Bhavani Bhikshu (1914-1981)

Bhikshu was born at Taulihava village in the Kapilvastu district of the Tarai, but he spent much of his life in Kathmandu. He made his first appearance in Nepali literature with an essay on criticism, originally written in Hindi, that was translated into Nepali and published in Sharada in 1936. His first story, "Mankind" (Manav ), was published two years later, and he soon established a reputation as a poet. Bhikshu edited Sharada for several years after 1940, when the former editor, the poet Siddhicharan Shreshtha, was jailed for his political opinions, and Bhik-shu worked for the Royal Nepal Academy after its foundation in 1957. Bhikshu's life was not without its sadnesses: he had lost two wives, one of whom deserted him, by 1952. This might account for the innate pathos of many of his stories and for his long ruminations on the nature of love.

Bhikshu's mother tongue was not Nepali but Awadhi, a dialect of Hindi, and he received his basic education in Hindi at Indore. His writings in Nepali are often criticized because his prose lacks the spontaneity of a mother-tongue writer, his sentences are sometimes awkwardly constructed, and his vocabulary tends to be somewhat grandiose. Nevertheless, his stories are regarded highly for their thoughtfulness and subtlety. Most have women as their central characters, and Nepali critics heap praise on Bhikshu for his analyses of female psychology. I suggest that Bhikshu's most interesting stories are those such as "Winning and Losing" (Harjit ) that describe village life in the Tarai and those that deal with topics from the Rana period. Bhikshu also authored two novels. Bhikshu's stories are available in four collections: Gunakeshari (1953), Maiyasaheb (1960) (both named after the principal female characters of

particular stories), Avarta (Whirlpool, 1967), and Avantara (In the Mid-die, 1977).

Will he Ever Return? (Tyo Pheri Pharkala?)

The narrow hill path was a difficult, strenuous, arduous trail that climbed higher and higher by degrees. Looking along it into the far distance, you could see nothing to make you think that you had seen a man.

The sun god^[1] had hidden his face behind the mountains in the west, but his blush spread up to the dark hills' summits. The streams still sang their continual song, uninterested in and indifferent to the anxieties of the world. The dim half-light was meandering into darkness.

A traveler was on his way up from the plains. As Sani^[2] stood in the doorway of her house, one foot upon the staircase of maturity, he asked her, "Can I get lodgings here tonight?"

"I don't know; you'll have to ask Mother."

"Mother? I don't know who your mother is or where to find her. Show me whom to ask."

"Mother! Mother!" a sharp sweet voice from a shapely throat echoed around the hills, but nobody came in response. She waited for a moment; then she said, "Wait, I'll fetch her," and she went off. After a while she returned with an elderly woman.

"Here, this is my mother. Where are your porters?"

"I've only one porter, and he's old and slow. That's why I have to stop here, though I'd hoped to reach Chitlang today. I know some of the shopkeepers there; I'd have found good lodgings. This is a liquor shop, isn't it?"

"It is …,"the old woman replied with a mixture of surprise and disdain.

"So what if it is?" Sani said quickly. "It would be the same at Chitlang, you know. And our side room is clean."

"Well," asked the old woman, "will you have a drink and something to eat?"

"I'll have a meal, but I won't take any drink. I have my own pots and utensils with me."^[3]

Sani leaned over and put her face close to her mother's. "Why mother, he'll buy rice, lentils, oil and firewood, salt, spice, vegetables .... If he cooks in the next room and sleeps in the side room, that will be fine."

[1] The sun is identified with the Hindu deity Surya, or Surje.

[2] Sani is a pet name meaning "little girl."

[3] The traveler's caste status is apparently too high for him to accept food from anyone but a Brahman.

"May I see the room? Just to see that it's clean. If it's not..."

"Why shouldn't it be? Take a look—there's nothing in there; it's newly painted. If you want I'll put a mat down there for you. See now, your porter's arrived. Will you stay?"

"Come, Sani." The old woman climbed the stairs.

Sani stood by the door as the porter set down his load. "Such a heavy load, such a steep path," he groaned. "That'll be 9 suka, including the head porter's cut and expenses, too. My God!"

The curiosity that filled Sani's face contained a trace of hopefulness, of trust and satisfaction as she stood there in silence. When he had inspected the rooms, the traveler decided to stay the night and Sani felt relieved. With the porter's help, she put a mat in one of the rooms. As soon as the traveler had spread out his bed on the ground and heaved a contented sigh, the porter said, "Right, I'll be off now sir, I'm exhausted. I must eat, too. You should give me a few annas for a snack."

"Here .... "the traveler tossed him 4 paisa. The porter picked up the coins, looking pleased, and was about to leave when Sani said, "Tell me, what should we bring for your meal? It will be dark soon. I see you have a lantern—do you need paraffin for it?"

The traveler did not reply but addressed the porter instead. "Old man, get the pots from the basket, and go and wash them in the river." Then he turned to Sani. "I'll need a pitcher, too, so that he can bring some water before he goes for his meal."

"Yes, I'll bring one down right now."

"But is it a clean one?"

"What dirt gets into a water pot? If you're not happy with it, he can easily clean it in the river before he fills it up." The young girl's hesitancy showed clearly on her face.

The porter had pulled the pots from the basket, and as soon as Sani brought a little brass pitcher down from upstairs he went off to the river. The traveler looked at Sani in the evening half-light. Although her clothes were dirty, advertising her poverty, her face was not at all ugly. In her cheeks he saw the lovely gifts that hard work and the mountain air had bestowed on her. She had a natural rosiness and was .just becoming mature. Her eyes were round and bright, and their pupils were dark and quick. Boundless curiosity and excitement were playing in those eyes.

"So... what shall I bring for your meal?" she asked, with a caution born of their being alone.

"One mana of fine old rice," said the traveler, "a quarter of lentils, 2 paisa worth of whatever vegetables you can get here, 2 annas worth of ghee .... That should be enough."

Sani went upstairs, and after a while she returned with everything he

had asked for. The porter had already departed, having put the pots and the water in the next room. The cooking hearth and the eating place were both newly painted and clean.

"This isn't very good rice," said the traveler, inspecting it.

"No. But you can't get better rice than that here. If you could, I'd have brought you some. And as for vegetables—there's nothing but potatoes."

"Oh well, if that's so, never mind," said the traveler, smiling slightly. "I'll have to be content with whatever I can get."

"May I go now?" asked Sani.

"Yes." But for some reason he felt like looking at her again. Their eyes met; then the girl went upstairs, hanging her head in embarrassment. But she suddenly turned around and said, with some confidence and in a natural tone, "To cook the vegetables you'll need some oil and some firewood. Should I bring salt, spices, and paraffin for your lantern?"

"Oh, I'm forgetting! I'll cook the vegetables in ghee, perhaps. I don't want any spices. But bring me 1 paisa worth of salt and turmeric and, you know, 4 paisa of firewood, and for the lantern 6 paisa of oil will do. Got that?"

Sani brought him these things quickly, and then she went upstairs. She ate with her mother, and after fifteen or twenty minutes she went into her bedroom and shut the door from inside.

It was only half-past seven in the evening, but it was already very dark outside. Those few houses were like butterflies in the laps of the great hard mountain. s, and they stood in such silence it seemed all the life had left their bodies. The regular, monotonous roar of the streams could still be heard, but still the fearsome emptiness deepened.^[4]

As she lay on her bed, thinking who knows what, Sani suddenly heard a knocking sound coming from the traveler's room. "He can't have had his meal yet." She remained engrossed in her thoughts, "He might know how to cook; he might not. Perhaps he dropped the vegetables as he was lifting them off the fire. What man knows how to cook! He has always lived in the plains; who would have cooked for him there? Maybe he took on a Brahman. But how could he have? It's expensive down in the plains, and he doesn't look like a rich merchant. If he was, he'd be like those others who come by here time after time. There'd have been great heavy tin trunks, filled to the brim, three or four leather bags of various sizes, a folding bed, a servant, and lots of porters. And he himself would have arrived in a sedan chair and sat upon a carpet. There's

[4] Nepalis tend not to romanticize the natural grandeur of the mountain regions. On the contrary, the absence of towns and people is something to be feared.

nothing of this. I reckon he must have had a job somewhere in the plains. A man who works for somebody else could hardly take on a Brahman cook!"

Then her thoughts ran off in another direction. "If that's so, he's probably got a wife!" She felt a blow to her heart and her inner thoughts fell still. Outside, the river's unceasing voice roared on. The thoughts she had assembled became a little disordered, and so she heaved a sigh. But her mood could not be averted for long, and the sweet imaginings she craved covered her once more. Breathing more lightly, she tried to sleep. Had the traveler finished his meal and gone to bed? She heard no sounds downstairs, so he must have. But then that noise again—"It must be the mice .... No it's not; it's that poor man again .... "She did not dare to indulge herself in silent thoughts of sympathy anymore. After a moment, she jumped up, struck a match, and lit the lamp in the niche at the head of her bed. A feeble, smoky light fingered the darkness as she picked up the lamp and went carefully downstairs. Her heart was thumping; was the old woman asleep yet? She felt a twinge of fear.

Once she had arrived downstairs, she thought, "But... why am I down here? I have no jobs to do downstairs." In the traveler's room there was the soft, calm light of his lantern. She looked at him just once, then turned away. He was asleep in his white quilt—calm, still, and unchanged. A frightening desire tugged hard at her very soul and began to thump along with her heart. A strange mixture of inexpressible happiness and courage, of fear and sorrow, began to flow through her veins. She returned upstairs in that same agitation, with those feelings still flowing through her, and fell onto her own dirty bed.

Next morning, the traveler rose and left early. The unexpressed infatuation and strange unspoken hopes that now glittered in Sani's eyes followed him until he was far away on the top of the hill, and then they came back. She could not say why, but her heart became heavy and filled with tearful emotion. A question arose again and again in her mind—would he ever return?

Her question remained unanswered: the traveler did not return. After a while, she was married and moved to her own home. As if by a commonplace rule, she became caught up in household duties and the love and affection of her husband. She brought no awkwardness to their behavior. But the question that Sani, a woman from a village culture, clutched in her innermost heart as if it was a gift from God troubled her several times each day.

When she was in her husband's house, she sometimes became apprehensive, and her apprehension caused terrible inner conflict. "Here I am; what if that traveler returns?" She was not brave enough to ponder the question further. What a terrible worry it was for her! Better if he

never came back; better that her life should come to its end even as she was watching for him. But Sani was not strong enough to hope that fate would ordain them never to meet again. Her longing, her eternal wait, the daily hopelessness to which she had become accustomed—all were mixed into her very breath. That was what her life consisted of. Holding onto this, she was the woman of the home, her mother-in-law's daughter-in-law, her husband's wife. Could poor Sani continue to be all of these things in this state, shattered perhaps by some powerful curse? How could she wish this from her heart?

But Sani could still be a proper wife; this was no impediment. She would certainly have cursed anyone who suggested that her marriage contained any kind of deceit or shortcoming. A woman's heart is big enough for an affection for children, for mother and father, for friends and relations of the natal home, and for the in-laws of the husband's home, and so Sani's heart held some echo for that traveler, too. A woman is her husband's wife: this is as true as the shining sun, but only so far as being a wife is concerned. A woman is not merely a wife! She is other things too—a sister, a daughter-in-law, a mother. Besides all of these, she is love personified. If the love of women had not been sown throughout this world, would the world not be like the dead wood of a dried-out tree?

As he left, the traveler said that he might have to come back after two weeks. Sani still remembered that two-week wait. The first week ended in depression and a feeling of emptiness, but from the eighth day on she began to hope that each day would be the day of his return. She remembered the strange feeling, the mysterious hope and excitement with which she reached the hilltop on that eighth day, when she went out to cut grass for the cow. Setting down her load, she sat on a rock and lost herself in happy dreaming. She stared intently at the road from Nepal,^[5] and when she saw some people coming her fantasy became more joyful and exciting.

"This is how he will come today, bearing all the happiness of the world. He will spread the happiness of our previous meeting by smiling just a little; again he'll lodge with us for a day. But what if he doesn't stay with us? ... Chi! Such bad thoughts! He was perfectly comfortable at our house; he suffered no inconvenience. I did all the work myself. He cooked and ate well before he slept. Why would he not stay with us again?" She kept her hope burning with new dreams every day, and the days went by. At last the day she had longed for arrived. Sani recalled how she woke up in the night, three hours before the dawn. She opened the door and looked outside and saw that much of the night had still to

[5] This reference is to the Kathmandu Valley.

pass. The moon shone brightly, and the sky was clear. The rushing sound of the river was like a song of delighted welcome. The sky, the abode of God, smiled down in the moonlight. In a few hours' time, the burning sun would come out. Its golden rays would spread over the hilltops. 'That day would be the festival of his returning. Tomorrow he would come. At first light he would set out to meet her and bring her great joy. She sat engrossed in these dreams for ages, overwhelmed by the happiness she imagined. Then she heaved a long sigh, as if anxious, and returned to lie uneasily on her bed. Later, the dawn came, the sun rose, and Sani waited restlessly. Then it was dusk, the night fell, and after her fortnight of waiting Sani was left with the fact that he had not come. With tears in her eyes, sorrow in her heart, darkness in her soul, a lump in her throat, and her body filled with regret, this knowledge was all she had for consolation.

Alas, the feeble heart of a woman! How much do you have to sacrifice? How much pleasure, attachment, and love, and who knows what else, have you stored away for your offering?

Two more weeks went by. The course of her life began to change—from beginning to end, it seemed. The change went deep inside her, and her question, "Will he come back?" was joined by the knowledge that he had not come. Where would her journeying cease? Where was its end and destination? Was it within the rest of her life or beyond its end?

The narrow hill path was a difficult, strenuous, arduous trail that climbed higher and higher by degrees. Looking along it into the far distance, you could see nothing to make you think that you had seen a man. . . .

The times were changing. Sani's mother went to meet with eternity, from which no one ever returns. Sani went back to her home to run the old business. While living in her husband's house, she had always worried that the traveler had already gone by. Thousands of people went down to the plains from Nepal by that Markhu road, but the traveller. . . .

"He'll surely come back one day." Catching hold of a thin, weak thread to lead her despairing hopes on, she made them stretch even further. How delicate, how lovely, how long it was, this thin thread of desperate wishing. Someone else was tugging hard on the thread of life and her youthfulness, but did Sani know? She was aware of little more than that charming memory from her past, that momentary dream that lasted for only a day. The person for whom she had made her sacrifice, in gratitude for the first gift of youth, would surely return one day. Every day she busied herself in renewing her treasure. How could she know that the thread of her life was being pulled along? Love is the path of life. Sacrifice is its ultimate aim. Once you reach your destination, you are given the end of existence.

After she had opened the shop one evening, Sani stood in the doorway with her thoughts elsewhere. She had been standing like this in the peaceful half-light on just such an evening when the traveler had come, her symbol of love. She had stood there like this so many times since, waiting without hope, her heart filled with demolished dreams and sorrow. But he had not come back. In response to all these false welcomes, she had acquired a quiet sadness and eyes filled with tears. Again today she stood there waiting. Either for the traveler or for the silent sorrow she knew so well.

A man well past his prime came up to her and asked, "Can I get lodgings here tonight?"

She thought her heart would stop. She was struck by a thunderbolt from the past! Sani could do nothing but stare and stare at his face.

"Are there lodgings here or not?" the question came again. Sani's face shone brightly at first, but then it darkened and dulled. She stared into space and said sadly, "Where are your porters?"

"They're on their way," said the traveler, and sat down on a rock. "It's ages since I went to Nepal from the plains. I never managed to go back at all. Now at last I'm going back, but everything seems to have changed —the path, the hills. . .. I stayed in this house on my way to Nepal, so I thought I might stay here again, if the house was still here. I set out with that in mind, and now at last I've arrived. Where's the old woman? You, you must be Sani?..."

For Sani, his words were harder than a thunderbolt, more tumultuous than the roar at the end of the world. She felt frightened. She was not ready to welcome the end of all those days of waiting, of the misery that had filled her, with such ease and informality. Man! You are all the hope, pain, longing, despair, dreams, and joy that have filled Sani's life, and yet you do not know! With your simple question, your unexpected arrival, you have brought to its climax the story that has pervaded this life. How could you know, why should you know, how shattered this woman's heart has been?

Sani's voice was like a sound from a distant skyline. "Yes, I'm Sani, "she said.

"I know, I recognized you. But you ... you've become old." He smiled.

Sani's eyes were opened at last. She saw her wrinkled skin and realized how much time had passed. Clearly she saw that her journey was almost over. The evening of her life had arrived with the end of all her hopes. The world was changing; she was out of place in the present. She felt tired; her body was weary from standing. She sat down right there in the doorway.

As soon as it was morning, the traveler went on his way, just as he had before. From that day on the purpose of her life disappeared. "You've become old"—a single comment from the traveler had con-

sumed all the zeal with which she had clung on to her hope, all the youth and enthusiasm she had maintained. Then that woman was finished, along with the dumb hopes she had had for her life and her silent, unbroken sorrow. But that was not all—the question she had loved more than her soul, that she had fostered until it filled her life and was dear and familiar to her, her question vanished, too, in the darkness of deep regret: "Will he ever return?"

(originally published in 1940; from Bhikshu 1960a)

Maujang Babusaheb's Coat (Maujang Babusahebko Kot )

To tell the truth, Maujang Babusaheb and his coat were one and the same thing.^[6] If you ever saw that long, pink Benson^[7] overcoat, walking, moving, sitting, or gesticulating at a show, a feast, or an argument, or at the scene of a quarrel or a tragedy, it always turned out to be Maujang Babusaheb, along with his whole indomitable existence. Precisely when the coat had begun to represent Maujang Babusaheb was a matter for research; only one or two people could hazard a guess, even among the few surviving ancients. But nowadays there are few who are reluctant to relate all sorts of historical tales.

Maujang Babusaheb was a Rana aristocrat, a bad-tempered, rude, and irrepressible character who held birta land in Nepalganj district.^[8] Somehow everyone still remembered what used to happen fifteen years before democracy. An army of dogs lived at Babusaheb's village house—three or four of them were big and ferocious; the others were small and fine-haired. They used to terrify every visitor by being the first to offer a welcome and were a prominent and fearful memory in that Tarai province. The coat had come to represent a multitude of terrors for the men of this world of agricultural laborers. It reminded them of forcible seizures of houses and fields, of thrashings and beatings, of insults and wild abuse when Babusaheb's thick lips, set in a wide, red face that was sweaty and insistent, spat out a stream of foam. . .. And when the high Rana officials of the area, ranked in a certain order with members of the Thapas or some other clan first,^[9] bowed down before him for everyone to see, that long pink coat was being honored, too. Through this combination of pomp, grandeur, and terror, he became known by the

[6] Babusaheb is an honorific title.

[7] Benson is a particularly expensive variety of cloth.

[8] Birta land was granted to a person employed by, or simply in the favor of, the Nepal government. This person could then work the land and derive income from it. Nepalganj is a large market town near the southern border with India.

[9] The Rana period was characterized by continual infighting among the various ruling families, including the Thapas.

name of Maujang Babusaheb, instead of by his real name, which was perhaps Humayun Jang Bahadur Rana. The name was on everyone's lips, and people uttered it with fear.

Just as the Gandharvas' bow symbolized Arjun during the Mahabharata era, so that coat represented Maujang Babusaheb's tyranny during those Rana times.^[10] No one even dared to mention that invincible, glorious coat. The insolence of time had made it fade until it was gray and pale, but it still seemed bright to everyone. But after democracy came,^[11] people became impudent and looked scornfully at both Babusaheb and his coat. Everyone laughed at it now. Some even picked up a rumor somewhere and began to say that the coat had been a reward from P.K.J.^[12] Then it went still further, and some who had inquired into the coat's ancient history discovered that it had been given to Babusaheb in Nepal^[13] when he attended the wedding of that P.K.J.'s parasol bearer. He had been picked out to receive the gift because of the clothes he was wearing.

By some misfortune, Maujang Babusaheb got wind of these rumors one day. He stared at his coat, which hung from a nail in the wall. Even in these days of democracy he recalled the events of the past. He remembered how a sweet smell had arisen from the coat and scented the air on the day it was given to him. Everyone else who was there had looked at it with envy. He remembered how smoothly his hands had slid into the linen lining in its arms when he had first put it on. That coat on its nail had fitted him perfectly—it symbolized nobility, prosperity, and honor and made him feel gratified and self-confident. When he came home with it, how astonished the Rani Saheb who accompanied him had been!^[14] She took the coat from him, but before she hung it up she turned it over and over in her hands. She saw the lining glistening and caressed it gently. Yes, and then Babusaheb had been annoyed. He had scolded her: "What are you doing, you hill farmer's daughter? Don't you realize it will get dirty if you stroke it like that?"

The Rani Saheb had hung it up, still smiling though she was frightened. And then when he was alone in the room Babusaheb had got up quietly and stroked the coat himself. He was filled with awe and amaze-

[10] Arjun was the warrior on the battlefield to whom Krishna delivered his famous sermon on duty (dharma) during the great war between the Kauravas and the Pandavas recounted in the Mahabharata. Arjun's prowess as an archer was largely due to his possession of the bow belonging to the Gandharvas,the celestial musicians.

[11] Democracy came after the downfall of the Ranas in 1950-1951.

[12] P.K.J. are probably the initials of a fairly obscure Rana,whom I have been unable to identify.

[13] "Nepal" refers to Kathmandu.

[14] Rani Saheb is an honorific title for the senior wife of a high Rana. As a high-ranking Rana. Maujang may have had several wives.

ment as he read the label, sewn inside one of the pockets, as if it were a holy text. He read it, piecing it together from the knowledge of English letters that enabled him to write his name. "Whiteway Ladler and Company, Tailoring and Outfit. Department," it said. This was really evidence of the coat's royal magnificence, its incredible nobility and sophistication. Then Babusaheb recalled the many times after that, the many opportunities and occasions, the many people to whom he had shown that label, and the limitless pride he had felt. Lord! In this strange alien time, how disgraceful that a coat like this should be treated with such contempt!

Babusaheb jumped up and took the coat out into the light to inspect it properly.

"What a grand thing it is, what excellent art this is. Carefully sewn without a piece out of place! Even Brahma^[15] himself cannot have taken such care when he sculpted the human body!"

He looked at the coat's collar as he thought this. It was grubby and split; some threads were hanging loose.

"This makes it look less grand, does it not? But everything gets old, even people. Does aging have any effect on someone's caste, reputation, pride, or nobility? Such a coat! Now that the Whiteway Ladler Company is under the rule of the Hindustanis, even it could not produce another coat like this! Those craftsmen will already have left, unable to make a living. Who wears such expensive coats now? Where could you get cloth like this now, let alone a coat? It won't even be made in England any more. You just don't see such things nowadays. Even the English are going downhill, poor wretches! When they held Hindustan, they were so glorious. The most advanced society in the whole world! London was our capital then, I suppose. But where's that old spendor nowadays, even in Kathmandu?"

Babusaheb went on remembering. He recalled the generals'^[16] palace: such ornamentation! Iron bedsteads with brass decorations—fairies, creepers, flowers, and so on, all made by real artists—double spring , how soft they were! Huge, huge rooms, their walls covered with enormous portraits in golden frames, of kings and generals, and the kings and queens of England, Germany, Russia, Rome. . .. Each one worth more than 10,000! Huge cupboards, racks, and bookshelves, chairs and tables of every design. The polish seemed to be made from gold! Then there were sofa sets covered with silk and velvet, and tasseled curtains—there was no end to it! The walls, the ceilings, even the staircases, were an exhibition of marvels and magnificent things. Silver was an everyday thing;

[15] Brahma is the Hindu deity who created the universe.

[16] Every high Rana official assumed a military rank, which sometimes became hereditary.

gold was no concern. So many great vessels and pots of silver and gold, beautiful vases. So many servant girls and attendants, dressed in lovely clothes. An army of children, servants, subbas , parasol bearers, mukhiyas^[17] . Motors and horses and buggies . . . could all those wonders be remembered now? Babusaheb remembered the crowds that used to fill the palace and the servants' quarters, the press of people, the running about that went on. That was real grandeur then! What had become of it now?

He inspected his coat once again: a symbol of a proud noble past, a coat of Benson cloth, made in Whiteway's Tailoring Department. He rose and hung it up on the nail again. Then, in a haughty state of mind, he sat down in his seat with particular gravity. Intuitively he knew that the rumors were not important. Those Congress wretches only made fun of it to hide the jealousy they felt.^[18] They couldn't stand its nobility. The bastards simply envied him. Liars and petty, mean men all, yes, oh yes, they were truly great! When the principal officer came and they had welcomed him (Babusaheb reassumed the attitude of his past), how respectfully he had stared at Babusaheb in his coat. Not to mention the subbas and the lieutenants: jobs given to little men for their services to the hakim . An English district collector had come from Mugalan once;^[19] even that Mr. Cornish could not rest content without a long look at the coat when they invited him to go hunting.

Babusaheb recalled the many moments of glory when his coat had brought its high class and its brilliant, silently stated nobility to festivals, meetings, receptions, rituals, and wedding feasts. He brought its splendid history back to mind and felt his old completeness in the personal pride this generated. Wherever he went, and for whatever reason, this pink coat became the center of attention. With immense gravity, Babusaheb said to himself, "They're all rogues, the lot of them! Is this some ordinary coat? No! It is something very special, very, very special indeed!"

The central government's home minister was coming out on a tour, and the committee that was organizing a reception for him had called Maujang Babusaheb to a meeting. The day before he went to Nepalganj, Babusaheb carefully began to brush down the coat that Whiteway Ladler's had made. Clouds of dust rose into the air. Chi! They never brushed it, ever! He scolded the whole household, from the servants right up to the Rani Saheb herself.

[17] A mukhiya is a government official of the third rank; a subba is a government official one rank higher than a mukhiya .

[18] The Nepali Congress was the main political party among the forces that eventually ousted the Ranas in 1950-1951.

[19] Mugalan, "the land of the Mughals," is an old name for India.

"What's this now? If I don't tell you what to do, you just don't see the jobs! All this dust on such a fine coat! This is what's made the color fade! Would a coat like this fade otherwise? It's Benson cloth, but now you've let it fill with dust and the original color's finished! Oxen! The more you brush, the more dust you find!"

Eventually he finished brushing it and hung it up again. He covered it with a piece of cloth. But one thing kept on pricking him—how creased the coat had become. It would have to be ironed. But who could he give it to in the village? It was a complex problem. He was due at the bara hakim's house at eight the next morning. . . .^[20]

Next day, Babusaheb wrapped up the coat and set off for Nepalganj, with a servant carrying the bundle. In a corner of the bazaar he came to Gurdin the dhobi's house^[21] and called, "Hey Gurdin! Just iron my coat, and take care!"

Gurdin looked at it with an expert eye. "Alright sir. I'll have to heat the iron. Send your man in a little while, and I'll have it ready."

What Gurdin said was fair enough, but he knew what dhobis were like. If he didn't do it in time, or if he scorched it because he didn't know what sort of cloth it was . . . Babusaheb was not content.

"No, I'll go to that shop over there and smoke a cigarette. Heat the iron quickly, and I'll show you how to iron it. It's no ordinary coat, you know. You'll have to do as I tell you."

Gurdin's pride was injured. "How many expensive coats and trousers and clothes of all kinds have I ironed with these hands! Teaching me how to iron this pathetic, ragged old coat, indeed!" But he did not say this to Babusaheb. He just said, "Fine." Then when Babusaheb had left for the shop, Gurdin was gripped by anger and took his private revenge by throwing the coat down hard onto a pile of clothes in the corner. Soon the iron had warmed up. When he had spread out the clothes on his table and put the coat down, Babusaheb, who had been watching from a distance, came and seated himself close by on a three-legged stool.

Gurdin had barely touched the iron to the arm of the coat when Babusaheb shouted, "Hey, you ox! Damp it first, damp it first! It's scorched, it's scorched!"

Gurdin was mystified and stared blankly at him. "Sir, the iron hasn't warmed up properly yet. It's hardly warm; it's a cold iron. Do you think I know so little?" Then he bent low over his ironing. Gradually the iron became warmer. At every opportunity, Babusaheb still told him to

[20] Bara hakim , "great hakim, "is the most senior local government official.

[21] A dhobi is a professional washerman. Gurdin is a Muslin name.

dampen the coat, and Gurdin went on muttering angrily at the insult. Several technical things happened, but at last the ironing was done.

Babusaheb put the coat on while it was still warm, and he was about to leave when the dhobi said, "Sir, I haven't even begun the day's business. I did this job first thing in the morning."

Maujang Babusaheb tossed him 2 paisa. "There, you've had a month's income now. You'll take money before you've opened, won't you?" Then he walked out, saying firmly, "Now everyone will realize what this coat really is! As soon as it's been brushed down and ironed, it's back to its old glory. Something of quality demands greater care and attention. I'm a fool—should such a coat be hung on a nail? But what can I do in such circumstances? I have to support an army of people; my income is just this pathetic birta . "But then Babusaheb was alarmed at his own thoughts: "But a birta's a birta , after all—something given by the king, to be proud of. It supported me, and I did as much as I could, without any other means. What would my income have been without it?"

He glanced at his coat. His old pride flared up again, and his habitual vigor, power, and arrogance replaced the sense of deficiency he had been feeling just a moment before. Silently, he contemplated the unchallenged might, the undefeated power that had been his until so recently, and before he knew it he had entered the bara hakim 's gate and was standing on his verandah. Twenty-five men were sitting there, talking. As soon as he saw him the bara hakim said, "Come in, Babusaheb ;you're late. You'll have to make a door yourself!" He laughed and ushered Babusaheb to a seat.

Babusaheb quietly checked his coat in the place where the bara hakim had touched his arm to make sure it hadn't been creased. The discussion about the reception continued, and although Babusaheb chipped in now and then with a "yes" or a "no," his thoughts were elsewhere: "As soon as he touched my coat, the bara hakim will have realized what sort of a garment this is! No joking: quality is quality, after all."

But then a Tarai congressman butted in, "Why, Babusaheb, are you going to wear that coat even when the minister comes? The weather's getting hot, you know!"

Babusaheb stared at his face for a moment. "How uppity the lower castes are becoming," he thought. "Should I come dressed in a 4-paisa vest and loincloth just because it's warm? The minister's coming from Nepal, so he'll be wearing a woolen coat. However hot it is, the generals always wear uniforms made of soft cashmere. You haven't a clue about these things—is this how affairs of state are conducted?" He showed his contempt by remaining silent as the discussion went on. Whenever he saw a smile on the face of that congressman in his khaki jacket, Babusaheb

muttered to himself, "What to do? It's a different age now. This wretch would never have dared to make fun of this coat before."

Then he realized that the bara hakim kept glancing at his collar, and he thought he would die of shame because the collar was filthy and torn. Babusaheb was unbearably embarrassed, and his big face turned red. He could not sit there any longer. Somehow, he managed to stick it out for ten minutes more; then he took his leave and went out of the room. Even as he stepped down from the verandah, the sound of laughter reached his ears. What could have caused such laughter? It could have been nothing else—they were laughing at his torn collar, for sure. Babusaheb's eyes dampened with a mixture of sorrow and helpless anger, and he walked quickly to the main street. By the time he reached it, he was in control of his tears. The whole world was jealous of this coat's noble appearance, of its unending glory, he thought. Everyone was conspiring to bring down his reputation.

"Lord, such small-minded envy! To rob a poor coat of its honor! A lifeless, senseless coat! Now quality is considered a flaw—that's what's happened, you know! This is a mean-minded age. Greatness and honesty are sins now. And this is called democracy!..."

Back home again, Babusaheb spent the whole night in thoughts like these. He resolved that the respectability and honor of the coat made by Whiteway Ladler Company would not be allowed to disappear, for as long as he lived. . . .

There were only eight days to go before the minister's visit. The coat would have to be restored by then. It deserved to have its true nobility back; this wasn't something that could be humbled or diminished. He decided to go to Lucknow to have it dry-cleaned and repaired.^[22] But even at a rough estimate this would cost 40 or 50 rupees. Several members of the household suggested, "Just add another 40 or 50 and buy another coat. That would be better."

But Babusaheb smiled, as if he pitied their ignorance. "What are you thinking of? Do you think I could find a coat as good as this one, even for 100? Know-it-alls! Even if I had ten new coats, they could not compare with this one! It's only because I've neglected it, you know. I'm going to Lucknow, for certain. Just wait and see how it looks when I get back!"

Babusaheb was determined to go, but money was a problem. Even if he bought a second-class ticket, the return journey would cost at least 20 rupees. Even if he stayed at the cheapest hotel in Lucknow and ate

[22] Lucknow is a large city in the north Indian state of Uttar Pradesh, about one day's journey from Nepalganj.

only the simplest food, it would cost 9 or 10 a day. He would have to stay for four days: that meant 40 rupees. Then there was the dry-cleaning and repair—10 rupees, at most. Then perhaps 4 rupees a day for traveling around—not in a taxi, in a tonga^[23] —and add cigarettes, pan ,^[24] and so on—it wouldn't be less than 100 in all. And even if he kept to this, he would have to bring something small back from Lucknow for the children, the servants, and Rani Saheb, too. At least 200 in all! Two hundred rupees to clean an old coat! Two hundred! Two hundred! Those two words filled his brain. Then the sound of laughter from the bara hakim's house echoed in his ears again, and he pulled himself together.

"Why must it cost me 200? I'll go second class from Nepalganj to Gonda; then I'll go on from there in third class. Who will recognize me, after all? Then in Lucknow, Chedi Lal's dharamshala has good rooms; he'll let me stay four days.^[25] If I eat somewhere really cheap, 1 rupee per meal will be enough. It is four days after all! Even if it costs 50 rupees, the coat will come back ready." Babusaheb felt much better, and he called a servant to fill his pipe.

In the end, Babusaheb brought the coat back restored. There had been one problem in Lucknow: if the coat was darned after it had been washed, would the cleaning not have made it even more ragged than before? If so, the darning would turn out to be very costly. On the other hand, if he had it darned first, there was a danger that it might come apart again while it was being washed. Babusaheb solved this problem cleverly. He took it first to be darned.

"Every thread in this coat is rotten," the darner said. "It'll be very difficult to mend it."

But with great skill Babusaheb persuaded him. In later days, Babusaheb would describe in detail the care the darner had taken to mend it once he had begun. Then when he took it to the dry-cleaners', the manager had expressed concern when he saw how decrepit it was. But Babusaheb got him to write "not torn anywhere" on the receipt and made plain his intention to offer a tip. Babusaheb amazed everyone with his account of how lovingly it had been cleaned after that.

"If I hadn't gone there in person, the coat would have been ruined," he said, immensely satisfied with his cunning.

When the coat came back from the shop, in plastic packing with the company's name stamped on it, Babusaheb did not unwrap it. He could

[23] A tonga is a pony and trap.

[24] Pan refers to certain nuts, particularly betel, and pastes wrapped in a betel leaf and eaten as the Indian equivalent of chewing gum.

[25] A dharamshala is a simple, cheap hostel for the accommodation of pilgrims.

see the mended collar and the color of the coat through the plastic cover. He showed it to anyone who showed an interest. Why let the dust in by unwrapping it? And yes, Babusaheb brought them all a gift from Lucknow: lemon sweets for the children, plastic slides for the servant girls' hair, an amazing machine that threaded needles for the old cook. The thread went in even if you shut your eyes! And a bottle of Spring Flowers oil for the Rani Saheb. The whole lot cost him only 3 rupees, and everyone was happy.

Now Babusaheb waited impatiently for the minister's visit. Time passed by impossibly slowly, but at last the day arrived. The minister came: at eleven in the morning; Babusaheb was to attend a party in his honor at four. Early that morning, he shaved, trimmed his moustache, bathed, and sat down all prepared. At exactly three he was dressed in the clothes he was going to wear; then he sat and smoked. At half-past three, when it was time to leave, the coat was taken from its plastic packing. Well! No one would have thought that it was really the same coat! It had a completely new splendor, as if it had regained the youthfulness of a quarter century before. A servant woman dressed Babusaheb in it, taking great care not to crush or crease it. Babusaheb could not help feeling grateful, and he remembered that she was their oldest servant. How long had she served them? He felt a strong impulse to reward her, but his pockets were empty. So he suppressed that brief, generous thought regretfully; if he asked the Rani Saheb for money, he knew she would deny that she had any. Despite the return of his old grandeur, his helplessness in such a petty matter wrung his heart, and he held back tears of self-pity. Moreover, he felt remorse for not having been able to defend the honor of the coat he was wearing: a coat that had earned him his former glory but that had been so grossly insulted. Actually, in his feeling of greatness today, all his tyranny, barbarity, and ill-temper seemed to have disappeared. It was as if the noble nature of a loftily humanitarian, forgiving benefactor had welled up inside him. He regarded them all with great affection and silently wished them well.

Babusaheb arrived at. the reception in an exceedingly straightforward and positive frame of mind. As soon as he entered, everyone looked at his coat. For an instant they all stared at it, wide-eyed, and although smiles came to their mouths none of them actually laughed. Babusaheb took note of this, but today he felt no anger, no irritation, nothing at all of that sort. He was on a lofty mental plane where such impulses were pacified and stilled of themselves.

The convenor introduced Babusaheb to the minister and seated him on the dais. Babusaheb chatted to everyone with a civility and politeness appropriate to the occasion. At last the tea party was over and everyone left one by one, bidding the minister farewell as they departed. As Babusaheb

left, he thrust his hands into his coat's lower pockets, as was his habit. At the same time, a local congressman came out, too. He took Babusaheb by the arm and walked beside him, talking. On any other occasion, Babusaheb would not have tolerated the insolent intimacy of the lowlander, but today he was a different man and so he walked on, talking happily with him. But unfortunately, someone called to that congressman from behind, and he turned around without letting go of Babusaheb's arm. Babusaheb's arm was jolted, and because his hand was in his pocket, the old coat ripped from the top corner of the pocket to the bottom of the garment.

Jhaarrrrrrrrr ! ... A thousand earthquakes happened all at once, Babusaheb's heart was rocked by a blow that felt like the end of the world. The whole world seemed to collapse; the seven oceans came welling up into Babusaheb's eyes.

But could the mighty Maujang Babusaheb weep and wail in front of that worthless man? In the old days, he would have set the Alsatian on him and had him torn to pieces. But he did not have that option today; Babusaheb's attitude was no longer one of high and mighty greatness. With an immense effort, he suppressed a feeling of total anguish. Babusaheb was neither dumb with grief, nor did he even permit himself a cry of rage. All he said was, "Oh, what's happened?" and managed to calm himself with a careless gesture.

Slowly he walked outside, took off his coat, and handed it to his man, who stood there waiting for him. Once the congressman had taken his leave, Babusaheb went on his way, walking gravely and in silence. Although dressed now only in shirt and trousers, he did not lower his gaze in shame; and when he had peacefully, firmly, finished his walk and entered his house, he sat down in his usual chair. The man followed him in, hung the coat up on the same old nail, and then went out again. Babusaheb stared at the coat on its nail. The linen that was hanging from the torn pocket was like its tongue sticking out at him. "What's this now, eh?" it seemed to say. "Now what will you do?" He sat staring at it, dry-eyed, for ages. After a while—perhaps because she had heard about the coat being torn—the Rani Saheb came running in and looked closely at it.

"What has happened, eh? How did this happen? Oh Lord, now what will you do?"

"Nothing has happened." Despite the terrible accident, Babusaheb spoke peaceably, even in his own home. "Nothing has happened. I just went to meet the minister, and then I came home. The Ranas' rule is ended."

(written in 1960; from Bhikshu 1960b)