Reflections on the First Five Chapters of Professor Pragjibhai Bhambhi’s Novel
By Maq Masi (UK)
11 October 2026
Today, I began reading Nejadhari (The Flagbearer), a novel by Professor Pragjibhai Bhambhi, exploring agrarian life, social agitation, caste discrimination and the struggle for human dignity. Having completed the first five chapters, I find myself reflecting not merely on the story of its central character, Nejadhari, but on the psychological consequences of poverty, humiliation and untouchability—and how these experiences may gradually develop into political consciousness.
The novel opens with a touching dedication to the author’s departed wife, expressed in a short poem composed in the Gujarati Pruthvi Chhand, a classical metrical form. As I understand it, each line follows a pattern of seventeen syllabic units, and the poem consists of four lines arranged in two couplets. I have attempted to render its sentiment into English, although my translation may differ from the poetic expression and rhythm intended by the author.
To My Departed Wife
Passed away, leaving me behind!
Now, passing days, tear-filled eyes!
Yet, offering this creation, from my heart!
Though disembodied, I still behold your radiance!
There is something profoundly moving about beginning a novel concerned with social struggle through such an intimate expression of personal loss. Before introducing the reader to the injustices of society, the author reveals his own vulnerability, affection and remembrance.
The Burden of an Inherited Identity
As the narrative develops, Nejadhari emerges as a character whose present is continually haunted by his past. One of his most painful childhood memories concerns punishment inflicted by a schoolteacher without reasonable justification. The punishment was not merely physical or disciplinary; it carried the humiliation of innocence being disregarded, compounded by poverty and the stigma attached to his birth into a community historically subjected to caste-based discrimination.
Another incident reinforces this impression. During his stay in a school hostel, his roommate accuses him of theft without convincing evidence. Nejadhari knows himself to be innocent, yet finds it difficult to establish his innocence to others.
These experiences appear psychologically connected. In both, Nejadhari encounters the same disturbing reality: innocence does not necessarily protect a person from humiliation, particularly when others are prepared to judge him through assumptions rather than evidence.
Such experiences do not necessarily disappear with age. They can become permanent features of one’s consciousness, shaping how a person interprets the behaviour of others long after the original circumstances have changed.
Nejadhari’s life demonstrates an interesting contradiction. Through education, initially limited to the basic opportunity to read and write, he eventually rises to the respected position of professor. Education gives him employment, income, professional recognition and a degree of independence that once appeared beyond his reach.
Yet while Nejadhari has escaped economic poverty, he has not escaped the psychological burden of caste discrimination.
The discussion between Nejadhari and his comrade is especially revealing. His companion suggests that he might avoid disclosing his caste identity by changing his surname or introducing himself simply through initials, such as K. D., without mentioning a family name.
This suggestion raises a troubling question: Why should a person have to conceal the circumstances of his birth in order to receive the respect that ought to belong to every human being?
A surname is merely an inherited designation, yet within a caste-conscious society it can become a marker through which others assign status, superiority or inferiority. The suggestion to conceal it may be offered as practical advice, but it also reveals how deeply social discrimination has penetrated ordinary human relationships.
Although untouchability is prohibited by law in India, legal abolition does not automatically eliminate prejudices embedded in social attitudes and behaviour. The law may declare equality, but the human mind, shaped by generations of inherited beliefs, can be considerably slower to accept it.
Nejadhari’s preference for clean, carefully ironed, expensive khadi clothing is particularly interesting. Clothing ordinarily expresses taste, personality or professional standing. In his case, however, it may also serve as a form of protection against anticipated social judgement.
His appearance seems to make a statement before he speaks: that he is educated, respectable and deserving of dignity.
But why must dignity be demonstrated through expensive clothing, professional achievement or outward refinement? Should it not be recognised simply because a person is human?
This is where I find an important distinction. Nejadhari’s concern about revealing his identity might be understood as an inferiority complex. Yet what appears to be personal insecurity may actually be the consequence of repeated experiences of social humiliation.
A person who anticipates discrimination is not necessarily convinced of his own inferiority. He may simply have learned that society does not always recognise his equality.
The problem, therefore, may lie not in how Nejadhari values himself, but in how society has historically valued people born into his community.
The Awakening of Political Consciousness
An interesting development in Nejadhari’s intellectual journey occurs during his professorship, when his college invites Jivanbhai Jayrambhai, a prominent leader of the State Kisan Sabha, to deliver a lecture.
Nejadhari, accustomed to conventional academic lectures, encounters something distinctly different in Jivanbhai’s manner of speaking. His words flow naturally and continuously, captivating his audience. The novel compares his speech to water descending from the mountains, suggesting an effortless command of language and an unusual ability to communicate ideas.
What interests me is Nejadhari’s response. He is himself a professor, yet he appears deeply impressed by the speaking ability of a political leader.
Academic qualifications alone do not necessarily make someone a compelling speaker; clarity of thought, conviction and the ability to engage an audience can be equally important.
Nejadhari’s admiration does not end with this encounter. He subsequently travels to Ahmedabad to listen to Jivanbhai again.
To me, this suggests that his attraction to the Kisan Sabha may initially have developed through admiration for Jivanbhai’s intellectual expression and powerful oratory, rather than through an already established ideological commitment.
There is something significant in this progression. A professor, whose profession is to communicate knowledge, finds himself becoming a student of another man’s ability to communicate ideas.
Perhaps it is here that Nejadhari begins to recognise a different kind of education—one that takes place not merely within the classroom but through public discourse, collective experience and the political concerns of ordinary people.
The narrative subsequently describes his departure from his professorship and his growing involvement in Kisan Sabha activities.
This transition is particularly significant. A profession that had once enabled him to overcome economic hardship gives way to a public commitment whose rewards are less certain.
I find myself wondering whether this represents a conscious rejection of personal security in favour of collective responsibility, or whether his admiration for Jivanbhai and his increasing political involvement gradually make academic life less satisfying.
Political commitment does not always arise from a single decisive conversion. Sometimes it develops through encounters, questions and experiences that gradually alter a person’s understanding of his place in society.
In Nejadhari’s case, the movement from professorship towards agrarian activism appears to mark an important shift: from the pursuit of individual advancement to participation in a collective struggle.
When the Majority Is Ruled by the Minority
One of the most interesting episodes concerns a protest organised under Nejadhari’s leadership. The demonstration attracts only a small number of participants, and the police appear largely indifferent to it.
Nejadhari regards this as a failure. To him, a protest that creates no tension, attracts no attention and produces no disturbance seems incapable of challenging the established order.
This reveals his developing understanding of political agitation. A protest, in his view, must do more than express dissatisfaction; it must compel those in authority to recognise the existence of that dissatisfaction.
Following the demonstration, he discusses its failure with his fellow leaders and asks them to examine a fundamental contradiction within society.
Why, he asks, do farmers and the working classes constitute approximately ninety per cent of the population, while the ruling classes represent only ten per cent? If the majority possesses the numerical strength to determine political power through voting, why does the minority continue to rule?
The question is not simply about arithmetic. It concerns the relationship between numerical strength, political consciousness and the ability of a population to exercise its collective power.
Nejadhari recognises that the ruling minority cannot sustain its authority through numbers alone. Its power must also depend upon the conduct, divisions, beliefs or acquiescence of the majority.
He then employs an interesting metaphor involving jaggery, or sugar, suggesting that people can be destroyed without the need for poison.
I interpret this as a criticism of the small comforts, temptations and immediate satisfactions through which people may become reconciled to their own subordination.
The system does not necessarily need to poison the oppressed. It may be sufficient to offer them enough sweetness to prevent them from recognising the conditions under which they live.
A numerical majority does not automatically become an effective political majority. Numbers acquire political significance only when people recognise their common interests and act upon them.
Nejadhari’s frustration with the poorly attended protest may therefore arise from his recognition that social transformation requires more than the existence of injustice. It requires awareness, organisation and collective determination.
Personal Humiliation and Political Frustration
At this point, I find it necessary to distinguish two forms of psychological conflict in Nejadhari’s character.
The first concerns his personal identity. His memories of unjust punishment, false accusation and caste discrimination appear to have left him conscious of how others may judge him.
The second conflict is political.
When Nejadhari becomes frustrated by the poor attendance at a protest, his dissatisfaction does not necessarily arise from personal insecurity. It may instead reflect his awareness of the gap between the movement’s potential strength and its actual influence.
Here, the anxiety is not about who Nejadhari is, but about what the movement has not yet achieved.
This distinction is important. Personal humiliation and political frustration may share a common origin in social inequality, but they operate differently. One concerns the individual’s struggle for recognition; the other concerns the collective struggle for power.
Nejadhari’s development becomes more interesting when these two struggles begin to intersect.
The Flagbearer and the Burden of Dignity
What interests me most is the relationship between Nejadhari’s personal experiences and his emerging public life.
The child who was punished without justification, the student who was accused of theft without evidence, and the professor who remains conscious of his caste identity are not separate individuals. They are different stages in the development of the same consciousness.
His economic advancement has not erased his memories of humiliation. Yet those memories may also contribute to his understanding of the indignities experienced by others.
His encounter with Jivanbhai, his departure from professorship and his involvement in the Kisan Sabha suggest a developing relationship between personal experience and collective action.
Education has enabled him to overcome economic poverty, while his encounter with Jivanbhai introduces him to a collective struggle against social and political inequality.
Yet neither professional achievement nor political participation necessarily erases the humiliation of his past.
His struggle is therefore not simply to escape the circumstances of his birth, but to challenge the conditions that continue to give those circumstances social significance.
At this stage, I would hesitate to equate Nejadhari’s experiences directly with those of Professor Bhambhi. The novel may draw upon lived experience, but literary characters must not automatically be treated as autobiographical representations of their authors.
Nevertheless, the recurring episodes of humiliation, suspicion, social anxiety and political awakening suggest a deliberate exploration of the relationship between personal dignity and collective emancipation.
What interests me most is the possibility that the true flag Nejadhari carries is not merely a political or agrarian banner, but the burden of human dignity itself—and the determination to transform that burden into a collective struggle.
He has conquered poverty, but the greater struggle remains: to live in a society where his birth requires neither explanation nor apology. Through the Kisan Sabha, he has begun to carry that struggle beyond himself. Whether collective action can free him from the psychological burden of his past remains an open question—and perhaps one of the most compelling reasons to continue reading Nejadhari.
These reflections are based on my reading of the first five chapters of Nejadhari. My interpretation may develop as I continue through the novel.
Maq Masi
United Kingdom
11 October 2026
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