BY S. K. CHETTUR, M.A., I.C.S.

I

I first met Mohinimohan at my club. I had dropped in early to secure a set of singles at tennis, and the only young fellow on the premises whom I found practising breaks in the billiard-room was an unknown quantity. Summoning the Writer, I soon learnt that he was a young Bengali author, who had just published his first novel in English, after a fairly ordinary academic career at the University. As he had joined primarily for the sake of tennis, he readily accepted my invitation and we had an excellent set in the shadiest of the three courts of the club. We yielded the court to the newcomers and retired to discuss iced drinks in the verandah easy-chairs.

From the first Mohinimohan took a distinct liking to me. I was the oldest member of the club and I think he was pleased by the interest I took in him and in his book. I soon got to know all about it–in what difficulties he had been to find a publisher and how finally he had risked it and invested a little fortune of about Rs. 1,000 in publishing a handsomely got-up edition of his novel. The book itself was based on the mesalliance and misery caused by child-marriages in India and told a very readable story of the domestic tangles which arose from the premature decision of the matrimonial fate of two charming heroines. When I read the book I found that like Hermia and Helena of The Midsummer Night’s Dream there was not much difference of characterisation between the two, but Mohinimohan was still young and the handling of emotion, plot and dialogue was masterly for a young fellow of twenty-one. The style too was excellent, and the humorous passages in the book had a dash and a verve which bespoke the exuberant animal spirits of the author.

Of course, I had taken a copy of his book the very first evening, but Mohinimohan told me it was no joke to make the novel sell. He had given it for sale at the usual rate of commission to the booksellers, but after a month he found that only six out of a hundred entrusted to the biggest of his agents had sold, despite excellent reviews and consistent advertising. Mohinimohan was up against it, and no mistake. With the headlong fervour of youth and with boundless confidence in himself he had printed an edition of 1,000 copies and 700 of them were still on his hands. In addition to the financial loss, he had the mortification of feeling that the great moral against child-marriage which he was preaching would be unknown to the majority of the Indian reading public.

II

I distinctly remember the evening at the club when Mohinimohan was down in the dumps. Anxiety had put him off his tennis–he usually played a steady game with a very serviceable service–and he had not enjoyed the two sets which he had gone through purely for the sake of exercise. He pulled his easy chair to my side at a corner of the verandah apart and unbosomed himself.

"If this goes on much longer, I shall be tempted to commit suicide," said he, taking a long drink from the iced gingerbeer at his side. "I have tried every legitimate means of popularising my book, but it is lost labour and money trying to make our public see a good thing under their very noses."

"Like casting pearls before swine," said I gently, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.

"Thanks for the compliment, if you're not being sarcastic," he parried, "but I wouldn't call them that. They are just bats–blind as bats. Here have I been sweating for two and a half months trying to bring out an artistic volume both inside and outside, and it's jolly hard if I have to payout of my pocket to present the public with a beautiful book!" And he swore vigorously under his breath.

"My child," I said, "Life is like that. The public never accepts presents when it has got to pay even a nominal price for the privilege of the gift. If you were to give away your copies free, it would be quite a different thing", I added.

"Not a bad idea," said he. "Like the baker who gave a cake free to everybody and got custom, or like Sir Richard Arkwright, the barber, who shaved everyone free and thereby undersold his rivals in the profession. But I just can't afford it. I have determined to make my living by publishing books, and, even for the sake of advertisement, I can't give the things away free. Besides, people would naturally say it's so bad that I'm anxious to have it read at any cost, which I’m not.

"Why not do Some daring or gallant thing which will bring you into the public eye?" I asked.

"Like chasing, dragons on the Mount Road?" Mohinimohan retorted pleasantly.

"Exactly: just rescue a fair damsel from the clutches of some enormous bus. Think of the sensation it would create. ‘Young Author's Gallant Rescue’, ‘The Days of Chivalry Are Not Yet Dead’ . . . What attractive headlines they would make! And what excellent advertisements for your book!"

"No," said Mohinimohan. "I am prepared to die for the sake of my book, but I don't care to yield my life beneath the wheels of a bus." He leant forward, his young face aglow with serious purpose and took my hand. "I have resolved to give my life for the sake of my book and for the principle involved–the utter futility and misery of our child-marriage system. I shall leave a letter explaining my resolve to kill myself. What do you think of it?"

"The Superintendent of the Lunatic Asylum and I are old friends," I answered lightly. "I could easily secure a berth for you."

"Alright," said he, springing from his chair. "You think I'm just talking. But I shall show you that I'm a man of action." And, snatching his coat from the rack, he waved his hand to me and marched away, very erect and determined.

III

For the next three days, Mohinimohan did not turn up at the club. Now, though I pride myself on my being a very prosaic, steady, sensible man, I began to feel uneasy. The fourth evening, I was having my drink in the club after a poor game of tennis with a beginner who had attached himself to me, when it struck me that I had better keep an eye on Mohinimohan and prevent him from doing anything rash. So I summoned the Writer and asked him to get me the lad's address from his application form. I determined to look in that very evening on my way home.

The Writer brought me the address and one of the evening papers which had just come. I glanced idly at the little top right hand corner of the folded paper where they put the most sensational news of the day. My heart ran cold when I read:

BATHING FATALITY

YOUNG AUTHOR DROWNED

I simply burst the paper open and hunted out the columns on the Local News Page. It was just as I feared. The headlines were: -

TRAGEDY ON MADRAS BEACH

SACRIFICIAL SUICIDE

"Last evening, at 6.45 p.m., two students of the Victoria Hostel who were returning home walking along the seashore were surprised to see a young man stripping to the waist and arranging his clothes in a neat bundle near the sea, away from the farthest reach of the waves. They noted the feverish hurry of his actions and paused after walking twenty yards in order not to appear unduly inquisitive into the details of the gentleman's projected bath. But they got the shock of their lives when the young man solemnly placed his hands together as in prayer and stood motionless for a minute. Then with a wild cry of ‘I come, I come; accept my sacrifice, O Lord,’ he rushed into the sea and began to cleave the breakers and swim away from the shore. They hurriedly approached the waves and watched his receding body. It was already quite dark and they could just distinguish his head from time to time as it appeared above the waves. After a time they could not even see this. They set up loud shouts for help. Hearing no response, one of them stationed himself near the clothes and despatched the other to the pavement to summon help. A large party soon gathered; the carriage lamps of two hackneys were requisitioned and a vigilant search was kept along the beach for a whole mile in order to rescue the drowned body. Two catamarans were also launched at the instance of an enterprising gentleman, and, though these searched the waves for a circle of one mile around the spot, no trace of the drowned man was obtained. The fisherman declared that a strong under-current there would probably carry the body miles out to sea and that it might be days before it could be recovered, if it was recovered at all.

"An interesting sequel to the incident remains to be told. A search of the poor young man's clothes revealed the fact that he was Mohinimohan Gupta, a young Bengalee author, whose parents are both dead. The young man was living in Madras under the guardianship of a distantly related uncle. But an open letter in his pocket addressed to the public disclosed the astonishing fact that the young man had premeditated this suicide in order to recommend his first novel to the public. This novel entitled The Sins of the Fathers is a scathing condemnation of the untold misery and suffering caused by the present system of child-marriage in India. The author's dying letter runs as follows: -

" ‘On this day, the 24th January 1928; I Mohinimohan Gupta, author of The Sins of the Fathers, take my own life in order to convince the public that my book is written with a serious purpose; and with my life's blood I wish to write more emphatically the moral suicide, the mental slavery and the physical deterioration entailed by our system of Child-Marriage. Further, it is responsible for a whole series of ill-assorted unions and assigns the destinies of individuals by an arbitrary system of mercenary parental selection, when the parties most vitally concerned are too young to understand the situation or rebel against the imposition.

"Further, I, Mohinimohan Gupta, assert and declare that our unmarried young men of progressive views find "their best choice, already link'd and wedlock-bound to fell adversary" beyond their matrimonial hopes, and this leads to the eternal triangle and all the evils of adultery and ruined homes. To illustrate these and to bring my points home to the public, I have written a novel The Sins of the Fathers which the public has not cared to read. But now that I have given my life's blood to propitiate their unheeding ears, I call upon them to read this book and to justify the action of the author in sacrificing himself to direct the attention of the public to an evil which is undermining the physical, moral and mental stamina of the Indian Nation’."

I just collapsed in my chair. I am old and sentimental, so I am not ashamed to confess that I wept at the tragedy of this splendid young life sacrificed to convince an irresponsive public. And yet, was it not noble to give one's life for the social uplift of one's country? I went home with my head in a whirl and took up Mohinimohan's book. I read it through again, sitting into the small hours of the morning, and every word was now fraught with a new meaning and a tremendous power. The gay young personality of the author moved and spoke through the pages. Yes, it was a unique book, unique in itself and now trebly unique through his sacrifice. It was a book rewritten with the life-blood of a young man who had died for his ideals. Verily, he had poured out the red sweet wine of youth in a noble cause . . . Mohinimohan Gupta was the Rupert Brooke of India.

IV

I need hardly remind you of the record sale commanded by The Sins of the Fathers. The splendid sacrifice of the young fellow was on everybody's lips. The next day the papers published his photograph and wrote column reviews on his book. The incidents of the suicide were discussed and detailed and analysed over and over again. The splendid poetry of his dying dedication as he leapt into the waves was made the subject of a leader by the nationalist daily which called for young men of the same calibre in the national cause. The sneering article in one of the conservative dailies ascribing the act to insanity was virulently attacked allover South India, and the author of the article was paid back in his own coin by the asseveration that he himself was a fit subject for the Mental Hospital. The news of the incident was telegraphed all over India and two Northern papers wrote strong leaders on the child-marriage question.

Six days later, fishermen near the Royapuram beach discovered the drowned body. It was in an advanced stage of decomposition. The painful details of the inquest over, the corpse was cremated, the ashes collected in an urn, and a public mass-meeting held on the Triplicane beach to do honour to Mohinimohan's memory. I shall always remember how a. prominent Nationalist speaker broke down and wept at the pathos of "a beautiful young life consecrated to the service of the country, and consumed so early on the altar of national sacrifice," and how, pulling himself together, he ended up with a stirring emotional appeal to every young man there to be ready to devote his life to his country's cause with the same spirit of courageous selflessness.

The Agents and Booksellers selling The Sins of the Fathers found their commission the easiest and readiest money they had ever earned. The very day after news of the suicide had appeared in the papers, two hundred copies were sold. Thereafter, there was a steady sale allover South India and within a week a new edition was called for. The book was easily the best-seller for South India. Within a month it had created a record for itself and was imperceptibly receding into the background. After all, the public has a short memory and the incident was almost closed. Of course, the moral aspect of the suicide was also discussed and there were stern religious denunciations of Mohinimohan's action. But the general feeling was that he had done a noble and a beautiful thing and prudish critics and their writings were consigned to a well-deserved oblivion.

V

A month after the event an advertisement appeared in all the papers which took South India by storm. It was worded thus: -

Now Ready

THE VALES OF KASHMIR

By

Mohinimohan Gupta

Author of The Sins of the Fathers

The humorous narrative of a recent trip to Kashmir. Profusely illustrated with photographs by the Author, who will shortly return to Madras.

Floods of letters littered the boxes of the newspapers asking for the solution of the mystery. The papers thereupon published the following sealed letter which had accompanied the advertisement from the publishers of the book in question: -

"Mohinimohan Gupta presents his compliments to his numerous readers. He regrets the imposition of his suicide on an admiring public, but he feels that the glory he loses by his resurrection may in some measure be retrieved by his placing at the service of the public those little talents, which were partly responsible for the success of his first book, The Sins of the Fathers. He heartily endorses the latter half of the opinion of all his reviewers regarding ‘the sacrifice of genuine talent in a noble cause’ but he feels that, having achieved his object in securing extensive circulation of his propaganda regarding child-marriage, he should return to this world in person to undertake the completion of that task which he has so effectively begun. Having won the long distance sea-swimming cup in Calcutta a year ago, he found little difficulty in swimming to a hired catamaran two miles out at sea, from which he had himself rowed to a spot opposite the Fort St. George beach where a pre-arranged car took him to the Central Station.

"The author had considered the possibility that somebody might suggest that his suicide was a hoax if no drowned body of his was picked up. But he relied on the conviction in his letter to prevent the suggestion being raised by anybody; and he tipped the fishermen of the catamaran he hired to tell the press reporters that a drowned body might not be picked up for weeks together and sometimes not at all.

"No one was more astonished and dismayed than himself to learn from the papers that a drowned body found at Royapuram was identified as his, and duly cremated. His perplexity at having thus lost his legal persona was allayed by his indulging in charitable reflections on the sagacity of the Madras Police. . . . who had thus unwittingly completed the deception of his pretended suicide. He feels that coincidence, as a factor in the complexities of life, is not confined entirely to the realms of fiction. . . .

"He enjoyed a delightful holiday in Kashmir and his record of his recent trip thither, interspersed with reflections on the joy of being alive and kicking though dead in the eyes of the world, forms excellent reading. His second novel is now in the Press. It is entitled The Aftermath or Three in a Tangle."

VI

I am an old man but I simply roared with laughter and danced around my room with super-Kruschen feeling when I read the above. Mohinimohan had used his brains to good purpose. You may remember how the whole country roared over the joke for a week. His photo was published from the Himalayas to Kanyakumari, and when his forthcoming arrival in Madras was announced in the papers, the crowd outside the Central Station resembled, if it did not exceed, that which marks the arrival of the greatest political leaders.

Interviewed on the platform by a dozen Press representatives, Mohinimohan uttered a world-famous epigram as he nearly shook my hand off in greeting:

"I died one day and awoke to find myself famous."

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