In an Indian Village
r _IKE many other atomic hamlets that speck the endless wastelands, Utne lies as a little speck on the bleak expanses of India. Men, women, children, cows, goats, buffaloes and mongrel dogs make up there a population of a few hundred living beings. But even there may be seen a kind of aristocracy. Brahmins, Mahrathas, cows, buffaloes and goats belong to the upper classes ; while Mahars, Dheds (the scavenger castes) and the pariah dogs belong to the lower classes. The Mamletdar is the distant Duke ; the Patel is the village Squire ; and the Schoolmaster is village-property, the maid-of-all-work in the village.
The people of Utne grow rice during the monsoon and store it up for the rest of the year. During the burning summer months the men and boys take their little, primitive rake, a " matka " (vessel) of water and a dish of rice with them to the fields. They bend over the rake—almost double up over it—and painfully rake the dry rice stubble into little heaps to be burned as manure for the next season's crop of rice. They take a great draught of water straight from the " matka " and bend again over their rakes. They eat their plate of boiled rice and drink their fill of water until their stomachs are comfortably distended. Then they once more double up over their rounded bellies and rake, rake, rake. That is the men's work. The women have their corn to grind, their pots to fill at the well, their fuel to get, their babies to stuff with unnatural foods (followed by " infant mortality " quack drugs), their children to pet and scold and thrash and look after generally. That is the women's work. Then comes life. To tramp or to go by bullock-cart some rough miles to a " jatra " (fair) for drink and merriment— that is their life—the men's life. The women are out of it and best out of it. For them work is life and life is—work.
In Utne happiness is taken to be a state of vacuity. Those who can afford this state are the Brahmin land- lords. They enjoy bliss as the reward of past virtues in past lives. Such bliss is beyond the dreams of the low-born. By his nature he is incapable of virtue. Therefore, for him even to dream of enjoying bliss in this life would be sacrilege. Such is the constitution of God's wise government as accepted and approved by Utne. The villager does not ask for more. That is as much metaphysics as he can digest, and he likes to leave well alone. Does the Patel lord it over him ? The wise villager does not complain, for it is the Patel's turn to boss now. Perhaps the poor villager's turn will also come some day in a future life, and it would be just as silly for him to object to such destiny as it would be for him to object to the rules of a game.
Even in such a compact scheme of village life working to clockwork perfection, curiosities are not unknown. Such a curiosity came to 16 tne, one day, in the form of a young Brahmin clad in " khadi." The young Brahmin brought a strange implement with him, and setting it up in the Patel's thatch-built office, began to work it. With one hand he turned a handle which turned a wheel, and with the other he drew out a thread of yarn at the point of a spindle. Who was this queer stranger and what was his business in Utne ? Who was the great Gandhi, the Mahatmaji of whom the stranger spoke with such reverence ? And if he was so great, why had he not sent them a better gift than this funny little imple- ment called a " charkha " ? That was their puzzle. But the Pandit (scholar and wit) solved it for them. Oh the Pandit is so clever ! The Pandit said, "Behold this young Brahmin ! He is no true Hindu but a spy of the White Government, or maybe, he has come to rob us of our faith and turn us into Christians ! " But still the Brahmin set up his charkha every morning and begged the villagers to throw away the " Bilayti " (English) clothes they had bought at the great fair at Kalyan, and, instead, to spin their own yarn and weave their own clothes on the charkha—for was not that the wish even of the Mahatmaji (Gandhi) himself ? And so the villagers gathered at the Patel's mud-and-thatch residence to watch the young Brahmin spin his yarn and, as the scoffers said, tell his yarns too. In an honourable little Indian village like Eltne, the good folk are never in a hurry about anything. They like all that has stood the test of time. A Panchayet (village council) which decides all issues in the interests of the high-born ; a Marwari (money-lender) whose principal gathers interest in arithmetical progression ; a Pandit who carries the monopoly of knowledge ; a Patel who enjoys by hereditary right the lion's share of all the goods of life ; a wife who can never know her own mind or know better than her lord—these and many others are institutions that have stood the test of time : institutions which no right-minded villager would ever dream of wishing to reform. The weekly fair, the liquor- parties, the great, annual fair at Kalyan where they buy Lancashire cloth—these are other time-honoured precedents in the history of a self-respecting village like tne. No man could seriously consider a proposal to substitute primary education for a " jatra " (weekly fair) or " hand-spun, hand-woven," cheap, Swadeshi cloth for ready-made, expensive Lancashire cloth. And yet here was our -friend, the young Brahmin, always speaking unapprovingly of liquor-parties and " jatras " and Lancashire cloth and ever extolling primary education and " hand-spun, hand-woven khadi " !
FRaDVON KABRAJI.
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