Chapter 27

When Gobar came to the city, he learned that at the stall where he used to sit with his hawking-tray, another tray-vendor had begun to sit, and the customers had now forgotten Gobar. That house too now seemed to him like a cage. Jhuniya would sit alone in it weeping. The boy was used to playing all day in the courtyard or at the door. Here there was no place for him to play. Where was he to go? At the door there was barely a yard of path. A stench was always wafting about. In the heat there was no place to lie or sit outside. The boy would not leave his mother for an instant. And when there was nothing to play with, what was he to do besides eat something and drink milk? At home too, sometimes Dhaniya would play with him, sometimes Rupa, sometimes Sona, sometimes Hori, sometimes Punia. Here there was only Jhuniya alone, and she had to do all the work of the house.

And Gobar was lost in the intoxication of youth. His unsatisfied cravings wished to drown in the journey of sensual enjoyment. His mind would settle on no work. He would take his tray and go out, and within an hour come back. There was no other means of amusement. The labourers and the cart-drivers of the neighbourhood played cards and gambled the whole night through. Earlier he too used to play a great deal, but now for him there was only one amusement — dalliance with Jhuniya. Within a few days Jhuniya grew weary of this life. She wished to go and sit somewhere in solitude, to lie down and sleep with a free mind, but that solitude was nowhere to be found. She now felt angry at Gobar. He had drawn such an enchanting picture of city life, and here there was nothing besides this dark hole of a room. Even of the child she felt irritation. Sometimes she would beat him and turn him out and bolt the door from inside. The boy would cry himself breathless.

On top of this, the calamity was that she was to give birth to a second child. No one before her, no one behind her. Often she would have a headache. She had grown averse to food. She would feel such a drowsiness that she might lie quietly in a corner; let no one speak to her — but here Gobar's pitiless love kept knocking at the door for welcome. There was not a drop of milk in her breast, but Lallu was forever astride her chest. With her body her mind too had grown weak. Whatever resolve she made, she would break it at the slightest insistence. She would lie there, and Lallu would come and forcibly sit on her chest and, taking the breast into his mouth, begin to chew it. He was now two years old. Sharp teeth had come out. When the milk did not come into his mouth, he would, in his anger, bite the breast with his teeth, but Jhuniya now had not even strength enough to push him off her chest. She saw death standing before her at every moment. Neither for husband nor for son did she have any affection. They were all selfish friends. In the rainy days, when Lallu began to have loose motions, he gave up drinking milk, and Jhuniya felt as though one calamity had been lifted from her head; but when, a week later, the child died, his memory, brought to life by a mother's love, began to make her weep.

And when, only a week after the child's death, Gobar again began to press her, she said, burning with anger — "What a beast you are!"

To Jhuniya now the memory of Lallu was dearer even than Lallu himself. As long as Lallu was before her, the happiness she got from him was far less than the trouble. Now Lallu had come and settled within her mind — calm, steady, well-natured, sweet-smiling. In her imagination there was now a sorrowful joy, in which the dark shadow of the actual was not present. The outer Lallu had been a mere reflection of her inner Lallu. The reflection was not before her, which was false, was unsteady. The true form was within her, kept alive by her hopes and good wishes. Instead of milk, she had been nourishing him by feeding him her own blood. She seemed no longer even aware of that closed room, and that foul air, and the burning in smoke at both meals. That memory, seated within her, seemed to keep granting her strength. What, while it lived, had been the burden of her life, had, by dying, merged into her very breath. All her tenderness, going within, had grown indifferent to what was outside. Whether Gobar came late or early, whether he ate his food with relish or not, whether he was happy or sad — of this she now had no anxiety at all. What Gobar earned and how he spent it, of this too she had no care. Her life, whatever it was, was within; outwardly she was only lifeless.

By taking part in her grief, by entering her inner life, Gobar could have drawn near her, could have become a part of her life; but he came only to the dry bank of her outer life and returned thirsting.

One day he said in a harsh tone — "How long will you go on weeping for Lallu's name! It is already four or five months."

Taking a cold breath, Jhuniya said — "You cannot understand my grief. Mind your own business. Let me lie as I am."

"By your going on weeping, will Lallu come back?"

Jhuniya had no answer. She got up and began boiling potatoes in a pot for kachalu. She had not thought Gobar so stony-hearted.

This heartlessness made her Lallu still more vivid within her mind. Lallu was hers alone; in him no one had a share, no one a part. Until now, in some part, Lallu had been outside her heart too; in Gobar's heart too some glow of him had been. Now he was wholly and entirely hers.

Despairing of the hawking-tray, Gobar had taken a job in a sugar mill. Mr Khanna, encouraged by his first mill, had lately opened this second mill. Gobar had to go there very early, and when, after the whole day, he returned home at lamp-lighting time, there was not the least life left in his body. At home too he had to do labour no less than this, but there he felt not the slightest weariness. Now and then he would laugh and chat too. Then, in that open field, under the unbounded sky, his loss seemed to be made good. There, however much his body might work, his mind stayed free. Here, though there was not so much labour for the body, it was as though the burden of that uproar, that motion and stormy din, lay loaded upon him. The fear too remained that who knows when a scolding might fall. The condition of all the workmen was the same. They all drowned their bodily fatigue and mental dejection in toddy or liquor. Gobar too got a taste for liquor. He would come home dead drunk, and a watch into the night. And, coming, he would find some pretext or other to abuse Jhuniya, begin turning her out of the house, and sometimes even beat her.

Jhuniya now began to feel that it was because she was a kept woman that she suffered this insult. Had she been a wedded wife, would Gobar have dared to behave with her in this way? The brotherhood would punish him, would cut off his hookah and water. What a great mistake she had made, running off from home with this deceiver. There had been mockery throughout the world, and nothing had come into her hands. She began to regard Gobar as her enemy. She cared neither for his eating and drinking nor for her own. When Gobar beat her, she felt such anger that she could cut Gobar's throat with a knife. As the pregnancy drew towards completion, her anxiety grew. In this house she would die. Who would look after her, who would tend her? And if Gobar went on beating and thrashing her like this, then her life would become a very hell.

One day she went to the public tap to fill water, and a woman of the neighbourhood asked — "How many months, girl?"

Shyly Jhuniya said — "What do I know, sister; I have not counted them up."

She was a heavy-bodied, black, short, ugly woman with very large breasts. Her husband drove an ekka, and she herself ran a firewood shop. Several times Jhuniya had brought firewood from her shop. That was the whole of their acquaintance.

Smiling, she said — "It seems to me your days are full. It will be today or tomorrow. Have you arranged any midwife or anyone?"

In a frightened voice Jhuniya said — "I know no one here at all."

"What sort of fellow is your man, that he sits with oil poured in his ears?"

"What care does he have for me!"

"Yes, I am seeing that. You will be in the lying-in room — there must be someone to do the doing, no? Mother-in-law, sister-in-law, husband's younger or elder brother's wife — is there anyone or not? You should have called someone."

"For me everyone is dead."

When she brought the water and began scouring the soiled vessels, her heart was thumping with the fear of childbirth. She began to think — how, what will happen, O God? Huh! This is just what will happen, I shall die — good, I shall be freed of the whole tangle.

In the evening a pain began in her belly. She understood — the hour of calamity had come. Holding her belly with one hand, drenched with sweat, she lit the hearth, put the khichri on, and, distracted with pain, lay down there on the ground. At about ten at night Gobar came, wafting the stench of toddy. With a slurred tongue he was babbling nonsense — "I care for no one. Whoever needs me a hundred times, let him stay, otherwise let him be off. I can bear no one's heat. I did not bear the heat of my own parents, who gave me birth. Then why should I bear others' heat? The jamadar shows his eyes. Here there is no one to take anyone's bullying. Had people not held me back, I would have drunk his blood — blood! Tomorrow I shall see to the fellow. It will only be a hanging, after all. I shall show how a man dies. Let me go to the gallows-platform laughing, swaggering, twirling my moustaches — then it is fine. The female sort! How faithless they are. She put the khichri on and is sleeping with her legs stretched out. Let anyone eat or not eat — what does she care? She herself merrily polishes off the soft chapatis — khichri for me! All right, torment me as much as you can manage; God will torment you. He who does justice."

He did not wake Jhuniya. He said nothing either. Quietly he took out the khichri onto a platter and, swallowing two or four mouthfuls, lay down on the verandah. In the last watch he felt cold. When he went to the room to fetch a blanket, he heard the sound of Jhuniya groaning. The drink had worn off. He asked — "How are you feeling, Jhuniya! Is there pain somewhere?"

"Yes, there is a severe pain in my belly."

"Why did you not say so before? Now at this hour where am I to go?"

"Whom should I tell?"

"Was I dead, or what?"

"What anxiety have you over my dying or living?"

Gobar was alarmed. Where was he to go searching for a midwife? Why should she come at this hour? There was nothing in the house either. Had the witch told him before, he would have asked someone for two or four rupees. In these very hands fifty or a hundred rupees had always lain; four men used to flatter him. The moment this ill-starred woman came, it was as though Lakshmi turned away in displeasure. He had become a beggar for a single coin.

Suddenly someone called out — "Is this your wife groaning? She is not in labour pain, surely?"

It was that same fat woman with whom Jhuniya had talked today. She had got up to feed her horse its grain. Hearing Jhuniya's groaning, she had come to ask.

Going onto the verandah, Gobar said — "There is a pain in her belly. She is writhing. Will any midwife be found here?"

"That I understood today the moment I saw her. The midwife lives in the kachi sarai. Run and fetch her. Tell her, come quick. Till then I shall be sitting here."

"I have not seen the kachi sarai — which way is it?"

"All right, you keep fanning her, I shall fetch her. This is just what I say — an unhandy man is of no use for anything. Full term, and no word of a midwife."

Saying this, she went off. To her face people called her Chuhiya — that was her name — but behind her back they called her Motalli, "the fat one." If she heard anyone call her Motalli, she would climb up onto his seven generations.

Gobar had not been sitting for even ten minutes when she came back and said — "Now how will the poor survive in this world! The widow says, 'I shall take five rupees, only then shall I go. And eight annas a day. On the twelfth day a sari.' I said — let me scorch your face. Go you, into the hearth! I shall manage. I have not become the mother of twelve children for nothing. You come out, Gobardhan, I shall do everything. When the time of need comes, only man is of use to man. She has had four children, and sets herself up as a midwife!"

She went and sat beside Jhuniya and, laying her head on her own thigh, said, stroking her belly — "I understood today the very moment I saw you. To tell you the truth, in this very dread I got no sleep today. Who close to you is sitting here?"

Clenching her teeth with pain and hissing, Jhuniya said — "Now I shall not survive, sister! Alas, I had not gone to God to ask for it. One I reared and raised. Him you took from me; then what need was there of this one? If I die, mother, then you have pity on the child. Rear and raise him. God will do you good."

Disentangling her hair with affection, Chuhiya said — "Have patience, daughter, have patience. In just a moment the trouble will be over. You too had simply kept silence over it. What is there to be ashamed of in this! Had you told me, I would have brought a charm from the maulvi sahib. The very Mirza ji who lives in this compound."

After that Jhuniya remained conscious of nothing. When at nine in the morning she came to her senses, she saw Chuhiya sitting with the infant, and herself lying there in a clean sari. There was such weakness, as though there were not a trace of blood in her body.

Every morning Chuhiya came and cooked harira and halwa for Jhuniya, and several times in the day too she came and rubbed the child with cleansing paste and fed him milk from the cup. Today was the fourth day, but no milk came down into Jhuniya's breasts. The infant cried and cried and grew hoarse, because the outside milk did not agree with him. He would not be quiet for a single instant. Chuhiya would put her own breast into his mouth. The child would suck a moment, but when no milk came, he would begin to scream again. When by the evening of the fourth day Jhuniya's milk had not come down, Chuhiya grew alarmed. The child was wasting away. In the Nakhas there lived a pensioned doctor. Chuhiya brought him. After examining the child, the doctor said — "There is no blood at all in her body — from where is milk to come?" The problem grew complicated. To bring blood into her body, she would have to take strengthening medicines for months, and only then would the milk come down. By then this lump of flesh would be finished off.

It was a watch into the night. Gobar, having drunk toddy, lay in the open shed. Chuhiya, to quiet the child, had put her own breast into his mouth, when suddenly it seemed to her that milk had come into her breast. Delighted, she said — "Here, Jhuniya, now your child will live; milk has come to me."

In astonishment Jhuniya said — "Milk has come to you?"

"No, truly, girl."

"I do not believe it."

"Look and see!"

She pressed her breast and showed her. A stream of milk spurted out.

Jhuniya asked — "Your youngest daughter is no less than eight years old."

"Yes, it is her eighth year, but I used to have a great deal of milk."

"You have had no child lately."

"That girl was the womb-wiper, the last. The breast had quite dried up, but it is the play of God, and what else!"

From now on Chuhiya came four or five times to feed the child milk. The child had been born weak, but, drinking Chuhiya's healthy milk, he began to grow plump. One day Chuhiya went to bathe in the river. The child began writhing with hunger. When Chuhiya came back at ten o'clock, Juniya was rocking the child against her shoulders, and the child went on crying. Chuhiya wished to take the child from her lap and feed him milk, but Jhuniya snapped at her and said — "Let him be. Let the unlucky one die — that is good. At least one will not have to take anyone's obligation."

Chuhiya began to entreat. After much coaxing, Jhuniya gave the child into her lap.

But between Jhuniya and Gobar there was still no harmony. It had settled into Jhuniya's mind that he was a thorough self-server, a heartless man, who regarded her only as an object of enjoyment. Whether she lived or died, she should go on fulfilling his desire — of that he had no grief at all. He must be thinking, "If this one dies, I shall fetch another," but wash your mouth of it, my fellow! It was I alone who was so green a girl that I came into your snare. Then he used to lay his head on my feet. The moment he came here, who knows why his whole temper changed. Winter had come, but there was no covering, no bedding. The two or four rupees that were saved from bread and dal flew off in toddy. There was one old quilt. The two of them slept in that one, but even so there was a hundred-kos distance between them. The two would spend the night each turned one way.

Gobar's heart pined to take the infant in his lap and play with him. Sometimes at night he would get up and look at his sweet little face, but towards Jhuniya his heart shrank back. Jhuniya too neither spoke to him nor did him any service, and this ill-feeling between the two, with time, grew, like rust on iron, deeper, firmer, harder. The two would each draw the opposite meaning from the other's words — that very meaning by which the mutual rancour would be the more inflamed. And for several days they would keep one single sentence nursed in the mind, and, feeding it their own blood, would stay ready to pounce upon one another, like hunting-dogs.

Meanwhile at Gobar's factory too some disturbance or other kept arising every other day. In this year's budget a duty had been laid on sugar. The mill-owners got a good pretext to reduce wages. If from the duty there was a loss of five, then from cutting wages there was a gain of ten. For months past this very issue had been smouldering in this mill too. The workers' union sat ready to strike. The wages were cut on this side, and the strike happened on that. The union would not accept even a half-cowrie's deduction from the wage. When, in those days of boom, there had not been even a half-cowrie's increase in wages, why now should they share in the loss?

Mirza Khurshed was the president of the union, and Pandit Onkarnath of "Bijli," the editor, was the secretary. Both were bent on bringing about such a strike as the mill-owners would remember for some time. That the workers too would be hurt by such a strike, so much so that thousands of men would even be reduced to begging for bread — to this aspect their eyes were not turned at all. And Gobar was at the very front of the strikers. His nature was unruly anyway; it only needed a goading. Then he had no fear of killing or being killed. One day Jhuniya, hardening her heart, even tried to advise him — "You are a man with a family; for you to jump into the fire like this is not good." At this Gobar flared up — "Who are you to speak in my affairs? I do not ask your advice." The matter grew, and Gobar beat Jhuniya soundly. Chuhiya came and freed Jhuniya and began to scold Gobar. A devil was riding Gobar's head. Bulging his red eyes, he said — "Do not come into my house, Chuhiya; there is no need for your coming."

Sarcastically Chuhiya said — "If I do not come into your house, how will my bread run! It is from here that I get things by asking, and then my griddle gets hot! Had I not been there, Lala, this lady would not be sitting today to take your kicks."

Gobar, raising his fist, said — "I have said it — do not come into my house. It is you who have sent this witch's temper up to the sky."

Chuhiya stood firm there, fearless, and said — "All right, now keep quiet, Gobar! By beating a poor, half-dead, new-mother of a woman, you have done no great deed of manhood. What do you do for her, that she should bear your beating? Because you feed her one bread? Praise your luck that you have got such a cow of a woman. Had it been another, she would have struck a broom in your mouth and walked off."

The people of the neighbourhood gathered, and from all sides reproaches fell on Gobar. The very men who in their own houses beat their wives every day were at this moment made into images of justice and pity. Chuhiya grew bolder still and began to make her plaint — "The beard-burnt fellow says, do not come into my house. He sets out to keep a wife and child, and does not know that to rear a wife and children is work of a stout liver. Just ask him — had I not been there, this child, who is now frisking about like a calf, where would he be? He shows off his youth by beating a woman. I am not your wife, otherwise I would have lifted this very shoe and laid it slap-slap on your face and shoved you into the room and bolted the door from outside. You would have pined for a grain of food."

Furious, Gobar went off to his work. Had Chuhiya been a man and not a woman, he would have given her a taste of it. Why bandy words with a woman's mouth.

In the mill the clouds of discontent were growing thicker. The workers went about with copies of "Bijli" in their pockets, and the moment they got the least leisure, two or three workers together would begin to read it. The sale of the paper was rising greatly. The workers' leaders would sit in the "Bijli" office till midnight making schemes for the strike, and in the morning, when this news was printed in the paper in big bold letters, the public would pounce on it, and copies of the paper would sell at double and treble the price. On the other side the directors of the company too sat in their own ambush. It was in their interest that the strike should happen. There was no shortage of men, after all. Unemployment was high; at half this wage such men could easily be got. In the production of goods there would at once be a saving of half. There would be a loss of work for ten or five days — no matter. At last it was decided that the cut in wages should be announced. The day and time were fixed, the police were informed. The workers had not the slightest inkling. They were in their own ambush. They wished to strike just at the moment when very little stock was left in the warehouse and the demand was brisk.

Suddenly one day, when the workers were getting ready to leave on receiving their evening's release, the directors' announcement was read out to them. At that very moment the police arrived. The workers had to strike, against their own wish, at that very moment when there was so much stock filling the warehouse that, even with a very brisk demand, it could not be cleared before six months.

When Mirza Khurshed heard this, he smiled, like some great-spirited warrior charmed by the battle-skill of his enemy. After being sunk a moment in thought, he said — "Very well. If this is what the directors wish, then so be it. Conditions are in their favour, but ours is the strength of justice. They wish to keep their work going by engaging new men. Our effort should be that they get not a single new man. That alone will be our victory."

In the "Bijli" office a danger-meeting was held that very moment; the executive committee too was organized, officers were elected, and at eight in the night a long procession of workers came out. At ten at night the whole programme for the next day was settled, and the strict injunction was given that no kind of riot or disturbance should occur.

But all the effort went to waste. When the strikers saw a locust-swarm of new workers standing at the mill gate, their violent instinct went beyond control. They had thought that a hundred or fifty men a day would come for enlistment. They would, by persuasion or by threat, drive them away. Seeing the number of strikers, the new men would themselves grow afraid. But here the picture was something else entirely; if all these men got enlisted, then for the strikers there would be no hope of any compromise at all. It was decided that the new men should not be let into the mill at all. There was no means other than the use of force. The new party too was ready to fight and die. Most of them were such famished men that they did not wish to let this chance slip in any way. Better far than dying of hunger, or seeing their own children die of hunger, to fight and die in this situation. Between the two parties a fight broke out. The "Bijli" editor took to his heels. The poor Mirza ji got beaten, and, in protecting him, Gobar too was badly wounded. The Mirza ji was a wrestler-built man and a seasoned fencer; he did not let any deep blow fall on himself. Gobar was a rustic. He knew how to deal a full lathi-blow, but did not know how to protect himself — which, in a fight, is a thing of more importance than striking. One bone of his arm broke, his head was split open, and at last he collapsed there in a heap. Countless lathis fell on his shoulders, by which every single limb of his was crushed. When the strikers saw him fall, they took to their heels. Only ten or twelve seasoned men stood surrounding the Mirza. The new men, flying the flag of victory, entered the mill, and the defeated strikers began carrying their dead and wounded to the hospital. But there was no room in the hospital for so many men. The Mirza ji was indeed taken in. Gobar, having had his wounds dressed, was delivered to his house.

When Jhuniya saw that motionless lump of Gobar, her womanhood awoke. Until now she had seen him as a strong man who ruled over her, scolded her, beat her. Today he was disabled, helpless, pitiable. Jhuniya bent over the cot and looked at Gobar with tear-filled eyes, and, thinking of the state of the house, she felt towards Gobar an anger mixed with envy. Gobar knew there was not a paisa in the house. He also knew that there was no hope of getting a paisa from anywhere. Knowing this, and even after her repeated counsel, he had brought this calamity upon himself. How many times she had said, do not get into this quarrel. The fire-starters will start the fire and stand aside; it is on the heads of the poor that it will fall. But when had he ever listened to her! She, after all, was his enemy. The friends were those men who were now merrily riding about in motor-cars. In that anger there was a kind of satisfaction, as we, seeing the children fall off a chair who, despite repeated forbidding, would not stop standing on it, cry out — "Good, very good, why did your head not split in two!"

But in that very instant, hearing Gobar's piteous moaning, her whole being shuddered. Sunk in agony, these words escaped her mouth — "Alas, alas! His whole body has been crushed to powder. The wretches had not the least mercy."

She went on, that way, looking at Gobar's face for a long while. With a hope that kept growing fainter, she wished to find some sign of life. And at every moment her endurance kept sinking like a setting sun, and in the future darkness gathered her into itself.

Suddenly Chuhiya came and called out — "How is Gobar, daughter-in-law! I have only just heard. I have come running from the shop."

Jhuniya's held-back tears boiled over; she could say nothing. With frightened eyes she looked at Chuhiya.

Chuhiya looked at Gobar's face, placed her hand on his chest, and said in a reassuring voice — "He will get well in four days. Do not be afraid. It has turned out well. Your wifely fortune was strong. Several men died in that very fray. Is there any money in the house?"

In shame Jhuniya shook her head.

"I shall fetch some. Bring a little milk and warm it."

Clasping her feet, Jhuniya said — "Sister, you alone are my mother. I have no one else."

The melancholy evening of winter seemed today more melancholy still. Jhuniya lit the hearth and began to boil milk. Chuhiya was on the verandah, holding the child and feeding him.

Suddenly Jhuniya said in a heavy voice — "I am a great unlucky woman, sister! It is coming into my mind as though it is on my account that this state has befallen him. When the heart frets, then the mind is grieved, and then abuses come out of the mouth, curses come out too. Who knows, my abuses….."

Beyond this she could say nothing. Her voice was swept away in the torrent of tears. Wiping her tears with her anchal, Chuhiya said — "What things you think, daughter! It is the good fortune of your sindoor that he has survived. But yes — this much is true, that when there is a quarrel between you, however much you may rant with your mouth, do not nurse rancour in the heart. Once the seed has fallen within, it does not fail to sprout."

In a trembling voice Jhuniya asked — "Now what should I do, sister?"

Chuhiya consoled her — "Nothing, daughter! Take the name of God. It is He who protects the poor."

At that very moment Gobar opened his eyes and, seeing Jhuniya before him, said in a faint voice with a beseeching air — "I have taken many blows today, Jhuniya! I said nothing to anyone. They all beat me for no reason. Forgive whatever I have said and done. I tormented you; this is its very fruit. I am a guest of only a little while longer. Now I shall not survive. With the pain, my whole body feels as though it is splitting."

Coming inside, Chuhiya said — "Lie quiet. Do not speak or talk. You will not die — that is my responsibility."

A streak of hope flashed across Gobar's face. He said — "Do you speak truly — I shall not die?"

"Yes, you will not die. What has happened to you? There is just a wound on the head, and the bone of the arm has come out of joint. Such wounds men get every day. No one dies of such wounds."

"Now I shall never beat Jhuniya."

"You must be afraid that Jhuniya may beat you."

"Even if she beats me, I shall say nothing."

"When you are well, you will forget."

"No, sister, I shall never forget."

Gobar at this time would talk like a child. For ten or five minutes he would lie as though senseless. His mind would wander, who knows where and where. Sometimes he would see that he was drowning in the river, and Jhuniya was coming into the river to save him. Sometimes he would see that some demon was astride his chest, and some goddess in the shape of Jhuniya was protecting him. And again and again, starting, he would ask — "I shall not die, then, Jhuniya?"

For three days this remained his condition, and Jhuniya, by waking at night and standing before him by day, protected him, as it were, from death. Chuhiya kept charge of the child. On the fourth day Jhuniya brought an ekka and they all loaded Gobar onto it and took him to the hospital. Coming back from there, Gobar learned that now he would really survive. With his eyes filling with tears, he said — "Forgive me, Jhunna!"

In these three or four days three or four rupees of Chuhiya's had been spent, and now Jhuniya felt scruple at taking anything from her. She too was no woman of means. She would give Jhuniya the money from the sale of firewood. At last Jhuniya thought of doing some work. It would still take Gobar months to get well. There would be need for eating and drinking, need too for medicine and the midwife. By doing some work she would at least be able to bring in enough to eat. From childhood she had learned to rear cattle and to cut grass. Where were cattle here? Yes, she could cut grass. How many men and women of the neighbourhood went regularly outside the city to cut grass and earned eight or ten annas. Early in the morning she would wash Gobar's hands and face, and, handing the child over to him, would set out to cut grass, and till the third watch she would, hungry and thirsty, go on cutting grass. Then she would take it to the market and sell it, and come home in the evening. At night too she slept Gobar's sleep and woke Gobar's waking; but, even doing such hard labour, her mind stayed so cheerful, as though she were seated in a swing and singing. All along the road she would joke and jest with the women and men of her company. Even while cutting grass there would be mirth and fun among them all. No weeping over fate, no complaint of misfortune. In the meaningfulness of life, in the hardest of hard sacrifice for one's own people, and in free service, there is an exhilaration whose light kept shining on each one of her limbs. As a child, standing on its own feet, grows happy as if clapping its hands, that very joy she was experiencing, as though within her being a spring of joy had opened. And when the mind is healthy, how can the body remain unhealthy! In that one month it was as though her whole frame had been transformed. In her limbs now there was no slackness but quickness, suppleness, delicacy. On her face there remained no pallor; there was the rosy glow of blood. Her youth, which lying and lying in that closed room had been blighted by insult and quarrel, had, as if on getting fresh air and light, sprung up afresh and burst into bloom. Now she felt no anger at anything. At the least crying of the child she used to flare up; now it was as though there was no end to her patience and love.

Contrary to this, Gobar, even while getting better, remained somewhat downcast. When we commit cruelty upon some dear one, and when, calamity befalling, so much strength comes into us that we feel the keen agony of that person, then in our soul the dawn of awakening rises, and we become ready to make atonement for that wrongful treatment. Gobar was distraught for that very atonement. Now the form of his life would be wholly different — a life in which, in place of bitterness, there would be gentleness, in place of pride, humility. He now realized that the chance to serve is got only by great good fortune, and that he would never forget this chance.