ONCE UPON A TIME, there lived a poor Brahman, who earned a tiny income as a clerk. He had one son, a bright, clever boy, who went to school and was a favourite alike of boys and masters. He might have risen to great learning, had his father lived. Unhappily before the boy had left school the poor Brahman died. The boy had to leave school and try to keep his mother and younger brothers and sisters. At first he became a candidate for a clerkship in a public office. But this brought him no pay; and although he wrote petitions in his spare time, he only earned thereby Rs. 3 or Rs. 4 a month. This sum was but enough to keep him and his family from starving. One day he resolved to seek some other way of earning a living and this is what he did.

He went into the town and hired the smallest shop he could find. He spent the few annas he had in the world in buying some writing paper, an ink pot, a bottle of ink, a pen and an empty box. Over the shop he got painted the words “WISDOM SELLER.” All round him were jewellers’ shops, cloth shops, green-grocers’ shops. The other dealers waited for customers, but the green-grocers shouted to the passers-by “Pumpkins! Pumpkins!—three pice a pound!”

The Brahman boy thought that he would do as the green-grocers did and when any one passed, he called out at the top of his voice, “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” At first the passers-by could not make out what he meant. When they understood, they did not think of buying his wares. They crowded round his shop and laughed at him. “Who would buy wisdom,” they cried, “especially from a lad like that?” But the Brahman boy did not mind them at all. He went on shouting at the top of his voice “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” For several days he made no money at all; but at last the whole city got to hear of the new shop and four or five passers-by stopped and bought an anna or two worth of wisdom. He was thus rather better off than when he had been an unpaid clerk; but he knew that when the novelty wore off, he would get no more customers. Still he did not despair.

It so happened that a certain Nagar lived in that city. He was really very stupid; but he had inherited a large fortune from his father and so he thought himself very clever. Just to show off, he called his only son VIDHYA or LEARNING. But in spite of this grand name, the son was just as stupid as the father. One day Vidhya passed the Brahman boy’s shop and heard him shout “Wisdom! Wisdom! All kinds! All prices!” So foolish was he, that he thought wisdom was a sort of vegetable. He first asked its price per pound. The Brahman boy said “I sell not by weight, but by quality.” Vidhya then put two pice on the counter and said he would take half an anna’s worth. The boy wrote on a piece of paper “It is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.” He then tied the paper inside Vidhya’s scarf and took the money.

Vidhya went home and said to his father “I have bought some wisdom for two pice and it is tied inside my scarf. Let us undo the knot and look at it.” His father did not understand, but undid the knot and finding the paper read “It is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.” He was very angry and said to his son “Well, you are a fool! Fancy paying two pice for this nonsense! Why, everyone knows that it is not wise to stand and watch two people fighting.”

In a great rage the Nagar walked to the Brahman’s shop and began to call out “Rogue! Thief! Cheat! you did my son out of his money, just because he was a foolish boy. Give me back the two pice, or I shall call the police!” The Brahman kept his temper and said quietly: “Why are you so angry about nothing? I did not make your son give me the two pice. He asked me to sell him so much wisdom and I did so. Give me back my wisdom and take back your money.” At once the Nagar threw the paper at the Brahman and cried: “Now give me my money!” The Brahman said “No, I said I would give you back your money if you gave me back my wisdom. You only offer me the paper. If you want your two pice back, you must sign a document, binding your son never to abide by my advice and always to stand and watch people fighting.” The passers-by took the side of the Brahman boy. The Nagar signed the document and went away with his two pice, very pleased to get them back so cheaply.

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Two or three months later each of the king’s two queens sent her maid to buy her some groceries. They both went to the same grocer and both tried to buy the same article. As the grocer had only the one sample they began to quarrel so fiercely that the grocer in a fright took to his heels and ran out of the shop. But the two maids went on quarrelling. Just then Vidhya strolled up and saw the quarrel. Before meeting the Brahman boy he would have run away; for stupid though he was, he knew it was unsafe to stand and watch a fight especially between the two queens’ maid servants. But he remembered the promise made by his father, so he went close up and watched. One of the maids noticed him and called on him to witness that the other maid had struck her. The other maid retorted that so far from giving blows, she had received any number of them; and she, too, called on Vidhya to be her witness. At last they separated and the maidservants and Vidhya went to their several homes.

The two maids went to their mistresses and exaggerated what had happened. The queens in turn became furious and sent their maids to complain to the king. At the same time each sent word to Vidhya that if he did not depose in favour of her maid servant he would be beheaded. Vidhya was very frightened and told his father. The two talked the matter over all that day and all the next night, but they could not find a way of escape. At last Vidhya said “Let us ask the Brahman boy, who sells wisdom; if he really has any to sell, he may help me out.”

As a last resort, the Nagar agreed and father and son went to the Brahman boy’s shop and told him what had befallen Vidhya. The Brahman boy asked for a fee of Rs. 500. On getting the money, he told Vidhya to feign insanity and to pretend that he did not understand what the king asked him. Next day the king heard the case. The king questioned him closely, but no question would he answer. He merely gabbled all the time, until the king lost all patience and drove him out of the court room. Very pleased with himself, Vidhya ran home and to all whom he met he praised the wisdom of the Brahman boy, whose fame thus spread through the whole city.

The Nagar was at first delighted at his son’s escape; then he began to reflect that his son must always feign insanity or the king would learn that he had been tricked and would certainly cut Vidhya’s head off. He went to the Brahman boy, who asked for another fee of Rs. 500 which the Nagar paid.

“Vidhya should go to the king,” said the Brahman boy, “when he is in a merry mood and tell him the whole story. When he is in a good temper, he will laugh at it and forgive him.” Vidhya followed the advice and one day finding the king in a good humour he confessed everything. The king laughed heartily and forgave him. Then he sent for the Brahman boy and asked him whether he would sell him wisdom and, if so, at what price. “Yes,” said the boy, “I shall be very proud to sell the king wisdom; but my fee will be one lakh.” The king paid the lakh and got in return a paper on which the boy had written: “Do nothing without thinking deeply first.” The king knew the advice to be excellent and dismissing the young Brahman, he had the words embroidered on all his clothes and engraved on all his plates, cups and dishes.

A few months later the king fell very ill. The prime minister eager to get rid of him, urged the doctor to put poison in the royal medicine. The doctor agreed and gave the king a poisoned draught. As the king lifted his gold cup to his lips, he saw engraved on it the words “Do nothing without thinking deeply first.” Without suspecting anything he thought over the words and lowering the cup looked intently at its contents.

The doctor’s guilty conscience made him fear that the king guessed that the medicine was poisoned. He threw himself at his master’s feet and confessing everything, prayed for mercy. The astonished king called the guard and had the doctor seized. He sent for the prime minister and bade him drink the poisoned medicine. The minister in his turn threw himself at the royal feet and begged for mercy. But the king had him hanged on the spot. He then sent for the doctor and after rating him soundly, banished him from the kingdom. Lastly he made the Brahman boy, whose wisdom had saved his life, Prime Minister and loaded him with honours.

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X

A YEAR OR SO prior to the outbreak of the Indian Sepoy Mutiny, Munshi Ram was born in 1856, at Talwan, in the Jullundar district. His father—Lala Nanak Chand—a Khatri of that small village near Jullundar, was, at the time, a daroga (Sub-Inspector of Police) in the Northwest Province (now the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh). He bowed to the Lord-over-dissolution (Siva) as his god of gods and was credited with being honest. His wife was, if anything, even more devout in worshipping that deity and particularly in the adoration of his shakti (energy) now personified as Uma, the Himalayan tapesvi (anchorite), now as Durga, the white-faced, beneficent One, and now as Kali, black-visaged with blood-red, thick, long tongue lolling out of her gaping mouth and a garland of skulls depending from her neck.

Munshi Ram had begun his student career exceedingly well. Powerfully built, he assiduously cultivated his body by exercise that had not yet been displaced, to any large extent, by foreign importations. His intelligence, bright by nature, he polished with equal diligence.

Once, however, out of his mother’s sight, upon entering the college at Benares (his father was then an inspector at Bareilly), he went to pieces. Riotous living played havoc with his body and mind alike. Failure in the First in Arts examination was inevitable. Without graduation, he entered public service. High officials pleased with his father made all arrangements for him to put his foot upon the first rung of the ladder (a Naib Tehsildarship). By that means he may have climbed to executive heights: but, through his own volition, that was not to be.

XI

Illumination had come to Munshi Ram. That prospect, so bright in his fellows’ eyes, lost for him any attraction it might ever had had. No. He would go back to his studies. He would secure from the University the title that, confirmed by the Chief Court, would enable him to engage in (what was then deemed to be) an independent, honourable profession.

This light had fallen upon his mind from a Hindu sage. Named as an infant Mulshankar, he was to become illustrious. That word meant the primal shankar: and shankar was an appellation given to the lord over all the agencies that make for disintegration.

Suitably named was Mulshankar till the night of nights in his life. He then realized that the deity of his adoration was only a “stock”—a “stone.” It would vouchsafe him no solution of the problems that at the moment perplexed his votary.

That realization directed his mind towards the Veda (literally knowledge) and particularly the oldest portion of it—the Rig —and the Upanishads containing the essence of our ancient culture. With the wisdom derived from these studies, he prepared a work that he named the Satyarth Prakash—guide to the true path. According to him, this was the path that our forbears—the Aryans or Aryas (to use his term)—trod in the Golden Age.

With the scholar-teacher’s danda (staff) in hand, he—now acclaimed as the Swami Dayanand Sarasvati —travelled from town to town, province to province, everywhere preaching. Wherever he toured, he exhorted the people to come off from the tangent upon which they had flown in this degenerate age. They must get back on to the main track—the Aryan track.

His preaching threw into nervous convulsions priests who battened upon the men and (especially the) women caught in their toils. They sought to humiliate him by proving that his exposition of the writings held sacred was unwarranted. An erudite Sanskrit scholar, he, however, confounded the best of them, even at so important a religious centre as Benares—the Varanashi of the Buddha’s day and Kashi of the Kassikas.

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Dayananda wandered into Bareilly (now in the United Provinces of Agra and Oudh), in 1882. Munshi Ram’s father was set by the authorities, in whose pay he was, to keep an eye over the meeting that the revivalist was to address. He took his son along, little dreaming that this was to be a red-letter day in the young man’s calendar.

Of this meeting I had an account from Munshi Ram’s own lips. The sight of the sage, he said, astonished him.

Tall and broad-shouldered, the Swami stood erect like a giant of the forest. His body was lithe as if each muscle—each tendon—was wrought of the finest steel and worked on ball-bearings. His voice, though strong and penetrating, was mellifluous. His chanting of the Vedic texts, with which his speech was interlarded, lifted the listeners from the shabby little town and deposited them in some primeval forest. There, in a clearing, the rishi, who had composed those words, was, mayhap, instructing the pupils who had entered the guru’s (teacher’s) kula (clan, sept).

The men who heard the Swami chant hymns were struck not only by the perfect intonation of the ancient words, but also by their appositeness to the theme that he was developing at the moment. They were even more impressed by the ease with which he pulverized the contentious questioner—be he Eastern or Western—Hindu, Muslim or Christian.

Moved to the depth of his soul, Munshi Ram sought and obtained the opportunity for heart to heart talks. They lifted him out of the slough in which he had been sinking.

He resolved to take the road re-discovered by the sage. His resolve shook the domestic circle. Despite the emotional storm he had raised, he stuck to his decision.

Concluded

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VI

Events that have been or were soon to be matters of comment and even heated discussion among the grown-ups amidst whom my life, more by choice than by accident, was cast, served to impress my new uncle upon my mind. He was represented as being a member of a band that was upsetting the social order.

They were credited with good intentions. They meant, to be sure, to put “spirit” into the Hindus—to make the Hindus stand up like men. More than this, they were desirous of opening up for them economic opportunities by addressing themselves to certain callings—weaving, for example—which were largely left to non-Hindus.

Their agitation, however, was of a disturbing nature. They caused contention. They brought Hindus much ill-will.

As if this were not enough, they engaged in debates and discussions that roused considerable acrimony. Christians and Muslims alike waxed wroth.

The officials detested the Aryas even more than did the Hindus. They regarded them as Satan’s spawn. This because of the discord that their contention roused in a peaceful population. No it hazoors (“yes-men”) themselves, they stirred others to walk erect, with head held high in the air.

Much of this talk was not fully intelligible to me till later years. I fully understood, however, that no one was more actively engaged in furthering this social revolution than my new-found “uncle.” Contention was the breath of his nostrils. One of his companions—Pandit Lekh Ram—had been done to death by some fanatic. That fact stood out above all talk.

VII

The more I saw of Uncle Munshi Ram, the better I liked him. Whenever he met me when I happened to go to Jullundar, where he then lived and practised, or when he came to Hoshiarpur, he would quietly ask me how I was getting on with my writing. Did my father frown upon my giving time to it instead of studying my school books? Did my masters (the word “teacher” was not used in the Punjab of that day) object?

On one occasion when he and I chanced to be by ourselves, he turned the pages of his own life-story backwards. “There was a time in my student days,” he told me, in his forthright way, “when I did not study as hard as I should have. The result was that I failed to pass the examination. I disappointed my father. That pained me more than the humiliation I suffered in my own sight.

“Now, my boy, you see to it that you do not make the mistake that I did. It cost me dearly. Be sure that neglect of a similar nature does not cost you even dearer.

“After all, you have plenty of time ahead of you. After you get through with the school—and college—books, you can devote your whole self to writing. Then no one will—at least legitimately can—object. You can get ahead with writing as much as you please. All you please.”

He had a way of repeating words and phrases. They emphasized what he said. At that point in my life’s journey that method was to me of immense importance—of great value.

VIII

Either at this juncture or a short time later, Uncle Munshi Ram confided in me that in one respect he was something like me (just note the delicacy with which he paid this compliment!). He wished to do nothing so much as to write—as to speak. But—

But the law interfered. He had to study the cases (I had not yet learnt the word “brief”) that he had to conduct. Files had to be examined in court, in addition to the papers his clients had entrusted him with. He had to appear before the judge, who, at times, sat with assessors. He had to ask searching questions—he had to plead.

How he disliked it all! There was so much in it that was dishonest. Crooked. Downright crooked. He wished to be rid of it all. He would get rid of it. He had already given up much of the work. He accepted only a few cases. Seldom did he appear in court. He longed for the time to come when he could give up the business altogether.

“And then, Uncle, what will you do?”

“I will write—write—preach—preach.”

I saw that the conversation was veering towards the region that I had been told endangered the faith—Sikhism—in which I was being brought up.

“Talk all you wish with Uncle Munshi Ram,” father had admonished me, “only do not let him make an Arya of you.”

The way father said this implied that no worse disaster could befall me. With one exception. My being influenced by the Reverend Doctor Chatterjee.

That missioner lived in the Mission Compound, near the playground. To it I went every evening. While on my way thither or back I sometimes chanced upon him. Now and again I even contrived to meet him. He used to give me papers and magazines to read and encouraged me to write.

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IX

Something that Uncle Munshi Ram had written in one of the papers he conducted must have upset father about this time. Or more likely the offending article had emanated from the pen of some lieutenant of his. Some of these worthies were Sikh in appearance. They let their zeal in the Arya Samaj cause drag them into regions that made them, in father’s sight, devils incarnate.

Or it may have been that his talks with me he had caused annoyance. Their trend cut across father’s ambition for me.

I was to be sent to England and, if I could manage it, was to enter the Indian Civil Service. I was otherwise to be called to the bar.

Uncle Munshi Ram hated the idea of my entering any service, however highly esteemed that service might be. He hated legal chicanery even more.

Whatever caused annoyance, father said to me one day: Munshi Ram is like the cat that, after devouring 99,000 mice, proceeded upon pilgrimage.

In view of all that had gone before, I was astonished at the taunt so wryly flung by him at one whom he had taught me to call—and to treat—as uncle. Knowing his ways, I kept silence. That silence encouraged him to pour out the vials of wrath that had accumulated in his system.

“To-day he is acclaimed a Mahasha (high-souled one),” father said, the acid of irony dripping from his accents. “What was he yesterday, though—and the day before?

“I will tell you. He was a drunkard. Worse. He consorted with women of evil repute. As for eating meat, he, before he turned (an) Arya consumed so much that you would be lucky if you came within a hundred miles of the quantity, even if you live to be a thousand years of age.

“You see, he was ushered into the world by a police daroga. You know what that means. He himself was in the police^[2] service for some years. What need to say more?”

Father could—and did—dramatize events when his imagination was stirred. Divested of the twists and turns he gave, however, he was telling only the truth. What I learnt, from time to time, from Uncle Munshi Ram and from other sources, confirmed his statements.

To be continued

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Synopsis

Set within a luxurious London conclave, A Day in the Life of a Chapati is a biting political satire exposing the hypocrisy of the global intellectual elite.

The story follows Zalil Chapati, a wealthy, self-important human rights consultant plagued by agonising bowel issues.

As Zalil navigates an exhausting day at a "dissent" conference, he intera…

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Editor’s Note

SANT NIHAL SINGH was one of a kind. Born into relative affluence in Rawalpindi in 1884, he went on to become an itinerant journalist and writer, travelled the world and produced a staggering body of work. In the West especially, his name was taken with a mixture of respect and detraction, especially by sections of the racist media. In Canad…

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Editor’s Note

Both as a word and as an unbroken cultural practice, Mādhukarī has a profound resonance. Its literal meaning is “the bee-like act of gathering nectar from different flowers.” Mādhukarī was mandatory for only two Āśramas - Brahmacharya and Sanyasa; for the Brahmachāri or student, taking alms from various houses was the sole way of earning hi…

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Chapter 1: The Boatman of Benares

I WILL NEVER FORGET that kindly boatman of Benares in his mid-60s. I was half his age. He looked slightly emaciated due to age but his strength came from a lifetime of muscle memory and casual expertise and not merely his physicality. Our conversation turned to family matters and I candidly asked him how long he would co…

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THE HINDU COMMUNITY still produces men of the Sattvik type, though their number is much smaller than before. They rarely, if ever, appear in newspaper; what they do is done in silence and secrecy. While touring in the Rewah State in the nineties of the last century, I was surprised to find that the Goods of an extensive tract who, …

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European Contempt for Hindu Society

THE EUROPEAN ACCUSTOMED TO a different state of society, but little acquainted with ours, views the restricted freedom of higher class Hindu females, the comparative seclusion in which they live at1d their untiring wholehearted, self-sacrificing devotion to household duties as little better tha…

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PRAMATHA NATH BOSE was the Iron Man of India in the literal sense. He is also known as the father of Indian geology and palaeontology, and one of his distinguished pupils, Sri B.P. Radhakrishna—another pioneering geologist—has written a heartfelt eulogy on this luminary.

Pramatha Nath Bose set up the first-ever soap factory in India and was the first sci…

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Liquor, Wheat and a Philosopher’s Personal Diary

Mistress Page in Shakespeare’s Merry Wives of Windsor, utters an ancient English proverb: “Still swine eat all the draugh.”

Draugh is the archaic spelling of draff, a word which is almost extinct in the country of its origin.

The earliest mention of this proverb is found in The Proverbs of John Heywood, who “made coarse rhymes fashionable” as early as 1546, eighteen years before Shakespeare’s birth.

The redoubtable H.L. Mencken, after ransacking hundreds of dictionaries of quotations, gives us the American variant of this proverb in his classic A New Dictionary Of Quotations On Historical Principles From Ancient And Modern Sources: “The still sow gets the swill.” And then he reports that there is no “instance of its use in England in its American form.” Swill is still widely used in America both as a noun and a verb. It is the Americanism of draff.

The slightly honourable meaning of draff is “sediment” and “residue,” typically used in the context of brewing and distillation. But its original sense is quite ghastly. It denoted the awful mass of dregs that remained after brewing beer or distilling whisky. This odious refuse was sold by liquor makers to pig farmers, thus birthing the “still swine” proverb.

On the other hand, the word chaff is its pleasanter cousin; the sight of its whorls rising up at twilight in eccentric patterns is charming to behold. But both chaff and draff are unfit for human use. The former is disagreeable, the latter, fatal.

“Jotted down for no eye but my own”

But Chaff and Draff is also a bizarre title for a personal diary written by Acharya M. Hiriyanna, one of the Premiers of Vedantic philosophy and Aesthetics of the 20^th century. His public image and common perception was that of a sagely Guru who only spoke in the classroom or in academic forums. But it is not difficult to answer why such a saintly, tranquil man chose such an uncharacteristic title for his personal diary - it was fully consonant with his self-effacing temperament. In other words, he was simply being truthful to his conscience. Hiriyanna and humility are synonymns.

Chaff and Draff was never meant to be published. In his own lifetime, Hiriyanna’s family was probably unaware of its existence, and our boundless thanks are due to his posterity for preserving a priceless treasure.

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Editor’s Note

IN FEBRUARY 1941, the Poona-based publisher, R.D. Ghanekar published a modest book titled Gandhi-Muslim Conspiracy authored by “A Hindu Nationalist.” It generated instant hostility and instant praise from almost all quarters. Given its timing, this reaction was quite expected.

The Second World War was at its peak and the British as usual had…

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EVER HEARD OF MŪLA-GAYĀ?

It’s called Dhamlej today, 33 kms south of Sri Somanatha Kshetra. Google describes it as a “quiet, active fishing and agrarian village,” indicating the complete erasure of its hallowed past.

It was a renowned Surya Kshetra commanding sanctity equal to Modhera; its very location impelled this renown. Dhamlej was one of the great hu…

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