part0012

She was only sixteen years old. But girls mature early in India due to the climate, often at the age of 11 years. (Their parents seek a mate for them then, entering into protracted negotiations with the father and mother of the prospective bridegroom. The boy and girl concerned have themselves nothing whatever to do with it. Their consent is not asked, or taken. They have only to obey their respective parents’ behests in the matter of matrimony, and the choice of a mate for them.

The boy who rebels against this custom is ignominiously turned out of the home and becomes an outcaste from his family forever. The girl who offers objection is in still worse plight. Frequently, she is beaten into submission.)

Despite the apparent disadvantage of this system, it also brings its own benefits. Flirtations and promiscuous love between boy and girl is rarely known. The type of woman available to any man for sex before his marriage, and even thereafter, if it should to that, other than his legal wife, is the professional prostitute. And this last type of women are very few in compared to the population of women as a whole and the total population of the land.

Secondly, it ensures that a husband has a virgin for a wife on his wedding night. This is something that is often uncertain in other lands. The Indian wife who, on her honeymoon night, is found to be unchaste, is invariably turned out by her husband the following morning.

Thirdly, the parents on both sides, in the interests of their respective offspring, aim to procure the best possible partner for their daughter—or son—available the circumstances as regards social status, respectability financial background, personal appearances, education general abilities.

Fourthly, the couple when married, realising the tremendous amount of effort, search and negotiation that went into the arrangements before their marriage become a fait accompli, invariably make the best of circumstances, prompted by the fear of offending parents and the remaining members of both the families should they behave otherwise, and mutually strive to make the marriage a success.

Separations and desertions are very rare, and divorces practically unknown.

Unfortunately, in Western countries with their complete freedom of individual thought and action, it is very different; and broken homes are becoming an increasingly common feature.

Another factor that appears to act very powerfully keeping the home together in India, is that the husband is accepted as complete master of the household, and wife is subservient to his wishes and command. The emancipation of women has not become the menace it might well prove to be when they get over-emancipated! Very rarely, indeed, is an Indian housewife to be found who dares to act differently to her husband’s ideas and injunctions.

No doubt Western readers, particularly of the fair sex, who may scan these lines, will hold up their hands in horror and express their unstinted disagreement with and disapproval of these Indian customs. Please remember, fair ladies, I am just telling you about things as they are in India, and am not entering into any argument with you about the right or wrong, fairness or otherwise, of these practices. So, please don’t quarrel with me over it. You are entitled to your opinion and the Indians to theirs. For the matter of that, so am I to mine. But you would not be interested, anyhow, in the latter .

Let no one think that the negotiations undertaken by a girl’s—or a boy’s—parents, in seeking a mate for their child, are simple and easy. Very very far from it on the contrary. There are so many things to be considered.

The girl’s parents have to prepare themselves to bestow a gift of money, jewellery, or land in the form of a dowry, with their daughter. It is not very hard for you to imagine that, the greater the dowry the more eligible must the bridegroom, whose parents are attracted by it, qualify himself to be. If the boy is in Government service, it carries a very high degree of desirability to procure him as a husband and son-in-law. For one thing, he will draw a pension for his lifetime when he retires at the age of 55 years. For another, he cannot be sacked or retrenched. Dismissal from Government service only arises under two contingencies. The first of these is dishonesty. Under this heading may be clubbed embezzlement, robbery, the acceptance of bribes and other financial chicanery. The second is the commitment of physical assault, with violence. For instance, a Government servant may be sacked if he should hit the boss, or his co-worker, over the head with the office stool. Even then the constitution of the country, which seeks to protect the underdog from exploitation in any form, provides an elaborate system of chargesheeting, and the opportunity for explanation, and so forth. The offender, with some astuteness, still has chances to go free if he can prove the boss fell on the stool, and not the stool on the boss. So, a Government servant for a bridegroom, is indeed a marvellous ‘catch’.

But should such a prize not be readily available, the next best substitute is sought in the person of the son of some rich man who is in business, or owns houses or land.

Another all-important factor in selecting a suitable partner is that of caste. Both husband and wife should invariably belong to the same community and caste. This is a very practical outlook, for a wife of higher caste would look down on her husband, and vice versa.

Then comes the horoscope. The exact moment of the birth of each Indian child, be it boy or girl, is very carefully and accurately recorded. According to the time, day and month of birth, professional experts cast a ‘horoscope’ in keeping with the principles and precepts of Indian Astrology. The planets are said to influence every moment of that child’s lifetime, from birth to death. His or her lucky days are foretold; the whole future carefully forecast and recorded. This practice is followed in the case of every baby; boy or girl; of all except the very poorest classes.

Now it is not difficult to realise that the horoscopes of the pair to be married should agree, for it would never do to unite a couple whose ‘bad’ and ‘good’ days were different. Indeed, it would be absolutely disastrous for a wife’s stars to be in the ascendant at the very time those of her spouse were on the wane, would it not? The Indians are, indeed, a practical people!

On the boy’s side; apart from trying to procure a bride who brings with her the maximum dowry in cash or kind his parents try to find the qualities of education, fair complexion, good looks, modesty housekeeping abilities, and all other virtues combined in the girl of their choice. Every Indian girl is a good cook by training from very young so that the culinary aspect presents no problem in particular.

Very naturally, all this takes some looking for—and finding—on both sides.

I have taken you a long way from the main theme of my story and pretty little Lalita, but it is necessary that those of you who read these lines and have never lived in India should both understand and realise the root cause of the trouble with the girl.

Lalita had everything it takes by Western standards to make an attractive wife. She was a pretty girl, with unusually brilliant grey-green eyes, enchanting eyelashes, and delightfully provocative slightly thick pink lips. Her budding young breasts strained rebelliously against the confinement imposed by her cotton jacket, and appeared as if they would at any time burst their bonds. Their softly rounded fleshy curves and the deep cleft in between the jutting hillocks made passers-by stop and stare; the young men with hope and anticipation, and the old with regret that Father Time had been so exacting with them .

Each morning Lalita would carry her heavy brass water-pot to the community well in the centre of the village, fill it and then balance it gracefully against her hip. With a swaying, rhythmic motion she would wend her way to the little hut she shared with her mother and two younger sisters, empty the water-pot, and then return to the well for a second supply. The youths would eye her lustfully on such journeys and the women in envy of her natural charm and grace.

Above all, Lalita had a vivacious and determined disposition.

But by Indian standards, at least so far as a ‘respectable’ marriage was concerned, Lalita was not so well off.

To begin with she was a Harijan, one of the ‘untouchable’ or low-caste community who, up to quite recent years had been considered social outcastes of the baser order, and who were not allowed to marry above their own status.

Secondly, she had two elder sisters, and in providing the necessary dowries to get them married, her father had dissipated his slender resources as a petty merchant in a tiny, box-booth store.

Then he had died, leaving her mother in debt and herself and her two younger sisters unprovided for, with no hopes of any money to afford even the meagrest of dowries for any of them when their turn came to get married.

Well did Lalita remember her mother weeping over the dead body of her father, bemoaning his sudden demise, and loudly expressing her wish that she had died instead, rather than be left behind with three female children and the prospect of house rent to be paid to the landlord each month with no money coming in.

Bukthi, the landlord was a rich man; yes, very very rich indeed. Not only did he own over a quarter of the number of houses and huts in the village of Alamgarh itself, but he also owned some hundreds of acres of land surrounding it. He rented the houses, and the lands, to the villagers, and was most exacting when it came to the question of collecting rents from them. He would accept no excuse for delay should the monsoon fail and the crops die and the ryots be unable to pay him. Bukthi would just summon the band of hired ruffians he called his servants and instruct them to bodily throw the defaulter out on the road. The question of the farmer and his family thereafter starving to death was no concern of his.

The same principle applied to the tenants of the many houses owned by him. No tolerance or mercy was ever extended. The defaulter was put out on the street the very day after his rent became due if he could not pay it. If he dared to complain, Bukthi’s servants would beat him, half to death.

When Lalita’s father, Mendhe, had died, the house rent had become due. After paying for his ceremonial cremation her mother, Sita, had just been able to clear it. Thereafter, she had struggled hard to keep abreast of her debtors, but had slowly succumbed to the unequal contest.

Last month, for the first time, the rent had fallen into arrears. Bukthi had come to collect, and he now stood at the door.

He was a fat man too, yes very, very fat. His double chin gave his small head the impression of being connected to his barrel-shaped body directly, without the presence of necessity of a neck at all. His huge belly overflowed the waist band of his dhoti and covered it in folds of flabby flesh. His breasts, even bigger than a woman’s, were two sagging appendages, black hair between them and dank with a layer of perspiration, for the morning was warm and Bukthi was angry at not having been paid his rent which was due. A thin, muslin dhoti encased his elephantine thighs and was wound in between. So fine was the cloth as to be almost transparent in the bright sunlight. The darker shape of his gross body could be shamelessly seen through the thin material, for it was the only article of clothing he wore. He was bare-footed. Horizontal caste marks across his forehead from temple to temple proclaimed his superior lineage and social standing.

‘Oh, miserable woman, where art thou?’ he bawled, standing outside the door of the little brick-and-mud hut, and shouting lustily.

Sita heard and recognised the voice and her heart missed a beat for fear. Was it not cruel enough to lose her husband without being left penniless in addition? This fat monster would no doubt now order her and her three daughters out on to the street. She trembled and felt weak at the knees as she stooped her head under the low lintel of the doorway and went outside.

She was a frail woman of about fifty years of age; thin and with hair liberally streaked with grey. But her longish finely-chiselled features and grey-green eyes revealed the source from which Lalita had inherited her beauty. A sari, that had once been blue but was now faded to a dirty ashy colour could hardly detract from what would have been a stately appearance had she been dressed better.

‘Why do you keep me waiting outside like a dog.’ Bukthi thundered. ‘I have come to collect last month’s rent due by you.’

‘I came the first time you called. Sir,’ began Sita by way of apology ‘but…’ and her voice trailed to a halt in despair.

‘There are no ‘buts’ with me,’ barked the fat man. ‘Either you pay your rent, or out you get. I am not running a charitable institution.’

Tears welled in the poor woman’s eyes, brimmed over to her careworn cheeks and trickled down the furroughed skin. One fell, as a drop of moisture, on to the ground where it was immediately absorbed by the parched earth.

Unconsciously, the thought crossed her mind that even the soil in this land is cruel. It grabs at my tears and asks for more. But then, the earth was dry and in need of moisture. This fat man before her had lakhs of rupees; yet demanded the paltry sum she owed of twelve rupees.

‘Please. Sir, be kind to us and have mercy,’ she pleaded, the tears running faster now. ‘When my husband, Mendhe, was alive he paid you regularly every month and never once defaulted. I have no source of income or support now. Please, please give me another month’s time in which I and my daughter may seek for work. Then we will pay you the rent for both months due’.

The scowl on Bukthi’s face grew deeper. It was clear he was in no mood to have mercy, or even to listen to her.

‘Miserable wretch!’ he almost spat out the words. ‘What care I for you or your troubles and woes. I want my rent that is due for last month, and what is more, I want it now. NOW, do you understand?’ His voice rose to a frenzied scream as his fat belly vibrated with the vehemence of his words, and his double-jowls set up a queer trembling that he himself could not control. Bukthi would have appeared a comical sight, indeed, on a stage setting, had only the circumstances connected with the whole affair been less tragic than they were in reality.

Sita could find no answer to that outburst. She commenced to cry unrestrainedly.

Lalita had taken her brass water-pot to the village well, and having filled it was just that moment returning with the pot balanced as usual on her shapely right hip. She had apparently walked faster or perhaps filled the pot to the brim. Whatever it was, some of the water had splashed upwards and wetted the thin cloth of the white jacket, speckled with red dots, that she was wearing. The sodden material clung even more tightly to her jutting right breast and revealed its contours intimately.

Lalita had heard Bukthi’s raised voice and her mother’s weeping, long before she drew level with them. She knew the fat landlord, both by sight and reputation. She also knew that the previous month’s rent for the hut that Bukthi called a house, had not been paid. She guessed that he had ordered her mother to vacate, and being of a decidedly determined and forceful disposition, she made up her mind to tell this loathesome fat creature just what she thought of him. They had nothing to lose in any case, as he would undoubtedly turn them out that very instant.

These thoughts passed rapidly through Lalita’s pretty head, and by that time she had reached her mother. Very carefully and deliberately she lowered the heavy brass vessel with its contents to the ground, and then turned to face Bukthi with flaming eyes.

‘You fat bully,’ she hissed between clenched teeth without any preliminaries, ‘if you have anything to say, say it to me. Cannot you see my poor mother is exhausted enough, as it is, and sick, too, that you have to shout at her, you fat lout. ’

The virulence and unexpectedness of this quite unforeseen counter-attack fairly took the wind out of Bukthi’s sails. For some moments he was at a loss for words. His heavy jowl dropped and his mouth hung open in the manner of a stranded fish, gasping for air.

The sight tickled Lalita’s sense of humour. She began to giggle; and then laughed openly.

Her mocking laughter stung Bukthi to violent fury. By now his eyes fairly popped out of his head. ‘You little slut,’ he stuttered, ‘mind your business or I will lay my hands on you and break your neck this moment.’

The laughter died in Lalita’s throat. In turn, her eyes flashed fire and her under-lip trembled uncontrollably with a woman’s desire to cry with anger, and her own determination not to give vent to her feelings.

A crowd of villagers had been attracted by the altercation and were by now surrounding the three participants in a wide and interested circle. Among them were a good number of children and these were laughing.

Bukthi lost control of himself entirely and went berserk.

Striding forward, he swung with open palm at the girl before him. Being a woman and unaccustomed to actual fighting, Lalita failed to dodge or parry the blow. It caught her a thudding welt across her face. Her ears sang with the impact and for a moment everything vanished before her, to be replaced by a reddish-white mist.

Then she remembered what had happened. Sobbing with fury, she reached up and tore with her sharp nails at the leering fat face above her, scratching furroughs of red through Bukthi’s dusky fat skin. With both hands she tore, and scratched, and mauled. The blood began to trickle down his face. He backed in self-defence, while Lalita pressed forward her plucky attack.

The onlookers howled with merriment and appreciation of what was going on before them. Not one of them had any love for the fat landlord, and this spectacle of him getting beaten up by a sixteen-year-old girl was something that they were enjoying to the maximum .

As she attacked, Lalita abused her opponent roundly. And not only him, but in the usual Eastern fashion, all his ancestors that had gone before him. ‘Bastard-fat son of a pig and descendant of a family of swine,’ she screeched, ‘you would dare hit a woman! I will show you what one of my sex can do. Take this-and this-and this.’

The crowd were laughing even louder.

In desperation Bukthi grabbed at the furiously-attacking figure of the girl before him. His hand clutched her right breast. He felt the pulsating softness of the flesh beneath, barely restrained by the thin wet cloth of her jacket. Meanwhile, his face burned from the deep scratches she had inflicted with her long, sharp nails. In retaliation he gripped the mound of her breast in his hand and tugged at it with all his might.

Lalita screamed with pain, while the flimsy material of her jacket tore asunder under the strain, to reveal a completely naked breast, topped by the plum-coloured protrusion of her nipple surrounded by its dark-brown areola.

‘What goes on here?’ demanded a voice of authority.’ And then the Sub-Inspector of police, who had been passing by on his bicycle and been attracted by the crowd and the hubbub, broke through the circle of spectators.

Bukthi looked an ugly sight with the blood streaming down his lacerated face. Tears of temper ran down his cheeks. Lalita was also crying, her feelings a mixture of rage, pain and shame.

A dozen tongues started wagging simultaneously as the crowd tried to acquaint the police officer with what was happening.

‘Hold your tongues,’ he commanded; and then, turning to Bukthi whom he already knew and did not like, said, ‘Now Sait-jee, what explanation have you to offer for this disgraceful scene?’

‘I was but asking for the rent that is due to me and has not been paid,’ Bukthi pleaded meekly, ‘when this vixen attacked and started scratching me.’

‘That is a lie,’ countered Lalita between her tears, ‘he hit me first.’ A voice from the crowd spoke up. ‘That is true, police Sahib. I myself saw Bukthi strike her first. ’

The Sub-Inspector turned to the landlord. ‘It surprises me to see a gentleman of your status engaged in a street brawl with a mere girl. You had both better come with me to the police station, where I will file a case against the pair of you for causing a disturbance to the peace.’

Bukthi saw the further humiliation that lay ahead of him should the police book a case. He would become a laughing stock before the Magistrate when accused of brawling with a woman on the street. Besides, he felt the Magistrate did not like him very much, already. Twice he had prosecuted tenants who had owed him money on lands they had rented from him. Instead of making them pay, or punishing them, this Magistrate had shown leniency towards the ryots by allowing them more time. If this case came to court, Bukthi felt the Magistrate would really take a very dim view of it.

Like all bullies, he suddenly went to pieces when thwarted.

‘Oh, please Sir,’ he begged of the Sub-Inspector, ‘kindly excuse me and let me off. She is to blame and I am not at fault.’

The Sub-Inspector’s lip curled in contempt. ‘So, she is to blame, eh?’ he mocked, ‘and you are quite innocent, I suppose?’

Then he looked at Lalita, who had stopped crying. In the excitement of the moment she had quite forgotten about her right breast which was still exposed. The police officer glanced at it momentarily; then rivetted his attention upon it.

Appreciatively, he sucked in his breath.

‘Sir,’ Lalita said, ‘for the matter of that, we are both to blame equally for fighting in public. He struck me and I struck him. So take us both to the station and lock us both up.’

A glint of admiration displaced the dim film of lust that had been coming into the Sub-Inspector’s eyes. ‘Well spoken, girl,’ he commented. Then, turning to Bukthi, he said in tones of deepest derision, ‘Truly, fat man, you should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Not only do you strike a woman publicly, but you cringe for mercy and try to lay the blame on her. She, at least, accepts her part of it; but you have not even got the guts to do that. You… bastard!’ he muttered under his breath, repeating the word with a very bad epithet before it to qualify precisely the nature of ‘bastard’ Bukthi was.

Then he resumed talking, ‘Either you will apologise in my presence and in that of this crowd, to this girl, or you will come with me to the police station. I will allow you exactly one minute in which to make up your mind.’

Bukthi stared dumbfounded. How could he, the great and rich landlord, possibly apologise to this little Harijan she-devil who had so disparaged him? But then he thought of the Magistrate, and what further disgrace lay in store at his hands.

‘Well, time’s up,’ broke in the Sub-Inspector, ‘come along with me; both of you.’

Bukthi made up his mind quickly. ‘Just one minute, Sir; I will apologise’. Then, turning to Lalita, he quickly mumbled the words, ‘I apologise,’ ungracefully.

He looked at the police officer after that, who said crisply, ‘Get out.’

Bukthi turned and walked rapidly away. Feelings of shame, mortification, rage and frustration tore at him, and vied strongly with each other for supremacy.

But through and above them all, he seemed to see a small, protruding, plum-hued, erect object. It was the nipple on Lalita’s right breast which had been laid bare when he had torn away her jacket. There and then he made a resolution. He determined to humble the owner; by possessing her!

Sita had tried hard to find employment for herself. Remarkably, there seemed to be none in the whole village. That appeared to be most unusual, as other women, older than herself secured jobs in houses and places the occupants of whom had just told her they had no vacancies. At last, she confided her concern to an old woman friend.

‘Amlabee,’ she said one evening, ‘why is it that I am born so unlucky? Why is it I cannot even get a job? Others go before me and after me. They get work. But when I ask, it is always the same answer, ‘Sorry; no vacancy.’

Amlabee, the old crone addressed, smiled darkly, ‘It is not your bad luck that prevents you from being employed. It is that man, Bukthi.’ Then she leaned across confidingly to Sita. ‘Only two nights ago the grocer, Ramdass, was here talking to my husband. I overheard him saying that Bukthi had openly circulated instructions far and wide that neither Sita or her daughter, Lalita, should be given work or financially helped in any way. I intended to tell you this before, Sita, but refrained for fear I should hurt your feelings. He is the one who is the cause of you being boycotted and debarred from being given a job.’

This news appalled Sita. She pondered about it for some days, and then decided to seize the bull by the horns and tackle Bukthi about it directly, without telling Lalita.

Next morning, she hung around the main gateway of the mansion of a house that was Bukthi’s personal residence. At about ten o’clock, he came out of the gate clad in a tight-fitting tussore-silk coat, buttoned high at the neck. He wore the usual thin muslin dhoti, and a small black cap on his head.

Now or never argued Sita to herself. She accosted him, salaamed respectfully and then came out with what was in her mind. ‘Huzoor, why is it that you have told so many people not to give me or my daughter employment? Rather, if you would but help us to get work, I will not only gladly pay your house rent, but the arrears of money I already owe you in this respect.’

Bukthi halted in his tracks. For a moment it appeared as if he would erupt into a towering rage. But his expression of anger slowly became supplanted by one of cunning as if an idea had suddenly come into his mind. With a sly look in his eyes and a totally unusual smoothness of speech, he replied .

‘Don’t be so silly, sister,’ and then, glibly, ‘whoever told you that? Why should I try to stop you from getting work? I realise that only then will you be able to pay my rent.’

He paused awhile. Then went on ingratiatingly, ‘Look here. I am sorry about that quarrel we had. I am afraid I lost my temper. Most remiss of me, I am sure. But I will tell you what. To prove I bear you no ill-will and am genuinely regretful about that incident, I will not only wait some time more for the house rent but I will also lend you one hundred rupees, interest free, to tide you over your present difficulties. How will that suit you?’

To say the least of it, Sita was amazed. Could her ears be deceiving her? Or was Bukthi mad, or drunk?

She looked into his face, earnestly trying hard to fathom what was in his mind and lay behind those jet-black eyes. For once, her woman’s instinct failed her. She saw nothing.

Perhaps it was because she had plenty of other misfortunes to remember and think about. Not only had she failed to pay the rent, but she was heavily in debt all over the village. Only the day before she had tried to borrow the small sum of five rupees from the local moneylender. But he had laughed at her when she asked him.

‘Do you think I am mad to throw away money to a destitute widow without a hope in hell of ever getting it back?’ he had chided. ‘Go on, get out of here. If you really want the money bring some security, such as a gold ring, nose ring, earring, or some other trinket worth at least fifteen rupees.’

‘But I have nothing whatsoever left,’ she had wailed. ‘That’s exactly as I thought,’ he had cut in, ‘so, get out; and stay out.’

And now Bukthi was offering her a loan of one hundred rupees, without security and without interest, and further time to remain on in his house.

It was unbelievable.

But the question was; should she accept, or not.

Indecision weighed heavily upon her. On the one side was the prospect of sheer starvation both for herself, Lalita, and, the two younger girls. On the other was a lurking doubt. Could this be really true?

‘Well,’ queried Bukthi beningly, ‘do you want the money, or not? You must tell me quickly. I have a business appointment in another ten minutes or so.’

Faced with the temptation of immediate financial relief and a square meal for herself and her three daughters that night, Sita agreed.

‘Come on back with me to my house for a few minutes,’ Bukthi invited, ‘and I will hand you the money.’ Obediently she followed him, and waited silently in the verandah, while he went inside.

He was not long in returning, though. Within a few minutes he was back, carrying some ten and five rupee notes in his left hand. In his right hand he held some sort of printed form.

‘This is merely a formality,’ he told her, kindly. ‘Just sign here,’ and he indicated a place near the end of the form, ‘and I will fill in the particulars that I have lent you the sum of one hundred rupees today, free of interest, repayable shall we say,’ and here he again smiled benevolently, ‘within two years. Will that be sufficiently long?’

Once again, and for the last time, Sita hesitated. Bukthi appeared to grow angry. ‘Please don’t waste my time,’ he reminded her. ‘I am already late as it is and cannot delay a moment longer. Do you want the money, or not?’

For fear he should change his mind at the last moment, Sita hastily scrawled her signature at the spot indicated, using the Parker 51 fountain pen he offered her for the purpose. Bukthi carefully allowed the ink to dry for a moment, folded the form and tucked it into the left hand breast pocket of his tussore-silk coat, remarking that he would fill in the details himself later, as he was in a hurry.

Then he counted out eight ten-rupee and four five-rupee notes, which he handed to her.

Sita took the money gratefully, bowing low in a salaam of thanks. And so she did not notice the gleam of satisfaction that came into his eyes, above her lowered head .

Another two months passed, but still Sita and Lalita found it very difficult to obtain steady employment. They did, each, get one or two temporary jobs which lasted a few days. But then they were out of employment again. Meanwhile the hundred rupees which Sita had taken from Bukthi, and of which she had not breathed a word to her daughter, were dwindling fast.

Yet another month passed, and the money was all gone.

Once more, in sheer desperation, Sita approached Bukthi, and this time, almost but not quite as readily, he volunteered to lend her another fifty rupees on the same terms as on the first occasion. And once again he contrived to make her sign a blank pro-note form.

Still another two months passed and the fifty rupees were also gone.

Steady employment eluded mother and daughter yet, while misfortune appeared to dog their footsteps. And that was the time when Bukthi chose to play his ace card.

He had come to learn of Lalita’s daily visits with her water-pot to the communal well very early every morning and one day instructed his servant to accost her there and tell her he wanted to speak to her. The servant did as he was told and delivered the message. Lalita who knew nothing about the loans her mother had taken from Bukthi, promptly told the servant to tell him to go to hell.

The servant duly delivered her reply.

Bukthi fumed within himself, muttering darkly, ‘You wait till I get hold of you you little bitch. I will make you squeal for mercy and I will show you none.’

A couple of mornings later, he waited for her himself, around the corner of the street down which she would have to walk to reach the hut she and her family lived in, at the lower end. Every little while he peeped to see if she was coming.

At last he saw her, the brass pot balanced gracefully on the right side of her swaying hips, walking towards him. He drew back in the shelter of the wall till she had turned the corner and stood face to face before him .

‘Well, my beautiful one, we meet again,’ he said banteringly. ‘I have some words to say to you.’

‘Get away, you fat pig,’ Lalita muttered defiantly, before I throw my pot, with its contents, in your face.’

Bukthi stepped backwards hastily. He had suffered a painful experience once already at this vixen’s hands, and knew what she could do at close quarters when aroused. He did not want to risk another encounter.

Putting his hand in his breast pocket, he drew out two printed forms.

‘Listen, girl,’ he grated harshly, ‘do you know what these are?’ And then, before she could answer, he went on quickly, ‘they are caned ‘pro-notes’. One of them indicates that your mother has borrowed one thousand rupees from me. The other shows she has borrowed a further five hundred. Altogether, one thousand five hundred rupees! She asked me not to tell you about these loans at the time she took them. Look, if you don’t believe me. There is her signature.’

Then, stepping a further pace backwards out of all possible reach by this hell-cat, he held up the documents in his left hand, indicating with his right forefinger Sita’s signature upon each of them.

Despite the distance, Lalita could clearly recognise her mother’s handwriting and signature. Her heart seemed to miss a beat.

‘Now, do you know what I am going to do?’ he queried, harshly, ‘I am going to hand over both these documents to court. Your mother will be arrested and thrown into jail for not paying her debts, beside her house rent which is now due for six months. I will even pay for her upkeep in the debtor’s cell; but go to jail she shall!’

Bukthi waited a minute to let the full significance the threat he had just uttered sink into this defiant girl.

Then he continued, ‘But there is one way of saving her. And only one person can do it. That one way and one person, is you.’

Lalita still did not fully comprehend what he was driving at. With mouth half-opened in astonishment and eyes that began to fill with tears, she listened to him .

Enjoying every moment of his triumph, Bukthi continued with evident relish, working up to the climax in the form of the dramatic announcement he was about to make.

‘Spend one week with me. Let me enjoy your body fully and to my satisfaction. Let me do everything I want to with it. At the end of that time, and provided you have been very, very nice to me and have done all I shall ask you to do, I promise you that I shall not only destroy both these bonds before your very eyes and forget about the six months’ rent your mother already owes me, but I shall allow all of you to go on living, rent free, in my house for the rest of your lives.’

Only then did the significance of his words and his threat sink fully into Lalita’s consciousness.

Her eyes flashed fire, while the teardrops, like stars, twinkled in the corners of each. Three words escaped her lips, ‘You unutterable swine!’

Never had she seemed more beautiful or more desirable to possess. Bukthi hugged himself in a paroxy of anticipatory delight.

‘I will allow you up till tomorrow evening to decide whether you want to save your mother from jail, or to sacrifice her,’ he continued. ‘After all, it is not much that I am asking of you, a mere wisp of a Harijan girl, in return for such a large sum of money and so many other benefits in addition. Don’t breathe a word to your mother or anyone else. If you do so, she goes to jail. Tell her you are going to the next village to seek a job and come to my house tomorrow night at exactly eight o’clock. Come to the back door and not to the front gate, as the neighbours should not see you. I shall be expecting you. And remember, finally, that if you do not come, the very next morning your mother goes to jail. That is all I have to say, except to once again remind you of the fact that you, and you alone, are the only person who can save your mother from imprisonment.’

With these words, Bukthi turned abruptly to walk away, and in doing so almost tripped over a crippled beggar who had appeared as if from nowhere and squatted on the road behind him .

‘Alms for a poor cripple, your honour,’ he whined. ‘Pray give me half-an-anna.’

‘Get out of my way, you idiot!’ barked Bukthi, irritably, ‘I almost fell over you.’

So saying, he walked past the beggar without looking at him again, and disappeared around the corner.

They were alone. The beggar and Lalita.

No sound was to be heard, except for her convulsive sobbing. She was too simple a girl to consider whether it would be altogether possible for Bukthi to carry out the threats he had uttered.

‘Do not fear, lady,’ the cripple interrupted softly, ‘you will be saved. I swear to you, on the word of Rajah Man Singh Rathore. Do not mention a word of all this to your mother, or another soul. And go to the back door of his house tomorrow night, at exactly eight o’clock as he has asked you to do. Enter boldly. No harm shall come to you. Once more I swear it, on the word of Rajah Man Singh. Do not fail to go.’

With those words the beggar dragged himself laboriously across the road and vanished from sight, without once looking back at her.

Lalita felt an overwhelming relief.

Even she, humble Harijan girl that she was, had heard of the countless instances of chivalry the great dacoit-king had shown towards insignificant people like herself, in the past, at their hour of greatest need, and how he had rescued so many from the jaws of impending calamity.

That very instant she made her decision and she made it irrevocably. She would not worry who the cripple was; from where he had come; how, in that terribly-maimed condition he could possibly contact the bandit leader in his hidden lair in the jungle or among the ravines so many miles away; or how she would be rescued from the clutches of the fat Bukthi the following night before he could rape her.

But she would obey, implicitly, what she had been told to do. She would, tell no one; and she would go to the back door of the landlord’s house at exactly eight o’clock on the night he had told her to come.

It was three minutes to eight the following night when Lalita stood irresolutely outside the rear entrance to Bukthi’s residence. It was a moonless night, but the stars overhead twinkled serenely in a cloudless sky as if oblivious to the cruel fate that awaited her behind those closed doors.

Not a soul was in sight. The nearest street lamp shone bleakly about a hundred yards away. The doorway was in darkness and the door was shut, although a ray of light penetrated below it from the interior.

The clock on the tower of the town hall, nearly a quarter of a mile away, solemnly struck the hour of eight as Lalita timidly knocked upon the door. Glancing down the street as she did so, she noticed a solitary bullock cart turn the bend in the roadway, its only light a dim lantern, and approach towards the house.

Evidently Bukthi had been certain she would come and was awaiting her arrival, for within a few seconds of her knocking the door opened and she saw his obese frame silhouetted against the light from the room inside.

‘Good evening, Lalita, I was expecting you. It is nice of you to have been so punctual. Do come in.’

His tone was suave and gentlemanly, and he stepped aside to allow her to enter.

Bukthi closed the door behind her.

And then, in an instant, his manner changed. Gone was the polished gentleman of a moment before. His features assumed a strained expression—the expression of concentrated lust. The tip of his tongue protruded from his mouth, and in anticipation wet his upper and lower lips. His eyes bored into her sari and appeared to undress her till she was stark naked before him. The perspiration of pent-up passion poured from the pores of his forehead, and made his face look greasy and glistening.

With both hands he grabbed for her breasts .

At that instant, Lalita realised that she was all alone with a sex-mad beast, and she screamed aloud.

As his hands touched her there came a loud knocking at the door, and a muffled voice announced urgently, ‘Telegram.’

Bukthi stopped in mid-stride. He was breathing heavily and trembling with unleashed passion.

‘Go away, damn you,’ he shouted, ‘bring it again in the morning.’

‘Cannot,’ came the muffled reply. ‘Urgent telegram. You have to receive it now.’

With a vile oath at being disturbed at such a time, Bukthi pushed Lalita into a corner of the room and flung open the door. Four men, instead of the one telegram messenger he had expected to see, stood outside. Before he knew what had happened, they were inside the room, and had closed the door behind them.

Bukthi opened his mouth to protest, when things happened fast. The tallest of the four men, a veritable giant, leaped upon him, pushing a handkerchief into his open mouth. His three companions pinioned his hands behind his back and tied them together with a cord they had apparently brought for the purpose. Then they bound his legs also.

The giant quickly replaced the handkerchief he had forced into Bukthi’s mouth with a cloth gag which was knotted fast behind his head.

Unceremoniously he was thrown to the ground.

The four men looked around and the leader’s eyes alighted upon a costly Persian carpet. This he took up from where it was lying on the floor, and the men commenced to roll Bukthi into it.

All this time they had been undisturbed. Evidently in anticipation of an evening with Lalita completely at his mercy, Bukthi had sent his servants home and was alone in the house.

When they had entirely wrapped the landlord in his Persian carpet, the tall leader cautiously opened the door and peered outside. Obviously he found the coast clear, for in a few seconds he beckoned to his three companions. They staggered under the tremendous weight of the fat man as they bore him outside, rolled up inside his own carpet .

Then, for the first time, the leader appeared to notice Lalita and spoke to her. ‘Come along, girl. I offer you security in the name of Rajah Man Singh. Soon you will be returned safely to your home. Have no fear whatever.’

Not for one moment did Lalita hesitate, so great was her trust in the bandit king’s honour. She followed the three men, staggering beneath their burden, outside. The giant came behind her and closed the back door of the house as they left it.

Lalita was surprised to notice that a covered bullock cart stood beside the kerb on the roadside. It was drawn by two bullocks. Suspended to the wooden shaft that passed between them. A dimly-lighted lantern flickered faintly. At the front of the cart squatted the shrouded figure of the cartman.

Suddenly she remembered the cart she had seen approaching as she had entered the house. Man Singh’s henchmen had timed their arrival correctly to the split second.

By this time the three men had pushed the carpet, with its human contents, into the cart. One of them got in with it. The tall leader wordlessly motioned for Lalita to enter the cart, also. She did so.

With a faint click of his tongue the driver of the cart started the bullocks and the cart creaked and rumbled down the roadway, the tall man and his remaining two companions falling into step behind.

To an onlooker, it was just an ordinary bullock cart, proceeding on an innocent journey. Inside of it were some members of a party of travellers. The rest of them walked behind. It had all been so simply but efficiently arranged, and looked so very commonplace.

Lalita admired the ingenuity of Rajah Man Singh and his men.

In course of time they left the township far behind and journeyed on and on. Despite the excitement she had been through, Lalita began to feel sleepy. Her head lolled forward and she dozed fitfully. Every hour or so the men would change about, and one would take turns to ride in the cart while the other three walked behind.

At about midnight they had heard muffled sounds coming from the interior of the roll of carpet. They had stopped the cart and unrolled it. Evidently, just in time. Bukthi was almost dead from suffocation and his clothes were sodden with sweat, caused by the terrific heat brought about through the carpet that was wrapped around him.

So the leader had decided not to replace it, but kept Bukthi bound and gagged on the floor of the cart.

Soon afterwards the road entered the forest and everything became as black as pitch. Giant trees, growing in close array, were interspersed with smaller ones, the whole joined and laced together inextricably by vines and jungle creepers, presenting as it were a solid and impenetrable fortress wall on either side of the road, extending high up to the tops of the trees. Only directly overhead, and following the contour of the road beneath, was a ribbon of sky, clearly differentiated from the black phalanx of the forest on either side by the myriads of stars that twinkled and scintillated unceasingly, throwing off hues in their brilliance that bore all the colours of the spectrum. Other twinkling lights flitted about in the darkness of the foliage on either side of the road. But they were living lights; the phosphorescent lamps of fireflies, as they flashed their elfin glow now here, now there; now singly, now synchronising in hundreds; momentarily illumining the outline of the trees, only to plunge them again the very next second into a deeper, more impenetrable, gloom.

The lantern suspended on the shaft to which the two bullocks were yoked cast but a feeble light hardly two yards agead of them. The moving shadows, thrown by the legs of the oxen as they strode patiently along, seemed living things, demons of the jungle night that haunted them on their journey; steadily, inexorably, to an impending doom. The three men, walking close together behind the cart, appeared ghostlike phantoms forming a rearguard against any attempt at escape by the inmates of the vehicle.

It was shortly after 3.30 a.m. when Lalita, who had been dozing again, heard voices and felt the cart in which she was sitting come to a sudden halt. Then she saw the three men who had been walking behind, draw respectfully aside as other figures approached .

‘Mohan, are they all here?’ a rather melodious voice inquired. ‘The fat man and the girl?’

‘They are here, Maharaj Sahib,’ replied the tallest of the three men whom Lalita remembered as the one who had evidently been in charge of the kidnapping assignment.

‘You have done excellently, Mohan. Thank you,’ said the owner of the melodious voice. Then, turning to his other companions who had not yet come into view due to the elliptical roof of the cart coming in the way, the speaker said, ‘Carry the fat pig to the camp.’

Addressing Lalita, he said, ‘Girl, you have nothing whatever to be afraid of. Please get down and follow me.’

Normally, any adult woman would have been terrified under the circumstances. She guessed that she was among the members of a dacoit band. But Lalita felt no fear whatsoever. A strange assurance of complete safety came over her, with mingled feelings of gratitude and respect for the great leader who had saved her from an awful fate.

Could this, indeed, be the redoubtable Rajah Man Singh?

Without a word, she eased herself off the hard wooden floor of the cart and on to the ground.

Then the mysterious man who had been giving the orders led the way motioning with his hand for Lalita to follow closely. She did so. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed four men lift Bukthi to their shoulders and start walking behind her. In the rear of them were yet other men. They commenced to walk through the jungle in single file, along some path evidently the leader knew well, as did his companions. In a few seconds the dim lantern from the bullock cart was lost to sight behind the stems of the trees.

Now the darkness became intense. Strain her eyes as she might, Lalita was unable to see the pathway at her feet. She stumbled. The leader halted and turned around. In the gloom she felt his hand groping for hers. She clasped it. He continued walking, leading her by the hand.

She never knew what distance they had covered. But suddenly the path took a turning and they converged on what was clearly a glade in the forest. The dying embers of half-a-dozen camp fires glowed around her.

The party came to a halt.

‘Oh comrades,’ spoke he of the pleasant voice, ‘pile wood on the fires, for we are about to hold court. But first, let some ‘cha’ be served to the newcomers.’

The four men laid Bukthi, still trussed and gagged, upon the ground and squatted down around him. The leader said to Lalita, ‘Sit down, girl, and be comfortable till the cha is served.’ Then, turning to one of his followers he added, ‘Bring a blanket for the girl; she is sure to feel the cold.’

From somewhere a blanket was offered to her. Lalita draped it around herself and brought the end over her head, for the night air was decidedly crisp and her sari was already damp with the dew.

Then she sat down on the ground.

The dacoit leader followed suit.

By this time the fires around them had recommenced to blaze, reinforced by the logs of dry wood that had just been piled on by the members of the band.

In the flickering light, momentarily growing brighter, Lalita turned to look at her benefactor.

He was an elderly man, light-complexioned and with a snowy white beard, moustache and whiskers. He wore the usual dhoti and bandi. She noticed that, despite his age, he sat erect and had the bearing of a soldier with long years of military training. He had a surprisingly broad forehead which was smeared with wide chalk marks. A heavy string of amber beads hung around his neck.

But what was the most impelling feature about him were his eyes. They were steely-hard and piercing. Cruel as a Kestrel’s, they yet seemed capable of turning as soft as any mother’s as she gazed lovingly at her babe.

In a few minutes hot tea was served all around in enamel mugs, Lalita receiving her share immediately after the chief. Bukthi got his quota too, as soon as the gag had been removed from his mouth and his arms and legs released.

When they had finished drinking, the old man began to speak. And he smiled as he spoke. A curious smile. It appeared placating, apologetic, and yet seeking to be understood. It gave the impression of coming from a good-natured and kindly judge; yet one who knew he had an unpleasant duty to perform and was determined that justice should be served.

‘We all do wrong and sin at times,’ he said, ‘for to err is human. It is bad if the sin we commit causes ruination to ourselves. But, if that sin is planned, diabolically, to encompass the destruction of another person, particularly if that other is innocent, then the sin is very great indeed.

‘We shall now hold court to decide whether our brother here, one Bukthi by name who stands accused, has committed such a sin; and if he has, whether he should be punished or not; and what form that punishment should take.

‘There are fifty-two of you here present excluding the girl, the accused and myself. I will cast no vote in the matter. I want you to judge fairly and before God, whether this man Bukthi is guilty or not; whether he should be punished or acquitted; and if you feel he is guilty, in what manner he should be punished.

‘I don’t want anyone here to try to please me by punishing him. I tell you here and now that such punishment will not please me in the least. Rather, it will grieve me. But if you honestly decide that justice should be meted out; assuredly it will be done.

‘Now I will state the charges against the accused, one by one. You, Bukthi, will be given every opportunity to explain yourself and refute the accusation if you want. Only you must speak the truth and nothing else. You will be given a patient hearing with no interruptions.

‘Alright then; let me begin with the first question. Are you a landlord owning several houses and a good number of acres of land? Just answer “Yes” or “No” please.’

‘Yes,’ Bukthi’s voice was scarcely above a whisper .

‘Do you collect rents from your tenants?’

‘Yes,’ said the fat man again.

‘How much money do you collect a month in this way? Now, before you answer, bear in mind that I already know. If you speak the truth it will be in your favour. If you should tell a lie, a hot ember shall be put on the sole of your foot.’

Bukthi commenced to tremble violently. Then stuttered, ‘A few thousand.’

‘We know that already, fat man. But, how many thousand?’

‘About three thousand rupees,’ came the reply.

‘That is a lie, my friend. Altogether you get six thousand and seventy rupees a month. Am I correct or not?’

The landlord looked startled. There was silence for nearly a minute. Then he said, ‘Yes’. ‘Has this girl’s mother paid the rent she is due you?’

‘No,’ Bukthi returned vehemently. Then he began to passionately plead his case. ‘She has not paid for six months, your honour.’

‘I am not “your honour”,’ said the old man, quietly; and then continued. ‘And how much does she owe you, altogether? Now remember to speak the truth, for we know the answer.’

‘Seventy-two rupees,’ claimed Bukthi hotly. ‘At twelve rupees a month for the past six months, she owes me seventy-two rupees.’

‘I see; that happens to be correct, as I already know. Now, what proportion is this twelve rupees to the six thousand and odd rupees you get each month?’

‘I—I don’t know,’ stammered Bukthi.

‘You don’t know, eh. But it is quite a small proportion, is it not?’

No answer came from Bukthi.

‘Come, friend,’ said the old man impatiently. ‘If you won’t answer a simple question, perhaps the fire will make you.’

‘I suppose so,’ admitted Bukthi, surily.

‘Used to be paid regularly before?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied the landowner, with alacrity.

‘Then, why did she stop paying you?’ came the next question .

‘How should I know?’ Bukthi was becoming increasingly rebellious. ‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘who are you to ask all these questions? I am not bound to answer them.’

‘My name is Man Singh,’ said the old man, ‘possibly you have heard of me before.

‘It is also possible that you may have heard I have ways and means of making people answer, if they refuse. I really don’t want to employ them on you. So, I strongly advise you to reply; and reply truthfully.

‘Now what was that last question? Oh yes; why did this girl’s mother stop paying you suddenly?’

Bukthi decided to humour this devil. So he said, ‘Well, she said her husband had died and left behind no money.’

‘He died alright. But how am I to know he left her no money?’

‘Fair enough,’ said Man Singh, ‘you have a point there. She may have been lying to avoid paying rent. Now let me ask the next question.

‘Is it a fact that you instigated your friends not to give her, or her daughter, employment, or work of any kind, when they sought for it?’

‘And is it true you were kind enough to loan her one hundred rupees, and later another fifty rupees, free of interest?’

‘Of course,’ said Bukthi, spontaneously.

Then he realised his mistake; but it was too late.

Man Singh snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a rather short man of particularly dark countenance and clean-shaven, who stood among the crowd of onlookers, and then said to him, ‘Please show me those bonds, Mustafa.’

The short man addressed delved in the pocket of the black coat he wore over his long shirt, and brought out two pieces of paper which he handed over to the old dacoit.

Bukthi and Lalita recognised them simultaneously. They were the two pro-notes bearing Sita’s signature with which he had threatened her a couple of days before. It was evident that, after the kidnapping of the fat landlord, quite another party of outlaws must have been deputed to search his house for these documents. Lalita admired Man Singh’s thoroughness, while Bukthi’s bloated face drained to a pasty hue. His eyes bulged in fear.

Man Singh unfolded the documents and studied both the sheets for a moment.

‘Since you admit you lent her a hundred rupees and then another fifty rupees free of interest, how is it these bonds are for one thousand rupees, and five hundred rupees, respectively?’

‘I submit you are guilty of chicanery. I accuse you of lending this woman one hundred rupees first, followed by fifty rupees, and then adding a zero in each case and writing pro-notes for one thousand rupees and for five hundred rupees, respectively, to get this poor woman and her daughter hopelessly enmeshed in your clutches. Are you guilty or not?’

Man Singh’s voice was flat and toneless. But it was penetratingly clear and precise.

Bukthi did not answer.

‘And what did you say to this girl when you met her the day before yesterday?’

‘Surely you remember, great landlord? There was also a witness to what you said. Do you recollect the cripple you stumbled over? He heard you distinctly. And what is more my friend; I was that cripple.’

Lalita could hardly believe her ears. The accused’s mouth hung open foolishly.

Man Singh continued, ‘However, as I am not taking part in this trial by offering testimony against you, let us hear what the girl herself has to say.’

He turned to Lalita, ‘Girl, what exactly did he tell you?’

In a low, but clear voice, Lalita told them everything.

Once more, turning to the half-swooning fat man, Man Singh continued inexorably.

‘When this girl came to your house last night, what did you do? ’

‘N—n—nothing,’ stammered Bukthi.

‘Girl, is that true? You need not be ashamed to speak. We are your friends here.’

Slowly, but clearly, Lalita said, ‘No sooner did I enter, than he shut the door and began to molest me. In fact, had your men not come in the nick of time, I am certain he would have raped me.’

A stony silence came over the assembly for some minutes.

Man Singh got to his feet. Lalita noticed he seemed taller than he had first appeared to be. Addressing the squatting group of men, he said.

‘Comrades, you have heard the charges. To each charge the accused was afforded an opportunity to reply and defend himself. Now, be very fair in your judgements. What say you? Is he “Guilty” or “Not Guilty”.’

There was a unanimous murmur of ‘Guilty’ from fifty-two throats.

‘Should he be punished, or not?’

‘He must be punished,’ they intoned.

‘What form should his punishment take?’

To this question there was lively difference of opinion.

‘Flay him to ribbons,’ advised one. ‘Cut his throat,’ suggested another. ‘Bury him alive,’ said a third.

And then a short, rather thin man, stood up. Lalita noticed that he had sharp features which gave him an intellectual appearance.

‘Maharaj,’ he began, ‘it is my opinion that we should not kill him outright because he has not actually caused the death of anyone as yet. Further, if we do so, nobody will know of his misdeeds. Therefore, we should punish him in such a manner, without killing him, as to be a lesson that will deter other blackguards like him from doing such things in future. We should also write a letter to the Commissioner of Police Sahib, acquainting him with the charges and reasons for which we have punished him.’

There was loud and continuous approval of this suggestion from the throng .

‘And how should we so punish him, Ali?’ asked the dacoit leader.

‘Maharaj Sahib; I have thought of that, also,’ replied the astute Ali. ‘We should cut off the tip of his tongue as a deterrent against telling such lies again; and we should burn the fingers of his right hand, for holding the pen that wrote these false documents and that later tried to molest this helpless girl.’

‘Bravo,’ shouted the dacoits in high glee, while a voice somewhere at the back yelled, ‘Ali, you should have been a judge and not a thief.’

There was loud and prolonged applause and laughter, at that.

Man Singh was silent and appeared thoughtful. He glanced at Lalita; then at the cringing Bukthi; and finally at Ali.

The smile he had been wearing throughout the proceedings suddenly faded from his face. His countenance became stern and implacable. He turned to the accused.

‘I pronounce judgement,’ he said solemnly. ‘The tip of your tongue shall be cut off, and the fingers of your right hand burned in the fire. Ali, you shall supervise the sentence being carried out. But take care that it is not more than just the tip of his tongue, and only the fingers of his right hand.’