Such pious desires and courage! If I were in her place I would have either wept till death or, even if I lived, I would have been worse than a corpse. I said, ‘Yes, you start the work. I will help you in whatever way I can. It’s through your strong courage that you have taken up such hard tasks. How will you go to heaven leaving all these good tasks behind?’5
Within a few days Gujrati laid the foundation stone for her dharmashala. Landlords and merchants from near and far offered help. The work commenced and within a few months a solid two-storey building was erected that could lodge fifty people without any hassle. While the dharmashala was being constructed, Gujrati had a paralytic stroke. Her daily routine became even more burdensome. Her treatment went on for a year. There were no chances of survival; her body was giving way. But still she was alive. She survived, but both her hands became inert and she started losing her eyesight. The cowshed was destroyed. The fountain of bounty had dried up. The birds were set free; dogs, cats, deer and mongoose wandered around. Once again the lush garden wore a deserted look. I went to Gujrati to inquire about her health. Her fortune had reversed. She looked frail, with a pale face and sparse hair, as if somebody had stripped a plant of its branches and leaves, exposing its bare stem. Her eyes were sunken. Seeing her condition I broke into tears. Gujrati said, ‘It is good that you have come. We have met. Who knows whether we’ll meet again or not? I am a guest here only for a few days now. Just do me a favour, kindly see that the dharmashala keeps running and every year maintenance is carried out.’
I asked her not to worry. ‘I’ll donate a part of my property to the village for its upkeep. You’ll continue to worry if you’re left alone here. There is nobody to look after you. Why don’t you come along with me to my place? There are kids in the family who won’t let you feel lonesome and I will be able to take care of you. There won’t be any problem.’
Gujrati smiled wanly and said, ‘I can’t start doing something that I have never done my entire life—worry about my health.’
I said with concern, ‘What’s wrong if you do? I can’t see you lying here in this condition.’
Before Gujrati could answer, four or five veiled women arrived and said,
‘Buaji, aren’t we going to have the bal kaand today? A little bit is yet to be done. Let’s finish it today.’
Gujrati gestured towards the alcove and said, ‘Yes, it’ll be done today. Bring down the Ramayana.’ One woman brought it down. They began reading a verse each. Gujrati interpreted the verses. I started listening attentively.
The holy recitation of the Ramayana went on for about an hour and a half to two. While the women were still sitting, a few girls from the village also arrived. Gujrati became quite absorbed in teaching them. This went on till the afternoon. In the meantime a few women came to show her their children also. Gujrati observed them and prescribed medicines. Having spent some time with the sadhus she had also mastered this art.
After their departure Gujrati said to me, ‘If I come along with you, who will do this work? I can’t be happy sitting idle and simply eating without doing anything.’
I understood her feelings and said, ‘I didn’t know that even in such a condition you could manage so much work.’
My eyes opened. This was a moment of epiphany for me: It is her lively heart and carefree spirit that have kept her alive. No matter what the circumstances, if people have good intentions they find a way to serve humanity. The harder the times, the stronger they emerge.
Gujrati is still alive and my village continues to benefit from her as before.
Translated from the Urdu by Shaheen Saba
The Problem1
There are four peons in my office. One of them is Garib. This person is extremely simple, obedient, an alert and efficient worker and one who would take any scolding without complaining—the name ‘Garib’ and these traits indeed go well together in his case. I have been in this office for a year and never found him absent. I am so used to seeing him perched on his worn-out mat at nine in the morning, as if he were an integral part of the office building. So innocent is he that he cannot say no to anyone or anything.
There’s another peon, a Muslim. The whole office is scared of him, one wonders why. I cannot think of anything in his case but that he is loud-mouthed. He boasts of having a cousin who is a qazi in the state of Rampur and an uncle who is a magistrate in the state of Tonk. Our office has conferred on him the title of ‘Qazi Sahib’.
The remaining two come from the Brahmin caste. People rate their blessings higher than the duties they may perform. Both are shirkers, arrogant and lazy. You ask them to do something and they make faces before carrying it out. They care two hoots for the clerks. Only the head of the office makes some difference, but sometimes they mess with him, too.
In spite of all this, no one is treated as shabbily as poor Garib. When it’s time to get a promotion, the three avail themselves of it; no one thinks of Garib. All three have risen to ten rupees a month, yet Garib is stuck at seven. From morning till evening, he is on his feet—even the three fellow peons order him about. They also make an extra buck, in which he has no share. On top of this, everyone in the office—from the diarist to the head clerk—has a grouse against him. There have been endless complaints against him and many a
