CHAPTER I.
Gram had fallen to nine seers for the rupee, which affected the sahibs who kept horses and polo ponies; and rice was down to eight measures—this affected the villagers and ryots. The rains due at Christmas had failed. There was talk of a great scarcity and a sore famine in the land, especially among the sleek, crafty bunnias, who bought up every ounce of grain in the district when it was cheap, and at the first whisper of failing crops—often a rumour started by themselves—locked it up relentlessly, in hopes of starvation prices, refusing to sell save at exorbitant rates.
What is a road coolie to do under these conditions?—a man whose daily wage never exceeds one anna and a half, no matter how markets may fluctuate. Three rupees’ worth of grain will keep him alive for twenty days; but how is he to exist for the remainder of the month? How is he to feed his children, to pay his tiny rental, and the village tax?
This was a problem that Chūnnee pondered over, as he sat on a heap of stones at the side of the road, with his empty basket at his feet, and a look of despair upon his handsome, and usually good-humoured, countenance.
Alas! Chūnnee had been born under an evil star. Scorpio was his constellation, and all the luck had ebbed from him, as surely as it had flowed towards his half-brother Zālim Sing.
Now, Zālim Sing was prosperous and well-to-do, the proprietor of a good mud house, a patch of castor oil, and two biggahs of land, planted in rape and linseed; he also owned a huge milch buffalo, a pair of plough bullocks, and the only ekka within three koss. Yes, an ekka that came to him with his wife, all lavishly decorated with brass knobs and ornamental work, an ekka that had yellow curtains, and was drawn by a bay tat (a bazaar pony), with six rows of blue beads round her ewe neck. Zālim Sing was prouder of his turn-out than any parvenu’s wife with her first equipage; and perhaps it was on the strength of this, more than his store of linseed and his plot of land, that the village elders hearkened to him with respect. He was a lean, shrewd-looking man, with a cast in his eye and a halt in his gait. Nevertheless, he had prospered, and the world had gone well with him, whereas it had gone ill with his half-brother.
But Chūnnee was not wise in his generation; he had bartered away his share of the ancestral home for two cows, a grindstone, and some brass cooking-pots. The cows had died the rains before last, the cooking-pots were pawned to the local soucar; his crop of one mango tree had failed, he had no capital except his sturdy frame, two horny hands, and his coolie basket.
In his hovel there were his children—Girunda, a boy aged ten, and Gyannia, a girl of four. There was also a mat, an old charpoy, a reaping-hook, a couple of earthen pots, and a white cat. This was all that Chūnnee possessed in the wide world. It might have sufficed, had he had wisdom like his brother; but, alas! he had no brains. There he sat, on the kunker heap, that glaring February afternoon. The land was still covered with cane crops; the barley was green, and in the ear; dry leaves were whirling along the road; the banka tree was dropping red flowers from its grey, leafless branches; the mango tree was in blossom. Yes, the hot weather, the time of parching and scarcity, would be on them soon. Suddenly he heard a rattling, and felt a cloud of warm yellow dust. It was his brother’s ekka. Zālim Sing and a friend tore past at a gallop, and scarcely noticed the coolie on the side of the road, beyond a hoarse laugh of derision. Why had fortune been kind to one brother and cruel to another? Why had his cows died?—his wife been bitten by a “karite” as she cut vetches, and expired at sundown in agonies? Ah, Junia was a loss—nigh as great as the cows. She cooked, and minded the children; she earned one anna a day for reaping; she was fortunate to die young; she had never lived to know hunger. Why had some people stores and treasures, to whom they were of no use, whilst others lacked a morsel to keep them from perishing?
Chūnnee sat for half an hour with his arms loosely folded on his breast, and pondered this question in his heart. Presently he arose, and picked up his basket, and took the path towards his village, where its brown mud walls and straw roofs stood out in strong relief against a noble tope of mango trees; but these mangoes were the property of the sirkar (government). Many an envious eye had been cast on them and their fine yearly harvests. Despite bazaar rumours about scarcity, it was surely what is called a bunnia’s famine; for this hungry, handsome Rajpoot, with the form and sinews of some Greek god, made his way homewards between marvellous crops at either side of the well-beaten path. The self-same rich land was yielding gram, rape, linseed; whilst barley towered high above all. Where else will the earth yield four harvests with little manure or care? But not an inch of this fertile soil called Chūnnee master! And what to him was all this fertility? As he strode along, a fierce temptation kept pace with his steps, and whispered eagerly in his ear—
“There is old Turroo, thy great-uncle; he is nigh ninety years of age, and rich; his head was grey in the mutiny year. True, he favours Zālim Sing. They say he hath even advanced him money for seeds, because he is prosperous; and he will not look at thee, because thou art poor, much less suffer thee to cross his threshold. They declare he hath a treasure buried—some that he came upon in the mutiny year. What avails it to him? He hath his huka and his opium, his warm bedding, and brass cooking-pots. He only enjoys money when he looks at it—and thy children are starving. They say that thousands of rupees are hidden under his floor, and one hundred rupees would make thee a rich man. Thou mightest till that plot of ground near the big baal tree, and buy two plough bullocks for twenty-five rupees. Krisna would then lend thee his plough. Set grain—not linseed, having no mill—grain at even twelve seers next year, and thou wilt be a wealthy man; yea, and better than Zālim Sing, who will no longer scoff at thee or cover thee with dust. Thou wilt have no need to go out as coolie. Thou wilt have plenty of flour, and dál, and fresh tobacco in thy huka. It is easy—as easy as breathing. But to rob—to rob an old man?” inquired conscience. “True; but thine own kinsman, who cannot carry his money to the burning ghâut, it ought to be thine some day. Thou art his heir, though he hates thee—men often hate their next-of-kin. His hoarding—it is of no use to him—it will save thee and thine from death.”
“But how—how can I take it?” inquired Chūnnee of the tempter.
“Behold, the nights are dark, the moon doth not rise till morn; thou hast thy krooplie still; dig through the mud wall. They say the box is buried near the hearth; open it, and carry away what thou wilt in thy cloth. The old man sleeps as though a corpse—he drinks opium. He has no one in the house, no dog. It is so easy; truly, it is a marvel he hath not been robbed before! Take it; be bold. Truly, it is half thine. Thou canst keep a pony, too, and buy silver bangles for Gyannia.”
“But how can I account for this sudden wealth? All the world knows that I am but a beggar.”
“Carry it forth and hide it, bury it in a hole far away; for doubtless there will be a great search. Some weeks later, take a few rupees, and go by rail to Lucknow; and come back, and say thy wife’s grandmother hath died, and left thee one hundred rupees. The gold and jewels thou wilt take in a roll of bedding to Lucknow, and sell. It will all be easy; have no fear.”
As these ideas were working in his brain, and he was the sport of two conflicting feelings, Chūnnee was rapidly approaching his little hovel, which lay on the outskirts of the village of Paroor. It was a small hamlet of mud houses, huddled together most irregularly. There was no main street, nor even an attempt at one; no chief entrance—merely half a dozen footpaths running into the village from various directions. There would be a high mud wall and doorway leading into an enclosure, containing twenty small huts, and as many families, all connected; here were also ponies, calves, fowl, the property of the clan, and perchance a bullock-cart or a sugar-press. These enclosures were set down indiscriminately, and joined together; the only village street, an irregular path, that threaded its way between them. There were “sets” even here, as in higher circles; inmates of one mud courtyard, who owned a sugar-press, looked down on the inmates of those who had none.
Most people looked down on Chūnnee, the coolie—even the women, although he was a handsome, well-made fellow. What are looks, when a man has not a pice, and owns nought save two crying children? Chūnnee made his way past a crowd collected round a khooloo, or sugar-mill—a rude, wooden affair, turned by two bullocks, fed with bits of raw cane, which it squeezes into a receptacle in the ground, and subsequently empties into another vat indoors, where the sugar is boiled, and finally poured off into huge jars (similar to those which contained the forty thieves), and sent to middlemen, who thereby reap much profit. Paroor was in the midst of a sugar country, and boasted half a dozen of these rude sugar-mills.
Chūnnee passed through the scattered strips of cane, basket in hand—there were no greetings for him—and, turning a corner, dived between two mud walls into a small hut that stood by itself. A slim, nearly naked lad ran out to meet him, with a look of expectation on his intelligent face, but, alas! his father was empty-handed. On the mat lay a little girl with curly hair and a fair but puny face. She was fast asleep, holding in her arms a miserably thin bazaar kitten—or it might be a full-grown cat stunted in size.
“She was hungry; I fetched her some banka fruit from cows—now she is asleep,” explained the boy. “There is a little barley—the last—I made it,” and he pointed to a cake, a very small one, baking on some embers.
“Father, what shall we do to-morrow?” he asked, as his father devoured the only food he had seen that day.
“There is still the reaping-hook.”
“Gunesh offers two annas for it.”
“And it cost a rupee and a half.”
“I went to-day to old Turroo, to ask him for a few cowries, or a bit of a chupatti for Gyannia—she was crying with hunger, and calling for food.”
“And what did he give thee?”
“He smote me a blow on the back with his staff”—pointing to a weal on his shoulder. “He said I was a devil’s spawn, good for nothing; like thee—a beggar.”
“I would not be as I am, but I have never had a chance—never one chance.” And, ravenous as he was, Chūnnee the famished yielded half his cake in answer to his son’s wistful and expectant eyes.
When darkness had fallen on the village, the inhabitants went to bed like the birds—it saved oil—though there were a few budmashes who sat up all night and gambled; each visiting the other’s house in turn, and providing light and drink. Yes, drink—drink, from the fatal mowra tree. The fever of gambling seemed to be all over the land. Some gambled away their money, clothes, tools, cattle, but this gang kept their proceedings secret—yea, even from their nearest neighbours. Chūnnee had never gambled.
As, by degrees, the children were called in, and the houses shut, the village grew dark and quiet. About twelve o’clock, Chūnnee rose, and felt for his krooplie (a mattock with a short handle); then he opened the door and looked forth; there was not a sound to be heard, save the breathing of the children and the distant howling of a pack of jackals. There were the clear cold stars in the sky, showing above the opposite wall. Should he do it? Oh, if Heaven would but send him a sign! It seemed to him that his devout wish was instantly fulfilled, for at that moment Gyannia turned in her sleep, moaning her frequent and pitiful cry when awake, “I am hungry.”