Among Munshi Din Dayal's acquaintances was a gentleman named Dayanath, a very decent and kind-hearted man. He worked in the court and earned a salary of fifty rupees. Din Dayal was a creature of the courts. He had had dealings with Dayanath hundreds of times. Dayanath could have extracted thousands from him if he wished, but he had never accepted even a penny. Nor was this treatment reserved for Din Dayal alone—it was his nature. It was not that he was a man of exceptionally high ideals; he simply considered bribery forbidden. Perhaps this was because he had seen its evil consequences with his own eyes.
He had seen one person go to jail, another lose his children, and another become trapped in the grip of bad habits. He could find no example of anyone who had taken bribes and lived in peace. He had become firmly convinced that ill-gotten earnings always end in evil. He never forgot this.
What was fifty rupees worth in those days? It was difficult enough to support a family of five. His sons longed for good clothes, and his wife longed for jewelry, but Dayanath did not waver. His eldest son left college after only two months. His father had plainly said, “I cannot keep everyone hungry and naked for the sake of your degree. If you want to study, study through your own efforts. Many have done it; you can do it too.” But Ramanath did not have that much determination. For the past two years he had been completely idle. He played chess, went out for pleasure, and lorded it over his mother and younger brothers. His friends kept his tastes supplied. He would borrow someone's Chester coat and go out for an evening stroll. He would wear someone else's pumps and strap another person's watch around his wrist. Sometimes he went out in the Banarasi fashion, sometimes in the Lucknow fashion. If ten friends each had one garment made, that became a means of changing ten outfits. This was an entirely new use of cooperation. It was this young man whom Din Dayal chose for Jalpa.
Dayanath did not want to marry. He had neither the money nor the courage to take on the burden of a new family. But Jageshwari persisted with a woman's stubborn determination, and before that power a man had to yield. Jageshwari had long yearned for a daughter-in-law. The women who had come before her as daughters-in-law were now playing with their grandchildren, so how could the poor woman remain patient? She had begun to lose hope. She prayed to God that a proposal might come from somewhere. When Din Dayal sent word, it seemed as though she had been given eyes to see with again. If this prospective match slipped away, who knew how many more days she would have to wait? Why would anyone come here? There was neither wealth nor property. Who would be attracted by the boy? People looked at money, so she put all her strength into this opportunity—and she won.
Dayanath said, “Brother, you know your own business. I cannot manage it. To me, marrying a man who cannot even provide for himself seems almost sinful. Then there is the question of money. At least a thousand will be needed for the wedding display, and the clothes and jewelry will cost separately.” He put his hands over his ears. “No, brother! This burden is beyond my means.”
None of these arguments had any effect on Jageshwari. She said, “He will give something too.”
“I am not going to go and ask him for it.”
“There will be no need for you to ask. He will give it himself. When a daughter is married, people do not count the money. Yes, means are needed; and Din Dayal is a prosperous man. Besides, this is his only child. If he saves it, whom will he save it for?”
Dayanath could think of nothing more to say. He only replied, “Let him give a lakh if he wants, or let him give nothing. I will neither ask him to give nor ask him not to. I do not want to take a loan. And if I do, from whose house will I repay it?”
Jageshwari brushed aside this obstacle as though it were nothing. “I am sure he will give no less than a thousand rupees at the tilak. That is enough for your wedding display. Arrange the jewelry through a goldsmith. If he gives a thousand at the tilak, surely he will give another thousand at the door. Give that money to the goldsmith. Two or four hundred may remain; that can be paid off gradually. Some door or another will surely open for the boy.”
Dayanath said contemptuously, “The doors are already open—for someone who has no time for chess and pleasure trips, all doors will be closed.”
Jageshwari remembered her own marriage. Dayanath too had once enjoyed himself freely, but as soon as she came into his life, how quickly the concern about earning a few coins had taken hold of him! Not even a year had passed before he found employment. She said, “When the daughter-in-law comes, she will open his eyes too, just wait and see. Remember yourself. These games continue only until the yoke is placed around one's neck. Once the yoke is on, all the intoxication disappears. There is no better way of putting an idle fellow on the right path.”
Whenever Dayanath was defeated, he began reading the newspaper. This was the only way he had of hiding his defeat.