Killer of a son: Jhaverchand Meghani

Zaverchand Meghani stands at the pinnacle of Gujarati literature. Honored with the title ‘Rashtriya Shayar’ (Poet of the Nation) by none other than Mahatma Gandhi; he truly needs no introduction.

This story reflects the essence of authentic Indian culture—how we treat our guests. In our tradition, a guest who steps into our home is regarded as divine: “Atithi Devo Bhava.” They are welcomed with all the warmth, respect, and humanity we possess.

Even in the face of grief and unimaginable loss, this story shows how compassion can rise above revenge—how a host can choose to protect, not punish.

Devaliya village was celebrating the festival of colours—Holi—at the start of the Gujarati month of ‘Falgun’. The eight-year-old prince, son of Darbar Mandodar Khan, had also joined in the madness of the youth. It was the day before the main celebration, and everyone was dressed in vibrant, colourful clothes. People looked like embers of a fire, and the young men were overcome with festive madness. With great passion, they played with colours, throwing them at each other, mixed with mud and even cow dung! It is said that Holi is a festival of colours, but in villages like these, it involves a fair amount of chaos.

“O brothers! I see someone coming this way. Looks like a guest in white,” shouted someone from the crowd playing Holi, and everyone paused. All eyes turned to the guest.

“Oh! Don’t throw colours on the guest,” someone cautioned.

“How can we leave the guest out? Will we get this chance again?”

“Right, right! Let’s bring him in! Let’s show him our colours!” And the crowd decided to include him in their wild celebration.

Wearing a long-sleeved upper garment and narrow pants, just enough to resemble a cowboy, a man was walking toward the village. He carried a sword in a worn scabbard and had stormy moustaches. He was breathing in the scent of mango trees and enjoying the blooming forest. But he had no excitement for the festival. From a distance, he saw the madness coming toward him, and he screamed,

“Please leave me alone! Don’t splash me! I beg you!”

The more he resisted, the more agitated the crowd became. Like people under the influence of opium, they screamed louder.

“Don’t spare him—splash him so completely that even he won’t recognize himself! Hand me that colour and mud!”

And in an instant, there was a whirlwind of colours and dust. The crowd surged forward, attacking the guest from all sides. He was pleading again and again, “Stay away! Stay away!” while stepping backward in fear. Just as the crowd was about to reach him, he began swinging his scabbard in the air to scare them off. But the attack didn’t stop. As they came closer, he kept retreating, repeating the same desperate cry: “Stay away! Stay away!” Amidst the blinding dust storm, he couldn’t see a thing. Between the chaotic joy, the desperate pleas, the swinging scabbard, and the swirling sandstorm, the moment became even more intense—until suddenly, someone thudded to the ground.

“Unbelievable! The prince is down! The prince is hurt! The prince is in danger!” someone shouted.

“The guest! He took a swing at the prince! Catch him! Get him!” someone else screamed.

The traveller became alert. He lost all sense and started running toward the border of the village. He had no time to see or understand what had happened, and he didn’t have the courage to look back. The sword he had been swinging—he didn’t even notice it anymore. He was running like a madman, like a killer.

Back in the village, there was chaos. The prince had a deep cut on his neck, near the main artery. A puddle of blood besides him. It looked like he was about to take his last breath.

But what really happened? While swinging the sword to keep the crowd away, the scabbard had fallen off in the sandstorm, unnoticed. And in that moment, the bare edge of the sword had lightly touched the prince’s neck. That was all it took. The delicate prince-a flower of the garden-died instantly. In the blink of an eye, the people rushed to the court of Darbar Mandodar Khan, who was intoxicated with opium. Darbar Mandodar Khan was Malesalam, an original Rajput Rathod, a true man of the village—very generous. His court was filled with workers, artists, actors, singers, and musicians from all over the village on this festive day of Holi. The celebration was suddenly interrupted.

“The prince is dead!” someone screamed.

“by whom?”

“Some traveller!”

“Wrong wind… who wants to die today?”

“Oh my lord! He’s running toward the border with a naked sword!”

“Bring me my horse!”

The Rozdi horse, very precious—it cost a couple of thousand coins. Capable of leaping over the head of an elephant and outrunning a deer—this was that horse. Darbar mounted it with his sword and clicked his tongue. The horse bolted like an arrow.

“Zoom, zoom, zoom!” In three blinks of an eye, the Rozdi reached the village border. In the flat land, he saw a man running with a sword shining like silver. He understood at once—this was the killer. He clucked the Rozdi again. The guest kept running. Hearing the clippity-clop of hooves, he stopped. He knew death was near, and there was nowhere left to run. Why keep running when death was just a few steps behind?

He stood still. He thought: There is no stopping death. There’s no time for explanations. So he stood firmly and placed the sword at his own neck. The horseman stopped, realizing this was something else. If he moved even a step forward, the man would kill himself right there. He halted the Rozdi and asked from a distance:

“Who are you?”

“A wrangler.”

“Why did you come here?”

“Death called. All my buffalo died. My children are starving. I didn’t want to come, but my wife insisted I visit you.” His voice trembled.

“Did you kill the prince?”

“God knows,” he gestured to the sky. “I don’t know. I only know I wanted to come to the court. I didn’t want to come in worn-out clothes, so I bought a new set and changed at the border. Then this mad crowd tried to ruin me with colours. To escape them, I started swinging my sword. I don’t know when the scabbard dropped in the dust.”

By the time he finished speaking, they heard a sound. People were screaming and coming toward the border. Some were carrying swords, others pestles, yelling, “Kill him! Kill him!”

Seeing this, the traveller’s heart filled with terror. Darbar got off the Rozdi and threw away his sword.

“Hey! Come here. Take this.”

“What?”

“Take my horse and run! Now, hurry!”

“What are you saying?”

“This is not the time for talk. Look—the village is in madness. You’ve killed their prince. They’ll tear you apart.”

“Oh brother… you?”

“Me? There’s no time to get acquainted. Just go, or your children will be orphans soon. These people won’t listen to me now.”

“But father… your name—”

“The name of God!” said Darbar. He grabbed the traveller by the shoulder, sat him on Rozdi, handed him the reins, and clicked his tongue.

The horse galloped away, tail booming, and disappeared.

Darbar returned on foot. No horse. No sword.

“What happened?” the villagers asked.

“That thug! He overpowered me and took both the sword and the horse!”

“We don’t believe you, Bapu!” The villagers scolded. “If you can take a pride of a cobra, only someone then could take Rozdi from you! Are you making a fool of us? Your precious son is gone, and you let his killer escape?”

“Let it go now,” Darbar said calmly.

“Why should we? We’ll find him even if he hides in the underworld!”

“Brothers!” Darbar said, “Why are you acting crazy? Did he kill my son deliberately? Do you know how many children are starving at his home? He came to my home in hope, and my son was killed. Maybe it was God’s will. Maybe it was my fate. But why should I shed more blood on this bright day? Let us prepare for the funeral.”