I

As Jokhu raised the tumbler of water to his lips, he was overcome by the stink in it. He said to his wife, Gangi, ‘What is wrong with this water? Why does it smell so bad? Here I am dying of thirst and you have given me this dirty, smelly water to drink.’

Gangi was in the habit of fetching water from the well every evening. The well was quite far, and it was difficult to make more than one trip every day. But yesterday, when she had filled the water, there had been no smell. How could it smell bad today? She carried the tumbler to her nose; it did smell very, very bad. Some animal must have fallen into the well and it was beginning to rot by now, making the water smell bad. She tried to think where else she could draw water.

There was the Thakur’s well. But being a high caste, he would never allow an untouchable like her to draw water from his well. He would heap abuses at her from a distance and send her away. The merchant’s well was at the far end of the village but no one would let her draw water from there either. There were no other wells in the entire village.

Jokhu had been ill for the past several days. Now, he controlled his thirst for as long as he could, but when it became unbearable, he turned to Gangi and said, ‘I can’t bear the thirst any longer. Give me that water; I will hold my nose and drink it.’

But Gangi refused to give him the smelly water. His illness would get worse if he drank it—she knew that much. What she didn’t know was that bad water could be boiled and made safe. She said, ‘How can you drink that water? Who knows what animal has died in it! I will get you some clean water.’

Jokhu looked at her with surprise, ‘Where will you get it from?’

‘The Thakur and the merchant both have wells. Won’t they let me draw even a tumblerful of water?’

‘You will get a few broken bones and nothing more. Sit here and be quiet. The Brahmins will shoo you away with a curse, the Thakur will beat you and the merchant will charge you five times interest on anything he gives you. Who has any sympathy for the poor? We could die tomorrow and they would not care; they would not peep inside our house, let alone extend a helping hand. Will such people let you draw water from their well?’

Jokhu’s words contained a bitter truth. Gangi could see that but still she could not give him that awful smelling water to drink.

II

It was nine o’clock at night. The tired farm labourers had long since fallen asleep. Half a dozen good-for-nothing gossips had collected at the Thakur’s doorway. Since their own lives had no stories of bravery to offer, they were talking about old courtroom dramas. The present topic of discussion was the time when the Thakur had cleverly bribed the police inspector and got off scot-free. Then, they moved on to discussing that other time when the Thakur had managed to get a copy of the lawsuit. The clerks and magistrates had insisted it was impossible to get a copy made. The stakes had been so high—some had asked for fifty rupees, others hundred. The Thakur had managed to lay his hands on a copy of the lawsuit without spending a single cowrie. After all, one must know how to get these things done.

Gangi reached the well as the men sat bragging about the Thakur’s past exploits. The dim light of a small oil lamp fell over the well. She crouched in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to make a dash for the well. She thought of the unfairness of her situation: the entire village could draw water from this well. There were no restrictions on anyone except the few unlucky ones like her.

Rebellion rose within Gangi’s heart. How was she inferior and those loudly laughing and gossiping men superior? What was it that set them apart? The sacred thread that the Thakurs wore around their necks? Cheats and bullies . . . that is what they were . . . every single one of them. They stole, they cheated, they put up false lawsuits against each other. It was only the other day that the Thakur had stolen a poor shepherd’s sheep, killed it and feasted on it. And the Pandit’s house was no better than a gambling den. The merchant sold ghee mixed with oil. They knew how to get work out of poor people without paying a single paisa in wages. ‘What makes them better than us?’ Gangi thought. ‘Mere words don’t make a man superior. We don’t go around praising ourselves in the streets.’

Suddenly, Gangi heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Her heart began to beat hard with fright. If someone saw her here beside the Thakur’s well, she would be beaten and kicked. She picked up her pot and rope and, bending low in the darkness, went to stand in the shade of a huge tree. These men never showed pity, she knew that well enough. They had beaten poor Mangu so cruelly that he had spat blood for months. His ‘crime’ had been that he had refused to work as a labourer for them. And, to add insult to injury, they thought they were superior.

As Gangi stood under the tree, two women came up to the well. They talked as they drew water.

‘They sit down to dinner and order us to fetch fresh water. They don’t even give us enough money to buy a new water jug.’

‘I think men like to order us about when they see us sitting idle.’

‘Yes, they will never even think of picking up the bucket and drawing water themselves. They give an order for fresh water and expect us to run and get it, as though we are their slaves.’

‘But you are a slave. You are fed and clothed, but never paid for your labour. You may save a few rupees from your master, but that is all you have. What are you, then, if not a slave?’

‘Don’t tease me, sister. I don’t get a minute to myself. If I worked like this in someone else’s home, I would have led a far more comfortable life and got some gratitude too. Here, I can kill myself working like a slave and no one will care!’

The two women filled their pots and went away. Gangi crept out from the shadows and walked slowly towards the well. The idlers had gone home by now. The Thakur too had shut his door and was, probably, on his way to bed. Gangi drew a sigh of relief. At last, she could do what she had come here to do. The prince who had gone to steal nectar from the gods* could not have shown greater care than Gangi did at this moment. As she crept closer to the well, she began to feel excited, as though victory was close at hand and she would be successful in her mission.

She fastened the rope around the mouth of her pot, then darted a quick, alert look all around her like a soldier waiting to climb the enemy’s fortress under the cover of darkness. She knew that if she was caught red-handed, there would be nothing to save her. With a silent prayer, she gathered her courage and dropped the pot over the rim of the well. It wobbled a bit on the surface, then went under without a sound. Gangi pulled urgently at the rope and within seconds it reached the top of the well. The strongest man in the village couldn’t have pulled that pot faster.

Gangi bent to lift the pot and loosen the rope when suddenly, the Thakur’s door flew open. At that moment, the wide open mouth of a lion would have been less fearsome to Gangi.

The rope slipped from her hand. With that, the pot too fell into the water with a loud splash. The sound of water lapping against the pot could be heard.

The Thakur ran towards the well shouting, ‘Who is it? Who is there?’

Gangi leapt from the well and ran. She reached home to see Jokhu raising the tumbler of foul-smelling water to his lips.