Many a Mickle

It is remarkable how money has a way of walking out on you. The more careful you are, the more devious the way it has of disappearing. Very few people realise this. And fewer people realise that in moving it is only serving the purpose of its being. Among the few I have met, I must mention the old darzee (tailor) of the little town of Bilikal. He is a shriveled little fellow of about sixty summers with an engaging smile and a tongue that could wag without end, unless, of course, one were to offer him money for a glass of toddy. In the latter circumstance, he would pause for a while off and on, as he moistened the organ in question at your expense. But the subsequent flow would be the brightest and wittiest the old fellow was capable of.

On the question of money the old man would say. “Money my dear sir, you never can keep for ever. It has a way of escaping from you. You may put it in a purse, put the purse in a bag, lock the bag in a small box, and place the box in the iron safe and still you will find, after a time, it has disappeared. I always say, sir, it is endowed with a diamond beak, which enables it to burrow through the strongest steel. I suppose sir, you know the richest man of our town.”

When I told him I had yet to hear of him, the darzee continued, “Well, sir, his name is Achyut Dhanya. While he was still young–a long time ago, that was–he went to Madaripatnam to seek his fortune. He opened a shop in a small way, as at that time he had not a pie of his own. Within a short while he was able to enlarge this shop into a store for sorts of cutlery and metal goods. But the baser metals were not his passion. So after a few years, we find him in possession of a well-established firm of jewellers. He retired a few years ago, one of the bigger diamond merchants of the city of Madaripatnam. He is at Bilik now. He is so fond of money, they say here, that there is a reason for hi retirement. When he heard rumours of a drop in the diamond market he could not contemplate without agony the loss this would mean to him. So he is said to have sold the business to his only son, Amar Dhanya, at a profit, mark you, and quietly come here with his hoard.

“You, sir, are probably under the impression,” continued the darzee, that old man Dhanya is awaiting the call of his Maker. If so, you are mistaken. He is the master of only sixteen lakhs and would be too ill at ease to face his Maker with such a small fortune to his credit. He is assiduously cultivating his hobby here. Did I hear you say plants, sir? No, sir, agriculture yields such poor returns, and, so uncertain the yield is. Old Achyut could never risk his money on that. He is, my dear sir, a breeder of money. There is also risk in that, you say. Not for a Dhanya, sir. For you and me, yes, but for Achyut, decidedly no. He does not give his money to Tom, Dick and Harry. Personal security is not good enough for him. Land has a tendency to go down in price. But if the land is adjacent to his own, and you are prepared to borrow only about one eighth or one sixth of its value, he may consider the proposition. There is always the prospect of getting the land for next to nothing, when you are not able to pay the debt and the accumulated interest. In all other cases, land is too cumbersome a commodity to deal in. Our old Dhanya prefers gold best. Give him solid gold or golden ornaments, Achyut’s money is at your disposal–provided, of course, you agree to the interest. To his best friends and relations, he charges only 8 per cent. This includes interest at the rate of 61/4 per cent plus the supertax of 3 or 4 annas in the rupee, which Achyut has to pay the Government. For other clients the interest may be a little more according to the party’s need and the type of security he is able to provide. So you see, sir, Achyut is not the usual type of usurer. But I have to tell you also the legend that is current in our town. It says, “If you borrow from old Skinflint, make ready to hand over to him your all–house, lands and other property.” Achyut is always willing to rely on his fate. And Fate has never so far failed to reward him amply.

“Young Amar, sir, was carefully brought up by his father,” said the darzee, “and knew the value of money as well as old Dhanya. He had received an education, which his father never could have dreamt of, and also the benefit of foreign travel. He could, on occasion, be actually liberal with the cash his father had provided him with. These occasions, though not very frequent, had usually to do with his vanity. Like all upstarts, praise of his family, or his father, tickled him most. He venerated his father. What else could you expect? Had he not provided him liberally with that most useful, most needed most coveted article, money? So the mention of his father brought out all the generosity in his nature.”

“It was about three years ago,” continued the old man “that a young fellow with a hearty look about him called on Amar. He said he was devoting his life to the cause of the depressed. He had heard Amar spoken of so high in his native town of Blikal that he had lost no time in coming to him. A man of Amar’s position and one with his family tradition, he felt sure, would not fail to help his cause. Of course, Amar’s father was very kind and had voluntarily given him a letter of recommendation. The effect of all this on Amar was of the most pleasant kind. Amar saw his father’s writing, saw his father’s familiar signature, and without further ado, presented the young man with a hundred-rupee note. The young man, with profuse expressions of gratitude, took his leave, and Amar went on with his work. About four or five weeks later a hefty mussalman walked into Amar’s office, and thrust a letter under his nose. He informed Amar that he was on his way to Mecca, and that he required help in carrying out the holy pilgrimage. He came from Bilikal. Achyut Dhanya’s kind letter was of great help to him so far. Amar looked at his father’s signature and then at the hefty fellow. He took out a hundred rupees from the box and handed them over. The man pocketed the money, and went on his way, presumably to the holy city. Amar sat thinking. Not many weeks after, an elderly man with a graying moustache crept diffidently into Amar’s presence, and spoke about his daughter who was rapidly growing and getting past the marriageable age. He had a suitable boy in view to whom he hoped to marry her. But he had not the money for the dowry. Amar’s father–, at the mention of his father, Amar asked him to produce the letter, and when he saw the revered name, he produced the usual note for a hundred rupees. He did not wait for the old man’s blessing. He was too busy wondering what was wrong with his father. Suddenly it flashed on him. His father was hurriedly making peace with his Creator. And why should he not? Had the Almighty not been particularly good to him? Thus communing, Amar reconciled himself to the charity he was forced to give. After this, at regular intervals of about a month, there appeared before him seriatim, a sanyasi, who was founding a home for other sanyasis on the banks of the Ganges, a pater familias with a larger family than most, a lover of stray and lost dogs, and a host of other needy people, whom later Amar failed to notice or take count of. Amar always looked for his father’s name at the bottom of the letter before him, and happily paid out his quota.”

“It was last month,” said the old tailor, “that Achyut decided to pay a visit to his son at Madaripatnam, and see for himself if his son was shaping as nicely to his treatment as his money was. The very day of his arrival, he saw Amar paying out a hundred rupees to a shabby disreputable person without so much as a question. When Achyut protested, Amar said, ‘Oh! he is one of your pensioners.’ Achyut was puzzled. Amar explained that for the last three years he had been regularly paying out once or twice a month sums of money to all sorts of people bringing letters of recommendation from old Dhanya. Achyut could not remember having written such letters recently. Warning Amar to be more careful, Achyut decided to stay in town longer than he intended. Not many days after, the same shabby man appeared again. Instead of receiving the usual payment, he was asked by a stern old man who he was. When he said his master had sent him with the letter for money, old Achyut looked at the letter. It was written by him and dated three years ago. Both father and son decided to see who the man’s master was, and asked him to lead them to him. The man took them to a dirty and disreputable quarter of the city. When they walked into the mean house, they found a stout and hearty-looking young man very much the worse for drink, surrounded by a number of empty and half-empty bottles, and in the company of a none-too-reputable looking female. Achyut recognising the young man said, ‘Anand Kinchit! that explains it.’ Father and son walked , the father resolving never to write a recommendation letter in future, and the son concluding that the best of parents was not fool-proof.

“In our town,” continued the Darzee, “Anand needs no introduction. He is as well-known for his pranks, as Achyut is for his money. For the information of a stranger like you, sir, I have to add that he is the champion ne’er-do-weal of our place. He has not done a spot of work all his twenty six years. But he has never been in want. He is always an adept at getting something for nothing. When he heard of Amar’s partiality for his tough old parent, he did a little thinking. He had so far got nothing out of old Dhanya nor did he entertain hopes of touching him for a round sum of money. He would part with anything but that. But would he be good enough for a letter of recommendation, of course, not directly to his son? Anand proposed to try the chance, and approached Achyut for a donation to the colony he was starting for the depressed classes. Achyut, of course, refused. Anand then spoke of the influence Achyut s name had among the townspeople. Would he not help his cause by giving him a letter of recommendation? Achyut had no objection to that. If people were so careless of their money, why should they not be deprived of it for a good cause? Moreover, he wanted to be in the good books of Anand, owing his reputation. More than all, it added to his sense of importance to give such a letter. So Anand achieved his purpose. After this it was very simple. Once every few days, Anand would come to him under a different name with an added property-beard or moustache, mostly at dusk or after dark, knowing that old Achyut was short-sighted. Each time he appealed on behalf of a new charity, and never failed to eulogise the old man and his influence for good among the community. Within a month he was proceeding to Madaripatnam, bag and baggage, most of the latter being a dozen letters from old Skinflint. His adventures at that city you already know. Anand Kinchit was the diamond beak employed by money to break the Dhanya safe. What is that you say sir? For a man of Achyut’s wealth a matter of four or five thousand is nothing, you think. Well, I beg to differ, sir. For you and me, a loss of five thousand rupees is just a loss of that amount. But for a Dhanya, sir, the agony of such a loss is only comparable to the grief felt by a mother at the death of a dearly loved child. Don’t you realise, sir that this amount had lain in his coffers much longer than any human child could stay in his house? All this boils down to what I said in the beginning. Put not all your hopes in money. It is here today and gone to-morrow. Even a Dhanya could not keep all of it.”

So saying the old man rose, and thanking me for the toddy, walked quietly away. I was touched by his talk and said, “Poor man! In a larger sphere and a nobler walk in life, he could have made a place for himself in the world.”

One of the bystanders said, “Why do you pity him, master? He is not so poor as he looks. By diligently plying his needle and thread for the past sixty years (he was barely a toddler when he began) he has amassed a fortune of sixty thousand rupees, for all his talk of money with the diamond beak.”

I could say nothing to that. Could you?