THE THREE BEGGARS

Kavi Samraat VISWANATHA SATYANARAYANA

Translated from Telugu by

Dr G. V. L. N. SARMA

Professor of English, Regional Engineering College, Warangal

I saw them twenty years ago for the first time durIng my train journey. There was still time for the train to depart. I sat near the window. All the three were cripples. One of them lost his left hand; the other two their right hands. The three wore loose shirts. Ordinary beggars get into railway carriages, and trains for begging. Those three begged only on the railway platform, never entering a compartment and seldom approaching a train.

The three were tall and sturdy. Their faces did not reveal either solicitude or beggarly weakness. They approached the compartment and just said: “Sir, your charity to cripples, please.” They walked away if no passenger responded. Usually the men who lost their right hands begged while the other cripple kept quiet. He was too proud to beg.

I was quite young then. Having received English education, I thought that the institution of beggary ruined the country, that all beggars were robbers and that begging ought to be penalised. So I said, “You are like flint. You’re not sick. Why can’t you do some job?” I did not know then that those were hard days when able-bodied men found it hard to get gainful employment. The left-hand-cripple was very angry with my words. He looked daggers at me. His face became as red as that of the Kabuliwallah who slept like a log in the compartment. Pucca rowdy of the genuine demoniac race! I could have observed discreet silence afterwards. “Why do you look at me?” inadvertently I inquired. “Show me work. I’ll do. Your Lordship has come to give us employment.” I could not continue the dialogue further. I was humbled–that town was notorious for rough-necks. There were displayed in the station seven or eight signboards flashing the warning: “Beware of thieves.” I was suspicious by habit. Were there as many thieves as there were policemen? Furthermore, the fellow did not look like a beggar. So I kept quiet. No more argument. He too kept quiet. And yet I burned inwardly with impotent rage. I looked at their backs as they withdrew. The ironic smile and gait of the right-hand-cripples betrayed their feeling that they took me for a wretched flea or a mosquito. When they cast their stem eyes upon me, I was breathlessly frightened. They looked at me in the way a magniloquent hero dismisses contemptuously a fallen and cringing opponent. The left-hand-cripple marched like a victorious general. Their gestures, facial expression and bearing appeared so stately.

I saw them several times afterwards. They did not beg of me. Had they approached me, I would have willingly flung a coin at them. Meanwhile my attitude to beggars had altered. They did not possess any property. They were not educated. They were not employed. Nor was there any political party to support them. Why should not one take it for an occupation? True, it was an innocent occupation, untainted, perhaps the best. Some say it is undignified. Beggary inseparably linked with humility is not intolerable. Linked with power, it stinks and ruins the world. Begging by the weak is a natural occupation which hurts none and tends to mollify one’s self.

Though I had changed, they had not. They recognised me even after ten years. They did not even turn towards me. Their reign continued unabated. Presently I admired royal indifference. They were undaunted and God seemed to be on their side. Who were they? What was their history?

I wanted to know. And how could I? They were like Lords! One day I went to them and gave them an anna. They didn’t show any gratitude. Nor was there any appreciation of my gesture. They kept quiet, perhaps with the thought, “What else could he do?” Although it was not my native place, I had to frequent it on business. Each time I went there in the morning and came back in the evening. On one occasion I had to stay there for four days to complete my assignment. I lingered through each day with the thought–tomorrow morning or this evening (my job would be complete). One evening I was free, and so I decided to know them. “Boy, where do you live?” I inquired. The beggars looked quizzically and went their way. It was a moonlit night.

As the main road was under repairs, I walked into a deserted bylane while returning from a movie show. I saw four or five men in the middle of the lane. They seemed to have reconciled after a bitter quarrel. A policeman stood at the entrance of the lane. Why didn’t he interfere? He would perhaps, if someone lodged a complaint. No official would bother without a complaint. I was slightly frightened as I got into the lane at so late an hour. And I proceeded straight doggedly. If there was any outrage, I might report to the policeman. As soon as I reached the middle of the road, two or three men in a courtyard hastened into their house. A stranger emerged and stood in the courtyard. A close look revealed that he was one of the three beggars, in fact, one of the right-hand-cripples whom I knew for the last ten years and whom I tried to draw into conversation. Though I intended to cross the lane silently, I asked him suddenly whether he lived there. He replied in the affirmative. That was great condescension on his part, for, he was in no mood to talk. So I left discreetly.

The following night I was on my feet again deliberately. The lane was completely lonely. Even the policeman was absent. The house of the beggars was kept ajar. I wondered whether it would be proper for me to enter it. I walked off to the end of the lane, but came back to it like one frequenting a house of ill fame. He must have seen my coming. He came out and asked me what business I had with him. What should I say in reply? How could he ever understand my purpose? However, I must explain as best as I could. “You see”, I began, I am a poet. I write novels, short-stories and plays. I know you for the last twelve years. If I truly sketch your profiles, my countrymen would think mighty big of me. So I want to understand your secret lives” I said. Although he seemed to understand my words, he looked with suspicion. After a moment’s piercing look at me in the moonlit night, he asked me in a purely business-like manner to see him the following night. He did not address me with courtesy. But, why should he? Where are differences among men really? With that sobering thought I returned to my lodge. While I walked, I heard footsteps behind me. He followed me to my lodge. As I halted before it, he briskly walked past me as though he were going his own way. I was nonplussed. Did I ask for trouble? I could not get sleep that night for many hours.

I had two or three queer experiences the following day. One or two strangers stared at me. In the library that evening, a beggar seemed to spy on me while I talked to my friends who applauded my latest short-story. Luckily it was about beggars!

Should I or should I not meet him at night? I was troubled with a vague dread mixed with a certain boldness. He was a beggar after all, and so, why so much fuss? I finally decided to go. During the last two days the front side of their house was dirty. It now appeared clean-swept. I stood at the door. There was a lamp burning inside. A mat was spread on the floor. He invited me politely. “What’s your name?” “Bunganna.” “Where is your family?” “This is my family.” “What are your daily earnings?” “Earnings, oh! Affluent persons like you ask me to work and throw an anna on occasion.” He smiled at the dig. “What was the hubbub two days back here?” He changed the topic. “You’re really a story-writer, I discovered.” “I suspected that much. Why did you set your secret agents on me?” “There are police agents to betray us. I thought you’re one of them.” “Once upon a time I hated beggars. I thought then I would rise to become the District Collector. Disillusioned now I don’t hate beggars. On the other hand, I write stories about them and turn out an honest penny.” He smiled, “You earn by writing stories of us, but you don’t give us even a part of your royalty.” “This time I’ll share my fee with you” I said “Don’t worry. You may be poor too. I’ve only my mouth to feed. Excluding all cuts, I get five or six rupees per day for my share.” I wanted some precise information of these cuts. He was not prepared to divulge without obtaining his leader’s permission. His leader was the left-hand-cripple. I then wanted to know his early life. Even for talking about it, he wanted his leader’s permission. However, he solemnly promised to obtain it. I wanted him to swear by putting his hand in mine. “Is my left hand acceptable (for swearing)?” he smiled. His wit, humour and polish surprised me. Surely he was not a beggar!

The following day I met the three beggars on the railway platform. The leader among them fixed his gaze on me. Only a prime minister or a popular leader could gaze so penetratingly to X-ray the other man.

II

I went again after ten days. They were walking on the railway platform. As they were farther away from me, I could not inquire if I could interview them that night. If I went without prior intimation, they might ask me to see them any other day. That would force me to prolong my visit to the town by one more day.

It was not a moonlit night. The land was insecure. Movie-goers only would be my sole companions. I went at 10 p.m. Again the lone policeman at the head of the lane and four or five persons before the beggars’ lodge. They seemed to have noticed my presence. However, they didn’t go inside under cover of darkness. Nor was I prepared to talk to Bunganna in the company of so many strangers. Suppose they outraged me in my loneliness! So I decided to play a trick. Going up to them, I inquired if Bunganna was at home. They looked at me quizzically. How could I say for certain that they looked at me in the pervading darkness? How could I say with equal force that they did not look at me? My impression was intuitive, though it was beyond any physical comprehension to note even the glare in their eyes in the encircling darkness.

They were silent. I went ahead. They allowed me to proceed as if charmed by that magic name. After I went a long way, someone came up to me and informed me that Bunganna wanted to have a word with me. I retraced my steps. Now there was none in the lane. Where did the four persons flee? The policeman was as before at the end of the lane. When I went into Bunganna’s house, he welcomed me. He lit a lamp. Spreading for me a mat on the floor, he said, “Sorry, I didn’t anticipate your visit.” “I saw you from a distance. I was too far away to speak to you” I said. “You must always give me advance notice. Someone will always be with me.” I wanted to find out from him who those persons were, but checked myself for fear of putting an improper question. “Did you ask your leader?”

“Yes. You must publish your story after reading it out to us.”

“Don’t worry. The town’s name wouldn’t be revealed.”

“What if you change the name?”

“The story will remain in tact; characters go unrecognised.”

“Can’t the intelligent reader figure out the characters from the story?”

“The Pandavas and Draupadi changed their names living in disguise. They recounted their stories without much change. Did anyone recognise them?

Bunganna smiled: “Just like us. How could you identify us?

“How could I when you are unknown to me?”

Then Bunganna gave out that he obtained his leader’s permission to narrate his tale. I wanted to know the stories of the three beggars. Bunganna persuaded Singanna, their leader, to give his approval. Singanna gave it finally with the words:

“All right. He may thereby earn ten rupees for his livelihood.”

I felt insulted as they were compassionate to me.

Bunganna recounted his story: “Singanna and I belong to the same caste. Our ancestors migrated to a distant land. They amassed great wealth in the immigrant country. Though I was born in the same caste, my career was a non-starter. I was prodigal from boyhood. Rolling in wealth, I did not care a damn for my studies. Moreover, many of my relations, highly educated, occupied high offices. I committed several crimes for which I ought to have been jailed five or six times. As I was rich, I escaped imprisonment. All that happened in my teens. It would have been proper if I settled down in my town. But my mind was restless. I had wander lust. So I set out to see many places While I was travelling on one occasion, my train met with an accident in which my right hand was broken. I was carried to the hospital in an unconscious state. I remained unconscious for a month. I lost my memory. I forgot my past completely. For an year I drifted in the company of beggars. Then I regained my memory and went home. By then my property was almost ruined. Even if the mat is gone, you will have a neat little square for your seat, as the saying goes. Had I remained at home, I would have managed somehow. I thought begging would give me happiness.”

I was taken aback. I asked on what grounds he thought begging to be pleasant. He explained: “You don’t know. There is definitely happiness. You are free from all bother, and you don’t care even for the devil.”

“Nonsense,” I interrupted him. “You have to go from door to door begging on your knees. When people shout at you, you have to hold your tongue. When someone abuses you, you can’t pay him in the same coin.”

“Is this not happiness? What do your leaders do to catch votes? Please examine if there is any difference.”

I was nonplussed. I could adduce no further argument. Bunganna continued: “Happiness doesn’t lie in begging; it comes later. When a householder is annoyed or when he shouts or abuses, he thinks he is great. The beggar thinks he is equally great. It suffices for him if a hundred among a thousand give charity. There are so many beggars in the land. Could you enlist into your service even one of them by offering them free food and a monthly pay of Rs. 25? Every beggar would spurn your offer. Each one thinks big of his occupation. None thinks low of it. Consider these candidates seeking votes in any election campaign. Does this idea cross the mind of even one of them: ‘Fie. It’s beneath my dignity to beg votes of these fellows.’ In the roseate dream of imminent power, he loses sight of meanness. With any high purpose, begging even becomes respectable.”

“Vote-catchers govern the country afterwards. What about you?”

“Do they govern? Well, let them. What do we lose? We are free. None asks us to render account in the evening. Are they so independent?”

“The mind makes everything. Whatever we think is lovely, becomes lovely to us. They earn lots of money. They wield immense power. They help people they like; they crush people whom they dislike.”

To my surprise Bunganna agreed that I summed up well the mechanism of the world. He saw good days and he had robust commonsense. Are all beggars so intelligent? I said that, while householders are rich, beggars are poor. Bunganna remonstrated: “Do you mean that we are poor? No. We have money. It is utterly wrong to affirm that we are poor. There are of course differences. There are as many differences among beggars as there are among you. There are paupers among beggars. Don’t you find paupers among you? We have rich men among us. You live in your own world. We live in ours. We know your world well. You don’t know our world.”

As his story drew to a close, I had to leave him. However, as I did not like to leave, I asked one more question, “How much money do you possess?” “What for do I need money? All my needs are satisfied. As I told you before, I get at least six rupees per day, excluding all cuts. I need not draw even a single pie from my savings. I save Rs. 2,000 per annum nett. Believe it or not, I’ve now a sum of Rs. 25,000 to my credit. What shall I do with it? That would ultimately benefit our community.”

Two questions arose in my mind afresh. What were cuts? What was their community? Bunganna wondered whether he would be going too far in answering the first question. Singanna might be enraged. Every beggar had to pay some tithe or fee to the community for social security. Sick beggars would be looked after. The families of imprisoned beggars would be cared for. The usual grafts to Government officials and policemen would be paid out of these fees. Marriage expenses of a beggar who wanted to marry would be met from the fees. There were so many demands to be met. Every beggar was obliged to part with a sixth of his collections. The balance was left to his own use.”

“Your organisation seems to be very big. How is it that I find some beggars still wretched?”

Bunganna answered: “Those living outside the organised community suffer. Consider your own organisation. If a party governs the land, members of that political party fare well. Men outside the party only suffer. Presuming that they would earn more, some beggars keep away from the community, and they suffer.”

“Who collects these moneys?”

“We have our own officers. Didn’t you see here four men when you came? There were some others during your first visit. They are all our revenue officers. Some of them misappropriate our funds. They have to be punished. This is a kingdom in its own right.”

“So you are, I understand, a powerful officer of the beggars.”

“Ranganna and I are friends. Singanna is our king. He ruler these three districts. He manages this province personally; Ranganna and I look after two more districts.”

“Is our world limited to three districts only?”

“There are managers for all districts. All governors of provinces meet once a year or once in two years. Ours is a just kingdom. There are no saboteurs. We don’t want armies and guns. Ours is a peaceful kingdom.”

“It amuses me when I hear you speak as though you were governing the entire world. What do you think of our minjsters, legislators, commanders and citizens?”

Bunganna changed the topic. “As you got enough material for your story, please go out now and write down your tale without much ado” he said.

“You are leaving me in midstream. As soon as I reach the heart of the problem, you ask me to leave. I got the lineaments of my story. As yet, it has no feet. It can’t move.”

“Then meet Ranganna. He is well read. He is a poet. Half the ballads and songs recited by beggars were composed by him. When he plays on the guitar, the whole congregation is charmed.”

“I must leave this town tonight. Will you introduce me to him on any other day?”

“In four days we celebrate Lord Siva’s night. On each Siva’s night, he sits by the side of the yonder canal beside those huts and sings. Please come that night.”

III

I forgot all about it until a friend goaded me to that town on his errand on the eve of Siva’s night. I was occupied with his work until 10 p. m. Although the moon had not risen then, signs of moonrise in the East were visible. As I walked in the easterly direction, radiant beams of light, cool breeze and soft music struck me all at once. Suddenly I recollected my tryst. Our mind is the illumination of chit shakti. In a moment a hundred things rise into consciousness. The mind, therefore, at one stage, is equated with Brahma. Where from did this music flow? It came from the canal bund. Ranganna might be singing. As I approached him, I found a gathering of hundred persons around him. A large number stood on the road listening. Someone remarked, “He is disabled. He lost his right hand. Placing his guitar under neck and fixing it up with his right foot, he pulls the strings with his left hand, and plays kanjira with the big toe of his right foot.” He was singing a song in praise of goddess Kamakshi of Kanchi. Its sweetness and melody were beyond human expression.

It was past 11 p. m. The audience dispersed while I stood there. Where was Ranganna’s house? After midnight Ranganna set out alone. I followed him closely. He did not notice my following until he reached his residence. As he entered the threshold of his house, he saw me and was filled with suspicion. “It is I” I assured him. When both of us went inside, I complimented him, “Ranganna! you are not human. You are an avatar. Ah! your music! The sweetness of your voice! Your play of kanjira. One ought to bow to you to wash off one’s sins.” “No, sir,” said Ranganna, “This is exaggeration. I learnt music early in life. I spent my days in Tamil Nadu. As I lost my right hand, I learnt to play guitar with my left hand. I gather you are great. A poet. If I am superhuman by singing songs, you too are superhuman by composing poetry.” Words and thoughts are strangely associated. When he spoke of poetry, I emerged from the world of music and recollected the purpose of my visit. “You want to know my history” said Ranganna. “It may be late for you. It’s immaterial for us. We keep many sleepless nights. Now, of music, there are many kinds. Beggars’ style is quite different from yours. The sweetness of our songs is absent in concert music. The latter requires much thought and technique. In our music, tune and voice predominate. Ordinary people surrender quickly to it. I don’t really belong to this place. I migrated from the West, having lost my parents in childhood. I was not born like Bunganna in a rich family. Nor do I boast like Singanna of having been born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I still remember how I used to stretch out my hand before people eating sweets near confectioner’s shop. Some gave me bits to eat; some frowned on me; while a few others struck me and chased me away. Strange! how did I survive? I wonder. Some tried in vain to force me to pick pockets. I knew as I grew up that the world is full of robbers.”

“Do you endorse thieving? Are you a thief now?”

“Otherwise how could I govern? The ruler of a state is first a beggar and then a thief.”

“Do you mean to say that you are a king?”

“Do you imagine that a man must have two hands to be a king? Is it not possible to amass with one hand what is usually gathered with two hands? One should be skilful. That’s all I don’t remember exactly how I lived up to my sixteenth or seventeenth year. For some days I worked as a casual labor and for some days as an apprentice to masons. It was all rough going. When I didn’t find work, I used to beg. For an year I painted red and white marks on my forehead in the style of a Ramdass and went about singing devotional songs. It is a fruitful year. My mellifluous voice brought me from every house-holder, instead of a handful of grain, two handfuls. Those were halcyon days. Our land was prosperous, replete with grain which went round. Once I went to a village during the harvesting season and visited ten barns. I got a bagful of rice. For a copper pie, the grocer used to give as much as I required of salt, pepper and tamarind. We don’t find such plenty now. Meanwhile I befriended a Tamil beggar. With him, I toured the entire South. Life is poor without seeing temples in the South. Magnificent structures built by ancient kings. My Tamilian friend was good to me. People loved to coax him to talk even when he observed silence. Such was his sweet disposition! A wandering foot and a wagging tongue seldom remain still, they say. We beggars can’t be confined to one place. I returned to Andhra Pradesh, saw many villages in the western region. Drought conditions! Even a ten-year-old boy there couldn’t say what was rain. Having no taste for millet gruel, as my staple food was all along been rice in my native place in the coastal belt, I decided to leave the West. It was not easy to get free rides in railway trains those days. Ticket examiners were strict and railway policemen used to strike mercilessly ticket less travellers. I hated policemen since then, and resolved to teach them a lesson.”

“Did you, really?” I inquired.

“Yes,” Ranganna continued to say. “They dance to my tune now. Of it, later. Somehow I drove back to my district. I spent an year serving in a scholar-king’s house. He was a famous pundit. I read Mahabharatam and Bhagavatam there. While notions rule nations, fate tends donkeys, they say. I ought to have continued in service in the pundit’s house, but I set out to see Benares, En route I halted at a village, which was a sort of pilgrim centre. I heard there would be a large gathering in it the following day. It was 2 p. m. when I sauntered towards the canal to plant a stick and spread my beggar’s cloth at a suitable place in the pilgrim centre, where people spoke a language foreign to me. The bazaar was deserted but for a solitary walking figure. It was a woman who wore costly jewellery, worth ten thousand rupees. She walked majestically like a trotting war horse–a luminous figure in the surrounding darkness. Behind her walked a man with a sword in hand. I didn’t notice him. I was young then. Instead of going my way, I stopped on the road and looked at her. She stepped aside like a shying horde harnessed to a heavy cart. I did not open my mouth. Meanwhile, her escort advanced from behind and cut down my hand. I didn’t cry. I just collapsed on the ground.

Ten days later I regained consciousness in hospital from which I was discharged after a month. My disability became in course of time a blessing in disguise. No doubt I could earn by singing; I could also earn by reciting poems from our epics. I hated begging from childhood. I hated begging all the more under cover of disability. On a certain night I rested in the courtyard of a beggars’ rendezvous. I sang late into the night. A fellow beggar was charmed. He advised me to join the community, of which he gave a detailed account. I couldn’t decide for a moment because our collections would not then be entirely ours. On second thought, I considered it wise to join. Gradually I ceased to be a beggar; I rose to the top.”

“You are still a beggar, after all,” I said.

“That’s what you think.”

“Who are you, then?”

“I’m not supposed to say. These men around me are jealous of me because I am independent. I speak true.”

“What is the truth?”

“It’s difficult for you to grasp” said Ranganna. “Consider a household. Apparently the householder earns and manages, really his wife holds the reins. She is the queen and the captain. You wanted to write down our story. You must show it to us before you get it printed. I must obtain my leader’s permission before I let out more secrets. Our colonies are spread from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin. Different leaders at different places, but one emperor. I must consult him. Come again. It’s very late now.”

IV

I was tossed through several vicissitudes of fortune and faced several crises during the next ten years. In that period I went to that town. During one of my infrequent visits, I saw them from a distance. Three figures–but not the old three. Bunganna was there, and there was another disabled man in place of Ranganna.

I rubbed my eyes and looked again. There was obviously some change. Though man changed, their number remained constant. I also found out that though they were advanced in years, they looked young and buoyant.

I saw them again a few days back. Both the world wars were over. Presently I saw four figures, not the usual three. I sat in a railway compartment while the beggars stood at the window on the platform. The fourth one had a small beard. Bunganna was stand-offish. The fourth had a terrible countenance. I thought he joined the group after committing several murders and rose high thereafter.

I signalled to Bunganna. I spoke loudly under the pretext of continuing a dialogue with a friend: “I suffered many reverses during the last decade. The story remained incomplete. I want to meet him tonight.” Bunganna’s eyes flashed a silent approval. I cancelled my journey at once.

At 10 p. m. I went to Bunganna’s house, which remained closed. When I knocked on the door, a woman opened it and asked me to step in. Her manner was repugnant, and so I turned back. Next day I saw Bunganna on the railway platform. It was impossible for me to talk to him there. So after sunset, I went to his residence, which was no longer a dingy single-room tenement, but a large house, densely populated.

When he saw me, Bunganna asked me to sit and wait. As he came back after an hour, he said, “I got leisure now, I am an emperor and I find it hard to manage the affairs of my kingdom.” I recollected Singanna’s story. Bunganna continued to say, “You came after many long years. Well. I can talk about us without any hitch vow. A warning, however. It is not good that all men know what I say. If you want to tell the truth, tell it tactfully. Of course, these are open secrets. Don’t we keep things in our houses and states confidential? We are forbidden to talk about them in public. Our secrets are indeed more confidential. If a king maintains a “keep”, we call her “queen” in his presence. Outside, she is referred to as his mistress. Our position is just the reverse. Strictly speaking, the royal consort also is the king’s mistress. But, by common consent, she is the queen. Likewise, we are beggars to everyone, but, everyone knows, we are Lords.”

“I don’t know that,” I said.

Bunganna replied, “It’s not my mistake if you don’t know that, I’ll tell you secret. You think your puerile ministers, constables and civil servants rule the land. Power really rests with us. We launch movements. We initiate burglaries and also punishments.”

“I still do not understand,” I repeated.

Bunganna explained, “Your constables are in our hands. Your officers are under our thumb. We give them the usual graft so that they follow our instructions. All thefts unrelated to us are tried and punishments meted out in your law courts. If related to us, they are beyond the jurisdiction of your courts. We judge and punish. Our authority is supreme here.”

I was stupefied. I could grasp the meaning of his words only vaguely. Bunganna added, “Recently you suffered two or three calamities. We got regular news of you. On a certain occasion you were kept in police lock-up for a night and released the following morning. I was responsible for your release from police custody.”

I was disturbed. Should I feel grateful to him? Was it fair to doubt this respectable man? I wondered.

“How do you initiate movements?” I inquired.

Bunganna wanted to give me some proof. He called some beggar and asked him to speak about his task. The latter stated that he was required to go to Bengal to foment trouble. While a peaceful meeting was held, he should urge policemen to disperse the audience. A movement would start which should be espoused by the beggar community. It ought to be financed by the community. Thus a struggle between the governors and a segment of the governed would ensue.

“What do you gain thereby?” I asked.

“That would put irate officers under check. Otherwise lose our grip on them.”

“Do you claim authorship of all agitations?”

“Only of some” said Bunganna. “When officers and policemen in any part of the country threaten to go beyond our control, we resort to this expediency.”

Meanwhile a beggar came to Bunganna and pleaded that his brother was sentenced to two years imprisonment for a theft which he committed to augment the community’s resources. The community did not indemnify him. How would his family get along?

Bunganna assured him: “This happened in the lower Court. The judge was new. He turned a deaf ear to all recommendations from the locality. He didn’t wait until recommendation reached him from the city. The sub-inspector is to blame mainly. He is also new to this place. Seems to be honest. Don’t worry. I’ll see. If the worst happens, I’ll sanction the family Rs. 20 per month these two years.”

The two beggars went away.

“You are talking confidential matters before me. Do you trust me entirely?” I asked.

“It matters little even if you let out these matters. Moreover, the matter doesn’t rest here. In future you should also recommend our cases to superior officers known to you” Bunganna said.

I smiled and kept quiet.

“Why do you smile?” Bunganna asked. “Perhaps you doubt our kingdom. You have not digested the essence of education. There are so many religions in the world and so many crusades. Who constructed these religious systems? Sannyasis or Fakirs, who are beggars. Potluri Veerabrahmam, Vemana–who were they? Jesus Christ, Shankara–who were they? Monks, beggars. Lord Buddha became a beggar before he founded his religion. Sannyasis rule the world through religion. Their word was law in ancient kingdoms. From every viewpoint, beggars rule the world. There are, indeed, gradations among beggars. Make no mistake. There are also beggars among you. They may exercise power. They really belong to our tribe, though you respect them, out of sheer ignorance, as civil servants. They take bribes, openly or furtively. While one stretches his hand out, the other manages to procure his share from a distance. Another secret. Basically men are of two kinds: householders and beggars. Whoever goes by the name of officer, monk, bishop, mulla, guru or political leader, poet or singer–each belongs to the second kind. All beggars. They avoid family responsibilities. They exploit others. To keep wife and children is animal law. Begging is the law of the spirit. The beggar cares for none. He gathers justly for himself, and what he gathers he consumes. The other man goes out to uplift the world–householder. Householders form the majority; beggars are parasites on them. Who would give willingly to a beggar? Householders are ingenuous. They need really no liberation; but they believe with implicit faith if beggars tell them that they need to be liberated and that beggars would ensure that. This is the secret of beggars’ authority over them. Do you know how we protect a policeman when he loses his job? These householders are surprisingly simple. They believe all sorts of cock-and-bull stories. From birth everybody is either a householder or a beggar. How do we initiate a movement? We spot out beggars fairly early. We lure them by putting before them the twin attractions of power and social service. They join our band merrily then.”

Bunganna went on in this strain up to 2 A. M. I put him many questions which he answered in his own way. All his answers stemmed from his central thesis that beggars were kings. He adds that it was their plan to offer themselves to the public for charity. There are four members in his group. It was inevitable for a house holder with a kindly disposition to escape at least one of them. If a householder rejected Bunganna, he would favour the bearded beggar. The latter was a new member, who became a leader and claimed that he was greater than Bunganna.

Before I left, Bunganna reiterated his solemn philosophy: “Men fall into two categories–householders and beggars. Religion, power, rubies and crowns do not attract householders, who are meek like lambs. Beggars are attracted to them. They are ruthless like wolves. Men are either beggars or householders from birth.”

From the emphasis he laid on his thesis, I knew he would not tolerate any antithesis, and, frankly, I do not say that I disbelieved his philosophical stance.

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