‘When we have employed you as a full-time servant, why did you stay at home last night? I’ll cut yesterday’s wages from your salary,’ said Rai Sahib.
‘Huzoor, there was a guest visiting us, so I couldn’t come,’ Damrhi replied.
‘Then ask your guest to pay you yesterday’s wages.’
‘Huzoor, it will not happen again.’
‘Shut up!’
‘Huzoor—’
‘You’ll pay a penalty of two rupees.’
Damrhi left crying. He had come to pray for mercy but instead had a penalty slapped on him. A fine of two rupees! And the crime he had committed was that he had come to ask forgiveness for his fault!
So this was the penalty for one night’s absence! He had worked hard all day. Only because he hadn’t slept here at night was he given this punishment. But those who sit at home and enjoy themselves on fake travel bills? There is no one to question or punish them. There should be punishment for such people, of a kind they remember all their lives. But it is difficult to catch them. If Damrhi had been cleverer, he too would have come back late at night and gone to sleep in his shed. No one would have known where he was earlier in the evening. But the poor man was not so clever.3
Damrhi owned a total of six biswas of land, and he had six mouths to feed. His two sons, two daughters and wife worked all day long in the field but they could barely manage two square meals a day. Well, one couldn’t expect gold from that small patch of land! If all of them had left home and decided to work on wages, they could have led a better life. But a traditional farmer would be ashamed to be called a labourer. To save himself from this humiliation, Damrhi kept a pair of bullocks. A good part of his salary went towards buying fodder for them. He was ready to undergo all these hardships, yet he could not give up farming to become a labourer. Can a wage earner, even if he earns a whole rupee a day, ever equal the dignity of a farmer? It is not such a shame if one undertakes some casual labour on top of farming. The bullocks were tied at his door to maintain his honour. If he ever had to sell them, he would die of shame.
One day Rai Sahib found Damrhi shivering with cold and said, ‘Why don’t you get warm clothes for yourself? Why are you shivering?’
Damrhi said, ‘Sarkar, I can’t afford two square meals a day. Where can I get warm clothes?’
‘Why don’t you sell your bullocks? I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t know why you refuse to listen to reason.’
‘Sarkar, I won’t be able to show my face to my people if I do so. I won’t be able to marry off my daughter. I will be made an outcaste.’
‘It’s this idiocy of yours that is the cause of your wretchedness. It’s a sin to show any mercy towards people like you.’ Then Rai Sahib turned towards me and continued, ‘Tell me, Munshiji, is there any cure for such madness? They’ll die of cold, but will insist on having the bullocks tied to their door.’
I said, ‘My dear sir, this is the way they think, I guess.’
‘Well, then, I don’t care what they think. You know, for generations my family celebrated Janmashtami. Several thousand rupees would go down the drain every year. There was singing and feasting for several days. Invitations were sent to relatives all around. Clothes were doled out to the poor. Once my father died, I put an end to all that. What was the use of it all? The family was losing four to five thousand rupees every year. It created an uproar in our town. People made a lot of fuss—if some called me an atheist, others accused me of being a Christian. But who cares! The uproar subsided in a few days. It was a free-for-all before I took the reins. If there was a marriage in any household in the entire township, they expected firewood from my family. This tradition had continued for generations. My father, in fact, maintained it by purchasing trees from others. Wasn’t it sheer stupidity? I promptly put an end to this custom of giving wood for free. There was another uproar. Tell me, am I supposed to protect my own interests or listen to the complaints of others? Annually, I could save a minimum of five hundred rupees on wood alone. Now no one dares bother me with such demands.’
Once again, a question arose in my mind. Who is the more civilized of the two—stupid Damrhi, ready to lay down his life for his family dignity, or Rai Ratankishore, ready to give up family honour for money?4
An important case was being heard at Rai Sahib’s court. A nobleman had been accused of murder. Several people approached Rai Sahib for his bail. The bail had become a point of honour with the accused. The nobleman had made it clear to his lackeys that he was prepared to sell off his entire estate if he could wriggle free of that case without a stain on his character. Gifts were sent to Rai Sahib, people pleaded with him, but to no avail. The nobleman’s lackeys could not, however, muster enough courage to offer a bribe upfront. Finally, when nothing worked, the nobleman’s wife took the matter into her own hands and decided to meet Rai Sahib’s wife and strike a deal.
It was ten o’clock. The two women started negotiating. The deal was struck at twenty thousand rupees. Rai Sahib’s wife was thrilled. She ran to her husband and said, ‘Take it, oh, do take it! If you don’t, I will.’
‘Hold your horses. What will she think of you? Do you not care for my honour? I agree the amount is large, and will at once free me from your daily call for luxuries,
