by Unknown
He went and stood in sight of a kitchen cubicle where a cook sat by the earthen fireplace peeling potatoes, while a big brass saucepan sent coils of steam shooting out from under its lid.
‘ Will you give me some pieces of coal for Havildar Charat Singh, please ? ’
The cook looked at Bakha for a moment, as much as to ask : ‘ Who are you ? ’ He thought he had seen the face somewhere but he couldn’t place him. ‘ He might be one of the sappers,’ he concluded charitably, seeing that the man held Havildar Charat Singh’s clay basin in his hand. As the sappers, in spite of their dark colour and dirty clothes, are of the grass-cutter caste, no one would object to sending one of them on an errand to fetch fire. Besides, the cook was indebted to Havildar Charat Singh. The Havildar had given him a clean new shirt and a white turban before he went on leave. He lifted two sticks of wood fuel from the fire and stuck them on the ground before Bakha. The sweeper picked up the live, burning pieces of coal in his hand one by one, and put them in the firepot. He suddenly recalled the figure of the little girl in his dream of the morning on whose hands the silversmith had placed a burning ember.
‘ Mehrbani ’ (thank you), he said, when he had half filled the firepot with coal. ‘ The Havildar says he wants his tea.’ He tried to put a great deal of humility into an unfortunately abrupt sentence.
Then he walked back to where Charat Singh sat in an easy-chair he had drawn out from somewhere, and he handed him the firepot. The Havildar casually stretched his hand and, accepting the pot, put it on his coco-nut shell hookah and gurgled away for all he was worth.
Bakha was feeling impatient now, and he sat near the veranda on a brick. He didn’t know why he felt impatient. It was because of the hookah. It always made him impatient. And then he was eager for the hockey stick. The Havildar hadn’t said a word about it. ’Had he forgotten ? ’ Bakha wondered. So as he sat waiting, he itched a bit with the empty awkwardness that yawned between him and Charat Singh. The cook came bearing a long brass tumbler and a jug of tea and the Havildar relieved his friend of his nervousness in an easy unconscious manner.
‘ Get that pan from which the sparrows drink water,’ he said to Bakha, pointing to the foot of a wooden pillar. ‘ Pour out the water from it.’
Bakha did as he was directed, and the vessel was clean in his hand. To his great surprise Charat Singh got up and began to pour tea out of his tumbler into the pan.
‘ No, no, sir,’ Bakha protested in the familiar Indian guests’ manner.
Charat Singh poured out the tea.
‘ Drink it, drink it, my son.’
‘ I am very grateful, Havildar ji,’ said Bakha. ‘ It is very kind of you.’
‘ Drink it, drink the tea, you work hard ; it will relieve your fatigue,’ said Charat Singh.
When Bakha had gulped down the liquid, he rose and replaced the vessel. Meanwhile Charat Singh had poured the contents of his jug into the tumbler and sipped it quietly.
‘ Now what about a hockey stick for you !’ he said, licking his lips and his thin moustache with the tip of his tongue.
Bakha looked up and tried to assume a grateful expression. He didn’t have to try very hard, for in a second he seemed to have dwarfed himself to the littlest little being on earth, and followed the Havildar noiselessly. His face was hot with the tea, his teeth shone even in their slavish smile, his whole body and mind were tense with admiration and gratitude to his benefactor. ‘ What has happened to change my kismet (fate) all of a sudden ? ’ he asked himself. ‘ Such kindness from the Havildar, who is a Hindu, and one of the most important men about the regiment ! ’ He followed Charat Singh with his gaze, curiously amazed.
The Havildar opened a door by the side of his room and disappeared for a moment. Then he came out with an almost brand-new hockey stick which must have been used only once. He handed it to Bakha as casually as he had given him the firepot to go and fill with charcoal.
‘ But it is new, Havildar ji,’ Bakha said as he took it.
‘ Now run along, new or not new, it doesn’t matter,’ said Charat Singh. ‘ Conceal it under your coat and don’t tell anyone. Go, my lad.’
Bakha bent his head and evaded the Havildar’s eyes. He couldn’t look at so generous a person. He was overcome by the man’s kindness. He was grateful, grateful, haltingly grateful, falteringly grateful, stumblingly grateful, so grateful that he didn’t know how he could walk the ten yards to the corner to be out of the sight of his benevolent and generous host. The whole atmosphere was charged with embarrassment. He felt uncomfortable as he walked away. ‘ Strange ! strange ! wonderful ! kind man ! I didn’t know he was so kind. I should have known. He always has such a humorous way about him ! Kind, good man ! He gave me a new stick, a brand-new stick !’ He impatiently drew the stick from the folds of his overcoat where he had hidden it. It was a beautiful broad-bladed stick, marked with English stamps, and therefore, to Bakha, the best stick that had been manufactured in the world. It had a leather handle. ‘ Beautiful ! Beautiful !’ his heart seemed to be shouting in its thumping, mad rush of exhilaration. He turned the corner and went across the ditch, so that he was out of sight of his benefactor. Assured now that nobody would see the foolish pride and pleasure that he was taking in his prize, he rested it on the ground in the position in which it is usual to place a stick before hitting the ball. He bent it. It was elastic and bent finely. That Bakha knew was the test of a good stick. He hurriedly rubbed off the dust that had touched the lower part of the stick and holding it fast in his hands, as if he were afraid someone would come and snatch it from him, he tried to assure himself and make himself believe that he possessed it, so incredulous was he of the fact that he owned it. In spite of the fact that he held it tight, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was dreaming, until he got to the edge of the playing-fields outside the gymnasium, behind the Indian officers’ quarters, and began to hit a little round stone about. Then he suddenly realised that the stick might break, or get scarred, that way. He clutched it hard, and pressed it to his body, and tried to recollect his thoughts : ‘ So my normal good luck has returned. If only that thing hadn’t happened this morning !’
Bakha tried to recall Charat Singh’s face.
It had a slight suspicion of forgetfulness about it. ‘ I hope he knew what he was doing,’ Bakha thought. ‘ I hope he wasn’t absent-minded. He may have been. Dare I play with the stick ? It might be spoiled, and in case he suddenly realises he has given away something he didn’t want to give, it will be terrible because I can’t return his stick battered or broken or even used. And, of course, I can’t buy a new stick like this. But there is no question of that. Didn’t he say : “ New or not new, take it and run away, and don’t tell anyone.” Of course he knew what he was doing. I am mad to think that he was forgetful. So kind a person, and I think this about him. I am a pig to do that.’ He didn’t want to think at all, since he felt his thoughts becoming ungenerous. ‘ How beautiful the afternoon is,’ he said, and he tilted his face up from the curve of his thought to sniff the bite in the air which came from the hills in the north. He was aware of the transparent autumn sunshine, just warm enough to fill a heart wrapped in warm clothes with pleasure. The cup of Bakha’s life was filled to overflowing with the happiness of the lucid, shining afternoon, as the bowl of the sky was filled with a clear and warm sunshine. He could have jumped for joy.
He was just going to, then he felt someone might see him. Someone was sure to be about. A passing sepoy or someone from among the boys. So there was no way of extending happiness into space except by walking about.
He began to walk. Each step he took was a strut, his chest thrown out, his head lifted high and his legs stiff, as if they were made of wood. The awkward sway of his rump had, for a moment, become the haughty gait of a proud soldier.
Then he caught a glimpse of himself foolishly strutting about and he grew self-conscious. He stopped suddenly, uncomfortably. His newly-assumed confidence had been shattered.
; He was impatient now. He wished someone would come and relieve his loneliness. If only a sepoy were passing, he would look at him. And if one of the boys came, he would show him the stick he had acquired. He wished that Chota would come. He would like to have shown him the stick. Or Ram Charan. ‘ But no, I must not show it to Ram Charan. Else he will go to Charat Singh and worry him by demanding a similar stick. The Havildar said I wasn’t to tell anyone. He will be angry with me if Ram Charan takes it into his head to go and beg for a stick.’ He wished the babu’s sons would come. They had the ball. The elder boy had promised to give him a lesson in English. Perhaps he could give it to him before the game started. He wished someone would come, someone to fill his mind, which had dried up, become suddenly empty.
He walked about aimlessly now. His limbs were loose. His face turned now to this side, now to that, with a half-conscious look. At last he espied the babu’s son, the little boy, rushing out of the hall of his house, a big stick in his little hand, food in his mouth and sweets tied up in the lap of his tunic. Bakha knew how eager the little one was to play hockey. He began to advance towards the child with an easy step, made awkward by a consciousness of his low position, and with a smile of humility on his face. He liked the babu’s sons, respected them, not only because they were high-caste Hindus whom he, as a sweeper’s son, had to respect, but also because their father held a position of extraordinary importance in the regiment, almost second to the Colonel Sahib himself.
The little one came up to him with a wild gesture of enthusiasm and said :
‘ Look, here is the new stick I told you about this morning. Charat Singh gave it to me.’
‘ Oh, it is very beautiful ! ’ Bakha commented. ‘ But,’ he continued jocularly, ‘ look at mine, it is better than yours. Ha, ha, mine is more beautiful than yours.’
‘ Let me see,’ said the little one.
Bakha handed him the stick.
‘ Oh, it is the same kind exactly !’ shouted the child.
Bakha felt that Charat Singh had apparently not done him an exceptional favour. But it was a favour all right. ‘ The babu’s sons were the babu’s sons. He would, of course, give them sticks. That he had given one to him, a sweeper, was an extraordinary favour.’
‘ Are you prepared for the match ? Ohe, Bakhe,’ said the child, as if he were a full-grown skipper.
‘ Yes, I am ready,’ said Bakha smilingly, and without betraying the slightest sign of that sympathy which he felt for the child, seeing him so enthusiastic and knowing he wouldn’t be allowed to play. He liked the little one, so brimful of energy and enthusiasm.
‘ Where is your elder brother ? ’ Bakha asked the child.
‘ He is finishing his meal. He is coming. I shall go and fetch the hockey sticks and the ball. The boys will soon be here.’ And he ran home abruptly, leaving Bakha curiously affected.
‘ Poor little boy, and they won’t let him play. He is so eager. He will be an extraordinary man when he grows up. A big babu perhaps. Or a sahib. His eyes twinkle so !—— ’
‘ Ohe, Bakhe,’ someone disturbed his thoughts.
He turned round and saw Chota and Ram Charan followed by various boys, the armourer’s sons, Naimat and Asmat ; the tailor-master’s son Ibrahim ; the bandmaster’s sons, Ali, Abdulla, Hassan and Hussein, and hosts of strangers, presumably the boys of the 31st Punjabis. Bakha advanced towards them. Chota ran up to him and whispered : ‘ I have told them that you are the sahib’s bearer : they don’t know that you are a sweeper.’
‘ All right,’ Bakha agreed. He knew that it had been done to convince some of the orthodox boys of the 31st Punjabis team that they wouldn’t be polluted.
‘ Look, I have got a wonderful new stick,’ said Bakha. He showed it to his friend. Then he said : ‘ Don’t tell Ram Charan about it. Charat Singh gave it to me. I shall score no end of goals with it.’
‘ Wonderful ! Wonderful ! Marvellous ! Beautiful !’ exclaimed Chota. ‘ Brother-in-law, you are lucky !’ He slapped Bakha’s back and raised a small cloud of dust from his thick overcoat.
‘ Boys, get ready,’ he shouted as he turned.
When the time for the election of the team came, the babu’s little son brought and dumped the sticks before Chota and expected his reward. But Chota had already chosen his eleven.
‘ Let the child play,’ Bakha put in on the little one’s behalf.
‘ No, he will be troublesome,’ Chota whispered. ‘ We can’t let him play. It is a match with the big boys. He will get hurt and then there will be trouble.’
Bakha didn’t want to insist too much. He knew that Chota and the little one didn’t get on very well, and he was helpless seeing he liked them both equally, hurt to see the child ignored by everyone except his elder brother, who was trying to console him by saying that even he might not be asked to play, so important was the match, and between such big boys.
The child bore the disappointment more easily when it came, after the consolation his brother had offered and the friendliness reflected in Bakha’s smiles. Ignored and helpless, he sought to interest himself in the match by volunteering to be the referee. But Chota wouldn’t have him even as a referee. The little one now looked sorry for himself. The match had begun. He stood by the heaps of the boys’ clothes which lay on the side of the hockey ground. He wished he were as big as Chota. Then he would be asked to play. Also then he could wear shorts like him. And he would look like a real sahib because he was not so dark as Chota.
Bakha came, for a second, to throw off his overcoat near the little one. He had started playing without having discarded it.
‘ Keep a watch over it, little brother, won’t you ? ’ he said to the child, as if by entrusting him with the job he was trying to console him for his non-inclusion in the team. Then he ran back to his place.
The little one could have cried at that moment. But the game, the play—Bakha was going to score a goal.
It was an extraordinary spectacle. The crowd of boys in the field hopped to and fro like grasshoppers. There was no organisation in the game they played. Bakha had rolled the ball, dribbling, dodging to the goal of the 31st Punjabis boys. But then he had been caught, enmeshed, by a throng of defenders of the goal, struggling, shouting, shoving to hit the ball out. Bakha managed, however, to scoop past the legs of all the boys and drove the ball into the space between the posts.
Defeated by superior tactics, the goalkeeper spitefully struck Bakha a blow on the legs. Upon this Chota, Ram Charan, Ali, Abdulla and all the rest of the 38th Dogra boys fell upon the goalkeeper of the 31st Punjabis.
Soon there was a free fight.
‘ Foul ! Foul !’ shouted the captain of the 31st Punjabis team.
‘ No foul ! No foul !’ responded Chota, drawing himself up to his full height angrily.
The captain of the 31st Punjabis advanced hotly, tearing the hordes asunder, and gripped Chota by the collar. And, once more, the boys were fighting, scratching, hitting, kicking, yelling. One, two, three, four, five, the little hands worked their sticks, rudely, heavily, vigorously, and the blusterings of the horde reached such a pitch of excitement that you could see the ruthlessness of the savage hunters in them. Chota had gripped his antagonist by the shoulder and for a time these two wrestled furiously, wildly, tearing each other’s clothes and punching each other. Then Chota’s enemy, unable to endure his transgressions, called to his followers and ran back a few yards.
‘ Throw stones at them, stones,’ shouted Chota.
At this the boys of the 38th Dogras seemed to separate from their enemies, to run on one side and to begin hurling small stones at them.
In their intense excitement they didn’t notice the little boy who stood near the clothes between them and their enemies, receiving the full weight of the stone bombardment. Most of the stones, however, passed high over the child’s head and, though frightened, he was safe. But a bad throw from Ram Charan’s hand caught him a rap on the skull. He gave a sharp, piercing shriek and fell unconscious. A
ll the boys rushed to him. Streams of blood were pouring from the back of his head. Bakha picked him up in his arms and took him to the hall of his house. Unfortunately for him, the child’s mother had heard the row they had been making and casually came to see if her children were safe. She met Bakha face to face.
‘ You eater of your masters, you dirty sweeper !’ she shouted. ‘ What have you done to my son ? ’
Bakha was going to open his mouth and tell her what had happened. But even while she asked, she knew from the trickling of the blood from her son’s skull, from his deathly, pale, senseless face.
‘ Oh, you eater of your masters ! What have you done ? You have killed my son !’ she wailed, flinging her hands across her breasts and turning blue and red with fear. ‘ Give him to me ! Give me my child ! You have defiled my house, besides wounding my son !’
‘ Mother, mother, what are you saying ? ’ interposed her elder son. ‘ It was not he. He didn’t wound him. It was the washerwoman’s son, Ram Charan.’
‘ Get away, get away, you eater of your masters !’ she shouted at him. ‘ May you die ! Why didn’t you look after your brother ? ’
Bakha handed over the child, and afraid, humble, silent as a ghost, withdrew. He felt dejected, utterly miserable. Was the pleasure of Charat Singh’s generosity only to be enjoyed for half an hour ? What had he done to deserve such treatment ? He loved the child. He had been very sorry when Chota refused to let him join the game. Then why should the boy’s mother abuse him when he had tried to be kind ? She hadn’t even let him tell her how it all happened. ‘ Of course, I polluted the child. I couldn’t help doing so. I knew my touch would pollute. But it was impossible not to pick him up. He was dazed, the poor little thing. And she abused me. I only get abuse and derision wherever I go. Pollution, pollution, I do nothing else but pollute people. They all say that : “ Polluted, polluted ! ” She was perhaps justified though. Her son was injured. She could have said anything. It was my fault and of the other boys too. Why did we start that quarrel ? It started on account of the goal I scored. Cursed me ! The poor child ! I hope he is not badly hurt. If only Chota had let him join the game, the little one would not have been standing where he was, and then he might have escaped getting hurt. Now, where have all the boys gone ? ’
