It is remarkable how money has a way of walking out
on you. The more careful you are, the more devious the way it has of
disappearing. Very few people realise this. And fewer people realise that in
moving it is only serving the purpose of its being. Among the few I have met, I
must mention the old darzee (tailor) of the little town of Bilikal. He
is a shriveled little fellow of about sixty summers with an engaging smile and
a tongue that could wag without end, unless, of course, one were to offer him
money for a glass of toddy. In the latter circumstance, he would pause for a
while off and on, as he moistened the organ in question at your expense. But
the subsequent flow would be the brightest and wittiest the old fellow was
capable of.
On the question of money the old man would say.
“Money my dear sir, you never can keep for ever. It has a way of escaping from
you. You may put it in a purse, put the purse in a bag, lock the bag in a small
box, and place the box in the iron safe and still you will find, after a time,
it has disappeared. I always say, sir, it is endowed with a diamond beak, which
enables it to burrow through the strongest steel. I suppose sir, you know the
richest man of our town.”
When I told him I had yet to hear of him, the darzee
continued, “Well, sir, his name is Achyut Dhanya. While he was still
young–a long time ago, that was–he went to Madaripatnam to seek his fortune. He
opened a shop in a small way, as at that time he had not a pie of his own.
Within a short while he was able to enlarge this shop into a store for sorts of
cutlery and metal goods. But the baser metals were not his passion. So after a
few years, we find him in possession of a well-established firm of jewellers.
He retired a few years ago, one of the bigger diamond merchants of the city of
Madaripatnam. He is back at Bilik now. He is so fond of money, they say here,
that there is a reason for hi retirement. When he heard rumours of a drop in
the diamond market he could not contemplate without agony the loss this would
mean to him. So he is said to have sold the business to his only son, Amar
Dhanya, at a profit, mark you, and quietly come back here with his hoard.
“You, sir, are probably under the impression,”
continued the darzee, that old man Dhanya is awaiting the call of his
Maker. If so, you are mistaken. He is the master of only sixteen lakhs and
would be too ill at ease to face his Maker with such a small fortune to his
credit. He is assiduously cultivating his hobby here. Did I hear you say
plants, sir? No, sir, agriculture yields such poor returns, and, so uncertain
the yield is. Old Achyut could never risk his money on that. He is, my dear
sir, a breeder of money. There is also risk in that, you say. Not for a Dhanya,
sir. For you and me, yes, but for Achyut, decidedly no. He does not give his
money to Tom, Dick and Harry. Personal security is not good enough for him.
Land has a tendency to go down in price. But if the land is adjacent to his
own, and you are prepared to borrow only about one eighth or one sixth of its
value, he may consider the proposition. There is always the prospect of getting
the land for next to nothing, when you are not able to pay the debt and the
accumulated interest. In all other cases, land is too cumbersome a commodity to
deal in. Our old Dhanya prefers gold best. Give him solid gold or golden
ornaments, Achyut’s money is at your disposal–provided, of course, you agree to
the interest. To his best friends and relations, he charges only 8 per cent.
This includes interest at the rate of 61/4 per cent plus the supertax of 3 or 4
annas in the rupee, which Achyut has to pay the Government. For other clients
the interest may be a little more according to the party’s need and the type of
security he is able to provide. So you see, sir, Achyut is not the usual type
of usurer. But I have to tell you also the legend that is current in our town.
It says, “If you borrow from old Skinflint, make ready to hand over to him your
all–house, lands and other property.” Achyut is always willing to rely on his
fate. And Fate has never so far failed to reward him amply.
“Young Amar, sir, was carefully brought up by his
father,” said the darzee, “and knew the value of money as well as old
Dhanya. He had received an education, which his father never could have dreamt
of, and also the benefit of foreign travel. He could, on occasion, be actually
liberal with the cash his father had provided him with. These occasions, though
not very frequent, had usually to do with his vanity. Like all upstarts, praise
of his family, or his father, tickled him most. He venerated his father. What
else could you expect? Had he not provided him liberally with that most useful,
most needed most coveted article, money? So the mention of his father brought
out all the generosity in his nature.”
“It was about three years ago,” continued the old
man “that a young fellow with a hearty look about him called on Amar. He said
he was devoting his life to the cause of the depressed. He had heard Amar
spoken of so high in his native town of Blikal that he had lost no time in
coming to him. A man of Amar’s position and one with his family tradition, he
felt sure, would not fail to help his cause. Of course, Amar’s father was very
kind and had voluntarily given him a letter of recommendation. The effect of
all this on Amar was of the most pleasant kind. Amar saw his father’s writing,
saw his father’s familiar signature, and without further ado, presented the
young man with a hundred-rupee note. The young man, with profuse expressions of
gratitude, took his leave, and Amar went on with his work. About four or five
weeks later a hefty mussalman walked into Amar’s office, and thrust a letter
under his nose. He informed Amar that he was on his way to Mecca, and that he
required help in carrying out the holy pilgrimage. He came from Bilikal. Achyut
Dhanya’s kind letter was of great help to him so far. Amar looked at his
father’s signature and then at the hefty fellow. He took out a hundred rupees
from the box and handed them over. The man pocketed the money, and went on his
way, presumably to the holy city. Amar sat thinking. Not many weeks after, an
elderly man with a graying moustache crept diffidently into Amar’s presence,
and spoke about his daughter who was rapidly growing and getting past the
marriageable age. He had a suitable boy in view to whom he hoped to marry her.
But he had not the money for the dowry. Amar’s father–, at the mention of his
father, Amar asked him to produce the letter, and when he saw the revered name,
he produced the usual note for a hundred rupees. He did not wait for the old
man’s blessing. He was too busy wondering what was wrong with his father.
Suddenly it flashed on him. His father was hurriedly making peace with his
Creator. And why should he not? Had the Almighty not been particularly good to
him? Thus communing, Amar reconciled himself to the charity he was forced to
give. After this, at regular intervals of about a month, there appeared before
him seriatim, a sanyasi, who was founding a home for other sanyasis on
the banks of the Ganges, a pater familias with a larger family than
most, a lover of stray and lost dogs, and a host of other needy people, whom
later Amar failed to notice or take count of. Amar always looked for his
father’s name at the bottom of the letter before him, and happily paid out his
quota.”
“It was last month,” said the old tailor, “that
Achyut decided to pay a visit to his son at Madaripatnam, and see for himself
if his son was shaping as nicely to his treatment as his money was. The very
day of his arrival, he saw Amar paying out a hundred rupees to a shabby
disreputable person without so much as a question. When Achyut protested, Amar
said, ‘Oh! he is one of your pensioners.’ Achyut was puzzled. Amar explained
that for the last three years he had been regularly paying out once or twice a
month sums of money to all sorts of people bringing letters of recommendation
from old Dhanya. Achyut could not remember having written such letters
recently. Warning Amar to be more careful, Achyut decided to stay in town
longer than he intended. Not many days after, the same shabby man appeared
again. Instead of receiving the usual payment, he was asked by a stern old man
who he was. When he said his master had sent him with the letter for money, old
Achyut looked at the letter. It was written by him and dated three years ago.
Both father and son decided to see who the man’s master was, and asked him to
lead them to him. The man took them to a dirty and disreputable quarter of the
city. When they walked into the mean house, they found a stout and
hearty-looking young man very much the worse for drink, surrounded by a number
of empty and half-empty bottles, and in the company of a none-too-reputable
looking female. Achyut recognising the young man said, ‘Anand Kinchit! that
explains it.’ Father and son walked back, the father resolving never to write a
recommendation letter in future, and the son concluding that the best of
parents was not fool-proof.
“In our town,” continued the Darzee, “Anand
needs no introduction. He is as well-known for his pranks, as Achyut is for his
money. For the information of a stranger like you, sir, I have to add that he
is the champion ne’er-do-weal of our place. He has not done a spot of work all
his twenty six years. But he has never been in want. He is always an adept at
getting something for nothing. When he heard of Amar’s partiality for his tough
old parent, he did a little thinking. He had so far got nothing out of old
Dhanya nor did he entertain hopes of touching him for a round sum of money. He
would part with anything but that. But would he be good enough for a letter of
recommendation, of course, not directly to his son? Anand proposed to try the
chance, and approached Achyut for a donation to the colony he was starting for
the depressed classes. Achyut, of course, refused. Anand then spoke of the
influence Achyut s name had among the townspeople. Would he not help his cause
by giving him a letter of recommendation? Achyut had no objection to that. If
people were so careless of their money, why should they not be deprived of it
for a good cause? Moreover, he wanted to be in the good books of Anand, owing
his reputation. More than all, it added to his sense of importance to give such
a letter. So Anand achieved his purpose. After this it was very simple. Once
every few days, Anand would come to him under a different name with an added
property-beard or moustache, mostly at dusk or after dark, knowing that old
Achyut was short-sighted. Each time he appealed on behalf of a new charity, and
never failed to eulogise the old man and his influence for good among the
community. Within a month he was proceeding to Madaripatnam, bag and baggage,
most of the latter being a dozen letters from old Skinflint. His adventures at
that city you already know. Anand Kinchit was the diamond beak employed by
money to break the Dhanya safe. What is that you say sir? For a man of Achyut’s
wealth a matter of four or five thousand is nothing, you think. Well, I beg to
differ, sir. For you and me, a loss of five thousand rupees is just a loss of
that amount. But for a Dhanya, sir, the agony of such a loss is only comparable
to the grief felt by a mother at the death of a dearly loved child. Don’t you
realise, sir that this amount had lain in his coffers much longer than any
human child could stay in his house? All this boils down to what I said in the
beginning. Put not all your hopes in money. It is here today and gone
to-morrow. Even a Dhanya could not keep all of it.”
So saying the old man rose, and thanking me for the
toddy, walked quietly away. I was touched by his talk and said, “Poor man! In a
larger sphere and a nobler walk in life, he could have made a place for himself
in the world.”
One of the bystanders said, “Why do you pity him,
master? He is not so poor as he looks. By diligently plying his needle and
thread for the past sixty years (he was barely a toddler when he began) he has
amassed a fortune of sixty thousand rupees, for all his talk of money with the
diamond beak.”
I could say nothing to that. Could you?