Chapter 19

Mirza Khurshed's compound is a club, and a courthouse too, and a wrestling arena too. All day long a crowd stays gathered there. Nowhere in the neighbourhood could a place be found for a wrestling pit. Mirza had a thatched shed put up and an arena made, and there a hundred or fifty wrestlers gather every day. Mirza ji too exerts himself with them. The neighbourhood panchayats are held here too. The squabbles of husband and wife and of mother-in-law and daughter-in-law and of brother and brother are settled right here. This is the very centre of the neighbourhood's social life, and of its political activity too. There are meetings here every other day. The volunteers stay here, here their programmes are made, from here the political conduct of the city is directed. At the last gathering Malti was elected president of the city Congress Committee. Since then the liveliness of this place has grown still greater.

It is a year now since Gobar came to live here. He is no longer a simple, straightforward village youth. He has seen a good deal of the world and has begun to understand the ways of life somewhat. At root he is still a rustic — he grips money with his teeth, never lets go of his self-interest, and does not shirk hard work, nor does he ever lose heart; but the air of the city has touched him too. In the first month he did only wage-work, ate half a belly's fill, and saved a little money. Then he began to set up stalls of seasoned vegetables and peas and dahi-bara. When he saw greater profit in this, he gave up the wage-work. In summer he opened a stall of sherbet and ice too. He was straight in his dealings, so his credit got established. When the cold set in, he took down the sherbet stall and began serving hot tea. Now his daily income is not less than two and a half or three rupees. He has had his hair cut in the English fashion, wears a fine dhoti and pump-shoes. He has bought a red woollen wrapper and has become fond of paan and cigarettes. From going to and from the meetings he has acquired some political knowledge too. He has begun to understand the meaning of nation and class. The respect for social customs and the fear of public censure have now grown very small in him. The everyday panchayats have made him uninhibited. The very thing on account of which he lies hidden here, far from home, with his face concealed — things of just that kind, indeed even more disgraceful things, happen here every day, and no one runs away. So why should he be so afraid and hide his face?

In all these days he has not sent even a paisa home. He does not think his parents very clever in the matter of money. The moment those people get money, they'll begin flying in the sky! His father will at once be possessed by the urge to make a pilgrimage to Gaya, and his mother by the urge to have jewellery made. He has no money for such useless things. Now he is a small-scale mahajan. He lends money on interest to the cart-drivers, the bullock-cart men, and the washermen of the neighbourhood. In these ten or eleven months alone, by his own labour and economy and effort, he has made his place, and now he is thinking of the matter of bringing Jhuniya to live here.

It was the afternoon. He had bathed at the street tap and come back, and was boiling potatoes for the evening, when Mirza Khurshed came and stood at the door. Gobar is no longer his servant, but he shows him the same respect and is ready to lay down his life for him. He went to the door and asked, "What is your command, Sarkar?"

Mirza said, standing where he was, "If you have some money, give it. The bottle has been empty for three days now; my heart is very restless."

Gobar had given Mirza ji money two or three times before this too, but had not been able to recover it as yet. He was afraid to press for it, and Mirza ji did not know how to take money and return it. Money would not stay in his hands at all. In here, gone out there. He could not say, "I won't give the money," or "I have no money"; so he began to speak ill of liquor. "Why don't you give it up, Sarkar? Is there any benefit at all from drinking it?"

Mirza ji came inside the room and, sitting down on the cot, said, "You think I don't want to give it up, and that I drink it for pleasure. I cannot stay alive without it. Don't fear for your money. I'll repay every single cowrie."

Gobar stayed unmoved. "I tell the truth, Malik! If I had money at this moment, would I refuse you?"

"You can't give even two rupees?"

"Not at this moment."

"Take my ring as a pledge."

Gobar's mind was tempted, but how to change his words?

He said, "What's this you say, Malik — if I had money I'd give it to you; what need would there be of a ring?"

Mirza, filling his voice with a very humble entreaty, said, "I will never ask you again, Gobar! I cannot stand up. On account of this liquor I have ruined a fortune worth lakhs and become a beggar. Now I too have got obstinate — even if I have to beg for alms, I will not give it up."

When Gobar refused this time too, Mirza Sahib went off in disappointment. He had thousands of acquaintances in the city. Many had risen in the world thanks to him. Many he had helped in their hard times, but those very people he did not even like to meet. He knew thousands of such tricks by which he could, from time to time, raise heaps of money, but money had no value in his eyes. Money seemed to bite his hands. Only when, on some pretext or other, he had squandered it, did his heart find calm.

Gobar began to peel potatoes. Within a single year he had grown so wily, and so skilful at piling up money, that it was a wonder. The room he lived in Mirza Sahib had given him. The rent of this room and verandah could very easily fetch five rupees. Gobar had been living in it for nearly a year, but Mirza had never asked for rent, nor had he given any. Mirza had probably never even thought that this room could yield some rent.

After a while a cart-driver came asking for money. Aladin was his name — head shaved, a grizzled beard. His daughter was being sent off in marriage. He needed five rupees. Gobar gave them to him at one anna in the rupee interest.

Aladin said in thanks, "Brother, fetch your wife and children now. How long will you go on cooking with your own hands?"

Gobar wailed about the expense of the city. "How will a household run on a small income?"

Aladin said, lighting a bidi, "Allah will provide the expense, brother! Think how much comfort you'll get. I tell you, the very amount you spend living alone — the household will run on just that. There's great blessing in a woman's hands. By God, when I lived here alone, however much I earned, eating and drinking it all came out even. There wasn't even money for bidi and tobacco. And the trouble besides. Come home tired and worn out, and you must feed the horse and walk it. Then run off to the baker's shop. I was at my wit's end. Since the wife has come, even her bread comes out of that same earning, and there's comfort too. After all, a man earns for the sake of comfort. When even with killing yourself you get no comfort, then life itself is ruined. I tell you, your earnings will increase, brother! In the time you take boiling potatoes and peas, you'll sell two or four cups of tea. Tea sells all twelve months now. When you lie down at night, the wife will press your feet. All the tiredness will vanish."

This thing settled into Gobar's mind. He grew restless. Now he would not rest until he had brought Jhuniya. The potatoes were left sitting on the hearth, and he made ready to go home. But he remembered that Holi was coming, so let him take the things for Holi along too. That tendency miserly people have to spend with an open heart at festivals — that too woke up in him. After all, it was for this very day that he had been saving cowrie by cowrie. He would take a pair of saris each for his mother, his sisters, and Jhuniya. For Hori a dhoti and a wrapper. For Sona a bottle of oil and a pair of sandals. For Rupa a Japanese doll, and for Jhuniya a vanity box that would have oil, sindoor, and a mirror. For the child a cap and a frock, which are had ready-made in the market. He took out his money and went to the market. By midday all the things had come. The bedding too was tied up. The neighbourhood folk learned that Gobar was going home. Several men and women came to see him off. Gobar said, entrusting his house to them, "I'm leaving it to you people. If God wills, I'll return the day after Holi."

A young woman said with a smile, "Don't come back without bringing the wife, or you won't get to set foot in the house."

Another elderly woman gave him a lesson. "Yes, indeed — you've been blowing on the hearth long enough. At least you'll get bread in proper order!"

Gobar bade farewell to all. There were Hindus too, Muslims too, and there was a feeling of friendship among them all; all were companions of one another's joys and sorrows. Those who kept the fast kept the fast. Those who kept the Ekadashi kept the Ekadashi. Now and then, in jest, they would even fling little gibes at one another. Gobar would call Aladin's namaz "getting up and sitting down"; Aladin would call the hundreds of large and small Shivlingas set up under the pipal tree "scale-weights" — but there was not even a name of sectarian malice. Gobar was going home. All wanted to see him off in mirth and gladness.

Just then Bhure arrived with his ekka. He had just come in after the whole day's hard driving. Word reached him that Gobar was leaving. Just as he was, he turned the ekka this way. The horse objected. He gave it a few lashes of the whip. Gobar put his luggage on the ekka; the ekka moved off; those seeing him off came as far as the bend of the lane; then Gobar bade everyone farewell and sat down on the ekka.

On the road the ekka raced along at a gallop. Gobar was intoxicated with the joy of going home. Bhure was intoxicated with the joy of taking him home. And the horse was full of mettle. It flew along. In no time the station came.

Gobar, pleased, took a rupee out of his waistband and held it out towards Bhure, saying, "Take this — buy some sweets for the family on your way."

Bhure looked at him with a gratitude-filled scorn. "Do you think me an outsider, brother? Just because I gave you a seat on the ekka one day, am I to take a reward from you? Where your sweat falls, there I am ready to shed my blood. I haven't got so small a heart. And even if I took it, would the wife leave me alive?"

Gobar said nothing more. Abashed, he lifted down his luggage and went off to buy his ticket.