the eldest son inherited the land — a claim that was true, I suppose, only for the last two or three generations, when siblings got along better than was the custom. For, surely the original jagir must have been bigger: what we possessed was not substantial enough to be a gift from an emperor, but of course no one had a copy of the original jagirnama, though we had other records of ownership.
And yet, by local standards, what my father and Mustapha Chacha inherited was substantial. It would have enabled us to live a life of fullness, if not abundance and ease. But, alas, my love, we could cultivate only a quarter of the land we had inherited. Oh, we had the papers to those plots all right, for all they were worth, but Mirza Habibullah, a much richer man who was related to us, or whose forefathers had been to ours
so
far back in time that I for one never understood the connection, this rich and powerful relation had laid claim to all our lands. Most of it he had occupied by force, and even the quarter that we cultivated was repeatedly claimed by him. Every planting season, his men would divert our water channels or block them; every harvest season his cattle would be accidentally herded into our fields.
Mustapha Chacha had the respect of many in the village and I think that was the only thing that protected us from the wrath of Mirza Habibullah and his henchmen. For Mirza Habibullah was a powerful man, one of the richest farmers in the village, a person who aspired to set himself up as more than a landlord, which probably explained his appropriation of the title, Mirza.
What angered him the most was that Mustapha Chacha defied him instead of coming to a compromise, perhaps conceding him ownership rights in return for the right to continue farming the land. I think that would have been acceptable to Mirza Habibullah: he already owned most of the land, and the bit that we cultivated would not have added much to his wealth in any case. But Mustapha Chacha was a man of principles, and he would never agree to being browbeaten; he would never resort to subterfuge, or cower in front of superior might. This was what he taught his sons and me too, but his life taught me another lesson — would that my youngest cousin, Shahid, had learnt the lesson too. For jaanam, the bending doob-grass survives the storm; the upright palm breaks like a twig in this world of ours.
There were other reasons for Habibullah’s enmity. We knew his father and uncles had feuded with our grandfather. We also knew that on at least two or three occasions, Mustapha Chacha had worsted Mirza Habibullah in the eyes of the village — once at the village panchayat.
I remember the occasion of the panchayat. A servant in the house of Habibullah’s brother, who was a rich farmer, just like Habibullah, and like him, a fat man with a sparse hennaed beard and no moustache, had been accused of stealing an expensive necklace. The servant, Haldi Ram, and his family were reputed to be honest people, and despite threats and beatings, Haldi Ram continued to proclaim his innocence. The matter was brought before the village panchayat, which had assembled, as was the custom, under the peepal tree in the village square. Most of the village had turned up too, quite a few siding with Haldi Ram and his family despite their Cow-caste status. However, Habibullah, who had recently had himself chosen sarpanch, was convinced that Haldi Ram, a villainous-looking, pockmarked man — faces can deceive as much as words — was the guilty party. The interrogation that followed was so one-sided as to get members of Habibullah’s party twirling their whiskers in satisfaction. But then Mustapha Chacha interfered.
Do not misunderstand me, jaanam; Mustapha Chacha was not a man who opposed people out of dislike or a desire for prestige. He was a studious, religious man, regular in his prayers, and he was a member of the panchayat only because every villager, except Habibullah and his
And yet, by local standards, what my father and Mustapha Chacha inherited was substantial. It would have enabled us to live a life of fullness, if not abundance and ease. But, alas, my love, we could cultivate only a quarter of the land we had inherited. Oh, we had the papers to those plots all right, for all they were worth, but Mirza Habibullah, a much richer man who was related to us, or whose forefathers had been to ours
so
far back in time that I for one never understood the connection, this rich and powerful relation had laid claim to all our lands. Most of it he had occupied by force, and even the quarter that we cultivated was repeatedly claimed by him. Every planting season, his men would divert our water channels or block them; every harvest season his cattle would be accidentally herded into our fields.
Mustapha Chacha had the respect of many in the village and I think that was the only thing that protected us from the wrath of Mirza Habibullah and his henchmen. For Mirza Habibullah was a powerful man, one of the richest farmers in the village, a person who aspired to set himself up as more than a landlord, which probably explained his appropriation of the title, Mirza.
What angered him the most was that Mustapha Chacha defied him instead of coming to a compromise, perhaps conceding him ownership rights in return for the right to continue farming the land. I think that would have been acceptable to Mirza Habibullah: he already owned most of the land, and the bit that we cultivated would not have added much to his wealth in any case. But Mustapha Chacha was a man of principles, and he would never agree to being browbeaten; he would never resort to subterfuge, or cower in front of superior might. This was what he taught his sons and me too, but his life taught me another lesson — would that my youngest cousin, Shahid, had learnt the lesson too. For jaanam, the bending doob-grass survives the storm; the upright palm breaks like a twig in this world of ours.
There were other reasons for Habibullah’s enmity. We knew his father and uncles had feuded with our grandfather. We also knew that on at least two or three occasions, Mustapha Chacha had worsted Mirza Habibullah in the eyes of the village — once at the village panchayat.
I remember the occasion of the panchayat. A servant in the house of Habibullah’s brother, who was a rich farmer, just like Habibullah, and like him, a fat man with a sparse hennaed beard and no moustache, had been accused of stealing an expensive necklace. The servant, Haldi Ram, and his family were reputed to be honest people, and despite threats and beatings, Haldi Ram continued to proclaim his innocence. The matter was brought before the village panchayat, which had assembled, as was the custom, under the peepal tree in the village square. Most of the village had turned up too, quite a few siding with Haldi Ram and his family despite their Cow-caste status. However, Habibullah, who had recently had himself chosen sarpanch, was convinced that Haldi Ram, a villainous-looking, pockmarked man — faces can deceive as much as words — was the guilty party. The interrogation that followed was so one-sided as to get members of Habibullah’s party twirling their whiskers in satisfaction. But then Mustapha Chacha interfered.
Do not misunderstand me, jaanam; Mustapha Chacha was not a man who opposed people out of dislike or a desire for prestige. He was a studious, religious man, regular in his prayers, and he was a member of the panchayat only because every villager, except Habibullah and his
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