Chapter 12

When Gobar set out at night with Jhuniya, he was trembling as though his nose had been cut off. The moment Jhuniya was seen, an uproar would break loose throughout the whole village; how people would set up a wailing from every side, how many abuses Dhaniya would heap on him — thinking and thinking of this, his feet kept lagging behind. Of Hori he had no fear. Hori would only roar once and then fall quiet. The fear was of Dhaniya — she would set about swallowing poison, she would set about setting fire to the house. No, at this hour he could not go home with Jhuniya.

But if Dhaniya did not even let Jhuniya cross the threshold of the house, and ran at her with a broom to beat her, where would the poor girl go? She could not return to her own home. If she leapt into a well, or put a noose round her neck, what then? He drew a long breath. Whose protection should she take?

But Amma was not so heartless as to run to beat her. In her anger she would utter two or four abuses! But when Jhuniya clasped her feet and began to weep, pity would surely come to her. Till then he himself would stay hidden somewhere. When the storm had subsided, then one day he would come quietly and reconcile Amma. And if in the meantime he could find work for hire somewhere, and return home with four or five rupees, then Dhaniya's mouth would be stopped.

Jhuniya said, "My heart is pounding. How was I to know you would saddle me with this affliction? Heaven knows in what evil hour I set eyes on you. Had you not come to fetch the cow, none of this would have happened. You go ahead, and whatever is to be said and heard, say it and hear it. I will come behind."

Gobar said, "No, no — you go first, and say: I was going home from the market after selling my goods. Night has fallen, how can I go now? By then I will have come."

Jhuniya said with an anxious heart, "Your Amma is very hot-tempered. My very being trembles. If she begins to beat me, what will I do?"

Gobar reassured her. "Amma's way is not like that. She never struck even us a single slap — why would she beat you? Whatever she has to say, she will say to me; she will not even speak to you."

The village drew near. Gobar halted and said, "Now you go."

Jhuniya entreated, "Do not you delay either."

"No, no, I shall come in a moment. Go on, then."

"My heart, I cannot tell how it feels! Anger rises against you."

"Why do you fear so? I am coming, after all."

"It would have been far better had we fled off to some other place."

"When we have our own home, why flee anywhere? You are afraid for no reason."

"You will come quickly, won't you?"

"Yes, yes, I am coming at once."

"You are not deceiving me? Sending me home and then making off somewhere yourself?"

"I am not so base, Jhuna! When I have taken you by the arm, I will see it through to the moment of death."

Jhuniya set off toward the house. Gobar stood for a moment in indecision. Then suddenly the imagined reproach hovering over his head took on a fearful shape and stood before him. If Amma should truly run to beat her, what then? His feet seemed glued to the earth. Between him and his home there was only a small mango orchard. Jhuniya's dark shadow could be seen slowly going. His senses had grown very keen. Such a murmur fell on his ears, as if Amma were abusing Jhuniya. His mind was in such a state, as though the blow of a chopper were about to fall on his head, as if all the blood of his body had dried up. After a moment he saw, as if Dhaniya had come out of the house and was going somewhere. She must be going to Dada. Perhaps Dada had eaten and gone off to guard the peas. He set off toward the field of peas. Trampling the fields of barley and wheat, he ran on as though pursued from behind. There was Dada's hut. He stopped, and on tiptoe came and crouched behind the hut. His guess proved right. He had only just arrived when Dhaniya's voice was heard. Oh! A calamity had befallen. Amma was so harsh. She felt not the slightest pity for an orphan girl. And if I were to go before her and rebuke her — "You have no right to speak to Jhuniya at all" — all her swagger would drain away. So! Dada too is angry. Today even over the bananas the potsherd has grown sharp. I show a little respect, and this is its fruit. So Dada too is going there. If they have beaten and struck Jhuniya, I shall not be able to bear it. God! Now your help alone remains. I did not know that my life would be caught in such a calamity. How crafty, how cowardly, how base Jhuniya must be thinking me in her heart — but how can they strike her? And how can they even turn her out of the house? Have I no share in the house? If anyone has raised a hand against Jhuniya, today there will be a Mahabharata. Parents are parents only so long as they protect their children. When there is no tenderness in them, how are they parents!

The moment Hori came out of the hut, Gobar too followed slowly on tiptoe behind him, but, seeing the light at the doorway, his feet were bound. Within that line of light he could not set his foot. He stood in the darkness itself, pressed against the wall. His courage had given way. Alas! These people were raging at poor innocent Jhuniya, and he could do nothing. The one spark he had flung in play would reduce the whole threshing-floor to ashes — that he had not understood. And now he had not even the courage to come forward and say, "Yes, it was I who flung the spark." All the props with which he had steadied his mind came crashing down in this earthquake, and that hut fell down. He turned back. Now with what face could he show himself to Jhuniya!

He walked a hundred paces, but in such a manner as a soldier flees the field. All the words he had spoken to Jhuniya of love and marriage came back to him. Those sweet memories of the tryst came back, when in his intoxicated sighs, in his languorous glances, he seemed to draw out his very soul and lay it at her feet. Jhuniya, like some forlorn bird, was passing her solitary life in her small nest. There was no impassioned urging of the male there, no glowing rapture, no sweet voices of the young — but the fowler's net and snare were not there either. Whether Gobar, by going into her solitary nest, had given her any joy or not, who knows; but he had certainly cast her into calamity. He pulled himself together. The fleeing soldier, as though hearing the encouragement of one of his comrades, turned and went back.

When he came to the door he saw that the doors had been shut. Lines of light came out through the cracks of the doors. He peered inside through a crack. Dhaniya and Jhuniya were seated. Hori stood. Jhuniya's sobs could be heard, and Dhaniya was consoling her: "Daughter, come and sit in the house. I will deal with your uncle and your brothers. As long as we live, there is no worry of any kind. While we are here, no one can even look at you with a crooked eye." Gobar was overcome with emotion. If today he were worth anything, he would deck Dada and Amma in gold and say — now have no care for anything, sit and eat at ease, and give as much in charity and good works as you wish. He had no misgiving now about Jhuniya. The shelter he had wished to give her, she had received. If Jhuniya thought him a deceiver, let her think it. He would now come home only when, by the power of money, he could stop the mouth of the whole village, and Dada and Amma, instead of regarding him as a stain on the family, would regard him as the family's tilak. The deeper the blow that falls upon the mind, the deeper too is its reaction. This dishonour and disgrace, churning the depths of Gobar's being, had drawn out that jewel which till now had lain hidden. Today, for the first time, he knew his responsibility, and with it, resolve. Till now he had thought it his right to do the least possible work and eat the most possible. The thought had never even risen in his mind that he too had a duty toward the people of the house. Today his parents' lofty forgiveness had, as it were, cast a light into his heart. When Dhaniya and Jhuniya had gone inside, he went and sat in that same hut of Hori's and began to weave plans for the future.

He had heard that the labourers of the city earned five or six annas a day. If he were to get six annas a day, and live on one anna, then five annas would be saved daily. That made ten rupees a month, and a hundred and twenty-five in a year. If he came home with a purse of a hundred and twenty-five, who would dare open his mouth before him? This same Datadin and this same Pateshwari would come and say yes to his every yes, and Jhuniya would simply swell up with pride. Let him go on earning thus for two or four years, and all the poverty of the household would be wiped out. As it was, the whole family's earnings did not amount even to a hundred and twenty-five. Now he alone would earn a hundred and twenty-five. People would say, of course, that he did labour for hire. Let them say it. To labour for hire is no sin. And he would not always get six annas. As he grew skilled at the work, the wage too would rise. Then he would say to Dada — now sit at home and meditate on God. What is there in this farming but to wear out one's life? First of all he would bring a Pachhain cow, which would give four or five seers of milk, and would say to Dada — you serve the cow-mother. By this both your worldly life and your life beyond would be made.

And why not — would not his living be managed comfortably on one anna? What was the need of taking on house and home? He would lie in someone's veranda. There were hundreds of temples, of dharamsalas. And then, would not the man for whom he laboured give him a place to live? Flour came at ten seers a rupee. That made two and a half pao for one anna. He would eat up a whole anna's worth in flour alone. Where would the firewood, the dal, the salt, the greens come from? For two meals he needed about a seer of flour. Oh! As for eating, ask nothing of that. One could manage with a fistful of gram too. One could manage on halwa and puri too. According to the earnings. He could eat half a seer of flour and work happily all day. He would pick up dung-cakes here and there, and the matter of firewood was settled. Sometimes he would buy a pice of dal, sometimes potatoes. He would roast the potatoes and make a mash. Here it was a question of getting through the days, not of living in luxury. He kneaded flour on a leaf-plate, baked the dough-balls on dung-cakes, roasted potatoes and made a mash, and ate happily and lay down to sleep. Even at home — who gets two meals of bread? At one meal it is only roasted grain. There too one would manage on roasted grain for one meal.

A doubt struck him: if ever he found no work, what would he do? But why would he find no work? When he worked till his body broke, a hundred men would call him. Everyone loves work — it is the skin that is not loved. Here too there was drought, there fell frost, white-ants attacked the sugarcane, rust struck the barley, blight fell on the mustard. If he found some work at night, he would not let that slip either. He laboured by day, and at night he would do watchman's duty somewhere. If even two annas were got from the night's work, it was silver. When he returned, he would bring saris for everyone. For Jhuniya he would certainly have a bracelet made for her wrist, and for Dada he would bring a head-cloth.

Tasting these mind-sweetmeats, he fell asleep — but where is sleep in the cold? Somehow he passed the night, and rising at first light, he took the Lucknow road. It was only twenty kos. He would reach by evening. What man of the village ever came and went there? And why should he even write his whereabouts — otherwise Dada would be on his head the very next day. If he had any regret, it was only this: why had he not told Jhuniya plainly — go home for now, I will return in a few days with some earnings? But then why would she have gone home at all? She would have said — I too will return with you. Where and where would he have dragged her about?

The day began to climb. He had eaten nothing in the night. Hunger began to be felt. His feet began to stumble. The desire arose to sit somewhere and rest. Without putting something into his stomach, he could go no further now — but he had not even a pice with him. Beside the road there were bushes of wild jujube. He plucked a few jujubes and went on, beguiling his belly. In one village came the fragrance of jaggery being boiled. Now his mind would not be content. He went into the cane-press shed and asked for a lota and cord, and, filling it with water, sat down to drink from his cupped palm, when a peasant said, "Hey, brother, will you drink plain water alone? Eat a little sweet. This time we have run the press once again and made unrefined sugar. By next year the mill will be ready, and all the standing cane will be sold off. When sugar is to be had at the price of jaggery and unrefined sugar, who will take our jaggery?" He brought several lumps of jaggery in a bowl. Gobar ate the jaggery, drank water. "You smoke tobacco, no doubt?" Gobar made an excuse: "I don't yet smoke the chillum." The old man said, well pleased, "You do very well, brother! It is a bad disease. Once it takes hold of a man, it does not let go for a lifetime."

The engine had got its coal and water too. The pace quickened. Winter days — Heaven knows when noon came. At one place he saw a young woman seated under a tree, holding her satyagraha against her husband. The husband stood before her, coaxing her. Two or four wayfarers had stopped to watch the spectacle. Gobar too stopped. What life-drama could be more absorbing than the play of human pride? The young woman glared at her husband and said, "I will not go, will not go, will not go."

The man delivered, as it were, an ultimatum: "You will not go?"

"I will not go."

"You will not go?"

"I will not go."

The man caught her hair and began to drag her. The young woman rolled onto the ground.

The man said, defeated, "Once more I say — get up and come."

The woman said with the same firmness, "I will not come to your house for seven births — cut me to bits."

"I will slit your throat!"

"Then you will go to the gallows."

The man let go of her hair and sat down with his hand on his head. Manhood had reached its furthest limit. Beyond it now he had no power.

In a moment he rose again and said, defeated, "After all, what is it you want?"

The young woman too sat up and said calmly, "This is what I want — that you let me go."

"Will you say something with your mouth — what happened?"

"Why does anyone abuse my father and mother?"

"Who abused your father and mother?"

"Go and ask in your own house."

"When you come, then I will ask."

"What will you ask? Have you any spirit in you? Go and bury your face in your Amma's lap and sleep. She may be your mother. I have no one. You listen to her abuses. Why should I listen? I eat one bread, but do the work of four. Why should I bear anyone's bullying? I do not so much as know one brass ring of yours!"

The wayfarers were enjoying the drama of this quarrel, but there was no hope of its ending soon. The journey was being delayed. One by one, people began to slip away. The man's cruelty was distasteful to Gobar. Before the crowd he could say nothing. When the field had emptied, he said, "Brother, one ought not to speak between man and wife, but such heartlessness is not good either."

The man, opening eyes like cowries, said, "Who are you?"

Gobar said without hesitation, "I am whoever I am, but seeing an unjust thing, it offends everyone."

The man shook his head and said, "It seems you have not got a wife yet, that is why you feel so much."

"When I get a wife, even then I will not drag her by the hair."

"All right, then, take your road. She is my woman, I will beat her, I will cut her. Who are you to speak? Go off straight, do not stand here."

Gobar's hot blood grew hotter. Why should he go away? The road is the government's. It belongs to no man's father. As long as he wished, he could stand there. No one had the right to drive him from there.

The man bit his lip and said, "So you will not go? Shall I come?"

Gobar tied his cloth round his waist and, ready for battle, said, "Whether you come or not, I will go only when I wish."

"Then it seems you will go with your arms and legs broken?"

"Who knows whose arms and legs will be broken."

"So you will not go?"

"No."

The man, clenching his fist, lunged at Gobar. That very instant the young woman seized his dhoti and, pulling him toward her, said to Gobar, "Why are you bent on a fight, sir, why don't you go your way? Is this some show here? Our quarrel is between ourselves. Sometimes he beats me, sometimes I scold him. What is it to you?"

Gobar, receiving this rebuke, moved on. In his heart he said, "This woman deserves the beating she gets."

When Gobar had gone ahead, the young woman scolded her husband. "Why do you fall to fighting with everyone? What bad thing had he said, that it struck you? If you do a bad deed, the world will call it bad — but he seems to be of some respectable house, and of our own brotherhood. Why don't you fix him up for your sister?"

The husband said in a doubtful voice, "Will he still be sitting unmarried?"

"Then why not just ask?"

The man ran ten paces and called out to Gobar, signalling with his hand to halt. Gobar thought, perhaps a demon has mounted his head again, that he is calling out. He will not be content without a beating. In his own village even a dog becomes a lion — but let him come.

But on his face there was no challenge of battle — it was an invitation of friendship. He asked his village and name and caste. Gobar told him truly. That man's name was Kodai.

Kodai said with a smile, "We very nearly came to a fight, the two of us. When you went off, I thought — you said rightly: I quarrelled with you without cause. Is there some farming and land in your household?"

Gobar told him: he had five bighas of ancestral land, and one plough's worth of farming was done.

"Forgive me, brother, for the harsh words I spoke to you! In anger a man becomes blind. For virtue and good sense my woman is a Lakshmi — but sometimes, Heaven knows what demon mounts her. Now you tell me — what power have I over my mother? She it is who gave me birth, she who nursed and reared me. When there is any matter, whatever I say, I will say it to my wife. Over her I have some power. Think yourself — am I not talking sense? Yes, I should not have dragged her by the hair, but a woman, without some chastisement given, does not stay in control either. She wants me to live apart from my mother. Think yourself — how can I live apart, and from whom can I live apart! From my own mother? Who gave me birth? This I cannot do. Let the woman stay or go."

Gobar too had to change his opinion. He said, "To honour one's mother is everyone's dharma, brother. Who can ever discharge his debt to a mother?"

Kodai gave him an invitation to come to his house. Today he could in no way reach Lucknow. By the time he had gone a kos or two, evening would fall. He would have to halt somewhere for the night.

Gobar joked, "Has your woman come round?"

"If she does not, what will she do?"

"She gave me such a rebuke that I was shamed."

"She herself is repenting. Come, just explain things a little to my mother. With me nothing can be said. She too ought to think — why does she abuse the daughter-in-law's father and mother? We too have a sister. In four days her betrothal will take place. If her mother-in-law abuses us, will that not be unbearable to her? It is not all the woman's fault. Mother's too is a fault. When in every matter she takes her daughter's part, then it offends us. This much good is in the woman, that she may go off in a huff from the house, but she does not answer abuse with abuse."

Gobar needed some shelter for the night anyway. He went along with Kodai. The two of them came again to the place where the young woman was sitting. She had now become the mistress of the house. She had drawn a little veil and had begun to feel shy.

Kodai said with a smile, "He was not even coming. He said, after hearing such a scolding, how can he go to their house?"

The young woman, looking at Gobar from behind her veil, said, "You took fright at so little a scolding? When my sister-in-law comes, where will you flee then?"

The village was close by. It was hardly a village — it was a hamlet of ten or twelve houses, half of them tiled, half thatched. Reaching his house, Kodai brought out a cot, spread a rug on it, told them to make a sherbet, and brought a filled chillum. And in a moment that same young woman came carrying sherbet in a lota, and, by flicking a sprinkle of water on Gobar, as it were, asked his pardon. He was now becoming her sister's husband-to-be. Why, then, not begin the teasing from now?