since the last 
 three weeks. I have not spoken to the gentleman. 
 It was his predecessor, Mr. Richardson, who com- 
 missioned me to put together a text-book on Civics for 
 use in Anglo- Vernacular Middle Schools." 
 
 " Oh yes, I see. You are pucca Government man. 
 You will be Rai Bahadur in New Year's Honours List 
 and will sit in Durbar on a chair." 
 
 Banarsi Das, who had an uncomfortable feeling 
 that Amba Pershad had been laughing at him, could 
 not resist this retort. But the sting had no barb 
 in it. Amba Pershad continued in his even friendly 
 tone : 
 " We are train-bearers, Banarsi Pas, you and I. 
 
58 ABDICATION 
 
 Now you have left the Roshni you have become one of 
 us. Barkatullah will call you an apke-wasti." ^ 
 
 " So far as principles are concerned/' Banarsi Das 
 declaimed loftily, " I will not yield inch or ell." 
 
 Amba Pershad smiled. " Your pen will obey," he 
 said, " when Mr. Riley dictates theme," and he lightly 
 indicated Banarsi Das' political conversion by imaginary 
 quotations from the Gazette. " You will be writing 
 about Mahatma Gandhi and saying that it is the 
 English who have set the goal of autonomy before him. 
 You will explain the innocence of the Rowlatt Act, 
 and you will tell the Mussalmans that Islam cannot 
 suffer if the British strip the Khalifa of his territories, 
 since no eclipse of his temporal power can weaken his 
 spiritual authority. You will say that Dyer and 
 O'Dwyer saved Punjab from bloody revolutionaries, 
 that Great War was fought by British to gain self- 
 determination for small nations, and that Reform 
 Scheme is palpable advance along road leading by 
 progressive stages to realisation of self-government." 
 
 Banarsi Das made a gesture of protest. 
 
 ** And when my name appears in Honours list you 
 will write my encomium in the Gazette.'* 
 
 " If I were insincere man and turncoat, I might write 
 these things. But, you will see. My intention is to 
 reject offer of editorial chair." The dignity Banarsi 
 Das was rejecting increased with his inclination to 
 sacrifice. 
 
 " Oh, you will join all right." 
 
 Banarsi Das rose with the air of one wounded in his 
 self-respect and made a movement towards the chick. 
 Amba Pershad did not move, but addressed him from 
 
 ^ "At your Honour's service," i. e. a toady of Govern- 
 ment. 
 
BANARSI DAS 59 
 
 his chair, holding him with his eye like the Ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 " Get down from your high horse, Banarsi Das. 
 You do not believe what Mr. Riley will ask you to 
 write in the Gazette. Nor do you believe all that you 
 and Barkatullah have written in the Roshnt. Neither 
 do the British believe what they write. They used to 
 believe in themselves. They had the will and power to 
 do so. But they believe no longer. The bastard 
 Government has no more courage. In a year or two 
 they will go. Anybody can see that they are frightened. 
 They have the will for repression, but they fear to apply 
 it." 
 
 " Yet they say that Reforms are not outcome of 
 agitation." 
 
 " The Reforms " — Amba Pershad fell into the pose 
 of academic deUvery — " are not the outcome of a 
 demand, but of our spontaneous recognition of the 
 growing political consciousness and progressive develop- 
 ment of the Indian people. Agitation may delay, but 
 cannot hasten them. That is Mr. Montagu. You may 
 see it in Renter. I have got it as peroration in the last 
 chapter of my Civics. But in the next column of the 
 newspaper that reports his speech it is urged that the 
 Bill should be pushed through the House of Commons 
 with all possible speed in order to allay discontent. 
 The English only give when they are afraid. It is 
 the same with all governments. They are humbugs. 
 You too are a humbug, Banarsi Das, and I am a 
 humbug." 
 
 " I am man of principle. I will not serve the 
 British." 
 
 "If you do not serve Mr. Riley, who else will employ 
 you ? I do not love the British any more than you do. 
 
60 ABDICATION 
 
 Banarsi Das. When I see the Deputy Commissioner 
 pass in his carriage with his chin in the air I want to 
 spit. But it does not help us to be angry. It is better 
 to laugh. The white English vultures are going to 
 leave this country. They will not be here long. Do 
 not offend them while they can peck. You will be able 
 to stamp on their necks after a little time. In the 
 meanwhile they must fill our bellies. It is national 
 money ^' after all. Empire-patriotism is given first 
 prize. You will be carrying a flag on Empire Day, 
 Banarsi Das." 
 
 Here Amba Pershad picked up a page of the synopsis 
 of his Civics text-book and read it aloud to Banarsi 
 Das. He began modestly with the village, the town, 
 the State — after all the Indians had some sort of 
 Government before the British came; but these early 
 chapters were only an introduction to the swelling 
 imperial theme : " Our pride and privilege as citizens 
 of the British Empire, our rights and duties, our glorious 
 past as the custodians of British traditions, our future 
 heritage, our Emperor, our Empire, our Flag." 
 
 Banarsi Das shuffled uneasily on his chair. He hated 
 Amba Pershad, who made a mock of everything. He 
 knew that these lyrical effusions alternated with the 
 vitriolic articles which Amba Pershad contributed 
 anonymously to The Kali Yuga and The Ittihad. Not 
 even patriotism was sacred. The man besmirched the 
 garments of sacrifice. 
 
 " Now hear the Briton on himself." Amba Pershad 
 turned to the gramophone. '* I picked this up with 
 twenty-three other records, sacred and profane, in the 
 bazar. It is better inspiration than fountain of 
 Muses. I turn it on before Civics every day." 
 
 After a little attention the raucous, paralytic instru- 
 
BANARSI DAS 61 
 
 ment began to wheeze out " Rule, Britannia ! " with a 
 blatancy which might have subdued a bookmaker. 
 
 " Rule, Britan-n-nia I Britan-n-nia, rule the waves 1 
 Britons, never, never, never, shall be slaves." 
 
 Banarsi Das had not heard the tune before. The 
 words were famiHar to him. They provided a text. 
 
 " Certainly they will be slaves, but tyrants " 
 
 Incapable of entering into the spirit of Amba Pershad, 
 he was launching on one of his sententious sermons, 
 when his friend invoked the gramophone to apply the 
 closure, " Now hear their sacred music," he said; and 
 the instrument responded with " A few more years 
 shall roll." 
 
 " It is like an old woman crying for her dead buffalo," 
 Amba Pershad remarked, as the strains died away, 
 and the air became charged again with the buzzing of 
 flies. " Yes. I will be paid five hundred rupees for 
 the text-book. If it runs for two or three years I may 
 make a thousand." 
 
 But Banarsi Das did not hear. He was immobilised. 
 He fled to preserve his illusions. He felt that Amba 
 Pershad was a man whom one might trust to do nothing 
 inexpedient, but in whom trust was otherwise mis- 
 placed. As he lifted the chick, flooding the room with 
 dust and light, the oracle called out to him, " You will 
 join the Gazette, Banarsi Das." 
 
 For some occult reason he hoped that he would 
 not. 
 
 For two days Banarsi Das had drifted between 
 Thompsonpur and Gopalpura in body as in mind. It 
 was late on Sunday evening when he found himself 
 outside the offices of the Gazette and made his first 
 
62 ABDICATION 
 
 conscious survey of the building. The block was set 
 back from the road like the neighbouring hotel. As 
 Banarsi Das stood looking over the clipped duranta 
 hedge survejdng the potential forcing-house of his 
 genius, he saw an Englishman emerge from a door 
 which he gathered led to the press. He did not like 
 the look of the man, and be became uneasy when he 
 noticed that he had seen him and was changing his 
 course, making towards the gate near which he stood. 
 His short stodgy figure and confident strut with its 
 suggestion of efficiency alarmed Banarsi Das. At 
 close quarters every feature of the Englishman was 
 repellent; his thick neck and tight well-fitting grey 
 suit expanded by his bulging calves, his little stiff 
 clipped red moustache, and gimlet eyes, colourless and 
 porcine, which had never been softened by dreams or 
 sympathy, and over all the hateful topee, crest and 
 symbol of brute power and dictation from above. 
 
 This alarming person bore down on Banarsi Das, 
 and asked him for a match. He called it deer-salai in 
 his pigeon Hindustani, and Banarsi Das, who never 
 carried matches, did not understand what the English- 
 man wanted. He stared at him timidly and stupidly, 
 thinking that he was being abused for loitering near the 
 office of the Gazette. 
 
 The Englishman appeared angry and red. He 
 repeated the word deer-salai with an explanatory 
 gesture, striking an imaginary match in the air. Then 
 he turned away disgusted at Banarsi Das' stupidity, 
 muttering crossly, " No, of course, you wouldn't 'ave 
 a match, monkey-face." 
 
 Banarsi Das turned back towards Gopalpura and 
 loitered by Amir Khan's mosque. The friendly shelter 
 of the plinth under the minaret refreshed him. He 
 
BANARSI DAS 68 
 
 looked to the point in the sky where the new moon 
 would appear on the first day of Rajab and remembered 
 the verse from the Koran which the Afghan had 
 repeated in the graveyard of Ain-ul-Quzzat : " Praise 
 be to God, Who has brought us away from the House of 
 our enemies." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 
 
 The inside of the club was deserted. Men were 
 sitting under the huge gallows-Hke punkah outside, 
 which small urchins in uniform were pulling fitfully. 
 The cotton-tree had spilt its last crimson blossom. 
 The brain-fever bird was repeating its shrillest note. 
 The club tennis-courts, which had been lying under 
 two inches of canal water in the morning, had been 
 sucked dry by the sun and emitted a rank and sickly 
 smell. The heat was not yet overpowering, but one 
 knew that it would increase daily for at least six weeks, 
 possibly two months, and one's sense of resourceless- 
 ness was aggravated by apprehension. 
 
 Skene had been on tour inspecting schools. He had 
 spent the last twelve hours in the train feeling like a 
 steak on a gridiron. As he steered for the white- 
 coated company under the erection that looked like a 
 gallows, the thought of refreshment and companionship 
 quickened his step. The recompense of the day at this 
 stage of the hot weather was the first long bubbly drink 
 after sundown when the ice tinkled in the glass like 
 music. How musically is inexpressible in prose 
 Riley had emptied pails of Helicon in his search for an 
 analogy. It sounded to him as the tinkling of cattle 
 
 64 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 65 
 
 bells to the lost traveller under the hill, or as the 
 summons to prayer heard by some ecstatic nun. 
 
 Riley was sitting under the nearest punkah, with a 
 long glass in his hand which he held out at arm's length 
 as if invoking something, when the burly figure of his 
 friend appeared out of the dust and gloom in response 
 to the libation. 
 
 " Skene, old boy ! By Jove ! When did you get 
 back? Have a long drink.'' The season of the pau 
 in Thompsonpur had passed with the early days of 
 April. 
 
 Riley was sitting with the very man Skene wanted 
 to talk to. Farquhar, the Principal of Thompsonpur 
 College, would be able to tell him about the runaway 
 muhajarin.^ The event of the hour in the political 
 world was the defection of fourteen of his Muhammadan 
 students who had gone over the frontier to join " the 
 Army of God." Riley was trying to get the story out 
 of Farquhar when Skene joined him. " The whole 
 thing beats me," Farquhar was saying. " I can't make 
 it out. They were steady sensible fellows, among the 
 best I have got. Some poisonous agitator must have 
 been getting at them, Barkatullah or one of his crowd." 
 
 " Persuaded them that they were Kafirs," Riley 
 suggested. 
 
 Hill joined the group, tumbler in hand, when he 
 saw Skene arrive. Farquhar repeated the story for 
 their benefit. 
 
 " They had got all their examination fees, and instead 
 of paying them into the College they pooled the lot. 
 So they are well financed. They took the fast pas- 
 senger train to Peshawar, travelling third class in 
 
 1 Those who, following the example of the Prophet 
 Muhammad, have fled from their homes under oppression. 
 F 
 
66 ABDICATION 
 
 separate compartments, and got out at Serai Kala. 
 At Haripur their yam was that they were AHgarh 
 students on the way out to collect money from the 
 Nawab of Amb. They dodged the police post at a 
 place called Kirplian and crossed the Indus a mile or 
 two up-stream in a boat. Dean has sent an Inspector 
 to Darband. They are still with the Hindustani 
 fanatics." 
 
 " Did they ever give you the idea of being hostile ? " 
 Skene asked. 
 
 " Not in the least. One or two of them were a bit 
 mugra.'^ Jemal Khan, for instance, might have sat 
 for the model of a zealot, an intense-looking youth. 
 But on the whole I should describe them as a rather 
 sporting lot. Niaz Ali played a good game of hockey. 
 Zahur Muhammad was the best slow-bowler in our 
 team, a real head-bowler. In a month or two he would 
 have passed his B.Sc." 
 
 Skene remembered being bowled by Niaz Ali in 
 the match between the College and the Station. 
 
 "It is a most extraordinary thing. They are the 
 last fellows in the world whom I should have thought 
 would have turned out seditious." 
 
 " But don't you find it is generally your young rebel 
 who has most backbone in him ? " Riley asked him. 
 
 Hill looked at Farquhar to see how he would receive 
 this sentiment, " a pucca Rilepsm," and hateful to 
 orthodoxy. The Principal of Thompsonpur College 
 was a good fellow and very sure of himself. His strong 
 clean-cut features and the frankness of his glance pro- 
 claimed it. Riley thought of him as the kind of young 
 man to whom his squire, or his rector, or the master 
 of his College would have given a beautiful certificate. 
 
 1 Sullen. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 6t 
 
 The popular novelist generally provides such a hero a 
 convenient villain to thrash in the second or third 
 chapter. Farquhar was an athlete. He had been a 
 Blue at Cambridge. He was also endowed with every 
 mental gift necessary to success — a category by the 
 way in which imagination is not infrequently omitted. 
 
 Riley's view of the young malcontent had not struck 
 Farquhar before. His silence expressed disapproval. 
 He did not like his students to be politically minded. 
 
 " After all," Riley continued, " the youngster must 
 have good stuff in him who believes his religion is in 
 danger and is ready to make sacrifices for it." 
 
 This was too much for Hill. 
 
 " Does he believe it? " he objected. " And what is 
 he giving up? He has made a picturesque dramatic 
 exit. Curtain — applause — yells from the gallery. In 
 the next act he is the hero on the stage, and has nothing 
 to do but to pose. It's all play-acting." 
 
 " You don't know these students," Riley said. 
 " They are genuine enough. They go to bed every 
 night worrying about the Khilafat and wake up angry 
 in the morning. They believe Islam is being attacked. 
 Jemal Khan thinks he would be a skunk if he did not 
 go to a Muhammadan country and fight for his religion. 
 Nothing outside the Koran counts." 
 
 " And do you really believe he wiU fight ? " 
 
 " He probably thinks he will. Anyhow, I prefer 
 Jemal Khan to your spoon-fed youth who laps up the 
 education we dish up for him as if it were jam." 
 
 " What you say about Jemal Khan may be true — 
 up to a point," Farquhar conceded generously; " but 
 my experience is that the majority of students to whom 
 this agitation appeals are wasters." 
 
 " Banarsi Das, for instance," Skene interposed. His 
 
68 ABDICATION 
 
 sympathies were with Riley, but he wished he were not 
 so provocative. " By the way," he added, " what has 
 happened to Banarsi Das? " 
 
 " He never turned up." 
 
 "Did he write? " 
 
 " Not a word." 
 
 " Grateful youth." 
 
 " I will ask Dean if he has heard anything," Riley 
 said. The C.I.D. man was discovered at a neighbouring 
 table discussing high politics with Wace-Holland, the 
 Divisional Commander, and Osborne, his G.S.O.I. 
 The three men were drawn into the circle. Three more 
 long drinks were ordered to lay the dust in the throat. 
 Everyone seemed interested in the muhajarin. 
 
 Dean's latest news was that a tehsildar had been 
 sent over the border into the Nawab of Amb's territory 
 to negotiate with them to come back. They were 
 offered a free pardon, which they refused with scorn. 
 Their flag was still high. Jemal Khan was spokesman. 
 They were going to Kabul, he said, and on to Constan- 
 tinople to fight for the Turks. India was dar-ul-harh. 
 They were the subjects of God and not of Great Britain. 
 It was their duty to defend the honour of God's house. 
 Otherwise how could they show their faces to God. 
 
 " By Jove," Riley exploded. " Isn't that damned 
 fine ! " 
 
 " Gas and vapourings," Hill muttered inaudibly to 
 Farquhar. He did not want the General to hear. But 
 Farquhar was unresponsive. He was fond of his 
 students and he had an uncomfortable feeling that his 
 College was disgraced. 
 
 " I wish we could rope in some of their Islamic 
 spirit," the General said. " We'll be fools if we don't 
 let the Turks down easily." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 69 
 
 Riley looked at the General with eyes of affection. 
 He had served under Wace-Holland and he knew 
 the General liked him. The young man and the old 
 had a great deal in common. The contemporaries of 
 both considered them a little mad. 
 
 " But what about Banarsi Das? " Skene asked. 
 
 " Banarsi Das? " Dean repeated the name as if he 
 were trying to recall its associations. " Banarsi Das. 
 Oh yes ! I meant to tell you. I fancy I saw your 
 young proteg6 at the railway station one day early 
 last week. I noticed him, because he was trying to 
 avoid me ; it's a habit with malefactors. But I doubt 
 if he still calls himself Banarsi Das. He was wearing 
 a black Astrakhan cap with the badge of the star and 
 crescent on it and baggy Muhammadan trousers. Not 
 a bad disguise for a Hindu." 
 
 " Can you imagine Banarsi Das brandishing the 
 sword of Islam? " 
 
 " It is quite on the cards that he went off with the 
 muhajarin and that he is now at Asmas with the 
 Hindustani fanatics. If so it will be difficult to trace 
 him. They all changed their names when they crossed 
 the Indus. The only one the tehsildar could vouch for 
 was Jemal Khan." 
 
 " Banarsi Das will be about as much use to them as 
 a sick headache," Skene said. " But what are their 
 tactics now? " 
 
 " The same old war-cry — Insurrection or Flight. No 
 Moslem should live under non-Moslem rule. That is for 
 India's consumption. Over the border they are work- 
 ing up the Mohmunds and the tribes of Buner and Swat. 
 They hope the Afghans are coming in. The Turks are 
 flattering them and promising them money. There are 
 two Bimbashis at Asmas now, preachmg the. Jehad. 
 
70 ABDICATION 
 
 The fanatics think themselves the centre of the universe, 
 which is to be forcibly converted to Islam." 
 
 This was altogether too much for Hill. It bordered 
 on romance. The bubble Dean blew appeared to him 
 so inflated and iridescent that he was provoked to put 
 a finger through it. " You don't mean to say," he 
 drawled, " that you G.I.D. men are going to raise that 
 futile old bogey of the Hindustani fanatics again. 
 They have been always flitting about at the back of 
 the stage. My grandfather used to talk of them, but 
 what have they done? " 
 
 " They've been mixed up in every frontier rising 
 since the Ambeyla show in '68. They are not danger- 
 ous as a fighting force ; they are wire-pullers — financed 
 by Moslems in India, mostly Wahabis — organisations 
 in the Punjab, the U.P. and Bengal, ramifications from 
 Panipat to Dacca, a perennial stream of malcontents 
 trickling through, missionaries collecting funds. Fana- 
 ticism is an hereditary trade with them." 
 
 But Hill would not be convinced. He described them 
 as a sponging, lotus-eating breed of fanatics, too lazy to 
 cultivate, dependent on the alms of the pious. 
 
 ** You wouldn't have called the Hindustanis futile," 
 Wace-HoUand said, " if you had been at Shabkadr in 
 1915. I counted twelve of them laid out among the 
 dead. You remember them, Osborne; they were 
 clothed in black from head to foot." 
 
 " Yes, they didn't strike me as an emasculated breed. 
 You have heard of the Ghazi rush at Kot-Kai. Forty- 
 eight of them fell in the attack on the post — the most 
 gallant, hopeless affair." 
 
 " Intoxicated with bhang," Hill suggested. " The 
 more of them who obtain the joys of martyrdom the 
 better." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 71 
 
 " It doesn't much matter what they are intoxicated 
 with, call it bhang or religion. The point is their heads 
 are swollen with Pan-Islamism. They are working 
 this Khilafat business for all they are worth." 
 
 " I hear the Ghazis have a leather cannon at Asmas, 
 and Mustapha Kemal has promised them a couple of 
 machine-guns." 
 
 " You're a bit of a wag, Hill; but this is not all 
 Gilbert and Sullivan. The Ghazi is the fermenting 
 agent; that's all. And he's out for Jehad. He 
 hasn't had such a chance for a century. Not even in 
 '57. Every decent Muhammadan in India is angry 
 and sore and believes that we have betrayed Islam. 
 This is the feeling on both sides of the frontier, and in 
 Afghanistan. Half these tribesmen believe that the 
 British are at Mecca and Medina and are going to 
 set up liquor shops in the Kaaba. Of course, they 
 hate the Sherif like poison, and say we have bought 
 him, and that he is a Kafir and that the Haj means 
 nothing, now the Holy Places are in the hands of 
 unbelievers." 
 
 " Is not the Sherif of Mecca a lineal descendant of 
 the Prophet? " HiU asked. 
 
 " You tell them that," said Wace-Holland. " Nothing 
 maddens them more." 
 
 " By the way," Dean continued, " the fanatics have 
 got another settlement at Charmakand on the Afghan 
 border. They get their suppUes through Mardan. 
 Charmakand is to be the tribal base for operations on 
 Peshawar." The G.I.D. man told of mysterious 
 comings and goings on the frontier, and unwove a nexus 
 of intrigue, tribal jealousies, traffic in fatwas and rifles, 
 wandering faqirs plying between Kabul and Delhi and 
 Deoband. Certain names, vaguely famiUar to Riley, 
 
72 ABDICATION 
 
 punctuated this talk. The General asked some perti- 
 nent questions about the Haji Sahib of Turganzai, the 
 Jandiwalla Mullah, Nasrulla Khan, and the Bulbul of 
 Sehwan. They talked of ObeiduUah's Army of God, 
 the Ghahb-nameh, and the Silk Letter Conspiracy 
 Case. Dean could afford to be communicative. It 
 was all past history now. Even Hill was interested. 
 But Skene had fallen into one of his trance-like reveries, 
 sitting back in his chair, his glass between his knees, 
 staring into the blanket of dust, through which the 
 moon of Rajab appeared dimly Hke an onion suspended 
 in a loft. He heard nothing. He had a picture in his 
 mind of Banarsi Das among the fanatics, in the camp 
 under the mountain of caves, the timid, faltering, 
 academic Banarsi Das, the victim of some gust of im- 
 pulse, half paralysed with fear, and longing to escape. 
 He would be drilling perhaps in a black robe, fingering 
 strange weapons, listening to exhortations in a strange 
 tongue. Smaller sacrifice than his had earned patriots 
 the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel in ObeiduUah's Army 
 of God. Skene pictured him sitting in a circle by a 
 camp fire under the moon, while some white-bearded 
 mullah expatiated on the sweetness of death by the 
 sword of the infidel, the joys of paradise, the crown of 
 martyrdom. A sprig of camel- thorn thrown on the 
 embers would irradiate the faces of the faithful, and 
 Banarsi Das would shrink back into the shadow, 
 scorched by the flame to which he had lent his feeble 
 breath. Then he thought of him sobbing over the 
 hfeless body of Siri Ram at Gandeshwar. " Poor little 
 devil ! I am sorry for him if he is in the Cave of Adul- 
 1am. I wonder if the muhajarin are still there. If he 
 isn't knifed, I wouldn't mind betting that he will be 
 the first of the gang to come back." 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 78 
 
 II 
 
 Skene's picture of Banarsi Das in Independent 
 Territory, though inaccurate in detail, was true in 
 effect. Indeed, it did not require long acquaintance 
 with the friend of Siri Ram to predict that his days on 
 the frontier would be spent in tribulation. After a day 
 and a half and a stifling night in the train, with thirty 
 passengers in a carriage packed as thick as seeds in a 
 pomegranate, he was deposited limply on the platform 
 at Haripur. According to the pre-arranged plan the 
 conspirators met in a house where a guide from Asmas 
 was awaiting them, and after a hurried meal started 
 at once on their journey. They travelled by night. 
 It was important to get across the border with as little 
 delay as possible and to avoid being seen. 
 
 The journey by night from Haripur to Darband, 
 thirty miles including the detour to avoid the Police 
 Post at Kirplian, exhausted Banarsi Das. His throat 
 was parched; his feet were blistered; and his head 
 swam. Two miles short of Kirphan the party left the 
 road, following the guide, and stumbled for hours 
 through rocky nullahs. The soles of Banarsi Das' 
 tennis shoes, which he had bought for the journey in 
 the bazar at Gopalpura, became loose and tripped him 
 up at every unevenness of the ground. The sharp 
 stones cut them to strips. He left one in a prickly 
 bush, the thorns of which, as he tried to extract it, 
 tore his hands and feet. The other he tied up with 
 string. The party moved on relentlessly, in silence, 
 with barely a halt. Banarsi Das, who had fallen behind, 
 every now and then bleated to them to stop. He was 
 terrified at the thought of being cut off from them and 
 
74 ABDICATION 
 
 lost. In every bush he saw a poHceman, or a tribes- 
 man, or a dacoit. The glow of the conspirator, the 
 spirit of adventure, the pride in being a rebel died in 
 his heart. Then after a time fear became merged in a 
 consuming numbness. He was only conscious of being 
 abysmally tired. His body felt like a parcel of dry skin 
 wrapped round a clammy uncomfortable tunnel that 
 stretched from his stomach to his throat. The lower 
 plodding part of him was detached and in conflict with 
 the upper organism, though it too was sensible to pain, 
 and received a new wound whenever he put his feet 
 to the grovind. 
 
 Just before it was Hght they reached Darband. 
 Here an emissary of the fanatics was waiting them by 
 the gate of the serai outside the village. Without rising 
 from the ground he called out to them the password of 
 the hour. " He who shall equip a warrior in this cause 
 of God shall receive a martyr's reward." And the guide 
 answered him, " His children dread not the trouble of 
 the grave, nor the last trump, nor the day of judgment." 
 At this the figure by the gate rose up and intoned, 
 "Enter now the company of the faithful; join the 
 divine leader; smite the infidel. Everything is pre- 
 pared." Then one by one they bent low to pass through 
 the wicket of the massive doorway into the courtyard. 
 The alcoves on either side of the arch within the gate 
 were lighted by wicks floating in shallow vessels of oil. 
 In one of the recesses Banarsi Das noticed a merchant 
 poring over his accounts. He followed the muhajarin 
 inside, and sinking down on the coping of the verandah 
 leant wearily against a pillar. 
 
 Everything was early astir, and in the dim grey 
 Hght he watched the objects in the courtyard take 
 shape. He saw the pigeons wake in their niches over 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 75 
 
 the gate and the bullocks harnessed to the wheel at 
 the well. Soon the yard filled with sparrows. They 
 came before the crows. The patient kneeling camels, 
 which never slept, regarded the world impassively as if 
 nothing complex could disturb the eternal scheme of 
 things. The tethered horses whinnied and dragged at 
 their heel-ropes, appealing for their ration of young 
 green wheat, which had been cut and brought in 
 overnight. In the far corner a fire was burning under 
 a thorn-tree, and the savoury smell of baked chapatties 
 mingling with the acrid smoke of the camel-dung fuel 
 revived Banarsi Das, and linked him with the comfort- 
 able world from which he was rapidly being borne 
 away — or abducted, as it seemed to him at the moment. 
 For he had no more spirit for the adventure, and 
 dreaded intercourse with the exacting Jemal Khan. 
 He watched the inuhajarin spread their blankets in the 
 cubicles which opened into the verandah on all sides 
 of the square. He felt an ahen among them. They 
 seemed to him strong and purposeful. He had none 
 of their fervour. Many of them even now were bowed 
 towards Mecca, rising and sinking rhythmically and 
 striking their foreheads on the stone, as if that appalling 
 night journey had not been enough to destroy all 
 elasticity of body and soul. At Gopalpura Banarsi Das 
 had been taught to say his nimaz by Jemal Khan. He 
 had even shown application in the drill. These postur- 
 ings meant initiation as a conspirator among the elect 
 and woke no scruples in his Aryan soul. Banarsi Das 
 had no religion. He had long forgotten the teachings 
 of his Samaj. Dayanand^ meant no more to him than 
 Mahomet. It was true in his case that AUahu Akbar 
 and Om were one name. He might have professed 
 1 Swami Dayanand, the founder of the Arya Samaj. 
 
76 ABDICATION 
 
 Islam at Jemal Khan's instance if he had not been 
 afraid of the ordeal of circumcision. The little faith 
 he had was comfortless. He believed in nothing unless 
 it were the punitive resources of the Almighty, of which 
 he collated new evidence every day in the web of con- 
 spiracy woven by mahce and circumstance to his 
 hurt. 
 
 A servant of the serai brought him a chatti of hot 
 milk with which he filled his bowl. The food that was 
 given him he swallowed greedily in gulps. The whole 
 meal did not last many seconds. Then he rolled him- 
 self up in his blanket in one of the empty cubicles and 
 prepared to sleep, praying that he might be forgotten 
 and left alone. He removed his hansli, the rope purse 
 he had tied to his waist, and the Koran attached to it, 
 on the ninety-ninth page of which the moulvi of Amir 
 Khan's mosque had written in Urdu, and Pushtu and 
 Persian that Abdul Hakim — it was Banarsi Das' ahas 
 in Independent Territory — was a messenger of the faith- 
 ful and that his word was to be trusted. This rash 
 attestation was Banarsi Das' passport. It would carry 
 him safely through Buner and Swat, and secure him 
 the hospitality of the Mohmunds and the Haji Sahib 
 of Turangzai. He placed the Koran beneath his 
 head, and held the purse in his hand under the blanket. 
 The custody of neither conduced to sleep. He was 
 afraid of thieves. Every footstep in the verandah was 
 a menace. Above all he feared a new summons to 
 effort. He had a disquieting suspicion that the muJia- 
 jarin were capable of starting off on another stage of 
 their journey before night. 
 
 He was unconscious that he had slept when at three 
 o'clock he saw Jemal Khan walking across the court- 
 yard with the steps of a covenanter in the direction of 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 77 
 
 his cubicle. " Abdul Hakim, Abdul Hakim," he called. 
 But before he could cross the threshold Banarsi Das 
 was moaning that he was sick, and that he must see a 
 doctor. His blisters were festering. He had fever. 
 He could not continue the march. 
 
 " We must not stay here," Jemal Khan answered 
 quietly. " Before an hour has passed we will be 
 starting for Asmas." 
 
 Banarsi Das prayed that he might be left in the 
 serai. Only a day or two. He would follow the 
 muhajarin when his bhsters were healed. 
 
 Jemal Khan warned him of the danger of the police. 
 " The ferry is but three miles distant," he said. " When 
 once we are across the Indus we will be safe." 
 
 But the security of the camp of the Hindustani 
 fanatics no longer appealed to Banarsi Das as it had 
 done at Gopalpura. He was not uphfted, as he should 
 have been, by the thought that he was a " warrior in 
 the Cause of God." The first night march in the 
 campaign in which he was enhsted had exhausted his 
 spiritual resources. He dreaded being dragged up to 
 the battle-line. He wished he had joined The 
 Thompsonpur Gazette. 
 
 But Jemal Khan was insistent. In his face of a 
 covenanter Banarsi Das read a dreadful finality. 
 
 " We will put your things on a camel," he said. 
 " An ass will be found to carry you as far as the 
 ferry." 
 
 " Let me stay here," Banarsi Das pleaded. "It will 
 be but a day or two, until my blisters are healed." 
 
 Jemal Khan told him_ quietly that it was impossible 
 that he should be left behind in the serai. Not one of 
 the muhajarin would permit. All must cross the 
 Indus. 
 
78 ABDICATION 
 
 Banarsi Das repeated that he was unable to move 
 as his feet were sore. 
 
 Jemal Khan reproached him, " With the Koran on 
 your head you swore that you were ready to die. Can 
 not you even endure a Httle pain ? The feet of all are 
 blistered." 
 
 " I am ready to die, of course," Banarsi Das replied, 
 lapsing into English. " You may try me. I do not 
 shrink from bloody martyrdom; but for the moment 
 I cannot walk." 
 
 " If one of us remains, all are undone. We are 
 watched narrowly, Abdul Hakim. In these days even 
 a tree, or a plant, or a stone is an informer." 
 
 Banarsi Das protested that no hint of the nature of 
 this mission would escape him if he fell into the hands 
 of the police. Jemal Khan turned away. Banarsi 
 Das watched him cross the yard as if he were approach- 
 ing a conventicle. Each short dehberate step appeared 
 to the convert to Islam to be impelled by the agency 
 that maUciously watched over his fortunes. Jemal 
 Khan joined a group of the muhajarin, and when he 
 spoke to them they all looked towards the open door 
 of Banarsi Das' cubicle. The unhappy inmate felt 
 that he had lost honour. He had gained nothing by 
 evasion. Retreat was now impossible. He was already 
 counted one of the weaker vessels. He knew that 
 Jemal Khan, rather than leave him behind, would carry 
 him on his back to Asmas. 
 
 An hour passed and Banarsi Das was beginning to 
 hope that the journey had. been postponed, when he 
 saw the guide leading a white donkey to his corner of 
 the serai. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 70 
 
 III 
 
 The Bulbul sat in the shade of the only tree on the 
 stony track leading up from the Indus, waiting for the 
 muhajarin. The villagers of Jahar clustered round 
 him in a half-circle outside the shadow and watched his 
 every movement with reverence. He was telling them 
 that they were idolaters and that they no longer 
 followed the path of God. 
 
 " You complain of drought," he said, '* but do you 
 expect the copious showers of heaven to fall on the 
 crops of the unfaithful.'* And he pointed to the votive 
 rags they had tied to the thorn-bushes on the path that 
 led to the tomb of the local Pir. 
 
 " In the name of the All Merciful be it known to 
 those who seek the way of God that it is forbidden to 
 make offerings to any prophet, saint, or holy man. 
 Adorn not the tombs of Pirs. Seek not thus the 
 attainment of your desires. Would you attribute to 
 any creature the attributes of the All Powerful ? Look 
 not to this departed one to rule the accidents of life. 
 Verily your supplications are in vain. The Pirs and 
 holy ones are helpless and ignorant, even as ye, in 
 respect to the laws of the Universe. The book bids 
 us pray only to God." 
 
 The villagers were silent under the rebuke. No one 
 stirred to remove the red tatters on the thorn-bush. 
 They had been placed there by pious hands. In the 
 night perhaps they might be removed, for the Bulbul 
 was generally obeyed. In all his comings and goings 
 he imposed some new exaction on the faithful. Very 
 thorny was the path of discipline he prescribed. It 
 was said of him in the village, " This man knows the 
 seventy-seven thousand, six hundred and thirty-nine 
 
80 ABDICATION 
 
 words of the Koran ; yet he would have us let the lamp 
 go out at the tomb of our father." A true successor 
 of Say y ad Ahmed, the Wahabi Prophet, he denounced 
 all forms and practices that had come into existence 
 since the writing of the Holy Book. He would have 
 extinguished the taper in the graveyard, banished 
 drums from marriages and abolished ceremonies and 
 festivals. All these things were utterly abominable 
 to God and His Prophet. To the warrior in the cause 
 of Islam he forbade any adornment other than the 
 rifle and the sword. 
 
 In Independent Territory the Bulbul was revered 
 as a militant messenger of God. He was an old man, 
 thin and frail-looking, with a long white beard, but far 
 from infirm. His wrists were no thicker than sugar- 
 cane, but hard as steel. The rifle flung over his spare 
 shoulders did not seem to weigh on them as one might 
 have thought. Normally you would take him for a 
 quiet, meditative ascetic. He had a habit of falling 
 into religious trances, and in these unearthly ecstasies 
 he was seen by the people and revered as one com- 
 muning with God. It was believed that he held mystic 
 intercourse with the blessed Imams, and that in his 
 dreams the beloved daughter of Muhammad and her 
 husband visited him, and saluted him as their son, and 
 bathed him in sweet essences. He was a Koresh, of a 
 family lineally descended from the Prophet. To his 
 disciples he appeared sometimes as a quietist; some- 
 times as a scourge of the ungodly; and he owed his 
 influence largely to these alternating moods of the 
 mystic and the man of action. When the spirit was 
 aroused in him you would say that fire was the pre- 
 dominant element in his fragile frame. Sometimes 
 when he addressed his followers, more especially when 
 
t 
 
 THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 81 
 
 rebuking the impenitent, he would be shaken by gusts 
 of passion, which were the more terrible by contrast 
 with the grave taciturnity which they disturbed. At 
 these moments one could imagine him leading the 
 Ghazi rush at Shabkadr. 
 
 On the Hindustani side of the border the Bulbul had 
 learnt to curb his reforming zeal. This was necessary 
 for the increase of the Army of God. His divine mission 
 was to preach that the land and everything that grows 
 on it is accursed where the infidel rules. In Lahore, 
 where lie had been an unwilling witness of the Mohur- 
 ram, the Puritan in him had revolted at the excesses 
 of the mob. The dramatisation of the scene at 
 Kerbela was a profane mockery in his eyes. His hand 
 itched to strike down the tazias and smite the mourners. 
 He longed to denounce the festival with all its mummery 
 as an abomination to God. So in Gopalpura he felt 
 that the presence of Hindus in Amir Khan's mosque 
 was a sacrilege. In his heart he abhorred the Hindu- 
 Moslem entente and believed that he had the power 
 to destroy the unholy traffic. He refrained because 
 he reminded himself that his first duty was recruit- 
 ment for the religious war. He could not afford to 
 alienate these unregenerates if they were to be impressed 
 into the Jehad. 
 
 To the villagers of Jahar he spoke in low and earnest 
 tones and bade them prepare milk and bread for the 
 muhajarin who were already on the road. These 
 young men were following the path of God. Every 
 true Moslem should be ranged against the infidel. 
 " Which of you has fired a shot for Islam in the last 
 twelve months ? What new name has been added to the 
 roll of the Shahids ^ of Jahar? " 
 
 ^ Martyrs in the cause of religion. 
 
82 ABDICATION 
 
 " The Almighty has withdrawn from a faint-hearted 
 generation. When the Moslems with singleness of 
 mind join in the holy war against the infidels their 
 Prophet will return and lead them to victory." 
 
 The villagers looked at each other with questioning 
 glances. It was whispered by some that this holy 
 man was none other than the Imam Mahdi. 
 
 " When you see the black flags coming from Khora- 
 san, go forth, for with them is a Khalif, the Envoy of 
 God." 
 
 The verse the Bulbul quoted from the Koran was 
 aptly inspired. His eyes were fixed on the road lead- 
 ing from the river, and as he spoke the black flag of the 
 muhajarin appeared in the bend. The covenanter, 
 Jemal Khan, bore it proudly. He had shaken the dust 
 of defilement from his feet, and was now in tribal 
 territory. He was no longer answerable to the un- 
 believer. This was the first stage on the road to 
 victory. 
 
 One by one the footsore students toiled up the path 
 to the plateau where the Bulbul sat under the solitary 
 tree in the half-circle of villagers. Banarsi Das was the 
 only laggard. The holy man made much of the 
 muhajarin and commended their fidelity. He was in 
 one of his gentlest moods. The malik of the village 
 had prepared a meal for them. It was arranged that 
 they should rest in Jahar a little while before continuing 
 their journey. 
 
 After the meal the Bulbul drew Jemal Khan aside. 
 " Are all here ? " he asked. 
 
 " All save the Hindu." 
 
 "Are all to be trusted?" 
 
 Jemal Khan was silent, revolving in his mind the 
 case of a possible exception. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 83 
 
 " I ask you this question because I have received 
 news of the arrest of Nazir Ullah Shah in Gopalpura." 
 
 Nazir Ullah Shah was an agent of the Hindustani 
 fanatics. The Bulbul then told Jemal Khan how he 
 himself had narrowly escaped the same fate at the hands 
 of the G.I.D. in Haripur. Their agents had long been 
 watched, but Nazir Ullah Shah was the first to be 
 arrested. He suspected an informer among the 
 muhajarin. 
 
 *' What of the Hindu ? " he asked. 
 
 Jemal Khan again reflected, damning the absent 
 convert by his silence. 
 
 "What does he know?" 
 
 " He knows nothing, only our names, and these have 
 been published. He was to have carried the letters 
 back." 
 
 It is significant that Jemal Khan spoke of Banarsi 
 Das as if he were always non-existent. 
 
 "Is he to be trusted? " 
 
 Jemal Khan maintained his purposeful silence. He 
 was well able to weigh the effect of his hesitation. If 
 the Bulbul suspected Banarsi Das he would no doubt 
 kill him. Yet Banarsi Das was an honest agent; of 
 this Jemal Khan was convinced; it was impossible 
 that he could be a spy. But he judged it wiser not to 
 give the Bulbul this impression. Banarsi Das wa^ 
 better out of the way. An impulsive, emotional weak- 
 ling, who already repented of his adventure, was a 
 dangerous associate. Before leaving the serai he had 
 decided that he was not to be trusted with the letters. 
 
 " Speak out all that is in your mind, Jemal Khan." 
 
 " I do not trust him," the muhajir said. 
 
 It was a ruthless sentence, Jemal Khan knew that 
 he addressed Banarsi Das' executioner. He told the 
 
84 ABDICATION 
 
 Bulbul of the Hindu's malingering in the serai and his 
 efforts to be left behind in British territory. 
 
 " He has crossed the river? Then I await him on 
 the road," the Bulbul said sternly. *' Continue now 
 on your path. The Amir of the Mujahidin ^ has made 
 all preparations." 
 
 It was growing dark when the muhajarin departed. 
 Banarsi Das observed them from the spot where he 
 was hiding on the cliff above the road. He dared not 
 enter the village until they had gone. He was in a 
 state of great exhaustion, since the owner of the ass 
 he had ridden refused to let it pass beyond the ferry. 
 In his survey of Jahar he marked the tomb of the Pir, 
 the first building on the right as one approached the 
 hamlet from the Indus. He had seen Jemal Khan and 
 his company start off from the neighbourhood of the 
 shrine, and he concluded that it was a resting-place in 
 which hospitality was assured to one of the muhajarin. 
 
 It was quite dark when he limped up to the tomb, 
 and the moon of Rajab was still high in the sky. As 
 he stood by the half-open door he heard low voices 
 inside. He entered nervously and found himself in a 
 dark cavernous chamber. A fire was smouldering in 
 the corner and he could distinguish two figures bending 
 over it. A voice addressed him out of the gloom. 
 
 " Who are you? " 
 
 " I am a muhajir." Banarsi Das had been assured 
 that the word would prove a passport on the road. 
 
 " What is your name ? " 
 
 " I am Abdul Hakim." 
 
 " Where are you going? " 
 
 *' I am going to Asmas." 
 
 1 Those who preached Jehad, i. e. the Hindustani fanatics. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 85 
 
 *' What is your errand ? " 
 
 " I am under the orders of the Amir of the Mujahidin. 
 My companions passed through the village an hour 
 ago. I am sick and unable to walk. Therefore they 
 left me behind." 
 
 " Why have you come to Amb ? " 
 
 " We are going to Stambul to fight for the Sultan." 
 
 " Do you not come from Gopalpura? " 
 
 Banarsi Das admitted it. 
 
 " Are you acquainted with Nazir Ullah Shah? " 
 
 Banarsi Das answered quite truthfully that he had 
 no knowledge of Nazir Ullah Shah. 
 
 Here the inquisitor stirred the embers of the fire 
 and watched the face of the Hindu closely. It was only 
 then that Banarsi Das discovered that he was in the 
 presence of the Bulbul-i-Sehwan. The flickering 
 embers lit up the features of his companion, a magnifi- 
 cent young Shinwari, the finest figure of a tribesman 
 Banarsi Das had yet seen. 
 
 The inquisitor continued : " We have come to learn 
 that Nazir Ullah Shah is a prisoner in the hands of the 
 infidel. We seek his betrayer." 
 
 Up to this point the Messenger of the Faithful had 
 spoken in a low quiet tone. His voice now became 
 vibrant. It filled the tomb. Banarsi Das was reminded 
 of the graveyard of Ain-ul-Quzzat. He felt that he 
 was in the presence of a judge. 
 
 " Do you carry any written script to prove that your 
 word may be relied on? " the inquisitor asked him 
 sternly. 
 
 Banarsi Das answered : " My passport is written 
 in my Koran on the ninety-ninth page by the hand of 
 Abdul Rabi, the moulvi of Amir Khan's mosque." 
 
 " Where is this Koran ? " 
 
86 ABDICATION 
 
 " It is not with me. It has gone on in front with the 
 muhajarins' baggage. 
 
 Here the Bulbul spoke a few words in Pushtu to the 
 Shinwari. The two figures bending over the fire assumed 
 the terrible aspect of judge and executioner. Banarsi 
 Das begged them to send a messenger to overtake 
 Jemal Khan, who could not be far advanced on the 
 road. 
 
 " Jemal Khan has already spoken of you," the 
 Bulbul said in a voice that sounded like a knell. 
 
 It was not until he heard of this betrayal that 
 Banarsi Das was overtaken by the fear of death. He 
 heard the voices by the fire rise and fall. They were 
 still speaking in Pushtu. Banarsi Das could follow the 
 drift of what they were saying by the proper names that 
 punctuated the conversation. He heard the word 
 Yezid, a name which in all tongues spoken by Moslems 
 can only signify a traitor. Then he heard the name of 
 Nazir Ullah Shah. It was easy to construe this talk. 
 -Nazir UUah Shah— Yezid— Hindu— C.I. D." The 
 words were as significant as the writing on the wall. 
 
 The young giant rose up at an injunction from the 
 Bulbul and approached Banarsi Das, and knelt over 
 him, obscuring the embers of the fire. The Hindu felt 
 the strong hands of the Shinwari searching him all 
 over. " Lie still," he was commanded, " or your hours 
 in this world will be shorter than is appointed. * Rough 
 fingers were inserted between his waist and the hansli ; 
 they unfastened the buckle and the rupees rolled out 
 on the floor. " Now sit up." Banarsi Das was being 
 stripped. He was naked now from the waist up. 
 The Shinwari's fingers exploring his bare chest touched 
 an object which he had forgotten. The discovery 
 doubled his apprehensions. A strong voice echoed in 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 87 
 
 the darkness over his head like the pronouncement of 
 doom. " Assuredly this man who calls himself a 
 muhajir is an impostor. He is wearing the Hindu's 
 sacred thread." The Shinwari tore the emblem from 
 his neck and dropped it on the floor. 
 
 Banarsi Das was too overcome to give an account of 
 himself. When he could command his voice he wailed 
 feebly, " It is my disguise to deceive the Kafir police. 
 Inquire of Jemal Khan." 
 
 " Jemal Khan has spoken," the Bulbul said with the 
 accents of finality. 
 
 The Shinwari held the throat of his victim between 
 the fingers and thumb of one hand. With the other 
 hand he removed the Astrakhan cap with the badge 
 of the star and crescent on it, the muhajir s talisman 
 and emblem of pride, and ran his fingers over Banarsi 
 Das' hair. Again the awful voice echoed in the roof 
 of the tomb: "This pious Mussalman, O Messenger 
 of the Faithful, has adopted the hodi of the Hindu." 
 
 Tugging at the tuft of hair in the centre of the 
 crown which differentiated Banarsi Das from certain 
 less fortunate ones of his race, the Shinwari nearly 
 lifted the wretched youth from the ground. Then he 
 drew his knife from his belt and sawed at the hodi until 
 he had severed every hair. Banarsi Das, released by 
 the operation from the position in which he was sus- 
 pended, collapsed and fell back quivering on the floor. 
 He had shut his eyes, expecting the blade at his throat. 
 Now he lay flat on his stomach with his hands clasping 
 the back of his head, as if he expected a blow. He was 
 subject to further physical examination. He had 
 passed beyond hope, and almost beyond fear, when he 
 discovered that he was alone in the tomb. 
 
 It did not at once dawn on Banarsi Das that he was 
 
88 ABDICATION 
 
 not dead, that he might yet Hve. He remembered 
 now that the stony down-hill track to the Indus was 
 less than a mile. If he could cross the river and regain 
 British Territory, no one could compel him to return. 
 He raised himself with an effort, and stumbling to the 
 door felt for a lock or bolt. It was barred from the 
 outside. He peered through the wide chink and saw 
 the two servants of Islam, the old man and the young, 
 conversing in the moonlight : the old man with his long 
 white beard touching his bosom, and his face of a falling 
 axe, and the young man, oiled and curled like a Lothario, 
 a martial youth, beautifully proportioned, with the 
 bearing of a Sohrab. Both had rifles slung over their 
 shoulders. Banarsi Das could hear their voices but 
 not their words. He knew that they were deciding his 
 fate. 
 
 He thought of calling for help. If he cried loud 
 enough the lumbar dar of the village might hear him. 
 But he dared not raise his voice. His cries would 
 anger the Wahabi. If he provoked these servants of 
 Islam they might return and complete their work. 
 And the villagers, even if they wished to save him, 
 would be powerless. One had only to look at the 
 Messenger of the Faithful to realise that authority 
 was crowned in him. The young Shinwari was his 
 slave. 
 
 The only hope for Banarsi Das lay in their contempt. 
 They might even now depart and leave him in the tomb. 
 What harm could he do them? Why should they 
 return? His heart sank again when he remembered 
 the rupees. The Shinwari would not leave them 
 behind. He turned back into the tomb and began 
 collecting them as if they were safer in a heap. He 
 knelt over the spot where he had been stripped, and 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 89 
 
 searched the floor with his hands. The action was 
 mechanical ; his intelhgence responded only to sensa- 
 tion ; he had ceased to think. 
 
 Once more he heard the voice of his executioners 
 outside. The bolt of the door was withdrawn. The 
 Shinwari appeared in the entrance with a torch 
 Banarsi Das, as he bent over the floor, dared not look 
 up into his face ; he had seen the man's eyes while he 
 was being searched. This light was more terrible than 
 the darkness. " Complete your task," he was com- 
 manded by the voice from the door, and he obeyed 
 mechanically. When the rupees were collected in a 
 b'^ap, the Shinwari entered, gathered them up and 
 committed them to his belt. He then picked up the 
 Hindu's hodi and sacred thread. Again Banarsi Das 
 felt the hand at his throat. The Shinwari thrust the 
 tuft of hair into his mouth. " Eat it, accursed spy," 
 he said. Then he lifted him up and carried him out 
 of the tomb. 
 
 The moon had set. It must have been past midnight 
 when the Shinwari, preceded by the Messenger of the 
 Faithful, carried Banarsi Das down the steep slope to 
 the Indus. He carried him under one arm, and the butt 
 of his rifle rapped the Hindu's naked back and head. 
 A rope dangling from the tribesman's shoulders became 
 entangled in Banarsi Das' feet. He was convinced that 
 they were going to hang him. When he heard the 
 rhythmic murmur of the stream he prayed that he 
 might be drowned. 
 
 The Shinwari dropped him on the bank of the 
 river beside a dark object which became associated 
 in Banarsi Das' mind with his dispatch. It was 
 a skin-raft, two inflated goat-skins and a log. Some 
 villager would be deprived of his ferry in the morning. 
 
90 ABDICATION 
 
 Nevertheless it was commandeered by the faithful as a 
 conveyance for the Hindu. It was explained to 
 Banarsi Das that he had become a messenger of Islam, 
 though not in the way he had chosen. His carcase 
 would serve as an example to the slaves of the infidel, 
 spies and informers, whether it reached them alive or 
 dead. 
 
 " What does he know? " the Wahabi said to the 
 tribesman. " Send him back to the Kafirs. He can 
 betray nothing that is not already known." 
 
 The Shinwari bound his hands together and pinioned 
 him to the raft. The cords were drawn tightly round 
 his waist and back, only his feet were left free. He 
 moaned piteously as they pushed him out into the 
 stream, " I did not expect this of God." 
 
 IV 
 
 Banarsi Das' first thought was that he would drown. 
 His feet were sucked under the raft. For a moment his 
 head was submerged as he was swung round in a swirling 
 eddy. He regained equilibrium with a struggle, 
 pressing the back of his neck on one skin and the ball 
 of his foot on another. 
 
 He had not been in the water many minutes when 
 he was carried past the ferry. As he was borne into 
 the bank he saw a man sitting by a fire outside a house 
 where he had rested on the road. He shouted out to 
 him for help. The man stood up to observe him pass, 
 as if he were a spectacle, and then sank down to enjoy 
 the warmth of the blaze and his own thoughts. 
 
 Banarsi Das saw no more men or houses, only distant 
 lights twinkling in the hills. He was borne through 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 91 
 
 inhospitable country. Sometimes he revolved for an 
 eternity in a circle, confronted by objects that appeared 
 vaguely familiar, as if seen in a dream, restored again 
 and again to the stream by the backwater at the point 
 in the current where it had sucked him away. Many 
 times he was washed into the bank, or stranded on 
 rushy islands. The first time the raft ran ashore he 
 found hope in the obstruction. He spent an hour once 
 on a sand-pit. But instinct warned him that the 
 farther he was carried from Independent Territory the 
 better his chance of escape. In shallow water he found 
 that he could navigate the raft, propelling it with his 
 feet; but after an hour or two in the river he was 
 numb to sensation. Nor was he revived at dawn. He 
 was drifting he knew not whither. Sometimes the 
 Black mountains approached him ; at other times they 
 receded ; at other times he was racing towards the peak 
 of Mahaban. Half an hour after daylight he became 
 aware of firing down-stream. It might be Armageddon. 
 But Banarsi Das' dramatic instinct was paralysed. 
 Nothing could add to the cataclysm in which he was 
 involved, not even the trump of Doom. 
 
 Round the bend of the river the firing became more 
 intense. He believed that he was entering the theatre 
 of war at which the Bulbul and Jemal Khan had hinted 
 darkly. No doubt the Moslem host had already joined 
 battle with the British, and the rattle of musketry he 
 heard was the Afghan army at grips with the infidel. 
 The Hindustani fanatics would be in the front of the 
 battle-line. The stream might deposit him as an offer- 
 ing to either army. He was already dead and beyond 
 curiosity or care. He was warmed by no hope; yet 
 he was not frightened as he had been in the tomb when 
 the Shinwari knelt over him and held his throat, or 
 
92 ABDICATION 
 
 at the dreadful moment when he had been pinioned to 
 the raft. 
 
 Then, as the stream bore him rapidly to the scene of 
 battle, the discovery that the numbing paralysis he 
 felt in all his limbs was not due to fear renewed his 
 pride. " I am playing a noble part," he told himself. 
 " This is the crown of martyrdom." And with this 
 warming thought there returned the physical craving 
 for survival. The rays of the sun on his head and 
 shoulders and back helped to restore him, and he dragged 
 a submerged foot on to the raft. He was now a spectator 
 of the drama in which he played a wonderful part — 
 the sole spectator, it was true, but the larger audience 
 necessary for his apotheosis could not be far distant. 
 Whoever they might be, they would witness the next 
 act. Banarsi Das wondered if they would stop the 
 battle. He thought he heard firing behind him, but 
 the banks of the river were high and he was hidden 
 from the host. As hope revived he was again a prey 
 to fear. He was afraid of being shot at from the bank, 
 or being dragged out of the stream alive, only to be 
 dispatched on dry land. The thing he feared most 
 was falling into the hand of the Afghans. No doubt 
 the muhajarin would be with them. Possibly the 
 terrible Shinwari would stand over him again and 
 pass sentence. He quailed at the thought of the 
 tribesman's fiery merciless eye and the rifle slung 
 behind his back. He had been equipped for battle. 
 Banarsi Das had forgotten politics, but for the moment 
 the personal involved the racial issue. He remembered 
 the Bulbul's prediction in the graveyard by the Mosque 
 of Ain-ul-Quzzat and wondered if the Feringhis were 
 being driven into the sea. Was this the day on which 
 the Indian would receive those natural promptings of 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 98 
 
 the heart which told him that the hour of his deUverance 
 had come ? Banarsi Das hoped that it was not. Some- 
 how the old dream had no longer any comfort in it. He 
 hoped that the Indus would deliver him into the custody 
 of the British. He did not ask himself why he wanted 
 to fall into the hands of his oppressors. Only by some 
 curious and inconsistent freak of fancy his vision of 
 a liberator had assumed the bulky and benevolent shape 
 of Skene. 
 
 The crack of a rifle a few yards above his head ter- 
 rified him. He slid back into the water with an instinct 
 for cover, and his two legs were sucked under the raft. 
 He had been revolving eternally, he thought, in a slow 
 backwater under the bank, when he first heard human 
 voices. The accents were muffled and indistinct and 
 they were succeeded by a volley of rifle fire. In the 
 silence that followed he listened intently, divided 
 between hope and fear. If the men on the bank spoke 
 Pushtu he felt that he was doomed, whereas an 
 English word of command meant release and safety. 
 He heard the voice again. This time the accents were 
 clearer. Banarsi Das' heart fell. The man was speak- 
 ing in a strange Asiatic tongue, neither Urdu nor Pushtu 
 nor Hindi. Again the volley was repeated. Then 
 another louder voice was heard speaking in a tone of 
 command, still in the strange unknown tongue, but 
 unmistakably English. It sounded a little impatient 
 at first; then, when the first voice joined in and was 
 put through some sort of catechism, it broke into 
 laughter. The pall of tragedy had lifted. Banarsi 
 Das called out from his watery bier to the unseen 
 presence ashore. 
 
 " Sir, I am Hindu gentleman suffering from very 
 serious catastrophe." 
 
94 ABDICATION 
 
 In a moment the bank was lined with little brown 
 men with Mongol faces. Banarsi Das' first thought was 
 that his nightmare journey on the accursed craft had 
 landed him in Japan or China. Nothing was impossible 
 in his dislocated universe. The little men wore khaki 
 helmets and khaki shirts and shorts, and bandoliers 
 like English soldiers. They were armed with rifles 
 and kukris, or, as Banarsi Das said in describing the 
 scene afterwards to Amba Pershad, with " the bloody 
 panoply." Yet there was nothing menacing in the 
 appearance of this young draft. They looked friendly 
 and innocent. Some were staring open-mouthed. 
 Others grinned stupidly. They began to swarm down 
 the bank, and as the raft was sucked into shore by an 
 eddy of the backwater one of them caught hold of it. 
 Banarsi Das was hauled up on to the dry land. The 
 cords that bound him were cut by the Gurkhas' kukris. 
 Up on the cliff a havildar was shouting, " Sahib, 
 Sahib. Here is a trussed Babu. We found him 
 drowning." 
 
 The god out of the machine bending over Banarsi Das 
 was filled with pity. The convert to Islam looked 
 up into the face of a thin tanned Englishman not unlike 
 Riley. Then he closed his eyes and shivered. He had 
 not a strut left in him for this new stage; even the 
 sources of eloquence were dry ; he could not command 
 a metaphor. After the terror and suspense of the last 
 few hours his spirit was as numbed and cramped as his 
 limbs. He had lost the power of them. He lay inert 
 at the bottom of the cliff as if he had been crushed in 
 his tumbling universe. 
 
 Banarsi Das was naked save for a cloth tied round 
 his waist and the one dilapidated tennis-shoe which 
 had remained faithful in extremities. Coleridge, the 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 95 
 
 god out of the machine, felt his pulse and heart. He 
 told his Gurkhas to carry him up the bank and lay him 
 in the sangar. " We must find something to wrap him 
 in," he said. " Bring the colonel's horse blanket." 
 
 On the crest of the bank Banarsi Das' carriers en- 
 countered another Englishman, Coleridge's subaltern. 
 " Hullo ! " he exclaimed. " What is this? Where's 
 my gun ? " and he stared at the pair of feet, shod and 
 unshod, which preceded the procession. Leeson, or 
 Porky as he was called in the regiment, had so much 
 the air of habitually wearing an eye-glass, that anyone 
 who did not know him concluded that he had left it 
 behind. When the head of Banarsi Das came into 
 view he whistled softly and looked as if the suppositi- 
 tious glass had dropped from his eye. " What is it ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 *' Came down the river," Coleridge explained, " tied 
 to a log, trussed like a fowl. I suppose it's the work of 
 our friends of Amb." 
 
 " Dacoits. Like their impudence sending him down 
 to us. A Hindu bunniah, or more likely his son." 
 Porky bent over the limp figure and examined him with 
 the same care as the god out of the machine. " Dirty 
 dogs," he exploded, careless of metaphor. " I hope 
 we get the job of smoking them out." 
 
 A volley from the next sangar electrified Banarsi Das. 
 He winced and shivered and opened his eyes, expecting 
 to see the ground strewn with corpses. But there was 
 no one in the sangar except the two Englishmen and 
 the Gurkha havildar picking up empty rounds and 
 arranging them in little heaps. 
 
 " Have the English been victorious ? " he asked, and 
 then fainted. These were the only words he spoke on 
 the field of Armageddon. 
 
96 ABDICATION 
 
 " No wonder he's a bit behosh," said the god out of 
 the machine. " Poor Httle devil ! He must have had 
 a rotten time. Where did he pick up his EngHsh? 
 When's that ambulance coming? " 
 
 " Better wait till this section is finished. It's the 
 last. We can take him home with the company." 
 
 The word of command was delivered in Gurkhali 
 from the next picquet. 
 
 "On the mound, left flank, eight o'clock, tree. Five 
 fingers right. Enemy trench. Range, looo yards." 
 
 " That's better. Chandardhoj has got it this time." 
 
 The thickest-headed N.G.O. was on his trial. Cole- 
 ridge turned to the havildar who was picking up empty 
 rounds. " Your picquet would have been scuppered, 
 Jangbir Thapa," he said. " Your fire discipline is 
 putrid, and you can't judge distance for nuts. When 
 you go home on leave, can you tell how many hundred 
 yards it is to your best girl? " 
 
 " Which best girl. Sahib? " Jangbir Thapa grinned 
 sheepishly. 
 
 Banarsi Das' returning wits were conscious of the 
 same jolly laughter that had emboldened him to cry 
 out from the raft. He was again encouraged. This 
 officer, he thought, cannot have a care in the world. 
 It is clear that the English are victorious. Then he 
 resigned himself again to the Stygian stream. He rose 
 and fell on the waves like a floating spar. But the 
 waters on which he was borne no longer buffeted 
 him. He was entering placid seas. As the luminous 
 gulf widened he forgot the Afghan and the merciless 
 grave. 
 
 He heard the next volley. It barely induced a 
 spasm. Coleridge looked over the parapet and fixed 
 his glasses on the dummy figures that were being drawn 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 97 
 
 towards the picquet by ropes pulled by men in the 
 intervening pits. He saw two of them go down. 
 
 " Shabash/' he cried. He had been training that 
 N.0.0. in fire-discipline for a month, teaching him how 
 to control his section and show his men how to pick up 
 their own targets. He did not hope to inspire initia- 
 tive; but evidently some of his training had stuck. 
 For the next ten minutes he and Porky discussed their 
 N.C.O.s and calculated how much wisdom, if any, they 
 had hammered into the new draft. It was the last 
 day of the field firing exercise camp and to-morrow they 
 returned to Abbottabad. 
 
 " Enemy approaching up nullah. Range, lOO yards. 
 Five rounds rapid, fire." 
 
 The words of command preceded the last volley from 
 the adjoining sangar. This time the targets were 
 falling plates. It needed a hit plumb in the middle 
 to knock them over, but three of them fell." 
 
 " Well, that picquet has bached ^ anyhow," Coleridge 
 said to the havildar. " They held on all right 
 with precious little ammunition. Now reinforcements 
 have come up and we can wipe the floor with the 
 attack." 
 
 " Ji, Sahib. Assuredly the enemy have all perished." 
 Jangbir Thapa pointed to the riddled dummies, and 
 fallen plates. "It is a young draft, but before the 
 pultan 2 the bravest become like Babu-log." 
 
 Coleridge laughed. " Have they brought the horse- 
 blanket for the Babu we saved from drowning ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " No, Sahib. The Colonel has returned to camp. 
 The ambulance will be here in two or three minutes." 
 
 " I know," Coleridge said, and pointed to a seedy 
 ^ Survived. 2 Regiment. 
 
98 ABDICATION 
 
 black frock-coat in which some wag had wrapped one 
 of the dummy figures. 
 
 Jangbir Thapa was trotting off to fetch it, when the 
 hospital orderlies appeared in the nullah with the 
 doolie. The Sub-Assistant Surgeon, also a Babu, 
 had brought blankets with him and reviving rum. 
 Banarsi Das became the centre of an interested crowd. 
 He was lifted into the doolie, still speechless. He 
 rejected the rum with a gesture of disgust. 
 
 Coleridge and Porky followed the procession into 
 camp, and the havildar accompanied them chatting 
 about red bears, and markhor and ibex, the forests of 
 Ward wan, the cliffs of Gor above the Indus under 
 Nanga Parbat, and other wild spots consecrated by 
 shikar. He had been with the Sahibs on many a trek 
 in the hills, and in a month's time he would be camping 
 with them again by the Astor stream in ibex country. 
 He knew to an inch the dimensions of every head in 
 the mess, and what Sahib had shot it. But he spoke 
 more often of a greater markhor, a statelier ibex, known 
 to the shepherds of Astor or Chilas. The gesture with 
 which he measured the span of horns in the air was so 
 dramatic that " Colrig Sahib " imagined he had seen 
 the beast browsing on its supposititious cliff. There 
 was not a head to compare with it on the walls of the 
 mess of the sister battalion in Abbottabad. 
 
 When they reached the hospital, and the doolie 
 was laid on the floor, Banarsi Das revived and his eyes 
 fell on the god in the machine. " Has the victory fallen 
 to the Afghans or the British? " he asked faintly. 
 
 *' The victory is always with the British," Coleridge 
 answered, smiling. 
 
 " Is it true that a considerable number have given 
 up their ghosts ? " 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 99 
 
 " No, Babuji. You are the only casualty/' 
 
 Coleridge and Porky laughed again and Porky trans- 
 lated the conversation into Gurkhali for the benefit of 
 the men. The little havildar, when he heard the joke, 
 doubled up with merriment. 
 
 " Look after him and feed him well," Coleridge said 
 to the Sub-Assistant Surgeon. " I expect he would like 
 some boiling hot tea. Or we could send round some 
 ice. Don't worry him with questions until he has had 
 a good sleep. Let me know if there is anything you 
 want. I'll be round again in the evening." 
 
 Banarsi Das lay still and watched the preparations 
 for his resuscitation. The kettle was steaming on the 
 angcthi ; he was conscious of the delicious fragrance 
 of tea. He thought of the tribulations of the muhajarin 
 in the camp under the caves of Asmas, and thanked 
 God that he was delivered from these bloody-minded 
 men. 
 
 " Have we won the battle? " 
 
 These were the first words Banarsi Das spoke when 
 he opened his eyes in the hospital after ten hours' 
 nearly continuous sleep. It may be inferred that his 
 subliminal consciousness had been in charge during 
 this period. Hence the significant " We." The supra- 
 liminal booby took the hint from his mate as he slipped 
 back under the threshold. The sleeping partner is 
 generally the wiser of the two. In Banarsi Das' case 
 the subliminal influence was still in the ascendant when 
 Coleridge looked in again to see how his " trussed 
 Babu " was getting on. 
 
 The plural of the first personal pronoun pleased the 
 
100 ABDICATION 
 
 Gurkha officer. He felt drawn to this waif who had 
 drifted into their camp from no man's land. The 
 assumption of the rights of British citizenship was quite 
 unconscious on the part of Banarsi Das, though he 
 might have argued that having suffered as an agent of 
 the English, it was only just that he should continue 
 in the unsolicited role that had procured him his 
 eccentric entry on the stage. The Bulbul had given 
 him the cue for his new part. 
 
 When Coleridge asked him who the barbarians were 
 who had dispatched him down the Indus, he was able 
 to answer truthfully that he was a victim of the 
 Hindustani fanatics. He did not give a very connected 
 story of himself, only he led Coleridge to infer that he 
 was an agent of the C.I.D., and that it was an every- 
 day event in his adventurous career to be sent on 
 perilous missions, carrying his life in his hands. His 
 reticence as to detail was in keeping with his part of 
 secret agent. 
 
 " I have served benign Government since infancy/' 
 Banarsi Das said. 
 
 "And where did you pick up your English?" 
 Coleridge asked him. 
 
 Banarsi Das enlarged upon his College days and his 
 benevolent Principal. It was a phase in his life which 
 had taken a pleasant colouring by contrast with his 
 recent tribulations. He only remembered the happy 
 days when he walked " in the groves of Academe " 
 with Siri Ram and Lachmi Narain, and pored over his 
 text-books and construed Shakespeare and Shelley and 
 Sir Walter Scott to his own satisfaction. He remem- 
 bered the feasts in the dormitories and the College 
 Debating Societies, and the " dramas " in which he 
 had acted minor parts, and the parties Skene gave at 
 the end of the term before the summer vacations. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 101 
 
 Coleridge was interested. He had met Skene on a 
 voyage home between Bombay and Marseilles. He 
 asked Banarsi Das many questions about Gandeshwar 
 and the work and the games and the careers that were 
 open to the students after passing their examinations. 
 Banarsi Das admitted that he had failed to pass his 
 B.A. in spite of Skene's genius for instruction. But that 
 was due " to bodily prostrations and the troubles of 
 my family members." In all this conversation Banarsi 
 Das was guided by an instinct to please the god in the 
 machine by a suggestion of reverence, which was genuine 
 enough at the moment, and to create an impression of 
 respect in the Englishman for himself. One end, he 
 imagined, subserved the other. Nor was there any 
 insincerity in his reconciliation with the race of the 
 hated oppressor. It was an old sentiment revived by 
 the play of circumstance. Banarsi Das was soothed 
 and flattered by the interest of this young Gurkha 
 officer. Coleridge was delighted with his English. 
 
 " Mr. Skene is very noble gentleman. He has now 
 scaled highest rung of educational ladder. Each and 
 every one of his old students feels personal, not to say 
 individual, pride at his elevation." 
 
 Banarsi Das referred to his old Principal's appoint- 
 ment as Director of Public Instruction at Thompsonpur. 
 
 " You know Thompsonpur? " Coleridge asked him. 
 
 " Certainly. I have resided there." 
 
 " What work did you take up after leaving college ? " 
 
 " At first I was teacher in Government High School. 
 Then I joined Police. My work in Criminal Investiga- 
 tion Department is of very confeedential nature." 
 
 " Where are your headquarters now? " 
 
 Banarsi Das maintained that discreet and non- 
 committal silence which he thought seemly in a trusted 
 subordinate of the G.I.D. 
 
102 ABDICATION 
 
 Coleridge did not cross-examine him. " I have sent 
 a message to the D.S.P. about you," he said. " You 
 will probably see him and the Deputy Commissioner 
 to-morrow in Abbottabad. They will want to hear 
 your story." 
 
 Banarsi Das wilted inwardly. He was involved in 
 a new coil. He began to explain that it was important 
 that he should carry back his information to head- 
 quarters as soon as possible. It was " very secret and 
 urgent affair," he said. But he had no money. He 
 had been robbed by the Mujahidin. 
 
 " How far do you want to go ? " Coleridge asked him. 
 
 Banarsi Das admitted, after a little hesitation, that 
 his destination was Gopalpura. 
 
 " That will be all right," Coleridge said. " Mr. 
 Martin, the Superintendent of Police, will finance you, 
 or you can wire for money from Abbottabad. We'll 
 take you there in the doolie to-morrow. They tell me 
 you still have fever." 
 
 Banarsi Das turned on his side and communed with 
 the wall. He shrank from the thought of Mr. Martin. 
 " If I am seen in company with police officer," he said 
 after a little while, " my services to Government will 
 become impotential. Nobody knows I am secret agent. 
 All my communications are confidential. Besides, if 
 I am taken for an informer they will kill me." 
 
 " That will be all right," Coleridge repeated cheer- 
 fully. "I'll bring him round to the hospital. No one 
 will know that you have seen him. Now I must be 
 going. Do you want anything to read? " 
 
 Banarsi Das beamed gratitude. He expressed a 
 preference for the works of Mr. Dryden, or Mr. Ruskin, 
 or Mr. Shakespeare. 
 
 Coleridge explained that he had not a library with 
 him, but that he might be able to unearth an anthology. 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 103 
 
 " Garden of choicest flowers, no doubt," Banarsi 
 Das quoted, airing his learning and mouthing the words 
 with an ingratiating wriggle of the neck. He remem- 
 bered the definition in an annotated text-book. 
 
 Coleridge smiled. " What on earth has the New 
 Province to do with it ? "he asked himself as he returned 
 to his tent. " And why can't this half-baked Babu 
 report himself at Delhi or Peshawar? " 
 
 When he reached the mess the dak had arrived, and 
 a head-line in The Civil and Military Gazette gave him 
 a clue. " A New Exodus of Muhajarin," " Runaway 
 Students from Thompsonpur," he read. The text of 
 the telegram was brief. It simply stated that as a 
 result of the Khilafat agitation, a dozen or more Muham- 
 madan students had run away from Thompsonpur 
 College a week before the University examinations, and 
 that it was believed they had joined the Hindustani 
 fanatics in Amb. A reference was made to a previous 
 migration of students from Lahore, most of whom had 
 returned to their homes. An editorial note defined 
 muhajarin, the plural of the Arabic muhajir — one who, 
 following the example of the Prophet, Muhammad, 
 abandons the country of the persecutors of religion. 
 It was explained in the note that the word was not 
 to be confused with Mujahidin, the missionaries of 
 Jehad, a term generally applied in India to the colony 
 of the Hindustani fanatics at Asmas. 
 
 " By Jove ! " Coleridge exclaimed to Porky, who was 
 scanning the illustrations of La Vie : " 1 shouldn't 
 wonder if our young Babu isn't one of the Margarine." 
 
 " Margarine " was the variant adopted by Anglo- 
 India for the earher batch of Lahore students, the 
 pioneers of hi] rat. It was to become a household 
 word a few months afterwards when the agitators 
 declared that India was dar-ul-harb, and that it was 
 
104 ABDICATION 
 
 obligatory upon all true Mussalmans to migrate to 
 Afghanistan. 
 
 " He doesn't look much like a G.I.D. man/' Coleridge 
 continued. " But neither did Kim's Babu friend, for 
 that matter." 
 
 " I took him for a Hindu," Porky remarked. " What- 
 ever he is, the police must be hard up if they can't raise 
 a better breed of secret agent on the frontier." 
 
 " Did you notice that patch of short hair on his 
 crown? It looked as if he had just clipped his hodiJ' 
 
 " A Hindu disguised as a Muhammadan, then; that 
 would fit in with his C.I.D. story." 
 
 " He wouldn't tell me his name." 
 
 *' We'll see what Martin makes of him. Martin's a 
 bit of a Sherlock Holmes. I wouldn't mind betting he 
 is one of the Margarine." 
 
 Banarsi Das in his hospital tent rehearsed his inter- 
 view with the dreadful Mr. Martin. Rescue had its 
 disabilities. It seemed that the encounter was inevi- 
 table. His soul yearned with a great longing for the 
 familiar scenes of Gopalpura. He wandered in the 
 quiet backwaters where the astrologers live. He visited 
 Amba Pershad in his quarters over the fruit market 
 by the Mori Gate. He saw the crowded streets and 
 the Brahminy bull nosing the vegetables at the corner 
 of the Sudder Bazar. Only he avoided Jemal Khan's 
 Mosque and the graveyard of Ain-ul-Quzzat. The spirit 
 of adventure in him was shrivelled up like the wings 
 of a burnt moth. If they did not put him in gaol he 
 would go to Mr. Riley and ask him to take him on 
 The ThompsonpUY Gazette. He was tempted to make 
 a full confession at Abbottabad. What would Mr. 
 Martin be like ? he wondered. He hoped he would be 
 like Skene or the sympathetic Gurkha officer who had 
 promised him the anthology. Then as the slow hours 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 105 
 
 passed he took the form of the terrible Englishman who 
 had asked him for a match outside the offices of The 
 Thompsonpur Gazette. When he fell asleep the spectre 
 of the fateful Martin straddled his dreams. He be- 
 strode an immense raft like a Colossus, and an image 
 of him, with as many arms as Durga, was reflected in 
 the mist on either bank. He circled round Banarsi 
 Das continually in an eternal backwater, and the stream 
 widened into a sea to make room for his raft. The 
 face, on which doom was written, was obscured in cloud. 
 
 Banarsi Das had the vaguest ideas as to the penal- 
 ties to which he was liable as a member of the party 
 of the absconding muhajarin. He saw himself escorted 
 ignominiously back to Gopalpura by the police. He 
 would have confessed outright if he had thought there 
 was a reasonable hope of pardon, but the risk was too 
 great. So he prepared his statement. He would say 
 that he had attached himself to the muhajarin at the 
 instance of the Thompsonpur police in order to report 
 on their movements. His rough treatment at the hands 
 of the Bulbul would bear this out. He hesitated at 
 first whether to declare himself a Muhammadan or a 
 Hindu. In the end he decided to give his assumed 
 name. It never occurred to him that there could have 
 been any correspondence about him between Gopalpura 
 and Abbottabad. 
 
 When the dreadful Mr. Martin appeared at his bed- 
 side with the Gurkha officer the morning after his 
 arrival in cantonments, Banarsi Das was ready with 
 his statement, and without waiting for a hint of 
 encouragement began to declaim in his portentous 
 English the story of his innocence and wrongs. " Sir," 
 he said, " I have been outraged by fortune " 
 
 But Mr. Martin cut short his harangue. This police- 
 man did not fit in at all with Banarsi Das' picture. 
 
106 ABDICATION 
 
 He was a little, thin, short man, very business-like, 
 matter-of-fact and peremptory. There was no hint 
 of sympathy in his voice or in his eye, or even of 
 curiosity. He was chilling to eloquence. " You can 
 tell me all that afterwards," he said to Banarsi Das. 
 "First answer my questions. Who are you? What 
 is your name ? " 
 
 " My name is Abdul Hakim." 
 
 " Where is your home? " 
 
 " I come from Gopalpura." 
 
 " Where did you learn English? " 
 
 " At Gandeshwar College." 
 
 " What is your employment ? " 
 
 " I am employed by the Police." 
 
 " You say you are a Muhammadan? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then how do you account for your hodi ? A day 
 or two ago you had a hodi. Why did you cut it off ? " 
 
 Banarsi Das hurriedly put his hand to the back of 
 his head. " It was a disguise," he faltered. 
 
 Martin, of course, knew all about the forlorn victim 
 of his catechism. Banarsi Das' appearance on the 
 frontier had created what The Gopalpura Standard was 
 accustomed to describe as " a flutter in the dovecots 
 of the C.I.D." His name was deciphered by the Police 
 in many a coded telegram. In the course of a few days 
 the correspondence between the North- West Frontier 
 Province, the Punjab, the New Province and Delhi in 
 connection with " Banarsi Das (para. 1643), alias 
 Abdul Hakim," had grown to bulky dimensions. 
 
 Martin continued his catechism. " Who is your 
 Superintendent of Police in Gopalpura?" he asked 
 sternly. 
 
 Banarsi Das could not remember his name. It was 
 quite three seconds before he could remember the name 
 
THE CAVE OF ADULLAM 107 
 
 of any police officer. The first name that came into his 
 head was that of a Deputy Inspector-General of Police 
 who had been associated with the prosecution of Siri 
 Ram. " The gentleman's name is Mr. Hutchinson," 
 he ventured tentatively at last. 
 
 Martin looked at Coleridge. " Hutchinson is dead," 
 he said. " He retired and died at home last year. 
 We'll have to send this young man to the police station." 
 
 Banarsi Das stared at the police officer like a fright- 
 ened rabbit. Then Coleridge saw a change come over 
 his face, a tightening and stiffening at the summons of 
 self-respect. Life had two things to offer Banarsi Das. 
 If he could not be safe, he had at least the compensation 
 of being heroic. 
 
 " I have been with the 7nuhajarin," he said, " by 
 order of a certain person and for a certain object." 
 And he closed his lips tightly, betraying an undaunted 
 spirit, as who should say, " Never will I reveal for what 
 person or what object. Torture will not extract from 
 me the names of my confederates." 
 
 In moments of emotion Banarsi Das could attain an 
 almost Biblical simplicity. 
 
 "What are you afraid of, Banarsi Das? " Martin 
 asked him. " Speak up. Tell us the whole story." 
 
 " Sir, you know my name? " 
 
 " Yes, I know your name. You have nothing to be 
 afraid of if you speak the truth. There is no law 
 against leaving the country because you are dissatisfied 
 with Government." 
 
 Banarsi Das felt a great relief. 
 
 ** Then you will not send me to prison? " he asked. 
 
 " Nobody wants to send you to prison." 
 
 " And I may go back to Gopalpura? " 
 
 " You may go back to Gopalpura, but you must first 
 make a true and accurate statement." 
 
108 ABDICATION 
 
 " Sir, I am man of principle. I cannot reconcile it 
 to betray my confederates." 
 
 " I do not ask you to betray them. I know all their 
 names. Besides, there is no charge against them. 
 They can return to their homes if they like. What I 
 want to know is, who robbed you and tied you to the 
 raft and sent you down the Indus ? " 
 
 Banarsi Das was now licensed to speak. He dropped 
 the role of the bold and unrepentant conspirator with a 
 certain hesitating reluctance. He emphasised the points 
 where he was at variance with his companions; but 
 he mentioned no names. The story of his adventure 
 glowed with metaphor and colour. When he described 
 the scene with the Bulbul and the Shinwari in the tomb 
 and on the river bank Coleridge wished that he had 
 brought a stenographer. In this part of his narrative 
 Banarsi Das had to make certain sacrifices in the matter 
 of the heroic. The crown and halo of the martyr which 
 he had assumed a few moments ago were palpable 
 misfits. Nevertheless he had attained security, if at 
 the expense of the ideal. He was beginning to learn 
 that he could not enjoy the advantages of these two 
 incompatible parts at the same time. The reflection 
 with which he concluded may perhaps be taken for 
 an obscure admission of this disability. 
 
 " You see," he said, " my position here is quite 
 ignis-fatuous." 
 
 " Precious little ignis about it," Coleridge observed, 
 though not without sympathy. 
 
 So Banarsi Das was free. The fever had left him. 
 The next day he was given an intermediate ticket to 
 Gopalpura, Coleridge saw him depart in an ekka to the 
 station, a pathetic incongruous little figure in a Gurkha's 
 discarded khaki shorts and shirt. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BARKATULLAH 
 
 It was paradoxical that Riley, drawn to the East 
 by a sympathy with the spirit in which he believed 
 mysticism and faith were still indweUing, should be 
 spending his days in the hybrid atmosphere of Thomp- 
 sonpur and editing an Anglo-Indian journal. The 
 very name of the capital of the New Province filled 
 him with increasing weariness, and there were days 
 on which he wished that Sir Thomas Thompson had 
 never been bom. He had had glimpses of an India 
 which was still happily sleeping, where folk had no 
 cares beyond the cultivation of their fields, their age-old 
 ritual and the propitiation of their gods. Here every- 
 thing indigenous that had attracted him to the country 
 was overlaid with accretions, for which his own people 
 were unwittingly responsible. Gopalpura was one with 
 Thompsonpur. Its ancient religions, traditions, legends, 
 myths, had evaporated or become absorbed in the 
 hybrid pohtical atmosphere which he was forced to 
 breathe. 
 
 Before the war the East had drawn him with a 
 great fascination. At Oxford, whenever he got away 
 alone on the river to think out and plan what he was 
 going to do with his life, his dreams were of Asia. 
 There was more of the poet in Riley than the man of 
 
 109 
 
110 ABDICATION 
 
 affairs. It was not so much from books of travel as 
 from favourite passages in prose and verse that he 
 drew his visions. He saw the Oxus with the eyes of 
 Rust am, where the majestic river floated on 
 
 " Out of the mist and hum of that low land 
 Into the frosty starlight, and there moved 
 Rejoicing through the hushed Chorasmian waste 
 Past Orgunje. ..." 
 
 One day he would see Orgunje. He could not explain 
 the mysterious fascination the place had for him, but 
 he felt certain that he would be drawn to it. Malaya 
 was constantly in his mind. He saw it as it appeared 
 to Marlow when he landed at night in a small boat 
 off Java Head, after his tussle with the sea, when he 
 saw the East looking at him " perfumed like a flower, 
 silent like death, dark like the grave." This haunting 
 passage in Conrad's Youth became a recurrent picture 
 in his mind. He summoned it at night when he could 
 not sleep. India, when he visited it in 19 14 after 
 taking his degree, he regarded merely as a stage on 
 the road further East. Budh Gaya and Benares were 
 halting-places for a pilgrim bound for Boro Budur 
 and Angkor Wat. His idea was to cross the Burmese 
 frontier in Tenasserim and make his way through 
 Siam to Battambong on the Tonle Sap lake and 
 thence by sampan to Siem Rep. The mysteries of 
 Angkor, the ancient city and temple buried in the 
 jungle to the north of the lake, hundreds of miles 
 from civilisation, were famihar to him through the 
 illustrations of Fournier. He had spent hours dream- 
 ing of the place in the Musee Khmer in Paris. He 
 would pass under the arch in the forest where the 
 roots of the great fig-tree were strangUng the image 
 of Gautama, and the stone monkeys leered at the real 
 monkeys from the frieze. He would see the elephant 
 
BARKATULLAH 111 
 
 in high relief, cut in eight blocks of Cyclopean masonry, 
 and the cobra-hooded amortissement of the balustrades, 
 and the corridors where the story of the Rdm^yana is 
 told in stone. Nearly two thousand years have passed 
 since the eyes of the pious rested on them ; the invaders 
 from Indropath are forgotten; and the silent ageless 
 struggle continues, between the forest and the monu- 
 ments they have left behind. From Angkor he would 
 make south by the Mekong through Cambodia and 
 Cochin China to Saigon. He would visit Boro Budur 
 in Java ; then Borneo perhaps, or Simiatra ; he would 
 read Youth again at Java Head. 
 
 Nothing came of these Malayan dreams. Riley went 
 down with fever at Gaya, after which he was driven 
 by the heat into the hills. He found the Himalayan 
 peaks above the snow-line irresistible. He was drawn 
 by Nanga Parbat out of Kashmir. Then K^ threw 
 its spell on him. He had a momentary glimpse of 
 the summit at sunset, ethereally suspended in cloud. 
 He was at Gilgit in August when the war broke out, 
 on the way to the Pamirs, bound for Kashgar, whence 
 by Andijan he was going to make the golden journey 
 to Samarkand. Bokhara would receive him on the 
 road to the Oxus and the mysterious visionary Orgunje 
 which he could find on no map. Did Matthew Arnold 
 invent it, he wondered, seduced by the poetry of mere 
 sound ? 
 
 Gilgit saw the end of this adventure. He was back 
 in Rawalpindi before September, an officer of the 
 Indian Army Reserve, and for the next three years 
 was with his regiment in Mesopotamia, most of the 
 time in the accursed delta, an illimitable expanse of 
 flat baked mud without a relieving feature, a country 
 in which one seldom saw a flower or stone or tree. 
 The sun of Iraq almost burnt his love of the East out 
 
112 ABDICATION 
 
 of him, and when he wooed sleep it was with scenes of 
 an EngUsh river, a green willow over his head and his 
 feet in the running stream. He remembered a retired 
 Army Chaplain at Oxford telling him that after two 
 or three years of the East, romance would come to 
 mean going into a tobacconist's shop in an old cathedral 
 city to buy a box of wax vestas. The dust and glare 
 and monotony of these years in Mesopotamia, varied 
 only by the occasional neighbourhood of death, flattened 
 everything out and left nothing salient round which he 
 could centre his interests, whether in imagination or in 
 work-a-day Hfe. In the dog days the heat compelled 
 an armistice, and he got away one year on leave for 
 a month to Simla. The next year he was three months 
 in hospital at Poona recovering from a wound. It 
 was then that he began to dabble in Indian poUtics 
 and write articles for the reviews on the reaction of 
 the West on the East, and how far our political systems 
 are applicable to India. He was strongly biassed 
 against the Europeanising of the Asiatic. 
 
 Once or twice only the glamour of Asia revived. 
 At Koweit he saw the vessels of the Gulf, half a league 
 of sailing ships drawn up on the narrow white beach 
 between the houses and the backwater of coral rock, 
 booms and buggalows, kourais and water boats, dis- 
 playing all the lines and contours that the Arab loves, 
 the same keels that scored the sand when Ur was the 
 port of the Chaldees. The stems of the buggalows 
 were broad and high, the tallest of them standing 
 thirty feet above the sand, naked in its loveliness, the 
 keels white with Hme, leaving the upper part, the rich 
 brown sal wood of the Malabar coast, in splendid relief, 
 fresh-scoured with fish-oil, glowing in the sun like 
 polished oak, and perfuming the air with a fish-like 
 smell beside which rotting seaweed was faint and 
 
BARKATULLAH 113 
 
 ethereal. On each side of the stem were penthouse 
 roofs intricately carved, and windows through which 
 one looked for the head of Sindbad. 
 
 Then in the winter of 1917 after the fall of Baghdad 
 he was given staff work which took him on all the 
 " week-end shows," generally with the cavalry, wher- 
 ever there was fighting. It was mostly a question of 
 rounding up hordes of demoralised Turks, and there 
 were few casualties on either side. The gloom of the 
 three years' tragedy had lifted and war became adven- 
 ture again. Riley saw the desert shrines of Kerbela 
 and Najaf. He pursued the Turks by the Aleppo road 
 along the Euphrates bank as far as Ana. He crossed 
 the broad swelhng plains of Kurdistan with the cavalry 
 to Kirkup and Altun Kupri. He had leisure to drink 
 that country in — walk marches all day with a five 
 minutes' halt every hour to close in, camp in the 
 corn-fields with the slant sun filling the cups of the 
 hollyhocks with exquisite light, the horses happy with 
 their noses all down, tired troopers carrying their 
 swords from the horse Unes to their tents. He crossed 
 the mulberry-coloured uplands of Persia with the 
 Dunster Force and was billeted in the lovely mountain- 
 girt city of Kermanshah when the gardens were white 
 with fruit-blossom. Thus he visited the secret places 
 of the East : Luristan, the ancient Susa, Dizful and 
 Shuster on the Karun river, Hamadan — the Ecbatana 
 of the Romans — the rock carvings of Bisotun, the ruins 
 of Babylon and Birs Nimrud. It was a heaven-sent 
 escape from the delta, the oven-Uke sky, the heat 
 and the negation of everything. Yet most of the time 
 he was thinking that the East could no longer offer 
 him all that he had gone out to seek. The war had 
 brought everything too near; there was " nothing left 
 remarkable beneath the visiting moon." The flowers 
 I 
 
114 ABDICATION 
 
 of Jemal Hamrin were delicious because they were 
 home-like, the tower at Tauz Kharmatli reminded him 
 of St. Michael's Mount; Easter in Devonshire was 
 revived by the celandines and violets and grape 
 hyacinths under the almond blossom at Kerind. Much 
 of the beauty of earth remained, and the poetry that 
 is woven out of it was not all withered with the 
 garland of war. One day in March he was sitting 
 among the squills and scented irises on a slope above 
 the Euphrates at Haditha, where the Aleppo road 
 skirts the river, when a patch of borage, blue and 
 mauve like viper's bugloss, but an intenser blue, called 
 up some elusive memory. He had traced it to Karshish, 
 " the picker-up of learning's crumbs, the not-incurious 
 in God's handiwork," and was recovering stray words 
 of the epistle of the Arab physician, when the M.O. of 
 the column by his side, a kindred spirit, capped the 
 quotation in his mind, " blue-flowering borage, the 
 Aleppo sort," he said, " aboundeth very nitrous." All 
 that afternoon Riley was as sensitive to illusion as if 
 he had seen the great god Pan. 
 
 Then after the Armistice he visited the East Persian 
 cordon and saw Meshed and Merv, and was held up 
 by the Bolsheviks at Annenkovo in the desert, a 
 hundred miles from the bridge-head of the Oxus at 
 Charjui. It was the same wide hummocky, bald- 
 headed maidan that stretches on either bank of the 
 Euphrates and covers nine-tenths of the territory of 
 Islam. Why was the chosen colour of the Prophet 
 green ? Riley wondered, as he surveyed the dun-coloured 
 plain with its tamarisk and its camel-thorn and the 
 little long-tailed jeroboas flicking in and out of their 
 burrows in the sand. He was disappointed not to see 
 the Oxus, and he cursed the Bolsheviks who held him 
 up in the desert a bare hundred miles from the stream 
 
BARKATULLAH 115 
 
 which had become for him an allegory of Ufe. Where 
 was Orgunje? Was it beyond Charjui that the sands 
 " begin to hem his watery march and split his currents, 
 that for many a league the shorn and parcelled Oxus 
 strains along, a foiled circuitous wanderer, Oxus for- 
 getting that bright speed he had in his high mountain 
 cradle of Pamir "? No doubt the real Oxus was no 
 more majestic than the Sutlej or the Indus in the 
 plains of the Punjab, as disappointing a river as Merv 
 was a city, and Matthew Arnold knew no more about 
 it than Thomas Moore, who sang of the palms of 
 Baramulla, knew about Kashmir. The poet draws his 
 colour from the inward eye. Riley had looked in vain 
 for " some frore Caspian reed-bed " when he crossed 
 that inland sea, but he did not find it either on the 
 Baku or the Krasnovodsk side. 
 
 And now in Thompsonpur the hybrid East made 
 him long for the unspoilt East again. In the office 
 of the Gazette the voice of the East shrieked at him 
 through a gramophone with a Babu intonation. There 
 was no trace of the writing of Manu or Gautama or 
 Muhammad in the record. The voice was unnatural, 
 grotesque, and offensive. And yet one had no right 
 to be offended. It was the echo of instruction, ill- 
 conceived, ill-imparted, ill-digested, the product of the 
 century and a half we have spent " whipping and 
 wheedling the reluctant East." 
 
 To whip or wheedle ? That was the eternal question. 
 Having ceased to whip, was it decent or pohtic to take 
 up the rod again ? Parkinson, Hill and Bolton thought 
 that India ought to be whipped ; Mr. Samuel Montagu 
 and his school that it ought to be wheedled. Riley 
 at this stage beUeved with the best of the Indian 
 Extremists that it should be given a latch-key and 
 declared of age. The consequences might be disastrous 
 
116 ABDICATION 
 
 for ward and guardian. On the other hand, if the old 
 relations were maintained, tempered grudgingly with 
 concessions, disaster was no less inevitable. Riley had 
 put the case in a nutshell when he said to Skene : 
 " Better let them go to the devil in their own way 
 than that we should go with them in a mutually 
 abhorrent embrace." 
 
 Then there was another question. Could one go on 
 whipping the East? The child, though uninstructed, 
 was growing too big for the rod. It was his sense 
 of this that filled Riley with discomfort. It put his 
 countrymen in an equivocal position. It made it 
 appear that they were subordinating the interests of 
 the ward to the privileges, or prestige, of the guardian. 
 It invested every tactical or strategical movement of 
 Government with a suspicion of disingenuousness, 
 ulterior motives, self-interest and cant. Riley ac- 
 quitted the bureaucrats of dishonesty. He knew that 
 they were genuine enough, and that they believed in 
 the disinterestedness of the work to which they and 
 preceding generations had given the best part of their 
 lives, an honest, straight-dealing, and in many cases 
 a devoted, company, only singularly unimaginative. 
 They had subscribed, some willingly, others unwiUingly 
 with regrets and protests, to the Montagu scheme, and 
 they were preparing the complicated machinery of the 
 New Councils with a painstaking conscientiousness. 
 They did not really believe in them. This was not 
 their child, but they were bound to give it every 
 chance. To most of them it was a makeshift that 
 might last their time; that was all; a miserable com- 
 promise, bom of " funk." And they had no faith in 
 the sponsors at the baptism of the infant. The 
 unctuous words spoken over the changeling sounded 
 to them very much like cant. They were quite con- 
 
BARKATULLAH 117 
 
 vinced that it would never be able to stand unsupported 
 on its own feet. 
 
 Riley himself was not over-brimming with confidence, 
 whether in the framers of the scheme, or in the material 
 on which they had to work. The difference between 
 him and these reactionaries was that he believed in 
 uncompromising abdication. Not that he had any 
 great faith in the efficiency of the new rulers, the elect 
 of the people, or in the prospect of an honest or work- 
 able suffrage, but he felt that anything was better 
 than this festering race-hatred with the menace in it 
 of new Amritsars and Jallianwala Baghs. The worst 
 thing that could happen would be that as a result of 
 bungling and false notions of prestige the British in 
 India should find themselves in the position of a 
 besieged garrison. Riley foresaw that the newspapers 
 at home and in India would harp on our responsibilities 
 to the Indian people at a time when, to protect ourselves 
 from them, we were dependent on reinforcements from 
 overseas. It is not our custom to let anything go in 
 response to dictation or threats, yet suzerainty or even 
 tutelage on these terms was imthinkable. No civilised 
 Government would accept the situation as permanent. 
 The incidence of the Prussian heel could only be the 
 prelude to Abdication. Riley reminded his readers 
 that our rule in India is based on the will of the 
 Indian people. This is not exactly how the case is 
 put by the casual EngUshman. He will tell you that 
 India wants us, or that if she does not, she ought to 
 want us, as she cannot do without us, and that this 
 comes to the same thing. Moreover, if we go, some 
 other Power will have to step in. Riley did not see 
 himself supporting this argument with bayonets, or 
 supporting bayonets with the argument in the columns 
 of The Thompsonpur Gazette. He was one of your 
 
118 ABDICATION 
 
 Nevil Beauchamps. His countrymen had a very strong 
 case, but he belonged to that growing class of young 
 EngHshmen who are incapable of seeing the point of 
 an argument on their own side. He had a subtle 
 nose for cant. He could smell it everjrwhere, more 
 especially when obligation and duty existed side by 
 side with expediency. He was clearly not a fit person 
 to edit The Thompsonpur Gazette. 
 
 Riley and his Gazette were growing more and more 
 unpopular. The newspaper was boycotted at the club, 
 and the editor was not made over-welcome there, though 
 he still had his friends. A man who is admittedly a 
 " Sahib " with the instincts of a " sportsman," and 
 who is yet perversely given to inconvenient causes, is 
 generally described as "a decent fellow but quite 
 mad." The callow subaltern alluded to Riley as a 
 " pro-native." It was generally agreed that he had 
 killed the Gazette. Old subscribers were falling off. 
 They preferred the orthodoxy of The Pioneer and 
 The Civil and Military Gazette a day late. Riley was 
 given to understand by the proprietors that his con- 
 tract would not be renewed when it came to an end 
 in June. Willsdon had resigned. A new editor was 
 coming out from home. This gave him time for his 
 propaganda. He would have resigned his editorship, 
 only he believed, in his youthful conceit, that the 
 obhgations due from him to the pubHc were greater 
 than those due to his proprietors. What he wanted to 
 drive home was simple and essential. If the Reforms 
 meant anything at all, we had to reaHse that British 
 rule in India was at an end save for the maintenance 
 of order while we were handing over. Right or wrong, 
 we were pledged to them. Yet Riley had not met half 
 a dozen men in the Province who understood their 
 significance. The Lieutenant-Governor, Sir Aubrey 
 
BARKATULLAH 119 
 
 Hilton, was one of them, but Parkinson, his Chief 
 Secretary, was a hopeless reactionary. With the old 
 school the old traditions were ineradicable. Hill, of 
 course, was an open scoffer. Bolton, who, it was said, 
 was to be appointed Reforms Commissioner for the 
 Province, was beginning to catch some of the jargon of 
 " the new era," and spoke in his deprecating, academic 
 way of " the acid test of the cooperation received 
 from those upon whom new opportunities of service 
 were to be conferred, and the measure of confidence 
 that might be reposed in their sense of responsibility." 
 It meant at least a CLE. for him, probably a C.S.I. 
 
 The Police as a body were stolidly incredulous or 
 antagonistic, as was perhaps natural when one takes 
 into account the disposition of the electors with whom 
 they were most intimately associated. Riley had heard 
 an old-stager of the name of Mills, District Super- 
 intendent at Mograon, discussing the political situation 
 with a Judge of the High Court. " I was in Mograon 
 the other day," the D.S.P. said. " The place is hum- 
 ming with sedition. My head constable tells me that 
 the people are all yapping about Swaraj." " Possibly 
 somebody had read them the Declaration of August 
 20th, 1917," Riley remarked innocently. But the 
 comment had been made in perfect good faith. The 
 policeman was filled with the same resentment that a 
 headmaster or a colonel feels when he sees the grand 
 old traditions of his school or regiment being sapped 
 by ignorant faddists, who can never be made to 
 understand the mischief, spiritual or material, that 
 they are spreading. His attitude was quite honest. 
 If he gave the Reforms a thought, he regarded them 
 as a dope administered by an over-anxious Government 
 to keep the intelligentsia quiet. The papers had been 
 full of them of late, but the subject bored him. He 
 
120 ABDICATION 
 
 never read below the head-lines or thought of the 
 suffrage as having any association with reality. It 
 was a bit of staging, a side show at a fair. If you 
 had told him that in a year's time the people of 
 Mograon would be electing their own Member, who 
 would have a voice in the Government of the country, 
 he would have smiled sadly. Yet he was a wise man 
 in his own province. Nobody understood the people 
 of Mograon better than their District Superintendent 
 of PoHce. 
 
 With this spirit abroad it was not surprising that the 
 Indians did not believe in the Reforms. Even the 
 Moderates were suspicious, while the Extremists 
 were hostile from the beginning. Like the Russian 
 Bolsheviks on the eve of the Revolution, they opposed 
 any concession that might contribute to the peace of 
 mind of the masses and put them out of sympathy 
 with revolt. The Reforms were the bugbear of the 
 irreconcilables ; they feared this tentative association 
 of Indians with Government. Without the Reforms, 
 they thought, they might hope to throw off the British 
 and cut away the tentacles that were fastened into 
 their system; whereas, if the scheme were accepted, 
 they beheved that the British would never go. It 
 was a trick of the aHen bureaucracy, they said, who 
 will hang on to the substance and put us off with the 
 shadow until the end of time. They did not beheve 
 in the British. They did not want to believe in them. 
 
 Riley did not hope to convert the irreconcilables 
 through the columns of The Thompsonpur Gazette. 
 What he aimed at was the acceptance of the fact among 
 his own people that the old order had passed. Skene 
 had once described him as " a reactionary in sympathy 
 and a progressive in practice." Riley admitted it. 
 " All my sympathies are with the old order," he said. 
 
BARKATULLAH 1«1 
 
 " Yet I have to spend my time persuading my friends 
 that it is dead." It was not a popular gospel, but 
 he preached it eloquently. He was fully alive to his 
 short-comings as an editor and a journalist. He was 
 a dreamer, a lover of the classics, poetry, belles-lettres, 
 nature, birds and flowers. He had really no business 
 in a newspaper office. He had let himself be harnessed 
 for a period to The Thompsonpur Gazette as part of 
 the price he had to pay for his continued sojourn 
 in the East. He was a fellow of his College and a 
 Double First, and might have entered any service at 
 the end of his term at Oxford, but he was a wanderer 
 by instinct and dreaded a permanent mooring. 
 
 The editorship was offered him a few months after 
 the Armistice. PoHtics was not his mitier ; but he 
 enjoyed a fight. And here was a campaign that 
 appealed to the obstinacy and chivalry in him. In 
 the beginning he was opposed to diarchy and all the 
 theoretic idealism of the Round Table. The scheme 
 seemed to him impracticable. An indigenous consti- 
 tution for South Africa was all very well, but these 
 dreamers did not know the material they had to work 
 on. He had waded through the Montagu-Chelmsford 
 Report when on service in Mesopotamia and had been 
 struck by the chapter on " The Conditions of the 
 Problem." The extreme frankness of the author 
 of this statement read Hke an indictment of the main 
 proposal, and he tried to reconcile the candour of it 
 with the pious hopes expressed in the concluding 
 paragraph, that when we had taught the people of 
 India to be politically-minded all obstacles would be 
 swept away, and the road to Self -Government would 
 be made smooth. As if by an Act of Parliament 
 the three hundred millions could be made European- 
 hearted. He noted that the Report promised to protect 
 
122 ABDICATION 
 
 the ryots during this period of ferment until they were 
 able to protect themselves. He learnt afterwards 
 that " The Conditions of the Problem " had been 
 written by an expert on the spot, and the pious hopes 
 inserted at the end by the framers of the scheme. 
 That the body of the chapter should have been left 
 uncensored was at least an earnest of honesty. Riley's 
 comments on the Report in a monthly review had been 
 read by one of the proprietors of The Thompsonpur 
 Gazette, with the result that he was offered the acting 
 editorship of the paper. He stipulated for a free hand. 
 The stalwarts behind the Gazette were disappointed 
 in him. By the time he reached Thompsonpur the 
 Reform Scheme was a live thing. He had no illusions 
 as regards the obstacles in the way, but he had vision 
 enough to see that any evasion of the spirit of the Act, 
 or whittling down of its provisions, or jibbing at its 
 consequences, must be disastrous. We were pledged 
 to Self-Government. There was no turning back. 
 If we did not deserve the confidence of the Indians 
 in this, we had no right to stay in the country. He 
 went further than the Secretary of State and supported 
 the Reforms with an uncompromising thoroughness 
 that alarmed even the Progressives. He scoffed at 
 the system of checks and safeguards prescribed by 
 the physician as an antidote to paralysis after the 
 dose of independence had been administered. As 
 if Indians, having attained their enfranchisement, 
 would be any more likely to submit tamely to auto- 
 cratic vetoes imposed on the popular will. He was 
 tempted to quote the wordly-wise Mr. Blackburn 
 Tuckham in the Gazette. " As for sending them (the 
 British proletariat) to school after giving them power, 
 it's like asking a wild beast to sit down to dine with 
 us — ^he wants the whole table and us too. . . . It's 
 
BARKATULLAH 128 
 
 a delusion amounting to dementedness to suppose 
 that with the people inside our defences we can be 
 taming and tricking them." Riley agreed in the main 
 premises with Colonel Halkett's mentor. If it had 
 become a point of honour, or expediency, to invite 
 the wild beast to the table, it was no part of our obliga- 
 tion to offer ourselves at the feast. We must either 
 keep him out or, if we let him in, we must make a 
 timely and inconspicuous exit as soon as we have said 
 grace. 
 
 The Thompsonpur Gazette was no longer an extremist 
 Anglo-Indian paper, Riley with his intuitive sympathy 
 could understand the nationahst's point of view. To 
 the type of bureaucrat who honestly believed that he 
 was out to materialise the spirit of the Reforms, and 
 who yet instinctively clung to every precaution and 
 welcomed every incident that could delay the perilous 
 moment of handing over, Riley's attitude was not 
 a little galhng. On the other hand, he was a source of 
 strength to Government in his exposure of the insin- 
 cerities and cant, the lies and misrepresentations of 
 some of the leading Extremists. He stripped the 
 Khilafat question of the humbug in which it was 
 wrapped, and laid bare the real nakedness of the charge 
 of broken faith and the alleged drain of India's wealth 
 by the blood-sucking English. There was no hint 
 of patronage or racial arrogance in his encounters 
 with the irreconcilables. He fought them as if they 
 were English; yet there was not another journalist 
 in India who could administer so splendid a castigation. 
 All this carried weight, as his nationaHsm was above 
 suspicion. But his real service was his insistence 
 on the reaUty of the Reforms. To the Indians he said, 
 " You have got Swaraj," and to his countr5mien, 
 " We've abdicated." And it was clear that he meant 
 
124 ABDICATION 
 
 it. The Gazette, in spite of its downright support 
 of nationahsm and its occasional gibes at the bureau- 
 cracy, did more to restore confidence in Government 
 than Royal Proclamations or official harangues. 
 Riley had earned a reputation for independence. 
 Other Anglo-Indian journals might reason and expound 
 with the clarity of Burke, but their arguments carried 
 no weight, their sympathy was suspect, their inspiration 
 tainted at the source. Nobody believed in them. 
 They were the gramophones of the bureaucracy. 
 
 II 
 
 Six months had passed since the flight of the muha- 
 jarin, and things had gone steadily from bad to worse. 
 The Extremists were making a dead set at the masses. 
 For years the Congress leaders had neglected them. 
 They had had little or no personal contact with the 
 rural population. They now discovered that without 
 an organised campaign " to awaken the poHtical 
 consciousness of the people " they could do nothing. 
 In this they professed the same aim as the framers 
 of the Montagu Report. The ideal, therefore, was, 
 in the abstract, unexceptionable. The only difference 
 between the point of view of the Extremist missionaries 
 and the Secretary of State lay in its practical applica- 
 tion. Both agreed that it was necessary to disturb 
 ** the placid contentment " of the masses. Their 
 ultimate aim was identical, the Government of India 
 by the Indian people. Only the Secretary of State 
 in his uninstructed ideaHsm was for lajdng the founda- 
 tions of pohtical responsibility while the Extremist 
 missionaries aimed at stirring up the irresponsible 
 against the existing system. 
 
BARKATULLAH 125 
 
 A charge that the bureaucracy often makes against 
 the educated classes is that they do not represent the 
 voice of the people, that their claims, as often as not, 
 are opposed to the interests of *' the inarticulate 
 masses." The average District Officer would tell you 
 in all good faith that the Civil Service mainly existed 
 to protect the people from the hunniah and the vakiL 
 The mere suggestion of this benevolent guardianship 
 naturally exasperated the intelligentsia, and there 
 was more than a suspicion of truth in it. Their obvious 
 retort was to associate themselves poUtically with the 
 masses. The Civil Servant, in nine cases out of ten 
 an Enghshman, was still regarded as the " Ma Bap," 
 or Father and Mother of his District. The first thing 
 to do, then, was to ahenate the people from their 
 District Officers, to create a feeling that Government 
 was hostile to them, and that the agitator was a 
 necessary intermediary. There had been movements 
 in this direction, of course, ever since the British had 
 come to India, but the activities of the agitators had 
 been tentative and sporadic. What they aimed at 
 now was a poHtical centre in every village through 
 which the people might be taught their shameful 
 condition as subjects of an alien Raj. Here, again, 
 the difficulties of the Extremists were the difficulties 
 of Mr. Montagu. It was almost impossible to awaken 
 in the contented villager any interest in poUtics. 
 He was lamentably wanting in public spirit. Not 
 one in sixteen knew how to write his name; not one 
 in a thousand knew or cared how he was governed. 
 The machinery of the Sircar began and ended for them 
 in the incidence of the revenue collector and policeman. 
 The promoters of the Reform Scheme would have 
 been disappointed if they had visited the districts 
 of the New Province. It was impossible to explain 
 
126 ABDICATION 
 
 to the people of Mograon, for instance, the meaning 
 of an election or a vote. The zemindar, if he were told 
 that the British intended to hand over the government 
 of the country to the people, would be merely puzzled. 
 He probably would not believe it ; or if he did beUeve 
 it, he would take it as a symptom of decadence, a 
 point of view that he would hold in common with the 
 majority of the members of the Thompsonpur Club. 
 " Sircar dar-gya," he would say, " Government is 
 afraid," and contempt would soon take the place of 
 wonder in his mind, only to be followed by indifference. 
 His elected member, whoever he might be, would appear 
 to him a man to be propitiated, as he would no doubt 
 be given autocratic powers in his own district. 
 
 It was not quite so difficult for the agitator to interest 
 the zemindars in the iniquity of the British Govern- 
 ment. Political subtleties were lost on them; but 
 there was always the appeal to passion. The Rowlatt 
 Act, for example, was a measure too remote to touch 
 their lives; yet it had been easy to persuade them 
 that a new Act had been passed depriving them of 
 the most ordinary liberties and exposing them to arrest 
 or imprisonment at the caprice of an informer without 
 evidence or trial. They were told that Government 
 had passed a law forbidding more than four persons 
 to gather together in one place, that there were to be 
 no more family gatherings or marriage processions or 
 meetings for prayers, that their brides were to be exam- 
 ined by the Civil surgeon, and their funerals supervised 
 by the police. A wave of fear and anger had passed 
 over the country which was mainly responsible for 
 the outbreaks in the Punjab. The people of the New 
 Province were less affected. They had now no doubt 
 forgotten their imagined wrongs. Nevertheless a 
 vague feehng of resentment was left behind, which 
 
BARKATULLAH 127 
 
 was fed from day to day with new inventions. Some 
 of these stories might be true ; others false ; generally 
 some of the mud that was thrown stuck. One was 
 no less ready to believe a new wrong because the last 
 one had proved to be an invention. In Mograon, 
 for instance, the hitherto-contented district in which 
 Mills, D.S.P., had lately discovered disaffection, the 
 zemindars were suffering a great deal of distress on 
 account of the stoppage of the canal water. The Sircar 
 could not be made responsible for the drought. Yet 
 there had been a riot since Mills visited the place, 
 and a certain amount of anti-Government agitation. 
 Two or three Zilladars had been injured. Riley sent 
 an Indian on his staff, one Gopal Chand, to inquire 
 into the origin of the trouble. It turned out that the 
 villagers had been told that they would get no more 
 canal water that year. Government, it was said, had 
 cut off the supply as a mark of displeasure because 
 Mograon had contributed fewer recruits than any 
 other tehsil in the district. 
 
 The author of this story, no other than BarkatuUah, 
 editor of The Roshni, was able to quote chapter and 
 verse from a speech of the Lieutenant-Governor to 
 prove his point. This carried conviction. Everyone 
 remembered that Sir Aubrey Hilton had been to 
 Mograon and that he had made a speech there. He 
 had thought it due to the district which had proved 
 itself the best recruiting area in India outside the 
 Punjab. His address to the zemindars had been one 
 of undiluted commendation, though it was unfortunately 
 true that he had quoted statistics. His figures showed 
 that of the four tehsils in the district, that of Mograon 
 was last on the list in the number of recruits; never- 
 theless, as he was careful to point out, it had given a 
 larger return than any other tehsil in proportion to 
 
128 ABDICATION 
 
 its population. Barkatullah did not think it necessary 
 to quote this part of the context, nor did he state in 
 so many words that the zemindars had been penaUsed. 
 He only pointed out that Government were displeased 
 with them and had cut off their canal water. The 
 story grew out of that; he left it to the zemindar to 
 apply the inference. He knew exactly how far he 
 could go without risking a conviction under the Defence 
 of India Act. It was a clever move. The zemindars, 
 many of whom were demobilised sepoys and had spent 
 years in the trenches in France or Mesopotamia, were 
 angry and sore. The injustice of the insult rankled. 
 And their land was crying out for water. 
 
 Riley did not attach much importance to the Mograon 
 grievance when he heard Gopal Chand's account of it. 
 " Surely," he said, " the D.G. has only to explain that 
 there is no water in the canal because the rivers are dried 
 up. The zemindars are not fools. Besides, he can quote 
 the whole text of the Lieutenant-Governor's speech." 
 
 But the case was not so simple as it seemed. *' The 
 Deputy Commissioner is seeing the zemindars to-day," 
 Gopal Chand explained. " Probably they will pretend 
 to believe him. One or two of them may really believe 
 him, but I doubt if his story will convince many. 
 The others will say, ' He is bound to make up some 
 story like that to save the face of Government.' When 
 an official goes out of his way to deny a charge the 
 presumption is that it is true." 
 
 " But if one of their own people were to talk to them," 
 Riley asked, " wouldn't they believe him? " 
 
 " They might possibly beheve him, but they would 
 be more likely to believe the story against Government." 
 
 " It seems that the zemindar is credulous in the 
 case of lies only," Riley observed. " He has never 
 been let down by his D.G., and he would probably 
 
BARKATULLAH 129 
 
 trust his last pie with him, if it were a case of personal 
 relations, but he won't believe him where Government 
 is concerned. Yet when these lie-mongers come 
 along who contradict themselves every ten minutes, 
 and are quite obviously out to make a case against 
 Government, he will swallow anything they have got 
 to say. I don't suppose one of these zemindars would 
 trust BarkatuUah with a five-rupee note. How do 
 you explain it? " 
 
 It was a question he often asked himself. The 
 explanation seemed to be that the Indian masses 
 beheve anything they want to beUeve. This led to 
 the further reflection : if the Will to believe anything 
 against Government is so deep-rooted an instinct, 
 is it because the Government is an ahen one ? If so, 
 this attitude of the masses lends some support to the 
 claim of the inteUigentsia that they represent the voice 
 of the people. Riley knew that nine Indians out of 
 ten, when their personal interests are concerned, would 
 rather take their case to an Englishman than to one 
 of their own countrymen. Such is the experience 
 of the EngHsh civilian in India, and out of it grows 
 the root idea of our responsibiUty to the masses. 
 With the reactionary this is the stock argument against 
 self-government, a conclusion honestly arrived at, 
 though without the assistance of sympathetic imagina- 
 tion. " When Atma Ram or Rahim Bakhsh is in 
 trouble he will come to me with perfect confidence," 
 he argues. " Therefore it must follow that he prefers 
 the British as his rulers to his own people. He knows 
 which side his bread is buttered." But there is a 
 lack of imagination in this deduction of the universal 
 from the particular. Because self-interest directs 
 Atma Ram or Rahim Bakhsh to the Deputy Com- 
 missioner for the settlement of a dispute, it does not 
 
 K 
 
180 ABDICATION 
 
 follow that he is content to be under- dog to the end of 
 time. Wherever brown is ranged against white there 
 is no doubt where an Indian's sympathies lie. 
 " Watch a polo match between a British cavalry 
 regiment and an Indian Native State. One has only 
 to hsten to the shouting to know which way the game 
 is going, and the loudest hullabaloo comes from the 
 syces and the riff-raff of the bazar." Riley used this 
 illustration in an argument with Bolton. " Any 
 point a black man scores over a white," he said, " is 
 chalked up on the board to the credit of the race. 
 Don't dope yourself with the idea that the Indian 
 masses go to bed praying for the continuance of the 
 White Raj." 
 
 At Mograon BarkatuUah only touched Hghtly on 
 the Khilafat question, as most of the colonists of the 
 district were Jats and it was difficult to interest them 
 in the wrongs of Islam. In Muhammadan centres 
 the Khilafat was his trump card. The will to beUeve 
 was strong in the editor of The Roshni. He was an 
 adept in the faculty of self-deception. He could per- 
 suade himself that the British had entered Mecca 
 and Medina and that the Union Jack was nailed to 
 the Prophet's tomb. It was necessary to believe this 
 in order to convince others. For BarkatuUah was an 
 earnest seeker after truth. As soon as he had collected 
 his facts he repeated them to himself two or three 
 times a day. In this way he drew a vivid picture. 
 He saw the black pall of the Kaaba with the red, 
 white, and blue British ensign pinned to it. The idea 
 had been suggested to him by a picture of Lord Roberts' 
 coffin in an old copy of The Illustrated London News. 
 Imagination embroidered it. " The Sherif of Mecca 
 has again converted the Kaaba into an idol house," 
 he declaimed ; and he added with a fine irony, *' Hindu- 
 
BARKATULLAH 181 
 
 Moslem unity should now be rendered easy." As 
 he spoke his voice was harsh with conviction, for through 
 his half -closed eyes he saw a picture of the gross images 
 in the niches in the wall. But he did not make this 
 statement in the presence of Hindus. 
 
 It was this illustrative faculty that had earned 
 BarkatuUah the foremost place among the agitators 
 of the New Province. What he could see he could 
 make others see, and so he was able to reach a lower 
 stratum of the people than many rival orators, just 
 as a pictorial paper carries further than unadorned 
 letter-press. He was not at his best with an educated 
 audience. The intelligentsia saw through him. 
 Honest Extremists were a Uttle afraid, and ashamed of 
 him. His crudities were too glaring. Suresh Chandra 
 Chatter] i, for instance, the editor of The Gopalpura 
 Standard, recoiled from certain flagrancies of Barka- 
 tuUah which he felt were discreditable to the cause. 
 He could not ignore them in the Standard as they were 
 items of current poUtical news. He even had to appear 
 to endorse them. It was painful to Chatter] i to see 
 BarkatuUah's name associated with Gandhi in the 
 Anglo-Indian Press. The man was too great a force 
 to ignore, while opposition was out of the question; 
 any aspersion of the popular idol would lay the Standard 
 open to the charge of anti-nationahsm. To the ver- 
 nacular Press BarkatuUah was a devoted and self- 
 sacrificing patriot. So when the Roshni Press was 
 confiscated, which happened more than once, the 
 Standard joined the popular outcry against the 
 repressive and reactionary poUcy of the autocratic 
 Government. 
 
 BarkatuUah was one of the few agitators who could 
 gain the ear of the demobiUsed Moslem Sepoy. Dean 
 showed RUey the report of a speech he had made at 
 
132 ABDICATION ^ 
 
 Ain-ul-Ouzzat. He would have been arrested for it 
 a week earlier, but the proclamation of the King- 
 Emperor's amnesty to political offenders gave him his 
 chance. He knew that no Government would dare 
 to stultify the spirit of it when the ink was barely dry. 
 He had the courage of " the offensive with immunity." 
 He began with a picture of the desecration of the 
 Prophet's tomb which moved his audience to tears. 
 He might have been an eye-witness. Then he dwelt 
 on the rehgious aspect of the war as an anti-Islamic 
 crusade. " The Khalifa alone can save Islam," he 
 said, " but the British have made the Sherif of Mecca 
 Khahf in payment for the assistance he lent them in 
 their attack on the Viceroy of God. He is a wicked 
 man and an idol-worshipper, gorged with bacon and 
 wine. But what of the Indian Muhammadan soldiers 
 who had fought on the Kafir's side against the Khalif ? 
 They were not Muhammadans at all. They had 
 become Kafirs and should be excommunicated; their 
 funerals should not be attended; their wives should 
 be considered divorced from them. Many had sur- 
 rendered their faith and their lives in the war, and had 
 been made to eat horses and drink dung- water. Thus 
 they filled their bellies by wielding the Kafirs' sword. 
 But they would be torn up before God after death. 
 They would go straight to hell. 
 
 Then he told the story that had come from the 
 Punjab of an Indian Muhammadan soldier who had 
 fought against the Turks and been killed, and whose 
 face had been turned into that of a pig. " So also 
 will the faces of all men who enhst in the infidel army 
 to fight for the British against the Turk become the 
 faces of swine." Those who had fought against Islam 
 should now attack the destroyer of Islam. In this 
 way alone could the evil they had done be remitted 
 
BARKATULLAH 138 
 
 so that they could show their faces to God. " But the 
 time is not long. From one end of India to another 
 a flame is spreading in which the infidel will be consumed. 
 Are they not becoming impotent? The British in 
 India are so few that if all the Indians spat together 
 they would be drowned in a sea of saliva." 
 
 Such was the Indian pohticians' appeal to " the soul 
 force " of the people. Or so it appeared to the bureau- 
 cracy in Thompsonpur. The spiritual side of the move- 
 ment was not so apparent. The idealism of Gandhi 
 was lost on them. It was picturesque, but unpractical. 
 The man might be a saint, or a disciple of a Tolstoy, 
 but he was a positive danger to the State. And it was 
 difficult to believe in his sincerity. " Passive resist- 
 ance " and " revolution without bloodshed " were 
 mere catchwords. They meant nothing and could 
 serve no one save the incendiary, to protect his person, 
 as he applied his match to the charge at the gate of 
 the fort. The Western mind was impatient at Mr. 
 Gandhi's talk of satyagraha. For who can remain 
 passive when his heart is inflamed? It is idle to stir 
 up violence in the heart and forbid violence by the hand. 
 Yet, very slowly, the conviction gained ground, even 
 among those who were least willing to admit it, that 
 Gandhi was an honest and sincere fanatic, whose soul 
 yearned with a great pain for the purification of his 
 country from the contagion of the West. In Thompson- 
 pur, however, it was difficult to recognise the saintly 
 influence of the Mahatma among his professed disciples. 
 The Indian civilian, with his back to the wall, in loyal 
 defence of the citadel, only saw a gang of unscrupulous 
 agitators sapping the foundations of Government, 
 poisoning the minds of the people out of envy and 
 malice, and precipitating them down the incline which 
 must land them in the plane of misery and anarchy 
 
184 ABDICATION 
 
 from which they had been upHfted by a century and 
 a half of British rule. 
 
 Riley was as disgusted as any bureaucrat at the 
 poisonous vapourings of the Extremists, but he was 
 open-minded enough and sufficiently conscious of 
 bias to realise that there was danger in the mental 
 rebound of disgust he felt in hearing Barkatullah's 
 presentment of the case, a rebound so violent that it 
 might land him safely, and falsely, if he were not on 
 his guard, in the old convenient Anglo-Indian convic- 
 tions. The more he listened to Barkatullah the more 
 he loved his own people. After reading The Roshni 
 or The Kali Yuga he was almost reconciled to the 
 Anglo-Indian Extremist. He turned with relief from 
 these exhalations to the old-world piety of Hobbs, 
 who regarded the EngHshman as divinely appointed 
 to chasten and chastise the heathen in a land in which 
 the Almighty had planted them in His inscrutable 
 providence to aggravate the trials of a numerically 
 inferior but God-fearing race. Was Barkatullah 
 responsible for Hobbs, or Hobbs responsible for 
 Barkatullah? Any night of the week the retired 
 officer of cavalry might be found at the bar of the 
 Thompsonpur Club inveighing against Government. 
 Hobbs might have stepped straight out of '57. To him 
 Indians were still children to be meted out reward or 
 punishment according to the convenience or incon- 
 venience of their conduct as it affected British interests. 
 He was convinced that the Reforms were part of 
 some Hun-inspired Semitic intrigue to undermine the 
 British Empire, for which sole purpose Mr. Montagu 
 had been treacherously appointed Secretary of State. 
 A crony of his, Colonel Bruce-Swinnerton, generally 
 ensconced in an adjacent chair, would endorse these 
 judgments with appropriate expletives and portentous 
 
BARKATULLAH 185 
 
 nods. It was consoling to believe that the worm in 
 the wood responsible for the nation's decay was exotic 
 or Semitic, or at any rate parasitic, and that the true 
 heart of the country was still British oak. Self- 
 respect in a period of national adversity is often main- 
 tained by a sense of betrayal, it demands dissociation 
 in blood, as well as in spirit, from the authors of the 
 decline. Riley had sat next Bruce-Swinnerton one 
 night in the hotel at Thompsonpur, when the Hunter 
 Commission dined there on their way through to the 
 Punjab. " Is that the Commission or the vernacular 
 band? " the Colonel asked him, as the British and 
 Indian inquisitors filed into the room to take their 
 places at a table set apart from the common herd as 
 a safeguard against intimacy with the presumably 
 biassed. " By Jove, I wish they would have me up and 
 ask me what I think. I'd make 'em sit up. Let them 
 ask me the cause of this uppishness and I'd tell them 
 straight. Concessions ! We concess a darned sight 
 too much. The only concession they understand is 
 a whack on the ear with a big thick stick. I haven't 
 been thirty-seven years in the country without learning 
 something about the natives." 
 
 Riley told Skene afterwards that he had felt drawn 
 to * ' the old buffer. ' ' Bruce- Swinnerton had commanded 
 one of the best cavalry regiments in the Indian Army 
 and he swore by the only type of Indian he knew, the 
 Awans and Tiwanas of the Punjab. " I wouldn't 
 mind giving these fellows Swaraj," he would say when 
 there was talk of " the scuttle." " They know how 
 to look after themselves." When Bruce-Swinnerton 
 went north, his retired Indian officers would troop to 
 the railway station to meet his train. These splendid 
 old veterans would regain the alertness and erectness 
 of youth as they stood to attention on the platform 
 
136 ABDICATION 
 
 when his carriage drew up, sunning themselves in his 
 smile. " Yes, Bruce-Swinnerton is all right," Riley 
 said, " so long as he sticks to his Tiwanas. No doubt 
 if you told them that India was to have Swaraj they 
 would ask him to be their Padishah." 
 
 Riley discovered that he had been lacking in tolerance 
 and sjnnpathy in his attitude to the old school. They 
 were rooted in their convictions, and it was as impossible 
 to dig them up as to induce a bigot to change his 
 religion in his last hours. And there was something 
 fine about them. They had lived clean lives, single- 
 minded, consistent, sane. In all direct, personal 
 relations with Indians their influence had been whole- 
 some. In a curious way he cared for their opinion. 
 He was hurt and depressed afterwards, in the days of 
 the Dyer controversy, when Bruce-Swinnerton scowled 
 at him as if he were a pariah, whenever the two met in 
 the club. For Hill's or Bolton's contempt he did not 
 care a hang. He returned it with interest. Bruce- 
 Swinnerton was a person, an elemental force, far from 
 despicable. Bolton had spent his days in the Secreta- 
 riat, poring over files ; he had no living contact with men. 
 His self-sufficient and academic imperialism, his 
 cultivated blindness to the real issue, annoyed Riley 
 even more than the reasoned and intelligent arrogance 
 of Hill. 
 
 " I want to throw a brick at that fellow," he said of 
 Hill. " I should like to scrape Bolton's belly with 
 red-hot nails. Hill never had a soul; Bolton, if he 
 ever had one, has locked it up in an iron box." 
 
 " A dispatch-box," Skene suggested. 
 
 Riley nodded. " As long as the Secretariat have 
 got their rotten arguments on paper," he said, " they 
 think they are governing. Government is Babuised 
 from top to bottom. They've no relation with facts." 
 
BARKATULLAH 187 
 
 III 
 
 Riley felt a little apprehensive as he climbed the cork- 
 screw stair to the Roshni office. He half expected that 
 Barkatullah would spit at him. Every utterance of 
 the man, written or spoken, that he had heard was 
 venomous. " The rabid swab will probably bite you," 
 Hill had warned him. They had discussed Barkatullah 
 at the club, and what Bolton called " the etiology of 
 this particular breed of Extremist." Bolton was as 
 fond of long abstract words as Banarsi Das. 
 
 " What's the maggot the fellow has got in his head ? " 
 Skene asked. 
 
 Hill summed Barkatullah up as a successful trades- 
 man. "Poison pays," he said; "the stronger the 
 dose the bigger the sale. There is no money in praising 
 Government." 
 
 " The Moderates are having a rotten time," Dean 
 observed, " especially the Moderate editors. Poor old 
 Shams-ud-Din came to me the other day and com- 
 plained that the circulation of The Aj, the oldest paper 
 in Gopalpura, had fallen to 450, and asked me why 
 Government could not help their friends. ' What 
 can Government do for you ? ' I asked him, and he 
 said, ' Take action against The Roshni, The Ittihad 
 and The Kali Yuga. Put Barkatullah in gaol. How 
 can a loyalist compete with this sort of thing ? ' And 
 he produced a handbill with which Barkatullah had 
 plastered the walls of the city. ' Hindus, embrace 
 your Muhammadan brethren ; they are going to leave 
 you.' The Roshni sales went up to 6000 the next 
 morning. Barkatullah works on the same plan as an 
 Afghan agent I met in Peshawar the other day. I asked 
 him why he sent such absurd and extravagant yarns to 
 
188 ABDICATION 
 
 Kabul. No one would believe him, I told him, and he 
 would be discredited. ' But, Sahib,' he explained, ' it 
 is what they want. If I do not provide exciting and 
 interesting news they will become tired and displeased. 
 I will receive no more money. They will appoint 
 someone else.' " 
 
 " Shams-ud-Din has his title and his grant of land 
 from Government," Hill explained; "he can't have 
 his cake and eat it." 
 
 " A good many of them do, all the same," Dean said. 
 
 *' But surely," Bolton objected, " there are one or 
 two good Moderate papers that have influence." 
 
 *' Not in the New Province," said Riley, " and can 
 you wonder ! Moderate ! The very word is a knell 
 to enthusiasm. One can't get excited about being 
 Moderate. If you were an Indian, Bolton, would you 
 be a Moderate ? " 
 
 Bolton protested that he would most certainly be a 
 Moderate, and Riley believed him. " Shams-ud-Din," 
 he reflected, " is a poor sort of creature. You won't 
 find a bigger reactionary than an Indian with vested 
 interests who has burnt his boats." " The worst of 
 these Moderates," he said aloud, " is that whenever 
 they come out into the open they expect a reward 
 from Government. You can't make them understand 
 that it is themselves they are working for and not us. 
 That is the slave mentality, I suppose, which Gandhi 
 says we are responsible for. There is probably some- 
 thing in it." 
 
 " Go to a Native State," Hill said, " if you want to 
 study slave mentality, you will find a Maharajah's 
 Durbar a good object lesson." 
 
 For a moment Riley felt that Hill had reHeved his 
 countrymen of an unpleasant charge. Then he 
 remembered that Gandhi, Muhammad Ali and Shaukat 
 
BARKATULLAH 189 
 
 Ali, the most imslave-like trio, were all by birth subjects 
 of Native States, and so was Barkatullah for that 
 matter. He pointed this out to Hill. But Hill only 
 said, *' Why can't Government repatriate them then ? 
 or if they don't like us, why can't they go back on their 
 own if they want to enjoy the blessings of Swaraj ? 
 The Nawab of Dharampur would have a short way with 
 Barkatullah." 
 
 " Slave mentality is not the product of our education," 
 Bolton observed, " it is an incident of the system, the 
 contact of the dynamic with the static. The static 
 does not resist, it is carried on obediently. The trouble 
 now is that we have taught the East to be dynamic, 
 hence the collision. And we have done it with our 
 eyes open." 
 
 f; For once Riley agreed with Bolton. He thought 
 this quite the wisest thing the Secretary for Govern- 
 ment had ever said. The inference was as obvious 
 as an axiom of Euclid. The two dynamic forces must 
 move on the same lines or one would sweep away the 
 other. There was much abstract wisdom in the 
 Montagu solution, on paper at any rate. 
 
 " It follows then," Skene said, " that Gandhi's 
 soul force is a product of our education. You can 
 take that as a text for your next leader, Riley." 
 
 " I am not going to blaspheme the Vedas in the 
 Gazette," Riley said. " What I should like to know, 
 though, is exactly how much soul force we or Gandhi 
 have contributed to Barkatullah. There must be 
 some sort of inspiration in the man or he wouldn't 
 have a following." 
 
 " I can't quite associate Barkatullah with any of 
 the Christian virtues," Dean said. " The last time I 
 saw him he gave me the impression that some heavy 
 Englishman in hob-nailed boots, fourteens, had just 
 
140 ABDICATION 
 
 trodden on his toes. His race-hatred is probably 
 genuine enough, only it pays him to exploit it. It is 
 an attractive game, this beating of the big drum, 
 especially now. The glory increases as the risks 
 diminish. Most of the Gopalpura agitators court 
 prosecution and conviction. Their idea is that after 
 a fortnight or month at most in gaol, they will be 
 released by some Amnesty or Remission Order, and 
 accepted as consecrated saints or martyrs. It is a 
 cheap price to pay for a halo.** 
 
 " And their worldly appetites are satisfied at the 
 same time," Riley reflected. " Saints and mart5n:s 
 are fed. They are f^ted ambrosially. And they've only 
 got to thump tubs and beat drums, which they love." 
 
 " Why don't you smoke Barkatullah out and size 
 him up yourself? " Dean concluded. 
 
 " By Jove, I will," Riley exclaimed. And it was 
 then that Hill said, " The rabid swab will probably 
 bite you." 
 
 Riley wrote asking for an appointment and received 
 a curt letter from the editor of The Roshni consenting 
 to see him. 
 
 Barkatullah, listening to his ascending footsteps, 
 was both flattered and suspicious. Riley was the first 
 Englishman who had called on him. His only contacts 
 with the dominant race were oflicial. He had been 
 summoned to the Deputy Commissioner's Court, and 
 he had stood sullenly before the D.I.G. of Police in 
 his office, denied a chair and inwardly fulminating. 
 As Riley expected, he found Barkatullah prepared to 
 be on the defensive. He was sitting alone on a mat in 
 the middle of the room, entrenched behind files of 
 yellow and brown foolscap which looked like packing 
 paper, copies, as Riley learnt afterwards, of the evidence 
 before the Un oflicial Inquiry Commission into the 
 
BARKATULLAH 141 
 
 Punjab Disturbances. The schoolroom bench and 
 desk at which he and Skene had found Banarsi Das was 
 unoccupied. Through an open door he could see the 
 khatihs in the next room, squatting on the floor at 
 their little doll's-house desks, diligently inscribing the 
 lithographic sheets which were to transmit Barkatullah's 
 venom to the stone. 
 
 The editor of The Roshni rose stiffly and conse- 
 quentially to receive his visitor. Riley sized him up 
 physically and mentally as he crossed the floor. His 
 first impressions of Barkatullah apart from his general 
 uncouthness were very much what he had anticipated, 
 and they were little modified by further acquaintance. 
 Riley saw a sad, sullen, square face like a trap, not 
 without strength, but the strength of bigotry and 
 ignorance, a strength derived from the instinctive 
 elimination of any scruple or doubt that might injure 
 the growth of the ego. Riley recognised the inherent 
 bacillus. He had seen the cultured product of it in 
 the face of a cardinal. But Barkatullah was a son of 
 the people. One could picture him in a greasy red 
 cap, with a torch in his hand illuminating the unchained 
 devil in him as he led the mob to the barricades. " The 
 first fellow who would stick a knife into you," he said 
 to Skene afterwards," if there were a revolution." 
 
 Physically Barkatullah disappointed Riley's expecta- 
 tions. He was jerky, restless, self-conscious, and 
 lacking in composure and grace; unusually so for an 
 Indian. The humblest Hindustani Mussalman of the 
 Punjab or the New Province is often clothed with a 
 dignity to which the aristocrat of other countries 
 cannot aspire; but Barkatullah would have looked a 
 plebeian beside any of his khatihs, more vital perhaps, 
 but less impressive. There was certainly nothing 
 static about him. Riley in his search for figurative 
 
142 ABDICATION 
 
 illustration was reminded rather of a. fluid, permanently 
 arrested in precipitation, which he knew could never 
 dissolve or congeal. That was the fault of our educa- 
 tion, he supposed, and it occurred to him that if 
 Macaulay could see this hybrid product of his system 
 he would turn in his grave. The integuments of 
 Barkatullah were in keeping with their physical 
 contents. He wore frayed shoes, turned up at the toes, 
 no socks, dirty baggy trousers, a dirty homespun coat 
 and a dirty little cap, the kind worn by cooks and 
 scullions in the galleys of coasting steamers, the 
 pattern affected by the Hindustani Mussalmans of 
 Delhi, in Barkatullah's case effeminately embroidered 
 and gummed to the head. One oily little wisp of hair 
 protruded from under it. He had abandoned the fez 
 as a tribute to the Hindu-Moslem entente. As he held 
 out his hand Riley received the impression of a wronged 
 and embittered man. Barkatullah had not intended at 
 first to smile, but reassured by Riley's easy and disarm- 
 ing approach he returned courtesy for courtesy. 
 Barkatullah's smile was deliberate and summoned, as 
 light is let into a closed room by the unfastening of a 
 shutter. 
 
 Riley had rather dreaded the preliminaries of the 
 interview, but he need not have had any misgivings, 
 Barkatullah took the initiative from the first. He was 
 glib and fluent. He began by complimenting Riley on 
 the attitude he had taken up in the Gazette on the 
 Amritsar question, the massacre of the innocents in 
 Jallianwala Bagh and the culpability of General Dyer. 
 
 " The whole of India congratulates you, Mr. Riley," 
 he said, " on your bold and uncompromising exposure 
 of the dastardly and heinous nature of the crime 
 committed in the Jallianwala Bagh." 
 
 Riley listened to this praise impatiently. He would 
 
BARKATULLAH 146 
 
 not be drawn into a discussion on the subject. He 
 refused to deliver alternate blows with Barkatullah on 
 the corpse of the reputation of General Dyer. 
 
 Barkatullah pointed to the files of manuscript 
 scattered on the floor. He gloated over the atrocities. 
 " There is a mountain of evidence here/' he said, " to 
 prove beyond doubt that General Dyer " 
 
 " I do not defend General Dyer," Riley said simply. 
 
 He had seen the whole case so clearly from the Indian 
 point of view, and he had stated it without fear or 
 prejudice. He understood that it was not the massacre 
 that rankled, the mere killing. Jallianwala Bagh was 
 a national humiliation. General Dyer's evidence 
 before the Hunter Commission in Lahore had stirred 
 India from one end to the other. He admitted that 
 he had fired into the mob until he had exhausted his 
 ammunition, that he had given them no warning to 
 disperse, that he had not stopped firing when they were 
 running away, that he had taken no care of the wounded. 
 He repented nothing. He boasted that in the same 
 circumstances he would do the same thing again. 
 The people needed a lesson, was his argument, and he 
 was afraid that if he let this gathering disperse they 
 would come back and laugh at him. Prestige must be 
 upheld. The massacre of these law-breakers was 
 justified. The hundreds who died saved thousands. 
 That was exactly what the German Junker had said in 
 Belgium ; and how the British nation had raged. Those 
 who cried out against the Hun and now defended 
 General Dyer could only say, " In our case the end 
 justified the means." The good name of England was 
 blackened, Riley wished General Dyer had never been 
 bom. No wonder India writhed. It seemed that the 
 tentacles from which she hoped to free herself by 
 service and sacrifice were forever fastened into her 
 
144 ABDICATION 
 
 soul. The crawling and salaaming orders, the public 
 whippings, the bombing by aeroplanes were symbols 
 of frightfulness — on the one side racial arrogance, on 
 the other national degradation. If it had been a 
 massacre of ill-armed Abors or Tibetans on a frontier 
 show, in legitimate warfare, the officer responsible 
 would have deserved to be cashiered, but this gathering 
 of Punjab peasants, the kith and kin of the men who 
 stood by us through the war, who had responded 
 chivalrously with offers of service when we were in 
 
 need To the Indians it seemed that we had 
 
 betrayed them; their loyalty had saved us. Had 
 India not been loyal we could not have been free. It 
 is true that we might have survived in Europe, but not 
 in " the Dependency." We had used the freedom she 
 had given us to make her more dependent. We had 
 shaken off the grip of the Hun to adopt the Prussian 
 heel. The long jack-boot, iron-shod with horseshoe 
 and nails, with which we trod at Amritsar, was indirectly 
 the gift of the Punjab. That was the view of chivalry 
 vicariously besmirched. And to the reply, " Ranting 
 fool, we must put down a rebellion, we owe it to the 
 Indians themselves," Riley answered, " Hang the rebels 
 or rioters by all means ; but don't insult and trample 
 on a whole Province and break out into panicky fright- 
 fulness like a Hun." 
 
 Riley had said all this in the Gazette and it had 
 brought down on him a storm of abuse. Old Bruce- 
 Swinnerton had written to him, calling him " a fouler 
 of his own nest." Riley had published the letter with 
 such comments as the un-British nature of the act he 
 repudiated made easy. He had had a certain amount 
 of support from his own countrymen. Wace-Holland 
 for one was on his side. Now, to his disgust, he found 
 himself hunting in the same pack as Barkatullah. 
 
BARKATULLAH 145 
 
 Here was this canting hypocrite yapping by his side, 
 an accomplice by some trick of irony, making him 
 sick with his hysterical clap-trap about " heroes " and 
 " martyrs," as if these poor devils who had been 
 killed had done something noble in faiHng to get out 
 of the way of the bullets. 
 
 Riley thought of all the things he might say to 
 BarkatuUah about General Dyer. He did not say 
 them, but for the first time it occurred to him that he 
 might have been unjust in his judgment. He hoped 
 in his heart that he had been unjust. He searched for 
 evidence of this injustice with curious eagerness, for if 
 he failed to find any, he was the more associated with 
 this poisonous fellow at his side. After all, he reminded 
 himself. General Dyer acted honestly according to his 
 lights. And there W£ls nothing crooked about the 
 fellows who supported his surgeon's argument of a 
 limb amputated to save a life. A calculation of the 
 kind in cold blood would not have been easy early in 
 1914, but the war had brought us all down to realities 
 and hardened us and given us the faculty of holding 
 compassion in abeyance. Perhaps we were a little 
 hysterical about " fright fulness " at the start. The 
 Hun learnt to rub his nose in blood and filth earher 
 than we did, that was all; though, thank God, we 
 were not in the habit of saying, ** I am frightful only 
 to be kind." Still Dyer and his school believed in 
 their decency and kindness, and that was the main 
 thing. Anyhow, Dyer was straight about it. He was 
 British enough when it came to cross-examination. 
 Riley pictured BarkatuUah in his place, how he would 
 have lied and shuffled and prevaricated in his evidence 
 and wriggled like the worm he was. 
 
 But Riley did not use any of these arguments. He 
 turned to BarkatuUah, to whom he had not been 
 
 L 
 
146 ABDICATION 
 
 listening, though he was aware that his rantings were 
 still unctuously elegiac, and shocked him by saying : 
 
 " Mourning I it is the biggest bit of luck you've had. 
 It puts you in the right. If the victims of the JaUian- 
 wala Bagh were to come to life so that it could be 
 proved that no wrong had been done the Punjab, and 
 there had been no massacre at all, there would be real 
 mourning in your camp. It would blunt the sharpest 
 weapon you have. Don't pretend you would hft a 
 finger to bring them to life." 
 
 " How can you say this of me, Mr. Riley? " Barka- 
 tuUah protested. 
 
 " Nothing would disappoint you more," Riley 
 continued, " unless it were the settlement of the 
 Turkish Peace Terms in such a way as to take the 
 edge off the Khilafat grievance." 
 
 *' All true Muhammadans would die for the Khila- 
 fat," Barkatullah answered, and Riley wondered why 
 this witness-bearer was only deprecatory when he 
 should have been angry. This was not the firebrand 
 he expected to see. 
 
 " You are determined to blacken the name of the 
 EngHsh," he said, " if it were not the Khilafat it would 
 be something else. Why I came to see you, Moulvi 
 Barkatullah, was to ask you if you really believe all 
 the unpleasant things you say about my countr5mien. 
 Do you beheve, for instance, that we introduced plague 
 into India and foster it ? that we cut off the fingers of 
 the Dacca weavers in order to encourage our own 
 industries? that we drain India of its wealth and 
 deliberately impoverish the country in order to emas- 
 culate the people? It was The Roshni, wasn't it, 
 that made the Meteorological Department responsible 
 for the cyclone in Bengal? Or did you bring that 
 charge into your speech at Mograon ? By the way, I 
 
BARKATULLAH 147 
 
 hear you told the zemindars that Government were 
 penaUsing the Mograon tehsil by cutting off their canal 
 water." 
 
 Barkatullah looked pained. " The bureaucracy 
 never hear the truth," he said, " their mind is poisoned 
 by the G.I.D. subordinates, who invent these things 
 and put them into the mouths of pubUc men, and 
 patriots in order to please Government." 
 
 " But The Roshni ? " 
 
 ** Mr. Riley, I am a single-minded seeker after 
 truth. If you can find a single word in The Roshni 
 that you can convince me is imtrue, I will withdraw 
 it." 
 
 " Do you really beheve," Riley asked him, " that 
 the British flag is flying over the Kaaba? " 
 
 Barkatullah regarded him with a pitying smile as 
 one deluded by prejudice. " Can you believe this of 
 me ? "he said. " I have never made such a statement." 
 
 Riley quoted the passage and the date of publication. 
 
 " That was a poetical contribution," Barkatullah 
 explained indulgently. " The poet used metaphor, 
 ' Breetish fla-ag is flying over Mecca.' " He mouthed 
 the passage unctuously. " That is to say, British 
 poUtical influence is paramount in Muhammadan 
 Holy Places. The poet Shakespeare also uses meta- 
 phor, * the slings and arrows of outra-ageous fortune.' 
 By slings and arrows he does not mean missiles of 
 wood and stone, but weapons used to injure soul. It 
 is soul of Islam that British want to destroy by dese- 
 crating Holy Places. All Muhammadans are ready 
 to die for their religion. Christians do not understand 
 this. No, it is spiritual flag, the poet means, not 
 striped cotton Imperial emblem." 
 
 Again BarkatuUah's smile implied a world of pity 
 for the groping, uninteUigent materiahsm of the 
 
148 ABDICATION 
 
 Western mind. It was an implication of forbearance 
 that he had borrowed from Gandhi. He had observed 
 it in the Mahatma when he was reasoning with those 
 in outer darkness. Only it was less effective in an eye 
 that was alternately shifty and intense. 
 
 " The masses don't understand metaphor," Riley 
 said, " they will think you mean the Union Jack. 
 Besides, there has been no desecration of the Holy 
 Places." 
 
 " Not physical desecration," BarkatuUah explained, 
 "it is spiritual injury. The pilgrimage to Mecca is 
 no longer acceptable to God, because there is no 
 independent Imam. The Sherif being a rebel and 
 usurper is not a true representative of the Khalifa, 
 and the Khalifa is not independent because he is 
 puppet in the hands of the Allies. Did not the British 
 persuade the Sherif to fight against the Khalifa? 
 Was not this treachery to Islam? " 
 
 " The Sultan has never exercised more than a 
 nominal control over the Hedjaz," Riley said. 
 " Naturally they joined the AUies in the war; they 
 needed no persuasion. The Arabs have been fighting 
 the Turks for their independence for generations. 
 As for the guardianship of the Holy Places, the Mos- 
 lems must settle it among themselves. Anyhow, they 
 remain in Moslem hands. The Sherif is a Koresh 
 after all; he is a lineal descendant of Muhammad, 
 and the Arabs of the Hedjaz are the Prophet's own 
 people." 
 
 Riley would not have emphasised this unpalatable 
 truth in the Gazette. It only irritated Indian Moslems. 
 It is no good telling the Muhammadan who his Khalif 
 is, he will choose his own Khalif. Riley once heard 
 an Enghsh official explaining to a Muhammadan of 
 Delhi, a poet of some reputation, that the Sultan of 
 
BARKATULLAH 149 
 
 Turkey was only de facto Khali f, whereas the Sherif 
 was Khalif de jure, whence it followed that the dedica- 
 tion of the Indian Moslem to the Sultan as his spiritual 
 head had more politics than piety in it. The argu- 
 ment and its application gave Riley the text for one 
 of his " Imaginary Conversations " in the Gazette. 
 " The spiritual home of Shakespeare is Berlin," said 
 Treitschke to Rupert Brooke, " the English neither 
 understand nor appreciate him." 
 
 BarkatuUah, however, was not a pious Moslem. 
 His sensibilities need not be considered. If he had 
 cared for the Turk, he would not have embezzled the 
 funds he collected for the widows and orphans of 
 the victims murdered in AnatoHa by the truculent 
 Armenian. 
 
 Riley expected indignant repudiation, but Barka- 
 tuUah only smiled sadly at his championship of the 
 Sherif. Evidently the editor of The Roshni was not 
 the zealot he supposed. It was difficult to explain 
 his mildness. Bolton's diagnosis was probably not 
 far from the mark. " BarkatuUah is a tradesman : 
 poison pays." Riley remembered that he was not in 
 the Roshni office as a customer or cHent, but as one 
 to whom the editor was eager to legitimise his trade. 
 Therefore BarkatuUah exhibited no samples of venom. 
 He had no inclination to attack or confound Riley, 
 only to lead him gently to the conviction that he, 
 BarkatuUah, was a consistent votary in the temple 
 of Truth. 
 
 " I do not care for handcuffs or chains," he said. 
 " I know that one day Government may arrest me. 
 In attacking the KhUafat they leave me the choice of 
 either being a British subject or a Moslem. I prefer 
 to be a Moslem. One cannot serve God and a Govern- 
 ment that is dar-ul'harb at the same time." 
 
150 ABDICATION 
 
 Then he told Riley that whenever he woke up in the 
 morning he expected to find a poHceman by his bed. 
 He was ready to go to gaol for his country and his 
 religion. But if religious liberty existed Government 
 ought to be ashamed to punish pious Moslems for their 
 convictions. Soon every Muhammadan in India 
 would be prepared to sacrifice his life and hberty for 
 the Khilafat, but there would not be room for them 
 all in the gaols. What would Government do then? 
 Did they intend to take action against the agitators ? 
 
 Riley gathered that BarkatuUah was sounding him 
 as to how near he was to the brink, what further rope 
 Government would give him ; and he told him he was 
 lucky to be at large and that he probably owed it to 
 the Royal Amnesty to political offenders. " Govern- 
 ment are very patient and long-suffering," he said, 
 " but when your propaganda begins to take effect 
 they can't very well avoid putting you in gaol. When 
 the zemindars of Mograon, for instance, knock their 
 D.C. on the head, or when the Moslems coming out of 
 the Mosque after Friday prayers practise jehad on 
 the first Christian they meet, it would be clearly safer 
 for everybody if you were out of harm's way. Per- 
 sonally, if I were the Governor, I would have you 
 locked up before any of these things happened." 
 
 " But I always preach non- violent agitation," 
 BarkatuUah protested. 
 
 Riley's smile was more eloquent than contradiction. 
 "It is not worth spilling blood about it," he said; 
 " you have got Swaraj. It's begun and can't go back 
 You'll see whatever the new Councils decide Govern- 
 ment will pass as law, unless it involves a condition 
 of anarchy or bankruptcy which a child might foresee." 
 
 This was not at all the Utopia that BarkatuUah 
 desired. It precluded haloes and ruined trade. He 
 
BARKATULLAH 151 
 
 smiled incredulously. " But, Mr. Riley," he said, in 
 tones which he might use to a merchant in the bazar 
 who claimed a preposterous price for his wares, '* the 
 reforms are only a toy after all, no doubt — ^what real 
 liberty has India got? Repeal the Press Act, the 
 Seditious Meetings Act, the Rowlatt Act, the Defence 
 of India Act. . . ." 
 
 " You'll see," Riley interrupted, *' in a year or two 
 your legislators will repeal any Act they Hke." 
 
 BarkatuUah smiled again — it was a duel of in- 
 credulous smiles; and if the facial expression of 
 increduUty is any test it must be admitted that Barka- 
 tuUah won. But it was all very good-tempered. The 
 editor of The Roshni followed Riley down the steps 
 and stood with him in the square outside under the 
 signboard of the Rising Sun, the crest of the " Illumi- 
 nator." The porcupine beams shone down on him, 
 and the emblazoned motto, " How can the shades of 
 darkness resist the flood of Hght ? " From this 
 vantage he addressed the back of the editor of The 
 Thompsonpur Gazette as he mounted and walked his 
 horse towards Amir Khan's mosque. 
 
 " Send me your article on the Reforms, Mr. Riley. 
 I will pubUsh it in The Roshni, provided, of course, I 
 am convinced that what you say is true. You too 
 are man of principle. You will understand my posi- 
 tion. You will not ask me to pubUsh anything I 
 cannot reconcile with dictates of conscience." 
 
 BarkatuUah felt that he had vindicated his faith. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 
 
 Banarsi Das occupied a small room adjoining 
 Riley's in the editor's block of The Thompsonpur 
 Gazette. He had learnt to typewrite and correct 
 proofs. His English was a credit to Gandeshwar and 
 Skene. He had interviewed his old Principal more 
 than once in connection with University news. He had 
 even attended political meetings for the Gazette. The 
 editing of his reports was a hobby of Riley's, a pleasant 
 diversion in routine. The flowers of speech that 
 perished in the proofs he preserved in an antholog}^ 
 probably the only relic of Thompsonpur journalism 
 that exists. 
 
 Eight months had passed since the Indus restored 
 Banarsi Das to the secure paths that he forsook for 
 perilous adventure at the instance of Jemal Khan. 
 He was completely whitewashed in the eyes of the 
 benign Government. Dean, as ultimate arbiter, 
 announced him harmless. A pardon had been offered 
 all the muhajarin who were willing to return to their 
 homes, and there was no reason why it should not be 
 extended to Banarsi Das, though it might be objected, 
 of course, in the spirit of the counsel for the prosecution, 
 that his return had been involuntary, and the manner 
 of his restitution to British citizenship, to say the least 
 
 152 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 158 
 
 of it, unorthodox. Still it was generally recognised 
 that Banarsi Das' being at large did not constitute a 
 serious danger to the British Raj . Nor was he suspected 
 of any hankering to revisit the inhospitable approaches 
 to the Cave of Adullam. 
 
 Even Jemal Khan had returned, pardoned but 
 impenitent. Banarsi Das had met him once outside 
 the Gazette. He was very satisfied with himself and 
 all the world that morning until his encounter with 
 Jemal Khan. The twelve-o'clock edition of the Gazette 
 had published his half-column report of a Municipal 
 meeting, and Riley had only made fifteen corrections 
 in English and eliminated ten lines. Jemal Khan 
 stopped dead when he recognised Banarsi Das, who at 
 the moment of contact had visions of the editorial 
 chair, and was walking, or floating, abstractedly in 
 his dreams. He was carried by them unconsciously 
 through the gate into the premises of the Gazette like 
 a weed in a current, and would not have seen Jemal 
 Khan had he not been standing on the edge of the pave- 
 ment, right in his path, where the in-and-out drive 
 takes off from the road. The Wahabi, scowling 
 deliberately, muttered the single word " Yezid " and 
 raked him with the battery of his scorn. Banarsi Das 
 shuffled off the pavement and hurried down the drive 
 to the office, as if real shrapnel was spattering the 
 ground behind him. He dared not look twice at 
 Jemal Khan. The day was spoilt for him; the 
 Wahabi's witness-bearing contempt had withered his 
 pride. He remembered the oaths he had made before 
 Jemal Khan with the Koran on his head. The scene 
 of the serai at Darband came back to him, his physical 
 exhaustion, Jemal Khan's covenanting footsteps, the 
 discovery of the hopelessness of his living up to his 
 dedication, Jemal Khan's ruthless betrayal of his 
 
154 ABDICATION 
 
 weakness to the Bulbul at Jahar. He felt the Shinwari's 
 fingers at his throat in the dark tomb, and the dangUng 
 rope entangled in his feet as he was carried down to 
 the Indus, too terrified to struggle or speak. He lived 
 through again the sacrificial trussing on the raft until 
 the type in front of him became blurred. At these 
 moments the damp pulpy smell of the galley fresh 
 from the press was sweet and comforting. Jemal 
 Khan had been to Kabul, he heard. He was glad that 
 he had come back. It diminished the spiritual gulf 
 between them, and the Wahabi's privilege of contempt. 
 But he dreaded another encounter. 
 
 Three weeks after this he saw the Shinwari. The 
 brothers Shaukat and Muhammad Ali were passing 
 through Gopalpura, and the local Khilafat Committee 
 had prepared an ovation for them at the station. Riley 
 sent Banarsi Das to report. Banarsi Das had seen 
 little of Gopalpura since his return from the frontier. 
 Riley, no doubt advisedly, had found him quarters 
 at the back of the Gazette ; he was translated physically 
 as well as mentally to Thompsonpur. The crowd 
 waiting on the platform at the railway station revived 
 many ghosts but few regrets. Some of them had 
 thrilled to the eloquence of the Bulbul in the graveyard 
 of Ain-ul-Quzzat. There was Abdul Rabi, the moulvi 
 of Amir Khan's mosque who had testified to Banarsi 
 Das* trustworthiness as a muhajir and a missionary of 
 Islam on the ninety-ninth page of his Koran. Banarsi 
 Das gave him a wide berth. But it was not easy to 
 give a wide berth to everybody he did not wish to meet. 
 The crowd was so compact that one had to move with 
 its impulses, and in trying to avoid Abdul Rabi he 
 nearly collided with Jemal Khan. Then as he recoiled 
 from the covenanter he saw a new danger-signal ahead ; 
 the white Delhi cap isolated among black and red 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 156 
 
 astrakhans and fezes was the unmistakable headgear 
 of Barkatullah. Banarsi Das had not met his old 
 employer since the day he received Skene and Riley 
 in the Roshni office. He feared and hated him. There 
 was peril and embarrassment for him on all sides. 
 
 Soon the rumble of the train was heard, the platform 
 began to shake, and the packed throng moved soHdly 
 towards the engine. As the train drew in the followers 
 of Shaukat and Muhammad Ali stood in the doors and 
 crowded to the windows of the carriages, but the great 
 men themselves did not appear and no one was quite 
 certain which part of the train was consecrated by 
 their presence. The surging towards the engine was 
 followed by a reverse movement towards the guard's 
 van. Then a subdued cheer indicated the compart- 
 ment next the dining-car as the sanctuary, exactly 
 opposite the position taken up by Banarsi Das. 
 Shaukat Ali stood at the door of his carriage smiling 
 graciously in the attitude of a prima-donna, making 
 rapid dabs at his forehead by way of salute, not at all 
 the haggard and careworn figure Banarsi Das had 
 expected, emaciated by an agony of apprehension for 
 the Turk. He had the appearance of a jolly fat 
 Russian monk. Muhammad Ali behind him was 
 obscured by his bulky presence. As the crowd surged 
 towards the carriage, the section that held Banarsi 
 Das was pressed in on both sides. The Khilafat 
 Committee forged a way through, and once more 
 Banarsi Das was dismayed by the proximity of Abdul 
 Rabi, Barkatullah and Jemal Khan. In the excite- 
 ment, however, he was not regarded. All was con- 
 fusion. The Khilafat volunteers, who were present to 
 restrain the crowd and keep a passage open for the 
 Committee, were now a helpless rabble only dis- 
 tinguishable by the black bands over their shoulders 
 
156 ABDICATION 
 
 and the poles they carried with the pennons of the 
 crescentade. No speech could be heard in this hubbub. 
 Banarsi Das could see that Barkatullah was reading an 
 address from a scroll which, for want of elbow-room, he 
 held up above his head on a level with the straggling 
 banners. His periods were inaudible, and Banarsi 
 Das as a conscientious reporter began burrowing his 
 way towards him. 
 
 He was barely three yards from the Ali brothers 
 when he looked up and saw the Shinwari standing 
 on the footboard of the carriage beside Shaukat Ali. 
 Banarsi Das was recognised. The magnificent young 
 tribesman fixed him with a glare of angry surprise, 
 which seemed to say, " You have escaped, betrayer of 
 Islam, but wait till I go hunting again." He touched 
 the sleeve of the man by his side, spoke a word in his 
 ear, and pointed a minatory finger at the abject figure 
 on the platform. Banarsi Das felt that the eyes of the 
 multitude were turned on him in hate. For a moment 
 he was too paralysed to move. Then he dived like 
 one taking cover from fire and wriggled his way through 
 the feet of the crowd to the other side of the platform. 
 Here he took refuge among a group of sepoys who had 
 made a barricade of their bedding. Behind it they 
 squatted, chatting and smoking, while they waited for 
 some other train, apparently incurious and indifferent 
 as to the meaning of the excitement in the station. 
 Banarsi Das cowered behind the barrier of kit they had 
 raised, expecting to see the face of the Shinwari emerge 
 above it and his long arm stretched out to grip his 
 throat. The tribesman had intended him to die; 
 he was angry that he had escaped. Banarsi Das looked 
 at the sepoys and wondered if they would protect him. 
 They had rifles and the Shinwari was unarmed. He 
 thought of appealing to them, but the instinct of the 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 157 
 
 hunted warned him to conceal himself, to lie still and 
 inconspicuous like one of the rolls of bedding. The 
 sepoys, a draft of Dogras, were not interested in Banarsi 
 Das. The one nearest him was gazing at himself 
 contentedly in a hand-mirror, adjusting a fold of his 
 turban, correcting an irregularity in his moustache. 
 Another was reading the Fauji Akhbar, others were 
 playing cards. For all the interest they took in him he 
 might have been a station sparrow searching for crumbs. 
 From where he lay curled up at the foot of the pile 
 of sepoys' kit he could see the Khilafat banners tilt and 
 bob above the heads of the crowd. They neither 
 approached nor receded. He listened for the cry of 
 pursuit. The index finger of the Shinwari had been 
 pointed at him, it was a scornful and princely gesture ; 
 and he had been denounced in the ear of the champion 
 of Islam who had boasted that he could overthrow 
 alien Governments, and make or unmake Viceroys 
 and Secretaries of State. Was it possible that he, 
 Bcinarsi Das, was minute and inconspicuous enough 
 to escape? He curled himself up more tightly, 
 embracing his knees, and buried his head in its little 
 round felt cap under a fold of loose blanket. The 
 sepoy with the hand-mirror had ceased his meticulous 
 toilet and was regarding him impassively; he would 
 not have denied the same shelter to the station dog. 
 No cry of the pack reached the fugitive. No individual 
 voice was distinguishable above the din. The hubbub 
 was only punctuated by the shriek of engines and the 
 shunting of heavy goods trucks. The train by which 
 the Ali brothers travelled was timed to stop at Gopal- 
 pura twenty minutes, but it seemed hours before the 
 engine whistled and the platform shook again. Banarsi 
 Das watched the oscillating pennons from under his 
 blanket ; he had come to hate the star and the crescent. 
 
158 ABDICATION 
 
 It was not until at least half an hour after the hostile 
 crowd had disgorged itself and the Khilafat volunteers 
 had re-formed and marched away that he dared to 
 emerge from his bolt-hole and make tracks for the 
 security of Thompsonpur and the Gazette. The laconic 
 brevity of his report puzzled Riley, who for the first 
 time observed in Banarsi Das' English evidence of 
 literary restraint. 
 
 For the first month or two after his acceptance by 
 Riley, Banarsi Das found happiness and relief. Ambi- 
 tion revived in him. He felt safe and established on 
 the Gazette, and he looked forward to the days when he 
 would edit his own journal. It would be a nationalist 
 organ, of course, but strictly Moderate in tone. Riley's 
 sympathy with nationahsm was appreciated in the 
 Moderate camp, and Banarsi Das could not understand 
 why his connection with him should make him so 
 unpopular. For he attributed the sour looks he re- 
 ceived from his old associates to his employment on 
 the Gazette. 
 
 After his return from the frontier he was seldom 
 seen in Gopalpura ; he had no communing with the 
 Khilafat party, and he avoided the neighbourhood of 
 Amir Khan's mosque. He kept away at first from 
 the politicaUy-minded among his Gopalpura friends 
 because it was difficult to explain his reappearance 
 among them so soon after the part he had played in 
 the Hijrat. It seemed to betray a lack of spirit in him 
 that he should be the first of the muhajarin to come 
 back. Appearances always conspired against Banarsi 
 Das. Yet he could say quite truthfully, when cornered 
 and catechised, that his rejection by the muhajarin 
 had been due, not to any faltering of the spirit, but 
 to weakness of the flesh. He had been very unjustly 
 treated. Jemal Khan, he explained, was angry with 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 159 
 
 him because he was exhausted and could not keep up ; 
 his feet were bUstered, and he was suffering from fever 
 and in great pain. For this reason Jemal Khan had 
 abused him and denounced him to the Bulbul-i- 
 Sehwan, who had sent him back. Banarsi Das did 
 not say how he had been sent back. He only hinted 
 that this ill-treatment had estranged him from his 
 fellow-conspirators. He was no longer in sympathy 
 with the Khilafat agitators. He had made a great 
 sacrifice for his brother Muhammadans, because they 
 were his fellow-countrymen and suffering imder the 
 same unjust foreign Government. In return he had 
 been shamefully used by them. He had no doubt that 
 Jemal Khan was his enemy, because he was a Hindu. 
 It was true that he was a Hindu, and Hindus had no 
 concern with the Khilafat or Hijrat. It was not their 
 affair. He had acted blindly through excess of zeal. 
 
 This was convenient heresy. Banarsi Das could not 
 expect and did not wish to be taken back into favour 
 by the Gopalpura Extremists. But he was a staunch 
 nationalist all the same, though on the Moderate side. 
 The Moderates ought to respect him, yet his treatment 
 by them amounted to something like boycott. What 
 had he done ? he asked himself. Banarsi Das was not 
 in the habit of introspection. The kaleidoscopic 
 pictures thrown on that sensitive film- work at the back 
 of his brain which did duty for a conscience were his 
 only spiritual education. In one of them Jemal Khan 
 figured in the posture of Judas or Yezid, in the act of 
 betrayal ; in another the Shinwari appeared as a dacoit 
 sHtting Banarsi Das' purse with a knife which at any 
 moment might be turned to his throat ; in a third as 
 an assassin pinioning him to the raft. And the Bulbul 
 was the instigator of persecution. The recurrence of 
 these pictures absolved Banarsi Das of all obligation. 
 
160 ABDICATION 
 
 This is how it appeared to him in the early days 
 after his return. Through his misfortunes he had found 
 himself. He was entrenched in an unassailable posi- 
 tion, though he did not like to dwell on the incidents 
 that had led him to it. He wondered how much of 
 his story was known. The humiliating details would 
 reach Gopalpura through the police. Anyhow, the 
 Bulbul would tell the muhajarin, and the story would 
 become common property when he returned. 
 , For a month or two Banarsi Das continued in happy 
 ignorance of the things that were being said about him. 
 He had been troubled by certain misgivings at first. 
 He was uneasy when he remembered the conversation 
 between the Bulbul and the Shinwari in the tomb, but 
 he had never understood its significance. As to the 
 charge of complicity in the arrest of Nazir UUah Shah, 
 he had never heard the man's name before or since, 
 or given it a thought. The muhajarin could not 
 suspect him of betraying them. They had told him 
 no secrets, so there was nothing to betray. He 
 recalled the words of the Bulbul on the banks of the 
 Indus : " What does he know ? Send him back to the 
 Kafirs, he can betray nothing that is not already 
 known." 
 
 He thought the Bulbul had been angry with him 
 because Jemal Khan had called him names and de- 
 nounced him for his lack of zeal. The Bulbul did not 
 understand why he, a Hindu, should be of the party, 
 and suspected treachery. Jemal Khan ought to have 
 explained. If the Bulbul had any doubts as to his 
 loyalty, surely Jemal Khan would clear them away. 
 All the muhajarin knew why he had joined the Hijrat. 
 And there was the evidence of Abdul Rabi. Banarsi 
 Das had told the Bulbul about his passport. Jemal 
 Khan had the Koran in which the moulvi of Amir 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 16l 
 
 Khan's mosque had written that he was to be trusted 
 on the page that tallied with the ninety-ninth name of 
 God. Surely when the Bulbul joined the muhajarin 
 at Asmas he would consult Jemal Khan and discover 
 his mistake. 
 
 Thus Banarsi Das wove a web of illusion into which 
 he retreated when assailed by doubts. He was inno- 
 cent, and there was nothing against him ; therefore all 
 unjust suspicions, having nothing to sustain them, 
 must die a natural death. He persisted in believing 
 that his unpopularity was due to his employment on 
 the Gazette. Abdul Rabi, however, and Barkatullah 
 and others read his conduct in a different light. On 
 the face of it Banarsi Das' story was improbable ; who 
 would believe that he had been stripped and pinioned 
 and committed to the Indus to float or drown, simply 
 because he had lagged behind on the road? The 
 Bulbul-i-Sehwan was a pious man, and just if severe. 
 He kept a rigid account of his soul with God. The 
 sentence which he passed on Banarsi Das could only 
 mean one thing, that the Hindu was a Government 
 man and had insinuated himself into the company of 
 the mtihajarin as an informer. This is how it appeared 
 to Gopalpura. Then it became known that Banarsi 
 Das had been seen with the police at Abbottabad ; he 
 was favoured by Englishmen; and soon after his 
 reappearance certain agents of the Hindustani fanatics 
 in Lahore, Delhi and Panipat, who had carried on their 
 traffic as intermediaries for years without hindrance, 
 were arrested. 
 
 After this encounter with Jemal Khan, Banarsi Das' 
 uneasiness increased. Why had Jemal Khan called 
 him " Yezid " ? It was the word the Bulbul had used 
 in speaking of him to the Shinwari at Jahar. The scorn 
 and hatred in the Shinwari's eye at the railway 
 
 M 
 
162 ABDICATION 
 
 station repeated the judgment. Banarsi Das had no 
 luck. He was innocent of double-deaHng. He had 
 betrayed nobody. He refused to give the name of 
 one of his confederates when confronted with the 
 poHce, he would have endured torture rather than betray 
 them. Yet the men for whose cause he had suffered, 
 and who should have respected his patriotism, looked 
 at him as if he had a brand on his forehead. He 
 became more and more aware of the displeasure of 
 God. " Allah hates me," he would repeat in moments 
 of despondency. He discovered that he was a pariah 
 of fortune. The inspired phrase occurred to him when 
 interviewing his old Principal. The day after the 
 ovation to the Ali brothers, Riley, who never lost a 
 chance of throwing Banarsi Das in the way of Skene, 
 sent him to the ofhce of the Director of Public Instruc- 
 tion to collect details of the new scheme of University 
 lectures. Skene greeted his prot^g^ in his old familiar 
 bantering way. 
 
 " Well, Banarsi Das ! How's the world been treating 
 you? Are you still a rebel? *' 
 
 Banarsi Das regarded the Director of Public Instruc- 
 tion with doleful affection. " Sir," he said, drawing 
 academic inspiration from memories of the class-room, 
 " formerly I was under displeasure of benign Govern- 
 ment ; subsequently it is the nationalists who look upon 
 me with the black eye." 
 
 " I shouldn't bother about the black eye," Skene said 
 cheerfully. '' Stick to Mr. Riley. There is nothing 
 anti-nationalist about the Gazette. And don't worry 
 your head about what the Extremists say." 
 
 " Sir, they will do me some injury." 
 
 *' Why should they injure you ? " 
 
 ** I am surrounded with enemies." 
 
 " All honest men have enemies, Banarsi Das." 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 163 
 
 Banarsi Das agreed mournfully with this truism. 
 He quoted a Persian proverb to the effect that honesty 
 not only begets enemies but endues them with arms. 
 
 When he got back to his room in the Gazette he found 
 new proof of this adage. There was an envelope on 
 his table addressed in the Roman capitals affected by 
 the anonymous scribe : 
 
 LALA YEZID BANARSI DAS, 
 C/o MR. RILLIE, Esq., B.A. Oxon., 
 THOMPSPUR GAZETTE. 
 
 Banarsi Das regarded the letter with misgivings. 
 How could one be a Lala and a Yezid at the same 
 time? The "Yezid" pointed to Jemal Khan or an 
 accomplice, the Roman capitals to an assailant who 
 struck in the dark. Banarsi Das opened the letter and 
 looked at the signature. The second inference at least 
 was correct. 
 
 " Remember Gosain who turned King's evidence 
 and was shot in gaol. He is dead. His name 
 is execrated. The hero, Kanhya Lai, who shot 
 him is also dead. His name lives in Glory. He 
 knew the intention of God and became his instru- 
 ment. His funeral was carried to the burning 
 Ghat amidst a nation's mourning. Women fasted 
 on the day of his cremation, and his ashes were 
 collected by the people and kept in silver and gold 
 vessels. Repent, leave the service of the hated 
 Mllecchas. Do the work of Bharat Mata. Your 
 end is not far off. If you heed not these words 
 your infamy will be that of Gosain. 
 
 " One who may be your 
 
 " Kanhya Lal.'* 
 
164 ABDICATION 
 
 II 
 
 Amba Pershad had left his quarters over the fruit 
 market by the Mori Gate. He was now estabhshed in 
 a small bungalow behind the church in Thompsonpur. 
 You might recognise it by the bright stripes of gamboge 
 and terra-cotta, newly painted on the gate and on the 
 trellis-work of the verandah. 
 
 Behind this riot of colour, on walls hitherto modestly 
 distempered, other pigments contended in brightness, 
 buttercup yellow and azure blue. The same principle 
 of decoration might be observed in the garden, where 
 alternate layers of blue, green and black glass, frag- 
 ments of broken bottles, variegated the borders of the 
 flower-beds in geometrical designs. The flowers grow- 
 ing in them, a profusion of marigolds, hollyhocks and 
 nasturtiums jostling with tomatoes and leeks, indicated, 
 what one might expect in the inmate of the bungalow, 
 an aestheticism tempered with utility. 
 
 This migration to Thompsonpur did not imply, as in 
 Banarsi Das' case, any translation in spirit. On the 
 contrary, for the last six months at least, the current 
 of Amba Pershad's spiritual sympathies had been 
 travelling rapidly the other way. His orientation, to 
 use a word of which he was fond, swung him appro- 
 priately towards the East. His angle of vision, to 
 employ another favourite phrase, had suffered a change. 
 Amba Pershad was now a champion of the popular 
 cause. He declaimed against things British and 
 anathematised the unspiritual West from the housetops 
 even as Tartarin cursed the East from his minaret in 
 Algiers. 
 
 He had resigned his appointment in Government 
 service, as Skene believed out of pique on account of 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 165 
 
 the bureaucracy's rejection of his text-book on Civics. 
 Skene had an idea that he had converted a loyaHst 
 into an enemy of Government by his firm attitude in 
 turning down this primer on Empire-Patriotism which 
 Amba Pershad had written, as a model of instruction 
 for youth. Amba Pershad was clever enough to 
 encourage the inference. It suited his book to let it 
 appear that he had resigned Government service in a 
 fit of pique. As a matter of fact he was growing mys- 
 teriously rich, inconveniently so, for a man in his 
 subordinate position. His peculiar cross at the 
 moment was that he could at last afford a motor-car, 
 but that as he was only drawing a salary of two hundred 
 rupees a month he could not afford to be seen in it. 
 
 Amba Pershad was making a name as a lecturer and 
 publicist. He steered an extraordinarily astute course. 
 He wrote books and pamphlets, no longer anonymously, 
 anathematising Government. His series of articles in 
 The Gopalpura Standard on " The Punjab Atrocities " 
 was particularly damning. Yet he managed to leave 
 an impression that under altered conditions the 
 bureaucracy might discover in him a potential friend. 
 In the meanwhile he had become so far committed to 
 the Extremists that any recognition of him by Govern- 
 ment, inclusion as a Minister, for example, in the 
 machinery of the new administration would be accepted 
 as a concession to the popular cause. He had wit 
 enough to see that there was little prospect of advance- 
 ment in the career of a Moderate, for it was evident that 
 Government were out to placate their enemies at the 
 expense of their friends. 
 
 Banarsi Das, though he had met Amba Pershad once 
 or twice, had had no private talk with him since the 
 day he sought his advice about joining the Gazette 
 and was routed by his gramophone and his cynicism. 
 
166 ABDICATION 
 
 He knew that he had nothing to fear from Amba 
 Pershad as a poHtical enemy. The Brahmin could be 
 virulent on paper, but he was mild and tolerant in his 
 social relations. People who only knew of him politic- 
 ally were surprised, when they met him, at his complete 
 lack of fanaticism. Banarsi Das knew that it would 
 not matter to Amba Pershad if he had joined the 
 Gazette or were still on The Roshni, whether he had gone 
 to Kabul with the muhajarin or had come back by the 
 first train. In Amba Pershad's sanctum at least he 
 was safe from the recoil of outraged principles. He 
 had avoided it since he had taken service under Riley. 
 There was an undercurrent of irony in Amba Pershad 
 of which he was always vaguely conscious and which 
 made him feel uncomfortable ; he was never quite sure 
 whether his friend was laughing at him. Now, eight 
 months after his last visit, it occurred to him to 
 approach the Oracle again, more with the idea of un- 
 burdening his soul than with the hope of any practical 
 help. He did not trust Amba Pershad and had little 
 confidence in his sympathy, but he had a great idea of 
 his worldly wisdom, and he knew nobody else with 
 whom he could discuss the anonymous letter. 
 
 Amba Pershad, now that he was a man of growing 
 importance, would not be likely to seek out the failed 
 B.A. and rejected muhajir in his quarters in the 
 Gazette. Banarsi Das was reminded of the gulf that 
 had widened between them, when he turned the corner 
 by the cathedral and saw a line of carriages and motors 
 drawn up outside his friend's bungalow. The two gates 
 had been converted into triumphal arches decorated 
 with evergreens and banners. Over one flew the 
 national flag; over the other the Star and Crescent. 
 Under each of these the ambiguous H.M. emblazoned 
 in large gold letters had no royal significance, as the 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 167 
 
 casual observer might suppose; it merely symbolised 
 the Hindu-Moslem entente. On both sides of the drive 
 from the road to the porch a blaze of orange and 
 vermilion pennons suspended on gilt wire increased, 
 if that were possible, the normal sense of giddiness 
 that was communicated by a glance at the fa9ade of 
 Amba Pershad's bungalow through the brightly painted 
 gates as one passed by. 
 
 Banarsi Das had chosen an unfortunate hour for 
 his visit. He ought to have remembered, a fact that 
 was known to all Gopalpura and half Thompsonpur, 
 that it was the afternoon on which Amba Pershad 
 was entertaining Sir Antony Greening, a globe-trotting 
 Labour M.P., who was making a cold- weather tour 
 of India " to study the conditions of the problem at 
 first hand." He found himself standing at the entrance 
 to the drive with a small group of loiterers, arrested 
 for a moment by all this colour and magnificence. 
 What brought home to him more than anything else 
 the distance between himself and the man who had 
 attracted the crowd was the contemptuous stare of the 
 two policemen, who nonchalantly directed the traffic 
 in the road, it included him with these other loiterers. 
 With them he watched Barkatullah drive up in a tonga, 
 looking very important, and Rai Bahadur Muni Ram, 
 Chairman of the Municipality, all becks and smiles. 
 The irreconcilable, as well as the half-reconciled, ^lite 
 of Gopalpura were among the guests of Amba Pershad. 
 A Sadhu, a splendid anachronism in his saffron robes, 
 with his staff and begging bowl and necklace of coral 
 beads, arrived in a motor-car. The frock-coated 
 figure in the car behind, who looked like a habit u6 
 of Bond Street, was recognised by Banarsi Das as Mirza 
 Tajumal Hussein, the doyen of the Thompsonpur 
 bar. Behind him a Nawab's son in an old-worlc} 
 
168 ABDICATION 
 
 yellow chariot, drawn by two trotting camels caparisoned 
 in red, blocked the traffic. The carriage was too enor- 
 mous to pass through the gate, and the scion of the 
 nobility, a shrunken, apathetic little figure in an incon- 
 spicuous choga, had to alight and walk up the drive, 
 followed by an orderly in uniform with facings only 
 less dazzling than the processional pennons and the 
 painted gate. Banarsi Das did not wait to see what 
 other guests were bidden to the feast, but drifted 
 aimlessly back the way he had come, past the cathedral 
 to the offices of the Gazette, wondering if he would 
 have the courage to return when the gathering had 
 dispersed, and feeling more lonely than he had ever 
 felt in his life. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The man whose excessive sympathy with the under- 
 dog finds vent in baiting his fellow-countrymen who 
 are administering a subject race often has a good heart, 
 but he is not as a rule overburdened with a sense of 
 humour. Sir Antony Greening was quite aware that 
 Anglo-India would fail to discover in him the salt 
 that savours the dish of life. They would dub him 
 at best a biassed crank, if not a dishonest one, and 
 carelessly accept the fact that they were prejudged. 
 "A Labourite, what can you expect? " And in the 
 presumption of the homy hand and the homier manner, 
 and the intelHgence encased in a like integument, 
 there would be no disturbing consciousness of the pre- 
 judging and unanalytical mind. " They naturally 
 class me," Sir Antony reflected, '* with the type of 
 itinerant M.P. who, after three weeks at Calcutta, or 
 Bombay, and a short visit to Delhi, is reputed to say, 
 ' Asia has unlocked her heart to me. ... To me the 
 Muhammadan mind is an open book.' " 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 169 
 
 It was a pity that Banarsi Das could not unlock his 
 heart to Sir Antony Greening. The Labour Member 
 would have learnt more of the miscarriage of our good 
 intentions from his simple history than from any 
 of the poHtical leaders collected in Amba Pershad's 
 bungalow. He was now making his salaam to the 
 Sadhu, smihng and bowing low, his folded palms 
 touching his forehead as in the obeisances which he 
 had observed the devout paying to Mahatma Gandhi. 
 It was too much perhaps to expect a commensurate 
 smile from the spiritual ascetic. Sir Antony was 
 uncomfortably conscious of his grey flannel coat and 
 trousers, in which he felt the more depayse as he was 
 garlanded like a sacrificial bull. The garlands hung 
 so thick about his neck that when he caught a glimpse 
 of himself in one of Amba Pershad's mirrors he was 
 reminded of a groom grinning through a horse-collar. 
 He felt that he was rather overdoing the part of the 
 hon camarade. The Sadhu and the Nawab's son were 
 singularly expressionless. But Sir Antony was spared 
 the embarrassment of making conversation by the 
 loud comments and explanations of Barkatullah, 
 who stood at Amba Pershad's elbow and introduced 
 one guest after another to the Member of ParUament. 
 The editor of The Roshni, whom he had heard described 
 as a dangerous demagogue, seemed for the moment 
 to have chained defiance; Sir Antony felt that he 
 would have preferred it to the emotional substitute 
 which he paraded. Barkatullah, who persisted in 
 addressing him as Sir Greening, called out the names 
 of the guests consequentially, as if he had summoned 
 the gathering, while Amba Pershad, the host, stood 
 by, secure in his Brahminical dignity, too well- 
 bred to apologise for his steward. " He looks as 
 if he had hired H:he ill-mannered fellow and rather 
 
170 ABDICATION 
 
 wished that he hadn't," Sir Antony thought; yet 
 there was no betrayal of annoyance on his episcopal 
 brow. 
 
 Babu Suresh Chandra Chatter] i, editor of The Gopal- 
 pura Standard, Barkatullah announced, and Sir Antony 
 found himself shaking hands with a frail little Bengali. 
 The friends and admirers of the Extremist in London 
 had told him to make sure of " cornering Chatter] i." 
 The elusive significance of the word was immediately 
 ]ustified, for before Greening could pin him down or 
 make any appointment with him, " the scourge of the 
 bureaucracy," who might be depended on to give 
 him " a truer estimate of the political situation from 
 the Extremists' point of view than anyone in India," 
 had slipped away, modestly regarding himself as one 
 of the procession. Chatter] i was a lion on paper, 
 and as honest and direct as Gandhi, though in the 
 flesh fugitive, shunning society, seldom seen. Sheikh 
 Hassan Nizami was of a more sociable type. He shook 
 hands with Sir Antony like a boulevardier. With 
 his spectacles and severely-cut white beard he looked 
 like a Turk of the old school, the cosmopolitan sort, 
 whom you might find sitting next you at dinner any 
 night at Yanni's or Tokatlian's in Constantinople. He 
 probably understood the Labour Member better than 
 anyone in the room. " I have been reading your 
 article on ' The White Man's Burden,' " he said, " in 
 Nothing but the Truth." " How do you get Nothing 
 but the Truth? " Sir Antony asked him; " I thought 
 it was confiscated like all the other Labour papers, 
 excluded by the censor." " Press agencies," Nizami 
 whispered mysteriously. An understanding was 
 already established between them when Rai Bahadur 
 Muni Ram, O.B.E., Chairman of the Municipality, 
 bore down on Sir Antony with benedictory smiles 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 171 
 
 and explained that he was the donor of the statue of 
 Queen Victoria opposite the Mori Gate. 
 
 Then Dina Nath was presented, a precise Kashmiri 
 Pundit, with the triple caste mark of Siva on his fore- 
 head and a perpetual deprecating smile. Greening 
 had noticed him hovering gracefully in the middle 
 distance and looking like an illustration in one of 
 Shakespeare's Venetian plays. He wore a choga, or 
 toga as Greening called it, and carried a handsome 
 enamelled stick, from which he would not be separated 
 out of doors or in. He held it in front of him as erect 
 as his own figure, his hand resting on it on a level 
 with his waist. The support he seemed to derive from 
 the staff without leaning on it at all added to the 
 detached, appraising look the Brahmin had. Pandit 
 Dina Nath greeted the M.P. with gentle courtesy, and 
 a compliment on a speech he had made at Amritsar 
 after the National Congress. He had doubted if he 
 could come to the party, he said, as he was a Brahmin 
 and could not eat and drink with others, and so could 
 not profit by the entertainment. " But I sometimes 
 go to parties," he added, *' for the sake of the 
 society I can enjoy there." 
 
 " You must taste my mangoes. Pundit ji," Amba 
 Pershad said, " and these apricots, they are fresh from 
 Kulu. The Kashmiris are very orthodox," he 
 explained to the Member of Parliament. 
 
 Barkatullah, who was still at Sir Greening's elbow, 
 remarked that caste exclusiveness would soon be 
 extinct in the New Province. " It was djdng," he said, 
 " not to say, moribund, when Dyer and O'Dwyer 
 united all classes. Now Hindu-Moslem entente will 
 give it deserved quietus." 
 
 Amba Pershad smiled philosophically, " You will 
 have opportunity to observe. Sir Antony," he said, 
 
172 ABDICATION 
 
 " as you continue your tour, how the autocrats of this 
 country are becoming the servants of democracy. We 
 owe a great deal to our Dyers and O'Dwyers." 
 
 Greening was conscious of a deUcacy in his host's 
 use of the first personal pronoun. He would have felt 
 even more uncomfortable if Amba Pershad had said 
 " your Dyers and your O'Dwyers." 
 
 " Unity is observed on all festivals and mournings," 
 BarkatuUah continued. " On Ashra Day Hindus 
 supplied drinks to the Muhammadans. Every evening 
 you may see Hindu gentlemen at the kahah stalls in 
 Hari Mandi. They make it a point to go there and 
 eat Mussalman kahah, and when their lips are burnt 
 with chillies they soothe them with Mussalman sherbet 
 close by." 
 
 " I can quite understand," Sir Antony said, " that 
 the caste system stands in the way of independence." 
 
 But to the Kashmiri Brahmin this fraternisation 
 which BarkatuUah described so glibly was distressing 
 and indelicate, an invasion of the temple. The vulgar 
 throng threatened the immemorial barriers. It was 
 too big a price to pay, even for independence. He 
 edged away from BarkatuUah, as from something 
 profane and unclean, preceded by his mace. 
 
 The editor of The Roshni retained the ear of the 
 Member of Parliament. His harsh voice was the 
 loudest in the room. Others could not compete. 
 Amba Pershad could hear him as he moved among his 
 guests. 
 
 " Certainly the Government is oppressive. Patriots 
 are persecuted without trial owing to false information 
 given to officials by the police and informers. They 
 do not mix with the people or know what is in their 
 minds." 
 
 Here Amba Pershad button-holed Mirza Tajumal 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 178 
 
 Hussein, the doyen of the Thompsonpur bar, and asked 
 him to sit on Sir Antony's left at tea. He glanced 
 significantly at Barkatullah as he made the request, 
 and Tajumal Hussein understood what was in his mind. 
 " This thrusting fellow will never do. A man of the 
 people, self-assertive, intrusive — Sir Antony will carry 
 away wrong impressions . ' ' Taj umal Hussein was agree- 
 ably conscious that in manner, appearance, breeding, 
 knowledge of the world he could offer the exact cor- 
 rective of Barkatullah that his host desired. 
 
 Everybody in the room was now aware that Barka- 
 tullah was talking about Riley and The Thompsonpur 
 Gazette. The name of the Anglo-Indian editor and 
 his journal echoed harshly, punctuating other talk. 
 " Mr. Riley has charged me with instigating the 
 Mograon cultivators against Government. It is G.I.D. 
 story invented to please officials that they may oppress 
 patriots. Government tricked and deceived zemindars ; 
 consequently there was riot. It is false and base 
 allegation that Mr. Riley brings against me in Thomp- 
 sonpur Gazette. No doubt he will be made to apologise 
 and eat his nasty words." Barkatullah had been 
 boasting that he was going to bring an action against 
 Riley, but everybody knew that when it came to the 
 point he would be afraid to stir up the mud. 
 
 " Will he prosecute ? " Amba Pershad asked Tajumal 
 Hussein. 
 
 Tajumal Hussein shook his head. " I would not 
 touch the case," he said. 
 
 Barkatullah continued to dominate the conversation. 
 His tone was alternately aggressive and ingratiating. 
 He had apparently passed from the personal to the 
 Imperial theme, for he was saying, " In 1907 it meant 
 imprisonment to talk of freedom. To-day the men 
 are the same and the laws are the same, but the spirit 
 
174 ABDICATION 
 
 is no longer the same. Indians not only claim Swaraj, 
 but they claim that they will have it outside the British 
 Empire." 
 
 The editor of The Roshni was becoming an embar- 
 rassment. Sir Antony Greening looked cornered and 
 tired. Amba Pershad, with the Brahmin's subtle 
 reading of character and temperament, divined the 
 best approaches to the Englishman. He had detected 
 a genial strain in Sir Antony which was being starved. 
 The plebeian was queering his pitch. He touched 
 Tajumal Hussein on the elbow. " Come," he said, 
 " it will not do for Barkatullah to monopolise our 
 distinguished visitor." He led the hamster up to Sir 
 Antony and tactfully interposed. 
 
 " You are discussing the Empire," he said. " Do 
 you know. Sir Antony, why it is the sun never sets 
 on the British Empire? " 
 
 Sir Antony welcomed his host with a smile of relief. 
 *' I give it up," he said, " is it a conundrum ? " 
 
 " The sun never sets on the British Empire because 
 the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, knows better 
 than to leave any corner of it long in the dark." 
 
 " Capital ! " Sir Antony exclaimed, " capital ! " He 
 had heard a French variant of the gibe, but Amba 
 Pershad brought it out so neatly, with such a delicate 
 play of irony, without a gesture and with barely a 
 twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Splendid feUow ! " Greening thought. " What 
 charming manners ! and what a head ! Like a 
 cardinal's. In spite of being rough-ridden by these 
 bureaucrats he keeps his sense of humour. ' ' And catch- 
 ing Amba Pershad's eye he knew that his deliverance 
 from Barkatullah had been deliberate. 
 
 Amba Pershad ushered his guests to the table. 
 Sir Antony sat on his right, and Tajumal Hussein on 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 175 
 
 Sir Antony's left. BarkatuUah, thwarted, made his 
 way to the other side of the table, and took the seat 
 opposite " Sir Greening," the next best position for 
 advance or attack. On one side of him he had the 
 Sadhu and on the other the Nawab's son. As these 
 were the least articulate of the company and unlikely 
 to detract from the attention that he intended should 
 be centred on himself, he felt that his dispositions 
 were in some measure retrieved. 
 
 Sir Antony turned to Tajumal Hussein. " I am 
 trying to get to the bottom of our loss of prestige," 
 he said. " I can perfectly understand the feelings 
 of the political classes. You know my sentiments 
 in that direction. What I don't understand is the 
 attitude of the masses. They seem to have lost faith 
 in British justice. What is wrong with the administra- 
 tion ? BarkatuUah was telling me that he is the victim 
 of a false charge trumped up against him by the police. 
 He might have bought himself off, he said, but as a 
 matter of principle he refrained." 
 
 Tajumal Hussein looked quizzically at BarkatuUah 
 across the table. " Certainly," he said, " the police 
 are very corrupt." 
 
 " I hear the same story everywhere," the Member 
 of Parliament continued. " It seems that the bitter- 
 ness against Government in the case of the masses 
 is largely due to the petty actions of the police, and 
 in the case of the educated classes to the espionage 
 of the G.I.D." 
 
 " There is a certain amount of truth in that," Tajumal 
 Hussein admitted. " But it is not only the police, 
 it is the same with subordinates in every department, 
 canals, revenue, public works. Even in hospitals, 
 where treatment is free, the patient doesn't get his 
 medicine until he has oiled the palm of some menial." 
 
176 ABDICATION 
 
 " Then, if this horde of corrupt subordinates is at 
 the bottom of the trouble, the sentiment is not so much 
 anti-British or anti-European as anti-Government. 
 After all, if the peasant is mulcted and buUied, it is 
 by his own people." 
 
 " That is true, but it is a British Government, and 
 therefore the sentiment is anti-British. Everything 
 is charged to the Sircar." 
 
 " But before the British came, weren't things as 
 bad? The peasant was bled white in the time of 
 Aurangzeb, I gather." 
 
 " The best apology for British rule will be found 
 in the Memoirs and State Papers of the period preceding 
 it. Unfortunately the zemindar doesn't read them 
 and he has forgotten what his grandfathers had to 
 tell him." 
 
 " You admit improvement? " 
 
 *' Of course, under British rule, the lot of the zemin- 
 dar has improved. But he is not as contented as he 
 was. In the old days the Deputy Commissioner had 
 time to look into things more and control his subordi- 
 nates. But now he has too much to do. He is busy 
 and overworked, snowed up in files and reports. Yours 
 has become a paper Government, Sir Antony, out of 
 touch with the life of the people." 
 
 " Very short-sighted of Government," Sir Antony 
 remarked, " and in a way they are responsible for the 
 corruption which you say is prevalent everywhere. 
 They ought to double the pay of the subordinate 
 grades of the services. This would attract a class 
 of man to the police who would not be tempted to 
 eke out a living by bribery and false evidence." 
 
 Tajumal Hussein smiled. "No," he said; "I 
 don't think that would answer. In the first place it 
 would double the burden of taxation; then indirectly 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 177 
 
 it would mean that the classes who are being fleeced 
 would have to pay twice as much as they did before. 
 You see, the bribe the subordinate demands is in exact 
 proportion to his official position, which is determined 
 by his pay. It is the same in Russia, I believe." 
 
 Sir Antony recalled a story — it was in Tchehovy. 
 he beheved — of an Inspector-General who was morally 
 indignant with an underling for presuming to accept 
 a bribe " quite out of proportion to his grade in the 
 Department." " I am afraid you will find the same 
 sort of thing in other countries besides Russia," he added 
 with an instinct to mitigate invidious inferences by 
 making the specific appear general. 
 
 Tajumal Hussein, however, had no illusions on this 
 point. " Every country has the administration it 
 deserves," he said. " If the people did not offer bribes, 
 or submit to blackmail, they would not have a corrupt 
 police." 
 
 " Ah, you are asking too much of human nature," 
 Sir Antony said. " The appeasement of authority 
 is a primitive instinct that is almost universal. But 
 in this country, what particular remedy would you 
 prescribe? " 
 
 " Contact, super veillance. I would double the 
 administrative staff, at least one Deputy Commissioner 
 for every two tehsils." 
 
 "Not Englishmen? " 
 
 " Why, yes, Englishmen, of course ! '* 
 
 Sir Antony gasped. " More Englishmen ! My God, 
 what a coil ! I thought the salvation of the country 
 depended on our quitting it." 
 
 " That is your own prescription. Sir Antony." 
 
 " Yes, yes. We have done it with our eyes open. 
 We have been perfectly honest about it. We might 
 have put the hands of the clock back. But the ques- 
 
 N 
 
178 ABDICATION 
 
 tion is " (he reflected), " are we equally honest about it, 
 now it has come to the point ? " 
 
 He looked inquiringly at his neighbour. " I thought 
 you were a red-hot Nationalist," he said. " What 
 would our friends think if you aired these reactionary 
 sentiments among them? " 
 
 " It doesn't matter much what they think," the 
 barrister said drily; " they've got to tolerate me. As 
 a matter of fact they find me extremely useful. One 
 or two of them would not be here if it were not for me." 
 
 " Where would they be ? " 
 
 " They wouldn't be at large." 
 
 " They would be in gaol you mean? " 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 Sir Antony chuckled. 
 
 Barkatullah, observing the easy and friendly relations 
 that were being established between his frock-coated 
 vis-a-vis and the Member of Parliament, felt himself 
 neglected. He leant across the table and shouted in 
 a heckling voice : 
 
 " What will the Labour Party do for Indian inde- 
 pendence. Sir Greening? " 
 
 " The Labour Party will do everything in their 
 power," Sir Antony said, " to put India on a footing 
 of equality with the other Dominions of the Empire." 
 
 Amba Pershad hinted at conflicting industrial 
 interests. " Manchester," he said, " is afraid of the 
 cheap-labour market in India." 
 
 The Sadhu, to whom Barkatullah's question was 
 translated, protested that independence could be the 
 gift of nobody, whether coolies or kings, and that it 
 was useless unless it was wrested from the despotic 
 rulers by the people themselves. 
 
 The Member of Parliament observed the Sadhu with 
 interest and asked Amba Pershad what he was saying. 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 179 
 
 Amba Pershad whispered tactfully in his ear that His 
 Holiness hoped that the British Labour Party would 
 join with the oppressed Indians in their struggle for 
 independence. 
 
 " Tell him," Sir Antony said, " that the first Labour 
 Parliament will give India her Magna Charta." 
 
 " The Member of Parliament is of opinion," Amba 
 Pershad interpreted, " that Swaraj can come only 
 from within." 
 
 " We ask no boons," the Sadhu intoned. " Benefits 
 issue from repression, as henna gives out its colour when 
 crushed and betel-nut when chewed." 
 
 His Holiness neither ate nor drank. Fruit was offered 
 him and sherbet at the hands of a Brahmin, but he 
 waved it aside. All through the meal his eyes were 
 fixed on Sir Antony with embarrassing intentness. 
 
 "What does he say?" Sir Antony asked Amba 
 Pershad. 
 
 " He is talking about the Reforms." 
 
 " Dissatisfied, of course? " 
 
 " He says they do not go far enough." 
 
 Barkatullah, who overheard his host's euphemism, 
 exclaimed to the Sadhu, " The votes of a disarmed 
 population are as fruitless as beating husks for rice." 
 He then repeated the adage in English for the benefit 
 of Sir Antony. 
 
 The editor of The Roshni, jerky, restless, irritable, 
 explosive, his sullen square face the index of disturbed 
 emotions, reminded Sir Antony of Raemaeker's cartoon 
 of a Bolshevik, a vitalised impersonation of misdirected 
 energy, planted between two graven images. Neither 
 the Sadhu nor the Nawab's son on his left and right 
 betrayed by the relaxation of a muscle what was passing 
 in their minds. 
 
 The Member of Parliament despaired of carrying 
 
180 ABDICATION 
 
 away any impression of a homogeneous India. After 
 three weeks he had conceived no image of the country. 
 Yet a figure of kinds with some sort of definite outline 
 must be evolved. Without it the empirical politician 
 was like a tailor who has received a royal command 
 to drape the statue of Liberty without being given the 
 least idea of the measurements. Sir Antony had 
 travelled in many lands and he knew of none in which 
 the psychology of the people was more baffling. One 
 could think of France as a person, or Italy, or Germany 
 or Spain. The Arab, the Turk, the Afghan, the Russian, 
 he had individualised like characters in a play, probably 
 quite erroneously; yet they were sufficiently of a 
 piece to fit a system to. But India, it was like a huge 
 jigsaw puzzle with the pieces all broken and scattered 
 and chipped. He surveyed the guests at the table. 
 They represented but a small fraction of the microcosm 
 of a single province. 
 
 The severe inscrutable Sadhu continued to fix him 
 with his impassive gaze. Sir Antony would have given 
 a gold mohur for his thoughts. " Is His Holiness 
 interested in politics ? " he asked Amba Pershad. 
 
 " He is superficially disturbed by the political current, 
 perhaps," Amba Pershad said, smiling, " but inwardly 
 he is at peace. His head is deep in the ocean of being 
 or not being." 
 
 Dean would have told him that the Sadhu was one 
 of the most dangerous men in the Province, but that 
 might have meant to the idealist one of the most 
 worthy. 
 
 His Holiness, though he stared at, and through. Sir 
 Antony, was not thinking of him. He had none of 
 the European's divine curiosity, the interest in things 
 for their own sake. Save as a means to an end, it 
 would never occur to him to analyse or classify his 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 181 
 
 viS'd'vis or anyone else. If one could formulate his 
 impressions the result would be something between 
 indifference and contempt. He regarded the Labour 
 Member as the emissary of a people who were once 
 strong, but who had now become weak. The con- 
 querors were compelled to make terms with the 
 subject race. Naturally they would try to trick and 
 deceive the Indians and get the best terms out of 
 them they could. Impossible to explain to the Sadhu 
 Sir Antony's sympathy with the under-dog, which 
 amounted almost to a religion, his instinct of chivalry 
 deranged. 
 
 ** We must have National Army, Sir Greening. 
 Real power does not go with votes but with arms." 
 Barkatullah had returned to his guns. 
 Sir Antony admitted it. He hoped that the coming 
 session would see a more generous policy in regard to 
 the army in India. He would fight the question in 
 Parliament. The nationaHsation of the military sys- 
 tem was an essential part of Swaraj. 
 
 " I quite agree with Barkatullah," he said to Amba 
 Pershad. " The weakest point in the Montagu Scheme 
 is that it provides for self-government in the civil 
 administration, while the defensive forces of the 
 country remain outside civil control." 
 
 " Until you give us our National Army," Amba 
 Pershad said, " nobody will believe that you intend 
 to part with a vestige of real power." 
 
 He affected to despise the Reforms. " They don't 
 touch the minimum of our demands," he said. He 
 described them as inadequate, imsatisfying, dis- 
 appointing. It was the Congress verdict. He in- 
 dulged his irony on the Statutory Commissions. 
 " We are to be examined every ten years," he said, 
 " to see if we are fit. In some remote glacial epoch 
 
182 ABDICATION 
 
 India may pass the test. I can't quite imagine the 
 bureaucracy that will be satisfied with our quah- 
 fications. Personally, my own idea of Reforms is a 
 change of examiners." 
 
 Greening aSked him if he intended to stand at the 
 elections. 
 
 He might, he said. At present he was undecided. 
 He was not quite sure whether he could more effica- 
 ciously tilt at bureaucracy from within the charmed 
 circle, or open a broadside on it from without. 
 
 " You will see. Sir Antony," Tajumal Hussein said, 
 " Amba Pershad will be one of the new Ministers." 
 
 His host demurred. " If Government can satisfy 
 
 me " he began; but Barkatullah had returned 
 
 to the charge. 
 
 " Indians demand free citizenship, Sir Greening; 
 Indians demand equality under the law. Indians 
 demand " 
 
 But Amba Pershad, with an understanding glance 
 at his distinguished guest, pushed back his chair. 
 
 Once more Sir Antony was delivered. " Splendid 
 fellow ! " he thought. " What tact ! What delicate 
 intuition ! I am sure Government will be able to 
 satisfy him. A born Minister ! " 
 
 But Barkatullah was not to be denied. It was 
 understood that at Sir Antony's request there were to 
 be no speeches. Nevertheless he leapt to his feet, 
 and in a voice trained to cajole multitudes held the 
 guests in their chairs. " I feel called upon," he said, 
 ** to move a resolution of thanks, in the first place to 
 Sir Greening, who has graced the occasion with his 
 presence " — Barkatullah had prepared an encomium 
 on Sir Greening, but had reluctantly decided to omit 
 it as inconsistent with his uncompromisingly inde- 
 pendent attitude towards British politicians — " and 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 188 
 
 in the second place to Mr. Amba Pershad, to whom 
 we are indebted for this grand, not to say sumptuous, 
 entertainment. Mr. Amba Pershad stands alone in 
 the foremost ranks of Indian patriots. Mr. Amba 
 Pershad had the nobihty to resign Government service, 
 scorning the emoluments that were tainted at the 
 source. His eloquent and formidable indictment of 
 the alien bureaucracy has brought that satanic body 
 grovelling to its knees. The acts of repression have 
 become more numerous, but " 
 
 " Shall I stop him? " Amba Pershad whispered to 
 Sir Antony. 
 
 " No, let him go on." 
 
 But Tajumal Hussein, wishing to be at least on an 
 equality with Amba Pershad in the good graces of 
 the Member of Parliament, called out : 
 
 " No speeches, no speeches. Sit down, Moulvi 
 BarkatuUah. The resolution is that there should be 
 no ' resolutions.' " 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Hussein," Sir Antony whispered 
 in the barrister's ear. " You remember Daniel's 
 consolation in the lions' den was that he would not 
 have to make an after-dinner speech." 
 
 Then to the surprise of everyone, while BarkatuUah 
 was still hesitating and explaining that it was not a 
 speech he was making, but only a resolution of thanks, 
 it was realised that the meek little Kashmiri Pundit 
 was on his feet. 
 
 Pundit Dina Nath felt that a word should be added. 
 Barkatullah's tribute had been a little materiahstic 
 and lacking in grace. After all it was the feast of 
 reason and the flow of soul that counted rather than 
 the satisfaction of mere animal appetite. 
 
 " I should not say it was a grand entertainment," 
 he began, and here he paused, to the discomfort of 
 
184 ABDICATION 
 
 Sir Antony, who felt that his host had done him 
 remarkably well. " I should not say it was a sump- 
 tuous entertainment," he added, and here he paused 
 again with a deprecating smile, his hand out on his 
 planted mace, and, to Sir Antony's growing discomfort, 
 his eyes on the table as if appraising the flesh-pots he 
 had disdained. " I shoiild say rather it was a pleasur- 
 able entertainment." And he sat down, smiling 
 faintly, amidst a burst of relieved applause, feeling 
 that he had vindicated the spiritual values against 
 the material. 
 
 " A very decent crowd," Sir Antony was thinking as 
 Amba Pershad saw him into the motor, once more an 
 accomplice in his escape. " Amba Pershad and 
 Tajumal Hussein have more brains and better manners 
 than nine Englishmen I know out of ten. And what 
 a charming fellow Nizami is. Yet I don't suppose 
 one of them would be admitted into the Thompsonpur 
 Club. They would boycott me for that matter. No 
 wonder the Extremists are rabid. If I had my way I 
 would give them everything they want after first 
 shutting up that poisonous fellow Barkatullah." 
 
 Sir Antony did not reflect that he was thinking 
 bureaucratically. If he shut up BarkatuUah he would 
 be taking away everything they wanted him to give. 
 
 The spirit of Toryism must have smiled sardonically 
 at the facile descent. The idealist perverted by touch 
 of the metal he would transmute. 
 
 Then as he drove through the gates — " But I don't 
 think much of my host's decorative taste. Those 
 colours seem designed to attack one another. Stripes. 
 They chastise the eye. One is buffeted by them till 
 one feels giddy and sick. I always thought the 
 Indians were an aesthetic race." Then, in the open 
 road, " I wonder what they all thought of me? " 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 185 
 
 On the whole Sir Antony had been a success. The 
 Nawab's son up aloft in his camel-carriage was thinking: 
 " What a wonderful people they must be, if even their 
 coolies are like that/' 
 
 It was the only reflection that disturbed his tran- 
 quiUity during the afternoon. 
 
 IV 
 
 It was dark when Banarsi Das returned to the scene 
 of festivity, and he was nearly run over by the motor 
 that bore away the last of Amba Pershad's garlanded 
 guests. A peon ushered him into a room opening on 
 to the verandah. Here he found his host alone among 
 the debris of his entertainment. The fragrance of 
 jasmine wreaths still pervaded the room, mingled 
 with cigarette smoke. The table was spread with 
 dishes of cakes and sweets and fruit, mostly uncon- 
 sumed. These and the ice-plates and china indicated 
 the hand of Uzielli, the leading confectioner in Thomp- 
 sonpur. Amba Pershad was standing by the table 
 heavily garlanded, looking more pontifical than ever. 
 He received Banarsi Das with courtesy and con- 
 descension, picking up the conversation where they 
 had left it when he had appUed the closure of the 
 gramophone eight months before. 
 
 " So you did join the Gazette, Banarsi Das, after all. 
 I told you that you would go to Mr. Riley.'' 
 
 He tactfully ignored Banarsi Das' traffic with the 
 muhajarin. 
 
 *' Eventually I joined the Gazette after all, no doubt," 
 Banarsi Das admitted. 
 
 Amba Pershad pushed a plate of chocolate towards 
 his guest. " Do you like chocolates, Banarsi Das ? 
 
186 ABDICATION 
 
 Mr. Riley's political principles do not agree with 
 yours? Perhaps you have not the same angle of 
 vision." 
 
 Banarsi Das shuffled uncomfortably under his host's 
 irony. " No," he said, " I share the greater part of 
 Mr. Riley's political platform. He is strong supporter 
 of Nationalists. I too am Nationalist. There are 
 differences of opinion, of course, but " 
 
 " The differences are increasing, I understand, 
 Banarsi Das. Mr. Riley is losing his sympathy with 
 the National leaders. I hear he has become reactionary. 
 Is he not attacking the Extremists? What is this 
 about a libel suit Barkatullah is bringing against him ? 
 The Gazette will soon become the gramophone of the 
 bureaucracy." 
 
 " Barkatullah is not a true NationaHst. Mr. Riley 
 says he is fouler than his own nest." 
 
 Amba Pershad did not bother to defend Barka- 
 tullah ; he was staring apprehensively at Banarsi Das. 
 " Take off the silver paper, Banarsi Das," he said, 
 "it is not easily digestible." 
 
 Banarsi Das had just swallowed a chocolate in its 
 silver wrapping and was on the point of swallowing 
 another. He hesitated, confused, rejected the retriev- 
 able part and restored it to the plate. " One must 
 discard the integuments, of course," he said, hoping 
 that Amba Pershad would think his breach of social 
 etiquette was due to absent-mindedness. 
 
 Amba Pershad nodded. " Instead of leaving The 
 Thompsonpur Gazette," he suggested, " could you not 
 use your influence with Mr. Riley ? A little guidance 
 perhaps and he might become a pucca Nationalist like 
 Sir Antony Greening, who was here this afternoon. 
 You are sitting in his chair, Banarsi Das." 
 
 Banarsi Das brightened. The oracle was not alto- 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 187 
 
 gether comfortless. " Mr. Riley consults me in 
 political matters/' he said. " You saw the Dyer 
 articles? " 
 
 " You wrote them, Banarsi Das? " 
 
 Banarsi Das hesitated. " I prompted them," he 
 amended modestly. " Even the Standard praised 
 Mr. Riley's attitude." 
 
 "Then why do you leave him? Continue your 
 prompting. Soon you will dictate the policy of the 
 Gazette. You will become a great political force. 
 No — you mustn't let Mr. Riley become an anti- 
 Nationalist." 
 
 " As I was not safe from Government when I worked 
 on Nationahst paper, so I am not safe from NationaUsts 
 when I work on Anglo-Indian journal." 
 
 " What do you mean, Banarsi Das? " 
 
 " They threaten my hfe, if I do not leave Thompson- 
 pur Gazette." 
 
 Banarsi Das, fumbhng in his pocket, produced the 
 anonymous letter and handed it to his host. 
 
 Amba Pershad laid it on the table beside his plate. 
 As he read he mechanically severed the sugar-and- 
 almond top from a slice of cake. It was a large cake, 
 cut into sections which stood upright on the dish. 
 Banarsi Das noticed that his host had almost entirely 
 denuded the sugar-coating, so that the crown of it 
 looked like a Himalayan peak in June, bare save for a 
 single patch of snow. 
 
 After an interval the Pythian spoke. 
 
 " If you remain on the Gazette, Banarsi Das, they 
 may do you some injury, as you say. If, on the other 
 hand, you leave the Gazette, how are you to support 
 yourself? " 
 
 Amba Pershad was unsatisfying as an oracle. This 
 left Banarsi Das exactly where he was before. 
 
188 ABDICATION 
 
 " I think the letter is written by Jemal Khan," he 
 said. 
 
 " So Jemal Khan has come back." 
 
 '* All the muhajarin have come back." 
 
 Banarsi Das forgot his imminent trouble for a 
 moment, remembering the pride of their exodus, how 
 they believed they were going to return with a vic- 
 torious Afghan army, and while the British resisted 
 the invasion, the Hindus and Muhammadans, at last 
 united, would rise and assert their independence. 
 
 " They have all come back," he repeated. " Our 
 patriots could achieve nothing." 
 
 " We don't want the Afghan in India, Banarsi Das, 
 they are worse than the British." 
 
 But Banarsi Das was lamenting the futility of 
 conspiracies. " If the British go, why must the 
 Afghans come?" he said. And he quoted Burke: 
 " ' Noble people will be governed nobly, and the 
 ignoble ignobly.' Are the Indians, then, ignoble? 
 Why is it that nothing ever comes of NationaUsts' 
 schemes for independence? " 
 
 " How can anything come of them, Banarsi Das, 
 when we Indians are what we are ? You and I cannot 
 make the sun set on the British Empire." 
 
 Amba Pershad's light and cynical assumption of 
 inferiority jarred on Banarsi Das. Others had said 
 the same thing and he had not felt hot and angry. 
 He had felt shame only when he had heard the 
 Bulbul sorrowfully rebuke the assembly at Ain-ul- 
 Quzzat. 
 
 " If you had the courage to conceive any plot," the 
 Wahabi said, " and work together unitedly, and carry 
 it out with resolution, the British would never have 
 fastened on to this country." 
 
 " You and I, Banarsi Das," Amba Pershad con- 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 189 
 
 tinued, *' are not fighting men. Our independence 
 will come when the sepoys think as we do. It is only 
 through them that the British hold on to this country. 
 We are educating them to pluck the feathers of the 
 white poultry of Europe. When they are graduated 
 our dehverance will come spontaneously. You and I, 
 Banarsi Das, need not distress ourselves to take part 
 in the plucking. We are men of peace, or, as the 
 English say, emasculated." 
 
 " Rather the Enghsh have emasculated us, and 
 made us the impotentials." 
 
 " No, Banarsi Das. They discovered the im- 
 potence and traded on it. It is a commercial asset 
 like the jute and sugar-cane of this country." 
 
 Banarsi Das was reminded of a saying of Skene's 
 at Gandeshwar. The Principal used to get up a foot- 
 ball game every afterngon. He made out a Hst of 
 the players and their places in the field and pinned it 
 to the notice-board. As a rule he would start the 
 game himself and referee. But when he was not 
 there, the students used to kick the ball about aim- 
 lessly until it was almost dark. The players from 
 the city would wait for the boarders to come out of 
 the hostel, and the boarders from the hostel would 
 wait for the city students to begin. Skene was very 
 angry one day when he turned up on the football 
 ground to watch the end of a game and found they 
 had not even made a start. " If only you fellows 
 could learn to pick up sides," he said, " and kick off 
 at the proper time, there wouldn't be any need of 
 EngHshmen to run the country. You would have 
 Swaraj to-morrow." Some of the politically-minded 
 reported this speech, and made capital out of it. It 
 was typical of Skene's frank, careless utterances. 
 His students came to realise that there was nothing 
 
190 ABDICATION 
 
 calculating in their Principal. When he told them 
 anything there was no ulterior motive at the back of 
 his mind that he did not speak out. His directness 
 begot confidence and gave speech a new value. 
 
 Banarsi Das pursued the melancholy reflections 
 evoked by his old Principal, while Amba Pershad 
 mechanically returned to the cake and divested the 
 last pinnacle of its snowy top. It was a depressing 
 theme, and if pursued to its logical conclusion might 
 well dissipate hope. " Mr. Skene blamed the Indians 
 that they do not organise," he said aloud. 
 
 " When they do organise, Banarsi Das, the EngHsh 
 are not pleased. Their gaols are full of our organisers." 
 
 Banarsi Das thought of Jemal Khan. The miiha- 
 jarin anyhow were exempt. He would have been 
 happier if his persecutor were in gaol. 
 
 " Do you think Jemal Khan will act? " he asked 
 Amba Pershad, "or is it a plot to frighten me?" 
 Inwardly he had little doubt of Jemal Khan's mur- 
 derous intentions. He remembered his ruthlessness 
 at Darband. 
 
 Amba Pershad picked up the fateful letter again 
 and examined it carefully. 
 
 " There are others besides Jemal Khan in it," he 
 said. " Mllecchla, Bharat Mata — these are Hindu 
 words. Not only have you offended the Khilafat 
 workers, but also the Hindus who are engaged in 
 the work of independence. Why did you join the 
 muhajarin, Banarsi Das? " 
 
 " I was persuaded there was call for sacrifice." 
 
 *' Why did you desert them? " 
 
 " I did not desert. It is baseless charge; they 
 sent me back." 
 
 " But if they accepted you, why should they send 
 you back? " 
 
THE PARIAH OF FORTUNE 191 
 
 " I was sick man." 
 
 " They say Bulbul-i-Sehwan nearly killed you, 
 Banarsi Das. Was that because you were sick? " 
 
 The words were as terrifying as the eye of the Shin- 
 wari. It was clear that even Amba Pershad believed 
 that he had betrayed his companions. 
 
 " He suspected me unjustly," Banarsi Das faltered, 
 unable to return the Brahmin's clear gaze. " Jemal 
 Khan is my enemy. He brought false charges against 
 me." 
 
 " It is not politic to be seen with the G.I.D., Banarsi 
 Das." 
 
 " I did not go to the G.I.D. They visited me when 
 I was sick in the hospital of the Gurkhas at Abbotta- 
 bad. They asked me questions, but I told them I was 
 not afraid of handcuffs or gaol. Even if they dragged 
 me to torture-chamber I would not become base 
 informer." 
 
 " Perhaps Jemal Khan heard you had been to 
 Mr. Dean." 
 
 " Mr. Amba Pershad " — Banarsi Das adopted a 
 tone of injured reproach — " Jemal Khan went to 
 Mr. Dean. All the muhajarin were summoned to 
 office of G.I.D. for surety of good conduct. You 
 address me hke judge or magistrate. But you know 
 my character. Is it possible you do not believe me? " 
 
 " Oh, I beUeve you, Banarsi Das. When you tell 
 me these things, what motive have I to doubt your 
 word? Besides, I have not charged you with any- 
 thing. No doubt you acted rightly. Young men 
 have to look after themselves when they are in 
 trouble." 
 
 Amba Pershad did not care whether he was innocent 
 or not. Banarsi Das saw this, but drew no comfort 
 from the indifference of his judge. It was enough that 
 
192 ABDICATION 
 
 Amba Pershad had judged him. If this Laodicean 
 was so easily convinced of his guilt, who would acquit 
 him? Not the fanatics. There was no escape from 
 the net in which his innocence was involved. 
 
 It was hopeless to argue or protest. No one would 
 believe him. Amba Pershad, wondering at his silence, 
 regarded him curiously, with more interest than pity. 
 He could not help noticing how drawn and wilted 
 Banarsi Das was looking. 
 
 "Are you sick, Banarsi Das? " he asked. "You 
 are going to vomit? I will send to Babuji for an 
 emetic. It is the chocolates. You should not swallow 
 the silver hning." 
 
 The pariah of Fortune was conscious of an abysmal 
 emptiness stretching from his throat to his stomach. 
 " If only my cloud," he reflected, " had a silver lining." 
 For it was not the integuments that disturbed Banarsi 
 Das' inside. It was a spiritual nausea, the ebbing of 
 all sustaining humours, loss of faith in the ultimate 
 repairing of the balance of justice, that was so cruelly 
 weighted against him. 
 
 Amba Pershad rose as if to summon the Babuji; 
 but Banarsi Das, as soon as his host was out of the 
 room, slipped into the verandah and made his way 
 through the painted gates, conscious that there was 
 no refuge for him behind them. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 CHATTER] I 
 
 Riley's visit to Barkatullah revealed this class of 
 extremist in a new light. Their consistency in abuse 
 and reiteration of catchwords damning to the English 
 had persuaded him that they believed the things they 
 said. And in a way they did believe them, because 
 they wanted to believe them. But it was largely a 
 convention, and there was not half so much bitterness 
 behind it as he had supposed. Afterwards he came 
 to know the editors of the Ittihad and the Kali Yuga. 
 The Kali Yiiga editor, he discovered, whose ravings 
 had made him despair of the civilising mission of the 
 British in India, was quite pleased to meet an English- 
 man and talk with him on equal terms, and as prone 
 to flatter, provided he was alone with him, as a sub- 
 ordinate in a Government office. " The pathetic thing 
 about Barkatullah," Riley said to Skene, " is that he is 
 afraid he is a worm, or that he may be taken for one, 
 and he wants to prove that he is. not. I discovered 
 that underneath all his assurance." 
 
 Cross-examined by Dean as to the impressions of his 
 visit, he described Barkatullah as "a crackbrained 
 fellow who goes in for believing he is straight, and runs 
 this streak of moral originality, like an acrobat, for all 
 he is worth. He has gained much credit for his antics. 
 I have an idea that in his efforts to twist or untwist 
 himself into directness he may without knowing it 
 
 O 193 
 
194 ABDICATION 
 
 torture himself into the genuine attitude." This was 
 before the Gazette impHcated Barkatullah in the Mograon 
 incident. Riley meant that the demagogue's powers of 
 self-deception were so great that in trying to square his 
 posture, or imposture, with fact, just to prove his 
 open-mindedness, it was quite possible he might be 
 useful to the other side. " I am going to get him to 
 publish some of my stuff in The Roshni," he said. But 
 Riley did not know Barkatullah. 
 
 The Extremist camp was not well represented in the 
 New Province. Barkatullah was regarded by the 
 habitues of the Thompsonpur Club as a typical 
 nationalist. Hill would have told you that Mr. 
 Montagu and Lord Chelmsford had been frightened and 
 bluffed into the reforms by men of his kidney, an 
 unscrupulous gang of tub-thumpers, who had their 
 own axes to grind, and did not represent any of the 
 true interests of the people. Parkinson, with his eye 
 on the same crowd, dismissed Indian Nationalism as a 
 movement to exploit the inarticulate masses for the 
 benefit of the intelligentsia. He could not see himself 
 a party to the substitution of an inept, self-seeking, 
 indigenous bureaucracy for an administration whose 
 efficiency and disinterestedness were proved. It was the 
 business of the Director of Information, he thought, 
 to explain popularly the relative value of the home- 
 bred and exotic systems ; he looked to the Educational 
 Service to indoctrinate the youth of the province with 
 the elementary ideas of citizenship. Skene, apparently, 
 with all his virtues, was not a good political propagan- 
 dist. That Civics text-book, for instance, to which 
 others beside Amba Pershad had lent a hand, had not 
 yet materialised. There was more hope in Farquhar, 
 the Principal of Thompsonpur College. Farquhar, 
 whose sympathy with the more docile of his students 
 
CHATTER JI 195 
 
 was well known, had no patience with the politically- 
 minded. On the other hand, he expected them to 
 listen patiently when he enlarged upon the benefits 
 that their countrymen owed to " the British connec- 
 tion." Directly, or indirectly, this was the theme of 
 half the essays he set them and of most of his obiter 
 dicta in the lecture-room and playing-fields. His 
 students in the meanwhile read the lives of Mazzini 
 and Garibaldi surreptitiously, though Farquhar would 
 have been unconscious of insincerity in endorsing the 
 hero-worship they felt for these liberators of another 
 age and clime. Had not the best historians subscribed 
 to their apotheosis ? He barely gave a thought to the 
 existence of Indian patriots like Mahatma Gandhi 
 or Arabindo Ghose, in whom the flame of nationalism 
 burnt with an equal brightness. 
 
 This want of sympathetic imagination was largely 
 the fault of the Indians themselves. Lip-service to 
 Gandhi was the password of the Extremists of the New 
 Province, but the spirit of the Mahatma did not dwell 
 in their councils. So when Gopalpura accepted 
 BarkatuUah as a leader and guide, Thompsonpur 
 remembered its responsibility to the masses. There 
 was no middle course for bureaucracy : it must either 
 *' infringe the rights of the citizen " or abdicate. The 
 picture of the editor of The Roshni as the standard- 
 bearer of Liberty was enough to put more liberal- 
 minded Anglo-Indians than Hill and Farquhar out of 
 sympathy with NationaHsm. 
 
 Riley had few politically-minded friends in Gopal- 
 pura, though he had many in other provinces. When 
 he felt the need of a corrective to BarkatuUah he would 
 pay a visit to Suresh Chandra Chatter ji. The long 
 implacable feud between the editors of The Gopalpura 
 Standard, " our contemporary of Hari Mandi," and 
 
196 ABDICATION 
 
 The Thompsonpur Gazette, " our contemporary of 
 Empress Road/' had degenerated into an armistice. 
 Riley, of course, made the first overtures. He felt 
 that he must get into personal touch with the best of 
 the other side if he were ever going to understand 
 them. 
 
 He called at the Standard office in Hari Mandi one 
 evening soon after he joined the Gazette, and found 
 Chatter ji sitting alone in a large room correcting 
 proofs. The Bengali was evidently surprised to see 
 him. Riley's predecessor would have thought it 
 damaging to his prestige to call on the editor of The 
 Standard. If he had wanted to see Chatter] i he would 
 have summoned him to Thompsonpur; Chatterji, of 
 course, would not have come, and they would have 
 been no nearer meeting than two Hindu Rajas between 
 whom visits are inhibited by incompatible family 
 traditions which prescribe the number of steps that 
 one may advance without loss of dignity towards the 
 other. Riley, however, walked straight in, ignoring 
 traditional barriers. 
 
 His first advance was a tactical blunder. Chatter ji's 
 nervousness was infectious; and Riley, who was only 
 nervous with very shy men, as a result of his embarrass- 
 ment made it appear that he had come on a matter of 
 business, to discuss joint action in bringing pressure to 
 bear on the firm of news-agents who monopolised the 
 railway bookstalls. 
 
 Chatterji nervously suggested that he should see 
 the Manager. 
 
 Riley agreed, but sat down on the chair opposite 
 Chatterji at the editorial table. 
 
 Chatterji was secure behind his defences. He would 
 not come out into the open. It was clear that if 
 there was to be any advance, every step would have to 
 
CHATTERJI 197 
 
 be made by Riley. This was just, for he had brought 
 the embarrassing encounter on himself. 
 
 To Riley's attempts to open conversation he replied 
 politely but monosyllabically. The Turkish Peace 
 Terms? Yes, he agreed with Riley in the hope that 
 the Sultan would be left in Constantinople. The 
 proposals for the new constituencies? He too was 
 opposed to the residential vote. Assent or dissent 
 recorded, the barrier of silence returned. 
 
 Riley began to fear that his visit was futile. 
 Chatter] i's reserve was instinctive, not deliberate. 
 The Bengali had no thought of adding to his embarrass- 
 ment by his silence, but he was evidently wondering 
 why he had come. Patronage, conciliation, a deal, 
 a stratagem, a refutation? Riley could imagine the 
 review of motives in his mind. He felt that he had 
 bungled his visit. There was only one way out, to 
 say now what he had meant to say at the start, that he 
 wanted to make Chatterji's acquaintance and had 
 dropped in to pay him a friendly call. This meant that 
 the bookstall business would have to be relegated to 
 its proper place; his futile diplomacy would be ex- 
 posed ; that is to say, if he was ever going to know 
 Chatter] i, he must be prepared to present himself as 
 a bigger fool than he already appeared. 
 
 As it was the two editors faced each other like a 
 couple of suspicious hedgehogs. It was a problem of 
 " Bristles down." Riley believed that his own had 
 no existence save in Chatter] i's imagination, whereas 
 Chatter]i's were merely defensive, created by the illusion. 
 
 '* I have been wanting to meet you for a long time," 
 he began with the schoolboy's simplicity that the 
 situation seemed to demand. 
 
 Chatterji murmured that he was very kind. 
 
 " My idea was that if we saw something of each other 
 
198 ABDICATION 
 
 occasionally and talked things over, a great deal of 
 unnecessary misunderstanding might be avoided. I 
 hope you won't think this an intrusion. We belong to 
 different camps, of course; but as editors of the two 
 leading journals in the province, it seems rather absurd 
 to presume hostility, when " 
 
 " Certainly," Ghatterji said, " certainly." I appre- 
 ciate you kind motive in coming to see me." 
 
 Ghatterji was responsive. So much was gained. 
 But in the embarrassed silence that followed Riley 
 felt that he had cast his last fly, and that he must 
 return spiritually supperless. Things might never 
 have got any further if he had not noticed a chessboard 
 on the divan by the window. 
 
 " Do you play chess? " he asked. 
 
 Ghatterji nodded. 
 
 " Will you have a game now? That is, if you are 
 not too busy." 
 
 Riley was aware that he was behaving like a school- 
 boy. Perhaps it was the best role into which he could 
 have fallen. The very simplicity of it was disarming. 
 Ghatterji by this time had probably desisted from the 
 review of his visitor's motives ; patronage, at any rate, 
 must have been excluded. 
 
 Chess rather bored Riley. While he appeared to be 
 deliberating moves he was absorbed in the personality 
 of his vis-a-vis. He saw a frail little man in a dhoti ; 
 bareheaded with bare calves. The casual Englishman 
 in the street would probably have looked first at the 
 calves, the white socks,, black shoes and incongruous 
 black suspenders, covering a portion of the nakedness 
 beneath the garment which is responsible, more than 
 anything else, for the stranger's lack of sympathy with 
 the Bengali. The middle of Ghatterji was unremark- 
 able. His round head, though small, was too big for 
 
CHATTERJI 199 
 
 the body, but the plainness of feature was reheved by 
 the eyes of the star-gazing ideaHst. Chatter ji always 
 looked upward with the rapt gaze of one communing 
 with the skies. Though he talked rapidly, when he 
 spoke at all, his tone was gentle save in moments of 
 indignation, when the explosive element in him was 
 subject to irruption. 
 
 Chatter ji did not explode once that afternoon. In 
 the game of chess Riley was ignominiously beaten. 
 " You must give me my revenge," he said. " I will 
 drop in again if I may." These chess encounters, 
 however, were soon abandoned. When the two met 
 again confidence was sufficiently established; they 
 discussed politics freely. The great advantage of 
 knowing Chatter ji was that he would tell you exactly 
 what he thought. His disinterestedness and sincerity 
 were above suspicion. He could be fair even to 
 Englishmen. He counted them no worse than other 
 imperialists, only he insisted that there could be no 
 cooperation with them until Indians had a determining 
 voice in the government of the country. The Reform 
 schemes might have converted him into a Moderate, 
 if they had not left the Central Government absolute. 
 The fact of subjection was a constant irritant. 
 Chatter ji was a kind of Indian Labouchere. In his 
 broad view of NationaUsm he was saner, fairer, and 
 more consistent than other Extremists, but the sense 
 of racial inequality stung him to fury. Individual 
 cases of injustice or arrogance, true or alleged, were 
 reported to him from every comer of India, and the 
 daily pillory in the Standard, with its restrained and 
 delicate irony, did more to exacerbate Indian feeling 
 against the Government than the ravings of the 
 irresponsible. Even Parkinson felt uncomfortable 
 under the lancet. 
 
200 ABDICATION 
 
 Riley listened sympathetically for the most part 
 when Chatterji expatiated on the racial question. He 
 had not forgotten that vision of the Hun policeman — 
 a nightmare in 1917 — at the corner of Piccadilly. He 
 even apologised for the Empire. We had tumbled 
 into it more by accident than design, he explained, at 
 a period when the spirit of evolution sanctioned 
 government by those who were most competent to 
 govern. He believed that in many instances a strong 
 case might be made out for annexation. He would 
 have been glad to serve under John Lawrence. Now 
 that the spirit of self-determination was in the air, we 
 were doing our best to uncoil. Mesopotamia was a 
 case in point. There the amputation was relatively 
 easy. In India we had to devise a slow and delicate 
 operation attended with certain grave risks. Of 
 the two consulting surgeons he was convinced that 
 the Moderate was the wiser. The Moderate and the 
 Extremist had the same interest in the patient; the 
 only difference was that the Moderate prescribed a 
 cure that at least deferred amputation. 
 
 " You will have to bear with us for a time," Riley 
 said. 
 
 Probably he was the only Englishman who could 
 have said this to Chatterji without the shadow of a 
 suspicion of interested motives. 
 
 " I have no wish to be any part of the white man's 
 burden," Chatterji said. *' Can't you understand our 
 feelings ? Wherever we go, enclosures, reserved spaces, 
 privileges " For Europeans only." You breathe our 
 air and complain that we taint it." 
 
 Riley protested. 
 
 Chatterji described how, only a week before, he had 
 been thrown out of a second-class railway compartment 
 by a British corporal. " The man had been drinking," 
 
CHATTERJI 201 
 
 he said, " but that did not make it any better. He 
 wanted the whole seat to He down on, and told me— 
 didn't ask me — to clear off to the other side. I told 
 him that I had as much right to the seat as he had. 
 Then he threatened me, and pointed to his rifle, 
 breathing in my face. ' I'll put a hole through you 
 if you give me any more trouble,' he said ; * you 
 Indians are getting a damned sight too uppish. What 
 you want is a little more Jallianwala Bagh.' " 
 
 Riley felt hot with rage. " What an infernal 
 blackguard," he said. " Didn't you make a row, 
 have the guard up, get the man's name ? " 
 
 ** I got into the next carriage," Chatterji said. 
 " The man's foul breath in my face disgusted me. The 
 smell of liquor made me feel sick." 
 
 Riley himself felt sick. " My God," he thought, 
 " Chatterji of all people." He understood why the 
 Bengali did not call the guard. There would be a 
 scene. Racial subjection would be personified in him. 
 Every Indian would be humiliated. That was why 
 there had been no reference to the incident in the 
 pillory in the Standard. 
 
 He could think of nothing to say to Chatterji. 
 Commiseration would be an insult. The scum of 
 Empire could not be excused or explained away. 
 There is no room in a country, he thought, for a 
 dominant and a subject race. Each is bad for the 
 other. One of the reasons why he had so little sympathy 
 with the Imperial idea, was that he believed Empires 
 were the nurseries of cads. No doubt the Romans in 
 Syria and Asia Minor were cads. He could imagine 
 the proconsular escort in Antioch jostling St. Paul into 
 the gutter, and threatening to put a hole through him 
 if he did not make way quickly enough. The Normans, 
 too, were bullying cads. Ivanhoe had been set as a 
 
202 ABDICATION 
 
 text-book by the University, and the youth of the New 
 Province went to bed sympathising with Cedric and 
 Gurth. They drew their own inferences; and so long 
 as Chatter ji's truculent corporal was at large, one 
 knew what these must be. 
 
 Reflections incommunicable to Chatterji. It was 
 not for Riley to offer him chapter and verse for his 
 indictment, still less to point to certain indigenous 
 products of the Imperial nursery. Barkatullah, for 
 instance, and the young men in the bazars of Gopalpura 
 who spat ostentatiously when unattended English 
 ladies passed by. The expectorating Indian could 
 not be dumped in the scale as a set-off against Chatter ji's 
 corporal. The Bengali would trace the genealogy of 
 both to the Imperial idea. Or as Riley would have 
 said, " It is not good for the upper-dog and the under- 
 dog to bark at escch other in the same yard. The 
 racial bacillus carries distemper." 
 
 It sometimes carries rabies. To Riley, as to 
 Chatterji, the corporal became an obsession for months. 
 Riley had a tremendous belief in the British soldier. 
 He had observed him in the war and was convinced 
 that he approximated more to the ideal of a gentleman 
 than the rank and file of any other race. One would 
 think that the " parcere subjectis et debellare superbos " 
 tag had been rubbed into him at school. He had 
 watched a sergeant in charge of a gang of Arab coolie 
 women repairing a bund on the Tigris; they laughed 
 and chattered as he directed them firmly but paternally, 
 encouraging the laggard with a tolerant " ither bint." 
 In the fire at Salonica the behaviour of the British 
 soldier had raised our prestige all over the Near East. 
 The Greek women, half naked and panic-stricken, 
 scurrying about with the valuables they had collected, 
 were the prey of the Levantine, but they knew they 
 
CHATTERJI 208 
 
 were safe when they saw the khaki-clad figure by the 
 salvage van. It was, " Here, you have dropped your 
 locket," or " Don't go off without your diamond 
 brooch," as they were lifted into the van and a cloth 
 thrown over them to hide their nakedness. It was the 
 same with the British sailor in the evacuation of 
 Odessa — the incentive of toll, loot, and brutality 
 apparently did not exist; and with the military 
 policeman at Constantinople, who, amidst flaunting 
 and truculence, pursued his way, cool, kindly, casual 
 and incorruptible as his brother in Piccadilly. In the 
 war the British soldier was the best diplomatist we had. 
 
 It was not a theme on which one could expatiate to 
 the Bengali. Chatterji would neither be soothed nor 
 convinced. The tradition would not hold in Gopalpura 
 so long as his corporal was at large. 
 
 " I wish we could trace the blackguard," Riley said. 
 "I'd put his CO. on to him. Half the trouble in India 
 is due to scum like that." 
 
 " Would you say," Chatterji asked him, " that racial 
 arrogance is confined to any particular class? " 
 
 " I sincerely hope so." 
 
 The Bengali smiled sadly. "It is not my experi- 
 ence," he said. 
 
 " Do you mean that our civilians and officers are 
 ill-mannered as a class? " 
 
 " I would not say that. Nevertheless Anglo- 
 Indians generally give me the impression that they 
 despise Indians." 
 
 Riley protested. 
 
 " Take the martial law in the Punjab," Chatterji 
 continued. " What of the officers who made Indians 
 salaam, and get off their horses, and crawl on their 
 bellies and salute the flag? Was not this deliberate 
 national humiliation ? " 
 
204 ABDICATION 
 
 Riley felt like a prisoner in the dock. 
 
 The Bengali pursued his advantage. " You can 
 imagine the Indian's feelings when General Dyer made 
 his shameless admissions before the Hunter Committee 
 at Lahore. How did his conduct appear to English- 
 men? At first the London papers affected horror at 
 the atrocities, but when they realised that they could 
 not rule India without frightfulness they changed their 
 tone and commended his resource. Government, it is 
 true, as a sop to Indian sentiment, stigmatised General 
 Dyer's action as ' an error of judgment ' ; liberal- 
 minded Englishmen, such as yourself, repudiated 
 him; but what was the judgment of the nation as a 
 whole ? They patted him on the back. Dyer is a bit 
 of a hero. They have put him on a pedestal. Sub- 
 scriptions are being raised for him in the newspapers; 
 sympathy has been expressed in both Houses of Parlia- 
 ment. Thousands of pounds have been contributed 
 by his grateful countrymen — as a reward for what? 
 The crawling order and the massacre of the Jallianwala 
 Bagh — that is, for keeping Indians in their place." 
 
 " No, it's not that. You don't understand," Riley 
 protested. 
 
 "The English ladies of Simla, I believe, are sub- 
 scribing their own token of appreciation. For the 
 Indians the Bagh is a national mausoleum. The 
 peasants carry away bits of earth as sacred emblems. 
 Sadhus sprinkle the dust in their hair. I think you 
 will admit that the Dyer case is the acid test of the 
 professed sympathy of the British public for the Indian 
 people. My countrymen have no longer any illusions 
 as to the Englishman's real feelings towards us. ' 
 
 " Let me explain," Riley broke in. "I am not 
 defending General Dyer. What I want you to under- 
 stand is that you have entirely misread the spirit of 
 
CHATTERJI 205 
 
 the class who are supporting him. It is not ungenerous 
 or anti-Indian. Their idea is that he has been thrown 
 over by Government to appease popular clamour. In 
 a way it is a test case. Can't you see their point of 
 view? Amritsar in a state of bloody revolution, 
 Englishmen murdered, unoffending English ladies 
 knocked on the head, the prospect of a general con- 
 flagration, ghastly reprisals everywhere, a repetition 
 of '57. They think Dyer saved the Punjab. The 
 perspective is all wrong, I admit, but there is nothing 
 anti-Indian about it." 
 
 Chatter ji, of course, was unconvinced. Riley, on 
 the other hand, saw the Indian interpretation of the 
 miserable affair more clearly than he had seen it before : 
 Dyer's service, a cold-blooded massacre followed by a 
 systematic humiliation of the people, both admittedly 
 deliberate; his reward, the applause of the majority of 
 his countrymen and a purse of thirty thousand pounds ; 
 the sequel, advice to India from an interested bureau- 
 cracy to forgive and forget, profuse assurances of 
 sympathy and goodwill. 
 
 " Apart from parliamentary grants," Chatter ji 
 observed, " I believe thirty thousand pounds is the 
 largest sum ever received by an Englishman for any 
 public service." It was his only comment on the 
 reward. 
 
 " You think we Indians are bitter," he added, 
 observing Riley's dejection. " But tell me. Can 
 there be any genuine fellowship or sympathy between 
 my countrymen and the English as a race until your 
 people show a change of heart ? " 
 
 Riley admitted that it was difficult. 
 
 *' And you ask why we are not satisfied," Ghatterji 
 said. Riley, as a matter of fact, had never asked any 
 question of the kind. He had refused to open a 
 
206 ABDICATION 
 
 subscription to the Dyer Fund in the Gazette, though 
 he had received angry letters from the proprietors on 
 the subject. They demanded explanations, and he 
 went over the ground once more in a leader, making 
 it quite clear why he refused to subscribe to a memorial 
 in sympathy with the author of Jallianwala Bagh. 
 
 Riley knew that Thompsonpur would not hold him 
 long. He felt that he had not done with Asia, but that 
 if he was to draw any happiness from the East he must 
 take it as he found it, and let the East take him as he 
 was. It was not his mission to " police people 
 efficaciously, more to their profit, most of all to his 
 own." He could not see himself whipping and wheed- 
 ling the Asiatic and forcing the exotic down his throat. 
 We had taught the Indian to desire independence; 
 we had started the Juggernaut car of liberty, and it 
 was a thankless business putting on the brake. As if 
 having taught them that we had something which 
 they had not got, we could explain to them that it 
 was not good for them to have it, or rather not yet 
 not good for them, as it might appear, because it was 
 inconvenient for us. Riley was as impatient for 
 Swaraj as a Nationalist. The earnest and orthodox 
 Progressive no doubt found comfort in the proclamation 
 of India's liberties, in " the advance along the road 
 leading by progressive stages to the realisation of 
 responsible self-government." But these sonorous 
 phrases always left Riley with an empty, uncomfortable 
 feeling inside ; they were as wearisome to him as to the 
 average Indian. He preferred Banarsi Das' uncon- 
 scious pessimism when with inflated chest he declaimed, 
 " The goal of Swaraj is certain, what to say inevitable. 
 We are progressing towards it with momentum of ball 
 rolling rapidly down-hill." 
 
 " But you must first learn to make yourselves fit." 
 
CHATTERJI 207 
 
 Thus the bureaucrat, with threats or cajolery, as the 
 occasion demanded. It was all very well for Parkin- 
 son, but Riley could not see himself in the pulpit 
 when this was the text. He was lacking in missionary 
 zeal and congenitally unfitted for the spade-work that 
 was needed if the Reforms were to be put through 
 without the shedding of blood. He recognised his 
 limitations. His sympathies were all with the primitive 
 East. The intelligentsia of India did not want him 
 and he was too sensitive to thrust himself in. He had 
 other ideas of his relations with Asiatics. The hfe of a 
 missionary on the frontier or among the aboriginal 
 Santhals or Sawarahs or Bhils rather appealed to him, 
 provided that one had no gospel to preach or designs 
 on their faith. If ever he hved among them it would 
 be as a healer. Riley understood the instinctive 
 distrust of the Asiatic for the European, especially in 
 Moslem countries, in Persia, Afghanistan and tribal 
 territory, where the idea was spreading that we were 
 the enemies of Islam. The accents of the Prophet 
 survived in the Bulbul-i-Sehwan when he denounced 
 the subverters of the Faith. " Oh, you who rely on 
 your apparent weapons ! Oh, you whose pride has 
 excelled that of Pharaoh ! Where now are the forces 
 of Pharaoh and Samar? You also shall pass over to 
 the other side from the cage of this world. In reaHty 
 all land and water, hill and dale and sky belong to that 
 real Master." And he called upon the faithful to rise 
 up and arm themselves against the infidel, that " they 
 might either sit together on the throne of kings or he 
 on the cold board of death. 
 
 Even in translation the eloquence survived; the 
 accents of sincerity rang true in every word. Dean 
 showed Riley a copy of the Wahabi's appeal to the 
 tribesmen, and he reflected upon the tragic muddle we 
 
208 ABDICATION 
 
 have made of our civilising mission to the East when 
 we have to open machine-gun fire on men who can 
 think and speak in accents hke these. In the school of 
 the Bulbul-i-Sehwan eloquence is drawn direct from 
 the Koran, as was the eloquence of old England from 
 the Bible. Words stand singly for an idea, and have 
 not become clotted in the mosaic of a formula, which 
 may mean anything, but which generally means 
 nothing at all. In Yagistan no one is afraid of the 
 bugbear of banahty, and the knowledge and faith that 
 is imparted fall as fresh as dew. Our ancestors were 
 masters of this inspired speech once, in generations 
 long gone by, but in the pursuit of Progress we have 
 lost it. Thus the kith and kin of the Shinwari or the 
 Bulbul-i-Sehwan, when they are drawn into our 
 schools on the frontier, learn to lisp in the text-book 
 English of Banarsi Das. 
 
 Riley pitied Skene and Farquhar and all education- 
 ists and civilians who slave to Europeanise the East. 
 The EngHshman whose gift he most envied in India 
 was a Civil surgeon in the Punjab — an eye-speciaHst, 
 who was reputed to cure on an average three hundred 
 cases of cataract in a week. He would like to wander 
 through Asia as a healer of the blind — a friendly 
 magician, accepted everywhere. He would carry 
 with him a serum for zenophobia; that was the best 
 passport for the East. No one could fear the gifts he 
 brought. The Kirghizes would drag him into their 
 felt kabitkas and weep when he departed, and implore 
 him to stay. The Lamas would drone prayers for him 
 in the gompas of Tibet. He would hunt deer on horse- 
 back with the Cambodian and play polo in the streets 
 of Hunza, a pagan among pagans, offering no spiritual 
 prescriptions or good advice. 
 
 His days on the Gazette were numbered and he looked 
 
CHATTERJI 209 
 
 forward to his imminent supersession with rehef. In 
 the meanwhile he derived a certain mischievous 
 satisfaction from steering his ship in hitherto uncharted 
 waters. The old school, of course, spoke of the vessel 
 as already on the rocks. But rocks or port — the 
 figurative terms were interchangeable — the thought 
 that warmed Riley was that he would soon be free. 
 He longed to be out of the hybrid muddle, in a land 
 where people were all of one complexion and the trees 
 shed their leaves at the same time, and one could enjoy 
 the sweet unpoHtical smell of meadows, cut hay, 
 sheep's parsley and meadowsweet by the river, thyme 
 and marjoram on the downs. Whenever he shut his 
 eyes he saw the Enghsh river, as in Mesopotamia 
 when he wooed sleep. It was a particular stretch of 
 river. It began with the mill-race. There was a 
 delicious damp smell of flour and hot waterweed. At 
 first he was carried swiftly down-stream between 
 islands of rushes, the dark tapering kind, past the 
 promontory ash to the deep pool. He knew that if he 
 failed to fix his mind on the picture he would wake up. 
 He could remember the grouping of the dark alder 
 bushes where t*he little black whirligigs darted out of 
 the shadow into the light. It was generally spring, 
 cuckoo-flower and ragged robin, whole fields of ragged 
 robin, and the marsh violet, that dream flower, glimmer- 
 ing palely at the entrance to the dykes. If it was 
 evening a snipe would be drumming, veering and 
 diving over its nest. The reed- warbler builds in the 
 rushes by the submerged willow; the parents are 
 chattering and complaining a hundred yards down- 
 stream. Vain subterfuge; one knows that the nest is 
 in the tall dark rushes, not in the sedge. Look over 
 the boat's edge and watch the barred perch nosing 
 through the weeds. One may land if one likes, so 
 p 
 
210 ABDICATION 
 
 long as one keeps to the river and doesn't miss a reach. 
 If one skips one has to start again. In the coppice the 
 elder blossom is coming out, a different smell in flower 
 and leaves ; there is a glimmer of yellow from the iris 
 in the rushes. You can walk up that leaning pollard 
 willow, soft and rotten underfoot; the smell of the 
 goatsucker moth caterpillar is hke decaying wood. 
 One year a turtle-dove built in the hawthorn underneath, 
 and would let you survey her speckled coat as she sat 
 rapt and brooding and would not budge. A helpless 
 young jay has tumbled out of its nest in the ash, and is 
 vibrating between the bark of the tree and a twig, 
 wingless and tailless. It is a season of helpless young 
 things. The small white hand of a mole appears out 
 
 of the earth But that was far away from the 
 
 river. You have skipped. So back again to the mill. 
 
 Or it is a month earlier when the marsh-marigold 
 and the blackthorn open the year, or a month later 
 when the water-lily stem has burrowed up to the 
 surface and unfolds its crinkled leaf, a flaming month 
 of purple loosestrife, hemp agrimony and willow-herb, 
 meadowsweet and the smeU of hay. 
 
 Or if it were not the English river it would be a 
 Himalayan scene, a forest track in cedam cover, or an 
 orchard under the mountains, pink almond blossom, 
 white snow, and blue sky. There was a low spur of 
 the Pir Panjal on which he had basked one morning 
 in April gazing across the plain of Kashmir. It was in 
 1914 when he was on the way to Gilgit. He 
 remembered three enormous hawthorn trees in full 
 blossom, reeking in the sun like an English hedgerow 
 in May. Lambs were bleating, cuckoos singing; 
 the thyme was warm and fragrant on the bank. It 
 was before the snows had melted, and the irises were 
 all out, the small purple kind, growing in thick clusters 
 
CHATTER JI 211 
 
 in the meadows below, so close together that they 
 looked Uke a blue crop; they flooded the graveyards 
 outside the villages, and made flower-beds of the flat 
 grass-grown roofs of the houses. It was like a home 
 spring. A golden oriole was singing in a chemar tree 
 in short catches like a thrush in June. His tent WcLs 
 pitched by a round pond covered with duckweed and 
 bordered with young willows. On the far side of it 
 lay a bright yellow mustard field, sweet-scented and 
 humming with insects; and beyond over the tops of 
 cedars he looked down on the broad valley, radiant 
 with the variety of the soil, the red of the karewas, the 
 brown and mauve land turned up by the plough, the 
 green cornfields, the yellow scarves of mustard, and the 
 Jhelum serpentining through it all and losing itself in 
 the Woolar Lake under the shadow of Haramokh. He 
 could see the dark gorge in the hills through which he 
 would pass to Gilgit and the Pamirs, and farther east 
 by the hill named Ahtang another gap whence by the 
 Sind valley and the Zoji-la the road wound to Leh and 
 Western Tibet. His mind was full of unpoUtical 
 pilgrimages, and into the paradise of his dreams, 
 whether in mountain soHtudes or by the EngUsh river, 
 no bore, brown or white, ever entered. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE MAHATMA COMES 
 I 
 
 It was April again. The grasshopper once more 
 was a burden. Riley was sitting alone in the library 
 of the club, idly turning over the pages of Blackwood 
 with that agreeable feeling one has in the booking- 
 office of a railway station on the first morning of a 
 holiday. The table of contents on the familiar brown 
 cover offered him a mental ticket to Nigeria, Mount 
 Olympus or Szechuan. He had not decided on his 
 travelling companion when he heard the swing door 
 open and, looking up, saw Parkinson. 
 
 He became wrapt in " Maga " again, feeling that he 
 would be left behind if he did not make up his mind 
 as to which of these guides could translate him the 
 more rapidly, and the farther away, from Thompsonpur. 
 Olympus somehow was eliminated. The mountain had 
 come to Muhammad. Szechuan ? 
 
 But the Chief Secretary had marked him. Thomp- 
 sonpur reclaimed him in its most immanent and 
 menacing form. Parkinson was rarely seen at the 
 club; still more rarely did he seek out the editor of 
 the Gazette. This evening, however, he bore down on 
 Riley with ominous deliberation. Riley, without look- 
 ing up, was aware of him solemnly adjusting his 
 angularities to the folds of the lounge chair next his 
 
 212 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 213 
 
 own; he prepared to receive a lecture on the poUtical 
 situation; " Maga " sHpped from his knees on to the 
 floor ; he knew that The Hihhert Journal which Parkin- 
 son had picked up from the magazine table was merely 
 part of his academic insignia. 
 
 " You were quite right about Barkatullah," the Chief 
 Secretary began. " He was entirely responsible for 
 the Mograon disturbance." 
 
 " I hear you are going to arrest him." 
 
 '* Barkatullah, certainly, and, I hope, others. Our 
 hands have been tied, as you know, by the Government 
 of India. But I think it will be admitted now that the 
 agitators have abused the amnesty. The Extremists 
 have been given their chance. That is to say, they 
 have had rope enough to hang themselves on. Con- 
 ciliation, Licence, Repression. The usual sequel." 
 
 " Like the old three- volume novel." 
 
 " Exactly. And the Home Government continue to 
 be surprised at the denouement." 
 
 Riley agreed that they had brought it on themselves. 
 
 " We are sending a detachment of troops to 
 Mograon," Parkinson continued. " The situation there 
 is serious. India at the present moment is suffering 
 from a form of insanity like a sick person with whom 
 one cannot reason. You know Le Bon's Group 
 Psychology ? " 
 
 Riley nodded. 
 
 " Well, the people of this province, and more par- 
 ticularly the people of the Punjab, afford an illustration 
 of the effects of the group idea. In dealing with them 
 the same treatment is needed as in the case of mental 
 derangement in an individual. We must try suggestion 
 first; if suggestion is not effective, we must resort to 
 shock." 
 
 Riley looked a little puzzled. 
 
214 ABDICATION 
 
 " In the case of mental derangement, the apphcation 
 of a shock is often very effective." Parkinson leant 
 forward in his chair and applied to an invisible barrier 
 a rapid, energetic push with his open palms. It was 
 the only gesture Riley had ever seen him make. 
 
 Parkinson, regaining the stiff, erect posture which 
 was habitual with him, eyed Riley as a professor of 
 science might eye his students after demonstrating 
 the efhcacy of some chemical experiment. There was 
 nothing dead about his eye. It was authoritative, a 
 stationary light, never ranging, but fixed and set. 
 Riley was aware of the impotence of any illumination 
 from outside to bear upon it. 
 
 " If they don't come to their senses," the Chief 
 Secretary continued, " we shall have to apply the 
 shock treatment, and if that does not bring them to 
 reason " 
 
 The consequences were too inconvenient to pursue, 
 and quite outside the province of files. The soldier- 
 man no doubt would deal with them drastically in his 
 own way. Parkinson, in the meanwhile, returned to 
 the logic and ethics of the case, burying his head in 
 the desert sands of official illusion. " The Indians," 
 he said, " are very mistaken in thinking that the 
 Reforms and the coming elections constitute a material 
 step in progress definitely attained. This misconcep- 
 tion has been largely due to the weakness and vacilla- 
 tion of Government. It should have been made clear 
 to them at the beginning that the Reforms were 
 merely tentative, an experiment to try their fitness. 
 If they prove themselves fit, then well and good. If 
 they fail in the test, they can no more expect any 
 reward as a result of it than an unsuccessful candidate 
 at an examination. They will have to learn to make 
 themselves fit." 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 215 
 
 Parkinson was evidently impressed with the patience 
 of a long-suffering Government. 
 
 " If they fail in the first trial," he added, " the test 
 will be repeated. We are pledged to guide their 
 advance upon the road leading by gradual steps to 
 responsible self-government . ' ' 
 
 " Poor old Parkinson," Riley reflected, observing the 
 Chief Secretary's look of worried pomp. " He hasn't 
 the ghost of an idea that he is up against flesh and 
 blood." 
 
 " All this agitation is fictitious," the Chief Secretary 
 continued. " The Khilafat, for instance " 
 
 " I am afraid the Muhammadans are genuinely sore 
 about the Khilafat," Riley interrupted. 
 
 " A trumped-up grievance. You are probably as 
 conversant with the political origin of the movement 
 as I am." 
 
 " Yes. I can see how they have been worked up 
 to it. The political exploitation of the sentiment has 
 been very clever, but the sentiment has always been 
 there." 
 
 " Read Syid Ahmed. The theory that the Muham- 
 madan ruler of Turkey is the spiritual head of Indian 
 Moslems is a creation of the late nineteenth century. 
 You won't find any recognition of the Sultan earlier 
 than that. The modem idea has been instilled into 
 Indian Muhammadans by the Lucknow wirepullers. 
 It's a purely political move to embarrass Government." 
 
 Parkinson drew a hard-and-fast line between politics 
 and religion and expected the Asiatic to observe it. 
 It was no good explaining things to the Chief Secretary. 
 He had read many books and was well versed in Moslem 
 lore. He would have argued with Moulvies and Ulemas 
 about the interpretation of a text in the hadis. As 
 for the Khilafat, if it was objected that an erudite 
 
216 ABDICATION 
 
 Muhammadan was likely to know more about his own 
 religion than an interested unbeliever, Parkinson would 
 have stiffened the official case by extracts from Syid 
 Ahmed, whom he quoted copiously. " It is the height 
 of ignorance and folly to associate Islam with such 
 affairs as pertain to this world, and are regulated by 
 material cause and are always fluctuating." Or, " To 
 style the victory of a Moslem ruler as the triumph of 
 Islam is to betray utter ignorance of the dignity of 
 Islam." Or, " Islam has achieved a victory that is 
 real and everlasting; it can never suffer a defeat." 
 
 Unfortunately the gospel of Syid Ahmed was a dead 
 letter in India. Parkinson would have been more in 
 touch with current Moslem sentiment if he had listened 
 to the brothers Muhammad and Shaukat Ali. Indian 
 Moslems were clay in their hands, and they maintained 
 that Islam would be divested of all its dignity and 
 glamour and prestige by the fall of its spiritual head. 
 Turkey was the last stronghold. Every other Moslem 
 kingdom had been swallowed up by the rapacious 
 Christian Powers. 
 
 " Don't you see? " Riley said, searching in vain for 
 an imaginative flaw in the Chief Secretary's logical 
 armour. " If Turkey goes they have nothing left to 
 hang on to. Imagine the whole of Christendom over- 
 run by the Jews — synagogues, old clo' shops, Yiddish 
 schools, one small peninsula left unsemitic. You'd 
 fight for it like a Crusader, even though you happened 
 to be an agnostic." 
 
 Parkinson eyed Riley as he might a mental patient 
 affected by the group idea. His case was the more 
 serious in that the derangement was aggravated by 
 habitual attachment to the wrong group. 
 
 " I hear Gandhi is coming to Gopalpura," he said. 
 " Can you explain his connection with the Khilafat ? 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 217 
 
 I think you said that Gandhi was straight; but if 
 anything shows the man up it is his aUiance with the 
 Muhammadans for the support of Turkey. A Hindu 
 who calls for sacrifices on behalf of the Khilafat must 
 be an arch-humbug." 
 
 " Gandhi does not pretend to be interested in the 
 Turk," Riley explained. " He has stated quite frankly 
 that by helping the Muhammadans of India at a critical 
 moment in their history he wants to buy their friend- 
 ship. So long as he believes in their wrongs it is a 
 perfectly straight deal. The Hindu-Moslem entente is 
 the first essential in Indian Nationalism." 
 
 " India is not a nation," Parkinson remarked. 
 
 " Convenient catchword," Riley thought. He had 
 his own answer to it and other parrot cries of the 
 bureaucrat, but the approach of a club servant with a 
 message for the Chief Secretary averted unprofitable 
 discussion. Parkinson rose stiffly from his chair and 
 opened the door into the verandah. Riley saw a 
 Babu attended by a scarlet-coated chaprassi with a 
 tray of files. The red slips, he knew, meant " Urgent." 
 Parkinson would be immersed in them till midnight. 
 
 He picked up " Maga " again and returned to the 
 other Olympus. Greece. Why not Greece on the way 
 home? He remembered Christmas at Delphi, the 
 mulberry and plane in golden leaf, a fine crest to the 
 grey Parian marble of the treasuries and temples. 
 Late December, and the scarlet anemone and cyclamen 
 glowed under the sheltered rock. Eternal summer. 
 One looked down on the purple olive-groves and across 
 the rich veined terraces, variegated like a patchwork 
 quilt. How jolly the Greek girls had looked shaking 
 down the olives with their long sticks and loading the 
 panniers on their donkeys. Bells on their donkeys. 
 Blue-shuttered windows. A glimpse of the gulf like 
 
218 ABDICATION 
 
 a little still lake in the hills. The Phaedriades, twin 
 shining rocks, like the wings of victory uplifted. They 
 must have appeared to the pilgrims all of a sudden, 
 evoking rapture, as the cave of Amarnath or the 
 temple of Jawala Mukhi where fire springs from the 
 earth. 
 
 Then at night lost in the silent olive-groves. Not 
 a sound save the hooting of the owls. Thoughts of 
 Socrates and Minerva. 
 
 Gandhi was like Socrates, dedicated to the pursuit 
 of truth. He had the gentle obstinacy of the seer, 
 unarmed but unafraid, courting martyrdom. There 
 was a great deal in Gandhi that reminded Riley of 
 Christ, virility and meekness, flinging out the money- 
 changers, turning the other cheek. Naturally Parkin- 
 son would not believe in Gandhi. The Mahatma had 
 got Government between his teeth and was worrying 
 it as a terrier a rag ball. Selfless. So was Parkinson 
 for that matter. Riley could picture him at the 
 moment up to his eyes in files. At seven o'clock 
 Mrs. Parkinson would see that the bearer took him 
 in his iced barley-water. A devoted public servant. 
 Parkinson and his school were as meritorious in their 
 dedication to an ideal as a self-denying religious order. 
 " I have been unjust to the old boy," Riley thought. 
 " There is not a grain of selfishness in him. He'd 
 work himself to the bone for his rotten old machine 
 without a thought of anything but the job. He has 
 given his life to it. Thompsonpur has sucked up his 
 youth like a sponge." 
 
 Riley wished that he could segregate Parkinson and 
 Chatter ji on a desert island for a month; not that 
 either of them would convince the other, but it would 
 do Parkinson good. Parkinson was dead, ossified. 
 
 " Files are the filrn between the bureaucratic vision 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 219 
 
 and reality/' he moralised, and his thoughts turned to 
 the Himalayan Olympus where he had spent a month's 
 leave in the war, to young men in immaculate Jodhpur 
 suits with gardenias in their button-holes, budding 
 Parkinsons, content with the image of things, statistics, 
 minutes, reports, cut off from the substance, cushioned 
 and secure, far removed from life and its rough impacts, 
 satisfied with themselves so long as they could make 
 out a good case on paper. He thought of Simla as 
 the last stronghold of the bureaucratic system and the 
 academic manner. 
 
 " Bound with red tape about the feet of God." 
 Here Riley remembered that he was " a fouler of his 
 own nest." Old Hobbs and Bnice-Swinnerton, his 
 accusers, had at least moulded men. They could point 
 to their Awans and Tiwanas. Riley was not sure that 
 he had done anything to justify himself since the war. 
 He had even doubts about the usefulness of the Gazette. 
 He must get away and do something, build a clean 
 nest for himself somewhere else. 
 
 These melancholy reflections were disturbed by a 
 commotion in the bar. He heard Skene's loud rumble 
 of a laugh and Hill's voice raised in challenging asser- 
 tion. He remembered there had been a meeting to 
 discuss a proposed East and West club, a hobby of 
 the Governor's, which could never be got to amble. 
 The committee had evidently returned. 
 
 Riley pushed open the door and saw Skene in the 
 bar streaming with perspiration. It was a stifling 
 evening and he had walked all the way from the 
 Secretariat. Even the collar of the precise Hill was 
 disarranged and his bald turnip head seemed to be 
 smoking at the top. 
 
 " What about the mixed club? " Riley asked Skene. 
 " Has anything been done ? " 
 
220 ABDICATION 
 
 " We have not bridged the gulf yet, young Riley." 
 No one but Skene called him '' young Riley " now. 
 
 " Been bridging the gulf ? " Hill said. " Skene looks 
 as if he had fallen in." 
 
 "What are the obstacles?" Wace-HoUand asked 
 Skene. 
 
 " Chiefly funds. And there is no site. Nobody 
 seems keen on it." 
 
 " There must be something jointly to do," Farquhar 
 suggested. " Games " 
 
 " We know all the Indians who play games," Skene 
 objected. " It's the others we want to get hold of." 
 
 " You wouldn't get them to come," Hill said. 
 " We bore them just as much as they bore us." 
 
 " Personally," Farquhar said, " I think a mixed club 
 would do more harm than good. There's the election 
 difficulty. Imagine the rumpus there would be if 
 anyone were black-balled. It would become a racial 
 question. There must always be more outside than 
 in. The excluded outnumber the exclusive, ten enemies 
 to one friend. Besides, who'd go to it if there were no 
 games ? It might catch on for a week or two, but one 
 can't keep an artificial show like that going for long. 
 One's dog-tired after the day's work, and wants to 
 haver with one's own people." 
 
 '* I would go to it for one," Bolton said. " I 
 would make a point of dropping in at least twice a 
 week." 
 
 Riley smiled. He could imagine the conscientious 
 Bolton's entrance. You would see the gulf by the 
 way he stepped over it as he came in at the door. 
 The Indians would hate his patronising manner. 
 
 " It seems that it's a cantilever bridge," Wace- 
 Holland remarked, " and the two ends don't meet." 
 
 " Why can't the University run a union, like Oxford 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 221 
 
 or Cambridge? " Bolton suggested. " Or a Literary 
 and Debating Society? " 
 
 " I remember a garden-party at Flagstaff House,*' 
 the General said, " at which a number of Indians were 
 present. Two or three of them asked me to secure 
 promotion for their relatives. Another solicited a 
 chit." 
 
 " The whole question of social relations hinges on 
 the Indians' attitude to the zenana," Bolton observed. 
 " Let them learn to emancipate their women. Until 
 they do so, they cannot expect to be admitted to our 
 social system on terms of equality. Of course, when 
 our Aryan brother is prepared to bring his woman-folk 
 to the club " 
 
 Skene chuckled and glanced at Riley. He had a 
 vision of Bolton's and Mrs. Bolton's change of heart, 
 their smiling countenances at the invasion of the 
 zenana. Whenever he had heard the vexed question 
 discussed, somebody had raised the purdah objection. 
 It was the seal of exclusiveness, and put the Indian 
 entirely in the wrong. Bolton was glad that he had 
 remembered the argument from the point of view of 
 the zenana. He had done his imperial best and it 
 absolved him from failure. He would emphasise the 
 point when explaining the difficulties of the committee 
 to Sir Aubrey Hilton. 
 
 " Did you get any practical suggestions from the 
 Indian Members of the committee ? " the General asked 
 Skene. 
 
 Skene smiled sadly. " The most practical comment 
 came from an Indian," he said. ** We had been dis- 
 cussing ways and means for at least an hour, sub- 
 scriptions, site, donations, library, cards, refreshments, 
 election of members, and all that, when a barrister — 
 what was his name, Farquhar? " 
 
222 ABDICATION 
 
 " Umrao Bahadur." 
 
 " Umrao Bahadur, That's it. Umrao Bahadur, 
 who had not spoken a word all this time, remarked 
 drily, ' Of course, if any of us Indians were to join the 
 club, we'd be boycotted.' That put the lid on it." 
 
 Hill emitted a hen-like chuckle. 
 
 " Seems pretty hopeless," the General said. " The 
 Governor will be disappointed." 
 
 " There is one very simple way out," Riley observed, 
 " and that is to admit Indians into the Thompsonpur 
 Club." 
 
 "Why not? Why not?" Wace-HoUand agreed 
 sympathetically. 
 
 HlU muzzled himself out of respect for the General. 
 The suggestion was a pure Rileyism, of course, per- 
 verse, revolutionary, springing out of the spirit of 
 contradiction. 
 
 " Have you met Greening? " Wace-Holland asked 
 Riley. " I was talking to him yesterday. A good 
 fellow. Very sound on certain points, though inclined 
 to be eccentric. A gentleman, by the way." 
 
 Riley had not yet met the Labour M.P. He was 
 dining with him, he said, and on Monday he was going 
 to show him round the canal colony. 
 
 Bolton looked pained. The worst possible cicerone, 
 he thought. 
 
 " He was talking to me about the Reforms," the 
 General continued. " What he had to say seemed to 
 me very much to the point. In the war I always 
 found the best improvised officers were schoolmasters, 
 solicitors, stockbrokers. They had the habit of making 
 up their mind. The worst were clerks and subordinates, 
 who had always been told what to do. Better wrong 
 decisions than none at all. So far I am with Montagu. 
 Without training in responsibility a people must be 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 223 
 
 hopeless. What can you expect of the product of 
 irresponsible generations ? By our system the Indian 
 is, and must be, an adept at evading an issue." 
 
 " I met Greening once on board ship, sir," Farquhar 
 volunteered. " People seemed to think him a very 
 decent fellow, only, of course, quite mad." 
 
 " A labour capitalist," Hill exclaimed scornfully. 
 
 Wace-HoUand ignored these interruptions. " Green- 
 ing was very bitter about Dyer," he said. " By the 
 way, Riley, I am glad you have not opened a Dyer 
 subscription in the Gazette." 
 
 This from the General warmed Riley. Hill and 
 Bolton retired, disgusted, to the reading-room. Wace- 
 Holland an anti-Dyerite ! And there was every chance 
 of them offering him the Northern Command. ** I hear 
 Riley is going to get the boot," Hill said to Bolton. 
 " I wonder he has not the decency to resign." 
 
 Half an hour later Hill looked in at the bar and saw 
 Skene and Riley hobnobbing alone. 
 
 *' Have you heard, Riley?" he called across the 
 room. " Your unscrupulous saint is coming to Gopal- 
 pura. They are going to make O'Dwyer Viceroy, and 
 Dyer Commander-in-Chief. Put that in your pipe and 
 smoke it." 
 
 " Back to the Stone Age," Skene shouted after him. 
 " Where's my axe? " 
 
 Going home Riley felt sorry for Parkinson. The 
 Chief Secretary reminded him of " old Wilks " who 
 used to take the Upper Fifth in Greek and Roman 
 History at school. What would " old Wilks " have 
 said if, at the end of his service, the Head had told 
 him to stand down and let the boys take the class in 
 turn ? Yet this was what had happened to Parkinson. 
 In his eyes the Reforms were sentimentality run mad, 
 responsibility without control, meddling without force. 
 
224 ABDICATION 
 
 He was quite right to arrest Barkatullah. BarkatuUah 
 was for upsetting the apple-cart while Government were 
 handing over the reins, or, as Parkinson would have 
 said, " flinging them over the horses' heads." 
 
 At limch the next day the Chief Secretary commended 
 the tone of the leading article in the Gazette. 
 
 " The difficulty before Government," he read, " is 
 to retain control during the period of transition. There 
 can be no control where concession is born of intimida- 
 tion. Once it is realised that the political classes can 
 force the hand of Government if only they raise sufficient 
 outcry, Government has ceased to govern. On the 
 other hand, the politically-minded are so sensitive, 
 suspicious, and resentful of checks, that firmness in 
 adhering to necessary, but unpopular, measures may 
 lead to a state of things in which armed repression is 
 inevitable." 
 
 Parkinson felt that his harangue on the political 
 situation had borne fruit, he saw a potential convert in 
 Riley. But Gopalpura shook its head. " Mr. Riley 
 is becoming reactionary," it said. " The bureaucracy 
 has captured the Gazette." 
 
 II 
 
 On the day that Gandhi came to Gopalpura, Riley 
 gave Banarsi Das a holiday. " You have not seen 
 Mahatma Gandhi? " he said. "Then you ought to 
 see him for the good of your soul. Take a day off. 
 Gopal Chand will do your work." 
 
 Riley had observed Banarsi Das' despondency. He 
 had discussed him with Skene, who had so far betrayed 
 the young man's confidences as to reveal his discovery 
 that he was a pariah of Fortune, and that the National- 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 225 
 
 ists were looking at him with the black eye. Banarsi 
 Das seemed to have lost all interest in his work, but 
 he had not so far unburdened his soul to the editor of 
 the Gazette, 
 
 " I would write to Mahatma Gandhi if I were you/' 
 Riley added, " and ask him to see you. He is the 
 busiest man in India. Yet he finds time to see every- 
 body. He is a healer, remember, in every sense of the 
 word." 
 
 Banarsi Das silently regarded the floor, wondering 
 if Riley had diagnosed his spiritual wound. 
 
 " You are troubled about something? " Riley asked. 
 
 " Sir," Banarsi Das said, no doubt with reminiscences 
 of Amba Pershad and undigested " integuments," 
 " I have a cloud to my silver lining." 
 
 " I understand," Riley said sympathetically. " It's 
 your position on the Gazette. You are afraid your 
 friends will think that you are not a good NationaHst. 
 Take my advice, Banarsi Das. Consult the Oracle, 
 and do exactly what he tells you." 
 
 Banarsi Das, released from office, found himself 
 wandering in the streets of Gopalpura long before the 
 Mahatma was due. Gandhi was motoring from 
 Gandeshwar, it was said, with one or two of his disciples ; 
 but it would be difficult for any vehicle to make a way 
 through the packed mob. The city was a hive. 
 Women and children crowded the balconies and roofs ; 
 behind every lattice some veil was moving. Peasants 
 had come in from the villages all round, carrying long 
 staves and bundles of sugar-cane, their women behind 
 them in full accordion-pleated skirts, with babies under 
 their arms, hungry for a glimpse of the Mahatma, 
 praying that they might be allowed to approach and 
 touch his feet. To the peasants Gandhi was a tradition, 
 a legend. They would go a long way to see a holy man. 
 
 
226 ABDICATION 
 
 They knew not where he would lead them, or whence 
 he had come ; they only knew that he was reputed to 
 be a saint, an avatar, a manifestation of the divine 
 energy, witnessed once in a thousand years, and that 
 wherever he passed, the country was awakened. 
 " Caravans marched at the sound of his bell and 
 followed the voice of his pipe." 
 
 Banarsi Das, leaning against the coping of the well 
 in the square outside Amir Khan's mosque, heard the 
 peasants discussing him. 
 
 " They say no sword can cut his body. He can 
 receive no wound. Bullets aimed at him fall harm- 
 lessly from his coat." 
 
 " Neither can fire touch him ; he can receive no burn." 
 
 " The Sircar cannot touch him. Magistrates are 
 afraid. He has come to overthrow the Government." 
 
 " Will he be king? " a small boy asked. 
 
 "He is a holy man and does not wish to be king. 
 Kings will obey him. Rajas will visit him with bare 
 feet." 
 
 " Has he not forbidden the use of arms? " 
 
 " Ah, Arjun-ji." 
 
 " How then will he overthrow the Sircar? " 
 
 "He is a holy man and can work miracles. The 
 mantra ^ of the Guru is more powerful than bullets 
 or swords." 
 
 " Barkatullah says arms will be used, but not yet." 
 
 Banarsi Das recognised the voice of a citizen. 
 
 " May he not be too holy," an old Jat said, " to 
 look after our canal water when the British have gone." 
 
 " The British are already shutting off the canal 
 water," the citizen said. " They are angry with the 
 zemindars. Clearly you are not from Mograon." 
 
 Here the high throaty voice of a Babu punctuated 
 1 Spell. 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 227 
 
 this simple talk, rolling his vowels and mouthing and 
 emphasising every other syllable as if the alien tongue 
 were honey on his lips. 
 
 " Of ca-arse, after all, no doubt, if there is boycott 
 of English cloth, the vested interests of the weavers 
 will be con-sid-er-ably am-el-ior-ated ; but then, on 
 the other hand, of ca-arse, after all, no doubt, the 
 vested interests of the merchants will be con-sid-er-ably 
 det-er-ior-ated." 
 
 It was a piece-cloth merchant sententiously review- 
 ing the economic aspects of the Mahatma's visit. 
 Banarsi Das could not see him; he was jammed too 
 tightly against the wall. Anyhow, it was not a 
 moment to weigh or appraise the mandates of the 
 Mahatma. Distant shouts told of his approach. 
 The pariah of Fortune began to despair of the healing 
 vision. As the crowd thickened, he could not see the 
 road; the broad backs of the zemindars interposed a 
 screen. Soon he found himself squeezed into the 
 angle between the well and the chahoiUra ^ of the 
 peepul-tree that gave the only shade in the square. 
 With a pious effort he clambered up on to the coping 
 of the well, and swinging himself on to a branch of 
 the peepul, wriggled along it until his back rested 
 against the trunk. The tree was already burdened 
 with figures hke a vulture-haunted banyan in a 
 burning ghat. He looked down on to the signboard 
 of The Roshni. BarkatuUah, he knew, would be with 
 Gandhi. The din was growing louder, as the crowd 
 was being pressed into the square along the tributary 
 streets and alleys. The Mahatma was now evidently 
 in the main thoroughfare of the bazar leading to 
 Amir Khan's mosque. Slowly moving flags and 
 
 ^ The platform of stone or concrete, built as a resting-place 
 under the shade of a tree. 
 
228 ABDICATION 
 
 pennons marked his progress. The cries of the pro- 
 cession, " Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai/' " Hindu-Mussal- 
 man-ki-jai," were caught up and echoed in the square. 
 At last the car came into sight; it was packed with 
 the Mahatma's disciples, fezes and white Gandhi caps ; 
 the turban of the driver made a purple spot as he 
 steered desperately; the engine had been stopped; 
 the crowd pushed at the back and sides. 
 
 Outside the steps of Amir Khan's mosque the pro- 
 cession halted. Banarsi Das recognised BarkatuUah 
 in the car, even in the presence of the Saint trying to 
 look important, aping affinity, his reverence suUied 
 by the gestures of the showman, trying to look as if 
 it were he who had brought Gandhi to Gopalpura. 
 
 The Mahatma sat cross-legged on the folded hood 
 of the motor Hke a diminutive Buddha, still as a 
 graven image, gentleness personified. The people 
 bowed low before him, folding their hands. His 
 physical frailty intensified their love. Flowers were 
 showered on him, jasmine and marigold smothered the 
 car like the sweepings of a temple, but he refused to 
 be garlanded. The crowd surged towards the motor, 
 but only the strong could cleave a way through and 
 touch the Mahatma's feet. For a long time no voice 
 could be heard above the babel. The car was marooned. 
 Mats had been spread for the Mahatma and his dis- 
 ciples on the steps of the mosque, but it seemed there 
 was no way of reaching them except by walking on 
 the heads of the crowd. The Khilafat volunteers, 
 who had been appointed to act the part of police, 
 and to form a ring round Gandhi to save him from 
 being crushed by the mob, had become an undis- 
 ciplined, disorganised rabble. Instead of keeping the 
 crowd back they pressed in with it and aggravated 
 the ecstatic chaos. 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 229 
 
 Suddenly the babel was stilled. Gandhi, by simply 
 raising his hand, had produced silence in the square. 
 He was standing in the motor, and wherever his frail 
 form could be seen the uproar died away like a rustle 
 in the trees. 
 
 " Ah ! " the Jat said. " Behold Krishna-ji. It is a 
 miracle. Surely he is an avatar.'* 
 
 Gandhi rebuked Gopalpura. He told them that he 
 did not care for shouts of Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai or 
 Hindu-Mussalman-ki-jai; he wanted something prac- 
 tical from them, if they had any regard for him. It 
 was not the hour for noise or boasting. So far they 
 had httle to their credit to make them feel proud. 
 Thousands flocked to the Congress pandal and made 
 resolutions, but how many acted up to them when 
 they came away? The words "sacrifice" and 
 " discipline " were on every lip, but where was the 
 spirit of sacrifice and discipline? They were unable 
 even to conduct gatherings in a disciplined manner. 
 Patience, humility, self-restraint, sohd and silent 
 self-sacrifice were needed, if they were to attain their 
 liberties. If they possessed these quahties; if they 
 were true to themselves, they could obtain Swaraj 
 in a year. 
 
 But not by violence. Gandhi preached the shame- 
 fulness and wickedness of violence, the impotence of 
 violence in a cause where the struggle is for a spiritual 
 end. Were Indians to become no better than Dyers 
 or O'Dwyers ? Non-violence was a creed with him — 
 he would not injure an Enghshman to obtain a king- 
 dom; with others it was a policy. But, creed or 
 policy, " Swaraj depends on our ability to control all 
 the forces of violence on our side." 
 
 The Mahatma then explained that non-cooperation 
 was a religious and purifying movement, neither 
 
230 ABDICATION 
 
 punitive nor vindictive, nor based on malice, ill-will 
 or hatred; it was a struggle between religion and 
 irreligion, between the powers of light and the powers 
 of darkness. Every day it was strengthening the 
 nation, which still had the capacity of preserving its 
 honour, its manhood. The path was so easy from 
 helplessness and servitude to self-respect. It was a 
 matter of shame that a hundred thousand foreigners 
 should rule and exploit three hundred and fifteen 
 million Indians, emasculating them, indoctrinating 
 them with the spirit of materialism and a sense of 
 their racial unfitness. India for the last century and 
 a half had been suffering a species of hypnotism. 
 Absolute equahty, absolute freedom was the birth- 
 right of every people, but Indians are denied freedom, 
 equality and even justice. They had bound them- 
 selves with their own chains; it was easy to cast 
 them off. No Government could exist a day without 
 the cooperation of the people. " Dissociate your- 
 selves from the satanic Administration and you will 
 bring it to its knees. You will not have to lift a 
 finger, let alone a stick or sword. 
 
 " Only there is no room for expediency, or fear, or 
 half -measures. Cut yourself off from the evil in 
 disregard of all consequences. Have faith in a good 
 deed, that it will produce a good result. Be prepared 
 to lose all and you will gain everything. And after all 
 what is the cost? A little sacrifice, a httle suffering, 
 a little discipline. And you have it in your power to 
 paralyse the Government that flouts your wishes, 
 insults your honour, tramples on your manhood. 
 You may become a people again. Without an act 
 or thought of violence, you may be the authors 
 of the most peaceful revolution the world has ever 
 seen." 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 281 
 
 Banarsi Das in his tree could hear every word. All 
 his old aspirations revived. The Mahatma spoke very 
 gently, very persuasively; none who listened to him 
 could doubt his detachment from anger, or fear, or 
 hatred, or pride. What was the secret of his mag- 
 netism ? There was no hint of forcefulness or command 
 in his diminutive person. It was not so much a 
 person as an embodied type, that essence of selfless 
 spirituahty that is personified in the Buddha, of which 
 Banarsi Das had read in the sacred books of the East. 
 When the Mahatma raised his hand Banarsi Das was 
 full of pride. The Vedas, the Bhagavat Gita were no 
 legends. Here was the living incarnation of the spirit 
 that had made his country great. All who heard him 
 were affected. Not one of them would have hesitated 
 in the presence of the Mahatma to commit himself 
 to any sacrifice. Amba Pershad would have given 
 away his motor-car. Banarsi Das would have under- 
 taken to beard the Shinwari; he would have started 
 walking from Haripur to Amb; he would have over- 
 come the terrors of the Gave of Adullam. Even 
 Barkatullah was uphfted, and arrogated to himself the 
 mantle of the Saint. Henceforth he would think and 
 talk hke Gandhi. He saw himself panting in the 
 pursuit of truth. He too was a spiritual leader, one 
 to be worshipped by the herd, an illuminator. His 
 eye caught the signboard of The Roshni. Piety had 
 doubled his sales. He began to calculate. Had he 
 been uncompromising enough? What if he were 
 
 even bolder? To increase the candle-power ? 
 
 But with the risk of extinction ? His mind 
 
 became a balance sheet as he repeated, " How can the 
 shades of darkness resist the flood of light? " 
 
 When the Mahatma ceased, the cries of salutation 
 were raised again, " Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai and 
 
232 ABDICATION 
 
 Hindu-Mussalman-ki-jai," and among them Banarsi 
 Das could distinguish an occasional tribute to some 
 local leader. The " Gandhi-ki-jai, BarkatuUah-ki-jai," 
 on the hps of certain lusty Mussalmans shocked him 
 as the association of the Saint with the charlatan 
 had shocked Riley. Did Gandhi see through Barka- 
 tuUah? he wondered. No doubt the Mahatma saw 
 through him. Probably he had a great compassion 
 for the editor of The Roshni, and pitied him as he 
 pitied Dyer and O'Dwyer and other agents of the 
 Spirit of Evil. For he was tolerant and wise hke all 
 inspired reformers. And he could read the mind of 
 the masses. He understood this hunger for dedica- 
 tion, and knew exactly what it was worth. He did 
 not disdain it. Even though it were merely an appe- 
 tite unsatisfied, was not that something gained for 
 the cause? And were not the streets of Gopalpura 
 paved with pious resolutions? 
 
 The Mahatma descended from the car and passed 
 through the chastened crowd to the steps of the 
 mosque. He had invested the undisciplined volun- 
 teers with a momentary authority. Banarsi Das 
 could no longer hear his words, but he clung to his 
 perch on the tree and watched the people come and 
 go. He saw a group of Muhammadans bring up a 
 garlanded cow. It was a gift to the sabha, and it 
 meant that henceforth they would sacrifice sheep and 
 goats instead of kine. 
 
 " Ah," it was cried. " He has made the mosque 
 and the temple one. Allah and Brahm are one name.'' 
 
 Then he saw a sweeper-woman approach the Ma- 
 hatma. His disciples tried to keep her back, but he 
 beckoned to her with a humble brotherly gesture. 
 " Let her come," he called to his disciples, and he 
 made room for her by his side. 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 288 
 
 The multitude were impressed. Banarsi Das heard 
 a voice above him in the tree : 
 
 " Look at this Prophet with clothes not worth five 
 annas in all on him and with the top button of his 
 shirt gone, before whom the followers of all religions 
 in India bow low." 
 
 And a student below him quoted Iqbal : 
 
 " He slept on a mat of rushes; but the crown of 
 the Ghosroes was under his people's feet." 
 
 And so all day the Mahatma inspired the citizens 
 of Gopalpura with his faith. It was a triumph of 
 the spirit; he was charged with a vitahty drawn 
 from his devotion. When Riley saw him he looked 
 weak and frail and tired, as if a woman might have 
 lifted him up in her arms like a child and put him to 
 bed. When Banarsi Das saw his car drawn in triumph 
 into the square by Amir Khan's mosque, he had 
 motored a hundred and twenty miles from Gandesh- 
 war, where he had held a meeting in the early morning 
 after a night without sleep. At every station his 
 adorers had collected in crowds on the platform to 
 greet him. It was explained to them that he was 
 exhausted and needed rest, but they were deaf to 
 these appeals. They cHmbed on to the footboard of 
 his carriage to have a peep at the Mahatma. Many 
 of them had walked twenty miles just for a glimpse. 
 When the Ughts were put out by his disciples, they 
 brought in lanterns; when the wooden shutters of 
 the windows were let down, they tried to pull them up 
 from outside. It was useless to feign sleep. Night 
 and day he was the centre of an ecstatic crowd, deafened 
 by their acclamations. 
 
 In the afternoon he saw the students of the city in 
 the courtyard of the Hindu Ashram. He advised 
 them to shun Government employment and to follow 
 
234 ABDICATION 
 
 some trade, to lead independent lives, to wear home- 
 spun cloth only, and to speak the truth. In the 
 evening the ladies of the city visited him and found 
 him sitting at the spinning-wheel and working with 
 his own hands. He exhorted them to go back to the 
 simple household ways and spin their own cloth. 
 " Weave for your brother a new warm coat, a coat 
 not sewn with foreign thread, or by machine, but 
 with country thread by hand. Thus the six crores 
 of rupees that are spent every year on foreign cloth 
 will be saved for the poor. In the old days of the 
 spinning-wheel India was prosperous, but since the 
 people have taken to European fineries the country 
 has become degenerate, and imam and dharm ^ are 
 fast disappearing." 
 
 The ladies agreed. They tore off their ornaments 
 and gave them to him for the Swaraj fund ; but when 
 they got back to their homes they shook their heads 
 and talked over his advice as a piece of gossip. They 
 toiled not, neither did they spin; nevertheless they 
 spoke of the Mahatma as an avatar. 
 
 When the ladies left him he received visitors, by or 
 without appointment — journalists, politicians, workers, 
 wire-pullers, worldly and religious men. At night 
 somehow he got through his exacting correspondence, 
 the editing of his weekly journal, his address for the 
 next day. He was two and a half days in Gopalpura 
 and he saw everyone : he saw Riley ; he saw Sir 
 Antony Greening; he saw Banarsi Das. 
 
 Banarsi Das apparently had been advised to stay 
 on the Gazette. Possibly it was because his English 
 employer was approved. Riley discovered that the 
 Mahatma rather Hked Englishmen. The thing that 
 separated Gandhi more than anything else from other 
 1 Religion. 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 285 
 
 political leaders was that he had the courage to stand 
 up in a great assembly and utter unpalatable truths. 
 The herd followed him because they recognised that 
 he was without moral or physical fear. Riley's 
 sympathies were first drawn to Gandhi by the chival- 
 rous way he had protected Mrs. Besant from the pack. 
 " How English ! " he thought. But if he had put that 
 in the Gazette, how the Indians would have raged ! 
 Gandhi, however, could admire Englishmen. In one 
 of his speeches he reminded his countrymen that they 
 were offering battle to a nation which is " saturated 
 with the spirit of sacrifice whenever the occasion rises." 
 He asked them to go through the sacrifice that " the 
 men, women, and brave lads of England went through." 
 They believed him now when he told them that 
 Government was material and godless and that it was 
 sinful to associate with it, because a few months earlier, 
 when he still had faith in the Reforms, he had dared 
 to say creditable things about it. 
 
 " I do not blame the British," Gandhi said. " If 
 we were weak in numbers as they are, we too would 
 perhaps have resorted to the same methods as they are 
 now employing. Terrorism and deception are weapons 
 not of the strong, but of the weak. The British are 
 weak in numbers; we are weak in spite of numbers. 
 The result is that each is dragging the other down." 
 
 This was Riley's argument : " We are neither of 
 us good for the other." Gandhi's picture of India, 
 the slave of a handful of British " who dare not trust 
 us with arms and only feel safe under the shelter of 
 their forts and guns," had more than a shadow of truth 
 in it. " The system is vile," the Mahatma said. 
 " The Englishman is contaminated by it, a slave of 
 the system; we too are degraded by it." He was 
 going to fight it by soul-force, that is to say, by non- 
 
236 ABDICATION 
 
 cooperation. ** The moment the Englishmen feel that 
 although they are in India in a hopeless minority, 
 their lives are protected against harm, not because of 
 the matchless weapons of destruction which are at 
 their disposal, but because Indians refuse to take the 
 lives even of those whom they may consider to be 
 utterly in the wrong, that moment will see a trans- 
 formation in the EngHsh nature in its relation to India, 
 and that moment will also be the moment when all 
 the destructive cutlery that is to be had in India will 
 begin to rust." That is Gandhiism in a nutshell, and 
 the Mahatma in his infinite optimism believed that it 
 would be digested in Gopalpura and understood in 
 Thompsonpur. 
 
 The difficult thing to beHeve was that the Apostle of 
 Peace was innocent of the incitement to carnage, that 
 he did not foresee the inevitable harvest he was sowing. 
 
 " A too sophisticated saint, to my mind," was Skene's 
 judgment; " too much of the Jesuit about him." 
 
 Skene was surprised when he heard that Banarsi 
 Das had seen Gandhi and was to continue his work 
 on the Gazette, Banarsi Das wouldn't disobey the 
 Mahatma; his decision therefore impHed the ponti- 
 fical sanction of Riley. But Riley was soon to hand 
 over. Where would Banarsi Das stand then? 
 
 The proprietors of the Gazette had dispensed with 
 Riley's services. " The Dyer Fund was the last 
 straw," Riley explained to Skene. " In a day or two 
 I am a free man." 
 
 '* And only the other day the Standard called you a 
 reactionary," Skene said. " I should have thought 
 that would have whitewashed you in the eyes of the 
 proprietors." 
 
 Riley smiled. " Poor old proprietors ! Between 
 them they haven't got the imagination of a louse." 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 287 
 
 " Anyhow you've had a good run for your money, 
 young Riley ; I believe you have convinced Thompson- 
 pur that Gandhi is straight. Hill, of course, still 
 speaks of him as * Riley's unscrupulous saint.' " 
 
 " I am glad I stuck to the ship as long as I did," 
 Riley said. " Yes, Gandhi's all right. He reminds 
 me of Newman's definition of a gentleman." 
 
 "Modest? " 
 
 " Modest and unself -conscious. He denies his saint- 
 liness. 'I am of the earth, earthy/ he says, ' a 
 common garden man.' " 
 
 " His saintliness is getting a little inconvenient," 
 Skene said. " Barkatullah and his crew take cover 
 under it and flourish hke the green bay-tree. Why 
 doesn't he cast them out? " 
 
 " Gandhi would never cast anyone out. He has 
 too much faith in his gospel of purification." 
 
 " Have you discovered what places him among the 
 Prophets?" 
 
 " I have been trying to think it out," Riley said. 
 " Sincerity. Single-mindedness. I was going to say 
 simpUcity, but it is not that. In some ways he is as 
 wise as Macchiavelli. I think his secret is that he is a 
 visionary void of self-deception; Gandhi does not 
 compromise, — at least, not with his own conscience. 
 You will find him consistent all through. Compare 
 him with the average Godfearing Briton. The EngHsh- 
 man loves sport but he is tender-hearted. So he says : 
 * The fox likes being hunted. Have you ever seen 
 old Reynard loping along behind a hedge with his 
 tongue in his cheek when he has given the hounds the 
 sUp? Such a sly old boy, and so game, so British.' " 
 
 Skene laughed. " Of course," he said, taking up 
 the parable, " the Indians can't run their own show. 
 All this agitation is fictitious. They reaUy want us 
 
238 ABDICATION 
 
 here. They know perfectly well that if we went, 
 somebody else would come. Besides, they would 
 begin cutting each other's throats to-morrow." 
 
 " The trout has a hard mouth," Riley continued. 
 " The hook doesn't hurt him. The worm is an adven- 
 turous beast. We will give him the opportunity to 
 explore the trout's stomach." 
 
 " Don't give yourself away, old man. Where did 
 you fish for trout with a worm? " Skene exploded. 
 
 " But to Gandhi the trout and the worm and the 
 fisherman are one. He says it is sinful to take life, 
 and he abstains. He would not be an accomplice in 
 the death of a fly, much less of an Englishman." 
 
 " Perhaps he does not want to take life," Skene said. 
 
 " There's more in it than that. The Englishman 
 can't develop Gandhi's detachment, because he has a 
 too interested sense of proportion." 
 
 " Do you think Indians are more disinterested than 
 we are? " 
 
 " No, I wouldn't say that. Not in the aggregate. 
 I don't forget Barkatullah at the other end of the 
 scale." 
 
 " At the top of the scale, then? " 
 
 " What I mean is," Riley explained, " all the world's 
 seers and prophets come out of the East. It is easier 
 to be born undetached in Asia." 
 
 " Because there is less to be attached to? " 
 
 " Possibly." 
 
 " Our greater materialism," Skene said, " only 
 means that we are more vital, more dynamic. We 
 are more everything. If it came to the measure of 
 spirituality, you would probably find we were more 
 spiritual too, certainly more moral." 
 
 " I beheve Gandhi would admit that." 
 
 " I have been reading his writings," Skene observed. 
 
THE MAHATMA COMES 239 
 
 *' He has modelled himself on the Gospels and Tolstoy. 
 Tolstoy after all was half an Oriental." 
 
 " I was discussing him with Parkinson," Riley said. 
 " The Secretariat would discount his spirituaHty on 
 the grounds that he is a politician." 
 
 " Of course he is a politician. Was there ever a 
 Prophet who was not a pohtician ? Take Muhammad, 
 the most astute politician " 
 
 " That was Gandhi's reply to the scoffers. ' Jesus/ 
 he said, * in my humble opinion, was a prince among 
 politicians. He did render unto Caesar the things 
 that were Caesar's. The politics of his time consisted 
 in securing the welfare of the people by teaching 
 them not to be seduced by the trinkets of the priests 
 and Pharisees.' Gandhi argues that the system of 
 Government is so devised as to affect every depart- 
 ment of the national life. ' If, therefore, we want to 
 conserve the welfare of the nation, we must religiously 
 interest ourselves in the doings of the governors and 
 exert a moral influence on them by insisting on them 
 obeying the laws of moraUty.' " 
 
 '* In other words, he hopes to civilise us," Skene 
 said, smiling. 
 
 " Gandhi's mission is to conquer the greed and cruelty 
 of the West by soul force," Riley explained; "while 
 ours, if we are to believe our politicians, is to devote 
 ourselves to the elevation of India's backward millions." 
 
 " And the conscientious bureaucrat is ground 
 between the upper and the nether millstone." 
 
 " Imagine a Martian come to judgment," Riley 
 suggested; "some supremely wise, detached being 
 with no bias from mundane experience. Which would 
 he believe? " 
 
 " I think his sympathies would be with the Ma- 
 hatma," Skene said. 
 
240 ABDICATION 
 
 " And so are mine. I am tired of our battle to 
 elevate one another. We've got the machine-guns 
 and the police and the Acts of Parliament, but I would 
 give Gandhi a free field. To tell you the truth, I 
 don't believe Gopalpura is any the happier for 
 
 Thompsonpur " Then, after a pause, "I'm 
 
 packing, old Skene. I wasn't built to civilise any- 
 body. Get eight months' furlough and come with 
 me to Tibet." 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 
 
 Months after Riley's disappearance from Thompson- 
 pur, Barkatullah was still at large. His arrest had 
 been imminent at the time of Gandhi's visit, but 
 conciliatory counsels had prevailed, though one looked 
 in vain for the pacific influence of the Mahatma in the 
 columns of the Roshni. The public utterances of the 
 editor were, if anything, more inflammatory than his 
 Press. Egan, Riley's successor, made a point of 
 collecting samples of the venom for the delectation of 
 readers of the Gazette. He thought it politic to convict 
 the local Extremist out of his own mouth. Barkatullah, 
 of course, was an easy prey, and deserved all he got ; 
 only he did not stop at Barkatullah. Any Indian 
 who did not see what Government was doing for him, 
 or what a hopeless mess he would make of his own 
 affairs, if left to himself, was fair game. Egan could 
 not understand why the Nationalist did not love the 
 hand that chastened him. " Sua si bona norint " was his 
 constant theme ; and his editorial notes had a racial bite 
 in them which did not help much towards the entente. 
 
 Nearly every day he crossed swords with Chatterji. 
 Anglo-India chuckled, but did not see the Standard, 
 which generally had the best of the bout. Old Hobbs 
 and Bruce-Swinnerton nodded their heads in approval. 
 " Egan let 'em have it," in the manner of Willsdon in 
 the good old days ; he didn't mince matters and wasn't 
 R 241 
 
242 ABDICATION 
 
 afraid of calling a spade a spade ; not like that finicking 
 young Riley, who thought Gandhi a saint, and couldn't 
 see a point on his own side. A six-of-one-and-half-a- 
 dozen-of-the-other sort of fellow. Seemed to think 
 the junior partner had as much right to run the firm 
 as the boss. Egan had his head screwed on the right 
 way. Unfortunately he joined the Gazette too late to 
 open a subscription for General Dyer. 
 
 On the other hand, it had to be admitted that socially 
 Egan was " not quite." 
 
 Riley had disappeared and was almost forgotten in 
 Thompsonpur. Dean and Wace-Holland sometimes 
 asked Skene for news of him at the club. Skene was 
 not very communicative. He told them that Riley 
 was in Calcutta working in some hospital. " He didn't 
 say much about himself, but it looks as if he were 
 going to practise out here." 
 
 " Riley a quack ! " Hill chuckled at this new 
 proof of " young Riley's " dementedness. " I always 
 said he was mad. If he wants to take up medicine, 
 why can't he go to a London hospital? " 
 
 It was generally agreed that Riley, as a journalist, 
 had missed his vocation. 
 
 Wace-Holland put the case for his young friend 
 sympathetically. " He saw too many sides of a case. 
 That's a vice in journalism, and in politics kills propa- 
 ganda, though I rather like him for it. He was an 
 extraordinarily gallant soldier." 
 
 Farquhar demurred that he had always found Riley 
 a little too intense. 
 
 '* He did not bear fools gladly," Wace-Holland 
 reflected. 
 
 Riley was missed in the Gazette, Egan was a very 
 different type of Englishman. The tight-drawn lines 
 about the new editor's mouth and the hair brushed 
 
 i 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 243 
 
 straight up above his forehead frightened Banarsi 
 Das at their first encounter. The penthouse brow 
 with no reassuring smile beneath it, dismissed at once 
 the hope of a genial employer. And Banarsi Das' 
 instinct was true. Egan talked to him as if he had 
 been an automatic type-writing machine. He missed 
 Riley's early morning smile which greeted him as a 
 trusted coadjutor, one of the team. Egan was un- 
 responsive, never commendatory, though forbearing 
 and considerate out of principle. He tore up most of 
 Banarsi Das' manuscripts and never explained why. 
 The comforting thing about Riley was that he often 
 seemed more pleased with a report that he did not 
 use than with one which he published. He seemed 
 interested in anything that was at the back of Banarsi 
 Das' mind, and in leisure moments would draw him 
 out and even commend his figures of speech. Banarsi 
 Das deplored the gulf between literature and journalism 
 when he was told that his language was too flowery for 
 the Gazette. 
 
 Riley would never have insisted upon Banarsi Das 
 going to hear BarkatuUah, The possibility of having 
 to attend a political meeting was a nightmare to Banarsi 
 Das. Jemal Khan and his associates might be there; 
 a note-book in anyone's hands would be provocative, 
 in Banarsi Das' it would be damning. A G.I.D. man 
 who had been discovered with one at a Khilafat 
 meeting, had been lynched. So far Banarsi Das had 
 escaped. Egan had made him a kind of understudy 
 to the kindly, competent matter-of-fact Gopal Chand, 
 who attended all the big political meetings and reported 
 speeches in the vernacular. This left Banarsi Das 
 very little to do, until Egan, who was dissatisfied with 
 his proof-reading, insisted that he should go every- 
 where with Gopal Chand. " The youth is a shirker," 
 
244 ABDICATION 
 
 he explained to Skene when he asked how his protege 
 was getting on; "he doesn't pull his weight. He 
 ought to be grateful for the apprenticeship." 
 
 Banarsi Das, of course, ought to have been grateful, 
 but he was not, and when Egan curtly refused to listen 
 to his pleadings he sat down and " penned " a porten- 
 tous resignation. It was in twentj^-nine paragraphs, 
 modelled on the style of Dr. Samuel Johnson, balanced 
 and antithetical. The figurative embroidery derived 
 from a later date provided the solace of a narcotic 
 during the period of composition. One of the reasons 
 why he found it difficult to continue his " admittedly 
 learned and ostentatiously laborious " — Banarsi Das 
 meant that it ought to be clear that he had taken 
 pains — " lucubrations in the Gazette, was the sad, not 
 to say reactionary and degenerate, tone of that journal, 
 which was now hastening with rapidity of meteor — 
 or was it meteorological rapidity? — to its political 
 nadir." In the end it was delicately insinuated that 
 the junior vernacular reporter scorned to dip his pen 
 " in the ink of anti-climax." 
 
 He showed the finished document to Gopal Ghand. 
 
 *' But what are you going to do, Banarsi Das, if you 
 leave the Gazette} " Gopal Ghand asked him. 
 
 Banarsi Das had nothing to do. He was again adrift. 
 
 " Tear it up, Banarsi Das. Gome with me to the 
 meetings. You will see, you will be all right." 
 
 After a httle persuasion Banarsi Das said that he 
 would sleep on the horns of the dilemma. He slept 
 on them many nights. The resignation was not 
 submitted to Mr. Egan ; neither was it destroyed. 
 
 When it was announced that a monster Khilafat 
 meeting was to be held at Gopalpura after Friday 
 prayers, Banarsi Das was in great distress. On the 
 Wednesday night he was impaled first on one horn, 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 245 
 
 then on the other, of the bovine beast of his imaginings. 
 Sleep was impossible. On Thursday morning he was 
 perilously near sending in the resignation. But Gopal 
 Chand again intervened. " Come with me," he said, 
 " I will get Tilok Ram and Har Prasad to join us.' 
 
 " Tilok Ram is a very corpulent gentleman, no 
 doubt," Banarsi Das remarked after a little reflection. 
 
 Gopal Chand looked puzzled He did not under- 
 stand that Banarsi Das was calculating the precise 
 amount of cover afforded by Tilok Ram's person. He 
 was thinking of the niche between the coping of the 
 wall and the chahontra of the peepul-tree into which he 
 had been squeezed by the pious crowd when he waited 
 for the Mahatma. Barkatullah was to address the 
 multitude from the steps of Amir Khan's mosque. 
 
 Banarsi Das explained to Gopal Chand the strategical 
 advantages of the position. " If we went very early," 
 he said, " and Tilok Ram stood in front of me, and 
 you and Har Prasad on each side of Tilok Ram, I 
 might escape notice." 
 
 The meeting was to be held after prayers in the 
 mosque, but Banarsi Das would have had his friends in 
 position at dawn. Gopal Chand good-naturedly de- 
 murred. " Tilok Ram would not come," he said. 
 " Let us go at ten, Banarsi Das, you will meet nobody 
 on the road at that time." And Banarsi Das, reflecting 
 that Tilok Ram, so far as his purpose was served, was 
 worth the other two, agreed. 
 
 They were all three late of course, and on the way 
 to the city Banarsi Das was afraid that his coign of 
 vantage would be taken. When they reached the 
 square, however, they found it filling; the crowd was 
 still fluid and the niche accessible. It was a very 
 different crowd to that which had awaited Gandhi. 
 Banarsi Das^^saw a frankified youth, who ignorantly 
 
246 ABDICATION 
 
 flaunted an English tie and collar, rough-handled and 
 stripped of them. He was glad of the obesity and 
 opacity of Tilok Ram. The feeling grew on him that 
 he was trapped and surrounded by his enemies, who 
 must in the end spy him out. He asked himself 
 miserably why he had come. The square with all its 
 unhappy associations, overlooked by the windows of 
 the Roshni ofhce, and shadowed by the minarets of the 
 mosque under which he had been inducted by the 
 Khilafat workers, had become a place of expiation. 
 It was a stage on which he was a hunted victim. Why 
 had he returned to it against his warning instincts? 
 Crouching behind Tilok Ram, he recalled earlier fore- 
 bodings until he was convinced that his return was 
 ordained. The stage had been designed for him from 
 the beginning and was prepared for his last exit. This 
 was the work of the supreme architect, the arbiter of 
 being and not being. The square was haunted now 
 by the spectres of the Shinwari and Jemal Khan. 
 He saw himself dangling by a rope from the peepul- 
 tree. The rope was cut and his body fell into the well. 
 
 The first speaker had come out of the mosque on 
 to the steps. There was a stir in the square, a rustle 
 of subdued excitement. " Who is it ? " Banarsi Das 
 asked Gopal Chand. He knew it was not BarkatuUah — 
 Barkatullah was a practised demagogue, master of the 
 homely phrase " one of the people." He would be 
 greeted with noisy irreverent shouts, the applause of a 
 mob with an appetite for sensation. This awed 
 murmur in the square was evoked by reverence. 
 
 " Who is it ? " Banarsi Das asked Gopal Chand again. 
 
 Gopal Chand bent down over him and whispered, 
 " It is Bulbul." 
 
 Banarsi Das shrank deeper into his niche. The clear 
 bell-like voice of the Wahabi rang out in the square. 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 247 
 
 " Muhammad is the preface to the book of the 
 Universe ; all the world are slaves and he is the master. 
 Moslems, break the chain of bondage that is round your 
 weak necks with the strength of your religion and the 
 sharp edge of your faith, so that you may become 
 masters of the rights of your existence. Were you not 
 once conquerors? Your holy places are now in the 
 hands of Christians and Jews. Your Khalifa is an 
 outcast, a captive among the unbelievers, brought to 
 shame. Crosses are hung in the mosques and Christ 
 and Mary are being worshipped in them. The Moslems 
 of the whole world are part of the same body. If 
 any part is hurt all feel it. Islam is in danger; its 
 garden is being despoiled. Moslems awake from your 
 sleep. Hold fast to the rope of Allah unitedly. Other- 
 wise how can you stand unashamed before God ? 
 
 " Are you content with your bondage and humility? 
 Have you submitted your necks forever to the yoke of 
 the infidel ? Fie upon you if you help not the cause of 
 the Khilafat. Is it that you hope that by becoming 
 Christians you may be spared? Have you fear that 
 otherwise you will be disgraced and brought low? 
 Shame has already fallen upon you. Raise up your 
 heads and cast aside impotence, or in a year or two you 
 will be compelled to believe in the Trinity. So far you 
 have been spared on account of one Islamic Power — 
 the Turkish Empire — but the Khilafat which you 
 helped to destroy cannot help you now. It was the 
 Muhammadans alone who, siding with the British, 
 were shameless enough to fire upon the mausoleum of 
 the Prophet. The wrath of God is the result of this. 
 You are doomed. The only atonement you can make 
 is to pray for God's forgiveness. When the conscious- 
 ness of shame returns to your hearts, ye may once more 
 be conquerors. 
 
248 ABDICATION 
 
 " In the Jallianwala Bagh the white-skinned devils 
 bayoneted newly-born children. Remember how your 
 mothers and sisters were dishonoured, unveiled and 
 spat upon ; how your brothers were made to crawl on 
 their beUies in the dust. Will any of you uphold 
 their honour? '' 
 
 Here Jemal Khan, who was sitting under the steps 
 of the mosque, leapt up and declared that he was ready 
 for immediate sacrifice. Niaz Ali and Zahur Muham- 
 mad, his companions in the Hijrat, sprang up at his 
 side. A student of Thompsonpur College threw off 
 his English cap and swore that he would join the Army 
 of God. 
 
 The Bulbul called for all caps of foreign make, 
 badges of servitude, to be surrendered. At least fifty 
 were thrown to him. These were collected in a heap 
 and burnt. Frenzied shouts acclaimed the blaze. As 
 the flame died away, the Bulbul lifted his hand and 
 stayed the clamour. There was something godhke in 
 the gesture. The multitude were silent. In the 
 stillness that followed he exclaimed, " This signifies 
 that ye will give your heads if called upon." He 
 spoke softly, but every word was audible, and his 
 voice, like the muezzin's call to prayer, rang with 
 such conviction that it was felt that Islam was vindi- 
 cated. The die had been cast on the steps of Amir 
 Khan's mosque. The issue hereafter was certain. 
 
 " Are any of you wilHng to sacrifice your Uves for 
 the Motherland? " 
 
 " We are ready." 
 
 ** Is there one among you who is ready to pour out his 
 life's blood for the Khilafat, the Vice-royalty of God ? " 
 
 All cried out that they were ready. 
 
 *' Two roads only are open for you to pursue. On 
 one is heard the chinking of handcuffs, the tread of 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 249 
 
 jailers, the rattle of the planks of the scaffold; on the 
 other is heard the acclamations bestowed by selfish 
 and worldly men on the rich, the title-holders, syco- 
 phants, slavish minds, betrayers of their country and 
 their Faith. Which road will ye pursue? " 
 
 He paused, waiting for the answer of the multitude. 
 They shouted with one voice, " We will pursue the 
 first road." 
 
 " At the end of the first road the Holy Prophet is 
 waiting to receive you, and the blessed martyrs 
 Hazrat, Umar, Usman, and Hussain. At the end of 
 the second road stand Sir Michael O'Dwyer and 
 General Dyer, wine-bibbing, bacon-fed EngHshmen, 
 murderers of your countrymen, with gifts in their 
 hands. Which road will ye pursue? " 
 
 From the courtyard, the square, the walls of the 
 mosque and the roofs of the adjoining houses there 
 went up a roar of acclamation. With one voice the 
 faithful signified which road they would pursue. 
 
 " God has bestowed His faith on me. You can do 
 everything if only one-thousandth part of my faith is 
 in you. When the enemies of the Prophet were 
 pressing him hard and his life was in danger, he was 
 directed by God to leave Mecca. He did so and went 
 to Medina. The time has now come for you to leave 
 India and go to Afghanistan. The Amir has opened 
 the door of his country to you. God loves a red colour. 
 The sun and moon are red. So is blood. God loves 
 him who has a red scarf round his neck and a red face. 
 Shave not your beards. Keep them because those 
 who wear them are coming. Wear big shalwars 
 because they are clad in them. When you return 
 you will return with God's chosen, the upholders of 
 the Faith. I do not preach Jehad this day. The 
 hour has not yet come " 
 
250 ABDICATION 
 
 Here Jemal Khan cried out, " Nay, the hour has 
 come." 
 
 " Ask not, ' How shall we go, and whither and how 
 shall it be permitted ? ' All such thoughts are wrong. 
 Do but make ready; the Almighty God will provide. 
 Perhaps you may never reach your goal, but fall on 
 the way. If so, be content. In Kabul three million 
 men are required. But go not in the thought that 
 you will there eat grapes and melons and fat rice. 
 Go rather with the purpose of returning to this land 
 with the people of Afghanistan in victory. Hold up 
 the Khilafat, that your very existence be not jeopar- 
 dised. It were better that ye were dead than suffered 
 to dwell in shame." 
 
 In the murmur that rose in the square after the 
 Wahabi's oration, Banarsi Das repeated to himself 
 the only words in it from which he could draw any 
 comfort : " The time has not yet come." He prayed 
 that it might not come. Other Hindus by the wall 
 shook their heads. They did not like the passage 
 about the shalwars and the red scarves and the colour 
 of blood and the beards of the tribesmen. The Bulbul 
 was not a politician. " Nothing so fiery has yet been 
 heard," they said. And they asked, " How did he 
 come ? How will he make his escape ? Is he not the 
 forerunner of the Afghans? Are the police sleeping? 
 Is the Sircar afraid? " And Banarsi Das felt his 
 hairless chin. He had taken no notes; he was too 
 paralysed with fear. He thought only of escape. 
 How long would it take for the crowd to disperse? 
 Would Gopal Chand and the others stand over him ? 
 What witness-bearers might he not encounter on the 
 way back to the Gazette? 
 
 After the Prophet — the politician. That the time 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 251 
 
 had not yet come, was the note of Barkatullah, who 
 followed the Bulbul. 
 
 " I am stirred to rebellion," he began. " I come of 
 a martial race " — his father was an Accounts Clerk in 
 the Supply and Transport Corps — " but the order has 
 been issued by Mahatma Gandhi, whom all respect, 
 * Swaraj by non-violence.' Therefore I stay my 
 hand. There are Muhammadans among you who 
 have helped to destroy the Vice-royalty of God for 
 eleven rupees a month. Now, when their own religion 
 is being destroyed by the infidel whom they protected, 
 they are bidden to sheathe the sword." 
 
 " Nay, we will unsheathe it." 
 
 " Nay, there must be no violence. Mahatma 
 Gandhi is our leader and he is a holy man." 
 
 Barkatullah turned to a group of demobilised Moslem 
 sepoys, who had been staged at the foot of the steps. 
 
 " Did they think they would fill their beUies by 
 wielding the sword against Islam? Verily they will 
 be torn up before God after death." 
 
 " Nay, they are brave men and have been deceived," 
 Jemal Khan interrupted. " They will destroy the 
 destroyers and so receive the forgiveness of God." 
 
 But the politician rebuked him. " The time for 
 violence is not yet," he said; "we must bare our 
 chests to bullets and our necks to the yoke. The 
 war against the infidel must be won by submission." 
 
 He pointed to the sepoys. " See how the Kafirs have 
 rewarded them," he cried. " They have been given 
 horse-flesh to eat, and they have drunk dung- water." 
 
 Here a thin, consumptive-looking sepoy in a torn 
 khaki shirt, with no coat or boots, and an empty sleeve 
 hanging loose, was pushed forward, limping in front 
 of Barkatullah. 
 
252 ABDICATION 
 
 " And now what dog's treatment do they receive? 
 Their land lies fallow; their cattle are sold, after a 
 winter without rain. How will they pass their days ? " 
 
 He pointed contemptuously at the forlorn and 
 contrite figure standing before him on the steps of 
 the mosque. Such was the fallen condition of Moslem 
 chivalry after the war of irreligion. 
 
 " What true Muhammadan soldier can join the 
 army of infidels? " he demanded. And he repeated 
 the story of the Mussalman who fell at Ctesiphon, 
 and whose face became as the snout of a pig. 
 
 " Behold the reward that is meted out to you in 
 this world for slaying your Muhammadan brother, 
 for which you will assuredly burn in hell ! How has 
 the Kafir Government welcomed you home? Each 
 sepoy when he returns is discharged and cast adrift. 
 The Sircar takes from him his warm coat. Even his 
 boots are taken off his feet, and his body is searched 
 like a thief's lest a single cartridge may be concealed 
 on his person." 
 
 Barkatullah paused as if overcome by emotion. 
 " The Kafirs were not miserly with their ammunition 
 in Iraq and Palestine," he continued. " Was it not 
 carried in carts and handed to you rapidly that you 
 might slay your brave brothers; while the English 
 remained in Baghdad and Jerusalem, gorging bacon, 
 swilhng wine, defiling the House of God, and violating 
 Moslem women? Now they grudge you a single 
 cartridge. And why do they grudge it ? " He paused 
 again. " They grudge it because they are afraid. 
 The Kafirs fear the vengeance of Islam. The killing 
 of the enemies of the Prophet is a virtue. But are 
 we not pledged to non-violence? " 
 
 An angry howl vibrated through the square. Another 
 khaki-clad figure, a mere lad, was detached from the 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 253 
 
 group and thrust forward, weeping hysterically. He 
 threw himself at Barkatullah's feet crying : "It was 
 I who was the cause of my brother's death. And 
 now as a reward thereof, the Kafir may wipe my 
 existence off the face of the earth and bury his weapon 
 in my loyal heart. Let my sin as a Moslem be atoned 
 thereby." 
 
 Barkatullah raised him to his feet beside the other 
 penitent in the centre of the stage. 
 
 " Assuredly this young man is the dupe of the 
 infidel," he cried. " His sin is beyond atonement. 
 He is already damned. These wrongs stir in me 
 feelings of rebellion and revenge, but Mahatma Gandhi 
 has forbidden vengeance. We must submit our necks. 
 The Mahatma is a holy man." 
 
 Banarsi Das quailed in his comer out of sight. 
 He could only see backs and feet, but he could imagine 
 that the eyes of the Moslems were red and that their 
 hands itched for violence. He could hear the sobbing 
 of a man of strong lungs the other side of the well. 
 
 Barkatullah knew that he had Islam straining at 
 the leash. Of the Hindus he was not so sure. The 
 Bulbul had neglected them; in his Islamic zeal he 
 had forgotten the entente. 
 
 " Do not the Kafirs fear the vengeance of Islam? " 
 he continued. " Have they not tricked the simple 
 Mussalman ? And well may they fear it. Formerly 
 they separated us from our Hindu brethren. Had we 
 united in the past no third nation could have ruled 
 over us; but being separated, our condition became 
 that of the donkeys of a potter, who drives them by 
 beating and does not give them chaff to eat, but 
 leaves them on a dunghill to graze. Now we are one 
 people; the mosque and the temple are one. Allahu 
 Akbar and Om are one name. Gandhi and Shradha- 
 
254 ABDICATION 
 
 nand have offered their lives for the Khilafat. Blood 
 has cemented the two communities in indissoluble 
 bonds. You are unarmed, but without arms you 
 shall overwhelm them. The Kafirs are so few that if 
 every Indian were to collect a handful of dust and 
 throw it at them they would be buried under a mountain 
 of hate." 
 
 Barkatullah paused, and, smiling sadly, dropped his 
 uplifted hands to his side. 
 
 " But Mahatma Gandhi has forbidden you to employ 
 violence. Freedom is not now to be obtained by the 
 sword or the gun, but by resignation." 
 
 He turned from the Khilafat to Amritsar and the 
 Jallianwala Bagh. This was ground that touched the 
 Hindus more nearly. 
 
 " According to the Shastras," he said, " every man 
 has three mothers : his own mother, the mother cow, 
 and the motherland. The first mother the English 
 have outraged; the second they are murdering; the 
 third they have already murdered. The first they 
 have outraged," he repeated; "the veils were torn 
 from your sisters, whose faces had never been bared 
 to the sun. When they heard this all patriots were 
 bent upon rebellion, but Mahatma Gandhi has taught 
 us to obtain Swaraj by quiet and orderly means." 
 
 Jemal Khan rose up from the audience and cried, 
 " Tell me, whom shall I kill? I cannot bear to think 
 the wrongs of our sisters are unavenged." 
 
 Barkatullah rebuked him. " There must be no 
 stirrings of revenge in your hearts," he said. " Were 
 not our brothers made to crawl on their bellies like 
 snakes in the dust, so that every Indian is branded 
 with shame? " 
 
 There was a surging in the crowd towards the west 
 end of the square. 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 255 
 
 " The spirit of your ancestors stirs in you," Barka- 
 tullah cried out, " but you must suffer and not act." 
 
 " Nay, we will act." 
 
 " Mahatma Gandhi " But Barkatullah's voice 
 
 was drowned in cries of " Allahu Akbar," " Hindu- 
 Mussalman-ki-jai," " Mahatma Gandhi-ki-jai." 
 
 Banarsi Das realised that the crowd were moving 
 in a solid mass on Thompsonpur. He feared murder 
 and havoc. Most of them carried heavy iron-studded 
 sticks. He raised himself on his feet to drop the 
 notebook, in which he had not written a word, over the 
 coping of the well. Looking over Gopal Chand's 
 shoulder, he saw Barkatullah slinking like a fox along 
 the wall of the mosque in the opposite direction to 
 the crowd. He crouched down again and implored 
 Gopal Chand to come in nearer to the wall and stand 
 over him so that he might be completely hidden. Tilok 
 Ram and Har Prasad had melted away in the confusion. 
 
 All the riffraff of the city were streaming past into 
 Hari Mandi towards the Baradari Gate. There was 
 nothing English in the square by Amir Khan's mosque 
 for them to destroy, only a pith helmet which a 
 frightened Eurasian had discarded and dropped surrep- 
 titiously at his feet. Banarsi Das had a glimpse of it, 
 carried aloft ironically on a pole, crushed and battered, 
 as the head it had covered might have been crushed 
 but for its timely rejection. The suggestive inference 
 was seized by the mob — a chapter-heading in the book 
 of hate. A battered Feringhi topi, at once a symbol 
 and a sanction. They pictured the brain-pan under 
 it, insensate pulp, left on the road somewhere, nosed 
 by dogs in the gutter. The empty topi, associated 
 with arrogance, jerked and bobbed ignominiously over 
 their heads. The rim was torn, the crown was bashed 
 in; the futile relic twitching on the pole was more 
 
256 ABDICATION 
 
 diabolically eloquent than Barkatullah. Once it had 
 masked superciliousness, but that had been clearly a 
 mirage. The bogey was now exposed, divested of 
 respect; to some, laughable and pathetic; to others, 
 quickening the appetite for blood. Thus are hounds 
 fleshed. The hat awakened an ecstatic lust in Jemal 
 Khan. In others, listless and indifferent, who had 
 been quite content with things as they are, it discovered 
 unsuspected emotions. They foresaw daily parades of 
 disjected topis, and began to calculate how the elimina- 
 tion of the heads that had filled them might effect 
 their lives. 
 
 To Banarsi Das the parade of the topi was terrifying. 
 In the eyes of these fanatics he was a betrayer, worse 
 than an Englishman. He clutched at Gopal Chand's 
 legs. The two were alone now by the well. " Come 
 in closer. Stand over me," he panted. But Gopal 
 Chand alone could not hide him. " Come away, 
 Banarsi Das," he said ; " you will be safer in the crowd. 
 You will draw attention here, trying to hide. The 
 square will not be empty till dark." 
 
 " They wiU kill me." 
 
 " No, you will be safer in the crowd." 
 
 *' What are they going to do ? " 
 
 " Murder Europeans. They are in the mood. I 
 heard one of them say that they would burn the 
 cathedral. Is Mr. Egan in the Gazette ? " 
 
 Cries of " Hai Hai, Topi-walla ! Mahatma Gandhi- 
 ki-jai," marked the progress of the pole and its hatch- 
 ment in the direction of Thompsonpur. The scum of 
 Gopalpura were invoking carnage in the name of the 
 Apostle of Peace. 
 
 Banarsi Das refused to budge from his niche. 
 " Cover my head," he said; " if anyone asks who I 
 am, say I am sick." 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 257 
 
 Gopal Chand hesitated. The square was emptying 
 fast. Groups of two or three were running in the 
 direction of Hari Mandi. 
 
 " Stay with me," Banarsi Das pleaded. " The 
 troops will be called out, and there will be a battle. 
 If we go with the crowd we will be shot by the Enghsh 
 soldiers." But it was not of the English he was 
 afraid. 
 
 Gopal Chand saw the wisdom of this. Certainly 
 there would be firing. He suggested that they should 
 go the other way, against the current into the city. 
 Jemal Khan and Banarsi Das' other enemies would be 
 with the rioters in Thompsonpur. They might be 
 killed or arrested. 
 
 This was counsel of hope. Banarsi Das accepted 
 the compromise. He agreed to go with Gopal Chand 
 into the city. They might hide somewhere. The 
 enemy's camp, now it was deserted, was safer than 
 the battle-field. They could wait in the house of a 
 friend until it was dark. Then they could leave the 
 city by another gate, cross the railway and work back 
 by the brick-kilns to Thompsonpur. '* That is — eef 
 the battle is finished," he added. He thought of his 
 quarters in the Gazette as his last asylum. What if 
 the revolutionists were already in possession? 
 
 Banarsi Das rose stiffly, straightened his cramped 
 limbs, and followed Gopal Chand into Sheikh Afzal's 
 bazar, away from the din that was growing more 
 insistent in the neighbourhood of the Baradari Gate, 
 like the roar of the Mohurrum. The city had not yet 
 emptied itself and they were opposed to the current 
 flowing west. The danger seemed past for the moment. 
 No one regarded them. The folk who were left 
 behind appeared dazed and frightened. Some of the 
 shopkeepers were closing down their shutters. They 
 
258 ABDICATION 
 
 feared loot. There were amazing stories abroad. 
 The Muhammadans of a class-company regiment in 
 Thompsonpur had mutinied and killed their officers; 
 the police had melted away before the mob, and were 
 in hiding; Scriven's, the gunsmith's, had been broken 
 into, and the arms and ammunition distributed among 
 the rioters; Queen Victoria's statue had been broken 
 in half; the house of every G.I.D. subordinate had 
 been burnt to the ground. Barkatullah was leading 
 the mob; by seven o'clock there would not be an 
 Englishman left ahve in Thompsonpur. 
 
 The suckling Rumour, which Riley had visuaHsed 
 eighteen months earlier when he rode through Sheikh 
 Afzal's bazar during the hartal, was now the monster 
 that he had predicted. Banarsi Das Hstened to all 
 the dreadful things he heard, shouted or whispered. 
 He did not exactly beHeve or disbelieve them, only 
 they left pictures in his mind as vivid as truth. 
 
 Gopal Chand kept his head. " There can be no 
 foundation to these stories," he explained, with the 
 logic of the experienced reporter. "It is not much 
 more than a quarter of an hour since Barkatullah 
 finished his speech. They can have hardly reached 
 the Baradari Gate yet. It is impossible that they can 
 have done any damage in Thompsonpur." 
 
 Banarsi Das hstened indifferently. He did not 
 much care whether the stories were true or not. Some- 
 how he was less frightened than he had been, though 
 infinitely more mazed. He remembered the hour on 
 the raft on the Indus when the dawn broke over the 
 mountains. His spirit was chilled, but he had left 
 behind fear. It was as if the roof of the sky had fallen 
 in and was smothering him softly in billowy cloud. 
 
 " You need not be afraid, Banarsi Das," Gopal 
 Chand continued. " If the police cannot cope with a 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 259 
 
 disorganised mob, the troops will be called in. A 
 small detachment of British soldiers " 
 
 But Banarsi Das floated through Sheikh Afzal's 
 bazar in dreamy inattention. Gopal Chand was being 
 reasonable, and reason in the face of the inexorable 
 was no more helpful than rumour. It might help if 
 the gods were reasonable, but they were not, or if they 
 were, their reason was hidden. He was more numbed 
 than frightened. Since he left the square his presenti- 
 ment that the sky was falling in had deepened into 
 something like a conviction. " Whatever happens," he 
 repeated to himself, " to-morrow I will know nothing." 
 
 " Mr. Egan will not expect a report," Gopal Chand 
 remarked consolingly. " Circumstances were no doubt 
 beyond control." 
 
 The words penetrated to the fatahst in Banarsi Das. 
 He saw Mr. Egan dead on the office floor. " To-morrow 
 there will be no Gazette," he murmured abstractedly. 
 
 The matter-of-fact Gopal Chand was expostulating 
 when a volley of rifle-fire cut him short. He stopped 
 dead as if he had been shot. There was panic in the 
 street. They had now reached the small kiosk-Hke 
 shrine of Hanuman at the end of the bazar, and bolted 
 into the stationer's shop opposite. There was a cry 
 that the cavalry were coming. Rumour, the monster 
 of Riley's imagination, was on her back, a cowed and 
 whimpering beast, vocal still but with a new intonation. 
 Banarsi Das was aware of a change of mood in Sheikh 
 Afzal's bazar. They were saying now that there had 
 been a massacre of Indians outside the Baradari Gate, 
 Barkatullah had been arrested, the artillery were 
 training guns on the city, aeroplanes would drop bombs. 
 
 Two Brahminy bulls began fighting and upset a 
 vegetable stall. Someone shouted, " Rissala I The 
 cavalry have come ! Lances ! " The streets were 
 
260 ABDICATION 
 
 emptied. There was a burrowing into passages and 
 the interior of shops. Banarsi Das and Gopal Chand 
 shared the divan at the back of the shop with Mool 
 Chand, the stationer, under the mirror that reflected 
 the gross image of Hanuman from over the way. 
 
 " How long is a lance ? " the stationer asked. " But 
 it is impossible. They will not injure law-abiding 
 merchants." 
 
 " Not the troops," Gopal Chand reassured him. 
 " They are coming to protect you." 
 
 But the long minutes passed and the cavalry did not 
 come. Not a shot had been heard after the first 
 volley. Banarsi Das gazed at the image of the monkey- 
 god rudely smeared with red paste, and his mind dwelt 
 on irrelevant things. Between him and the road were 
 barricades of annotated University text-books, Morte 
 d' Arthur, Ivanhoe, the same selections from Tennyson 
 that he had read at Gandeshwar, Stevenson's Inland 
 Voyage, with the immoral passage in it where the girl 
 waves her hand at the author in the boat; the first 
 book of Paradise Lost, " Sing, heavenly mouse." He 
 thought dispassionately of Siri Ram, now a spirit. Or 
 was the spark extinguished? Skene — would they kill 
 Skene ? He was as strong and solid as a tree. Banarsi 
 Das was lost in imponderable abstractions. He watched 
 the progress of an enormous spider on the wall. An 
 insect beyond a certain size, he reflected, though 
 innocent of nature, would not be permitted to Hve. 
 All Hfe hung on the caprice of the arbiter of being or 
 not-being. Why should not insects be as big as men ? 
 He could extinguish the spider. The thing that 
 intrigued him was his sense of the unimportance of 
 being or not-being. He thought of Coleridge and 
 " Porky." Once when he was sinking they had pulled 
 him out of the abyss. He was in a deeper abyss, but 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 261 
 
 he did not hope for a re-incarnation of the god-in-the- 
 machine; he did not hope for anything. He looked 
 out into the street and wondered when the lancers were 
 coming, an incurious observer of the twitching hand 
 of the arbiter who had baffled him. 
 
 Half an hour passed, and the lancers did not come. 
 The din in the direction of Thompsonpur had increased 
 if anything, but there had been no more rifle-firing. 
 Folk whom Banarsi Das had met in the street came 
 padding back. The tide was ebbing to Gopalpura. 
 Gopal Chand and the stationer called out to the passers- 
 by. They knew no more than those who had stayed 
 in their shops. The troops had fired. Or was it the 
 police? they had heard thousands had perished. 
 " Reprisals ? Inshallah ! Heaven alone knew the heart 
 of the Sircar, half tiger, half lamb." The general 
 impression was that it was safer to sit still. Banarsi 
 Das, steeped in the narcotic of indifference, listened to 
 their chatter. Rumour was Hke a beast, exploring the 
 four walls of her pen, crouching, uncertain. One had 
 forgotten that she was ever rampant. 
 
 " Let us go on," Gopal Chand said to Banarsi Das; 
 " Thompsonpur will not be safe. We can spend the 
 night in my brother's house in the mohalla of Piara 
 Lai, on the other side of the city." 
 
 Banarsi Das followed him like a child. He had 
 lost all will. They crossed the street and entered one 
 of the alleys on the far side. Gopal Chand thought it 
 safer to avoid the main thoroughfares. They were now 
 in the purlieus which Riley had explored on the after- 
 noon of the hartal, in a Hindu quarter. The street of 
 the astrologers was very still, no one was stirring. 
 Through the open gateways they saw walls painted with 
 faded geometrical designs, pictures of elephants and 
 tigers and bowmen, and Rajas in their chariots going 
 
262 ABDICATION 
 
 out to war. In the spacious courtyards, motionless 
 figures sat listening to the distant roar, rising and falling, 
 like the commotion of the Mohurrum. They appeared 
 quiet and detached, as if they had had no business in 
 life save to mark the fall of sand in an hour-glass. 
 Solemn little urchins were playing listlessly with 
 bricks of dried cow-dung and mud. No sound of 
 angry breakers could disturb this backwater. It was 
 a home of ancient peace. To Banarsi Das the quarter 
 recalled careless forgotten hours, a film of childhood 
 flickering before a drowning man. It revived in him a 
 poignant longing for life. All his old cares returned. 
 He became a child again, a prey of fear. The arbiter 
 of being or not-being was unkind to Banarsi Das until 
 the last. 
 
 As he threaded the network of alleys, emerging 
 every now and then into a crowded thoroughfare, he 
 became as sensitive to apprehension as when he was 
 crouching in the square behind Tilok Ram. Gopal 
 Chand ran on prosily by his side, as if the piUars of his 
 world were not tottering. 
 
 " It is a pity that you destroyed your notes, Banarsi 
 Das. Mr. Egan will ask for detailed report. To-day, 
 of course, is too late, but to-morrow " 
 
 Banarsi Das had taken no notes. In his tumbling 
 universe there was no to-morrow, no Mr. Egan, no 
 Gazette. 
 
 *' Mr. Riley will be distressed when he hears of the 
 outbreak. Barkatullah professes to be a disciple of 
 Mahatma Gandhi." 
 
 Mr. Riley was safe, Banarsi Das reflected. And 
 Skene? Banarsi Das could not conceive of anything 
 happening to Skene. In his rock-like strength and 
 gentleness his old Principal appeared impregnable, 
 
THE MEETING IN THE SQUARE 268 
 
 immortal. It was impossible that BarkatiiUah could 
 injure Skene. 
 
 They were now in a Muhammadan quarter. Tht 
 slender minarets of a mosque were visible over a blank 
 wall on their left. Banarsi Das noticed a purdah 
 ekka with a red campanula-shaped awning drawn up 
 outside. 
 
 " Barkatullah is very clever," Gopal Chand con- 
 tinued. " That speech ! He has been studying 
 Antony. I know it. We had Shakespeare's Julius 
 CcBsar in our M.A. course. Everything was arranged 
 like theatre. Mool Chand told me that the sepoys 
 received ten rupees each from the fund." 
 
 But Banarsi Das stood transfixed on the pavement 
 staring at the back of the agile old man who had left 
 the ekka and WcLs ascending the steps into the house. 
 It was the Bulbul. 
 
 Gopal Chand saw him at the same moment. " The 
 Bulbul-i-Sehwan," he whispered, clutching Banarsi 
 Das' shoulder. " Come back, Banarsi Das, or he will 
 do you some harm," and he disappeared down a side 
 alley into the next street. 
 
 But the pariah of fortune was too terrified to move. 
 The faithful Shinwari had descended to mount guard 
 over the prophet. Banarsi Das faced his executioner, 
 leaning like a condemned prisoner for support against 
 the wall. 
 
 The Shinwari glared at him in pious rage. " Yezid ! 
 Betrayer ! Accursed Kafir spy ! " he cried. 
 
 Banarsi Das, seeing the lathi in his hand, turned his 
 face to the wall, and covered his head with his hands. 
 He recognised in the Shinwari the appointed agent of 
 that arbiter whom he had never understood. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 RILEY 
 
 " Riley is well out of it," was Skene's first thought 
 when he heard the details of the outbreak from Egan. 
 
 Riley was free at last from hybrid cares. When 
 Banarsi Das was sleeping on the horns of the dilemma 
 he lay awake, forgetful of politics, in his dunga on the 
 Dal Lake in Kashmir. He no longer wooed sleep with 
 thoughts of the English river. He had only to lift 
 the reed screen by his bed and stretch out his hand to 
 feel the same water-weed that grew in the pool below 
 the old mill. The sweet unpolitical smell of the 
 marshes rose from the bank. He watched the moon- 
 light glistening on the lotus leaf, and listened to the 
 frogs' hymn to dankness until he fell asleep. When 
 he woke up in the morning the reed-warblers were 
 chattering in the rushes. A golden oriole was singing 
 in the willows. A kingfisher dropped into the water 
 like a plummet, a yard from where he lay in his tub, 
 and rose and hovered and perched again on a snag, 
 regarding him with a sideways, trustful, contented 
 look, his neck sunk in a breast of flame. Riley watched 
 the kingfisher dive again and emerge with his minnow, 
 his sapphire back glistening in the sun. He sang as 
 he splashed in his bath. He had found a way of 
 happiness in the East. 
 
 264 
 
RILEY 2«5 
 
 Yes, young Riley was well out of it. Skene knew 
 that he was somewhere on the road to Tibet. And now 
 he would have to write and tell him of the tragic thing 
 that had happened to Banarsi Das. He had given 
 the address of the Political Agent at Leh, but the letter 
 would probably take months to reach him. " Banarsi 
 Das has quite lost his reason," Skene wrote. " When 
 I went to see him in the hospital he was making sawing 
 movements with his arms in the air, first on one side 
 and then on the other. The intelligence has completely 
 gone out of his eyes." 
 
 Skene could not discover what had happened to 
 the Pathan. Dean was depressed and uncommunica- 
 tive, though the police had handled the outbreak 
 remarkably well. They held up the mob in Empress 
 Road three hundred yards from the Baradari Gate, 
 and only fired one volley over their heads. 
 
 Old Hobbs, however, disapproved. " Firing over 
 their heads is no use," he said. " What this country 
 wants is a damned good revolution. Look at the 
 casualties, three Englishmen finished off before the 
 mob got to the Baradari Gate, the only Englishmen 
 they met, inoffensive young shop assistants riding 
 about on bicycles. The police fire one volley and the 
 crowd runs away. An old woman is hit in the leg 
 a mile off. The only rioter killed was that Ghazi fellow, 
 Jemal Khan. He asked for it. Running amok with 
 a knife ! He would have finished Mills if he hadn't 
 been handy with his revolver. The other casualty, 
 Egan's reporter, doesn't count. He was knocked 
 on the head by his own people. 
 
 Bruce-Swinnerton, too, was dissatisfied with the 
 casualty list. " They must learn their lesson," he 
 said. " Until you wipe the floor with them they won't 
 understand who is top dog. " 
 
266 ABDICATION 
 
 The talk turned to the " scuttle." 
 
 " On the first of January I am going to pull out 
 my shirt and black my face," Hill said. " I wouldn't 
 be a District Officer under the New Councils for five 
 thousand a month." 
 
 Wace-Holland, who now joined the group, overheard 
 the cynic. " We've got to look facts in the face," he 
 told Hill. " We've had our innings. It is the Indians' 
 turn now. Riley was quite right. We have abdicated." 
 
 Hill had no retort. 
 
 " We could hold them down if we liked," the General 
 added; " though perhaps not permanently. But that 
 sort of government is out of date." 
 
 " We have put their house in order," Skene said. 
 
 " Yes, we have done that for them, and it is some- 
 thing to be proud of. I wish we could go on putting 
 it in order." 
 
 " Is Gopalpura any the happier for Thompsonpur? " 
 Skene remembered the times he had discussed the 
 problem with Riley. " Somebody had to put their 
 house in order," he would say. But Riley would not 
 admit it. He was perversely out of sympathy with 
 the Thompsonisation of the New Province. 
 
 "What have we done for them?" Riley would 
 say. " Efficiency, Hygiene, Education, Police. Has 
 it made them any happier ? Our schools have destroyed 
 their traditions and filled the country with hordes 
 of hungry, unsatisfied youths like Banarsi Das, with 
 nothing to do. Hygiene, Sanitation, Drains; we 
 spend too much on them. Increased population; it 
 is the curse of the country, especially among the 
 intelligentsia. ' Thou hast multiplied the nation, 
 but not increased its joy.' " 
 
 " Not of the intelligentsia perhaps," Skene admitted. 
 '* But it's hardly fair to take Banarsi Das as a typical 
 
RILEY 267 
 
 product of our system. Go into the districts. The 
 people are perfectly happy. They don't understand 
 the Reforms and they don't want them. They'd 
 like us to stay. After all, our first obligation is to the 
 zemindar. The tillers of the soil make up ninety per 
 cent of the population, and if it wasn't for us they 
 wouldn't have any soil to till. Not in the Canal 
 colony." 
 
 And Riley, who a few days before had taken Sir 
 Antony Greening over the Canal colony, knew that 
 Skene's picture was true. They went alone and nobody 
 knew who they were. It was impossible to mistake 
 the friendliness of the villagers; they were made 
 welcome everywhere simply because they were English- 
 men. " The respect our fathers earned," Riley said 
 to Sir Antony. " You see the agitation has not passed 
 beyond the railway yet. These folk judge us as they 
 find us. The only EngUshman they know is their 
 District Officer, and the D.O. has always been their 
 father and mother." " One can see that," Greening 
 said, " their welcome is so jolly spontaneous." A 
 whole hamlet had turned out to greet them and spread 
 a mat for them in the shade. It was then that Riley 
 told him about Barkatullah and Mograon. They would 
 meet with sour looks from the zemindars in the dis- 
 affected tehsil. The Labour Member's comment was a 
 trifle reactionary. " By Jove," he said, " if I were 
 a District Officer I should loathe the agitator." 
 
 And that was exactly what everyone felt in the club. 
 
 The tragic part of it was that the miUions, the real 
 backbone of the country, were very much happier for 
 Thompsonpur. Yet Thompsonpur and all that it stood 
 for had to go because it could not be reconciled with 
 an abstract principle which meant nothing to them. 
 
 The deflated Hill recovered himself sufficiently 
 
268 ABDICATION 
 
 to say to the General, " But the masses don't want 
 Swaraj, sir." 
 
 " The masses ; no, I don't suppose they do, but they'll 
 have to have it whether they want it or not. We 
 are pledged to it and there is no going back." 
 
 The General's uncompromising acceptance of the 
 " scuttle " shocked everyone in the room. With him 
 the whole question was fined down to a point of honour. 
 Riley had said much the same thing to Skene, only 
 he had added — to the Anglo-Indian a blasphemous 
 assertion — " In every country the voice of the intelli- 
 gentsia is the voice of the people. The masses may not 
 want Swaraj, but they will soon be made to want it." 
 
 The odd thing was that nobody in the club would 
 have admitted that he was out of sympathy with 
 nationaUsm. Skene would have argued that it was 
 not the principle he quarrelled with, but its application. 
 " If only these boneless agitators would come out into 
 the open and explain to the masses that it was unmanly 
 of them to submit to be governed by a handful of aliens 
 I should respect them more. And let them admit 
 what we have done for them. BarkatuUah with his 
 lies and trumped-up grievances makes me sick." 
 
 Barkatullah's trial was impending. The poHtician 
 who roused the latent reactionary in the Labour Member 
 was not likely to get off with a hght sentence. He 
 was Thompsonpur's standing argument against Swaraj. 
 
 " The poisonous fellow ought to be hanged," the 
 General said. Here Wace-Holland was in agreement 
 with Hill, who reminded him that even Riley could not 
 stomach BarkatuUah. 
 
 " Where is Riley? " Farquhar asked Skene. 
 
 Skene was a little vague about Riley. He was off 
 trekking somewhere in Tibet or Turkestan, he believed. 
 His letters were to be sent on to Leh. 
 
RILEY 
 
 " He didn't stick to his hospital long." Hill's 
 chuckle betrayed satisfaction. One knew he was 
 thinking, " Riley is a waster, he will never do anything." 
 
 Nothing more was heard of the failed journalist 
 and physician until a month or six weeks afterwards. 
 Osborne, Wace-Holland's G.S.O.I., who had been on 
 leave, turned up in the club and mentioned casually 
 that he had met Riley in Ladakh. 
 
 " You saw Riley? " the General asked. 
 
 Skene thought of Waring. " A man upstarted 
 somewhere as a god, hordes grown European-hearted." 
 
 But that was not Riley's way. He would be more 
 likely to cultivate the protective colouring of the 
 Asiatic. 
 
 " Yes, I saw Riley," Osborne told them. " It was 
 at a place called Shyok, near where I shot my big 
 Ammon. I had pitched my tent among some bushes 
 in a sandy nullah, and I was strolling out before supper 
 to smoke a pipe and look at the sunset when I came 
 across an encampment of Ladakhis. There seemed 
 something famiUar and shipshape about the camp, 
 a regular mule-line, heel-ropes, iron pegs. The men 
 were squatting outside their black tents over a yak- 
 dung fire. I noticed one of them, a spare figure, 
 dressed hke the others in a yellow skin coat, but of 
 much fighter build. He had a short skimpy beard, 
 thinnish, yet a trifle thick for a Mongol. I was looking 
 at him a little curiously when his eyes caught mine 
 and he started. He jumped up and skipped across 
 the nuUah as joUy as a cricket. ' Hullo, Osborne,' 
 he shouted. At first I didn't know him from Adam. 
 
 * Hullo, Riley,' I said, when it dawned on me who it 
 was. ' Where are you off to, and who are your pals ? ' 
 
 * Oh, we are pilgrims,' he said ; ' come along and be 
 introduced.' 
 
270 ABDICATION 
 
 " They made room for me by the fire and were very 
 jolly and hospitable. I liked everything about Riley's 
 pals except their smell and the filthy tea they would 
 have me drink with lumps of butter floating in it, but 
 nothing seemed to worry Riley. They were going to the 
 Mansarowar Lake in Tibet, and were pushing on to be in 
 time to circmnambulate Kailas before it was too cold. 
 They are probably padding round the mountain now." 
 
 Hill was sceptical. Riley would never get through ; 
 the Tibetans would stop him at the frontier. 
 
 " Oh, will they? You don't know Riley. He is a 
 sort of Mahatma among them. They are praying 
 for him in all the monasteries. I beheve he could walk 
 straight into Lhasa if he chose. He is an eye-doctor, 
 you know ; cataract is a scourge in Tibet. Two of those 
 Ladakhis " 
 
 But this apotheosis of Riley was too much for Hill. 
 * ' Riley an eye-doctor ! That explains what he was doing 
 in Calcutta. The fellow's a quack; he couldn't have 
 spent more than two months in the hospital. I am 
 sorry for the Tibetans." 
 
 "You needn't pity them; Riley has learned the 
 trick all right. He is a specialist. Mind you, he only 
 touches cataract, and he hasn't bungled a case since 
 he left Srinagar. His fame precedes him. The Lamas 
 are waiting for him all along the road ! " 
 
 " They are lucky to have Riley," the General said; 
 " the only eye-doctors the Tibetans are hkely to get 
 are the Kauchas or their local equivalent. They 
 used to come up to Quetta, I remember, and the poor 
 devils they bhnded were taken into our hospitals. 
 The Kaucha operates with a rusty knife. The imme- 
 diate effect is that the patient sees, and thinks he is 
 cured. Then in two or three days septic poisoning 
 sets in and he is completely blind. The Kaucha has 
 
RILEY 271 
 
 decamped with a big fat fee ; he is an itinerant quack 
 and takes care not to cover the same ground twice. 
 I had them all arrested when I was in Beluchistan 
 and sent them down to Sibi by train. 
 
 " Beluchistan is one of the few places where the 
 British still rule," the General added. " One can do 
 something to help the people there." 
 
 Skene smiled. He could imagine Hill saying, " Put 
 that in your pipe and smoke it, young Riley." The 
 General in accepting Swaraj bowed to necessity, but 
 he evidently had no illusions about it. 
 
 Osborne said that Riley's greatest difficulty was in 
 getting his patients to keep their bandages on. They 
 wanted to tear them off every ten minutes to see if 
 they could see. That was why he generally had two 
 or three blindfolded Lamas in his caravan on led horses. 
 He insisted on keeping his patients under observation 
 until they were cured. 
 
 " Two of the Ladakhis in his camp had their eyes 
 bandaged. One of them was so pleased with life that 
 he was going to make the pilgrimage of prostration, as 
 they call it. Riley got him to show me how it was 
 done — down on his knees, then fiat on his face, his 
 arms stretched out to mark the spot where he would 
 toe the line for the next advance, and so all the way 
 round like a green looper-caterpillar. It would take 
 him twenty days, he told me, and he seemed rather to 
 look forward to it." 
 
 " It would be just Hke young Riley," Hill said, " to 
 do the belly-crawl with him." 
 
 Everybody laughed. " Just like him," Osborne 
 said. " I always liked Riley, though of course he is 
 as mad as a hatter." 
 
 The General remembered seeing the pilgrims circum- 
 ambulating the Lingkor in Lhasa in just the same 
 
272 ABDICATION 
 
 way when he was there with the expedition in 1904. 
 He had heard the ceremony was still observed in 
 Benares. But he was concerned about Riley. He 
 turned to Osborne. " Do you think he has everything 
 he wants? " he asked. 
 
 Osborne laughed. " Riley doesn't want much, sir. 
 He is travelling light — got all his kit on one mule. 
 As for supplies, I don't suppose the grateful populace 
 let him pay for anything. By the way, though, I 
 have a message for you, Skene; he doesn't like their 
 'baccy. He wants twelve pounds of some mixture. 
 He told me he was sending a man to you with a letter." 
 
 As the club was emptying, the General ordered four 
 quarter-pound tins of Club Mixture. " Put them in 
 Skene Sahib's motor," he told the ahdar. Skene was 
 one of the last to leave. Wace-HoUand passed through 
 the door with him and paused on the steps discussing 
 the probability of rain. Then after he had said good- 
 night he called, " You will find some tobacco in your 
 car. It is for young Riley. May as well make it a 
 
 baker's dozen. Tell him No, I'll write to him. 
 
 I'll send the letter over to-morrow — and a pipe or two. 
 He won't have any use for the Lhasa brand." 
 
 II 
 
 The General's gift lay on a shelf in Skene's office for 
 two or three months. Skene had almost given up hope 
 of hearing from Riley when he was disturbed one morn- 
 ing by a loud, strange noise in the hall. He opened the 
 door and discovered a sturdy Tibetan in the passage 
 who, unimpressed by the authority vested in the 
 bureaucratic scarlet, was arguing his claims for admis- 
 sion with the office chaprassi. " Let him in," Skene 
 called to the man, and the Tibetan entered, grinning 
 
RILEY 278 
 
 cheerfully, and dumped his long kilta ^ on the floor. 
 He had come from Gartok over the Shipki Pass by the 
 Hindustan-Tibet road, but had fallen ill at Pool, where 
 he had been tended by the Moravian Missionaries. He 
 had left his " Sarb," as he called him in his northern 
 accent, at Gartok in good health, and was to meet 
 him at Leh on his return from Kailas. He spoke with 
 the loud bell-like intonation of the wilderness, where 
 men call to one another over wide spaces — not very 
 intelligibly, but Skene gathered that Riley had given 
 him sight. The musty smell of ancient blankets, 
 butter lamps and barley beer pervaded the office of the 
 D.P.I. , as the Tibetan, delving in his kilta , produced, 
 first his *' Sarb's " letter, then a shining bronze image 
 of the Buddha, and presented them to Skene with pious 
 pride. Skene placed the Buddha on his writing-table 
 with becoming reverence and opened Riley's letter. 
 
 He had written from Gartok, not a hundred miles 
 from Kailas. Apparently he was having difficulties 
 with the officials, but he barely touched on them. 
 " Please give Phuntshog twelve pounds of 'baccy," he 
 began prosaically, " different mixtures, and some Keat- 
 ing. Don't forget the Keating. Every Mongol is a 
 conductor of vermin." Skene had dismissed Phuntshog 
 after satisfying himself as to his needs, but he was 
 already conscious of a fiery itching under his sleeve. 
 
 " also my Arrian and Strabo, which I left on the 
 
 shelf of the office in the Gazette. How's Egan getting 
 on ? I hope he is kind to Banarsi Das — not sitting on 
 him too much. I particularly want the Strabo, as I 
 have been thinking a lot about the old Susa Persepolis 
 road by Ahwaz, Ram Hormuz and Bebehan. I wonder 
 if there is much eye trouble in Southern Persia. The 
 road will keep, of course, but I like to picture it. And 
 
 ^ A wicker basket carried on the back. 
 T 
 
274 ABDICATION 
 
 please throw in a Golden Treasury. I want a copy of 
 Lycidas badly. For the last week or so I have been 
 trying to piece together the passage beginning, * For 
 so to interpose a little ease.' I have six complete lines 
 and some fragments, but they won't fit in, and on the 
 march I find myself repeating them impotently all 
 day, ' Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,' — and then 
 at the end, ' Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's 
 hold.* How does this join with ' Where thou perhaps 
 to our moist vows denied, visitest the bottom of the 
 monstrous world ' ? No. That's not it. By the way, 
 what a presage of Kitchener ! A jagged old castle on 
 a cliff put the passage in my mind like St. Michael's 
 Mount, and very like the fort at Tauz Kharmatli. 
 But at Tauz Kharmatli I had my Lycidas. Remember, 
 old Skene, if I don't find a Golden Treasury at the 
 bottom of the kilta, my ghost will haunt you, even if 
 it has to suffer the contagion of Thompsonpur." 
 
 Skene smiled. Incorrigible dreamer ! he thought as 
 he took down his Milton from the shelf. Riley's 
 spiritual vagrancies were as incalculable as his physical. 
 Where is he? When does he hope to reach Kailas? 
 What is his trouble with the officials? But most of 
 the letter was like that. Stray, irrelevant thoughts, 
 jotted down casually after the day's march, generally 
 about birds and flowers — how the ravens hopping 
 pertly round him thought his notebook was something 
 to eat, an intelligent, curious, black-coated congrega- 
 tion, fat and prosperous ; the sheen on their wings was 
 like polished ebony; their approaches and retreats, 
 stratagems, rivalries and affectations were a parody 
 of the Comedie humaine. He had spied a blue poppy 
 half a mile from the road, a Meconopsis six foot high, 
 blue flowerets on a prickly stalk ; it stood up among the 
 splintered boulders on the bank of a tarn like a calvaire. 
 
RILEY 275 
 
 Riley was off again. The calvaire evoked Brittany; 
 Brittany Treguier; Treguier Renan, and Renan by a 
 train of oblique association planted him, quite by 
 accident, where he happened to be. 
 
 " I hope you like the Buddha. It is the Bodhisat 
 Padmapani seated on a lotus leaf, the gift of a grateful 
 patient, a monk of Tashigong. I am glad I learnt the 
 cataract operation. It has made all the difference. 
 I can't just loaf. I am a competent idler when I have 
 got work, but I am no good at it when there is nothing 
 to do. I have chewed the lotus and found it a taste- 
 less herb. I thought of surveying, but that would not 
 bring me into touch with the Tibetans ; it would only 
 make them more suspicious. Besides, scientific details 
 bore me, sounding lakes, measuring the cubic feet of 
 water in a stream, and all that. If one lives with 
 people one must bring them something more than 
 curiosity. The thing I have brought them is the best 
 I could think of. I wonder I didn't think of it before. 
 It is so easy to give sight to people who have lost all 
 hope of seeing, yet it is such a tremendous obligation 
 that, when I think how little it cost me, I often feel a 
 fraud. They think it a miracle, of course, and me a 
 mage. There is a merchant in Gartok who wants to 
 adopt me, and an old Lama in Galdang Tso who, when 
 he saw his Buddhas and Bodhisats in a row on the 
 altar, burst into tears; for years he had only known 
 they were there by the touch and seen nothing but the 
 flicker of the wicks burning in butter lamps, and these 
 were becoming dimmer. For the first time since he 
 came to the monastery when he was quite a young man 
 he was able to distinguish the figures in the Wheel of 
 Life frescoed on the wall. He looked out into the 
 courtyard and watched the ravens and the blue pigeons 
 lovingly. The old Lama was not without attachment. 
 
276 ABDICATION 
 
 I wonder how much he remembered of Hght and shade 
 and colour." Here there was more about flowers. 
 He had found the Alpine yellow poppy " Nudicaule, 
 very rare. You remember the Walberswick kind 
 between the salt marshes and the sea. 
 
 " Thank God, I haven't got to write Tibet up. 
 The only thing that would spoil this country for me 
 would be having to describe it, but I will have some 
 things to tell you about human nature, especially 
 Lama nature, when I get home. I think it is true that 
 religious people are more wicked than others, but this 
 is natural, and as it should be, because people who are 
 good already don't want any religion. Here rehgion 
 is all Mantras, Abracadabra, Mumbo Jumbo, or, as in 
 the case of the immured monks, what Hill would call 
 ' the scuttle ' from life. Yet humanity is preserved in 
 spite of it." 
 
 Riley wanted to go home by Turkestan, over the 
 Karakoram Pass by Leh, then by the railway from 
 Andijan. He meant to get down to the Oxus by 
 Bokhara and Samarkand, to Orgunj6 if the Bolsheviks 
 did not circumvent him. He had discovered Orgunje 
 at last in the derelict village of Aurganj, the old capital 
 of Khiva, spoiled by the Moguls. He reminded Skene 
 that his gift of healing carried him a long way. He 
 was dying to see an English spring. 
 
 " Dine with me at the club on June 30th. You will 
 be at home on furlough then. I may be late. I hope 
 not. Leave a note for me with the hall-porter. Any- 
 how, I will be in time to hear the last blackbirds sing- 
 ing, between the flowering of the white and purple 
 helleborine. Join me on a wherry on the Norfolk 
 Broads. We will have the whole summer before us; 
 the loosestrife and the meadowsweet will be coming on, 
 the hemp-agrimony only in bud. I'll stay at home 
 
RILEY 277 
 
 until the late autumn. Then I think of going to the 
 Malay islands and Siam. I want to see Angkor." 
 
 " What about funds, young Riley? " Skene reflected, 
 but the economical problem was dismissed lightly in 
 the next paragraph. " I shall have saved quite a lot 
 by then. Living is dirt cheap," Riley explained. He 
 hoped he would never have to take a fee from a Tibetan, 
 though his grateful patients wouldn't let him pay for 
 sheep and chickens. As soon as he left Leh his expenses 
 worked out at less than thirty shillings a week. 
 
 He seemed to have forgotten Thompsonpur and the 
 Gazette. Hardly a word of politics. Only at the end 
 he asked for news of Gandhi. "If we are sincere," 
 he said, " we ought to welcome him. He has opened 
 a door; whether his countrymen pass through or not 
 we shall see ; the Englishman who would bang the door 
 to, or deny that it exists, is either a knave or a fool. 
 Give them Swaraj. What does it matter if they knock 
 one another on the head, or neglect their drains, or 
 leave their dead animals in the middle of the road? 
 Race-hatred, which is the one thing that ultimately 
 matters, would disappear. We are too practical and 
 cocksure. The curse of the country has been our gospel 
 of efficiency. We have done everything imaginable for 
 the Indians in a very superior and disagreeable way. 
 Parkinson's predecessors may have set their house in 
 order, as you say, but if you were an Indian, would you 
 like to have your house set in order by Parkinson? " 
 
 Skene smiled. How far young Riley was from 
 earth and Thompsonpur ! Up in the clouds there 
 under the shadow of Kailas with his verminous 
 Tibetans no doubt he was happy. 
 
 But Phuntshog would be waiting for his letter. 
 Skene drew out a sheet of writing-paper and inscribed 
 at the top : 
 
278 ABDICATION 
 
 [" We are here by our own moral superiority, by the 
 force of circumstance, and by the will of Providence. 
 These alone constitute our charter of Government : 
 and in doing the best we can for the people we are 
 bound by our conscience and not theirs." — John 
 Lawrence.] 
 
 " So much for politics. Put that in your pipe and 
 smoke it, young Riley, as Hill would say; I am not 
 arguin' with you, I am only tellin' you; nevertheless 
 I will spend July with you on the Norfolk Broads or 
 anywhere you like." 
 
 Skene had come across John Lawrence's simple 
 declaration of faith soon after Riley had left, and he 
 had been longing to fire it off at him ever since. He 
 imagined the young Radical digesting it with his back 
 to a chorten and his feet on mani wall, while the streamers 
 of the praying flags rustled in the wind, and there were 
 only the Lamas and ravens to listen if he felt moved to 
 debate. 
 
 " John Lawrence said the last word, young Riley, 
 about the rights of our position in India, and it would 
 have been better if we had left it at that. But, as you 
 say, we've abdicated, and we can't have it both ways. 
 Our conscience perhaps is not so robust as it was. Let 
 us then hasten the wheels of Swaraj. 
 
 " Gandhi's great bluff, as everyone calls it, continues. 
 It is likely to be put to the test in the next few months. 
 Gandhi is an optimist. He will not admit that he is 
 heading for anarchy. He believes his cause is just 
 and that Government will submit. We shall see 
 Your Mahatma is becoming a too sophisticated saint, 
 to my mind — too much of the Jesuit about him. 
 
 " My letter about Banarsi Das must have gone 
 SLstray. The poor Uttle devil was knocked on the head 
 by a Pa than in a riot at Gopalpura. There had been a 
 
RILEY 279 
 
 big meeting on the steps of Amir Khan's mosque. 
 The Bulbul-i-Sehwan and Barkatullah made inflam- 
 matory speeches, and the mob saw red. Banarsi Das 
 was laid out by the Pathan with his lathi and left for 
 dead. He has quite lost his reason." Skene repeated 
 the sad story of the hospital. " The Pathan escaped. 
 Dean tells me he is somewhere in tribal territory. 
 Barkatullah was arrested. He is in the Andamans, 
 I beheve. He deserves to be hanged a dozen times. 
 He is as responsible as anybody for the wreck that is 
 Banarsi Das. Of course there is the usual howl about 
 ' repression.' The Bulbul-i-Sehwan apparently was 
 disgusted with Barkatullah and his crew. He fell in 
 a Ghazi rush on a picquet in Mardan; they attacked 
 in broad daylight; six of them, all Asmas men, were 
 laid out in their black robes. He was a crescentader 
 of the old Wahabi school, in which you find the spirit 
 of Narasimha Swami translated into the terms of Islam. 
 " Amba Pershad is one of the New Ministers. He is 
 responsible for Education, which means that he is my 
 boss now. You remember his text-book on Civies which 
 I turned down and he was so angry about. I hope he 
 doesn't try to get his own back. He has been very 
 civil so far. Bolton got his G.S.I, all right, and is 
 cultivating the manner of a K. Parky really has a K. 
 Lady P. is immensely pleased at her elevation. She 
 wants him to retire, and is preening herself for the 
 conquest of Wimbledon or Ealing. Old Wace-HoUand 
 was discussing you in the club last night. He loves 
 you dearly. Hill, of course, says you are mad. He 
 always did, but now he chuckles at his perspicacity. 
 ' Riley an eye-doctor ! ' By the way, among other 
 things you are a quack. He is going to write to 
 the Dalai Lama to have you arrested for practising 
 without a diploma, or whatever it is. Wace-Holland 
 
280 ABDICATION 
 
 says the Tibetans have a Medical College in the Potala. 
 Why not go through the course? " 
 
 In the evening Skene collected Riley's Arrian and 
 Strabo, stole a copy of the Golden Treasury, and looked 
 in at the asylum to get the last news of Banarsi Das. 
 
 " Banarsi Das did not recognise me when I went to 
 see him last night. He thinks he is a manjhi?- He 
 sits on the end of his bed or on a chair all day and 
 steers his craft with a curtain-pole past imaginary 
 obstacles in the stream. There was a row about the 
 pole at first. Banarsi Das used to abstract it surrepti- 
 tiously from the window at night, and the ward orderly 
 used to take it away from him. I had to get written 
 sanction from the Civil surgeon to allow him to retain 
 it. Just like them. I beheve the Babu has started a 
 file on the case, which will no doubt go up to the 
 Government of India and the Secretary of State. The 
 vacant, unattached look in Banarsi Das' eye makes one 
 pretty miserable. After I left him I felt as if I had 
 been listening to a pirrhai.^ * Fortune is like a bird 
 that lights on a wall. In a moment it comes, and in a 
 moment flies away.' You know the kind of thing; 
 it makes one want to throw back one's head and howl 
 like a dog. No one really reaHses that we are bom and 
 die in futility until he has heard a pirrhai. Banarsi 
 Das' is a placid vacancy. So long as he has got his 
 curtain-pole he seems content. The doctor says it is a 
 lesion, and there is just a chance that he may recover, 
 but what the poor little devil will do if restored to an 
 unsympathetically sane world, God only knows. 
 
 " He is a more pathetic figure than Siri Ram." 
 1 Boatman. * Bard. 
 
 THE END 
 
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