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It is certainly not my motive, in recounting this episode of two decades ago, to raise a laugh at the expense of Shri Moharana or Babu Virkishore, then the Hon’ble Minister of Fisheries and Fine Arts of my State. On the contrary, I wish my friends and readers to share the sympathy I have secretly nurtured in my heart for these two gentlemen over the years past.

Shri Moharana was a well-to-do man. His was the only pukka house in an area of twenty villages. Whitewashed on the eve of India achieving independence, the house shone as a sort of tourist attraction for the folks of the nearby villages. They stopped to look at it, for none could overlook the symbolism in this operation that had been carried out after half a century.

Shri Moharana had a considerable reputation as a conscientious and generous man. He was an exemplary host with two ponds full of choice fish and a number of pampered cows. He was a happy villager.

Came independence. As is well known, the ancient land of India has had four major castes from time immemorial. But during the days immediately preceding independence a new caste was emerging all over the country – that of the patriots. The 15th of August 1947 gave a big boost to their growth. In almost every village, besides the Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas and Sudras a couple of patriots came into being.

It was observed that the small fisheries of Shri Moharana were often exploited in honour of these new people. And observers began to notice that Shri Moharana himself was fast growing into a patriot. As I found out later, he had even nurtured an ambition to be elected to the State Legislature. The incident I relate occurred at the outset of his endeavour in that direction. A small boy, I was then on a visit to my maternal uncle’s house which was in the immediate neighbourhood of Shri Moharana’s.

In those early days of indigenous ministries there were no deputy or sub-deputy ministers. All were full-fledged Hon’ble Ministers and, since Babu Virkishore hailed from our district, the sponsors of Shri Moharana thought it proper that the latter’s debut into politics should have his blessings.

That was a time when a minister’s daily life was largely made up of speech-making at public meetings. There was no need for any specific occasion to accord a reception to a minister. A reception was arranged for Babu Virkishore with Shri Moharana as the Chairman of the Preparatory Committee.

Shri Moharana’s huge ancestral cane-chair was laid with a linen cover on which the most gifted village seamstress had laced a pair of herons holding two ornamented fish in their beaks. The children of the village lower primary school were made to practise a welcome song every afternoon for a fortnight.

Among the many strange phenomena wrought by the great spirit of the time was the composition of this song; for the composer, the head-pundit of the school, had lived for fifty-five years without any poetic activity. The refrain of the song still raises echoes in my memory. Its literal translation would be:

O mighty minister, tell us, O tell us,
How do you nurture this long and broad universe!

The rest of the song catalogued the great changes nature and humanity experienced on the occasion of the minister’s visit: how the morning sun frequently blushed in romantic happiness, how each and every bird chanted a particular salutation-oriented raga, and with what eagerness and throbbing of heart the women folk waited to blow their conch-shells in unison when the minister would set his foot on village soil.

I know that nowadays ministers do not enjoy such glory. But it was very different then. We, the rustic children, wrangled over several issues: What does a minister eat? What does he think? Does he sleep? Does he ever suffer from colic or colds as ordinary mortals do?

Shri Moharana himself was excitement personified. He used to be very fond of his hour-long afternoon nap. But he gave up the luxury at least ten days prior to the day of destiny. He devoted all his time to examining and re-examining details of the arrangements; even then he looked nervous and uncertain.

At last dawned the big day. The minister got down from the jeep as soon as it reached the very first welcome arch on the outskirts of the village. He was profusely garlanded by Shri Moharana but was requested to re-enter the jeep as the destination was still a furlong away. But the minister smiled and made some statement which meant that great though destiny had made him, he loved to keep his feet on the ground! Moharana and his friends looked ecstatic.

While hundreds applauded and shouted Babu Virkishore ki jai [Victory to Babu Virkishore] and Bharatmata ki jai [Victory to India], the minister, double the size of an average man of our village, plodded through the street, it seemed to us, to the embarrassment of the poor, naked earth. And I still remember the look of Shri Moharana when the minister’s long round arm rested on his shrunken neck, a look which I have seen only once or twice later in life on the faces of dying people who had lived a contented and complete life. Shri Moharana’s look suggested: ‘What more, what more, O mortal me, could you expect from life? My, my!’

All the people, even invalids, for many of whom it was the experience of a lifetime – were alternately shouting slogans and gaping at the august visitor. We, the half-naked, pot-bellied, uncivilised kids walked parallel to the minister at a safe distance and could not help feeling extremely small and guilty.

At Shri Moharana’s house the minister and his entourage were treated to tender-coconut water, followed by the most luxurious lunch I had ever seen, with about twenty dishes around the sweetened, ghee-baked rice mixed with nuts, cloves, etc. Soon the minister retired to the cabin set apart for him. Though it was summer, the cabin’s window being open to a big pond and a grove, there was enough air to lull even an elephant to a sound sleep. Volunteers had been posted to see that no noise whatever was made anywhere in the village to disturb the ministerial repose.

I had by then separated myself from my companions. Being rather ambitious, I was eager to be as physically close to the great man as possible. And the minister sleeping was surely the most ideal condition for achieving my goal.

I mustered courage and slowly approached the window facing the pond. This was the rear side of the house. The minister’s Personal Assistant and entourage were on the opposite side.

While I stood near the window, suffering the first shock of disillusionment in my life regarding great men, for the minister was snoring in the style that was ordinary and human, something most extraordinary happened. Speechless I was already; the incident rendered me witless.

Through the window I had observed that the minister’s egg-bald head rested on a gigantic pillow while his white cap lay on a stool between his bed and the window. Now I saw the mischievous Jhandoo bounce towards the window like a bolt from the blue and pick up the cap. Throwing a meaningful glance at me, he disappeared into the grove.

Even when my stupefaction passed I was unable to shout, partly because of my deep affection for Jhandoo (knowing that the consequences of his crime could be fatal to him) and partly for fear that the minister’s dream – must be on a patriotic theme – might cease. At that crucial moment I was in a dilemma as to which I should value more – the great man’s cap or his snoring.

I retreated, pensive. But before long I heard an excited if subdued noise. Crossing into Shri Moharana’s compound again, I saw the minister’s Personal Assistant flitting about like a locust and heard his repeated mumbling, “Mysterious, mysterious!” The minister was obviously inside the cabin. But nobody dared to go in.

Shri Moharana stood thunderstruck, as were his compatriots. The Public Relationships Officer was heard saying, ‘The Hon’ble Minister does not mind the loss of the cap so much as the way it was stolen. Evidently there was a deep-rooted conspiracy. The gravity of the situation can hardly be exaggerated. In fact, I fear, it may have devastating effects on the political situation of our land.’

I could see Shri Moharana literally shaking. He was sweating like an ice-cream stick, so much so that I was afraid, at that rate he might completely melt away in a few hours.

The conflict within me as to whether I should keep the knowledge of the mystery to myself or disclose it was resolved. I signalled him to follow me, which he eagerly did. A drowning man will indeed clutch at a straw.

I told him what had happened. He stood silent for a moment, eyes closed.

Then wiping the sweat from his forehead, he smiled like a patient whose disease had been accurately diagnosed but was known to be incurable. He then patted me and said, ‘My son, good you told me. But keep it a secret. I will reward you later.’

The incident had thrown a wet blanket on the occasion. The sepulchral silence in the minister’s room was broken only by his intermittent coughing. Every time he coughed, a fresh wave of anxiety hit the people in the courtyard and on the verandah.

I went away to join my friends. They were wild with speculations. One said that the thief, when caught, was to be hanged on the big banyan tree beside the river. ‘Perhaps all the villagers will be thrown into jail,’ said another. Among us there were naives who even believed that the minister’s cap was a sort of Aladdin’s lamp, that anyone who put it on would find himself endowed with ministerial power the very next moment.

But the situation changed all of a sudden. I saw the minister and Shri Moharana emerging on the verandah, the former all smiles.

It was the most remarkable smile he had hitherto displayed. By then at least half a dozen caps had been secured for him. But he appeared with his head bare. Even to a child like me it was obvious that his baldpate wore an aura of martyrdom.

Not less than five thousand people had gathered in front of a specially constructed stage when the minister ascended it, that remarkable smile still clinging to his face. Shri Moharana’s niece, the lone High-School-going girl of the region, garlanded the minister. A thunderous applause greeted the event, for, that was the first time our people saw what they had only heard in the tales of the ancient Swayamvaras, a young female garlanding a male in public. Then the chorus ‘O mighty minister’ was sung in kirtan style to the accompaniment of two harmoniums, a violin and a pakhauj drum.

Now it was Shri Moharana’s turn to say a few words of welcome. I saw him (I stood just in front of the stage) moving his legs and hands in a very awkward manner. That was certainly nervousness. But with a successful exercise of will-power he grabbed the glittering mike and managed to speak for nearly an hour giving a chronological account of Babu Virkishore’s achievements and conveying gratitude, on behalf of the nation, to the departed souls of the great man’s parents but for who the world would have been without the minister.

I was happy that Shri Moharana did well in his maiden speech. But the greatest surprise was yet to come – in the concluding observations of Shri Moharana. Well, many would take Shri Moharana as a pukka politician. But I can swear that it was out of his goodness – a goodness befuddled by excitement – that he uttered the lie. He said, his voice rising in a crescendo, ‘My brothers and sisters, you and the world had heard about the mysterious disappearance of the Hon’ble Minister’s cap. You think that the property was stolen, don’t you? Naturally. But not so, ladies and gentlemen, not so!’ Shri Moharana smiled mysteriously. The minister nodded his big clean head which glowed like a satellite.

Shri Moharana resumed, ‘You all are dying to know what happened to that object. Isn’t that so? Yes, yes, naturally. You are dying. Well, it is like this: a certain nobleman of our locality took it away. Why? That’s what you ask, don’t you? Well, to preserve it as a sacred memento, of course! He was obliged to take it away secretly because otherwise the Hon’ble Minister of Fisheries and Fine Arts, the brightly burning example of humility that he is, would never have permitted our friend the nobleman to view the cap as anything sacred!”

Shri Moharana stopped and brought out of his pocket a handkerchief containing coins and tightly tied. Dangliong it before the audience, he said, ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen, the nobleman has requested me to place this humble amount of one hundred and one rupees at the disposal of the Hon’ble Minister for some little use in his blessed life’s mission, the service of the people, through fish and fine arts.’ Shri Moharana bowed and handed over the pouch to the minister who, with a most graceful gesture, accepted it.

Applause and cries of wonder and appreciation broke out like a hurricane. Even the minister and Shri Moharana, both looking overwhelmed, clapped their hands.

The minister spoke for two and a half hours thereafter, drinking a glass of milk in between, at the end of which he declared that as a mark of respect to the unknown lover of his, he had decided to remain bareheaded for that whole night although the good earth did not lack caps and, in fact, a surge of caps had already tried to occupy his undaunted head.

Soon my shock gave way to a double-edged feeling for Shri Moharana: praise for his presence of mind and regret for his having to spend one hundred and one rupees to cover Jhandoo the monkey’s mischief. At night the respectable people of the area partook of the dinner that the Preparatory Committee threw in honour of the guest. Glances of awe and esteem were frequently cast at the minister’s head and homages paid to the honourable thief. But when I saw Shri
Moharana in the morning, I could immediately read in his eyes the guilt that haunted him at least whenever his eyes fell on me. Shri Moharana perhaps had never spoken a lie; and now when he did speak one, he did so before a gathering of thousands! God apart, at least there was one creature, I, who knew that he was no longer a man of truth.

The minister, however, exuded sheer delight. He did not seem to notice with what constraint Shri Moharana was conducting himself before him.

At last came the moment for the minister’s departure. He was served with a glass of sweetened lassi. While sipping it leisurely, he said, in a voice choked with curd and emotion, ‘Well, Moharana, ha ha! the way things are moving, ha ha! I’m afraid, ha ha! people would start snatching away my clothes, ha ha! and ha ha! I may have to go about, ha ha! naked! ha ha! But I don’t mind! ha ha! That is the price one must pay for winning love! ha ha ha!” The minister came out to the rear verandah facing the pond and the grove – to wash his mouth. Shri Moharana followed him with water in a jug.

Except for me, there was nobody on the verandah. My presence was not accidental. I had spied upon the rascal Jhandoo, playing with the minister’s cap, slowly emerging from the grove. Seldom had I wished for anything that ardently as I wished then for Jhandoo to go unnoticed by the guest. He was a monkey not in any figurative sense, but a real one. When he was an infant his mother had taken shelter under Shri Moharana’s roof in order to save her male child from the usual wrath of the male leader of her troop. Shri Moharana had not been at home and his servants killed the mother monkey. Shri Moharana felt extremely upset, did not eat for one and half days, and, to compensate for the wrong done, nurtured the baby monkey, christened Jhandoo, with great affection.

Jhandoo, when he grew up a little, would often escape into the grove. He was half-domesticated and half-wild. He played with everybody, and everybody tolerated him. We children were extremely fond of him.

To my horror, I saw Jhandoo rushing towards us from the other side of the pond. I made an effort to warn Shri Moharana of the impending crisis, but in vain. Jhandoo got there in the twinkling of an eye. He sat down between the minister and Shri Moharana. He put the cap once on his own head; then taking it off, offered it to the minister in a most genial gesture My heartbeats had trebled. Looking at Shri Moharana’s face I saw an extremely pitiable image – pale as death. The bewildered minister mumbled out, ‘Er… er… isn’t this one the very cap taken away by the nobleman?’

And something most preposterous came out of the dry lips of Shi Moharana who seemed to be on the verge of collapsing: ‘Yes, yes, this is that nobleman…”

His eyes bulging out, the minister managed to ask, “What… what did you say?… Well?”

But Shri Moharana was in no condition to say anything more. He broke into tears. Next moment I saw the Hon’ble Minister of Fisheries and Fine Arts weeping too. The Personal Assistant’s voice was heard from the opposite verandah, ‘Sir, the jeep is ready, Sir.’ The minister gulped almost half jugful of water and plodded towards the jeep. Shri Moharana followed suit. Their reddened eyes and drawn faces were interpreted as marks of the sorrow of separation.

Shri Moharana’s political endeavour is not known to have gone any farther. And it is strange that the Hon’ble Minister, Babu Virkishore, who was willing to be robbed of his clothes, was soon forgotten in politics. I have a strong feeling that it was this episode of the cap vis-a-vis Jhandoo that changed the courses of their lives.