Saurav Ganguly

Friends, Indians, Countrymen,
Lend me your ears, I have come to bury Dada not to praise him.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Dada.
The noble Chappell Hath told you Dada was ambitious:
If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Dada answer'd it.
Here, under leave of Chappell and the rest--
For Chappell is a white skinned man;
So are they all, all honourable men-- Come I to speak in Dada's funeral.
He was my idol, faithful and just to me:
But Chappell says he was ambitious;
And Chappell is an honorable man.
He hath brought many Trophies home to India
Whose Trophies did the BCCI mantle piece fill:
Did this in Dada seem ambitious?
When India had cried, Dada hath wept:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Chappell says he was ambitious;
And Chappell is an honourable man.
You all did see that in so many Finals
we presented him a kingly crown,
Which he did refuse:
was this ambition? Yet Chappell says he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Chappell spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason.
Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Dada,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday the word of Dada might Have stood against the world;
now lies he there. And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
I should do Chappell wrong, and More wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong;
I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment with the seal of Dada;
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament--
Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read--
And they would go and kiss dead Dada's wounds
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
And, dying, mention it within their wills,
Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue.
Have patience, gentle friends,
I must not read it;
It is not meet you know how Dada loved you.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
And, being men, bearing the will of Dada,
It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
For, if you should, O, what would come of it
Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?
I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:
I fear I wrong the honourable men
Whose daggers have stabb'd Dada; I do fear it.
You will compel me, then, to read the will?
Then make a ring about the corpse of Dada,
And let me show you him that made the will.
Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
You all do know this mantle: I remember
The first time ever Dada put it on;
'Twas on a summer's evening, on the balcony,
That day India overcame the English at Lords:
Look, in this place ran Dravid' dagger through:
See what a rent the envious More made:
Through this the well-beloved Chappell stabb'd;
And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Dada follow'd it,
As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
If Chappell so unkindly knock'd, or no;
For Chappell, as you know, was Dada's angel:
Judge, O you gods, how dearly Dada loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Dada saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
Quite vanquish'd him: then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Kotla's stadia,
Which all the while ran blood, great Dada fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
Our Dada's vesture wounded? Look you here,
Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed are honourable:
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
That made them do it: they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
I am no orator, as Chappell is; But, as you know me all,
a plain blunt man, That love my Idol;
and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him:
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood:
I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Dada's wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Chappell,
And Chappell Manoj, there were an Manoj
Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue
In every wound of Dada that should move
The stones of India to rise and mutiny.
Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:
Wherein hath Dada thus deserved your loves?
Alas, you know not: I must tell you then:
You have forgot the will I told you of.
Here is the will, and under Dada's seal.
To every Indian citizen he gives,
To every several man, memories of glorious cover drives.
Moreover, he hath left you all his mates,
His Pathans and Sehwags,
On this side Thames; he hath left them you,
And to your heirs for ever, common pleasures,
To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
Here was a Dada! when comes such another?