A Car Splash

Artwork by Russell

It had rained during the night, a lot. There were puddles everywhere on the road. I was walking along totally wrapped up in my thoughts when a car went by splashing through the puddles. My face got spattered. And then what do I see but my dhoti looking as though somebody mixed up a mess of mud and flung it all over it. My clothes were ruined; apart from that, I was filthy, to say nothing of the money lost. If I'd caught those people in the car I'd have done a job on them they wouldn't have forgotten in a hurry. I stood there, feeling helpless. I couldn't go to a client's house in this state and my own house was at least a full mile away. The people in the street were all clapping to ridicule me. I never was in such a mess. Well, stout heart, what are you going to do now? If you go home what will the wife say?

I decided in a trice what my duty was. I gathered about a dozen stones from all around and waited for the next car. I'd show them a Brahmin's power.

It wasn't even ten minutes before a car again came into sight. Oh no! it was the same car. He'd probably gone to get the master from the station and was returning home. As soon as it got close I let fly a rock, throwing it at the car with all my strength. The gentleman's cap went flying and landed on the side of the road. The car slowed down. I let go again. It went through the car window and a piece of glass even landed on the fine gentleman's cheek, drawing a line of blood. The car stopped, the gentleman got out and came toward me, landed a punch on me and said, 'You swine, I'll take you to the police!' I'd scarcely heard him when, throwing my books down on the ground, I grabbed him by the waist, tripped him and he fell down heavily in the mud. I jumped on top of him at once and gave him a good twenty punches one after the other until he went limp. In the meantime his wife got out. High-heeled shoes, silk sari, powdered cheeks, lipstick, mascara. She started to poke me with her umbrella. I turned from the husband towards her, waved my stick in the air and said, 'Lady, don't meddle in men's business or you may get a whack and a bruise and I'd be very sorry about that.'

The gentleman used this diversion to pick himself up and give me a kick with his booted foot. I got a real knock in the knee. Losing patience, I swung at him with my stick, getting him solidly in the legs. He fell like a tree when you chop it down. Memsahib came running brandishing her umbrella. I took it away from her without any trouble and flung it away. The driver had been sitting in the car all this time. Now he got out and came rushing at me with a cane. I brought my stick down hard on him too and he tumbled flat on the ground. A good-sized mob had gathered to see the fun. Still lying on the ground the sahib muttered, 'You rogue, we'll hand you over to the police!'

I raised my stick again and was about to thump him on the skull when he folded his hands and begged, 'No, no, baba, we won't go to the police. Forgive me.'

I said, 'All right. You shut about the police or I'll crack you over the skull. I might fetch six months in jail at the most for it but I'd break you of the habit. You drive along splashing mud everywhere and you're blind with arrogance. You don't give a damn who's in front of you or alongside of you or on the footpath.'

One of the onlookers said, 'Aray, Punditji! These drivers know perfectly well they're splashing and when somebody gets drenched they think it's no end of fun and laugh at him. You did well to give this one a lesson.'

'You hear what the people are saying?' I shouted at the sahib. He threw a dirty look at the man who had spoken and said to him, 'You're lying, it's a complete lie.'

'You're still just as rude, aren't you! Shall I have another go at you with the stick?'

'No, baba,' he said in contrite tones. 'It's true, it's true. Now are you satisfied?'

Another bystander said, 'He'll tell you exactly what he thinks you want to hear but as soon as he's back in his car he'll start the same old business all over again. They sit inside their cars and they all think they're related to the maharaja.'

'Get him to admit he's wrong,' advised another.

'No, no, make him hold on to his ears and do knee-bends.'

'And what about the driver? They're all rogues. If a rich man's puffed up, that's one thing, but what are you drivers so conceited about? They take hold of the wheel and they can't see straight any more.'

I accepted the suggestion that master and driver grab on to their ears and do knee-bends, the way you punish little children, while his wife the memsahib kept count. 'Listen, Memsahib,' I said, 'you've got to count a whole hundred bends, not one less but certainly as many over as you like.'

Two men drew the master up by his hands, and two more that gentleman-driver. The poor driver's leg was bruised but he promptly started on his knee-bends. The master was still pretty cocky; he lay down and began to curse a blue streak. I was furious and swore in my heart that I wouldn't let him go without doing a hundred knee-bends. I ordered four men to shove the car off the edge of the road.

They set to work at once. Instead of four, fifty men crowded around and began to push the car. The road was built up very high with the land below it on either side. If the car had slid down it would have smashed to pieces. The car had already reached the edge of the road when the sahib let out a groan and stood up and said, 'Baba, don't wreck the car, we'll do knee-bends.'

I ordered the men to stand off. But they were all enjoying themselves and nobody paid any attention to me. But when I lifted up the stick and made for them they all abandoned the car and the sahib, shutting his eyes tight, began to do knee-bends.

After ten of them I asked the memsahib, 'How many has he done?'

Very snootily she replied, 'I wasn't counting.'

'Then sahib's going to be groaning and moaning all day long, I won't let him go. If you want to take him home in good health count the knee-bends. Only then will he be a free man.'

The sahib saw that without completing his punishment he wouldn't get away with his life, so he began the knee-bends again. One, two, three, four, five…

Suddenly another car came into view. Sahib saw it and said very humbly, 'Panditji, take pity on me, you are my father. Take pity on me and I won't sit in a car again.'

I felt merciful and said, 'No, I don't forbid you to sit in your car, I just want you to treat men like men when you're in it.'

The second car was speeding along. At my signal all the men picked up rocks. The owner of this car was doing the driving himself. Slowing down he tried to creep through us gradually when I advanced and stopped the car. Then I caught him by the ears, shook him violently and after giving him a slap on both cheeks, said, 'Don't splash mud on people with the car, understand? Move along politely.' He was about to start an argument with me until he saw a hundred men carrying rocks, then without any more fuss he went on his way.

A minute after he left another car came along. I ordered about twenty of the fellows to bar the road; the car stopped. I gave him a few slaps too but the poor fellow was a gentleman. He accepted them as though he enjoyed them and continued on his journey.

Suddenly a man shouted, 'The police are coming.'

And everybody took to his heels. I too came down off the road and sidling into a little lane disappeared.

Premchand, the pseudonym used by Dhanpat Rai, (1880-1936) is arguably the greatest writer in Hindi, with an astonishing output of fourteen novels, about three hundred short stories and several hundred more essays, commentaries, editorials, etc. Bengalis probably remember him most as the writer of the story subsequently made into the film 'Satranje ki Khelari' by Satyajit Ray. S. Mahnowar is an academic/translator.