Premchand's story 'Boodi Kaki' in translation

 

Old Kaki (बूढ़ी काकी)

Old age is generally a relapse into infantilism. Old Kaki had lost all interest in life except her craving for food; and was left with crying as the only means of attracting others’ attention towards her suffering. Her senses, her eyes, her hands and feet had fallen into decrepitude. She would stay lying on the floor the whole day; and if the householders did something against her wishes, or she did not get her meal at the appointed time or in adequate quantity, or she was not given a share of the eatables brought from the market, she would break into wailing. Her crying was no ordinary thing; it was a full-throated outburst.

Her husband had died long ago. Her sons had died in their youth. She had no one except her nephew to depend upon, and she had transferred all her property in his name. The nephew made tall promises at that time but they turned out to be green pastures like those shown by 'Coolie Depot' middlemen. Although the income from the property was not less than hundred fifty to two hundred rupees per annum, old Kaki seldom got enough to eat.  It is difficult to say who was at fault here; her nephew Pandit Budhiram, or his other-half Shrimati Roopa. Budhiram was gentle by nature, but only up to the point his own pocket remained untouched. Roopa was sharp-tongued, but she was God-fearing. Old Kaki didn’t mind her harshness so much as Budhiram’s gentleness.

Budhiram sometimes regretted his cruel behaviour, knowing well that he was able to wear the cloak of respectability only because of this very property. He wouldn’t have minded if, through empty assurances and verbal sympathies, he had been able to make Kaki’s life a little more bearable, but the very thought of incurring any additional expense supressed his good intentions. So much so that if Kaki opened up her tales of woe within the earshot of a visitor he would get inflamed and go inside and give her a dressing-down.

Boys seem to have a natural propensity to dislike old people; so Bhudhiram’s sons, taking their cue from their parents, continually harassed Old Kaki. One would pinch her and run away, the other squirt a mouthful of water at her. Kaki would cry out, but since it was well-known that Kaki complained only when she was hungry, no one took notice of her suffering and outcries. And whenever the enraged Kaki started cursing the boys, Roopa appeared on the scene to silence her. Fearing this Kaki seldom used the tongue-slash, although this was a more effective means, than crying, to put an end to the boys’ misdemeanour.

In the whole family it was Budhiram’s little daughter Ladli who alone empathized with Kaki. Ladli, fearing her brothers, ate her sweets or roasted corn sitting beside Kaki; and although this strategy cost her dear because of Kaki’s lust for food, this was the best protection against her brothers’ injustices. This mutual self-interest had sown the seeds of sympathy between them. 

  
2

It was evening time. Shehnai was playing at Bhudhiram’s doorsteps. A group of children were enjoying the music with wonder-struck eyes. Guests, relaxing on charpais, were having their bodies kneaded and toned up by barbers. A balladeer was reciting the family’s genealogy, and the appreciative applause, 'wah, wah', from some admiring guests gave him the mistaken feeling that he himself was the object of their admiration. Two English-educated young men were indifferent to these goings-on. They considered it below their dignity to participate in such activities.

The occasion was Budhiram’s son Sukhram’s engagement. A celebration was on. Women were singing inside the house. Roopa was busy supervising food preparations for the guests. Big kadais were placed on open-air fireplaces. Puris and kachoris were frying in one. In another, yet other dishes. In one cauldron a spicy curry was cooking. The aroma of ghee and spices was in the air all around. 

Old Kaki was sitting in her dark room in a mood of dejection. The pleasing smell of cooking was unsettling her.  She was wondering whether she would get her share of the puris. It was so late. No one had brought her any food. It seemed everyone had eaten and there was nothing left for her. She wanted to cry but fearing that this would be inauspicious she controlled herself.

Aha...what an appetizing smell! But no one cares for her. When she can’t even get enough rotis, how can she hope to eat a stomach-full of puris? Her heart swelled with anguish. She was again on the verge of crying, but the fear of Roopa’s temper stopped her.

Kaki remained lost in these disturbing thoughts for a long time. The fragrance of ghee and spices was making her lose control over herself. Her mouth was watering and the very thought of the taste of puris was sending ripples of joy in her heart. Whom should she call? Even Ladli had not come today. Even the two boys, who were always harassing her, were nowhere to be seen. At least she would have known what was going on.

Images of puris began to dance in her eyes: so brown, swelled-up, so soft. Roopa must have amply softened the dough with ghee. The kachoris must be giving ajwain and cardamom flavours. If only she could take one puri in her hands to feel it! Why shouldn’t she go and sit close to the kadai? She could imagine the crisp and sizzling puris swimming in the kadai and then being transferred on to a tray. Flowers can be smelled even at home, but the pleasure of smelling them in the garden is very different. Having made up her mind thus, Kaki, crouching on her hands and feet, began to move slowly; and with great difficulty she crossed the threshold and crept close the kadai and sat down. Once there she felt the same satisfaction that a hungry dog feels while seated in front of someone eating.

At that time Roopa was over-stressed with work. Now she was in this room, now in that, now near the cooking area, then in the store. Someone came and said, ‘The head cook is asking for “thandai”.’ She handed that over.  Another came and said, ‘The balladeer has come. Give him something.’ She was taking out some uncooked ration when a third came and asked, ‘When would the food be ready? And help me with the drum and manjeera.’ The poor woman was running everywhere, getting irritated, exasperated, yet unable to burst out. She was afraid that the neighbouring women might accuse her of losing her temper over small matters. Her throat was dry with thirst and her body scorched with heat yet she had no time to have a drink of water or fan herself for a moment. And she was afraid that if she relaxed her watchfulness for a moment there would be no end to pilfering. It was in this state of mind that she saw Old Kaki sitting close to the kadai. She was infuriated and could no longer control her temper. She forgot that the neighbouring women were watching, or how the men sitting around would react. Just as a frog jumps upon an earthworm, Roopa pounced upon Old Kaki and shook her with both hands and shouted: ‘Shame on such a stomach. Is it a stomach or a furnace? Why couldn’t you sit back in your room? The guests haven’t eaten yet, no offering has been made to God, and you couldn’t wait, and have come riding on our chests. Let such a tongue burn up. Had we not been feeding you every day I wonder what you would have done. Looking at you the villagers would accuse us of starving you. You torment us like an evil spirit and refuse to die. You’re bent upon bringing us a bad name and shaming us. You eat so much and no one knows where it turns to ash. Go back to your room. You will eat when the family eats. You’re not a goddess who should be served before all others.’

Old Kaki lifted her head. She neither spoke nor cried. Quietly she crept back to her room.

 3

The feast was ready. Leaf-plates were laid on the floor. The guests began to eat. The women started singing the song of the feast. The barbers and retainers of the guests were also eating, but they were seated at a distance from the guests. The custom required that no one should rise until the whole party had finished eating. A few educated guests were getting irritated for they thought the retainers were eating too much and taking too long to finish. They regarded this custom as meaningless.

Back in her room Old Kaki was ruing her conduct. She was not angry with Roopa but was regretting her own hasty behaviour. How could the householders eat before the guests had eaten? Why couldn’t she restraint herself? She was insulted before everyone present. Now she won’t go until she was called.

Having thus made up her mind she sat waiting to be called. But the pleasant smell of ghee was severely testing her patience. Each moment felt like an eon. The leaf-plates have been laid. The guests have arrived. The barber was helping them wash their hands and feet. Now they have started eating. The song of the feast is being sung. Visualizing all this she lay down to console herself. Gradually she began to hum a tune. Then she felt she had been singing for too long. Were people still eating? She couldn’t hear a sound. They must have gone away, having eaten. And no one has come to call her. Roopa must have been annoyed with her and won’t send for her, assuming that she would come by herself. She was not a guest.

Kaki got ready to go. The belief that in a short while she would be served puris and spicy curry sent her taste buds humming. She weighed many options. ‘First I would eat puris with curry, then with curds and shakkar; kachoris would taste lovely with raita. They may like it or not, I would feel no shame and ask them to serve me again and again. They might say I have no shame. Let them. I was getting to eat puris after so long. I wouldn’t stop after eating only a mouthful.’

She came creeping into the courtyard. But what bad luck! Desire, as is its nature, had disoriented her sense of time. The guests were still seated. Some were licking their fingers, some arching their eyes to see if others were still eating. Some were eyeing the puris lying uneaten on their plates, regretting they had not eaten them up. One was smacking his lips after eating curds but was too shy to ask for more. Just then Kaki came creeping amongst them. When they saw her some guests rose from their seats in a state of shock. They began to shout: ‘Who’s this old woman? Where has she come from? Be careful, she may not touch anyone.’

The moment he saw Kaki, Pandit Budhiram became red with anger. He dashed to the ground the thal of puris he was holding; and just as a heartless money lender catches a dishonest and renegade debtor by his neck, he caught Kaki by her hands and dragged her into her dark room. The garden watered with hope was scorched dry with just one gust of hot wind. The guests had eaten. The family had eaten. The musicians, the washer men, the chamars - all had eaten, but no one thought of Kaki. Budhiram and Roopa had decided to punish her for her shameful conduct. They showed no compassion for Kaki’s old age, her wretched existence, or her mental decline. Only Ladli was heart-broken for her.

Ladli loved Kaki very much. She was a simple minded girl with no trace of childish behaviour or prankishness. She had been dumbstruck when she saw her parents dragging Kaki away. This was too shocking for her. Why hadn’t they fed Kaki? Would she have eaten all the puris? What if Kaki had eaten before the guests had been served? She wanted to go and commiserate with Kaki but couldn’t do it for fear of her parents. She hadn’t eaten her own share of puris, and hidden them in her doll’s basket. She was impatient to carry these for Kaki. Kaki would get up at once on seeing her. She would be delighted to see the puris.  She love her very much for this.

4

It was eleven in the night. Roopa was fast asleep in the courtyard. Ladli had been unable to sleep. The sweet pleasure of seeing Kaki eat puris wouldn’t let her sleep. Her doll’s basket lay by her side. When she was convinced that her mother was fast asleep she decided to get up. It was dark all around except for some light from the fireplaces. A dog was sleeping close by. Ladli looked up towards the neem tree. She felt as if Hanumanji was sitting up there. She could see his tail and mace very clearly. She shut her eyes out of fear. In the meantime the dog got up and ran off. This, more than the people asleep there, gave her some courage. She picked up her basket and walked towards Kaki’s room.

5

The only thing Old Kaki remembered was that someone had dragged her by her hands and that she was being carried across a mountain. Her feet were repeatedly hitting against stones. Then someone had thrown her from atop the mountain and she had lost consciousness.

When she regained her senses she heard no sound of any movement. She realized that everyone had gone to sleep after eating. With this her own destiny had also been put to sleep. How would the night pass? Oh Ram, what should she eat? Her stomach was on fire. No one cared for her. Would they get rich by keeping her hungry? These people had no compassion for an old woman who was going to die anytime. Why hurt her? All she does is eat a few rotis. Such treatment just for this! She was blind, disabled, deaf and deranged. If she had gone into the courtyard, Budhiram could have told her to wait till the guests had eaten. She was dragged and pushed. And just for these puris! Roopa insulted her before all; and even after such ill-treatment their hearts did not melt. They had fed everyone except her. And when they didn’t feed her then, why would they do it now?  

With all these thoughts in her mind Kaki lay down. Her heart was filled with anguish but she didn’t cry, thinking of the guests. 

All of a sudden she heard a voice. ’Get up, Kaki, I have brought puris for you.’ Kaki recognized Laldli’s voice. She got up at once, groped for Ladli with both hands and made her sit in her lap. Ladli gave her the puris.

‘Has your Amma sent these?’ Kaki asked.

‘No, this’s my share.’

Kaki pounced upon the puris. The basket was empty in five minutes. Ladli asked, ‘Kaki have you had your fill?’

Just as a light shower aggravates rather than mitigates the heat, the few puris spiked Kaki’s craving, and she said, ‘No, my daughter. Go to your mother and bring some more.’

Ladli said, ‘Amma’s asleep. If I wake her she would thrash me.’

Kaki fished around in the basket again. She found a few crumbs that were left there, and as she licked and smacked her lips again and again.

She was becoming desperate to eat some more puris. When the floodgates of patience are breached the gush of desire becomes uncontrollable.  Just as the very thought of liquor sends the drunkards reeling, Kaki’s ungratified heart was carried away. She forgot the distinction between what was proper or improper. Having lost her self-restraint she said to Ladli, ‘Take me to the place where the guests were eating.’

Ladli could not guess her motive. She caught Kaki by her hands and took her there and made her sit among the leaf-plates on which the guests had eaten. The miserable, starved and unhinged old woman began to devour the leftovers from the leaf-plates lying scattered all over. Oh how tasty was the curd! How crisp, soft and well-salted were the kachoris! Although mentally unsettled, the old women knew that she was doing something that must never be done, that she was licking the leaf-plates left by the guests. But old age is the terminal stage of the sickness called insatiety where all the unfulfilled desires converge at one point. In the case of Old Kaki that point of convergence was her craving for food.

Just then Roopa woke up. She did not find Ladli by her side. She looked for her beside the cot fearing she might have slipped and fallen. When she looked around she saw Ladli standing beside the sullied leaf-plates and Old Kaki picking scraps from there and eating. Roopa was stunned. She felt like someone watching a cow-slaughter. Nothing could be more shocking than to see a brahmin woman sifting the leaf-plates on which others had eaten. Her husband’s cousin’s mother-in-law was committing such a despicable and abhorrent deed just for a few morsels of puris! It was a terrifying sight. It was as if the earth had stopped spinning and the sky was reeling above them. Something cataclysmic was about to shake the world. Roopa did not get angry. Anger had no place in this state of shock. Her eyes were filled with compassion as well as fear. Who was a party to this sinful act? She lifted her hands towards heaven with a penitent heart and said, ‘God, take pity on my children. don't punish me for this sinful act, or we would be ruined.’

Roopa had never before realized her own selfish and unjust behavior with such clarity. She began to tell herself: How cruel I have been! The person from whose property I have been deriving an income of two hundred rupees every year has been driven to this degradation, and all because of me. Oh merciful God, forgive me. Today was my son’s day of engagement. Hundreds of people feasted. I obeyed their commands like a slave. I spent hundreds of rupees to earn a good name for myself but could not feed the woman because of whom I have spent thousands of rupees. It is because of me this old woman is helpless.

 Roopa lit a lamp and went into her store room. She laid all the eatables in a tray and took it to the old woman.

It was already midnight. The sky was filled with stars and the gods were sitting there with heavenly dishes laid before them. But they wouldn’t have felt the kind of pleasure Old Kaki felt when she saw the food laid before her. Roopa said to her with tearful eyes, ‘Kaki, get up and eat. I committed a great blunder today. Don’t take it ill. Pray to God to forgive me for my transgression.’

Just as innocent children forget neglect and thrashing after receiving a gift of sweets, Old Kaki was eating, forgetting everything. Good wishes were flowing out from every pore in her body, and Roopa was enjoying this heavenly sight.

                                                       (Urdu, Kehkashan, July 1920)                                                                     ----

My note:

The story presents a stark contrast to ‘Doodh Ka Daam’ (The Price of Mother’s Milk’) which I had posted before this story.  In that story the untouchable boy, Mangal,  feeds on leftovers (joothan) from the zamindar’s family everyday, and the family of the zamindar consider it a generous act on their part to allow the boy to eat the joothan. The horror of seeing someone feeding on joothan just does not occur to them. It is something normal for them. In this story, 'Boodi Kaki', the upper caste family treat the old family member, Old Kaki, shabbily, they almost starve her. But when the house lady Roopa sees the old woman eating Joothan she is shocked beyond her imagination. A brahmin woman eating joothan! Look at her reaction, highlighted by me in the translated text above. It is as if the heavens would collapse if a brahmin woman ate joothan. An untouchable eating joothan is normal for them. How forcefully Premchand is able to convey this contrast!

      

   

                 

Premchand's story "Doodh Ka Daaml' in translation

Read my translation of Premchand's  short story 'Doodh Ka Daam'.

 

 

 

Price of  Mother’s Milk  

 (दूध का दाम)

Now in big cities there are plenty of mid-wives, nurses and lady doctors, but in the villages it is still the ‘bhangi’ women who rule supreme in the field of midwifery; and this is not going to change in the near future. Babu Maheshnath was the village zamindar, an educated man, and he recognized the need for change but there was no way he could overcome the difficulties. No nurse was willing to come to the village, and even those who were willing demanded such heavy fees that babu sahib could only lower his head and retreat in defeat. He did not have the courage to approach a lady doctor, fearing he would have to sell half his property to pay one. Therefore when a son was born after a succession of three daughters, babu sahib had to turn once again to Gudar and his wife. Children are generally born at night. One day at midnight the chaprasi came to Gudar’s door and called so loudly that the whole neighbourhood woke up. After all it was not a girl that he should call in a muffled voice.

Gudar and his wife had been waiting for this auspicious day for months. Both feared if it was a daughter once again all they would get was the customary one rupee and a sari for Gudar’s wife, Bhoongi. Both husband and wife had argued and betted on this subject many times. The wife would say: ‘If it’s not a boy this time, I won’t show my face to you, yes, yes, won't show my face. All the omens favour a boy.’ The husband would assert: ‘It’s going to be a girl, only a girl, plain and simple, and if otherwise I would have my moustache shaved. Yes, my moustache shaved.’ Gudar perhaps hoped that by whetting his wife’s wish for a boy he was clearing the way for the birth of a boy.

Now Bhoongi said, ‘Go and have your moustache shaved. I was telling you it’s going to be a boy. You wouldn’t listen. Now I’ll clean off your moustache, right from the roots.’ Gudar replied, ‘All right, good woman, do it. Do you think it wouldn’t grow again? It’ll grow again in just three days. But I tell you I’ll take half of what you get.’

Bhoongi waved her thumb at him, handed over their three-month old son to him and walked away with the messenger.

Gudar shouted at her, ‘O listen, where are you going? I too have to go to greet them. Who’ll take care of this fellow?’ 

‘Just lay him down on the ground to sleep. I shall feed him when I come back,’ replied Bhoongi from a distance.

At Maheshnath’s Bhoongi now began to be fed lavishly. In the morning she was given milk laced with dry fruits; in the afternoon she was given puris and pudding; and again in the evening and at night. Gudar also got plentiful to eat.  Bhoongi was able to breast-feed her own son only once or twice in a day. Her son was fed on ‘other’ milk. Her own milk was reserved for babu sahib’s fortunate son and this did not stop even after twelve days. The malkin of the house, Maheshnath's wife, was a plump and stout woman but for some reason she was unable to lactate. During the infancy of her three daughters she had lactated so plentifully that her daughters suffered from indigestion because of overfeeding, but now there was not a drop. Bhoongi was both the nurse as well as the breast-feeder.

The malkin would tell Bhoongi: ‘Bring up my child, and I’ll give you enough for you to live on it for your life time. I’ll have five bighas of land written in your name. Your grandchildren would live on that.’ On the other hand, Bhoongi’s own son, feeding on ‘other’ milk, suffered from repeated indigestion and bouts of vomiting and was becoming weaker every day.

Bhoongi would tell the malkin, ‘Bahuji, I’ll ask for bangles on your son’s head-shaving occasion.’

She would reply, ‘All right. You can have them. Gold or silver?’

‘Wah bahuji, with silver bangles I won't be able to show my face. And who would be the laughing stock?'

‘All right, you’ll get gold ones.’

‘And at marriage I shall have a necklace for myself and a bracelet for Gudar.’

‘You can have these too, but let God first show us the day.’

At home, after the malkin, it was Bhoongi who ruled the roost. The sweepers, the cook, all the servants in employment accepted her authority. Even bahuji accepted her dominance. On one occasion she had rebuked even Maheshnath, but he had laughed it off. It was about the bhangi community. He had said: 'Come what may, bhangis can never become civilized.’ She had retorted, ‘Malik, bhangis can civilize even big people. They don't need civilizing.’ On any other occasion Bhoongi would have lost all the hair on her head for making such remarks, but this time he laughed loudly and said, ‘Bhoongi, you’ve said something very thoughtful.’

Bhoongi’s reign lasted only a year. Gods objected to the boy being fed on a bhangi woman’s milk. Moteram Shastri went to the extent of prescribing expiation. Breast-feeding was stopped but the talk of expiation was laughed off. Maheshnath gave a dressing-down: ‘Expiation? What an idea, Shastriji! Till yesterday he was feeding on a bhangin’s blood, and now he has become polluted. This is your dharma!’

Shastriji straightened the tuft of hair on his head and said, ‘No doubt till yesterday he grew up drinking a bhangin’s blood. That he grew up eating flesh is also true. But that was yesterday. Let’s talk of today. In Jagannathpuri the touchables and untouchables sit together to eat, but they don’t do it here. During an illness we too eat with our clothes on, we even eat khichdi, babuji, but when we get well we have to follow the prescribed rituals. Everything is different in an emergency.’

“This means, dharma keeps changing, now this, now that?’

‘What else. A king’s dharma is one; the people’s dharma is another. A rich man’s this, and the poor man’s that. Kings can eat whatever they like, with whomsoever they like, and marry whomsoever they like. They’re not bound by anything. They’re their own masters. The prohibitions are for the middle wrungs.’

The idea of expiation was given the go-by, but Bhoongi was dethroned. However, she got so many gifts that she couldn’t carry them home by herself. And she even got the golden bangles. She got not one but two saris, and not the cheaper ones she was given at the birth of daughters.

The same year Gooddar was consumed by plague and Bhoongi was left alone. But she carried on her life somehow. People were waiting to see Bhoongi also go her husband’s way. But no. A bhangi proposed to her, and also a chowdhary, but Bhoongi went nowhere. Five years went by and her weak and sickly son Mangal was growing up. He looked a pigmy compared to Suresh, Maheshnath’s son.

One day Bhoongi was cleaning out a rainwater drain at Maheshnath’s house. It had been blocked by dirt for months and water had spilled into the courtyard. Bhoongi had thrust a long bamboo into the drain and was ramming it in. She pushed her right hand into the drain, and the next moment she withdrew it with a shriek. At the same instant a black snake rushed out of the drain. People ran after it and killed it, but they could not save Bhoongi. They thought it was a water snake and not venomous. So they became complacent. When the venom began to spread through Bhoongi’s body and her head began to reel they realized it was not a water snake but a gehunun, a deadly poisonous one. 

Mangal was an orphan now. The whole day he hung around Mahesh babu’s door. There were plenty of scraps left in the thalis of the household which could feed ten boys like him. There was no dearth of food at all, but he resented that he was served in an earthen bowl. Everyone else ate in fine utensils, he alone had to eat from an earthen bowl.

Although he had no sense of this discrimination, the village boys teased and humiliated him. No one played with him. So much so that the jute mat on which he slept had also become untouchable. Mangal had set up his home under a neem tree in front of Mahesh babu’s house. All he had was a ragged piece of mat, two earthen bowls, and a used dhoti that was once Suresh babu’s. Winter, summer or rains, in all seasons the place was equally comfortable; and the child of destiny, Mangal, facing the scorching heat or merciless cold or pouring rains, was not only alive but also stronger and healthier than before. His only companion was a dog, Tommy, who, having been driven away by the cruelty of his own tribe, had come to take shelter with Mangal. Both ate together, slept on the same mat. Their tempers matched and both understood each other well. They never quarrelled.

The dharma-abiding villagers were amazed at babu sahib’s generosity. That Mangal should be staying at a distance of just fifty arms length from his door looked a complete violation of dharma. What a shame! If such things were to persist it would soon be the end of dharma. We grant that a bhangi too is a creation of God. We all know that we should not be unjust to him. God himself has been called ‘the saviour of the lowly’. Yet one must not transgress the limits prescribed by the society. One is reluctant to go to his door. One has to go to him since he is the master of the village. But it is very disgusting. 

Mangal and Tommy were great friends. Mangal would say, ‘Look, bhai Tommy, move away a bit and make room for me to sleep. You’re occupying the whole mat.’ Tommy would make friendly noises, wag his tail, and instead of sliding away come closer and ride on his chest and start licking his face. 

Every evening Mangal would once visit his home to cry for a while. In the first year the thatched roof had collapsed, then a wall and now all the walls stood dilapidated. This was all he had inherited; and its memory, its attraction and his affection for it drew him towards it again and again, and Tommy always accompanied him to this ruin.  Mangal would sit on one of the jagged top of a wall and reflect on his past and dream of his future, and Tommy would jump again and again and try to sit on his lap, but without success.   

 One day some boys were playing a game. Mangal also came there and stood at a distance to watch. It is not clear why, whether out of pity or whether they were short of a partner, Suresh proposed that they should include Mangal in their game. No one was going to come here to see.

‘Oi Mangal, will you join us?’ 

Mangal replied, ‘No bhai, if the master sees me, he’ll peel off my skin. And you! You’ll wash your hands off it.’

Suresh said, ‘Oi, no one is coming here to watch us. Come on, we shall play the horse and the rider. You’ll be the horse and we shall ride on you and make you run.’

Mangal expressed his apprehension, ‘Tell me whether I shall play only the horse, or get a chance to be the rider too?’

This was a difficult question. No one had thought about it. Suresh thought for a moment and said, ‘Just think. Who’ll let you ride on his back? After all you’re a bhangi.’

Mangal too hardened his stand. He said, ‘I don’t deny that I’m a bhangi. But you have grown up feeding on my mother’s milk. I won’t play the horse unless I am also given a chance to be a rider. You people are so clever. You’ll enjoy riding while I keep playing the horse.’

Suresh shouted at him, ‘Mangal, you’ll have to play the horse.’ And he ran to catch him. Mangal also ran. Suresh went after him. Mangal ran faster. Suresh tried hard but his body had become so heavy through over-eating that he began gasping for breath. He stopped and said, ‘Mangal, come and play the horse, or I shall thrash you when I catch hold of you.’ 

“You’ll also have to play the horse.’

‘All right, I too will play the horse.’

‘You’ll back out. You play the horse first and I’ll be the rider. You can be the rider after that.’

Suresh had really wanted to trick him. He spoke to his companions, ‘Look at his crookedness. After all he’s a bhangi.’

The three of them encircled Mangal and forced him to bend down on his hands and feet. Suresh at once jumped upon his back and said, ‘Tik,tik, come on, my horse, move.’

Mangal moved some distance but his back was on the point of breaking due to the weight. He gently lowered his back and quickly moved on one side. Suresh fell down and started howling.

 His mother heard his cries. Whenever Suresh cried his mother could hear him from a distance because his crying was so peculiar, like that of a narrow gauge steam engine. She called her maid and said, ‘Go and check. Suresh is crying. Find out who has beaten him.’

In the meanwhile Suresh himself came rubbing his eyes. Whenever he cried he always came to his mother for support. And she would wipe his tears and give him some sweets to eat. He was eight years old but quite dull-headed. Over-indulgence in love had done to his mind what over-eating had done to his body.

Mother asked, ‘Who has beaten you?’

Suresh replied, ‘Mangal has touched me.’

Mother could not believe her ears. Mangal was such a quiet boy that no one expected such a mischief from him. But when Suresh swore that he was telling the truth she had to believe him. She called Mangal and rebuked him, ‘Mangal, why’re you beginning to misbehave? Don’t you remember, I had told you not to touch Suresh?’

Mangal replied in a lowered voice, ‘Yes, I do remember.’

‘Then, why did you touch him?’

“I didn’t touch him.’

“If you didn’t touch him, why was he crying?’

‘Because he fell down.’

 Such brazenness! She ground her teeth in anger. If she thrashed him she would have to immediately go for a bathe. She would have to hold a stick in her hand to beat him, and the current of pollution would pass through the stick and enter her body. So to avoid this defilement she hurled abuses at him as many as she could and ordered him thus: ‘Get away from here. If ever I see your face at my door again I shall drink your blood. You’re feeding yourself on free food and becoming mischievous.’

Mangal felt no humiliation, but fear, yes. Quietly he picked up his two earthen bowls, folded the mat and tucked it under his arm, put his dhoti on his shoulder and walked away in tears. He vowed never to return. He might die of hunger. So what? Why live like this? He had no place to go. Who would give shelter to a bhangi? So he walked towards the ruins where the memories of pleasant days had given him solace. Once there he burst into tears. Tommy also reached their searching after him. And the next moment they forgot their pain.

However, as the brightness of the day mellowed, Mangal’s sense of self-respect also weakened.  The hunger, that makes a child restless, was eating into his flesh and becoming unbearable. His eyes fell again and again on the earthen bowls. Had he been there these would have been filled with sweets left uneaten by Suresh. Should he eat dust here?

He consulted Tommy, ‘What’ll you eat? I’ll lie down on hungry stomach.’

Tommy whined and seemed to say: ‘We have to face such humiliation for the whole life. How shall we manage if you give up like this? Look at me. If someone hits me with a stick I run away howling but I come back to him after a short while wagging my tail. Bhai, we two are born for this only.’

Mangal replied, ‘All right, then you go and eat whatever you get. Don’t worry about me.’

Tommy replied in the dog language, ‘I won’t go without you.’

‘I won’t go.’

‘Then, I too won’t go.’

‘You’ll die of hunger.’

‘And you’ll keep alive!’

“There’s no one to mourn my death.’

‘The same here. In my youth the bitch I loved jilted me and went away with Kallu. Fortunately she took away here litter with her. Otherwise, who would have fed five of them?’

The next moment hunger opened up another line of thought. ‘The malkin must have been looking for us, Tommy.’

‘What else. Babuji and Suresh must have finished eating. The kahar must have emptied their plates of the refuse and must be shouting for us.’

‘Lot of ghee is always left over in Babuji and Suresh’s thalis and that sweet-sweet thing. Yes, cream.’

‘The whole of it will be thrown away on the pile of garbage.’

‘Let’s see if someone comes in search of us.’

‘No one would come. Are you a pandit? They would shout “Mangal-Mangal” once and then the whole food would be emptied into the drain.’

‘All right. Let’s go. But I’ll hide myself and if no one calls my name I won’t stay there. Let that be clear.’

Both of them moved and came and stood close to Maheshnath’s door in a dark corner. But Tommy had no patience. Quietly he entered the house and saw that Maheshnath and Suresh had settled down to eat. Quietly he sat down in the courtyard, though apprehensive of being driven out. The servants were talking. ‘I can’t see Mangalwa anywhere,’ said one. ‘Malkin had scolded him. Perhaps, that’s why he has run away.’

The other said, ‘Good that he has been driven away. We won’t have to see a bhangi’s face first thing in the morning.’

Mangal moved further into the dark corner. His hope now sunk into deep waters.

Maheshnath finished eating. The servant was helping him wash his hands. Now he would smoke his hookah and then go to sleep. Suresh would go to sleep listening to a story from his mother. No one thought of poor Mangal. No one cared to call him.

Disheartened, he stood there for some time. He was about to leave, heaving a long sigh of disappointment, when he saw the kahar carrying the left-overs in a leaf. Mangal came out of the darkness.  He could not control himself.

The kahar said, ‘Arrey, where were you? Come, eat it. I was going to throw it away.’

Mangal replied in a pathetic voice, ‘I have been here since long.’

‘Then, why didn’t you call?’

‘Out of fear.’

‘Ok. Now eat.’

The kahar handed over the leaf to Mangal. Mangal looked at him, his eyes filled with cringing gratefulness. Tommy too had come out. Both of them sat under the neem tree and began to eat from the leaf.

Mangal, patting Tommy on his head with one and, said, ‘See how terrible is the fire of hunger. What would we do if we didn’t get these disdainfully thrown-away scraps?’

Tommy wagged his tail.

‘Suresh had been fed on amma’s milk.’

Tommy wagged his tail again.

‘People say, no one can pay back the price of mother’s milk, and see this is how I’m being paid!’

Tommy wagged his tail once again.  

                                  (Hindi, Hans, July 1934)

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Note: In my translation I have used the word 'bhangi' as it  has been used by Premchand. This is an offensive use no doubt. Some people  might object to my usage of the word as it is. But  one should  see that Premchand uses it to show how debasing the caste system has been. To replace it by any other word would have diluted the force with with Premchand wants to convey the arrogance and  the contemptuous attitude of the upper caste characters in the story towards this community. I have retained it as it is to make the reader feel this arrogance and offensiveness. TC Ghai