The Beggar Sahib

Chapter One

In my haste to catch the train, I jumped into a horse-drawn carriage and persuaded the driver with the promise of a substantial tip. Unfortunately, the train departed just as we reached the station. What a nuisance! The next train was not due until evening. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was already past one. There was no urgent need to return to the colliery. The problem at hand was that I did not have enough provisions to get me through the long wait for the train to arrive.

I stepped out of the carriage. Both the horses were panting heavily, sweat trickling down their bodies. The coachman looked extremely disappointed. He saluted me and said, “Huzoor, it’s not my fault. I drove the horses so hard that they’re practically half-dead.” He wasn’t wrong. I made good on my promise, and gave him a double tip. That made him smile. My servant, Tewari, asked me, “Babu! Should I take the luggage to the waiting room?”

A neem tree stood nearby, providing ample shade. A gentle, delightful spring breeze swept through. I gazed yearningly at the inviting spot beneath the tree. Hari Tewari, my servant, who had been constantly at my side for many years, could tell what my intentions were just by the look on my face. He said, “I could prepare a bed for you right under this tree if you wish.”

I replied, “Yes, you do that. I’ll rest here for a while.”

Hari Tewari started preparing a bed for me by laying a thick blanket on the soft, green grass. Then he put a rug on top of it and finished the arrangement with a kolbalish—a bolster. I removed my coat and shoes, released a deep, contented sigh, and reclined against the pillow. Tewari went off to prepare the tobacco for my hookah after I refilled its water chamber.

A tall, elderly Englishman appeared and stood by my bed as soon as Tewari was out of sight. He took off his hat and said in English, “In the name of Christ, could you please give me a paisa?”

He wore fine garments, but his silk hat was so worn that the dust had turned its original black colour to a dull grey, making it almost impossible to tell it was silk. His other clothing was in a similar state. As for his formal attire, he was in no way lacking, as he also wore a collar and a tie! The wind ruffled his long, dishevelled hair, sending it flowing in all directions. It was clear from his appearance that he was at least sixty years old. For some inexplicable reason, I felt a sudden surge of curiosity when I saw this man. No doubt he was hiding a heartbreaking tale of a life in ruins. Eager to discover his story, I decided to spend some time with him, or at least until I felt sleepy.

I said, “Please sit down.”

Much to my annoyance, he insisted on sitting on my bed. As a follower of the Brahmo religion, I didn’t believe in untouchability, but allowing this dusty old vagabond to sit on my bed was taking it a step too far!

I said hastily, “Why don’t you sit on the grass over there?”

He responded with a tone of pride, “Sir, my clothes would get dirty if I did that!”

Given the state of his clothes, I found this most amusing! I retrieved the blanket from beneath the carpet and handed it to him. He sat down and stretched out his legs. Then he asked, “Would you like a cigar?”

I replied, “No, but feel free to have one.”

The man pulled out a cigar, which turned out to be the finest quality from Havana. I was completely taken aback. I could hardly believe that this beggar could afford such an expensive Havana cigar. On the other hand, he could have stolen it from someone.

At that very moment, my servant came in with my hookah, all set up and ready to be used. I gave it a little puff. Tewari gave the beggar sahib a piercing and disapproving look.

While I was smoking, I struck up a conversation with the sahib. He introduced himself as Henry.

I remarked, “That’s clearly your Christian name. What about your surname?”

“I don’t have a surname.”

He was reluctant to divulge any details of his personal history, except to say, “I am completely penniless. I can’t even afford to feed myself. I wander aimlessly through these streets.”

 “Do you have any other family members?”

He replied, “I don’t have any parents. I’m an orphan child.” A child, no doubt!

I inquired further, “And what about a wife or children?”

 “No, I have no wife, children, or family whatsoever.”

Suddenly, an idea popped into my mind. Why not attempt to transform this sahib into a Bengali? I planned to take him to the coal mine, where he would oversee the coolies as their new supervisor. I would offer him a daily meal of daal and rice and dress him in a dhoti and shawl. If he accepted, it would be a spectacle_— the likes of which no one had ever seen! This was an opportunity I could not pass up, so I put the proposal through to him.

Henry agreed with great enthusiasm. He said, “Oh yes, babu. I’d quite like to be a Bengolly. My race has nothing but contempt for the Bengollies. By becoming a Bengolly, I can try to atone for the sins of my race. I will prove to the world that Bengollies too deserve respect.”

I couldn’t help but smile to myself and think, “When people find out about this, they will assume you acted out of financial desperation.”

Anyway, I said, “Let’s get moving. The train is due in the evening. If you have any belongings, get them now.”

He answered, “I have nothing in this world, babu. Not anymore. But I have a question for you. Can you find quality Havana cigars in your area?”

I replied, “I’m not sure about that, but it seems unlikely.”

Henry, with a solemn expression on his face, announced, “Then I’m afraid I won’t be able to accompany you after all, babu!”

What an odd man! Despite barely scraping by and often going hungry, he clung doggedly to his daily ritual of enjoying Havana cigars. There he was, begging on the streets; but when I offered him food and shelter, he refused without a second thought – simply for fear of missing out on his beloved cigars! 

I said, “I can arrange to buy your Havana from Calcutta if you like. My chaprassi goes to Calcutta once a week.”

This delighted Henry immensely. He thanked me profusely and said, “Babu, you must try out one of my Havanas. I insist.”

I was not used to smoking cigars, but Henry simply would not give up. Finally, I had no choice but to try it. It was superb. 

Chapter Two

Henry proved to be quite resourceful. I permitted him to stay in my front room. I transformed him into a Bengali gentleman by dressing him in traditional attire, which suited him remarkably well! A British friend of mine recently came visiting. He was thoroughly amused by the sight of Henry, and the story of how I brought him there. He snapped a picture and submitted it to The Strand Magazine’s “Curiosity Column.” The photo was accompanied by the caption: “An Englishman in a Bengali costume.” In addition to the caption, my friend provided a brief description of Henry’s life. If The Strand agreed to publish the photograph, it might arouse the interest of countless Englishmen in Bengali fashion.

Dressed in Bengali attire, Henry’s robust British physique now presented a striking and unique sight. Regular meals had transformed his look remarkably. The degree of obedience shown to him by the coolies was also astonishing. While they would greet me with two salutes a day, Henry, on the other hand, would receive at least ten!

Henry wasn’t content with being a supervisor; he also took on the role of teaching English to my eldest daughter, Giribala. In fact, she had become quite attached to him! Within just two months, she had taught him enough spoken Bengali to be able to communicate. “She had even turned him into an uncle, affectionately referring to him as Henry kaka, making him sound younger than he really was!” It really annoyed me when she first started doing that. One day, in the presence of my wife, I turned to Giri and teasingly asked her, “Why do you keep calling him kaka, you silly goose? He’s much older than your father! Isn’t he more of a jyatha – an elder uncle, than a kaka? Or better yet, why not just call him mama? He’s certainly the right age to be your mother’s brother!”

After that, she began addressing him as Henry dada, or big brother.

During the month of Jaistha, Giribala fell ill with a fever. She had spent the previous two mornings gathering flowers in the rain. After my morning cup of tea, I went to work early, as usual. Giri ignored her mother’s warnings. As a result of this indiscretion, she caught a cold accompanied by a high temperature. Initially, I paid little heed to it; these fevers usually go away after a day or two of fasting.

After five or six days, the fever spiralled into delirium, and the situation became increasingly critical. At first, she was being treated by the colliery’s native doctor, but as her symptoms worsened, I arranged for the assistant surgeon from Raniganj to visit her once a day.

Henry sat at his pupil’s bedside and looked after her day and night. He devoted himself to her welfare in a way that even her parents could not match. He hardly ever ate or slept. Henry would get enraged if we made the slightest mistake about medication or diet.

The situation deteriorated to the point where it seemed unlikely that Giri would make it through the night. Overwhelmed with despair, my wife left our daughter’s side and collapsed onto the floor of the adjacent room in tears. An icy numbness spread through my limbs as well. The doctor from Raniganj usually left in his car in the evening, but that day he could not go. He kept trying different medicines every hour. At around two in the morning, the doctor started preparing a new medication. Henry kept a watchful eye on every drug that was being administered to our child. He would pester the doctor with endless questions. This time, he said, “Now, I won’t allow that.”

The doctor grew furious. He asked me, “Sir, why is this man interfering with my duties?”

Henry was usually a decent man, but he could be quite unreasonable sometimes. Normally, I would have been amused by his peculiar behaviour, but on this occasion, it only irritated me.

Henry launched into a verbal assault on the doctor, even calling him “a stupid fool.” He said, “This man knows nothing. Get rid of him. He almost killed the patient!”

The doctor responded, “If you are going to prevent me from providing treatment, I’ll have to leave.” With that, he stood up. 

This came as a shock to my wife and me. I said to Henry, “What are you doing? What do you know about medicine? Let the doctor do what he thinks is best, and then we’ll accept whatever is written in our destiny.”

Henry exclaimed, “Destiny? What on earth are you talking about? If she’s intentionally given this medication, it will be her death sentence! Her temperature will plummet, and her pulse will become erratic in half an hour.”

The doctor responded, “You have no idea what you’re saying! Would you care to explain why her pulse would drop?”

I reassured Henry, saying, “Henry, I believe the doctor is correct. There’s no need to be afraid.”

Henry finally said to the doctor, “All right, administer the medicine, but if my girl dies, I will ensure that you are charged with her murder and arrested. Also, please make a list of the medications you are administering, sign it, and give it to me.”

Having said this, he swiftly made a list of all the medications and said to the doctor, “Sign here.”

The doctor hesitated. Seeing these two argue so, I began to fear for my daughter’s life. There wasn’t much time. I grabbed the doctor’s hand and said, “Sir! He’s a madman. Don’t listen to him. Give her whatever medicine you think is right.” I snatched the list from Henry and tore it into pieces.

The medicine was administered. Henry watched on with anger blazing in his eyes. He said, “May God forgive you.”

The doctor’s thermometer was of the best quality, capable of measuring a person’s temperature in just half a minute. Giri’s temperature was being checked every five minutes, and it was dropping at an alarming rate. The doctor’s face turned pale.

As our daughter’s limbs grew colder with each passing minute, my wife burst into tears. The doctor rose from his seat and left the room.

Henry was distraught. “Look! He has killed the girl. I’m going to murder him!” At that moment, he lost all control and attempted to run outside and confront the doctor. Restraining him proved to be quite a challenge. Had the doctor been present to witness this scene, his refined Bengali nature would have been so shaken that he might have considered abandoning his medical profession altogether. I urged Henry, “If you truly possess medical expertise, please try to save her while there’s still a chance.”

My wife said, “Henry, if you can save her life, our daughter is your daughter from now.”

“You’ll give your daughter to me?”

 “Yes.”

Henry’s face lit up. Watching his gleeful reaction during such a time of crisis made me seriously question his sanity.

Henry asked again, “You swear by all that’s holy that if I manage to save the child, she will be my daughter?”

Still sobbing, my wife replied, “Yes, Henry. If you can save her, she’s yours.”

“Very well then. Let me try.”

He pulled the doctor’s bag close to him and, with a nimble hand, prepared some medicine and poured some into Giri’s mouth. But she was not able to swallow it, and it dribbled out of her mouth.

Henry retrieved a needle-like object from the bag. He dipped it into the medicine and then proceeded to prick various parts of her body.

After five minutes, her temperature started to climb once more. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen, and eventually half an hour … Giribala’s fever had returned fully! Henry was over the moon.

He said, “Oh, thank the Lord a hundred times over! I’ve pulled her through this time!”

Chapter Three

Giribala had made a full recovery, thanks to Henry’s exceptional treatment and by the grace of God. A week later, she ate her first convalescent meal. Henry remained constantly by her side. He had completely given up supervising the coolies.

Day by day, I began to see a change in Henry’s behaviour. These days, he no longer followed his usual practice of sending the chaprassi a few days in advance when ordering Havanas. Even though he had run out of Havana cigars, he still had not sent the chaprassi to Calcutta to replenish them. He had become quite preoccupied. He wore a pensive expression and often appeared lost in thought. It was only at the sight of Giribala that the gloom lifted from his face and he smiled.

One day, I asked him, “Henry, is something wrong with you? Why are you so absent-minded all the time?”

He replied, “Babu, I have been thinking about my past. I seem to remember it piece by piece now: there are moments in my life when I’m mentally unstable, but there are also times when I’m perfectly sane. Now the time has come for me to come to my senses.”

I was taken entirely by surprise. Henry, a madman? I do not remember noticing any evidence of his so-called madness. Yet, somehow, it did not seem altogether unbelievable. I had always noticed that Henry’s manner of speech was not like any ordinary beggar one might encounter on the streets. Besides, he had already exhibited a remarkable knowledge of medicine when he treated Giribala. Perhaps he had once been a successful doctor somewhere, but now had somehow become mentally unstable. I began asking him many questions, but could not glean any additional information beyond what he had already revealed.

At that moment, Giribala appeared and called out to him. He went off with her, as happy and playful as a little boy. It seemed that he might not be entirely sane after all; otherwise, why would his emotions shift so rapidly? Transitioning from sadness to overwhelming happiness usually requires some time for a normal person. A mentally unstable individual may not need that much of time.

A few days passed. It was already dark. I was working in my office at the colliery, checking the financial ledgers. The security guard came in and handed me a visiting card. My British friend Mr. Morrison, had arrived. He was the photographer who had taken Henry’s picture dressed in Bengali clothes. I stepped out to welcome him into my office. After exchanging pleasantries, he inquired, “I hope the British-Bengolly gentleman who supervises the coolies is still here?”

“Yes, of course! Why do you ask?”

“You’re in deep trouble!” his expression grew grave as he said this.

A little alarmed, I asked, “What? Why? What’s the matter?”

“It’s a very serious issue. Henry is an escaped convict— he was being held in a prison near London. He had been sentenced to death for armed robbery and murder, but had broken out of prison. You have committed a serious crime by harbouring him.”

I was terribly worried—not for myself, but for Henry. We had grown very fond of him. He was such a good man. Was it true that his past was tainted with human blood? Had he really been sentenced to death? Henry had become like family to us! He had saved my precious little girl’s life! Did they actually plan to hang him?

My friend said, “Are you thinking about how to deal with the crisis? I say call the police and have him arrested immediately. Then it would be easy to prove that you gave him shelter without knowing his real identity.”

I exclaimed, “Have him arrested? Me? I would rather warn him right now.”

Morrison leaned back in the chair, his feet spread, his posture conveying disappointment.

 “Babu, you’re a highly educated and influential man! How can you say such a thing? Do you want to deprive the law of its rightful prey? If everyone shares your mindset, our joyful, grand, and wonderful society will crumble and turn to dust in no time!”

My heart was filled with despair at his words. He was right, but on what religious or moral ground could I justify helping to execute the man who gave me my daughter back?

I replied, “If Henry is indeed a criminal, then there’s no question that he deserves the punishment prescribed by the law. However, I regret that I am absolutely unable to assist directly in his capture.”

Morrison said, “You have already told me you will warn him in advance and try to help him evade arrest, haven’t you?”

Surprised, I hurriedly said, “What? I never said that! I only mentioned warning him, not helping him to escape. When did I ever say I would help him escape?” Before Morrison could reply, I added, “Although, morally speaking, I really should consider doing that.”

Morrison inquired, “Why?”

I explained in detail, from start to finish, how Giribala had fallen ill and how Henry had saved her life. Morrison fell silent.

I asked him, “Where did you learn about Henry?”

“Do you remember when I first met Henry? I had laughed so much when I saw him dressed in Bengolly attire. I even took his photograph!”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I sent the photograph to The Strand Magazine in London, where it was published in the ‘Curiosities’ section. The London police recognised Henry in the picture and asked for the Calcutta Police Commissioner’s help in arresting him. The Calcutta Police Commissioner sent a man to find Henry’s address.”

“You gave him the address?”

“What other choice did I have? I had to comply with the law.”

When I heard that, I lost all hope. It was now impossible to save Henry. Oh, such a cruel twist of fate was about to befall him in the twilight of his life! He would be handcuffed and arrested before my very eyes. How could I bear to see something like this? Was there nothing I could do to stop it from happening? I would ultimately be the cause of his death. Why, oh why did I ever make him wear Bengali attire? Had I not done that, his photo wouldn’t have been published in The Strand.

If I were to attempt to protect the person who saved my daughter’s life, would this be viewed as a criminal act? If the law were to label me a criminal, would you, O God, consider me to be one as well? Is it not true that benevolence is always a noble pursuit, no matter what the circumstances?

I was lost in this reverie when I was suddenly startled by my friend’s loud laughter. I was extremely annoyed, to say the least. Was this really the time for merriment? I shot him a long, withering look. Was he a man or some kind of monster?

My friend broke the silence and said, “I can see that you’re very worried. I don’t want to cause you any more distress. Look, I’ll tell you the truth: Henry is an honest gentleman, just like you and me. And his name isn’t just Henry; it’s Sir Henry Robinson.”

I was in disbelief. What was he saying? Sir Henry Robinson? Had my friend lost his mind completely? I asked, “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that your coolie supervisor once made a speech in the House of Commons and held his countrymen spellbound.”

The entire situation felt so surreal, making me question whether I was truly awake. Perhaps it was just a dream. My bewildered expression likely betrayed my uncertainty to my friend. He handed me a longwinded letter that had been sent to him via overseas mail. It was registered and sealed. I took it out, held it up to the light, and began to read. The letter had been sent from the offices of The Strand Magazine.

Here is the gist:

Dear Sir,

We are pleased to inform you that we have printed the photograph you sent, “An Englishman in a Bengali Costume,” on the Curiosity page of The Strand Magazine. As a token of our appreciation, we have enclosed a check for you. I would be obliged if you acknowledge the receipt.

By sending this photograph, you have not only entertained our readers but have also rendered an excellent service to the unfortunate “Henry.” His full name is Sir Henry Robinson, and his nephew visited me early this morning.

Sir Henry is a well-respected figure in the London society. Prior to his affliction with mental illness, he was elected to Member of Parliament on two occasions and was also a highly skilled physician. He has been suffering from this condition for the past ten years. Occasionally, he experiences episodes of madness and goes missing from his home, leaving his hapless family to search for him. His insanity manifests in the delusion that he is a penniless beggar, making him wander the streets in search of alms. His relatives search diligently for him and usually manage to bring him back, but they are not always successful. Once he descends into madness, he may remain in this state for six, eight, or even twelve months. If he is not found during this time, he eventually returns home on his own once he has recovered. When he is well, he mostly spends his time treating the sick and impoverished subjects of his estate.

Last winter, when he was lucid, he travelled to India with his friends. About two months after their arrival, he abandoned his friends and disappeared. Since then, numerous unsuccessful searches have been conducted for poor Sir Henry. If this picture had not gained widespread attention in The Strand, it is uncertain how long this search would have persisted. My friend may not have been able to recognise his uncle from the photograph alone, but your mention of his extreme fondness for Havana cigars was a crucial clue that enabled him to make the identification.

If you could provide us with Sir Henry’s current address, his nephew will make arrangements to bring him back home.

(Signature)

I finished reading the letter and handed it back.

“So that’s the story!” I mused.

Morrison asked, “Did you ever have any suspicions about his true identity based on Henry’s behaviour, or perhaps from his conversations?”

On one occasion, Henry shared some details about his past life with me. I relayed this information to Morrison, and upon hearing it, he exclaimed, “That’s fantastic news! So, Sir Henry is now on the path to recovery.”

I remained silent for a long time. Then I asked, “Have you sent them Henry’s, I mean Sir Henry’s, address yet?”

“Not yet. That’s precisely why I’m here. I came here to find out if he’s still here or not.”

“Then send them the message. The poor man has already suffered so much.”

“Indeed, he is respected and noble. Yet, he wandered the streets, reduced to begging for money! I simply don’t understand how he managed to earn a living like that.”

“Not only that, but the question also arises: how did he get his Havana cigars? The lunatic had forgotten everything – his family, his friends, his wealth, his status. His Havana cigars were all he remembered. The intoxication of a cigar remains unforgettable, even in madness!”

Morrison took his leave. Before leaving, he asked, “When and how do you intend to inform Sir Henry?”

“I’ll mention it when I think the time is right.”

Morrison warned me, “Don’t bring it up suddenly. It could aggravate the situation and have the opposite effect of causing him to relapse, completely undoing the recovery he has made.”

I said, “Yes, caution is essential. Please give me the letter and your copy of The Strand Magazine.”

Chapter Four

When I saw Henry the next morning, I showed him his picture that had been published in The Strand Magazine. After looking at the picture and reading the caption underneath, he fell silent.

That afternoon, I accompanied him on a walk through the mango grove. Unfortunately, Giribala could not join us because her little brother was ill. I brought up the subject of The Strand Magazine. After chatting about this and that, I suddenly asked, “Do you know the editor of The Strand?”

Henry gaped at me me wide-eyed, “Yes. Why?”

After a moment’s hesitation, I handed him the editor’s letter.

It was still daylight. Henry examined both sides of the letter and softly asked, “Whose letter is this?”

I replied, “It’s from the editor of The Strand Magazine.”

Henry said, “No, who is it addressed to? Who is Morrison?”

“He’s the same man who took your photo, remember? His name’s Morrison. Why don’t you read it?”

While he was reading the letter, I paid close attention to his reaction. A multitude of emotions flickered across the wrinkled features of his expressive and handsome face, as he read its contents!

When he finished reading the letter, he looked rather dejected.

“Sir Henry!” I called after him.

Henry looked startled. I could tell he hadn’t yet fully regained his mental stability. After reading the letter, he realised we had uncovered his true identity. Yet, he was still taken aback when I addressed him by his rightful name.

 “Yes?”

 “Please forgive us.”

“Forgive you for what?”

“We were unaware of your true identity, and our hospitality was grossly inadequate. You have endured much, and we sincerely apologise for the unintentional oversight! Please forgive us.”

Henry replied timidly, “You have treated me with incredible kindness, sincerity, and compassion. I will always remember the generosity you have shown me for the rest of my life.”

“What sort of kindness could we possibly have shown you, Sir Henry? It was you, in fact, who snatched my daughter from the jaws of death.”

Henry’s face finally lit up with a faint smile. The mere mention of Giribala’s name would instantly cheer him up. He said, “I may have saved your daughter, but you have more than rewarded me for that act.”

I surmised Henry was referring to my hospitality. So I said, “What could I have done for you? Whatever little help I may have offered you, you have already repaid me for it by helping me with my work.”

Henry smiled again.“No, no. You have given me something a whole lot more valuable than that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, I’m talking about Giribala, of course. You’ve entrusted her to me. Why are you smiling? Is it all that impossible? You’re a Brahmo, after all. Brahmos have no fear of being ostracised. I’ll take Giribala to England, enrol her in a top-notch school, take care of her, and provide for her education. Then, perhaps, I’ll arrange her marriage with a cultured, well-bred, well-educated Bengolly young man from a respectable family living in London.”

I said, “No. How can that be? Even if I agreed, my wife would never let her go.”

Henry scowled, “I see. But don’t you remember that she herself agreed to give Giribala to me?”

Sir Henry is in England now. He has recovered fully. Soon after the discussions about giving Giri away took place, his cousin arrived in person and took him back home.

I continue to receive letters from him almost regularly.

Henry had made quite a fuss about taking Giribala away. Although his madness had nearly subsided, his interest in the matter remained strong. Occasionally, he realised it was a childish whim, but even then he could not restrain himself. Eventually, I gave in, but my wife refused. I reasoned with her and reminded her of her oath to Henry, but she remained resolute.

To ensure that Giribala does not grow up uneducated, I am considering enrolling her at Bethune School in Calcutta. Though I am concerned that Giri’s mother, an exceptionally devoted parent, may want to accompany her. However, considering the current state of her education, this might not be a bad idea after all!

 In any case, I should probably stop here – I do not want to disclose too much about my family matters.