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Stories on the Village

Page 9

by Premchand


  One evening he was sitting with his son in his lap, shelling peas. Suddenly, he saw a flock of sheep coming towards him. He said to himself, ‘This is not the way for sheep to pass. Can’t they go along the dyke? Why should they be driven along this path? They’ll eat and trample the crop. Who’ll compensate for that? It must be Buddhu, the shepherd. He’s become so haughty, just look at his nerve! He can see me standing here but he doesn’t bother to drive his flock back. What good has he ever done me that I should put up with this? If I want to buy a ram from him he’s sure to demand five rupees. Everywhere you can get a blanket for four rupees but he won’t settle for less than five.’

  By now the sheep had reached close to the harvest. Jhingur yelled, ‘Hey you, where do you think you’re taking those sheep? Do you have any sense?’

  Buddhu said meekly, ‘Master, they can pass through the boundary path. If I take them back they will have to travel several extra miles.’

  ‘And do you expect me to allow you to trample my field to save you the hassle of a detour! Why didn’t you take them through some other boundary path! Do you take me for a helpless tanner or has your money gone to your head? Turn them back!’

  ‘Master, allow me to go just today. If I come back this way ever again you can give me any punishment you want.’

  ‘I told you to turn them back. If one of them crosses the boundary, you’re going to be in a mess.’

  ‘Master, if a single sprout is trampled by my sheep, you can curse me a hundred times.’

  Buddhu was still speaking timidly but he had already made up his mind to not take the sheep back. He thought to himself, ‘If I drive the flock back because of such a small matter, I’ll never be able to graze them.’

  Buddhu was a strong man too. He owned two hundred and forty sheep and earned eight cowries a night by letting them stay in people’s fields to fertilize them. He sold their milk, too, and made blankets from their wool. Why’s this man losing his temper? he was thinking now. What can he do to me? I’m not his servant. When the sheep saw the green leaves around them they got restless and broke into the field. Buddhu beat them with his stick to bring them over to the boundary line but they just broke in from somewhere else.

  Furious, Jhingur said, ‘You’re trying to force your way through here, aren’t you? I’ll teach you a lesson!’

  He put down his son, picked up his staff and pounced on the sheep. Even a washerman would not have beaten his donkeys so mercilessly. He smashed their legs and backs while they bleated piteously. Buddhu stood there and watched silently as the destruction of his army took place right before his eyes. He neither shooed away his flock nor said anything to Jhingur. He just kept watching the scene. In a couple of minutes Jhingur had driven the sheep away with his brute force. Having accomplished his task, Jhingur said with the pride of victory, ‘Now, march on straight! And never think of coming this way again.’

  Looking at his injured sheep, Buddhu said, ‘Jhingur, you haven’t done a good thing. You’re going to regret it.’

  2

  To take revenge on a peasant is the easiest thing in the world, because his entire treasury remains exposed in fields or barns. He brings home grains after going through many natural and unforeseen calamities. If these are combined with someone’s enmity, then the peasant is lost forever. When Jhingur came home and told his family about the fight, they were alarmed. They berated him, ‘Jhingur, you’ve invited trouble on yourself! You can’t pretend that you don’t know Buddhu. What a quarrelsome fellow you are. You can still salvage the situation. Go and pacify him, otherwise the entire village will come to grief along with you.’ Jhingur understood the situation. He regretted crossing swords with Buddhu. If the sheep had nibbled a little of his crop it wouldn’t have ruined him. We peasants should always remain servile for our own good. Even God doesn’t like us to walk with our heads held high.

  Jhingur didn’t relish the idea of going to Buddhu’s house, but the others egged him on, so he finally set out for it. It was the month of Aghan in winter; mist had set in and everything around was covered in darkness. He had just come out of the village when he saw a fire blazing in the direction of his sugar cane field. His heart began to race. Someone had set fire to the field! He ran wildly, hoping it wasn’t his field. But as he got closer, his deluded hope evaporated. The calamity he’d set out to avert had already occurred. The scoundrel had set fire to his field and was destroying the whole village because of him. As he ran it seemed to him that his field looked much closer than before, and the fallow land that stood between didn’t exist.

  By the time he reached his field the fire had consumed the greater part of the harvest. Jhingur broke out into a loud wail. The villagers came running. They pulled out lentil stalks and started beating the fire out. It was a deadly fight between the fire and the human beings. The devastation went on for a good part of the night. Sometimes one party had the upper hand, sometimes the other. The warriors on the side of the fire put up a valiant fight, and when they seemed to have been all but extinguished rose up again. Among the human warriors, Buddhu shone the brightest. His dhoti tucked around his waist, he took his life into his hands and leapt into the fireballs with the determination to subdue the enemy or die in the process. He escaped narrowly many times. In the end, the human warriors won, but the victory was worse than defeat. The sugar cane crop of the entire village had been reduced to ashes, sounding a death knell for all their hopes.

  3

  It was an open secret who had set the fire. But no one dared say anything about it. There was no evidence and it was pointless to talk about a case without any evidence. As for Jhingur, it became difficult for him to go out of his house. Wherever he went he had to listen to people’s imprecations. People said right to his face, ‘The fire broke out because of you! You’ve ruined us. Where’s your sky-high vanity now? You’ve destroyed yourself and the entire village. If you hadn’t picked that fight with Buddhu, none of this would have happened.’

  Jhingur was more hurt by these jibes than by the destruction of his crop. He stayed in his house the whole day. It was the month of Poos, when bullocks usually pulled the cane press the entire night, the aroma of molasses filled the air, fires were lit and people smoked hookah sitting by the fireside. But now there was total desolation. The chill drove people indoors in the early evening, where they lay cursing Jhingur. The month of Maagh was even more painful. The cane crop not only brought prosperity to peasants but also sustained their lives. They tided over the winter with its help. They drank hot cane juice while cane leaves gave them warmth, and they fed tender cane shoots to animals. All the dogs of the village that slept in the warmth of the ashes died; many animals died for lack of fodder. The chill intensified and the entire village got inflicted with fever and cold. All this happened because of the wretched Jhingur, the murderer!

  Jhingur thought and thought and finally resolved that Buddhu must be reduced to a situation similar to what he was facing. He has ruined me and is living a life of comfort. I’ll destroy him.

  Since the day of their deadly fight Buddhu had stopped coming by Jhingur’s area. Jhingur decided to get close to him. He wanted to show Buddhu that he didn’t suspect him of starting the fire. He went to Buddhu one day on the pretext of getting a blanket, and then he went on another day to get some milk. Buddhu greeted him with utmost courtesy. A man offered hookah even to an enemy, and Buddhu wouldn’t let Jhingur go without making him drink milk and syrup. These days Jhingur was working in a jute-wrapping mill to earn his livelihood. Often, he was paid several days’ wages together. It was only with Buddhu’s help that he was able to manage his day-to-day expenses. Jhingur took this opportunity to deepen his intimacy with Buddhu. One day, Buddhu asked him, ‘Jhingur, what would you do if you found out who had set fire to your cane field? Tell me honestly.’

  Jhingur said in a sombre tone, ‘I’ll tell him—brother, you’ve done me a good turn. You’ve destroyed my vanity and made a man out of me.’

  ‘Had I
been in your place, I wouldn’t have rested until I’d burnt down his house.’

  ‘This worldly life is so short—why nurture ill will against anyone? I’ve been ruined. What shall I gain by ruining him?’

  ‘Sure, that is true dharma, which we should follow. But, brother, such reasoning vanishes in the heat of rage.’

  4

  It was the month of Phagun. The peasants were readying the field for planting cane. Buddhu was doing brisk business. His sheep were in great demand. One always saw peasants standing at his door fawning over him. Buddhu didn’t have a kind word for anyone. He doubled the rate of hiring out his sheep to fertilize the field. If anybody objected he’d say bluntly, ‘Look, brother, I’m not foisting my sheep on you. If you’ve a problem, don’t take them. But I can’t decrease the rate even by a cowrie.’ The fact was—everybody needed them, so they swarmed around him despite his rudeness, clinging to him as the pandas cling to pilgrims.

  Lakshmi’s image isn’t huge, but it grows big or small according to circumstances. Sometimes she can contract her most glorious manifestation into a few small figures printed on paper. Sometimes she goes to sit on the tip of somebody’s tongue, and her form vanishes. Even so, she needs quite a bit of space to live permanently. When she comes, the house begins to grow larger. Buddhu’s house also began to grow larger. A veranda was built in front of the door. Six rooms were built where there had been two rooms earlier. In fact, the entire house was being built anew. Buddhu demanded wood from one peasant, from another he extracted cow-dung cakes to be used as kiln fuel for making tiles, from some others he got bamboo and reeds. He had to pay for building the walls, though, but he didn’t pay in cash even for that. He paid in kind, in the form of young lambs. This was Lakshmi’s blessing. The entire job was accomplished gratis; a fairly good house was built without spending practically anything. Preparations began in earnest for the house-warming.

  Jhingur had to work hard through the day, which brought him just enough to fill half his belly, while gold was raining on Buddhu’s house. If Jhingur was consumed by jealousy, who could blame him? Who could ever bear such injustice?

  One day, Jhingur, while taking a stroll, happened to go in the direction of the tanners’ settlement. He met Harihar, who greeted him and filled a hookah for him. They began to smoke. Harihar was the leader of the tanners and was a mischief-monger. Every peasant was scared of him.

  Taking a drag of the chillum, Jhingur said, ‘Aren’t you singing Phaag to welcome spring this time? I haven’t heard you.’

  Harihar replied, ‘Where’s the time to think of Phaag? One has to work the entire day to fill one’s belly. How are you getting along?’

  ‘Not well. It’s a hard life. I have to work all day long in the mill to eke out a living. These days Buddhu’s making a lot of money. He doesn’t have room to store it in! He’s built a new house, bought some more sheep. Nowadays everyone’s talking about his house-warming. He’s going to send paan to all the seven villages to invite people.’

  Harihar said, ‘When Mother Lakshmi comes, people grow generous. But just look at him, his feet do not touch the earth. He always talks with a swagger!’

  Jhingur replied, ‘And why not? Who’s there in the village to match his clout? But yes, brother, it’s not good to show vanity. When God showers His blessings one should bow one’s head and accept them humbly. One shouldn’t be so proud as to think that he’s above everybody. When I hear him bragging, my whole body burns. Yesterday’s shepherd is today’s millionaire. How he swaggers in front of me! Why, I have seen him wearing a loincloth and driving away crows in the field. Now, his fortunes are on the upswing.’

  ‘Shall we do something about it?’

  ‘What can we do? He doesn’t rear cows or buffaloes for fear that someone will poison them.’

  ‘But he has his flock of sheep.’

  ‘They’re not worth the trouble.’

  ‘Well, think about it carefully.’

  ‘Think of a strategy so that he’s not able to rise again.’

  Their conversation became hushed. It’s a mystery that while the good brings out jealousy in people, the bad binds them in love. A scholar is jealous of another, a saint is jealous of another saint, and a poet is jealous of another poet. They do not even want to see each other’s faces. But when a gambler meets another gambler, a drunkard meets another drunkard or a thief meets another thief, they form a bond and help one another. If a pandit sees another stumbling and falling on the ground in the dark, he doesn’t help him stand but instead gives him two kicks so that he’s not able to get up. But when a thief sees another in a tight situation, he helps his comrade. Everybody hates the bad, that’s why there’s love among people who are bad. On the other hand, everybody loves the good, and that’s why there’s rivalry among the good. What will a thief gain by beating another thief except hatred? But if a scholar defames another scholar, it increases his own fame.

  Jhingur and Harihar finished their conversation. The plot was hatched. The method, time and sequence of action were decided. Jhingur wasn’t walking back—he was strutting! He’d already killed his enemy—there was no way Buddhu could escape now.

  5

  The following day, on his way to work, Jhingur stopped by Buddhu’s house. Buddhu asked him, ‘Aren’t you working today?’

  ‘I’m on my way, but I came to request you to allow my calf to graze with your sheep. The poor thing remains tied to the post the whole day. There’s neither grass nor fodder. What do I feed him?’

  ‘Brother, I don’t keep cows and buffaloes. You know the tanners, they’re all murderers. That Harihar killed two of my cows, I don’t know what he fed them. Since then I’ve taken a vow not to keep cattle any more. But yours is just a calf, no one will harm her. Bring her over whenever you want.’

  Then he began to show Jhingur the articles he had bought for the house-warming. Ghee, sugar, flour and vegetables were all on display. They were now waiting for the Satyanarayan katha. Jhingur’s eyes popped out. He had never seen such an array of goods before, nor had he seen anyone organizing such an event. When he returned home after work the first thing he did was to take his calf over to Buddhu’s house. That night the Satyanarayan katha was held and a feast offered to the Brahmins. Through the night the Brahmins were treated with great honour and hospitality. Buddhu had no time to even go and see his flock of sheep. He had only had a meal in the morning (he didn’t find the time to eat at night). Suddenly, a man came to him and said, ‘Buddhu, you’re sitting here while your calf is lying dead among the sheep. My good fellow, you didn’t even take the rope off its neck.’

  Buddhu felt as though he’d been hit by someone. Jhingur, who was there, broke out in a wail, ‘Oh God, my calf? I want to see her! Look, I never tied her with a rope. I brought her over and left her with the flock of sheep. Then I went back home. When did you tie her with a rope, Buddhu?’

  ‘God knows, I haven’t even seen any rope! I haven’t had time to watch my own flock since morning.’

  ‘If you didn’t, then who else would’ve put the rope around her neck? You must have done it and forgotten.’

  One of the Brahmins remarked, ‘But it’s lying dead in your flock. People are going to say that the calf died because of Buddhu’s negligence, no matter who tied the rope.’

  Just then Harihar appeared on the scene and said, ‘I saw him tying the calf last night among his sheep.’

  Buddhu asked, ‘Me?’

  ‘You had your stick over your shoulder and you were tying up the calf!’

  ‘And you call yourself an honest fellow, don’t you? You really saw me tying up the calf?’

  ‘Why are you getting so annoyed, brother? If you want to say you didn’t tie her up, so be it!’

  The Brahmin said menacingly, ‘We will have to come to a decision about it. A cow has been slaughtered, and it must be atoned for. Do you think it’s a joke?’

  Jhingur remarked, ‘‘Maharaj, the killing was not intentional.’

&
nbsp; ‘What difference does it make? This is slaughter. How else does one slaughter a cow?’

  ‘That’s right. Tying and untying cows is a risky act.’

  ‘The scriptures designate it as the greatest sin one can commit. Killing a cow is no less than killing a Brahmin.’

  ‘Correct. The cow is a sacred animal. That’s why we respect her. She’s our mother. But, Maharaj, a mistake has been made. Find a way for the poor fellow to come out of this without much loss.’

  Buddhu stood listening to how easily he was being charged with murder. He understood that this was Jhingur’s ploy. But no one was going to listen to him even if he swore a million times that he hadn’t tied the calf. They’d say he was doing it to avoid atonement.

  The Brahmin God also stood to benefit from such atonement. He was not going to pass up such an opportunity. The outcome was that the charge of cow slaughter was slapped on Buddhu. The Brahmin who had been incensed with Buddhu got an opportunity to extract his revenge. The atonement involved three months of begging in public, then a pilgrimage to the seven holy sites, feeding five hundred Brahmins and giving a gift of five cows. Buddhu was stunned as he listened to the verdict. He began to howl. Seeing his condition, the period of begging was reduced to two months. No other concession was granted. There was no scope for appeal, no one to complain to. The poor fellow had to accept the punishment. Buddhu left his sheep in God’s care. His children were young. And what could his wife do on her own? The poor fellow wandered from one door to another. Hiding his face, he’d beg for alms, saying, ‘I’ve been punished for cow slaughter!’ He received alms but he had to listen to the insults hurled by people. In the evening, he would sit under a tree, cook whatever he had gathered during the day and then go to sleep right there. He did not mind the hard life, as he was accustomed to wandering all day with his sheep and sleeping under trees. As for food, the fare at his home wasn’t much better. What really rankled him was the shame of begging, especially when some people taunted him saying, ‘What a fine way to earn your bread!’ It pierced his heart but what could he do?

 

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