S. S. Prabhakar Rao, a former Professor of English at Jawaharlal Nehru Technological University, Hyderabad. A committed translator, he also translated Telugu poetry, his magnum opus being Post Independence Telugu Poetry, published by Writers Workshop, Calcutta.

I cannot now tell exactly why I went to that village. But one thing I certainly remember: when I went there I happened to meet a chum of mine. We had been friends from childhood, and had met after a decade. He insisted that I should spend the day with him and literally dragged me to his house.

Once together, our thoughts naturally went back to our life in the village. And the numerous practical jokes we played on the school teacher and the gardener, removed from their immediate consequences, now filled us with laughter.

Suddenly, he broke upon the scene. The laughter melted out of us like flakes of ice at the appearance of the sun.

And the way he entered the house! He gently pushed the door open, stretched his right leg into the room, and balanced himself on his toe for a while. He looked to both sides slyly, and slowly came towards Venu. While walking up, he turned his face away from me, with his head slightly bent. Taking a small bundle, made up of heavily soiled cloth, out of its hold under the arm-pits, he handed it over to Venu, saying, almost in a whisper: “Take it. This is the whole amount you’ve asked for.”

There was a visible change in Venu’s face at the appearance of the stranger. The mirth and jollity with which we had been chatting of our boyhood days just vanished.  Taking hold of the bundle, Venu complimented the fellow, “Thank you very much, brother, I have known all along that you were a gentleman to your finger-tips.”

But there was on the stranger’s face no sign of pride, which usually follows so high a compliment from another person. He snapped sharply: “Oh, enough of your gibberish! It’s not just sufficient that you take the money now. Within a month, you have to pay up the whole amount – the principal and the interest – mind you! You know my rate, don’t you? Just twenty four per month for a hundred. And even that is a special concession for you.”

“Thank you very much, brother Surayya. Within a month, I shall pay off the amount, the whole of it. You may be sure of it.”

“It is all very well for you to give your word. You must keep it. You know full well that I have a ceremony coming off shortly. And there will then be so much need for money. It is no good having to go to court and all that later.”

“You are rather stranger today, Surayya. How many times have I not taken money from you and paid it back promptly on the scheduled date? Has there been a single occasion for complaint?”

“All right, man. First count the money. It is all in one-rupee coins and a few small coins. Remember, you must return the money only in coins. I don’t believe in those lack-luster, shriveled currency notes.”

“As you please, Surayya.”

After agreeing with him, Venu carefully untied the bundle and opened it. I was shocked to see its contents. For the precious bundle so carefully handed over by Surayya contained nothing more than a number of stones, of varying sizes ad shapes! There were small ones and big ones too. The big ones were lumps of granite and the small ones, mostly pebbles.

I could not believe my own eyes. I looked to my friend for an explanation. But he seemed in no way surprised. He just proceeded carefully to count the stones, one by one.  

The whole affair was becoming more and more mysterious to me. I turned to look towards Surayya, with curiosity rather than hope, but his face was still turned away from me. His eyes were fixed on the money. He was, I thought, taking in Venu’s method of counting the money with his sharp eyes.

Venu completed counting the money and said, “Okay, everything tallies perfectly!”

“It’s not enough you say now that everything is all right. Today is the twentieth. By next twentieth, you must shell out the whole amount, to the last pie,” he reminded Venu pointedly. He then made Venu promise once again that he would certainly pay back the amount, before flouncing out of the room.

         *        *       *        *          *           *

I had been eagerly awaiting this moment to slake my curiosity. Even as I turned towards  Venu and was about to speak up, he gestured to me to keep silent, pointing towards the door.

Suddenly, the front door was banged open and there appeared Surayya, once again. He was nothing like he had been earlier. He was trembling all over. His eyes were bloodshot: he was panting hard. Fine beads of perspiration rolled down his brow. His head was slightly bent and his face turned away – just as before.

After pausing for a second at the door, he turned to Venu and shouted: “I say, where is the money? How many days have gone by? You think I am some worthless creature to come after you every time I lend you a few chips? Are you a gentleman or what?”

On hearing these words flung at Venu, I felt greatly pained at the man’s attitude. I felt angry too. But there was nothing that I could do about it.

Venu was all humility as he said with utmost deference and respect: “Here it is, and this is the whole amount. Late by just one day. It does not become a gentleman like you to use such language.”

With that quite unwarranted apology, Venu returned the bundle to Surayya.

“What about the interest? You suppose that I lent you money out of fear that it would stink if I kept it in my home? Or do you think that I owed to your grandfather? Clear the whole debt and then talk.” He yanked Venu up the collar and nearly choked him by his stranglehold.

“I’m sorry, Surayya. It was entirely my fault. Please let me go. I’ll pay off the amount here and now.”

“Then go and get it.”

After saying this, the man called Surayya forced Venu out of the room with a wild thrust.

At this, Venu all but fell flat on all fours, but somehow steadied himself at the last moment and slipped into the backyard. There, he collected a few pebbles and some largish stones and brought these in and placed them in Surayya’s hands. Surayya counted them carefully and, without so much as a word more, took himself off – still with his face turned away from me.

Venu sighed deep and said: “Poor creature! Not long ago, he was a rich landowner here. And now? He is a pitiable lunatic and behaves in this strange manner.”

         *    *    *    *     *     *     *     *     *

Naturally, I was curious to know the circumstances that had brought Surayya to the present pass. In answer to my question, Venu told me the whole story.

“For Surayya’s present condition, partly his father must be held responsible. He was a gem of a man, kind to one and all. His was a heart that melted at the sight of tears. People called him a Dharma Daata. But I personally believe that he is the prime reason for his son’s downfall.”

Sceptical, I said, “But you have yourself said that the man was a noble soul….”

“Let me explain. Because he was kind and all that, Surayya’s father brought his huge property down to less than a couple of acres within a short time, giving generously to any person who held out his hand and standing jamin for every insolvent in the village. In the end, he died a dog’s death, without a single sympathizer around.

Surayya witnessed this tragedy of his father’s life with his own eyes, at an impressionable age. His heart boiled with urge for vengeance against a society, which, according to his lights, was responsible for his father’s downfall. He developed a mistrust for any person who pretended to be his friend – each one of us, he was convinced, makes friends only so long as he benefits from it, and lets down the other chap the moment the fellow falls upon evil days.

As a result, when he started out in his career, Surayya had certain built-in rigid convictions about the people around him. Having realized the all-powerful importance of money, he set his heart on making as much of it as possible. In the process, he did not flinch at the means to be adopted or care about the miseries visited upon his victims.

He cut off his relations with everyone around, determinedly. His only connection with them was through the money he chose to lend them at an exorbitant rate of interest. He would stop at nothing to make his debtors cough up the money. He decided that he had been born to lend them money, and that they, in their turn, had been born only to borrow from him. Such minor details as the rate of interest simply did not bother him.

Within a short time, he amassed a big fortune for himself, by literally squeezing the blood out of poor peasants in the village. He became a rich sahukar, to the envy of all in the village. But the success he achieved in amassing wealth did not end his usurious ways. On the contrary, his desire was whetted all the more and he began adding more and more to his wealth.

Charity was a sort of nightmare to him, reminding him as it did of the weakness that had proved his father’s undoing. He never a let a single pie slip out of his hands, unless he felt certain that it would come back to him, doubled. The pathetic entreaties of even the most artful beggars always failed with him.

His heart remained unmoved by the ruination brought upon several families as a result of his merciless ways. He went ahead with his accumulation of money, heedless of the consequences.

But, in proportion with his riches, he was garnering the hatred and animosity of the villagers. If people talked to him gently, it was more out of fear than any affection for him. But Surayya did not mind this. “I want their money. What the hell have I to do with their affection?” was his way of looking at it. The hatred of the villagers and the wealth of Surayya thus vied with each other, and both grew immensely.

Meanwhile, an incident occurred which had far-reaching repercussions.

In the same village, somewhere in the Sudra quarters, lived Chandrayya, a small cultivator. It so happened that he owed nearly two hundred rupees to Surayya. Chandrayya was, really speaking, no match for Surayya, but he had a few well-placed connections in the town, where he used to go now and then, and he knew therefore quite a lot of things going on outside the little hamlet.

The feeling of near-equality forced on town-dwellers by the conditions of their living had developed in Chandrayya a certain contempt for the land lords in the village, who treated their less well-off brethren so badly. Chandrayya was, moreover, a fearless and tough guy.

Chandrayya had never felt grateful to Surayya for his having lent him money in his time of need. Far from it. Indeed, he felt that he had been robbed by Surayya when the latter asked him to pay back the amount!

In fact, right from the moment he had lent Chandrayya the money Surayya had not spent a peaceful night. He was doubtful if he would be able to collect even the principal, leave alone the interest.

Surayya, therefore, made it a point to call on Chandrayya at his house every day. One day, his patience exhausted, he insisted that Chandrayya should pay the amount right away. That ignited all the hatred and rage sizzling within Chandrayya, and he spat back: “Not a single pie will you get! I shan’t pay a single pie! Do what you can! But first get out of my house!”

Surayya was stunned at the unexpected challenge. Never before had he experienced so brazen an affront. He just stood there, tongue-tied.

“Get out!” roared Chandrayya, once again, advancing threateningly.

Surayya, more than a trifle unnerved, said, with a view to reasoning it out with the fellow: “Look here, Chandrayya, it is not fair for you to talk like that. I will be in that case left with no choice but to drag you to court and make you shell out the amount.”

“Shell out the amount, eh? First, you ensure the safety of your bones, you eagle-faced rascal!” Chandrayya called him by all the foul names in the Telugu language and literally pushed him out of the house.

Surayya was staggered. He lost all control of himself and, livid with rage, began to shout before all present: “He does not want to pay me even the nominal interest! Where is justice? It is a sacred custom observed down the ages – right from the golden days of Lord Sri Rama.”

After apprising every one in the village of Chandrayya’s effrontery, he rushed home and had a hasty meal. Then tied a piece of cloth round his waist and, taking an old white-screened umbrella in between his arm pits, started out again.

He flitted back and forth in front of Chandrayya’s house, hopeful even now. But Chandrayya paid no heed at all.

Surayya called to a few passers-by, without any real purpose, and told them: “I’m going to the town, to the court there,” with a view to intimidating Chandrayya into submission.

“Why to court? Go right to hell! I couldn’t care less,” bawled Chandrayya from inside his house.

There was no alternative for Surayya. Of course, Chandrayya’s whole attitude frightened him somewhat, but, then, what was fear for his person before the huge loss to be incurred should he choose to leave the mater at that?

Somehow he fought off his own cowardice pulling him back and proceeded to the town. There, he consulted an advocate and had a registered notice issued to Chandrayya.

But now the threat yelled at him by Chandrayya came back to him and a tremor ran down his spine. For, with the issuing of the notice, his fears had become all the more frightening. By the time he prepared to walk the distance back to the village, it was almost dark.

The way to the village involved a walk of more than a mile along a kuccha road. When Surayya left the main road and took to this path, it was dark, very dark. He was unnerved by the prospect of having to walk the distance all alone. The various trees on both sides of the path looked like so many ghosts floating around with their hair flowing fiercely. His courage deserted him completely at this moment.

Somehow, he pulled himself together and, reciting a prayer, braved his way forward. He had hardly walked a few yards when he reached a big pipal tree. Suddenly, he heard a rustling sound from behind the shrub on his left.

In a flash, some half-a-dozen hardy men pounced on Surayya – and among them he could recognize Chandrayya. A number of lathis played on Surayya’s bare scalp. He fell helpless to the ground and the men stood by his body. Chandrayya caught hold of his neck, and, fishing out his wallet, containing about twenty-five rupees, thrust it into his own pocket, saying: “Anyhow, you have filed a suit, so I might as well keep this to bear part of the expenses.”

He then kicked Surayya vehemently in the buttocks and ran off with his comrades.

      *     *       *        *           *          *         *

The news of the assault on Surayya spread like wild fire in the village. The whole place was soon astir with the sensational tidings of the incident. But nobody felt any tinge of sympathy for the wronged Surayya.   

Of course, his wife and daughter wept loud and long at finding him in that condition. His wife’s sorrow was limitless and, at last, finding no one to console her, she calmed herself stoically.

The other sahukars in the village did not show their face during the night. They securely locked themselves up in their houses. After daybreak, however, they came out, in groups, to console Surayya.

Throughout the night, sleep had eluded Surayya. He had kept thinking about the happenings of the day. He did not look at his wife and daughter waiting throughout the night. He did not even groan at the pain he felt from the thrashing he had received.

His sahukar brethren now advised him: ‘Look here, Surayya, we can’t take this kind of humiliation lying down. We should file a criminal suit against that rogue Chandrayya and see the matter through.

Surayya did not reply for a while. He sat quiet, twiddling his fingers. They took his silence for diffidence, and said, encouragingly: “No, Surayya. You don’t have to be doubtful about the outcome of the suit. We’ll certainly win the case.”

There was now a twinkle in Surayya’s eyes. Looking then in their faces, he said, enthusiastically: “Then it’s all right! Let’s raise funds among ourselves and file a suit against him.”

At this suggestion, the enthusiasm of his comrades suddenly vanished. They looked blankly at one another for a while. At last, one of them replied: “Oh, that would be strange, Surayya! After all, it is you who have been beaten up, so it is for you to take revenge or leave the matter at that. Where do we come into the picture?”

Surayya was enraged at these words. Forgetting his anguish for the moment, he sat up in his bed and said: “Brothers, you must face facts. Did they thrash me – personally? No! They revenged themselves on the money with me. It obviously means that they intend to take revenge on all the money lords in the village – on everybody who makes money by lending it on interest. If it were to thrash me only, Chandrayya alone could have finished the job. Why then did so many join in the conspiracy? They have the capacity to manhandle us, and they have done so with one of us. But we have money enough to resist them, so let us join forces and teach them a lesson.”

But the sahukars could not see any logic in this argument of Surayya. They felt certain that, following the shock of the attack, he had taken leave of his senses. So, one after the other, they quickly slipped out of the house.

In the face of advice of other friends, Surayya stuck to his point and refused to file a suit. “I don’t have to fritter away my money in a suit for these rich guys to benefit,” he said.

         *   *     *      *        *         *        *

But Surayya’s fate had taken a different turn from the moment Chandrayya had laid about at him, in blatant disregard of the law. We don’t know which malevolent planet reigned at that inauspicious moment, but Surayya’s fall began from then on.

Surayya’s reluctance to bring Chandrayya to book, after having been so greatly humiliated by him, was considered in the village to be a sign of the impotence of wealth. He became the butt of ridicule of all and sundry in the place. His wealth, which they had been dreading all the while, when it was known to be of no assistance to him in his hour of need, earned him only contempt. Elders as well as youngsters lost no time in getting their own back on him. They mocked him and sneered boisterously. The moment he came out of his house, a horde of persons would be on his heels, shouting excitedly “Surayya’s interest! Chandrayya’s lathi!” They would then burst into a loud, jeering cackle.

Whenever Surayya went to collect the money due to him from one of his many debtors, the person he approached would reply: “You’ve forgotten the kicks of Chandrayya, have you?” A few of them, more daring, would knock him on his head, twice, with their middle finger, saying: “This is your principal, this your interest!”

As a result, Surayya was not able to collect a single pie back. All the money he had lent remained with the debtors, and he soon became a pitiable bankrupt. His son-in-law was rudely shocked by this state of affairs. His hopes of inheriting the property after Surayya’s death were shattered. He did not, therefore, wish to have anything to do with an unprofitable commodity and, accordingly, drove his wife, Surayya’s daughter, out.

Surayya was now a wreck on all counts. His money reserves vanished as speedily as they had been accumulated. Of friends he had none to turn to - even his own son-in-law turned against him. He could not face the sight of his wife and daughter trying to console each other unsuccessfully. He now spent barely a few hours at home. He would hurriedly finish his meager meal and hasten out of the house.

For hours he would sit under the banyan tree by the bund of the village tank, all by himself, flinging stone after stone into the placid waters. The gurgling ripples set in motion would fascinate his distraught mind. Time would thus roll on.

But the vengeance of the villagers grew in proportion to the helplessness and poverty of Surayya. His losses resulted in a consequent gain in their strength and they used it all the more ruthlessly to destroy the little that was left of him. They were not satisfied with wrecking him alone; their vengeance extended to his family, too.

One day, when Surayya’s daughter was grazing their buffaloes in the backyard of their house, four sturdy ruffians, who had been hiding behind a haystack there, pounced on her and committed on the spot an outrageous rage.

After their departure, the girl, exhausted and bleeding profusely, got up and walked a few yards  - to fling herself into the well nearby and kill herself.

The tragedy was too much for Surayya’s wife. She poured kerosene all over her body and burnt herself to death.

That was not all. His enemies ganged up and got his house auctioned to clear off his cooked up liabilities.

I had so far been listening to the story of the outrages perpetrated on a single individual and at this point impelled to ask: “And there was not a single human being in the village who thought of putting an end to these?”

Strange as it may sound, there was not one person who so much as said it was wrong. Some told themselves that it was just retribution for Surayya’s earlier misdeeds. Others, who felt really pained at the excess of persecution, had to suppress the pricks of their conscience, lest the wrath of the villagers should turn towards them for their making bold to say a word in favor of Surayya.

The wrecking of Surayya was now complete. All his money had gone. His daughter and wife had fallen innocent victims to the unreasonable scourge of public frenzy. He was heart-broken. Whining like a dog badly bit, he roamed about the village for a few days.

Slowly, the distraction of his mind assumed the proportions of real madness. Now he eats only when someone takes pity on him and clandestinely offers a morsel of food. He sits all day under the banyan tree by the bund of the village tank, come rain or shine.

Surayya’s strange behavior with Venu a little while earlier was, however, still left unexplained. So I asked Venu: “But what is this business of stones?”

“Habit, have you not heard, is man’s second nature? Even after one’s nature had undergone mutation by the hammer of circumstances, habits cling on tenaciously. So it is with Surayya. The business of lending and collecting money has gone so deeply into his being that he does these things even in his madness. Some of us take pity on him and play up to him, unwilling to hurt him in his present state.” 

Even as Venu was explaining, loud shouts of “Surayya’s interest! Chandrayya’s lathi” rent the air. Piercing through them was the pathetic, helpless groaning of Surayya. We rushed out of the house to see what was the matter.

Outside, in the street, Surayya was fleeing from his pursuers, panting for breath. The bundle of stones given by Venu was held firmly in his hands. Chasing him came a pack of urchins, shouting excitedly and hurling stones at the wretch.

Suddenly, Surayya increased his speed and dashed away rapidly. He halted abruptly in front of a house on the left, looked at it for a while, then turned towards a well.

The urchins had already noticed Surayya and were catching up with him. Surayya leaned into the well. The urchins stood at a distance and were throwing stones at him. The stones     stuck him. He suddenly seemed to have made up his mind. I knew that something tragic was going to happen, but I did not know what I could do about it.

Surayya peeped into the well and then turned towards the house on the left, looked at it intently for a moment. Suddenly, he shouted shrilly, like a factory siren, and jumped into the well, the bundle of stones in his hands.

A number of people rushed to the well, but to no purpose. The heavy bundle of stones given by Venu inevitably pulled Surayya to the bottom of the well. After a little later, the body was taken out of the well.

Later, on my way back home, Venu told me: “The house you see opposite the well was once Surayya’s. And the well is the one into which his daughter flung herself.” 

(Reprinted from The Illustrated Weekly of India, November 12, 1962) 

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