Divine Broke

 

Divine Broke

Every odd has its style. I believe nobody could have understood the proverb better than Gandhiji, who coined a resonant nickname for those at the lowest rung of society—Daridra Narayan, the “Divine Broke.” Gandhi may have had a greater socio-political purpose in mind, but I once heard of a rural widow who embodied the spirit of the phrase without ever knowing its origin.

Greater purpose? I’m not sure. To me, even a small act of benevolence can hold as much significance as a monumental contribution. Otherwise, why would Shri Ram have praised the humble squirrel that helped in building the bridge between India and Lanka?

The widow—known in the village as Shibu Ma, after her deceased son Shibu—was neither wealthy nor destitute. Paradoxically, she became better off only after her husband’s death. While alive, he squandered money on gambling and disreputable pursuits, leaving the family in want. Alone, Shibu Ma worked diligently on her two acres—using fertilisers, nurturing her crops, and harvesting well. She even renovated the tank in her backyard. Rumour had it she unearthed two buried pitchers there—one full of cowries, another, perhaps, of gold and silver coins. Reality or folklore? Hard to say. Sometimes, I dismissed the tales outright; at other times, when I looked at the many large ponds scattered across our fallow lands within a kilometre radius, I wondered whether some forgotten ancestor had indeed hidden treasure while digging waterholes.

In our village, wealth had a simple definition: a family that could eat rice from its own harvest throughout the year was considered rich. By that measure, Shibu Ma had crossed the threshold.

Her improved status was visible in another way—her generosity at the annual Bhagavat recital. For seven days, a Brahmin reciter sat in a small hut, reading aloud all twelve volumes of Jagannath Das’s Odia Bhagavat—18,000 verses narrating the life and deeds of Shri Krishna—while a handful of villagers listened. At the end came a community feast, where rice and vegetables collected from households were cooked for all, regardless of caste. Shibu Ma was a prominent listener and benefactor. She even remembered many verses by heart.

One summer night, as usual, Shibu Ma went to bed at eight and was to rise at four. The previous day had been the eleventh of the lunar fortnight. She had fasted, eating only a couple of wheat chapatis—a rarity in our rice-eating land. Hungry and restless, she longed for dawn and her favourite pakhala bhata—water rice with pickle and green chilli.

That night, two thieves entered Shibu Ma’s house through the kitchen enclosure at the back. The kitchen was an additional room situated at the end of the rear veranda, with temporary walls and a door made of flattened bamboo. It was left unguarded and unlocked, but only secured from outside at night with an iron fastener. This made it easy to access from outside once the widow went to bed and bolted the inner door of the house. Even stray dogs and cats could easily enter the kitchen. Somehow, the two thieves arrived quite late at Shibu Ma’s house, and when they began their work, they decided to break into the kitchen.

It was just before the widow’s waking hour.

The fragrance of pickle reached her bed, hastening her rising. At first, she thought it must be a stray dog, but then reasoned: dogs don’t open pickle jars. Peering through the window, she saw two men devouring her food. She smiled at her own deduction. “They must be hungry,” she thought. “Only a starving soul eats at such an ungodly hour.”

In the dim moonlight, she also recognised them—Bowli and Baya, both known miscreants. She took pride in her quiet detective work, yet raised no alarm. She let them finish and go.

The thieves, satisfied and full of praise for the pickle, but at the same time, cautious of being caught, slipped away. Full for the night, they promised each other they would return another time—not for rice, but for her rumoured treasure.

The next day was the twelfth of the lunar fortnight, when Shibu Ma was supposed to end her fasting ritual by feeding a Brahmin. Instead, she packed two bundles of rice, potatoes, pickles, and vegetables—and discreetly slipped a five-rupee note into each. Five rupees—no joke! She sent them, through a messenger, to the houses of the very thieves she had seen.

When Bowli and Baya realised that the widow whose home they had trespassed had, instead, sent them food, they trembled. They knew well what usually awaited thieves in a village: lime and charcoal streaks smeared across their cheeks, garlands of brinjals and potatoes strung around their necks, and one forced to ride piggyback on the other through the village streets while the crowd jeered. Dreading such humiliation, they rushed to her house, fell at her feet, and begged for forgiveness.

But Shibu Ma feigned ignorance. “Who says my house was burgled? Nothing happened,” she replied. She never told her neighbours, nor the village elders. Had she done so, the punishment might have been harsher than the thieves feared, because Shibu Ma was then already a village bigwig!

And so, only she and the culprits knew the truth. To the rest of the village, it remained a mystery—like the rumoured pitcher of treasure unearthed from her pond.

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By

Ananta Narayan Nanda

Bhubaneswar

27-09-2025

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