CHAMELI
(A
short story translated from the original in Hindi by the Author)
The
first Eastern breeze broke out the news of the sudden death of Kishna, the village cobbler. It stunned all who heard it
and soon spread from one end of the village to the other.
That
broad-shouldered sturdy young man was endowed with a
robust health and although swarthy in complexion was handsome and attractive.
He was only 28 years of age and had a small family of an obedient
wife and three children. He made shoes the whole day long, sang songs and led a
vivaciously care-free life; he was not at all concerned with what went about in
the world outside his family domain. He had a snug and small world of his own
creation where his order was in no way less than the command of a king. His
nature was different from that of the most other cobblers; he never touched
wine, nor did he gamble and inflict barbarous tortures on his sprightly wife
under the heady wine. He was happy in every sense of that word.
He
clearly loved his wife and always worried how to keep her happy. When he made
shoes he would call her and seat her beside him. He tried to strike a happy
combination between the two activities: romancing and earning a living; and
that too most aesthetically. When his wife insisted on putting some stitches in
a shoe herself, he lovingly dissuaded her saying, “Chameli,
you can’t do this. It’s not your work; it will cause blisters in your tender
hands”; and holding her by the hand he would stamp a kiss on her crimson cheek.
Poor Chameli would blush.
The
business was slackening and the prices of necessaries were shooting high; but
with his hard labour and strong will Kishna somehow made both ends meet. His happiness, his
songs and his love were alive as before but still worry and anxiety ate into
his heart as he found it difficult to procure even two square meals a day with
all his industry and labour.
Kishna was not a man to give
in so easily, he had indomitable confidence in his power to work. His violent
youth considered it to yield a shame to the adverse tide of circumstances. He
sought a part-time employment to cut fodder with choudhari
Harsukh. Every Morning and evening he would stand
with his broad breast before the choudhari’s house,
cut forty or fifty kilos of fodder and hum songs of love and romance. The well-chiselled and beautiful figure of Chameli
constantly shone before his eyes and he was so absorbed in her thoughts that
she did not notice when he had finished his work. He would rise, wipe the sweat
off his forehead, and putting his napkin on his shoulder would silently bow to
the choudhari and rush towards his home. It was
really a surprise how he could keep himself away from the intoxicating company
of Chameli. After finishing his work he walked so
fast as if a long-separated lover were going to meet his beloved.
This
extra labour in the mornings and evenings
supplemented Kishna’s income. Sometimes the chaudhari’s wife kindly gave him some loaves of bread or
vegetables, etc., which he gratefully acknowledged and blessed their children
heartily.
Red
and brown clouds were floating in the Western sky and Kishna
was busy cutting the fodder as usual. Suddenly he burst out: “A snake! A snake
has bitten me.”
Abdul,
who was chopping wood in the shade down below, heard his cry and ran with his
heavy axe. He saw blood oozing out from two or three places on Kishna’s arm round which was curled a black snake about
four feet long. For sometime Abdul was in a fix; he could not decide what to do.
Then suddenly the axe rose high, flashed in the faint glow of the evening sun
and the next moment Kishna got rid of both his arm
and the snake.
As
time passed Kishna’s arm was healed up but not a
single grain of corn was left in the house. Now he could neither make shoes nor
cut fodder. For a while he sank deep into depression and anxiety. Only three
things possessed his mind: the lovely face of Chameli,
three innocent children and his future.
“I
will not yield to the cruel world like this,” he determined one day and began
to teach Chameli how to make shoes. If he had not
discouraged her from learning this art earlier out of his love, would not have
faced this difficulty. This he realized now.
Feeling
shy and hesitating in the beginning, Chameli
gradually became expert in putting stitches. Now, smoking at a hubble-hubble, Kishna gave her
instructions only. Under the force of habit his chopped arm would rise again
and again towards the shoes but it only trembled and could do nothing. Tears of
despair and sorrow glistened into his eyes. Slowly and slowly, Chameli began to make shoes as good as Kishna
himself did. The first shoe she made was not very well-finished but it seemed
to give Kishna a great solace that he should now
cease worrying about his future. Filled with pleasure he went round the whole
village showing and praising that shoe as the day dawned. When at night in the
gleam of the earthern lamp Chameli
put stitches under his direction, his heart brimmed with esteem for her and he
felt as if he had recovered his lost arm.
Although
the shoes made by Chameli fetched higher price than
those by Kishna, yet they could not fight the
increasing cost of living with this meagre income. Kishna was a man of patient determination. “My left arm is
still intact; with a stick in it I can look after the cattle.” This idea
inspired him and the next day he sought a job of driving cattle to the jungle
and looking after them. He got the job easily for two reasons: sympathy for his
pitiable condition and the time his absence would give the wanton lovers in the
village to seduce Chameli whose
enchanting, youth and inviting beauty still seemed irresistible.
Early
in the morning Kishna collected cattle from every
house and scattered them into the jungle by the noon. Wandering after them, he
felt tired and would lie down under the shadows of the old banyan tree to rest.
Chameli brought his lunch tied in a piece of cloth.
Both of them ate together, wistfully remembered the days that had gone by and
planned at length for the days to gone. Chameli
stayed with him for sometime and talked about here and there: about something
meaningful and something meaningless, about something of the village and,
something outside the village. When Chameli seemed to
prolong her stay, Kishna would himself say, “Go home Chameli, now. Who knows where the children might be
dawdling? What is the use of wasting time sitting idle? If you make a pair or
so of shoes it will help us satisfy our hunger. Oh! how the times are changing...” He tried to peep beyond the
azure sky shining brightly in the sunshine, behind the kites flying over the
horizon, and the shadows of desperation darkened his face.
Tending
the cattle for the whole day, worrying about the family for the whole night,
increasing cost of living, growing despair, and unbalanced diet–all began to
tell upon Kishna’s health. The shadows of old age
darkened his blooming youth. In place of glistening muscles one could now see
protruding bones. When he returned from the jungle in the evening, the raised
blue veins on his dusty legs spoke of his fatigue, anguish and weakness. He
wished to remain lying for the whole day because of langour
and listlessness but the problem of food and growing family
did nor let him rest. In spite of all his efforts he could not relax for
a moment, for he believed in destroying himself struggling against adversity
than surrendering to it meekly.
Chameli put her heart and soul
in her work and tried to raise the family’s income. She asked the children to
take Kishna’s lunch to the jungle at noon so that she
could devote more time to making shoes. The purple glow of youth flushed on her
cheeks, constant chewing of betels made her lips rosy
red; and these brilliant shades of red made her dark brown figure all the more
bewitching and enticing. The contours of her plump body were still prominent
and hard. She began to lose interest in Kishna and
seeds of indifference started growing in her heart. When she compared her lusty
body to the ematiated figure of Kishna
a cold sigh stole through her lips.
One
day Kishna was caught among the cattle and was forced
to take to bed. A bull had struck him in the stomach with its horn and there
was a severe pain, the recurrent spasms of which made him restless and he
groaned the whole daylong. This distracted Chameli from her work, she had to nurse and look after him.
She fomented his stomach with a piece of woolen cloth, bandaged it and prepared
food for him as directed by the physician. A devoted Hindu
wife as she still was she tried to provide him all comfort; she would give him
water, put the hubble-bubble before him, ask him to
take medicine and as he had been forbidden to rise from his
bed she put pots for him to relieve himself. Besides this, she had to look
after her three children, make arrangements for their food and clothing and to
manage all these things, she had to attend to her shop and make shoes; she
could not be neglectful also about her food and the child growing in her womb. Chameli was crushed under all these painful duties cares
and anxieties.
For
sometime she fought against the circumstances cursing her fate, but how long
could she? Kishna’s prolonged and stubborn illness
was corroding his body; there seemed to be no of hope of his ever recovering
from it. This gloomy predicament made Chameli
desperately despondent; she was completely knocked down and
her indifference began to develop into hatred for Kishna.
Her heart revolted but the age-old customs of faith and service put fetters on
her and made her reconcile to her lot.
Winter
came and aggravated Kishna’s illness and pain; he
would now groan and cry the whole day, abuse children and threaten to overthrow
the present social order and God, the supreme legislator of this world. He
became a veritable nuisance for each and every member of the family. When
smilingly Chameli settled the price of shoes with her
customers, he burned with jealousy. “Oh put some ambers
in the clay pipe…” “Give me some water…” “Oh! come
quickly, you are delaying the medicine…” and he would call her unreasonably
without really needing any of these things. Sometimes he would even try
to browbeat the customers. Chameli’s
neglectful behaviour made him suspicious about her
character. His utility had now been spent up, he was a
burden on the family–a thorny burden which keeps on prodding and piercing every
moment.
The
night was cold and shivering but Kisnna’s throat
parched and he felt as if it was almost choking. For sometime he tried to
restrain his feelings because he very well knew that nobody would get up to
give him water in that cold night, but when thirst became unbearable and he
could no longer suppress this spasm of pain, he called out, “Chameli, give me a draught of water.”
“Chameli, would you give water
… ...” This authoritative cry was broken by indignation and engulfed by the
darkness that filled the hut.
Kishna mustered all his power
and shouted once again but in that hushed silence he could hear nothing except
the noise of muffled whispers and convulsive breathing,
Somehow
restraining his anger he drew the matchbox from under his pillow and lighted a
match. The dim flicker filled the hut for a moment.
“Ough!” spluttered out from his mouth at what met his eyes
and the match dropped on the ground. Recurrent tides of remorse, hatred, anger
and repugnance rose and tormented his heart. They became intenser
every moment till he took a decision.
At
day break, driving their cattle to the jungle, the village folk saw a corpse
floating near the farther end of the pond.
A
crowd gathered near it. Some people dragged the corpse to the bank and seeing
the bandage round the stomach, Shibbu cried, “Oh!
This is Kishna’s corpse!”