Chapter 8 - "This Boy Will Be The Death Of Us All"
Like him, hate him, but you can't ignore him.
Oh hey, if you’re new, catch up on the ongoing saga here — Table Of Contents
Author’s note: I really enjoyed writing this chapter. Vinayak Savarkar has always inspired fierce loyalty and fierce opposition. Reading the opinions of people around him at this stage in life, it hit me he was always like that, and it wasn’t something that developed later. I wanted to paint a picture of what that would look like when he was young, with a lot less power, and with opinions that were still nascent. The thing that struck me is such a personality will first and foremost shake up those who say “something must be done” but are too afraid to do anything. And that’s how I choose to bring out this personality while setting up conflict and tension between his mentor Shyamji and him.
Shyamji had a letter in his hand and a vexed look on his face as he knocked on the door of his guest suite.
“It’s open,” piped up Mrs. Cama’s voice before she opened the door.
“I was winding up the article for this week’s magazine. Do you want to read it?” she said.
“Uh, I received a rather interesting letter,” Shyamji said, rubbing his beard.
Shyamji’s house in Highgate was a fully-detached three-story twelve-bedroom newly-constructed Corinthian. Above the slim white pillars, it said “India House” in red brick. It had taken forever to get that done right and it cost a pretty penny.
There were large dining and entertaining rooms on the ground floor, and bedrooms on the rest. To his delight, his gains in the stock market from betting on America’s Gold Standard Act had put the house well within his budget.
Indian students in London needed an affordable boarding house with good vegetarian food. He had calculated that this house would pay for itself in a few years. At this time, he had no tenants. Only Mrs. Cama.
Mrs. Cama had become a frequent guest. She had based herself in Paris now, and she stayed at Shyamji’s when she visited London. Sure, her mentor and family friend Dadabhai Naoroji was happy to host her, but she feared it was a bad idea to write about the Empire’s excesses in India from the house of a sitting British MP.
Shyamji had met Mrs. Cama in Paris, and they had gravitated toward each other, being the most fervent in Franco-Indian circles for Home Rule in India.
“We should form a breakaway faction,” Mrs. Cama had joked.
In weeks, Shyamji had rallied like-minded friends into creating the Indian Home Rule League.
Which initially was an excuse to meet for high tea at Shyamji’s house. A thousand cups of Darjeeling chai later, they realized their years of idealism and action were behind them. But such was fate’s cruelty - when an Indian youth realized what the empire was doing to his clan and country, he was trapped in a mediocre job with joints that predicted rain. They needed to bring young Indian men to London and show them what they were up against.
The only Indian youth who came to London were callow princelings and heirs to Industry, both of who owed their comfort and riches to the British administration and loathed to cause them any discomfort. They needed hungrier men who had little to lose by going against the British.
Shyamji instituted the Shivaji Scholarship and placed ads in the newspapers in every major Indian city. They had had two scholars the previous year.
And now, he had pressing doubts about one of his strongest applicants.
“What’s in your letter, Panditji?” Mrs. Cama said, as Shyamji sunk into a leather chair in the sitting area. She sat down in the other.
“A recommendation letter for one of my Shivaji Scholars,” Shyamji said.
“Who? What does it say?”
“This young man from Poona. Tatyarao, of Fergusson College. His letter says he is smart, dedicated, and highly regarded by his teachers. And he will be the pride of every institution he joins. And this is from someone no less than RP Paranjpe.”
“Wrangler Paranjpe?” Mrs. Cama’s eyes widened, “Isn’t it notoriously hard to impress him?”
Shyamji nodded.
“So what’s the problem? We have our candidate.”
“Last month, Paranjpe rusticated Tatyarao for having a large bonfire of British goods.”
“Isn’t that the kind of boy we want?”
“Why would an Anglophile like Paranjpe recommend an anti-British student like this?”
“Maybe he is that impressive.”
“We have a handful of scholars here. Hardayal. Chatto. Suhrawardy. Can you see any of them doing something this bold, getting expelled from college, and still being well-regarded by their Principal?”
“I do not understand your distress. Please tell me plainly what bothers you.”
“He bends people to his will. He convinces others to speak for him, even if they disagree with him. He goes on doing what he does, and others risk everything to be on his side.”
“Panditji, you haven’t even met him.”
“No, but I know the type.”
“Oh, who else is like this?” Mrs. Cama probed.
“I don’t recall offhand,” Shyamji sighed, “You do understand what I am saying, don’t you? We are a small breakaway faction of the minority faction in the Indian National Congress, who were labeled ‘extremists’ — we are too extreme for the extremists, even. We have only just worked up the courage to write polite letters to The Times suggesting gently that we Indians might like to rule ourselves. And here comes this bull in a china shop, ready to destroy all we have built.”
“I recognize your discomfort,” Mrs. Cama nodded, looking Shyamji squarely in the eye, “But get comfortable being uncomfortable. It seems like this man reads all our articles and takes them seriously. What you’re struggling with, is the possibility that your words might come back to bite you in your own house. Don’t. This is progress. Do not set it back with fear of change.”
Shyamji shook his head silently, waiting for her to finish.
“Besides,” Mrs. Cama continued, “He seems a respectful lad who will listen to us and tone it down. If anything, that’s likely why the good Wrangler even recommended him. He’s hoping the delights of London soften the boy.”
“I already know that isn’t going to happen. He is going to be like Hanuman, bringing fire with him to burn the whole edifice down to ash. Mark my words, we will all be running the oil presses at Port Blair prison.”
Shyamji went quiet after this grave statement, reconsidering his words. Mrs. Cama’s eyes darted about the room as she wondered what one could possibly say to a man with this much fear.
She took a deep breath.
“Panditji,” she started, “I have no children of my own. Neither do you. That is as Gods will it. But this means we have only played with other people’s children, worrying constantly if they would smash our Swarovski figurines, or if we would do the wrong thing and make them cry.
“What if we didn’t do that here? We could consider him our own, and hope he considers what we have built as his. Even if the world is up against him, we teach him as best as we can and be confident that he will do the right thing when he spreads his wings. That’s the only thing we can do.”
“But if he flies too close to the sun?”
“Then, as Vayu did for Hanuman, we protect him and stand up for him until Surya makes him immortal”