Gopi and the Zamindar

The Zamindar hears. News of the brush spreads 'through forests, fields, and plains', until the Zamindar (a rich landlord) hears of 'these magic gains'. His first words are an order:

'I order you to paint for me, a fortress tall and grand. Paint treasures, jewels, and riches rare, enough to rule this land.'

Notice what he wants: not food or tools, but power. He is already rich.

Gopi refuses, politely. 'Gopi bows and shakes her head. "My lord, I can't comply (do what you ask). I swore to use this magic brush to help the needy by."' She bows, and still says no, because of her promise.

Prison. He roars, stamps his foot, and bellows to his men: 'Seize this brush and seize the girl. Throw her in the pen!' Gopi waits in a cell on a cold mud floor, while he takes the brush and orders her to paint his fortress and rubies.

Here is the poem's best twist: in the Zamindar's hand, the brush does nothing. The magic is not in the brush; it is in the person who paints.

The escape. 'That night the Zamindar lies in bed, dreaming of his gold, while Gopi paints a winding road, a horse both strong and bold.' The road leads out of the prison gates. She leaps on and gallops away.

His men chase her. So she paints a mighty river, wide, with fast, deep currents. The men stop short and cannot cross. She uses her gift to make a barrier, not a weapon.

The threat. 'Now should I paint a beast to leap and chase you through? Stop this chase or it will feast on you, and you and you!' She never paints it. The Zamindar cries 'No, no, no more!' and flees; his men do not dare to stay.

The celebration. Gopi paints, at last, for the village: a feast of sweets and tea, a bright courtyard, a band to play, and songs of victory.