This
story is fictionalized from an incident from Swatantryaveer Savarkaranchya Sahavasat, Part II, by Atmaram
Ganpatrao Salvi; Janata Sahkari Printing Press, Ratnagiri; page 25. I have used
Mahapaur/Mayor in this story since neither
the actual word nor the details were mentioned by Mr. Salvi. I have taken the
liberty of using a nickname for Mr. Salvi. The incident took place when
Savarkar was in Ratnagiri. I am making an assumption that it had a mayor then
and that Savarkar had coined this word by that year.
One Anna fine!
“Moroba, arre Moroba!” Atmya called out to his
friend rushing down the road. “Wait for me!”
“Come on, come
on”—right hand beckoning impatiently—“we’ll be late!”
“No, Moroba,
we’ll make it on time. Tatyarao was delayed at the Mahapaur’s (Mayor’s) office this afternoon. I’m sure we’ll make it just
as he steps out in the garden.”
“Well, Atmya,
let’s hurry anyway. I want to know what happened at the Mahapaur’s office today.
He is sure to tell us and I don’t want to miss one word of it!”
Young Moreshwar
Damle and Atmaram Salvi were on their way to see Savarkar. They often did so. A
great man Savarkar undoubtedly was, but he was not above spending time with
youngsters like them. Ever since he had come here in Ratnagiri in 1924, they
had been inspired by him. How lucky they were to have him in their midst!
“Oh I do hope
all went well. Tatyarao wants to involve the government to ensure
ex-untouchable children get the education that is theirs by right. Caste Hindus
cannot refuse them entry into schools.”
“Tatyarao will
most certainly get his way, don’t worry!”
“Yes, he will,
at that. He is an irresistible force! Arre
Moroba, did you trip up and use any non-Marathi words while speaking today?”
“No I didn’t,
Atmya,” Moroba said proudly. “I saved my money today!”
“Me too! I have
had to dole out so many one anna’s lately—it won’t do.” Savarkar was very
particular about purity of language. He always corrected anyone using words of
a foreign language, knowingly or unknowingly, while talking to him. The young
men were keen on following Savarkar. In fact, they had come up with a scheme.
For every misspoken word, the perpetrator would have to pay up a fine of one
anna and very often have to treat the group to tea in the Akhil Hindu
Restaurant.
“Oh look, Atmya,
I see Shriram and Madhavrao in Tatyarao’s garden. Let’s run.”
“Okay, race
you!”
Both ran the
last few yards. At the gate they took a deep breath and opened the gate with
decorum. The four friends greeted each other warmly.
“Hey, anyone
needs to cough up the anna?” Madhavrao looked at Moroba and Atmya interestedly.
“Not me!” they
replied in chorus.
“Tchha! I was really looking forward to a
cup of tea!”
“Madhavrao,
today you’ll have to buy it for yourself—” Moroba pointed “—oh there’s
Tatyarao!”
Savarkar was
coming down the verandah steps dressed in pristine white, as usual, with the
black cap firmly in place and sunlight glinting off the golden rods of his
glasses.
“Namaskar,
Everyone!” Savarkar sounded as cordial as ever, but there was a faint air of
distraction about him. It gave the four young men pause.
“Tatyarao,” said
Moroba worriedly, “is everything all right?”
“Yes, Moreshwar.
There’s no problem at all”
Everyone heaved
a collective sigh of relief. Savarkar indicated they start walking. “Let us
stroll on that side,” he said. “New roses have bloomed there.”
They all wanted
to know about the meeting with the Mayor, but no one put in a question. After a
minute or two of pensive silence, Savarkar said, “You know, today’s meeting was
not at all disappointing. I am sure the Mayor will be quite. . .”
Savarkar’s voice trailed off. The four young men had come to a full stop, mouth
agape.
“What is it?”
Savarkar asked, surprised.
“Tatyarao!”
Moroba cried, somewhat scandalized. “You used an English word—Mayor instead of Mahapaur!”
“Arre, so I did!” Savarkar exclaimed, laughing.
“Hoist with my own petard, I am.”
Everyone joined
in. Now that their astonishment had disappeared, the one anna fine began to
dance before their eyes. But no one was willing to put it in words. Great men
should be excused, perhaps?
But Savarkar was
already digging in his pocket, “Here you are,” he said, fishing out an anna.
“Here is my fine.”
“No . . .
no, Tatyarao,” they said in one voice. “We can’t collect from you!”
“Oh yes, you
can. There are no special privileges for anyone, me included.”
They all gazed
at Savarkar in silent admiration. Yes, there was certainly no one like Savarkar.
Would a man who left his safe haven and knowingly walked into the British
lion’s den in 1910—that he should, as the leader, be no different from any other
revolutionary—cavil at paying a measly fine? Certainly not!
“Well, young
men,” Savarkar continued, “are you going to stand and stare at me, or shall we
make tracks to the restaurant for a cup of tea?”
“Tea!” cried
Madhavrao. “Most certainly, tea it is! I am thirsting for a cup.”
Shriram thwacked
him on the back. “You got your wish, one way or another, Madhavrao.”
Everyone laughed
again.
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