The Co-Wife & other Stories

by Ruth Vanita

  Shastriji shook his head and said, ‘It’s true, he grew by drinking a Bhangi woman’s blood. It may even be true that he grew by eating flesh; but the past is past and the present is now in question. At Jagannathpuri, touchables and untouchables all eat, sitting in one row, but they can’t do that here. When I’m ill, I eat wearing all my clothes, and even eat khichri, but when I get well, I have to follow the rules. In times of crisis, you can infringe the rules.’

  ‘So this means that religious rules keep changing—sometimes they are one way, sometimes another.’

  ‘Of course. Rules are different for the king and for the subjects, for the rich and for the poor. Kings can eat whatever they choose, eat with whomever they choose, and marry whomever they please. There are no restrictions on them. They are powerful men. Rules are for the middle classes.’

  Penance was not performed, but Bhungi had to descend from her throne. But she was given so many presents that she could not carry them on her own, and she also got the gold bracelets. She got not one but two beautiful new saris, and they were not ordinary thick cotton either, of the kind she had been given when the girls were born.

  4

  This year, there was a severe bout of plague, and Gudar fell victim to the first wave. Bhungi was left alone, but the household ran as before. People waited for Bhungi to remarry. But though she talked to one Bhangi and met with another, she did not go anywhere. Five years passed, and her son Mangal, although he was weak and sickly, was running around. He looked like a dwarf compared to Suresh.

  One day, Bhungi was cleaning the gutter at Maheshnath’s house. Filth had been accumulating in it for months. It was blocked and water had started collecting in the courtyard. She put a thick long bamboo into the gutter and shook it hard. Her whole right hand was inside the gutter when she suddenly removed it with a scream and the next moment, a black snake emerged from the gutter. People ran up and killed it, but they could not save Bhungi. They thought the snake was non-poisonous because it was a water snake, so they neglected her for a while. When the poison spread through her body, and she began to convulse, they realized that it was not a water snake but a very poisonous light-brown snake that had looked black because of the filth from which it emerged.

  Mangal was now an orphan. He hovered around Mahesh Babu’s door all day. There was so much half-eaten jootha food in the house every day that five or ten such children could have survived on it. So he suffered no shortage of food. But he did feel bad when his food was dropped from above into mud cups. Everyone ate in nice dishes, but there were only mud cups for him!

  He might not have perceived this discrimination, but the village boys taunted and insulted him. They would not let him play with them. Even the sacking he slept on was untouchable. There was a neem tree in front of the house. Mangal had set up camp under this tree. A tattered piece of sacking, two mud cups and an old dhoti of Suresh Babu’s. This place was equally comfortable in winter, summer and the rainy season, and the fortunate Mangal stayed alive and even grew healthier than before despite the scorching winds of summer, the freezing cold of winter and the torrential rains of the monsoon. The only one he could call his own was a village dog, who was tired of his compatriots’ injustices and took refuge with Mangal. They ate the same food, slept on the same sacking, shared the same temperament, and had got to know each other’s nature. They never fell out with one another.

  Pious folks in the village were amazed at Babu Saheb’s generosity. They found Mangal’s presence right opposite his door, at a distance of not even fifty steps, completely opposed to religion. Yuck! If this continued, religion would soon be at an end. God has created Bhangis too, they knew this well. Of course, one should never be unjust to them. God is called the helper of the fallen. But society’s norms must count for something! They felt awkward going to his house. He was the master of the village so they had to go, but they felt disgusted.

  Mangal and Tommy were intimate friends. Mangal would say, ‘Look, brother Tommy, move over a bit when you sleep. Where am I to lie? You have taken over the whole sacking.’

  Tommy would whimper, wag his tail, and instead of moving over would climb on top of Mangal and commence licking his face.

  Mangal went every evening to look at his house and cry for a little while. The first year, the straw thatch fell, the second year one wall fell, and now only half-walls were left standing, of which the upper parts were jagged. It was here that he had received the wealth of love. That recollection, that affection, that thirst drew him to the ruins once a day, and Tommy was always with him. Mangal would sit on the jagged wall, dreaming of the past and the future, and Tommy would repeatedly and unsuccessfully try to jump into his lap.

  5

  One day, several boys were playing together. Mangal was standing at a distance, watching. Perhaps Suresh felt sorry for him or they needed one more to make up the numbers. For whatever reason, he suggested that they include Mangal in the game. Who would come here and find out? Suresh asked, ‘Mangal, do you want to play?’

  Mangal said, ‘No, I don’t. If master sees, I’ll be flayed alive. What do you care? You’ll get away.’

  Suresh said, ‘Oh come on, who’s going to see us here? Come on, let’s play at riding. You be the horse, and we’ll ride you and make you gallop.’

  Mangal was suspicious. ‘Will I remain the horse or will I get a turn to ride? Tell me that.’

  It was a knotty question. No one had given it any thought. Suresh thought for a moment and said, ‘Who will let you sit on his back? Aren’t you a Bhangi?’

  Mangal stood firm. He said, ‘I never said I’m not a Bhangi, but my mother nursed you on her own milk. I won’t be the horse unless I too get a turn to ride. You all are very cunning. You want to enjoy riding but I’ll remain a horse.’

  Suresh scolded him, saying, ‘You’ll have to be a horse,’ and ran to catch him. Mangal fled and Suresh chased him. Mangal increased his pace. Suresh tried to keep up, but overeating had made him flabby, and he grew short of breath when he ran.

  Finally, he stopped running and said, ‘Come and be a horse, Mangal, otherwise if I ever catch you I’ll beat you a lot.’

  ‘You’ll have to be a horse too.’

  ‘All right, I will.’

  ‘You’ll refuse later. You be the horse first. I’ll ride, and then I’ll be the horse.’

  Suresh had planned to trick him in precisely that way. At this demand of Mangal’s, he said to his companions, ‘See what a rascal he is—he’s a Bhangi, after all.’

  The three surrounded Mangal and forced him to serve as the horse. Suresh quickly mounted his back and clicked his tongue, saying, ‘Go, horse, go.’

  Mangal went a little way, but the weight was breaking his back. He gently straightened his back, and slipped out from under Suresh’s thighs. Mr Suresh fell down and began bellowing.

  Suresh’s mother heard him cry. Wherever Suresh might be crying, her sharp ears always picked up the sound, and the way he cried really was quite unique, like the sound of a narrow-gauge railway engine.

  She said to the maid, ‘Listen, Suresh is crying. Ask who hit him.’

  Just then, Suresh appeared, rubbing his eyes. Whenever Suresh had occasion to cry, he always went to his mother with a complaint. She would give him sweets or dried fruit and wipe his tears. He was eight years old, but quite dull. Too much love had done to his mind what too much food had done to his body.

  Mother asked, ‘Why are you crying, Suresh? Who hit you?’

  Suresh said, crying, ‘Mangal touched me.’

  His mother could hardly believe this. Mangal was so harmless that no mischief could be expected of him; but when Suresh began to swear to it, she had to believe him. She called Mangal and scolded him, ‘So, Mangal, now you’ve started misbehaving. I told you never to touch Suresh, do you remember?’

  Mangal said in a low voice, ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘Then why did you touch him?’

  ‘I didn’t touch him.’

  �
��If you didn’t, why is he crying?’

  ‘He fell down, that’s why he’s crying.’

  A thief acting brazen! The lady ground her teeth but could do nothing. If she beat him she would have to bathe right away. She would have to pick up a cane and the electric flow of pollution would enter her body through the cane, so she abused him as much as she could, and ordered him to get out there and then. I’ll drink your blood if I see you at this door again. You eat free food and act wicked, and so on.

  Mangal was impelled not so much by self-respect as by fear to pick up his cups, sacking and dhoti, and leave, crying. He would never come here again. At worst, he would die of starvation. That would not be so bad. What was the use of such a life? Where else could he go in the village? Who would give shelter to a Bhangi? He went to the ruined house where memories of good days might dry his tears, and wept aloud.

  Tommy came looking for him, and both of them forgot their sorrows.

  6

  But as daylight faded, Mangal’s depression began to disappear. The powerful hunger of childhood stirred his blood and grew stronger. His eyes kept straying to the mud cups. He would have been given Suresh’s half-eaten sweets by now. What could he eat here—the dust?

  He consulted Tommy. ‘What will you eat, Tommy? I’m going to sleep hungry.’

  Tommy whimpered as if to say, ‘We have to put up with these insults all our life. If we lose courage so soon, how will we survive? Look at me, someone hits me with a stick, I yelp, but then I go back to him in a little while, wagging my tail. We both were made to live this way, brother!’

  Mangal said, ‘You go then, eat whatever you are given, don’t worry about me.’

  Tommy said in his doggy language, ‘I won’t go alone, I’ll take you along.’

  ‘I won’t go.’

  ‘Then I won’t go either.’

  ‘You’ll starve to death.’

  ‘So will you!’

  ‘Who’s going to weep for me?’

  ‘I’m in the same boat, brother. The bitch I loved in my youth was unfaithful and is now with Kallu. Fortunately, she took her children with her otherwise I would have been in trouble. How would I have supported five children?’

  In a moment, however, hunger thought of another stratagem.

  ‘The mistress must be looking for us, Tommy.’

  ‘Of course. Babuji and Suresh must have had their dinner. The servant who washes dishes must have taken the half-eaten food out of their plates and must be calling for us.’

  ‘All of it will be thrown in the trash.’

  ‘Let’s see if anyone comes looking for us.’

  ‘Who’ll come looking—are you a priest? They’ll call “Mangal, Mangal” once, and empty the plate into the gutter.’

  ‘All right, let’s go then. But I’ll hide, and if no one calls me by name, I’ll come back—understand that.’

  Both of them set off and when they reached Maheshnath’s house, stood in the darkness outside. But Tommy was impatient. He quietly slipped inside. He saw Maheshnath and Suresh sitting at dinner and sat down quietly in the outer room. But he was afraid someone might hit him with a stick.

  The servants were talking amongst themselves. One said, ‘Haven’t seen that Mangal today. The mistress scolded him, so perhaps he ran away.’

  Another answered, ‘It’s good he was turned out. Early every morning, one had to see a Bhangi’s face.’

  Mangal stepped back further into the darkness. His hopes faded.

  Maheshnath got up. The servant was pouring water for him to wash his hands. Now he would smoke a pipe and go to bed. Suresh would sit by his mother and go to sleep, listening to a story. Who cared about poor Mangal? It was so late, but no one had bothered to call for him.

  He stood there a while, dejected, then sighed deeply and was about to turn away when he saw the servant coming out, with the jootha food from the plates.

  Mangal emerged from the darkness into the light. How could he restrain himself now?

  The servant said, ‘Oh, you’re here? We thought you had gone away somewhere. Here, eat this; I was just going to throw it out.’

  Mangal said humbly, ‘I’ve been standing here a long time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you speak up then?’

  ‘I was afraid.’

  ‘All right, take it and eat it.’

  He picked up the leaf cup and put it in Mangal’s outstretched hands. Mangal looked at him, eyes filled with humble gratitude.

  Tommy too had come out. Both of them sat beneath the neem, and began to eat from the leaf cup.

  Stroking Tommy’s head with one hand, Mangal said, ‘See how strong the fire in the stomach is! If we hadn’t had even this food kicked towards us, what would we have done?’

  Tommy wagged his tail.

  ‘My mother nursed Suresh.’

  Tommy wagged his tail again.

  ‘People say that no one can pay the price of milk, and this is what I am getting as the price of milk.’

  Tommy wagged his tail again.

  The Voice of God

  JUMMAN SHEIKH AND ALGU CHAUDHURI WERE INTIMATE FRIENDS. They farmed together, they did business together, and gave and took loans jointly. Each trusted the other unquestioningly. When Jumman went on the hajj, he left Algu in charge of his house, and whenever Algu went out of town, he left Jumman in charge of his house. They did not eat together, and they belonged to different religions, but their way of thinking united them. This, after all, is the basic mantra of friendship.

  Their friendship was born when they were children, and Jumman’s respected father, Jumrati, was their teacher. Algu served his guru with heart and soul. He washed numberless bowls and cups, and he never let Jumrati’s hookah stay empty for a moment. Each filling of the hookah separated Algu from his books for half an hour. Algu’s father was an old-fashioned man. He had more faith in service of the guru than in studying. He said that knowledge comes not from studying but from the guru’s blessings. All you need is the guru’s favour. So if Jumrati Sheikh’s blessings and company did not bear fruit for Algu, he consoled himself with the thought that he had not spared any effort to obtain knowledge; if knowledge was not in his fate, how could he get it?

  But Jumrati Sheikh himself did not believe in blessings. He had greater faith in his cane, and even today Jumman is worshipped in the surrounding villages on the strength of that same cane. Not even the court clerk can pick up his pen to challenge a mortgage deed or affidavit written by him. The postman, constable and watchman of the district—all are anxious for his favour. So if Algu is respected for his wealth, Jumman Sheikh is honoured for his priceless knowledge.

  2

  Jumman Sheikh had an old maternal aunt. She had a little property, but she had no immediate family. Jumman made her big promises, and got her to sign the property over to him. Until the gift deed was registered, Khala Jaan was waited on hand and foot. She was fed tasty dishes, and showered with halwa and pulao. But the seal on the registered deed seemed also to seal up this attention and consideration.

  Jumman’s wife Kariman began to serve up sharp, spicy remarks along with the rotis. Jumman Sheikh too turned hard-hearted. Now poor Khala Jaan had constantly to hear such nasty comments as, ‘God knows how long the old woman will live. She gave us a couple of bighas of barren land and thinks she has bought us for life. She can’t stomach her rotis unless the dal is seasoned! We could have bought up the whole village with the money we’ve already put into her stomach.’

  For some time, Khala Jaan put up with this; but when she could tolerate it no more, she complained to Jumman. Jumman thought it improper to interfere with the local administrator—the housewife. Things somehow dragged on for a while longer. Finally, one day, Khala said to Jumman, ‘Beta! I can’t carry on with you. You give me money regularly, and I’ll cook and eat on my own.’

  Jumman said brazenly, ‘Does money grow on trees?’

  Khala said mildly, ‘Don’t I need at least some simple food to live on?’

&
nbsp; Jumman said gravely, ‘We didn’t know that you had conquered death.’

  Khala got annoyed, and threatened to convene the village panchayat.1 Jumman laughed, as a hunter laughs to himself when he sees a deer approaching the snare. He said, ‘Sure, go ahead and approach the panchayat. Let it be decided once for all. I don’t like this constant bickering.’

  Jumman had no doubts at all about who would win if the case came before the panchayat. Who was there in all the surrounding villages who did not owe him a favour; who would dare make an enemy of him? Who had the strength to stand up against him? It’s not as if angels from heaven would descend to deliver judgment.

  3

  After this, for several days, the old aunt, walking with stick in hand, went around the neighbouring villages. Her back was bent like a bow. Every step was hard for her, but there was no way out. The problem had to be resolved.

  There was scarcely a respectable person before whom the old woman did not shed tears. Some pretended to agree, just to get rid of her, while others cursed the injustice of the times. They said, ‘She has one foot in the grave, she’ll die today or tomorrow, but she’s still so greedy. What do you want? Eat your food quietly and take Allah’s name. What do you have to do with farming now?’ There were also some gentlemen who found the whole business highly amusing. A bent back, a wrinkled face, dry white hair—who would not laugh at so many funny items collected together? There were very few justice-loving, kind men who had compassion for the oppressed, who listened carefully to that weak woman’s lament, and tried to console her. Having wandered all around, the poor thing came to Algu Chaudhuri. She threw down her stick, caught her breath, and said, ‘Beta, you too come to the panchayat for a little while.’