The rumor ripped through the village at dawn. Doorstep to doorstep, crossroads to alleyways, it was the only word on anyone's lips. Some parsed it for facts; others twisted it, stretching the yarn as they passed it along. A burglary at the Shivshakti temple! It was an impossible thing to believe. The temple stood right at the village heart. All day long, people drifted in and out; men sat on its steps for hours, just killing time. Even at night, two watchmen kept vigil. A theft here was an affront, a direct challenge to the living presence of the deity. Why hadn't the thieves' eyes turned blind on the spot? An old timer recalled a legend: a thief who had once robbed the deity fled, only to be struck by violent, endless purging the moment he reached home, throwing up his life until his last breath left him. Was stealing from God’s house a joke? The deity would mete out a justice so fierce the world would watch in awe.
The talk grew limbs. But where had the thief come from? One man screwed up his face and spat, ‘Why would an outsider come to this wretched pit? It’s an inside job, mark my words. Someone from the neighborhood.’
Another chimed in, ‘And why not? They’ve walked off with a fortune! Even unhooked the massive bell. Five maunds, it must have been. And then the crowns of the gods, the silver necklaces, and what not! That's not all, they even gouged out the deity's eyes. Solid gold, they were.’
A third man brought his own logic. ‘Think about it. It couldn’t have happened just like that. To do it with such ease, without a soul noticing? Impossible.’
The first man nodded. ‘That's plain as day. A theft doesn't happen without a trail hunter. There’s village blood behind this.’
The second man leaned in. ‘If you ask me, it’s Phoolhasan. He’s the one wandering around all day. It’s his hand, guaranteed. The theft is one thing, but would a Hindu thief defile the temple floor with spit and phlegm? Can you even imagine it?’
The accusation hung heavy. The first and third men pondered it with grave seriousness. Slowly, the rumor hardened into conviction. By noon, the village was certain of one thing, no Hindu could have committed an act so loathsome.
Phoolhasan was a mat-seller. Day after day, he walked into the village with a bundle of woven mats balanced on his head. Draped in a lungi and a faded round vest, a gleaming white beard framing his face, a headcloth tied beneath his heavy cargo. The moment he stepped across the boundary, the children would swarm him for banter. Phoolhasan would call out, his voice booming through the lanes: ‘Come buy a mat... oh... made of mothi... pater grass... ho!’
The children would trail behind his heels. ‘Hey mat-man, give me one too!’
Phoolhasan would chuckle. ‘When you get married, Baua (Baby). Only then.’
People often told him, ‘Look, Phoolhasan, every house has cots now. Beds, chairs, sofas. Who buys mats anymore? Find another trade.’ But Phoolhasan remained stubborn, rooted in his craft. He would say with quiet pride, ‘This is our ancestral trade, babu. My father lived and died by these mats. By your blessings, I too shall sail across the river of life.’
Today was no different. Phoolhasan entered the village, the bundle on his head. He threw his voice high, calling out exactly as he always did: ‘Come buy a mat... oh... oh... mothi... pater grass... ho.’
But now, at his cry, the air turned cold. People grew guarded. Mothers reached out and yanked their children inside. The men gathered in knots, whispering.
‘There he comes, Phoolhasana! Look at the cheek of the man! Wandering around all day with his mats. Scouting the houses by day, robbing them by night.’
‘And look how he softens up the kids!’
‘That’s his spell. That’s how these people operate.’
‘Keeps the children amused, makes an entry into every house, haven't you seen him? Cornering the womenfolk in the inner courtyards on the pretext of selling.’
Phoolhasan called out again, ‘Mats...! Mothi... Pater!!’
The villagers threw icy, sidelong glares, curling their lips before disappearing into their courtyards. Today, not a single child ran behind him. No woman stopped him to bargain. Phoolhasan kept shouting, his voice echoing in the emptiness. A deep bewilderment crept over him, why was the entire village looking askance at him today? He tried to ask a passing woman, but she tossed her head in disgust and quickened her pace.
He walked straight to the center of the village. The Shivshakti temple. In its shadow lay the thatched hut of Dilchanma. In front of the hut was a small, single-roofed veranda. A wooden cot sat empty; the men were out. The house held only an old woman, her daughter-in-law, and Narayani, a two-year-old slip of a girl.
Phoolhasan leaned his heavy bundle against the cot on Dilchanma's veranda. He called out once, ‘...Nareni... hey Nareni...!’ No answer. No movement. He walked over to the roofed pavilion directly facing the temple.
Untying his headcloth, he wiped the concrete floor with his towel and lay down. But a restlessness gnawed at him. He sat up, muttering, ‘What is this? Why is the village so choked in silence? It feels like a death has happened.’
Just then, a man roared from the bottom of the temple steps, ‘Hey, Phoolhasana! Aren't you afraid even a little bit?’
Phoolhasan offered a mild, tired smile. ‘Come, master. When I am under the shadow of elders like you, what is there to fear?’
The man gnashed his teeth. ‘Look at him spin his words! Not a shred of shame left in his skin. Tell me, didn't you think twice? You eat and breathe in this very village day and night! Even a witch spares one house, you low-born dog!’
The words struck Phoolhasan like physical blows. He slapped his hands over his ears, then struck his own forehead. ‘Ya Allah! What madness is this? What wrong have I done?’
The man bellowed, ‘Madness, is it? You thieving villain...!’
Phoolhasan’s blood flared. ‘Mind your tongue! Did I break into your house to steal?’
‘Oh, listen to him! The thief shouts the loudest! Hey, run! Batuk! Ramessar! Raise the alarm, call everyone!’ The man’s voice broke with rage. Phoolhasan’s face fell; a heavy weight of humiliation settled on his chest. He turned to step down from the pavilion, but the man lunged, grabbing him fiercely by the wrist. ‘Where do you think you're going? Today we’ll see how thefts are done, and how defiance is answered!’
Panic seized Phoolhasan. Writhing to free his hand, he pleaded, ‘What is my fault? I know absolutely nothing!’
By then, the crowd arrived like a flash flood. ‘Beat the thief! Skin him alive...! Chop him to pieces!... He keeps his own mosque pure and comes to defile our temple?’
Someone yelled from the back, ‘Don't waste your fists! Tie his hands behind his back and drag him to the outpost. The moment the police split his buttocks with a bamboo baton, he’ll start barking names like a possessed ghost!’
A youth stepped forward and planted a stinging slap across Phoolhasan’s cheek. Phoolhasan’s eyes filled with water. The youth didn't stop, slap after slap rained down. Someone shoved him from the left; a fist hit him from the right. With every blow, Phoolhasan gasped, ‘Ya Allah! You are the witness!’
The mob was blind now. An old man, unable to watch the brutality, called out in an anguished, trembling voice, ‘Rau! Phoolhasana, just speak the truth, son. Who else was with you?’
Phoolhasan’s heart broke into pieces. He cried out, ‘Do you suspect me too, Kaka?’
‘You didn't leave a single deity!’ a voice screamed from the throngs. ‘Stripped the sanctuary bare. Look at it, not even one god left!’
‘Ya Allah! Do not hurl this filthy lie at me! I haven't stolen a thing!’
The youth gritted his teeth and drove a heavy punch straight into Phoolhasan’s nose. The blood gushed, hot and crimson, staining his pristine white beard. Phoolhasan went entirely dark. His voice choked. Only torrents of tears flowed from his eyes, mixing with the stream of blood dripping from his chin. Seeing the old mat-seller weep like a child, the young boys in the crowd began to quietly slip away.
The village marched him to the police station; his arms were bound brutally behind his back. As they dragged him away, Phoolhasan turned his head one last time to look at the Shivshakti temple. Then his eyes drifted toward Dilchanma’s veranda. His lips trembled.
The moment she saw him, two-year-old Narayani let out a piercing cry. Phoolhasan stumbled to a halt. The tears broke from his eyes anew. He motioned with his bound hands, a silent, desperate plea to hold the child just once. But the mob had no ears. Jostling, cursing, and dragging him through the dirt, they delivered him to the locks of the police station. Every villager present lined up to paint him as the mastermind. Many mouths, one chorus: ‘A theft doesn't happen without a scout. Under the guise of selling mats, Phoolhasana was the informant for the gang.’
A month went by. The elders gradually stopped talking about Phoolhasan. But the children, walking back from school or playing in the dirt tracks, would still chant his cry: ‘Come buy a mat... oh... mothi... pater grass... ho!’
The bundle of mats still stood against the cot on Dilchanma’s veranda, looking like a ghost of Phoolhasan waiting to joke with the kids. Every devotee walking to the temple would pause, their eyes lingering on the mats for a fleeting second.
Two months later.
Phoolhasan returned. He walked the village path empty-handed. The luster of his white beard was gone. His eyes had sunk deep into the bone, hollow and haunted. His cheeks were non-existent, his face dark and withered, his laughter completely wiped from his skin.
He took each step with a slow, heavy finality. Utterly silent. Moving straight ahead. A man spent.
Seeing him, the children shrieked, ‘Come buy a mat... mothi... pater... ho!!’
Phoolhasan turned his head slowly, looked at the children, and kept dragging his feet. He walked straight to the front of the Shivshakti temple.
He stood there for a moment. Then, stepping onto the temple pavilion, he dropped to his knees. Holding his ears, he began to strike his forehead against the concrete floor. Again, and again. His forehead split; the blood ran fresh. The villagers gathered to watch the spectacle, but no one moved to stop him.
Phoolhasan stood up and walked straight to Dilchanma’s veranda. Seeing him, the old mother shrank back into the shadows. Phoolhasan tied his towel into a tight turban. The old woman remained mute. The daughter-in-law watched from the corner of the door, her chest heaving with anxiety. Phoolhasan went to the cot and lifted his old bundle of mats onto his shoulder.
Then, his voice cracking, he pleaded, "Let me see Nareni's face just once." As the words left him, a fresh torrent of tears washed over his gaunt face.
The old woman turned toward the inner house. ‘Hey, Bahuria, bring Nareni out for a second.’
Narayani had already seen him from the courtyard. She broke loose, running wildly. She came and stopped right at his feet. Phoolhasan opened his eyes wide, drinking in her face, as if taking a photograph to lock away in his mind for eternity.
The moment Phoolhasan adjusted the heavy bundle on his head to leave, Narayani let out a desperate, wailing shriek. Leaving the weeping child behind, Phoolhasan took two heavy steps forward. But Narayani was beyond the control of her mother or grandmother now. She ran after him into the dust, crying bitterly.
Phoolhasan flung the bundle of mats from his head. It crashed to the ground. He caught Narayani and gathered her up into his chest. Narayani buried her wet face deep into his white beard.
Phoolhasan rocked the child in his arms. He cried out to the open sky, ‘The Goddess herself has accepted my innocence!’
And Phoolhasan’s tears fell, drop by hot drop, upon Narayani’s bare feet.