Chapter VII (1)

Silindu knew well now that Hinnihami had been a victim to save him. Both the devil and the god had said, 'Either the man or the girl must be given.' It was the girl who had been given; but it was he who should have died, when the devil still possessed him. He knew now, when it was too late, that in giving Hinnihami to the vederala he was giving her to certain death. He had gained nothing by his first refusal of the vederala but pain and trouble, and now the bitterest of griefs. In the end he had lost her utterly; now indeed the house was empty. He was a fool, yes, a fool; he knew that; but how can a man know how to walk surrounded by all the snares of evil and disaster? A man may wash himself clean of oil, but however much he rubs himself he will never rub off fate. And then there was Punchirala; it was he who was the real cause of the evil. Why had he ever come with his hateful face into the compound? He would go in the early morning and take his gun and shoot the vederala dead as he came out of his house. And yet what would be the good of that now--now that Hinnihami was dead? It would only be more evil. It would be useless. It was useless for him to do anything now.

For days Silindu sat about the compound 'thinking and thinking,' as Punchi Menika called it. She alone had any influence with him, and even she had no power to console him. In time grief lost its first bitterness, and he sank into a perpetual state of sullen despair. An air of gloom and disaster seemed to hang about the compound.

It was not long after the life of the village had been stirred by the death of Hinnihami that another event happened which caused no little excitement. It was seen that Babehami, the headman, was having a house built on the open ground adjoining his compound; and as soon as it was finished there came to live in it a man from Kamburupitiya, known as Fernando. Many of the villagers had had dealings with him: he kept a small boutique in Kamburupitiya, and lent money on the usual, and even more than the usual, interest. He was not a Sinhalese, and spoke Sinhalese very badly. Some people said he was a Tamil: his black skin and curly black hair pointed to the fact that he had Kaffir blood in his veins.

He was a typical town man, cunning, unscrupulous, with a smattering of education. He wore the ordinary native cloth, but above it a shirt and coat, and the villagers therefore called him Mahatmaya. It was obvious that some very peculiar circumstances had brought such a man to settle down in a village like Beddagama. The fact was that the headman and many of the villagers were deeply in his debt. The failure of the previous year's chena crop had made it impossible to recover anything; in fact he was pestered with requests for further loans to tide the debtors over the hot season, until the chenas could again be sown.

The creditor was faced with an unpleasant alternative. If he refused further loans he would lose what he had lent already through the death or emigration of his debtors, or they would borrow from others, and thus make it difficult for him to recover. On the other hand the complete failure of the chena crop made his own position far from easy: the debt outstanding together with the interest would be in itself a heavy charge on the next crop, even if it were a really good one. To be safe in giving still more credit, he required additional security.

It was Babehami, the headman, who devised a scheme to meet these difficulties. Four acres of chena would be allowed to each debtor: the permits would be given in favour of the debtors, who were to assign their rights to Fernando for one-fifth of the crop. It was tacitly understood that if the four-fifths of the crop exceeded the amount of the loans and interest, the debts would be considered cancelled. Fernando was to come to the village, and himself supervise the working of the chenas. Practically, therefore, the money-lender was hiring labour for the cultivation of chenas for one-fifth of the crop, an exceedingly paying transaction; while his rights and power of action for the outstanding debts remained unaffected. The villagers were completely in his hands, and both sides were fully aware of it. The whole transaction, certainly, so far as the headman was concerned, was illegal. Babehami knew this; but his needs were pressing, and his own profit would be great; for, while his consent was purchased by the cancellation of his debts, by a private arrangement with Fernando, his own four acres of chena were not assigned to the money-lender.

To the villagers Fernando was, owing to his dress and habits, a Mahatmaya. He did not treat them as his equals, and they--being in his debt--treated him as a superior. He was, however, on terms of intimacy with Babehami; and although he had a small boy with him as servant, he took all his meals in the headman's house.

Punchi Menika very soon attracted Fernando's attention. Her face and form would have been remarkable even in a town: to find her among the squalid women of so squalid a village astonished him. He wanted a woman to live with him; he was always wanting a woman; and it would be far more comfortable to have his food cooked for him than to go always to the headman for his meals. He anticipated no difficulty; she was a mere village woman, and the husband was a village boor, and in his debt.

Despite his confidence Fernando decided to act cautiously. He knew very little about villages, but he knew the many proverbs about women and trouble; and he had heard many tales of violence and murder, of which women had been the cause. He was quite alone among people whom he did not really understand, far away from the boutiques and police court, the busy little town which he understood, and where alone he really felt secure. He was a timid man, and he hated the jungle; and, though he despised these people who lived in it, he was not comfortable, with them.

His first move was to try to learn something about the family from the headman. He sounded Babehami cautiously. The result pleased him greatly. They were bad people according to the headman--veddas, gipsies, traffickers in evil, whores, and vagabonds. By evil charms they had enticed Babun to their compound, and now they boasted that he, the brother of the headman's wife, had married Punchi Menika. They were dangerous people; they had brought misfortune and death into the village. Fernando was not greatly impressed by their reputation for working harm 'by magic'; as became a town-man, he was somewhat sceptical; but what was clear to him was that the headman hated the whole family; they would get in no eventuality any help or sympathy from him. This knowledge was as valuable as it was pleasing to him.

Then one evening he surprised them by coming and chatting to Babun almost as if he were an equal. It was evening, just about the time before the lamps are lit in the house, when the air grows cool, and the wind dies down, and the afterglow of the setting sun is in the sky. The work in the chena for the man, and in the house for the woman, was over. Babun was squatting in the compound near the house, and Punchi Menika stood behind him, leaning against the doorpost. From time to time a word or two was spoken, but for the most part they were content to allow the silence of the evening to descend upon them, as they watched with vacant eyes the light fade out of the sky.

Punchi Menika brought the wooden mortar in which the grain was pounded, turned it upside down, and dusted the top with a piece of cloth.

'Will you sit down, aiya?' said Babun. Fernando sat down upon it. Babun squatted opposite to him, while Punchi Menika stood behind, leaning against the doorpost.

'Well, Babun,' said Fernando, 'will the chena crop be good, do you think?'

'Who can say, aiya, who can say? Only a fool measures his grain before it is on the threshing-floor.'

'Then all these villagers do that, for they are all fools. Aiyo! what cattle! what trouble they give a man!'

'We are poor men, aiya, and ignorant.'

'I'm not thinking of you, Babun, but of the others. There is only one man in the village; all say that, and I've seen it myself. But the others! They will ruin me. How much do they owe me! Only a very good crop will pay it, but they don't care. They don't fence the chena or watch it; they sit and sleep in the compound, and the deer and pig go off with my rupees in their bellies. Isn't that true?'

'It's true, aiya.'

'And what can I do, a town man, with all these chenas? I ought to have a gambaraya.'[41]

'Yes, you want a gambaraya.'

'So I thought, and I thought too, "This Babun is the only man in the village, why shouldn't he be my gambaraya?" Well, what do you say? You could look after the other chenas, and also cultivate your own?'

Babun was silent with astonishment; it was a piece of good fortune which he could never have dreamed of.

'I would give you one-twentieth of the crop, after the fifth had been paid to the cultivators,' Fernando went on. 'Would you do it for that?'

'Yes, aiya, I will do it for that, gladly.'

'Very well, that's settled. You are my gambaraya now.'

Fernando sighed and stretched himself. 'What a place this jungle is!' he said. 'It is not fit for a sensible man to live in. Of course these other villagers, if they went anywhere else, what could they do, the cattle? They do not know the east from the west, as the tale says. If they get into a bazaar they are frightened, and run about like a scared bull. But you, Babun, you are young and strong; you are a knowing man. Why do you starve here when you could eat rice and grow fat elsewhere?'

'So my sister and her man said, aiya! They wanted me to go away and marry in another village--over there; rain falls and rice grows there. But it is a great evil to live in a strange place and among strangers.'

Fernando laughed. 'An evil you call it! But how many have got wealth and fortune by going to strange places! Have you not heard of Maha Potana? Many years ago it was all trees and jungle like this, and no one lived there. Then they built the great tank in the jungle, and people went there from all the villages of the west--poor men living in villages like this. Now it is a town, and all are rich there, and eating rice.'

'Yes, aiya, we know that. The tank was built in my father's time. And the Korala Mahatmaya and the Ratemahatmaya came to the village and spoke as you speak now. And they said that land would be given to all that went there, and water from the tank for the cultivation of rice. It was in a year, I remember my father telling me, when rain had not fallen--like the last crop with us--and there was want in the village, and many died of fever. They urged my father to go, for he was a good man: they knew that. And my father said to them--so he told me--"How can I go to this strange place? Can I take the woman and the child with me? I have no house there, and no money to buy in the bazaar. Among strangers and in strange places evil comes. Here my father lived, and his father before him, in this house; and they cleared the chenas as I do, and from time to time when rain fell sowed rice below the tank. What folly for me to leave my home and field and the chena to meet evil in strange places." My father said this to the headman, and all the other men of the village also refused to go, except one man--Appu they called him; he went with his wife, and was given land under Maha Potana. And nothing was heard of Appu for many months; and his brother, who still lived here, at last went to Maha Potana to inquire about him. And when he came there the people told him that Appu was dead of the fever, and that his wife had gone away, and no one knew where she had gone.'

'But people die of fever in Beddagama.'

'Yes, aiya, of course many people die of fever here too. But they die among their relations, and friends, and people who are known to them; in houses where their fathers lived before them. Surely it is a more bitter thing to die in a strange place. I am a poor man and ignorant, and I cannot explain it to you better. There is always trouble and evil in strange places; when a man goes even upon a journey or pilgrimage to Kamburupitiya or Maha Potana or Beragama, always, aiya, he is troubled and afraid--in the bazaars and boutiques and on the roads people unknown to him--and everywhere he is thinking of his village, and his house, and the tank, and the jungle paths which he knows there, and people living in the village, all of whom he knows. That is why a man will not leave his village, even when the crops fail and there is no food; no, not even when the headmen come--and they come now every year--and say, "There is good land to be given in such a place, there is work upon such a road, or in such a village, why starve here?" I have heard people say that far away in the west there are large towns, Colombo and Kalutara and Galle, where every one has food and money always; but, aiya, not even to those towns do you see a man going who has been born and lived all his life in a village.'

'Am I not now among strangers? What evil will befall me?'

'May the gods keep it away from you, aiya. But how can a man tell what evil is before him? But you are not an ignorant village man like us, and besides after the chena is reaped you will return to your house.'

Fernando was silent for a while. When he spoke again he had a curiously seductive effect upon his listeners. His low, soft voice and broken Sinhalese, the languorousness and softness which seemed to pervade him fascinated them even more than what he said.

'What can the buffalo born in the fold know of the jungle? or does the wild buffalo know how to work in the rice-fields? I was born far away across the sea on the coast. I was only a little child when they brought me to Colombo to live there in the shop which my father kept. He had no fear to leave his village and to cross the sea, nor had he any desire to go back again there. He was a rich man. Ohé! what a town is Colombo. There we lived in a great building, and all around us were houses and houses, and people and people: no jungle or snakes or wild beasts; not even a paddy-field or a cocoanut-tree. Always streets and people walking, walking backwards and forwards on the red roads (and very few even known to you by sight), and bullock-carts and carriages and rickshaws, hundreds upon hundreds. And there are houses, very high, as high as the hill at Beragama, full of white Mahatmayas and their women, always coming and going from the ships. How many times have I stood outside when a boy and watched them, always laughing and talking loud, like madmen, and dancing, men and women together. And how fair are the women, fair as the lotus-flower as the tale says; very fair and very shameless.'

'Is it true then that the women of the white Mahatmayas are shameless?' broke in Punchi Menika.

'In Colombo all say they are shameless. Very fair, very mad, and very shameless. Their eyes are like cat's eyes. The proverb says, "If the eyes of a woman are like the eyes of a cat, evil comes to the man who looks into them." The hair of the English Mahatmayas' women is very fair, the colour of the young cocoanut-flowers. Yes, they are mad. In the evening strange music is played by many men sitting high up near the roof; then every Mahatmaya takes a woman in his arms, and looking into her eyes goes round and round very quickly on the floor.'

'Aiya, aiya, is this a true tale?'

'Why should I tell you what is false? Did I not live twenty years there in Colombo? It is a great town. In the morning I went and walked on the stone road that has been built into the sea, and within is the harbour, full always of great ships bigger than villages. Always the Mahatmayas are coming and going in the great ships; from where they come and where they go no one can tell. You stand upon the stone road, and you see the great ship come in across the sea in the morning, filled with white Mahatmayas, and in the evening it carries them out again across the sea. They are all very rich, and for a thing that costs one shilling they willingly give five. Also they are never quiet, going here and there very quickly, and doing nothing. Very many are afraid of them, for suddenly they grow very angry, their faces become red, and they strike any one who is near with the closed hand.'

Fernando stopped. He had become quite excited as he recalled his life in Colombo in his youth. He had forgotten where he was. Suddenly he became aware of his surroundings, the little village so far away from everything; the ignorant, uncouth villager who listened to him; the woman behind him for whose sake he had come to the hut, and whom for the moment he had forgotten. For a while Babun did not like to disturb his silence, then he asked diffidently:

'But, aiya, if Colombo is your village, how is it that you now live in Kamburupitiya?'

Fernando laughed. 'What talk is this of villages?' he said. 'Everywhere here the question is, "Of what village is he?" And then, "He is of Beddagama or Bogama, or Beragama, or any gama."[42] And the liver in villages says, as you did but now, "How can I leave my gama?" Did I not tell you that I am of no village? My father's village is beyond the sea, and they say that the father's village is the son's. I have never seen that village; I have forgotten its name. I was born in Colombo, which is no village, but a town. Aiyo! what a town it is! How pleasant! The houses and the noise and smell of the bazaar for miles, and the dust and people everywhere! What folly to live here, like a sanyasi on the top of a bare rock! Perhaps one day I shall return to Colombo, and live in a great house, as my father did. My father was a rich man, but always gambling; no money stayed in the house. And I spent much money upon women. There was a nautch-girl from the coast; her eyes had made me mad, and she devoured me. It was always rupees, and bracelets, and anklets, and silk cloths. Then my father was very angry, for all the money had gone on the gambling and jewellery. There was no money to pay the merchants for goods for the shop, but worst of all he had no money for gambling. The girl had taunted me because I had come empty-handed, saying that she would shame me openly if I came back again with nothing. So I again asked my father for money. He drove me away, cursing me; so I went into the shop, and took goods and sold them, and taking two handfuls of silver flung them down before the girl. But when my father found what I had done, he cursed me again, and beat me, and drove me out of the house, saying, that if I returned he would give me to the police. I ran out very sad because of the girl. I was also sorry that I had given her both handfuls of silver, and had not kept one for myself. I stood at a street corner thinking that now I would die of hunger, and that it would be better to hang myself. Just then there passed a Moorman, Cassim, a man of Kalutara, a merchant, whom I had often seen in my father's shop. He laughed at me when he saw me, and said, speaking Tamil, "Now I see that the feet of the girl have danced away with the old man's wealth and the young man's life." At that the tears ran down my face, and I told him all that had happened. Then he said, "Come with me to Kalutara. You can sell there for me in my shop." So I went with him to Kalutara, and stayed there selling for him for two years. After that he sent me to sell for him in Kamburupitiya, and there I now live, and have a shop of my own.'

Fernando paused for a while; then he began again:

'You see I have no village. I live always among strangers, but no evil has come. I left Colombo without a cent, and now I have become rich. What folly to starve where one was born when there are riches to be got in the neighbouring village! Well, I am going now.'

Babun accompanied his guest to the stile of the compound, and took leave of him with the usual words, 'It is well; go and come again.'

Fernando was quite satisfied with his interview. He thought he had gauged Babun, and that he would have no difficulty with him; he seemed so simple and mild. Both the man and woman had obviously been impressed by him and by his wealth. He was, however, still cautious; he decided to make his first overture through the servant boy, whom he could trust.

The boy was instructed carefully. He was to go to Punchi Menika as if on his own initiative His master was a rich man, and a great lover of women. He had already remarked upon her beauty. The boy was quite sure that, though his master had not actually said so, he desired her greatly. If she agreed, he would tell his master that the next night that Babun was watching in the chena she would come to his house or would receive him in hers. It would benefit both her and her husband, for his master was very kind and generous.

The attempt was a failure. Punchi Menika listened to what the boy had to say, and then gave him a sound smack in the face, which sent him crying back to his master. She was very angry with the 'badness of these boys from the town,' and she did not suspect that he had been sent by his master.

Fernando beat the servant boy, and himself went to Punchi Menika's compound one evening when he knew that Babun would be watching at the chena.

'Woman,' he said, 'you have beaten my servant boy. Why is that?'

'He came here with evil words, aiya.'

'Evil words? A child of eight?'

'Chi, chi. But he came here with evil words and lies.'

'Lies? What did he say? That your face is very fair, and that all men desire you?'

'Aiya, aiya, do not speak like that. He spoke shameful words. I cannot tell you what he said.'

'Nonsense. You have beaten my servant and you must tell me why, or I must go to the headman.'

'Aiya, why force me to tell what is shameful?'

'What nonsense. Are you a child, then? What shame is there in words?'

'The boy came here with shameful words, saying that you desired a woman. He called me to come to you secretly at night, when my man goes to the chena.'

Fernando looked very hard at Punchi Menika. He smiled when her eyes dropped.

'But what if the boy did not lie? What if he was sent by his master?'

'Hush, aiya. Do not speak like that.'

'Why? Am I so foul that the woman of the villager Babun shrinks from me?'

'It is not that.'

'What is it, then? The women of Colombo and Kamburupitiya have not found me foul. Are you afraid?'

'Yes, aiya, I am afraid.'

'Afraid of what? What harm can come? Who need know? And what can Babun do? He is a fool. He owes me money. What can he do?'

'I am afraid. It is difficult for me to explain to you, for I see you will grow angry. I am a village woman, ignorant: I am not a woman like that. I went to the man willingly, even against my father's will. He has been the father of my child, that is dead. He is good to me. Let me alone, aiya, let me alone, to keep his house and cook his meals for him as before.'

'Why not? I do not ask you to come to Kamburupitiya to be my wife. There is no talk of leaving your husband. I am rich, and can give you money and jewels. You will bring good fortune to your husband, for I will cancel his debts and give him the share of the other chenas which I promised him.'

'I cannot do it, aiya.'

'What folly! There is nothing to fear. The houses are near with the same fence. No one will know if you come to me through the fence after nightfall. If I say 'Come, I want you,' is it not enough? Do you wish me to lie on the ground before you and pray to you?'

'Enough, enough, aiya. Pardon me, I cannot do it.'

'Will you bring ruin on your man, then?'

'I do not understand.'

'What? She doesn't understand. What cattle these people are! Is Babun in my debt? Is he to get a share of my chenas?'

'Yes, aiya, I heard you tell him so.'

'Well, is anything given for nothing? Do they give you rice in the bazaar for nothing, or kurakkan or cloth? Do they? Fool, why do you stand there looking at me like a buffalo? You--your man, tell him that I have been here, and what I said. Will he sell you to me like a sack of kurakkan? If not, he is a fool too, a dog, a pig; if not, he gets no share of the crop from me, his debts stand and the interest too. I can ruin him. He--I will, too, I will ruin him. Do you hear that? Well, what do you say?'

'What is there to say, aiya? I cannot do it. If this thing must come to us, what can we do? Always evil is coming into this house--from the jungle, my father says. At first there was no food. Then the devil entered into my father. Then more evil, upon my sister and her child, and upon my child. The children died; they killed Punchi Appu; they killed my sister. And now evil again.'

Punchi Menika had spoken in a very low voice, very slowly. Fernando stood looking at her. For a moment he was affected by the resignation and sadness of her tone. Then he thought he had been a fool to lose his temper and threaten openly. But how could one deal with cattle like these people? He began to grow angry again, but he recognised that it was useless and dangerous further to show his anger and disappointment. He returned without another word to his house.

His failure astonished him almost more than it annoyed him. His first thought was to approach Babun himself. Probably the woman was only frightened of her husband, and probably the husband would see more clearly the advantages to be gained by giving his consent. But Fernando had lost a good deal of his confidence; he felt the need of an adviser and ally. There could be no danger in consulting the headman. In any case it would be dangerous for Babehami to oppose him, and there was every reason to believe that Babehami would be only too glad of an opportunity of working against Babun and Punchi Menika.

Next day, after he had eaten the evening meal, in the headman's house, and while he was sitting in the compound with Babehami, chewing betel, he opened the subject.

'I thought to get your wife's brother to oversee my chenas. He is a good man, I think.'

Babehami spat. 'What will you pay him?'

'One twentieth of the crop. He is a good man to work.'

'He is a good worker. His chena is always the best, but he is a fool. He has brought disgrace upon us.'

'Is he married to that woman?'

'No. He went to her father's house and lives there with her.'

'It would be a good thing to take him from them. Is he not tired of her now?'

'He was mad about her. He would not listen to reason.'

'Ah, but that was at first, long ago. They say the man first finds heaven in a woman, later in a field, and last in the temple. Would you like to get him back to your house?'

'Yes.'

'Well, why not?' Fernando moved nearer to Babehami and lowered his voice. 'Ralahami, I must live here some months. Without a woman what comfort in a house? The woman is not ill-looking and could cook my meals for me. I had thought of this for some days, so I sent my servant boy to her. She answered that she would come, but she was afraid of her man. Then I thought of speaking to the man, but it is not easy for a stranger. I thought, if he marries this woman it is a disgrace to the headman. It is better that his friends speak to him. Probably he is tired of the woman, and will marry from another village some girl who has a dowry of land.'

Babehami seemed to be considering the ground in front of him with great attention; from time to time he spat very deliberately. It was impossible to tell from his face what impression Fernando's suggestion had made upon him. His silence irritated Fernando. 'What swine these villagers are,' he thought.

'Well,' he said at last, 'what do you say?'

'Did she say she would come to you, if Babun allowed her?'

'Yes, but why do you ask that? If the man agrees, what difficulty can there be?'

'Perhaps none, perhaps none, aiya, but who can say? They are mad those people. It happens so sometimes to people who live as we do in the jungle. The spirits of the trees, they say, enter into a family and they are mad and a trouble to the village. Who knows what such people will do?'

'Well?'

'What more is there to say now?'

'Is the plan good?'

'Yes.'

'But will you help me?'

'The plan is a good one certainly. But I am on bad terms with my wife's brother. We quarrelled about the girl. What can I do?'

'If you talk to him now, Ralahami? You quarrelled when he was hot after the girl. That was long ago; and a man soon tires of the woman that has borne him children. And there are many ways, Ralahami, to persuade him if you will help me. There are the debts and the chenas, and many other ways. What is there that a headman cannot do? It is wrong for him to sit still and watch disgrace come upon him and his family. Have you given him his permit to chena yet?'

'No, not yet.'

'Well, you can keep it back. How can they live without chenas? Then there are the courts. I can help you there, for, being of Kamburupitiya, I know the ways of the courts well. There will be cases and trouble for him, and for them.'

Babehami was not to be hurried. He considered the proposal for some minutes. It was the sort of persecution which appealed to him. He would at the same time be injuring those he disliked, helping those in whose debt he stood, and pleasing himself. He could see very little risk in it, and much to gain.

'Well, aiya,' he said at length, 'I will help you if I can. I will speak to Babun. Shall it be done soon?'

'Yes, quickly. Send for him now. There is no harm in doing it before me; and there is no time to lose if I am to get the woman.'

Babehami was at first averse to doing things with such precipitation; he liked to think over carefully each move in his game. But he was overpersuaded by Fernando, who could not restrain his impatience. A message was sent to Babun that the headman wanted to speak to him. Babun was very much astonished at receiving this message, and still more so at his reception. He was given a chew of betel and welcomed warmly.

'Brother,' said the headman, 'it is a bad thing for those of the same blood to quarrel. This Mahatmaya has been speaking of it, saying you are a good man. All that is very long ago, and it is well to forget it.'

'I have forgotten it. I have never had a bad thought of you in my mind, brother.'

'Good, good. Nor I of you, brother, really. Well, and how are things with you now?'

'The light half of the moon returns. This Mahatmaya is giving me his chenas to work for a share of the crop.'

'Good, good. Where there is food, there is happiness. Never have I known a year like this, and I am growing an old man now. On the poya[43] day two months back there was not a kuruni of grain in all the village. I went to the Korala Mahatmaya; I said to him: "Can men live on air?" He is a hard man. He said (his stomach swollen with rice), "For ten years now I have told you to leave your village. There are fields and land elsewhere; there is work elsewhere; they pay for work on the roads. If you make your paddy field on rock, do you expect the rice to grow?" I said to him, "The Government must give food or the people will die." Then he said, "Go away and die quickly," and he abused me, calling me a tom-tom-beater, and drove me away. So I went to this Mahatmaya and arranged about the chenas. Had it not been for him, we should all have starved.'

'I know. The Mahatmaya has been very good.'

'And now again the Mahatmaya said to me: "It is a foolish thing to quarrel with a brother. It is long ago and about a woman. A young man hot after a woman! What use is it? Send for him and be friends."'

'The Mahatmaya is very good to us.'

'I was wrong, brother. I say it to you myself. I used shameful words to you. But that was long ago. A young man must have a woman. It is foolish to stand in his way. Even the buck will turn upon you in the rutting season.'

'All that is forgotten now.'

'So the Mahatmaya says: "It is time," he said, "for him to marry. Send for him and become friends again. For the heat of youth is now past." So I sent for you.'

'I have come.'

'He said to me, "Now is the time. The boy has become a man. When he learns about the woman, he will do as you ask."'

'I do not understand that.'

'The woman has offered to go and live with the Mahatmaya and cook his meals for him. So the Mahatmaya says, "Very well, I will take her to live with me while I am here. I will give her food and money, and also to her father. I will give work in my chenas to your brother. So your brother can leave the woman and marry from another village."'

'I do not understand. I do not wish to marry from another village. And what offer of the woman do you talk of?'

'The woman came to the Mahatmaya while you were away in the chena. She offered herself to him. The Mahatmaya said to her, "I cannot take you unless the man gives you." Then he came to me: he said to me, "This woman says this and that to me. It would be better for me to take her to live with me while I am here; and you should marry your brother to an honest woman." So I sent for you.'

'It must be lies, brother. It must be lies. Who told this to you?'

'The Mahatmaya himself. Would he tell lies?'

'Is this true, aiya?' Babun asked Fernando.

'Yes, it is true. The woman came to me.'

'The woman is a whore, brother; I told you so long ago. It is better that you should give her to the Mahatmaya, and marry now from another village. You can come back to my house and live here meanwhile.'

Babun was dazed. His first instinct had been to disbelieve entirely the story about Punchi Menika. He did not believe it now, but he could not disbelieve it. Why should the Mahatmaya lie? He could not tell him to his face that he was lying. He got up and stood hesitating. The others watched him. Fernando had difficulty in repressing his laughter. Several times Babun opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped.

'I do not understand,' he said at last. 'I do not understand this. The woman went to the Mahatmaya? Offered herself? Aiya, that cannot be so. Surely she would be afraid? Yet you yourself say it's true. Aiyo, I do not understand. I must go to the woman herself.'

Babehami got up and caught hold of Babun by the arm, trying to prevent his leaving the compound.

'Do not do that, brother. Let her go, let her go to the Mahatmaya, and do you stay here. My house is always open to you; stay now and I will tell the woman to go to the Mahatmaya.'

'No, no. I must see her myself.'

'What is the use? There will only be abuse and angry words. It is always lies or foul words in a woman's mouth.'

'I must go, brother. I must see her myself.'

'What folly! But you would never listen to me, and see what has come of it. She is a whore. It was known before, but you would not believe it. You would not listen. Hark, the lizard chirps. It is an evil hour, but again you do not listen. You are going, brother, to meet misfortune.'

Babun allowed himself to be brought back into the compound. His mind worked slowly, and he was dazed by the shock, and by the insinuating stream of the headman's words. But there was a curious obstinacy about him which Babehami recognised and feared. Babun came back, but he did not squat down again. He stood near Fernando; his forehead was wrinkled with perplexity. Surely the story could not be true, and yet how could it be false? Why should the Mahatmaya and Babehami lie to him? The simplicity of his character made him always inclined to believe at once and without question anything said to him. The headman had reckoned on this, and his plan would probably, but for Fernando, have succeeded. Suddenly, however, the latter could no longer restrain his amusement. The wrinkled forehead, the open mouth, the pain and hesitation in Babun's face as he stood before him, seemed to him extraordinarily ridiculous. He laughed. The laugh broke the spell. Babun turned again.

'I must see the woman herself,' he said as he walked away.

'That was foolish, aiya,' said Babehami to Fernando. 'Very foolish. He would have stayed.'

'I know. But I couldn't help it. He stood there like a bull pulled this way and that with a string in its nose. What now?'

'He will come back. Then we shall see. It is spoilt now, I think. This bull is an obstinate brute when it jibs. We may have to use the goad. It will be the only way, I think.'

They waited in silence. The headman proved right. Babun returned. He did not speak to Fernando, but addressed himself to Babehami.

'The Mahatmaya was right to laugh at me for a fool. Yes, I am a fool. I know that. The tale was false. It was the Mahatmaya who called the woman to come to him, and she refused. I knew it. Yes, brother, I knew it. But I was frightened by your words. I thought, "he is my sister's man, why should he lie to me?" It was lies. The woman wept for shame when I told her.'

'It was true, brother. It is the woman who is lying now to you. She is frightened of you, frightened that you should know what she has done.'

'I am a fool, brother, but what use is there in repeating lies now? The story was false. It was the Mahatmaya who came to my house and called the woman to him. She refused. She would not leave me.' He turned to Fernando. 'Aiya, why come and trouble us? We are poor and ignorant, and you have wealth, and women in the town as you told us. Leave us in peace, aiya, leave us in peace.'

'It is not lies,' broke in Babehami. 'Truly you are a fool. The woman is ashamed now, and lies to you, and you believe. But what has that to do with it? The Mahatmaya is now ready to take the woman. It is time that this folly should end. Let him take her, and come back to this house.'

'She refuses, I tell you.'

'What has that to do with it? It is time for you to marry, and leave that filth.'

'What is the good, brother, of beginning this again? It will only lead to angry words again. I told you, so many years back, that I want no other wife than this. It is the same now. I will live with no one else. All these lies and words are useless.'

'Ohé, ohé! it may lead to angry words; yes, but are they useless? Last time you refused to listen to me. Well, I did nothing: I allowed you to go your own way. You brought shame on me and my family. I did nothing. I let you go. But now it is different. Suppose they were lies, the words spoken by me just now. They weren't, but suppose they were. What then? The Mahatmaya wants the woman now. He calls her to him: she will not come; you refuse to give her. Is it wise, wise brother? Think a little. Is there much kurakkan in the house after the drought? The Mahatmaya has made you overseer of his chenas. If the woman is refused, will you remain overseer? The twentieth of the crop will go, I think, to some one else. Is it wise for the bull to fight against the master, when he has the goad in his hand? Is it wise, too, always to be fighting against the headman? Even the headman has a little power still. The chena permit has not yet come for you. Perhaps it may never come. Who knows?'

'The Mahatmaya will not do that--and you--you are my brother.'

'If the woman is not given to me,' said Fernando, 'neither will the twentieth be given to you. I have not come here to be laughed at by cattle like you. First the woman is offered, and then I am refused! What does it mean? Would you try to make me out a fool?'

'Very well, aiya, then I will not have the twentieth. The woman cannot be given to you.'

'Fool,' said Babehami. 'So you refuse again to listen to me? But remember this time it will not be as it was before. You shall not always disgrace and insult me.'

'I have never spoken nor thought evil of you, brother. But I tell you, as I told you before, I will not live without this woman. It is useless to talk more, for nothing but angry words will follow. Therefore I am going.'

Babun did not wait for any answer from the two men, but went quickly from the compound. The other two sat on discussing the matter for long. They had to take their steps quickly, for Fernando would only be a few weeks in the village, and he was very anxious, now that he was really opposed, to possess Punchi Menika. Their plans were laid that night.

Babun and Silindu very soon became aware of the web that was being spun around them. They had already begun to cultivate a chena together: two days after Babun's conversation with Babehami and Fernando they found another man, Baba Sinno, a near relation of Babehami, in occupation of it. Babun went to the headman to inquire what this meant. The headman was quite ready to explain it. No permit could be given to Babun and Silindu this year. It was a Government rule that permits were to be given only to fit persons. Babun and Silindu were not fit persons, therefore no permits could be given to them. That was all.

They returned to the compound amazed, overwhelmed. Babun explained to Silindu the real cause of the headman's act, the proposal of Fernando and its reception. It was clear that the two men would stop at nothing, that they had determined upon the complete ruin of Silindu's family, unless Punchi Menika were given up. For if no chena were given, it meant starvation; for they had at the utmost food only for a month, and besides that nothing but their debts. They saw that Baba Sinno was but a foil; they did not dare to turn him out by force, because they had no permits which would give them the right to do so. If they had felt that there was any one in the village who would openly take their part, it would have been different; but they knew that no one would dare to side with them against the headman and Fernando, who already held the whole village enmeshed in their debt.

The more they discussed it the more horrible became their fear. In a month they would be starving or forced to leave the village. There was only one thing for them to do, to put the whole case before the Assistant Government Agent. Babun set off for Kamburupitiya next morning with this object. His trouble and his fear drove him; and he did the three days' journey in two. On the morning of the third day, hours before the office opened, he was standing, haggardand frightened, on the Kachcheri[44] verandah, waiting to fall at the feet of the Assistant Agent. At last a peon or two arrived, and later some clerks. At first no one took any notice of him. Then a peon came and asked him what he wanted. He told him that he had come to make a complaint to the Assistant Agent. The peon said, 'The Assistant Agent is away on circuit. You must send a petition.'

'When will he be back?'

'I don't know.'

'Where is he now, aiya?'

'I don't know.'

He had not the few cents necessary to buy him a fuller answer. He went from one peon to another, and from one clerk to another trying to learn more particulars. They told him nothing; they did not know, they said, when the Assistant Agent would return, or where he was; he had better have a petition written, and come again a week later. He became stupid with fear and misery. He hung about the verandah hour after hour, doing nothing, and thinking of nothing. At last, late in the afternoon, he wandered aimlessly into the bazaar. He was passing the shop of the Moorman, who had previously made many loans in Beddagama: Cassim, who was sitting within doing nothing, knew Babun and called out to him:

'What are you doing in Kamburupitiya, Babun? Like cotton down in a storm! What is the matter with you? I hear that dog Fernando is in Beddagama--may he die of the fever.'

'I have been to the Kachcheri to lay a complaint before the Agent Hamadoru. The Agent Hamadoru is away on circuit. I cannot learn where he is or when he returns.'

'Ohé! a complaint? Those dogs of peons! Every one knows where the Agent Hamadoru is except the peon; and he only knows when there are fanams in his hand. The Agent Hamadoru is in Galbodapattu on circuit: he will not return for another ten days. Every one knows that.'

'Aiyo! then we are ruined!'

'Why? what is it?'

'We are ruined. Only the Agent Hamadoru could help us, and now it will be too late. Our chena is taken from us. Aiyo! Aiyo!'

'Is this one of Fernando's games? They say that the chenas are his now, and not the Government's. The low caste fisher! Vesige puta! He is a Mudalali now: I expect he hopes to be made the Agent Hamadoru one day.'

'It is he, aiya, he and the headman. They want me to give my wife to the Mudalali. I refused. Now they have taken my chena from me. They will ruin me. The Agent Hamadoru, if he knew, would have interfered to stop this; but now it will be too late by the time I can complain to him. It will be too late, aiya!'

The fat Moorman rolled from side to side with laughter.

'O the dog! O the dog! O the dog! There is no one like these fishers for finding money and women everywhere. Allah! They call us Moormen cunning and clever. The only thing I ever found in Beddagama was bad debts. And here this swine of a fisher finds not only bags of grain, and bags of rupees there, but women too. But I am sorry for you, Babun. I remember you; you were a good man in that accursed village. Come in here now, and I'll see what I can do for you. I should like to stop that swine's game. But it is difficult. One wants time. We must send a petition; the Agent Hamadoru would stop it if he knew. But there are always peons and clerks and headmen in the way before you can get to him. Cents here and cents there, and delays and inquiries! You want time, and we haven't got it. But there is nothing for it but a petition. Here now, I'll write it myself for you to spite that dog Fernando.'

The Mudalali made Babun give him all the particulars, and he wrote the petition, and stamped and posted it. He told Babun to come in again to Kamburupitiya in ten days' time to see him about it. He also gave him food, and made him sleep that night in his verandah. The next day Babun, somewhat comforted, set out for his village. He was very weary by the time that he reached it: he felt that he could show little gain from his journey to Silindu and Punchi Menika. Ruin seemed very near to them. They could do little but sit gloomily talking of their fears.

But Babehami and Fernando were meanwhile not idle. The cunning headman and the town-man, with his energetic fertile mind, were a strong combination. On the morning after Babun's return to the village a rumour spread through the village that the headman's house had been broken into during the night, and that Babehami had left at once to complain to the Korala. Late in the afternoon of the same day the Korala and Babehami arrived in the village. They called to them three or four of the village men, and went with them straight to Silindu's compound. The Korala, a fat, consequential, bullying man, went in first and summoned Babun, Silindu, and Punchi Menika. They were handed over to Babehami's brother, who was instructed to keep them in the compound, and not to allow them out of his sight.