‘Police Inspector! Police Inspector!’ Dattopant shuddered all over. His Sona, he who is dead, was once tied to a tree and beaten: he hadn’t jumped down from the cart when the Inspector was passing. And Dattopant hated the ‘round of hay and honey’ for the Inspector’s servants. And then the being spat on — and bowings!
‘Who told you he’s here, brother?’
‘Why, the women saw him from the well-side.’
‘When, brother?’
‘Yesterday evening. Your daughter-in-law too was there.’
‘Yesterday!’
‘Hè, hè, Father Sonopant, you are here?’ There were a number of voices. Bolopant, Vithobopant and Pandopant came through the byre. They were all young and wore short coats in the city fashion. ‘The dangerous clique’, the elders used to call them for their subversive talk, and the Patel had more than once warned them against this ‘city chatter’.
‘The Police Inspector,’ cried Pandopant, as though with real satisfaction. ‘The Police Inspector, Father Sonopant.’
‘What’s he here for, son of your father?’
‘To arrest us no doubt!’ and they all laughed. ‘But, do you know,’ continued Pandopant in a half-jeering, half-excited tone, ‘the Maharaja is coming to our village. . ’
‘The Maharaja!’ Govindopant had never beheld the Sovereign yet. His father, whose grandfather had seen Raja Sivaji, always described how godlike a maharaja looked.
‘Yes, the Maharaja!’ assured Vithobopant. ‘They say he’ll come to our village and even stay for a night. . ’
‘Nonsense! Nonsense!’ protested Govindopant. ‘Maharajas don’t stay in poor huts, young man. My father used to say Raja Sivaji always slept on horseback. He hated staying with peasant folk.’
‘But this Maharaja is different, they say. He has stopped his motor car to talk to peasants passing by.’ It was Dattopant.
‘In Pitthapur Taluka, they said, didn’t they, he went into a peasant hut: “The sun is hot, mother, can you give me a glass of curds?’’’
‘As witness,’ interrupted Pandopant, ‘ask the lizard on the wall of the house. The Maharaja. . ’
‘Now! Now!’ said Father Sonopant, who always calmed a malicious tongue. ‘You know, my son, I’ve heard it’s true. For example, the other day I went to see Lawyer Pandrung Joshi. His son passed the highest tests of the Government, and wanted a big post. Turban on his head and nazar in his hand, straight he went to the Palace. He’ll soon be a taluka collector.’
‘So you think he’ll come? The Maharaja?’ said Dattopant. He would offer him curds and mangoes and even a glass of sherbet, such sherbet as no house in the village could offer.
‘Of course! Of course, Govindopant!’ assured Pandopant.
‘Then I’ll receive him in my house. . ’
‘I!’ said Dattopant.
‘I! I!’ shouted Vithobopant and Bolopant.
‘Well, let us not quarrel about it,’ said Sonopant, cooling the discussion. They called him the sage.
‘But,’ started Dattopant thoughtfully, ‘do you think we can ask him anything? I mean any question?’ There was always that Sona’s death that bothered him. And the Parsi and the Police Inspector. .
There was a noise in the back verandah. It was the Patel coming to see Govindopant.
‘Govindopant! Govindopant!’
‘Yes, Patel!’ he shouted back, proud the Patel had come to see him first — and in front of everybody too. . Maybe the Maharaja would stay with him. Raja Sivaji, his father used to say. .
‘I want your help, father.’
‘Don’t you know everything is yours, Patel. The Maharaja. . ’ He folded his hands and looked humbler than ever.
Dattopant felt an unutterable hatred growing in his head. He would receive the Maharaja. .
‘Any help from me?’ asked Pandopant jauntily, suppressing an amused laugh.
‘No, I’ve come to see Govindopant.’
‘Yes, yes, Patel, my house. . ’
‘No, your mare.’
‘For the Maharaja! But it is old.’
‘My horse is swift as the wind,’ cried Pandopant, looking seriously at the Patel, ‘and strong as the pipal.’ His two companions turned away to laugh, for as everybody knew Pandopant never had any horse.
‘Young man, I am speaking to Govindopant,’ spat the Patel, looking gloweringly at the young man. ‘The Maharaja,’ he said, turning to the elders, ‘is passing by our village, accompanied by the Representative and Relation of the Most High Majesty— across the Seas. . of His Majesty who lives in his country, London. . ’
‘London, oh yes, London,’ repeated Pandopant, who after his visit to the city proclaimed his knowledge of everything foreign. The Patel feigned not to hear.
‘Yes, His Majesty’s Representative — Viceroy, they call him— accompanied by the Maharaja, is passing by the village in the train.’
‘They won’t stay here then?’ interrupted Dattopant, confused.
‘No, they’ll pass by our village in the train.’ Everybody looked at his neighbour disappointed and resentful. Maybe the Maharaja may still. .
‘They will pass by in the train, and we have to honour them by standing by the railway line and showing how loyal and faithful our villagers are to the Sovereign.’
‘Loyal and faithful to the Sovereign,’ repeated Govindopant.
‘Those who have horses,’ continued the Patel, ‘will ride them. Those who haven’t will stand, a staff in hand. . ’
‘With folded hands? Or should we bow, Patel?’ asked Govindopant. He knew how to bow before kings: his greatgrandfather had done it to the great Raja Sivaji.
‘Neither fold your hands nor bow, mind you. You will not move the smallest hair on your body as the train passes by. And you will have your backs to the train.’
‘Backs to the train!’ exclaimed Dattopant. They had already imagined how, wearing the most shining of their apparel, in red and gold and blue, they would bow as the Maharaja peeped out to greet them. They would bow again. And he would smile back in return. Govindopant even saw how the Maharaja would stop the train, come down, and as the ancient stories go, send him bags and bags of gold. He wouldn’t touch the gold, of course, never. He would build a large free caravanserai, and a well and a temple by it, and fly an ochre flag for the greater glory of God.
‘Backs to the train,’ repeated the Patel. ‘You know how some devilish, prostitute-born scoundrels tried to put a bomb beneath the train of the Representative of the Most High across the Seas. . ’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it in the city. They said it just missed him.’ It was of course Pandopant.
‘Will you shut your mouth, young man! One word more, and you will go straight to prison. I have been watching you since you came back from the city. You talk of nothing but of bombs and pistols, and corrupt these young men with all those city ideas which no man born to his father would ever utter. I tell you this is the last time I give you the warning. Take care.’
‘But. .’ blurted Pandopant, suddenly turning humble, ‘I only said what I heard in the city. . ’
‘City or no city, I tell you, shut up or I’ll ask the Police Inspector to arrest you on the spot!’
‘Stitch your lips, young fellow!’ cried Govindopant.
‘Govindopant,’ the Patel said, turning to the elders once again, ‘you will have your mare, won’t you? For every four telegraph poles there will be one man on foot, and for every four men on foot there will be a man on horse-back.’
‘Always your slave!’ cried Govindopant, proud.
‘Patel,’ said Dattopant eagerly, ‘shall I stand on my field by the bael tree?’ He would show the Maharaja his fields.
‘That’s in the hands of the Police Inspector. This afternoon he’ll decide about it all.’