Godan by Premchand PDF

 Published by Jaico Publishing House A-2 Jash Chambers, 7-A Sir Phirozshah Mehta Road Fort, Mumbai - 400 001 [email protected] www.jaicobooks.com © Jai Ratan & P. Lal GODAN ISBN 81-722...

 Published by Jaico Publishing House A-2 Jash Chambers, 7-A Sir Phirozshah Mehta Road Fort, Mumbai - 400 001 [email protected] www.jaicobooks.com © Jai Ratan & P. Lal GODAN ISBN 81-7224-219-0 First Jaico Impression: 1957 Sixteenth Jaico Impression (Enlarged Edition): 2002 Twenty-fifth Jaico Impression: 2011 No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Printed by : Sanman & Co. 113, Shivshakti Ind. Estate, Marol Naka Andheri (E), Mumbai - 400 059.  "Nervous like a knife, he cuts clear through hypocrisy and falsehood in his last novel GODAN, so that this work throws up strongly contrasted characters seldom seen in any previous book of his, surpassing the chaos of the still feudal village with its courageous belief in future renewal." —Mulk Raj Anand Premchand, one of the greatest writers of modern India, was the founder of a new trend in Hindi fiction; a trend to write sincerely about social realities, particularly the realities concerning the lives of the vast peasant masses of this country. He depicted with a deep understanding, the tragedy and pathos of their dark lives, their rare smiles and unceasing sorrows, their frustrations and hopes. GODAN, a story of stark realism, is Premchand's most outstanding novel. The realism, artistry and tenderness with which he has created the characters here, particularly that of Hori, are unparalleled and unsurpassed in the whole fiction of India. Hori is an immortal character symbolic of the peasantry of this country.  After serving the two bullocks with feed and water Hori Ram said to his wife, Dhania, "Send Gobar to hoe the sugar cane. I am going out and may return late. Hand me the staff." Dhania had been making cow-dung cakes and her hands were smeared with the dung. "What's the hurry," she said, "Have something before you go." Hori puckered up his wrinkled brow. "You talk about refreshments when I am worried about the delay. If I am late I won't be able to meet the Master. If he sits down to his prayers I may have to wait for hours." "That's why I say, have something," Dhania said, "Besides, what's the harm if you don't go today. You went to him only the day before yesterday." "Why do you try to meddle with things which are beyond you?" Hori said impatiently. "Give me the staff and mind your chores. It's all due to keeping on good terms with the Master that trouble has remained at arm's length from us. Otherwise we would have been wiped out of existence long ago. Out of scores of people in the village can you name one who has not been ejected from his land or been served with attachment orders? When your neck is being trampled under the tyrant's heel the safest course is to keep on tickling his feet." But Dhania was not so well up in worldly matters. She thought that at the most what the Zamindar could claim was the rent in exchange for tilling his land. Then why play the sycophant? Why should one touch the soles of a Zamindar's feet? To be sure, during the twenty years of her married life she had fully realised that even if she lived a niggardly life stinted on foot and clothes, scraped together every elusive anna, it was difficult to liquidate the rent of the Zamindar. But even then she would not admit defeat. On this matter the husband and wife had differences every now and then. Of their six children only three had survived—one son, Gobar, who was now sixteen years old and two daughters, Sona, aged twelve and Rupa, eight. Three sons had died in infancy. She was convinced that with proper medical care their lives could have been saved. But she had not been able to buy even an anna worth of medicine for them. And what was her age? Ordinarily nobody would describe a woman of thirty- six as old. But her hair had already turned grey and her face was creased with wrinkles. Her youthful body had declined, the glow of her swarthy complexion had turned sallow and her eye-sight dim. All because of the canker of poverty. Her life had been bleak and this state of constant penury had cast a pall of sadness over her self-esteem. Why so much obsequiousness for a life which did not provide even the daily bread? Her mind would often rebel against such a state of affairs. But a few scoldings from her husband would jolt her back into reality. She went in a huff and flung the staff, quilt, turban, shoes and the pouch of tobacco at Hori. Hori flared up. 'Am I going to my father-in-law's house that you have brought all this finery? Besides, there is no young sister-in-law of mine waiting there to charm me with her beauty." A faint smile flitted across his dark wizened face. Dhania said shyly, "What a dashing youth you are to think that young girls should fall for you!" Hori carefully folded the torn quilt and placing it on the cot said, "Do you think I have grown old? I am not forty yet. Men are not men before sixty." "Go and look at your face in the mirror! It's not men like you who get into prime of manhood at sixty. How can you think of manhood when you do not get even milk and ghee to sustain the body. Your state of health dries me up in worry. How shall we pass our old age? At whose door shall we go begging?" The flippancy of Hori vanished. "Dhania, I shall never get to the age of sixty," he said holding the staff. "I shall be gone long before that." Dhania said reproachfully, "Let it be, please. Don't utter such ominous words. Even if I say something good, I only get hard words in return." When Hori went out with the staff resting on his shoulder, Dhania came to the door and stood gazing at him for a long time. Hori's dispirited remarks had shaken her wounded heart to the very core; she was all atrembling, as if with the austere strength of wifely devotion she was trying to enfold Hori in a protective halo of blessings which rose from the inmost recesses, the only means by which she could hope to reach the other shore safely. But now it seemed that the cruel words of Hori, though very true, wrenched away from her the only means of support. Their truth perhaps surcharged them with so much pain. Can a two-eyed ever feel the hurt that a one-eyed man feels at the taunt of being called a one- eyed man? Hori walked swiftly. Seeing the swaying greenery of the young sugar cane plants on both sides of the path he thought that with the grace of God if it rained abundantly this year and all went well he would buy a cow. Not a cow of native breed, thought! Oh no, those were no good. Their yield of milk was poor and their calves good for nothing. Only fit to be yoked to an oil-expeller. He had set his heart on a foreign pedigreed cow. He would swamp her with care. She would yield plentiful milk. Not less than four to five seers, in any case. Poor Gobar, how he pined for milk. If he did not eat well at his age, when else would he eat. With a wholesome diet, in one year's time, he would grow into a fine specimen of lusty youth. What a proud sight he would make. The calves too, would grow into fine bullocks. The cow of course would not cost less than two hundred rupees. What did it matter? Didn't a cow tied by the door enhance the prestige of the house? And how auspicious to see a cow the first thing in the morning! Like every householder, Hori for a long time had been cherishing this desire for a cow. It was the brightest dream of his life, his greatest ambition. The desire to live comfortably on bank interest, to buy land or to build a palatial house was too lofty to find room in the narrow confines of his poor heart. The sun of June, ascending from behind the mango grove, touched with radiance the crimson glow smeared over the sky. It had started getting warmer. As Hori walked along, the peasants working in the fields greeted him and invited him to smoke the chelum. Hori had no time. A faint glow of pride flit across his gaunt face. It was all on account of his cordial relations with the masters that people treated him with such respect. After all, what is the worth of a man who owns a mere five bighas of land. It was no mean honour that even farmers who owned three or four ploughs bowed to him deferentially. Hori had now come to a hollow where on account of accumulation of water during the monsoon the land was still damp and some traces of greenery were visible even in June. The cattle from the surrounding villages came to graze here. Even at this time the place was cool and fresh. Hori took a few deep breaths. He felt like resting for a while. The whole day he would have to put up with blasts of scorching wind. Several peasants were eager to buy this plot of land; they were offering a fancy price for it. God bless the Rai Saheb—he had told them plainly that this land had been reserved for the cattle and he was not going to part with it at any price. Had there been some other greedy Zamindar he would have said, "To hell with the cows. I get jingling coins, why should I refuse them." But the Rai Saheb was still steeped in the old tradition. The Zamindar who does not look after his tenants, is he worthy of being called a man? Suddenly Hori glimpsed Bhola with his cows coming in his direction. Bhola was a goala of the adjoining village and traded in milk and butter. If the cows fetched a good price he would occasionally sell them to the peasants. Hori could not hold himself back on seeing the cows. How nice, if the first one could be his. He had still to pay his rent. He had also to square up the debt of Bisesar Saha which had been accumulating interest at the rate of one anna per rupee. But lack of carefulness is characteristic of indigence; a sense of shameless obstinacy which defies demands, abuses and even beatings was now goading Hori into action. The pent-up desire which had been storming his heart for an outburst for years together now suddenly made him restless. He accosted Bhola: "Ram, Ram, Bhola, bhai. How's life? I hear you've bought new cows at the fair." Bhola guessed what was in Hori's mind. "Two cows and two calves," he said shortly. "My other cows have gone dry. How can I carry on if there's no milk to self?" Hori patted the flank of the first cow. "Seems to be an excellent milch cow. How much did you pay for her?" "Prices ran high this year Mehto," Bhola said with a touch of vanity, "I had to shell out eighty rupees for this cow. What a sum! I nearly had a fit. And I had to pay no less than thirty rupees for each calf. And think of the audacity of the customers! They still insist upon eight seers of milk for a rupee." "You people have tough hearts, brother. But what a beauty you've bought. I doubt if there's another like her in the countryside." These remarks puffed up Bhola. He said, "Rai Saheb was offering me a hundred rupees for the cow and fifty rupees each for the calves. But I said no. Why, I shall rake in a hundred rupees when she calves next time." "Certainly, brother. Has the master guts enough to buy her? It's one thing to buy and quite another to accept presents; they cost nothing. It's only you people that have the courage to depend on sheer luck and risk bagfuls of money on a cow. But what a cow! I can't have enough of her. You're lucky indeed that you have the good fortune to be of service to a cow. I can't even procure cow-dung. How humiliating that in a big family like ours we have no cow. Years pass and we have to go without milk. My wife often asks me to talk to you about it. But I put her off by saying that I shall do so when I meet you next. She has such nice things to say to you. She says she has rarely come across a man more modest, who talks to her with downcast eyes, never raising his head once." This brimming cup of praise made Bhola more heady. He said, "A gentleman always regards womenfolk as his own daughters. A man who looks lustfully at women deserves to be shot." "What a gem of a thought, brother! You are right. A gentleman regards other's self-respect as his own." "A woman feels orphaned and forlorn at her husband's death: a man feels crippled when his wife is gone. My home has gone to rack and ruin. Now I have no one left even to offer me a bowl of water." Last year Bhola's wife had died of loo. Hori knew this. But what he did not know was that man of fifty, apparently a mere skeleton, could boil in passion. Desire for a woman had made Bhola's eyes eloquent. The shrewd Hori was quick to take advantage of this. "The old saying is true, bhai: Without a wife the house becomes an abode of ghosts. Why don't you get married?" "I am on the look-out, Mehto. But it is not easy to catch a wife so quickly. I am even ready to spend a bit, if it comes to that. But God has the last word, of course." "I'll also keep it in mind. If God wills you will again set up a home." Bhola said eagerly, "Marriage will be a liberation for me. I am quite well off. In my house there's no dearth of milk. But to what avail?" "In my father-in-law's village there is a girl whose husband deserted her three or four years ago and went away to Calcutta. Now the poor creature grinds corn and lives. She has no children either and is quite comely too. Briefly, bhai, she is a veritable Lakshmi." Bhola's shrivelled face suddenly mellowed. How delicious Hope is, like ambrosia. "I leave everything to you, Mehto. If you have time, why not let us go and see her one of these days." "It is best to go slow brother. I'll let you know after I have settled the matter." "Take your own time. There's no special hurry. If you have taken a fancy for this mottled cow, it's yours for the asking." "It is not becoming for a man of my humble position to take such a fine cow. Moreover, my sense of duty forbids me to put you to loss." "You talk as if we were strangers. Pay me when you can. It makes little difference to me whether she stays at your house or mine. I bought her for eighty rupees. Pay me the same." "I have no ready cash." "But did I ask for on the spot payment?" Hori's breast swelled with joy. The cow was worth every rupee of the eighty. Sturdy, with promise of good yield of milk, and so docile that even a child could milk her. True, he was already in debt to the tune of four hundred rupees. But he considered debt unobligatory. If Bhola's marriage came off he would hold his peace for at least two years. But even if the scheme of his marriage fell through Bhola could hardly do him any harm. At the most Bhola would press him for settlement of his debt, get wild, and if it came to the worst, abuse him. But such things were common features of every peasant's life. He was quite aware that he was being deceitful. But this did not go against his grain. It made little difference to him whether he raised a loan by signing a document or without it. The calamities caused by the inclemencies of nature had made him craven-hearted. The diabolical face of a vengeful Nemesis always danced before his eyes. But the small deceits that he practised were expediency born of self-interest and no more. Such stratagems were part of everyday life. In his code of morality it was permissible to inflate the weight of hemp by moistening it and mixing cotton seeds with cotton. These things added rest to life. Senility has its comic aspect and to touch befuddled old men for small inconsequential gain was no sin. Handing the halter to Hori, Bhola said, "Lead her away. She will start giving six seers of milk the very day she calves. But perhaps I had better take her to your house. To speak the truth, the master was offering me ninety rupees for her. But do people of his type appreciate the worth of a cow? He would have passed it on to some official and the official in turn would have got rid of her as soon as she ran dry. God knows in whose hands she would have fallen. Money is not everything, brother. There's such a thing as goodness too. At least, she will be well looked after in your house. May I confide in you, brother, though I don't feel equal to it? The fact of the matter is that there's not even a handful of straw left in the house. My funds have all vanished on these purchases. I thought I would manage to lay in fodder by borrowing money from the money-lender. But he refused me point blank. How am I going to feed so many animals? This worry is killing me. Even if I give each animal just one handful of straw it adds upto one maund per day. Only God can rescue me from this plight." Hori said sympathetically, "Why didn't you tell me earlier? I have just sold a cartload of fodder." Bhola beat his forehead in despair. "I didn't, because I don't like to tell my woes to everyone. Every one is ready to mock at another's distress but none is willing to share it. My new cow cannot live without straw. Give me a few rupees, if you can." There is no doubt that the peasant is selfish to the core. It takes a lot of wheedling to get a bribe out of him. He is a past-master in driving a hard bargain. To get a single penny of interest condoned he supplicates himself before the money-lender for hours. It is difficult to tempt him against his conviction. Nevertheless his entire life is wedded to nature. The trees bear fruit but for others; the land yields grain to appease the hungry mouths; the clouds send showers to assuage the parched earth. In such a scheme of things there is hardly any room for selfishness. Hearing Bhola's tale of woe he changed his mind. Handing back the halter to Bhola, he said, "I don't have the money. But there is some straw left. You can have it. Shame on me, if I should demean myself by buying your cow for a handful of straw." Bhola's voice become strained. "But won't your bullocks starve? Surely, you haven't any straw to spare." "It's not so, brother. The harvest this year was good." "How silly of me to have talked about it at all." "If you had not, I would have felt sorry. Things will come to a pretty pass if brother does not help brother." "Anyway, you take the cow." "Not now. Perhaps some other time." "In that case, get the price of straw adjusted against the milk." "Why harp on such trifles? If I take good at your place once or twice should I expect you to charge me for it?" "But the cow is yours. That's settled. Take it whenever you feel like it." "It's as sinful to take your cow at this stage as bidding for my own brother's bullock at the auction." Had Hori been shrewd enough to see through the game he would have taken the cow without compunction and gone his way. The state of Hori's mind was like that of a horse which stops short at the faintest rustling of leaves and does not budge in spite of being spurred on. The notion that it is sinful to make capital out of others' distress had become an inescapable part of his conscience. When Hori resumed his journey he was glad at heart. What did it matter if he had to part with a few maunds of straw. But he had saved Bhola from making a forced sale. He looked back. The spotted cow was walking majestically, swaying her head gently, and flicking the flies with her tail. She looked like a queen in the midst of maid-servants.  Semari and Belari, which lie five miles apart, are two villages in a district of Oudh. Hori lived in Belari and Rai Saheb Amarpal Singh in Semari. During the last Satyagraha Movement the Rai Saheb had resigned his membership of the Legislative Council and courted imprisonment. Since then his stock had risen among the tenants. Not that the tenants on his estate were shown any liberality or spared the rigours of forced labour. The ignominy of such harsh treatment was laid at the door of his agents and did not, in any way, tarnish the fair name of the Rai Saheb. Wasn't he himself the slave of circumstances? The goodness of heart of the Rai Saheb was not supposed to deflect the routine of life from flowing through the regulated channels; life must proceed in the approved way. Therefore, though his authority and income had not suffered his prestige had rocketed. Was it not enough that he spoke kindly to his tenants? The lion must hunt. If instead of roaring and showing fangs the lion talked sweetly getting his prey would become the simplest of work. In spite of being a Nationalist the Rai Saheb had kept up social intercourse with officials; customary presents were made to them and fixed annuities provided to petty government servants. He loved literature and music and was fond of the theatre; he was a fluent speaker, a forceful writer and an excellent shot. His wife had died ten years ago. But he decided to remain single. These diversions helped him to forget the tedium of a sad life. When Hori arrived, preparations for celebrating the Dussehra were in full swing. At one place the stage was coming up and at others a pavilion, a guest house and thatched stalls for shops. Careless of the scorching heat the Rai Saheb himself supervised the arrangements. Along with the paternal property he had also inherited the devotion to Rama which every year found expression in a religious tableau and, incidentally, provided some entertainment. On this occasion invitations went to a large circle of friends and officials. For a day or two the place put on a gay face and hummed with life. The Rai Saheb had a large family: many uncles and brothers, scores of cousins and crowds of distant relatives. One uncle, a great devotee of Radha, lived permanently at Brindaban. He had a taste for composing devotional poems, getting them printed every now and then and distributed free among friends. Another uncle was a votary of Rama and was engaged at present in translating the Ramayana into Persian. The Estate had fixed stipends for each of them; the necessity of earning a livelihood did not exist. Suddenly the Rai Saheb saw Hori. "So you have come, Hori," he said, "I was on the point of sending for you. This time you will play the gardener of King Janak. You see what I mean? You will stand with a bouquet and when Queen Janaki comes to the temple for prayer you will offer her the bouquet. Come with me to the kothi. I want a word with you." Hori followed him. The Rai Saheb sat down on a chair under the thick shade of a tree and indicating Hori to sit down by his side on the ground, said, "I require Rs. 20,000. But I don't know how to go about it. You are of course wondering why the master is telling you all this. You find it funny, But what I can't stand is the laughter of my squads: it is full of jealously and sarcasm. Why not? I find plenty to laugh at when they are hard up. Hori, riches and fellow- feeling never go hand in hand. We give in charity, of course; but only to outshine our equals. Our benevolence smacks of vanity. If one of us is served with a decree or ejectment order or jailed for not paying revenue, all of us have a good laugh at his expense. If someone's son dies a premature death or is taken in by a prostitute or a widowed daughter elopes, all of us find cause for fun. The amusing thing about it is that outwardly we pose as though we are prepared to shed our last drop of blood for one another. What beats me is that even my own cousins who are having the time of their lives at the expense of my estate feel jealous of me. If I die today they'll tumble over in joy. They think I am immune to unhappiness. If I cry, it is to mock at sorrow. If I fall ill, it is because I find comfort in sickness! If I don't marry, I am selfish. If I do, I am carnal. If I don't drink, I am a miser; if I do, I drink the blood of my people. I get it in the neck both ways. They want me to turn a blind eye to everything so that they can strip me to my bones. I don't think they would like me to be any better than a moron." The Rai Saheb stuffed two betel leaves into his mouth and looked intently at Hori's face as if he wanted to read his mind. Hori gathered courage and said, "I knew such things were true of poor people like us. Little did I know they touched the rich too." The Rai Saheb said, "Don't go by the look of things. Our names are big. But our deeds are small. The poor are selfish and spiteful; this is out of an instinct for self-preservation. I consider such self-interest excusable. If any one snatches your bread from you, you will of course do him in and force it out of his throat. But a Zamindar's animosity and jealously are for pleasure. We have become so big that deceit is now the salt of our lives. In fact, we have reached that stage of divinity where the other man's tears only arouse our mirth.  "You know how it is, Hori! In a large family like mine some one or the other is always falling ill. But we are not expected to suffer from ordinary illness. If there is a slight temperature we are treated for pneumonia; a pimple is always a carbuncle. Frenzied telegrams are sent to the assistant surgeon, the surgeon and the chief surgeon. Messengers rush to Delhi and Calcutta to bring hakims and vaids. In the family shrine Durga is invoked. The astrologers get busy on horoscopes. There is a tremendous to-do to save the patient from the jaws of death. On the slightest sign of indisposition the doctors get ready to shake the pagoda tree. Mind you, all this money is squeezed by the Zamindar from the peasants. I wonder why the sighs of the poor people do not reduce us to ashes. For all I know, we are gradually turning into ashes. "To shield ourselves against trouble we solicit the help of the officials, the lawyers and the court. Like an attractive woman in trouble, we are no better than playthings in their hands. The world thinks we are happy; we own lands, palace, carriages, scores of servants to wait on us and concubines for our diversion. But I believe firmly that a person without self-respect and spiritual strength is not fit to be called a man. A person who cannot sleep peacefully for fear of the enemy, who licks the shoes of the officials and sucks the blood of his people cannot be called happy. When the British Officer comes out on tour or on a hunt I follow him like a shadow; a frown from him and I freeze to death. To what length I go to make him happy. If it comes to that, I don't even hesitate to prostrate myself before him. Indolence has crippled us; we have no confidence left in our perseverance. We fawn at the officers to win their favour; to oppress our people with the help of the officers is now our only aim in life. The flattery of toadies has made us so arrogant that the sense of tolerance, modesty and service, has died out in our hearts. Sometimes I think the government will be actually doing us a favour if it deprives us of our lands. If the signs of the time are any indication, our class is finished. "I am ready for that day. It will be a day of redemption. We are the victims of circumstances, and as long as we are shackled with property we shall not be able to lead a life of dignity." The Rai Saheb took out a few more betel leaves and stuffed them in his mouth. He was about to proceed with his talk when a chaprassi came with the news that the tenants who had been put on forced labour had refused to work. They were insisting upon being fed. When the chaprassi threatened them they struck work. The Rai Saheb's forehead furrowed with rage. "Come, I'll set the rascals right. They were not served with food, in the past. What right have they to demand it now? They were paid an anna a day; not a pice more will they get now. Work they shall, whether they like it or not." He turned to Hori. "You may go now. But remember what I said. I expect a collection of Rs. 500/- from your village." The Rai Saheb left in a huff. Hori noticed the quick change in the Rai Saheb's attitude. All along he had been waxing eloquent on duty and goodness but it did not take him a minute to flare up at the chaprassi's news! The sun was right overhead when Hori left. The heat ran shimmering through curled sleepy leaves; the sky-line shivered in the haze of the afternoon.  When Hori reached his village, Gobar, along with the two girls, was still hoeing the field. The sun beat down and the swirls of loo had turned the place into an oven. Why were they bent upon working themselves to death in this heat? "Come home!" Hori shouted. "Can't you see the afternoon is upon us?" The three picked up their hoes and fell in step with Hori, Gobar, swarthy, tall and wiry, did not seem to have much rest for work. His face reflected discontent and defiance; he worked to show his indifference towards life. The elder girl, Sona, was wheat-complexioned, graceful, and vivacious. The home-spun red sari, which she wore folded from the knees up, sat heavy on her slight body. Rupa, six years old, with her hair a tangled nest, and a piece of cloth round her waist, looked dishevelled, her face obdurate and sullen. Rupa clung to her father. "Kaka, there is not a single lump left. Sona insisted upon my sitting under the tree. But will the field ever get done if we don't work?" Hori lifted her in his lap. "You did well, child. Let's go home." Gobar who had been silent all this while said, "Why do you humiliate yourself before the Master so often? Does it make any difference? The bailiff still abuses us if we fall behind in rent. We are still put on forced labour. And like others we have to send our gifts too. How does it help us to fawn on him?" Hori was thinking in the same vein. But he thought it prudent to curb the rebel in Gobar. He said, "if we don't wait on him life will get from bad to worse. God has made us slaves and we have to put up with our lot. I visit the Master to gain my ends; not because I have an itch to move around. It's not easy to meet him. Sometimes I wait for hours before he calls me in. Sometimes he packs me off with a curt no." "There must be a sneaking pleasure tickling the ego of rich men," Gobar said sarcastically. "Perhaps that's why people stand for elections." "You talk wildly, son. When young, I also talked like you. But when you face facts, you'll know better. The down-trodden can't afford to be stiff-necked." Gobar left relieved having said this, and walked in silence by his father's side. Rupa snuggled in her father's lap. Sona looked at her sternly. "Why don't you walk? Have you broken your legs?"  "No, I won't," Rupa sulked. "Do what you like!" She turned her father, "Kaka, Sona teases me all the time. She says she is gold and I am only silver. I want to change my name." Hori feigned anger. "Why do you tease your sister, Sonie? Gold is only for show. But silver we need. Can they make rupees if there's no silver? Come on, tell me!" Sona retorted. "Without gold can we make nose-rings and necklaces and bracelets?" Gobar prompted Rupa. "Tell Sona that gold is the colour of withered leaves. But silver is bright, like the sun." Sona, not outdone, spoke up: "But the bride always wears a yellow sari. Do they ever dress her up in white?" Rupa looked helplessly at her father. Hori had a brainwave. "Gold is for the rich and silver for people like us. We eat barley and the rich eat wheat: we call barley the king of grains and wheat the servant. For us, silver is the king of metals and gold the servant." Rupa felt so buoyant at her victory that she came down from her father's lap and scampered away clapping. Dhania stood by the door, waiting for them. "Why are you so late, Gobar," she said. "You are killing yourself with work." She looked sternly at Hori. "And instead of coming straight home you also made for the fields. Surely, the fields would not have grown feet and run away." There was a well by the house. Hori and Gobar poured pitchers of water over their bodies and sat down to eat. The chapaties were of barley but white and soft ones. The dal had shreds of raw mango in it. Rupa ate from the same thali as her father. Sona eyed her with jealousy. How she was being coddled! Dhania asked Hori what happened at the Master's. Hori drank a lotaful of water. "Nothing in particular" he replied. "The same story. Rent collection and all that. You think the rich are happy? They are worse off than us. Our only worry is the daily bread. But the Rai Saheb says, they are worried by a thousand devils." "If that's so, why doesn't the Rai Saheb change places with us?" Gobar shouted. "We shall gladly give him our land, plough and bullocks. All we have, in fact. Will he agree to this deal? What a rascal! A man who lives in a palace, has a dozen cars, eats sumptuously and has a finer time than we can ever have, calling himself unhappy!" "It's no use arguing with you, son." Hori said. "Does anybody ever give up his ancestral property? Look at us for instance. What do we get out of our land? The return does not even equal an anna's wage per head. A servant with a salary of ten rupees per month is better off than us. But we do not give up our land and go in for a job. Do we? Our prestige gets in the way. Well, that's exactly the case with the Zamindar." Gobar said, "There's nothing in what you say, father. We hardly have a full meal, or rags on our backs. But the Zamindar has hundreds to wait on him and thousands to order about. Of course, he may not be able to amass more riches. But he lives in luxury all right. What else is money for?" "So you think there's no difference between him and us." "None. God has made us all equal." "That's not true, son. It's God who creates the high and the low. One comes into wealth after a lot of penance. It's the fruit of the deeds of our past life. We sowed nothing and we have nothing to reap." "These are fancies, only to console the mind. God creates us all equal. Those who have power oppress the poor and become rich." "You are wrong. The Master is a God-fearing man. He prays four hours every day and gives in charity." "And who feels the rub?" "No one needs to." "The peasants and the workers do. It's to clean his conscience for his evil riches that he prays and gives in charity. Let's see him pray on an empty stomach. Give me a bellyful of food twice a day and I'll gladly kill the day in prayer. A day's work in the field and his piety will go the way of his sweat." "There's no use arguing with you. You'll quarrel with the ways of God." When towards the evening Gobar was about to leave for the field Hori said. "Wait for me, son. But before you go take out some straw. It's for Bhola." "But we have no straw to sell." "I am not selling it. I am just giving it away. Bhola is hard up." "Why should we give Bhola straw? Has he even given us anything? Any of his cows?" "He was giving me a cow. I refused." Dhania said tartly, "He, a cow!" Gobar caught on quickly. "Let's have a straight deal. We shall sell him twenty rupees worth of straw and slowly off the balance. Let him give us the cow." Hori smiled mysteriously. "I can have the cow for a song. All that I have to do is arrange for Bhola's marriage. That's all. I am giving him a few maunds of straw to establish my credentials." Gobar said, "So you are no more than a maker of pretty matches!" "Perhaps that is the only job left for him," Dhania chipped in. "But what's wrong with our helping Bhola to set up home?" Gobar picked up the chelum and left to light it. These arguments were not to his liking. "Bhola is a good man," continued Hori. "Whenever he meets me he has the most wonderful things to say about you." A faint smile flickered on Dhania's face. "I don't need his praise." She said, "He should mind his own business." "I told him so. But he keeps harping on it. You know his wife henpecked him all his life and how scared he was of her. But you are so different. A glimpse of you in the morning, he said, always brought him luck. I see your face every morning," he smiled. "You never bring me luck." "I can't help it if your luck is out!" "Bhola is a meek man," Hori continued. "Any one else in his place would not have stood her for a day. He is ten years older than me, but he is always the first to greet me." Dhania was still relishing Bhola's remarks about her. "Now what was it he said about me," she said musingly. "What happens when he sees my face..." "Some lucky deal always turns up for him." At this point Gobar announced the arrival of Bhola. Dhania was all in a flurry at her praise. She hustled about telling Gobar to attend to the guest properly and asking Rupa to run for a piece worth of tobacco. Bhola took a long pull at the chelum. "A good wife is a Lakshmi, bhai. She knows how to look after her guests." Dhania stood behind the door trembling in joy. She followed Hori when he left to bring straw for Bhola. Hori wondered where Bola had managed to get such an enormous basket. If he gave him two basketfuls, two maunds of straw would be clean gone. Dhania reproved him, "Either do not invite a guest, or if you do, feed him well. Why should he bring a small basket? He is not collecting flowers. Give him at least three basketfuls. Poor fellow, how will he carry the load! He should have brought his sons with him."  "I can't afford to give him three." "You don't mean to send him off with one, do you? Tell Gobar to fill his own basket and go with Bhola." "But Gobar is going to the field." "The sugar cane won't wither away if he leaves it for a day." "But he should have brought someone along. He has two strong sons." "They might have gone to the market." "It's ridiculous. I give him my straw. And carry it for him too!" "All right, let it be. I'll arrange it myself. There's no shame in serving one's elders." "But think of it—if I give him three basketfuls what will my bullocks eat?" "You should have thought of it before you made the offer. Not now." "But there is a limit to being kind! You don't want to see my house robbed." "Had it been the Zamindar's bailiff you would have gone running with the load. You, and your son, and even the daughters! And without a murmur you would even have thrown in a maund or two of wood into the bargain." "The Zamindar's case is different." "Because he pushes you around?" "No, because it's his land that I till." "You pay rent for it." But there was no escape for Hori. He had to part with three basketfuls of straw. When Hori and Gobar came out carrying the first basket, Bhola quickly rolled his neck-cloth into a ball and adjusting it on his head, said, "I'll take another. I'll be back in minute." "Take two," Hori said expansively. "They are lying filled inside. I and Gobar will carry them for you." How kind of Hori. Bhola was stupefied. On the way they fell to talking about the coming Dussehra celebrations in which Hori had been assigned a small part. "But have you arranged for the offering?" Bhola asked. "You can't get away without it." Hori wiped the perspiration from his face. "I am worried about it, bhai. The grain was weighed and taken away before it reached the barn. The Zamindar took his share and the money-lenders theirs. Only five seers fell to my lot. Thank God, I removed the straw secretly by night. Or not a blade would have been left. The Zamindar apart, I've three money-lenders to cope with. I've not been able to pay their interest. Half the rent of the Zamindar's remains unpaid. I had again to borrow from the money-lender. I stint in every possible way. But it makes no difference. The rich advise us to be frugal. But they don't set an example. The Rai Saheb frittered away twenty thousand rupees on his son's marriage and nobody raised a finger. Mangru, the money-lender, spent five thousand rupees on his father's cremation and nobody questioned him. The poor also have sons and fathers." "We can't keep pace with the rich, bhai." "But we are also men like them." "That's what you think. A man is not a man without wealth, power and education. We are no better than bullocks, born to be yoked." For old men there is no topic more engaging than memories of the past, the sorrows of the present, and fears of what might come. Reminded about Hori's separation from his brothers, Bhola said with a touch of sympathy. "The separation must have pained you a great deal. You had brought up your brothers like your own sons." "It was a painful case, bhai" Hori said in a strained voice. "I felt like drowning myself. A pity, that this should have happened in my lifetime. The very brothers for whom I sacrificed my youth turned into bitter enemies. And all over a trifling matter: they wanted my wife to work in the pasturage. Now, one may ask, isn't someone required to do the household work? In any case she did not spend her time idling. Cooking, cleaning, looking after the children takes a lot of time. Had Sobha's wife or Hira's wife the sense to look after the house? When we lived jointly, these women felt hungry every four hours. Why don't they eat four times a day now? Bhai, you can't imagine the state to which this reduced Gobar's mother! it's good that we separated. I am glad we've got rid of them." "This is the story in every family," Bhola replied. "Why brothers? Even my sons have differences with me. It's my bad habit that I don't cock a blind eye on their pranks. I tell them: If you want to indulge in luxury, pay for it yourself. But earn they cannot, and waste they must. Tell me, how am I to provide for all this? My elder son, Kamta, when he returns from the market, can't account for half the sale proceeds. Ask him and he remains mum!. The younger son Jangi is a music fan. Always ready with the drums and cymbals. I have nothing against music. But there's a time for everything. I have to feed the cattle, milk the cows, and go to the market. To tell you the truth, brother, these duties have become the bane of my life: a golden fish in the mouth which I can neither swallow nor throw out. You know my daughter, Jhunia, the unlucky one. You came to her marriage, of course. What a good family she was married into. Her husband ran a milk shop in Bombay. Somebody stabbed him to death during the Hindu-Muslim riots and the family went to pieces. I have brought her back with the idea of marrying her off again. Both her sisters-in-law nag her to death whenever they have the time; the house is no more than a theatre of war. She's slowly going crary." This conversation accompanied them till Bhola's village—small but flourishing and mostly inhabited by cowherds. Bhola was the headman. Tied in a big enclosure outside the house about a dozen animals were busy feeding. In the vestibule was a large wooden takhtposh, so heavy that ten people could hardly lift it. On one peg hung a drum: on another, cymbals. In a niche wrapped in a piece of cloth lay a book, very likely the Ramayana. Both the daughters-in-law of the house were busy at cow-dung cakes. Jhunia stood in the doorway, her eyes red, perhaps from crying. Her lips, large and full; her cheeks well rounded, eyes small and deep-set the forehead narrow. But the full-blown grace of her bosom and resilient softness of her body gave her a seductive charm; her rose sari had an uneasy time concealing her youthfulness. She leapt forward and gave her father a hand with the basket. "Bring a chelum, daughter," Bhola said. "And get some sherbet done. You recognise Hori Mehto, of course?" Jhunia returned with a chelum in one hand and a rope and pitcher in the other. "Here, let me," Gobar said self-consciously, stretching out his hand for the pitcher. But Jhunia held on to the pitcher. Briskly she ran up the steps of the well and looked back sweetly, "But you are our guest." "Neighbours are not guests." "Oh yes, they are. If they drop in once in a blue moon." "But even a neighbour can't visit every day." "That's exactly what I mean," Jhunia cast a sidelong glance at him. "Come once a month and I'll treat you to a nice cool drink. Once a fortnight and I'll give you the chelum. Once a week, and you'll get the best seat. Every day, and you get nothing." "Nothing? Not even a glimpse of you?" That's the hardest to get," Jhunia tossed her head. After they had eaten, Bhola said, "The cow is feeding. Come tomorrow, Gobar, and take her." Gobar's eyes were glued on the cow. "There's no hurry," Hori said, suppressing his eagerness. "I'll send for her sometime." "But I am in a hurry," Bhola said with exaggerated emphasis. "Standing by your door, she will remind you of your promise." "You have my word for it, brother. I have not forgotten." Hori and Gobar took leave of Bhola. Both were happy. Hori over the fulfilment of a long cherished desire realised so inexpensively, and Gobar at having come into possession of a still more priceless treasure. Desire stirred within him. He stole a backward glance. Jhunia was at the door. He sensed her feelings for him. Like Hope, impatient, flickle.  Hori did not sleep a wink that night. Lying on a cot under the neem tree, he gazed at the stars and thought of the cow. A trough would have to be fixed for her, away from the bullocks. But where would he tie her? It was no problem in summer—outside, by the door. But in the rainy season? And what if some accursed person cast an evil eye at her? She might dry up for good. Moreover, the Zamindar's bailiff would also come clamouring with puffed cheeks and itching palms. It would never do to antagonise him. The best thing would be a thatched shed in the courtyard. This cow wouldn't give less than five seers of milk at the first calving. Gobar would need at least a seer a day. And Rupa? She would drink bucketfuls, if she liked. But wasn't it a mistake to let Dhania into the secret so early? It would have been fun to see her discomfiture when she found a cow being led into the courtyard. Ah well, what was done was done. What mattered now was to look after the cow. He wished Gobar had been more energetic. Perhaps a father should not be so exacting. After all, boys will be boys. Didn't he himself loaf about the whole day when his father was alive? Everyone said if the family went to pot he would be responsible. But he did change after all when it came to shouldering responsibility... So might Gobar. It was a pity though, that his two brothers had separated from the family; for instead of one, three ploughs abreast would have furrowed the land. Dawn was breaking. It was time he fixed the trough. But shouldn't he await the arrival of the cow? If Bhola changed his mind he would become the laughing stock of the whole village. "It's morning, father," Gobar said waking. "Have you fixed the trough?" "Not yet, son, I thought I'd wait till the cow is here. You can never be sure of Bhola." "What's the hitch?" Gobar's eyes narrowed, "we are getting the cow." "You don't know Bhola. The devil may whisper something in his ear." Gobar marched off, carrying his staff and an air of finality. Hori, looked with pride at the receding figure of his son. He was growing into a fine young man. Time he married. But Hori had no money for the marriage. With the division in the family they had fallen on evil days. People did come to see Gobar and approved of him. But when they saw the family down and out, they washed their hands of the idea. Those who agreed pitched the demand for bride money so high that Hori was helpless. He had to marry off Sona too. It was bad enough if a son did not marry, but for a grown-up girl to remain unmarried was sacrilege. How could he look his friends in the face with an unmarried girl in the house? Hori was chewing these thoughts when Damri, the wicker-work man, greeted him and asked him if he had any bamboo to sell. Damri was dark, short and heavy. Two blood-shot eyes peered at you from a sugar face which sported a moustache; he carried a long knife in his waist band. Once or twice a year he went round purchasing bamboo for chiks, chairs, baskets and other wicker work. Hori took Damri round the bamboo grove and a deal was struck at Rs. 25/- a hundred. "You are an old customer and I shan't haggle," Hori said. "My bamboo doesn't sell for less than Rs. 30/- a hundred. By the way, has your son returned, the one who married?" "That son is my undoing, Mehto," Damri said. "He's left his wife and now lives with another woman in the city. What's worse, his wife ran off with a new man. I asked her to be a good woman and hold her peace, or I'd lose face. But she couldn't listen. These women, a nasty, rotten lot. Faithless. God should give everything to a woman, but not good looks. There's no catching her once she's good-looking. Have these bamboo groves been divided among your brothers?" "Yes, we hold equal shares. I wouldn't take my brother's share. I could tell them that I sold the bamboo at Rs. 20/- and they'd be none the wiser. This is between you and me, of course." Hori cast a fleeting glance at Damri to see how he reacted. He had put on the expression of a well-fed mendicant asking for alms. Damri cornered Hori. "Bank on me, Mehto. I won't let you down. But it's for a little profit that a man makes a shady deal. I'll tell them Rs. 15/- if you come down a little. Say, Rs. 20/-" The deal was struck. Damri stripped to the waist and began hacking at the bamboo. Heera's wife Punia was on her way to the well. Through her weil she saw Damri at the bamboo. "Stop it!" she shouted, "Who are you? Keep off this grove." Damri stopped short. "I've a right to them," he said. "I've paid for them." It was because of Heera's wife that the brothers had to separate. Heera occasionally beat her hard. Nonetheless she had the last word in the family; Heera gave in to her tamely, like a horse who kicks his master but won't deny him the right of riding his back. "I won't sell the bamboo," she said loudly. Damri knew better than to argue with a woman. "I want a word with your husband," he said curtly. Punia was hard as nails. The privations of life had dried all feelings in her. She seized Damri's hand. "Why should I call my husband when I am here. Keep your hands off my grove. That's that!" When she did not let go in spite of his protests Damri gave her a push and she went sprawling. She got up, abused him, took off her sandal and hit him repeatedly, blind with rage. Damri gulped the beatings in without complaint. He knew he had to make the best of a very bad job. Hearing Punia's cries Hori came running. Punia wailed louder. Hori blew up. Smashing the fence he charged at Damri. "Run off if you hold life dear," he shouted, kicking Damri, "How dare you lift a hand at a woman of our family?" Short, sturdy Heera had come up in the meantime. He was feared because of his fits of rage. His eyes blazed; the veins on his neck throbbed. But he was not angry at Damri, but at Punia, his wife. What business had she quarrelling with a man? Of a low caste at that? He made straight for Punia, dragged her away and started lashing her. Punia howled. "May all the plagues of the world visit your accursed body," she shrieked. "May leprosy gnaw your limbs, one by one." Heera's inflamed imagination went limp at the prospect of catching leprosy. With pneumonia or cholera the end was swift. But to die a slow death eaten by leprosy was not what he wanted up his street. He treated her to another round of thrashing. He then turned to Damri and said, "Why do you gape at me? Go on with your work. You know the price, Rs. 15." Punia beat her head. "If you are bent upon burning your own house, go ahead. Burn it. What concern is it of mine? What a terrible fate, what a terrible fate! To fall in the hands of a butcher like you." She set off for home. "Where are you off to now?" Heera thundered. "Go to the well, Now." Having tasted the fireworks, she had no desire to receive more. Meekly picking up the basket she moved towards the well, sobbing. "And don't create another scene!" Hori shouted after Heera  "No one listens to you and you keep on shouting," Dhania called from the doorstep. "Don't you know her? It's the same Punia who abused you the other day. She deserved the thrashing she got. What's wrong with it?" Coming to the door, Hori teased her, "How would you like a bit of the fireworks she got?" "As if I haven't had it already!" "Not quite like this. You'd have run away, wouldn't you, if you had?" "I've seen worse. If Heera beats his wife he loves her also. You only know how to beat, not how to love." "You can't say that. It was you who went to your parent's home and never thought of returning to me. I had to go and get you." "Yes, when you couldn't do without me. Not because you loved me." Early married life throbs with youth and desire: like the dawn, the span of life seems suffused with a roseate glow. The afternoon of life dissolves illusion in its shining rays, bringing us face to face with reality. On the hectic struggle descends the peace of the evening when, like tired wayfarers sitting on a cliff, we brood over the past and casually watch the stir and swirl of life below, so remote and alien. Dhania's eyes moistened. "How you talk," she said. "You never forgave me even a slight mistake. "You are being unjust, Dhania," Hori said. "Ask Bhola how I have always praised you." "Let's see if Gobar returns with the cow or empty handed," Dhania said, changing the topic. She had just gone in when Damri came up, perspiring heavily. "Mehto, come and count the bamboo," he said "I'll cart it away tomorrow." Hori saw no need of checking the bamboo, and Damri opening his pouch casually placed Rs. 7/8 in Hori's hand. "Is that all?" Hori said. "No, no, another Rs. 2/8." "Why?" Damri said dryly. "The deal was for Rs. 15/-, wasn't it?" "No, it was Rs. 20/-" "Fifteen. Heera Mehto agreed to it in your presence. Shall I call him?" "You know very well that we settled at Rs. 20/-. Now that you're the top dog doesn't mean you should have things your own way. It's Rs. 2/8-. But I'll take Rs. 2/-." Damri was a hard nut to crack. He knew Hori could not have it out with him with an unclean conscience. "It's not fair, Chowdhury." Hori scowled. "You won't become a Maharaja with my two rupees." "Nor will you by cheating your brothers." Damri left. But Hori, crestfallen, sat under the tree, brooding over the matter. The money lay before him untouched. When Dhania came out she saw the money lying on the ground. "But there should have been ten rupees. Where's the rest?" Hori had not the courage to tell her how he had been taken in by Damri. He felt like a poacher who climbs the tree to steal mangoes and, falling down, tries to cover up his misadventure by brushing the dust from his clothes. He pulled a long face. "What could I do? Heera agreed to Rs. 15/-." "Heera can sell for Rs. 5/- if he likes. But why should we?" "There was a full fight going on. It wasn't the time to bargain." "Of course, how could you? Wouldn't your darling brother have felt small if you had said no? Specially when your favourite sister-in-law was getting the thrashing of her life!" Hori seethed but flapped her words in silently without so much as raising an eyebrow. He picked up the hoe to go to the field. "Where are you off to?" Dhania said snatching away the hoe. "Go and take your bath. The food's ready." "I'm not hungry." "Not hungry? Your brother must have fed you on laddus" she flung at him. "May God give such excellent brothers to everybody." Hori blew up. "Your limbs seem to want a thrashing." "That's no fault of mine," Dhania said with mock innocence. "You've spoiled me with your love." "Oh, let me alone. Or should I go?" "Who am I to turn you out? The house is yours. You are the master." With his wits already blunted by the day's incident Hori had no time for banter. He put away the hoe and went to bathe. He was a long time in returning. But there was no sign of Gobar yet. What was the boy up to? Chasing Jhunia? He did not feel like taking his food without Gobar. He nibbled half-heartedly and stretched under the shade of the neem tree. Curly hair rumpled, Rupa came up crying. She had a complaint against Sona who said that when the cow came she would not allow Rupa to make cow-dung cakes. This was terribly unfair. In what way was she less important than Sona? Sona did the cooking, but didn't she clean the utensils? Sona drew the water but didn't she graze the goat? "You shall prepare the cow-dung cakes," Hori said amused at her naivété. "If Sona comes near the cow chase her off." "I'll milk her too," Rupa said putting her arms round Hori's neck. "Certainly. Who else can milk her?" "Then the cow is mine?" "But of course!" Beaming, Rupa broke into a run to give the news to her vanquished sister. Sona was still in her teens. She had the body of a fully grown girl and the brains of a child, as though the woman and the child in her were struggling to supplant each other. In some matters so clever that she could teach a thing or two to the most sophisticated, and in others so credulous that even a child could trick her. Her face was long and rugged but cheerful, with a faint hint of contentment. She used no oil for her hair, no kajal in her eyes, and no ornaments. It seemed as if the privations of the family were conspiring to curb her exuberance. "While you are busy with the cow-dung cakes," she said to Rupa, "I'll drink off the whole lot of milk." "I'll lock it." "I'll break it open." Sona trotted off to the mango grove. The mangoes had ripened into a slow yellow under the loo's love. The children were always hovering around: what a scramble when the breeze flung down a couple of mangoes. Rupa always did what her sister did; she followed Sona to the mango grove. Plans were under way for Sona's marriage. It hurt Rupa that no one talked about her marriage; she sometimes broached the topic herself. A glittering description she gave of what the bridegroom should look like, what lovely things he would bring her to wear and to eat. Among the children she was unapproachably supreme for her imagination put no limit on her marital expectations. The afternoon wore on, but Hori did not feel like going to the field. He fed the bullocks and prepared a chelum for himself. He was still in debt—some three hundred rupees, and the loan was gathering interest at the rate of hundred rupees each year. Five years ago he had borrowed sixty rupees from Mangru, the money-lender, to buy the bullock. He had already paid sixty rupees as interest. The loan of thirty rupees which he had taken from Pandit Data Din to plant potatoes had now jumped to a hundred. There were other loans too, and a part of the revenue still unpaid. Good, that he came into Rs. 7/8/- at just the right moment. This would solve his problem of a gift to the Zamindar during the Dussehra. But would it? Even if he got a pice from somewhere the news flashed through the village and creditors turned up in shoals. But he would earmark this money for the gift. He still had two heavy responsibilities, the marriage of Gobar and Sona. These would take away more than three hundred rupees. How he wished that he could square up his outstanding debts to the last pice. But in spite of his best efforts the debts clung to him. Hai, if things went on like this his debt would keep on swelling and one day he might have to auction his house and perhaps his children would become beggars. After the day's work, smoking the chelum, he felt these worries closing in on him like a black wall through which there was no escape. His only consolation was that he was not the only miserable man; other peasants were in the same boat; some in fact were drowning. Sobha and Heera, his brothers, were Rs. 400/- under; Jhengar had a thousand on him; Jewan Mehto was so poor that he had to send beggars away empty-handed. Debt lay on the village like a curse. Sona and Rupa burst in, flushed; "Brother's here with the cow!" They rushed back to the mango grove. Hori and Dhania were all agog. "The cow's been walking in the sun. I'll fix up some flour and oil for her," Dhania said happily. "You hurry up and fix the trough." Hori: "There's a bell somewhere in the house. We'll put it around her neck." Dhania: "Where's Sona? Tell her to get a black cord from the shop; it's good to guard against the evil eye from the start." Hori: "This is our day of days. I have got what I waited for so long." But Dhania was secretive, afraid that the gods, jealous of her happiness, might instruct calamity to follow close on the heels of joy. She was kneading the flour and oil when Gobar arrived, a crowd of children following. Hori ran forward and clung to the cow's neck. Dhania hastily tore a strip from a black dhoti, and tied it round the neck of the animal. Hori gazed at the cow in a trance, as if a goddess disguised as a cow had come to sanctify his house. What magnificently good fortune. "What are you gaping at?" Dhania said overwhelmed. "Go, get the trough ready in the courtyard." "In the courtyard? There's no space there. I'll tie her outside." For Hori the cow was not only a thing for worship but also a show-piece, a living symbol of prosperity. He wanted people to point at his house and say: There, that's Hori Mehto's house. Dhania was suspicious. She would have kept the cow behind seven courtyards, if she could help it; even hide her in the room. Hori persisted in wanting the trough, outside. She was also insistent, until Hori gave in. The cow had not come wrapped up in a palanquin: she created quite a stir in the village. The villagers flocked to size her up: she was no ordinary cow. Her arrival was an event, a red-letter day. Did she really cost eighty rupees? Was Hori as prosperous as all that? Hori beamed at critic and admirer alike. Seventy-year old, hollow-cheeked, Pandit Matadin leaned on his staff and peered about him with faded eyes. "Let me see her, Hori," he said. "I hear she's a beauty." Hori touched the old man's feet and took him into the courtyard. The old Pandit looked her up and down, from horns, to udder stroking her flanks. She's flawless," he swayed his head approvingly. "Perfect. I tell you, each calf of hers will be worth a hundred rupees. Treat her well; on no account cut down on her grass." "It's all due to your mercy, Maharaj," Hori said gratefully. "No, son, it's His kindness." Matadin squirted out a jet of tobacco juice. "You must have paid cash for her." "Yes, Maharaj. Cash down. Eighty rupees. Bhola's business like." Hori should have known better, for Matadin was a quick one to spot a lie. But the temptation to show off got the better of him. "No harm done, son" he said. "It's all to the good. You'll get five seers of milk out of her. After feeding the calf, that is." "Oh no, Maharaj! How can an old cow like her give five seers?" Dhania broke in. "Specially when we haven't enough to feed her on." "In any case, take my advice and don't tie her outside." Dhania looked at Hori significantly as though she wanted to say: Now what have you to say to that. The entire village came. But not Heera and Sobha, his own brothers. Hori had a soft corner for them and a visit from them would have delighted him. In the evening the two brothers passed by his door without so much as casting a glance in his direction. The indifference of Heera and Sobha rankled in Hori's mind. With the division of property one does not snap off relations like this: a brother is always a brother. He talked about it to Dhania. Dhania curled up her nose. "I've told you a thousand times not to mention their names in my presence. The entire village turned up—not they\ Do they live so far? Have they put henna on their feet? You take my word for it; they're green with jealousy." Light-up time. Dhania went to buy kerosene from the shop. Hori took Rupa in his lap. "Run to uncle Heera's" he said caressing her. "And see if he's home. Go to uncle Sobha's too. Tell them I wish to see them. If they refuse catch them by the hand and bring them." "I won't go, Choti Chachi chides me." "Don't call on her. Go to uncle. And Sobha's wife... she likes you—doesn't she?" "She likes me. But uncle Sobha is such a tease. He tells me... no, I won't tell you." "Tell me." "No, I won't." "How does he tease you? Come on, Rupa, tell me." "He says he keeps a mouse for me. He wants me to fry it and eat it." Hori smiled. "You should tell him to sample it first." "But mother doesn't want me to go to their house." "Are you mother's daughter or mine?" Rupa put her arms round Hori's neck. "Hers of course," she said with a disarming smile. "Then get down from my lap. Get down now. I won't let you eat from my thali." "No, I'm your daughter," she corrected herself quickly. "Not mother's." "Then will you do what mother says or what I say?" "What you say, father." "Then run off to your uncles." "And if mother scolds me?" "She won't know." Dhania was returning from the shop when she met Rupa on her way to uncle Heera. "You are going to Heera's house?" She scolded Rupa. "Come home with me." Hori was busy fixing the trough. He feigned ignorance of the whole affair. "Now you are again at it." he complained. "Shouting all the time! Must you always act like a blind dog who keeps barking at the wind?" The early hours of the night were gone, the trough fixed, feed served. But the cow was sad, as a bride on her first day at the father-in-law's house. Hori and Gobar dangled chapaties before her. But she would not even sniff at them. Hori went out; sitting on the cot, smoking the chelum, he thought of his brothers. After a while he kept the chelum against the cot and proceeded towards Heera's house. Heera and Sobha were lying outside their house. In the dark they did not see Hori coming. They were chatting, and the talk was about him. Hori stopped in his tracks. Heera "When we lived together he did not buy even a goat. Now he goes in for a cow. No one ever prospers by swiping his brother's money." Sobha: "You are unjust to Hori, bhaiya. He squared up every single pie." Heera: "That's what you think. But I know that he has bought the cow out of the money that he had kept back from our joint fund." Sobha: "You shouldn't accuse him like that." Heera: "Then where has all this money come from? Did, it drop from the sky? Our lands are the same size, the yield is the same. How is it that we haven't enough money to buy a shroud while he goes in and buys a cow." Sobha: "He might have brought it on credit." Heera: "Bhola is the last man to give credit." Sobha: "But the cow's a splendid creature. I saw her when Gobar was bringing her to the village." Heera: "He will soon have to part with her. Tainted money doesn't last long." Hori could stand it no more. Their accusing words cut into his heart. He turned back. Back in his cot he sat smoking the burnt-out chelum and then tried to sleep. But no sleep came. He stroked the backs of the bullocks. But he could not keep his mind away from venomous thoughts. He prepared another chelum. But the tobacco was without tang. His state of mind was now like a stretch of water which, on finding an outlet, rushes out in a torrential swirl. How could he keep the cow when gossips were actively smearing his name? Agitated he went in and untethered the cow, determined to return her to Bhola. Dhania sat up on the mat. "What are you up to so late in the night?" Hori took a step towards the door. "I'm returning her to Bhola." Dhania barred his way. "Why? Was it to take her back that you brought her here?" "Yes, that's the best thing to do." "You are funny. You were so eager to bring her and now you want to return her. Does Bhola want immediate payment?"  "No, he never came here." "Then what's all the rumpus about?" "I wish I could tell you. But you won't like it." Dhania snatched away the halter from him. "There's no need to tell me," she said. "I know it already: you are afraid of your brothers. Aren't you? You may go and fall at their feet if you like. But I won't give this for them. If they are jealous let them be as jealous as they want." "Not so loud, Maharani. People will think we are having it out again. If only you knew what I heard. It's on everybody's lips that I deceived my brothers and am now on a spree with their share of the money." "Heera must have said so." "Why single out Heera? The whole village is talking about it." "I know it's Heera. He's the chief one." Dhania tied the cow to the peg and before he could stop her she was outside the door. Knowing her tantrums, he was in no mood to follow her and create another scene. Once provoked, she went haywire. Hori was also short-tempered at the thought. He cursed himself for having divulged Heera's talk to Dhania. Holding his head, he sat down on the ground. What he feared most had happened. Suddenly Dhania's grating voice came floating in the air, followed by Heera's loud bark. And then Punia's screech. Hori suddenly thought of Gobar. He rushed out. Gobar's cot was empty. He was nowhere to be seen. Excitement mounted in the village. Hori, like every other peasant, was by nature peace-loving. A brawl he knew, always ended in harassment by the police, in time, dumped in the court, and resulted in neglect of the land. He wished to keep out of the quarrel but he could not check himself for long. From near a wall he watched the scene. Like a seasoned general he wanted to take stock of the situation. If the quarrel swung in Dhania's favour there was no need to join in the fray; but if she got the worst of it some reinforcements had to be sent to her. A big crowd had collected. He stood tense. Dhania blazed away at Heera, her caustic tongue working away merrily. But her vitriolic broadsides, ill becoming of a woman, were fast losing her the sympathy of the crowd. Heera shouted in fury, "Clear off from my door. Or I'll drive you off with my shoes. How dare you abuse me like this, you witch!" Hori exploded like a keg of powder. "You have crossed the limit, Heera." He stepped forward, "I'll hear no more."  The tables were turned. Everyone fell on Heera. If one from the crowd called him a shameless brute, another called him a goonda and a third a devil. One uncouth word from Dhania had tipped the scale in Heera's favour, another scurrilous word from him had turned it in her favour. "Did you hear how your brother abused me?" she said turning to Hori. "He wants to beat me with his shoes." "Don't start talking rot again," Hori said shortly. "Go home." But Dhania sat on the ground obstinately. "Not before I get a shoe beating! Let him show off his bravery. Did you hear, Gobar, my son? Your mother's going to get a show beating!" Heera fearing the temperamental crowd tried to back out. But Dhania rushed on him, an infuriated lioness, and gave him a violent push. He fell flat on the ground. "Why are you slipping away?" Dhania screamed. "Give me a shoe beating! Go on, beat me! Where've your guts gone!" Hori seized her by the hand and dragged her home.  Gobar had a long talk with Jhunia when he returned that day from Bhola's village with the cow. Jhunia escorted the restive cow nearly half the distance to Gobar's village. On the way Jhunia cast a meaningful glance at Gobar and said, "I know you won't care to come this side any more." Still callow, uninitiated, it never occurred to Gobar to regard the women of the village as anything other than his sisters or others' wives. Coquetry went on sometimes between him and some forward women, mostly innocent fun, however. It would take long before the gangling Gobar sprouted into manhood; and no one, of course, flings stones at a tree before it starts bearing fruit. But Jhunia had known jilting; her heart grew audacious at the gossipy sneers of her brother's wives and she felt suddenly drawn towards the growing virgin Gobar. And suddenly too, she touched a chord in Gobar—just as sleeping beast of prey pricks up its ears at the rustle of a leaf. With the abandon of an amorist Gobar said, "In the hope of getting alms a beggar will gladly stand at the door of his benefactor for days and nights on end." Jhunia jibed: "You blow wherever the wind blows and couldn't care less." Gobar's veins tingled. "A hungry man who stretches his hand for alms deserves to be forgiven." Jhunia cast her net wider. "But if a beggar doesn't knock at ten doors he'll go hungry. What shall I do with such beggars? You find them littering every street. And what do they give in return? Blessings. Can blessings satisfy hunger?" Jhunia's remarks went over the head of the dim-witted Gobar. From her childhood Jhunia had delivered milk to her father's customers. Even now she went round selling curd. She had to deal with all sorts of persons. Besides bringing her money, this was considerable fun. But such diversion was transitory, like a borrowed thing, over which she had no right. She longed for a selfless love, for which she could live and die; love not fitful like a glowworm's but slow and steady like the flame of an earthen lamp. She was basically the domestic type; even the attentions of young gallants who fluttered around her had not succeeded in snuffing this out. Gobar's face flushed with longing. "If a beggar gets enough at one house why should he knock at many doors?" What a simpleton! Why didn't he understand her? "A beggar will get enough for a thimble at each door, " she said. "To get all he has to give all." "But I have nothing to give, Jhunia." "You haven't? You, who can give what even the richest of the rich can't?" Gobar looked at her amazed. "Of course you can. But there's a price to be paid," Jhunia added. "You'll have to be mine. And then if I see you begging before others I'll give you up for ever." Gobar, groping in the dark so long, realised that he had accidentally laid his hand on exactly the thing he wanted. His nerves thrilled with joy and fear. Could he accept her? Wouldn't the village taboos stand in his way? The crackling would begin. Even his mother would shut the door on his face. He shouldn't let this worry him, of course. If Jhunia, a woman, was prepared to face the music, why should he waver? At worst they would throw him out of the village. He was ready to suffer ostracism for a sensible girl like Jhunia. It was a big wide world and if they threw him out he could live in another village. But would things come to such a pass? Didn't Matadin, a Brahmin, marry a cobbler woman? Datadin gnashed his teeth in dismay but couldn't do a thing about it. It must be said to Matadin's credit though that he didn't allow his religion to be defiled. He cooked his food himself and wouldn't eat without saying his prayers. Even Datadin had patched up with him. Again, take the case of Thakur Jhenguri Singh who kept a Brahmin woman. Had he to suffer for that? He still commanded respect; if anything, his prestige had gone up. Before she came to live with him he used to knock about in search of a job. Now he waxed rich with her money and had turned into a money-lender! To the respectability of a Thakur had been grafted the awe of a money lender. "Are you serious Jhunia?" he asked. "I am yours. But will you be mine?" "How do I know that you are mine?" "You have only to ask and I'll lay down my life for you." "Indeed! You know what you are saying?" "I do, but you could teach me better." "Yes, I could. Listen. It means to stand by me whatever comes. To be steadfast in love. Even when everyone's against you. Even if you have to give up your home, your people, your friends. I have come across many who talk big. They are bees which fly away after drinking from the flower. Are you sure you are not one of them?"  Gobar was holding the rope of the cow in one hand. With the other he quickly seized Jhunia's hand. The first contact with her body ran a shiver through him as though he had touched a live wire. How soft, how cushiony, her wrist was! Jhunia did not withdraw her hand. She said very seriously, "Remember, today you held my hand in yours." "I'll remember, Jhunia. Always. To the end of my life." A faint, lightly sceptic smile flit across her face. "That's what they say, Gobar," she said. "Even softer, even sweeter. If anything's unsaid, tell me now. I'll be careful. I don't give my heart to tricksters. I have fun with them, laugh with them. For years I've been carrying milk to the market. I've met many who've offered me love—clerks, officers, lawyers, thakurs, money-lenders. All wanting to rope me in. One puts his hand on his heart and says, "Jhunia, have pity on me!" Another stares at me with passion and pretends that he is swooning for love of me. Another tempts me with money, another with jewels. All are ready to be my slaves in this world—and the next. I see through them all. I also smile at them, flirt with them a little. They try to fool me: I diddle them good and proper. But I'm not hungry for money, nor for jewellery. All I want is a decent man whom I can claim as my own. I'll stand by him always. "I'll tell you about Panditji. He anoints his forehead with sandal paste and buys half a seer of milk from me every day. "One day I went to his house to deliver the milk. He locked the door from inside. I found his wife was away visiting friends. In a flash I knew. "Why have you locked the door?" I shouted. Take the milk if you want it or off I go. "Jhunia my queen, he said advancing. Day after day you ran away, carving my heart with your beauty. But today I have you." "Believe me Gobar; I was at my wit's end." Gobar said indignantly, "Point out the rascal to me. I'll skin him alive." "Let me finish," Jhunia said. "I can deal with these ruffians myself. Well, I was terribly scared but I took courage in both hands and said, 'make no mistake about it, Panditji. I am the daughter of a cowherd. Let me go or I'll pluck out every single hair of your moustache. Is this the advice you get in your holy books? Molesting helpless girls by locking them in your room? What is that sandal paste on your forehead for? To show holiness or hide rougery?' "He fell at my feet and whined, "You'll lose nothing by being a little indulgent to a lover, Jhunia, my queen, my own. Have a little pity on the poor too. What will you reply when God asks; I gave you so much beauty and you didn't even look kindly at a Brahmin. Speak up. I am a Brahmin, thirsting for a word from your lips. I get money in alms every day. It's your beauty's alms that I crave for today.' "I hurled the pitcher at his face, milk and all. He sat down suddenly, drenched with milk, badly hurt, holding his head and groaning in pain. I gave him two parting kicks in the back, opened the door and ran." Gobar burst into a laugh. "You did the right thing. His paste marks must have been washed away. But why didn't you pluck out his moustache?" "The next day I again went to his house. His wife was at home. He was lying in the front room, his head bandaged. 'Shall I tell her about yesterday, Panditji?' I asked him. Rubbing his head on the ground he whined, 'My honour is in your hands. If my wife comes to know about it, she'll kill me.' I took pity on him." Gobar did not approve of showing pity to the man. "Why you tell his wife? Such Pandits deserve no mercy. Point him out to me tomorrow. I'll hammer him up." Jhunia looked at his body and said, "You are no match for him. He's a giant. Gets lots of good things to eat free of cost, you see." "A stout man isn't always strong." Gobar boasted. "Look at me. My bones are like steel. I do three hundred dand every morning. If I could get milk my chest would be this." He demonstrated vividly. Jhunia looked at him dubiously. "All right. I'll show you the man some day. But there are so many of them. You can't possibly deal with them all. I am not much to look at, but I get ogled a lot, you know." "Who could be more beautiful?" Gobar protested. Jhunia struck him playfully on the back. "Now you've started flattering me like the others. I know how I look. But what these men want is a young girl to flirt with. They think of other qualities in her when it comes to the question of marriage. I've heard and seen too that the families of the rich are specialists in this. In the street where my father-in-law had his house, lived a Kashmiri family of Gapru, or some such name. He was a big man. I sold them five seers of milk every day. He had three daughters, all young and pretty. They went to college. I think one of them taught there and got Rs. 300/- a month! They played on the sitar and the harmonium, sang, danced—all three of them. But none wanted to marry. God knows if they couldn't find the men they wanted or men didn't find them suitable. Once I questioned the eldest. She smiled and said, Oh, I don't much care for marriage. It's a pain in the neck. But they had the gayest of times all the same. Wherever you saw them they were surrounded by young scamps. The eldest even dressed like a man, in trousers and coat, and went horseback riding. They were the talk of the town. Gapru Saheb used to hang his head as if in shame. He rebuked them. But they retorted, You've no business to interfere with what we do.' What could the poor man do? He couldn't beat grown-up girls. But rich men make their own laws. They do what they like. They have no fear of what people say. But what I don't see is why the man is so shifty. Is he no better than animals? Mnd you, I'm not complaining. There are people who are happy with simple things. There are others who can't stand simplicity. Take the case of my brothers' wives. My brothers are no cripples. You could spot them a mile off. But their wives can hardly put up with them. Their idea of a good husband is one who buys them gold ear-rings and fine saris and spiced chaat every day. I like ear-rings and sweets too but not at the cost of my self-respect. To pass my days with one man is the one pleasure of my life. It's men who spoil their wives. If a husband runs after women it's natural for his wife to exchange glances with other men. I had plainly told my husband too that if he ran around I'd do the same. Can you keep a wife under lock and key and play the fool of yourself? What you do openly she'll do secretly." Jhunia's talk had opened windows on a world entirely new to Gobar. He heard her with rapt attention, occasionally stopping dead in wonder. Jhunia had already bewitched him with her knowledge of the ways of the world; and, of course, her fidelity. When she realised that Gobar was completely under her sway, she looked about surprised. "Oh, look, we've almost reached your village," she said biting her finger. "How wrong of you not to have told me even once to turn back." She made as if to go back. Gobar persisted, "Why don't you come to our house for a minute? My mother would love to meet you." Jhunia flicked her eyes shyly. "No, not now, not like this. It's wrong of me to come so far. But tell me; when will you come to our village? This evening there's community singing outside our house. Come. Do. I'll be behind the house." "And if you aren't there?" "Go back." "Hmm." "Come you will. You must" "Promise you'll be there."  "I won't give my word." "Then I refuse to come." "Don't. A fat lot I care!" She wiggled her thumb at him and left. At the first encounter they had established their claims to each other. Jhunia knew he would come. Come he must. Gobar knew she would meet him. That she would. Resuming his journey, alone, Gobar felt like a person expelled from heaven.  The streets of Semari, till now in a daze in the oppressive heat of June, had to-day revived with the sprinkling of water and looked bright and cool. The pavilion, the venue of activities of the day, had been fitted with electric fans; the flower pots arranged in circular rows gave it brightness. Policemen, in smart yellow tunics and blue turbans, strutted stiffly amid the crowd. The servants of the Rai Saheb, spotlessly-shirted, saffron-turbaned, breezily looked after the guests. A car stopped at the main gate and three VIPs of the locality got out. In khaddar and chappals was Pandit. Onkarnath, the popular editor of the daily Flash. Brooding day and night over the economic ills of the country, he had worked himself to the bones. The other, in a suit, Mr. Shyam Behari Tankha, was an insurance agent. He started as a lawyer, failed, and took to insurance. On the side, he also arranged loans for the Zamindars from the banks and money- lenders; this had so far proved more lucrative than legal practice. The third guest, in silk achkan and tight paijamas, Mr. B. Mehta, taught Philosophy at the University. They had been through College with the Rai Saheb. Tonight the tenants of the Estate would offer gifts to the Rai Saheb. The highlight of the day would be a tableau from the Ramayana, depicting the marriage of Rama and Sita, followed by feasting. Hori had already made a presentation of Rs. 5/- to the Rai Saheb. Wearing a rose-coloured shirt and turban and a half-paijama of the same colour which barely reached his knees, his face heavily powdered, a small scraper in one hand, he waited to play the gardener of Raja Janak. Puffed, he surveyed the scene, as if the success of the function lay on his shoulders. The Rai Saheb, tall, broad, athletic, fair-complexioned, glowed with health. A cream shawl thrown over his shoulders made him look more dapper. He led the guests to a small tent outside which was arranged a number of chairs. "What play are you putting on this time?" Pandit Onkarnath sank himself into a chair. "Drama is my only interest." "Selecting a play was quite a problem," the Rai Saheb said. "Some were so long that they would have taken five hours to go through. Others so subtle they would have gone over the heads of the audience. I got over the difficulty by writing one myself. It's a farce. About two hours long." Pandit Onkarnath did not think much of the Rai Saheb as a playwright. It was his belief that like a glowworm which shines brightest on the darkest night, intellectual brilliance was the heritage of the poor. He turned his face contemptuously, making no attempt to conceal his feelings. "In fact, the success of a play depends on the cast," Mr. Tankha suggested. "Even the best play can't stand miscasting. You know, unless educated women take to the stage the Indian theatre will not come into its own. By the way, during the last session of the Council you created quite a sensation with your interpolations. You left the other members miles behind." Such pure praise was too much for Mr. Mehta. For years he had worked on a book of Philosophy which he hoped would be a hit, then he would have sat back and relished the applause. But the book flopped and this made him sore. He was always one up on every one. "I don't think much of interpolations." he said. "I want life to be based on definite principles. You wish the peasants' welfare—you want to give them concessions—you want the rights of the Zamindars to be cut—you go further and say the Zamindars are a curse on society. Zamindars. If you believe in giving the peasants a fair deal, why not set the ball rolling yourself? Give them tenancy rights without accepting gifts; abolish forced labour; don't push up land revenue; set apart lands for grazing. I have no sympathy for those who talk like communists and live like princes." The Rai Saheb was pained. Mr. Tankha's eye-brows went up. "I think the Rai Saheb is good to the peasants," Mr. Tankha said. "If other Zamindars were like him there'd be no problem." Mr. Mehta struck another blow. "I don't say you are bad to your tenants. But the point is: What makes you not be bad? Food cooks much better on a slow fire. A man who kills sweetly works faster than one killing with poison. All I know is: We are either socialists or we are not; there's no half-way house. If we are, let's show it; if not, let's stop boasting." The Rai Saheb was a tactful man, accustomed to deal with such affronts with patience. He was silent for a moment and then said, 'Mr. Mehta, I think you are perfectly right. I like the way you call, a spade a spade. But you forget one thing. Just as a journey has stages there are stages in the evolution of human thought. I have been brought up in a tradition where a king is regarded as God and a Zamindar his deputy. My father was so generous that in times of drought and blight he would waive half the revenue or even the whole of it. He even distributed grains and sold his own jewellery to contribute to the marriage expenses of the girls of the village. But only so long as the people regarded him as the regent of God. If they wanted something as a matter of right he was the last person to oblige them. I was born into this. And I say this proudly. In my outlook and thought I have outstripped them all. I have come to believe that the lot of the peasants can be ameliorated not by pious intentions but by granting concessions as their inherent right. That a despot should give up his self-interest of his own free will is asking too much. In spite of my best intentions I can't give up my self-interest; it will have to be snatched from me. Call it cowardice; I call it helplessness. I admit that nobody has the right to grow rich by exploiting others. To be a parasite is a disgrace. Work is the first duty of man. A society in which many sweat and a few flourish can never be conductive to happiness. The sooner the citadel of wealth and education, which is nothing but another form of wealth, is stormed, the better for us all. The present state of affairs has made us licentious and servile. But I'm not against this for these reasons; I have my own. We won't justify exploitation even on the ground of self-interest. The trouble is that we have to kill our conscience to such an extent that not a trace of self- respect remains in us. We have to grind down the tenants. If we do not give costly presents to the officers we are branded as rebels. If we don't live in style we are dubbed misers. At the slightest hint of political awakening we tremble with fear and run to the government for protection. We are like spoon-fed babies, healthy to look at, frail inside." Mr. Mehta clapped his hands. "I wish your brain were half as quick as your tongue." "Mr. Mehta," Pandit Onkarnath said, "alone a fighter is helpless. Co- operation is as necessary to do away with the ills of society as it is to promote its welfare. Tell me, how do you justify a salary of Rs. 800/- when millions of Indians make do with Rs. 8/- a month?" "Let's not be personal, Panditji," the Rai Saheb said with fake disapproval. "We are discussing the institutions of society." "Oh, I don't mind," Mr. Mehta said calmly. "Individuals make up society and you can't leave out individuals in a discussion of society institutions. I accept a salary of Rs. 800/- because I have faith in the present set-up of society. This was something new for Pandit Onkarnath. "I see. Then you support the present-day institutions?" "I believe in the theory that the rich and the poor will always be with us. And that is as it should be. Wiping out distinctions will lead to social chaos." "You hold these shabby views even in the twentieth century?"  "I do, with all my heart. The dogmas you believe in are not very modern either. It all began with the birth of greed in man. The Buddha and Plato and Jesus tried to patch things up by preaching love between human beings. Greece, Rome and Assyria gave love a trial and found it would not do." "Your ideas surprise me." "Surprise is another name for ignorance." "Look, could you write me a series of articles on this subject?" "If you pay well for them." "You can make plenty. Your ideas won't have difficulty being popular." "By hook or by crook you might succeed in distributing wealth. But how can you make an equitable distribution of intelligence and character and beauty and health? It's not wealth alone that sets up the high and grades down the low. I have seen millionaires bowing to sannyasis and kings to dusky beauties. Isn't that strange? I know you'll bring in Russia. But Russia does not disprove my theory; there the millowner of yesterday has become the bureaucrat of today. Intellect was supreme in the past; it is supreme today and will keep on being supreme in the future." Betel leaves were brought in. The Rai Saheb offered them to his guests. "Intellect without self-interest," he said, "is just the thing for me. This is the final goal of socialism. We respect the sadhus because they have the will power to renounce the world. Why should we mind placing intellect on the pedestal of power and leadership? But not property, of course. The power of the intellect goes away with the death of the individual. But the desire to own property carries on in his inheritors. Society cannot progress without intellect. But first we must knock off its edge and sting." A car arrived with Mr. Khanna, the manager of a bank and the Managing Director of a sugar mill. There were two ladies with him; Kamini his wife who, in khaddar, had a look of meditation; the other in high heels was Miss Malti, vivacious, lavishly made up, witty, forward, well up in the ways of men, fond of the good things of life, coquettish—in short, very modern. She had returned from England after qualifying in medicine and had set up a private practice, counting Zamindar families among her clientele. She shook hands with Mr. Mehta. "You look every inch a philosopher. I have read your new book—the one that makes mincemeat of metaphysicians. I have a quarrel with you. Must philosophers be so dusty and soulless?" Mr. Mehta blushed. He was unmarried. He kept a safe distance away from girls, especially the modern type. Effusive in the company of men, he got tongue-tied whenever a woman entered. Mr. Khanna wanted to know if there was anything peculiar to the appearance of a philosopher. Miss Malti looked condescendingly at Mr. Mehta. "Yes, there is. If Mr. Mehta does not mind...." Mr. Khanna was a deep admirer of Miss Malti; he tailed her everywhere like a shadow. "Oh, tell us," he winked at her. "One good thing about philosophers is that they never get you wrong." "Philosophers are dry as dust. Always lost. They look at every thing, but see nothing, they hear everything but catch nothing; they live in a vacuum." General laughter. Mr. Mehta hoped the earth would open and swallow him up. "At Oxford," she continued, "the professor of Philosophy was a Mr. Husband." "What a name!" Mr. Khanna commented. "And of course he was a bachelor!" "Mr. Mehta is also a bachelor," Mr. Khanna said. Miss Malti laughed, "All philosophers suffer from Bachelor's Complaint." "But you also suffer from Bachelors' Complaint, don't you?" Mr. Mehta said to Miss Malti. "Yes, but I'll marry a philosopher. This tribe gets so scared at the mention of marriage. Mr. Husband was scared stiff of women. The moment he sighted a female he fled to his room. A simple man really—he earned thousands; but I always saw him in the same suit. A widowed sister kept house for him. To avoid visitors he always locked himself in his study. His sister used to slip in by the side door to remind him of meals. One day his sister tried to snatch the book from him. He wouldn't and a tug of war followed. But he wouldn't, and she had to push him, chair, book and all to the dining room." "Mr. Mehta's a good mixer." the Rai Saheb said, "or he would have kept away from crowds." "Then he's a philosopher of sorts," Miss Malti summed up. Pandit Onkarnath was deep in conversation with Mrs. Khanna. The life of an editor is one long grind!" he said. "He can do good neither to himself nor to others. The public expects him to be in the vanguard of every movement; he must court imprisonment and have his property confiscated. He must be everything and everywhere, conversant with every branch of learning and art. But he is denied the right to live. You are not writing much these days. Why do you deprive me of the privilege of being of service to you?" Mrs. Khanna was addicted to "poetry". Pandit Onkarnath dropped in on her occasionally in this connection. She was no good at it. But Pandit Onkarnath had carefully deluded her into grandiose ideas that her doggerel was genuine poetry. "I have run dry," she evaded the question. "Why don't you ask Malti to write for you?" Pandit Onkarnath brushed away the suggestion with a brisk wave of his hand. "Has she the time? Only those who have profound feelings, universal sympathies and incommunicable depth of devotion can succeed as writers. Not the ones who run after money and worldly frivolities." "But if she writes for you your circulation will shoot up overnight. There's no lover of literature in Lucknow who will not buy your paper." "If mercenary motives had guided my life, I would be rolling in wealth now. It is not that I don't know the intricate art of making money. But I am not a devotee of wealth; I am a humble worshipper of literature and will remain so to the end of my days." "But you may put me down as a subscriber." "No. I shall put your name down on the list of our patrons." "That's for Ranis and Maharanis, not for me. By flattering them a little you could turn their patronage to the advantage of the paper." "A woman with compassion and intellect is the true Rani. I despise flattery." "Oh come! You are flattering me." "This is not flattery, Deviji, but sincerest appreciation of your talent." The Rai Saheb shouted across to Pandit Onkarnath and his air of bravado evaporated. He stood before the Rai Saheb a picture of humility. "We were talking about you, Panditji," Miss Malti said. "If there's anyone in the world I fear, it's an editor. He can knock out the world with a stroke of his pen. The other day the Chief Secretary of the province told me: "If I can clap that swinish Onkar of an editor in jail, I'll think I've done something!" Onkarnath's moustache bristled. "I am deeply grateful to you for the information. I am glad my name is still on their lips. You may tell the Chief Secretary that Onkarnath is not one of those who are cowed down by threats. His pen knows no rest till the truth is out. He has taken upon himself to wipe out injustice and despotism from the face of the earth." Miss Malti spurred him on: "But I don't get your policy. With a little dignity, you can easily win over the authorities. If you put less fire