The Mystery of the Missing Cap (PDF) 1977

# The Mystery of the Missing Cap ## Manoj Das It is certainly not my motive, in recounting this episode of two decades ago, to raise a laugh at the expense of Sri 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 r...

# The Mystery of the Missing Cap ## Manoj Das It is certainly not my motive, in recounting this episode of two decades ago, to raise a laugh at the expense of Sri 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 those two men over all these years. Sri Moharana was a well-to-do man. His was the only pukka [of solid quality, permanent] house in an area of twenty villages. A writer who began so unconsciously and naturally in childhood-"as freely as I was breathing", he says-that he never thought of being one, Manoj Das' first books of poems and of stories came out in 1948 and 1950 when he was about sixteen years of age. His early writing went through a Marxist period, but for the past fourteen years he has been living and teaching English literature at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram. He continues in both Oriya and English, which endear him to both Indian and Western readers. Manoj Das' most recent book of stories is The Crocodile's Lady, a 1975 publication. We acknowledge with gratitude the reprinting of this story, with slight alterations, from Winter's Tales 18, a MacMillan St. Martin's Press (London|New York) venture, edited by A. D. MacLean. 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 and looked at it whenever they passed by, for none could overlook the symbolism in this operation that had been carried out after nearly half a century. Sri 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 well-cared-for 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 patriots. The fifteenth 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 exercised in honour of these new people. And observers began to notice that Sri Moharana himself was fast becoming a patriot. As I found out later, he had even nursed the ambition to become a member of the state legislature. The incident I now relate occurred at the outset of his endeavour in that direction. I witnessed the incident as a small boy, my maternal uncle's house which I frequently visited being just near Sri Moharana's. When I narrate it, I do so, naturally, with the understanding which has matured in me with time. In those early days of national 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 receptions. A reception was arranged for Babu Virkishore with Sri Moharana as the chairman of the reception committee. Sri Moharana's huge ancestral cane chair was laid with a linen cover, upon which the best village seamstress had laced a pair of herons with two big fish in their beaks. For a fortnight every day, the children of the village's lower primary school devoted the afternoon to the practice of the welcome song. Among the many strange phenomena wrought by the great spirit of the times was the composition of this song: for the composer, the head pundit of the school, had lived sixty-seven years without any poetic activity. The refrain of the song still raises echoes in me. Its literal translation would be: O mighty minister, tell us, do tell us, How do you nurse 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 coming: how the sun almost blushed in romantic happiness that morning, how each and every bird recited a particular raga, and with what eagerness and throbbing of heart the womenfolk waited to blow their conches when the minister stepped into the village. I know that nowadays ministers do not enjoy such glory. But it was very different then. We the rustic children wrangled over several questions: What does a minister eat? What does he think? Does he sleep or not? Does he ever suffer from colic or colds? Sri Moharana himself was hectically excited. He used to sleep for a full hour in the afternoon. But he gave up this habit at least ten days prior to the reception. All his time passed in examining and re-examining details of the arrangements. Yet he seemed nervously 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. There he was profusely garlanded by Sri Moharana and then 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! At that 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!] etc., the elephantine minister plodded through the street, to the embarrassment of the poor naked earth, it seemed. 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 in the faces of dying people who have lived a contented and complete life. Sri Moharana's look suggested: "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. We, the half-naked, pot-bellied, uncivilized children, walked parallel to the minister at a safe distance and could not help feeling extremely small and guilty. At Sri 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, gheebaked rice. Soon the minister retired to the cabin set apart for him. Though it was summer, with the cabin's window being open to a big pond and a grove there was enough air to lull this giant of a man to sound sleep. Volunteers had been posted to see that no noise whatever would originate from 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 seemed a most ideal condition for achieving my goal. Mustering all my self-confidence, I slowly approached the window facing the pond. This was the rear side of the house. The minister's p. a. [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 like 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 notoriously irresponsible 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. I was in a dilemma as to which I should value more-the great man's cap or his snoring. I returned home pensive. But before long I heard a suppressed yet excited noise. Crossing into Sri Moharana's compound I saw the minister's p. a. flitting about like a butterfly and heard his repeated mumbling, "Mysterious, mysterious!" The minister was obviously inside the the cabin. But nobody dared go in. Sri Moharana stood thunderstruck, as did the other patriots. 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 disappeared. Evidently there is a deep-rooted conspiracy. The gravity of the situation can hardly be exaggerated. In fact, I fear, it may have devastating effects on the politics of our country." I could see Sri Moharana literally shaking. He was sweating like an ice cream stick, so profusely that I was afraid, at that rate, he might completely melt away in a few hours. When I saw Sri Moharana's condition, the conflict within me as to whether I should keep the knowledge of the mystery a secret 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 has been diagnosed all right, but is known to be incurable. He then patted me and said, "My son, nice you told me. But keep it strictly to yourself. I will reward you later." The incident had thrown a wet blanket on the occasion. From the sepulchral silence of the minister's room all that could be heard was his intermittent coughing. And every time he coughed, anxiety damped the spirit of the people in the courtyard and on the veranda. I went to join my friends. They were full of anxiety. One said that if the thief were caught, the police would hang him on the big banyan tree beside the river. "Some twigs have already been cut off", someone said. "Perhaps all the villagers will be thrown into jail", said another. Among us there were even such naives who believed that the minister's cap was a sort of Alladin's lamp, that anyone who put it on would possess ministerial power. But the situation changed suddenly. I saw the minister and Sri Moharana coming out to the veranda. I did not know how Sri Moharana had explained the matter to the minister. But the minister was all smiles. It was the most remarkable smile he had hitherto displayed. By then at least half a dozen caps had been procured for him. But he appeared with his head bare. Even to a boy like me it was obvious that his baldpate wore an aura of martyrdom. Not less than five thousand people had gathered before the specially constructed stage when the minister ascended it, that remarkable smile still clinging to his face. Sri Moharana's niece, the lone high school-educated girl of the area, garlanded the minister. A prolonged 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 [the princess choosing her husband], a grown-up girl garlanding a man in public. Then the chorus "O Mighty Minister" was sung to the accompaniment of two harmoniums, a violin and a khol [drum]. It had been tuned in the kirtan [story-telling] style. Then it was Sri Moharana's turn to say a few words of welcome as the chairman of the reception committee. I saw him (I was standing just below the stage) moving his legs and hands in a very awkward fashion. Certainly that was 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 minister's parents but for whom the world would have been without the minister. I was happy that Sri Moharana did well in his maiden speech. But the greatest surprise was yet to come-in the concluding observation of Sri Moharana. Well, many would take Sri Moharana as a pukka [clever] politician. But I can swear that it was out of his goodness-a goodness unbalanced by excitement-that Sri 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!" Sri Moharana smiled mysteriously. The minister nodded his big, clean head which glowed like a satellite. Sri 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 noble-man of our area has taken it away. Why? Well, to preserve it as a sacred memento. He was obliged to take it away secretly because otherwise the Hon'ble Minister of Fisheries and Fine Arts, who is a burning example of humility, would never have permitted our friend the nobleman to view the cap as anything sacred!" Sri Moharana stopped and brought out of his pocket a handkerchief full of coins and, holding it before the audience, said, "Well, ladies and gentlemen, our friend 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." Sri Moharana bowed and handed over the money to the minister who, with a most graceful gesture, accepted it. Applause and words of wonder and appreciation broke out like a hurricane. Even the minister and Sri Moharana clapped their hands. Then, of course, the minister spoke for two and a half hours, drinking a glass of milk in between, at the end of which he declared that as a mark of respect to the unknown admirer of his, he had decided to remain bare headed for that whole night although the good earth did not lack for caps and, in fact, a surge of caps had already tried to crown his undaunted head. Soon my shock gave way to a double-edged feeling for Sri Moharana; an appreciation of his presence of mind and a sadness for his having to spend one hundred and one rupees to cover Jhandoo the monkey's mischief. That night all the respectable people of the area partook of the dinner that the reception 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 Sri Moharana in the morning, I could immediately read in his eyes the guilt that haunted him-at least when-ever he saw me. Sri Moharana perhaps had never uttered a lie; but when at last he did, he did it before thousands of people. God apart, at least there was one creature, that is myself, who knew that he was no longer a man of truth. The minister, however, looked extremely delighted. He did not seem to notice with what constraint Sri Moharana was conducting himself before him. At last came the moment of the minister's departure. He was served with a glass of sweetened curd in his cabin. While sipping it slowly, 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! nakedi Ha ha ha! But I don't mind! Ha ha! That is the price of love! Ha ha ha!" The minister finished his curd and came out to the rear veranda facing the pond and the grove, to wash his mouth. Sri Moharana followed him with water in a mug. There was nobody in the veranda except me. My presence was not accidental. A few minutes before l had observed that the rascal Jhandoo, playing with the minister's cap, was slowly approaching the veranda. 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 little monkey. When he was an infant his mother had taken shelter inside Sri Moharana's house in order to save her male child from the usual wrath of its father. Sri Moharana had not been at home and his servants killed the mother monkey. Sri Moharana became extremely sad, did not eat for one and a 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. Then to my horror, I saw Jhandoo rushing towards us from the other side of the pond. I made an effort to warn Sri Moharana, but in vain. Jhandoo got there in the twinkling of an eye. He sat down between the minister and Sri Moharana. He put the cap once on his own head and then taking it off, offered it to the minister with a very genial gesture. My heartbeat had trebled. Looking at Sri Moharana's face I saw an extremely pitiable image-pale as death. The surprised 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 Sri Moharana who seemed to be on the verge of collapsing: "Yes, yes, this is the nobleman..." His eyes bulging out, the minister managed to say, "What What did you say? .... Well?" But Sri Moharana was no longer in a position to say anything. He broke into tears. The next moment I saw the Hon'ble Minister of Fisheries and Fine Arts weeping too. The p. a.'s voice was heard from the opposite veranda, "Sir, the jeep is ready." The minister gulped the mugful of water and walked towards the jeep. Sri Moharana followed him. Their reddened eyes and drawn faces were interpreted as marks of sorrow of separation. Sri Moharana's political endeavor is not known to have gone any further. And it is strange that the Hon'ble Minister Babu Vir-kishore, who was willing to be robbed of his clothes, was soon comepletely forgotten in politics. I strongly feel that it was this episode of the cap that changed the course of their lives.