BY GAJANAN KATHARDEKAR

DOCTOR

WOMAN

MONEY-LENDER

PEASANT

[SCENE: A cottage in a poor Indian village. The room is poorly furnished and from the variety of things to be seen, it is clear that the cottage has hardly another room and that must be a small kitchen. In one corner a woman is sitting, cleaning a handful of rice. In the other corner is a small desk and a chair. On the desk are a few bottles arranged in a row and a few papers clipped together. On the chair sits a man, evidently a doctor in his dispensary. After the curtain goes up there is silence for a few minutes.]

DOCTOR: How long have I been at my desk, you think?

WOMAN: Three hours, perhaps more.

DOCTOR: Three hours! I have been busy you know, very busy. Busy waiting for something to do.

WOMAN: No patients have called today.

DOCTOR: Not one. . . (Bitterly) Rejoice woman, the village has no need of me. Farewell disease, farewell misery, farewell the physicians, our occupation is gone. The spinning wheel and the open fields call you and me away. At last rejoice!

WOMAN: I know too well to rejoice. Not a day goes by when they do not pass our doors crying with a tragic monotony "Ram Nam Sath Hai" "Ram Nam Sath Hai"! You know better about the diseases that are eating up our vitals. I know only the misery that follows disease–I know the agony of the man who is driven to his field when his body is on fire with malaria. I know the birth pangs of a starved woman each time she brings forth a child; and I know the choking thirst of a little babe sucking in vain the dried breasts of a dead mother. They all need the physician, only if they could afford him.

DOCTOR: Do not hurt me with truth, woman. I have seen . . . and I know. But when the reality is painful, man seeks the illusion. Thus God was born, and the glory of heaven is nothing but the craving of earth.

WOMAN: There is no milk and our child is dying.

DOCTOR: Then God be with him. Ha! Ha!

WOMAN: Why are you so hard?

DOCTOR: You wanted a child: you prayed to God. God has given you the child and not the milk to feed it. Why does your God give us children and not the means to bring them up? Ask Him this when next you pray to Him.

WOMAN: Another day without milk and the child may not live . . .

DOCTOR: Oh the curse! Here I am–a Doctor, anxious to work–here is this village steeped in disease; but the stream of poverty cuts me away from my people. They want me and I want them, but neither of us can pay the toll and cross the stream. Here a child is often born to die–. . but not mine I hope. It is the only one we have. I will save it, my darling. I will save it even by digging the graves of other children. Each one for himself or death for us all!

(ENTER THE VILLAGE MONEY-LENDER; A FAT FIGURE ALWAYS PRETENDING TO SMILE. HIS INTENTIONS, NEVERTHELESS, ARE TOO OBVIOUS TO BE MISTAKEN. EXIT WOMAN.)

MONEY-LENDER: How are you, dear doctor. I hope your family is prospering! And how is the little kid? I must get him a present some day.

DOCTOR: Yes, some day you must make a present to him. The way you make presents to your superiors is well known in this part of the country. Here is a seat for you.

MONEY-LENDER: (Sitting down) Of course they flatter me by talking so much about my humble presents. I wish I could have given more, but I am so poor, you know. I could not give anything better than a diamond ring to the wife of our dear Collector . . . He always calls me in his letters, "Dear Mr. Lakhpati", you know, and he has such a kind heart for the poor. Men may not believe it but he has actually invited me to tea when I visit England; but a sea-voyage is not for me at this age. And so I regretted my inability to comply with his wishes, nay orders. .

DOCTOR: I would like to hear what you have come to say to me.

MONEY-LENDER: Yes, of course, I see you are a busy man and your work. . .

DOCTOR: Never mind about my work. If you ask for the money I owe you. . .

MONEY-LENDER: Exactly, your guess is not wrong. . .

DOCTOR: Then let me tell you that I have none to give. You can wait.

MONEY-LENDER: How long?

DOCTOR: Till I am dead and all the village is dead, crushed under the burden of your accursed interest.

MONEY-LENDER: No, no, no, no. You should not be so hard. I have always been kind to the poor because I am poor myself. . .

DOCTOR: Yes, the only man you are kind to is your poor self.

MONEY-LENDER: Well, well, let us drop this unpleasant talk. Let us come to business. How much money can you return just now? You see I do not want all of it back. Pay me only the interest for the present. Let us see. . . Three times nine. . .

DOCTOR: Don't bother me with those figures. I am counting the hours of my child's life. It is dying for a sip of milk. Please leave this house before I am rude to you.

MONEY-LENDER: Of course, I understand. I have seen many people in such a state but they get used to it. You are still young. . . . I wish I could send some milk, but by now it has all been sold off in the city and there is not a drop for my own child–and you know, it is the only one I have— So I am very sorry indeed. . . I suppose I will come some other time. I must go to the temple now. Good-bye. . . and God be with you, always.

(EXIT THE MONEY-LENDER)

DOCTOR: (After him) He is with you alright. (To his wife who enters) Oh dear, this money-lender had come to lend us God. Let us be drunk with God. . . and failing God there is poison, enough for all the three of us. I am a doctor and I have a license to kill.

WOMAN: My husband is over-wrought today. He must harden himself.

DOCTOR: You need not teach me to harden myself. Do you forget that when I proposed our coming and settling down in a village and being useful, you spoke of the hardships that we needs must endure? As a proof of my endurance, I held this finger in the candle flame till you shrieked and put out the flame, promising me in solemn darkness that we shall face life at all costs. . . but you want me to harden myself still, to see you starve and see my child–dying a slow death. Oh, mercy!

WOMAN: I want you to be hardened not against yourself but against others. Everyone is saving himself and so must you. When patients come to you and beg of your help, you help them freely. They do nothing for you. You must insist on payment, that is the only way left for us. I want nothing for myself but it is for the child I ask.

(ENTER AN OLD PEASANT. HE SPEAKS FRANTICALLY AND HAS THE EXPRESSION OF A MAN WHO HAS SEEN MUCH SORROW)

PEASANT: Doctor! Save my child. Come and save my child. It is dying, doctor, come and save it. I should have come long before this, but I could not call you. I have only my blessings and an honest friendship to offer you.

DOCTOR; (Laughing cynically and like a mad man) Blessings! –and honest friendship!! (Laughs) Blessings, indeed. Shall I feed my child on blessings? Shall I make my child live on honest friendship? Blessings! Ha, ha, ha, –Blessings! Oh! Dash it all!!

PEASANT: Oh, doctor, do not be so hard. Come if you love your own child. I live near the well yonder. Come with me.

DOCTOR: Love my own child? Ha, ha, ha! Don't say that. I would have come if I didn't love my child. Don't you see. . . don't you see–My child is thirsting for milk. I must give milk to the child before I go out, and I have nothing to buy the milk with.

PEASANT: Oh, doctor, I have honestly nothing to offer you. But save my child and I will pay you when I can. I must return now, but if pity moves you come after me.

(EXIT)

DOCTOR: Ha! Woman, I have hardened myself. See how I have won at last. This is the only way to live. The other way leads to death. My darling bottles, I will hug you to my bosom. Precious medicines, your homes are in the stomachs of the rich. They are your palaces. You will not see the homes of the poor. The foul air of a beggar's house will not touch you any more. You shall be exchanged for gold and silver. Goodwill and blessings are abstractions, lies!

WOMAN: Oh, my husband, save that child! Go.

DOCTOR: I cannot. I am as hard as stone. I am harder than granite, I am as the mountain that cannot be shaken; I am as the monster; I am the money-lender; I am as the rich, the powerful–damn it!

WOMAN: On my knees I beg of you to save that poor man's child. We have sworn to serve the poor and to face life. This is life. Let us face it, my love.

DOCTOR: (After a pause) Ah! Woman, at last you speak as of old. I will go at once. But never again put out the candle when I thrust my finger in the devouring flame of life.

(STARTS TO GO. ENTER THE PEASANT WITH THE CHILD AND A CUP OF MILK)

PEASANT: Here, doctor, here I have borrowed some milk for your child. Oh, save my child, doctor. It is the only one I have.

DOCTOR: (Muttering) The only one you have! The only one you have! (Examines the child). But Alas–! Your child is not for me to save. It has been saved already by the merciful hand of Death. (Peasant groans: "Oh! Doctor!"). Take away this milk. I have not earned it.

PEASANT: Young man! You think you are a hero, a martyr. You are a fool to think so. In trying to save your child, you have killed mine. In trying to atone for it, you are killing your own! You have no right to do so. Take this and don't be a fool.

(THE DOCTOR GOES IN WITH THE CUP OF MILK FOLLOWED

BY HIS WIFE. LIGHTS ARE DIMMED)

(Madly) Doctor, look how the child is laughing –How he mocks at life, doctor!

(CURTAIN)