‘Hanh very well, with your blessings!’

  Settling on the half-baked bricks lying next to the trough, he said, ‘I was going to drop bibi. No bus, so we thought of coming here. I said, “Let’s meet our massar and the rest of you”.’

  Melu’s bapu lowered his eyes. He had a fair idea that at this age, people hardly knew how to conduct themselves. On peeping into the kothri, he felt as though bahoo and her children were in hiding somewhere inside. Feeling a strong urge to shower his affection on his grandsons, he asked in a weak voice, ‘Dyalo, my child, have Leelu and his brother already gone inside?’

  Long before Dyalo could respond, bahoo’s brother called out to both of them, ‘Aao, oye, you town-boys, your baba is looking for you.’

  But the boys didn’t step out. Feeling sheepish, bahoo’s brother walked in, and catching hold of their arms, pulled them out. With their fingers stuck in their mouths, they stepped out, feeling diffident. They came and stood guiltily in front of their baba. Melu’s bapu first made them sit next to him, and then wrapped them up in his blanket. But the moment he saw them wearing torn shirts, pyjamas and rubber chappals, his heart sank to his feet.

  ‘Massar, these boys have really become very naughty,’ bahoo’s brother spoke again, as he took his seat on the same bricks. ‘Living in town has really made them very clever, but in their studies, they are still laggards. They get marks only for tearing up their books or breaking their slates and ink pots.’

  This comment had barely diverted the attention of Melu’s bapu for a split second, when both the boys, slipping out of the blanket, ran back into the kothri. After a while, they came back out, chasing each other. They ran towards the backyard and then went rushing out of the house.

  ‘Look at them, they are really wild,’ bahoo’s brother spoke, glancing in the direction in which they had gone. ‘Not even for a minute do they stay home. There too, they leave before the crack of dawn, their pockets stuffed with marbles. And return home only when the last cock starts crowing. Their aim is so perfect that no one can ever defeat them at the game. Both return home, having won seven sugarcane sticks each. And this happens almost daily!’

  Melu’s bapu saw that the boys had gone off towards the dharamshala. He was no longer paying any heed to what bahoo’s brother was saying, as he was staring in the direction in which his grandsons had gone. Bahoo’s brother kept talking, as if to himself, ‘…Massar, now all of you should also join them in town. Melu was saying that by the time his children return, he’d have rented out a spacious house. I told him that he should go in for a good one. Pucca and two-roomed. There are some very good houses in that locality, which have come up on the road leading to the town. Melu was saying that even the rent is reasonable. And if he has already rented one there, well, so much the better. All of you can enjoy life there.’

  Pausing a bit, he continued, ‘Massar, I too am thinking of settling in the town. You get good wages for your labour and you earn enough to eat well. Nowadays, our jats are more miserly than the banias. They don’t let you take anything for free. They squeeze every last drop of lassi they give to the siri. So mean! And if earning money means working your butt off, then why should we take nonsense from anyone? Now the jats are no longer what they once were—you can’t utter so much as a “hai”, even when they do a real good job of flaying you alive. In the town, at least, you get money in your pocket on a daily basis. Here, they skin you alive for more than six months, and then say, “Wait for another month. Let me marry off my son, and then I’ll settle your account”… As if it is a question of thousands and lakhs. Look at them! They expect us to hold on to their tails, and be dragged along behind them. Only if someone were to ask them, “Don’t we too have stomachs to fill…?”’

  Melu’s bapu was familiar with bahoo’s brother’s tendency to continue blabbering for hours together. Ordinarily, he would come to their house only to pick up bahoo, or drop her back. He had two older brothers, but they rarely visited as both were buried in domestic chores. Besides, they were much more reticent and quiet by temperament. One of the reasons why it was always he who was asked to accompany his sister was because being ‘a carefree bachelor’, he was still dependent on his father.

  ‘Dyalo, bhai, have you made the rotis?’ Melu’s bapu was suddenly reminded of Dharma’s family. But the very next moment, he spoke in a feeble voice, as though something had occurred to him all of a sudden, ‘Once they are ready, call these boys indoors and feed them. Put a piece of molasses on their roti… I’m sure, they have had nothing since that one meal in the morning.’

  ‘Why massar, before starting from home, both of them tucked away two rotis each. No wonder they are spinning around like potsherds. Else by now, they would have been hovering around the chulha like moths. They are not the kind to miss their meals, ever.’

  ‘No, my dear, it doesn’t take children very long to digest what they eat.’ This time round, Melu’s bapu spoke in a somewhat testy voice, ‘And in cold weather, children tend to feel very hungry. Winters are more like smouldering kilns, you know.’

  While making rotis, each time Dyalo stole a glance at bahoo’s brother, he would stare back at her, rather brazenly. Earlier too, every time he came to their house, he would lose no opportunity to take potshots at Dyalo. Not that they had ever spoken much to each other, but somehow Dyalo could never warm up to him. Being short and dark-skinned, he looked more like the saddle of a bullock, and barely reached Dyalo’s shoulders.

  ‘Bapu, I’ve made the rotis. You, too, have some.’ Along with her bapu, she invited bahoo’s brother to join them. Making excuses, bahoo’s brother tried to evade the issue, saying, ‘Massar, I have already told you that we ate long before we set off from home. It is wintertime. Unless you eat, you can’t beat the cold. Well, if anyone is still hungry, let him eat.’

  After garnishing the roti with a slice of pickle, Dyalo added a piece or two of molasses to it, and then thrust the thali into the hands of her bapu. Ignoring the repeated pleas of bahoo’s brother, Melu’s bapu literally forced the thali into his hands, and then walked out, in search of his grandsons. By the time he returned, Dyalo had convinced her bharjai, too, to have at least one roti. Once they were back, the boys, too, went ahead and had a roti each. But Melu’s bapu refused to eat, saying, ‘I’m not hungry, yet.’ Wrapping up the three rotis she was left with in a kitchen napkin, Dyalo put them in an alcove in the whitewashed, kuccha wall.

  ‘Bapu, what about bebe’s roti?’ When Dyalo popped this question, Melu’s bapu suddenly turned reflective.

  ‘Massar, do people of this village offer chaa-roti to the winnowers?’ asked bahoo’s brother, in a bid to draw Dyalo into the conversation, indirectly.

  ‘When the winnowers aren’t available for the job, they are even willing to pay twice the amount. On top of that, they make generous offers of chaa-roti, too. But now this practice has become so rare; these days, they don’t even settle the wages.’

  ‘I know this world is really very selfish. When people need you, they don’t mind even owning up a donkey as their fufhar. Otherwise, they refuse to even recognize you. Our village is also like that.’

  Seeing his naivety, Melu’s bapu couldn’t help smiling to himself. A twisted smile danced on his lips, as he spoke, ‘Bhai, your village must be in another region. And there, perhaps, God himself is different.’

  When bahoo’s brother started asking Melu’s bapu questions about the people assembled in the dharamshala, his attention was suddenly drawn towards them. The sounds of uproar could still be heard coming from there. When he had gone to call his grandsons, Pala had shouted out to him, asking him to return immediately; for they might all have to go to town. Now mulling it over, he stood up and said, ‘Dyalo, bhai, I’m going to the dharamshala.’ Then looking towards bahoo’s brother, he said, ‘You people take it easy. Let me go there once, and see what is happening. Henh?’

  ‘Massar, we too, shall leave now. What will we do, sitting here?’ said bahoo’s brother, rubbing his slightly twisted fingers over his shining, razor-thin moustache, ‘If I miss the second bus also I won’t be able to get back before evening. As it is, the people for whom I work as a siri don’t let me get away for an entire day. Like the Angrez, they account for every hour and minute.’

  ‘So you are leaving? So early? Why don’t you stay overnight? And leave early tomorrow morning?’ Melu’s bapu suggested this with the idea of spending a few affectionate hours with his grandsons. He wanted to discuss so many things with them about the town, their new house, and their studies. So far, they had just been scampering in and out of the house, feeling somewhat sheepish and self-conscious, and hadn’t even spoken to him properly.

  ‘No.’ This time round, bahoo’s brother spoke rather firmly, ‘Go we must, but if you insist, we’ll delay our departure a bit.’

  Melu’s bapu peered inside the kothri, hoping that bahoo might say something about delaying their departure, but she said nothing. Ever since she had gone in, she hadn’t stepped out even once. So Melu’s bapu spoke in a somewhat diffident tone, ‘All right, bhai, it’s entirely up to you, we won’t force you.’

  ‘No, massar, there is no such thing. If I had my way, I’d have returned to the village without a moment’s delay.’ It was as if bahoo’s brother was on the back foot now, offering a weak defence of his position; but without paying much heed to his words, Melu’s bapu had quietly sauntered off towards the dharamshala.

  The people assembled at the dharamshala had decided that all the people of the vehra should go and discuss the matter with the DC, at least once. The chowkidar had been packed off to summon the sarpanch and other panches, but so far, none of them had turned up. The chowkidar had been to their houses twice; and still none of them had come. Nor had anyone given a straight answer; all they had said was, ‘We’ll be there in a while,’ and then forgotten all about it.

  ‘If they aren’t coming, why don’t we go and call them. It’s not going to sully our feet, anyway. Come on, let’s all go to the house of the sarpanch,’ Pala said, in a bid to flaunt his wisdom.

  Some of them dug in their heels saying that the sarpanch must be summoned to where they were, but then on the insistence of a few wise ones, all of them started for the sarpanch’s house, though somewhat reluctantly.

  When twenty to twenty-five men, wrapped in their old, musty and torn chaddars and khes, started towards the sarpanch’s house, dragging their worn-out juttis, making clouds of dust whirl behind them as they walked sullenly, it appeared as though some inexplicable, potential threat hung in the air. Men and women, busy around the house, left whatever they were doing, and came and stood in their doorways, staring at them as if they were dacoits of some kind. The children playing in the streets or running in and out of the houses looked at them with fearful eyes; but no one had the courage to ask them anything. They, too, stared at the walls and doors of the village as though they were marching through the streets of some unknown, alien village. Seeing tension writ large on their rugged, weather-beaten, sunburnt faces, the village people, felt as though they had never seen them before. The dishevelled beards on their faces were more or less the same colour as the soil—neither black nor white; it appeared as though the dust of their ancestors’ beards had also mingled with theirs. Their eyes had the same vapid, vacant expression. It was as though a strange, inexplicable, pallid fear hung over their heads; and the same fear also lay curled up around the street.

  Walking through the streets of the village, they reached the house of the sarpanch, facing the west. Seated in the courtyard, he was busy talking to some people. In a courtyard spread over a kanal-and-a-half, the sarpanch sat on a high-backed chair, and the people sat all around him on a large manja. All of them wore juttis woven with silk threads, and had thick, woollen chaddars wrapped around their shoulders. Their ivory-coloured, starched, tall turbans signalled that they were all from the majha region. One of them, cloaked in an expensive pashmina shawl, held a double-barrelled rifle. Two of them had shotguns, and two of them carried long, sheathed kirpans; their impressive bearing creating an impression that they actually belonged to respectable families.

  Seeing so many people outside his door, the sarpanch hurriedly slipped on his juttis, adjusted his blanket over his shoulders, and then spoke in a voice louder than usual, ‘I told the chowkidar that I would be there soon. Why did all of you take the trouble to come so far?’

  No one replied. Walking closer to the threshold of his big-framed, main door, he spoke, somewhat defensively, ‘Tell me, what’s the matter?’

  The panch from the vehra, who was standing right next to him, edged closer to him and asked, ‘You mean to say, you don’t even know what the matter is?’

  ‘Naa bhai.’ Looking much more defensive than before, the sarpanch spoke, ‘I’m ready to swear by whosoever you want that I have absolutely no idea what it’s all about. The chowkidar is standing right behind you. Ask him, bhai, if he has told me anything?’

  Balancing his weight on his staff, the chowkidar stepped forward a little and then spoke in a somewhat edgy tone, ‘Bhai, sarpanch sahab, is this something new that you don’t know about? You talk as if you are a little child, henh? It’s been nearly two months since this trouble broke out.’

  ‘Oye, you crazy one, there are so many “problems” in the village, this is not the only one.’ It was as though the sarpanch wanted to wish away the entire matter. ‘Every second day there is trouble of some kind or the other. How could I possibly know what kind of problem you were asking me to intervene in?’

  All of them fell silent. Looking at their faces, the sarpanch stood rooted to the ground, feeling decidedly odd. After having waited in vain for their reply, he said, ‘Anyway, let it be. Don’t create a mountain out of a molehill, but tell me straight away, what is the matter?’

  Then the panch started explaining the matter to him in ‘straight’ terms. ‘Dharam Singh had two kothas on the land that was sold to the factory owners by the three families of Surjit Singh recently. The factory owners have razed those two kothas to the ground.’

  ‘Razed…them…to…the…ground?’

  ‘Razing them to the ground, they have even carried off the logs of wood they dug up from there,’ the panch spoke somewhat peevishly. ‘When we went to the dharamshala to discuss the matter, they even had all the little knick-knacks thrown out of the demarcated boundary. Moreover, the police has arrested Dharma and taken him to the police station.’

  ‘Really?… Is that so?’ The sarpanch spoke in a subdued voice and then stood with his eyes downcast.

  Two persons, who were earlier sitting on the manja close to the sarpanch, now came and stood next to him. One of them, who, despite his advancing years, appeared to be stout and of moderate height, stepped forward and as he did so, swung the butt of his double-barrelled rifle around, in a bid to save it from hitting against the frame of the main door. Then, covering its open mouth with both his hands, he spoke, leaning forward, ‘Sarpanch sahab, we know much more about this trouble in your village than you do. Let me give you the details. We met Jia sahab, last night. He was the one who told us the whole story. You understand?’

  All of them looked at that man, including the sarpanch. Around the edges of his ebony-black eyes a ring of red glowed, smouldering like fire. His pink, broad forehead seemed to shine beneath a carelessly tied loose turban. His grey hair, shining amidst his thick, bushy beard and moustache, appeared to lend a special charm to his glowing face.

  ‘Jia sahab was telling me,’ said he, clearing his throat and then continuing, ‘that the land on which this fellow “Dharma-Dhurma” was illegally sitting had been sold to the factory owners for something like one lakh twenty-five thousand rupees. This fellow Dharma started saying that since my kotha is built on this land, you give me whatever compensation is due to me. They told him, bhai, you give some evidence to prove that this land belongs to you. Now, where would he get the proof from? He could have given proof only if he had bought this land out of the “pounds” his father gave him. Jia said that so far they had been looking towards the panchayat, but now they would go in for a legal action…and this is what they did. Now this is the long and short of it. These matters don’t relate to the “territory of some king” that you claim not to understand them at all. We know it despite being a third party and you claim that you don’t, despite being the insider. This behaviour on your part is rather strange!’

  After speaking in such a spontaneous manner, he suddenly fell silent and looked at them, as though waiting for a rebuttal. For a while, everyone just stared at him. Then, fondling his beard, he cleared his throat once again, and said, ‘In practical matters such as these, we shouldn’t create any obstacles. At this rate, tomorrow, I may claim that this house of the sarpanch also belongs to me just because I once had a meal here… That means, the law has no meaning whatsoever, and what prevails is “the rule of my father”. After all, brother, it’s not the law of the blind that operates here. Or does it?’

  ‘It is the law of your father, after all.’ A short person, who was standing next to him, adjusted his shotgun as he spoke, ‘When our so-called leaders have got dharamshalas built for themselves on the shamlaat land, just to be able to secure votes, got taps installed, appointed their boys, who never study beyond primary school, as officers over our heads, then why won’t their rule prevail? Now, you and I or the sarpanch don’t really matter.’

  The moment the sarpanch heard these sarcastic words, he felt as though they might trigger a minor revolt. Turning his attention away from both the men, he looked in the direction of the panch from the vehra and said, ‘Look, all of you leave immediately. I’ll first go and contact the other panches and lambardars, and ask them to come along with me. We’ll follow close on your heels. You go and wait near the shack of the village lawyer. Then, we’ll approach the DC. What do you say?’