‘He must want to send us to fetch some doctor or hakim. Perhaps his fever is worse,’ said Jogeshwar.
‘Which of us has time to do that? Everyone in the village is his well-wisher; he can send anyone he pleases.’
‘What’s the harm? Shouldn’t I go and hear what he has to say?’
‘Go and get some dry cow dung first. Once the cooking fire is lit you can go. If you had known how to handle people we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’
Jogeshwar had just picked up a basket and set off to the grazing ground when he heard the sound of weeping from Vishweshwar Rai’s house. Jogeshwar threw down the basket and ran there. He saw his uncle being lowered from his charpoy to the ground. Jogeshwar felt dishonoured, as if his face had been blackened. He stepped back from the courtyard into the hall along one side, hid his face against the wall and began to weep. Youth is emotional. It burns with anger but it also melts with compassion.3
Vishweshwar had three daughters. They were already married. He had three sons who were still young, the eldest no more than ten years old. Their mother was still living. There were four mouths to feed and no breadwinner. In the countryside a man whose cooking fire is lit twice a day is considered wealthy. His wealth is also exaggerated. People imagined that Vishweshwar Rai had saved thousands of rupees but that wasn’t the case at all. Everyone’s eyes were on his income; no one considered his expenditure. He had celebrated his daughters’ weddings in a befitting manner. His entire income had disappeared in food and clothes and hospitality. Even if he had done a deal of a few hundred rupees to impress the villagers, he had also taken loans from several moneylenders—in fact he had to mortgage land for his youngest daughter’s wedding.
For a year, somehow, his widow managed to feed and care for her children. She did so by selling her jewellery, but when that capital was spent the going became hard. She decided to send the three boys to stay with her three daughters. Then she would just have to fend for herself and that was not a worry. Even if she could get a quarter of a ser of wheat flour every three days she would be able to pass her days. At first the girls treated the boys lovingly, but none of them could keep their brothers for more than three months. Their husbands were irritated by the fatherless children and beat them. Their mother had no choice but to send for them.
The young boys were hungry all day. If they saw anyone eating they would go home and beg their mother for food. Then they gave up asking her. They went and stood by whoever was eating and gazed at them beseechingly. Some people would give them a handful of parched gram but mostly they just got a scolding.
It was winter. There were ripe peas in the fields. One day all three boys slipped into one and began picking the peas. The farmer saw them. He was a generous man. He himself pulled up a basketful of peas, brought it to Vishweshwar Rai’s house and said to the thakur’s widow, ‘Kaki, tell your boys not to go into anyone’s fields.’
At that time Jogeshwar was sitting at his threshold smoking a chillum. He saw the farmer bringing the peas, the three boys behind him running like puppies. Jogeshwar’s eyes filled with tears. He went indoors and told his father, ‘Chachi doesn’t have anything left now. The boys are starving.’
‘You don’t know a woman’s wiles. This is all show. Where have his lifetime’s earnings flown off?’
‘No one will let young boys starve when they have the power to prevent it.’
‘What do you know? She’s a very sly woman.’
‘People must be laughing at us.’
‘If you’re ashamed of them laughing, then do what you want, give them food and drink. If you have it in you!’
‘If not full stomachs, at least let them have half-full stomachs. Otherwise won’t it reflect badly on us? Our fight was with chacha. What have his sons ever done to us?’
‘The witch is still alive, though, isn’t she?’
Jogeshwar came away. Several times he had felt that he should start helping chachi, but he feared her fiery, cutting comments. Then he worked out a new plan. When he saw the boys playing he would call them over and give them something to eat. Daily-wage labourers got a break in the afternoon. Now he worked through his break and earned a little more. On his way home he would buy something or the other to eat, which he gave to the fatherless children, out of sight of his own family.
Gradually the boys became so attached to him that the moment they saw him they ran over shouting ‘Bhaiya! Bhaiya!’ and would spend the day waiting for him. At first their mother was afraid that Jogeshwar was winning over the children as a part of some plot connected with the old enmity. She tried to prevent them from going near Jogeshwar and taking food from him but children can recognize friends and enemies better than adults. The boys paid no attention to their mother’s objections and gradually their mother too became convinced of his sympathy.
One day Rameshwar said to his son, ‘If you’ve got more money than before why don’t you save a bit? Why are you squandering it?’
‘I watch how I spend every single cowrie.’
‘Those you consider your own will one day be your enemies.’
‘A man’s duty also stands for something. I cannot sacrifice a family for an old feud. What harm does it do me? Just that I have to work an hour or two longer every day.’
Rameshwar
