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Elective English–II

Notes drink water. But those who were serving, they kept putting freshly cooked, perfectly round,
fragrant kachoris onto our plates. We refused, we covered our plates with our hands, but they
just kept serving! And when we were done, we even got paan and cardamom. I was in no
shape to take the paan, I could barely stand. I went off immediately and wrapped myself in
my blanket and lay down. That’s how big-hearted he was, that landlord. Like an ocean!”
Madhav savored those delicacies in his mind and said, “No one gives us a meal like that
now.”
“There’s no one to feed us like that anymore. That was a different time. Now everyone’s
counting pennies – don’t spend on weddings, don’t spend on religious festivals. Ask them,
where will they stash all the money they take from the poor? There’s no problem stashing the
money, but when it comes to spending, then they think of thrift.”
“You must have eaten about 20 puris, no?”
“I ate more than 20.”

“I would have eaten 50.”
“I ate no less than 50. I was pretty sturdy those days. You’re not half of what I used to be.”
They ate the potatoes, drank some water, curled up, covered themselves with their dhotis and
fell asleep right there, by the embers, like two enormous pythons that had eaten their fill.
And still, Budhiya moaned.
In the morning, when Madhav looked inside the hut, his wife lay there, stone cold, flies
buzzing around her face, her expressionless eyes rolled upwards. Her body was covered with
dust, the child had died in her womb. Madhav ran to Ghisu. They started to wail loudly and
beat their chests. The neighbours heard the weeping and wailing and came and, as was customary,
began to console the two unfortunates. But this was not the time for full-throated lament, the
shroud and the wood had to be considered. Money disappeared from that house like a piece
of meat in a kite’s nest. Father and son went, wailing, to the village landlord who could not
stand the sight of them. He’d beaten them himself often enough, for stealing, for not showing
up for work after they had promised to. He asked, “What is it, Ghisua, why are you crying?
I don’t see you around much these days, seems like you don’t want to live in this village
anymore.”
His eyes filled with tears, Ghisu touched his head to the ground and said, “Master, I am
ruined. Madhav’s wife died last night. She suffered all night, Master. The two of us sat by her
side half the night, we gave her all the medicines we could. But she has abandoned us. And
now there’s no one to give us even a piece of bread, Master. We’ve been destroyed, our home
has been uprooted. I am your slave! There’s no one but you – who will organize her funeral?
Who else can I turn to except you?”
The landlord was a compassionate man but having pity on Ghisu was like trying to dye a
black blanket. In his heart, he felt like saying, “Get away from here! You don’t come when you
are called and now, when you need me, you come here and flatter me! Bastard! Rascal!” But
this was not the moment for anger or for retribution. He tossed a reluctant two rupees at him
but not a single word of consolation escaped his lips. He did not even look at Ghisu, as if he’d
rid himself of a burden.
Once the landlord had given two rupees, how could the village merchants and traders have
the courage to refuse? And Ghisu knew how to use the landlord’s name to his advantage.
Some gave two annas, others gave four. Within an hour, Ghisu had collected the healthy sum
of five rupees. Grain came from one place, wood from another. In the afternoon, Ghisu and

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