Chapter 11

Such an extraordinary affair was bound to set the village astir, and astir it remained for months. Both of Jhuniya's brothers roamed about with cudgels, hunting for Gobar. Bhola swore that he would never again look upon Jhuniya's face, nor upon this village. The talk he had had with Hori about a marriage for himself was now broken off. Now he would take the price of his cow, and in cash, and if there were any delay in it he would file a suit against Hori and have his house and home auctioned away. The villagers cast Hori out of the caste. No one smoked his hookah, no one drank water from his house. There had been some talk of cutting off his water, but everyone had already seen Dhaniya in her Chandi-like fury, so no one had the courage to come forward. Dhaniya had declared, loud enough for all to hear, that if anyone stopped her from fetching water she would mingle her blood with theirs. That challenge turned everyone's bile to water. Most wretched of all was Jhuniya, on whose account all this uproar had broken loose, and the fact that no word or trace of Gobar could be found made her grief still more anguished. All day she lay hidden in the house, her face covered. If she went out, such a hail of verbal arrows fell on her from every side that survival became difficult. All day she busied herself with the work of the house, and whenever she found a moment, she wept. She trembled constantly with the fear that Dhaniya might say something. She could not cook her food alone, since no one would eat from her hand, but all the rest of the work she had taken upon herself. Wherever four men and women gathered in the village, this scandal was the talk.

One day Dhaniya was coming back from the market when she met Pandit Datadin on the road. Dhaniya lowered her head and wished to slip past sideways, but how could Pandit-ji, having found an occasion to torment her, ever let it slip? Torment her he did. "Has any news or word of Gobar come or not, Dhaniya? What an unworthy son he turned out to be, ruining the whole honour of the house."

The very same thoughts had been passing through Dhaniya's own mind. With a dejected heart she said, "When evil days come, Baba, a man's wits desert him — what more shall I say?"

Datadin said, "You should never have kept that wicked girl in the house. When a fly falls into milk, a man picks it out and throws it away and drinks the milk. Think how much disgrace and ridicule there is. If that whore had not been in the house, none of this would have happened. Such lapses are always happening with boys. Until you give the brotherhood a feast of rice and the Brahmins a banquet, how will you be redeemed? If you had not kept her in the house, nothing would have come of it. Hori is a fool to begin with — but how did you let yourself be deceived?"

Datadin's son Matadin was entangled with a chamar woman. The whole village knew it, yet he wore the sacred mark on his forehead, read the scriptures, recited the Bhagavata, performed religious rites. There was not the slightest diminution of his prestige. Each day, by bathing and worship, he atoned for his sins. Dhaniya knew that this whole calamity had come about precisely through her giving Jhuniya shelter. Somehow pity had overcome her — had she turned Jhuniya out that very night, why would there have been such mockery? But there was also the fear: where else, then, but the river or the well would there have been any refuge for her? By paying the price of one life — no, of two lives — how could she have guarded her own honour? And the child in Jhuniya's womb — was it not a piece of Dhaniya's own heart? For fear of ridicule, how could she have taken its life? And then Jhuniya's meekness and humility kept disarming her too. She would come from outside burning with rage, but the moment Jhuniya brought and set down a lota of water and began to press her feet, her anger turned to water. The poor girl was already crushed by her own shame and sorrow — what more could she be crushed by? Why strike one already dead?

In a sharp voice she said, "We do not hold the honour of our family so dear, Maharaj, that we would commit murder for its sake. She may not be a wedded wife, but it is my son who took her by the arm. With what face could I have turned her out? The great and mighty do the very same thing, but no one says a word to them, no stain ever touches them. The very same thing the small folk do, and their honour is ruined, their noses are cut off. To the great, their nose must be dearer than another's life — to us, our nose is not so very dear."

Datadin was not a creature to admit defeat. He was the Narad of this village. To carry what was said here to there, and what was said there to here — that was his trade. Steal he did not, for there was peril to life in that, but when the time came to divide the spoils of theft, he was sure to be present. He never let dust settle on his back. He had never to this day paid a single pie of rent to the landlord; if a distraint came, he would go off to throw himself into a well — Nokheram could do nothing with him — but he lent money to the tenants on interest. If some woman wanted ornaments made, Datadin was at hand to serve her. He took great delight in arranging marriages — he got fame from it, and offerings too. In illness he provided medicine and treatment, and charms and exorcism as well, whatever the patient wished. And so skilled was he in company that he became young among the young, a child among children, and old among the old. He was a friend of the thief and a friend of the saint alike. No one in the village trusted him, yet there was such an attraction in his speech that people, deceived by him again and again, still went and took refuge with him.

Shaking his head and his beard, he said, "That is rightly said, Dhaniya! That is indeed the dharma of the righteous, but the customs of the world must somehow be observed."

In the same way one day Lala Pateshwari teased Hori. He was famed in the village as a man of piety. Every full-moon day he listened to the recitation of the Satyanarayan story, but, being the patwari, he had fields ploughed by forced labour, had irrigation done by forced labour, and, by setting one tenant against another, pocketed sums of money. The whole village trembled before him. By lending the poor loans of ten and five rupees, he had built up property worth several thousand. He would take the produce of the harvest from the tenants and present it to the underlings of the court and the police. By this he had a good standing throughout the district. If there was anyone who had not fallen into his clutches, it was Inspector Ganda Singh, who had lately come to the district. He was charitable too. In the fever season he earned merit by distributing government quinine; if anyone was sick, he was sure to go and ask after his welfare. He settled small disputes among themselves. At weddings he saved people by lending his palanquin, his carpets, and the equipment for the gatherings. He never let an opportunity slip, but whoever's salt he ate, his work he also did.

He said, "What is this disease you have taken on, Hori?"

Hori turned round and asked, "What did you say, Lala? I did not hear."

Pateshwari, lengthening his steps from behind, drew level and said, "I was only saying — has your wisdom gone to graze grass along with Dhaniya's? Why don't you send Jhuniya off to her father's house — you are making yourself a laughing-stock for nothing. Heaven knows whose child she has come carrying, and you have settled her in the house. You have two daughters of your own waiting to be married — think, how will your boat reach the shore?"

Hori had grown weary of hearing such criticisms and such good wishes. Vexed, he said, "I understand all this, Lala. But you yourself tell me — what am I to do? If I turn Jhuniya out, will Bhola keep her? If he is willing, this very day I will deliver her to his house. If you can make him willing, I will be grateful to you my whole life long — but there his two sons are itching to commit murder. So how can I turn her out? In the first place she fell in with a worthless fellow, who took her by the arm and then betrayed her. And if I too turn her out, in this condition she will not even be able to do hard labour for hire. If she goes off somewhere and drowns herself, whose will be the crime? As for the daughters' marriages — God is the master. When the time comes, some way or other will surely open up. A daughter in our brotherhood has never to this day remained unwed. For fear of the brotherhood I cannot do the work of a murderer."

Hori was a man of meek disposition. He always walked with his head bowed and swallowed four hard words. Apart from Hira, no one in the village wished him ill, but how could society endure so great a wrong? And look at his obstinacy — even when reasoned with, he would not be reasoned with. Husband and wife both seemed to be flinging a challenge at society — let us see what anyone can do to us. Then society too would show that those who broke its bounds could not sleep the sleep of peace.

That very night a meeting of the village's arbiters was held to deliberate on this problem.

Datadin said, "It is not my habit to slander anyone. What manner of evil deeds do not happen in the world — what concern is it of mine? But that widow Dhaniya was itching to quarrel with me. With four pice in her hand from holding back her brothers-in-law's share, what else will occur to her now but the crooked path? A low caste — wherever it eats its fill of bread it begins to walk crooked. That is why the scriptures say: a low caste is better kicked."

Pateshwari said, drawing a pull on his coconut hookah, "That is just the wickedness in them — they see four pice and their eyes change. Today Hori showed me such arrogance that I was left with my face fallen. Heaven knows what he thinks himself to be. Now consider — what fruit will this injustice bear in the village? Seeing Jhuniya, will the hearts of other widows be emboldened or not? Today it happened in Bhola's house. Tomorrow it will happen in yours and mine. Society runs on the strength of fear. Let the goad of society once depart, and then see what manner of wrongs begin in the world."

Jhinguri Singh was the husband of two wives. His first wife had died, leaving five sons and daughters. At that time his age was about forty-five, but he married a second time, and when no child came of her, he went and married a third. Now his age was fifty, and two young wives sat in his house. All manner of things were being said about both of them, but for fear of the Thakur Sahib no one could say anything — and where, too, was the opportunity to say it? Under cover of a husband, everything is permissible. The misery belongs to her who has no cover. The Thakur Sahib kept a very harsh rule over his women, and he was proud that no one would have seen the veiled faces of his wives. But what happens behind the veil — what did he know of that?

He said, "Such a woman's head should be cut off. By keeping this whore in his house, Hori has sown poison in society. To let such a man remain in the village is to corrupt the whole village. Rai Sahib must be informed of this. He must be told plainly: if this injustice spreads in the village, no one's honour will remain secure."

Pandit Nokheram the karkun was a Brahmin of very high birth. His grandfather had been the diwan of some raja, but he had offered up all that he had at the feet of God and become an ascetic. His father too had spent his life in the husbandry of the name of Ram. Nokheram too had received that same devotion as his inheritance. At dawn he sat down to worship, and till ten o'clock he sat writing the name of Ram — but the moment he rose from before God, his humanity, warped by this restraint, poisoned his mind, his speech, and his deeds alike. In this proposal there was an insult to his authority. Drawing out the eyes sunk in his puffed-up cheeks, he said, "What is there to ask Rai Sahib about in this? Whatever I wish, I can do. Lay on two hundred rupees as a fine. He will leave the village and flee. And here I will also file for eviction."

Pateshwari said, "But he has already paid up his rent."

Jhinguri Singh supported him: "Yes, it was for the rent that he took thirty rupees from us."

Nokheram said with arrogance, "But I have not yet given a receipt. What proof is there that the rent has been paid?"

It was unanimously decided that a fine of a hundred rupees be laid on Hori. Only one day's pretence of gathering the village men together and obtaining their assent was necessary. It was possible this might cause a delay of five or ten days. But that very night a son was born to Jhuniya. And the very next day the panchayat of the villagers convened. Hori and Dhaniya were both summoned to hear the verdict of their fate. There was such a crowd in the chaupal that there was not room to lay down a sesame seed. The panchayat ruled that a fine of a hundred rupees in cash and thirty maunds of grain be laid on Hori.

In the full assembly Dhaniya spoke in a choked voice. "Panchs, you will find no happiness by tormenting the poor — understand that much. We shall be wiped out — who knows whether we remain in this village or not — but my curse will surely strike you too. So heavy a fine is being taken from me because I kept my daughter-in-law in my own house. Because I did not turn her out of the house and make her a beggar of the streets. Is this justice — eh?"

Pateshwari said, "She is not your daughter-in-law, she is a slut."

Hori scolded Dhaniya. "Why do you speak, Dhaniya? Parameshwar dwells in the panchs. Whatever their judgment is, it is upon my head and eyes. If it is God's will that we leave the village and flee, what power have we? Panchs, whatever we have is still on the threshing-floor. Not a single grain has come into the house. Take as much as you wish. If you wish to take it all, take it all. God is our master. For whatever falls short of the amount, take our two bullocks for it."

Dhaniya, grinding her teeth, said, "I will give neither a grain of corn nor a cowrie of fine. Whoever has the strength, let him come and take it from me. A fine joke this is. They must have thought — under the pretext of a fine, take all this man's property and, taking a present, hand it over to others. Sell his orchard and garden and feast at ease on rich food. While Dhaniya lives, this will not happen, and your craving will remain in your own minds. We do not wish to remain in the brotherhood. By remaining in the brotherhood our salvation will not be won. Even now we eat what we earn by our own sweat — even then we shall eat what we earn by our own sweat."

Hori folded his hands before her and said, "Dhaniya, I fall at your feet, hold your peace. We are all the servants of the brotherhood, we cannot go outside it. The fine it lays on us — accept it with a bowed head. Better to put a noose round one's neck than to live as an outcaste. If we die today, will it not be the brotherhood that carries this clay to the shore? Only if the brotherhood ferries us across shall we cross over. Panchs, may I never have the fortune to look upon my young son's face, if I have anything other than the grain on the threshing-floor. I will not betray the brotherhood. If the panchs feel pity for my children, let them care for them somewhat; otherwise, I must obey their command."

Dhaniya, fuming, walked away from there, and till a quarter of the night Hori went on carting grain from the threshing-floor and heaping it up in Jhinguri Singh's chaupal. There were twenty maunds of barley, five maunds of wheat, and as much again of peas, a little gram and some oilseed too. One man alone, and the burden of two households. Whatever had been produced, had been produced by Dhaniya's industry. Jhuniya did all the work inside, and Dhaniya, with her daughters, had thrown herself into the farming. The two of them had thought that with the wheat and oilseed one instalment of the rent would be paid off, and if possible they would pay a little interest too. The barley would serve for eating. Pinched and scraping, five or six months would pass, and by then the days of millet, maize, sanwa, and rice would come. All that hope was reduced to dust. The grain had gone out of his hands, and now, besides, a bundle of a hundred rupees was loaded onto his head. Now there was no certain provision anywhere for food. And what had become of Gobar, God alone knew — not a word, not a trace. If his heart was so weak, why had he done such a thing at all? But who can avert what is destined! Such was the terror of the brotherhood that he was carting grain loaded on his own head, as though digging his own grave with his own hands. Landlord, moneylender, government — whose awe was so great? The worry of what his children would eat tomorrow drank up his very life, but the fear of the brotherhood sat upon his head like a demon, plying its goad. He could not even conceive of a life apart from the brotherhood. Weddings, the tonsure ceremony, ear-piercing, birth, and death — all were in the hands of the brotherhood. The brotherhood had struck roots in his life like a tree, and its veins were threaded through every pore of his being. Cut out of the brotherhood, his life would fall to pieces — would be torn shred from shred.

When only a maund and a half or two of barley remained on the threshing-floor, Dhaniya ran and seized his hand and said, "Enough, let it be now. You have carted off the honour of the brotherhood! Will you leave something for the children too, or will you fling it all into the brotherhood's furnace? I give in to you. It was written in my fate to be yoked to a dolt like you."

Hori, pulling his hand free, said as he filled the basket with grain, "This cannot be. To keep back even a single grain by hiding it from the panchs' eyes is forbidden to me. I will carry the whole of it and heap it up there. Then, if pity arises in the panchs' hearts, they will give something for my children — and if not, God is the master."

Stung, Dhaniya said, "These are not panchs, they are demons, out-and-out demons! They all want to seize our home and land and make off with our property. The fine is only a pretext. I keep explaining, but your eyes do not open. You hope for pity from these vampires? You think they will take out ten or five maunds and give it to you. Wash out your mouth of that hope."

When Hori would not relent and began to lift the basket onto his head, Dhaniya gripped the basket with both hands with all her strength and said, "I will not let this be carried off, even if you take my very life. We earned this dying by inches, watered it watch by watch through the night, guarded it — so that the panchs might twist their moustaches and feast, and our children pine for grain after grain! You have not done it all alone. I too have burned myself like a sati along with my little girls. Set down the basket peaceably; otherwise the tie between us is broken forever. I tell you plainly."

Hori fell to thinking. There was truth in Dhaniya's words. What right had he to seize the earnings of his own children and pay a fine? He was the master of the house so that he might nourish them all, not so that, by seizing their earnings, he might curry favour in the eyes of the brotherhood. The basket slipped from his hands. He said softly, "You speak truly, Dhaniya. I have no power over what belongs to others. Take away whatever is left. I will go and tell the panchs."

Dhaniya set the basket of grain inside the house, and with her daughters, in the celebration of her grandson's birth, was singing the sohar at the top of her voice, so that the whole village might hear. Today, for the first time, on so auspicious an occasion not a single woman of the brotherhood was present. From the lying-in room Jhuniya had sent word that there was no need to sing the sohar; but since when did Dhaniya heed? If the brotherhood cared nothing for her, then she too cared nothing for the brotherhood.

At that very hour Hori was mortgaging his house to Jhinguri Singh for eighty rupees. He had been able to make no other arrangement for the money of the fine. Twenty rupees had been got from the oilseed, wheat, and peas. For the rest, he had had to mortgage the house. Nokheram had wished the bullocks to be sold off, but Pateshwari and Datadin opposed it. If the bullocks were sold, how would Hori farm? Let the brotherhood recover its money from his property, but it should not act in such a way that he might leave the village and flee. Thus the bullocks were saved.

When Hori, having written out the mortgage deed, came home about eleven o'clock at night, Dhaniya asked, "What were you doing over there till so late at night?"

Hori, venting the weaver's anger upon his beard, said, "What was I doing — I was paying for this boy's doings. The wretch, having loosed a spark, fled; the fire I must put out. I had to mortgage the house for eighty rupees. What was I to do! Now the hookah has been reopened. The brotherhood has pardoned the offence."

Dhaniya bit her lip and said, "And if the hookah had not been reopened, what harm would it have done us? If for four or five months we did not smoke anyone's hookah, would we have become smaller for it? I say — why are you such a simpleton? Before me you become very wise; why does your mouth close up outside? With great difficulty one house, the keepsake of your forefathers, had survived — and today you have made an end of that too. In the same way, tomorrow there are three or four bighas of land — go and mortgage that too, and then beg from lane to lane. I ask you — had you no tongue in your mouth to ask those panchs: what great saints are you, that you go about laying fines on others — even to look at your faces is a sin."

Hori scolded her. "Be quiet, do not speak so big and bold. You have not yet fallen into the toils of the brotherhood, else not a word would come from your mouth."

Dhaniya grew heated. "What sin have we committed, for which we should fear the brotherhood? Have we stolen from anyone, have we cut off anyone's goods? To keep a woman is no sin — yes, to keep her and then abandon her is a sin. For a man to be too straightforward is also bad. The fruit of his straightforwardness is just this, that even dogs begin to lick his face. Over there today you must be getting praise: how nobly he upheld the honour of the brotherhood. My fortune was shattered, that I fell into the hands of a man like you. I never got a meal of comfort."

"Did I go to fall at your father's feet? It was he who tied you round my neck!"

"A stone had fallen on his good sense, what else can I say of him? Heaven knows what he saw to grow so besotted. You were not so very handsome, after all."

The dispute had come into the field of jest. Eighty rupees had gone, but a child worth a hundred thousand had been gained! No one would snatch him away. Let Gobar return home, and Dhaniya would live happily in a hut of her own.

Hori asked, "Whom does the child take after?"

Dhaniya answered with a happy face, "He is the very image of Gobar. Truly!"

"And is he plump and sturdy?"

"Yes, he is well."