Three Rich Men in a Village: A Village on the Road

Devgaon village was lying quietly on an old road which was hardly ever noticed by most travellers. Previously, cars and trains traversed it every day. Only the passing bus, or the ragged pilgrim, or the drink-thirsty truck came to stop. The village was divided down the middle by the road, as though it had been a long line drawn on a piece of paper, and Devgaon was a quiet place which progressed at the slow pace of dust settling behind the feet.

Devgaon had many names--it was the place of the banyan tree which made half the square in shade, and of its handpump which never ran dry, and of its people who never feared to meet a stranger, who were always unable to stop their ears through curiosity. But above all, it was the place of three men.

They were referred to as the Three Rich Men of Devgaon.

Their names were known to everyone, including little children who had not yet mastered counting. We had Ramdas, the landowner, Shyamlal, the trader and Hariram, the moneylender. All of them lived in their big houses on the street and each one was sure that his wealth was the most significant thing in the village.

Ramdas had lands which were very far and the eye could not track easily. He had his land, where he grew wheat, mustard, and sugarcane, and his barns were constantly filled. He had a sense about land being the best wealth as land nourished people. A gold finish, he used to say, will do, but land is permanent.

Shyamlal, however, made fun of this suggestion. He had won the largest store in Devgaon with an assortment of grain and cloth to lanterns and spices. His products were available at the local town and travellers frequented his shop frequently. Every day coins passed through his hands. Land is rain dependent, he would say. Trade is intelligence based.

Then there was Hariram, who never talked much unless he had to. He advanced money to the village folks in hardship situations- weddings, sickness, crop failures. Everyone owed him something. His riches did not show as with land or goods, but they were in silent notebooks in a wooden chest. Money makes money when you sleep, he once said.

Those three men were not friends yet all of them were wealthy. They were very polite in welcoming one another yet did not fail any opportunity to demonstrate their own significance.

The three used to sit on wooden chairs before their houses every morning, facing the road. They could be found at Devgaon, neatly dressed, with their eyes on the world.

It was one summer afternoon, when the sun was low, and the road sparkled in the heat, and some weary-looking traveller gained upon the village. His garments were dirty, his shoes shone dull, and there was nothing tired about his eyes but the content of a long walk.

Near the banyan tree he paused and inquired of one of the passes in the street, "Is there a place to sleep there?

The child directed his finger to the road. "Ask the rich men," he said. "They know everything."

The traveller was smiling, and walked towards the three houses.

Ramdas saw him first. "What do you want?" he enquired, not very kindly, but coldly.

A place to sleep at night I must have, said the traveller. "I can pay or work if needed."

Ramdas looked him up and down. "My house is for family," he said. "And my fields are not inns."

The traveller shook his head and proceeded.

The trader studied him at the shop of Shyamlal. "Do you have money?" he asked.

Enough to eat, said the traveller.

Eat then and take your departure, Shyamlal said. "Business must go on."

Once more the traveller shook his head and went on.

At last he arrived at the house of Hariram. The banker waited patiently, and his hands sat upon his walking-stick.

I am not a charitable one, Hariram said. But I can lend you some money--with you know interest that is.

The traveller smiled gently. "I am not here to borrow," he said. "Only to rest."

Hariram shook his head. "Then I cannot help you."

The traveller thanked him and passed away.

Later that night the traveller slept under the banyan tree. Certain villagers saw him, and gave him water, but no one seemed to be bold enough to ask him to come home. The rich men were accustomed to providing the signal to people.

At night a storm had come out of the blue. It rained well, and the old road was taken over by mud. By the morning the bridge at the boundary of Devgaon had fallen down and isolated the village with the town.

Days passed. Supplies ran low. The shelves of the shop of Shyamlal were emptied quicker than planned. Ramdas was concerned about his fields now in flood. Hariram discovered that individuals who had people owed him money could not repay having no access to work or markets.

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The traveller stayed in the village, and laboured silently. He was involved in clearing fallen trees, took the people to better places, and provided information on road repair and food preservation. He did work and did not demand anything.

One night, the three affluent men were standing against one another like the broken bridge, observing how the people fought.

I am ruined by this storm, I have destroyed my crops, said Ramdas.

My business is in a fix, Shyamlal said. "No supplies, no customers."

And my money is not worth much when nobody can make it, said Hariram to himself.

The traveller was standing close and hearing.

You three are rich, but then, said he, all are not rich as strong.

The men looked round, and his thoughtless voice startled them.

"What do you mean?" Ramdas asked.

Something valuable is each of you, the traveller went on. "Land, trade, and money. But none of these work alone. These are not preserved, but when shared; a village remains.

The words unsettled them.

Things gradually changed in the following few days. Ramdas used to open his stores of grain to feed the villagers. Shyamlal also distributed leftovers equally as opposed to selling at premium rates. Hariram has stopped repayments and assisted in organising resources in place of tallying debts.

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The village cooperated in repairing the road. On the restoration of the bridge, travellers walked back. Life got back, but on a lower key.

It happened on the morning before the day when the traveller was going to leave he was visited by the three rich men, who came to see him away.

Something you taught us, Shyamlal, as you have admitted.

"Yes," said Ramdas. We had believed that money was the key to making us significant.

And we had forgotten how a village on the road managed to keep alive by means of connection, Hariram added.

The traveller smiled. "Riches are useful," he said. But kindliness holds open roads.

He got away and his figure became smaller on the road.

After that Devgaon then had still three rich men. But there was another term that characterized them--that was, the three gentlemen who had come to know that money is not what makes a village. People do.

The moral of the story is that- Real richness is not about possession, but utilisation of it to help others and make the world a better place.