Chapter 1

Hori Ram, having given the two bullocks their fodder and water, said to his wife Dhaniya, "Send Gobar off to hoe the sugarcane. There's no telling when I'll be back. Hand me my stick, will you." Both of Dhaniya's hands were caked with cow-dung; she had just come in from patting out dung-cakes. She said, "Oh, at least take a little something first. What's the great hurry?" Hori knitted his wrinkle-furrowed brow and said, "You're worried about my breakfast — and here I am worried that if I'm late I won't get to see the master. Once he starts his bath and his worship, I'll be sitting there for hours." "That's exactly why I say, eat a bite first, and if you don't go today, what's lost? You only went the day before yesterday." "Sister, why do you stick your leg into matters you don't understand! Hand me my stick and mind your own work. It's only by this keeping in touch that we've kept our skins so far — otherwise nobody would even know where we'd vanished to. Look at all the men in this village — who hasn't had an eviction notice, who hasn't had his goods attached? When your neck is pressed under another man's feet, your safety lies in stroking those feet."

Dhaniya was not so worldly-wise. Her notion was that if we have ploughed the zamindar's fields, then he will simply take his rent — why should we flatter him, why rub his soles? Yet in these twenty years of married life she had learned well enough that no matter how you cut and trim, no matter how you starve your belly and back, no matter that you grip every cowrie between your teeth — clearing the rent is still impossible. Even so she would not concede defeat, and on this subject war flared up between husband and wife every other day. Of her six children only three were now alive — one boy, Gobar, about sixteen, and two girls, Sona and Rupa, twelve and eight. Three boys had died in childhood. Her heart told her even today that had there been medicine for them, they would have lived; but she had not been able to send for a half-pice worth of medicine. And what was her own age? Only her thirty-sixth year; yet all her hair had turned grey, wrinkles had crept over her face. Her whole body had sagged, that lovely wheat-gold complexion had darkened, and her eyes too had begun to fail her. All for the worry of the belly. Never once had she known the pleasures of life. This unending, worn-out condition had given her self-respect the look of indifference. In a household where there is not even bread for the belly, why so much flattery? Her heart was forever in revolt against this state of things, and only after swallowing two or four sharp scoldings did she come back to a sense of reality. Defeated, she fetched Hori's stick, his coarse jacket, his shoes, his turban and his tobacco-pouch, and flung them down before him. Hori glared at her and said, "What is it — am I off to my in-laws' house, that you've brought out all five articles of finery? And there's no young sister-in-law sitting in my in-laws' house either, for me to go and show off to." A soft smile glimmered on Hori's dark, sunken face. Bashfully Dhaniya said, "Such a fine, handsome young man you are, that the sisters-in-law will swoon at the sight of you." Folding the torn jacket with great care and laying it on the cot, Hori said, "So you think I've grown old? I'm not even forty yet. A man at sixty is still a colt." "Go look at your face in the glass. Men like you are no colts at sixty. We don't even get milk and ghee enough to smear our eyes with — colts indeed. Watching the state of you, I wither away myself, wondering — God, how will this old age be got through? At whose door will we beg?"

That fleeting tenderness of Hori's was scorched in this flame of reality. Steadying himself on his stick he said, "It won't come to reaching sixty, Dhaniya — we'll be gone before that." Dhaniya rebuked him: "Enough now, don't speak ill-omened things. Anyone says a kind word to you, and you start cursing yourself."

When Hori went out of the house, his stick across his shoulders, Dhaniya stood at the door watching him a long while. Those despairing words of his had set a tremor of dread through her wounded heart. It was as though, with all the penance and vows of her womanhood, she was granting her husband the gift of fearlessness. From her innermost being a whole array of blessings seemed to issue and gather Hori within itself. In this fathomless ocean of poverty her wifehood was the one straw she clutched as she crossed the sea. Those careless words, though near to the truth — indeed because they were near to the truth — had seemed to wrench that straw of support from her hand. The wretched suffering-power in them came precisely from their nearness to the truth. The grief a one-eyed man feels at being called one-eyed — can a man with two eyes feel that?

Hori walked on with quickened steps. Seeing the waving green of the cane plants on both sides of the path, he said in his heart — if only God would send the rain at the right time and the harvest stand fine, he would certainly buy a cow. The country cows gave no milk, and their calves were good for nothing — at most they ended up turning the oilman's press. No, he would buy a hill-bred cow. He would tend it well. Four or five seers of milk at least, surely? Gobar pined and pined for milk. If a man didn't eat and drink at this age, when ever would he? Even a year's worth of milk and the boy would become a sight worth seeing. The calves too would turn out into good bullocks. A pair would be worth no less than two hundred. And it is the cow that brings glory to a man's doorway. To have the sight of a cow first thing in the morning — what could compare! Who knew when this longing would be fulfilled, when that blessed day would come!

Like every householder, Hori too had carried in his heart from time out of mind this craving for a cow. This was the greatest dream of his life, his greatest longing. How could the vast ambitions of living off bank interest, of buying land, of raising a mansion, ever fit inside his small heart!

The sun of the month of Jeth rose out of the mango grove and climbed, lending its silver majesty's keen edge to the redness spread across the sky, and the air had begun to grow warm. The peasants working in the fields on either side saw him and called out their salutations, and with respect invited him to share their pipe; but where had Hori such leisure? The hunger for honour seated within him, finding such regard, brought a flush of pride to his withered face. It is the very fruit of keeping in touch with the masters that all men honour him — otherwise who would so much as ask after him? What standing has the farmer of five bighas? It is no small honour that the village headmen, men of three and four ploughs, bow their heads before him.

Now, leaving the path that ran between the fields, he had come into a hollow where, because the water collected there in the rains, dampness lingered, and in Jeth some greenery could still be seen. The cows of the surrounding villages used to come here to graze. Even in that mugginess there was a certain freshness and coolness in the air here. Hori drew two or three deep breaths. He felt like sitting here a while. He would be roasting in the burning wind all day in any case. Several peasants had been ready to take a lease on this hollow. They offered good money; but God bless the Rai Sahib, for he had said plainly that this land had been left for the grazing of animals and would not be let at any price. A selfish zamindar would have said let the cows go to blazes, I'm being offered money, why should I forgo it; but the Rai Sahib still upheld the old dignities. A master who does not nurture his tenants — is he a man at all?

Suddenly he saw Bhola coming this way with his cow. Bhola was a cowherd of a hamlet attached to this very village, and he carried on a trade in milk and butter. When he got a good price, he would now and then sell cows to the peasants too. Hori's mouth watered at the sight of those cows. If only Bhola would let him have that front cow — what then! He could go on paying the money bit by bit. He knew there was no money in the house. The rent had still not been cleared; Biseshar Sah's debt was also outstanding, on which interest was mounting at one anna in the rupee. But there is a kind of short-sightedness that comes with poverty, a shamelessness that is not frightened even by dunning, abuse and beating — that egged him on. The longing that for years had set his heart astir now unsettled him. Going up close to Bhola he said, "Ram-ram, brother Bhola, tell me, how do things fare? I hear you've brought new cows from the fair this time."

Bhola answered curtly. He had read the thing in Hori's mind. "Yes, I brought two heifers and two cows. The earlier cows had all gone dry. If milk doesn't reach the tethering-line, how is one to get by?"

Hori laid his hand on the rump of the front cow and said, "She looks a milker. What did you pay for her?"

Bhola put on airs: "The market was high this time, Mahto — I had to give eighty rupees for her. My eyes popped out. Thirty rupees apiece for the two heifers. And on top of that the customer wants eight seers of milk to the rupee."

"A great big heart you cowherd folk have, brother — but then you brought back such a beast that in ten or five villages around no one will have her like."

The wine of pride began to mount in Bhola. He said, "The Rai Sahib offered a hundred rupees for her. Fifty rupees each for the two heifers. But I didn't give them. God willing, I'll fetch a hundred for this one at her very next calving."

"Where's the doubt in that, brother? What can the master have her with? If she comes to him as a tribute-gift, well and good, let him take her. It's the gall of you people, that you count out a fistful of rupees on the strength of luck. It just makes me want to keep gazing at her. Blessed is your life, that you serve cows so. We don't even get cow-dung to come by. For a householder to have not even one cow in his house — what a shameful thing it is. Years on end pass and we never set eyes on milk. The wife keeps saying, why don't you ask brother Bhola? I tell her, when I meet him sometime, I'll ask. She's very pleased with your nature. She says, I've never seen such a man — when he talks, he keeps his eyes lowered, never lifts his head."

The wine that was rising in Bhola was made deeper still by this brimming cup. He said, "A man is only he who reckons another's daughter-in-law and daughter as his own. The scoundrel who looks at any woman ought to be shot."

"You've spoken a thing worth a hundred thousand rupees, brother! The true gentleman is only he who respects another's honour."

"Just as a woman is left helpless when her husband dies, so when his woman dies a man's hands and feet are broken. My home is ruined, Mahto — there's not even anyone to hand me a lota of water."

The year before, Bhola's wife had died of heat-stroke. This Hori knew, but that the dried-up fifty-year-old Bhola was so tender within, this he had not known. The longing for a woman had welled up moist in his eyes. Hori found his footing. His practical peasant-wits sprang alert.

"The old saying isn't false, after all — without the housewife the house is a ghost's lair. Why don't you fix up a match somewhere?"

"I'm on the look-out, Mahto, but no one's easily snared. I'm even ready to spend a hundred or fifty. As God wills."

"From now on I too will keep my eyes open. God willing, your house will soon be settled."

"Just take it that you'll be my deliverance, brother! At home there's plenty by God's grace to eat. Four panseris of milk a day, but to what use?"

"In my in-laws' village there's a woman. Three or four years back her man left her and went off to Calcutta. The poor thing gets by grinding grain. No children either. She's good to look at and to hear. Just take her for Lakshmi herself."

Bhola's puckered face seemed to grow smooth. How much nectar there is in hope! He said, "Now my one hope is you, Mahto! When you have leisure, come, let's go see her one day."

"I'll settle it properly first, and then tell you. Too much haste spoils the work as well."

"Go whenever you wish. What haste — if your heart has set on this brindled cow, take her."

"This cow is beyond my means, elder brother. I don't want to do you a loss. It is not my dharma to throttle a friend. As these days have passed, so will the days to come."

"You talk as though you and I were two, Hori. Take the cow away, give whatever money you wish. As she stayed in my house, so let her stay in yours. I bought her for eighty rupees, give just the eighty rupees. Go on."

"But I have no cash in hand, elder brother, understand that."

"And who is asking you for cash, brother?"

Hori's chest swelled a yard wide. Eighty rupees was not dear for a cow. Such a fine build, six or seven seers of milk between the two milkings, and so gentle that even a child could milk her. Each calf of hers would be worth a hundred. Tethered at the door, she would add to the door's glory. He already owed some four hundred rupees; but a debt he reckoned, in a manner of speaking, as good as free. If Bhola's match got settled, he would not so much as speak of it for a year or two. And even if the match was not made, what did Hori stand to lose? At most this would happen — Bhola would come dunning again and again, would fret, would hurl abuse; but Hori felt no great shame at that. He was used to such dealings. It is the very fruit of a peasant's life. He was practising a deception on Bhola, and this dealing did not square with his sense of honour. Even now, in matters of give and take, it made no difference to him whether a thing was written down or not. The calamities of drought and flood kept his mind timid. The terrible face of God was always before him; but this deception was no deception in his code. It was merely the serving of one's own interest, and that was no bad thing. This kind of deception he practised all day and night. Even with two or four rupees lying in the house, he would swear before the moneylender that he had not a single pie. To wet the hemp a little and to stuff a little cottonseed into the cotton was lawful in his code, and here there was not merely self-interest, but also a little amusement. An old man's dotage is a laughable thing, and if something is wheedled out of such an old man, there is no sin or fault in it.

Putting the cow's tether-rope into Hori's hand, Bhola said, "Take her, Mahto — you'll have something to remember her by. The moment she calves, you'll take six seers of milk. Come, let me see you to your house. She may take you for a stranger and give you some trouble on the road. Now I'll tell you the truth — the master was offering ninety rupees, but in his house what regard is there for cows? He'd have taken her from me and given her to some officer or official. What do officials care for the service of the cow? They know only how to suck blood. As long as she gave milk they'd keep her, then sell her off into some other hands. Into whose lap she'd fall, who can say. Money isn't everything, brother — there's also one's dharma. In your house she'll live in comfort. It won't be that you eat your fill and lie down to sleep while the cow stands hungry. You'll serve her, love her, pet her. The cow will give you her blessing. What shall I say to you, brother — there's not even a fistful of chaff left in the house. The money has all gone out into the market. I thought I'd take something from the moneylender and buy chaff; but the moneylender's earlier debt isn't cleared. He's refused. What to feed all these animals — that worry alone is killing me. If I feed a pinch to each, the day's expense is a maund. Only God can carry me through, if He carries me at all."

In a tone of sympathy Hori said, "Why didn't you tell me sooner? I've sold a whole cartload of chaff."

Striking his forehead, Bhola said, "It's just for that reason I didn't tell you, brother — why should I weep my sorrow to everyone? Nobody shares it, everyone laughs. The cows that have gone dry, I don't grieve for them — I'll feed them leaves and such and keep them alive somehow; but this one can't do without grain. If you can, give me ten or twenty rupees for chaff."

The peasant is a thorough self-server, of that there is no doubt. The money for a bribe comes out of his knot only with the greatest difficulty; in bargaining too he is on his guard; to get one pie of interest knocked off, he beseeches the moneylender for hours; until he is fully convinced, he is not taken in by anyone's coaxing. But his whole life is a steady cooperation with nature. Fruit grows on the trees, and the people eat it; grain grows in the field, and it serves the world; milk fills the cow's udder, and she does not go to drink it herself — others drink it; rain falls from the clouds, and the earth is satisfied by it. In such company, where is there room for a base self-interest? Hori was a peasant, and he had simply never learned to warm his hands at another's burning house.

The moment he heard Bhola's tale of distress, his frame of mind changed. Returning the tether-rope to Bhola's hand, he said, "I have no money, elder brother. But there is a little chaff left, that I will give you. Come and have it loaded up. You would sell a cow for chaff, and I would take it! Wouldn't my hands be cut off?"

In a voice gone moist Bhola said, "Your bullocks will not starve. And what great store of chaff have you got either?"

"No, elder brother, this time the chaff turned out good."

"I spoke of chaff to you for nothing."

"If you hadn't told me, and I had come to know of it afterwards, I would have grieved deeply that you had reckoned me so much an outsider. If a brother does not help a brother when need comes, how can the world go on!"

"But at least take this cow."

"Not now, elder brother. I'll take her later."

"Then have the cost of the chaff knocked off against the milk."

In a pained voice Hori said, "Where's the question of cost or coin in this, elder brother? If I ate a meal or two at your house, would you ask me for the cost?"

"But will your bullocks starve or not?"

"God will find some way or another. Asarh is upon us. I'll sow the bitter fodder."

"But this cow is yours now. The day you wish, come and take her away."

"In taking the cow of a brother now, there is the same sin as in taking a bullock put up for auction."

Had Hori had it in him to split hairs, he would gladly have taken the cow and set off home. When Bhola asked for no cash money, it was plain that he was not selling the cow for chaff, but that something else lay behind it; but just as a horse balks for no reason at the rustling of leaves and will not step forward even when struck, such was Hori's condition. To take a thing of one's neighbour's distress is sin — this truth had through births upon births become a part of his soul.

In a voice choked with feeling Bhola said, "Shall I send someone for the chaff, then?"

Hori answered, "Just now I'm going to the Rai Sahib's gate. I'll be back from there in an hour — only then send someone."

Tears filled Bhola's eyes. He said, "You've delivered me today, brother Hori! Now I have learned that I am not alone in this world. I too have a well-wisher." After a moment he said again, "Don't forget that other matter."

When Hori moved on, his heart was glad. A strange briskness was stirring within him. What of it, ten or five maunds of chaff would go — at least the poor man, fallen into distress, would not have to sell his cow. When I have fodder I'll fetch the cow away. God grant I find a woman for him. Then there'll be no trouble at all.

He turned and looked back. The brindled cow, flicking flies with her tail, shaking her head, intoxicated, swayed along at a slow, gentle pace, like a queen amid her handmaids. How blessed would be the day when this wish-granting cow stood tethered at his door!