But how does one change one’s nature? Though it was not like before, one or two characters would still come to visit Shivtahal after hearing of his success. Shivtahal was forced to look after them. Of course, he concealed these incidents from his brother, so that Ramtahal in his annoyance wouldn’t put an end to this source of livelihood. The result was that Shivtahal was compelled to sell vegetables, fodder, oil cakes and other such things on the sly. To make up for this, he extracted more work from the labourers and he exerted himself too. He ignored the heat and cold, and even the rains completely. But the problem was he had not worked this hard ever before. His health deteriorated. The food he ate was not wholesome either. Nor did he maintain any proper hours. Sometimes he would eat at midday, sometimes in the late afternoon. When thirsty, he would go straight to the pond. Weakness indicated the onset of disease. He soon fell ill. No medicine was available in the village. The food he was eating was not suitable for his condition. He began to fall sick; the fever now caught his spleen and in six months’ time he passed away.
Ramtahal was depressed by the news. In the past three years, he had not bought even a paisa’s worth of grains. Jaggery, butter, fodder for animals, fuel in the form of cow-dung cakes . . . everything came from the village. Overcome by remorse, he regretted being so negligent about his brother’s treatment, drowned as he was in his own selfish pursuits. But how was he to know that the fever could take such a fatal turn? Had he realized the seriousness of the situation, he would have definitely taken care of Shivtahal’s medical treatment. If this was God’s will, how could he have changed anything?3
Now there was no one to look after the lands. Ramtahal had tasted the pleasure of farming. His wayward lifestyle had affected his health too. He now wanted to live in the salubrious climate of the village. He decided to move to the village and work on the land. He delegated his business in the city to his son, who had grown up by now.
In the village he devoted all his time and energy to looking after the cows. He had one large cow that hailed from the banks of the Yamuna. He had bought her some years ago with great enthusiasm. She yielded a lot of milk and was so simple that even when children grabbed her horns, she did not protest. At that time she was pregnant. Ramtahal loved her dearly. He would look after her day and night, sometimes stroking her back, sometimes feeding her fodder—all with his own hands. Many offered more than double her price but Ramtahal did not sell her. When the cow gave birth, Ramtahal celebrated the occasion with a lot of fanfare; many Brahmins were fed on the day. The festivities continued for several days. The calf was named Jawahir. An astrologer was called to draw his birth chart. According to him the calf was very intelligent, auspicious and devoted to him. Only in the sixth year there was a chance of some misfortune. If he somehow managed to sail through that then he would lead a happy life till the very end.
The calf was milk white. A red tilak was painted on his forehead. His eyes were dark. His features were beautiful and his limbs well shaped. He kept mooing the entire day. Ramtahal was delighted by his pranks. The calf became so fond of him that he would follow him around like a dog. Jawahir would stand beside him while he was attending to his clients in the mornings and evenings and keep licking him all over. When Ramtahal’s hands stroked his back with affection, his tail would go erect and his eyes would dance with joy. Ramtahal, too, was so fond of him that unless he sat on his charpoy to play with the calf, he found no taste in his food. He would often hug him and pet him. He got a silver necklace specially made for him, decked him with silk flowers and even got him silver anklets. He appointed a man to give the calf a bath every day and also dust him regularly. If Ramtahal was seen seated on a horse so he could visit neighbouring villages, Jawahir would start lowing and rush towards him to lick his feet. This father-and-son relationship between a man and an animal was so unique that everybody was surprised by it.4
Jawahir was now two and a half years old. Ramtahal thought of putting him to work. He had grown from a calf to a bull. He had a round hump, a well-shaped body, powerful muscles, a broad chest and a joyful stride. There was no bull as wonderful as him in the neighbourhood. It was difficult to get another like him. When Jawahir was yoked with another bull, it was obvious that the pair did not match. People said that though the owner had spent a lot of money he could not find one even remotely equal to Jawahir! They were as different as the light of an electric lamp and that of an oil lamp.
It was curious that Jawahir would not lift his foot when the cart driver hollered. He simply shook his neck. But when Ramtahal took the reins and coaxed him affectionately, ‘Come on, son,’ Jawahir would fly off with the cart. He would cover several miles in one breath without stopping anywhere. Even horses were unable to match him.
One evening, when
