Chapter 10

No trace of Hira was found, and the days kept passing. Hori ran about as much as he could; then, defeated, he gave up. The farming had to be seen to as well. A lone man — how much could he do? And now there was a greater worry than his own farming — Punia's farming. Punia, now grown solitary, had become even more ferocious. Hori's days now went in flattering her. While Hira was there, he kept Punia in check. With his going, there was no longer any restraint on Punia. Hori's joint tenancy was with Hira. Punia was a helpless woman. Why should he wrangle with her? And Punia was acquainted with his nature and made him pay well for his decency. The one mercy was that the agent did not press Punia hard for the arrears of rent — he was satisfied with a small offering. Otherwise Hori was ready to take a loan to clear her arrears along with his own. In the month of Sawan there was such a rush for the transplanting of paddy that no labourers could be had, and Hori could not transplant paddy in his own fields; but how could the transplanting in Punia's fields not be done? Hori worked till a watch of the night to transplant her paddy. Now it was Hori who was her protector! If any hardship came to Punia, the world would laugh at him. The result was that very little grain came from Hori's autumn crop, and in Punia's storehouse there was no room left to keep the paddy.

Between Hori and Dhaniya there had been a constant estrangement from that day. With Gobar too Hori's speech was cut off. Mother and son together seemed to have boycotted him. He had become a stranger in his own house. The wretched plight that befalls those who ride two boats was befalling him. In the village too he no longer had the same regard. Dhaniya, by her courage, had won the leadership not only of the women but of the men as well. For months this episode was much talked about in the surrounding areas. It even came to take on a supernatural form — "Dhaniya is her name, sir. The goddess Bhavani is her chosen deity. The moment the daroga put handcuffs on her man's wrist, Dhaniya invoked Bhavani. Bhavani descended into her. Then such power came into her that with one jerk she broke her husband's handcuffs and seized the daroga's moustache and tore it off, then climbed onto his chest. When the daroga begged hard, only then did she let him go." For some days people kept coming to have darshan of Dhaniya. That matter had now grown old, but in the village Dhaniya's standing had risen greatly. There was a marvellous courage in her, and at need she could cut off the ears even of men.

But slowly a change was taking place in Dhaniya. Even seeing Hori busy with Punia's farming, she said nothing. And this was not because she had become indifferent to Hori, but rather because she too now felt pity for Punia. Hira's running away from home was satisfaction enough for her craving for revenge.

In the meantime Hori began to run a fever. The seasonal fever had already spread. Hori fell into its grip. And the fever that came after several years cleared away all the arrears. For a month Hori lay on his cot. This illness not only crushed Hori, it also won a victory over Dhaniya. When a husband is dying, what enmity can there be against him? In such a state one bears no enmity even towards enemies — he is, after all, her own husband. However bad he may be, twenty-five years of life have been spent with him; if she has known joy, it has been with him, if she has borne sorrow, it has been with him. Now, whether he be good or bad, he is hers. The cursed man beat me before everyone, drained my honour before the whole village; but since then how ashamed he is — he doesn't even look me in the face. When he comes to eat, he eats with bowed head and gets up, afraid that I may say something.

When Hori recovered, husband and wife had become reconciled.

One day Dhaniya said, "How did you get into such a rage? However angry I may be with you, I won't raise a hand."

Hori said, abashed, "Don't speak of it now, Dhaniya. Some demon had got hold of me. How much grief it has caused me, I alone know."

"And if I too had drowned myself in rage!"

"Then would I have stayed sitting to weep? My corpse too would have gone with yours onto the pyre."

"Now hush, don't talk such pointless talk."

"The cow is gone, and gone; she left a calamity loaded on my head. The worry of Punia is killing me."

"That's just why they say — may God not make anyone the eldest of a house. No one laughs at the small. Good and ill all fall on the heads of the elders."

It was the days of Magh. The light winter rains had set in. A pitch-black darkness had spread. First the cold of winter, and on top of it the rain of Magh. A silence like death lay over everything. One could not see even the darkness itself. Hori, having eaten his food, lay in his hut on the bank of Punia's pea field. He wished he could forget the cold and fall asleep, but a worn-out blanket and a patched quilted jacket and the wet straw from the gusts of cold wind — his sleep had not the courage to face so many enemies. Today even tobacco had not been available, with which he might have diverted his mind. He had brought a dung-cake glowing, but that too went out in the cold. Drawing his cracked, chapped feet into his belly and pressing his hands between his thighs and hiding his face in the blanket, he was trying to warm himself with his own warm breath. Five years ago this quilted jacket had been made. Dhaniya had got it made almost by force — that one time he had bought cloth from a Kabuli, over which there had been so much trouble, so many curses to be swallowed. And this blanket was older than his own birth. In childhood he had slept in it with his father; in youth, taking Gobar in it, his winters had passed in this blanket; and in old age today that same old blanket was his companion — but it was no longer the tooth that chews food, it was the aching tooth. Such a day had never come in his life that, after paying the rent and the moneylender, anything was ever left over. And out of nowhere this new entanglement had fallen on him. If he didn't do it, the world would laugh; if he did it, this misgiving would remain about what people were saying. Everyone thought he was robbing Punia, filling his own house with all her produce. Far from there being any gratitude, the opposite — a stigma was being attached. And on the other side Bhola had several times reminded him to arrange a marriage for him somewhere — things couldn't go on now. Sobha had told him several times that Punia's intentions towards him were not good. Let them not be. Punia's household he would have to manage anyway, whether he managed it laughing or weeping.

Dhaniya's heart too was not yet cleared. There was still a rancour lingering in her mind. I should not have beaten her before everyone. To beat one with whom twenty-five years have passed — and before the whole village — that was my baseness; but Dhaniya too left nothing wanting in pulling down my honour. How she slips past me, sidling off, as though there had never been any acquaintance. When she has to say something, she has it said through Sona or Rupa. I see her sari is torn, but yesterday when she did speak to me, it was about Sona's sari — she did not even mention her own. Sona's sari can still do for a month or two with patches sewn on. Her own sari, what with the patches, has become an absolute rag of tatters. And then, who is it that's coaxing her, after all? If I myself kept saying two or four pleasing words to her, who would be made small by it? This is all it would amount to — she'd have me beg her a little, say two or four cutting things, and would that have wounded me? But grown old, I still remained a fool. Say what you will, it's this illness coming on that softened her, otherwise who knows how long she'd have kept her face puffed up.

And the words that had passed between the two of them today were like food to a hungry man. She had spoken from the heart, and Hori had been overwhelmed. He longed to lay his head on her feet and say — if I have beaten you, then here, I bow my head, beat me as much as you wish, abuse me with as many curses as you wish.

Suddenly he heard the jingle of bangles in front of his hut. He listened, straining his ears. Yes, someone was there. It must be the patwari's daughter, or else the pandit's wife. She must have come to pull up peas. Who knows why these people's intentions are so foul. They dress better than the whole village. They eat better than the whole village, thousands of rupees are buried in their houses, they lend and trade, they charge a rupee and a quarter for a rupee, they take bribes, they take commissions, they keep grinding all and sundry by raising one dispute after another — and still their intentions are like this! As the father, so will the offspring be. And they don't come themselves, they send the women. If I were to get up now and seize her hand, would her honour survive? Low they may be called low, but those who are high, their minds are even lower. And it isn't possible to seize hold of a woman either; with one's eyes open one has to swallow the fly. Pull them up, brother, as many as your heart desires. Take it that I am not here. The great may not keep their own decency, but the small must keep theirs for them.

But no — this was Dhaniya. She was calling out.

Dhaniya called, "Asleep, or awake?"

Hori sprang up at once and came out of the hut. Today it seemed the goddess was pleased — she had come to grant him a boon. Yet at the same time, her coming so late at night, in this drizzle and cold and frost, was a thing of misgiving too. Surely some matter or other had arisen.

He said, "I can't even sleep for the cold — how did you come out in this cold and frost? Is all well?"

"Yes, all is well."

"Why didn't you send Gobar to call me?"

Dhaniya gave no answer. Coming into the hut and sitting down on the straw, she said, "Gobar has blackened our faces. What's the use of asking what he's done! The very thing I feared has come to pass."

"What happened? Did he get into a fight with someone?"

"How am I to know what he's done — come and ask that very widow."

"Which widow? What are you saying — you haven't gone mad, have you?"

"Yes, why shouldn't I go mad? The thing that's happened is enough to make one's chest split in two!"

A long line of light entered the sky of Hori's mind.

"Why don't you say it plainly? Which widow are you talking about?"

"That very Jhuniya — who else!"

"What — has Jhuniya come here?"

"Where else would she go, with no one to ask after her?"

"Isn't Gobar at home?"

"There's no trace of Gobar. Who knows where he's run off to. She's five months gone with child."

Hori understood everything. He had certainly had his suspicions, seeing Gobar go again and again to the cowherds' quarter, but he had not thought him such a sly fox. There is some flirtatiousness in young men — there was nothing new in that. But that the ball of cotton he had watched float in the blue sky on a gust of wind, and only smiled, would spread over the whole sky and so darken his path — that not even a god could have known. Gobar such a libertine! That simple rustic, whom he had still thought a child! But he was not worried about the feast, he had no fear of the panchayat, nor was he worried about how Jhuniya would stay in the house. His worry was about Gobar. The boy was bashful, raw, self-respecting — he might commit some folly.

He said, alarmed, "Did Jhuniya say anything? No — where has Gobar gone? He must have told her before going?"

Dhaniya said irritably, "Your wits have gone to graze. His darling is sitting right here — where would he run off to? He must be hidden somewhere here. He's no infant that he'd get lost. My worry is about this ill-faced Jhuniya — what to do with her? In my house I won't let her stay even a moment. The very day he went to fetch the cow, the ogling started between the two of them. If she hadn't fallen pregnant, the secret wouldn't have come out even now. But once she fell pregnant, Jhuniya began to panic. She started saying, take me away somewhere. Gobar kept putting it off. To take a woman along — where to go, he could think of nothing. At last, when today she fastened herself on him, that he must take her away from there or she'd give up her life, then he said — come and stay in my house, no one will say anything, I'll talk Mother round. This she-donkey set off with him. For some way he kept walking ahead, then who knows where he slipped off to. She kept standing here calling him. When the night grew deep and he didn't return, she came running here. I told her plainly — as you've done, so eat the fruit of it. The witch has gone and ruined my boy. Since then she's been sitting and weeping. She won't even get up. She says, with what face shall I go to my own home. From such offspring God had better keep one barren — that's better. By the time it's dawn, a cawing will start up through the whole village. I feel like swallowing poison. I tell you plainly, I won't keep her in my house. If Gobar wants to keep her, let him keep her on his own head. In my house there is no room for such hussies, and if you so much as cut in, then either you'll stay or I'll stay."

Hori said, "You couldn't manage it. You shouldn't have let her into the house at all."

"I said everything and gave up. She just won't budge. She's planted herself with a dharna."

"All right, come, let me see how she doesn't get up. I'll drag her out by force."

"That cursed Bhola was watching all of it, but sat tight-lipped. Even fathers are such shameless creatures."

"What did he know of what khichri was cooking between the two of them?"

"Why didn't he know? Gobar hung about day and night — were his eyes put out? He ought to have thought — why does the fellow keep running here?"

"Come, I'll ask Jhuniya about it!"

The two came out of the hut and started towards the village. Hori said, "Five gharis of night must have passed."

Dhaniya said, "Yes, what else; but how dead the sleep that's fallen! If a thief came, he could rob the whole village."

"Thieves don't come to such villages. They go to the houses of the rich."

Dhaniya halted, caught Hori's hand and said, "Look, don't raise an uproar, or the whole village will wake and the word will spread."

Hori said in a hard voice, "I know nothing of all that. I'll seize her hand and drag her out and put her beyond the village. The matter has to come out one day — then why not today? Why did she come to my house? Let her go where Gobar is. When she did wickedness with him, did she do it after asking us?"

Dhaniya again caught his hand and said softly, "If you grab her hand she'll scream."

"Then let her scream."

"But so late at night, in this dark and silence, where would she go — think of that."

"Let her go where her kin are. What claim has she on our house?"

"Yes, but so late at night it is not right to turn her out of the house. She is heavy with child; if she gets some fright, things will go worse. In such a condition one cannot manage to do anything at all!"

"What do we care, whether she lives or dies. Let her go where she pleases. Why should I smear my face with soot? I'll throw Gobar out of the house too."

Dhaniya said with grave concern, "The soot that was to be smeared has already been smeared. She cannot be cast off now while she lives. Gobar has sunk the boat."

"Not Gobar — it's she who sank it. He was a child. He fell into her clutches."

"Whoever sank it, it's sunk now."

The two reached the front of the door. Suddenly Dhaniya put her arm around Hori's neck and said, "Look, I lay my oath on you — do not raise a hand against her. She is weeping of her own accord. If her fate were not crooked, why would this day have come at all?"

Hori's eyes grew moist. This motherly love of Dhaniya's, even in that darkness, began to lend a beauty, like a lamp, to his form worn out with care. In the hearts of both, it seemed, their bygone youth woke to life. To Hori, even in this woman past her youth, there appeared that same soft-hearted girl who had entered his life twenty-five years ago. In that embrace there was such fathomless tenderness, that gathered into itself all stains, all obstacles, and all the deep-rooted traditions.

The two came to the door and peered inside through the chink of the doors. On the lamp-stand an oil-saucer was burning, and in its dim light Jhuniya, her head on her knees, her face towards the door, was searching in the darkness for that joy which a moment before had shown its enchanting form and then vanished. Stricken by what had come upon her, wounded by the arrows of taunts, and pained by the blows of life, she had been roaming about seeking the shade of some tree, and had found a mansion in whose shelter she had thought herself safe and happy; but today that mansion, with all its joy and luxury, had vanished like Aladdin's palace, and the future stood like some terrible monster ready to devour her.

All at once, seeing the door open and Hori coming in, she rose trembling with fear and, falling at Hori's feet and weeping, said, "Dada, now I have no other refuge than you. Beat me, hack me, but do not drive me away from your door."

Hori, bending down and passing his hand over her back, said in a voice full of affection, "Don't be afraid, daughter, don't be afraid. It is your house, it is your door, we are your own. Live here at ease. As you are Bhola's daughter, so you are my daughter too. As long as we live, do not worry about anything. While we are here, no one can look at you askance. Whatever feast and dues there are, we shall all bear it — keep your mind at rest."

Jhuniya, finding consolation, clung even more tightly to Hori's feet and said, "Dada, now you are my father, and Mother, you are my mother. I am orphaned. Give me shelter, or my uncle and brother will eat me raw."

Dhaniya could no longer hold back the rush of her compassion. She said, "Come, sit inside the house — I'll deal with the uncle and the brother. It is not their rule alone in the world. At most, they'll take back their own ornaments. Pull them off and throw them away."

Only a short while before, in the heat of her anger, Dhaniya had called Jhuniya a whore and a stained creature and an ill-faced one — who knows what else she had not said. She had been about to drive her from the house with a broom. Now, when Jhuniya heard these words full of affection, forgiveness and reassurance, she let go of Hori's feet and clung to Dhaniya's feet, and that same chaste woman, who had never even looked her fill at any man but Hori, took this sinful creature to her bosom, was wiping her tears and quieting her terrified heart with soft words, as a bird sits hiding her chick beneath her wings.

Hori signalled to Dhaniya to give her something to eat and drink, and asked Jhuniya, "Tell me, daughter, do you know anything — where has Gobar gone?"

Jhuniya said, sobbing, "He told me nothing. On my account, upon you..." — and as she said this, her voice drowned in tears.

Hori could not hide his agitation.

"When you saw him today, was he at all troubled?"

"He was talking and laughing. What was in his heart, God knows."

"What does your heart say — is he here in the village, or has he gone off somewhere outside?"

"I have a misgiving — he has gone somewhere outside."

"That is what my heart says too. What folly he has done. We were not his enemies. When a thing has happened, whether for good or ill, it has to be carried through. By running off like this he has thrown our lives into calamity."

Dhaniya, taking Jhuniya's hand and leading her inside, said, "A coward, that's what he is! Whose arm one has taken, one should see it through — not blacken one's face and run away. Now if he comes, I won't let him set foot in the house."

Hori lay down right there on the straw. Where has Gobar gone? This question began to circle in the sky of his heart like some bird.