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Narendra Jadhav was born in Mumbai, India, in 1953. A renowned economist, prolific writer, and public speaker, he is currently the principal adviser and chief economist for the Reserve Bank of India. The author of seven books and more than seventy research papers and articles, he lives in Mumbai.

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Untouchables

Scribner

It was an unbearably hot afternoon in the village of Ozar. Damu was barefoot, running as fast as he could, soles burning on the scorching ground. The mamledar, a senior revenue official, was visiting the village for a routine inspection and Damu had to herald his arrival. Outpacing the mamledar's horse, he ran until he felt his legs would give way. He ran singing the praises of the mamledar, alerting the villagers that an honorable person was arriving. This was his Yeskar duty.

Later, Damu patiently waited outside the house of the patil, the village headman, to escort the mamledar to another village. He could hear loud laughter echoing from inside. Hours later, they came out. By the time Damu had led the mamledar back, he was tired and hungry. Walking home slowly, he was looking forward to some hot tea and bhakris, homemade millet bread, when a policeman came looking for him.

"Eh, Damu Mahar, I have been looking everywhere for you. Where have you been wandering, you son of a bitch?"

The constable was flustered; a dead body had been found floating in the broken well by the mangroves.

"You will sit guarding the body till the fauzdar and the police party come to inspect the scene and write a report," the constable ordered. "Nobody is allowed near the well. Remember, if anything happens to the corpse, your body too will end up in the well."

Damu told him that he had not eaten since he had met the mamledar's tonga -- horse carriage -- that morning and that he would be back in no time, but the constable would not listen.

"Do you see my baton?" he asked, brandishing it. "I'll stick it up your ass and you will see it come out of your throat. I'll beat you up so badly that you'll forget the name of your father."

Damu ran, stopping only when he reached the mangroves.

It was quiet by the well. Damu looked all around but there was no one in sight and no sound except for the crickets.

Gathering all his courage, Damu hesitantly approached the well and peeped inside, only to turn back in revulsion. It was a ghastly sight -- the body of a woman in white garb, disfigured and swollen, a shoal of fish nibbling at her limbs.

It was getting dark and the stars were beginning to come out. There was no one around, he thought, and it was a corpse after all. What harm would it do if he went home for a quick bite? He was sick with hunger and had not been home since sunrise. It was already midnight; his wife would be worried. Soon, however, he was glad that he had not moved from his post. The constable had come to check on him.

"Damu," he yelled, "I am going home. Be sure to keep a watchful eye and don't let me catch you asleep. The fauzdar is expected to arrive by morning to make his report."

"Saheb," Damu said humbly, "I have not gone home since sunrise...my wife will not take a sip of water without some word about me."

The constable's face took on an angry expression. Damu faltered; no words could form and he stood open-mouthed.

"So what, you bastard? Do you want me to go feed her while you are away?"

Damu cringed; yet without realizing that his voice had taken a sharp edge, he persisted. "Can you at least let my folks know that I will not be home till this body is cremated?"

"Let my folks know, you say. Look at this lout's arrogance! Do you think we were born as messengers for you lowly outcastes? Your woman is not going to die if she does not eat one night. And if she does, who cares?"

Soon, dawn was breaking and the villagers were beginning to come to the fields for their morning ablutions. Damu sat by the well, unseen by anyone. He could hear them as they started whispering. All kinds of rumors were afloat.

"Why did she commit suicide?"

"How do you know it was suicide? She might have been pushed into the well."

"What would you expect when a widow from a high caste gets pregnant, eh?"

"Arre, she was a loose woman. Don't you know her husband died of tuberculosis some three years ago? She must have been in heat and gone under whoever was available."

They all burst out laughing.

"Let the dead lie dead. Who knows, her spirit may be roaming around here and will haunt you in the night."

"Who knows what the truth is? She is dead now, bless her soul. Let's not talk ill about her."

"Why this sudden affection for her? Had she granted you some special favors?"

"That has nothing to do with what I am saying. Why blame the poor woman for being with child? Why don't you talk about the man who committed this act? Is it not his responsibility too? But no one talks about him..."

Damu kept awake by pacing up and down. He drank water to quell his hunger and continued to wait for the fauzdar. The police would draw the body out, the report would be written, and the dead woman would be handed over to her family. Then he could go home after the body was cremated.

Hours passed and the sun was overhead and yet, there was still no sign of anyone official. As Damu looked up at the sun, he felt dizzy. Then he saw someone walking toward him. It was Namya, one of his cousins, clutching a small basket.

"Arre, Damu, everyone was worried about you. Sonu did not sleep last night. You should have at least come home to inform us, or sent word." He handed over the bhakris sent by Sonu. "Sit by that tree and eat."

"No, I cannot eat now. They will arrive any moment. If they catch me eating, they will beat me." As they were talking, the policemen arrived. One of them struck the ground with his baton.

"What's this fellow doing here?"

Another saw the basket and gave it a blow. It flew out of Damu's hands and the bhakris scattered on the ground. Namya scrambled to collect as many as he could. Damu sat near the well on his haunches and whispered to Namya, infuriated, "Why should I have to be the one to sit around without a meal since yesterday, when everybody else has his belly filled?"

Namya tried to pacify him. "Arre, Damu, these are big people...how can they go hungry? That is for people like you and me. That is the way life is...just accept it, what else can we do?"

Then, feeling sorry for Damu, he whispered, "Come, stand behind me and quickly eat one bhakri. You will feel better."

Damu refused to eat while hiding behind Namya as if he were doing something wrong.

"Why should I hide? Am I any less human than they are?" Damu asked Namya.

The clip-clop of hooves grew louder, and the crowd stood at attention. The fauzdar rode in, cracking his whip arrogantly. He dismounted, tossing the reins to one of the constables, who rushed forward. The constable tied the horse to a tree and ordered Damu to fetch hay and water.

The fauzdar circled the well, intent on his inspection. He stood looking at the broken structure. He went to the side where there were steps leading down. A few stones had come precariously loose and those farther below were covered with green moss.

The sides of the well had sprouted bunches of weeds and grass and the algae on the surface of the water glowed fluorescent in the light that filtered through the thick foliage above.

The well was deep but had been abandoned for many years. The fauzdar noticed that the constable and patil were talking animatedly. He went toward them and they conferred for some time.

Suddenly the constable approached Damu and bellowed, "Eh you, Damu Mahar, why are you sitting and gaping at everyone? Do you think the fauzdar...