Every evening Gangi filled the water jugs. The well was a long way off and it was hard for her to make several trips. She'd brought this water yesterday and there'd been a no bad smell at all to it. Then how could it be there now? She lifted the lota<.i> to her nostrils and it certainly smelt foul. Surely some animal must have fallen into the well and died. But she didn't know where else she could get any water.

No one would let her walk up to the Thakur's well. Even while she was far off people would start shouting at her. At the other end of the village the shopkeeper had a well but even there they wouldn't let her draw any water. For people like herself there wasn't any well in the village.

Jokhu, who'd been sick for several days, held back his thirst for a little while. Then he said, 'I'm so thirsty I can't stand it. Bring me the water, I'll hold my nose and drink a little.'

Gangi did not give it to him. His sickness would get worse from drinking bad water--that much she knew. But she didn't know that by boiling the water it would be made safe. She said, 'How can you drink it? Who knows what kind of beast has died in it? I'll go and get you some water from the well.'

Surprised, Jokhu stared at her. 'Where can you get more water?'

'The Thakur and the shopkeeper both have wells. Won't they let fill just one lota?'

'You'll come back with your arms and legs broken, that's all. You'd better just sit down and keep quiet. The Brahman will give a curse, the Thakur will beat you with a stick and that money-lending shopkeeper takes five for every one he gives. Who cares what people like us go through? Whatever they say about giving some help, we can just die and nobody will even come to this door to have a look. Do you think people like that are going to let you draw water for their well?'

The harsh truth was in these words and Gangi could not deny it. But she wouldn't let him drink that stinking water.

By nine o'clock at night the dead-tired field hands were fast asleep but a half dozen of so idlers were gathered at the Thakur's door. These were not the times--nor were there any occasions--for valour in the field; valour in the courtroom was the topic of the day. How cleverly the Thakur had bribed the local police chief in a certain case and come off scot-free! With what skill he'd managed to get his hands on a copy of the dossier in an important lawsuit. The clerks and magistrates had all said it was impossible to get a copy. One had demanded fifty for it, another a hundred, but for no money at all a copy had come flying. You had to know the right way to operate in these matters!

At this moment Gangi reached the Thakur's property to get water from his well.

The dim glow of a small oil lamp lit up the well. Gangi sat hidden behind the wall and began to wait for the right moment. Everybody in the village drank the water from the well. It was closed to nobody, only those unlucky ones like herself could not fill their buckets here.

Gangi's resentful heart cried out against the restraints and bars of the custom. Why was she so low and those others so high? Because they wore a thread around their necks? There wasn't one of them in the village who wasn't rotten. They stole, they cheated, they lied in court. That very day the Thakur had stolen a sheep from the poor shepherd, then killed and eaten it. They gambled in the priest's house all twelve months of the year. The shopkeeper mixed oil with the ghee before he sold it. They'd get you to do their work but they wouldn't pay wages for it to save their lives. Just how were they so high and mighty? It was only a matter of words. No, Gangi thought, we don't go around shouting that we're better. Whenever she came into the village they looked at her with eyes full of lust, they were on fire with lust, every one of them, but they bragged that they were better than people like her.

She heard people coming to the well and her heart began to pound. If anybody saw her there'd be the devil to pay and she'd get an awful hiding out of it. She quickly grabbed her bucket and rope and crept away to hide in the dark shadows of a tree. When had these people ever had pity on anybody? They beat poor Mahngu so hard that he spat blood for months, and the only reason was that he refused to work in the forced labour gang. Was this what made such people consider themselves better than everybody else?

Two women had come to draw water and they were talking. One said: 'There they were eating and they order us to get more water. There's no money for a jug.'

'The men folk get jealous if they think they see us sitting around taking it easy.'

'That's right, and you'll never see them pick up the pitcher and fetch it themselves. They just order us to get it as though we were slaves.'

'If you're not a slave, what are you? You work for food and clothes and even to get nothing more than five or six rupees you have to snatch it on the sly. What's that if it isn't being a slave?

'Don't shame me, sister! All I do is long for just a second's rest. If I did this much work for somebody else's family I'd have an easier time, and they might even be grateful. But here you could drop dead from overwork and they'd all just scowl.'

When the two of them had filled their buckets and gone away Gangi came out from the shadow of the tree and drew close to the well platform. The idlers had left, the Thakur had shut his door and gone inside to the courtyard to sleep. Gangi took a moment to sigh with relief. On every side the field was clear. Even the prince who set out to steal nectar from the gods could not have moved more warily. Gangi tiptoed up on to the well platform. Never before had she felt such a sense of triumph.

She looped the rope around the bucket. Like some soldier stealing into the enemy's fortress at night she peered cautiously on every side. If she were caught now there was not the slightest hope of mercy or leniency. Finally, with a prayer to the gods, she mustered her courage and cast the bucket into the well.

Slowly, slowly it sank in the water. There was not the slightest sound. Gangi yanked it back up with all her might to the rim of the well. No strong-armed athlete could have dragged it up more swiftly.

'She had just stooped to catch it and set it on the wall when suddenly the Thakur's door opened. The jaws of a tiger could not have terrified her more.

The rope escaped from her hand. With a crash the bucket fell into the water, the rope after it, and for a few seconds there sounds of splashing.

Yelling, 'Who's there? Who's there?' the Thakur came toward the well and Gangi jumped from the platform and ran away as fast as she could.

When she reached home, Jokhu, with the lota at his mouth, was drinking that filthy, stinking water.

Premchand, the pseudonym used by Dhanpat Rai (1880-1936) is arguably the greatest writer in Hindi, with an astonishing output of fourteen novels and around three hundred short stories. D. Rubin is an academic who lives in New York.