TWO SHORT STORIES

JATINDRA MOHAN GANGULI

1. THE BRICK-MAKERS

The Zamindar had decided to add another floor to his house, and to have a new wing projected from the eastern block for his son who was to be married. He called a building contractor and gave him four months time to complete the job. The contractor, who was a tenant in the Zamindar’s estate, knew that what the Zamindar demanded he would have, and if he failed to get the work done within the allotted time he would get no work again. So he recruited extra labour and asked the brick-maker, Kamal, to put extra time and energy into his work so that the supply of bricks did not fail. The brick kiln was not far from the Zamindar’s house and the way to it from the village in which Kamal lived passed close to the house. Kamal and his wife, with others worked over-time. Late in the evening as they went home by the side of the Zamindar’s house they watched the rising new construction in which the bricks made by them were used. They were proud. “We have to work harder to make more bricks to make the house big,” said Kamal’s wife. “Yes,” said Kamal “and the house has to be finished before the marriage. We shall start earlier tomorrow morning.”

That afternoon it rained but Kamal and his wife went on making clay and filling the moulds for the kiln. They got wet but continued till evening. Their scanty clothes were all wet; water dripped from their head. When passing by the side of the Zamindar’s house they saw the new constructions going up and the pile of bricks made by their hands around them. They were pleased. A strong wind now blew across their face and brought heavy rain. They halted and took shelter under a tree opposite the gate of the Zamindar’s house. More strongly the wind blew and they shivered in their wet clothes.

“Shall we go in and stand in the verandah of the house? See that dark cloud: it’s going to rain more heavily” said Kamal.

“But they won’t allow” feared his wife.

A car now came and went in. The Zamindar was in the car, and his wife and son. The son was driving. He was to be married and for him the new wing was being constructed. They all saw Kamal and his wife standing wet under the tree. The Zamindar called the Darwan and asked him who the man and the woman under the tree were.

“They are the brick-makers, who are making bricks for the house” said the Darwan.

“They are standing in rain. Bring them in and give them some dry clothes to wear” said the Zamindar.

“And I shall send them two cups of tea” added his wife, as they went inside the house. Their son turned back after his parents had gone in and softly said to the Darwan “But don’t let them go to the new building with their muddy feet.”

The Darwan, under his umbrella, went to the gate and called Kamal and his wife. “Zamindar Babu saw you standing in rain and asked me to take you in and give you dry clothes for change.”

They looked at each other. The Darwan said again “Come,” as he went to the house to bring dry clothes for them.

“Zamindar Babu is very good” said Kamal’s wife.

The new wing under construction was on the right. They turned that way, and going past rows of brick-piles they stepped up on the verandah of the new wing, which was almost complete. They peeped into the room in front of them. Water was still dripping from their wet clothes.

“We shouldn’t stand here; the floor is getting dirty” said Kamal’s wife. They stood uneasy, but it was still raining. “Let’s go home.”

“But the Darwan has asked us to stay. Zamindar Babu will be displeased if we go away.”

They heard some footsteps. The Darwan must be coming, they thought, but through the room from the other side came the Zamindar’s son. Seeing them there he took out the cigarette he was smoking from his lips and haughtily said “Get down from here; you are making the new floor dirty.”

His angry looks and shrill voice frightened Kamal’s wife. She jumped from the verandah on the ground below and slipped and fell. The Zamindar’s son had moved away to inspect the progress of the construction. Kamal got down to help his wife up, but she had sprained her ankle and could not stand. Kamal lifted and carried her to the gate. Sharp rain beat her face which was turned up. From Kamal’s head too water fell on her.

“Let’s hurry,” she said, “he’ll come again and may beat us.”

Kamal also was afraid and walked as best as he could with her on his arms on heavy muddy ground. They were out of the gate. The Darwan coming out of the house called, but they did not stop. They feared the appearance of the Zamindar’s son again.

Next day morning Kamal said to his wife “You stay home, don’t come to the kiln.”

She was limping, but she said, “No, let me come with you. There’s no time. Few days are left for the wedding. The building must be completed before that. We must make more bricks.”

The building was complete. The unused bricks were removed from the front of the new wing, which was decorated for the wedding of the Zamindar’s son. The brick kiln was closed, but every evening Kamal and his wife, after the day’s work on their field, came and from distance looked at the new building and its decorations.

The wedding day arrived and the whole house was profusely decorated and illuminated. Kamal and his wife watched from distance in the evening the long marriage procession coming out of the gate, with band playing and the Zamindar’s son seated in an open flower-bedecked car behind it. The next day Kamal and his wife went again and stood away from the gate to see the arrival of the bride. The Darwan saw them and called “Come in to see the bride” he said with a smile. “Zamindar Babu will be glad to give you sweets.”

But Kamal’s wife was afraid. They were unclean; their feet were muddy, and so were their hands which made bricks for the building, the bright, shining new building where the Zamindar’s son was to bring his bride. She whisperd to Kamal “No, the floor will be spoiled by the mud on our feet,” and holding his arm turned to go to their hut, feeling easy with every step to be farther from the Zamindar’s son’s looks and shouts.

2. LOTTERY TICKET

It was his first purchase of a lottery ticket. Since the day he purchased it Motilal has been restless. He has been sitting for some extra time, both in the morning and in the evening, for Puja and prayer. He also daily visited the temple of Luxmi and offered the Deity more flowers and more coins than before. As the date of the draw of the lottery advanced his mental agitation increased, and so also increased the time of his Puja and the time he stood with folded hands before the Deity in the temple. There was evident fervour in his devotion and pathetic appeal in his eyes when he stood facing the Deity in the temple.

It was Monday. The next was the day of the draw. He had disturbed sleep in the night, but got up very early to go to the Ganges for bath. There he found some neighbours who, like him, did not usually go to the Ganges for bath. He wondered if they also had purchased tickets of the same lottery.

Getting down and taking three dips in the holy water he stood with folded hands facing the Sun and prayed softly for giving him luck the next day. As he said his prayer again and again with rising ardour and emotion he heard others standing by his side with folded hands saying similar prayers. His mind was diverted to them and he felt uncertain about his chances in the lottery. “They are all praying. Whom will God favour?”

He was worried, and lost the mood to pray. Coming out of the water he hurried to the temple, carrying more flowers, fruits and sweets than ever. He asked the Pujari to do special Puja on his behalf. The Pujari arranged and started. Shortly after, those who had stood by his side in the Ganges and prayed arrived, with many offerings in their hands for Puja. Each asked the Pujari to arrange and do special Puja for his luck in the lottery. The Pujari nodded his head and hurried through the Puja he was doing for Motilal. Motilal was more worried as he watched the impatience of the Pujari to start Puja for them, and also as he noticed that they had brought more flowers and offerings for the Puja. He became nervous and feared that Luxmi's favour would go to them. Quickly he took out a five rupee note from his pocket and asked the Pujari to place it at the feet of Luxmi. But to his dismay he saw that one of those who were waiting for the Pujari to be free had ten rupees in his hand and another had twenty. The Pujari finished and Motilal had to make room for others. He went home sad, despairing of winning the three lacs which he had hoped to win. “Others have offered more and their chances will accordingly be greater” he reflected, but yet he kept praying.

“I’m poor: they are rich. I cannot give Thee what they can.

But I am Thy true devotee. Bless me and give me Thy favour.” As he prayed he feared that others also must be praying similarly.

In the night he saw a vision in dream. Luxmi stood before him and said, “What shall I do, Motilal? You have done Puja and prayed, but so also have done others. You have given me flowers, sweets and other gifts, so have others. Some have given even more I flowers, sweets and coins. You say you are my devotee, so also they say. What shall I do? Whom shall I favour? I am perplexed, and so I better keep away from this. But, Motilal, what do you really want? Do you want peace and happiness or the lottery money? You cannot have both.”

He woke, sat up and rubbed his eyes. The vision of Luxmi faded away before his eyes, but her question remained. Peace and happiness or the money? “No” he said “What shall I do with the lacs if I do not have peace and happiness?”

He took out the lottery ticket from under the pillow and tore and threw it away. In the morning he felt easy and fresh, without that fear, suspense, agitation and anxiety, which all these days had made him restless. He did not run to the temple and to the Ganges and cry and pray. He felt no need, no want, but found plenty at home. The food he ate tasted well again, and the sleep in the night he had was so soothing and deep. He recovered the peace, contentment and happiness which he had lost. His Deity had given him more than he had asked for, more, much more than the three lacs that the lottery ticket could have brought.

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