Chapter 24

Sona was in her seventeenth year, and it was necessary to get her married this year. Hori had been worrying about it for two years now, but with empty hands no plan could be carried through. But this year, somehow or other, her marriage simply had to be done — whether a loan had to be taken, whether fields had to be mortgaged. Had it been left to Hori alone, the marriage would have taken place two years earlier. He wished to manage with economy. But Dhaniya said that however close-fistedly the money was spent, two or two and a half hundred would go. With Jhuniya's coming, their place in the brotherhood had sunk somewhat lower, and without giving a hundred or two no well-born bridegroom could be found. The previous year, in the spring crop, what he had got was Pandit Datadin's half-share, but the Panditji gave such an account of seed and wages that no more than a quarter of the grain came into Hori's hands. And the full rent had to be paid. The sugarcane and the hemp crop were destroyed — the hemp because of excessive rain, and the cane because of termites. Yes, this year the spring crop was good, and the cane too had come up well. The grain for the marriage was there; if only two hundred rupees too came into his hands, he would be delivered from the debt of the daughter. If Gobar helped with a hundred, then the remaining hundred Hori could easily get. Jhinguri Singh and Mangaru Sah had both now softened a little. With Gobar earning abroad, their money could not be lost.

One day Hori proposed to go to Gobar for two or three days.

But Dhaniya had still not forgotten those harsh words of Gobar's. She did not wish to take even a paisa from Gobar, in no way at all.

Annoyed, Hori said — "But how will things be managed — tell me that?"

Shaking her head, Dhaniya said — "Suppose Gobar had not gone abroad — then what would you do? Do that now."

Hori's tongue was sealed. After a moment he said — "I am asking you, after all."

Dhaniya saved herself — "It is the men's business to think of that."

Hori had an answer ready — "Suppose I were not here, and you were alone — then what would you do? Do that."

Dhaniya looked at him with eyes of scorn — "Then I would give a kusha-maiden, and no one would be there to laugh."

A kusha-maiden Hori too could give. In that lay his welfare, but how could he abandon the dignity of his family? At the marriages of his sisters, three hundred wedding-guests apiece had come to the door. The dowry too had been given well. Dancing and entertainment, music, elephants and horses — all had come. Even today his name stood in the brotherhood. With the men of ten villages he had dealings. By giving a kusha-maiden, to whom would he show his face? Better than this to die. And why should he give a kusha-maiden? He had trees and orchard, he had land, and a little credit too; if he sold even one bigha, he would get a hundred, but for a peasant the land is dearer than his life, dearer even than the dignity of his family. And he had only three bighas in all; if he sold one bigha, then how would he do the farming?

Several days passed in this very wavering. Hori could come to no decision.

It was the days of the Dasahra holidays. The sons of all three gentlemen — Jhinguri Singh, Pateshwari and Nokheram — had come home for the holidays. All three studied English, and although all three had grown to be twenty years old, they still showed no sign of going to the University. They sat in each class two or three years apiece. The marriages of all three had been done. Pateshwari's worthy son Bindeshwari had already become the father of a son. All three played cards all day, drank bhang, and went about decked up like dandies. Several times a day they would pass by, looking towards Hori's door, and it was somehow so contrived that the moment they passed, Sona too would come and stand at the door on some errand or other. In those days she wore the very sari that Gobar had brought for her. Seeing all this spectacle, Hori's blood dried up, as though, to ruin his crop, the yellow hail-clouds were rising and coming on in the sky.

One day all three went to bathe at the very well where Hori was working the leather bucket to irrigate the cane. Sona was hauling the bucket. Hori's blood boiled up.

That very evening he went to Dulari the shopkeeper-wife. He thought — women have pity in them; perhaps her heart would melt and she would give the money at low interest. But Dulari took to her own lamentations. There was no house in the village against which she had no money outstanding; even Jhinguri Singh owed her twenty rupees, but no one took the name of paying. From where was the poor woman to bring money?

Hori said imploringly — "Bhabhi, it will be a great merit. You will not give money — you will untie the noose from my neck. Jhinguri and Pateshwari have their teeth fixed on my fields. I think — this is the only relic of my forefathers; if this slips away, where shall I go? One worthy son is he who increases the wealth of the house; am I to become so unworthy a son as to sweep away the earnings of my forefathers?"

Dulari took an oath — "Hori, I say, touching the feet of Thakurji, that at this time I have nothing. Whoever took, does not pay, so what can I do? You are no stranger. Sona too is my own daughter, but you tell me, what can I do? Your own brother is Hira. He took fifty rupees for a bullock. There is no trace or whereabouts of him; ask his wife and she is ready for a quarrel! Shobha too looks very simple and plain, but he does not know how to pay money. And the real truth is that no one has any to give, so from where are they to give? I see everyone's condition, and that is why I bear it patiently. People are somehow keeping body and soul together, what else? I would not advise selling the farming-land. There is nothing, but at least there is dignity."

Then in a whisper she said — "Pateshwari Lala's boy goes circling round your house a great deal. All three are like that. Be on guard against them. They have become town-folk; what do they understand of village brotherhood? There are boys in the village too, but in them there is some respect, some modesty, some fear. These are all loose bulls. When my Kausalya came from her in-laws, I, seeing these fellows' ways, called her father-in-law and sent her away. How far can one keep watch?"

Seeing Hori smile, she said with an air of sweet reproof — "If you laugh, Hori, I too shall say something. Were you any less of a rascal? Twenty-five times a day, on one pretext or another, you used to come to my shop, but I never even glanced at you."

With a gentle protest Hori said — "Now there you tell a lie, bhabhi! I did not come without getting some flavour from it. A bird settles in once, only then does it come a second time into the courtyard."

"Get along, you liar."

"You may not have looked with your eyes, but your mind certainly looked — indeed, it called."

"All right, leave off, a great inner-knower you have become. Seeing you hovering again and again, pity used to come to me, otherwise you were no such dashing youth."

Huseni came to buy a paisa's worth of salt, and this banter ended. When Huseni took the salt and went, Dulari said — "Why do you not go to Gobar? You would see him too, and perhaps something might be got."

In a despairing tone Hori said — "He will give nothing. When boys begin to earn four pice, their eyes turn. I was ready to be shameless about it, but Dhaniya does not agree. If I go without her wish, she will make life in the house unbearable. You know her temper."

Dulari said cuttingly — "You have become a slave like a woman's."

"You never asked, so what could I do?"

"Had you asked to be my slave, I would have got it down in writing, truly."

"Then what is spoiled even now? Get it down in writing. I write myself over for two hundred — at this price I am not dear."

"Then you will not speak to Dhaniya?"

"No — say, shall I take an oath?"

"And if you do speak?"

"Then cut out my tongue."

"All right, then go, settle the bridegroom; I shall give you the money."

With moist eyes Hori clasped Dulari's feet. With the rush of emotion his mouth was sealed.

Drawing back her feet, the shopkeeper-wife said — "Now this mischief no longer pleases me. Within the year I shall take my money, with interest, by twisting your ear. You are not so honest in dealings, but in Dhaniya I have trust. I hear the Pandit is very angry with you. He says, if he does not get her driven out of the village, he is no Brahmin. Why do you not turn Silia out? Sitting idle, you have bought a quarrel."

"Dhaniya is keeping her — what can I do?"

"I hear the Pandit went to Kashi. There is a very renowned learned Pandit there. He asks for five hundred — then he will perform the penance. Now, just ask — has there ever been such an outrage anywhere? Once religion has been destroyed, do not one but a thousand penances — what comes of it! No one will drink the water touched by your hand, however many penances you do."

When Hori went home from there, his heart was leaping. In his life he had never had so happy an experience. On the way he went to Shobha's house and gave him the invitation to come and take part in the betrothal. Then the two went to Datadin to ask the auspicious hour for the betrothal. Coming back from there, they sat down at the door to discuss the preparations for the betrothal.

Dhaniya came out and said — "It is a watch into the night; has the time for eating not yet come? Eat first and then sit. There is the whole night to gossip."

Hori, requesting her to take part in the consultation too, said — "The marriage has been fixed for this very wedding-season. Tell me, what things must be brought? I know nothing of it."

"When you know nothing at all, what are you sitting to consult about? Has any arrangement of money been made, or are you eating sweets in your mind?"

With pride Hori said — "What business is that of yours? You just tell me this much, what things must be brought?"

"Then I do not eat such imaginary sweets."

"You just tell me this much — what things came at the marriages of our sisters?"

"First tell me this — has the money been got?"

"Yes, it has been got — and what else, have I eaten bhang?"

"Then come first and eat. Then we shall consult."

But when she heard that the talk had been with Dulari, she wrinkled her nose and said — "Has anyone ever got clear of her after taking money? How tightly the witch takes her interest!"

"But what is one to do? Who else gives?"

"Why do you not say that on this very pretext you went for two cheeks' worth of laughing and chatting? You have grown old, but this habit has not left you."

"You, Dhaniya, sometimes begin to talk like a child. With a tattered fellow like me will she laugh and chat? She does not even speak straight."

"Apart from people like you, who else will go to her?"

"At her door fine fellows rub their noses, Dhaniya, what do you know? She has wealth."

"She gave a little nod, and you ran off in all directions to spread the good news."

"She did not just nod; she made a firm promise."

When Hori went to eat and Shobha went off home, Sona came out with Silia. She had been standing at the door, hearing everything. That two hundred rupees were being borrowed from Dulari for her betrothal was churning in her belly like fresh lime falling into water. At the door a small oil-lamp burned, which had blackened the wall above the niche. The two bullocks were eating their feed at the trough, and the dog sat on the ground awaiting a morsel. The two young women came and stood near the bullocks' manger.

Sona said — "Did you hear anything? Father is borrowing two hundred rupees from the shopkeeper-wife for my betrothal."

Silia knew every particle of the household's condition. She said — "There is no money in the house, so what should they do?"

Looking towards the dark trees in front, Sona said — "I do not wish to have such a marriage as makes my parents take a loan. From where will the poor things repay it, tell me! They are already crushed under the burden of debt. If they take another two hundred, the burden will be heavier or not?"

"Without gifts and dowry, does the marriage of well-off folk ever take place anywhere, you silly thing? Without dowry you will only get some worn-out old man. Will you go with an old man?"

"Why should I go with an old man? Was brother old, that he brought Jhuniya? Who gave him any money as dowry?"

"In that, the name of one's father and forefathers sinks."

"I shall tell the Sonari people — if you take even a paisa of dowry, I shall not marry you."

Sona's marriage had been fixed with the son of a well-off peasant of Sonari.

"And if he says, 'What can I do? Your father gives, my father takes; what authority have I in it?'"

The weapon that Sona had thought was a sure-aimed arrow now turned out to be a hollow bamboo stick. Dejected, she said — "I wish to try saying it to him once; if he says he has no authority, then is the Gomti far from here? I shall drown myself dead. My parents have reared and fed me, dying by inches. Is this its return — that when I leave their house, I should load them further with debt? If God has given my parents anything, let them give to their daughter as gladly and as much as they please — I do not forbid it. But when they are hard-pressed for every single paisa, when today the moneylender may sue and have their things auctioned, so that tomorrow they must do labour — then the daughter's duty is to drown herself dead. At least the house's land and property will be saved, at least the support of bread will remain. My parents will console themselves by weeping a few days for my name. But it must not be that, having married me off, they have to weep their whole lives. In three or four years two hundred will become double; from where will father bring it and give?"

It seemed to Silia as though a new light had come into her eyes. In a rush of feeling she clasped Sona to her breast and said — "Where did you learn so much wisdom, Sona? To look at you, you are so simple and innocent."

"What wisdom is there in this, you witch! Have I no eyes — am I mad? They take two hundred for my marriage. In three or four years it becomes double. Then for Rupa's marriage they take another two hundred. Whatever farming-land there is, all gets auctioned away, and they go from door to door begging. Is this not it? Better far than this that I give up my own life. Go early, before dawn, to Sonari and call him here. But no — there is no need to call him. I shall be ashamed to speak with him! You yourself just give him this message of mine. See what answer he gives. Who is far away? It is just on the other side of the river. Sometimes he comes this way with his cattle. Once his buffalo strayed into my field, and I gave him a great deal of abuse, and he began to fold his hands. Yes, tell me this — have you met Matai lately? I hear the Brahmins are not taking him back into the brotherhood."

With contempt Silia said — "Why would they not take him back into the brotherhood? Yes, the old man does not wish to spend money. Let this fellow get money, and he will lift up a false Ganges-vow. The son these days camps outside in the open shed, baking his bread."

"Why do you not leave him? Go and settle with someone in your own brotherhood, and live in comfort. He at least will not insult you."

"Oh yes, why not — on my account the poor man suffered such ruin, and now I should leave him? Now let him become a Pandit, let him become a god — for me he is still that same Matai who used to rub his head against my feet, and even if he becomes a Brahmin and marries a Brahmin woman, still — the service I have done him, what Brahmin woman will do? Just now, in his clinging to honour and dignity, he may leave me, but you will see, he will come running back."

"Done with that now. If he could get hold of you, he would eat you raw."

"Then who goes to call him? Each one's religion is with his own self. He is breaking his religion, so why should I break mine?"

In the early morning Silia set out towards Sonari, but Hori stopped her. Dhaniya had a pain in her head. In her place the seedbed-channels had to be watered. Silia could not refuse. When she got leave from here at noon, she set off for Sonari.

In the afternoon, when Hori again went to the well, there was no sign of Silia. Annoyed, he said — "Where on earth has Silia flown off to? She stays, she stays, and then, who knows where, she sets off, as though her heart is not in any work. Do you know, Sona, where she has gone?"

Sona made an excuse — "I know nothing. She said she had to go to the washerwoman's house to fetch clothes; she must have gone there."

Getting up from her cot, Dhaniya said — "Come, I shall water the channels for you. Do you pay her wages, that you are getting annoyed?"

"Does she not live in our house? Are we not being defamed throughout the village on her account?"

"All right, leave it. She is lying in one corner; will you charge her rent for it?"

"She is not lying in one corner; she has taken a whole room."

"Then the rent of that room would be some fifty rupees a month."

"There is not a paisa of rent on it. She lives in our house — wherever she goes, let her ask before going. If she comes today, I shall take her to task."

The leather bucket began to be worked. Hori did not let Dhaniya come. Rupa was watering the channels, and Sona was hauling the bucket. Rupa was making little hearths and pots of wet clay, and Sona was looking with apprehensive eyes towards Sonari. There was apprehension, there was hope too; the apprehension was more, the hope less. She thought — they are getting money, so why should they let it go? Those who have money give their very life for money. And Gauri Mahto is a thorough miser. There is pity in Mathura, there is religion, but whatever his father's wish, that he will have to obey. But Sona too would scold the fellow so that he would remember it. She would say plainly — "Go and marry the daughter of some rich man; with a man like you there will be no getting on for me." If Gauri Mahto agreed, she would wash his feet and drink the water. She would serve him so well as she had not even served her own father. And she would feed Silia her fill of sweets. The money Gobar had given her, she still had hoarded. At this tender fancy her eyes lit up, and a faint flush ran over her cheeks.

But why had Silia still not come? She was no great distance away. They must not have let her come. Ah! She is coming, but she comes very slowly. Sona's heart sank. The wretches had not agreed, the auspicious hour was lost, otherwise Silia would come running. Then Sona's marriage was done for. Wash your mouth of it.

Silia did indeed come, but, instead of coming to the well, she began watering the channels in the field. She was afraid that Hori would ask where she had been all this time, and what answer would she give? Sona spent these two hours with great difficulty. But the moment she got free she ran off to Silia.

"Had you gone and died there, or what! Staring and staring, my eyes have burst."

Silia took offence — "Was I sleeping there, then? This kind of talk does not happen just walking along the road. One must watch for the opportunity. Mathura had gone to graze cattle near the river. Searching and searching I went up to him and gave him your message — he was so pleased that what can I tell you. He fell at my feet and said — 'Sillo, ever since I heard that Sona is coming into my house, the sleep has fled from my eyes. Those abuses of hers turned out to be a blessing, but what am I to do about uncle — he listens to no one.'"

Sona interrupted — "Then let him not listen. Sona too is stubborn. What she has said, she will show. Then they will be left wringing their hands."

"Then, that very moment, leaving the cattle there, he took me with him to Gauri Mahto. The Mahto has four leather buckets running. The well too is his. There is ten bighas of cane. Seeing the Mahto, laughter came to me — as though he were some grass-cutter. Yes, he is favoured by fortune. Between father and son there was much hot exchange. Gauri Mahto said, 'What business is it of yours? Whether I take anything or not, who are you to speak?' Mathura said, 'If you have to take and give, then do not arrange my marriage; I shall marry as I wish.' The talk grew, and Gauri Mahto took off his shoes and beat Mathura soundly. Any other boy, taking so much beating, would have flared up and stood against him. Had Mathura landed even one blow, the Mahto would not have risen again, but the poor fellow, taking fifty shoe-blows, said nothing. With his eyes filled with tears, looking at me like the poor and helpless, he went away. Then the Mahto began to abuse me. He hurled hundreds of abuses, but why should I have stood listening? What fear had I of him? I said plainly — 'Mahto, two or three hundred is no great sum, and Hori Mahto will not be sold off for it, nor will you become wealthy; all that money will only fly away in dance and entertainment. But such a daughter-in-law you will not find.'"

With moist eyes Sona asked — "Did the Mahto begin to beat him just over this much?"

Silia had kept this thing hidden. She did not wish to put such an insulting matter into Sona's ears, but, hearing this question, she could not keep her restraint. She said — "It was the same thing as in the matter of brother Gobar. The Mahto said — 'A man eats leavings only when they are sweet. A stain is washed away only with silver.' At this Mathura said — 'Uncle, which house is free of stain? Yes, someone's has come out into the open, someone's lies hidden. Gauri Mahto too was once entangled with a chamar-woman. There are even two boys by her.' That much escaped Mathura's mouth, and it was as though a demon mounted the old man. As greedy as he is, he is just as quick-tempered. Without taking, he will not agree."

The two went home. On Sona's head was the heavy load of the leather bucket, the rope and the yoke, but at this moment it felt to her lighter than a flower. In the depths of her being it was as though a spring of joy and exhilaration had opened. Mathura's heroic image stood before her, and she, as though seating him in her heart, was washing his feet with her tears. As though the goddesses of the sky, lifting her in their lap, were carrying her off into the redness spread across the heavens.

That very night a violent fever rose upon Sona.

On the third day Gauri Mahto sent a letter by the hand of the barber —

"All blessings and every felicitation to the worthy Shri Hori Mahto — let Gauriram's salutations be read. Further, the talk of dowry that had passed between us — on that we have reflected with a peaceful mind, and understood that by taking and giving, the families of both bridegroom and bride are put to hardship. Since a connection has come about between us, we should conduct ourselves in such a way that no one feels the pinch. Have no anxiety at all about gift and dowry — we put you under solemn oath. Whatever coarse or fine fare can be got together, feed it to the wedding party. We shall not ask even for that. We have made our own arrangement for provisions. Yes, whatever hospitality you do us with joy and gladness, that we shall accept with bowed head."

Hori read the letter and ran inside to read it out to Dhaniya. He was leaping with joy, but Dhaniya sat sunk in some thought. After a moment she said — "This is the good nature of Gauri Mahto, but we too have to keep up our own dignity. What will the world say! Money is the dirt of the hand. For its sake one does not give up the family's dignity. Whatever we can do, we shall do, and Gauri Mahto will have to take it. You just write this answer. In the parents' earnings has the daughter no share? No — what is there to write — come, I shall send the message back through the barber."

Hori stood dumbfounded in the courtyard, and Dhaniya, in reaction to that generosity which Gauri Mahto's nobility had awakened, was dictating the message. Then she gave the barber sugarcane juice to drink and sent him off with a parting gift.

When he had gone, Hori said — "What is this you have done, Dhaniya? Your temper has till this day been beyond my understanding. You walk forward and you walk backward too. First you were quarrelling over this very point, that we should not take a paisa of loan from anyone, that there was no question of giving anything; and when God, sitting inside Gauri, had this letter written, then you struck up the tune of family dignity. Your mystery only God knows."

Dhaniya said — "The betel-quid is given according to whose face it is — do you understand that or not? Then Gauri was showing his airs; now he is showing good nature. The answer to a brick may be a stone, but the answer to a salutation is not abuse."

Wrinkling his nose, Hori said — "Then show your good nature. Let me see where you bring the money from."

Her eyes flashing, Dhaniya said — "Bringing the money is not my business; it is yours."

"I shall take only from Dulari."

"Take from her, then. They will all charge interest. When one has to drown, then what is a pond and what is the Ganges?"

Hori came outside and began to smoke the chillum. How pleasantly his neck was being freed, but only if Dhaniya let life be at peace. Whenever one looks, she goes the opposite way. It is as though some demon mounts her. Even seeing the state of the house, her eyes do not open.