Ramanath’s tea shop did open, but only at night. It remained closed all day. Even at night, Devi Din usually sat at the shop, but the sales were good. On the very first day, three rupees came in; from the second day onward, the average rose to four or five rupees. The tea was so delicious that anyone who drank tea there once would not go to another shop.
Rama also gathered some materials for entertainment. Once he had saved a little money, he bought a beautiful table. After the lamps were lit, the sale of vegetables was not very brisk. He would carry those baskets inside and set up the table in the veranda. He put packs of cards on it. He also began ordering two daily newspapers.
The shop began to prosper. In those three or four hours, six or seven rupees would come in, and after all expenses were paid, three or four rupees remained.
The austerity of these four months had made Rama’s appetite for pleasure even more intense. As long as he had no money in his hands, he had been helpless. As soon as money began coming in, the urge to go out and enjoy himself took hold of him. He remembered the cinema too. The ordinary little things of daily life, which he had kept putting off until then, now began to appear without restraint.
He brought Devi Din a beautiful silk shawl. Jaggo frequently suffered from headaches. One day he brought her bottles of scented oil. Both of them were delighted.
Now whenever the old woman carried a load on her head, he would scold her, “Kaki, I have also begun earning a few coins now. Why are you still wearing yourself out? If I ever see a basket on your head again, I warn you, I will shut down the shop and throw it away. Then you can punish me however you like.”
The old woman would be thrilled to hear her son’s scolding. Whenever she brought a load from the market, she would first secretly look around to see whether Rama was at the shop. If he was sitting there, she would pay a porter a penny or two to carry the load on his head. If Rama was not there, she would hurry in, quickly put down the load, and sit quietly so that Rama would not suspect anything.
One day a new play by Radheshyam was going to be staged at the Manoram Theatre. There was a great deal of excitement about the play. People had been reserving their seats since the previous day.
Rama too became eager to reserve a seat. He thought, What if there are no tickets at night and I am left standing around? Everyone is praising the performance. At that time, even if I offer twice the price, I may not get a seat.
This excitement pushed the fear of the police into the background. It was not as though such a calamity had befallen him that the police would seize him the moment he stepped out of the house. If not during the day, he was already going out at night. If the police wanted to catch him, could they not have caught him at night too? Besides, he no longer looked as he had before. A turban was enough to change his appearance.
Thus reassuring himself, he left the house at ten o’clock. Devi Din had gone somewhere. The old woman asked, “Where are you going, son?”
Rama replied, “Nowhere, Kaki. I’ll be back soon.”
As soon as Rama came onto the road, his courage began melting like snow. At every step he feared that a constable might appear. He was convinced that every police watchman knew his description and would recognize him the moment he saw his face.
So he walked with his head bowed. Suddenly he remembered that plainclothes detectives from the secret police wandered about here and there. Who knew whether the man walking beside him was a detective? The man was looking closely at him. Perhaps he was becoming suspicious because Rama was walking with his head bowed. Everyone else was looking straight ahead; no one walked with his head down like this.
In the rush of motorcars, walking with one’s head bowed was like inviting death. In a park, someone could stroll like that. Here he ought to look straight ahead.
But the man beside him was still staring at him. Perhaps he really was a secret policeman.
To get away from him, Rama stopped at a betel shop and began chewing paan. The man went ahead. Rama breathed a long sigh of relief.
Now he raised his head and walked on, gathering his courage. There was no sign of a tram just then, otherwise he would have boarded it.
He had gone only a short distance when he saw three constables approaching. Rama left the road and began walking along the pavement.
What bravery was there in needlessly putting one’s finger into a snake’s hole?
Unfortunately, the three constables also left the road and took the same pavement.
Because of the passing motorcars, Rama had to dart from side to side again and again. His heart began pounding. Going to the other side of the road would only arouse more suspicion. There was not even an alley into which he could turn.
Now they had come very close.
What was this? They were all looking at him.
I showed great foolishness by tying this turban, he thought, and what a ridiculous turban it is! It rises like a little hill. This turban will get me caught today. I had tied it to change my appearance, but instead it has made me look ridiculous.
Yes, all three are looking at me. They are even talking among themselves.
Rama felt as though there were no strength left in his legs. Perhaps they were comparing his appearance with the description in their minds.
Now there was no escape.
When his family heard that he had been arrested, how ashamed they would be! Jalpa would weep herself to death. He would receive at least five years’ imprisonment. Today the life he had been living was coming to an end.
This thought filled him with such terror that he lost all presence of mind.
When the group of policemen came near, his face became so distorted with fear, his eyes became so suspicious and anxious, and he began trying so desperately to hide himself behind other people that even an ordinary person would naturally have suspected him. How could the trained eyes of policemen possibly miss it?
One of them said to his companion, “If this man isn’t a thief, then I’ll walk right through your legs. Look how he watches about like a thief.”
The second said, “I too have some suspicion. I can say for certain, he is the real thief.”
The third man was a Muslim. He called out to Ramanath, “Hey, you in the turban! Come over here for a moment. What is your name?”
Ramanath said defiantly, “What will you do by asking my name? Am I a thief?”
“Not a thief—you are a gentleman. Why don’t you tell us your name?”
Rama hesitated for a moment and then said, “Hiralal.”
“Where is your home?”
“Home?”
“Yes, we are asking where your home is.”
“Shahjahanpur.”
“Which neighborhood?”
Rama had never been to Shahjahanpur, nor could he remember any invented name that he could give them. With reckless boldness he said, “You are writing down my description!”
The constable threatened him, “Your description has already been written down! You gave a false name, a false address, and when we asked for your neighborhood you started looking helplessly from side to side. We have been searching for you for months, and today we have finally found you. Come to the police station.”
As he said this, he seized Ramanath’s hand.
Rama tried to pull his hand away and said, “Bring a warrant and then I’ll come. Do you take me for some ignorant villager?”
The constable said to one of the policemen, “Take hold of his hand. The warrant will be shown at the station.”
In cities, such incidents are more entertaining than the performances of street magicians. Hundreds of people gathered.
Devi Din was returning at that very moment after fetching opium. Seeing the crowd, he too came over. He saw three constables dragging Ramanath away.
Stepping forward, he said, “What? What are you doing, Jamadar? This Panditji is our guest. Where are you taking him?”
All three constables knew Devi Din. They stopped.
One of them said, “He is your guest? Since when?”
Devi Din calculated in his mind and said, “It must be a little more than four months. I met him in Prayag. He is from there too. He came here with me.”
The Muslim constable asked, pleased, “What is his name?”
Devi Din faltered and said, “Didn’t he tell you his name?”
The policemen’s suspicion became stronger.
Pandey opened his eyes wide and said, “Looks like you know him too. Why aren’t you telling us his name?”
Devi Din, summoning baseless courage, said, “Don’t try to bully me, Pandey. Understand? I am not going to be intimidated by threats here.”
The Muslim constable, as though acting as a mediator, said, “Old Baba, why are you getting angry for nothing? Why don’t you simply tell us his name?”
Devi Din looked at Rama with pleading eyes and said, “We call him Ramanath. Whether that is his real name or something else, we do not know.”
Pandey opened his eyes wide, held out his palm, and said, “Tell us, Panditji, what is your name? Ramanath or Hiralal? Or both—one for your own home and one for your in-laws?”
The third policeman addressed the spectators and said, “His name is Ramanath, but he says Hiralal? The proof is right here.”
Whispers began among the crowd.
“There is certainly something suspicious.”
“It is clear. He gave both the wrong name and the wrong address.”
A Marwari gentleman said, “He is a petty thief.”
A Maulvi said, “He is some wanted criminal.”
Seeing that the public was on their side, the policemen became even more forceful.
Rama too now saw that his safest course was simply to go quietly with them. He lowered his head as though he did not care in the least whether they struck him with a stick or a sword.
He had never been so humiliated. Even the harshest torture in prison could not have produced such shame.
After a short while the police station came into view. The crowd of spectators had greatly diminished.
Rama looked back at them once, with a shame-filled, hopeful expression. Devi Din was nowhere to be seen.
A long sigh escaped Rama’s lips.
In this misfortune, had even this one source of support slipped from his hands?