This is a fictionalized story of
Moreshwar Damle’s account from Savarkar
Smruti (Memories of Savarkar );
Lakshmi Process Studio, Kolhapur; pages 10-11.
Savarkar had settled well into the
Damle household. Generally, he retired to his room after dinner and did some
writing for a couple of hours. Unfailingly, at about ten-thirty he strolled in
the yard before retiring to bed. More often than not Moreshwar accompanied him.
There was lush
greenery everywhere. The crickets chirruped; the trees rustled in the gentle
breeze; running rain water tinkled over the rocks nearby—peaceful, so very
peaceful. Savarkar breathed in deeply, enjoying his stroll. Mingling in this
peace of nature were occasional shouts and laughter from the women.
“Arre Moreshwar,” asked Savarkar, “what’s
going on there?”
“Where,
Tatyarao?” Moreshwar looked around, puzzled.
“You don’t hear
the laughter and shouts?”
“Oh, that!”said Moreshwar, light dawning upon
him. “That’s the womenfolk filling the rainwater from the springs beyond. Can
you hear the water tinkling?”—he cupped his ears. Savarkar nodded—“the next
couple of months they’ll do that.”
“Oh, it’s hard
work!”
“They’re used to
it, Tatyarao,” replied Moreshwar breezily. “We need a lot of water for the
house. Sometimes they are at it till midnight.”
“Hmm.”
Savarkar turned
the corner of the house and followed the path to the springs. Lanterns hanging
on posts gave dim light. Suddenly he peered in the gloom.
“Arre Moreshwar,” he exclaimed, “isn’t
that Baya I see ahead?”
Baya was a
seventy-year old relative of the Damle’s living with them.
Moreshwar
peered, too. “Yes, yes it is!” he agreed.
“Good heavens!
She is carrying that heavy pot full of water, and at her age!”
“She is used to
it, Tatyarao.”
“Moreshwar,”
commanded Savarkar, “hurry up and take the pot from her!”
“Me . . . ?” cried
Moreshwar incredulously, pointing to his chest.
“Of course, you!
There’s the poor old lady struggling with her heavy load, and here you are
whiling away your time strolling—a big, strong boy like you!”
“But . . .
but . . . that’s women’s wo—”
A look from
Savarkar, and Moreshwar’s sputtering came to a halt. The next minute, he was
taking the load from Baya ignoring all her “No, no, Moroba” and “No, Bala, I
can do it.”
“Moreshwar,”
Savarkar called out, “make sure you do all her job. If you get tired, call me
for help.”
Poor Moreshwar,
not only did he fill all the pots this night, but he did so on many other
nights as well—and most certainly without asking Savarkar to help!
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