1
The father and son duo were sitting beside a
died-down fire in front of their hut. Inside, the son’s young wife, Budhiya,
was turning and twisting in the agonies of child-birth. Every now and then her
heart-rending cries brought the hearts of the duo to their mouths. It was a
winter night. Silence reigned all around and the village was submerged in
darkness.
Ghisu said, ‘It looks she’s dying. We have been
running around the whole day. Just go and see.’
Madho was irritated. ‘If she’s to die, why’s she
lingering? What’s the point in seeing?’
‘You’re so heartless! You spent a whole year in
enjoyment with her. And now this disregard?’
‘Because I can’t watch her flailing her arms and
legs.’
The duo belonged to a
family of chamars, and both notorious in the village. Ghisu rested for three
days after working for one. And Madho was such a shirker that he worked for
half an hour and smoked his chillum for one. That’s why no one hired them. As
long as there was a handful of grain at home they were determined not to work.
When they went empty stomach for a day or two, Ghisu would climb a tree to cut
some wood, and Madho would go and sell it in the market. And as long as this
money lasted they hung around here and there aimlessly. There was no dearth of
work in the village. Being a village of farmers there was plenty for an honest
worker. But people engaged this duo only when they were under compulsion to pay
two persons for the labour of one. Had the duo been sadhus they wouldn’t have needed
to train themselves for self-control and contentment; for these virtues came
naturally to them. Their life was so extraordinary. They had no possessions
except for a few earthen pots and pans. Hiding their nakedness in rags they
lived on. Free from all the human cares. Head and ears in debt! They were
abused, they were thrashed, yet they took nothing to heart. They were so down
and out that people lent them something out of pity without any hope of recovery. They
would pick peas and potatoes from someone’s field, when these were in season, roast
them and eat; or uproot a few sugar cane stalks and suck them at night. Ghisu had lived out sixty years of his life
in this sky-like freedom, and Madho, like a good son, was following in his
footsteps, or rather outshining his father. Even now both of them were sitting
in front of the fire and roasting potatoes picked from someone’s field. Ghisu’s
wife had died long ago, and Madho had married last year. Ever since she had
taken over, Madho’s wife had laid the foundations of an orderly life in this
household. By grinding flour for someone or cutting grass she would assemble a
few rupees and feed these two shameless creatures. And this made them still
more lazy and easy-going. In fact they became so demanding they would ask for double
wages without any sense of shame if someone wanted to employ them. And now the
same woman was dying of birth travails, and they were perhaps waiting for her
to die so that they could sleep peacefully.
Ghisu said, as he
picked up a potato and began to peel it, ‘Go and see how she is. She must be possessed by
a chudel, what else? The exorcist would demand a rupee.’
Madho was apprehensive if he went inside the hut, Ghisu would clean up a big portion of the potatoes at his back.
‘I’m afraid of going
in,’ he said.
‘Afraid of what? I’m
here with you.’
‘Why don’t you go in and see?’
‘When my woman died, I
didn’t move from her side for three days. And won’t she feel embarrassed? I've
never ever looked at her face. How can I look at her naked body? She won’t even
be aware of herself. And if she saw me she would freeze with shame.’
‘I wonder what we shall
do if she gives birth to a baby. We have nothing at home, neither dry ginger,
nor gur, nor oil, nor anything else.’
‘God will give us
everything. Those who won’t give us a penny now will call us and give us all we
need. Nine sons were born to my wife. We had nothing, yet God helped.’
It was not surprising
that this kind of mindset should take root in a society where those who toiled
day and night were not much better than these two, and where those who knew how
to exploit the peasants were so well-off. In fact we would say Ghisu was the
more astute, for instead of joining the naïve and witless peasants he had
joined the gang of shady characters. He did not have the capability to follow
the tricks of their trade; so where as the other members of the gang had become
leaders of the village community, the whole village raised accusing fingers at
him. Even then he felt that, for all his impoverishment, he had the satisfaction
that he did not have to plod like the peasants, and no one was able to exploit
his helplessness and naivety.
The duo continued to
eat the burning hot potatoes. They hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday; so
they didn’t have the patience to wait for the potatoes to cool down. As a
result they burnt their tongues. The peeled potatoes did not feel hot to the
touch, but when the duo swallowed them after biting them with their teeth they
burnt their tongue, palate, throat and food pipe, and the only remedy was to
push the burning coals down into the stomach where there were many things to
cool them. But these effort brought
tears in their eyes.
Now at this very moment
Ghisu remembered the marriage feast he had attended at the Thakur’s twenty
years ago. The feeling of satiation he had experienced on that occasion was
unforgettable and its memories were still alive in his mind. He said, ‘I can’t
forget that feast. Since then I have never eaten to my fill like that. The
bride’s people served puris to everyone.
Everyone. Big and small, all ate the puris,
fried in pure ghee! Chutney, raita, three types of vegetables, one
curry, sweets, and what else! I just can’t describe how I enjoyed that feast.
There was no restriction. Ask for anything and any amount, and you got it.
People ate so much, so much, that they could not drink any water. And those who
were serving, they kept on filling your leaf-plates with sizzling hot, round
and fragrant kachauris. You tell them
you don’t want, try to stop them from serving by spreading your hands over the
leaf-plate, but they go on and on. And after everyone had finished and washed
their mouths there was the paan-ilaichi. But I was in no state to eat one. I
could hardly stand on my feet. I walked out and went to sleep in my blanket.
The Thakur was so generous!’
Madho tasted these
dishes in his imagination, and said, ‘No one gives such a feast
now-a-days.’
‘Oh, no. Those were
different times. Now everyone has become thrifty. Don’t spend on marriages.
Don’t spend on death. Ask them where they would stack the wealth snatched from
the poor. There’s no stopping there, but they won’t spend.’
‘You – you must have
eaten at least twenty puris?’
‘More than twenty!’
‘I would have eaten
fifty!’
‘I too must have eaten
fifty. I was so strong. You’re not half my size.’
Having finished eating
potatoes both of them drank water. Then wrapping their dhotis around themselves they lay down beside the fire folding
their legs into their stomachs, as if two pythons lay coiled there.
2
When
Madho went into the hut in the morning he found his woman dead. Flies were
buzzing over her mouth. Her stony eyeballs were pointing upwards. The whole
body was covered in dust. And the baby in her womb was dead.
Madho
ran out of the hut. Then both of them started howling and beating their
breasts. The neighbours heard the wailing and came running and, true to the
tradition, began to commiserate with these unfortunate ones.
But
there was no time for grieving and wailing. They had to worry about the shroud and
wood for cremation. The house was as bereft of money as a kite’s nest is of
meat. The duo, weeping and wailing, went to see the village landlord. The
landlord hated them, and had often thrashed them with his own hands, for
stealing, for not honouring their commitments. He said, ‘What happened, Ghisua,
why’re you crying? You’re not seen these days. It seems you don’t want to live
in this village.’
Ghisu
put his head down on the ground and, with tears in his eyes, said, ‘I’m in
great trouble. Madho’s wife passed away last night. She spent the whole night
writhing in pain, sarkar. We sat
beside her, did all we could to save her, but she tricked us. Now we don’t have
anyone to feed us, sarkar. We’re
ruined. Our home is wrecked. I’m your slave. There’s no one except you who can
help to perform her last rites. Whatever we had we have spent on her treatment.
Your kindness alone can help us take her on her last journey. I can’t knock at
any other door.’
The
landlord was a generous man but helping Ghisu was like dying a black blanket.
For a moment he thought of driving him out. The fellow never comes when called,
and now when he is in difficulty the bastard is cringing for help. However,
this was not the time to show anger and punish him. Unwillingly, he took out and
threw two rupees at him. But he uttered no word of sympathy. He didn’t even
look at him, as if he was getting rid of a load on his head.
After
the landlord had given two rupees, the shopkeepers and moneylenders dared not
refuse help. Ghisu knew how to play up the landlord’s name in the village.
Someone gave two annas, another four, and in one hour Ghisu had collected the
ample amount of five rupees. Some one helped with grain, others with wood. In
the afternoon Ghisu and Madho started for the market to buy a shroud. And
people began to cut the bamboos to the proper size required for the bier.
The
kind-hearted women of the village came, looked at the dead body, shed a few
tears on the hapless woman and went away.
3
When
they reached the market, Ghisu said, ‘We’ve now enough for wood to cremate her.
Isn’t it Madho?’
Madho
said, ‘Yes, we’ve enough wood, now we need the shroud.’
‘All
right, let’s buy a shroud, a cheap one.’
‘It’ll
be night when the body is carried. Who would look at the shroud then?’
‘What
a strange custom! Someone who had only rags to wear all her life should need a
brand new shroud.’
‘And
the shroud will be burnt with the body.’
‘What
else? If we had got these five rupees before her death we would have used them on
her treatment.’
Both
were trying to delve into each other’s mind. They kept on roaming in the
market, now going to this cloth-seller, then another. They inspected many types
of cloth, now cotton, now silken, but didn’t like any. By this time it was
evening, and the two, with what godly inspiration no one knows, landed in front
of a liquor shop. And as if out of some predetermination, they went in. They
stood there for some time, unable to decide. Then Ghisu went to the counter and
bought a bottle. Then they bought something spicy, and fried fish. The duo sat down in
the verandah to drink peacefully.
After
downing a number of cupfuls quickly both of them reached a high.
Ghisu
said, ‘What use would it have been to put a shroud round her? It would have
burnt. Nothing gone with her.’
Madho
looked at the sky and said, as if invoking the gods as witnesses to his
innocence, ‘This is no more than a custom. Or else why should people give thousands
of rupees to brahmins? Who knows whether it reaches there in the other
world?’
‘The
rich have money to waste. What do we
have?’
‘But
how shall we convince the people? Won’t they ask? Where’s the shroud?’
Ghisu
laughed, ‘We‘ll say, the money slipped off our side pockets. We searched but
couldn’t find. No one will believe us, but they’ll still give us money.’
Madho
also laughed at their unexpected stroke of good luck. He said, ‘She was so
good, poor thing. Even on her death she has fed us so well.’
They had drunk more than half the bottle.
Ghisu ordered two sers of puris, Chutney,
pickles, liver meat. The shop stood in front of the liquor shop. Madho went
quickly and brought the eatables dished up on leaf-plates. It all cost a rupee
and half. Only a few coins were now left with them.
The
duo were enjoying eating puris with royal nonchalance, as if a lion were feasting on his kill. They feared nothing. They were answerable to none, nor were they worried about public
shame. They had conquered all such feelings long ago.
Ghisu
spoke like a philosopher, ‘We are so happy. Won’t she be rewarded?’
Madho
agreed, bowing his head in reverence, ‘Surely, surely. God, you are omniscient.
Take her to heaven. She has our blessings. We’ve never before enjoyed a feast
like this.’
The
next moment Madho was troubled by a doubt. ‘Why, dada, we too would go up there
one day?’
Ghisu
did not respond to this childish. He didn’t want to spoil the pleasure
of the moment by thinking of the other world.
‘What
shall we say if there she questions us for not having provided a shroud for
her?’
‘Your
pate!’
‘But she will surely ask.’
‘How
do you know she won’t get a shroud? Do you think I’m such an ass? Have I wasted
sixty years of my life mowing grass? She will get a shroud, and a good one.’
Madho
was not convinced. He said, ‘Who will provide it? You have splurged all the
money. She’ll question me. It was I who had daubed her hair with vermillion.’
Ghisu
became angry. He said, ‘I say she will get a shroud. Why don’t you believe me?’
“Who’ll
give? Why don’t you tell me?’
‘The same people who have given now. Only,
this time they won’t hand over the money to us.’
As
darkness became thicker, the stars became brighter, and the liquor shop became
livelier. Someone sang, another bragged, another embraced his companion, and
yet another put the kulad to his friend’s lips.
The
atmosphere was ecstatic, the air inebriated. Many became drunk just on a
mouthful. More than the liquor it was the atmosphere that gave them the kick.
The miseries of life had driven them here, and for some time they forgot whether
they were alive or dead. Or neither alive nor dead..
And
both father and son were still sipping and savouring their drink. All eyes were fixed on them. How
fortunate they were! They had a full bottle between them.
After
they had had their fill, Madho picked up the uneaten puris and handed them over to a beggar who had been staring at them
with hungry eyes. And both of them experienced, for the first time in their
lives, the pride, the contentment and pure joy of giving!
Ghisu
said, ‘Take it, enjoy and give your blessings. The one to whom this belonged is
dead, but your blessings will surely reach her. Bless with every pore on your
body. It was hard-earned money.’
Madho
looked at the sky once again and said, ‘Dada, she’ll go to Baikunth. She will be the queen of Baikunth.’
Ghisu
stood up and swimming on the waves of ecstasy he said, ‘Yes, son, she’ll go to Baiikunth. She didn’t hurt, or oppress anyone. And with her death she fulfilled a
great wish of ours. If not she, who else? Do you think these fat and rich, who
rob the poor with both their hands and then bathe in the Ganga to wash off
their sins and offer water at the temples, will go there?’
The
mood of reverence suddenly changed, for drunkenness is always shifting its
ground. Now pain and disappointment overpowered them.
Madho
said, ‘But, dada, the poor thing suffered a lot. See how much she endured
before dying!’
He
put his hands on his eyes and began to cry loudly.
Ghisu
tried to console him, ‘Why do you cry, son? Be happy, she is now liberated from this
delusive existence, Freed from this misery. She was very fortunate. She broke the bonds of relationships so early.’
And
both of them stood up and started singing. ‘O temptress, why do you entice with your eyes, O temptress.’
The
drinkers were staring at them and these two were singing heartily. Then they
began to dance. They jumped. They leaped. They fell. They strutted. They posed displaying many emotions. They acted. At last full with drunkenness they collapsed to the ground.
--- (Urdu,
Jamia, September 1935)
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