MYSTERY OF THE MISSING CAP

(Short story)

 

MANOJ DAS

 

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. White-washed 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.

 

Come 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 patriots. The 15th of August 1947 gave a big boost to their growth. In almost every village, beside the Brahmins, Kshatriyas, Vaisyas and Sudras a couple of patriots came into being.

 

It was observed that the small fisheries of Sri Moharana were often exploited in honour of these new people. And observers began to notice that Sri Moharana himself was fast growing into a patriot. As I found out later, he had even nurtured an ambition to be elected to the Stale 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 Sri 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 Babu Virkishore, who held the portfolios of Fisheries and Fine Arts, hailed from our district. The sponsors of Sri Moharana thought it proper that his debut into politics should have the blessings of Babu Virkishore.

 

In those days 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 Commitee. Sri 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 sixty-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 women­folk waited to blow their conch-shells when the minister would set his foot on the 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?

 

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 reception. He devoted all his time to examining and re-examining details of the arrange­ments; even then he seemed nervous and uncertain.

 

At last the big day came. The minister got down from his jeep when it entered 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 and Bharatmata ki jai, 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 Sri 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 have lived a contented and complete life. Sri Moharana’s look suggested I “What more, what more, O my mortal life, could you expect from the world? 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 juice, 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 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 of my life regarding great men–for the minister was snoring in the style of any ordinary man–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 table near his bed. 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 snoring 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 Sri Moharana’s compound again, I saw the minister’s Personal Assistant flitting about like a butterfly 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 did his compatriots. The Public Relations 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 country.”

 

            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.

 

            When I saw Shri Moharana’s condition, 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 dumb for a moment, eyes closed. Then wiping 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 veranda.

 

            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 banian 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 on a sudden. I saw the minister and Shri Moharana emerging on the veranda, the minister all smiles. It was the most remarkable smile he had hitherto displayed. By then at least half a dozen caps bad been secured for him. But he appeared with his head bare. Even to a child like me it was obvious that the 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 grown-up girl garlanding a man 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.

 

            Then 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 fashion. 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 Virkishare’s achievements and conveying gratitude, on behalf of the nation, to the departed souls of the great man’s parents but for whom 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 confused by excitement–that Shri Moharana uttered the lie. He said, his voice raised in a crescendo, “My brothers and sisters, you all must have heard about the mysterious disappearance of the Hon‘ble Minister’s cap. You think that the property is 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 the cap, 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 full of coins and holding it before the audience, 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 money 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 bare-headed 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 a 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 minister. Glances of awe and esteem were frequently cast at the minister’s head and homage 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 bad 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, myself, 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 curd. 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 am 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 veranda facing the pond and the grove to wash his mouth. Shri Moharana followed him with water in a mug. Myself excepting, there was nobody in the veranda. My presence was not accidental. A few minutes before I had observed that the rascal Jhandoo, playing with the minister’s cap, was slowly emerging from the grove. Seldom had I wished for anything so ardently as I wished then for Jhandoo to go unnoticed by the minister. He was a monkey not in a figurative sense, but a real one. When he was an infant his mother had taken shelter inside Shri Moharana’s house in order to save her male child from the usual wrath of its father. 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.

 

            After Jhandoo had grown up a little he often escaped 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 fantastic came out of the dry lips of Shri Moharana who seemed to be on the verge of collapsing. “Yes, yes, this is the 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 veranda, “Sir, the jeep is ready, Sir.”

 

            The minister gulped the mugful of water and walked 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 that changed the courses of their lives.

 

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