Chapter 29

Nohri was not one of those women who do a good deed and cast it into the river. If she had done a kindness, she would beat the drum of it loudly and would struggle hand and foot to get from it a little more than the fame it could yield. A person of that sort gets, in place of fame, only ill-fame and disgrace. Not to do a kindness is no matter for disgrace. One has no wish to, or has not the means. For that no one can call us bad. But when, having done a kindness, we begin to make a show of our obligation, then the very person to whom we did the kindness becomes our enemy, and wishes to wipe out our obligation. That same kindness, if it stays in the doer's heart, is kindness; if it comes out, it is unkindness. Nohri went about everywhere saying, "Poor Hori was in great trouble. He was mortgaging his land for his daughter's wedding. When I saw this plight of his, I felt pity. With Dhaniya I was vexed—that widow is so eaten up with pride she will not set her foot on the ground. Poor Hori was pining away with worry. I thought, in this distress let me give him some help. After all, it is only man who is of use to man. And Hori is no stranger now; believe it or not, he has become a relative of ours. I took out the money and gave it to him; otherwise the girl would still be sitting unwed."

Was Dhaniya likely to listen to this boasting? Had she given the money as charity? A great giver of charity she was! The moneylender would take interest, you will take it too. Where is the obligation? Had she given it to others, the principal would have vanished along with the interest; since we have taken it, the moment the money comes into our hand we will set it on her nose. It was we who drank up the venom of your household and never brought it to your lips. No one would let you stand at our door. We made you respectable, we kept the redness on your face.

It had struck ten at night. The dark cloud-cover of Sawan had spread. There was darkness over the whole village. Hori, having eaten his meal, had smoked his tobacco and was going to sleep when Bhola came and stood there.

Hori asked, "How do you come, Bhola Mahto? When you have to live in this very village, why don't you build a little house of your own, apart? What slanders the people of the village spread about—do you find this pleasant? Don't take it ill—since I have a connection with you, I cannot bear to hear of your disgrace; otherwise what was it to me?"

Just then Dhaniya came with water in a lota to set at Hori's bedside. Hearing this, she said, "Any other man would have cut off the head of such a woman."

Hori scolded her, "Why do you talk without rhyme or reason? Set down the water and go to sleep. If you yourself were to go astray today, would I cut off your head? Would you let me cut it off?"

Dhaniya flicked a splash of water at him and said, "May your sister go astray—why should I go astray? I am speaking of the way of the world, and you start abusing me. Now your mouth must have grown sweet. Let a woman go by any road she pleases, the man stares on with vacant eyes. Such a man I do not call a man."

Hori was cut within. Bhola must have come to tell him his sorrows and troubles. Instead she had fallen upon Bhola himself. Growing a little heated, he said, "When all day long you do just as your own mind pleases, what do I do to spoil it? If I say anything, you come running to bite. Think of that."

Dhaniya had not learned to flatter and coax. She said, "A woman may overturn the jar of ghee, may set fire to the house, the man will bear it, but her going astray no man will bear."

Bhola said in a grieved voice, "You speak very rightly, Dhaniya. No doubt I ought to have cut off her head, but I no longer have such manhood left. You go and make her understand—I have done everything and been defeated."

"When you had not the strength to keep a woman under control, why did you marry her? For this very ignominy? Did you think she would come and press your feet, fill and fill the chillum and give it to you to smoke, and that when you fell ill she would nurse you? Why, that is what only a woman can do who has enjoyed the pleasures of youth along with you. What I cannot understand at all is how you became a moonstruck fool the moment you set eyes on her! You ought to have looked into it a little—what her temperament was, what her ways and manner were. You fell on her like a hungry jackal. Now your duty is just this, to cut off her head with the chopper. You will get no more than the gallows. And the gallows is better than this ignominy."

Some vigour came into Bhola's blood. He said, "So this is your advice?"

Dhaniya said, "Yes, this is my advice. You will not live another hundred or fifty years now. Take it that this was the span you had."

Hori now rebuked her sharply, "Be quiet—a great Sati she has come from somewhere to play! By force not even a bird stays in its cage; how will a human being? You leave her, Bhola, and take it that she is dead, and go and live in peace among your own children. Eat two pieces of bread and take the name of Ram. The pleasures of youth are gone now. That woman is fickle; besides disgrace and heartburning you will get no pleasure from her."

For Bhola to leave Nohri—impossible! Even at this moment Nohri seemed to be glaring at him with eyes full of anger; but no, Bhola would leave her now. As she was behaving, let her suffer the fruit of it.

Tears came into his eyes. He said, "Brother Hori, the torment I am suffering on account of this woman, only I know it. It was for her sake that I quarrelled with Kamta. In my old age this stain too had to fall on me, and it has fallen. She taunts me every day, that my daughter ran off. My daughter ran off, eloped, but at least she is lying beside her own man, at least she is the companion of his weal and woe. A woman like this one I have never seen at all. With others she laughs, when she sees me she puffs her face up like a wineskin. I am a poor man; I do labour for three or four annas a day. Where am I to bring milk and curds, meat and fish, cream and sweets from!"

Bhola left from here making a vow and went to his own house. Now he would live with his sons; he had endured enough buffets. But the next morning when Hori looked, Bhola was carrying tobacco from Dulari the grocer's shop.

Hori did not think it proper to call out to him. In infatuation a man is not in his own control! Coming home from there, he said to Dhaniya, "Bhola is still there. Nohri has truly cast some spell upon him."

Dhaniya, wrinkling her nose, said, "As shameless as she is, so shameless is he. Such a man ought to drown himself in a handful of water. Where has all that swagger gone now? When Jhuniya came here, he went about with a stick after her. Honour was being ruined. Now honour is not ruined!"

Hori was feeling pity for Bhola. The poor man, falling into the toils of this wicked woman, was wrecking his own life. And if he were to leave her and go, how could he? Is it an easy thing to leave a wife like that and go? This witch would not let him sit in peace even there! Somewhere she would call a panchayat, somewhere she would lay claim to food and clothing. For now it was only the village people who knew. People hesitated to say anything to anyone. They merely whispered and let it pass. Then the world too would call Bhola the bad one. People would say only this—when the man cast her off, what was the poor weak woman to do? If the man is bad, he will cut the woman's throat. If the woman is bad, she will smear soot on the man's face.

Two months after this, one day the news spread through the village that Nohri had beaten Bhola's pate bald with her shoes.

The rains were over and preparations were being made for sowing the rabi crop. Hori's cane had been auctioned off. He had not got the money for cane seed, and so no cane had been sown. Besides, the right-hand bullock had become unfit for work, and without a new bullock work could not go on. Punia's one bullock had fallen into a ravine and died, and since then there had been still greater difficulty. One day the plough would go in Punia's field, one day in Hori's. The ploughing of the fields could not be done as it should be.

Hori took the plough and went to the field, but his anxiety over Bhola remained. In his life he had never heard of a woman beating her husband with a shoe. Not with a shoe—he could not remember even a single instance of a slap or a punch. And today Nohri had thrashed Bhola with her shoes, and everyone had stood watching the spectacle. How was that luckless man's neck ever to be freed from this woman! Now Bhola ought to go and drown himself somewhere. When there is nothing in life but disgrace and wretchedness, it is better for a man to die. Who is sitting ready to weep over Bhola's name! The sons may perform the funeral rites, but bound by the world's shame, no tears will come into anyone's eyes. Falling under the sway of craving, a man wrecks his life like this. When there is no one to weep, then what attachment is there to life, and what is there to fear in dying!

Here is one Nohri, and here is one chamarin, Silia! In looks and ways a hundred degrees better than her. She might feed two men and keep one for herself and go about playing Radhika, but she does labour, she starves, and she sits faithful to Matadin's name—and that unfeeling man does not even ask after her. Who knows—had Dhaniya died, this would be Hori's plight too today. At the mere imagining of her death Hori shuddered. Dhaniya's image came and stood before his mental eyes! A goddess of service and sacrifice! Sharp of tongue, but a heart like wax; ready to give her life for every paisa, yet ready to sacrifice her all to guard honour. In her youth she had been no less than beautiful. What was Nohri before her? When she walked, she looked like a queen. Whoever saw her, kept on looking. These very Pateshwari and Jhinguri were young men then. Both of them, on seeing Dhaniya, would press their hands to their breasts. They circled the door a hundred times over. Hori kept watch for them, but found no pretext for picking a quarrel. In those days there was great scarcity of food in the house. Frost had come, and there had not even been any chaff in the fields. People passed their days eating wild jujubes. Hori had to go to work in the famine camp. He got six paisa a day. Dhaniya stayed alone in the house; never did anyone see her cast a glance at any dandy. Pateshwari had once made some advance to her. She had given him such a crushing reply that he had not forgotten it to this day.

Suddenly he saw Matadin coming towards him. The butcher, from wherever he came—what a tilak he wears, as though he were a true devotee of God. A dyed jackal. Who is to make obeisance to a Brahmin like that?

Coming near, Matadin said, "Your right-hand bullock has grown old, Hori; this time it won't hold out at the watering. It must be some five years since you bought it?"

Hori, laying his hand on the back of the right-hand bullock, said, "What five? This is its eighth that is running, brother! My heart does long to give it a pension, but for the peasant and the peasant's bullock—Yamraj alone can give them a pension, if they're to get one. To put the yoke on its neck wrings my heart. The poor creature must be thinking, even now no rest; will he plough with my very bones now? But one has no control of one's own. How do you come? Are you well now?"

Matadin had for the past month been laid up with malarial fever. One day his pulse had even stopped. He had been lifted down from the charpoy. Since then the conviction had grown in his mind that this was his punishment for the cruelty he had done to Silia. When he had turned Silia out of the house, she was with child. He had felt not the least pity. With her belly full of child, she had gone on labouring. Had Dhaniya not taken pity on her, she would have died. Through what hardships she was living! She could not even do labour in that state. Now, ashamed and softened, he had come to give Silia two rupees through Hori's hand; if Hori would give her that money, he would be much obliged to him.

Hori said, "Why don't you go and give it yourself?"

Matadin said humbly, "Do not send me to her, Hori Mahto! With what face am I to go? I am also afraid that, seeing me, she may begin to heap rebukes on me. You do me this much kindness. Even now I cannot walk well, but it was for this very money that I had gone running a whole kos to a yajman. I have suffered enough of the fruit of my own deeds. This load of Brahminhood I can no longer bear. Hidden and in secret, do however many evil deeds you like, no one says anything. Openly nothing can be done, or a stain will fall on the family line. You explain to her, brother, that she should forgive my offence. This bond of religion is a very hard one. The honour of the society in which one is born and bred has to be kept. If some other caste's religion is spoiled, it suffers no special harm; but if a Brahmin's religion is spoiled, then he is left nowhere. His religion is the very earning of his forefathers. It is by that bread he eats. Over this expiation three hundred of our rupees have been lost. So, when one has to live without religion anyway, then whatever I have to do, I shall do openly. If a man has some duty as a member of society, surely he has some duty as a human being too. By keeping the law of society, society honours one; but by keeping the law of humanity, it is God who is pleased."

In the evening, when Hori, fearfully, gave Silia the money, she felt as though she had received the boon of her austerities. The burden of sorrow she could carry alone. But the burden of joy cannot be carried alone. To whom was she to tell this glad news? She could not tell Dhaniya the things of her heart. There was no other being in the village with whom she had any intimacy. Mice were running in her belly. Sona alone was her friend. Silia grew impatient to meet her. How was she to bear it the whole night through? A kind of storm was rising in her mind. Now she was no orphan. Matadin had taken her arm again. On the path of life there was no longer before her a dark, terrible-mouthed chasm, but a swaying, lush green meadow, in which streams were singing and deer were frisking. Her sulking affection had today grown intoxicated. In her mind she had cursed Matadin again and again, gulping down water. Now she would beg his pardon. She had truly committed a great error in humiliating him before the whole village. She was only a chamarin, low of caste; what had she lost? Today let her spend ten or twenty rupees and give the brotherhood a feast, and she would be taken back into it. But that poor man's religion was destroyed forever. That honour he could never get back again. How blind with anger she had become, that she went about beating the drum of their love before everyone! His religion had been defiled, and he naturally had his anger; why had the devil ridden upon her head? Had she just gone away to her own home, what wrong would have come of it? In her own home no one would have bound her. The country worships Matadin for this very reason, that he lives by rule and religion. When that very religion was destroyed, why should he not thirst for her blood?

A little while before, in her eyes all the fault had been Matadin's, and now all the fault was her own. Tenderness of heart had bred tenderness of heart. She clasped the child to her breast and loved it dearly. Now, at seeing him, she felt no shame and no remorse. He was now not merely an object of her pity. He was now the rightful heir to all her motherly love and pride.

The silvery moonlight of Kartik had spread over nature like sweet music. Silia set out from the house. She would go to Sona and tell her this happy tiding. She could no longer bear to wait. It was only just dusk. She would find a dinghy. She walked on, lengthening her stride. Coming to the river, she saw that the dinghy was on the far bank. And there was no trace of the boatman anywhere. The moon seemed to be dissolving and flowing away in the river. She stood thinking for a moment. Then she stepped into the river. There could not be so very much water in the river! Before that ocean of joy, what was that river? At first the water was up to her knees, then it came to her waist, and then at last it reached her neck. Silia was afraid—she might drown. There might be some pit somewhere. But, hazarding her life, she set her foot forward. Now she was midstream. Death was dancing before her, but she was not frightened. She knew how to swim. In her childhood she had swum in this very river many a time. Standing, she had crossed the river too. Still her heart was thumping, but the water began to grow shallower. Now there was no fear. She crossed the river quickly, and reaching the bank she wrung the water from her clothes and went on, trembling with cold. There was silence all around. Not even the call of the jackals could be heard, and the sweet imagining of meeting Sona kept her, as it were, on wings.

But on reaching that village she began to hesitate to go to Sona's house. What would Mathura say? What would the people of the house say? Sona too would be vexed—why have you come so late at night? In the villages the peasants, worn out with the whole day's labour, go to sleep at early evening. Sleep had fallen over the whole village. The doors of Mathura's house were shut. Silia could not get the doors opened. What would people say, seeing her in this guise? There at the door the fire was still glowing in the bonfire. Silia began to dry her clothes. Suddenly the door opened and Mathura, coming out, called, "Hey! Who is sitting by the bonfire?"

Silia quickly pulled the end of her sari over her head and, coming nearer, said, "It is I, Silia."

"Silia! How have you come so late at night? All is well there?"

"Yes, all is well. My mind was uneasy. I thought, let me go and meet everyone. By day there is no leisure at all."

"So have you waded through the river to come?"

"How else would I come? The water was low."

Mathura took her inside. The outer room was dark. He caught Silia's hand and pulled her towards him. Silia jerked her hand free and said with authority, "Look, Mathura, if you trifle with me I shall tell Sona. You are my younger sister's husband—understand that. It seems you do not get on with Sona."

Mathura put his arm round her waist and said, "You are very hard, Sillo. Who is watching at this hour?"

"Am I more beautiful than Sona? You do not bless your own luck for getting such a fairy of Indra. Now you have a mind to play the bee. If I tell her, she will not look at your face."

Mathura was no rake; he loved Sona too. At this moment, seeing the darkness and the solitude and Silia's youth, his mind had grown unsteady. Receiving this warning, he came to his senses. Releasing Silia, he said, "I fall at your feet, Sillo, do not tell her. Whatever punishment you wish, give it now."

Sillo felt pity for him. Gently she gave him a slap on the face and said, "The punishment for this is just this—that you never again play such mischief with me, nor with anyone else, or Sona will slip from your hands."

"I swear, Sillo, it will never happen again."

There was entreaty in his voice. Sillo's mind began to be moved. Her pity began to grow tender.

"And if you do it?"

"Then do whatever you wish."

Sillo's face had come close to his face, and a trembling was passing through the breath and voice and bodies of both. Suddenly Sona called, "Whom are you talking to there?"

Sillo drew back. Mathura stepped forward into the courtyard and said, "Sillo has come from your village."

Sillo too came after him and stood in the courtyard. She saw how comfortably Sona lived here. There was a cot in the verandah. On it a soft suzani bedding was spread—exactly like the one that used to be spread on Matadin's charpoy. There was a pillow too, a quilt too. Under the cot water was kept in a lota. In the courtyard the moonlight had spread itself like a mirror. In one corner was the platform of the tulsi plant; on the other side several bundles of millet stalks were stacked against the wall. In the middle were sheaves of straw. Close by was a mortar, beside which lay husked paddy. A gourd vine had climbed over the thatched roof, and several gourds were gleaming up above. In the verandah on the other side a cow was tethered. In this section Mathura and Sona slept. The others must be in the other section. Silia thought, how happy Sona's life is.

Sona had risen and come into the courtyard, but she did not embrace Sillo and fall upon her neck. Sillo supposed that perhaps, because Mathura was standing there, Sona felt some restraint. Or who knew—she might have grown proud now? Sillo might consider it a humiliation to embrace a chamarin. All her enthusiasm went cold. From this meeting, instead of joy, she felt envy. How fair Sona's complexion had grown, and how her body had bloomed clear like gold. Her figure too had become shapely. On her face, along with the dignity of housewifery, there was also the smiling beauty of a young woman. For a moment Sillo stood gazing, as though spellbound. This was the very Sona who, with a withered body, her hair loose, used to run hither and thither. For months no oil would touch her head. She went about wrapped in torn rags. Today she was the queen of her own home. On her neck was a hansuli and a hammel, in her ears earflowers and golden hoops, on her hands silver bangles and bracelets. There was kohl in her eyes, vermilion in the parting of her hair. The heaven of Silia's life was right here, and seeing Sona here she was not glad. How proud she has grown! Where once she would go to cut grass with her arms round Silia's neck, today she does not even look at her straight. She had thought Sona would cling to her neck and weep a little, would seat her with respect, would feed her, and would ask hundreds of questions about the village and the home, and tell of the experiences of her new life—there would be talk of the wedding night and of sweet union. And Sona's mouth was as if set like curd. She regretted having come here.

At last Sona asked in a dry voice, "How have you come at such a late hour, Sillo?"

Sillo, trying to hold back her tears, said, "I longed greatly to meet you. So many days have passed; I came to see you."

Sona's voice grew harder. "But when a person goes to someone's house, they go by day, not so late at night."

In truth Sona was finding her coming unwelcome. That time was the time of her love-play and merriment, and Sillo, becoming an obstacle in it, had as it were drawn away the laden platter from before her.

Sillo, as if without sense, was gazing at the ground. Why does the earth not split open, that she may sink into it? Such humiliation! In her short life she had borne much humiliation, had seen much wretchedness, but the way this barb pierced her inmost being today, no thing had ever pierced before. If jaggery is kept shut up in jars inside the house, however torrential the rain, no harm comes; but at the time when it is spread outside to dry in the sun, then even a single splash of water will utterly ruin it. All the tender feelings of Silia's inmost being were at this moment sitting with open mouths, expecting that a rain of nectar would fall from the sky. Rain it did—but in place of nectar, poison; and it ran through every pore of Silia's body. Waves came, like the sting of a serpent. To fast within the house and lie low is one thing, but to be made to rise from the row of those eating is a thing to drown oneself for. To stay even a moment here became unbearable for Silia, as though someone were gripping her throat. She could ask nothing. What was in Sona's mind she was guessing. Before that snake sitting in its hole could come out, she wanted to flee from there. But how to flee, what excuse to make? Why does her life not leave her!

Mathura had taken up the key of the storeroom, to bring out something for Silia's refreshment. He stood as if bewildered as to his duty. Here Sillo's breath hung suspended, as though a sword were dangling over her head.

In Sona's view the greatest sin was for any man to cast a glance at another's wife, or a woman at another's husband. For this offence there was no pardon with her. Theft, murder, fraud—no crime was so terrible. Jest and banter she did not consider bad, if it was done in the open; but jest and banter done secretly and hidden she considered contemptible too. From childhood she had begun to know and understand many things of custom. Whenever Hori was late in coming home from the market, and Dhaniya learned that he had gone to Dulari the grocer's shop—even if he had gone only to buy tobacco—she would not speak to Hori for many days, nor do the work of the house. Once, over this very thing, she had run off to her parents' home. This feeling had grown still more intense in Sona. Until she was married, this feeling was not so strong, but after the marriage it had taken on the form of a vow. Even if such men and women had their skins flayed off, she would feel no pity. For love, outside the bond of wedlock, there was no place in her view. The duty that wife and husband owe each other—that alone she understood as love. Moreover Sillo had the relation of a sister with her. Sona loved Sillo, trusted her. That very Sillo was now betraying her trust. Mathura and Sillo must surely have had an understanding from before. Mathura must meet her in the fields by the riverbank. And today she had crossed the river so late at night for this very reason. Had she not overheard the talk of these two, she would not even have known. Mathura must have thought this the best occasion for a love-meeting. There was silence in the house. Her heart was crying out to know everything. She wanted to learn the whole secret, so that she could think of some plan for her own protection. And why was this Mathura standing here? Would he not even let her speak?

She said in anger, "Why don't you go outside, or will you keep standing guard here?"

Without saying anything Mathura went outside. His life was drying up lest Sillo should tell everything.

And Sillo's life was drying up because now that dangling sword was about to fall upon her head.

Then in a very grave voice Sona asked Sillo, "Look, Sillo, tell me plainly, or before you, right here, I shall strike the chopper on my own neck. Then you become my co-wife and reign. Look, the chopper is lying there before us. Two swords cannot remain in one scabbard."

She darted forward, took up the chopper from the courtyard, and holding it in her hand, said again, "Do not think I am only threatening. In anger, what I may do, I cannot say. Tell me plainly."

Silia trembled. Every word came out of her mouth, as if it were a voice recorded in a gramophone. She could not conceal a single word. On Sona's face a terrible resolve was playing, as though murder had ridden upon her.

Sona looked at her with eyes that pierced like a spear and, as though dealing a dagger-stroke, said, "Are you telling it exactly right?"

"Quite right. By my child I swear."

"You have hidden nothing?"

"If I have hidden the least particle, may my eyes burst."

"Why did you not kick that sinner? Why did you not bite him with your teeth? Why did you not drink his blood, why did you not cry out?"

What answer could Sillo give?

Sona, like a madwoman, her eyes blazing like coals, said, "Why don't you speak? Why did you not bite off his nose with your teeth? Why did you not throttle his throat with both hands? Then I would bow my head at your feet. But now you are an adulteress in my eyes, an utter whore! If this is what you were going to do, why are you blackening Matadin's name, why don't you take some man and settle down, why did you not go away to your own home? That is just what your family wanted. You would go to the market with dung-cakes and grass, you would bring money from there, and your father would sit drinking toddy with that very money. Then why did you have that Brahmin humiliated? Why did you set a stain on his honour? Why are you sitting playing the Sati? When you cannot stay alone, why don't you take up with someone? Why don't you drown yourself in the river or the tank? Why do you mix poison into others' lives? Today I tell you this—if there is anything of this kind again, and I come to know of it, then of the three of you not even one will stay alive. Now go, with soot smeared on your face. From today there is no tie between you and me."

Sillo rose slowly and stood up steadying herself. It seemed her back was broken. For a moment she kept gathering courage, but nothing came to mind by way of clearing herself. Before her eyes was darkness, in her head a giddiness, her throat was drying, and her whole body had gone numb, as though life were flying out through the pores. Setting down each foot as though a pit lay before her, she came out and walked towards the river.

Mathura was standing at the door. He said, "Where are you going at this hour, Sillo?"

Sillo gave no answer. Mathura too asked nothing further.

That same silvery moonlight still lay spread. The waves of the river were still bathing in the moon's rays. And Sillo, like one deranged, like the shadow of a dream, was walking on into the river.