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.”