Sometime around 1845…
Columns of red uniformed sepoys were marching on a dusty road of eastern U.P. The columns were headed and flanked by horse mounted white skinned superiors. Their posturing exuded masterly vanity. Although they also wore red liveries yet the material used was of expensive variety compared to that of sepoys. The sepoys were mostly native Indians who were serving as the mercenaries of the English East India Company, the alien lord of India.
The sepoys were carrying manual loading guns. Their superior whitemen sported sheathed swords and pistols in waist holsters.
For the natives it was an awe inspiring sight they had never seen before. Synchronised marching of the uniformed soldiers in geometrical lines and boxes was a new experience. The natives had seen the soldiers of Nawabs or Rajas walking out of step like motley crowds.
From a safe distance, up on a high ground local village folks were watching the scene mesmerised. There were a lot of wide eyed kids and elders.
A very old wisened man has his forehead loaded with creases of worry lines. He was scowling at the marching soldiers. The expression on his face revealed that he knew what was going on down there.
A bright eyed kid came to the old man full of questions. He had total faith that the layers of the wrinkles on the old man’s face contained all the answers and the complete knowledge of the world.
The kid squeaked, “Nana…”
The old man looked at the boy encouragingly and asked, “Yes, What is it, son?”
“The scene on the road below…is it pageant of our Raja or a new kind of Ramnavami procession?”
The wisened man shook his head saying, “It is no Raja’s or Nawab’s Tamasha. And no Ramnavami pageant either. It is mighty fauz of ‘Company Bahadur’ of England, the country of white people like those white ones on the horse backs down there who are herding the foot soldiers.”
The kid blinked his eyes. By now a few other kids had joined him besides some curious adults to get the benefit of the knowledge of the old man.
“Is ‘Company Bahadur’ name of the white Raja?” a puzzled adult wanted to know.
“No. The company infact is a body of some people and in this case it is the company of the traders of England, banias of London city. It is a long story, my dear folks.”
The word ‘story’ excited the kids.
“Story! Tell us the story, nana,” a kid squealed.
Another kid said wistfully, “I hope Hanumanji and Bheemsen figure in this story.”
The old man laughed at the innocent kid. He sighed and spoke, “They don’t figure in this sad story. The hero of this story is Rabutt Kullai (Robert Clive).”
“Must be a cousin brother of Kublai Khan,” a village buffoon tried to reveal his knowledge. The wise old man looked pitifully at the buffoon and ignored him. He looked at his motley audience with a stern face making it clear to everyone that he would not like any interruptions. Then he resumed his tale.
‘It is a bizarre story. Some traders of England, the country of whites came to Hindustan to buy spices. The spices sold in their own country earning them a very handsome profits. For them Hindustan was a bird that laid them golden eggs. The traders from some other white countries also came to our lands attracted by the spice trade. But banias of England were the cleverest and the trickiest of them all. They found that Hindustan was ruled by worthless Rajas and Nawabs who were little interested in ruling their respective lands efficiently. They used to pass their time in getting entertained by song and dance girls, drinking, playing chess, raising haremfuls of beautiful women for their own pleasure and spending public money on self agrandisement and pompous living. All of them were fountain heads of stinkingly corrupt regimes. Their courts were packed with sycophants and arrogant officials. Their armies were merely crowds of disenchanted soldiers who were mismanaged by drunkards and debauch commanders.
The worst thing about Hindustani rulers was that they quarreled among themselves all the time. To run down one another they could fall to any depth of immorality. The humiliation of neighbour ruler gave them the greatest pleasure and the satisfaction. For the same reason their palaces were full of schemers, back biters and intrigues. The traders of England thought that they were clever white people who could easily take control of the land of stupid Hindustanis. While trading they had interacted with the rulers and their men. That was when they realised how ignorant, simplistic and corrupt our people were.”
Here the old man paused for a breather to give some relief to his tired old body. The others understood it. They again turned their eyes towards the passing columns of the red-liveried army. Then, the old man coughed to clean his throat conveying to others that he was again ready to continue on with the story. The old man resumed his narrative—
“Those about sixty traders of England formed a company for the trade with Hindustan. The trade was proving so profitable that everyone wanted to invest money in that company. Now the banias and common folk of England traded through the ‘Company Bahadur’ in wholesale for bigger profits and it gave them bargaining power. The company recruited some adventurous and ambitious young people to push their game of gaining control over our land. Instead of collecting golden eggs they now wanted to grab the hen that laid those eggs. And that hen was our Hindustan. Many ambitious youngmen of England joined the company to realise their dreams of making it big when the facts of Hindustan suffering from the small minded corrupt rulers was known. One of them was the adventurous Rabutt Kullai who came to our land as a soldier. The England banias has already begun the game of siding with one ruler and destroying his opponent. Then the ally was made to act as their flunky who just carried out their orders. In a short time they were directly in control of several states and the rest had become its proteges who acted on the advice of the white Resident appointed by the company. Meanwhile, they had raised their own army with youngmen brought from England to serve as military officers to command the native Hindustani soldiers. Whoever stood in the way of the Company Bahadur was vanquished by its well trained army that was equipped with big cannons and guns brought from England. Our Hindustani Rajas or Nawabs were too weak to offer any meaningful resistance. Soon the company had become the ruler of Hindustan. It is that army you saw down there.”
A boy asked, “Nana, will these soldiers plunder our village and burn down our houses?”
“They have already done that son,” the old man said mysteriously. The surprised listeners turned their heads to survey their village. They could see no soldier in their village and their houses did not appear to be on fire. All eyes again turned back to the old man demanding an explanation.
The wisened man revealed, “After taking over Hindustan the company became more greedy. Instead of just buying spices they now wanted to sell the goods manufactured by their factories and mills. So, the Hindustani bazaars were full of goods and cloth made by their country. That ruined our economy that was based on rural cottage industries. All our weavers, cobblers, leather workers, smiths and other artisans became workless. The impoverished Hindustani villagers had to migrate to cities to do menial jobs to stay alive. That is how the whitemen plundered us. Now there is no work in our villages. You will find the bitter truth when you grow up, my son. May be, you will have to go to some city to become a coolie.”
The boy shuddered. A man informed, “That is true. Our village weavers Ghasi, Nanku and Budhia shut down their Khaddis and went to Calcutta. We are told that there they have become hand cart porters. Some other’s have become coolies.”
The old man nodded his head. “The whitemen are getting big mills and factories opened here as well. The unemployed villagers go to the cities and seek jobs as workers there. Those factory owners are stooges of the white man. They work our people to bones and pay a pittance as wages. The Zamindars have also become agents of the ‘Company Bahadur’ to exploit the tillers and the field workers. Small land holding farmers are being pushed around by them. Folks, that is the sad state of our affairs. Now we are white man’s slaves.”
“But why do Hindustanis join the white man’s fauz?” a kid asked.
“Poverty drives them to. There is no work. What can poor people do? They have no where to go. One has to sell oneself to fill the sinful stomach. That is the bitter truth. They atleast get two square meals in fauzi langar and some salary to send it to their families back home who live on that.”
The village buffoon spoke, “Nana, you were talking about that white man named Rambhutt Kullar, what about him?”
“It is not Rambhutt Kullar but Rabutt Kullai (Robert Clive). Many youngmen who needed jobs joined the services of the ‘Company Bahadur’. Some joined for adventure in a far off land called Hindustan while some others saw great future in the company. That youngman Kullai became their soldier, commander and he made fast progress by showing his cunning in wars of the company. He proved a good politician as well. Very soon he was the top man of ‘Company Bahadur’ in India. The company appointed him as its Governor General of India. Kullai turned the white administration into a ruthless machine to milk Hindustan and impoverish the native masses.
The Company Bahadur was making huge profits now by selling the goods of England in Hindustani bazaars and exporting to their country the natural wealth and precious legacies of the colonised Hindustan. The white men were creating large estates, tea gardens, farm houses and contractual opportunities for themselves at the cost of the natives. The natives had become their slaves, servants and contract labourers. For himself he amassed unmeasurable wealth in cash, gold, silver, diamonds, bagfuls of other precious stones, art pieces and what not. The Raja’s, Nawabs and rich people of India fell over one another in vying to offer costly presents to Kallai Laat Sahib. With both hands he filled his pockets. The greed and loot of Kallai ashamed even the people of England. The government of England asked ‘Company Bahadur’ about its Kallai’s misdeeds. Kallai was called back to England. He took all the wealth he had looted in Hindustan to England. I don’t know what he is doing there. I guess he is living like a Maharaja in London. The Company sent a new man to rule over Hindustan.
That is the story, folks.”
The old man felt great relief after taking the ‘Company Bahadur,’ story off his chest. It had been like a burden on his soul. He picked himself up with some effort.
An adult said to the kids, “Boys! Run home. The sun is setting and your mothers may be worrying about you.”
The adults walked their minds still replaying the orderly march of Company Bahadur’s fauz and the white tall officers on horsebacks. Some adults envied the sepoys who earned salaries and ate food in langars. It was said that they never went hungry and were served food at appointed hour without fail. For the poor villagers who mostly were half fed it was a great luxury and good fortune.
The village under reference here was Ballia a small hamlet in Eastern U.P. not far away from Palassi and Buxar where the fauz of the Company Bahadur had defeated the army of Sirajuddaula to gain control of North India.
And with that Calcutta (Kolkata) became the capital of Hindustan from where the East India Company (Company Bahadur) guided its operations. Earlier for some time Madras (Chennai) had been the company’s headquarter. It was during the Madras period that Robert Clive made rapid progress.
The kid that asked questions from the wise old man was a child of the Pandey family of Ballia village. His name was Mangal. The family like others of the village was poor. It had a small landed holding that produced just enough grains to keep the family alive.
That day when Mangal reached home he was very excited to the surprise of his mother. He was babbling something about ‘Bahadur Company’ and ‘Red fauz’.
The mother asked, “Aren’t you hungry, Mangal? You have not asked for food as usual.”
“Yes, I am hungry,” Mangal admitted sheepishly and added, “I forgot about it.”
“Forgot about it? Really! Where have you been?”
“I was up on the teela (High ground) with Syana nana. We saw a parade of very magnificent red soldiers and white people on the horses. Didn’t you hear about them?”
“I did. Some one was telling me about them,” the mother admitted giving two rotis and some subzi to Mangal in a thali.
While nibbling at rotis young Mangal kept glancing at his mother.
“Ma, this fauz is different than other fauzs you have seen. They walk in step. The white men on the horses keep shouting something to them. The skin of those whitemen was like marble. And they were very tall. If they stand on ground I will not reach even their knees. Imagine that!”
“Bara hua to kya hua, Jaise lamba per khazoor,
Panchhi ko chhaya na mile, phal laage ati door.”
Mangal’s mother recited a saying in couplet form which literally meant—‘What if something is tall like date tree? It provides no shelter to birds and bears fruits far away from reach rendering them useless for a man on the ground!’ Mangal nodded his head, and spoke, “Yes, nana also said that those people with white skin have done dark deeds to harm us. It is because of them that there is little work in our vgillage. My father has to go from village to village to earn bread for us. How I wish I could drive them away. But nana said that our own people are also not good. They have become the friends and the agents of those white banias.”
“Bania!” the mother exclaimed. “Where does our bania come in? You misunderstood what Syana nana must have said.”
Mangal protested, “I am not mistaken, ma. You can ask nana yourself. They are banias of the Inkland country where white men live.’’
“I don’t know what you are saying. Alright, forget about tall whitemen and wash your hands. I think tonight the tree tall white monster would haunt you in your dreams, Mangloo!” The mother giggled. Mangal made a bad face.
Before long the kid was asleep. But he did not suffer any nightmare. Infact, he did see a dream that was not frightening. In the dream he saw a whiteman in fauz livery astride a horse signalling him with his finger. Mangal went to him in confusion. The white horse rider tossed up something high in the air and asked Mangal to catch it saying, “Pakro!” Mangal caught the thing between his palms in reflex action. He looked at it positioned on his right palm. It was a silver coin with an alien face engraved on it. Mangal looked up to seek explanation. There was no white horse rider. He had vanished.
In the morning Mangal had a very vague idea about that dream which he completely forgot about in a few days. And the life went on.
