Fair Rate of Interest

FAIR RATE OF INTEREST
(Short Story)

By T. GOPICHAND

(Rendered from Telugu by ‘Rasika’)

I do not now remember why I went to the village M...but happened to go, and as soon as I reached the place I came unexpectedly upon V. R., my friend of boyhood days, who took me to his house straight. Meeting after a long interval, we were recollecting with pleasure and reminding each other of those happy days of early life, and then heburst upon us. I remember distinctly how he literally burst upon us. It is indelibly impressed on my mind, how he opened the door slowly, cautiously advanced his right leg beyond the threshold tentatively, almost stealthily, and peered into the room all round, holding fast to the bundle in his hand. Then inclining his head slightly to one side, in a queer pose of ultra-seriousness, holding the bundle very carefully with both the hands, he advanced slowly and deliberately, step by step, to my friend and handed over the precious bundle with the words “Here’s the money.”

My friend was evidently startled. A shadow passed across his countenance at the very sight of the intruder. All the cheerfulness vanished, but with a distinct note of seriousness in his tone responded warmly, receiving the bundle carefully, “You are one in a million, Surayya, a man of your word, always.”

The stranger was obviously pleased with the compliment, but without allowing the least trace of any satisfaction to appear on his countenance, he snapped: “Enough with compliments. Borrowing is easy. But you have to remember, the amount has to be returned together with the interest accruing on it within a month. You know the usual rate of interest. I charge only the fair and legal rate of Re. 1-8-0 per hundred per month. You do not know how hard put to it I have been to find the money. I had to strain and stretch my resources to the limit to oblige an old friend like you.”

“Don’t you fear, Surayya, you will have your money in your hands, within the month,” my friend assured him. But Surayya continued: “No good merely promising at the time of borrowing. You must keep your word at the time fixed for the repayment. You know I am contemplating an expensive function. Besides, need for money may arise any moment unexpectedly and I hate to resort to law for recovering loans from my debtors.”

“What is it you say, Surayya! Is this the first time for me to borrow or for you to lend me? Was there ever any difficulty or delay in recovering a loan from me?” expostulated my friend.

“That is all right,” again Surayya snapped up, “count the money first. All hard coin; a little small change too. Remember you have to pay in coin only. I have no use for your new-fangled paper money.”

“No need to tell me. I know your ways, as an old customer should,” said my friend and untied the precious bundle. I was shocked when I noticed the contents. I could not make head or tail of the transaction. The bundle contained only stones, several big pieces of road metal and a few small pieces of gravel. I scrutinised my friend’s face for a clue to the mystery. But he did not appear to notice any mystery at all in the transaction. He was carefully counting the stones, as though they were regular gold coins or precious stones, in all seriousness.

I looked at the stranger, for a change. His attention was concentrated on the stones my friend was counting, his head still inclined at the same angle as when he first entered. My friend persisted in counting and exclaimed, “Quite correct, Surayya, as usual.”

“Of course, quite correct–now. But remember it is the 20th of April. On the 20th of May exactly, nor a day later I should find the amount, together with the interest accruing on it,” he reminded and finally left only after extracting from my friend his solemn word of honour, thrice repeated, that he should repay the amount, together with the interest accruing, at the fair and legal rate of Re. 1-8-0 per hundred per month, exactly on the 20th of May.

I was eagerly awaiting his departure, so that I might seek of my friend the significance of the mysterious transaction I had witnessed; and the moment the door closed behind him, I turned to my friend. Buthe warded off my query before it was uttered, with an impatient gesture pointing his hand to the door. As I followed the movement of his hand, with my eyes to the door, I saw Surayya again bursting in. Now he was not merely solemn and serious, as at the time of his first entrance, but his eyes were burning fiercely. He was trembling from head to foot with some explicable excitement. He was breathing hard, as one in mortal agony. Only in one respect there was no change. His head was inclined to one side at the same angle as before. He paused for just one moment at the threshold and then rushed straight upon my friend, bawling out, “Where is my money? How long has it been overdue? Is it fair to put me off day by day in this manner, so that I am obliged to run after you and go round your house everyday like a shameless despicable dog? Have you no sense of decency and good manners even? Is it rice you eat or dirt?”

I was horrified at the language he used, no less than by the accusation it implied. I felt indignant at the wanton insult to my friend. But my friend remained unperturbed. He took it, insult and all lying down, coolly, like a bad debtor unable to repay at the time fixed. He was polite, obsequious, in spite of the insults. “Here, Surayya, is your money; is it proper for a gentleman of your stamp to descend to such abusive language for a small amount, and after all only for a little delay?” So speaking, in assuaging tone and words, he handed to the stranger the bundle of stones, which was ready to his hand.

But Surayya was not altogether appeased. “Where is the interest?” he flared up. “Did you take it that I lent you the money because I had no use for it, or because I was unable to guard it, or unwilling to keep it on my hands? Or did I owe the money to your ‘grandfather? No. No. YOU must pay all the amount due, principal as well as interest, and complete the transaction today. I will not let you go till then. I cannot allow you to move an inch.” And he actually laid hands on my friend as though to prevent him from escaping.

“But you must let go your hold of my body, Surayya,” pleaded my friend meekly, “even to enable me to get the money from the iron safe.”

“Get it at once and don’t try to fool me,” said Surayya as he pushed my friend off.

My friend saved himself, with great difficulty, from a violent fall, went towards the wall, picked up a few stones from the side and placed them, in all seriousness, in the hands of Surayya. Surayya counted them solemnly, and without another word turned his heel, right about, reached the door with his head inclined at the same angle, and passed out.

My friend heaved a sigh of relief and, without any need for a query from me again; began, of his own accord, “What a ‘sad change! This Surayya was once the most prominent banker in this village. Now he has turned mad and is reduced to this miserable condition.”

“So he is mad! Why did, he go mad? And what is this method in his madness?” I asked, burning with curiosity.

My friend began narrating the story of Surayya’s madness. “It was his father that was responsible for this tragedy in Surayya’s life. His father was a very fine gentleman with a remarkably soft heart. But even so, he was primarily responsible for the moral ruin of his son.”

“How could a good father?…..”

“Let me, explain. It was because he was so good, he soon lost his property, all of it, with his indiscriminate charities and standing surety for friends. Reduced to poverty, he died a miserable death, with no one to help him in his hour of need or look after him in his old age. Is it surprising that Surayya, who had witnessed the vicissitudes of his father’s career with his own eyes, cultivated an attitude of misanthropy? He conceived a grievance against society and nursed an inveterate hatred against it.”

My friend continued:

Surayya set about deliberately hardening his heart, and, ever since he took over the management of the family property, concentrated all his efforts on making money unscrupulously and heartlessly, utterly regardless of any human considerations, converted into money the remaining few acres of his patrimony and set up as a banker. He severed all human ties and recognised only one bond between himself and society, the bond of money. He was born to lend money for interest, and they to borrow and pay him interest.

He became an expert in extortionate usury and in a few years developed into the most flourishing banker of the locality, draining away the very life-blood of the poor peasants who happened to fall into his clutches. Even after he became rich and no longer needed any more money for his comfort or security, he persisted in the same methods, for they had grown into his nature by long habit. He would not spare a morsel to the most pitiable beggar; he would not forego a pie of his dues under any circumstances. He would put his debtors to all possible inconvenience and difficulties and squeeze out of them all his dues without any mercy. In his restless pursuit of wealth he did not spare even a thought for the ruined careers of devastated families left along the trail. His heart was never moved to pity for the victims of his avarice.

So he piled up wealth, but along with the wealth the ill-will and hatred of the people towards him also mounted high. Everyone in the village feared him, but none had any goodwill towards him. In his reckless attitude of hostility towards society, he deemed this unpopularity and social isolation an additional advantage. Why should he worry that he was unpopular? He aimed at their money and he got it. He never wanted their goodwill; but then an event occurred which changed thoroughly the face of things.

There was a peasant in the village, Chandrayya by name. He had borrowed from Surayya arid eventually an amount of two hundred rupees was due from him to the banker. This Chandrayya was a comparatively poor peasant, but he had business dealings with the people in the neighbouring town and therefore somewhat advanced in his views. He had no fear of lawyers, and he hated the rich as a class. Instead of feeling grateful to Surayya for having obliged him with the loan when he was in need of money, he entertained a grievance against him on the ground that he was extorting money from him. Surayya was also aware of the mentality and outlook of this debtor, though he had been tempted by the high rate of interest offered; but ever since, he was doubting the possibility of recovering the debt, and was often pressing him for repayment. One day, according to his usual procedure, he laid hands on the debtor in the market-place and insisted on immediate repayment of the loan. In his anxiety for recovering the loan he worked himself up into a violent temper and began to use somewhat discourteous language in pressing his demand. At last the smouldering resentment in the heart of Chandrayya burst into flame. He too lost his temper, flatly refused to repay, and defied the banker to do his worst.

This was a new experience for Surayya. He was stunned, and for a moment reduced to silence. Chandrayya was encouraged by this immediate effect of his defiance, and he insisted on Surayya taking his hands off his body. Surayya was now thoroughly roused and sought to recover his injured pride. Me remonstrated with the debtor for his impolite language and threatened him with the legal consequences of his refusal and defiance, Chandrayya felt exasperated. He abused Surayya outright and literally kicked him off.

Surayya was indignant at this open insult in the market-place. He was in a fury. He complained to everyone he met of the injustice of Chandrayya’s conduct in refusing to pay the amount he had borrowed, though he had charged interest at the just and legal rate in vogue since the time of Sri Ramachandra.

At last he reached home, dined in a hurry, tightened his spare cloth round his loins, took up his umbrella and started for the town. But he still entertained a lingering hope that he may be spared the unpleasant necessity of taking the law. He paced up and down the road by the side of Chandrayya’s house, and informed all passers-by in loud tones–but really for the benefit of the inmates of Chandrayya’s house–that he was proceeding to the town on important business. Chandrayya was in the house and heard the words. At once, he retorted, “You may go to town or to the God who created you. You will not get the money, nor are you destined to breathe the air of this place any longer.”

There could be no turning now. All retreat was practically cut off. The prospect before him was threatening and ominous, but how to forego the money? And how to swallow the insult? With an effort he silenced his fears, mustered courage, proceeded to the town, consulted his lawyer and instructed him to serve a registered notice on Chandrayya. But now that the irrevocable step had been taken he was feeling worried and anxious at heart, and his anxiety and worry increased every minute. In his anxiety he loitered in the town, wandering here and there aimlessly. By the time he started for home it was getting dark. You know one has to step off the road and trudge a mile along the foot-path to reach our village. By the time he reached the foot-path it was quite dark. The foot-path leads only to this village and therefore after dark there will be very few passengers on it. On that day too there was no other human being on the foot-path within the ken of Surayya. Besides, the path-way is bordered on either side by stout trees with bushy growth, and on the whole it was a very disconcerting situation for Surayya in his present frame of mind tobe walking alone along it. He recollected the long prayer to Hanuman, the monkey-god, usually resorted to on such occasions by the pious, and repeating it aloud to hearten himself, he proceeded a few steps along the path. Did you notice the big banyan tree half-way along the foot-path?

As he approached it he heard the sound of foot-steps in the bushes by the side, and he came to a dead-stop. His legs refused to move. Even the prayer to the monkey-god sank in his throat. Chandrayya’s men, waiting for him in the bushes, now sprang upon him, surrounded him on all sides and belaboured him. They felled him to the ground and thrashed him mercilessly. Chandrayya pounced upon him and rifled his pockets in which he found twenty rupees. He pocketed the amount with exultation exclaiming, “Have you filed a legal complaint against me? This will come in handy for my expenses in connection with the suit.” So saying he kicked him with his foot and insulted him to his heart’s content. Then they all went home leaving the victim on the spot.

News of the incident reached the village and spread like wildfire all over the place in a moment. Everyone in the village knew that Surayya the banker was belaboured by his enemies. But not a single word of sympathy was expressed anywhere for the victim of the outrage. He had so completely alienated the sympathies of the entire village.

The wife and daughter of Surayya were the only exceptions. They were overwhelmed with grief. Surayya’s wife was a very good lady, and so too her daughter. But they were helpless in the face of an injustice over which the entire village gloated, in complacency, if not actual exultation. Nor could they, so to say, influence the conduct of Surayya in the least.

Surayya passed a restless night on account of the severe bruises all over his body. Early next morning the other bankers and businessmen of the locality called on him to condole with him. Surayya sat steeped in his own thoughts. The banker friends at last came out with a suggestion: “Surayya, this is an outrage which should not be tolerated. You must file a criminal complaint against the villains and fight them to the finish.” But there was no response from him. He kept quiet, revolving his own thoughts. His friends were disappointed, and mistaking his silence for fear, tried to encourage him. “You need not have any doubt of success, Surayya, we are sure to win this time.” Now Surayya turned his eyes upon them and gazed at them steadily for a moment. At last he responded, “All right, let us all subscribe towards the expenses and embark upon the litigation.” His friends were obviously puzzled and stared at one another in confusion. “What is it you say, Surayya. We do not quite follow your idea. You were assaulted most unjustly, and you have to file a complaint and teach the villains a lesson. Why should we all subscribe towards the expenses? Where do we come into the picture?” Surayya affected surprise and indignation. “How can you say they assaulted and thereby insulted me only? Their attack was upon my money. Their envy and hostility are directed against all of you, all the moneyed people, especially all the bankers who lend money at interest. If I had been the sole object of their attack, only Chandrayya should have assaulted me. Why should all the others join him as they did? No, no, it was an attack by the borrowers and poor men as a class on the bankers and rich men as a class, whom they look upon as exploiters and therefore their enemies. Through me, in this instance, they have insulted the entire business community and the banking system. They have used physical force against us, because that is their strong point in which they have an advantage over us. We can spare money; that is our strong point in which we enjoy an advantage over them. We can afford to take the law against them and ruin them. Let us all contribute to the expenses, drag them to the courts of law, ruin them and uphold the prestige and honour of our class, so that hereafter they will think twice before attacking or insulting any creditor. Let us teach them a lesson, and all of us stand to profit by it.” The friends did not choose to follow his arguments. They came to the more comfortable conclusion that Surayya had been beaten out of his wits. They slipped away, one after another.

But ‘Surayya remained adamant. He stuck to his novel attitude and refused to institute legal proceedings against his enemies at his own cost. “Why should I?” he argued: “Why should I fight their battles with my money? Why should I waste my money for a law-suit in the interests of all these selfish and foolish moneyed folk? I am not such a fool to burn my fingers for these cowards.” He persisted in this attitude in spite of his desire for revenge. His very avarice had taught him an original social philosophy, triumphing over all sense of pride and self-respect.

This incident proved a turning point in the career of Surayya. When people found that Surayya, the rich banker, was defied and belaboured, by his debtor, and he took the insult lying down without even an attempt to retaliate in my manner, they began to despise him. All these days they had some regard for him and his wealth. Though they hated him for his avarice and hard-heartedness, they feared him and respected him for his wealth. Now that they realised that his wealth could not afford him any protection against insult and injury, he fell headlong in their esteem. From that day onwards he was the victim of incessant public ignominy and wanton insult at the hands of everyone in the village, rich and poor, young and old. Wherever he went, he was followed by a crowd of urchins chanting behind him in derision, “the fair rate of interest of Surayya, the hard blows of insult of Chandrayya.” When he approached his debtors for repayment of the sums due to him, they faced him boldly with the query. “Do you want to be thrashed again?” Some of them counted out on his head with their knuckles the amounts of principal and interest due to him, separately.

Very soon it became impossible for Surayya to collect even a pie from his debtors. He became bankrupt. He lost all round, and his creditors got possession of his property and mercilessly reduced him to destitution. His son-in-law, who had been hoping to inherit his enormous wealth after his death, now found his prospects vanish and forsook his wife. The poor girl came to Surayya, as a discarded wife, to her disgraced parents.

The sight of his innocent wifeand daughter subjected to such undeserved humiliation and suffering was unbearable to Surayya. He began to avoid his home and spend his time, as far as possible, roaming from place to place and eating and sleeping anywhere. Very often he was found seated on the bund of the village tank under the big margosa tree, all alone, with a heap of stones by his side. He would fling them one by one into the water, gazing intently at the ripples caused by each stone on the surface of the water.

But even there he was not left in peace. As his helplessness became more and more obvious the people of the village persecuted him more and more relentlessly. All their pent-up hatred of the avaricious banker fattening on their needs now burst upon him, and they gave him no quarter. Their revenge was not confined to him, but embraced his entire family, in wanton persecution.

One day at dusk in the evening, his daughter was attending on the cattle in the shed behind the house when she was assaulted by four or five ruffians and raped on the spot. When they left her she gotup, dragged her limbs with a great effort to the well near-by and jumped into it, unable to bear the disgrace of a dis-honoured life. When her mother came to know of this calamity she poured kerosene over her clothes, set fire to them, and thus put an end to her sufferings by immolating herself. The enemies of Surayya then managed to get his debts transferred to themselves from his creditors, and obtaining a decree in the courts against him, put his house to auction and turned him out. Thus he was left alone and homeless, utterlydestitute and at the mercy at the elements and a hostile society.

I could not bear the recital of this tale of woe any longer and blurted out, “Was there no attempt on the part of anyone in the village to put a stop to these atrocities? Was there no sympathy for him in any of the villagers, even when he was reduced to such a miserable condition?” My friend replied, “I do not know. There was no protest from anyone. Some of the villagers took it as fitting retribution for his avarice and heartless extortions; some of the more kind-hearted must have been moved to sympathy by his accumulated misfortunes; yet they feared perhaps the fury of the mob and the hostility of the enemies of Surayya which might be directed towards them if they interfered; anyway the result was the same. They all kept quiet and the persecution continued to the bitter end.”

“Then what happened? How did it all end?”

“What is there to say? All his money disappeared, His daughter and wife died dishonoured. His heart was literally broken. He went mad. He began to wander along the streets of the village fleeing from imaginary pursuers. Now, if anyone takes pity on him and offers food, he accepts; Otherwise, for days together he goes without any food. He is very often under the margosa tree on the tank-bund, in fair weather and foul. He rarely speaks and never refers to his wife or daughter. Once a day he goes to the site of his old house, looks at it from a distance for a few minutes with tears gathering in his eyes; sometimes in the night he goes to the well in which his daughter drowned her-self, goes round it thrice and returns to the Margosa tree. This is the story of Surayya.”

I had listened to this tale of woe with taut nerves. I had not expected to hear such a tragic story and so I was much pained.

“What is this game with stones then?” I asked, coming to the starting point of my curiosity.

“Habit,” said my friend. “Old habit persists in him even in his madness and he continues to play at money-lending, though now with stones instead of money. Some of us humour him and fall in with his game, out of consideration for his deplorable condition and unwilling to cause him more pain. This Surayya...”

This sentence of my friend was swallowed in a big hue and cry in the street outside. Then we heard the chanting of the boys, “Surayya’s fair rate of interest, Chandrayya’s hard blows of insult.” At intervals we heard also a shrill cry of pain, evidently proceeding from Surayya as he found himself at bay. We rushed out into the street, startled by the cry. We found Surayya rushing along the street, breathing hard. He carried in his hand the bundle of stones my friend had handed over to him a few minutes previously. Behind him at his heels there was the crowd of village urchins chanting, howling, and flinging stones at him.

Suddenly Surayya increased his pace and began to run fast. He ran fast and stopped short at a house, gazed at it for a moment, then moved ahead to a well near-by, stood for a moment poising himself on the rim of the well. Suddenly he bent low and peered into the well, but pulled himself up and again stared at the house. Even the thoughtless boys with the stones in their hands stopped at a distance, all hushed to silence. I and my friend looked on with bated breath, concentrating our attention upon the hero of the scene,–the mad Surayya poised on the rim of the well. Again he hooted like a siren, sending a cold tremor through every listener, and flung himself into the well with the bundle of stones held fast in his hand.

Of course, there was an attempt at rescue, but it was of no avail. The bundle of stones prevented the body from floating till he was actually dead. They could drag out only the corpse. After we came into the house my friend further explained that that was the well in which his daughter drowned herself. The house opposite at which he gazed repeatedly,–that was the house in which he had lived in his days of prosperity. And so Surayya’s life completed the circle; and came to an end at the starting point.