Raja Rao - Collected Stories

Nobody was sure what it was that had made Motilal so nervous and unfriendly. Some said it was Beti, but others insisted it was the hookah. Beti, of course, complained against the hookah, and had once got so spiteful and jealous that she thrust it behind the fuel in the kitchen and kept quiet as a pestle. Motilal searched all over the house, and swore at every client in terrifying despair. But the clients could say nothing at all. They took their sugar, or their rice, and thanking the stars that for once he was less nauseating, they went their way. At last he could bear it no more. He thrust his fists at Beti and swore he would damn well skin her to death. But she smiled, sent a few prayers to the helpful Gods and feigned ignorance. He went here, went there, upset the whole shed and still he could not find it. But there was still the kitchen. And in a moment he had discovered the hookah. He jumped and swore; in a mighty fury he flung Beti to the ground and, clack-clack, beat her with a piece of prickly firewood he had snatched from the kitchen. She shrieked and she wept, her big breasts pressed wildly against the floor, and her long, greying hair all scattered about. The clients who came could do nothing. They stood in the shop silent and pitiful. Some who were more delicate hid their eyes with their sari-fringe, unable to bear the sight of the rich, quiet blood flowing down Beti’s back. Motilal still stood beside her, the thorny stick in his hand.

After a moment’s suspense, he went back to his seat in the grocery, lit his hookah and attended to the clients. They were happy to get out, and he the happier to get rid of them. Everybody had gone and Beti still lay there, prostrate on the floor, and weeping. The blood that oozed from her back was trickling down to the floor and a few flies — it was summer— were already settling to their orgy. The dust in the street rose — and fell. Now it was a bullock cart, and another time a motor car. The sun was hot, iron-melting. It was Ananda who entered. ‘Ram, Ram. .,’ cried the parrot. Smoking his hookah Motilal flared up at him. It was frightening to see him flare up like a lion.

‘What do you want?’ he growled in a hoarse, frenzied voice.

‘Just a seer of sugar,’ murmured Ananda, trembling. He looked towards Beti and it sent a shiver through his back.

‘Bapuji. . Bapuji. . save me. . save me!’ she begged.

‘Save you! Go to hell, you dirty dragon! Go and sell yourself in a house of prostitution, you wretch, you devil! You witch, you donkey’s kid, you bloody. .!’ He growled like thunder. Beti breathed heavily and sobbed.

‘What do you want. . hukk. . hukk,’ he coughed, ‘what do you want? Sugar?’

‘Yes.’

‘How much?’

‘A seer .’

‘Bapuji. . Bapuji. . save me. . save me!’

Motilal leapt from his seat, and kicking her right happily on the back, banged her with the thorny piece of firewood again.

‘Ayyo. . ayyo. . ayyo. . Mai, mother. . ayyo. . ooo,’ she yelled, then rolled forward and writhed.

‘Dog, whore, wench, devil, you witch! Shriek, shriek, as much as you like. Nobody will come to help you. No! Nobody. . ’

He grinned, wiped away his perspiration with his right arm, and drew a puff from his undenying hookah.

‘Ha. . Haa. .’ she breathed, and became unconscious.

Ananda was in tears. He wanted to run away. But he was afraid Motilal would catch him, and break his thirty-two teeth. He looked so enraged, did Motilal. He seemed ready to beat up the whole world. Ananda shivered and stood, gazing unwillingly at the parrot.

Fortunately, the fear that Beti would die entered Motilal’s head, and this horrified him. He went into the kitchen, brought a pailful of water, and sitting beside her threw a handful upon her face. Her mouth was wide open, and her tongue half visible. She was as red as the inside of a pumpkin. After a moment she opened her eyes and smiled. He smiled back tenderly, compassionately. His hookah was with him. .

In the evening when Ananda was coming back from school, Beti was sitting on the gram platform, whisking away the flies.

The morning was fresh as usual. For Beti and Motilal, days followed one another, and each day was as fresh and good as the other. They had got up as usual at five, and while she had gone to the street pipe to get a pailful of water, Motilal had dusted a part of the grocery and had seen to the folding of the bedding. Then he went and removed the door planks one by one, tried to dust them too and laid them aside by the kitchen door. Beti had come back with water, and began to wash the vessels, in the street. They were not many. Just a few blackened and blistered pots and the two bell-metal plates they ate in. She took a handful of sand from the street, and with a tuft of coconut fibre rubbed them till they shone like gold. Motilal, who had nothing to do for the moment, sat on the steps, his hookah in his hands. He had not slept very well the previous night, and his head was maddeningly heavy. He closed his eyes and sank into a quiet doze. People began to move about in the street, and the morning carts were rattling along. Beti Bai was thinking of her native village and she began to weep. Her mother was dead, and now there was nobody to go there for. And even if she wished, would Motilal ever make such an expensive journey? Never. .

The first client woke Motilal. She had come for a quarter of a seer of rice. A quarter of a seer of rice! What a sinister thing to began a day with!

‘Nothing else?’ he bawled, furious.

‘Nothing else. Just a quarter of a seer of rice.’

‘Oh! this world, this world! We’ll soon die starving, with your damned quarter of a seer of rice! A quarter of a seer of rice. .a quarter of a. . ’

‘I must be going, Seth.’

‘You want to go? Why, woman, you can go and drown in the next well! Or better still, go and lie with a licking male dog.. woman, you. . ’

‘Very well,’ she grunted, and walked away.

‘I say — I say—’ roared Motilal. To let go the first client. . the first client, by God, and ruin the whole day. . ‘I say!!!’

The client walked away. She hastened along. Motilal ran swearing after her.

‘I saaay — I saaay. . ’

The client shrugged her shoulders, and hurried on faster than ever.

‘I say. .’ he cried gasping, and stood threateningly in front of her. She tried to slip away. But he caught her hands and held them fast. She shrieked. But there was not a soul to come to her rescue. And she ambled back helplessly, and grumbling, bought her quarter of a seer of rice. Motilal gave a broad smile. He was victorious.

‘I am not going to let go my first client like that,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Then you had better learn to be more polite to them,’ she suggested, with an indulgent smile. She was not so angry now. And perhaps if she was good to him, she would get a handful more.

‘But a quarter of a seer of rice! Just imagine!’ He coughed, and laughed disdainfully.

‘Oh! I cannot buy any more, Seth. Don’t you know my husband has run away with another woman, and I am poor?’

‘Is that so?’ he asked nervously. His son had done the same. This sadness turned into a strange pity. And, asking her to open her bag, he threw in a handful of rice. She was so happy. And she walked away with many a blessing on the generous Motilal.

In the meanwhile, Beti Bai had finished washing the vessels, and had even come back from her daily bath beneath the public tap. She was muttering to herself the songs of Krishna, which she chanted every morning, doing her household work.

To Yashodha’s beloved little one,

Blue as the autumn cloud,

To Krithum, then, Victory, Victory.