Chapter 35

Hori's condition was sinking lower with each passing day. In the struggle of life he had always been defeated, yet he had never lost heart. Each defeat seemed to lend him fresh strength to fight against fate, but now he had reached that final state in which even his self-confidence had deserted him. Had he been able to stand firm upon his dharma, a few tears at least might have been wiped away, but it was not so. He had corrupted his very intentions, he had earned unrighteousness, there was no evil into which he had not fallen, and yet not a single longing of his life had been fulfilled, and the good days had drifted ever farther off like a mirage, until now even the deception was gone, even the green promise and the shimmer of false hope no longer met his eye.

Like a defeated king he had shut himself up within this fortress of three bighas, and had been guarding it like his very life. He had gone hungry, he had been disgraced, he had laboured for hire, but he had never let the fortress slip from his hands; yet now even that fortress was being wrested away. For three years the lagaan had stood in arrears, and now Pandit Nokheram had filed a suit for his eviction. There was no hope of money from anywhere. The land would slip from his hands, and the remaining days of his life would be spent in hired labour. The will of God! What blame could he lay upon the Rai Sahib? It was upon his tenants that the Rai Sahib too subsisted. Eviction notices were descending upon more than half the houses in this village — let them descend. Whatever became of the others would become of him too. Had happiness been written in his destiny, would his son have slipped from his hands like this?

Evening had fallen. He sat sunk in this very anxiety when Pandit Datadin came and said — What has come of it, Hori, about your eviction? These days I am not on speaking terms with Nokheram. I know nothing. I hear there are only fifteen days left to the date.

Hori set out a charpoy for him and said — He is the master, let him do as he pleases. Had I money, why would this calamity be upon me? I have not eaten it away, I have not squandered it; but when the crop simply will not grow, and what little does grow sells for a song, what is a farmer to do?

'But the holding must be saved somehow. How else will you keep body and soul together? This much is all that survives of your fathers and forefathers. If it goes too, where will you live?'

'It is the will of God. What power have I?'

'There is one remedy, if you will but take it.'

It was as though Hori had been granted a reprieve from death. Clasping his feet, he said — It would be a great act of dharma, Maharaj — apart from you, who is there for me? I had given up all hope.

'There is no cause for despair. Only understand this much, that a man's dharma is one thing in happiness and another in sorrow. In happiness a man gives in charity, but in sorrow he will even beg. At such a time this becomes a man's dharma. When the body is well, we will not put even water to our lips without bathing and worship, but when we fall ill, we sit up on the charpoy unbathed, in our everyday clothes, and take our prescribed diet. That is the dharma of that moment. Here between you and me there is so much difference, but at Jagannathpuri no difference remains. High and low, all sit in a single row and eat. In times of distress Lord Ramachandra ate the half-tasted fruits offered by Sabari, and slew Bali by stealth. When in calamity the codes of even the greatest are broken, what are you and I? You know Ramsevak Mahto, do you not?'

Hori said without enthusiasm — Yes, why should I not know him?

'He is my jajman. His circumstances are very good. Farming on one side, money-lending on the other. I have never seen a man of such standing! Some months ago his wife died. He has no children. If you are willing to marry Rupa to him, I can win him over. He will never refuse my word. The girl has grown up, and the times are evil. Should something go amiss, your face would be blackened. This is a fine opportunity. The girl will be married, and your fields will be saved as well. You will be spared all the expense.'

Ramsevak was only four or five years younger than Hori himself. The very proposal of marrying Rupa to such a man was an insult. Where Rupa, fresh as a flower, and where that withered old stump! In life Hori had borne many a heavy blow, but this blow went deepest of all. Such days had come upon him now that he was being told to sell his daughter, and he had not the courage to refuse. His head sank with shame.

After a minute Datadin asked — Well, what do you say?

Hori gave no clear answer. He said — I will think it over and tell you.

'What is there to think about in this?'

'Let me ask Dhaniya too.'

'Are you willing or not?'

'Let me think a little, Maharaj! Never till this day has such a thing happened in our family. Its honour too must be kept.'

'Give me your answer within five or six days. Let it not be that you go on thinking, and the eviction comes.'

Datadin went away. He had no misgivings about Hori. The misgiving was about Dhaniya. Her nose was very long. She might let herself be wiped out, but she would not let go of her honour. Yet if Hori said yes, she would weep and wail and then come round. The slipping away of the fields was a wound to her honour too.

Dhaniya came and asked — Why had the Pandit come?

'Nothing, it was this talk of the eviction.'

'He must have come to wipe away our tears. It is too much to expect that he would lend us a hundred rupees.'

'Nor have I the face to ask.'

'Then why does he come here at all?'

'There was talk of Rupa's betrothal too.'

'To whom?'

'You know Ramsevak? To him.'

'When have I ever set eyes on him — yes, I have heard the name a long time. He must be an old man.'

'He is not old. Yes, he is middle-aged.'

'You did not give the Pandit a tongue-lashing. Had he spoken to me, I would have given him such an answer he would have remembered it.'

'I did not lash him, but I refused. He said the marriage too would be done without expense, and the fields would be saved.'

'Why do you not speak plainly that he was asking you to sell your daughter? How did that old man find the nerve?'

But the more Hori turned this question over, the more his resistance dwindled. The shame of family honour was not small to him, but when a man has been seized by an incurable disease, when does he stop to consider what is fit or unfit to eat? Before Datadin, Hori had shown an attitude that could not be called consent, yet within he had melted. There was nothing in this matter of age. To die or to live lies in the hands of destiny. The old sit on, and the young go their way. If happiness is written in Rupa's destiny, she will know happiness there too; if sorrow is written, she can find happiness nowhere. And of selling the daughter there was no question at all. Whatever Hori took from him he would take as a loan, and the moment money came into his hand he would repay it. In this there was no cause for shame or dishonour. To be sure, had he the means, he would have married Rupa to some young man of good family, would have given a dowry too, would have spent open-handedly on feasting the marriage procession; but when God had not made him fit for that, what could he do but give his daughter away with a blade of kusha grass? People would laugh, but those people who merely laugh and give no help — why should he care for their laughter? The only difficulty was that Dhaniya would not agree. She was a she-ass, after all. She would go on hauling that same old honour. This was no time to nurse the family's prestige; it was a time to save one's own life. If she set such great store by honour, then let her produce five hundred. Where were they laid by?

Two days passed and no further talk on this matter took place between them. Yet they did speak in a language of hints.

Dhaniya would say — Only when bridegroom and bride are well matched is there joy in marriage.

Hori would answer — Marriage is not a thing of joy, you foolish woman; it is penance.

'Very well, let it be penance.'

'Yes, that is what I say. To remain happy in whatever state God places a man — if that is not penance, then what is it?'

The next day Dhaniya thought up another aspect of marital joy. So long as there were no mother-in-law and father-in-law, no younger and elder sisters-in-law in the house, what joy was there in the marital home? Let the girl at least for some days know the joy of being a young bride.

Hori said — That is not the joy of married life, it is a punishment.

Dhaniya flared up — Your words are always odd. How will a young bride live alone in the house, no one before her and no one behind?

Hori said — Why, when you came into this house there was not one but two younger brothers-in-law, a mother-in-law, a father-in-law. Tell me, what joy did you take from that?

'Are there such creatures in every house?'

'And if not, do goddesses come down from the sky? The bride is one, alone — and over her a whole household to rule. Whom, whom is the poor thing to please? Whoever's order she does not obey, that one becomes her enemy. To be alone is best of all.'

Even so the matter stayed there, yet Dhaniya's scale was growing lighter. On the fourth day Ramsevak Mahto himself arrived. Astride a fine-bred horse, a barber and a manservant with him, like some great zamindar. He was past forty, his hair had gone grizzled, but there was a glow on his face, his body was firm-knit. Beside him Hori looked altogether an old man. He was on his way to attend to some lawsuit. He wished to pass the heat of the noon here. How fierce the sun was, and how violently the loo, the hot wind, was blowing. Hori brought wheat flour and ghee from the shopkeeper-woman's shop. Puris were made. The three guests ate. Datadin too arrived to give his blessing. Talk began.

Datadin asked — What sort of case is it, Mahto?

Ramsevak said, putting on airs — There is always some case or other going, Maharaj! In this world one cannot get on by being a cow. The more you cower, the more men crush you down. The thana and the police, the kachahari and the court, all are there for our protection, yet no one protects. On every side there is loot. He who is poor, who is helpless, all stand ready to cut his throat. God forbid that anyone should practise dishonesty — that is a great sin; but not to fight for one's own right and justice is a sin even greater. Think for yourself, how far is a man to cower? Here the farmer is everyone's soft fodder. Do not give the patwari his nazrana and his customary dues, and it becomes hard to live in the village. Do not fill the bellies of the zamindar's chaprasis and karindas, and there is no getting along. The thanedar and the constable are like his sons-in-law. When their tour brings them to the village, it is the farmer's dharma to honour and entertain them, to give them gifts and offerings, or else with a single report the whole village is bound up. Sometimes the kanungo comes, sometimes the tehsildar, sometimes the Deputy, sometimes the Joint, sometimes the Collector, sometimes the Commissioner. The farmer must stand before them with folded hands. He must arrange provisions and fodder, eggs and fowls, milk and ghee for them. The same thing is passing over your own head, Maharaj. One officer after another keeps multiplying, new ones every day. A doctor has begun coming to put medicine in the wells. Another doctor comes now and then to inspect the cattle, there is an inspector to examine the boys, and heaven knows officers of how many departments — one for the canal, one for the forest, one for toddy and liquor, one for village improvement, one for the agriculture department — how far am I to count them? If a padre comes, he too must be given provisions, or he will lodge a complaint. And if you should say that the farmer derives some benefit from so many departments and so many officers — not a particle. Just now the zamindar levied a contribution of two rupees per plough on the village. He had given a feast to some big officer. The farmers refused to pay. So he clapped a jafa, an enhancement, upon the whole village. The officers too take only the zamindar's side. They do not think that the farmer is a man too, that he too has children, that he too has honour and dignity. And all this is the fruit of our spinelessness. I had the drum beaten through the whole village that no one should pay an enhanced rent nor give up his fields — let anyone convince us and we are ready to pay the jafa, but if you mean to grind down voiceless farmers and drink them up, that shall not be. The villagers heeded my word, and all refused to pay the jafa. When the zamindar saw that the whole village had become one, he was helpless. Let him evict the fields — who then will plough them? In this age, until you stand firm, no one listens. Even the child gets no milk from its mother without crying.

Ramsevak departed in the third quarter of the day, and left upon Dhaniya and Hori an impression that would not fade. Datadin's mantra had taken effect.

He asked — Now what do you say, Hori?

Hori gestured towards Dhaniya and said — Ask her.

'I ask you both.'

Dhaniya said — His age is more, but if it is the opinion of you all, then it is acceptable to me too. What is written in destiny will come before us in any case, but the man is good.

And for Hori, that faith had arisen in Ramsevak which the weak feel for men of grit. He had begun to weave the castles of Sheikh Chilli. If such a man took him by the hand, his vessel would reach the far shore.

The auspicious moment for the marriage was fixed. Gobar too would have to be called. Write to him on our part — to come or not to come is his own choice. Let there at least be no occasion for him to say, when did you ever invite me? Sona too would have to be called.

Dhaniya said — Gobar was not such a one, but only if Jhuniya will let him come. He went off to a far country and so forgot us that there has been neither letter nor line. Who knows how they are. As she said this her eyes filled.

When the letter reached Gobar, he made ready to set out. Jhuniya did not like to go, but on such an occasion she could say nothing. How could a brother fail to attend his sister's wedding! Was the stain of not attending Sona's wedding any small thing?

Gobar said in a voice softened with feeling — To stay estranged from one's parents is no good thing. Now we have hands and feet of our own — we may draw apart from them, we may even quarrel, but it was they who gave us birth, they who reared and raised us to manhood; now if they say a few hard words to us, we ought to swallow them. Lately I am put in mind of mother and father again and again. At that time, I know not why, I grew angry with them. For your sake I had even to leave my parents.

Jhuniya flared up — Do not lay this sin upon my head, mind! It was you yourself who took it into your head to quarrel. Why, I lived all those days with mother, never even drawing a sharp breath.

'The quarrel was on your account.'

'Very well, on my account, then. But I too gave up my own house and home for your sake.'

'In your house, who loved you — your brothers fell out with you, your sisters-in-law tormented you. Had Bhola caught hold of you, he would have eaten you raw.'

'On your account only.'

'This time, as long as we stay, let us stay in such a way that they too get some happiness out of their lives, let us do nothing against their wishes. Father is so good that he has never even scolded me. Mother has beaten me many a time, but whenever she beat me she would give me something or other to eat. She beat me, but until she had made me laugh again she could find no peace.'

The two of them mentioned it to Malti. Malti not only granted the leave, she also gave a spinning-wheel and a pair of bangles as a gift for the bride. She herself wished to go, but several patients were under her care whom she could not leave even for a single day. Yes, she promised to come on the wedding day, and heaped up a mound of toys for the child. She kissed him again and again and fondled him, as though she wished to take everything in advance, and the child, caring not a whit for her love, was glad to be going home — to that home which he had never even seen. In his child's imagination, home was something greater even than heaven.

When Gobar reached home and saw its condition, he was so dismayed that he could have turned back that very moment. One part of the house was on the point of collapse. At the door only one bullock stood tethered, and that one half-dead. Dhaniya and Hori could not contain themselves for joy, but Gobar's heart was heavy. What hope was there now of this house being set right! He served as a labourer, but at least he ate his fill. He was the servant of only a single master. Here, whoever you looked at, lorded it over you. It was servitude, but dry servitude. Toil and raise grain, and whatever money you get, hand it over to others. Sit yourself down and chant the name of God. It was father's heart alone that could bear all this. He himself could not bear it for a single day. And this was not Hori's condition alone. This calamity lay upon the whole village. There was not one man whose face was not woeful, as though in the place of their souls a great anguish sat enthroned, jerking them about like puppets. They walked and moved, they did their work, they were ground down, they were choked, because being ground and being choked was written in their destiny. In their lives there was no hope, no eagerness, as though the springs of their life had dried up and all the greenness had withered away.

It was the days of Jeth. Grain was still present on the threshing floors, yet there was joy on no one's face. Much had already been weighed out on the threshing floor itself and gone as offering to mahajans and karindas, and what little remained was also another's. The future stood before them like darkness. In it they could see no path. All their faculties had gone slack. At their doors maunds of rubbish lay heaped, a stench rose from it, but in their noses there was no smell and in their eyes no light. From early evening jackals began howling at the doors, but no one minded. Whatever coarse, common food came before them they ate, just as an engine swallows coal. Their bullocks would not put their muzzles to the trough without bran and chaff, but they needed only to put something into the belly. With taste they had no concern. Their palate was dead. From their lives, taste had vanished. Make them practise dishonesty for a half-pice apiece, make them swing their staves for a fistful of grain. It is that extremity of degradation in which a man forgets even shame and honour.

From childhood Gobar had seen this very condition of the villages and had grown used to it, but today, after four years, it was as though he saw a new world. From living among good people his mind had somewhat awakened, he had stood at the back of political gatherings and listened to speeches and they had pierced him in every limb. He had heard and understood that one must build one's own destiny oneself, that by one's own wits and courage one must conquer these troubles that come. No god, no hidden power would come to their aid. And a deep compassion had woken alert within him. Now the old wilfulness and pride were not in him. He had become humble and industrious. In whatever condition you are placed, why mar it further by surrendering to selfishness and greed? Sorrow has bound you all in a single thread. Why break this divine bond of brotherhood with your own petty self-interests? Make of that bond the bond of unity. Such feelings had given his humanity wings, as it were. The generosity that comes to guileless men after they have seen the heights and depths of the world was now, as it were, flapping its wings to soar into the sky. Whenever he now saw Hori doing any work, he would push him aside and begin doing it himself, as though he wished to do penance for past misconduct. He would say — Father, do not worry about anything now, leave the whole burden to me, I will send money every month from now on. All these days you have been worn to the bone; rest a while now. Shame on me, that while I live you should have to bear such hardship. And from every pore of Hori's body a blessing for his son went forth. He felt in his worn-out body a kind of divine quickening. Why should he, at this moment, recount the tale of his debt and bring the lightning of anxiety down upon his son's rising youth? Let him eat and drink in comfort, let him take the joy of life. Hori himself was ready to wear himself to death. This was his very life. He could not live merely by chanting the name of Ram. He needed the spade and the hoe. Telling the beads of Ram's name would not bring peace to his heart.

Gobar said — Say the word and I will have the instalments fixed with everyone, and pay them off month by month. All together, how much will it come to?

Hori shook his head and said — No, son, why should you take the trouble. As if you yourself get a great deal! I will see to it all! The times will not stay this way forever. Rupa is going off. Now there is only the debt to clear. Do not worry about anything. Keep a measure in your eating and drinking. If you build up your body now, you will always live in comfort. As for me — I have grown accustomed to wearing myself out. I do not yet wish to harness you to farming, son. You have got a good master. If you serve him some years, you will become a made man. She has already been here. She is a goddess in flesh and blood.

'She has said she will come again on the wedding day.'

'Let her come, she will be welcome on our heads and eyes. From living among such good people the money may be less, but knowledge grows and the eyes are opened.'

That very moment Pandit Datadin beckoned Hori with a gesture and, taking him aside, drew two hundred-rupee notes from his waist and said — You took my advice, you did very well. Both tasks are done. You are freed of your debt to the bride, and the keepsake of your fathers and forefathers is saved as well. Whatever I could do, I have done for you; now you know your own business.

When Hori took the money his hand was trembling, his head could not lift itself. Not a word came from his mouth, as though he had fallen into a bottomless pit of dishonour and goes on falling. Today, after thirty years of fighting against life, he had been defeated, and so defeated that it was as though he had been stood at the city gate and everyone who passed spat in his face. He was crying out at the top of his voice — Brothers, I am an object of pity. I have not known what the loo of Jeth is like or what the rains of Magh are like; rend this body open and look, how much life is left in it — how shattered with wounds, how crushed with kicks? Ask it: did you ever set eyes on rest, did you ever sit in the shade — and upon that, this disgrace! And he lives even now, the coward, the greedy, the base. His whole faith, which had grown so vast that it had become gross and blind, had, as it were, been blown to bits.

Datadin said — Then I shall go. If you will, go to Nokheram this very moment.

Hori said abjectly — I will go, Maharaj! But my honour is in your hands.