Chapter 4

Hori got no sleep all night. Lying on his bamboo cot under the neem tree, he looked again and again toward the stars. A trough must be planted for the cow. It would be well if her trough stood apart from the bullocks'. For now she would stay outside at night, but in the rains some other place must be fixed for her. Outside, people cast the evil eye. Sometimes they work such a charm or spell that the cow's very milk dries up. She won't even let a hand touch the udder — she kicks. No, tying her outside is not right. And who would let me plant a trough outside either? The agent will open his mouth for a gift. To carry petitions to the Rai Sahib over little matters is not proper either. And before the agent who listens to me? Were I to say anything to him, the agent would turn an enemy. To dwell in the water and quarrel with the crocodile is folly. I'll tie her inside. The yard is small, but with a little thatch shed put up, things will manage. It's only her first calving. She'll give no less than five seers of milk. A seer at least will be wanted for Gobar himself. How Rupiya watches milk and craves it. Now let her drink all she wants. Now and then I'll take two or four seers to the masters. The agent too will have to be courted. And Bhola's money should be paid back as well. Why entangle him in the fuss of the match? To deceive a man who trusts in one so much is baseness. He gave me an eighty-rupee cow on the strength of my word — otherwise here nobody trusts another for a single pice. Won't the hemp fetch something? If I give even twenty-five rupees, Bhola will be comforted. I told Dhaniya for nothing. Had I quietly brought the cow and tied her up, she'd have been astounded. She'd have begun asking — whose cow is this? Where did you bring her from? After tormenting her well I'd have told her — but only if a thing can be digested in the belly. Sometimes a few extra pice come to hand, and those I cannot hide from her either. And that's a good thing too. She has the worry of the house; if she knew there was money about with them too, then they'd start putting on airs. Gobar is a bit lazy, or I'd serve the cow as a cow should be served. Lazy — he's no such thing. At this age who is not lazy? I too used to loll about in front of my father. The poor man would start cutting chaff from the small hours. Sometimes he'd sweep the door, sometimes spread manure in the field. I'd lie sleeping. If he woke me I'd take offence and threaten to leave the house and run off. If boys don't enjoy a little of life's pleasure even before their own parents, then when it falls on their own heads, what pleasure will they enjoy? The moment father died, didn't I take the house in hand? The whole village said Hori would ruin the house, but the moment the load came on my head I changed my skin so that people stood watching. Shobha and Hira simply separated off, or this house would be a different thing today. Three ploughs would run together. Now all three run apart. It is all the turn of the times. What fault was Dhaniya's? The poor thing, from the day she came into the house, never once sat at ease. The moment she stepped from the bridal litter she took up the whole work on her head. She kept turning around Mother like a betel-leaf. She who effaced herself for the house's sake — if she asked the younger sisters-in-law to do some work, what wrong did she do? After all, she too should get a little rest. But rest must be written in one's fate, only then is it had. Then she died for the brothers-in-law, now she dies for her own children. Had she not been so simple, so forbearing, so guileless, then Shobha and Hira, who now go about twirling their moustaches, would somewhere be begging. How selfish a man becomes. The very one for whom you die becomes the enemy of your life. Hori looked again toward the east. Perhaps dawn is breaking. Why would Gobar be awake. No — going to sleep he'd said he would leave in the dark itself. Let me go and plant the trough — but no, until the cow comes to the door, planting the trough is not right. If Bhola changed his mind or for some reason did not give the cow, the whole village would set up a clapping — there he went off to fetch a cow! The lad planted the trough so quickly, as though only that was wanting. Bhola is, of course, master of his own house, but when the sons are grown, what say has the father? If Kamta and Jangi turn obstinate, will Bhola give me the cow of his own accord? Never.

Suddenly Gobar started up and, rubbing his eyes, said, "Why — it's morning already. Did you plant the trough, father?"

Hori looked with pride at Gobar's well-knit body and broad chest, thinking in his heart how fine a colt the boy would have become had he got milk, and said, "No, I haven't planted it yet. I thought, if it doesn't come, there'll be needless humiliation."

Knitting his brow, Gobar said, "Why wouldn't she come?"

"Some thieving thought might creep into his mind."

"Thief or witch creep in, the cow he'll have to give."

Gobar said nothing more — he set the stick on his shoulders and went off. Hori, watching him go, cooled his heart. Now the boy's match must not be delayed. He's entered his seventeenth year; but how is it to be done? If only money would show its face too. Since the partition among the three brothers, the household's credit had gone. Headmen come to look the boy over, but seeing the state of the house they go off with sour faces. One or two even agreed, but they ask for money. Pay two or three hundred for the girl's price and spend as much again on top, and then the wedding takes place. Where is so much money to come from? The crop is weighed out on the threshing-floor. Not even enough is left to eat. Where is the wedding to come from? And now Sona has grown fit to be married. If the boy's wedding does not take place, so be it. If the girl's wedding does not take place, the whole brotherhood will laugh. First her match must be made, then the rest will be seen to.

A man came up, said his ram-ram, and asked, "Will there be some bamboos in your clump, Mahto?"

Hori saw that Damri the basket-weaver stood before him — short, dark, very thick-set, a broad mouth, large moustaches, red eyes, a bamboo-cutting knife thrust in his waist. Once or twice a year he came and cut some bamboos to make screens, chairs, stools, baskets and the like.

Hori was pleased. Some hope of his palm being warmed was kindled. He led the headman off, showed him all three of his clumps, bargained, and took an advance on fifty bamboos at twenty-five rupees the hundred. Then both returned. Hori gave him a smoke of the chillum, fed him a little, and then said in a confidential way, "My bamboos never go for less than thirty rupees; but you're a man of the house — what bargaining should I do with you. That son of yours, the one whose match was made — has he come back from foreign parts yet or not?"

Drawing on the chillum and coughing, the headman said, "I've ruined myself over that boy, Mahto! A young bride sat at home, and he went off to enjoy himself in foreign parts with another woman of the brotherhood. The bride too has gone off with another. It's a base breed, Mahto, it belongs to no one. How much I made him understand — eat what you will, wear what you will, only don't cut my nose — but who listens? God may give a woman everything, only let Him not give her beauty, or she stays out of control. Your clumps must have been divided up by now?"

Hori looked toward the sky and, as if soaring in its greatness, said, "Everything has been divided, headman! Those whom I raised and reared like sons are now equal shareholders, but it is not my intent to eat a brother's share. As soon as I get the money from you, I'll divide it between the two brothers. In four days' span of life, why practise deceit and cunning with anyone? If I were to say I'd sold them at twenty rupees the hundred, how would they ever know? You won't go and tell them. I have always reckoned you my own brother."

In our dealings we may misuse the meaning of 'brother' as much as we like, but the purity in its feeling is never sullied by our blackness.

Having made this proposal indirectly, Hori looked at the headman's face to see whether he accepted it or not. On his face appeared a kind of false, humble look such as comes over fat beggars when begging alms.

Finding his footing in Hori, the headman laid on the whip: "We've an old brotherhood, you and I, Mahto — what a thing to say. But the truth is, an honest man sells himself for some greed. Twenty rupees — no, I'll say fifteen rupees, but you take the price of twenty rupees."

Hori said, abashed, "You do me wrong, headman — do bamboos like these go anywhere for twenty rupees?"

"Better bamboos than these go for ten rupees — yes, if you go ten kos further west. The price isn't of the bamboo, it's of being close to the city. A man thinks, in the time it takes to go that far, here two or four rupees' worth of work will get done."

The bargain was struck. The headman took off his jacket, laid it on the thatch and began to cut bamboos.

The cane was being watered. Hira's wife was going to the well with the field-meal. Seeing the headman cutting bamboos, she said from inside her veil, "Who is cutting bamboos? No bamboos will be cut here."

Staying his hand, the headman said, "I've bought the bamboos — an advance has been taken at fifteen rupees the hundred. I'm not cutting them for free."

Hira's wife was the mistress of her own house. It was by her revolt that the partition among the brothers had come about. Having defeated Dhaniya, she had grown bold as a tiger. Hira sometimes beat her. Only just recently he had beaten her so that for several days she could not rise from her cot, but her authority she would not give up by any means. Hira in his anger beat her, but he moved at her signals, like the horse which now and then, even after kicking its master, goes on beneath his very seat.

Setting the basket of food down from her head, she said, "Our bamboos won't go for fifteen rupees."

The headman thought it against propriety to discuss such a matter with a woman. He said, "Go and send your man. Whatever's to be said, let him come and say it."

Hira's wife was named Punni. She had borne only two children, but had sagged early. With paint and finery she wished to ease the blows of time, but in the household there was not even any provision of food — where was the money for finery to come from? This want and helplessness had dried up the moisture of her nature and made it hard and arid, off which even a husk would sometimes glance.

Coming near and trying to seize the headman's hand, she said, "Why should I send my man? Whatever's to be said, say it to me, won't you? I've said it — my bamboos won't be cut."

The headman tried to free his hand and Punni again and again caught hold of it. For a minute this scuffle went on. At last the headman shoved her hard backward. Punni took the shove and fell, but then steadied herself and, drawing the slipper off her foot, began to lay it blindly about the headman's head, face and back. A basket-weaver, to shove her off! This insult to her! She kept striking and weeping at once. Having shoved her, the headman had blundered by using force against the female sex. Beside standing where he was and taking the beating, he had no other remedy to save himself from this calamity.

Hearing Punni weep, Hori too came running. Seeing him, Punni began to shriek louder. Hori thought the headman had struck Puniya. His blood boiled, and breaking the high barrier of the partition, he rushed out to gather everything within himself. Landing a hard kick on the headman, he said, "If you wish your own good, headman, then get away from here, or your bier will be lifted. Who have you taken yourself for? You have such daring, that you raise a hand against my daughter-in-law!"

The headman, swearing oath upon oath, began to clear himself. Under the blows of the slippers his guilty soul was silent. This kick he took without offence, and his swollen cheeks were drenched with tears. He had not even touched the daughter-in-law. Was he such a boor that he would raise a hand against the women of the Mahto's house?

Disbelieving him, Hori said, "Don't throw dust in my eyes, headman — if you said nothing, does the daughter-in-law weep for nothing? If there's the heat of money in you, that will be drawn out. We're separate now — so what of it, the blood is one. Let anyone look at her with a crooked eye and we'll pluck the eye out."

Punni was become a very Chandi. With her throat dug in deep she said, "Didn't you shove me and knock me down? Swear on your son and eat the lie."

Hira got word that the headman and Puniya were fighting. The headman had shoved Puniya. Puniya had beaten him with the slippers. He left the watering-bucket where it was and, taking up his goad, set off toward the spot. He was renowned in the village for his temper. A short build, a knit-up body, eyes that had bulged out like cowries, the veins of his neck taut — but he had no anger against the headman; his anger was against Puniya. Why did she fight with the headman? Why did she drag his honour in the dust? What business had she fighting and squabbling with a basket-weaver? She should have gone and told Hira the news. Hira would have done as he saw fit. Why did she go to fight with him? Had he his way, he would keep Puniya behind the veil. That Puniya should open her mouth and bandy words with any man of standing — that was unbearable to him. Unruly as he himself was, just so quiet did he want Puniya to be. When his elder brother had struck the bargain at fifteen rupees, who was she to leap in the middle?

The moment he came he caught Punni's hand and, dragging her off apart, began to land kicks on her — "Bitch, you've set yourself to cut my nose! You go about fighting with low people — whose turban is brought low, tell me! (landing one more kick) Here we sit watching for the field-meal, and you've sat down here to make war. Such shamelessness! The water of my eyes has fallen so low. I'll dig a hole and bury you."

Punni went on crying woe and woe and went on cursing. "May your earth be lifted, may you take cholera, may the plague come on you, may Devi Mother swallow you down, may you take influenza. God grant you turn a leper. May your hands and feet rot and drop off."

The other curses Hira heard standing where he was, but this last curse struck home. In cholera, plague and the like there was no special suffering. Fall ill on this side, depart on that. But leprosy! That loathsome death, and a life still more loathsome. He smarted, and grinding his teeth he sprang at Puniya and, gripping her by the hair, rubbed her head along the ground, saying, "My hands and feet will rot and drop off, will they — then I'll take you up and lick you. You'll rear my children, will you! Eh! You'll run a great big household, will you? You'll just take another husband and stand aside."

The headman felt pity at this ill-handling of Puniya. He began to plead generously with Hira: "Hira Mahto, let her be now, this is enough. What of it, the daughter-in-law struck me. I am not made small by it. By great fortune God has shown me this day."

Hira snapped at the headman: "You keep quiet, headman, or if you get caught in my temper it'll go ill. Womankind goes astray just so. Today she's fought with you, tomorrow she'll fight with others. You're a decent man, you laughed and let it pass — another won't bear it. If she let her hand loose at him too, how much honour would be left, tell me."

This thought stoked his anger again. He had leapt forward when Hori ran and caught him and, pushing him back, said, "Oh, it's done now. The world has seen that you're a great hero. Will you grind her up now and drink her down?"

Even now Hira showed respect for his elder brother. He would not fight him outright. Had he wished, he could have wrenched his hand free with one jerk, but he could not bring himself to such disrespect. Looking toward the headman, he said, "Now what are you standing and staring at? Go and cut your bamboos. I've made it good. It's settled at fifteen rupees the hundred."

Where Punni had been weeping — now she sprang up with a flounce and, beating her head, said, "Set the house on fire, what is it to me! My luck was broken to fall into the hands of a butcher like you. Set the house on fire."

She left the basket of field-meal where it was and set off toward the house. Hira roared, "Where are you off to there — get to the well, or I'll drink your blood."

Puniya's feet stopped. She did not wish to play the second act of this drama. Quietly picking up the basket, she set off weeping toward the well. Hira too went on behind her.

Hori said, "Now don't fight and brawl again. It only makes a woman shameless."

Dhaniya came to the door and called out, "What show are you standing there watching? Does anyone even listen to you, that you give your lessons for nothing? The other day this very daughter-in-law called you a beard-burner from behind her veil — have you forgotten? When a daughter-in-law fights with strange men, will she not be scolded?"

Hori came to the door and said mischievously, "And what if I beat you just so?"

"As if you've never beaten me, that the longing to beat is still left in you."

"Had I beaten you so heartlessly, you'd have left the house and run off! Puniya is a great forbearer."

"Oho! Such a tender-hearted one you are. The mark of the beating still stays. Hira beats, but he fondles too. You've learned only to beat, you never learned to fondle at all. It's only that I'm such as I am, that I've got along with you."

"All right, enough — don't praise yourself so much. It was you who used to keep huffing off to your father's house. After months of coaxing you'd come back."

"When your own need pinched you, then you'd go to pacify me, lala! It wasn't out of any fondness for me."

"That's just why I praise you to everyone."

In the dawn of married life desire rises with its rosy intoxication and tints the whole sky of the heart with the golden rays of its sweetness. Then comes the fierce heat of noon; moment by moment dust-devils rise and the earth begins to quake. The golden veil of desire is drawn aside, and reality comes and stands before us in its naked form. After that comes the restful evening, cool and calm, when, like wearied travellers, we tell and hear the tale of the whole day's journey with detachment, as though we have gone and seated ourselves upon some high peak, where the murmur of the people below does not reach us.

With moistness filling her eyes, Dhaniya said, "Get along, get along, great praiser! Let some little work go wrong, and you mount astride my neck."

With a sweet reproach Hori said, "There — now this injustice of yours I do not like, Dhaniya! Ask Bhola what I said to him about you."

Changing the subject, Dhaniya said, "Look — is Gobar bringing the cow, or coming empty-handed?"

The headman came up bathed in sweat and said, "Mahto, come and count the bamboos. Tomorrow I'll bring a cart and carry them off."

Hori saw no need to count the bamboos. The headman was not such a man. And if he cut one bamboo or two extra, what of it? Bamboos are cut on loan every day. At wedding seasons people cut off dozens of bamboos to put up pavilions.

The headman took out seven and a half rupees and laid them in his hand. Counting them, Hori said, "Take out more. By the reckoning, two and a half more are due."

Without consideration the headman said, "Was it settled at fifteen rupees or not?"

"Not at fifteen rupees — at twenty."

"Hira Mahto said fifteen rupees in front of you. Shall I call him, if you say?"

"It was settled at twenty rupees, headman! Now the win is yours, say what you like. Two and a half rupees are due — give me at least two."

But the headman had not played with raw marbles. Now whom had he to fear? Hori's mouth had a lock on it. What could he say — he sat striking his forehead. He said only this: "This is not a good thing, headman — you won't become a king by holding back two rupees."

The headman said in a sharp voice, "And will you become a king by holding back a little of your brothers' money? For two and a half rupees you were ruining your conscience, and you preach to me on top of it. Were I to lift the curtain just now, your head would hang low."

It was as though hundreds of shoes had fallen on Hori. The headman set the money on the ground before him and went off, but Hori sat under the neem a long while and went on regretting. How greedy and selfish he was — this he came to know today. Had the headman given the two and a half rupees, how he would have swelled with joy. He would have praised his own cleverness, that two and a half rupees had come to him while he sat at his ease. It is only after stumbling that we lift our steps with care.

Dhaniya had gone inside. When she came out she saw the money lying on the ground and, counting it, said, "And what's become of the rest of the money — shouldn't it be ten?"

Pulling a long face, Hori said, "Hira settled it at fifteen rupees — what was I to do?"

"Hira may settle at five rupees. We don't sell at these prices."

"There was beating and fighting going on there. What was I to say in the middle of it?"

Hori cast his defeat into his own mind only, the way one climbs a tree to steal mangoes and, on falling, gets up dusting himself off so that nobody may see. After a win one can boast of one's own deceptions — in winning everything is forgiven. The shame of defeat is a thing only to be swallowed.

Dhaniya began to scold her husband. Such occasions came to her very seldom. Hori was shrewder than she, but today the game was in her hand. Tossing her hand she said, "Why not — your brother said fifteen rupees, so how could you cut across him? Oh, ram-ram! Would your darling brother's heart have shrunk or not! And then, when so great a wrong was being done, the knife being run over your darling daughter-in-law's throat, how could you possibly speak! At that moment had someone looted your everything, you'd not have noticed."

Hori went on listening in silence. Not so much as a chirp. He felt irritation, anger came, his blood boiled, his eyes burned, his teeth ground, but he did not speak. Quietly he took up the hoe and set off to hoe cane.

Snatching away the hoe, Dhaniya said, "Is it dawn still, that you set off to hoe cane? The lord Sun has come overhead. Go and bathe and wash. The food is ready."

Sullenly Hori said, "I'm not hungry."

Dhaniya sprinkled salt on the burn: "Yes, why would you be hungry! Your brother has fed you great big sweets. May God give such worthy brothers to everyone."

Hori flared up. And was his anger now snapping its ropes? "Today you're set on getting a beating!"

Putting on a mock show of meekness, Dhaniya said, "What can I do — you fondle me so much that my head has been turned."

"Will you let me stay in the house or not?"

"The house is yours, you're the master — what am I, to drive you out of the house?"

Today Hori could in no way get the better of Dhaniya. His wits had, as it were, gone blunt. He had no shield to ward off these arrows of sarcasm. He set the hoe down softly, took up his towel, and went to bathe. He came back in about half an hour, but Gobar had still not come. How was he to eat alone? The lad had gone there and lain down. There's that giddy girl of Bhola's, Jhuniya, isn't there. He must be having his fun and jokes with her. Yesterday too he was trailing after her. If they didn't give him the cow, why didn't he come back? Was he going to camp there?

Dhaniya said, "Now what are you standing there for? Gobar will come in the evening."

Hori said nothing more — lest Dhaniya again say something.

Having eaten, he lay down in the shade of the neem.

Rupa came weeping. Bare-bodied, a little loincloth on her, her tousled hair scattered this way and that. She flung herself onto Hori's chest. Her elder sister Sona says — when the cow comes, I'll pat out its dung. Rupa cannot bear this. Where is Sona such a great queen, that she alone should pat all the dung? In what is Rupa less than her? If Sona cooks the bread, does Rupa not scour the pots? If Sona fetches water, does Rupa not carry the rope to the well? Sona comes back swaggering with her filled pitcher. It's Rupa who gathers up the rope and brings it. The two of them pat dung together. If Sona goes to hoe the field, does Rupa not go to graze the goat? Then why should Sona pat the dung alone? How could Rupa bear this injustice? Charmed by her innocence, Hori said, "No — you shall pat the cow's dung! If Sona comes near the cow, drive her off."

Putting her arms around her father's neck, Rupa said, "I'll milk the cow too."

"Yes, yes — if you don't milk her, who else will?"

"She'll be my cow."

"Yes — sixteen annas in the rupee yours."

Pleased, Rupa went off to carry the glad news of her victory to the defeated Sona. The cow will be mine, her milk I'll milk, her dung I'll pat, you'll get nothing.

Sona was in years a young girl, in the build of her body a young woman, and in wit a child — as though her youth pulled her forward and her childhood drew her back. In some things so clever that she could give lessons to graduate young ladies, in some things so green that she lagged even behind infants. A long, plain, but cheerful face, the chin drawn down, in the eyes a kind of contentment — no oil in the hair, no kohl in the eyes, no ornament on the body, as though the burden of the household had pressed her youth down and dwarfed it.

With a jerk of her head she said, "Go on, you pat the dung. When you milk the milk and set it aside, I'll drink it up."

"I'll keep the milk-pot locked in a lock."

"I'll break the lock and take the milk out."

Saying this she set off toward the orchard. The mangoes had ripened to a flush. With the gusts of wind one or two would fall to the ground — shrivelled, yellow, struck by the hot wind; but the children's troop, taking them for windfalls, kept the orchard ringed about. Rupa too fell in behind her sister. Whatever work Sona did, Rupa was sure to do. There was talk afoot of Sona's wedding; of Rupa's wedding no one spoke, and so she herself kept pressing for her wedding. What her bridegroom would be like, what things he would bring, how he would keep her, what he would feed her, what dress him in — of this she would give such an elaborate account that perhaps no boy, hearing it, would agree to marry her.

Evening was coming on. Hori grew so listless that he could not go to hoe cane. He put the bullocks to the trough, gave them fodder and oilcake, and, filling a chillum, began to smoke. Even after weighing out everything on the threshing-floor in this harvest, there was a debt of some three hundred, on which interest of about a hundred rupees kept mounting. From Mangru Sah, five years ago now, he had taken sixty rupees for a bullock; of that he had paid back sixty, but those sixty rupees stood just as they were. From Pandit Datadin he had taken thirty rupees and sown potatoes. The potatoes the thieves dug up and carried off, and in these three years that thirty had become a hundred. Dulari was a widowed shopkeeper-woman who kept a shop of salt, oil and tobacco in the village. At the time of the partition he had had to take forty rupees from her to give to the brothers. Hers too had grown to nearly a hundred, for the interest was an anna in the rupee. Of the rent too twenty-five rupees were still outstanding, and for the day of Dussehra some arrangement had to be made for the money of the auspicious offering. The money for the bamboos had come at a very good time. The problem of the offering would be solved — but who could say. Here, let even a single coin come to hand, and a noise spreads through the village, and the creditors begin clawing from every side. These five rupees he would give for the offering, whatever happened; but two great tasks of his life sat astride his head — the weddings of Gobar and Sona. Even with the most tightly tied hand, less than three hundred would not be spent. From whose house would these three hundred come? How greatly he wished to take not a pice of debt from anyone, to pay every last pie of what was owed; but for all the suffering of every kind that he bore, his neck was never freed. In this way the interest would go on mounting, and one day his house and his land would all be auctioned off; his children would be left homeless and go about begging. When Hori, having got free of his tasks and chores, began to smoke the chillum, this worry would ring him round on all sides like a black wall, out of which he could see no lane of escape. If there was any consolation, it was only this — that this calamity was not on his head alone. Nearly all the peasants were in the same state. Most were in a state even worse. Only three years had passed since Shobha and Hira separated from him, but a burden of four hundred each had loaded itself onto both. Jhinguri farms with two ploughs. He owes something more than a thousand. In Jiawan Mahto's house a beggar cannot even get alms, but there is no end to the debt. Who here is left untouched?

Suddenly Sona and Rupa both came running and said together, "Brother is bringing the cow. The cow in front, brother behind."

Rupa had seen Gobar coming first. The credit of telling this news ought to fall to her. Sona kept making herself an equal sharer — how could she bear that?

Stepping forward, she said, "I saw first. That's why I ran. Sister saw from behind."

Sona could not accept this claim. She said, "Where did you make out brother? You were saying — some cow is coming running. It was I who said — it's brother."

The two of them ran off again toward the orchard, to welcome the cow.

Dhaniya and Hori both began arranging to tie the cow up. Hori said, "Come, let's quickly plant the trough."

Youth had flushed up on Dhaniya's face. "No, first let me dissolve a little flour and jaggery in a dish and set it down. The poor thing must have walked in the sun. She'll be thirsty. You go and plant the trough, I'll do the dissolving."

"There was a bell lying about somewhere. Find it. We'll tie it round her neck."

"Where's Sona gone? Send for a little black thread from Sahuain's shop — the cow is very prone to the evil eye."

"Today the great longing of my heart has been fulfilled."

Dhaniya wished to keep her heart's joy held down. That so great a fortune should not bring with it some new trouble — this fear was setting a tremor through her despairing heart. Looking toward the sky, she said, "The joy of the cow's coming is a joy only if her omen too is good. It rests in God's mind."

It was as though she wished to deceive even God. She wished to show even God that the coming of this cow had not given her so much joy — lest the jealous God, to raise the scale-pan of pleasure higher, send some new calamity.

She was still dissolving the flour when Gobar, bringing the cow with a procession of children, arrived at the door. Hori ran and clasped the cow about the neck. Dhaniya left the flour and quickly tore the black border off an old sari and tied it round the cow's neck.

Hori was gazing at the cow with eyes brimming with reverence, as though the goddess herself in person had set foot in the house. Today God had shown him this day, that his house had been made holy by the feet of the cow. This good fortune! By whose merit and grace, who knew.

Frightened, Dhaniya said, "Why are you standing? Plant the trough in the yard."

"Where's there room in the yard?"

"There's plenty of room."

"I'll plant it outside."

"Don't be mad. You know the way of the village and still play the innocent?"

"Oh, in a yard the size of a hand-span, where will you tie a cow, sister?"

"What you don't know, don't stick your leg into. You haven't read all the learning of the world."

Hori was truly beside himself. The cow was for him not merely an object of devotion and reverence, but living property. With her he wished to add to the glory of his doorway and the honour of his house. He wished that people, seeing the cow tied at the door, would ask — whose house is this? Let people say — Hori Mahto's. Then the bride-seekers too would be impressed by his standing. Tied in the yard, who would see her? Dhaniya, on the contrary, was full of misgiving. She wished to keep the cow hidden behind seven curtains. Could the cow stay all eight watches in a closed room, she would perhaps not let her out. In this way, in every matter, the win was Hori's. He would stand firm on his own side and Dhaniya would have to give way; but today before Dhaniya not one of Hori's points held. Dhaniya was ready to fight. Gobar, Sona and Rupa, the whole house was on Hori's side, but Dhaniya alone defeated them all. Today a strange self-confidence had risen in her, and in Hori a strange meekness.

But how could the show be held back? The cow had not come riding in a litter. How could it be possible for so great a thing to happen in a village and no show be made of it? Whoever heard, dropped all work and ran to see. This was no ordinary country cow. She had come from Bhola's house at eighty rupees. Hori would never give eighty rupees — he must have brought her at fifty or sixty. In the history of the village, the coming of even a fifty- or sixty-rupee cow was an unheard-of thing. Bullocks had come at fifty rupees too, at a hundred too, but what would a peasant be eating that he should spend so great a sum for a cow? It is only the cowherds who have the heart to come counting out fistfuls of rupees. What is a cow — it is the very form of the goddess in person. A line of spectators and critics had formed, and Hori kept running about welcoming them all. So humble, so glad of heart, he had never been.

Pandit Datadin, an old man of seventy, came tapping along on his stick and said with his toothless mouth, "Where are you, Hori — let me too have a little look at your cow! I hear she is very beautiful."

Hori ran and made his obeisance and, savouring within himself the pleasure of a proud delight, led the Pandit with great respect into the yard. The Maharaj looked the cow over with his old experienced eyes — looked at the horns, looked at the udder, looked at the rump — and, filling the eyes hidden beneath his thick white brows with the eagerness of youth, said, "There's no flaw in her, son — the coat, the hair-whorl, all is right. God willing, your fortunes will open up — such good marks she has, why, wonderful! Only let the grain-feed not fall short. Each calf will be worth a hundred."

Diving and bobbing in the ocean of joy, Hori said, "It is all your blessing, elder brother!"

Spitting out the juice of his tobacco-quid, Datadin said, "It is not my blessing, son, it is God's mercy. It is all the Lord's mercy. Did you pay cash money?"

Hori let fly a winged untruth. Finding such a chance to display his prosperity even before his own moneylender, how could he let it slip? When we put a two-cowrie new cap on our head and begin to swagger, when we mount some conveyance for a little while and begin to soar in the sky, then on getting so great a fortune why should his head not climb to the heavens? He said, "Bhola is no such decent man, Maharaj! Cash counted out, fully checked."

By this boast before his own moneylender Hori had indeed done a foolish thing, but no sign of displeasure showed on Datadin's face. How much truth was in this statement could not stay hidden from those dimmed eyes, in which, in place of light, experience sat hidden.

Pleased, he said, "No harm, son, no harm. God will do all good. There are five seers of milk in her, leaving aside for the calf."

Dhaniya at once cut in: "Oh no, Maharaj, where's so much milk. She's grown old, after all. And where is there any grain-feed stored here?"

Looking with knowing eyes, Datadin acknowledged her caution, as though to say, this is the housewife's dharma; boasting is men's work, let them boast. Then in a confidential voice he said, "Don't tie her outside — this much I tell you."

Dhaniya looked at her husband with victorious eyes, as if to say, There, now you'll listen.

She said to Datadin, "No, Maharaj, why would we tie her outside — if God grants, three more cows can be tied in this very yard."

The whole village came to see the cow. Those who did not come were Shobha and Hira, who were his own full brothers. In Hori's heart there was still a soft place for his brothers. Were they to come and look, and be glad, his heart's wish would be fulfilled. Evening fell. Both came back with their watering-buckets. They passed by this very door, but asked nothing.

Fearfully Hori said to Dhaniya, "Neither Shobha came, nor Hira. They can't have heard?"

Dhaniya said, "And who's going to go and call them here?"

"You don't understand the thing. You stay ready to fight. When God has shown us this day, we should walk with bowed heads. A man has as much longing to hear good and ill of himself from the mouths of his own kin as he has not from the mouths of outsiders. Besides, however bad one's brothers, they are still one's brothers. Everyone fights for his share and portion, but the blood is not divided by that. We should call them both and show them, or they'll say — they fetched a cow and didn't even tell us."

Wrinkling her nose, Dhaniya said, "I've told you a hundred times, a thousand times — don't sing your brothers' praises to my face. To hear their names fire breaks out in my body. The whole village heard — won't they have heard? They don't live so far off either. The whole village came to see, only their feet had henna on them — but how could they come? They must be burning that a cow had come to this house. Their chests must be splitting."

The hour for the lamp had come. Dhaniya went and looked — there was no oil in the bottle. Picking up the bottle she went off to fetch oil. Had there been money, she would have sent Rupa; this was to be got on credit, one must say something flattering, do some buttering up, and only then will oil be had on credit.

Hori called Rupa, fondly seated her in his lap, and said, "Go and see whether uncle Hira has come back or not. Look in at uncle Shobha's too. Say — father has called you. If they won't come, catch them by the hand and drag them along."

Rupa said sulkily, "Little aunt scolds me."

"And what have you got to do with aunt! And Shobha's wife loves you, doesn't she?"

"Uncle Shobha teases me. I won't go."

"What does he say — tell me?"

"He teases."

"What does he say to tease you?"

"He says, I've caught a rat for you. Take it, roast it and eat it."

There was a tickling deep within Hori.

"Why don't you say — you eat it first, then I'll eat?"

"Mother forbids me. She says, don't go to those people's house."

"Are you Mother's daughter or father's?"

Putting her arms round his neck Rupa said, "Mother's," and began to laugh.

"Then get down out of my lap. Today I won't feed you from my platter."

In the house there was only the one bell-metal platter. Hori ate from that very platter. To win the honour of eating from the platter, Rupa ate with Hori. How could she give up that honour? Springing up she said, "All right, yours."

"Then will you obey me, or Mother?"

"You."

"Then go and drag Hira and Shobha along."

"And what if Mother gets cross?"

"Who's going to go and tell Mother."

Rupa went skipping off to Hira's house. The web of spite ensnares only the big fishes. Little fishes either do not get caught in it at all, or slip out at once. For them that deadly net is a plaything, not a thing of fear. Hori had stopped speaking to his brothers, but Rupa came and went in both houses. What enmity has a child.

But Rupa had only just got out of the house when she met Dhaniya coming with the oil. She asked, "Where are you off to at lamp-lighting time — come home."

Rupa could not hold back the temptation of pleasing her mother.

Dhaniya scolded, "Come home — there's no one to be called."

Holding Rupa by the hand she came home and said to Hori, "I've told you a thousand times, don't send my children to anyone's house. If someone worked some charm or spell, would I take you up and lick you? If you've such great love for them, why don't you go yourself? It seems your belly's not full yet."

Hori was setting the trough in place. With his hands smeared with mud, acting the innocent, he said, "What is it that you're put out about, sister? It doesn't look well, to bark at the wind like a blind dog."

Dhaniya had oil to pour into the lamp. Just now she did not wish to swell the quarrel. Rupa too went off and joined the children.

More than a watch of the night had passed. The trough had been set in place. Fodder and oilcake had been put in. The cow sat low-spirited and downcast, like a bride newly come to her in-laws' house. She did not even put her mouth into the trough. Hori and Gobar, having eaten, brought her half their own rounds of bread, but she did not even sniff at them. But this was no new thing. Animals too very often feel the grief of being parted from home.

When Hori sat on the cot outside smoking the chillum, the memory of his brothers came again. No — on this auspicious occasion he could not slight his brothers. His heart, on getting this great fortune, had grown large. So what if he had separated from his brothers? He was not their enemy. Had this very cow come three years ago, all of them would have had an equal right over her. And tomorrow, when this very cow begins to give milk, would he not send milk to his brothers' houses, or send curds? Such was not his dharma. If his brothers wished him ill, why should he wish them ill? Each man's own deeds go with each man.

He set the coconut-hookah against the leg of the cot and set off toward Hira's house. Shobha's house too was that way. Both lay each at his own door. It was quite dark. Neither of them caught sight of Hori. Some talk was going on between the two. Hori paused and began to listen to their talk. Where is the man who, hearing himself spoken of, could let it pass?

Hira said, "As long as we were together, not even a goat was bought. Now a hill cow is being bought. By eating up a brother's right, I've never seen anyone thrive and prosper."

Shobha said, "You're doing a wrong here, Hira! Brother gave an account of every single pice. This I'll never accept — that he kept the earlier earnings hidden."

"Accept it or not, this is the earlier earnings."

"Well then, where did this money come from? Where did this shower of gold rain down? We have just as many fields too. We have just the same yield too. Then why have we not a cowrie for a shroud, and a new cow comes to his house?"

"He must have brought her on credit."

"Bhola is not a man to give on credit."

"Be that as it may, the cow is very beautiful. As Gobar was leading her along, I saw her on the road."

"Wealth gained by dishonesty goes the way it comes. God willing, the cow will not stay long in that house."

Hori could listen no longer. He had come to his brothers, forgetting bygone things, his heart full of affection and goodwill. This blow had, as it were, bored a hole in his heart, and that flow of warm feeling could in no way stay within it. He could no longer stop that stream by stuffing it with rags and tatters. A boiling rose in his breast that he should answer this slur that very moment, but for fear of the matter swelling he held his tongue. If his intentions are clean, no one can do anything. Before God he is blameless. He cares nothing for others. He turned back on his heels. And he began to smoke the burnt-out tobacco. But it was as though that poison spread moment by moment through his veins. He tried to fall asleep, but no sleep came. He went to the bullocks and began to stroke them — the poison did not subside. He filled a second chillum, but there was no relish in that either. It was as if the poison had overrun his consciousness. As consciousness becomes one-sided in intoxication, as spreading water, flowing in one direction, gathers force, just such was the state of his mind. In that very state of frenzy he went inside. The door was still open. In a corner of the yard, lying on a mat, Dhaniya was having her body pressed by Sona, and Rupa, who every day fell asleep the moment evening came, today stood stroking the cow's face. Hori went and untied the cow from the stake and led her toward the door. He had at that very moment firmly resolved to deliver the cow to Bhola's house. With so great a stigma upon his head, he could no longer keep the cow in the house. By no means.

Dhaniya asked, "Where are you taking her at night?"

Hori, taking a step forward, said, "I'm taking her to Bhola's house. I'll return her."

Dhaniya was astonished. Rising, she came and stood before him and said, "Why will you return her? Did you bring her only to return her?"

"Yes, in returning her lies our safety."

"But what is the matter — you brought her with such longing, and now you're going to return her? Is Bhola asking for the money?"

"No — when did Bhola come here?"

"Then what is the matter?"

"What will you do by asking?"

Dhaniya darted forward and snatched the tether-rope from his hand. Her nimble wits had, as it were, caught a bird in flight. She said, "If you're afraid of your brothers, then go and fall at their feet. I'm afraid of no one. If anyone's chest splits to see us prospering, then let it split — I don't care."

In a humble voice Hori said, "Speak softly, Maharani! If someone hears, they'll say — these people are fighting at this hour of the night! What have I heard with my own ears — how would you know! There's talk going on here that at the time of partition I held back money and cheated my brothers, and this same money is now coming out."

"Hira must be saying it?"

"The whole village is saying it. Why should I give Hira a bad name?"

"The whole village is not saying it — Hira alone is saying it. I'll go right now and ask him how many rupees your father left when he died. We've been ruined for the sake of those beard-burners. We laid our whole life in the dust, raised and reared them into great bullocks, and now we're the dishonest ones. I tell you plainly — if the cow goes out of the house, there'll be a calamity. Yes, we held back the money, we pocketed it, pocketed it right in the middle of the field. I say it with a beat of the drum — I hid pots full of gold mohurs. Let Hira and Shobha and the world do what they wish. Why should we not keep the money? Did we not marry off two great bullocks, did we not bring home their brides?"

Hori was flustered. Dhaniya snatched the tether-rope from his hand and, tying the cow to the stake, set off toward the door. Hori tried to catch hold of her, but she had already gone outside. He sat down where he was, holding his head. He did not wish to make a scene by trying to catch her outside. He knew Dhaniya's anger well. When she flared up, she became a very Chandi. Beat her, cut her, she would not listen — but Hira too was a great hot-head; if he should let his hand fly, it would be doomsday itself. No, Hira is not such a fool. From where to where I've lit this fire! He began to feel anger at himself. Had he kept the matter in his heart, why would this brawl have arisen. Suddenly Dhaniya's harsh voice came to his ears. Hira's roar too could be heard. Then Punni's sharp tongue too pricked his ears. Suddenly he remembered Gobar. He sprang outside and looked at his cot. Gobar was not there. Disaster had struck. Gobar too had got there. Now there was no safety. He has new blood — there's no telling what he might do; but how was Hori to go there? Hira would say, you yourself don't speak — you went and sent this witch to fight. The uproar grew fiercer moment by moment. The whole village had been wakened. It seemed a fire had broken out somewhere, and people, rising from their cots, were running to put it out.

This long while he sat holding himself in check. Then he could hold out no longer. Anger came over Dhaniya. Why did she go charging off to fight? In his own house a man says heaven knows what about whom. Until someone says a thing to one's face, one should take it that he has said nothing. Hori's peasant nature fled from quarrels. To swallow four words and bear it is far better than to have strife among one's own. If there should be a beating, then it's the police-post and the police, you go about under bond, you beseech everyone, you eat the dust of the courts, your farming and tillage go to hell. Over Hira he had no power, but Dhaniya at least he could drag away by force. At most she would hurl abuse, would sulk for a day or two — the police-post and the police would not come of it. He went and stood at Hira's door, at the farthest spot, behind the cover of a wall. Like a general, he wished to understand the situation well before coming onto the field. If his own side was winning, there was no need to speak; if it was losing, he would leap in at once. He saw that fifty-odd men had gathered there. Pandit Datadin, Lala Pateshwari, the two Thakurs, who were the doers and movers of the village, all had come. Dhaniya's scale-pan was growing light. Her fierceness was turning public opinion against her. She was not skilled in the strategy of battle. In her anger she was hurling such scorching, cutting words that people's sympathy was drifting away from her.

She was roaring — "Why do you burn at the sight of us? Why does your chest split at the sight of us? We raised and reared you into grown men — is this its reward? Had we not raised you, you'd be begging somewhere today. You'd not have found even the shade of a cane-stalk."

To Hori these words seemed harsher than they need have been. To raise and rear his brothers had been his dharma. The property of their share had been in his hands. How could he not raise and rear them? Would he have been left fit to show his face anywhere in the world?

Hira answered, "We know nothing of anyone. In your house we ate a morsel like dogs and worked day-long days. We never even knew what childhood and youth were like. We picked dry dung day-long days. And even then you'd not give us bread without first dealing out ten curses. Falling into the hands of a she-demon like you, our life turned bitter."

Dhaniya grew fiercer still — "Mind your tongue, or I'll pull it out. Your wife will be the she-demon. What snare are you in, you crop-head, you morsel-eater, you traitor!"

Datadin cut in: "Why do you speak such bitter words, Dhaniya? It is a woman's dharma to bear and forbear. He is a boor — why do you bandy words with him?"

Lala Pateshwari the patwari supported him: "The answer to a word is a word, not abuse. You raised and reared him in his childhood, but why do you forget that his property was in your hands?"

Dhaniya understood that all of them, joined together, wished to bring her low. She made herself ready to fight on four fronts — "All right, let it be, Lala! I know every one of you. I've spent twenty years living in this village. I know every nerve of every one of you. I'm hurling abuse, he's raining flowers — why is that?"

Dulari the shopkeeper-woman poured ghee on the fire — "After all she's a great loose-tongued woman, brother! She bandies words with her man. It's only because Hori is the man he is, that the marriage gets along. Were it another man, it would not have lasted a single day."

Had Hira softened just a little at this moment, his would have been the win, but hearing these abuses he went beside himself. Seeing the others on his side, he was growing somewhat bold. Tearing his throat he said, "Get out from my door, or I'll talk to you with my shoes. I'll grip your hair and tear it out. She hurls abuse, the witch! She's grown proud of her son. Blood..."

The dice turned over. Hori's blood boiled up. It was as though a spark had fallen into gunpowder. Coming forward he said, "All right, enough, now be quiet, Hira — I can't bear to hear any more now. What shall I say to this woman! When dust gets on my back, it is through her. Heaven knows why one can't keep silent with her."

From all sides a shower fell on Hira. Datadin called him shameless — Pateshwari made him out a ruffian, Jhinguri Singh gave him the title of devil. Dulari the shopkeeper-woman called him an unworthy son. One unruly word had lightened Dhaniya's scale-pan. Another fierce word had landed Hira in the ditch. And Hori's measured speech filled what little gap remained.

Hira drew himself in. The whole village had turned against him. Now his safety lay only in keeping quiet. Even in the intoxication of anger, this much sense was left in him.

Dhaniya's heart grew twice its size. She said to Hori, "Hear it with your ears open. You die for your brothers. These are brothers — may such a brother never see one's face. He'll beat me with shoes. I fed him, gave him to drink..."

Hori snapped, "Why have you begun your jabbering again! Why don't you go home?"

Dhaniya sat down on the ground and said in an anguished voice, "Now I'll go only after taking his shoes. Let me just see his manliness. Where is Gobar? When else will he be of use? You're seeing it, son — your mother is being beaten with shoes!"

By thus lamenting she set Hori's anger too, along with her own, into action. By blowing and blowing on the fire she raised a flame in it. Hira drew back as if defeated. Punni was pulling him by the hand toward the house. Suddenly Dhaniya, springing like a lioness, gave Hira so hard a shove that he fell down with a thud, and she said, "Where are you off to — beat me with shoes, go on, beat me with shoes, let me see your manliness!"

Hori ran and caught her hand and, dragging her, led her off home.