And seated on the veranda, Moorthy explains to Rangè Gowda his programme. Things are getting bad in the village. The Brahmins who were with him for the bhajans are now getting fewer and fewer. Some people have gone about threatening the community with the Swami’s excommunication, and people are afraid. There is Waterfall Venkamma and Temple Rangappa and Patwari Nanjundia and Schoolmaster Devarayya — and then, of course, there’s Bhatta. And when Bhatta’s name is mentioned, Rangè Gowda’s neck stiffens and spitting across the veranda to the gutter, he says, ‘Yes, he had come to see me too.’
‘To you, Rangè Gowda?’
‘Yes, learned Moorthappa. He had, of course, come to see me. He wanted me to be his dog’s tail. But I said to him, the Mahatma is a holy man, and I was not with the jackals but with the deer. At which Bhatta grew so furious that he cried out that this holy man was a tiger in a deer’s skin, and said this about pollution and that about corruption, and I said to him, “So it may be, but the Red-man’s Government is no swan in a Himalayan lake.” Bhatta grew fierce again and said, “We shall eat mud and nothing but mud.” “Yes,” says I, “if every bloke eats mud, I, too, shall eat mud. The laws of God are not made one for Rangè Gowda and one for Putte Gowda. Mud shall I eat, if mud I should eat.” And Rangè Gowda chuckles and spits, and munches on.
Then Moorthy says, ‘This is what is to be done. We shall start a Congress group in Kanthapura, and the Congress group of Kanthapura will join the Congress of All India. You just pay four annas or two thousand yards of yarn per year, and that is all you have to do, and then you become a Congress member. And you must vow to speak truth, and wear no cloth but the khadi cloth.’
‘Oh yes, Moorthappa! If you think there is no danger in it, I see no objection to joining it. Tell me only one thing: Will it bring us into trouble with the Government?’
This Moorthy thinks over and then he says, ‘This is how it is, Rangè Gowda. Today it will bring us into no trouble with the Government. But tomorrow when we shall be against the Red-man’s Government it will bring us into trouble. You see Badé Khan is already here. ’
‘Ah!’ says Rangè Gowda. ‘And I shall not close my eyes till that dog has eaten filth,’ but Moorthy interrupts him and says such things are not to be said, and that hatred should be plucked out of our hearts, and that the Mahatma says you must love even your enemies.
‘That’s for the Mahatma and you, Moorthappa — not for us poor folk! When that cur Puttayya slipped through the night and plastered up the drain and let all the canal water into his fields and let mine get baked up in the sun, do you think kind words would go with him? Two slaps and he spits and he grunts, but he will never do that again.’
‘That must not be done, Rangè Gowda. Every enemy you create is like pulling out a lantana bush in your backyard. The more you pull out, the wider you spread the seeds, and the thicker becomes the lantana growth. But every friend you create is like a jasmine hedge. You plant it, and it is there and bears flowers and you offer them to the gods, and the gods give them back to you and your women put them into their hair. Now, you see, you hit Puttayya and Puttayya goes and speaks of it to Madanna, and Madanna to Timmanna, and Puttayya and Timmanna and Madanna will hold vengefulness against you and some day this vengefulness will break forth in fire. But had you reasoned it out with Puttayya, maybe you would have come to an agreement, and your canal water would go to your fields, and his canal water to his fields.’
‘Learned master, at this rate I should have to go and bow down to every Pariah and butcher and, instead of giving them a nice licking with my lantana switch, I should offer flowers and coconuts and betel leaves in respect and say, “Pray plough this field this-wise, maharaja! Pray plough this field that-wise, maharaja!” And I should not howl at my wife and let my son-in-law go fooling with Concubine Siddi’s daughter, Mohini, who’s just come of age. No, learned master, that is not just.’
‘It’s a long story, Rangè Gowda, and we shall speak of it another time. But you are a father of many children and an esteemed elder of your community and of the whole village, and if you should take to the ways of the Congress, then others will follow you.’
‘But, learned master, there’s nothing in common between what you were saying and this.’
‘Most certainly, Rangè Gowda. One cannot become a member of the Congress if one will not promise to practise ahimsa, and to speak truth and to spin at least two thousand yards of yarn per year.’ At which Rangè Gowda bursts out laughing again and says, ‘Then I too will have one day to sit and meditate, taking three cups of salted water per day!’ and Moorthy laughs with him, and once they have talked over rents and law courts and the sloth of the peasants, Rangè Gowda turns back to the subject and says, ‘Do what you like, learned master. You know things better than I do, and I, I know you are not a man to spit on our confidence in you. If you think I should become a member of the Congress, let me be a member of the Congress. If you want me to be a slave, I shall be your slave. All I know is that what you told me about the Mahatma is very fine, and the Mahatma is a holy man, and if the Mahatma says what you say, let the Mahatma’s word be the word of God. And if this buffalo will trample on it, may my limbs get paralysed and my tongue dumb and my progeny be forever destroyed!’ Then Moorthy stands up and says it is no light matter to be a member of the Congress and that every promise before the Congress is a promise before the Mahatma and God, and Rangé Gowda interrupts him, saying, ‘Of course, of course. And this Rangè Gowda has a golden tongue and a leather tongue, and what is uttered by the golden tongue is golden and sure, and what is uttered by the leather one is for the thief and concubine,’ and Moorthy says, ‘May the Mahatma’s blessings be with us,’ and hurrying down the steps, he slips round to the Weavers’ street, goes straight to the Weavers’ elder, Ramayya, and he says, ‘Ramayya, will you be a member of the panchayat of all India?’; and Ramayya asks, ‘And what’s that, learned one?’ and Moorthy sits down and explains it, and Ramayya says, ‘Oh, if the patel is with you, the panchayat is with him,’ and Moorthy says, ‘Then, I’ll go. I’ve still to see Potters’ elder, Siddayya.’ And Potters’ elder, Siddayya, when he hears of the Mahatma and the patel, says, ‘Of course, I’m with the patel and the panchayat,’ and then Moorthy thinks, ‘Now, this is going well,’ and rushes down the Pariah quarter to see Rachanna. But Rachanna is out mowing at the river-eaten field, and Rachanna’s wife is pounding rice, and she says, ‘Come and sit inside, learned one, since you are one of us, for the sun is hot outside,’ and Moorthy, who had never entered a Pariah house — he had always spoken to the Pariahs from the gutter-slab — Moorthy thinks this is something new, and with one foot to the back and one foot to the fore, he stands trembling and undecided, and then suddenly hurries up the steps and crosses the threshold and squats on the earthen floor. But Rachanna’s wife quickly sweeps a corner, and spreads for him a wattle mat, but Moorthy, confused, blurts out, ‘No, no, no, no,’ and he looks this side and that and thinks surely there is a carcass in the backyard, and it’s surely being skinned, and he smells the stench of hide and the stench of pickled pigs, and the room seems to shake, and all the gods and all the manes of heaven seem to cry out against him, and his hands steal mechanically to the holy thread, and holding it, he feels he would like to say, ‘Hari-Om, Hari-Om.’ But Rachanna’s wife has come back with a little milk in a shining brass tumbler, and placing it on the floor with stretched hands, she says, ‘Accept this from this poor hussy!’ and slips back behind the corn-bins; and Moorthy says, ‘I’ve just taken coffee, Lingamma. ’ but she interrupts him and says, ‘Touch it, Moorthappa, touch it only as though it were offered to the gods, and we shall be sanctified’; and Moorthy, with many a trembling prayer, touches the tumbler and brings it to his lips, and taking one sip, lays it aside.