3.1 Language and Genre

Banarasi was acutely conscious of the many languages and literary cultures of the time, and his work seems to emerge from an amalgam of these. His grandfather, Muldas, had been in the service of a Mughal official of high rank in Malwa in the capacity of a ‘modi’, or financier, and had studied Hindugi and Farsi. He informs us towards the end of the work that he himself has a

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knowledge of Sanskrit and Prakrit, and ‘vividh desh bhasha’, diverse regional languages. He has made special study of Sanskrit grammar and of Jain scriptural texts. He does not mention Persian, but given his close contact with the officials of the Mughal empire, it is likely that he had a smattering of it, and like his grandfather before him, he is equally likely to have known Hindugi, predecessor of modern Urdu and Hindi, and presumably the spoken idiom of a certain section of society in and around Agra. He also would have certainly known Avadhi, the language of Sufi poetry emanating from his native Jaunpur. When times were tough, he earned a meagre livelihood in Agra by reciting the Avadhi Sufi ‘masnavis’, extensive didactic-romantic narrative poems popular in Jaunpur at the time. He mentions the Mrigavati (1503) written by Qutuban at the court of Sultan Husain Shah Sharqi of Jaunpur and Madhumalati (1545) also by a Jaunpur poet, Mir Sayyid Manjhan Rajgiri.28 Banarasidas calls the language that he uses ‘madhyadesha ki boli’, or the language of the middle region or country,29 and writes in an idiom that was surely close to that spoken in Agra in his time: Brajbhasha admixed with Khariboli as we know it today. An early instance then, of the very ‘Agre ki bol’, which would later be invoked by modern writers of Hindi prose. It is noteworthy that Banarasi makes no mention of the many Vaishnava communities in the region and the specific literary tropes they engendered. He seems oblivious of the literary idiom as it was evolving in the adjoining Braj region, which would come to be known as Brajbhasha later in the 17th century.

Banarasidas seems to be following the format of the Sufi masnavis, ‘chaupais’ capped by a ‘doha’, for his own biography. The masnavi is clearly a trans-lingual genre, not confined to a single linguistic tradition. The Jaunpur masnavis are in the language of that region, today known as Avadhi. Yet, Banarasi chooses to write his tale not in Avadhi but in the language current in and around Agra. He writes without poetic flourish and he displays no self-consciousness about his frequent use of Perso-Arabic words. The two genres he explicitly invokes to denote his work are elastic terms, used as self-denotations by a wide range of works.30 He speaks of ‘bat’ (or ‘varta’ in its purer Sanskrit form), used for verse or prose narratives composed for a variety of purposes, as pure entertainment, for chronicling historical events and for hagiography, the most famous example of which are the Vaishnava hagiographies of the Vallabha community stemming from the Braj area. The second expression he uses is ‘charita’ or ‘charitra’. Charitra in Sanskrit is used for character, while charita tells of the deeds and exploits of a figure; it means action or movement in life, which can be either an imagined (Dashakumaracharita) or an actual historical event (Harshacharita). Charita is one mode amongst many of ‘kavya’ (poetry) in the sense of literature, and it can be both in prose or verse. It is then not a genre as such, but a mode that articulates itself in different literary formats, though, in specific historical, cultural contexts it can become generically stable. In Hindi usage charitra and charita have been collapsed to mean the same thing: a life story.31 Tulsidas’ famous Ramcharitmanas32 and Banarasicharita or charitra are then both life stories, albeit of very different casts; the one has a clear theological frame, the other is biographical-spiritual-historical. Banarasidas departs from known models in that he addresses his listeners and readers initially in the first person, to then shift to the third person to refer to himself, making his story an extraordinary blend of intimacy and objectivity.33 Both the language and the literary format of the work are part of a vast canvas, spanning Persian, Avadhi, and the spoken idiom of Agra (vividh desh bhasha), and drawing from the cultural repertoire of Sufis, Shaivas and Jains.

3.2 Merchant Ethos and Excess

In considering Ardhakathanak briefly here, I focus on what it conveys of the norms, normative instances and transgressions of merchant life and the resolutions that Banarasidas eventually finds for his own idiosyncratic needs and excesses. Ardhakathanak reflects faithfully the merchant ethos discussed above: valorisation of the frugal and censure for the extravagant. As becomes quickly clear at the beginning of the story, a merchant is both protected and ruled by the elders of the clan and its ‘panchayat’, or council of elders, who keep a close watch on his moral and financial credit and creditability. Kharagsen, Banarasi’s father, had risen from penury to wealth with the help of his kin. He managed the wealth of his former patron and partner when he died, and he saw to the marriage of the patron’s daughter.

Kharagsen found a suitable groom for her and had her married with great pomp and ceremony. He presented her with a large dowry in gold and precious things and called a council of five elders to decide how much of the joint wealth he had shared with her father rightfully belonged to her. He gave her all that was judged to be her father’s share, keeping nothing that was legitimately hers for himself (pp 10-11).34

The panchayat of elders is then closely involved in decisions involving wealth, shared property and its distribution.

Banarasidas’ indulgences manifest themselves early on. He is brought up in comfort and sent at the appropriate age to school to learn reading, writing and accounts. But he becomes unduly absorbed in the pursuit of knowledge (‘vidya mem rame’) and continues to study till well into his 14th year, far beyond the needs of a merchant. He then acquires another absorbing passion that keeps him from any thought of earning money: He falls in love with a courtesan in the wild and ecstatic manner of a dervish (‘asikhbaj’). Forgetting all thought of family propriety and honour (‘taji kul kan lok ki laj’), he devotes himself wholly to the worship of his beloved, even stealing money and jewels from his father in order to buy her choice presents. But a spiritual restlessness also drives him. He seeks out holy men, displaying excessive gullibility and falling time and again into the trap set for him by charlatans and rogues.

Banarasidas does go to Khairabad to bring his wife home after their marriage, suffering through a severe illness in the process, but he is soon back to his old pursuits (‘pahali chal’). In Jaunpur, the elders (‘gurujan’) of the clan (‘kul kutumb’) accost him gravely:

Pay attention, son, to what the old and experienced have to say. Give up your ways of love, since love is for the darvesh, not for you. Give up your foolish pursuit of learning, since learning is only for brahmans and bards (bambhan aru bhat). A merchant’s son (banikputra) should tend shop. Do not forget that a man who is too studious has to beg for food (p 33).

50

The authority that stems from the elders of the clan is cited and forms a moral backdrop to the story, though it has no immediate impact on Banarasi. It is something that he nonetheless internalises, making both for his own self censure in retrospect, and for reform when a political crisis throws his life into disarray later.

3.3 The Erotic and the Domestic

In the meantime, however, Banarasi remains unimpressed by the advice of the elders and continues in his dissolute ways, with gay disregard for the way of frugal and upright merchanthood. Love, learning and spirituality continue to rule his days. Even as he studies Jain works with the newly arrived monks in town to satisfy his spiritual cravings, he writes an erotic verse for his beloved. We get little sense of his love object; not surprisingly, she remains of a type. Later in life, when he begins to settle down, we do, however, get a rare glimpse of domesticity.

For a variety of reasons, Banarasi’s business ventures have remained unsuccessful. Having exhausted his means in a particular venture, Banarasi chooses not to go back home to his father empty-handed, but go instead to his second wife, the sister of his first wife. It is clear that she sees him rarely. But on this occasion they talk through the night and he tells her of the fate that has befallen him in Agra. She spontaneously offers him the 20 rupees she has saved. “Do not despair, my husband”, she says, “for if a man lives he can yet achieve everything” (p 53). She later corners her mother and tells her that her husband needs help but that his sorry state is to be kept a secret from everyone. She says quite explicitly that she fears to lose him: “O mother”, she beseeched her, “as I am your daughter, help me in my need. My very honour is at stake. If you cannot do something within a few days, my husband is sure to leave us and go away. Though he does not utter a word, he is tormented with shame and humiliation” (p 53).

In a rush of emotion, Banarasi proposes that they both go to Jaunpur. “But she dissuaded me, Jaunpur is in a state of turmoil, afflicted with a hundred troubles. Why not go to Agra once again? That is the right place for you” (p 54).

Banarasi’s wives (he has three in succession) share his troubled life in one way or the other, but they never enter the forefront of the story. The wifely type presented in the one domestic scene in the work, mistreated yet faithful, is a kind of constant, the other half, so to speak, of the classic pairing: courtesan as object of love and faithful wife as a resource to be drawn upon in the hour of need. We will meet her again in the 19th century, though tinged with a Victorian hue. There will be a very similar scene in Pariksha Guru when the wife will come to the rescue of her financially strapped husband by offering to clear his debts with her bag of jewels.

3.4 The Way of the Righteous

Banarasi is acutely aware of the state of his own mind and the desires and impulses that drive him. He is as conscious of the passing of time as he is of the ups and downs of public life, whether in Jaunpur or in Agra. In fact, the crucial moments in his life are often tied to political events, and he refers explicitly to them, thus marking time not only astronomically, but also by

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critical junctures in polity. One such event turns out to be a turning point in his own life, setting off a series of chain reactions in him, and finally bringing about the change that his ‘gurujan’ had so long sought. Till now he had spent the greater part of his life careening from one obsession to the next: erotic love, book learning or holy men. In 1605, Akbar dies and people are filled with terror at the thought of the impending chaos that this event will bring:

I was sitting up a flight of stairs in my house, when I heard the dreadful news, which came as a sudden and sharp blow. It made me shake with violent, uncontrollable agitation. I reeled, and losing my balance, fell down the stairs in a faint (p 38).

When Shiva does not come to his rescue, he realises that the holy man to whom he had been devoted was as fake as the one before him had been. One day, as he is crossing a bridge over the Gomati with some friends, he flings his erotic poems into the river. He comes to the realisation that he has been leading an untruthful life, and he makes a radical break with his past ways:

From this day on Banarasi began to truly desire righteousness (karai dharam ki chah), he gave up his licentious ways (taji asikhi phasikhi) and became an upright family man (pakari kul ki rah) (p 41).

Of note is the coupling of righteousness (‘dharm ki chah’) with repute in the world of merchants (‘ab jas bhayo vikhyat’) and financial trustworthiness. Banarasi is now considered ready to shoulder the burden of supporting the family and become a breadwinner – ‘ab grahbhar kandh tum lehu, ab kutumb kaum roti dehu’ (p 43). His father entrusts him with merchandise and sends him off to trade in Agra.

Towards the end of the narrative, Banarasi finds a new friend who initiates him into Adhyatma, “a new religious movement devoted to the mystic doctrine of the Spirit” (p 86). Though he is immensely drawn to this movement, Banarasi goes through a period of disorientation. The Adhyatma movement dispenses with all ritual, but Banarasi takes this to mean freedom from all social convention. He is unable to unravel its true nature. This gives him and his companions licence to indulge in behaviour others find outrageous, such as dancing naked and hitting each other on the head with shoes. His reputation in the community once again becomes tarnished.

Banarasi continues to mark the correspondences between historical, astronomical, and biographical time. Shah Jahan ascends the throne in 1627, and Banarasi’s first son from his third wife dies soon after birth. His own children born thereafter are fated to die in infancy. Domestic unhappiness compounds his alienation from those around him. His release from this condition comes in 1635 when a wise Jain teacher, Rupchand Pande, comes to Agra to stay at the house of Tihuna Sahu (p 90). It is he who finally explains the doctrine that has so long eluded Banarasi. “All my doubts and questionings were put to rest and I became a new man. I had, at last, gained true and profound insight into the Jain doctrine of relativism” (p 91). With the resolution to his longstanding spiritual quest, we are coming to the conclusion of Banarasi’s tale.

However, it is not to share his newly found wisdom alone that Banarasi seems to have penned his tale. Two years after the death

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of his third and last son, he tells us that he is still beset with sorrow. He takes melancholy stock of his life:

A full nine children lived and died:/bereft the parents twain,/as trees

at leaf fall, stumps remain.35

It is this melancholy that marks the last sections of the story.

The concluding verses contain the sum of his observations, of himself and of people at large. He tells us that there are three kinds of people. The best are those who praise others and speak only of their own faults. The worst are those who praise themselves and find fault in others. In the middle are those who do a bit a both, and this is where he belongs. He details his good and bad features in five ‘chaupais’ (quatrains). Never entirely the sober merchant, he describes his own personality as perpetually fun loving, citing his love of dancing and fooling around, even as he proclaims his firm grounding in the Jain faith. Banarasi ends his story then with psychological and moral reflections on his own personality, condensing the kind of philosophical observations that has been scattered throughout the work.

A man’s life is supposed to reach its full span at a 100 and 10. Having reached the halfway point, with the future being something of which god alone (‘bhagvant’) has knowledge, Banarasi tells us that he can look back at his life in a way from which others can also benefit. The last ‘doha’ (couplet) proclaims:

The story of the last 55 years of my life covers half of Banarasi’s deeds in life (charit). Wicked men will laugh at this tale, but friends will surely give it glad ear and attentive year and recite it to each other. This work contains 675 dohas and chaupais. All those who hear, recite and read it will benefit from it (pp 96-97).36

It is this frame, of the knowledge and wisdom derived from a whole life span, which makes his deeds or charita, worth telling. It is a remarkable if not a model life, one that may well claim the designation ‘chartita’ in its title. It contains the spiritual dimensions of the Sufi masnavis, even if the plotting follows its own course. And it can certainly fit into the large body of work that called itself bat or varta, since it is a story well told, though it expands in new directions, becoming the life story of an individual who does not fit into the contours of merchant life. Even as he registers the moral authority emanating from the elders of his clan and community (‘kul kutumb’), and the spiritual guidance provided by the Jain laity as well as by monks,37 Banarasi at no point suggests that his life is anything other than self-propelled.38 His self-reflexivity about having to function within the ethos of the merchant community as well as within a wider political frame, and his sense of historical time make his life story an early modern work of exceptional clarity and insight.

4.1 Language and Genre

There are also two literary traditions that are major reference points for the new writers that work in this period: the older Indian and the newer western. The need to operate within both is reflected in the very terminology Shrinivasdas uses in presenting the book to his readers. As in Banarasidas’ tale, the work moves between different genres, in its self-description as also in the narrative techniques that it adopts. In the Hindi title, Shrinivasdas denotes the work as a worldly tale; the subtitle of

52 the work in its first edition is ‘anubhav dvara upadesh milne ki samsari varta’ (the worldly tale of acquiring instruction by means of experience). Setting forth the wide-ranging generic tradition of the bat or varta, it is the worldly-secular vein that is now clearly foregrounded.44 The modern novel is entering secular space, where personal and social issues are to be resolved without reference to religion or spirituality – spheres now seen as inhabiting an altogether separate realm. In the English dedication, it is the novelty of the venture that Shrinivasdas emphasises, describing it as “my humble attempt at novel writing”. This dedication is addressed to Lala Shri Ram, one of the first students from Delhi to have secured an MA and one of the most energetic members of the Delhi municipal council.45 Shrinivasdas eulogises him for his deep interest in “everything connected with the weal of the people of India by showing them by your own example the best means of civilising the country”. He clearly does not see the need to explain the novel as a form to his English readers, but in the longer Hindi dedication he takes upon himself the task of explaining it to his readers. The work is written in an entirely new style. The narrative will no longer be ‘silsilevar’, or sequentially ordered, and there will be no formal introductions of the characters at the start of the text. Instead, it will contain a portrait (chitra)46 of an imaginary gentleman (‘kalpit rais’) of Delhi. In order to make the portrayal more natural (‘svabhavik’), special attention will be paid to everyday speech (‘sadharan bolchal’). The author will not make explicit who is speaking, only when the need arises. With the introduction of paragraphs and syntactical marks (inverted commas, commas, colons, semi-colons, interrogations, exclamation marks, parenthesis and full stops) the reader will learn how to read the work in the new way. The business of novel writing in modern Hindi was framed as a response to the changing perceptions of self and society rather than as a mere imitation of a prestigious literary form from Europe. The new literary form was thus voicing and fulfilling what were perceived to be the new demands of the times.

Nonetheless, in considering the formal aspirations of Pariksha Guru, we should keep in mind that the new reader was also the old reader. Shrinivasdas drew upon the literary cultures of the Indo-Persianate world familiar to his readers and the newly opened Anglo-European one. He invoked as his model works as various as the Mahabharata, Stribodh (Instruction for Women, one of the many manuals for women in circulation at this time), Gulistan, the works of Oliver Goldsmith, the essays of Lord Bacon, and the Spectator, the moralising 18th century weekly in English. Another important model was Hitopadesha, the collection of ‘nitikatha’ or didactic tales that were not explicitly invoked but frequently cited as moral authority.47 The niti-katha compiled in the Hitopadesha or Panchatantra, with their pragmatic, thisworldly morality, gelled well with the kind of moral observation, social realism and idealised character portrayal – the perfect friend, the ideal wife – presented in the essays of the English moralising weekly and the writings of Goldsmith, particularly his Vicar of Wakefield (1766).

In spite of the fact that the 41 chapters of Pariksha Guru are offered within a single narrative frame, they read like weekly instalments. The chapters are kept short – an average of seven

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printed pages – as befits a weekly column. Every once in a while the narrator begs to be excused on account of a certain topic not being set forth for lack of space. They have headings reminiscent of the aphoristic verses of the niti tales, but also of the moral essays, such as ‘Sangati ka Phal’ (the fruits of company), ‘Mitra Milap’ (the meeting of friends), ‘Savadhani’ (caution), ‘Sajjanata’ (goodliness), ‘Mitra Pariksha’ (the trial of friends), ‘Sachchi Priti’ (true affection) and so on.48 Apart from these moral reflections, there are scenes that read more like a drama, a trait inherited from traditional narrative genres meant for oral delivery such as the ‘dastan’ or varta. The language is bright and colloquial. Even when the moralising verges on the excessive, a myriad tales are interspersed to illustrate a point, and profuse citations from motley sources are marshalled to support it. It is here that the chapters tend to assume the character of a moral essay, and when this happens the language becomes more Sanskritised, that is to say, it moves beyond colloquial speech to a more self-consciously elevated language.

Through the traditions invoked, the idealism of Goldsmith and the moral essay for one, and the stark pragmatism of niti tales for another, the primacy of worldly success and happiness is postulated as paramount. The niti tales took a dark view of human nature and tended to see human action as largely motivated by want, greed, lust and pride. All goals, good or bad, could be reached; success depended on ‘upaya’ (ruse). Whatever the final outcome, the kernel of the tales always concerned itself with relationships, that is, reflections on the reliability and constancy of friends and dependents. Nothing was to be taken at face value, the ‘svabhava’ (nature) of each person was to be tested. One of the key concepts of ‘Hitopadesha Pariksha’, (trial)49 forms not only a part of the title of the novel, it is repeatedly invoked in the work itself. Only ‘pariksha’ can test the true nature of an object, only pariksha can lay bare the true svabhava of a person, and finally, only severe pariksha can teach a much needed lesson and make a person see the error of his ways.

The primary difference between the novel and the much shorter, episodic niti tales lies however, not only in the idealistic resolutions found at the end of the novel, but also in the sustained narrative that operates within a social world with clear geographical and historical bounds and within a clearly defined socio-political framework. And the protagonists are seen as at least partly created by their education and their environment, as being propelled by inner and outer forces, making them seekers not only of their own destiny but that of the larger collective, the nation. As Brajkishor says, the situations (‘hal’) in which a man lives from birth till the present leave behind an unconscious effect on him (p 272). This corresponds well with the pragmatic call to take note of the mental composition of men and their needs.

How does one recognise good and evil? There are no hard and fast rules to determine these questions. Described in the chapter aptly entitled ‘bhale bure ki pahchan’ (detection of good and evil), the teaching is put in the authoritative mouth of Brajkishor. The ‘vritti’ (dispositions) teaching that he exposed at some length here, takes both social concerns and the psychology of the individual into consideration. In a given situation, all kinds of

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factors can be at play, and so the question is really one asking what is allowed to take precedence. Righteous dispositions (‘dharma pravritti’), often have to be weighed against the more lowly materialist inclinations (‘nikrshta pravritti’). Righteous considerations have equally to be tempered with more material ones. Only then can justice be done to god’s creation (‘ishvar ki rachana’), which would otherwise become meaningless (‘nirarthak’), because no work of god, righteous or material, can be without meaning. The dialogue which explicates this begins with Brajkishor’s statement, “Without trial, not one person can be pronounced to be a true friend” (‘pariksha hue bina kisi ko sachcha mitra bhi nahim kah sakta’, p 186). The mental dispositions of men are to be critically assessed. And as almost a corollary to this, there are sporadic glimpses of an interiority that is as self-reflective as it is self-critical.

4.2 Urban Modernity and New Merchant Ethos

Banarasidas had been acutely conscious of time and place throughout his work, noting all dates of arrival and departure from towns, of occurrences in the family and their coincidence with the crowning or death of monarchs. But he provided a set description of the city of Jaunpur and gave little sense of the topography of the urban landscapes through which he moved, whether Agra, Delhi, Banares, or indeed, Khairabad. The niti tales were, of course, entirely free-floating as regards time and place. But Shrinivasdas’ narrative occurs in an actual, physical environment.50 And it is with this environment, in its peculiar mixture of old and new, that we are presented as we learn the details of Madanmohan’s lifestyle.

Madanmohan lived in grand style, with extensive arrangements in place for pleasure and entertainment. He maintained an elaborately laid out garden, Dilpasand Bagh, on the outskirts of the city, and Shrinivasdas lavishes some care in its description:

This garden was located a little further than Sabzimandi on the banks of the canal. On both sides of the path, there were rows of flowers. There were flowers of all colours in their beds, carpets of green grass at places, the dense shade of trees or artificial waterfalls at yet other places, creepers of all kinds winding around trees or trellises, birds of all varieties calling out from the aviary, and on yet another side, fish and water creatures of all hues in a marble pond, and at the centre of the garden an airy room with a marble verandah around it and around that, water fountains. When these fountains played, peacocks mistook the jaith, vaisakh, the summer months for savanbhadom, the months of monsoon. There was a silk carpet spread in the middle room and a golden couch upholstered in the best satin, chairs placed at convenient spots, and above the side tables, hung eight great mirrors. Chandeliers of great value swung down from the ceilings, bouquets of flowers arranged on round, oval and square tables, and choice toys and objects of ivory, sandal, ebony, porcelain, and mother-of-pearl, and in decorative silver bowls cardamom and betel nut. A clock which told the time, date and month, a harmonium, a billiard table, a photo-album, binoculars, a sitar, a chess board and other things to while away the time were kept at appropriate places, the walls had floral mosaics to which the luster of mica added a silvery glitter. Material worth thousands of rupees was bought each month for this house (pp 177-78).

The very interior of his establishment reflects the change in lifestyle. Though modelled on the garden houses of the Mughuls,51 Madanmohan has collected a variety of new fangled articles of furniture: chairs and tables, and new “toys” such as clocks, binoculars, and western musical instruments. English furnishings also feature prominently in his house in the city where he keeps a variety of new carriages for his conveyance and a stall full of the highest bred horses.52

But what has his English learning brought him? False imitation (‘jhuthi naqali’) of the English. He subscribed to a number of journals, but he read them only for the advertisements of new goods from the west. He was a public figure of sorts since he was mentioned in the newspapers; he had some ambition to become an honorary member of the municipal committee, as he made some effort to keep up with the times, and he even indulged in some showy acts of patriotism. Gullible, innocent, constantly swayed to and fro, foolhardy but not evil in intent, he was surrounded by a host of hangers-on and sycophants, all of whom schemed and plotted for his favour in the best style of the niti tales.

Madanmohan leads a dissolute life, filled with wine, women and song. He moves through the wide avenues of Chandni Chowk in his carriage. He halts at the Company Bagh, where the air is so pleasant, the flowers and the greens so attractive, and the breeze blowing in from the canal so refreshing, that he is tempted by his good friend Brajkishor to stay for a while. But his wily manager, Chunnilal, lures him away from the good company of Brajkishor. Chunnilal wears a watch whose precision, he says, is guaranteed by the cannon shots issuing at regular intervals from the fort.

This newly mechanised sense of time makes life more amenable to control. Chunnilal can put his watch forward, hurry Madanmohan along and thus allow him no time to engage in conversation with Brajkishor. The new times and sense of time bring with them their own pitfalls and disorientation for the grand sahu of the new age.

It is noteworthy, however, that the old ways (‘purani chal’), best represented by Madanmohan’s father, are not simply glorified. A merchant of the old school – simple, thrifty, quick on the uptake – he was a self-made man. He lived frugally, without pomp and show; he had only a few retainers, but they were all trustworthy. Most importantly, his credit was as good as gold in the merchant community (‘sahukare mem uski bari sakh thi’). Madanmohan, however, was educated by a father who was alternately indulgent and stern; he grew up to be indolent, and after his father’s death, a law only unto himself. The alternative to ‘purani chal’ (old ways) could then not be the ‘nayi chal’ (new ways), but only in ‘sachchi sahukari’ (true or sound merchanthood). In this new context, the ‘svabhava’ (nature) of men has to be probed, to undergo pariksha (trial). Thus it is not only Madanmohan but whole new ways of life, the old as well as the hastily adopted new, that have to coalesce in the contemporary moment. The conflict can be said to have been between the falsely new and the genuinely new.

Brajkishor, the young lawyer and one of the frequent visitors to Madanmohan’s house, represents this newness. He is trying to

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4.3 Instances of Moral Authority: Bazaar, Akhbar and Adalat

We enter the tale directly, without any preamble. The novel opens at an English merchant’s shop, one that offers fancy fripperies at exorbitant prices. The two English shopkeepers are depicted as self-seeking and exploitative, aware of the advantages they enjoy in the British raj. At first we see the main characters in the novel in dramatic sequences; and only later, in chapters showcasing their arguments and counter-arguments on moral and social issues, do we become privy to their inner thoughts. Brajkishor presents “the enlightened view”; he propagates a cautious modernity, where the new ways are duly modified and practised in moderation. Madanmohan and his friends champion new fashions and crave instant satisfaction. It is their ‘kathametat’ (“how is this”), in the style of the Hitopadhesha, which prompts Brajkishor to go on and on at times. It is only once we have come to know these friends that we are offered lively character sketches which integrate with elegant irony the speech and perspective of the character himself. In chapter nine, ‘Sabhasad’ (courtiers), we

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are offered a view of this gallery of rogues, colourful and unscrupulous in the best style of the niti tales, though here, in the novel, they are described in more psychological and idiosyncratic detail.53 It is their vivacious commentary and conversation that makes for the vibrant realism of the novel. They are the scum that is formed by mixing the new with the old. They are clerks, middle men, the newly forming lower middle class, half-educated and needy, with a smattering of knowledge about the new ways, and with slim chances of rising in their own profession. An almost inadvertent gaiety characterises their operations and counter-operations, with Madanmohan fluttering between them, torn to and fro between his own caprices and the interests of his courtiers.

But things can hardly remain suspended in this state of eternal pleasure seeking. Amongst all of these hangers-on, there is also one Harkishor. It is the clash of his character with the rest that brings about the catastrophic denouement. Harkishor’s offer to procure goods is twice rejected by Madanmohan. Deeply offended, Harkishor asks for the money owed to him for past services. The money does not materialise and Madanmohan’s hangers-on manage to throw Harkishor out of the house. Harkishor promptly declares that the penurious state this brings about makes for the loss of his sakh in the bazaar (p 233). He duly sets out to take revenge, spreading a rumour about Madanmohan’s impending insolvency in order to destroy Madanmohan’s sakh. The narrator devotes a lively chapter or two to Harkishor’s rumour mongering. Various friends under various pretexts refuse to give Madanmohan the loan he now needs to satisfy the demands of his now nervous creditors. The narrator dwells on the behaviour of these friends at some length. Some show regard for him initially, others simply avoid him. His sakh in the bazaar is ruined, and with modern modes of communication this news has travelled fast.54

Meanwhile, Brajkishor devises a plan to send Madanmohan’s faithful wife back to her natal home in Meerut. Left alone, Madanmohan’s fortunes rapidly decline, and his household collapses in disarray and confusion. His servants steal shamelessly. In the face of domestic unrest, Brajkishor threatens that he will charge all the servants under the Indian Criminal Code Article 408: “You are tigers in your own lanes. You can do what you like here, but your roar will impress no one in the court” (p 235). Here we may see how the court is being invoked to deal with domestic crises. The influence of the court will soon permeate other spheres of Madanmohan’s life.

In the next scene, Madanmohan sits glumly in his reception chamber (‘divankhana’) when he happens to glance at a newspaper. An article catches his eye: ‘The Outcome of a Cultivated Life’:

Observing the initial ascent of a young, well educated rais in our city, we not only nurtured the hope but even gave it expression, that in some time we would surely see him act in a way that would have immediate effects on the welfare of the country. This hope, we are sorry to say, has now been crushed in its entirety. In fact, all signs to the contrary are manifesting themselves. In a matter of days, three of four lakhs have been cleanly wiped out. There was a young man named Durmody(?) in the west, who had such a sharp mind that at the age of nine that he could be found teaching his fellow pupils Greek and Latin. But his ways thereafter did not bode well and the end result was very different from what the beginning had led one to expect. Indian reformers just appear to be reformers; they make no real effort to improve their nature and their thought. Even if in youth they display such tendencies, no trace of it remains once they leave the madrasa. The poor become anxious about food and clothing and the rich have no leisure from the relentless pursuit of their own pleasure and enjoyment. Who has the time to think about the progress of the country? Who is to foster discussions about Art and Learning? When we see the impoverished state of the country and the affairs of a wealthy man gone awry, we are filled with much regret. But for the sake of the country, we can only wish that those who make a show of working for the welfare of the country, who create darkness under the light of the lamp, be forthwith exposed. So that the eyes of the people are opened and they don’t take the jackal in lion’s clothing for the lion himself (pp 383-84).

His sakh and his conduct are now being broadcast, and hence judged, in a forum that goes beyond the bazaar. The nationalist press administers this new morality, calling for a new sense of collective responsibility, not only for the community, but for the nation at large.

In his hour of need, Madanmohan’s only real friend, it turns out, is Brajkishor. Though he had been temporarily alienated by Madanmohan, he has kept watch over the affairs of his friend. Brajkishor has not been not totally idealised, in the manner of Mr. Burchell in Goldsmith’s Vicar of Wakefield, nor is he quite so omnipresent. At one stage, he admits ruefully that his legal profession has made him worthy and self-righteous. He knows that he can be unduly verbose, often not knowing when to stop, even though it bores people (p 344).

We are taken inside the courthouse to witness the finesse with which Brajkishor handles the debtors who are clamouring for quick repayment of the loans they had so freely given Madanmohan. Chapter 32 is simply entitled, ‘Adalat’ (Court of Law):

The court is in session and the judge is sitting on his chair. The clerks are seated in their places. Nihalchand Modi’s lawsuit is being handled. Latif Hussein is the lawyer on his side. Lala Brajkishor is putting the questions from Madanmohan’s side. Brajkishor had learnt to read Hindi55 at Madanmohan’s place in his childhood. This is why he knew very well how bankers’ records were kept and so he had paid a nominal fee and looked through his accounts thoroughly. No legal arguments were needed in this case, it was purely a question of taking and giving loans (pp 357-78).

The language of this chapter – as well as other passages connected with the law and lawyers – is full of the Persianate vocabulary that characterised this dimension of public life in this period, and the narrator makes no move to expurgate these expressions as alien. As Brajkishor’s cross-examination quickly reveals, the loans had been agreed upon verbally through Madanmohan’s servants; the details were not to be found in the account books. Why? Apparently Lala Madanmohan ordered that the sums he required be handed over instantly. What proof was there that this was so? There was no proof. Nihalchand, the banker who had advanced the loan, was reluctant to show his account books in their entirety because they would reveal the commissions he had given to Madanmohan’s servants. Since this was illegal, both Nihalchand and the servants could be charged with crimes. The judge, who is shown to be kindly and considerate, says “Look here, if any kind of fraud is proved here, I am going to hand over the matter to the criminal courts (p 360).56 But Brajkishor just wants to scare the debtors into submission, not get them into serious legal trouble. While Brajkishor is thus busy in the court, Harikishor manages to get a warrant for Madanmohan’s arrest issued. Madanmohan suddenly finds himself thrown in a debtor’s prison.

4.4 The Erotic and the Domestic

The transformation of Madanmohan’s character begins in earnest as he faces his final pariksha (test). In prison for a night, he experiences extreme distress, causing a change of heart that will link back to the restoration of his domestic situation. We need to recall that Madanmohan leads the life typical of his kind. The many courtesans who come into his life remain faceless, but we are told that they take up much of his time and money. His hangers-on spoke temptingly of Amirjan, a famous courtesan of Lucknow who was visiting Delhi, as well as of a male dancer from there. They fix performances of well known singers from the Gwalior gharana,57 and they plan a trip to the Qutub, accompanied by a troupe of singers and dancers. Madanmohan’s wife remains equally nameless and faceless. However, she is idealised in a way Banarasidas does not even suggest. Without the presence of the new kind of wife, the new way of life would be incomplete; it would only tell half a story. In this respect, Madanmohan’s wife has stepped straight out of ‘Stribodh’, as it were, for she has all the Victorian virtues of a good and thrifty housewife and of a loving and caring mother who carefully supervises the education of her children:

With very little expense she has seen to such good arrangements in the house that Madanmohan does not have to expend the least labour at home. When she has leisure, she does not sit idly, gossiping about other people and chattering about jewels and jewellery, she practises reading and writing, embroidery and drawing pictures, etc... The children are very small but while playing, she teaches them the basic moral principles and unawares, by increasing their knowledge of things, she slowly stimulates their own natural capacity to increase their knowledge. But she does not burden their minds, there is no hindrance to their freedom to indulge in innocent play and laughter (pp 293-94).

The new merchant and the professional man both need their other half to manage their domestic sphere with care and efficiency. And it is this preoccupation with the role of the good wife in the domestic economy, the projection of a male nationalist fantasy,58 that will become so vital to the structure of the novel as it will evolve in modern Hindi. We need to note however, that many of the features extolled by the novel, Madanmohan’s spouse sets forth the model of the good wife (‘pativrata’) we know from Ardhakathanak and a myriad other tales:

With regard to her husband, Madanmohan’s wife was truly affectionate, well-wishing, a companion in pleasure as well as pain and obedient. In the beginning Madanmohan also held her in great affection. But when he began to keep the company of friends such as Chunnilal and Shimbhudayal, he caught the addiction of dance and music, and went into raptures over the false airs and graces of the courtesans... His poor, simple, able wife began to seem rustic to him. For a while things were kept secret, but how can there be pleasure in the flower of love after a worm has entered it? (pp 291-92).

It will take a while for Madanmohan to revive the flower of love. The prison scene is remarkable for its focus on Madanmohan’s

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interiority and for its new valorisation of family life. Once he is left alone in his narrow, pitch dark dungeon of a cell, and the courthouse has been emptied, with not a single person in sight, we are afforded a glimpse of the new interiority which Madanmohan expresses and to which he becomes subject. There, he thinks of his past life and of his many friends who fail to live up to the expectations one can have of genuine friends, that is to say, who deserted him in his hour of need:

At this stage, it is extremely difficult to lay bare (prakat karna) the mental reflections of Lala Madanmohan. When he thinks about the luxury from his childhood to this day, darkness wells up before his eyes. The pleasurable chatter of Lala Hardayal and other pleasure loving friends, the false affection of Chunnilal, Shimbhudayal and others, song and dance functions till the early hours of the morning, being surrounded by sycophants at all hours of the day, yes to every wish of his, praise lavished at the slightest occasion, and at all stages the readiness even to sacrifice their lives: when he compares all this to his situation today, and thinks about their ungratefulness, then his heart wallows in sorrow (p 403).

And he wonders what will become of him at 60 if this is what he already feels at 30. He thinks of death and is immediately filled with the fear of ghosts. His imagination begins to play tricks on him. He sees all kinds of monstrous shapes, hears deafening sounds, and feels physically burdened by the enormous weight of these apparitions. He thinks of his god and pleads for help, and in the end, overcome by fear and emotion, he faints. This could be a moment for spiritual revelation. Instead, when he comes to, he finds his head cradled in a woman’s lap. Could it be his wife? Is she also an apparition? Her hot tears wet his face. He shuts his eyes, refusing to believe it is a real person. Brajkishor has sneaked her into the prison, and shortly after she leaves, he himself will appear. But in the meantime, she offers her love and devotion. At first he keeps quiet, out of fear. But when the woman tries to give him strength and courage, he can no longer hold back his feelings: “Of all the mistakes I have made till now, I have made the most mistakes with regard to you. I mistook a diamond for a mere pebble, and cast you far away for me, mistaking a valuable necklace for a serpent” (p 407). The affections to be reserved for the wife, the domesticity that now includes small children – who make a brief appearance, babbling childish patter – is presented with a sentimentality that we are seeing for the first time in a tale of merchant life. We have only to think of the nine children Banarasidas lost, not one of whom was described to the reader, to see how the idea of the family, emerging as it does in the resolution of this novel, is extremely significant.

Madanmohan’s crisis in the prison cell does, however, bear some resemblance to Banarasidas’s moment of illumination in Ardhakathanak. In that tale, the plunge into despair at the news of Akbar’s death had set him thinking about his way of life. After his climactic fall from the stairs leading to his house, he gave up his literary and erotic pursuits, abandoning his licentious ways and finally gaining credit as a merchant in the eyes of his father and the community. But he had neither thought to repair his relationship with his wife nor indeed to view it as in any way skewed to begin with. However, in the new climate of social change, for the banker in an environment

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determined increasingly by Victorian norms, the conjugal family had become...

...a metaphor for society and thereby a focal point for refashioning social reality... As father figure, the banker operated on the premise that social stability depended on domestic stability in individual families. In this scenario, bank failure [in our case, sakh] focused attention on the breakdown of the links connecting domestic and social relations.59

It is these links between the domestic and the social that need to be set right, before the tale can come to a fitting conclusion.

Brajkishor manages to free Madanmohan from the clutches of his debtors; he clears his name and helps him recover his former position of power, even if as a wiser and sadder man. Though it needs to be noted, that for all the narrator’s love of virtue, it is characteristic of the pleasure that the narrator himself takes in his roguish figures, and perhaps a mark of his particular brand of realism, that they are allowed to slip away unpunished. Characteristic of the social reform agenda of the novel and its documentary tone, once he has seen the error of his ways, Madanmohan himself asks that his tale be written and published so that others can benefit from it.

The suffering that ought to have fallen upon me on account of my folly has now done falling upon me. I can see no advantage in sparing myself falsely now. For the sake of all these people I would like the whole account to be printed and made public, Lala Madanmohan said.

Is there need of it? Those who want to learn will find the world full of moral treatises, said Lala Brajkishor, thinking over the matter with regard to his own person.

There’s no need to ashamed of things which are true. I want with all my heart that once my faults become public, people have their eyes opened by seeing their [ill] consequences. I’ll tell you all about the people I talked to and the things I said to them so that you can put them down in your account, said Lala Madanmohan enthusiastically (p 422).

Madanmohan will have to yet make his change of heart public. The primacy of social concern and corrections, as Ramvilas Sharma (1975: pp 93-99) has pointed out, directly sired the didactic-realistic tradition that is set forth in the early novels of Premchand.