A TESTAMENT OF HUNGER

(A short story)

LALIT KUMAR SHASTRI

Translated by S. KRISHNAN from the original in Gujarati

Home he reaches at last. The odour of toil emanates from his thin sun-burnt body. Sweat drops glisten on his cheeks. His white hair and cheekfolds bespeak of his age.

The contours of his body are not equal like geometric lines. His aged frame bears the imprint of the ebb and tide of life. His eyes crested with thick brows seem as if they were stolen from a philosopher. His body, that of an ascetic who has performed penance for centuries, cannot be regarded as being carefree. He is one of the multitude, and yet unique!

The hairs on his hard chest peep through his torn shirt. His figure draped in a coarse short dhoti, evokes the image of the Adivasis of a byegone age. The photograph of this unknown disciple of Vinoba has not yet appeared in any of the newspapers, nor will it be published in future!

It’s three o’clock on a sweltering afternoon. But the old man’s unshod feet have the energy of lightning in them. He tells the young girl who is with him: “Where are you going? Be here. Don’t move. I am going to the bungalow and will be back.”

Ramli–who had not the privilege of seeing the world–felt the seering impact of the sun only when she paused by the roadside, “Ramli, don’t be afraid. I will be back soon.” The old man wended his way towards the bungalow without pausing for Ramli’s reply.

Ramli offered no reply. She glanced with hopeful eyes toward the path taken by her father. The old man looked back and in his glance was the inextinguishable light of faith. He had not the strength to think. He had to struggle from early dawn to night for his livelihood. But he couldn’t rationalise on the course of his life. He only knew that he could earn money by toiling and money would fetch his daily bread.

Ramli’s father had set forth to seek an advance against his wages from his contractor, to buy his ration. Six months back his wife–his partner in happiness and misery alike–had died due to miscarriage. She had given much to their conjugal life. She had shared the tears and tribulations of life and stood by him in encountering life’s battle. She had served him without expecting anything in return. She had offered him a “prince” and a “princess” once every year and a half. Only eight of the eighteen offsprings had survived. As long as she lived, Ramli’s father had not a care. His life cruised with the smoothness of an engine over the rails. Since it was an old model engine, it used to break down frequently. But Ramli’s father was not unhappy about it. On the contrary, he was happy. She had no complaints before God.

His children have been starving for the last eighteen hours. He is also hungry but he doesn’t pity himself. But he cannot bear to see the raging warfare of hunger engulfing his darling ones. Even the fetid smell of stale bread emanating from a down-and-out bakery located in a slum excites his senses. But he has no means of quenching his eagerness. Thieving, he regards as a cowardly act. Despite his repeated efforts he has not been able to land a permanent job,–his old age and decrepit body being the handicaps. He gets only makeshift jobs.

If somebody were to remain absent from duty or fell ill, then he gets a chance to work. But he hasn’t been able to get a job since the last six days. He has had just a half-day’s employment today and a rupee and a half would not fetch a week’s ration. Hence he has set forth to seek an advance wage of ten rupees from his employer, with an undertaking to make it good through work.

Yes, the sheth’s bungalow isn’t far off. The bungalow’s design is attractive. But the old man doesn’t pause to gaze. He walks on faster. His is an encounter with the raging battle of hunger; not a single battle but an array of eight. Blood is coursing fast in his feet. He addresses his feet: “Well, we have not to walk for long.”

Ramli’s father made up his mind. He couldn’t afford to lose hope. The problem was not simple. Money! Money! Sometimes unpleasant thoughts pricked him like thorns–what if the sheth refuses to lend him money? The thought twisted his mind like a knife.

But faith...the hope of getting an advance wage and of being able to buy rice had brought him here. Slender hope was his refuge.

For a while he stood confused in the bungalow wondering how to approach the sheth. A gardener showed him the way. The old man greeted the sheth with folded hands and said in a broken voice: “Shethji! I want ten rupees...as advance.”

The sheth was annoyed at the untimely appearance of Ramli’s father. “Whatever it is you want, speak to the clerk.”

“Shethji! I will make good the money by work. I want money for buying ration.” Hunger lent him courage to speak.

“Does money sprout on trees?”

“No... but today is the last day for buying ration and tomorrow is Sunday.”

“But what can I do about it?”

“Shethji! My children are starving. Else I wouldn’t have entreated you thus.” There was clear helplessness in his voice.

The sheth’s wife who was listening to their conversation intervened. “Why don’t you give him ten rupees. He will repay it through work.”

“Yes, yes.” The old man was happy because the sheth’s wife took up his cause.

“But this man is not on our roll. He works only on a temporary basis. And just look at his age. How can he make good the money?”

“Take pity on his children and give him the money.” The sheth having no other way took out a ten-rupee note from his coat-pocket and tossing it across to the old man, said: “Look here, don’t forget to repay it.”

“Shethji! Can one forget it? I shall never forget your kindness.” The old man again saluted the sheth and prompted by an imaginary fear that the sheth might ask for the money back, hurried out of the bungalow. Sorrow had become a trifle mute and his eyes glistened with joy. It was only when he rejoined Ramli that he realised the real fulfilment of his mission.

A distant clock struck three. Ramli asked: “Father! We are going to buy millet, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

The road was long and difficult like his own life. One couldn’t afford to wait for the bus for long. Both began to walk.

The fact is that no one elder to Ramli is alive and the minors are not of an age when they could handle the task of purchasing ration. The task is as difficult for them as is for an illiterate to decipher a map. Hence after his wife’s death, the old man does the rice purchasing himself. He doesn’t have the strength to stand in the queue for hours but the question of his livelihood makes it inevitable.

Many had suggested to him that he may re-marry even at his age, and some had offered their daughters, but he had not consented. He wasn’t so inclined. He didn’t have the leisure to think of the future of his children. Except Sweat and toil, he knows nothing. He understands how difficult life is without his supporter. He feels her loss with an accentuated anguish whenever he has to go to buy the ration and his wife’s memory haunts him.

By the time they reached the ration-shop, their bare feet had become laden with dust and the soles’ were cracked due to the heat. The queue was interminably long. The watch of the man standing at the tail-end of the queue showed four. Whatever it is, he will get his rice quota which will see them through for a week. This hope brought a measure of peace to Ramli’s father.

Having stood in the queue for long, he wondered: “Why doesn’t the queue move?” He began to lose heart. But nothing may be gained by abandoning courage. He blocked a man who was trying to jump the queue; what else to do? He was physically and mentally fagged out and asked the man next to him to move ahead steadily. The gap lessened. He was totally exhausted, and wearily sank down. He asked Ramli to sit near him. But the sitting posture imposed a greater strain on the body. As he stood up to move ahead in the queue, he felt as if his feet were weighed down with leaden chains. The sweltering street scorched his bare feet. Hunger raged fiercely. The pain of separation from his wife twisted his mind in agony. Old age and the unending queue tormented him. Awaiting his turn in the queue was an ordeal. The travail of scorched feet, empty stomach, burdened heart and weary mind provoked him to say; “Brother! Move on. Please tell the clerk sahib to work a little quicker. Otherwise evening will set in in no time.”

“Why don’t you tell him?”

“Oh, what’s there to it?...All right. I will tell him.” The old man asked Ramli to guard his position in the queue and ran up to the clerk: “Clerk sahib: Please let your work go on at Punjab-mail speed.”

“Can I multiply my arms?”

“Oh, no. But if you work a little faster, we can get our daily bread.”

“This is our everyday routine.”

“But if you close the shop, what’s to happen to us?”

“The shop will be open on Monday. It won’t be closed.”

“But what about the intervening Sunday? Come on, be quick. My children will be looking forward to me.”

At the command “Be quick”, the clerk became furious and said: “I don’t require your suggestion. Get back to your place.”

Ramli’s father returned to the queue like a bad coin. He was enraged at the clerk’s snail-pace work but there was no strength in his anger. He couldn’t achieve anything by losing temper. It was five o’clock. The queue moved along at a serpent’s gait. Ramli’s father gazed at the sun which was steadily heading towards its final phase. The contour of the queue danced in his mind. Ramli began vomitting. Someone exclaimed: “Hey! What’s this?”

The old man wiped her face with a piece of cloth torn from his shirt and gently comforted her. Hunger had become incarnated in the form of vomit.

As Ramli came back to normal, the old man asked her to sit in the shade. The queue shortened. People began wending homeward with rice-filled bags. The old man was weary gazing bemused at the tattered bags–symbolic of life, it seemed–from which grains trickled down. He had lost control over mind and body alike, but the bubble of hope had not burst. When would he secure rice, take it home, and feed the children and himself?

He tottered ahead. Nausea assailed him. Just then he heard the news that rocked him. “No more cards will be accepted. Only those whose cards have been already taken in will get rice and the rest will get their quota on Monday.” Despair filled him as he heard it. Legs tottered and the mind drooped. He pleaded futilely with the clerk. The only course now was to hurry towards the flour-mill before it was closed. So with one hand clutching the bag–which was an analogy of his life–and with the other holding Ramli who was like his heart–he walked on faster. The mighty effort to conquer hunger began.

The old man was on the verge of physical and mental collapse. He bought flour and when the flour-mill owner asked for the money, he searched in vain in his pocket.

“Well, old man, have you brought the money or not?”

He couldn’t even reply. As his fingers explored his slit pocket, he felt as if he were consoling his broken heart.

The tears of a lifetime gushed forth from his eyes and his sobbing heart became a torment of tears. Ramli couldn’t understand anything of this. The old man returned the flour to the owner and climbed down the steps of the shop with an empty heart. He cried out: “Shame on you! For the sake of appeasing one you have robbed nine hungry ones. God will not forgive you.”

The old man sat down near the footsteps. “Kurukshetra” remained a battlefield. It was not transformed into a garden of peace.

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