by Ruth Vanita
Munni stepped away from him, and said, rolling her eyes, ‘Sure, you’ll think of another way! Let’s hear what you have in mind. Is anyone going to give you a blanket for free? God knows how much we still owe—it never seems to get paid off. I keep saying, why don’t you give up farming? Work yourself to death, give up a share of the crop, and that’s it. We were born to pay debts for ever. Why don’t you work as a labourer? That will bring in enough to survive. This kind of farming is not worth it at all. I won’t give the money—I won’t!’
Halku said sadly, ‘Then should I put up with his abuses?’
Munni said, indignant, ‘Why should he abuse you? Does he rule our lives?’
But even as she said this her anger seemed to ebb. The harsh truth in Halku’s words glared at her like a ferocious beast.
She went to the niche in the wall, took out the money, and put it in Halku’s hand. Then she said, ‘You give up farming now. As labourers, we’ll at least be able to eat one roti in peace. We won’t have to live in fear of anyone. This farming is a nuisance! You toil so hard, have to give up your earnings, and still end up being bullied.’
Halku took the money and went out, feeling as if he were giving away his heart. With great difficulty, he had saved these three rupees, one by one, from his earnings. Today, he was losing them. With each step, his head seemed to droop lower with the burden of his poverty.
2
The darkness of a winter night! Even the stars seemed to shiver in the sky. At the edge of his field, Halku lay shivering on a bamboo cot, wrapped in his old sheet of coarse cotton, under a thatch of sugarcane leaves. His companion, the dog Jabra, lay under the cot, his face buried in his stomach, whimpering with cold. Neither of them was able to sleep.
Bringing his knees up to his chest, Halku said, ‘Well, Jabra, are you cold? I told you to stay home and sleep on the straw. What did you hope to get here? Now put up with the cold, what can I do? You thought I was coming to eat halwa and puris here, so you ran ahead of me. Now cry all you want.’
Jabra wagged his tail as he lay, ended his whining with one long whimper that merged into a yawn, and fell silent. Perhaps his canine mind realized that his master was being kept awake by his crying.
Halku put out his hand and stroked Jabra’s cold back, saying, ‘From tomorrow, don’t come with me, otherwise you’ll die of cold. This bitch of a west wind is icy as hell. I think I’ll get up and have a smoke. The night will pass one way or other. I’ve already had eight smokes. These are the joys of farming! And then there are the fortunate ones, who lie so warm at home that the cold runs away in fear if it goes near them. They have thick mattresses, quilts and blankets. There’s no way the cold can survive there. It’s all the play of fortune! We work hard so that others may enjoy life.’
Halku got up, took out a coal from the pit and filled his pipe. Jabra too sat up.
Smoking his pipe, Halku said, ‘Will you have a smoke? It doesn’t help with the cold, but it’s a distraction.’
Jabra looked at him with eyes brimming over with love.
Halku: ‘Bear the cold today. Tomorrow, I’ll spread straw here. You can snuggle inside it, and you won’t feel cold.’
Jabra put his paws up on Halku’s knees and put his face close to his. Halku felt his warm breath.
After his smoke, Halku lay down with the resolve that he would go to sleep, whatever happened, but in a moment, his very heart seemed to shiver with cold. He would lie sometimes on one side, sometimes on the other, but the cold, like a demon, seemed to sit astride his chest.
When he could bear it no longer, he gently picked up Jabra, and, patting his head, put him to sleep in his embrace. The dog’s body smelled bad, yet he experienced greater comfort holding him close than he had experienced for months. Jabra probably thought he was in heaven, and Halku’s pure soul felt no disgust towards the dog. He would have embraced an intimate friend or brother with the same eagerness. He was not embittered by the destitution that had brought him to this point. No, this unusual friendship seemed to open all the doors of his soul, so that its every atom grew radiant and shone.
Suddenly, Jabra heard the sound of an animal. This special intimacy had awakened a new energy in him, enabling him to disregard the cold gusts of wind. He jumped up, came outside the thatch, and began to bark. Halku called him coaxingly many times, but he wouldn’t come back. He kept running around the field, barking. He would return for a second, before running off again. Duty leapt in his heart like a powerful longing.
3
Another hour passed. The night began to rekindle the cold with gusts of wind. Halku sat up and buried his head in his knees that were folded against his chest, but he remained just as cold. He felt as if all his blood had frozen, and ice flowed in his veins instead of blood. He bent down to look out at the sky and assess how much of the night remained. The Seven Sages were not yet halfway up the sky. When they reached the zenith, day would dawn. There was still more than a third of the night left.
There was a mango orchard not far from Halku’s field. The leaves had begun to fall and lay heaped up in the orchard. Halku thought he would go gather leaves, get a fire going and warm himself. If anyone saw him gathering leaves at night they would think he was a ghost. There might be a wild animal hiding there, but he couldn’t bear to keep sitting here any longer.
He went into the nearby lentil field, pulled up several plants, made them into a broom, and, taking a smouldering dung cake in his hand, set out for the orchard. Jabra saw him coming, ran up, and wagged his tail.
Halku said, ‘I can’t bear it any more, Jabra. Let’s go collect leaves from the orchard and warm ourselves. When we’re warm, we’ll come back and sleep. There’s still much of the night left.’
Jabra expressed his agreement by whimpering, and ran ahead to the orchard.
Darkness lay thick in the orchard, and in the darkness, the cruel wind crushed the leaves. Dew showered down from the trees on to the leaves.
Suddenly a gust brought them the scent of henna flowers.
Halku said, ‘What a nice perfume, Jabru! Can you smell it?’
Jabra had found a bone lying on the ground, and was worrying it.
Halku put the fire on the ground, and began gathering leaves. Pretty soon, he had a large pile of leaves. His hands were trembling and his bare feet felt as if they were dissolving. Yet he kept building a mountain of leaves. He would burn the cold in this fire and destroy it.
In a short while, the fire flared up. Its glow touched the leaves of the tree above and ran ahead. In that flickering light, the mighty trees of the forest looked as if they held up the boundless darkness on their heads. The light floated and bobbed like a boat in the joyful ocean of darkness.
Halku sat before the fire, soaking in the warmth. The next moment, he took off his double-folded cloth, kept it by his side, and lay down with both legs spread out, as if challenging the cold to do its worst. He could not hide his pride at having won a victory over the boundless power of the cold.
He said to Jabra, ‘Well, Jabra, you’re not cold any more, are you?’
Jabra whimpered as if to say, ‘Why would I be cold now?’
‘If I’d thought of this earlier, we needn’t have suffered so much in the cold.’
Jabra wagged his tail.
‘All right, come on, let’s jump over the fire. Let’s see who wins. If you get burnt, though, I can’t get you any medicine.’
Jabra looked at the fire with fearful eyes.
‘Don’t tell Munni tomorrow, or she’ll fight with me.’
So saying, he jumped and went clean across the fire. The flame touched his feet, but that didn’t matter. Jabra ran round the fire and came to stand by him.
Halku said, ‘No, no, that’s not right! Jump over the fire.’ He jumped again and reached the other side of the fire.
4
The leaves were all burnt. Darkness spread once more through the orchard. There was a little fire under the ashes, which flared up a bit when a gu
st of wind hit it, but then closed its eyes again the next moment.
Halku wrapped himself in his sheet once more, and sat by the hot ashes, humming a song. The warmth had entered his body, but as the cold increased, he sank into an indolent state.
Jabra barked loudly and ran towards the field. Halku sensed that a large herd of animals had entered his field. Perhaps it was a herd of antelope. Now he could clearly hear them jumping and running, and then it seemed that they were grazing in the field. He began to hear the crunching sounds of their chewing.
He told himself, ‘No, no animal can enter the field while Jabra is there. He’ll tear it to pieces. I’m imagining things. Where? I don’t hear anything now. How could I be so mistaken?’
He shouted aloud, ‘Jabra, Jabra!’
Jabra kept barking and did not return to him.
Again, he heard the sounds of the crop being eaten. He could delude himself no longer. The very thought of moving was bitter as poison. How warm and comfortable he was, sitting here! To go to the field in this freezing cold and chase the animals seemed intolerable. He didn’t move.
Again, he called out, ‘Hillo! Hillo! Hillo!’
Jabra barked again. The animals were destroying the field.
Halku got up with firm resolve and took a couple of steps; but suddenly a gust of such cold, sharp wind hit him like a scorpion’s sting that he came back to the dying fire, sat down, scratched the ashes, and began warming his cold body.
Jabra grew hoarse with barking, the antelope continued to consume the entire crop, and Halku sat peacefully by the hot ashes. Inactivity, like a network of ropes, held him fast on all sides.
He lay down, wrapped in his sheet, on the warm ground near the ashes, and fell asleep.
When he awoke in the morning, the sun was up and Munni was saying, ‘Do you plan to sleep all day? You sat here, while the whole field was destroyed.’
Halku got up and said, ‘Have you been to the field?’
Munni said, ‘Yes, it’s a complete wreck. How can anyone sleep so soundly? What was the use of your staying under the thatch here?’
Halku began making excuses. ‘I nearly died, and you are worried about the field. I had such a terrible stomach ache—only I know how horrible it was.’
They walked to the edge of the field. The whole field lay trampled into mud, and Jabra lay flat beneath the thatch, as if lifeless.
They surveyed the field. Munni’s face was marked by sorrow, but Halku looked happy.
Munni said anxiously, ‘Now you’ll have to work as a labourer to pay the revenue.’
Halku said, cheerfully, ‘At least, I won’t have to sleep here in the cold at night.’
The Shroud
FATHER AND SON SAT SILENT AT THE DOOR OF THE HUT, CROUCHING over a fire that had died out. Inside, the son’s young wife, Budhiya, thrashed around in the agony of childbirth. At intervals, heart-rending cries burst from her lips and shook them both to the core. It was a winter night; nature lay immersed in silence and the village in darkness.
Ghisu said, ‘Looks like she won’t survive. She’s been suffering all day. Why don’t you go in and see her?’
Madhav said irritably, ‘If she has to die, why doesn’t she die quickly? What’s the use of my going to see her?’
‘You are really heartless! Such disloyalty to one with whom you lived happily and comfortably for a year!’
‘I can’t bear to see her writhing in pain.’
Theirs was a Chamar family, notorious throughout the village. If Ghisu worked for a day, he would rest for three. Madhav was so lazy that if he worked for half an hour he would sit and smoke for an hour. So no one was willing to employ them. As long as there was even a handful of grain in the house, they would absolutely refuse to work. When only a couple of mouthfuls remained, Ghisu would climb a tree and break off branches to be used as fuel, which Madhav would sell in the market. And as long as they had that money, the two of them would roam about, doing nothing.
There was no shortage of work in the village. It was a village of peasants; there was plenty of work for a hardworking man. But these two would be called to work only when there was no option except to content oneself with two men doing the work of one. Had the two been ascetics, they would have had no need to practise restraint in order to cultivate contentment and patience. These virtues came naturally to them.
It was a strange life they led. The only possessions in their home were a few clay pots. They covered their nakedness with a few tattered rags. They were free from worldly worries but laden with debt. They endured abuses, even beatings, but had no sorrows. They were so pathetic that people would loan them something or other although there was absolutely no hope of its being returned. When peas and potatoes were harvested they would pull them up from others’ fields, roast them, and eat them. Or they would uproot five or ten sugarcane sticks and suck them dry at night. For sixty years, Ghishu had survived this way, and Madhav, like a good son, was following in his father’s footsteps, and even outdoing his father.
At this moment, too, they were roasting potatoes, which they had dug up from someone’s field, in the smouldering ashes. Ghisu’s wife had died a long time ago. Madhav had got married the previous year. As soon as his wife arrived, she began to establish a semblance of order in the family and kept filling the bellies of these two shameless ones. After she came, the two men became even more indolent, and also began to swagger a bit. If anyone called them to do a chore, they would, without irony, ask for double the regular wages. This was the woman who was dying of labour pains, while these two were perhaps waiting for her to die so that they could sleep peacefully.
Ghisu took out the potatoes, began to peel them, and said, ‘Go and see what condition she’s in. It must be a spell cast by some witch, what else? But the witch doctor will demand a rupee to exorcize it.’
Madhav was afraid that if he went into the room, Ghisu would devour most of the potatoes. He said, ‘I’m afraid to go there.’
‘What’s there to be afraid of? I’m right here.’
‘Why don’t you go and see?’
‘When my wife died, I didn’t stir from her side for three whole days. If I go in now, she’ll feel shy. I’ve never seen her face; how can I look at her naked body? She must be unable to cover her body right now. If she sees me, she won’t even be able to flail about freely.’
‘I’m worried—how will we manage if a child is born? Dry ginger, gur, oil—there’s nothing in the house.’
‘Everything will come. Let God give us the child! Those who won’t give a paisa now will themselves call us and give rupees! I had nine children. There was never anything in the house, but God always saw us through somehow.’
Such an attitude was not surprising in a society where those who toiled night and day were not much better off than these two were, and where those who knew how to profit from the farmers’ poverty were a good deal better off than the farmers. I would say that Ghisu was considerably more rational than the peasants, and instead of joining the mindless group of peasants, had decided to join the disreputable group of exploiters. But he didn’t have the wherewithal to follow the rules and policies of the exploiters. So whereas others of his team had become the leaders and chiefs of the village, the whole village pointed fingers only at him. But at least he had the consolation of knowing that even though he was wretchedly poor, he didn’t have to engage in backbreaking toil like the peasants nor could others take unfair advantage of his simplicity and helplessness.
The two began to pull out the potatoes from the ashes and eat them, even though they were burning hot. They had eaten nothing since the day before, so they couldn’t wait for the potatoes to cool down. The outer part of a peeled potato did not seem too hot, but when the teeth sank into it, the inner part scalded the tongue, the palate and the gullet. It seemed better to let that burning coal go into the stomach than to keep it in the mouth. In the stomach it would soon cool down, so the two kept swallowing the potatoes as fast as they could,
even though this effort brought tears to their eyes.
Ghisu recalled the landlord’s wedding party, which he had attended twenty years before. The satisfaction he had experienced at that feast was a memorable part of his life, and the memory was still fresh. He said, ‘I can’t forget that feast. Never again after that have I eaten such food to my heart’s content. The girl’s family stuffed everyone with puris—everyone! Small and great, everyone ate puris, made with real ghee! Chutney, raita, three types of dry vegetables, one with gravy, curds, sweets … how can I describe those tasty dishes! There were no restrictions—ask for whatever you want, eat as much as you want. People ate so much that no one could even drink water. But the servers began to put warm, round, fragrant kachoris in our plates. We refused, we covered our plates with our hands, but they insisted on giving them to us. And when everyone had finished eating and washed their mouths, we got betel and cardamom too. But I couldn’t think of taking betel. I could barely stand. I went straight to my blanket and lay down. That’s how large-hearted that landlord was!’
Enjoying these dishes in his imagination, Madhav said, ‘No one feasts us like that nowadays.’
‘No—those days are gone. That was a different era. Now everyone thinks only of economizing. Don’t spend on weddings, don’t spend on funerals. They keep taking from the poor and storing it up. It’s not as if they’ve cut down on accumulating wealth, but they are much more thrifty.’
‘You must have eaten about twenty puris?’
‘I ate more than twenty!’
‘I would have eaten fifty.’
‘I must have eaten at least fifty. I was a strong, well-built guy. You are not even half of what I was.’
After eating the potatoes, they both drank water, and then lay down before the fire, covered themselves with their dhotis, their feet tucked into their stomachs, and fell asleep. They looked like two great pythons lying coiled up. Budhiya was still groaning in agony. When Madhav went into the room next morning, his wife had turned cold. Flies were buzzing around her face. Her eyes were set and turned upward. Her whole body was coated in dust. The baby had died in her womb.