Justice (A Short Story)

Justice

(A Short Story)

(Translated by the Author from the original MARATHI)

[Amongst the Marathi writers of the younger generation, Prof. N. S. Phadke is easily the most versatile and powerful. He has written biographies, scientific treatises, familiar essays, plays, novels and short stories. Whatever he writes bears the unmistakable imprint of the clarity of his thought and the haunting sweetness of his diction. He was born in 1894, and his first novel appeared in 1917. His novels grip the reader not so much by the loudness of incident as by the masterly, subtle, psychological analysis of character, and by the magic of creative craftsmanship. The appeal of his short stories too lies in the quiet simplicity of the theme and in the artistry and wealth of feeling with which the theme is treated.]

The village became such a favourite and frequent haunt of the Shikaris that it soon lost its original name and came to be mentioned in the Railway Time Tables as Shikar Road. On every long holiday the down trains from Bombay would unload at this station bunches of Shikaris who would litter the small, narrow platform with their trunks, baskets, helmets and guns,and who, as they moved about with a regal swing making the sand creak under heavy boots, would make a sight for the village imps that gathered and stood at a little distance, fearful and incredulous. Apart from these occasional big fairs of the helmeted Shikaris, many of them came for a week-end's sport. And rich sportsmen who had nothing else to do in life did not wait for the pretext of even a week-end. They would arrive any day by some down train, get down noisily, walk about emitting clouds of cigerette smoke, and loading the rustic coolies with their kit make for the Dak Bungalow.

These Shikaris, with their riding boots, and with their helmets always a little tilted, made a strong appeal to the imagination of the small, rustic children of the place. They were their heroes. Playing at Shikar became a new favourite game with the boys; who would stick a thick piece of paper in the rim of their battered, dirty caps to imitate the helmet, grunt at each other in unmeaning, indistint syllables in the Shikari fashion, and wag a little cane in the hand as they had seen the Shikaris do. The Shikaris often pleased the grown-up people too. They would give very liberal tips to the coolies or to those who helped them in some way.

But on the whole the elderly people of the village hated this advent of the Shikari. If some of the Shikaris were kind-hearted and generous, there were others–and they were the majority–who were simply rude bullies. They would swoop down on any of the villagers, order them to do any menial work, and at the end of the day kick them off without paying a penny. And there was reason for the villagers to have a grudge even against the kind-hearted Shikari. For he was, as much and as inevitably as the bully type, a cause of damage to their crops and farms. When a Shikari spots the game and starts chasing it, he is like a man possessed; and his reason does not return until he gets the animal. The frenzied Shikaris, in their chase, would often rush through the crops and farms, and leave behind them the tragedy of a whole patch of beautiful, promising, head-high corn stalks, or a whole plot of cucumbers or tomatoes, miserably crumpled! The villagers’ hearts naturally bled at such atrocities. But they did not know how to get justice; and they simply shrugged their shoulders and cursed the Kali Yuga.

Whenever, therefore, the tread of the Shikaris was heard, the elders, working in the fields, would start swearing at them. The women folk, who seemed to harbour a particular hatred for the Topiwala, would shower all sorts of execrations on his head–often raising their voice to a deliberate high pitch, that the devil of a red-faced Shikari may know a piece of their mind.

The children, however, who would be near about never saw any reason in this prejudice of their parents against the Shikari. They would rather have loved to welcome the Shikari with open arms–the wonderful Shikari who spoke some celestial, high-sounding, strident language, flourished the cracking guns with glistening barrels of polished steel, and carried knives and whistles dangling from his leather belt! While therefore the elders swore, the children would, greet the sight of a Shikari with joyful shouts of ‘Sahib!’ ‘Sahib!’ and would run after him if they could deceive the parental vigil.

At the moment when this story begins, little Shreepati was about to run off like this. But when, looking through the corner of his eye at his mother who was cutting the weeds a few yards away, he found that she was watchful he had to give up the idea of running. He steadied his quivering, eager legs; and in response to the urgent signal of his mates to get off, he had to use his eye, fingers and lips to effect the complicated counter-signal that he could not possibly run with them, that his mother was watchful, and that he would bide his moment and perhaps join them later.

His mates then ran off, and the sight of them sprinting away so thrilled Shreepati that he put the thumb and the first finger under his tongue and gave a shrill, lusty whistle before bending down to the little heap of wild grass which his mother had cut and left for him to tie up.

Mukta, his mother, looked up and, with a frown, said, "What's the joke? Have you, like the other idiots of the village, gone crazy over the Shikaris? Yelling at the sight of the hunting monkeys, were you–?"

"No, Ma" Shreepati said in defence, "I didn't whistle for that. I found a flock of sparrows on that yonder patch of corn, so I slinged a stone and whistled–"

There had been no crack of the sling before the whistle, and Mukta could see that Shreepati was lying. But she dropped the matter at that. Shreepati was her only child, born after years of fervent praying, and she could not repress her affection enough to take him to task any further. She bent down to her work again, humming some folk-song tune.

Finding his mother occupied in her work, Shreepati turned his eyes again in the direction of the Shikaris. But they had run out of sight.

He sighed.

In that moment of anguish at having missed an enjoyable sprint after the Shikaris, he quite forgot that he had dodged his mother's reproof by telling a lie. He was only sorry that he had missed a big fun.

If any of my readers are here unfavourably impressed by Shreepati's lack of remorse for a moral lapse, I cannot help it. My business is not to create for my story it fictitious hero of unbending rectitude, but to report facts. I must, therefore, record that Shreepati did not repent that he had lied to his mother.

And similarly, however much I should like this story to relate to the beautiful, cherub-like little boy common to fiction, I must record that Shreepati was just an ordinary village boy of seven–dark and unkempt, with a dirty, half torn shirt hanging from his shoulders, a small strip of cloth, soiled with the red earth of the wrestling arena, worn tightly across the loins, and thick, heavy silver wristlets on both hands.

It is another thing, of course, if in the eyes of his mother he was the most beautiful child under the stars, and if she was ever fearful lest somebody’s envious ‘evil eye’ might strike him ominously.

Shreepati sighed when he found that the Shikaris were no more in sight. He looked up at the sun. It was dropping to the setting horizon. But it would be a clear half-hour before it would actually set. It was quite likely that the Shikaris would, during that interval, stampede past him once more.

This was a very comforting thought. Shreepati smiled to himself, moved the wristlet round his left wrist, pulled the ends of the loin cloth at the thighs, and bent down happily to tie up the next bundle of grass.

Half an hour passed. Mukta had moved to a distant corner of the field, cutting the grass and laying it by in small heaps. The sun quivered on the edge of the horizon, and the sugarcane blades cast their long shadows across to where Shreepati stood. He meant to do a few more grass heaps and then shout to his mother to stop and move homewards.

Just then something flitted past him like an arrow. He looked up and immediately knew what it was. It was a pair of deer that had shot in from nowhere and bounced away like two lovely balls.

Shreepati gave a wild cry, kicked away the grass at his feet, and ran after the deer, mad with delight.

He wanted to forestall the deer and prevent their rushing into the sugarcane field and foiling the Sahib's Shikar. He therefore ran like one in a frenzy.

But did a little boy of seven ever outrun the deer? With lightning speed the deer dashed into the sugarcane and disappeared, leaving behind them only the rustle of the blades and the crashing of a few stalks.

Shreepati had raced in vain. Disgruntled and infuriated, he stood at the edge of the field, panting, bewildered!

Just then two gun shots rang in the air. A bullet whizzed past Shreepati, and before he could look out, another came and caught him in the heart as if it had been fired at him.

He shrieked and fell down.

It was a heart-rending shriek. Even the birds, flipping to their nests, trembled and made a nervous titter!

The Shikaris who had fired at the deer came up running and were shocked to find a small boy, instead of the deer, writhing in the agonies of death. A few villagers who were round about in the fields soon gathered on the spot. Somebody carried the tragic news to Mukta and she came, beating her heart and tearing her hair. My pen has neither the strength nor the coolness to describe the pathetic scene when she threw herself beside her dying boy, kissed his blood-stained chest and rolled frantically in the dust. One of the Shikaris was a doctor. He rendered first aid to Shreepati and had him carried to the Dak Bungalow for treatment. But the unfortunate child did not long survive.

Shreepati's father, Aba, and maternal uncle, Haibati, had gone to Poona. They returned the next day. Aba had brought from Poona a new ‘dhoti’ a slate and a rubber ball for his son, and Haibati had purchased coloured glass pebbles for his pet nephew.

The two men were simply stunned to learn of Shreepati's sudden death. Mukta lay in the kitchen like one struck by lightning. Was it ever possible for the two men to console her in her shattering grief?

The Shikaris are not supposed to be a soft-hearted race. But the sad accident had made even their hearts bleed. They went to Aba, expressed their deep regret and sympathy, and also offered money by way of compensation. Haibati was in the kitchen with Mukta. Aba was in an impatient mood. He would not listen to the Shikaris and kept telling them:

"I’ll sue you in the law court and bring you to book."

The Shikaris could not help. They returned to the Dak Bungalow.

That night Aba went to Poona, briefed a well-known lawyer and filed a suit.

Next day Haibati was seen hovering about the Dak Bungalow. He saw the Shikaris lounging in the verandah and returned.

Aba returned from Poona at night-fall. In a proud voice he said,

"The suit is properly filed. I have fixed up the best lawyer and we shall get full justice, to be sure . . ."

Mukta paid no attention to his words. She lived in a horrid nightmare of grief and despair.

Haibati too did not make any reply to Aba. He simply frowned and grunted.

At the midnight hour Aba went out into the cow-shed to see why the cow was restless and lowing. He saw Haibati preparing to go out. In surprise he asked,

"Who is that?–Haibati?".

"Yes."

"Where would you go at this odd hour-?" "Er-nowhere-I mean-" came the confused reply.

Just then Aba's eyes chanced on the axe which Haibati carried. His surprise heightened, Aba asked,

"And what's that-?–An axe?–But why?–Whatever would you do with it?-"

Haibati's grating voice was deep and firm as he replied, "I haven't no faith in the sort of justice you would get in the law court. Blood for blood!–that's the justice I can understand and like. I shall hack the heads of the Shikaris and make a small heap of them for my sister to spit upon-"

A shiver ran through Aba as he felt the contagion of those terrible words.

He clutched Haibati by the arm and taking the axe from him said,

"You are crazy with grief. Man shouldn't seek justice like a brute. Come, get into the house and lie down-"

So saying he patted and carried Haibati into the house.

Haibati's brute justice was thus never obtained. He went in and slept. Aba was going to prove his faith in man's civilized methods of seeking justice.

After a few months Aba's suit was decided. The Shikaris were ordered by the court to pay a fine of Rs. 500. This the Shikaris paid, immediately and Aba returned home with the money.

As he entered his house Mukta was in the kitchen, stirring the broth on the fire, and Haibati sat in a corner, doing a fancy neck-strap for the ox.

Aba placed the bundle of notes before his wife with a proud flourish and said, "The Shikaris had only offered me a hundred rupees on that day. But I'm no baby to be deceived. The court has made them pay five hundred rupees!–Look!"

But Mukta did not at all seem pleased at these words. On the contrary, she made a piteous gesture as if a dagger's point had touched her in some delicate part, and tears trickled down her eyes. In an agonised voice she said, "How can't you understand?–There has been an aching void somewhere in this my heart since the moment I lost my beloved Shreepati!–Do you hope to fill it up with this money–I hate it!–Let the accursed papers lie in the flames!-"

And suddenly she whipped the currency notes and flung them into the fire."

There was a flare. And the next moment the currency bills lay in a little heap of ashes.

Aba stood gazing, like a man mute under some spell! He had condemned Haibati's notion of justice as blood for blood. Now his own civilized notion of justice stood condemned at the hands of this woman–this aching mother!

Within another year's time Mukta got a child–a son. Neighbours and friends came to see the boy, and Mukta was in a perpetual ecstasy as she held up the little, blinking, pup-like thing to everybody and said, "I'm sure this is my own Shreepati born in my womb again!–Don't you think so?–Look at his nose–his eyes! Ah! Don't say it's not he! My little Shreepati come to suck my breasts once again-!"

And she would say to her brother and husband, "Haibati thought of hacking the Shikaris’ heads. And you brought that bundle of notes from the court. But could either have stopped the blood-stream that gushed from my heart at the loss of my child? Today the stream of blood has turned into a stream of milk! God has given me my own Shreepati. Which is true justice? This?–or the one you brought tied up in a bundle of paper bills?-" And the two men would make no reply.