by Premchand
Panditji’s idea of penance was thrown out, but Bhungi had to step down from her throne. When the time came for her to leave the zamindar’s house, she was given so many gifts that she was unable to carry them all away on her own. She got the gold bracelets that she had wanted; she also got two pretty saris, and not cotton ones like she had got when the girls had been born.
IV
The same year there was an acute outbreak of plague. Gudarh was among its first victims. But life went on for Bhungi. People thought she might run off with someone or the other. There was even some talk about a certain sweeper and a certain Chaudhry—both of whom would come to see her sometimes. But nothing came of it. Bhungi did not go anywhere. Five years went by and her son, Mangal, despite being weak and often sick, began to run about and play. Compared to Maheshnath’s son, Suresh, he looked like a dwarf.
A sewer in Maheshnath’s house got blocked and began flooding the courtyard with dirty water. Bhungi was asked to clear it. She stuck a long pole in the blocked drain and began to shake it. Her arm was all the way inside the sewer when, suddenly, she let out a loud scream and pulled her arm back. At the same time, a black snake crawled out of the drain. At first people thought it was a water snake and therefore harmless. So no one paid any attention to poor Bhungi. But when the poison spread all over her body and she began to shake and tremble, they realized she had been bitten by a poisonous snake. By then it was too late to save poor Bhungi.
Mangal became an orphan. He took to hanging about Mahesh babu’s doorway in the hope of being fed. The zamindar’s household had enough leftover food to feed five or ten lads like him. While there was no shortage of food, by now Mangal was old enough to feel bad when the zamindar’s servants dropped food from a distance on to his clay pots, making sure their hands never touched his pots. He noticed that everyone else ate out of pretty dishes and fine plates, while there were only clay pots for him. Even the torn piece of old sacking he slept on was considered untouchable. The village boys teased him mercilessly. Nor would they let him play with them.
Mangal had made his home under a neem tree in front of Maheshnath’s house. It had a torn piece of sackcloth, two clay pots and one dhoti, which was an old one handed down from Suresh. The spot under the neem tree remained equally comfortable in winter, summer and rain. Mangal lived there in the numbing winter chill, the scorching summer loo and the heavy monsoon rains. In fact, he became stronger and healthier than ever before.
If there was anyone he could call his own in the whole wide world, it was a village dog. Fed up with the cruelties of the other dogs, it had found Mangal. And now both boy and dog would eat together and sleep together on the same piece of sackcloth. They had similar tastes and temperaments too and both had begun recognizing each other’s moods. They lived peacefully together and never fought.
The religious people of the village expressed their surprise and disapproval of Babu saheb’s generosity. He had allowed the untouchable boy to set up home barely fifty feet away from his own front door. Not only did it go against every religious principle, the very idea was disgusting. Chee! Chee! They grumbled, ‘If such a horrible practice is allowed to continue, it will mean the end of our religion. God created untouchables—we accept that. And we must not be unfair to them—that, too, we know. After all, God is the Saviour of the lowly and the fallen, but there are rules of social behaviour that must be followed. We don’t feel like approaching Babu saheb’s door but he is the village zamindar and we have to go—no matter how disgusted we feel.’
Unconcerned by the grumbling, Mangal and his dog, Tommy, remained best friends. Mangal would say, ‘Now look here, Tommy, shift a little and go to sleep. You have taken all the space; where will I sleep?’
Tommy would whimper softly, wag his tail and instead of moving away, snuggle closer to Mangal and begin to lick his face.
Every evening Mangal would go to look at his old home and cry a little. The thatched roof had fallen in the first year; one wall had crumbled in the second year. Now all that was left were three half walls, their broken tops facing the sky. This was all that remained of the only place he had ever known any form of love. The memory of that love drew him, again and again, to this place. Tommy went along on each of these visits. While Mangal would sit perched on the broken walls, dreaming of the past and wondering about the future that awaited him, Tommy would try—unsuccessfully—to jump into his lap.
V
One day, as the village boys played among themselves and Mangal stood watching from a distance, something strange happened. It is difficult to say what prompted it; were the boys short of one player or did Suresh suddenly feel sorry for Mangal? Whatever his reasons might have been, Suresh decided to include Mangal in his game, especially since no one was likely to find out. Suresh called out, ‘Hey, Mangal! Do you want to play?’
Mangal answered, ‘No, brother. The master will kill me if he finds out. Nothing will happen to you; you will just shrug and walk away.’
‘But who will know, silly? Come on, we are going to play a game of riders. You will be the horse and the rest of us will ride you and make you gallop.’
Mangal was doubtful, ‘Will I always be the horse, or will I get a chance to ride too?’
Now this was a difficult question. No one had thought of this. Suresh thought for a minute and then said, ‘Who will let you ride on his back? Just think. After all, you are an untouchable, aren’t you?’
But Mangal insisted. He said, ‘When did I say I am not an untouchable? But it was my mother who fed you on her milk. If you won’t let me ride, I won’t be the horse. You think you are very clever. You think you can always ride me and I will always be the horse, but I won’t.’
Suresh got angry. He shouted, ‘You will be the horse,’ and he ran to catch Mangal. But Mangal ran away. Suresh ran after him but Mangal kept running faster and faster. Suresh tried his best to catch Mangal but he was a fat child and running made him short of breath. He finally stopped and threatened, ‘Come and be the horse, Mangal, or I will beat you so much you will never forget it.’
‘You will have to be the horse too.’
‘All right, we will also be the horse.’
‘No, you will refuse later. First you be the horse, I will ride you and later I will become the horse.’
Suresh had really thought of fooling Mangal. Hearing Mangal’s plan, he said to his companions, ‘Do you see how cunning he is? He is a lowly sweeper boy, after all!’
Suresh and his friends surrounded Mangal, forced him to kneel and become a horse. Suresh jumped on to his back and began clicking his tongue, ‘Come on, horse, come on . . . faster, faster!’
Mangal trotted for some time but soon he began to feel as though his back would break under the weight he carried. Slowly, he straightened his back and wriggled out from beneath Suresh’s thighs. Suresh fell with a thud and began to scream and cry loudly.
The sound reached his mother. Whenever Suresh cried, she was the first to hear it. His crying was like the crying of no other child; it sounded like the whistle of a narrow-gauge steam engine. She said to her maid, ‘Suresh is crying somewhere. Go and look. Find out what is the matter.’
Meanwhile, Suresh himself appeared, crying and rubbing his eyes. He always came running to his mother whenever something upset him and made him cry. She would give him sweets or dry fruits and wipe his tears. Suresh was eight years old yet he behaved like a foolish child. Too much love had done to his mind what too much food had done to his body.
‘Why are you crying, Suresh? Who has hit you?’ asked the mother.
‘Mangal touched me,’ he answered with a sob.
His mother found this hard to believe. Mangal was such a harmless little fellow that it was hard to believe he could do any mischief. But when Suresh began to swear that it was true, she had to believe him. She sent for him and scolded, ‘You little wretch, now you have also learnt mischief! How many times have I told you—never touch Suresh! Do you remember, or n
ot? Answer me!’
‘I remember,’ Mangal answered in a subdued tone.
‘Then why did you touch him?’
‘I didn’t touch him.’
‘If you didn’t touch him, why is he crying?’
‘He fell down, that is why he is crying.’
The lady gritted her teeth with annoyance. She wanted to slap him but she knew she would have to take a bath later to remove the contamination of touching him. Even if she were to hit him with a stick, she would still have to hold the stick and the contamination could flow from the stick to her hand—like an electric charge—and enter her body. So she had to content herself with shouting as many abuses as she could and then ordered him to go away and never show his face again, or god help her, she would drink his blood! Eating the crumbs from her table had taught him mischief, etc etc.
It wasn’t so much wounded self-respect as fear that gripped Mangal at this moment. He quietly picked up his clay pots, tucked the torn sackcloth under his arm, placed the dhoti on his shoulder and went away, crying. He told himself he would never come here again. He would probably die of starvation, but so what? What could be worse than this? What is the point of such a life? There was no other place in the entire village where he could go. Who would give shelter to a sweeper’s son? So he went to the ruins of his old home where the memory of those good days could dry his tears. But when he reached there, he started crying helplessly.
Tommy stood beside him and the two friends soon forgot their pain in each other’s company.
VI
But with the fading daylight, Mangal’s hurt began to lessen. He had known real hunger early on in life. His eyes kept skimming over his empty clay pots. Had he been at his usual spot at Maheshnath’s door, by now he would have been given Suresh’s leftover sweets. What was there for him to eat here? Dust?
He consulted Tommy, ‘Do you want something to eat, Tommy? I can go to sleep on an empty stomach, but can you?’
Tommy whimpered as though to say, ‘We shall have to face such insults all our lives. If you give up like this, how will you manage for the rest of your life? Look at me— when I am kicked in my stomach, I yelp with pain, but then after some time I return to the same spot, wagging my tail. You and I, my friend, have been made for this purpose.’
Mangal said, ‘You go off and find something to eat for yourself.’
Tommy answered in his doggy language, ‘I won’t go alone; I shall take you along.’
‘I won’t go.’
‘Then I shall not go either.’
‘You will die of hunger.’
‘Do you think you will manage to stay alive?’
‘No one will mourn me if I die.’
‘Same here, brother. That bitch I fell in love with turned out to be unfaithful and is now living with Kallu. I am glad she took her pups with her or my life would have been worse. Who would have cared for five puppies?’
A minute’s thought made hunger produce yet another tactic.
‘The mistress must be searching for us, won’t she, Tommy?’
‘Of course. Babuji and Suresh must have eaten by now. The servant would have cleaned their plate of the leftover food and must be calling out for us.’
‘There is always a lot of ghee left over on their plates and that sweet stuff—mmm, malai!’
‘It will all end up in the garbage dump.’
‘Let us see if someone comes looking for us.’
‘Why would anyone come looking for us? Are we grand priests? Someone will call out “Mangal, Mangal” and that’s it. Then the plates will be emptied near the drain.’
‘All right, then, let’s go. But I shall stay hidden and if someone doesn’t ask for me by name, I shall come away. Is that clear?’
The two set off. They reached Maheshnath’s house and stood hiding in the shadows. But Tommy didn’t have the patience to wait for very long. He quietly slipped into the house and saw that Maheshnath and Suresh had sat down for dinner. Tommy curled up quietly on the veranda, without making the smallest sound for fear that someone would come after him with a stick.
The servants were talking among themselves. One said, ‘There is no sign of Mangal today. Maybe he has run away after the scolding he got from the mistress.’
The other answered, ‘It’d be a good thing if he has gone away. The first thing one saw in the morning was the face of that sweeper boy.’
Mangal shrank further into the darkness. Hope sank deeper into the depths of despair.
Maheshnath finished his dinner and rose. A servant washed his hands. He would now smoke his hukka and then go to bed. Suresh would lie beside his mother and fall asleep as she told him a story. Who would spare a thought for poor, hungry Mangal? It had grown quite dark by now, yet no one had asked about him.
For some time Mangal stood there dejectedly, then heaving a long sigh, he turned away to go when he spotted a servant—carrying a leaf plate laden with leftover food.
Mangal stepped out from the shadows into the light. How could he resist this temptation?
The servant said, ‘Hey, you! Where have you been? We thought you had gone away. Here, eat this; I was just about to throw it away.’
Mangal answered humbly, ‘I have been standing here for a long time.’
‘Then why didn’t you speak up?’
‘I was scared.’
‘Okay—here, take this.’
He dropped the leaf-plate on to Mangal’s outstretched palms. Mangal looked up at him with eyes brimming with humble gratitude.
Tommy crept out of the house. Both sat beneath the neem tree and ate out of the same leaf-plate.
Mangal stroked Tommy’s head with one hand and said, ‘See, such is the fire of the stomach! What would we have done if we hadn’t got this food that others have thrown as waste?’
Tommy wagged his tail.
‘My mother had fed Suresh on her milk.’
Tommy wagged his tail again.
‘People say that no one can ever pay the price of a mother’s milk, but this is the pay-off I am getting.’
And Tommy wagged his tail yet again.
* * *
*Traditionally, the mother is considered ‘impure’ for the first ten days and so it was quite all right for the untouchable Bhungi to feed her baby. But after the mother had taken a ceremonial bath and purified herself, she become ‘pure’ again.
7
Big Brother
My brother was five years older than me, but only three classes ahead. He started studying at the same age as I did but he didn’t want to hurry in an important matter such as education. He wanted to build on a strong foundation. So he took two years to do what could be done in one year. If the foundation was not strong how could a building be built to last?
I was younger. I was nine; he was fourteen. To check me and keep an eye on me was his birthright. And decency said that I must follow his command as if it was the Law.
He was studious by nature. He always sat with an open book in front of him. Sometimes, to rest his brain, he would draw pictures of birds, dogs or cats on the margins of his books and notebooks. Sometimes, he would write the same name or word or sentence over and over again. Sometimes, he would write a line of poetry in a beautiful handwriting. Sometimes, he would write things that had neither meaning nor sense. Once, I saw the following written in his copy: Special, Ameena, Brothers-Brothers, Actually, Brother-Brother, Radheshyam, Mr Radheshyam, For One Hour. And after this he had made the drawing of a man. I tried my best to make sense of this riddle but I couldn’t. I didn’t have the courage to ask him. After all, he was in the ninth standard; I in the fifth. How could I dare to make sense of his writings!
I was not at all interested in studying. Sitting with a book for even one hour made me restless. The first chance I got, I would run away from the hostel and go to the playground and sometimes play with marbles, sometimes fly paper butterflies, and my day would be made if a friend showed up. We would climb up on the roof and take turns jump
ing off, or swing on the gate and pretend it was a motor car. But the moment I entered the room and saw Big Brother, or Big B’s angry face, I would get scared to death. His first question would be: ‘Where were you?’ The question was always asked in the same tone and my answer was always silence. I don’t know why I could never say I had gone out to play. My silence would say that I accept my crime and Big B would have no other option but to greet me with the following words that showed both his love and anger:
‘If you continue to study English like this, you can go on trying for the rest of your life and you still won’t learn one word. Studying the English language is not a joke; everyone can’t master it. Or else every Tom, Dick and Harry would be a master of English. You have to toil day and night to learn it, and you can never fully learn it either. All sorts of learned men can’t actually write, let alone speak in English. And you are such an idiot that you don’t learn from my example. You can see for yourself how hard I work. And if you can’t see, you are blind and stupid. Every day there is a play or a festival. Have you ever seen me go for even one of them? Every day there is a hockey or cricket match. I never go anywhere near them. I am always studying, yet I end up studying in the same class for two, sometimes even three years. Then, how do you expect to pass despite wasting all your time in fun and games? Do you want to spend the rest of your life in the same class? If this is the way you want to waste your life, you might as well go back home and play gulli-danda. Why are you wasting our poor father’s hard-earned money?’
I would listen to this lecture and start crying. I had no answer. I was guilty as charged. Big B was an old hand at giving lectures. He could say such hard-hitting things, aim such barbed arrows that my heart would break into pieces and my confidence would shatter. Yet I didn’t have the strength for such do-or-die labour. At such times of despair, I would think, ‘Maybe it is best to go back home. Why should I take on something that is beyond my abilities and destroy my life? I am willing to stay illiterate.’ But the very thought of so much hard work made my head spin. In an hour or two, the clouds of despair would part and I would decide to study hard. I would make a timetable. After all, how could I begin work without first drawing up a scheme or a plan? There was no room for games and sports in this timetable. According to this plan, I would get up at six am, wash, eat my breakfast and sit down to study. From six to eight, it was English; eight to nine Maths; nine to nine-thirty History; then eat my mid-day meal and go off to school. I would return from school at half-past three, rest for half an hour, then study Geography from four to five, Grammar from five to six, stroll for half an hour in front of the hostel; English composition from six-thirty to seven; translation from eight to nine after dinner; Hindi from nine to ten; different subjects from ten to eleven; and then go to bed.
