Pandit Leeladhar Chaubey had a magical tongue. Whenever he stood on stage and began to pour out his eloquence, the audience’s souls were satiated, and they fell under the spell of his charisma. Although Chaubey’s lectures were often lacking in substance, and his choice of words wasn’t particularly elegant, the impact of his speeches never diminished, even with repeated delivery. Instead, like repeated blows of a hammer, their effect only grew more powerful. It’s hard to believe, but people claimed that he had memorized just one lecture, which he would deliver in every gathering with a fresh style. His speeches were primarily characterized by a glorification of national pride. As soon as he took the stage, he would evoke the ancient glory and immortal deeds of India’s ancestors, captivating the audience. For instance, he would say:
“Ladies and gentlemen! Who would not shed tears hearing the tale of our downfall? When we recall our ancient glory, we begin to doubt whether we are the same people or have changed. The one who once wrestled with lions now scurries away at the sight of a mouse. There is a limit to this degradation. Take, for example, the time of Emperor Chandragupta. A renowned Greek historian writes that during that era, locks were not used on doors, theft was unheard of, adultery was unknown, documents hadn’t even been invented, millions were traded based on trust, and judges had nothing to do but swat flies. Ladies and gentlemen! No man died young in those days. (Applause) Yes, no man died young in those days. The death of a son before his father was an unprecedented and impossible event. Today, how many parents are there who haven’t lost a son in his youth? That India is no more; India has been destroyed!”
This was Chaubey’s style. By lamenting the current decline and celebrating the past’s prosperity, he would awaken national pride in people. It was this skill that earned him a place among the leaders, especially within the Hindu Sabha, where he was considered a pillar. No one else in the Sabha was as enthusiastic, skilled, or politically astute as he was. In essence, he had dedicated his life to the Sabha. He had no wealth, at least according to popular belief, but he possessed the priceless gems of courage, patience, and intelligence, all of which he had dedicated to the Sabha. The “Shuddhi” (purification) movement was his lifeblood. In his view, the rise and fall, the life and death of the Hindu community depended on this issue. Without “Shuddhi,” there was no hope for the revival of the Hindu community. The remedy for all the community’s moral, physical, mental, social, economic, and religious ailments lay in the success of this movement, and he tirelessly worked toward it. Chaubey was a master at collecting donations. God had gifted him with the ability to extract oil from a stone. He would fleece even the stingiest individuals so thoroughly that they would learn their lesson for life! In this matter, Pandit Ji employed all four strategies—persuasion, bribery, punishment, and division—to the extent that he even considered theft and robbery forgivable in the service of the nation.
It was summertime. Leeladhar Ji was preparing to go to a cool, mountainous region, thinking it would serve both as a vacation and an opportunity to collect some donations. Whenever he felt like traveling, he would set out with his friends in the form of a deputation. If he managed to collect a thousand rupees, and spent half of it on his travels, what harm would there be? The Hindu Sabha would still receive something. Had he not made the effort, they wouldn’t have received anything at all! This time, Pandit Ji had decided to travel with his family. Since the inception of the “Shuddhi” movement, his financial situation, which had previously been quite dire, had improved significantly.
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But the devotees of the community are not so fortunate as to enjoy the pleasures of a peaceful life. They are born to roam restlessly. News came that the Tablighis (Muslim missionaries) had created a storm in the Madras province, converting entire villages of Hindus to Islam. The mullahs had launched the Tabligh campaign with great zeal, and if the Hindu Sabha didn’t take steps to stop this tide, the entire province would be emptied of Hindus, with not a single Hindu in sight. The Hindu Sabha was in an uproar. A special session was immediately convened, and the leaders were presented with this problem. After much deliberation, it was decided that Chaubey Ji would be entrusted with this task. He was requested to go to Madras immediately and rescue the wayward Hindus. Chaubey Ji had already dedicated himself to the service of the Hindu community, so he abandoned the idea of the mountain trip and agreed to go to Madras. The minister of the Hindu Sabha, with tears in his eyes, pleaded with him, saying, “Maharaj, only you can take up this challenge. Only you have been endowed by God with the capability to tackle such a grave crisis. No one else in India could be of use in this dire situation. Have mercy on the wretched condition of the community.” Chaubey Ji could not refuse this request. A team of volunteers was quickly assembled, and under Pandit Ji’s leadership, they set off. The Hindu Sabha gave them a grand farewell banquet. A generous nobleman presented Chaubey Ji with a purse, and thousands of people came to the railway station to bid them farewell. There is no need to recount the details of the journey. At every major station, the volunteers were warmly welcomed. They received more donations in various places. The princely state of Ratlam gifted them a marquee, and Baroda gave them a motorcar so that the volunteers wouldn’t have to walk. By the time they reached Madras, the volunteer corps had accumulated a substantial sum of money and other necessary items. There, in an open field far from the population, the Hindu Sabha set up camp. The national flag fluttered over the marquee, and the volunteers donned their uniforms. Local benefactors sent supplies for feasts, and campfires were lit. The area bustled with activity, as if it were the camp of a king.
It was eight o’clock in the evening. Near an untouchable settlement, the volunteer camp was illuminated by gas lights. A gathering of several thousand people had assembled, most of them untouchables. Mats were spread out for them, while the higher-caste Hindus sat on carpets. Pandit Leeladhar was delivering a fiery lecture, “You are the descendants of those sages who could create a new world under the sky! The entire world bows before the justice, wisdom, and intellect of your ancestors.”
Suddenly, an old untouchable stood up and asked, “Are we also the descendants of those sages?” Leeladhar responded, “Without a doubt! The same blood flows through your veins, and although today’s merciless, harsh, narrow-minded Hindu society looks down on you, you are no less than any other Hindu, no matter how high they consider themselves.” The old man asked, “Why doesn’t your Sabha care about us?”
Leeladhar replied, “The Hindu Sabha was established only recently, and in this short time, it has accomplished much of which it can be proud. The Hindu community has been awakened after centuries of deep slumber, and the time is near when no Hindu in India will consider another Hindu inferior, and when they will all regard each other as brothers. Lord Rama embraced the Nishad (a tribal chieftain) and ate the berries tasted by Shabari…” The old man interrupted, “If you are the descendants of those great souls, then why do you uphold such rigid distinctions of high and low?” Leeladhar responded, “Because we have fallen from grace, we have forgotten those great souls in our ignorance.” The old man asked, “Now that you are awake, will you eat with us?”
Leeladhar replied, “I have no objection.”
The old man then asked, “Will you marry your daughter to my son?”
Leeladhar hesitated and then said, “As long as your birth rites do not change, as long as your food and behavior do not change, we cannot form marriage ties with you. Stop eating meat, stop drinking alcohol, and get educated. Only then can you be integrated with the higher castes of Hindus.”
The old man responded, “We know of many so-called high-caste Brahmins who are drunk day and night and won’t touch a morsel without meat. Many of them are also illiterate, but I see you dining with them. You wouldn’t refuse to form marriage ties with them, would you? When you are still in ignorance yourself, how can you uplift us? Your heart is still full of pride. Go and spend some more time refining your own soul. You won’t be able to save us. The stain of inferiority won’t be wiped off our foreheads while we remain within Hindu society. No matter how learned or virtuous we become, you will continue to see us as inferior. The soul of the Hindus has died, and pride has taken its place! We are now turning to the gods whose followers are ready to embrace us with open arms today. They don’t say that we have to change our customs first. Whether we are good or bad, they are welcoming us just as we are. If you consider yourself superior, stay superior. We won’t have to struggle to fly.”
Leeladhar said, “I am astonished to hear such words from someone who claims to be a descendant of sages. The caste system was created by the sages themselves. How can you abolish it?”
The old man replied, “Don’t malign the sages. This is all a fraud created by your people. You say that we drink alcohol, but you lick the boots of those who drink. You are disgusted by us because we eat meat, but you grovel before those who eat beef. Isn’t that because they are more powerful than you? If we were kings today, you would stand before us with folded hands. In your religion, the one who is powerful is superior, and the one who is weak is inferior. Is this your religion?” Saying this, the old man left, followed by the rest of the people. Only Chaubey Ji and his team remained on the stage, as if the echoes of the performance were still reverberating in the air.
The Tablighis had been worried ever since they heard that Chaubey Ji was coming. They knew that if he settled in the area, all their efforts would be wasted. They couldn’t allow him to establish a foothold there. After much discussion and debate, they decided that the only solution was to kill this infidel. There was no shortage of people willing to do so, for whom the gates of paradise would open, where houris (celestial maidens) would embrace them, angels would turn the dust of their feet into kohl, the Prophet would place a blessed hand on their heads, and God Himself would welcome them as dear friends. Two strong young men immediately took up the task.
It was ten o’clock at night. The Hindu Sabha camp was silent. Only Chaubey Ji was in his tent, writing a letter to the minister of the Hindu Sabha: “The greatest need here is money. Money, money, money! Send as much as you can. Send deputations to collect it, tap the pockets of wealthy moneylenders, beg if you must. Without money, these unfortunate souls cannot be saved. Until a school is established, until a hospital is set up, until there is a library, how will they believe that the Hindu Sabha is concerned about them? If I could get even half of what the Tablighis are spending, the flag of Hinduism would be flying high. Speeches alone won’t do. No one survives on blessings alone.” Suddenly, hearing a noise, he looked up and saw two men standing in front of him. Chaubey Ji, feeling uneasy, asked, “Who are you? What do you want?”
The reply came, “We are the angels of death, sent by Israel (the angel of death in Islamic tradition). Your soul is to be taken.”
Chaubey Ji, though a very strong man, could have knocked them down with a single push. Every morning, he would eat three pounds of sweets and drink two liters of milk. At lunch, he consumed a quarter-pound of ghee in his dal, and in the afternoon, he drank a special milk-based drink laced with cream and almonds. At night, he would have a hearty dinner because he wouldn’t eat again until the next morning. On top of that, he wouldn’t walk a single step on foot. If a palanquin was available, he would ride it as if he were being carried on a luxurious bed. If nothing else was available, a horse cart was always an option, although there were only two or three drivers in Varanasi who would refuse to take him by saying, “The cart is not available.” Such a person could easily overpower an opponent in a wrestling match, but when it came to quick movements and agility, he was like a turtle stuck in the sand. Chaubey Ji glanced towards the door, but there was no chance of escape. Then courage surged within him. Extreme fear can sometimes lead to bravery. He reached for his stick and roared, “Get out of here!”
Before he could finish his sentence, the blows from their sticks rained down on him, and he fell unconscious. The attackers approached and saw no signs of life. Believing their job was done, they left with whatever they could grab.
The next morning, an old man from the village passed by and found the camp eerily quiet, with no sign of life. Even the tents were gone. He was puzzled—what had happened overnight? Everything had vanished like Aladdin’s palace. None of those sages who were feasting on sweets in the morning and drinking a special brew in the evening were to be seen. When he peeked into Chaubey Ji’s tent, his heart skipped a beat. There lay Pandit Leeladhar, seemingly lifeless on the ground. Flies were buzzing around his face, and his hair was matted with dried blood. His clothes were soaked in blood. The old man understood that Chaubey Ji’s companions had abandoned him after beating him to death. Suddenly, a groan escaped from Chaubey Ji’s lips—he was still alive! The old man quickly ran back to the village and brought several people to carry Chaubey Ji to his home. They began treating him with ointments and bandages. The old man stayed by his side day and night, and his family took care of him. The villagers also helped as much as they could. After all, who else did Chaubey Ji have in this strange land? If anyone was his own, it was them; if anyone was a stranger, it was also them. They believed that he had come all this way for their sake—why else would he be here? Chaubey Ji had fallen ill at home several times, but his family had never cared for him with such devotion. The whole household, and indeed the entire village, became his servants. Hospitality was part of their dharma. Modern selfishness had not yet choked that spirit. Even now, a villager who knows how to charm snakes will walk miles in the dead of winter to treat someone with his charms. He doesn’t demand double fees or transportation. The old man would even clean up after Chaubey Ji’s bodily needs, listen to his scoldings, and beg for milk from the entire village to feed him, but his brow never furrowed. If he found his family being negligent, he would scold them.
A month later, Chaubey Ji began to recover, and he realized how much these people had helped him. They had saved him from the jaws of death—otherwise, what chance did he have of surviving? He came to understand that the people he had once considered inferior, whose upliftment he had taken upon himself, were far superior to him. In such a situation, he might have sent the patient to a hospital and then patted himself on the back for his duty, thinking he had done something to make Dadhichi and Harishchandra proud. Every fiber of his being now blessed these divine souls. Three months passed, and neither the Hindu Sabha nor his family inquired about him. The Sabha mourned his death in their newsletter, praised his work, and opened a fund for his memorial. His family also resigned themselves to grief. Meanwhile, Chaubey Ji, nourished by milk and ghee, became robust and healthy again. His face regained its color, and his body filled out. The village air had accomplished what cream and butter never could. Though he didn’t regain his former size, his agility and alertness doubled. The laziness that came with his weight was now entirely gone. He was revitalized with a new sense of life.
Winter had begun, and Chaubey Ji was preparing to return home when a plague outbreak struck the village, infecting three people, including the old man. The infected were abandoned by their families, following the custom that those diseases considered divine wrath were left to their fate. To save them would be to provoke the gods, and where could they go after angering the gods? Whoever the deity had chosen, how could they dare snatch them away from their hands? Chaubey Ji’s villagers also tried to take him with them, but he refused to leave. He decided to stay and care for the sick. How could he abandon the person who had saved him from death? Gratitude had awakened his soul. On the third day, when the old man regained consciousness and saw Chaubey Ji standing by his side, he said, “Maharaj, why have you come here? The gods have already summoned me. I can’t stay any longer. Why are you risking your life? Have mercy on me and leave.” But Chaubey Ji remained unmoved. He continued to care for all three patients, sometimes applying hot compresses to their swollen glands, sometimes reciting stories from the Puranas to them. The houses were left with all their provisions and utensils intact. Chaubey Ji prepared nourishing food and fed it to the patients. At night, when the patients slept and the entire village was eerily silent, Chaubey Ji would be haunted by terrifying visions, but he refused to leave. He had resolved to either save these people or sacrifice himself for them.
When, after three days of constant care, the patients’ conditions did not improve, Chaubey Ji became deeply worried. The town was twenty miles away, with no railway in sight, the path was treacherous, and there was no transport available. On top of that, he feared what might happen to the patients if left alone. He was in a dire predicament. Finally, on the fourth day, before dawn, he set out for the town on foot and arrived there by ten o’clock. He faced great difficulty in getting medicine from the hospital. The hospital staff would charge the poor villagers exorbitant prices for medicine, so why would they give it to Chaubey Ji for free? The doctor told his clerk that the medicine wasn’t ready. Chaubey Ji pleaded, “Sir, I’ve come from far away. Several people are sick. If I don’t get the medicine, they’ll all die.”
The clerk snapped, “Why are you bothering us? I’ve already told you, the medicine isn’t ready, and it won’t be ready anytime soon.” With utmost humility, Chaubey Ji said, “Sir, I am a Brahmin. May God bless your children with long life. Please have mercy on me. May your fortunes shine.”
Mercy had no place in the hearts of corrupt officials, who were slaves to money. The more Chaubey Ji pleaded, the angrier the clerk became. Never before in his life had Chaubey Ji displayed such humility. At that moment, he didn’t have a single penny. Had he known that getting medicine would be this difficult, he would have asked the villagers for some money before coming. The poor man stood there, helpless, wondering what to do next. Suddenly, the doctor himself emerged from his bungalow. Chaubey Ji rushed to his feet and, in a voice filled with desperation, said, “O protector of the poor, three members of my household have fallen ill with the plague. I am very poor, sir. Please, give me some medicine.” The doctor was accustomed to poor people coming to him every day, falling at his feet, and crying out in distress. These were not new experiences for him. If he started showing mercy to every case, there would be no end to it, and how would he maintain his luxurious lifestyle? However, despite his callousness, he spoke in a sweet tone. Stepping back, he asked, “Where are the patients?”
Chaubey Ji replied, “Sir, they are at home. How could I bring them here from so far away?”
The doctor said, “The patients are at home, and you’ve come for medicine? How amusing! How can I prescribe medicine without examining the patients?”
Chaubey Ji realized his mistake. How could one diagnose a disease without seeing the patient? But bringing three patients such a long distance was not easy. Had the villagers been willing to help, they could have arranged for litters, but here everything had to be done on one’s own. There was no hope of assistance from the villagers. Far from helping, they had become his enemies. They feared that this man, by defying the gods, might bring untold calamities upon them. If it had been anyone else, they would have killed him by now, but they had developed a fondness for Chaubey Ji, so they spared him. After hearing the doctor’s response, Chaubey Ji didn’t have the courage to say anything more, but he steeled himself and asked, “Sir, isn’t there anything that can be done?”
The doctor said, “You won’t get medicine from the hospital, but we can provide it from our own supply for a price.”
Chaubey Ji asked, “How much will it cost, sir?”
The doctor quoted a price of ten rupees and added that the medicine they would provide would be much more effective than the hospital’s. “The hospital’s medicine is old stock,” he explained. “Poor people come, take the medicine, and those who are destined to live, live; those who are destined to die, die. It doesn’t concern us. But the medicine we’ll give you is the real deal.” Ten rupees! At that moment, ten rupees felt like ten million to Chaubey Ji.
He used to spend that much in a day on his special drink, but now he was penniless. There was no hope of borrowing money from anyone. It was possible that he might collect some by begging, but he couldn’t possibly gather ten rupees so quickly. He stood there for half an hour, lost in thought. Begging was the only option left, but he had never begged before. He had raised funds before, collecting thousands in one go, but that was different. There was a sense of pride in raising funds as the protector of the faith, the servant of the community, and the savior of the downtrodden. When he collected donations, he was doing the donors a favor. But now, he would have to stretch out his hand like a beggar, plead, and endure humiliation. Someone might say, “You’re so big and strong, why don’t you work instead of begging? Aren’t you ashamed to beg?” Another might say, “Go cut some grass, and I’ll pay you well.” No one would believe that he was a Brahmin. If only he had his silk robe, silk turban, or even his saffron-colored scarf, he could have put on some sort of act. He could have posed as an astrologer and ensnared some wealthy merchant, and he was a master at that. But here, he had nothing—everything had been lost. Perhaps adversity also clouds judgment. If he had stood in the square and delivered a captivating lecture, he might have gained ten or fifteen followers, but the thought didn’t occur to him. He was used to giving speeches in well-decorated tents, standing on a stage before a flower-adorned table. In this wretched state, who would listen to him? People would think a madman was ranting. But the afternoon was slipping away, and there was no time left for deliberation. If it got dark here, it would be impossible to return at night. Who knew what would happen to the patients in his absence? He could no longer stand there in uncertainty. No matter how much he was insulted, no matter how much he had to endure, begging was the only option left. He walked into the market and stood in front of a shop, but he couldn’t summon the courage to ask for anything.
The shopkeeper asked, “What do you want?”
Chaubey Ji replied, “What’s the price of rice?”
But at the next shop, he was more cautious. The merchant was sitting on his gaddi (a traditional Indian seat). Chaubey Ji stood before him and recited a verse from the Gita. His pure pronunciation and melodious voice impressed the merchant, who asked, “Where are you from?”
Chaubey Ji replied, “I’m coming from Kashi (Varanasi).”
He then explained the ten characteristics of dharma to the merchant and gave such an excellent interpretation of the verse that the merchant was captivated. The merchant said, “Maharaj, please come to my home and sanctify it.” A selfish person would have gladly accepted the invitation, but Chaubey Ji was anxious to return. He declined, saying, “No, I don’t have time, Seth Ji.”
The merchant insisted, “Maharaj, you must honor us with your presence.”
When Chaubey Ji refused to stay, the merchant, disappointed, asked, “Then how can we serve you? Please give us an order. Your words have left me unsatisfied. If you ever come this way again, please do give us the honor of your presence.”
Chaubey Ji replied, “If your devotion is so strong, I will certainly come.”
With that, Chaubey Ji stood up to leave. Once again, hesitation silenced him. The respect and hospitality were offered only because he had hidden his self-interest. If he revealed his need, their attitude might change. Even if they didn’t refuse outright, the reverence would be gone. He stepped down from the gaddi and stood for a moment on the street, wondering, “Where should I go now?” Meanwhile, the winter day was slipping away like the wealth of a spendthrift. He was angry with himself, thinking, “If I don’t ask anyone, why would they give me anything? How can anyone know what’s on my mind? Gone are the days when wealthy people worshiped Brahmins. Let go of the hope that some kind-hearted soul will come and put money in your hand.” He continued walking slowly. Suddenly, the merchant called out from behind, “Pandit Ji, wait a moment.”
Pandit Ji stopped. He must be coming to insist that I go to his house again. Why couldn’t he just hand me a rupee note instead? What would he do by taking me to his house? But when the merchant actually placed a gold coin at his feet, tears of gratitude welled up in Chaubey Ji’s eyes. “So, there are still true devotees in this world, otherwise, this earth would have sunk into the netherworld!” he thought. At that moment, if he had to give half a liter of his blood for the merchant’s well-being, he would have gladly done so. With a choked voice, he said, “There was no need for this, Seth Ji! I’m not a beggar; I’m your servant.”
The merchant, in a tone full of reverence and humility, said, “My lord, please accept this. It is not a donation but an offering. I can recognize people. Many saints, yogis, and servants of the nation and religion come and go, but for some reason, I don’t feel the same reverence for any of them. I just try to get rid of them as quickly as possible. But seeing your hesitation, I realized that this is not your profession. You are a learned man, a righteous man, but you’re in some sort of crisis. Please accept this humble offering and bless me.”
Chaubey Ji returned home with the medicines, his heart brimming with joy, exhilaration, and a sense of triumph. Even Hanuman Ji must not have felt such bliss when he brought the Sanjeevani herb. He had never before experienced such pure happiness. Never before had his heart been filled with such noble sentiments.
The day was almost over. The sun was racing towards the west with relentless speed. Did he too have to deliver medicine to a patient? He quickly hid behind a mountain. Chaubey Ji, now even more energetic, quickened his pace as if determined to catch the sun. Darkness soon enveloped the land. A few stars began to appear in the sky. There were still ten miles to go. Just as a housewife hurriedly gathers her belongings upon seeing dark clouds looming overhead, Leeladhar also started running. He wasn’t afraid of being left alone, but he was afraid of losing his way in the dark. The villages on either side passed by.
At that moment, Chaubey Ji found these villages extremely beautiful. How peacefully the people were sitting by the fire, warming themselves! Suddenly, he saw a dog. Out of nowhere, it appeared in front of him on the path. Chaubey Ji was startled but quickly recognized the dog. It was Moti, the old man’s dog. How had he ended up so far from the village? Did he know that Chaubey Ji was bringing medicine and might lose his way? Who knows? When Chaubey Ji called out “Moti,” the dog wagged its tail but didn’t stop. He didn’t want to waste any time giving more recognition. Chaubey Ji felt that God was with him, protecting him. He was now confident that he would reach home safely. By ten o’clock, Chaubey Ji reached home.
The disease wasn’t fatal, but glory was destined for Chaubey Ji. A week later, all three patients were healthy again. Chaubey Ji’s fame spread far and wide. He had fought a fierce battle with Yama, the god of death, and saved these people. He had even triumphed over the gods, making the impossible possible. He was a living god. People began to come from far and wide to seek his blessings. However, Chaubey Ji derived more joy from seeing the patients walk around than from his newfound fame.
The old man said, “Maharaj, you are a living god. If you hadn’t come, we wouldn’t have survived.”
Chaubey Ji replied, “I did nothing. It was all by God’s grace.”
The old man said, “We will never let you go now. Bring your family here as well.”
Chaubey Ji said, “Yes, I was thinking the same. I can’t leave you now.”
Meanwhile, the mullahs had taken advantage of the empty field and had been vigorously propagating Islam in the surrounding villages. Whole villages were converting to Islam. On the other hand, the Hindu Sabha had fallen silent. No one dared to come near. People were sitting far away, firing their verbal artillery at the Muslims. The biggest problem before them was how to avenge this murder. They repeatedly sent petitions to the authorities, requesting an investigation, but the response was always the same: the culprits couldn’t be found. Meanwhile, funds were being raised for Chaubey Ji’s memorial. But this new light had dimmed the mullahs’ efforts. There, a deity had appeared who could bring the dead back to life, who could sacrifice his life for the welfare of his devotees. The mullahs had no such power, no such grace, no such miracle. Before such a tangible act of kindness, the mere promises of paradise and brotherhood seemed hollow. Chaubey Ji was no longer the proud Brahmin who once boasted of his caste. He had learned to respect the Shudras and Bhils. Now, when he embraced them, he no longer felt disgusted. Having found darkness in their own homes, they had turned to the Islamic lamp. But now that the light of the sun had returned to their own home, why would they need to go elsewhere? Sanatan Dharma (the eternal religion) had triumphed. Mantras began to be chanted in every village, and the sound of conch shells and bells could be heard from the temples every morning and evening. People’s behavior began to improve on its own. Chaubey Ji didn’t “purify” anyone. He now felt ashamed to even mention the word “Shuddhi.” “How can I purify them when I need to purify myself first? I cannot insult such pure and noble souls with the pretense of purification.”
This was the mantra he had learned from those outcasts, and with this power, he succeeded in protecting his religion. Pandit Ji is still alive, but now he lives with his family in the same province, among those same Bhils.
