in the ditch.
“What is happening?” he asked the cart-driver. “Where are they all going?” The man shrugged, concentrating on getting his bullock back on the road. His prod failed to get results, and the two men had to jump off and help the animal.
On arriving in town, Dukhi saw the streets festooned with banners and flags. He learned that some leaders of the Indian National Congress were visiting. He wandered over to Ashraf’s shop to tell him, and they decided to join the crowds.
The leaders started their speeches; they said they had come to spread the Mahatma’s message regarding the freedom struggle, the struggle for justice. “We have been slaves in our own country for too long. And the time has come to fight for liberty. In this fight, we do not need guns or swords. We do not need harsh words or hatred. With truth and ahimsa we will convince the British that the moment is right for them to depart.”
The crowd applauded; the speaker continued. “You will agree that in order to overthrow the yoke of slavery we have to be strong. No one can argue against that. And only the genuinely strong can employ the power of truth and non-violence. But how can we even start to be strong when there is a disease in our midst? First we must be rid of this disease that plagues the body of our motherland.
“What is this disease? you may ask. This disease, brothers and sisters, is the notion of untouchability, ravaging us for centuries, denying dignity to our fellow human beings. This disease must be purged from our society, from our hearts, and from our minds. No one is untouchable, for we are all children of the same God. Remember what Gandhiji says, that untouchability poisons Hinduism as a drop of arsenic poisons milk.”
After this, other speakers addressed the crowd about matters related to the freedom struggle, about those who were spending time honourably in jail for civil disobedience, for refusing to observe unjust laws. Dukhi and Ashraf stayed till the very end, when the leaders requested the crowd to pledge that they would expunge all caste prejudice from their thoughts, words, and deeds. “We are taking this message across the nation, and asking people everywhere to unite and fight this ungodly system of bigotry and evil.”
The crowd took the oath that had been enjoined on them by the Mahatma, echoing the words with enthusiasm. The rally was over.
“I wonder,” said Dukhi to Ashraf, “if the zamindars in our villages would ever clap for a speech about getting rid of the caste system.”
“They would clap, and go on in the same old way,” said Ashraf. “The devil has stolen their sense of justice, nah — they cannot see or feel. But you should leave your village, bring your family here.”
“And where would we stay? There, at least we have a hut. Besides, that’s where my ancestors have always lived. How can I leave that earth? It’s not good to go far from your native village. Then you forget who you are.”
“That’s true,” said Ashraf. “But at least send your sons here for a short time. To learn a trade.”
“They would not be allowed to practise it in the village.”
Ashraf was impatient with his pessimism. “Things will change, nah. You heard those men at the meeting. Send your sons to me, I will teach them tailoring in my shop.”
For a moment, Dukhi’s eyes lit up, imagining the promise of the future. “No,” he said. “Better to stay where we belong.”
The harvest was ready, and Dukhi stopped going to the lumberyard. His vow to shun the landlords had weakened, for the distance to town was long when the transport was unreliable. He left for the fields before dawn to bring in the crop, returning to his family after dusk with an aching back and all the news from surrounding villages that he had missed in the last few months.
The news was of the same type that Dukhi had heard evening after evening during his childhood; only the names were different. For walking on the upper-caste side of the street, Sita was stoned, though not to death — the stones had ceased at first blood. Gambhir was less fortunate; he had molten lead poured into his ears because he ventured within hearing range of the temple while prayers were in progress. Dayaram, reneging on an agreement to plough a landlord’s field, had been forced to eat the landlord’s excrement in the village square. Dhiraj tried to negotiate in advance with Pandit Ghanshyam the wages for chopping wood, instead of settling for the few sticks he could expect at the end of the day; the Pandit got upset, accused Dhiraj of poisoning his cows, and had him hanged.
While Dukhi toiled in the fields and leather-work remained scarce, there was no work for his sons. Roopa tried to keep Ishvar and Narayan busy by sending them to search for firewood. Occasionally, they also found stray, unclaimed cowpats overlooked by the cowherds, though this was rare, for the precious commodity was zealously collected by the cows’ owners. Roopa did not use the dung for fuel, preferring to daub it level at the entrance to the hut. After it dried, hard and smooth, she enjoyed for a while a threshold as firm as terracotta, like the courtyards of the cattle-keepers.
Despite their chores, the boys had many empty hours to run around by the river or chase wild rabbits. They knew exactly what their caste permitted or prohibited; instinct, and eavesdropping on the conversation of elders, had demarcated the borders in their consciousness as clearly as stone walls. Still, their mother worried that they would get into trouble. She waited anxiously for the threshing and winnowing to finish, when they would be occupied under her eye, sifting the chaff for stray grain.
Sometimes the brothers spent the morning near the village school. They listened to the upper-caste children recite the alphabet, and sing little songs about colours, numbers, the monsoon. The shrill voices flew out the window like flocks of sparrows. Later, in secret among the trees by the river, the two would try to repeat from memory what the children had sung.
If curiosity drew Ishvar and Narayan too close and the teacher spotted them, they were immediately chased away. “Shameless little donkeys! Off with you or I’ll break your bones!” But Ishvar and Narayan were quite skilled at spying on the class; they could creep near enough to hear chalks squeaking on slates.
The chalks and slates fascinated them. They yearned to hold the white sticks in their hands, make little white squiggles like the other children, draw pictures of huts, cows, goats, and flowers. It was like magic, to make things appear out of nowhere.
One morning, when Ishvar and Narayan were hidden behind the bushes, the students were brought into the front yard to practise a dance for the harvest festival. The sky was cloudless, and snatches of song could be heard from the fields in the distance. The labourers’ melodies contained the agony of their aching backs, of their skin sizzling under the sun. Ishvar and Narayan listened for their father’s voice, but could not separate the strands in the chorus.
The schoolchildren held hands and formed two concentric rings, barefoot, moving in opposite directions. Every now and then, the rings reversed the pattern of movement. This was cause for much mirth because some children were late in turning, and there were mixups and tangles.
After watching for a while, Ishvar and Narayan suddenly realized that the schoolhouse was empty. They went around the yard on all fours till they were behind the hut, and entered through a window.
In one corner, the children’s footwear was arranged in neat rows; in another, beside the blackboard, were their lunchboxes. Food odours mingled with chalk dust. The boys headed for the cupboard where the slates and chalks were kept. Grabbing one each, they sat cross-legged on the floor with the slates in their laps, as they had so often watched the children do. But the two were uncertain about what came next. Narayan waited for his older brother to begin.
Ishvar was a little nervous, his chalk poised above the slate, fearful of what might happen. Gingerly he made contact, and drew a line, then another, and another. He grinned at Narayan — how easy it was to make his mark!
Now Narayan, his fingers shaking with excitement, chalked a short white line and displayed it proudly. They grew more adventurous, departing from straight lines, covering the slates with loops and curves and scrawls of all shapes and sizes, stopping only to admire, marvelling at the ease with which they could create, then erase with a sweep of the hand and recreate at will. And the chalk dust on their palms and fingers set them to giggling too — it could make thick funny lines on the forehead just like the caste marks of the Brahmins.
They returned to the cupboard to examine the rest of its contents, unrolling alphabet charts and opening picture books. Lost in the forbidden world, they did not notice that the dancing in the yard had ended, nor did they hear the teacher sneak up behind. He grabbed them by their ears and dragged them outside.
