by Premchand
Ghisu dug out another potato and spoke while peeling it, ‘Go and see how she is. She must be under the influence of some bad spirit, but if we call someone from the village to remove the curse, we will have to pay at least one rupee.’
Madhav was afraid that if he went in to check on his wife, Ghisu would finish off most of the potatoes. So he said, ‘I am scared of going in.’
‘What are you sacred of? I’ll be right here.’
‘Why don’t you go in and see her?’
‘When my wife was dying I didn’t move from her side for three days. And, just think, she would be ashamed if I saw her lying like that. I have never even seen her face behind the veil, how can I now see her uncovered body? In her condition, she won’t be able to keep herself covered. If she sees me she won’t be able to thrash about freely.’
‘I have been thinking—what will happen if the baby is born? There is no ginger, sugar or oil that one needs on such occasions.’
‘Everything will be taken care. Wait till god gives us a baby. The same people who now refuse to give us even one paisa, will call us tomorrow to give us rupees. I had nine sons and there was never anything in the house, but each time God saw us through somehow.’
In a society where those who worked hard day and night were hardly better off than Ghisu and where those who knew how to take advantage of the poor peasants were rich and powerful, it is no wonder that Ghisu had such views. In a way, Ghisu was more intelligent than the peasants and instead of becoming one more mindless worker, he had decided to become a lazy good-for-nothing gossip. Despite his rags, he was happy. He didn’t have to do the backbreaking labour that the other poor people in the village did and no one could possibly take advantage of his simplicity and innocence, for he was neither simple nor innocent!
II
The father and son sat before the dead fire, digging out roasted potatoes and eating them piping hot. They hadn’t eaten a thing for two days and now they didn’t have the patience to let the potatoes cool. They burnt their tongue several times. After peeling, the outer layer didn’t seem very hot but the moment they dug their teeth in, the fiery core would scorch their tongue, throat and palate. It was better to swallow that live-hot coal than let it stay in the mouth for even a second more. Once it reached the stomach, there was enough stuff there to cool it.
And so they sat—swallowing hot potatoes even though the effort made their eyes water.
Suddenly Ghisu remembered the Thakur’s wedding that he had attended twenty years ago. That wedding feast was the experience of a lifetime and its memory was as fresh as ever. He said, ‘I can never forget that feast! Never have I seen such a feast, nor have I eaten so much ever again. The bride’s family served puris to everyone—and I mean everyone. Old and young, everyone stuffed themselves with those puris made in real ghee. Chutney, spicy yoghurt, three different kinds of greens, a curried vegetable, curd, sweets—how can I describe the taste of that food! And no shortage of anything—you could ask for whatever you wanted and eat as much as you wanted. Everyone ate so much that they could not sip even a drop of water. And those who were serving us just went on putting hot puris on our plates. We would tell them that we didn’t want any more, we would even put our hands above our plates to stop them, but they would simply not stop. And after everyone had finally finished and rinsed their mouth, there was betel and cardamom too. But I had eaten far too much to eat a betel leaf; I could barely stand on my feet. I ran towards my bedding and lay down. What a large-hearted man that Thakur was!’
Enjoying the taste of every one of those delicacies in his imagination, Madhav said, ‘No one gives such feasts now.’
‘Who can give such feasts any more? That was a different time and age. Now everyone thinks of saving money: Don’t spend on marriages, don’t spend on funerals. Someone ought to ask such people where they are going to hide all the wealth they have hoarded by fleecing the poor. They never think of cutting down on their fleecing; it is only the spending that they want to reduce.’
‘You must have eaten about twenty puris.’
‘I ate more than twenty puris.’
‘I would have eaten fifty!’
‘I wouldn’t have eaten less than fifty either. I was a strong young man; you are barely half my size.’
After finishing the potatoes, they drank some water and right there, in front of the dead fire, they wrapped themselves in their dhotis and went off to sleep. They looked like two huge coiled pythons.
Budhiya was still moaning.
III
In the morning, Madhav entered the hut and found his wife had turned cold. Flies buzzed around her face and her stony eyes looked upwards. Her body was coated with dust. The baby had died inside her.
Madhav ran to tell Ghisu. The two began to scream and shout and beat their chests. When the neighbours heard their weeping and wailing, they came running and according to custom, tried to comfort them. But this was not the time for showing grief; they had to worry about the shroud and the pyre wood. Money was as scarce in their house as meat in an eagle’s nest.
Father and son went to meet the village zamindar. He hated the sight of those two and had, many times in the past, beaten them up with his own hands for stealing or not showing up for work despite promising to do so. He asked, ‘What is the matter with the two of you? Why are you crying? I never see you around; it seems you don’t want to live in this village any more.’
Ghisu spoke with his head lowered and his eyes brimming with tears, ‘My lord, something terrible has happened to us. Madhav’s wife passed away last night. She tossed and turned in pain all night and we sat beside her. We did whatever we could, we gave her medicines, but, to cut a long story short, she left us. Now there is no one left to give us a morsel of food. We are ruined. Our lives are destroyed. You are our lord and master; there is no one else who can make sure she gets a decent cremation. Whatever little we had went towards her care and medicines. Now, if you wish, she can be given her last rites. We have no one else to whom we can turn for help.’
The zamindar was a kind man but to show kindness to Ghisu was like trying to dye a black blanket. Normally the fellow doesn’t even show up when you send for him, but now, when he wants something, he has turned up with his clever words, the zamindar fumed. But he also knew that this was not the right time for showing his anger or handing out punishment. Feeling frustrated, he pulled out two rupees and threw them on the ground. But he did not speak one word of sympathy, nor did he look at Ghisu. It was as though he had done his duty and that was all.
Since the zamindar had given two rupees, how could the village moneylenders and merchants refuse? Ghisu knew how to broadcast the fact that the zamindar had given the money. Someone gave two annas, someone else gave four annas. Within an hour, Ghisu had collected five rupees. He got grain from somewhere, wood from somewhere else. By noon, he and Madhav set off for the market to buy the shroud. Already, a few people had offered to chop some bamboo for the pyre.
The soft-hearted village women who came to take a look at Budhiya’s dead body shed a few tears at its helplessness and went away.
IV
Ghisu reached the market and said, ‘There will be enough wood to cremate her, Madhav.’
‘Oh, yes, we shall have enough wood. All we need is the shroud.’
‘Let’s go and pick up some cheap material.’
‘Yes, that’s what we should do. It will be dark by the time we carry her for cremation. Who is going to look at the shroud in the night?’
‘What a horrible custom! We may not even have a rag to cover our nakedness during our life, yet we must have a new piece of cloth for a shroud when we die.’
‘The shroud gets burnt along with the corpse, doesn’t it?’
‘Of course. If we had these five rupees when she was alive, we could at least have bought her some medicine.’
They could clearly read each other’s thoughts. So they loitered about the market—stopping at one c
loth merchant’s shop after another. They looked at different kinds of cloths—silks and cottons—but found nothing that was to their liking. By the time it was sunset, they found themselves at the door of a shop selling toddy. Without any need for consulting each other, they entered it. Ghisu ordered a bottle, some snacks and fried fish. Father and son sat down and began to drink and eat.
After gulping several cups quickly, they became a little drunk.
Ghisu said, ‘What’s the point of placing a shroud over her? After all, it will get burnt along with her body. It won’t go with her to her next life.’
Madhav looked towards heaven as though asking the gods to be a witness to his sincerity and innocence, and said, ‘It is the way of the world or why would people give thousands of rupees to Brahmins? Who is there to make sure that one gets it back in the next world?’
‘The rich have money to burn, so let them! What do we have?’
‘But what will you say to everyone? Won’t people ask where the shroud is?’
Ghisu laughed and said, ‘We’ll say the money fell from our waistband. We searched all over but we couldn’t find it. They may not believe us but they will again give us the money.’
Madhav laughed at this unexpected good fortune and said, ‘She was a good woman; even in her death she has ensured us a hearty meal.’
They had finished almost half the bottle by now. Ghisu ordered four pounds of puris and chutney, pickles and spicy liver from a nearby shop. Madhav ran to get the food. It cost exactly two-and-a-half rupees. Now they were left with only a few paise.
The two sat stuffing themselves with the puris in the same way that the Lord of the Jungle feeds on a big catch. They had no worries. Small things like what people would say did not matter to them.
Ghisu spoke in a thoughtful tone, ‘If she is the direct cause of our happiness, won’t god be pleased with her?’
Madhav bowed his head respectfully and agreed, ‘Oh, yes! Oh All-Knowing Lord, please take her to heaven. Both of us are praying for her from the depths of our heart. I have never tasted such food ever before as I have today.’
A sudden thought produced a doubt in Madhav’s mind. ‘Won’t we also be going there one day?’
Ghisu did not want to answer such a silly question. He didn’t want thoughts of the other world to disturb his present happiness.
‘Suppose she asks us there why we didn’t give her a shroud, what will we say?’
‘We’ll tell her to get lost!’
‘She will surely ask us.’
‘But what makes you think she won’t get a shroud? Do you think I am a fool? Do you think I have learnt nothing in the past sixty years of my life? She will get a shroud and a good one too.’
Madhav found this hard to believe. He said, ‘But who will give it? You have finished all the money. She won’t ask you; she’ll ask me. I was the one who married her; I was the one who put sindoor in her hair. She was my wife.’
Ghisu answered angrily, ‘She will get her shroud; I am telling you so. Why don’t you believe me?’
‘But who will give it? Why don’t you tell me?’
‘The same people who gave it before. Though this time they won’t hand us any money.’
The night wore on and more people came into the toddyseller’s shop. The level of excitement grew. Someone started singing. Another was busy boasting. Everyone was drunk.
The father and son were still drinking. People were looking enviously at them.
After the two had eaten as much as they could, Madhav gave the leftover puris to a beggar who had been looking at them hungrily. For the first time in his whole life, he felt the pride, pleasure and happiness that comes with giving something to another person.
Ghisu told the beggar, ‘Go on, take it, eat your fill and give your blessings. The woman who earned us this food is dead, but your blessings will reach her. Remember to bless her well; this has been bought with hard-earned money!’
Madhav again looked at the sky and said, ‘She will surely go to heaven and live like a queen there.’
Ghisu stood up and spoke as if he was swimming in an ocean of happiness. ‘Yes, son, she will go to heaven. She never hurt a fly, never gave the smallest trouble to anyone. Even in her death she managed to fulfil our dearest wish. If she won’t go to heaven, who will? These rich, fat slobs who fleece the poor and then wash away their sins by taking a dip in the Ganga river or by offering its holy water in temples?’
Like all drunks, Madhav was happy one minute, sad the next. He said, ‘But she suffered all her life. She experienced so much pain before death took her.’ He put his hands over his eyes and began to sob.
Ghisu tried to comfort him, ‘What is the good of crying? You should be happy that she is free of this world and its cares. She is lucky to have broken free from all bonds.’
With this, both stood up and began to sing. The others turned to look but they were lost in their own world. They sang, danced, hopped, skipped and jumped. They stumbled, fell, picked themselves up and danced some more. Finally, tired and drunk, they fell down.
9
The Thakur’s Well
As Jokhu raised the tumbler of water to his lips, he was overcome by the stink in it. He said to his wife, Gangi, ‘What is wrong with this water? Why does it smell so bad? Here I am dying of thirst and you have given me this dirty, smelly water to drink.’
Gangi was in the habit of fetching water from the well every evening. The well was quite far, and it was difficult to make more than one trip every day. But yesterday, when she had filled the water, there had been no smell. How could it smell bad today? She carried the tumbler to her nose; it did smell really very bad. Some animal must have fallen into the well and it was beginning to rot by now, making the water smell bad. She tried to think where else she could draw water.
There was the Thakur’s well. But being a high caste, he would never allow an untouchable like her to draw water from his well. He would heap abuses at her from a distance and send her away. The merchant’s well was at the far end of the village but no one would let her draw water from there either. There were no other wells in the entire village.
Jokhu had been ill for the past several days. Now, he controlled his thirst for as long as he could, but when it became unbearable, he turned to Gangi and said, ‘I can’t bear the thirst any longer. Give me that water; I will hold my nose and drink it.’
But Gangi refused to give him the smelly water. His illness would get worse if he drank it—she knew that much. What she didn’t know was that bad water could be boiled and made safe. She said, ‘How can you drink that water? Who knows what animal has died in it! I will get you some clean water.’
Jokhu looked at her with surprise, ‘Where will you get it from?’
‘The Thakur and the merchant both have wells. Won’t they let me draw even a tumblerful of water?’
‘You will get a few broken bones and nothing more. Sit here and be quiet. The Brahmins will shoo you away with a curse, the Thakur will beat you and the merchant will charge you five times interest on anything he gives you. Who has any sympathy for the poor? We could die tomorrow and they would not care; they would not peep inside our house, let alone extend a helping hand. Will such people let you draw water from their well?’
Jokhu’s words contained a bitter truth. Gangi could see that but still she could not give him that awful smelling water to drink.
II
It was nine o’clock at night. The tired farm labourers had long since fallen asleep. Half a dozen good-for-nothing gossips had collected at the Thakur’s doorway. Since their own lives had no stories of bravery to offer, they were talking about old courtroom dramas. The present topic of discussion was the time when the Thakur had cleverly bribed the police inspector and got off scot-free. Then, they moved on to discussing that other time when the Thakur had managed to get a copy of the lawsuit. The clerks and magistrates had insisted it was impossible to get a copy made. The stakes had been so high—som
e had asked for fifty rupees, others hundred. The Thakur had managed to lay his hands on a copy of the lawsuit without spending a single cowrie. After all, one must know how to get these things done.
Gangi reached the well as the men sat bragging about the Thakur’s past exploits. The dim light of a small oil lamp fell over the well. She crouched in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to make a dash for the well. She thought of the unfairness of her situation: the entire village could draw water from this well. There were no restrictions on anyone except the few unlucky ones like her.
Rebellion rose within Gangi’s heart. How was she inferior and those loudly laughing and gossiping men superior? What was it that set them apart? The sacred thread that the Thakurs wore around their necks? Cheats and bullies . . . that is what they were . . . every single one of them. They stole, they cheated, they put up false lawsuits against each other. It was only the other day that the Thakur had stolen a poor shepherd’s sheep, killed it and feasted on it. And the Pandit’s house was no better than a gambling den. The merchant sold ghee mixed with oil. They knew how to get work out of poor people without paying a single paisa in wages. ‘What makes them better than us?’ Gangi thought. ‘Mere words don’t make a man superior. We don’t go around praising ourselves in the streets.’
Suddenly, Gangi heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Her heart began to beat hard with fright. If someone saw her here beside the Thakur’s well, she would be beaten and kicked. She picked up her pot and rope and, bending low in the darkness, went to stand in the shade of a huge tree. These men never showed pity, she knew that well enough. They had beaten poor Mangu so cruelly that he had spat blood for months. His ‘crime’ had been that he had refused to work as a labourer for them. And, to add insult to injury, they thought they were superior.
As Gangi stood under the tree, two women came up to the well. They talked as they drew water.
