“You want to know, do you?” replied my
master. “It is Nikhil himself who has
to buy up that Indian mill yarn; he has had to start
a weaving school to get it woven; and to judge by his
past brilliant business exploits, by the time his
cotton fabrics leave the loom their cost will be that
of cloth-of-gold; so they will only find a use, perhaps,
as curtains for his drawing-room, even though their
flimsiness may fail to screen him. When you get
tired of your vow, you will laugh the loudest at their
artistic effect. And if their workmanship is
ever truly appreciated at all, it will be by foreigners.”
I have known my master all my life, but have never
seen him so agitated. I could see that the pain
had been silently accumulating in his heart for some
time, because of his surpassing love for me, and that
his habitual self-possession had become secretly undermined
to the breaking point.
“You are our elders,” said the medical
student. “It is unseemly that we should
bandy words with you. But tell us, pray, finally,
are you determined not to oust foreign articles from
your market?”
“I will not,” I said, “because they
are not mine.”
“Because that will cause you a loss!”
smiled the M.A. student.
“Because he, whose is the loss, is the best
judge,” retorted my master.
With a shout of __Bande Mataram__ they left us.
Nikhil’s Story
A few days later, my master brought Panchu round to
me. His __zamindar__, it appeared, had fined
him a hundred rupees, and was threatening him with
ejectment.
“For what fault?” I enquired.
“Because,” I was told, “he has been
found selling foreign cloths. He begged and prayed
Harish Kundu, his __zamindar__, to let him sell off
his stock, bought with borrowed money, promising faithfully
never to do it again; but the __zamindar__ would not
hear of it, and insisted on his burning the foreign
stuff there and then, if he wanted to be let off.
Panchu in his desperation blurted out defiantly:
“I can’t afford it! You are rich;
why not buy it up and burn it?” This only made
Harish Kundu red in the face as he shouted: “The
scoundrel must be taught manners, give him a shoe-beating!”
So poor Panchu got insulted as well as fined.
“What happened to the cloth?”
“The whole bale was burnt.”
“Who else was there?”
“Any number of people, who all kept shouting
__Bande Mataram__. Sandip was also there.
He took up some of the ashes, crying: ’Brothers!
This is the first funeral pyre lighted by your village
in celebration of the last rites of foreign commerce.
These are sacred ashes. Smear yourselves with
them in token of your __Swadeshi__ vow.’”
“Panchu,” said I, turning to him, “you
must lodge a complaint.”
