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Updated: May 28, 2025
Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to Sachi Durpan, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates.
"Oh, Lal Chunder, it's you!" "Him beat," said Lal Chunder, breathlessly. "L'il meesis orright?" "I'm all right," she said, struggling with for Norah an unaccountable desire to cry. "Oh, don't let him go!" "No," said the Hindu, decidedly. "Him hurt you? Me kill him." The last remark was uttered conversationally, and the man against the tree cried out in fear.
"Well, Puck was trying to kill him," said Norah, "and I guess if you had a wrist like his, you'd defend yourself any way you could, if Puck was at you! He's terribly sorry he frightened you you didn't understand him, that was all. Ram Das sent him to have his wrist fixed up, and his name's Lal Chunder, and he's quite a nice man!"
"I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly. "Once a Hindu always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they know." "I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to you."
Cammysole, who lives a couple of hundred yards down the street, at "The Bungalow." He was the commander of the "Ram Chunder" East Indiaman, and has quarrelled with the Pocklingtons ever since he bought houses in the parish. He it is who will not sell or alter his houses to suit the spirit of the times.
It was after that fashion that Chunder looked at me as he turned at the door; but I was then only thinking of the trembling, frightened girl I held in my arms, trying at the same time to whisper a few gentle words, while I had hard work to keep from pressing my lips to her white forehead.
Grish Chunder De was more English than the English, and yet possessed of that peculiar sympathy and insight which the best among the best Service in the world could only win to at the end of their service.
It was some time before Jim could make him understand that they wanted him to return to the station and indeed, it was Norah who made it clear at last. "Me want you," she said, taking the dusky hand in hers. "Come back to my home." She pointed towards the direction of Billabong. Lal Chunder capitulated immediately.
At the close of the last century a thoughtful young Englishman asked the governor of the East India Company to go to India to preach the Gospel. The answer was: "The man that would go to India upon that errand is as mad as a man who would put a torch to a powder magazine." A few years ago Chunder Sen, the great scholar of India, died.
So long as the spirit of social endeavour kindled by men like Ram Mohun Roy and Keshab Chunder Sen and Mahadev Govind Ranade is kept alive, even though by much lesser men, we may well hope that the present wave of revolt will ultimately spend itself on the dead shore of a factious and artificial reaction, incompatible with the purpose to which their own best efforts were devoted, of bringing the social life of India into harmony with Western civilization.
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