Chapter 3

When Hori drew near his own village, he saw that Gobar was still hoeing cane in the field and both girls too were working alongside him. The hot wind blew, dust-devils were rising, the floor of the earth was blazing. It was as though nature had stirred fire into the air. Why were they all still in the field? Were they all set on giving up their lives for the sake of the work? He set off toward the field and called out from a distance, "Why don't you come, Gobar? Will you just go on working? It's past noon — does that mean anything to you or not?"

The moment they saw him all three lifted their hoes and fell in with him. Gobar was a dark, tall, lean youth, who showed no liking for this work. In place of cheerfulness, discontent and revolt sat on his face. He was at the work for this reason — that he wanted to show that he had no care for his food and drink. The elder girl, Sona, was a bashful maiden, dark, well-formed, cheerful and lively. The red coarse-cloth sari, which she had folded at the knees and tied at the waist, hung somewhat heavily on her slight body and lent her a gravity beyond her years. The little one, Rupa, was a child of five or six — grubby, a nest of hair built up on her head, a loincloth tied at her waist, very brazen and tearful.

Clinging to Hori's legs, Rupa said, "Kaka! Look, I didn't leave a single clod. Sister says, go sit under a tree. If the clods aren't broken, Kaka, how is the earth to be made level?"

Lifting her into his arms and fondling her, Hori said, "You did very well, daughter — come, let's go home." After holding his revolt down a while, Gobar said, "Why do you go day after day to flatter the masters? If the arrears aren't cleared, the constable comes and serves up his abuse; the forced labour has to be given anyway; the gifts and tributes are all squeezed out of us. So why salute anyone!"

At this moment these same feelings were rising in Hori's mind too, but it was necessary to quell this spirit of revolt in the boy. He said, "If we don't go to make our salutations, where are we to live? When God has made us slaves, what power is our own? It's by the blessing of this very saluting that we put up a thatch shed at the door and nobody said anything. Ghure planted a stake at his door, and for it the agents took two rupees as a fine. We dug so much earth from the pond — the agent said nothing. Let another dig and he'd have to pay a gift. I go to salute for my own purposes — there's no curse of Saturn in my foot, nor is there any great pleasure in saluting. Stand for hours, and only then is word taken to the master. Sometimes he comes out, sometimes he sends word that he hasn't the leisure."

Gobar shot a barb: "There must be some pleasure or other in echoing the great men's 'yes' with a 'yes,' or why would people stand for the Council seat?"

"When it falls on your own head, you'll know, son — for now, say what you like. Once I too used to think all these things; but now I've learned that our necks are pressed beneath the feet of others, and there's no getting through it by being stiff."

Having vented his anger on his father, Gobar grew somewhat quieter and walked on in silence. Sona saw that Rupa had climbed up and sat in their father's lap, and felt envious. Scolding her, she said, "Now get down from his lap and walk on your own feet — have your feet broken?"

Putting her arms around her father's neck, Rupa said with impudence, "I won't get down, so there. Kaka, sister teases me every day, saying you're Rupa — silver, I'm Sona — gold. Give me some other name."

Looking at Sona with mock sternness, Hori said, "Why do you tease her, Soniya? Gold is only for show. It's silver that carries you through. If there were no silver, where would rupees be made — tell me?"

Sona stood up for her own side: "If there were no gold, how would the gold mohur be made, where would the nose-rings come from, how would the necklace be made?"

Gobar too joined in this playful dispute. He said to Rupa, "You tell her — gold goes yellow like a dried leaf, silver is bright as the sun."

Sona said, "At weddings the yellow sari is worn; nobody wears the white sari."

By this argument Rupa was defeated. None of Gobar's or Hori's arguments could stand before it. With wounded eyes she looked at Hori.

A new device occurred to Hori. He said, "Gold is for the great men. For us poor folk there is only silver. Just as barley is called king, and wheat a chamar — not because wheat the great men eat and barley we eat?"

Sona had no answer to this strong argument. Defeated, she said, "You've all gone over to one side, or I wouldn't have left off till I'd made Rupiya weep."

Wagging her finger, Rupa said, "Ay Ram, Sona's a chamar — ay Ram, Sona's a chamar."

This victory gave her such joy that she could not stay in her father's lap. She jumped down onto the ground and, leaping and skipping, kept up the same refrain — "Rupa's the king, Sona's a chamar — Rupa's the king, Sona's a chamar!"

When they reached home, Dhaniya was standing at the door watching for them. Vexed, she said, "Why so late today, Gobar? Nobody gives up his life for the work."

Then, growing hot with her husband, she said, "And you too — you came back from your earning over there and made straight for the field. Was the field running away somewhere!"

There was a well at the door. Hori and Gobar each poured a pitcher of water over their heads, bathed Rupa, and went to eat. The bread was of barley, but white and smooth as if of wheat. There was lentil-broth of arhar, with green mangoes in it. Rupa sat to eat from her father's platter. Sona looked at her with envious eyes, as if to say, oh, what fondling!

Dhaniya asked, "What did the master have to say?"

Pouring a lota of water down his throat, Hori said, "It was the same talk of revenue-collection, what else. We think great men must be very happy, but if you ask the truth, they are even unhappier than we. We have only the worry of the belly — thousands of worries hem them in."

What else the Rai Sahib had said, Hori could not remember. Only the gist of all that speech had stuck in his memory.

Gobar said sarcastically, "Then why don't they give us their estate? We're ready to give them our fields, bullocks, plough, hoe and all. Will they make the exchange? It's all cunning, sheer fat-headedness. He who feels sorrow doesn't keep dozens of motorcars, doesn't live in palaces, doesn't eat sweets and pastry, nor stay steeped in dance and song. They're enjoying the pleasures of a kingdom at their ease, and on top of that they're unhappy!"

Irritated, Hori said, "Now who is going to argue with you, brother! Does anyone give up landed property, that they will simply give it up? And what do we get from farming ourselves? It doesn't come to even one anna a day in wages. A servant on ten rupees a month eats and dresses better than we do, but the fields cannot be given up. If we gave up farming, what else would we do? Is service to be had anywhere? And then one's standing too must be kept up. The standing there is in farming, there is not in service. In the same way understand the zamindars' state too. Their lives too are beset by hundreds of ailments — supplies to be furnished to the officials, salutes to be made to them, the agents to be kept pleased. If they fail to clear the revenue by the date, they're locked up, attachment comes. Nobody hauls us off to lock-up. A couple of curses and scoldings, and that's the end of it."

Gobar argued back: "These are all things said for the saying's sake. We're at the mercy of every grain we eat, we haven't whole clothes on our bodies, the sweat of our heads runs down to our heels, and even then we don't get by. What's it to them — they sit at ease on cushions and bolsters, hundreds of servants and attendants, rule over thousands of men. Money may not accumulate; but pleasures of every kind they do enjoy. What else does a man do once he has money?"

"In your reckoning we and they are equal?"

"God has made everyone equal."

"That's not so, son — the lesser and the greater come fashioned from God's house. Wealth is got by great penance. They are enjoying the fruit of the deeds they did in their former lives. We have stored up nothing, so what should we enjoy?"

"These are all things said to console the heart. God makes everyone equal. Here, whoever has the stick in his hand crushes the poor and becomes a great man."

"That's your delusion. Even today the master spends four hours a day in worship of God."

"On whose strength is this worship and devotion and almsgiving and religion done?"

"On his own strength."

"No, on the strength of the farmers and on the strength of the labourers. How is this wealth of sin to be digested? That is why almsgiving and religion must be done, that is why the worship of God too is performed. Let them stay hungry and naked and worship God, and then we'd see too. Give us food enough for the two meals, and we'd keep up the chant of God's name all eight watches. Let us have to hoe cane in the field one day and all the devotion is forgotten."

Defeated, Hori said, "Now who is going to take you on, brother — you stick your leg even into the play of God."

In the third watch of the day, when Gobar took up his hoe to go, Hori said, "Wait a little, son, I'm coming too. Meanwhile take out a little chaff and set it aside. I've told Bhola I'll give it to him. The poor man is hard pressed these days."

Looking with contemptuous eyes, Gobar said, "We have no chaff to sell."

"I'm not selling it, brother, I'm giving it free. He's in distress — one must help him, of course."

"He never gave us a cow."

"He was giving one, in fact, but we didn't take it."

Dhaniya said with a toss of her head, "It wasn't a cow he was giving. Give them a cow! He's never sent so much as a cupped-palmful of milk to put some kohl on our eyes, and he'll give a cow!"

Hori swore an oath: "No — by my youth, he was giving us his hill cow. He's hard up, couldn't keep chaff and fodder. Now he wants to sell one cow and buy chaff. I thought — why should I take the cow of a man fallen into distress? I'll give him a little chaff, and when some money comes to hand I'll take the cow. I'll pay it off bit by bit. She's worth eighty rupees, but such a beast that a man would keep gazing at her."

Gobar took him to task: "It's this very piety of yours that's bringing you to ruin. The thing is plain. The cow is worth eighty rupees — let him take twenty rupees of chaff from us and give us the cow. Sixty rupees will be left, and we'll pay that slowly."

Hori smiled in a mysterious way: "I've thought of a plan to get the cow practically for nothing. Bhola's match has to be fixed up, that's all! The two or four maunds of chaff I'm giving just to set myself well with him."

Gobar scoffed: "So now you'll go about fixing everybody's matches?"

Dhaniya looked at him with sharp eyes: "Now that's the one occupation left to him. We are not to give chaff to anyone. Here we've eaten no debt of Bhola's or anyone else's."

Hori defended himself: "If by my efforts somebody's home is settled, what's the harm in it?"

Gobar picked up the chillum and went to fetch fire. He did not like this whole tangle at all.

Shaking her head, Dhaniya said, "He who settles his home will not stay quiet with an eighty-rupee cow. He'll have a whole purse counted out."

Hori coaxed her: "I know that; but look at his decency too. Whenever he meets me, it's nothing but praise of you — such a Lakshmi she is, such a tidy housekeeper."

A softness glimmered on Dhaniya's face. With the air of one pleased and yet wagging her head as if displeased, she said, "I'm not hungry for his praise — let him keep his praise to himself."

With an affectionate smile Hori said, "I told him, brother, she won't let a fly sit on her nose, she talks in curses — but he just keeps on saying that she's no woman, she's Lakshmi. The truth is, his own housewife had a very sharp tongue. The poor fellow went about fleeing in dread of her. He used to say, the day I see your housewife's face in the morning, that day something or other surely comes my way. I said — it must come your way; here we see her every day, and we never meet with a single pice."

"Your luck itself is rotten — what can I do about it?"

"He started running down his own housewife — she wouldn't even give a beggar his alms, would run to beat him with a broom, was so greedy that she'd borrow even salt from other people's houses."

"What ill should I speak of anyone now they're dead? She used to burn up at the sight of me."

"Bhola was a great forbearer, that he got along with her. Another man would have eaten poison and died. Bhola must be ten years older than I, yet he says his ram-ram first."

"So what did he say happens the day he sees your housewife's face?"

"That day God sends something from somewhere or other."

"The daughters-in-law too have come just as fond of titbits. This time they ate up two rupees' worth of melons on credit. Once they get credit, they have no worry whether it must be repaid or not."

"Well, why is Bhola weeping?"

Gobar came and said, "Brother Bhola has arrived. There's a maund or two of chaff — give it to him, and then go off looking for his match!"

Dhaniya explained, "A man's sitting at the door, and you haven't put out so much as a cot for him, and on top of that you start grumbling. Learn a little decency. Take the pitcher, fill water and set it down — let him wash his hands and face, give him a little something to drink. It is in trouble that a man stretches out his hand before others."

Hori said, "There's no need for refreshments and such — what guest is he?"

Dhaniya flared up: "And what other sort of guest is there? He doesn't come to your door day after day, does he? He's come so far in the sun and heat — he must be thirsty. Rupiya, see whether there's tobacco in the box — how would any be left, with Gobar about. Run and fetch a pice of tobacco from Sahuain's shop."

Bhola was made as welcome that day as he could never have been. Gobar put out a cot, Sona brought a drink, Rupa fetched the tobacco. Dhaniya stood at the door behind the shutter, impatient to hear her own praise with her own ears.

Taking the chillum in his hand, Bhola said, "Let a good housewife come into a house, and take it that Lakshmi has come. She alone knows how the great and the small are to be honoured and made welcome."

A tremor of joy was running through Dhaniya's heart. Her soul, struck by worry and despair and want, felt in these words a soft, cool touch.

When Hori took up Bhola's basket and went inside to fetch the chaff, Dhaniya followed behind. Hori said, "Heaven knows where he got such a great big basket. He must have borrowed it from some grain-parcher. It won't fill with less than a maund. Even two basketfuls would come to two maunds."

Dhaniya was puffed up with pleasure. Looking at him with reproachful eyes, she said, "Either invite no one, or if you invite, feed him to the full. He hasn't come to you to take flowers and leaves, that you go off with a little basket. Since you're giving anyway, give three basketfuls. Decent man — why didn't he bring his boys? How far will he carry it alone? His life will be wrung out of him."

"Three basketfuls — that I won't be able to give."

"Then will you put him off with one basket? Tell Gobar to fill his basket and go along with him."

"Gobar is going to hoe cane."

"The cane won't dry up for one day's missed hoeing."

"It was his own job to bring someone along with him. God has given him two sons."

"They must not be at home. They must have gone to the market with the milk."

"This is a fine joke — give your goods away and deliver them to his house as well. Load up, get it loaded, and send a loader along with it."

"All right, brother, let no one go. I'll carry it myself. There's no shame in serving one's elders."

"And if I give him three basketfuls, what will my own bullocks eat?"

"All this you should have thought before you invited him. If nothing else, you and Gobar both go along."

"Consideration is shown in the way of consideration — one doesn't pick up one's own house and hand it over!"

"Let the zamindar's constable come now, and you'll carry chaff loaded on your own head — you, your son, your daughter, all of you. And there you may even have to plant a maund or two of firewood."

"The zamindar is a different matter."

"Yes, because he gets the work done on the strength of the stick."

"Don't we plough his fields?"

"And if we plough his fields, don't we pay rent?"

"All right, brother, don't eat my head — we'll both go. To think where I've gone and told them I'd give them chaff. Either she won't go at all, or if she goes she'll start to run."

All three baskets were filled with chaff. Gobar was fretting. He had not the least faith in his father's dealings. He believed that wherever the man went, he lost something or other out of the house. Dhaniya was pleased. As for Hori, he kept bobbing up and down between dharma and self-interest.

Hori and Gobar together brought one basket out. Bhola at once made a pad of his shoulder-cloth and, setting the basket on his head, said, "Let me set this down and come running back. I'll take one more basket."

Hori said, "Not one — there are two more filled and ready. And you won't have to come back. Gobar and I will each take a basket and walk along with you."

Bhola was struck dumb. Hori seemed to him a brother, indeed nearer than a brother. He felt within himself such a contentment as had, as it were, made his whole life green.

When all three set off with the chaff, talk began on the road.

Bhola asked, "Dussehra is coming — there'll be great pomp at the masters' door?"

"Yes, the tent and canopy are up. This time I too will take a part in the play — the Rai Sahib has said you must play King Janak's gardener."

"The master is very pleased with you."

"It is his kindness."

After a moment Bhola asked again, "Have you made any arrangement of money for the auspicious offering? Becoming a gardener won't get your neck free."

Wiping the sweat from his face, Hori said, "It's that very worry that's killing me, elder brother. The grain was all weighed out on the threshing-floor itself. The zamindar took his, the moneylender took his. Five seers of grain were left for me. This chaff I carted off and hid in the dead of night, or not even a straw would have been left. There's only the one zamindar, but the moneylenders are three — Sahuain separately, Mangru separately, Pandit Datadin separately. I haven't cleared even the interest of any of them. Half of the zamindar's money is left over too. By borrowing money from Sahuain again, things got along. Every kind of economy I've tried, brother — nothing comes of it. We were born for this — to shed our own blood and fill the houses of the great. I've paid double the principal in interest, and still the principal sits astride my head just as it was. People say — at weddings and funerals, at pilgrimages and fasts, spend with a tied hand. But no one shows the way. The Rai Sahib squandered twenty thousand on his son's wedding. No one says anything to him. Mangru put five thousand into his father's death-rites. No one asks him anything. Everyone has his standing to keep up just the same."

In a pitying tone Bhola said, "How can you equal the great men, brother?"

"We are men too."

"Who says we — you and I — are men? Where is there any manhood in us? A man is he who has wealth, who has authority, who has learning. We are bullocks, and we were born to be yoked. And on top of that, one cannot bear the sight of another. Unity is unknown. If one peasant doesn't trespass on another's field, how is anyone to keep watch? Love has gone out of the world."

For old men there is no subject more engrossing than the pleasures of the past, the sorrows of the present, and the ruin of the future. The two friends went on weeping their separate sorrows. Bhola recounted his sons' doings, Hori wept the weeping of his brothers, and then, setting down their loads at a well, they sat to drink water. Gobar asked a lota and a large jar of the trader and began to draw water.

With feeling Bhola asked, "At the time of the partition you must have grieved sorely. You had raised your brothers like sons."

In a voice gone moist Hori said, "Ask nothing about it, elder brother — my one wish was to go off somewhere and drown myself. Everything was over for me while I yet lived. Those for whose sake I ground my youth into the dust became my own accusers. And what was the root of the quarrel? Just this — why doesn't my housewife go to work in the fields. Ask — is someone needed to look after the house or not? The giving and taking, the putting away and bringing out, the managing and tending — who is to do all that? Besides, she didn't sit idle at home — sweeping and dusting, the cooking, the hearth and the pots, the watching over the children — is that any small work? Was Shobha's wife to manage the house, or had Hira's wife the knack of it? Since the partition came, in both houses food is cooked once a day; otherwise everyone felt hungry four times in the day. Let them eat four times now, and I'll see. What ruin this lording-it brought to Gobar's mother, only I know. The poor thing wore her younger sisters-in-law's torn and worn clothes to pass her days. She must have slept hungry herself, but kept watch even over the daughters-in-law's refreshments. On her own body there wasn't even a raw thread by way of an ornament — she had two or four ornaments made for each of the younger sisters-in-law. Of silver if not of gold. The jealousy was just this — why is she the mistress? It is very well that we separated. The calamity is off my head."

Pouring a lota of water down his throat, Bhola said, "It is the same story in house after house, brother! What of brothers — here I can't get on even with my own sons. And the reason I can't is that, seeing anyone's bad ways, I can't keep my mouth shut. You'll gamble, you'll drink charas, you'll take pulls of ganja — but from whose house has it come? If you wish to spend, then earn; but no one can be got to earn. To spend, they will spend with an open heart. When the eldest, Kamta, goes to the market with goods, half the money is gone. Ask, and there's no answer. The younger one, Jangi, is steeped in his music-circle. Evening falls and he sits down with drum and cymbals. I don't call the circle a bad thing. Singing and playing is no vice, but all that is work for one's leisure. It mustn't be that you do none of the house-work and stay sunk in that pursuit all eight watches. It all falls on my head — I do the fodder and water, I milk the cows and buffaloes, I take the milk to market. This household is a snare for the soul, a golden sickle — one can neither spit it out nor swallow it. There's the girl, Jhuniya — she too is luckless. You came to her wedding. What a fine household it was. Her man kept a milk-shop in Bombay. In those days there was a riot there between Hindus and Muslims, and someone drove a knife into his belly. The home was simply wrecked. There's no living for her there now — I went and fetched her back, saying I'll arrange a second match; but she just won't agree. And the two sisters-in-law keep tormenting her day and night. There's a great war raging in the house. Struck by misfortune she came here, and here too there's no peace."

In these very sorrowings the road was got through. Bhola's hamlet was small, but very lively. Mostly Ahirs dwelt there. Compared with the other peasants, their condition was not very bad. Bhola was the headman of the village. At his door was a large fodder-trough, at which ten or twelve cows and buffaloes stood eating fodder. In the verandah lay a large platform-cot which perhaps even ten men could not lift. From one peg hung a drum, from another a pair of cymbals. On a shelf lay a book tied up in a cloth wrapper — perhaps a Ramayan. The two daughters-in-law sat in front patting dung-cakes, and Jhuniya stood at the threshold. Her eyes were red, and the tip of her nose too was reddened. It looked as if she had just risen from weeping. In her fleshy, healthy, well-knit limbs youth seemed to surge in waves. Her face was large and round, her cheeks full, her eyes small and deep-set, her brow narrow; but the swell of her bosom and the soft plumpness of her body drew the eye. The printed pink sari over it lent her still more beauty.

The moment she saw Bhola she sprang up and lifted the basket down from his head. Bhola had Gobar's and Hori's baskets taken down and said to Jhuniya, "First bring a chillum filled, then make a little of the drink. If there's no water, bring the jar and I'll draw some. You know Hori Mahto, don't you?"

Then he said to Hori, "Without the housewife the house does not hold, brother. There's an old saying — 'dwarf-bullocks for the farm, daughters-in-law for the house.' What farming will dwarf-bullocks do, and what house will daughters-in-law keep? Since their mother died, it's as though the very increase has gone out of the house. The daughters-in-law can pat out their flour-cakes; but what do they know of running a household? Yes, they know well enough how to run their mouths. The boys must be settled somewhere at the gambling-board. Every one of them is lazy, a shirker of work. As long as I live, I die for their sake. When I'm dead, they'll sit clasping their heads and weep. The girl's the same. Even a small turn of work she'll do only grumbling. I bear it — a husband will hardly bear it."

Jhuniya came up briskly, in one hand the filled chillum, in the other the lota of the drink. Then she took up the rope and the pitcher and went to fill water. Stretching out his hand to take the pitcher from her, Gobar said with embarrassment, "You leave it — I'll fill it and bring it."

Jhuniya did not give the pitcher. Going to the well-platform she said with a smile, "You are our guest. You'll be saying nobody gave you even a lota of water."

"How have I become a guest? I'm only your neighbour."

"A neighbour who doesn't show his face even once in a whole year is a guest indeed."

"And by coming day after day, standing is not kept up either."

Jhuniya laughed and, looking at him with sidelong eyes, said, "That very standing is just what I'm giving you. Come once a month, I'll give you cool water. Come on the fifteenth day, you'll get a chillum. Come on the seventh day, I'll give you a stool to sit idle on. Come day after day, you'll get nothing."

"You'll at least give me a sight of you?"

"For a sight one must do worship."

As she said this it was as though some forgotten thing came back to her memory. Her face turned sad. She was a widow. At the door of her womanhood her husband had once sat keeping guard. She had been free of care. Now there was no guard at that door, and so she kept that door always shut. Sometimes, wearied of the emptiness of the house, she would open the door; but seeing someone come, she would in fright pull both leaves to.

Gobar drew the pitcher up full. They all drank the drink and, after smoking one chillum of tobacco, set off back. Bhola said, "Come and take the cow tomorrow, Gobar — just now she's eating her fodder."

Gobar's eyes were fixed on that very cow, and in his heart he was lost in delight. He had not even imagined the cow was so beautiful and well-formed.

Holding back his greed, Hori said, "I'll send for her — what's the hurry?"

"You may have no hurry, but I have. Seeing her at your door will keep that other matter in your mind."

"I'm greatly anxious about it, elder brother!"

"Then send Gobar tomorrow."

The two of them set the baskets on their heads and moved on. Both were as pleased as if they had got married and were coming home. For Hori there was the joy of his long-cherished longing fulfilled — and without a pice. Gobar had got something more precious still. In his heart a longing had awakened.

Finding the chance, he looked back. Jhuniya stood at the door, restless and fluttering, like an intoxicated hope.