Mr. Das

Mr. Das was a rich man. His wealth was a matter of much awe, debate and discussion in the village. However, some people hated him for his selfishness and rude behaviour. One day Mr. Das was sitting in his lawn when Damodar, the daily wage worker, came to him. 

Damodar belonged to Mushar caste. Mushars are still placed at the lowest rung of our societal structure. Damodar begged for some food as his children and wife were getting stunted with hunger. They had nothing to eat. Rats and frogs, which were their common food, had escaped to greener pastures because of the erratic weather conditions. Damodar was a thinly built fellow but his wiry body showed clear signs that in his younger days he must have been sturdy and impregnable. 

Since last ten years the rains had dodged the farmers. The daily workers were suffering from lack of even basic needs for survival. The younger lot from the Mushar community migrated to cities where they could earn enough to quench their hunger and fulfill their meager needs. But, for Damodar migrating to city was not an option. It would be a futile endeavor. His ageing body was too frail and weak for the demands of physical labor.

‘Malik, give me some food. God will bless you for your kindness’, Damodar begged with folded hands. 

Seeing a person of Mushar caste inside his lawn Mr. Das got furious and ordered his servants to beat him till he left his compound. In those times it was considered inauspicious touching a Mushar. Feudalism was at its peak. Eventually, the cruelty and uninvited affliction at Mr. Das bungalow compelled Damodar to return to his hut. 

It was the month of June. In morning hours Mr. Das was taking a stroll in his lawn. All of a sudden he screamed with pain. It was discovered that a snake had bitten him. In a short interval of time, rather than helping Mr. Das, the servants exerted all their might to kill the snake. But the poisonous reptile speedily slid away. Mr. Das's pulse rate began diminishing at fast pace. In those days doctors were not available in the vicinity of the village. His family members were devastated with distress. People from village rushed him to Vishahari temple. However the occult science did not prove remedial. Someone suggested to his son that Damodar Mushar keeps the seed of some unknown herb whose paste, plastered in and around the punctured fang-wound, can help to heal. 

The servants hastily ran to Damodar’s hut, pleading for his curative deliverance. But Damodar’s keen memory transported him to past when Mr. Das had agonizingly assaulted him. He remained seated like a stone. A decisional battle was ongoing between his heart and mind. But finally his heart triumphed over his mind. Unlike the rich Mr. Das, poor Damodar was a man full of compassion. He collected the seeds of herb planted outside his hut and carrying his walking stick he hobbled hurriedly towards the Vishahari temple for a guaranteed cure. Damodar was weakened by age, seduced by poverty, dodged by destiny and exploited by casteism. But there was no petty compromise with the immensity of his heart.