Several days later, one evening around eight o’clock, Rama was returning from the library when he came across several young men discussing a chess problem. The problem had been published in one of the local Hindi daily newspapers, and a prize of fifty rupees had been promised to whoever solved it. The problem seemed extremely difficult. At least, that was what could be gathered from the young men’s conversation. It also became clear that quite a few other chess players there had tried their utmost to solve it, but had got nowhere.
Rama now remembered that a great many people had been bent over a newspaper in the library, copying the problem. Whoever came in would look at the paper for two or three minutes. Now he understood what that had been about. Rama knew none of these men, but he was so eager to see the problem that he could not help asking, “Does one of you have that problem?”
When the young men heard a man wrapped in a blanket asking about the problem, they assumed he must be some amateur. One of them said curtly, “Yes, we have it, but what will you do after seeing it? Good players here are getting stuck. One gentleman, who has no equal at chess, is even ready to put up a hundred rupees of his own money to solve it.”
Another young man said, “Why not show it to him? Who knows, perhaps this poor fellow will solve it. Maybe he has the insight.”
There was no kindness in this encouragement; it was sarcasm. The implication was: We have no objection to showing it to you. Go ahead and feast your eyes on it, but someone like you could never understand it, let alone solve it.
They went to a shop they knew and showed Rama the problem.
Rama immediately remembered that he had seen this problem somewhere before. He began thinking: Where had he seen it?
One young man teased him, “You must have solved it already!”
Another said, “If he hasn’t, he’ll solve it in a moment!”
A third said, “Why don’t you give us a move or two?”
Rama said excitedly, “I do not claim that I will certainly solve it, but I have solved a problem like this once, and it is possible that I may solve this one too. Please give me some paper and a pencil so that I can copy it.”
The young men’s disbelief diminished somewhat. Rama was given paper and pencil. In a moment he copied the problem and, thanking the young men, left. Suddenly he turned back and asked, “To whom should the solution be sent?”
One of the young men said, “To the editor of Praja-Mitra.”
When Rama reached home, he began applying his mind to the problem, but instead of thinking about the moves of the pieces, he kept thinking about where he had seen the problem. Perhaps as soon as he remembered that, the solution would also come to him. Like other creatures, the mind too, instead of applying itself to a task, searches for excuses. Once it finds some other point of support, it seems to consider itself free of its duty.
Rama sat with the chess problem spread before him until midnight. He remembered the positions of all the great chess games he had played, but where had he seen this particular problem?
Suddenly a flash passed before his eyes. He recovered the lost memory. Ah! Raja Sahib had given him this problem. Yes, that was it. After applying his mind to it for three consecutive days, he had solved it. He had even copied the problem. Then he remembered every single move. In an instant the problem was solved!
In the intoxication of delight, he made two or three little leaps on the floor, twirled his mustache, looked at his face in the mirror, and lay down on the cot. If he could get one problem like this every month, what more could he ask for!
Devi Din was just lighting the fire when Rama came in with a delighted face and said, “Brother, do you know where the office of the newspaper Praja-Mitra is?”
Devi Din—“Of course I do. Is there any newspaper here whose address I do not know? The editor of Praja-Mitra is a lively young man who always keeps his mouth full of betel. When you go to meet him, he talks with his eyes, but he is a man of courage. He has already been to jail twice.”
Rama—“Will you go there with me today?”
Devi Din said anxiously, “What will you do by sending me? I cannot go.”
“Is it very far?”
“No, it is not far.”
“Then what is the matter?”
Devi Din said guiltily, “There is nothing, but the old woman gets angry. I have promised her that I will not get involved in this quarrel between foreign and indigenous goods, nor will I go to the office of any newspaper. If I eat the food she provides, I must also obey her orders.”
Rama smiled and said, “Brother, you are joking. I have an important piece of work. The newspaper published a chess problem with a prize of fifty rupees. I have solved it. If it gets printed today, I can win the prize. Men from the secret police often come and go at newspaper offices. That is what frightens me. Otherwise, I would go myself. But if you are not going, I will have to go. I worked very hard to solve this problem. I stayed awake all night.”
Devi Din said worriedly, “It is not right for you to go there.”
Rama asked in surprise, “Then what? Should I send it by post?”
Devi Din thought for a moment and said, “No, what will you send by post? It might get lost and all your effort would be wasted. If you register it, it will arrive the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday. If someone else sends the solution and reaches them first, he will take the prize. It is also possible that the newspaper people might cheat, publish your solution under their own name, and pocket the money.”
Rama said hesitantly, “Then I will go myself.”
“I will not let you go. If you get caught, it is all over!”
“I have to get caught someday anyway. How long can I remain hidden?”
“Then why start crying before you die? When you get caught, we will see. Give it to me; I will go. I will make up some excuse to the old woman. I will even meet the editor. They live in the office itself. Then I will wander around for a while and not return before ten.”
Rama said nervously, “Then go after ten. What harm is there in that?”
Devi Din stood up and said, “By then some other work may come up and today will be wasted. I will be back within an hour. The old woman will not return for some time yet.”
Saying this, Devi Din wrapped himself in his black blanket, took the envelope from Rama, and left.
Jaggo had gone to the market to buy vegetables and fruit. Half an hour later she returned with a basket on her head and a large basket being carried on a laborer’s head. She was drenched in sweat. As soon as she arrived, she said, “Where have you been? Take this load off me; my neck is breaking.”
Rama stepped forward and had the basket taken down. It was so heavy that he could barely handle it.
Jaggo asked, “Where has he gone?”
Rama made an excuse: “I don’t know. He just went that way.”
The old woman had the basket taken down from the laborer’s head and sat on the ground, fanning herself with a broken hand-fan. She said, “He must have gone off looking for charas, what else? I work myself to death while he sits around enjoying himself and smoking charas.”
Rama knew that Devi Din smoked charas, but to calm the old woman he said, “Does he smoke charas? I have never seen him do it!”
The old woman moved the sari away from her back and scratched it with the handle of the fan as she said, “What addiction has he ever given up? Charas he smokes, ganja he smokes, liquor he wants, bhang he wants. Yes, he has not taken opium yet—or who knows, perhaps he does; how can I keep watch over him all the time? I keep thinking, who knows what will happen in the future? If he had even four pennies in his hand, strangers would become his friends, but this good-for-nothing man is never troubled by a grain of worry. One day it is a pilgrimage, another day something else. As for me, I have had enough; I am fed up to the point of pressing a finger against my nose. If only God would take him away, I would be rid of this bad company. Then he will remember, ‘Lala! Where will Jaggo be then, to earn and give you money to squander?’ If he does not shed tears of blood then, say I said so.
“To the laborer: ‘How much do I owe you?’”
The laborer, lighting a bidi, said, “Look at the load, mother. My neck is broken!”
Jaggo said mercilessly, “Yes, yes, your neck is broken! You are very delicate, aren’t you? Here, take this, and come again tomorrow.”
The laborer said, “That is far too little. It won’t fill my stomach.”
Jaggo gave him two more coins and a few potatoes, dismissed him, and began arranging the shop. Suddenly she remembered the accounts. She said to Rama, “Brother, enter today’s expenses. It is as though the market has caught fire.”
The old woman arranged the goods in baskets and had the accounts written down at the same time. She remembered the weight and price of everything—potatoes, tomatoes, pumpkins, bananas, spinach, beans, oranges, cauliflower, everything. She had Rama read the figures back to her, and only then was she satisfied.
Having finished all these tasks, she filled her hookah and sat on the stool to smoke. But from the way she smoked, it was clear that she was not smoking to enjoy the tobacco; she was smoking to burn away the pain in her heart.
After a moment she said, “Another woman would not have put up with him for even an hour, not an hour. I have been yoked to the grinding mill since the middle of the night and sit at the shop like a widow observing penance until ten at night. By the time we eat and drink it is midnight, and only then do four pennies appear, while he wastes whatever I earn on his addictions. I could hide it in seven rooms, but his eyes find it. He takes it out. If I manage to have even one little thing made, it begins to prick his eyes. He starts stabbing me with taunts.
“If it was not written in my fate to enjoy the happiness of sons, what can I do? Should I tear open my chest and die? Death does not come even when one begs for it. If happiness had been written for me, my young sons would not have gone, and I would not be suffering at the hands of this drunkard! It was he who got involved in the Swadeshi struggle and caused the deaths of my sons. Come, brother, I will show you the pair of clubs in this room. Both my boys used to raise five hundred hands with each of these.”
Rama went into the dark room and saw the pair of clubs. They were varnished and polished, clean as though someone had just put them away. The old woman looked at them proudly and said, “People used to say, ‘Give this pair to a great Brahmin; just looking at it will make you grieve.’ I said, ‘This pair is the twin pair of my sons. These two are my sons.’”
Today Rama’s heart filled with boundless respect for the old woman. What sacred patience! What immense motherly love, which had given life to these two pieces of wood. Rama had thought of Jaggo as a woman sunk in money and greed, willing to stake her life for money, completely devoid of tender feelings. Today he learned how loving, how tender, and how strong her heart truly was.
The old woman looked at his face, and for some reason her maternal heart became eager to embrace him. Their two hearts became bound together by a thread of love. On one side was the affection of a son; on the other, devotion to a mother. The impurity that had secretly kept them apart until now suddenly disappeared.
The old woman said, “You have washed your face and hands, haven’t you, son? I brought some very sweet oranges. Take one and taste it.”
As Rama ate an orange, he said, “From today I will call you Mother.”
Two pearl-like drops fell from the old woman’s dry, lightless, cold, miserly eyes.
Just then Devi Din came and stood there on tiptoe. The old woman sharply asked, “Where did His Majesty go so early this morning?”
Devi Din smiled innocently and said, “Nowhere. I just went out on an errand.”
“What errand? Let me hear it too, or is it not something I am worthy of hearing?”
“I had a pain in my stomach, so I went to the physician to get some digestive powder.”
“You are a liar. Anyone who knows you would laugh at that. You went looking for charas.”
“No, I swear by touching your feet. You are falsely defaming me.”
“Then where did you go?”
“I told you. I ate two extra morsels at dinner last night, so my stomach became bloated, and I wanted something sweet—”
“Lies, complete lies! You may lie, but your face tells the truth. This is an excuse. You went looking for charas and ganja. I will not believe a word of it. At this age you still think only of intoxicants, while I am dying here. You left in the morning and have returned at nine, as though I were your maidservant here.”
Devi Din picked up a broom and began sweeping the shop, but the old woman snatched it from his hand and asked, “Where have you been all this time? Until you tell me, I will not let you inside.”
Devi Din, flustered, said, “What will you do by asking? I did go to the office of a newspaper. Do whatever you like.”
The old woman slapped her forehead and said, “You have taken up that habit again? Didn’t you promise that you would never go near a newspaper office again? Tell me, was this the mouth that made the promise, or someone else’s?”
“You don’t understand the matter; you simply start getting angry.”
“I understand perfectly. The newspaper people stir up trouble and get poor people thrown into jail. I have seen it for twenty years. Whoever goes there gets arrested. Searches happen all the time. Will you spend your old age eating prison bread?”
Devi Din handed an envelope to Ramanath and said, “Here is the money, brother. Count it. Look, I went to collect this money. If you feel uneasy about it, take half!”
The old woman fixed her eyes on him and said, “Oh! So you want to drag this poor fellow down with you too? I will set fire to your money. Do not take the money, brother! You will lose your life. Honest men are not found for free these days; people tempt others with money and trap them. They will make you stand guard in the market and make you testify in court! Throw away his money. Take as much money as you want from me.”
When Rama told her the whole story, the old woman’s mind became calm. Her raised brows relaxed, and her stern expression softened. The clouds parted and the blue sky smiled. She joked, “What will you bring for me from this, son?”
Rama placed the envelope before her and said, “You have everything, Mother! What will I do with money?”
“Why don’t you send it home? So many days have passed since you came, and you have sent nothing.”
“My home is here, Mother! I have no other home.”
The motherly heart that had been deprived of a son overflowed with emotion. How long her soul had yearned for this devotion from a son! All the love accumulated within that miserly heart became eager to pour out, like milk gathering in a mother’s breast. She counted the notes and said, “There are fifty, son! Take another fifty from me. There is a tea kettle lying here. Open a tea shop. Put four or five stools and a table along one side here. If you sit for two hours in the morning and two in the evening, you will earn enough to get by. Many of our customers will drink tea too.”
Devi Din said, “Then I will take the money for my charas from this shop!”
The old woman looked at him with delighted affection and said, “I will keep account of every penny. Don’t count on getting it for free.”
When Rama went to his room, he was very happy. Today he was experiencing a kind of happiness he had never even received in his own home. The affection he received at home was something he ought naturally to have received. The affection he had received here seemed to have fallen from the sky.
He bathed, put a tilak on his forehead, and sat down to pretend to perform his worship. The old woman came and said, “Son, you have a great deal of trouble cooking for yourself. I have arranged for a Brahmin woman to cook for you. The poor thing is very poor. She will prepare your meals. You can eat food cooked by her; she lives according to the rules of religion, son, so there is no question of impurity. She borrows money from me. That is why she agreed.”
From those aged eyes shone a deep, unbroken motherhood—so pure and sacred! The distinction of high and low, and the concerns of caste and ritual, disappeared of themselves.
He said, “Once you have become my mother, what room is there for untouchability? I will eat only food cooked by you.”
The old woman pressed her tongue against her teeth and said, “No, son! I will not take away your religion. You are a Brahmin and we are Khatik people. How can such a thing happen?”
“I will eat in your kitchen. If my parents are Khatiks, then their son is a Khatik too. Whoever has a great soul is a Brahmin.”
“And if your family hears of this, what will they say?”
“I do not care what anyone says, Mother! A person becomes low through sin, not through what he eats or drinks. Food received with love is pure. Even the gods partake of it.”
A feeling of pride in her caste also arose in the old woman’s heart. She said, “Son, Khatiks are not a low caste. We do not even eat food cooked by Brahmins. We do not drink water from a Kahar. We do not touch meat or fish with our hands. Some of us drink liquor, but secretly. It has spared no one, son! Great men with huge tilaks gulp it down. But you will not like my bread, will you?”
Rama smiled and said, “Bread made with love contains nectar, Mother, whether it is made of wheat or millet.”
The old woman left as though she were carrying a treasure of joy in the end of her sari.