EYES

1. Yellow Eyes

The water in the pool was so clear and still that, as I bent to drink, I saw my eyes staring back at me. How beautiful they are! Pure yellow, burning like two little suns.

I think I am beautiful, too. And yet everyone is afraid of me. Perhaps I look hideous to them. Perhaps it is the sound of my voice that puts their hearts in their mouths.

All the better. When humans stop being afraid of me, you get days like yesterday.

I escaped a terrible fate yesterday. In the dead of night, I gathered my little ones and fled here.

I like this place. It has my favourite trees, banyans and peepals, and a hill just as I would have wanted it: far from the village, far from humans, and, most importantly, without a temple on its summit.

Humans have a curious habit. Wherever they see a hill, they must build a temple on its summit. And once a temple is built, the people come—day after day, in and out, with their prayers and offerings, forever calling upon their gods for this favour or that. They never seem to run out of things to ask for.

We stay away from both.

I used to live a little way from the village, too. But food had grown scarce lately. And I have two little ones to feed, with appetites as bottomless as Bakasura's. So, every now and then, I have had to venture closer to the village in search of something to eat.

I have never attacked a human, though.

Among my kind, there is an old saying: once you get the taste of human blood, you become addicted to it. The craving never leaves you until you die. In the old days, we hunted humans without a second thought. But times have changed.

Besides, humans are a particularly nasty species. Calling them animals is an insult to the rest of us.

There is an old story about how they came into being. When Lord Shankara created humans, he looked at his handiwork and realised he had made a terrible mistake. In despair, he struck his own forehead and went off to the Himalayas to do penance. He has been sitting there ever since.

But before he left, his fury burned the skin off human beings. That is why humans cover themselves in clothes. That is why they keep building temples and pleading with their gods: they are still begging forgiveness for the mistake of having been born.

In the old days, they used to hunt other living beings and wear their skins. Even now, they walk about wearing things made from other creatures on their feet.

What a wicked lot!

I have always kept out of their way. I take only small things, small warm things, and only when hunger leaves me no choice. And thanks to humans, even those are getting harder to find.

Yesterday, after going hungry for several days, I decided to wait near the village. I hid beneath the spreading branches of my favourite peepal, a little way from the footpath.

It was amavasya, the moonless night. Once the sun went down, I planned to slip through the darkness towards the houses and see what I could find.

That was when everything went wrong.

Even now, the memory makes my skin crawl.

The sun was just setting when I sensed someone approaching along the path. I should have run then and there. Instead, I let my guard down.

I heard the footsteps and knew it was a human. Normally, I am not particularly afraid of humans. They are the ones who are afraid of me. They hardly ever catch sight of me, and I could have slipped away without anyone noticing.

Then I heard the temple bell.

I have been terrified of that sound ever since I was little. A bell around a cow's neck is harmless enough. But when a human carries one, you can be sure that something dreadful is about to happen.

I learnt that lesson long ago.

I had been creeping up on something small and pale near a field. It slipped away just as I was about to catch it. I was preparing to try again when I heard a bell ringing from a nearby temple.

Its deep, echoing sound held me spellbound. I simply stood there, unable to move.

I turned towards the sound and spotted a small bell hanging outside a little temple in the distance. Beneath it stood a bald man, wearing nothing but a dhoti.

A priest, perhaps. Or a sorcerer.

He squinted at me with his grey eyes. I thought he could not possibly see me from there, but I was wrong.

The moment he spotted me, he sprang up and grabbed the temple bell, apparently trying to swing from it.

The ringing stopped.

I came to my senses just as the man crashed onto the temple platform, his legs flailing in the air and the bell in his hand. For a moment, I could not understand what had happened.

Then he disappeared from view.

We had been taught to keep away from temples and flee the instant a human spotted us. I had forgotten every bit of that advice.

A moment later, I saw the bald head again, now on the other side of the temple, accompanied by another head covered with a white cap.

A huge stone came flying towards me and landed nearby.

I knew I was in trouble. I turned and ran.

Just then, the bald man took aim and hurled the bell at me. I narrowly dodged it, but it grazed my hip.

The pain was excruciating. The scar has never quite faded.

I have never forgotten that day. Ever since, I have stayed at least ten kos away from temples. And whenever I hear a bell, even by accident, I freeze where I stand.

Yesterday, the same thing happened.

The bell rang, and I turned to stone.

The man came into view. He was a big, burly fellow wearing a dhoti and a kurta. His bald head shone in the setting sun. He carried a thick rope and a bell, and he was searching the path from one side to the other, peering into every bush.

His eyes were black as coal, narrowed in concentration.

I was frightened enough already. Then he began chanting something in a cracked, tuneless voice. I could not make out the exact words, but their meaning was roughly this:

On this dreadful, moonless night, I have come bearing the blazing torch of knowledge.

Amid the songs of fireflies flickering through the darkness, I search for you.

I would give my life for you, yet nowhere can I find you.

Where shall I look? Where are you hiding?

You are neither here nor there.

What a strange fellow!

As he chanted, he seemed to dance some sort of wild dance, moving about with one hand on his head, as though searching for something.

I began to tremble. There was something sinister about those words. I was certain they held some kind of power.

He was passing my peepal when he suddenly turned and looked straight at me.

“Ha! There you are, girl! There you are!”

Laughing, he came directly towards me.

He had been looking for me all along!

Never in my life had I seen a human so fearless. I wanted to scream, to make him run for his life. But before I could utter a sound, he dropped the bell over my head.

My voice died in my throat.

He tied the rope around my neck, slapped me on the back, and said, “Come on, girl. Your time is up!”

I was as good as dead.

I followed him wherever he went.

I was so frightened that I could scarcely think. I plodded obediently behind him as he wandered from one side of the road to the other, apparently searching for something else. He had stopped chanting and started talking to me.

I understand human speech, but his words were slurred and muddled.

“I'll take you home. Tie you to the post. Give you a good whipping. Then eat mutton. Sleep all night.”

That was when I gave up all hope.

I had never known that humans ate our kind, too!

I stopped dead in my tracks. When I refused to move, he began pulling the rope with all his might.

There is enough strength in me to drag four men like him without breaking a sweat. But my legs had turned to jelly. He pulled, and I was dragged along.

When we reached the broad dirt road outside the forest, I finally summoned some courage. I dug my feet into the ground and stopped behind a bush.

The man tugged. He threw the rope over his shoulder and leaned back, putting every ounce of strength into the effort.

I did not budge an inch.

Then he began abusing my mother in the foulest language.

What nonsense! I do not even remember my mother. What good does it do to insult someone who is long gone, in a language she never spoke?

By now, I was convinced the man was mad. A madman, a sorcerer, or perhaps both.

Just then, I saw another human approaching from the opposite direction. He had strange, pale eyes and carried a tin vessel by its handle, letting it swing as he walked.

From a distance, he called out to the man holding my rope.

“Ram Ram, Changdev Maharaj!”

Maharaj!

So this really was no ordinary man. Could he be the legendary Changdev himself, the great yogi who could command the wild and wield a cobra as a whip? Was he some incarnation of that mighty sorcerer?

My courage vanished.

I stopped resisting. The rope snapped taut, dragged me out from behind the bush, and sent Changdev Maharaj tumbling into the dust.

The man with the pale eyes took one look at me, dropped his tin vessel, and ran towards the village, screaming at the top of his lungs.

He ran faster than a frightened deer and scrambled up a neem tree at the edge of a field with the agility of a monkey. From a branch, he began shouting towards the houses.

A woman came out of her house, looked down the road, shrieked, and rushed back inside. A man appeared next, peered at what was happening, and ran towards the neighbouring houses, shouting as he went.

Soon, the whole settlement was in an uproar.

Meanwhile, Changdev Maharaj had picked himself up. He dusted off his clothes, abused my mother again, and resumed pulling the rope with all his might.

I was still terrified, but a little courage was returning. I dragged my feet and trudged along.

Before long, ten or fifteen men came marching towards us, armed with sticks and axes. The pale-eyed fellow climbed down from his tree and joined them.

They looked like the messengers of Yama, come to take me away.

I had one last chance.

I cried out.

This time, my voice came back to me—loud and terrible.

The men stopped in their tracks. Changdev Maharaj stared at me in astonishment.

I seized the moment, gave my neck a mighty jerk, and bolted towards the forest.

I ran blindly, neither looking back nor caring where I was going, until I could scarcely breathe. Somewhere along the way, the rope slipped free and the bell fell away into the darkness.

The moment I realised I was free, relief seized me, and I ran even faster.

I went straight to my little ones and brought them here.

Yesterday, I escaped a terrible fate.

And I will never, ever go near that village again.

---

2. Black Eyes

I peered into my brass tumbler. The country liquor was as clear as water, and my black eyes stared back at me from its depths. Handsome, weren't they? I took a long swallow.

It scorched my throat, just as it did every evening.

The radio was playing some cracking songs from Pinjra.

Life was good.

Just then, Rakhma hollered from inside, “Hey! Are you even listening? Dhavali's run off into the jungle again! Go find her before sunset. Then you can guzzle the rest!”

Damn Dhavali to hell! That wretched cow just won't stay put.

I got up just as I was and headed out, telling Rakhma, “Get the mutton ready. I'll be back in a jiffy.”

Then I untied the rope from her post.

Today, Dhavali had really outdone herself. Damn it, she'd even snapped the bell off her neck!

Mind you, she's a good cow. Gives plenty of milk. But give her half a chance, and off she bolts into the jungle.

“Take care on your way,” Rakhma called after me. “And if you can't find her, just come straight back. She'll turn up on her own, like last time.”

Take care, she says! As though I'd had that much to drink!

I paid her no attention and set off down the jungle path.

Where else would Dhavali go? She'd be by that peepal tree, same as always.

I was singing to myself as I ambled along.

Which song was it again? Ah, yes! That one from Pinjra, about catching sight of someone who smiles back at you.

I glanced from side to side until I spotted Dhavali.

I swear on my mother, the cow had turned yellow! A bright, golden yellow in the setting sun.

Let the village folk say what they like, but to me, she looked exactly like Dhavali.

I could've sworn she recognised me, too, and gave me a coy little smile.

I hurried over, hung the bell around her neck, tied the rope, and said, “Come on, girl. It's getting late.”

Good thing I'd found her so quickly.

“Right, home we go. I'll tie you up, eat my mutton, and sleep till morning,” I told her.

But the moment I tried to lead her away, she planted her feet and wouldn't budge.

“Keep this up, and I'll thrash you with the whip!” I warned her, dragging her towards the road.

Just short of it, she dug in her heels again and refused to move.

I let loose a few choice abuses and hauled on the rope with all my might.

That's when Madhya popped up out of nowhere.

From a distance, he called out, “Ram Ram, Changdev Maharaj!”

And the next thing I knew, I'd hit the ground with a thump.

I picked myself up and looked around, but Madhya had vanished.

Then I heard him bawling from the top of a neem tree.

What the hell had got into the idiot?

With those ghostly hazel eyes of his, I ought to be the one frightened of him. But there he was, screaming like a lunatic!

Then I noticed ten or twelve men coming straight towards me, armed with sticks and axes.

Bloody hell! What had I done to them?

Just then, I heard that sound.

A damn terrifying sound!

Every hair on my body stood on end.

I jerked around to look, but before I could see what was behind me, the rope gave a mighty tug.

My head slammed against the ground, and darkness flooded my eyes.

---

3. Hazel Eyes

The sun was setting.

I looked into the water in my battered tin mug. There they were—my eyes, shining a beautiful hazel.

What a handsome fellow!

I finished my business in the fields, emptied the mug, and set off home, swinging it by its handle.

On the way, I spotted Baldy Changya.

Drunk again, no doubt.

He was struggling with a rope tangled in the bushes, pulling at it like an idiot.

I thought I'd have a bit of fun with him.

From a distance, I called out, “Ram Ram, Changdev Maharaj!”

And just then, the thing emerged from the bushes.

Attached to Changya's rope.

The fool had even hung a bell around its neck!

I was terrified. Who wouldn't be?

I turned and ran as fast as my legs could carry me, straight to the neem tree behind our house. I scrambled up it and clung to a branch.

First, save your own skin.

From there, I yelled for my mother to call my father.

“What happened to you, you little devil?” my mother shouted. “Why are you sitting up a neem tree and screaming?”

But then she went towards the road and saw what Changya was dragging behind him.

She turned pale and ran straight back to my father.

My father took one look and rushed off to gather the people of the settlement.

All the while, that drunken idiot Changya was still tugging at the rope with every ounce of strength he had.

When fifteen or twenty men had gathered, I finally climbed down and joined them.

The thing was enormous, a little smaller than a bull. And yet it was following Changya as meekly as a calf, as though he had cast a spell on it.

There had to be some magic in that bell.

Unless, of course, the stink of Changya's liquor had rendered it senseless!

Had we not seen it with our own eyes, the fellow would have taken it home and tied it to his post.

Then it saw us.

It was startled. And the sound it let out—there are no words for it!

The whole village seemed to shake. A few grown men even wet their pyjamas.

With one tremendous jerk, it sent Changya flying. Fortunately for him, the rope slipped from his hand, and he was spared.

We rushed to help him, brought him round, and gave him some water.

Then my father turned to him.

“Changdev Maharaj, why don't you come by our field tomorrow? There's a huge anthill with a cobra living in it, right at the edge of our field.”

Changya was still trying to understand what had happened. Irritated, he asked, “And why should I come there?”

My father smiled.

“Well, Maharaj, first make yourself a whip out of a cobra.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

“Then you can go and ride your tiger!”

---

Notes (best read after the story)

Amavasya is the moonless night of the lunar month, traditionally associated with spirits and dark forces.

Bakasura is the gluttonous demon of the Mahabharata, famous for his bottomless hunger.

Changdev was a legendary yogi said to have ridden a tiger, using a live cobra as his whip, to meet the saint Dnyaneshwar.

Dhavali literally means "the white one", a common name for a white cow.

Dhoti and kurta are traditional men's clothing: a long cloth wrapped around the waist and legs, and a loose, collarless shirt.

Kos is a traditional measure of distance, roughly 3 km.

Lord Shankara is Shiva.

Maharaj is an honorific used for kings, saints and holy men, and sometimes mockingly.

Peepal is the sacred fig tree, often believed in folklore to be the home of spirits.

Pinjra is a celebrated 1972 Marathi film, famous for its songs.

Ram Ram is a common rural greeting in Maharashtra.

Yama is the god of death; his messengers come to take away the souls of the dying. ------------------------------ Vikram Khaire 24 Oct. 2026 (Translated from the original Marathi story ‘Dole’ with the help of AI models - Aug 2020.)