Hori et la vache de Bhola

When Hori Ram had given the two bullocks their fodder and water, he said to his wife Dhaniya, "Send Gobar to hoe the sugarcane. I don't know when I'll be back. Just hand me my stick."

Both of Dhaniya's hands were smeared with dung; she had been shaping cow-dung cakes. "Oh, at least have a drink of something first," she said. "What's the hurry?"

Hori screwed up his wrinkled forehead. "You're worried about a drink, and I'm worried that if I'm late I won't get to see the master. Once he sits down to his bath and his prayers, hours will go by."

"That's exactly why I say have a bite to eat. And what harm will it do if you don't go today? You went only the day before yesterday."

"Why do you poke your nose into things you don't understand? Give me my stick and mind your own work. It's only because I keep calling on him that we're still alive; otherwise there'd be no trace of us. There are plenty of people in this village. Which of them hasn't been evicted? Whose goods haven't been seized? When your neck is under somebody else's foot, the sensible thing is to stroke that foot."

Dhaniya was not so shrewd in worldly matters. To her mind, if they tilled the landlord's fields, he would take his rent and that was all; why should they flatter him? Why lick the soles of his feet? In the twenty years of her married life she had learned well enough that however you scrimp and cut corners, however you starve yourself, even if you hold on to every cowrie with your teeth, the rent is hard to pay. Still she would not give in, and the two of them quarrelled about it every other day. Of their six children only three were still alive: a boy, Gobar, about sixteen, and two girls, Sona and Rupa, twelve and eight. Three boys had died in infancy. Her heart still told her that they would have lived if they had had medicine, but she had not been able to buy even a pennyworth of it. She was not old, only in her thirty-sixth year, yet all her hair had turned grey. Her face was lined, her body had sagged, her lovely wheat-coloured skin had darkened, and her eyes had grown weak. All of it came from worrying about food. She had never known the pleasure of living. This endless hardship had turned her self-respect into a kind of sullen indifference. Why so much flattery for a household that could not even fill its stomach? Her heart smouldered against all this, and only after a few sharp words from her husband did she come to see how things really stood.

At last she gave up and brought out Hori's stick, his quilted jacket, turban, shoes and tobacco pouch, and flung them all down in front of him.

Hori frowned at her. "Am I off to my in-laws', that you've brought out my whole wardrobe? There's no young sister-in-law waiting for me there either, to show off to."

A smile spread over Hori's dark, hollow-cheeked face. Dhaniya said shyly, "Oh yes, you're such a handsome young man that the sisters-in-law will swoon at the sight of you."

Hori folded the torn jacket with great care and laid it on the cot. "Do you think I've grown old? I'm not even forty yet. A man is in his prime at sixty."

"Go and look at your face in a mirror. Men like you aren't in their prime at sixty. You don't get enough milk and ghee even to rub on your eyes; some prime that will be! Watching the state you're in, I waste away myself. God, how will we get through old age? At whose door will we beg?"

Hori's passing smile seemed to wither in the heat of the truth. Picking up his stick he said, "We won't live to see sixty, Dhaniya. We'll be gone before then."

Dhaniya was hurt. "That's enough. Don't say such unlucky things. Anyone says a kind word to you and you start cursing."

Hori put the stick on his shoulder and left the house, and Dhaniya stood in the doorway watching him for a long time. His hopeless words had stirred something in her wounded heart. It was as if, through all the devotion of a faithful wife, she were trying to keep her husband safe from harm, as if a fortress went out from her heart and closed around him. In that bottomless ocean of misfortune her marriage was the one straw she clung to as she crossed it. Hori's words, perhaps because they might be true, seemed to want to snatch that frail support out of her hand with a jerk. It was the very chance that they were true that made them so painful. Does a man with two good eyes feel the hurt a one-eyed man feels when he is called one-eyed?

Hori strode on. Seeing the green sugarcane swaying on both sides of the path, he said to himself, "If only God sends the rains properly and the market holds, I'll buy a cow for certain. The local cows give no milk, and their calves are good for nothing; at best they turn an oil-man's press. No, I'll get a western cow. I'll look after her properly. She'll give four or five seers of milk at least. Gobar is always longing for milk. If he doesn't eat and drink well at his age, when will he? A year of milk and you'd see the difference in him. The calves will grow into fine bullocks too; a pair won't fetch less than two hundred. And a cow is the glory of a doorway. To see a cow first thing in the morning, what could be better! Who knows when this wish will come true, when that lucky day will dawn?"

Like every householder, Hori had long wanted a cow. It was the finest dream of his life, the dearest longing of his heart. Lofty schemes of living on interest from a bank, or buying land, or building a mansion, how could they ever fit into his small heart?

The June sun had climbed out of the mango grove and was rising, its clear fierce light gilding the redness that spread across the sky. The air was growing hot. Farmers at work in the fields on either side greeted him with "Ram Ram" and respectfully invited him to share a pipe, but Hori had no time for that. Their respect brought a glint of pride to his dry face, for the wish to be honoured lived in his heart. It was only because he kept calling on the masters that everyone respected him today; otherwise who would have bothered with him? What was a five-bigha farmer worth? It was no small honour that even headmen with three or four ploughs bowed their heads to him.

Now he had left the path between the fields and come down into a hollow where the rainwater collected, so that it stayed a little damp and some green showed even in June. Cows from the nearby villages came there to graze. Even in this sultry heat the air there had a little freshness and coolness in it. Hori took two or three deep breaths. He felt like sitting down there for a while; the rest of the day he would be dying in the hot wind anyway. Several farmers were ready to lease this land and offered good money, but God bless Rai Sahib, he had said plainly that it was left for grazing and would not be let at any price. A selfish landlord would have said, "To hell with the cows. We're being offered money, why should we give it up?" But Rai Sahib still kept to the old ways. A master who does not look after his tenants, is he any kind of man?

Suddenly he saw Bhola coming that way with his cows. Bhola was the cowherd of the hamlet next to the village and dealt in milk and butter. When he got a good price he sometimes sold cows to the farmers too. The sight of the cows made Hori's mouth water. If only Bhola would let him have the cow in front! He could pay the money bit by bit. He knew there was no money at home. The rent was still unpaid, and there was the debt to Bisesar Sah, which was growing at an anna in the rupee. But poverty brings a kind of short-sightedness. The shamelessness that fears neither dunning nor abuse nor beating gave Hori courage, and the wish he had carried for years made him restless. He went up to Bhola and said, "Ram Ram, brother Bhola. How are things? I hear you've brought new cows from the fair this time."

Bhola had guessed what was on his mind. He answered coldly, "Yes, I brought two heifers and two cows. The old ones had all gone dry. If milk doesn't reach the customers who are tied to you, how is a man to live?"

Hori put his hand on the flank of the cow in front. "She looks a good milker. What did you pay for her?"

Bhola put on airs. "The market was very high this time, headman. I had to pay eighty rupees for her. It made my eyes pop. Thirty each for the two heifers. And on top of that the customer wants eight seers of milk for a rupee."

"You people have big hearts, brother! But then what you've brought is stock you won't find in ten villages around here."

Bhola began to get carried away. "Rai Sahib offered me ninety rupees for her, and fifty each for the heifers, but I wouldn't sell. God willing, I'll make a hundred rupees out of her this very calving."

"No doubt about it, brother. What would the masters buy her with? If they could get her as a gift, they might take her. It takes guts like yours to count out a lapful of rupees and trust to luck. I could stand and look at this cow all day. Blessed is your life, that you serve cows so well. We don't even get cow dung. How shameful it is for a farmer's house to be without a single cow! A whole year goes by and we never set eyes on milk. My wife keeps saying, why don't you ask brother Bhola? I tell her, when I meet him I'll ask. She thinks very highly of your manners. She says, I've never seen a man like him; when he speaks to you he keeps his eyes lowered and never lifts his head."

That brimming cup deepened Bhola's intoxication. "A good man is one who treats other men's wives and daughters as his own. Any wretch who ogles a woman ought to be shot."

"Just as a woman is left helpless when her man dies, so a man loses his hands and feet when his woman dies. My home is ruined, headman. There's nobody even to hand me a jug of water."

Hori knew that Bhola's wife had died of heatstroke the year before. But he had not known that the fifty-year-old, dried-up Bhola still had so much sap in him. At the longing for a woman his eyes grew moist. Hori had found his opening, and his farmer's business sense woke up. "The old saying isn't wrong: a house without a wife is a haunt of ghosts. Why don't you find yourself a match?"

"I'm on the lookout, headman, but nobody bites. I'm ready to spend fifty or a hundred too. It's as God wills."

"Now I'll keep a lookout as well. God willing, your house will soon be settled."

"Just take it that you'll be my saviour, brother. By God's grace there's plenty to eat in the house. We get four pansiris of milk a day. But what's the use of it?"

"There's a woman in my wife's village. Three or four years ago her husband left her and went off to Calcutta. The poor thing is getting by grinding grain for people. No children either. She's good-looking too. She's a Lakshmi, take it from me."

Bhola's shrivelled face seemed to blossom. How much nectar there is in hope! "You're my only hope now, headman," he said. "When you're free, let's go and see her one day."

"I'll settle everything properly and then let you know. Rushing things can spoil them too."

"Whenever you like. What's the hurry! And if your heart is set on this brindled cow, take her."

"This cow is beyond my means, brother. I don't want to cause you a loss. It's not my way to wring a friend's neck. The days have gone by so far without one; they'll go by the same way."

"You talk, Hori, as though you and I were strangers. Take the cow and give me whatever you like for her. She'll be in your house just as she was in mine. I paid eighty for her; give me the same. Go on."

"I have no cash, brother, understand that."

"Who's asking you for cash, brother!"

Hori's chest swelled a yard wide. At eighty rupees the cow was not dear: such a fine build, six or seven seers of milk morning and evening, and so gentle that a child could milk her. Each of her calves would fetch a hundred. Tied at his door she would bring it glory. He already owed about four hundred rupees, but in a way he thought of credit as free. If Bhola's match came off, he would never even mention the money. And if it didn't, what did Hori stand to lose? Only that Bhola would dun him again and again, lose his temper and swear at him, and Hori was not much ashamed of that. He was used to such treatment; it is part of a farmer's life. He was cheating Bhola, and that was beneath his dignity. Even now, in his dealings, it made no difference to him whether there was a written bond or not. The scourges of famine and flood had kept his heart timid, and the image of an angry God was always before him. But to his mind this deceit was not deceit. It was only looking after his own interest, and there was nothing wrong in that. He practised that kind of deceit day and night. Even with a few rupees lying at home he would swear to the moneylender that he had not a cowrie. Damping the hemp a little, or slipping some cotton seed into the cotton, was allowed by his religion. And here it was not only self-interest; there was a little amusement in it too. An old man's itch for romance is something to laugh at, and if you squeeze a little out of such old men, it is no sin.

Bhola put the cow's tether into Hori's hand. "Take her, headman. You'll remember this. As soon as she calves you'll get six seers of milk. Come, I'll take her to your house for you; she may give you trouble on the way, not knowing you. I'll tell you the truth now: the master was offering ninety rupees, but what place is there for cows in his house? He'd have taken her from me and given her to some official. What do officials care about looking after a cow? All they know is how to suck blood. They'd keep her while she gave milk and then sell her to someone. Who knows whose hands she'd end up in? Money isn't everything, brother; there's such a thing as one's duty. She'll be comfortable in your house. It won't happen that you eat and go to sleep while the cow stands hungry. You'll care for her, love her, pat her. Mother Cow will bless you. What can I tell you, brother? There isn't a pinch of straw left in my house. All my money went in the market. I thought I'd borrow from the moneylender to buy fodder, but my first loan isn't paid off yet, so he refused. What am I to feed so many animals on? That worry is killing me. Even if I give them a pinch each, it comes to a maund a day. Only God can see me through."

Hori said sympathetically, "Why didn't you tell me before? I've just sold a cartload of straw."

Bhola struck his forehead. "That's exactly why I didn't tell you, brother: why should I go weeping my troubles to everyone? Nobody shares them; everybody laughs. I don't mind about the cows that are dry; I'll keep them alive on leaves and scraps. But this one can't do without proper feed. If you can, give me ten or twenty rupees for fodder."

The farmer is thoroughly selfish, there is no doubt of it. A bribe comes out of the knot of his cloth only with great difficulty. He is wide awake when it comes to haggling. To get a single pie of interest let off, he will flatter the moneylender for hours. Until he is completely sure, nobody can talk him into anything. Yet his whole life is spent in partnership with nature. Trees bear fruit that everyone eats; the fields yield grain that feeds the world; the cow's udder holds milk that she never drinks herself but others drink; rain falls from the clouds and the earth is satisfied. In such company, where is the room for base selfishness? Hori was a farmer, and he had never learned to warm his hands at someone else's burning house. As soon as he heard Bhola's troubles his mood changed. Handing the tether back to Bhola he said, "I have no money, brother, but I have a little straw left. I'll give you that. Come and have it carried away. You'd sell your cow for fodder, and I'd take her? Wouldn't my hands drop off?"

Bhola said, his voice choked, "Won't your bullocks starve? It's not as if you have such a lot of straw yourself."

"No, brother, the straw was good this year."

"I shouldn't have said anything to you about straw."

"If you hadn't told me and I'd found out later, I'd have been very hurt that you thought me such a stranger. If brother won't help brother, how is the world to go on?"

"But at least take the cow with you."

"Never, brother. I'll take her some other time."

"Then have the price of the straw taken off in milk."

Hori said sadly, "What has money got to do with it, brother? If I ate a meal or two at your house, would you ask me to pay?"

"But won't your bullocks starve?"

"God will find some way. Asarh is upon us; I'll sow some fodder millet."

"But this cow is yours now. Come and take her whenever you like."

"To take her now would be as great a sin as buying a brother's bullock at auction."

If Hori had had the knack of splitting hairs, he would happily have taken the cow and set off home. Since Bhola was not asking for cash, it was clear that he was not selling the cow for fodder; he had something else in mind. But like a horse that stops dead at the rustle of leaves and will not go on even when it is beaten, so it was with Hori. To take something from a man in trouble is a sin. That had been part of his heart since the day he was born.

Bhola asked, "Then shall I send someone for the straw?"

Hori answered, "I'm going to Rai Sahib's gate now. I'll be back in an hour or so; send someone then."

Bhola's eyes filled with tears. "You've saved me today, brother Hori! Now I know I'm not alone in the world. I have a friend too." After a moment he added, "Don't forget that other matter!"

As Hori went on his heart was glad, and there was a wonderful lightness in his spirits. So what if ten or five maunds of straw went? The poor fellow would not have to sell his cow because of his troubles. When there was fodder in hand he would go and fetch the cow. God grant I find him a woman, and then there's nothing more to it.

He looked back and saw the brindled cow swishing the flies away with her tail, tossing her head, swaying slowly and proudly along, like a queen among her maids. What a blessed day it would be when that cow was tied at his door!