Six Acres and a Third

Chapter One

Ramachandra Mangaraj

Ramachandra Mangaraj was a zamindar—a rural landlord and a prominent moneylender as well, though his transactions in grain far exceeded those in cash. For an area of four kos around, no one else’s business had much influence. He was a very pious man indeed: there are twenty-four ekadasis in a year; even if there had been forty such holy days, he would have observed every single one. This is indisputable. Every ekadasi he fasted, taking nothing but water and a few leaves of the sacred basil plant for the entire day. Just the other afternoon, though, Mangaraj’s barber, Jaga, let it slip that on the evenings of ekadasis a large pot of milk, some bananas, and a small quantity of khai and nabata are placed in the master’s bedroom. Very early the next morning, Jaga removes the empty pot and washes it.

Hearing this, some people exchanged knowing looks and chuckled. One blurted out, “Not even the father of Lord Mahadeva can catch a clever fellow stealing a drink when he dipsunder the water.” We’re not absolutely sure what was meant by this, but our guess is that these men were slandering Mangaraj.

Ignoring their intentions for the moment, we would like to plead his case as follows: Let the eyewitness who has seen Mangaraj emptying the pot come forward, for like judges in a court of law we are absolutely unwilling to accept hearsay and conjecture as evidence. All the more so since science textbooks state unequivocally: “Liquids evaporate.” Is milk not a liquid?

Why should milk in a zamindar’s household defy the laws of science? Besides, there were moles, rats, and bugs in his bedroom.

And in whose house can mosquitoes and flies not be found? Like all base creatures of appetite, these are always on the lookout for food; such creatures are not spiritually minded like Mangaraj, who had the benefit of listening to the holy scriptures. It would be a great sin, then, to doubt Mangaraj’s piety or unwavering devotion.

Moreover, the law of evidence requires that judges take cir-cumstantial evidence into account. Mangaraj’s piety was such that he would not touch even parboiled rice, let alone fresh or salted fish. On dwadasis, the days following ekadasis, he never broke the previous day’s fast before feeding the Brahmins. To ensure a regular supply of food for this, Mangaraj, in his great wisdom, had given one acre of land to a grain dealer and another to a sweetmeat seller. On the morning of dwadasi the grain dealer would deliver rice flakes and the sweetmeat seller jaggery, and Mangaraj would invite all twenty-seven Brahmin families in the village of Gobindapur for the ritual feast. Before midday, the business of feeding them was over. Mangaraj himself served them. Putting some rice flakes and a little jaggery on their leaf plates, he would respectfully join his hands and loudly address them: “O exalted ones, be so kind as to express your needs should your require anything more. There is plenty of jaggery, there are plenty of rice flakes; but I know your eyes are big and your stomachs small; and I am sure you have already eaten your fill.” After this, if some greedy Brahmin shamelessly asked for more, the zamindar would delicately pick up a few flakes between two fingers and flick them onto his leaf-plate. When they had finished, the Brahmins would belch heartily, and exclaim, “We are content!” blessing Mangaraj as they rose from their places.

The feast finished, Mangaraj would devote himself with great humility to the large amounts of leftover food.

Dear reader, you might well ask, “How was it possible to feed twenty-seven Brahmins with a few rice flakes and a little jaggery?” Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways, my brother, in truly mysterious ways. If we seek answers to such questions, our narrative will grind to a halt. After all, did Jesus Christ not feed twelve hundred of his flock with only two loaves of bread? And even those two loaves were not finished—four baskets of bread were left over. In the forest of Kamyaka, was Lord Krishna not able to feed twelve thousand disciples of the sage Durbasa with a few leaves of spinach? If you have no faith in the powers of great souls such as these, how can we hope to interest you in our recounting of the Life of Ramachandra Mangaraj?

It has come to our attention that Mangaraj’s cousin, Shyam Malla, once made a trip into town, fell in with bad company, and polluted himself by eating cabbage that had been cooked with onions. Iniquities cannot be hidden for very long, and the incident soon became known to Mangaraj. Had he not come to his cousin’s rescue, Shyam’s face would even now be covered with ugly stubble, a mark of penance. Out of sheer generosity, Mangaraj made sure the ritual of expiation involved very little expense—a mere fifteen acres of Shyam’s rent-free ancestral property. A few days later, Mangaraj summoned Shyam and, speaking as a family elder, reprimanded him: “Look Shyam, from now on you should be more careful. Because I was around, people were there to help you out; otherwise your only option would have been to convert to Christianity—you and all your ancestors would have been consigned forever to deepest hell. What’s more, anyone else would have paid you only two rupees per acre, whereas I gave you five. You are, after all, my cousin; how could I abandon you? But somehow I feel people only need me when times are rough; when the going is good, no one spares me even a thought. Do you remember how you were nowhere to be found when I needed someone to testify in the criminal case against Bhima Gauda?” It is no surprise that the descendants of the wretches who crucified Christ, and had Goddess Sita banished to the forest, are now busy slandering the kind and pious Mangaraj.