Jasoda was the drudge of the family,—a large clan, dwelling, as is customary, within the same enclosure. These courtyards, built irregularly, somewhat resemble a child’s house of cards; narrow footpaths between the mud walls compose the village streets. You may steer your way among these beaten tracks, and beneath these sun-baked entrenchments, and never see a single house; merely various postern doors which enclose a space, possibly containing ten hovels, and as many families. One of the largest courtyards in the village belonged to Padooram, the brother of Jasoda; he was the richest man in the whole pergunnah, owned land and cattle and plough bullocks, and had no bunnia’s claims to disquiet his sleep. His wife, a fat, pock-marked woman, boasted real gold bangles, and a jewelled nose-ring, and was the envy of her sex. There was Jasoda’s father and mother-in-law, and Monnee and Puthao, their married daughters; her younger brother; his wife and family; also her old grandmother; and Jasoda was the servant of them all. Truly they were hard masters and merciless mistresses. She, their slave, arose at dawn. She drew water till her arms ached. She ground meal, and cooked, and polished the brass cooking-vessels; she carried the clothes of these households to the ghât, and washed them; she minded the children, and milked the buffaloes, and herded the cattle. More than this, when one of the plough bullocks was sick, her brother placed the yoke on Jasoda’s shoulders, and drove her as companion to the spotted ox, up and down the long furrows, and in the sight of all people. To them it was as nought; no one cried shame, or pitied her—she was only a widow. In the harvest season there was much to do, from daylight till dusk, cutting cane and corn, and carrying and stacking, and working at the sugar-press. Sometimes, strong girl as she was, Jasoda wept from sheer weariness. Yet, for all this toil, she barely got enough to keep her from semi-starvation. She was flung the scraps that were left from meals, as well as the rags of the family. Nor did she ever receive one kind word or look, not even from her grandmother. However, she was amply compensated for this cruel indifference from another source. Many were the kind words and looks bestowed on her by the young men of the village; but Jasoda was proud. Jooplee, her sister-in-law, famed for the most evil mind and wicked tongue within many koss, even she could find no cause of offence in her drudge, save that she was the fairest maiden in all the taluka, and this fault she punished with the zeal and vigour of an envious and ugly woman! Jasoda was desperately unhappy. What had she done to men or gods, to be treated thus cruelly? And there was nothing to look forward to, even in twenty years’ time. Her present lot would only be altered by death—and after death? There was no future existence for such as she. Many a time she crept away, and poured out all her wrongs to the squat stone idol daubed with red paint, whose temple was the shade of the peepul tree. She asked him, “Why women were ever born into the land?” and besought his help with tears and passionate pleadings. In vain she cried, “Ram, ram,” and took him offerings of flowers, and gashed her arm with a sickle, and shed her hot young blood before him. He maintained his habitual placid pose, his vacant stare, his graven grin, and gave no sign. No, at the end of six weary moons there was still no answer to her prayers. Heart-sick, Jasoda now went and gazed longingly at the river. She stole away to visit it whilst her relations took their midday rest in the cane-fields. Alas! it was very low, and fat muggers lay upon its grey mud banks, as lazy as so many logs of wood, though their evil little eyes were active enough—watching for floating corpses. No, no; a big rapid torrent in the rains, with a strong flood, fed by the far-away snows, rushing boldly onward, bearing great blocks of foam on its brown bosom,—into that she could cast herself, but not into one of these slow, slimy channels, creeping past greasy banks, whereon ravenous alligators would battle for her body.
As time advanced, the tyranny of the family became more oppressive, and Jasoda threw patience to the winds—indeed, it had long been threadbare. To be sent five or six koss in the burning June sun, to gratify the momentary whim of Taramonnee, a child, or, rather, imp of five, was beyond endurance, and represented the proverbial “last straw.” The domestic martyr being hopeless and desperate, now turned on her tormentors, as a leopardess at bay. Why should she be as an ox, a beast of burthen, all her days? She gave shrill invective for invective, accepted curses and blows with sullen indifference, and refused to work beyond a certain portion. Yea, they might kill her, if they so willed; it would be all the better; and she oscillated between fits of hot passion and moods of cold obstinacy. Her aged grandmother could not imagine what had happened to the household slave. She was usually so long-suffering, so easily driven and abused. The hag and the other women put their heads together and took counsel, whilst the rebel sat aloof in a dark corner of her hut, like some wild animal in its den, her fixed dark eyes staring out on the glaring white courtyard with an expression of intense, hopeless despair. She hated every one. She felt that she could almost kill them. Truly she had been born in an evil hour and under an evil star, and she cursed both hour and planet. There were Junia and Talloo, girls who had played with her: each had a husband and babies and bangles; yea, and cows of their own. Why was she beaten and half starved, and treated like a stray pariah dog? She was handsomer than either. Isa, the son of Ganga, had told her that her eyes were stars, her teeth as seed pearls, and her lips like the bud of the pomegranate; yet these fat, ugly women slept at ease on their charpoys, whilst she toiled in the cold grey dawn or in the scorching noonday heat!
Above all creatures who breathed, she detested Jooplee, her sister-in-law, the mother of Taramonnee; and next to her, Taramonnee, a shrill-voiced, malignant imp, who pinched and bit her secretly, and who once—when she was tied up and beaten—danced before her, and made mouths at her and mocked her, clapping her hands with fiendish ecstasy.
For many months a great fire had been smouldering in Jasoda’s heart, and woe be to the hand that stirred it! Once more it was the cane-cutting season, and she was toiling hard all day, reaping and carrying and stacking. She was very very weary, and whilst the carts lumbered villagewards with the last load, she sat down under a peepul tree to rest. It was the soft hour of sunset, the cattle were going home, bats were flickering to and fro, the low evening smoke lay like a pale blue veil over the land: smoke from fires where many hungry people were baking the universal chupatti. Jasoda fell fast asleep, and dreamt. Her dreams were pleasant, for she dreamt that she was dead. Suddenly she was rudely awoke by an agonizing pain. No, it was not a snake-bite; it was a pinch from the sharp strong fingers of Jooplee’s daughter, who, gazing intently into her face, cried with malicious glee—
“Ah, lazy one, arise and work! I shall tell of thee, and to-night thou shalt be beaten. The neighbours refuse to believe that father beats thee, because thou dost not scream. Mother said so. But thou shalt scream to-night, so that thy cries can be heard as far as the bunnia’s shop. Get up, pig!” And she pushed her with her foot.
It needed but a touch like this to rouse the sleeping flame. Instantly Jasoda sprang erect, rage in her heart and murder in her eye. At least she would rid herself of this insect, and, snatching up a stone, she dashed it at the child with all the force of a muscular arm, and with the fury of years of repressed passion. The aim was true, and Taramonnee fell. For a second her limbs twitched convulsively, and then she lay still—oh, tragically still.
“Rise!” screamed Jasoda. “Rise! and may thine eyes be darkened, thou little devil!”
But there was no movement; Taramonnee was evidently stunned. Jasoda stooped and raised her, whilst a terrible fear crept over her. The child’s head fell back, her hand dropped. Was it possible? Could she be dead? Yes, she was dead, though she had not meant to kill her; and, since she could not bring her to life, what was she to do? She gazed with horror at this awful, motionless thing, whose life she herself had taken, oh, how easily! She could no longer endure those staring, glazing eyes, she must put them out of her sight. Raising the limp body with a supreme effort, she carried it in her arms to a dry well at some distance, and then averting her face, she threw it down. It struck against the sides, with a dull muffled sound, and fell to the bottom with a hideous crash that made her shudder. As Jasoda went slowly homewards, she was conscious that she was now the same as Moola, the son of Maldhu, who had cut his wife’s throat with a sickle; or the city girl, who drowned her baby in the tank in the Mango tope. She cooked the evening meal as usual, and heard Jooplee inquire for Taramonnee, and send to seek her at a neighbour’s; presently she became anxious, talked of snakes, hyenas, and devils, and even went herself to each postern door, and called, “Taramonnee, Taramonnee;” but she never once thought of inquiring about her from the sullen girl who was washing the cooking-pots. The old grandmother said soothingly, “Surely she hath gone with Almonee, who lives across the river.” But this did not satisfy her anxious parent, and the neighbourhood was summoned, and a great search made. It was full moon—a splendid harvest moon—and bright as day. All night long Jasoda lay awake, watching the moonbeams and listening to the melancholy howl of the jackals, and the heavy thud of the ripe banka fruit as it fell in the courtyard. Should she run away or stay? she asked herself. She debated the vital question long, and finally resolved that she would abide and await her fate! She was weary of life. Why prolong it? The river was low; best perish by the rope, and thus end all. At least she would have rest and peace, and perhaps a new and better life in another world.
At daybreak, the body of Taramonnee was brought in and laid before her mother, who tore her hair in a frenzy, and beat her head against the wall. The hakim was summoned, and solemnly declared that the child had not met her death by accident. No; behold, there was the blow on her temple; of a surety, she had been murdered,—and by whom? Jooplee read the answer in Jasoda’s eyes.
“Yes, I struck her,” admitted the girl boldly. “She came to me by the cane-field, and pinched me sorely when I was asleep. I am glad she is dead.”