‘But what will you do? Can’t a panchayat be held?’ asked his wife in desperation.
‘Even the panchayat is constituted of men from the same fraternity. I have no expectations or hopes of fair judgement from them. I tell you, the real reason behind this ignominy is jealousy. They have always been jealous of me, which is why they are grabbing every opportunity to humiliate me. I know their mentality fully well.’
‘My heart’s desire has died. I will have to leave this world with my wishes unfulfilled. If this is the will of God, then so be it. I fear for my child’s future hearing the things you say. My last humble request to you is that please don’t marry her outside the fraternity, else my soul will not find peace even in the heavens. This sorrow is taking my very life. Oh, what calamity is going to befall my child!’
With these words Mrs Sinha’s eyes welled up with tears. Consoling her, Mr Sinha said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear, all I intended to say was that such thoughts sometimes cross my troubled mind. I swear, the cruelty of my fraternity has broken my heart into a million pieces.’
‘Don’t blame the fraternity,’ she said defensively. ‘If it were not for the fear of the fraternity, Man would stop at no bad deed. Do not blame the society.’ Placing a hand on her bosom, she groaned, ‘My heart is aching. Even Yashodanandan has turned us down. There’s not a single hope for comfort. What do I do, oh lord!’
Mr Sinha asked worriedly, ‘Should I call the doctor?’
‘Call him if you wish, but I will not survive,’ she sobbed. ‘Fetch Tibbo, let me hug her one last time. My heart is sinking. My child! Oh my child!’
Translated from the Hindi by Sarah Mariam
The Outcaste1
A mother and daughter used to live in a hut on the other side of the village. The daughter used to collect leaves from the orchard, the mother used to roast grains in the clay oven. This was their livelihood. They would get a ser or two of grains and be content with that. The mother was a widow, the daughter unmarried, and there was no one else in the house. The mother’s name was Ganga, the daughter’s, Gaura.
For many years Ganga had been worried about Gaura’s marriage but no match could be finalized. Ganga had neither remarried after her husband’s death, nor had she taken up any job. So people used to wonder how she made ends meet. Other people wore themselves down to the bone to earn a living and yet failed to obtain enough to fill their bellies. Even though this woman didn’t work, she and her daughter lived comfortably, and didn’t have to beg. There was definitely some mystery in this. Slowly this suspicion became stronger and continued to persist. In the community nobody was willing to get engaged to Gaura. Shudra communities are usually very small. They cover an area not more than five to ten kos. That’s why no one’s virtues and vices can remain hidden from others.
To dispel these suspicions, the mother went on many pilgrimages with her daughter. She went as far as Orissa, but the doubts could not be quelled. Gaura was young and beautiful, but nobody had seen her laughing or chatting, either near the well or in the fields. She would never raise her eyes. But these things further strengthened people’s suspicions. Surely there was some mystery. No woman can be so virtuous. Surely there was some secret.
Days passed in this fashion. The old woman was wasting away with worry. The lovely girl’s countenance, on the other hand, was blooming day by day. The bud was blossoming into a flower.2
One day a stranger passed through the village. He was coming from a distance of ten to twenty kos. He was on his way to Calcutta in search of a job. It was night. Looking for the house of another Kahar, he came to Ganga’s home. Ganga welcomed him warmly—she brought wheat flour for him and offered her own utensils. The Kahar cooked and ate his food, lay down and started talking. The conversation turned to Gaura’s engagement. The Kahar was young. He saw Gaura, observed her behaviour and her lovely image was imprinted on his mind. He agreed to the alliance. He returned home and brought some ornaments from his sister’s house. The village draper loaned him some clothes. He came with some kinsmen for the engagement. They got engaged, and he started living there. Ganga could never let her daughter and son-in-law out of her sight.
But within a week or so, Mangru started to hear all kinds of gossip. People, not only of his own caste but of the other castes also, started filling his ears with stories. Hearing them time and again, he began to regret having heedlessly fallen into a trap. But the thought of deserting Gaura made his heart shudder.
After a month, Mangru went to return his sister’s jewellery. At mealtime, his brother-in-law did not sit down to eat with him. Mangru suspected something and asked his brother-in-law, ‘Why don’t you come?’
His brother-in-law said, ‘You go ahead, I’ll eat later.’
Mangru: ‘What is the matter? Why aren’t you eating with me?’
Brother-in-law: ‘How can I eat with you till there is a meeting of the panchayat? I can’t forgo my community for your sake. You didn’t consult anyone before you became engaged to a whore.’
Mangru left the kitchen, pulled on his quilted jacket and returned to his in-laws’
