And so, while Murali Charan Mishra climbed his way up the political ladder on the rubble of the crumbling socialists, Hem Narain Mathur grew old before his time, torn between certainty and history. He wasted away with the obscurest of diseases, bewilderment, as he watched the world spinning beyond his grasp; as old comrades began to out-scoundrel scoundrels once they had been given a whiff of power; as fledgeling peasant unions withered inexplicably away or simply vanished in puffs of smoke as the membership was roasted alive by landlords. He had one final surge of energy in the fifties when Ram Manohar Lohia kindled the last spark of hope in the socialists. But by that time he was already too ill and too tired to carry on long; all that he really longed for was the solace of his bookcase, of J. C. Bose and Huxley, of Tagore and Darwin, Hazlitt and Science Today, and of course of that beacon which still lit those unsteady shelves — the Life of Pasteur. His mind was made up for him when his wife died suddenly of meningitis, leaving him with a daughter to bring up on his own. It was then that he took a job in a small government school in Dehra Dun. And there he lived out the rest of his time — a tired old man who, as he said so often, had only one worthwhile thing left to do. And that was to introduce his two redeemers, his old bookcase and his growing daughter, to each other.
But right till the very end he had stayed a socialist; never once was he tempted by the simple-minded attractions of cynicism. Lying on his deathbed with the spoonful of holy water from the Ganges already at his lips, he had found the strength to place his daughter’s hand on his bookcase and say: My love, make my failures the beginning of your hopes.
If anyone had a right to object when Murali Charan Mishra’s son called himself a socialist, it was her father’s daughter.
To tell you the truth, said Dr Mishra, I thought it went off quite satisfactorily last year. He was a short, stout man in his early fifties, with a round face and a bushy, unkempt moustache. His head was shinily bald, except for a crop of curly hair which ran along the top of his neck to his eartops. He was never stilclass="underline" a crackling, restless energy coursed incessantly through him, sparking out of his bright, bespectacled eyes and keeping his hands continually busy.
Some more meat, Mishra-sahb? Mrs Verma said, emptying a spoonful into his plate.
So, Verma, what do you think? Dr Mishra said, a little too loudly. I don’t see the need for a change. Shall we just have the same kind of thing again this year?
Dr Verma did not look up from his plate; nor did he by the slightest gesture acknowledge that the question had been addressed to him. Mrs Verma busied herself with the rice: she had to be careful now; she could tell that he had already guessed something; that he was trying to draw her out. She laughed briefly: It was very nice last year, Mishra-sahb, really wonderful. And, of course, if you feel strongly …
She left the sentence strategically unfinished and turned to Mrs Mishra: No more rice, Manda-bahen? Then have some prickly-pear custard — we got them from our own cactus. It tastes just like mango really, if you don’t worry about the smell too much.
Dr Mishra was ripping a chapati into minute pieces. So, then, Verma, he barked, you do have some other idea, do you?
Not exactly an idea, Mrs Verma said smoothly, but, yes, I did think that this year we could have something a little less cerebral … something lively … Of course, we must have your speech, too; we can’t possibly do without it. But in addition, if we could have something on the stage maybe, just something small to give everyone a glimpse of our country and our culture, our village life …
So that’s your idea, is it, Verma? Dr Mishra snorted.
Dr Verma sleepily mopped his plate with a chapati.
So you want to give them a glimpse of ‘our culture’, do you? Dr Mishra said. What exactly did you have in mind, Verma, could I ask? A pageant of the costumes of Indian brides perhaps, like the bureaucrats put on for foreigners in Delhi? We could dress up our elderly Miss K. and our own shy little brides, and you and I could be the bright young grooms, couldn’t we?
No one suggested that, Dr Mishra, Mrs Verma said sharply. She could feel her temper rising.
Oh, no, you didn’t suggest that, Dr Mishra snapped. What did you suggest, then, Verma?
Dr Verma quietly collected a few plates and went into the kitchen.
Can I suggest something, then? Dr Mishra went on, talking at the empty chair. Why don’t we give them a more realistic picture of our culture’? Why don’t we show them how all those fancily dressed-up brides are doused with kerosene and roasted alive when they can’t give their grooms enough dowry? Why don’t we show them how rich landlords massacre Untouchables and raze their villages to the ground every second day? Or how Muslims are regularly chopped into little bits by Hindu fanatics? Or maybe we could just have a few nice colour pictures of police atrocities? That’s what ‘our culture’ really is, isn’t it, Verma? Why should we be ashamed of it?
Typical! Mrs Verma exploded. Absolutely typical! Just like 1936.
1936? Dr Mishra turned to her at last, in bewilderment. Why 1936? You weren’t even born then.
So what if I wasn’t born then? That doesn’t mean I don’t know about it.
About what?
Mrs Verma’s face was suffused with blood now. She pounded her fist on the table. Don’t lie, she shouted. You know perfectly well what: 1936 — the second socialist conference in Meerut. Don’t think we’ve forgotten, for we haven’t. What was your little crowd doing there, do you remember? Do you remember how you lectured us about revolutionary theory and class struggle; about historical necessity and Leninist party organization? Do you remember how you talked about technology and the Scientific Temper and building a new rational world by destroying the superstitions of the peasants? And then, when we said surely there was more to socialism than just that, that in the villages we talked of socialism as hope, do you remember how you laughed? You laughed and said: Comrades, leave your villages for a while; peasants can’t lead peasants; go and study your theory. And, after all that, where were you when the crunch came? Who fell over themselves in their hurry to join the Congress in 1947 so that they wouldn’t have to waste any time in getting their fingers into all that newly independent money? Who broke the Praja Socialist Party when the real socialists were away, struggling in the villages? Who sabotaged Lohia? Don’t think we’ve forgotten. We’ve forgotten nothing. We know your kind inside and outside, through and through: we’ve heard your sugary speeches and we’ve seen the snakes hidden up your sleeves; we’ve seen you wallowing in filth with the Congress while High Theory drips from your mouths; we’ve heard you spouting about the Misery of the Masses while your fingers dig into their pockets; we’ve watched you while you were snarling over bribes with your Congress gang-mates, so we know exactly where your cynicism comes from. It comes from the rottenness within: those who’ve been dipped in pitch see nothing but blackness everywhere. So please don’t give me any clever lectures about India and Indian society, Dr Murali Charan Mishra, for my father gave me the measure of your kind when I was still a schoolgirl.
Dr Mishra laughed. It was a frightening thing about him that, though he often seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper, he never actually did so.
Murali Charan Mishra was my father, he said.
Same thing, she snapped, her chest heaving.
Dr Mishra smiled: Anyway, it’s all much clearer now. What you really want to do is climb on to the sand-dunes and let the Algerians know about your father’s Lohia-ite socialism. But to come back to the point: what do you want to put up for this get-together? Some kind of village festival perhaps, since you’re so enamoured of rural socialism? Or maybe one of those song-and-dance plays about gods and demons and mythological heroes?