Prof Dennis Pereira, MA, LL B, lived in the Civil Lines with
his young wife, Sylvia. He was a rich man with properties in Goa and Bombay,
which meant that he took life easy, though he sometimes dabbled in legal cases
and off and on took English Literature classes as a part-time lecturer in Delhi
College, to which he went in his Ford car. While at home in No 8 bungalow, he
liked to entertain friends in the evening, many of whom came partly because of
his entertaining company and partly because of the beautiful Mrs Pereira, who
didn’t mind a bit of flirting. Among the regulars was the Thakur of
Jat-ka-Nagla, near the Tundla-Agra Road, but the Thakur preferred to stay in
Delhi in a house rented to him by a Nawab friend, from where he came in a
phaeton, along with his wife Nalini sometimes, otherwise alone. They were a
young couple with plenty of leisure, except for a nagging property dispute with
the Thakur’s sister Rajni.

Prof Pereira took a deep interest in the case, which was
being heard in the Dewani Kacheri at Agra by an Anglo-Indian Munsif magistrate,
William Paterson. Before the final hearing he spent practically the whole night
with the Thakur (himself a legal eagle) in helping to prepare the defence
statement as the regular vakil had fallen ill. The next day they were at the
court, where the case was listed in the afternoon. Paterson was known as the
“Ghantewala Munsif” because proceedings in his court began and ended
with the ringing of a bell. So after the bell had been rung the magistrate
said, “Has the defence anything more to say before the court delivers its
judgement?” “Yes, Your Honour,” replied Prof Pereira (acting for
the absent vakil), “Thakur Rajendra Singh desires to make a
statement.”

“Statements are as a rule not welcomed but considering
the special circumstances of the case, in which two reputed families are
involved, the ends of justice would be met if the statement is made,” said
the magistrate. The Thakur bowed and began to read the note he and Pereira had
drafted: “Your Honour, the House of Jat is an ancient one. The first
Thakur, Kunwarpal Singh traced his ancestry to the great Chhanghaji, who had
killed a tiger with his bare hands. His son Jitendrapal fought at the Battle of
Sikri. His sons and grandsons achieved fame and some were made Mansabdars by
the Mughals. We fought the Punjab rebels during the reign of Bahadur Shah I. In
Farrukhsiyar’s reign we thwarted the Sayyids of Bara and harassed Nadir Shah on
his way back from Delhi. We fought against Hafiz Rehmat Khan at the Battle of
Mirankatra (April 23, 1774) and helped in the capture of his grandson, Ghulam
Qadir Rohilla after he had blinded Shah Alam. During the ‘Mutiny’ we fought
shoulder-to-shoulder with the troops of Bahadur Shah Zafar. My father left the
British forces in World War II and joined the INA and as a result we lost most
of our jagir and what was left to us was consolidated by my foster father,
Thakur Surendrapal Singh. I am his heir but now my sister Rajni Singh and her
husband want to gain possession of all the property on the plea that I am an
adopted son and she the sole heiress.”

“Anything more?” asked the court. “The
Defence rests,” said Pereira. The magistrate thought for some time and
then said: “Though a lot of what you said is irrelevant to the case yet
the court salutes your eloquence. As far as the properties are concerned, Rajni
Singh has a point (Rajni smiled) but taking into consideration the circumstances
of the case we cannot deprive you either. Therefore, the court rules that
whatever is in possession of Rajni Singh is hers. You can retain the ancestral
house and land attached to it if you give her the plot on which the farm is
situated.”  Pereira and the Thakur
held a whispered conversation before giving acceptance. The bell rang and the
court rose. Prof Pereira and the Thakur returned to Delhi late in the evening
but by that time Mrs Pereira’s admirers had dispersed. The Professor’s driver, Ram
Singh had brought the car to the station and they drove to the Civil Lines,
where they had a quick drink after which the Thakur went home in his phaeton to
find that the Thakurani had delivered a bonny boy in his absence, heir to the
estate he had managed to save after a legal odyssey. But not long after Prof
Pereira died suddenly. Some said he had been poisoned. His wife returned to
Goa, where she remarried, much to the annoyance of the Thakur, who thought his
old friend had been stabbed in the back. Pereira’s pocket-watch (according to
father’s notes) is in Australia with one of his descendants while a
great-grandson of “Ghantewala Munsif”, Fergius Paterson, is a surgeon
in a London hospital. As for the Thakur, his only grandson died of TB in
Wazirpura, adjacent to Dewani Kacheri (Civil Courts), while Jat-ka-Nagla came
into international limelight in the 1960s when a wolf-boy, Parasuram, was
rescued from a nearby jungle, like Atlanta of the Golden Apples and Romulus and
Remus, legendary founders of the city of Rome.

It was father, who broke the story of this wolf boy in The
Statesman and among those who followed it up was the Times London correspondent
in Delhi, Neville Maxwell. In later years another wolf boy was found in Banna
Devi, about whom old Naine Joseph used to wax eloquent while waiting for his
friend Jailer Sahib. But Jat-ka-Nagla’s Thakur and the wolf-boy found in it
continue to be topics of discussion wherever old foggies meet.                                   

By RV Smith