Thakur asked, ‘I hope you won’t want to build an oven here again.’
‘What will I eat if I don’t build an oven?’
‘It is not my responsibility to provide for you. Get out of the village.’
‘Why should I go? If a subject ploughs a piece of land for twelve years he becomes a shareholder. I have turned old living in this hut. My father- and mother-in-law and their fathers and forefathers all have lived in this very hut. Now only Yamdoot1 can take me away from here.’
‘So now you are displaying your knowledge of the law. If you had begged and pleaded I might have allowed you to stay, but now I shan’t have a moment’s peace until I’ve turned you out.’ (To the servants.) ‘Go now and set fire to the heap of leaves. Let’s see how she ignites the oven.’
‘Today we’re offering puja to the deity. Let me light the oven. Do whatever you want tomorrow.’
‘You think there’s only your oven in the world? Other villages too have ovens.’4
In an instant sparks began to fly and the flames rose up to touch the sky. They also began to spread on all sides. The villagers gathered and stood around that mountain of fire. Bhungi was sitting dejectedly near the oven and watching the heart-rending scene. No one knew what thoughts ran through her mind. Such anger against me! All because of this hapless belly. A curse on such a life! Who’s there to call my own that I should bear with all this just to remain alive? What support do I have now? The oven lies smashed. The leaves have turned to ash. Shall I now resort to begging to fill my belly? I have lived most of my life without stretching my hand before anyone. Shall I now live to be pushed around as today? These thoughts brought tears to her eyes. She was overcome by her helplessness and longing. She felt dizzy. Suddenly she ran and jumped into the fire. People came running from all directions but nobody showed the courage to go into the mouth of fire. Thakur was sitting on his horse and watching the scene. The moment Bhungi entered the fire he jumped like lightning from his horse and in an instant entered the flames. The crowd was stunned and stood there with bated breath. In no time Thakur came out holding Bhungi in his lap. His clothes had caught fire. Bhungi’s clothes, too, were in flames. She was unconscious. People took off the blankets they were wearing and put them around Thakur. Nobody bothered about Bhungi. They were all busy looking after Thakur. Luckily, the fire didn’t cause any harm to his body, only his skin was scorched in places. But Bhungi’s body was badly burnt.
Half an hour passed. The flames were still burning. Thakur still held Bhungi in his lap as tears trickled down his face. The women of his house had also arrived there. Someone was fanning Bhungi while someone else was applying balm on her injuries. Others were suggesting home remedies.
Suddenly, Thakur said, ‘Send someone to the city to bring a doctor immediately.’
His wife said, ‘She’ll be all right with the help of home remedies. Why should you call in a doctor?’
‘If she dies I’ll drink poison.’
‘She won’t die now.’
Thakur said eagerly, ‘Yes, if I have my way, she won’t die of shock. She’ll die a natural death.’5
Thakur Veer Singh was not known to be a nice person in his area. This event made him popular with the high and the low. All his subjects praised him for his valour. But his fellow zamindars termed it as a temporary loss of judgement. To them, it was pointless to jump into fire for such an old woman. Her death wouldn’t have made the world bereft. She had no one in the world to cry over her. But if the zamindar had died, he would have left his family without an heir.
A month had passed. Bhungi was lying down in Thakur’s house and Thakur was sitting beside her bed. Bhungi said, ‘Brother, I’ve recovered now. Why don’t you allow me to run my oven? How long will I stay here? It’s been a long time.’
Thakur said, ‘Sister, are you bored? Do you have any discomfort here?’
Bhungi replied, ‘Yes, brother. I’m bored. Won’t one get bored eating goodies and staying idle all day long? What discomfort can be greater than this? Brother, didn’t you feel any fear when you jumped into the fire after me? Why should you have risked your life for an old woman? I always wonder what thoughts ran through your mind at that moment.’
Thakur said, ‘I had no time to think. It was as though I was in a trance. I was not myself. My steps advanced towards the fire automatically. I didn’t care what I was doing and why. It was as though I had lost my senses. Everything happened on its own. God wanted to save me from disgrace. What else?’
Translated from the Urdu by M. Asaduddin
A Battle of Ideals1
Mr Dayakrishna Mehta’s feet touched the earth no more. His ambition, his life’s sweetest dream, had been fulfilled. He had achieved the position which, for Indians, was heavenly bliss. The viceroy had appointed him a member of his executive council.
His friends dropped in to congratulate him. The festive spirit was everywhere: feasts thrown in his honour, congratulatory letters. It was not considered an individual achievement but a national one. Even the English authorities walked hand-in-hand with him.
Dayakrishna was a well-known barrister of Lucknow—large-hearted, politically adept and socially responsible. He
