HARVEST.

[Respectfully dedicated to our law-makers in India, who, by giving to

the soldier-peasants of the Punjab the novel right of alienating their

ancestral holdings, are fast throwing the land, and with it the balance

of power, into the hands of money-grubbers; thus reducing those who

stood by us in our time of trouble to the position of serfs.]

"_Ai!_ Daughter of thy grandmother," muttered old Jaimul gently, as one

of his yoke wavered, making the handle waver also. The offender was a

barren buffalo doomed temporarily to the plough, in the hopes of

inducing her to look more favourably on the first duty of the female

sex, so she started beneath the unaccustomed goad.

"_Ari!_ sister, fret not," muttered Jaimul again, turning from obscure

abuse to palpable flattery, as being more likely to gain his object;

and once more the tilted soil glided between his feet, traced straight

by his steady hand. In that vast expanse of bare brown field left by or

waiting for the plough, each new furrow seemed a fresh diameter of the

earth-circle which lay set in the bare blue horizon--a circle centring

always on Jaimul and his plough. A brown dot for the buffalo, a white

dot for the ox, a brown and white dot for the old peasant with his

lanky brown limbs and straight white drapery, his brown face, and long

white beard. Brown, and white, and blue, with the promise of harvest

sometime if the blue was kind. That was all Jaimul knew or cared. The

empire beyond, hanging on the hope of harvest, lay far from his simple

imaginings; and yet he, the old peasant with his steady hand of patient

control, held the reins of government over how many million square

miles? That is the province of the Blue Book, and Jaimul's blue book

was the sky.

"Bitter blue sky with no fleck of a cloud,

Ho! brother ox! make the plough speed.

[_Ai! soorin!_ straight, I say!]

'Tis the usurers' bellies wax fat and proud

When poor folk are in need."

The rude guttural chant following these silent, earth-deadened

footsteps was the only sound breaking the stillness of the wide plain.

"Sky dappled grey like a partridge's breast,

Ho! brother ox! drive the plough deep.

[Steady, my sister, steady!]

The peasants work, but the usurers rest

Till harvest's ripe to reap."

So on and on interminably, the chant and the furrow, the furrow and the

chant, both bringing the same refrain of flattery and abuse, the same

antithesis--the peasant and the usurer face to face in conflict, and

above them both the fateful sky, changeless or changeful as it chooses.

The sun climbed up and up till the blue hardened into brass, and the

mere thought of rain seemed lost in the blaze of light. Yet Jaimul, as

he finally unhitched his plough, chanted away in serene confidence--

"Merry drops slanting from west to east,

Ho! brother ox! drive home the wain;

'Tis the usurer's belly that gets the least

When Ram sends poor folk rain."

The home whither he drove the lagging yoke was but a whitish-brown

mound on the bare earth-circle, not far removed from an ant-hill to

alien eyes; for all that, home to the uttermost. Civilisation,

education, culture could produce none better. A home bright with the

welcome of women, the laughter of children. Old Kishnu, mother of them

all, wielding a relentless despotism tempered by profound affection

over every one save her aged husband. Pertabi, widow of the eldest son,

but saved from degradation in this life and damnation in the next by

the tall lad whose grasp had already closed on his grandfather's

plough-handle. Taradevi, whose soldier-husband was away guarding some

scientific or unscientific frontier, while she reared up, in the

ancestral home, a tribe of sturdy youngsters to follow in his

footsteps. Fighting and ploughing, ploughing and fighting; here was

life epitomised for these long-limbed, grave-eyed peasants whose

tongues never faltered over the shibboleth which showed their claim to

courage.[3]

The home itself lay bare for the most part to the blue sky; only a few

shallow outhouses, half room, half verandah, giving shelter from

noon-day heat or winter frosts. The rest was courtyard, serving amply

for all the needs of the household. In one corner a pile of golden

chaff, ready for the milch kine which came in to be fed from the mud

mangers ranged against the wall; in another a heap of fuel, and the

tall, beehive-like mud receptacles for grain. On every side stores of

something brought into existence by the plough--corn-cobs for husking,

millet-stalks for the cattle, cotton awaiting deft fingers and the

lacquered spinning-wheels which stand, cocked on end, against the wall.

Taradevi sits on the white sheet spread beneath the quern, while her

eldest daughter, a girl about ten years of age, lends slight aid to the

revolving stones whence the coarse flour falls ready for the mid-day

meal. Pertabi, down by the grain-bunkers, rakes more wheat from the

funnel-like opening into her flat basket, and as she rises flings a

handful to the pigeons sidling on the wall. A fluttering of white

wings, a glint of sunlight on opaline necks, while the children cease

playing to watch their favourites tumble and strut over the feast. Even

old Kishnu looks up from her preparation of curds without a word of

warning against waste; for to be short of grain is beyond her

experience. Wherefore was the usurer brought into the world save to

supply grain in advance when the blue sky sided with capital against

labour for a dry year or two?

"The land is ready," said old Jaimul over his pipe. "'Tis time for the

seed, therefore I will seek Anunt Ram at sunset and set my seal to the

paper."

That was how the transaction presented itself to his accustomed eyes.

Seed grain in exchange for yet another seal to be set in the long row

which he and his forbears had planted regularly, year by year, in the

usurer's field of accounts. As for the harvests of such sowings? Bah!

there never were any. A real crop of solid, hard, red wheat was worth

them all, and that came sometimes--might come any time if the blue sky

was kind. He knew nothing of Statutes of Limitation or judgments of the

Chief Court, and his inherited wisdom drew a broad line of demarcation

between paper and plain facts.

Anunt Ram, the usurer, however, was of another school. A comparatively

young man, he had brought into his father's ancestral business the

modern selfishness which laughs to scorn all considerations save that

for Number One. He and his forbears had made much out of Jaimul and his

fellows; but was that any reason against making more, if more was to be

made?

And more _was_ indubitably to be made if Jaimul and his kind were

reduced to the level of labourers. That handful of grain, for instance,

thrown so recklessly to the pigeons--that might be the usurer's, and so

might the plenty which went to build up the long, strong limbs of

Taradevi's tribe of young soldiers--idle young scamps who thrashed the

usurer's boys as diligently during play-time as they were beaten by

those clever, weedy lads during school-hours.

"Seed grain," he echoed sulkily to the old peasant's calm demand. "Sure

last harvest I left thee more wheat than most men in my place would

have done; for the account grows, O Jaimul! and the land is mortgaged

to the uttermost."

"Mayhap! but it must be sown for all that, else _thou_ wilt suffer as

much as I. So quit idle words, and give the seed as thou hast since

time began. What do I know of accounts who can neither read nor write?

'Tis thy business, not mine."

"'Tis not my business to give ought for nought--"

"For nought," broke in Jaimul, with the hoarse chuckle of the peasant

availing himself of a time-worn joke. "Thou canst add that nought to

thy figures, O _bunniah-ji!_[4] So bring the paper and have done with

words. If Ram sends rain--and the omens are auspicious--thou canst take

all but food and jewels for the women."

"Report saith thy house is rich enough in them already," suggested the

usurer after a pause.

Jaimul's big white eyebrows met over his broad nose. "What then,

_bunniah-ji?_" he asked haughtily.

Anunt Ram made haste to change the subject, whereat Jaimul, smiling

softly, told the usurer that maybe more jewels would be needed with

next seed grain, since if the auguries were once more propitious, the

women purposed bringing home his grandson's bride ere another year had

sped. The usurer smiled an evil smile.

"Set thy seal to this also," he said, when the seed grain had been

measured; "the rules demand it. A plague, say I, on all these

new-fangled papers the _sahib-logue_ ask of us. Look you! how I have to

pay for the stamps and fees; and then you old ones say we new ones are

extortionate. We must live, O _zemindar-ji!_[5] even as thou livest."

"Live!" retorted the old man with another chuckle. "Wherefore not! The

land is good enough for you and for me. There is no fault in the land!"

"Ay! it is good enough for me and for you," echoed the usurer slowly.

He inverted the pronouns--that was all.

So Jaimul, as he had done ever since he could remember, walked over the

bare plain with noiseless feet, and watched the sun flash on the golden

grain as it flew from his thin brown fingers. And once again the

guttural chant kept time to his silent steps.

"Wheat grains grow to wheat,

And the seed of a tare to tare;

Who knows if man's soul will meet

Man's body to wear.

Great Ram, grant me life

From the grain of a golden deed;

Sink not my soul in the strife

To wake as a weed."

After that his work in the fields was over. Only at sunrise and sunset

his tall, gaunt figure stood out against the circling sky as he

wandered through the sprouting wheat waiting for the rain which never

came. Not for the first time in his long life of waiting, so he took

the want calmly, soberly.

"It is a bad year," he said, "the next will be better. For the sake of

the boy's marriage I would it had been otherwise; but Anunt Ram must

advance the money. It is his business."

Whereat Jodha, the youngest son, better versed than his father

in new ways, shook his head doubtfully. "Have a care of Anunt, O

_baba-ji_,"[6] he suggested with diffidence. "Folk say he is sharper

than ever his father was."

"'Tis a trick sons have, or think they have, nowadays," retorted old

Jaimul wrathfully. "Anunt can wait for payment as his fathers waited.

God knows the interest is enough to stand a dry season or two."

In truth fifty per cent, and payment in kind at the lowest harvest

rates, with a free hand in regard to the cooking of accounts, should

have satisfied even a usurer's soul. But Anunt Ram wanted that handful

of grain for the pigeons and the youngsters' mess of pottage. He wanted

the land, in fact, and so the long row of dibbled-in seals dotting the

unending scroll of accounts began to sprout and bear fruit. Drought

gave them life, while it brought death to many a better seed.

"Not give the money for the boy's wedding!" shrilled old Kishnu six

months after in high displeasure. "Is the man mad? When the fields are

the best in all the country side."

"True enough, O wife! but he says the value under these new rules the

_sahib-logue_ make is gone already. That he must wait another harvest,

or have a new seal of me."

"Is that all, O Jaimul Singh! and thou causing my liver to melt with

fear? A seal--what is a seal or two more against the son of thy son's

marriage?"

"'Tis a new seal," muttered Jaimul uneasily, "and I like not new

things. Perhaps 'twere better to wait the harvest."

"Wait the harvest and lose the auspicious time the _purohit_[7] hath

found written in the stars? _Ai_, Taradevi! _Ai!_ Pertabi! there is to

be no marriage, hark you! The boy's strength is to go for nought, and

the bride is to languish alone because the father of his father is

afraid of a usurer! _Hae, Hae!_"

The women wept the easy tears of their race, mingled with half-real,

half-pretended fears lest the Great Ones might resent such disregard of

their good omens--the old man sitting silent meanwhile, for there is no

tyranny like the tyranny of those we love. Despite all this his native

shrewdness held his tenderness in check. They would get over it, he

told himself, and a good harvest would do wonders--ay! even the wonders

which the _purohit_ was always finding in the skies. Trust a good fee

for that! So he hardened his heart, went back to Anunt Ram, and told

him that he had decided on postponing the marriage. The usurer's face

fell. To be so near the seal which would make it possible for him to

foreclose the mortgages, and yet to fail! He had counted on this

marriage for years; the blue sky itself had fought for him so far, and

now--what if the coming harvest were a bumper?

"But I will seal for the seed grain," said old Jaimul; "I have done

that before, and I will do it again--we know that bargain of old."

Anunt Ram closed his pen-tray with a snap. "There is no seed grain for

you, _baba-ji_, this year either," he replied calmly.

Ten days afterwards, Kishnu, Pertabi, and Taradevi were bustling about

the courtyard with the untiring energy which fills the Indian woman

over the mere thought of a wedding, and Jaimul, out in the fields, was

chanting as he scattered the grain into the furrows--

"Wrinkles and seams and sears

On the face of our mother earth;

There are ever sorrows and tears

At the gates of birth."

The mere thought of the land lying fallow had been too much for him; so

safe in the usurer's strong-box lay a deed with the old man's seal

sitting cheek by jowl beside Anunt Ram's brand-new English signature.

And Jaimul knew, in a vague, unrestful way, that this harvest differed

from other harvests, in that more depended upon it. So he wandered

oftener than ever over the brown expanse of field where a flush of

green showed that Mother Earth had done her part, and was waiting for

Heaven to take up the task.

The wedding fire-balloons rose from the courtyard, and drifted away to

form constellations in the cloudless sky; the sound of wedding drums

and pipes disturbed the stillness of the starlit nights, and still day

by day the green shoots grew lighter and lighter in colour because the

rain came not. Then suddenly, like a man's hand, a little cloud! "Merry

drops slanting from west to the east;" merrier by far to Jaimul's ears

than all the marriage music was that low rumble from the canopy of

purple cloud, and the discordant scream of the peacock telling of the

storm to come. Then in the evening, when the setting sun could only

send a bar of pale primrose light between the solid purple and the

solid brown, what joy to pick a dry-shod way along the boundary ridges

and see the promise of harvest doubled by the reflection of each tender

green spikelet in the flooded fields! The night settled down dark,

heavenly dark, with a fine spray of steady rain in the old,

weather-beaten face, as it set itself towards home.

The blue sky was on the side of labour this time, and, during the next

month or so, Taradevi's young soldiers made mud pies, and crowed more

lustily than ever over the _bunniah's_ boys.

Then the silvery beard began to show in the wheat, and old Jaimul

laughed aloud in the fulness of his heart.

"That is an end of the new seal," he said boastfully, as he smoked his

pipe in the village square. "It is a poor man's harvest, and no

mistake."

But Anunt Ram was silent. The April sun had given some of its sunshine

to the yellowing crops before he spoke.

"I can wait no longer for my money, O _baba-ji!_" he said; "the three

years are nigh over, and I must defend myself."

"What three years?" asked Jaimul, in perplexity.

"The three years during which I can claim my own according to the

_sahib-logue's_ rule. You must pay, or I must sue."

"Pay before harvest! What are these fool's words? Of course I will pay

in due time; hath not great Ram sent me rain to wash out the old

writing?"

"But what of the new one, _baba-ji?_--the cash lent on permission to

foreclose the mortgages?"

"If the harvest failed--if it failed," protested Jaimul quickly. "And I

knew it could not fail. The stars said so, and great Ram would not have

it so."

"That is old-world talk!" sneered Anunt. "We do not put that sort of

thing in the bond. You sealed it, and I must sue."

"What good to sue ere harvest? What money have I? But I will pay good

grain when it comes, and the paper can grow as before."

Anunt Ram sniggered.

"What good, O _baba-ji?_ Why, the land will be mine, and I can take,

not what you give me, but what I choose. For the labourer his hire, and

the rest for me."

"Thou art mad!" cried Jaimul, but he went back to his fields with a

great fear at his heart--a fear which sent him again to the usurer's

ere many days were over.

"Here are my house's jewels," he said briefly, "and the mare thou hast

coveted these two years. Take them, and write off my debt till

harvest."

Anunt Ram smiled again.

"It shall be part payment of the acknowledged claim," he said; "let the

Courts decide on the rest."

"After the harvest?"

"Ay, after the harvest; in consideration of the jewels."

Anunt Ram kept his word, and the fields were shorn of their crop ere

the summons to attend the District Court was brought to the old

peasant.

"By the Great Spirit who judges all it is a lie!" That was all he could

say as the long, carefully-woven tissue of fraud and cunning blinded

even the eyes of a justice biassed in his favour. The records of our

Indian law-courts teem with such cases--cases where even equity can do

nothing against the evidence of pen and paper. No need to detail the

strands which formed the net. The long array of seals had borne fruit

at last, fiftyfold, sixtyfold, a hundredfold--a goodly harvest for the

usurer.

"Look not so glum, friend," smiled Anunt Ram, as they pushed old Jaimul

from the Court at last, dazed, but still vehemently protesting. "Thou

and Jodha thy son shall till the land as ever, seeing thou art skilled

in such work, but there shall be no idlers; and the land, mark you, is

_mine_, not thine."

A sudden gleam of furious hate sprang to the strong old face, but died

away as quickly as it came.

"Thou liest," said Jaimul; "I will appeal. The land is mine. It hath

been mine and my fathers' under the king's pleasure since time began.

Kings, ay, and queens, for that matter, are not fools, to give good

land to the _bunniah's_ belly. Can a _bunniah_ plough?"

Yet as he sat all day about the court-house steps awaiting some legal

detail or other, doubt even of his own incredulity came over him. He

had often heard of similar misfortunes to his fellows, but somehow the

possibility of such evil appearing in his own life had never entered

his brain. And what would Kishnu say--after all these years, these long

years of content?

The moon gathering light as the sun set shone full on the road, as the

old man, with downcast head, made his way across the level plain to the

mud hovel which had been a true home to him and his for centuries. His

empty hands hung at his sides, and the fingers twitched nervously as if

seeking something. On either side the bare stubble, stretching away

from the track which led deviously to the scarce discernible hamlets

here and there. Not a soul in sight, but every now and again a glimmer

of light showing where some one was watching the heaps of new threshed

grain upon the threshing-floors.

And then a straighter thread of path leading right upon his own fields

and the village beyond. What was that? A man riding before him. The

blood leapt through the old veins, and the old hands gripped in upon

themselves. So he--that liar riding ahead--was to have the land, was

he? Riding the mare too, while he, Jaimul, came behind afoot--yet for

all that gaining steadily with long, swinging stride on the figure

ahead. A white figure on a white horse like death; or was the avenger

behind beneath the lank folds of drapery which fluttered round the

walker?

The land! No! He should never have the land. How could he? The very

idea was absurd. Jaimul, thinking thus, held his head erect and his

hands relaxed their grip. He was close on the rider now; and just

before him, clear in the moonlight, rose the boundary mark of his

fields--a loose pile of sunbaked clods, hardened by many a dry year of

famine to the endurance of stone. Beside it, the shallow whence they

had been dug, showing a gleam of water still held in the stiff clay.

The mare paused, straining at the bridle for a drink, and Jaimul almost

at her heels paused also, involuntarily, mechanically. For a moment

they stood thus, a silent white group in the moonlight; then the figure

on the horse slipped to the ground and moved a step forward. Only one

step, but that was within the boundary. Then, above the even wheeze of

the thirsty beast, rose a low chuckle as the usurer stooped for a

handful of soil and let it glide through his fingers.

"It is good ground! Ay, ay--none better." They were his last words. In

fierce passion of love, hate, jealousy, and protection, old Jaimul

closed on his enemy, and found something to grip with his steady old

hands. Not the plough-handle this time, but a throat, a warm, living

throat where you could feel the blood swelling in the veins beneath

your fingers. Down almost without a struggle, the old face above the

young one, the lank knee upon the broad body. And now, quick! for

something to slay withal, ere age tired in its contest with youth and

strength. There, ready since all time, stood the landmark, and one clod

after another snatched from it fell on the upturned face with a dull

thud. Fell again and again, crashed and broke to crumbling soil. Good

soil! Ay! none better! Wheat might grow in it and give increase

fortyfold, sixtyfold, ay, a hundredfold. Again, again, and yet again,

with dull insistence till there was a shuddering sigh, and then

silence. Jaimul stood up quivering from the task and looked over his

fields. They were at least free from that _thing_ at his feet; for what

part in this world's harvest could belong to the ghastly figure with

its face beaten to a jelly, which lay staring up into the over-arching

sky? So far, at any rate, the business was settled for ever, and in so

short a time that the mare had scarcely slaked her thirst, and still

stood with head down, the water dripping from her muzzle. The _thing_

would never ride her again either. Half-involuntarily he stepped to her

side and loosened the girth.

"_Ari!_ sister," he said aloud, "thou hast had enough. Go home."

The docile beast obeyed his well-known voice, and as her echoing amble

died away Jaimul looked at his blood-stained hands and then at the

formless face at his feet. There was no home for him, and yet he was

not sorry, or ashamed, or frightened--only dazed at the hurry of his

own act. Such things had to be done sometimes when folk were unjust.

They would hang him for it, of course, but he had at least made his

protest, and done his deed as good men and true should do when the time

came. So he left the horror staring up into the sky and made his way to

the threshing-floor, which lay right in the middle of his fields. How

white the great heaps of yellow corn showed in the moonlight, and how

large! His heart leapt with a fierce joy at the sight. Here was harvest

indeed! Some one lay asleep upon the biggest pile; and his stern old

face relaxed into a smile as, stooping over the careless sentinel, he

found it was his grandson. The boy would watch better as he grew older,

thought Jaimul, as he drew his cotton plaid gently over the smooth

round limbs outlined among the yielding grain, lest the envious moon

might covet their promise of beauty.

"Son of my son! Son of my son!" he murmured over and over again, as he

sat down to watch out the night beside his corn for the last time. Yes,

for the last time. At dawn the deed would be discovered; they would

take him, and he would not deny his own handiwork. Why should he? The

midnight air of May was hot as a furnace, and as he wiped the sweat

from his forehead it mingled with the dust and blood upon his hands. He

looked at them with a curious smile before he lay back among the corn.

Many a night he had watched the slow stars wheeling to meet the morn,

but never by a fairer harvest than this.

The boy at his side stirred in his sleep. "Son of my son! Son of my

son!" came the low murmur again. Ay! and his son after him again, if

the woman said true. It had always been so. Father and son, father and

son, father--and son--for ever--and ever--and ever.

So, lulled by the familiar thought, the old man fell asleep beside the

boy, and the whole bare expanse of earth and sky seemed empty save for

them. No! there was something else surely. Down on the hard white

threshing-floor--was that a branch or a fragment of rope? Neither, for

it moved deviously hither and thither, raising a hooded head now and

again as if seeking something; for all its twists and turns bearing

steadily towards the sleepers; past the boy, making him shift uneasily

as the cold coil touched his arms; swifter now as it drew nearer the

scent, till it found what it sought upon the old man's hands.[8]

"_Ari_, sister! straight, I say, straight!" murmured the old ploughman

in his sleep, as his grip strengthened over something that wavered in

his steady clasp. Was that the prick of the goad? Sure if it bit so

deep upon the sister's hide no wonder she started. He must keep his

grip for men's throats when sleep was over--when this great sleep was

over.

The slow stars wheeled, and when the morn brought Justice, it found old

Jaimul dead among his corn and left him there. But the women washed the

stains of blood and sweat mingled with soil and seed grains from his

hands before the wreath of smoke from his funeral pyre rose up to make

a white cloud no bigger than a man's hand upon the bitter blue sky--a

cloud that brought gladness to no heart.

The usurer's boys, it is true, forced the utmost from the land, and

sent all save bare sustenance across the seas; but the home guided by

Jaimul's unswerving hand was gone, the Taradevi's tribe of budding

soldiers drifted away to learn the lawlessness born of change. Perhaps

the yellow English gold which came into the country in return for the

red Indian wheat more than paid for these trivial losses. Perhaps it

did not. That is a question which the next Mutiny must settle.