She was engrossed in such thoughts when the two servants arrived and asked, ‘Have you roasted the grains?’
Bhungi said fearlessly, ‘I’m doing it. Can’t you see?’
‘The whole day is over and you haven’t yet finished parching the grains? And are you parching the grains or just wasting them! These are just half-parched, how will anyone make flour out of them? Just wait and watch how the thakur deals with you today.’
The consequence was that the same night the oven was pulled out and the hapless widow was left without shelter.3
Bhungi had no means of livelihood now. With the destruction of the oven the villagers also were much inconvenienced. Many families had to go without food during lunch. The people went to Thakur and pleaded with him to allow Bhungi to run the oven, but he couldn’t care less. ‘She’s a devil and a pig-headed crone. She’ll come to her senses if she has to starve for a couple of days. She has spoilt a sackful of my grains. Must be thinking what harm can I do her! She doesn’t know that it is because of me that she has been living here peacefully.’ Hearing these harsh words from Thakur the people went back to their homes.
One of them said, ‘Why show his authority to a woman who’s almost dead? He should show it to someone who is his equal.’
A second one said, ‘All his authority consists of exploiting the poor. He trembles at the sight of the government emissaries; what to speak of his peers. Well, we live in his village. He can treat us the way he likes.’
Bhungi somehow managed to pass some days. She had earned more grains on the day of Sankranti. When they finished she began to starve. Several people advised her to go to another village and settle down. ‘We’ll go there to build a shack where you can run your oven. You can stay in peace. All zamindars aren’t alike.’ But Bhungi didn’t agree. She had spent fifty years of her difficult life in that village. She had fallen in love with each tree and plant of the village. She knew all the children of the village and they also knew her. The entire village seemed like her house. She had seen many ups and downs in her life in that village. Now, at the fag end of her life, she couldn’t sever her connection with it! The mere thought of it seemed to give her pain. She would rather stay and suffer in that village than leave it for the comforts of another.
An entire month passed in this way. It was early in the morning. Thakur Veer Singh, along with two or three of his servants, was going around collecting taxes. He didn’t trust his agents, and didn’t want to share the customary gifts of money given by tenants to a landlord. Sometimes he’d say, ‘What’s left in being a landlord? After paying off the government and the expenses of the court, one is left with less than ten rupees out of a hundred. We can’t but depend on extra income for all the pomp and show.’ He looked around himself arrogantly, smiled at the greetings of his subjects and walked away. He had great authority and was held in awe by his subjects. Women used to draw their veils and turn away their faces at the sight of him. People sitting on doorsteps stood up in his honour, adjusting their turbans. Some concealed their coconuts from his sight. Wandering around the village with such swagger he walked past Bhungi’s oven. As his gaze fell on the oven he was filled with rage. The oven was being made anew. The old woman was placing heaps of clay on it swiftly. She had probably started working in the dead of the night and wanted to finish it off before sunrise. It was the day of the deity’s worship. As per custom, Bhungi wanted to feed sattu to all the unmarried girls of the village on her chabutara. She always parched grains in her oven on this occasion. She didn’t charge anything for her labour. If the oven was not ready that day how would she parch the grains? If the grains are parched in some other village the deity might get angry and the village might be visited by some calamity. If the thakur got angry, it didn’t matter. The deity must be pleased. If the thakur was displeased the worst he could do was dig up the oven. However, if the deity was displeased, the entire village would suffer. The thakur himself was a devotee of the Goddess; he wouldn’t dare act against her wishes. Even the king is scared of the Goddess, what to speak of Thakur? These thoughts led her to repair the oven. She was so lost in her work that she didn’t realize the presence of the thakur. Suddenly, she heard a voice say, ‘Who gave you permission?’
Startled, Bhungi looked up to see Thakur standing in front of her. She couldn’t reply.
Thakur repeated his question, ‘Who gave you permission?’
Bhungi answered fearlessly, ‘The deity.’
‘I’m the owner of this village, not the deity,’ Thakur thundered.
Bhungi touched her heart with her hands and said, ‘Thakur, don’t utter such words. The deity is the owner of the whole world, what to speak of you and me.’
Thakur said to his servants, ‘What a cantankerous old woman! She wants to scare me in the name of the deity and lower my status in the eyes of others. Smash her oven.’
His servants didn’t dare do this. Thakur was now furious. He called his servants all kinds of names, got down from the horse and gave a mighty kick to the oven. The clay was still wet, it flattened out. As he aimed a second kick, the old woman stood right in front of him and it fell on her back. She stumbled to the ground with her face
